Warhammer

Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

History of changes

1.0 — the book was created in InterWorld's Bookforge.

1.1 — "Lord of Undeath" by C.L.Werner was added.

1.2 — "Bear Eater" by David Guymer & "The road of blades" by Josh Reynolds were added.

Realmgate Wars

Chris Wright

The Gates of Azyr

Chapter One

Vandus, they called him.

It was a name of omen, one that carried the favour of the Golden City. He would be the first, they said. None would set foot in the Mortal Realms ahead of him, though the bringers of vengeance would be close behind. For a long time he had not understood what they meant, for they had had to school him as a child, teaching him to remember what he had once known by instinct.

Now, with the passing of aeons, he understood. The empty years were coming to a close, and the designs of the God-King were at last reaching ripeness. He was the instrument, just one of the limitless host, but the brightest star amid the constellations of salvaged glory.

For so long now, it had just been Azyr, and all else was lost in the fog of time.

But there had been other worlds. Now, very soon, there would be so again.

They were gazing up at him — ten thousand, arrayed in gold and cobalt and ranked in the shining orders of battle. The walls around them soared like cliffs, each one gilt, reflective and marked with the sigils of the Reforged.

Vandus stood under a dome of sapphire. A long flight of marble stairs led down to the hall’s crystal floor. Above them all, engraved in purest sigmarite, was the sign of the Twin-Tailed Comet, radiant amid its coronet of silver.

This thing had never been done. In a thousand years of toil and counsel, in all the ancient wars that the God-King had conducted across realms now lost, it had never been done. Even the wisdom of gods was not infinite, and so all the long ages of labour might yet come to naught.

He lifted his hand, turning the sigmarite gauntlet before him, marvelling at the manner in which the armour encased his flesh. Every piece of it was perfect, pored over by the artificers before being released for the service of the Eternals. He clenched the golden fingers into a fist and held it high above him.

Below him, far below, his Stormhost, the Hammers of Sigmar, raised a massed roar. As one, they clenched their own right hands.

Hammerhand!

Vandus revelled in the gesture of fealty. The vaults shook from their voices, each one greater and deeper than that of a mortal man. They looked magnificent. They looked invincible.

‘This night!’ Vandus cried, and his words swelled and filled the gulf before him. ‘This night, we open gates long closed.’

The host fell silent, rapt, knowing these would be the last words they heard before the void took them.

‘This night, we smite the savage,’ Vandus said. ‘This night, we smite the daemon. We cross the infinite. We dare to return to the realms of our birthright.’

Ten thousand golden helms looked up at him. Ten thousand fists gripped the shafts of warhammers. The Liberators, the greater part of the mighty host, stood proudly, arrayed in glistening phalanxes of gold. All of them had once been mortal, just as he had been, though now they bore the aspect of fiery angels, their mortality transmuted into majesty.

‘The design of eternity brought you here,’ Vandus said, sweeping his gaze across the sea of expectant faces. ‘Fate gave you your gifts, and the Forge has augmented them a hundredfold. You are the foremost servants of the God-King now. You are his blades, you are his shields, you are his vengeance.’

Amid the Liberators stood the Retributors, even more imposing than their comrades, carrying huge two-handed lightning hammers across their immense breastplates. They were the solid heart of the army, the champions about which the Legion was ordered. Slivers of pale lightning sparked from their heavy plate, residue of a fearsome, overspilling power within.

‘You are the finest, the strongest, the purest,’ Vandus told them. ‘In pain were you made, but in glory will you live. No purpose have you now but to bring terror to the enemy, to lay waste to his lands and to shatter his fortresses.’

On either flank stood the Prosecutors, the most severely elegant of all the warriors there assembled. Their armour was sheathed in a sheer carapace of swan-white wings, each blade of which dazzled in its purity. Their spirits were the most extreme, the wildest and the proudest. If they were a little less steadfast than their brothers, they compensated with the exuberance of flight, and in their gauntlets they kindled the raw essence of the comet itself.

‘We are sent now into the heart of nightmares,’ said Vandus. ‘For ages uncounted this canker has festered across the face of the universe, extinguishing hope from lands that were once claimed by our people. The war will be long. There will be suffering and there will be anguish, for we are set against the very legions of hell.’

Besides Vandus stood the great celestial dracoth, Calanax, his armoured hide glinting from the golden light of the hall. Wisps of hot smoke curled from his nostrils and his long talons raked across the crystal floor. Vandus had been the first to tame such a beast, though now others of his breed were in the service of the Stormhost. The dracoth was the descendant of far older mythic creatures, and retained a shard of their immortal power.

‘But they know us not. They believe all contests to be over, and that nothing remains but plunder and petty cruelties. In secrecy have we been created, and our coming shall be to them as the ending of worlds. With our victory, the torment will cease. The slaughter will cease. We will cleanse these worlds with fire, and consign the usurpers back to the pits that spewed them forth.’

As he spoke, Vandus felt the gaze of his fellow captains on him. Anactos Skyhelm was there, lean and proud, master of the winged host. Lord-Relictor Ionus, the one they called the Cryptborn, remained in the margins, though his dry presence could be sensed, watching, deliberating. If the lightning-bridge was secured, those two would be at the forefront, marshalling the vanguard to take the great prize — the Gate of Azyr, locked for near-eternity and only unbarred by the release of magics from both sides of the barrier.

And yet, for all their authority, only one soul had the honour of leading the charge. The God-King himself had bestowed the title on him — Lord-Celestant, First of the Stormhost.

Now Vandus raised both hands, one holding Heldensen aloft, the other still clenched tight. His weapon’s shaft caught the light of crystal lamps and blazed as if doused in captured moonlight.

‘Let the years of shame be forgotten!’ he declared. ‘The fallen shall be avenged and the Dark Gods themselves shall feel our fury!’

The glittering host below clashed their hammers against their heavy shields before raising the weapons in salute and acclamation. The entire vault filled with the fervour of voices raised in anticipation.

‘Reconquest begins, my brothers!’ Vandus roared, feeding on their raw potency. ‘This night, we bring them war!’

A great rumble ran across the floor of the hall, as if the earth were moving. Arcs of lightning began to snap and writhe across the golden walls of the vault. The sigil of the comet blazed diamond-clear, throwing beams of coruscation across the hall’s immense length. Something was building to a crescendo, something massive.

‘This night,’ Vandus cried, glorying in the full release of the divine magic, ‘we ride the storm!’

A huge boom shook the chamber, running up from the foundations to the high roof. The howl of thunder-born wind raced through the hall, igniting into white flame as it reached the full pitch of extremity. The golden ambient light exploded, bursting out from every part of the walls, the arched roof and the glistening floors, and lightning came with it in beams as thick as a man’s arm.

There was a second rolling boom and the space between the walls was lost in a maelstrom of argent fire. The world reeled, as if thrown from its foundations, and the sharp tang of ozone flared, bitter and pungent.

Then, as suddenly as it had come, the lightning snapped out, the brilliance faded and the winds guttered away. The hall remained, suffused with a glimmering haze of gold, still lit bright by the light of the comet-sigil.

Only now the marble floor was empty. No voices remained, no warriors stood in ranks — nothing but the receding echoes of the colossal detonation lingered, curled like smoke across the walls of gold.

Chapter Two

There was nothing to do but run. Even that was pointless in the end, since you would always be caught, but the instinct remained — the primal desire to keep living, to keep going, to spite the gods a little more before the blood-sun set.

Her tribe had been ravaged since the last series of raids and now numbered less than forty souls. The old had been the first to go — too slow to keep moving, caught quickly, too tough to eat, their age-withered bodies cruelly toyed with before the scream-filled end. Then they had taken the infants, one by one, dooming the tribe to extinction. Those that remained were the ones who had been fast enough, who were not crippled by the poisons that ran deep in the earth or who were not carrying wounds that made them too lame or too weak.

Now even those last survivors were tiring. There was only so much the body could take, and a diet of gleanings from parched fields could not sustain their flight for long.

It was a shame. She had always been told that their bloodline was long, stretching back to a mythical time before the endless night. She had never quite believed the boasts, but now it hardly mattered — they would all be snuffed out at last, even if the fire-side legends were true.

Kalja squatted in the dirt, panting, pressing her palms into the dank soil, trying to recover. The others knelt or slumped close by — Svan, Renek, Elennar, the rest. Kalja pulled in deep breaths, feeling the ash coat her throat, knowing it would make her choke.

‘How close?’ asked Elennar, her dirt-crusted face white with fear.

Renek shrugged, beaten. ‘Does it matter?’

‘They are bloodreavers,’ said Kalja, breathing heavily. ‘They are no faster than us. We can make the delta.’

‘They eat the flesh of their living victims,’ said Svan dryly. ‘It fuels them. So yes, they are faster.’

Kalja pulled herself to her feet. She was emaciated, her cheeks hollow and her skin a pale grey. Her long hair hung in clumps around her face, and she carried a rough, blunt knife at her belt. Old wounds, the product of a lifetime spent running or fighting, crisscrossed her calloused skin.

Ahead of them, to the north, the dusk sky was lowering into a rust red. Flickers of vermillion lightning jumped along the distant horizon, broken by the vast silhouettes of old skull-towers. The earth in all directions was blasted and open, split into great plates and riven by dry gulches. What little vegetation survived in the wastes was black and gnarled, clinging to survival with the same grim determination that the mortals did.

Kalja sniffed. The wind tasted as it always did — hot ashes, the lingering sweetness of mouldering carcasses — but there was something else there too.

‘I can smell water,’ she said, turning back to the others.

Svan laughed hoarsely. It would not be water worth drinking — the streams of the Igneous Delta were spoiled, and dribbled in their winding courses like hissing lines of mercury. That was why none lived there, not even the most desperate of prey-humans. Its twisting mazes might hide them, but only for a while.

‘We will not last the night,’ said Renek, his shoulders bunched miserably.

Kalja spat on the ground. ‘Then stay. They will feed on your eyes while you beg them to kill you.’

A low rumble of thunder ran along the earth. A long way to the south, the braying of war-horns could be heard. Somewhere out on the charred plains the endless armies were marching again, scouring for skulls. They would not venture this far north — there was nothing here but gnawed bones, the remains picked clean by scavengers centuries ago. Bloodreavers, though, would run down anything.

‘We have to go,’ said Kalja, brushing herself down and getting ready to run again. Her legs ached and her stomach growled from emptiness, but there was no alternative.

They broke into a run, all of them, Kalja and Svan at the forefront, limping and staggering north to where the delta awaited, staying alive for just a few more heartbeats amid a world that wished for nothing but to end them in agony.

Rakh chewed, savouring the tastes, the smells, the lumps of juice that rolled down his chin and trailed over his jerkin. He closed his eyes and drifted off into something like pleasure. He could feel the hot fluid flow into him, lending him divine strength. He licked his lips, and the metallic taste was sharp.

‘Enough,’ barked Sleikh, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Long trails of blood smeared across his scar-latticed jaw. ‘More of them to come.’

Rakh scowled and grabbed for more meat. It might have been his imagination, but did the corpse twitch just a little? Always best to begin the feasting while they were still alive. The screams improved the taste, as did the tears.

You had to laugh when the tears came. All the others did. Fail to show enough enthusiasm, and when the famine-times arrived you might find yourself stretched over the knife-block yourself.

All around the gore-splattered campfire, Rakh’s fellow bloodreavers were clambering heavily to their feet. Night was creeping in, making the long thorn-shadows slither over the earth. The temperature was dropping fast, and he felt the bite of it under his armour-plates.

There were fifty of them — a big hunting pack. They would need to capture all the mortals they had spied if they were going to eat enough to stay lean and supple, and that did not account for those that would escape the feast and be permitted to join them.

The bloodreavers were not witless savages, and for those who merited it there was always a way to survive. The price was cheap — join in the meat-orgies, learn to savour the quivering fats of a human’s body, suck them up and roll them around your mouth while you spat out praises to the Lord of Blood.

Rakh had made that choice, a long time ago now. Every so often he remembered the first nights, when all he had wanted to do was retch, when he had rocked himself to fitful sleep, keeping his horror hidden lest it make him the next prey.

These days, he grinned to think of it. All had changed now. He had learned to relish the textures, the crisping skin pulled from the muscle, the polyps, the sleek veinous organs. He kept chewing, tonguing the flesh around his iron-capped teeth.

Sleikh raised himself up, sniffing the night air. The pack-leader’s red eyes stared, peering into blackness. Then he hissed, and a smile twisted his wolfish features.

‘They stink yet,’ he whispered, reaching for his bloody axe handle. ‘This way.’

The others crept closer, fingering their hooks, their axes, their chains. The weapons were poorly made, for who but the warlords of the Brass Keeps could command forges to give them what they needed? The bloodreavers were the scavengers, the gory-mawed beasts that prowled the flickering edges of camp-fires. They used whatever they could loot or fashion from the wilds, and that was enough to break flesh and flense muscle.

‘Follow,’ ordered Sleikh, loping out into the night.

Rakh darted after him, as did all the others, and the hunt resumed again.

Aqshy, the realm was called, though none but the most powerful of its denizens would ever have known that. Here, on the Brimstone Peninsula, the bones of the land were forged in fire, and under its rocky mantle ancient furnaces boiled and churned. Before the ages of ruin it had been teeming with life, lent vigour by the magical currents coursing over its mountains and gorges.

Those years were forgotten now, scraped clean from history by the ceaseless procession of damned armies. The cities of the realm were gone, the kingdoms were gone, overrun and turned into sucking quagmires of spilled ichor. New citadels took their place — temples to violence, clad in bronze and bound in brass, housing thrones of iron around which the blood boiled in runnels. The killing continued even when all possible dreams of conquest had been satiated, goaded on by the whims of cruel gods. The number of the dead had been incalculable, but in truth they had been the fortunate ones, for they had not lived to see what reality was capable of being turned into.

All that remained in Aqshy were the Lords of Ruin — mortal champions of the Pantheon, striding across the earth they had despoiled in the hope of finding something fresh to kill. With the demise of any true resistance, they turned on their own kind, launching swollen hordes at one another in a perpetual orgy of slaughter. The only ones who could survive for long in such a crucible were the Gifted — those blessed with the trappings of daemonic power or possessors of fell weapons. Dark magic swirled and simmered across the bone-strewn wastelands, fuelling the cycle of murder further, provoking the feuds that kept the anvils ringing and the forges blazing.

For the less exalted, all that remained was a kind of half-life, forever clinging to the edge of oblivion. Children were still born, and so the progeny of mankind lingered, but they were never more than prey, slaves or fodder, predated on by the chosen of the victorious Dark Gods. To stay alive for more than two decades was considered fortunate, to make it to three was exceptional. After that, the rigours of life in hell were too destructive. There were no scholars, no princes, no wizards and no priests — just a desperate, scrabbling, grasping fight to draw one more breath, gain one more heartbeat and see one more blighted sunrise before the tides of killing caught up.

Kalja’s tribe, for all the stories they told themselves, were no different to the thousands whose light had endured for a brief time before being stamped out. They ran with desperation but with no hope. Only the manner of death remained an ambition — to meet annihilation cleanly, with little agony; that was the prize.

Kalja pushed the pace, feeling her breathing grow ragged but knowing that a single slip now would end it. Svan kept up with her, the rest straggling behind, stumbling as the land became lumpen and twisted around them.

From the wider Brimstone Peninsula, they had reached the southern edges of the Igneus Delta and the earth was breaking beneath their feet. Fissures opened up, some clogged and dry, others glowing from the exposed fires below. Plumes of sulphurous steam roiled across the crusted landscape, breaking into slivers across the thorny clusters of iron-limbed plants.

It was hard to make any progress in that terrain — they would stumble down a wide gully only to see it end in a rubble-strewn cliff, or they would race across flattened plates before finding themselves surrounded by pools of boiling lava. Everything stank, and the heat dragged at them, making it a torture just to breathe.

‘This place will kill us quicker than they will,’ gasped Renek, limping badly from a gash on his left thigh — the thorn-clusters were vicious.

‘Pray that you are right,’ muttered Kalja, charging onwards, not allowing the weak to slow her. It was just possible the bloodreavers would settle for the stragglers that night, so it paid to keep to the front of the herd.

They reached a long, twisting defile. The further they went, the higher the banks on either side reared up. Soon the edges were too steep to climb easily, and lined with more thorns, and so the only course was to keep going down to the defile’s end and hope that it was not just another blocked route.

As they went, they heard the thud-thud of footfalls behind them. The narrow gorge amplified the sounds of the pursuers, reminding the tribe just how meagre the gap between hunter and hunted had become. Silently, grimly, the fugitives kept their heads down, trying to ignore the burning in their lungs, and kept going.

Kalja was the first to reach the valley’s end. Its two walls narrowed into a slender gorge, and for a moment she thought they would come together completely. In the end, they remained apart by little more than the width of a man’s waist, revealing a tiny gap through which she could push herself.

She squeezed between the two sides, feeling the hot stone snag at her ragged clothes. The cleft ran for more than twenty yards, and with every step the rock underfoot grew hotter and more oily. Soon Kalja was enclosed in almost complete darkness, and the press of solid rock around her made her want to scream.

Then, abruptly, the passage opened out again. She emerged onto a narrow shelf of rock, and the red sky arched away above her, mottled with gravid cloudbanks and scored with lines of lightning.

She pressed her back to the cliff-face behind her and looked out. The rest of her tribe pushed their way free of the cleft’s mouth and lined up along the shelf.

A broken scree-slope fell away before them, dropping steeply down to the edge of a plain. Obsidian-black terrain stretched off beyond that, marked by sinewy trails of fire and barred by the rolling fumes of sulphur-geysers. In the far north, the darkening horizon was studded with mountainous piles of skulls, blackened by flame. In between the pyramids of bone stood the remains of ancient ramparts, all shattered, standing like ribcages against the turbulent skies. Iron scaffolds studded the ruins, some still bearing broken skeletons on their spiked wheels, and rusting gibbets swung in a growing storm-wind.

The stonework ran for miles, scarring the land as far as the eye could see. Once, the place must have been vast, a whole empire of great buildings. Amid the few edifices that remained, one stood out, derelict, isolated among the wreckage at its feet.

Two massive piers of stone thrust up out of the magma-scored earth, buttressed by statues in the shape of men bending under the burden. Pillars twisted atop those piers, each one carved with runes and bearing more images — dragons, serpents, icons of comets and twisting astrological symbols. The pillars combined into two enormous flanks of a single arch, which terminated in a keystone some three hundred feet above the level of the plain. Winding stone stairs ran up either side of the curves, twisting in and out of old turrets and watchtowers. Black-veined ivy cascaded down its flanks, cracking the stone and exposing glowing threads of magma within, but still the bulk of the structure remained intact, dwarfing all else, resplendent even in its degradation.

Kalja stared at it. An entire army, thousands strong, could have marched beneath that archway, and yet it led nowhere. No road had been built across the blasted delta, and the void under the keystone’s curve gaped emptily, revealing more ruins on the far side.

The others picked their way down the slope towards the plain. Kalja snapped out of her reverie and followed them down. Less than thirty of them had made it, though if those at the rear had been taken, it might buy the rest of them a little more time.

‘What is it?’ whispered Kalja as they hurried down towards the arch’s sweeping shadow.

‘I care not,’ said Svan, not even looking up at it. ‘It cannot hide us, it cannot save us. Stop staring.’

But Kalja could not stop. Her eyes were drawn inexorably upward — to the towers, the sculpted stone, the strange runes that she could not read but which somehow felt meaningful. As she looked on, the air under the arch flexed as if it were liquid and had bulged from the far side. She halted.

Nothing. Hot ash-wind blew through the aperture, unchanged by the stone it passed under, still as foul as it ever was. Another growl of thunder shook the skies, and the clouds raced above them, piling higher with every breath she took. It would be a big storm. Perhaps the rain would foul their tracks and put the bloodreavers off their scent.

A scream pierced the dark, high and terrified. The sound came from the mouth of the cleft, and echoed strangely as it surged out into the open. Kalja knew the owner of that voice, and shivered to think of the torment that could make him cry like that. She shook herself down, forgetting about the ruins and concentrating on the old obsession — to take just one more breath, to live to see just one more dawn.

Then she started to run, hunted again, just as she always had been.

Chapter Three

The bloodreavers fell into their habitual running pattern — spread out, fanning across the landscape like dogs on a scent. Those on the edges had the sharpest eyes and the keenest nostrils. They could detect mortal fear from a half-league distant, and ran it down remorselessly until it lay shrieking under their fingernails.

Rakh began to pant, falling into the rhythm of the chase. His blade — a pocked cleaver with a human bone handle — swung in his left hand, still wet with saliva and crimson. The others loped hungrily, swinging their blades, making their armour-plates rattle. The musk of blood-frenzy thickened on the hot air.

‘Blood for the Blood God’, he murmured to himself, slurring the words through his damp lips. Where had he learned them? Why did every mouth utter them, from the Realm’s spectral north to its parched south? No priest had ever taught them, for there were no priests in the wilds — the chant came naturally, willingly, as if the very air whispered it to him in his dreams.

They raced down a long, wide depression, veering around outcrops of the black-edged thorn bushes. Ahead of them yawned the mouth of a defile, the twin walls of which reared up steeper as the channel narrowed to a distant point. The prey had gone down that way — even Rakh could smell that.

‘Faster,’ snapped Sleikh, bounding over the piles of rubble, his axe-head swinging.

Beyond the pack-leader, out in the dark, something moved. Rakh was still running, so barely saw it, but he wasn’t delirious — a shadow had detached from the base of the rocks, then vanished.

He craned his neck from side to side, struggling to keep pace with the runners around him. What had it been? Were there more of them? Had the mortals hunkered down, hoping they would pass them?

But Sleikh was sprinting now, making for the gorge’s narrow throat. The oldest and deadliest members of the pack went with him, their bodies made spare and strong by a lifetime of gorging on raw meat. None of them had noticed the movement — they were consumed with the blood-scent now, locked on to the spoor of fear and exertion.

Rakh almost cried out a warning, but the pack-hierarchy clamped his lips shut — break the communal blood-scent and the rest would turn on him quickly, ripping into his sinews with just as much enthusiasm as they would prey.

And that was what doomed them. They had almost reached the mouth of the narrow cleft when the first of the war-horns blared out, cracking the skies and making Rakh’s ears ring. He staggered, half-losing his footing.

Sleikh reacted immediately, spewing out curses, swinging his head to and fro, trying to see where the sound came from.

More war-horns sounded, this time from the other side of the valley, from up ahead, from behind, from everywhere. Rakh spun around, crouching defensively, spitting on his cleaver-blade to slicken it and trying to gauge where the enemy was.

The wait was scarcely more than a heartbeat. They burst from the high sides of the defile, spilling down from the tattered edges like rats spewed from a pipe. Rakh saw the sheen on their armour — scab-red, rimmed with black iron — and cursed his fate.

A warband, then, a Lord’s retinue — better armed, brutally trained, more than a match for them.

‘Gut them!’ Sleikh was shouting, pointlessly, already racing to where the first of the red-armoured warriors was careering down the steep slope.

More warriors were coming up from the south now, hemming them in. They must have followed the bloodreavers for a long time, waiting for nightfall, confident that their prey would be so consumed by meat-lust that they would grow careless. They had been right.

Rakh stayed close to Sleikh, his palms sweaty. The bulk of the bloodreavers came with him, contracting into a knot, turning outwards, keeping their faces to the enemy.

The first of the warband’s fighters came in hard, hurtling from a breakneck descent, their mouths frothing with foam. A burly axeman in furs and black-rimmed plate crashed into Sleikh, barrelling him backwards. The rest slammed into contact, roaring from raw throats, hurling blades in spine-cracking lunges. They were massive, all of them — thick-limbed, clad in iron and steel and bearing axes with icons of ruin scratched into the blunt metal.

Rakh ducked under a wild swipe, then thrust up with his cleaver. The ragged edge bit slickly into muscle, and the warrior before him grunted in pain. Rakh twisted his cleaver and black blood bubbled up from his victim’s mouth. He thrust the gurgling corpse aside, ready to meet the challenge of the next one.

Blood warriors, thought Rakh, ducking out of the path of another short-handled axe. What are they doing here? This is the waste — nothing for them but ashes.

The press of bodies around him doubled as more warriors crashed into the fray, slashing, kicking and punching with their spiked weapons. Gore flew around them in whirling slicks, thrown wildly by the hurtling axe-heads. Rakh ducked again, too slowly, and was struck on his helm with a glancing blow. It made his ears ring and he scrabbled into the shadow of a bloodreaver, avoiding death by offering up his pack-mate.

More than a quarter of the rest were already dead, gutted like fish and gasping bloodily on the rocks. Sleikh had kept the pack together and was fighting hard, trying to reach the narrow cleft where they might at least have a rock wall at their back, but Rakh could see that it was already hopeless — they were surrounded, caught in the open and badly outnumbered. This would all be over very quickly.

He tried to break out, shoving the iron shield of a blood warrior aside and lashing out with his cleaver to clear a path. He managed to down another one — slicing through the creature’s upper thigh, thrusting upward, head-butting him savagely across his exposed face — but he was stumbling amid the churning bodies, desperate to break free.

Somehow, driven by that desperation, aided by the flickering shadows, the screams, the darkness, he shoved himself into a narrow space between moving bodies, and saw the edge of the melee before him. Spitting thanks to the Blood God, he went for the gap, lunging out and slipping on the blood-wet rock.

He almost made it. Too late, though, he saw just why a space had opened up, large enough for him to slip into. Rakh skidded to a halt, falling back on to his withers, his ravaged jaw falling open.

The figure looming before him was gigantic. He towered over the blood warriors just as they towered over Sleikh’s rabble. His armour glistened in the fading light, dull red like spoiled wine. The plates were lined with bloodied bronze, and adorned with skulls. He carried a great brass standard, and above it was set the icon of Khorne in smouldering metal.

This was the leader, then, the champion, the brooding presence that kept the warband on its leash. Rakh had never seen armour so fine, nor a weapon so suffused with earth-scouring power. As the first crack and growl of thunder broke out across the landscape to the north, Rakh writhed in the ankle-thick mire, shuffling backwards, uncaring now about anything other than escape from the behemoth that towered over him.

The champion took a single stride, covering the distance between them effortlessly, and pulled his standard high into the air. Flickers of carnelian slid up its shaft, crackling as they burned from the Khornate icon above. Rakh could only stare up at his killer, already tensing for the agony of the spiked staff’s heel crunching into his stomach. Duly enough, the pole came down, and Rakh screwed his eyes closed.

‘Skullbrand!’ came a voice, roaring out of the night, shaking the earth beneath their feet.

Time froze. The screams died out, the battle-roars echoed into nothing.

Rakh’s lungs continued to pull in air. Slowly, he opened his eyes. The heel of the killer’s staff was just inches from his body, held rigid by the champion. The death’s-head helm above was impassive — Rakh could only see the glowing light of two unnatural eyes burning behind a grotesque mask of iron.

The champion did not move. The warriors around him did not move. As if held by some invisible net, they had paused in their slaughter, leaving the surviving bloodreavers to cower on the ground beneath them.

Grudgingly, the champion withdrew the staff’s spike. Rakh slithered backwards, away from the icon-bearer, glancing up at the warriors around him as they retreated. He managed to shuffle his way over to Sleikh, who had collapsed on the ground with a gaping chest wound. Despite everything, Rakh couldn’t help but eye the glistening flaps of skin hungrily.

‘What is this?’ Rakh whispered.

Sleikh, grey-faced, gestured weakly. Something else was coming down the slope from the east, crunching through the loose stone. Blood warriors were falling back, making passage for it. The icon-bearer waited where he had paused, as still as a graven image, his staff held stiffly at his side.

‘Blood for the Blood God,’ Rakh murmured, issuing the words like a prayer. Prayers never helped, not in this land, but the habits of forgotten generations still persisted.

Another crack of thunder rumbled along the valley’s edge. Rain began to spit, fizzing as it hit the winding cracks in the realm’s charred land-skin. Rakh peered out into the gloom, at once daunted and compelled. An aura of dread hung over the whole tribe now, more complete than that generated by even the icon-wielder and his trained killers. Then the owner of the voice strode out of the shadows, and Rakh’s pulse began to truly race.

This one was colossal. He was decked out in the same elaborate crimson armour as his captain, though every plate and facet was finer, larger, heavier. Everything about him reeked of a dark, majestic extravagance, from the skulls clattering at his belt to the spiked bronze halo rising high over his shoulders. The upper half of his face was hidden by a bone mask, but the lower jaw was exposed — a mottled scrap of age-hardened skin, swollen with distended teeth and marred with scars and snake-figure tattoos. He carried a vast twin-bladed axe, the metal face of which was blotched with old stains and the shaft greater than the height of a mortal man. At his feet loped a huge, scale-hide hound with jaws like a vice and a studded collar around its corded neck. The creature bared yellow fangs at Rakh and let slip a long, grating growl.

Even in a place as fallen and debauched as the Brimstone Peninsula, there were some lords who commanded dread of a different order. Some monarchs of ruin were so deep in corruption that it overflowed like an aroma from them, polluting the very air through which they strode. Rakh was the lowest breed of vermin and untutored in the arts of the God of Carnage, but even he could sense that noxious stink now, dyed deep in the soul of the monster before him.

Their armour rattling, the blood warriors bowed the knee, recognising the paramount slayer among them. Even the icon-bearer inclined his helm, though the gesture was awkward, as if he were still straining on the chain, desperate to resume where he had been forced to halt.

‘Threx,’ said the warlord, with a voice that made Rakh’s teeth ache. ‘Threx.’

The warlord strode up to the icon-bearer and clasped the champion’s head with both mighty gauntlets. His mouth moved strangely when he spoke, exposing filed iron teeth within a pair of chafed raw lips.

‘There will be blood,’ he said, soothingly, yet with a kernel of steel. ‘You know it. You will fill your belly with it. You will gag on it, and we will drink deep as we have always done.’ He patted the champion on the cheek of his helm, like a father might a child, and released his grip. Then he turned away, running a frigid gaze across the beaten remnants of the bloodreaver tribe. ‘But not these. These are mine.’

He strolled up to Sleikh and stood over him. It was all Sleikh could do to meet the downward gaze, and his breathing was shallow and rapid. The warlord stooped, resting his great axe on the rocks and studying the bloodreaver coldly.

‘You are the leader.’ It was a statement, not a question, but Sleikh nodded — to deny it was pointless.

The warlord lifted the axe up, keeping the shaft-end down, and pressed the heel against Sleikh’s pulsing throat. ‘You were careless.’

He pushed down sharply, breaking Sleikh’s neck with a single thrust. Then his baleful gaze moved along, scrutinising those who remained. In his head, Rakh kept chanting the same thing, over and over, Blood for the Blood God, Blood for the Blood God, hoping he would be overlooked and the terror would pass. Even death would be preferable to enduring that lord’s attention — his heart already felt like it was fit to burst, and the sweat running down his neck chilled him.

With a grinding inevitability, though, the warlord’s deathly gaze came to rest on him.

‘Do you know my name?’ the warlord asked, and just listening to those words felt like his bones were being pulled from his body.

Rakh managed to shake his head.

‘I am named Korghos Khul,’ the warlord told him, working his black tongue sinuously over the syllables. ‘Seven warlords of seven keeps offer me tribute in living flesh lest I return to tear their lungs from their unworthy chests. Even now my army marches, and this is but a tithe of those who follow me.’

Rakh wanted to scream. He would have done anything — anything — to escape those glowing eyes.

Khul stooped, coming closer, and foul vapours from his cloak wafted over him. The daemon-hound slunk around his feet, glaring at Rakh with a hungry leer.

‘I seek the final skull,’ Khul said softly, his voice a purring growl. ‘I seek the zenith for my tribute. I have scoured the southlands for a hundred years, and none linger there worthy of my blade’s edge. I have laid the cities of kings low, ever seeking the one who in death could finish this great work, and all I find is dross and wastage.’

As the warlord spoke, Rakh saw visions swirl before him, pushed into his mind by Khul’s malign will. He saw great vistas spin away from him, each one glimmering with the ever-present smouldering of flame, cracked by magma, dominated by the smoking ruins of destroyed keeps. He saw armies marching, whole legions of red and gold, their helms lit by the churning of lurid skies.

And beyond all of them, far away, overlooked by eternal night and flanked by towers of beaten bronze, was a pyramid as vast as a mountain, its sides mottled and irregular. Only as Khul spoke did Rakh realise what it was made of — skulls, thousands upon thousands of them, heaped high and lodged fast, their empty eye sockets like flecks of midnight amid the sheen of picked-clean bone.

Rakh’s mind started to spin. Did he want a bloodreaver’s skull for that pyramid? Surely not — there were thousands of those. Why was the warlord telling him these things? Why not just kill him and be done with it?

‘But the stars have led me here now,’ Khul said. ‘Something must yet still dwell in this place, where once there were high walls and strong swords. I need more souls. The Goretide must swell. I must cover this land in eyes, all of which are mine.’

The warlord extended a withered claw, bound in rings of black iron. Within the grasp of two taloned fingers was a single fleshy orb, straggled with pulpy sinew. Flickers of green magic slid across its pale surface.

‘I cannot complete my great work with a mortal’s remains. I seek a worthy capstone.’

Rakh shrank back, already guessing what was going to happen. A dull pain kicked in behind his eyes, and his lids started to bulge outwards.

‘Do not struggle, flesh-eater,’ crooned Khul, strapping his axe to his belt and reaching for a long, curved knife with his other hand. ‘When this is done you may feast on the corpse of your old master.’

Rakh wanted to scream, but no sound came out. The mantra kept running through his fevered mind: Blood for the Blood God, Blood for the Blood God.

Khul’s shadow fell across him, and Rakh felt the knife’s tip press against the underside of his left eyeball.

‘For you are mine, now,’ breathed Khul. ‘Take this as the first sign of your new devotion.’

Beyond the gate, the land rose again. It was shattered, like a burned crust, latticed with fissures and sinkholes. The foul waters of the delta snaked amid the dark plates, hissing where they dribbled against the open wounds of magma.

The lone edifice was behind them now, but it was still visible, dominating everything else and standing like a sentinel against the southern horizon. Ahead of them, hard to pick out in the gloom, there was a ridge. The summit was hunchbacked and crowned with three old towers, all of which were hollow, roofless and part tumbled down. The semi-buried statue of a man with a granite warhammer protruded from the dank earth, his head severed and shattered into pieces.

The rain was falling in earnest now. Swollen clouds above them were lit from within by what seemed like perpetual lightning bursts, making the black land snap with flashes of silver. Water ran in foaming streams over the gravel beds, making the pathways treacherous.

‘This will be a beast,’ muttered Elennar, glancing up at the unquiet heavens.

The air itself felt close, hot and electric. Many thunderstorms had raced across the burned plains in the past year, but this one had an unholy feel to it.

‘Keep going,’ Kalja snapped, slipping in the greasy mud and cursing the rain for coming now.

They reached the towers, which offered little shelter. Twenty-eight of the tribe had made it, all exhausted and drenched. The skinnier ones started to shiver, and their muck-sweat mingled with the streams of rain. The rest shuffled and jostled to get as close to the inner wall as they could. Most hunkered down near the base, pushing themselves up against the stones to avoid the worst of the rain.

Elennar slumped to her haunches. ‘And what happens when they find us?’

Kalja shrugged, taking up her place behind the barrier, too tired to care now whether it hid them or not. They had done all the running they could.

As she slipped down into position, she risked one more glance towards the archway, half a mile away to the south. It dominated the terrain. The rain lashed against it hard, and somehow the clouds seemed thicker over its keystone, as if drawn in by some vast force of attraction.

As she watched, a lone shaft of lightning snaked against it, throwing the statues into sudden relief. She briefly caught the outlines of men in armour, of human faces, of dragons and griffons.

Then it was gone. The rain got heavier. More thunder ground away, getting closer and louder. Kalja smiled wryly. If the bloodreavers didn’t catch them, the weather might still kill them anyway.

She slipped down into the mud, pressing her back against the stones, and closed her eyes.

Khul stood in the heart of the ravine, waiting for the rest of his army to reach him. The Goretide, they called it. A long time ago he had been proud of that title. It had been given in fear, and the fear of others was something he enjoyed.

Now, though, he struggled to remember exactly why. The great battles were all over. Once he had stood on the causeways of the ancient keeps, roaring his heart out at the mortals sheltered within, daring them to come and fight. And they had, back in those half-forgotten days. Their champions had ridden out to face the darkness, clad in steel plate and bearing two-handed broadswords. He had fought and killed them all, and every moment of it had been a joy. Some had tested him sorely — the old sorcerers, the great knights, the mighty warriors from the savage plains. When those great ones had died, he had felt the loss, and kept their skulls as remembrance.

The oldest of the skulls hung on his belt, drilled fast by chains and bleached white by the passing ages. There had long since been too many to count, so he had heaped them into tributes to his divine patron, pouring libations of blood across the pyres before watching them burn. His strength had grown with every season and new warriors had flocked to his banner, and thus the skull-pyres had multiplied.

The sacrifices pleased the God of Battles, and more gifts began to flow. Victory begat victory. He slaughtered the denizens of Scorched Keep in a week-long orgy of bloodletting, and in the deepest vault of that place he found the axe he now carried, one that could tear at the very fabric between worlds. He bested Skullbrand, the only fighter ever to do so, and so the bloodsecrator duly joined his burgeoning horde.

Khul smiled to himself. Threx was a lunatic. They whispered that he had once fought his way to the burning steps of Khorne’s throne-dais itself, and there had challenged the greatest of Bloodthirsters to single combat before being ripped limb from limb. Amused by this, the Blood God had brought him back, gifting him the standard that summoned the howling madness of Chaos to the mortal plane.

Who could believe such a tale? And yet, there was no doubting the powers of the icon Skullbrand bore — on a hundred battlefields, its arcane veil-tearing had brought the Realm of Khorne screaming into solid reality, just one more weapon in the swollen armoury of the god-favoured.

But now, after all the victories, after all the triumphs, there was precious little joy remaining. The old adversaries were dead, their corpses long trodden into the dust. With every passing year, Aqshy passed more completely into the ambit of the Chaos realm, and all that remained to hunt were the verminous and sick. There were other Lords of War, to be sure, many as powerful as Khul himself, but their deaths were empty deaths, and the wars they fought now were little more than squabbles over ruined spoils. The God of Battles still rejoiced to see the blood flow, but for his servants the ichor was all mingled, and the endless cycle of honour feuds had slowly become a deadening procession.

At the sound of tramping boots, Khul looked up. The main body of his horde was approaching, marching up from the south. Its vanguard filled the valley from side to side, a serried mass of plate-armoured warriors. Banners swayed above the ranks, all bearing the sign of Khorne daubed in red inks on flayed skins. With the fading of the world’s sun, torches had been lit, and their angry light flooded up into the rain-swept sky. In another age, Khul might have foresworn such blatant displays of power, but there had long since ceased to be anything to fear from discovery.

All he feared, in any case, was the possibility of failure. His final skull-pyre, the bone mountain raised above the burning plains and surrounded by towering columns melted from the weapons of the defeated, awaited its summit — a capstone, ripped from a spine of a fighter worthy of the honour. When that was done, surely the last Gift would be bestowed — the ascension into daemonhood and an escape from the dreary procession of earthbound wars. Until then, he was locked in his current state, doomed to prey on the lost and damned for eternity.

Khul roused himself from his torpor. The army would not rest for long in this valley. He would drive them hard through the storm, past the valley’s source and into the unknown country beyond. Perhaps something had survived on the very edges of the world, something that would stand up to him and make him earn his triumph.

Grizzlemaw let slip a whine and paced impatiently. The hound too had been a Gift, given after a battle fought long ago, but one for which Khul had no fond recollection. At times he thought the daemonic creature was little more than a mockery, a reminder of the one soul that had slipped through his fingers, and he hated it as much as he loved it.

‘He hungers,’ observed Skullbrand.

The icon-bearer had remained sullen since the bloodreavers had been let go. Khul reached for Grizzlemaw’s collar and hauled him back close.

‘He always hungers,’ said Khul, massaging the creature’s neck roughly. ‘They were hunting, so let them hunt. I told you: you will have your blood.’

Skullbrand said nothing. Grunts and snorts were the most he normally uttered, unless the maelstrom of battle came on him, in which case his throat opened up into such roars that even his own troops shrank back from him.

Khul released Grizzlemaw. The warlord looked up at the skies, and the strengthening rain ran in rivulets down his chin. ‘This storm smells strange,’ he mused. ‘I have been too long in the south. Was it ever thus up here?’

Skullbrand shrugged. ‘You let them go.’

Khul sighed. ‘They have the Eyes, and they have the fear of me. They will lead us to whatever prey lingers here.’

The vanguard of his army was approaching now. At its head was Vekh the Flayer, the stoker of his horde’s wrath. The bare-headed master of pain, his skin stitched and scarred, strode up to him and saluted dryly. Behind him, the army’s march came to a halt, and the troops shouted their salute to Khul, crashing axes against shields. He dismissed them with a shake of his gauntlet and they broke out from marching order, falling to the ground in tribal huddles and taking strands of raw man-meat from their packs to chew on.

‘I thought you had found some rats?’ Vekh asked, looking around him for evidence of a kill.

‘I let them go,’ said Khul again.

Vekh sniffed, disappointed. The bloodstoker enjoyed taking the survivors after battles. Those placed into his care lived the longest of all the captives the Goretide abducted — not that it was something they necessarily welcomed.

‘You should know this,’ Vekh said, slyly, drawing closer. ‘Your army is impatient. It needs kills.’

Khul growled softly — a warning snarl, feline, infinitely threatening. Kills was all they ever demanded. ‘When this is over,’ he said, patiently, ‘I will take them back south, and they will have all the murder they desire.’

‘But not until you take your skull.’ Vekh smiled. ‘Just one more skull. So difficult. Can it really be worth so very much? I can give you skulls — as many as you like.’

‘Your own, then.’

Vekh laughed. ‘One day, maybe. Or maybe not.’

Skullbrand hissed at the Flayer, and ran his gauntlet down the shaft of his standard.

‘Threx is angry,’ Khul explained.

‘Of course he is,’ said Vekh. ‘You let them go.’

Khul stiffened, ignoring the bloodstoker. The Eyes he had planted in the bloodreavers had seen things, and he now saw them as if they were his own. The pack had found a plain of cracked earth, old ruins and an empty gate that led nowhere. They were hunting still, heading towards a rise crowned with three old towers, smelling mortal fear.

That was interesting. The gate was interesting. He had seen such things for himself, long ago when the world was not yet slumped into defeat, and there were legends dancing around those old places like witch-light. He still remembered the dreams, the ones that had come on the cusp of storms, the ones that never had an ending but promised so much.

He had known there would be a gate in the empty wastes, and he had known there would be bloodreavers racing towards it under the glowering weight of thunderheads. He had seen silver lightning race across the northern arc of the horizon and had followed it, sensing the otherworldliness of it even as his followers could smell nothing but the roasting meat of his victims.

‘Get them on their feet,’ he ordered, turning on his heel and marching up towards the cleft in the valley’s throat. ‘We march again.’

Skullbrand growled appreciatively and Vekh gave a sardonic bow.

‘That is more like it,’ he said. ‘I can hear the screams already.’

Chapter Four

Rakh barely noticed the gate. His face was bleeding from where the Eyes had been stitched in, and the pain made him crazed. All in his pack were the same — damaged and howling. They sprinted harder than they had ever done before, driven now by a terrible need. They had to find, to seek out whatever scuttling things still squatted in the crevices and drag them into the light. It was no longer about meat-orgies, but about the Goretide and service to the lord with the twin-bladed axe.

The lightning whipped down, over and over, lighting up the ruins with cold flashes. He saw the stonework sway and glimmer, and every burst made his bloody eyes flare with fresh pain. They had run past the gate, sweeping through its mighty foundations, sniffing and panting, following the scents of despair.

Ahead of them were the three towers, each one drenched and lit up by lightning strikes. The mortals were there — scrawny prey-things. Khul would want to see them dragged out, made to squeal. Then they would be running again, searching, their nostrils flared, seeking something worthy of the Goretide’s axes.

Rakh powered up the slope. He saw movement against the wall ahead — weapons being lifted, shadows moving. If he had not been in such agony he might have laughed, for such preparations would not help those who cowered behind the wall. The rest of the bloodreaver pack came with him towards the summit, hissing curses, knowing that the mortals had nowhere else to go and no longer bothering with stealth.

At last, there would be proper killing. At last, the gouges and the hooks would be twisted in deep, and there would be fresh meat dragged back for the master to pick over.

A great crack of thunder broke the skies in twain, and Rakh staggered. He looked up, his face spattered with rain, and noticed for the first time just what had happened to the sky. A vast circle had formed over the summits of the three towers. Like a vortex of storm-seas, it turned with gathering force. The lightning was incessant now, twisting and forking and mutating the night sky into a riot of cobwebbed silver.

Something about that display terrified him. It was like looking into Khul’s pitiless face, only with a different kind of fear — a harder fear, a colder fear.

Rakh shrank back. He couldn’t take his new eyes off the light, which was reaching a flickering crescendo. The rain bounced from the rock, driven into scouring flurries by the wind. Everything was glistening, flashing and burning.

He started to fall back, to slide down the slope. The impulsion given to him by Khul was giving way, replaced by a different dread.

Another crack, and this time the earth beneath him shuddered. Rock plates thrust upwards, tilting to expose rivers of seething fire beneath. The arch of the Gate swelled into flames that coursed over the naked stone, burning blue like marsh gas.

Then he was running, haring back the way he had come. This was no natural storm, it was some conflagration of the daemonic, sent from the pits of madness to swallow them all. The entire landscape was shifting, knocked from its roots by the elemental violence of the heavens. Rakh crashed to his knees, losing his axe in the fall.

He felt a sudden heat. It swelled through the rain, vaporising it and making the air thick with steam. He cried out, but his voice was lost in the greater explosion of primeval forces.

It was as if the world itself were being ripped apart and forged anew — light was everywhere, eye-searing and white hot. For an instant Rakh thought he was being burned alive, but just as suddenly as it had come, the blaze blew itself out.

He looked up, shaking uncontrollably. For a moment he saw nothing, his vision hazy from the flash of light.

And then he saw what the storm had brought.

Khul led his army through the cleft just as the storm reached its height. It had been far too narrow for his armoured horde, so he had exerted his power, calling out words of eternal resonance and raising his axe-blade into the eldritch night.

His god had answered, shaking the earth and remaking it around them. The sides of the cleft shuddered, cracked and were smashed into rubble, exploding in a rain of flying stone shards. The boom of it echoed out across the plain beyond, and the great expanse opened up before them, the path bludgeoned clear as if swept aside by mighty hands.

Khul bellowed with laughter, feeling the sharp pleasure of the power at his command. Even the stone beneath his feet obeyed the will of his dark patron — it would not be long now before the final gift was bestowed and he joined the legions of eternal slaughter.

His warriors surged forward, crying out his name in fell voices.

‘Khul! Khul! Khul!’ they chanted, breaking into a run, unshackling their axes from great chains looped about their armour and swinging the curse-darkened metal in clenched fists. With the crack of barbed whips and the bellows of the warband leaders, the great mass of fighters broke out from the confines of the parched valley, poured through the demolished gap between the cliffs, and looked out over the plain of ruins beyond.

Khul was at the apex of the charge with Grizzlemaw loping at his feet, and was the first to witness the deep veins of magic unleashed in the skies above him. An actinic tempest rampaged across the Gate’s apex, and the colossal energies reverberated through his every muscle. Fell storms had been summoned in the past, some by his own command, but never like this one. Even the rain tasted different — icy, gritty, as if filled with tiny diamonds.

His ravaged old heart beat harder. Some great sorcery was at play here, of a kind he had never encountered before. Grizzlemaw sensed the battle-rage stirring and barked furiously.

‘Advance!’ Khul thundered, exhilarated by what he was seeing, hearing, smelling.

The Goretide swarmed down the long scree slopes, parting around their master and forging ahead, heading down swiftly to the plains. Their banners were raised against the teeming skies, and the sacred signs of Khorne swung up above the ranks of iron helms, already glossy in the rain. Companies of blood warriors marched out towards the Gate’s foundations, chanting litanies to the God of Battles as they shoved against one another. Vekh the Flayer pushed on ahead of them all, lashing them into heights of frenzy. In his wake echoed greater bellows yet, issued from jaws that were far larger than those of the blood warriors in the mass of the horde, and yet still hidden by the swirls of night-shadow and sullen flame.

Khul remained where he was, poised above the expanse, taking in the vastness of it. He saw the old ruins and the demolished walls of age-scoured cities, and the distant marks of a forgotten apocalypse. Threx’s bronze icon had already kindled with an angry fire, feeding from the energy burning around them. Khul stood atop the stone shelf, his eyes narrowing. He looked up at the enormous arch, tracing its outline, noting the runes on the lintels. It had been a long time since he had seen runes of that kind — they should have been extinct, just like their makers. The sight of them fuelled his battle-lust further — their existence was like an explicit challenge. He would take them down, one by one, ripping them from the stone with his own hands.

Down below, more of his battalions fanned out, covering the black lands in a carpet of red. As the last of them reached the open ground, a mighty crack, like the bones of the earth snapping, echoed across the plains.

Khul laughed — he couldn’t help himself. He lifted his arms, and lightning snapped against his clenched gauntlets.

‘I am Korghos Khul, Lord of the Earth! Show yourself, storm-weavers, and test your mettle against one worthy of your strength!’

The storm flared. The tempest churned faster, surging around the Gate under its epicentre. A second crack. Plumes of flame shot up from the ground, spewing oily smoke above them. The stink of ozone filled the air and the rain boiled away in hissing cloudbanks. A low rumble ran across the earth, making the rock-plates grind and crack. It felt as if giants were stirring below the world’s skin, rousing from aeons of slumber to break back into the realms of the living.

Then there was an almighty explosion of light, one that made his army turn their faces away, covering their helms with warding gestures. The banners faltered, the war-cries were silenced and the heavens erupted in sheets of silver flame. The air itself screamed, torn apart by some sorcery so potent and so pure that its elements were sundered from one another and forged anew.

Shafts of iridescence slammed down from the firmament, punching deep into the earth below. The wind’s howl became deafening, racing across the reeling landscape and flattening the iron-limbed vegetation. The Gate seemed to swell, to grow, towering higher over a vortex of gathering power. Even as the land around it was shriven and the hordes were driven to their knees by the tearing gale, the vast arch remained resolute, untouched, carved from the very bones of the world itself and glowering black as obsidian against the storm’s fury.

Only Khul kept his composure. He spread his arms wide before the elemental wrath, and laughed as the fire-scored wind tore at his cloak. He raised his axe high, and lightning snapped and licked up against its dire blade.

And so it was that he alone saw them come. He saw them borne down from the storm by the white-blue shafts and ripped from coils of shimmering magic. He saw them hurtle from the heart of the turning maelstrom, encased in brilliant cocoons of light. He saw them strike the earth with shuddering force. Where they crashed into the ground, domes of energy sprang up, each one swimming with raging coruscation. Then the domes shattered, spraying fragments of crystalline matter across the burning land, exposing the scions of the storm, the ones delivered by the wrath of the skies.

They were tall, taller than the greatest of mortal men, clad in purest gold and bearing warhammers that glistened with seething energy. Masks they wore, gold as their battle-plate, each one gazing impassively out at the devastation around them. Some had pearl-white wings that spread out behind them, bearing them aloft almost as soon as they had landed. Others strode out from their broken cocoons, their movements fluid despite the weight of arcane armour. Their every movement was perfect, poised to perfection and suffused with god-like power. They strode out from the remnants of the lightning that had hurled them into reality, hefting their weapons with an eerie, fluid power.

One of them carried a great standard of gold and bone, and his face was masked with the stark image of a skull. Another propelled himself high into the storm-lashed skies, his wings still surrounded by the blinding aura of the descent. They were the lords, then, the masters of these strange outcasts from the arch of the heavens.

But Khul could see that one alone was the true master of the host. He had come down first, and had emerged from the annihilation of the domes before any other, and Khul had watched him with a greedy yearning. Alone of the warriors he did not tread the earth of the Brimstone Peninsula, but rode a giant beast with skin of dark cobalt and jaws the length of a man. The rider’s cloak, billowing out in the eddies of the storm, was the sapphire of clear skies, and his helm was surmounted with a golden crest. The image of the hammer and comet shone out from a boss on his armour, and like the brothers that emerged after him, he carried that most devastating of the great weapons of old — the warhammer, crimson-shafted and wrought from glittering gold.

As soon as Khul saw this he remembered what it was like to face an enemy capable of fighting. He saw the might in those steel-clad arms, and the artistry in that golden armour, and knew then that these foes were like nothing he had ever faced before. The light of unsullied star-realms shone in their masked eyes, and the calm presumption of victory bled from their every poised movement.

But there was more than that — the mounted warrior held his attention. Khul heard Grizzlemaw growl, and recalled another combat, lifetimes ago, one which had remained unfinished, cut short by the intervention of lightning, just as this encounter had been presaged by it.

It could not be — such things were impossible, sundered by too much time and space — but the feeling was the same, the instinct was the same.

By now his army was recovering itself. They were picking themselves up from where they had fallen, shaking their heads to clear them, retrieving axes, remembering their voices of hatred and murder. Skullbrand strode among them, rousing them to repel the storm-borne host. Vekh had been faster, and was sweeping towards the three towers with flails whirling. Every stroke that he dragged across the back of the blood warriors snapped them from their stupor and roused them back into the lust for slaughter that had seen them tear across the plains toward the Gate.

Khul laughed again. He raised his axe and curls of lightning snapped on to the hell-forged iron.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’ he thundered, making those around him froth and snarl with rabid fury. ‘One chosen skull for the pyre of his glory!’

He angled his axe towards the lord of the storm-delivered, and fixed him for the death that would break the back of the glittering host before the night’s end.

‘You!’ he roared. ‘You I shall take myself!’

The passage of the void had been like a death. Nothing, save the Reforging that he had endured so long ago, compared to its straitening pain. He had seen the deep dark in all its abyssal glory, yawning down into eternity over a vault of cold-burning stars. Amid that space, he had seen the snatched images of other realms, lit softly amid the thrown scattering of the firmament. He had seen places of blasted stone, over-verdant forests, and screaming towers of multi-hued madness. All of it was different and all of it the same — warped by the wills of malevolence, turned into variegated hells, lost to hope.

Then the visions had ripped away, replaced by the sheer fire of the descent. He had cried out, feeling the lightning surge through his very body, burning along his veins, spilling from his eyes, his mouth, his hands. Too late did he remember how it had felt the first time, when the God-King had reached out to pluck those he deemed worthy of ascension from the failing battles of the old ages.

Then the agony snapped out and he felt the Realm of Fire solidify around him. He heard the roar of its storms and smelled the acrid smoke of its endless pyres. The cocoon of celestial power bloomed about him, and he saw the dim outline of vast ruins through its translucent veil.

The dome blew out, dissolving in a rain of twisting shards. Vandus breathed in the first air of Aqshy. He tasted it, he heard its tumults, he felt the unstable tremors beneath his feet.

It had changed beyond all recognition — even if his dreams of the old life had not been so fractured, he would not have known the place. The skies were overcast with driving filth, the earth below sundered with rivers of spitting fire. Only the storm, a mere remnant of the Celestial Realm’s purity, contained any splendour — the rest was spoiled.

Lifetimes ago, he had seen the limitless darkness take this world and torture it. He had seen the legions marching under blood-red banners, and the skies riven by the screams of the taken. He had seen the brass cities, where pyramids of scraped-clean skulls served as altars to gods whose victory was soon to be complete. Even now, removed by both time and space, he could remember the way the world had died. Every withered plain and craggy mountain had been taken, polluted by hatreds that were older than the stones themselves.

So much had gone. He could not know how long ago it had been, nor what mortal count of years he had reached before the God-King had seen fit to take him for his own, but he had dreamed in Sigmaron of the old houses of stone and thatch, in which had dwelt all those he had known in the life before life. He still saw their faces — the warriors who had ridden out with him when the skies were lit with dancing fires and the warbands of hell were abroad. Many had been precious to him — those who had fought longest and hardest, who had followed him out into the wilds and lived among the wolves when the light of the sun itself was marred.

There was one face from those years that would never leave him — a woman’s, a warrior just as he had been, the one with whom he had shared his soul. Hers was the only clear vision he still retained, but even then her name was gone. Her skin had been scarred like all the rest of them, and streaked with the grime of constant combat. It had been a hard face, made tough by the rigours of a war without end, but when she had smiled her dark eyes had held the light of stars.

But now that was washed away, seared by the white fire of the Reforging. That world, those faces — all were excised, and what remained was a mere reflection, twisted into horror, more potent than he could ever have imagined.

Around him his warriors hastened to their stations. They had known so little of what they would encounter, save for the vague location of the Gate and the likelihood of resistance wherever they emerged. Their prediction had proved sound — a massive army had already arrayed itself before them, pouring down from a far ridge and milling across the plains to the south of their impact sites. The horde before them outnumbered Vandus’s own vanguard a dozen times, and even a company of Eternals would be borne down by such tides, given enough time. The task now — the only task — was to endure long enough to see the Gate unlocked. Until that was done, they were on their own. Once the portal was opened, whole legions of their brothers would be sent, and the war would commence in earnest.

Vandus saw that already his captains were doing what was required of them. Ionus was leading the Retributors down from the heights and into the valley of fire. They would be charged with holding the line around the base of the portal, and there the Cryptborn’s strange powers would be tested as never before. Anactos had taken his Skyhost soaring into the rain-soaked storm, from where the assault on the magical wards would begin.

As for Vandus, he had the bulk of the Stormhost with him — the Liberators, destined to charge into the heart of the oncoming hordes, to take them on as no foe had taken them on for uncounted years. Their task was to engage the greatest of the creatures of Chaos, to prevent them from approaching the Gate, and to turn their advance in on itself, buying the precious time they needed.

Vandus gazed out over the sheer size of the horde, and a thrill of battle-energy shivered through him. They were immense, and their din was already deafening, but the thought of bringing his sacred hammer among them, of delivering the vengeance so long deferred, made his heart race. He raised Heldensen, and Calanax let slip a metallic roar from his gaping jaws.

‘To me, my brothers!’ he cried, and raw lightning leapt around him.

They answered the summons, shrugging off the last slivers of void-lightning, forming up into phalanxes of gold. Rain streamed down their armour, and yet did not diminish it — amid a fallen world, they shone like furnaces sent to burn away the corruption and salvage what little remained.

Calanax roared again, his mighty lungs hurling smoke and boiling rain far out across the battlefield. The dracoth reared up, yearning to charge into the depths of the host set before them. Vandus held him back for a little longer, scanning across the landscape, deferring back the charge until he had determined the shape of the battle.

Amid the seething mass of crimson-armoured warriors, some were greater than others. He saw a mighty champion striding through the heart of the horde bearing a brass sigil of the Fallen Gods. He saw a bare-headed beastmaster flailing at the bloodied back of a massive creature, his eyes lit with a feral ecstasy. That one would be the first to reach him, and so Vandus silently marked him for the contest.

And yet, they were not the greatest of the army’s masters. There was another, perched high on a cliff-edge to the south, standing alone before a narrow cleft in the rock. Even from so far away, Vandus could sense the overabundance of power, throbbing like a wound in reality. He was the master of this horde, and by his will alone did it go to war. Even as battle called him, Vandus found it hard to pull his eyes from the dark champion.

For an instant, he saw an image from another age — a village, burning, swamped with warriors whose armour was much like those he faced now. He saw a young warrior — blond, grizzled, cut by a hundred wounds — racing to face a warlord with a twin-bladed axe.

And for the first time in forgotten ages, he remembered his name.

Blackfist. Vendell Blackfist.

Across the gulf between them, the skull-helmed lord lowered his axe, directing it straight at him. Vandus felt the impact of that cold malice, striking him like a physical blow. Old mortal emotions raced through his mind, ones he had believed to be long scoured clean.

And yet, he had been Reforged. Those dreams had been torn away, and could never be recovered. All that remained was vengeance, the cleansing burn of sacred fire, the retribution of the long ages.

‘To arms!’ roared Vandus, holding his warhammer aloft and shifting as the dracoth bucked beneath him. ‘Now comes the hour! Strike them down where they march, and may the vengeance of the God-King guide you!’

With a massed roar of acclamation, the Stormhost broke as one into the charge, serried in gold and sky-blue, poised to crash into the vanguard of the enemy with all the fury of the Celestial Realm unleashed.

Anactos, lord of the Skyhost, swept high into the air, releasing a shout of joy as he powered upwards. His Prosecutors came with him, stretching their pinions and glorying in the release of long-held energy.

All around them, the tempest surged. The winds were violent, tugging them one way and the other, ever-threatening to dash them against the rocks below. After the first exuberant surge, they stayed close to the earth, gliding just high enough to survey the battlefield that sprawled away below them.

The Gate was to the south, less than half a mile distant. Already its base was overrun with the warriors of Chaos, unwitting as to its purpose but knowing a bastion where they saw one. Ionus had led his Retributors towards them, and soon battle would be joined around the massive foundations.

More columns of lightning slammed down, releasing the last of the void-sent Prosecutors from their glimmering domes. There were so few of them — they were like scarce points of starlight across the face of eternal night. Set against the monsters that now lumbered and crashed towards them, the vanguard looked painfully fragile.

Anactos laughed freely. His wings snapped back hard, pushing him back up into the heights. To test his skills against such a storm made his spirits sing. The Celestial Realm had been a paradise, one in which even the lowliest towers were crowned with circlets of jewels, but this was another thing entirely. The danger of it thrilled him, just as it did all his swift-winged bothers.

He heard Lord Vandus issue the command to advance, and watched as the Liberators fell into their battle formations. The last few of Anactos’s own troops broke free of their crystalline cocoons, racing to join his aerial vanguard.

‘Faster, and yet faster!’ Anactos urged, addressing his Prosecutors as they wheeled about him. ‘The portal awaits — you know your task!’

With a clap of wings, the Skyhost swung around and swept down low, streaking across the battlefield and towards the empty archway.

For Ionus, there was no rush of combat joy. He had emerged from the storm’s wrath with the same chill disdain as he had ever felt for it. The fires and the lightning meant nothing to him, for they were all fleeting shadows set beside the dread craft that gave him his strength.

Already the shouts of the battle-frenzied were rising in volume. The blood of both sides ran hot, frothing in the veins of every man who bore a blade. It was mere chatter to Ionus, who always spoke in a whisper and whose glance alone reflected nothing but infinite silence.

Following Vandus’s command, he trudged down the slope towards the Gate’s foundations. The ruins of great edifices stretched away on either side, lain low by forgotten wars. He cared little for them, either — the Realm of Fire had never been his domain. Duty alone had brought him to this battle, a duty forged when the God-King had delved down into the uttermost depths of the Amethyst Realm and snatched him away from his destined oblivion. One night, if the fates allowed, he would return to those moonlit vaults, to where the skies were untroubled by suns and where the spirits of the ever-slain dwelt in their perpetual shadow.

Until then, he would lend the Stormhost his subtle powers, commanding the very laws that bound souls to flesh. Not for him a golden warhammer, but instead a reliquary of bone, one that channelled the esoteric forces of Shyish itself.

The Retributors who accompanied him were warriors after his own heart — grim, steadfast, not given to the recklessness of the Prosecutors nor the bravado of the Liberators. They would stand firm against the yammering progeny of nightmares for as long as but one of them drew breath, forming a line of gold that ringed the feet of the portal. His task was to hold the base of the Gate, enduring the horde were kept from its precincts until all was accomplished. Vandus would drive onwards, hoping to gouge a wedge into the centre of the horde and engage its champions, while the Cryptborn would maintain the cordon around the portal. It was a task after his cold heart — reckless valour had little appeal, whereas endurance meant everything.

Already the front ranks of the enemy were loping towards them, their shock fading as the storm raged unabated above, goaded by their whip-wielding slavemasters and propelled by their own blood-fury.

Ionus watched them come, cracking no smile under his deathmask helm. He remembered the oaths he had sworn, as old and hard as the grave, binding him to the service of the one who held the promise of liberation for his beloved lands of shadow.

As the first of them drew within range, the Cryptborn held his bone-sigil aloft in both hands, feeling the cold sigh of unnatural winds curl around its length.

‘Unto death,’ he whispered, and advanced into the maw of hate.

Chapter Five

Rakh cowered with the rest of the bloodreavers, unable to believe what he had witnessed. One moment they had been running down the scent of terrified mortals, the next the skies themselves had broken asunder and gilded paragons had hurtled down from rifts in their heights.

From where he crouched, he saw the earth explode in clouds of splintered stone. A dome of silver flared up, raging like starlight, before shattering into a thousand spinning fragments. From its heart came a golden warrior, towering and imperious, his white pinions stretching out like the fell shadow of a vengeful angel. The warrior raised his warhammer high, and lightning curled around it in greeting. The storm boomed and cracked, the air itself singing with strange sorcery, and the angelic warrior leapt up into its heart, thrusting upwards amid a riot of light and racing flame.

Rakh screamed out in rage, reaching for his cleaver. Others of his pack recovered their wits and scrabbled for their own weapons. The bloodreavers may have been debased flesh-eaters, but they had all been raised in a world where fighting was the only form of life — once threatened, they would always strike back.

‘Not them!’ cried Rakh, hauling the others back before they could charge the greater mass of golden warriors. Those ones were already quitting the rise, forming up into battalions to march down into the lowlands beside the gate. There were too many to take on, and they were fearsomely well-armoured. ‘Pluck the birds from the skies!’

The winged ones looked an easier prospect — they had their eyes fixed on the Gate, heedless of those crawling on the ground below but staying close enough to be grasped. There were fewer of them and they seemed more fragile.

The surviving bloodreavers did as they were commanded, and Rakh led them up to the ridge’s summit. They went stealthily, hidden by the drifting clouds of underlit smoke, unseen by the golden warriors hovering just above head height.

As they closed in, Rakh began to believe that it could be done. He picked out one of the angels who had only just emerged from its lightning-dome, still glistening from whatever magic had summoned it and yet to ascend fully into the skies.

‘Take it!’ he hissed to his brothers, and together they sprinted to bring it down.

Rakh leapt, swinging his cleaver wildly at the warrior’s trailing ankle. The thick blade connected, smashing the armoured heel and causing the winged warrior to cry out. The angel tried to gain height but more bloodreavers piled in, leaping as high as they could to try to grasp the creature. Flails and long-chained hooks lashed out, punching into the warrior’s armoured plates and dragging him down to their level.

Once they had it encumbered, the bloodreavers fell on it in a ravening scrum, seizing its kicking legs and pulling it to earth. Rakh clutched its breastplate, hauling his way towards its throat. He caught a glimpse of its golden mask — a blank expression, belying the desperate life-and-death struggle — before he was thrown back to the ground.

The angel was incredibly strong. Despite taking a dozen deep cuts from axe-blades, it struggled on, ever trying to gain loft. Its warhammer, held one-handed, scythed around, smashing three bloodreavers clear and sending their broken bodies tumbling. It kicked out, severing the neck of another and almost breaking free.

Rakh pounced again, hurling his cleaver straight at the creature’s breastplate. The iron edge hit the metal but was deflected, scraping across the pristine surface. The bloodreavers became more desperate, drooling with anger as they battled to pull their prey to earth.

The prospect of healthy flesh to gnaw on rather than worm-infested gristle made Rakh frenzied with meat-lust, and he flung himself into the air one more time. This time his outstretched fingers caught onto something solid — the warrior’s weapon-belt — and he yanked down with all his strength. Others of the pack seized the angel and chains were flung up, clanking onto his limbs and dragging at him. The axes and cleavers got to work, slamming down and breaking up the armoured plate.

Rakh smelled the first gush of the creature’s blood and knew then he would be locking his teeth onto skin within moments. He ripped the warrior’s helm-rim back from its neck and stretched his jaws wide, picking his spot before he plunged down.

The lightning bolt hit him cripplingly hard and he was sent flying, his chest smoking and his jerkin burned to scraps. His head spun and his vision reeled. He reached for his weapon groggily, gasping from the shock and pain, and tried to get to his feet.

More bolts flew in, each one crackling like ball-lightning before exploding with a sharp bang. The deluge scattered the gang of bloodreavers, some of whom were caught by it and cut down just as he had been. Rakh stood up, still bleary-eyed, and stared into the skies.

The angels were swooping in low, hurling bolts of energy right into the midst of the bloodreavers. Now acclimatised to the buffets of the storm-wind, they were hurtling through the air in a blur of gold and cobalt, uncatchable, unreachable, and burning with wrath.

The one that had been pulled to earth got back to his feet, still swinging his warhammer and crunching the skulls of the bloodreavers about him. Rakh stumbled into a charge, holding his cleaver two-handed and determined to bring at least one of those damned flying creatures to its death.

The angel turned to face him, his armour running with blood, and opened the palm of his gauntlet. A ball of white fire slammed into Rakh, this time burning right through what remained of his armour and chewing into his chest. He screamed and collapsed onto his back, clutching impotently at the forks of heat tearing across his skin.

Prone and agonised, Rakh could only watch as the battle-ravaged warrior leapt back up into the skies, bloodied but still capable of flight. His counterparts were dropping to the earth now, landing amid bursts of the searing starfire that shot from their very hands. Others darted down low, airborne still but flying near enough to send their hammerheads blasting into the backs of the fleeing bloodreavers.

Amid all his dizziness, Rakh couldn’t help but spit out a bitter laugh. They had tried to take down one of them, just one, and failed. Now the whole pack was suffering the vengeance of these strange and terrible warriors, and within moments they would be slaughtered to a man.

Rakh lifted his head just in time to see one more of the golden creatures coming for him. There would be no escape this time — he could barely move, and already the numbness creeping up his limbs was near-complete. With his last breath, he could only marvel at what had taken place.

What are these things?

But before any answer could be given the angel unleashed his fire, and Rakh’s brutish world ended in a blaze of pain.

Vekh had seen the danger before any of the others. While the rest of the army were still blinking and staring stupidly at the apparitions from the skies, he had reached for his flail and summoned the bestial presence at the heart of the horde.

For the long march north the behemoth had been shackled, weighed down with spell-wound chains of iron made in the depths of Khul’s forges. They had goaded it and dragged it, never getting too close, knowing what it could do. It had raged at them, lashing out under the burden of the iron collar and the iron yokes, and Vekh had always been there at its side, whispering the maddening words, stoking the fires that ever burned within its ruined mind.

‘Skuldrak!’ he had called as the fires fell from heaven, releasing its bonds with a word and calling the behemoth, the khorgorath, to his side.

And it had come. Despite the pain, despite the madness, it always came, answering the command of its tormentor and trampling the lesser creatures of the horde under its claws. It barged its way up from the very heart of the boiling multitudes until its red-rimmed eyes once more seized on the author of its agony.

Skuldrak was a monstrous creation, towering over even the hugest of the Goretide’s other leviathans. Vast trunks of muscled legs supported a cavernous chest and absurdly oversized arms, each terminating in iron-tipped claws the breadth of a man’s torso. An immense bony head thrust out from bulging shoulders, studded with tusks and pierced with the iron marks of Khorne’s favour. When the khorgorath roared, a welter of fizzing spittle flew from its open maw, drowning out all other calls of battle and inspiring those about it to new heights of savagery.

Skuldrak was Vekh’s own creature, tortured into submission a lifetime ago and now shackled to his merciless lash, just as the entire horde was. The beast could endure phenomenal amounts of pain, something that Vekh put to the test whenever he could, goading it into the fullest extent of battle-wrath, making an already wildly aggressive creature into an engine of pure carnage.

United once more, the two of them — bloodstoker and beast of Chaos — charged across the open plain. Even as the bulk of the Goretide waited for Khul’s orders, Skuldrak lumbered inchoately, bellowing in a haze of apoplexy as the flail bit deeper. For his part, Vekh had to run hard just to keep up, for Skuldrak unleashed was as ferociously fast as he was colossal.

Vekh’s battle-lust, however, was more controlled than his beast’s. He had seen the disposition of the enemy and gauged where best to strike. Their armour was new to him, as was the magical aura that played across their ranks, but every army had its lords, and if those could be struck down then the rest would fall apart. The Goretide was unbeaten, its name whispered with hushed respect even by those steeped in the favour of Khorne — this night would not see a reverse of such god-marked fortunes.

As Vekh neared the first warriors of the glittering warband, their commander was obvious enough — a knight with a crested helm riding atop some kind of draconic beast. Others of the host, larger figures in heavier battle-plate, had already broken formation and were making for the ruined Gate, leaving their flanks exposed. That was a critical mistake, Vekh judged — the ruin was worthless as a redoubt, and they were spreading themselves too thin in order to take it. If this crested beastrider could be killed, the whole encounter would be over with brutal swiftness, leaving only the long hours of torture to come.

‘Skuldrak!’ Vekh shouted, snapping out the spike-tipped flails with abandon. ‘That is the one! Break it now and your pain can stop!’

The leviathan thundered out a tortured bellow and powered towards the lightning-crowned rider. Vekh watched the golden knight respond, turning to face the oncoming charge. The beast he rode was a mighty creature, its scaly head wreathed with flame and its sinuous tail lashing like Vekh’s own flails, but it was far smaller than the khorgorath and had not been driven into the same depth of daemonic rage.

The gap between them shrank to nothing, and Vekh maintained the lash, whipping Skuldrak into a blur of speed. Bony tentacles burst out from the khorgorath’s shoulders, each snaking towards the dracoth rider, ready to snatch him from his mount and break his back.

The rider called out a battle-cry as the shadow of the khorgorath fell across him, hefting his mighty hammer as if it weighed no more than a reed. The weapon arced round, blazing with eye-watering light, and slammed heavily into Skuldrak’s oncoming flank.

A mighty bang rang out, and a blaze of silver light radiated from the impact. Skuldrak, for all its size and momentum, was rocked back on to its mighty haunches, and its hooves gouged deep into the solid stone. The knight swung again, switching back and driving the head deep into the creature’s ribcage.

Skuldrak screamed, at last experiencing pain worse than its master’s gouges, and twisted back to face the snarling draconic mount. Vekh, seeing the chance, raced in close, aiming to dislodge the rider and bear him down to the earth. The cobalt-skinned mount was too quick, though, snapping its jaws just a fraction too slowly to tear Vekh’s head from his shoulders but close enough to make him stagger back from the charge.

Now free to act, the gold-armoured rider rammed his hammer against the khorgorath’s skull as if it were a blade on an anvil. Skuldrak reeled away, roaring. Then the crested helm was turned on Vekh, where the beastmaster crouched, ready to launch a second attack.

‘Know your enemy before he ends you, spawn of ruin,’ came a clear voice, cutting through the battle-roar like a shaft of sunlight. ‘I am Vandus Hammerhand, Lord-Celestant of the Stormhost, and this night your reign comes to its end.’

Vekh snarled, taking up his flail again and readying it for Skuldrak.

‘Then know yours, Hammerhand,’ he replied. ‘I am Vekh, named the Flayer, and I shall wear your skin as my cloak before the night’s end. If you perform well, I may even let you die first.’

The Retributors reached the Gate just ahead of the horde. They spread out in a long line, making their numbers count for as much as possible. Each warrior stood two yards from the shoulder of his brother, giving room to wield the two-handed greathammers with the power they warranted.

Ionus took his place behind the slender line of defence, knowing that it was not yet his time to move into the heart of the combat. As he watched, the formless mass of enemy warriors screamed towards them, shouting incoherently in brutish tongues. Some spoke debased languages that he understood while others raved in the language of the Old Gods, their words steeped in the slow corruption of millennia.

‘Remain steadfast,’ he whispered to those about him. His voice was as dusty and sibilant as ever, but he knew that every Retributor would hear him clearly enough. ‘Trust in the immortal will of Sigmar, the liberator of his people.’

The eyes of the foe were now visible, red-rimmed under beaten helms of iron. Ionus saw the mutilation of their bodies — wounds pinned open, brand-marks across faces, metal studs and spikes pushed through exposed skin. They all bore the marks of Khorne, carved into living flesh and carried above them on banners of cured hides.

‘He will preserve,’ Ionus breathed. ‘He will protect.’

Then the lines smashed together, the rolling tide of frenzy slamming hard into the cordon of gold. The Retributors had waited for the moment of most impact before letting fly with their hammers, and with their release the entire battlefront dissolved in a welter of cracked skulls and sprayed blood. Before they could lean into the return swing, the blood warriors were in amongst them, hacking with short-handles axes. The Retributors held the line, though the pressure of the charge forced them back, testing the slender perimeter before the stairway leading up to the Gate’s great archway.

Ionus coolly watched the fighting unfold. They had known it would be intense, and the sheer volume of hatred did not come as a surprise. The Old Powers had degraded what counted for humanity in this realm, perverting them into mere bestial tools, each one capable of nothing but rage. The damned screamed as they fought, screamed as they were hacked back, and screamed as their guts were torn from them by the heavy sweep of hammerheads.

Behind the Retributors, the Gate loomed massively, lit up by flashes of lightning and the aegis of fire kindled at its summit. The Prosecutors were late reaching their positions, though Ionus could see the first of them soar up against the night sky now, ready to unleash the wrath of the comet. Perhaps they had been waylaid — if so, then the need for haste had become more pressing than ever.

Then, over to his right, the first of the Retributors was brought down. The warrior had already accounted for a dozen of the horde and his hammer was heavy with a black slick of blood, but the press was remorseless. Ionus hastened to his aid, just too late — a long spear-shaft jabbed out, shoved forward by many sets of hands, and the tip punched through the Retributor’s throat, wrenching the helm up and forcing the warrior’s head back.

A huge roar rang out from the horde, and the ferocity of the attack picked up. The two Retributors on either side of their fallen brother closed off the gap, fighting hard to prevent the breach in the line becoming a flood through which the enemy could pour.

By then Ionus had reached the stricken warrior’s side, and he crouched down low beside him. The Retributor was dead, and shards of the spear’s shaft still protruded from the gaping hole in his throat. Ionus pulled the splinters clear and cauterised the wound with a wave of his clawed hand. Even as the blood warriors hammered at the defences, he worked calmly and quickly, bringing his staff to bear. Ghoulish energies pooled and flowed from the bone reliquary, reaching out to latch on to the Retributor’s motionless corpse. There was a sigh like the cold wind across reeds, and the fallen warrior’s body jerked. Spectral lightning leapt from the tip of the reliquary, clamping on to the Retributor’s helm. The warrior burst back into movement with ghostly strands of luminescence writhing across his bloodied armour.

Ionus withdrew as the Retributor clambered back to his feet. The warrior pushed his way back to his place in the line and started to fight just as before. Unperturbed, his comrades moved aside to give him room, and the cordon was restored. Ionus backed away, scrutinising the remaining defenders and watching for any more breaks in the line.

The resurrection briefly cowed the horde beyond, as the work of their blades was undone. The fallen Retributor fought just as hard and just as well as those about him, with the only sign of his demise being the blood across his battered gorget.

Once the shock had faded, though, the blood warriors became even more deranged, as if affronted by the use of magical powers by one other than their own dark lords. They charged back at the Retributors, slamming spike-bossed shields into them, flinging axes with abandon, spitting curses even as the warhammers continued to reap a bloody toll. The Retributors were forced back a step further, managing the retreat expertly but still forced to close the gap between them and the stairs leading up to the Gate.

Ionus remained impassive, trying to pick out the leaders among the horde. His eyes finally rested on a true beast of a man, wading through the ranks of his own, fighting against them just to get closer to the front. He was arrayed in heavy armour of iron and bronze, and alongside a long-handled axe he carried a standard to match the Cryptborn’s own. It was he who roused the lesser fighters to such heights of frenzy, and he who held the enemy’s battle-lines together.

Ionus narrowed his eyes, studying the brass icon he bore aloft. It had an unnatural aspect to it, as if it had been forged in another world and did not belong on the mortal plane at all. Already flickers of red flame were dancing around its head, the harbingers of a greater release to come.

Ionus would have liked nothing better than to push out into the throng then, kicking aside the blood warriors to get at the real danger. When that icon disgorged its foul malediction, there was no telling what horror would be unleashed.

But his place was with the Retributors, holding the perimeter around the Gate lest the enemy guess its purpose and destroy it from its foundations. If he left the line now, the next warrior to fall would not get up and the fragile shield would surely break.

So he held his position, knowing that it was only a matter of time before their tenuous line would be overwhelmed. He risked one more look up to where the skies still boiled with the elemental tempest. The Prosecutors had begun their work, but they had much yet to do. Time was against them all, and with every moment more blood warriors piled into the furious melee under the shadows of the ruins. If the portal were not breached soon…

‘Remain steadfast,’ he whispered, to himself as much as those around him. ‘He will preserve. He will protect.’

Anactos rose up on the swirling hurricane, his wings fighting against the storm-surge. His brothers had been scattered and were working hard to stay close to Gate’s edge. The hordes seething on the earth beneath had tried to attack them again, hurling spears from the fire-lit dark, but Vandus’s charge into the main body of the oncoming ranks had blunted those attacks for the moment.

The Prosecutors had been delayed by the attack of the bloodreavers and now needed to work fast. Anactos’s joy in the flight had long gone, overtaken by the knowledge of just how little time they had. He could see the Lord-Celestant engaged in combat with a massive beast of Chaos, and the Liberator vanguard was already close pressed by a far greater mass of axe-wielding warriors. Ionus and his Retributors were almost completely hidden from view by the blood warriors they fought against, and if either flank of the Eternals’ cordon should fail then all would quickly collapse into confusion.

Anactos kindled fresh comet-fire in his hands, watching as his warhammer transmuted into a spitting ball of blue-edged brilliance that span against his rain-slick gauntlets.

‘Azyr!’ he roared, sending the bolt blazing towards the Gate. It impacted not on the stone, but in the empty void under the great archway. As it struck the point directly below the keystone, it exploded, sending shattering lines of force cobwebbing across the gap.

The whole structure shook and the fires on the Gate’s crown shuddered. From the other side of the gate, the Prosecutor Kallas launched a similar bolt, which struck the same target with the same effect. Pelias sent a shaft of comet-light spinning into contact, and then it was the turn of Valian, the one who had been dragged to earth by the bloodreavers. His comet-fire was weaker, affected by the wounds he had taken, but it struck the Gate’s heart nonetheless, adding to the steady rain of impacts.

As the volleys of raw magic rocked the portal, the runes engraved on its soaring pillars stirred into a dull red glow. More flames spontaneously ignited along its twisting intricacies, surging up old stairwells and bursting through the conical roofs of its watchtowers.

The Gate’s seals were strong, laid down during the last days of the Lost War. Sigmar had made the rune-signs himself, it was said, and his might and subtlety had held the portal fast for the long ages, resisting every attempt made by the Fallen Gods to force the passage to the Celestial Realm. Only the weapons of Azyr itself had the power to unlock those seals, and only then when used with great force. Sending Eternals into battle without using the portal was astonishingly difficult, even when the entire wizard-choirs of Sigmaron were pressed into service to accomplish it. Only if the Gate were released from both sides at once would the road be fully opened, after which the greater force of the Stormhost could pass across the bridge between the Realms unhindered.

Anactos swept upwards again, catching a fire-flecked thermal current and using it to drive himself over the summit of the portal. He summoned up a new spectral warhammer, which shimmered in his grasp before solidifying into sigmarite. Then he hurled it back towards the portal’s rim, and as it flew it transmuted back into celestial energy, streaking like the comet from which it had been born.

The explosion was greater this time — a riot of multi-hued light blasting from the Gate’s empty heart. The storm-whipped void flexed like fabric, distorting the view through the aperture. A great crack appeared through which a faint glister of gold could be perceived, and the runes on the Gate flared, turning to the red of flame.

But then the wards resisted, reimposing the weight of aeons, clamping down on any attempt to break that which had been unbreakable for so long. The remaining Prosecutors of the Skyhost launched their own barrage of comet-fire, keeping up the relentless assault, but no more fissures appeared, and the runes remained in place and smouldering.

Anactos cried aloud with frustration. The constant summoning of comet-fire was draining, and the portal remained closed. Down below, the twin spearheads led by Vandus and Ionus were mere islands in an ocean of raging fury, and for all their valour they would soon be overwhelmed.

‘For the God-King!’ Anactos cried again, racked by pain as he summoned yet another bolt to hurl into the Gate’s heart.

Even as he let loose, and the comet-born fire streaked to its target, he could not shake one terrible, nagging thought.

We have come too late. We cannot break it in time.

Chapter Six

Khul was still a long way from his enemy, hampered by the crowds of his own troops, when he realised what the true danger was. He had taken the vast ruin ahead to be some dormant relic of ancient ages. When the gold-armoured hammer-bearers had filed down to surround it, he had assumed that they had thought to seize a remnant of old days — a sentimental move, fighting to hold it against the descendants of those that had first laid it low.

Only slowly, watching the winged angels dive and wheel, did he see what their real aim was — they were not here to take it, but to destroy it, and every action they were performing was bent towards that one goal. Khul had no idea why they would wish to risk their lives for such a pointless achievement, but was astute enough to guess that it was their only hope for survival. For the first time, a tremor of doubt assailed him — he still had the numbers to slay them all, given enough time, but if the Gate held some secret power, something only they knew of, then they could not be allowed to fulfil that aim.

‘Skullbrand!’ Khul roared, rearing up to his full height and letting his axe spike with arcane magics.

Even across the entire breadth of the battlefield, with a thousand voices raised in anger and aggression, Threx Skullbrand heard the summons of his master and turned his crimson helm to heed the order. The bond between them, forged by lifetimes at war, was so acute and so drenched in dark magic that Khul had only so much as to say his name and Threx would hear it.

‘The Gate!’ Khul roared, gesturing to where the angels were pummelling it with their bursts of wild magic. ‘Break the aegis! Summon the Realm of Brass!’

Skullbrand nodded in acknowledgement, and immediately his icon-staff crackled with bronze tendrils. The howl of another wind joined in that of the world’s gales, and the atmosphere above the bloodsecrator began to pulsate like a drumskin.

Khul might have stayed to witness what Skullbrand was doing, always gladdened to see the scions of the great Throne heed the call of a mortal soul, but in the midst of the struggle he had no leisure to stand idly by. He could already see that, incredibly, Vekh and his khorgorath were being battered by the beast-riding warrior. Despite the numbers set against them, the body of golden knights was holding its own, even pushing deeper into the ranks of his own army. They fought with a blend of speed and skill that far exceeded the brutal excesses of his own troops. For too long the blood warriors had fought only the weak and the terrified — it had made them flabby and careless.

Khul snarled as he marched down through the ranks of his horde, obsessed now with bringing down the helm-crested knight before any other might claim the kill. For so many ages he had been searching for a champion whose skull would crown the uncompleted Red Pyramid, his great paean to the God of Battles, and now at last he had it before him — an immortal, clearly; one possessed of the power to command the lightning and whose valour in arms exceeded even the heroes of the forgotten past.

But then Khul halted in his rampage, struck by the same realisation that had assailed him on the clifftop. He suddenly remembered the destruction of that last tribe. He remembered putting their villages to the fire, sweeping across their lands with the force of a whirlwind. None of them had ever submitted save through death. The bloodreavers had never turned one, and the ranks of his blood warriors had never been bolstered by them. Every fight against them, no matter how one-sided, had been turned into a brutal contest of wills, something that had made his savage heart swell with satisfaction.

This was the same. Though these warriors fought in the finest battle-plate, they were cast in the same mould. The beastrider in particular — he was exactly the same, not in his regal appearance but in the sheer tenacity of his bearing.

There had been lightning that night, too. There had been bolts from the heavens that had burned through his horde and nearly turned them back from the final conquest. And then, right at the end, the great warrior — who had defied him and spat curses into his face and readied himself for a duel he could not possibly win — was gone, his place taken by charred earth and the stray crackles of celestial discharge.

Grizzlemaw whined, eager to take up the hunt again, straining on his iron leash. Perhaps the hell-hound recognised something too, and his every muscle twitched with desperation to rend and maim.

‘I know not how you have returned,’ growled Khul, swinging his axe-blade to clear a path through his own battle-incensed horde, ‘but I shall discover it before this night ends, and rip the truth from your shrivelled soul.’

Skullbrand had not welcomed the order from his lord. He had been primed to wade into the attack on the warriors below the gate, already relishing the cut of his axe-blade against their pristine battle-plate. Summoning the world beyond took time, and every moment he spent away from the slaughter made his soul ache.

The ground below him was now ankle-deep in blood, and his boots squelched through it as if through a mire. Most of it had come from of his own kind, it was true, but it mattered not from where the blood flowed.

He raised his standard high and more bronze flames licked up against it, drawn from the fevered storm around him. Every death fuelled the vortex, tearing at the barriers between the world of the senses and the deeper vaults of unreason below.

Those of the horde closest to him, at least those not utterly blinded by their battle-rage, let slip shouts of excitement as they saw the bronze flames leap, and the assault against the enemy redoubled in ferocity. Skullbrand slammed his battle-standard down into the earth. He pushed with such force that the bannerpole sunk in two feet deep, carving through the blood-rich soil with ease.

As soon as it was anchored, the magic leapt from it like steam from a geyser. Skullbrand cried out — eight times, each one a different curse, all of them summoning the Realm of Chaos to the mortal plane.

A column of bronze fire jetted out from the standard’s tip, searing out into the wild night and rivalling the silver lightning thrown by the angels. The earth beneath began to boil, making the blood-slicks bubble and steam. Old charred plates were thrust aside by a new landscape of hot brass, burnished by the seething sea of blood and spreading out from Threx’s position like a breaking wave.

The very air itself screamed, and the rock below cracked. Amid the racing howl of unearthly winds, the Realm of Chaos burst into reality, shoving aside that which had existed before and replacing it with its own writhing pillars of madness.

Skullbrand threw his armoured head back and roared with triumph. More bronze flames engulfed him, surrounding his body in a cloak of immolation. The earth cracked and charred, and the spilt blood erupted from it in gouts of hissing steam. A new rain began to fall, though it was as thick as slurry and stank of copper. Wherever the blood rain fell, the warriors of Chaos seemed to stand taller, to bellow louder, to sweep their axes with greater ferocity. They broke into the eternal chant — Blood for the Blood God! — in a brutal chorus of frenzied voices. Their armour burned with vermillion flames, and the air around them danced with the crackle of daemonic energies.

With the Realm summoned, Skullbrand released his grip on the staff. It remained lodged deep, poisoning reality and twisting the solid matter around it, but it no longer needed his guiding word. The bloodsecrator was now free to give in to his urges, and so thundered towards the slender thread of gold that even now kept his minions from taking the Gate.

‘Slaughter them!’ Threx bellowed, shaking with unfettered wrath and still wreathed in the burning bronze aura of the Blood God. ‘Slaughter them all!’

Vandus smashed his hammer down again, hurling the vast beast of Chaos back into the mass of bodies behind it. His Liberators pressed forward, fighting with their calm skill at arms, each one more than a match for the blood-rabble that faced them but still heavily outnumbered.

The Flayer was another matter — he used his flail as both a weapon and a deception, weaving clouds of darkness about him as he thrust and parried. The dracoth lunged for him, trying to rip his arm off, but Vekh was too quick, darting away before the teeth could close and dragging the spiked tips of his lashes across the noble beast’s muzzle.

All across the battlefield, the contest still lay in the balance. Vandus could see Anactos and the Skyhost weakening the portal’s wards with every strike, but it was not happening quickly enough. The charge of his Liberators had pushed the enemy back in on itself, but resistance was stiffening as the horde brought its sheer size to bear. If the Stormhost could not break the enemy’s resolve soon, Vandus knew he would have to retreat lest Ionus be overwhelmed — they did not have the strength to maintain two spearheads for long. Once he did that, though, then the battlefront would shrink further, allowing the enemy commander to throw his entire horde’s strength at a single point.

‘For Sigmar!’ he cried, blasting apart the skull of a blood warrior who got too close to the arcs of Heldensen.

The behemoth loomed back over him, inured to fear and enraged by the beating it had already taken. As it reached in again to swipe him from the saddle, Vandus leapt up, standing on the dracoth’s heaving spine, and whipped the hammerhead out towards it.

The beast made to dodge, believing the sigmarite was aimed at its flesh, but that was not Vandus’s intended target. With a shout of release, he channelled the power of the comet into the sacred weapon’s crown, and a stream of pure white fire burst from it, cascading into the onrushing beast’s charge and ripping deep into its burnished flesh.

It bellowed in agony, thrashing its great claws and trying to douse the flames that cascaded across it. The pure fires of Azyr pained it more than a thousand blows from its master’s whips, and it stumbled away, roaring in anguish.

With the behemoth seen off, the Flayer circled warily, bereft of his greatest weapon. He replaced his flails with a blade drawn from his belt, and waited for the mass of blood warriors to flank him. In a mirror movement, the surviving Liberators advanced around Vandus, and the two lines of warriors, crimson and gold, faced one another across a rare gap in the swirling melee.

‘Thus shall it be for you all,’ warned Vandus, returning Heldensen to its solid form and taking position back astride the dracoth’s back. ‘Leave this place and you shall endure life for another cursed dawn. Remain here and I shall end you now.’

As soon as the words had left his mouth, a great explosion rocked the landscape and a pillar of bronze energy thundered up from the ground over towards Ionus’s position. The detonation of magic was followed up by screams as the Realm of Chaos burst up from the heart of the battlefield.

Vekh laughed, as did those about him.

‘This is our place,’ he said. ‘You know not what we are capable of in it.’

Vandus quickly saw the truth of it. The warlord’s full tally of troops had now reached the battlefront, and the ranks of blood warriors had become almost endless. Banners to the God of Battles swung by the light of torches, rocking to the beat of human-hide drums, and the mocking laugh of triumph was already on the marauders’ lips. They were undaunted by any amount of losses, and the shed blood seemed to rouse them to ever-greater feats of bravado. Now that the very matter of the Corrupted Realm was spilling freely into the world of the senses, their strength was multiplied further.

The Realm was spreading, unravelling like a pox across the plains, bringing ruin with it. It was but a phantasm yet, but in that vision was the future of all Realms, should they fail. In those baleful fires and boiling metals was the destiny of mankind, the one that the God-King had seen more clearly than any other. It was infinite, and it was terrible.

Vandus hefted Heldensen and looked down at its unmatchable shaft. The gold of it was unsullied, for the blood of the unclean boiled away with its every strike. The sigil of the comet was emblazoned down its length, and icons of honour and splendour had been carved into the holy sigmarite by the priest-smiths of the God-King.

This was not the weapon of a mortal man. Mortal terrors had no hold on him now. He had been Reforged, made into something a little less than the gods themselves, and even daemons had no strength to compare with that.

He drew himself high in the saddle, and the storm-gale made his cobalt cloak billow. He raised the warhammer again and lightning arced down from the heavens to greet it.

‘Fear no scion of the Outer Dark!’ he roared. ‘Their grip is over, their terror is gone! To me, Eternals of the Storm! Dawn shall come again!’

With an answering roar, the Liberators took up their holy weapons, led by their lightning-crowned lord, and the cries of war echoed out once more.

Anactos cried aloud, transmuting his hammer into the pure essence of the comet, and flung the blue-white fire at the void beneath the Gate’s arch. The mixture exploded, sending a radial shockwave spiralling outwards. There was a sharp crack, an echo, a shower of dislodged stone, and he was hurled back.

With a surge of sudden hope, Anactos saw then that the Gate’s seal had been weakened. The bolts of his brothers had almost broken through, but now they were fighting hard just to stay alive, and the rain of comet-fire had slowed to a trickle.

Anactos himself was tumbling now, thrown out of position by the backwash from the explosion. He pushed down hard with his damaged wings, gaining a little loft. Though deathly weary, he summoned up yet another transmuted hammer, ready to convert the energy of the storm into a comet-bolt and send it spinning into the cracking centre of the Gate’s portal.

As he swivelled for the strike, he felt the storm pushing him down again, back into the open maw of the horde below. He glanced over his shoulder and saw a mighty champion in crimson armour, now no more than thirty feet beneath him. The icon-bearer was pulling his twin-bladed axe back for the throw, and Anactos knew that there was no way he could avoid it. He still had the energy of the comet cradled in his gauntlets, though. If he used that, he could smash the Chaos champion apart before he had the chance to loose the blade, giving him time to escape, to fight again, to survive.

Anactos allowed a smile to flicker across his ravaged face. He only had the power for one such bolt, and there was no question what he would do with it. With all his remaining power, he hurled the comet’s essence into the fractured heart of the portal. The very next moment he felt the thrown axe-blade bite into his spine, flung with perfect accuracy by the champion below.

The Skylord arched his back, stricken with purest agony, and plummeted to earth. He cartwheeled helplessly as he fell, unable even to see with any clarity whether he had penetrated the portal’s seals or not. The tempest screamed about him, ripping his broken armour from his breast. He had a sensation of extreme cold, before he cracked to the ground, his wings rent and his armour shattered.

His last living sight was of blood warriors clustered around him, their axes raised and their faces twisted in hatred and mockery.

He grinned bloodily at them. ‘By Sigmar, your breed is ugly,’ he rasped.

Then the blades fell.

The time had come, and Ionus could not longer remain behind his brothers. The Retributors had fought beyond even the stringent standards expected of them, defying exhaustion to hold the precarious cordon against an enemy that knew no fear and lived only for carnage. Despite all their heroism, a third of their number had been dragged down, too far away to be revived by the Cryptborn, their bodies hacked apart by the vengeful mobs. The survivors had been driven back steadily up the wide stairs leading to the portal itself, and there was now nowhere left to go.

Sensing the climax of their labours, Ionus at last joined them on the front line. He took up his reliquary in both hands and swung it like a mace, bludgeoning and thudding it into the oncoming ranks.

But that was not the only weapon in his arsenal — his arts gave him the power to restore life, but also to leech it away. With a dry hiss, Ionus released the storm-spirits from the reliquary’s heart, and crackles of bone-white lightning shot from the tempest above.

The lightning scored down, raking across the oncoming blood warriors and shrivelling them within their armour. Wherever the shafts hit, the warriors of Chaos were burned to death amid the dazzling electric flames, their skin crisping and smoking as it was seared from within. They twitched like marionettes before collapsing, smouldering amid their red-hot battle-plate.

That bought them a moment’s respite but it could not last. The warriors of the horde surged back into contact, their mania undimmed by their losses — indeed, the more of them that were killed, the more their enthusiasm for violence was stoked.

As Ionus fought on, he felt the first pangs of weariness in his arms. Another Retributor fell, disembowelled by a sickening swipe from a cleaver, and the line of defence teetered on the brink. As the passage of the stairway was gradually lost, Ionus caught sight of the great crimson-armoured champion, the one who had summoned the Realm of Chaos with his icon. He prepared himself, ready for the contest that would decide the final fate of the Gate’s defence.

But the icon-bearer did not engage. Instead, he hurled his axe high up into the heavens, its twin-bladed head spinning in a whirl of thrown blood droplets. Ionus followed its path, watching with horror as the weapon struck Anactos Skyhelm in the back, crippling the Prosecutor-Lord and sending him crashing to earth.

If that were all, then Ionus would have felt the grief for his loss and turned back to the fight, knowing the peril they were in. But Anactos, with his final living act, had sent a storm-blast into the very heart of the Gate’s pulsating mouth. Ionus watched it fly towards the target, streaking like a falling star.

When it hit, the impact was unlike the others — the entire expanse of emptiness blew apart like glass, shattering into a thousand shards. A massive secondary explosion blew out from the epicentre, tearing away the world’s storm in a riot of unleashed gold and white.

The shockwave was incredible, racing out like a tidal surge and felling all in its path. Prosecutors were ripped from the skies and tossed like gulls in the storm. Webs of gold shot across the ancient stonework, illuminating the eyes of the giants that held the arch aloft, and the runes crackled with new fires of argent.

Ionus reeled, driven to his knees by the gale, but somehow remained in place to watch the event for which so much had been sacrificed.

‘Hold fast, warriors of Azyr!’ he commanded, his grave-dry voice raising at last. ‘This is the hour!’

As he spoke, the raging tempest within the arch’s ambit exploded. The runes shattered, throwing slivers of red-hot stone high into the gale. Whole beams and buttresses crumbled, and the stairways and towers were thrown down. The rain blew outwards, sent flying from the detonation’s locus and hurled out wide across the raging fields of war.

In the midst of it all, the Gate itself changed. Old stonework crumbled and cracked, revealing a structure of purest ivory beneath. The faces of the statues were fully exposed, the patina of ages seared away, their serene faces once more gazing out over the Realm of Fire. A gale surged under the arch, driving out the last of the corrupted flames and replacing them with an inferno of gold.

And then, through the archway itself, sent hurtling into the heart of the tempest by arcs of cerulean lightning, came the Legions of Azyr at last. Rank after rank of Liberators materialised on the battlefield, sent through the ancient ways between the worlds and allowed passage by the unsealed Gate. Whole warbands of Prosecutors soared under the archway before riding high on the eddying winds, their hammers already glowing white. In their wake marched the Retributors, hastening to the aid of their surviving brothers on the great stair.

Despite himself, Ionus could not help cracking a dry smile of vindication. This was why they had dared the passage of the void, and it was for this that the labour of long ages had been expended.

The Gate was open. It would never be closed again. The Realmswar, so long in abeyance, had begun once more.

‘And so begins the time of vengeance!’ the Cryptborn declaimed, holding his reliquary aloft and releasing cold fires from its casket. ‘Now march, my brothers, and bring death to the enemy!’

Chapter Seven

When it happened, even Khul paused in his rampage. He felt the stormwind tear past, and saw the red flames of Khorne extinguished. The Gate’s portal blew apart and the besieging warriors were driven from its edge, replaced just moments later by a whole new army — ten times the number he had faced just a moment before, with more arriving all the time.

He gazed out at their sheer perfection. They were arrayed just as the others in a shimmering display of gold and cobalt, each of them bearing the hammer sigil on their peerless armour-plate. If they had been a formidable foe before, they were now truly daunting, a test for the greatest of all the Realms.

At that, Korghos Khul let slip a harsh laugh of pure pleasure. The Blood God had blessed him beyond measure. The long years of boredom and futility were forgotten in an instant, replaced by the fervour that only came from mortal danger.

His host felt likewise, and their war-cries reached a new pitch of feverish intensity. This is what they lived for. This was the glorious gift of the one who sat on the Brass Throne. No worthy enemy could blunt their fury, for their only fear was to be surrounded by weakness and decay. The return of the Celestial Legions was as welcome to his kind as the return of a great and noble ally, for it presaged nothing but eternal combat, the one thing that victory had deprived them of.

For all that, Khul quickly saw that the conquest of the Gate was doomed now. The lightning-chased Legions were swiftly reinforcing it, driving Skullbrand’s forces back down the slope and out on to the plains. The greater prize still remained, though — the beast rider yet lived, and was reaping a bloody swath through all that stood before him. There was no sign of Vekh, and the khorgorath was long gone. Other mighty beasts of the horde were being assailed by whole companies of Celestial knights, and the shape of the entire battle now hung in the balance.

It was only as Khul watched the helm-crested captain fight his way into the heart of the horde that the last of his long-discarded memories came rushing back. The Direbrands — that was what they had been called — the last of the great peoples to resist, the ones he had fought for a generation to subdue. Their chief’s name had been Blackfist, his very hands charred by the fires of battle but still able to carry the warhammer that had ever been his weapon.

But back then, just when Khul had thought that combat would at last be joined, the chance had been ripped away from him, lost in a snarl and a snap of lightning. He had raged beyond all reason at the loss, and his fury had lasted for a whole year before slipping into uneasy slumber. Even the Gift of Grizzlemaw, given to him in recognition of the slaughter of Azyr’s last free people, had not compensated, and the Realm of Fire had suffered grievously under his wrath.

Vendell Blackfist.

The more he watched, the more certain he became. Even if all else were cast into the fires of defeat, this was the task for which he had been sent to this place: to take the final Direbrand skull and place it atop the Red Pyramid. Such a sacrifice would guarantee his passage into ever-living service to the Blood God, from whence he would lead the forces of ruin into war across the planes of eternity.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’ Khul thundered, throwing his arms wide and goading those about him into a frothing madness. ‘Skulls for his Throne!’

His horde did not waver. Not one of them turned to flee, for the blood warriors fed on slaughter as a lesser breed gorged on meats. The sight of the swelling ranks of golden warriors was like a drug, and they charged back into the grinder of battle with wild-eyed ecstasy on their scarred faces.

Khul let them go. He gave Skullbrand his head, and expended no energy seeking Vekh. Only one task remained for him, the one that he had been yearning for since the end of the ancient wars and the coming of the long victory.

‘The last of the Direbrands,’ he growled, striding out with Grizzlemaw at his side. ‘By the god who gives me strength, how I have longed for this day to come.’

Vekh watched the arrival of the Legions of Azyr, and his battle-frenzy turned to blackest rage. More clearly than any other, he saw the certain doom of the battle across the plains, and he howled his disbelief into the storm.

The blood warriors about him fell back, their aggression blunted at last by the advance of the lightning-borne. Vekh roared back at the horde, grabbing for their iron collars as they surged past him, ready to hurl them back into the fray, but the numbers were too great — a battle had a momentum to it, a rhythm like the tides, and the swell had been turned.

Skuldrak lumbered away, wailing still as the last flames of Azyr consumed its flesh. Vekh let it go, turning his flails instead on the mortals within range.

‘Back!’ he screamed. ‘Back!’

His whips cracked, snapping like loosed serpents, wrapping around the necks of the craven. Two of those closest to him lost their heads as the coils pulled tight, and others had their flesh lacerated. Hot blood splattered across Vekh’s armour, spurring him further.

He clambered up to higher ground, reaching an outcrop of black rock standing tall amid the boiling hordes. He screamed all the while, his scarred face running with spittle and his eyes blazing.

‘Stand fast, spineless filth!’ he bellowed, hurling the barbed scourge around him in wide arcs. ‘Recover your fury! Recover your rage!’

It should have been impossible for one man, no matter how mighty, to stem that gathering rout, but dread of the bloodstoker had been inculcated into every fighter of the Goretide since the earliest days of the Realms’ corruption. Those that did not die under the agonising lashes were stung back into the only emotion left to them: rage. The first one halted in his charge — a lumbering champion with severed hands clanking from chain-lengths about his neck. He turned, roaring in pain, before setting off back towards the oncoming enemy. Vekh’s whip slashed around again — four more blood warriors remembered their battle-lust, then eight, then a whole company.

‘Tear them apart!’ raved Vekh, driving them back, his arms pumping, his instruments of pain biting in a whirl of black-edged steel. ‘Cut them limb from limb and bathe in the blood that flows! Bring me skulls, enough to rival Khul’s own! Blood! Blood for the Blood God!’

He marched back down from the outcrop, laying about him with every stride. Roars greeted him — the recognition of a whole army. The rot had been stemmed and their kernel of defiance rekindled. They came with him now, chanting death-curses again, revelling in the weals that scored their angry faces and blood-raw backs.

Vekh drove them hard, hunting for any more that dared to pull clear from the field. The fiercest fighting was ahead of him, sundered by a sea of bodies. He had let the beastrider best him, drive off his khorgorath, and that insult could not be borne.

‘Follow me!’ he roared, goading his warriors into a charge. ‘The one who rides the beast! Kill him first, then kill them all!’

Vandus fought with the strength of a man renewed. With the breaking of the portal, a weight lifted from his arms, and Heldensen flew once more with the first vigour of the charge. Calanax pounced, catching blood warriors under his claws and shredding them to ribbons. The Liberators around him pressed the advantage, bolstered now by new warriors arriving at their backs. The horde of the enemy still outnumbered them but the gap had closed, and now the Eternals’ greater strength and skill was beginning to tell.

All of them knew that this was just the first of many Gates that would be opened. The God-King himself had closed them, right at the end of the age of darkness when the Realms were overrun. It had been His final act before the ways of the void were denied, and after that only the Celestial Realm had been preserved intact. Just as the last hope was failing, He had extended his reach into the heart of the losing battles. Those who fought on, even as their deaths were assured, were taken — pulled clear of the killing fields and dragged through the fast-closing portals.

After that, isolated from the Realms amid the spires of Sigmaron, came the agony of the transformation — the long change in which cleansing fire stripped the old life from them and gave them immortality in its stead. They were augmented, made stronger and faster than before. They were given the great warhammers to bear, and gifted armour of sigmarite cast in the purest shade of gold. The Reforging had been accomplished, and Legions of the Stormcast Eternals created.

All this had been done in the knowledge that one day, when enough strength had been assembled, they would each go back, the ways would be made straight again, and the arch through the abyss would be restored. To have failed here in the Realm of Fire would have set all that in ruins. The Fallen Gods would have redoubled their efforts, building new armies of daemons and the corrupted, accelerating their design to plunge every land into the one realm of pure Chaos before any hope of reconquest could be attempted.

The war ahead would be long, surely longer and more painful than any that had come before, but at least that first step had been taken. Vandus knew that other assaults were being launched even now, each across a different portal of the sundered kingdoms. One by one, the God-King’s armies were hammering at the closed doors, and one by one they would all be breached.

The knowledge of that gave him joy of a kind he had not experienced before, not even in the bliss of the Celestial Realm itself. At yet, even as he slew with abandon, pushing the enemy before him in a welter of cracked bone and broken armour, that joy was tempered by a greater realisation.

The face that he still bore in his dreams, the one that had never left him even amid the golden spires of Sigmar’s city, was long gone. Only on his return to the Realm of Fire did he truly understand how many years had passed, and how far sundered he was from the lives of all he had known. There would be no going back to the world he had once striven to save, for it was utterly destroyed, replaced by a living hell of endless violence. As his warhammer scythed around him, bringing destruction to all that stood in its path, Vandus saw that this victory would not give him what he had yearned for. He was conquering for others, those who would come afterwards to repopulate these scoured lands, but not for himself.

The Direbrands were gone. Vendell Blackfist was gone. All that remained was the thing he had been made into: the Lord-Celestant, the instrument of the God-King’s will.

‘For Sigmar!’ he thundered, wrenching his thoughts back to those of war. ‘For the Celestial Throne!’

And yet, even on the cusp of his great triumph, the war-cry was more angry than triumphant, and a hollow ring had entered into the words of glory.

Ionus led the charge down from the Gate and onto the plain below. All the momentum was with his forces now, and the blood warriors were crushed beneath the armoured boots of his retinue. Storm-spirits whined and swooped overhead, forming a protective shield above them. The Retributors were irresistible, striding with resolute confidence towards their brothers in Vandus’s column. Once the two flanks of the Legion joined up, the core would be unbreakable.

Even as he advanced south, though, Ionus remained vigilant for a reversal in fortunes. This was a dangerous time, and the enemy remained powerful. The icon-bearer was still alive, and the horde fought on amid the driving rain.

‘Do not give in to pride,’ he warned those about him, striving to keep them focused. ‘Those whom the fates raise up they may also cast down. Remain wary! Look to your brothers!’

As if to prove the truth of his words, a mighty bellowing broke out from the lower reaches of the delta, far beyond where any Eternal had yet penetrated. Something huge was barrelling up from the depths, roaring in berserk fury. Blood warriors were already running from it, unable to restrain whatever force had been unleashed within their midst.

Ionus let his staff blaze with pearl-grey illumination, lighting up the sea of warriors before them and exposing the source of the booming war-cries.

A second khorgorath had been loosed against them, and it was charging with all the force of a rolling tidal wave. Blood warriors and Liberators alike were crushed and swiped from its path, their armour no defence against the writhing nest of bone tentacles. Its mighty claws swung like jackhammers, gouging long trails in the earth before flinging the debris high. Ionus saw the drooling madness in its bestial face, and knew then that it had been flayed to within a hair’s breadth of destruction. It would recognise neither friend nor foe, but would destroy all in its path until the furnace of its existence was ended forever.

The Retributors about him immediately threw themselves towards it, all of them heedless of the danger and determined to bring their grandhammers to bear.

‘Leave it!’ cried Ionus, knowing that the creature was beyond their ability to kill, but he was too slow to prevent the clash.

Two score Retributors placed themselves in the beast’s path, and were swept aside. Many of them managed to strike it, breaking open huge wounds in the leviathan’s flanks, but nothing halted its rampage. One lone warrior held his ground before it, smashing the face of his lightning hammer into the khorgorath’s blood-streaked maw. The beast backhanded him with a flailing arm, sending the huge gold-armoured knight careering back into the following ranks of blood warriors.

‘Withdraw!’ cried Ionus, wrathful now. ‘The beast is mine!’

He swept to the forefront, blocking any more of the Retributors from taking the monster on. The khorgorath locked its red eyes on him and thundered in close, lowering its massive head like a bull on the gallop.

Its force was almost unstoppable — a living mountain of muscle and sinew, all allied to a soul of fire. Even the Cryptborn, with all his mastery of the laws of life and death, felt a beat of doubt as he saw the colossus bearing down on him.

‘Shyish!’ he cried, thrusting his staff before him and bracing for impact.

The khorgorath crashed into a summoned wall of pale grey energy, and its blood-red body instantly changed colour, whitening like embers after the fire’s death. Its headlong charge lurched to a halt, and it skidded to one side, dropping its enormous shoulder as its legs gave way.

Ionus remained steadfast, pouring on more of the deathly, soul-sapping magic. The khorgorath writhed amid the clutching strands of grey, its mighty heart hammering, its jaws clenched open in agony. It reached out with a claw, determined to strike at the source of its pain, but Ionus sidestepped the blow. His reliquary blazed with a frigid flame and the beast of Khorne crumpled to the dust, its brutal spirit spent.

As the khorgorath expired before him, Ionus at last released the spell and clutched the staff for support, his head light. Summoning up such force, with so little preparation, had almost ended him. The Retributors surged onwards, fanning around him to press the advantage. Before them lay a long path of ruin, the channel gouged by the khorgorath’s devastating run, strewn with the bodies of both Eternals and blood warriors.

It was only then, just as the dust was settling and troops on both sides were able to recover, that Ionus saw what purpose the charge had served. Standing amid the detritus was a skull-masked lord, one who bore a huge axe one-handed. He held a daemon-hound on an iron leash. He smiled coldly, and strode towards the Cryptborn at the head of a phalanx of plate-armoured guards.

‘Your task was to die here,’ the warlord told him, coming closer with every ponderous stride. ‘I loosed this beast to drive a road towards my prey, and yet you remain to bar the way.’

As soon as he saw the axe flickering with baleful energies, Ionus knew he was outmatched. Even had he not released the death-essence to fell the khorgorath, the contest would still have been beyond him.

He pulled himself up to his full height, kindling new ghoulish light above the crown of the reliquary.

‘You do not know what it is to die,’ Ionus said dryly, preparing for the clash.

All around him, his Retributors charged once more into battle, aiming to take the warlord out of the contest. They were met by the lord’s bodyguard, and the two flanks of warriors clashed together, neither side unable to reach the other’s master.

‘Your kind is not of this world,’ said the warlord, his cruel voice more intrigued than angry. ‘At least, not all of you are.’

‘All worlds are the realm of Sigmar,’ Ionus replied, happy to keep talking for as long as possible — it gave him time to recover. ‘When we are done with them, your kind will be but a foul memory.’

The warlord nodded slowly, as if he approved of the sentiment. ‘But you are different,’ he mused, still holding back from the charge, though his hound pulled at the chain. ‘You say “Sigmar”, but it does not mean the same as when the others chant his name. What are you, I wonder? What path has led you to fight alongside these lesser souls?’

Ionus smiled beneath his deathmask. If things had been different, he might have been pleased to recount the tale. He would have told of the debt he owed the God-King, and the ancient curse that his choice had made him subject to. He would have told of Nagash, the deity who slumbered still but would be sure to come for him when the toll of years was complete. He might have said that, yes, he was different, and that he was the Lord-Relictor of the Stormhost, privy to secrets that not even the Hammerhand had been made a party to, and that every road ahead of him was dark and filled with pain whatever the outcome of this battle.

In the event, he merely leaned on his staff, drawing what strength from it he could, and gave the warlord a grim salute.

‘I know your purpose,’ Ionus told him. ‘With what power I have, I will prevent you.’

At that, the enemy warlord laughed out loud. ‘I care nothing for you, death-lord,’ he said, loosing the hound’s collar, ‘but you stand between me and my prey, and thus your time draws to its close.’

The hell-hound pounced, leaping for the Cryptborn’s throat. Ionus swatted it aside with a blast from his reliquary, but by then the warlord had swept into contact. Khul brought his axe down, aiming to shatter Ionus’s pauldron, but the Cryptborn shrank back, blocking the strike with the reliquary’s staff.

The impact was crushing, forcing him down to his knees. Ionus pushed back, but his strength ran from him like water from a broken jar.

‘Should you live, be sure to seek me out when all is over,’ whispered Khul, pressing down savagely. ‘There is room in my ranks for one such as you.’

Then he suddenly released the pressure. Ionus tried to rise, to slam his staff into the warlord’s chest, but the movement had only been made in order to clear space for another strike. Khul, snapping his arms around, swept his axe crossways, catching the rising Ionus square in the throat. The blade clanged into the Cryptborn’s gorget, and he was ripped from his feet and thrown through the air. As he tumbled through the dust, his vision going black and his senses deserting him, Ionus loosed a final flurry of storm-spirits, aiming to suck the life from the warlord just as he had done with his lesser warriors.

Grizzlemaw, though, was in their path. The daemon-hound snatched the spirits from the air, and ripped them from reality with a shake of his neck.

Ionus felt their deaths as an icy spike through his heart, and his last strength gave out. His golden helm struck the ground, and his hands slipped free of the reliquary’s staff.

Khul walked towards him idly, hoisting the axe high and preparing to use it, when a lone voice cut through the battling warriors around them.

‘No further.’

Khul turned, and a broad smile creased across his bony jawline. Grizzlemaw growled and raised its hackles, but the warlord merely prepared himself, bracing the axe across his body and planting his feet firmly for the onslaught.

‘Then all is accomplished,’ he said, his deep voice resonant with pleasure. ‘You face me at last, and thus my final trophy finds its home.’

Setting eyes on Khul at last, Vandus felt a surge of old emotions. His dracoth roared, desperate to strike, and the daemon-hound did likewise. In every direction, Liberators, Retributors and blood warriors remained locked in mortal combat, a sweep of violence that ran from the Gate’s edge to the mouth of the valley beyond. Everything was in motion, everything was poised.

And yet he could not move. The warlord of Chaos stood before him, just as he had been in the other age. He had grown in stature since then, and there were more skulls hanging from his iron belt, but the crimson helm and the black-toothed mouth were the same, as was the crackling axe-blade at his side that had laid whole kingdoms low.

For the first time since setting foot in this land, Vandus felt his twin lives truly blur. He was the Lord-Celestant, bringer of Sigmar’s wrath. He was the chief of the Direbrands, doomed to die before the blades of the Goretide.

Khul fixed him with his dark eyes and amusement twitched across his exposed mouth.

‘The one who ran,’ he said. ‘That is what they named you, in the later years. They cursed that name even as I killed them.’

Those words hit home. Vandus remembered how it had been — the howl of anguish, the pleading to be sent back. Every soul he had pledged to protect had died that night, bereft of the warhammer that would have been wielded in their defence.

‘This realm is now taken from you,’ Vandus said, holding the dracoth back, loath to launch the attack that he had been created to make. ‘The Gate is secured. You have no purpose here but to die at my hand.’

Khul remained smiling, and flickers of blood-red fire raced across the edge of his axe-blade. ‘No purpose? You are my purpose, Direbrand. You are the culmination of my great quest, and when your age-bleached bones are placed atop the pyre of Khorne, then all these realms will be mine.’

The voice was so terrifyingly familiar. Vandus remembered the raw fear, how he had forced himself to fight through it. All mortals were subject to that fear — Khul was a creature of a maddened pantheon, a mere cipher for their limitless malice. The stuff of Chaos leaked out from his every pore, and though he was already less than a man, it would take but a fraction more power to make him far greater than a daemon.

‘The God-King foresaw this day,’ replied Vandus. His voice was as steady as his weapon-arm, but it belied the turmoil within — he spoke to remind himself as much as he did to challenge his old adversary. ‘You laughed then, but your defeat was already ordained.’

‘Laughed?’ roared Khul, outraged. ‘Gods of Ruin, boy, I was enraged! I laid a dozen kingdoms in ashes and still my thirst was not slaked.’ But he was laughing truly now, his eyes shining with a raw exuberance. ‘If I had known that you would return, that the only one of my enemies who had ever escaped me would come back to me, I would have spared them so much pain.’ He fixed Vandus with a sardonic look, utterly unafraid, drenched in the strutting confidence he had always displayed before the kill. ‘They died because you left them, Direbrand. That is the truth of it, and you know it in whatever heart your God-King has given you.’

Boy. That was what the warlord had called him, just before the lightning had come. In truth he must have been little more than a child then, bearing weapons forged from crude metal and defending collections of hovels barely capable of standing in a gale. Now he was the first of the Legions of Azyr, gifted power beyond mortal reckoning, and still the word ‘boy’ cut him to his soul.

Vandus. Vendell.

That was enough.

He released his hold over the dracoth, and took up his warhammer as the creature powered into the charge. At the same moment, the daemon-hound pounced, joined by its master in the race to combat. Khul leapt high, striving to reach Vandus and launching a great circuit of his axe. Vandus parried, and the two weapons clanged from one another, sending a shockwave blazing out from the impact.

As the two warriors spun apart, the dracoth took on the daemon-hound, and together the two beasts fell into a snarling, snapping brawl. Khul swept back in close, thrusting his blade at Vandus’s body, and this time the collision nearly wrenched Heldensen from his grip.

‘Your gifts have not made you stronger,’ said Khul, mockingly. ‘You were weak then, you are weaker now.’

Vandus swung the hammerhead across, generating huge momentum, but the blow rebounded from Khul’s counter-strike and the fires along its ensorcelled length guttered out. Calanax was holding its own against Grizzlemaw, but nothing seemed to harm the Lord of Khorne. They traded more swipes, denting and cracking the armour they both wore, and neither broke through to give the decisive wound. The wider battle raged about them, though no warrior dared to intervene in their lords’ duel, locked as they were in deadly struggles of their own.

Khul changed tack then, falling back by a stride’s length. The dracoth sensed the retreat and thrust after him, trying to seize him by the neck. Grizzlemaw leapt for the creature’s scaled shoulder and lodged fast, driving its yellow teeth into the flesh. The dracoth reared, wrenching himself from the daemon-hound’s grip, giving Khul his opening as Vandus struggled to control his mount — the warlord’s axe found a way through, biting deep along Vandus’s armoured thigh, and the Lord-Celestant cried aloud.

The blood warriors in earshot roared with scorn as they heard the sound, and the Liberators felt a shard of doubt enter their souls. The duel had become the locus around which the entire battle revolved — with no breakthrough from either army, it had come down to the survival of the lords that led them.

Khul sprang back, evading Vandus’s vengeful strike, panting hard. For all his mastery, he too had taken heavy damage, and his strength, though immense, was not infinite.

‘Will you be taken from me again, I wonder?’ mused Khul, circling the dracoth, keeping his axe-edge high. ‘At the moment when I hold your life in my hands, will your God-King pull you from peril as he did before?’

Vandus barely heard the words. Everything he had done since his Reforging now hung on this moment. He had been sent to Aqshy to slay the warlords who ruled it, and now, with the storm of Sigmar’s wrath circling above him, he was still holding back. His power felt blunted, incomplete. Every time he aimed Heldensen at his adversary, his aim lacked the sharpness it had possessed in a hundred other duels.

The dracoth was undeterred, and lashed out fiercely at the hound. The two beasts were bleeding freely now, their jaws a mess of torn flesh. Khul prowled back for the next strike, his dark outline radiating a casual lethality.

‘Why even return?’ the warlord asked. ‘Can you not see it? There is nothing left. You should have kept the Gate closed — we will come hunting for you now, just as you have done for us.’

The taunt had been designed to enrage him, to place the fear in him that Azyr too might be at peril, but Vandus did not linger on those words. The ones that resonated with him were the others: there is nothing left.

And then he understood. His grief had risen when he had seen what he was fighting for — the fire-scarred wastes, the old ruins. That was not what he had once striven to protect. He had breathed the realm’s parched air and smelled its charred bones, and his mighty heart had sunk.

Even now, an aspect of him was lodged in that other world, the place in which all his old loves had dwelt. He had been a part of that, and in the long years of preparation a part of him had hoped something would be left to retrieve — some survivors, some mark of the old civilisation. When it was clear that the past was lost, that hope had dissolved. He could not fight for the Aqshy of the present as he might have done for the Aqshy of the past.

And therein lay his fault — he had let his old self swim up to the surface, for the grief was not his, it was Vendell’s. Vandus had not been sent to restore the realm of the past, he had been sent to create the realm of the future.

Heldensen roared into flame once more. The sign of the comet emblazoned on his armour burst out with a pure light, reflecting the hidden glory of the Celestial Realm. Vandus pulled the dracoth’s head around, driving him hard at the waiting figure of Korghos Khul.

The warlord gave no sign he had detected the change, and raced to rejoin battle. Their weapons smashed into one another once again, but this time it was the axe that rebounded, its fires wavering. Vandus flung down another blow, knocking Khul back and sending him staggering.

Vandus spoke no words, for his fury was now enough. Khul recovered himself, his laughter gone. In a thousand years he had never been bested, and he surged back into contact, his blade whirling about him in tighter circles.

Vandus angled his hammer down, aiming to catch the axe-head in mid-flight. As he did so, his dracoth missed his aim, freeing Grizzlemaw to strike. The daemon-hound leapt clear of Vandus’s steed, its jaws agape. At the last moment, Vandus wrenched Heldensen to block it, and Grizzlemaw’s teeth clamped on to the golden hammerhead.

That left him exposed, and Khul was there to take advantage. The lord of Khorne sent a vicious swipe whistling for Vandus’s unguarded neck, crying out with triumph as the killing blow swept in. There was no evading that strike, for Khul had poured all his long festering hatred into it, and it was unleashed with an infinite outpouring of his seasoned malice.

‘For the Blood God!’

But Khul’s cry of triumph was cut short. The Lord-Celestant’s outline blazed with azure fire, and he wrenched the hammerhead from Grizzlemaw’s jaws. Khul’s axe-head cut through the haze of crackling lightning, but connected with the lightning-crowned metal. The two weapons clashed again, each one propelled by the entirety of their bearer’s strength. With a thunderous crash, the full power of the storm was unlocked, and this time it was Khul who was thrown back.

His armour still incandescent with shimmering celestial energies, Vandus pressed the attack, and Heldensen smashed through Khul’s hurried guard, knocking the cursed iron aside. Another hammer-blow flew in, angled back, flinging Khul’s blade from his hand and hurling it end over end into the horde beyond. For the first time the warlord’s eyes betrayed fear — he could see the prize slipping away from him, eluding his grasp just as it had done before. He snarled and leapt straight for Vandus, talons outstretched, going for his neck.

Vandus was too fast, though, and Heldensen hurtled around, catching the oncoming warlord full in the chest. The lightning-wreathed head cracked the crimson armour open, and Khul was sent tumbling away, the first roar of true pain leaving his bloodied lips.

The dracoth pounced, going after Grizzlemaw and digging the talons in deep. Vandus pushed clear of the saddle, joining the assault on the daemon-hound. He waded in close, waiting for the coiled spring, and caught the beast in mid-jump. Grizzlemaw was immune to the sacred fire burning along Heldensen’s shaft, but was as subject to the indomitable strength of sigmarite as any mortal creature. The heavy hammerhead crunched into its ribcage, driving in the bones and tossing the broken-backed hound aside.

Then Vandus turned back to Khul. The warlord had been thrown many yards back, hurled into the heart of his own warriors, crushing many of them beneath his armoured bulk. Khul stayed prone, his weapon gone and the fires of Khorne extinguished. Vandus went after him, his hammer now light in his grasp. The moment had come and there was no doubt remaining. The Brimstone

Peninsula of old had been destroyed, and the ruined butcher before him was just one small facet of that tortured past. With his death the new age could begin — the age of renewal.

‘Nothing remains,’ Vandus said, his voice cold. Khul stared up at him, bleary-eyed, half comprehending. ‘Aye, nothing remains, not of this place, and not of the man I once was. You should not have come back to face me, warlord, for all things have changed.’

Vandus Hammerhand drew Heldensen back then, poised to deliver the strike that would end his ancient tormentor. Khul snarled, his throat catching with bubbles of blood, and something kindled under the shadow of his helm — a fell light, igniting like stirring embers.

Vandus met that gaze, and was instantly caught. Visions thrust into his mind, as clear as shafts of fire. He saw eight towers, each bridging the void between the burning horizon and the storm-cracked sky. Between those towers he saw another Gate, a vast remnant of ensorcelled stone and iron, shackled with mighty chains and wreathed in blood-red immolation. And yet this one led not to the glory of the God-King’s realm, but to the depths of madness beyond all mortal reckoning. Under its lintel seethed a gaping wound in reality, one through which unbounded malice bled into the worlds of the living.

Under the shadow of that gate stood the pyramid of skulls — the one Khul had boasted of. In those shuddering visions the warlord lived and climbed to the summit, his progress lit by the baleful glow of the open Gate. Khul carried a lone burden in his exposed claw — a severed head, still glistening with flesh.

Vandus reeled, just for a moment, consumed by the vision before him. He recognised the features on what remained of that face and it chilled him to his soul. Below him, Khul let a smile flicker across his bruised mouth.

‘For the Blood God!’ came a frenzied cry, cutting through the tumult.

The spell of the vision broke, and Vandus’s gaze snapped up.

The words were not the warlord’s. The whip-wielder had returned, driving a fresh phalanx of blood warriors and bloodreavers before him. The newcomers crashed into the battling lines, scattering the vanguard of Liberators and pushing them back deep into their own ranks.

Vandus alone stood firm, recovering himself and smashing aside the blood warriors that slammed into him. He slew swiftly, his hammer scything, but hundreds swarmed at him, driven by the merciless goad in their midst.

Vandus’s dracoth reared up, tearing and ripping his way to his side, and the two of them were reunited amid a swirling sea of foes, each fighting furiously just to stay on their feet and not get dragged under the bow-wave of the assault.

‘For the God-King!’ Vandus cried, remounting even as he shattered the skulls of those trying to haul him down.

They were pushed back towards the Gate, where they were joined by Liberators fighting back after the shock of the charge. The crush intensified, and the fighting rose to an apex of desperate brutality. There was no room for art, no space for finesse — Celestial resolve was pitted against a riptide of mindlessness, and the Hammers of Sigmar fought back then as savagely and as pitilessly as those they faced.

Caught in the centre of it all, driven westward, Vandus caught a last glimpse of Khul, trampled by his own kind, lost under the rampage of ironshod boots. It was impossible to tell whether he lived or died, but he was soon beyond all hope of reaching.

Freed of his baleful presence, though, Vandus felt a sudden lifting of the dread that had hung in their air since the warlord’s arrival. The tenor of the storm itself changed, and all across the battlefield the Eternals sensed it. A great shout, issued from thousands of immortal lips, rose up into the maelstrom-driven air.

Sigmar!

The battle-chant resounded across the Igneous Delta for the first time in mortal memory. The Gate remained open, and more Eternals were coming through the portal with every passing moment.

The dracoth swept his serpentine head from side to side, gouging out the throats of all within range. The Stormhost regained its shape, responding to the onslaught as they had been trained to. The final charge had been vicious, but even the champions of the horde, those steeped deepest in battle-rage, could see that with Khul’s defeat, the night was already lost. This land’s marred sun would rise soon, casting red light over a new vista of gold and cobalt.

Vandus raised his warhammer aloft, and it blazed with the unbound splendour of the lightning’s heart.

‘Azyr!’ he cried. ‘For the God-King!’

And as one the Hammers of Sigmar took up the shout, surging back at the enemy with the light of the Celestial Realm burning in their eyes.

Chapter Eight

Hours passed before the last of the enemy was beaten back. Even in defeat many of them still fought on, bitterly contesting every last tract of ground. More Eternals fell in that fighting, brought down by the savagery of the blood-crazed horde.

But Vandus came among them again, his strength now unmatched, and the last resistance was broken. Khul never returned. Of Vekh the Flayer there was no sign, nor of the beast he had enslaved. Skullbrand, bereft of the leadership of his master, was hammered back into the west, and with him went the last of the Realm of Chaos, melting back into the earth in rippling waves of oily smoke. Phalanxes of Liberators pursued the defeated horde, only halting when the dangers of becoming isolated became too great. Then they set the banners of Azyr to fly on the ruined walls, and mounted a guard on the hollow towers. With the rising of the sun, the entire plain was taken, ready for the next assault. Others would already be preparing to cross the void to secure what had been won, but the Hammers of Sigmar could not rest for long — their task had long been ordained, and before the blood had cooled on the battlefield they would be marching again.

Only when the last of the enemy had been slain did Vandus return to the Gate. By then he had given his dracoth freedom to hunt freely, and now he walked across the earth in the manner of the rest of his Eternals, his footfalls sinking deep into the gore-rich soil.

Ionus was waiting for him at the foot of the stone stairway, leaning heavily on his reliquary staff. The Cryptborn bowed as the Hammerhand approached, as did all the Stormhost present.

‘So his faith in you was vindicated,’ said Ionus, dryly. ‘In the end.’

Vandus smiled. ‘You witnessed it. Did you doubt?’

‘When I saw you fight like a callow youth, yes. Not at the conclusion. What ailed you?’

Vandus looked about him. The sheer despoliation still had the power to chasten. ‘This place,’ he said. ‘Though we were warned, there could be no preparing.’

Ionus grunted. ‘That was why you were charged with forgetting. The Reforging should have made you whole.’

‘And you, then, Cryptborn? You have forgotten too?’

Ionus let slip a harsh laugh. ‘Well, we must both learn — there can be no going back.’

‘No, but there may be a second forging, for you and all the others.’ Vandus looked out over his army, their armour now streaked with blood and soiled with the filth of the Igneous Delta. ‘This was mine.’

The two of them began to walk up the long stone stairwell, Ionus limping heavily. Above them soared the arch of the Gate, now glinting in the light of the world’s sun. Age had been stripped away by the storm’s wrath, and the artistry of its makers was revealed once more.

In time, more than Eternals would come through that portal. Artificers and stonewrights would return, making good what had been laid low. This ground won was just a fragment of the Brimstone Peninsula’s vast expanse — they had established a mere pinprick of light against the swath of darkness that ran off into every compass point. When those points of light were united, drawn together by the coming of many Stormhosts, then the war would flourish in earnest.

They both knew that other portals were under attack now. Some would succeed, carving new paths into the territory of the great enemy. Others would no doubt fail, though their valour would still be a testament to the God-King’s vision. This was just the start, the unfolding of a thousand battles that would sweep across lands long lost to despair.

‘And what of Khul?’ asked Ionus, breathing heavily as he climbed. His wounds had been grave, and even the Lord-Relictor would take time to recover from them.

‘He lives,’ said Vandus. ‘The shame of his survival will haunt him, just as mine did me.’ He looked out across the ruins. ‘He will return, once his broken body has healed. We must be ready.’

Ionus nodded. ‘And so we will be.’

Vandus said nothing of his vision then — the Gate into the abyss, the pyramid of skulls. He would be compelled to, in time, for already his mind was turning to the campaign to come. He would have to bend Ionus to his will before the Stormhost marched next, and that would not be easy.

The two of them reached the summit of the stair. Above them soared the archway, now free of the fires that had raged across it. The air hummed with an actinic charge and lightning still flickered around its edges, but only the deep bloodstains on the stone marked the true scale of what had taken place under its shadow.

The air tasted of ashes, and the copper tang of blood underpinned it all. The great heaps of bone were visible in the distance, hazy in the dawn, and beyond them reared the faint outlines of greater towers.

Ionus halted, and shot him a wry smile. ‘You have tidings you wish to share,’ he said. ‘But take a moment, lord, to consider what has been done this night.’

‘And just what has been done, Cryptborn?’ asked Vandus, feeling the weariness of the long fight catch up with him at last. ‘We are conquering a burned wasteland. Whatever evil we succeed in slaying, we come too late.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Ionus. ‘Perhaps not. Come — I have something to show you.’

Throughout the night of horror, they had never moved. They had hugged the stone, burrowing down as if they could somehow tunnel their way out of harm’s way. The sky itself had burned, riven with flames of both bronze and silver, and the rocks below had groaned and cracked.

Of all the fears she had endured, that had been the very worst. Kalja had long been resigned to her own life ending in bloodshed, but this was different — the world was ending, tipped on its axis, dissolving into a screaming vortex of madness.

At the start, she had been glad to see the bloodreavers retreat, but then she had seen what they were retreating from. The storm-borne were daemon-kind, surely, thrown down from the fiery skies and sent to visit anguish on the mortals below. Their faces were horrific — golden masks that gave away nothing — and they bore enormous weapons of fire and steel. Each one was far taller than a man, and their voices were fell and strident.

The others of the tribe had been shaking by then, locked down, caught between the gathering of armies too vast to comprehend. Their long flight across the delta had ended at the hill of the three towers, and Kalja’s faint hopes of holding off their pursuers amid the ruins had at last been exposed.

But then, slowly, the shape of the battle had changed. Kalja had seen the daemon-kind take on the bloodreavers, and after them the larger horde that had followed. All the fighting had been concentrated on the massive arch-ruin, and the hill-side where they sheltered was forgotten.

They were not daemons. She saw that as she had watched, half in terror, half in fascination. Though they inspired fear, it was not the mind-numbing dread of the aethyr-born, but a cleaner fear, one generated solely from their warlike mien and savage bearing. They were brave, astonishingly so, throwing themselves into the very centre of the great army that had followed them over the plains. For a long time they had been isolated and heavily outnumbered, surely destined to die below the ruins they were striving so valiantly to hold, and at one point she had got to her feet, ready to race down into the inferno to join her blade with theirs.

Svan had pulled her back. ‘Are you mad?’ he had hissed. ‘Leave them to slaughter each other!’

But this had not been just another of the endless feuds between rival powers — this had been something new, something that no one had witnessed before. She had continued to watch, desperately urging the newcomers to prove their worth, even when it looked like their demise was imminent. When the Gate had opened and the second great host of gold had emerged through it, she had had to quash a cry of joy, burning up from inside and threatening to spill from her mouth.

After that, the battle had raged with even more intensity. The storm had thundered and the lights had become blinding. She had not seen the end, for the noise and the elements’ torment had at last pushed her back down into the meagre protection of the stones about her, crouched like an infant, her hands clamped over her ears.

Right at the end, though, when the horde had finally been broken, there had been fighting at last. Some of the warlord’s warriors had fled in their direction, and Kalja and the others had taken up arms in their frozen fingers. She had killed one blood warrior, catching him unawares as he vaulted the walls, but then others had rounded on her, their blades glinting by the light of the fires.

She had hissed a curse at them and prepared to die with as much ferocity as she could muster, when one of the golden knights burst among them. His movements had been of a different order to those he fought — his warhammer had flown in a blur of speed, crushing and maiming with every bone-jarring hit. Those he had not slain quickly fled, limping off into the dark and carrying life-ending wounds. Then the masked killer had turned on Kalja, his warhammer angled to end her too.

She had been too shocked to move. As the rain had scythed down, she had stood stock-still, her blunt knife dripping in her hand. The masked killer had hesitated, clearly unsure. Others of the tribe, scattered by the blood warriors’ attack, had crept back, all of them gaping up at the newcomer, like her too overwhelmed to intervene.

‘If you are here to kill me,’ she had said, forcing the words out through fear-tight lips, ‘then do so now.’

On hearing the words, the gold-armoured warrior had relaxed his grip on the hammer. He had fallen to one knee before her, bringing his head to a level with her own, studying her face intently. Kalja had suffered the scrutiny, feeling wretched and filthy set beside his splendour.

‘You are whole,’ the warrior had said, and his voice had been deeper and more resonant than anything she had ever heard. There had been something else there, also — astonishment, perhaps. ‘By Sigmar, you are whole.’

Vandus listened to the mortal tell her tale, not interrupting until the end. Ionus stood besides him, as did Avaren, the Liberator who had discovered her. Smoke from the pyres drifted across the plains below them, a dirty brown that stained the overcast sky.

The Lord-Celestant tried to resist the urge to stare openly at her. Part of him was appalled by her very existence — she was a wretch, her bones protruding starkly, her rags hanging from a skeletal frame in layers of filth. For all that, she stood proudly before them, her shoulders pushed back, her fingers fidgeting at the knife-hilt tied to her belt. There was defiance there.

Once she finished speaking, he went up to her, falling to one knee as Avaren had done. Even stooped he was far taller than her, and set beside his war-finery she looked almost comically fragile.

And yet, he thought, they endured here throughout all the ages of darkness. Could we, with all our gifts, have done the same?

‘What are you called?’ he asked, speaking as gently as he could.

‘I am named Kalja,’ she said.

‘How many of you are there?’

‘Just what you see, lord.’ Less than twenty had survived the night, and all those who remained were sick and famished.

‘And are there more, out in the wilds?’

‘How many, I know not. If others live, then they are hunted as we were.’

Those words made him angry. These were the children of humanity, the last remnants of a once-great people. For them to be chased down like beasts was the darkest of the blasphemies that had been visited on this cursed land.

‘Do you know what we are?’ he asked.

The woman stared at him blankly. He might as well have asked her how best to compass the moon. She had known in her life nothing but the theology of Dark Gods, and the name of Sigmar had never been uttered in a mortal’s hearing. The sigils he bore on his armour were as esoteric to her as the icons of Chaos were to him.

Seeing her confusion, he reached up and lifted his helm from his head. For the first time, she beheld him as he truly was. There was immediate recognition there, for although Vandus was an Eternal, changed and augmented by the powers of the Celestial Realm, his features were still those of a man.

‘We are salvation,’ he told her. ‘We are the end to pain and the beginning of hope. While one of us draws breath, you will never be hunted again. We are the warriors of Sigmar, and this is the dawn of his Age.’

Some of what he said made no sense to her, but the tone of his words clearly struck home, for a line of tears ran down her grimy cheek. For an instant, Vandus was reminded of the old image, the one he had cherished even in the midst of the lamplit halls of Sigmaron.

When she had smiled, he remembered, her dark eyes had held the light of stars.

He might have pressed Kalja further then. Perhaps, if the fates had allowed it, he would have discovered that she was some scion of a tribe he had known, maybe of even the Direbrands themselves. He almost asked her, for her defiant face was so similar, so redolent of the one he had known.

But the question died on his lips. He had passed the test amid the fires of war, and would not tread that path again. It mattered not where this human came from, nor what blood ran in her veins — she was a daughter of Sigmar, and her survival alone was surety that the return to the Realms was not made in vain.

‘Then,’ she asked, looking unsteady on her feet, ‘are the wars over?’

A desperate hope was burning in her brown eyes, one that vied with exhaustion. She had been taken to the very edge of extinction, as had all her people, though Cryptborn assured him she would survive.

Vandus would have loved to have told her that they were over, but here, in this place, at the first reunion between those who had been left and those who had returned, she deserved the truth.

‘When all is accomplished, they will be,’ he said. ‘From this day forth, every last tithe of strength will be spent to reconquer what was lost, and to hold it, and to rebuild anew.’

Then his faint smile faded, for he could still smell the ashes of burning, and knew that the bloodshed of the past night was but a foretaste of what was to come, in this and every other Mortal Realm.

‘But for now,’ he said, never letting his eyes leave hers, ‘I tell you truly, they are only just beginning.’

War storm

Nick Kyme

Borne by the Storm

Chapter One

God-forged

The bolt struck Vandus Hammerhand like a spear flung from the heavens. First there was light, a searing luminescence so bright it eclipsed all sense of being and self. Then pain brought him back with white daggers of pure agony. Heat, fury, and the drumbeat of immortal vigour rushing through his veins reached a crescendo so loud it turned into deafening silence.

Then peace, a feeling of true solace and quietude.

Vandus would come to learn it was always this way. This is what it meant to be born of the storm and borne by the storm.

Reforged, wrought anew. Brought back. This is what it was to be eternal. But as with all such godlike deeds, this apotheosis did not come without a price.

Before…

After defeating Korghos Khul, the Hammerhands went north.

Though the Goretide were scattered, their ranks would swell again. The war against the dominion of Chaos was far from over, but Sigmar’s Stormcasts had won a great victory at the Gate of Azyr. Now that momentum had to be seized upon were it to mean anything.

And so the Hammerhands went northward.

Thousands clad in unalloyed sigmarite crossed the Igneous Delta. Liberators bloodstained and begrimed by war marched with grandhammers slung across the burnished plate of their shoulder guards. Dour Retributors strode in grim silence, their massive lightning hammers held firm across their chests. Above the infantry, retinues of unearthly Prosecutors had taken wing and soared across the blighted sky. At the clarion sound of the warrior-heralds’ war horns, their masked brethren below would close ranks and raise shields, knowing an enemy horde approached.

There had been many enemies, for the Igneous Delta and its surrounding lands were overrun by those bound in blood to Khorne.

It would fall to other Stormcast Eternals to hold the realmgate they had opened to Azyr. At least now they had a foothold at the Brimstone Peninsula, something to defend. But the vanguard could not rest. They had to forge on, despite the lead in their limbs.

Only when night had fallen and they reached the crags did they stop to make camp on a sheltered plateau of rock. Here the army had mustered, whilst a few of its leaders had walked up the shallow incline to a second smaller plateau from which they might gauge the best route onwards.

‘This is a strange land,’ murmured Dacanthos as he regarded the rime of frost around the fingers of his gauntlet. He clenched it in a mailed fist, shattering the ice that had formed.

‘Agreed,’ said Sagus, leaning on the head of his lightning hammer as the caustic wind of the delta tried to sear his armour. The air was rank with the stench of blood and cinder. It carried a foul cawing, like the mockery of crows, only deeper, as if uttered from the throat of a larger beast. Several carrion-creatures had already been seen.

The Hammers of Sigmar had left the scorched desert behind them. Here, on the rugged crags and low hills, a deep winter prevailed.

Snow hid some of the land’s deformity, its hillocks like the petrified claws of some ancient leviathan, a golem trapped forever in its final moments of agony. Eight stunted crests rose up from the smothering tundra like horns, and there were hollow cavities where eyes might once have been.

‘It is a grim place, enslaved to darkness,’ uttered Vandus, his voice deep, his distaste unmasked. From the edge of a rocky promontory, he looked out across the Igneous Delta and beyond. Swaths of forest colonised much of the eastern lands, but the trees looked unnatural, bent and tortured, their limbs petrified.

The Lord-Celestant’s eyes narrowed. He could have sworn he saw something stir within the dark heart of the forest. His gaze went skyward to an even greater and larger mountain fastness than the one his warriors had camped on. Clad in ice, it appeared more like a glacier. Oily mists crept from its footings, lathering the earth below in a foul tar.

Further north, Vandus discerned the forbidding silhouette of an immense tower, obscured behind scads of pyroclastic cloud. It was one of eight brass towers that surrounded Khul’s domain. Here then was their god-given mission, though he knew his own destiny lay elsewhere.

‘Rank indeed,’ snarled Vandus as he turned away to speak to his men. ‘But there is worse below…’ He gestured for Dacanthos and Sagus to join him at the cliff edge, certain those below them would not notice three figures watching from on high.

Sagus’s gauntlets cracked loudly as he clenched the haft of his hammer, and when the Retributor spoke it was with barely restrained anger.

‘Wretched filth… I would see them seared from this land, scraped away like dirt from a boot.’

Dacanthos had no words. He merely stared through the lifeless eyes of his mask, his body trembling with righteous anger.

Far below in a smoke-choked basin of tar-black rock, shawled by drifts of ash and snow, were mortal followers of Khorne known as the Bloodbound.

Hordes of the warriors had gathered to rest, after a long march. A great fire burned, spilling a column of smoke that almost reached the promontory where the Stormcasts were watching. Garbed in spiked leather and furs matted with dried blood, the tribesmen left their arms and torsos exposed. These Vandus and his men had come to know as bloodreavers. The lesser of the vast and mighty Goretide, they were nonetheless brawny and muscular fighters. What they lacked in skill, they made up for in aggression and devotion to Khorne.

Bellowing and fighting, they revelled around the fire. Long shadows cast by their bodies contorted in the fell light, transformed into an echo of what they might become should they live long and worship with enough devotion. A bloodreaver’s altar was the battlefield, his offerings slaughter and death.

They were a rabble, but a dangerous one. Their blades were thick and sharp, notched by battle and stained black with the blood of innocents. But of late they had grown arrogant and complacent.

‘When do we bring the storm’s wrath, my Lord-Celestant?’ Dacanthos said at last.

‘Soon,’ said Vandus, half-turning as he felt the presence of eyes upon them. ‘After I have consulted with our Lord-Relictor.’

All three warriors turned as one to face Ionus Cryptborn. The Lord-Relictor emerged from the shadows, as if he were a part of them and they him. Morbidity clung to Ionus like a curse, and his skull-helmed visage gave him a grim aspect that was entirely in keeping with his demeanour.

Ionus gave a shallow bow, disturbing the oath scrolls attached to his golden war-plate. He rasped, his voice like the last stirrings of a disquiet spirit.

‘I crave your ear, Lord Hammerhand.’

Hanging his tempestos hammer, Heldensen, on his belt, Vandus nodded at the other two warriors, who departed with muttered reverence to the relic-keeper.

Only once they were gone, back down to the plateau where the army mustered, did Vandus speak further.

‘I shall not be dissuaded, Ionus,’ he warned.

‘You have spoken to me of the Red Pyramid of skulls, and I now understand that is not something you can ignore,’ said Ionus, slowly taking off his helm to reveal a gaunt, sinister-looking face. ‘I only wish our paths were conjoined. That you, like I, were headed to the brass towers as Sigmar has ordered.’

There was rebuke in Ionus’s tone, regret that they would be parted for the battles to come. It sat ill with him, but his Lord-Celestant had fixed his gaze on thwarting Korghos Khul and destroying the dread Gate of Wrath.

‘But I know your purpose is unwavering, my friend,’ Ionus concluded.

Vandus nodded. He was smiling as he turned towards Ionus and removed his war-helm, holding it in the crook of his arm. In sharp contrast to the Lord-Relictor, Vandus had a noble face and the clean, chiselled features often represented in the statues of heroes. Those monuments to old glories, to an age torn down, were gone but Vandus would see them rise again. He extended a hand to Ionus.

‘Fate shall see us together again, brother.’

The corners of the Lord-Relictor’s mouth only curved up a little, but he clasped his Lord-Celestant’s forearm in the manner of warriors.

‘Aye. The tower shall fall and I’ll make for your brotherhood. United, we shall triumph against any fell beings who claim lordship over these lands. The domination of Chaos is at an end.’

Vandus’s good humour faded, as he was reminded of what he had seen and the desperate battle they had fought and won at the Gate of Azyr.

‘It is possible he survived?’ Vandus asked.

‘Khul?’

‘Who else?’

‘He lives.’

Vandus raised an eyebrow. ‘You sound certain, brother.’

‘It is a feeling. Nothing more.’

Vandus caught an inkling that it was much more, but kept his silence for now. The ways of the Relictor were veiled to him, and perhaps that was for the best. But if Khul did yet live, as Ionus professed, then that meant the vision could still be proven true.

Vandus’s head, cut off and brandished aloft by Khul, exulting as he capped his dread pyramid.

‘I saw my own demise, Ionus,’ said Vandus, after a moment.

‘The vision we spoke of, the one that is leading you to the Red Pyramid?’

Vandus nodded.

‘And you would still step into Khul’s domain, knowing it means your death?’

‘I would.’

Ionus frowned. ‘But why? Unless you believe you can defy prophecy.’

‘Have you not said before that we are architects of our own destiny?’

Ionus gave a curt laugh. ‘I say a great many things, but not all are intended to be heeded on face value alone.’

‘I follow this path because I must, my friend. If I do not stop Khul then who else will?’

‘And if you challenge him, you may end up fulfilling his prophecy for him.’

‘Then that is a chance I have to take.’

Ionus regarded the Lord-Celestant for a moment, and not for the first time was reminded why Sigmar chose Vandus to be the vanguard of his storm.

‘Yes, I believe it is. Still, I hope he does not kill you, Vandus.’

It was meant in humour, but Vandus grew serious.

‘Are we truly immortal? If fated to die, can we?’

‘We are as immortal as Sigmar’s will, but even the God-King does not always get his way.’ Ionus gestured to the Bloodbound they had come to vanquish, then to the land beyond and all its perfidy both seen and unseen.

They stared at the revelling hordes below, and after a brief silence had passed Ionus said, ‘They think they are the death of these lands. They think they have already won.’

Vandus laughed. ‘They are not death, brother. We are death.’

He slammed his helm back on, demonstrably belligerent, and turned at last to the Lord-Relictor. ‘And it’s past time that we dealt our gift to those heathens beneath us.’

He raised Heldensen aloft, so the warriors amassing on the plateau would see it, and cried out in a clarion voice. ‘Stormcasts, to arms! This night, we mete out death and Sigmar’s judgement!’

A great cheer rose up from the golden throng, loud enough that the hordes below heard it. Some of the wretched tribesmen began to look up at the Stormcasts who now emerged above them, others scrambled for blades, a few even began barking orders.

‘Vermin,’ snarled Vandus, as he felt the armoured tread of an entire chamber of Hammers of Sigmar gather at his back. Ionus was at his side, skull-faced once more. It would be their last battle together for a while. If Sigmar willed it, their paths would cross again.

‘Scurry all you like, it will avail you nothing.’

Heldensen flashed like a golden flame against the darkness. This time, more than a thousand hammers joined it in salute.

Ionus roared, unable to hold his righteous fury at bay a moment longer.

‘Smite them and cleanse this land!’

And the storm descended on burnished wings and in a crushing tide of gold.

Chapter Two

Raw wounds

Like a red-raw wound, dawn broke over the heaped and tangled corpses left in the tar valley. Their skin was blackened, as if scorched by lightning.

Vandus and his Hammerhands left the bodies of the bloodreavers behind to rot in the sun. They had destroyed them, leaving none alive. They had also left Ionus and his Thunderstrike Brotherhood and headed for the southernmost brass tower, one of eight, and symbolic of Khorne’s domination of the Brimstone Peninsula.

It was no mere thing to deny his duty to the God-King, but Vandus knew he had been shown Khul and his pyramid of skulls for a reason. This vision had to come from Sigmar himself; he was convinced of it.

At the head of the column of Stormcast Eternals, Vandus peered through the narrow eye slits of his mask at the shimmering heat haze that had fallen upon the land like a veil. The ice-clad mountains were long behind them now and the desert reigned once again. A lava plain surrounded them, choked by poisonous fumes and drifts of ash.

A ridge began to form through this miasma, stained a sickly yellow from vents of sulphurous gas eking through fissures in the rock.

‘Volatus Ridge,’ murmured Vandus, recognising the region. His gaze strayed upwards, and he called out into the clouded sky.

‘Kyrus!’

First came the beating of wings and then, from out of blood-red sunlight and gangrenous smoke, came one of the warrior-heralds.

As the Prosecutor landed, he folded back his lightning wings and bowed.

‘The skies are clear of foes but wretched with filth, my lord. What is your bidding?’

Kyrus was a dutiful warrior, but his mood was akin to a tempest and ever turbulent. He had raged at the death of his former leader, Anactos Skyhelm, swearing vengeance. Now Prime until Skyhelm returned, Kyrus was determined to be worthy of the honour.

‘Take your warriors and fly beyond that ridge,’ said Vandus. ‘I want to know what lies ahead, beyond this foetid pall.’

Nodding curtly, Kyrus took flight, celestial corposant dissipating in his wake. Vandus watched as a retinue of gilded Prosecutors soared alongside their leader, resplendent on the wing, before he ordered the column to march on.

Where the others went on foot, Vandus rode the back of Calanax. The dracoth snarled at the stench of the air as if it were a foe that could be cowed by its wrath. Vandus quickly soothed the beast by patting the back of its scaled neck.

‘Easy, my friend. This land has us all disquieted.’

Calanax growled in acquiescence but kept a mindful eye, as did they all. Arching his serpentine neck, the dracoth watched the rapidly disappearing Prosecutors and gave a muted cry as the heralds were lost from sight.

As the Hammerhands trudged towards the Volatus Ridge, a bile-hued fog rose up around them. It stank of sulphur, but gathered too fast and moved too insidiously to be natural. Nothing in this land was natural — all had been warped by ruin.

The pall thickened, and for the Stormcasts it became impossible to see much farther than their outstretched gauntlets. Vandus wasted no time in slowing the advance, wary as they delved deeper and grew blinder with every step.

‘Sagus.’ Vandus summoned the Retributor, whose armoured paladins had been guarding the rear flanks of the column. ‘Your warriors are to take the core as we take the Sigmarund formation. Dacanthos,’ he called. ‘Liberators to encircle. Malactus’s Judicators will form the inner ring, behind a wall of shields. Both of you, be wary.’

The two warriors made the sigil of the hammer across their breasts and went to their duty. Heraldor Laudus Skythunder sounded the orders, and the formation of the column changed rapidly and efficiently into a walking circle of sigmarite.

Vandus took position behind the Liberators’ shieldwall, ahead of the Judicators with their skybolt bows and at the foremost part of the circle that faced towards the ridge.

‘Onward,’ he called, and the clank of god-forged steel resounded.

By now, the yellow cloud had completely engulfed them and the Stormcasts could not even see their feet or the heads of their weapons. Something was coming, Vandus could feel it.

‘Hammerhands,’ his voice rang out like a pealing bell, almost enough to cleanse the spiritual fog that he knew burdened the hearts of his men. ‘Hold true, hold together, and we shall triumph.’

A trumpet clarioned, and Calanax echoed it with a shrilling cry of its own, but even the usually strident notes of the Hammerhand heraldor were robbed of clarity by the miasma.

‘My lord…’ muttered a Stormcast, Baered, shoulder to shoulder with his brothers in the shieldwall and advancing slowly. ‘Do you see that?’

Vandus saw it well enough, and nodded grimly. Apparitions had begun to coalesce in the fog. At first they were indistinct, mere wisps of cloud that struggled to hold their corporeality, but they quickly changed, anthropomorphising into souls long dead and cruelly brought back.

Every man beheld a different form: a wife, a daughter, a son. The only thing the apparitions had in common were that they were dead, nothing more than revenants whose only purpose was to torment.

And they were not silent.

Centuries ago, Vandus had been Vendell Blackfist, a blacksmith chief and tribesman. He had lost everything to Chaos, his entire people. Every one of them returned to haunt him now, their bile-yellow figures made manifest in the fog. Though he knew them all, these were not the men and women of his former life but spirits formed from bitter memory who meant to harm.

Help us…

Kill us…

Betray us…

Vandus quickly shut his mind to them, and urged his warriors to do the same.

‘Have the courage to banish these unquiet devils.’

The shieldwall clenched closer, as if withered by the onslaught of the spirit host.

How Vandus wished Ionus Cryptborn were with them now.

A spectral hand reached for him… his dead wife, with the ghostly figures of his sons cowering at her feet. The mask held his emotions firm, but he wept behind the cold metal.

‘Begone…’ he rasped, voice trembling, but found his resolve. As he lashed out at the spirit forms, their aspect changed.

Talons grew in place of fingers, and the eyes of the once beloved became hollows in hundreds of fleshless skulls. As one, the spectral figures shrieked their final death cry and the shieldwall buckled as men fell to their knees or chased after illusory versions of their loved ones.

‘Hold firm!’ Vandus roared, reaching down from the back of Calanax to seize Baered by his gorget and haul him into formation. ‘Dacanthos,’ he cried, hoping his Prime could help restore order, but it was already too late.

The stench of blood rose in Vandus’s throat. The Bloodbound were here, warriors of the Goretide.

A guttural war cry ululated through the murk, echoing wildly so Vandus could not tell where it originated from. He barely parried the blow aimed at his neck, before Heldensen’s haft came to his rescue. The grunting brute, a bloodreaver, snarled at him and tried to carve through the hammer with his axe. Vandus kicked him hard to the ground. Then Calanax lurched forward and took off the bloodreaver’s head as he was still sprawled on his back.

Another ran in from the right and this time Vandus caught sight of the warrior and turned, crashing Heldensen down into the bloodreaver’s shoulder. Bone shattered as the hammer drove on into the warrior’s chest, spraying Vandus’s armour with gore.

More attacks flew in, not just against the Lord-Celestant but against all the Liberators in the broken shieldwall. It began sporadically at first, isolated clashes of blades, but grew in intensity.

Soon, a surge of brawny warriors in bloodstained metal and furs charge into the gilded throng of beleaguered Stormcasts. Some made it through the gaps in the Liberators’ line and began to cut down the Judicators. A few of Malactus’s men panicked, unleashing their skybolt bows heedlessly. Their Prime bellowed for them to cease as fellow Stormcasts were struck in error.

‘Dacanthos, reforge the shieldwall and protect Malactus’s retinue,’ said Vandus, as the Liberator-Prime appeared through the fog.

His armour rent and battered already, Dacanthos nodded wearily and ran back into the fight, hurling orders like they were spears to unite his warriors again.

Hundreds of skirmishes unfolded at once as Vandus fought in a sea of indistinct figures. Bellowing until he was hoarse, he managed to corral a small host together. They locked shields, an island of gold amidst an ocean of bloody red.

Vandus rode on into the miasma with Calanax, the beast clawing as his rider swung left and right with his hammer.

Hauling himself in with the reins, he drew close to the dracoth’s neck. ‘We must break up this assault, old friend, and give our comrades time to reorganise,’ Vandus told him, receiving a growl in reply. His eyes went skyward as he prayed for some sign of the returning Prosecutors, but the vile fog was too thick.

As he looked down again, something lumpen and horrific loomed out of the miasma. A khorgorath. It savaged a band of Liberators who had strayed away from their brothers, tearing down their defence as if it were parchment and not god-forged sigmarite. One of the warriors shuddered as the khorgorath’s bone tentacles impaled him. Another lost his head, swallowed down the beast’s grotesque gullet. Two more lost limbs, dying in crumpled heaps of blood-flecked gold before the storm reclaimed them.

The khorgorath bellowed in exultation.

Vandus had fought these beasts before. This one was as wretched as the others. Incarnadine skin wrapped around a muscular body. Its legs were thick and ended in hooves. Its arms ended in claws. The tiny eyes set in its tusked and horned skull betrayed the malice which drove the beast.

The filthy cloud seemed to retreat in the khorgorath’s presence, as if fearful to approach, or perhaps it parted so the beast could hunt all the easier. The thought that the fog might be sentient brought a tremor of unease to the Lord-Celestant, as did the sight of his warriors being slain so easily. It took an act from his dauntless mount to overcome it.

Calanax knew these abominations too. He spewed forth a gout of crackling storm breath at the khorgorath. The beast howled, engulfed by lightning. Calanax did not relent. Pulling against the reins, he galloped towards the khorgorath, his rage unceasing until the monster was nothing but charred meat.

It was only once the carcass had shrivelled to a blackened mess that Vandus realised his mistake. The dracoth’s unruly zeal had separated the Lord-Celestant from the rest of his chamber and now they were too far away. Silhouettes of his men were barely visible and, worse, they were dying. Lightning flashes broke amidst the fog, searing the image of the dead in frozen memorial before vanishing with an echoing crack.

Thunder rolled above, the God-King’s anger made manifest.

Knots of warriors were managing to band together; Vandus saw some lumbering blindly as they got close to him. Others fought alone. As the shieldwall broke apart, so did the martial coherency of the entire chamber. Heraldor Skythunder attempted to restore some order but a thrown axe struck his neck and he fell.

‘Mercy of Sigmar,’ Vandus breathed. And the thunder boomed in answer.

They were being slaughtered. Above the din of battle, he heard another sound like a fell humming. Belatedly, as he was about to turn Calanax around, he realised what it was.

Chanting.

Something else loomed from the sulphur fog, dredged from the hellish depths of the Realm of Chaos. A host of red-skinned daemons, snorting and spitting as they loped towards the Lord-Celestant on bent-back limbs.

Vandus felt the furnace heat coming off their bodies as the bloodletters closed, a ring of eight with black blades clenched in their wiry fists.

As the daemons bore down on him, Vandus heard the chanting intensify, coming not just from one throat but many. A ritual was taking place, a dark sacrifice that had brought these creatures into existence.

As the daemons sprang at him, Vandus swung Heldensen in a wide, looping arc. Three of the bloodletters were smashed back and discorporated in welters of dark ash before they could hit the ground. Calanax caught a fourth in his jaws and snapped its body clean in two. The dracoth reared up, trapping a fifth under his claws, then bellowed in pain as a hellblade bit through his scaled hide.

Vandus fended off a blow against his vambrace, but felt searing in his side as one of the bloodletters breached his armour. He crushed both their misshapen skulls with his hammer, before Calanax gored the last of the daemons with his horns.

But obscured by the fog, a second summoning of the bloodletters fell upon them, this time in droves.

‘Back, Calanax!’ Vandus cried urgently, realising, isolated as they were, that they would be overwhelmed.

The dracoth growled his agreement and retreated. All too quickly, the onrushing daemons that had been nought but shadows in the fog began to take form as they got close.

Their loping gait was unearthly fast, and Vandus realised with a sick feeling in his gut that he and Calanax would not escape the trap.

But they would die with honour.

The dracoth held its ground as Vandus bellowed his defiance at the daemon horde.

‘Sigmar! Glory to the God-King of Azyr!’

None knew what truly happened when a Stormcast died. Whatever his fate, Vandus resolved to meet it with fierce courage in his heart.

Dacanthos and a host of Liberators rushed to their Lord-Celestant’s side. Their shields locked just as the daemon horde reached them. Hell-wrought steel met Azyr-forged sigmarite and failed to breach it.

‘Part! Part the line, now!’

The Liberators responded at once to Dacanthos’s order, the shieldwall folding back in an inverted spearhead to let the daemons in.

Sagus and his waiting Retributors were arrayed behind the wall. They fell upon the bloodletters as the daemons barrelled through, and utterly destroyed them with their lightning hammers.

Overhead, Vandus heard flights of skybolts as the Judicators let loose.

Partial order had been restored. Under the leadership of its captains, the chamber had alloyed together again and forged towards their leader.

‘How, brother?’ Vandus asked Dacanthos in a brief moment of respite.

‘Your armour, Lord-Celestant,’ replied the Liberator-Prime. ‘It was our beacon.’

Only now did Vandus realise his war-plate had taken on a refulgent glow, as celestial light poured forth from every piece of it. The glory was fading now, but it had been enough to anchor his men and bring them back together.

Vandus raised Heldensen aloft in salute.

Thank you, Sigmar…

For who else could have intervened on his behalf?

With the daemons vanquished, the Sigmarund could be reformed. This time, Vandus took his place in the shieldwall with Calanax.

Despite the turn in fortune, the Bloodbound did not relent. Nor did the hellish fog lessen.

‘We are still fighting blind,’ said Sagus from the rear ranks.

‘Aye, and if anything, their numbers have swelled.’

A great broiling clash had erupted, hordes of bloodreavers and blood warriors driven to frenzy and hurling every ounce of fury they had against the Stormcast Eternals. Time and again, the shieldwall would fold, and the Retributors would attack and the Judicators let fly.

All the while, the chanting persisted, growing louder and more urgent with every passing moment. No further bloodletters came, but Vandus felt the oppression on his soul as he had in the Igneous Delta when the blood priest had called forth the Realm of Blood and Brass.

But this was something different, some manifestation that came from the very twisted nature of the land and how Chaos had corrupted it with its malign presence.

Something else was coming, invigorated by the slaughter.

Vandus knew he had to end the battle swiftly. His warriors needed to attack, but the blinding fog would render such a move suicide as they would be cut apart piecemeal again. Maintaining formation would ensure survival — but not if the Bloodbound sacrificed enough to Khorne to bring forth some hell-beast from the red pit.

Death or damnation lay in either choice.

As a blast of clarion trumpets broke through the clamour of battle, Vandus realised it was not his decision to make.

Kyrus had returned.

From the high vantage above the cloud, Prosecutors swept down in small flocks to unleash their celestial hammers against the Bloodbound.

As his warriors continued their harrying attacks, having cut a small swathe of open ground between the Bloodbound and their other Stormcast brothers, Kyrus landed nearby to speak to his lord.

‘Lord Hammerhand, it seems we have arrived back just in time.’

A pair of crackling hammers materialised in Kyrus’s gauntleted fists and he flung them at a clutch of bloodreavers who had tried to resume the close quarter crush.

Kyrus was joined by a host of his brethren who interceded against the Chaos horde so he could give his report.

‘I saw the miasma overhead as we returned. It clouds only you and your chamber, Lord Hammerhand.’

‘It follows us?’

‘Akin to a cloud of sulphurous flies, yes. I also saw something beyond the ridge, another Warrior Chamber.’ He turned as a trumpet sounded, the signal to take wing.

Lightning crackled across Kyrus’s gilded pinions as he arched his neck to the heavens.

‘Prosecutor,’ Vandus said quickly, knowing the prospect of reinforcement close by meant nothing if they failed here. ‘Fly high and turn back this cloud for us. Once our sight is returned, I shall order the attack and crush this vermin.’

Kyrus nodded curtly, leaving with his warriors and soaring aloft with peals of thunder.

As the Prosecutors departed, the Bloodbound rushed in again and the press of battle resumed. It did so only for a short while longer. Above, the storm rumbled and thunder broke heavily across the sky.

A tempest was born in the heavens, and it drove the poisonous fog away.

Above, Kyrus’s retinue were beating their celestial wings in concert. And as soon as Vandus could see the warrior-heralds through the rapidly dissipating sulphur cloud, he knew it was time.

‘Break ranks and attack!’ he yelled, Calanax rearing up in belligerent abandon.

The shieldwall split as the Liberators allowed the heavier armoured Retributors to come forth. Well-drilled Judicators moved to the flanks and loosed an endless enfilading arrow storm into the scattered rear ranks of the Bloodbound horde.

With the Retributors unleashed, the Liberators broke up into smaller warrior-bands and struck down any who had escaped the wrath of their brothers’ lightning hammers.

Riding at the speartip of the attack, Vandus spurred Calanax into a loping run. The dracoth’s ground-eating strides soon had them leading the charge. The Goretide warriors were still numerous but had been scattered by the sudden attack and disorientated by the disappearance of the fog.

Vandus saw the bodies of their dead, men he knew the Stormcasts could not have slain, and balked at the blood price Khorne’s worshippers were willing to pay for their lord’s favour.

One of the Skull Lord’s chieftains still clung to the hope that his dark master would avail them. But the shadow of the Realm of Chaos was fading, just as the sulphur clouds receded into nothing. Towers of brass and pyramids of skulls, the crimson rain of fury unbound and the brazen bellowing of daemons from beyond the veil; all became as smoke and echoes.

It had felt different to when the bloodsecrator had unleashed hell before the Gate of Azyr, but no less disturbing. Vandus would be glad to burn this patina of blood and violence from his armour.

He would begin with the chieftain.

From the back of Calanax, Vandus levelled his hammer at the brutal-looking warrior.

The dracoth quickly despatched the few followers the chieftain had left. Vandus then dismounted, his eyes never leaving his prey. Bellowing with fury, the chieftain came at the Lord-Celestant with a flanged maul.

Vandus parried his reckless attacks, before crushing the chieftain’s shoulder and disarming him. Calanax pounced, pinning him down.

‘Is this the graven image of your lord?’ asked Vandus with disgust, regarding a sigil burned into the chieftain’s chest. Tattered remnants of images persisted in the wake of the blood sacrifice, and Vandus found it hard to keep a rein on his anger. In his mind, he saw himself crushing the chieftain to pulp, grinding his bones and devouring his heart, rending his limbs and…

Vandus slowly closed his eyes and made his heart still. When he looked out again, he was calm and the blood rage had passed.

‘It is fell, indeed, isn’t it,’ spat the chieftain through red-rimed teeth. He rasped, finding it hard to breathe with his chest crushed beneath the dracoth’s claw. ‘Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows…’ he murmured, as a horrible gargle rose up from his throat.

Vandus glared at him. ‘Your warlord, the one known as Korghos Khul — does he yet live?’

Despite his fatal injuries, the chieftain laughed.

‘One such as he is not so easily killed,’ he said. ‘You seek a reckoning? He said you would.’

‘He is here?’ asked Vandus, his voice suddenly agitated. ‘Where?’

The chieftain laughed again, coughing up gouts of blood before he continued.

‘At the Red Pyramid, you will meet again,’ he said, growing more animated with every word. ‘Your severed head in his hands…’ blood foamed and frothed in his mouth, ‘…held aloft for the glory of—’

Calanax tore off his head and swallowed it down.

Vandus released the grip he had on Heldensen. His body trembled with anger, and he had not realised how tightly he was clenching the hammer’s haft.

Sack the Red Pyramid, and then defeat Khul. End him this time. It was as he had said to Ionus Cryptborn, and so it must be.

‘Gratitude, my friend,’ Vandus murmured, stroking the scales on the dracoth’s back and eliciting a rumbling growl from the beast.

With the death of the chieftain, the battle was all but over.

Throngs of Liberators struck down blood warriors and bloodreavers, their zeal for carnage much diminished.

Volleys of skybolts from disciplined firing lines of Judicators took down packs of khorgoraths, who fell, pinioned by lightning-wreathed shafts.

Prosecutors ranged the flanks to destroy any who fled or had been spared annihilation by the vengeful Retributors. The armoured paladins were relentless, and crushed almost everything in sight.

In short order the Chaos war host was vanquished utterly. Not a soul remained.

Vandus played his part, he and Calanax hunting for khorgoraths. Heldensen sang a litany of purification as it smashed skulls and broke limbs.

It was Kyrus who interrupted his leader, gently coming down from on high to stand before Vandus and his steed.

‘Lord-Celestant…’ Always so dutiful, so dignified, yet the tumult of righteous fury still raged in his eyes and radiated off his blazing wings.

‘The other Warrior Chamber you spoke of?’ asked Vandus, as Calanax gored the last of the blood warriors they had been fighting.

Kyrus nodded. ‘I will lead you, my lord.’ He gestured towards the distant ridge line with one of his crackling hammers. ‘Over there.’

‘Dacanthos,’ Vandus called, ‘finish up these scum and meet us at the edge of the ridge.’

The Liberator-Prime crashed his gauntlet to his chest in salute and affirmation.

Vandus had already reined Calanax in, turning the dracoth’s head in the direction his Prosecutor had pointed. ‘Lead us then, brother.’

Leaping skyward, Kyrus flew low and steady so his Lord-Celestant could keep up. He need not have bothered, for Calanax was preternaturally fast and the three of them reached the Volatus Ridge swiftly.

The sight beyond the edge of the ridge and into the valley below was a welcome one. After several days of unremitting battle against a seemingly endless tide of foes, the possibility of reinforcement was at hand.

‘Stormcasts,’ said Vandus, as Calanax perched at the very edge of the ridge. The relief in the Lord-Celestant’s voice was almost palpable. ‘We are not alone, after all.’

‘It is the Goldenmanes,’ uttered Kyrus, his sight keen and far reaching enough to discern the precise nature of their allies.

Vandus could see the blue and gold of the Hammers of Sigmar, but not who led the warriors. Despite that fact, he knew the leader of the Goldenmanes well.

‘Lord-Celestant Jactos. Hunting down Goretide stragglers.’

Though the battle was distant, Vandus could see that the chamber chased down a beaten foe. Their pursuit looked a little unruly. The Goldenmanes’ heraldor was already sounding the victory.

‘As bold and headstrong as ever, it would seem.’

Vandus smiled at the irony of Kyrus’s words, eyes narrowing as he tried to find Jactos Goldenmane in the throng below. His good humour quickly turned to horror as he saw a second enemy force had amassed, hidden in the crags on either side of Jactos’s triumphant scrum of warriors.

‘They haven’t seen them,’ muttered Kyrus grimly.

Vandus scowled, and lifted Heldensen.

‘Hammerhands, to me!’

The others were coming. They needed to move quickly.

Chapter Three

Blooded

Victory was near. Jactos could feel it, and revelled in exultation. His warriors had attacked a large warband of the debased wretches claiming dominion over this land, and defeated them in short order. The remnants had fled and now, led by the Prosecutors, the Stormcasts gave chase, determined to run the barbarians down.

‘Glory to the God-King!’ roared Jactos, fighting alongside his Lord-Castellant, Neros, and a retinue of paladins.

Jactos watched his Prosecutors soar after the fleeing bloodreavers, ruthlessly casting down their hammer bolts. The warrior-heralds were the only retinue capable of outpacing the zealous Lord-Celestant, who cut down his foes with runeblade and warhammer.

Jactos was a peerless swordsman, and had a quickness of thought and reaction even before he had become Eternal. Now, he put his god-forged talents to use destroying the Chaos worshippers. A thrust through the heart of a blood warrior had the man spitting gore. As Jactos pulled the blade free, he advanced, turning on his heel and slashing the next foe’s midriff. His warhammer came down in the same movement, cracking skulls, and his warcloak spun around as he sundered a host of bloodreavers.

‘Hunt well, Eriad,’ he murmured, smiling ferally behind his gilded mask as he watched the Prosecutors arc through the sky like spears. He could almost imagine the destruction they would reap. How Sigmar would exult at this triumph.

The voice of Neros arrested his reverie. ‘Our forces are spread thin, my lord. Should we slow and consolidate?’

Jactos glanced over his shoulder. They had left the Judicators behind and even his Liberators were struggling to hold the pace. Only at the Lord-Celestant’s urging had the hulking Retributors managed to keep up.

‘I want this victory, Neros. Our foe is nigh on defeated. Let us revel in it and show the Chaos gods that Sigmar has returned, and that he means to take these lands back.’

Jactos’s zeal was infectious. The Lord-Castellant nodded, brandishing his halberd.

‘In Sigmar’s name, destroy them all!’

Jactos laughed. So full of belligerent joy was he that he failed to notice how the valley had narrowed into a ravine, or that the Prosecutors had not returned from their sortie.

Oblivious to all but his imminent triumph, Jactos drove on.

It was only when he saw that the crags had taken on the aspect of skulls and the fell wind whispered his name that he realised something bad was about to happen.

On foot, it took some time to reach where the Prosecutors had harried their enemies, and the narrowness of the ravine had obscured the end of it from sight. Until now.

A deep basin of rock awaited the chamber of Jactos Goldenmane, and the slope that led to it was thick with ash. But what caught his eye first was what lay at the base of the sheer-faced cliff.

A golden Prosecutor and half of his retinue, impaled on claws of iron thrust out of the very earth like talons, dying like spitted boar. It must have happened quickly.

The cry of anguish from Jactos was louder than a death knell. ‘Brothers!’

Neros was about to raise his warding lantern to call the other Stormcasts to their side when something whipped down from out of the crags. The Lord-Castellant jerked and grunted, an axe protruding from his chest. He sank to one knee, blood spoiling the front of his golden war-plate as it flowed from a terrible wound.

A second axe hurtled down at them. Then came a third. A deluge of black iron followed.

Jactos parried the blades out of the air, coming to Neros’s side, but many of the Retributors were not so swift.

Lightning flashes lit up the crags as a thunderhead of desolation erupted amongst the Stormcasts. Sigmar was reclaiming the souls of his warriors. As the flares died down and the fallen were cast heavenward, the macabre skulls in the rock appeared to be grinning wider than before.

‘Stormcasts, to me! To me!’ Jactos bellowed, hearing the urgent clarion of his heraldor.

The tumultuous roar from the crags swallowed the trumpet calls and obliterated them.

Droves of Bloodbound warriors spilled like vermin from hidden caves and fissures missed by Eriad’s Prosecutors.

The other retinues hurried urgently to their Lord-Celestant’s side, but were strung out across the valley. As they entered the mouth of the narrow ravine, Jactos realised his second fatal error.

‘Wait! Hold fast, hold fast! Don’t—’

Too late. Another horde emerged from their hiding places to engulf the Stormcast rearguard. Khorgoraths held back by the whip of a bloodstoker were unleashed to reap heads. Running at the very back of the warriors, the Judicators turned too late. They had barely unleashed a single skybolt when the Chaos monstrosities fell upon them.

Jactos faltered, caught halfway between Neros and where his much-depleted Retributors prepared to meet the charge of a vastly larger force.

The Lord-Castellant yet lived, but waved Jactos away.

‘Leave me. Marshal them! Bring the host together or it won’t matter either way.’

A gryph-hound seized Neros’s shoulder in its powerful beak and began to drag the Lord-Castellant towards the waiting Retributors. Neros had dropped his halberd, but still had the warding lantern. With the other hand, he grabbed his loyal beast’s harness and held on as it took him, trying to keep them both alive a little longer.

What had begun as certain victory had cruelly turned to abject annihilation.

Jactos saw his chance at glory fading, his opportunity to show his worthiness to his God-King. How deeply he had wanted to be first, how much he had envied Vandus Hammerhand for the honour that had been bestowed upon him. Jactos knew his fellow Lord-Celestant warranted such a boon, for there was something about Vandus, something fated and undeniable. But if the honour of leading the vanguard was not to be his, then at least Jactos could forge his own glory elsewhere.

Now all of his ambitions were ashes, and he tasted the bitterness of that failure as if choking on them.

‘Shieldwall!’ he cried, trying to wrench something back from this debacle, but the Liberators were too far away and some had rightly gone to the aid of their beleaguered comrades in the Judicators.

Thinking fast, he turned to Priandus, the leader of his Retributors. He had only moments, for soon they would be engulfed by the warriors rushing down to meet them. As he spared a glance at their killers, Jactos saw another army silhouetted on the ridge line, and knew that their doom was assured.

‘Priandus…’

Priandus had clenched his two-handed lightning hammer across his chest. His gaze was unwavering as he regarded the foes that would surely end him. A handful of Retributors stood with him, shoulder to shoulder.

‘Go,’ Priandus uttered, grimly. ‘They won’t come for you until all of us are dead. Our sacrifice will mean something, at least.’

Jactos led the bulk of the Retributors off at a pace towards his Liberators, hoping to bring his scattered forces together.

At Jactos’s command, one of the hulking warriors hauled Neros to his feet and half-carried the Lord-Castellant as the gryph-hound loped along after them.

Through sheer desperation, Jactos brought the disparate factions of what was left of his men together. As they formed ranks, locking shields and standing side by side, the Lord-Celestant spared a last glance for Priandus. But the Retributor-Prime was lost from sight, swallowed by a barbaric host of blood-sworn warriors.

‘Make them pay,’ he bellowed to his men, the rancour he felt filling his heart until it overflowed. What few Judicators remained let fly. Retributors and Liberators stood beside each other to meet the charge that would surely end them all.

The Bloodbound army met them. Both of its armies, twin bloody mauls of seething violence and unfettered destruction.

Caught in the middle, the Stormcasts’ defence shuddered, but held, a circle of gold that defied the darkness. Jactos fought hard, determined to be the exemplar for his men. The act of bravura was a pointless one, but he sought to make amends anyway. At least Neros was alive, protected by the Judicators and around them the Liberators and Retributors. At least, for now.

Jactos began to despair as he saw the third host descend, the one shown in silhouette on the ridge line.

His despair quickly turned to hope, then joy, as golden war-plate, not the blood-red of Khorne’s disciples, shone in the blazing sun over the Volatus Ridge. Seeing reinforcement, his warriors fought even harder. They shouted their defiance and roared in exultation of their saviour.

‘Vandus! Vandus! Vandus!’

Their cry became a mantra, and it armoured them better than a thousand sigmarite shields.

Hammerhand he was called, and he led his Stormcasts down the ridge with cloak flapping and a call to arms upon his lips.

‘Hold fast, Jactos!’

Vandus rode a dracoth as he spearheaded the vanguard, and in his wake he brought death.

The battle did not last much longer after that. Between the Hammerhands and the Goldenmanes, the Bloodbound were crushed. Ground down beneath armoured boots, pinioned by skybolts or smote by the celestial hammers of winged avengers, the slain were many.

It was over. Jactos lived, as did his shame.

Vandus approached him during the aftermath, as the Prosecutors chased down the few survivors.

‘Well met, Jactos,’ said Vandus, offering his hand.

Jactos nodded, grateful but weary.

‘Your arrival was timely, Lord-Celestant.’ He regarded Vandus with a deep sense of respect, taking off his war-helm before he shook the other warrior’s hand. Long, golden hair flowed from beneath, making it obvious how Jactos’s honorific came to be. He had a noble bearing, so very different from the barbarian blacksmith lord who looked back at him.

‘I watched you from the ridge,’ Vandus said, his dark eyes honest and hard. ‘You overreached, Jactos, and spread your warriors too thinly. Remember, we are outnumbered in this land and know not of all its perils.’

Jactos stiffened a little, chastened. ‘Is that the wisdom of Sigmar talking?’

Vandus held up his hand. ‘No, just the words of a smith who knows something of the ways of war.’

‘You are as much a blacksmith as I am an orruk,’ Jactos replied, clapping Vandus on the shoulder, ‘but I heed the wisdom, nonetheless.’

All amongst the Stormcast force sought to further Sigmar’s glory and exact vengeance against those creatures who had put the realms asunder, but Jactos wanted it more than most.

A cry from across the bloody field of battle interrupted them.

It was Neros, his warding lantern held aloft and his gryph-hound by his side. Warriors who basked in the glow of the lantern saw their armour restored, the deep axe grooves and clefts melding together with the power of celestial magic.

No such balm could cure Eriad though, still impaled on the iron talon.

Jactos rushed over to the stricken Prosecutor, with Vandus not far behind him.

‘We cannot remove it,’ uttered Neros in a low voice, his back to Eriad who twisted in pain, ‘not without killing him. Even the lantern cannot save him.’

Jactos looked upon his Prosecutor grim-faced. The spike driven through his body should have killed him, but something about the metal was refusing to let Eriad die. Jactos saw tendrils of it had split off from the shaft and wormed their way into Eriad’s skin.

‘It… burns… my lord…’ rasped Eriad, his every breath an agony.

Jactos drew his runeblade, and the star-sigils upon the steel shone brightly.

‘Sigmar awaits you, brother,’ he told the Prosecutor solemnly. ‘He calls you back unto his halls as a hero.’

About to enact this mercy, Eriad’s outstretched hand stopped the Lord-Celestant.

‘W-wait… Will I die…? What will… become of me?’

Jactos faltered. He had no answer. None knew what it meant to be Eternal.

‘Let the storm carry him, brother.’ Vandus’s voice came from behind him, reassuring yet urgent.

‘Close your eyes, Eriad,’ said Jactos, after a moment. The Prosecutor had barely lowered his eyelids when Jactos thrust the runeblade up into Eriad’s chest, piercing his heart and ending his torment.

Above, a thunderhead had gathered and from its tumultuous depths came a single arcing bolt of lightning that struck Eriad and engulfed him in a glowing coruscation. With the thunder of a tempest unleashed, the bolt turned Eriad’s corporeal body into blinding light and carried him back into the heavens on the fury of the storm.

All who saw felt the awe and disquiet of witnessing a miracle.

‘Is this the fate of every man wrought on the Anvil of Apotheosis?’ murmured Jactos. ‘Are we destined to ascend back unto the stars when we are slain? And what then?’

He felt a strong, reassuring hand upon his shoulder and knew then why Vandus had been chosen above all others. He heard it in his voice and felt it in his words.

‘Fear not the storm, Jactos. For it is both life and death to us. Ours is not to question. It is but to do our duty and, when the time comes, to die well in Sigmar’s name. It is why we were forged, it is a hope for all mankind and there is no greater honour than that.’

Jactos nodded slowly, and reached for his war-helm again.

‘I hear the call to arms, Vandus.’

‘As do I, brother.’

‘I hear it calls to you from across the wastes and the Red Pyramid.’

‘I beheld a vision,’ Vandus told him. ‘A warlord, the slayer of the Direbrands, climbing a red pyramid fashioned of bloody skulls. A gate lay beyond it, a portal to the Realm of Chaos itself.’

‘Such a gate would spew forth hellspawn beyond count.’

‘Aye, and I must close it. Even now, my Lord-Relictor seeks out the brass towers from which the gate yokes its power.’

Jactos turned, and there was lightning in his eyes through the slits in his mask.

‘I pledge my sword to this task, Vandus. The Goldenmanes will stand with the Hammerhands and consider it a great honour.’

Vandus smiled behind the implacable face of his war-helm, his voice conveying his emotion.

‘It is I that is honoured, brother. Let us stand together then, and crush the Goretide.’

‘The warlord in your vision, Vandus, he yet lives?’

Vandus’s mood turned bleak and wrathful. ‘If he does, then it is he we must overcome. His will, his dominance is everything. Break that, and we break his warband.’

‘With hammer and blade, then,’ uttered Jactos, as a cry of ‘Sigmar!’ echoed around the gathered chambers.

Jactos revelled in it, just as he rejoiced that in Korghos Khul he saw a chance to restore his tarnished honour.

Chapter Four

Taker of skulls

Korghos Khul lived. He was lying on his back, dimly remembering the moment his own warriors had trampled him in their zeal to get to the Stormcasts.

He had fought the golden warrior, the one who had once been Vendell Blackfist. Khul had the better of him, and yet the wretch had escaped death a second time. Even in his stuporous state, the warlord of Khorne vowed there would not be a third.

And as he lay there, plotting vengeance even as he stirred from unconsciousness, he came to a realisation.

In spite of his survival, something had changed. He felt it in the shimmering heat of the air, heard it in the deep rumble of thunder overhead and beheld it in those who had come with the lightning, cast upon the storm.

For a time, after the battle, he had drifted in and out of a black daze in which his dreams were dark. Far from being restful, his torpor was a fitful sleep and wracked by paroxysms. His eyes opened, flickering in palsy against the sun, as something he had not felt in many years formed into being.

Defeat.

And with that realisation came the Blood God’s rage, urging Khul to his feet and fuelling limbs driven to the brink of exhaustion by the one known as the Hammerhand, a man resurrected, reborn, a man Khul should have killed decades before…

‘Vendell Blackfist… Vandus…’

As he muttered the name of his nemesis, he became aware of scavengers rummaging through the corpses, taking their fill of flesh, and soon they became aware of him.

The Igneous Delta looked as it had when Khul had fallen, a stinking, lava-strewn plain of scorched black rock. Only now it was his fellow Goretide that were coming for him, not the golden warriors from before.

Far from being cowed by Khul’s revival, the bloody chieftains and champions who prowled the dead saw a unique opportunity.

It was the way of the Bloodbound. The only road to Khorne’s throne was to climb a pyre of skulls.

Five warriors surrounded Khul, each with an axe or blade. They circled slowly, murderous ambition in their eyes, especially when they saw Khul was unarmed.

Khul grinned, exposing sharp, angular teeth. Through the eyeholes of his skull-faced helm, the world had turned a visceral red. He clenched his fists until the knuckles cracked.

‘Come then, take your chance and let’s see who Khorne favours.’

With a roar, the scavenging chieftains attacked.

A bearded brute of a warrior went first, swinging wildly with his axe. Khul deftly caught the chieftain’s wrist, fending off an overhead blow before pulling the warrior down, wrapping a muscular arm around his neck and snapping it. Before the chieftain hit the ground, Khul had taken his axe and embedded it in the chest of the second warrior. In a welter of gore, Khul wrenched the blade loose and flung it into a third aggressor, pitching him off his feet, the axe haft protruding from his face.

Three slain in as many breaths gave the other two pause. It was a momentary hesitation, yet ultimately fatal. Khul bellowed and charged, and the fourth chieftain hacked at him, but his sword only ate into the meat of Khul’s forearm, shearing through the armour and holding fast. Seizing the champion’s ruddy beard, Khul head-butted him until his faceplate cracked and then the bone beneath. The chieftains’ body capitulated, his legs buckling like broken reeds. Khul snatched up his sword.

As the champion fell, Khul was left facing the last attacker.

‘You’re thinking this was a mistake,’ Khul told him, his chest heaving up and down with barely restrained fury, his skin drenched in blood. ‘It was, but if you bare your neck I will make it fast.’

Eyes wide and suddenly unsure, the chieftain adjusted the grip on his axe and then looked to the weapon Khul had taken from one of the others. Blood dripped off the blade.

With a sudden movement, Khul lunged forwards and cut off the chieftain’s head. Then he butchered his flesh until nothing remained but a red ruin.

‘No place for the weak,’ he slurred, half drunk on rage, ‘at the foot of Khorne’s throne.’

Slamming the sword into the ground, he went to retrieve his axe. Its voice echoed in his skull, drawing his attention as it demanded for its bloodlust to be slaked.

‘Aye,’ Khul muttered to the axe, wrapping his meaty fist around the leather haft, ‘you’ll have your fill.’

He regarded the five corpses and began the grisly work of taking the heads and flensing them of all flesh and muscle.

After a short while, five bloody skulls stared at him through hollow eyes, their rictus grins suggesting they were much happier in death than they had ever been in life. Khul stacked them one atop the other, erecting a slaughter shrine so he might convene with his god.

As he ate the defeated chieftains’ flesh, he grinned, as if listening to words only he could hear, for the plains were almost silent. Then he heard a sound, one that emanated from the corporeal world. Strips of skin and sinew hanging from his teeth, Khul looked up sharply.

His axe was already in his hand as a daemonic hound sloped out from amongst the bodies.

‘Grizzlemaw…’ uttered Khul, both greeting and curse at the same time.

The beast had gorged itself, its mouth a ruby red from the feast. It was looking intently at Khul, deciding whether it should attack. Scenting Khorne’s favour, it relented and padded to its master’s side.

Khul seized it by the neck, despite the hound’s monstrous size.

For a moment the beast resisted, but Khul would not be denied and it heeled before his dominance.

‘You are mine, creature,’ he hissed to the beast, and heard it growl in acquiescence.

In the distance, Khul heard chanting. He smelled roasting flesh and saw the glow of immense fires on the horizon. A gathering of his warriors.

‘The feast is over,’ Khul murmured to his hound as he released it. ‘War calls.’

He snarled, his rage still molten at his defeat, but smiled through his clenched teeth at the prospect of a fight and an adversary most worthy.

The stronghold was close.

‘I shall take your skull, Vendell Blackfist,’ Khul whispered as he headed northward, ‘and then… ascend.’

Chapter Five

Bringers of the storm

Ithar cried out in agony. Ionus Cryptborn carefully but firmly placed his hand over the stricken warrior’s forehead to stifle his anguish. A mote of healing celestial magic entered the Retributor, but did little more than ease his pain. It would take more than this to sustain his life.

‘Be still, brother,’ Ionus whispered, one eye on the skies in the hope of seeing Sturmannon’s Prosecutors return.

Ithar’s heavy sigmarite armour was badly torn and rent. Huge grooves had been carved through the gilded breastplate and into his flesh. Bones had been shattered, organs pierced. In places, the flesh was burned. Though paladins were the hardiest of the Stormcast, they were not invulnerable. Ithar teetered on the brink, his stony-faced Retributor-Prime looking on.

‘Will he live?’ asked Theodrus, hefting his lightning hammer meaningfully. ‘Or is mercy all we have left to give him?’

Ionus raised his hand for calm.

‘I need a moment longer, Theodrus,’ he told him, returning to his ministrations.

It had been an ambush. Eighteen souls badly bloodied by a hunting pack of khorgoraths.

Ever since parting ways with the Lord-Celestant, Ionus’s chamber had been attacked at every turn. Monsters and peril were ubiquitous in these lands, it seemed. After a hard march, they had reached sight of their objective, a looming tower of brass. As the paladins had led the column through a narrow defile in a forest which bore blades instead of leaves on its trees, the khorgoraths had struck.

The four warriors who had lost their heads to the beasts were gone, with only ribbons of corposant to mark their passing. The rest had lived, but were brutally wounded. Now, Ionus had to try and keep them alive. They would need every hammer in the battle to come.

So far, he had managed to save all but two. Ithar was the last.

‘Sigmar…’ he intoned in a sepulchral voice. ‘O Lord of Azyr, Master of the Storm…’ Ionus clenched the relic hammer, holding it aloft as he let go of Ithar’s mouth with his other hand and gently placed it upon the warrior’s chest. His reliquary-icon stood nearby, driven into the earth. The skeletal totem bound to it, a sword in its bony fingers as it hung in silent repose, looked on as if in judgement. Ithar’s golden mask was lying next to it, split from crown to chin.

‘Heed my prayers and bestow your grace upon this paladin so he might rise to fight again in your name. Heed me, Sigmar!’ Ionus cried aloud, as black clouds began to gather overhead. ‘Grant us your glory. Bring forth the storm!’

A lightning bolt arced down from the heavens and struck Cryptborn’s hammer. He shuddered as the immortal god-power went through him and into Ithar. Slowly, a cerulean glow began to suffuse the fallen paladin, reknitting the wounds in his flesh.

In moments it was over and Ithar was restored.

Ionus sagged, the effort draining, and glanced at the hourglass he had set down the moment he began. The last few grains trickled down its neck as Ithar sat up.

‘Rise,’ said Ionus, standing himself.

‘Praise the God-King,’ Theodrus murmured, and held his hammer to his chest to venerate the Lord of Storms.

‘We are whole again,’ Ionus told him, although he sounded weary. ‘The tower awaits.’ He spoke to his entire Exemplar Chamber, who had been silently looking on. As if the Lord-Relictor had summoned them, Sturmannon’s Prosecutors swept in from the north.

The gathered paladins made room for them to land. Ionus held his ground, but stood ready to receive them.

‘I bear tidings, Lord-Relictor,’ said Sturmannon.

‘The tower’s garrison?’

‘Is nothing we cannot overcome, but there is something… unnatural about it. This is no mere keep, wrought of stone and metal.’

‘It’s a temple, Sturmannon,’ Ionus told him, in a voice as deathly as the grave, ‘pure and simple. A monument to war, and it must be cast down.’

‘I saw a priest upon the parapet, one who bore a totem that was utterly unlike your reliquary.’

Ionus knew of whom Sturmannon spoke. Ever since they had won the battle on the Igneous Delta, Ionus had wondered what had happened to the blood-priest. Now he knew, and it was ill news indeed.

The brass tower was close. Ionus could feel it, and strove to marshal his violent thoughts, for he knew they were not entirely his own. As he pushed the urge for blood from his mind, as he saw his fellow Stormcast Eternals do, another thought intruded. It slipped in like a shadow, at first unseen but chill as the grave.

A cold, ancient voice echoed in the Lord-Relictor’s skull and the sound of it froze his very marrow.

A tithe is owed. A tithe shall be given.

A soul for a soul.

A hand on Ionus’s shoulder brought him around. At first he thought its fingers were made of bone…

‘Lord-Relictor?’ asked Theodrus, his concern obvious even behind the gold mask he wore.

‘All is well,’ Ionus lied, clapping the Retributor-Prime on his back. ‘All is well. We march. With all haste, brothers.’

Chapter Six

The Red Pyramid

Khul reached his lair on the third day. Grim menhirs stood at the edge of his domain, guarding a red-stained path that fed into an immense flagstoned courtyard. A great archway of stone sat in the middle of it, surrounded by warriors and raised up on a black dais. Beyond that was the Red Pyramid, its great shadow eclipsing all.

There was no fortress, no stronghold as such. Khul had no need for one, such was his dominance of these lands. He had all but conquered the Brimstone Peninsula, but his throne room was little more than a stone chair and the wealth of trophies that surrounded it.

Hordes thronged the courtyard, though they were wise enough to give Khul’s throne a wide berth. They were some of the many warbands he had brought together to form his Goretide. The bloodreavers and Chaos warriors present were but a portion of the martial strength of Khul’s armies.

Blood soaked the warlord’s skin, hair and armour. His skull-mask was flecked with arterial spray. Khul had carved a red ruin across the Brimstone Peninsula, severing heads to satisfy his blinding rages and slake his thirst for retribution.

Throughout this bloody fugue, barely realising the carnage he was reaping, a vision struck Khul over and over like a hammer blow to the skull. More than once, it had staggered the warlord, a bestial roar so powerful it had made his ears bleed and his teeth tremble. It was his god speaking to him. Khul’s head echoed with the promises of Khorne, bellowed from atop the mountain of skulls where the Blood God had fashioned his throne.

Khul saw himself, astride the lofty peak of the Red Pyramid. He had become a true champion of Chaos, axe brandished at the hellish sky, where clouds churned in torment and a crimson rain drenched the land. Khul too was painted red — red with the endless slaughter he had committed in Khorne’s name and red with the Eye of the Gods upon him.

Chosen.

Exalted.

In his mind’s eye, Khul saw himself changed, his human body becoming but a shell for what lurked within. He grew, his flesh stretching and blackening with the hellfire of metamorphosis. Armour plate buckled and then split as a grotesquely enlarged musculature broke through.

Pain.

He gritted his teeth, lurching onto his knees. Hugging his chest, he bent over as two immense wings, black and glossy as obsidian, pierced through the skin of his back and unfurled. Horns sprouted from the bony growths in his temples. Hooves tore his boots to shreds.

When he arose again, he was no longer a man. A dark aura wreathed his iron-hard flesh, and a rugged mane as black as night trailed from his immense head and neck. A giant stood upon the Red Pyramid, and mortals wept at the sight. Khul had ascended to claim a daemonic crown and war by his master’s side forever as a prince of slaughter. Craning back his head, Khul bellowed, and his cry of exultation and fury echoed across the vastness of Aqshy…

Abruptly, Khul’s thoughts returned to what was, not what would be if he were to raise his pyramid of skulls and claim his reward. As he walked the red-stained path, Khul would not forget his promise, nor what had been promised in return.

‘An immortal to crown my tribute, lord…’ he murmured, stepping upon the bone-wrought flagstones of the courtyard.

Grizzlemaw snarled in agreement, as if it had somehow been privy to Khul’s thoughts of ascension. It loped behind the warlord at a short distance, its muzzle and fangs red from feasting. It halted as its master did.

Khul had stopped to regard the gate. It was hard not to, such was its presence, even with the looming Red Pyramid behind it.

The Gate of Wrath was immense, a great and powerful edifice that had stood through the ages and endured wars of conquest. Even from a distance, Khul felt the anger and hatred emanating off the ancient structure. Though carved of stone, it was no mundane ruin. Khorne had whispered to him of its raising. It had been anointed with blood, and its very mortar was human bone meal and ground viscera. The archway held within it a portal. Light bled from it and shadows roamed within this churning miasma of blood, held in place by the confines of the arch. It was a doorway to the Realm of Chaos, and the Blood God’s throne of skulls.

Warriors flocked to this place of loathing and destruction, drawn by its evil, overwhelmed by the bloodlust it evoked.

Hundreds gathered in the shadow of the gate, devouring the battlefield slain, cannibalising hearts torn from the chests of the fallen. Drums fashioned from hollowed-out skulls beat a raucous tattoo in time with the blare of thigh-bone horns. Some danced, a crude and belligerent performance intended to please the Dark Gods and bring their gaze upon the performer. Others fought for favour. Many just took their fill of flesh.

It was ritualistic. Shamanistic.

Even above the manic fervour of these men, Khul could hear the clangour of industry, the sound carrying across many leagues: the towers.

Forged of hell-brass and studded with the skulls of the unworthy, there were eight of these grim monuments. Each marked a point in the star of Chaos, the eightfold path upon which all worshippers of Khorne trod. And in the middle of that star was the Gate of Wrath.

Daemon blacksmiths and slaves in their thousands had toiled to raise the towers that stretched far across the Brimstone Peninsula. And though they were distant, nearly lost in the palls of unearthly smoke that blighted the sky, Khul felt their malign presence.

Chains that no mortal eye could perceive held the gate in thrall. Each was made not from metal, but from deeds. To the far south lay carnage, conquest, massacre and destruction, and to the north, fratricide, dismemberment, cannibalism and butchery.

A slaughterer’s oath, carved out in death and blood, bound each metaphysical chain to one of the eight towers and together kept the Gate of Wrath open.

Even then it struggled against its bondage.

Though he was still mortal, Khul had sight beyond the corporeal realm. He saw how the chains strained to hold their quarry. The tempest, the one creeping across the heavens in brooding thunderheads, the storm that had brought the golden warriors was the cause.

A threat manifested in Khul’s mind. They would come for the gate.

As he stepped into the maddening light emanating from the Gate of Wrath, Khul felt an unquenchable desire surge up from within.

For the first time since he had arrived, he noticed that the bodies being feasted upon were not just the Goretide’s fallen enemies. Many were warriors of Khul’s warband, feeding on their own instead of waging war against the golden warriors.

Khul saw Hrulkar the slaver-king, Goreklad the torturer-lord, Fenskar the skull-collector, Agrik the beast-master… Chieftains and champions all.

‘Weak… wretched…’

A tremor afflicted Khul’s hands. It grew into a tremble that ran up his entire arm. Then he was shaking, every bone wracked by a delirious frenzy that had froth spewing from his mouth.

Through a cage of clenched teeth, Khul spat to his flesh hound, ‘Slake your thirst.’

Several of the bloodreavers closest to their warlord looked up from their revels, their mouths and jerkins spattered and bloody.

‘Behold, Lord of Skulls,’ roared Khul, his voice ululating across the encampment until all had stopped what they were doing to look upon him. ‘A red dawn!’

The first bloodreaver barely had time to cry out as Grizzlemaw leapt and tore out his throat.

Others raised their weapons, at last realising their lord’s madness.

It would not save them. Screaming in rage, Khul tore into the throng with an unstoppable fervour.

The sun blazed overhead like a baleful eye observing the slaughter.

Two against hundreds, but Khul and his hound would not be denied. His savagery caused some to flee. Those who stood their ground were cut down, their heads cleaved. A great many heads, sacrificed unto the altar of Khorne from which all violent acts ultimately stemmed.

And throughout the carnage, the Blood God spoke to his chosen vassal, his voice the roar of endless destruction and the screaming of the damned. Khul gritted his teeth, but his agony was soon usurped by blinding, all-consuming murderlust.

It was a day of blood, a red dawn as Khul had prophesied.

The sun had dipped and grown cold in the black night by the time the massacre was done.

Khul sank to his knees. He shuddered with every laboured breath, driven to the brink of exhaustion by his reaping. Razors, not air, sawed in and out of his lungs. His heart thundered in a raging tattoo. And though his muscles burned and his limbs ached from the immense tally of the dead, he stood and found himself surrounded by a lake of blood.

Countless barbarian heads floated amidst the gore, but it was the reflection of the portal that caught Khul’s attention.

It began innocuously enough, a bubbling foam that rose to the surface of the crimson pool as the foul slick began to boil. Then there was intense heat and the stench of dying things, of burned metal and offal, the reek of a furnace.

Something stirred within the miasma of blood, a disturbance that formed ripples across the lake. Slowly, inexorably, a horn jutted forth from the congealed blood. It curved into a hook, black as sackcloth and wet like oil.

Khorne’s foot soldier blinked as it became corporeal, rising slowly. Khul saw the chain it had used to gain passage into this realm, and he heard snapping bone as the daemon’s hooves crushed the skulls from the Blood God’s endless battlefield underfoot.

To those untouched by Chaos, the bloodletter would have simply appeared to rise as if the lake was as deep as an ocean. Khul knew it was fathomless and he also knew that no daemon of Khorne could ever manifest in so gentle a fashion. As the summoning required blood and violence, so too did manifestation, and a host of bloodletters had vied for the right to enter the mortal realm. Daemon fought daemon, ensuring a slaughter from which only the strongest could emerge triumphant.

The one before Khul now was the first, therefore it was the mightiest.

The bloodletter was an exemplar of violence given form: bent-back limbed with an elongated snout, and red and iron-hard skin shimmering with heat haze. It bowed, horns dipped in respect but not acquiescence, as its black and hateful eyes regarded the warlord.

‘Are you the one who summoned me?’ it asked in both question and challenge, its resonant voice like metal scraping bone.

Khul nodded, his axe held loosely in his hand.

The bloodletter carried its own weapon. It was forged of no metal known to man or any creature of the Mortal Realms. A hellblade.

‘Then…’ uttered the daemon, as it drank in the slaughter arrayed around it and the offering in blood, ‘…we shall serve.’

The aetheric chains dangling in the pool had no anchor above, but went taut as a horde of bloodletters pulled their bodies forth into reality. Blinking and scenting, their long pink tongues tasted the air. They were not alone.

Hulking metal beasts emerged with them — bloodcrushers, the brass steeds of Khorne. They were no mere mounts; they were monsters. Far larger than any horse, there was something distinctly bullish about them but clad in armour plate stained with the blood of a thousand slain foes. The beasts bayed and growled, smoke exuding from their nostrils, their fell noises metallic and oddly discordant. Even for Khul, it grated on his senses and filled his mind with visions of conquest.

It took only moments for the warlord to have a legion of daemon riders at his command, their dread banners swaying with chained skulls and strips of leathery flesh.

As one, they raised their weapons.

Their leader, one of Khorne’s heralds, saluted with its sword.

‘Name the ones we are to murder,’ it rasped, its blood-cinder breath tainting the breeze.

‘Vendell Blackfist,’ Khul replied, for Khorne had shown him the army that marched on his towers and the one who was leading it. ‘Devour his vassals, but bring him to me so I can cut off his craven head.’

The herald bowed once more, and the bloodcrushers surged southwards. The earth trembled under the stampede of their mounts and red lightning cut ragged strips into the heavens.

‘Now you shall face a storm, Blackfist,’ said Khul.

His deep laughter boomed louder than the thunder.

Chapter Seven

Towers of brass

‘How do we breach the tower?’ asked Theodrus, the Retributor’s eagerness for battle obvious. ‘What are your orders, my lord?’

Ionus Cryptborn had mustered his army in a massive gorge, veined with thin streams of lava. The darkness of the night, alloyed to the sulphurous smoke rising from the basin of the flume, was enough to conceal their ranks, but not caustic enough to trouble a Stormcast.

The reflected glow of the lava gave their armour a lambent shine, though not bright enough to give away their position.

‘Patience, paladin,’ Ionus uttered. ‘I learned long ago it pays to be wary when attacking your enemy’s stronghold. And we are not so unscathed as to throw our caution aside.’

A dread aura bled off the brass tower.

Its armaments were clad in metal and shimmered with heat. Skulls had been hammered into the sides and piled up at the base like macabre footings. Foul, daemonic gargoyles leered down from the battlements. Spikes, thick chains of iron and a heavy, barbed portcullis kept aggressors at bay, though who would challenge the might of the Goretide in these lands was beyond the Relictor.

No archers or war engines defended it, but the walls were thick and its vantage high.

Evidence of a forest surrounded the tower, but its trunks had been cut down. The stumps remained, oozing red sap that looked uncomfortably like blood. The gruesome sight of it put Ionus in mind of severed necks, rather than trees, as if an army had been sunk deep into the earth surrounding the tower and decapitated one by one as they struggled helplessly.

Perhaps they had been, but he had no desire to find out.

Either way, the garrison would see them coming and send out an army before Sigmar’s chosen could even reach the outer border. If they were trammelled it would give the warriors inside time to organise a defence or summon further reinforcements.

The attack had to be swift and decisive. It was bad enough he had parted ways with Vandus and left the Lord-Celestant unsupported; he could not fail in this also.

‘If we could move unseen…’ Ionus murmured, and eyed the tumultuous sky and burgeoning clouds overhead.

Behind the grim facade of his skull mask, Ionus smiled.

‘I know what must be done.’

Rhoth slumped against the battlements, gorged on flesh and drunk on the ale his kind fermented in vats of black iron. A heady brew, it brought blinding anger to the fore at first before surging through the body like a fever and leaving behind a burning need for more.

‘Empty…’ he slurred to Gannon, another of the bloodreaver garrison.

Rhoth reached for his axe, grabbing the haft on his third attempt.

‘Eh, swine. I am speaking to you.’

But Gannon wasn’t listening, nor were the other warriors standing watch on the parapet. Instead, they were looking and pointing.

Heaving up his body to peer through the brass spikes that crowned the edge of the tower, Rhoth saw what had caught the attention of his fellow tribesmen.

‘What is that?’ he asked, briefly wondering if his hallucinations from imbibing the dark ale had yet to abate.

A storm rolled towards them — a massive belt of cloud. Howling gales raced along with it, and thunder boiled around it as lightning flashes lit up the dark hollows within.

‘Like nothing I have ever seen,’ uttered Gannon, as the half-chewed femur dropped from his meaty grasp.

The storm was not of sky, but surged across the ground like a carpet of fog.

Rhoth shook his head, to try and shake off his torpor. ‘How is that possible?’

Inside the storm, all was calm as the Stormcasts doggedly advanced. Even the lofty Prosecutors were concealed by the rolling thunderhead their Lord-Relictor had summoned. The slow beats of their wings crackled in time with the dolorous footfalls of the heavily armoured paladins.

Ionus led them, his icon held before him like a guiding beacon.

‘Make ready,’ he told his warriors, scarcely needing to raise his voice such was his mastery of the storm. ‘When we reach the threshold, they will be undone.’

‘I will strike for the tower’s summit,’ said Sturmannon, flying by the Lord-Relictor’s side.

‘Be careful, we know not what horrors it might yet possess.’

Again, Ionus’s mind went back to the blood-priest, the one he knew lurked somewhere within the tower. Once more, he thought of Vandus fighting alone, against Khul and against prophecy.

There was no time left for regret; the gatehouse now loomed before them. An iron portcullis barred the way, threaded with skulls and studded with spikes. But as the storm veil parted and revealed the warriors within, no foes came out to meet them. The gate remained shut.

Instead the bloodreavers on the parapet hurled insult and obscenity, believing themselves safe behind their walls of brass. A few threw axes between jeers or tossed rocks, remaining steady.

None of the Stormcasts fell, their armour fending off the desultory efforts of the garrison.

Theodrus mustered the Retributors, preparing to rip the tower down a piece at a time if necessary.

‘We can batter those gates into submission,’ he told his Lord-Relictor belligerently, ‘and then the curs within…’

‘Hold,’ Ionus ordered, though he knew the Retributors were eager to be unleashed. Sturmannon’s Prosecutors were the same, held aloft on their wings of light, beyond the reach of a hurled axe. Insults bit deeper and spurred the herald to want to act.

‘I can sweep them off that parapet, Lord-Relictor.’

‘No, wait…’ Something felt wrong, but Ionus had yet to identify his worry.

The cut-down trees, a buried army with heads cut from the bodies of its soldiers, the deep red soil and the apparent reluctance of the garrison…

‘When have you known a servant of Khorne to ever refuse a fight?’ he asked.

‘Lord-Relictor, we cannot delay,’ Theodrus replied, and signalled the attack.

Ionus let it happen, having no good reason to stop it. But when the Retributors had passed into the decapitated grove, and the gargoyles crouched atop the tower began to speak, he realised his concerns had been justified.

By then, it was already too late.

In the dark keep of the brass tower, a hulking figure regarded the army outside the gates through a murder slit in the wall.

He smiled as the Stormcasts came closer, urged by the murderous desire the tower evoked in all warriors.

‘You have come for blood,’ Threx Skullbrand whispered to the darkness. ‘And you shall have it.’

Their voices were iron, the grinding of metal against metal. Far from being grotesque statues, the gargoyles had another purpose than mere macabre decoration.

Ionus saw the danger, but his warning cry was stolen by the deep chanting of the statues.

‘Stand fast,’ he cried, ‘and defend yourselves!’

The cut-down trees… they were a trap. Not necks or trunks, but vents.

The ground underfoot began to tremble, before a fount of scalding blood burst from the red soil and took a piece of the vanguard with it. Retributors flailed, catapulted skyward.

Armour was scorched, flesh burned, and warriors came down to earth thunderously. Lightning flashes lit up the night as Sigmar reclaimed his own and the strength of Ionus’s chamber was eroded.

He heard shouting, confusion, and fought to restore order.

A second eruption of blood followed swiftly, and the air was filled with the death cries of Azyr’s paladins. Some tried to brace against the blood plumes but were torn off their feet anyway. No sigmarite plate nor lightning hammer would avail them.

Two further eruptions burst forth, spattering Cryptborn’s armour with hissing gobbets as he took what shelter he could. He grimaced as the blood crept inside the aegis of his plate and scalded the flesh beneath.

‘Enough,’ he snarled, watching Sturmannon’s Prosecutors whirling and diving to try to avoid the horrific blood rain.

Muttering words of power, Ionus called upon the Lord of Storms and unleashed lightning from the heavens.

A cerulean bolt arced from the clouds, as straight and pure as a spear. It struck the summit of the tower, lighting up the darkness. It utterly destroyed one of the gargoyles and silenced the rest. The blood-rain ebbed and no more lightning flashes split the night.

Ionus heard the jeering of the bloodreavers anew, and turned his grim visage upon them.

‘So the Bloodbound are craven!’ he bellowed like a clarion horn. ‘I thought as much. Those who skulk are unworthy to hold a blade!’

The howls of laughter coming from the parapet turned to shouts of belligerence. A moment later, the portcullis began to rise.

‘Dolts and simpletons,’ Ionus muttered, ‘easily goaded.’ He nodded to Theodrus to lead the attack. ‘Vanquish them. Leave none alive.’

Baying and snarling, a horde screamed out from the mouth of the tower. Bearded warriors, clad in blood-red plate and hefting thick blades, crashed into a wall of charging Retributors. The gilded paladins bore the brunt of the blood warriors’ fury and blunted it against their iron-hard resolve and formidable armour. The garrison of the brass tower had never fought such a foe as these, led by a warrior for whom death was preferred to failure.

Anger drove Theodrus. Anger, and guilt.

Memories of his former existence, before his Reforging, were vague and fleeting. For some it was this way, while others remembered more. No one knew why or needed to ask. But in the surge of battle, when his blood was up and righteous words upon his lips, Theodrus remembered.

He remembered the temple on the hill. He remembered the old man and the day he staggered into his village speaking of horrors. Raiders had come to the temple, intent on defiling it.

All knew the dangers beyond the walls of the village, how remote the temple was, but Theodrus could not let this sacrilege stand. He had been Thaed back then, though the name meant little now. Thaed had taken most of the village warriors and ridden hard for the temple. But when he arrived, he saw it was empty, there were no raiders in sight. What he did see was a great flame light the sky, glowing ominously from the direction of the village. The old man had lied to them, for he was not old and not even a man, not really. Without warriors to protect it, the village burned along with all in it, including Thaed’s own kin.

He merely existed for a time afterwards, wandering the wilds until the raiders returned. But they were not just raiders anymore. They were conquerors now, their ranks swollen with monsters. Thaed stood no chance as their onslaught swept the land, but he stood anyway and begged for death with a blade in his hand. The light came swiftly after that, and the memory of his pain faded until the day he raised a weapon in anger again.

As he fought, Theodrus spoke the names of his kith and kin, every man, woman and child amongst them. He let it steel him, his desire to avenge them keener than any sword, harder than any hammer. Lightning struck, evil men fell dead and Theodrus led the line.

‘Avenge them!’ he cried, tears of grief and hate filling his eyes, unseen behind his impassive mask. ‘Avenge them!’

No amount of retribution would ever be enough, but on he slew.

Chapter Eight

Dark tithes

In the shadow of the tower’s grim walls, the swell of battle was intense. Ionus rejoiced grimly as he fought shoulder to shoulder beside the Retributors.

At the front of the line, the struggle was at its fiercest. Axe blows rained in from the blood warriors, the air shimmering with the heat of their rage as they cut through even god-forged sigmarite.

Several Stormcasts lost limbs, great gouts of crimson ejected across their gilded plate. One was impaled on the blade of a serrated sword. His mask drooled red as its wearer coughed up blood. Another died instantly, head severed from body, and disappeared in a blazing coruscation of light a moment later. Across the line, flashes lit up the dark as a hellish frenzy of hacking goreaxes took their inevitable toll.

It became a scrum, brutal and attritional. The front ranks on each side quickly enmeshed as vigour and momentum took individual combatants deeper into their enemy’s formation. In truth, the Bloodbound had none, just a mob of bellowing and frenzied killers.

Whereas the blood warriors fought with fury and abandon, the Retributors embraced discipline and determination, fighting as one. Their lightning hammers rose and fell with relentless efficiency, crushing skulls and splitting the hefty war-plate of their enemies. Even as the barbarians died, they fought on, driven by rage, but the paladins were thorough and smote their enemies until there was little left but mangled remains.

Slowly, painstakingly, the Retributors reformed their ranks and began to push towards the tower.

‘Into them!’ roared Cryptborn, smashing a blood warrior aside with his relic hammer. ‘Do not relent!’

He raised his reliquary staff and a bolt of lightning crackled forth, destroying a slew of enemies.

‘As one, as one!’ cried Cryptborn, a wash of gore spraying across his skull-mask. He briefly caught sight of Theodrus urging his retinue forward. ‘Theodrus! Hold them. Hold them back.’

Pausing between hammer swings, Theodrus turned at the sound of his name, nodded and brought his men into order.

His paladins slowly formed the hammer, an offensive formation intended to blunt an opponent’s attack against a wedge of armour, many ranks thick, before pushing through with a narrow but even deeper column. To the Prosecutors whirling and pitching above, it would resemble a hammer, hence the name.

At the thought of the heralds, Ionus looked up.

Sturmannon’s retinue harried the tower ramparts, darting beneath hurled blades and spears, before sweeping in to unleash their celestial hammers. As agile as they were, not all the Prosecutors succeeded and heralds fell from the sky, burning like comets with wings ablaze.

Spears of light arced heavenward before they even struck the ground.

Scowling, Cryptborn pushed on into the fray. His eyes met those of Theodrus.

Pure as pools of azure, they shone with devotion but burned with vengeance. Theodrus raised his hammer aloft.

‘For Sigmar and Azyr!’

A roar came in answer from the swell of sweating, grunting, blood-slick warriors. A huge figure barrelled into the fight. He was more of a beast than a man, with a thick neck and broad shoulders. In one meaty fist he clenched a jagged-bladed axe, notched from splitting bone. In the other hand, he had an immense totem, pulsing with evil light. Furnace heat bled from the icon, the skull-image of Khorne resplendent in its anti-glory. He was the demagogue, a chain of skulls festooned about his neck denoting his rank, and crimson war-plate crested with spikes — the rage-maker.

‘Bloodsecrator…’ breathed Ionus Cryptborn.

He was the one from the battle for the Gates of Azyr. He had proclaimed his name to his Blood God, beseeching his favour. And he had received it, a most terrible boon that brought a rain of blood and blinding fury to anyone it touched: Khorne’s realm, manifest in reality.

‘Threx Skullbrand,’ said Cryptborn.

Heaving his own warriors aside, Skullbrand buried his axe in a Prosecutor who had swooped in to engage him.

The herald’s breastplate split, a ragged red cleft between the parted metal. He gaped, clutching crackling air before his hammers could form. Skullbrand finished him with a savage headbutt and grimaced as another flash of light soared heavenward.

‘Kill him!’ shouted Cryptborn, knowing what would happen next as he battered through the throng to reach the bloodsecrator. ‘Bring him down!’

Another Prosecutor arced towards the bloodsecrator, angling sharply, intent on avenging his comrade. A third flew swiftly after him, clenching a pair of crackling hammers.

The first died when he was caught by the throat. With the Prosecutor choking in his grasp, Skullbrand ripped off the gilded arch of his wings. Each crackled before its light ebbed to shivering corposant. The herald’s neck was broken with a savage twist, his lifeless body like a hurled spear as it struck his chasing comrade. He fell.

Skullbrand slew this one too, slamming a hobnailed boot on the Prosecutor’s chest to hold him down before an axe in the warrior’s emotionless mask ended his suffering.

Theodrus and his paladins had smashed a path clear, and Ionus burst through the enemy ranks and charged.

As Skullbrand met the eye of the Lord-Relictor, the bloodsecrator grinned. He knew it was too late for anyone to stop him.

With a triumphant roar, he rammed the icon of Khorne into the blood-soaked earth.

The stench of foetid blood rose high in the gorge, tainting the air. A storm of wrath burst from the icon, throwing Ionus off his feet.

A knot of paladins rushed to their Lord-Relictor, as a horde of Khornate bloodreavers spilled into the gap between the bloodsecrator and his foes.

Ionus cursed as he got to his feet.

‘Close ranks,’ he snarled, and could only glare at the hulking blood-priest.

You and I shall meet soon, he promised.

For now, the battle continued. The Stormcasts were in the ascendancy but it was far from over.

The crimson rain began again, driving the Bloodbound into fits of apoplexy. Soon the paladins were hard-pressed again, and the baleful roar of distant daemons in a realm of carnage seemed close and at hand.

The unsettling taint of Khorne’s own domain and the frenzy it evoked in his followers were merely opening acts to what followed…

It began as thunder, a deep rumble that came through the earth, rather than the sky.

A cloud of dust arose, barely visible in the darkness… Then an army resolved, roving along the night-black horizon. Moonlight glinted off their armoured barding.

‘Cavalry?’ growled Theodrus, in a brief moment’s respite.

Around him, the two forces clashed fiercely.

‘No mortal kind,’ rasped Ionus. ‘Those aren’t horses, nor are their riders knights. At least, not of flesh and blood. I—’ he began, before violently convulsing. At first, he thought it might be the effects of the icon, trying to turn his mind to reckless hate. But as the chill swept through his marrow, turning his bones to ice, he knew it was something else.

Something old, and from the past. From before, when he had been someone else.

The brass tower faded, becoming as incorporeal as smoke. The faces of his fellow Stormcasts froze in dark ice.

‘No, not now. Not this!’

Even as his mind was wrenched away, Ionus could hear the oncoming stampede of the bloodcrushers until even that bled away to sepulchral silence.

He opened his eyes, not realising he had closed them, and found he was standing in a long hall of cold, grey stone. Dust motes trickled from the ceiling in an endless, sad rain.

Darkness, abject and all pervasive, blinded Ionus to much of his surroundings. He imagined mausoleums, the slow creak of rotting wood, bones and earth as chill as winter frost.

He knew this place, for he had been here before in another life. The Deep Barrows — one of the many underworlds of Shyish, the Realm of Death.

‘Why am I here?’ he asked of the dark.

His own voice echoed back like a taunt.

‘Answer me!’

A tithe is owed. A tithe shall be given.

The same words returned, haunting and ageless as before.

A soul for a soul.

A malign intelligence regarded Ionus from the shadows, though he could scarcely perceive it. The only thing he could discern was a vague silhouette, and two piercing orbs of baleful green. Neither leavened the dark. Instead, they drank in the light.

You defied me once before, Eonid ven Denst, uttered the voice. It was the sound of depthless winter, of ancient wisdom beyond comprehension. It was entropy and the slow return to order. It was death incarnate.

Ionus’s reply carried some steel. ‘It has been a long time since I was known as Eonid ven Denst.’

A dry rasp like the whispering of thousands of corpses issued from the darkness.

Laughter, Ionus realised. He was being mocked.

A tithe is owed. A tithe shall be given, the voice repeated, though the shadow of its owner remained unmoving.

A soul for a soul.

Eldritch light flared into being, sculpted into the resemblance of a woman.

The shadow moved, leaning forward on its throne as Ionus cried out and reached for his wife. His sigmarite-clad fingers began to erode and rust before he could touch her, the grace Sigmar had given him undone in an instant.

It took just moments to reduce Ionus Cryptborn, Lord-Relictor and Stormcast Eternal to Eonid ven Denst, Amethyst Prince.

The simulacrum of ven Denst’s wife writhed in agony, her mouth open in a silent scream that he could only hear in his memories.

‘Please!’ begged ven Denst, his pale face awash with tears. He could feel her now, but as his skin gently brushed against hers she began to wither and decay. ‘Please…’ His voice, once so strong and formidable, became a whimper. ‘Please…’

Ven Denst sank to his knees, with only a pile of ashen remains in his grasp.

He looked up to face his tormenter. Only darkness looked back, but it was well beyond pity or compassion.

‘You promised me that you would keep her. That we would be reunited in death.’

With eternal life comes eternal pain. You should not have defied me. I remember everything. I remember the Days of Shattered Bone.

Ven Denst let the ash fall and rose to stand before his accuser. He felt his former strength returning. A gauntleted fist, not the hand of an Amethyst Prince, clutched his relic-hammer. He was Ionus Cryptborn again.

A last thought struck Ionus, of Vandus on his knees, besieged by Chaos, and a dark champion looming over him with a ready axe. It was the prophecy as Vandus had described it.

A tithe is owed. A tithe shall be given.

A soul for a soul.

‘Release me,’ uttered Cryptborn, then bellowed when no answer came. ‘Release me!’

He slammed down his reliquary staff and a great flash of light blinded him.

As it faded, he heard voices and smelled blood, the reek of hot metal and sulphur.

A retinue of paladins surrounded Ionus, fending off a horde of attackers. Theodrus led them, an unyielding bulwark of sigmarite against an ocean of fury.

‘Lord-Relictor…’ His mask could not hide the concern in his voice.

Ionus raised a hand to show he was all right. ‘Where are the daemons?’ he asked, still groggy but rising to his feet.

Theodrus did not need to answer, as the thunderous charge of the bloodcrushers hit.

A spearthrust of daemonic cavalry burst right into the heart of the Stormcasts’ ranks. Ionus could only watch as his battle formation was breached in several places at once. The beasts the daemons rode were truly monstrous. Warriors were crushed under iron hooves, gored by horns or torn apart with savage teeth.

Lightning cracks tore apart the darkness.

‘Hold them!’ roared Ionus as he felt the line roll and turn as men were slain. ‘Reform as one!’

A Retributor flailed, spitted. A knot of his comrades rushed in and smashed the steed apart with their hammers, but it was hard going. As well as proving incredibly strong, the daemonic beasts were nearly impermeable to all but the most determined of attacks.

After being so close to victory, now the Stormcast Eternals were firmly on the back foot and assailed from all sides.

As their numbers diminished, the Prosecutors could only harry the edges of the enemy’s ranks. Any that came too close to the bloodcrushers were cut down, Ionus ordered them back so as not to sell their lives cheaply.

The hammer formation of the paladins had become a circle, with all its warriors facing outwards and fighting almost innumerable foes. It was the task for which Sigmar had made them, but Ionus knew his chamber’s martial strength was finite. He began to see the wisdom of striking for the Gate of Wrath and denying Chaos its endless hosts.

‘Together,’ he roared again. ‘As one, brothers. As one!’

Theodrus bellowed in unison with his Lord-Relictor, chanting the names of the fallen and hurling them like curses at his enemies. He dragged a red-skinned daemon off its steed, first pummelling the rider and then breaking the beast apart.

Others were not so successful.

Ionus saw a clutch of Retributors brought down by half a dozen of the daemons. Some were cut apart by hell-forged blades, others were simply crushed to death. None survived, and the line shrank further.

Inwardly, Ionus groaned. They had been winning. Now it was beginning to unravel. He had lost sight of Skullbrand, but still felt the presence of the bloodsecrator. The red rain stained his armour, and robbed it of its lustre. Thunder rolled across the heavens again, but it was the voice of the Blood God, not the Lord of Storms. It began to wear upon him, slowly eroding his will.

A clutch of Stormcasts, Theodrus amongst them, flew back into the rear ranks. A massive daemonic steed and its rider ploughed in after them. The head of the beast snapped left and right, reaping limbs.

Only Ionus stood before it as it reared up onto its hindquarters.

As it crashed down, the sheer force of it almost took Ionus off his feet. In the end, he staggered, and barely parried a blow that rang against the haft of his relic-hammer. He felt his shoulder jar painfully, and grimaced behind his skull-mask.

Summoning the storm, he sent a bolt of arc lightning into the beast. Fearsome tendrils of crackling celestial magic coursed over its metal hide, but did little more than enrage it.

The rider swung again, and Ionus batted the blow away with his hammer. He countered by smashing the beast’s foreleg and, with some relief, saw the armour crack and its ichorous essence flow from the wound.

Stamping and snorting, the frenzied beast tried to crush him, but another paladin got in its way and fell instead. Ionus quickly moved closer so he was harder for it to see. Snarling and baying on the beast’s haunches, the rider had to fight to stay mounted.

Ionus struck again, another blow against the foreleg. This time the armour split apart, and viscous black lifeblood gushed forth as the daemon steed bellowed in pain. A third blow crippled it and the beast sank down sharply, pitching its rider forward and onto the ground where Theodrus crushed it with his hammer.

At the same time, Ionus rammed the hilt of his reliquary staff into the beast’s eye and drove it deep. He called upon the storm again, the bolt lancing down from a blood-red sky. No armour could protect the daemon steed now, sundered by Sigmar’s holy wrath.

‘We are failing, Lord-Relictor,’ uttered Theodrus breathlessly.

Blood warriors and bloodreavers clamoured for battle, hacking with furious abandon. Scattered amongst their swollen ranks were khorgoraths and even larger beasts now that the tower had given up its entire garrison.

‘Don’t give in to despair, Theodrus,’ Ionus told him.

But as the blood-rain anointed the Stormcasts in hellish red, Ionus knew they could not last much longer. He felt the presence of the tower sapping his strength as more fell beneath the armies of the Blood God.

A long shadow stretched out from the unholy tower. It fell across the Khornate host as if their lord had his eye upon them and granted them his favour.

Ionus looked to the tower, then to his foes. He saw a chance for salvation.

‘Praise Sigmar…’ he whispered, before he spoke to his brothers.

‘Theodrus, hold them off. Keep them at bay for as long as you can.’

Ionus left the fighting rank, the others closing the gap as he retreated into the depths of the Stormcasts’ slowly diminishing throng. Once there, the paladins encircled him and forged a small patch of earth in which the Lord-Relictor could pray.

On his knees, the reliquary staff in both hands, Ionus beseeched the Lord of Storms. His voice was a mere rasp in the tumult, but he fought to make it heard. Again, he invoked Sigmar and closed his mind to the savage imprecations trying to unnerve him.

He clutched the staff tighter, and shut out the din of battle around him.

‘Lord Sigmar, hear me…’ he prayed. ‘Bring forth your lightning, and allow me to be its vessel.’

A low rumble broke across the sky, not the hollow clamouring of daemons this time but the righteous voice of a God-King stirred to anger. It began slow, a distant flash to part the blood-red cloud, the wind rising to cleanse the air.

Ionus prayed harder, his fingers clenched so ardently that his knuckles ached.

‘Sigmar…’ he rasped, and felt another presence upon his shoulder — one that gave him strength. ‘Sigmar!’

A column of coruscating lightning roared from the heavens, so pure and bright that no servant of Chaos could bear look upon it. Daemons screamed in agony, whilst the mortal followers shielded their eyes. It hit the ground at the tower’s footings, blackening the earth. Not even a god-sent bolt could have smote Khorne’s monument outright, but Ionus had discerned its weakness. Where the lightning struck, fissures tore through the ground until it was wrenched apart.

An ominous cracking sounded, emanating from the tower. Brass squealed as it lurched against its own weight, leaning ponderously towards the chasm that had now formed beneath it. Seizing the chance, Theodrus and the Retributors who had fought through the throng of enemies slammed their hammers into the lurching footings of the tower.

Still blinded from the god-lightning, the host of Khorne was slow to react as the tower capitulated and came crashing down on them.

A huge pall of dirt and debris spilled up and outwards, as a great clangour of sundered metal resounded across the battlefield. In a single stroke, Ionus had tipped the scales of the fight. Bodies of mortals and daemons alike were crushed by the cursed stone of the tower, their limbs reduced to a mangled ruin. The foul stink of sulphur tainted the air as the bloodcrushers were banished, but it was the screams of the Bloodbound that lingered longest. Those that were left looked on aghast at what had become of their warhost and the magic of the storm-priest who had struck down the tower.

With the cheers of the Stormcasts ringing in his eyes, Ionus roared for them to attack.

Everything had turned. Even the dread rain had abated as a cool twilight, presaging the dawn, pierced the veil of ruddy cloud that had so besieged Sigmar’s chosen.

As the Retributors fell upon the survivors, they smashed what remained of the tower, breaking it apart with their hammers until it was shards and dust.

The surviving daemons fought on until even their fell lord deserted them and they dissolved back into the blood of the fallen. Many of the mortal followers fled, their will to live greater than their desire to fight and die for Khorne.

After a few hours it was done and there were none left to vanquish. A heavy toll had been paid for the victory, though, as nearly half of Cryptborn’s men had fallen.

If Threx Skullbrand lived, Ionus could find no sign of him. He was still searching through the rubble and the corpses when Theodrus approached him.

‘I witnessed the miraculous this night,’ said the Retributor-Prime, humbly kneeling before his Lord-Relictor.

As Ionus looked around, he saw they all were. Even the Prosecutors had taken a knee, their heads bowed in reverence.

‘We have triumphed,’ he said, raising his voice so all could hear. ‘And in so doing averted a great evil. But our task is hardly done and I shall ask more of you before the end.’

‘I speak for the chamber when I say we are yours to command, my lord,’ said a vehement Theodrus, ‘into the Realm of Chaos and back if so needed.’

Ionus put a hand on the paladin’s shoulder in comradeship. ‘It may yet be, brother. For we are not attacking another tower. Instead we go north. Now rise.’

With the clanking of sigmarite armour, the chamber got to its feet.

‘East?’ asked Theodrus, and Ionus could hear him frowning by the tone of his voice.

‘To Vandus, and the Gate of Wrath. Our brothers will not be alone when they face Korghos Khul.’

The Retributors saluted as one. Ionus knew it had hurt them to abandon the Lord-Celestant.

This is Sigmar’s will, thought Ionus, but he heard the voice of another, gnawing at the edges of his mind. It was one whom he owed a debt, one who was determined that debt would be fulfilled, a creature so ancient and powerful it would not be denied.

Chapter Nine

Wrath unbound

Vandus stood upon the hill and looked out across the ashen expanse of the Brimstone Peninsula. In the distance, he could still make out the banners of Jactos Goldenmane as his fellow Lord-Celestant forged farther west.

Looming over them was the monolithic Red Pyramid of Korghos Khul and standing in its shadow, the Gate of Wrath itself. It was little more than a vast courtyard of stone, but thronged with warriors.

‘Two prongs, my lord,’ said Dacanthos. ‘We will trap the Goretide and crush them.’

After their reunion in the shadow of the Volatus Ridge, the Lord-Celestants had formed a plan that would see Jactos attack from the far west and Vandus from further east on either side of one of Khul’s brass towers. Both armies avoided its garrison. Bitter fighting against the warbands that currently held sway over the Brimstone Peninsula had seen both armies pushed farther apart than Vandus would have liked, but their strategy could still work.

Khul’s hordes, his Goretide and the lesser warbands that paid him fealty, were in disarray. They had responded to the incursion by Sigmar’s warriors with aggression but without strategy, attacking the many Thunderstrike Brotherhoods alighting on the Brimstone Peninsula. It had left Khul’s stronghold vulnerable, along with the Gate of Wrath.

Vandus meant to take full advantage of the warlord’s lack of foresight. He and Jactos would take the stronghold together and destroy the realmgate. Bereft of reinforcement, Khul’s martial strength would suffer a major blow.

It was a sound plan, but Vandus still frowned. At the parting of their chambers, Jactos had seemed ever eager in spite of the near annihilation his warriors had faced.

‘He overreaches,’ said Vandus, eyes narrowed.

‘Lord Goldenmane will rein them in.’

‘No, he won’t.’

Cursing Jactos’s recklessness under his breath, Vandus took up Heldensen from where he had thrust it down and went to where his Warrior Chamber waited below.

‘It seems our fellow Hammers of Sigmar have set a fast pace,’ he declared loudly to his throng. ‘Who here thinks we can match it?’

Every Stormcast shouted in affirmation. ‘Aye!’

‘I thought so,’ Vandus told them, hiding his irritation at Jactos and determined to reach the Goldenmanes quickly. ‘Onward then… To glory!’

As Laudus Skythunder urged the Hammerhands forward with blasts of his clarion horn, Vandus lingered to watch the Red Pyramid.

‘He is up there now,’ he said to Calanax who was waiting for his lord nearby, growling in sympathetic ire.

‘Khul’s reign must end,’ swore Vandus, reminded of the vision that prophesied his death, ‘and I shall be the one to do it.’

The courtyard echoed to the metallic ring of an axe being sharpened.

Khul was alone and seated upon a throne, his legs apart with an orruk’s skull at his feet. It had been a brutish creature whose iron-hard bone made for a serviceable whetstone. It was a needless task, for the edge of his Khornate axe would never blunt. So sharp was it, and such was the potency of the dark sorcery bound into the blade, that it could cut the very fabric of reality itself.

As he carved into the orruk’s skull, Khul regarded the ragged banners hanging from the racks arrayed about him and the many trophies of conquest he had won.

Nothing had stood in his path, no king or rival warlord.

‘Was I not honourable?’ he asked of the revenants of foes long dead. ‘Were you not beaten by the stronger opponent?’

He had won every battle, though not always according to his twisted sense of martial pride. Sometimes his desire for glory had forced his hand towards less than honourable deeds. It rankled Khul, though he could attest that every challenge he had ever been given had been accepted, fearlessly and without doubt. And there had been many. He had never known defeat. Now it was different though. Despite his savage joy at such worthy foes to fight, he felt the threat to his dominance posed by the golden warriors. Surely, it was a sign from Khorne that Vendell Blackfist led them. Khul believed it was more than fate that this had happened.

‘Destiny brought you to my domain,’ he said to the piled skulls around him. They stared at him with hollow eyes, the unworthy, the weak and the craven. There was no place for them upon the Red Pyramid. Khul would not insult his lord with such tawdry offerings.

No, only kings and chieftains would suffice, and they were all dead in these lands. Khul had slain them. Except for Vendell Blackfist, an immortal to crown his glory and ensure his ascension to daemonhood.

Clenching the orruk skull in one mighty fist he crushed it into bone splinters, discarding what was left.

Rising from his throne, he went and tore down every banner.

‘Nothing!’ he bellowed, smashing his trophies underfoot.

At the foot of the throne, Grizzlemaw stirred from its slumber but did little more.

Khul seethed.

He knew the bloodcrushers had failed, that Threx had been defeated and one of the brass towers had been cast down. He felt it in his blood, in the way it boiled and how Khorne’s anger pained him. The chains fettering the Gate of Wrath strained and twisted, and Khul heard them scream for release.

His gaze strayed beyond the borders of his lair to where he knew his prey watched him.

‘Soon, Vendell Blackfist,’ Khul promised, barely heeding the massive war host gathering and awaiting his command. ‘You and I, to the death.’

He was about to turn away when something else caught his attention on the horizon. An army, distant but still discernible.

‘Not you, Blackfist…’ Khul whispered, then smiled. ‘He brings another to fight his battles for him, the craven.’ He shrugged, laughing. ‘Then let the blood flow.’

A bloody mist had risen from the ground to envelop Jactos and his warriors, not enough to cloud the way ahead but disconcerting all the same. It stuck to the Stormcasts’ armour, robbing it of its sheen and fouling the joints.

‘This war-plate feels like lead,’ groaned Lord-Castellant Neros, trying to scrape the worst of it off.

Jactos felt the unnatural weight of the blood too, but chose not to answer. He was intent on what lay ahead.

They had battled hard and through seemingly numberless warbands to reach so far into Khul’s domain, and the intense fighting had driven a wedge between the Hammerhands and the Goldenmanes, forcing them apart and onto separate paths. Though he would only admit such vainglory to himself, Jactos welcomed it. He wanted this, without any other Warrior Chamber from any Stormhost to intervene. Now he was determined he would face the warlord before Vandus. Though it hurt his pride to confess it, he had failed in the shadow of Volatus Ridge. Now he would make amends and show Sigmar he was worthy of his glory.

He grinned as the pyramid emerged from above the mist, hazy but recognisable. But still there was more.

Great menhirs, carved into the likeness of daemon kings, marked the threshold of Khul’s domain. The stone obelisks were huge and towered above the crimson mist. Their bestial features were contorted in snarls of rage and unfettered wrath. A killing urge bled off them, like sweat off a mortal man, and they clenched whips, maces and axes in their clawed fists.

‘Bloodthirsters…’ uttered Neros, recognising the image of the foul greater daemons wrought into the stone.

If Khul’s domain was protected by such beasts then the task before the Stormcast Eternals was great indeed. Even with the other Stormhosts, like the Anvils of the Heldenhammer and the Lions of the Sigmar, Bloodthirsters would pose a significant threat.

It did little to sour Jactos’s ebullient mood.

‘Have heart, brothers,’ he said, gesturing with his runeblade to the lair that lay beyond the menhirs. ‘Our quarry is near.’

Neros hefted his halberd as he thrust the light of his warding lantern forth.

‘It is not all that is near, my lord.’

The Bloodbound hordes came swiftly from the mist. They always did, ubiquitous as bones in this parched land. Their war cries split the air — not an ambush this time, but a pitched battle.

‘It seems Khul has not left his borders unprotected after all,’ said Jactos as he drew his hammer.

Glory beckoned. He had but to dispatch these wretches first.

‘Stormcasts!’ he cried. ‘To arms!’

Elsewhere, others fought with equal fervour and conviction.

Vandus and his Warrior Chamber would not be outdone by the Goldenmanes.

A ragged throng of warriors charged at them across the ash plain, kicking up clods of burning dust and cinder.

The Hammerhands met them in serried ranks, Liberators to the fore with shields upraised and, behind them, the Judicators. Malactus held his arm aloft to halt his retinue.

Every warrior armed with a skybolt bow turned it heavenward as one.

‘Release!’

Malactus’s voice carried far. It even reached the blood-soaked tribesmen barrelling across the plain. Some faltered as they heard it, wondering what it portended. The answer came swiftly on the lightning shafts of hundreds of skybolt arrows.

Evil men fell in their droves, scythed down by the deadly accuracy of the Judicators. Driven by their bloodlust and momentum, bloodreavers tripped and scrambled as they struck falling bodies. Heavily armoured blood warriors crumpled with arrows in their gullets or eye sockets. The Bloodbound battle line, such as it was, fragmented and scattered. The Liberators did not hesitate, and swept into them with their shields, battering warriors aside or crushing them underfoot. Any who had fight left in them were swiftly dealt with by hammer and blade.

The massacre was quick, but not painless. Not for the Bloodbound.

Vandus had been at the core of the fighting, letting Calanax have his rein as he stood with his retinues. It had felt good to be an integral part of the brotherhood.

In spite of this, Vandus’s mood soured when he saw how far Jactos had gone. The Lord-Celestant himself was somewhere amidst the distant scrum that Vandus now saw.

Decanthos joined him at the front. ‘They’re closing on the Red Pyramid.’

Vandus nodded, and the scowl he wore behind his mask was obvious from his voice.

‘Swifter than us. At this pace, our chambers will not breach the threshold to Khul’s domain at the same time.’

The massive Chaos idols that led to where Khul had made his lair appeared to mock them. Each depicted a different greater daemon of Khorne, a dread pantheon of bloodthirsters. Vandus saw one with ragged wings clutching a pair of axes. Another had a whip coiled around its wrist. A third hefted a double-bladed axe.

Looming above all was the Red Pyramid and, in front of that, the Gate of Wrath itself. An archway not unlike the one they had seized on the Igneous Delta, except this one was bent to darkness, a portal to the Realm of Chaos. With it under their control, Khul’s warhorde would be unstoppable.

‘We should make haste,’ said Decanthos, ‘and hope these fell creatures are not also in service to Korghos Khul.’

Banners and totems swayed on the horizon as more Bloodbound hordes clamoured for war. The lands around the Brimstone Peninsula were choked with them.

Vandus bellowed for his dracoth and Calanax came running.

As he mounted the saddle, he turned to the Liberator-Prime.

‘The Gate of Azyr was a mere prelude compared to this, Decanthos.’ Seeing others had gathered and were listening, Vandus raised his voice to address them all. ‘We stand at the threshold of hell. Know this is why we were forged. Here is our chance to turn back the tide of evil that has swept across these lands and enslaved them. I shall not falter as I face Chaos, nor will I blink before the daemon. I will stand and declare I am Stormcast Eternal, chosen of Sigmar! Will you declare the same?’

The affirmation from his warriors was deafening. It drowned out the war cries of the tribesmen in the distance, and stunned them into silence.

‘Azyr!’ bellowed Vandus.

‘Azyr!’ came the thunderous reply.

‘Bring. Them. Death!’

The tide was endless.

Scores of bloodreavers, daemons and monsters died beneath sigmarite hammers, and yet still they came, undaunted, unceasing.

Jactos and his warriors were deep into Khul’s lair now, far beyond the snarling faces of its stone guardians. Vandus had covered much ground, but it would be the Goldenmanes and not the Hammerhands who would claim this victory for Sigmar.

Barely a hundred of his brave Stormcasts remained, as the azure flashes that followed every death and return to Azyr became all too common.

He had lost sight of Neros, cut off during the last push, though he thought he still could hear the strident defiance of his Lord-Castellant. Jactos’s retainers still cleaved to him, though, his paladins and a clutch of battered Liberators. None faltered, and they fought without fear, plumbing depths of endurance that would have killed lesser men.

Unlike the servants of Khorne, though, the Stormcasts’ ranks were not without limit. Hard as it was for him to admit, Jactos knew they were waning.

Assailed on all sides by lumbering khorgoraths, hell-spawned slaughterbrutes and swathes of mortal Bloodbound, the Goldenmanes were beleaguered when Jactos at last reached the foot of the Red Pyramid.

His intent had been to make for the Gate of Wrath, to confront and defeat Khul on its very steps and thus earn eternal glory for Sigmar. But instead, he had been driven here. And though he was but a few more strides from the gate, his path was severely impeded by enemies. Not until Jactos saw who descended from the Red Pyramid did he understand why he had been driven there.

A deep thrust with his runeblade disembowelled a khorgorath and it fell to the hot earth, blood steaming on the foetid air.

‘To me, Liberators!’ shouted Jactos to his men. ‘To me, Retributors!’

No rallying note sounded from his heraldor this time. Ulius Stormcry had fallen, his voice now silent.

Jactos fought on as if he had heard the clarion call anyway, and came face to face with the one he guessed was the warlord Korghos Khul.

A brute, clad in blood-red armour and with a skull-helm masking the upper half of his face, strode down the Red Pyramid. Bone crunched beneath his heavy tread, skulls splitting and spilling their teeth. Khul appeared not to notice. As his gaze fell upon the Lord-Celestant, his eyes narrowed.

A creature padded around the feet of the warlord, a monstrous red-skinned hound with a brass collar and a flanged crest of skin under its gullet. As Khul gripped the back of its neck, the hound snarled in hatred for the Stormcasts.

‘Grizzlemaw can smell fear,’ said the warlord, casually stepping off the pyramid and standing before Jactos. His gauntleted fist was wrapped around a double-bladed axe that exuded deathly potency. Khul sneered. ‘You already look defeated.’

Undaunted, Jactos levelled his runeblade at the warlord.

‘It shall be your head, not my Lord Hammerhand’s, that adorns your Red Pyramid,’ he declared. ‘Then I will see it sundered into nought but bone and ash!’

‘Ah…’ remarked Khul, ‘so you have come to save Vendell Blackfist from my blade. Brave, but misguided. You must realise, whelp,’ he said, hefting his axe in both hands as he advanced, ‘that prophecies are seldom wholly accurate.’

As if sensing what was about to take place, the retainers of both champions stepped back and an arena in the dirt formed.

With a roar, Khul leapt at Jactos and battle was joined.

Neros finally caught sight of Jactos through the fray, and saw his Lord-Celestant assailed on all sides.

‘He fights the Lord of Khorne,’ he rasped, powerless to intervene.

Even from a distance, the duel looked fearsome. Khul’s sheer aggression and apparent strength would test any Stormcast, but Jactos weathered and parried every attack. His riposte was lightning fast and telling. Khul took a hard hammer blow against his chest and fell back.

Jactos was winning… and Neros dared to hope, wishing he were by his Lord-Celestant’s side.

But as he battled alongside his comrades in a sea of foes, all the Lord-Castellant could do was watch.

An ever diminishing circle of warriors fought beside Jactos. Only a few Liberators and Retributors from those Stormcasts separated off from Neros’s men remained. And though they battled like the heroes Sigmar had reforged them to be, they were not inviolate.

A Liberator fell, his shield split in two, his armour the same. A paladin crushed a khorgorath’s skull, only to be hacked apart by a dozen axe blows. It became an attritional grind, one the Stormcasts were destined to lose.

As the last of his men died, Jactos knew he fought alone. His world had shrunk down through the eye slits of his mask to focus on the brutal warlord trying to kill him and the scrap of earth upon which they fought.

He weaved aside as the axe came close, tearing sparks from his sigmarite armour, then replied with a thrust that Khul could barely turn away.

A hefty punch almost staggered him, and black slashes flared behind Jactos’s eyes. Ears ringing, he placed a kick into Khul’s guts and sent the warlord sprawling. He recovered quickly, on his feet before Jactos had a chance to kill him with a single decapitating blow. A clear note of sigmarite against daemon-forged metal rang discordantly as runeblade met axe of Khorne.

Jactos’s hammer struck armour, putting a crack in Khul’s pauldron and sending the warlord to his knees. Blood welled into the gap as Khul bellowed in pain and threw the Lord-Celestant back.

‘You cannot prevail,’ uttered Jactos, defiant despite being surrounded. ‘Sigmar will reclaim the Mortal Realms from tyranny.’

Rising to his feet, Khul laughed and spat up a gobbet of blood.

‘Look around. It’s already over, fool.’

Though Khul’s followers could have overwhelmed Jactos in moments, they were held back by the warlord’s will to meet the challenge alone. Even the hound was kept at bay. It had become a duel, one that Jactos realised he would likely not survive even if he did best Khul, a contest of arms pervaded by a strange sense of honour.

Then I shall return again, reforged to enact my vengeance, he vowed.

‘You’re wrong, scum,’ he told Khul. ‘It has only just begun!’

Jactos unleashed a hail of blows with blade and hammer against Khul, who still wielded his brutal axe in two hands. The warlord used the haft like a pole arm, warding off the Lord-Celestant’s attacks with surprising speed and restraint.

The might of Sigmar flowed through Jactos’s veins, and no Khornate tyrant could hope to match that. These Bloodbound curs had spent too long fighting emaciated tribesmen and harrying slaves; they had not fought warriors like the Stormcasts before.

‘Your reckoning has come!’ spat Jactos, hammering Khul’s defence as the warlord backed off.

A wild swing from the warlord was met with a deft parry against the haft of Jactos’s hammer. The Lord-Celestant then lunged with his runeblade, driving it into the meat of Khul’s thigh.

‘Not so easy to slay true warriors, is it, warmonger?’

Khul shook his head, staggering from the wound in his leg.

‘Know when you are beaten,’ Jactos declared, revelling now. He hacked down with hammer and blade as one, putting the warlord back on his knees again as he threw up a desperate defence.

Jactos should have finished his opponent, but instead kicked him away. Like most of the Stormcasts, he could remember parts of his past, the person he used to be and the life he had led. Those memories grew sharper during battle, and Jactos’s mind flooded with images of his burning village and the grinning barbarians who had tortured and goaded his kin.

He had a chance to redress the scales, and mete out punishment in kind for what was inflicted upon him and his own.

Another reckless swing by Khul was deflected with ease, as Jactos prepared to end it.

‘I prove your prophecy false, warlord,’ he said. ‘I have saved Vandus Hammerhand and thwarted you.’

The warhammer came down, but Khul caught it. With a savage snap, he broke the Lord-Celestant’s wrist and threw away the hammer.

Jactos tried to counter with his runeblade, but Khul attacked too quickly, inhumanly so, and cleaved his arm at the elbow. A golden forearm, the hand still gripping the sword, fell in front of Jactos who had trouble comprehending what had just happened. He could not stop staring at his severed limb, until the iron vice of Khul’s gauntleted hand wrapped around his throat.

‘There is something you should know about prophecies,’ Khul told him, heedless of the Lord-Celestant’s choking. ‘The beholder sees what they want to see, what they believe in their hearts to be true. I do not need the skull of Vendell Blackfist to crown my ascension. Yours will serve just as well.’

Khul released his grip, and the axe blade fell.

Neros cried out when he saw Jactos fall, head cut clean from his noble shoulders. His anguish turned to dismay when there was no lightning flash, no return to the heavens. No resurrection.

‘He is truly dead…’ the Lord-Castellant whispered, scarcely able to believe it.

It was an honourable end, but a permanent one. A death without hope.

Neros fought on, his voice hoarse from bellowing orders and urging his warriors to never surrender.

Only when he heard the trumpet call of Laudus Skythunder did he take heart and find reserves of strength he did not know he possessed.

‘Fight them!’ he roared. ‘To your very last. Hold on, brothers, for the Hammerhands are with us! The Hammerhands are with us!’

Oblivious to the ongoing battle around him, Khul stooped to retrieve the immortal’s head. Part of the dead warrior’s helm had been smashed apart by the killing blow, and through the broken mask Khul saw the fear and confusion writ upon dead features.

‘Such arrogance,’ he murmured. ‘The cur expected to beat me.’

A shallow cleft had been left behind where the axe had cut reality itself. It soon closed, but within the sliver Khul saw the realm beyond, the realm of his master he so desired to ascend to. And that was not all. A remnant, little more than a vague shadow and a near-silent scream, persisted where the warrior had stood before his death. The blade had cleaved his soul as well as his body, cutting the tether between Aqshy and the celestial heavens from where he had been cast.

‘Damnation and horror are yours to endure for eternity,’ he whispered calmly to the shade of Jactos Goldenmane as it bled away into the Realm of Chaos.

Khul then stood, turning as he hefted his axe on to his shoulder, and began to climb the Red Pyramid. He clenched an immortal skull in his fist. It was the last skull he needed for his ascension.

Chapter ten

The deepening storm

By the time the Hammerhands reached Neros, the Goldenmanes were reeling and would have been destroyed were it not for the other chamber’s arrival. Hordes of khorgoraths surrounded them, tearing off heads as a veritable lightning storm raged above the battle with the discorporating bodies of the Stormcast Eternals.

Bellowing to Sigmar and Azyr, Vandus charged into the frenzied ranks of the beasts on the back of Calanax. His Warrior Chamber was hard on his heels, led by a spearhead of Liberators wielding twin blades and hammers. In their wake came the shield-bearers, acting as a protective vanguard for Malactus’s Judicators.

The storm deepened as the skybolts took flight, arcing down in crackling volleys. Chained lightning wreaked havoc as shock bolts were unleashed. Boltstorm crossbowmen took to the flanks, killing khorgorath with intense, destructive fusillades. A booming rumble amidst the tumult presaged the unleashing of a thunderbolt crossbow as one of the Chaos monstrosities was blasted apart with a single deadly quarrel.

With the khorgoraths’ ranks so depleted, the Liberators fell upon them with disciplined fury and cut them down.

It was nothing compared to the fury of the Lord-Celestant.

Vandus reaped a brutal tally with Heldensen. By his hand, khorgoraths died by the score. His mount was also deadly, and together they hewed a red path to Neros.

‘Your arrival is timely, Lord Hammerhand,’ said the venerable Lord-Castellant, ‘but I fear you are too late.’

From his vantage in the dracoth’s saddle, Vandus saw over the thronging Bloodbound to where a single gold-armoured body lay headless in the dirt.

‘And we are still beleaguered,’ said Neros.

‘Not for long,’ Vandus replied grimly, gesturing to the south where a golden phalanx of warriors had already entered the fray and was advancing fast.

An Exemplar Chamber, led by a Lord-Relictor.

‘Ionus Cryptborn has arrived.’

Ionus smashed through the unruly ranks of the Bloodbound, his skull-mask spattered with gore. Bloodreavers and blood warriors died swiftly and painfully to his hammer blows as he led one phalanx of Retributors into the fray.

Noble Theodrus led the second phalanx, each cohort of paladins arranged on either flank of the battlefield. Two hammers of unrelenting, righteous might swept into the mortal worshippers of Khorne and destroyed them as the Stormcasts met in the middle.

Prosecutors flocked overhead, under the keen command of Kyrus. Ionus called to him as he flew by.

‘Thin the herd,’ Ionus told him. ‘Forge me a path to Lord Vandus.’

Nodding curtly, Kyrus went about his mission. He swiftly mustered his warriors into a thin lance and drove them ruthlessly down into the heart of the Chaos army.

Ionus clapped Theodrus on the shoulder, who was busy crushing the last few remnants of the horde they had just vanquished. ‘There, Theodrus…’ Ionus pointed to the bloody havoc being wreaked by the Prosecutors, ‘…our path to the others.’

About to lead the Retributors out, Ionus stopped short as crippling pain seized him. He clenched his shoulder beneath the pauldron, and felt the chill of the grave fall upon him like a deadly mantle.

‘Lord-Relictor!’

Ionus felt Theodrus’s hand supporting him, but the Retributor’s words were lost to him as another voice took hold.

A tithe is owed. A tithe shall be given.

A soul for a soul.

‘There… is… nothing for you…’ spat Ionus, gritting his teeth. The strength of Sigmar filled him, warming his frozen bones and restoring the vitality his old foe had sought to take from him. ‘I defy you,’ he declared. ‘I defy you!’

The chill faded, and the dread presence that had enveloped Ionus dissipated. A fell reminder was left in its wake.

I shall remember this. His soul or yours, Eonid. The tithe will be paid. It will be paid…

‘Aye, but not this day.’

Theodrus heard everything, and leaned in close to his Lord-Relictor as he helped him stand straight.

‘What plagues you, my lord?’

‘An old menace, brother. One I believed gone. Pay it no mind,’ said Ionus, seeing the Chaos hordes amassing again. ‘And reunite us with Vandus. Be quick, as the lightning from which you were wrought.’

Theodrus obeyed. With the Retributor-Prime at the fore, the paladins rushed into the furrow being cut by the Prosecutors. None would stay their wrath.

At last, they were closing but the distance to the Gate of Wrath was swarming with the followers of Chaos both mortal and daemon alike. Just beyond the gate itself was the Red Pyramid, as forbidding as any monolith Vandus had seen in these benighted lands.

The light was fading as the sun began to dip. He hoped it did not bode ill. It mattered little now. They would succeed here, now, or they would perish. There was no retreat, not for any of them.

Spurring Calanax, Vandus charged into the warbands that Khul had allied against them. He struck down a red-skinned daemon that had leapt to tear out his throat. Another bloodletter disappeared beneath Calanax’s claws. A third was ripped in half by the dracoth’s jaws.

Vandus whirled Heldensen around his head in a punishing arc. In the hands of the Lord-Celestant, it was a twin-tailed comet smiting everything that dared to step into its path. As gouts of lightning spewed from Calanax’s mouth and Heldensen slew without cessation, Vandus began to feel invincible.

Ever since his vision, the one where Khul had placed his head upon the pyre of skulls, Vandus had felt a power growing within him. Destiny had brought him to this place, to this moment. It was a fate determined not just by gods, but by his own indomitable will and sense of purpose. It stretched back through time, to before all of this, to before the Direbrand tribe and the dreaded age of Chaos. It went further and further, a legacy that began before time itself.

Vandus knew not how this was possible, or even what it meant, but he was certain it would be he who ended Khul’s reign. At last, he realised why Sigmar had chosen him, why he had been the vanguard.

This knowledge filled him with glorious purpose.

‘We are the storm!’ he roared, Heldensen held aloft and crackling with power. ‘Bringers of retribution and light. Reforged by Sigmar to reclaim these lands in his name and restore order. I am the lightning!’

The Hammerhands roared in answer. ‘Azyr!’

But the road to the Gate of Wrath was long and choked with the lost and the damned, an unholy Chaos warhorde without end.

‘Righteousness versus damnation,’ Vandus murmured to himself, his gaze alighting on the grim archway that led to Khorne’s own realm. ‘One must break before the end.’

Vandus had not seen the danger. So intent was the Lord-Celestant on reaching the Gate of Wrath that he had become oblivious to the true threat in their midst. But Ionus saw it, and he knew what it portended.

As he began to marshal his powers, he cried out and let the magic of the celestial carry the strength of his voice like a thunderhead.

‘Lord Vandus!’ he cried, his deathly voice echoing across the battlefield so that all in gold turned to heed him. Ionus gestured with his hammer. ‘Atop the pyramid!’

The beast’s skull exploded against Heldensen’s might, and as its lumbering body fell Vandus looked up to see the Red Pyramid. Close now, it throbbed like an angry wound and stirred feelings of wrath in the Lord-Celestant. Between it and the Gate of Wrath, he felt the unholy presence of Khorne.

But it wasn’t this that had caused the Lord-Relictor to cry out. Vandus saw it now, through the battling warriors — he saw the figure clambering up the rugged flank of the pyramid, a mountain of skulls dedicated to Khorne. The daemonic hound scrambling by Khul’s side was but one of the gifts the Lord of Skulls had bestowed upon his champion. The dread axe he bore was another. At least one further boon remained but it was neither beast nor blade, Vandus realised. No trinket, but metamorphosis.

Ascension.

As Khul climbed, moving with certain strength and an eager fervour, Vandus saw the offering the warlord planned to give.

A golden helm, blood still drooling from the severed neck of the head inside it.

‘Jactos…’

Grief and anger struck Vandus like a double-edged sword.

The vision disproven, but the prophecy about to be fulfilled.

‘I must stop him now.’

But an endless swathe of red stood in Vandus’s way and he had not the lightning forged wings of a Prosecutor to bear him over it.

Chapter eleven

Servants of the gods

Hell and fury raged across the Brimstone Peninsula as two gods fought for supremacy. Their struggle rent the land and sky as blood boiled up from the earth and lightning struck down from the heavens.

Wading through the hosts of Chaos, ever closing on his Lord-Celestant’s side, Ionus Cryptborn had never seen such destruction. As well as the Hammers of Sigmar, he saw the distant banners of the Lions of Sigmar and the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. Truly, this was a conflict like no other.

Despite the presence of the other chambers, all hope rested with Vandus. He was the one, chosen by Sigmar to launch his crusade of liberation. It had to be him. But even the Hammerhand himself, with all the gifts that Sigmar had bestowed upon him, could not reach Khul in time.

As if the mindless beasts and frenzied tribesmen who had allied themselves to the warlord’s banner knew of the import of this moment, a vast horde impeded Vandus.

A retinue of Prosecutors had seen the danger, but as they flew towards the grim ziggurat of skulls beyond it, gouts of scalding steam engulfed them, spewing from the maw of the gate and sending the heralds tumbling earthward. They crashed to the foot of the Red Pyramid, where an eager rabble of bloodreavers cut them down before they could rise.

As he watched the distant slaughter, Ionus knew it would be up to him to turn the scales back into Sigmar’s favour and so he beseeched the Lord of Storms again. As he gathered the lightning unto his hammer and prepared to channel it through his reliquary staff, the old wintry chill returned for one final attempt.

A tithe is owed.

With a fierce effort of will, Ionus shut out the ancient voice that plagued him and unleashed his power. Cold light played about his eyes.

‘Sigmar speed you!’

A coruscating bolt of lightning leapt from the reliquary staff to strike Vandus and Calanax. As one, rider and mount disappeared into the azure light, which arced a second time and earthed itself violently into the foot of the Red Pyramid.

As the lightning flash diminished, it left behind a scorched ruin of skulls and something else.

Vandus rode the lightning and for a moment became engulfed by an all-consuming storm. It ended swiftly, the brief lightness of his being soon growing heavy again as his body returned to flesh and blood.

Calanax was with him, no stranger to the storm path, and bellowed a warning as he looked up towards the summit of the pyramid.

Vandus followed his gaze, and saw Khul poised to claim right of ascension.

Memories were fleeting of the old life, of the man he had been before the apotheosis, but even when he had fought Khul as Vendell Blackfist, the warlord of Khorne had been prideful. He had honour of a kind. Vandus would use it against him.

‘Khul!’ He bellowed above the tumult and the din of war unbound. ‘Korghos Khul! Slayer of the Direbrand tribe! Face me now, or I name you coward!’

So close…

Gripping the immortal’s head in one hand, Khul reached out with the other to clamber the last few steps to the summit when he heard the challenge.

He could almost taste the promise of daemonhood in the sulphurous air and the taint of blood on the breeze. Khorne would deny him if he turned his back now. No exalted champion could refuse a challenge and still believe himself worthy of the Skull Throne’s greatest honour.

Khul slowly turned to face his accuser. His gaze met that of the golden warrior, and for the first time he saw Vandus Hammerhand and not the blacksmith chief who had escaped death by luck.

‘You have no true understanding of what it means to be chosen,’ Khul whispered through clenched teeth. ‘Of my sacrifice.’

Anger rose up within him, volcanic and incendiary. He looked to the blackening skies, pride and ambition clashing violently within him.

Khul screamed with insensate rage and vaulted from the side of the pyramid.

Shimmering, azure rain pelted from the sky. As it met the smouldering earth of the Brimstone Peninsula, it turned into a vaporous mist that clouded the battlefield in an eldritch gloaming.

Lightning struck, cascading in a barrage from the storm-wracked vaults above. Ionus smiled grimly as it sheared loose an avalanche of skulls from the side of the pyramid and buried the bloodreavers below. One macabre feast was usurped by another as the skulls gnawed and snapped at the tribesmen drowning amongst them. Ionus saw one of the bloodreavers attempt to surface before being dragged under by a mass of bony teeth.

His attention turned to the Lord-Celestant.

‘It’s just you and him now,’ Ionus whispered, as Vandus spurred Calanax through the deluge of skulls to meet Khul.

‘Die, fool!’ roared Khul, his axe promising eternal damnation as the raw magic of Chaos bled from its blade.

Too late, Vandus saw the momentum was with the warlord as Khul leapt down upon him, and though he tilted in the saddle to prevent himself from being cut apart, the fight had really begun.

The whispered screams of the souls claimed by Khul’s axe filled Vandus’s ears, and for a moment he thought he could hear Jactos’s voice amongst them. Another cry drowned them out, that of Calanax.

Khul’s axe was embedded in the dracoth’s flank, but not deep enough to kill him. Through godly intervention or simple fortune, Calanax was spared his soul being wrenched into the Realm of Chaos but was still badly wounded. As Khul wrenched the axe loose, the beast sagged and fell onto its side, almost taking Vandus with it.

Crying out in anger, the Lord-Celestant leapt from the saddle and came at Khul with Heldensen.

By now, the two were fighting on the red earth at the foot of the broken pyramid and Khul wrong-footed Vandus to sidestep the crushing blow. Viperously, he swung the cleaved head of Jactos into Vandus’s face, making his helm ring with the impact.

Vandus gagged as blood spattered his gilded mask, finding its way into his eyes, nose and mouth. He tried to recover, but the daemon-hound was upon him before he could raise Heldensen. He stumbled, and for a brief moment felt doubt. Khul was a warrior-king, a warlord who had enslaved an entire region to his Goretide. He had fought countless battles, slain numberless enemies. He was unbeatable…

‘No. I am the lightning. Sigmar’s storm manifest.’

A bolt arced down from the heavens and Vandus knew what he must do.

As the flesh hound lunged at him, Vandus smashed his vambrace into its snarling mouth. As it clamped down, he threw his arm out and the hound with it, smashing it into a welter of skulls.

But Khul was already on him, axe swinging as Vandus stepped back again. He felt heat at his shoulder and realised that he had been herded to within a few paces of the Gate of Wrath.

‘Your skull will be mine after all,’ the warlord growled.

The haft of Heldensen rang as Vandus desperately parried the blow. He lashed out, finding strength from anger, but Khul was swift and already within the Lord-Celestant’s guard.

‘You are nothing without your drake,’ Khul sneered, his unbreakable grip around Heldensen’s haft.

Vandus roared, unable to wrench the hammer free. He lunged instead, smashing his head against Khul’s face and splitting the skull mask in two. He saw a glaring, angry visage beneath.

With a sharp twist, Khul disarmed Vandus and threw the hammer aside.

‘I was wrong about you,’ he said, spitting blood and teeth. ‘You are still Vendell Blackfist, doomed to fall by my blade. Die now!’

I am the lightning. The words came back to Vandus, as did the image of the bolt striking down from above. Before Khul could end him and condemn his soul to torment, Vandus leapt from the killing blow to land crouched within a handspan of the Gate of Wrath.

As he rose up, Vandus reached out and gripped the edge of one of the pillars of the gate.

Khul was close, blood-crazed and frothing…

‘I am the lightning,’ whispered Vandus, as he closed his eyes. ‘I am Vandus Hammerhand.’

A crash of thunder sounded overhead.

‘Lord Sigmar, strike thy servant now!’

God-lightning seared from the turbulent sky, an arcing blast so powerful that it shook the earth.

Vandus saw light: a blinding, searing luminescence so bright it eclipsed all sense of being and self. Then he was gone.

Now…

Ionus unshielded his eyes to see the Gate of Wrath utterly destroyed. Nothing remained but steaming, molten rock.

All around it for a hundred paces or more, both Stormcasts and Bloodbound had been thrown off their feet. Tendrils of corposant writhed across their bodies as the storm bolt was slow to dissipate.

There was no sign of Vandus Hammerhand or Calanax. Sigmar had reclaimed them, and in so doing vanquished the realmgate to Khorne’s domain.

A great cheer rose up from the Stormcast Eternals.

‘Azyr! Azyr!’

Only Ionus did not raise his voice. Instead, he watched Khul as he beheld the ruination of his plans. The Red Pyramid collapsed, skulls tumbling from its flanks in an avalanche that spilled amongst the Bloodbound in a flood. In moments it was nothing but a swathe of shattered bone, destroyed, its power broken.

As the warlord bellowed his impotent wrath to the uncaring night, Ionus knew they had struck a telling blow, but the war was not over.

‘Not yet…’ he whispered, as the victorious Stormcasts swept down upon the remnants of the Goretide like a living tempest.

Guy Haley

Storm of Blades

CHAPTER ONE

The death of a prince

The guilt Thostos Bladestorm felt for spending the last days of his mortal life away from home had never left him. Not through his first Reforging, nor through his second. No number of rebirths could purge such regret from a man’s soul. When the cause was lost to him, the guilt stayed, a distillate of pain. Forever it was his spur, his strength and his weakness.

One last time Thostos relived the moments of his first death as Prince Caeran, in light and pain, when he was reborn at the God-King’s behest.

This is how he remembered it.

Then…

Warm wind sang through the pass of Unnumbered Birds. Scent is the key to memory, and the smell of the place was the last thing that Thostos forgot. In later days, when many lifetimes had passed him by, he would catch a reminder of it and search his broken memories for a full recollection. Alas, he would always be frustrated.

The strongest above all was the sharp smell of the birds themselves. Many nests crowded the cliffs either side of the narrow road, their guano streaking the rocks. There were other, subtler smells beneath that rich stink. The wind ran over the plains to the mountains, all the way from the distant sea. Even in the high mountains there was saltiness upon the wind still. This too Thostos remembered, and the blood and the ash that had come to taint it.

On that last day, the mountains preserved the semblance of peace. There the land seemed as it always had, as wild and free as any place in Amcarsh before the coming of Chaos.

To return to the mountains from the hell of the lowlands lifted the heart, even that of Prince Caeran, who would be Thostos, for he was burdened with many worries. But on that day, he breathed free, clean air, and returned home in victory. Secured to the flank of his horse was a bloody sack. Within languished the head of Sur Jactyr, Great Lord of Chaos and Reaver of the Sixteen Cities. His sharpened teeth would never again bite into flesh, and his golden eyes would see no more atrocity wrought in his name. Silver thread bound the sack shut, keeping the dead lord’s evil from corrupting the one who carried it. It was a successful hunt, enough to make Caeran forget for a moment the horrors of the world.

He was accompanied by Tarm, his childhood friend. No matter what evil they faced together, always they came back side by side. As was Tarm’s habit, he goaded his prince for sport as they rode.

‘My father says to me that the duty of an heir is to remain at home and learn the ways of governance. And yet here you are riding out on the hunt.’

Caeran laughed, though there was annoyance in it. ‘And what would your father have me do, work the fields and build terraces?’

‘That he would,’ said Tarm.

The pass was narrow, little more than a gully, and their voices echoed from the sides. Sunlight cut down from blue skies that were still untouched by the bruises of Chaos. The shadows of crags divided the rocky landscape into patches of delicious heat and pleasing cool.

‘Ask your father how I can remain at home, when evil brings all good things low and every month sees another city razed to the ground? Ten years ago, my father said that we would be safe within our valley, that the Warding Hounds of Garma would keep us safe, that Chaos—’

‘Hssh!’ Tarm said.

Caeran dropped his voice. ‘What?’

Tarm’s eyes were fixed upon the sky. Caeran raised his own gaze.

‘I see no birds,’ said Tarm.

The skies were empty. There was no sign of any birds at all.

Without exchanging a word, the warriors spurred their horses into a gallop. Their steeds were born for the rough terrain of the mountains and picked their path without faltering, haring along the rough road as sure-footed as goats. Soon enough, they rounded the kink in the valley where it opened onto the Great Glen of the Wolf.

‘Smoke!’ called Tarm. He slowed and stood in his stirrups for a better view.

Caeran thundered past him.

‘Wait, Caeran!’ Tarm shouted. ‘Be careful!’

But Caeran did not heed him. His stomach churned with sickening dread, an utter conviction that the worst had happened, and that his life was over.

The mountainside curved away, the glen broadened, and Wolf Keep, seat of Guild-King Glothian’s power, came into view. The keep was set high on the mountain, backed onto a soaring crag so that it looked out over the wide grazing lands of the glen. The Woolguild’s isolation had been its salvation. The mountain walls that yielded such meagre crops barred the advance of Chaos, and Glothian had kept the clans of his guild safe; once from the great and terrible beasts of Amcarsh and later against the depredations of hell-spawned monsters.

That is until then.

Caeran galloped past a burning cottage. The corpses of the farmers were pegged outside its blackened walls, cruelly mutilated. Hayricks blazed. Smoke rose from every building in the valley, thick over the four villages and thickest over Wolf Keep.

Fire licked from the windows of his home, black fumes pouring from the roof. He did not need to ride any closer to be able to see what the pale bundles hanging from the walls were.

‘No!’ screamed Caeran. He spurred his horse harder, foam frothing at its mouth. The steed’s flanks were lathered with sweat, but he did not relent.

The sky rumbled. A thunderhead was building over the mountains, black and heavy as an anvil.

He came across the first warband minutes later, a motley collection of beastfolk and savage tribesmen. They sat in the ruins of a hamlet around a fire of broken timbers, gorging on the flesh of innocents. The beastfolk were drunk, butting bloodied horns with each other. The men laughed bitter, empty laughs. The humour of the desperate and the insane. Without thinking, Caeran drew his sword and rode at them.

The first man turned at the thunder of his approach, only to die with his skull split open. Another pair were barged aside by the weight of Caeran’s horse, weapons falling from limp fingers. Others flung themselves aside. A beastman lunged for his reins. Caeran reared his horse, its hooves crushing the head of the creature. A second beastman ran at him, head bowed to impale his horse upon sharp horns, but Caeran cut it down and it died with a gurgling bleat.

Caeran wheeled his horse round and lashed out at another of the children of Chaos, but the impetus of his charge was spent, and the creature parried his blow with a maul of bloody iron. His horse’s breath came raggedly, exhausted; the animal was close to blown. The men and beastmen were gathering around him, a circle of brutal, shouting faces that kept out of the reach of his sword.

A huge muscled creature with the head of a goat pushed its way forward and thrust its spear deep into the horse’s breast. With a scream the horse reared up and toppled over, and Caeran was thrown free. He rolled, and an axe buried itself into the ground where his head had been. He sprang to his feet, driving his blade up to the hilt in a beastman’s gut. It screamed in Caeran’s face as it died, and he snatched out his sword before the creature fell down. Its fellows hesitated; Caeran did not.

‘Vengeance! Vengeance! Vengeance!’ he cried, and leapt among them, slaying all who came close. The sky was clouding over rapidly, pregnant with the promise of rain.

Then Tarm was there, bursting through the crowd on his horse and sending them down hard. He cut at the warband with his sword, slaying two and scattering the rest, then brought his horse to a staggering halt and held out his hand.

‘Get up behind me. There are hundreds coming!’

The beastmen and tribesmen lay dead or dying. One man pawed ineffectually at his ruined throat, attempting to stem the flood of blood. Caeran scanned the destruction, everywhere he looked revealing a new horror. He screwed his eyes shut at the sight of the torn corpses. Thunder sounded closer.

‘It’s going to rain,’ Caeran said.

‘Get up!’ shouted Tarm, looking behind his friend and beckoning again frantically. An awful, bleating roar brought Caeran out of his fugue.

Through the burning cottages of the hamlet strode a great beastlord, half as tall as Caeran again. In clumsy fingers it gripped an axe shaft as thick as Caeran’s thigh, the blunt head atop it dark with gore. It wore a mask of pale leather over its animal face, and a shallow helm covered its low skull. A dirty black and white crest rose from this between two pairs of horns. The first pair curved around its cheeks like a ram’s horns, while the second pair stood upright. These were sharp as scimitars, and dripped with blood. Crude mail studded with roundels and square plates protected its torso. Its hooves were shod with spiked iron, but its arms and the legs were unprotected, a sign of its confidence in its own might, perhaps. There were few who could hope to survive its ire.

‘Caeran!’ shouted Tarm.

‘No, no!’ said Caeran. ‘I will not run while our kinsfolk lie dead and defiled.’ He raised his sword in a double-handed grip, and prepared to meet the creature’s charge.

Tarm swore and charged past his friend, his horse leaping over the corpses of the fallen. His sword sang through the air, but the beastlord was swift. It stepped aside, punching Tarm’s steed with a huge fist. Hefting its axe, it swung hard at the reeling horse, a woodsman’s chop that half-severed the head. A tremendous spray of blood fountained from the horse’s neck and it fell sideways heavily, trapping Tarm beneath.

The beastlord raised its axe again, aiming for Tarm’s head. Caeran screamed and ran, swinging his sword with all his strength at the creature’s unprotected thigh. His blade bit deep, but the creature did not appear to feel the wound, and twisted its massive body to intercept the prince. A swipe from its arm caught him in the chest and knocked him back six feet to crash into a cart. He flipped over the back, landing in the offal of slaughtered farmers. Caeran scrambled to his feet, barely keeping his revulsion in check. His sword he held ready. The beastlord only smiled, thick lips parting around the flat, square teeth of a grazing animal stained pink with blood. It blew out a steaming huff of breath. Red eyes glowed with menace, and it laughed: a bleating corruption of human joy.

But the beast-thing was mistaken if it thought to kill another brave guildsman defending his home from the tide of Chaos. This was a prince before him, a mighty warrior sworn to protect his father’s people to the last, and he was wild with vengeance.

Lightning flashed, whiting out the valley. The beast lifted its axe and charged at Caeran. The prince waited for his moment, stepping aside and backward at the last possible second, and extended his sword to take the creature in the chest. The momentum of the beast forced the weapon’s point through its armour and deep into its chest just below the heart. Caeran’s sword was wrenched painfully from his hand as the beastlord stumbled past him, its axe biting into a splintered timber. It shook its head, and turned again, unaware that it was already dead. One step it came on, then another. The beastlord groggily raised its axe. Dark blood pumped from the wound. The creature never made the blow, but fell forward dead.

Caeran ran to Tarm. His friend was badly hurt. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth.

‘You killed it?’ he croaked.

‘It is dead,’ said Caeran. ‘If it weren’t for you, I’d be dead.’

‘As always,’ said Tarm. The blood coming from his mouth was pink and bubbled, his breath was short, and he struggled to speak. ‘But no more, my friend. Crushed by my own horse. Not the heroic end I had intended.’

‘I’ll get you out from under him,’ said Caeran, trying to reassure his companion, but he could see no way to move the horse pinning Tarm.

‘You’ll do no such thing. Get out of here! Get away now! If Wolf Keep has fallen, it will not be long until all of Amcarsh is overrun. Live as long as you can. Make them pay for their crimes.’

A fat drop of rain fell onto the back of Caeran’s hand. Then another, and another. They spattered all over Tarm’s face. He closed his eyes and smiled.

‘See, Caeran! There is some purity left. For once, the water is sweet.’

Caeran stood. Rain sheeted down. A blazing bolt of lightning cracked the sky. Thunder boomed. Shouts and the gruntings of beastmen came through the downpour. They approached him from all sides. He stood over the body of his friend, and shouted out a challenge.

‘If I am to die, let it be well!’

The foes of all that was good and right drew around, none daring to be the first. Caeran stared at them, smiling wildly. ‘Give me strength, great Sigmar!’ There was more lightning and another peal of thunder, deafening now. The storm was directly overhead.

‘Lend me your might! If you can still hear me, if you care still for the lives and deeds of mortal men, then grant me as much of your power as you might spare, so that I may be avenged upon the slayers of my folk, that I might kill them and kill them and never rest, not until every last drop of Chaos-ruined blood has been spilt and washed away from the soil of Amcarsh by clean rains. I do not ask to be saved. I do not plead for my life. I ask only for strength. I ask only to be avenged!’

He raised his bloodied sword to the sky, kissed the guard, and prepared to die.

The horde of men and twisted monsters charged as one. A blazing spear of light lanced down from the sky, pure and dazzling. It connected with the tip of Caeran’s sword, bathing the youth in a stark radiance that cut him into shapes of white and hard black shadow. The followers of Chaos were flung back by the blast, shrieking at the pain of the light.

When they recovered themselves, they stood in amazement. A depression was smote into the land, charcoal black and steaming. Around it, twists of grass smoked in the rain.

Of the prince, there was no sign.

CHAPTER TWO

To Chamon

Caeran of Wolf Keep was no more. He had been snatched from the jaws of death and made anew. In his stead stood Thostos Bladestorm, a Lord-Celestant of the Stormhosts of Azyr. The man had ceased to be, but from his unmaking a Stormcast Eternal had been forged. Stronger, taller, faster, imbued with a fragment of a god’s potency; that of Sigmar Heldenhammer, last of the old pantheon to stand in opposition to the four great powers.

That first time, Thostos’s memory did not die. During his remaking his mind was unmade and refashioned many times upon the anvil of Sigmar’s art. Yet he remembered the smell of blood, and the stink of smoke. He remembered white shapes dangling from the walls of his burning home. He remembered a dead friend, and he remembered his oath.

The need for vengeance coursed through his every vein as surely as the magic of Azyr.

‘Stand tall, Thostos Bladestorm, and face your benefactor!’

The Lord-Heraldor’s voice resonated throughout the Celestine Vault with the force of a trumpet fanfare, snatching Thostos back from the past. Vengeance. Yes. It was coming after centuries of waiting. It was his due. On the great ring of the Sigmarabulum the bells of war tolled.

Thostos Bladestorm rose from his knees and opened his eyes upon his master. Sigmar stood upon the balcony, the God-King, lord of the last free mortal realm. The Celestial Vindicators were gathered in glorious array, panoplied for war in armour of purest sigmarite coloured a rich turquoise. They stood in ranks in a vault of gold and smooth stone, topped by a dome of sapphire carved with the twin-tailed comet — Sigmar’s sigil.

The vaults were glorious, but Sigmar’s perfection made all appear dull and lustreless. Mightier than the Stormcast Eternals, this was the god who had answered Thostos’s prayers — the survivor of a ruined world and the near ruin of another.

Pure of feature, every line of Sigmar’s face radiated grace. His poise was beyond compare, and his armour shone brighter than the sun, with gold and sigmarite studded with sapphires. Long hair cascaded down his back, mingling with the gryphon feathers of his cloak. The aura of power around him was staggering, but there was no arrogance inherent to it.

Confidence, yes — a rectitude and surety of purpose that suffused all who came near him with righteousness. There was humility there, and patience. There was kindness and humour to temper his sternness, wisdom to rein in his belligerence. His anguish at the fates of those he left behind drove his will to conquer. He was the epitome of humanity, the very acme of what it meant to be of the race of man. However, he represented an ideal that Thostos and the others could aspire to, for each Stormcast Eternal knew that in untold ages past, in another world, it was said that Sigmar had been a man.

Only a man. Such a thing was incredible to Thostos, though he had faith that it was true. Thostos’s legs trembled at the sight of his lord. The urge to kneel again before this paragon was overwhelming and took all his might to resist. Sigmar had been only a man, he repeated this to himself over and over. Only a man, this living beacon of hope, this reminder that there were powers in the realms greater and better than all those of Chaos.

Behind Thostos the men of his Warrior Chamber remained kneeling. Two hundred and eighty of them, the Bladestorms of the Celestial Vindicators Stormhost.

Sigmar bestowed a proud smile upon Thostos as he joined those lords already called, and he thought that he might weep.

The Lord-Heraldor summoned the remainder of the leaders of the chambers, until eighteen Lord-Celestants stood with Thostos, their leader. Then their Lord-Castellants, Lord-Relictors and Knights-Azyros were called out, before all the rest from the temples of command were brought to assemble behind them. Two hundred demigods to lead thousands more. And Sigmar himself blessed them with his presence.

‘Celestial Vindicators!’ called Sigmar. His voice was gentle thunder. Thostos had never heard him shout, he hoped he never would. A voice like that would shatter stone if raised in anger. ‘To you is given a great and weighty task. This day your wait is over. Hundreds of lifetimes of men have some of you dwelt among us here in the heavens of Azyr. No more!’

Sigmar came down the stairs as he spoke. He walked along the line of lords, grim pride on his face. He stopped where Thostos stood, and placed an armoured hand upon his shoulder. ‘A wait that has been long and chafing for many of you.’ Sigmar passed on, trailing the electric redolence of summer storms in his wake. He went down the aisle between the brotherhoods that made up the Bladestorms. ‘You are my avengers! You are all, each one, warriors who cursed Chaos with your last breath, who called upon me for strength, not salvation. Strength!’

This last word boomed, although spoken at scarce greater a volume than the rest. Thostos shuddered, and remembered his own oath on that distant battleground.

‘And I answered,’ Sigmar continued. ‘I answered you, my lightnings bringing you here from defeat so that you might be remade and given that strength. That you might take that vengeance. I will not apologise for the ages you have waited through, nor the rage and frustration that built in you as your thirst for revenge went unslaked.’

He walked around the periphery of the room. The majority of the Stormhost remained where they were, in postures of obeisance. Whether they could see the God-King or not, they were aware of where he was at all times, his mere presence was tangible from afar.

‘There are many battles beginning, many campaigns in this war. Would it that I could bid all my sons farewell and wish them victory. I cannot. But for you, my vengeful Celestial Vindicators, I desired to come and tell you that your wait is over. The time of patience is done, and another time begins. The red time, the fire time, the time that the filth of Chaos will be driven away before the winds and rains of you, my avenging tempest!’

As one the Celestial Vindicators stood: the winged Prosecutors; Judicators armed with skybolt bows and other, more potent weapons; the Liberators with their great shields and the Retributors bearing their lightning hammers. A nimbus of power played over the host, sparking from their armour. The magic that made these men warriors that could not die; they would fall, and they would be remade anew. That was Sigmar’s promise to them.

They beat hands upon their breastplates, sigmarite clashing on sigmarite. Softly at first, a clatter that rippled across the room, evoking the shattering of hail upon roofs. Then a single word, the name, repeated over and again, spoken in round by rank after rank so that it sounded akin to a deluge washing over the earth. ‘Sigmar, Sigmar, Sigmar, Sigmar, Sigmar!’ they chanted, louder and louder until surely all of Azyrheim must stop and look up to the floating Sigmarabulum and wonder what occurred there in the sky.

‘To Chamon, to the Realm of Metal! Go forth and bring destruction upon your foe! Seek out the Silverway so that we might rain terror upon the servants of the Dark Gods in every realm. Seek out the duardin so that we might march with vengeful allies!’ cried Sigmar, and his voice was the thunder to the storm conjured by his men. Lightning crackled from his fingertips, lifting his hair and burning in his eyes. Raw power skittered all over the room. The comet in the ceiling blazed and a cold wind lifted up the cloaks of the Stormhost. ‘To Chamon!’

A loud boom shook the vault. Magic flared bright and just as quickly died away. Then the vault was empty of men, leaving the god alone. He looked around and marvelled at his own works.

The quest for vengeance had begun.

CHAPTER THREE

Ephryx the Ninth Disciple

In his bedchamber high in the central tower of the Eldritch Fortress, the sorcerer Ephryx, Ninth Disciple of the Ninth Tower, dreamt of war. He curled in on himself like an infant, a posture his body had never forgotten no matter how much change had been wreaked upon it. The antelope horns that crowned his head pressed into his silk pillows. His eyes twitched beneath thin eyelids veined green.

As Ephryx slept, his dream ceased to be a dream.

Ephryx was in another place. He stood upon a far-reaching and desolate plain. In the distance volcanoes vomited fire. To the south churned a poison sea. Close by, a city from the Age of Myth continued its long crumble into the dust, all save the very centre. There stood a monumental structure, a realmgate. Though caked in centuries of filth it was whole. Sleeping. Locked. The latent magic woven into its fabric sparkled in Ephryx’s witch-sight.

A squally wind blew up from nowhere, whipping dust into long sheets that reeked of sulphur, death and tar.

Aqshy. Something occurred in the Realm of Fire.

In his vision-sleep Ephryx beheld a mighty storm. The sky boiled. Black and purple clouds gathered themselves from nowhere, and mounted high into the heavens. The wind blew harder, scented now with coming rain, a fierce smell whose cleanliness burned in Ephryx’s nostrils.

Raindrops as large as sling bullets splattered into the earth, scattered forays from the cloud above. These first few rested momentarily upon the hard earth, coated in dust knocked free by their impacts, then were sucked away, consumed by the great thirst of the land. They appeared to Ephryx like soldiers, a feeble advance party, isolated and overwhelmed by their foe. He paid close attention to this detail. Many things of import had been revealed to him by less.

This vanguard of moisture was soon reinforced. As abruptly as if a bucket were upended, a torrent of rain poured from the sky. It ran down the dream-being of Ephryx, over thin, purple lips that were no longer entirely human, and collected in the corner of his mouth. Ephryx inadvertently tasted it upon his long tongue, and spat violently. The flavour of the rain was anathema to him; pure water, of a kind that existed virtually nowhere within the Mortal Realms any more.

Thunder rumbled. The clouds twisted about a vortex in the sky. The parched scent of the Realm of Fire was completely washed away, replaced with the nose-prickling aroma of rain on dry earth, and the tang of magic.

Lightning stabbed out at the top of the mighty gate three times. Another growl of thunder followed.

Ephryx threw his arm over his eyes as the sky exploded with light.

Lightning bolts came down as thick as trees in a forest, grounding themselves upon the cracked plain in searing battalions. Each blast left behind a glowing dome of energy, until these covered the plain. One by one they faded, exposing ranks of tall warriors clad in gold and wielding hammers. Each one was as mighty as a champion of Chaos, only these were no followers of the Four. They came to wage war upon this landscape of toxic soil and wicked flame.

The vision shimmered, Ephryx’s point of view shifted. Time stuttered and hopped, coming to rest some hours later. A great horde of the Blood God filled the horizon from end to end. They fell upon the storm warriors in outrage and flesh greed. The rulers of that place they might have been, but their charge was met by a wall of glittering gold and they died upon it. The storm-born warriors smote the followers of Khorne into the dust. A few of the glistening host fell, but not many, and those who did were snatched from battle by soaring pillars of energy that carried them back from whence they came.

Above the ruined city, winged warriors hurled hammers of blazing light at the closed realmgate. To this Ephryx paid especial interest. The frenzied fools of Khorne did not know the gate for what it was. They focused their unthinking attention upon the thin line of warriors barring the way, crazed by blood and battle. They allowed their foes to continue their bombardment, and so the bonds of the gate strained.

Another shift in time. Ephryx witnessed a great battle between a demigod mounted upon a draconian beast and a twisted creature goaded by a cruel lord. He watched them clash a moment, but did not see the outcome. A further change brought him news of a warrior-priest bearing a reliquary that was radiant with the magic of death. The priest manipulated these fell energies with skill, but he was weak in comparison to the mighty Ephryx. The Chaos sorcerer mocked him, but the priest could not hear his scorn.

The stuff of Chaos pushed its way into the realm. Daemons erupted from the bloody mire the ground had become. Battle went against the golden stormhost. Angels fell from the skies, but too late. A final lightning strike smashed into the gate. A peal of thunder announced the opening of the way. The realmgate’s coating of detritus flaked away to reveal figures of steel and ivory, and runes that burned with reawakened power. Reality snapped and quivered, then split open with a crash. A route long since closed gaped wide. Beyond the gate was a golden host. They poured forth with wrath in their hearts and fell upon the followers of the Blood God.

Now the sorcerer saw through the eyes of the Bloodsworn of Khorne, a member of a band called the Goretide. Korghos Khul was its master. Ephryx knew this and he knew the man’s last moment, the sight of a silver warhammer descending upon his head to obliterate all hate, all red thought, along with the tiny remnant of humanity that hid beneath sanguine rage.

Ephryx sat up in his bed with a gasp. Fine silks slid from his wiry body. His long-fingered hand went to his throat, then his head, probing for marks. Although he knew he could not possibly be harmed, the vision’s intensity was such he was half-convinced of his own death.

‘Sigmar!’ he whispered. ‘Sigmar has returned!’

Drums boomed outside, a ferocious martial beat.

Ephryx’s eyes widened.

Not drums, thunder.

The sorcerer rushed to the window of his chamber. All around his tower was his beloved Eldritch Fortress, his citadel and seat of his power that had been centuries in the making. His eyes were not for its walls and redoubts, though he often spent long hours admiring his craft, or for the city beyond, whose slide into ruin he enjoyed. He instead searched the blocky mountains. There! A stabbing finger of power blasted down from a heaven beyond that of Chamon. Clear, white lightning, unsullied by the magics of his master. Another crack and bang announced a second lightning strike, then a third. On the northern horizon clouds gathered as they had in his dream. But these first lightnings seared down from the clear, predawn sky.

He waited a moment, gripping the chill metal teeth framing the window. No further lightning blasts came. Thunder rumbled from the heavens. Dark clouds began to form out over the southern Vaulten range also, roiling like black ink poured into water. Storms advanced on the great valley of Anvrok from the north and south, framing the gigantic coils of the wyrm Argentine in the far western sky.

Ephryx recalled the drops of rain, so few and easily absorbed. The torrent that followed would not be stemmed.

‘Invasion! Strife! War! They are coming here!’

Ephryx hissed in dismay. Why had he not foreseen this? Why had great Tzeentch not warned him?

‘So close to my triumph, so close!’

He suspected ill motives on the part of his master. He would have known.

Tzeentch not knowing was impossible. Impossible!

Well, he would not be outmanoeuvred, no! Ephryx gritted pointed teeth and muttered guttural words of power. He passed his hand before his face. A nimbus of magic played around his horns, and he was gone from the room.

Ephryx rematerialised in the summit of his tall tower. He came fully clothed, cleansed and scented. His limbs were clad in robes of deep blue worked with arcane sigils of gold. His horns were painted in lacquer that shifted hue with his every movement. In his left hand he carried an onyx staff topped with an icon of brass. His right unconsciously twitched out magic. And so Ephryx came to his scrying chamber, a vast, lopsided room set into the eye of Tzeentch that crowned his fortress. There was but one window, the pupil of the eye set with amethyst that afforded views towards every point of the compass and wherever Ephryx willed. From that height his beautiful castle appeared small, laid out like a model artfully made in many metals. Ephryx could see every one of the eight points of the castle’s walls and the gate there. Little more than building blocks joined by thick lines from his vantage, made of steel and copper, gold and brass. They throbbed with sorcerous energy. Fields invisible to the mortal eye rolled and twisted in multiple colours around the fort, sent into fractal eddies by the thing hidden at the base of the tower, the great artefact he had constructed his domain around.

Ephryx watched the gentler play of the ether over the still, dark valley. There the Silver River glowed softly orange with inner heat in the last dark of the night. Along its dim shores, the shadows danced with the light of Argentine’s fire. The metal magic rising from the river twisted as it encountered an opposing force a hundred feet above the molten stream. Something perturbed the currents of energy; he had to hurry.

A platinum pedestal occupied the centre of the room, baroquely cast. Imps and cockatrices wrestled all over it, their writhings perpetually arrested, their moist eyes tracking the sorcerer around the room. Upon the pedestal was a bowl filled with liquid gold, and it was to this that Ephryx went.

The skies were light with the coming sun, but dawn had not yet broken. He looked towards the end of the vale and into the void to the east. Already the first rays shone from beneath the floating land. The great crucible high in the eastern sky was bathed in its light already, and shone like a second sun. The Argent Falls gleamed bright. The scales of Argentine sparked with orange notes, and the light of his fires were robbed of their brilliance.

Tainted light glanced off the thousands of copper skulls that covered the fortress and lit the grim, bladed facets of the eight great towers and gates. Shadows fell long upon the fortress, shortening as the sick star rose swiftly over the walls. Copper and adamant sparkled. Warmth chased off night’s chill. Then the sun shone through the lone window set in the lowermost portion of the tower. By crystals grown from madness, the light was redirected again into the keep entombed within the tower, then to a cairn hidden within the keep. Through one small gap left in a wall of lead blocks, a single ray of light was allowed to pierce and fall upon the artefact.

The effect was instant and potent.

The tower shuddered. A boiling sphere of magic burst from the stolen prize. The copper skulls drank deeply of the power, their hollow sockets glowing eerily. Ephryx waited in his tower for the bubble to pass through his scrying chamber. The magic arrived from below, passing first over his toes, then up his legs and into his trunk, invigorating his Chaos-twisted flesh and setting his blood racing. The gold in his scrying bowl bubbled, and Ephryx bent eagerly over it. The images presented at the moment of dawn were the clearest, the most truthful.

He was not the only one waiting for the rising sun. In answer to its appearance, light flashed in the sky. Dozens of lightning strikes, thicker than the others, came not from the clouds but through them, stabbing downward from a place that was not of this realm. They emanated from somewhere beyond the Celestial Swirl, that galaxy of lights and stars that turned high in the northern sky. The lightning was white, but Ephryx’s witch-sight showed him pulses of azure that accompanied each strike and sent the currents of Chamon into disarray.

The first bolt split the peak of a mountain to the north-east. Many more pounded into the valley at various points to the north of the Silver River. The first left behind an imposing figure in smooth armour surrounded by a small bodyguard of warriors upon the mountain peak. These surveyed the lands revealed to them, then spread broad wings of blazing energy and took to the heavens. The sky blackened above them, and they flew up into a downfall of rain. The other bolts struck domes of force from the ground, all around the dormant Bright Tor Gate.

As in Ephryx’s dream, the domes faded to nothing, revealing small armies, although these warriors wore armour of deep turquoise, not the gold of the warriors he had perceived in Aqshy. Then the image in the bowl wavered, and Ephryx drew back from the gold, the play of it illuminating the surprise on his face. His expression hardened. With pinched fingers he clicked out a brief rhythm with his nails upon the platinum of the bowl’s stand. He called upon the power of Tzeentch, steadying the image. None could best the arcane power of Ephryx. He willed the minds of these interlopers to open to him; their secrets would be his, their plans laid bare.

He permitted himself a small smile.

The minds of the strangers remained closed. Their images wavered harder.

The sorcerer’s smile evaporated quicker than a soul in a spirit forge. Ephryx looked out of the windows with a scowl. The dawn was passing over the fortress and the ruined city it squatted in. Its light now struck off the Vaulten Mountains, dancing from peak to peak of the Bright Tors, lighting the underside of the storm clouds beneath both. Then it slid down rocky bluffs and steep banks into the great valley of Anvrok to light the Silver River, overpowering the dull glow given off by the hot silver.

‘No, no! Show me their thoughts, their purpose!’ Ephryx made swift gestures over the liquid gold. The surface rippled, breaking the pictures into circular nonsenses. The bowl lost its focus, skipping from one party of the turquoise storm warriors to the next. ‘No, no, no, no! Show me, show me! I demand it! By the thousand thousand names of Tzeentch, be revealed!’

The sun ceased shining into the vault of the fortress. Day broke fully across the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok. The sphere of magic collapsed. The skulls that studded the walls of the fortress sighed, and the light in their eyes died.

‘No!’ Ephryx set his will upon the bowl. Every corner of the land, every nook and crevice, every tumbled cottage and fearful tribe scratching an existence from the rock — all was his to see when he chose. But when he turned his eye upon the storm warriors, he saw nothing.

Ephryx hissed like a cat and slapped his hand upon the pedestal. The gold stirred fitfully. He glared at it until his eyes watered.

A draught of spiced air stirred the wizard’s robes. A chuckle emanating from two throats broke the quiet of his sanctum.

His master had arrived.

Ephryx screwed his eyes shut. He muttered a prayer to Tzeentch and smoothed out his features. Composed, he turned to face the source of his power and of his pain.

CHAPTER FOUR

The Great Oracle

A tall being stood to the westward side of the chamber, spindle-limbed but corded with wiry muscle. A daemon of Chaos, a Lord of Change. It grasped a tall staff in both hands, upon which was bound a grimoire that murmured with a voice of its own. The staff’s finial was a metal fish of fearsome aspect. Of all the things about his mentor that he loathed, Ephryx hated this fish the most. It grimaced and pulled faces when it thought Ephryx could not see. It was, Ephryx felt, the summation of his master’s disdain for him.

The Lord of Change had broad wings. Feathers that were blue only some of the time rippled with arcane energies upon the being’s wings and thighs; otherwise, it was bald and dry-skinned. All these things were remarkable, although not so remarkable as the fact of its two avian heads.

The daemon leaned upon its staff and craned both heads forward on long wrinkled necks, the headdresses of each swaying with the movement. One face was creased with benign amusement, the other with disappointment.

The daemon was a being of one mind: one head saw only the past, the other the future. Ephryx noted with alarm that it was the future-seeing face that scowled.

‘The Ninth Disciple of the Ninth Tower. Have you proven unworthy at last?’ said the amused head.

‘Eight others in this place and time we have consumed. Eight towers we have toppled. Perhaps we should dine again?’ said the other to the first.

Ephryx bowed so low the tips of his horns tapped the mosaic floor. ‘Kairos Fateweaver, oracle of everything, mightiest of all the Lords of Change, I greet you.’

‘Yes, yes,’ said the amused head.

‘Feeble wizard bows and scrapes, but there is little loyalty beneath his horns,’ said the other.

‘I have discovered something of great portent—’ began Ephryx, but Kairos would not let him finish.

‘Why do you, sorcerer…’ said the amused head.

‘…believe that what can be hidden from most masterful Tzeentch should be revealed to you?’ finished the annoyed one.

Kairos gestured at the molten gold, causing it to bubble and spit. He stepped forward, his staff tapping on the maddening patterns of the floor like the cane of a blind man. Tap-tap this way, tap-tap that way, probing for obstacles Ephryx could not perceive. Kairos stopped a few feet away from Ephryx, leaned upon his staff again and peered at him with two pairs of hard, button-black eyes. The eyes of a carrion bird, examining food not quite dead.

‘I have had no warning of this,’ said Ephryx. ‘As much as I cannot believe it, Tzeentch did not know of these lightning warriors.’

‘Ah, ah! The mortal is so cunning.’

‘So stupid,’ said the other head. ‘Has it not occurred to him that Tzeentch did not tell?’

The pages of Kairos’s book fluttered.

‘But he is right. Our lord is in a rage that his sight was turned elsewhere, the doings in the realm of Azyr hidden from his view.’

‘So Tzeentch was blinded.’ Ephryx frowned. ‘But you, O mighty Kairos, did you know?’ he asked suspiciously.

‘Know what, small and insignificant weaver of spells?’ asked Kairos innocently. One head rose up and peered out of the window. The beak clacked. The attention of both heads returned to the wizard.

‘I do not think today is for the playing of games!’ implored Ephryx. ‘You are given the power to see that which Tzeentch might not. You are the guarantor of his perspicacity.’

‘Every day is a day for games,’ chided the first head. ‘When the game stops, time will end. There is only the game, nothing else.’

‘You knew, you did! After all I have done! You knew that this would happen. I am so close to achieving the translocation.’

Ephryx began to pace. Kairos’s heads swung heavily to follow him.

‘I foresaw,’ said one head. ‘I have seen into the Well of Eternity into which even Tzeentch might not glance.’

‘I did not foresee,’ said the other.

‘It is not for me to tell,’ said the first head.

‘It is not for me to know,’ said the second.

‘I can no more easily keep my mind closed to Tzeentch than you can keep your mind closed to me,’ said the first head. ‘What makes you think I knew?’

‘He knows only what I will tell him, and I did not tell him this,’ said the second.

‘You obfuscate!’ wheedled Ephryx. ‘Tell me, O master. If you are aware, it will affect our plans. My skulls are close to fully charged. I am so close to removing Chamon to the Realm of Chaos. Do you wish me to fail?’

‘Yes,’ said the second head.

‘No,’ said the first.

‘If you will not treat with me honestly, how can I serve you?’ asked Ephryx. Kairos brought out the moaning child in him. For that he would never forgive the Lord of Change.

‘It would have honesty!’ said the first head.

‘Truth from the lord of lies,’ said the second.

Both heads clicked their beaks in laughter.

Ephryx emitted an exasperated noise and turned back to his golden mirror.

‘Why be so irritable, wielder of small magics?’ asked Kairos amicably.

‘Great power, no power, useless, a master,’ muttered the other head.

‘You know better than to expect a straight answer from me. From anything. There are no simple answers, and no simple questions that could be framed to find them, even if they were to exist. Which they do not.’

‘But exist they do!’ croaked the other head. ‘Easy answers, easy questions. You behave as you did when first you came under my tutelage. Disappointing!’

‘Extremely so,’ said the first head sorrowfully.

‘I must know the intent of these warriors.’ Ephryx went back to the gold and stared into it. He saw nothing but the gleaming yellow of the metal. ‘If they come here for the artefact, or only for conquest.’

Kairos shrugged.

‘The secret is done. Why can I not see them now?’

‘None can, little wizard,’ said the first head.

‘None but he who sent them. Great magics shroud them still.’

‘And we do not wish to draw his attention here, not yet, so do not break the shroud. If you can break it,’ said the second head.

A thousand plans flickered through Ephryx’s mind, as swift and short-lived as mice. He could not scheme against the unknown.

‘I must know their purpose.’

Kairos stepped forward. He was so huge that two steps carried him across the chamber, his wings scraping the stonework of the ceiling. The daemon prodded Ephryx with a talon that was long and slate-grey, and as hard as slate too; it hurt Ephryx’s chest.

‘Think, little wizard! This is no great war party, but a scouting group. Foresight has made your mind lazy and dull. If you do not know, then extrapolate.’

‘Ruminate,’ said the second head.

‘Think!’

‘If you cannot, you are not fitting to serve our master,’ said the first head. ‘You are not fit to serve me!’

‘So the question is…’ said the second head.

‘…what have they come to scout?’ said the first.

‘That is not the question I had in mind,’ said the second head.

‘It will stand,’ said the first.

Ephryx looked at the floor. His mind penetrated the fabric of the tower. He looked all the way down, a thousand feet to the lead cairn where his prize was entombed. Within that, he did not look; the sight would blind him. ‘How could they know about the hammer? Tzeentch hid it and removed knowledge of it from all the realms.’

Kairos looked at his pupil expectantly, two pairs of beady eyes glittered with the light of dead stars. ‘Yes?’ he said encouragingly.

‘They don’t know, do they?’ asked Ephryx excitedly. ‘They don’t know at all!’ He pointed a finger at Kairos. ‘That’s why you’ve come, to make sure they don’t find out.’

‘Clever,’ said the first head.

‘Somewhat,’ said the second.

‘Then it begs the question, what are they here for?’

‘How long have you been master of this vale?’ asked Kairos.

‘A long time,’ said Ephryx.

‘And?’ prompted the other head.

‘I have never found the Silver Road, the great realmgate of the duardin. Is that what they seek? I had a vision, of a realmgate in Aqshy…’

‘War has erupted across many of the Mortal Realms. The Powers are in uproar. Everywhere the man-god strikes,’ said Kairos.

‘The Silverway leads everywhere. It would be of great use to them.’ Dismay clouded Ephryx’s features again. ‘They will search the valley. When they find it, they will come in great numbers and throw up fortresses of their own. Anvrok will become a marshalling yard for the wars of Azyr. They will surely be drawn to this fortress, and sooner rather than later. I cannot hide what I have. And I am so close. Why now?’ he demanded angrily. ‘Why am I to be tested so by the Great Changer when I am about to deliver him this prize?’

‘Ephryx delivers Tzeentch’s prize?’ asked the first head to the second. ‘Not correct.’

‘We. We both,’ said the second. Both nodded, then peered at the sorcerer.

‘Our prize,’ they said together. ‘Our plan. Our reward.’

‘This is news to us all, the work of a rival power. Sigmar of the world gone before.’ Kairos’s eyes closed, and his necks extended upward, heads shaking sinuously back and forth. ‘The godling believes he can oppose Chaos.’

‘Defy that which has already been victorious,’ said the first head.

‘His plans he hid, but his assaults he cannot. He will be challenged soon.’

‘I need more time!’ snarled Ephryx.

‘Ninety-nine more dawns are required to charge the fortress sufficiently to convey it through the Shardgate,’ warned Kairos. ‘Only then will the metal realm be ours to dispose of as we see fit.’

‘They cannot stop the Stormcast Eternals,’ added the second.

‘That is the name of Sigmar’s puppets?’ asked the first.

‘It is,’ said the second.

‘What if, what if…’ said Ephryx. He rubbed his chin and paced the floor. ‘What if it is not more time that I need, but more magic?’

‘A thought,’ said Kairos.

‘But is it a good one?’ asked his other head.

‘When the warriors of Sigmar were slain in Aqshy, they ascended on reversed lightning,’ said Ephryx. His mind was racing. ‘They are not men, these creatures. They are infused with magic.’

‘Good, good!’ said Kairos. ‘Little wizard thinks well. And what is your conclusion?’

‘I can trap their essence — use the power of Sigmar against him. With the power of the storm mine to command.’ Ephryx spread his fingers quickly. ‘It is done!’ He chuckled, a gurgling growl like that made by a frightened cat. ‘Oh, a most delicious irony! Sigmar seeks to take Chamon, but I will use his own weapons to take it from him!’

‘Your own warriors are not enough to stand against them. When they discover the nature of this fortress, they will come against you in great numbers,’ said Kairos. ‘Your magic is modest, and your army weak.’

‘You are right, of course,’ said Ephryx. ‘But I will have support, and the location of the Silver Road will buy it. I will call upon Lord Maerac and King Thrond. Their armies will keep these warriors at bay. They are bored, and desirous of new lands to conquer. The Silver Road offers them an infinity of nations to despoil. It does not matter if they win or lose, so long as they buy the time we need with their blood. Five hundred years it took for Chaos to subjugate this realm. Sigmar will not win it back in a day. When they come against me, these… Stormcast Eternals?’ he asked.

Kairos nodded.

‘They will be weakened. No threat. I will siphon off their magic and complete my… our plan.’

‘You are learning, mortal,’ said Kairos’s first head.

‘Fool,’ said the second.

‘Agreed,’ said the first. ‘But the fool learns.’

Ephryx opened his mouth to protest, but the greater daemon was suddenly gone, leaving nothing but a solitary blue feather drifting to the floor, and a harsh, psittacine smell.

The sorcerer waited a moment. He shut his eyes and opened his mind. Through its weirding sight he appraised the room, seeking any trace of the Lord of Change. This allowed him to see the world as it truly was, a warping, dancing confection of magical flame, bound by natural law into the shapes of matter and energy. But those laws had no jurisdiction over him, and such shapes he could easily unpick. Kairos had gone, off to bother another unfortunate on some other plane of reality.

Ephryx grinned to himself. He was no slave. Kairos grossly underestimated him. He walked towards the wall. A door rippled into existence, and he stepped through onto a delicate balcony that leapt into being in time to catch his footfalls. He looked out towards the valley where the foe gathered. Ephryx had told the daemon he would hold off the storm warriors until they were weakened, but he would do exactly the opposite. If he could lure the Stormcasts to his fort sooner rather than later, the prize he sought to bring before Tzeentch would be his alone to deliver. Let them bring their full strength against him — all the more magic for him to steal. The realm of Chamon would become a part of the Realm of Chaos forever, and he its undisputed king.

There was no need to be modest, thought Ephryx. He was exceedingly clever. He looked across all of Anvrok, Kantrok and Denvrok below. All of this — the sundered lands, the serpents Argentine and Vitryx, the crucible — he would bring before Tzeentch, a gift fit for a god. Then he would be elevated beyond the petty bounds of mortality, made a daemon himself. A gift worthy for one such as he.

Tzeentch would have a new favourite, and Kairos would find out just how weak Ephryx really was.

His fists clenched. The daemon showed him no respect, and for that it would suffer. Always it mocked him, prodded at him, its bored jibes threatening to turn to outright sadism. Yes, Ephryx had had quite enough of Kairos the Oracle.

And he had a plan to humble him.

First, he must call upon his own allies. He lifted one hand to his face and blew upon it. He uncurled his fingers. Upon his palm stood a perfect replica of Kairos, four inches tall. In this replica the eyes of only one head glinted with intelligence. The other head lolled, an idiot expression plastered across its face.

‘Thing,’ said Ephryx, naming the being.

‘Wise Ephryx,’ Thing said. ‘Why must I wear this form?’

‘Because it amuses me,’ said Ephryx.

‘It will amuse you no longer when the lord Kairos sees how you mock him.’

‘I enjoy a little thrill,’ said the sorcerer. ‘You are to fly to Lord Maerac of Manticorea. Bid him come here with all haste and all his host. Inform King Thrond of the Crucible to make ready. Tell him of the situation.’

‘Which is?’ asked the daemon.

Ephryx growled dangerously.

Thing held up borrowed hands. ‘Begging your forgiveness! If you let me free of my prison once in a while, lord, then I might know! But Thing has no freedom that is not decreed by his most gracious Ephryx, and I see nothing in my jar. Nothing!’ Thing clapped his hands over his face. His second head stared on stupidly.

‘Stop your wailing, Thing.’

Thing peeked through his fingers. ‘I must trouble you to explain.’

So the sorcerer explained. His dream, the arrival of the Stormcast Eternals. The problem of ninety-nine days, although not the exact problem, not the real problem, but some fiction Thing could betray to Maerac and Thrond.

‘I see. Is there more I can do for the great master?’ said Thing impertinently. ‘Perhaps to fetch for him refreshment, or a pretty potted fern? This chamber of yours is austere — it lacks a homely touch.’

‘Now it is you that mocks me, imp. And unlike Kairos, I am fully aware of your insolence.’ Fires sprang up from Ephryx’s hand around the daemonling.

‘Very well, very well!’ Thing squealed. ‘Sorry, so sorry.’

Ephryx snorted. The flames went out. Thing’s idiot head croaked.

‘Fly, Thing, and if you are swift, perhaps I might allow you an hour free from your jar.’

The imp nodded eagerly. ‘I am away, away!’ It spread its wings, the perfect imitations of Kairos’s own, and took flight. ‘Ow!’ chirruped Thing as its unwanted second head pecked at him. ‘Stop that!’ It veered sideways in flight as he slapped at it.

‘Away, Thing! Swiftly! There is no reward for tardiness,’ called Ephryx. Thing levelled out and flapped up and away, borne quickly on winds that blew through no earthly air.

‘A new game begins,’ said Ephryx, as he watched Thing ascend. He bit his lip with his needle teeth, bringing forth a bright jewel of coppery blood. He licked it away reflexively and chortled to himself, then went to gather his followers. Time to provoke a reaction from the invaders. Time to lure them in.

CHAPTER FIVE

The Silverway

Thostos Bladestorm strode along the edge of a valley, Liberator-Prime Perun Goldhammer following him. Tawny dust hazed the vista, but could not conceal the country’s strangeness entirely. To begin with, there was its fragmented nature. The Hanging Valleys of Anvrok was a region of floating landmasses set in an ocean of air. Some, such as this land of Anvrok itself, were as large as continents. Others were only as modest as counties. The smallest grouped in shoals or were isolated rock, bearing lonely spiny trees or rough patchings of scrub that hung in tangles over their sides.

To the west a vast crucible floated in the sky, as expansive as an ocean, filled with inexhaustible molten silver. The silver fell from the lip of the crucible in two streams, the Argent Falls. Where one fall hit Anvrok it became a sluggish river, cutting through the vale of the metal-rich land which defined this country.

Even more awesome than the crucible was the serpent, a twisting behemoth whose silver-scaled coils spiralled away, down and down through the Voids of Chamon, seemingly without end. Over the horizon its vast head gaped, multicoloured flames roaring from jaws whited by distance. The beast shimmered in the heat given off by the falls and flames, giving it an elusive quality. It should have been an illusion. The thing was titanic: it could not possibly be alive, but live it did. The soft roar of its fiery breath was a constant in this odd land. The flames stirred hot winds from the air that scoured the valley from end to end. When the sun passed, there would be no true night. Argentine’s breath would not allow darkness.

Yet this bizarre place had once been populous and wealthy. There were signs of habitation everywhere, all long ruined.

A flash from above drew Thostos’s attention upwards. A Prosecutor wheeled on perfect wings of energy high overhead.

‘This way, Lord-Celestant!’

The warrior-herald pointed towards a slit in the rock. It looked like nothing to Thostos, just a crack.

But the crack was an artifice, stone cleverly fashioned to conceal. This fake outcrop masked a shallow valley, into which Thostos and Perun passed. Much industry had taken place there. Dozens of mine entrances opened in cliff faces that had been created by tools, unnaturally flat-faced and regular. Spoil was heaped in conical piles. No one had disturbed the ground here for many ages. Several of the mines had collapsed. Ancillary buildings stood roofless, their windows empty. The dry air preserved strange machinery, rusted the same colour as the ochre soil. This went on for five miles; Thostos followed the Prosecutor as he flew to the north.

Whole mountains had been cracked and scraped clean of their ore, but despite the staggering scale of the works on show, there were always more natural riches. Thostos and Perun went from the valley into another, untouched by pick or shovel, where there were the hints of yet more ore veins. Rocks that glittered with argentite, galena and haematite. In places nuggets of native copper and gold poked through the dirt, or were strewn on the ground, ready to be picked up.

Such wealth was staggering. Thostos supposed it was indicative of the duardin character that they had chosen to strip each area clean before moving on to the next.

Thostos and Perun went around a brooding mountain of black rock very different to the others. The Prosecutor had stopped, and was swooping back and forth, pointing downwards. The Lord-Celestant and his aide scrambled down a slope, dislodging a tumble of scree.

At the bottom they found themselves suddenly on an unlikely road, well-paved and level. They followed this. Shortly, two rows of Celestial Vindicators came into sight lining the route, cloaks stirring in the metallic breeze.

At the end of the road, Lord-Castellant Eldroc of Thostos’s own Warrior Chamber waited at the brink of a cliff. His gryph-hound Redbeak lay at his feet. The eagle-headed beast’s tail lashed with impatience.

‘Eldroc has been no luckier than we,’ said Perun. ‘More empty valleys.’

‘This one is more important than most,’ said Thostos.

‘There is nothing to kill,’ growled Perun. ‘Where is the foe?’

‘There will be killing soon enough, my friend.’

‘Lord-Celestant.’ Eldroc clashed his right hand against his breastplate and dipped his head. ‘What news of the duardin?’

‘None,’ said Thostos. ‘Their holds and mines are all about this place. Most are despoiled, others appear to have been abandoned. All are deserted. Of the duardin themselves there is no sign. The heralds search far and wide for them, but this land is deserted.’

‘I have found the same,’ said Eldroc.

‘Nought but dusty valleys and broken towns. No sign of mortal life anywhere,’ sighed Thostos.

‘You hoped for better, Lord-Celestant? I hear other realms have fared worse under the yoke of Chaos,’ said Eldroc.

Thostos grumbled. ‘I always hope for better, Lord-Castellant, but I expect the worst.’

‘I have reports from the Fireblades and the Storm Masters that they have taken the Bright Tor Gate in the face of minimal resistance. You might wish to revise your expectations.’

‘They have at least had the chance to slay,’ said Perun.

‘Show me what you have discovered,’ said Thostos. ‘The rest of our chamber search the northern valleys. There are signs of beast-creatures there.’

‘If our brothers come upon the enemy, I wish to be at their side,’ said Perun.

‘Yes,’ said Eldroc. ‘I wish the same for myself.’

‘If you have found the Silverway, you will get your vengeance before me,’ said Perun.

‘Maybe, Liberator-Prime.’ Eldroc took up his halberd and warding lantern from the ground. ‘Redbeak! Come.’

Eldroc led Thostos and Perun to the top of a set of stairs carved into the cliff. A crack followed the stairs, allowing in daylight.

‘From the outside this crack appears to be a simple fault in the stone, the stairway is artfully concealed,’ said Eldroc. ‘The duardin were fond of hiding. Most settlements we have approached have grand entrances, but there are many more that are disguised in some way or another.’

‘The folk of Grungni ever were secretive,’ said Thostos. ‘Lord Sigmar warned us of that. It would help if they were not. How are we to bring them to our cause if they cannot be found?’

‘I do wonder why we have been given this task,’ said Eldroc. ‘We, the sons of vengeance, grubbing about in the dirt looking for folk that do not wish to be found. One would think a Stormhost with a less belligerent character might be better suited. I worry the God-King does not trust us.’

‘You question Sigmar already, Lord-Castellant?’ asked Perun.

‘Forgive my impatience.’

‘I feel it too. I will explain how I see his strategy,’ said Thostos, ‘The duardin respect might at arms as much as they do craft. They bear a grudge a long time, and will not let it lie until they feel they have been fairly recompensed. So who better to approach them than those who place revenge upon the Four Powers above all other things?’

Eldroc made a noise of agreement.

‘We are all untried in battle, we Stormcasts,’ continued Thostos. ‘If I were Sigmar, I might send my more restrained warriors in first so I might better judge their virtues. And I might hold back my most ferocious for a time when they were truly needed. Patience, brothers. We have waited for centuries for battle. What does a handful more hours matter? We will all get to blood our hammers soon enough. An eternity of war awaits us. It may come to pass that we yearn for peace before long.’

‘Never,’ said Perun firmly. ‘I will never yearn for peace again, not until Khorne himself is cast from his iron throne and his collection of skulls smashed to bone meal.’

‘Aye to that,’ said Eldroc.

The stairs opened to a level place, floored with sand. A cave, were it not for the gap high above that showed the brazen sky. But the way seemed to end in a cul-de-sac. A wall of rock greeted Thostos.

‘This is it?’

‘Yes, Lord-Celestant. Another trick for the eyes. Follow me.’

Eldroc approached the rear of the cave, his turquoise armour flashing as he stepped through a slash of sunlight. It appeared he had vanished. Thostos and Perun stopped in amazement until Eldroc’s arm appeared again and beckoned them. What looked like one sheet of stone was two overlapped with a passage between.

‘Another marvel made with simple stone,’ said Perun.

They followed Eldroc. Another chasm awaited. The convoluted sides matched one another, so it seemed like the stone had parted like a pair of lips. A sandy path wended its way along the bottom, finally opening out in a large, bell-shaped chamber. Forty Stormcasts guarded the way in. They clashed their hammers on their armour as their officers approached.

‘Let’s see it then,’ said Thostos.

Eldroc pointed to the left. Set into the back wall of the chamber, right into the side of the mountain, was a great portal. Thostos walked to the centre of the chamber so that he might see it more fully. The sun was at exactly the right angle to shine through the small light in the roof of the chamber and play across the huge carvings surrounding it.

The gate was monumental in size, three hundred feet high and one hundred across. Two enormous duardin herms made up the bottom half of each side of the frame. Their heads and backs were bowed with carved effort, long stone beards brushing the sand along the cliff face’s foot. They were guarded by friezes of lesser carvings, a row of figures who scowled out at the Stormcasts and pointed with accusing hands. Tall, geometrically patterned pillars carried upon the upturned hands of the herms made up the remainder of the height, and bore the weight of a long lintel artfully fashioned from a single massive piece of stone. An outer band deeply carved with repeating geometric designs made the outer edge. In the flat space of the middle of the frame ran an unbroken run of six-foot-tall runes bordered by perfectly chiselled flora and fauna, thinner against the geometric band and thick around the gaping mouth of the gateway. Thostos had seen none of the things depicted there in the Chaos-tainted wasteland of Anvrok; the world the carvings showed was long gone.

The mountain here was black rock shot through with glittering seams of galena, but the arch was a creamy colour, a different kind of stone. Thostos could see no join to mark the transition between the two sorts — it was as if they had been welded together. Perhaps it had been. The duardin had skills none could match. The gate runes glowed feebly in the sun of Chamon, lambent with quiet magic that hinted at past power.

Thostos removed his helmet. Underneath was a face framed by blond hair and a beard, square jawed and heavily featured beyond the norms of mortal men. His eyes alone seemed completely human, and only they had remained unchanged during his remaking. They were the same eyes that had once beheld Amcarsh in its dying days. But neither his eyes nor the sweat and dirt streaking his skin could hide the god-gifted power crackling within him.

‘The fabled Silverway of the duardin,’ Thostos pronounced. With his mask removed, his voice was warm and rich. ‘How disappointingly easy to find.’

A few of the men chuckled, pride and frustration both in the sound.

‘There was no resistance at all? It was just here, waiting for you in the mountainside?’

‘Retributor Eustos found it,’ said Eldroc. He held up a hand to indicate a warrior who bowed his head in recognition.

‘A blackbird alighted upon a mountain stone,’ said Eustos. ‘I had seen no other life in this place, and so it drew my eyes. When I looked at the bird, the stair was plain to see, though I would swear to Sigmar himself that there was nothing there before.’

‘Plain for you to see.’ Thostos took in the clean lines of the carving, unsoftened by time and unmarked by violence. ‘There is no taste of Chaos here at all. Even if the damned had not found it, I would have expected this place to be the lair of a beast. But there is no sign, past or present. It is as if it has been hidden for centuries. It is almost as if we were meant to find it.’

‘That is what Lord-Relictor Cryden suggests, in fact, my lord. That the duardin hid this place from the enemies of their god Grungni…’ began Eldroc.

‘But not from his allies,’ concluded Thostos. His sigmarite armour rattled quietly as he walked the length of the gate and back.

‘There is more, Lord-Celestant.’ Eldroc nodded to the men guarding the gate. One went to the far side of the chamber. It was so wide it took him a minute to run the distance. Once there he raised his hammer and tapped at the stone.

‘Are we to become miners, Eldroc?’ asked Thostos.

‘Watch,’ said Eldroc. He signalled the men by the gate. They placed their hands into the mouth cavities of two of the smaller figures in the frieze.

The ground rumbled. A low hum followed. The runes upon the gate burned brightly blue.

The rock chamber flickered. One moment the Stormcasts were within a giant cavern, the next they stood upon a platform set into the open mountainside. All around them were stout ruins. Where the far chamber wall had been, a wide road led down from the Silverway, passing over several landings and sweeping flights of stairs as it descended. Then the bare rocky slopes many hundreds of yards in all directions wavered and vanished. In their stead a duardin town followed the road down the mountain. To the left and right, a vista covering all the vale of Anvrok was open to the Stormcast Eternals. Warm sun basked Thostos’s face. The only element that remained unchanged was the hidden path by which he had come to the Silverway. It still came out of the stone by the gate, its entrance dark in the sun.

‘Now that is impressive,’ Thostos said, sweeping his gaze over the view. ‘Such art! I have never heard of an illusion so great in scope to hide a whole city, excepting Sigmar’s cloak about Azyr.’

‘The city is desolate, abandoned like all the rest,’ said Perun. ‘Disappointingly so.’

‘You have a point,’ conceded Thostos. The buildings had been hidden from prying eyes, but unlike the gate had suffered the effects of time and weather. Many were surrounded by skirts of detritus cracked by frost and the sun’s heat on the walls. Roofs had fallen in. Windows were eyeless holes that the wind blew mournfully through.

‘If the duardin intended us to find this, why can we not find them?’ asked Eldroc.

The men stared at the gate a moment.

‘Does it work?’ asked Thostos. ‘Is the way still open?’

Lord-Castellant Eldroc raised a hand. A herald of their chamber stepped from the knot of Stormcast Eternals at Eldroc’s back, his bearing proud, detached, his heavy helmet tucked under one arm. The mechanisms of his wings were folded, the feathers of light extinguished. He announced himself, his voice sonorous and clean and somewhat hollow behind the warmask, like the voices of all the reforged.

‘Prosecutor-Prime Martius the Swift, of the Skyblood Angelos Conclave.’

‘Speak, Martius,’ said Thostos.

‘I have returned to Sigmaron upon this road, my lord. It works exactly as our lord Sigmar said it should. Beyond the arch is a tunnel, fair made and well-dressed in stone. As one follows this, the cold of the utterdark gathers about the traveller, until all is black and freezing as the dark before time. Then there is a second arch, like the gate before us but twice as finely wrought. This entrance here is not the gate, but the path to the Silverway. Blackness and starlight wait beyond, but I trusted the word of our God-King and stepped out into the void, uttering six of the names of Azyr as I did so. And lo! A road of silver rose up beneath my feet, and stretched on, shining as with the light of the pure moons of Azyr. Five steps I took upon this endless road, finding myself in the Gardens of Celerity, nigh to the road leading to Sigmaron. The legends do not speak falsely.’

‘There was no way back through the realmgate that you exited?’

‘None. It closed behind me without trace. I was taken there, and left. I returned by Sigmar’s own hand.’

‘And there is nothing untowards upon the road?’

‘It is pure and unsullied. No trace of Chaos’s mark upon it.’

‘Then the key part of our crusade is concluded.’ Thostos laughed. In truth, he, Eldroc and the others of the Bladestorms wished for vengeance before success. ‘Sigmar will see this as a great triumph.’

‘Indeed he does,’ said Eldroc. ‘A part of the Stormhost has been ordered to return to Azyr.’

Thostos raised his eyebrows at his Lord-Castellant questioningly. ‘And?’

‘Not us, my lord. Our own Bladestorm is to remain here, as are the Fireblades and the Doombringers. The Harbingers of Vengeance are to remain on guard upon the Bright Tor Gate under Lord-Castellant Barahan. Others will set out to the west and south, and to Denvrok, to widen the search for the duardin.’

Thostos nodded, visibly relieved. ‘That is good. We shall have our vengeance yet.’

‘Maybe, maybe not, my lord,’ said Perun.

Thostos looked over the officers and champions of Eldroc’s cohort. All of them radiated frustration.

‘We are all Celestial Vindicators,’ he said, raising his voice so that all might hear him. ‘Here by dint of our great desire for vengeance. I see much impatience, a desire to close with the foe and smite him hard, to rend and destroy those foul traitors who turned their backs upon the gods and embraced the impure power of Chaos.’ His voice boomed from the cliff. ‘Fear not, my brothers, we shall have vengeance, each and every one of us, over and over again from now until the close of eternity ushers long night upon the Mortal Realms and all those that lie beyond them. Do not see the ease with which this gate was found as a disappointment, no! For by this road of the duardin our hammers might make their presence felt on a thousand times a thousand battlefields. Better we test our mettle later in many wars than in the single one. Do not despair, O Celestial Vindicators, we shall have the blood of ten thousand enemies in recompense for the lives of our families and the destruction of our nations.’

‘Well said, my lord,’ said Eldroc.

‘You do not appear satisfied, Lord-Castellant.’

‘I yearn to fight,’ admitted Eldroc.

Thostos clapped his hand upon the arm of his lieutenant. ‘As do I, Eldroc, as do I.’

‘Others will have their chance sooner than we, I think,’ said Eldroc. ‘I have the orders for the Bladestorms. I can guess their content.’

A scroll was brought out by Eldroc’s aide. Thostos read it quickly. When he was done he rolled it up again, whereupon it burst into flames and went to nothing.

‘We are to stay and guard the gate.’

Eldroc nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘I understand your desire to go out and fight, Lord-Castellant.’ Thostos looked upward to the pale sky, as if he might see Sigmar up there, staring back down at him. ‘This task of holding the Silverway I would entrust to none other but you, Eldroc,’ he said. ‘You are among the finest of all Lord-Castellants, a master of defensive warfare.’

‘Nevertheless, I do not know whether to be angry or relieved,’ said Eldroc. ‘The others will be sent on to realms where battle rages already.’ He rested his lantern upon the sand and gripped his halberd tightly. ‘Their chance at vengeance comes before ours.’

‘Or our fellows still present here might find nothing, and those sent home find themselves in reserve in the Golden City,’ said Thostos.

‘You don’t believe that, I think, Lord-Celestant.’

‘No,’ snorted Thostos. ‘Not really. But I also do not believe this ease will hold. This land appears empty, but has long been under the dominion of the master schemer. There are beastmen, and others will come once tidings of our arrival spread. Our presence will have been noted. Can the process of concealment be reversed?’

‘Yes, Lord-Celestant.’ Eldroc’s voice was heavy with disappointment. He raised his arm, and his warriors moved back to the gate’s guardian statues.

‘Stay your hand, Lord-Castellant,’ said Thostos. ‘Let us leave the Silverway open to view. Let it be a signal to the forces of Chaos that not all the works of the ancients were cast down, and that we come in open war to reclaim them. We are not skulking whelps. Let them see this and rage. The enemy will come against us soon enough. Of that I have no doubt.’

The posture of the Celestial Vindicators around the gate changed. They stood taller. Whispers passed among them, urgent with the anticipation of battle.

‘Then I await them with eagerness in my heart,’ said Eldroc. ‘I thank you, my lord.’

CHAPTER SIX

The calm before the storm

With the haunting call of trumpets, three chambers of Celestial Vindicators marched up through the revealed city of the duardin and into the tunnel of the Silverway.

They came up the road five abreast, the tramp of their feet and rattle of their armour echoing from the mountainsides and their songs soaring to the peaks.

The remainder of the Bladestorms came first, joining with Eldroc’s cohort, and stood aside to let their brothers by. Warrior after warrior marched on, their Celestants, Castellants, Vexillors and Relictors leading. Dracoths huffed and growled, reluctant to leave Chamon. There were ranks of bow-carrying Judicators, hammer-wielding Retributors, winged Prosecutors and grim Liberators, their wargear gleaming and standards waving.

Thostos saluted his brother commanders as they went past. Such was their presence that it seemed their passage would never end, a turquoise stream of thwarted avengers doomed to pass through the gate over and over.

But it did end. As the day darkened into night and the Alchemist’s Moon made itself known in the sky, the last of the departing warriors went into the tunnel. The sound of their march persisted long after the final few ranks had vanished into the dark, until the sound stopped suddenly.

‘They have passed onto the Silver Road and out of Chamon,’ said Eldroc.

‘A sight to move the heart, the warriors of Sigmar marching openly in Chamon,’ said Thostos. He took in his Warrior Chamber, standing in ranks, cloaks stirring in the warm wind. The entirety of the Bladestorms now guarded the Silverway. Most were arrayed before the entrance — all but fifty, who kept watch on the entrance to the canyon approach.

‘And yet Sigmar has us waiting here, in this wasteland,’ said Eldroc.

Redbeak woke from his slumber, and with head cocked he fixed a keen eye upon a spot in the sky over the desolate city. A star winked there in the evening, and came nearer. A moment later a winged figure became apparent, a Prosecutor messenger. He flew in and alighted before the gate.

‘Any news?’ asked Thostos.

‘Little, Lord-Celestant. We have found scattered signs of mortal settlement, and the refuse of beastherds. There is a great fortress to the south, in the ruins of the city Elixia. Otherwise, this land is empty of inhabitants.’

‘That is valuable news,’ said Thostos. ‘Tomorrow we shall send more scouts to look upon it. If it is a great redoubt of the enemy, there we will find our first chance at vengeance.’

The Prosecutor bowed his head.

‘What of the area hereabouts?’ asked Eldroc.

‘Nothing, my lord. Dead as it was before. Nothing comes or goes.’

‘And the duardin?’

‘The Knights-Azyros seek them still, and have gone into the higher peaks. The Fireblades Chamber have crossed the Silver River and make for the cliffs of the Vaulten Range. They have seen no further sign of habitation there, old or new. Lord-Celestant Cumulos of the Harbingers of Vengeance bid me inform you that his men have uncovered workings of the duardin near to the river. There are manufactories, but they are ruinous and devoid of life, and have been so for a long time. He and that portion of his brotherhood not with Barahan proceed westwards, towards the great silver sky wyrm, in the hope of some more recent sign of them.’

‘Then here was where they dwelt. This was their capital. It is as we feared,’ said Eldroc.

‘These mountains are riddled with their workings. This is no outlying region, but the centre of their country,’ said Thostos.

‘It appears so, my lord. Further out, the cities are those of men, not Grungni’s folk,’ said the herald.

‘Very well. Return to your patrolling, Prosecutor. Bring any news, any at all, as soon as you have it.’

‘Yes, Lord-Celestant.’ The Prosecutor leaped skywards, his wings bearing him up in a blaze of light. Eldroc envied him his freedom.

‘He flies, we wait,’ said Thostos, echoing Eldroc’s thoughts.

‘I am bound to the path of defender, my lord. Sigmar remade me to keep his fortresses and guard places such as this. I do his bidding gladly.’

‘And yet you still envy our Prosecutor brother,’ said Thostos.

Eldroc did not reply, but could not help looking south towards the location of the fortress. There was no sign of the enemy yet, and the night was deepening.

CHAPTER SEVEN

First blood

‘Fire! Blue fire comes!’ The shout echoing from the watch upon the clifftop was urgent and joyful. ‘The enemy shows himself!’ A Celestial Vindicator pointed southward, to where a flickering ball of blue light danced across the early morning sky.

‘To arms! To arms!’ shouted Thostos eagerly. ‘Finally, my brothers, we shall have the vengeance we so crave! To arms! To arms! Eldroc, hold the eastern end of the platform. I shall take the west.’

‘Aye, my lord,’ said Eldroc, and went to do his lord’s bidding, Redbeak screeching at his heels.

Horns blasted, calling the Stormcast Eternals to order. With a rattle of armour, they readied themselves in front of the duardin gate. A semicircle of Liberators stood shoulder to shoulder and locked their shields. In front of them went a line of Judicators, their skybolt bows crackling into life.

‘Ware! Ware!’ a shout came down from above. ‘The fire has gone!’

All eyes went to the horizon. Eldroc swept his gaze over the early morning sky.

Then it was upon them.

The ball of witchfire burst from nowhere opposite the realmgate, expanding from a sphere no larger than a shield to create a crackling wave fifty yards or more across. Blue flame tips flared magenta and orange, green and violet. Howling, laughing faces appeared in the fire, snatched away only to be replaced by more horrors. The glare of it was harsh, searing as lightning but loaded with dark magics. It hurt the eyes and the soul to look upon.

‘Judicators, loose!’ shouted Eldroc.

Lightning flared, pitting its purer light against the dark radiance of the fire. Methodically the Judicators sent volley after volley of stormbolts into the approaching firewall. But they clanged against the flames with the sound of struck metal. Their lightning went out, and they fell to the ground.

‘Loose!’ ordered Eldroc.

The Judicators’ aim was true. Not a bolt missed its mark, but every missile was stopped as surely as an axe blow is turned by sigmarite. The flames grew to encompass the breadth of the platform. The runes of the duardin gate spat sparks as they were caressed by unclean light. There was no heat from the flames, but they radiated a dull prickliness that set Eldroc’s teeth on edge. The energies contained within his body reacted, writhing across his war harness in a series of short, hopping sparks. Smoke that smelled of brimstone and flowers rose from the armour joints of the Stormcasts.

The fire drew closer until it was thirty yards from the Judicators. Eldroc held up his hand to shield his eyes. Behind the fire he discerned dark shapes. Silhouettes wavered in the flame, warriors joined into one long, spiked profile. They were as tall as his own Stormcast Eternals, decked in heavy plate armour, helms crowned with horns and strange crests. Cavalry rode in the centre upon massive horses. Infantry were to the flanks, carrying huge, cruel-bladed axes. There was something else, a large shape that hovered behind and above the warriors of Chaos, but the nature of that was obscured by the fire, which seemed to gather itself more thickly and fluidly there, protective of its secret.

‘Sound the horns! Order the cliff guard down to the gate!’ shouted Eldroc.

Silver horns blared, the purity of their notes dispelling some of the odd sensation projected by the fire.

The firewall dissipated, revealing the Chaos host behind: at least two hundred of them, armoured in blue and yellow, bright steel and bronze, vile decorations upon their plate. The Chaos warriors and Stormcasts were opposite sides of the same coin, both kinds energised by divine will, but whereas the Stormcasts had had their souls uplifted by Sigmar, here were men who had sacrificed theirs for power.

The ranks of Liberators fluidly parted, allowing the Judicators to retreat and take refuge behind them. They locked shields again at the exact moment the warriors of Tzeentch roared and charged.

The flanks came in first, smashing into the outer limbs of the Bladestorms’ own formation. At that moment, Eldroc lost sight of Thostos, and his view of the battle drew in.

The crash of the meeting lines was deafening, a sound out of the ages of myth when the gods themselves clashed weapon on weapon. The Stormcasts raised their shields, taking blows that would have cut an ogor in half. Hammers descended in reply, battering Chaos armour to shards and pulverising the flesh beneath. Both sides exhorted their divine masters to bring them victory. Prayers to the Lord of Change were matched by Sigmarite hymns of war, and the very air boiled where they met in contest.

As the fire went out, Eldroc saw the shape it had concealed. Upon a spinning disk of purest gold rode a tall man in dark robes with long, pointed horns. A gangrel sorcerer, a disciple of change. He plucked at the air with long fingers, dragging power from the stuff of creation and hurling it at the centre of the Bladestorms’ line. These flickering bolts of multicoloured magic transmuted themselves into spears of burning quicksilver as they flew. One burst through the Stormcasts to Eldroc’s left. With a peal of thunder, the warrior discorporated and a flash of light raced upwards, back to the Reforging chambers of the Sigmarabulum. The warriors of Chaos were mighty foes, and there were more of these departures. But the Bladestorms would not yield. With each death, the Liberators bunched tighter, allowing no gap in their shieldwall. Skybolts arced over the front ranks, blasting Chaos warriors from their feet. The Chaos infantry were fully invested in the fight, but as yet the knights of Chaos had not engaged. They stood ready, mutant horses snorting, but they remained unmoving.

‘Stand ready, my brothers!’ yelled Eldroc. The footmen were attempting to pin the Stormcasts’ flanks in place, pressuring them so that more Stormcasts were drawn from the centre while it was further weakened by the magic of their leader. To the west, the Lord-Castellant caught sight of Thostos embattled, but lost him in the press of warriors gathering there again. Eldroc judged that the knights were waiting until the line’s middle was sufficiently depleted so that they could burst it asunder with their charge.

If that were the foe’s plan, it was failing. The Stormcasts did not weaken. The line remained tight; no gap opened up.

The sorcerer hunched forward. He licked his lips with his long purple tongue and cast a wary glance to the narrow valley leading to the platform. There the others of the Bladestorms were mustering. Already they had abandoned their watch on the mountain way and thundered down the stairs to join their brothers. In moments they would be upon the Chaos flank. Running out of time, the sorcerer paused in his bombardment and raised a long finger. Red light burst from it. At this signal the cavalry reared up. Their mounts screeched with hellish voices and they plunged forward, lances dropping into position. The knights clashed into the centre of the Stormcast Eternal line. Few lance points found their way past the sigmarite armour, but the warriors of Azyr were bowed by the sheer impact of the mass of twisted horseflesh, steel and Chaos-swollen men coming at them. Armoured feet squealed on rock as they were forced backward.

Eldroc’s armour sparked with fury. He stepped outside a lance’s thrust, and welcomed his attackers.

‘Vengeance!’ he called. ‘Vengeance!’

With a terrible joy he sang his battlesong, and laid about him with his halberd, spearing one giant with the tip and throwing him from his horse. A snarl announced the attack of Redbeak. The gryph-hound leapt from Eldroc’s side and bore a second Chaos knight backwards off his mount. His halberd whistled overhead and Eldroc’s heart swelled. This was what he had been made for, this was his gift from Sigmar. In another time and another place there had been another man. The life of that man had been destroyed to the sound of evil laughter — his wife, his children, his family and his tribe, all slain with wanton cruelty. He had fought, aye, but he had been bested and taken to their torture tables. As his own life was about to end he had prayed to Sigmar. He had asked not for salvation, but that he be permitted revenge. As his blood mingled with his tears, he had shouted his hatred of Chaos. He had shouted to the skies for the strength to bring down the minions of the great powers as they had hewn down his tribe and trampled their flesh into the dirt.

A vain plea, but of utmost sincerity. His prayers had been answered. Flashes of memory, long dormant, flickered through his mind. Every crushing blow sparked a recollection of pain and dread. These nightmares from the past lent greater strength to his arm. Far from tiring, he became stronger, his need for vengeance impelling his arm as much as Sigmar’s powers. Hell-forged armour cracked and shattered. and the steel-clad heads of horses were cloven through. Many great champions of Tzeentch came against him, but none could stand before his wrath. He was vengeance incarnate. His song became a wordless cry of rage and he pressed on, heedless of the danger. The line of Liberators behind him forced themselves forward against the press of the foe, following their leader into the heart of the force. Gore splashed over them as Eldroc’s halberd did its deadly work. He hacked with the axe blade and stabbed with its spear tip, smashing apart dark armour and tainted flesh alike.

A massive brute of a man clad in brass fell to the ground and Eldroc drove the spike of his halberd through his stomach with a feral cry. He drew the weapon out and swung it in a blurring arc that had the enemy’s horses rearing in fear; one could not control his steed, and Eldroc decapitated him in a spray of gore. He roared at the sight.

A gap opened around him, as the minions of Tzeentch dared not chance their skill against his. Eldroc’s rage lifted. He panted hard. For the first time since his transformation he felt the ache of exertion trouble his muscles. He yearned to leap forward and slay, but as much as he desired to let his fury take him, he could not allow it. He must lead. Berserk rage was the way of Chaos; he was a servant of Order. With a shuddering breath he willed his heart to slow and climbed atop a dead steed. From there he surveyed the battle.

The remaining Bladestorms were coming to Lord Thostos’s aid through the defile from the mountainside, and their arrival pressed the Chaos warriors there hard. In return, the Chaos worshippers moved more of their number to bolster their efforts, so that only a small knot remained embattled to Eldroc’s left. The Stormcasts were moments away from being able to turn the line. Now the Chaos army risked losing its centre.

The sorcerer had come off his platform and was calling the powers of Chaos to aid him. Magic flowed into the armour of the dead, bringing the wargear unnatural life. Animated suits lurched forward, carrying the corpses of their wearers back into battle. On those still living, broken armour flowed together. The weapons of the sorcerer’s men glowed potently.

Eldroc laughed. ‘Are such magics intended to intimidate me, mage? See here the power of Sigmar Heldenhammer manifest!’ He held aloft his warding lantern, the seat of his power and symbol of his office. Brilliant light blazed forth. Where it lit upon the Celestial Vindicators’ sigmarite, dents popped out of scarred metal, and gashes in flesh knitted themselves shut. The Stormcasts were invigorated by the light of their God-King, and redoubled their attack. But where it touched upon the scions of Chaos they reeled back. Wounds closed by the sorcerer burst open once more, and the suits of armour brought to life fell back to the ground.

The charge of the Chaos knights had been broken. The last was brought down, his steed letting out a grating, reptilian whinny as it was tripped and pushed over. Both rider and steed were obscured by hammers rising and falling.

Only the sorcerer’s bodyguard remained in the centre of the enemy line, a grim company of wicked murderers dressed like kings and armed with a daemon’s plunder. Dangerous, but few in number.

The tide was turning. It was time to press the advantage.

‘Judicators, protect the flanks!’ yelled Eldroc. His battle shout pierced the tumult of battle. The irregular rain of stormbolts ceased and two distinct barrages set up. Two-thirds of the gleaming bolts fell on the greater numbers of Chaos warriors by the entrance to the mountain path, while the other third speared down onto the small knot by the eastern flank. The stormbolts there did swift work, breaking up the formation of the warriors and leaving them at the mercy of the Eternals’ hammers and swords.

‘Liberators, to me!’ Eldroc called. Without waiting for his men, he ran across the narrow gap and plunged into the sorcerer’s bodyguard. Halberds with gibbering faces flowing over molten surfaces rose to greet him, but he smashed them aside. Screaming his oath to Sigmar over and again, he hacked his way deep into the enemy’s ranks. A solid crash came behind him as the Liberators’ shieldwall impacted the foe. He was impetuous, carving a passage alone towards the sorcerer. He spun his weapon, whirling it round his head and turning his body about to maintain its momentum. Redbeak came at his side, ripping at those few who evaded Eldroc’s wrath.

With a final crash Eldroc put down his last foe. It took him a moment to realise he had burst right through the dread regiment. The sorcerer stood just a few yards from him. They locked eyes a moment, then the sorcerer turned and fled back towards his golden platform.

Redbeak leapt after him, but the sorcerer waved a hand at the gryph-hound, sending it spinning aside.

‘Judicators, bring down the curse caster!’ roared Eldroc.

The disc bobbed in the air, rotating at stately speed until the sorcerer approached, whereupon it stopped and sank low to the ground. With a single bound, the sorcerer jumped upon it. The disc’s revolutions restarted and quickened as it rose up, bearing the sorcerer over the heads of the combatants. A hail of stormbolts came at the sorcerer. None hit their target. A fresh wall of blue fire erupted around the disc, and the bolts clashed off it harmlessly. Shrinking rapidly in on itself, the ball of fire darted up and away, heading off over the duardin ruins and then to the south.

Eldroc noted its direction, but could spare little time in consideration of pursuit. The damned warriors, seeing their master gone, were fighting all the harder, and Thostos’s flank was being pushed back before their fury.

‘Slay them! Slay them all!’ called Eldroc. He and his men laid low the remainder of the wizard’s bodyguard, then turned to the mountain path entrance to fall upon the rear of the Chaos warriors fighting there.

Minutes later it was all over. Stormcast Eternals stood, hammers suddenly heavy in their hands, chests heaving. The broken bodies of Chaos slaves lay on the sand and rock of the platform floor. The statues of the duardin on either side of the arch looked on impassively. Eldroc let the haft of his halberd thump to the floor as Thostos came to join him.

‘Finally,’ he said. ‘Vengeance begins.’

‘And it is a beginning only. Did you see the way the sorcerer fled?’

‘To the south.’

‘Aye,’ said Thostos, and there was grim pleasure in his voice. ‘Towards the ruined city of Elixia. Towards the great fortress.’

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Glimmerlands

Once the battle at the platform was done, the wounded ministered to and the tally of those returned to Sigmaron calculated, Thostos elected to take fully two-thirds of the Bladestorms off the mountain by the stairs in pursuit of the horned sorcerer, leaving Eldroc to his duty as guardian of the Silverway.

As they descended, it became apparent that the ruins were even more expansive than they had originally thought. They marvelled that such a site could have been hidden from view for so long, for the tumbled buildings stretched down to the lowlands and there were many shafts and hewn caves visible in the rock of the mountain besides.

They left the ruins of the duardin behind and headed south, following the directions of Prosecutor scouts towards the other city and the fortress that filled its centre.

By the end of evening they had reached the edge of the Glimmerlands. Thostos ordered a halt, and his men set up camp within a ruin upon a low hill. Once a palace, its walls were cast down and towers broken, so that no portion stood taller than a man.

Thostos watched strange night fall over Anvrok for the fifth time. The sun went into the rippling fires of the great wyrm Argentine. A long shadow fell on the valley as the wyrm obscured the light, only for the sun to return a quarter of an hour later an exhausted red. The sun had fought its daily battle with the wyrm’s jaws and it had lost, as it did every day.

Argentine’s coils filled the western sky. Through the day its vast bulk was pale as the daytime moon, but night lent it solidity and it became ominous. Towards the lands of the deepest east, a haze of metallic dust tinted the air the colour of brass, purple beyond where night marshalled itself in the void, ready to march on Anvrok. From the west, a new light came to conquer the sun’s dominion. In the valley of Anvrok, the land danced already to the endless writhing of Argentine’s fire. Shadows leaped around rocks frantically, as if seeking to avoid being seen. The Silver River lost its sheen and glowed, the intense heat it harboured revealed by the gloaming. And so the battlefield was set, dark night against the Chaos-tinged fire of the wyrm.

Liberator-Prime Perun came to stand beside his lord. He rocked a loose stone in the wall. The mortar was dry dust and frittered away to nothing on the hot breeze. He grunted, hollow behind his helm, and reseated the stone. ‘Better than nothing, I suppose,’ he said.

Thostos made no indication he had heard. He did not take his eyes from the great wyrm. ‘I grew to manhood in Amcarsh, before the God-King took me to his side and made me anew. In that realm were creatures as tall as towers, and fiercer than the storm. Only in a few places fenced in by sea or mountain could we make our homes, so mighty were they. But I look at that wyrm in astonishment. I have never seen anything like it.’

Perun nodded. ‘It defies belief, Lord-Celestant. I see that and the crucible it warms. But I cannot credit it a rightwise part of this realm. It seems more a whim of Chaos than a thing of Order.’

‘But it is a thing of Order, or was.’ Thostos turned away from the dancing fires of the creature and looked Perun in the eyes. ‘I am told that it was a celestial dragon, a creature as noble as our dracoths, but turned to fell purpose by the great changer. It gives me hope.’

‘How so?’ Perun removed his helmet and shook out a mane of dreadlocks. His skin was dark brown, eyes a piercing green. A native of some desert land, overthrown like all the others.

‘Because if Lord Sigmar believes that we are mighty enough to challenge the likes of that serpent, perhaps rid it of its taint, then truly we can accomplish anything. We shall be victorious, Perun.’

At night the land changed. The mark of Chaos upon the Hanging Valleys became more evident. The Alchemist’s Moon clambered high up the ladders of heaven, its louring face crisscrossed with strange patterns. Weird fires sprang up from nowhere, pillars of multicoloured flame that twisted their way across the slopes with sinister purpose. Perhaps they sought to taunt the Bladestorms, but the Stormcasts of Sigmar paid these sprites no attention. They did not run from their camp nor loose shots, but watched carefully, hands close to their weapons. Odd noises sounded out in the dark, and the bleating calls of beast-folk echoed from the crags. But the creatures were craven, and none dared approach the camp of such mighty warriors.

The Celestial Vindicators were therefore disappointed until the following day, when they encountered their next resistance.

With a cry of pure fury, Thostos swept aside the Chaos knight’s sword with his runeblade and slammed his hammer into the warrior’s chest. Armour cracked under the weapon’s heavy head, pulverising the flesh underneath. Blood spurted from the rents in the metal. The knight slumped sideways drunkenly, and Thostos finished him with a blow to the chest that stove in his ribs. He whirled his sword around his head, reversing the point and driving it through the steel hide of the strange beast the knight rode. Despite its bizarre appearance, it had a heart, for it collapsed and died. ‘Sigmar!’ called Thostos, holding his hammer aloft. ‘Vengeance!’

All around him his men were slaughtering the Chaos warband. The Chaos warriors had approached confidently, almost eagerly, seeing the Stormcasts as worthy foes. Little did they realise how outmatched they were.

The clash of arms and shouts lessened, until all the warriors lay dead.

‘We have finished them, my lord. Victory!’ called Perun.

‘Victory! Victory!’ chanted the Bladestorms.

Thostos looked down at the man he had killed. The knight had been huge, granted great strength and size by his patron. The fashioning of his armour would have bankrupted a good-sized kingdom of the old realms, being set with precious stones and rare metals. Thostos cleaned his weapons with a thought, the magic of them boiling off the blood from hammerhead and sword edge. He sheathed his runeblade and bent down, reaching for the knight’s helmet with his free hand.

‘What are you doing, Lord-Celestant?’ asked Perun.

‘I would look upon this man that I have slain.’

The helm slid free. Unlike some they had slaughtered, the armour had not fused itself to the man’s flesh, and the face beneath was untouched by the warping power of Tzeentch. His eyes were closed, his face slack.

‘Look at him. In death there is no emotion, no wickedness. He seems to sleep, and his face could be that of any man.’

‘Aye, but it is not any man,’ said Perun. ‘He is a follower of Chaos, a traitor to all mortal kindreds. He bartered his soul away for power.’

‘He did,’ said Thostos. His gaze remained fixed upon the dead man’s face. ‘But I wonder how much choice he had in the matter. Did he take the road willingly, or was he forced down it at sword point, for fear of his family’s fate?’

‘We all had our choices, lord,’ said Perun angrily. ‘And we took a different way.’

‘Those were different times,’ said Thostos. ‘In those days men threw in their lot with the Dark Powers for gain, that is true. But to be born into this.’ He extended a hand and swept it around the barren mountainsides, the bare valley cloaked in thorny scrub. ‘What choice would he have?’

‘They die. We have our vengeance, that is what matters.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Thostos. He cast the helm aside. ‘But our anger might be better spared for the masters, and not the slaves.’

Already carrion birds were alighting upon the slain with a clatter of bronze feathers. Two spread their wings and darted their heads at one another. They hissed puffs of steam from pistons in their wings as they contested for the choicest scraps. A third hopped onto the chest of a fallen follower of Tzeentch and began nipping through the breastplate with a serrated beak of steel more akin to forge shears than the mouth of a living creature.

Thostos looked to the plateau in the west. The shapes of ruined buildings crazed the horizon. Behind them something massive shimmered, part obscured by distance and magic.

‘We draw close to the fortress,’ said Thostos. ‘The mightiest redoubt in this region. There we will find the lords of these lands, and we shall kill them.’

‘A worthy target for my hammer,’ said Perun.

As they proceeded west the sky cleared, and the land grew hotter the closer they drew to the city. The sun beat down on them as it crawled overhead, heating their sigmarite armour intolerably. The rocks and gritty soil of the region glinted with innumerable mineral fragments, a scintillation that was as disorienting as it was beautiful. The city wavered in the heat, parts of it vanishing in the haze so that it appeared the great tower at its heart floated on the air.

As they drew closer, the jagged shapes upon the cliff resolved themselves into a vast, eight-towered castle, far larger than they had anticipated. The fortress dominated the centre of Elixia, a plateau dense with metal ruins. Sharply angled walls of metal and stone rose high over the wreckage of the city, studded with long spikes and covered with thousands of glinting copper skulls. The castle’s heart was wholly of metal — an enormous tower, impossibly high. No mortal construction could have been made so tall.

Thostos raised his hand and the column of Bladestorms came to a halt.

‘This fortress is too great for us alone. Prosecutors!’

A group of winged warriors hurried to the head of the column. Thostos addressed them.

‘Fly with word to Lord-Celestant Cumulos, Lord-Celestant Vard and Lord-Castellant Barahan at the Bright Tor Gate. Tell them to send as many of our brothers as they can spare. After you have informed Eldroc, take the Silverway to Sigmaron. I will provide a message to our lord Sigmar, asking that he return the rest of the Celestial Vindicators to Anvrok. This realm will not be so easily won after all.’

CHAPTER NINE

Lord Maerac

From the balcony of his tower, Ephryx watched the Stormcast Eternals make camp. The bowl of gold showed him nothing useful at all, and he was forced to rely on a telescope. It was not as efficacious, of course, but through its crystal lenses he could at least count the men waiting on the plain. ‘Two hundred and seven,’ he said. He included in that number the winged figures looping around the fort at a safe distance.

‘And more on the way.’ Lord Maerac of Manticorea stood by the sorcerer, eating delicacies from a wide silver platter. He spat pips from his mouth over the side of the balcony and took up the leg of a fowl. With it he pointed to the northwest and the south west. ‘There, I count two more forces coming for you up the Silver River.’

Ephryx swung his telescope to the points Maerac indicated. Sure enough, heavy plumes of dust rose high into the orange sky. To make matters worse, a fresh storm gathered over the Bright Tor range. Thunder growled in the distance.

‘You say they arrive by lightning?’ said Maerac. ‘Oh my, you are in a difficult place, my friend.’ He laughed.

Ephryx looked up from his telescope. Maerac was a huge, broad-shouldered man, with a heavyset face beneath his bald scalp. The sorcerer wrinkled his nose and bared his teeth. Ephryx wisely hid his irritation from Kairos, but he had no qualms at all at displaying his anger to the likes of Maerac.

‘That may be, but it is they who are in a difficult place, not I.’

‘How so?’ asked Maerac. His tone made Ephryx’s skin crawl.

‘They have no idea of the might of this fortress.’

‘That’s why you need me,’ interjected Maerac.

‘And they have led us right to the Silverway!’ concluded Ephryx irritably.

‘Have they now?’ Maerac raised his eyebrows. ‘Is the Silverway outside your gates then, Mage Ephryx, because that is where our enemy appears to be.’

‘Do you doubt my word, lord? Look through this telescope and you will see the gate yourself. The illusion has been lowered.’ Ephryx swung the telescope around to point to the revealed duardin city, hazy with great distance, but visible if you knew where to look.

Maerac pointedly refused to take the telescope. ‘I always doubt your word, sorcerer. You are bent-minded. I’d no more trust a word you said than I would believe the whispered promises of Tzeentch himself. I see what you claim to be the Silverway all right, but I will not believe it to be so until you take me there and step through it with me.’

‘It is no illusion! It is as plain as the nose on your face!’

‘In that case, how very embarrassing that it was upon your doorstep all this time,’ said Maerac mildly. ‘When did you take up residence here again?’

‘You provide your service to me, and I will pay you as we discussed,’ said Ephryx.

‘Yes, I am sure I will, only to find that King Thrond is already on his way to the gate. That would make you clap, seeing us at open war.’

‘If he is, he will not break through until we have slain the Sigmarites upon the walls of this fortress. Do you really believe Thrond is mighty enough to better this army? You do not, otherwise you would go there yourself this moment. Do not play the fool with me, Maerac.’ Ephryx waved his hand. ‘I have no need to trick you. What do I care if you have the Silverway or not? It has never been my intention to leave this place. I remain only to perfect my fortress.’

‘They would tear it down if I were not here,’ said the lord. ‘Having seen this enemy, I should press you for greater payment. You are rich enough in gold and magic.’

‘You shall have the Silverway, be grateful of that. I shall be content with my buildings of flesh, steel and stone while you rampage across the eight realms.’

‘That I will. It has been too long since my warriors were tested. This moulding of worlds holds no interest for me,’ said Maerac. ‘It is tedious.’

‘Then it is for the good that our interests diverge,’ snapped Ephryx, ‘or we should forever be at each other’s throats.’

Maerac laughed. With his teeth he tore the flesh from the bird leg, exposing a bone made of a light, silvery metal. He leaned out of the window and tossed it upwards. There was a loud snap as something on the roof caught it. ‘Very good, Ephryx. But I cannot help but feel that you are hiding something from me.’

Ephryx affected to look guilty. ‘Nonsense.’

‘Go on, tell me. Let us while away the time until these warriors come to fight. Amuse me with your convoluted schemes.’

‘There is no scheme.’

Maerac slapped Ephryx on the back. ‘There is always a scheme, sorcerer.’

‘Oh, very well! For long years I have sought to perfect the defences of this fortress.’

Maerac smirked. ‘I know that.’

‘To which end I have transmuted the many skulls you have provided me into copper.’

‘I know this too. Did you think I was unaware what you did with them? You really do have a low opinion of me.’

‘You are better informed than you suggest!’ said Ephryx. ‘Into these skulls, a measure of the power of the sun and the ether are funnelled at daybreak.’

‘And all this I know too,’ said Maerac smugly. ‘And I know of the thing you keep below, this artefact of Order you parasite upon and pretend is not there. I know of the slave army you gathered to build this place, the ogors you blinded who fashioned a cairn of lead around the item. Why would you need to do that?’ he asked with mock thoughtfulness.

‘But you do not know what it is,’ said Ephryx. It was his turn to be superior.

‘I do not, I admit. None who have seen it kept their sight or sanity, and most have been dead for hundreds of years. However,’ he looked out at the warriors marshalling in the vale, ‘I can hazard a guess. I may be a dullard compared to you, Ephryx, or so you seem to so fondly think, but I am possessed of a modicum of wit.’

‘Well then!’ snarled the sorcerer. ‘Then you will know also that once this energy reaches a critical mass, this fortress will never fall.’

‘That I did not know either, but have long suspected,’ said Maerac. He popped a mewling blood grape into his mouth, and bit down with relish. ‘It is only because you show no interest in expanding your holdings that I allow you to pursue this aim, you realise.’

Oh, he is so satisfied with himself, thought Ephryx. I will see him choke upon his own tongue! Maerac was ignorant of the skulls’ true purpose. If he was aware of Ephryx’s plan to annex Chamon to the Realm of Chaos and gift the entire realm to Tzeentch, then Maerac would certainly not be here. As devoted to Tzeentch as Maerac insisted he was, he had little desire to take up residence in Tzeentch’s crystal labyrinth personally.

Ephryx’s agile mind considered that Maerac might in fact be bluffing, and that he knew what the artefact was. If that were so, the chances were high that Maerac had come here to assassinate him at his moment of triumph. Ephryx discounted the notion just as quickly as it had formed and revealed none of this through word or gesture or mien. He spoke conspiratorially instead, as if he were sharing his deepest secrets with the Lord of Manticorea.

‘These beings are all of magic. I could taste it when I fought them myself at the Silverway gate. I have seen them die, their bodies streaking away to wherever they came from when they fall. That I can exploit. We shall slaughter them, and I shall capture their essences in my vessels of copper. The Eldritch Fortress will become charged with their magic until no creature of any plane will be able to breach my defences, thus keeping all our lands safe, Lord Maerac. If I am successful, the gods themselves would not be able to cast down this castle.’

Maerac’s eyes narrowed. He shook a six-fingered fist at the sorcerer. ‘You are wrong there, Ephryx.’

Ephryx’s heart skipped a beat. Could it be now that this prince of dullards would cast aside his mask of idiocy and strike him down? Ephryx brought a spell to the forefront of his mind, ready to turn the lord’s brain to lead.

‘Really, my Lord Maerac. How so?’

‘It will be I that does the slaughtering while you cower in your keep. I will not allow you to forget that.’ Maerac stepped up to the edge of the balcony and climbed upon the balustrade. He balanced there a moment. ‘Remember, sorcerer, when you perfect your fortress of flesh, stone and steel, that you are able to only because I, Lord Maerac of Manticorea, permit it!’

Maerac leapt from the balustrade, his clothes snapping in the wind. A piercing shriek rippled the gold in Ephryx’s scrying bowl. A huge manticore leapt after its master with a crack of leathery wings. A moment later it laboured upwards with Maerac in the saddle.

‘A modicum of wit you say? Evidently not,’ whispered Ephryx nastily.

Clouds scudded across the sun, the forerunners of a storm. Ephryx shivered. War was coming to the Eldritch Fortress.

He went to prepare his magics.

CHAPTER TEN

Assault on the Eldritch Fortress

Elixia was before them, a labyrinth of dereliction, the Eldritch Fortress lurking in the centre. Eight tall towers were linked by a wall bristling with spikes and set with thousands of coppery skulls. From the centre rose an enormous keep, the top twisted into the blasphemous emblem of Tzeentch — a great eye, gleaming purple, set into blued steel and surrounded by curving tendrils of metal.

The Bladestorms came south along a road that led out of the Glimmerlands. Outlying districts of Elixia lay in ruination either side. The remains of fortifications edged the bluff, the majority of which Elixia occupied, but the extent of settlement outside the walls suggested to Thostos that Elixia had enjoyed a long period of peace before it fell.

The Bladestorms marched alone, the majority of the Fireblades and the Harbingers of Vengeance. They approached up the main highway from the west, their Lord-Celestants Cumulos and Harekuthos leading them. Further Warrior Chambers came from deeper within Anvrok, but would be a while in arriving. Thostos hoped he had enough men.

The Stormcast Eternals passed through the devastated gates of Elixia. The towers had wilted, the metal sagging from the effects of some great heat. Slicks of solidified metal still puddled the floor under coatings of dirt. The highway past the gates was increasingly choked with debris. The destruction was random. Entire buildings stood untouched next to piles of scrap creaking in the wind. Everywhere the transmuting effects of Tzeentch’s magic could be seen.

They passed a street where every building had been upended and set upon its roof, then another where the buildings had been miniaturised, and sat in the centre of a field of glass under whose clouded surface strange shapes swam. One street had been peeled up from its foundations, the materials fashioned into hideous and giant figures whose static postures silently changed when unobserved. There was a square full of statues of salt, whose lumpen nature could not hide the fact that they were citizens of the city transformed as they fled. Immobile faces screamed from walls. A fountain ran incongruously in a dry plaza, spurting out a mixture of quicksilver and blood. Hysterical voices sounded from empty halls.

The Stormcasts ignored it all. They had been made to fight Chaos, and Chaos held no fear for them. They spoke little as they entered the city, and were entirely silent as they penetrated deep within and approached the dread fortress. Their hands gripped weapons tightly, eager for vengeance. Wordlessly they reached the inner boulevard of the city and split, Thostos heading straight forward, the other Lord-Celestants heading right and left. The rumble of their footsteps was the only sound they made.

The Celestial Vindicators converged on the fortress. Thostos looked to the clouds racing overhead and prayed silently to Sigmar that he would intercede in time.

And then, suddenly, the city stopped.

‘Halt!’ Thostos called. A lone trumpet winded in the desolation, a lonely, sorrowful sound.

Before them was a wide space from which the buildings had been cleared, three bow shots across, a deadly, open ground that had no scrap of shelter to offer besiegers. Doubtless the metal there had been scavenged and had helped create the monstrous fort, but more than a simple razing had taken place. The surface was smooth, covered in rippled swirls. In the pattern were shadowy outlines suggestive of foundations. On the other side of this killing zone of pure metal was Thostos’s goal, the eastern gate of the fortress. It reared high, the foot of the wall blending with the ground as if grown from it. Spikes covering huge metal plates wrought with icons of Tzeentch and Chaos studded the walls, every angle reinforced with brass and steel. The walls came to a point, one of eight triangles, the east gate a massive gaping maw of bronze set into the base of the tower that rose from the angle of the walls. But it was the skulls that arrested the sight. Hundreds of thousands of them covered the surface of the fortifications. In the shadows cast by the clouds they appeared to shift their gaze, looking about them.

More trumpets sounded. Other brotherhoods emerged from the jagged line delimiting the city ruins from the killing space.

‘I see no one, Lord-Celestant,’ said Perun. ‘Atop the walls there is not a single defender. None moved to intercept us while we were vulnerable in the ruins. Perhaps it is deserted?’

Thostos scanned the parapet. He could see no sign of defenders himself. No sound came from within. Silk pennants on the battlements moved in the wind and the place was quiet enough so that their rippling was clearly audible.

‘They are there. They wait for us. We will smite them, but we must be wary, lest this is some trick of the Great Changer’s.’

‘And if it is, my lord?’

‘We will smite them anyway.’

Sunlight glinted from the fort’s metals one last time. A storm darkness fell. Black clouds gathered over the castle.

Thunder rumbled. Drops of rain plinked off Thostos’s armour.

‘Charge!’ he roared.

At the command of the Lord-Celestant Thostos Bladestorm, the Stormcast Eternals ran from the shattered city that surrounded the castle with a mighty roar.

Thunder joined its voice to the blowing of trumpets and demands for vengeance. Hundreds of armoured feet made a rumble that outmatched the storm. Ruined buildings shook. Streets that had been silent for centuries echoed to the pounding of feet.

The first lightning strike smashed down.

‘Stand ready!’ shouted Thostos. ‘Form battle lines. Heraldors, call down our brothers!’

The first ranks of Liberators slammed their shields down a stone’s throw away from the walls, locking them to one another to make a metal fortress of their own. Judicators ranged themselves behind them, raising their bows in the shelter of the shieldwall. ‘Take aim!’ yelled Thostos.

On top of the wall, horned helmets appeared, in pairs and handfuls then by the dozen, until the whole rampart was a mass of Chaos warriors. But the Judicators did not shoot at them.

Cerulean skybolts slammed into gargoyles and the ensorcelled skulls of the castle. They exploded violently, erupting with flashes of trapped magic.

In response the warriors atop the walls began to cast down missiles, darts of black iron and balls of lead spiked with steel. The Liberators hunkered down and angled their shields higher.

Lightning blasted from the sky, pricking domes of force from the ground. When they blinked out, Stormcasts armed with thunderbolt crossbows stood in long lines. They immediately set to work. Titanic discharges of lightning erupted from their magical weapons, and were joined by celestial bolts raining from the sky. The city shook to the fury of the bombardment. The copper skulls on the walls exploded as they were hit or overloaded by the sheer power they attempted to absorb. A long section of parapet slid free from the wall top and crashed down, spilling the warriors atop it to skid across the metal surface of the castle plaza. Incredibly, a number survived, but they were quickly spotted by the Liberators, who smashed them down whether they fought or ran.

More thick columns of light hit the open ground, depositing warrior brotherhoods who joined the shieldwalls of the others. Soon there were thousands of Stormcast Eternals gouging at the Eldritch Fortress with destructive magics. The men of the Celestial Vindicators sang songs of vengeance and ruination, and their fervour added power to the barrage.

Rain pounded from the sky, rattling from armour and shield. Thostos raised his hammer and his sword, and roared out his joy.

‘You cannot stop the oncoming storm!’

‘This battle is not going according to your plan, sorcerer,’ growled Maerac. His manticore growled and shook its mane, agitated by the scent of blood.

‘Nonsense,’ said Ephryx distractedly. He was intent on the conflict below. ‘This fortress is more than capable of absorbing the worst they can muster. They will be the ones to suffer.’

No sooner had Ephryx spoken than a section of the ramparts was brought down, struck by a bolt of lightning that speared from the boiling black clouds over the fortress. Ephryx could not suppress a flinch as he looked into the maelstrom.

‘Is that so?’ bellowed Maerac. ‘It may soon become moot whether your fortress is up to the task or not. Such things stir the hearts of my warriors. Do you think they will stand idle as our foes attack without hindrance? It will not be long before they cannot stand by any longer, and sally out to meet the foe face to face.’ Maerac glared at the enemy warriors, so small far below. It was evident he was speaking of his own desire. ‘They are the chosen of Tzeentch, and would prove their superiority against a worthy foe.’

‘They would be foolish to do so,’ said Ephryx.

A series of monstrous booms shook the fortress. There were more of the Stormcasts arriving at every moment.

‘Do something, Ephryx! I cannot make promises for the actions of my men!’

Ephryx nodded. With a hurried wave he summoned his disc into existence beneath his feet, a twinkle of gold that bore him up into the air.

‘Very well! I shall unleash the defences of the Eldritch Fortress, though it is a waste of magic.’ He shot downwards, leaving Maerac to follow cursing in his wake.

Wind streamed over Ephryx as he leaned into the rain. His disc took him into position over the east gate, the focus of the enemy’s attack. He brought it to a halt, and held high his arms.

‘Come silver blades! Come silver hounds! Defend your master, defend your lord!’ In a tongue thick with blasphemous sounds he chanted, drawing upon the disturbances in the ether that roared all throughout the realm. Power burst from his hands.

Maerac flew around him in broad loops. ‘Hold!’ he shouted at his followers. ‘Stand your ground! Let the sorcerer do his work! Hold your positions, Tzeentch damn you! Hold!’

Ephryx was lost to the flood of magic. It burned through his body and soul. Such exquisite delight there was in power, which too rarely did he exercise himself. Too rarely did he remind himself why he had pledged himself to Tzeentch. Maerac’s voice became the annoying whine of an insect. A fitting voice for such an insignificant man, he thought. The eyes of Tzeentch were upon him, and they glimmered with approval.

With a hellish cry, Ephryx brought his hands together, and a new thunder joined the symphony of battle.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Second death

Thostos watched the sorcerer descend from his tower and work his spell. ‘Beware,’ he shouted. ‘Beware!’

All along the line, Lord-Relictors chanted out their own incantations. Glittering waves of magic pulsed over the Celestial Vindicators, healing and empowering them.

The walls of the castle twitched. Patches of decoration whirled in on themselves to be replaced by blank, featureless silver, and from this shining blades leapt. Trailing pink fire, they shot towards the shieldwall. The Liberators raised their shields in response, but the blades did not impact and came to an abrupt stop before them. In perfect step with one another, as if they were wielded by a line of warriors, the swords hacked at the shields. Blades sliced down with supernatural might, rending sigmarite in two, forcing the warriors to discard their protection, which drew additional weapons to them from the magically charged air.

The line of Liberators disrupted, the swords broke formation, picked out a target each and duelled with them. Sigmarite blade rang on magical weapons, the blades which came in greater numbers. Along the front, Liberators began to fall, their ascension marked by skyward-leaping energies. But they did not return to Azyr. Shouts of horror went up along the line as the Stormcasts saw their comrades’ essence drawn off course and sucked into the copper skulls of the fort.

A terrible howling came from the city then. Thostos saw silver-skinned hounds pounding down narrow alleyways, eyes afire with forge flame. Molten metal streamed from their jaws like drool.

They galloped across the metal plaza, claws skidding on the smooth surfaces. They plunged into the lines of Judicators, their dagger teeth closing around helmets. Men wrestled with the beasts, their bodies vanishing in flashes only to be taken into the skulls of the castle. In the wake of the hounds staggered ancient suits of armour, woken by magic, their dull blades clutched in empty gauntlets.

Cries of mirth and exultation came from the top of the walls as the sorcerous things attacked, but once their element of surprise was exhausted, they died quickly. Judicators shot the blades down with unerring skill, and the shieldwall reformed. Reserves of Liberators turned about and met the hounds. Hammers and blades fell on them, cutting through gleaming hides to bring forth floods of silver viscera. Thostos felled two himself, smashing the head cleanly from one with a hammer strike. Bright metallic blood spattered his body and he screamed his anger, the same words over and over again.

‘Vengeance, vengeance, vengeance!’

He broke the hip of the last hound, and it yelped as pitifully as any mortal cur. A reverse thrust stopped the noise.

Then Thostos was into the creaking army of animate armour. Empty suits exploded under his hammer, the bones of their long-dead occupants shattering into dust. He chanted the names of his mother, father and sisters — words from another life and time. His blood surged as he said each.

He and his men destroyed the last of the armour, and the castle shuddered under the bombardment. For every skull that glowed with stolen power, another melted or fell free.

‘Is that the best you can do?’ Thostos shouted, and raised his weapons again. ‘Sigmar! Vengeance! Sigmar!’

His men followed his example. ‘Sigmar! Vengeance! Sigmar!’

And then the gates creaked open, slamming hard against the wall, and the forces of hell-twisted Anvrok poured out to face the army of Sigmar in open battle. Heavily armoured warriors screamed the names of Tzeentch as they crashed into the battle line. The Celestial Vindicators shouted back.

‘Sigmar! Vengeance! Sigmar!’

Thostos ran back to the line of battle, silver blood and rain streaming from his armour. The lead warriors of Chaos used long, hooked halberds to yank away the shields of the Celestial Vindicators. The shieldwall wavered, then broke apart, the warriors in it overcome by the furious need for revenge. The battle line became a series of individual combats, and everywhere the slaves of Chaos were being bested. Fearless men all, heartless tyrants, were shocked by the fury of their foe. None such as the Stormcasts had ever been seen in Chamon.

A dark shadow swept over the fight. A manticore flew overhead: its body that of a lion, tawny and powerful. A snarling face set with dimly intelligent eyes craned and snapped from a huge scarlet mane.

Thostos watched it, momentarily transfixed. Not since his days in Amcarsh had he seen such a creature, when Chaos magic had changed the beasts of the land and made them savage, and its ilk had become common. The champion riding the manticore came shrieking through the air on his mount, swooping upon Prosecutors like a hawk and dashing their broken bodies upon the ground. His beast reared, all four claws out to slash and rend, and others fell. ‘Form up!’ he was screaming. ‘Make line! Make line!’

The wind from the manticore’s flight buffeted Thostos as it swooped low. The heavy paws of the monster struck a furrow through the Celestial Vindicators, killing some and scattering many more. Stormbolts chased the flying creature of Chaos. One struck home, causing the beast to howl in rage, but the lord was a skilful rider, and he swept his beast from side to side, dodging all the fire but that single bolt.

Thostos barged his way to the front. As commanded, the Chaos warriors were reforming their own lines, and now the Celestial Vindicators found themselves in isolated groups against a well-organised foe.

‘Match them. Match them! Shieldwall to shieldwall!’ Thostos cried. ‘Shieldwall, then for the gate!’

The Celestial Vindicators locked shields for the third time with supreme discipline, and marched in unison, but a wall of fire sprang up in front of the Chaos warriors, and the Tzeentchian soldiery attacked without fear of reprisal. The flickering pink and golden flames turned hammer and sword, but their own blades stabbed out without hindrance. The manticore swooped overhead again, the sword of its rider taking heads to the left and right. He laughed as he slew. The energies of slain Stormcasts shot upwards, only to be sucked into the castle. Stormbolts burst apart on the firewall, and the Chaos warriors killed and killed.

‘Back, back! Retreat twenty paces. Move!’ called Thostos.

Flawlessly, the Stormcast Eternals went backwards, shields still to their fore, opening a space between themselves and the Chaos warriors. The Tzeentchian host paused for a moment. It was enough.

‘Judicators, aim for the ground!’ shouted Thostos.

As soon as he had spoken, a rain of hissing bolts rose up and fell down. Half fizzed out or exploded upon the magical shield protecting the warriors, while the rest slammed into the metal ground before them. A crackling storm of energy arced across the front of the Chaos warriors’ company, creeping under the fire shield and coursing through the metal-clad warriors behind. They jerked and danced, before collapsing dead and smoking.

The fires guttered out. The laughter of the manticore’s rider turned to screams of anger, and the Stormcast Eternals charged back into their enemy, striking down the few who had survived.

The gates swung shut, but Thostos saw his opening. The walls for a hundred yards either side of the gate had been cleared of warriors. Thostos grinned. The problem with studding a castle wall with skulls, he thought, is that it makes it very easy to climb.

‘To the walls,’ he cried. ‘To the walls!’

Thostos and his followers made a quick ascent, fingers digging into the soft copper of the skulls adorning the walls. Below, more Stormcast Eternals hacked at the walls directly, caving in the skulls that had consumed their comrades, burying their swords into them or ripping them from the walls. Each one destroyed burst with a flash of released magic.

All along the defences the same thing was happening. Thunderbolt crossbows burned whole stretches of the wall bare. Judicators and Prosecutors covered their comrades as they hacked at the fabric of the fortress. Where a skull was ruptured that imprisoned the essence of a Stormcast Eternal, the energy roared upwards, booming with the joy of release.

Thostos hauled himself up the last few feet of the wall, the power invested in his limbs by Sigmar allowing him to climb quickly even in his heavy armour. He vaulted over the crenellations, drawing his weapons again as he landed. Chaos warriors were running along the wallwalk, but too late to stop him. His men were already over, and the clamour of battle erupted along a section of the wall.

‘Force them back!’ he roared. ‘Make room for our brothers!’ Thostos growled with the fierce joy of vengeance. He broke a savage’s jaw with the hilt of his sword and kicked another over the battlements.

Shouts, grunts and the clang of metal. He revelled in it, in the blood, in the struggle and the burn in his muscles. A flash transmuted a Stormcast next to him to a guttering puddle of thick liquid. Two more stopped dead, frozen in place, then melted like hot wax. Another turned into a crystal statue in a puff of purple smoke. Transformed mid run, he toppled from the battlement and shattered on the flagstones of the bailey. Flashes of departing magic struggled for the sky, but the fortress was still consuming the essence of the Bladestorms. Thostos smashed down another warrior, and searched for his quarry.

The sorcerer floated ten yards out from the wall on his golden disc; a tall, gaunt man with long horns. He was much altered from a man’s usual form, a long-serving servant of Chaos. He was chanting wildly, hurling magic that killed Thostos’s warriors. ‘Bring him down!’ he shouted. ‘Kill the sorcerer!’

A group of Prosecutors heard his order and swooped upward over the wall. They circled past the sorcerer, pelting him with their celestial hammers. The sorcerer knocked half of the hammers from the sky with a sweep of his staff, but the Prosecutors’ aim was good, and their own magic powerful. Three bolts of energy hammered into his golden disc, causing it to slew around and slam into the wall walk. The disc sparked and died, and the sorcerer was sent sprawling.

Dozens of Liberators and Judicators were now on the wall. ‘Kill him! Kill the sorcerer and we win the battle!’ Thostos bellowed. A trio of Judicators raised their bows, but the sorcerer knocked their missiles aside with blurred swipes of his staff. The men jerkily rose into the air, raking at their throats. The sorcerer closed his fist and they went limp, and he threw them down.

‘I will finish this myself,’ growled Thostos. ‘With me!’

The sorcerer was only yards away. Thostos howled with righteous fury as he closed on him. A look of dismay crossed the twisted daemon-worshipper’s face, one that turned swiftly to hatred. He made a series of complicated passes in the air very quickly. A bang sounded from the courtyard, a rush of displaced air. An unearthly roar wounded Thostos’s ears, a hideous, mewling howl that should never be heard in the mortal world. His men cried out and stumbled, but he went on, hammer ready to deliver the final blow.

The battlement transformed into a flood of boiling gold beneath his feet, and he fell, half a dozen of his men plummeting into the courtyard with him. He struggled up, ignoring the burn of the molten metal as it seeped through the gaps in his armour. All around his feet were flapping, cog-scaled fish, gasping for gold and dying as their clockwork ran out.

A rich perfume hung on the air, and a troubling shimmer distorted all sight. From the heart of this haze reared a creature whose very appearance was anathema to sanity. It shifted and changed constantly, seeming not to be wholly of one world or realm — the impression Thostos had was of a house-sized creature steeped in madness and pain. From its back erupted an array of crystalline bones in the shape of the blasphemous wheel of Chaos. At the centre turned a weeping hole in space, a gateway to the realm of the four powers.

One of his men looked into it and screamed. Blue flames jetted from the joints in his armour and he imploded with a bang.

‘Avert your eyes!’ Thostos shouted. But it was no use. Writhing bolts of plasma erupted from the portal, screaming around the beast like the shades of the tormented dead. They shrieked through the air, plunging into the Stormcasts. All around Thostos his warriors were transformed by wild magic. One split down the middle into two identical, half-sized replicas of himself, one black, one white, who immediately started fighting each other. Another turned into a cloud of moths that burst apart and scattered to the four winds. A third became a porcelain vase that fell to the ground with a dull clunk.

Thostos could barely contain the horror the thing evoked in him. The magic in his body could feel the tug of the vortex of wild energy that roared around it, as if it would tear out his soul.

Lord Sigmar, hear my prayer, he thought. You answered me once before. I ask you again, lend me strength.

He raised his sword and hammer for what was sure to be the final time.

‘Vengeance,’ he hissed. He charged.

A spasming tendril of energy caressed his helm as he closed upon the creature. A spike of pain ripped through him, down every nerve ending. He dropped his weapons and staggered back in horror. Something was happening to him, some fundamental and terrifying change. He howled in pain, and went down onto one knee. He closed his eyes and awaited his death. He had failed.

The pain stopped. He still lived. But he was not the same. His body, his flesh. It felt different, heavier, harder.

His gauntlet dropped from his arm. He raised his hand before his face. Metal gleamed in place of skin. Flesh and blood had been transformed into living sigmarite! Another bolt of change slammed into him, and did not perturb him. He laughed, a triumphant, disbelieving bark of mirth. He stood, stepped forward calmly, and plucked up his weapons from the ground. The beast whuffled and whooped, multiple discordant animal voices blending into a hellish gurgle of frustration.

Magic rained down upon Thostos as he strode confidently at the monster, all of its sorceries running without harm from his transformed body. The creature reared up, tentacles spearing forth from its mouth. Thostos slashed them with his sword, severing them and stepping through as they turned to shreds of multicoloured magic. He leapt up, swinging his hammer over his head and down, burying it in the small head hidden behind the nest of tentacles. The creature’s skull gave in with an audible crack and, with a sigh that seemed to be of relief to the Lord-Celestant, the beast collapsed to the floor.

The gateway upon the beast’s back blinked, and winked out. The creature heaved one last breath and died, its flesh shrivelling in on itself, becoming black ash.

Thostos turned back to where the sorcerer stood and raised his hammer in a gleaming metal hand.

Ephryx ran back and forth on the wall. His perfect kingdom, laboured over so long and so lovingly, was being smashed to pieces around him. Blazing jags of lightning burned down from the sky, slamming into the walls. He flung up his arms as celestial energy played about the northeast tower, exploding in an outwards fountain of molten copper. The warriors of the God-King hacked and smashed at his magical receptacles, spilling his carefully husbanded power back into the ether. Shooting bolts raced upwards as the essences of Stormcasts were set free to ride the storm.

‘No! No!’ screamed Ephryx in anguish. The warriors on the walls had been overwhelmed, and the lackeys of Sigmar were coming through the part of the wall transformed by the mutalith. They were pouring into the courtyard, destroying his life’s work without a thought for his efforts.

A billow of rain-filled air battered him in the face as Lord Maerac alighted on the parapet.

‘See, sorcerer! This is true Chaos! Not your pedantic constructions. The fortress is lost! Your own pet has let them in!’ Maerac was laughing, a hard mix of despair, anger, and glee.

‘Coward!’ screamed Ephryx. ‘I will not abandon my work!’

He turned upon the men on the walls and the metal plaza outside, sending gales of billowing fire into the ranks of his foes, transmuting Stormcast Eternals into all manner of hideous forms. A volley of bolts arced towards him. He waved a hand and they fizzed into nothingness even as his other throttled the Judicators that had fired them.

‘It is lost!’ repeated Maerac. ‘Flee.’

A terrible howl drew Ephryx’s attention to the courtyard. The mutalith slumped to the floor. Its vanquisher turned and raised his hammer at the mage in defiant challenge.

Ephryx fixed Maerac with a doleful stare.

‘What are you doing?’ demanded Maerac. ‘No, Ephryx!’ he said warningly. ‘Do not call upon such powers!’

The sorcerer raised his hands, all the while glaring at the lord defiantly. Cursing, Maerac urged his mount into the storm-wracked sky.

Ephryx chanted an arcane phrase three times. Attackers were approaching from the other side of the breached wall. A jagged bolt of lightning slammed into the fort’s central tower. The artefact within heard and responded, a secret signal only Ephryx could detect. The calling of the hammer to its master set his teeth hurting, but he would not stop and chanted the phrase over and over again.

Reality screamed. Ephryx channelled as much power as he dared, his soul chilling as he handled the dark energy.

The last syllables left his lips, and he nearly choked upon them. Angrily he drew upon the reservoirs of energy trapped in his fortress, enraged that they must be expended.

A circle of blackness expanded from the sorcerer, slaying every thing that it touched. Chaos warrior and Stormcast Eternal collapsed as the fortress discharged curling arcs of night-purple doom. The skulls clawed at the lives of the Stormcasts killed, but there were so many slain that the castle could not consume them all, and their essences raced home. The earth rebelled at this black work, shuddering in pain. His tower swayed, its walls cracking and revealing the golden light of the artefact within, but it was not enough to hold back the darkness Ephryx had unleashed. For a split second the sorcerer stared into the realms of death. Something ancient and dark gazed back at him with contempt.

The light returned. Ephryx sank to knees, dizzy. All around him were the dead. The Stormcast Eternals had disappeared, carried off by their lord. The ground was carpeted by the bodies of his men and Maerac’s followers.

A dry chuckle sounded behind him. Wearily, Ephryx raised his head.

‘Master,’ he said.

‘A clever gambit, mortal,’ said Kairos.

‘It was idiotic,’ said the second head, arching close to the sorcerer. It tilted to one side, its eye filling Ephryx’s vision.

‘A good play,’ disagreed the other. ‘Why would I want a dull follower?’

‘Perhaps I would,’ argued the second head.

The heads spoke together, the menace in Kairos’s words unmistakeable. ‘Now you have had your turn. Let us bring this to a close together.’

‘Yes, together,’ said one head.

‘That is what we always intended, no?’ asked the other.

‘Y-y-yes!’ said Ephryx. ‘Of course my lord! Why, I only intended to… There was no time… I had to act quickly, I…’

Kairos leaned heavily on his staff. ‘Tut tut tut,’ said the first head.

‘Do shut up, Ephryx,’ said the second.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Reforged

Memories bubbled and slipped from Thostos, a fleeting impression of darkness and snatching hands tearing at his spirit. He was moving fast and lost in the light. The pain was so great it overcame the universe. An ocean of agony, deeper than time. He could not recall his name. He remembered… Where? A land of giant beasts, a castle in a country considered civilised. A kind father, a good life.

He remembered its end. Blood and death and pain for those he loved.

He smelled the ruin of it, thick and cloying, and he gasped. No air came into his lungs, only energy, raw and crackling. He had no lungs. Something convulsed. There was no body. Was it his soul?

Caeran. Was that his name?

Something twitched in the stormlight, a zygote that split and divided rapidly.

A woman’s face. His mother? An aunt? He did not recognise them, but the sight of them brought the need for vengeance.

A man’s face, crowned with a circle of red gold. Dead. Consumed. He raged at the thought, and the need for revenge gripped him more tightly. In the wash of light, delicate bones rapidly thickened, became a hand bare of flesh, a hand that clenched. He felt muscles grow, the strands of their fibres wrapping around one another. More bones erupted from the stuff of magic, caging organs that inflated wetly. A skull crept over a newly sprouted brain.

The pain worsened.

There was another castle, where he had another name. A land of metal. A horned man.

So much pain! He thrashed, trailing streamers of raw nerves that sparked excruciatingly.

The process quickened, but in truth the duration could have been months or seconds. Thostos had no frame of reference for time, only the pain. All he knew was that the sequence of growth increased in pace. Skin, hair, teeth, nails. Or something like them, something that had their semblance, but that lacked their solidity.

Agony seized his skull as a new face grew over it, twin pits of pain where fresh eyes budded.

He could not bear it.

Time ceased. He was elsewhere. A castle of stone, hung with dreadful fruits. A castle of metal, bursting under the strain of stolen magic.

A castle that hid a great prize…

‘Thostos!’

His God-King called to him.

‘Thostos!’

His king.

‘Thostos Bladestorm!’

Thostos, was that his name? Yes. The name given to him by the God-King, the lord of light. Sigmar’s gift, a new name for a new life. Had there been another?

A man, a woman. A burning castle. Vengeance. Memories of that time slipped away, became blurred, and were lost to him forever.

He was Thostos. Thostos Bladestorm of the Celestial Vindicators. There was no other, not any longer. Guilt persisted, a leftover of another world, cool and unyielding as a diamond, that was all he had left.

Never again would he fail.

Another light replaced the first, softer, soul-cleansing. It rinsed him through and through, and he let out a sharp breath as the last vestiges of his pain slipped from him.

‘Stand, Thostos Bladestorm!’ Words of gentle thunder. The memory of the pain was wiped away.

The light dimmed, resolving itself into the shape of a great man, a god. Sigmar Heldenhammer, seated in the throne of Azyr. Thostos knew his face better than he knew his own. Tall and regal, majesty manifest, a man clad in the light of godhood. Thostos blinked. He held up his hand in wonder to eyes that smarted in their newness. His hand, armoured in its celestial turquoise, whole and unharmed.

‘We shall kneel no more,’ said Sigmar. He gestured, encouraging Thostos to rise.

The Lord-Celestant of the Bladestorms stood on legs that felt insubstantial, as if his armour were all that gave them shape. There was strength there; he did not shake or fall, but it did not feel like it was his. It was loaned to him from elsewhere. Or stolen.

‘Your Reforging is complete,’ said Sigmar.

Thostos recognised where he was: in the throne room of Sigmar, a hall suited to the God-King’s majesty. Others stood behind Thostos, lesser beings than Sigmar though great in their way, the Lord-Celestants of a dozen stormhosts.

How had he come to be there? He had no memory of entering this room, or of kneeling. He remembered… he remembered metal…

‘Now tell me of Chamon,’ prompted the God-King.

There was an eagerness to Sigmar. He was triumphant. What did he expect Thostos to say? What had he done?

Thostos swallowed. His throat felt different. His limbs buzzed with magic. What had happened to him?

‘There was…’ he began. His words sounded hollow in his ears. ‘There was a fortress of magic. We breached its walls, only to die in a burst of unlight that was fought by a greater light.’

Sigmar leaned forward. ‘Speak to me of this greater light.’

There was more, there was… death. Dark lands, a covetous presence thwarted. He had died. There was a chill in his heart that had not been there before. He had lost something. He remembered clawing, skeletal hands and shuddered.

‘Golden,’ said Thostos. He had to force the word out, like it was a part of himself that had to be chipped painfully free. ‘Not the bastard energy of Chaos. Violent, but pure.’

Sigmar tensed. The air of triumph intensified. He nodded, and though he looked at Thostos he saw into another time and place. ‘I remember it well,’ he said eventually.

He turned abruptly. ‘Lord Vandus!’

One of the others stepped forward. Thostos knew him. His memories of this place he retained, faded but clear, like tapestries whose colours have bled away with age. Hammerhand. Vandus Hammerhand. That was him, a fellow Lord-Celestant, and, and a… friend?

The Hammerhand stepped up to Thostos’s side.

‘Prepare thy warriors,’ commanded Sigmar. ‘That light is mine.’ He sank back into his throne and gripped the metal gryphons that made up each arm of his seat. ‘We have found Ghal Maraz.’

Thostos had done that. He remembered, as Sigmar spoke on.

Sigmar finished. The crowd of warriors roared. Some chanted his name. But he could not think.

He had found Sigmar’s greatest weapon, but in doing so he had lost himself.

Josh Reynolds

The Gates of Dawn

PROLOGUE

The storm arrives

Virulent green mist rose from the damp soil of the Ghyrtract Fen, choking the air and all but blinding those who toiled within its reach. Lord Grelch, master of the Ghyrtribe, scooped an errant tendril of mist towards his disease-ravaged face with bloated paws, inhaling it. It burned pleasingly as it seeped into his lungs and blistered mouth. He gave a sigh of deep satisfaction.

‘Tastes like death,’ he murmured, to no one in particular.

Grelch sat midway up a slabbed pile of stone steps, which climbed upwards to the edge of a steep cliff. The steps ended at an arch shrouded in clinging vines, its capstones cracked and shot through with roots thicker around than his thigh. He shifted the long-hafted plague-axe lying across his lap and turned to eye the archway suspiciously. He had fought long and hard to lay claim to this patch of forest and the archway, but even now he wasn’t entirely sure why. Stories clustered fast and thick about those stones like flies.

The Grandfather’s eye was upon this place though — his great hand had stirred the nearby Rotwater Swamp, casting a dense and foetid fog across the fen, and this part of it in particular. The sky was as black as the boils on his backside, and the once-green leaves of the now-withered trees were covered in sticky, dripping moisture that was not dew. Fertile soil had been reduced to damp sludge by the tread of his warriors, and the waters of the rivers had grown stagnant and pleasingly foul. The men of the Ghyrtribe had long ago given themselves over to the tender mercies of Grandfather Nurgle, and they carried his blessings with them wherever they went. They warped the land about them into more pleasing shapes, reminiscent of the Grandfather’s garden.

Smacking his lips, he gazed down from his perch and watched as his slaves wriggled through the muck and mist, dragging heavy stones towards the points their overseers indicated with lash and blade. The stones were covered in carvings dedicated to the glory of Grandfather Nurgle. Each one was a prayer given physical form, and together they would form a silent chorus calling to the Grandfather in his garden, calling him and his children to the Greenglades. Grelch sighed in satisfaction. From where he sat, the slaves looked like maggots wriggling in spoiled meat.

‘Speaking of which,’ Grelch grunted, inspecting the mottled flesh of his forearm. The cut he’d received a few days earlier had sprouted squirming white shapes, which nibbled enthusiastically at his rotten flesh. He smiled indulgently.

‘Eat hearty, little ones. Soon you’ll be proper flies, and no mistake,’ he crooned as he playfully stirred the maggots with a finger. The wound ached, but it was a small price to pay. Grandfather Nurgle never gave a man more blessings than he could bear, sure as sure, and Grelch was happy to serve in even this smallest of ways. He sat back, feeling cheerful. Yes, he was happy to serve. And why not? After all, it was an honour to be here.

The ragged banners of the blessed and flyblown jutted from every horizon, even as noisome fogs and vast clouds of insects swarmed across the land. The drone of a billion flies accompanied the efforts of Grandfather’s own — the Glottkin, Torglug the Despised, Gutrot Spume, and the mangy Beastlord Gluhak, amongst others — as they strove to bring the bilious blessings of the garden to Ghyran. That wasn’t even taking into account the scuttling servants of the Horned Rat, where they crouched in the Rotwater Blight.

And Grelch as well, most powerful of those born here, in these filthy climes, Grelch thought.

Let the others, like that nitwit Kraderblob or brutes like Torglug and Gutrot Spume, scramble about in the filthy Greenglades, hunting the witch Alarielle and getting themselves ambushed by Nurgle alone knew what. Grandfather had sent three captains to find her, for without her there could be no lasting victory for Nurgle.

He flexed his wounded arm, and remembered the talon-like branch, whipping forward faster than his rheumy eyes could follow to lay open his flesh to the pitted bone. It hadn’t hurt; his sense of pain had been one of his first offerings to the Grandfather. He remembered too the fierce green hatred burning in the eyes of the monstrous bark-creature as it had smashed him back on his heels, before he’d driven the rusty edge of his axe into its creaking maw. They’d used what was left of it and its fellows for kindling the witchfires that now burned about Ghyrtract Fen, providing an eerie light for the slaves to work by.

Let’s see Spume do that, the kraken-bellied oaf, Grelch thought.

A baleful drone suddenly echoed through the trees, causing the foetid air to quiver like a frightened animal. Grelch’s eyes popped open and he turned, all thoughts of gardens forgotten. It was the Dirgehorn, originally hewn from the skull of the great plague-beast Brondtos by Beastlord Gluhak, the Crusted Blade — a feat it never stopped barking about. The Dirgehorn had been hollowed out and consecrated to Grandfather, and now sat atop Profane Tor. Its whining call, sluggish and flat, could be heard even in the Grandfather’s garden.

Someone somewhere in the vast woodlands that stretched from the Shimmertarn to Ghyrtract Fen had found some sign of the radiant queen, Alarielle. Like hounds on the scent, the other disparate warbands, searching for places such as this archway, would follow the winding echo of the Dirgehorn to wherever it led.

At the same moment, the sky darkened, grey turning to black. The snap of whips slowed and fell silent as slaves and slavers alike found their eyes drawn upwards to the roiling clouds. Grelch felt his stomach lurch, and not in the usual pleasing fashion. A moment later, the air was split by a sound greater even than the Dirgehorn — a crack of thunder which reverberated through the trees, and even his bones, deafening him.

He slapped his hands to his ears, teeth gritted against the pain of it. Instinctively he cast his gaze up and saw the black sky rupture, torn apart by fangs of crackling azure light. Bolts of twin-tailed lightning struck the ground again and again, splitting the air and searing the fog away. The ground bucked and heaved, and his warriors and slaves were tossed about like sparks from an anvil as the hammer struck. Trees burst into flame and sluggish rivulets of mud were burned dry. The air tasted of iron and clean winds, and Grelch gagged at the stink of it.

As the smoke cleared, he saw rank upon rank of armoured warriors standing where each sky-borne bolt had struck. Crackling chains of lightning crawled across their masks and the heads of the great warhammers they carried. It danced along the rims of their shields and illuminated the awful sigils which marked their armour.

He felt as if something fearful had come, fiercer even than the bark-beasts, and he shoved himself to his feet, snatching up his helm from where it sat on the steps beside him. His heart thudded in his chest as he began to descend. Few dared defy the Ghyrtribe since he’d earned Grandfather’s favour, and fewer still had ever mustered the courage to attack them head on. Whoever they were, they would be good sport, if nothing else.

‘And they’re all ours, my warriors,’ he roared. ‘To battle!’

His warriors roared in reply and hurled themselves towards the interlopers, scattering untrampled slaves aside. His chosen warriors, his sons and cousins and brothers, putrid blightkings all, led the way towards the centre of the invaders’ battle line. Grelch’s heart swelled as the battle was joined. This was the way it was supposed to be. The newcomers had numbers on their side, but his warriors were swollen with the strength of Nurgle.

He’d led his folk into the garden and pledged a glopsome oath to Grandfather Nurgle, offering service and souls in return for protection and power. And he’d fought to earn those protections, fought hard or harder than his rivals, performing deeds of valour. It was Grelch who had tamed the toad-dragon Ga’Blorrgh, and Grelch who had poisoned the Sweetwater.

You did indeed, my servant, something burbled in his head.

The voice was like an itch at the back of his skull. Painful, but welcome, it gurgled and slopped across the surface of his thoughts. As if they too heard it, the maggots in his arm suddenly stiffened and began to move in strange ways, causing his flesh to ripple and pulse. Grelch stopped and looked up, towards his prize. There was an oily sheen in the air at the top of the steps, and he could hear faint buzzing as of thousands of flies.

‘Master,’ he whispered. ‘Are you near?’

The din of the battle below seemed to fade as the voice of his master filled his skull. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see his warriors coming to grips with the closest of the newcomers. Fat-bellied blightkings hacked at gleaming shields with notched axes, only to reel back as lightning-wreathed hammers struck them in return. But though they stumbled, his chosen refused to fall. Their seared flesh congealed and repaired itself, as Grandfather willed, and they lurched back into the fight.

Near, yet still sadly far, my servant, his master replied. My rotguard and I come as fast as the winds of plague can carry me, but you must open the door and let me in. Hurry, Grelch… I would wallow in the murk of the Ghyrtract Fen, taste the sweet heart of the Greenglades, and wade in the Shimmertarn. Hurry, my servant. Pile the stones and spill the blood… Open the gates to Grandfather’s garden…

The voice faded and Grelch let out a shaky breath. The clangour of battle grew loud once more: the air filling with screams and the rattle of weapons. The voice of his master, his mentor, was proof enough of Grandfather’s favour. Why else would such an enormity as his master deign to speak with him, and so kindly?

‘Don’t worry, master, there’s plenty of blood to go around,’ he said, out loud. He looked out over the Fen, and saw the silver ranks of newcomers stalk forward with ground-shaking strides, their wide shields locked rim to rim. They resembled nothing so much as a gleaming wall, and he felt a hint of unease as they drew closer to the slope and the steps. But their march slowed as his chosen warriors interposed themselves once more, crying out the name of Grandfather Nurgle as they sought to break the shieldwall. Once his warriors had finished off these shiny-skinned interlopers, he’d have them gutted and squeezed to fertilise the stones and open the garden gate.

He closed his eyes, revelling in the thought of it. Long had he yearned to see Grandfather’s garden again, in all its pestilential splendour. Now, at last, his chance had come round. A little blood, a little death, and it would be done.

However, his good humour evaporated quickly as he plodded down the steps, axe in hand. His chosen warriors had never before been bested in battle, yet these newcomers smashed them aside more quickly than he’d thought possible. Warriors bloated with the blessings of the Plaguefather were driven to their knees by hammer strikes that crushed armour and tore flesh as easily as any axe or sword. Every blow was accompanied by a snarl of lightning and the thud of a smoking body as it struck the ground.

As Grelch made his way down the last few steps, he saw that his men had become disorganised, save for a few chieftains around whom the cannier warriors rallied. The rest charged in knots and dribbles, alone or in small packs, and were ground under by the silver-armoured retinues of the newcomers. The latter had formed themselves into an impenetrable shieldwall, rim to rim and edge to edge. Shields dipped and hammers shot out to strike and return as the shields rose once more with a discipline completely alien to Grelch’s experience. The silver warriors moved as one, clearing themselves a bloody path towards the stone steps and the arch, and right towards him. He raised his axe in welcome and lumbered to meet them.

Some of his followers rose, even after they had been battered bloody or hacked apart, as the great rents in their obese frames scabbed over and their severed limbs re-grew. But that wasn’t enough, and soon they fell a second time. The weapons of the enemy were too deadly, even for those in whose veins the blessings of Nurgle ran.

Grelch moved more quickly now, lumbering towards the forefront of the battle. If he could rally his troops, they might still stand a chance. However, that hope dwindled as he saw the last of his chieftains fall to a great mauling blow from one of those deadly hammers, crushing its horned helm into an unrecognizable mass. The few warriors who remained launched themselves at the enemy, despite his commands, only to be swatted down as if they were of no more importance than flies.

Not a single man of the Ghyrtribe remained standing. Even his fattest warriors lay broken and unmoving on the muddy ground. It had happened so quickly. Behind the ranks of locked shields, he saw warriors wielding two-handed hammers begin to smash down the half-built idols and altar stones. He cried out. Helms turned, and he caught sight of his reflection in their mirror-bright features. The men moved towards him in a tight semicircle, shields at the ready. Though the lightning had faded, its glow yet remained. Grelch could not bear to look at them directly, and was forced to raise an arm over his face. They shone with a light and a heat that seemed to burn the very core of him.

As he did so, the maggots in his flesh shrivelled one by one and fell away from him, and he experienced a wave of fear — an emotion he had not felt in years — wash over him. Were these men the reason that the Dirgehorn had sounded? Were Kraderblob and the other servants of Nurgle now locked in combat with more of these pitiless invaders? What sort of beings were these who could kill so cruelly and swiftly? What sort of beings arrived in a crack of thunder and a flash of lightning?

Enemies, sweet Grelch, and far beyond you, the voice of his master rumbled.

Grelch felt the sadness those words carried. He would join his maggots soon and join his warriors, broken and dead in the mire.

Dead, yes, but not forgotten, my best, brightest bubo, his master gurgled. Grandfather watches you, Grelch. Show him how brave you are, my servant. Open the way for me, and join Grandfather in the eternal garden, where all is green and growing and life waxes fat. He waits for you, waits to take you in his arms… Hurry, Grelch. Hurry!

Grelch felt his fears evaporate as the words of his master, his mentor, filled his skull to bursting.Then he bounded ponderously down the slick stones with axe in hand. Grelch sensed, without knowing how, that only a bit more effort was required. He would show Grandfather how brave he was, and he would dwell in the garden in wonder and glory forevermore. That was all he wanted; all he had ever wanted.

‘I do not know you, murderers, but you will know me,’ he rasped. ‘I am Grelch, lord of the Ghyrtribe, and master of the Ghyrtract Fen. When you go back to whatever place spawned you, tell them it was I who sent you. Tell them that Grandfather Nurgle sends his greetings, sure as sure.’

He lifted his plague-axe in both hands and held it across his body, taking comfort in the weapon’s weight, stepping towards the silvery ranks of the enemy. ‘Come on then. Send me to the garden, if you can,’ he spat. Only a little more blood, he thought. Hadn’t intended it to be mine, but, well, you can’t have everything. Grandfather never asked more than a man could give.

One of the warriors stepped forward. He was tall, taller almost than Grelch, though he lacked the latter’s sheer bulk. His baroque armour shimmered strangely in the light of the witchfires, and he raised the hammer he carried in what Grelch thought must be a salute. In his other hand he carried a sword, its blade etched with sigils that burned Grelch’s eyes. Grelch spat at the warrior’s feet.

‘Tell me your name,’ he demanded. ‘Grandfather likes to know the names of the souls I send him.’

The warrior cocked his head, blue eyes alert behind the unmoving, too-perfect features of his mask. He lowered his weapon.

‘Gardus,’ he said. His voice was like a clear peal from a great bell. It struck Grelch’s belly like a fist, and climbed his spine into his brain where it reverberated, much as the thunder had earlier. Grelch shook his head to clear it.

Grandfather, give me strength, he thought.

‘Gardus,’ he said, chewing over the syllables. ‘Well, Gardus, a pleasure to meet you.’ Then, with a roar, Grelch swung his axe up and around, and launched himself at the warrior.

The Grandfather’s garden awaited.

Chapter One

Before the Gates of Dawn

Gardus, Lord-Celestant of the Hallowed Knights, looked down at the bloated body at his feet, then at the patina of sour bile clinging to his hammer. The plague warrior had fought bravely for being outmatched. He had hurled himself knowingly into death without hesitation or fear. Gardus wondered how such a debased creature could possess such courage. Then, would I have done any less? he wondered. He swept his hammer out, dislodging the muck which clung to it and banishing the thought in the same motion.

‘Who are the victorious?’ he called out, raising hammer and sigmarite runeblade. His voice boomed out across the clearing, reaching every ear. Some called him the Steel Soul, though he could not say where the name had come from. Regardless of its origins, his Warrior Chamber had taken the name for their own, and they bore it with honour.

‘Only the faithful,’ his warriors roared in reply.

Gardus gazed with no small amount of pride at those who had followed him into battle as they raised their voices in triumph. Liberators, Prosecutors, Judicators and Retributors, all clad in star-forged sigmarite, and bearing weapons crafted from the samen material. Their panoply of war gleamed silver where it was not rich gold. Their shoulder guards were of deepest regal blue, such as the heavens themselves, as were their heavy shields. The weapons they carried shimmered with holy fire.

They were all heroes. Their valour proven in battles all but forgotten in the haze of their Reforging. The Hallowed Knights were the fourth Stormhost to be founded, and the ranks of their Warrior Chambers were filled with the faithful of the Mortal Realms. Their only commonality was that each had called upon Sigmar’s name in battle, and been heard, and that each had shed his mortal flesh in the name of a righteous cause.

Gardus himself could but dimly recall who he had been before he had been made anew in Sigmar’s eternal forge. His old identity had been torn away by celestial lightning and replaced by something new and greater. The memories of that time surfaced only rarely, though he thought — he hoped — he was the same man he had been then. The same man whom Sigmar had deemed worthy to give a portion of his power to. Of the time before his Reforging, he remembered only fear, battle, pain and blood and, finally, the lightning which had brought him to Sigmaron amongst the stars.

He could not truly recall the cause he had died for, or the names of those who had fought beside him, in that final battle.

But I remember you nonetheless, my friends, he thought. I remember your faces, and how you died. I remember that we fought in Sigmar’s name, against the same evil I face today. I remember, and I will honour you the only way left to me — with sword and celestial fire. He lifted his runeblade and gazed at the sigils etched into its gleaming length. They seemed to glimmer with heat, the repressed fury of a storm. Sigmar himself had blessed the blade, after Gardus had forged it. I will not fail you, he thought, though whether he was speaking to Sigmar or the faded ghost-memories of half-forgotten comrades-in-arms, he could not say.

He looked around, taking stock of the battlefield. What he saw was not pleasant. The churned mud was full of monsters — most dead, some dying — their vile flesh no longer regenerating as it had during the initial moments of battle, twisted shapes whose abominable features were mirrored in the very land itself. Sickened, he smashed aside a looming icon dedicated to the Ruinous Powers. There were hundreds stabbed into the earth throughout the clearing, and they caused his stomach to twist in an instinctual revulsion. A trace of the man he had been, he suspected. Everywhere Gardus looked, disease blossomed.

The very air stank of it, and the nearby waters ran with pox. The ground was covered in a carpet of maggots — and other, unrecognizable, scavenger beasts — as well as a glistening putrescence. The sickly trees fed upon this rich loam of decaying matter, sprouting unnatural growths that resembled struggling insects or wailing faces. Thick creepers, covered in unhealthy looking cilia, sought to strangle what little normal-looking plantlife remained. Even the rocks were covered in pus-filled boils. Gardus was at once repelled and fascinated by it; he had never seen its like before.

He looked around at the crumpled and fly-ridden bodies of the plague-worshippers, and then at the idols, altar stones and obelisks that they had been in the process of erecting when the Steel Souls had arrived. The enemy might have been defeated, but there were still his works to cast down. Every dark monument would be toppled or broken up by the time they were done here. But somehow, he knew that this place would never be entirely free of the contagion that afflicted it.

Even so, that was no reason to tarry.

‘Feros, how goes it?’ he called out to his Retributor-Prime. Called the Heavy Hand by some, Feros had earned his rank at the Battle of the Celestine Glaciers, where a blow from his hammer had sheared loose the rim of one of the eponymous glaciers, sending the warriors of the Ruinous Powers tumbling into the icy depths. Like his fellow Retributors, Feros was the wrath of the heavens made brooding flesh. He smelled of lightning and rain, and his heavy, ornate armour was marked with the lightning bolt of Sigmar.

‘The cleansing of this mire proceeds apace, Steel Soul. My warriors will soon have reduced every standing stone in this fen to dust,’ Feros rumbled, his two-handed lightning hammer slamming down on a monstrous effigy and reducing it to shards.

‘Good. Tegrus,’ Gardus said, calling out to another of his subordinates. The Prosecutor-Prime dropped from the air a moment later to crouch before him with head bowed. Wings edged in the purest gold with feathers of lightning snapped out and folded back behind him with a lingering crackle.

‘Speak, and I obey, Lord-Celestant,’ Tegrus of the Sainted Eye said. His voice, slipping from the mouth-slit of his silver mask, quavered in the air like the peal of bell. During the cleansing of Azyr it was Tegrus who had scouted out the Chaos warbands infesting the Nihiliad Mountains, raining blazing arrows down upon them in order to expose their positions to Sigmar’s armies.

‘Take your Prosecutors to the skies above the edges of the fen, and watch for any sign of the enemy. They are thick as fleas in this region, and I would be ready for them when they come. And make no mistake, they will come.’

‘Perfect,’ Tegrus said, spreading his wings. ‘Makes it easier to crush them, if we don’t have to go chasing after them first.’ He took to the air a moment later, hurtling skyward, joined by his winged retinue.

‘Such exuberance may be his undoing,’ a voice said.

Gardus turned to see Solus, the Judicator-Prime, striding towards him, one hand resting on the storm gladius sheathed on his hip and the bulky shape of his boltstorm crossbow over one shoulder. Solus had no war-name, and to his credit, did not seem to desire one. He was the steadiest of Gardus’s subordinates, with a cool mind and a calm hand, regardless of the situation.

‘Only if you were not here to watch over us, Solus.’

‘As you say, Lord-Celestant. I and my Judicators shall see to it that no enemy shall catch our Warrior Chamber unawares,’ Solus said. ‘No allies either, more is the pity.’

Gardus nodded, knowing who Solus referred to. They had come here to wage war, but also to rebuild an old alliance. Only the former was his concern, and by extension that of his men. Others were occupied searching for the mysterious queen of this realm. It was Gardus’s task to ensure that they had good news to tell her when they found her.

‘Our purpose remains the same, regardless. We cleanse this place and hold it until we are ordered to do otherwise. That is what Sigmar has asked of us, and that is what we shall do,’ Gardus said. ‘Once Feros has finished shattering these stones and we have taken control of the realmgate, Lord-Castellant Grymn, Lord-Relictor Morbus and the others will be free to join us here. Perhaps once that occurs, the folk of the Jade Kingdoms — human and otherwise — will rise to join us. Until then—’

‘Until then, we are to fight their battles for them and die on their behalf?’

Gardus turned to meet the gaze of his Liberator-Prime. ‘Aetius,’ he replied.

‘I do not like this place,’ Aetius Shieldborn said, softly. ‘There is poison in the air, and the ground shudders like a sick animal.’ Aetius was as brave as a gryph-hound, but forever casting a stern eye on his fellows and the world around him. He nodded tersely to Solus, as the latter moved off to see to his task.

‘That is why we are here,’ Gardus said gently. ‘If we fail, this great forest realm might become a sour canker in the flesh of the Jade Kingdoms, a seeping malignance which no fire can cleanse and no magic can exorcise.’ He tapped Aetius’s pauldron with his hammer. ‘Much is demanded…’

‘…of those to whom much has been given,’ Aetius finished, bowing his head. He looked away and asked, ‘What of us, then, Lord-Celestant? What is our task now that the enemy has been broken?’

‘Watch for the foe while Feros and his Retributors finish seeing to these abominable stones. Help where you are needed. The quicker we are finished, the better. Whatever they sought to build here, we must utterly destroy, Aetius,’ Gardus said. ‘Only then can we take the Gates of Dawn for ourselves, and then the Lord-Castellant and the rest of our brothers will be able to march forth from the Gates of Azyr and join us here.’

‘It will be done.’ Aetius saluted crisply, raising his hammer to his brow. Then he turned and began to bellow orders. Stormcast Eternals hastened to obey. Gardus watched the other man go about his duties and shook his head. He knew the source of Aetius’s irritation, or at least suspected he did.

The Hallowed Knights had not been chosen for the spearhead — that honour had gone to the Hammers of Sigmar, as was fitting. Nonetheless, the waiting had been its own burden, and not just for his subordinates. The longer it had continued, the more uncertain Gardus had grown, wondering if their training and discipline would be enough for the conflicts to come. He had been reborn to battle, but it had been so long since he had last tested steel against steel and strength against strength anywhere other than the training fields of Sigmaron.

I wonder what Grymn would say, if he knew, he thought. Gardus had never known the Lord-Castellant of the Steel Souls to show hesitation or doubt. The man was a rock, capable of weathering any storm. Of all those in their Warrior Chamber he alone could match the Lord-Celestant blow for blow, but he was not one to seek reassurance from. Neither could Gardus admit his concerns to his fellow Lord-Celestants, as they readied their own Warrior Chambers for combat.

Gardus had shared his uncertainties with only one other — Zephacleas, Lord-Celestant of the Astral Templars. Gardus smiled as he thought of the other Stormcast commander. Zephacleas had been a big man, even before his Reforging. After it, he had become a veritable giant, standing head and shoulders over Gardus. Clad in armour as dark as Gardus’s was bright, Zephacleas had seen to the heart of the latter’s uncertainties, speaking words of encouragement as they stood together, looking out at the stars in those final hours before he had been called to battle. And true to Zephacleas’s assertions, his doubts were all but dispelled now. They had met the enemy, and they had been victorious.

He recalled those first few moments after their arrival, his mind and body invigorated by the celestial lightning that had carried him from Azyr, as well as the fierce joy that had surged within him as he saw the corrupted warriors charging towards him. The Hallowed Knights had fought like warriors born, executing his orders or countering unforeseen threats on their own with a skill far beyond that of any mortal servant of the Dark Gods.

And now, the Gates of Dawn were theirs.

Gardus turned and let his gaze ascend towards the arched realmgate, high up the stone steps that climbed the craggy hillside. It did not look as he imagined it. He had thought that such an artefact would be a massive portal, swirling with powerful energies. Instead, it was an innocuous ruin, covered in creeper vines and sagging slightly, like an old man bent by age. Was this truly a gateway to Aqshy, the Realm of Fire?

He shook his head. It didn’t matter. He had been sent to claim it in Sigmar’s name, and that was what he had done. From behind him came the sound of cracking stone and the shouts of his warriors at work. There was a friendly rivalry between the different hosts of his Warrior Chamber, seeking to outdo one another on and off the battlefield. Some of his peers frowned on such boisterousness outside of Sigmaron, but Gardus knew that laughter was like sigmarite for the soul.

And in any event, it’s a celebration, he thought. Our first battle, our first victory. He looked up, wondering if Sigmar was watching them. We will not fail you, my lord.

A tall obelisk, larger than any three of his men, toppled over after a concentrated effort by Feros and Aetius, eliciting cheers. As their voices rose, a new sound intruded — a droning hum that pierced the jubilant mood of the Stormcast Eternals and swept it away as it grew louder and louder. Men looked around, trying to find the source of the noise. Gardus, closer than the others to the Gates of Dawn, found it first and felt the taste of victory turn to ashes on his tongue.

He felt a chill creep along his spine as he turned to look at the realmgate. His limbs felt leaden and the air grew thick and close. A miasmic fog had risen up from the ground, clinging now to his legs and the edges of his warcloak. A vile stench filled his nose, and he gagged as the sound grew louder, spreading, becoming something else. Something worse.

Laughter.

‘Oh no, no, no, my friends. This will simply not do. The game has barely begun, and already you celebrate victory? No, this will not do at all,’ a hideous phlegm-roughened voice chortled. It echoed from everywhere and nowhere, slithering across the minds and ears of every man present. It rose from the mud, and pulsed from the festering vines that clung to everything. Gardus raised his hammer and his men fell instantly into formation, shields raised, weapons ready. Something was coming and they needed to be ready to meet it.

He caught Feros’s eye, and the Retributor-Prime nodded grimly. Tegrus’s Prosecutors hovered overhead, their weapons ready, and Solus’s Judicators had formed up in their firing retinues just behind Aetius and the other Liberators. Eyes sought his, and he stepped forward so all could see him.

‘Hold position,’ he said, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. Whatever was coming, whatever had spoken, was unlike anything he had ever encountered before. Its words had squeezed his heart, and nearly stripped his courage from him. If he’d been a normal man, he might have broken in that moment, but he was a Stormcast Eternal — fear had no power over him.

Above him, the Gates of Dawn began to shudder, shedding vegetation and dust, as the ancient stones ground against one another. Something indefinable bubbled beyond the frame of the arch, and a stinking chill rippled through the suddenly cloying air.

‘Grelch was loyal and dutiful, and his blood serves as well or better than that of any puling slave,’ the horrid, burbling voice continued. ‘Blood is the key and it has turned the lock. Knock knock, little storm clouds, let me in.’ A black void eddied and frothed beyond the arch, like a ragged wound torn into the very air, and Gardus’s ears echoed with the buzzing of innumerable flies as a chill rippled through the air. The gate began to shudder and twist, as if the very stones were in agony.

And then, before Gardus’s horrified eyes, two immense rotting hands reached out from within the arch. They caught either side of it, and within moments, something abominable began to squeeze its impossible bulk through the Gates of Dawn. Broken, rotting fangs clashed in a bulbous jaw as the monstrous daemon began to chortle with glee. The archway rocked alarmingly as the thing pried itself free and lurched through the realmgate. Those Stormcast closest to the gate rushed forward, as if they might reach the summit in time, but falling rubble from the contorting gate smashed them aside. Those who avoided the debris were caught in the flood of acidic froth that spilled from the now-warped gate. Gardus bellowed for the remainder to fall back.

‘Greetings, whelps of a tiny god,’ the greater daemon of Nurgle — for such Gardus knew it must be — thundered cheerfully. It slapped its grossly distended belly and leaned forward on crooked legs. ‘Allow me to introduce myself… I am Bolathrax. Your souls are mine.’

Chapter Two

Beyond the Gates of Azyr

Zephacleas, Lord-Celestant of the Astral Templars, sat, eyes closed, and listened to the crackle of the storms that raged over the aetherdomes that ran along the great platform of the Sigmarabulum. He thought he could hear the agonized screams of the fallen in each crash of thunder or snap of lightning as their spirits underwent the process of Reforging. Victory at any price, he thought, with a grim smile.

He opened his eyes and leaned forward, head tilted so that the light of the broken world bathed his battered features. Zephacleas gazed up at the great sphere that hung in the heavens above the fabricated ring. It was but a fragment of the world-that-had-been, yet still its iron core was as large as any moon. It gleamed with a strange iridescence, casting long shadows across the vast forges, laboratories, armouries and soul mills of the fabricating ring.

Beautiful, in its own way, Zephacleas thought. Even so, he wished he were elsewhere. His brother Stormcasts were at war in the Mortal Realms, fighting to throw back the servants of the Ruinous Powers. But of the Stormhosts chosen to assail Ghyran, the Astral Templars had been held back in reserve. Soon, though, they would be called forth to wreak Sigmar’s vengeance on the Ruinous Powers and all of their twisted followers.

Zephacleas looked forward to it. He had a taste for war and longed for the clangour of battle. It had awoken old memories in him, and stirred the ashes of the man he had once been, before Sigmar had brought him to Azyr. The same had been true of them all, he thought, from the mighty Vandus Hammerhand to the quiet Gardus, Lord-Celestant of the Hallowed Knights.

Gardus, he thought, with a smile. He shook his head. The Steel Soul was the best of them. In him was a devotion to duty that far outstripped that of any other Stormcasts save perhaps that of Ionus Cryptborn himself. He wished him glory wherever Sigmar had chosen to send him.

Gardus had been left out of the assault on Aqshy, much to his disappointment. The Hallowed Knights had yet to be blooded, and when their Warrior Chambers had been selected to take part in the assault on the Jade Kingdoms, Zephacleas had seen the uncertainty in Gardus’s eyes. As if he and his men would not live up to Sigmar’s trust.

It was an uncertainty that he himself had felt before his first taste of battle. He remembered the moment that silence had fallen across Sigmaron the day the war had begun. The clanging, grinding din that had been so much a part of the daily fabric had stilled, as the great forges and mills had ceased all labour. It had been as though they were holding their breath, waiting for some long and hoped-for moment. And then, into that grim silence, had come a sound. A lone bell tolled. It was a doleful, soul-aching sound, and it had carried the length of every great avenue and into every barracks and vault, reaching every straining ear in the Celestial City. The mournful toll had echoed off each of the vast pillared structures and swelled to fill the empty plazas until it too at last faded into silence.

Then had come the booming clap of thunder that signalled the opening of the Gates of Azyr and the beginning of the war. Zephacleas had is first texperience of real fighting — not merely training in the gladitorium or orruk hunting in the wilds of Azyrheim — in the assault upon the Brimstone Peninsula after the Hammers of Sigmar had taken the Igneous Delta. He found that he had a taste for it.

Zephacleas flexed his hands, clad in their gauntlets of sigmarite. With hammer and sword, he had cut down Chaos-twisted Aqshian tribesmen and lumbering khorgoraths alongside the Stormhosts of his brethren. He and his Warrior Chamber had fought their way across the Brimstone Peninsula before returning to the celestine vaults so his warriors could heal. There, Zephacleas attended a war council with the other chamber leaders of the Stormhosts and learned how the cloying presence of Chaos had twisted many of the realmgates. His fellows had spoken of sentient flames that burned on the Bridge of Fire and the streams of contagion that burst forth from the archway to the five gates of Ghyran. It was as if the very fabric of reality itself were under assault. The Ruinous Powers waged war on the Mortal Realms.

To Zephacleas, all of this was merely proof that Sigmar had been right to cast the Stormhosts into battle when he had. Battle had been joined and would only end in victory or death.

‘As it should be,’ he said out loud. The Stormcasts had been forged for war, and were ready for whatever awaited them beyond the Gates of Azyr.

The sound of his voice was swallowed by the vastness before him. Stars pinwheeled about the fraying edges of swirling nebulas and shimmering galactic coronas — it was a sea of colour and light, but eerily silent and stretching into an impossible infinity.

He’d never truly understood Gardus’s fascination with the precipice of the Sigmarabulum, and what lay beyond, but he had to admit that the sight was soothing in its way. He laughed. Soothing, yes, and also invigorating. Here was the sum totality of existence, wrought upon celestial canvas and laid out for his eyes. There was a chill beauty to it, but also a ferocity — the stars lived and fought and died even as men. Brief flickers of light against the dark, soon forgotten, but always replaced.

And if that does not describe the Stormcast, I do not know what does, he thought.

No, Zephacleas. Never forgotten. Never that, a voice rumbled in his mind. It was a warm voice, but powerful, like a summer storm. Nonetheless, Zephacleas found himself bowing beneath its weight.

‘My lord Sigmar — is it time?’ he asked, fighting to hide the eagerness in his voice. The question was moot. Sigmar would not have deigned to speak with him unless the need was great. ‘Are we to be cast once more into battle?’

Yes, Zephacleas. The Astral Templars are needed.

Sigmar’s voice echoed through his skull like the peal of a bell, shaking him down to his marrow. The God-King spoke with the voice of the heavens themselves, and in his words could be heard the roar of comets, the hum of nebulae, and the endless echo of the black between the stars.

‘Where, my lord, the Greenglades? The City of Branches?’ he asked, wondering which of his brother Stormcasts was in need of aid. Where in the Jade Kingdoms would Sigmar cast his thunderbolt? Wherever it was, it was long past time, Zephacleas thought. He’d had enough of quiet contemplation. Now he wanted a fight.

The Ghyrtract Fen. The Hallowed Knights are beset by an enemy far beyond them.

An image filled Zephacleas’s mind — he saw figures in shining armour confronted by something massive and foul, the sight of which filled him with an icy dread. This was no brute monster or champion, swollen by the power of its fell god, but a shard of a god itself. A creature beyond any single Stormcast, Lord-Celestant or not.

‘I am on my way, my lord. The Astral Templars shall not fail you,’ Zephacleas said, pushing himself to his feet. He rose smoothly, despite the weight of his armour. Helmet under his arm, and hammer in hand, he turned back towards the magnificent halls of Sigmaron. He could smell death in the air, but whose he could not say.

Hold on my friend. I am coming.

Chapter Three

Where strides Bolathrax

Gardus knew what the beast was the moment it revealed its full bulk, though he’d never seen one before. Great Unclean One, he thought. Sigmar guide me, and lend me strength. ‘Steady,’ he said, glancing to either side. A murmur of uncertainty swept the ranks of the retinue behind him. It fell to him to see that it went no farther. ‘Hold your positions.’

The greater daemon of Nurgle was an imposing sight, perched atop the stone steps. Rippling folds of fat marked its wide frame, and its flesh was by turns stretched tight or else torn and oozing, exposing the foulness within. Swollen entrails spilled from these ragged canyons, dripping bile and tarry blood upon the stones. Immense pustules flowered at its joints, and boils shiny with poison decorated its leering countenance and flabby chest like gaudy jewellery. Its sloping head was little more than a lump upon its shoulders, and two great antlers of stained and stinking bone rose from the sides of its skull. Tatters of spoiled meat hung from the horns, flapping like obscene battle standards as the creature swayed and laughed. It wore a rust-pitted pauldron and spaulder on one arm, as well as a ragged hauberk of grimy mail, which gaped over its belly, and it clutched a gigantic, filth-encrusted chain-headed flail in one hand.

‘Form up,’ Gardus boomed, fighting back a wave of nausea. The thing was every foul thought given form, and he felt sick just being in its vicinity. A nearby Liberator staggered, vomit spewing from the mouthpiece of his mask. Gardus caught him and helped him stand.

‘Easy,’ he murmured. The man began to speak, to try and explain himself, but Gardus silenced him with a shake of his head. ‘There is no shame in it,’ he said softly. ‘Take your place in line, Stormcast.’ He turned as the reverberations of the word shivered out into a hum. A black cloud rose from the tree line — flies, he realised. More of them spilled out of the archway, and even erupted from the diseased flesh of the daemon.

‘By the realm celestial,’ he muttered, as the clouds of flies wove together, coalescing about the Great Unclean One’s antlered head. ‘Form up, on me,’ he roared out, striking his weapons together. Lightning snarled at the point of impact. ‘Fall back and form up. Hold the line, whatever else comes through that stinking portal.’

Around him, the Steel Souls hastened to obey, pulling back from the corrupted stone idols and the archway. Gardus grunted in satisfaction as he heard his command repeated up and down the line of retinues by his subordinates. Feros and the others could be counted on to do as he ordered, without hesitation.

‘Form up, form up… so disciplined,’ the daemon rumbled. ‘Like a row of children’s toys, lined up neatly for Bolathrax’s amusement, ready to play.’ The great horned head tilted, and the bulging eyes fixed on Gardus. ‘But this is not a game you can win, whelp. If I were you, I would run home and tell my god that this place belongs to another.’

The daemon’s eyes burned into his own. For a moment, he felt a terrible heat, as if he’d been struck by a fever. Then came a terrible tugging sensation, as if long fingers were stirring through his thoughts, and plucking out those of interest. He saw the rows of cots, upon which moss-lepers and flux sufferers lay in agony. He felt weak, and heard the screams as the invaders crested the wall and entered Demesnus Harbour… he almost stumbled where he stood, but the strange sensations faded almost as quickly as they’d come. Bolathrax grunted.

‘Tough mite, strong… stronger than I expected. The quality of your essence has much improved since last we met.’

‘We have never met, beast,’ Gardus said. He knew, even as he spoke, that he shouldn’t bandy words with the daemon. It was a lie made flesh. But something, some nagging urge, compelled him on. ‘I think I would remember one as ugly as you.’

His words echoed across the clearing, and Bolathrax leaned forward, eyes narrowed. A slow smile crept across the daemon’s blubbery face as the ranks of Hallowed Knights began to ring with the sound of hammers striking shields. The slow, steady rhythm drowned out the humming buzz of the daemon’s arrival, and for a moment, Gardus thought that the noise alone might drive the creature back into whatever hell had spawned it. But instead, it shook its head like a disappointed parent.

‘So be it,’ Bolathrax said. The daemon raised one fat paw and spoke a single, deplorable word. Gardus felt his teeth rattle in his jaw from the force of the word. The gathering clouds of flies suddenly spilled towards the Stormcast lines.

‘Shields up,’ Gardus roared, setting his feet as the deluge of insects drew close. Only now they weren’t just insects, but other things. Long limbed, bloat-bellied shapes appeared in the cloud, loping towards them, dragging rust-pitted blades behind them. Plaguebearers, Gardus thought. Similarly with Bolathrax, he had never seen them before, but he knew them all the same. He recognised them in the pit of his stomach and at the base of his mind, as one mortal enemy knows another. One-eyed, their rotten entrails leaking out, the plaguebearers radiated the same wrongness as Bolathrax himself, though to a lesser degree… as if they did not belong in the world.

More of them emerged from the cloud of flies. They were on all sides of the Hallowed Knights, and their numbers increased with every moment. So quickly had they formed that the Stormcast Eternals were surrounded within moments, their retinues hemmed in on all sides. The daemons droned monotonously as they advanced, as if in mimicry of the flies that had given birth to them.

‘Form up around me,’ Gardus bellowed. ‘Fall back, circle formation, but keep the line. Make them pay for every step, my brothers.’

Was this how I fell, before? The thought reverberated through his head, like the droning of the daemons. Before Sigmaron, before his Reforging, was this what he had faced? Was this how he had died? He forced the thought aside, trying to focus on the threat before him, rather than one long past, skinstealers rushed at him, spears wet with the blood of his acolytes. Reaching out for one of the four-foot iron candlesticks, he caught it up and his hammer snapped out to pulp a plaguebearer’s skull. He parried a disease-forged blade with his own sword, shattering the daemon weapon. Aetius had moved up beside him, shield raised to cover Gardus’s flank. He stepped forward and swung his hammer out in a wide arc, sending daemons reeling.

‘Who will be triumphant?’ Gardus shouted, trying to ignore the persistent hum of flies and forgotten voices.

‘Only the faithful,’ came the response from the throat of every member of his Warrior Chamber. The cry rose above the din of battle, above the sound of hammers cracking bones and the drone of daemons. Gardus smashed a plaguebearer from its feet, splitting its leering features, the candlestick heavy in his hand as he caught up its twin and stepped out of the hospice.

‘If we should fall, who will be reborn again?’ he shouted, shaking his head to clear it.

‘Only the faithful!’

‘Only the faithful,’ Gardus said hoarsely, as he blocked a blow that would have split Aetius’s head. He chopped the daemon down and cast a quick glance over the battlefield. The Hallowed Knights were fighting as warriors born, but the foe’s numbers were limitless. They needed to counter that advantage. We need room to manoeuvre, he thought. Gardus looked up, and swept his runeblade out, signalling to Tegrus. The Prosecutors dropped from the sky, hurling their celestial hammers. The weapons struck, slamming home into the ranks of the enemy with meteoric force. Dirt, mud and broken bodies were hurled into the air with each impact. For a moment, the enemy’s relentless advance stalled.

Gardus seized his chance.

‘Aetius, lock shields!’ he roared. ‘Feros, to me!’

Aetius barked an order, and several retinues of Liberators slammed their shields together, forming a solid wall of gleaming sigmarite. As Gardus had hoped, Solus and his Judicators recognized what was required of them, and they retreated swiftly, collapsing their ranks behind the defensive perimeter provided by the shields of their brethren. Feros and his Retributors moved through the retreating ranks of Liberators and Judicators, their great two-handed lightning hammers clearing away those daemons closest to the Hallowed Knights’ lines. Feros laughed as a blow from his hammer reduced a loping daemon to ash.

‘Sigmar be praised for this bounty,’ the Retributor-Prime bellowed. ‘Enemies to smite, and time enough to enjoy it.’

He stepped forward and drove his hammer into the ground. Lightning erupted from the black earth, catching plaguebearers in its crackling embrace. The daemons jittered and burned. Between them, the Prosecutors and Retributors were keeping the enemy at bay, but Gardus knew that it was only a temporary reprieve.

‘Aetius, shieldwall,’ Gardus said, signalling the Liberator-Prime. Aetius raised his hammer, and the front rank of the shieldwall knelt, planting the bottoms of their shields on the ground. The second rank moved in behind them, slamming their shields atop those of the front rank. Those Liberators not a part of the shieldwall moved forward to join Aetius and Gardus as the first line of defence against the enemy. They broke away, forming themselves up into groups of five or six warriors, and took up positions between the Retributors.

Soon Solus’s Judicators were firing from behind the wall of shields, as Gardus and the others tried to hold the plague-ranks back. Thunder rumbled and lightning snarled as Solus and his warriors peppered the enemy. Soon the air was full of smoke and noise, but the daemons continued their droning advance, taking no notice of the punishment inflicted upon them. More and more of them flowed out of the Gates of Dawn to join their vile kin in an unceasing assault upon Gardus’s Warrior Chamber. They strode over the charred and broken bodies of their fellows, clambering over heaps of daemonic corpses in order to reach the Hallowed Knights.

Gardus and Aetius fought back to back.

‘We’ll be overwhelmed if this keeps up, my lord,’ Aetius said, knocking a plaguebearer back with a swat from his shield. As the daemon staggered, he ripped his sword through its midsection, like a woodcutter hewing at a tree. The daemon fell in two squirming halves.

‘While one of us yet stands, hope is not lost,’ Gardus said. He took in the battle at a glance, seeing the Retributors, like lone islands in a sea of filth, and the Liberators, fighting back to back in small retinues. None of them were doing much to blunt the advance, despite the toll they were extracting from the enemy. Plaguebearers hacked at the shieldwall, occasionally pulling down a Liberator and dragging him out and away from his fellows to be butchered. Gardus felt his heart tighten with every death, a strange sense of having lived through this before, as he watched his flock fall to the spears of the skinstealers. He shook off the errant thought. These enemies were not skinstealers, whoever they were. He heard Bolathrax’s laughter slither over the battlefield, and looked up to see the Great Unclean One squat down on his flabby haunches and lean forward, the very picture of an eager spectator.

‘Yes, fight hard,’ Bolathrax called out. ‘It will not matter in the end. The tallyman will collect his due, no matter how well you swing your little hammers.’

Gardus longed to smash the smirk from the creature’s face. Anger boiled up in him, and as he fought, he saw half-remembered faces superimposed over the sigmarite masks his warriors wore. He heard voices he did not recognize, and the green horrors of the Ghyrtract Fen wavered and seemed to give way to another place, another time. He saw blood spatter white sheets as the skinstealers howled and tried to shake it off, to banish the clutching fragments of memory, but the hospice was burning and they refused to release him. He slashed at a plaguebearer and the grimacing warrior, clad in crimson and brass armour stumbled back, his scarred skull crushed by the iron candlestick in Garradan’s hand.

‘Sigmar,’ Gardus roared. More warriors closed in on him, savage, saw-toothed axes raised and he whirled, runeblade licking out to lop off arms and shatter plague-swords. Those swords, he knew, were stained with the blood of his flock, and it drove him to fury. A plague-sword struck him, causing him to stumble and he felt the spear as it dug through his robes and pierced his vitals, and he fell to one knee. ‘Sigmar, give me strength!’

‘My lord… Gardus,’ someone shouted. He hesitated. Who is Gardus? My name is Garradan, he thought as a heavy body struck him and knocked him sprawling. Jolted from his memories, he rolled over and saw Aetius stagger as a plague-blade slid under his guard and tore through his belly. Gardus froze in shock, but only for a moment. As Aetius sank down, he surged to his feet, blade in hand. His runeblade sang out, and the plaguebearer lost its hand. It stepped back, its single eye widening in shock. That expression quickly vanished in a spray of pus and bile as Gardus’s hammer slammed down on its skull.

Gardus shook his head, clearing it of lingering memories. He’d lost focus, letting his anger overwhelm his discipline. He could not afford such lapses, not now. Aetius was hunched over, his hands clasped to his belly.

‘Aetius, can you stand?’ he asked.

Aetius grunted and, with Gardus’s help, rose to his feet. Blood dripped from between his fingers as he threw an arm over Gardus’s shoulders and sagged against the Lord-Celestant. Gardus uprooted his blade and, with one arm around Aetius’s waist, he hacked them a path back towards the shieldwall. As he handed Aetius over to a pair of Liberators, he turned back towards the Gates of Dawn.

The Great Unclean One wove his hands in obscene gestures. With every pass of the greater daemon’s hands, the archway flexed like a thing in pain, and an ugly light seeped out from between the aged stones. The insect-drone in the air had grown louder, and it was accompanied by a new sound — the stomp of great feet, growing closer.

‘I did try and warn you, you can’t say I didn’t,’ Bolathrax croaked, as the archway shuddered down to its keystones. ‘I gave you a chance, little pustlings, but you spat upon my kind offer.’

The daemon glanced slyly in Gardus’s direction, somehow finding him amidst the confusion of battle. Behind the daemon, the stones of the archway seemed to tremble with the reverberations of whatever monstrosity approached. ‘Though, I expected no better from the spawn of Sigmar.’

As the name of his god left the beast’s blubbery lips, Gardus hesitated. Bolathrax’s smile widened, sensing the reaction his words had caused. ‘Yes, I know who you serve. I recognize that sign, on your armour. And I do not fear him, pustule. I withstood his wrath before, and I will withstand it now. I have outlived many gods. Bolathrax was there at the Battle of Black Skies, when the Great Necromancer fell. Bolathrax corrupted the Skyoak and broke the champions of mankind in the Allpoints War. And it was Bolathrax who cracked the City of Branches and made Alarielle weep tears of jade.’

With every boast, the Great Unclean One slapped his rubbery chest.

‘Bolathrax, pustule! Bolathrax, blessed above all of Grandfather Nurgle’s children. Bolathrax, greatest of all those who dwell in the garden.’

Bolathrax extended one wide paw, as if in command, and roared out, ‘Heed me, my sons. Come forth, brothers in bile, come forth my rotguard!’

Chapter Four

In the halls of Azyr

Zephacleas moved quickly through the celestine vaults. Gardus was his friend — in many ways, his only friend — and the thought that he might be in danger was not a pleasant one. Stormcasts could not die, as such, but the Reforging process was not easy. Those who fell and returned were… different. No one could say how or why, but they were, and that thought lent speed to Zephacleas’s stride. He did not want Gardus to change, to be something other than the man he was now. He did not want him to endure the agonies of rebirth a second time.

I do not want to lose my friend, he thought. As he passed the Forbidden Vaults, he averted his eyes, as tradition and prudence demanded. He was not the only Stormcast moving through the halls. The turquoise war-plate of the Celestial Vindicators was in evidence, as well as the golden armour of the Hammers of Sigmar. The great mourning bell was ringing steadily, its despairing song echoing everywhere as he made his way to where his Warrior Chamber waited.

He caught the arm of one of the Celestial Vindicators. ‘What news, brother? How goes the war for the realmgates of Chamon? What of the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok, of Thostos Bladestorm and Lord-Castellant Eldroc?’

The other Stormcast pulled his arm free of Zephacleas’s grip. The Celestial Vindicators were not known for their even temperament, and Zephacleas stepped back, hands raised.

‘Peace, brother, I am merely curious.’

‘The battle goes well,’ the other Stormcast rumbled. ‘The Silverway is ours. Chamon will follow.’ He cocked his head. ‘What of Ghyran? Have you heard?’

‘Badly,’ Zephacleas said, tersely. ‘I go now, to see that it fares better. Sigmar be with you, brother,’ he added, extending his hand. They clasped forearms, and turned to go their separate ways. Before Zephacleas had made more than a few steps, however, a voice called out to him, stopping him in his tracks.

‘Hold, Beast-Bane,’ a rough voice said. ‘I would have words with you.’

Zephacleas stopped, more out of curiosity than any respect for the speaker’s authority. He’d earned his war-name in the wilds of Azyrheim, hunting the monstrous beasts that still lurked in the high crags and deep canyons of the mountains of the Celestial Realm. He’d fought the Black Bull of Nordrath and harried the beast-packs of the Antarktos Ridge to extinction, slaughtering the white-furred goat-headed servants of Chaos to the last ungor. He turned.

‘Hail and well met, Lord-Castellant. Shouldn’t you be with the remainder of your Warrior Chamber, waiting for the order to march?’

‘Who are you to say where I should or should not be?’ Lorrus Grymn, Lord-Castellant of the Steel Souls, said.

Squat and built like a low wall, he was accompanied by two other silver-armoured figures. One was Morbus, Lord-Relictor of Gardus’s Warrior Chamber. Zephacleas thought he recognized the other as Machus, one of Grymn’s paladins and Decimator-Prime. The double-bladed axe he carried was a wicked-looking thing, its edges polished to a blinding gleam. His eyes were unreadable, and his expression was hidden behind his featureless war-helm, but Zephacleas suspected that he was as worried as his superior must be, to accost the Lord-Celestant of another Warrior Chamber.

Zephacleas held up his hands. ‘My apologies…’ he began.

Grymn cut him off with an impatient gesture.

‘You are forgiven. Sigmar calls for you to lend aid to the Steel Soul,’ Grymn said, eyeing the Lord-Celestant critically.

‘He has,’ Zephacleas said. The gryph-hound at the Lord-Castellant’s side growled low in its feathered throat, as if it disapproved of his levity. Zephacleas fixed the animal with a cautious look. It was a heavy-bodied creature, with the limbs and torso of a great hunting hound and the head of a bird of prey. It could have the throat out of an unarmoured man in a matter of moments, and could give even a Stormcast a few uncomfortable minutes, if it was of a mind. This one was looking at him as if he were a bit of meat on the end of a stick. But then, so was Grymn, having a reputation for ferocity in word as well as deed. More than one Stormcast had been reduced to spluttering anger by the Lord-Castellant’s words.

Grymn patted the creature’s head. ‘Easy, Tallon,’ he murmured. He looked at Zephacleas. ‘Gardus is a great fighter, a warrior without peer, but… he is untempered.’

‘Yes,’ Zephacleas said. ‘As are you. As was I, once.’

‘It is more than that,’ Grymn said insistently. ‘Morbus has seen it, in his dreams.’

‘He is in danger,’ Morbus said. The Lord-Relictor was an imposing figure, his weapons and armour replete with icons of faith. It fell to him to keep the souls of the Hallowed Knights in his Warrior Chamber from the gloom of the underworld, and Morbus, like Ionus Cryptborn, or even the Astral Templars’ own Seker Gravewalker, was too close to that fell realm for Zephacleas’s comfort. ‘Dark forces gather about him, Lord-Celestant.’

‘I am well aware, Lord-Relictor.’ Zephacleas gestured for Morbus to move aside. Morbus hesitated, his burning gaze turning to Grymn. Impatient now, Zephacleas made to push past. Every moment he delayed was a moment wasted in aiding Gardus.

Grymn quickly stepped forward, blocking him. His sour face was twisted in an expression so unpleasant that Zephacleas thought at first that he had been done some injury. He appeared to be struggling with his words.

‘Say what you wish to say, Lord-Castellant. Some of us have battles to fight,’ Zephacleas said.

‘I would have you see that he comes to no harm, Lord-Celestant,’ Grymn said. ‘Whatever else happens, keep him safe.’

Zephacleas blinked. ‘What?’

‘Gardus,’ Grymn said. ‘See that he comes to no harm, Astral Templar. Or you shall answer to us.’ As he spoke, he poked a finger into Zephacleas’s chest, eliciting a dull sound as sigmarite struck sigmarite. Zephacleas smiled.

‘You truly fear for him.’

‘You will say nothing of this, you great oaf,’ Grymn growled, as Zephacleas pushed past him. ‘Concentrate on keeping him alive, rather than making mockery of us.’

‘As if I would do anything else,’ Zephacleas said. He stopped and glanced over his shoulder: Grymn stared at the floor, hands flexing uselessly, Morbus stared at Zephacleas, his expression indecipherable, and Machus leaned on his axe, head bowed.

Ah, my friend, any remaining doubts you might still have would vanish in an instant, if you could but see the way they worry for you, thought Zephacleas. A Lord-Celestant was not simply a leader; he was the heart and soul of his Warrior Chamber, and on his shoulders rode all of the hopes and courage of his warriors.

‘Lord-Castellant,’ Zephacleas said, loudly.

Grymn’s head shot up, and he fixed the Lord-Celestant with a glare. More softly, Zephacleas said, ‘I will see him safe, Lord-Castellant. Else my soul join his in Sigmar’s forges.’

Chapter Five

The coming of the rotguard

The archway gaped like a wound pulled wide, and obese shapes shoved and fought their way free of the darkness beyond. Gardus heard the rattle of armour, and the grunting rumble of monstrous voices. Whatever was coming was big.

‘Too late,’ Bolathrax roared, as he slapped his hands together mockingly. ‘Too late, little pustules. Bolathrax’s beloved sons have come — the rotguard march again!’

The archway throbbed as a noxious gas erupted from the dark beyond the stones, and then, one by one, the rotguard stepped into the Realm of Life. Seven Great Unclean Ones, each as big as Bolathrax, and all equally horrible. Each one was armed and armoured in a similar way to their lord and master. They took up positions on the steps, as if awaiting further orders.

‘Sigmar’s hammer,’ Aetius muttered, as two Liberators took his weight and began to pull him to safety, behind the shieldwall. ‘Seven of them.’ The very air seemed to tremble in anticipation of whatever nightmare was preparing to claw its way free of the Gates of Dawn.

‘One was trouble enough,’ Solus said, as he joined them at the break in the shieldwall. The Judicator-Prime sounded tired, and his armour was marked and scored where enemy blades had reached him, despite the shields of the Liberators. ‘We must regroup, Steel Soul.’

‘We can beat them,’ Gardus said. Had he said that before, when Sigmar’s gaze had first fallen on him? He shook his head. He could not afford to become lost in memory again. ‘We must. We will not fail here. We will not.’ He raised his runeblade. ‘Retributors, Prosecutors, to me,’ he roared. He glanced at Solus. ‘Hold the line. Do not let it buckle.’

The Judicator-Prime nodded tersely, and Gardus turned away. As he moved forward, Feros fell in beside him, his armour befouled and covered in daemonic grime.

‘Are we making for the big daemon?’ the Retributor-Prime growled. At Gardus’s nod, he gave a bark of laughter, raising his hammer like a standard.

The other Retributors began to fight their way towards their commander. Overhead, Tegrus and his Prosecutors cut through the air on wings of lightning, clearing a path for Gardus and the others. As the mystical hammers tore explosive furrows in the ground and sent plaguebearers tumbling through the air, Gardus led Feros and his Retributors towards the Gates of Dawn at a run.

If they could interrupt whatever ritual the greater daemon was enacting, they might stand a chance of throwing the enemy back. Gardus bulled aside any daemon foolish enough to attempt to block his path, battering them down with hammer and blade. Lightning sparked and crackled from the hammers of the Retributors as they moved with him, scything daemons from their feet with wide, sweeping blows. From the corner of his eye, he saw Feros knock a plaguebearer with his shoulder, before crushing its skull with his boot. The Prosecutors swooped past, almost at eye-level, and cut through the enemy ranks.

They had almost reached the stone steps when the first Retributor fell, pulled down by a trio of plaguebearers. Azure energy burst from the downed warrior’s armour and a bolt of brilliant light speared upwards, piercing the dark clouds. Another for Reforging, Gardus thought grimly.

The Stormcasts had carved a wide path through the daemonic ranks, but now their lack of numbers was beginning to show. The daemons came at them without subtlety, form of discipline or sense of self-preservation, but they were limitless. For every one that fell, two more stepped up to take its place. Plague-swords sought Gardus’s belly and he was forced to slow his charge as daemons bounded down the steps towards him. ‘Keep going,’ he roared, as Feros slowed to help him. ‘We must stop the beast.’

He looked up, searching for Tegrus, and saw the Prosecutors soaring upwards, shrouded in a cloud of stinging flies. As he watched, the flies swirling about one of the winged warriors congealed into a plaguebearer. The sudden weight of the daemon, combined with the sword it slid through a gap in the Prosecutor’s armour, served to send the latter plummeting to the ground. Daemon and Stormcast struck together, and lay in a broken tangle. Tegrus and the others were soon similarly afflicted, and celestial hammers crashed against plague-swords in a desperate mid-air duel.

Gardus caught a descending blade on his crossed weapons and shattered it with a single motion. The daemon lunged at him, digging for his throat with the stump of its sword. He fell back and twisted around, catching the blow on his pauldron, smashing the daemon to the ground as it staggered past. Whirling back, slashing out with his runeblade as he did so, he cut through the swollen guts of another plaguebearer. It folded over his blade and caught at his forearm with blackened fingers. Its single eye rolled wildly in its leaking socket as its weight dragged him off-balance. Gardus cursed, and tried to jerk his arm free, but to no avail.

Another daemon leapt onto his back. It clawed at the clasps of his helmet, nearly yanking his head from his shoulders in its frenzy. Blades struck his cuirass, drawing oily sparks. Rotting hands wrapped themselves around his free arm, and he found himself pinned, unable to bring either of his weapons to bear. The foul miasma of his opponents began to fill his nose and mouth, and the droning of flies threatened to deafen him.

Gardus stumbled forward suddenly as the plaguebearer clinging to his back was sent flying from its perch in a flash of lightning. A second blow freed his arm, and he turned to bring his hammer down on the creature that clung to his sword arm. Feros moved up beside him, spinning his hammer about and driving it into the belly of a daemon hard enough to send it bouncing up the stone steps. Gardus gave the Retributor-Prime a weary nod of thanks and looked up towards the Gates of Dawn.

The seven monstrous Great Unclean Ones were ponderously descending the stone steps of the gates. The first in line gave a rumbling laugh and threw itself down, its bloated body rolling down the stone steps like a gelatinous boulder, leaving splotches of bile and pus to mark its descent. Gardus and Feros retreated as the creature struck a landing and flung itself to the ground without grace. It smashed into a fallen tree and shattered it. Gardus turned aside as a rain of splinters pelted his armour.

When he turned back, the greater daemon was up and swinging its flail in a vicious circle. A Prosecutor was knocked from the air, falling at the beast’s feet in a heap of ruptured armour and broken limbs. Feros and his Retributors charged towards the daemon. It brought its flail down, driving one Retributor to his knees. Feros drove his hammer into its side, rocking it. Lightning crawled across its form, but it didn’t seem to notice. It backhanded Feros, slamming him into the steps, even as it raised one wide foot over the Retributor it had downed. The foot came down with finality, crushing armour and pulping the warrior inside. Light flashed, and the daemon stumbled back with a shriek as the holy radiance of the warrior’s passing burned its unseemly flesh.

Gardus caught the edge of his armoured warcloak and swirled it up and out, unleashing the magics bound within. Sorcerous hammers shot forth from its folds, each one burning with the azure light of the heavens. The hammers slammed into the rotguard, denting its armour and tearing its thin flesh, driving the daemon back a half-step.

Before the greater daemon could recover, Feros and his warriors were upon it, lightning hammers striking again and again. Nearby daemons turned away with shrieks and howls, unable to bear the glare of the forces unleashed. The air throbbed with the fury of the Retributors’ assault, and he heard a bellicose howl as the rotguard succumbed. It reeled away from the fury of the Stormcast, but Feros gave the daemon no respite, harrying it. His hammer smashed into it again and again, shattering armour and unnatural bone with every blow. Then, as the greater daemon lurched backwards, pus leaking from its wounds, Feros caught it a massive two-handed blow on the side of the neck, sending its head bouncing away.

The daemon collapsed in on itself like a deflated midden heap. Feros turned to Gardus and lifted his hammer in triumph, but before he could speak, the rest of the rotguard lobbed themselves into battle. Their arrival caused the marshy ground to shudder, and it scattered the Retributors. Feros whirled, hammer raised to defend himself, but his moment of distraction cost him. Before Gardus could shout a warning, the other Stormcasts was rocked from his feet by a blow from the beast he thought he had defeated. The wounded rotguard, flesh steaming, slugged Feros and sent him flying. A second blow, from the flail of another of the rotguard, caught him as he flew through the air and sent him tumbling back to the ground. He landed heavily, and did not move again. The remaining Retributors fell back in disarray as two more of their number returned to Sigmar’s forge in bursts of searing light, courtesy of the greater daemons.

‘Fall back,’ Gardus shouted, sheathing his sword as the rotguard began their ponderous advance. The Retributors hesitated. The source of their concern was obvious; it went against everything a Stormcast was taught in leaving one of their own behind. ‘Go,’ he yelled again. ‘I will see to Feros.’

Even as he spoke, Gardus darted forward, calling out to Tegrus as he ran. ‘Keep them back, if you can,’ he shouted, ducking low as a monstrous flail swooped over his head. He darted past as the rotguard stumbled, off-balance, and continued running as the daemon was knocked sprawling by the hammer-strikes of the Prosecutors. As he charged through the gauntlet of greater daemons, he did not break his stride towards the limp form of Feros. A flail cut across his path, as its wielder sought to trip him up. Gardus leapt over the chain, hit the ground in a rattle of armour and rolled to his feet, standing over the prone form of the Retributor-Prime. As he rose, he caught the edge of his cloak and swirled it over himself and Feros. A deluge of sorcerous hammers filled the air, driving the rotguard back.

Gardus dropped to one knee to heft Feros’s bulk over his shoulder. A flail slammed down, spraying him with muck and tearing his warcloak. He shot to his feet and spun about awkwardly, bashing aside the screeching skull-heads of the daemon-weapon as its owner swung it towards him again. He was rocked back on his heels by the force of the blow. Gardus looked up. Three leering faces, each as wide as a man, stared down at him. The greater daemons closed in with gross chortles.

Tegrus plummeted downwards, his crackling wings carving blazing trails through the flesh of the rotguard as the ground erupted in holy fire. Celestial Hammers tore the ground, blinding the looming daemons.

‘Your hand, Gardus!’ Tegrus yelled, extending his own.

Gardus switched his hammer to his other hand and and reached up. A moment later, he was wrenched from his feet as Tegrus caught his arm and yanked him and Feros out of danger. The other Prosecutors followed, distracting the rotguard. They spread out around Tegrus in a wide formation as they swooped back towards the shieldwall, hurling their hammers at the surging ranks of the plaguebearers below and smashing a path for the remaining Retributors.

Tegrus released Gardus as they reached the line of Liberators, and the Lord-Celestant dropped to the ground, absorbing the impact easily. Still carrying Feros, he hurried into the protective confines of the Liberators’ disciplined ranks, followed a few seconds later by the Retributors.

Feros grunted as Gardus set him down. One eye cracked open. ‘Should have left me… Steel Soul,’ he wheezed.

‘You should know me better than that,’ Gardus said tersely as he scanned the shieldwall. Bloody lanes had been hacked into the outer ranks as the plaguebearers continued to advance, as unstoppable and inexorable as death itself. The sound of their phlegm-thickened voices, droning in that same hateful monotone, crowded out all other sound.

The Hallowed Knights were hemmed in, their numbers dwindling before the onslaught. More and more bursts of radiant light speared upwards, attesting to this grim fact. He caught sight of Solus and called to him, ‘We need to pull back — reform the line.’

Soon, he knew, there would be nowhere to pull back to. But they would hold the line until the last of them had fallen. They were Stormcast, and they would die as such.

Solus nodded and began to shout orders, as he fired his crossbow. Slowly, steadily, the Hallowed Knights began to give ground. The ranks of Liberators made up the shieldwall, stepping backwards into an ever-tightening circle as the Judicators continued to fire. Gardus looked down at Feros. ‘Can you stand?’

‘No,’ Feros said, softly. He looked up at Gardus, his features twisted in pain. ‘It’s my back, and my legs. They crushed them with those blasted flails of theirs. Can barely lift my arms. Leave me.’

‘No,’ Gardus said, shaking his head. They would have to make their stand there.

‘Then send me back to Azyr yourself, Steel Soul.’ Feros gritted his teeth as a wave of pain swept through him. ‘I do not fear Reforging. Let me rise, to serve again when I am worthy.’ He caught Gardus’s forearm in a feeble grip. Gardus looked down at his friend, and saw the leper gasping on his cot, his afflicted body convulsing in agony. Great boils erupted on his body, spilling scalding pus over his already tortured flesh. ‘Please,’ he wheezed, ‘Please, help…’ stood, raising his hammer.

‘I am sorry,’ Gardus whispered.

Feros gave a bloody grin. ‘I’m not. It was a good fight, Steel Soul. But my part in it is done.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Send me home.’

The hammer came down. Thunder rolled.

Gardus turned to see to the retreat, his heart heavy in his chest. Every man he could see was bleeding, his armour battered and filthy. Step by step, they were driven back. The enemy fell about the battle line of sigmarite. Yet the odds never slackened as more daemons formed out of the fly and fume-filled air marched out of the Gates of Dawn at Bolathrax’s bellowed command.

‘We are hard-pressed,’ Aetius said, as he joined Gardus. The Liberator-Prime held one hand firmly to his side, his breath coming in harsh rasps. Still he held his hammer at the ready. ‘They are without number.’

‘Then we can take comfort in knowing that we held faith until the last of us fell, Aetius,’ Gardus said. ‘Who will fight until the last?’ he shouted.

‘Only the faithful,’ came the reply from his exhausted warriors. Lights burned upwards, as Liberators and Judicators fell. Tegrus and his Prosecutors had dropped to the ground, unable to remain in the fly-choked air. The shieldwall shrank another step.

‘Who will stand, when all is lost?’

‘Only the faithful!’ The reply was louder now. Plague-swords smashed down on raised shields. More flashes of light pierced the dark above, as warriors fell.

‘Who will be remembered?’ he roared, striving to drown out the drone of the fly-blown legions. He drew his runeblade and clashed it against his hammer.

‘Only the faithful!’

‘Only the faithful!’ Gardus cried, clashing his weapons again. As he did so, the sky was split by a crash of thunder. Lightning flashed.

Sigmar had answered their prayers.

Chapter Six

Into the fray

Zephacleas roared in primal joy as he rode the lightning to the ground. It spread through him, body and soul, boiling his blood in his veins, and filling him with Sigmar’s divine power. He felt strong, capable of fighting any foe, no matter how monstrous, without the need for rest or sleep. There was no sensation quite like it.

The celestine vaults of Sigmaron had vanished, to be replaced by the muck and mire of the Ghyrtract Fen. He rose from his kneeling position, his armour still crawling with Sigmar’s lightning, and swung his weapons at the first enemy to hand. The plaguebearer turned, eye widening in shock as Zephacleas’s hammer tore its head from its shoulders.

‘No time for speeches,’ he roared, as the retinues of the Astral Templars shook off the storm and set themselves to battle. ‘We have yet to meet a foe we cannot break on the field, and I don’t intend to do so today. Forward!’

His men gave vent to a communal bellow of agreement, and the Liberator, Decimator and Retributor hosts fell into a spearhead formation, as he’d taught them. Such a formation had served them well in the Gnarlwood, when they had earned the right to carry Sigmar’s sigil on their shields and, later, in Aqshy as well. They advanced, splitting into three columns. Shields raised, hammers ready, the Liberators bulled forward, charging through the thick mists that rose from the fen.

Zephacleas took the vanguard, as was his right as Lord-Celestant, and he and his Warrior Chamber moved to meet the enemy, who now recognized the sudden arrival of the Astral Templars for what it was. Behind them, Seker Gravewalker croaked out orders to the Judicators and Prosecutors, directing them in their defence of the spearhead’s flanks. Judicators took up positions near the monstrous standing stones that dotted the mire, and Prosecutors swept by on wings of bristling light.

Zephacleas felt no hesitation in leaving the Lord-Relictor in charge of such a task — indeed, he trusted no one else to accomplish it. Gravewalker would keep the Astral Templars in the fight, no matter how fierce the struggle became. He had come from a wild land of high crags and wind-torn veldts and was as implacable as the storm itself.

He swept his weapons out in opposite directions, smashing two daemons from their feet. Bringing his hammer and sword around to cut down a third, he led his warriors into the massed ranks of the plague-horde.

The plan, such as it was, was simple enough. The enemy surrounded Gardus, all attentions bent to overwhelming the Hallowed Knights. Thus, the Astral Templars were free to strike a telling blow. The plague host would be forced to divide its attentions, and Zephacleas intended to make them pay for it.

He chopped a plaguebearer in half. As the daemon fell to pieces, strange shapes sprouted from the ichor in its veins. Tiny, fat shapes bobbed in the flowing bile, then bounded towards Zephacleas, giggling shrilly. He growled in disgust and stamped on the nurglings as they tried to climb his greaves. More of them scuttled across the battlefield, weaving through the feet of his men, distracting them at inopportune moments or swarming them under like ravenous insects.

‘Gravewalker, burn them,’ he shouted. A moment later, the sky was ripped wide by lightning. Bolts of crackling incandescence surged down, gouging the earth and tearing gaping wounds in the ranks of the enemy. Plaguebearers shivered in the throes of the storm, burning up from the inside out as the lightning danced across their rusty armour and the points of their swords. Those that did not simply burst from the lightning’s cleansing touch were reduced to living torches, which flailed about blindly before collapsing into ashes. He raised his sword in a salute as the Lord-Relictor turned his attentions elsewhere.

He could see now why Sigmar had chosen to send them here — not just because Gardus was in danger, but because the realmgate had become corrupted. It led nowhere good, and, like a suppurating wound, it would only get worse. The stones rose from the ground, seeming to vibrate in rhythm with the omnipresent drone of the flies. They spiralled through the stinking miasma and across the blasphemous icons that dotted the field, glowing in a sickly fashion. Strange shadows stretched through the air and crawled across every flat surface. The wind was thick with garbled whispers, made by no human tongue.

Even the air itself had gone sour as he moved forward. This land was dying, he suspected. It was rotting on the vine, and unless they could cauterize the infection here, it would only grow worse and perhaps spread to others parts of Ghyran.

Zephacleas could see the realmgate now, rising into the air above the battlefield, its stony proportions limned in flickering witchfire. A Great Unclean One squatted at the landing before the great archway, gesticulating and roaring the abominable words to some terrible sorcerous working. Below the greater daemon, several of its kind sat hunched on the steps at intervals — these were clearly an honour guard of some sort, and Zephacleas longed to test his skill against one of the hulking creatures. He had to reach the Hallowed Knights and break the ever-swelling cordon of rotting flesh which surrounded them. Only then could their two hosts secure the Gates of Dawn, as Sigmar had commanded.

An unceasing tide of daemons flowed through the arch and spilled down the steps, without regard for life or limb, many falling from the stones, pushed by overeager companions to splatter on the ground below. But there were always more to replace them, and worse things besides. The power of Nurgle grew with every expulsion of foulness from the realmgate, as daemonic beasts, nurglings and other monstrosities joined the plaguebearers in battle.

Plague drones buzzed through the fly-filled skies, the rot-fly riders urging their monstrous steeds into aerial battle with the newly arrived Astral Templars’ Prosecutors. Blood, and worse, rained down on Zephacleas and his men as they fought their way towards the Hallowed Knights — several of his Stormcasts hesitated.

‘Keep moving,’ he shouted as he elbowed a plaguebearer out of his path. His hammer came down, crushing another. Ahead, he could see the gleam of silver armour, and urged his men to greater speed as explosions of light hurtled upwards. There were too many of them, he knew. How many of the Hallowed Knights still stood?

Hold on my friend — just a few moments longer… hold on!

Chapter Seven

Salvation from the sky

Salvation.

The bolts from blackened skies meant salvation for Gardus and his remaining warriors. Sigmar had answered their prayers. Annihilation had seemed inevitable. Now, however, as more lightning strikes speared down, illuminating the cloying darkness of the Fen, the hordes pressing against his dwindling forces lessened. The daemons turned to face the new threat.

Gardus signalled for Tegrus and his small group of Prosecutors to take wing. ‘Clear a corridor in that sea of filth. I would meet our allies face to face,’ he said, as the winged warriors took flight.

Whatever host the other Stormcasts belonged to, he was glad to see them, though he wondered if they had arrived too late. Only a few of Solus’s Judicators still stood, and Aetius’s Liberators were equally hard-pressed — the once impenetrable shieldwall had shattered into a number of smaller retinues, all of which were in danger of being overwhelmed. The few remaining Retributors stood clustered about Gardus, hammers ready despite aching arms. Even so, their duty was clear, and if they had any hope of reaching the Gates of Dawn, now was the time. ‘We cannot waste this opportunity. Aetius, Solus, we must take back the initiative from our foes,’ he said. ‘You know what to do. I will take the lead.’

‘Where you go, we follow,’ Aetius said. He stumbled, but stayed on his feet. Solus caught his arm. The Judicator-Prime had drawn his gladius, the blade wet with daemonic ichor, and gestured towards the realmgate.

‘Though perhaps not very far — look!’

Gardus turned and saw that Bolathrax had at last noticed the new arrivals. The daemon’s sneering features had taken on a look of uncertainty, as if he had not factored such an occurrence into his plans. Any hope Gardus felt at that realization died as Bolathrax roared out a command and, as one, the six remaining rotguard lumbered into battle, flails whirling viciously. The skull-headed weapons wreaked havoc as the daemons staved in the thinned ranks of the Hallowed Knights. Liberators were smashed from one realm and sent to the next by great, thundering blows, tossing silver-clad bodies high into the air. Shields did little against the crushing strength of the greater daemons, shattering the swords or hammers which were interposed.

Unstoppable, Gardus thought, they’re unstoppable. He pushed the thought away. Nothing was unstoppable. Bigger and stronger maybe, but not unstoppable. ‘To me,’ he shouted, swinging his hammer towards the creatures. ‘Hallowed Knights, to me!’ He looked up, and caught Tegrus’s eye. The Prosecutor banked smoothly, altering direction with unearthly grace. His warriors followed suit, and the Prosecutors shot towards the rotguard. Gardus followed them at a run, his warriors flowing after him as he led the counterattack. Slowly, but surely, they fought their way through plaguebearers and nurglings.

‘We are here, Lord-Celestant,’ Solus said, as his gladius took off a plaguebearer’s swordhand at the wrist. He punched the befuddled creature off its feet, as it stared dumbly at its stump. He and Aetius moved on either side of Gardus, protecting his flanks.

‘We must…’ Gardus began. His voice trailed off as several of the vile behemoths halted their onslaught to vomit forth streams of corruption, washing toxic filth over the closest Hallowed Knights. One of the beasts turned with a querulous grunt as it noticed Gardus’s counterattack. Knowing what was coming, Gardus quickly raised his hammer and held it parallel to the ground. ‘Shields up,’ he commanded. As one, the Liberator brotherhoods behind him raised their shields over their heads, in order to protect themselves and the Judicators from the Great Unclean One’s vomit. Aetius stepped forward, raising his shield over himself and Gardus as the acidic bile splashed over them. It sizzled where it struck the sigmarite. The smell was horrendous, and nurglings sprouted where the bile struck the ground. The giggling creatures got under their feet and clung to their ankles.

‘Foul mites,’ Aetius snarled, stamping on the creatures.

‘Ignore them,’ Gardus said. ‘Tegrus!’ he shouted. ‘Bring that creature to its knees, O Sainted Eye.’

Gardus extended his runeblade towards the rotguard that had vomited on them, and the Prosecutors hurtled forward. Celestial Hammers struck the greater daemon from every direction, filling the air with the stink of burned flesh. The rotguard dropped its flail and howled in anger and pain. Trying to catch its quick-moving attackers, the daemon swiped blindly at the Prosecutors. Tegrus sped down, diving like a bird of prey, and landed atop the creature’s helm, his hammers cracking down simultaneously with a sound like thunder to punch a crater in the beast’s armour. The greater daemon staggered, sinking to one knee with a dolorous moan as Tegrus pushed himself back into the air with a single snap of his holy wings.

‘Forward,’ Gardus growled.

Liberators and Retributors moved forward, and soon lightning-wreathed hammers and blades forged in celestial fires were taking a toll on the rotguard’s necrotic flesh. The greater daemon swiped and tore at the Stormcast, but to no avail. Slowly it was brought down to one knee.

‘Shields up,’ Gardus said, as he strode forward.

Four Liberators formed up in front of him, two kneeling, and two standing. All four raised their shields over their heads at an angle. Gardus took a running leap. Swiftly, he charged up the incline provided by the shields, his hammer held in both hands.

The rotguard sagged forward, its oily flesh torn by wounds and steam and smoke rising from it. Gardus sprang into the air above it, his hammer raised. The creature twisted, goggling up at him as he dropped towards it. Sigmar, guide my hand, for I strike in your name, Gardus prayed in the moment before impact.

He struck with a sound like thunder, his warhammer splitting the Great Unclean One’s head like an overripe fruit. Gardus crashed down, landing in a crouch, as the headless body of the daemon fell over. A tarry liquid spilled out of its ruptured neck and crept across the ground around his feet. His men cheered as he stood, swiping his hand out.

‘Who will succeed?’ he asked. A plaguebearer leapt over the broken husk of the rotguard and slashed at his head. As Gardus defended himself, he saw more plaguebearers climbing over the body, and leaping to the attack.

‘Only the faithful,’ came the reply, as his men fought back. Gardus backhanded his opponent and looked out over the battlefield. His remaining retinues had engaged the other rotguard to limited success. He’d lost sight of Solus and Aetius, separated in the melee. Tegrus spun through the air above, arrowing towards another of the rotguard with his Prosecutors. Daemons closed in from all sides of Gardus, intent on swarming him under, as they had so many of his warriors.

‘Only the faithful,’ he roared, lopping off a plaguebearer’s arm as it tried to drive its sword into his side. ‘Fight, my brothers. Fight and show Sigmar that the faithful yet stand. Show him that whatever else, the faithful yet remain! The faithful still fight in his name. Only the faithful!’

‘Only the faithful!’ a new voice roared, over the clamour of battle. Gardus turned and saw a flash of amethyst as a blade cleaved a daemon in two. All at once, he knew who had come to their aid.

‘Ho, Gardus,’ Zephacleas said. ‘I see you saved some for me! Always the thoughtful one you are, Steel Soul.’

Laughing, Gardus’s fellow Lord-Celestant backhanded a plaguebearer with his hammer, dropping the daemon in mid-lunge. As it tried to squirm to its feet, he drove his blade down into its belly and pinned it to the ground. The daemon stiffened, shrieked and fell silent as Zephacleas ripped his blade free and joined Gardus. The two fought back to back for a moment, as around them a small detachment of Astral Templars bolstered the dwindling ranks of the Hallowed Knights.

‘Good to see you, my friend,’ Gardus said, as he turned a blow aside with his hammer. ‘Your arrival is timely, to say the least.’

Zephacleas laughed and hacked a plaguebearer’s arm off as its sword skidded across his cuirass, leaving an oily scratch. One of the rotguard waddled towards them, weapon sweeping out to scatter plaguebearers and Stormcasts alike, in order to clear itself a path. Zephacleas struck his weapons together, urging the brute on.

‘It’s already coming this way,’ Gardus said, pointedly.

Zephacleas grinned and readied himself to meet the rotguard’s charge. The rotguard’s flail tore a furrow in the ground, spattering the Lord-Celestant’s armour with muck. Zephacleas’s own blade bit into one the daemon’s tree-trunk legs, releasing a flood of pus and maggots. The rotguard shrieked and uprooted the skull-headed flail. In the same motion, it slashed out, trying to hook its opponent. Zephacleas crossed his weapons and caught the blow, but was driven back by the force of it.

Gardus took advantage of the greater daemon’s distraction, driving his own hammer into one of its knees. Unnatural bone crunched and the great bulk wobbled, suddenly off-balance. The Great Unclean One wailed and lashed out with its hand, knocking Gardus backwards. It had dropped its flail in its attempt to stay upright, and as it groped for the weapon, Zephacleas sprang onto its back and scaled the folds of blubber and boils to reach the daemon’s head. He caught hold of one antler and brought his sword down on the crown of the beast’s sloping skull — a speed born of no small amount of desperation, Gardus suspected.

The rotguard slumped forward, clawing at the ground. It hauled itself towards Gardus, looming over him like a tidal wave of filth and decay. Zephacleas had managed to hold on for the ride, continuing to hew brutally at the daemon’s cranium as it dragged itself towards Gardus.

‘It’s like trying to chop through mud,’ he snarled.

Gardus rose to his feet and met the fell creature’s last lunge. It slammed into him with a sound like a cleaver striking meat and all of the air was driven from his lungs. He was knocked into the ground, the beast’s weight settling on him as its wide paws fumbled for his helmet, as if intending to twist his head from his shoulders. He lashed out with his hammer, snapping its fingers. The rotguard reared back and Gardus followed, lunging to his feet. His hammer smashed upwards, into the bottom of the daemon’s jaw, even as Zephacleas drove his sword down one final time. The two weapons met in the mulch of the daemon’s skull, and there was a crack of thunder. Gardus was flung to the ground. Zephacleas joined him a moment later.

The rotguard’s headless bulk swayed above them for a moment, and then collapsed between them. A tide of squabbling nurglings spilled out of the daemon’s ruptured neck and Gardus squashed a number of them as he forced himself to his feet. He reached out and caught hold of Zephacleas’s forearm, hauling the other Stormcast up.

‘Your warriors — their advance has stalled,’ Gardus said. He gestured towards the ranks of the Astral Templars with his still-smoking hammer. The fury of their initial charge had carried them far into the ranks of the enemy, but not far enough. Now they too were being cut off and surrounded by the plague legions.

‘So I see,’ Zephacleas said, grudgingly. ‘Not enough of us, and more of them with every passing moment. If you’ve got any ideas, now is the time for them.’ He looked at Gardus.

Gardus shook his head. He was tired. More tired than he could ever remember having been. It wasn’t simply the relentless pace of the battle, but as if the land itself were sapping his strength. It had been corrupted by the touch of Nurgle, and was becoming something other, an anathema to all that was pure. Even the strength bestowed upon him by Sigmar had its limits, and he was fast approaching them, as were his men.

Nonetheless, they would persevere. Much was demanded of those to whom much had been given… Those were the words by which the Hallowed Knights lived, fought and died. They, and all Stormcast Eternals, owed a debt to the one who had forged them into a force capable of wresting the Mortal Realms from the Ruinous Powers. And Gardus would not be the first to fail in that regard. Not now, not ever, even unto the day of his Reforging.

He quickly surveyed the field, taking in the ebb and flow of the battle in the blink of an eye. Droning ranks of plaguebearers and tumbling tides of nurglings flooded the field, pressing so close to the warriors of the Hallowed Knights and the Astral Templars that the latter could only bring the most basic tactics to bear. Many of his Stormcasts were still locked in combat with the remaining rotguard, unable to bring down the behemoths. He recalled a training bout he had witnessed on the practice fields of Sigmaron… two warriors, on a dais no wider across than his shoulders, punching and kicking until one man fell. A test of endurance, rather than skill. That was what this was. Unfortunately, if there was one thing the servants of Nurgle were known for, it was endurance.

Gardus looked up, towards the Gates of Dawn. Bolathrax still stood in the archway, chanting words of foul summoning, drawing more and more flies out of the pulsing void beyond the stones. As before, at the obese monster’s command, the flies swarmed down and congealed into staggering, cyclopean plaguebearers, who lurched forward into battle. ‘Unless we seal that gate, we’ll drown in a tide of rotting flesh,’ Gardus said. ‘My warriors are too few, and yours are doing all they can to hold their own.’

‘There’s no sign that any more help is coming, either from our own realm, or this one,’ Zephacleas grunted. A plaguebearer bounded towards them, jaw sagging loosely, and pushed Gardus aside as it hacked at them. Zephacleas whipped his sword up and around in a tight pattern, chopping through the daemon in three places. It fell and did not move again. ‘The question is, what do we do about it?’

‘What we must,’ Gardus said. ‘We came to take that gate in Sigmar’s name, and I intend to do just that.’ He started forward, but Zephacleas caught his arm.

‘You can’t do it alone. We’ll rally the others, make a concentrated push,’ he said.

Gardus shook him off. ‘There’s no time for that. Every moment we waste sees the enemy renewed and his number redoubled. I–Look out!’ He swung his hammer around and bashed Zephacleas off his feet, knocking the other Stormcast aside, even as the rotguard’s flail swung down through the space that the Lord-Celestant had been occupying.

The Astral Templar rolled to his feet, chopping through the haft of the daemon’s weapon, even as it tried to draw it back. He backed towards Gardus as the greater daemon tossed the broken weapon aside, and made to pull the heavy blade which hung from a tattered sheath strapped to its gut.

Zephacleas glanced over his shoulder and jerked his head towards Bolathrax. ‘Well? What are you waiting for?’ he said. ‘I’ll handle this one. The other one is all yours.’

Gardus nodded, turned and began to run. Shield held before him, he crashed into the masses of plaguebearers, hurling daemons aside or else trampling them underfoot. He was determined that nothing and no one would stop him.

He would reach the Gates of Dawn or die trying.

Chapter Eight

Swarm of contagion

Zephacleas stepped back as the Great Unclean One chopped at him with a wedge-shaped blade that was more rust than iron. The Lord-Celestant slid aside, avoiding the blow. The jagged length of metal slammed down, tearing the murk of the fen. The daemon wrenched its blade free and slashed at him, moving quicker than a beast so bulky ought to. Zephacleas turned the blow aside with his hammer and his arm went numb to the elbow. Behind the creature, he could see a group of his warriors, led by Seker Gravewalker, fighting their way towards him. A plan began to form.

He backed away, teeth bared beneath the expressionless mask of his war-helm, and spread his arms. The greater daemon waddled after him, its sword weaving before it like the tongue of a serpent.

‘Come on then. Come and get me,’ he called.

The daemon-sword tore towards him, and he slammed his weapons together, catching the square tip of the blade. For a moment, the tableau held. Then, little by little, Zephacleas was forced back. The greater daemon lurched forward, its greater weight pushing against him, and loomed over him like a farmer struggling with a stubborn root. It exhaled a stinking mist through its gritted, rotting fangs.

‘Aye,’ Zephacleas grunted. ‘I’m not moving…’ His wrists and shoulders began to ache as he struggled to hold his enemy’s blade at bay. ‘Not yet.’

Flies buzzed around his face, darting for his eyes through the slits in his helm. He saw movement behind the daemon and grinned. ‘Now, Gravewalker!’

Lightning seared down to strike the rotguard. Crackling tendrils crawled across its flabby body and squirmed beneath its armour, setting the daemon alight. Its sword fell from its burning fingers to thump into the mud at Zephacleas’s feet. Smoke rose from the daemon as it sank down and toppled forward, consumed by fire. Zephacleas lifted his helm and spat on it.

‘Smells like a burning midden heap,’ he growled.

‘It is,’ Gravewalker growled.

The Lord-Relictor was, like all of his kind, a fearsome sight — clad in heavy, ornate armour, marked with sigils of power. The ragged hide of a fire wyrm flapped from one shoulder plate, while its skull was set into Gravewalker’s reliquary standard. The standard’s adornments of gilded bone shimmered in the glow of the lightning that crackled about the head of the warhammer he carried in his other hand. His armour was marked by battle, and his weapon was crusted with filth as he swept it out to smash a tottering column of nurglings into its component parts.

A winged shape dropped from the sky to land amongst the plaguebearers. Zephacleas recognized the Prosecutor-Prime of the Hallowed Knights. His shimmering armour was now dulled by dust and grime, and the once-proud crest of his helm had been reduced to a few tattered feathers. His wings spread with savage speed, the crackling feathers slicing through daemonic matter with ease. Any remaining daemons soon fell to the Prosecutor-Prime’s hammers. He moved with such lethal grace that even Zephacleas was hard-pressed to follow.

As the last body fell, mangled and smoking, Tegrus stepped forward, eyes blazing.

‘Where is Gardus?’ he demanded. ‘Where is the Steel Soul? I should be at his side.’

‘Making for the Gates of Dawn, which is what we should all be doing,’ Zephacleas said.

Around them, the battle had reached new levels of ferocity. Astral Templars and Hallowed Knights fought side by side, integrating their battle tactics with an instinctive ease. Slowly, the two hosts became one, and the isolated retinues of the Hallowed Knights swelled as Astral Templars joined them, taking over for their wounded and exhausted brethren.

But it wasn’t enough.

One of the remaining rotguard had taken the offensive. Plaguebearers loped in its wake as the greater daemon crashed through a retinue, scattering Stormcasts with every blow from its flail. The remaining brute was lurching back towards the Gates of Dawn, as if in pursuit of Gardus. Which it could very well be, Zephacleas thought. Gardus was a warrior without peer, but even the Steel Soul couldn’t fight two greater daemons by himself.

‘We have to clear a path and smash our way through. Gardus needs…’ Zephacleas trailed off as a new sound pierced the mist-laden air. A sound like a million scratching claws, scraping across the flesh of the world. The mist rising from the fen stirred, as if something moved beneath it. Then the ground erupted, and reality tore with a sound like a million screams, suddenly silenced. Furry shapes, clad in rotting robes, boiled into sight, rising from beneath the fen, from somewhere else, and launched themselves at the Stormcasts with a hideous chittering war cry. One of the creatures lunged for Tegrus, who flattened it with his hammer.

It resembled a rat, clad in a sickly green tattered, hooded habit, such as a holy man might wear. Foul sores and bony growths wracked the creature’s stunted body.

‘Skaven,’ Zephacleas hissed. ‘Where in the name of Sigmar did they come from?’

A large shape, bigger than any skaven or mutant beast and more nimble, sprang over the heads of its followers and bisected an unwary Liberator, tearing the Stormcast apart with the aid of two wickedly curved blades. Zephacleas had fought the skaven before, and he recognized the horned, hairy beast for what it was — the skaven were as much the servants of the Ruinous Powers as any blood-worshipper or rot-lover, and they had their own daemonic patrons to prove it. Verminlord, he thought, watching as the beast killed another Stormcast. That was what they were called, though he’d never seen one in the flesh.

He barrelled towards it with a roar, followed closely by Tegrus and Gravewalker. His hammer whistled through the air and crushed a squealing ratman as the verminlord leapt straight up to avoid the blow. Zephacleas twisted as the creature came down behind him. Its blades tore through his cloak and scraped his armour as he slashed blindly at it with his sword. It chittered mockingly as it dodged his blows and struck sparks off his armour in return. Its cloven feet crunched into his back, knocking him onto his face as it flipped backwards and landed in a crouch. Zephacleas rolled onto his back as it leapt for him again, but a hurled hammer caught it in the side and sent it rolling away.

Tegrus swooped towards it, snatching up his hammer as he flew past. Gravewalker helped Zephacleas to his feet. ‘Are you hurt, Lord-Celestant?’

‘Only my pride. That beast is mine, Tegrus!’ he bellowed, shaking a fist at the Prosecutor-Prime. Whether the other Stormcast heard him, he couldn’t say, for the Prosecutor was forced to bank and rise upwards as the verminlord retreated to safety amongst the heaving ranks of its followers.

‘Kill-kill for Vermalanx!’ the verminlord shrieked as it sprang to the top of one of the few remaining standing stones that occupied the soupy ground before the Gates of Dawn. ‘Kill the storm-things!’ it shrilled, snapping its yellowing fangs in a show of fury. It gesticulated, urging its followers forward, and they went in scuttling waves, darting between the slower plaguebearers and leaping over the frolicking nurglings to get to the Stormcast.

As the ranks of ratmen went on the attack, squealing bands of skaven slaves scrambled up from the hole the others had emerged from, dragging the rickety shapes of catapults and other, more esoteric, war-engines. These weapons were turned on the Stormcast, and the sky was soon marked by poison contrails and whistling chunks of glowing green rock.

‘We must destroy those weapons,’ Gravewalker said, swatting a frothing ratman in mid-leap. ‘They will pick us apart otherwise.’

He and Zephacleas fought back to back for a moment. The Lord-Celestant saw Tegrus flare his wings and the crackling feathers sliced a ratman in two.

‘Aye, and I know just the Stormcast to see to it. Ho, winged one, make yourself useful… Take out those catapults,’ Zephacleas shouted.

He did not see whether his command was obeyed, for a knot of skaven came at him in a rush, and he was forced to defend himself. He heard men scream and die, and the dull roar of their spirits ascending back to Azyr, bound for Reforging. The black clouds above were struck through with hundreds of pinholes made by these flashes of bright light. How many warriors had already returned to the cosmic forges?

Too many, he thought, as he spitted a skaven on his sword. He turned towards the Gates of Dawn and saw the tiny form of Gardus locked in combat with the bloated nightmare at the top. Hurry, my friend, he thought, before this all becomes for naught — hurry, Gardus. Hurry!

Chapter Nine

Duel at the Gates of Dawn

Gardus’s lungs burned as he climbed, and his legs soon ached, but he refused to slow. He could hear the rumble of one of the greater daemon’s bodyguards pursuing him, but he couldn’t afford to stop and confront the creature. The Gates of Dawn had to be closed, one way or another. If he could destroy the realmgate, the battle would be won.

As he reached the uppermost landing, the archway began to tremble, the stones grinding against one another. Bolathrax flung his hands out in a throwing motion, and the darkness beyond the arch suddenly congealed and burst. A dozen monstrous flies — each one larger than a man, and bearing a plaguebearer on its back — exploded out from the archway and shot towards the battle, followed by thousands of their smaller kin.

Gardus stared in shock as the plague drones flew past him. He turned to look at the Gates of Dawn. It had become tainted, he knew — it was now nothing more than a blasphemous canker in the skin of reality, leading to Chaos itself. His heart shuddered in his chest as he stared into the swirling darkness. It pulsed with an unholy rhythm, like a thing alive. I have to destroy it, he thought, hesitation turning to determination.

‘Look who it is,’ Bolathrax said, as he turned to look down at Gardus. ‘Come alone, little boil? I suppose your friends are rather busy, eh?’ The Great Unclean One laughed.

‘One of me is more than enough to handle the likes of you,’ Gardus said, whipping his hammer out and around.

The head punched into Bolathrax’s belly, tearing the sagging flesh. Gardus struck again and again, making great wounds in the daemon’s body. Bolathrax sagged back, mouth open in a mocking leer.

‘Oh, I don’t think so, dear me, no,’ the Great Unclean One rumbled. ‘I simply cannot abide baseless bravado in one so infinitesimal.’ The creature lashed out with his chained flail, shattering stone, and the force of the impact nearly knocked Gardus from the top of the steps. ‘You are nothing, mortal. A momentary distraction, a gaseous emission, passed and just as soon forgotten,’ Bolathrax continued. ‘Just like that frail wretch you call a god. God? Pah! I have met gods and warred with them in Grandfather’s name. Your lightning-hurler is no god. Merely an old wound, yet to properly heal.’ The flail slammed down again, sending a fusillade of stone fragments bouncing off Gardus’s armour. ‘We shall deal with him directly, have no fear. The Age of Chaos has only just begun, and it shall last unto eternity.’

Gardus ducked aside as the flail rose for another blow and struck at the hand holding it. Twisted bone cracked and Bolathrax jerked his arm back, opening himself up. Gardus struck again, and foul juices burst from the resulting wound to slop upon the stones. He nearly slipped in the excrescence and fought to maintain his footing. Disgusted, he watched as nurglings sprouted from the spilled blood and began to caper and dance as he and Bolathrax swung and parried, jabbed and blocked beneath the arch.

‘That… hurt,’ Bolathrax hissed, clutching his wounded limb. With a bone-rattling roar, he drew a rusty blade from its rotting sheath on his hip and hacked at Gardus. ‘You hurt me, pustule!’

As they fought, Gardus caught sight of the battle still raging below. From this height, he could just make out his fellow Stormcast, fighting for their lives, even as he fought for his. He saw the writhing ranks of skaven as they scurried forward, and his Prosecutors locked in battle with the plague drones.

The filthy standards of the plaguebearers waved above their ranks as they pressed the Stormcast, and he could hear the clangour of the skaven war-bells. Then bursts of light, rose in the sky, and his eyes were drawn upwards to the black clouds and beyond.

Bolathrax’s blade slashed out, carving a gouge in Gardus’s shoulder plate and nearly knocking him from his feet. The Great Unclean One lurched forward, blade whipping back with deceptive speed, driving Gardus back across the pus-slick stones. Each blow the daemon landed seemed stronger than the last.

He caught another ringing blow on his hammer, and rolled with it, allowing it to carry him out of the daemon’s reach. As he scrambled to his feet, he backed towards the archway. Gardus had allowed Bolathrax to harry him, so that the daemon wouldn’t realise his true purpose. Now, the time for manoeuvring was done.

‘Determined little flea aren’t you?’ Bolathrax said, pursuing him.

‘Much is demanded of those to whom much is given,’ Gardus said, breathing heavily. He could feel blood trickling down beneath his armour, and his limbs trembled with growing fatigue. The Stormcasts were stronger than mortal men, but even they could tire, especially when facing a creature such as this that knew neither weakness nor hesitation.

‘A worthy sentiment,’ the daemon burbled, lifting its blade. ‘A shame it came from the lips of such frail flesh.’

The blade licked out, drawing sparks from Gardus’s sword. The force of the blow nearly ripped it from his hand. Gardus stumbled back.

‘You are weak, as weak as the godling you serve,’ Bolathrax said. ‘You thought to challenge Grandfather in his garden? For shame.’ The daemon shook its blubbery head in mock-disappointment as it hewed at him. He twisted aside, narrowly avoiding the blow. The sword smashed down and lodged in the stones, giving him a moment’s respite.

The garden, Gardus thought. He glanced towards the archway, and the noisome void beyond. He knew what must be done. Death was a certainty, but failure… Gardus smiled, and spared a glance for the clouds above. Somewhere past them, the wheel of stars would continue to turn. He felt at peace, all doubt and fear gone. Sigmar had commanded him to deny the realmgate to the enemy, and so he would. He met Bolathrax’s gaze, and said, ‘Who will be triumphant?’

Bolathrax hesitated, hideous features twisting into a quizzical expression.

‘Only the faithful,’ Gardus said. Then, he spun, quicker than the daemon could follow, and launched himself through the Gates of Dawn, his hammer raised high.

Chapter Ten

The march of the wargroves

Zephacleas chopped down on a plaguebearer’s horned skull, and looked up as Bolathrax bellowed in rage and what might have been fear. He saw Gardus lunge for the shimmering aperture. Instinctively he flung out a hand as if to catch hold of the other Stormcast and pull him back from the precipice. ‘Gardus — No!’ he shouted, but too late. Even as the words left his mouth, Gardus vanished.

Bolathrax threw back its horned head and howled. Then, with a single, awkward motion, the Great Unclean One flung itself after the Lord-Celestant of the Steel Souls in pursuit. It smashed into the Gates of Dawn, squeezing through the archway with a convulsive heave. As the greater daemon passed through, the archway shuddered and swayed on its keystones and then, with a thunderous roar, it crumbled into a pile of broken stone. As the stones fell, the binding magics of the Gates of Dawn were released, resulting in an explosion of eldritch force. Those daemons closest to the portal were incinerated by the wave of destructive magics that escaped. Still there were many, many more, and they attacked the remaining Stormcasts with renewed ferocity.

‘He has done it,’ Gravewalker said. ‘The gate is closed. They will receive no more reinforcements.’ Lightning speared down at his gesture, obliterating a knot of plaguebearers.

Zephacleas gave a great cry and smashed a charging daemon aside with his hammer. ‘Aye, he’s done it,’ he said hollowly. All across the battlefield, the few Stormcast Eternals still standing redoubled their own efforts. Weariness and wounds were forgotten as Hallowed Knight and Astral Templar alike plunged recklessly into the ranks of the foe — all thought of discipline lost in a tide of grief and rage.

Gardus had been respected, loved by his men and those who had known him, and Zephacleas had neither the heart nor the inclination to restrain them. Indeed, he joined them fully, bellowing oaths and curses in equal measure, fighting with a wild abandon.

‘If this be our dying day, let’s make it one to remember,’ he roared.

He hooked a plaguebearer’s horn with his hammer and dragged it forward, so that the sigmarite of his helm crunched against its rotting skull. The daemon reeled and Zephacleas chopped it down, splitting the dazed creature from shoulder to groin with one blow.

‘Fight, for Gardus! For Sigmar! And for the Realm Celestial!’

‘Very stirring,’ Gravewalker said. ‘You might have a future as Lord-Celestant yet, Zephacleas.’

The Lord-Relictor had planted his standard and stood before it, swinging his hammer in quick, precise strikes. Frothing skaven fell with every blow.

‘Cease prattling and fight, Gravewalker,’ Zephacleas snarled. A skaven lunged for him, its pox-ridden blade shattering as it struck his side. He drove his elbow into its skull and pinned it to the ground with his foot. His hammer put an end to its struggles. More skaven pressed in, clambering up the locked shields of his Stormcast, their blades digging for eye-slits and their bludgeons crashing down on war-helms.

Gravewalker extended his free hand towards the Liberators before him and began to murmur harshly. A soft blue glow suffused his dark gauntlet and then spread to encompass the Liberators, who straightened as if his words had purged them of all exhaustion and ills.

Zephacleas pulverised a skaven in mid-leap, and turned to block a daemon’s blade as it dug for his vitals. Caught between rabid vermin and daemons, he thought, shoving a plaguebearer back. It wasn’t exactly the way he had imagined he would meet his end.

He looked around, hunting for the verminlord. If he was bound for Reforging, he wanted a fine memory to carry with him into the fire. He caught sight of the creature, perched on one of the obscene obelisks scattered about the fen. It exhorted its followers shrilly, tail lashing in frustration as the remaining Stormcasts refused to break beneath the unceasing onslaught of the plague legions. The Lord-Celestant smiled and clashed his weapons together. He was determined to come to grips with the rat-daemon.

Before he could take a single step, however, the noisome air was split by the winding call of a hunting horn. Then another, and another, until the surrounding woodland rang with the sound of them. The skaven ranks began to boil with panic as something struck their flank. Zephacleas pulverised a robed ratman, and tried to catch a glimpse of the newcomers. There had been no lightning, no thunder — this was not Sigmar’s doing, he knew.

Zephacleas took advantage of the distraction to charge towards the verminlord. Whoever they were, the newcomers’ sudden arrival had given the Stormcasts a chance of survival and he intended to make the most of it. As he ran, he heard the sound of wood cracking and popping as a plague-claw catapult was torn apart. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw ratmen flung into the air or snatched from sight.

The verminlord hissed in consternation as it cut its eyes towards the dissolving flank of its forces. Zephacleas reached it a step later and drove his hammer into the menhir it was crouched upon, cracking and toppling it over. Screaming, the verminlord leapt from the falling rock, trailing wisps of stinking smoke, and the curved blades in its paws scythed towards the Lord-Celestant.

But Zephacleas swung his sword up and blocked the downward stroke of the curved blades. Before the full weight of the falling rat-daemon could crash into him, he rammed the head of his hammer into its belly, doubling it over and shoving it backwards. The giant beast chopped at him with its blades, scoring his armour again and again as the Lord-Celestant’s momentum carried them into the fallen stone. They staggered back and fell. He landed atop the verminlord and swiftly drove his forearm into its hairy throat, keeping it from biting him. It flung him off, and he landed in a rattle of sigmarite.

Quick as hate, the rat-daemon was on him, blades flashing down towards the joints of his armour. With desperate speed he squirmed backwards through the muck of the fen, blocking the blows as he went. Sigmar, he’s a fast one, he thought. The rat-daemon leaned in and struck, its curved blade screeching off his war-helm in a shower of greasy sparks. Zephacleas drove his feet up into its gut and sent it flying over his head. It slammed down a few feet away, its fleshless snout digging a trench in the mire.

Zephacleas rolled to his feet, hammer in hand, narrowly avoiding a flailing kick from the verminlord. It scrambled around on all fours, body contorted in a bestial fashion. Its tail lashed out, and the bladed tip tore the weapon from his hands with stinging force. He flung himself aside as the rat-daemon pounced. Sweat coated his face, and his breath rasped in his lungs as he rose to one knee and clawed for the hilt of his runeblade. He jerked back instinctively as the verminlord’s bladed tail skittered off his helm, nearly blinding him. Quickly he reached out and caught the ropy length of the tail as it curled back around. In the same motion, he drew his blade and chopped down, severing the twisting, squirming appendage. The rat-daemon squealed in agony and rage.

Zephacleas flung the still-writhing lump of flesh aside, but the verminlord hissed and charged with arms wide. The creature’s blades tore one of Zephacleas’s pauldrons loose as he lunged forward. Frantically he twisted, bringing his sword through its chest and out of the rat-daemon’s back in a gout of brackish blood and foul-smelling steam. Its weight carried it past him and he ripped his weapon free as it fell, body already beginning to dissolve into clumps of mouldering hair and rotting meat. Hairless, blind rats squirmed out of the sagging mass and scampered away, squealing obscenely.

Zephacleas had little time to see to the vermin. The remaining skaven were fleeing with high-pitched squeals of panic, clawing at one another in their haste to escape the enemy. The daemonic legions, however, showed no indication that they were at all concerned by the rout of their allies. Plaguebearers lurched towards the thin line of Astral Templars and Hallowed Knights, as nurglings burbled ahead of them in a cackling wave. He tensed and readied himself to meet their charge, only to be knocked to one knee. The ground suddenly erupted in thrashing tendrils of bark and vine, obliterating daemons on all sides.

They were not alone in their fate.

All around him, great roots burst from the ailing soil as quick as bolts from a Judicator’s crossbow. The roots rent and throttled daemons wherever they found them, and those creatures that escaped their deadly grasp were torn apart or stamped flat by the vast talons and crashing feet of the thing storming towards them with earth-shaking strides. To Zephacleas it resembled a tree, but one imbued with hateful purpose and ferocity far beyond any creature of common flesh. It towered over the foe, and pummelled them with heavy fists as it stomped past him.

Treelord, he thought, in horrified wonder. He had never seen such a being, but he had heard the tales — all Stormcasts had: stories of marching forests, and the wrath of the deep woods on any who dared threaten the realms of the mistress of the Sylvaneth.

Behind the bark-born giant came a clattering warglade of Sylvaneth dryads, crooning an eerie song of slaughter. With whipping, vicious talons they stabbed and strangled any daemons that had survived the treelord’s initial charge. The Lord-Celestant stepped back as a sharp-limbed dryad bounded past him to pounce upon a plaguebearer. He stepped forward, hammer raised, to help the treekin and the dryad whirled with a hiss.

He lowered his weapon and took a step back. The dryad turned back to its prey and stabbed branch-like fingers into the daemon’s one bleary eye. The plaguebearer bucked and kicked as the dryad peeled its skull apart.

After a moment, the dryad rose, hissed at Zephacleas again, and then loped away. He watched it go, uncertain as to whether it was advisable to follow. Had Sigmar’s messengers found Alarielle? Or were these treekin acting on their own savage initiative?

A moment later, his question was answered. The last daemon fell, pulled apart by two squabbling dryads. The treelord shoved the two creatures aside and moved ponderously towards the remaining Stormcast. Zephacleas rejoined the others; Gravewalker and the Judicator-Prime of the Hallowed Knights followed him.

‘Solus,’ Zephacleas murmured. ‘Good to see you still breathing.’

‘For now, at any rate,’ Solus said, wiping pestilential muck from the blade of his gladius. His once-pristine armour was caked in mud and grime. ‘Gardus?’

‘Gone,’ Zephacleas said.

Solus nodded, knowing well enough what that meant. ‘Most of us are,’ he said softly.

Zephacleas tossed a quick glance behind him. There were fewer than three dozen warriors between their hosts who could stand unassisted. The Hallowed Knights and the Astral Templars had paid a heavy toll to take the Ghyrtract Fen. ‘The rest of us might soon be joining them,’ Solus continued, jerking his chin towards the approaching treelord.

‘Well, only one way to find out,’ Zephacleas said. He looked at Gravewalker. ‘You know what to do. If they decide we’re not allies, call down the lightning until there isn’t a tree left standing.’

‘And then what?’ Gravewalker asked, leaning against his standard.

‘Whatever you see fit — I’ll be back in the forges by then,’ Zephacleas shot back, over his shoulder, as he strode to meet the treelord. He turned to face the immense being, and studied it closely, looking for any hint of its intentions.

I wish it was you standing here my friend, rather than me, he thought, glancing at the remains of the realmgate. Gardus would have known what to do, that much he was sure of.

He swung his hammer up onto his shoulder and sheathed his sword as the treelord came to a creaking halt before him. The ancient being stared down at him for a long moment, its green eyes glowing strangely. Zephacleas felt a chill as he met its gaze. There was a power there, unlike anything he had yet encountered. Behind it, dryads prowled and hissed, clattering leafy claws. He had never seen such creatures before, and the way they moved set his teeth on edge. They watched him with what he took to be wariness, and suspected that if he said the wrong thing, the dryads would leap on him and seek to tear him limb from limb.

Zephacleas cleared his throat and hesitated. What was the proper way to address a walking tree? How did one talk to a creature like this? Would it even understand him? ‘We… thank you, forest-lord.’

The treelord stared down at him for long moments. ‘Weee… haaave… cooome,’ it said, speaking slowly, as if human speech were difficult for it. Its voice sounded like branches creaking in a wind storm. ‘Weee… have… come… to… aid… thee,’ it continued.

‘And we thank thee, mighty one. Your arrival was timely, and much appreciated,’ Zephacleas said. The creature’s voice reverberated through him, and he was suddenly glad that he didn’t have to fight this being. He had no doubt he would be victorious, but it would be a close thing.

The treelord was silent for a time. Then, with a rustling groan, it said, ‘Aaaazyr… There… is… a… way… baaack… to… Azyr.’ It turned slightly, following his glance towards the realmgate. A sound like leaves swirling in the wind emerged from the treekin’s bark-covered jaws. ‘Not… thaaat… way.’ It turned away. ‘Weee… will… show… you.’

Slowly, with great earth-shaking strides, the treelord began to depart. Dryads clustered about it like adoring courtiers. Zephacleas shook his head. A being of few words, he thought. He looked at the smashed and mangled remains of the skaven. Then, who needs words?

‘Thank you,’ he called after the treelord. Turning, he spoke to his brothers. ‘Seker, take Solus and two others — see what our… allies have to show us.’ He still wasn’t certain whether the sudden arrival of the warglades meant that Sigmar’s emissaries had been successful in their task, or that the creatures had come on their own initiative, but it hardly mattered. If they knew of a functioning realmgate, one that could provide a route to Azyr, then it would be the height of foolishness to ignore it. They needed reinforcements badly, and the Hallowed Knights needed their Lord-Castellant now that their Lord-Celestant had fallen.

Zephacleas looked towards the shattered realmgate. Dust and smoke still rose from the fallen stones, marking the final resting place of the Lord-Celestant of the Hallowed Knights. He could not say whether a soul could find its way back to Azyr from within the Realm of Chaos. Somehow, he didn’t think so, else what was all of this for? Why bother to wage war, if the Ruinous Powers could be defeated so easily? Gardus would not reappear in the celestine vaults of far off Sigmaron, hale and hearty.

Grymn will not forgive me, he thought. The Lord-Castellant had asked him to keep Gardus safe, and he had failed. It would not matter that Gardus had chosen his fate as a warrior.

Zephacleas sighed and bowed his head. I am sorry, my friend, he thought.

He slowly sank to one knee, planting his hammer and sword in the earth before him. All around him the remaining Stormcasts followed suit, bowing in silence — Hallowed Knights and Astral Templars alike, offering prayers for Gardus, the Steel Soul.

Zephacleas closed his eyes.

Go in peace, Gardus. Fight well. Wherever you are now, I hope that your faith has not deserted you.

EPILOGUE

Only the faithful

Gardus ran.

His breath burned in his lungs. His heart pounded feverishly. Every step was a titanic struggle, and his limbs felt like weights of pure sigmarite. The weapons in his hands were heavier than he had ever known them to be, but he dared not drop them. Not here.

He ran, pushing himself through thigh-deep muck, and sucking ordure. He knew that, were it not for his faith, he would have been dead a hundred times over.

‘Only the faithful,’ he gasped ‘Only the faithful.’ The words escaped his cracked and bleeding lips over and over again, a mantra against madness, a reminder of who he was. The words kept his limbs moving and his abused lungs snatching in the foul air.

He heard a thunderous splash behind him, but did not dare look back. He would have seen nothing, he knew, save the miasmic haze that cloaked this place. In a way, he was thankful for it — no mortal could gaze upon the loathsome horrors of Nurgle’s garden and emerge sane.

Then, perhaps you are already mad, he thought, and choked on a wild laugh. If he started laughing, he would not stop. Around him, he heard the tinny giggles of nurglings and worse things, as they watched him go by. So far, none had sought to bar his path, and why would they? There was no escape from the garden, and he was already marked by one greater than they. ‘Only the faithful,’ he hissed. ‘Only the faithful. Only the faithful.’

Another splash, closer this time. He felt the muck tremble beneath his feet as his pursuer drew close.

‘Why do you run, little pustule?’ Bolathrax’s deep voice rumbled from the haze somewhere behind him, thick with foul mirth. ‘Can we not promenade the Grandfather’s glopsome gardens together, Gardus?’

He bent his head and forged on, trying to ignore the voice, the stink of this place, all of it, save what lay directly ahead of him. ‘Only the faithful,’ he breathed.

‘There is so much to see, Gardus… so much to learn at Grandfather’s knee, if you but have the wit to listen,’ Bolathrax boomed. ‘Slow your feet, stay awhile…’

His voice faded, and Gardus wondered whether the creature had any more sense of where it was going than he did. Then, perhaps it didn’t care. To Bolathrax, he was but an afternoon’s pleasant diversion.

Gardus thought again of stopping, turning, facing the daemon as a true Stormcast, hammer in hand, but he knew that was simply another sort of madness. He had faced the creature and been found wanting. Here, in the very seat of Nurgle’s power, he stood no chance at all. All he could do was run.

So Gardus ran.

Ghal Maraz

Josh Reynolds

War in the Hidden Vales

Prologue

In the Garden of Nurgle

Gardus ran.

He did not run alone. Ghosts kept pace, maybe a hundred or more: souls trapped in Nurgle’s garden or perhaps memories given a twisted half-life by Gardus’ will and the madness of this place. They ran with him, or stumbled in his wake, no more substantial than the stinking murk that rose from the ground beneath his feet.

Some were familiar, most were not. Nonetheless, they all clung to him with whispy fingers, shapes thinning and fading as he struggled out of their clutches. Men and women and children, all victims of plague and illness, all caught in the garden, unable to escape. He wanted to call to them, to comfort them, but he could not. He was helpless here, able only to run, to flee that which followed.

Help us…

Garradan, help me…

Healer, where are you…

Healer…

Garradan…

‘Gardus, why do you run?’ echoed the hateful, burbling voice of his pursuer.

The ghosts momentarily scattered, only to return all the more insistently as Gardus stumbled and sank to one knee in the mire. He thought again of turning to face the daemon as a true Stormcast, hammer in hand. But something told him to keep running. A voice… a whisper of song… some compulsion to which he could not give name drove him on.

And so he ran, through the very seat of Nurgle’s power. Signs of it were everywhere he looked. Strange, unnatural plants loomed on all sides, their fleshy leaves dripping with mucus and their pale blossoms weeping pus. He could hear heavy forms floundering in the murk, but could not see them. He could barely see his own hand in front of his face. His lungs burned with foulness and his armour was crusted with grime and mould. Whenever he stopped for breath or fell, the mould began to grow, creeping across his silver sigmarite. It was as if the garden were seeking to take him into itself, to make him part of it.

He had seen what such a fate meant — had seen the twisted, moss covered boles with silently screaming faces, and trees bent in agonised, almost human postures — and had no wish to experience it himself. Only the faithful, he thought, as he pushed himself to his feet.

‘Still repeating that phrase, as if that’ll help you,’ came the rumbling taunt. ‘Your thoughts hang heavy on the perfumed air of the Grandfather’s garden. It disturbs the flies, Gardus — or should I call you Garradan?’

So far, Bolathrax had kept itself at a distance, seemingly more interested in the chase than the kill. That was the sole reason he still lived, Gardus knew. The garden of Nurgle was populated by more than the stinging flies that crawled across his armour. Great beasts, brawling daemons and cackling, pestilential sprites had all shown themselves at one point or another. Most crept out of the dripping undergrowth to watch his flight. Others tried to stop him, but were warded off by a roar from Bolathrax or else fell to Gardus’ hammer and sword. The deaths of these creatures were greeted by a rumbling from the poisonous clouds above.

He ignored those clouds now, after the first time, when he’d looked up and they’d briefly cleared to reveal a grin as wide as the sky itself and two pus-cream eyes as big as moons. This was Nurgle’s realm, and nothing happened here that the God of Decay did not see and approve of. Gardus did not look up now, or to the side. He kept his gaze to the fore and ploughed on, trying to ignore the exhaustion that clawed at his mind.

‘Tired, aren’t you, Garradan?’ Bolathrax gloated. ‘But not as tired as you were that final night in Demesnus Harbour, eh? When the skinstealers at last crested the walls and the hospice of Grand Lazzar came under attack, you had been awake for three days, tending the wounded and dying. Was that why you picked up those candlesticks as they butchered your patients? White robes gone red, Garradan… That’s what you dream of.’

The ghosts redoubled their efforts to gain his attention as Bolathrax spoke. He saw the faces of lepers and wounded soldiers, of starvelings and nobles alike, mingling with the howling, scarred features of skinstealers. He brought his hands up.

Garradan… help me…

So sick…

Help us teacher…

Burning up…

Can’t move…

Help us…

Garradan…

Garradan…

Gardus stumbled on, driven by a resolve as hard as steel. Sigmar would sustain him. He was faithful.

He swept his arms out, trying to drive the ghosts away, but it was no use. He could see faces in the surface of the waters he waded through, and in the murk before him. All of them cursing him, begging him for help, screaming his name. The ground trembled beneath his feet as Bolathrax continued to follow and to chortle grotesquely.

‘Where are you going, Garradan? The garden is boundless and you will never breach its walls. Stop, give in, and Bolathrax will be merciful…’

‘Only the faithful,’ Gardus said, driving himself forward. He was not Garradan the healer, not anymore; he was Gardus, the Stormcast Eternal. He was no mere mortal, he was Sigmar’s lightning made flesh. And he would not stop. ‘Only the faithful… Only the faithful…’

The words were less a prayer now than a mantra, a chant to keep him sane in this mad garden of horrors. He scraped the thick shroud of mould off his helm, clearing his vision, and blinked in shock as a brilliant glimmer of light flickered through the haze ahead.

‘What?’ he croaked. A trick? A trap? Or something else? He heard a rumble from above and risked a look. The mouth in the clouds was no longer leering, but instead… frowning. Hope blossomed in his chest and he took a trembling step forwards. It was so beautiful. He took another step. His breath caught in his throat.

Wherever that glow originated from, it could not be of this hideous realm. The song in his head, the whisper of sound that pulled him on, swelled to a crescendo as Gardus ploughed on. At last, he knew where he was going. Weapons in hand, he pressed forward, wading towards the swelling, lambent light…

Chapter One

To silence the dirge

The sound of the Dirgehorn hung over everything.

Here, so close to the source, it was almost a physical pressure, beating upon the minds and souls of the Stormcast Eternals who fought their way through the crooked, fungus-slick trees and overgrown fen of Rotwater Blight.

The call of the Dirgehorn was in everything, reverberating from every stone and stump, quavering in the fly-blown air like an unending groan. The hideous sound of it rolled on and on, each note slithering into the next. It was a wave of pure discord, sluggish and flat, carrying with it despondency and gloom. It was a constant drone that shivered along on the wings of flies and miasmic breezes, withering trees and cracking rocks. Where it passed, green leaves turned black and the very stones sprouted quivering boils and buboes.

The sylvaneth had been put to flight by its mournful note, clutching at their heads with palsied fingers as their bark-like flesh grew cracked and pale. Those who had made Rotwater Blight their home fled deeper into the forests to escape it, and the land echoed with the sounds of their flight. Dryads shrieked and wailed as they staggered through the swampy forest, adding to the already horrid din, and squealing forest spites filled the air, flickering like fireflies as they hurtled away from the maddening pulse.

But while the treekin fled, the Stormcasts plunged into the teeth of that droning sound, determined to silence it or perish in the attempt. Retinue after retinue, brotherhood by brotherhood, they slogged on, through stinking mire and dying glade, pitting lightning-forged hearts and souls against the blaring call of Nurgle. Liberators and Retributors marched in ordered phalanxes along the mould-spotted trails and were guided by winged Prosecutors, who braved the fly-choked air to steer their kin to firmer ground. The Decimators’ weapons glowed with cold fire as they carved a path towards the Dirgehorn’s call, hacking through thick vines that sprayed viscous sap and clutching branches that writhed like serpents as they fell.

The Steel Souls, a Warrior Chamber of the Hallowed Knights, led the way. Their panoply of war gleamed silver and rich gold, while their shoulder guards and heavy shields were of deepest regal blue. The Steel Souls were not alone in their march — others shared their burden. Warrior Chambers from the Astral Templars and the Guardians of the Firmament both fought their way through Rotwater Blight alongside the Hallowed Knights, their Decimators joining those of the Steel Souls at the point of the spear.

The Stormcasts had borne the wailing call of the artefact known at the Dirgehorn for many miles and days of marching, braving horrors undreamt of. They had struggled through belching quagmires and hillocks of dead insects. The bubbling morass of the Greenglow Lake stretched to the west of the armoured host, splitting the land like an open wound. To the east, the thick forests of the Blight rose wild and forbidding. The sky overhead was the colour of an infected wound, and a choking wind blew from the east.

Everywhere Lord-Castellant Lorrus Grymn of the Hallowed Knights looked, it was as if the land was dying. He strode alongside the column, accompanied by the furry, feathered shape of his loyal gryph-hound, Tallon. His heavy halberd lay across one broad shoulder, and he kept a firm grip on its haft, ready to swing it into position at a moment’s notice. He held his warding lantern high, casting its light across the ranks of warriors as they marched. The fortifying glow burned off the layers of filth that caked the armour of his brethren, returning it to a glorious lustre, as was fitting.

The Hallowed Knights had been the fourth Stormhost to be founded, the ranks of their Warrior Chambers filled with the faithful of the Mortal Realms. Their only commonality was that each had called upon Sigmar’s name in battle and had been heard, and that each had shed his mortal flesh in the name of a righteous cause. The Steel Souls were the best of them, tried and tested and found worthy in the fires of war. But not without cost, Grymn thought.

Yes, the Steel Souls had paid a heavy price. Lord-Celestant Gardus, the one who had given them their name, was gone, lost through the realmgate known as the Gates of Dawn, leaving his warriors bereft of his leadership. It had been Gardus who had led the first strike into the wilds of Ghyran so that a permanent path to Azyr might be opened. It had been Gardus who had been sent to ensure that Grymn and the rest of his Warrior Chamber might descend upon the Jade Kingdoms to reinforce their brothers. It was not to be, however.

Despite the aid of the Astral Templars, and the last minute intervention of the warglades of the mysterious sylvaneth, Gardus had been forced to destroy the realmgate and had perished in the act. Damn you, Gardus, Grymn thought, not for the first time. It was even as the Lord-Relictor of the Steel Souls, Morbus Stormwarden, had said. The sage had seen Gardus’ fall in his dreams and had come to Grymn with his concerns. But too late.

And now Gardus was gone. The best of them. The one who had been, up to this point, Grymn’s only equal on or off the field — a man with whom he had been proud to stand shoulder to shoulder against the foes of Sigmar.

The Steel Soul had not died as a Stormcast ought and returned to the great forges of Sigmaron, there to be remade by the hands of the God-King himself. Instead, Gardus had thrown himself into the Realm of Chaos, locked in combat with a greater daemon. No soul returned from those hell-realms.

Not even one made of steel, Grymn thought. Angry now, he turned his thoughts to the present. They had a duty to fulfil and they would meet it no matter the cost. The Dirgehorn would be silenced. Of this Grymn was confident. But he knew that while the artefact had sorely afflicted the inhabitants of these wooded realms, it was not the sole cause of their pain.

Flies droned and swamp-sludge bubbled as rotted boughs creaked in the unnatural pall that marked the places where Nurgle’s influence had eclipsed that of the Realm of Life’s rightful ruler. Chain-throttled oaks moaned wordlessly about them and forest spirits struggled helplessly in the mires of Nurgle’s making. The Stormcasts who fought across the ever-shifting landscape of Ghyran were doing what they could to free the Jade Kingdoms from the clutches of the Plague Lord, but they could not do it alone. Sigmar had sent representatives to find the Lady Alarielle, in her seclusion, and re-establish old ties, but as far as Grymn knew they had all returned to Azyr empty-handed.

Alarielle had, like Sigmar himself, existed for untold aeons, and there were murals in Sigmaron dedicated to her. The largest and greatest of these showed Sigmar waking the Radiant Queen from her centuries of slumber, and the two throwing back the forces of darkness together. Once, she had been the God-King’s ally. Once… but not for many years, since the powers of ruin had swept through the Mortal Realms and the great celestine Gates of Azyr had slammed shut, sealing the Realm of Heavens off from the rest of the Eight Realms. Now those gates were open once more, and Sigmar had stretched forth his hand to old and new allies alike, so that together they might throw off the chains of monstrous tyranny.

A good dream, if as yet unproven, Grymn thought.

‘Lord-Castellant!’

Grymn looked up as the silver swooping form of Tegrus of the Sainted Eye, Prosecutor-Prime of the Steel Souls, gestured towards the shore of the lake. Grymn cursed as he saw several Stormcasts stumble towards the dark waters.

‘Tallon — go!’ he said urgently as he hurried towards the warriors. The gryph-hound chirped and bounded away. The animal slid between the Stormcasts, snapping and shrieking, stopping them in their tracks long enough for Grymn to reach them. ‘Back, you fools, get away from the water,’ he roared.

As he caught hold of a stumbling Stormcast’s shoulder and pulled the warrior back, the still waters of the lake erupted in a storm of lashing, mouth-studded tendrils. Several of the Stormcasts were snatched up before they even had time to cry out. Tallon flung himself upon one tendril, severing it with his beak and freeing the warrior it held.

‘Back,’ Grymn roared again, hooking his lantern on the blade of his halberd and extending it out over the water. The light of the warding lantern shone across the frothing lake, and the tendrils retreated as if burned. In the darkness, something wailed like a damned soul, and Grymn heard heavy bodies flopping and thrashing.

‘Tegrus,’ Grymn called out to the Prosecutor swooping overhead. ‘Drive these beasts back into the depths!’

Overhead, Tegrus led his winged warriors out over the water. They hurled their celestial hammers at the vast shapes that dwelled beneath the murk. The monsters plunged deeper into the waters to avoid the barrage, leaving behind only a sour smell and the shooting blue light of those warriors they had managed to drown before Grymn had stymied them.

‘Away,’ he snarled, gesturing back towards the path. ‘Get back. Move!’

Grymn turned his attentions to the warrior he’d saved. The Liberator stumbled against him as they moved away from the water, half-torpid, weapon and shield dangling from his grip. He was an Astral Templar, clad in amethyst and gold.

‘Awaken,’ Grymn said, shaking the Liberator. The warrior slumped, and Grymn grunted as he caught him. ‘Awaken, I say — do not give in. Heed me!’ He set his halberd so that the light of his lantern caught the warrior full. As the light bathed him, the Liberator struggled upright, gaining strength from the healing glow of the warding lantern.

‘I just… I just wanted to clean this filth from my war-plate,’ the Stormcast said, his voice slurred. ‘To wash myself clean of the taint of this place. To drink…’

‘Yes, brother, there is no shame in that,’ Grymn said urgently. ‘But this place devours warriors as surely as any beast. You must keep to the road. Stay in the light.’

Some among the Stormhost were beginning to succumb to the waking nightmare of this realm, their spirits sapped by the relentless blare of the Dirgehorn and the miasma that clung to the land around them. Their war mantras were drowned out by the growing cacophony of the horn, denying them succour, and every day saw more warriors sent back to Azyr in a blaze of blue light. Rotwater Blight was as much their enemy as the servants of Nurgle.

‘I can… I can hear it, Lord-Castellant,’ the Liberator said. ‘It’s… burrowing into my mind… my soul.’ He reached up as if to tear his helmet off, and fumbled with his weapon and shield, nearly dropping them. ‘It’s echoing in my head!’

Grymn seized the warrior’s hands.

‘Stop,’ he snarled, shouting to be heard over the shriek of the Dirgehorn. ‘You are Stormcast. Remember what that means, brother.’

‘I have him, Lord-Castellant,’ a voice said.

Grymn looked up and saw the heavy shape of the Lord-Celestant of the Astral Templars. Zephacleas had been a big man, even before his Reforging, and he loomed over Grymn now, his amethyst armour scorched in places and scored with the marks of claws and fangs. Now he caught the Liberator by the shoulders.

‘Arcos, isn’t it? You stood with me at the Lake of Screaming Reeds, when that toad dragon hurled itself at the shieldwall of our brothers. I nearly broke my blade on its blubbery hide and you were there, shielding me from its vile spew. And at the Grove of Blighted Lanterns, did you not raise your hammer in defence of your brothers, as the jabberslythes screamed? Stand tall, Arcos. We are the Beast-Bane, slayers of the Black Bull of Nordrath, and we shall not allow a mere winding tune to break us.’

The warrior nodded wearily and allowed his Lord-Celestant to urge him back towards his brethren. Zephacleas watched him go, and then turned to Grymn.

‘Death is a high price, but not without its allure,’ the Lord-Celestant said, watching the lake.

‘Is your resolve so fragile, Beast-Bane?’ Grymn asked harshly.

‘No, but this hellish landscape has worn us down, Grymn. For some among our warriors, to return in failure is beginning to seem preferable to slogging through this foulness for even a single hour more,’ Zephacleas growled. ‘Even the air attacks us.’ He clutched at his head for a moment. ‘And that blasted wail never ends! It gnaws at us every moment, digging into us. I can’t even hear myself think.’

‘We must press on. We are close,’ Grymn said. ‘The horn grows louder, and we are assailed more frequently. We are close, Zephacleas. And only the faithful shall prevail.’ He thumped the other Stormcast on the shoulder. ‘Much is demanded…’

‘…of those to whom much has been given,’ Zephacleas finished. ‘Gardus says — said — that often.’ He shook his head. ‘I wish that he were here.’

‘As do I,’ Grymn said. ‘But we must—’ A cry from above interrupted him. He looked up, saw the Prosecutors circling a high, sloping hill that overlooked the lake and said, ‘Tegrus has found something.’

‘The enemy?’ Zephacleas asked.

‘Better, I think,’ Grymn said. ‘Come, we must alert the others.’

Chapter Two

The land itself

In the light cast by his lantern, Grymn looked out over the cluster of bubbling springs surrounded by lush green vegetation and took a deep breath.

‘The air is cleaner here,’ he said. The Prosecutors had led them up the hill and to the crest, where amidst the crags they had discovered this quiet oasis. Grymn, determined to investigate before he risked his warriors, had led his vanguard in.

‘It could be a trick,’ Zephacleas said.

‘It is a trick,’ Ultrades of the Broken Spear said. Like Grymn, the Lord-Celestant of the Guardians of the Firmament was stoicism given form — a warrior of iron will and determination, who had earned his name by killing an enemy warlord with a broken spear blade torn from the Stormcast’s own bloody side. ‘Another ploy of the enemy. They could not bring us down by force, and so they seek to gull us with a safe haven in a landscape of horrors.’ He shook his head. ‘We should press on.’

‘Our warriors require rest,’ Grymn said, glancing back at the vanguard of Decimators and Retributors who had followed them to the hill’s summit. The bulk of the Stormhost still waited on the slopes below, grateful for the pause. All save Tegrus and his retinue of Prosecutors, who had flown on to see what could be seen of the trail ahead.

While Stormcasts had incredible endurance, Zephacleas had been right — they were all worn down. The Rotwater Blight had sapped even the hardiest of them of their strength. Grymn had been able to keep the worst of it from his Warrior Chamber thanks to the light of his lantern, but even they skirted the edges of exhaustion. The other Warrior Chambers had lost brothers to the mire and sucking loam, as well as the myriad dangers that lurked on the fringes of their path.

‘We need rest,’ he said again. ‘And this place could provide it,’ he added. He lifted his hand. ‘Listen…’

‘I hear nothing,’ Ultrades said.

‘Exactly,’ Grymn said. ‘The drone of the Dirgehorn has receded. Listen!’

‘He’s right,’ Zephacleas said, as he looked around. ‘I can barely hear it.’ He laughed. ‘I almost forgot what my own voice sounded like.’

‘And more, there’s fresh water — no flies, no steaming clumps of filth or poison,’ Grymn said, as he started towards the closest spring. Ultrades caught his arm.

‘What are you doing?’

‘One of us must test it. We have been without pure water for days. If this is truly a trap, better to lose one than many. I am Lord-Castellant of the Steel Souls. It was given to me to be the shield for my brothers, and so it falls to me,’ Grymn said. He pulled himself free of Ultrades’ grip, and took off his crested helm of office. ‘Do not fear, my brother. I have faith and Sigmar watches over me, even here.’

‘As he watches over us all,’ Zephacleas said.

Grymn turned and went to the closest spring, where he dropped to one knee, leaned his halberd against his shoulder and made to scoop out a handful of the clear water bubbling there. He hesitated, considering Ultrades’ suspicions as well as his own. Then he plunged his fingers into the water and brought a handful of spring water to his mouth. At his side, Tallon watched intently. The gryph-hound cocked his head, and clicked his beak interrogatively.

‘Easy,’ Grymn murmured, ruffling the beast’s neck feathers. He took a drink, closing his eyes as the cool water rushed down his throat. After a moment, he cracked one eye and looked at Tallon. ‘Well, the water’s clean, all right.’

He drank again, relishing the taste of it. He felt as if a warm, golden light were filling him, and his fatigue sloughed away, as if it had never been. Tallon ducked his head and began to lap at the water with eager chirrups as Grymn turned to the others. For the first time since his Reforging, a broad smile split his face. Zephacleas stepped back.

‘By Sigmar, it’s poisoned him,’ he said.

‘I’m smiling, you slack-jawed oaf,’ Grymn laughed. He waved a hand at those Prosecutors hovering above, signalling them to alert the rest of the Stormhost that it was safe to climb to the summit. ‘Get in here and drink, all of you. It looks as if we’ve found the only pure water in this land.’ He paused, and added, ‘Better than pure.’ He examined his gauntlet and the crystal-clear droplets glittering on his palm. ‘It seems our allies have not deserted us. And perhaps this land is not entirely lost, after all.’

He closed his hand, and looked to the north, where another hill rose sharp and foul from the forest that clung to its slopes, like a cankerous tooth. That was where his scouts had marked the sound of the Dirgehorn as emanating from. That would be where they would meet the enemy, and set it to flight once more.

You started this fight, Gardus, and now I shall finish it. The steel in your soul is now in ours, and we shall not fail, he thought.

He turned around and watched as the Stormcasts knelt to drink, or to splash the clear waters across their filth-stained armour. He could hear the newfound hope in their voices, and the bitter outrage. They had been tested in the Blight, and it had not been easy., but they had persevered. The Hallowed Knights shall not falter, he thought, as he set his helm back over his head. I shall see to that, if nothing else.

‘Their faith has been renewed.’

‘Aye, Morbus. That it has. It has been sorely tested, these past few weeks. With Gardus gone…’ Grymn looked at the Lord-Relictor. Morbus Stormwarden was an imposing figure, his weapons and armour replete with icons of faith, death and the storm. It fell to him to keep the souls of his fellow Hallowed Knights from the gloom of the underworld, should such a fate loom close.

‘Gardus is gone,’ Morbus agreed. ‘But we yet stand, to carry on in his name.’ He touched one of the icons on his chest-plate. ‘When I saw… what I saw, I never truly imagined that it would come to pass.’ Morbus had seen Gardus’ demise in a dream, and though both he and the Lord-Castellant had sought to warn their Lord-Celestant, they had been too late. ‘I never truly thought that the Steel Soul could fall.’

‘Nor did I,’ Grymn said. Why did you have to do it, he thought. But he knew the answer well enough. Gardus was the sword, and Grymn the shield. It was the sword’s way, to thrust itself into the enemy’s heart, even if it shattered in doing so. ‘If only…’

‘We did not know,’ Morbus said, watching over the Stormcasts solemnly. ‘A vague premonition of doom is of little importance in times like these, when all of reality shudders beneath the weight of war. And Gardus was… Gardus.’

‘That he was, my friend,’ Grymn said. ‘And we are left to carry on.’ He cocked his head. ‘Tegrus,’ he called out, as he glimpsed a familiar silver-clad shape circling above.

The Prosecutor-Prime swooped low over them. ‘We are close, Lord-Castellant. No more than a few hours’ march,’ Tegrus said, anticipating his question.

‘And the enemy?’

‘Beastmen,’ Tegrus said, dropping to the ground before them. ‘From what we could see through the trees, we are outnumbered. A dozen of them for every one of us — ungor and gors, some in armour. Bullgors as well.’

‘They gather in strength,’ Morbus said, leaning against his reliquary staff.

‘More enemies means more glory,’ Grymn said. He stroked Tallon’s narrow skull. ‘What of the Dirgehorn?’

‘At the summit of the tor, I believe. Although even I couldn’t get close enough to see for sure. They’re clustered up there as thick as fleas, and they sent a hail of arrows my way,’ Tegrus said, gesturing with one of his hammers. ‘We shall have to fight our way up.’ He looked at Grymn. ‘It will be bloody.’

‘Good. I am in the mood for it,’ Grymn said.

‘As am I,’ Tegrus said grimly. ‘Would that Gardus were here to share in this battle.’ He crossed his hammers and bent his head. Grymn and Morbus bowed their heads as well.

‘Would that he was. But he is not, and so we must fight in his name. We will teach the enemy that the Steel Soul is not so easily broken. We will teach them, Tegrus.’

‘So we shall, Lord-Castellant,’ Tegrus said, rising into the air with a snap of his wings.

Morbus watched him go, and said, ‘What next, Lorrus?’

‘We are owed a debt of pain, Morbus. I intend to collect it.’ Grymn lifted his lantern high, so that its light was reflected from the sigmarite that armoured his warriors, and threw back the shadows. ‘Who are we?’ he asked, his voice carrying to every ear. ‘Who are we?’ he said again, thumping the ground with the haft of his halberd. ‘We are the tempest-borne, the warriors of lightning, and the sons of Sigmar himself. We are Stormcasts. Who will be triumphant?’

‘Only the faithful,’ came the reply, from hundreds of throats.

‘They almost made us forget that, in these days and weeks of horror. They have drowned us in filth, but we still stand, brothers.’ He thumped the ground again. ‘We are Stormcasts! Who will stand, when all others fall?’ Grymn cried.

‘Only the faithful!’ the Hallowed Knights roared. Astral Templars and Guardians of the Firmament added their voices to the cry.

‘They thought to defeat us with noise, with ambushes. They thought to make us despair. These are the tools of a coward,’ Grymn said. ‘Who knows no despair, save in failure?’

‘Only the faithful,’ the Stormcasts cried as one.

Grymn swung his halberd up and pointed north.

‘Listen, brothers. Hear the wailing of their horn and know that it is the scream of a frightened beast. They thought to make us fear, brothers… Let us return the favour.’

Chapter Three

The blighted glade

Light. All around him, light and something else… the voice, the song, swelling in his head, drowning out all thought. Gardus staggered on, limbs heavy with the weight of ghosts, and the light grew brighter, until he thought it might blind him.

In the light, in the song, he heard and saw things… the future? The past? Images of islands in the sky, and a heaving foulness thrashing in once-clear waters. Of great roots stretching towards the pale sun as rats gnawed at them. Of a valley, reflected. And, finally, a face composed of branches and leaves, of spider-silk and moonlight… a woman, with eyes like flickering green suns, not human, but a queen. She spoke in a voice like distant thunder. At first her words made no sense, but then, like turbulent waters grown still, everything was clear.

Yes, he thought. Yes, I know what I must do. Then, all at once, both light and song were gone, and he heard stone scrape beneath his feet and felt acrid air burn his lungs. His armour was covered in filth and his cloak was slime-slicked, but he was free. Coughing, he staggered and wearily sank down to one knee. His stomach roiled and he toppled forwards, vomit spewing from the mouth-slit of his war-helm. His stomach heaved as he purged himself of the sour taste of Nurgle’s garden. Free, he thought.

Once his stomach was empty, he used his hammer and sword to shove himself to his feet. He could hear fighting in the distance. He could smell fire and war, and knew that he had returned to the Mortal Realms. Gardus looked around. He stood upon the cracked stone dais of a realmgate. It flickered luridly behind him, the tall, fungus-covered archway still aglow with the now-fading energies of its activation. The realmgate occupied the centre of a clearing, surrounded by trees on all sides. The ground below the lip of the dais was hidden by an eerie green mist. It stank of rotting meat and worse, though not as badly as Nurgle’s garden.

The trees around him had been infested with grotesque fungi, and they dripped slime and mould. Foul, fleshy blossoms clustered in hollow trunks, and a throbbing canopy of moist, spore-ridden tendrils spread across the upper reaches of the forest, blocking out the weak sunlight. Where the mist was thin, Gardus could see bubbling mounds of black ooze that rose from the forest floor like boils on the flesh of the afflicted. Somewhere amidst the trees, he heard the frantic clanging of gongs and a squealing, as if from the throats of giant rats.

‘Only the faithful,’ he said hoarsely, his throat scraped raw. He stepped down off the dais, weapons in hand, and began to follow the noise of battle. Though the song had fallen silent, still its melody remained in him, and he knew what he must do. Ghyran suffered a blight, and it was up to him to help cleanse it. Whatever afflicted this glade would be first.

Gardus picked up speed, the ache in his muscles and the burning in his lungs forgotten as he followed the screams of the dying and the splintering of wood. A discordant blaring of horns sounded from the southern edge of the clearing, sending a tremor of disgust through his soul. He had heard that sound before, in Nurgle’s realm. He swept out his hammer, smashing a toppled branch thick with maggoty fungus from his path. The servants of Nurgle were close, and Gardus would see them pay for all that he had endured. He struck a rotting, fallen tree with his shoulder, reducing it to a cloud of splinters. Then he was half-staggering into the midst of a battle, surrounded by noise and slaughter.

Heaps of dead skaven lay everywhere, and mingled amongst them were the shattered bodies of sylvaneth dryads. Hordes of ratmen clad in filthy robes scuttled through the trees towards the retreating dryad-groves. Nearby, a fallen treelord groaned and collapsed into a pile of rotting wood and rancid sap as a skaven, larger than the others, struck him with a smoking censer-ball. Gardus took a half-step forward, but as the treelord’s dying groan swept through the clearing, he saw hulking warriors force themselves between the fungus-riddled trees on the glade’s southern edge. The bloated blightkings charged towards the dryads with glottal war cries. Axes and scythes hacked down treekin and spilled ruddy sap into the muck.

Already in disarray, the treekin recoiled in obvious panic. More dryads fell to the skaven; frenzied plague monks stabbed rusted blades into supple bark, tearing festering wounds in their foes. The blightkings added to the tally of the fallen with single-minded brutality.

Gardus plunged towards them, ploughing through a swarm of ratmen who, having noticed his arrival, sought to drag him down. The skaven came at him in a scrabbling rush. Gardus killed the first to reach him with a blow from his hammer, and decapitated the second. Soon, however, he was surrounded by hairy forms. Rusty blades scraped against his armour, digging for a vital spot. He swept out his arms, flinging broken bodies through the air. With the last of the ratmen twitching out their death-agonies in the mud, he moved towards the servants of Nurgle, intent on lending aid to the sylvaneth.

As he ran, Gardus saw a single branchwraith, gnarled and weathered by age and war, tear one of the swollen warriors messily in two with a flurry of lashing vines. Even as the halves of the body slopped to the ground, the branchwraith hunched forward and thrust her clawed hands into the earth. A green shimmer blazed about her inhuman form, growing brighter and brighter, until she suddenly tore her claws free and dragged them upwards. A tangle of roots and vines came with them, and the ground ruptured as thorny tendrils burst from the murk to ensnare the blightkings.

But the brutes could not be stopped. They stomped and hacked at the lashing tendrils, fighting their way towards the branchwraith and her retinue. Gardus roared in fury as he pounded towards the blightkings, and one of the warriors hesitated and turned towards him, pox-marked blade raised. Gardus didn’t slow.

‘Who will be victorious?’ he bellowed, as he brought his hammer down on the blightking’s skull. Such was the force of his blow that he ripped the warrior’s head from its blubbery neck. ‘Only the faithful,’ he continued, whipsawing around and slashing his sword across the throat of a second foe. He kicked the dying blightking aside. ‘Only the faithful!’

Divine lightning crackled across him as he clashed his weapons. ‘Turn, plague-dogs, turn,’ he roared. ‘Turn and face me!’

His blade smashed down, cleaving a blightking from skull to sternum. Gardus tore the blade free in a snarl of lightning, and spun to cut the legs out from under another of the pox-warriors. He drove his boot into the fallen blightking’s skull hard enough to crumple the rusty helm the warrior wore. Smoke rose as the white fires that crawled across the Stormcast burned away the daemonic slurry that befouled his armour.

As he fought, he caught glimpses of the battle swirling about him. He saw dryads tear through skaven ranks and a massive treelord overturn a bubbling, poison-spewing plague furnace with a roar, crushing those plague monks unlucky enough to be close by. He spilled the rotten guts of another opponent, preventing the warrior from smashing the skull of a wounded dryad. The remaining blightkings forgot about the branchwraith and her followers as Gardus continued his rampage. The bloated warriors hurled themselves at him in growing desperation. Axes scored his armour but he refused to fall. He swung and slashed, chopped and crushed, littering the ground with the dead. He reared back and kicked a blightking in the chest, sending the brute staggering into the talons of the branchwraith, who caught the warrior’s head with her vines and crushed it, helm and all.

Gardus met her inhuman gaze. For a moment, Stormcast and sylvaneth stared at one another. Then the branchwraith threw back her head and shrieked, vines lashing. Her dryads echoed her cry and plunged past Gardus, hurling themselves back into the fray to aid their kin. Gardus followed them, his weapons slick with bile and spoiled blood.

Together, Stormcast and sylvaneth fought against the enemies of Life itself. Squealing skaven and groaning blightkings met them in the centre of the clearing, and Gardus roared out the battle-cry of the Hallowed Knights until his voice became a strained rasp. He left a trail of the dead and dying behind him as he fought to keep pace with the branchwraith and her sisters. The white fire thatwreathed him burned brighter and brighter as he pushed himself past the point of exhaustion. Despite the pain of his wounds and the fatigue that poisoned his muscles and numbed his mind, Gardus was determined to see the glade cleansed of its affliction.

As he fought, he saw the branchwraith stride through the swirling ashes thrown up by the plague furnace’s destruction to confront a shrieking skaven. The skaven, swathed in foul robes, its hairy flesh puckered with scars and buboes, chattered a challenge. Gardus made to step forwards, but the branchwraith threw an arm across his chest, stopping him.

‘No,’ she said, in a voice like branches crackling on a fire. ‘Our sap runs hot, son of Sigmar. But Thellembhol’s runs hotter still.’

Gardus looked past the skaven, and saw an immense shape loom out of the smoke. The treelord that had upset the plague furnace rose up over the foul creature. The skaven whirled about, claws raised, eyes glowing as verminous lips writhed in the beginnings of a croaked incantation. Thellembhol raised one massive foot and slammed it down, stamping the life from it.

Gardus looked around; the battle was over. If any of the skaven had survived the wrath of the dryads, they had fled. The blightkings were all dead, their bodies dissolving into rancid sludge. His limbs felt heavy, and the fires which had seared his armour clean began to gutter and fade. He staggered and sank to one knee. Thick vines caught him before he fell, their thorns clattering almost gently against the plates of his armour.

‘You are tired almost unto death, son of Sigmar,’ the branchwraith said, looking down at him, her inhuman features twisted into an expression of what he thought was concern. ‘Know that you have the thanks of the sylvaneth and the Lady of Vines, war-hand of the Radiant Queen.’

‘Lady,’ Gardus said, as he pushed himself up, ‘I have waded through a sea of horrors to return to this realm… I must get back to my brothers. I–I must tell them of what I have seen. I have seen the Hidden Vale, and Alarielle. I can lead them…’

He trailed off as he suddenly recalled to whom he spoke. The Lady of Vines had stiffened at his words, and he felt the treelord approach, a rumbling growl slipping from its bark-maw.

‘Fear you to tell your tale, son of Sigmar?’ the Lady of Vines hissed. ‘You have learned a dangerous truth, it seems.’ The vines about him tightened, and he tensed, ready to fight his way free. Then, with a rattling sigh, the branchwraith released him. ‘Then, perhaps your coming shall bestir my mother from the darkling dreams which do assail her. Be not afraid, son of Sigmar — we shall take you to your brothers.’

Gardus sagged, relief flooding him. Then, with reserves of strength he did not know he possessed, he pulled himself upright. He met the branchwraith’s flickering gaze and nodded. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘Lead on, O Lady of Vines… and I shall follow.’

Chapter Four

Blare of the Dirgehorn

‘Forwards!’ Grymn roared, as he raised his halberd high, casting the light of his warding lantern across the blasted expanse of Profane Tor. Thunder snarled overhead, and a cerulean rain pounded down on faithful and foul alike. Strobing lightning revealed a gore-streaked tableau. ‘Forwards, for Sigmar… for Azyr… and for the Steel Soul,’ Grymn bellowed, fighting to drown out the drone of the monstrous Dirgehorn.

The Steel Souls had battled their way to the top of the tor through herds of slavering beastmen and the wailing of the horn. Somewhere in the clearing below, Zephacleas and Ultrades were bellowing orders to their respective warriors as they fought to give the Hallowed Knights time to silence that diabolical moan.

The Dirgehorn sat curled about the trunk of a great hag tree, amongst piled weapons and trophy skulls. The tree was a towering nightmare, looming over the tor, its branches stretching everywhere. It stank of rot and death, and noose-throttled corpses and spiked cages dangled from its crooked branches, twisting in an unnatural dance to the Dirgehorn’s song. A beastlord of immense size, with a crown of curved horns, put its slobbering jaws to the mouthpiece and blew again and again, as if to urge its warriors on to greater feats of madness.

Lightning streaked across the sky as the Stormcasts forced themselves forwards at Grymn’s command. With every echoing whine of the daemonic horn, skin blackened and metal tarnished, and men were forced to fight to prevent being bowled over by the sheer, abominable force of it. Beastmen swarmed across the tor from all sides, leaping over the great roots of the hag tree and flinging themselves onto the invaders.

‘Fight, Stormcasts,’ Grymn snarled. ‘Only the faithful shall be victorious. Only the faithful shall see the spires of Sigmaron again. Fight. Fight! Fight!’

With every flash of lightning, Grymn could see silver-clad Hallowed Knights doing just that as they battled the servants of the Ruinous Powers. Liberators locked shields with frothing, goat-headed gors; Judicators launched volley after volley at the gigantic beasts prowling the misted eaves of the tor; wailing bray-shamans cast curse after curse upon the heads of the Stormcasts; and armoured champions of Chaos hacked a path through the ranks of their foes.

It was the latter that occupied Grymn’s attentions, and he smashed his way towards the bloated warriors, followed closely by Tallon. A two-headed beastman lunged into his path and he drove the end of his halberd through the creature’s gut. As it bent over, he brought the blade of his weapon down on the stretch of flesh between its necks. Black blood gushed and a pair of agonized screams rose up from the creature’s twin throats. Grymn ripped his halberd free and shoved the dying creature out of his path. A second beastman charged towards him, axe held over its horned head, but Tallon pounced on it. It fell with a strangled bleat as the gryph-hound’s beak tore out its throat in a welter of gore.

Grymn reached the obese Chaos champions a moment later. They were an unpleasant sight, even when considered beside their own diseased kind — the split-bellied axemen wore rusty, brine-crusted armour, and they had patches of pallid flesh that bulged around the straps and plates. At their head was a monstrous warrior with a horribly distorted body. Fully half of it was rent asunder and from the gaping wound emerged the snapping beak and twisting tentacles of some vile sea-beast.

Grymn knew instinctively that this was their leader. He set his feet and swung his halberd out, letting the haft slide through his hands as he did so in order to gain reach. The blade smashed into the marred flesh that marked the champion’s mutated side, and Grymn was rewarded by a spurt of inky blood.

The champion wheeled, smacking his halberd aside. The force of the blow almost tore the weapon from Grymn’s hands, but he recovered quickly.

‘Foul play, shiny-skin,’ the betentacled champion roared as he drove Grymn back with a sweep of his great axe. ‘Only fair to introduce yourself first. I am Gutrot Spume, Lord of Tentacles, Master of the Rotwater, and various and sundry other titles of importance. Who are you?’

‘Your death, abomination,’ Grymn said.

‘Ha! Heard that before, aye,’ Spume cackled. ‘You aren’t the first, and won’t be the last. Come on then, if you’re of a mind.’

The champion spun his axe in his human hand, and chopped out at Grymn, almost quicker than the latter’s eye could follow. Grymn jerked to the side, avoiding the bite of the immense blade, and thrust his halberd out like a spear. The spike at its tip slammed into Spume’s shoulder-guard, rocking the champion on his wide feet.

‘That’s the spirit, shiny-skin,’ Spume said, as three of his tentacles snagged the haft of the halberd and held it in place as Grymn tried to pull it free.

‘Tallon,’ Grymn barked. The gryph-hound lunged, his iron-hard beak snapping shut on the sinewy appendages and tearing them apart. Spume staggered back with a bellow, slashing out at the gryph-hound, and the animal bounded away. Grymn spun the halberd between his hands and swung it out. Spume blocked the blow, and for a moment Grymn’s world narrowed to the clash of blades as they traded blows back and forth. Their duel was not a graceful one; instead, it was a thing of strength and sheer bloody-mindedness — two things that Grymn had in abundance, and that marked him for leadership, alongside the Steel Soul.

Damn you, Gardus, he thought. Sigmar had made Gardus his sword, and Grymn his shield. But now he’s gone, and I must be both. The thought drove him, as always, to fight all the harder. Gardus had been his greatest rival, the one whom he tested himself against. But now Gardus was gone, and only Grymn was left.

As lightning flashed, he could see that he and his opponent were not alone in their struggle. He saw a slavering bullgor tear away a fallen Stormcast’s armour, only to howl in thwarted rage as the dying warrior evaporated in a burst of blue. He saw lightning hammers blast through barrel chests and storm axes lay open spines. As he parried a blow from Spume, he saw Tegrus swoop low in the corner of his vision and smash the head from a blightking’s shoulders.

Spume’s laughter faded as they duelled back and forth through the rain. The battle swirled about them, men and beasts rising and falling in untold numbers, but they remained locked in combat, neither warrior able to best the other.

Grymn parried a sweep of his opponent’s axe and replied in kind.

He roared in anger and chopped down on Spume’s head. His blade glanced off the champion’s featureless helm. Spume staggered. Grymn saw an opening and took it. He spun his halberd about and stabbed it forward, catching the champion in the gaping beak-maw that had replaced his armpit.

The maw closed on the sigmarite head of Grymn’s halberd, and the yellowed fangs cracked and shattered. The abnormal growth shuddered, and Spume’s tentacles stiffened and drooped, forcing him to drop his axe. As he fell back, Grymn saw his paladins, led by Machus, his Decimator-Prime, chop down the last of Spume’s warriors. Before he could call out to them, Spume lunged for him, tentacles flailing.

The axe-wielding Machus beheaded the last of his opponents and kicked the body aside.

‘Lord-Castellant, I am coming,’ Machus said, hacking down a beast that leapt into his path.

‘Machus, take out that damnable horn,’ Grymn shouted, as he forced Spume back. The Decimator-Prime chopped through a second bloat-bellied beast and hesitated. Grymn cursed. ‘Forget about me, fool — destroy that horn!’ he roared, crunching the sigmarite-bound haft of his halberd into his opponent’s bloated throat.

‘Should have let him aid ye, shiny-skin,’ Spume croaked, as he grabbed Grymn’s throat with his human hand. With a grunt, he hurled Grymn backwards across the clearing. The Stormcast slammed hard into a moss-encrusted menhir and fell, wracked with pain. His vision blurred as rainwater ran into his eyes through the slits of his helm, and he slipped and fell as he tried to push himself to his feet. Things grated inside him and he coughed blood. He stretched out his hand, trying to reach his halberd where it had fallen. Damn you, Gardus, he thought. You were always too reckless. Why did you have to die? It should be you leading this attack. You were the sword. I am the shield.

‘Now I’ll be for chopping your head off and nailing it to my mast,’ Spume wheezed as he staggered towards Grymn. He had recovered his axe and dragged it behind him. ‘It’ll be Gutrot Spume who’s the wormy apple of Nurgle’s eye, and not some jumped up Ghyranite who got a bath in the Pit of Filth and decided to turn coat…’

His muttering broke off abruptly into a scream as Tallon caught hold of one of his trailing tendrils and dug in with his paws, yanking Spume off-balance.

The champion whirled, the gryph-hound leapt, and they both fell over. As they struggled, Grymn saw Machus hurl his great double-bladed axe towards the repugnant horn and its bestial wielder. The weapon slammed into the beastlord and pitched him backwards into the instrument, hard enough to crack the twisted curve of bone. The horn split along its length and the artefact’s great drone rose to an agonised scream. The magical energies of the horn roiled out of control, consuming the beastlord’s twitching body before exploding with an earth-shaking rumble, taking the hag tree with it. A thousand sharp daggers of oak and bone filled the air, eviscerating every warrior nearby not blessed enough to be clad in holy sigmarite.

As the smoke cleared, and his senses with it, Grymn saw Tallon trotting towards him, a writhing tendril clasped tight in his beak.

‘Good hound,’ he said as he got to his feet. He grunted in pain as he retrieved his halberd and lantern. Spume was gone. Whether he was dead or had fled, Grymn couldn’t say, and didn’t much care. He looked about. Beastmen lay broken and bloody all around. Machus strode towards him through the smoke, his axe in hand. ‘Do you yet live, Lord-Castellant?’ he called.

‘No, I’m a ghost,’ Grymn spat, shaking his head. ‘Of course I live. And next time I tell you to do something — do it!’

Machus bowed his head. Despite his chastisement, Grymn could tell the Decimator-Prime was relieved. He shook his head.

‘Rally the others, Decimator-Prime,’ he growled. ‘There’s red work yet to be done.’

‘Aye, Lord-Castellant,’ Machus said, hastening to obey.

Grymn watched him go, and turned to see Morbus making his way towards him, accompanied by a number of others. Zephacleas and Ultrades walked with the Lord-Relictor as he stalked through the wreckage of battle, his reliquary staff glowing softly with a silver light.

‘We must redress our lines,’ Grymn said. ‘The enemy have been beaten here, but they will return in strength. We must find a proper defensive position, as well as another realmgate.’

‘Wait — look,’ Zephacleas said, pointing towards the slopes below the tor. ‘Look!’

Grymn caught sight of a glow moving through the smog-shrouded reaches below. It grew in intensity as it wound through the trees and the shattered remnants of the cursed menhirs, and Grymn became aware of the sound of creaking wood and rustling leaves.

‘Sylvaneth,’ Morbus murmured. Grymn knew he was correct. He had glimpsed the treekin often enough since arriving, and knew the sound of them well. Like a forest caught in a windstorm, the march of a warglade was an eerie chorus of creaks and groans.

‘Yes, but are they coming as allies… or enemies?’ Grymn said. Tallon growled softly and snapped his beak. The gryph-hound sensed his master’s unease, and Grymn reached down to stroke the animal’s feathered ruff. ‘Easy, my lad. Easy…’

‘We should take up a defensive position,’ Ultrades said, one hand on the hilt of his runeblade.

Grymn shook his head.

‘Too late for that,’ he said. ‘They’re all around us. Can’t you hear them?’

‘All I hear are the trees creaking in the wind,’ Ultrades said. Grymn snorted.

‘There is no wind,’ he said. He turned his attentions back to the light, and realised that he could make out figures within it. The tall, unnatural shapes of dryads stalked forward, carrying something — a throne of tangled branches and stiff vines — on their shoulders. The glow emanated not from the treekin, but instead from the figure slumped on the throne. A figure that was not unfamiliar…

‘Gardus…’ Zephacleas whispered.

Grymn started.

‘Gardus,’ he said, in disbelief. He took a step. Then another. ‘Gardus,’ he said again, unable to believe his eyes. A slow, flat smile spread across his face as he descended to meet his Lord-Celestant.

‘You have no idea how glad I am to see you.’

Chapter Five

The Despised One

Torglug the Despised One looked out over the Glade of Horned Growths and heaved a sigh. ‘The rats are failing. Gluhak is failing. Spume is failing. Only Torglug stands, Grandfather…’ Down below, fungus-riddled trees shed their bark as the rot-fog of the skaven faded. The master of the Brotherhood of the Red Boil, the plague-priest Kratsik, was dead, squashed flat by a vengeful treelord. Something maybe to be thanking them for, Torglug thought, as he leaned on the haft of his axe and stared out at all of the nauseating green. He didn’t care for the skaven. They were too tricksy by half, and always seeking an advantage over their betters.

‘Not Torglug alone,’ a harsh voice hissed. The Despised One didn’t turn.

‘You are still living, then, Vermalanx? I was thinking you are dead at the Ghyrtract Fen,’ Torglug said. The blight-flies had brought word that one of the lightning-men had killed the rat-daemon at the Gates of Dawn, when boisterous Bolathrax had underestimated the hardiness of their enemies with predictable results.

‘I am harder to kill than that, Woodsman,’ the verminlord said, as he crouched atop the shattered standing stone behind the Chaos champion. The rat-daemon used the name by which he was known in Nurgle’s Manse. The daemons there called him Ironhood the Woodsman, for he had hacked down life-trees by the hundreds, in order to better fuel the blessed decay spreading from the open gates of Grandfather’s garden.

‘Your servants are not saying the same,’ Torglug said. Even as the lightning-men had silenced the Dirgehorn, the treekin, led by the pestiferous Lady of Vines, had launched a long-anticipated assault on the Glade of Horned Growths. Now the lightning-men were readying themselves to march anew, though just where he couldn’t say.

‘My servants are a fecund folk. You have no need to worry on their account,’ Vermalanx hissed. ‘And in any event, enough of them remain to see to Nurgle’s needs in this bitter place. Your own blightkings suffered below as well. Look to them, rather than mine.’

‘My warriors are being very hardy, rat-king, hardier than your vermin,’ Torglug said. He hefted his axe and set it on one wide shoulder as he turned to face the verminlord. The rat-daemon was larger than the Despised One, a thing of rangy muscle and mangy hair. It clung to the stone, fleshless head cocked, and eye sockets glowing with a sickly light. Its tail lashed at the implied insult. ‘And hardier especially than your drowned men, Spume,’ Torglug continued, looking past the stone and its occupier.

Vermalanx hissed and turned. Several figures made their way through the ring of broken stones and heaps of piled bodies. Gutrot Spume, tentacles coiling in agitation, spat a salty oath at Torglug’s words.

‘At least my blightkings fought an army — yours fell to a lone warrior,’ Spume growled. He swung his axe out and shattered a nearby stone.

‘One not even Bolathrax could bring low,’ said the sorcerer Slaugoth. His jowls wobbled in amusement. ‘I should have liked to have seen that great bowl of jelly waddling after our silver-skinned friend. Old Bolathrax has never been run so hard in his life, I’ll warrant.’ The master of the Rotfane chuckled at the thought.

‘You are finding this funny, Maggotfang?’ Torglug demanded, turning his bleary-eyed glare on the sorcerer. He threw out a hand. ‘They are ruining things, these newcomers. How soon until they are coming for your Rotfane? Or the world pimple?’

The lightning-men had come far, or so buzzing blightfly and scurrying pox-rat had claimed. They had fought their way through the quagmires of Rotwater Blight from the Ghyrtract Fen. They had slain fat old Ga’Blorrgh the toad dragon at the Lake of Screaming Reeds. They had survived the horrors of the Grove of Blighted Lanterns and the Greenglow Lake, before they had shattered the Dirgehorn atop Profane Tor.

And now, the vile treekin had been roused to war. It was as if the Realm of Life were preparing itself for a final battle. Foolishness… arrogance, Torglug thought. Why do they fight? Can they not see that the Grandfather only wishes to take care of them? To take away their pain, their uncertainty. He shook his head. He had fought, as they fought, once upon a time. He did not like to think of that time, for it shamed him to remember how he had resisted Grandfather’s kindness. He had been ungrateful. Rude, even. His grip on his axe tightened, and the ancient wood creaked, as if in pain.

But the Grandfather had opened his eyes and made him see that the world was not as he had believed. And with each day that followed, Torglug tried to earn the kindness and patience that the Grandfather had shown him. His axe had reaped glory for his new patron. He had poisoned the lifewells he had once fought so hard to defend, and brought the blessings of pestilence to his people, in their ignorance. And soon, his past transgressions were but a thing to be chuckled over by both disciple and divinity.

He knew, deep in the core of him, that the lightning-men represented something dangerous. Something that even the Grandfather feared, in his way. A power long forgotten, rising anew. Drums sounded in the deep realms, the skies boiled with strange lightning, and the whole of creation seemed to be holding its breath. None of the others seemed to understand, which only made it all the more infuriating.

‘Be at ease, Despised One, we’re all children of the garden,’ Morbidex Twiceborn gurgled, stroking the mottled hide of his pox-maggoth. The Twiceborn resembled nothing so much as an overlarge nurgling, squeezed into rusty armour. He grinned toothily into the face of Torglug’s annoyance. ‘Some days, you just have to laugh.’

‘And some days are for being serious, Twiceborn,’ Torglug growled. His axe dropped from his shoulder and embedded itself in the soft loam at his feet. Morbidex’s maggoth shifted uneasily, and the big beast gave a grunt of warning. Torglug glanced warily at it. The maggoth was like some unholy combination of ape, plaguebearer and giant, with a temperament to put all three to shame. ‘You are silencing that beast, or else…’ Torglug said.

‘Easy, Tripletongue,’ Morbidex murmured. He patted the monster’s fang-studded muzzle. ‘He didn’t mean it, my sweet.’ He looked at Torglug. ‘Did he?’

Torglug grunted and placed his axe back on his shoulder. ‘Now is not the time for laughing. You are thinking maybe the Glottkin will be so amused?’

‘And who are you to speak for us then, Woodsman?’ Otto Glott said, spinning his scythe like a child’s toy as he stepped out from the trees, trailed by his brothers. Ethrac leaned on his staff, his robes stiff with grime and his face hidden beneath a cowl. Ghurk shoved a tree over as he followed Otto and Ethrac, his enormous lumpen features slack with disinterest. ‘Think you’re the wormy apple of Grandfather’s eye now, Despised One? You haven’t found the Hidden Vale any more than we have, so don’t go getting ideas above your station.’

Torglug glared at Otto, but said nothing. He did not like the brothers, but he knew better than to challenge them openly. Otto scratched his chin and grinned. Then he gave a satisfied sniff and gestured to his brother, Ethrac. ‘Now that we’re all here, any ideas what Sigmar’s whelps might be looking for, second-most-beloved sibling?’

‘Same thing we are, brother from my mother,’ Ethrac said with a shrug. Torglug grimaced beneath his helm. The Hidden Vale, he thought. The secret bower where the so-called Radiant Queen, Alarielle, had hidden herself away when Grandfather’s grip on her kingdoms had become too much for her frail soul to bear. He, the Glottkin, Slaugoth and a host of others had spent centuries searching for it, even as they warred with the ferocious treekin and the few remaining free tribes of Ghyran. It had become something of a game for them, all except Torglug. He knew Grandfather’s mind better than any, and he knew how serious a matter Alarielle’s capture was, whatever the Glotts thought.

‘Yes, kinsman-mine,’ Otto countered, brushing flies from his open gut. ‘Even Ghurk knows that and he can’t count to one, bless him.’ He reached up to pat the muscular arm of the third Glott brother, who loomed behind him. ‘But since we don’t know where that is, it might behove us to learn, don’t you think?’

‘I am open to suggestions, Otto,’ Ethrac said. He looked at Torglug. ‘What about you, Ghyranite? What sort of ideas are percolating in that sour brain of yours?’

Torglug hesitated. Then, with a grunt, he gestured to Vermalanx.

‘The rats,’ he said. ‘Let them be earning their keep.’

Vermalanx hissed, startled. Then, slowly he nodded.

‘Yes-yes, my folk can do that. I know just the rat,’ the verminlord murmured. If bare bone could take on a cunning expression, Vermalanx had one. The rat meant treachery. They couldn’t help it. It was in whatever passed for their blood. Torglug extended his axe, so that the edge just brushed the verminlord’s chin.

‘You are thinking carefully,’ Torglug said, his voice deceptively mild.

‘Now now, Torglug, no need to threaten our furry ally,’ Otto said, stepping forward, his scythe held lengthwise across his shoulders. ‘I’m sure he’ll do just what we ask, won’t you, my fine, bare-tailed friend?’

Vermalanx hesitated. Then he nodded. ‘Of course, yes-yes. We all serve the Great Corrupter, do we not?’

Torglug lowered his axe. Despite his suggestion, he didn’t trust the rat-daemon to do anything but seek its own advantage. He didn’t trust any of them, in fact. They were all competing for the Grandfather’s affections, in their own way.

But only one of them was truly worthy.

And soon, Torglug thought, I will prove it.

Chapter Six

A soul returned

Tegrus of the Sainted Eye, Prosecutor-Prime of the Hallowed Knights, stood at the top of Profane Tor and looked down into the clearing at his newly-returned Lord-Celestant and the host of Stormcasts who surrounded him.

‘How can this be?’ he murmured. He wondered still if it were an illusion. It would not be the first such shade that had appeared to lure unlucky Stormcasts to their doom. And surely this was not truly Gardus sitting upon the dryad-borne throne like some Ghyranite saint of old. ‘Aetius, Solus… are you seeing this?’ he asked his companions.

‘Hard not to, given the clamour,’ Solus said. The Judicator-Prime of the Hallowed Knights was a man of few words, who had an internal serenity that Tegrus could scarcely fathom. He sat on the bole of a toppled tree and ran a cloth across the gleaming blade of his gladius. His boltstorm crossbow sat at his feet. He and Aetius had, along with Tegrus, volunteered to oversee the retinues engaged in destroying the foul icons and symbols that littered the top of the tor. None of it could be left standing, and the air rang with the sounds of the Retributors’ hammers and the Decimators’ axes as they smashed idols and chopped apart the crude gibbets that had once hung from the hag tree.

‘It cannot be him — it must be a trick,’ Aetius said. The Liberator-Prime was not a man to whom trust came easily. ‘No one, Stormcast or otherwise, returns from the Realm of Chaos.’ He tightened his grip on his hammer.

‘But it is,’ Tegrus said. ‘Grymn and Morbus are down there already, with Zephacleas and Ultrades.’ He looked at his fellow Stormcasts. ‘We should be down there as well.’

Ever since Gardus’ disappearance in the final moments of the battle for the Gates of Dawn, Tegrus had wondered if there was anything he could have done differently to have prevented what happened, and had come to no good conclusion. Nonetheless, he had been unable to shake the sense of his own failure. He had not been fast enough, observant enough… Somehow, somewhere, he had failed his Lord-Celestant. But now Gardus had returned and Tegrus felt angry, confused… joyful.

‘After you,’ Solus said. He extended his gladius and peered down the length of the blade. ‘If it’s him, and not some trick of the light, he’ll find us in his own time.’ He looked at Tegrus. ‘But then, you’ve never been the patient sort, Tegrus.’

Tegrus laughed. ‘No.’ He looked at the Liberator-Prime. ‘Aetius?’

‘Someone must stand sentry,’ Aetius said, gesturing to the still-smoking remains of the Dirgehorn. ‘Gardus or no, I’ll not shirk my duty.’ He hesitated, and then added, ‘But Solus is right. You are not so bound.’

He looked at Tegrus, and the Prosecutor-Prime could see the unspoken plea in the other man’s eyes. Aetius rarely saw eye to eye with his fellow commanders in the Warrior Chamber, but he was their brother nonetheless, bound by oaths and bearing the same Reforging scars on his flesh. And he too had known Gardus, and flourished under the ever-patient Lord-Celestant’s command.

‘You’re right,’ Tegrus said, clapping Aetius on the shoulder. Then, with a snap of his great wings, he was hurtling out over the tor. As he left the ground far behind, he was tempted, as always, to simply keep flying. To rise and swoop forever, lost amongst the untold glories of the heavens. But the green skies of Ghyran were not the blue horizons of Azyr, and there was no peace to be found in these clouds. Blight-flies and worse things choked the air even now. Where the servants of the Ruinous Powers went, the world sickened and changed.

Tegrus had seen it often enough, and as a result, was always ready to cast down the worshippers of the Dark Gods wherever they were found. But in order to smite the foe, one first had to find him — a skill which Tegrus had honed in the Nihiliad Mountains during the cleansing of Azyr. He had rained blazing arrows down upon the Chaos warbands that had infested the crags, and exposed their positions to Sigmar’s armies. Those had been good days. He had learned his true purpose there, swooping through rumbling thunderclouds to bring fire and fear to the enemies of the Celestial Realm.

Indeed, he had been so good at it that Sigmar himself had offered Tegrus a place as one of his trusted hunter-assassins. A high honour for any Stormcast, but Tegrus had refused it — his place was with his Warrior Chamber.

He swooped low over the crowd of Stormcasts gathered about the foot of the tor, huddled in the cleansing light of Lorrus Grymn’s lantern. With a snap of his wings he dropped from the air to land in a crouch before the newly returned Lord-Celestant. As he stood, other Stormcasts backed away.

‘Is it you, my lord?’ Tegrus asked as he stepped forward.

Gardus turned towards him and Tegrus felt his heart swell as he examined the face of the man before him. Gardus held his helm beneath his arm, as if to reassure his fellows of his identity.

Then, is that not what Gardus would do? Would he not reassure us, and speak kindly to us?

Some maintained that Gardus was too soft-hearted to lead, but Tegrus knew the truth of it — Sigmar had zealots aplenty, but the Stormcast Eternals must be more than swords… they must be heroes. And that Gardus surely was.

‘If it was not, I expect you would be the first to divine it, my friend,’ Gardus said. He extended his hand. Tegrus hesitated, then clasped his Lord-Celestant’s forearm in a warrior’s greeting. Gardus pulled him forward into a brief embrace before releasing him. Tegrus peered into Gardus’ eyes.

‘Where did you go, Steel Soul?’ he asked. ‘What did you see?’

‘The Gardens of Nurgle, my friend, and horrors without end,’ Gardus said softly. ‘I ran for weeks, pursued by things too foul to name…’

‘Weeks… but you’ve only been gone a few days,’ Tegrus said.

Gardus closed his eyes, and his body tensed, like that of an animal fearing the lash. The last vestiges of Tegrus’ bitterness fled as he saw the pain in Gardus’ face.

What happened to you, my friend? he wondered. He made to speak, but Grymn cut him short.

‘If you’re through getting reacquainted, Tegrus, we were discussing matters of import,’ the Lord-Castellant growled. Tegrus glanced at Grymn, a retort on his lips, but kept his mouth shut. Grymn had a sharp tongue, but he had led the Hallowed Knights safely through the innumerable terrors of Rotwater Blight. Tegrus remembered Grymn’s quiet words of reassurance as the drone of the Dirgehorn ate away at their courage and sanity. The Lord-Castellant had been a rock, immoveable and unstoppable.

Grymn met his gaze and nodded tersely. Tegrus stepped back. Grymn looked at Gardus. ‘You spoke of the Hidden Vale, Lord-Celestant…’ he urged.

Tegrus blinked. The Hidden Vale… no wonder Grymn was short-tempered. Other Stormcasts had been dispatched to bring Sigmar’s offer of alliance to Alarielle, the Radiant Queen and Mistress of Ghyran, but they had all failed to discover her hiding place. Some had hoped that the appearance of the sylvaneth warglades in the final moments of the battle for the Gates of Dawn had signalled some awareness on her part, but others, like Tegrus, had suspected that the treekin had acted on their own initiative. He glanced around, seeking out the mysterious creatures that had escorted Gardus back to them, and was not surprised to find them already gone. The sylvaneth went where they willed, and no man or beast could stop them.

If Gardus had somehow found a way to the Hidden Vale, they could bring Sigmar’s words to Alarielle. They might even be able to encourage her to rouse herself to fight alongside the Stormcasts in defence of the Jade Kingdoms.

Tegrus turned his attentions back to the words of his Lord-Celestant. Gardus’ face had a haunted look, and he was silent for several moments, as if trying to marshal his thoughts. Then, slowly, he began to speak.

‘We must first find the Oak of Ages Past,’ Gardus said, speaking carefully, as might one who was trying to convey something he only barely understood. ‘Celestial driftwood, cast through the void of time, which came to rest in the misty swamps of this realm. A stream of immaculate water, cleaner than any in the Mortal Realms, gushes forth from its ancient trunk. It is a river, bestowing life-giving energy to every part of this realm.’ His voice faded, and he stood silent, as if lost in thought.

‘Gardus,’ Grymn said, harshly. Tegrus glared at the Lord-Castellant and put his hand on Gardus’ shoulder. There was no telling what horrors the Steel Soul had experienced in his sojourn through Nurgle’s garden. Gardus looked at the Prosecutor-Prime and nodded his thanks. He cleared his throat and continued his tale.

‘While I was… elsewhere, I learned that this river — the River Vitalis — has become corrupted. Waters that once carried life now carry only the seeds of death.’

‘A plague?’ Grymn asked. They had seen similar pestilences far too often since arriving in the Realm of Life. Nurgle’s influence had corrupted the very air itself.

‘A daemon,’ Gardus said. ‘A Great Unclean One, like the beast I… fought at the Gates of Dawn.’ He shook his head. ‘The servants of Nurgle call it Pupa Grotesse, but that is not its true name.’ He spoke with an iron certainty. ‘I know its name. And we must break its hold over the watercourse, if we are to have any hope of finding the Hidden Vale and its mistress.’

He lifted his head. ‘We must fight our way to the mouth of the River Vitalis, and destroy the daemon that festers at its heart.’ He looked around, catching the eyes of every man present.

Tegrus raised his hammer. ‘If you so command, Steel Soul, then that is what we shall do.’ Grymn had led them well, and he was the reason they had survived to reach this point, but Gardus was their true leader.

Grymn grunted and shook his head. ‘Lead on, then, Steel Soul. Lead on.’

Chapter Seven

Ambush on the fen road

‘Oh, my boils and scabs,’ Morbidex Twiceborn said as he cut a coiling forest spite out of the air with his scythe. ‘Look at them all, marching in lockstep, so pretty in their shiny armour. What do you think, Tripletongue? Think they’d taste of starlight, my pet?’ he asked the burly pox-maggoth he rode. Tripletongue roared and stamped in reply.

The arrayed ranks of Stormcast Eternals — or so they were said to call themselves — marched towards Morbidex’s forces through the field of high cairnstones, driving forward in a stoic rhythm. The nurglings that made up his army, for their part, either hadn’t noticed the newcomers or else didn’t care. They were too busy fighting the horde of forest spites.

And it was such a wonderful ambush as well. Took me weeks to get the little fellows to understand what that word meant, Morbidex thought as he snatched a glittering spite out of the air and stuffed it in his mouth. But the spites had ruined it when they’d provoked the nurglings from concealment and put paid to all of Morbidex’s hard effort and planning.

Brightly hued and peculiar, the diminutive arboreal spirits had forms ranging from horned serpents to enormous dragonflies that glowed with an inner light, and they fought savagely against the fat-bellied nurglings. They slashed, clawed and bit at one another in the mire along the wide sprawl of moss-covered cairnstones that served as Rotwater Blight’s only true road, making a loud mess of things.

The forest spites might have had the upper hand despite being outnumbered if Morbidex had not joined the fray. Granted, his attack had been made more out of boredom and annoyance than any concern for his nurglings. The fat little daemons could take care of themselves, and they regarded war as play.

And who am I to ruin their fun, eh? Morbidex thought, as he drove his knees into the sides of Tripletongue’s skull, turning the beast towards the newcomers. Besides which, we’ve accomplished what we set out to do… Our foes’ eyes are on us, even as Grandfather wanted…

‘Hup, Tripletongue,’ Morbidex said. ‘Up my beauty, up and at them!’

The eyeless maggoth gave vent to a burbling warble as it knuckled towards the approaching invaders, scattering spites and nurglings alike. Lightning-men, Torglug calls ’em, Morbidex thought, as he hunched forward in his saddle and swung his scythe back. Fools, is what I think. ‘Think they can just roll over Nurgle’s own children, don’t they? Let’s show them what we think of such foolishness,’ the maggoth-rider roared, as he swung his scythe out in a savage blow towards the vanguard of the newcomers. One of the silver-armoured Stormcasts was torn from his feet by the force of the blow and sent flying. Tripletongue struck out with simian fists, battering others flat, or else rending them crown to gullet.

The nurglings followed, swarming over the warriors. Morbidex bellowed encouragement to his little friends, and smiled in pride every time a Stormcast went down, blanketed by squirming, bloated little bodies. ‘Good! Keep it up, my little friends — Grandfather smiles on us all,’ he shouted. I bet old Bloab and the Daemonspew wish they were here, he thought. His fellow maggoth lords were as much lovers of a good brawl as Morbidex himself; one reason among many that he found them such good company.

But the best company were his diminutive followers — the nurglings who had been his closest companions since the day he’d climbed Pox Peak, looking for a way into the Grandfather’s garden. Aye, that was a good day — the best day, he thought, smiling widely. Since his slimy rebirth he had become more powerful than ever. ‘And sitting atop you, my beastly beauty, I’m unbeatable,’ he said, patting Tripletongue’s head. The maggoth gave a gurgle of pleasure at the gesture. Morbidex laughed and swung his scythe out, catching a Stormcast in the back and wrenching the armoured warrior into the air with ease.

He eyed his struggling prey for a moment before slinging him over his shoulder. Take a lot of killing, these fellows, he thought, as Tripletongue smashed into another phalanx. These ones were the colour of overripe fruit, rather than gold or silver, but they fought just as hard. How many of you are there? And how many flavours do you come in, he thought, as he saw a host of winged warriors hurtle towards him.

Tripletongue was surrounded, but Morbidex wasn’t unduly concerned. Getting their attention had been the whole point of his little display. The Stormcasts had been making a nuisance of themselves since they’d shattered the Dirgehorn and killed old Gluhak.

In the days since the Dirgehorn had fallen silent, the silver-armoured invaders had clashed again and again with Grandfather’s children — from running battles with the skaven to the siege of jolly Slaugoth’s Rotfane, even as Torglug had predicted. They’d erased the avian defenders of the Vulturine Geysers, and sent Gutrot Spume’s Drowned Men into flight at the battle of Canker Cascade. Slaugoth and Spume were fit to be tied. Their stock with the Glottkin had fallen sharply in the aftermath of their defeats and new favourites had been chosen. So this matter had fallen to him. Good old reliable Morbidex. He’d been tasked with pulling the Stormcasts into the swamp, and keeping them distracted long enough for…

Ha! he thought, as the festering swamp on the other side of the Stormcast column began to boil. That’s it… keep looking at me, my fancy friends. Eyes on ol’ Morbidex. Pay no attention to the fellows rising out of the mud.

Rising from the muck, brackish water sluicing from their twisted frames, came the tallymen of Nurgle. The plaguebearers uttered a monotonous drone, counting the diseases abroad in the swamp as they strode towards their unsuspecting enemies. In their lead was an old friend — the creature known as Wrech Gab’larr, Herald of Nurgle. He glared at the Stormcasts with malign intent, and whipped one warty hand forward. Plaguebearers loped past him to slam their plagueswords into the backs of the Stormcast Eternals. Wrech’s expression became one of befuddlement when the silver armour remained unmarked where a blow wasn’t immediately fatal. Stormcasts who didn’t immediately discorporate in a blur of azure energy whirled with a fierce precision to lay their attackers low. Wrech bellowed in frustration as his carefully prepared afflictions failed to take root.

I could have told you that wouldn’t work, Morbidex thought, as he ducked a blow from one of the winged Stormcasts. These warriors, wherever they were from, were singularly resistant to the plagues and diseases born in Grandfather’s laboratories and gardens. The stuff of them burned too hot for sickness to take hold, Morbidex suspected. Wrech roared and hacked a gap in the Stormcast lines. He and his plaguebearers stormed into the midst of the enemy, determined to bury their blades in Stormcast flesh.

‘Ha! That’s the way, Wrech,’ Morbidex shouted. ‘That’s the way to do it, O Herald of Fresh Woes… Smash these shiny upstarts.’ He hefted his scythe and lashed out at one of the winged warriors, who swooped around him like so many stinging insects. He cut the Stormcast from the sky, and cursed as the warrior dissolved into azure light. ‘I hate it when they do that,’ he snarled.

‘Not as much as we do, I’d wager, brute,’ a voice tolled. Morbidex twisted in his saddle, searching for the voice’s owner. His eyes widened as he caught sight of the winged shape diving towards him on wings of crackling flame.

‘Oh buboes,’ Morbidex said, moments before the warrior swooped past him. The Stormcast lashed out with a hammer as he hurtled past and caught Morbidex in the face with a thunderous boom. The force of the blow catapulted the Twiceborn from his saddle. He hit the marshy ground with a splash. Every bone in his face felt as if it had been splintered, and he groaned as he rolled over. Tripletongue shrieked and reared up, pawing blindly at the swarm of winged killers. Without Morbidex’s guidance, the beast was reacting on instinct.

Morbidex pushed himself awkwardly to his feet. He’d lost his scythe in the fall and he stumbled back as the warrior who’d struck him landed nearby. Lightning crackled across the Stormcast’s limbs. Eyes the colour of the unclouded sky stared at Morbidex from behind the too perfect features of a silver mask. He held two hammers, the heads of which were wreathed in energy. Morbidex flexed his thick fingers.

‘Well… come on then, silver-back,’ he gurgled, setting his feet. ‘You caught me by surprise once, but you’ll not do so twice, or my name isn’t Morbidex Twiceborn…’

The warrior shot forward, quicker than Morbidex’s eyes could follow. One hammer crashed into his chest, and a blow from the second snapped his head to the side. Morbidex fell onto his back, wheezing for breath.

‘Ow. Fine. Fine. Best… best two out of three,’ he groaned, as he rolled onto his belly. He shook his head, trying to clear it. The Stormcast dived forward again, intent on finishing the job. Morbidex twisted aside, and clamped a hand down on the back of the warrior’s crested helm. With a roar, he cut short the Stormcast’s flight, and flung him down. Morbidex stomped down, but his opponent rolled aside. One wing snapped out, and the crackling feathers gave Morbidex’s belly a searing kiss. He staggered back, hands clamped to his burned and ruptured gut.

The Stormcast pushed himself to his feet. Morbidex grinned at him.

‘Didn’t like that, did you? Faster than I look, aren’t I?’ he chortled. He looked down at his wound, and gingerly took his hands away. Bloated entrails pressed against the blackened flesh, and he gave a grunt of consternation. ‘I’m going to twist your head off for that one, friend.’

The Stormcast sprang forward, and his hammers snapped out. Morbidex caught one on his palm, but the second smashed into his shoulder. He roared and slugged his foe, denting his silvery helm. A wing flared out and blinded Morbidex. He clawed at his eyes, cursing virulently. Hammer-blows rained down, striking his head, shoulders, arms and back.

Morbidex sank to one knee, ears ringing. He’d never been hit so hard, or so fast. The Stormcast was fast, faster than any creature that Morbidex had ever had the pleasure of fighting. But speed wasn’t the sole route to victory. Morbidex dug his hand into the muck as he bent forward, and, with a wild howl, hurled a gobbet of mud into the Stormcast’s face. The warrior avoided the improvised missile, as Morbidex had known he would, and stepped within reach of his opponent.

The maggoth lord gave a shout and lunged, arms spread wide. The Stormcast pivoted, hammers raised, but this time Morbidex was ready. He caught the warrior’s wrists and prevented the blows from landing. The two strained against one another, their feet sliding back and forth through the muck. Morbidex grinned down at his opponent. ‘I’ve introduced myself, it’s only polite you do the same,’ he said.

‘My name is Tegrus, monster. Treasure it — it’s the last name you’ll ever hear,’ the Stormcast growled.

Morbidex laughed. He was still laughing when Tegrus abruptly fell backwards and pulled the maggoth lord off his feet. He bellowed in shock as Tegrus’ boots slammed into his wounded belly. Morbidex rolled onto his back, but too slowly. Tegrus dropped towards him, hammers raised, and the maggoth lord squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the impact.

However, rather than the pain he’d been expecting, he felt a wash of hot, foul air and heard a familiar guttural roar. He cracked an eye open, and saw Tegrus flying backwards. A shadow fell over him, and he looked up, a smile spreading across his wide, green face.

‘Ah, Tripletongue my beauty, just in time,’ he rumbled, as the maggoth bent towards him, its teeth clicking in concern. It snuffled worriedly at him as he got to his feet, and he patted its scaly skull. ‘Who’s a sweet brute, eh?’ Morbidex said, as he hauled himself back into the saddle.

As Tripletongue rose to its full height, Morbidex took in the battlefield at a glance. What he saw wasn’t good. Wrech’s ambush had gone sour and the Stormcasts were counter-attacking, led by a figure who blazed with holy light. Morbidex shaded his eyes and peered at the figure. That’s the one old Bolathrax was after, he thought, doubtfully. As he watched, nurgling swarms were crushed underfoot, hammers fell, horned heads burst and Nurgle’s tallymen reeled.

Wrech bellowed a command and the remaining plaguebearers belly-flopped into the swamp, digging into the muck and disappearing from sight.

‘Well, that tears it,’ Morbidex murmured as he sat up in his saddle. He slapped Tripletongue on the head. ‘Time to go, my lad.’ The maggoth rumbled assent and turned, smashing a tree out of its path as it dived deeper into the swamp, moving as quickly as its thick legs could carry him.

No sense remaining to fight all on his lonesome. Grandfather didn’t favour fools, despite his sentimentality. He hunched forward in his saddle, urging his mount to greater speed. Have to fall back, get to the Gelid Gush and make a final stand, Morbidex thought. That was where they were going. It was the only place of value in the immediate vicinity.

He twitched his head abruptly, trying to dislodge the flies that were gathering about his face. Wait — flies? His eyes widened as the flies suddenly rose from his flesh, and swirled about in a cloud, coalescing into a familiar face.

‘Going somewhere, Twiceborn?’ Ethrac Glott asked, in a voice made from the droning of a hundred flies. ‘I could have sworn we asked you to handle these invaders…’

‘Our ambush was ambushed,’ Morbidex said, unapologetically. ‘Forest spites got the nurglings all riled up. The Stormcasts interrupted a very satisfying drubbing, if you want my opinion.’

‘Did I ask for it?’

‘Well… no.’

‘Then what makes you think I would?’

‘A sense of unbridled optimism,’ Morbidex said. He glanced over his shoulder, but saw nothing. No pursuit appeared to be forthcoming. ‘What now, Glott?’

‘Bloab Rotspawned and Orghotts Daemonspew are making for the Gelid Gush. Join them, Twiceborn…’ Ethrac hissed. ‘It is time for Grandfather Nurgle’s children to go to war.’

Chapter Eight

The ruins of Arborea

Lord-Celestant Gardus pushed through the veil of vines, and gazed at the faded glory of the fallen city of Arborea. The treetop city was a thing of flowing curves and soft angles, of great stones held aloft by the thick branches and boles of an immense elder tree, perhaps grown from a seed of the Oak of Ages Past itself. The latter was visible in the distance, its broken shape jutting across the pale green sky. He could just make out the pale swathe of foulness that was their destination on the horizon.

He repressed a shudder as he stared at that foulness.

Help us, Garradan… help us, the ghosts murmured in the back of his head. They had been whispering to him since he had reeled out of that mad garden and back into the Mortal Realms, aflame with white fire. They had clung to him, like the tatters of his warcloak, as he had waded into the fray between the sylvaneth and the skaven in the Glade of Horned Growths. He had instinctively sought out his foes, and ruined any who sought to bar his path, seeing not ratkin but the barbarians who had murdered the man he had been, in another time, another place.

Help us… Garradan, help us…

‘Quiet.’ He squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the voices back into the cage of his memories. When they had at last fallen silent he strode forward, following the scampering forms of the forest spites the Stormcasts had rescued from Nurgle’s followers a few days before. The colourful spirits swirled about him for a moment, clicking and murmuring in their strange tongue, before they faded, like reflections on water. Where they went, he could not say, and did not like to guess.

‘Thank you,’ he called out. The spites had led their Stormcast allies to Arborea by secret paths only they knew, and Gardus was grateful to them. It had been the first time in many days that the Stormcasts had been able to travel without fear of attack or ambush, and such a respite had been much needed, though it would be brief. Even Sigmar’s chosen warriors required rest, and Rotwater Blight had more dangers than just those that came armed with swords and axes. The servants of the Ruinous Powers were many and varied, and the Hallowed Knights and their allies had fought for every patch of ground between Profane Tor and here.

He looked about in wonder. What stories were in these stones, he wondered, tracing the faded features of a vine-shrouded statue as he looked around the vast plaza he had wandered into. What folk had built this city? What had happened to them? Where were they now?

He closed his eyes, suddenly recalling the guttural laughter of the daemon Bolathrax and the nightmare pursuit through the Garden of Nurgle. He knew what happened to the people of Arborea as surely as he knew what had happened to his own folk, before Sigmar had claimed him.

Garradan… help us…

Weathered stone and withered vine crumbled beneath his fingers. Gardus opened his eyes and took his hand away from the statue.

‘No more,’ he said hoarsely. ‘Never again.’

‘Gardus,’ a harsh voice said from behind him. He turned, and saw Lord-Castellant Grymn stalking towards him, his gryph-hound padding at his side, his lantern glowing with a soft, warming light. ‘Are you ill?’

Gardus smiled thinly. ‘You sound almost concerned.’

‘I would not have asked if I wasn’t,’ Grymn said. ‘You have… been through much.’

Gardus said nothing for a moment as he marshalled his thoughts. He wanted to tell Grymn what he had seen in Nurgle’s grim garden. Even now, safely returned to the Mortal Realms, he could not cleanse himself of the stink of that place. It ate away at him, mind, body and soul. His armour was clean, but sometimes he could not help but see filth, a slow, creeping mould, insidious and inexorable. Idly, he scraped at his chest. ‘I am fine, Lorrus.’

As they had traversed Rotwater Blight, Gardus had sent his Prosecutors winging ahead to scout out the lay of the land. They had brought back word of the great, hollow trunk of the Oak of Ages Past, rising up from the horizon, and Arborea smouldering in its shadow.

Too, Tegrus had spied a number of strange, floating islands, their snow-capped peaks crowned by ugly green clouds.

Gardus shook his head.

‘Tegrus,’ he called out to one of the winged shapes flying through the upper reaches of the city above. ‘Is this the place?’

‘This is the city I saw, my lord,’ Tegrus said as he dropped to the ground. His wings blazed once, stirring dust and pollen, and then folded behind his back. ‘We sit in the very shadow of the Oak of Ages Past.’ He extended his hammer to the northeast. ‘And there, the river’s source. We’re close, Gardus.’

Lord-Castellant Grymn grunted. ‘It seems those forest spites did not play us false.’

‘Why would they?’ Gardus asked. ‘It is in their best interests to aid us.’ He looked at Grymn. ‘Or do you still not trust them, Lorrus?’

‘I trust nothing in this realm,’ Grymn said, one eyebrow raised. ‘Nor should you, Gardus. We are strangers here, however much blood we’ve shed. The sylvaneth are allies of moment, nothing more. Who knows what goes through the heads of creatures like that?’

‘I know,’ Gardus said, softly. ‘They could have killed me, Lorrus. Instead, they brought me back. They told me of this city, and the islands in the sky. We are their best hope for awakening Alarielle to the danger she is in. The talons of the Plague God seek her heart, and they close about her, even now. We must get to her first, to put ourselves between her and her enemies. That is why we are here, my friend.’

‘Yes, to take control of the realmgates in Sigmar’s name,’ Grymn said. ‘Why must we…’ He fell silent and turned away.

Gardus called after him, but the Lord-Castellant walked away, bellowing orders to a phalanx of nearby Liberators.

‘As pleasant as ever,’ Tegrus murmured.

‘He is worried. We are all worried. It has been a hard path to walk, and we have shed much blood in the name of something I saw in a mad realm,’ Gardus said. They had done much good along the way. Or so he hoped. They had torn down the vile redoubts of Nurgle’s champions, and slain many a corrupted warrior on their trek across the Blight. But they had not been able to continue to follow the river. To tarry too long in the vicinity of such a corrupted body of water was dangerous, even to Stormcast Eternals. They’d had to find a safer way to the river’s source — and a quicker one. When the forest spites had offered to lead them by hidden paths to Arborea, Gardus had quickly accepted, despite Grymn’s misgivings.

He looked up at the trunk of the immense elder tree which stretched far above the city, piercing the very clouds themselves. ‘Are they up there, then?’ he asked Tegrus. ‘The floating islands you saw?’

‘Aye, far above,’ Tegrus said. ‘It’ll be quite the climb for those of you without wings.’

Gardus laughed. ‘We’ve climbed worse… Remember the Star-Heights of Azyr? At least this time we won’t have enemies hurling fire and spears down on us as we climb.’

‘As far as we know,’ Tegrus said. He looked up. ‘I will take my Prosecutors and make sure your route is a safe one. Do not doubt yourself, Steel Soul. We believe in you. All of us.’ Then, without waiting for a reply, he leapt into the air and was gone, speeding towards the dark clouds above. Gardus watched Tegrus go until he lost sight of him. He turned, as someone placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘Morbus,’ he said, recognizing the chill of the other Stormcast’s presence.

‘Grymn is worried,’ the Lord-Relictor intoned.

‘As are you, I expect,’ Gardus said.

‘No,’ Morbus said. ‘I do not worry, Gardus. I merely observe.’

‘Maybe he’s right to be worried,’ Gardus said, looking up at the tree.

Morbus laughed softly. ‘Grymn is stone. He is sigmarite — hard and unyielding. He will break before he bends, and calls it strength. But you…’

‘Bend,’ Gardus supplied.

Morbus nodded. ‘Yes. You bend. You adapt, you persevere. That is why Sigmar chose you as his sword, Gardus. You do what must be done, rather than what you have been ordered to do.’

‘So would Grymn, if he had seen—’ Gardus began.

Morbus cut him off with a sharp gesture. ‘Grymn would never have come out of Nurgle’s garden alive. He would have fought, and died.’ The Lord-Relictor hesitated. ‘Nonetheless, sometimes he is right. I have… seen things, Gardus. I have seen death and damnation, and I would not see it come to pass.’

‘Whose death?’ Gardus asked, mouth suddenly dry. ‘Whose damnation?’

Morbus was silent. Gardus looked away. He shook himself. Only the faithful, he thought.

‘We must climb, Morbus,’ he said. ‘We have a way to go, and little time.’ He looked at the Lord-Relictor. ‘Gather the others — my fellow Lord-Celestants included. We must reach the sky-islands floating above.’

‘And then what?’ Morbus said.

Gardus hesitated. Then, ‘I will know when I get up there.’ He clenched his fists. He could sense Morbus’ concern. Before the other Stormcast could speak, he continued on, his words coming in a rush. ‘I am being driven by something I cannot define, Morbus. A vague certainty compels me — fragments of knowledge, stolen as I fled through ruined worlds, snatches of things seen at a remove of centuries — the whispers of the sylvaneth, as they bore me to safety.’ He shook his head. ‘They, and perhaps even Ghyran itself, want Alarielle found, Lord-Relictor. They want her to know, to see what has become of the world she has shrunk from. Once she sees… she will fight. Ghyran will fight. The Jade Kingdoms will rise. And all of this will not have been for nothing.’ He looked at Morbus. ‘But we must find her first.’

Morbus was silent for a moment. Then he nodded.

‘We must climb,’ he said.

Chapter Nine

The floating islands

Lorrus Grymn slammed the edge of his halberd into the bark of the titanic tree. Tallon chirped from his perch. The gryph-hound lay across the Lord-Castellant’s chest, held fast by hope and a sling made from Grymn’s cloak.

‘Easy boy, almost there,’ Grymn muttered as Tallon’s beak rubbed against the underside of his war-helm. The animal was worried, as he should be. Though they had the heads of eagles, gryph-hounds lacked the bird’s wings, or ease with heights. ‘Almost… there, my friend.’ He dug his fingers into the ridges of the bark, and tore his halberd free. ‘Almost there.’

This is the sheerest folly, he thought, as he paused for breath. He chanced a look back at the way he’d come. Below him, figures in silver, amethyst and gold swarmed up the trunk of the vast tree like insects. Further below them, the crumbled city of Arborea was but a series of pale indentations in the all-pervasive mist. It had taken them hours to climb to the uppermost boughs of the great tree, moving so slowly that Grymn feared the war for the Jade Kingdoms would be over before they reached the top.

One missed step, one loosed hold, would be fatal. Already several Stormcasts had perished, falling to their deaths far below as the great tree swayed and shifted on its roots. He twisted his head upwards. Gardus clung to the topmost bough of the tree, staring out over the horizon, as if lost in thought.

He’d hoped Gardus’ return meant that things would proceed as Sigmar had decreed. Instead, they had travelled halfway across Rotwater Blight to fight battles they were not prepared for, all in the name of a vision that Gardus had experienced while lost in a daemon-realm. Grymn shook his head.

When Morbus had first told him of his dreams, he’d wanted to act, to save Gardus from the fate that awaited him. Gardus was a brother Stormcast, chosen by Sigmar and worthy of Grymn’s concern. But this venture seemed doomed to failure. Others had searched for the Radiant Queen, but had found no sign of her. If Sigmar’s own hunters had turned up no sign of their quarry, who could hope to find her?

‘Only the faithful.’

Grymn looked up. Gardus’ voice was soft, but it carried far. It was no parade ground bellow, but rather the quiet rumble of a dracoth. Gardus was not looking at him. Instead, the Lord-Celestant tensed and then, before Grymn could stop him, he flung himself into the mist that obscured the air around them. Grymn hesitated. He’d known this was coming. It was the only way to reach the floating islands that Tegrus said were hovering somewhere out there. He heard a scrape of metal and saw Lord-Relictor Morbus do the same, reliquary staff in hand. He watched the other Stormcasts vanish, and gritted his teeth. What sort of madman flings himself blindly into the void? he thought, angrily.

Tallon chirruped, and Grymn looked down at the gryph-hound. He smiled thinly. ‘Yes, I know… only the faithful.’ Then, wrapping one arm protectively about the animal, he shoved himself away from the trunk of the leviathan tree, and plummeted into the swirling mist. A second of weightlessness stretched out before ending abruptly in a soft landing on the loam of the floating isle. He felt rocks and roots crumble beneath his weight, and Tallon gave a startled screech as Grymn began to slide down an incline of spongy vegetation.

He twisted about, and saw, through the thinning mist, a jagged precipice. Grymn cursed and tried to hook his halberd into something solid, but to no avail. His stomach lurched.

‘Gardus!’ he shouted, and his slide was brought to an abrupt halt as an iron grip caught hold of the haft of his halberd. Grymn looked up into the eyes of the Lord-Celestant. Gardus, hammer hooked in the loam of the island, dragged Grymn back up with his free hand.

‘Have no fear, Lorrus. I will not let you fall,’ Gardus said.

Grymn said nothing as he caught hold of a thick net of roots and began to push himself up towards his fellow Stormcast. Morbus appeared above him and reached out a hand. Grymn took the Lord-Relictor’s aid gladly, and soon found himself kneeling on relatively solid ground. He looked about, heart thudding in his chest. More Stormcasts appeared, dropping through the mist to fall onto the island’s mossy scree. From the look of it, almost all of their warriors had made it. He could see Zephacleas and Ultrades and their men as well.

‘Tegrus wasn’t playing the fool after all,’ he said, fighting to keep all sign of the fear he’d felt out of his voice.

‘No, he wasn’t,’ Gardus said. He spread his arms. ‘Behold — the lost island of Talbion!’

Grymn looked at Morbus, who nodded tersely. Grymn rose to his feet and let Tallon out of his sling.

‘Well, now what, Lord-Celestant?’ he said. ‘We’re here… wherever here is.’

‘Talbion,’ Gardus repeated.

How did he know its name? Grymn wondered. Obviously, he’d learned it wherever he’d learned of its existence, but it was nonetheless disconcerting — Gardus knew things no other Stormcast did.

‘It might as well be the Brimstone Peninsula for all that that name means to me, Gardus. My question stands… what now?’ Grymn asked.

Overhead, the grey-green fog clouds that plagued the floating isles rumbled angrily and an unclean rain began to fall. Grymn grunted in disgust as the oily water pelted his armour and the mist seemed to condense about them, like the coils of an agitated serpent.

Zephacleas and Ultrades trotted towards them. The Lord-Celestant of the Astral Templars swiped at the mist. ‘Nothing like a good climb. Don’t care for this mist, though. Smells like those beasts we fought at the Vulturine Geysers.’

‘It is the work of the Ruinous Powers,’ Ultrades said.

‘This island, much like the realm of Ghyran itself, is a prisoner of Nurgle,’ Gardus said. ‘This cursed pox-mist is holding the island in place. We must somehow disperse it, and in doing so, free the island and then Ghyran itself.’ He looked at the Lord-Relictor and gestured with his hammer. ‘Morbus, call down the lightning.’

Morbus inclined his head and lifted his reliquary. He began to chant, his hollow tones rising above the patter of the rain. Azure lightning began to crackle within the depths of the reliquary, and it spread to the mist, flashing through it. It grew in strength, until it was blinding in its ferocity. The mist and smog writhed in the grip of the energy, like a serpent in the claws of a bird of prey. Morbus’ voice rose in pitch, his harsh tones lashing out with the savagery of the storm itself. Grymn could feel the power of the Lord-Relictor as it thrummed through the air and waged war on the very elements themselves.

Morbus rarely stirred himself to such heights, but when he did, it was a sight to behold. Grymn watched in awe as the mist began to burn away, seared to nothing by the fury of Morbus’ storm. He felt the ground beneath his feet shudder, as if in gratitude. Grymn looked up, and met Gardus’ solemn gaze.

‘Do you feel it, Lorrus? The island quakes, grateful to its bedrock. This is the realm of Ghyran, and even the stones themselves bristle with the stuff of life,’ he said.

The rain, once filthy, became as clean and pure as the summer storms of Azyr itself. Gardus lifted his arms and tilted his head back.

‘We have freed you, great island! Now bear us east, to the river’s mouth!’ Gardus’ voice echoed from the low peaks of the floating island.

Silence stretched out for several long moments. Not a single soul in the gathered Stormhosts dared speak. Then, with a rumble, the island began to shudder beneath their feet. Grymn looked about and saw the clouds in the sky moving. No, not the clouds… the island itself. The airborne mountain had begun to slide eastward through the pale emerald skies of Ghyran.

Grymn shook his head, incredulous. ‘How?’ he asked.

Gardus said nothing for a moment. Grymn wondered if the Lord-Celestant was as surprised as he was. Then Gardus lifted his hammer and roared, ‘Who will be victorious?’

‘Only the faithful!’

‘Only the faithful!’

Chapter Ten

The bursting of the world pimple

‘Well… there’s something you don’t see every day,’ Morbidex Twiceborn said, looking up at the island as it hove to through the clouds far above. Its shadow stretched across the heartlands of Rotwater Blight. Tripletongue grunted, and Morbidex patted the maggoth’s head.

Morbidex and his fellow maggoth lords had been stationed here to prevent the Stormcasts from advancing on the source of the Gelid Gush, as well as the roots of the Oak of Ages Past. Torglug, Spume and the others were positioned at the other various crossings and headwaters; every conceivable route to Pupa Grotesse and his bathwaters was guarded by the Grandfather’s own, on the orders of the Glottkin.

Morbidex glanced over his shoulder, back towards the distant shape of the Great Unclean One. Pupa Grotesse was larger than any other examples of his kind that Morbidex had ever had the pleasure of knowing. He was a mountain of jolly filth, though even he was made to look small next to the immense roots of the Oak of Ages Past.

‘Ever seen the like, Bloab?’ he called out to his fellow maggoth lord. Bloab Rotspawned shook his hooded head, causing the swarm of insects that accompanied him everywhere to flutter about in agitation. He was a bulky lump whose flesh, where it was not hidden by his black armour, was covered in insect bites and raised pustules, and his tattered robes were stained with strange ichor and covered in squirming maggots.

‘A new one on me, Morbidex,’ Bloab droned. ‘Even Bilespurter izz in awe, eh?’ He scratched the mottled flesh of his maggoth. Bilespurter gave a warbling snort in reply. Bloab turned towards Orghotts Daemonspew, the third of the maggoth riders present at the edge of the Gelid Gush, where the world pimples bulged obscenely. ‘What zzay you, Orghotts?’

‘What is there to say, companions-mine? ’tis an island, and she floats,’ Orghotts rumbled, through malformed lips. His maggoth shifted impatiently, and he gave its scaly skull a thump with the flat of one of the two large Rotaxes he carried. ‘Be still, Whippermaw. Thy hunger will soon be sated.’ He sat back in his saddle, his armour creaking. ‘I do wonder at it, aye.’ He stroked the great horn of daemon-bone that sprouted from the side of his face, jaw to crown. ‘Think it be our enemies, Twiceborn?’

‘The Glotts certainly must, otherwise Ghurk wouldn’t be ambling towards us with all the grace of an avalanche,’ Morbidex said, pointing towards the massive shape of Ghurk Glott, knuckling his way across the mire towards them, his siblings perched securely on his immense shoulders. Ghurk splashed through the shallow waters with an excited bellow, shouldering aside a mossy cairn in his haste.

‘What ho, Glottkin? Come to deliver us victory?’ Morbidex shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth. ‘Do the silver-skins draw close? Is it to be battle at last? Tripletongue is hungry.’

‘Not here, not yet,’ Otto Glott replied loudly. ‘Not if Ethrac is right.’

‘Of course I’m right, brother-mine. The evidence hangs above us. They’re not stopping here,’ Ethrac said, as Ghurk loped past them, scattering maggoths and nurglings alike in his haste. ‘They bypassed Torglug’s forces, at river’s crossing, and Slaugoth’s host as well.’ The sorcerer pointed towards the island, sliding through the sky above. ‘Somehow, they freed one of the cursed sky-mountains of Talbion from the Grandfather’s pox-clouds and convinced it to float towards the source-waters of the Gelid Gush.’

Morbidex and his companions turned their maggoths about and set the beasts into motion in Ghurk’s wake. The maggoths had to gallop to keep up with the biggest Glott sibling. Morbidex leaned forward in his saddle. ‘Where are the others? What should we do?’

‘We’re already doing it,’ Ethrac snapped. He stamped on Ghurk’s head. ‘Keep an even keel, brother. I’m engaged in delicate sorceries here.’

Ethrac had a brazier standing before him, attached to Ghurk’s harness. It smoked and spat as he chanted over its open flame, wringing his hands in an ornate fashion. The smoke tensed like a thing alive as Ethrac’s voice rose in pitch, and before Morbidex’s astonished eyes it split like the petals of a gaseous flower, and a horde of insectile daemons, ridden by plaguebearers, spilled upwards into existence. They were without number, and far too large to have truly emerged from the brazier’s open mouth. The plague drones rose in a buzzing cloud, gossamer wings throbbing with an irregular rhythm.

‘Go, my pretties,’ Ethrac wailed, thrusting a finger towards the distant form of the flying mountain. ‘Rain down pox and peril, and make them rue the day they ever tested Grandfather’s patience!’ At his command, the twisting cloud of daemons tumbled upwards like a swarm of outsized hornets and swept across the sky towards the island. Morbidex gave a cheer.

‘Ha! Look at them go,’ he roared. He leaned over Tripletongue’s head and said, ‘Would that you had wings, Tripletongue, and we could join them.’ He straightened and looked at Ethrac, who had slumped back into Otto’s arms, exhausted by his magics. It was no easy thing to call forth the Grandfather’s aerial guard so far from a realmgate or other pestilential portal. The very air of Ghyran resisted such magics — even now, with Grandfather’s claws hooked deep in the soil. ‘What now? As much confidence as I have in your sorcery, I don’t think the plague drones can bring that rock down by themselves.’

‘Be at ease, Twiceborn. The Glotts have a plan, yes we do,’ Otto said. He extended his scythe towards one of the great boils of earth and mud rising from the face of Rotwater Blight. ‘We’ll see how well that island stays afloat with geysers of Grandfather’s own pus dappling its belly.’

Well, Morbidex thought, grinning in pleasure. Can’t say I haven’t thought of doing something similar, since I first laid eyes on them. The world pimples were a sign of the Grandfather’s interest in the Realm of Life, and a mark of how deep his influence truly went. The blessed muck and filth of the garden had spread to Ghyran, fertilizing the weak land and giving it some pomp and girth. The world pimples had formed soon after Pupa Grotesse had wedged his bulk into the river, bursting out of the ripe soil and spreading across the Blight. Every few decades, one of the Pimples would burst, unable to contain the pressure building up within it, filling the air with the familiar scents of Nurgle’s garden.

Ghurk and the maggoths loped towards the largest of the world pimples, followed by Morbidex’s nurglings, who could sense a good time when one was in the offing. Morbidex extended his scythe down past Tripletongue’s knees so that the quickest of his tiny charges could catch hold of the blade and swing themselves up onto the maggoth’s flanks.

Despite the speed of the great beasts, it still took some time to reach their destination. Morbidex sat back and let the rhythm of Tripletongue’s barrelling gait put him at ease. Bloab did much the same, the fat sorcerer sitting, head bowed, looking for all the world as if he were asleep. Orghotts, however, incited Whippermaw to greater and greater speeds, rapping the maggoth’s flanks with the flat of his axes. Never any patience, that one, Morbidex thought, watching his old ally bellow curses and snatches from ancient songs.

On they rode, across the mires and fens of Rotwater Blight. And above them all, the island crept closer and closer, until its shadow all but swallowed them up. Morbidex could feel the ancient power flowing through the airborne mass of soil and rock; it was unlike anything in the Grandfather’s garden, but somehow familiar all the same. It was the power of life unrestrained, life without limit or end, and admirable in its own way. Aye, it’ll be a shame to see you gone, but Grandfather bids it, Morbidex thought.

The world would be better when such things knew their place, in any event. Ghyran had yet to be tamed. That was why the Glotts were so determined to find the so-called Radiant Queen. It was Alarielle who was somehow stymieing Nurgle’s advances in this realm, Alarielle whose subtle song raised forests to walk and cleansed that which had been fairly befouled. And it was Alarielle whom Nurgle wanted. It was said, by those who would know, that there was a cage of crystalline pus, hardened in the heat of Nurgle’s cauldron, somewhere in the garden, waiting for its prisoner. When the Radiant Queen was at last his, these knowledgeable sorts said, Grandfather would cage her, and hang her from his bower, and listen to her beautiful song into eternity.

Who says the gods don’t understand romance, Morbidex thought, as he brought Tripletongue to a halt in a cloud of dust. The largest of the world pimples was a truly mountainous boil of dripping earth, topped by a cloudy bubble of beautiful vileness. It was magnificent.

‘Too bad,’ Morbidex murmured.

‘What was that, Twiceborn?’ Otto asked, peering down at him. The oldest of the Glotts was a bulky warrior, as big as Morbidex, and his lumpen frame was fair to bursting with the favour of Nurgle. He carried a scythe, like Morbidex, though his was wreathed with even more baleful enchantments.

‘I said it’s a shame,’ Morbidex said, reclining in his saddle. He scratched the chin of a nurgling. ‘Think of how big it might get…’

‘We all must make sacrifices to keep pests out of the garden,’ Otto said. He smacked Ghurk on the head with the butt of his scythe. ‘Hup, Ghurk. Give it a squeeze.’

Ghurk made a sound of assent and reached out with his giant tentacle. The tendril slithered about the cusp of the world pimple and contracted with a sound like grinding rocks.

‘Hurry, Ghurk,’ Otto said, as he hunched forward. ‘Hurry! They are almost past us!’

Morbidex looked up, and saw the island pass overhead. Soil and rocks fell from its vast belly, to smash into the mire below. Water exploded upwards as a chunk of rock hammered down nearby, and Tripletongue gave a bleat of surprise. Morbidex leaned forward and dug his fingers into the maggoth’s hide.

‘Easy, you fearful brute, it’s just a bit of soil, think nothing of it,’ he grated, even as he cocked an eye towards the hovering landmass.

‘Mayhap we should seek safer ground,’ Orghotts said, looking around warily. More stones fell, plopping into the water with ground-shaking finality. Bodies fell with them too, some clad in silver, others dripping with Nurgle’s blessings. Ethrac’s daemons had met the enemy, and the air was rent by the sounds of battle as winged Stormcasts clashed with plague drones. Morbidex watched, momentarily distracted by the aerial war. He’d never seen the like, at least not in the Mortal Realms. Where the Grandfather’s garden abutted the killing fields of Khorne or the colorful palaces of Tzeentch’s realm, such conflicts were commonplace. But those things were but grand duels, exaggerated and only mockingly serious.

This, however, was true war, and part of him longed to be up there amidst it. He glanced around and saw that his fellow maggoth lords were as rapt as he was, watching the sky-borne battle. Then Ghurk roared, and with a sound like splitting rock, the world pimple ruptured.

Chapter Eleven

Battle in the sky

‘Only the faithful,’ Tegrus shouted as he folded his wings and arrowed towards the plague drone. Hammer crashed against plaguesword as he swept past. Prosecutors from three Stormhosts had launched themselves aloft to engage the daemon-flyers, as the latter swarmed the island, seeking to attack those who stood upon it.

As he swooped through the air, back towards his quarry, Tegrus could see the grey-green reaches of Rotwater Blight spreading out far below him. There too was the shattered husk of the Oak of Ages Past, larger than a range of foothills and rising up as if to catch hold of the sky. From its end flowed a ribbon of pure crystal water, turning midstream to a flow of putrid slop. There, squatting amidst that filth, was the being they had come to find, the Great Unclean One that Gardus had spoken of.

You were right, Steel Soul, he thought, as he rolled through the air.

One of his hammers snapped out to catch a plaguebearer in the head. His blow sent the daemon tumbling from its buzzing mount. The fly contorted with malign urgency, its hairy legs crashing against Tegrus’ armour as it sought to crush him. The acrid stench of it washed over him, choking him. With a strangled shout, he drove his hammers into its pulsing thorax, rupturing the shiny carapace and covering himself in a pungent tide of squirming maggots. The fly plummeted from the air, following its rider to the ground far below. Tegrus grimaced and pressed his hammer to his chest, burning away the creatures that clung to the sigmarite.

He looked around, taking in the aerial battle going on around him. When the daemons had appeared, every Prosecutor capable of flight had thrown themselves into the air. Tegrus himself had been eager for the fray. It had been too long since the battle at the cairns. His quarry, the bloated beast-rider calling himself Morbidex, had escaped Sigmar’s justice, fleeing deeper into the swamp. Though Tegrus had pursued him, his foe had escaped. The thought of the beast-rider’s gurning face still sent a pulse of anger through him. Such a creature, steeped as it was in the stuff of Chaos, could not be allowed to live, but Gardus had commanded him to leave it be, fearing, perhaps, that his Prosecutor-Prime was being led into an ambush.

In his heart, he knew the Lord-Celestant was right. Nonetheless, he was frustrated. And when the plague drones had shown up, he had seen them as an opportunity to work out some of those frustrations. So he fought, waging war in the manner to which he had become accustomed. It had taken some getting used to, in those early days after he’d been raised up to the ranks of the Stormcasts, reforged from the simple hunter he had been and made into one of Sigmar’s avenging warriors. Rarely did he think of those bygone days. He knew some of his fellow Stormcasts dreamed of their old lives, or were tormented by memories they did not recognize. But for him, the past was the past; it was as banished as the daemon whose head he’d just split.

More plague drones hummed towards him, swooping and diving. Tegrus turned and gave a flap of his wings, pushing himself back towards the island. He led his pursuers low over the ranks of the Stormcasts, and the bows of the Judicators sang.

Tegrus heard a dim rumble from somewhere far below. He swooped out over the rim of the island and his eyes widened as he saw the geyser of boiling pus rising from the mire below. Alarmed, he turned, wings flapping, knowing even as he flew that he would not be able to warn the others in time. He didn’t know what it was, but it was nothing good. The pus splashed against the underside of the island with a roar, causing the great mountain to quake down to its roots. It pitched to the side, like a vessel caught in the grip of a storm, and where the pus struck, it clung, a greenish vapour issuing forth in great, blistering gouts.

The island fought to stay aloft, sagging and rising, but Tegrus could see that it was doomed to fail. Whatever magic, life-force or animating spirit kept it afloat, it was still weak from the vile rains that Lord-Relictor Morbus’ magic had dispatched. The jet of burning pus was eating away at its roots and hollows, carving great wounds in its belly and sides. The mountain began to shudder. Tegrus flew over the heads of Gardus and the others, shouting, ‘It’s coming apart. If you value your lives — hold on!’

Stormcasts leapt to obey, anchoring themselves the best they could as the shuddering grew in strength, until whole sections of the rocky slopes gave way and slid down, tumbling into the void below. Several Stormcasts were caught by the falling rocks and carried to their deaths. Others raised their shields, or called out Sigmar’s name, as if by his hand they might gain the strength to survive the next few moments.

‘Steady,’ Gardus roared. The Lord-Celestant stabbed his sword into the ground to anchor himself, and the others did the same. Even so, dozens of Stormcasts were thrown from their perches, or ripped upwards by the force of the island’s descent. Tegrus and the Prosecutors not still engaged in battle with the plague drones soared upwards, fighting the storm, trying to save any that they could. Their wings crackled as they forced themselves up against the drag of the island’s passage. Their wings had been forged by Sigmar himself, each feather a scintilla of the God-King’s holy lightning, and they flashed brightly as they beat. Tegrus narrowed his eyes, fighting to see through the wind and the vast contrail of foul steam spilling from the wounded island.

A glint of silver caught his eye and he bent towards it, rolling through the air. His wings tore through the cloud of steam and he saw a number of Liberators falling upwards. As Tegrus neared them, one came apart in a flash of blue light, returning to Sigmaron to be reforged. Tegrus put on speed, trying to reach the other two before they met a similar fate.

Tegrus caught one of the Liberators by the hand even as the second hurtled out of reach, disappearing into the clouds. There was a flash of blue. I’m sorry, brother, he thought as he banked and turned back towards the island. Other Prosecutors sailed upwards, continuing in their efforts. ‘Hold fast, brother,’ he said to the Stormcast whose wrist he held. ‘I will get you down in one piece, if I’m able.’

The Liberator’s reply was lost in the howl of the wind. Tegrus aimed himself towards the island, hoping that it would hold together long enough to land more or less safely. The mountain drifted lower and lower, losing pieces of itself all the while, as the acidic pus ate away at it from roots to crags. A dull groan, as of a living thing in agony, rose from it as it sank towards the shallows of the River Vitalis.

Tegrus rose upwards as the island struck the ground with a thunderous roar. Entire mobs of plague daemons were crushed beneath it as it fell, and more were similarly obliterated as the island collapsed in on itself. A tsunami of infected water surged back along the course of the river, escaping the banks and washing over the massive shape of the Great Unclean One squatting at the river’s heart. Tegrus stared in horror at the monstrosity. The creature was far larger than the beast that had attacked them in the Ghyrtract Fen, as if swollen by the stolen vitality of the river. The greater daemon roared in outrage as the dust thrown up by the island’s fall began to clear, and yanked a rusted flail from the water.

Pupa Grotesse forced himself to his feet with a second, rolling bellow and slashed out with the flail, smashing at the river. Turgid, brown-frothed waves smacked into the remains of the island, washing over it and clearing the dust and steam. Tegrus dropped from the air, depositing his burden. The Liberator looked at him.

‘Olanus,’ he said, raising the hammer he’d somehow managed to retain in salute.

‘Tegrus,’ Tegrus said, returning the warrior’s salute. He looked around. He saw no other Stormcasts — he couldn’t even see his Prosecutors, thanks to the haze thrown up by the island’s descent. Talbion crumbled behind them, dying if not already dead. Tegrus felt something that might have been sadness as he watched the mass of rock and earth split and dissolve in the flowing waters of the river. There had been something — some spirit, some soul — in it that was, while not human, still a life to be mourned.

We will not see your like again, he thought, as he turned back to face the distant shape of the Great Unclean One.

It was enormous, almost a mountain in its own right, if a mountain could walk. Where its shadow fell, the water frothed and was made foul, and its motion set the river to churning. ‘That is the beast Gardus spoke of,’ Olanus said.

‘Aye, it is,’ Tegrus replied. He said it calmly, masking the worry he felt. Perhaps the others were simply trapped — he had seen no telltale flash of azure, signalling the demise of his fellows. Either way, they were not in evidence.

Tegrus made ready to thrust himself into the air once more. If he could get above the beast, he might be able to distract it long enough for Olanus to get in close. He turned to say as much to his fellow Stormcast, when Olanus suddenly gave a grunt of pain and stumbled.

Tegrus spun, and saw a plaguebearer rising from the water behind the Liberator. Some of the daemons had survived the island’s fall, after all. This one had found a gap in Olanus’ armour, and it wrenched its sword free with a ghastly grin as blue light erupted from the eye and mouth slits of the dying Liberator’s helm. Tegrus moved to strike the beast down, but a splash from behind alerted him to his own danger. More of the daemons burst from the foetid waters and launched themselves at him, rusty blades drawing sparks from his hammers as he interposed them. More plaguebearers rose around him, erupting from the water like aggressive flotsam.

He fought desperately, trying to hold them at bay. His wings snapped out, swift as sword-strikes, their crackling feathers burning open loathsome guts as his hammers shattered diseased blades and plague-ridden bones alike, but there were too many of them. Rotting hands caught his limbs and he was yanked off-balance. He fell onto his back in the water, frantically parrying the weapons that sought his belly and head. Plaguebearers flung themselves on him, weighing him down, scrabbling at his armour, seeking to pry open the gaps so that their fellows could finish him off. Tegrus screamed in futile rage as his forearms were pinned beneath the water and a flabby, peeling foot crashed onto his chest, holding him down.

The plaguebearer that stood on him raised its sword in two hands for a killing thrust. It leered down at him, single eye burning with malign pleasure as it considered his plight. Tegrus thrashed, but was unable to tear himself free.

Suddenly, his would-be killer’s skull burst like an overripe fruit. A sword flashed, lopping off limbs and chopping through heads, and then Tegrus was free. He looked up as Gardus sheathed his sword and extended his free hand.

‘Up, Tegrus… I need you in the sky, Prosecutor.’

‘Gladly, Lord-Celestant. I confess, I am not at my best on the ground,’ Tegrus said, as Gardus pulled him to his feet.

Gardus nodded.

‘So I noticed.’ He stepped back and raised his hammer. Beyond him, Tegrus saw silver-clad shapes emerge from the murk thrown up by the death-throes of the island. Grymn, Morbus and others, including Astral Templars and Guardians of the Firmament, strode through the swirling waters, weapons in hand. Gardus, hammer held over his head, shouted, ‘Who will be triumphant?’

‘Only the faithful,’ came the reply. Tegrus added his voice to the rest, glorying in the thought of the battle to come. Gardus was with them. They had survived every horror the enemy could throw at them, and now they stood on the cusp of victory.

Pupa Grotesse roared in fury, and slammed his flail down again and again. Every time the weapon crashed down, the water erupted in flopping, splashing shapes — slug-like monstrosities, with gnashing teeth and flailing limbs, which bounded through the river towards the Stormcasts with unseemly speed. Gardus faced the oncoming horde, and drew his runeblade with his free hand.

‘Who stands with me?’ he called.

‘Only the faithful,’ Tegrus and the others responded, their voices rising into a communal roar as they clashed weapons and struck shields in a fierce display.

‘Only the faithful,’ Gardus shouted.

And then the enemy was upon them, and there was no more time for words.

Chapter Twelve

The naming of the beast

‘Forward — for Sigmar, for Ghyran, and the Celestial Realm,’ Gardus called out. He crushed the skull of one of the beasts of Nurgle as it tried to flatten him beneath its weight. The great beasts had crashed into the Stormcasts’ vanguard like eager children, shrugging off stab wounds and hammer blows with gurgling aplomb. They bellied and crushed their way through the ranks of the Hallowed Knights, warbling as they surged through the water. They had been joined by plaguebearers, who rose from the befouled river and launched themselves at the distracted Stormcasts. But it was the beasts of Nurgle who were the true danger here, large and tough as they were.

Only the Retributors had proven capable of felling the creatures, and with each swing of their hammers they had reduced the daemons to gobbets of wet ash. Zephacleas led the Retributors of all three Stormhosts forward, his armour dappled with gore as he fought his way to the front. Gardus’ fellow Lord-Celestant was a man of few words, but possessed an almost limitless capacity for violence, and was in his own way almost as eager for battle as the beasts he fought.

In contrast to the savagery of Zephacleas and his amethyst-armoured warriors, Ultrades and his Guardians of the Firmament were of a more stolid philosophy. They fought with a stoicism second only to that of the Hallowed Knights themselves, their circular phalanxes grinding forwards like millstones to crush the unruly mobs of daemons between them. Shields slammed forward to trap plaguebearers and yelping beasts, as Prosecutors dove down to smash them flat with all the precision of the arrows fired from the bows of the Judicators advancing behind the Liberators.

He saw a Liberator driven beneath the water by a flailing creature. Before he could reach the unfortunate warrior’s side, blue light exploded upwards from the water, signalling another hero’s soul sent back to Sigmar’s forges. He killed the daemon as it turned towards him, and then whirled, bisecting a plaguebearer as it leapt into the air, sword raised over its head.

Too many of them, Gardus thought. Everywhere he looked, daemons leapt and capered. It was like the Ghyrtract Fen all over again, only this time, there was no realmgate to close. He looked at the Great Unclean One. It was no Bolathrax. Though such creatures bore a resemblance to one another, they were as much individuals as any Stormcast. He’d learned that much in his time in Nurgle’s garden, and more besides.

It had been Bolathrax who had first spoken the name of Pupa Grotesse, as he pursued Gardus. The daemon had bellowed of the canker afflicting the Oak of Ages Past, of the champions arrayed against the Stormcasts, of the Rotfane, the Profane Tor, and the Gelid Gush, and more than that. Bolathrax had been overly loquacious, in the way of those who think words alone can break a spirit.

But Gardus’ spirit was not broken. He would do what no other champion of Sigmar had been able to do and bring the God-King’s words to the Radiant Queen, thus removing the mark that Nurgle’s garden had left on his soul. And maybe he would silence the ghosts which yet clung to him in doing so.

Garradan… help us…

‘Only the faithful,’ he croaked. He could see their faces everywhere, rising from the sludge in the spray of daemonic bile. Victims of plagues long past: men, women and children he had not been able to save. Nurgle had been his enemy for longer than he had ever suspected. The ghosts crowded around him, clutching at him, begging him for aid that he could not give. Anger lent him new strength.

‘Only the faithful,’ he snarled, shattering a daemon blade and chopping into its wielder’s chest.

A second blade glanced from his shoulderplate and he spun. Gardus bashed the plaguebearer from its feet with a swipe of his hammer. Before it could even attempt to rise, a halberd flashed, removing its head from its shoulders. Grymn tore his weapon free of the daemon’s remains as it sank below the swirling waters and said, ‘The big one is our true foe.’

‘Agreed, Lorrus,’ Gardus said. ‘But there’s an army between him and us.’ He crossed his weapons and caught a descending plaguesword at their crux. The plaguebearer groaned and Gardus kicked it in its bulging belly, knocking it backwards. As it fell, Grymn’s gryph-hound shot forward and leapt upon it, savaging it mercilessly. He ignored the daemon’s squeals and turned back to Grymn. ‘We’ll have to carve ourselves a—’

‘A path? It seems Ultrades beat us to it,’ Grymn said, gesturing with his halberd. ‘Look!’

Gardus did, and felt his heart stutter in his chest, as his fellow Lord-Celestant led a wedge of Stormcasts through a gap in the enemy ranks, straight towards the greater daemon. Their charge slowed as they reached the thick slop emanating from the daemon’s flabby haunches, where filth and water had mingled to form a tarry barrier. Ultrades tore his men a path and a phalanx of Liberators lurched forward, shields raised.

Pupa Grotesse glared down at the interlopers and bellowed in rage. A boulder-like fist descended from on high and Stormcasts were crushed, their bloody forms swiftly discorporating. The massive flail whirled and whole retinues were hurled back like broken dolls. Only Ultrades and his Decimators made it past these obstacles, but their blows rebounded harmlessly from the Great Unclean One’s elephantine hide. Pupa Grotesse roared in fury and swiped out one long arm to send shattered bodies flying. Many vanished in explosions of blue light, while others sank without a trace in the noxious waters.

Ultrades himself was nearly felled, driven to one knee in the water by a blow from Pupa Grotesse’s flail. He strained against the weight of the weapon, even as he was driven deeper and deeper into the filthy waters. Ultrades was strong — all Stormcasts were — but even he was no match for such a creature. Nonetheless, he was keeping the beast occupied, which meant they had a chance, however slim. We have to move quickly, Gardus thought, and looked at Grymn. ‘Hold here, rally our brothers, keep them away from that beast.’ He turned. ‘Morbus — to me!’

A burst of lightning danced across the water, frying a plague-beast in mid-bound. Lord-Relictor Morbus stepped through the swirling cloud of ashes.

‘I am here, Lord-Celestant. Proceed, and I shall follow,’ he rasped. Gardus nodded sharply, and began to bludgeon his way towards the greater daemon.

He lashed out with sword and hammer as he moved. Both weapons crackled with white fire as he slew plaguebearer and beast of Nurgle alike when they dared interpose themselves. Morbus followed close behind, lightning snarling from his reliquary to streak across the waters towards their foe. The crackling bolt slammed home, and the Great Unclean One reeled with an agonized roar. Smoke boiled from his gaping pores as he stretched out his long arm towards Morbus, who drew the beast’s attention away from his Lord-Celestant with a second bolt of lightning, as accurately aimed as the first. Sigmar bless you, Morbus — as ever, you know what I require before I ask, Gardus thought, as he charged beneath the sweep of the daemon’s flail. The daemon turned away from Ultrades, who sank back into the water, exhausted.

Morbus lashed out with his hammer, shattering one of the creature’s fingers. Pupa Grotesse roared out unintelligible curses and, ignoring his wounded digit, plucked Morbus from the water. He raised the struggling Lord-Relictor up and examined him, as Morbus struggled futilely in his grip. He said something in a rumbling, glottal voice that was too deep to be understood by human ears, and lifted Morbus higher. The Great Unclean One’s grotesque jaw distended, gaping wider than seemed entirely possible, even for such a massive being.

Gardus put on a burst of speed and ran up a stump of rotten driftwood. As he moved, he summoned a word from the pits of his memory — no, not a word, rather, a name. A name spoken by Bolathrax, in his heedless gloating. The true name of the being that called itself Pupa Grotesse — and to a daemon, its true name might as well be a blade aimed at its black heart. Gardus leapt, sword raised, and screamed the name, spitting the deranged syllables as if they were bolts from a crossbow. The name quavered on the stinking air, and the Great Unclean One turned, eyes wide, Morbus all but forgotten.

Gardus brought his sword down, chopping through the daemon’s thick wrist, freeing the Lord-Relictor in a geyser of foulness. The daemon shrieked and reeled, clutching at his wounded limb. Stormcast and daemon-hand crashed into the water, and Morbus swiftly bulled his way free of the spasmodically twitching hand.

‘Morbus — now!’ Gardus cried as he landed.

Morbus rose, reliquary in both hands, and began to chant. He called out to the tempest, and the tempest answered. Crackling bolts split the skies, swathing Grotesse in sacred lightning. Gardus watched as bolt after bolt struck the staggering monstrosity, even as the daemons around him turned away, eyes seared by the light of Sigmar’s wrath. Pupa Grotesse’s flesh began to smoulder and turn black. Steaming cracks appeared in his body, and the daemon abruptly stiffened, mouth wide in a scream that never came.

There was a deafening bang, and the daemon exploded like a sack of rotting offal left too long in the hot sun. The effect was immediate. The filth and sludge that marked the waters began to clear, turning to ash and crumbling away beneath newly crystalline waters. The clean waters ate at the remaining daemons like acid, dissolving them even as they fought, or tried to flee.

Gardus dipped his hand into the waters as they surged around him, and felt his weaknesses and hurts fade away.

‘It is like the rivers of home,’ Ultrades said in wonder, as Morbus helped him to his feet. He looked at Gardus. ‘Did you know that this would happen?’

‘I had hoped,’ Gardus said. He watched as the last of the daemons were dispatched, and turned, staring out over the river. In the sound of its waters, he thought he could hear a woman’s voice, singing an unfamiliar song. Hesitantly, he placed his palms over the water, trying to feel something, anything that might tell him that he wasn’t simply hearing things. As he peered down, he thought he could see something in the reflection on the water. He looked up as a shadow passed over it. ‘Tegrus, can you see anything?’ he called out as the Prosecutor-Prime swooped overhead.

‘Aye, though it might simply be a trick of the light,’ Tegrus called down, as he circled around. ‘There is an emerald light, where the river’s bed should be.’

Gardus looked at Morbus. ‘Morbus, do you—’

‘He feels it,’ Grymn said, splashing towards them, accompanied by his gryph-hound and Zephacleas. ‘We all do, Gardus. Every one of us.’

The Lord-Castellant looked at him warily. ‘What is it? Who is she? Who is singing?’

Gardus shook his head. ‘You know as well as I, Lorrus. She is the one we have come to find.’ He motioned to the vast shape of the Oak of Ages Past, and the clear, shining waters that now spilled from the cleft in its trunk. ‘There is a reason the enemy had no more luck finding her than we did. She was hiding beneath their very noses, in a place they thought already conquered. She is here,’ he said, voice rising. ‘The gate to Athelwyrd is here. We have found the Hidden Vale.’

Chapter Thirteen

Nurgle’s deluge

Torglug shook his head, trying to clear the flies from his ears, as the skaven grey seer chattered obsequiously up at the Glottkin. The creature had summoned them to the banks of the Gelid Gush. At Torglug’s suggestion, the ratkin had been placed on the invaders’ trail, and had pursued the enemy across Rotwater Blight. Their skulking spies had scurried in the wake of every battle, keeping track of the foe’s movements. And now, at last, it seemed the time had come to run their quarry to ground. ‘Storm-things pass into the river,’ the grey seer chittered, gesticulating towards the water. ‘The water… it is the portal!’

As it spoke, there came a sound like a hundred rats gnawing a hundred stones, and the verminlord Vermalanx dropped into reality. The rat-daemon shrieked at his charge, snapping long fangs in obvious agitation. The grey seer shied away from this display, and Torglug wondered what contest was being waged between master and servant. The rats aped men in that way more than any other, always seeking the advantage even over their own kind. The rat-daemon was clearly enraged, and Torglug suspected that the grey seer had been ordered to report the whereabouts of Athelwyrd to Vermalanx first.

Whatever the reason for it, the verminlord’s anger was like the sweetest bile to Torglug, and he extended his axe between the rat-daemon and his servant.

‘You are ceasing this unseemly display, vermin,’ he rasped. ‘We are being allies in this endeavour, and we will be needing every one of us to take the Hidden Vale and its mistress.’

‘If this treacherous rat isn’t simply lying,’ Vermalanx hissed, glaring at the cowering grey seer. ‘If this place is indeed beneath the river.’

‘It would make a certain sense,’ Otto Glott said, twirling his scythe. Idly he swatted at the flies that clustered about the crusted wounds in his belly. ‘Why else would they come here, into the very heart of Grandfather’s blight?’ He looked at Torglug and inclined his head. ‘A good plan, this, letting the rats skulk and spy.’

‘I am pleased you are satisfied, Master Glott,’ Torglug rumbled. He shook his head and looked at the now-pristine river, sparkling in the setting sun. ‘It is under us the whole time,’ he murmured, leaning on his axe. ‘We are running around, and here it is. How she must be laughing.’ He looked aside, at the portly shape of the sorcerer, Slaugoth, who stood nearby, wrapped in his ragged cloak, leaning on his boil-covered staff. ‘Why did we not look here, jolly one? Why was it the rats who are finding it first?’

‘We assumed nothing would survive in such close proximity to Pupa Grotesse, that’s why,’ Gutrot Spume interjected before the sorcerer could reply, his tentacles coiling and clenching about the haft of his axe. The champion stood on the other side of Slaugoth, glaring at the river as if it had offended him. ‘More fool us, I’d say.’

‘Quiet,’ Torglug snapped, irritated by Spume’s presence. The other champion had grown increasingly infuriating since the fall of Profane Tor. Spume seemed to regard the continued assaults of the lightning-men as a personal affront, rather than as the danger it truly was. But Torglug knew better… The Stormcasts were anything but weak to get as far as they had. They had humbled Spume, Slaugoth and the maggoth lords alike, and crushed every obstacle that the Grandfather had placed in their path. Normal men they were not.

There were vast things afoot, in the spaces between moments. Torglug could feel them, deep in his blighted marrow. The Grandfather stirred uneasily on his throne, and the world shuddered, as if slowly coming awake after a long sleep. He looked up at the sky, peering at the greenish clouds, wondering what force lurked above, watching. What power had sent them, these Stormcasts? And why now? He looked at the Glotts, considering.

They were not worthy, those three. Ghurk, perhaps, but Otto and Ethrac were fools, and lazy ones at that. Industry was a dirty word to them. They knew nothing of effort, and their only loyalty was to one another. It was not they who had poisoned the lifewells, or conquered the tribes of the Ghyranic highlands. It was not the Glotts who had tamed the ogors of the Graven Peaks or decimated the sacred groves of Thyrr. Yet they reaped the Grandfather’s rewards while better men were left to sit and simmer, forgotten. Torglug’s grip on his axe tightened, and he wondered what might happen in the hours to come.

‘Deep in thought, Woodsman,’ Slaugoth murmured, startling him. The sorcerer peered at him, yellow eyes narrowed in speculation, as if he could read Torglug’s thoughts. ‘What are you thinking, Despised One?’

‘Nothing of import,’ Torglug said.

‘They say that you were once a man of this realm, Ironhood,’ Slaugoth pressed. ‘I myself come from more distant climes, though I find the air here quite congenial.’ He smiled widely. ‘They say that the Grandfather himself tutored you in the ways of pox and plague while you rotted in a pit. It must have been something to see, especially for a barbarian from the wilds of Ghyran,’ the sorcerer said slyly.

‘The Grandfather is blessing me,’ Torglug said. He looked at Slaugoth. ‘Why are you asking?’ He leaned closer to the sorcerer. ‘Are you thinking Torglug is worried?’

‘Not worried. Plotting, perhaps, as we all are, in our own ways,’ Slaugoth said. He smiled, as if amused. ‘We all had our designs on the glory to be had from this moment, all save that fat fool, Morbidex. We all wished to stand here alone, beneath Grandfather’s benign gaze, to claim the maggoth’s share of the credit. And instead…’

‘The Glotts,’ Spume growled. ‘The Brothers Three.’ He shook his head, and the kraken mouth in his side snapped angrily. ‘Sneaks and rogues, so they are. No better than the skaven.’ Spume grunted and looked at Torglug. ‘We’re for it now, Woodsman. We’re under their maggoty thumbs and I’ll be barnacled if they don’t claim this was all part of some blasted plan.’

‘Grandfather will be knowing the truth,’ Torglug said confidently. He lifted his axe and held it parallel to the ground. ‘Now what are we to do?’ he called out, to the Glotts.

‘Simplicity itself, Woodsman,’ Otto said, planting his scythe. ‘We go for a swim.’ He looked at his brother, Ethrac. ‘Ethrac, oh second-favoured sibling. That river is too pure by half. Summon Grandfather’s Deluge so we can flood this place for good.’

‘A meritorious idea, brother from my mother’s womb,’ Ethrac said. ‘Gates can be forced open as well as unlocked. Slaugoth! Attend me, O portly one.’ Ethrac snapped his fingers at Slaugoth, whose head bobbed in agreement.

‘Commendable thought, Master Glott. I most heartily agree,’ the sorcerer murmured, scratching his chins. ‘We could fill that entire vale with noisome fluid, and thus claim it forever in the name of Grandfather’s infinite putrescence.’ He made a pudgy fist. ‘Serve those silver-skinned pests right for the drubbing they gave me. They tore down my sludge-walled keep without so much as a by your leave, and washed away my lovely, filthy rains with their god-blasted tempest. Aye, let us wake the Deluge, and drown ’em all.’

‘More than that, I think,’ Ethrac said. ‘Oh, we’ll flood it good, but we’ll take its mistress captive, and haul her in chains of fungus and mouldy bone to Grandfather. The Radiant Queen has hidden from us for far too long, my friends… She will hide no longer. Tonight, Alarielle is ours, and she will be in a cage in the Grandfather’s garden, and Ghyran ours, by the first rays of morning.’ He clapped his hands together in satisfaction.

‘Oh yes, yes, yes and yes again,’ Otto roared. ‘Ha! Yes, that’ll do — Ghurk, give the signal. Loud as you like, my lad. Call ’em all, every drone and nurgling, every maggoth and beast. Bring them all here, double-quick. We’re going in.’

Torglug winced as Ghurk rose to his full height and threw back his misshapen head to unleash a deafening howl. The grey seer cowered, hairy hand-paws pressed over its ears. Spume stuffed tentacles in his rotted ear canals. Slaugoth hunkered down and turned away, body clenched against the sound. The howl stretched up and out, riding the breeze across the vast wilderness of Rotwater Blight.

And in the middle distance, as the echoes of the howl faded, war horns answered Ghurk’s call by the score.

Chapter Fourteen

Secrets of Athelwyrd

Grymn pushed himself to his feet with his halberd, Tallon by his side, chirruping nervously. They were atop a lichen-clad slope of rock. Above their heads stretched the undulating shape of the River Vitalis, strange glimmerings of light playing across its underside. Other Stormcasts were rising to their feet around him, shaking off the effects of the transition to this hidden bower.

‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ Gardus said, sitting nearby, his hammer across his knees. He was gazing out over the slope, across the vale which stretched out beneath them as far as the eye could see. It was breathtaking, Grymn had to admit. Alarielle’s Hidden Vale was so large that it had its own mountain ranges, stretching off into cloudy distances. Each of these was draped in evergreen forests and hung with glittering waterfalls so pure that they hurt the eye to even look upon them. ‘All of Ghyran, I am told, once looked as this does,’ Gardus continued, softly. He extended a hand. ‘See how the trees glow, Lorrus… have you ever seen the like? They are as bright as the stars themselves.’

Grymn said nothing. Instead, he noted the arboreal citadels that sprouted from the entwined trunks of those distant trees, and silently calculated their size. They must be massive. But who resides there? The thought was not a pleasant one. He was not beguiled by the gossamer floating through the warm air, or the brightly hued fan-tail birds that swooped above through the coloured mist. If this was a paradise, it was not one meant for men. He turned and saw that the closest Stormcasts were, like Gardus, enraptured by the strange beauty spread out before them.

He slammed the butt of his halberd down on the rock, once, twice, three times. Every eye turned towards him. ‘On your feet,’ he growled. ‘Did we come all this way to look at the flowers then? Did we fight our way through forest and swamp so you could gaze at the greenery? Up, up! Up, or I’ll have Tallon on you — up,’ he roared. ‘We still have a queen to find, or did you forget? Up I say.’ He turned towards Gardus. ‘And you as well, Steel Soul. Up, Lord-Celestant. There is an example to be set,’ he said, as he reached out a hand and hauled Gardus to his feet.

‘I see something,’ Tegrus shouted from above. The Prosecutor-Prime swooped low over them, in a wide circle. ‘I see a grove, down the slope… lined with standing stones of some kind. Not like those we saw in the Ghyrtract Fen.’

Gardus looked in the direction that Tegrus indicated, and then said, ‘Lead on, O Sainted Eye. That is as good a place as any to meet our hosts, if they are willing.’

Grymn formed the Steel Souls into a marching column. He left the others to their respective Lord-Celestants. Zephacleas’ warriors split into bands and ranged out alongside the column of marching Stormcasts, warily watching the trees that covered the lower part of the slope, while Ultrades’ retinues followed the Hallowed Knights. Above them, Tegrus and the other Prosecutors drifted lazily through the air, keen eyes seeking any sign of danger.

The Stormhosts wound down the slope and through the trees that separated them from the grove Tegrus had seen. Gardus led the way, Grymn and Morbus close behind. Grymn felt eyes on them the entire way, and every bird, insect and beast fell silent at their approach. The Stormcasts began to grow uneasy, and more than once Grymn was forced to fall out of line and berate a warrior for hesitating in the face of the vast silence that had enveloped them. After the fifth such incident, as he rejoined Gardus and the Lord-Relictor, he said, ‘This place… It’s waiting for something.’

‘It is not a place,’ Morbus intoned. ‘Not truly. It is Alarielle’s will made manifest, and we are intruders here. She is drawing back from our approach like a frightened beast.’

‘It is not us she fears,’ Gardus said. He stared straight ahead as he moved, as if all of his attentions were fixed on a point beyond the sight of those who travelled with him. Grymn shivered softly, for as Gardus spoke, the trees seemed to rustle in agreement. ‘Alarielle is not simply queen of the Realm of Life. She is life itself, inextricable and inseparable. Nurgle’s advances upon her realm have wounded her most grievously, in mind and soul.’ He shook his head. ‘Or so the sylvaneth whispered to me, as they bore me from the Glade of Horned Growths. Since the Dark Gods invaded this realm, she has become withdrawn and cold, even from her most loyal servants.’

‘Has she sealed herself away here, while her realm crumbles in anarchy and destruction?’ Grymn asked, incredulous.

‘Did Sigmar not seal the Gates of Azyr?’ Gardus said softly. ‘The Mortal Realms burned, as Azyr prospered. We were each of us plucked from places where we might have done good, might have helped those who counted on us, to be reforged on Sigmar’s anvil.’ He met Grymn’s disbelieving gaze and continued, ‘I learned more than true names and hiding places while in Nurgle’s garden, Lorrus. The Ruinous Powers weave lies with truth.’ He looked away, and half-raised his hand, as if to clutch at his head. He looked up, abruptly, and said, ‘We are here.’

Grymn saw the grove. It was lined with spiral-etched menhirs, and sunlight marked its centre. Gardus stared at it, as if uncertain of what to do next. Grymn looked at him. ‘What is it?’

Gardus didn’t meet his gaze. ‘Something is wrong,’ he said.

Grymn looked at Morbus, who shook his head. ‘Well, if it is a trap, one of us had best spring it so that we might move on,’ Grymn said. He started forward, lantern raised and halberd over his shoulder.

Tallon made to follow him, but he shooed the gryph-hound back. ‘No, my friend,’ he said. ‘Stay — guard.’ He indicated Gardus. Tallon whined softly, but did as the Lord-Castellant bade.

Grymn looked at Gardus. ‘Not going to stop me?’

‘Could I?’ Gardus said.

Grymn laughed. ‘Sigmar made you the sword and me the shield — and it is the shield’s task to ward blows,’ he said and turned back to the glade. Without hesitation, he stepped between two menhirs. He strode towards the centre of the glade. When he reached it, he turned in a slow circle, peering at the marks on the stones. ‘Warriors of the sylvaneth,’ he called, ‘we are here.’

A soft slithering sound filled the air. He froze, listening. A heartbeat later a thicket of iron-thorns shot up from the soft earth to ensnare him, tearing armour and flesh alike. Grymn bellowed in pain as he was hurled to the ground in a bloody heap.

Outside of the ring of stones, sylvaneth dryads burst from the trees with eerie shrieks to fall upon the Stormcast Eternals. Warriors died in blazes of blue light, and Grymn cursed as he tried to pull himself to his feet. A talon of bark and thorn tore through his midsection, and he found himself wrenched into the air. He clutched at the talon with blood-slick fingers, fighting to free himself despite the agony. He turned his head, and saw a lithe figure of vines and wood untwine itself from about the trunk of an elder oak. With a hiss, the creature tore its hand free of him, and let him fall to the ground. It stepped towards him, as he tried to crawl reach for his fallen halberd. He heard Tallon screeching in rage, and men screaming.

Through blurring vision, he saw Gardus racing towards him, and heard the Lord-Celestant shouting. He saw the creature that had stabbed him unleash strangling vines upon Tegrus and his Prosecutors as they swooped to the attack. Pain thrummed through him, and his limbs felt like lead. His hand flopped to the blood-soaked soil, a mere fingerbreadth from his halberd. He fought to reach out, to grab it, to no avail.

A trap, he thought blearily.

And then Lorrus Grymn knew no more.

Chapter Fifteen

The coming of the Glottkin

‘Shields!’ Gardus roared. ‘Use your shields. No blades. These are not our enemies.’ He charged towards the creature that had wounded Grymn, bulling aside the shrieking dryads that tried to intercept him. Grymn’s gryph-hound loped at his side. Why is this happening? he thought. The being crouched over Grymn was the Lady of Vines. He recognized the branchwraith from the Glade of Horned Growths; it was she who had saved him from his wounds, and whispered answers to his questions. It was she who had seen to his return to his Stormhost.

‘Why are you doing this?’ he called out.

Behind him, he heard the sound of his Stormcasts striving to defend themselves from the sylvaneth pouring out of the forest on all sides. As the men died and the sky was filled with blue light, he bolted into the ring of menhirs.

The branchwraith shrieked and lashed out at Tegrus and his Prosecutors as they dived at her, trying to draw her away from the limp form of the Lord-Castellant. As Gardus drew close, she spun and lashed out at him with a thorny tendril. Tallon leapt, catching hold of the vine in his beak before it could reach Gardus. The gryph-hound held on, even as the branchwraith swung him through the air, trying to dislodge him.

Gardus caught another vine as it slashed at him, and wrapped it around his forearm. ‘Lady, heed me,’ he cried, trying to catch the creature’s attention. ‘Why are you doing this? How have we offended you? Why has it come to this?’

The creature’s blazing green eyes met his, and the Lady of Vines stretched out a gnarled hand and pointed, trembling with rage, towards the other side of the vale. Gardus turned, his heart sinking, as he heard the blare of grotesque horns and the thud of war drums. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Oh no…’

Pouring down the opposite valley wall was a wave of feculent fluid, and knee-deep in it were horde upon horde of Chaos worshippers, of every size and description. It was as if every follower of Nurgle in Ghyran had come to this place in answer to some powerful call — there were goat-headed beastmen, scurrying skaven and fat-bellied daemons, and at their head a lumpen giant, upon whose shoulders sat two gesticulating champions of the plague god. As Gardus watched in growing horror, the vanguard of the plague-legion smashed headlong into the dryads spilling from the trees.

‘We led them here,’ Gardus said hollowly. It was the only way the lost and the damned could have found their way to this place. He turned back to the Lady of Vines, but no words came to his lips as he looked up into the grief-twisted features of the branchwraith.

‘Yes, son of Azyr.’

Gardus turned as all about the menhir glade the trees shook down to their roots. As one, the dryads sank to their knees and the air grew still and heavy. Every loose leaf, twig, and branch in the glade was caught up in a whirlwind that carried them towards the trees and as they moved, Gardus thought he saw a shape coalescing within them. Not human, not quite, but something else… something older, and at once as vast as the Hidden Vale and as small as the flowers that sprouted in its wake. As the whirlwind struck them and dissipated, the trees twisted towards one another, entwining their branches together, weaving twig and leaf to form a female face — a face Gardus recognized, though he had never seen it before, save in murals and bas-reliefs.

‘Alarielle,’ he whispered.

Burning jade eyes met his own, and a voice as powerful as a summer storm, as piercing as the whisper of a thousand winds, spoke.

‘You have led the enemy to my sanctuary, Gardus of Azyr. Whatever your reasons, I have awakened from my dreams of more pleasant times. Athelwyrd is invaded. This day the armies of Azyr and Ghyran must fight together, or we will surely die apart,’ the Radiant Queen said, her words carried by creaking branches and rustling leaves. ‘Whatever I once desired, now only sad necessity remains — fight, my children. Fight, sons of the storm. Fight…’

Her voice rose to a keening wail, shaking the menhirs and causing Gardus to clutch at his ears. As the trees returned to their previous positions and the echoes of her voice faded, a wash of emerald light flooded the glade.

Grymn groaned as the Lady of Vines stepped back. Gardus looked down and saw, to his amazement, that the other man’s wounds had been healed. Grymn looked up at him.

‘I’m not dead,’ he said, as he grabbed his halberd and levered himself up. The Lady of Vines strode past them, stalking towards the battle, her thorny tendrils lashing in fury.

‘Not yet,’ Gardus said. ‘But the day is not yet done.’ He gestured to the Nurgle army. More had arrived in the moments since Alarielle’s words. As the deluge of filth spilled into the Hidden Vale, the dire fug that followed the plague-worshippers swept along the valley floor, corrupting vast swathes of lush vegetation. Pox-afflicted skaven scurried through the dying undergrowth, the smoking censers they whirled above their cowled heads only adding to the foulness in the air. When dryads moved to bar their path, they were smashed to smoking flinders.

As he and Grymn headed to join their men, Gardus heard Morbus chanting. The Lord-Relictor’s voice rose up, and the cloudscape of Athelwyrd seemed to respond as he invoked the energies of the tempest. The gathering storm fought against the noxious plague-clouds, and each ebbed and swelled in turn. The boom of thunder echoed down the valley, shaking the combatants to their bones and causing the great trees that covered the slopes to tremble down to their very roots.

‘Gather as many men as you can. Form a shieldwall around the glade,’ Gardus said, as he backhanded a squealing skaven with his hammer. ‘You must be the rock that this foul sea cannot wear down.’

‘What about you?’ Grymn said, chopping down on a plaguebearer. He spun his weapon in a circle, cutting down a second daemon.

‘I intend to take the battle to the enemy,’ Gardus said. He drove his sword through a snarling beastman’s gut. More of the goat-headed creatures charged towards him as the sickly rainclouds overhead thickened and fat, black raindrops began to fall. Gardus swung his hammer in a wide arc, splintering bones and crushing skulls. He heard Grymn bellowing orders behind him, and he smiled grimly. Stand fast, my friend. Be the shield, and I shall be the sword. He moved forward at a trot, dispatching any creature that sought to bar his path.

Across the vale, warriors clashed. Wooden-clawed dryads slaughtered skaven and beastmen alike as looming treelords strode into battle with earthshaking strides. Hallowed Knights, Astral Templars and Guardians of the Firmament fought back to back against the innumerable hordes surrounding them. Gardus smashed the skull of a plaguebearer and caught sight of Zephacleas standing over the body of a fallen treelord, defending the sylvaneth against its attackers. He saw Ultrades and his paladins fighting their way towards Morbus, who drew lightning down from the boiling skies and sent it crackling into the massed ranks of plaguebearers which stumbled towards him.

‘Only the faithful,’ Gardus shouted, forcing his voice to carry over the clangour of battle. His men responded in kind, and Gardus fought all the harder. He would not fail. ‘Only the faithful,’ he cried again, crushing cyclopean heads with every swing of his hammer. White flames crackled across his weapons and armour as he stormed through the bloody melee, gathering his warriors about him. ‘Fight, brothers! Fight in Sigmar’s name! Fight—’

‘Gardus,’ a horribly familiar voice thundered, interrupting him. He whirled, smashing aside an armoured warrior. No, he thought, filled with a sudden loathing.

‘Gardus,’ the voice called again, and Gardus looked up as something immense rolled down into the valley like a giant boulder, scattering daemons and Stormcasts alike as it hurtled across the field through the driving rain. When it stopped, the shape rose to its full, towering height, a flail made from the skulls of giants whirling about its antlered head.

‘I know you are here. Did you think you could escape Bolathrax?’ the greater daemon roared, smashing Stormcasts aside. ‘Where are you, Gardus? Where are you, Garradan? Face me, unless you plan to flee again.’ Bolathrax paused, eyes widening as he caught sight of Gardus. ‘Ah, there you are,’ he burbled and started towards the Lord-Celestant, flail whirling and plaguesword drawn.

Gardus stared at the Great Unclean One. He snapped out of it a moment before the greater daemon struck the ground perilously close to him. He was knocked sprawling by the impact. Gardus rolled aside as the weapon slammed down again. ‘Stop squirming,’ Bolathrax gurgled as he waddled in pursuit. ‘You led the Grandfather’s legions here, and I’m obliged to make your death quick.’

Gardus flung himself aside. He crashed into a fallen oak, and hauled himself over it. Between the rain and the confusion of battle, the daemon lost sight of him, and he had a moment to catch his breath. Quickly he took stock of the battle. He saw with some relief that Grymn had managed to organize a shieldwall, and that Morbus and the others were fighting their way towards it.

Hold fast, brothers, he thought. We might still be able to preserve this place…

Bolathrax’s flail crashed down, shattering the oak. The force of the blow sent Gardus sliding through the muck.

‘Found you,’ Bolathrax roared gleefully.

Gardus rolled to his feet, and lunged. Hammer and blade both found their mark and bounced off the daemon’s rubbery flesh. Bolathrax laughed and thrust his blade down. The Stormcast stepped aside, and the great sword slammed into the muck. He spun, set his foot onto the flat of the rusty sword and ran up its length. Bolathrax gaped as the Lord-Celestant leapt towards him. The daemon jerked his head back, but too late, and Gardus’ sword pierced the creature’s bulging eye.

Bolathrax shrieked and swiped his flail about his head blindly. Gardus was caught by the pox-hardened skulls and sent flying. He smashed into a standing stone and flopped into the muck, weapons lost, body a mass of pain. As he tried to push himself up, one of Bolathrax’s splayed feet came down on his back. Gardus cried out, as his spine cracked and a tidal wave of agony washed through him. The skull flail came down a moment later, and one of his legs was reduced to a red ruin, pulverised by the blow.

‘No more running, Garradan,’ Bolathrax grunted, as he looked down at Gardus. ‘Pain is but a door to experience, as the Grandfather says. It does wonders for the soul. Just ask Torglug the Despised. We made a man of him. I wonder what we shall make of you, when you have suffered enough, eh?’ The Great Unclean One reached down and snatched Gardus up by his remaining ankle. Gardus couldn’t breathe. He clutched weakly at the air, reaching for weapons that were not there.

The ghosts had gathered beneath him, and were staring up with mournful gazes. They did not speak, but they did not need to. Gardus coughed, and felt his shattered ribs dig into the soft places within him.

‘I shall put you somewhere safe, until you are ready to be reborn,’ Bolathrax chortled, as he reached down and lifted his belly folds wide, exposing the swirling vortex within him. ‘What do you say to that, eh?’

Gardus stared at the vortex — a black maw of horror, as deep and as dark as the spaces between the stars. His mouth was dry, but he forced the words out regardless.

‘Only the faithful,’ he croaked. Bolathrax began to laugh.

Gardus closed his eyes.

Chapter Sixteen

The Sainted Eye

Tegrus hurtled through the smog-choked air, his hammers catching a bullgor across the skull with a thunderous crack. The beastman toppled over as Tegrus swooped past on wings of light. He rolled through the air, aiming himself towards the beastmen skidding down the scree of the valley wall. The creatures were charging towards the forest of glowing trees from which the arboreal citadels rose, axes raised.

‘Lord-Castellant,’ he cried, searching for Grymn. ‘We must…’ He trailed off as he saw the shieldwall of the Hallowed Knights momentarily buckle beneath the weight of the enemy, before it stiffened once more. He saw the Lord-Castellant amidst his brethren, exhorting them to greater effort as plaguebearers swarmed them. There would be no help from that quarter. Up to me, then, he thought.

Tegrus folded his arms to his sides and sped across the valley, leaving dust and deafened foes in his wake. His retinue of Prosecutors followed, though none were able to match his speed. But even he was too slow. Sap sprayed like blood as the bestigors and bullgors hacked away at the ancient forest. Tegrus dropped into their midst a moment later, crushing a bestigor’s head as he landed. He whirled, catching another in its mouth, silencing it mid-roar.

He saw one of his Prosecutors pulled from the air by a bullgor and broken over the monster’s knee. Another was brought low by a bestigor axe, and hacked to pieces as he writhed in the muck.

‘No!’ Tegrus snarled, as he brought his hammers down on another beastman, smashing the squalling creature to the ground. He saw a horde of skaven clad in rotting robes scuttling between the legs of the larger beastmen. They too began to hack and slash at the ancient trees.

‘Keep them back,’ he cried, before he realised that he was alone. The last of his warriors had fallen, throttled by a bullgor. The creature joined the Stormcast it had killed a moment later as Tegrus sent his hammer ploughing into its bestial skull.

More and more of the creatures pelted past him, heading for the trees. It was like trying to fight the tide. For every one he killed, it seemed two more slipped through. As he drove his hammer into the gut of a bestigor, crushing the creature’s ribs, he heard an ethereal screech. It sawed through his skull, causing his teeth to twitch in his jaw and his head to ache. All around him, beastmen stumbled, clutching at their heads. Whatever he’d felt, they had felt it worse. He reacted swiftly, lashing out with his hammers, shattering kneecaps and spines. He flung himself into the air as a light grew amidst the carnage. Beastmen staggered away as the light blossomed into the shape of a woman. No, Tegrus realised; not a woman.

Alarielle, the Radiant Queen herself had at last joined the battle. She was a thing of light and mist, of leaves and splintered wood, her shape at once that of a woman and something greater and more terrible. She was air and water, fire and earth. She was the summer rain, and the rage of the hurricane. And she was angry.

A bullgor rushed towards her, bellowing, and a hand, limned in emerald light, snapped out to catch the creature by its throat. Alarielle lifted the beastman and snapped its neck with merciless ease, cowing the enemy around her. Skaven and bestigor alike began to edge away, their terror of the Radiant Queen obvious. She dropped the twitching body of the bullgor to the ground, where it immediately began to convulse. Green buds burst from the corpse, twisting up towards Alarielle’s hand. She threaded her fingers through the coiling shoots and came away with a handful of glittering seeds.

Without a word, she took the seeds in her hands and cast them away. In a single heartbeat, a hundred new green shoots burst from the ground. As they rose, they swelled and thickened, growing swiftly, becoming massive. The great bulbs on the end of each split with a sound like water slapping metal to reveal a cavernous maw. As one, the great plants snapped up their prey — skaven and beastman alike — and broke their bones to powder.

As he swooped past the twisting plants, Tegrus saw a strange shape lope suddenly from the depths of the smog that clung to the ground. A verminlord. The monstrous rat-daemon plucked a shrieking grey seer from the ground as it sprinted through the ranks of the ratmen. Tegrus flew after it, hoping that he would be in time to prevent whatever malign scheme the daemon had in mind. Whatever else happened, he would not allow the Radiant Queen to come to harm.

The verminlord sprang from the fallen body of a bullgor to one of the half-toppled trees, and dropped the grey seer to the ground beneath it. It hissed and snarled at the cowering skaven in the language of their vile kind and pointed one of its cruel blades towards the oblivious Radiant Queen as she tore a herd of bullgor to shreds with crackling magics. The grey seer pushed itself upright and hesitantly extended a shaking paw towards Alarielle. The air around it pulsed wetly, and a terrible light flickered in its eyes as it began a stuttering incantation.

Tegrus sped forward, faster than he’d ever flown. His wings blazed with all the fury of the storm, and his body ached with the force of his dive. Sigmar guide my flight, he thought as he plummeted towards the grey seer.

The creature’s fur stood on end, and its eyes glowed green as its outstretched claw started to tremble violently. Black smoke rose from the skaven’s pores as if it were being consumed by whatever energies it was summoning forth. Tegrus twisted through the air as a beam of unclean light shot from the skaven’s claw towards the Radiant Queen.

‘Only the faithful,’ Tegrus murmured, and swooped into the path of the beam, hammers crossed. The energies tore at him as they splashed across his armour, causing the god-forged sigmarite to bubble and melt. The light from his wings grew brighter and brighter as he plunged on through the beam. His hammers blackened and began to crumble in his hands, but he did not stop, or veer away. It was too late for that now. It was too late for anything except taking his foe down into death with him.

Tegrus screamed as he streaked towards the grey seer. He could feel his body warping and changing within his armour. Bones cracked and reshaped themselves into new and horrible forms as his flesh burned. But still he hurtled on and even as his hammers dissolved into nothing, he struck the grey seer full on.

The rat-thing exploded into swirling ash and streamers of green fire, its final, forlorn squeal cut short by the impact. Tegrus hit the ground a moment later, wreathed in smoke, his body contorted in agony as it continued its forced metamorphosis. His wings flickered and grew dull as new flesh squeezed out between the seams of his ruptured armour. Feathers of lightning were replaced by useless pinions of leather and bone, which flapped limply. His body shuddered as his spine split and grew, and his lungs shrank in his chest, forcing him to fight for every breath. His newly shaped bones had been shattered by his landing, and he could only thrash in pain as something monstrous approached him, tail lashing in anger.

‘Fool-fool,’ the monstrous verminlord hissed, glaring down at him. ‘You dare pit yourself against the will of Vermalanx, man-thing?’ The creature raised one of the heavy, curved blades it carried. Before it could strike, however, a tendril of emerald energy struck it full in the chest. The rat-daemon reared back and screeched in pain. A moment later it was plucked into the air. Through pain-dimmed eyes, Tegrus saw Alarielle stride forward, cloaked in ash and feathers, her inhuman visage sorrowful.

‘Who is the fool here, little mouse?’ Alarielle said, her voice causing the air to throb. The verminlord howled as it fought to break free of her magics, but to no avail. Alarielle reached up and flicked a silver acorn into the rat-daemon’s slavering maw. Instantly, green shoots burst through the creature’s form in great profusion. The daemon screamed in agony as the shoots flourished into branches and then boughs, before it was ripped apart in a stink of sulphurous musk. Tegrus coughed and tried to speak, but only managed a strangled screech. He reached up to her, with a hand that was more claw than anything else, and she nodded in understanding.

‘Be at peace,’ the Radiant Queen said, as her aura became blinding. ‘Sleep now, and forevermore, son of Sigmar.’ The light grew until it enveloped Tegrus, and he felt a moment of pain and then…

Nothing.

Chapter Seventeen

The drowning of the vale

‘No,’ Grymn snarled, as he watched the Great Unclean One pluck Gardus from the mud. ‘No, not again.’ He glanced at Morbus, and the Lord-Relictor looked away. Lightning snarled from his reliquary over and over, hammering into the daemons that pressed them. This is what you saw, Grymn realised. They had been wrong, before. This, then, had been Gardus’ doom, and they might as well have escorted him to it.

He turned back to Gardus, and saw the greater daemon pry open its belly to reveal a nightmare maw within its flesh. The creature made as if to drop the limp form of the Lord-Celestant into the black abyss of his gut, and Grymn knew then what he must do. He dropped his halberd and spun to snatch a nearby Judicator’s thunderbolt crossbow from his hands. He whirled back and took aim.

Damn you, Gardus, he thought, we shall not lose you a second time — not like this. He fired. The bolt sizzled gold through the rain, and struck true. Gardus thrashed as the bolt tore through the back of his neck. There was a blaze of blue light, and the greater daemon howled as azure flames wreathed his paw. Gardus vanished, lost to the Hallowed Knights once more. But not forever. Grymn, heartsick with guilt, shoved the crossbow back into its owner’s hands, and glared at Morbus.

‘It had to be done,’ he snapped. ‘It was the only way to save him.’

‘We will join him soon enough,’ Morbus rasped, as he set his reliquary and gestured with his hammer. The Great Unclean One had turned towards them, smoke rising from his form, as if sensing that they had had some part in the disappearance of his prey. As he lurched towards them, his followers redoubled their efforts to break the hastily formed shieldwall. Beasts and ratkin hurled themselves at the Liberators. The Stormcasts were holding them back, but only barely.

‘Maybe so,’ Grymn said. ‘But I’ll not do so in shame.’ Tegrus was nowhere to be seen, and what few Prosecutors were in sight were locked in battle with the plague drones that buzzed through the rain-choked air above. Zephacleas and Ultrades had formed their own shieldwalls, and were being pressed as hard as the Hallowed Knights. The rain was falling faster and harder with every passing moment, and the foul waters lapped at their shins. But they would stand firm, whatever fate awaited them.

‘Who will be redeemed?’ Grymn cried, raising his halberd high.

‘Only the faithful,’ the nearby Hallowed Knights replied.

‘Who will stand until the world cracks open?’

‘Only the faithful!’

‘Who will honour the Steel Soul, and fight in his name?’

‘Only the faithful!’ came the reply.

Grymn lifted his halberd.

‘Make ready to charge,’ he shouted. ‘We shall meet them head on, and show them how Stormcasts fight.’ No more the shield. Now, I will be the sword, until we meet again in the Gladitorium, Gardus, he thought. At his next word, weapons were raised and shields lowered. But before he could utter the command to charge, the enemy abruptly began to fall back.

A green light spread over the Stormcasts, rising from the ring of menhirs behind them. An ethereal screech suddenly echoed across the vale, causing even the Great Unclean One to pause in consternation. Grymn turned, and saw a glowing manifestation stalk through the ranks of the Hallowed Knights.

‘Alarielle,’ Morbus said. ‘The Radiant Queen has come at last.’

‘Why now?’ Grymn hissed. ‘Why not before, when Gardus…’ He trailed off as Alarielle’s eyes met his, and he looked away, unable to bear the torment he saw there. She was not mad, not quite, but there was nothing human, nothing mortal in that gaze.

Men stepped aside as Alarielle moved past them with an eerie grace, her robes whipping about her as if she were the eye of a storm. Leaves and shattered branches swirled about her, and her long, golden hair flowed in her wake as she stepped across the glistening surface of the water. Impossibly thin, and as pale as ice, she resembled nothing so much as a marble statue gifted with life, and her eyes blazed with a power far beyond anything Grymn had ever witnessed.

‘What is she?’ he whispered.

‘Life,’ Morbus said. ‘In all of its fury and power.’

Alarielle pursued the retreating forces of the Nurgle worshippers with slow, stately steps. Where the end of her staff fell, the water turned cool and clear, and ravaged vegetation sprouted green and lush once more. Any daemon so foolish enough as to move towards her, rather than away, was reduced to swirling ash in the blink of an eye.

‘This place is not yours,’ she said, gazing at the Great Unclean One. Her voice rang out, as clear as a bell, as loud as thunder. Daemons quailed back, and the sylvaneth began to shriek and howl. ‘I ceded my realm to you, but I shall not cede this place.’

‘What you will or will not cede is of no concern to me, my lady,’ Bolathrax said, leering at her. ‘Nurgle’s deluge falls, and this place will soon not be fit for such delicate flowers as those you call children. The sky roils with magics, and this place will fall to Grandfather. All will drown in his sacred slurry.’

‘No,’ Alarielle said. She looked around, and Grymn followed her gaze. Athelwyrd was flooding inch by inch. Soon, they would have no choice but to return the way they had come. Otherwise, this hidden bower would become their tomb. ‘No,’ Alarielle said again, but more softly. Her face contorted suddenly, and she threw back her head in a scream of denial so intense that sylvaneth and daemons both writhed in agony from its reverberations. Stormcasts clapped their hands to their ears as the dolorous sound washed over them.

Before the echoes of that cry had faded, Alarielle gestured sharply and a thick net of iron-thorns erupted from the waters to entwine the Great Unclean One.

‘I know you of old, Bolathrax,’ Alarielle said. ‘Long have I desired to take what I am owed from your rotting flesh.’

Bolathrax struggled against the vines, but for every dozen he tore from him, two dozen more replaced them. Alarielle began to chant, her voice rising and falling like the wind, and the cage of briars constricted about the greater daemon. The thorns dug into his flesh, lacerating him. Bolathrax’s roars became screams and then squeals as he came apart at the joints and collapsed into a gory ooze. His cries caused those daemons nearby to shudder, and many joined him in dissolution, falling apart even as they tried to flee the destruction of their leader. The briar vines rose from Bolathrax’s remains like angry serpents, and struck out in all directions. As the Stormcasts watched, those daemons that had not already come apart died in droves, torn asunder by Alarielle’s anger.

Though the leader of the daemonhost had been slain, his lieutenants still remained, as zealous as their opponents. Grymn fought on, and his warriors followed his example. Everywhere in the vale, where the Stormcast Eternals fought, the enemy died in hordes.

It was not enough, in the end.

The rain still fell, and it soon became evident to even the most stubborn amongst the Stormcasts that Athelwyrd was doomed. The storm hammered down as malign and benevolent magics crashed against one another in the sky above the battle. The pox-rain fell, harder and faster, inexorably claiming the vale.

‘We will drown if this continues,’ Zephacleas roared, fighting to be heard over the storm as he and his warriors joined the Hallowed Knights. ‘None but a servant of Nurgle can survive in this place now.’

‘We must move,’ Grymn said aloud, as he booted a struggling plaguebearer from the blade of his halberd. They would need to get to higher ground to escape back into the mortal lands of Ghyran. ‘We’ll have to fight our way back. Where is Ultrades?’

Zephacleas pointed with his sword, to where the Guardians of the Firmament had formed up in a shieldwall around a retreating grove of dryads. The bark of the treekin was cracking and burning beneath the plague-rain. Grymn shook his head.

‘Help him,’ he said. ‘We must fall back.’

‘Fall back to where, Lord-Castellant?’ Zephacleas asked, filthy water running down the contours of his battered war-helm. ‘Where is there for us to go?’

‘The only place we can,’ Grymn said. He extended his halberd towards the shimmering expanse of the River Vitalis above. ‘Up. Gather your warriors. Fall back to the River Vitalis.’ He paused. ‘The Hidden Vale is lost.’

Epilogue

Only war

In the end, the Hidden Vale was hidden once more.

On the banks of the River Vitalis, Grymn stared into the depths of the water, seeking any sign of it, but all he discerned was a faint scar of murk, running along the river’s bottom. The forces of Nurgle had not followed the Stormcasts and the sylvaneth as they retreated, first to the upper reaches of the valley, and then back through the breached portal, to the dubious safety of Rotwater Blight.

Then, why should they have? he thought grimly. They had what they wanted, he suspected. The Hidden Vale was gone, and Alarielle was cast adrift into a world that was no longer hers. Her power, while great, would not be enough to win back her realm. I wonder if she realises that, he thought, as he gazed surreptitiously at the Radiant Queen, where she stood nearby.

Alarielle’s screams of denial still rang in his head. They had echoed across the near-infinite kingdoms of Ghyran, he suspected, so loud had they been. She had wept and raged as they retreated, her cries of anguish so intense that daemons had shivered into incoherent fragments at the sound and Stormcasts had fallen, skulls burst. And while she was now silent, he could still feel the heat of her rage.

‘Where is he?’ she asked, suddenly, in a voice like the croaking of a murder of crows. ‘Where is the one who led my enemies to me?’

Grymn stiffened. ‘He is… gone. He fell in battle, defending your realm.’

‘Defending a realm he endangered,’ she snarled, and the fury in her voice shook him to his core. ‘My kingdom… my people… All gone, all lost,’ she keened. Dryads hissed and shrieked mournfully as they clustered about her. She looked at Grymn, and he stepped back. Her eyes burned like twin suns, and he knew that she could kill him as easily as she had healed him before. Life in all its fury and power, he thought, recalling Morbus’ words.

‘My lady, they are gone, as are our brethren. But we still live,’ he said. He set his halberd. ‘And while we live, so too does Ghyran. While we stand, your realm shall not fall. So I swear. We shall fight. We shall win. Your kingdom will be free.’

‘Free,’ she breathed. Surrounded by her dryads and branchwraiths, her tall form blazing with a strange light, Alarielle turned towards the Hallowed Knights. Her shimmering gaze flickering across their ranks as she studied them. Grymn hesitated, uncertain, then stepped forward. ‘But for now, my lady, you and your folk must come with us. We have cost you your haven. The least we can do is see you to safety.’

‘Safety,’ Alarielle intoned. Her voice echoed in his very marrow, and he trembled slightly to hear such despair. ‘There is no safety now,’ Alarielle said, ‘no safe haven or sanctum left in all the Jade Kingdoms.’ The Radiant Queen smiled sadly.

‘Only war remains.’

Guy Haley

The Eldricht Fortress

Prologue

Many centuries ago…

The heavens writhed with flames of blue and pink. In every corner of the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok smoke rose. Only Elixia, the Sculpted City, held firm, but it could not do so for much longer. A circle of unmarred sky hung over the Great Monument as the city’s already lurid lightning flickered hungrily around this single, pure space.

In the shadow of the Great Monument stood the House of the Aldermen. It was here that Celemnis, Swordmaiden of the Argent Sisterhood, had come.

She entered the central chamber, a space forbidden to everyone but the council, at a swift stride, accompanied by a handful of her men. All the guard were at the walls and the council had fled; Celemnis was not denied.

Within the council chamber an uneasy peace held sway. The clamour of war breaking the city’s defences was distant. Above the ring of arms and roars of beasts was a dreadful keening. Odd and terrible were the sounds of Chaos as it forced itself upon the realms of Order, but this too was muted in the chamber.

From the courtyard garden outside the chamber a blackbird sang as if there were nothing amiss with the world. Celemnis could almost convince herself that the breeze wafting the window drapes was born of the summer, and not the burning of her home.

‘Celemnis!’ Forge Leader Jethelir waved at her from a curtained doorway. ‘He’s in here.’

Celemnis crossed the room. Her whole life she had walked quickly; there was always more to do. Why waste one’s time in ambling? And now time had nearly run out and she could walk no faster.

The High Alderman was sitting behind a desk in one of the many clerks’ cubicles of bronze and marble. He had taken refuge there, seeking some last pocket of sanity. His long beard brushed over thin sheets of tin as he read and reread the glyphs impressed into them. His fine clothes were dirty and his eyes red-rimmed with smoke and tears.

‘Ah, Celemnis,’ he said. ‘Do come in.’

Celemnis rested her fists on the desk and leaned over him.

‘Now will you return the hammer?’ she said.

The High Alderman glanced out of the window. He frowned as if he had noticed it were about to rain. ‘The hammer?’

‘Ghal Maraz. The Great Shatterer. Sigmar’s weapon. Now will you return it to him?’

‘We have had this conversation many times, my dear,’ he said. The High Alderman rolled up the tin scroll. ‘There is no one to return it to. The only way Sigmar would have parted from his hammer is if he were dead.’

‘The oracles told us he was tricked into casting it away,’ she said.

‘The oracles went mad not long after the gods abandoned the realms. Why do you trust books written a century ago?’

Celemnis thrust her arm out behind her, pointing in the direction of the battle. ‘Because the oracles prophesied this, Alderman. Let us offer up prayer and unlock the shrine. Let him know where it is!’

The Alderman radiated defeat; he had no more of himself left to give to this world.

‘And why should we? If the oracles were correct and Sigmar himself cast it away, why should we strive to return it to him? He left us. His hammer was drawn here by fate. Who are we to question fate?’

‘Everyone should question fate when it dances to Tzeentch’s tune,’ said Celemnis. ‘The armies of Chaos are breaking through the walls! The hammer cannot protect us, not anymore. We should never have kept it.’

‘Oh, my dear, dear Celemnis,’ said the High Alderman. His usual vitality had been stripped away by sorrow; now he looked his age, and worn out by it. ‘It is all rather academic.’ He took one of her callused hands gently in his own. ‘I am sorry. Perhaps you were right all along. Perhaps—’

The rattle of armoured men interrupted him. Celemnis ran from the room to witness a band of Chaos warriors thundering into the main hall. Each one was a head taller than a mortal man, far heavier and clad in ornate blue plate armour. They reeked of dark power.

Celemnis’ last few men attacked immediately. Their arms were strong from years in her smithies, and they carried her silver blades. The swords’ keen edges bit deeply, felling three of the warriors, sell-souls who had betrayed their own kind for a touch of power. But these men were mighty beyond her workers’ skill in war, and her swords were not enough. Within seconds the blood of her followers ran red on the marble floor.

Her hand flew to the hilt of her own weapon. The Chaos warriors surrounded her, swords levelled at her throat. Their leader’s face was drunk on triumph.

‘Now now, my lady,’ he said. ‘Stay your hand. We will not harm you.’

A delicate cough sounded behind the warriors, and they parted. There in the doorway stood a thin man, entirely bald. He was clad in robes covered in arcane sigils and wore a great deal of jewellery. His skin shone with scented oil. But the richness of his garb hid a sickness; a second glance showed his slenderness to be cadaverous and his skin grey beneath its copper tan. Behind his make-up his eyes were pouched and sunken, and there was something of the vulture to him. His smile was reptilian.

‘Celemnis of the Swords, the maiden who makes blades of such legendary strength and sharpness.’ He approached her, his eyes gleaming. ‘Here we are again.’

‘Ephryx of Denvrok,’ she said. ‘I should have realised that your hand was behind this.’

He dipped his head modestly. ‘I have worked a long time to undo this city’s defences. It was not easy. I am humbled that you see through my artifice and recognise me as the mind behind Elixia’s downfall.’ He held out his hand. ‘Are you not impressed? I have more to show. I agree circumstances could be better, but my offer still stands.’

‘I would not have you when you were merely a sorcerer. Now you are a slave to darkness. Never.’ She spat full in his face. Swords came closer to her neck.

Ephryx’s outstretched hand clenched. He withdrew it and waved his men back.

‘You are the daughter of a Ninemage, and should have greater respect for wielders of magic.’ He wiped her spittle away with a silken handkerchief. ‘Have you not heard, my dear? It is the season for treachery. The war against Chaos is lost. Only those who side with the victors have any hope of survival.’

‘Better to die with a clean soul than to sell it for baubles,’ she said. ‘You do not act from expediency. You chose your side a long time ago.’

‘Ah, if only it were so simple,’ he said. He beckoned forward a group of nine lesser sorcerers waiting by the bronze doors. They stepped nervously around the pooled blood of Celemnis’ men.

Ephryx waved another hand. A cruel-faced Chaos lord went into the cubicle where the High Alderman sat, his sword drawn. A moment later he came out, and his sword dripped red. The Alderman died as he had lived his last days: meekly, and without protest.

Ephryx smiled thinly. ‘We go to the vault. I must be sure that the treasure of Elixia is what it is purported to be.’

Celemnis was roughly disarmed and forced along with Ephryx and his acolytes through the gardens of the House of the Aldermen. The gates had fallen and the enemy ran riot through the streets of the city; a chorus of screams rose and fell in shrill waves. The smell of burning was overpowering, but in the garden peace lingered and the blackbird still sang its song.

They went through the portals of the monument. The building was deserted, and they descended its wide steps unchallenged. At the bottom was the vault, sealed with doors of black volcanic glass locked by wheels of silver. Upon the doors, Sigmar’s legend had been carved by the duardin. Tiny figures in long strips told of Sigmar’s life and his deeds in the realms.

Ephryx stood in thought for a moment, then indicated one of his acolytes with a finger and a smile. ‘You,’ he said.

‘Can I bear it, master?’ asked the acolyte hesitantly. ‘Will I die?’

‘That rather depends on you,’ said Ephryx. ‘If you can, then I will have no more to teach you. If you die, well…’ His smile broadened. ‘I could say the same thing.’

The acolyte nodded nervously. ‘Very well, master, I am ready.’

Two of Ephryx’s biggest warriors took station either side of the obsidian doors and grasped the wheel-lock handles. All but Celemnis and the acolyte averted their eyes.

‘Begin!’ said Ephryx. The Chaos warriors spun the wheels and heaved backwards. The doors parted and a line of brilliant light burst across them all.

The acolyte looked into the vault and made a noise of deep pain.

‘Is it there? Is it the Great Shatterer?’ asked Ephryx.

The man gasped out a reply. ‘Yes. Yes! I see a hammer, radiant with power. Oh, master, let me look away!’

‘I must be sure — describe it further. My favour will be yours. This is your final test!’

‘I see a comet with two tails upon the head, and the face of a great cat circles the haft. A spike is upon the… A spike… Ah, oh, it burns! It burns, ah, ah…’

Ephryx’s acolyte screamed and flames jetted from his mouth and his eyes. He flung out his arms and fell to his knees. His robes caught fire and his skin blackened from the inside out. He fell to the ground and rolled around, aflame. Within moments he was consumed utterly, leaving a pile of grey ash.

Ephryx held up a handkerchief to his nose and ordered his servants to sweep the mess away. ‘Close the gates!’

His warriors obeyed. The doors shut with a dull bang, sealing the light from view. Ephryx smiled again at Celemnis. ‘Well. I have in my possession one item I desire. What say you now to my offer? Be mine and rule at my side. Worlds could be your toys, such things I have learned! I will share them with you.’

‘I have seen what your favour brings,’ Celemnis said. ‘I will have none of it.’

‘You will submit yourself to me.’

‘If you are so powerful, make me,’ she said.

Ephryx bared his teeth. For a moment it looked like he would try to enslave her with his magic. One hand clenched and the other raised up, poised to release his arts. For a minute he stared at her, and she stared defiantly back. He let out an explosive sigh, and his hands sank back to his sides.

‘No. You will submit willingly, or you will die. You have fifty nights. Take her away.’

And so for fifty days and nights Celemnis was kept prisoner, and at every sinking of the sun she was brought before the sorcerer. Every night Ephryx would ask, ‘Do you submit?’ Every night she would spit upon the ground, or stare over his head, or look at the floor, or weep. But always she said no. ‘I will never be yours, Ephryx of Denvrok.’

For the first twenty days she was given every luxury, and was kept in a tall tower that had sprung fully formed from the wreck of the city. There was no way in or out, and she could never recall how she was taken to Ephryx. There was a single window of enchanted crystal, and through this she was permitted to look at the horror inflicted upon her home.

The days went by. Outside, the racket of industry set up. Slaves were driven into the city from all corners of the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok. Whipped and weeping, they were made to tear down the centre of Elixia.

The Great Monument was the first to be demolished.

Perfumed baths, fine food and wine, and exquisite clothes were all provided to her by unseen hands, while outside the remaining populace was enslaved. She could not eat at first, so dismayed was she, but hunger drove her to it. Every mouthful felt like a betrayal.

The clothes she ripped and destroyed every day, until after the first ten days she awoke every morning to find herself dressed in them while she slept — hideous, filmy things that stripped her of modesty.

Perhaps Ephryx was a fool and did not realise his actions only strengthened her resolve. Or perhaps he knew full well that she would never give in to him and tormented her out of spite.

‘No,’ she said to him every night. ‘Never.’ And so she was taken away again.

Ephryx’s patience wore thin. For the next twenty days she was confined to a cold cell. Foul food and stagnant water was all she was given. This she forced herself to eat, for she was still hopeful of opportunity and would not let her strength dwindle. None came. Awful screams broke her sleep.

The enchanted window came with her, magically set into the dripping metal of her cell wall, and her view of the world remained. Through it she saw Ephryx’s armies of slaves labouring in the Shattered City, melting its grand arches of steel and adamant and recasting them as giant plates bedecked with grimacing faces and spikes.

Over Ghal Maraz, they raised a cairn of lead, and then around that a stone keep. The foundations of a giant tower were being laid to encase the keep when she was moved again.

For the next ten days she was subjected to physical torments. Nothing that might mar her body permanently, for her beauty Ephryx coveted above all other things save the hammer, but excruciating nonetheless.

Still she would not yield.

‘I can make it stop. I will make it stop. Be mine, join with me and rule this land,’ said Ephryx on the final night. ‘Help me, guide me. Chaos does not have to be excess. We can coax beauty from the world.’ He had become more wan than before, and on his forehead were the buds of horns. A mark of favour from his dark master.

Celemnis burned with fever. Her red hair was matted, her body filthy. Every muscle ached.

‘No,’ she said, her voice made little more than a croak by thirst. ‘There is no beauty to be had from evil. Even if I were to sell my soul to Tzeentch, if I were to embrace his madness myself, then still I would not submit myself to you, Ephryx. I will never be yours.’

Ephryx snarled.

‘Poor Ephryx,’ she said. ‘The whole of the realm might fall under your spell, but I will not.’

Ephryx’s face hardened. ‘So be it.’

He performed a series of conjurer’s gestures, and a large crucible appeared. Above it was a cage shaped to hold the human body. Silent torturers stood either side, their heads horned, faces hooded. A jet of warpflame hissed from thin air to warm the crucible, and the iron of it glowed as prettily as roses. From the crucible’s gaping mouth came the unmistakable smell of molten silver.

‘By your own favoured metal will you be killed,’ said Ephryx. ‘I shall boil you in it, and coat your corpse in it, and make of you a statue. You shall stand where all other statues have been cast down. There you shall watch for all time the city you so loved. Your beauty will be mine to enjoy, and my victory your torment. Now, you have one last chance. Join with me, and rule forever, or die in agony and suffer for an eternity.’

At that point Celemnis’ resolve wavered. She looked upon the end Ephryx had devised for her with mute horror. The sorcerer leaned forward in his golden throne, keenly anticipating her surrender.

She stood tall, and shook her head.

He threw himself back in his throne pettishly.

‘Very well! Executioners!’

They came for her and strapped her into the cage, and hung it out over the bubbling metal.

‘Ephryx!’ she said.

He looked sidelong at her.

‘Victory is fleeting. The day will come when I shall return, and I will play my part in your downfall. This I swear.’

‘Impossible,’ he said.

She laughed. ‘Magic blows strongly in this age of Chaos. Your lord unwittingly makes wizards of us all! This is your doom and mine, Ephryx. Ask your master.’

‘I would have made you a queen,’ he said bitterly. He jerked his hand down. The cage dropped.

Ephryx found Celemnis’ screams were not to his taste, and he was glad when they were over.

Celemnis’ death did not pass unremarked. In Sigmaron, in Azyr, upon the half-finished tails of the Sigmarabulum which embraced the world fragment of Mallus, the Bell of Lamentation tolled. The God-King Sigmar looked up from his labours. Mallus quivered, pulsed, and pulled in on itself, diminished by another victory for Chaos. A moan went up from Azyrheim far below.

Sigmar looked to the shrunken world fragment, half visible through the tracery of his great endeavour. Soon the tendrils of iron and steel would reach for each other, close all gaps, and hide the secrets of his plans until they ripened to fruition.

On the other side of sealed gates, the denizens of a dozen hells beat their fists upon doors that would not open. The tolling of the bell focused Sigmar’s thoughts on all those trapped outside Azyr, those who must suffer the age of Chaos while he completed his work.

He returned his attention to his forge, and his tears fizzled on hot metal as he took up his tools again.

Chapter One

The Age of Sigmar

Now…

Vandus Hammerhand crouched in a world of light. He was alone, naked, bereft of comrades. Was he dead? Had the measure of godly power bestowed upon him been taken away? Was he Vendell Blackfist once more?

The glow dimmed. Vandus straightened. He had returned to Azyr, and stood within a quenching chamber. His sight took a moment to return; the light had been dazzling and the chamber was now dark. First he saw stars shining through an aperture at the apex of the dome, then he held up his arm and the starlight glinted from muscles larger and more powerful than those of any mortal man. His physique was still that of a Stormcast Eternal, and his skin was unmarked by the forge burns of his former life. He had not met death, not this time. Relief rose in him, and he felt ashamed that he had feared his power gone. Power was what the followers of the Four craved, not the Stormcasts. For the warriors of Sigmar, there should only be vengeance.

He thought back to Aqshy, to his plea to the skies as he had stood within the arch of the Gate of Wrath. Sigmar had struck him down as he had requested, but rather than destroy his bodily form it appeared that the God-King had taken him up to Azyr, just as he had centuries before. He only hoped that Korghos Khul’s realmgate had been destroyed by the storm bolt that had effected his escape, and that the battle for the Brimstone Peninsula had not been lost for his sake.

Light of a different sort grew. Shining shapes resolved around Vandus, burnished plates of golden armour that orbited him in stately dance. Vandus reached for them with a thought. Lightning leapt out from his skin to the armour plates, pulling them sharply into place until he was clad in the raiment of a Lord-Celestant once more.

A twinge affected him. Strange thoughts intruded upon his dressing. He felt there was a hollow space in his mind, as if in returning home he had chanced upon an unknown door and opened it to find an empty room pregnant with disquiet.

Vandus shook the sensation off, and called upon his war-mask. The visor, shaped into the impassive face of a judgmental god, slid into place. Vandus extended his hand and the hammer Heldensen crackled into being from nothing and clapped into his grip. The Lord-Celestant raised his other hand and grasped at the night sky, pulling down his cloak of star-silk from the heavens.

Outside, a trumpet note sounded, high and sweet: a summons. Sigmar called for him. The doors of the quenching chamber peeled themselves back. Vandus stepped outside into a long, curved corridor where many identical doors were set. Magical lamps burned with unchanging light in alcoves all the way along. Like everything else in Sigmaron and the Sigmarabulum, the corridor was beautiful.

Vandus was met by Knight-Heraldor Laudus Skythunder and Lord-Castellant Andricus Stoneheart, his friends and fellow officers, lords of the Hammers of Sigmar and its primary Warrior Chamber, the Hammerhands.

Laudus hung back, his silver horn tucked under one arm. Stoneheart was of a more demonstrative character, and he grabbed at Vandus’ upper arms and peered at him in wonder. His helmet was open. The battle armour topped with Andricus’ cheerful face instead of the blank war-mask of the Stormcasts made for an incongruous sight.

‘You’re alive then, lad?’ said Andricus. He unexpectedly embraced the Lord-Celestant. ‘Good to see you, Hammerhand. We feared you lost.’

‘Sigmar promises us an eternity, Andricus. I was taken from the battle whole and unharmed.’

Andricus stepped back. ‘Of course he does, of course. But we did not know for certain if you would survive the energies of the gate. You were snatched from the very jaws of the Realm of Chaos! And there have been…’ He shook his head, then forced a smile back onto his heavy features.

‘What?’ asked Vandus. ‘Why do you look at me so strangely? It is I, Vandus who was Vendell! The Hammerhand! Come, my friends, what did you fear?’

Andricus and Laudus shared a look. ‘Now’s not the time,’ said Andricus. ‘There’s much to discuss. We have been summoned again.’

‘How did you come to be here? You were not struck down?’

‘We were fortunate to avoid the agonies of death, my Lord-Celestant,’ said Laudus. He was altogether more aloof than the Lord-Castellant. Where Andricus spoke of his life as a peasant, Laudus had been noble born. They sometimes bickered over whose existence was the more honest. What was not in doubt was that they had both been heroes.

‘We returned to Azyr via the realmgate.’

‘The battle is won?’

‘Yes, son,’ said Andricus. He had been an old man when taken; to this he insisted he owed his cheerfulness. ‘We’ve all been invested with the power of the storm, but my joy doesn’t come from that,’ he was fond of saying. ‘I’m happy to see clearly, to get up from my bed without the crack of aching joints.’ When had he heard this, Laudus had pulled a face. ‘You’ll never understand how it is to be old now, my lads. And be thankful for it!’

Certain habits of speech and manner persisted from Andricus’ prior existence: his custom of speaking to all as if they were years younger than he, for one. Vandus was half-convinced Andricus did it simply to annoy Laudus.

‘Korghos Khul’s armies have been driven back from the peninsula,’ said Andricus. ‘His pyramid is cast down and his gate closed forever. More Stormhosts arrive every day. Our territory in Aqshy grows.’

‘I must have been absent for days.’

‘A week, my lord,’ said Laudus.

‘A week?’

‘Sigmar’s arts are mysterious,’ said Laudus.

‘None of us here know how long we were senseless when we were first gathered,’ said Andricus. ‘Why should it be any different this time?’

‘I must get back! Khul awaits me. I have failed to slay him twice, I will not fail a third time.’

‘You’ll have to put your own vengeance out of your mind,’ said Andricus. ‘We’ve a greater task at hand.’

‘We have been summoned to the palace. A new campaign awaits,’ said Laudus. ‘The palace is all abuzz. Sigmar is eager for something — none have ever seen him so roused.’

‘All the Hammers of Sigmar are here?’

‘All, my Lord-Celestant,’ said Laudus. ‘Those who fell are reforged. We are ready for war again.’

They left the quenching chambers and came through obscure ways to the exposed surface of the Sigmarabulum. Once more it churned with industry. The quiet before their assault on Aqshy had been but a pause, and now the magics and machineries there worked hard again, healing and remaking those warriors who had fallen. Sigmar’s wizard-artisans and their helpers hurried about. They paid no attention to the demigods striding among them — such sights were unremarkable in this city of wonders.

The Sigmarabulum gave off a nervous energy that had a man frantic to be about his work, and it stank of hot metal and magical discharge. However, its odd animus could not blot out the wider world around it.

To their right loomed the sphere of Mallus, the world remnant. It had swollen in the wake of the Stormhosts’ first victories. The metal was glutted with magic, and the surface glinted with an iridescent sheen. To their left the heavens of Azyr opened. Nowhere in any realm was there a night sky more beautiful; it blazed with stars of all colours and sizes, jewels set upon sumptuous cloths woven from nebulae. Rising through it was the Celestial Stair, a slash of bright metal climbing impossibly high, its top anchored beneath the High Star Sigendil. A handful of Azyr’s many moons arced gracefully along their heavenly tracks, while the lands of the Celestial Realm slumbered below. Rivers glinted in lazy loops of beaten steel, and towns and villages were picked out by yellow dots of lamplight. Forests were seas of purplish black in the moonlight, and farmland an orderly miniature landscape wrought in silver.

Vandus looked down on the land, and part of him yearned to enjoy its peace. He never could — that much had been made clear to him — but he could protect it so that others might live and grow old there. He did not resent his duty.

‘This way,’ said Laudus. They approached a trio of small realmgates set off to the side of the main roadway in the shadow of a giant foundry, glinting with soft blue light. The Stormcasts walked through this shimmer and emerged into a different place. Cool night scents hit them and crickets chirred in the dark.

They were far above the forges and factories, upon the dark moon Dharroth. The Sigmarabulum was forged in the shape of Sigmar’s twin-tailed comet, two arms reaching to embrace Mallus. This black satellite formed the head of the comet, and it was here that Sigmaron, the palace of the Heldenhammer, was situated. Vandus, Laudus and Andricus emerged into the grounds on the path they called the High Road. Sigmar’s palace soared above them, as wide and sprawling as any city, its many domes and spires gleaming by the light of the moons.

They made their way through the magnificent halls and vaults of the palace. Even the meanest chamber was monumental beyond anything Vandus could recall from his old life. Every stone was perfect, every decoration of the finest craftsmanship.

They took paths followed only by others of their kind, corridors they must take as ritual prescribed. Down they went, past the Forbidden Vaults, their heads resolutely turned away. Their oaths demanded they never look upon the vaults’ doors.

So it was that his companions did not immediately see Vandus stumble.

The strange sensation he had experienced in the quenching chambers returned redoubled. Vandus went down to his knees, clutching at his head. His mind burst aflame with visions.

He saw golden figures climbing endlessly up a glacier of precious metal, battles upon bridges that spanned an ocean of bubbling silver, and innumerable, wicked eyes glinting through a hole in the sky. He saw a two-headed winged shadow silhouetted before a portal of terrible power, and a tide of daemons. Holes ripped in the world’s fabric split the vision, clawed hands and needle-toothed snouts pushing through until nothing remained. Light burned them away, and he saw the sigil of the twin-tailed comet upon a hammer that shone brighter than any sun.

‘My lord!’

The hammer.

‘Vandus!’

Ghal Maraz.

Vandus came to his senses with Laudus Skythunder clutching his shoulders.

‘Vandus? Are you well? What is happening?’ Laudus was saying.

Andricus spoke quietly in reply. ‘It is the same as with the others. The reforged…’

‘Silence, Lord-Castellant. Vandus has not passed the gates of death. I will hear no more of your morbid talk!’

‘Vandus?’ said Andricus.

Recovering himself, the Lord-Celestant looked to his fellows. Concern radiated from them both. ‘I’m fine,’ he said hoarsely. He got unsteadily to his feet, pushing Andricus’ hand away when he tried to help him. Once up, he marched on as steadily as he could, leaving the others to follow.

Lord-Castellant sentries slammed their halberds against their chests as the three Stormcasts entered the throne room through doors fifty feet high. Within were the command echelons from a dozen Stormhosts, arranged in rows according to their rank and order either side of a carpet, a night-blue road that led from the doors to the celestial throne. Upon this, the God-King Sigmar sat tall in his majesty. The ceiling retreated up and away. Hundreds of feet overhead, carved panels shone, and it was as if the assembled host basked in the light of many suns.

Sigmar smiled broadly as Vandus approached. Andricus was right, something had occurred. Sigmar’s manner betrayed his excitement.

‘Vandus, my favoured son,’ said the God-King. ‘I am gladdened that you are here with me again.’

Vandus bowed his head. He dearly wanted to kneel, to show his pleasure at being in the presence of his lord, but the God-King had no time for sycophancy.

Before the throne was another Lord-Celestant, clad in the turquoise livery of the Celestial Vindicators Stormhost, and he was kneeling.

‘Thostos has discovered something,’ said Sigmar. ‘All of you have performed well, my sons. I bring you here to share with you Thostos Bladestorm’s discovery and to set for you another task of great import.’

The god turned his radiant eyes upon the kneeling Thostos, who had made no movement or sound.

‘Stand, Thostos Bladestorm!’ commanded Sigmar.

Thostos slowly lifted his head and looked around him. He appeared confused.

‘We shall kneel no more,’ said Sigmar. He gestured, encouraging Thostos to rise.

The Lord-Celestant of the Bladestorm got unsteadily to his feet.

‘You are reforged,’ said Sigmar. ‘Now tell me of Chamon.’

Thostos paused before he began. When he spoke, it was falteringly. His voice sounded hollow behind his impassive war-mask. ‘There was… There was a fortress of magic. We breached its walls, only to die in a burst of unlight that was fought by a greater light.’

Sigmar leaned forward. ‘Speak to me of this greater light.’

‘Golden,’ said Thostos with difficulty. ‘Not the energy of Chaos. Violent, but pure.’

Sigmar tensed, a man who had undone the final fetters on his passions. Vandus realised then that the wait for the war through the Long Calm had been harder on the God-King than it had been on any of the Stormcasts.

‘I remember it well,’ Sigmar said. ‘Lord Vandus!’

Vandus stepped up to Thostos’ side.

‘Prepare your warriors,’ commanded Sigmar. ‘That light is mine.’ He sank back into his throne and gripped the metal gryphons on the arms. ‘We have found Ghal Maraz.’

Sigmar swept his piercing gaze across the assembled officers. ‘This knowledge has been bought at great cost. Many of the Celestial Vindicators were slain and returned to the Reforging chambers, victims of evil magic.’ He looked to Thostos again. ‘Centuries ago, I was deceived into casting Ghal Maraz from me at the Battle of Burning Skies by Tzeentch. He has since conspired to hide its whereabouts from me, but long have I suspected that Ghal Maraz rested in the mountains of the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok.

‘I am sorry, Thostos, that I did not reveal to you my suspicions. I am certain you and your comrades wondered why I would send my most vengeful warriors to seek out old allies when their hammers thirsted for war, not words. I needed your fury there, in case the hammer was uncovered and needed to be snatched quickly. Here in Azyr my actions are secret, but out there in the realms they are not. I could not risk rumour of my intuition coming to the ears of the Changer of the Ways. Now you know.’

Thostos said nothing. Vandus looked sidelong at him.

Sigmar stood. ‘Warriors! Stormcasts! This is your quest! Go to Anvrok in Chamon and assail this fortress of which Thostos speaks. Destroy it and return what is rightfully mine to my hand! I had not dared hope Ghal Maraz could be recovered so early in our struggle. With it, we might begin our war in earnest!’

A rousing acclamation roared from the Stormcasts. ‘Sigmar! Ghal Maraz for Sigmar! Sigmar!’

‘Vandus and Thostos shall lead you,’ continued Sigmar, his godly voice cutting through the shouts of his men. ‘Hammers of Sigmar! Anvils of the Heldenhammer! Celestial Vindicators! Lions of Sigmar! Twelve Stormhosts shall I send. We shall crush the servants of Chaos within Anvrok. The hammer shall be ours. Nothing will prevent our victory!’

Chapter Two

Kairos Fateweaver

In a place outside of time, Kairos Fateweaver peered intently into the Flame that Consumes the Now, its strange lights reflected in his four eyes. Both his faces frowned.

‘This troubles me, this fixation on the present and not the past,’ said one head to the other.

‘Or the future. But needs must. I must bear the agony of the instant. Watch our petty friend, as he postures in front of his minions.’

In the fire, an image rippled of Ephryx, Ninth Disciple of the Ninth Tower. He stood atop the walls of his broken fortress, addressing a crowd of lords and knights: the nobility of Chamon.

‘So many schemes, so many ambitions,’ said the left head. ‘So many little heads to hold them in.’

‘None of those schemers can match Ephryx’s plans. They would tear him limb from limb if they knew what he intended. Their mistake is to think his ambitions are as limited as theirs. Their horizons are not broad enough.’

‘There! His scheme I say — I talk like him. It is my scheme.’

‘When I look into the past, I see his hand more in evidence than mine,’ rejoined the other head.

‘And when I look into the future, I see my victory and not his.’

‘Much must be done to make fate bend to my will. The sorcerer does not deserve another chance. He had nearly enough magic to complete the translocation, but frittered too much away to save his pointless mortal life.’

One shoulder shrugged. ‘It was Tzeentch’s plan.’

‘Of course.’

‘Of course, of course, but I must take an active hand,’ said the right head.

‘Ephryx is vulnerable,’ said the left.

‘His magic must be replenished.’

‘How to accomplish that?’

‘Time. The dearest coin of all. He must have more of it.’

Kairos leaned forward to the flames, keen to listen to what the doomed sorcerer had to say to his allies.

‘War has come to Chamon!’ shouted Ephryx. His voice echoed from walls of steel and copper, from bastions of brass and bronze. He had dressed himself in his finest occult robes and his horns gleamed with fresh lacquer. It was an effort to maintain his appearance of power — a necessary fiction.

A week ago, the Eldritch Fortress had been a gleaming example of Ephryx’s ingenuity. But his perfect kingdom, so long laboured over, was much damaged. A gaping hole had opened in the curtain wall, gouged out by the wild magic of Ephryx’s mutalith during its fatal fight with the turquoise storm warrior. Many of the skulls that had adorned every inch of the outside walls, transmuted to copper to store magic, had been burned away by lightning or smashed to pieces by hammer and sword. Too much of Ephryx’s hoarded power had been spent driving off Sigmar’s warriors.

There were several minor breaches elsewhere. None were quite so devastating as that in the wall of the huge, central tower. A long crack ran up from the base, showing the domed keep inside. This too had suffered damage, and the cairn of lead within had been shivered from its foundations. A wild glory shone out through the ragged gaps, brighter than the sickly sun. There was no more hiding for Ephryx’s artefact. Its painful light was plain for all to see.

Ephryx was sure that the hammer’s location was no longer secret. They would be coming for it, and soon. On the other side of the breach, Ephryx’s tall tower cast a thick black shadow, as precise as a sundial’s. It provided a measure of relief from the blazing light, and so there gathered all the might of the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok. Lord Maerac of Manticorea had emptied his kingdom of dukes and barons. They sat sullenly upon their manticores, or lounged against their mounts’ flanks. Even Mutac the Silent had come down from the remote island. The sorcerer had once fancied himself a rival to Ephryx, until Ephryx had called upon Tzeentch to curse him for his impertinence. Mutac had gone about cowled ever since. Ephryx alone knew what lurked under Mutac’s hood in place of a face — nine fleshy towers, capped with nine eyes; an unsubtle reminder of who was the supreme mage of the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok.

That Mutac had come down suggested he thought Ephryx’s time was done. Ephryx looked out from his broken walls seeking allies, but instead saw two dozen scheming rivals that weighed and measured him as if he were a bullock ready for slaughter.

‘Friends,’ he began. ‘Allies!’ There were no such things under the gaze of the Great Changer, unless they were of convenience. Ephryx gave a silent prayer that the lords of the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok would find him convenient for a little while longer. ‘We must defend ourselves!’

‘You mean we must defend you!’ shouted Baron Kergoth of Ungivar. Scattered laughter came from the nobles. A manticore growled and rolled upon its side. Scratch my belly or I shall eat you, the expression on its face suggested.

Ephryx licked his lips. There were a lot of Maerac’s men below. They all had manticores. In the Shattered City, ten thousand campfires burned. There, the bondsmen of Maerac’s followers waited. For a fleeting instant the sorcerer worried he may have miscalculated.

‘Defend this tower, and you defend your own kingdoms,’ said Ephryx.

‘Rubbish!’ shouted a minor count, far beneath Ephryx’s disdain and as thin as he was unimportant.

Maerac sneered. ‘Look at him. He has some scheme. I do not think he lies directly to us, although he will be lying about something. Tell us, Ephryx, the Ninth Disciple of the Ninth Tower, what have you hidden in this fortress? Why is it so imperative that we defend you, when we should look to our own in the face of this threat?’

Ephryx’s warped face split in an apologetic smile. He pressed his hands together. ‘The artefact is none other than Ghal Maraz! The hammer of Sigmar Heldenhammer himself.’

The nobles went quiet. They looked askance at one another. Now they appraised each other, and not Ephryx alone, each one evaluating his chances of seizing the weapon for himself.

That was more like it.

‘You had the Great Shatterer in your possession all this time, sorcerer, and you told no one?’

Ephryx shrugged. ‘The people who dwelt in this city before me raised a great monument over it. It was the talk of the realm. You did not know of it. Sigmar did not know of it. I knew of it. Why do you think this is, Maerac?’

Maerac scowled but held his tongue.

‘It is because the Great Changer desired me to have it, and removed it from the eyes and memories of other men,’ Ephryx said, smiling condescendingly. ‘Forgive me that I have not told you, but do you not see? Had this artefact fallen into the wrong hands then these valleys would have a different set of lords. I was entrusted with it. So you see, from me your power flows.’

Maerac stared hard at Ephryx. It was clear he felt Ephryx’s hands to be the wrong ones.

‘Protect me and you are doing not my will, but Great Lord Tzeentch’s will.’ Ephryx pointed a long finger upwards. ‘Tzeentch demands its safety.’

‘Why has he not claimed it for himself? He has had ample opportunity!’ shouted the Baron of the Floating Marches.

‘The Twisted God is untrustworthy. Perhaps he desires it to fall into Sigmar’s hand,’ yelled the Yellow Duke, a pompous little fat man with an over-fed mount. He fancied himself a wizard, and Ephryx loathed him. He did, however, have a point; second-guessing Tzeentch was impossible. Any plan was plausible.

‘Whatever our god’s plans, they are unknowable to us. We need to focus on certainties, my friends. If Sigmar’s hand closes about the haft of Ghal Maraz, then it will be used against all of you! Our land plays host to the Silverway, the duardin roadway between all realms. If he intends to storm each of the eight realms, the Silverway will be of great importance to him. How long do you think your fiefdoms will stand? The servants of the man-god must be halted before these walls, or your days of power are numbered.’

Murmurs of assent rippled over the gathering. Better still.

‘We tried for the Silverway last week and they cast us back. Even now they fortify it against us,’ said Kergoth.

‘There are more of them coming every day via the Bright Tor Gate. It is reopened and in their hands,’ said the Indigo Quester. ‘They rebuild the forts there, and have taken the road from the valley.’

‘Do you see? By your own words have you made prophecy!’ shouted Ephryx.

‘This fortress is breached and it will not stand long. I say we look to our own,’ said another. ‘This fool’s day is done.’

‘We will fight and die for nothing. Every day the numbers of the Stormcasts grow by the thousand. They do not attack, they prepare! How many will there be?’ said the Yellow Duke. He had a buttery, jeering voice.

Ephryx raised his hands to quell the rising debate. ‘Fear not, I have a plan. One that will save this fortress, and bring Tzeentch’s boon to us all!’

Furious shouting erupted, mostly in his favour.

If only they knew what I intend, thought Ephryx, and it was all he could do to stop himself from laughing.

Kairos waved the image away irritably. Ephryx’s plan had some merit, but that was chiefly because it was Kairos’ plan. The eyes of one head slid shut as he peered into the future. What he saw there made him shake his head.

‘What do I see?’ asked his past-seeing head, which had no faculty of foresight.

The other head whispered, its eyes still closed. ‘Ephryx will succeed in removing himself, but his persecutors will not rest. More time is needed. More time! The pursuit cannot be halted, but it can be delayed.’

‘I must be rid of Ephryx.’

‘I shall.’

‘Favours must be called in.’

‘I shall remind those that owe them of their debt,’ soothed the other head.

Kairos opened his eyes. The warpflame flickered. The image of Ephryx whirled away and became a view of a desolate fane.

‘My guest will be here soon,’ said the past-seeing head.

In the old temple, a glowing green blade slid through the air, as if cutting through the painted backdrop of a stage set. A pink hand curled around one lip of the cut and pulled it wider. A twitching, rodentine nose poked its way through. It snuffled at the air, then withdrew. ‘I saw him set out two days past. He will be here…’

‘…now,’ said the future-seeing head.

A ratlike figure, nearly man-high, wriggled through the slit in space. It scurried from wall to wall, pausing at the corner to sniff at the air. The creature was half flesh, half machine. One leg was steel prosthetic and one arm had been replaced by a flare-mouthed weapon of brass, but these crude embellishments did not appear to slow it. Satisfied it was alone, it reached within its jerkin and produced a set of chalks. With a quick, trembling hand it began to draw an arcane circle of surprising artfulness around the altar in the middle of the shrine. Kairos watched as the ratman calmed and became absorbed in its work.

‘This is no true champion of Chaos.’

‘No. An opportunist. A sneak thief. Like all skaven.’

‘Still, time is of the essence when one is buying time.’

‘It will have to suffice.’ The head looked to its counterpart. ‘Must I wait until his circle is complete?’

‘Why wait on convention?’ said the other head.

Kairos waved his hand. A column of vibrantly coloured fire erupted from the cracked altar at the centre of the ruined temple. A burst of multi-spectral light shone up from the circle in reply. The skaven was taken by surprise, and emitted an acrid stink. He jumped back, holding his claw up to his sensitive eyes.

‘You are looking for me, child of Chaos,’ said Kairos’ heads in unison. Through the vortex of warpflame, the Oracle of All loomed high over the creature.

‘Yes-yes!’ the skaven squeaked and shrank back before the apparition. ‘How you know?’

Kairos clattered his beaks. ‘I know everything. That is why you are here, is it not? To seek my knowledge. I am an oracle.’

‘I am the oracle,’ said the second head.

‘Always,’ complained the first head, ‘they are fools!’

The skaven cringed in on itself, but nodded. ‘Yes,’ it gasped. ‘Shreeglum, warlord of five clans, seeks the Great Oracle! And Shreeglum has found him, summoned him!’ The skaven grew bold, impressed by its own success. It held up its chalk and stared at it in wonder, then gobbled it down. It came a little closer, stood a little straighter. ‘I come with great treaty-gift! I see things no other sees! I go through the ways between the worlds, to the hall of the god-thing Sigmar.’ Shreeglum stroked at its whiskers, its long face calculating. ‘What you give me for the clever things I learn there?’

‘You come to tell us that Sigmar has found his hammer.’

‘How very dull,’ said the other head.

A look of consternation gripped Shreeglum. He stooped low, cautious and suspicious. Already he was backing away, preparing to flee.

‘How you know-guess?’ he said again.

‘The same question!’ said one head.

‘I refer you to the same answer,’ said the other.

‘Do not flee. I have use for you yet. All is not lost. You must do me a service, and you shall have what you want,’ said Kairos.

‘A very great service,’ said the other head.

The skaven stopped, his nose twitching. He crept forward tentatively, and looked up at the apparition within its column of fire.

‘Listen, then,’ said Kairos. ‘I bid you breach Chamon at Silverfall in Anvrok, and take battle to the Stormcast Eternals. Do you know where that is?’

‘Dead-ruined man town. Much silver. Hot-hot! Yes,’ the skaven nodded. ‘I know the secret ways.’

‘Good. The Stormcast Eternals must fall there. Is that clear?’ said the second head.

‘Yes-yes,’ said the skaven warlord. ‘I will do this task for you. And in return…’

‘Do not tell me,’ said Kairos wearily, ‘you wish to usurp your leader’s position.’ Always it was the same with the Horned Rat’s brood, scheming and plotting against each other. Tiresome.

The skaven warlord squealed gleefully. A dribble of warpfire squirted from his arm-cannon, hissing onto the ritual circle. ‘Yes-yes!’

‘Very well,’ said Kairos, gesturing theatrically. He was getting into the spirit of the occasion. ‘Kill the one called Hammerhand and the fates shall align as you wish.’

The skaven paused, nose bobbing up and down as if it would smell the veracity of what Kairos had said.

The daemon leaned forward.

‘You may go.’

‘Yes-yes!’ chittered the skaven, scampering into the darkness. ‘Biters! Drillfiends! Hurry! Follow the tell-smoke!’

The skaven ran out of the fane. Kairos extinguished the flame and nodded both his heads.

‘It will not be enough.’

‘I know.’

‘I shall call the rest of the Nine,’ said both heads together. ‘They will be needed.’

Kairos, the place he inhabited and everything within it winked out of existence, leaving an oily trail of magic that faded away into the formless void.

Chapter Three

Return to Chamon

Upon the narrow plain by the great Silver River of Anvrok stood the Bright Tor Gate, an ancient edifice open once more by Sigmar’s decree. A camp had sprung up. The ruins about the gate were thick with artisans from the Eternal City, working under the watchful protection of the Lord-Castellants and their warriors, whose keen eyes were ever searching for signs of attack.

Everywhere were the signs of fresh works. Wizard-wrights levitated the tumbled blocks of broken fortifications to stand once more atop one another, their fellows mortaring them into place with molten stone jetting from lances that burned with a magical heat. New life returned to the bones of the dead town. The gate shone with pure energies of untainted magic. Chrono-smiths worked their gentle but potent spells, walking solemnly around and around the gate’s town, and their deep, sonorous chants provided a calming counter note to the clamour of construction. Wherever their sandalled feet passed, the land seemed changed, cleansed.

The realm was healing.

Trumpets and warhorns blared. An honour guard formed up along the wide highway leading out of the gate eastwards towards the Shattered City. These men wore the turquoise armour of the Celestial Vindicators, and had left their Warrior Chambers to hold the gate when the first attack on Elixia had been undertaken. They stood tall and proud, eager to welcome their brothers back.

Black clouds raced overhead and lightning blazed. A vanguard of Stormcasts from five Stormhosts was deposited along the cliffs to the north and upon the road ahead of the gate. Liberators and Judicators took up defensive positions. Prosecutors leapt skyward, scanning the lands for enemies. All was expertly done, but done for the sake of procedure. The lands around the gate already belonged to the forces of Azyr.

Trumpets blew again. The Bright Tor Gate throbbed and opened. The field of magic bowed, glowing brightly, swelling forward over the road. Shining motes detached themselves from this luminescence, dimmed, and took on the shapes of marching men. Lord Thostos Bladestorm, as finder of the hammer, emerged first. A swaying forest of standards followed, the icons and banners of the Celestial Vindicators all together. Then the remainder of the Stormhosts came out.

Excepting a few brotherhoods assigned to guard the Silverway and the Bright Tor Gate, the entire host emerged in a long column. Their fellows lining the way cheered and shouted, but their welcome stumbled and quietened when their greetings were not returned.

The singing of the Celestial Vindicators, once renowned for its volume and fervour, had become restrained, though they marched with no less purpose. Thostos passed beyond the gate plaza, through a tumbled gateway that was already covered in scaffolding. Mortal craftsmen stepped back, first in respect but then in fear. Thostos’ armour sparked and fizzed with magic. His eyes glowed a dull blue, not bright enough to outshine daylight, but when he walked in shadow one could see them glimmer coldly. Many of the warriors who walked behind him showed similar signs of change. There was a silence and a certain dreaminess in their bearing. As more and more of those who had fallen and been reforged marched forth, the shouts of their brothers lining the route died altogether.

The grim rearguard of the Celestial Vindicators came out from the gate. A gap opened up. More trumpets sounded, and the gate’s light swelled again, and the Hammers of Sigmar came forth. The Hammerhands were at the fore, Lord-Celestant Vandus Hammerhand upon the dracoth Calanax leading them.

Amid Vandus’ own ranks were many who had fallen, and this was giving the Lord-Celestant cause for concern.

Vandus had summoned his Lord-Relictor, Ionus Cryptborn, to march at his side. They spoke quietly. Overly cautious perhaps, for the trudge of thousands of feet covered all but the loudest clarions and warsongs.

‘Thostos has changed,’ said Vandus to Ionus. ‘He speaks only a little, and what he says is distant. I feel that I must strive constantly for his attention. His eyes burn with blue fire. The air crackles around him and all who approach him feel the heat of his rage. And he is not alone.’

‘Small wonder,’ replied Ionus, ‘for here in the Bright Tor Mountains, Thostos died. Under these same peaks, he will be avenged.’

‘I spoke with him on the way to the muster chamber. I asked him if he had been changed, if we were truly eternal as Lord Sigmar promised.’

‘And what did he reply?’

‘He said “yes”. To which of the two questions, I cannot fathom. Then he strode away from me.’

Calanax rumbled. Vandus absently scratched at the celestial beast’s neck.

‘I see,’ said Ionus.

‘Ionus, I call you to me for counsel. You wield the magics of the storm.’

‘At my lord Sigmar’s command.’

‘You came from death, so they say.’

‘I have two masters. You know that, friend of old.’

‘Then please, as my friend and adviser, tell me what has occurred? We are promised eternity to bring war upon the minions of the Four, but I did not expect it to take this course. I see it in others too, many of my own. Andricus and Laudus are reluctant to discuss it with me.’

‘It is simple, Lord-Celestant. Your warriors have died and returned. Their alteration is inevitable.’

The Lord-Relictor carried a heavy reliquary: the bones of a hero from the Age of Myth in an open casket upon a staff. The casket was surmounted by a starburst of gold, and many other fittings of metal besides. It was heavy, but Ionus carried it as if it were nothing, and easily kept pace with Calanax’s swaying stride.

‘How is this inevitable?’

‘Death is a constant. It wraps everything, binding all fate as tight as a funeral shroud. One day, all this will die. Sigmar will die, you and I will die, the Four will die. We are eternal, yes, but even eternity is not without end. When all else is dead, then death will be the last to die. Sigmar defies death with his magic, plucking us from the underworlds and reforging our mortal form. Death is jealous. When our warriors skirt the borders of that dark country, a part of them is stolen away.’

‘None can defy Sigmar,’ said Vandus.

‘Death can, Vandus. Death only seeks to take its due. Sigmar is the thief in this affair, not death,’ said Ionus. ‘And so death snatches at our spirits, and we return to this life a little diminished as we pass him by. The shortfall has to be made up somehow.’

‘With what?’

Ionus shrugged. ‘Sigmar is the lord of the storm — I serve him but I am of death’s realm. You ask me of death, and are right to do so, for I guard the souls of our comrades. But to know the secrets of the storm, one must ask the lord of storms. And I do not think he will give up his knowledge.’

Vandus blew out a breath.

‘There is something else on your mind, Hammerhand?’

‘Yes, there is more. I have been troubled by sights of things to come. Visions. I am unsure of them. Are they part of the God-King’s gift, or have I too been changed?’

‘You have not died. You remain as you were.’

‘Nevertheless, I was stolen from under death’s nose, and I was exposed to the fell energies of the Gate of Wrath. The unlight of Chaos touched me, Ionus. Have I become impure?’

‘Your visions are nothing to be afraid of. Or they might be. How will you know unless you act upon them? This is an age of wonder. Should your visions lead you falsely, pay them no heed and we shall discuss them further. We are fortunate in being able to suffer the worst lapses in judgement yet live to learn from them.’

‘Are you not afraid of what might happen to us when we die and return?’

‘Death cannot change me, because I already belong to death. Why would death try to take what it already owns? And if I should fall and become as Thostos after my remaking, then what of it? It will be only for a while. Death is a transition. To change is not only the purview of Chaos, but a necessary part of Order also.’

The road from the Bright Tor Gate turned towards the cliffs and began to climb. The gorge of the Silver River dropped away to their right. Behind them, the bizarre sight of the celestial wyrm Argentine heating the Great Crucible dominated the sky. Beyond the cliffs the mountains stepped up, walling away the sky.

At the brink, where the road crossed the cliff top and joined the main Anvrok highway, were two crumbling towers. Once a toll gate perhaps, they were now piles of windblasted stone. Upon them snapped the banners of the Stormhosts in Anvrok’s hot wind. The angle of the road’s ascent allowed Vandus to see far up and down the line. He caught sight of Thostos, a lonely figure at the front of a tongue of brilliant blue-green. There was a gap of a hundred feet between Vandus’ own position and the last of the Celestial Vindicators. Behind the Hammers of Sigmar came the Lions of Sigmar, and so on, a long stream of warriors that led back to the Bright Tor Gate. The road was a marvel of duardin engineering, and although it had seen no maintenance for centuries there were few holes in its well-paved surface. The buttresses holding back the cliffs had stood the test of time and the roadway remained largely clear of debris.

Vandus thought on what Ionus said for a time, as the wide highway mounted higher and the thin lands of the river’s margin dropped away. ‘Do you think me a coward for asking on this, Ionus?’ he asked. ‘I assure you I am not. I pledged myself to Sigmar body and soul, and he has rewarded me well. I only wish to know the full price I am being asked to p—’

Vandus was interrupted by a whooping screech. He looked upwards, towards the top of the cliff, and saw tendrils of dark magic. A titanic rumbling growled across the Vale of Anvrok, building to a deafening cacophony, and a long swathe of the cliff face peeled away and came down. Calanax reared, backing into the Knights-Vexillor following Vandus and Ionus. Thostos’ Stormhosts ahead threw themselves into a desperate run as a mountain’s worth of ore-rich boulders crashed down upon them. Many could not get clear in time, and were swept away to their deaths or buried alive. Vandus’ Hammerhands surged behind him, desperate to get to their buried fellows and pushed by the weight of the column still marching up towards them.

‘Back, back! Do not approach!’ shouted Vandus.

All heeded the wisdom of their lord and halted. From higher up the mountains a second avalanche rushed from the high peaks, dislodged by the collapse of the cliff face, dumping thousands of tonnes of ice and snow atop the rocks.

‘Stop the march!’ Vandus raised a hand and a frantic series of trumpet calls rang back down the road. The column came to a stumbling halt.

The noise stopped. Stray boulders bounced only yards from his position. Puffs of storm-magic burst from the landslide, whisked upwards to join the distant thunderheads as trapped men succumbed to their wounds.

Dust sifted through the air. By now it was late afternoon and the sun coloured the metal-rich cloud a pale yellow. For a moment shocked silence reigned, to be shattered by braying laughter drifting down from the mountains above.

‘Beastmen,’ Lord Vandus shouted. ‘At them!’

Calanax roared and his draconic voice carried far back down the road. A score of Lord-Celestants broke from the leading three Stormhosts, their dracoths leaping to the mountainside. Vandus leaned forward as Calanax bounded upwards, his sharp claws and momentum propelling him up the nearly sheer surface. They reached the top of the cliff where the main road ran. There, the Bright Tor Mountains intruded deep into the valley, and five peaks reared their snowy heads high above. The scaled beasts bounded onto the slopes beyond the main road.

The beastmen, a strange copper-skinned breed, occupied a shallow ridge cutting out from the mountain. They were spread some distance along the road, but there was a thick knot of them on a canted ledge, grouped around one that Vandus assumed to be the leader. The beast-chief, a shaman of some sort, was a heavily built mutant, his aura alive with dark power. Vandus headed right for him. To his left and right, beastmen broke and ran, their nimble goat’s legs granting them unnatural agility on the steep mountainside. But the dracoths were quicker, as surefooted as mountain lions. Terrified bleating echoed through the peaks as the dracoths ran down their prey and tore them apart.

Vandus burst through the shaman’s bodyguard. These were larger and better armoured than the feeble specimens the other Lord-Celestants slew, but Calanax ripped them to pieces with his heavy claws just the same. Crude weapons bounced from Calanax’s peytral, and those that hit his body were turned by his thick hide. The dracoth bit down hard on a creature and shook his jaws viciously, casting the broken body aside. Vandus was intent upon the leader. The shaman raised a staff of black oak that burned with unholy power, but Vandus smote the creature on the head, slaying it instantly. The ledge was cleared.

‘Back, back to the column!’ shouted Vandus. He waved his hammer around as a signal then slid from Calanax’s back, bent down to the corpse of the beast-shaman and took his prize.

The Lord-Celestants returned to the column. Vandus rode up to Ionus and cast the head of the beastlord to the ground.

‘Swift vengeance,’ said Ionus.

‘Aye,’ said Vandus. ‘Yet the damage to the Celestial Vindicators cannot be undone.’ He was concerned, and a little afraid. ‘Some of these men meet their third deaths today. One wonders what they will become.’

Vandus called to his signallers and his Knights-Heraldor.

‘We must hold the march. Get men to the top of the cliffs and send Prosecutors to the mountain tops. And find me our scouts. I want to know how this ambush was missed.’ Vandus surveyed the fan of rubble burying the road. ‘Send back to the gate for workers and wizard-wrights. We can go no further before we have cleared the way.’ He looked back angrily down the stalled column. ‘This will cost us at least a day.’

Chapter Four

The Shattered City

The clearance of the road took time the Stormcasts could ill afford to lose. Vandus urged his men and the workers on to harder efforts, aware always that the delay suited their enemies perfectly. Once the digging had finished, the column set out again, up onto the great highway of Anvrok, and towards their goal. The Bright Tor Mountains brooded over their march, but even they seemed paltry things to the great tower of the sorcerer. This grew ever loftier as they closed, the great eye of Tzeentch sculpted into the top glaring at them from a great height.

Centuries of desolation had done little to diminish the scale of Elixia, and the men looked upon it with sorrow and awe. The tall walls of the Eldritch Fortress withdrew behind shattered ruins as the Stormhosts marched nearer, leaving only the tower visible. Broken buildings crowded the road with increasing density upon the approach, but the city proper was a jagged silhouette upon a bluff.

Vandus ordered a halt at the foot of these cliffs and called a council of war. The twelve Stormhosts were each sent to a different point of the tumbled walls, while a dozen Warrior Chambers were directed northwards to reinforce the Stormcasts holding the Silverway entrance. This could be seen far away, a dark slot in another tumbledown city clinging to the mountainside.

Bidding his men be wary, Vandus ordered the advance of the Stormhosts. He and Thostos led the way through a melted gateway that must once have been every bit as impressive as those of Azyrheim. As Vandus looked upon Elixia’s despoliation a thought troubled his mind over and again — this could so easily have been the fate of Azyr had Sigmar not sealed the realmgates.

Statuary lay broken in the streets, ornate temples and palaces were roofless derelicts, only the dryness of Anvrok saving them from total disintegration. Everywhere Vandus witnessed the touch of Chaos: twisted statues, deformations to the ground, buildings warped into ludicrous monstrosities, terrified faces trapped in stone. Friezes and statues were subtly warped to mocking effect: town dignitaries had the heads of swine, gods the faces of fools. Sorrowful phantoms cried on the wind, and when birds were scared up from their eyries, they clattered skywards on wings of metal, shouting in the voices of men.

The Stormhosts were forced to go retinue by retinue along the streets, for their sheer numbers hampered their manoeuvres. The columns, already split on entering the city, were forced to divide again. Tumbled heaps of scrap further blocked the streets, slowing them to a crawl. The Bladestorm and the Hammerhand Warrior Chambers went together, always at the fore.

Where the voices of the dead were absent, silence ruled the place, swallowing up the footsteps of the Stormcasts. Thostos burned with a palpable fury, his eyes fixed upon the tower of the sorcerer. Andricus Stoneheart shook his head at Vandus. Both were wary of Thostos’ change, and Vandus was tense, anticipating disaster to come.

They reached a wide square, paved with green slabs of copper and bronze. Ruined workshops surrounded the space, with enough of their collapsed arcades still intact to hint at the square’s past glories. Upon the wall was a sign in ancient script.

‘The Square of Living Blades,’ read Vandus.

‘Here was the armoury of Celemnis, Maiden of the Blades,’ said Ionus. He gestured to an impressive ruin on the west side of the square. ‘There she bound threads of her hair into the core of each sword. It is said that they could cut through soul and flesh with equal ease.’

In the centre was a single statue of tarnished silver upon a tall plinth. There was a haunting beauty to the woman it depicted, and an overwhelming sadness.

‘That must be her, but she died when the city fell, or so I would have thought. Who raised a statue to her?’ Ionus paused, suddenly alert. Vandus held up his fist, halting his men.

‘What is it?’

‘Death. Pain. Something else…’ Ionus’ words trailed off. His eyes were drawn to the collapsed arches of the arcade, and a movement there. ‘Watch the shadows!’ called Cryptborn urgently. His Retributor bodyguard drew in close.

As if Ionus’ warning were a signal, hundreds of horned warriors came scrambling from the ruins, screaming incoherently.

‘The sorcerer’s minions,’ said Thostos. ‘This time he sends evil men to contest our approach.’

‘We shall pass the test, brother,’ said Vandus. ‘Liberators, forward! Judicators, take the high ground!’ he ordered. ‘These are irritants, nothing more.’

Thostos made no reply, but lifted his hammer and sword and thundered into the square, sparks fizzling on his armour. Savages leapt from the arcade to fall upon him, but they were hurled back, their blood painting the metal red. Lord Thostos drove on across the square, hacking his way towards the road at the other side. His men streamed from the column and ran after him.

‘Thostos, wait!’ shouted Vandus.

Within seconds, Thostos Bladestorm had disappeared entirely. Vandus had not the time to go after him. Horns blared, and ambush erupted from all sides.

Throughout the city the vanguards of each Stormhost suddenly found themselves beset. Armoured warrior-chiefs roared, and a horde of bare-chested tribesmen burst from concealment. Vandus’ Hammerhands were assailed from both sides of the street. Half a dozen fell as the servants of Chaos got among them.

Vandus smashed down a man who leapt at him from a slender bridge. Calanax blasted another apart with a bolt of lightning from his maw.

‘I had anticipated an ambush, not an army. They come as if from nowhere!’ said Vandus.

‘There is magic behind this,’ shouted Ionus. He slammed his reliquary staff down. White light blazed around him. ‘But I have magic of my own.’

The worshippers of Tzeentch recoiled as the men they had cut down got to their feet, ready to fight again. Battle raged everywhere. Thostos’ Warrior Chamber in particular was becoming overstretched. They fought without order, their thirst for vengeance overcoming their training. A portion of the enemy in the square broke and fled, and the Celestial Vindicators pursued them. Many were laid low by axes, while others were battered to the ground by a hail of metal chunks cast from on high as they went into the westward streets.

‘Hold the line!’ called Vandus. ‘Halt!’

‘You may as well call for a hurricane to halt its fury, son,’ said Andricus. ‘Their prey is in sight, and the Celestial Vindicators will kill them all, or die in the attempt.’

Vandus took stock of his circumstances. With Lord Thostos missing and his Warrior Chamber over-extended, Vandus’ own flank was dangerously exposed. Hundreds more Chaos worshippers came out of the ruins, seeking to cut the line of Celestial Vindicators storming after Thostos in two.

‘Stoneheart!’ called Vandus, pointing at the pursuers.

‘Lord-Celestant,’ said the Lord-Castellant. ‘Hammerhands, with me!’ He ran to meet the foe, three dozen paladins at his side.

Calanax whirled around. More of the Stormcasts were making their way into the city, driving into the rear of the ambush. From north and south, sigmarite warhorns sounded. Vandus’ host was at the heart of the attack, but the ambushers were being encircled in turn.

‘Into the square!’ Vandus urged his men. ‘Make formation about the statue!’

With a precision born of long practice, the Hammerhands surged forward, Ionus and his Retributors to the front. They carved out a space around the statue, and the Liberators locked their shields around it. Judicators came running, filling the centre of the Hammerhands’ hollow square and loosing their bows as they ran, joining their fire with that coming down from the ruins above. The air hissed with arrows. Prosecutors flew in formation overhead, picking off warriors who showed themselves on the roofs.

‘Come out! I call to the architect of the attack!’ Vandus bellowed. Calanax bounded around the periphery of the square, the pair of them slaying every man they came across. ‘Come out and show your face. I, Vandus Hammerhand, challenge you to single combat!’ Mocking laughter echoed across the city, but no one came forward.

‘Appeals to martial pride will not work here, Vandus,’ shouted Ionus. ‘The followers of Tzeentch are far subtler than those of Khorne.’

The roar of battle intensified. The broad road beyond the square rang to the meeting of blades as another Warrior Chamber emerged from the south into the ambush. Both sides fought with skill and ferocity, and soon the gutters ran with blood.

Prosecutors were knocked from the sky with lead-weighted bolas, or caught by leaping savages. Vandus glowered behind his mask. Everywhere, mayhem reigned. Unable to bring their full might to bear, the Stormcast phalanxes were being fragmented.

Ionus held the centre of the square. Vandus sent his own Liberators to intercept a mob of bare-chested axemen forming a battle line to challenge Ionus’ position. Knights armoured in blue and yellow thundered out through the tall arches of the ancient Celemnite workshop. At Vandus’ command, Judicators broke from the back of the square, firing arrows on the move. To the mouth of each alleyway Vandus sent a retinue of Protectors. They stood no more than five abreast, but their whirling swordstaves set up an impenetrable barrier, and they killed until the alleys were blocked by the dead.

The worst was yet to come. Ionus felt it, a gathering fury rising through the ground.

‘Vandus!’ he shouted. ‘Death calls to death, and this place is rife with it!’

Puddles of molten metal welled up through the paving. From each of these rose a spirit, running upward to make the distorted forms of men and women. The faces of these silver-skinned revenants were masks of fury, and they fell upon any they saw. Ionus cursed, and set his magic to driving them back. The Stormcasts suffered for his distraction.

A shadow passed over Vandus as a manticore swooped low, wings wide. The body was that of a huge hunting cat but the face bore some semblance to a man’s, its eyes alight with bestial intelligence. Prosecutors pursued the creature, but it jinked and dived to avoid their lightning blasts. The beast carried a cowled figure with a huge spear. The manticore stooped. Giant paws batted Stormcasts off the ruins and the spear’s tip flicked out, impaling heads with each sweep. The manticore soared up, folded its wings, then plummeted down onto the pursuing Prosecutors, smashing two to the ground.

The sky was a-thunder with the passing of Sigmar’s warriors. Vandus counted more than a dozen manticores hurtling down from the tall tower.

Andricus Stoneheart gathered men around him and fought to the west while Ionus wrestled with the silvered shades of the dead in the centre. Vandus rode from point to point, exhorting his warriors to do their best, hoping that the ambush would break before they were overwhelmed. In other streets and courtyards, Warrior Chambers gathered into tight knots of resistance. The Stormcast advance halted, and all the while Vandus’ gaze was drawn to the tower. A sense of building power wreathed it. The cowled manticore rider made another pass, shouting arcane words that sent black bolts searing into Vandus’ men. He wondered for a moment if he were the sorcerer they were seeking, but Thostos had spoken of a horned man. Then a second voice became interwoven with the sound of the battle, coming and going, instilling the ruins with a throbbing pulse. Vandus guessed that this must be the voice of the sorcerer lord. He searched wildly for its source, but it seemed to come from everywhere.

And then suddenly a haunting song began, drowning out all, beautiful and terrible, a song of sorrow and rage. Silver swords shimmered into being wherever the song swelled. These shot out at speed, slicing into Stormcast and Chaos warrior alike. The blades encountered no resistance from either side’s plate, cutting through it as if the warriors were clad in soft robes. Chaos worshippers threw themselves at the swords, hoping to wrest them from the air and take them for themselves. Many died in the attempt, but a handful were successful, and with these blades inflicted sore losses on the Stormcast Eternals.

‘Celemnite blades,’ said Ionus to his men. ‘A legacy of a bygone age.’

A disturbance in the wind drew the Lord-Relictor’s attention to the corner of the square. A new puddle of molten silver bubbled from the ground, flowing upwards until it formed a gaunt female figure with hair the colour of copper. Rage twisted her beautiful features as she surveyed the carnage.

She opened her jaws far wider than any human could and her scream tore through the square, lifting a curtain of dust before it. Chaos worshippers and Stormcast Eternals staggered and clutched at their ears and throats. Ionus held his reliquary in front of him, matching his will with the maiden’s song. Brilliant light flared around him. There was nothing but the screaming song and the pain and light it brought. The scream stopped as abruptly as it had started. All around Ionus, men were dead. With cracks of thunder the lifeless bodies of his guard flashed up and away. A few lone warriors staggered about, blood leaking from their ears, but all who survived were swiftly impaled by the flying blades.

‘This city is not shy of horrors, Vandus,’ called out Ionus Cryptborn, but Vandus could not hear, for he was embattled a hundred yards away. ‘You cannot fight a curse with blades,’ he said under his breath.

The terrifying scream rang out again, slaying more warriors. Ionus found himself alone and he had a clear view to the statue. There was a plaque at the statue’s feet he had not seen before. ‘She would not yield,’ it said. He approached the statue. The face was wracked with sorrow and pain, the same face as upon the silver-skinned banshee. Death magic thrummed strongly from the monument, and he realised then that the epitaph was mocking, and the statue not raised from any respect. Curious, he cracked one arm from its shoulder with his hammer. The statue was hollow, with dry bone trapped within.

Ionus turned across the square to where the banshee wailed. He strode towards her, his reliquary before him.

‘Celemnis!’ he shouted. ‘We fight for the same cause!’

The banshee turned, her face twisting in a curious frown.

‘Celemnis! Hear my plea, O Queen of Blades,’ said the Lord-Relictor. He went to his knees and bowed his head. Celemnis’ skirts pulsed and flowed across the ground towards him, until she floated above him. Within the ghost two magics warred. Ionus sensed dark spells striving to trap her and her own essence fighting back. His respect for the warrior-maiden doubled. ‘I beseech you, send your ire against those that earned it.’ He took the blade from his reliquary, sliding it from the wired finger-bones holding it fast, and held it out, hilt-first. ‘This blade is a gift from Sigmar. Do you see? We fight for Sigmar.’

Celemnis looked at Ionus, and she was the epitome of terrible beauty. Her hair floated in a wide halo around her head. Ionus tensed, expecting his end.

Her hair reached out, taking the sword’s hilt. Celemnis looked directly at him, a sad smile on her face.

She screamed again, and the world was upended. A wave of anguish blasted across the square and Ionus leaned into it as a man leans into a gale. At the heart of the shout was the whispered promise of death; sweet, beguiling words. He yearned to give into it, to go back to his other master, away from Sigmar’s wars, and to join again with his beloved.

One day he would, he swore.

Not today.

The scream ended. The fighting stopped. Chaos worshippers stood stupidly, weapons dropping from nerveless hands.

As one, every single Chaos warrior in the centre of the city dropped dead. The silver ghosts rose shrieking from the battle, ignoring the Stormcast Eternals. Silver swords hissed after them as they flew onwards to the walls of the Eldritch Fortress.

Vandus was amazed. All of a sudden, his foes were dead.

‘Onwards! Onwards!’ Vandus bellowed. ‘Back into formation! To the Eldritch Fortress!’

The Hammers of Sigmar obeyed without hesitation, forming up into orderly blocks before hurrying forwards. The remaining Celestial Vindicators ignored him completely, running further into the city in search of new foes to slay.

Furious, Vandus vaulted from Calanax and onto a tumbled ruin. He ran up onto the tilted head of a toppled stardrake statue, intending to order Thostos’ Warrior Chamber back into the column. But as he drew in his breath to shout, his eyesight clouded, his nostrils filled with phantom scents and his head swam.

‘No, not now, not…’ A vision seized him with such blinding force it sent him to his knees.

He whirled away to a different place, speeding up over the Anvrok Vale. He came to a dizzying stop, and Lord Vandus saw a waterfall of silver, frozen in time. In the sky beyond it, the silver wyrm Argentine coiled and fought with another dragon mightier still. All the while Vandus’ eyes were drawn upwards, towards the top of the falls and the crucible there. He was in the air, with nothing ahead and nothing below.

The vision passed. Vandus shook in its aftermath. Thunder rumbled and it began to rain. Sigmar’s lightning clove deep into the city; reinforcements were arriving.

Vandus got back to his feet unsteadily and took stock. The Celestial Vindicators were gone. The area around the square was clear, but the sound of fighting echoed through the streets still. The tower of the sorcerer wavered in a haze of magic. He was running out of time, and made to go back down to the statue and Calanax.

‘My lord! The sky! Get down!’ shouted his Knight-Vexillor.

The warning came too late. Four manticores rushed at him and his command echelon in the street, claws out. Three struck the Stormcasts; one was smashed into the ground by heavy hammers, but the other two raked a long, clattered furrow in the warriors before shooting skywards again. The fourth was ridden by a huge Chaos lord, and came directly at Vandus. No amount of skill or speed could stop the beast’s dive. The Lord-Celestant leapt to the side, but he was still sluggish from his vision and moved too slowly. A heavy blow slammed into his shoulder and a spear transfixed him. He was plucked up and carried away, the ground dropping beneath him. All his weight was upon the spear point. Barbs bit deep into his flesh. Vandus grabbed at it with both hands, fearful his own weight would wrench him into pieces. The iron shaft was slippery with his blood. Gripping it sent agonies sparking down the nerves of his arm.

Let go, part of him said. Take brief pain and be returned by Sigmar. But then he thought of Thostos and his cold manner since he had returned, and gripped harder.

A cruel face looked down upon him, heavyset and doleful. The lord sneered.

‘So you are the Hammerhand. I thought you should be mightier, but here you are speared like a fish.’

‘You cannot kill me,’ choked out Vandus. Speaking sent further throbs of pain across his upper back.

‘We shall see. I am Lord Maerac, and I shall be your death.’

‘You are the servant of the sorcerer.’

Maerac laughed. ‘Ephryx is a fool if he believes that, and you are a greater fool to say it.’

Vandus gripped the spear. His situation was hopeless. Below him Stormcasts poured through the city, but the battle was far from over. Further in, nearer the shrouded outline of the Eldritch Fortress, there were more servants of Chaos. There the fight continued. Bright lines of Sigmar’s warriors duelled on every street with the followers of the Tzeentch while overhead, lightning crackled across a darkening sky.

Maerac scowled at the storm. He twisted the spear and Vandus cried out.

‘What is this fascination your god has for dreary weather?’ said Maerac. ‘Does he think he impresses us with his lightning and his thunder? He is a bigger fool than you! Your attack is faltering, and you face but a portion of the might of this realm. I am only one lord.’ Maerac leaned over in his saddle. ‘But soon I shall be the only lord. I shall take the hammer. I have been told by the Oracle himself that no mortal army can take Sigmar’s weapon. What hope do you have?’

Vandus caught sight of a flash of turquoise at the top of a bell tower as Maerac banked around it. The lord intended to take him towards the fortress as a prisoner.

‘We are no mortal army,’ Vandus said.

A blur of blue-green hurtled through the air from the tower. Lightning blazed all around it. The manticore jerked with a heavy impact and Maerac turned in shock to find Thostos standing astride his mount. He dropped his spear, and Vandus made a desperate lunge for the manticore’s neck. Pain punished him as he grasped two handfuls of blue mane. The manticore snapped at him, swerving sharply left. The spear dragged at Vandus’ shoulder, robbing all the strength from his left arm, and he nearly let go.

Thostos roared. Maerac drew his sword and raised it in a block, but Thostos’ hammer shattered it and carried on straight into Maerac’s face. The blow was so powerful that it obliterated Maerac’s head completely. The corpse spouted blood into the wind and slid sideways in its flying harness. The manticore bucked and twisted, but Thostos would not be shaken loose. The sword in his left hand punched through the manticore’s skull and its wings folded, causing it to fall like a stone and smash through the wall of a ruined temple.

Thostos stepped from the dead creature’s back. He extended a hand to Vandus, and hauled him to his feet. Then he took up the spear and looked questioningly at Vandus.

Vandus nodded, his teeth gritted against the pain. ‘Do it,’ he said.

Vandus screamed in agony as Thostos forced the barbs out of his back. He staggered and sank to his knees. One chop of Thostos’ runeblade cut the head off the spear and with a ragged groan, Vandus dragged the shaft from his body and dropped it.

‘The Stormhosts must see you live,’ said Thostos, and there was a trace of emotion to his words that had been absent since his Reforging.

Together they left the temple, battered but alive. Calanax had sought out his lord, drawn to him by their bond. Vandus mounted him with Thostos’ aid, and rode to the heart of the Stormcast forces again.

Manticores still swooped and harried the forces. Arrows arced up at them, driving the monsters off, only for them to come back around.

‘Maerac is dead!’ shouted Vandus, his voice amplified by the divine magic burning in him. ‘Lord-Celestant Thostos Bladestorm slew him! Stay and suffer the same fate!’

It was enough. With several of their number dead, their king slain and much fire coming at them from the ground, the beast riders wheeled away and flew back to their scattered domains with all the speed their mounts could muster.

Upon seeing their masters abandon them, the morale of the Chaos army broke. In ever greater masses, the bondsmen of Manticorea fled, the wrath of the Stormcasts following them upon swift wings of light.

The Stormhosts’ vanguard plunged on towards the fortress. Vandus and Calanax ran past them all, until they were in front. The sense of magic on the air intensified and the outline of the tower and the fortress walls blurred into obscurity. There came a soft wash of air, and a tremor set the ruins shaking. The ground quaked and the Stormhosts stumbled.

‘No!’ shouted Vandus. He spurred Calanax into a gallop, gritting his teeth at the jarring pain in his shoulder. Buildings came down around him, ancient crystal shattering and metal tearing with mournful groans. The ground buckled under him, rising up as if turned by a plough. A fresh ridge rose up in the ruins, a wrinkle in the earth that upset the remains of the city, making them lean drunkenly on footings of broken stone.

Calanax surged up the ridge as it stopped growing and the tremors ceased. At the summit, Vandus’ worst fears were realised.

The Hammerhands clambered up behind him. Ionus and Andricus arrived at his side. Not a soul amongst them spoke. Before them was a crater, wide and deep.

‘It’s gone,’ said Lord Vandus dully. ‘And the hammer with it.’

‘So we go after it,’ said Ionus Cryptborn. ‘We keep going until we find it.’

‘But how, if some fell power has claimed it and taken it who knows where?’

Cryptborn shrugged. ‘Fear not, Lord Vandus. We will find a way.’

Chapter Five

Dragonfate dais

The leaders of the Stormhosts gathered atop the crater’s crest. Tempers ran hot and bewilderment ruled. No decision had been reached as to what to do next, and as the day grew old none seemed to be forthcoming.

Ionus did not take part in the debate. He found a block of stone to one side and sat upon it, removing his helmet to allow his pale skin to feel the sun and the sweat to dry. He remained there, facing west, as the day’s shadows lengthened and the great wyrm shone in the evening, its flames becoming brighter as the sky darkened. When Chamon’s sun had slunk past its coils and dipped behind distant Knatrok, a shimmer in the air resolved into a lithe figure.

Ionus stood and bowed, his hand over his heart.

‘Celemnis, the Silver Maiden. I give you greetings of the night. We are kin, you and I. United in death.’

She said nothing, but floated forward, the silver of her lower body flowing over the freshly turned rubble of Elixia. She gave Ionus a sad, lingering smile. Her face had lost its ferocious aspect, and Ionus presumed that aside from her skin of metal she looked now much as she had in life: a beautiful, proud face haloed by red hair. She bowed her head and reached out a hand. From it sprouted a long tendril of rippling silver. It steadied itself and became the sword Ionus had gifted her from his reliquary. She took it in both hands and offered it up to him much as he had offered it to her.

Ionus took the returned blade. Its edges glimmered sharp and silver, and he marvelled at the change.

‘Your work?’

She smiled again.

‘You have done me a great honour, my lady.’

By now, others had noticed what was occurring. The arguments of the war council subsided, and the lords of the hosts turned to watch this strange exchange.

Ionus carefully replaced the hilt of the sword into the clasped hands of the skeleton on his staff. ‘Perhaps you could do me another. I would not ask, as you have done so much for us already, but we have come to an impasse. Your efforts are important. If we succeed here, then this city might live again, and you could go to your rest.’ He smiled. ‘Or you might linger, and remain its guardian.’

She tilted her head to the side, awaiting his request.

‘Thank you, my lady. Firstly, tell me — where has the castle fled to?’

She looked upwards at the Great Crucible and pointed.

‘I see. And how might we venture there with so great an assemblage?’

She smiled again, and beckoned. Without waiting to see if Ionus followed, she set off west into the city. The Lord-Relictor went after her, tilitng his head to meet Lord Vandus’ gaze. Vandus nodded and motioned for his men to follow.

A sepulchral quiet was on the city, and Vandus had no desire to break it in case the maiden’s magic be broken also.

‘Sound no trumpet and say little,’ Vandus said, ‘but spread the word. The Silver Maiden shows us the way.’

The Stormhosts gathered themselves rapidly and said nothing as commanded. They had marched for days and fought for much of the morning, but the magic of Sigmar made them strong and unwearying. Sleep they could stave off for days, if need be. And so it was, for Celemnis did not halt to let them rest, but continued westward at a steady, unhurried speed.

They passed back along the Anvrok highway, past the turn to the Bright Tor Gate. There Vandus sent messengers down to the encampment and others to the entrance of the Silverway, and bade them take news of their progress back to Sigmaron.

On for a dozen more miles the Stormcasts proceeded, before Celemnis took them up an unassuming spur of the road into the Bright Tor Mountains. In this part of Anvrok there was no sign of the Stormhosts’ recent invasion. They trod secret paths shown to them by Cryptborn’s strange ally. Chaos tribes that had yet to face the Stormcast Eternals launched attacks, but they retreated soon enough. Once three had been bested, the army was attacked no more.

Celemnis and Ionus led the way, the others keeping a wary distance. Cryptborn could be seen speaking with the ghost and listening attentively. What they spoke of was his alone to know; he was too far ahead for his words to be heard clearly, and from her they heard nothing at all.

Before the eighth day was out, the Stormhosts emerged from a narrow pass and Vandus stopped in amazement.

‘The Argent Falls,’ he said.

For the last three days the confines of the mountains had hidden all but hints of the crucible and its strange guardian. Now revealed, Argentine filled the horizon, its coils impossibly vast. The Great Crucible formed a halo around Argentine’s upturned head. The roar of the dragonfires that heated the crucible were loud. The mountains there rose up high, but gusting, hot winds blew over them from the drake’s fires and molten silver, keeping them warm and free of snow.

The Argent Falls plunged from the edge of the crucible, falling miles through the air in a wide sheet. The surface was silver, but the orange glow of smelting was visible in the folds of the liquid. Where the falls struck the rock of Anvrok, gobbets of precious metal splattered across the mountainside, and a wide area around the river’s headwater was covered in globular formations of pure silver. The remains of catcher channels could be seen half-buried in the metal. These ruins of industry were far below the Stormcasts, who looked down onto them from a high road.

Beyond the falls was a little more of the land of Anvrok, then the mountains stopped abruptly and the skyvoids began. The road they were on curled downwards, closer to the falls, before it crossed a bridge over a ravine. Smaller roads led off to the works there, and then the main road rose up again to a township on a crag opposite the army, as ruinous as every other city in Anvrok. At the brink of the cliff the circular platform of a dais rose up on an artfully coiled staircase. Six statues of dragons stood around its circumference.

Vandus was close to Ionus and Celemnis, and heard his Lord-Relictor speak.

‘A dragonfate dais?’ Ionus said. ‘How can that aid us?’

Celemnis pointed a long-nailed finger at the dais and disappeared.

Vandus waited a moment before calling out. ‘Has she departed?’

‘No. I sense her still,’ Ionus replied.

Vandus rode up beside him.

‘I am glad. She is a good ally.’

‘She is in great pain,’ said Ionus matter-of-factly. ‘This place must have been fabulously wealthy. I have seen many dragonfate shrines, but never one rendered in solid silver.’

Calanax made a growling purr.

‘Calanax approves. This is a fitting honour to the great drakes. Silver is favoured by them.’

Vandus stroked between Calanax’s horns. ‘And yet, against the barbaric hordes of Chaos, the protection of their old gods availed them little. There is only one god who can stand before the Four, and that god is Sigmar. What would the Silver Maiden have us do, I wonder?’

‘Let us consider the question upon the dais,’ said Ionus. ‘The answer may come to us there more easily, and that is where she pointed.’

‘We cannot all go — look at the road. The town is small.’

‘We should not go alone. We have suffered several ambushes already. Summon Thostos and let his Warrior Chamber come with ours. He is deeply involved in this affair,’ said Ionus.

Vandus nodded. He raised his hand and horns blew. The Hammerhands and the Bladestorms came forward. Together, they went down into the valley and up into the ruined town of Silverfall.

The rumble of the Argent Falls drowned out all other sound. The heat of the silver was intense, and Vandus marvelled that men had lived there at all. Roofless houses and workshops stretched up the mountainside behind the crag for some way, exhibiting that mix of duardin and mannish craftsmanship that was the hallmark of Anvrok’s dead civilisation.

They reached the dais. The base of its supporting stair rose from a village square and a low wall edged it, but much of it had fallen away, leaving a dangerous drop to the rocks and silver accretions below.

‘Thostos, Ionus, Andricus — come with me onto the dais,’ said Vandus.

No sooner had he said the words than a deeper roar undercut the thunder of the Argent Falls: the unnatural grind of machinery. It came from thin air.

‘To arms!’ he yelled.

‘Another bloody ambush,’ growled Andricus. ‘Judicators! To higher ground. Liberators, shieldwall.’

All around the assembled brotherhoods, slivers of green light split the air. Green-black drills ground through each, ripping wide the fabric of reality before withdrawing.

‘Stormfiends!’ said a Liberator. ‘Skaven!’

His warning was cut short by a hail of bullets. Giant, rat-like monsters shouldered their way out of the tears in the weft of the world. Some bore multi-barrelled guns in the place of fists, and they fired as they came. Dozens of Stormcasts were shredded, falling to their knees before disappearing in blurs of azure lightning. Behind the gun-beasts came more giants, these armed with whirring drills and grinders. They bowed their heads and charged.

‘Stand ready!’ called Vandus.

‘Judicators, loose!’ yelled Andricus.

A storm of bolts spat through the air, felling one of the giant rat monsters. It collapsed face first into the dirt with a pitiful grunt, revealing the swollen-headed rat-thing bonded to its back. This twisted ratling mewled horribly until a hammer stroke ended its misery. Liberators charged the stormfiends. Those warriors that were not knocked flying by the swipes of the creatures’ arms rained hammer blows upon knees and ankles, hoping to bring the giant beings low. Vandus drove Calanax into the fray, but the stormfiends proved more than a match for the Lord-Celestant and his steed, and they were driven back under the shadow of the dais. The stormfiends grunted in recognition, seeming to single him out, and soon Vandus was surrounded by three of the things.

‘Protect the Lord-Celestant!’ he heard Andricus shout.

The rest of the battlefield was a blur to Vandus, his attention was focused solely on fending off the hammering blows of the stormfiends. Calanax gutted one and Vandus smashed the shoulder of another, but there were more coming and were it not for the might of Heldensen, he would have been overcome.

Behind the stormfiends came a flood of the lesser ratmen. They leapt from the tears in the world and ran for cover with preternatural speed. Once established there, they opened fire with their rifles, the force of their magical bullets punching through sigmarite and knocking Stormcasts from their feet. The noise of battle rose high enough to challenge the falls: the racket of the skaven’s hellish weaponry, the whoosh of slain Stormcasts departing for Azyr, the clang of weapons, the shouts of men, and a frantic chittering at the edge of hearing.

Vandus parried another deadly blow. Calanax was forced closer to the edge of the cliffs.

Then Vandus saw turquoise armour amid the gold of his own men. Thostos roared, and in that war cry was something of the man Vandus had known before. He and his warriors ran full tilt into the stormfiends.

‘Vandus! Vandus! We come!’ shouted Thostos. He cut a stormfiend’s leg free, sending it toppling. Hammers smashed into its head and the grafted rider, bludgeoning both to death.

‘Slay the leader!’ bellowed Vandus.

The warlord was larger than his servants, more metal than flesh, surrounded by a bodyguard of heavily armoured, black-furred henchmen. Thostos rallied his men about him and began battering his way toward the warlord, while Vandus was fully occupied deflecting the blows of a stormfiend. The next thing Vandus saw was a gout of black-green fire washing over his friend. Thostos’ men fell, incinerated within their armour.

‘Thostos!’ shouted Vandus, and his blow slew a further stormfiend, smashing its ribcage with a blast of energy. He urged Calanax forward but the dracoth was shoved back.

Another blast of fire. What Vandus saw next almost fatally distracted him.

Thostos strode forward, unharmed. The warpfire of the skaven beast washed over him with no effect, and he slew the creature with a whirl of hammer and sword. Thostos pushed on for the warlord. The stormvermin bodyguard, somewhat tentatively, moved in to engage, but their halberds broke upon the Lord-Castellant’s inviolable skin, and Thostos struck them down in seconds. The leader fled, leaping up the stairs in fear. Andricus was close by and went after him.

Vandus was now embattled with only two of the giant ratmen. Calanax clamped his jaw around the leg of one while Vandus battered back the second. With a mighty heave, Calanax sent it toppling from the precipice.

The second fought on. Calanax rounded on it while it was still reeling from Vandus’ blow and bit off its head. Still it fought. Whirling blades topped the stumps of its fists and these caught on Heldensen, juddering hard until they pushed the hammer aside. The creature smashed into Vandus’ injured shoulder and reopened the wound Maerac had dealt him. He cried in pain, backhanding his hammer into the beast’s chest and slaying it finally.

A second wave of stormfiends were emerging from the cracks between the worlds. Two came from a slit nearby, squeak-roaring with idiot rage. A pair of Prosecutors swept over them, blinding them with blasts of their hammers. Vandus and Calanax leapt at them, the impact of their charge sending one of the creatures back into the hole it had come from. Vandus directed Heldensen against the second, obliterating it.

Then green lightning was all about him. A bolt of it sent Calanax to his knees. Vandus urged him to rise, but Calanax was dazed and unresponsive. The Stormcast looked up to see a bizarre, clattering machine bouncing down the ruined streets, spitting more lightning.

‘Up, Calanax. Up!’ he shouted.

Bright white light speared down. The war machine exploded, raining wood and iron all over the town. A large wheel bounced down the street, and hurtled off the edge of the cliff. From the steps to the dragonfate dais, Ionus nodded at Vandus, the afterglow of his spell lighting his face.

The ratmen were wavering. A strange stench filled the square. As one, they turned and fled, shrieking in terror. They melted into the ruins and vanished.

The noise of battle ceased. There were three isolated crackles of fire, then the roar of the falls reasserted itself. Thostos came to Vandus’ side, drenched in blood. He raised his sword.

‘Victory.’

‘Victory!’ Vandus cried, and clanged his hammer against Thostos’ blade. He turned to raise a salute to Andricus upon the dais.

Andricus raised his own blade. A final gunshot rang out. Andricus Stoneheart buckled and fell, vanishing in a blur of light a moment before he could hit the street.

Vandus, Ionus and Thostos stood upon the dais. The view over the falls from the shrine was glorious, but Vandus spared it no glance. His jubilation at their victory was ashes in his mouth; Andricus would be sorely missed in the coming fight.

‘We cannot call upon the God-King’s beneficence again,’ protested Vandus. ‘The others look to us. We must show strength, not weakness. And how are we to speak to the heavens?’

‘Call upon the Great Drake,’ rumbled Thostos. ‘These statues are raised to him.’

‘That was Celemnis’ intention,’ said Ionus. ‘I am sure of it.’

Vandus glanced from one man to the other. His eyes lingered on Thostos’ cool blue stare. Would Andricus be that way when he returned? He felt a shiver of unease around Thostos where before there had been only friendship. ‘But… I know not how,’ said Vandus.

Calanax roared and rumbled as he prowled up the stairs to join the lords atop the dais. The dracoth looked down upon his master, head cocked to one side in question. Vandus nodded hesitantly, unsure if he understood the beast. ‘Very well. If you intend to talk with the Great Drake, go ahead. What harm can it do?’

‘You must retreat to the edges of the dais,’ said Ionus. ‘The dracoth intends to speak with his father, the Great Drake Dracothion, the first and greatest of their kind.’

For an hour the dracoth bellowed and roared at the sky. None of the men understood his speech, but the urgency of it was arresting. In ones and twos the Stormcasts ceased combing the ruins for the skaven and came to a halt, all eyes on the dragonfate dais. Upon the other crag where the majority of the army waited, the dracoths of other Lord-Celestants assembled, adding their voices to Calanax’s roar one by one.

Darkness fell. The stars were dim against the brightness of the silver wyrm’s fires and the town flickered in their perpetual firelight.

Finally, Calanax ceased his petition. The stars grew brighter, and brighter, until they outshone the fires of Argentine. The sky blazed as gloriously as those of Azyr. Stars moved, and the night rippled and resolved itself into a smiling reptilian face as wide as the sky.

‘My son!’ boomed the Great Drake Dracothion. His voice rumbled from the mountain peaks. He could surely be seen and heard in every country of the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok. His teeth were the glimmer of stars and in his coils galaxies turned. ‘How fare the wars of men?’

Calanax roared, his dragon-tongue inscrutable.

‘We have a boon to ask of you, mighty one,’ called Vandus. He stepped out from between the dragon statues, risking the zodiac beast’s scrutiny. ‘We must find the Eldritch Fortress that once crested the Shattered City.’

Dracothion’s regard pinned him in place. Vandus felt as a mouse must when sighted by a hawk.

‘I preferred it when it was Elixia, the Sculpted City,’ the drake said. There was a weighty mirth, timeless and savage, behind Dracothion’s words.

‘Tell us where the fortress is, and Elixia might rise again.’

‘A dark place, yet with a heart of light,’ said the beast. ‘I saw it rise. It bathes within the crucible. Do you seek to reach it? To claim the Hammer of the Stars?’

‘We do,’ said Vandus.

‘Then the sea of silver must cool,’ said Dracothion. ‘The flames must go out. It has been long since I dared the wyrm Argentine’s fires. He was among my most favoured children before pride wormed into him and Tzeentch’s promises turned that into a canker. I will go and speak with him, for he is due a father’s rebuke. Go swiftly, then, whilst his will is diverted. Farewell, noble Calanax!’

The great dragon disappeared. A cloud of lights streaked across the sky, shimmering into the west. The assembled Stormcasts watched in awe. The stars halted. Constellations swirled and took on the form of the dragon again. Jaws sketched in stars arrowed towards Argentine, and closed about his throat.

The silver wyrm jerked. Its roar shook the mountains, carried upon an angry wind that made Stormcast banners crack and icons waver. The wyrm’s fires were extinguished and flickering twilight was banished. True night fell. The two titans strove against each other in the sky. The underside of the Great Crucible was revealed entirely, the red heat-glow dimming quickly, and the mountains cooling with it.

Slowly the Argent Falls solidified. A thick skin wrinkled over the silver. Great globs appeared, breaking the flow of the metal’s silken appearance and rendering it ugly. The orange heat faded away, and the surface became a leaden grey in the fresh-born twilight. Hill-sized lumps of semi-molten silver slammed down, the first splashing apart with the impact, those coming later bouncing messily away and rolling glutinously down the hill, until the lumps that fell free were wholly solid. The river’s flow slowed, stiffened and stopped. The falls and river were both arrested, and the whole cooled into a solid, lumpen mass that creaked and pinged with the eerie music of metal.

‘Listen!’ said Ionus. ‘Celemnis returns!’

The Silver Maiden’s haunting song filled the mountain valleys. Hundreds of Celemnis’ flying swords flew to hang in front of the frozen waterfall.

Celemnis’ wordless singing reached a crescendo, and the swords plunged into the metal, making themselves into the rungs of a dangerous ladder.

Overhead, the battle of titans raged on in the sky as Dracothion fought his wayward offspring. The Eternals gaped at the spectacle, for Dracothion had served as Sigmar’s mount, and was godly himself.

‘We climb, then,’ said Thostos. Now battle had gone, his voice had become colourless once more.

‘Aye,’ said Vandus. ‘We climb. All of us.’

Chapter Six

The battle of the crucible

‘You seem nervous, sorcerer.’

Ephryx looked up from his scrying bowl. King Vexos Thrond had come into his chamber unannounced again. The man was insufferable.

‘You are king of all you survey in the Great Crucible,’ said Ephryx. ‘But you are not lord of this fortress. Send word you are coming next time — I am engaged in delicate magics that your arrogant interruptions risk.’

Ephryx turned his back on the giant warrior-king, a pointed signal that he should depart. Thrond did not. Ephryx frowned.

‘Do you treat all your hosts with such ill manners?’ asked Thrond.

‘Do you treat all your guests so poorly?’ asked Ephryx.

‘The beasts of my menagerie are always hungry, Ephryx. Do not insult me.’

Ephryx flapped a dismissive hand. ‘Your coterie of monsters from the rim might be enough to ensure your rule of the crucible, your majesty, but I have the support of Tzeentch himself. Be wary that I do not turn your creatures into statues of tin.’

Thrond snorted and came to Ephryx’s side. Thrond was enormous, for he too was favoured by Tzeentch. The sale of his soul had ensured Thrond would rule forever, and the king had become more and more swollen with the energies of Chaos as the years had passed. He had been the lord of the crucible almost as long as Ephryx had ruled Anvrok. The two were long-standing, if wary, allies.

The crucible king bent his horned helm to Ephryx’s golden scrying bowl — Ephryx had never seen him without it. Deep in the vision slits, tawny eyes reflected the bowl’s picture in miniature: Stormcasts ascending upon a ladder of swords or following the dracoths, who clawed handholds into the metal as they went. ‘They are still climbing.’

‘As they have been for the last four days,’ said Ephryx. In the bowl, the Stormcasts toiled upwards without pause. ‘See how they struggle. It is hard work for them. They are created for war.’ He laughed. ‘Each must weigh as much as three mortal men. They will be weakened when they attain the crucible lip.’

‘Yet they near the top. Do they lose many of their number?’ Thrond had a reputation for sudden fury. He was frustrated by the demands Tzeentch forced on him, and horrified at the boredom his eternal life brought. A fine jest on Tzeentch’s part, but his temper put Ephryx in danger.

‘Skyrays dog them, but take only a few. They are guarded by many winged warriors. I have seen others grip the swords too tightly and shear off their own fingers. Those who fall will fall forever through the void. Celemnis is a dubious friend.’ Ephryx smiled unpleasantly. The thought amused him. ‘Their force is reduced further by dissension. There was some kind of disagreement before they began.’ Ephryx’s smile grew wider still. ‘Many remained below in my land, and go about other business.’ He scowled. The trespassers irritated him, but there was nothing he could do about it from up here.

‘How many come?’

‘A thousand, I would say,’ said Ephryx distractedly. He dearly hoped Thrond would get the point and depart. ‘The dragons battle still. Now that is a sight I have never seen.’

Thrond grunted. ‘Argentine’s distraction at least provides my men with the chance for extra sport. They welcome this unlooked-for solidification of the silver. Ordinarily we must wait for the moon’s full waxing before we hunt upon the sea.’

‘Do not let them roam far. There will be plenty more sport soon enough, when the enemy reach the brink. They must be delayed long enough for me to effect another translocation. I’ll have them chasing this fortress all over the realm.’ Naturally, this was only one option Ephryx had, and the least favoured, but he wasn’t about to tell Thrond that.

‘Do you tell a king his business in his own kingdom?’

Ephryx curled his lip. ‘No,’ he said.

‘As it should be,’ said Thrond. ‘I will gather my army. Life has been somewhat tedious of late. I look forward to this battle. I will buy you your time, sorcerer, so you may build your power to remove your fortress from my kingdom. But remove it you will.’

Thrond swaggered out. Another muscle-bound idiot. Ephryx was doubtful Thrond could be killed easily, and he was far more dangerous than Maerac. Still, he mused, we shall see how well his strength serves him when he is trapped forever in the Crystal Labyrinth.

Ephryx pursed his lips in thought. He supposed he ought to thank the Stormhosts for dealing with Maerac. He watched the dragons fighting, immense god-beasts tearing wounds the length of canyons in each other. The celestial dragon was coming off worse. Argentine was youthful as star-dragons measure things, and invigorated by the power of Chaos. That battle would not last much longer. With luck, Argentine would drive off Dracothion and melt the silver before the Stormcasts could reach the lip. Now wouldn’t that be a fine sight, and most fortuitous.

He left the bowl troubled. Somehow, fortune did not seem to be on his side. From the great window of his tower he looked out across Thrond’s lands. The crucible kingdom was a series of islands in the Silver Sea, each capped by an ornate castle and linked by a complex set of raised causeways and bridges. Ephryx had brought the Eldritch Fortress to rest upon the biggest island. Thrond’s own citadel occupied this island also, but jutted out from the side. He had not built it at the summit, for that lay directly beneath the Shardgate. That suited the sorcerer perfectly.

As Ephryx thought of the gate, the window showed him a jagged gash in the world surrounded by a gemstone-studded archway that glowed with a hard, diamond light, for the Shardgate opened directly into the Crystal Labyrinth of Tzeentch and was the chief entrance to this realm for the god’s servants. Ephryx could feel the regard of the Great Changer coming from the gate, fixed upon him with a mixture of amusement, pride and malice. The giant crystals around the opening glinted threateningly.

Ephryx shuddered and bade the window show him the work of his slaves as they patched and mended his ruptured castle walls. He had brought his fortress beneath the Shardgate not only to deny the hammer to the sigmarites, but to speed the delivery of all of Chamon to Tzeentch. For that to happen, he needed the Stormcast Eternals to attack one more time, to die and fill his copper skulls with their magic.

Kairos was as likely to stop him as to aid him now, wishing to bring the prize to Tzeentch himself. They were coming to the end of their relationship.

Ephryx crossed his arms. Only a week ago everything had seemed so simple. Now he had Thrond threatening him, Kairos moving against him and Sigmar himself banging on the gate. He had to either fulfil his ultimate ambition or move the fortress by the time the Stormcast Eternals got there, and all before Kairos did whatever it was Kairos wanted to do.

As he thought over his predicament, his frustration gave birth to a fresh smile. Why pledge oneself body and soul to the master of the great game if one did not enjoy playing? The board as presented offered a fine challenge.

A great bellow shattered his train of thought. His window swerved and looked for him, finding the source. Dracothion was departing, his mighty head rising over the low hills of the crucible’s rim. Swimming through the aether, he fled ponderously upward, bleeding starlight from a thousand wounds. Ephryx’s window followed the Father of Dragons as he ascended high into the sky. There he vanished with a nova flash, and returned to the heavens of Azyr.

Moments later, Argentine’s flames roared anew.

‘Form up!’ bellowed Vandus. A thin line of Stormcasts bowed outward around the lip of the falls. A horde of Chaos warriors came at them.

‘Protect those still climbing!’ Thostos shouted.

Calanax roared. Others of his kind answered. Prosecutors alighted on the slippery metal to drag their comrades up from the ladder of swords. Others worked in pairs, wings beating hard as they flew Judicators and Liberators up. A mist had met the Stormcasts as the first gained the lip of the falls, but this was clearing and Vandus had a good view of exactly what they were up against.

The oncoming horde was emerging from a confusion of high towers, walkways and bridges that stretched across the set sea, linking island to island. In the far distance a plug of rock jutted out of the metal, the plateau atop it veiled by multicoloured clouds. The Eldritch Fortress was there. Even as Vandus looked upon it he was sure the great eye atop the central tower was looking at him in turn, as well as something on the far side of the gate that glimmered above. Master and servant regarded Vandus with uncloaked hatred.

Night had come. The scarred face of the Alchemist’s Moon was crawling along the horizon, its light glinting from plates of Chaos armour as the horde raced down steps and from wharfs onto the solid silver.

‘Ionus!’ Vandus called. ‘The sea warms already.’

‘We do not have much time,’ said the Lord-Relictor.

‘We must take the fight to them,’ said Thostos, and strode forward.

‘He waits for no counsel,’ complained Vandus.

‘Do not blame him. His wrath fills the hollows left by his death,’ said Ionus. ‘Come, let us be at them!’

The lords of Azyr led the charge. A wedge formation of Stormcast Eternals from half a dozen different Stormhosts ploughed into the foe. The climb had tired them all, but they fought hard, the knowledge that their brothers’ lives depended on their valour giving them desperate strength.

Ionus and Vandus fought close by, the magic of the Lord-Relictor and the hammer of the Lord-Celestant reaping dozens of lives. Many of the enemy bore terrible disfigurements and mutations. The army of Sigmar was nearing the heart of Chaos in this land, and its influence was becoming pronounced.

More Stormcasts were coming over the brink, running to reinforce the line of their fellows. A multi-hued phalanx pressed forward, weapons swinging as one engine of destruction. Never mind that they were of different hosts and tempers; all were Stormcast Eternals, and centuries of training had made them brothers. They fought with a single mind.

With the first formation reinforced, a second and a third were brought into being by Vandus’ peers and pushed out from the falls.

Thostos forged on ahead. Vandus saw him and his dwindling Warrior Chamber engaged by a crowd of giant mutants, more daemon than man. These beasts bore blades that shone with dark power, and they cut through sigmarite like paper. Celestial Vindicators fell around them, but Thostos’ skin was again somehow proof against their weapons, and he killed them with impunity. The changes in his friend were strange indeed, thought Vandus.

Vandus went about the slaughter grimly. For all their misbegotten nature, there was discipline to the Chaos army. Those sections of the Chaos line that fell back did so in good order towards the stairs where they formed deep ranks, keeping the Stormcasts upon the rapidly warming silver, while other Chaos warriors came around their flanks, seeking to cut off the route from the crucible lip.

Slowly but surely, the Stormcast Eternals were being surrounded. The silver underfoot became sticky and yielding, the armoured corpses upon it cooking as they sank into the sludge. The nearest stair was agonisingly close but blocked by black-armoured warriors.

‘To the stairs! Decimators! Gather together! Forge a path! Prosecutors, clear the way!’ ordered Vandus.

By now the Stormcast Eternals had become more organised, falling into their allotted units as they fought their way forward. Twenty Decimators advanced, heavy feet snagging into the softening silver. With a cry to Sigmar, they charged. The warriors in the front rank struck down the enemy before them, then peeled away to the back of their retinue, allowing the axe of the next warrior to hit, so that they kept up a flowing charge that penetrated deep into the Chaos warriors mobbing the stairs. Prosecutors blasted those enemies trying to reinforce the weakening regiment, and suddenly the Decimators were through. They battled up the stairway, their fellows coming after them. Nearby, Thostos roared out a command and led his own Decimators in a similar endeavour up another stair. Other Lord-Celestants followed suit. Once upon the road they joined forces and pushed on towards the first tower on the network of causeways.

Calanax bounded up the stairs, and Vandus urged him to the edge of the road so that he might see how the battle went. He cursed loudly, for the majority of the Stormhosts were still embattled on the Silver Sea. Streams of molten silver were opening up between the fragmenting surface. Large chunks of the surface sank abruptly as the silver underneath turned liquid, dragging down Stormcast and Chaos warrior alike. The air whooshed and banged to the departing energies of men he could ill afford to lose. A pair of diabolical voices rolled out over the conflict, delivering orders and rebukes in a dark tongue.

‘Ionus!’ shouted Vandus down to the Lord-Relictor. ‘Make haste!’ Though scores of warriors had fought to the stairways and beyond, the rest were still intermingled with the Chaos horde. Perhaps a tenth of their number would make it through before the sea baked the rest in their armour.

‘There are too many!’ shouted Ionus Cryptborn, raising his reliquary, ‘I shall forge a path if I can! For Sigmar and Azyr!’

There was a crash of thunder, and a colossal bolt of lightning shot from the skies to slam into the Lord-Relictor. It coursed through him, shooting through the molten silver to turn every Chaos warrior within a hundred paces to scorched meat. The Stormcast Eternals were invigorated by the divine bolt. Finding their passage suddenly unbarred, they surged for the walkways by the hundred. Cryptborn came last, sinking further as he struggled onwards. A giant Chaos warrior clad in golden armour and carrying a huge axe waded after him. Ionus reached the bottommost step of the stair before the surface collapsed and slid under a roiling swirl of molten silver. The Chaos warriors howled in agony as the sea took them.

‘Ionus!’ Vandus called. ‘To me!’

Ionus never made it to the top of the stairs. The giant in gold hauled himself from the silver, steaming with the heat. He swayed upon the bottom step.

‘Ionus! Beware!’ roared Vandus, but it was too late. The giant leapt, his axe swinging into the Lord-Relictor’s head and splitting it neatly in two.

‘Ionus!’ Vandus cried out. He slipped off Calanax and ran to the stairs. A trio of Prosecutors stepped before him, their sword staffs blocking his way. He made to shove past them but they pushed him back. Below, Stormcasts pressed forwards and the golden warrior was cut down, landing on Ionus’ corpse.

The Prosecutors placed their hands upon Vandus’ shoulders, gently restraining him. ‘No, my lord. You must not go to him.’

A crack of thunder, mightier than all the rest, split the sky. Ionus’ mortal form transmuted into a blazing spear of lightning that rushed upwards. Where it pierced the sky, black clouds wheeled and flickered with power.

Ionus Cryptborn departed the realm of Chamon. Vandus watched helplessly as his friend was taken home to Azyr. Then Calanax was there, growling at Vandus in rebuke. Vandus placed his palm flat on the beast’s hide in wordless apology for leaving him, and climbed onto his back.

Horns rang. There were two towers close by, one standing athwart the raised road Vandus was upon, and another situated further into the sea on the roadway parallel to him. Upon the second road Thostos and his Warrior Chamber had a group of Chaos warriors trapped. These were being pushed back, screaming as they fell from the edge. Vandus’ roadway was almost clear of the enemy and the army was retreating towards its towers. Another horn blared and the retreat abandoned all semblance of order as the Chaos warriors broke into headlong flight.

‘Hold!’ shouted Vandus. To his relief, the Stormcasts checked their pursuit, and began ordering themselves.

Another horn sounded, shrill and daemonical. The gates to the keeps clanked open, and out thundered tall knights of Chaos upon heavy horses. They rode forward without care for their fellows, and more than one fleeing infantryman was buffeted off the edge of the road. Their lances dropped, and they smashed into the lead elements of Vandus’ army. So many died that the Lord-Celestant lost sight of the Chaos knights as a wall of storm magic leapt upward. Vandus and Calanax hastened forward, the dracoth leaping between lesser walkways, support spars and the vile decorations that clung to them.

A clattering of metal wheels upon the road preceded the arrival of heavy chariots, fashioned from steel, each dragged by a grunting, ape-like creature. Their charge spent, the knights wheeled and fell back with admirable grace, leaving lanes free for the chariots to crash into the ranks of Stormcasts. Unable to move aside, Sigmar’s warriors instead leapt to the attack, and were cut down for their bravery. Dozens of Stormcasts were tossed high into the air by the impact and the flailing fists of the warbeasts. Scythes on wheels lopped limbs from bodies, while those Stormcasts wounded but not slain were finished by the halberds of the charioteers.

‘Is there no end to them?’ asked Vandus. He looked for opportunity. There, on the other causeway, a chariot went hurtling at the rear of a group of Celestial Vindicators. ‘Can you make the leap, my friend?’

Calanax grumbled deep in his chest by way of reply. He crouched down, muscles bunching in his huge haunches. With a tremendous push he jumped into the air. A blur of bubbling silver passed beneath his belly, and he and Vandus were over, slamming straight into the side of the chariot and tipping it over with an almighty bang. It skidded across the road and plummeted into the Silver Sea, its dray-ape hooting in surprise and fury as it was dragged to its death. Another chariot came at them and Calanax lowered his head like a bull, bashing aside the ape and knocking the chariot onto its side. The charioteers were thrown free, one sliding straight off the edge, the other arresting his fall and scrabbling for an axe. Calanax crept up over the upended chariot, and Vandus swept off the man’s head with a blow from Heldensen. The ape-thing ripped at its traces, dragging itself free enough to aim a brutal fist at the dracoth’s face. Calanax caught the hand in his jaws and wrenched it free in a spray of blood. The ape howled and staggered before Calanax disembowelled it with a swipe of his claws.

Calanax climbed atop the wreck, raised his head and roared.

Behind them, Thostos and his men were dispatching the remainder of the infantry. On the other road the Stormcasts finally halted the chariots’ progress and slew riders and beasts. Lesser walkways swayed as warriors duelled upon them.

No quarter was asked and none given. At great cost, the day belonged to the Stormcast Eternals.

Vandus stood atop a captured tower, and watched his men as they went about the unpleasant business that follows any battle. They walked causeways choked with corpses, tipping the bodies of Chaos warriors into the Silver Sea. The air was thick with heat, and the sea glowed ruddily in the dark. The Stormcasts went slowly, for all were by now mightily weary.

‘Eight days’ march, four days’ climb and a battle,’ said Vandus to Calanax, ‘and still Lord Thostos paces like a caged lion, eager for the hunt.’

Vandus watched his restless friend. The foxfire of his eyes glowed balefully. Vandus suppressed a shudder, thinking on the fates of Andricus and Ionus. Would they too be changed when next they met? He had assumed that his friendships in this new life would never be sundered by death. How quickly he had been proven wrong.

‘As for the rest, they are tired.’

Calanax rumbled beside him.

‘Men’s strength lies in another place to yours, my friend,’ said Vandus. ‘And these are not men, but more than men. Even they have their limits, and they must rest.’

He himself was exhausted. His muscles ached. Sorrowful and uncertain, he looked out down the network of pathways and roads. The day had been carried, but the price was almost too high, and Vandus had sincere doubts that he would be successful. First Andricus had fallen, and now Ionus. Only a thousand Stormcasts had followed him up the falls, the rest taken elsewhere by their lords, and of that number a full half had been slain gaining the crucible lip and the first tower. There were dozens of fortifications between them and the island where the Eldritch Fortress sat gloatingly beneath the Chaos gate. Fires burned from the tops of towers, and harsh music and uncouth shouts came from the nearest.

‘How do we reach it?’ he murmured. ‘We have but five hundred Stormcast Eternals remaining. So many are gone back to the chambers of Reforging. I will sorely miss Andricus’ guidance in the matters of siege. We are lost and alone in a nation of maniacs.’ He looked upward. The night was at its darkest, and the skies were rich with stars. He looked to them a while, and when he spoke again he was less bitter. ‘During the Long Calm, I would go to the top of the towers in Sigmaron,’ he said. Calanax huffed out a steaming breath. ‘I would seek enlightenment there, try to remember who I was, and to find my place in the new world I found myself in.’ He looked to his mount. ‘I hear the dragonkin ask the stars for sooth often, and that they sometimes reply. Will they answer me now?’ Vandus looked upwards and slowly shook his head. ‘No. I see nothing. The constellations are all different, and they do not know me. What should I do, noble Calanax? I wish you could speak the tongues of men and share your wisdom.’

Vandus returned his gaze to the stars. The venture hung by a thread. What could he do?

Perhaps… Perhaps the answer lay within himself. He recalled Ionus’ words to him about his visions, that they might prove either useful or treacherous.

Could he seek to trigger them consciously? Vandus was profoundly uncomfortable with the idea, but he closed his eyes. He had no clue what he should do. In his old life he had no gift of magecraft. But was his Stormcast body not suffused with magic? Perhaps all he must do was…

He fell deep within himself. His knees buckled. He felt it as if it had happened to someone else, but enough awareness remained that he fell away from the edge of the tower, and then he knew no more of his earthly body.

A flicker of images came. He saw the Alchemist’s Moon rising up over the edge of the crucible and climbing towards its apogee. As its light intensified, the great wyrm Argentine twisted and hid its face from the brightness. Silver stiffened and solidified. Baying parties of Chaos warriors poured from the keeps and islands of the land and hunted across the solid surface. The silver was still hot, and steamed in the reflected moonlight, but was made hard.

Vandus’ perspective shifted. He saw before him a citadel bigger than any other, and he knew with iron certainty that this was the castle of King Thrond, the lord of this land. It jutted out over the Silver Sea on a natural promontory of stone and metal. As he saw this, what he must do came to him with utter clarity.

He gasped, and his eyes flew open. His skin ran with sweat under his armour. Despite the heat of the crucible, he shivered.

Calanax nosed his master.

The Lord-Celestant slowly sat up, then stood. Again the weakness he had felt before afflicted him. He walked to the parapet of the tower to look upon his warriors.

He knew what he must do. He shouted for attention and began to address his men.

Chapter Seven

The siege of the citadel

After many travails of blood and sorcery, Vandus’ army had reached the centre of Thrond’s kingdom. Of the many thousands who had set out from Elixia, just a few hundred Stormcasts remained. Behind them burned a score of keeps and lesser forts. Thrond had fled, his armies overthrown and his citadel empty. The king had taken refuge in the Eldritch Fortress.

Nevertheless, Vandus feared victory might slip from his grasp at this last pass. The Alchemist’s Moon was rising and today it would reach its apex, an event that would cause the great wyrm to turn its fires away from the silver sea. Already the moon was sliding past the crucible’s rim, its light picking out the rough hills there in bright silvers and deep sable.

‘Faster my warriors! We must be quicker!’

Vandus sat upon Calanax on a knoll overlooking Thrond’s castle. Around the landward side, Stormcasts worked at the hill, hacking away at the hanging promontory the citadel perched upon. Magical hammers boomed and swords hacked slivers from the metal-rich stone. Thunderbolt crossbows sent crackling jags of energy searing into bedrock, melting the ores therein. Molten metal dripped into the sea and the stone glowed ruby red.

The Alchemist’s Moon cleared the crucible, its lower rim parting from the horizon like the end of a kiss. Argentine shuddered and shied away from its weird brightness, and the silver started to thicken.

‘Faster!’ called Vandus. His eyes flicked back and forth between his warriors and the Alchemist’s Moon. So quickly it hauled itself heavenward, flowing as smoothly as quicksilver. At the summit of the island squatted Ephryx’s Eldritch Fortress. Its walls ran up to the very brink, jutting over the Silver Sea here and there. Strands of magical force crackled and whooped around the walls. Its copper skulls glowed with evil energies. The air shimmered and ran with multicoloured sheet lightning. Over it pulsed the mighty Shardgate, an irregular gash in the air surrounded by an inhumanly tall archway studded with gigantic crystals.

The stepped walls of Thrond’s castle were modest by comparison, a crenellated ziggurat adorned with snarling effigies of his menagerie. It was situated upon a jag of rock standing clear of the island, directly above the Silver Sea.

‘You race against two hourglasses. The timing must be perfect for your plan to work, and the sorcerer prepares to shift his fortress once more,’ said Thostos. ‘Let the sands of one run out, and all is lost. How long can we chase this mage across Chamon?’

‘The timing will be perfect,’ said Vandus. ‘And if it is not, we will hunt him until the hammer is recovered. There is no other way.’

‘There is not, I concur. But we have only minutes before this chance is gone,’ said Thostos.

‘We shall be ready,’ said Vandus.

Some deep-set part of the castle’s foundations cracked. Stone screeched on stone. A quiver ran through the building, barely perceptible to the eyes of men, but strong enough to shake loose a statue and send it crashing into the sea.

‘Halt!’ shouted Vandus. He ordered the Stormcasts back from the trench they had hacked into the stone. Judicators aimed their weapons at the weakened section bridge and tensed for the final order.

The moon went higher, eclipsing the stars with its bulk. Magic shivered through Vandus’ armour at its waxing might. The silver wyrm’s fires had gone out. The sea heaved under a rapidly forming skin.

‘Stand ready,’ said Thostos.

The moon passed over the Shardgate, and its outline wavered behind the weird magics. The crystals in the gate glittered with colours as they captured the moon’s light.

Calanax roared. Vandus dropped his arm.

The assembled Judicators of his army fired with their magical arrows. The missiles transmuted themselves to darts and spears of energy, and slammed into the ground by the base of Thrond’s citadel.

A dazzling light burst across the Silver Sea, the moon’s glow reflected twenty times over. Deprived of Argentine’s fire, the ripples on the metal slowed and stopped. The shadow of the fortress and the island swept around the coast, and the silver stopped its churning.

With a tremendous crack, the stone under Thrond’s citadel broke. Showers of rock splattered into the thick medium of the sea. Then the fortress itself hit the setting sea, sending up a tall sheet of thick silver as it splashed down. This washed up the cliffs, onto the fortress walls, curling back onto itself in a massive argent wave.

The shadow passed. The moonlight arrested the ocean, and the wave froze. Droplets of suddenly solidified silver fell from the sky as hard as bullets, rattling on the surface of the sea.

‘The fortress is held fast!’ shouted Vandus. ‘Ghal Maraz awaits! Charge!’

With a shout, the Stormhosts scrambled forward onto the frozen mass of the wave. Digging in blades and clawed fingers, they hauled themselves upwards. The silver was still hot, and the metal burned them as they climbed, but the Stormcasts did not relent. In places it was thin, while in others too smooth or too hard, and a number fell, sigmarite clattering as they skidded helplessly off the metal and down to the sea below. Their departure boomed loudly over the frozen ocean, but still the Stormcasts were undeterred.

Calanax raced up the wave, taking Vandus to the plateau atop the island. Magic crackled and arced along the fortress wall, then gave out with a piercing series of whistles. Frozen silver anchored the walls firmly to the stone. The fortress was held fast.

Vandus got down from the back of Calanax and strode to the nearest gate. He hefted Heldensen and slammed it hard against the grotesque bronze face cast into the surface.

‘Bring out the hammer!’ bellowed Vandus. He smote the door again. ‘I call upon you, Ephryx of Chamon. Bring out the hammer and your end will be swift.’ A third time Heldensen clashed into the gate, scarring the metal.

The Stormcast Eternals had gained the cliff top and were forming up. No word came from the fortress. The outer walls were much cracked and damaged from Thostos’ earlier assault, and left unmanned.

‘Give me your answer, Ephryx!’ shouted Vandus. ‘You are lost!’

The rest of Vandus’ army came after him. Thostos strode to his side.

A crackling sound came from above, a whine building behind it. Vandus stepped backwards until he could spy the Shardgate over the looming tower and walls. The crystal adornments sprayed fountains of sparks and long, bright streaks of crimson fire into the night; they flickered, turning through forms of pure light, patches of darkness, and back to gems. The Shardgate rippled, the roil of energy visible through it coalescing and forming a wide landscape comprised solely of hideous faces. Uncountable voices whispered covetously as unearthly eyes fixed themselves upon Chamon.

‘Here is your answer, Vandus Hammerhand.’

The voice issued from the mouth of every gargoyle on the fortress walls. It was old and wise and full of dread power. Malice dripped from every word. ‘A tide of daemons to drown in. The hammer is no longer the godling’s, but mine. Begone from the gates of the Eldritch Fortress — take tidings of his defeat from here and you may yet live awhile.’

The whine reached a crescendo. A howling wind burst out from the Shardgate. One after another, the crystals exploded, sending tinkling fragments all over the fortress. When the last detonated in a burst of multicoloured fire, the Shardgate dilated, yawning wider and wider until it filled the sky. A triumphant scream blasted out and the faces upon the other side pressed forward then burst through, the single mass they made splitting into a cascade of daemons that showered to the ground in an unending flood. They were long-armed and pumpkin-bodied, of blue and pink. They laughed and grumbled as they landed, galloping forward in knuckling runs and swinging down the decoration on the outside of the walls, as agile as apes.

‘There is a breach in the wall,’ said Thostos to Vandus, unmoved by the horde of creatures leaping free from the Realm of Chaos. ‘This way.’

Moments later, the first of the daemons slammed into the Stormcasts.

‘Your magics are poor, wizard,’ said Korghos Khul. He and King Thrond seemed to fill Ephryx’s scrying chamber. Khul stank of blood and his eyes were manic in the sockets of the skull he wore as a helmet.

‘And you promised me a horde of daemons, but bring me only mortals!’ snapped Ephryx. ‘Fortunate it is for us all that my magic is strong enough to call up my own daemons.’

He stalked back and forth, mind working madly. His plans were not going as he intended, none of them. The daemon gale would hold the enemy for a while, but for how long? Already, upon seeing the Stormcasts approach, he had resolved to flee once again. But the fortress was held fast. Dare he attempt the translocation to the Crystal Labyrinth now? He fretted over the issue. Despite what he said to the warriors, he had taken no part in the daemon gale, and its advent spoke of but one thing: Kairos.

‘My chariots will stop them,’ said Thrond. ‘We have no need of this blood-crazed madman.’

‘Will they now?’ Ephryx cast his gaze heavenward in exasperation. ‘They did not stop the foe upon the walkways. Your forts did not stop them, your warriors did not stop them, your knights did not stop them!’ he said bitterly.

‘This remains my kingdom, Ephryx. Watch your tongue.’

‘Your kingdom has fallen, you fool!’ shouted Ephryx. ‘This fortress is all that remains! You complained at my behaviour as a guest, Thrond. Now you are my guest, so I say to you, watch your tongue.’

‘This is your doing, mage — you led them here,’ said Thrond. ‘I ought to kill you where you stand.’

‘And if they had the hammer, you would already be dead. We are forced upon each other’s mercies, Vexos. This is a common enemy. Surely even you can see that Khul’s presence here is proof of that?’

‘I am here only for the Hammerhand,’ growled Khul.

‘You invite the servant of the Blood God into my lands when I could deal with these invaders myself. We will live to regret this—’

‘Silence!’ screamed Ephryx. He jabbed a clawed hand at Thrond and the king went as rigid as a corpse. When his muscles relaxed, his eyes glowed a watery green and he was indeed silent. His head tracked Ephryx’s pacing as loyally as a dog’s.

‘Leave the one called Vandus to me. His head is mine,’ said Khul.

‘By all means!’ said Ephryx. ‘Now get to the defence. In the absence of more powerful allies it will be you facing their hammers. But not alone. Thrond, get your chariots to the breach.’

‘Yes, my master,’ intoned King Thrond. ‘I obey.’

The two warrior lords departed: Khul quickly, eager to be at the slaughter, with Thrond plodding after as sluggishly as a sleepwalker.

Feathers rustled in the shadows. A dry smell of birds and magic wafted across the room on a draught stirred up by broad wings.

‘Kairos!’ said Ephryx. He fought to keep fear from his voice, smothering it in a shrill haughtiness. ‘Why must you lurk so? You could have come forth and dazzled these wretches with your magnificence and saved my temper.’

Kairos emerged from an alcove much too small to have contained him. He looked down on his acolyte with detached amusement.

‘You cannot make them do your bidding? Must I do everything myself? You are a poor servant, Ephryx.’

‘All this is but a distraction!’ said Ephryx. ‘The daemon gale will hurl them back.’

‘Will it?’ said the daemon’s right head. ‘It was I that summoned it, though you told the bloody one otherwise. Alone it will not be enough. I shall bring up an Arcanabulum. You will have the honour of casting the Lunar Reversal, that we may escape the crucible’s grip and ascend to the Shardgate.’

‘The Lunar…’ Ephryx’s face dropped. ‘You will attempt the translocation now?’

‘When else, small-horned dabbler?’ said Kairos’ left head. ‘Did you intend to flee at our moment of triumph?’

‘Will I not die attempting it?’

‘Perhaps,’ said the right head. ‘If you don’t, then I will have nothing left to teach you.’

‘Perhaps not,’ said the other. ‘If you die, well, the same will also be true.’

A stab of cold terror raced down Ephryx’s spine. He had spoken those words himself once, long ago. ‘What have you seen? What is my fate?’

Kairos held up a taloned hand, bringing it up and round in a grand gesture, finishing as a clenched fist before the sorcerer’s face. ‘You of all people should know that your fate is unimportant. Sigmar once learned that even he is not beyond Tzeentch’s influence. What makes you believe your fate is your own to choose?’

Kairos’ index finger flicked out. Ephryx made to move but found he was immobile, transfixed by Kairos’ stare.

‘With the daemon gale come my brothers of the Nine. They gather now to call the Shardgate down. It is too late, I think, to bring all of Chamon to our master, but the hammer shall be his. Tzeentch himself will grant us many boons for that.’

Kairos tilted one head to one side, the other the opposite way. ‘See? A simple plan. One even you cannot disrupt for me. The spell you cast upon Thrond, I taught you that, no?’

Ephryx was unable to answer.

‘Of course I did,’ said Kairos’ other head. He pressed his long talon into Ephryx’s left eye and Ephryx felt his will drain away from him. First went his control over Thrond, then his desire to triumph, until all was replaced with a cool indifference. Beneath this numbing blanket existed an ember of defiance, but it was small and cooling. Green light pulsed from Ephryx’s eyes.

‘It is high time we reminded Sigmar who is the master of the spheres,’ said Kairos Fateweaver. ‘You will aid me, little puppet, whether you wish to or not. Your days of freedom are done, Ninth Disciple of the Ninth Tower.’

Kairos walked to a blank spot on the wall with a shambling gait, as if the form he wore were not entirely to his satisfaction. The Lord of Change spread his arms and the wall flowed apart, revealing a staircase that wound around and down through the thickness of the great tower. The outer walls were pierced by many windows that let out onto the howling storm of Chaos outside. Through them the sorcerer could see the vortex of energy spiralling around the fortress, carrying daemons on its winds. Thunder cracked and banged, fighting against the intrusion. Kairos clacked his beaks in laughter.

‘The storm god tries to bring his wrath to bear, but he cannot! All he can do is watch helplessly as we snatch away his true power. Your allies did better than you think, ninth fool of the ninth idiocy. They killed the rain-callers and the nursemaids among the foe, and they cannot call more of Sigmar’s lackeys down to earth.’ Kairos eyed the stairs. ‘You first, I think,’ he said.

He jiggled one hand in a mockery of a puppeteer.

Ephryx danced stiffly towards the stairway, unable to stop himself. He raised his arms up before him, straight as brooms. Strangled arcane phrases spilled from his lips.

‘That is good. Wage the war for me,’ said Kairos.

‘While I think,’ said the other head.

And so Ephryx was carelessly worked by the Lord of Change as they went down and round the mighty tower, heading towards the secret inner keep. Ephryx called up daemons by the score as Kairos muttered and argued to himself, his heads disagreeing on the most petty of matters.

Although he could not move without Kairos’ direction, Ephryx caught glimpses of the battle from the corner of his eyes. Stormcast Eternals had come easily into the ward of the castle via the unrepaired breach. They fought through Thrond’s chariots, his own traps and hosts of daemons. They were mighty, he had to admit. Being so enslaved robbed him of anger, and he viewed the furious battle outside in a detached, calculating manner. Each twist of the stair brought him a new view: winged warriors snatched from the air and magical flames incinerating the enemy by the dozen. Lords transformed and destroyed.

Warrior by warrior, the Stormcasts were being whittled down.

Kairos and Ephryx reached the bottom of the stairs. The tower encased a domed keep of stone, and the tall gash in the tower let in the light of battle to fall upon it. From the centre of the keep glowed the painful brilliance of Ghal Maraz.

‘Come brothers, we have great works to accomplish!’ Kairos croaked.

Through the gap in the wall came a procession of eight Lords of Change. They shuffled through, as slow as elderly men. All were different, their staffs marked with esoteric symbols even Ephryx did not know. Here was one with plumage of bright magenta, there one with four eyes above a hooked beak. One was fat, while another was skeletally thin. One was covered in scintillating plumage, another’s form flickered and blurred. They bowed to their lord as they passed, and Kairos greeted them all by name. Such names as hurt the minds of men, even those as well-versed in the arcane as Ephryx. Names like that should only be learned after great preparation, but Ephryx heard them all in relentless order. He was locked upright, unable to move. Inside the prison of his skull, he screamed.

The eight stepped by, croaking obscure mandalas or bandying ineffabilities with each other. Their chatter was the chatter of madmen and geniuses; they were the sages of insanity, and reality itself rebelled at their presence.

The foremost Lord of Change raised his staff, and the inner keep’s doors shattered into colourful motes that swarmed upon the air. The lead cairn that had contained Ghal Maraz inside the keep had been much battered, and the light of the hammer flooded out stronger than ever before. The Lords of Change were unconcerned by the light. At another croaked command the cairn exploded, scattering lead bricks across the chamber and revealing the hammer itself. Ephryx was exposed to its radiance in full. Some device of Kairos’ protected him, but the sight of Ghal Maraz to him was agony beyond agonies. Sweat dripped from his face, and he emitted a strangled scream.

The nine Lords of Change shuffled inside. As the last entered, the particles of light gathered themselves, and gates barred the way once more.

‘There, the first piece is in place.’ One of Kairos’ heads swung to address Ephryx directly. ‘Now for the second.’

Kairos raised his hands and extended his long necks. A yellow and green nimbus flickered around his staff. The Lord of Change said nothing, only held his arms aloft for a moment, then lowered them slowly.

‘It is done.’

The ground heaved. The space around the inner keep became hot as a forge, and the stone of the ground glowed white with heat. From this bubbling pool rose up a complex machine, plucked from the hidden workings of reality, its spars and cogs dripping molten rock.

‘To work, Ephryx,’ said Kairos. ‘I am afraid you must perform this rite. I do not wish to suffer the energies myself.’

‘Quickly now,’ said Kairos’ other head.

Ephryx stepped close to the machine as it fully emerged. His clothes smouldered. His eyes watered, but he could not close them. The machine and the ground were cooling, and it was this alone that saved Ephryx’s skin and sight.

‘Begin the reversal!’ said Kairos.

Ephryx set his body into motion. He knew the spell, of course, and locked inside his body he cursed himself for the curiosity that had set him to learning it.

At the black-worded incantation, the machine began to work, turning against the way its creator intended. Although physically divorced from the world, it retained a connection with it, and as it screeched into life reality grumbled around it. The natural order of things was flung into reverse.

‘Glorious! Glorious!’ cackled Kairos. ‘Magic infuses everything, a heady mix of so many colours and winds! Feel it, Ephryx — this is true power! Further, further! Make the silver flow away, so that we may greet our master in person.’

The ground shook, the tower encasing the keep swayed. With a groan of tortured metal, Ephryx’s dwelling sheared away from the tower’s stalk, revealing the Shardgate blazing directly above.

‘That’s the way, small sorcerer,’ said Kairos indulgently.

Ephryx’s limbs ached. Age ran cold claws over his bones. He had lived for hundreds of years and his powers promised thousands more, but the Arcanabulum ran roughshod over the laws of nature and magic both, and the sorcerer withered as he chanted. His spine twisted and his horns lost their lustre, becoming flaky and dull. His hands clawed with arthritis. All the while, Kairos croaked and clattered his beaks in laughter, and true hate bloomed in Ephryx’s heart.

‘Success! Ha! Well done!’ shouted Kairos.

The moon ground to a halt and slowly, reluctantly, began to slide backwards. It went back past the point of apogee, and with a sudden rush, the silver holding the fortress liquefied and ran back into the sea.

Chapter Eight

The will of Tzeentch

A cackling daemon ripped the head from the Retributor at Vandus’ side. His body vanished into a blaze of light that reached for the churning clouds, only to veer sideways and be dragged into the fabric of the Eldritch Fortress. Vandus shouted out his anger, smashing the pink daemon down with his warhammer. It burst, and from the gory remains climbed two smaller, blue daemons. Where the first had laughed and howled, these scowled and grumbled as they fought.

Vandus slew these two also, and spurred Calanax onward. Thostos fought nearby, an unstoppable tornado of hammer and sword. They were through the breach, into the first courtyard. Many ways led off the ward, leading into a labyrinth of passages and walls, but ahead the route was clear. The walls were riven by magic and war, and the tower’s base was visible to him through a further gap.

Vandus pushed his way on. The Stormcasts were dwindling in number, but remained in good order. With Liberators in solid lines, Judicators behind, Retributors and Decimators working in small groups to bring down the worst of the daemons and the greatest champions.

There was a screech like that of tortured metal. The Shardgate pulsed ever quicker. The ground shook and the top of the tower fell down. Incredibly, the moon was reversing its course.

‘We do not have much time!’ shouted Vandus. ‘Onwards, before they steal the hammer from us!’

With a ringing of trumpets, the Stormcasts pushed forward to the gap in the next wall. They poured through, routing the few warriors of Chaos that dared stand before them.

Vandus felt a surge of relief as they crossed the second courtyard, but then the walls rippled and became convoluted, trapping two score of his men within. The courtyard became smaller, then opened up at one end.

A fresh foe waited behind — a huge warlord with a skull for a helm and a daemonic hound beside him. He bore a daemon-weapon, a two-headed brass-bound axe the size of a mortal man. A band of massively muscled warriors attended him, eyes bereft of reason, teeth stained brown with the blood of the innocents. They stood tensely, a rabidity coming off them as a wall of iron-tinged heat.

‘Khul!’ said Vandus.

‘I have come for you, Blackfist. You are the last of your tribe. You think yourself my equal, raised up by your puny god.’ Khul swept his axe around to point at Vandus. It trailed streamers of unlight. The fabric of reality tore upon its edge. The air shed droplets of blood and screamed. ‘You are nothing! Craven! Fleeing into the arms of Sigmar when I proved stronger. I will destroy you and offer up your skull to Khorne as I gave the skulls of your wife and children to him!’

Vandus was nearly overcome by the urge to rush at Khul. Hatred boiled in every part of his being. The ghost of the man he had been demanded vengeance. Calanax felt his wrath and stamped and snorted.

Perhaps Vendell Blackfist would have broken from his men, his anger overcoming reason and sense. But Vandus was Vendell no longer. He fought down his fury and shouted out an order to his few remaining warriors. ‘Defensive square!’ he bellowed. Horns rang, and his men ran quickly into a formation opposing the mob of Khul’s warriors.

Khul laughed hollowly, a madman’s humour, sick and shot with bloodgreed. ‘Coward. Very well. Hide behind your golden weaklings. No matter how much magic Sigmar has imbued you with, it will not help you.’

The tribesmen around Khul gripped their weapons and growled, barely holding their anger in check.

‘Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!’ shouted Khul, his words so thick and crazed they were barely discernable; a raw cry of unfettered rage.

With an animal shout, the warriors of Korghos Khul surged forwards.

The Bloodbound crashed into the shieldwall of the Liberators with shocking force, only to be thrown back. A bloody toll was levied by the Judicators behind the Liberators, the last Prosecutors picking off Khul’s elite deep within their own ranks, while Protectors plugged gaps in the line. Again the Bloodbound charged, and again. Vandus and Thostos fought side by side, slaughtering the followers of Khorne by the dozen wherever they went. Soon enough, Vandus realised that no man of Khul’s dared raise a blade against him, and he used this reticence to his advantage.

But Vandus’ Stormcasts were fatigued and diminished in number, and the Bloodbound of Khul fresh and numerous. One by one the Protectors were slain, and the Prosecutors dragged from the air. Before long, the ranks of the Stormcasts were in tatters and the battle had descended into a swirling maelstrom of individual melees.

At this moment, Korghos Khul chose to strike. He burst through his own men, his great axe parting their souls from their bodies in his eagerness to bring down his enemy. The daemonic hound at his side leapt at Thostos. The strange magic infusing the Lord-Celestant saved his flesh from the creature’s teeth, but he was knocked sprawling and clanged off the cobbles of the courtyard.

Vandus and Calanax faced Khul alone.

‘Now you will join Khorne, Blackfist, as a skull to be ground beneath his feet,’ snarled the Chaos lord.

Vandus and Calanax were forced back by Khul’s ferocious assault. Their weapons banged and flared from one another as each lord strove to bring the other low. Through Vandus’ concentration on the fight came the realisation that he and Thostos were alone, beset on all sides by the Khul’s Bloodbound. No weapon could harm Thostos, and the followers of Khul drew back from the duel between Vandus and the Khornate lord.

Still Vandus was being forced backwards.

A clatter of wheels came from behind. From the corner of his eye Vandus saw Thostos leap, and heard a bestial cry as something died. Then Khul barged Vandus aside, knocking him sprawling from Calanax. The Chaos lord’s axe slammed into the blade of another, staying it from slaying Vandus.

‘I said the Hammerhand was mine, Thrond!’ roared Khul.

‘My kingdom. Who are you to demand the head of our foe?’ Thrond asked.

‘Wizard’s puppet. You dare defy me? I shall add your head to the tally!’ Khul’s fury broke like a dam and he slammed into Thrond, knocking him from the back of his chariot. The two Chaos lords wrestled upon the blood-slick cobbles.

Thrond’s warriors let out a cry and turned upon the Bloodbound. The far side of the square erupted into fresh and furious battle.

Vandus stood, Heldensen at the ready. The Bloodbound parted before him, teeth bared. Their muscles stood out from their necks and their eyes glared. They strained like dogs on a leash, but they would not defy their master. They would not attack him. He was Khul’s alone to slay.

Thostos came to his side.

‘We must kill him!’ said Thostos. The desire for revenge burned coldly in his baleful eyes.

‘Do you not think I wish to slay him?’ asked Vandus. ‘Our duty lies elsewhere.’

‘Where is your desire for wrath and ruin?’ Thostos’ voice reverberated strangely behind his war-mask.

‘There is a time for vengeance. This is not it. One petty revenge can upset the chance for ten thousand greater victories. Come.’

Reluctantly, Thostos backed away from the horde.

‘This way!’ said Vandus, and pointed to a gateway barred by a portcullis. Calanax rejoined them, forcing his way through the melee. The Bloodbound of Khul would not fight him either.

‘Strange luck,’ Thostos said as Vandus remounted.

‘Let us pray it holds,’ said Vandus. Most of the warriors had backed away, going to join the fight with Thrond’s knights. A few remained, unsure. Vandus held his hammer in a guard, ready for them, but still they did not attack. More and more of them were glancing over their shoulders to the duel between Thrond and Khul.

Thostos broke the portcullis into pieces with one swing of his hammer and rushed through. Vandus came behind him on Calanax. No warrior of Khorne dared follow him.

‘The hammer is close!’ Vandus shouted. Before them was the tower of Ephryx, its side rent apart. Light blazed through cracks.

A deafening shout made him turn. Riding upon the platform of another chariot came a warrior Vandus recognised, Khul’s lieutenant, the bearer of the icon that had summoned the Realm of Chaos into Aqshy. The bloodsecrator carried his icon with him, blood boiling from Khorne’s rune in a crimson fog.

‘We sell our lives dearly, then,’ said Vandus.

Thostos snarled.

From the other side of this courtyard, daemons came capering. The two Lord-Celestants were surrounded anew.

‘I will slay you! I will cut your head free! I will spit on your corpse and dedicate your skull to Khorne,’ shouted the bloodsecrator. Spittle flew from lips bitten raw.

‘Khul has claimed my head,’ said Vandus. ‘Do you dare his wrath?’

‘Khul is weak! Sigmar is weak! Blood for the Blood God! The Lord of Skulls cares not from whence the blood flows.’ The bloodsecrator grinned savagely, exposing black teeth filed to points. ‘Do you hear that, feeble one? Your power is nothing compared to mine!’ He slammed his weapon against his heavily muscled, scarred chest and raised his icon to the clouds boiling impotently in the sky. ‘Do you hear? You are weak, Sigmar! Weak!’

In reply a mighty thunder boomed. The sky split with a bolt of blue as wide as a tower. It struck the wall, then again, opening up a fresh breach. The metal of the wall exploded. The breaches revealed the sea and the broadness of the crucible. Clouds raced around its rim, and light played there, bright and godly.

More lightning bolts slammed into the earth. The bloodsecrator and his tribesmen recoiled. From out of the light stepped a figure bearing an icon of his own, topped also with the emblems of death.

‘It is you who are weak, to fearfully sell yourself to the murder god,’ said Ionus Cryptborn.

A bolt of pure magic shot from his hammer and blasted the chariot. The metal of it withered, the draught beasts were slain, and the bloodsecrator was cast from it and lofted through the wall, where he fell flailing into the Silver Sea far below.

Light faded. All around Ionus stood a host of Stormcast Eternals.

‘Ionus! You are returned!’ said Vandus. ‘How did you manage it so quickly?’

‘I told you, my friend. Death has little hold on me,’ said Ionus.

Singing their praises to Sigmar, the Stormhosts charged.

The renewed crusade fought on, smashing daemon and mortal alike, until Vandus and Thostos forced their way through the fracture in Ephryx’s ruined tower and into the space it contained. A bizarre machine sat there, creaking and pinking as it cooled. There was the hidden keep, light burning from its riven walls.

‘Ghal Maraz…’ said Vandus breathlessly.

‘The sorcerer, Ephryx,’ said Thostos. The heat of emotion entered his voice, his deadened soul awakened by hatred.

The sorcerer had become ancient, bent with age. He hobbled as quickly as he was able from the machine, towards the iron doors of the inner keep. As he passed within, a wall of fire leapt up, encircling the keep. The sorcerer’s bodyguard moved to interpose themselves between the gates and the vengeful Stormhosts.

In the sky, the Shardgate was sinking, the infernal energies spilling from it now caressing the tower’s stump.

‘We are running out of time,’ said Vandus. But Thostos had already rushed ahead, a group of returned Celestial Vindicators at his heels, and was slaughtering his way through Ephryx’s bodyguard. Vandus went after, Calanax bowling over four of the hulking warriors.

‘Retributors, to the gates!’ ordered Vandus. Calanax forced his way through the bodyguard, Vandus smashing them to the ground with Heldensen. In short order there were no more Chaos slaves to slay. Protectors held the breach into the tower, preventing others from assailing the lords. Outside, bolts of celestial energy rained down.

‘Hurry!’ urged Vandus. The Retributors banged rhythmically on the gates with their lightning hammers. The flames crackled, the warplight racing over the vile carvings that covered their surfaces. The fire went out and the warriors attacked. The gates shook with each impact, but did not shift. The Shardgate continued its descent.

There came a louder bang, and the gate shuddered differently, shifting on its mountings. A wide crack sprang across it. Blue light shone out and the Retributors called out joyously. They struck harder, until another crack, then another, crazed the surface of the door.

Together with the light came the sound of chanting, words so evil they crashed around his skull. Vandus fought against the pain though blood ran from his ears.

With one last impact, the doors burst inward in a storm of iron shards. Vandus and Thostos ran in, drawing sustenance from the holy light that bathed the chamber.

The whole of the inner keep was one large, domed chamber with but two apertures: the gate, and a slit window glazed with amethyst in the eastern wall. A rubble of lead bricks was scattered across the ground. Above it, chained by blood iron and bonds of pure magic, floated Ghal Maraz, Sigmar’s own hammer, and relic of the world-that-was.

A coven of nine daemons sought to take it for their master, and it was from them that the chanting came. They turned one by one to glare at the Stormcast Eternals, wizened faces full of hatred and amusement, knowing faces that carelessly harboured the wisdom of ages. There were eight of lesser order, great in their own right, but not so powerful as the ninth, a two-headed horror, taller than the rest and shrouded in dark majesty.

‘You cannot stop what has become. The end is in sight! Come in, come in! All are welcome in the Crystal Labyrinth of my master,’ cawed the two-headed greater daemon.

The Eldritch Fortress lurched, sending the Stormcast Eternals staggering. Slowly, it began to rise towards the Shardgate.

‘Get the hammer!’ yelled Vandus. ‘Bring them down!’

The Stormcasts charged. The greater daemons came down to do battle, and all the while Kairos laughed.

Vandus hurled himself at a Lord of Change. To his left, five of his warriors were cut down by a bolt of dark fire. Others exploded, disappeared or were transformed. The air wavered and the scene changed. Vandus staggered, finding himself in a quiet forest. He spun about, looking for his foe. A sudden coldness gripped his legs, but when he looked he could see nothing amiss. ‘Do not trust your senses,’ he said to himself. ‘They cannot help you. Trust Sigmar.’

He shut his eyes, letting the vision-fugue come down on him. In his mind’s eye the interior of the chamber overlaid itself upon the forest. The room was ablaze with magic. Some of his warriors staggered about, as lost as he. Only the Celestial Vindicators seemed unaffected, and in his state of altered perception, Vandus could see how the fury in them burned hot enough to sear away the magic set against them. A bird-headed daemon shrieked as enchanted blades cut into it and laid it low.

His own opponent stared at him with dead eyes, its hand waving up and down slowly. Cruel humour was writ upon its features.

It does not know I can see it, thought Vandus. With a great effort of will, he called upon his distant body to obey him. With a mighty heave, he swung Heldensen. His limbs felt feeble, as if they moved underwater. Heldensen sped true, smashing the daemon in the face. Its head snapped back and, with a blast of warplight, it fell dead upon the floor.

The glamour was lifted by the daemon’s expulsion, and Calanax pressed forward towards the hammer. The Shardgate was forcing its way through the domed ceiling, still descending as the fortress rose up. Chunks of masonry fell down, and the whole keep rumbled.

‘Thostos, the hammer!’ called Vandus. Calanax pushed onwards, fighting through a swarm of leaping daemons that twisted into being from jets of fire projected by a Lord of Change.

‘The chains!’ shouted Thostos back.

Vandus nodded in acknowledgement. He stood up in Calanax’s saddle, swinging his hammer at the first of Ghal Maraz’s restraints. Several links burst. Fizzling magic, they fell away. Thostos cleaved through one, then two, with his runeblade. Vandus rode swiftly to the next, then the next.

‘You cannot triumph! This hammer belongs to Tzeentch!’ crowed Kairos.

The greater daemon stalked across the floor and levelled his staff at Thostos. From the top of the rod spouted a gout of magical fire. When it touched the Celestial Vindicator, his magic aura seemed to transmute his flesh into pure sigmarite, but the fire burned hotter and hotter, and Thostos’ body began to run. With heroic effort, Thostos cut through another chain, one of pure light that vanished as Thostos’ sword passed through it. Stormcasts ran to Thostos’ aid, but Kairos sent them sprawling with a thought, and the Lord-Celestant remained trapped in the searing fire.

Vandus rode to the next chain and shattered it. The noise attracted the attention of Kairos’ left head.

‘Ah, ah, I think not,’ said the Lord of Change.

‘It thinks it can outthink me!’ said the other head.

‘Kairos Fateweaver!’ said the first head. He advanced on Vandus. The fire winked out and Thostos fell to the side.

‘The Great Oracle, to whom no secret of past…’ said the first head.

‘…or future…’ said the other.

‘…is any kind of secret at all,’ they said together.

The end of his staff glowed with awful light.

‘Now,’ said the heads together, ‘let us change you into something fitting—’

A bolt of light streaked from the side of the room, catching the Lord of Change on the arm. Kairos’ heads snapped round, and Ionus Cryptborn sent another blast at the daemon.

In the corner of the room, Ephryx blinked. The green light went from his eyes as Kairos’ control of Ephryx was shattered, his master embroiled in a magical duel with the skull-faced warrior.

‘Kairos,’ he said. His aged voice was a dry whisper. The sorcerer bent painfully to the floor and took up a fallen staff of change. Its violent energies coursed through him, warping his flesh and soul, but he hobbled forward toward his treacherous master. The Shardgate, the hammer, the invasion — all had become of no consequence. He was consumed by his hatred of Kairos.

Raising the staff in palsied hands, Ephryx swung at Kairos’ back. The head of the staff barely scratched the daemon’s skin, but it was enough.

Kairos flung back his head and screeched from both mouths. Rippling energy engulfed him. His physical form sped through a dozen transmutations: a tusked skyray, a moonfaced puppet jerking in multicoloured flame, a pink-skinned lesser daemon, a statue of coal and a chirring song bird.

Ephryx sank to his knees, all his strength gone.

‘You didn’t see that coming did you, you preening peacock.’

‘Vandus, the hammer!’ said Thostos, his voice a gurgle.

Vandus stood upon Calanax’s back and launched himself at Ghal Maraz. He flew through the air, hand outstretched. A Lord of Change reached out for him, only to be blasted back by a bolt of lightning from Calanax. A second fell to a magical attack from Ionus. Time slowed to a crawl. A thousand futures depended on this moment.

Vandus’ fingers closed upon the gleaming haft of the hammer. The last chain fell away, and it came free. His mind flooded with memories that were not his own, images from times and places far away, and a world long gone. Then he was falling and rolling. He came up easily, and he held the power of a god in one hand.

Kairos Fateweaver leaned over him, the last effects of his transformations flickering over his faces as he regained control of his form.

The daemon lifted a hand and a glow of power formed around it. ‘I do not think that is yours,’ he said.

‘Nor is it yours,’ said Vandus.

Before he had even formed the intent to move, Ghal Maraz streaked forward with the power of a comet. Vandus was only the means to the end. The weapon used him to exert its will.

Ghal Maraz smashed into Kairos’ shoulder, sending the arm spinning free in a spray of mashed flesh and daemonic ichor. Kairos shrieked, twin screams from both mouths.

The hammer arced round, dragging Vandus’ hand with it. It powered into Kairos’ left head, caving in his skull and sending it crashing into the right. Kairos toppled forward cawing in pain. Vandus stepped back, and the hammer swung up and down, crushing one head into a bloody paste upon the floor, then the second.

Kairos’ body convulsed, making a scream-like a whistle. He juddered, vibrating so quickly his outline was a blur. He convulsed, inwards, outwards, then with a sorry pop he transformed into a smoky crystal.

Vandus brought his boot heel down hard on the gem, crushing it to glittering powder. The Shardgate was now only feet above Vandus’ head. He held Ghal Maraz up in defiance.

‘See this, Great Changer! This is Ghal Maraz, Sigmar’s weapon of old! It is in my hand, and shall soon be in the hand of the God-King. Fear it, for as it slew your servant, so one day shall it slay you!’

Lightning burst from the hammer. Wherever it landed, it struck down a servant of Chaos. The roof of the keep was flying apart, the tower coming to pieces around it. The fabric of the Eldritch Fortress was rooted in the power of the hammer, and now that Ghal Maraz was free, it disintegrated, the pieces flying upwards into the Shardgate where they exploded into showers of silver sparks. The skulls around the walls burst. A furious howl raged from the Shardgate, sending the incarnate Stormcasts reeling. It went on and on, then changed pitch, becoming wild laughter.

The Shardgate winked out. An echo of the laughter remained, and for a moment the bare floor of the keep hung in the air over the site of the Eldritch Fortress. Ionus, Thostos and two dozen more Stormhosts stood upon a mosaic that depicted Sigmar in his glory, the last remnant of Elixia’s Great Monument. The sorcerer Ephryx lay dead upon the God-King’s face. Then the floor tilted and dropped towards the naked summit of the island, coming apart as it fell. Upon the bare stone its fragments shattered, scattering the Stormhosts all about into the ranks of their brethren. Of their foes there was no sign. All were gone, taken up by the Shardgate.

Vandus lay sprawled upon his back, looking upwards. The Alchemist’s Moon had resumed its true course, and as it passed overhead, a new light was revealed. A brilliant, pure radiance that banished every scrap of shadow from the island. A twin-tailed comet burned across the heavens.

Vandus held aloft the god-hammer, saluting the arrival of the Sigmarabulus. A great peal of thunder split the sky.

The Stormhosts fell to their knees, and were surrounded by a blaze of light.

Ghal Maraz was reunited with its master, and the war began in earnest.

Hammers of Sigmar

Darius Hinks

Stormcast

Chapter One

Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

The hammer falls.

Vengeance tears from my throat, ringing through the bloodless metal of my mask. ‘God-King!’ I cry in a voice that is no longer my own.

‘God-King!’ howl my lightning-born brothers as the tempest hurls us from the sky.

The ground gives as we land but Zarax rides on, ignoring the odd, yielding terrain. I cling to her scales, as blind as a newborn. The others are close behind and I hear their metal boots pounding across this broken, benighted land. Weapons are drawn, oaths are howled and I take my first breath of mortal air. Sulphur pours through my mouthpiece and I gulp it down, relishing the bitterness.

The storm thins, revealing plumes of smoke and embers. I whisper to Zarax and as she slows I sense the others gathering around me. I almost pity those we have come to destroy. Who could dream of such an enemy?

The smoke drifts, revealing glimpses of a tortured landscape. We’re heading down a glistening, crimson road that seems to have been carved from a flayed corpse. Sigmar’s tempest has landed us on a butcher’s block of body parts and thrashing, broken wings.

It’s a shameful sight but I don’t avert my gaze. I must be vigilant, aware. I must understand this place quickly.

I look harder and realise that it’s not a road, but a bridge of meat and chains, hazy with flies. Its span is vast beyond measure, stretching miles ahead before disappearing into a crimson wall of smoke. Over the side I glimpse wisps of cloud and realise we’re far above the ground. Shrieks fill the air and I see that the bridge is alive. The whole structure is made of living birds — thousands of them, broken and burned together by hot irons and fixed to a mesh of thick, oily chains. It’s the stink of their ruined flesh that fills my lungs. It’s their thrashing bodies I’m riding across and their pain I can hear.

I want to roar in outrage, but I bite down my fury and keep my voice level.

‘Advance,’ I say, rising up in my saddle and turning to face my army.

My heart races as I see what I command. The storm has spawned a golden host. Even in this stinking, bloody wound, they are a vision. Every one of them is clad entirely in gleaming armour, still crackling with the fury of the storm. Pennants trail above glinting, haloed helmets, bearing the divine sigils of Sigmar and the Celestial City. No army ever looked so glorious, so dignified. And Sigmar has entrusted it to me.

The vanguard is a seamless wall of shield-bearing Liberators; numberless ranks of heroes, marching towards me in perfect unison. Then come the retinues of paladins — striding goliaths that dwarf even the Liberators, clad in blessed, god-wrought suits of armour. Some carry great, two-handed hammers that look like they could topple city walls, while others wield pole arms — long, gleaming glaives with lightning in their blades. In the rearguard are my divine archers — hundreds of Judicators, moving with the same precision as the rest of the army, readying their shimmering bows. High above, riding the thunderheads, are our winged guardians, the Prosecutors: radiant, inviolable and more dangerous than the lightning.

I almost laugh. Stormcast Eternals — the God-King’s unbreakable fist. Removed from the golden halls of Azyr, we shine all the brighter.

I turn back to the bridge and see the sky for the first time. It’s almost entirely obscured by rock. A vast sphere of smouldering ore, hundreds of miles in diameter, hangs directly over our heads. Such a star-burnt hulk can only be a moon, dragged from the heavens by divine will. It’s moving towards us, shedding sparks and boulders as it glides majestically through the clouds. The sky ripples in its wake like water in the lee of a ship.

‘Lord-Celestant.’

I look down from Zarax’s back at Lord-Relictor Boreas. I can barely recognise my brother’s dry tones. His arcane duties have left their mark on his speech, just like every other part of him. As I was being drilled and remade in the Celestial City, Sigmar sent my brother through death and beyond. Eternity echoes in his every word.

Unlike the rest of us, my brother’s mask resembles a bleached skull, and I find myself wondering what lies behind. Would I recognise his face? Unlike me, he has endured Sigmar’s fire a second time. He knows what it really means to be immortal.

The rest of my captains stand back in respectful silence as he approaches.

‘What are your orders, Lord-Celestant?’ he asks, speaking formally, giving no hint of our shared past. He glances at the heavens. ‘This was not prophesied. None of my auguries indicated that we would land here, on this bridge of birds.’

I look back down the road, blanking out the thrashing wings and the insanity hanging overhead.

‘The tempest can’t have strayed too far off course, Boreas.’ I nod back down the bridge. ‘We’ve clearly found our foe.’

There are figures emerging from the fumes — a barbaric, crimson-clad rabble scrambling along the bridge, pouring from the smoke like blood from a wound. The moonlight shows them in sickening clarity. They wear jagged, red and brass helmets and their bare chests are lashed with scarred muscle. They carry repulsive, brazen idols and axes as tall as men, scored with foul sigils, and every one of them is draped in skulls and glistening with blood.

‘Bloodreavers,’ says a voice edged with hate. ‘Finally these snorting dogs will receive some justice.’

I turn to face the speaker. ‘Liberator-Prime. There can be no victory without discipline.’ I nod at the lines of Liberators marching towards us. ‘They will follow our lead, Castamon. Show them what Sigmar expects.’

He nods, humbled. ‘Lord-Celestant.’

I turn back to the bloodreavers. As they run they fill the air with a dreadful din. They are trailing something that clangs and clicks along the chains of the bridge but at this distance I can’t make out what it is.

The rest of the Liberators clatter to a halt around us, moving with such well-drilled precision that they could be on a parade ground.

I point my hammer at the bloated moon and raise my voice.

‘Remember this, Stormcasts: nothing is forsaken. Look deep enough into the darkness and you will always find Sigmar looking back.’

They remain motionless and silent, but I feel their battle-hunger; it radiates from their gleaming armour.

‘Lock shields,’ I say, and there’s a deafening clang as the vanguard snaps into place. The entire army moves as one, bodies, shields and armour, fitting together to make an impenetrable bastion of sigmarite.

Struggling to suppress my pride, I raise my warhammer, Grius, to the crimson heavens. It flashes in the moonlight, and Zarax lets out a roar. As the dracoth rises beneath me she opens her reptilian jaws and unleashes pure white fury at the clouds. The air crackles and spider legs of electricity dance across my armour.

I give the signal to advance and as we meet the enemy lines I become one with my expressionless mask — an emotionless implement of Sigmar’s will. Anger is forgotten. Grief is suppressed. Everything falls away: the sound of shields rattling on greaves, the torment of the bridge, the lunacy of the moon — all I know is this moment. I feel the long, slow arc of my life reaching its culmination. Finally, I face the monsters I was born to slay.

Gold and crimson collide. There is an explosion of grinding metal as the vanguards meet. Sparks glitter in the darkness, axes clang against shields and bucklers smash against armour.

The lines of Liberators hold steady and I order them onwards. Their shields lock tighter with every step and they drive the enemy back across the bridge of birds. Even from a few rows back I can barely breathe for the stink of the bloodreavers, a ripe stench even more powerful than the sulphurous moon. They fight like wounded animals, snorting, spitting and howling as they throw themselves against the Liberators’ shields, trying and failing to break our line. I glimpse deranged faces, eyes rolled back in sockets, delirious with rage. They’re more stampede than army.

‘Drive them back!’ I shout as the bloodreavers’ frenzy grinds us to a slow plod. ‘Drive them back to whatever dark vaults spawned them!’

They begin to drop, felled by lightning hammer-strikes, golden flashes that lash out from behind shields, crushing armour and bone. It seems that victory will come before I even have chance to gauge the strength of my army.

I hear a cry of pain from the shield wall.

I peer through the serried, golden lines and glimpse one of my Liberators clutching at his throat. His armour has been rent and there’s blood, lots of blood, rushing between his fingers. He vanishes from view as the phalanx closes around him.

His choked screams scrape around my skull and I drive Zarax forwards, keen to be done with these animals. Even the dracoth cannot easily wade through such a crush, so she unleashes a gout of lightning, tearing a channel through the enemy ranks. The smell of cooking meat intensifies the stench.

A bloodreaver bounds over the shield wall. He vaults several rows, screaming hysterically, and lashes out with a pair of jagged axes. Another Stormcast staggers as the bloodreaver crashes into him.

Before the Liberators can respond, a paladin strides casually forwards and brings down his huge, two-handed hammer. He moves with a languid, easy grace but his blow lands like a thunderclap. The bridge rocks and blinding light envelops us all. Even Zarax stumbles.

When the glare fades, the bloodreaver is gone and the paladin has calmly resumed his place. If it weren’t for the gore sliding down his breastplate there would be no sign that the Chaos creature had ever existed. I take note of the Stormcast’s markings.

‘Retributor Celadon,’ I shout, disguising my pride beneath a stern snarl. ‘Wait for my command.’

More of the howling curs manage to scale the shield wall, disrupting our faultless lines. It’s becoming harder to match the dispassion of my mask. Anger boils through my limbs. I clutch one of my honour scrolls and recite the Oath of Becoming.

Dozens of the bloodreavers are falling to the Liberators’ hammers and swords but I hear Stormcasts crying out too. Such noble beings were not made to succumb to such soul-sick dogs and my patience starts to fray. The crush of bodies becomes oppressive. My eyes blur with sweat and my muscles burn with the effort of holding myself back.

Another Liberator falls and a whole section of the shield wall gives.

The bloodreavers seize their chance and wrench the gap wider with a flurry of axe blows.

I signal to the paladins, finally giving them permission to advance, and they surge forwards, led by Celadon’s brutal blows.

‘Close ranks!’ I roar, rising up in my saddle and ordering the Liberators back into position as the paladins storm ahead. They try to obey but the bloodreavers are becoming even more feral. They fight with no structure or reason. Something is driving them into a boiling frenzy. It’s bewildering.

Another Stormcast cries out in pain and I will take no more.

‘For the God-King!’ I roar, launching myself from Zarax’s back and into the enemy, joining the wave of paladins.

Ranks of warhammers rise behind me, along with a chorus of battle cries.

The fight begins in earnest.

I pick out the largest bloodreaver and bear down on him. His face has been warped beyond recognition by deep jagged scars and there are thick hoops of brass hammered through his biceps. Every inch of him has been transformed by a lifetime of war. The din of battle is everywhere, but I’m deaf to everything beyond the deep, phlegmy rattle of his breath. He snorts like a boar, drooling and bestial as he smashes his axe into my hammer.

The blow jolts through me and I rock back on my heel, gauging the weight of him against my own strength. He is as heavy as iron, but I’m easily sufficient for the task, and after the crush of the shield wall I relish the chance to lash out. The stink of his breath is worse than the rotting bridge — he growls something in his disgusting, dark tongue and I recognise the smell of human flesh.

I smash Grius into his axe and savour the sensation of my armour-clad limbs. My body feels like a new weapon, forged in the stars. There’s a strength in me that I can barely fathom.

The bloodreaver recovers and swings but I’m faster. So fast. Grius crunches through the mouthpiece of his helmet, tearing it away in a shower of sparks and blood. His head snaps sideways and he reels away from me, jaw hanging loose from his head.

I stride after him, barging deeper into the crush, and draw back my warhammer for another blow.

Laughter explodes from his throat. He tears away what remains of his jaw, hurling it to the ground like the remnant of a meal.

There’s something so obscene about this that I pause — only for a second, but long enough for him to slam his fist into my golden mask. My head rocks back as a long, iron spike grinds through the eye socket of my helm. Pain explodes across my face and my helmet fills with blood. I stagger backwards, reeling across the thrashing birds, blinded in one eye, and almost drop my hammer.

He gurgles grotesquely as he lunges after me, blood rushing from where his mouth used to be.

Pain only makes me faster. My hammer connects with the top of his helmet and brass crumples beneath god-forged sigmarite. His skull collapses.

He gives a last, porcine, grunt and topples back into the throng.

I down another opponent with a backhanded blow, then step back to survey the scene. I’ve unleashed a storm. Freed from the crush, the paladins are striding through the bloodreavers like a tempest, their voices raised to Sigmar, lightning flashing across their hammers. The bloodreavers topple before the combined onslaught of Liberators and Retributors. It’s a massacre. My army flows like gold from a brazier. In minutes we have shattered their ranks, scattering heads and axes as we go. The battle is almost won.

Boreas fights beside me, smashing his way through the enemy with slow, precise determination, splitting shields and heads.

I wipe the blood from my golden mask and realise that we’re mirroring each other as we strike.

‘Victory and honour!’ I cry, and he raises his hammer in reply.

I take a fume-filled breath and look around. There’s a vast shape looming up from the smoke further down the bridge, punctuated by ominous crimson lights.

‘That’s not the Crucible of Blood,’ I call out to Boreas. ‘We must finish this quickly and find out where the storm has landed us.’

He peers at the distant tower. ‘You have eyes in the heavens, Lord-Celestant.’

I nod and look up into the darkness. ‘Drusus!’ I cry, fending off a blow and peering back down the bridge. At first there’s no reply so I battle on, scouring the heavens for my cloud-borne Prosecutors.

The moon has fallen even closer. The sight of it is dizzying, vast beyond understanding. Such a colossal, dazzling sphere has no place looming so low. As it gets closer it starts to affect the bridge. The structure sways so violently that birds are being torn free and hurled up towards the sky, and the chains reach up to the clouds, dancing like serpents.

‘Lord-Celestant!’ cries a voice.

I make out the golden form of Drusus, flying overhead.

Divine light gilds his wings as he dives through the fumes, trailing Sigmar’s heralds of death behind him. He banks and rolls, clutching twin hammers. Even the blank expression of his mask can’t hide his excitement.

‘See what this bridge has in store for us,’ I shout, levelling my hammer at the shadows up ahead.

Drusus nods but remains overhead, struggling to hold his place, buffeted by a new storm that has sprung up.

‘Lord-Celestant,’ he cries, pointing one of his hammers back to where debris is flying up from the bridge. ‘The moon is falling.’

Before I can reply, a circle of bloodreavers surrounds me, each clutching an axe as tall as I am. If they’ve noticed their losses, they don’t show it. They lope towards me like drunken brawlers.

As I ready myself, I feel a charge in the air — traces of Sigmar’s wrath circling once more, crackling in my joints, responding to my faith. I raise my warhammer to the clouds and cry an oath.

The bloodreavers charge and my armour blazes white, ignited by the remnants of Sigmar’s tempest. Grius erupts as I bring it down between my feet.

There’s a thunderclap and a ring of light slams into my attackers.

Blood flies from their mouths and they arch in pain as their backs break.

‘Make for the towers!’ I cry, vaulting their twitching corpses and hurling myself back into the throng. Whatever Drusus has seen, the battle is nearly over and we need to advance.

My leap takes me unexpectedly high and I have an odd sensation of weightlessness. It takes me several seconds to land back on the bridge. The battle rages on, but most of the bloodreavers are dead and the rest are in disarray, so I call my retinues back into formation for the final push. We will finish this with the same dignity with which we began it.

I’m still a few paces away from the phalanx when my feet lift off the ground again and my face turns to the sky.

Deranged laughter fills the air as I try unsuccessfully to grasp on to something. Dozens of birds are being torn free and hurled into the ink-dark sky. The whole bridge is bucking and heaving.

I spin in the air, thrashing my limbs. As I turn I see that some of my Liberators have been thrown to their knees while others, like me, are rising into the air.

‘Lord-Celestant!’ cries Drusus from somewhere nearby. ‘The moon is too close!’

An iron-hard hand locks around my throat and I turn to see one of the berserk warriors laughing wildly as he drifts up beside me, several feet above the bridge. His axe swings towards my face.

The sickening sensation of weightlessness slows my reactions. I bring Grius up but only quick enough to deflect his blow, and the axe slams into my gorget. The blessed sigmarite holds, but we continue to spin away from the ground.

The bloodreaver still has hold of my throat and we pirouette through whirling embers. His breath reeks of death. His scarred, leathery muscles are slick with blood and his battered helmet is daubed in tribute to the Blood God. His face is near enough for me to see cracked, corpse-dry lips and thin, blackened teeth. He’s too close for me to swing my hammer so I pound the handle into his face, breaking his nose. He just laughs harder as we float higher.

Then he twists his voice around words I can understand.

‘Fly home,’ he says, his voice an obscene gurgle. Then, with a snort of derision, he tries to shove me away, but my speed has not entirely left me; before I’m lost to the storm I manage to grab hold of his axe.

The fool is so rabid that he won’t let go of his precious weapon, so I haul myself down its length, grabbing onto his arm with one hand and swinging Grius with the other. It connects squarely with his head and I hear the crack of his breaking neck. He slumps in my grip.

I roll again, hanging onto his corpse and get a sickening bird’s-eye view of the battle below. Dozens of my Stormcasts are being lifted up from the jolting bridge. Only the paladins are too heavy to be moved. Most of the bloodreavers are dead, but the survivors howl ecstatically as the moon wrenches us from victory. Finally, I realise the significance of something that has been bothering me since I first saw it. Every one of the bloodreavers is shackled to the bridge.

‘Their chains!’ I cry, grabbing hold of the one attached to the corpse and lashing it around my leg. ‘Drusus!’ I can see him and the other winged Prosecutors still hurling hammers of lightning at the foe. ‘Their chains! Lash us to the bridge!’

He stares at me, confused, then nods and waves his retinues into action. They dive into the crowds of drifting Stormcast Eternals, grappling as many as they can back down to the bridge. Our orderly attack has become an airborne riot. As Drusus’ Prosecutors attempt to lock chains around their brothers’ legs, the remaining bloodreavers lash out with their axes, hacking them down as they struggle to secure the chains.

My head pounds as Liberators rush up through the clouds, snatched by the lunar storm and thrown to the heavens. The moon is so close the air is groaning beneath its incredible mass.

Drusus and the other winged Prosecutors lash countless dozens to the bridge, but others are disappearing from view, flashing like reclaimed comets as they rush towards the firmament. My Stormcasts rage as they are dragged from this world. Anger boils in my knotted gut as the storm spins me faster.

The grinding of the moon becomes deafening, throbbing in my still bleeding head until I think it might split.

Chapter Two

Vourla — High Priestess of the Steppe

My sorcery is almost spent; my books have been burned. What does that leave? Just a weak old woman, waiting to feel a blade at her throat. The gods played a cruel joke when they chose me as the steppe’s last chance for vengeance.

I shift in my chair, throwing shadows across the octagonal chamber. The floor gleams in the torchlight like a piece of perfect marble, but I’ve walked across it many times and know the truth. Hakh’s throne room is carpeted with human teeth, hammered and smoothed to a sheen. They spiral across the room in their thousands, circling a thick, pitted grindstone. The teeth are only a small reminder of the lives Hakh has taken. I doubt he considers them more than decoration, but I feel the pain of every sundered soul. Sometimes I run my hands over them, tracing the contours and cracks, recalling names and whispering a promise: I will avenge you. For a long time I did not know how I would achieve such a feat, but now, finally, it is in reach.

The throne beside me is the carcass of a great beast — a beautiful, feline thing from the time before Chaos. After killing it, Hakh hollowed out the corpse with his bare hands and had it cast in brass. Now it hunches over him, frozen in an eternal roar. The warlord sits silently and hasn’t moved for an hour, but I know he’s awake. He’s long beyond such mortal frailties as sleep. There are weapons everywhere, but if I took a single step towards him my game would end. I must bide my time. Vengeance is so close I can feel it in my tingling palms.

Hakh’s generals have yet to arrive and my only entertainment comes from his hounds. Most of them are as motionless as their master, slumped at his feet, but a few circle me, their claws scraping and clattering across the gleaming floor. Even after all these years they’ve not given up hope that Hakh might rethink my importance and present them with a meal. They’re not real dogs, of course, but hulking, reptilian things, the colour of flayed muscle and as tall as a man. Their enormous, canine heads are crowned with horns and their bodies have been bloated into a grotesque parody of nature, torn out of shape by heaving muscle. Smoke leaks from their jaws as they pad back and forth, their eyes always locked on me.

The spiked collars at their throats crush the magic out of me and they stink of the hell-pits that spawned them, but I’ve become fascinated by them. There’s a mystery to them that I can’t fathom: Hakh loves them. When slaves become too weak to work, he feeds them, still living, to the hounds. I’ve been forced to endure the screams more times than I wish to recall and, as the slaves die, I always keep my eyes locked on Hakh’s. They burn with pride as his hounds do their work — the pride of a devoted father. The thought fascinates me. I can’t stop thinking about it. There seems to be something profound just beyond my comprehension. This murdering, poisonous monster cares for something. What does that mean? What does it mean for his wretched subjects? These gore-hungry executioners own everything now. They own those pitiful few of us who still live on the Kharvall Steppe. Slaughter, hunger and fear are the only things we will ever know now. Few of us can recall the days when animals like Hakh’s great cat still breathed and hunted, moving through a realm unshackled by Khorne’s brass towers. The monster sitting in the throne is all we have, and he loves something. What does that mean?

The door swings open and Hakh’s eight generals march into the chamber, paying me no attention as they approach the throne. A more wretched group of stooges and villains never drew breath, but, as always, they adopt the mannerisms of proud, disciplined knights. Their twisted red and brass armour flashes in the torchlight as they drop to their knees and rest their foreheads against their axes. How furious they would be if they knew that a frail, human woman like me had written their death warrants. Not only have I convinced Hakh to call them home, but I have also convinced him that they are worthless. I have driven a blade so neatly between their shoulder blades that they did not even feel it.

Hakh remains motionless for a few more seconds, then his ember-red eyes flicker into life. The lord of the Blood Creed is still a man of sorts, I suppose, but he has more than a foot in the realm of daemons. The thick serrated plates of his armour cover most of his body, but his head is horribly exposed. Years of dark worship have earned him a pair of bestial, ridged horns that swoop up from his brutal, heavy brow. His face has the grey, greasy pallor of a month-old corpse.

For a while he ignores the newcomers and stares at me. My fear was long ago matched by hate and I hold his gaze, but I can’t read the thought in those inhuman eyes. Has he seen through my ruse? Will he turn his generals on me?

He waves a hand, allowing them to rise and bark out their tallies of atrocities, presenting them as proud victories. They list every head they’ve taken for their lord, but I’ve already told him a convenient truth: that they have nothing to boast of. They no longer have an enemy to fight. This kingdom is no longer on its knees — it is supine.

‘I have tightened the yoke on the cities of Iphilaus and Chius,’ cries one of them in strident tones. His massive frame is encased in jagged brass armour and he has the pure white pelt of a wild cat slung across his shoulders. ‘Their princes will not ask you for leniency again.’ He hurls a sack to the foot of the throne and bloodless heads spill out, tumbling across the floor with a sickening series of thuds.

Another of the warriors strides forwards. He wears a heavy, blood-drenched cloak that leaves a crimson smear behind him as he walks. His gauntleted hands are locked around a daemon-forged glaive that shimmers with inner fire, revealing a cruel leer deep inside his hood.

‘The Volpone River now runs red, Lord Hakh. The Volpone Knights seemed unsure whether they should kneel to you, so I helped them decide. I removed their knees. Three thousand of them are now feeding the fish at the bottom of their sacred river.’

As he listens to their boasts, Hakh leans forwards in his throne and starts to tap the blade of his sword against the floor.

I notice that Hakh has started to tremble and I edge back into my stone chair. His growing anger would be obvious to anyone with sense, but the generals carry on oblivious, crowing over their petty victories.

Hakh is a goliath — there is something almost bovine about his armour-clad bulk. But when he finally explodes, it’s with surprising speed.

The general nearest to the throne topples back into the others as his head flies off, removed by one clean swipe of Hakh’s sword.

The warlord roars as he storms across the room to grab the severed head and smash it against the wall. The others try to raise their weapons, but Hakh attacks them with the head, slamming it into their faces until it becomes a bloody lump of bone and metal. He roars as he kills, and then, when every one of them is dead, he hurls his dripping weapon at his throne, where it bursts like a flagon of wine.

I feel a mixture of nausea and pride at what I’ve done.

He’s not finished. Still roaring, Hakh strides across the chamber and gouges the wall with his horns, sending wood and masonry clattering across the floor.

Then he turns, panting like an animal, and locks his gaze on me.

I scramble backwards but there’s no escape. The doors are unlocked, but even if I could get through them, where would I go?

He crosses the chamber and stares at me, blood dripping from his horns.

‘You were right again,’ he says finally. ‘They found nothing. They failed.’

His voice is a low growl that makes my language as vile as his own.

‘What else do you know?’ he asks.

I’m terrified but, even now, he won’t hurt me, I’m sure of it. As the hounds throw themselves around the chamber, snapping and snarling, he bats them away, sending them sprawling across the floor.

‘What do you want to know?’ I ask.

He snarls and jabs one of his bloody, brass-plated fingers at my forehead.

‘No games.’

‘Why would I tell you anything more?’ I ask, playing a fool; playing along with his lie.

He relaxes visibly, thinking he still has me in his power. He points his sword at a space in the floor of teeth. ‘It’s not finished. You know who’s next.’ He leans close, dripping blood onto my face. ‘I’ll make an exception and kill them slowly.’

For a moment, I allow myself to imagine that his words are true — that I have a family to save, that they’re still alive somewhere, waiting for my powers as a sorcerer to buy their freedom. I picture their trusting, beautiful faces and it almost breaks me. My eyes fill with tears and the idiot thinks it’s because I’m afraid for them. He thinks I don’t know they are long dead.

His breathing quickens as I nod.

I sneer at his butchered generals. ‘They were wasting your time. They lacked the wit to find the real threat.’ I look beyond him, out through one of the narrow windows. ‘But there is still an enemy. There is a way you could shine.’

His eyes blaze and he moves to grab me, stopping himself at the last minute as though he’s afraid of shattering a precious jewel.

‘And if I slay this enemy?’

‘If you could slay the man I’ve seen, your future will be secure.’ I glance at the sign of the Blood God, Khorne, carved into the back of his throne. ‘You will have served your god well. He’ll be in no doubt as to which of his lords should rule this land. You’ll become lord of the Kharvall Steppe.’

He growls again and I wonder if he might finally kill me. But no, he’s just overcome with excitement. He’s picturing his peers — all the other lords vying for control of the steppe — and thinking of how he will feel when they kneel before him.

‘Show me.’ He sounds awed.

I shoo him away like a dog and, incredibly, he backs away, taking his hounds with him and sitting back on his throne. I take a cloak from one of the corpses and fling it around myself with a flamboyant gesture, as though it’s a beautiful robe. My sense of the theatrical has not entirely left me. Then I walk to the centre of the chamber and climb up onto the grindstone. It’s a huge ring of pitted granite, five feet high and almost as thick. I wince as I haul myself up onto it, but the thought of what comes next gives me strength.

For one ridiculous moment I wait for the musicians to start, but then I remember that they’re all dead. I look at Hakh, unsure what to do. He’s hunched forward in his throne, holding back his hounds and staring at me with such devotion that I almost laugh.

With the hounds restrained, a ghost of my power returns. I start to hum the Song of Summoning and beg my body for forgiveness as I subject it to another ordeal. My muscles remember what I do not and, as I start to dance, I hear the dead musicians in my head, willing me to succeed.

The whole performance is quite ironic. These meat-headed morons despise magic but they can’t remove it fully from their towers any more than they can bar the passage of the air. As my stiff, bruised limbs twist themselves into the old shapes, a breeze springs up around the grindstone, snapping through my borrowed cloak and whipping up the fragments of broken wall. It’s no natural breeze and as I look over at Hakh I feel the urge to laugh. To leave such sorcery unpunished is clearly a torment for him.

It only takes a few moments for the images to appear. My mumbled verses become an impassioned hymn and the breeze turns into a whirl of places and scenes. I spin faster and Hakh rises from his throne, staring in wonder at the figure forming in the tempest — a great lord, clad from head to toe in gleaming armour. His face is hidden behind a smooth, expressionless mask and he carries a great rune-inscribed warhammer. He’s leading a vast host of golden knights into battle, some borne on wings of lightning and all of them wielding hammers that flash with the light of the storm.

I’ve known of his coming for weeks, but now I see him I’m as enraptured as Hakh. The lord’s armour sparks and flickers as he moves, charged with some kind of divine energy, but it’s his demeanour that shocks me. I’ve never seen anyone move through a battle with such solemnity. He strides calmly through the fighting, untouched by the violence and corruption that surround him. Great chunks of the ground are being torn free and hurled up towards the sky, but he maintains a cool, regal majesty. As I study him, a painful thought creeps into my mind. It’s that most treacherous of worms: hope.

‘Is this him? Is this the warlord I must face?’ Hakh staggers towards the apparition, reaching through the flashing lights. ‘Who is he?’

My plans are forgotten. I stare in wonder.

‘He is called Tylos.’

Chapter Three

Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

Duty keeps me sane. I will not let my brothers die.

I haul myself down the chain and step onto the bridge, ignoring the pain, the screams and the madness of the storm. I drive down my anger and level my thoughts. I study the fastening around my leg and see that the bloodreavers have designed them for a specific purpose — so that they might travel through the lunar storm. This must be something they endure regularly, and it must therefore be something that passes. I look up at the moon and see that it’s already swinging back up towards the stars. We will ride this out. We will sanctify the Crucible of Blood.

I fasten the chain tighter and stagger across the lurching bridge, barging between crowds of tumbling bodies. I grab those I can, fixing them to the structure, while crushing those in red with Grius until they are as broken as the birds. It’s hard to fight cleanly in this madness, but I refuse to slip into brutality. I’m no longer the animal Sigmar lifted from the slave pits. I’m a good man; a devout man. Every kill I make is in Sigmar’s name.

My men follow my lead and soon we’re on the attack again, bloody and shackled but twice as determined. The laughter of our foes ceases as they find themselves once more facing a wall of hammer-emblazoned shields. I doubt we look as glorious as when we arrived, but I’m sure we are more terrifying.

Drusus and his men loop through the night sky, supporting our advance, hurling Sigmar’s twin-tailed judgement.

The bloodreavers fight on. They can’t hope to win, but the pitiful few that remain throw themselves at us, fuelled by a senseless kill-fever, thrashing and hacking as we trample them.

The final push is over in minutes. The storm is definitely fading now and the bridge becomes calm. Eventually, the moon is high enough that we can smash our chains and charge, finishing the bloodreavers in a silent, efficient slaughter.

I grab the last of them by the throat and drag him to the edge of the bridge. He kicks as I hold him out into the night, studying him with silent dispassion. He stops struggling and spits on my mask, his phlegm sizzling angrily on the metal, and stares at the blood flowing from the eyehole of my mask.

‘Blood for the Blood God.’ He starts laughing.

I remain silent.

The bloodreaver’s eyes become lucid and I am pleased to see that I have confused him. He continues to laugh but it sounds forced. He strains to free himself whilst staring at my mask, trying to see what lies behind.

There was a time when I would have crushed him just see his pain, to see him beg for mercy, but I stay my hand. I am no longer that man. I brought the bloodreaver out here to denounce him, to list his crimes and vent my rage, but now I realise that would be as clumsy as revealing my face.

I drop him from the bridge.

As the bloodreaver falls from view, the insanity of this place hits me. I know the name of this kingdom — the Kharvall Steppe — but little else. I had assumed that the bridge spanned a great river, but the thundering noise I can hear is coming from something far stranger. Below us is an ocean of black fire, boiling with tormented creatures. I have no doubt that this place was once magnificent, but now it’s a monstrous sight. I look down on a frenzied tsunami of reptiles, mammals and crustaceans, bound together by flames and ash, tumbling and rolling over each other in a furious rush to escape the heat. Some of the scorched creatures resemble things I can recognise, but others have been warped into lunatic creations of horn and scale. The moon paints them red; a torrent of claws and blood.

Boreas’ cool tones interrupt my thoughts. He has left the other commanders behind and followed me to the edge of the bridge. Now that we are alone, he finally drops my title.

‘Your first taste of victory, brother.’

‘Victory isn’t enough,’ I reply. ‘You know that. If we’re to win the wider war, we must be a beacon. We must ignite these realms, not with flames but with hope. Vandus’ victory at the Igneous Gate has bought us passage this far, but we have to be worthy of him. We must show the people of this land what they can be.’ I draw back my shoulders and take a deep breath. ‘We must show them how to be stronger, better.’

Boreas glances back across the bridge. ‘Sixty Liberators are gone,’ he says, with no trace of emotion.

I look past him and see the truth of it. Of those that remain, many have dark stains on their golden armour.

‘The pull of the moon,’ he explains. ‘I can do nothing for them. They will endure hours of agony before their souls can return to the Celestial Realm.’

I look up at the sky. Which of those lights are not stars but men, screaming as they drift into the lonely void?

I turn to Boreas, wondering what kind of man he is now. We have shared so much and yet I feel like he is a stranger. Where has he travelled in Sigmar’s name? Every inch of his golden armour is draped in talismans: skulls, bones and scrolls, all inscribed with tales of the underworlds. There is a grandeur to him that I don’t recognise, and a coldness.

‘The scholars of the Celestial City did not foresee this,’ he says. ‘I did not foresee it. The storm should have landed us inside Hakh’s kingdom, at the foot of the Crucible of Blood. Instead it brought us here, to the Red Road.’ His words trail off and he shakes his head. When he speaks again, his voice is so soft that I can barely hear him. ‘Dawn will soon be here and there are now many challenges between us and victory. Hakh’s realm is encircled by a great fortress known as the Anvil. My visions have—’

‘Brother,’ I interrupt. ‘There are no walls tall enough to stop this army. You know that. It doesn’t matter where we’ve landed, Sigmar will not abandon us. We will reach the Crucible of Blood.’

He nods. ‘I just want you to know what lies ahead. After the Anvil, we will reach Lake Malice, a mile-wide stretch of lava. Our souls may be immortal, but our flesh is not. You will need to find a way across that liquid inferno.’

‘Then we have little time. How fast can we reach the Crucible of Blood?’

‘If we follow the road for another mile or so past the bridge’s end we’ll reach the Anvil. Lake Malice is not much further from there. If we can find a way across, the Crucible of Blood will be in sight.’

‘How long before the sun rises?’

‘Maybe as little as three hours.’ He looks up and I find myself trying to discern the eyes behind his skull mask. There’s something strange about the colour, or maybe it’s the absence of colour? I step closer, intrigued.

‘If the sun rises before we capture the crucible, even Sigmar can’t help us,’ he says, turning to the horizon.

‘Then three hours will have to suffice,’ I say. ‘Do you still have our key?’ I glance at the collection of relics that adorn his armour. ‘Is it intact?’

He takes a heavily bolted box from his belt and opens it with a muttered prayer. Then he lifts out a fume-filled bell jar. The opaque, green glass is thicker than my shield and locked to a silver base by a row of filigreed clasps. The jar is beautiful, in stark contrast to the contents. As Boreas lifts the glass from its base, a cloud of mist drifts away to reveal a shrivelled, black heart. The Kuriat, ancient beyond imagining, a living fossil from another age, still beating with a steady, unceasing thud. Tiny lights flutter around it, golden motes that dance and sparkle as Boreas holds the relic up in front of his mask to study its rhythm.

‘The Kuriat has already slowed,’ he mutters. ‘The radiant storms have been cast astray. Something has perverted the will of the Celestial City. Or someone perhaps.’ He glances at me, then looks down again. The golden lights billow and roll, forming symbols under his fathomless gaze. He reads something in the tiny constellations and nods, before closing the jar and locking it carefully away again.

‘The Kuriat is still true. Its potential is undimmed. If we bring it to the Crucible of Blood, Khorne’s legions will find that a new power has dominion over their prized realmgate.’ He notices the crimson smear across my metal mask. ‘You’re wounded. Let me see.’

I remove my helmet and allow him to examine my eye.

Pain explodes across my face as he touches me but I consider it just penance for being so careless. How absurd to have been injured in my first battle.

‘The eye is punctured,’ he says, a hint of humanity in his voice, a hint of my brother. ‘And the cut is messy. I’ll need to mend the wound as best as I can to avoid infection.’

I try to shrug him off, impatient to move on, but he points at the madness below. ‘Lord-Celestant, this is not a place to be careless, and your life is too precious to be taken lightly. Your soul may survive a corrupted wound, but your flesh will not, and I do not intend to lead this army in your stead.’

I loosen my grip on his arm. ‘Then work quickly, brother.’

He takes an object from his armour and presses it to my face. Something plunges deep into my eye socket. The pain doubles and fresh blood pours down my face, then the world turns crimson. I struggle to see what my brother does next. He chants in a language I’ve never heard before and the words sound furious and alien, then he reaches up, as though trying to grasp something from the air.

‘How long will—’ I start to say, when a blazing column of light slams into us. It hits me with such force that I almost topple to the ground. Only my brother’s firm grip holds me upright. The air crackles with arcane power and a sickening heat washes over me.

I try to cry out but my body is shaking so violently that I can’t speak. My weapons drop to the ground and I slump in my brother’s grip. Light pours through me, cramming my consciousness with dazzling energy as the celestial majesty burns through my skull. For an agonising, rapturous moment I feel not Boreas’ hand but Sigmar’s on my flesh. The light deepens and grows before revealing a hellish vision: thousands of grinning cadavers, rising up from a shattered wasteland. They crawl from their graves and swarm towards me, carrying ancient, rusting spears. One of them is a great, winged horror and, as it dives towards me I see its bleached skull in gruesome detail. I’m about to cry out in defiance, to denounce it, when the vision vanishes, replaced by the polished skull mask of my brother’s helm.

The light fades and night returns. Strength floods back to my limbs and as I look around, I see that I’m still on the bridge of birds.

‘You saw something,’ says Boreas, keeping hold of my arm. ‘What?’

I shake my head, confused.

He stares at me in silence for a moment, then gives a disapproving sigh that takes me right back to our childhood.

‘You are doubly blessed, brother. The God-King has worked a miracle through my humble flesh. I only meant to safeguard you from infection, but it looks as though Sigmar does not wish to be served by one-eyed lords.’

I blink and realise that he’s right: the vision has returned to my eye. As I study the storm clouds overhead, though, I feel as though I am seeing more than I should. The heavens are strangely vivid and mobile. I shake my head. ‘We need to go.’

I click my mask back into place and clasp my brother’s shoulder in thanks, then we stride back across the bridge to the others.

Some of them are wounded but there’s no doubt in their eyes as they see me approaching. Zarax is there, waiting patiently for my return. She looks unharmed and is scratching and pawing at the bridge, eager to carry on.

Drusus lands a few feet away and as he removes his helmet I feel again that I’m seeing more than I did before. Now I can clearly see how the Reforging has changed him. When I first met Drusus, barging his way to the front of a crowd of aspirants, he was a broken man, tormented by an illness of the mind. Now a steady, missionary zeal burns in his heart. He folds his lightning-bright wings behind his back and drops to one knee. The trust in his face feels like another inch of armour across my chest.

‘Forgive me, Lord-Celestant,’ he says. As he speaks, his head twitches to one side, a ghost of his former madness, but he refuses to let his voice waver. ‘I will not fail you again.’

‘True,’ I reply. ‘You will not.’

Ranks of Liberators, Retributors and Judicators climb slowly to their feet. They raise their weapons in silent tribute, ready to begin again. I’m so proud I could roar.

I climb onto Zarax’s back and survey my incorruptible host.

‘Your baptism is complete,’ I cry. ‘Prepare for war!’

After half an hour’s march we leave the bridge of birds and I lead the army through avenues of cloud-scraping, shattered towers. Drusus and his Prosecutors glide overhead, slicing through storm-wracked clouds, clutching their hammers and javelins as they search for signs of danger. From Zarax’s back I survey the lines of Liberators marching ahead of me. Even their presence in this wretched place is an act of defiance. They move in flawless, perfectly symmetrical phalanxes, illustrating everything that an army should be. They’re riven with faith and pride. Behind me stride the paladins, Celadon at their head and further back march the ranks of Judicators. Chaos-spawned horrors scuttle for safety as our boots crunch towards them.

‘Soon,’ says Boreas, looking up at me. There’s a trace of humour in his voice.

‘Soon?’

He waves his hammer at the army that surrounds us. ‘Soon you’ll have your chance to truly test them and see what Sigmar has entrusted you with. It won’t be long until you can show your mettle.’

I smile behind my helmet. How easily he still guesses my thoughts. I glance at the heavens, trying to discern our home in the stars. ‘They say that when Vandus opened the Igneous Gate, the heavens cried out in gratitude. They say a chorus of lost souls sang his name.’

Boreas nods. ‘You have a lot to live up to.’

We reach the plateau and leave the shadow of the towers, heading for a glittering, moonlit expanse of scorched earth that leads to endless fields of rippling grass. There’s a tinkling sound on the breeze, like hundreds of tiny bells. I look back and notice that the lunacy of this place is so profound that the moon has already resumed its natural place in the night sky. Sigmar’s tempest still flickers overhead and clouds race through the darkness. Our target is clear though. I don’t need Boreas’ relic to point the way. Across the fields stands a vast wall of shadow. It stretches over the horizon and flickers with crimson pinpricks of light.

‘The Anvil,’ says Boreas. ‘The border of Hakh’s kingdom. Manned by an army to make those bloodreavers look like a gathering of fishwives.’

‘Instruct my captains,’ I say. ‘Order them to spread the army out.’

Boreas snaps out commands to my captains and Zarax carries me to the edge of the fields. The tinkling sound grows louder and I realise my mistake: what I took for blades of grass are in fact real blades. We’re standing before an expanse of rusting metal — millions of swaying, broken swords, each one held erect by a rotting skeletal hand that juts out of the dusty soil. They chime gently against each other in the breeze.

‘What’s this?’ I say looking down at Boreas.

‘The Field of Blades. The last army of the Kharvall Steppe.’ He steps closer to Zarax and looks up at me. ‘Khorne found their attempts to defend themselves amusing. He buried them here in mockery.’

I glance back at the paladins. ‘Do we need to clear a path?’

‘No, Lord-Celestant, there’s no threat left in this army. They are simply a warning. Not even a warning — an illustration of what happens to those who brave the Anvil.’ He prods a sword with his hammer. ‘We’ll pass through them easily enough.’

‘There are so many,’ says Drusus, landing a few feet away.

He’s right. I look out at the Field of Blades and attempt to estimate the size of the army that Khorne found so unworthy. There must be millions of weapons quivering in the breeze while the Anvil overlooks them all, like a sated lion.

‘This must have been the greatest army that ever bore arms,’ says Drusus.

I laugh and signal the advance. ‘The second greatest.’

Chapter Four

Vourla — High Priestess of the Steppe

Hakh parades me along the battlements like I’m a prized pet rather than a woman. There’s no chain, no leash; the fool is so sure of his hold on me he never dreams I could be a threat. Others are less sure. As we pass ranks of crimson-armoured soldiers, they stare at me, outraged by the sight of a sorceress in their brainless ranks. None of them would dare to question Hakh’s will, though, not if they treasure their heads. Even the hounds don’t bite, although their presence is enough to cause me pain. As they pad at my side, the power of their collars crushes the magic out of me, draining me of power. They are as tall as I am and so close I can smell the brimstone in their veins.

I stagger on, playing the part of a tyrant’s consort, pausing occasionally to glare at one of Hakh’s soldiers, as though singling them out for punishment. They’re more afraid of the figure walking behind me. Vhaal is captain of Hakh’s honour guard and almost as massive as his lord. He’s clad in the same thick plate armour, painted blood red and edged in brass, and he carries a double-headed axe that I doubt I could move, let alone lift. From the neck up, though, he’s dramatically different to Hakh: the skin of his face has been flayed, leaving a mask of glistening muscle. His flesh is so corrupted that it never scabs. Blood weeps constantly from his eyes, flowing down into a long, knotted beard that hangs like a piece of intestine from his dripping chin. Hideous as his face is, it is his expression that unnerves me most. His peeled, lipless mouth seems to wear a constant smirk, as though he knows something that nobody else does.

I turn away from Vhaal and shiver. The Anvil is as high as a mountain and my tattered cloak does little to keep out the chill, but it’s a relief to be outside again. The Dark Gods long ago robbed us of clean air, but even this fume-filled miasma is better than the stench of Hakh’s throne room. Furnaces and forges work constantly in the Anvil’s bowels, rumbling and hissing behind the wall, and we are surrounded by lurid sparks that spiral up into the darkness. But high in the heavens I glimpse true stars and they hurt me more than the hounds’ collars. Their untouchable beauty is an unwelcome reminder of what has gone. As Hakh snaps orders at his men I recall folktales I learned as a child — tales of gods drenched in light, rather than blood. My father used to sing of immortals that walked the heavens, riding great star drakes into battle, driving back the daemons of the void. I try to shake my head free of such nonsense, annoyed at myself. Khorne’s butchers killed my father long ago and such thoughts can only bring me pain. My only hope now is revenge and I won’t risk it by dreaming of things that can never be.

The golden knight has done this to me. Something about him has turned me into a little girl again. I look down at the floor to give myself a reminder of the truth. The Anvil is hundreds of miles long and every inch is carpeted with shattered human teeth. This, I remind myself, is the true story of the Kharvall Steppe.

Hakh spends ten minutes or so inspecting his defences and berating Vhaal, but I can see his mind is elsewhere. His violence is cursory and half-hearted. Barely a dozen sentries have felt the sharp end of his sword tonight and, as soon as he reaches a watchtower, he heads back inside, taking me with him.

He leads the way through a series of skull-choked passageways and corpse-strewn antechambers until we come to a large, barred door. Guards step from the torchlight to challenge us, then quickly salute as they see Hakh’s bulk.

Vhaal steps forward and shoves one of them towards the lock, and we are shown into a long, rectangular chamber. The guards rush to light the torches, disturbing clouds of dust as they clatter back and forth. It’s clear nobody has been in here for a long time. As the flames sputter into life I see why — this is a repository of knowledge and learning, which are not Hakh’s favoured subjects. Maps and charts cover the walls and there are tables piled with obscure astrological devices and books.

Hakh catches my surprised expression and looks even more furious than usual. It almost seems that he is embarrassed.

‘Where is he?’ he grunts, waving his sword at the maps.

I realise that I’ve not been clear. Whoever this Tylos is, he is about to present himself at the foot of the Anvil. Hakh has no need to go trekking across the steppe to find him. I’m about to explain this when I realise how stupid that would be.

‘I don’t know, exactly,’ I lie. ‘But I know where he’s headed.’

Hakh nods, tapping his sword impatiently against the floor.

I stroll across the chamber to the window and beckon him to follow. There I point at the butchered landscape that lies beyond the Anvil.

On this side of the wall, the steppe leads to a blinding expanse of lava. It stretches three miles to the east, where it spits angrily onto a distant, fume-shrouded shore — a black horseshoe of basalt that rises even higher than the Anvil. Even from here I can glimpse our destination — the prize that the lake protects. Even through the smoke I see a flash of bronze; a brazen warning beneath the gathering clouds.

Hakh nods slowly. ‘Of course. The Crucible of Blood. The golden warlord seeks a route to Khorne. He seeks daemonhood.’

Even after all I’ve witnessed, I’m momentarily stunned by how moronic he is.

‘He isn’t going to find Khorne,’ I explain. ‘He doesn’t worship your god. Think of how he looked in all that golden finery. He’s dressed in tribute to the other gods — beings who ruled before you came. He imagines himself as a hero from some older, nobler age. He hasn’t come to pass through the gate — he means to conquer it.’

I see rage growing in Hakh’s eyes as I dare to lecture him, so I change tack quickly. ‘Just think of what it would mean if you could stop him. The Blood God would see without a doubt who should be lord of the Kharvall Steppe.’

Vhaal nods with his usual ironic smile. ‘Amakhus and the other warlords would have no choice but to kneel to you.’

Hakh grips the lintel so tightly that his gauntleted hands start to crumble the masonry. He glares at the captain. ‘They would never kneel. Nor would I give them chance. Once my lord has made me a prince, I’ll use their skin for banners.’

I nod. ‘Heroes forgot this kingdom a long time ago. I don’t know what brought Tylos here now, but you could wait an age and not see his like again. If you seek a chance to prove your worth, this is it.’

Hakh takes a ragged breath and backs away from the window. ‘When? How long will I have to gather my armies? They’re scattered along every mile of this wall. When will he reach the crucible?’

I frown, genuinely unsure. I barely touched Tylos’ mind, but I sense that he understands the Crucible of Blood. I think he knows what will happen when the sun rises. ‘He means to reach it before dawn.’

Hakh spits. ‘Dawn? That leaves me no time at all. Dawn is a few hours away.’

‘What time do you need?’ I ask, surprised by my growing confidence. ‘What do you need to stop one knight and a few of his men?’

Hakh stares at me, and I curse myself for overplaying my hand. Vhaal steps closer, lifting his axe.

Hakh throws back his head and laughs. ‘You have more guts than any of these worms, Vourla.’ He waves at Vhaal. ‘If you were a man and less of a runt, I’d give you his axe.’

I shrug, hoping he can’t see how close I was to running.

‘The golden warlord can dress up as any god he likes,’ continues Hakh. ‘It won’t fix his head any tighter to his neck.’

He turns to Vhaal. ‘Gather the Blood Creed.’

‘All of them?’ Vhaal’s cheeks glisten as his smile widens.

There’s a clicking sound as Hakh rolls his head back around his shoulders. I presume he’s about to take the captain’s head, but he just laughs. ‘No. I’ll take half of them. That will be enough. You wait here with the rest of them. Someone needs to guard this place against old women and peasants. And you can prepare my victory feast.’ He waves at the window. ‘There must be a few hovels left. Find me some new meat.’

Vhaal’s grin freezes on his face. After a pause, he gives a stiff bow and departs. I hear him barking out the call to muster as he strides down the passageway and before long I hear the braying of tuneless horns echoing along the battlements.

‘Will you leave straight away?’ I ask.

In reply, Hakh drags me out into the courtyard and within half an hour we’re mounted up and riding east across the steppe, with the spires of the Anvil disappearing into the haze behind us. We ride on huge, iron-clad monsters and I can feel evil simmering through the metal saddle beneath me. Death is rushing towards me now, but so is my chance; my one chance to strike a blow.

Chapter Five

Prosecutor-Prime Drusus Unbound

The voice is still there, whispering urgently at the back of my thoughts, but its power is gone. I’m no longer Drus Unaki, the man who let Ghuldiz burn; I am Drusus Unbound. I have been given a second chance. Sigmar’s heralds follow my command and I am trusted. Tylos has given me duty and hope and, by all the fire that burns in my wings, I will give him victory.

We’re flying so high that the Anvil looks like a nest of knotted serpents — a poisonous tanlge of guardians encircling the entire steppe with their crest of spine-like towers and countless crimson eyes. I lead my men into a dive and as the ground rushes towards us it’s hard to remain calm. These are the towers that encircled Ghuldiz and Tersoos. These are the fires that burned down those ageless, jasper halls. These are the serpents that took my life.

The voices in my head grow louder, but I refuse to listen.

As the final wisps of cloud part, I see the Anvil appear in lurid detail. It’s actually two walls — we are flying towards an outer curtain wall protecting a space like the outer ward of a castle. A hundred feet beyond that, a taller, inner wall rises up into the clouds. Two parallel lines of impenetrable rock. The whole structure is mind-numbingly huge and the towers that punctuate it are built around slender white spires, like huge, petrified talons. I remember my purpose and look back at the outer wall.

This will be easier than Tylos imagined.

The guardians of the Anvil are spilling out of their fortress. There are hundreds of the bare-chested berserkers we fought on the bridge — bloodreavers, Tylos called them — but they are striding out into the darkness as though preparing for a hunt. From my vantage point I can see my brother Stormcasts advancing through the Field of Blades towards them, but the bloodreavers are oblivious. I have to stifle my laughter.

White metal flashes in my peripheral vision as Prosecutor Sardicus approaches. His golden mask reveals nothing but I can hear his eagerness for battle.

‘Prosecutor-Prime,’ he calls out over the noise of the storm. ‘The Lord-Celestant said we would find the right moment to attack. Do we wait or do we strike?’

I look down at the bloodreavers, still oblivious to the danger. ‘I say we warm things up a little in readiness for our commander.’ Divine light tears through my body and forms hammers in my palms. The sensation is terrifying and wonderful. I’m a conduit for pure, unshackled vengeance. ‘I say we bring them Sigmar’s fire!’

I hurl the bolts down into the crowd at the gate and throw myself after them, summoning celestial fire from my fingers as I go. A chorus of war cries greets my words as my men dive too. A storm of light flies past me, slamming into the bloodreavers.

As I near the ground, it erupts with dozens of detonations. The bloodreavers are so close I can see the shock on their brutal, scarred faces, followed by outright fear.

I hurl another pair of hammers, filling the gateway with a plume of crimson dust, then seconds before crashing into the ground I swoop back up towards the clouds, screaming Sigmar’s wrath as the wind howls through my helmet.

The others do the same. When we reach a safe distance, we pause to look down at our work. The ground before the gate is a mess of charred craters, filled with wounded and dead. Twenty or so of the bloodreavers fail to rise, and many of those that do are carrying terrible injuries.

They slam the gates behind them but remain outside to roar and howl at us. Our attack has distracted them from the golden phalanx that is emerging from the Field of Blades. Before the bloodreavers have the chance to ready a defence, Tylos and the others crash into them, driving them back across the craters and bodies.

I lead my men over the outer wall to see how many bloodreavers are inside the gate. As we near the battlements I see movement and pause. At first I think it must be more bloodreavers, but the battlements themselves are moving, coming to life; shapes I mistook for gargoyles and grotesques rear their heads and twisted creatures of Chaos rise from the stone, bellowing and snarling as they fix their gaze on Tylos and the others. As they draw back their heads, like snakes preparing to strike, I sense a new kind of energy pooling around me.

I realise what’s going to happen, but too late. As I lead my men in another dive, aiming for the monsters on the wall, they unleash a torrent of blood from their crumbling jaws. Some of the crimson liquid hits us but most pours down on Tylos and the others.

They raise their shields seconds before they vanish inside a mushroom of red flame.

‘For Sigmar!’ I cry, launching a furious volley of thunder strikes at the wall. My retinues follow suit and several of the stone creatures explode. There are still dozens left intact though and, ignoring us, they vomit another tide of crimson at Tylos. The dome of red fire burns so brightly that I have to look away. One of my Prosecutors tumbles through the clouds, his armour trailing smoke and sparks as he tries to right himself.

I order Sardicus to his aid and lead the rest in another dive, blasting the stone monsters with so many hammer blows that the air starts to warp under the strain. Another of the daemonic shapes topples and I look back to the figures below.

The red cloud dissipates and there, scorched but unbowed, stands Tylos. At first I think no one has been harmed but, as Tylos leads his warriors forward to clash again into the bloodreavers, I see that several of the Stormcasts are left sprawled on the ground, their armour warped into odd, liquid shapes. I hear terrible cries of pain as the metal eats into their ruptured bodies, then lightning spears past me, enveloping them in white heat. When the light dims, the bodies have vanished.

We dive to join the battle but Tylos needs little help. The columns of light have ignited something in him. He crashes through the bloodreavers on Zarax, his armour blazing like a fallen star. For a moment I falter, awed by the sight of him. This is no longer a man. This is the God-King made manifest.

This is Sigmar bringing bloody redemption through Tylos’ willing flesh.

Chapter Six

Vhaal the Skinless, Captain of the Blood Creed, Executioner of Kyphanto

I taste your blood on my lips and your strength in my arms. I know that nothing else is real, Lord of Skulls. I see what gift you have offered and I will not refuse it. My spirit is ready. The hour of Vhaal approaches. Soon these pale shadows will fall away and I will join you in the Great Slaughter.

I hear the sound of battle through the gates and my blood surges in answer. Death is out there in the fields, screaming my name, but I hold my fury in check as the ranks of the Blood Creed line up behind me in the courtyard. Hakh has only left me with half an army but as they jostle into position, readying their axes and fixing their helmets into place, I know that all along the Anvil the other towers are emptying. Soon there will be thousands of puppets dancing to my tune. Nothing here is real, of course; not the Blood Creed nor those outside the gates. These talking sacks of blood are baubles, nothing more — tempting distractions that you have draped before me as a test. Even as a child, I knew that you and I alone were real. Before I could walk, I saw through the facade that surrounds me. Soon I will ascend and stand by your side.

Lord of Skulls, I know I am your son. Why else would you let Hakh be tricked away by that devious woman? Why else would you leave me this choice offering?

The outer wall is lit up with flames and embers and as I look up into the fumes I catch glimpses of gold and white, blazing wings.

‘Tell me again,’ I say, turning to the nearest warrior.

‘A golden knight,’ he replies, breathless after his run from the tower. He’s still fastening his helmet into place and I see the bloodlust in his eyes, but I know it’s only a pale mirror of my own true hunger. I watch him closely, hoping to catch the trickery in his words.

‘Maybe a king,’ he continues. ‘They’re all dressed in pretty gold suits, even the winged lightning wielders, but their leader looks like…’ He pauses, almost looking surprised or confused. ‘Like the paintings in the temple of Kaslov.’

That temple was a ruin long before we got to it, but his words only fuel my sense of destiny. This is the great lord that the witch was discussing with Hakh.

My scarlet lord, you have given me a chance to prove my worth. I understand everything. The great game nears its end. I thank you for this blessing and I give you my solemn oath: in this very hour that golden king shall give you his blood and I shall give you my soul.

The sound of battle moves closer to the gates and my men look expectantly to me for the order to advance. I won’t be fooled by such tricks. I know they would lead me astray if I let them. We must wait patiently and let you do your work. I can see you from here, pouring your fury down through the spirits on the walls. In their powerful shapes I see your form.

I look at the design that decorates the centre of the courtyard — hundreds of skulls hammered into the ground to create a stylised image of one enormous skull. Once I’ve torn apart this golden champion I will plant his fake heart in tribute. I will show you that I am ready to return to your citadel.

‘Wait,’ I snap, ordering my men to take up positions on either side of the gate. When the golden knights break through, the final act shall begin.

Chapter Seven

Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

Blood-acid slams against my borrowed shield, hissing across the charmed metal. The blast hits me so hard that I’m almost forced from Zarax’s back, holding the shield over my head as the liquid forms a crimson dome around us. Most of my men do the same, but some are too slow. Just a few feet away, I see Liberator Arion tumble backwards, his shield torn away as the blast envelops him. His head warps like metal in a furnace and blood sprays from his gorget. The pain must be horrific but he does not cry out; he thrashes and rolls across the ground, unable to breathe, and clutches at the molten metal. The men nearest to him look on in horror, powerless to act as they crouch beneath their shields.

A figure races towards him through the madness — Boreas. He is holding his bone standard aloft as he runs, and power is radiating from it, blasting the acid away.

My brother plants the staff of his grim reliquary in the ground, lifts up one of his artefacts, a bone-handled knife, and starts writing invisible symbols in the air over Arion’s head as the Liberator paws at the congealed mess that used to be his face. A moment later, he ceases his thrashing and slumps back onto the broken ground, seeming to be at peace. He grips Boreas’ arm in gratitude.

The clouds part and light engulfs the pair of them as a column of lightning slams down into the ground. The Liberators standing nearby are thrown clear by the blast and the world is plunged into shadow by the brightness of Arion’s pyre. After a few seconds the light fades and when Boreas heads my way, there’s no sign of the fallen warrior.

‘What becomes of us when we fall?’ I ask Boreas as he comes to stand beside Zarax. ‘What have you done to him?’

He is too exhausted to speak for a moment and the storm is still crackling across his armour. Whatever happened between him and Arion has left him trembling and dazed. He watches the sparks dancing across his gauntlets.

‘I have…’ He pauses and closes his fist, extinguishing the light. ‘I only ended his pain, brother. Sigmar did the rest.’

He says nothing more on the subject and looks back at the Anvil.

‘We’re almost through,’ I say, jabbing Grius at the bloodreavers. ‘They’re trapped at the foot of the gates. Drusus and the rest of his Harbinger retinues are swinging back through the clouds, preparing for another attack on the gargoyles. When they strike, we’ll charge. We’ll slaughter the remaining bloodreavers and enter the Anvil. After that I will mount the walls and bring Sigmar’s judgement down on those stone horrors.’

The sky burns white as Drusus leads another attack. His Prosecutors form a dazzling ‘V’ as they dive from the heavens, hurling hammers at the walls. The torrent of blood ceases as the gargoyles are thrown back, enveloped in jagged arcs of light.

‘Advance!’ I cry.

Zarax hurls me forwards, bounding over charred, buckled limbs and leaping at the line of bloodreavers. As she locks her jaws around her prey, I bring Grius down into the first face I see.

Each hammer blow takes me further from my undisciplined past. Bones and teeth splinter around me as I advance with cold, inhuman precision. Zarax, meanwhile, is a vision of taloned, snarling fury. Her blue-scaled hide burns in the gloom and lightning pours from her jaws as she careers through the enemy lines.

The bloodreavers collapse before her in a shower of blood and broken weapons and I bring Grius down against the gates with a prayer. The runic hammer blazes like a star, a blinding fragment of Sigmar’s soul.

A splinter races up the centre of the door, glinting like quicksilver. Zarax roars and my men pause mid-strike, joining their voices to hers. The sound floods my mind and my second blow is twice as hard. As Grius hits the door again, it shudders beneath the blow and the crack widens to reveal rows of moonlit buildings.

Blood-acid rains down again as the gargoyles recover from Drusus’ attack, but Zarax and I are sheltered in the threshold and I swing my hammer for a third time. Grius burns with a flame so bright it lights up the whole doorway as it gives way.

My men roar as Zarax carries me through the splintering wood.

Their cheers falter as the dust clears and we see what lies beyond.

Gathered in the courtyard beyond, at the foot of the Anvil’s second wall, are ranks of red-armoured knights. As my vision clears I see that the guardians are heavily clad in suits of thick, brass-rimmed plate and their faces are hidden behind brutal, jagged helmets, all crowned with the icon of the Blood God. They wait in disciplined, orderly lines, and they’re huge — maybe as big as my own men. Standing ahead of them is what I take to be their captain. He’s as heavily armoured as the other knights but his head is uncovered and the reason is clear — his face is an angry mess of exposed muscle that he clearly wishes to display. As he strides confidently towards me he gives me the strangest look — a wry smile that implies we’re sharing some kind of joke. The idea that I could share anything with him turns my stomach but, before I can call the charge, Boreas steps through the broken gate and speaks.

‘There are too many,’ he says, looking up at me.

My men are clambering through the broken gate behind him, smashing the hole wider as they rush to escape the red death outside, but the crimson ranks make no move to advance. The one with a wound for a face is holding them back, studying us.

Boreas is shoved against Zarax as others crowd into the passageway. ‘Look at them,’ he says.

There are countless hundreds of these goliaths and they display a carefully drilled discipline quite unlike the lunatic barbarians on the bridge.

I look down at Boreas, unable to hide my anger. ‘Remember what we are, Lord-Relictor.’

I catch another glimpse of Boreas’ strange eyes and I see that he’s taken aback. For the first time since we landed in this hellish realm I’ve surprised my brother.

‘If you think we can’t break through by strength of arms,’ I continue, ‘use whatever secrets Sigmar has entrusted you with. This first strike against Chaos cannot falter, Boreas. Sigmar’s Stormhosts must be free to advance without fear of constant attack from behind. We will reach the Crucible of Blood and we will sanctify it.’ I reach down from Zarax’s back and grip his shoulder, hauling him towards me. ‘Forward is the only way.’

A clanging sound echoes across the vast courtyard as the red-armoured knights prepare to advance.

‘What would you have me do?’ he asks, an edge of pride in his voice.

I keep my tones level, not wishing to sound like the common street fighter I once was. ‘You carry death in you, Boreas, I can smell it. Bring it to our aid.’

‘I’m a storm-priest, Tylos, not a necromancer. Whatever you might remember from my past, I’m—’

‘Boreas!’ I wave at the mass of towers looming on the far side of the courtyard. ‘You’ve been to places I could barely dream of. Do what you were created to do.’ There’s no plea in my voice, only command.

He looks up at the Anvil and then back at me. ‘You’ll be stalled here for too long. When dawn comes you’ll still be battling through these dogs.’

As always, Boreas is infuriatingly insightful. I tighten my grip on his arm. ‘Then find us a way through.’

Horns blare out as the knights begin their charge.

I give an order and my men close ranks. A shield wall forms around Zarax and I turn to my rows of archers.

‘Seriphus,’ I cry, calling over the leader of my Judicators. I point at the steps inside the gate. ‘Take up positions inside the outer wall. Wait for my call.’

The Judicator leaps to obey, scaling the battlements and ordering his retinues to ready their bows.

‘Sigmar is with us,’ I say, looking back at Boreas as the archers take up their positions. ‘And I will win this battle’. I soften my voice. ‘But you must do whatever the God-King demands of you.’

He looks back through the broken gate at the Field of Blades and nods. ‘Hold them here. I will return.’

Then the battle engulfs me and Boreas is gone.

Chapter Eight

Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

The guardians of the Anvil are no more human than we are. The air simmers and recoils from them as they approach, as if they are chiselled from hot coal. Their huge frames are bolstered by layers of red and brass plate and they smash into us like automata, animated by a rage so potent it pours off them like smoke. Blood warriors. Since Sigmar drove them back from the Gates of Azyr, their name has become infamous as Khorne’s most fearless attack dogs.

Zarax rears up and brings her claws down onto the first crimson-clad brute to reach us. I draw my runeblade, Evora. My heart swells at the sight of her intricate inscriptions. Like me, she is a holy weapon, forged in the heat of the stars. She sings in gratitude as I bring her round in a wide arc, slicing easily through shields, greaves and necks, toppling whole rows of Chaos warriors. Her voice is the sound of the heavens, a soaring, celestial chorus that rings out over the din of battle, elevating the bloodshed to the noble endeavour it should be. I join my voice to hers as we kill.

My Liberators hold steady under the weight of the attack, proud and determined behind their shields, an impassable wall of blue and gold. Their hammers meet with jagged, brutal axes and the air rings with the sound of breaking metal.

I see a flash of crimson. Something bolts through the crowd and slams into Zarax’s flank. She staggers to one side but I manage to stay on her back. I swing Evora down in another singing arc. She cuts through arms and faces and I follow her with Grius, swinging the warhammer with my other hand and crushing crimson helmets to a mangled pulp.

I fight with all the power and grace I learned in Sigmar’s golden halls, thrusting, lunging and pounding without ever fully losing myself to the violence. Faith is my lodestone, directing my every step. As Evora sings, I let her voice calm me. I feel like I’m taking part in a grand ceremony, rather than riding through a crush of armoured knights.

I order Liberator-Prime Castamon to advance and he leads his retinue with composed blows. The emotion I saw in him before is gone and he pounds through the blood warriors with cool, lethal efficiency. Every few paces, his shield wall drops and he strides forth, lashing out with his warhammer. A crimson-clad colossus attacks, swinging an axe at his throat. Castamon raises his golden shield, deflects the blade and drops the blood warrior with an armour-splitting blow.

Lines of blood warriors charge towards him but Castamon is already gone, swallowed by a wall of shields as his Liberators reform their phalanx. The enemy crashes uselessly against an impenetrable wall of sigmarite and the Liberators march on, implacable and unstoppable.

I ride towards Castamon, noticing something odd. However many times Castamon’s Liberators strike, the enemy aren’t falling back. My armour has turned as red as the enemy and my muscles are screaming with exhaustion, but I haven’t moved. I’m still just a few feet into the courtyard.

I take a moment to look around.

Castamon and the Liberators are still locked in their gleaming phalanxes — gilded fortresses, battered by tides of red and brass — but they haven’t gained an inch. However terrible the wounds we inflict, the enemy never falter. If I couldn’t see scarred, sunburned chins jutting out from their helmets, I would think they really were automata. They have no concept of pain and more of them are flooding into the courtyard all the time.

Zarax rears beneath me again as an enormous creature locks its jaws around her throat. She staggers under its weight and I see that it is a flesh hound of Khorne — an enormous reptilian thing, coated in red scales and armed with talons as cruel as Zarax’s own. As it attacks, it lets out a dread howl — a sound so full of animal bloodlust that it could only have come from the bloody plains of Khorne.

Sigmar’s wrath floods my limbs and I hurl the flesh hound back into the ranks of blood warriors. It crouches and roars, iron-hard spines bristling along its grotesquely muscled back, but before it can pounce, Zarax charges forwards and I slam Grius into its drooling jaws. White fire blossoms beneath its scales and it tumbles back into the enemy ranks.

As the flesh hound collapses into ash, the blood warriors crush around Zarax, grinding me to a halt with their armour-clad bulk. Grius and Evora do their work, surrounding me in a storm of sigmarite, and dozens of blood warriors fall away, but more pile in, careless of the wounds I am inflicting.

Then I see the lord with the skinless face wading through the battle towards me. He still wears that same, knowing smirk, but his arms are a frenzied blur as he hacks through his own men to reach me.

My heart quickens. This is my chance to behead this army and end the fighting so we can keep moving. Sigmar did not send me to fight for the Anvil. We should be far from here by now. As the lord approaches, I seize my chance.

‘Seriphus!’ I cry, standing in the saddle and raising my voice over the din so that the archers on the wall can hear me. ‘Now!’

A roof of white flame spreads overhead as the Judicators launch their lightning-charged bolts. The front row of blood warriors evaporates, replaced by an explosion of blood and dazzling arcs of power. Bodies are hurled into the air and a huge swathe of the army collapses.

Zarax is thrown backwards by the blast and, when she turns back to face the enemy, there’s no sign of the flesh-faced lord. The Judicators’ volley has had little effect other than that, though. Blood warriors are still pouring from the wall and the whole courtyard is now full of them.

‘Retributors!’ I cry, seeking another way to end to this deadlock. I smile as hundreds of the hammer-wielding paladins break ranks and line up before the phalanxes of Liberators. They step slowly, encumbered by armour that would crush a mortal man. Until now I’ve kept them behind the other Stormcasts. They carry no shields on account of their colossal two-handed weapons, but they still resemble a wall of metal.

The blood warriors finally pause, not afraid, but intrigued. As the paladins march to my side, the ground cracks beneath their weight and storm-charged air flickers over their amour.

While the enemy are momentarily thrown, I give a signal to the Judicators on the walls. Another storm of blazing arrows whirrs overhead and slams into the enemy. The blood warriors’ vanguard erupts in white flame and I order my paladins to attack. They pound across the courtyard — metal-clad titans with blazing hammers. Their blows land with supernatural force and another series of detonations rocks the enemy frontline. More arrows slam home. I order the phalanxes of Liberators to follow them.

The enemy are still reeling when the Liberators’ shields crash into them and finally we start to make some headway.

Zarax rears beneath me. Blood is streaming from her flank and several of her iron-hard scales have been torn away, but she roars lightning as she carries me back into the fray.

Chapter Nine

Lord-Relictor Boreas Undying

More than any of us, Tylos has been reborn. I’ve travelled so deep into the darkness that his soul is clearer to me than his flesh. Sigmar’s forges have made him anew; my brother is a celestial lord now, not the faithless sell-sword that tormented my youth. As I leave the Anvil and turn to the Field of Blades, I hear him leading the charge. I know he will fight with honour, but I wonder if he sees how close we are to disaster. His eagerness to match Vandus’ heroics could be a dangerous distraction. The Anvil stretches for miles across the steppe, and every minute Tylos spends fighting in that hell pit will see hundreds more blood warriors pouring from the battlements. This is not the battle we were sent to win — I must find a quicker way to end it.

As the clamour of battle fades behind me, I reach the solemn quiet of the Field of Blades, where skeletal hands clutch useless weapons in an eternal vigil. Tylos and the others recoiled at the sight of this place but as the cemetery chill reaches up through my boots, I feel a blessed peace. I almost relish this chance to turn away, to sink back into shadow.

I drop to one knee and take out the Thin Man. The jumble of claws and bone lies innocently in my palm. Such an ugly little thing and yet it contains incredible power — the power to bridge worlds.

I’ve toiled so long in the shadows that my memories play tricks on me, but some things remain painfully clear. I feel a rush of anger as I think of the man who gave me this gift, so many years ago. ‘One day you will wish to return,’ he had said. ‘Keep this as a parting gift.’ I had sworn I never would, but other, more powerful oaths have left their mark on me since then and I must crush my pride. Tylos is no longer my hot-headed young brother; he is my Lord-Celestant, an avatar of the God-King, and I must do whatever he needs of me — even if it means facing my oldest ghosts.

I grab one of the skeletal hands and prize the sword from its grip. The weapon crumbles at my touch and I push the Thin Man into the open hand, clenching the fingers around it in a fist. Some snap, but the relic stays in place. Then I hold my own hand a few inches from the bones and begin to pray.

The swords around me rattle as Sigmar’s tempest flickers in the dust. The sound of fighting coming from the Anvil grows fiercer, but I pray harder, summoning the God-King’s fire from the heavens. The dust becomes a whirlwind, spinning around me and cutting through the gaps in my armour. Finally, as my words become a howled song, the skeletal hand grips mine and the Thin Man turns to ash, his promise finally fulfilled.

Reality slips away.

Damp, bone-aching cold seeps through my armour as I enter the Realm of Death. Serpentine mist coils around me and I see bestial faces in the ether — spirit hosts, pawing at my armour, trying to wrap their deathless claws around my heart. An unholy chill seeps through my breastplate but such insipid souls are no threat to an emissary of the God-King. I grab one of my honour scrolls and mutter a prayer, driving them back with a powerful stream of litanies and oaths. They whir and spiral away from me, letting out thin, moaning wails as they tumble back into the shadows. As they fade from sight, I see how the heavy boot of Chaos has transformed the Tolgaddon Marshes.

Wherever I look there are cloud-scraping talons — Chaos citadels with brutal, triangular towers. They punctuate the horizon like a stone forest, spilling shards of crimson through the tumbling clouds of spirit hosts. I feel as though I am in the jaws of a beast. Hordes of bloodreavers are marching through the gloom, mustering for battle beneath crude, brazen standards bearing the sigil of the Blood God. They are accompanied by columns of smoke-belching monstrosities that could either be war machines, metal-clad beasts, or an unholy hybrid of both.

I tremble with rage as they barge past, screaming their obscene battle cries, but I have the sense to keep silent and stay in cover. The Thin Man has led me to a ditch full of brackish water, piled with mounds of armour and old clothes. It’s an undignified way to arrive but it gives me a moment to study my surroundings. I peer over the edge and see nothing familiar. The great charnel palaces that once filled the marshes have been destroyed. There are a few crumbling remnants of one of Nagash’s corpse cities, but they’re so defaced and ruined that I can’t work out where I am. It looks as though the Supreme Lord of the Undead has been usurped and driven from the marshes by a more potent power. If Nagash’s citadels have been overrun, what does that mean for the one I seek?

‘Where are you?’ I mutter, scouring the banks of wailing mist. Whatever has happened to the underworlds, my former master still lives, I’m sure of it. I can almost hear him, scratching away at his rolls of vellum — endlessly recording and reviewing, oblivious to the sound of his world falling down around his ears. I have no other option but to follow my instincts, so I wade off through the knee-deep mire in the direction that feels right.

I grimace as I barge through the floating mounds that surround me. They’re not clothes as I first thought, but corpses, bloated and deformed by the water. White, lifeless faces roll to stare at me as I shove the bodies aside, following the course of the ditch. Every few minutes I risk a glance over the top. As I near the fortress, I grow more alarmed. The Chaos bastion is built on a scale that defies nature. It’s so vast that clouds drift around its towers and the huge armies pouring through its gates resemble billows of glittering dust.

I’m starting to think I should head back to Tylos when a sound makes me pause. There’s something approaching from behind me. I can’t see through the gloom but I can hear the slurping, slapping sound of feet tramping through the mud and gore. I hurry around the next bend and freeze. Up ahead of me, there’s a figure hunched over the bodies, feasting on their ruptured flesh as if it were a glorious banquet. The creature is a stooped, grey-skinned horror, covered with open sores and threaded with writhing worms.

At the sound of my approach, the ghoul whirls around and stares at me with wild, rolling eyes. It’s carrying a half-gnawed femur, and at the sight of me it scampers through the filth, swinging the bone at my face.

My warhammer lands with such force that the ghoul’s skull collapses. It cartwheels back through the ditch, losing its makeshift weapon and collapsing into the bodies it had been feeding on. The blessed sigmarite of my weapon is engraved with holy tracts and as the monster tries to rise, its body collapses and burns under the weight of my faith, shrivelling and boiling into a pale soup that seeps away into the mud.

I’m now left in no doubt as to what is approaching from the opposite direction so I stride on through the bodies, keen to avoid making any more noise, but before I’ve taken more than a few steps, the bodies start to rise. Dozens of the corpses are revealed as wild-eyed ghouls, identical the one I just destroyed. They moan and gurgle as they lurch towards me.

My hammer flashes in the dark as I charge through them. There’s no time to stand and fight and no way to return. All I can do is race on and pray I reach my destination before I draw Khorne’s bloody gaze.

The ghouls swarm around me, rising from the mud and viscera like a pallid fungus. They’ve clearly been waiting for something to fall within their cadaverous reach, too afraid to venture out into the open.

Finally, a whole wall of grasping, broken-clawed hands slams into me, barring my way. I strike them down with furious blows but, eventually, they clamber towards me in such numbers that I’m driven up the wall of the ditch and out of cover.

The nearest of the warbands is less than a hundred yards away and, as I stumble into view, still pummelling the mob of leering ghouls, my golden armour flashes in the moonlight. I am seen.

Horns blare with renewed violence and there’s a great clattering of armour as a host of warriors turn to face me. At the head of the column there is a knight in thick, spiked armour. He bellows a command and his men break ranks, racing towards me with a deafening roar.

‘Where are you?’ I gasp, racing through the darkness. There’s nothing waiting for me but another mound of bodies. ‘You promised me a way back!’

The ghouls are butchered and trampled into the ground as the Chaos warriors bear down on me. I find myself surrounded by rows of heavily armoured killers. They slow as they approach, readying their brutal axes, intrigued by my strange armour.

I back onto a mound of bodies, my hammer raised before me, then laugh as I see what I’m standing on. Piled beneath me are the slaughtered remains of a library — charred remnants of books, trampled into the ash and mud. They are as familiar to me as the faces of my own family. I spent my youth cataloguing these ancient texts and I understand immediately what they mean. He has left me a way back — a way through the glamour that has shielded him from the Blood God. I grab a book and start to chant the old litanies, waiting for the necromancer to hear me.

The Chaos warriors howl in rage as I start to fade from sight.

It’s autumn, as the necromancer likes it, and as my boots sink deep into a mulch of muddy brown leaves I can’t help feeling a little impressed by what he has achieved. The Dark Gods have left their mark everywhere but here. Not a single brass tower mars the sombre beauty of his estates. The valley is lined only with leafless, rain-lashed trees and long, grasping shadows. The necromancer is ancient beyond even my understanding, more of a relic than the trinkets he collects, but despite everything that passed between us, I can’t deny that his learning has served him well. He claimed once that he was born in another age, long before the coming of Chaos. Such talk no longer seems quite so fanciful. Few have the power to mask themselves so completely that even a god cannot discover their presence. I never learned to pronounce my master’s true name, but the appellation I always gave him still seems apt: Mopus.

The fane itself was one of Mopus’ earliest finds. It’s the grandest of his homes and it squats at the end of the valley, as though ready to scuttle away; a crumbling mountain of faceted turquoise, forty feet tall, twice as wide and carved in the likeness of a colossal deathwatch beetle. Its compound eyes watch my approach with hunger and I pick up my pace, jogging through the whirling rain.

I hurry through the gloom and realise that not all of the shapes lining the valley are trees. I stop, peer through the drizzle and realise that there are hundreds of pale figures standing in rows around me, clutching ancient spears and staring away from the fane. They’re as motionless as the trees, but a cold light flickers in their shattered skulls. I step towards the edge of the path and see that the ranks of undead continue out of sight. There must be thousands of them, an army waiting patiently for a command. They pay no attention to me, but their presence gives me pause. Mopus was never one for wars. That was our great bone of contention — the wedge that drove us apart. It seems that many things have changed in the realm of the dead. I continue on my way with even more wariness. If Mopus is still the master of this place, then he is not the man I remember.

The entrance to the fane lies between the beetle’s broken antennae at the base of its head, and as I hurry towards the door a pair of milk-eyed cadavers step from the shadows to greet me. I would expect to be remembered at this place, but I lift my hammer just in case.

Mopus’ attendants twitch, as though tugged by invisible strings, then back away into the shadows, leaving the way clear.

I climb the steps to the towering slab of turquoise that passes for a door. It’s buried beneath a robe of dead ivy and clearly hasn’t been opened for months, so I am forced to tear and pull at the knotted mass until, finally, I uncover an iron handle. The door is locked, but the handle is so rusted that one good shove breaks it free and the door screeches open. A gentle sound seeps out through the gap: a whispered tapping, the sound of tiny pebbles pouring into a tin bowl.

I glance back and see the sentries staring blankly at me. They make no move to attack so I shove the door wider and stumble inside.

I’m met by a wall of clocks and mildewed books, stacked in mounds and filling the entrance hall. The smell of damp is overwhelming and there is something tragic about the scene. The books are rotting into an inseparable mass of gilt-edged pages and sagging, broken spines. It’s like the site of a mass burial. The clocks are in just as poor condition but, by some charm of Mopus, they are all still ticking. This is the tapping I heard — so many mechanisms working at once sounds like a distant hailstorm.

Cold blue light pours through the walls and washes over the dying books, revealing how tightly packed they are. For a moment I think there is no way to proceed, but then I spot a gap near the ceiling, to the right of the passageway. Time spent in the fane will bear no relation to the battle at the Anvil, but I cannot allow myself to dawdle. Already I can feel the lure of Mopus’ quiet cold, and I doubt the God-King would offer me a second chance at salvation.

I clamber up the wall of books and clocks, wincing at every torn cover, and reach the ceiling. The gap is too small but the air is so damp that I can shove my hammer through the barrier as though it were a bank of mud. After a few moments I manage to haul myself through the hole.

On the other side there are more piles of sodden books and broken timepieces, but I am able to crawl across them, just inches below the ceiling, until I reach the lintel of a wide doorway. I squeeze myself through the gap and into another room.

I slide down the slope of books but there’s still no sign of a floor. In this chamber, as well as more books, there are mounds of idols and fetishes. I see bronze, dog-headed statues and carved, wooden birds piled together with no obvious sense of order, but I notice that all of them carry Mopus’ tiny, handwritten labels.

It’s only as I approach another door that I notice I’m not alone. There are figures slumped amongst the relics. Some look up as I pass, but most remain intent on their work, poring over drooping pages or scratching at mouldering paintings. They’re as pale and lifeless as the monsters guarding the door, and the eyes that turn towards me are clouded and blue. Mopus has long made a habit of employing the studious dead and I start to feel more confident that my journey will not be wasted.

No one speaks so I hurry on. It’s a long time since I visited the fane, but I easily remember the way to Mopus’ chambers. If he lives, there is no question of his being absent. That much, at least, I can be sure of.

Another pair of hooded figures is watching over the entrance to his chambers, but, again, they back away at my approach, and I step through the door.

Everything is as I recall, a fact I can’t help but find comforting. Tapestries still cover every inch of the antechamber, so threadbare and thick with dust that the heroic scenes have faded into abstraction. The blurry, indistinguishable shapes, combined with the hazy, filthy air, make me feel almost drunk. That, along with the gloom, spare me from seeing most of the other things in the room. Crooked bookcases lean against much of the wall space, crammed with crumbling tomes and rows of jars. There’s enough light for me to see that the pale, half-formed shapes suspended in the jars are twitching and moving, excited by my arrival. There are countless other mysteries vying for my attention: abandoned sketches, broken pieces of scientific equipment and piles of bleached human bones, all covered with Mopus’ little labels.

I walk through into Mopus’ study and, to my surprise, the ancient scholar almost rises from his desk. He can’t quite force himself to leave his mouldering texts, but he sits in a more upright position than I have seen before, and actually turns to look at me. His face is as pallid and skull-like as ever, but his eyes flash victoriously as I approach his desk. His skin is so tightly stretched around his skull that it seems to shine in the candlelight. Every inch of him is tattooed with intricate, cabalistic designs — spidery blue wards of protection that enable to him to converse with even the most dangerous spirits. His gaunt face conjures up memories of our final fierce argument, but I can’t help feeling a little pleased to see that, amongst all this death, Mopus is still clinging to life.

I notice other figures loitering in the darkest corners of the room — ephemeral wraiths, draped in robes of pale mist, and newcomers to the fane. They drift a few feet above the dusty floorboards and I can see at a glance that Mopus has dragged them from the grave. The candlelight refuses to illuminate them fully, but I sense them staring at me with interest.

Mopus shows no anger as I reach his side, only pride that I could not stay away. Whatever passed between us, I sense I am forgiven. He waves me to a chair and grasps my hand as I sit. His long, filthy digits lock around my gauntlet and he gives me a smile of genuine friendship.

‘The Crucible of Blood,’ he says finally. His age-ravaged voice is hard to understand. ‘You kept me waiting for all these years, Boreas. You left me here alone, with no word of your whereabouts, take up a new religion, and then you embark on adventures without ever asking me for help. Why didn’t you come to me, Boreas? Can it really be that you no longer value my advice?’

I have few cards to play. The old scholar clearly knows why I’m here, and my new name. He probably knew my purpose before I did. I nod and then glance again at his spectral attendants. His tone is pleasant enough, but I’m in no doubt as to how much danger I’m in. His guards carry weapons of some kind, knives perhaps, but they’re too hidden in mist for me to make them out.

‘Look,’ says Mopus, shifting rotten books from the pile on his desk until he finds the volume he’s after. It’s a slim portfolio of prints and sketches and as he flicks through them he laughs. ‘Have you seen the thing?’ He jabs one of his crooked fingers at a particularly disturbing painting. It shows thousands of daemonic beings boiling in a vast pool of blood, surrounded by a rim of brass. Even so crudely rendered the daemons make a shocking sight.

I look away from the painting and he smiles at me again, making his face even more skull-like. ‘I imagine your new friends did not explain the whole story, did they?’ He traces his finger over the text beneath the image and reads aloud. ‘Beneath the ruins of the Nomad City stands the Crucible of Blood. It is an enormous brass skull. It is a gruesome relic of an ancient war, filled with the blood of a thousand mortals. It is charged with the power of the Lord of Rage.’

Mopus gives the robed figures a wild-eyed glance, as though expecting a reply. They give none, so he continues.

‘The skies above the Crucible of Blood are filled with the drifting fragments of the Nomad City. The ruins may once have been a great civilisation or perhaps, a single, fortified structure, crafted by forgotten beings in the time before Chaos.’

Mopus shakes his head in wonder as he stares at the painting. Then he turns to me, his eyes narrowing. ‘What have you got yourself embroiled in, young Boreas?’

So he doesn’t know everything; his omniscience clearly doesn’t stretch as far as the Celestial City. He doesn’t seem to know the significance of the crucible. So much has changed since we last met. Mopus, the great scholar of our age, is ignorant of our prize. His books have finally failed him.

He leans across his desk and, as he moves, his thin, parchment skin slides over his ribs. He peers through the eyeholes of my mask and runs one of his bony digits across the golden sigmarite of my armour, tracing the contours and sacred runes. ‘A uniform.’ The idea seems to amuse him and he glances mischievously at the figures in the shadows. ‘Boreas has joined a regiment.’

I say nothing.

‘But he has become no less taciturn,’ he laughs, flopping back into his chair and spreading his arms. ‘What do you want, boy?’

‘I do value your advice, Mopus, and I need your help.’

He keeps smiling but I sense that he also wears a mask. Behind that smile he’s worried. Another sign of how much things have changed. I can’t remember ever seeing fear in him before. He looks from me to the painting of the Crucible of Blood and then back at me again.

‘We all need help, Boreas,’ he says. ‘There’s still magic in the fane that those Chaos wretches could never hope to comprehend, but it’s failing.’ He grimaces and looks at his empty palms. ‘You know I have no appetite for war, but I have been forced to prepare for it just the same. I fear my solitude may soon be taken from me.’

I nod, thinking of the pale legions I saw in the valley.

‘And, after all these centuries, my second sight is failing.’ He waves his hand. The gesture draws a column of letters from the pages on his desk and they begin to whirl and spin. Mopus licks his ink-stained fingertips and jabs them at the luminous characters. After a while, images appear in the storm of words. I see Tylos and the others, battling furiously, trapped in the heart of the Anvil. I lean closer, trying to discern details.

‘They won’t break through.’ Mopus stares at the images, fascinated. ‘I can still see that much. Not without my help. Which, of course, is why you came.’ He peers at the tiny gold figures. ‘But what are they? I have scoured my libraries for a clue but found nothing.’ He turns to me, looking at my armour again. It must be galling for the great collector to see such an unfamiliar design. ‘What’s happening, Boreas? What have you become?’

‘The Age of Chaos is over.’ I try to keep my voice flat and impassive, but the words ring out through the darkness. ‘The Celestial Gates have opened, Mopus. The Lord of Storms has returned.’

Mopus licks his thin, cracked lips and glances at his shadowy entourage. ‘Sigmar?’ He frowns. ‘If that were true — if you are really his vengeful host — this is not the most impressive crusade, is it? You’re trapped in the Anvil, miles from the Crucible of Blood.’

‘We were thrown off course. We should have landed in the ruins of the Nomad City, right at the foot of the Crucible, but the storm was sent astray and we landed in the borderlands. We should already have completed our mission.’ I glance at him. ‘We were betrayed.’

‘So, Sigmar’s great homecoming ends with a whimper, just because you got lost?’ He softens his voice. ‘Come home, Boreas. Take off that ridiculous suit. Study with me, as you did before. Since you left, I’ve collected treasures you can’t imagine. Why get yourself embroiled in the wars of gods? They’ve always fought and they always will, but only we get killed. They’re not like us, Boreas. They don’t care about us. And there’s still so much to do here — so much to learn. There is knowledge here that you couldn’t dream of. If you joined me we could survive a hundred wars.’

‘Survival isn’t enough,’ I say calmly. ‘Murder and cruelty can’t just be ignored. Things have to change, and we have to change them. I won’t hide any more.’ I nod at the image of Tylos and the other Stormcast Eternals. ‘This is just a fragment. You’re seeing the tiniest glimpse of what will follow. We’re a raindrop at the cusp of a great storm.’

He keeps staring at me and I sense that I’ve touched something in him — some vestigial spark of honour. Then he slumps back into his chair.

‘I’ve lived too long to follow heroes, Boreas. I tried that once before. Their failure caused me more pain than all the gods combined. Change is not so easily brought about. I could get you past the Anvil, but I can’t see why I should. You’ve made it clear I no longer have your allegiance.’

For years I’ve suppressed my disappointment in him, the fury I felt at our final parting, but now it boils out of me. ‘You’re not the things you own, Mopus. You are not dead. You have knowledge and possessions here that could make a difference. You could end the suffering of thousands if you dared to apply the things you have learned. But you hide yourself away here, studying life so that you don’t have to live it.’

His expression hardens as I dig at the old wound. An awkward silence fills the room and I see something dangerous in his eyes. I curse my lack of tact — my anger may have cost me everything.

‘You’re not so changed, Boreas,’ he says after a while, staring at my armour. ‘For all your grand words, you still have an eye for interesting trinkets.’ He points at the box hanging from my waist. ‘You’ve not taken your hand away from that toy since you arrived.’ He studies the runes around its base. A few lonely threads of colour start pulsing in his cheeks. ‘It looks almost as old as I am. How important you must be that your new masters decorate you with such baubles.’

I back away, keeping a protective hand over the relic, and curse myself for revealing its importance.

I sink into one of the spectral figures. While we’ve been talking, they’ve formed a circle around the desk. They’re as cold and cruel as the spirit hosts outside. I struggle but I can’t force my way through and I’m reluctant to fight in front of Mopus. I turn to face the spirit. Its hood is deep but I see a gleam of skinless bone and grinning, bleached teeth.

It shoves me back towards Mopus with surprising strength.

‘Are we enemies, then?’ I growl, looking back to Mopus and glaring from behind my mask.

He still has a troubling brightness in his eyes. ‘Far from it. In fact, I’m beginning to think I might be able to help you. There’s more to life than friendship, after all.’ He stares at the bell jar. ‘If that’s as important as you obviously think it is, perhaps you have more bargaining power than you realise.’

‘Mopus,’ I growl, unable to hide my anger. ‘This means nothing to you!’

He laughs without smiling and I see that I’ve lost all hope of reasoning with him.

‘By the gods,’ he says. ‘You are eager to keep it. It must be very special. Why were you never this interesting when you were hanging off my coat tails?’

I can see his pulse racing angrily beneath his translucent skin. ‘If you give me that trinket,’ he continues, ‘the Anvil will be nothing more than a bad memory. You and your shiny soldiers can march on to fight whatever hopeless battles you choose. In fact, I’ll ensure your safe passage to the very mouth of the Crucible of Blood. Nothing shall bar your way. I’ll see to it. My reach is long. I’m sure you remember that much about me.’

‘Anything else,’ I say.

The fury in my voice just makes his eyes gleam all the more.

I feel like smashing the room apart. Without the Kuriat, capturing the Crucible of Blood will be impossible. Sigmar’s artisans spent years forging an icon that could reclaim the realmgate, and I know Mopus is only demanding it through spite. He has no idea of its true worth.

I’m about to storm out when I see the swirling image of battle still raging over Mopus’ desk. Tylos and the others are fighting with all the nobility and heroism I would expect, but the wall of blood warriors before them is impenetrable and growing larger all the time. Khorne’s legions are flooding from the surrounding towers, cramming the courtyard with a forest of axes. My head pounds. To give away the Kuriat means defeat, but Mopus is my only chance at breaking that bloody deadlock. For all his faults, Mopus is not a liar. If he says he will ensure our passage, then he will. If I refuse, Tylos will still be mired in battle when the sun comes up. And then all will be lost anyway.

When Mopus speaks again, his voice is cold and flat. ‘If the God-King is all you believe him to be, Boreas, what does it matter? Is there any deal you can make here that will hold him back?’

He’s mocking me, but he’s right. We must survive the Anvil and there is another way. ‘Forgive me, Tylos,’ I mutter as I unclasp the bell jar from my belt. I stare at it for a moment then reluctantly drop it into the necromancer’s grasping hands, whispering a prayer as I do so.

He tears off the lid and stares at the still-beating lump of black meat.

‘What will you do to the Anvil?’ I demand, all thoughts of friendship forgotten. ‘When will we be free to advance?’

He gives me a brief, unreadable look, before turning back to his desk and his endless reading. ‘It’s done. You should hurry. You’re missing all the fun.’

Chapter Ten

Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

Sigmar’s light envelops me, blazing white, blue and finally crimson as it cooks our enemy alive. As the paladins advance in their hulking, star-forged armour they dwarf the surrounding Liberators, and each blow from their massive lightning hammers rocks the courtyard, scattering blood warriors and smashing craters in the ground. They look like gods torn from the heavens and as I lead them into the enemy, the ground shatters beneath their wrath. Hundreds of my Liberators are wounded, limping and staggering as they lash out with their hammers, but they hold their formations and advance close behind us.

Zarax tenses beneath me and unleashes another bolt of celestial fire. Finally we’re making some headway. The lines of Chaos knights are thinning and drawing back. The paladins are clearly too much for them. I wave the army on as Zarax tears into the reeling enemy warriors.

Only at the last minute do I realise that this is too easy; too quick. My instinct screams out at me that we’re being tricked and I shout an order, halting the advance.

As the Liberators lock their shield walls back into place, I see that I was right. The space that opened up before us is not the sign of a retreat. The smirking Chaos champion is ordering the bulk of his army to back away from us, making way for some new strategy. He barks out a command and his army parts, creating an avenue of armour and axes.

The ground judders as though a stampede is approaching. From my vantage point on Zarax’s back, I am the first to see the cause of the thundering sound.

Hundreds of skinless horrors charge from the opening in the enemy ranks, pounding across the courtyard towards us. They’re all eight or nine feet tall and lashed in glistening, blood-slick muscle. Tentacles burst from their raw, wound-like flesh as they hurtle towards our lines. We now have blood warriors on either flank and these newcomers charging us head on.

I act fast, ordering the Prosecutors into the fray. Drusus leads them over the battlements, dodging blasts of crimson from the walls as he hurls his lightning-charged hammers at the monsters.

More detonations rock the Anvil and the world turns white, but when the blaze dims, the monsters are still there. I manage to cry ‘Charge!’ seconds before they wade into us.

Revolting tentacles lash out from their armoured shoulders, hammering down against our rows of shields. Dozens of Liberators are forced to their knees but others rush to take their place.

Zarax does not wait for me to spur her on; she bounds forwards, crashing through the golden ranks of Stormcast Eternals and fastening her jaws around the head of the nearest monster. I bring Grius down into the head of another and, as it reels away from me, trailing blood from its obscene maw, a paladin pounds through the crush and lands his blazing, two-handed hammer between its cloven feet.

The creature is eviscerated, but the explosion also jolts Zarax to one side; she staggers, almost throwing me from her back.

Bodies crash into my steed and the echo of the blast grows louder. The ground shakes harder as the noise becomes a deafening rumble and I ride on through the scrum of bodies.

The monsters have forced us back through the archway. Hundreds of my men are now outside the Anvil, being driven slowly back towards the Field of Blades.

I yell a command but my words are drowned out by the rumbling noise. It sounds like the world is being torn in half. The tremor is now so violent that the walls around the gatehouse are crumbling and splitting. I look up, expecting to see the crimson moon overhead again, but the sky is empty.

Then I see Drusus. His incandescent wings hurl him through the darkness, lighting up the expressionless masks of the other Prosecutors.

‘Pull back!’ he cries, catching sight of me.

I shake my head, outraged by the suggestion of retreat, but then look up in shock. Weapons and shields are lowered as everyone in the passageway takes in the bizarre sight unfolding within the Anvil.

The cloud-high spikes that jut out of the watchtowers have started to move and the battle is forgotten as we all turn to stare. The rumbling is now so loud the cause is unmistakable: the Kharvall Steppe is in the grip of an earthquake. The huge talons around which the Anvil has been built are juddering like wind-lashed trees. We’re forced back, reeling out of the passageway as it collapses around us, filling the air with dust and spinning fragments of rock. A few hundred of the Chaos knights stagger into the Field of Blades with us and we quickly despatch them, but most remain trapped in the huge crush of bodies that fills the courtyard.

‘Lord-Celestant,’ says a voice from behind me.

I look down from Zarax to see Boreas striding through the Field of Blades. He looks no different, but as he reaches my side the scent of death pours from him. He reeks of the grave.

‘What have you wrought?’ I ask, looking from my brother to the tumult that surrounds us.

‘Lord-Celestant,’ he says, ‘we must back away from the Anvil.’

‘This is our only path.’

‘Trust me,’ he says and there is an uncharacteristic note of urgency in his voice that makes me listen.

‘Fall back!’ I cry, pointing Grius at the Field of Blades.

We barely make it clear in time. As my army floods into the rows of broken swords, the rumbling sound behind us becomes deafening: an oceanic roar followed by masonry whistling past my ears. As huge chunks of stone slam into the ground all around me I glance back and see what Boreas has done.

The talons at the centre of the watchtowers have risen into the sky, like the shoots of a strange plant. As they rise they’re tearing the Anvil apart, creating a new wall of dust and crimson light. As the spikes rise higher I see that they form the spine of an enormous fossilised serpentine skeleton — a snaking mass of ancient bones big enough to dwarf a mountain.

‘They never knew,’ cries Boreas, over the din. ‘They built the Anvil on the back of a fossil.’

I try to speak, but my words are lost beneath a new sound. As the mountainous, twisting skeleton rears up into the clouds, shrugging off the Anvil like a coat, it opens its jaws and bellows. The sound is unbearable, a cry of torment so loud that my ears ring when it ceases.

The ground rolls like a storm-lashed sea and whole towers fall from the sky. I’m blinded by dust and deafened by falling rocks, but my mind is racing. The blood warriors were still inside the courtyard. Nothing could survive this. I see Boreas up ahead and stare at him. Who could summon such a thing from the grave? What has my brother become?

Chapter Eleven

Vourla — High Priestess of the Steppe

We emerge near the shore, slipping from the fumes like a troupe of ghosts. Smoke whips up over rippling basalt, coating our metal steeds in ash and making us all gleam in the moonlight. It’s less than an hour since we rode out from the Anvil and we’re dead already; Hakh just doesn’t know it yet. I find it hard to suppress a victorious smile. The warlord rides on, blinded by his lust for power, carrying me behind him through the blazing heat. Tylos must be attacking the Anvil by now and I thank the fumes for the eerie, muffled quiet. If Hakh realised my trick, he might still have time to return and fight a battle he could win. I’m not going to give him that chance.

The Blood Creed ride behind us, the hooves of their hideous mounts crunching across the black rock. They make a monstrous sight, but it won’t make any difference. Nothing will survive what lies ahead. Not even Tylos and his gleaming host. As I recall his noble figure striding through the battle I feel a trace of guilt, but quickly suppress it. I didn’t choose Tylos’ path — I’m just turning it to my advantage.

Shapes loom out of the smoke and I gasp. The lakeshore is crowded with hulking beasts. They’re crouched menacingly on the rock, as though about to charge.

Hakh grunts with what might be laughter and rides on.

As we near the shapes I see that they’re not creatures but buildings — hovels, built in the shape of enormous horned heads. They’re all painted blood red and, as we walk past the mouth-like doorways, terrified faces peer out at us. There are few survivors of the old kingdoms left but some still eke out a pitiful existence as slaves and lackeys for Hakh and his ilk.

‘My kinsmen,’ I mutter.

As they realise that the Blood Creed hasn’t come for them, a few dare to wander out into the moonlight and I see their strange outfits. They’ve made costumes from scraps of wood in an attempt to impersonate the monsters they’ve based their homes on. They wear horned, wooden helmets, painted to resemble brutal, bestial faces. They look so absurd that I would laugh, if not for the pitifully deranged expressions on their faces. My beloved people have descended into superstition and barbarity. Khorne has broken their minds as completely as he has broken their land.

Our destination looms into view — a blackened fort, a hulking slab of scorched metal layered with dozens of smoke-belching chimneys and oil-spewing pipes. The artifice of the Blood God may be graceless, but it is powerful. I feel a growing nausea as we near its grumbling walls. Unlike the towers of the Anvil, the fort leans back at a drunken angle, as though straining against the huge chains that link it to the bubbling lava. The chains are each thicker than Hakh’s chest and there are so many of them that they form a kind of rattling skirt, spreading out from one side of the tower.

There is only one door and Hakh strides towards it, climbing a row of steps that circle the tower’s base. He leaves his army behind and drags me along with him. There’s nowhere I could run even if I wished to, but Hakh won’t let me out of his sight. As we wind around the scarred rock, I get a better look at the strange machinery that adorns the metal bastion. Illuminated by the hellish light of the lake is a vast collection of gears and spindles, scorched and blackened but still intact and coated in thick black tar. The chains are threaded through various wheels and jammed in place by hunks of rusted iron. I’ve seen such infernal engines in use before and I prayed never to do so again.

After several minutes, Hakh reaches the door — a brutal riveted slab of brass tall enough to admit a giant but with no obvious handle. Next to the crudely wrought door is a stone plinth, topped with a long, curved horn.

Hakh glances at me, then pounds the door.

The clanging echoes through the tower and soon I hear the slamming of doors and the clattering of armoured feet on metal walkways. After a few moments, the door swings inwards with a grudging moan. We’re greeted by the smell of old machines and rotting meat.

There are figures in the gloomy entrance hall — more of the brutish, armour-clad Blood Creed — and one of them steps out into the moonlight. I’ve met Khorlagh the Keeper once before but familiarity doesn’t lessen the shock. He’s almost as massive as Hakh but, rather than weapons, he carries the brutal tools of his trade. His bloodstained armour is adorned with billhooks, iron staves and thick, studded manacles. In his hand he clutches a jagged trident, warped and glowing with heat, as though recently drawn from a furnace. Tucked into his belt is a cruel, barbed whip. It’s not the brutal implements that make me shrink away from him though; it’s his skin. It is corpse-white, marbled with indigo streaks, and sags away from his body like an ill-fitting suit, revealing glimpses of the glistening flesh beneath. The effect is made all the more disturbing by his oddly gracious manner. He performs a ridiculous, formal bow and then gestures towards the open doorway.

‘My Lord Hakh,’ he says, his words turned into a moist rasp by his flapping, bloodless lips. ‘What an honour. What an honour indeed.’ He glances back at the figures loitering inside the tower. ‘I received no word from Vhaal that you would be inspecting the fort. We have made no preparations.’ He tries to tidy his face, tucking his skin back into place and smoothing it down like a courtier adjusting his wig.

‘Get us across,’ says Hakh, nodding at the ranks of knights gathered below.

Khorlagh frowns and then laughs. ‘For a moment there I thought you meant you were going to the crucible right now.’ His laughter causes his skin mask to sag again. ‘But of course you don’t mean that.’ He waves us inside again. ‘You’ll have to excuse our lack of preparation. You can use my chambers to rest until it’s safe to make the crossing.’

Hakh grabs Khorlagh by the arm and hurls him towards the brass horn. ‘Now.’

Khorlagh looks shocked. ‘My Lord, we can’t cross now. It’s nearly dawn.’

Hakh lets go of me and clutches his sword in both hands. ‘Are you the only one here who can take me across?’

Khorlagh briefly shakes his head, but then he sees sense and nods. ‘Yes, My Lord!’ He waves his trident at the lake of lava ‘No-one else can control them. Without me, passage is impossible, I assure you. I’ve spent long decades mastering the techniques and understanding the—’

Hakh silences Khorlagh by raising his sword a little higher.

‘Of course.’ Khorlagh turns to the horn.

He swings the mouthpiece to his lips and a harsh braying sound fills the air. Khorlagh’s lungs seem bottomless and the noise grows to an unbearable volume. I clamp my hands over my ears and almost topple down the steps, but Hakh drags me to his side.

Finally, Khorlagh lets go of the horn and staggers back from its stand.

For a while, there’s nothing but the echoes of the horn blast, but by the time Hakh has led us both back down the steps, a great din is booming out from the walls of the tower. I hear the rattle of machinery lurching into life and the roar of huge furnaces. The narrow windows spill crimson light out into the darkness — daemonic eyes, opening one by one.

Whatever engines are contained in the tower are so powerful that the ground beneath us starts to judder and shift. Geysers of oil and smoke burst from the ground and the pipes that go down start crackling as energy blasts through them.

‘How long?’ asks Hakh, ignoring the tower and staring out at the lake.

‘Not long,’ mutters Khorlagh. ‘The beasts do not dare keep me waiting.’ A little pride creeps into his voice. ‘Such monsters are difficult to control. Many died before I managed to perfect the machines. Too much power and they’ll die. Too little and we’ll die.’

I wish that I could take his trident and plunge it into his chest. Whatever creatures are out there, they deserve a better fate than to be tormented by Khorlagh’s sweaty hands.

Khorlagh catches my furious expression and stares, as though seeing me for the first time. Hakh doesn’t notice; he’s too busy watching the cluster of chains that have begun winding back in from the lava. The lake hisses and booms as the metal lurches from the depths, glowing and sparking as it rises.

Khorlagh smiles proudly as his machines do their work. A few hundred feet away an island of coiled, scratched brass rises, an entire headland wrought of spiralling, pockmarked metal. As the chains drag it towards us I see Khorlagh’s monstrous slaves: towering, ox-headed beastmen, with brutal, swooping horns and four arms, all lashed to the sides of the metal island. There are hundreds of them heaving the great disc of brass from the boiling lake. Their bodies are crackling and smoking like roasting meat.

‘Ghorgons,’ says Hakh, with a hint of respect in his voice.

Khorlagh nods proudly.

‘How do they survive?’ I ask. ‘Why doesn’t the lava burn them up?’

Khorlagh nods at the pipes and chains joining the tower to the lake. ‘These engines have girded them with the wrath of the Blood God. It doesn’t protect them from the pain, but it certainly keeps them moving.’ He laughs and pats his whip. ‘They’re more daemon than beast now, but they wouldn’t dare defy me.’

‘How will we ride it?’ asks Hakh, staring at the quickly approaching island.

Khorlagh laughs. ‘With care. And getting on isn’t the only challenge.’ He points his trident at the clouds of ash overhead. ‘When my servants rise, they always bring a crowd with them.’

I look where he’s pointing and see nothing but embers, falling from the night sky.

Hakh clearly sees something more. ‘Ready your axes,’ he bellows, looking back at the Blood Creed. ‘We’re going to have some sport.’

‘I must prepare for the landing,’ says Khorlagh, heading back into the tower, yelling orders as he goes.

The ghorgons make a horrific sight as they haul the metal to shore, straining and thrashing at their bonds as gangways hurtle down from the tower, locking the island into place. Khorlagh’s men dash back and forth through the lava spray, acting out a lethal dance as they fasten more hooks and chains onto the limbs of the giant beastmen.

Then, suddenly, with a grinding screech, one of the ghorgons breaks free. It charges through the lava, bellowing and making straight for us. Dozens of Khorlagh’s men are smashed from the walkways as they try to halt it, thrown to their deaths in the lava below.

The ghorgon reaches the shore and does not pause, still running straight at where Hakh and I are waiting. I back away but Hakh just glares at the monster. It towers over him but he looks at it as though it’s no more dangerous than a stray dog.

Khorlagh cries a command and grappling hooks blast out from the walls of the brass tower. They slam into the ghorgon with such force that they punch through its chest and send it hurling back the way it came. It crashes to the ground, lifeless.

I glance at Hakh, wondering if the attack has deterred him in any way, but he barely seems to have noticed. His gaze is still locked on the far shore and the tantalising glint of brass that lies beyond the walls of the crater. I’ve completely ensnared him. My heart races but I try to calm myself. It’s not done yet. My visions have misled me in the past.

After what seems to me a painfully long time, Khorlagh’s slaves succeed in pinning the island down under a forest of staves, chains and walkways. The ghorgons heave and roar, unable to break their bonds, and Khorlagh appears from the tower, his skin-mask in complete disarray.

‘Be quick, my lord,’ he cries, waving us towards the walkways and rushing to meet us there. He points at the clouds. The embers now look more like shooting stars, rushing towards the lake. ‘We must board before they attack.’

As we climb across ramparts and onto the trembling jetties I see crowds of Khorlagh’s slaves hanging from chains as they try to hold the ghorgons in place. As they crank their gears and shove their levers, the bonds tighten, finally silencing the monsters’ feral cries.

We’re only halfway across the gangway when there’s a scream of grinding metal and we are all thrown off our feet. Several of Hakh’s knights are hurled into the lava and, for a moment, I think I might follow them, but Hakh still has hold of me.

Another one of the ghorgons has broken free and is thrashing from side to side.

More slaves are thrown to their deaths before Khorlagh can reach the scene. He and several of his lackeys arrive carrying a long pipe that ends in what looks like a diamond harpoon. They fire the point deep into the ghorgon’s thick neck and it drops from view.

As they run back down the gangway, Khorlagh waves at figures lining the battlements of the brass tower. There is a flash of sparks and flame as they activate another machine and send a bolt of energy down the pipes. The metal crackles with power and the ghorgons twitch. The air crackles as they start to heave the island back into the lake.

Khorlagh grins as he runs back up the walkway, waving us on, towards the centre of the island.

The heat makes me feel sick and embers settle on my face as I run, scorching my skin, but the Blood Creed do not falter. Khorlagh leads us up an incline until I see where he’s taking us. There’s a scorched, blackened hole blasted right in the centre of the metal island. It has created a kind of walled enclosure lined with jagged terraces and trailing masses of chains. Khorlagh and his men wave us down into the scorched pit but the Blood Creed need no instruction; they flood down into the hole and begin fastening the chains to their armour. Hakh drags me down with him and binds me to his jagged plate armour with a thick chain.

We’re barely settled when Khorlagh gives another signal, eliciting more blasts of energy. There’s a clanging din as the Blood Creed are thrown to their knees, and I’m forced to cling onto Hakh’s armour. For a terrifying moment, I think we’re going to plunge beneath the lava, but the furious ghorgons keep the metal above the surface as it powers back out into the lake. Heat pours over me and I can’t seem to catch my breath. I try to rise and cry out, but then the world turns black.

When I come to, I’m on my back, looking at a mixture of stars and spinning embers. Hakh has gone, but I’m chained securely to a shard of heat-warped brass. At first, I think I must be delirious, the scene is so nightmarish. I’m surrounded by the howling, grunting ranks of Hakh’s knights, and they’re fighting for their lives. The air is teeming with huge, ferocious animals — snarling, feline monsters with great leathery wings and broad, slashing claws. Before my books were burned I spent long hours studying the creatures of myth and legend, and a name tumbles from my lips: manticores. They’re roaring furiously as they dive, tearing Hakh’s warriors from the metal, and feeding on them like gulls fighting for scraps.

The more the manticores kill, the more enraged their shrieks become. They hurl corpses into the lava and roar with bloodlust.

The manticores are almost as massive as the ghorgons but the Blood Creed are inhuman and utterly fearless. After the initial shock, they soon start to revel in the slaughter. They laugh at the terrifying creatures as they cut them down. Hakh has unshackled himself and climbed to the lip of the silver crater, surrounded by fumes and sparks. He’s like a captain at the prow of an infernal ship, howling as he cuts the manticores from the sky.

The beasts fight on, berserk, but the end comes quickly. As the last of them plunges to a fiery death, I lie there on the scorched metal, shaken by the horror my world has become. Chaos has tainted every part of the Khavall Steppe. Everyone I ever loved died at the hands of Hakh’s armies. Is revenge really enough?

As Hakh’s knights celebrate their victory I can think of nothing but Tylos, striding towards me through the flames, blazing with valour.

Chapter Twelve

Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

As the Anvil entombs our foes, the fossil that destroyed it whirls away, leaving a tornado of dust and rubble as it hurtles across the steppe.

‘Follow it!’ cries Boreas, struggling to be heard over the din, battling through the falling debris to reach me.

The rest of my army emerges from the swirling clouds of dust, bloody but unbowed — looking for my command. As they stagger from the wreckage towards me, I’m distracted by the skeletal colossus filling the sky, blocking out the moonlight and shedding towers the size of mountains. Truly, this realm is full of wonders.

‘Hammers of Sigmar!’ I roar, rising up in my saddle and pointing Grius at the disappearing fossil. ‘Witness a miracle! Witness the power of the God-King.’

Boreas staggers to a halt nearby and the rows of expressionless masks turn to face me.

I keep Grius pointed at the enormous skeleton crashing across the steppe.

‘The realms will kneel no more!’

I bring Grius and Evora together over my head and they erupt in a ball of holy fire. Faith and fury pour through my skin and armour, surrounding me in a blinding nimbus of light. ‘For the God-King!’ I cry, as Zarax rears beneath me, spewing lightning from between her gaping jaws.

The Stormcasts reel away from me, shaking their heads in wonder, even Boreas. Then, as Zarax tears off in pursuit of the skeleton, I hear them echo my war cry and join the chase.

At first the going is slow, as we struggle over the ruins of the Anvil. Most of its defenders are buried beneath a landslide of broken masonry, but every few feet I see a grim reminder of the warriors who seemed so unstoppable a few minutes earlier: twisted, bleeding hands jutting up from the rocks and lifeless faces, staring up at the sky, their skulls sheared apart. I allow Zarax to hurtle past most of them but there is one corpse, skewered on a fallen spire, that catches my attention. I rein Zarax in and look down at the still muttering warrior. It’s the champion with the skinless face. His body has been torn almost entirely in two by the piece of masonry but he’s still clinging to life.

At the sight of me he laughs and tries to rise, but he only succeeds in pouring his viscera across his broken legs.

‘You do not exist,’ he gurgles through a mouth full of blood. ‘The Blood God and I—’

Before he can say more, Zarax roasts him alive with a blinding flash of lightning. I make the sign of the hammer as he crumbles into ash, then urge the dracoth on.

As I leave the ruins behind I see that Boreas’ warnings were not exaggerated. The fossilised serpent is heading directly east, towards a shimmering line of fire that stretches across the entire horizon.

‘Lake Malice,’ I say out loud, recalling my brother’s description of the impassable lake. I would never let Boreas know, of course, but I have no idea how we will cross this final hurdle. Even god-forged Stormcast Eternals cannot simply wade through lava.

As it nears the lake, the skeleton is lit up in red and gold and I have the strange sense that we’re chasing a lost soul, plunging into the depths of the underworld.

I rein Zarax in and allow the others to catch up. Boreas is at the fore and I’m about to praise him for destroying the Anvil when he speaks.

‘Lord-Celestant,’ he says. His voice sounds angry rather than pleased. ‘Our passage through the Anvil was not bought cheaply.’

‘I understand, Boreas.’ I glance at the quickly disappearing monster. ‘Sigmar sees all. Whatever pain you’ve endured—’

‘Tylos, you don’t understand.’ He glances down at the relics hanging from his armour. ‘The price was the Kuriat.’

I can’t hide my shock. ‘The heart? Boreas, what do you mean?’

‘I bought our passage with it.’ He steps closer. ‘It was the only way. We’re almost out of time. The tempest was sent astray. If we’d spent any longer trapped in the Anvil—’

‘Yes,’ I interrupt. ‘I understand.’ Anger pounds in my chest and it takes all my strength to keep my voice calm. The Kuriat was the key to the Crucible of Blood. Without it, there’s no way we can seize control of the realmgate. For the first time since we landed, I feel the ghost of my past rising to challenge me. I grasp the hilt of my sword in an attempt to steady myself. I hear a harsh voice at the back of my thoughts: the brutal, honourless killer I was before the Lord of Storms tempered me. I grip the hilt tighter until my heart steadies.

Boreas watches my hand on the runeblade.

‘I had no choice,’ he says.

The rage passes. I am as true as Evora’s blade. I dismount.

‘Boreas, do you trust in Sigmar?’ I place my hand on his shoulder.

He nods.

‘Then trust in me. We both know what we must do.’

He grips my arm. ‘Brother,’ he begins, ‘I swear that there was nothing else—’

‘I know,’ I reply, returning his grip. ‘And we both knew it might come to this.’ I manage to keep my voice level as I consider the path left open to us. ‘There can be no return.’

Before either of us can say more, an explosion tears the night open. Golden light flashes in the polished metal of my men’s masks. Boreas and I both turn to study this latest miracle.

The serpent has thrown its entire length across Lake Malice. The liquid sprays and hisses over bones as big as mountains and it is enveloped by a liquid heat haze.

‘You bought us a bridge,’ I say, turning back to Boreas with a laugh of disbelief.

He nods and, despite everything we face, I hear laughter in his voice too. But then he becomes serious again. ‘Not for long, brother.’

I follow his gaze and see what he means. Even through the haze I can see the skeleton smouldering and warping where it lies in the lava. As we stare, it raises its fanged skull and lets out a ghostly roar.

‘Move!’ I cry, leaping back into the saddle and waving Grius at the lake. ‘The Lord-Relictor has bought us a passage to victory. Our journey ends on the far shore.’

Zarax leads the charge, speeding me across the black rocks. Boreas and the others rush to follow as Drusus leads the Prosecutors overhead, scouting the night sky for signs of attack.

By the time we reach the shore, the skeletal serpent has left a trail of carnage. The area is littered with strange architecture — weird, domed houses built in the shape of bull-headed monsters, destroyed by the giant fossil. Zarax vaults over broken horns and shattered snouts. As we career through the strange scene, I get my first glimpse of those we’ve come to save: emaciated, wide-eyed mortals, cowering in outfits as ridiculous as their homes. They make a tragic sight and I raise my head, determined to show them what humanity can be.

As we near the lava, I see the remains of a bastion that must have been crafted by the same brutal hand as the Anvil. The smashed remnants show signs of jagged, taloned battlements and thick, brass walls. On the side facing the lake there is a pile of broken machinery — wheels and pulleys that were previously linked to great chains, now all gone, torn free by the impact of the bone serpent.

Zarax pounds on. As we near the bubbling lava, an intense wave of heat penetrates my armour. The skeleton is sinking fast, the fossilised remains slumping and snapping as the lava devours them, and I’m about to cry out a warning when Zarax makes the leap. The fossil’s tail holds as her great, scaled bulk crashes down on it, and the Liberators follow close behind, clambering onto the splintering ivory arch as though they were simply crossing a brackish stream. Again, I’m hit by the incredible charge I’ve been entrusted with — what kind of warriors would follow me across this searing heat, with death only a single misstep away? Only those born of the God-King’s immutable will.

Unlike the others, I have only to hold my nerve as Zarax carries me towards the far side. As the bones jolt and crack under her weight, gouts of smoking lava lash out, but Zarax has the heat of stars running through her veins and she charges on, dodging every blast the furnace can throw at us.

Boreas’ fossil has lowered its head and I can clearly see our goal ahead — a flash of moonlit brass, glimpsed over a ridge of basalt. The Crucible of Blood is painfully close, but so is the dawn. The dazzling lava beneath me makes it impossible to be sure, but I can’t help thinking that the sky is getting lighter.

‘Faster!’ I cry, turning back to my men. They’re already showing god-like heroism by hurling themselves over these bones, but I will not face Sigmar as a failure. ‘We have to reach the Crucible before the sun rises!’

They pick up their pace, but fossilised bones do not make for easy footing. The paladins in particular struggle to heft their massive suits of armour over the crumbling vertebrae and the heat is now so intense that the fossil is starting to spark and flame. Soon the whole thing will be ablaze, but I’m forced to rein Zarax in halfway across and wait for the others to reach me.

I can feel the seconds ebbing away and it is a torment to sit powerlessly, so close to my goal. I cast my gaze out across the lake and see a shape rushing in our direction. There’s something moving through the lava, making for the burning skeleton.

‘Faster!’ I roar, looking back along the fossil. The vanguard of Liberators has almost reached me and the Judicators are with them, but the retinues of paladins are trailing way behind, with Boreas at their head. Drusus has led his Prosecutors down from the clouds to help. They are hovering over the struggling paladins, pounding their celestial wings as they attempt to lift their brothers over the crumbling, sparking bridge.

Boreas sees more shapes rushing towards us, raises his hammer into the rolling fumes and cries out a litany. Whatever the things are, they must be as tall as oaks. I can’t hear my brother’s words over the hissing and burning of the lake, but I can sense a growing charge in the air as he prepares for an attack.

‘Lord-Celestant,’ shouts Liberator-Prime Castamon as he reaches my side. He waves his hammer at Boreas and the paladins. ‘We need to head back!’

I shake my head. ‘There is no going back.’

Boreas is standing proudly at the head of the paladins with his banner of bones and his hammer raised in defiance. The paladins form ranks behind him, readying their weapons for whatever is about to emerge. They’re perched on flaming, shattered bones a few feet above a lake that would burn them alive. They’re about to be attacked from all sides, yet even now they show no trace of fear.

The lava erupts as a goliath bursts into view. It has the head and legs of an ox and four, powerful arms, two of which end in jagged iron hooks. Strange, crackling energy shimmers over its scarred hide and the lava leaves no mark on it. The monster bellows as it crashes into the bones, surrounded by a rolling cloud of flames and sparks.

Boreas vanishes from sight and Castamon cries out. ‘Ghorgons!’ he yells, preparing to charge back down the bones.

I slam him back into place.

‘Hold your nerve,’ I growl and he nods, stepping back into line.

The place where the paladins were standing is now a wall of flaming spray and pounding, sparking limbs. I see golden figures dashing through the flames, bringing their huge two-handed hammers to bear, but the creatures are so vast they barely register the blows.

‘We can’t leave Boreas behind,’ says Castamon, and I nod.

‘You can. Lead the army to the far side.’

As ever, Zarax knows my mind better than I do and, before I can command it, she races back towards my brother.

We’ve gone no more than a few yards when the lava erupts again, spewing another howling ghorgon from its depths. As it attacks, I notice that it’s trailing a mass of chains and cords.

Zarax leaps clear as the monster smashes through the bones, splintering the fossilised spine with an explosion of cracking sounds.

I cling to her back as a ghorgon dives in our direction, smashing a hole in the bridge.

My army has been split in two. The bulk of my retinues are gathered on one side of the break, watching in dismay as Zarax and I are forced back towards Boreas and the others.

The ghorgon has torn a twenty-foot hole in the bridge of bones. Even if Castamon wished to lead his Liberators back to me, they could never leap the gap.

I look the other way and have to stifle a cry of outrage. Where Boreas and the others were standing, there is only a cloud of spinning bone fragments and embers. I see Boreas pounding his hammer furiously against the snorting monsters, but dozens of Retributors have already been thrown into the lava, and are in their agonised death throes. Moments after the paladins sink from view, lighting cracks down from the heavens, connecting with the lake in a blaze of blue fire as Sigmar reclaims his own.

Boreas staggers under a flurry of blows and I spur Zarax on. She leaps into action, hurtling towards him. There’s a crash of breaking stone as a ghorgon smashes into view, blocking my way. I’m too furious to think about the size of the monster and I drive Zarax to even greater speed. She slams headfirst into its massive chest and I bring Grius round in a wide arc towards the monster’s face.

The warhammer lands between the ox horns with such force that another explosion rocks the fossil. I slump back in my saddle, too dazed to see what’s happened. Then I realise that the ghorgon is on its back, pawing at its bloodied face, blinded by my attack.

The fossil groans and snaps. Zarax almost loses her footing, staggering towards the lava. I grasp on to a broken shard of stone and hold us steady seconds before we plunge to our deaths. I’m just inches from the lava and my eyes stream in the heat.

Zarax leaps back to safety and I draw Evora, preparing to attack the ghorgon again.

The monster’s legs are thrashing wildly beneath it and it is unable to rise. My blow has crippled it. I behead the beast with single clean swipe of my runeblade.

I take a look back at the way we came and see a breathtaking sight. Boreas stands alone and his golden armour has been torn away in several places. He’s swaying like a drunk as ghorgons charge towards him, perched precariously on a single, massive vertebra, only hanging on with one hand and holding his warhammer aloft with the other. His reliquary has gone and there’s blood rushing from his skull mask, but he will not yield an inch. I can hear his voice from here, hoarse but defiant, ringing out over the noise of the monster’s thrashing limbs. He’s surrounded by blinding columns of light as paladins die all around him.

‘Drusus!’ I howl, scouring the skies for a sight of the Prosecutors. Most of them are gathered at the opposite end of the fossil, defending Castamon and his Liberators as they try to reach the shore, but there is no sign of Drusus’ red-plumed helmet.

I cry his name again and look back to Boreas.

A ghorgon lunges with its rusted hooks and Boreas swings his hammer but as he does a staccato blast of lightning explodes along the creature’s head. It jolts back from the fossil, letting out a furious howl, and Boreas tumbles from his perch towards the lava.

I curse, but as the blast clears I see a pair of blazing wings and Drusus soars into view, holding Boreas aloft with the aid of another Prosecutor. Others dive into battle, blasting the enemy back into the lava.

A wounded ghorgon prepares to lash out at Boreas and his rescuers, but Zarax gets there first, bounding over a final section of bone and fastening her jaws around the monster’s tree trunk throat.

I bring both sword and hammer down into its face.

The afterglow of Drusus’ attack is still shimmering over the monster’s hide and it ignites my weapons, creating another dazzling blast.

The creature is thrown backwards, towards the lava. I turn to land another blow. A volley of hammer-blows lights up the monster’s flank as Drusus and the other Prosecutor swoop by, still clutching Boreas. The final ghorgon drops into the lava but manages to clamber back onto the bridge and slice its hooks into Zarax.

I thrust Evora into one of its eyes and ink-black blood smashes into me with such force that I’m knocked back in my saddle. By the time I rise, the monster has almost vanished back into the lava. The last of its hooks is still buried deep in Zarax’s hide.

She staggers and slips towards the edge of the bones, unable to free herself. Almost in the lava, she turns her proud, draconic head and unleashes a bolt of crackling energy into the ghorgon. The light burns with such violence that she becomes a silhouette, haloed by blazing white power.

A final, agonised howl bubbles up from the lava as the sinking ghorgon releases Zarax and she staggers back to safety.

She pauses to steady herself, then pads back towards the shore, majestic and magnificent, smoke trailing from her jaws and lightning sparking between her midnight blue scales.

Chapter Thirteen

Vourla — High Priestess of the Steppe

‘What were they?’ I ask, looking up at the sky and not expecting an answer. It is the first time I have crossed Lake Malice, and I’ve only ever heard rumours of what lies beyond. The ground is an ugly mass of dull black stone, but the scene overhead is breathtaking. Huge shards of masonry hang motionless in the air, defying gravity or explanation. They are carved from flawless white stone and covered with the most beautiful murals and statues — serpentine, mythological creatures that wind around graceful, arched doorways and looping, spiral stairs. They’re clearly the product of an elegant, cultured civilization, quite unlike the brutal Chaos architecture that has looked down on my entire life. But something terrible must have happened. All that remains are these broken, drifting fragments: steps that lead to nowhere and rooms that are open to the elements, revealing sad glimpses of forgotten halls and abandoned terraces. The lowest of the fragments is over thirty feet above the ground and it’s hard to gauge the scale, but I can tell the proportions are all wrong. No humans could have lived in these grand chambers. The rooms and doors are ten times the height of a man. This was the abode of giants.

‘It was a palace.’

I’m so shocked to get a response that I almost laugh. Since Khorlagh ushered us down onto the lakeshore no one has spoken. We’ve trudged beneath these ruins for half an hour in silence.

‘Whose palace?’ I ask.

Hakh looks up at the shards of white stone. The embers in his eyes flicker into life as he studies the floating remnants. ‘Can’t you see them?’ he asks, sounding surprised.

‘See who?’ I follow his shimmering gaze and think, perhaps, I can see something — a vague flicker of shadows near one of the doorways. But the harder I stare, the more it slips away.

Hakh grunts a laugh. ‘For once I see more than you. You’re too mortal.’

I stare harder, annoyed that this brute can perceive things that I can’t, but it’s no use.

He shrugs, still watching the figures I can’t see. ‘It doesn’t matter. They were nothing. Just stupid giants. They refused to kneel so Khorne gave them a gift.’

‘The Crucible of Blood,’ I stare through the moonlit ruins at the flashes of brass through the gaps in the crumbling walls.

He nods and spares me a proud glance. ‘Their magic could not save them — instead it trapped them.’ He laughs again. ‘Now they die, over and over again, forever.’

The pleasure in his voice hardens my resolve. Whatever guilt I feel over that golden knight is meaningless. All that matters is that Hakh pays. All that matters is destroying him.

‘Not far now,’ I say, looking further into the ruins.

He nods, but that’s clearly all the conversation he can manage.

As we march on beneath the drifting stones, I start to sense their architects even if I can’t see them. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I hear a low, alien cry filled with increasing desperation. At first it is intriguing, but it quickly becomes distressing. The voice sounds tormented. The centuries have done nothing to lessen the pain. It sounds like something forever on the brink of salvation, but unable to quite reach it. I try covering my ears to block out the sound, eliciting an odd look from Hakh, but it’s useless — the sounds are all in my mind.

As we reach the centre of the ruined city, the ground starts to become more uneven and slopes up towards the lip of a vast bowl — an enormous crater at least a mile across. At the centre is the thing I’ve been trying to avoid looking at, but as I reach the edge of the huge pit that cradles it, I’m finally forced to face the destination I’ve dragged us all to.

Grinning at us in the moonlight is a single brass skull. It’s so tall that my eyes struggle to make sense of its design, but I’ve heard enough to know this is the Crucible of Blood. It gleams a lurid yellow in the predawn light, but its expression is the thing that takes the strength from my legs. Its leering, rictus grin speaks of a bloodlust so full of vigour that I feel as though I’m facing a living beast, a merciless hunter, about to pounce. The eye sockets stare at me, revealing what lies inside — thousands of gallons of human blood, lapping gently at the thick, brass walls. Some kind of sorcery stops the blood pouring through the eye sockets, so it looks as though the skull is watching me with a pair of blind, crimson orbs.

Hakh shoves me aside and glares down into the pit of charred stone. ‘Where is he?’ he demands, his voice a low snarl.

‘What?’ I mutter, hypnotised by the skull’s bloody stare.

Hakh rounds on me, trembling with rage. ‘Where is the golden champion?’

He goes into a kind of spasm and swings his sword. The blade smashes into the ground a couple of feet from me, creating an explosion of black, glinting splinters that knife into my legs.

I cry out in pain and try to back away, but immediately bump into the armoured bulk of Khorlagh. He locks one of his white-skinned hands onto my shoulder and holds me in place.

‘He’s on his way!’ I cry, waving back through the ruins. ‘He’ll be here within minutes.’

Hakh is too angry to speak for a moment. Veins bulge from his tree trunk neck and he clutches his head.

‘Dawn,’ he manages to snarl finally, jabbing his sword at the brass skull grinning at us from the bottom of the crater. ‘We must be gone by dawn.’ He looks up through the ruins at the quickly vanishing stars. ‘There’s no time.’

I nod eagerly. ‘There is time! I’ve foreseen your victory. There’s still an hour before the sun rises and…’ I glance at the skull and lose my thread.

‘She’s lying,’ says Khorlagh. His flaccid lips brush against my cheek as he holds me tighter. ‘I saw that she was tricking you the moment you arrived.’

Hakh reels away from us, teetering across the lip of the crater, drunk with fury. ‘Tricking?’

Khorlagh pulls a long, rusty hook from his belt and presses the point against my trembling stomach. ‘We should gut her and leave.’

Hakh grabs one of his horns and starts wrenching his head from side to side, as though trying to shake understanding from his skull. ‘Tricking?’

Then he halts and his expression goes slack. For a moment I wonder if his anger has broken his mind, but then he grins and strides towards us, raising his sword.

I struggle to free myself but Khorlagh tightens his grip.

Hakh swings his sword and I find myself lying on the hard rock in a pool of blood. The warm liquid pumps over me, filling my eyes and mouth but, after a few seconds, I realise I’m not in pain. I’m still alive.

I feel my blood-slick throat and find that my head is still attached to it.

I wipe my eyes just in time to see Hakh reaching down to take my hand. He hauls me to my feet and I see Khorlagh’s corpse. Hakh’s blade has sliced down through the top of his skull and travelled almost to his waist. I find myself wondering at just how much blood can emerge from a single body.

‘Another fool,’ says Hakh.

I slump in his grip, weak with shock, unable to do anything but slap feebly at my clothes, trying to clear away bits of Khorlagh’s insides.

‘You didn’t lie. Khorlagh did,’ continues Hakh.

I’ve no idea what he’s talking about until I see what he’s looking at.

Tylos. I didn’t dream him. He’s here.

Chapter Fourteen

Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

Boreas lives on at least, even though so many others are lost. He’s delirious with pain, muttering and flailing at shadows as though surrounded by ghosts only he can see. He’s struggling to walk, too — one of his legs drags awkwardly as we help him across the black rocks. Before we moved on from the lake I asked him if he needed to rest, but he just stared at me in proud silence until we continued our gruelling march.

As we crunch over the blasted basalt, we make a very different sight to the army that crashed down onto the bridge of birds. Along with the warriors dragged skywards by the lunar storm, I must now count those we lost in the battle for the Anvil and the retinues of paladins that were hurled into the lava attempting to defend Boreas. They will all find their way back to Sigmar’s halls, but I would have preferred to have them marching at my side. Nearly half of my army is gone and as we near the Nomad City I can’t mistake the pale glow of an approaching dawn. Anger simmers in my gut, testing me, daring me to revive my barbaric past. It is as though part of me is still in a vaulted chamber, watched carefully by the God-King himself. I will not fail the test. I suppress my rage and wave Castamon on, leading the lines of Liberators with calm disdain.

As Zarax carries me towards the city, I have the overwhelming sensation that I’m walking into a dream. After all the noise and violence of our crossing, these drifting ruins seem eerily calm. Strange, incongruous sections of rooms hang next to each other like an unsolved puzzle. If the scholars of the Celestial City are right, the ruins were left by a god. The fire of the spheres was still blasting through my bones when they told me the bloody history of this place. It’s hard to imagine such violence now, as the warm breeze whistles through the drifting towers, but I can see the skull clearly enough — a vast dome of brazen metal, flickering beyond the lip of the crater, just half a mile into the city. It’s so big I can barely comprehend it.

Between us and the realmgate lies our final challenge. Waiting in shadows beneath the city is another host of Khorne worshippers. These aren’t the bare-chested rabble that attacked us on the bridge, but lumbering, red-armoured knights, just like the unstoppable killers we faced at the Anvil, and this time they are not on foot but are mounted on horrific steeds that I recognise only from the darkest legends. Juggernauts — massive, hulking beasts, clad in plates of serrated steel and brass. As their riders sit patiently in their saddles, the metal creatures paw at the ground with blood-caked hooves, spewing gouts of steam and oil from the hinges in their flanks.

The lead rider is the largest knight I’ve yet seen and, even from here, I can tell that he is barely human. He has a pair of low, swooping horns jutting out of his forehead and his eyes burn like a pair of tiny dying suns.

I turn to face my men and draw a deep breath, preparing to rouse them from weariness and despair. My words fail on my lips, unneeded. They’re already preparing for battle, readying their hammers with silent, unshakeable faith. They’ve watched their brothers be butchered, hurled into the void and boiled alive, and now they face an army more horrific than anything we’ve yet seen, but not one of them shows any fear. My breath catches in my throat as they raise their shields and form a perfect wall of gleaming sigmarite.

Drusus lands just a few feet away with his remaining Prosecutors and they drop to their knees in silent genuflection.

The faces of my men may be hidden, but their nobility is not.

I sit taller in my saddle and lift my chin. The barbarian in my soul slips away.

‘Look at them,’ I say, levelling Grius at the red knights. ‘How different they are from us. Can you feel their hunger? Their desperation? These aren’t men, but animals, scrapping for dominion over a debased pack. They fight for power over their kin and to hold these broken lands for their own. They fight for everything that is meaningless.’

Zarax starts to pace beneath me, pawing at the ground, sensing that the battle is about to begin.

‘But you, my sky-born brothers,’ I say, raising my voice. ‘You fight for truth.’

They bring their hammers down against their shields, filling the night with sparks and noise.

‘And for Sigmar!’ I roar as we advance.

Chapter Fifteen

Menuasaraz-Senuamaraz-Kemurzil (Mopus)

‘Curse Boreas,’ I say, slamming the palm of my hand on my desk. Dead insects tumble away from my fingers and dust fills the air. ‘How dare he wait so long to come back here and then try to fill my head with his religious nonsense? After all I taught him, how can he have fallen for a creed? And then try to drag me down with him?’

The Carrion Princes are watching from the shadows as always, and they drift a little closer as I shove back my chair. I try to rise from my desk and collapse onto the floor. Damp, pulpy books soften my fall and I break into a furious, hacking cough.

Skinless finger bones dig into my arms as the princes help me back onto my feet. I cling onto one of them for a moment, trying to stand straight, gripping a cold, dusty humerus as my legs tremble beneath me.

The princes whisper inside my skull. You need to eat.

‘Food?’ I laugh. ‘I’m no animal.’

I reach out and rummage through an old cabinet until I find a vial of sapphire-blue liquid. There are a few flies drifting in it but I pick them out and gulp the philtre down. Warmth rushes through my body and I slowly start to recover.

I shoo the princes away and stagger over to a mirror. It’s thick with dust and obscured by a mound of annotated skulls, but once I’ve cleared a space I manage to see myself for the first time in months. I feel a little calmer — I could almost pass for one of my skeletons. My skull grins out from behind its thin covering of white skin. I’m everything that an ascetic scholar should be. No gaudy gold armour for me, just a few simple robes and enough flesh to keep my mind working. There was a time when Boreas would have understood such asceticism, but not now. Anger and hurt drives me to drink another philtre. My eyes start to burn the same blue as the liquid and my heart pounds an irregular rhythm.

‘I always knew Boreas would return,’ I say, ‘but not like this — not to mock and accuse. How could he throw his lot in with brutish soldiers when I could have shown him the mysteries of the cosmos? How can he believe in Sigmar’s ridiculous doctrine?’ The more furious my words, the more I know that I’m lying to myself. I’m angry because I’m afraid he might be right, afraid that I’ve wasted all these years.

I shake my head, trying to rid myself of this infuriating self-doubt. It irks me that I’m not able to continue studying, but I can’t banish the memory of his faith. I stumble across the room, barging past the princes and knocking over towers of books. The Kuriat is on my desk, still thudding patiently. I pick it up and stare at its hardened, shrivelled arteries.

‘Boreas has been made a fool of. This thing has no power as a weapon. What did he hope to achieve?’

Then why did you take it from him?

‘Because the wretched fool cared for it more than anything! Because I wanted to hurt him.’ I realise how small-minded and ridiculous I sound, but it just makes me even more furious. I put the lump of meat back on my desk and try not to think about it.

‘If that really is Sigmar’s great army,’ I continue, ‘why would he send them to the Crucible of Blood? Why is the Kharvall Steppe of such importance to him? There are countless other strongholds he should strike first if he means to unseat the Dark Gods.’

I turn to the princes. ‘What else do we know of the Crucible of Blood?’

Very little. Your scribes have searched every text. They’re all curiously quiet on the subject. One of the princes waves at the gruesome illustration of daemons boiling in blood. We know nothing more than that.

‘There must be more. Something is happening here. This is all significant. I know that Boreas is not really a fool. I taught him too well for that. There must be something I’m missing.’

What about Giraldus?

‘Giraldus?’ I frown with distaste as I recall the pompous old bloodsucker. ‘He’s a third-rate scholar and a first-rate fool.’ I picture the deluded vampire as I last saw him, parading around Nagash’s court in the ornate, decorative armour of a grand noble. ‘He claims to be a king, but he behaves more like a spoiled little prince.’

As a mortal, he dwelled on the Kharvall Steppe. He was indeed a king. He was not always Nagash’s puppet. When he ruled, there was still a city where the Crucible of Blood now stands.

It annoys me that I didn’t know this myself, but I mainly feel relief. I can’t abide not having a thread with which to unpick a puzzle. My mind whirls with thoughts of Boreas, daemon-filled skulls and gleaming, noble armies.

‘Ready our legions,’ I say suddenly, looking around for some clothes. ‘Prepare the Coven Throne.’

They reply at once, filling my head with panicked questions. I can’t help but laugh. ‘Yes, my old friends. I may lack Boreas’ martial zeal, but I know when I need to act. Whatever’s happening at the Crucible of Blood needs to be stopped, or at least controlled. I can feel it as surely as I feel Boreas’ knife in my back. Giraldus will tell us what he knows and he will lend me his swords.’ I grab my rune-inscribed staff from beneath a moth-eaten fur. ‘And then I’ll make sure we can continue our work here in peace. I won’t let Boreas or his soldiers ruin everything with their wretched ideologies and faith. I will not have war thrust upon me by Sigmar.’

I stagger through the fane, clambering over my wonderful collections and starting to warm to my task. My purpose has always been to cheat death, but if I need to deal a little of it out, then so be it.

By the time I emerge into the drizzle my army is already mustered. I can’t help but smile when I think of Boreas’ boasts. This is an army. The power of the philtre pounds in my chest as I survey it. The entire valley has been painted white by the gleaming, fleshless skulls of my long-dead spearmen. While my enemies thought I was sleeping, I summoned a host that lesser scholars could only dream of. Countless thousands of warriors stare back at me in unflinching silence, bound by the impenetrable wards tattooed on my skin. Every one of them clutches a rusting, prehistoric weapon and wears fascinating scraps of armour. Their shields and hauberks display the design of myriad cultures. This is archaeology in the form of a lethal, fearless host.

Pacing before them is my greatest prize, a morghast — a winged giant of bone and metal, bleeding light from its armoured ribcage. I stole it at great risk from my supposed regent, Nagash, and it makes an incredible sight. It towers over the spearmen at eight or nine feet tall and it holds a pair of enormous, machete-like swords that predate even the fane. Its fleshless bones are lit up by screaming, tormented spirits. In fact, the entire host is shrouded in a pale green ocean of swirling figures, all bound to me by the same tattooed glyphs. For many years we kept a head count, but recently it has become impossible. Even my hordes of scribes and clerks cannot record the vast numbers arrayed before me. My army numbers in the tens of thousands; that’s all that matters. Has anyone ever assembled such a host? I can’t believe they have.

The princes materialise from the mist, hauling my chariot behind them — the Coven Throne, a relic of an ancient race, charged with the life force of their countless victims. It billows towards me on a storm of death-magic, drawn by diaphanous horses and a tempest of spirits. Ghosts lift me up like an offering and present me to the chariot. The blazing tumult envelops me and, as I take my seat, it turns to face the numberless hordes below. I hold my staff aloft and spirits whirl upwards, filling the valley with noise and light. The ranks of skeletons say nothing as the Coven Throne lifts me over their heads, but, as I give the order to advance, the sound of their feet falling is like the boom of thunder.

Chapter Sixteen

Menuasaraz-Senuamaraz-Kemurzil (Mopus)

Shyish: the realm of ageless, boundless, grandeur. What became of you? There was a time when every one of the underworlds contained wonders beyond the imagination of the living. Now they are a collection of broken shells. The iron-clad boot of Chaos has crushed the wonder from my home. I have been hidden away for so long in the fane that it shocks me to see how far Khorne’s reach has extended. The horizon is a spine of bristling towers.

Your studies have served you well, say the princes, looking back at me from their skeleton steeds at the head of the chariot.

I nod. ‘There are few left who still have knowledge of the back ways through these lifeless groves.’ Just a few hundred feet from the flanks of my army, Khorne’s armour-clad monsters are scouring the landscape for something, anything to destroy.

They are blind to your passing.

I feel a swell of pride as I hear the respect in the spirits’ voices.

‘An open mind is hard to suppress.’ I grimace at the lumbering brutes that are trying to crush all the wonder from my world. ‘And a closed mind is easily confused.’ I glance at my pale legions of spearmen. ‘We’ll show our face once we reach Giraldus, but not a moment before. And, as long as he sees sense, we’ll be gone before they know we were there.’

Giraldus always had a penchant for grand displays of power but now, as we approach his fortress, I see how he has been diminished. His fortress was once a mountain of iron-hard bone, warped into solid, squatting towers and thick, hunched buttresses, but the sight that greets me now is far less impressive. The walls have been shattered by countless assaults and the colossal gargoyles are slumped and broken. His vampiric sentries still man the walls, wearing their distinctive winged helmets, but they’re a tiny fraction of the army that once marched beneath Giraldus’ banner. Still, I can’t help but feel a little respect. Almost every inch of this land has been flattened by Khorne’s armies, but Giraldus stands defiant.

‘How has he survived?’ I ask, turning to the princes.

Sorcery and courage. At the first sign of Khorne’s armies he severed his link with the land. His fortress is here today but tomorrow it will be gone. He stays long enough to strike a quick blow, then leaves. His luck can’t hold out much longer though. The spirits hesitate. They say he is very proud. What if he refuses to help?

I scowl. ‘He may only be here for today but that would be long enough for me to teach him a little humility.’ I wave my staff at my army. ‘That ruin could not withstand this for an hour. Still, I have no desire to waste my energy fighting Giraldus. I will find a better way to convince him.’

I give an order and the morghast lifts into the sky, filling the night with a cry torn from beneath the rain-drenched sod.

As my army pours from the shadowy hills, the full size of it is revealed. I wonder what Giraldus must be thinking as this dread host surrounds his crumbling walls. I nod to the princes and they pull my Coven Throne down towards the palace’s towering gates.

They open before we reach them, revealing a ridiculous fanfare of gaudy, fluttering banners and a column of ornately armoured knights. They’re all long dead, of course, even Giraldus himself, but they’re dressed as lordly, mortal knights. Their black armour is polished to a dazzling sheen and their rictus grins are hidden behind tall, winged helmets. Only Giraldus, riding proudly at the front, has his face on display. A life of murder and unholy pacts has kept his skin intact, but even the thick rouge on his cheeks can’t mask his antiquity.

He’s one of the few lords who has not fallen to Chaos, whisper the princes.

I’m unimpressed. ‘Look at that makeup and finery. Even after so many centuries of life he’s not learned to discard the baser pleasures. He could have used all that time devoting himself to study.’

Try to suppress your distaste. This will be so much quicker if you don’t have to kill him. Try to at least—

I wave the princes to silence as Giraldus approaches.

‘Menuasaraz,’ he says, performing an elaborate bow on the back of his horse. As he moves, his armour clatters with icons and medals, filling the night with jaunty music. ‘It’s rare to see you abroad.’ His voice is as inhuman as the cry of the morghast.

He makes no mention of the huge army circling his home but I can hear the outrage in his voice.

I nod in reply. ‘You’re looking well, Giraldus.’

He recognises the mockery in my voice and lights flicker deep in his hollow eye sockets. ‘What brings you to my door?’

I steer the Coven Throne closer and signal for my skeletal honour guard to remain behind.

Giraldus follows my lead and we meet, alone, in the centre of the road. The spirits that haunt my army have filled the night sky with vaporous robes and, as we dismount and approach each other, we’re bathed in green light.

‘I seek your advice,’ I say.

His expression remains wary as he studies me. ‘From what I hear, there can’t be many questions you can’t answer by looking in your own library. What has dragged you from the fane?’ He narrows his eyes. ‘Perhaps I’m not the only one who’s been hearing strange rumours.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard rumours, Giraldus — rumours of golden knights purporting to carry the might of Sigmar in their hammers.’ I feel my irritation growing as I say it out loud. ‘An army come to rid us of Chaos.’

‘It’s more than that,’ he replies. ‘They say these knights are fragments of Sigmar himself — avatars of his will.’

There’s a flicker of excitement in his eyes and I can’t hide my disbelief. I wave at the ruined landscape. ‘Giraldus, you’ve been trying to throw off this yoke for centuries and look where it’s got you. Do you really think a few gold hammers will turn back the legions of the Dark Gods? And if they did, what love do you think they would have for us? True wisdom means nothing to religious zealots. They’d probably see us as tomb robbers and necromancers.’

Giraldus grips the gilded handle of his sword. ‘What did you want to ask me?’

I curse my lack of control as I realise he’s almost as much of a zealot as Boreas.

‘What do you know about the Nomad City?’ I ask.

He laughs, surprised by my change of tack. ‘The Nomad City? What makes you ask me that?’

Before I can reply he draws back his shoulders. ‘No matter. I’m not ashamed of my past. Yes, necromancer, I was born on the Kharvall Steppe, your books have not misled you. I lived in the shadow of the Nomad City, but that was long ages ago. Have you really braved this journey to ask me about the adventures of my youth?’

‘Sigmar’s knights are heading for the Nomad City. That’s where they mean to strike — there’s a shrine of some kind, a brass skull called the Crucible of Blood. Of all the places they could attack, why choose that particular site?’

At the mention of the crucible he looks so pained that I think he might turn and leave. Then he shakes his head. ‘Forgive me. I have no love for the Blood God, Menuasaraz. If you’ve found a way to hurt him, I would be glad to help. What do you want to know?’

‘I want to know what the crucible is.’

‘It’s a monument to a tragedy, Menuasaraz. You have unearthed a great pain in uttering that name in front of me.’ He closes his eyes for a moment, then continues. ‘When Khorne’s legions began spreading across the steppe, the lords of the Nomad City demanded that we stand together against them. They said that it was crucial that their city didn’t fall.’ I notice a hint of emotion in his voice — shame perhaps.

‘But you didn’t aid them?’

He glares at me. ‘I’m no coward, but I’d been studying the obscure arts for a long time by then. I was consumed by my desire to uncover the secrets of Shyish. I was so obsessed by my studies that I barely registered what was happening to my kingdom.’ He waves at the bone-clad peaks that surround us. ‘I knew there was a finer, less transient world than my own and I could think of nothing but reaching it. Some of my subjects tried to save the Nomad City, but I paid them no heed — I had my eyes on something greater.’

I nod. ‘To survive and continue learning is an honourable goal.’

‘So I thought.’ He sounds either angry or ashamed.

‘What is the Crucible of Blood? Why would Sigmar care about it? Why would he send his army there, rather than to one of the great Chaos strongholds? Or some other shrine?’

‘Because it’s more than just a shrine. I know because I witnessed its creation. I was almost ready to leave when Khorne grew tired of the Nomad City’s insolence. He sent a powerful general…’ His voice becomes unsteady. ‘A being from Khorne’s own realm. It was like an army trapped in a single body. It dwarfed even the giants who guarded the Nomad City, but it couldn’t defeat them. Even from the very edge of the steppe I could see the battle. It raged across the heavens — three times the daemon attempted to level the city, smashing the walls with an axe as big as the watchtowers, and three times it failed. The titans wouldn’t yield. I realised then that I should have gone to help them, but it was too late.’

He shakes his head, and I get the sense he’s forgotten me. The emotion in his voice is now unmistakable — a potent mixture of rage and regret. ‘The daemon was called Khurnac. Its rage was so great that the ground bled in pain. The ground. The giants of the Nomad City had bound their city with powerful wards though, and their walls refused to fall.’

He’s speaking quietly now and I have to step closer to hear. ‘After the third attack failed, Khorne arrived to take matters into his own hands.’

‘You saw a god?’

Giraldus stares into the darkness. ‘After a fashion, yes. My rites were finished and I was already leaving, but I caught a glimpse. Gods spare me, I caught a glimpse.’

I find myself caught up in his story. I can almost imagine I’m there with him, witnessing the fury of Khorne himself.

‘My body was free,’ he continues. ‘Only a shadow of my being was there when the Nomad City fell, otherwise I doubt my sanity could have endured. Even now I don’t know exactly what I saw — a crimson thunderhead, perhaps, filling the horizon. My memory has spared me the details. I didn’t look directly, of course, and I was miles away, but Khorne was in my mind, of that I’m sure. As I slipped away, I saw a figure. It drew a brass skull from the storm, a skull as large as a mountain, and hammered it down into the Nomad City, destroying it utterly.’

He looks me in the eye, returning to the present. ‘The skull has since been named the Crucible of Blood and it stands there to this day, surrounded by the ruins of the Nomad City. The giants had poured so much magic into those walls that they’ll never crumble. They’re still there, hanging in the clouds — a reminder of Khorne’s wrath. For a long time I used to hunt down every record of those places I could find. The thought of that skull’s existence, even in the form of books or art, troubled me.’

‘You destroyed all that knowledge without studying any of it?’

‘I studied it — even when I would rather not. I can tell you what I know. I found out why the titans were so desperate to defend their home. The Nomad City was a doorway between worlds — a realmgate. The giants had been tasked with guarding it and they knew what would happen if Khorne seized control. Their worst fears came to pass — the brass skull claimed the realmgate for Khorne’s legions.’

I nod as all the pieces fall into place. ‘And Sigmar’s knights mean to take the realmgate back.’

He shrugs. ‘Perhaps. If they took control of the realmgate, they could travel from world to world. They could attack wherever they wish.’

Finally, I grasp the nameless fear that has been looming at the edge of my thoughts. ‘And they could attack whomever they wish.’

Giraldus frowns. I continue.

‘Don’t you see? Sigmar is the warrior-god. He won’t stop at defeating Khorne. He won’t stop until every realm is back under his golden boot. He has no love for necromancy.’ I laugh. ‘Imagine what kind of fate he will have in store for kings who abandoned their subjects and refused to aid those who tried to fight?’

Giraldus gives me a look of cold disdain. ‘I fear no mortal foe.’

‘Sigmar is no mortal foe. But if fear is not a reason to act then think what it would mean if we could seize the realmgate for our own.’

Giraldus looks past my Coven Throne to the army gathered behind me. His white lips roll back from long, curved incisors. It’s a chilling sight to see him smile.

He grips his sword again. ‘I would give a lot to have the upper hand, Menuasaraz, for one last time. I grow tired of this slow, pitiful defeat.’

‘Think what we could do together,’ I say, waving at the army behind me and the figures watching from the walls of his fortress.

He keeps smiling and rests a death-cold hand on my shoulder. ‘You’re more of a man than I realised, necromancer.’

There’s something odd about his smile. I get the impression that he’s holding something back from me — that he has different plans to my own. I decide that I don’t care, as long as he adds his army to mine.

I point at my army. ‘We have real power here, Giraldus. We could seize the realmgate for our own and use it to uncover the secrets of countless realms. And we would garner such power that we could keep all of those bickering gods from our doors. We could finally be rid of them — as long as we get there before Sigmar’s knights.’

He nods slowly. ‘But Sigmar is a step ahead of us. You said he has already sent his armies to the skull.’

‘But they were delayed. Somebody sent them astray. They are only now nearing their goal. There’s still time.’

Giraldus nods. ‘When dawn comes the daemon returns. Khorne bound it to the skull as a punishment. Khurnac’s rage is unimaginable, and it grows every year. From sunrise until nightfall it rages and thrashes at its chain, and as it tries to break free, other daemons pour from its bath of blood, born of its rage. They’re thrown everywhere: other kingdoms, other worlds, other wars, but many of them simply flood out onto the steppe. The region becomes a mirror of Khorne’s own realm. Nothing survives the slaughter that follows.’

Chapter Seventeen

Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

I keep Zarax on a tight rein as we approach the ruins. The Chaos knights wait patiently on their grunting steeds and I count them as we march. There are at least as many as we faced in the Anvil. There will be no skeleton monster to rise up and save us this time and the thought makes me smile. We will finish this alone. I can feel the determination of my men beating down on my back, Sigmar’s light, blazing through their mirrored amour. It will not dim until we have broken through every line of red and brass that comes before us.

The Crucible of Blood is visible, jutting out of the crater beyond us. Our prize is so close now.

As we pass beneath the first of the drifting ruins my head fills with the sound of a roaring, anguished voice. The words hammer against my mind like a choir of lunatics, all wailing in a different key. It’s an agonised, inhuman cry and it’s impossibly deep. It sounds as though the rocks themselves are crying out in pain.

‘What is it?’ I gasp, looking back.

My men hear it too. Several are clutching at their golden helmets, trying to drown out the horrible din. Some of them have even dropped their shields and fallen to their knees.

I look back at the Chaos knights and see that they’re now riding slowly towards us. They were waiting for this to happen. The world shakes beneath the weight of their snorting juggernauts.

‘Boreas!’ I cry, scouring the crowds of staggering Liberators for a sign of the Lord-Relictor.

He emerges from the rabble, walking better and no longer clinging to a Liberator’s shield for support.

‘It’s the ghosts of the city!’ he shouts over the din. ‘They’re trapped here.’

Boreas sounds like he’s in agony, but he’s more awake than I’ve seen him since we reached the lakeshore.

‘They’re reliving their defeat,’ he continues, staring up at the massive shards of rock. ‘Can you see them?’

I follow his gaze and realise, to my amazement, that I can. What I took for flickering shadows are towering, humanoid figures charging into battle. They’re as faint and insubstantial as the moonlight glancing off my armour, but their pain is all too palpable. For a while, I can only stare in wonder at their massive forms, pounding into a fight that was lost before my ancestors were born. The longer I look, the less human they become. Their anatomy is similar to that of a man, if ten times the size, but their heads are strangely broad and sunk low in their shoulders and what little I can see of their ghostly faces shows brutal, exaggerated proportions — like crudely chiselled statues.

‘Lord-Celestant,’ gasps Boreas as he finally reaches my side. ‘The enemy.’

I drag my thoughts back to the present. The Chaos knights are moments away from us. I can see the face of the lead rider now, the lord with the swooping horns. This must be Hakh. His eyes are blazing with mirth as he watches my front ranks stumble. The Liberators are struggling to raise their shields as the war cries of the giants boom in their helmets. They look like a rabble.

‘Stand proud!’ I cry. ‘You are Stormcast Eternals.’

The Liberators manage to raise their shields and form ranks, but the sound is growing louder all the time.

‘Don’t they hear it?’ I ask, staring at the crimson-clad riders.

‘They’re revelling in it,’ replies Boreas. The sound of the giants’ pain only adds to the knights’ bloodlust. Their juggernauts are unhinged — snapping their great, bestial heads from side to side as their riders hold them to a slow trot.

The pain in my mind increases but I clench my jaw and bite down hard, determined not to cry out before my men.

I grab my Honour Scrolls and recite my oath. Pain may be my flesh. Death may be my fate. But victory is my name.

I shout with all my might and, as the sound leaves my throat, I wrap it around the words of a hymn. The song springs from somewhere deep in my subconscious; I haven’t sung it since I was a child, but the words ring out of me with all the force of my forging. It’s a hymn to Sigmar and I roar it like a curse. Behind me, hundreds of other voices pick up the tune.

Boreas raises his sepulchral tones in harmony and, together, we drown out the sound of fallen giants and thundering hooves. The louder I sing the more powerful I become. I start to picture the halls of Azyr soaring up around me — gleaming statues of star drakes and mythical heroes rising from the shadows as I sing louder, driving the noise from my mind.

I lift Grius over my head and give the signal for a shield wall.

The phalanx closes ranks seconds before the juggernauts smash into us.

Hakh leads from the front, his blazing eyes locked on me, and his steed hits us like a boulder. Shields judder beneath the force of the massive beast and, as the front line of Liberators stumbles, Hakh lunges at me from his saddle, swinging his great, two-handed sword. Zarax rears to defend me and the blade sinks deep into her face.

She falls backwards, crushing more rows of blue and gold shields as she lands. Lightning envelops her body as she dies. It spears through the battle, silhouetting us all in white heat.

I tumble, blinded by the detonation, but Sigmar is with me. As my vision clears I see that that I’ve landed near Hakh and he’s reeling from the blast, swaying in his saddle.

‘Victory is my name!’ I cry, grasping Grius in both hands and slamming it into Hakh’s chest.

Lightning flashes a second time, ignited by my blow. The crush of armour and weapons falls away and Hakh topples from view, surrounded by a red cloud of his own blood. Bodies slam into me and I’m driven to my knees. Grius is torn from my grip and I howl in frustration.

I draw Evora and she is singing before she has even left the scabbard. Her eerie tones cut through the cacophony and fill me with strength. The red knights may revel in the pain of the ghosts overhead, but Evora’s voice is another matter. They falter in their saddles, confused, giving Castamon and his Liberators in the front line the chance to drive them back and smash some of them from their steeds.

There’s a flash of golden sigmarite and I haul Grius from the carnage with relief. It’s only then that I see Boreas, trapped beneath a fallen juggernaut and thrashing in silent pain.

I try to reach him but our lines are battered and reeling under the weight of the juggernauts’ attack. I see flashes of gold as Liberators throw themselves at the brazen horrors, pounding their sacred hammers into fume-shrouded snouts and plates of jagged metal. The shield wall has held. My god-born brothers have dug their feet into the rock, thrown their shoulders against their shields, and held back the weight of a landslide.

‘Zarax,’ I whisper, in belated recognition of her death. These blasphemous curs can have committed no greater crime than ending such a proud life.

Hakh’s juggernaut tears through the crush. Hammers fall and flash but the monster is unstoppable. It may have lost its rider but it is clearly still set on my destruction as it charges straight for me. Its head is down and its speed shocking but I feint to one side, drop the other way, grab its horn and swing myself up onto its back.

Infernal heat pours up through my armour and my mind recoils at being so close to a creature spat from the Blood God’s own realm. It bucks and leaps beneath me, but I hold fast and ride the monster as it careers through the phalanx and takes me out into the enemy ranks.

Suddenly I’m surrounded by jagged, blood-coloured iron rather than gleaming gold sigmarite.

The juggernaut is driven to a frenzy by my presence on its back and it tramples several of Hakh’s knights as it circles and stomps, trying to shake me off, but then the daemon steed collides with a force equal to its own, and reels backwards.

When I manage to focus I see a glorious sight — a wall of implacable, towering paladins: the last of my Retributors.

They barrel into the monster, pounding it with their shimmering, two-handed lightning hammers.

Their weapons blaze and the monster staggers, then prepares to launch itself at them with renewed force.

I take my chance and let go of the juggernaut’s iron saddle, grasp Evora in both hands and drive the runeblade between its metal shoulder plates.

Evora’s voice soars as she sinks up to her hilt.

Flames spout from the wound and the monster bucks even more violently, throwing me clear. I roll aside as the beast tries to pulverise me with its thundering hooves and, as I lurch to my feet, the paladins strike again, bringing their warhammers to bear.

Their aim is true and the creature explodes, firing shards of metal through the air. When the blast clears, they pound across the rock towards me.

‘Lord-Celestant,’ one of them says as they form a protective circle around me. ‘Perhaps we should rejoin the others.’ His hammer is still sparking and crackling with power but his voice is a laid-back drawl.

I look around and see that we’re on the enemy’s flank and a line of them is already hauling their enormous steeds around to face us.

‘Celadon,’ I say, recalling his name. ‘We must find Hakh.’ I glance at the pale line of silver spreading across the horizon. ‘We have to end this quickly.’

As I stride on, the paladins throw their colossal bulk towards the oncoming charge, smashing and pounding into the bellowing juggernauts. Even their paladin armour can’t easily withstand such an onslaught and several of them are ridden to the ground before they can strike, crushed beneath iron-clad hooves. Retributor Celadon fights at my side, swinging his great warhammer in broad, easy swipes, cracking plates of iron like porcelain.

After a few moments the others have all fallen behind, mired in the enemy ranks, but Celadon keeps pace with me. As we smash our way into the heart of the enemy lines, splitting skulls and cracking limbs, he joins me in song, bellowing out the hymn like a benediction. His voice is ragged with fury.

Celadon is swinging his hammer with such force that when he reaches a wall of white rock he smashes through it without pause, surrounding us both in dust and rubble. Only then does he finally stumble, not from the impact but from an unexpected lack of resistance. Beyond the wall is an opening in the fighting and, with nothing to crash into, Celadon drops to his knees with a resounding clang.

I almost fall too as I stagger past him. The Chaos knights have backed away to create a circle and none of them raise their axes as I stumble into view. The ground is oddly shaped and, as I look around, I see that we have smashed our way onto the palm of a huge, outstretched hand. It is sculpted from the same white stone as the ruins overhead and I realise that some of the city has fallen. It must have landed with incredible force as it is embedded deep in the basalt. I look back and see that we have been separated from the rest of Celadon’s paladins. They’re lit up by white fire as they try to smash their way to us but, for the moment, we are alone.

I turn on the spot, Grius and Evora before me, expecting attack, but I hear words instead.

‘So this is the one,’ comes a low growl from the far side of the stone hand.

Standing a few feet away from me, at the base of a crumbling thumb, is Hakh. His pale, horned head is unmistakeable. His powerful frame dwarfs even his heavily armoured knights and he’s carrying a jagged, two-handed sword that simmers and hisses as though heated from within. His serrated armour is still scorched and smoking from the death of Zarax, and his low, jutting horns make him seem more animal than man.

‘He’s the one,’ confirms a woman standing next to him.

Her ordinary appearance is almost as shocking as Hakh’s mutation. The sight of a mere human, standing at the centre of such a dreadful scene, is quite surreal. She’s dressed in a filthy, matted fur but she has the penetrating eyes of a scholar or seer.

I straighten my back and stride towards them, wiping the gore from my armour. Now, as I stand before this dog, I realise that my Reforging is complete. I may not have been born a noble, but I have been lifted far from my humble birth. I draw back my shoulders, plant my feet firmly on the black rocks and level my hammer at Hakh’s head.

Some of the knights jeer and mock me, but Hakh and the woman remain silent. Hakh raises a hand to silence his men. Retributor Celadon steps to my side and casually plants the head of his hammer on the ground beneath his feet, resting his gauntleted hands on the handle.

Hakh locks his gaze on me. ‘Dawn is almost here,’ he grunts, nodding at the fading stars overhead. ‘Let’s end this.’

I nod and order Celadon to back away.

Hakh’s eyes burn brighter as he lifts his sword and steps into the circle.

The giants’ roar resounds through my helmet so I start singing again as I raise Grius and drop into a fighting stance.

The circle of knights burst into laughter again when they hear my simple melody, but the woman’s eyes open in surprise. Something about my song drains the colour from her face.

‘Leave!’ she hisses, when Hakh is just a few paces away from me. ‘It’s impossible. You’re too late. You can’t reach the skull before dawn.’

Hakh turns to face her and she lowers her head, too afraid of him to say more.

The warlord grins, takes a deep breath, and charges.

Chapter Eighteen

Lord-Relictor Boreas Undying

‘Hold the line!’ I cry, reeling back from the carnage.

The phalanx is still intact but even a wall of sigmarite will eventually buckle under such ferocity. The Liberators have thrown all their weight against each other, still singing my brother’s hymn as they shudder under the impact of the juggernauts. Where they can, they unseat the red knights with spring-heeled lunges, pounding their hammers into the enemy and then dropping back behind their shields.

The remaining Judicators are sheltered by the shield wall, loosing volley after volley at the enemy. Arrows blaze as they punch through Khornate armour, toppling some of the riders but leaving others hunched in their saddles, inured to the pain by their unholy rage.

I can no longer see Tylos or Retributor Celadon. I strain to look over the smoke-snorting heads of the juggernauts but it is useless. They had reached Hakh’s honour guard and marched calmly into the circle. I have to trust him. I have to believe Tylos can reach the Crucible of Blood or this will all have been for nothing.

Another charge crashes into the phalanx and, finally, the shields start to give.

‘Hold the line!’ I roar, and we surge back at them with a storm of hammers and arrows.

I slip back through the ranks and grasp my honour scrolls. My heart pounds as I consider what I’m about to attempt. My body is broken and my mind is close behind.

I look ahead and see, briefly, the horned figure of Hakh. He is flying towards Tylos, swinging a great two-handed sword. Tylos has proven his courage, but he can’t defeat them all alone. We need to reach him.

The Liberators’ song falters as another wave of juggernauts crash into us. They can’t hold out much longer. The Stormcasts are greater than any mortal foe, but the daemonic steeds are stealing our precious remaining minutes. Dawn is almost upon us. We have to get Tylos to the crucible.

I start to pray, reading from the mass of scrolls that trail down from my armour, and immediately, my gauntlets begin to spark and flicker.

I recite the final words and power jolts through my body. Before I have chance to register the pain, I point my hammer at the storm clouds and channel the power of the heavens, calling down Sigmar’s wrath. Lightning connects with my hammer and splays out over the heads of the Liberators, turning the night into a fierce, colourless dawn. It hits me with such force that I’m hurled backwards across the ground.

Blows falter as both armies pause to watch. For a brief moment, the clouds become silver, shimmering peaks. My prayer flashes across the sky and then hurtles back towards the ground, reborn as a thick column of lighting. The air rips apart as it slams to the earth. It lands in the heart of Hakh’s army like a comet from the heavens.

While the others stare in wonder, I’m already running. I ignore the pain of my wounds and stagger through the stunned crowds of warriors.

The column of lightning doubles and redoubles, lashing and arcing its way through the enemy warriors. It’s incredible, so beautiful that even the Chaos knights pause to watch, before being blasted apart.

As the column of light reaches the juggernauts it slices neatly through the daemon steeds. The blades of light leave smoking, butchered corpses in their wake.

Some of the knights manage to howl in rage, but most are simply thrown from their mounts and left in bleeding heaps of smouldering metal. As the lightning’s power grows, more of the juggernauts are dissected, spilling scarlet flames as their unholy bodies fall apart. Even the ground starts to rupture and crack, spewing gouts of lava from beneath its black, splintering crust.

‘Charge!’ I cry, weaving through the crowds of Liberators. ‘Make for the crucible! Find the Lord-Celestant — the night is almost done!’

As I run across the cracking earth, dodging jets of lava, the tower of lightning begins to slowly rotate, trailing twitching limbs of electricity that tear apart even more of the Chaos steeds. The red-armoured knights are so busy trying to control their bucking mounts that I stagger half way through their ranks before they even notice. Even then, they find it hard to place me in the blinding glare.

One of them manages to bar my way and attack. He’s lost his weapon so he simply dives headfirst through the inferno of spinning lights. I sidestep his clumsy lunge and pound him into the ground with my warhammer. Without breaking my stride I race into the heart of Sigmar’s fire. It’s so fierce I can barely see and my armour begins to ripple with heat, but I can’t falter. I will not let Tylos fail.

The warriors of Khorne have fled the blast and I stumble through the blaze alone. The arcs of power are still passing over me, rather than slicing me open, but my armour is starting to buckle and boil. The heat is incredible. I’m still a few feet from the core when my damaged leg gives way. The wound I sustained at the lake explodes with pain and I crash heavily to the ground. I crawl on but the light is growing more ferocious with every second. I take a breath that’s nothing but fire and agony blossoms in my chest. The pain is horrific, beyond even the pain of my Reforging.

As the lightning crashes down around me, the earth cracks and judders again. I crawl up a shifting ledge of rock, trying to see if the army is with me. After staring into the light, I realise I’m trapped. The lightning has left me surrounded by a circle of angry, spitting lava. I stagger from side to side, trying to find a way through, but wherever I go I’m met by more lava. There’s no way through. I shout, but the roaring of lightning drowns out my cries.

Chapter Nineteen

Prosecutor-Prime Drusus Unbound

It’s like dropping into the sun. As I plunge into the Lord-Relictor’s storm his howl of pain rings out and I pound my wings faster.

I order the rest of the retinue clear, sending them back towards the brass skull. Some of them falter, unwilling to desert me and unnerved by Boreas’ cries.

‘Lord Tylos ordered us to wait for him at the realmgate! Do as your Lord-Celestant commands or risk his wrath!’

Reluctantly, they swoop and sail back through the clouds. I turn back to the lights below. This is it. I can feel it clearly. This is my chance to erase the past.

I fold my wings and dive with greater speed than I have yet attempted. The descent is dizzying and exhilarating but the light burns into me like acid.

I have seconds at most.

The ground rushes towards me but it’s impossible to see anything clearly. The world is a maelstrom of white, celestial heat.

I realise, too late, how low I am, and only pound my wings seconds before crashing into the rocky earth. Agony jolts through me and I roll, howling, through the blaze.

The incredible heat drives me back to my feet and I see Boreas lying with his hand outstretched towards the centre of the lightning. His armour is warped out of shape and he’s struggling to move. I stagger to his side and lift his head. Blood pours from the eye sockets of his mask, but he manages to speak.

‘Tylos,’ he grunts through shredded vocal cords.

The heat is beyond anything I have experienced and I topple away from him, unable to breathe.

I reach out and my hand locks around a ball of agony. I see that I’ve plunged my fist into the magma. I draw back my ruined limb and realise a new wall of lava has sheared up from the ground, separating me from Boreas. I’m so close to death that it fills me with rage — I cannot die until Boreas is safe.

I throw myself through the curtain of lava, grab Boreas and fly with a fury I have never braved before. As the lava eats into me I soar upwards, surrounded by a spinning halo of light.

The pain grows and I realise my armour is collapsing.

I beat my wings harder, holding Boreas as tightly as I can.

I’m flying so fast that I can’t breathe. This is no mortal strength I can feel in my wings. This is the strength of a god.

The lightning falls away, the smoke fades, and soon all that lies ahead of me is the night.

My armour peels away and my skin runs like water. Slowly, my insides boil and break apart.

I die as I land, letting out a final roar, not of pain, but of victory. Boreas is safe. We will not fail. It is not my flesh but my past that I can feel burning away, my madness that’s dripping from my limbs. Finally, I am worthy of my name. Finally, I am Drusus Unbound.

As Boreas leans over me, reciting the Oath of Passing, I see the God-King, waiting for me in the blaze. He raises his hammer as he welcomes me home.

Chapter Twenty

Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

The Blood Creed roar as Hakh swings his sword at my face.

I plant my left heel in the ground and bring Grius up to meet his blade.

As I am hurled back across the stone hand, I realise I’ve underestimated him. My arm sings with agony as I roll and stumble back to my feet. His strange, bestial features crease into a leer as he swaggers after me, drawing back the huge sword for another strike. The lumbering colossus should not be able to wield that sword with such ferocious power — the Blood God is in his flesh. Khorne is battling me through the body of this snarling ape.

The thought only adds to my pride. To stand alone, bearing Sigmar’s honour. It is not the fate I imagined for myself.

He swings again, but this time I’m ready. Rather than parry I roll towards him, leap forwards and bring Grius down between his obscene horns.

There’s a dull crunch as his skull gives way.

The force of the blow sends him reeling into the circle of onlookers.

I stride after him, raising Grius for another blow, but Hakh’s honourless warriors crowd around him, blocking my way with a wall of weapons and curses.

They hold me at bay as their lord climbs slowly to his feet. His thick brow has collapsed, giving his face an even more misshapen appearance. He shows no sign of weakening, however, as he turns on his own men. He’s clearly furious that they thought he needed help, and he butchers anyone within reach. Only when there is a circle of twitching warriors lying around him does he turn and face me again. He reaches up to his broken head and laughs.

‘Not enough,’ he growls, as he charges back into our impromptu arena.

I take a deep breath and lift Grius. This is going to take more time than I have.

Before he reaches me, light floods the sky and I realise to my horror that day is upon us.

Hakh and I both turn to look. It’s immediately apparent that this is no natural sunlight. A few hundred feet away, not far from my embattled Liberators, a column of light has burst from the ground. It’s pouring up into the storm clouds, coruscating and sparking as it lights up the ruins.

Hakh recovers from his shock and takes the opportunity to attack, bringing his sword round in a low strike at my stomach.

I bring Grius down in time to block the blow, but my mind is only half on the fight. As I back away from him, clutching Grius in both hands, I see that the shaft of light is having a devastating effect on the monsters attacking my army. It is spewing buttresses of energy that blast apart the juggernauts when they collide, creating spectacular eruptions of flame and armour.

‘Boreas,’ I mutter, recognising the power of my brother.

Hakh staggers to a halt and lowers his sword, staring at the scene beyond the edge of the stone hand. He howls in outrage at what follows. As the column of light turns, its radiance slices through the daemon-steeds and tears up the ground, leaving Hakh’s knights floundering in a swamp of lava, blood and body parts.

My men are still locked in formation and as their attackers falter they surge forwards, lowering their shields and unleashing a flurry of hammer and sword blows.

Hakh forgets me and races to the edge of the hand, still growling.

The light grows brighter and a fierce heat washes over the plain.

My Stormcast Eternals blaze like a constellation of stars as they smash through the enemy, but the heat is so great that they start to falter. Even Hakh’s knights, denizens of this hellish realm, recoil from the blaze, shielding their eyes as the night burns white.

The light grows so fierce that I’m soon unable to see even Hakh, who’s standing just a few feet away from me. I hear him raging and cursing as he tries to find my position. Is this dawn after all? Have I failed? Is the Crucible of Blood about to open its gates?

I climb along one of the hand’s crumbling fingers, feeling my way, trying to peer through the light.

My mind whirls as I see that it is fading.

As the glare dims, my vision starts to return. Hakh and his knights are still gathered in our makeshift arena, staggered by the display, but Celadon is striding towards me, clutching his great, two-handed hammer.

Blessed night floods back over the steppe, leaving just a single point of brightness, racing through the sky. It briefly becomes a golden, twin-tailed comet before crashing to the ground.

‘The God-King is with us,’ I whisper, as I see that my army is now free to advance.

‘Lord-Celestant,’ says Retributor Celadon, raising his hammer and drawing my attention back to Hakh. The Chaos lord turns his mangled face back in my direction, and I see the doubt in his eyes.

In the wake of Sigmar’s lightning, my men are now charging across the steppe towards the stone hand. The lightning has filled them with unimaginable fervour. I can hear their voices from here, still roaring the hymn as they smash, pummel and hack their way through the reeling knights.

Hakh looks from the butchery of his men to me and Celadon, fury written across his face. He throws himself at me like a bull, horns lowered. The ferocity of the attack gives him incredible speed and neither Celadon nor I have time to block it.

His horns crunch into my armour and we roll back across the palm of the hand.

Hakh’s men charge past us as we stagger to our feet, rushing to attack as my golden Liberators pour up over the rock, so incandescent with faith that even I can barely look at them.

Battle explodes all around me. Sigmarite pounds against brass and swords bite into flesh as a huge tumult of figures surge across the stone hand.

I haul myself to my feet and see that my armour is dented but not punctured.

Hakh lunges again. I block him but the impact knocks the breath from my lungs.

‘They will not save you!’ cries Hakh as he wades after me.

As I stagger backwards, clutching my chest, he draws back his sword to strike again.

He never stands a chance. Sigmar is everywhere. He’s in the sky, blazing through the cosmos. He’s in the song that’s roaring from my throat. And he’s in the hammer that I smash into Hakh’s slobbering jaws.

I swing Grius with such force that the front half of Hakh’s head shears away. There’s an explosion of red and he’s thrown several feet through the air, landing in a broken, lifeless heap.

‘Lord Tylos,’ shouts Retributor Celadon. He’s standing just a few feet behind me over a pile of broken bodies and I realise he’s been guarding my back while I dealt with Hakh. The red knights fight with a deranged fury as they’re driven back but Celadon pounds through them with fluid, easy blows.

‘We must reach the skull now!’ I cry, struggling to be heard over the din of tormented spirits, hymns and war cries.

The steady, unremitting blows of my men are smashing Hakh’s army apart. We’re still outnumbered but the storm summoned by Boreas has wiped out half of Hakh’s army, and his sacrifice has turned the survivors into a desperate rabble. In a few more moments we’ll have broken them and be on our way to the Crucible of Blood.

I rally my men and drive them in a surge to the far side of the hand. From there it’s just a few hundred yards through the drifting ruins and we’ll be at the lip of the crater.

At my command, they redouble their attack with a blinding wave of hammer-blows. We force the dazed knights back to the edge of the hand, where many stagger and fall onto the black rocks, dying beneath the shadows of the floating city.

Daylight is moments away, but moments are all I need. I shoulder my way through the lines until I reach the heart of the fighting.

Some of the knights recognise me as the man who killed their lord. They growl and charge, but Celadon is still with me. The first of them crumples beneath a blow from Grius, the second reels away headless, devoured by Evora, and the third is driven into the ground by the force of Celadon’s hammer.

Without pausing, I vault over the tumbling bodies and smash my way through the enemy ranks, making my way towards the centre of the Nomad City and the crater at its core.

The Liberators explode into action behind me, summoning up a final, furious push. The red knights collapse before us and we reach the lip of the crater with a victorious roar.

I raise Grius aloft and I look at our prize.

The Crucible of Blood grins back at me — the hideous creation of a brutal god. It soars overhead — thousands of tons of brass, cast by hellish sorcery in a realm of daemons. The top is open to the sky, and with dawn only minutes away, the lake of blood it contains is already starting to bubble and steam. Deep within its cloying depths, an obscenity is forming, preparing to spew madness across the steppe. The sight of it hits me like a physical blow — such a vast act of violence wrought against the landscape makes my breath catch. The bowl of charred rock that surrounds the skull still seems to be smouldering in memory of that ancient wound. Steam or smoke is rippling over the blast hole, but I stride on, feeling the seconds slipping away.

It’s only as I enter the crater that I realise that it is not steam that’s rippling across the ground — the rock itself is rolling and heaving.

‘What is this?’ asks Celadon, stamping on the shifting ground.

I shake my head and wave him on. There’s no time left to think, we just have to act.

We’ve only taken a few steps when Celadon’s question is answered.

As the rock cracks and opens, fleshless, gleaming bones begin hauling themselves from the ground. This is the vision I saw when Boreas healed my eye — this was the nightmarish scene that Sigmar poured into my mind. I pause and mutter an oath as a leering, sword-wielding skeleton climbs into view.

Chapter Twenty-One

Menuasaraz-Senuamaraz-Kemurzil (Mopus)

Returning to the Kharvall Steppe is even worse than I remember. The air is so hot and sulphurous that I’m wracked by a violent coughing fit. When I wipe the spittle from my face there are a few withered molars lying in my palm and I curse Sigmar for dragging me up here. I warned Boreas against playing war games and now look what’s happened. My stomach lurches again, but I manage to steady it with a quick draft of my philtre. My head is full of metallic buzzing, and energy is fizzing over my skin.

Giraldus is riding as close to my Coven Throne as he can. A tempest of souls separates us, but I can still see his outrage at what has been done to his former kingdom.

Behind us, our fleshless host is clawing itself up into the moonlight. I ignore Giraldus and study the army we have created. Despite my misgivings, I can’t help swelling with pride as my morghast heaves its huge frame from the blackened stone as I form the crowds of skeletons into orderly ranks. We’re in a fume-filled crater that must be a mile wide but we’ve filled it with revenants and cadavers from every realm. Such a horde could lay waste to anything the gods have to offer. Death is the great leveller, after all.

‘There it is,’ says Giraldus, his voice tight with anger.

I turn back and see that the fumes have rolled away to reveal a soaring wall of brass. It’s stained with centuries of dried blood and I steer my chariot backwards, unable to take it all in. I can make out the jawbone of a skull but the rest of the brass idol reaches so high that it seems to support the clouds. This is the source of the energy that’s rattling my teeth and humming over my skin. Rage is pouring from the bloodstained metal, rippling the air and churning my shrivelled guts.

I hold a hand in front of my face as though blocking the sun.

‘We’ll have to be fast,’ I say. I turn to Giraldus. ‘How do we enter? Tell me that you learned that much before destroying anyone else’s chance of gaining knowledge about this place.’

He’s too furious to notice my harsh tone. ‘There are steps to the mouth. We enter through the teeth.’

‘Of course we do,’ I grimace, steering the Coven Throne towards the jaw. I deploy most of the army around the perimeter of the crater, but I take a few hundred skeletons with me, to keep an eye on Giraldus as much as anything else.

As we approach the skull, the power spilling from it becomes almost overwhelming. There’s a deafening grinding sound in the air and my bones ache as the throne lurches and sways above the black rocks. Even the spectral steeds that are drawing my chariot twist and writhe before the wrath of the skull, but I do not allow the princes to pause. I have no desire to be here when Khurnac awakes. I want to be travelling through the realms by then, raiding the mausoleums of a hundred cities and plundering wells of long forgotten learning. Or perhaps just back in the fane, safe in the knowledge that I control a route between worlds. The thought drives me on through the pain and we finally reach the wall of metal. The sound here is deafening and there are streams of energy billowing over the brass.

‘Over here!’ yells Giraldus, leading the way, and I drive my throne after him. My heart is pounding furiously now, as though I’m being charged by the skull. I shout at the princes until they pull the Coven Throne faster, speeding past Giraldus.

A few minutes later I see the steps. They’re wide enough to front a great palace and we race up them, the spirits of my chariot rolling tendril-like across the brass.

Khorne’s rancour rises through my seat and eats into my flesh. I can feel my skin starting to blister and burn, but I ignore the pain. My mind whirls with visions of greatness. The higher we go, the grander my visions become. Why stop at merely accruing knowledge? With this army and passage to other worlds, might I not use my scholarship for something greater? I could become the wisest lord who ever walked the realms. Everything starts to make sense. As I travel faster up the steps, I see that I was born for this. It is my destiny to rule with a wise and just hand; bringing the realms into the kind of unity that others have failed to do. And all those who deny my right to rule will face the wrath of the greatest host ever to emerge from the underworlds. If Nagash can no longer protect his kingdom, perhaps it is time that the undead had a new master? If I control the realmgates, who could stand against me?

I’m vomiting now and blood is rushing from my nose, but the spirits struggle on and haul the throne up the last few steps.

I notice that Giraldus and my army are no longer with me, but there’s no time to wait. I ride the chariot towards an opening between the skull’s enormous brass teeth. The doorway towers over me and I see that it’s framed by a huge portico wrought from the same bloodstained brass and forged to resemble snarling, reptilian hounds clawing and tearing at each other. It’s an unnerving sight but I drive the chariot on and, as it hurtles down the passage, I see that there is no door — just a wall of rippling blood, rising hundreds of feet over my head.

‘Now what?’ I try to ask, but my words come out as muffled gibberish.

I look back and see that Giraldus is dragging himself up the last few steps towards me. His sorcery has failed him and his face has assumed its true form. He looks like a reanimated cadaver, smeared with gaudy makeup. His shrivelled flesh has fallen away from his mouth, revealing long, inhuman teeth.

He tries to say something, but I can’t hear him over the roaring sound that is pouring through the brass.

He jabs his finger at the crimson wall, shaking his head. He looks to be in horrible pain.

Of course. He’s afraid of the power I will hold over him, but he need not be. I will be a benevolent, wise ruler. All my centuries of learning will inure me to the folly that has left Nagash battling to preserve his own domain. I turn to face the wall of blood that fills the doorway and try to ride closer, but the power flooding out is like a physical wall.

I kick the base of the throne and it lurches forwards. We’re still several feet away, but the chariot’s moving with slow, spasmodic bursts, as though wading through mud.

The closer we get, the more my mind slips away. All I can see is my vast army crushing the realms beneath skeletal feet, with me at their head.

Finally, we reach the wall and I prepare to enter the portal, preparing myself for unimaginable power.

Before I can enter the skull, the visions become even more violent. I picture myself crowned in the blood of a thousand slaughtered foes. I am standing above a mountain of corpses, screaming words of tribute to my lord as he watches from his throne of skulls.

I look down and see that my robes are drenched in blood, and steaming and shrivelling in the heat. I look like a slaughtered corpse. The sight shocks me and, suddenly, my thoughts seem deranged. I’m no servant of the Blood God — what madness has taken hold of me?

Giraldus hauls himself up the ribcage frame of my Coven Throne and drags my face away from the portal of blood.

‘This is not the way!’ he cries, finally managing to be heard over the din. ‘Not for us! We were wrong. All that lies through this gate is damnation.’

The skull’s power is smashing through my body with so much force that I think I might be thrown from my chariot. Dazed, I look from Giraldus and down the brass steps to the crater below and our wonderful army. Have I really summoned this host just to create more ruin? Visions of slaughter linger in my head and I’m filled with a growing sense of horror. Is this where all my learning has brought me?

Then I see something else. Racing across the crater towards the skull is a triangle of golden figures. Barely a few hundred of Sigmar’s warriors are left, but they make an incredible sight. Vast storm clouds are rolling in their wake and lightning flickers across their shields. There is something so righteous about them, so pure. They could never be consumed by the madness that just filled my thoughts. They are unassailable.

‘Boreas,’ I whisper, sensing that I might have made a terrible mistake.

The energy pouring from the skull suddenly triples its force. My whole body judders and my teeth begin to clatter against each other.

Giraldus points his sword at the sky and I see that it is grey. Dawn has come.

I look back towards the skull and the sight that greets me makes me collapse back into my throne.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

Sigmar’s wrath carries me through an avalanche of bones. Unnumbered hordes of skeletons press around me, crashing, tumbling and rolling in great waves, grasping with their brittle fingers, hacking with rusty swords. I stride on across the crater, leading what remains of my army in a glorious, martial tribute to the God-King. Despite the ivory waves smashing into me, I swing Grius with a grace and serenity I have never achieved before, shattering skull after skull after skull and filling the air with splintered bone.

‘We are the exalted!’ I cry. ‘We are vengeance! We are Stormcast!’

The skeletons topple like mannequins but the onslaught is endless. They are undaunted by my brutal blows. As Grius returns them to dust, hundreds more march into view, as relentless as the storm overhead. They hack at me with a bizarre collection of weapons. Some carry the most incredible swords — things of great workmanship, dragged from the tombs of kings — while others lurch towards me with clubs and broken scythes.

Between the brass skull and me there is now a field of grinning, gibbering faces. We need another way to break through. Dawn is imminent and I could smash these mindless wretches for an age and not reach my goal. There must be thousands of dead souls rising to block our way.

I look back and see that Castamon and his Liberators have almost managed to reach me — a wedge of glinting sigmarite trailing shattered bones as they slice through the host, followed by Celadon and his lumbering ranks of paladins and the last few retinues of Judicators, who have swapped their bows for short swords as they hack through the leering dead.

I raise Grius in tribute then bring the warhammer down, channelling all my rage and frustration. To my shock, a blast of light clears the area ahead of me. The nearest skeletons crumble into dust and dozens more roll away from me. For a moment, I think Grius is responsible but then, as I stride forwards into the gap, I see the truth.

‘Drusus!’ I cry, looking up at the heavens, delighted to see that he has managed to carry out the order I gave when we crossed the lake. I told him to wait for us near the skull and strike when our need was greatest, but I had started to fear that the Prosecutors must all have perished. They dive from the clouds launching javelins and hammers that blaze as they fall, ripping great holes in the skeleton army. For a moment, my heart races, but I realise that there’s no sign of Drusus’ plumed helmet. Another winged herald is leading their attacks.

The first ranks of Liberators start to reach my side, still singing as they envelop me with their wall of shields and hammers.

‘Where is the the Prosecutor-Prime?’ I demand, glancing at Castamon between blows.

The Liberator-Prime shakes his head. ‘He fell, Lord-Celestant.’

I glance at him.

He hesitates, sounding pained. ‘Lord-Celestant, didn’t you see the comet? Drusus braved that inferno so that the Lord-Relictor might live.’

‘Boreas?’ I feel a flint of pain in my chest but the Liberators are watching me, waiting to hear my response.

‘Drusus died with honour.’ I look at the sky. ‘None of us can ask for more.’

The crowds of skeletons smash into us again, but the Liberators hold their line and we force our way onwards.

‘Heralds of Sigmar!’ I cry, still staring at the sky. The stars have all vanished from view. The sky is the colour of lead. Morning is moments away. ‘Prosecutors!’

What remains of Drusus’ retinues sweep back around and tumble from the storm clouds. Some are struggling to fly, held aloft by their brothers as their lightning bladed wings start to falter and dim, but all of them are singing as they snatch lightning from the heavens and form dazzling weapons in their fists.

‘We’re almost through!’ I roar. ‘Carve a path!’

They raise their voices in song and dive at the skeletons. Storm-born javelins and hammers fly from their hands as they descend.

‘Brace yourselves!’ I cry to the Liberators and they drop to their knees.

The ground shudders as a blazing line of explosions tears through the skeletons. A smouldering, white road opens up before us.

‘Charge!’ I shout, and we race down the shimmering avenue, surrounded by charred, broken bones.

Overhead, the Prosecutors launch another storm of twin-tailed bolts, blasting the path further into the crater. Skeletons are still lurching towards us, but there’s now a clear way and we’re racing towards our goal through a valley of smoke and glittering embers.

Another series of blasts erupts up ahead and, finally, the brass skull looms before me. I see wide, metal steps leading up to an enormous doorway beneath two of the skull’s lower teeth. A metal portico leads to the door, and it’s hard to see clearly but I think there are figures at the threshold. Crimson shapes are flowing down to meet us. Khorne’s host has arrived.

‘Above you!’ roars an unfamiliar voice, from somewhere in the crowds of skeletons.

I look up and see a bone colossus dropping through the fumes towards me, borne on vast, skeletal wings.

I drop into a battle stance as it lands and rears over me. It’s a revolting construct of sorcery and bone that towers over the fighting. It pounds across the shattered rocks on clawed feet, clutching a pair of great, cleaver-like swords. It seems to be formed from the skeleton of a huge, winged warrior and its bones are clad in the remnants of ancient armour. Emerald light coils beneath its rib cage — luminous viscera wrapped around a collection of broken, human skulls.

I leap forward, whirling Grius around my head.

The bone monster raises one of its swords to parry my blow, but my fury resonates through its hollow limbs, sending it back down the blazing path, its sword spinning away into the melee.

I charge after it, followed by a wave of Liberators but, with a pound of its fleshless wings, the monster launches itself into the air and hacks down at me with its remaining sword.

I smash the blade back and leap again, grasping its legs and hauling myself up over its shimmering torso.

It lurches under my weight but before I can land another blow it grabs me by the throat and swings its falchion.

‘No!’ cries a female voice and there’s a blaze of light as something slams into the monster.

The impact sends the sword strike off target, saving my head, but the bone construct pounds its wings and soars up towards the clouds, with me and the other figure still hanging from its ribs. I realise, to my amazement, that it is the woman I saw with Hakh.

As we fly higher, the creature tightens its grip on my throat and swings again.

This time I’m ready. I smash the blow away with Grius, haul myself higher and pound the warhammer into the thing’s giant, bestial skull.

Green light blazes as cracks open up in its snout, but it clearly feels no pain. It pounds its wings again, throwing us through the clouds, away from the Crucible of Blood.

A Prosecutor whirls through the clouds and catches sight of us. He cries out my name and dives towards us. The bone monster lashes out and the blade clangs off the Prosecutor’s chest armour. The Stormcast tumbles away, pounding his wings furiously but, as the monster flies higher, I see him soar after us, refusing to let me go. I see the marks on his honour scrolls and recognise him.

‘Stay back, Sardicus!’ I shout.

Then I see the Crucible of Blood and mutter a curse.

The brass is shimmering in the crimson light of a new sun.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Menuasaraz-Senuamaraz-Kemurzil (Mopus)

Shapes are forming in the blood. Dear merciful gods, what shapes. These are the malformed things I saw in the painting — hunchbacked daemons wrought of flame and crimson scales. Their heads are like long, snarling anvils and they clutch smouldering blades in their claws.

I order my spearmen to attack and then send the Coven Throne hurtling back down the steps. As I descend, the creatures pour from the wall of blood, spiderlike and frenzied. My spearmen clatter up the steps to meet them and the dead join battle with the damned, levelling a bristling wall of jagged spearheads at the emerging monsters.

‘Attack! Attack!’ I cry as my Coven Throne reaches the bottom of the steps, and the landscape boils into life as thousands more skeletons race to obey, flooding past me, climbing the steps and swamping the daemons trying to enter the realm.

‘Do you see?’ cries Giraldus. He’s a few feet away from me and back on his dead horse, surrounded by his knights. As the ranks of skeletons charge past him, his knights hold their line and Giraldus points his sword at the line of golden figures on the horizon. ‘Do you see now what they are?’

I try to laugh, but I can’t. The contrast between the noble, golden knights and my own bloodthirsty visions has left me bewildered. What good is all my learning if I can be so easily led to damnation?

‘But what can they do against that?’ I wave my staff at the vile daemons smashing into my ranks of spearmen. And yet, as I look back at Sigmar’s knights, I find myself wanting to believe. Even from here I can see that they are unlike anything I have ever seen before. They’ve battled across a world that was long thought lost and they have remained utterly defiant, still trailing their elegant pennants and shimmering with the power of the storm.

As they enter the crater that surrounds the skull, they tear through my army, blasting them back with huge explosions but, rather than feeling enraged, I find myself replaying my conversation with Boreas. Things have to change, and we have to change them. Could he be right?

‘Could we really turn back Chaos?’ I say.

I’m not addressing Giraldus but he hears me. His eyes blaze in their sunken pits. He points past the boiling mass of daemons to the brass skull. ‘If Sigmar’s army could seize this realmgate, I believe they could. I’ve heard such tales, Menuasaraz. This army is just one of many. Sigmar did not abandon the realms, he’s just been waiting for the right moment to strike.’

We’re jolted further down the steps as my spearmen are driven back by the daemons. I look back at the blood portal and see that they’re flowing through my skeletons — tearing them apart in their desperation to advance.

‘Hold them!’ I cry, waving hundreds more of my spearmen up the steps. They advance in cold, fearless lines, but the steps can only handle so many of them; most of my army remains trapped around the base of the skull or spread out across the vast crater.

Giraldus waves his sword at Boreas’ army. ‘We should help them, not fight them.’ He gestures at our combined armies. ‘We could hold the daemons here so that Sigmar’s knights can reach the skull.’

I look up at the daemons tearing my army apart and shake my head. ‘We need to leave, Giraldus. We were fools to come.’

‘Where would we go?’ he demands. ‘Do you think they won’t hunt us down? Do you think you can hide in your library forever? They’ll find you, Menuasaraz. It’s only a question of when. They’ll find you, they’ll burn your precious books and then they’ll mount your head on a spike.’

Suddenly I know this is true. I’ve tasted the bloodlust that drives these fiends — they will never stop until they have butchered every living being in the realms as a tribute to their furious lord.

I’m about to reply when a series of red shapes slam into my coven throne, causing the spectral steeds to rear and scream.

I howl a curse as a winged daemon hurtles towards me. I lash out with my staff and there’s a flash of phosphorous as the magic-charged wood connects.

The daemon screeches and tumbles away from me. The attack was so fast that I only get a brief glimpse of crumpled, bat-like features and black, leathery wings.

It loops around and dives at me again but, before it reaches the Coven Throne, Giraldus cuts it down with his greatsword. There’s another blinding flash as the daemon explodes.

More of the furies pour out of the fumes surrounding the base of the brass skull and I raise my staff, crying out a word of summoning, calling my greatest warrior back from the battle, but it’s too late. The daemons are seconds away and the morghast will never make it in time.

Giraldus comes to my aid with his knights at his side, hacking down those daemons he can, but dozens more are diving towards me.

Suddenly a blaze of white light envelops the steps. The clouds part, unleashing great columns of lightning. They slam into the daemons, blasting them away and causing my Coven Throne to lurch and judder.

I manage to hang on to the throne and as I do I’m blessed with an incredible vision. As I slump in my chariot, hundreds of winged warriors loop and soar down from the clouds. Their golden armour shines brighter than the dawn and there are javelins of pure energy hurtling from their hands.

Their lightning spears erupt upon landing, engulfing the daemons in holy fire, and Giraldus cries out in delight.

‘We have to help them!’ he cries. Without waiting for a response, he waves his knights back up the steps. ‘Hold the daemons back!’ he cries, charging after them.

For a moment, I can do nothing but watch the incredible scene unfolding before me. As the golden figures plummet from the heavens, blasting Khorne’s daemons into crimson dust, Giraldus and his knights lead a heroic counter-attack on the gate of blood. It’s hopeless and glorious at the same time. The daemons are pouring from the skull in such numbers that nothing could hold them back for long, but the sight of so much defiance in the face of inevitable defeat stirs something in me that I thought long dead.

Giraldus vanishes beneath the avalanche of horrors, but I’m already raising my staff. It’s as though someone is speaking through me, someone greater than I thought I could be.

‘Hold them back,’ I demand, turning to face my grinning, skinless captains and their bristling ranks of spearmen. I turn the Coven Throne around and find myself leading a charge back up the steps. Daemons are now pouring down the walls of the skull in their hundreds. There is no way I can survive but, somehow, I no longer care. I can think of nothing but Boreas and his belief.

‘Things have to change,’ I whisper as I level my staff at the Chaos creatures and hurl my army at the face of the Blood God.

Daemons crowd onto my chariot, but my staff is charged with more power than I have ever felt before. As I strike them down, the blows crack like thunder and their crimson flesh detonates in a series of spectacular explosions. All the while, Sigmar’s tempest is raging overhead, spewing golden knights from its thunderheads. They add their hammer-headed bolts to the carnage, ripping more of the daemons apart.

Countless hundreds of terrible monsters sprint into my ranks of spearmen. For every skeleton they destroy, dozens more rush to fill the gaps, but there’s no end to the skull’s profane outpourings. Gradually they drive us back down the steps, ripping my army to pieces with the ferocity of their sword blows.

Death is rushing towards me but an incredible vigour fills my limbs. As the white bolts slam down all around me, I blast daemon after daemon back from the Mortal Realms. The princes whirl around the Coven Throne, binding the daemons with death magic and hacking at them with phantom blades. They fight so heroically that none of the horrors can reach me. I look back through the inferno and see Boreas’ army hurtling across the crater towards us and my heart swells. They are going to make it. Boreas will never know it, but I have bought him the chance he sought.

One by one the princes are devoured and, finally, I am surrounded by snarling, blood-slick daemons. They pause for a moment, sniggering at my ruined body, then they fall on me with their vicious blades. There is pain, but it is dwarfed by my pride. After all those years cheating death, my final breath is the first taste of life.

Chapter Twenty-Four

Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

The morning sun blinds me as we soar higher. We’re so high I can now barely see the crater below.

Air explodes from my lungs as we crash into a wall. The woman and I roll across marble steps and the monster spins off through the clouds, dazed by the impact.

I glance around and see that we’ve smashed into one of the drifting fragments of the Nomad City, a vast, broken wing of white marble, the feathers of which spiral up towards a white, crumbling eagle’s neck.

The monster soars away and I charge after it. Pain fills my head, causing me to stumble as I climb the steps. The song of the ghosts is deafening now that I am actually in the ruins. It’s as though the soul of the Nomad City is all around me. I stagger and only manage to stop a few inches from the edge of the wing. My stomach turns as I look out over a mile-high drop.

As I back away from the edge, the bone monster dives back towards me with its sword raised.

I draw Evora and, to my relief, the runeblade’s otherworldly song eases the agony in my head, drowning out a little of the ghost’s pain.

I easily dodge the monster’s blade and plunge Evora into its chest as it smashes into me.

The sword passes cleanly through the empty ribcage and I only succeed in jamming the hilt between the bones. We roll across the marble wing, locked together as we clang and clatter towards the precipice.

Seconds from the edge I manage to draw Evora from the monster’s chest and bring her round in a wide arc, slicing through one of the monster’s shoulder blades and hacking part of its wing off.

The monster opens its weird, bat-like jaws and mouths a silent scream.

I throw all my momentum into a hammer-blow, smashing Grius into its chest and sending the creature tumbling through the clouds in a rain of broken bones.

The bone monster loops and prepares to launch another attack, but before it can, it pauses in midair, beating its wings as it looks down on me from the clouds, suddenly unwilling to attack. For a moment, it hangs there staring at me, then it banks away and dives back towards the battle below.

I stagger to the edge of the ruins and look down across the fighting.

‘Now what have you done, Boreas?’ I mutter as I see what’s happening. The vast army of skeletons is no longer battling my army. They’re charging towards the skull instead, rushing to engage the crimson host that is tearing its way into the world. I can only assume this is another sign of my brother’s burgeoning power.

As Evora’s kill-song dies away, the giant’s cries hit me with redoubled force, driving me back to my knees. The pain centres on the eye that Boreas healed, and blood is rushing from my golden mask again.

‘Let me help,’ says a voice.

I lurch to my feet, readying Grius for another blow, and see Hakh’s woman rushing towards me. Her skin is pulsing with sorcery and her eyes are featureless white orbs, but, as before, I sense that she means me no harm.

The lights in her skin fade and the colour returns to her eyes as she reaches my side and places her hands on my mask.

She sings a few quiet words and blessed relief pours through my skull. I can still hear the ghosts’ lament, but it’s just a sound now. The horrendous pain is gone.

‘I’m Vourla,’ she says, looking at my scorched, dented armour. Dawn blazes across the metal, dazzling her as she tries to look at me. ‘What are you?’

I study her in silence.

She backs away from me, looking anxious.

‘You need not fear me,’ I say, sheathing Evora and holding out a hand. ‘You came to my aid. I owe you a debt.’

She looks away, as though in pain. ‘You owe me nothing.’

I shake my head, confused, and follow her up the steps of the stone wing.

There’s a clatter of metal as Prosecutor Sardicus lands on the ruins. He folds his blazing wings and rushes towards us.

I’m about to greet him when I see a shocking sight. The brass skull is now aflame with morning light, but I’m blind to anything beyond the figure rising from the open top of the cranium. A crimson horror is drawing itself up from the boiling blood. As hundreds of lesser daemons flood from the skull’s mouth, a mountain-sized nightmare is rising from its open crown. The world unravels before its unholy power. Colours and shapes tumble into each other, forming a rippling kaleidoscope.

As the daemon, Khurnac, drags itself into the world I see black, canine flesh and vast, blood-red wings. Looking upon such perversion turns my stomach but I refuse to avert my gaze. Such virulent, blasphemous hate cannot be ignored.

‘I did this to you,’ says Vourla, sounding appalled.

She’s sitting on the edge of a crumbling step, paying no attention to the daemons, but staring at me.

‘Why did you save me if you despise me so?’ I say, managing to shield my thoughts from the abomination forming below us.

She shakes her head. ‘I don’t hate you. I just didn’t believe…’ Her words trail off. ‘It’s only now I see you that I understand.’ She stares at me again and her voice fills with panic. ‘I never considered that you might actually have a hope.’ She rises to her feet, shaking her head furiously. ‘I sent your storm astray. I did this to you. I still had a remnant of power in me and I saw a chance to use it before I died. I thought that you were doomed whatever happened, so why not use you before you met the same fate as all the others?’

Rage jolts through me as I realise what she’s saying. ‘You delayed us?’ I glance at the skull. Khurnac is beginning to thrash and grow. The blood that spews from its movements forms limbs and jaws as it drops. The hordes of the Blood God are here.

‘I couldn’t let Hakh live,’ she replies, talking to herself rather than me. ‘Not after so much pain, so much cruelty.’

‘So you used me as your executioner? And delayed Sigmar’s vengeance?’

My body is shaking with fury and I see that Sardicus is the same. I draw Evora as we walk towards the dazed woman.

Vourla makes no attempt to flee, she just nods her head in shame, waiting for my blade.

The runeblade lifts its voice in reply to my bloodlust. I’m hardly conscious of raising it but, as I near the priestess, I see myself reflected in her terrified eyes and pause. I look like every other monster in this pitiful ruin of a world. I look like the man I was long ago.

‘No.’ I lower the sword and back away. Not that. Of all the ways I could fail Sigmar, I would not become the thing he sent me to kill. I sense that this is the power of the skull at work. It’s twisting my thoughts.

‘I won’t harm you,’ I say, turning my back on the Crucible of Blood. ‘I’m here to save you.’

She looks up at me, her eyes full of tears and confusion. ‘But can’t you see?’ She nods at the scene below. ‘There’s nothing to save. It’s too late.’

Khurnac is wrenching its brimstone flesh from side to side, straining against an enormous chain that binds it to the rim around the skull’s open crown. An axe has formed in its claws — a weapon that must be thirty or forty feet long. As the daemon thrashes around it slams the axe against the walls of the skull, consumed by an immemorial fury, attempting to hack itself free. Every blow sends out a dull, tuneless clang and each one heralds the arrival of hundreds more daemons. They’re flowing from the skull in a crimson tide and pouring into the crater below. Through gaps in the clouds I see them scampering and sprinting into the ranks of skeletons. Nothing can stand against them. The undead crumble like kindling and, wherever my Stormcast Eternals are, I know that even their sigmarite shields will not stand against this. Clang after clang tolls out and the torrent becomes a storm. The writhing, ephemeral shapes become a vast wall of hate, pounding down into the crater.

I grab my honour scrolls and recite the runes. Pain may be my flesh. Death may be my fate. But victory is my name.

I know that Sigmar would not send me here without hope. I just need to look harder. I need to find Sigmar’s face in the darkness. I need to hear his voice. His voice… I remember the ghostly cry still circling my head and finally recognise something that has been at the edge of my consciousness since we reached the Nomad City. The dead titan is not howling in pain, but frustration. He sounds as though he is forever trapped in sight of a prize that’s just out of reach. It’s like he’s calling me to witness something.

I look around, trying to locate the source of the cries, and my eyes settle on the white tower at the top of the stone wing — the soaring, graceful neck of marble that rises away from me into the clouds.

Vourla’s still staring at me and follows my gaze to the tower.

‘It’s too late,’ she says, sounding almost angry at my persistence. ‘I’ve murdered you.’

I place a hand on her shoulder. ‘You’re no murderer.’

She closes her eyes, holding back tears. ‘Why did you come?’

‘The Crucible of Blood is a gate between two worlds. It leads to the heart of Khorne’s realm. It leads to the birthplace of his whole empire. This skull feeds his armies. Every dawn, when Khurnac pounds that axe, he sends fresh legions. We have to—’

My words are interrupted as Khurnac strikes the skull again, vomiting more daemons onto the already swamped skeletons. I start to imagine what must have become of my men, then crush the thought before it can take hold. I’ll grieve when the realmgate is sealed.

‘We have to close it,’ I say, I racing up the steps towards the tower with Vourla and Sardicus rushing after me.

‘Lord-Celestant!’ cries Sardicus. ‘What about the Kuriat? The Lord-Relictor has the key to the realmgate and he’s still on the far side of the crater. If he’s even alive, daemons and the dead lie between him and us.’

I look back at him and shake my head. ‘The heart has been lost. Boreas bought our passage through the Anvil with it.’

Sardicus falters. ‘Then we will…’ His words trail off as he considers the significance of my words.

‘We can no longer claim the realmgate for Sigmar.’ I lift Grius and turn it so that light plays across the sigmarite. ‘But we have one card left to play.’

Sardicus stands proud despite the fear he must be feeling. ‘You will not go alone.’

Words will not suffice. I grasp his hand in silence.

He glances down at the boiling ocean of daemons where my army once stood. ‘But how will we get to the gates?’

I turn back to the tower, sure that Sigmar is already giving me the answer. The voice of the dead titans is so loud here that I can feel it buffeting against me. The more I listen, the more sure I am that this is a message from the God-King.

The tower is a stone shell, with no stairs and, as I step inside, I see that it’s open to the sky. Sunlight beats down on me through vast, serpentine windows, blinding me.

I hold Grius up to block the light and, as my vision clears, I look back through the centuries into the Age of Myth.

Overhead, one of the giant ghosts is clearly visible, frozen in the midst of a heroic dive; preserved at the moment of his death. The sunlight beats through his vaporous flesh and I can see clouds through his billowing spear, but his eyes are as fierce and vital as my own. They’re locked on something below, something on the Crucible of Blood. He’s showing me something; calling to me.

‘Carry me,’ I say.

Sardicus spreads his wings, flooding the ruins with light.

I place my hand on Vourla’s arm. ‘The time has come. Rise up and reclaim your home.’

‘Me?’ She looks from me to Sardicus, baffled.

‘You stood face to face with the enemy, Vourla, and you still found a way to fight. Find others and teach them to do the same. We didn’t come simply to close a gate. We came to start a landslide.’

She laughs in disbelief, but I can see a fire starting to kindle in her eyes. I’ve done enough.

The tower whirls around us as Sardicus lifts me up through the ruins, surrounding us with images. I see faces in the marble, heroic and proud, beings born in an age free of monsters like Hakh. They seem at once distant and recognisable. I see the same fire in their eyes that I saw in Vourla’s. Centuries of brutal oppression have not dampened it.

‘Lord-Celestant,’ says Sardicus, and I realise that my mind has been wandering. There’s something hypnotic about these ruins and the cry of the ghost.

Sardicus draws my attention to the figure looming overhead. We’ve almost reached the spectre of the dead titan. His cries are heartbreaking in their desperation. Wisps of armour trail around his gargantuan form and he roars as he tries, endlessly, to launch his spear.

‘Closer!’ I shout, struggling to be heard over the ghost’s cries. ‘Take me closer.’

Sardicus hurls us into the miasma of the giant’s flesh.

The effect is instant, and shocking. The crumbling ruins vanish, replaced by a dazzling array of colours and shapes. I’m seeing the Nomad City through the eyes of the ghost. The walls are covered with beautiful murals of gold and ochre and the rooms are capped with ornate ceilings. Enormous pieces of furniture are all around me, gilded and gleaming, and the air smells clean and pure. It’s no idyll though. Hundreds of titans are tumbling backwards past me, roaring in anger and fury, swarming with vicious, crimson daemons. They’re being devoured by a host of hunched, scaled monstrosities with anvil-shaped heads and gaping jaws. The giants are attempting to defend themselves, but it’s clear that the battle is already lost. Their strange, inhuman faces are tormented by fear and anger as the daemons flood over them in uncountable numbers, clawing and devouring like a plague of locusts.

Even over the din of battle, I can hear the voice of my host-spirit. His language is strange and incoherent, but I can feel the dreadful urgency in his cries. As I look out from his mind I finally see what he’s been trying to reach for all these centuries. As the daemons tear him apart, shredding his flesh with frantic, snarling mouths, the giant’s gaze is fixed on a goal he’ll never reach.

Of course.

My heart quickens as I see what I must do.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

The stink of charred flesh greets me as I return. I feel Sardicus struggling to hold me aloft as we fly up through the top of the ruined tower and out into the clouds.

Beneath us, the crater is a seething mass of red shapes but the skull has not finished its work yet. Blood-red figures are pouring over the lip at the skull’s crown, from its nose and from the doorway beneath its teeth. There must be thousands of daemons, tumbling over the rocks and charging to war. Some of them resemble the things I saw through the eyes of the titan, but others assume forms I cannot even describe — mongrel things that combine the canine and the reptile into something obscene.

And, over all of this pandemonium, Khurnac still rages, smashing its colossal axe against the walls of its brass prison and roaring in fury. Every blow spews another glut of daemons from the crucible and, as they tumble into the world, Khurnac turns its fury on its own kind, tearing apart anything it can lay its claws on, cramming visions of madness between its slavering jaws.

Reality has given up trying to contain such overwhelming corruption. The world beyond the daemon is like a tattered curtain, revealing glimpses of a landscape even more tormented than the Kharvall Steppe. This is now my destination — the Blood God’s foothold in the Mortal Realms.

Sardicus pounds his wings, struggling to stay aloft as I steel myself for what I must do.

‘Take me as close as you can,’ I call out.

‘Close to what?’ he cries.

‘Drop me on the rim of the skull, as near to the daemon as you can!’

Sardicus shakes his head, horrified.

‘Do you trust me?’ I cry.

‘But what can you do against that?’

‘That’s where darkness is deepest. That’s where I’ll find Sigmar waiting.’

Sardicus keeps shaking his head, but he flies down through the clouds nonetheless.

Daemons hurtle to greet us. They’re no bigger than dogs, but they have ragged wings, long, revolting snouts and mouths full of dagger-like incisors. They swoop towards us, screaming like demented gulls and reaching out with grasping talons.

I slam Grius into the first of them, crushing its head between its shoulders and sending it spinning back towards the skull.

The other manages to latch onto me, but I fling it off with a roar and, as it swings round to attack again, Sardicus blasts it from the sky.

‘More,’ gasps Sardicus, pointing at countless red shapes that are lifting up from the crush of battle to attack us.

‘Faster!’ I cry, jabbing Grius at the brass skull.

Sardicus dives with stomach-churning speed, plunging us towards the Crucible of Blood.

Before the smaller daemons can reach us, I leap free and land on the crown of the brass skull. Nausea-inducing pain rushes up through my legs. The whole skull is seething with power.

‘Go!’ I cry, glancing at Sardicus as I climb to my feet.

He hesitates, watching the mountain-sized horror thrashing through the lake of blood behind me. Then crimson-fleshed figures burst through the clouds, screaming as they attack him.

Sardicus launches Sigmar’s fury at them, but, as I rush to help him, I feel a wave of incredible power smashing into my back. I topple to my knees, clattering across the brass rim of the skull, and my head fills with dizzying visions of slaughter and bloodshed.

‘Lord-Celestant!’ cries Sardicus, from somewhere outside my pain.

I stagger back to my feet, just in time to see the source of the hateful energy that’s crippling me.

The daemon rises over me — a monumental fortress of scale and fire, blocking out the sky with leathery, tattered wings and raising its immense axe. I can’t meet its gaze but the hate in its eyes burns through my armour, scorching my flesh.

I dive clear just as the axe smashes into the brass wall. The force of the blow rocks the whole skull and I’m thrown from my feet.

The daemon roars and at such close quarters the sound fills my head with agony, but along with the pain comes outrage. This monstrous creation is everything I was born to destroy.

As Khurnac draws back its axe for another blow, I spit blood from my helmet and turn to face it, standing defiantly before the flaming goliath with my hammer gripped firmly in both hands.

I swing Grius and the warhammer connects squarely with the daemon’s colossal axe. There’s a blinding flash and sickening power jolts through my body, hurling me through the air. I manage to roll as I land and, as I break into a sprint, I see my target no more than thirty feet away.

The daemon laughs as it sees that I have no escape. It doesn’t realise that I don’t seek to run away.

Waves of blood boom against the walls of the skull as Khurnac wades slowly after me, drawing back its axe for the final blow.

My lungs are burning and I’m drowning in my own blood. The fury pouring up through the brass is starting to cook me from the inside out; I can feel my innards burning and twisting. I have nothing left in me but one, final attack.

‘My name. Is. Victory,’ I whisper, launching myself at the object I saw through the eyes of the ghost: a thick ring of brass that locks the daemon’s chain to the wall of the skull.

I leap, hammer raised, and cry out an oath as I swing Grius.

The air ignites. I’m thrown for a third time, this time by the thunderclap force of my own strike. For a moment I’m blinded by the afterimage of the detonation. When my vision clears, I see what I’ve done.

Khurnac has waded deep into the lake of blood and is staring at its broken chain. It lets out a final roar of exquisite relief as it realises I’ve freed it from its centuries-old bonds. I have unleashed one of Khorne’s most powerful servants.

But instead the daemon’s flesh begins breaking apart and drifting into the sky, like a swarm of insects leaving a nest. Khurnac reels back and forth through the gore, grunting and bellowing as its physical form collapses. Finally, there is a brittle cracking sound as its form dissipates completely. Then the daemon is gone. I have done what the giants of the Nomad City have long dreamt of — I have severed Khurnac’s link to the Mortal Realms and sent it home to its master.

Immediately, the blood ceases to boil and the violent power stops blasting through my body. All I’m left with is exhaustion and the pain of my wounds. I drop to my knees and groan.

From the top of the skull I see that the lesser daemons remain below. I had hoped that vanquishing their wretched progenitor might banish them too, but they’re still pouring across the landscape.

I climb unsteadily to my feet and study my surroundings. Standing up here, at the summit of the huge skull, I feel like I’m already dead, watching the death of the Mortal Realms from a lofty, god-like perch. Far below, I see where I need to be — the gateway between the skull’s teeth.

I whisper a prayer of thanks for Sardicus’ disobedience as I see him swooping towards me, still blasting daemons from the air despite terrible, bloodstained rents in his armour. One of his wings has been badly damaged. The blades of light have lost their lustre and they’re flickering and failing. He’s flying in lurching, drunken arcs, barely keeping aloft, but when he lands on the skull, he extends a hand towards me.

We fall rather than fly towards the earth, a dead leaf spinning from a tree, but Sardicus summons final reserves of strength as we near the ground, thrashing his one good wing just before we crash onto the steps. The impact still jars through me but we both manage to stand.

As we climb to our feet, the daemons swarm around us, loping across the brass on their cloven hooves and raising their swords. They’re wiry, crook-backed things, knots of scaly muscle that reek of death.

Sardicus launches a volley of hammers, filling the air with crackling energy and dazzling explosions. Dozens of the daemons fall, but dozens more vault the blasts and throw themselves at me.

My strength is all but gone. As their snarling faces speed towards me I drag Grius up to meet them. The warhammer lends me its vigour. It’s as though it can sense the proximity of its goal. I bring the slab of sigmarite down again and again, barging through their smouldering ranks as I try to reach the entrance up ahead. Sardicus lifts himself overhead and surrounds me with thundering, furious blasts of god-fire.

Our assault draws the attention of the whole host and I see countless hundreds of the daemons racing back up the steps towards us, gripping flaming swords.

I see a wall of blood up ahead of me and I realise I’m moments from victory.

Dozens more crash into me as I try to climb the last few steps. They tear my armour and flesh. I’m aflame with agony, but the pain only drives me on. I pound and lunge but it’s no good. My body is broken. I can barely stand. The opening is still ten feet or so away but the daemons are pouring over me in such frantic waves that I can’t fight through.

Finally, the weight of them drives me to my knees.

I try to fight on, but it’s impossible. They swarm over me like rats and I can’t find the strength to shrug them off.

‘Sigmar!’ I howl, turning to face the heaving throng. Where is my lord? He must be here. I’ve looked deeper into the darkness than any man. Where is the face of the God-King?

Sardicus swoops overhead, but his lightning is useless against such numbers, and I see that he’s as ruined as me. He’s on the verge of dropping into their waiting talons.

‘Sigmar!’ I try to shout, but my lungs are full of ash and nothing emerges but a croak.

And then I see him.

Crashing up the steps, ploughing through the ranks of daemons and piles of broken skeletons, comes a golden triangle of shields. They’re dented, scorched and bloody, as are the men behind them, but they do not stop.

My army lives. Despite everything, it lives. There are no more than a hundred or so left from the vast host that set out, but they have fought, tirelessly across this valley of madness to reach me. What valour is bound into those bones? I see Boreas staggering at their head, drenched in blood, followed by Retributor Celadon and others I recognise but, above all, in their gleaming forms, I see the face of Sigmar.

‘For the God-King,’ I cry, driven to my feet by the glory of it, raising Grius in tribute, shrugging off mounds of daemons as I stand.

They hesitate.

Boreas speeds up at the sight of me, powering through the crush, hurling entire rows of daemons aside in his determination to reach my side. Behind him, the Liberators finally lower their shields and charge, crushing daemons beneath a storm of golden boots.

They reach me. Despite everything Khorne has thrown at them, they reach me. I feel dozens of hands grasping my ruined body and hauling me towards the doorway.

I cry out, seconds before we leave the steppe. ‘Victory!’

Then we cross the threshold and step into a wall of blood.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

The clamour of the daemons dies away and blood envelops us. The liquid is hot and cloying, flooding my armour and filling my mouth, but after the vision on the steps, nothing could stop me. I hurl myself through the curtain of gore and burst into a new kind of hell. As I leave the wall of blood, the sudden lack of resistance throws me forwards and I crash to the ground. No, not the ground — a pile of glistening skulls.

I clamber to my feet and look around as Boreas and the others emerge behind me. I can’t help but laugh. We’re standing on an endless, sunless plain of skulls, lit only by violent gouts of fire scattered across the landscape as though supporting the tormented heavens. In every direction, the plain is walled by brutal, brass fortresses, bristling with spines. Talon-crowned towers soar out of sight and comprehension, making me stumble as I try to study them. They’re huge in a way that staggers the mind. The horizon seems to sag under their weight.

Above the towers there’s no sky, only an endless, rolling storm of daemons. Countless thousands of them, billowing and heaving like blood spiralling in water, lit up by the blooming columns of fire.

Circling the plain of skulls are vast, roaming packs of daemon-hounds trailing smoke from their ruby eyes and howling at the tumult overhead. And wading between the hounds is a loathsome, thrice-damned multitude. Every form of debased soul that ever worshipped the Blood God is here: towering troll-like monstrosities, winged, bull-faced daemons and snorting, armour-clad knights, all locked in battle for their master’s enjoyment, all clashing in endless, pointless, war.

‘Lord-Celestant,’ says Boreas, wiping blood from his broken armour. My brother’s hammer is gone and his skull mask has been warped into a nightmarish grin, but he sounds as calm as ever. ‘The Crucible of Blood is still open.’

I grip his shoulder in gratitude then stagger back towards the portal. Crimson daylight is still pouring through the doorway and I can just make out the portico beyond. On this side the realmgate is surprisingly tangible — a tall stone arch, carved with brutal images of slaughter and war.

I heft Grius into my hands, savouring its weight; savouring its purity. No amount of blood could stain such a weapon.

‘There can be no return,’ I say, turning back to my men.

They nod in silence, wearing their wounds like medals, facing me with unshakeable pride.

I turn back to the stone arch and swing with all the strength I can muster.

I’m half dead with exhaustion and pain, but a greater force than me throws the blow. It smashes into the stone and sends thick, silver lightning up from the metal, splitting the clouds of daemons; drenching us all in holy light.

The archway collapses and the world beyond it vanishes from view. The realmgate that has stood for countless ages is no more. Now there is only the plain of skulls, grinning mercilessly at us from every direction.

‘Victory comes in many forms,’ I say, staring at the pile of smouldering rubble.

I turn back to my men and as the lightning dies away we’re plunged into the fitful darkness. The world starts to shake as a furious roar booms out from the towers. Khorne’s legions cease their games as they see what I’ve done — what I’ve taken from them.

They charge — a tsunami of daemons, monsters and killers, flooding across the plain.

As the damned hurtle towards us from every direction, remnants of lightning play across our golden armour, so that we resemble a tiny, polished coin set adrift in a lake of tar.

I feel no fear. No doubt. Only pride.

At my command, shield walls form around me and I hold Grius aloft.

The host crashes into us.

The hammer falls.

C.L. Werner

Scion of the Storm

Chapter One

What use the weapon forged without the hand to wield it? It needs more than a mighty weapon to make a mighty warrior! Even if the metal is strong, how shall it prevail if the flesh that bears it is unready? By the fire of tribulation and ordeal is the spirit tempered; in the clamour of battle is valour proven.

The realms burn in the havoc of Chaos. Hour by hour their substance, their very essence, is degraded and corrupted. The powers of darkness assert their ascendancy, ready and eager to consume all. Never has there been greater need for Ghal Maraz.

Though the weapon is ready, the warrior must be proven. Haste in battle is oft as disastrous as over-caution. The cries of the numberless multitudes who languish in the chains of Chaos, whose lands and lives are despoiled by the Ruinous Powers, sear through my being like fiery daggers, urging me to throw aside all caution and descend in a mighty storm upon the enemy. Such recklessness would please the foe. The atrocities their creatures inflict are bait to draw me out, to stir my wrath that I may forget the greater purpose of war: liberation of the realms from the darkness that would devour them.

No, they will not goad me into foolish action. I will wait to loose Ghal Maraz into the greater war. I will wait until he who will bear it, he who will be my champion, is ready to fulfil his purpose.

Flesh, mind and spirit — tempered and tested until they have become as unstoppable and unopposable as Ghal Maraz itself, until the Hammer of Sigmar is ready for my war.

Such is the decree I, Sigmar, make now!

The crack of thunder boomed across the swamps of Krahl, sending flocks of hairy fen-hawks winging away from their nests among the dagger-leafed spineferns. An entire stand of the trees with their scaly, armoured trunks was obliterated as a blazing lance of lightning hurtled downward, smashing into it with volcanic fury. Embers and ash were sent flying across the swamp, splattering the sluggish streams and murky lagoons. A ribbon of smoke steamed upwards from the scorched crater.

Amid the wreckage of the thunderstrike, something stirred that was not smoke or ash. A figure climbed out from the charred hole. Towering in stature, he was of more than merely human proportion. The armour that encased him was a thing of wondrous craft and fearsome design, forged from sigmarite, with a nimbus of gold secured to the top of the backplate to provide a permanent halo framing the warrior’s metal helm, a helm cast in the shape of a human visage frozen in a scowl of perpetual and inexorable judgement. Mighty wings stretched outwards from the figure’s back, endowed with dazzling purity and a starry lustre. Upon the heavy pauldrons that shielded the warrior’s upper arms and shoulders was emblazoned the shape of a twin-tailed comet, sacred symbol of the God-King himself. Hanging from a loop on his belt was a golden sceptre cast in the same shape.

An even greater symbol of the God-King was gripped in the warrior’s hands. Crackling with ancient enchantments and the energies of Azyr, the Celestial Realm, the great warhammer was of such massive size that even in the grip of this formidable warrior it looked gigantic. Jewels shone from its golden haft and upon the broad and brutal head were inscribed runes that had been old even in the Age of Myth.

The blast of the thunderstrike was still echoing across the land as the crackling blaze dissipated from the warrior’s eyes and his vision resolved itself to take in the savage tableau. He had descended upon a primordial scene, sluggish streams of silvery muck that were neither liquid nor metal flowing past islands of rusty earth peppered with black spineferns and predatory leechpines. Jagged spires of raw, twisted iron stabbed up from the creeks, scratching at the murky sky. There was a hot, heavy quality to the air, fetid and stifling with a dull coppery reek.

The grisly environment was far from deserted. All around him the warrior could see feral, savage figures. Two great packs of barbarous fighters had converged upon a broad lagoon of the semi-metal swamp muck. Hideously mangled bodies floated downstream, their flesh sundered by claw and blade. Some of the bodies were human, though of a brutish and monstrous aspect. Other carcasses were those of horned beasts, their frames covered in matted fur and cabalistic brands. Man or monster, even in death the things carried the stench of cruelty and depravity.

More numerous than the slain were the living: horned creatures armed with axes fashioned from bone and stone and hulking men, their brawny frames draped in skins and scraps of armour. The combatants drew apart, stunned and bewildered by the warrior’s sudden appearance.

Beyond the brutish tribes, lumbering through the morass, two colossal horrors of muscle and sinew gave battle to a third monstrosity. The pair had the rough semblance of human form, though swollen and twisted with primordial ferocity. The foe of these monstrous giants was still more hideous. Squat and bloated, the thing was like some mammoth toad. One of the ox-headed giants wrapped its arms about an iron spur, wrenching it from side to side and trying to rip it free. While the creature was engaged, the other giant kept the abomination busy, swatting at it with the uprooted length of a spinefern. Blows that would have pulverized a man struck the toad-thing’s side, slamming against its shifting skin, splitting the slimy surface and drawing syrupy blood from the monster.

A mighty shout pierced the air, arresting the battle. The golden warrior could feel the black sorcery that leant the words forcefulness and command. Every creature turned, compelled to attend. Even the warrior felt his eyes drawn to the grotesque sorcerer who marched across the swamp. The mystic was a gangrel figure, draped in a feathered cloak, hands encased in gauntlets of black steel, head locked within a faceless helm of obsidian tipped with spiralling horns.

Another shout came, less forbidding and imperious than the first, and the mystic raised one of its armoured hands. The warrior could feel the fell energies rush out at him. He saw a tangle of leechpines between himself and the sorcerer wilt and crumble. Then the malefic magic was searing across his body. The dire power of the spell dissipated in a crackling nimbus of darkling sparks as it crashed against sigmarite armour. Unharmed, the warrior strode through the arcane residue and pointed his hammer in challenge at the horned enchanter.

Memories rushed through the warrior’s mind, images and imperatives that thrust themselves upon him. He had descended upon this realm to confront the Prismatic King, to bring an end to the tyrant’s sorceries. Such was his mission, his purpose, the duty stamped upon his very soul. Was this horned magician the fiend he sought?

The sorcerer cried out again, waving its armoured hands in an imperious gesture. Barbarians and beastmen alike responded to that call, roused from their shock by the command. Howling with bloodlust, braying with animalistic savagery, they rallied and surged towards the golden figure.

The warrior didn’t wait to meet the charge of his foes. Stretching his wings wide, he soared up into the misty sky to come diving down upon them. He arrowed into the midst of the horde. His warhammer cracked against the breastplate of a barbarian fighter, collapsing the man’s chest and tossing his broken body back into his bestial comrades. A goat-headed gor was next, its pelvis splintered by the crushing force of the golden hammer and its neck broken beneath the golden warrior’s boot as he trampled it underfoot.

The unearthly figure charged, striking left and right. With every blow, another of the Chaos creatures was struck down, their mangled bodies slipping away in the semi-silver lagoon. A hulking beastlord toppled into the muck with its horned skull split in half. A barbarian chieftain thrashed in the sludge with his side caved in. Packs of snarling gors were smashed aside, gangs of howling marauders beaten into the mire. Scores of the enemy dead lay strewn in his path, yet none had landed a blow. As unstoppable as an avalanche, he thundered through the horde, drawing closer to the horned sorcerer.

The Prismatic King. That title banged through the winged warrior’s thoughts as he smashed aside the brutish fighters. To vanquish that tyrant was his cause, yet with every step that took him nearer to the sorcerer, the more his mind made him question. Disconnected memories and images rose up, impressions of shadowy courtyards and mirrored halls, foggy battlements and moats of boiling fire.

A sweep of his warhammer spilled the wreckage of a dozen furred beastmen into the muck. King or minion, it was sufficient for the moment to know that the sorcerer was his foe.

The sorcerer fell back, hurling its magic at the oncoming avenger. Its conjurations, growing rapidly more desperate, pelted against the golden plates of its adversary. Spells that should have melted organs, enchantments that could pulverize stone: these sorceries simply dissipated as they drew near the warrior, fading away like smoke.

The barrage of sorcery swelled into a storm of destruction. Raging clouds of flame immolated packs of marauders as the sorcerer loosed his power against the winged avenger. Crackling spears of black lightning seared through herds of beastmen, yet whatever havoc the magic wrought against incidental victims caught in its path, upon the warrior himself they lost their terrible potency.

A fierce bellow boomed over the lagoon. The golden avenger swung around in time to face the charging one-eyed giant. With a great leap he flung himself into the sky and away from the brute’s path, leaving his enemies to be crushed beneath the cyclopean titan’s hooves and impaled upon its bovine horns. The great beast turned, stamping and braying in frustration, furious at missing its prey. Angrily, it tore the still writhing bodies of men and monsters from its horns, rending them in its enormous claws.

The warrior hovered in the air above the ox-headed giant. Before he could dive down upon the savage colossus, he was struck from a different quarter. Without warning, a slimy mass coiled about his leg, plucking him from the sky. He could see the obscene bulk of the toad-creature, its tentacle-like tongues lashing about its fanged mouth. One of these noxious appendages had latched onto him, dragging him back into the mire and towards the abomination’s maw.

Instead of struggling against the ropy tongue, the warrior propelled himself downwards, diving upon the toad-monster with meteoric fury. The obscenity reared up, its clawed forelimbs raking the air as it tried to swat its winged prey.

Nimbly, the warrior dived between those flailing claws. Uttering a mighty shout, he brought his warhammer crashing against the nearest of the toad-beast’s legs. The impact of the golden weapon sent a shudder pulsing through the swamp, causing the spineferns to shiver on their tiny islands and flakes of iron to crumble from the oxidized pillars. The reptilian brute reared back on its grisly hind legs, pawing at the sky with one of its forelimbs while the other quivered as a mess of torn flesh and broken bone.

The warrior scowled at the beast. The hammer should have wrought still greater destruction. He could feel the might of the weapon throbbing through his being, calling to him, urging him to loose its full power against the foe: to visit in truth the vengeance of Sigmar upon the spawn of Chaos.

The warrior raised his weapon to shatter the toad’s ribs with a second blow of the warhammer. Instead he was nearly bludgeoned by the monstrous tail of the creature. Arcing over the beast’s back, driven by some dull instinct rather than any actual awareness, the mace-like tail struck again and again at the mire, blindly trying to destroy the one who had hurt it. The warrior dodged the first strike, ducked beneath the crushing sweep of the second.

On the third swing of the tail, the warrior met the spiked bludgeon with the divine might of his own weapon. Sacred energies crackled across the hammerhead as he brought it slamming into the tail. A sickening tearing sound, the meaty pop of severed tendons and torn sinew, screamed across the swamp. The toad-thing howled anew as the weapon was ripped free and sent spinning back at the creature, slamming into its side and sinking its spikes deep into the slimy flesh. A fountain of blood sprayed from the broken tail as it whipped through the air in a spasm of pain.

The warrior noticed a tremor ripple through the sludge around him just before the giant came charging back to the attack. This time the brute attacked not with hoof and horn, but with a pair of spineferns it had torn from one of the islands. Wrathfully it brought one club slamming down with enough force to crack a mountain, sending a wide sheet of the silver muck streaming upwards in an uncannily sluggish wave. The second club gouged a crater in the bottom of the lagoon.

Instead of retreating before the giant’s assault, the warrior charged forwards. Exploiting the beast’s rage, the warrior was in motion the instant the clubs were swinging downwards. While the one-eyed monster obliterated the spot its adversary had occupied a moment before, mighty wings propelled the warrior beneath the massive cudgels. He darted past the giant’s assault, taking advantage of its graceless might to attack it.

A deafening howl of torment roared from the giant’s jaws as the warrior cracked his great warhammer against the beast’s leg. From ankle to knee, the bone was pulverized. The leg collapsed, knee sinking down to slam into the hoof beneath it. Crippled, the giant toppled forwards, slamming face-first in the sludge. It howled again as it pulled its head up out of the muck, streams of silver dripping from its mane and across its eye.

Soaring up into the air, the golden warrior glared at the stricken brute. ‘So fall all that bow to Chaos,’ he snarled at the toppled giant. Swooping down, he brought the warhammer crashing into the monster’s skull, splintering bone and brain. A crimson glaze of blood spilled across the cyclopean eye as the slaughtered beast slumped back into the mire.

A host of bloodreavers and gors advanced upon the warrior. In droves they charged at him, but with each sweep of his hammer, the winged avenger cut them down, hurling broken bodies into the ranks behind, flinging shattered chieftains into the faces of their followers. The silvery sheen of the sludge vanished beneath a patina of gore and still they came, too proud to admit a lone warrior could defeat them, too afraid of their Dark Gods to confess that a lone warrior had defeated them.

The warrior’s golden halo shimmered above the carnage, a beacon that drew the enraged minions of Chaos to it. A great hunk of jagged iron came hurtling towards that beacon, flung through the air by a titanic force. Taking wing, the warrior flew from the descending missile, leaving dozens of his foes to be crushed beneath it. From his vantage, he could see the second giant stalking away from the severed stump of an iron spur and making towards another of the oxidized pillars.

New determination gripped the warrior. Diving down, he fell upon the gors and bloodreavers once more. The ferocity of his attacks became too great for even them to bear. First by ones and twos, then by the score, his enemies began to flee. They had learned there were other things than the Ruinous Powers that they should hold in fear. Overhead, the celestial storm that had brought the thunderstrike and the golden warrior continued to rage, crashing and crackling with the God-King’s wrath.

The last of the routed marauders were obliterated beneath another of the iron pillars, crushed as it came hurtling downwards. Again, the missile failed to smash its intended prey as the winged warrior soared from its path. He had used the giant’s ungainly throw, exploiting the beast’s brutality to inflict further destruction against the mass of beastmen and bloodreavers. As he gazed upon the smashed bodies, the warrior felt outrage swell within his heart.

To fail in his duty would be a dishonour almost unthinkable, but to be crushed like a crawling insect was too much for his pride to bear. ‘The hour of Sigmar is come, beast!’ the warrior cried out. ‘The hour of your doom is here!’

Flying through the mist, the warrior could see the giant trudging towards another of the iron pillars. Snorting and braying, the brute turned to glare at him with its blemished eye. The beast seized the metal spire, rocking the pillar from side to side, seeking to rip it free as it had done to the others.

‘For Sigmar!’ the warrior cried as he hurtled down to the attack. His great warhammer didn’t crack against the bones of the giant, but instead slammed into the opposite side of the pillar the creature had weakened. A grinding, metallic shriek rose from the spur as it was sundered. Unprepared for the abruptly loosened mass, the giant found the full weight of the pillar crashing down upon it. It was borne down, smashed under tons of metal, its head crushed beneath the iron mass.

The warrior regarded the dead giant with a cold gaze. This was the ignominious end the brute had intended for him. Instead it was the beast that had perished. Surely the hand of Sigmar was visible in such irony.

Turning from the giant, the warrior surveyed the battlefield around him. Amidst the wreckage of beasts, men and monsters, he looked for any sign of the sorcerer who had united them against him. There was no trace of his enemy. Unlike its savage followers, the sorcerer had wit enough to abandon the field ahead of disaster. The winged figure could only hope that the fiend wasn’t able to rally other tribes of Chaos to further obstruct him.

The thought made the warrior pause. He could recall little enough, whispers and fragments that stirred through his mind. The Prismatic King, an enemy to overcome. Yet there was more. He was certain of that. Hints and suggestions tugged at the edge of his consciousness, slipping away whenever he tried to grasp them.

Only one certainty was firm in his mind. That was the nature of the weapon he carried. He’d felt the thrill of the warhammer’s power, the awesome potential lurking within it. A sense of abject reverence flowed through him as he reflected upon the great honour that had been entrusted to him. In his hands he held Ghal Maraz itself, the godhammer of Sigmar! He could feel that truth in every mote of his soul, every speck of his essence.

Such then was his purpose. More than warrior or hero, he was Sigmar’s champion. The duty entrusted to him was bestowed by the God-King himself.

If only he could remember what that duty was.

Chapter Two

The light was nearly spent before the warrior reached the edge of the swamp. Rising up from the silvery streams and islands of spineferns was scrubland. Clumps of ugly grey bushes with branches like wire and gaudy flowers of turquoise and emerald lay strewn about the plain. Here and there heaps of boulders and mounds of rock lay piled, each stone exhibiting a riotous range of colours in the swirls and whorls that marked them.

The warrior hesitated as he climbed out of the swamp. Carefully he studied the terrain before him. A weird sense of familiarity nagged at him, but nothing that resonated with conviction. Perhaps if his eyes could pierce the cloying mists that swept across the horizon in great undulations, then he might find his way.

Gazing into the dingy sky, the warrior shook his head. The temptation to take wing, to soar above the bleak landscape, was great, but so too was the appreciation of the danger such course would invite. From such a lofty vantage he would see leagues across the scrubland, perhaps even past the veil of mists. But he would likewise be seen by such loathsome things as inhabited the plain.

‘Mighty Sigmar, lend me your holy wisdom,’ the warrior prayed. ‘Guide my steps upon the path you have set for me. Show me the way to fulfil the purpose I have been chosen for.’ His hand tightened about the haft of Ghal Maraz, feeling the holy weapon’s power rippling through him. The relic was a connection between himself and his god, a compact between servant and master that resonated through the warrior’s very being. In battle, the powers of Ghal Maraz had asserted themselves with a primacy that was almost instinctual. He had felt the potential of the godhammer, felt rather than known how to evoke the relic’s might. It was a knowledge imprinted not upon his mind, but within his soul itself, something that transcended thought.

The warrior bowed his head in submission. That was the God-King’s answer. Not a mighty roar, not an imperious command writ in letters of fire, but a subtlety etched upon the soul. It was left to him to choose whether to submit or resist, to obey or refuse. If he quietened his thoughts, if he let himself feel rather than question, then he would find the way.

‘I have faith in you, Great Sigmar,’ the warrior declared. ‘I will trust you to lead me, for I understand that doubt is the first chink in the armour of righteousness.’ The curious impulses and inexplicable certainties that rose within him had yet to deceive him. He had to trust that they would continue to lead him true.

The warrior marched across the misty plain, his stride assuming the mile-eating jog of the soldier on campaign. Past windswept spires of crystal and around deep crevices billowing with strange vapours and stranger energies, he pursued the fading light. A dull luminance behind the shroud of mist, a lessening of the gloom that choked the sky, the unseen sun drew him after it like some celestial lodestone. Only the feathered lizards that crawled upon the rocks and the diamond-winged scavenger-flies that buzzed about the grey bushes attended his passing, skittering away as he drew near.

Darkness settled across the plain, the mist blotting out whatever light might be shining from moon and star. Still the warrior kept on, warier in the gloom, vigilant for observers more malignant than lizards and flies. Three times he had been set upon by the scrubland’s monstrous denizens in violent encounters of blood and carnage. The warrior drew no satisfaction from such skirmishes, recognizing them as naught but obstructions between himself and the purpose that drew him on.

Reaching one of the jumbled heaps of stone, the warrior spread his wings and rose into the sky. Keeping close to the jagged mound, he used the crumbling peaks to hide his presence. By staying close to the rocks, however, he exposed himself to unexpected danger. Sudden downdrafts buffeted him, seeking to sweep him into the knife-edged stones. He could see great polypus shapes wedged among the rocks, obscene growths that were at once both fungal and mineral. Like huge bladders, the growths expanded and contracted, sucking in great draughts, drawing nourishment from the air.

The warrior struggled against the pull of the fungal growths. A confusion of currents weakened his resistance. Opposing the draw of one cluster of growths would send him spiralling into the drag of another. His armour rang as it glanced across jagged heaps, sending trickles of broken rocks rumbling down the cliff.

Folding his wings against his back, the warrior caught hold of the rocks. If he couldn’t soar above the heap, then he would climb over it. Clawing handholds, he defied the dragging suction of the fungus and pulled himself across the face of the cliff.

As he climbed, the warrior’s keen senses caught the patter of dislodged rocks somewhere below him. He lingered, waiting for any new sound that might betray the presence of a pursuer. When none came after several minutes, he pressed on. Whatever was following him might reasonably suspect that the warrior had decided the betraying sounds were mere imagination or some caprice of the wind being drawn down into the fungal growths.

The warrior was content to lull his stalker into such belief. He knew what he’d heard and he knew what it meant. As he descended the other side of the crag, he kept his senses trained on the rise, waiting for anything that would expose the approach of his hunter. For just an instant, from the corner of his eye, he saw the drift of shadow among the rocks, a shape that had started forwards and then furtively withdrawn.

Just as suddenly as the shadow withdrew back into the rocks, a cry of anguish rang out. There was terror and despair in that cry, but there was something more, something that caused the warrior below to spread his wings and dare the dragging currents of the rock-fungus.

The cry had been human.

Reaching a height above the ridge, the warrior’s keen gaze pierced the shadows below. He saw a lean figure draped in a wispy cloak of grey languishing upon a plateau. The shape was caught in the grip of a squamous, monstrous thing. It seemed kindred to the fungal growths, yet endowed with a ghastly animation. Great stalks of squirming, fibrous material undulated from the mass, coiling around the cloaked figure in a constricting mesh of tendrils. Inch by inch, the horror’s tentacles were drawing its captive towards a slavering maw.

The imprisoned figure struggled to free itself. It gave a wail of frustration and despair.

The warrior didn’t delay. Folding his wings at his sides, he powered down towards the tableau in a dive. The might of Ghal Maraz blazed forth as he brought the relic slamming down against the horror. The obscenity burst apart in a splash of purplish ichor and pulp, its tendrils falling slack as the monster’s vitality evaporated.

The figure quickly pulled away, flinging the remains aside in disgust. Beneath the wispy web-like cloak there was a man, lean and lanky, yet with a hardness and firmness that suggested considerable strength and endurance. The face that stared from beneath the threads of his hood was thin and drawn with deepset eyes that shone with the brilliance of gemstones. His expression was one of resignation, of utter despair, uncountable worries etched into the wrinkled brow.

The man looked anxiously at the splattered husk of the horror that had seized him, then focussed upon the armoured visage of his rescuer. Folding his hands across his chest, he prostrated himself. ‘Glory to you, noble hero, that you should redeem the life of one so wretched.’

The warrior stared down at the cloaked man, studying him with a penetrating gaze.

‘Who are you and why do you follow me?’ he demanded.

‘Peace mighty master!’ the reply came. ‘I mean you no ill! No ill at all!’

‘Then answer me,’ the warrior said. ‘To survive in lands such as these you must either have a dangerously cunning mind or powers not apparent to the eye.’

An almost embarrassed look fell upon the man’s lean face. ‘Mind and powers wouldn’t have saved me this day.’ He pointed at the splattered husk. ‘A moment of incaution is all it needs to draw the attention of the Prismatic King.’

The warrior felt a tremor of hate boil inside him at the mention of the tyrant, the foe he knew he’d come here to vanquish. ‘You are an enemy of the Prismatic King?’

‘I am Throl of Shaard,’ the man said. Despite his fear and the quiver in his voice, there was pride when he spoke the name Shaard.

‘Shaard?’ the warrior repeated, finding the name strangely familiar.

Throl gestured to the misty scrubland around them. ‘All of this was the indomitable nation of Shaard, with its crystal palaces and golden cities. Towers of diamond and ruby that soared up to the heavens themselves. Roads of alabaster upon which were borne the treasures of discovery and the glories of empire.’ He shook his head, closing eyes that were suddenly watery. ‘Lost now,’ he whispered. ‘Torn down by the destroyers. All the wonder and all the beauty, all the craft and art crushed beneath the talons of our conquerors.’

The warrior nodded in sympathy. It was a tale that might be heard throughout the realms. Mighty kingdoms and great nations reduced to ash by the coming of Chaos. The despoilers left nothing in their wake, the corruption of the Dark Gods transforming the land itself into an unrecognizable horror.

‘I am all that is left of my people now,’ the man declared. ‘Throl of the Malachite Throne, greatest wizard of the empire. Once potentates and viziers grovelled before me, offering fortunes for my enchantments. My palace was more glorious than the sun — thousands of pilgrims would journey hundreds of leagues simply to gaze upon its splendour before they died. Princesses from a dozen kingdoms attended me…’ Throl waved his arms in an expression of helplessness. ‘Now I lurk in the swamps among the newts and vipers, living on a diet of rats and snails, hiding from those who are the new masters of the land.’

‘You saw the storm?’ the warrior asked.

Throl nodded. ‘The thunderstrike echoed throughout the swamps of Krahl. To me, its import could not be mistaken. I have seen such warriors before, descending upon Chamon from the realms beyond.’

At mention of others, a memory stirred deep within the warrior’s mind. There were others. Yes, others who he had been sent to find. Others who had fought against the Prismatic King.

‘You have seen the Thriceblessed?’ he asked, giving voice to the name as it emerged from the fog of memory.

‘A golden host wrapt in splendour and glory,’ Throl said. ‘But even they couldn’t prevail against the Prismatic King.’

Anger flared within the warrior’s heart. His eyes glared from behind his golden mask. ‘Yet somehow you have managed to succeed where the Stormcast Eternals have failed?’

Bitter laughter rose from the wizard. ‘You call this success?’ he scoffed. ‘I have magic enough to reflect his power. It is how I have remained as the last echo of my nation, the last shadow of my people. Yet what good does it serve? The Prismatic King’s power flows from his Eyrie of Illusion, contaminating the lands of Shaard. Nothing in these lands has been spared the touch of the Soulshriver. He is the lord of this blight. From his stronghold his corruption ebbs and flows like the tides of damnation, polluting all. Only I have remained unchanged.’

Throl pointed his finger at the warhammer. ‘My spirit is yet pure enough to recognize the energies that course through that weapon. Merely to gaze upon such a force would pain any creature of the Prismatic King.’

The warrior lifted the hammer high. Even in the misty darkness, there was a gleam of light reflecting from its golden surface.

‘Ghal Maraz,’ he declared.

‘The godhammer of Sigmar.’ The words came to the wizard in an awed gasp. ‘I had thought the relic lost, vanished into the mists of legend. It is spoken of in the oldest myths of my people, but never did I dare dream the stories to be true.’ He turned his eyes from the hammer to the man who bore it. ‘Now I understand how a lone warrior could decimate so many of the Prismatic King’s creatures. It pains me that I did not see your battle, only the aftermath. I had thought an entire warhost had wrought such havoc upon the enemy. I was confused to find the trail leading only to you. Tell me, who is this great hero who bears the godhammer to the very doorstep of the enemy?’

The question gave the warrior pause. Throl asked him for his name, yet there was none he could give the wizard. Perhaps there wasn’t an answer. Perhaps no name had been bestowed upon him. Perhaps it was something he had yet to earn. He looked down at the hammer he bore, at the ancient script etched into the golden metal. Here was all he needed to know. Here was all the identity necessary to him.

‘I am the Celestant-Prime,’ he declared, sensing the title buried deep within him. He looked at the holy relic in his hand. ‘But if you must name me, call me by the name of the weapon I bear. Ghal Maraz.’

‘There is power in names,’ Throl said. ‘Names are things to be guarded, especially in the domain of the Prismatic King. I will call you Ghal Maraz, for there is a name even the lords of Chaos fear to utter.’

‘You spoke of seeing my brothers? Others like me?’ the Celestant-Prime asked.

‘They descended upon Shaard in a rain of lightning,’ Throl recalled. ‘They were a glorious warhost, so vibrant and strong. The legions of the Prismatic King fell before them like wheat before the scythe. Man, daemon or monster, none could prevail against the golden warriors. Through the storm I could see a great gilded lord holding his hammer aloft in triumph, leading his army forth across my ruined homeland. In their wake they left the wreckage of the Prismatic King’s legions strewn about the plain. Such battles they must have fought as they pressed deeper into his blighted domain.’

The wizard sank down upon the ground sadly. The wonder left his voice, replaced by a mournful bitterness. ‘I dared to hope my people would finally be avenged, but it was not to be. I followed the path of their march from the swamps of Krahl to the hills of Zehnthi and the gates of the Maze of Reflection. And that is where their journey must have ended, and where my hope died.’

The Celestant-Prime shook his head. ‘It is impossible that the Thriceblessed could have been destroyed,’ he said.

‘There are things worse than death that await the enemies of the Prismatic King,’ Throl declared. ‘The Maze of Reflection is a trap that has claimed many who would oppose the tyrant. It was raised when he first brought his legions against Shaard. A great treasure is hidden in the maze, something of such power that it could break the Soulshriver’s magic. In the early days of his invasion, the knights of Shaard tried to breech the maze and seize the treasure, but none were ever seen again. Mighty wizards and cunning thieves matched their prowess against the maze, but never emerged. Dragons and giants, even rebellious warlords from the Prismatic King’s legions, have sought to seize the treasure.’ Throl waved his hands in a gesture of futility.

The Celestant-Prime was silent, wondering what manner of fate had claimed the Thriceblessed. If they’d been defeated in battle, then they would have been Reforged in Sigmaron, yet such had not been the case. That meant they were still here, lost within the Prismatic King’s maze.

The Celestant-Prime let his hand fall to the Cometstrike Sceptre hanging from his belt, feeling the destructive potential woven within its enchantments, the might to devastate armies. To depose the Prismatic King was his purpose, of that he was certain. He could feel that imperative echoing in his very bones. Yet to leave his brothers, to leave the Thriceblessed locked within the tyrant’s trap for even a moment longer, was something that sickened his spirit. His first duty was to his fellow warriors, to free them from the doom that had claimed them.

‘This maze,’ the Celestant-Prime said. ‘You can lead me to it?’

‘To what purpose?’ Throl asked. ‘That you can join the others in the Prismatic King’s trap? There is no defeating him. He is too devious, too cunning to overcome. This land is lost to him.’

The warrior glared down at the wizard. ‘Those are the words of a coward.’

‘No, they are the words of one who has clung to hope too long,’ Throl replied. ‘Hope can only cheat a man for so long before he understands that it is naught but a cruel illusion. It is the fool and the dreamer who refuses to abandon hope when it has abandoned him.’ He turned his head, staring out into the misty scrubland. ‘When I saw the warhost march against the Prismatic King I had hope. Forgive me if I have none left to spare for you, Ghal Maraz.’ He thrust his arm towards the south. ‘If you would find the Maze of Reflection, seek it there beyond the fires of Uthyr.’

The Celestant-Prime gazed off towards the south. ‘A guide would speed my journey,’ he said. ‘I do not ask you to brave the maze, only to show me the way.’

‘That would draw me nearer to the Prismatic King’s Eyrie,’ Throl said. ‘It is a fool who tempts fate too far.’

‘What of the debt you owe me?’ Ghal Maraz asked. He pointed at the fungal husk. ‘Were the men of Shaard a people with honour? Or were they no better than the beasts that have claimed their lands?’

The wizard glowered at the golden warrior. ‘You save my life only to throw it away again,’ he stated. ‘You would march into the heart of the Prismatic King’s domain.’

‘Is a life spent hiding in swamps and eating snails so precious to you?’ the Celestant-Prime wondered.

‘A man doesn’t choose his life, only the manner of his death,’ Throl said.

Ghal Maraz nodded. ‘There is wisdom in those words, wizard, but you are too afraid to recognize it.’

Throl stamped his foot against one of the tendrils lying on the plateau, grinding it beneath his heel. ‘You would shame me into following you,’ he said.

‘I need your knowledge of these lands,’ the Celestant-Prime told him. ‘Shame and dignity are riddles for your own conscience to decide.’

The wizard bowed his head in defeat. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I am weary of lurking in the shadows. Whether to doom or glory, I cannot say, but I will lead you to whatever fate has decreed.’

Chapter Three

The bleak scrubland of the plain rose into crystalline hills of chromatic splendour. Eerie nimbuses of light spilled from each facet, forming into broad strands of phantasmal substance, as transient and fragile as cobwebs. Hulking growths, neither tree nor stone but a riotous assemblage of both, thrust their way up through the rainbow webs. Pulpy fruit swayed from the craggy branches of the treestones, dropping to the ground in explosive displays of flame and smoke, gouging deep fissures in the crystal mounds.

Throl was able to steer the Celestant-Prime away from the more dangerous treestones, his magic giving him warning when the explosive fruit was ripe and ready to fall. The vapours that billowed up from the fissures, however, were a hazard that couldn’t be predicted. Several times the wizard had been forced to evoke a hasty spell to send the caustic emanations back into the crystalline depths.

‘The bloodreavers used to collect the fruit of the treestones,’ Throl explained, ‘but the gasses from below made them stop.’ He pointed at several curious spurs of crystal scattered about the edges of the fissure. ‘Those were men who tarried too long among the vapour. If you draw too near to them, you can still hear their moans.’

The Celestant-Prime shook his head. For expediency he had told Throl to lead him by the most direct route to the Maze of Reflection, but to guide him by such paths as the minions of the Prismatic King were unlikely to frequent. He didn’t fear battle with the hordes of Chaos, but he couldn’t accept the delay such combat would cause. It was why he continued to march rather than take to the sky and betray his presence.

Yet for all that, the hostility of this corrupted terrain made the Celestant-Prime wonder if the dangers of this course outweighed the potential gain. Throl had led him through canyons of porous bronze inhabited by birds with beaks of ice. They’d trekked through a desert where the sand was iron and the sky a bilious green, with vast slug-like behemoths surging through the desolation to feast upon creeks of molten glass.

The warrior wondered what this region had been like before the Prismatic King focused the corruption of Chaos upon it. The Realm of Chamon and all its many lands were known for strange transmutations, the alloying of substances into something new. How firm had Shaard’s grip upon permanence been? How transitory had been the essence of that vanquished empire?

‘This domain has no limit to its horrors,’ the Celestant-Prime remarked, nodding to one of the crystalline statues, a groan of anguish whispering from its frozen face. ‘How dear your thirst for vengeance must be. I pity you, Throl, for your memories of what these lands once were.’

Throl paused, staring out towards the horizon, across the shimmering expanse of hills.

‘Memory fades,’ he said. ‘It retreats into shadow, becoming naught but an echo after a time.’ His eyes were solemn as he looked to his companion. ‘When it is buried deeply enough, memory becomes confused with imagination.’ The wizard pointed his finger at the most distant of the hills. ‘Did the vineyards of the Brothers Kaltos stretch there once, or perhaps it was the fastness of the Knights Ebon? Perhaps there was nothing. Maybe what I think to have been never was at all.’ He kicked his foot against the crystalline ground, tiny flakes crackling beneath his toes. ‘Of what consequence is it to remember? It can’t change what is.’

The Celestant-Prime looked at the hills, trying to imagine grapes and castles as Throl described. He pondered his own sense of familiarity with the lands of Shaard.

‘No,’ he conceded after a time, ‘memory may not change things back to what they were. But memory can kindle the flame that avenges what was. If you didn’t have your memories of a vanquished people and a vanished home, would you have the courage to guide me? Do not belittle the power of remembering.’

The wizard bowed his head. ‘There is wisdom in your words,’ he said. ‘I will reflect upon what you have said.’ Throl tapped the side of his head. ‘For now, I fear we must test the limits of memory. Beyond these hills I think we should find the Daemon’s Hopyard.’

As he heard the name, the Celestant-Prime felt an inexplicable familiarity. His mind was filled with an image of strange columns of wind-carved rock and great mesas of basalt and onyx. He could almost hear the eerie whistle of winged rock-rats gliding from the cliffs and smell the pungent tang of flowering weeds rising from the loamy earth.

‘Something troubles you?’ Throl asked, noting the change that had stolen upon his companion.

‘Lead me to the Hopyard,’ the Celestant-Prime said. ‘I might know better then what it is that troubles me.’

With the crystalline hills behind them, the Celestant-Prime found that Throl needn’t have worried about the accuracy of his memory. The loamy earth, grey with its gritty, spore-like vegetation, rippled around great black mesas of volcanic rock that loomed hundreds of feet into a greasy sky of shining purple and gibbous silver.

As the Celestant-Prime circled a towering plateau of basalt and onyx, the sense of familiarity became overwhelming. He stared at the side of the mesa, trying to recall the memory. Almost without conscious volition, he strode towards the rocky base. Here the basalt was scorched and burned; there the onyx was disfigured and splintered. He looked down at his feet and saw something lying half-hidden beneath the crumbled rock and grubby spores. Brushing the debris away, he exposed a helm of blackened steel, its mask cast in the semblance of a grinning skull. The helm was cracked, a great gouge snaking from crown to chin.

A battle had been fought here, fierce and terrible. Gazing up at the mesa he could envision tattooed marauders howling as they poured semi-molten boulders down from the heights. He could smell the foul reek of daemonic things as they slithered down the cliffs. He could hear the booming challenge of an armoured warlord in blackened mail and, again, the clamour of conflict.

No. The sounds of battle weren’t in his mind. He could hear the crash of steel, the cries of warriors. Amidst the foul shrieks of beasts the Celestant-Prime could hear the shouts of men, voices raised in a cry that sent fire pouring through his veins.

‘For Sigmar!’ The war cry was repeated, ringing out above the din of battle. Leaving Throl behind, the Celestant-Prime hastened towards the sounds, running around the base of the plateau and on to all the eerie rock hoodoos that peppered the valley beyond.

Among the bizarre stone formations raged a bloody fray. Hundreds of gors armed with crude stone axes and clubs of bone charged up from burrows gouged into the valley floor. The beastmen swarmed around a tight knot of figures with locked shields, foes clad in golden armour who struck at the creatures with sword and hammer.

The Celestant-Prime recognized the cast of their armour and the emblem adorning their pauldrons. These were warriors of the Thriceblessed. For all his despair and bitterness, Throl had been wrong. At least these men had escaped the Maze of Reflection.

‘For Sigmar!’ the Celestant-Prime roared as he charged into the battle. The first blow from his warhammer sent lightning crackling across the body of a gor he struck, flinging the creature into one of the stone hoodoos and splitting the rock with the ferocity of its impact. More of the monsters turned to confront this sudden attack on their flank. A second strike from the hammer sent a dozen of the beastmen tumbling into the dirt, their bones shattered by the hammer’s might.

The Thriceblessed, ringed on every side by the gors, now broke out from behind their shieldwall and flung themselves full into the enemy. The confusion wrought by the Celestant-Prime’s sudden assault against their flank was now redoubled as the Stormcasts took to the offensive. Horned brutes broke before crushing blows from sigmarite hammers while others bleated and squirmed upon the blades of swords. Yard by yard, the warriors pushed the beastmen back, strewing the ground with inhuman bodies.

The Celestant-Prime fought with the cold determination of righteousness, smashing enemies at every step as he forced his way towards the Thriceblessed. A blow from his hammer splattered a bull-headed chieftain’s body across the rocks. Another strike and a pack of gors was reduced to a pile of carrion. Carnage was the hero’s herald, horrible and magnificent. Each yard he pressed into the valley was littered with the mangled carcasses of his foes.

The combined valour of the Celestant-Prime and the resurgent Stormcasts finally broke the savagery of the gors. Whining like whipped curs, the creatures gave up the fight, fleeing back down into their burrows. The Thriceblessed pursued the routed monsters, slaughtering many of them before they could withdraw into the subterranean darkness.

Only when the last of the beasts was gone did the Thriceblessed turn to regard the warrior whose aid had delivered them. They numbered less than a score, their armour scarred and stained with the filth of many ordeals. Liberators with their warhammers and swords, a pair of Judicators with their skybolt bows and a single Retributor with his immense lightning hammer clenched in both hands. The Celestant-Prime could feel the uncertainty as the men approached him.

‘Is he real or another trick of the Prismatic King?’ one of the Stormcasts asked his comrades, armoured fingers drumming menacingly against the blade of his sword.

Another warrior shook his head. ‘No, Othmar, he is real enough. Can’t you see he carries the Cometstrike Sceptre? Can you not see Sigmar’s hammer!’

‘Are you certain, Deucius?’ Othmar wondered aloud. ‘That could be a trick too.’

The Celestant-Prime held the warhammer towards them, pointing the runeweapon at each man in turn. ‘I could doubt you as well,’ he said. ‘Each of you bears the emblem of the Thriceblessed, yet they have been accounted lost. I have been told the chamber was caught within the Prismatic King’s Maze of Reflection. How then is it that you eluded the trap that claimed your brothers?’

Deucius shook his head and pointed at the weapon the Celestant-Prime bore. ‘I cannot doubt the God-King’s hammer. Only Ghal Maraz could wreak such carnage upon the foe. Only Sigmar’s hammer could make me feel such awe. No thing of Chaos, mortal or daemon, could bear the weapon you carry. Only one favoured by Sigmar could do so and only one mighty in his service could evoke the hammer’s power.’ Deucius bowed to his knees and removed his helm. He stared up at the hero. ‘No thing of the enemy can withstand the touch of the godhammer. Let it touch me and you will know I am truly Stormcast.’

Casting his gaze across the other warriors, the Celestant-Prime raised Deucius to his feet. ‘It is by faith that men prove themselves,’ he said. ‘It is through trust that men are made brothers.’

Othmar let his fingers be still. Slowly he too bowed. ‘Forgive our doubt, but we have come to question all that our senses tell us.’ He glanced at their surroundings, at the strange sky and eerie hoodoos. ‘In this place, nothing is what it seems to be. It comes hard to trust anything.’

‘It is in doubt that the seed of defeat is sown,’ Deucius said. ‘A Stormcast Eternal can have no room for doubt. His mind must hold room only for duty and honour. There is no place for doubt in the righteous.’ The warriors nodded, reflecting upon the catechism Deucius quoted.

The Celestant-Prime approached Othmar, laying his hand on the warrior’s shoulder. ‘Hardship can sap even the most stalwart faith. There is no shame in such caution.’ He looked across the other Stormcasts. ‘For myself, to find brothers in this desolation brings me too much joy to question it. Triumph and glory ring hollow without comrades to share it.’

‘We found no triumph and little glory when we challenged the Maze of Reflection,’ Deucius declared, lowering his face in contrition. ‘Devyndus Thriceblessed led us into the very heart of the enemy. But we were unequal to the test. We failed our Lord-Celestant and we failed great Sigmar.’

‘Even in failure there is room for redemption,’ the Celestant-Prime said. The words came to his tongue with a sense of humility, a feeling that they came not from himself but from something greater. A conviction that they were meant not only for the Thriceblessed but also for himself.

Deucius met the Celestant-Prime’s gaze. There was an almost reverent glow in the Liberator’s eyes now. ‘The wisdom of the Deus Sigmar brings both comfort and challenge.’ He turned and darted a triumphant look at Othmar. ‘Would a trick of the Prismatic King quote Sigmar’s holy scriptures?’

Othmar spread his arms wide in a gesture of submission. ‘I have already conceded the field, brother,’ he said. Bowing once more to the Celestant-Prime, he apologized to the winged hero. ‘You must indulge Deucius. He has enough devotion in him to balance the faults of all the Thriceblessed.’

‘If that were true,’ Deucius said, ‘then we should have conquered the maze and captured the Pillar of Whispers.’

The Celestant-Prime swung around, his eyes locking upon Deucius. ‘The Pillar of Whispers?’ he hissed, feeling the name resonating within him, blazing through his mind like a ravening firestorm.

‘It is the realmgate we were charged to capture,’ Othmar said. ‘A portal seized by the Prismatic King and hidden within the maze. Lord-Celestant Devyndus believed that by securing the Pillar of Whispers we would sever the Prismatic King’s source of power. We could begin to reclaim the lands of Shaard without the threat of new enemy legions being drawn through the realmgate.’

‘We never even came within sight of it,’ Deucius stated. ‘The sorcery of the maze overwhelmed us before we could threaten the enemy’s treasure.’

The Celestant-Prime could see the shame and remorse these warriors felt at their failure. It was an illness coiled about their hearts, slowly eating away at their valour, making them less than what they were. Boldly, he raised Ghal Maraz, compelling the eyes of every Stormcast to the relic. ‘Here is the key that will unlock the maze,’ he declared. ‘What sorcery can endure the God-King’s hammer?’

Many of the Thriceblessed fell to one knee, seized by their awe of the relic and their belief in its indomitable power. Othmar remained standing however, his tone dour when he spoke. ‘I know Ghal Maraz is mighty,’ he said. ‘But I have also seen the power of the maze. All of us have… except you, my lord.’

‘Tell me of the maze,’ the Celestant-Prime ordered. ‘Tell me of this power that makes you question the might of Sigmar.’

Othmar shook his head. ‘It is a thing beyond words. Something past sight and sound and feeling — at once all and none of these things. We marched into a place of nothingness, an emptiness where there was only ourselves. An emptiness that stretched on forever, without limit or end.’

‘Othmar found a flaw in the maze,’ one of the other warriors declared. ‘A crack in the cage of nothingness that held us.’

‘Only we few were able to slip free before the crack closed,’ Deucius explained. ‘But of what consequence has our freedom been? We’re too few to assail the Prismatic King’s Eyrie and we lack the secrets of the maze to seize the realmgate or rescue our brethren.’

‘Then it is well you have found Ghal Maraz.’ The Thriceblessed swung around, reaching for their weapons as the voice carried to them. Stalking out from the shadow cast by the plateau was the lean little wizard Throl. The man nodded respectfully to the armoured warriors as he hastened towards the champion.

‘Such do I call him, for his is the burden of the godhammer,’ Throl boasted. ‘If Ghal Maraz cannot break the power of the maze, then there is no force that can!’

The Celestant-Prime gazed down at the little man. ‘You took your time joining us.’

Throl plucked at his ragged cloak and slapped his lean legs. ‘You might have tarried a bit and given me a chance to catch up. I am hardly so spry as once I was.’

‘My lord, who is this man?’ Deucius asked.

‘Throl of Shaard,’ Ghal Maraz answered. ‘Last of his people and our ally.’

Throl bobbed his head in agreement. ‘My magic is too weak to oppose the Prismatic King, but I have been able to spy upon him. I know the secret paths that lead to the Maze of Reflection, ways hidden from even his most loyal servants.’

Othmar approached the little wizard, towering over the cloaked man.

‘And what of the Maze? Do you know its secrets too? Can you lead us through the trap? Can you help us redeem ourselves?’ The Liberator shook his head. ‘How can this wretch bring victory where the Thriceblessed have found only failure,’ he scoffed.

‘There is a time for valour and strength and a time for cunning,’ the Celestant-Prime reminded Othmar. ‘Pride is a poor substitute for strategy.’

‘I only want to redeem the shame we have all suffered,’ Othmar explained. ‘This is a burden that belongs to the Thriceblessed.’

‘Your zeal does you credit,’ the Celestant-Prime told him, ‘but it is presumptuous to think the burden is yours alone. All who oppose Chaos have a stake in the Great Battle.’ The winged hero turned back to the wizard. ‘You say you know the way to the maze, but what of the Prismatic King’s Eyrie?’

Throl took a step backwards, almost tripping over himself in shock at the question. ‘You can’t mean to attack the Prismatic King’s stronghold.’

‘It isn’t my place to question one chosen to bear the godhammer, but shouldn’t we overcome the maze before we take on the Prismatic King?’ Othmar asked.

‘The maze has been challenged before,’ Ghal Maraz declared. ‘If courage alone was sufficient to overcome its magic then the Thriceblessed would have prevailed. No, there is a secret behind the maze. None of us here knows that secret, but we know where to find the one who does.’

‘The Eyrie of Illumination is guarded by the most infernal of the Prismatic King’s legions,’ Othmar said. ‘When our chamber came here, we knew that only by capturing the realmgate and securing it could we prevail against the Eyrie. If our warhost was insufficient for the task, how can a mere handful triumph?’

‘You forget that we have the might of Ghal Maraz now,’ Deucius declared. ‘What army can stand against the power of the godhammer?’

‘It isn’t necessary to capture the Eyrie,’ the Celestant-Prime explained. ‘For that, we would need the strength of numbers. But our purpose isn’t to seize the fortress, only to find its master. To that end, a small group is better. Let the Prismatic King underestimate his peril, let him believe we are naught but a nuisance to be swatted aside. He will hesitate to commit his legions if he believes they are unnecessary.’ The hero turned from the Stormcasts and again regarded the cloaked wizard. ‘Do you know a way into the Eyrie?’

Throl smiled. ‘The Prismatic King moves his Eyrie whenever it suits him. Sometimes it is in the plains, sometimes the mountains. But always it must return to the fields of Uthyr where he first raised it from the fire. At dawn and dusk, the inbetween times when the borders of existence are at their thinnest, that is when the stronghold must return to its foundations.’

‘Then guide us to the fields of Uthyr,’ the Celestant-Prime told the wizard. ‘Do this, Throl, and know that you will have done your part to avenge your people.’

Chapter Four

The fields of Uthyr could be felt long before they were seen. Their stifling heat spilled across the domain like a blast of dragonfire. Only the hardiest of creatures braved the desolation surrounding the region: steely weeds that nestled in the shelter of rocks and ugly lice-like bugs that burrowed beneath the hot sands.

The Thriceblessed marched across this blighted expanse, their armoured boots digging deep furrows in the parched land. Throl trotted along behind the warriors, pausing every now and again to renew the spells that enabled him to endure the ghastly heat.

‘Does it never rain in this hell?’ Othmar growled, fingers twitching on his sword.

Throl chuckled darkly. ‘None that would quench your thirst,’ he said. ‘The storms of Uthyr are things of boiling lead and ash. If you want water, we must stray far from our course.’

Othmar turned to glower at the wizard. ‘If you can endure, then so can I,’ he declared.

The wizard smiled at Othmar. ‘If I told you that the clouds you see on the horizon are simply fumes rising from the flames of Uthyr, would that cheer you?’

Othmar looked at the black expanse stretching across the sky. ‘Not particularly,’ he grumbled as he pressed on.

Deucius shook his head and waved his hand at the smoke. ‘It seems the worst is yet to come. It is hard to imagine a blaze that could create such smoke.’

‘The fires of Uthyr have been burning since the founding of Shaard,’ Throl said, his eyes gleaming with the memory of his vanished nation. ‘Even the Prismatic King could do little to tame this part of his domain.’

The Celestant-Prime laid his hand reverently against the head of Ghal Maraz. ‘The sorcerer may have failed to overcome this land, but the power of the God-King will overcome him. He will atone for his evils and confess his secrets. With the threat of Ghal Maraz before him, even a sorcerer might reveal the truth.’

A scowl formed on Throl’s face. ‘So long as he doesn’t confess his secrets too easily,’ he grumbled. ‘It has been a long walk from the swamp to be cheated of watching the Prismatic King suffer.’

Against all hope, the heat grew worse when the Stormcasts reached Uthyr itself. Each breath they drew felt as though it must sear their lungs. A mortal warrior would have cooked within his armour before he could begin the climb out from the sandy waste and onto the fields. A lesser metal than sigmarite would have become blisteringly hot from the mephitic atmosphere that surrounded them.

The fields of Uthyr were a scorched morass of cinder and ash, gutted and scarred by streams of molten lead and boiling copper. Geysers of volcanic fumes exploded from yawning pits, dancing in fiery gyrations as they billowed upwards. Great pinnacles of pumice, their faces carved into the tormented shapes of the damned, thrust themselves up from the hellish terrain, piercing the smothering miasma of smoke.

Thrusting its way through the fire and slag, supported upon ethereal peaks of shimmering heat, was a great tunnel of volcanic glass. Rippling with strange colours, exuding weird harmonics that wailed across the bubbling din of the fields around them, the glassy channel cut across the fiery terrain. The shifting intensity of the heat that supported it caused the tunnel to pitch and roll, undulating like some vast serpent.

‘There,’ Throl declared, pointing into the tunnel. ‘That is the foundation upon which the Prismatic King raised his Eyrie. That is the place to which his fortress must return!’

The Celestant-Prime gazed into the cavernous passage. Navigating it seemed impossible, an insurmountable obstacle. Yet he remained undaunted. The Prismatic King held the key to both the realmgate and the missing Thriceblessed. Whatever obstacles the lands of Shaard put in his way, he would achieve Sigmar’s purpose and confront the disciple of Tzeentch.

‘Then that is where our path leads us,’ the Celestant-Prime declared. He cast his gaze across the Stormcasts. ‘Have courage, brothers. However arduous the task, know that if it is Sigmar’s will that we succeed, then only our own lack of faith can bring us to ruin.’

Deucius bowed his head. ‘By the grace of the God-King, let none of us be found unworthy,’ he said.

‘Can we be certain that the Eyrie will appear where the wizard claims it will?’ Othmar asked. ‘It is only by his word that…’

‘His word has led us this far,’ the Celestant-Prime reminded him. ‘It is late to doubt him now.’ As he spoke, he turned and nodded to Throl. At every step, the wizard’s advice had felt right in a manner more compelling than conventional logic or wisdom. In a way he couldn’t explain, he knew they weren’t being led astray. Perhaps it was the wizard’s fierce desire for revenge, perhaps it was the hand of Sigmar upon the Stormcast’s soul, perhaps it was something deeper buried within his very essence: he couldn’t say — all that he was certain of was that when the dusk came, they would find the Eyrie standing just where Throl had promised them it would appear.

‘No mean feat,’ Othmar declared, fingers tapping. ‘A tunnel of black glass floating in a sea of flame.’

‘A simple task for those with a small and simple faith,’ Deucius said. ‘Cast aside your worry, brother, and rejoice that Sigmar has deemed us worthy of such a trial.’

The Celestant-Prime strode out onto the fields, feeling the burning rock searing at his sigmarite boots. ‘Rejoice when we are through the tunnel and the Eyrie stands before us,’ he advised.

The Stormcasts followed him out across the scorched crust of Uthyr. The burning rock splintered and cracked beneath their armoured weight, fraying and splitting with every step they took. At times ugly holes would appear, vomiting toxic vapours in a spray of steam. Once a great fissure opened as Deucius advanced across the field, nearly swallowing the warrior as the surface crumbled away. The Celestant-Prime flew to the Liberator’s side and pulled the imperilled warrior back from the edge, hurling him back with a display of his prodigious strength. The champion stared down at the roiling river of glowing magma that yawned below, appreciating how utterly the molten fire would have consumed his comrade.

‘The ground is too treacherous,’ Othmar cursed. ‘We will never reach the tunnel.’

Throl hurried towards the Celestant-Prime. Lacking the armour and superhuman vitality of the Stormcasts, the wizard depended upon his magic to guard him from the hostility of Uthyr. As he sprinted across the blackened ground, patches of rock disintegrated under even his comparatively light tread. ‘My spells can show you the way!’ Throl shouted to the hero.

‘Then use your magic!’ Deucius ordered the man.

Throl shook his head. ‘It isn’t so simple,’ he warned. Shifting his gaze back to the Celestant-Prime, he hurried to explain. ‘Only my magic protects me from the fire and heat. If I turn my mind to a new conjuration, I will lose my focus. The spells that protect me will dissipate.’

The Celestant-Prime nodded towards the magma flowing at the bottom of the fissure. ‘Without a safe path, many of us may be lost before we gain the stair. It may be that Sigmar has sent you to us to overcome this obstacle.’ He looked across the flames at the sinister tunnel. It seemed as distant as when they had first set out across the fields. ‘If one of us were to carry you, would you be able to turn your mind to the magic that will show us a safe path?’

The wizard scratched at his chin. His gem-like eyes blazed as he considered the Celestant-Prime’s words. ‘Maybe the God-King did allow our paths to cross,’ he mused. ‘Maybe it is fate that has cast us together. Yes, I think if you were to carry me across I could focus my energies on exposing a safe path through the fields.’

Deucius came between Throl and Ghal Maraz. ‘You are the bearer of the godhammer,’ he told the Celestant-Prime. ‘It is unseemly that you should be asked to carry the wizard alongside the holiest of holies. Let me carry Throl across the fields.’

The Celestant-Prime let his hand brush across the golden head of his hammer, feeling its sacred power crackle under his fingers.

‘It will be as you say, Deucius,’ the hero decided. He fixed his eyes on Throl. ‘Begin your conjurations, wizard. We must be through the passage before twilight.’

Deucius reached down and lifted Throl from the rocks. As soon as his feet were clear of the burning ground, Throl closed his eyes and began to murmur to himself, strange incantations whispering across his lips. The Celestant-Prime could see tendrils of aethyric energy being drawn into the wizard’s body, dancing and writhing about him in ropy coils of light. At the same time, he could see luminous patches blaze into life all across the fields.

‘Where the light shines the ground is firm,’ Throl spat the words in a hurried gasp, then quickly resumed his incantation.

The Celestant-Prime raised the godhammer overhead, fixing the attention of every Stormcast upon him. ‘Follow the light. Make for the shining ground and keep to its path.’

Balancing haste against caution, the Thriceblessed picked their way across the fields of Uthyr. Stretches of blackened earth separated the patches of safe ground revealed by Throl’s magic. Here the rock splintered and crumbled beneath the warriors, threatening them with immolation as jets of hot gas spewed up from the ground or pits of magma were exposed. Despite the promise of an excruciating death, the men pressed on, moving from one expanse of stable ground to the next.

Chapter Five

At last the tunnel of volcanic glass came within reach. Othmar was the first to gain the eerie passage, climbing into the blackened corridor, feeling the heat of the glass billowing around him. Deucius was among the last. As the Stormcasts neared the entrance, he caught hold of Throl and flung the wizard into the arms of the Stormcast who had already entered the corridor. Then Deucius lunged at the undulating mouth of the passage, his hands sliding on the smooth glass as he fought to gain a grip on the edge of the opening. Before he could drop away, his comrades reached down and caught hold of him, dragging him back from the edge of oblivion.

The Celestant-Prime braced himself as he saw the tunnel dipping along the surface of the fiery pits. Holding back to aid any of the Stormcasts, the champion found himself the last remaining on the scorched field. The ground around him was splintering and cracking, sloughing away in a widening crater. Tongues of volcanic fury blasted upwards, searing the air with their fiery rage. What had been a patch of illuminated ground lost its enchantment, fading to the same charred hue as the rest of the fields. The meaning was clear: this ground was no longer safe and so Throl’s magic no longer shone upon it.

Feeling the earth beneath him trembling, the Celestant-Prime knew he couldn’t wait for the tunnel to rise back to a more advantageous position. Mustering all the strength in his mighty frame, the hero dived for the sinking passage, mighty wings propelling him into the yawning mouth as it skirted the surface of the flaming sea. The Celestant-Prime’s body hurtled through the narrow gap between tunnel and sea, fire licking about him as the thermal current smashed his body against the glassy roof of the corridor. Shards of glass from the fractured roof clattered around him as he fell to the scorching floor below. Almost at once, Deucius was beside him, helping the Celestant-Prime back to his feet.

‘As you said, my lord,’ Deucius stated. ‘We have come too far to falter now.’

‘With farther yet to go,’ the Celestant-Prime observed. Before them, the tunnel stretched away, writhing and whipping about in mad gyrations. The floor was broken, split into great slab-like sections with menacing gaps between them that opened into the molten sea beneath. What magic kept the fire from bubbling up through the openings, he didn’t know, but whatever its nature he was grateful for it. Gaps in the roof overhead let a patina of ash rain down from the smoky sky above.

‘The land itself fights us,’ Othmar cursed, wiping his gauntlet across the face of his helm to clear the scum of soot that was already gathering there.

‘The Prismatic King guesses your purpose,’ Throl said. ‘He unleashes the elements to defy you. He seeks to break your spirit and cast you down in defeat.’

The Celestant-Prime tightened his hold upon the godhammer, feeling the power pulsing within the weapon. ‘What better proof that the enemy fears us than these sorcerer’s tricks? He thinks he can break us with his magic, believes he can overwhelm us with his spells. He can’t understand our strength or imagine the fastness of our faith. He denies the power of Sigmar and the conviction of those who serve the God-King!’

The Stormcasts echoed the passion of their Celestant-Prime in a mighty shout, howling the name of Sigmar down the grim tunnel, defying the elements raging all about them. Boldly they followed the champion’s lead as he charged down the passage and hurled himself across the first gap in the floor. With a sea of fire blazing up at them, the warriors leapt across the gap, slamming down onto the undulating surface of the slab beyond.

As soon as the Stormcasts had crossed one gap they were running towards the next. They didn’t hesitate as the slab began to pitch, making their footing treacherous. They ignored the threat of disaster, the promise of burning death that awaited them below. For them there was only the objective ahead. Where the Celestant-Prime led, they would follow.

Throl matched the tremendous pace set by the mighty Stormcasts, the wizard’s lean body crackling with the magics he wove around himself to meet the demands of Sigmar’s chosen. Despite the taxing effort, he maintained the pace, confronting each hazard with the same fortitude as the warriors of Azyr. Only when they had leapt across the eighth gap in the floor did Throl hesitate. Throwing his arms wide, the wizard gave voice to a jubilant cry.

‘The ninth breach!’ he shouted. ‘Behold, the Eyrie manifests itself beyond the ninth breach!’

The roof of the tunnel and the smoky sky of Uthyr made it impossible to judge the disposition of the sun. Twilight, it seemed, had stolen upon the land without warning. As the wizard cried out to them, the Stormcasts stared at the far end of the tunnel. There they saw a deepening and thickening of the darkness that hovered above the fires of Uthyr. With each heartbeat, the blackness became a bit more solid, losing more of its nebulous appearance. Before their eyes, the Prismatic King’s palace was drawing shape and substance to itself.

The Eyrie of Illusion was built not from brick and stone, but seemed woven from shadows and echoes. It was a great pinnacle of darkness that drew all light into itself, making it stand stark and abominable against Uthyr’s fiery sea. Polished panels of darkling glass glimmered amidst the tower’s nebulous walls, pulsating with weird reflections and uncanny echoes. Twisted spires contorted away from the main bulk of the fortress, thrusting out in every direction like the thorns of some fecund growth. They would fade and distort even as the eye tried to fix them upon the map of memory, in one instant extending outwards a hundred feet and more, while in the next dissipating down to a mere nub protruding from the black walls.

The Celestant-Prime looked upon the Eyrie and felt his flesh crawl. It wasn’t fear that unsettled him, it was revulsion, the innate repugnance experienced by any mortal creature when faced with the infernal manifestations of powers profane and damned. It was a blight against the very concepts of reason and order — madness endowed with the most tenuous suggestions of shape and form, the most fleeting mockery of existence and substance. Only the most depraved and degenerate of Tzeentch’s minions could suffer such a blasphemy to be his abode, and only the bravest, most steadfast of men would dare to confront such a fiend within his obscene lair.

‘Thriceblessed!’ the Celestant-Prime cried out to the Stormcasts, raising the godhammer high, so that all his comrades might see the holy weapon and be bolstered by the relic’s sacred presence. ‘The enemy is before us. He thinks himself safe within his castle of nightmares. Now let us show him that from the Stormcasts, no pawn of Chaos can ever count himself safe.’

The Celestant-Prime rushed to the edge of the gap and flew across the span to the slab where the Eyrie had appeared. He drifted across the gulf and onto the narrow lip between the shadowy walls and the edge of the floating island. As soon as his feet touched the ground he was moving, circling around the fortress to make room for the warriors following him.

A piercing shriek shuddered through the cavernous tunnel, pulsing outwards from the very walls of the Eyrie. Ghoulish lights throbbed from deep within the fortress, glowing behind the veil of shadows. The Stormcasts locked their shields, Judicators taking position behind the defences of the Liberators, ready to loose their skybolts into whatever foe responded to the alarm.

‘Guard yourselves, brothers,’ the Celestant-Prime told the Stormcasts.

As he spoke, he saw shapes forming within the walls. The glowing lights were rising through the shadows, growing more distinct with each passing breath. It was like watching a swarm of kraken rising from the depths of a black sea, their outlines slowly taking form as they drew nearer the surface. At last the glowing forms began to bleed out from the walls themselves, a kaleidoscope of pulsing lights and undulating sounds. The defenders of the Eyrie had emerged to defy the Stormcasts, sallying from the fortress without either gate or door to mark their passage.

The creatures scuttled out from the walls: loathsome assemblages of madness, discordant fusions of flesh and bone, insane alchemies of claws and tentacles. Some were squat monstrosities with gaping maws and snapping beaks, ropey arms with clawed hands protruding from their bodies without pattern or symmetry. Others were boiling stumps of obscene flesh supported upon a single broad foot festooned with fang-like growths, the arms that grew from their wiry shoulders ending in mouth-like paws that drooled smoke and eldritch fire. Above these gabbling atrocities, sleek long-tailed beings soared into the smoky air, their bodies rippling with wordless screams and coronas of gibbous light.

‘Faith is my valour,’ Deucius snarled as he swung his hammer into the leering visage of a creature clawing its way out of the wall beside him. The pink-skinned abomination split apart under his blow, bursting in an incandescent display of flickering lights and crackling energy. The shattered energies coalesced into two smaller manifestations, blue obscenities that giggled to themselves as they surged towards the Stormcasts.

‘Thriceblessed of Sigmar, do not falter!’ the Celestant-Prime shouted to his comrades. He swung the godhammer in a murderous sweep, pitching a clutch of fanged daemons down into the gap. Their splitting shapes dwindled as they plummeted into the fires of Uthyr raging below.

A blast of aethyric fury seared past the champion’s shoulder, immolating one of the screaming fliers as it dived towards the Celestant-Prime’s back. Caught in the magical flame, the airborne daemon became frayed and tattered, dissipating in puffs of colour and sound. The warrior glanced aside, and saw Throl crouched between two of the Stormcasts, his fingers still aglow with the magic he was unleashing against the Eyrie’s defenders.

‘There are too many of them,’ Throl cried. ‘We cannot hope to prevail.’ The wizard spun around, a cascade of blazing light leaping from his palm to annihilate a clutch of daemons pushing themselves out from the shadowy walls.

The Celestant-Prime brought his hammer slamming down against the slab itself, cracking a piece of the ledge and sending it hurtling into the cauldron below, a score of daemons carried down with it to fiery oblivion.

‘Where there is faith, there is always hope,’ he told the wizard. As he spoke, a crackling daemon bounded towards him upon its stalk-like body, blue flames billowing out from the mouths at the ends of its pulpy arms. The Celestant-Prime stood within the fiery blast, the hammer held before his body.

In the next instant, the daemonic flames dissipated, broken apart before the holy power of the godhammer. The weapon crackled with energy as he held it before him, unharmed. The spirits of the watching Stormcasts soared as they saw the hero advance upon the daemon. With a single blow of his weapon, the Celestant-Prime burst the fiend into a spray of flickering cinders and wailing steam.

Inspired, the Thriceblessed pressed their attack, shields locked in an impenetrable formation as they advanced upon the reeling daemons. The great hammer of the Retributor swatted capering fiends from the slab down into the fiery sea. Arrows from the Judicators felled soaring abominations. And all the while the hammers and swords of the Liberators took a toll on the creatures spilling from the Eyrie’s walls.

‘Faith is the armour no daemon can pierce!’ the Celestant-Prime thundered as he strode across the ashy residue of his vanquished foe. A flock of the airborne monstrosities swooped down upon him, their ray-like bodies slithering through the blizzard of soot falling from the clouds. The daemons shrieked and wailed as they drew near the hero, the gash-like mouths that yawned across the bottom of their bodies gnashing their fangs in greedy anticipation of rending his flesh.

Before the daemons could strike, the Celestant-Prime swung the godhammer at them in a nimbus of crackling energy. Somewhere deep within the recesses of his soul, he understood how to evoke the relic’s awesome might. As the flyers descended, the energies billowing out from the godhammer rose to meet them. The hungry wails of the monsters became anguished howls as their profane substance struck the wave of holy power. The daemons wilted in the purity of Ghal Maraz’s aura, shrivelling like slugs under a hot sun. The withered, desiccated things fell from the air, the residue of their wing-like lobes fluttering uselessly as they sank into the fires of Uthyr.

Around him, the Celestant-Prime could see the other Stormcasts fending off the daemonic host, knocking squealing horrors into the gap or skewering flame-spitting blasphemies on their swords. Othmar struck down a beak-faced creature, splitting its skull with his sword, splattering the walls of the Eyrie with its ichor. Deucius struggled in the clasp of a ray-winged beast, his hands pushing against the edge of its fanged maw to keep it from snapping at his face. Before the daemon could prevail, a bolt of magic from Throl pierced its side and sent it floundering into the fires below.

The Celestant-Prime scowled within his helm as he saw more daemons pushing out from the walls of the Eyrie. They could stand here and fight the fiends forever, but doing so wouldn’t get them inside the fortress. There could be no confrontation with the Prismatic King while the Stormcasts were kept fighting on the palace’s threshold. How long would it be before the moment passed and the Eyrie was free to slip clean of its temporal foundations?

He couldn’t risk such potential disaster. Firming his grip upon the hammer, he brought the weapon crashing against the shadowy wall of the Eyrie. If the Prismatic King didn’t see fit to offer a door into his fortress then he would make his own.

A dolorous boom sounded as the godhammer struck the skein of shadow. Lances of light streamed away from the hammer, crackling through the ebon substance of the Eyrie. When the Celestant-Prime drew his weapon back, tendrils of shadow clung to it, dripping from the golden metal like rivulets of black blood. Where he had struck the wall, he could see that the web of darkness was fractured.

‘For Sigmar!’ the Celestant-Prime cried as he brought the weapon slamming against the already weakened section of wall. This time, when the godhammer’s blazing aura struck the shadows it did far more than simply crack them. The phantom material disintegrated, evaporating in black tatters of ash. Where it had been, an opening was exposed, a gaping wound in the side of the Eyrie.

‘Stormbrothers! With me!’ the Celestant-Prime shouted to his fellow warriors, charging through the fissure he’d opened. Ahead all he could see was a grey dinginess, like a cloud of dust. The foggy greyness clung to him as he rushed into the breech. Then he was through, past the walls of the fortress and inside the palace proper.

What he saw was a deranged confusion of angles and distorted perspectives, stairways of marble that folded in upon themselves or merged with alabaster ceilings or flowed both into and out of topaz floors. Corners were at once convex and concave, defying the senses with the insanity of their violations. Crystal fountains bubbled from the roof, the chromatic liquid flowing from them arcing about in gravity-defying spectacles that mocked every effort to define them.

The Celestant-Prime forced himself to confine his focus to only that which was immediately before him. Something inside him warned that if he tried to contemplate the infernal manipulations of the palace’s confines then the barrage against his senses would break his mind. Only by restraining his awareness could he defy the discordant architecture of the Eyrie and the transforming sorceries of the Prismatic King.

‘By the thunder of Azyr!’ Deucius gasped as the warrior joined the Celestant-Prime within the mad hall. As each of the Thriceblessed pressed through the breech in the wall, he felt a similar sensation of wonder and revulsion.

‘Do not marvel at the Prismatic King’s illusions,’ the Celestant-Prime cautioned them. ‘Focus upon what is near and tangible. Fix your mind upon what you feel and not what you see.’

‘Listen to the wisdom of Ghal Maraz!’ Throl echoed the hero. ‘If you allow your attention to wander, if you lose your focus, then your mind will abandon itself to the Prismatic King’s coils!’ The lean wizard looked towards the Celestant-Prime. ‘My magic can protect against the worst of his illusions but I worry that any spells I cast here may be corrupted by the sorcerer. To my cost I have learned how much greater his power is than mine.’

‘We will protect you, enchanter,’ the Celestant-Prime promised.

‘Whatever we do, let it be done swiftly!’ Deucius cried out. He pointed towards the crazed array of stairways and corridors that opened into the maddening hall. Every passage was swarming with enemies, mortal warriors in grisly armour of bone and chain rushing alongside gibbering daemons and horned beastmen. The Eyrie’s garrison was answering the intrusion of the Stormcasts into their master’s domain. Lost to the Prismatic King’s insanity already, the monstrous horde was accustomed to navigating the chaotic discord of his halls.

Throl closed his eyes, clapping his hands together as he drew upon his own magic. Eldritch energies flashed from his fingers, snaking around his body before stretching outwards.

‘Pursue the light,’ the wizard hissed through clenched teeth. ‘The Prismatic King seeks to usurp my spell. I know not how long I can fend off his sorcery.’

The Celestant-Prime led the Thriceblessed in pursuit of Throl’s guiding light. They rushed past gaping doorways that opened into nothingness, hurtled down stairways that descended into the ceiling and dashed around corners that bled back into themselves, racing against the malignity of the sorcerous tower. At every turn, bands of Chaos warriors and packs of shrieking daemons assailed them, seeking to drag them down with blades of steel and talons of iron.

Before them, the hall opened into a great gallery, the walls fashioned from bizarre panels of stained glass, each pane emitting a kaleidoscope of light. Strange scenes unfolded along the translucent walls, frozen images of obscene sorceries and magical atrocities, portraits of maniacs and monsters, each more wicked and obscene that the last.

Billowing up from the centre of the gallery, spreading like a skeletal tree, was a wide stair fashioned from shimmering hoarfrost. Branches of the stair stretched into the glass walls, vanishing through the images locked upon the panes. Other limbs of the stair connected with the raised arcade that ringed the hall, widening into broad platforms of mist and ice. From these platforms and down the arctic branches charged a snarling horde of Chaos knights, their foul armour stained with cabalistic sigils and arcane emblems. The weapons each knight bore were things of fell sorcery and vile ritual — great axes of brass and silver that shrieked as though endowed with monstrous vitality of their own, hideous swords, their blades coruscating with eldritch flames, spears of iron and bone that pulsated with the discordant harmonies of unchained ether, and flails that writhed with the infernal essence of the daemons bound within their steel.

The Stormcasts met the charge of the Chaos knights, and Ghal Maraz tore a path through the armoured fiends. The Celestant-Prime loosed the sacred fury of the godhammer against the degenerate men, shattering their armoured bodies with each blow. By the score he reaped a butcher’s toll upon the vassals of the Prismatic King, strewing the gallery with their broken bodies. Yet for each knight he brought down, a dozen more appeared to take their place.

The Thriceblessed locked their shields, letting the charging knights break against them in a wave of rage. Swords stabbed out from between shields to gut the warriors who strove to batter their way past. Skybolts sizzled into the howling guards, piercing corrupt mail to gouge the abominable flesh within. Safe behind their defending brethren, the Judicators were able to measure each shot, loosing only when certain of a killing strike. From the shadow of the Stormcasts, Throl worked his magic, unleashing fingers of flame that licked across the oncoming knights and left their armour scorched and smoking.

The Prismatic King’s slaves, however, took their own toll upon the Stormcasts. First the lone Retributor was pulled down, his knee shattered by the impact of a spiked mace, his head crushed beneath the halberd of a horned warrior. Then the Liberator beside Othmar was felled by a spear through his gorget, blood spilling from the mask of his helm as he coughed out his life.

Lightning rumbled through the great gallery as one by one the Thriceblessed were killed by the enraged knights. As life ebbed from the body of each Stormcast, flesh and spirit evaporated in a blast of coruscating brilliance, hurled back through the vastness of space to return to the realm of Azyr and the golden halls of Sigmaron.

Death might not be the end for the Stormcasts, destined to be reforged anew, but the loss of so many comrades pained the Celestant-Prime. They were now only ten. Each fighter lost raised the odds against them all and made the task ahead of them that much greater.

Leaping upwards, powering into the gallery’s frosty air on his shimmering wings, the Celestant-Prime drove down upon the stairway. Raising the Cometstrike Sceptre, he unleashed the magic bound within the relic. The head of the sceptre blazed with dazzling energies, a spike of divine power streaking upwards, piercing the profane vaults of the Eyrie. An instant passed, and then the ribbon of holy energy was hurtling down once more, bearing a fiery sphere. A sweep of the sceptre and the Celestant-Prime unleashed the imprisoned comet. His target wasn’t the horde of Chaos knights spilling down into the hall — with a thunderous shriek the comet slammed into the stairway. Branches cracked and split, sending howling knights crashing to the floor below. The main trunk of the stair shivered, sagging to one side then another, guards clinging to the swaying balustrades as they lost their footing.

The Stormcasts were quick to exploit the opportunity the Celestant-Prime’s attack presented. Breaking their formation, the golden warriors rushed forwards, striking down the stunned knights writhing on the floor, attacking the Chaos warriors who continued to slip free from the swaying trunk. A blow of the godhammer and the stair came crashing down in an avalanche of frost and flailing bodies. The knights caught in the collapse screamed in agony as they were crushed.

The Thriceblessed drew away from the mound of glowing debris, listening to the anguished cries of those being consumed within the frozen heap. The Celestant-Prime swooped along the overlooking platforms, driving back those knights who yet lingered above the gallery.

The mound of frost began to boil, rivulets streaming upwards to reshape themselves in new patterns. The Thriceblessed turned from their extermination of the crippled knights, circling around the shifting frost. The same thought was in each of their minds, the fear that the stair would regenerate and bring fresh waves of knights surging down upon them. The prospect of battle wasn’t daunting — it was the worry of failure, the shame lest they should never reach the Prismatic King and wrest from him his dark secrets.

Striking down a clutch of Chaos knights ranged along the platform, the Celestant-Prime turned and started down towards the bubbling geyser of frost. He had smashed the stair once already. To hold the gallery against the Prismatic King’s guards, he would do so again.

‘Wait, my lord!’ Deucius cried out as he saw the Celestant-Prime diving towards the resurgent frost. The Liberator waved his hammer in warning, imploring him to keep back.

The Celestant-Prime noticed what Deucius had seen just as he was raising Ghal Maraz to smash the skein of glowing ice. He pulled out from his dive, swinging away as he gazed in surprise at the billowing mass of frost. What was growing out from the mound wasn’t the stairway, but rather had the shape of an enormous door, a mammoth gate of icy spikes. Around the portal burned the magic light of Throl’s spell, the shimmer that revealed the path to the Prismatic King.

As the Celestant-Prime flew above the gate, the massive door began to shake and shudder. Folding upon itself, without any manner of substance or solidity behind it, the door swung open to reveal a murky chamber beyond, a room utterly different from the kaleidoscopic gallery.

Before any of the Stormcasts could draw near the uncanny phenomenon, something vast and monstrous erupted from the murk beyond the door. It was a gigantic, brutish horror, a thing of purple scales and leathery blue flesh, black chitinous plates and scarlet membranes that fluttered angrily in the arctic chill. The thing’s shape was not unlike that of some gargantuan ape, squat, powerful legs supporting it from behind while great clawed arms dragged its ghastly mass forwards. Twin tails lashed the air behind it, each ending in a slavering mouth filled with dripping fangs. Between its broad shoulders, instead of a head, a far greater maw stretched wide, a scourge of oily tentacles slobbering past its knifelike fangs. A grotesque star-shaped growth bulged from the abomination’s back, a baleful flame blazing at its centre, pulsating with arcane energies. Fingers of sorcerous fire seeped out from between the monster’s scales, crawling up its hideous bulk to merge with the conflagration at the core of the star.

‘The Prismatic King’s hound!’ Throl wailed. ‘Its very touch is annihilation!’

As though to prove the wizard’s words, the hulking beast sprang forwards, its great claw snatching one of the Judicators before the archer could loose an arrow. The golden armour sizzled beneath the thing’s touch. There was a cracking groan, and the sigmarite mail began to disintegrate, trickling through the horror’s claws in a stream of dust. The other Thriceblessed charged forwards to rescue their stricken comrade, striking at the beast with sword and hammer while the arcane lightning of Throl’s wizardry crackled across its hideous frame.

The efforts of warriors and wizard alike were hopeless. The slavering monstrosity ignored their assault, instead lashing out with its tails to catch a second Stormcast. The monster started to raise its second victim towards its dripping tentacles when a fierce cry from above caused it to rear back in surprise. Even its maddened bestial brain recognized the might behind that shout and the challenge it proclaimed.

The Celestant-Prime hurtled down upon the huge beast. A blow from the godhammer and one of the ape-like arms was shattered. His blazing hammer crushed the grisly mess of tentacles and fangs between the brute’s shoulders. Swinging the hammer on high, he brought it cracking around once more, shattering the weird star-like growth and causing the bubbling mass of arcane fire and eldritch energy at its core to cascade down into the beast’s own body. The gigantic creature howled in agony as the vortex consumed it, immolating its mutated frame from the inside.

The Celestant-Prime tore the whip-like tendril from the embattled Stormcast the brute had seized. The first to be caught by the beast was gone, but he lifted the second warrior into the air, bearing him back across the floor to their comrades. Landing beside the Thriceblessed, he watched as the vortex dissolved the Prismatic King’s nightmarish pet.

‘So dies the hound. Now we go and find its master,’ Othmar vowed as the last of the beast was consumed.

Throl pointed to the now undefended gateway. ‘The mutalith would not have been set to guard this door unless it was important to the Prismatic King,’ he said. ‘The tyrant’s throne itself may lie beyond it.’

The Celestant-Prime nodded. ‘Then let there be no further delay,’ he said, leading his remaining comrades through the gate of frost.

The moment they were through the doorway, the Thriceblessed froze, stunned into silence. The Celestant-Prime could feel the dismay of his comrades, could sense the trepidation that threatened to consume them. To his eyes, they had entered a shimmering canyon of glass. Tier upon tier upon tier of mirrored panels, rose far overhead and sank away deep beneath their feet. The floor upon which they walked felt as hard as stone but at the same time had the transparency of spring water, revealing the limitless depths below.

‘The Maze of Reflection,’ Deucius gave voice to the anxiety which gripped each of the Thriceblessed. The warriors had been prepared for almost anything when they breached the walls of the Eyrie, but they had hardly expected to find the insidious trap they had managed to escape — a trap that by any law of time and space should be leagues from the fields of Uthyr.

‘The Prismatic King!’ Throl cursed. ‘He has usurped my magic, twisted my spell to draw us all into his trap.’

The Celestant-Prime glared at the tiers of mirrors. The thrill of warning grew more insistent. He felt that if he concentrated, if he plumbed the very depths of his soul, he would understand the nature of the menace they now faced. But to do so would need time, and that was one resource he didn’t intend to squander.

‘We aren’t trapped yet,’ Ghal Maraz declared. ‘Back away to the door. We’ll try to navigate the hall again.’ As he turned, however, the Celestant-Prime found that their avenue of retreat was closed to them. Where the door of ice had been there was only a continuance of the mirrored rows. The doorway was gone, vanished after hurling them into the heart of the Maze.

Ghal Maraz looked to the Thriceblessed. ‘You broke free of this trap before,’ he began.

Deucius shook his head. ‘That was a miracle in itself,’ he said. ‘We managed to find a flaw in our prison.’

‘Or so I was allowed to believe,’ Othmar scowled. ‘Maybe it wasn’t fortune that allowed us to leave, but some scheme of the Prismatic King. Maybe he knew we would find the Celestant-Prime and bring him into this trap.’

The Celestant-Prime stared across the canyon, studying the mirrored tiers. As though in response, an eerie shimmer rippled through them. The reflective faces were no longer empty. Bound within them, he could see the armoured figures of Stormcasts. From the iconography that adorned their sigmarite mail, he knew these were the Thriceblessed, the rest of the warrior chamber that had been lost in the campaign against the Prismatic King.

The figures in the mirrors weren’t static images. He could see them marching, searching, struggling within the weird limbo behind the mirror. They were trying to find a way out, but their efforts never drew them any closer to the glass. Whatever they attempted, to the observer on the outside the warriors remained the same distance away. From their actions, the Celestant-Prime decided that they couldn’t see the glass, much less the world beyond it.

‘This is sorcery beyond any mortal,’ said Throl, shuddering as he joined the Celestant-Prime and looked upon the mirrors. ‘This is the magic of Tzeentch himself. Imperious and incontestable.’

‘It can be beaten,’ declared the Celestant-Prime. He gestured to the Stormcasts. ‘These warriors slipped free of the maze. That means this magic does have a weakness, whether it comes from Tzeentch or simply one of the Deceiver’s minions. There is a weakness.’

Even as he spoke, the Celestant-Prime saw the mirrors begin to shift, spinning across the walls, sinking from upper tiers to lower ones, ascending from beneath the floor to take a new position far above. It was a bewildering, disorienting display, like watching the world slide onto its side and then turn itself over again. Deucius staggered, overwhelmed by a sickening revulsion. The rest of the Thriceblessed outside the mirrors fell to their knees as nausea sapped their constitutions as well. The warriors locked within the mirrors gave no sign that they were aware of the rotation, the grey nothingness behind the glass unfazed by the shifting spin of its frame.

The revolving mirrors began to show other shapes now, captives far different from the noble Stormcasts. Behind some of the mirrors loomed the putrescent bulks of gigantic plague daemons, their antlers festooned with decaying carcasses of men and beasts. Lascivious monstrosities with snapping claws and supple bodies leered seductively from their magic prisons. A great rat-like thing with thirteen horns scrabbled against the glass, trying to gnaw at its cell with fangs of iron. Warlords and sorcerers, men and monsters, daemons and the abominable undead, all these had tried to oppose the Prismatic King during his tyrannical reign, and all had been consumed by his Maze of Reflection.

Something caught the Celestant-Prime’s eye as it went whirring past, revolving and spinning away amidst the confusion of panels. A bare pane amidst the riot of images assailing his senses, an emptiness that stood stark and clear among the clutter of the maze. A single mirror that didn’t have a captive locked behind its glass. Instead there was a jagged crack that snaked down its face. A memory, an impulse, made the Celestant-Prime turn and look to the other wall. Again, there was an empty pane, clear and distinct amidst the turmoil of the maze’s reflections. Taking wing, he rose towards the second barren panel. He found the exact same crack running down its glass as the one on the opposite wall. It would have been natural to believe the mirrors to be reflections of one another, but they were too distant from each other for that to be true. They were more than visual echoes of one another. They were more like twins.

An incredible idea rose within the Celestant-Prime’s mind, a thought that nagged at him with the persistence of some half-forgotten experience. He focused upon one of the mirrors holding the Thriceblessed and locked every detail in his mind. Swiftly he swung around and faced the opposite wall, eyes roving across the thousands of shifting mirrors to find the one which would further the theory he had formed. At last he spotted it, far overhead, a mirror that exhibited the exact twin of the scene he had memorized from the first one. Again, the two mirrors were too far apart to simply be reflecting the same image. In some way he didn’t understand yet, they formed a pair, and within that eldritch symmetry was hidden the secret of the maze.

‘Watch the mirrors,’ the Celestant-Prime said to Deucius, raising the warrior to his feet. ‘I am going to try something.’ Deucius nodded, tightening his grip on his weapon. The other Thriceblessed followed his example, ready to lend their own efforts to the Celestant-Prime’s plan.

The Celestant-Prime had just begun to soar towards the first of the mirrors, when he sensed an unsettling change in the air. The atmosphere, already tainted with the chill of sorcery and the stink of mutation, now became pregnant with a smouldering hostility. Turning his gaze below, he saw some of the ever-shifting mirrors begin to slow, their gyrations become more focussed. In a blaze of light, two of the mirrors flared outwards, a hideous form emerging from the midst of that light. Verminous and gigantic, the thirteen-horned rat-beast reared back on its clawed legs and chittered a fierce shriek of jubilation. Its yellow eyes glared about the Maze, fixing upon the Thriceblessed. With a snarl of inhuman malignance, the rat-beast was charging towards the armoured warriors.

Other mirrors now blazed with light, disgorging their own captives, loosing clutches of fiendish creatures against the Stormcasts. The Celestant-Prime whirled around, ready to lend his might to his embattled comrades. Before he could descend, however, his attention was caught by the mirror beside him. Here the glass wasn’t filled with the image of an imprisoned Stormcast. It was a different kind of captive that glared out from the mirror. A vision of hate and fury, its skull-like head sporting great curled horns, its blood-stained body rippling with thick cords of muscle. Vast bat-like wings erupted from its back. Strips of twisted mail and shattered plate hung from its torso, less as armour and more in the fashion of gruesome trophies. Carved into the beast’s forehead was a loathsome symbol, a sign that spoke of havoc and murder throughout the Eight Realms: the rune of Khorne.

The eyes that smouldered within the pits of the daemon’s face were unfocused at first, as unaware of the outer world as the Stormcasts. But then a grisly change came upon them. They shifted and fixated upon the Celestant-Prime, the lipless mouth below them spreading in a malicious leer. The creature could see the Celestant-Prime. It was aware of the world beyond the mirror.

The Celestant-Prime looked across to the other wall just as the whirring rotation of mirrors brought the exact opposite of the daemon’s glass into place. As the two mirrors now faced one another, a terrible rending sound echoed through the Maze. There was a blinding flash and then the two mirrors were spinning away again — only now the glass was empty. The thing that had been held captive was free, soaring towards the Celestant-Prime on its own wings. At a gesture, its clawed hand erupted into a cataract of bubbling gore. The stream lengthened and thickened, spreading out from the monster’s talons. With each heartbeat, the blood coagulated, building successive layers of solidity, assuming the form of a double-headed axe.

The Celestant-Prime darted away as the infernal creature swooped towards him. The thing’s axe slashed through the air in a murderous sweep, flecks of sizzling blood streaming from the grotesque blade. The Celestant-Prime retaliated with a swing of Ghal Maraz, the holy weapon causing the daemon’s flesh to bubble like molten bronze as it grazed past the fiend’s wing.

The daemon threw its head back in a savage howl, pivoting in midair to face its foe. It slashed its axe along its own forearm. Steaming blood dripped from the injury, writhing in a gory rope as it rushed from the wound. Like the axe the beast had formed, the rope quickly thickened, taking on the shape and substance of a barbed whip. The daemon cracked its lash in the air, spattering Ghal Maraz’s golden armour with flecks of blood that steamed against the sigmarite mail.

The Celestant-Prime glared back at the skull-faced daemon, ready to match his righteous fury against the beast’s murderous rage. Before he could, he was struck from behind, a brutal kick smashing into his back and causing him to plummet downwards. As he spun away, he could see a second Khornate daemon, another of the Blood God’s bestial champions, speeding after him, its spiked maul ready to deliver a further treacherous blow.

The first daemon howled, streaking past its comrade to lash at the Celestant-Prime with its whip. The crimson coil wrapped about the hero’s arm, snapping taught as it arrested his fall. For an instant, he hung there as the daemon with the maul came rushing at him. The beast flung its weapon at the Celestant-Prime. Only a rapid twist of his body prevented a more solid contact, as the maul ripped sparks from his armour as it scraped past him.

The second daemon was far from disarmed. It uncoiled a black mass of cord from around its wrist, a ghastly whip fashioned from skulls and sinew. It struck at the Celestant-Prime, trying to bind him.

Swinging back and forth like a pendulum, the Celestant-Prime defied the efforts of the daemons to hold him. The first greater daemon was trying to drag him upwards, but even its prodigious strength was no match for that of Sigmar’s champion. With the brawn of its twin to assist it, the daemon might have succeeded, but the Celestant-Prime was determined to thwart such ambitions. When the swinging motion of his body brought his feet against one of the mirrors, he pushed himself off with a mighty kick, feeding his momentum into an upward drive.

The daemon was taken utterly by surprise when its enemy arrowed towards it. Soaring upwards, the hero saw the trap the Khornate fiend had intended for him: an empty mirror, stark against the prisons around it. A quick shift of his eyes showed him the mirror’s twin waiting on the other side.

Just before he drew parallel with the empty mirrors, the Celestant-Prime arrested his ascent. Seizing the blood-whip in his hand, he wrenched the now slackened lash. The beast’s eyes widened with shock as it was jerked downward, tumbling towards the Celestant-Prime and past the empty mirrors.

Again there came the blinding flash. When it faded, the daemon was gone, its image caught in the paired mirrors that now swung about on mismatched courses down the tiers.

The remaining bloodthirster roared and shook its horned head, disgusted that the Celestant-Prime had slipped the trap that had once more claimed its fellow vassal of Khorne. Vengefully, the fiend leapt at the champion, powering its dive with its wings. The hulking brute’s lash licked out, the blackened skulls shrieking as they bit towards the Celestant-Prime.

He didn’t allow the daemon a second blow, and brought the godhammer slamming down into his enemy’s horned visage. The skull-like face shattered under the impact, golden fire from the hammerhead surging through the fiend. Like a weed shrivelling under a hot sun, the daemon’s body wilted away, collapsing into a scabby crust that rained down across the floor.

The Celestant-Prime looked down upon his comrades. The carcass of the rat-beast lay twitching, vermin spilling from its wounds. The bodies of plague-ridden warlords and wanton sorceresses lay strewn about the tiny wedge of Stormcasts. The Thriceblessed were holding their ground, but more foes were spilling from the mirrors with each heartbeat.

Glaring at the spinning mirrors, the Celestant-Prime cursed the malignant power that directed the revolutions of the tiers, ensuring only enemies were freed from their prisons. Then his thoughts seized upon a flicker of memory, something that only now did he recognize. The cracked mirror — there had been something familiar about the way the glass had splintered. Seizing upon that sense of familiarity, he flew upwards, sweeping past rows of enchanted glass to find the one panel he sought.

He found it, speeding away among the tiers, spinning and rotating as though desperate to escape. The Celestant-Prime could see now that his memory wasn’t wrong. The crack echoed the outline of Ghal Maraz. A conviction he couldn’t shake seized the hero. The damage had been wrought by Sigmar’s hammer. How, when, he couldn’t say, but he was certain he knew why.

With an effort that taxed his mighty wings, the Celestant-Prime chased after the spinning mirror. Swinging Ghal Maraz, he brought the great hammer smashing into the cracked glass, obliterating it in a spiral of glistening fragments and glowing aethryic harmonies. A titanic scream rippled through the Maze, an elemental wail of discord. The revolutions of the mirrors slowed, the tiers sagging downwards as the prisons collapsed one after the other.

The flaw in the maze. It had been found once before, but the opportunity to exploit it had been thwarted. Now, the Celestant-Prime was here to turn that failure into success. All around him, the mirrors were breaking, freeing the captives locked within them. Now it wasn’t merely the fiends of Chaos that were at liberty, but all the Stormcasts that had been caught in the Prismatic King’s coils.

The monstrous creatures imprisoned in the maze fell upon one another, less willing to make common cause against the Stormcasts than those beasts deliberately freed by the maze’s master. The Thriceblessed weren’t wracked by such disunity. As they emerged from the aethyric discharge of the mirrors, the golden warriors formed ranks and brought battle to their hideous foes.

Ghal Maraz blazing with holy light in his mailed fist, the Celestant-Prime dived downwards to join his brothers in battle.

Chapter Six

Locked within their prisons for so long, the Thriceblessed were disoriented as they emerged back into the mortal world. Questions of how long they had been trapped were forgotten when they saw the Celestant-Prime and the weapon he carried. The sacred aura of the godhammer swept through them, driving away all sensation but that which stemmed from their devotion to Sigmar. By the God-King they had been tasked to conquer. Now, with the aid of Ghal Maraz, they would accomplish that noble purpose.

The Celestant-Prime looked with pride at the fighters he had freed from the Maze of Reflection. Judicators armed with rune-etched skybolt bows and fearsome boltstorm crossbows. Retributors with great mauls of enchanted sigmarite. Troops of Liberators with their slashing swords and brutal hammers, their shields held proud before them. There were hundreds of the mighty warriors gazing with undisguised reverence at the hero and the weapon for which their Stormhost had been named.

‘Celestant-Prime,’ Deucius said, bowing to the champion. ‘This is Lord-Celestant Devyndus Thriceblessed.’

‘It is my honour to stand in the presence of Sigmar’s chosen,’ Devyndus said. He was a tall, powerfully built man even by the standards of the Stormcasts. The breastplate of his golden armour was fashioned into the image of a twin-tailed comet and from his shoulders there hung a cloak of woven sigmarite, its edges weighted with small hammers cast from the same material. Like the Celestant-Prime, the Lord-Celestant’s helm was ringed by a halo of metal, the spikey crown framing his head like the rays of a golden sun.

‘All who are reforged upon the Anvil of the Apotheosis are the God-King’s chosen,’ the Celestant-Prime told Devyndus. ‘It is only the bravest and most noble who can meet the rigours of such rebirth.’ As he spoke, he could see in his mind the great palace of Sigmar, and himself being remade upon the anvil of the God-King. Who and what he had been before was only a whisper, something just beyond the edge of his memory. What had been wasn’t important. It was the here and now, the ordeal before him that was. His role as rescuer of the Thriceblessed was fulfilled. Now it was left to be liberator of the realmgate and vanquisher of the Prismatic King.

Lord-Celestant Devyndus bowed. ‘We stand at your command,’ he told the hero. ‘Give us your orders and it shall be done.’

Throl stepped forwards, lean and miniscule among the mighty Stormcasts. ‘If you will forgive my impertinence, Ghal Maraz,’ he said, and picked up one of the broken shards from the mirrors. ‘The Maze of Reflection’s presence here and the fiendishness of the trap laid for you was no accident. We were led here, meant to be drawn to this place. It wasn’t mere chance that caused the captive daemons to be loosed against you.’ He held up the sliver of glass, turning it from side to side, letting the light play across its surface. ‘Everything was being directed by the Prismatic King, his terrible magic both setting the stage and moving the players.’

‘The Stormcasts are no puppets to dance for a sorcerer’s whim,’ Othmar snarled, bringing his foot stamping down on a piece of glass.

Throl bowed in apology. ‘No, the warriors of Sigmar aren’t so easily manipulated. That is why the Prismatic King’s trick failed.’

‘But he will try new ways to destroy us,’ the Celestant-Prime said. He clenched his mailed fist, glaring at what remained of the broken maze. ‘Unless we destroy him first.’

‘That is what I propose,’ Throl said. Holding the shard of mirror high, he pointed to its gleaming surface. ‘The Prismatic King spied upon us through the mirrors. More than simply prisons, they acted as windows for his witchsight. Through the mirrors he could watch those he’d caught and those he intended to catch. That is how he knew the right moment to free the blood daemons and when to shift the mirrors to try and snare Ghal Maraz.’

Othmar picked up one of the broken slivers, glaring at it. ‘I hope he’s still watching,’ he growled, scowling at the glass.

‘Is he watching, wizard?’ the Celestant-Prime asked.

‘The spell should be broken,’ Throl said. ‘When the mirrors broke, so too should their magic. But they remain things of the Prismatic King. The thread of his enchantment, the trail of his scrying is still there. My own magic may be able to exploit that lingering thread.’

‘Exploit it how?’ Lord-Celestant Devyndus asked.

Throl gestured expansively at the other shards scattered about the chamber. ‘Gather every piece together. Combine them in a great circle.’ He turned and looked up at the Celestant-Prime, an imploring look on his face. ‘The essence of the Eyrie is the stuff of Chaos — transitory and mutable. It is unfixed and unfinished by the rigours of mortal reality. I can use that shapelessness. My magic can bind itself to the aethyric tether linking the mirrors back to the Prismatic King. I can open a portal that will follow the path right to him.’

The Celestant-Prime nodded. ‘If you can do this, then we won’t need to fight our way through the Eyrie. You can take us straight to the Prismatic King’s throne.’ A concern flared through his mind, a worry that howled with warning. ‘Won’t your magic warn the sorcerer of our coming?’

Throl frowned, the light of vengeance faltering in his eyes. ‘His mastery of the black arts is such that there would be no hiding my magic from him. The instant I evoke my spell, the Prismatic King will know we are coming.’ The wizard shook his head. ‘There is small chance of surprising him if we march through his halls. This way at least you will be brought into the fiend’s presence. This way you will at least see the face of your enemy.’

Feeling the heft of Ghal Maraz in his hands, the Celestant-Prime experienced a sensation of righteous wrath. ‘Let me get that close to him, and your people will be avenged, Throl. The Prismatic King has mocked Sigmar long enough.’ He looked to Devyndus. ‘Have the Thriceblessed gather up the shards. Whatever the wizard needs to work his spell, we will render it to him.’

Lord-Celestant Devyndus clasped his hand to his chest in salute and hurried to pass Ghal Maraz’s commands on to the other Stormcasts. In a moment, the warriors were picking up the broken pieces of mirror, setting them into a growing circle of glass. Throl walked across the jagged shards, seating himself at the very centre of the ring. Closing his eyes, he began to chant.

The pieces of glass began to shift and shudder, quaking upon the floor. Gradually their reflective surfaces became suffused with a brilliant light, a whirring aura that turned from one hue to the next in rapid rotations. The frigid chill of magic swept through the chamber, the breath of each Stormcast ghosting through his helm.

‘The door is open,’ Throl declared, his eyes more glassy and gem-like than the Celestant-Prime had ever seen them. Sweat streamed down the wizard’s strained face. ‘Quickly, while I can still maintain it!’

Devyndus gripped the Celestant-Prime’s shoulder as the champion started towards the glowing circle. ‘Are you certain of the wizard’s magic? Let one of us…’

The Celestant-Prime shook his head. ‘I send no man where I fear to lead,’ he declared. Holding forward the golden head of Ghal Maraz, he shook the weapon at the magic circle. ‘If the godhammer’s might is not enough to bear me to victory, then the valour of the Thriceblessed will be for naught. Let me lead the way, Lord-Celestant.’ His voice grew low, subdued by the magnitude of emotion boiling inside him. ‘This is my trial, and there is none who may lift it from me.’

Without further word, Ghal Maraz strode out into the blinding ring of light. The luminance swirled around him in a coruscating miasma of brilliance, a cascading stream of reflections and echoes that flooded through his senses. With each step he could feel the energies of the broken mirrors engulfing him, blotting out the outside world. He was fading from existence, marching through the passageways between space and time. Where the passage would lead was a matter of faith, not in the magic of Throl, but in the divine power of Sigmar.

A deafening clap of thunder rolled through the Celestant-Prime’s skull as he emerged from the nimbus of eldritch light. One instant he was engulfed in the blinding flash, the next he found himself standing in a grand hall of cyclopean proportions. Titanic columns of crystal soared up into an arched ceiling of uncut gemstone. The floor was like a single mosaic of stained glass, its panes depicting the manifold atrocities and conquests of Chaos throughout the Mortal Realms.

Across the gargantuan hall, an enormous seat rose, a throne fashioned from diamonds that blazed with a kaleidoscope of colours smouldering deep within their facets. Upon the throne sat a vulture-headed Lord of Change, its face turned towards the Celestant-Prime as he emerged from Throl’s portal. There was amusement in the greater daemon’s jewel-like eyes as it sensed the champion’s shock when he gazed upon it. The Celestant-Prime had thought the Prismatic King would be a monster of at least mortal birth. Instead he found himself before an infernal steward of Tzeentch, one of the greater daemons who existed as extensions of their twisted god’s desire.

Bigger than the one-eyed giants he’d fought in the swamp, the Prismatic King rose from its throne. Possessed of roughly human shape, the Lord of Change adorned itself in a long robe of silks and satins, jewels woven into the pattern to form arcane sigils and sorcerous talismans. The gaunt, starveling body of the daemon was covered in black feathers that faded to a leprous yellow at the tips. The vulturine head leered from atop a bare, scraggly neck, the face dominated in a metallic beak of blackened iron. Upon the horror’s talons enormous rings burned with unholy energy. From the Prismatic King’s back spread gigantic wings, exhibiting a dazzle of whirling patterns among the rainbow display of coloured feathers. Upon the beast’s brow, a mirrored crown reflected the Celestant-Prime’s image back at him, but it was a reflection twisted and corrupted by the ruinous essence of the daemon.

‘You have come far to seek an audience with me.’ The Prismatic King’s voice was like the crackling of broken glass and the scrape of steel against stone. ‘In all its long existence my court has never entertained an emissary of Azyr.’

The Celestant-Prime felt every syllable the daemon uttered clawing at him, probing around in his mind and spirit for any trace of weakness. However mighty the godhammer was, however resilient his armour of sigmarite, their strength would account for nothing if the Lord of Change found a flaw within the man himself.

Thunder roared through the hall. The Celestant-Prime could feel the Thriceblessed emerge from the portal. Firm in their faith in the champion chosen by their god, the Stormcasts had dutifully followed him through the magical gate. He could feel the shock that swept through each warrior as he gazed upon the hideous enormity of the Prismatic King, but that shock was tempered, subdued by a sensation yet more powerful: the conviction that each Stormcast held that the Celestant-Prime could overcome even this foe.

Strengthened by the faith of his comrades, the Celestant-Prime took a step towards the diamond throne. ‘I’m not here as emissary,’ he snarled at the daemon. ‘I’m here as executioner. I’m here to answer the cries of the innocent you have enslaved and killed. I’m here to avenge the kingdoms and empires you have annihilated. I’m here to defend the worlds you would despoil with your sorcery.’ He held Ghal Maraz overhead, letting its holy presence blaze forth in a nimbus of sacred fire. ‘Tell me where you have hidden the Pillar of Whispers and earn the mercy of swift destruction.’

The Lord of Change uttered a cackle of withering mirth. ‘I whispered in the ears of priests and emperors in the Age of Myth. I set nations aflame in the Age of Chaos. What are you, Ghal Maraz? A mortal substituting for a god? A nameless vagabond who calls himself by the trinket he carries? Who are you to contend with me?’

The Celestant-Prime felt the bite of the daemon’s words. He felt too the strength of his own faith. His eyes burned behind the mask of his helm. ‘It isn’t who I am that matters — it is what I am!’ He brought Ghal Maraz slamming into the floor, sending a shockwave through the panes that cracked and splintered the innumerable atrocities of the Prismatic King’s glass legions. ‘I am your doom, Soulshriver.’

The daemon’s enraged howl shrieked across the hall. Translucent membranes slid across the fiend’s eyes as it brought its talons together. A surge of crackling magic swept down the gallery, dragging the cracked slivers of the floor into its seething storm. The gale rushed towards the Celestant-Prime and the Thriceblessed, an arcane tornado of boiling sorcery and razored glass.

The Celestant-Prime held his ground, brandishing the godhammer. In a shriek of elemental violence, the dark magic of the Prismatic King crashed into the faith and devotion of Ghal Maraz. The dark storm frayed, its grisly energies blown apart in splatters of roiling corruption that sizzled against the crystal columns and gem-encrusted ceiling. The slivers of glass dropped back to the floor in a cascade of broken fragments.

‘The chosen of Sigmar! The Celestant-Prime!’ Deucius raised his voice in a roar of adoration. The cry was taken up by the other Thriceblessed. Their shame at failing to overcome the trickery of Chaos and at their imprisonment in the Maze of Reflection was now fanned into a surge of judgemental wrath. Like an avalanche, they charged across the hall to confront the daemon who had worked its deceit upon them.

The Prismatic King glared contemptuously at the army of Stormcasts. With a gesture of its ensorcelled talons, the arrows of lightning loosed upon it by the Judicators dissipated into sparks of harmless light. A snap of its mighty pinions sent a gale that staggered the hulking Retributors. A ghastly squawk that was part scream and part incantation bubbled from the daemon’s beak and from the smouldering depths of its diamond throne shapes oozed into being, gaining in size and solidity until they stood within the hall — a mismatched horde of barbaric warriors and snarling beastmen. The Lord of Change extended its claw and the mongrel army leapt to the attack.

Sweeping the Cometstrike Sceptre overhead, the Celestant-Prime once more drew on the relic’s divine power. The ribbon of holy energy swept outward, wrenching a fiery ball from the heavens, flinging the conjured flame full into the swarming foe. Scores of Chaos warriors and beastmen were immolated by the cosmic fury of the comet, their mangled bodies flung across the hall, crashing into the stunned ranks of the Prismatic King’s vassals. Before the slaves of darkness could recover from their shock, the Stormcasts were charging towards them.

The Celestant-Prime led the advance. Faith and conviction were anathema to all things of Chaos, but it would need more than the valour of men to overcome a fiend as ancient and steeped in evil as the Prismatic King. Only a weapon as mighty and sacred as Ghal Maraz could vanquish the daemon.

The Judicators unleashed their skybolts across the hall. The Prismatic King didn’t squander any of its sorcery to protect its slaves, however. Dozens of mortal warriors fell, their blackened mail pierced by the crackling missiles. The Retributors took position before the Judicators, defending the archers against the rush of snarling gors eager for their blood. With precision honed over numberless battles, they swung their massive mauls in a brutal arc, breaking bones and crushing horned skulls. Soon the ground before them was littered with the battered bodies of dead and dying beastkin.

As the Prismatic King’s warriors struck the ring of Retributors, the Liberators pushed their way to the vanguard. With swords and hammers, the Thriceblessed wrought vengeful havoc against the minions of Chaos.

The Celestant-Prime cast down rank after rank of barbarous foes. Each strike from Ghal Maraz sent a thunderous clamour echoing through the hall. With one swing he obliterated a clutch of barbaric reavers. Another blow reduced a pack of horned gors into a heap of bloodied flesh and shattered bone. A hulking, bull-headed minotaur lunged for him, trampling the Thriceblessed who strayed into its path. A glancing blow of the godhammer tore the head from the beast’s powerful body and sent it crashing among the monstrous throng still emerging from the diamond throne.

Any mortal would have known despair as he contemplated the innumerable foes the Prismatic King had already conjured from the depths of its throne. To see still more swarming forth would have broken them. But the Stormcasts had transcended such limits. They had been recast by the God-King, transformed into instruments of Sigmar’s holy retribution. For them, there was no fear in battle, no such thing as unopposable odds. While they lived, they fought and while they fought they did so knowing that the glory of Sigmar shone within each of them.

None embodied this stalwart conviction more than the Celestant-Prime. Here was the fire in which he would be tested, the flame in which he would be proved. Yet as he would have pressed forwards, as he would have battered his way through the hordes of Chaos, a tiny warning made him hesitate. Had the Prismatic King, master of deceit and illusion, limited itself to such crude and obvious measures to protect its domain?

The Celestant-Prime looked beyond the crush of battle and the fires of his own righteous thirst for justice. Despite the ferocity of the fight, none of the Stormcasts had fallen. The chaotic horde was only trying to delay the warriors of Sigmar. After the Maze of Reflection, he could guess their hideous purpose.

Slain, the Stormcasts would dissipate, returning to the Anvil of the Apotheosis to be reforged. Trapped within the mirrors of the Prismatic King, however, they would be lost to the God-King. That was the peril which now threatened the Thriceblessed. The Prismatic King was going to work some feat of sorcery to achieve the same foul enchantment as the maze.

‘Devyndus!’ the Celestant-Prime’s voice thundered above the carnage. ‘The daemon’s slaves are trying to delay us, to give their master time to trap us all.’

The Lord-Celestant bellowed commands to the Thriceblessed near him, who in turn passed the orders down the line. The Judicators loosed a concentrated barrage of lightning-arrows into the midst of the vicious horde, focussing their shafts along a narrow front. Into this momentary gap surged a phalanx of Liberators, their shields locked together to form a wall of sigmarite that would stem the tide of warriors sweeping around them. The Celestant-Prime rushed through the narrow path the Liberators had created for him, Lord-Celestant Devyndus dispatching Deucius to protect the champion’s flank. In their wake, the wizard Throl scrambled towards the forefront of the battle.

Again and again, the Celestant-Prime swept the fury of Ghal Maraz across the ranks of savage reavers who stood before him. By the score the marauders perished, their broken bodies flung across the hall, yet still they came. Beyond them, the champion could see the huge daemon, its eyes glazed, its wings aglow as it summoned more magic into its loathsome conjurations. The transparent diamond of the Prismatic King’s throne was becoming steadily darker, assuming a reflective sheen. The daemon was exploiting the essence of Chamon itself, using the vibrations of the Realm of Metal to help it transmute the diamond throne into a nest of mirrors — a new maze in which to recapture the Thriceblessed.

‘Don’t let it complete its conjuration!’ Throl wailed, a stream of fire erupting from his splayed fingers to ignite a pack of gors, reducing the beastmen to heaps of ash. Deucius smashed down a dog-faced beastlord that had escaped the immolation of its followers, cracking the brute’s skull with his hammer.

The Celestant-Prime surged forwards, howling a challenge to the daemon. The flesh around the Prismatic King’s eyes twitched in fear but the Lord of Change was too committed to its mighty conjuration to break away from the spell. The creatures still emerging from the throne diverted towards the Celestant-Prime, seeking to answer the threat their master couldn’t face. Already the transmutive energies had wrought a change upon the throne, however. The creatures that staggered and crawled towards the hero were obscene half-formed things, their bodies as opaque as glass, their armour as brittle. When Ghal Maraz struck them, they disintegrated in a spray of shards that were both glass and flesh.

Reaching the daemon, the Celestant-Prime raised the godhammer, ready to strike it down with the fury of Sigmar’s wrath. As he started to swing, his eye strayed to the golden sheen of the hammer’s head. In that mirror-like surface, he could see the Prismatic King, towering and terrible. He could also see the shadows of its diamond throne and the creatures emerging from it stretching towards the wall. These shadows were constant, yet that of the daemon flickered with a grisly inconstancy. Only in the reflection of the godhammer was this weird effect revealed. Looking directly at the shadow, it seemed no different.

When Ghal Maraz cracked against the Prismatic King’s leg, the limb burst apart in a spray of light and thunder. The daemon shuddered, sagging back towards its throne. The shadow it cast flickered once more, then faded completely. The Celestant-Prime advanced on the reeling Lord of Change, but again there sounded within the deepest layers of his mind a cry of warning. Again he wondered at the trickery of a foe who could manipulate the senses as thoroughly as the Prismatic King.

He turned his eyes to the golden surface of Ghal Maraz. There, in the godhammer’s sheen, he saw only an empty throne. There was no daemon, no Prismatic King. Not even a flicker of the fiend. The monster’s sorcery could deceive mortal senses, but it couldn’t obfuscate the holy relic with its trickery. The Celestant-Prime turned, staring at the reflection in the hammer, searching for the true shape of the Prismatic King.

What he found was Throl. In the godhammer, the wizard’s shadow was a long ribbon of darkness, vast and hideous — the daemon had entered the man’s body. The Celestant-Prime glared at his enemy. Around them, the sounds of battle faded away, diminishing into nothingness.

‘Much better than the last time,’ the Prismatic King grinned, laughing at the shock the words provoked.

‘If we’d met before, you would already have found your doom,’ the Celestant-Prime snarled, advancing upon the daemon.

‘Only if you win,’ the daemon hissed. ‘You haven’t. Not now, and not then.’ Its gemlike eyes sparkled with malignance. ‘Haven’t you wondered, all those dim memories tugging at you, pulling you here and there?’

‘They brought me here,’ the Celestant-Prime said. ‘They led me here to destroy you.’

The thing wearing Throl’s body laughed again. ‘That is because you’ve been here before. Some foolish test set by your god for you to prove your worth. Didn’t you know? Didn’t your little godling tell you? We’ve danced this dance before, you and I.’

The Celestant-Prime raised godhammer. ‘I’ve no stomach for the lies of daemons,’ he snarled.

‘The best lies are hidden in the truth,’ the daemon mocked. The flesh around its mouth began to shrivel, scraps of blistered skin sloughing away from the bones. ‘There was a real Throl. He thought he could resist me. I even let his identity linger when I assumed his flesh. But there is only so long a mortal shell can contain the grand enormity of my spirit.’

A rending crash rumbled through the hall. Cries of bewilderment rose from the Stormcasts as their erstwhile foes disintegrated into broken glass. The vast shape that leaned against the throne broke apart like a reflection lost in a rippling pool.

‘Kill it, my lord,’ Deucius cried out as he turned away from the wreckage of his last enemy. Other Thriceblessed were converging upon the strange tableau now, surrounding the wizard who had deceived them for so long.

‘Destroy the traitor and have done with it,’ Othmar cursed.

The Prismatic King held its decaying hand towards the Celestant-Prime. ‘Wouldn’t you like to know where the Pillar of Whispers is? I will tell you. Such was ever my purpose, great Ghal Maraz. I will admit, Sigmar is clever in his way. The Maze of Reflection can thwart his cunning but is hardly capable of holding the hero chosen to bear the godhammer. No, I couldn’t kill you and I couldn’t trap you.’ The gloating daemon’s jaw fell off, crumbling to dust as it struck the floor. Still the fiend’s voice slithered from its decaying mantle of flesh. ‘All that was left to me was to destroy you.’

‘Then you have failed, monster,’ Deucius declared. ‘The Celestant-Prime is triumphant. It is you and your slaves that are vanquished!’

‘Do you know where the Pillar of Whispers is hidden?’ the daemon mocked. ‘It is locked away, buried inside a vessel of my own creation. I have held the Thriceblessed a very long time. While they were my guests, I fashioned a simulacrum in their shape. I took one of the Stormcasts from my maze and replaced him with my copy. A perfect copy. A reflection so complete that even it believes itself to be real! That, Ghal Maraz, is where the Pillar of Whispers is hidden! To find the realmgate, you must destroy the simulacrum! Only the godhammer will free it from its mantle of flesh!’

‘More lies!’ Othmar raged. He swung his hammer at the disintegrating body, collapsing its ribs and smashing the carcass to the floor. The desiccated head continued to grin up at the Celestant-Prime.

‘How many must die to unlock the realmgate?’ the Prismatic King’s mockery bubbled up from the bodiless head. ‘Will it be the first or the second, or the two-hundred and second? How many can you strike down before your spirit is broken? How much innocent blood can stain your hands before you are unfit to carry the godhammer?’

The Celestant-Prime listened to no more. Throwing back his head in a roar of outrage and frustration, he brought Ghal Maraz smashing down, obliterating the last shred of what had been Throl’s body and the Prismatic King’s vessel. Denied its host, the daemon’s spirit would be cast back into the Realm of Chaos.

But it was destruction, not defeat. The daemon was vanquished, yet its evil lingered on.

‘It can’t be true,’ Lord-Celestant Devyndus declared. ‘The daemon lies. We are all of us true Stormcasts. You have seen us fight. You have seen us cut down the slaves of Chaos!’

Deucius gestured to the dust that had been Throl. ‘That thing did the same, killing its own servants, springing its own traps all so that it could lull us into trusting it.’

‘But if the simulacrum doesn’t even know it’s false, how can we discover it?’ Othmar asked.

The Celestant-Prime was silent, brooding upon the choice the Prismatic King had put before him. Striking down the Thriceblessed would send them back to Sigmaron, but each time a Stormcast was reforged, he left something of himself behind, becoming less and less human with each incarnation. More, it would blacken his own spirit to massacre his own comrades. He would be tainted, befouled. Unfit to bear Ghal Maraz.

The champion stared down at the sacred hammer. As he did so, he studied the golden sheen. The reflection within the godhammer — the only true reflection within the deceit of the Eyrie. Inspired, the Celestant-Prime held the hammer aloft.

‘Sigmar will show me the way,’ he said. ‘The glory of the God-King will reveal the simulacrum!’ Spreading his wings, he rose into the air above the Thriceblessed, circling above them as he studied the image within the hammer’s golden sheen.

It was when he looked to one stalwart warrior who had fought so valiantly throughout their long march to the fields of Uthyr, that the Celestant-Prime saw a disruption in the reflection. Like the Prismatic King’s daemonic husk, the shadow of the warrior had no presence in the reflection Ghal Maraz revealed to him. The Stormcast wasn’t real, he was naught but a conjuration endowed with shape and form.

The Celestant-Prime returned to the floor, wings folding against his back as he sombrely marched past the Thriceblessed. He could feel the relief issue from each warrior he passed and the trepidation of those he had yet to approach. There was only one, however, who had reason to fear.

Deucius fell to his knees in shock when he saw the Celestant-Prime walk towards him and shake his head.

‘But I know who I am,’ he said.

‘You know who the Prismatic King made you to be,’ the Celestant-Prime corrected him. ‘Know this — by your sacrifice is the daemon undone. We will not forget you. We will mourn you. The realmgate will be secured and the darkness of Chaos will never again befoul it. By Sigmar, this I vow!’

One blow of Ghal Maraz was enough to shatter the simulacrum. The semblance of Deucius shattered in a blaze of light. From the midst of that destruction, a torrent of molten sapphire bubbled and oozed. Gyrating, spinning in a coruscating maelstrom, the Pillar of Whispers stood unleashed. The Celestant-Prime could feel the discordant vibrations spilling from the midst of the whirlpool, the opposing cadences of a different world.

‘A path back to Azyr?’ Lord-Celestant Devyndus wondered as he peered into the maelstrom.

‘A path away from here, at least,’ Othmar said. Staring down at the whirlpool, the warrior stepped out into the pulsating waves of force, diminishing as he was drawn through the gate. One after another, the rest of the Stormcasts followed.

The Celestant-Prime was the last to pass through the realmgate. In his mind, he wondered at the fiendish snare the Prismatic King had laid for him and at the daemon’s claims that theirs was an old struggle. The premonitions that had affected him so strongly — had they been premonitions, or memories of some failed effort from the past?

Whatever the truth, the Celestant-Prime had proven himself now. He would ascend with the Thriceblessed and take his place in the God-King’s war.

Matt Westbrook

Bladestorm

Chapter One

Vengeance Eternal

They gathered in their hundreds to hear the words of their God-King. Azyrheim was a changed place since the blessed hammer Ghal Maraz, symbol of Sigmar’s might, had been returned. It had always been a city of wonders, of soaring archways and winding crystalline stairs, of boundless treasures that echoed an age when the light of humanity had shone in every corner of the realms, but now its glory appeared greater. When the first realmgate had been opened by the heroism of Vandus Hammerhand, there had been relief and joy, and then a frisson of nervous excitement as the Stormhosts poured forth into the Mortal Realms, taking the war to the great enemy with the indefatigable fervour of the righteous.

But it was symbolic victories that incited a people at war like little else, and nothing could be more emblematic of the changing times than witnessing the God-King take up his fabled weapon once more.

The hammer had been reclaimed, and with that triumph the halls of Sigmaron rang with renewed purpose. Mortal servants and workers rushed here and there, filling serene halls and quiet chambers with a flurry of excited whispers. Stormhosts were despatched in ever greater numbers, marching to war with thunderous fanfare, roaring their hymns of faith in a tumult so loud it could be heard all across the great city. And then there was the rhythmic ringing of the forges, which truly never ceased; Azyr’s armouries were the miracle that kept the gears of re-conquest moving at their relentless pace.

The Bladestorm, a Warrior Chamber of the Celestial Vindicators, had barely rested since their return from the Eldritch Fortress. They had forged countless new legends in their pursuit of Ghal Maraz there, and now they were summoned to Sigmar’s throne room. From there, the God-King himself would send them forth once more. Mortal warriors might have balked at being thrown back into the war so quickly, but these demigods were no mortals; they were giants, forged for war and destined for battle.

The Stormcasts’ boots beat a perfect rhythm on the gleaming floor of Sigmar’s throne room, a vaulted wonder filled with flawlessly carved sculptures and artisanal iconography celebrating the countless legends of the God-King. All this splendour was nothing compared to the vision of Sigmar himself. He sat upon his throne, watching proudly as his loyal warriors assembled, an avatar of righteousness and strength, radiant armour glittering, eyes burning with resolve.

Lord-Castellant Eldroc’s heart rose to see his master’s glory. It felt like an age since they had last returned to Azyr, and he drank in every wondrous sight anew, from the breathtaking statuary to the masterful paintings and tapestries that draped the walls. This was what they were fighting for, he reminded himself: to return the light of civilisation to every corner of the Mortal Realms, to bring about a world where smiths and artisans could create such works, and where simple, honest folk could bask in their glory. They would earn that future, he swore, as he took his place in the front rank of warriors. Armour creaking under the weight of relic-bones and holy parchments, the Lord-Relictor Tharros Soulwarden came to a halt by his side.

‘I cannot help but wonder at this place, no matter how many times I see it,’ Eldroc whispered.

‘It has a certain grandeur to it,’ the Lord-Relictor said, briefly regarding the vaulted ceiling above, which was immaculately painted with images of great heroes, captured in the moment of their triumph.

‘You have no art in your soul, my friend,’ said Eldroc, grinning. ‘You would be just as happy if we gathered in some dusty old crypt to hear Sigmar’s words.’

‘In my experience there is often a great deal to be learned from dusty old crypts.’

They ceased their conversation as Lord-Celestant Thostos Bladestorm strode past and his cold blue gaze briefly washed over them. Their liege made his way to the foot of the stairway leading to the throne, and took his place at the head of his Warrior Chamber. There he stood, still as one of the statues lining the great hall, and waited for the word of the God-King.

‘How is he?’ Tharros asked.

Eldroc felt a pang of sadness and frustration seize him. It would be a better, easier world if he knew the answer to that question.

‘He is… still not himself,’ he said. That was understating things to a laughable degree, but Eldroc had not the words to describe what he felt when he looked upon his lost friend.

‘No,’ Tharros said. ‘And he never will be. To be reforged…’

Tharros paused a moment, then turned his skull-faced visage to Eldroc.

‘There is always a price for cheating death, brother. We will all pay it, before the end. Too many of us forget that. They think this is a game we play.’ He shook his head. ‘No. We fight a war beyond mortal comprehension. There is always a price.’

There was a creaking yawn as the grand double doors to the throne room opened. Again, the floor rumbled with the steps of hundreds of warriors. Marching into position alongside their brothers came a second Warrior Chamber of the Celestial Vindicators. These warriors wore the same turquoise armour as the Bladestorms, trimmed with golden sigmarite and deep red leather, but where Thostos’ officers wore purple helmet crests and plumes signifying their rank, the newcomers wore a rich, royal blue. Their leader was tall even for a Stormcast, and carried a grandblade across his back, the huge weapon almost reaching to the floor.

‘Lord-Celestant Argellon and his Argellonites,’ Eldroc murmured. ‘His star rises, it is said.’

‘His head swells, you mean,’ Tharros said.

Mykos Argellon took his place at the head of his chamber, before the throne. His mien could not have been more different to that of Thostos. Where the Bladestorm stood stock still, his fellow Lord-Celestant burned with pride and righteousness, his hands clenching and unclenching, his body fairly trembling with fervour.

‘By all accounts he has performed admirably thus far,’ said the Lord-Castellant. ‘Perhaps we should give him a chance.’

‘Perhaps,’ Tharros replied.

The God-King rose from his throne, ending the conversation. He was as magnificent a figure as ever, but now emanated an even greater power with Ghal Maraz held in one mighty fist. His radiance was so bright that it almost hurt to look upon him, but not one of the Stormcast Eternals averted their eyes.

And Sigmar spoke.

‘The realms shake beneath our righteous justice!’ he roared, and the throne room erupted in an echoing chorus of shouts and cheers. Sigmar smiled fiercely as he looked upon his warriors, and he let the cheers fill the room for many moments before resuming. ‘On all fronts your valiant brothers purge the taint of Chaos with the hammer and the storm, and thanks to the legends you yourselves forged in pursuit of Ghal Maraz, we can now prepare for the next stage of the great war.’

There was a breathless silence as the Celestial Vindicators waited to hear where they would bring the light of Sigmar.

‘You will travel to Ghur, the Realm of Beasts, to a wild region known as the Roaring Plains,’ the God-King proclaimed. ‘There lies a foul bastion of Chaos known as the Manticore Dreadhold. This fortress guards a realmgate that is critical to our next offensive. Destroy the dreadhold and secure this gate. Put its cursed defenders to the sword, and send their wretched souls screaming to their dark masters. This I task to you.’

Another cacophony of cheers resonated throughout the hall. Sigmar held up a hand for silence.

‘There will be many dangers,’ the God-King said. ‘The Roaring Plains is an untamed wilderness, and its dangers have already sent many of my loyal warriors back to the forge.’

His eyes bored into Thostos, whose own blazing blue orbs stared back implacably. Eldroc felt that Sigmar’s iron gaze softened for just a moment as he as he studied his champion.

‘Look to your brothers,’ Sigmar said, eyes full of pride as he surveyed his conquering heroes. ‘Trust in the gifts I have given you, and remember your oaths. Remember what it is that we fight for.’

He raised Ghal Maraz, and the light caught the intricate craftsmanship of the legendary hammer, reflecting back off the gleaming turquoise ranks of the Celestial Vindicators. There was no darkness, no cruelty or malice that could stand in the face of that holy brilliance.

‘Vengeance for the lost,’ bellowed the Celestial Vindicators. ‘Glory to Sigmar’s chosen!’

Lord-Celestant Mykos Argellon parried a rat-thing’s wild swing and slammed his fist into the creature’s eye socket. It yelped and toppled backwards, and he thrust his grandblade, named Mercutia, into its panting chest. Its scream cut off abruptly, and Mykos slipped his blade out and swept it to the side to draw a red line across another creature’s throat. Alongside him, his warriors hacked their way through the last of the skaven stragglers.

Liberators battered the creatures to the ground with their heavy shields, then ran them through with swords, or crushed them with hammers. Retributors cared not for such precision; they barrelled in with heavy hammers, breaking through the ratmen’s weak guard, and shattering bones with every swing. There was no gap in the Stormcast line, no weakness for the skaven to exploit. In every direction the creatures turned they were met with sharpened steel and an impassable wall of storm-forged metal. The Lord-Celestant felt a surge of pride as he watched his men make perfect war.

Mykos looked around the cavern. No sign of Thostos and his chamber, though judging by the shattered and broken bodies that were already lying in heaps before the Argellonites had entered, they had certainly passed through this way. Mykos frowned, not for the first time concerned about his fellow Lord-Celestant’s incautious approach.

‘Sigmar casts us in blessed sigmarite, hurls us out into the realms, and there we find our true calling,’ roared Knight-Heraldor Axilon, shaking his broadsword free of gore. ‘We are gilded tavern cats, tasked with hunting mice!’

The warriors laughed, and Mykos couldn’t help but smile. ‘Pray, do not speak again, brother Axilon,’ he pleaded with mock sincerity. ‘Else you’ll bring these walls down upon us.’

The Knight-Heraldor covered his mouth with one gauntlet and nodded fervently. That earned another chuckle from the others. Axilon was the implacable herald of the Argellonites, his voice a roar of thunder that could be heard across a battlefield, extolling his brothers to ever-greater acts of valour. It was joked amongst the warriors that Axilon need not bother with his battle-horn — the radiant instrument that all Knights-Heraldor carried — for his voice alone would suffice.

‘Not good terrain, this,’ said Axilon, approaching Mykos and gesturing at the rough stone walls and winding, gnawed-out tunnels. ‘It favours the stinking rats. We cannot see ahead, and we cannot guard our flanks. I cannot even give them a taste of the God-King’s thunder, lest it brings this cursed labyrinth down on our heads.’

‘Brother,’ said Mykos, shaking his head and pointing one finger down at the floor. ‘The ground is below us, and the ceiling above. Consider our last venture, and thank Sigmar we are not battling through the warped geometry of the Tower of Lost Souls, pursued once more by the mutant scions of the Broken Prince.’

‘A fair point, my Lord,’ Axilon smiled, but his mirth did not last long. He lowered his voice as he came closer. ‘Lord-Celestant Thostos has pushed too far ahead without us. He’s going to get himself surrounded.’

‘I am certain that the Lord-Celestant’s tactical situation shifted,’ said Mykos, a note of warning in his voice, ‘and he was forced to adjust our battle plan.’ It would not do for the rest of the chamber to start voicing their own concerns about Thostos’ behaviour.

‘As you say, lord,’ said Axilon.

The Knight-Heraldor kicked one of the dead ratmen disdainfully, turning it over with the tip of his boot. The creature was ridden with boils and rashes, and wrapped in black leather marked with obscene symbols that Mykos did not care to look upon.

‘So soon we see battle,’ Axilon said. ‘We barely made it out of the realmgate before we came upon these foul creatures.’

‘Who had taken up position throughout the only pass that leads down to the Roaring Plains,’ Mykos nodded gravely. ‘It has not escaped my notice, my friend. It feels uncomfortably like these creatures were sent here to bleed us.’

That was not a pleasant thought. They had been counting on the element of surprise, but if the enemy was already aware they were coming… He shook his head. It was no use second-guessing their mission now. They could do nothing but push on and try to find a way out of these warrens, which meant his force had to link back up with Thostos as soon as possible.

‘We will push forwards, into the central passage,’ Mykos said, pointing a gauntleted finger at the largest of the three tunnels that split off from the cramped nexus that they currently occupied.

Prosecutor-Prime Evios Goldfeather stepped to the tunnel entrance.

‘Battle has been joined, my Lord-Celestant,’ he said, in his clipped, distinguished voice. Goldfeather was so named for the fabulous golden quill he kept tucked into his war-helm. When asked about it, or even when none had asked, the airborne warrior would loudly proclaim that it was a gift from the ‘Father of Griffons’, in return for his slaying of a rampaging manticore, and proceed to tell that tale in punishing length and detail. Mykos considered this a small price to pay in exchange for the man’s keen senses.

‘They have encountered heavy resistance,’ he continued gravely. ‘It’s not just swarm rats — I can hear the vermin’s heavier weapons in the field. Foul, sorcerous siege pieces.’

Mykos approached, and even without the Prosecutor’s superior senses, he could hear it too. The spatter-whine of the skaven’s filthy magic, and the barking crack of their bizarre weapon-pieces. Undercutting those alien sounds, faint but unmistakable, were the battle-hymns of his Vindicator brothers, the tramp of booted feet, and the cleansing celestial thunder of Sigmar’s storm.

‘We must move quickly,’ Mykos muttered, and raised his runeblade high. ‘To me, Argellonites. Forwards to glory!’

Thostos Bladestorm swept his runeblade back and forth in great arcs, hewing his way through dozens of the shrieking vermin. Heads flew. Limbs shattered. The warren stank of fear, the sour terror of the ratfolk and the foul reek of their diseased blood. One of the degenerates, bolder than its fellows, jabbed at Thostos with a crude shortspear. The blow skipped off his blessed sigmarite, barely denting the god-forged metal. The Bladestorm replied with a backhand sweep of his sword that bisected the unfortunate creature, sending its torso spinning away over the heads of its fellows. Hot blood splashed across Thostos’ battle-mask, and he roared in exultation.

Exultation? No, that implied that pleasure was found in the act. Fury? That came closer, but what he felt lacked the cleansing, satisfying heat of true rage. He settled for whatever it was he did feel, because he felt something, and that was enough.

In truth, the filthy skaven were poor subjects for his anger. They fell before him in their dozens, hacked and hewed apart. Those nearest to him barely even attempted to block his attacks. Instead they scampered as far away as they could in the cramped confines of the warren, scratching and pulling at their fellows, dragging others into the path of blows aimed at them. He was dimly aware of his brothers following in his wake, launching themselves at the skaven in a sea-green blur.

In the face of Thostos’ onslaught, the pack broke. Dropping weapons, abandoning all pretence of organised retreat, they swarmed from the cavern in a ragged tide of brown-and-grey fur. Something buried deep within Thostos called for caution; the skaven were unpredictable and treacherous foes, and these tunnels were suited to their deviant, backstabbing form of warfare. That caution met the desperate battle-lust that filled him, and evaporated in an instant.

‘Vengeance,’ he roared, his voice thick with hatred, ‘Vengeance in the name of Sigmar!’

The Lord-Celestant charged after the fleeing vermin. Bellowing battle-hymns of praise to the God-King, the Bladestorm Warrior Chamber followed him to war.

The Celestial Vindicators followed the skaven through a rough-hewn corridor no taller than a mortal man, losing pace with their quarry as they bent to force their way through the cramped confines. The Stormcasts had many reasons to be thankful for their blessed armour, but here, in the skaven’s favoured terrain, it slowed them and made movement cumbersome.

Thostos simply smashed his way through the dry earth, his momentum hardly slowed by the ramshackle, makeshift nature of the skaven excavations. He broke free of the tunnel in a rain of debris, sword and hammer raised.

He had entered a central chamber of the warren, some thirty feet high and maybe four times that across. In the centre was a raised mound of dirt, flecked with rat spoor and other filth, around which the fleeing ratmen swarmed in their hundreds. Upon the raised earth stood several larger beasts. Near three times the height of their multifarious kin, these skaven rippled with muscles. Bizarre, arcane devices were bolted to their flesh, strange, cylindrical tubes of metal capped with several small nozzles. As Thostos burst into the chamber, the creatures screeched as one, and as one their strange weapons blared with a vile eldritch light, and let loose a repeating blast that echoed like thunder.

Retributor Arodus was the first Stormcast to follow his Lord-Celestant into the central chamber, and was rewarded with a hail of bullets that blasted him backwards into his fellows, blood pouring from countless holes punched through his armour. Retributor Wulkus leapt forwards in fury at his brother’s death, crushing a one-eyed skaven foot soldier into the dirt with a wild overhead swing of his hammer. As he brought the weapon back up there was a loud crack, and a hole appeared in the centre of his faceplate, releasing a faint pink mist. He collapsed, and both Stormcast bodies disappeared in a blast of pale light. As the main force of Celestial Vindicators poured out to meet the skaven infantry, a whickering storm of fire met them.

The cavern was strobed with violent green light as the strange contraptions continued to fire. Those skaven unfortunate enough to be nearest to the Stormcasts exploded in torrents of gore, and others went down howling as ricochets found thighs, ankles and fingers.

Even the devastating hail of bullets could not hold back the fury of the Celestial Vindicators, who broke into the main chamber and launched themselves at the enemy. Thostos ignored the chattel that snapped at his heels, barrelling further into the press of bodies, straining to reach the escarpment. Daggers were thrust at him as he ground his way into the skaven ranks, tapping out a staccato rhythm as they scraped against his war-plate. He butted a taller, wire-furred rat-thing, splattering its nose, then slammed his hammer into its gut and trampled over its mewling, bleeding form. On to the next, a pot-bellied fiend encased in pockmarked iron. That one died quickly as his sword bit into its skull, blessed sigmarite tearing through bone and tissue as if it were parchment. To the next, a runt of a thing wearing robes, which tasted the blunt face of his hammer and burst apart in a spray of viscera.

And on to the next…

Lord-Castellant Eldroc realised, with a horrible clarity, that they had been baited neatly into the skaven’s trap. Caught up in their fury, they had pushed forwards too far from their brothers, and now the enemy hurled fresh troops at them from every angle. Eldroc’s loyal gryph-hound Redbeak snarled and spat at his side, his trusty senses overwhelmed by the stench of the enveloping skaven mass. Ratmen dropped from hidden holes in the roof of the cavern, clawed their way free from cunningly disguised apertures in the walls, and leapt upon the Bladestorm’s exposed flanks. Suddenly the Stormcasts were an island of turquoise in a sea of wretched grey fur.

Cursing their foolhardiness, and cursing himself for allowing the joy of righteous battle to overrule his caution, Eldroc scanned the packed ranks of the Celestial Vindicators for a glimpse of his Lord-Celestant. He found him, of course, at the very forefront of the battle.

Vermin assailed him from every side, but they could not slow his furious advance. Eldroc knew well how mighty Thostos was in battle, but even he was shocked at the raw-edged brutality his commander displayed. The Bladestorm had always tempered fury with caution; that was why he was chosen to lead, because he could channel the rage and lust for vengeance of the Celestial Vindicators — ever the most aggressive of Sigmar’s sons, ever the first to leap into battle — to its true potential.

Now, he barely seemed to acknowledge his brothers. He never looked back, merely ploughing forwards into the packed ranks of the enemy like a tormented hound let loose.

In such numbers, even the primitive weapons of the skaven clanrats began to take their toll. Stormcasts were dragged down by dozens of the creatures, which stabbed and cut at them in a frenzied orgy of carnage. Daggers found eye sockets, the gaps between gorgets, and vulnerable spots where the barrage of bullets had weakened even the mighty sigmarite battle-plate. It was honourless murder, of the sort at which the ratmen excelled. Eldroc rushed to one fallen Stormcast, stuck with half a dozen blades and weakly pawing at a band of wretches who cackled as they clambered over him, dissecting him with wicked glee. Redbeak hurled himself onto one of the creatures, ripping with his sharp beak and raking with four powerful talons, but another skaven quickly scrabbled up to replace it.

Eldroc raised his warding lantern and intoned the name of blessed Sigmar as he unleashed its celestial energies. Warm, cleansing light washed over the stricken Stormcast, wrapping his form in a halo of flickering luminescence. The skaven skittered back from the power of the holy light, screeching as it burned at their cruel, beady eyes. The fallen warrior’s back arched, and as the glow washed over his body, the sigmarite melted and flowed like wax, refashioning the rents in his armour so that his hallowed war-plate glistened as if it had been freshly forged. Up came the Stormcast, blade in hand, howling his hatred at the enemy with renewed vigour.

Yet Eldroc could not reach all his brothers. Bursts of lightning rippled across the cavern walls as loyal warriors were called back to Azyr, strobing the unfolding carnage with blue light. Even these few losses were too many; they had barely begun their holy purpose, and already they were weakened.

Thostos had reached the central mound now, and was hewing his way through the Stormfiends that had opened fire on them. He thrust his sword into the neck of one creature, then swept his hammer across, low, to snap the vermin’s legs. It screeched in agony and toppled to the floor. As Eldroc watched, Thostos let gravity drag the broken thing from his blade, then caved in its chest with another mighty blow from his hammer. Ahead, cowering behind its taller bodyguards, was a wiry, grey-mottled creature whose yelps and screeches echoed over even the general clatter and chaos of battle. Its bronzed armour carried a shoulder-rack upon which were mounted several strange icons, ragged banners and shrivelled heads. The skaven commander, Eldroc surmised.

Thostos was killing his way towards the warlord, bleeding now from a dozen wounds. More Stormcasts hauled themselves up onto the mound, but still the skaven guns blazed, now joined by an enfilade from the right flank. The skaven had brought forth a heavy wooden shield, from behind which several long-barrelled rifles laid down a vicious crossfire. Another Liberator went down, crimson spurting from his ruined gorget, spasming as he fell. Eldroc felt a dull thud on his thigh, and growled as it was followed by searing, white-hot agony. Not the sharp, honest pain of a flesh wound, but something more sinister, a rapidly spreading toxic ache that burned across his leg. He lowered his warding lantern and let the blessed light bathe his smoking limb.

They had pushed too hard and too fast, and they had fallen for the enemy’s trap.

Then, the blaring of a war-horn shook the cavern.

The battle was over as soon as the Argellonites crashed into the flank of the skaven horde. At the tip of the spear, Knight-Heraldor Axilon and his retinue, hardy Retributors wielding mighty two-handed hammers, smashed apart the skaven’s vile weapon platforms, slaughtering the operators and ending their savage crossfire. More Celestial Vindicators followed in their wake, shields together in a line of blessed sigmarite that crashed into the enemy’s softened ranks, battering broken ratmen to the floor where they were either ground underneath the boots of onrushing Stormcasts, or despatched with swift blows.

As the first wave pushed left to clear the flank of the besieged Bladestorm, Mykos Argellon led the rest of his warriors straight through to the mound and Thostos. The Argellonites’ Lord-Celestant was the very image of the God-King’s glory in his ornate plate, luminescent even in the darkness of the cavern as he cut a bloody swathe through the enemy horde.

‘Forward, Argellonites!’ he shouted, voice rising even above the chaotic din of battle. ‘Show them the fury of the Celestial Vindicators.’

He wielded Mercutia in a blur, thrusting, slashing and battering with the heavy pommel in a whirlwind rush so fast it seemed impossible that he could retain any measure of control. Yet not a single strike was misplaced, and the Lord-Celestant left great piles of broken and torn skaven behind him as he went.

‘Take the Stormfiends,’ shouted Prosecutor-Prime Goldfeather to his men, finally given space to stretch his wings in the vaults of the cavern.

His retinue swept above the fray, calling lightning-wreathed javelins into their hands to hurl at the towering beasts. One went down under a hail of missiles, still firing its bizarre weapon as it toppled from the central mound. Another turned and fired at the Prosecutors, projectiles stitching across the roof of the cavern and cutting down two heralds in clouds of bloody smoke.

Emboldened by the arrival of their allies, the Bladestorms renewed their own vicious assault. Now the skaven’s superior numbers became their downfall; pressed against two unyielding walls of steel, there was no room to scrabble free, and barely space to gasp a desperate lungful of air. Dead skaven were packed so tight in the melee that they were held upright by their fellows, who scratched and tore in panic but could find no escape. Those vermin fortunate enough to be on the outskirts of the battle wavered, their fear-musk foul and pungent.

Blessed with that uniquely skaven insight of when to cut your losses and scamper away, Warlord Zirix cursed, spat and turned to flee, content in the knowledge that his filthy kin would keep these metal warriors busy long enough for him to disappear into the darkness.

As he turned, he met a pair of blazing blue eyes.

Terror escaped him in a sharp, sour odour as the giant before him snapped out a gauntlet to wrap around his neck. He tried to scrabble for his blade, a rusted, green-tinged shard of metal whose toxic coating had eaten away the flesh of many man-creatures in his short and wretched life. The blade was slapped free from his paw and skittered away.

Zirix screeched and gasped as he was lifted slowly into the air. The giant was so strong. He scratched and clawed at its arm, but to no avail. His eyes bulged and his vision swam with crimson as blood vessels burst under the pressure of the vice-like grip. The giant brought him closer.

‘Vengeance,’ it growled, its voice the pitiless inevitability of an avalanche. ‘Ever vengeance.’

The creature stopped struggling, and Thostos placed one gauntlet behind its neck, wrenched its head around with a sickening crunch and hurled the dead thing into the sea of ratmen that surged around the foot of the raised knoll, where it was swept up like a leaf in a rushing river.

The warlord’s death marked the end of any semblance of skaven resistance. Away the ratmen scurried, hurtling down hidden passages and burrows, scrambling over each in terrified desperation. The Celestial Vindicators culled those too slow to run, and Mykos’ warriors flowed around the Bladestorm formation, forming a wall of steel at every entrance to the cavern in case of counter-attack.

The Lord-Celestant of the Argellonites surveyed the carnage. The Bladestorm had wreaked a horrific toll on the skaven. The cavern was a charnel-pit of dead vermin, their stinking blood marking every surface, spattering the armour of the Celestial Vindicators from helm to boot. The nature of the Stormcasts’ god-given immortality meant that it was hard to judge losses, but there were more than a few stricken warriors lying amongst the wreckage of corpses. They were being tended to by Lord-Relictor Tharros Soulwarden, who went from man to man, salving their wounds with the power of his healing storm.

Alone at the heart of the wreckage stood Thostos himself, surrounded by the broken and hewn corpses of the skaven Stormfiends, weapons hanging limply by his side. He stared at the dead creatures, barely moving. Mykos approached him and as the Lord-Celestant turned, he felt a shiver run down his spine as those pitiless eyes bored into him.

‘Their leader is dead,’ Thostos said. ‘The vermin will not trouble us further as we progress through these warrens.’

Mykos cleared his throat. ‘You slew many of these foul beasts today, brother,’ he said, cautiously. ‘You and your men fought a valiant battle.’

He paused, on the verge of saying more. There was a silence that dragged on too long, broken only by the groans of the wounded and the low, droning chant of the Lord-Relictor at work. The Bladestorm had a way of leaving him tongue-tied.

‘You wish to chastise me for my rashness,’ said Thostos. ‘For not regrouping with your Argellonites before making a push into the core chamber.’

‘I…’ Mykos blinked in surprise.

‘The movement of the enemy force suggested coordination, which meant there had to be a leader directing the vermin. The largest concentration was coming from a single direction, where I judged that the leader was likely to be. There was no time to inform you of my decision, so I trusted that the sound of battle would lead you to us.’

Mykos smiled behind his mask and shook his head.

‘You disagree with my actions?’

‘No, not entirely. I would prefer that our communication was more open, but I understand the value of risk in war. That is the Celestial Vindicators’ way.’ The Lord-Celestant shrugged. ‘It’s simply that this is the most words we’ve exchanged since we first joined our forces for this mission.’

If he was hoping that some comradely small talk would thaw the Bladestorm’s icy mood, Mykos found himself disappointed. His fellow warrior simply stared at him, saying nothing. Mykos heard the approaching steps of Lord-Castellant Eldroc with something approaching relief.

‘The men are ready to move out,’ he said, limping slightly on one leg as he approached. Redbeak was at his side, blood staining his noble features, proud eyes narrowed. ‘We lost twenty-six warriors, Liberator-Prime Lucos among them.’

Thostos nodded without any sign of regret. ‘The air is fresher this way,’ he said, pointing at the northern end of the cavern, the opposite side to which they had entered. ‘It may lead to a way out of these warrens. You can feel the wind. Move the men out.’

‘You are wounded, sire,’ Eldroc said, his voice rising in concern. Mykos saw that the Lord-Castellant was right. Thostos’ arm was bleeding heavily, and he could see several small holes dotted across the Lord-Celestant’s plate where bullets had penetrated.

‘I… had not noticed,’ said Thostos quietly, staring at the blood.

Eldroc went to his Lord-Celestant’s side and bathed Thostos in the renewing glow of his warding lantern. The Bladestorm bowed his head, and the blue flame behind his eyes flickered and dimmed. Mykos thought, with no small amount of surprise, that he could hear an exhausted sigh — but the Bladestorm seemed beyond such mortal displays of fatigue. As he watched, the Lord-Celestant’s wounds closed, and sigmarite flowed across the ruptured areas of his plate armour.

Thostos nodded to his Lord-Castellant and rotated his shoulder, testing the joint and stretching his arm.

‘Move the men out,’ he said again, and the emptiness was back. He gave Mykos one last look, the briefest nod of his head, and then strode away.

The Stormcasts emerged from the stinking warrens onto a wide shelf of rock overlooking the Roaring Plains. Pale yellow grass stretched to the horizon, shifting so violently in the restless wind that it almost seemed to ripple like fire. Clouds rushed across the sky, swirling and reforming in an endless, roiling tempest. It was a foul-tempered wind. At this height, a mortal man would be at risk of being blown clean off of the mountaintop — only the Stormcasts’ weight and strength kept them rooted. A single, steep stair was cut into the edge of the platform, winding away towards the foothills below, which reached out to the grasslands in raised veins of blackened rock, ridged and twisted, almost skeletal.

‘The Roaring Plains,’ Eldroc said, stepping up to the brink of the ledge and peering down at the vista that spread below. He raised his voice as a lash of thunder broke, rolling across the sky so loudly that the mountain itself seemed to shake beneath them. ‘Seems a pleasant enough place,’ he said, with no little sarcasm.

‘Across this plain lies the Manticore Dreadhold,’ said Thostos, his voice a granite rumble. ‘We must make haste. The next stage of Sigmar’s plan cannot proceed until we secure it and hold it.’

Mykos watched the Lord-Celestant. Thostos showed no interest in the grand spectacle of the plains, nor did he make any attempt to bolster his warriors’ spirits after their struggle through the warrens. His hands were clenched at his sides, and he stared listlessly at the distant horizon as the Celestial Vindicators formed up behind him. The fervour and the anger were long gone, and in their place was stillness, but not calm. His armour and battle-mask obscured any expression, but Mykos could feel the tension in him even at this distance. He was coiled like a spring, ready to snap at the slightest opportunity.

‘Goldfeather,’ Mykos shouted, dragging his mind back to more immediate matters. The Prosecutor-Prime dropped neatly off the rock where he had been perching, and glided down to where the Argellonites were still ranking up.

‘My Lord?’ he asked.

‘Take your swiftest men and survey the foothills and the immediate area. I want no more surprises. Anything suspicious, anything at all, and you report back to me. This land has already sent many broken brothers back to Azyr, and I do not intend to take its dangers lightly. Go.’

The Prosecutor-Prime nodded and went to gather his fellow heralds. The rest of the Argellonites and the Bladestorm had begun to filter down the winding stair, though it was so narrow that only two could walk side by side. It would take several hours to reach the foothills and redress once more into proper fighting ranks. That worried Mykos. Of the Stormcasts’ manifold virtues, stealth was not one; they were exposed here, and the skaven had amply proven the potential of a swift surprise attack.

As the Argellonites began to file down the twisting steps, Eldroc came to Mykos’ side. His armour was freshly repaired, and the hint of a limp that had marked him in the warrens had disappeared. Once again he was an image of strength and implacable fortitude. Of all the Bladestorm’s warriors, Eldroc had been the most forthcoming, and Mykos was grateful for it. He liked the man’s simple honesty and level-headedness.

‘You seem troubled, my friend,’ Eldroc said.

‘It is nothing, Lord-Castellant. Merely concern that we found battle so soon. I had hoped to arrive at our destination without issue.’

‘How fine that would be,’ Eldroc chuckled. ‘In these times that would be a rare blessing, in any corner of the realms.’

He rested his halberd on his shoulder and leaned upon the haft. They were silent a moment, listening to the tramp of boots and the howling of the wind as it whipped its way through the mountain pass.

‘He can be difficult, I know,’ the Lord-Castellant said, quietly.

Mykos said nothing. It was clear that Eldroc was choosing his words carefully, and he gave the man time to gather his thoughts. It was no easy thing for a Stormcast to question a fellow warrior, let alone his leader. Absolute loyalty and brotherhood was as much a part of them as their armour, as their weapons and their fearlessness.

‘I have spoken to many of our reforged brothers,’ Eldroc sighed, ‘and the change is more marked in Thostos than in any of them. He used to be such a thoughtful man. I think that was why he was chosen to lead. We are a wrathful host, and we need such men to temper us.’

Eldroc turned to Mykos. There was a pleading edge to his voice, and Mykos realised that the Lord-Castellant had likely never spoken to another soul regarding his concerns.

‘Give him time, my lord,’ Eldroc said.

Prosecutor-Prime Evios Goldfeather enjoyed the spiteful power of the winds of the Roaring Plains as they buffeted him mercilessly. It was pleasant enough to glide in the tranquil air of the Singing Gardens, or even over the celestial valleys of Erianos, but if there was one thing Goldfeather valued, it was a challenge. The wind here had no sense to it; a zephyr would drift west, allowing him to glide on its gentle arc, then a wall of force would slam him back the other direction, blasting him so hard that he dropped several yards, and spinning him so fast that he could barely control his descent.

At first it was unsettling, but he quickly found himself relishing the unforgiving nature of the place. There was a pattern to be found in the midst of the madness. He caught a rising gust and let it lift him, felt it sway and weaken, and sought a westerly gale that filled his radiant wings with air, letting it take him on a wide arc over the churning grass of the Roaring Plains. His fellow Prosecutors followed in his wake, though he noted with no surprise, and no small amount of satisfaction, that they were finding the turbulent winds far trickier to deal with. Galeth and Harion had already been blown off course, despite the power of their Azyrite wings. He would have to speak to them later; he demanded a certain level of excellence from his men, after all.

He returned his gaze to the plains. It was an astonishing sight, the Prosecutor-Prime had to concede. The great grass seas stretched for miles in every direction, punctuated by jagged, twisting spears of rock and wind-scoured mesa clusters that broke through the earth’s surface, clutching at the sky. In all that space one might expect a measure of stillness, but that was not the case; everywhere Goldfeather looked, there was motion. Around the base of the rocky protrusions the grass grew longer, grasping at the escaping formations, wrapping around them in choking vine clusters. The wind shifted and pulled at these vines, tightening them like a hangman’s noose. As the shifting clouds passed overhead and darkened the plain for a moment, Goldfeather thought he saw one great claw of rock lurch, dragged down towards the earth by a thick belt of thorns that encircled it. Then sunlight speared though the clouds once more and it was still. Just a trick of the light, he supposed.

He was distracted by a low, rumbling noise that built into a roar. In the distance, the earth itself split. Dirt was kicked up as a great gouge tore across the plain, as if something monstrous was attempting to wrench itself free. No sooner had the earth ceased its writhing movement than a second rent appeared, following the path of the first. There was a tremor, signified by a series of great cracks that rippled across the ground, and then an uneasy quiet.

Soaring higher, Goldfeather saw more terrible wonders. A carpet of flesh roiled across the plain far to the Stormcasts’ left, a shifting mass of stampeding beasts so thickly packed together that he could not see the ground beneath them. They were flat-headed, quadruped grazing beasts, with mighty horns that wrapped backwards around their skulls. There were thousands… hundreds of thousands of them.

The Prosecutor-Prime dropped closer and saw another flock of creatures, scaled and lizard-like, but with brightly coloured feathers across their wings and hindquarters. Each was bigger than a man, almost the same size as a Stormcast, and as Evios watched they rolled and dived into the stampede, nipping at the flanks of the beasts and trying to drive them into one another. As he watched, one of the larger avians succeeded in tripping an unfortunate creature; there was a horrific avalanche of hooves and screaming flesh, and a great chunk of the onrushing tide collapsed in on itself. Nothing could survive such carnage and Evios watched, impressed despite himself at the winged creatures’ ingenuity, as a mountain of crushed beasts piled up, ground to pieces under the sheer weight of the onrushing mass. They would eat well once the stampede had passed on.

One of the avian creatures noticed his presence and began to shriek, and Goldfeather decided it was time to move on. He signalled his retinue, and as one they peeled away from the massacre.

He dropped again and found another gust of wind, and let it sweep him back to the south, towards the Stormcast position. The Prosecutor-Prime had almost satisfied himself that he had a clear reading on the region when he caught something out of the corner of his eye. Heading in a lateral direction towards the foothills that the Stormcasts were heading to, he saw a number of specks. He signalled his men to follow and soared towards the movement.

As he swept closer, he saw that a large mob of creatures was pursuing a smaller, scattered band across the plain. The pursuers numbered a couple of hundred, perhaps, and their size, lumbering gait and bulky, crudely grafted armour marked them out as orruks.

Prosecutor Omeris finally caught up with him. ‘They head towards our brothers,’ he said, straining to be heard above the howl of the wind. ‘We should head back to inform the Lord-Celestants.’

‘Orruks,’ spat Goldfeather. ‘Low-minded filth, the lot of them.’

‘They almost have their prey,’ said Omeris.

‘Hardly surprising,’ Goldfeather replied. ‘The cursed brutes can run for hours when their blood is up.’

His gaze fell upon the fleeing band. They were scrawny and battered, and they wore ragged scraps of leather not much more refined than that of the primitive savages chasing them, but there was no mistaking it.

They were human.

The Stormcasts wound their way through the bluffs, alert at every howl, every creak of earth. Eldroc marched at the head of the column, a few paces behind Thostos. He watched his lord stride onwards, heedless of the noises around them. Eldroc, and all of his brothers in the Celestial Vindicators, had seen their families and friends slaughtered by the vile hordes of Chaos. As the blades finally came for them too, they had bellowed their defiance to the skies, and prayed to mighty Sigmar for the chance to wreak their vengeance upon the hated minions of the Dark Gods. This oath had been offered willingly, and any price had been a price worth paying.

And yet, looking at what had become of his Lord-Celestant, Eldroc was filled with doubt. The man was hollow, an unfeeling shell filled with nothing but an insatiable need to exact his vengeance. Gone was the thoughtful, righteous man that Eldroc had battled and trained with for so many years leading up to the great venture into the realms. They had talked together once, sharing dreams of a new era of hope and glory for the scions of Sigmar, both knowing that they would never get to experience that peace for themselves. They had accepted that truth gladly, but it was one thing to welcome an inevitable, honourable death, and another to die eternally, each fresh Reforging bringing a symphony of agonies, further draining and weakening the soul.

And what else did the Stormcasts risk, every time they went to war for the God-King? The truth only Sigmar knew. Each warrior came back altered in his own way. There was a Liberator in the Bladestorm who returned unable to remember any of his former friends, but able, with perfect clarity, to recall hundreds of ancient sonnets in some archaic language that could barely be deciphered. Others remembered only fragments of their former lives, as though they were seeing them through the eyes of another person.

Eldroc himself had felt the agony of Reforging. Yet somehow he had emerged without the traumas that his friends and brothers had suffered. His memories had faded, yes, like a rich tapestry left in the blazing sun, but deep down he knew himself; he remembered the man he had been and what he fought for.

There was guilt, too, when he looked upon the haunted visage of his Lord-Celestant, the broken shell that Thostos had become. Why had he not suffered as brutally as his friend? This terrified him more than any malady or sickness of the mind. A gnawing thought echoed inside Eldroc’s head: he had not yet discovered just what he had sacrificed — when he did, would it make what Thostos had gone through seem minor?

Absolute loyalty and devotion to his God-King ran through Eldroc like a rich vein through unyielding stone, but still he could not set aside his misgivings. Nor could he sleep at night.

The beating of wings stirred him from his dark thoughts. The Argellonites’ Prosecutor-Prime had returned, arriving some way ahead of his fellow scouts. He dropped nimbly from the sky, landing before Lord-Celestant Argellon with ease.

‘My lord,’ he said, his voice tight and urgent. ‘A mob of orruks is heading towards us, pursuing a band of mortals.’

Mykos visibly tensed. ‘Have they fallen? Do they bear the mark of the Dark Gods?’

The Prosecutor-Prime considered this a moment, and shrugged. ‘They are savage-looking, wrapped in animal skins like primitive brutes,’ he replied, and Eldroc could hear the disdain in his words, ‘but I saw none of the wretched symbols or marks of Chaos. I cannot say for certain, though I do know they will not make it much further before they tire and the orruks run them down.’

‘How many orruks?’ said Thostos, and Goldfeather gave a start at the Lord-Celestant’s sudden presence.

‘Roughly two hundred,’ he replied.

Mykos exchanged a look with Thostos. ‘We do not need a fight with the orruks,’ he said. ‘Our mission will be difficult enough already without their interference. Yet these mortals may be able to provide us with valuable information regarding this region. We should show our strength.’

The Bladestorm stared at Mykos for a long time, then gave an almost imperceptible nod and turned to survey their current position. They were coming to the mouth of the foothills, and the terrain was sloping down to meet the plains. It was still rough ground, jagged, heat-baked and dry, but it formed a natural defensive position against an infantry assault. The embankments that channelled them were roughly the height of two Stormcasts, and the ground between was narrow enough for two-score warriors to hold the line without threat of being outflanked. Some thousand yards or so ahead, the rocky earth sloped down one final time, and beyond that Thostos could see a glimpse of open ground.

‘Retributor-Prime Hyphon,’ he shouted, ‘summon your warriors. Lord-Celestant Argellon, we will take a hundred men and make haste for the ridge ahead of our main force.’

Liberators dashed to the summit of the ridge, forming into lines and smashing their colossal shields down into the dirt to form an impenetrable ring of steel. Behind them the Judicators judged their range and held their bows taut and ready as the orruks rumbled closer. It was easy to hear them now, hooting and hollering their bestial war cries as they drove themselves ever harder, desperate to catch the fleeing mortals.

Staggering with the half-drunk sway of exhausted prey, the beleaguered humans spotted the formation of Stormcasts and stopped still. Several dropped to their knees, exhausted.

‘Move your idle backsides,’ roared Goldfeather, hovering above the ragged band. He scanned the group to indentify the leader and settled on a wiry female who was down on one knee, a curved blade in her hand. She seemed to be the one the others looked to.

He swooped down to meet her. ‘Get your people behind those shields, or we’ll leave you to the greenskins,’ he said.

The mortals’ nervous eyes flicked towards the woman, who stared up at the Prosecutor-Prime with a familiarity and lack of fear that made him feel surprisingly uncomfortable. He was used to little more than servile deference from mortals. Finally, she nodded, put two calloused fingers between her lips and gave a sharp whistle, clearly deciding that a slim chance of survival was better than the certainty of death. Summoning up one last reserve of energy, the mortals dragged themselves forwards, scrambling up the shallow incline towards the Stormcasts’ shield wall, which opened to let them through. As they passed, the Celestial Vindicators slid back into position expertly.

‘They’re a ragged lot,’ said Knight-Heraldor Axilon as the humans passed. Mykos could hardly disagree.

They were wiry and weathered, with a leanness to their frame that suggested many nights had gone by without a decent meal. Ritual scars and red-ink tattoos covered their sun-browned skin; they wore little armour besides thin hide shirts and breeches, and leather wrappings on their feet and hands. The tall, raven-haired warrior who led them in had her hair bound up on one side with leather scraps and shaved clean on the other. As her party staggered past, her eyes locked with those of the Lord-Celestant. They were cold, grey and hard — a hunter’s eyes, a wolf’s eyes. She showed no fear, and no surprise or awe that he could discern. These are killers, Mykos thought. He signalled Liberator-Prime Julon, who nodded and began to secure the mortals, stripping any weapons they carried and examining them for any overt signs of corruption.

The orruks howled, denied of their prey, and thundered forwards into a wide, loose semicircle some twenty yards ahead of the Stormcasts. They grunted and snarled, spat and snorted, but for now they seemed curious enough not to hurl themselves into the Stormcast line. Shoving his fellows out of his way, a hulking specimen stomped forward, lazily scratching his thick neck, a wicked-looking greataxe held loosely at his side. Several burly warriors followed him, each bearing a smeared, red claw mark upon their black-iron breastplates.

‘What now?’ asked Goldfeather, gently dropping to the ground beside his Lord-Celestant, a stormcall javelin held at the ready in one gauntleted fist.

‘Now we parlay,’ said Mykos grimly, looking to his fellow Lord-Celestant, who was gazing at the orruks dispassionately. Thostos said nothing, though his weapons were drawn and held in steady hands. ‘Humanity has known a common purpose with the orruks before. Perhaps we can avoid a skirmish that will gain us nothing.’

He signalled to Axilon, and the Knight-Heraldor nodded and selected five broad-shouldered and eager Retributors. If this did come to blows, he wanted the orruks down and dying as soon as possible. Together, the retinue stepped out from the shield wall.

Mykos held Mercutia, and the wondrous grandblade caught the sun, sending a ripple of light over his armour. He motioned his men to halt and strode forwards, sword raised high. The orruks watched, their ape-like brows furrowed. With elaborate slowness, the Lord-Celestant made a show of lowering the weapon, sliding it securely into the scabbard at his thigh.

The orruks looked to their leader, inching forwards slowly. He held out a meaty palm to stop them, and raised his own weapon. Tongue protruding in mock concentration, he lifted the greataxe and slotted its haft through an imaginary scabbard. His warriors guffawed idiotically. He smirked, and barked something indecipherable at his warriors. Eight came forward, while the others loomed menacingly in the background.

‘That, I think, is as close as we’re likely to get to a formal truce,’ said Eldroc from the shield wall.

‘Follow me,’ said Mykos. ‘And keep your hand near your blade.’

Mykos and Eldroc led the way, armour gleaming bright turquoise in the midday sun, in stark contrast to the dull, crude metal scraps and chains that the orruks had wrapped around themselves. Thostos walked behind them, his eyes locked on the warband’s leader. The orruks snickered and hollered amongst themselves in their crude tongue, and one began a mock drumbeat upon its chest plate. Its fellows roared with laughter at this lack-witted attempt at humour.

Behind his battle-mask, Mykos couldn’t help but sneer. Orruks. It never failed to amaze him how such a savage, dull, self-destructive race could be so resilient. They possessed no honour, no discipline or ambition beyond finding their next brawl, and yet the foul creatures propagated in every corner of the realms. One of the first tasks of the Stormcast Eternals, after their forging in the halls of Azyr, had been to clear the wilds of the Celestial Realm free of orruks. They had torn down the creatures’ crude icons and the totems erected to their bestial gods, and put the beasts to the sword. The greenskins had fought savagely — orruks always did — but against the plated fist of Sigmar’s avenging warriors, their only fate was death. Mykos remembered those battles with little fondness. It had been a grim task, valourless butchery that was necessary before the Stormcasts took their war to the true enemy.

Despite his disdain, Mykos could not help but note the difference between these hulking creatures and the wretched, feral scraps that they had ground underboot in Azyr. Their armour, for one. These orruks had bound themselves in thick plates of black iron, with wicked armour spikes upon the joints. Whereas the sigmarite armour of the Stormhosts was sculpted to artisanal perfection, the orruks’ plate was worn, scratched and dented, and daubed haphazardly with slashes of red paint, forming fangs and jaws on greaves and vambraces. The quality was crude, and the effect should have been ludicrous, but on the heavily muscled, scarred forms of the orruks, it instead spoke of blunt efficiency, of the race’s atavistic, uncultured love of war.

They were bigger, too, broader and more heavily muscled, and marked from head to toe with scars, burns and all the other trophies that battle bestowed upon a warrior’s skin. Most wore pot helms decorated with horns or more wicked spikes, though others went bareheaded. The leader, an anvil-jawed monster with a wicked scar that cut an angry red line across his porcine right eye as it travelled down to his jaw, was as tall as the Stormcasts. He leered at the Celestial Vindicators and swaggered forwards to meet them. His warriors spread out in a semicircle around him, hands resting on jagged axes and spiked mauls. Mykos felt his hand drift down to Mercutia, who yearned to break free of her scabbard. There was a pregnant silence, broken only by the howling wind, and then the orruk leader spoke.

‘Ain’t seen yore kind before,’ he rumbled in a crude tongue that the Stormcasts could understand, licking his lips like a starving man presented with a bountiful feast. ‘Very shiny, ain’t ya?’

His warband rumbled with amusement, their leader gave a broken-toothed grin, and Mykos resisted a strong urge to slice his head off. Eldroc stepped forward.

‘We are the Celestial Vindicators, the blessed swords of Sigmar,’ he said in his deep, resonant voice. ‘We have no quarrel with you or your kind, but these humans are now under our guard.’

‘’Sat right?’ the orruk growled, scratching one filthy ear with a yellow-taloned finger. ‘Here,’ he turned to his warriors, cocking his great head, ‘who ’sis land belong to, boyz?’

‘Ironjawz!’ they roared as one.

‘An’ who says what goes around ’ere?’

‘Drekka! Drekka! Drekka!’

The orruk leaned in conspiratorially. ‘There’s that then,’ he chuckled. ‘Reckon I won’t take no orders from some tinpot git dropped outta the sky. We’ll be taking those humies, and they’ll go right t—’

A sword whipped through the air and buried itself between the orruk leader’s eyes.

The momentum of the throw hurled the creature back into the orruk standing behind him, knocking both to the ground with a clatter. Mykos turned and saw Thostos drawing his warhammer, an empty scabbard at his side.

Silence. A sharp peal of astonished laughter came from Goldfeather. Then the orruks charged.

Roaring more with eager battle-lust than any feelings of betrayal at their leader’s death, the orruks poured forwards. The Retributors met them, hammers drawn and swinging. The close quarters robbed the majority of the momentum from the charge, but Mykos saw Stormcasts go down under the greenskins’ boots and blades, trampled and broken. As a bellowing orruk wielding two axes charged him down, he drew his sword, spun to the side and let his momentum add power to a lateral swing. Mercutia sliced straight through the creature’s torso, opening its belly horizontally, spilling its innards to gush over Mykos’ boots. The dying orruk attempted a wild swing at the Lord-Celestant, but he avoided it easily and put his boot in its chest, sending it crashing backwards to land in a crumpled heap.

By now the front ranks of the larger orruk mob had reached the fray, though Mykos could also hear the stomping of heavy boots and the battle-hymns of the faithful as the Liberator shield wall abandoned its defensive position and rushed forwards to protect its leaders.

Eldroc had set his halberd, and Mykos saw him skewer an orruk though the shoulder blades, twist his weapon and send the creature spinning to the floor. Another charged him from the side, and the Lord-Castellant retracted the halberd and thrust again, driving its heavy spike deep into the beast’s gut. It squealed in fury and hurled its axe in a last desperate act of spite. It sailed past Eldroc, staving in the chest armour of an unfortunate Stormcast, who collapsed immobile on the ground. Redbeak snarled and hurled himself at the dying orruk, tearing out its throat and ending its defiance.

The ridge ran red with blood, orruk and Stormcast, but the impact of the orruk leader’s death had swayed the momentum in favour of the Celestial Vindicators. Without his bellows and beatings, whatever strange, mob mentality bound the orruk band together in battle was shattered by the rage of the Stormcast Eternals. They were simply too strong and too skilled for the artless form of warfare that the orruks favoured. Liberator shields intercepted axe blows, then were shifted to one side for a killing thrust of a sword, or the crushing blow of a warhammer. Retributors swept their heavy hammers from side to side, breaking bones and smashing skulls to pieces.

Thostos was a blur of turquoise fury at the heart of the melee. He had replaced his thrown sword with a gladius, holding the short blade in a reverse grip and using it to stab and drag the nearest greenskins towards him, where he bludgeoned them to the ground with his warhammer.

It quickly became a slaughtering field. Not a single orruk left the ridge alive.

The runeblade was still lodged in the foul creature’s idiotic smirk. Thostos put his foot on the dead orruk’s forehead and wrenched his weapon loose. It came free with a spurt of gore, yellowed teeth splinters and torn flesh.

He heard boots thumping towards him on the hard earth. Two pairs, one fast and angry, one slower, more tentative.

‘What in the name of Sigmar was that, Bladestorm?’ barked Mykos Argellon, loud enough to draw the stares of several Stormcasts who had been dispensing Sigmar’s mercy to any injured orruks. ‘We were at parlay. They did not threaten us.’

‘They have killed children of Sigmar,’ Thostos said. ‘That is reason enough for them to die.’

‘They are cruel, unthinking savages, but they are not our enemy here. Sigmar gave us this righteous purpose, and you would risk it all to sate your bloodlust,’ Mykos spat. ‘We could have avoided all of this. Men have died for nothing.’

Thostos rolled the orruk over with his boot. ‘Look at this one,’ he said, his voice betraying not a hint of tension. ‘He decorates his flesh with trophies. Human bones, hands, ears. He keeps a tally upon his armour, see?’

It was true. The dead orruk’s chain hauberk was heavy with knucklebones, stolen jewels and other trinkets, all recognisably of human origin. Thostos reached down to snatch a trophy from the brute’s belt. It was a gauntlet of spiked black iron, and upon the palm there was the eight-pointed star of the eternal enemy. Eldroc cursed, and Thostos threw the gauntlet for Mykos to catch.

‘Have you ever known orruks so bold?’ he asked. ‘Look at their armour, their weapons. Hardly the sticks and stones that the greenskin rabble brought to bear on us in the Amaris Foothills. These are stronger, more vital. They are blooded and battle-hardened. They have met the forces of the Dark Gods in battle and triumphed.’

‘They did not attack us,’ insisted Mykos, ‘not until you gave them reason to. This is not the first time your reckless fury has cost us lives.’

‘Their curiosity was all that stayed their blades, and that would have lasted scant moments longer. Your indecision would have endangered us, and so I acted in your stead.’

Mykos started forward, but Eldroc placed himself between the two Lord-Celestants and slammed his halberd down into the earth.

‘Enough,’ Eldroc hissed. ‘The men are watching. Remember yourselves.’

Mykos glanced back. Thostos’ men stood there, staring impassively. His own warriors were looking at each other in uneasy confusion. He could not see his warriors’ faces beneath their battle-masks, but he could sense their tension, and he cursed himself for losing control.

Thostos sheathed his weapons.

‘You are right, brother,’ he said, staring at the hewn corpse of the orruk leader. ‘They are not our enemy here.’

He turned back to look at Mykos, who returned his blue-flame gaze without flinching, no matter that he felt that familiar ache of discomfort.

‘But they are never allies,’ Thostos growled. ‘Sigmar’s light has been gone from this place for too long, and these savages have grown bold in its absence. We will meet them in battle again, do not doubt.’ He stalked away.

Mykos Argellon had never felt true anger at a fellow Stormcast before. He tried to calm his breathing and centre his humours, but all he could feel was a white-hot fury and an aching sense of betrayal. How could he command this expedition alongside a man who trusted only in his lust for battle? Thostos could not be reasoned with, and his recklessness had already cost them lives that they could ill afford with such a lengthy, dangerous quest ahead of them. His anger was so keenly focussed that he barely noticed Lord-Castellant Eldroc was still standing beside him, until he sensed that the man was about to speak.

‘Say nothing, brother,’ Mykos warned. ‘I do not wish to hear it. Do not tell me that he needs time, or tell me of how he has suffered. Tell it to the Stormcasts who fell here, when they make their own return from the forge.’

He turned to Eldroc, daring him to say a word in his lord’s defence. To his credit the warrior did not avoid the Lord-Celestant’s wrathful gaze. Neither did he speak. Instead, he simply gave a sad nod and strode off after the Bladestorm, leaving the lord of the Argellonites standing on his own on the blood-soaked ridge, amongst the dead.

Chapter Two

Righteous Blood

‘You put your trust in witchcraft?’ spat the masked warrior. Bloody phlegm dribbled over his gore-encrusted chestplate, trickling down past obscene runes of devotion and damnation.

‘I put my trust in this,’ said Varash Sunken-Eye, raising his wicked blade, a hand-and-a-half of cruel obsidian. ‘It has never failed me.’

His opponent circled, as did the warrior’s two accomplices. A rabid pack, pink-eyed and drooling with hunger. Not hunger for sustenance, but for carnage, for spilt blood and shattered skulls.

Though to any true warrior of the Blood God, such things were as vital as water and bread.

Varash kept in step with his assailants, a wide grin splitting his ravaged face. It had been a while since anyone had challenged him — no surprise after what he had done to the Eyegouger and his men. Varash had kept his killers largely in check while the sorcerer did the necessary work, but a Bloodbound warband needed… pruning every now and then. If you wanted to lead, you killed your rivals so brutally, so painfully, that nobody dared to step across your path. Then you repeated that process any time they showed signs of forgetting who was in charge. It was a pattern that he had repeated a hundred times over the decades he had spent slaughtering in the name of the Blood God.

‘The sorcerer works a ritual at my command,’ Varash said. ‘No weakling magic, but an offering that will tear down the veil between worlds and free our blades to make murder once again.’

He said this for the audience’s benefit, of course. Hakkos and the two fools he’d brought along in this failed bid for power were dead already, they were just too foolish to realise it. They had staged their ill-considered ambush in the main courtyard of the dreadhold, under the great shadow of the Everchosen’s statue. The colossal monument had been repaired and enlarged since the orruks’ last attempt to tear it down, and now towered over even the mighty fortress. Sword raised, imposing horned helm proclaiming his dominance of not only the dreadhold but of this entire realm, the statue captured just a sliver of the real Archaon’s astonishing presence.

The dreadhold itself was a wedge of black metal built into the mountain, its walls lined with bronzed skulls and jagged spikes of obsidian. Daemonic faces glowered from beneath the battlements, eyes burning like hot coals, and banners of stitched skin marked with vile runes flew from the three watchtowers equidistant along the wall. Hooting, snarling, scarred killers formed a circle around the duelling warriors, or peered down from the skull-adorned ramparts.

Hakkos dashed forward, axe raised. At the same time, his two lackeys came in from each side, one swinging low, one aiming at Varash’s back. Perhaps they hoped that the ruined left side of his face wouldn’t catch the flanking attack.

Fools.

The Chaos lord was unthinkably fast. His bastard sword snapped out low, deflecting the attack from the left and hooking underneath the axe blade. He dragged the blade to his right, and sent the unfortunate warrior stumbling into the path of Hakkos. The traitor’s swinging axe struck him in the side of the neck, and a spurt of crimson arced out, splashing across Varash’s armour.

He didn’t waste a moment to savour the taste, but instead untangled his blade, and somehow got it raised in time to meet the axeman on his right. He stepped in close and smashed the pommel of the sword into the man’s face, pushing him back into an awkward stumble, then turned again and kicked the dying warrior on the floor into Hakkos. The traitor went down under the dead weight. Varash swept his blade in a figure-eight pattern, and roared in laughter.

The crowd roared with him.

‘It’s a great shame, Deathbringer,’ he said, smiling broadly as Hakkos scrambled to his feet. ‘The carnage. The mountains of skulls that we will tear from the orruks once Xos’Phet completes his ritual. The oceans of blood we’ll bathe in, Hakkos. You’ll miss it all.’

‘Your time is done, cripple,’ snarled Hakkos. ‘I’ll put out your other eye when I’m done here. I’ll flay you alive and hang you from the ramparts.’

He charged again, his accomplice in tow. Varash quickstepped back, dodging and blocking, letting Hakkos’ mad swipes rush past him. The man was devilishly strong, but faced with a competent opponent he had no answer but clumsy rage.

Varash ducked a wild swing and cut a gouge into the remaining accomplice’s leg. The man dropped with a howl, and the Chaos lord turned with the momentum of his strike, spinning and bringing the blade across in a backhand slice that swept the fool’s head from his shoulders.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’ he screamed. ‘Skulls for the Skull Throne!’

Hakkos bellowed in return and leaped at him, axe leading. Varash sidestepped and sliced the traitor’s leg off at the knee, sending him skidding and bleeding across the floor. There was a roar from the crowd, and the lord of the dreadhold raised his blade in salute to his warriors, drinking in the applause.

He approached the stricken Hakkos, grabbed the warrior around the neck, and hauled him upright to stare into his ruined face.

‘You betray me?’ he growled. ‘You think to cut me down? You? I am here by Archaon’s command, you pitiful worm.’

He smashed a fist into Hakkos’ face, and hurled the broken man to the floor.

‘Witness this, you filth,’ he roared, and he felt blood trickle from his shattered eye socket. It had never healed, but he welcomed the agony, drank it all in. ‘Follow me and I’ll lead you to a slaughter that the Blood Lord himself won’t be able to tear his gaze from. Challenge me and I’ll tear the skin from your bones. I’ll drink your blood, you witless vermin.’

He drew his flensing knife from his belt, a short, wicked blade with a pronounced curve. He kneeled down beside Hakkos, felt ropes of bloody saliva drape across his chin.

‘Flay me alive, will you?’ he laughed, grabbing a fistful of the man’s lank hair. ‘Put out my eye?’

He leaned in close, and the smell of gore, sweat and fear was exquisite.

‘We can do better than that,’ he hissed, and brought the knife down.

Hakkos’ scream was a pitiful, high-pitched thing, drowned amongst the blood-crazed cheers of the men of the dreadhold.

Sun broke across the Roaring Plains, drenching the land in soft crimson light. The sky was a blood-red promise of agony and slaughter. Lord Varash Sunken-Eye savoured it like a fine wine.

The warrior stood at the very top of the great Manticore Tower, looking out across the jagged, broken earth towards the west. From here he could see the mouth of Splitskull Pass, beyond which were camped the numberless orruk hordes, mere miles from his position. He glanced down and smiled as he looked upon the flayed, ruined corpse of Hakkos, impaled on the spikes of the fortress wall. A satisfying kill, but little more than a momentary distraction from the real enemy.

The Blood God’s favoured and the endless hordes of the orruks were well acquainted. They had slaughtered each other across the Roaring Plains for centuries beyond counting, and no fortress there had seen more bloodshed than the Manticore Dreadhold. It had almost become a ritual by now; the green-skinned beasts would sally forth, hollering and screeching their war cries as they poured towards the dreadhold, drawn by the promise of death and slaughter. Warriors of Chaos would meet them just as eagerly, keen axes swinging. Khorne himself would smile to see such carnage. But this was the orruks’ land, and their numbers were beyond counting. They would take the dreadhold, they would deface its ruinous icons and the grand statue of Archaon and then, idiot brains sated by battle for a short while, they would retreat back to their stinking hovels. Archaon would rage at the creatures’ impertinence, and order fresh defences and reinforcements. And the cycle would begin again.

Save that Varash Sunken-Eye was in charge now, and he had no intention of letting it happen again.

‘The wretches have been quiet lately,’ came the voice of the Slaughterpriest Slaadh, Varash’s second in command. The towering warrior loped towards the Chaos lord, and Varash caught the sound of weight dragging across stone. Slaadh still favoured his left leg, the result of a wicked strike from an orruk flail that had torn most of the flesh from his right.

‘We hurt them last time,’ said Varash. ‘The orruks are reckless, but their leader is no fool. He bides his time, replenishes his ranks. This is a place of strength for them.’

‘So it is for us. The blood we have spilled here…’ Slaadh ran a dry, torn tongue across his razor-filed teeth, and blood stained his lips scarlet. ‘Our master does not forget our sanguine offering. The orruks will come again soon and we will make a mountain of their skulls.’

‘Do not underestimate them,’ said Varash. ‘The creatures have routed this place twice already. I saw Archaon’s fury when they defaced his great statue. I was one of the few to survive it.’

Slaadh grinned. ‘That is why we are here,’ he said. ‘The Everchosen sends his favoured killers. He gives us a flesh offering that will drown these plains in blood.’

Varash nodded and wiped away a trail of blood from his eye. He had earned his name thanks to the tender administrations of an orruk war-chief. The beast’s club had smashed into the Chaos lord’s eye, shattering the socket and pulping the orb within. Such a wound would cripple a mortal warrior’s ability to fight, but these days Varash was some way away from being mortal.

A fresh lance of agony stabbed through his skull, and Varash growled, grinding a mailed fist into the ruined socket. Every moment during which the Sunken-Eye was not spilling blood he was plagued with nausea and sharp, unforgiving headaches. Only in battle, only when he was claiming skulls and souls in the name of his dark master, was Varash free of this constant discomfort.

Screams echoed up the winding stairs of the tower. The gorepriests had begun carving their runes.

‘No more waiting,’ growled Varash. His ruined eye was drooling blood again, and it stained his vision crimson. ‘No more defending.’ The word left an acrid taste in his mouth. ‘We will carve open the sky and birth an army that will rip and tear its way across the Roaring Plains.’

‘The witchkin is already weaving his magic,’ said Slaadh, not bothering to mask his disdain and revulsion. Followers of the Blood God put no stock in weakling magic-users. Only fear of Varash had prevented his pet sorcerer from being torn limb from limb the moment he set foot in the Manticore Dreadhold. If his men did not shed blood soon, they would become even more restless. The Chaos lord cared nothing for the sorcerer’s life, of course. Once he had finished what needed to be done, Varash had half a mind to tear the snivelling wretch’s heart out himself.

No. Patience. Varash relished the flow of spilt blood as much as any warrior of Khorne, but he was no gore-crazed, reckless fool. That was why he was so high in the favour of the Everchosen, and why he had been trusted to defend the dreadhold.

‘Gather a raiding party,’ he said to the Slaughterpriest. ‘Send them out through the pass. Have them bring back more bodies for Xos’Phet’s ritual.’

‘And some meat for the cooking fires,’ said Slaadh, wistfully. ‘We haven’t eaten well in a good long time.’

‘We were foolish,’ said the scarred woman, and Lord-Celestant Mykos Argellon could hear the anger and shame in her words.

‘We were hunting, and seeking water,’ she continued. ‘It has been a hard season, and our supplies are low. We rode hard, day and night, and when we came upon the spring I let my warriors drink deeply. We let our guard down for a moment, and they were on us.’

She spat. ‘Foolish. They hacked our mounts to pieces, killed Jevir and a dozen others. The rest of us ran.’

‘And you survived,’ said Thostos Bladestorm.

The woman looked up and stared right at the Lord-Celestant. Her wolf-grey eyes met his own unnerving gaze and did not falter for a moment.

‘They could have slaughtered us all, but instead they welcomed the chase. We made good sport.’

‘What do they call you?’ asked Mykos.

‘I am Alzheer Nahazim,’ the woman said. ‘And this is what is left of my hunt.’

As she gestured, one of the prisoners let out a low groan and doubled over. Alzheer rushed to his side. Thick leaves of grass were bound around the man’s waist, stained a dark red. Alzheer gently removed them, and Mykos caught a glimpse of angry purple. Blood poured from the man’s midriff, and his pale face contorted in agony. A gut wound. If it was as bad as it looked, it was fairly remarkable that the man had made it this far. The Celestial Vindicators could do little to help. They carried no medical supplies, and the healing touch of Lord-Castellant Eldroc’s warding lantern only soothed the wounds of the storm-forged scions of Azyr.

‘How many of your people live?’ asked Mykos.

She shrugged. ‘We number a few thousand. Perhaps less, now. As I say, it has been a hard season. The orruks grow restless, and several of our hunting parties have disappeared without trace. Without food and water…’

Thostos turned to Mykos, and signalled him and the Lord-Castellant Eldroc over. The trio moved away from the prisoners, and were joined by Prosecutor-Prime Evios Goldfeather and Axilon, the Knight-Heraldor.

‘What do we do with them?’ asked Eldroc. ‘They may look savage, but they do not bear the marks of Chaos.’

‘Lord-Castellant,’ said Evios, ‘I do not think we can discount the possibility that these mortals may have been corrupted by the dark powers. We shouldn’t blindly trust them simply because they aren’t covered in flayed skulls and severed extremities.’

Mykos frowned. ‘Neither should we judge them simply because they aren’t well-dressed enough for your liking, Prosecutor-Prime. Look around you. This is a harsh place, and it breeds hard people.’

Goldfeather’s helm twitched slightly, and for a moment it seemed like the Prosecutor was about to argue the point. Instead he nodded abruptly, and fell silent.

‘We leave them,’ said Thostos.

‘They will die here,’ said Mykos. ‘They have no mounts and they’re deep in hostile territory. They’re exhausted and malnourished. Why did we save their lives, if we are simply to abandon them now?’

‘We cannot spare the men to guard them, and we do not have time to wait for mortals to keep up with us,’ said Thostos. ‘They will obstruct our mission.’

‘Our duty is to protect the sons and daughters of Sigmar,’ said Mykos.

‘You are wrong. Our duty, our only duty, is to defeat the forces of Chaos. If we fail to take the Manticore Dreadhold, the life of every mortal in this region is forfeit. Do not let emotion blind you to the importance of our task.’

‘We do not know the Roaring Plains,’ insisted Mykos. ‘These people do. They have survived here against all the odds. Their resilience and bravery is not in doubt, and their advice may be invaluable.’

Thostos looked out across the plain. Carrion birds were already circling above the piles of dead orruks. The wind was picking up again, whistling as it whipped through the clusters of long grass.

‘If they fail to keep the pace, we will not stop for them,’ he said. ‘Keep them under watch at all times.’

By the time the column was moving once more, the field of dead orruks was almost entirely carpeted by scavengers. Rat-mawed canine beasts ripped and tore, snapping at each other as often as they did the flesh of the corpses. Wiry, vicious-looking avian creatures tore strips of skin free and gobbled them down, while the ground itself began to crumble away as something unseen opened up great sinkholes to claim its own meal. Mykos Argellon watched the carnage with a kind of horrified fascination. Before the Stormcasts had passed out of sight of the battlefield, almost every scrap of matter had already been dragged away or consumed, even the orruks’ thick iron armour.

‘So much for the orruks stumbling across our little encounter,’ said Knight-Heraldor Axilon. ‘Almost makes one feel a little hungry, doesn’t it?’

‘Your appetite concerns me,’ replied Mykos.

They advanced out onto the open plain, the Celestial Vindicators setting a fierce pace that quickly saw the craggy foothills shrink into the distance behind them. The prisoners marched along behind the Stormcast column, guarded closely by the Liberators, who formed a rough circle around the group. Despite the harsh pace, the mortals showed no signs of exhaustion, save the wounded man, who was being supported by two of his fellows. His skin was pallid, and sweat poured down his face. It was astonishing that he was still standing, let alone keeping up with the others. Whether that would last, Mykos was uncertain. The Lord-Celestant felt the mortal leader’s eyes on his back. He turned, and she met his gaze unbowed.

‘What do you seek here, sky warrior?’ she said. Her voice had a soft, sing-song quality, at odds with her barbarous appearance.

‘Silence,’ said Liberator Phalryn, but Mykos held up a hand.

‘I cannot tell you,’ he said. ‘We do not know if you are trustworthy yet, and I will not risk my brothers’ lives on a hunch.’

She nodded. ‘Wise. But you have no need to mistrust us. You are sons of the Sky God, and you are our salvation. It is written.’

‘This Sky God you worship,’ asked Mykos. ‘Tell me more of him.’

‘Zi’Mar, the Rage upon the Storm. It is he who guides our arrows. He who welcomes brave warriors home when they fall in battle. He who blesses the hunt. He is far from us, but his strength guides us still. I am his daughter, and his priestess.’

‘You’re not exactly what I expect from a priestess, my lady,’ said Mykos.

She smiled, pulling aside the leather armour at her neck to reveal a lightning tattoo that reached from beneath her jaw to just above her collarbone. A symbol of a god of the sky, of battle and of lightning. It had been observed before amongst mortals who had survived the age of darkness without succumbing to the wiles of Chaos. Faith in a being as mighty as Sigmar did not die easily, even if the finer details of worship had been altered during the long years of his absence.

‘He sent you, didn’t he?’ she went on. ‘He sent you to kill the orruks and help us reclaim our lands.’

Mykos marched beside her in silence for a while.

‘No,’ he said, finally. The truth was best, always. ‘The God-King Sigmar created us, forged us in celestial fire. Our task is to take back the Eight Realms from Chaos and restore the law of order. But we are not here for you. Not today.’

She fell silent for a while.

‘Chaos?’ she said at last. ‘You mean the orruks?’

‘No,’ Mykos replied. ‘Warped human warriors. Minions of the Dark Gods.’

‘The Bloodstarved,’ she said. ‘The men of the fortress.’

‘You know of them?’

She nodded. ‘Yes. They have held that place for many years. Once their raiding parties were common. Now that the orruks have them holed up in the mountains, they rarely bother us.’

‘You don’t seem to bear them much ill will,’ said Mykos.

‘On the plain, everything but your fellow tribesman wants you dead,’ she said, and shrugged. ‘The Bloodstarved are cruel, and despised amongst my people, but they are one of many foes. For us, it is good that they hold the dark fortress. It keeps the greenskins’ eyes fixed on them.’

They walked in silence for a while, Mykos mulling over this latest revelation. The presence of the orruks complicated things, especially since they appeared to be far stronger than the Celestial Vindicators had anticipated, but the fact that the Chaos filth were holed up in the dreadhold could only help their plans.

‘We can help you,’ Alzheer said at last. ‘Whatever you are looking for here, we can help you find it. The Sky Seekers know every hand-width of this land. It is our home.’

‘I believe we can trust you,’ Mykos replied, ‘but you must understand that this is no simple thing for us to risk. We cannot know for sure that you are not tainted by the touch of Chaos yourselves.’

‘Come with us,’ said Alzheer. ‘Come to the camp of the Sky Seekers, and you will know the truth of my people. We can help you.’

‘Enough,’ came a growl from ahead, and Mykos saw the blue eyes of Thostos gazing back at them. ‘We know our business, and we need no help completing it. There are many miles left to march. Keep up or we will leave you behind.’

Constant, furious motion defined the Roaring Plains. The grass whipped and churned in the howling wind, giving the impression that the Stormcasts were wading through knee-deep water. The flocks of carrion-birds and flying lizards that had feasted on the dead orruks now followed the war party, as if they sensed the strangers’ impending doom and were simply waiting for their opportunity to swoop down for the feast. The clouds boiled and surged overhead, and in the distance the striated forks of a lightning storm heralded a rumble of thunder loud enough to shake the earth. The Stormcast Eternals watched as a distant spear of rock was struck by an arc of lightning and exploded into a cloud of shattered stone and displaced dust.

‘I do not like how exposed we are out here,’ grumbled Axilon. ‘It feels like I’m marching out onto a frozen lake with a weight tied around me.’

‘Lord-Celestant Thostos!’ shouted a Bladestorm warrior at the head of the formation. ‘Movement.’

Immediately the Stormcasts moved into position, readying their blades on all sides in case of an ambush. Mykos, Thostos and Lord-Relictor Tharros ran forwards and glanced out across the plain. In the distance, the earth shifted. At first, Mykos thought it was some sort of herd animal that drifted across the plain towards them, but as he came closer he saw the truth of it.

They were plants. Vaguely spherical, enclosed entirely in bands of thorns that protruded like knives from the centre. Each spike was tipped red, as if it had already been doused in the blood of its prey. They roared along on the wind, picking up impressive speed as they bounded and rolled across the plains. They were heading just past the Stormcasts, their path taking them ahead of the front ranks of Liberators by a few dozen meters.

Liberator Iodus strayed too close. One of the razor-spheres veered tightly to the right, lurching so quickly that it seemed more like a hunting creature than a plant. It hurtled through the air, striking Iodus in the chest and wrapping itself around his body with a shriek of scored metal. He gasped in pain, and Mykos was astonished to see the armour that encased the Liberator warp and crack under the pressure.

‘Help him!’ roared Eldroc, as Stormcasts ran to the prone warrior.

They tugged and hacked at the vines, but could not dislodge them without striking hard enough to damage the stricken warrior. Iodus gasped in agony as his armour began to crumple under the extreme pressure. He was being crushed to death.

‘Halt!’ shouted Liberator Galven, and Mykos turned to see what had happened.

Alzheer had slipped from the circle of guards, and she rolled right past a Judicator who tried to grab her. As she came up, her hands went to her neck and yanked at the necklace she wore around her throat. It came loose, and Mykos saw her grasp the wicked tooth that sat in the centre in one hand.

He moved to block her, thinking that she was trying to escape them.

Alzheer grabbed her wounded warrior and drove the makeshift blade into his neck. The man’s eyes bulged and he gasped in shock. A mist of blood sprayed across the woman’s face, but she did not look away. One calloused hand wrapped the dying warrior’s face, and she whispered something in his ear. Her other hand drove the knife in again, and the man’s eyes glazed over.

Not wasting a second, Alzheer hauled the body upright, staggered over to where the stricken Stormcast lay, and dropped it to the floor. Blood poured from the dead man’s ruined throat, staining the earth a dull brown.

‘To the sky, my friend,’ said the priestess.

The razor-vine that had wrapped itself around Liberator Iodus went suddenly slack, gently slipping from the Stormcast like an unspooling rope. It whipped across the ground and looped around the bloody corpse. The wicked thorns tore into the dead man’s flesh, and the vines pulsed hideously as they began to exsanguinate their fresh prize.

‘Back!’ shouted Alzheer.

Mykos grabbed her arm and spun her around to face him.

‘Drake’s blood, woman!’ he shouted. ‘What have you done?’

She wrenched her arm free.

‘He was dying,’ she said. ‘His death saved your man’s life. Blood for blood.’

‘Did I not say these people were tainted?’ said Goldfeather, who had a javelin readied in one hand. ‘Murderous savages.’

‘Hold!’ shouted Thostos Bladestorm. He was looking back at Liberator Iodus, who was staggering to his feet, aided by several of his fellow warriors. Lord-Castellant Eldroc approached, drawing his celestial lantern. Radiant light washed over the Stormcast’s ruptured armour, and the rents in the sigmarite began to heal over. Thostos turned to Alzheer, and blue eyes met unflinching grey.

‘You saved me a dead soldier,’ said the Lord-Celestant, giving Alzheer the briefest nod. ‘You have my gratitude.’

‘My lord,’ spluttered Evios, ‘she butchered her own man, she—’

‘Her man had a gut wound, and would have died slowly and painfully,’ said Thostos, and the Prosecutor-Prime seemed to wither under his glare. ‘He was done. The priestess made the hard choice. Thanks to her quick thinking, a warrior remains fit for duty.’

The unfortunate mortal’s body crumpled as the vine wrapped ever tighter around his frame, squeezing out every drop of blood like juice from a fruit. As they watched, the dead man’s skin turned more and more pale, and the vines of the carnivorous plant swelled and took on a crimson hue.

‘We should be gone from here,’ said Alzheer, staring expressionlessly at the gruesome sight. ‘The blood will draw other creatures.’

‘We are nearing the mouth of Splitskull Pass,’ said Mykos. ‘Prosecutor-Prime, take your men and survey the area. Stay out of sight, and report back to me the moment you come into the contact with the enemy.’

Goldfeather was still staring at Alzheer, who was wiping the blood from her hands with fistfuls of grass and muttering some sort of mantra under her breath.

‘Of course, Lord-Celestant,’ he said, and gave a curt nod.

‘We have no time to give your man proper ceremony,’ said Thostos. ‘Say your words quickly, and then we must continue on.’

‘There is no need,’ said Alzheer. ‘He came from the earth, and he will be claimed by the sky.’

She gestured at the circling flock, who had dropped lower now, anticipating their next meal. Mykos could see wicked toothed bills, curved talons and piercing, hungry eyes.

‘His search is over,’ said the priestess.

‘Well,’ said Goldfeather. ‘This certainly makes things interesting.’

An orruk camp of colossal size covered the mouth of Splitskull Pass, a sprawling, haphazard mess of crude huts and tents. It stretched at least a mile in every direction, and Evios could see that it contained thousands upon thousands of broad, heavily muscled figures, some milling aimlessly, others lazing in the heat of the sun. Clouds of dust highlighted several small-scale skirmishes dotted all over the camp — with no enemy in sight, it was only a matter of time before orruks began one of their self-destructive brawls. He caught the glint of yellow from their armour, and upon the seemingly endless stream of banners and totem poles was emblazoned an ugly image of a pair of gauntleted hands snapping a bone in two.

The Prosecutors stayed high, and well clear of the camp, using the clouds for cover. Their resplendent wings did not lend themselves to subterfuge, and if even one orruk happened to look up and see them it could spell disaster for the rest of the Stormcasts. It was hardly as if they needed to get any closer, thought Evios. Any fool could see that this force of orruks outnumbered the Celestial Vindicators’ own army several times over.

‘I’ve never seen the like,’ said Prosecutor Galeth, who was shaking his head in disbelief. ‘How can we possibly triumph against such numbers?’

Normally Evios would have chastised the warrior for such a comment, but in the face of the apocalypse gathered below them, it hardly seemed appropriate.

‘We cannot break through that,’ said Omeris, and there was no fear in his voice, just simple and unavoidable logic. ‘Not if we wish to have anyone left to complete our mission.’

‘There must be some other way,’ said Galeth. ‘Some way to circumvent this.’

‘Just keep watch over the orruks,’ said Evios. ‘And keep out of sight. If they move even an inch, I want to know about it. If this force catches us in the open field, we are lost.’

He turned to let the roaring wind fill his wings and carry him back out across the plain towards the main force of the Celestial Vindicators. The Lord-Celestants would not welcome the news he bore.

‘So the pass is blocked,’ said Eldroc. ‘That complicates things.’

‘How many orruks are camped there?’ asked Thostos.

‘Many thousands,’ said Goldfeather. ‘Many, many thousands. We did not get close enough to provide an entirely accurate estimation, but their wretched hovels are thick across the ground. I can still smell the stench from here.’

Stormcasts spent so much time with their faces masked beneath their war-helms that, for a leader like Mykos, reading his warriors’ voices was almost second nature. He could tell that Evios was worried. That concerned the Lord-Celestant as much as the grim news, because for all his bluster the Prosecutor-Prime was one of his most eager and unflappable fighters. It must be a mighty force indeed that they faced.

‘If we strike hard, before they are ready,’ said Thostos, ‘can we push through their line?’

‘They do not have any lines, Lord-Celestant,’ said Evios, shaking his head. ‘Just one huge mass of iron. A force a quarter of their size could hold that pass. We would be surrounded and picked apart.’

‘Then we examine our options,’ said Mykos. ‘The mortals. Alzheer says they know every inch of this region. Perhaps they know an alternative route through the mountain.’

‘Time runs short,’ said Eldroc. ‘The God-King stressed the importance of completing this mission as quickly as possible. The longer we delay, the more likely it is that the forces of Chaos will discover our presence and reinforce the dreadhold.’

‘Then our choices are limited,’ said Thostos.

The Lord-Celestant signalled for the mortals to be brought forward, and in short order Liberator Phalryn had gathered them. They looked even more ragged than when they had first been rescued. The Stormcasts had given them what water and food they could spare, but exhaustion and dehydration had already taken their toll. Their lips were cracked and dry, their eyes bloodshot. Mykos felt a stab of guilt for pushing them so hard, but quickly pushed it aside. Better they were given the chance to survive than left to a certain death out on the plain.

Thostos came forward, approaching the priestess and ignoring her fellow warriors.

‘You aided us once,’ he said. ‘I require you to do so again. A large orruk camp blocks Splitskull Pass, preventing us from reaching our objective. We need an alternate route.’

‘You seek the dreadhold, and the gate of fire,’ said Alzheer, nodding as if that was the clear and obvious answer. ‘The Sky Seekers can help you, son of Zi’Mar. There are ways to reach the fortress.’

‘You can lead us there?’ asked Mykos.

‘The paths through the mountain are dangerous and twisted,’ said Alzheer. ‘To traverse them, we will require the help of my people. I can take you to our camp, and our scouts will be able to guide you.’

Thostos stared into the priestess’ eyes, and again she did not avert her gaze.

‘I believe that I can trust you,’ said the Bladestorm. ‘I warn you, however, that if I sense even the slightest hint of betrayal, you and your people will not live long enough to realise the depth of your error.’

Alzheer nodded.

‘The God-King granted me this quest, and I will let nothing interfere with its successful completion. We are clear?’

‘We are.’

Before the Stormcasts rose two great towers of wind-scoured, vine-wrapped rock, one shaped like a spear, the other a wide, rough semi-circle that enclosed the smaller formation. Together, they provided a small lee of natural cover from the blazing sun, and in this sheltered valley Eldroc could see the leather coverings of tents and yurts. As they marched closer, they saw no occupants.

‘We are here,’ said Alzheer.

‘Abandoned,’ said Mykos. ‘Perhaps your people came under attack?’

Alzheer simply smiled, put two fingers to her mouth and gave a series of sharp whistles.

Lean human warriors appeared suddenly from every angle, dropping from cleverly disguised apertures in the walls of the mesa, or bursting forth from tents and thickets of grass.

‘Shields,’ roared Axilon, and the Stormcasts put a wall of sigmarite between themselves and the mortals. Evios and his warrior-heralds took flight, wings glittering in the midday sun as they readied their storm-called javelins.

‘Hold,’ yelled Alzheer, breaking free from the line of Stormcast Eternals and raising her hands. She approached the tribesmen, speaking fast and low in a language that Eldroc did not understand.

Two warriors came forward, one male and one female. Both wore chitinous chestplates and greaves, painted with the same lightning-bolt sigil that was tattooed upon Alzheer’s neck.

‘Priestess,’ said the woman, coming forward and lowering a forked spear. ‘You bring strangers to our home. Well-armed strangers.’

‘Saviours,’ said Alzheer. ‘Warriors of the Sky God, sister. They slaughtered a greenskin warband as if they were lame dogs.’

Mykos came forward. In his turquoise plate, emblazoned with lightning bolts and the flaming comet of Sigmar, his blue eyes blazing through his unforgiving war-mask, he looked every inch the herald of a vengeful god. Several of the mortal warriors dropped to their knees and traced a lightning bolt down their chests with the first two fingers of their free hands. Most stayed standing, weapons levelled and ready. These people have been battered, but their spirit is not broken yet, the Lord-Celestant thought with some admiration.

The female warrior whistled, and looked to her companion.

‘He’s a big one, alright,’ she said.

The other warrior was a wiry, flint-eyed greybeard, still corded with muscle despite his advanced years and obvious signs of malnutrition. He stepped forward, an arrow nocked on his bow but lowered to the floor, and peered at Thostos’ armour.

‘This metalwork,’ he said, and his voice was full of awe. ‘I’ve never seen the like.’

‘Elder Diash is our smith and weapon-crafter,’ said Alzheer, smiling warmly at the man.

‘By which she means I spend my days tying flint to arrows,’ said Diash. ‘There’s no good, solid metal here, sky warrior, unless you fancy asking the orruks for some of theirs. Mind you, don’t seem like you need any.’

‘This warplate comes from the forge-castles of blessed Azyrheim,’ said Mykos. ‘It was crafted from the remnants of a dying world, shaped by the matchless skill of the Six Smiths. It has saved my life a hundred times.’

Diash’s eyes went wide. He thought for a moment, and then slapped a palm against the rough chitin of his own chestplate.

‘Got this from a sand-crab,’ he said. ‘Biggest one I ever caught. Devilish, irritable little creatures they are, but smoke ’em right and they make a nice meal.’

There was a pause, and then Knight-Heraldor Axilon laughed hard enough to shake the walls of the mesa. Mykos chuckled too, behind his war mask.

‘It seems we have much to teach each other, my friend,’ he said.

Thostos came forward, and the mortals shied away from his cold glare.

‘Enough. We are here to speak with your leaders,’ he said.

Diash and his fellow warrior, the tall, scarred woman called Emni, led Mykos, Thostos and their entourage through the camp. Axilon had stayed with the main force, and he and Lord-Relictor Tharros were now organising them into a defensive screen around the encampment. As the tribespeople filtered out of their tents to stare at these elaborately armoured strangers, Mykos began to appreciate just how difficult life must be out on the plains. Barely a single mortal was unmarked by some sign of combat, and not a single one went unarmed. Grey-haired, weather-beaten elders scowled at them suspiciously as they passed, clutching crude daggers and stone hatchets. The younger warriors were better armed, though not by much. They favoured axes and short, curved sabres. Cavalry pieces, designed for slashing and hacking. He noted only a very few children, scrawny little things that stared defiantly at the Celestial Vindicators as they passed.

A circular clearing in the centre of the camp was home to a few-score tired-looking horses, lazily munching on bundles of tall grass. Behind the enclosure was the largest structure in the camp, a vaguely oval tent with a tapered entrance to the fore, guarded by four warriors. It was tall enough for even the Stormcasts to enter without ducking. Several huge, yellowed tusks anchored the structure at each corner, dug deep into the ground and secured with leather straps. Across the floor were scattered hides of all descriptions — great, thick ursine furs, mottled reptilian skins and strange diaphanous veils. In the middle of the tent a great pit had been dug out of the earth and filled with stones, and in the centre of this pit a fire spat embers out across the gathering hall.

Several figures crouched at the far end of the tent, which lay flush to the side of the mesa. They were wrapped in yet more furs, and the light of the fire flickered across them, giving them an eerie look.

There were seven in total, and as Mykos drew nearer he could see that they were of varying age, though all were weathered and bronzed from a life spent under the harsh sun. Two carried great hornpipes, and a slightly nauseous scent of burning spices filled the tent. Smoke spiralled into the air, lending the place a misty, ethereal quality.

‘Who do you bring to us, daughter of Zi’Mar?’ said the figure on the far left, pulling back the furs he wore to reveal a wizened, lined face with two milky-white eyes. ‘They smell of metal, and of the night sky.’

‘The Sky God has sent warriors to protect our lands, Elder Patiga,’ said Alzheer. She moved to the ancient figure, and gently lifted him up. Holding his hands in her own, she approached Mykos, and he let her run the elder’s liver-spotted hands across his gilded armour, tracing the wondrous lion’s-head breastplate and the lightning-and-hammer symbol that he wore upon his pauldron.

‘Warriors wreathed in metal,’ said Patiga, and he shook his head. ‘But not orruks! No, no, no. The wind will cease before those brutes learn to craft such wonders.’

‘You come to help us wipe out the greenskins,’ said another figure, standing and casting off his furs. This one was tall, for a mortal, well muscled and covered in a latticework of scars and burn marks. Trophies hung from his thick leather clothing, fingerbones, ears and teeth taken from slaughtered orruks. Knives were tucked into his armour, and he carried a short, curved blade at his hip. He had shaved his hair, aside from a ponytail that draped down his back, and his beard was thick and wiry.

‘No, we do not,’ said Thostos, and the speaker’s eyes narrowed.

He was a fierce one, this mortal. Mykos sensed the same ruthless competence from him as he had sensed from Alzheer, but while the priestess was measured and calm, this one did not even bother to conceal his anger.

‘So why are you here?’ the man snapped.

‘They seek a way through the mountains, Rusik,’ said Alzheer. ‘And you will guide them. You know those paths better than any other warrior.’

The man called Rusik narrowed his eyes at the priestess.

‘We are tasked with taking the Manticore Dreadhold, a fortress of Chaos,’ said Thostos. ‘You must have encountered the men that dwell there.’

‘They stay in their holes,’ said Rusik. ‘They barely venture out on the open plain. Because of the orruks. Those creatures have slaughtered thousands of our people. We were once a proud and numerous tribe. We were lords of this plain. Now we are a pitiful remnant of our former selves, a fading shadow.’

‘We are not gone yet,’ said Alzheer.

‘The orruks despoil the land,’ said Rusik, his voice rising in anger. ‘They slaughter the herdbeasts, they trample the kishwa plants under their iron boots. Hunger and thirst will kill us while we sit here and do nothing.’

‘Our cause is more important than the fate of your people,’ said Thostos.

‘Your cause?’ spat the mortal warrior. ‘What does your cause matter to us if we are to die here?’

‘If we fail, millions of souls will be lost to the Dark Powers,’ the Lord-Celestant continued. ‘Whether by the next season or the next decade, your people will fall too. I have seen what happens when Chaos conquers, mortal. Trust me when I say that you would not wish to witness it for yourself.’

‘You think you can scare me with dire proclamations?’ said Rusik, with a bitter laugh. ‘The orruks have already burned everything I held dear to the ground.’

He pointed east. ‘You wish to die against the walls of the dreadhold? A half day’s ride or so and you’ll find the entrance to the Dragonmaw Canyons. Find your own damned way through.’

Rusik made to leave. Before he had gone ten paces Thostos had grabbed hold of the man’s leather jerkin and hauled him into the air. The Lord-Celestant’s eyes held no fury, simply an implacable resolution.

‘You will guide us,’ he said, and his voice was as cold and steady as the mountains.

Swords were drawn. The guards raised their spears more in alarm than aggression, but several figures emerged from the shadows with more of those wicked cavalry sabres. These men wore black cloaks of raven feathers, and their armour was of better quality than those borne by most of the tribe. Rusik’s men, Mykos guessed.

‘Thostos,’ he hissed. ‘Release him. This is not the way.’

The Bladestorm ignored him.

‘You think those little blades will scratch sigmarite armour?’ growled Thostos, his war-helm less than an inch from Rusik’s face. ‘You are welcome to test them. Or you could simply guide my warriors to where they need to go, and I will release you. Either way, I am running short on both time and patience. Choose.’

Rusik held out a hand as his men inched forward to surround the Lord-Celestant.

‘Hold!’ he shouted. ‘Sheathe your blades.’

Reluctantly, his entourage did as commanded. Rusik stared into Thostos’ eyes with a mixture of fear and anger.

‘We will do as you ask,’ he said. ‘If you wish to die under the shadow of the dreadhold, I will lead you to its gates. Release me.’

Thostos lowered the man to the floor.

Two of Rusik’s men rushed to help him as he stumbled, but he battered their outstretched arms aside angrily.

‘Very well, noble sky warriors,’ he spat. ‘I will gather my men. Night falls, and we had best leave soon if we are to reach our destination before dawn.’

With that he stalked from the tent, retinue in tow. An uneasy silence remained.

Eldroc placed the warding lantern on the ground and kneeled in front of it. The celestial energy washed over him, and suddenly his burdens were lifted and his heart soared as if he was back in the throne room of Sigmar, in the presence of his beloved God-King. Doubts and worries vanished in the soothing luminescence. Redbeak growled softly at his side, and the Lord-Castellant ruffled the gryph-hound’s neck fondly.

‘What do you make of these people?’ came a voice at his side, and Eldroc’s hand instinctively went to his halberd. Lord-Celestant Thostos stood in the shadows of a nearby tent. He glanced pointedly at the weapon.

‘Apologies, Lord-Celestant,’ said Eldroc, shaking his head. ‘I did not notice your approach.’

Thostos said nothing.

‘I think these Sky Seekers are a brave and loyal people,’ Eldroc said, gathering his thoughts. ‘To have lost so much, to be torn down and hunted like beasts yet still retain their faith. It is humbling.’

‘You believe they can be trusted?’ asked Thostos.

‘I do. Though I am not sure we have much of a choice in the matter regardless.’

The Lord-Celestant nodded. They stood together awhile, watching the sun dip below the far horizon. Mortals moved quietly around the camp, lighting torches and cooking fires.

‘The lantern, it gives you comfort?’ asked Thostos eventually.

‘It… does,’ Eldroc replied, surprised at the question. ‘It focuses my thoughts, banishes my doubt. ‘

‘You have doubts,’ said Thostos. ‘About our purpose.’

Eldroc considered his answer. ‘Not our purpose,’ he said. ‘Chaos must be banished, and the rule of law and justice erected in its stead. I question myself. My role in this war. The true cost of fighting it.’

‘I do not remember doubt,’ said Thostos, and his voice was a mere echo of his usual harsh tone. ‘I simply act. The battlefield shifts, and I move with it. I anticipate, I react.’

‘Do you remember anything, my friend?’ asked Eldroc.

Thostos shook his head. ‘Sometimes an image, a sensation of recollection. Then gone. Like grasping smoke.’

‘Sit with me, my friend,’ said the Lord-Castellant, gesturing to a spot next to Redbeak. ‘Let the lantern’s light soothe you. I will tell you of our time in the Gladitorium. It will all come back, if we give it time.’

Thostos hesitated, then took a step forward.

Redbeak rolled upright, feathered ears narrowed to daggerpoints, eyes shining in the light of the campfires. He let out a harsh shriek, and pawed and scraped at the ground.

Eldroc and Thostos had their blades drawn in an instant. One did not ignore the warnings of a sharp-eared gryph-hound. From the darkness beyond the ring of tents, dozens of flaming projectiles launched into the air, arcing up high to fall into the camp. The screams began.

‘Ready the men,’ said Thostos, and his voice was pitilessly calm once more. ‘Take Phalryn and his Liberators and secure the camp.’

Without a single glance backwards, the Lord-Celestant charged off through the tents, into the darkness.

Arrows whickered through the air, pinpricks of searing light amongst the darkness. The flaming arrowheads slammed into the rawhide tents, and fire spread across the village as dry brush combusted. More screams rent the air.

Out came the Stormcast lines, Liberators angling their great shields up to intercept the barrage, while the Judicators searched the horizon, looking for targets. The Stormcasts could pick none out in the pitch black, though the arc of the flaming arrows revealed their likely position some hundred yards away from the tribal camp.

‘Take them down!’ roared Thostos, and a torrent of silver flame rippled away into the darkness as the Judicators loosed. Liberators advanced under the storm of fire, trusting in the skill of their brothers as projectiles whipped past them.

Figures emerged from the gloom. Burly, heavily muscled men in scraps of leather armour and chain, wielding axes and spiked clubs. Their eyes gleamed in the darkness, burning with foul bloodlust.

As strong as the battle-joy of the savages was, the rage of the Celestial Vindicators was equal to it. Of all the Stormhosts of Sigmar, they were the fiercest and most implacable foes of Chaos. Every single one of the turquoise warriors had lost something irreplaceable to the depredations of the Dark Gods, and though the trauma of Reforging had stolen the memory of that loss from many a Vindicator, the white-hot, raging hatred of Chaos remained.

They met the enemy head on, and neither side gave a solitary moment of quarter.

‘Death to the servants of Chaos!’ roared Thostos, leaping into battle with his sword leading. His blade pierced the chest of a loping warrior, and as the dying wretch collapsed to the ground, the Lord-Castellant spun expertly to crash his hammer into the bare, scarred chest of another.

These were scraps, he realised. Not the heavily armoured, battle-forged avatars of destruction that formed the elite of a Khornate army, but the filthy, gore-drunk masses that comprised its meat. Numbers, and not skill, made such creatures dangerous. This was a raiding party, searching for fresh meat to devour, and not a warband.

Against the roused fury of the Celestial Vindicators, the enemy would be completely outmatched.

Judicators lit up the night with streams of starfire, their bolts and arrows illuminating the carnage of the assault and burning smoking holes through any servants of Chaos unfortunate enough to get in the way. The ripples of glowing ammunition strobed across the darkness, lending a bizarre, dreamlike quality to the battle.

Thostos saw a tall, broad-chested creature barrel towards him, its bloated forearms capped with blood-soaked, rusting cleavers. The afterglow remained etched across his vision as the archers reloaded, and he made a split-second guess as to where he should strike. He held his hammer up defensively and swiped across with his sword. There was a wet impact, and a howl of pain.

Again the battlefield was washed in blinding light as the archers loosed again, and Thostos saw the brute reel backwards, belly opened.

‘Leave none alive,’ he shouted above the clangour of battle.

Rusik crept through the night, curved blade drawn and readied. He had already cut down two howling, shrieking bloodreavers that had rushed at him from the darkness, swinging their meat cleavers and drooling bloody spittle. He had savoured the scrape of bone as his sword ran down the spine of one, laughed as he took the hand from the second with a savage swipe.

He remembered leaning down beside his stricken opponent, enjoying the fool’s last gasps of desperate agony. His blade had come down, again and again and again. Things had gone black for a while, and when Rusik had regained control of his senses there was little more left before him than a gutted, ruptured pile of flesh. He could taste blood at the back of his throat, and his hands were caked with gore.

He shook off his disturbing thoughts. What did it matter how he killed the enemy, so long as the job was done? Leave Alzheer and her rabble to their endless talking. He would do what no one else could. He would protect their ancient lands, against the orruks and against whoever else tried to take what was his.

Rusik came around the side of a burning tent, stepping over two dead warriors. Besik and Tavo. Alzheer’s loyal men, so no great loss. Men who would rather run and hide from the greenskins than meet their fate in honest battle. Cowards. Arrows protruded from their chests, still smouldering. Besik had also taken one in the neck. Rusik smelled burned flesh.

He looked up, and he saw her again.

A shiver ran down his spine, and his heart hammered in his chest. There she was, as beautiful and strong as the day they had met.

‘Zenia,’ he whispered, and the figure turned to him and smiled. Then she faded into nothingness.

‘No!’ he shouted, scrambling across the carnage of the battlefield towards the spot where she had stood. ‘No! Zenia, come back to me!’

With the encampment aflame, the enemy dropped their bows and drew their crude weapons, desperate to shed blood face to face. They charged into the burning camp, expecting, perhaps, to meet beleaguered mortal warriors in battle. Foes that could be hacked apart, torn down and excruciated, their remains carried off to the cooking pits for the night’s feast.

Instead, they met a wall of unyielding sigmarite, and the blades of the Celestial Vindicators.

Oh, it was good to match blades against the eternal foe once more, thought Mykos Argellon, smiling broadly as he sliced Mercutia diagonally through the torso of a shrieking berserker. The filth fell apart in two neat pieces, and the Lord-Celestant slammed the pommel of his grandblade into the face of another screaming warrior. The blood-starved wretch spat teeth, and staggered backwards. Mykos followed, crashing the pommel into the man’s face again and again. Finally his enemy toppled to the ground, his skull little more than a ruined crater.

This was what they had been created for. This was the honest freedom of battle against a hated foe.

Another volley from the Judicators rippled through the ranks of the blood-crazed enemy, and dozens came apart in a lightning burst of gore and scorched flesh.

She waited for him at the twins. This had been their place, once. They had sneaked away in the night, he from the warriors’ tents, she from her father, who had never approved. They had never had much time together. There was always the hunt, always the threat of a warband appearing on the horizon. They had lived their lives in snatched moments, even when the priestesses had blessed them and their son had been born. Even afterwards.

As he clambered onto the taller of the two rocks, he saw her. She turned to him and smiled.

‘Husband,’ she said. ‘Do you remember?’

The figure shifted, becoming an insubstantial cloud of mist. Within its limits Rusik could see the same images that had haunted him every single night since he had lost her. He saw the charging orruks, raising and swinging their jagged cleavers. He saw his son, brave little Achren, fall, trampled under their iron boots. He saw Zenia, her own sword wet with enemy blood, a song of vengeance upon her lips. Spears ran her through from all sides, and she arched her back and screamed in agony. She turned to him. Her dead eyes bored into his own, and Rusik felt her agony, her sense of betrayal. A pair of mighty hands closed around her neck, gauntleted in jagged yellow iron. There was a sickening snap. Zenia fell, and so did Rusik.

‘I tried to reach you,’ he sobbed, collapsing to his knees. ‘I did. I rode my steed until it collapsed, and then I dragged myself for miles across the plains. I was too late.’

‘Such bravery, husband,’ his dead wife snarled. She lay in a pool of blood, her head swivelling on a broken neck with a groan of creaking cartilage. ‘Tell your dead son how you tried so hard to reach him. Tell your fellow tribesmen, left bleeding and broken.’

‘Zenia, please,’ he begged, hot tears running down his cheeks.

‘You were weak,’ she snarled, beautiful face twisted with pain and hatred. ‘You let them die. Worse, you left them unavenged.’

‘I have killed so many of them,’ said Rusik, shaking his head.

‘You think cutting down a few scouts assuages your sins?’ Zenia spat. ‘You think our tortured souls can be soothed by such paltry offerings? No, husband.’ She made the word a curse.

‘Only when the plains run red with orruk blood will we be calmed,’ she continued. ‘And your pitiful Sky God cannot give you the strength to do this. He has abandoned you, husband. You know it to be true.’

‘He sends warriors,’ said Rusik. ‘Giants in fine metal armour.’

Zenia was silent for a moment. ‘And these warriors have pledged their aid to you in destroying the orruks?’ she asked.

‘No,’ growled Rusik. ‘They refuse to aid us, and say they have their own mission here.’

‘Then they are no servants of Zi’Mar,’ said Zenia. ‘They are impostors, and they mean to use our people to achieve their own ends. They are not to be trusted. There is only one power in the realms that can offer you what you seek.’

‘Tell me,’ pleaded Rusik. ‘I will do anything to avenge you, my love.’

Zenia smiled a blood-red smile.

Eldroc strode through the wreckage of the camp, Redbeak at his side. The Lord-Castellant’s anger rose as he passed fallen mortals riddled with arrows and burned by the rising flames. The surviving tribespeople stared out from the ruins of their tents, faces blackened by smoke. He saw no fear or anger on their faces, just the weary resignation of a people worn down by constant war. He leaned down and gathered up the body of a fallen youth, pale hands clasped around the wicked arrow shaft that had pierced his belly.

The Lord-Castellant laid the corpse down in a row next to a score of other casualties. The boy’s dead eyes were wide with pain and shock. Eldroc brushed them closed, snapped off the arrow shaft, and crossed the dead youth’s hands over his chest in the same manner as his fellows. He caught Elder Diash’s eyes, and the old man nodded gratefully.

‘I am sorry for your losses,’ said the Lord-Castellant. He felt as if he should say something more, but words escaped him. He was not used to dealing with mortals.

‘We will commit their flesh and their souls to the Sky God,’ said Diash. ‘They will return to the earth, where they will remain with us, always.’

Eldroc bowed, intrigued by the strangeness of the nomads’ rituals. Stormcasts were deeply faithful, but that faith was rooted in the physical presence of a living, breathing god. These mortals had survived centuries without a glimpse of their deity, and even in the midst of terrible loss and hardship, they still believed. That impressed and terrified him in equal measure. Would he fight so hard in Sigmar’s absence, he wondered? He supposed he had, once. That was the hallmark of a Celestial Vindicator’s ascension, after all.

The Lord-Castellant was shaken from his musing by the sound of armoured boots. He turned and saw Mykos Argellon approach, wiping his grandblade clean of gore with a few strands of grass.

‘They have scattered,’ he said. ‘The scum didn’t put up much of a fight.’

‘I don’t believe they expected to find us here,’ replied Eldroc. ‘They meant to draw the tribespeople out. To capture as many of them as they could.’

‘For what reason?’ asked Mykos.

‘Who knows?’ replied Eldroc. ‘Perhaps they require slaves. Perhaps they require food.’

Mykos shook his head in disgust. ‘Cannibals. How does a man fall so far?’

‘I have long since ceased asking myself that question,’ Eldroc replied. ‘Where is Thostos?’

‘Somewhere out there,’ said Mykos. Eldroc could tell his friend was attempting to keep his tone neutral. ‘He took a score of warriors with him in pursuit of the fleeing enemy. He wants them all dead, so none can reveal our presence to the main host.’

‘Sound strategy,’ said Eldroc.

‘I suppose so,’ replied Mykos.

Eldroc sighed. ‘Speak, brother, I beg you. I have suffered enough brooding silences of late to last me several lifetimes.’

‘You wish me to talk directly?’ said Mykos, a hint of anger in his voice. ‘Very well. The Bladestorm is a danger to his men. He is no longer the hero that led your chamber to victory at the Eldritch Fortress. You must see it.’

‘I see a man traumatised by the torture he has suffered in pursuing a just cause. I see a man who has survived unthinkable agonies, and yet continues to fight against the darkness with all the strength he can muster.’

‘Lord-Castellant—’ Mykos said, shaking his head.

‘With respect, Lord-Celestant,’ said Eldroc, ‘you are yet to experience the true cost of this war we fight. You have not been reforged a second time.’

The Lord-Castellant stared out across the field of corpses.

‘Agony,’ he said at last. ‘An infinity of torment. And at the centre of it all, a sure knowledge that you will never be the same even if you survive. It almost broke me, Argellon.’

‘Yet you remain calm. Thoughtful,’ said Mykos. ‘You do not carelessly risk your life or those of our fellow warriors.’

‘I can afford to be the voice of reason. Thostos must lead. He must be the epitome of what every Celestial Vindicator aspires to be. That is no easy task, especially for one suffering as he is. Yet despite your concerns, Thostos has not led us astray.’

‘He has been reckless,’ insisted Mykos.

Eldroc turned to the Lord-Celestant.

‘Are you sure it is the Lord Bladestorm that concerns you, my friend?’ he asked, softly.

Mykos bristled. ‘What do you imply, Lord-Castellant?’

‘Thostos unnerves you because you know that in time every Stormcast Eternal will fall in battle. Including you.’

‘I do not fear death,’ said Mykos.

‘But we do not talk of death, do we?’ Eldroc replied. ‘You are a man who prides himself on his humanity, and the thought of losing your grip on that is what you fear.’

Mykos said nothing.

‘I tell you truly, my friend,’ said Eldroc. ‘The Reforging was a crucible that almost destroyed me, but I came out of it a stronger man, and a greater warrior. Thostos will too.’

Mykos shook his head. ‘I hear your words, my friend, but I know you do not believe what you say. I see the way you look at him. I hear the concern in your voice when you speak his name. You are as afraid at what is happening to Thostos as anyone.’

Varash heard the sorcerer’s cackling before he even entered the grand tower. It was a high-pitched, joyless sound, and he had only ever heard the stunted whelp utter it when he was taking some poor wretch apart on the ritual tables. It echoed around him as he climbed the circular steps that wound towards the battlements. Even now, before they had begun the ritual proper, blood was dripping down the central shaft of the tower, pooling in the recesses of the great bronze skull that adorned the ground floor chamber.

‘Yes, yes, yes!’ came that voice again. ‘Scream and curse all you like, for all the good it’s going to do you. You cannot halt progress, my unfortunate friend.’

Reaching the top step, Varash swung the wrought-iron door open and stepped out into a scene of butchery.

The gorepriests were busy removing the innards of the latest unfortunates to be chosen for Xos’Phet’s haruspicy. They worked in silence, mouths stitched closed — the sorcerer hated any noise while he worked, save for his own blathering — and dirty smocks stained red and brown with dried viscera.

The centre of the tower was slightly concave, forming an oval bowl into which drained the blood of the slaves and prisoners that had been sacrificed in the name of the sorcerer’s work. Running around the outside of the tower were cages, and as Varash passed he saw dead-eyed mortals stare out at him. They no longer screamed or begged. They knew that doing so would only mark them as the next to be given to the gorepriests.

Xos’Phet stood on the other side of the charnel pit. Before him was a wooden rack, upon which was impaled the hulking, green-skinned figure of an orruk shaman, its eyes and mouth stitched shut. The sorcerer turned.

‘Lord Sunken-Eye,’ he chirped, in that obsequious squeal that made Varash want to crush his skull to dust. ‘We have made much progress today, much progress.’

The sorcerer was hardly an imposing figure. A stick-thin sliver of a man wrapped in blood-stained purple robes, he hardly reached past Varash’s waist. He was bald and ill-looking, with watery eyes and a mouthful of yellowed teeth. The right side of his face, from temple to chin, was covered in iridescent scales like those of a fish, no doubt the result of some sorcerous accident. Varash despised every inch of the man.

‘You will make this work,’ he said, and it was not a question.

Xos’Phet wiped blood from his face with the hem of his robe, and gave a grin that turned his sallow face into a leering skull.

‘Oh yes,’ said the sorcerer. ‘So much power here. The gate of the Manticore, it has been doused in blood, saturated in it. They sense it. They taste it. All that is left is to send the invitation.’

‘You asked for more slaves for the sacrifice,’ said Varash. ‘I have already dispatched a raiding party, and they should return soon with fresh mortals.’

Xos’Phet giggled, and foamy yellow froth formed at the corner of his mouth.

‘Oh, I’m afraid not, Lord Varash,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid your little man-eaters have run into some trouble.’

He made a series of intricate gestures with his wrinkled hands, and the blood pooling in the grooves of the stone floor dribbled into the air, coming together to form a flat, circular disk. The blood-mirror shimmered, and an image formed like a reflection on the surface of a lake. It was dark, and hard to pick out, but Varash saw dozens of torn and broken corpses scattered across a field of grass. They wore scraps of leather and chain, and their flesh was marked and seared with both old ritual scars and fresher wounds. His men, he realised.

‘Dead,’ he growled. ‘Orruks?’

‘No,’ replied Xos’Phet. ‘Something far more interesting. Observe.’

As the sorcerer gestured at the image, a towering armoured figure stepped into view. This warrior was broad and tall, his imposing physique exacerbated by wondrously crafted warplate decorated with lighting bolts and the angry maw of a lion. His helm was a stern mask of cold fury, and he carried a warhammer and longsword of equally magnificent quality as his armour.

‘Sigmar’s whelps,’ snarled Varash, and cursed.

‘They fight impressively,’ said Xos’Phet. ‘Perhaps as well as you and your chosen warriors. None of your scouts will return, and they will bring with them no fresh meat for the sacrifice.’

Varash grabbed one of the gorepriests around the neck, and smashed the mute creature’s head into the table upon which he was working. Once, twice, three times. He felt its skull collapse and let the dead thing fall to the ground. The Stormcasts, these warriors called themselves. They had fallen to earth on bolts of lightning in all corners of the realms, taking the fight to the bastions of Chaos with the sickening fervour of the righteous. At any other time, Varash would have welcomed their appearance and the opportunity to match blades with the preening upstarts, but the timing here was too delicate for such complications.

‘Do not be concerned, Lord Sunken-Eye,’ said Xos’Phet. ‘I have taken steps. We will have our sacrifices.’

‘Explain.’

The sorcerer’s eyes flared suddenly, and his smile disappeared. Xos’Phet might be a stunted weakling, but he was not used to being spoken to in such a manner.

‘The human tribes that dwell here are on the verge of extinction,’ the sorcerer said. ‘They are weak and near broken, and in the absence of hope all that is left to them is shame and regret. Easy emotions to prey upon.’

He waved a pallid hand, and the blood-mirror warped and twisted again, now showing a solitary mortal warrior kneeling amongst several corpses. The man shook and wrapped his arms around himself, and Varash realised he was sobbing.

‘In truth I am not so skilled at the more delicate uses of magic,’ said Xos’Phet, considering the weeping figure. ‘This one, however, barely needed any prodding at all. It is all in hand, Lord Varash. I will have my subjects and you will have the opportunity not only to wipe out the orruk threat, but to take care of these new interlopers as well.’

He snapped his fingers and the blood-mirror collapsed. The sorcerer crossed to the inner wall, and Varash followed. They looked out across the courtyard, to the rear wall where the fortifications met the mountain. Rough stone steps wound into the rock, leading up to the hollowed-out platform upon which the gigantic Manticore Realmgate stood. Tendrils of baleful red light lashed across its rune-scarred surface, bathing the rear of the fortress in a crimson glow. Above the gate, crouching with wings outstretched and so intricately carved and engraved it seemed perpetually on the verge of bursting into life, was the gate’s namesake, a monstrous, bat-winged fiend with a leonine head.

‘See how it hungers, Lord Varash?’ whispered Xos’Phet, staring at the portal like a starving man at a grand feast. ‘Such incredible power. This realmgate is different. It has been awakened, weaned on blood and fear. Given the proper sacrifice, it will birth a legion that will drown the Roaring Plains in blood.’

The sorcerer looked up at him, crimson light shimmering in his eyes and across the iridescent scales that marked his face.

‘I will unlock the secrets of this realmgate, and you will have your army. And together we will tear the Mortal Realms apart.’

Chapter Three

The Manticore Dreadhold

They said goodbye to their dead upon the dawn. There was little ritual to speak of; a score of tribespeople slain in the raid were carried out of the town to a cluster of flat-topped rocks stained a vibrant green with moss and lichen. While several of the elders droned a deep, sonorous prayer, the bodies were laid gently upon the stone, hands crossed over their hearts and eyes open towards the sky.

As the funeral party made their way back to town, the carrion birds began to descend, in a flock thick enough to blot out the early morning sun. They whirled and circled, a murmuration of black and grey specks that was oddly beautiful despite its predatory intent.

‘There’s a savage sort of poetry to it,’ said Knight-Heraldor Axilon, glancing back. ‘Though I’m not sure I would choose to be devoured by crows upon my death.’

‘Death feeds life,’ said Alzheer, priestess of the Sky Seekers. She still wore her leather armour, and carried a curved blade at her hip. ‘We return our bodies to the sky, and begin the circle anew.’

‘I am sorry for your losses,’ said Lord-Celestant Mykos Argellon.

‘They would be much greater if you had not been there to defend us,’ said Alzheer. ‘We will not forget this.’

‘I wish I could promise your people more than further battle and bloodshed,’ said Mykos. ‘I wish I could say that the armies of Azyr will pour into this realm and make it safe for humanity once more, let you hunt the plains and grow your crops in peace.’

He shook his head, and lifted his war helm. It was the first time he had done so in her presence. His skin was a rich, dark black, almost perfect in complexion, unmarked at all by the many battles he must have fought. He had a round, boyish face, topped with a strip of shaved hair that ran down the centre of his skull.

She looked upon him, and for a moment she was surprised that she pitied him. His fight would never end, she knew. There must be uncounted realms that were equally stricken as this one, endless, shattered remnants of humanity praying desperately for relief from the long darkness. Mykos and his warriors would likely never see their task completed. How could even warriors as brave, as skilled as this defy so great an evil as the shadow that lay across the world?

‘I can only promise that the Celestial Vindicators will make our enemies pay,’ he said, and there was a fire in his voice that she had not heard before. His stark brown eyes bored into her. ‘We will seek them wherever they hide, in their fortresses where they think themselves safe from justice. We will tear down their walls, and we will put them to the sword. They will die as their victims did, begging for a mercy I shall not grant them.’

As quickly as it had flared, his rage was gone. He blinked and swallowed, and looked almost surprised at his own vehemence. She smiled sadly, and traced her fingers across the lion carved upon his breastplate.

‘Your vengeance is Zi’Mar’s justice,’ she said. ‘But do not lose yourself in it, my friend. You are a good man, in a world where few exist. Do not let revenge define you.’

They did not spare much time for grief. Led by the warrior Rusik’s horsemen, the Celestial Vindicators made good time to the mouth of the Dragonmaw Canyons. It was easy to see how they had earned their name. Jutting out of the low range of mountains like a snapping jaw, the entrance was a jagged cluster of sharp stone that seemed almost impassable, a twisting spiral of serrated rock keen enough to draw blood. As the Stormcasts approached, a thunderous rumble shook the earth beneath their feet. It was a drawn-out, grating roar, the sound of a hundred fortress walls collapsing.

‘The earth here, it moves and shifts,’ said Rusik. ‘One moment the path through the mountain may be clear, the next it is a forest of razor-sharp stone.’

‘Then how in Sigmar’s name are we going to march several hundred plate-armoured warriors through it?’ snapped Prosecutor-Prime Goldfeather.

‘We will pass through because I know this land well, and I know when it is about to betray me. Priestess, I will need your riders,’ Rusik said. ‘We will scout ahead on horseback, find a route through. Once we are sure, we will send back a rider to signal that things are safe and guide you in.’

‘You require every single rider?’ asked Lord-Celestant Argellon.

Rusik nodded. ‘These canyons are vast, and not friendly to trespassers. Many dangerous creatures hunt within.’

Alzheer’s force numbered around a hundred mortals, fifty or so on horseback and the rest lightly armoured skirmish troops carrying bows and simple hatchets. Rusik led another fifteen horse riders — dour, battle-scarred men who eyed the Stormcasts sullenly. Clearly their leader had not extolled the virtues of the Celestial Vindicators to them after his treatment at the hands of Thostos.

‘Be careful, priestess,’ said Mykos as Alzheer made her way over to Rusik’s band.

‘I am always careful, my friend,’ she replied. ‘And besides, I would not miss the chance to see you and your warriors in battle once again.’

As she and the rest of the riders filtered into the maze of jagged rocks, Mykos Argellon got the uneasy impression that those had been the last words he would ever hear her speak.

Diash felt the hard ground beneath him clatter his old bones with every step taken by the ancient, rheumy horse that carried him. Not for the first time he wondered why he had decided to join this damned fool expedition. He had never intended to. Then that foul-tempered troublemaker Rusik had opined loudly that it was good he was not coming, as coddling old, frail warriors past their prime would only slow them down. Well, he could hardly stay after that, could he?

They had been travelling for almost an hour now, and the sunlight of the plain had given way to a gloomy darkness as the canyon walls loomed overhead, knotted together far above with a canopy of twisting vines. As they rounded a sharp turn, dust fell from the canyon wall, and another loud groan echoed around them.

This was a cursed place, as the tales said.

‘Stay close,’ growled Rusik, at the head of the line. ‘Another five hundred yards and we will send back a rider to the sky warriors.’

As he spoke his men, identifiable by those ragged, crow-skin cloaks, dropped back to the flanks. Their hands rested on their curved sabres, ready to draw at a moment’s notice. Diash frowned. A lot of good that would be in such tight quarters. It would take a single rockfall or a few good bowmen to end this little expedition in short order.

‘I do not like this place,’ said Emni, riding at his side. ‘It has an ill feeling.’

They emerged from the tight canyon into a small, oval clearing, mottled with fallen sunlight. Vines wrapped around the edges of the space, pouring forth from the pockmarked and crumbling walls. Here the canyon forked left and right, and Rusik’s men spread out to guard each exit.

‘We are stopping here?’ asked Alzheer. ‘We should send back a messenger to inform the Stormcasts that it is safe to progress.’

A blood-curdling roar split the air, echoing loud enough that Diash cursed and covered his ears. Then, the sound of dozens of iron boots rattling on stone.

‘Orruks!’ shouted Alzheer, drawing her sword.

‘No,’ said Rusik softly. His own blade was in his hand. He sliced it into the neck of Alzheer’s horse, and the animal gave a horrifying shriek, rearing and kicking out as arterial blood fountained into the air. Alzheer gasped and toppled from her mount, and the beast collapsed on top of her, writhing and whinnying.

‘We are betrayed,’ shouted Diash, scrabbling for his own blade.

‘To the priestess!’ shouted Emni, but it was already too late.

Ragged, filthy warriors came towards the Sky Seekers from all sides, hurtling from hidden gaps in the canyon wall, brandishing cleavers and wicked, serrated blades. They leapt at the surprised riders, slashing, hacking and dragging them from their mounts.

Emni was already in motion. She hefted her spear, aimed and hurled it in one fluid motion. It sailed through the air, hitting one of the reavers in the gut and dropping him screaming to the floor.

‘Come on, old man!’ she shouted, drawing her sword and gripping the reins of her horse as it reared in panic. ‘We must break through.’

Diash was still fumbling with his blade, which he had tangled awkwardly in his reins. He got it loose, and slashed at a warrior who was charging at him with blood-flecked saliva dropping from his screaming mouth. The blade sliced flesh and scraped across teeth, and the weight of the blow flipped the attacker to the ground like a ragdoll.

‘Run, Diash,’ screamed Emni, and through a blur of sweat and blood he saw her fall, unhorsed by a wicked, hooked glaive. ‘Warn them!’

Someone struck her in the face, and she spat blood before she struck back. Her assailant howled, and as he spun around Diash could see the knife Emni had left in his eye.

‘Run, you old bas—’ she yelled, and her voice was cut off as someone struck her with an axe haft from behind.

Grinning, gore-streaked faces turned to him, and fear cut through the haze of pain and confusion. He wheeled his horse around, saw a spear arc through the air and miss his head by only a hair’s width. He kicked the beast into motion, making for the path they had entered from, angling his mount away from the screaming reavers that were bludgeoning and battering his fellow warriors into submission.

Something punched him hard in the chest, and Diash reeled, almost toppling out of the saddle. Gods, but it hurt. Whatever was attacking him struck his leg, in the meat of his calf, and scratched at his cheek. His vision blurred, and he hacked and coughed blood. Desperately, drunkenly, he kicked his horse forwards, leaning down low as the creature built up speed and barrelled through a cluster of painted warriors wielding barbed axes.

He was dimly aware of a jolt in his gut as his mount leapt over another obstacle, and the clattering of spears as more of the enemy sought to strike him from his saddle. Then the horse was running free, every single step taking him closer to the Stormcasts and hammering a nail deeper into his chest.

‘Lord-Celestant Thostos,’ came the cry from one of Goldfeather’s Prosecutors. ‘A rider.’

A pale horse broke free from the teeth of the cavern at a gallop, carrying a solitary figure upon its back. The rider was slumped low in the saddle, and as the beast drew closer Eldroc could see arrows protruding from his chest. Within his bloody, matted hair could be seen streaks of silver-grey. It was the old warrior, Diash.

The Lord-Castellant rushed forwards, placing himself before the terrified horse, which was frothing at the mouth with pain and fear. It came to a stop, and made to rear back, but Eldroc grasped its reins and placed a calming hand upon its panting chest.

‘Easy, my lad,’ he whispered, ‘easy there. Your task here is done. Be at rest.’

The creature whinnied and shook, but allowed him to gently lift Diash free and lay him on the floor. He was in a bad shape. Two arrows had struck him, one in the shoulder, just under the collarbone, and another between his ribs.

‘He’s lost a lot of blood,’ said Eldroc. ‘Removing the arrowheads may kill him.’

‘Let me see,’ said Yereth, the leader of the tribal infantry that had remained behind with the Stormcasts. He was a squat, bullish man of middle years, with a shaved head covered in intricate tattoos. He knelt down beside Diash, and studied the wounds, then reached for a pouch at his belt.

‘You can help him?’ asked Mykos.

‘I can clean the flesh and numb the pain, but these are deep wounds,’ Yereth said. ‘He will likely not survive.’

Diash’s eyes snapped open, and he gasped and choked for air.

‘Easy, old man,’ said Yereth. He dipped his fingers into the leather pouch, and when he withdrew them they were covered in a thick, green paste. He began to apply the ointment to the arrow wounds on Diash’s chest.

‘They… they,’ gasped Diash. He coughed blood.

‘Do not speak, friend,’ said Eldroc. ‘Rest now.’

The old man shook his head furiously, and looked fiercely at the Lord-Castellant, reaching out to grasp the warrior’s arm in one trembling hand.

‘We were… betrayed,’ he whispered. ‘Rusik.’

‘The others,’ asked Mykos, ‘where are they?’

But the old man’s eyes had lost focus, and his hand fell limply to the ground. Yereth shook his head and cursed.

‘Bury your dead,’ said Thostos, ‘and return home.’

Yereth opened his mouth to protest, but the Lord-Celestant ignored him and turned to Mykos.

‘We must make haste,’ he said.

Unheeding of their own safety, the Stormcasts hurled themselves into the depths of the pass. Each dark corner of the path promised an ambush that did not come. There was little time for an ordered, safe advance. Instead they marched apace, in loose formation, shields raised, while Prosecutors swooped overhead with celestial hammers and javelins raised and ready.

After some time they emerged into an oval clearing, where dead mounts and shattered weapons covered the floor. Blood was spattered liberally across every surface, though only a few bodies littered the ground.

‘Reavers,’ spat Axilon, turning one of the corpses over with his boot. ‘Flesh-hungry savages. Chaos filth.’

‘No tribal corpses,’ said Goldfeather, scanning the scene. ‘This was a swift and well-planned ambush. They intended to capture, not slay.’

‘Food for their vile feasts,’ spat Axilon. ‘No loyal mortal deserves such a fate. We must pursue this raiding party and crush them beneath our boots.’

The Lord-Relictor Tharros Soulwarden knelt, examining one of the dead horses. It had been run through with a barbed spear, and hacked apart with axes. Pointless barbarism of the sort that the enemy hordes delighted in.

‘There were fifty warriors here,’ he said. ‘Blood-crazed reavers would have not the wit or self-control to capture every one of them. So why are there no mutilated remains?’

‘Perhaps they desired prisoners?’ asked Mykos.

‘Then why not just take a few, and kill the rest?’ said Thostos. ‘No, this has the stench of something darker about it.’

There was a silence. Each Celestial Vindicator was imagining in horrifying detail why a servant of Chaos might require a few dozen living prisoners.

‘We march,’ said Thostos at last. ‘These are no aelves — they will not pass without leaving a trace. We follow them, at pace, and when we find them we kill them.’

‘And if they make it back to their cursed fortress before we catch up with them?’ asked Mykos.

‘Then we attack. With full force, and no quarter,’ said Thostos, raising his voice so that every Stormcast in the clearing could hear him. ‘Let the might of our Warrior Chambers be unleashed. Let the enemy see what doom awaits them. No more waiting. We tear that place down, and we put every single one of its cursed defenders to the sword.’

Both the Argellonites and the Bladestorm had brought the greater number of their Warrior Chambers into the Roaring Plains, some five hundred warriors in total. A fighting force strong enough to tear down all but the most redoubtable bastions of the enemy. The Stormcasts roared, and songs of vengeance and of the glory of Sigmar shook the walls of the Dragonmaw Canyons. Lord-Celestant Mykos Argellon nodded.

‘For once we agree, Lord Thostos,’ he said. ‘No waiting to discover what fell purpose the enemy intends to use those captured warriors for. We fall upon them in full force.’

The Manticore Dreadhold was a cancer nested in the midst of the mountains, a brutal, imposing wedge of iron that comprised three grand towers and a semi-circular perimeter wall. As the Stormcasts broke out through the canyon and into the valley that housed the fortress, each of them felt the oily, nauseous touch of fell magic. The grand statue of the hated Everchosen, Archaon, loomed over them, cut into the heart of the mountain itself, casting a great shadow across the valley floor. Thostos felt the pitiless eyes of the monument bore into his own.

Build your self-aggrandising statues, Chaos filth, he thought. Watch as we hunt them down and shatter them beneath the lightning storm of Sigmar.

‘They are at the gate,’ shouted Goldfeather, high in the sky above the Vindicators’ position, accompanied by his Prosecutor retinue. ‘They have the prisoners!’

‘Then we are not yet too late,’ said Mykos. His grandblade Mercutia was already in hand, and Thostos could feel the man’s eagerness for battle. It very nearly rivalled his own.

‘We promised them hope, brother,’ Mykos continued, ‘and we let them all be taken. We failed them. I cannot accept that. I will not.’

‘We will rescue those we can,’ said Thostos. ‘But remember our mission, Lord Argellon. You know the consequences if we fail to secure that realmgate.’

‘Prisoners, Lord Varash,’ boasted the leader of the Bloodreavers, a balding, anvil-jawed creature with putrid, yellowed teeth. ‘Meat for the fire!’

Varash backhanded the wretch as he passed, sending him flying into his fellows, unconscious and drooling blood.

‘There will be time enough to fill your bellies later,’ he bellowed. ‘These ones are for the ritual tables. Slaadh?’

The Slaughterpriest loped over, his perpetual, razor-toothed grin etched across his face.

‘You see a man here touch one of these slaves without my permission, you give him a meal. Feed him his own lungs, and make sure he’s still alive so he can savour the taste.’

Slaadh chortled. ‘Yes, Lord.’

They were interrupted by the sound of a deep, booming horn, which emanated from the central tower. Almost at once the atmosphere inside the fortress changed. Warriors who had been gleefully taunting the captured tribesmen drew their axes and blades at once, and rushed off to form into their kill-packs.

The Bloodreavers began to holler and howl, like dogs promised fresh meat. Memno, one of Varash’s chosen Blood Warriors, hurtled from the tower, pulling on his horned, grilled helm as he ran.

‘Lord,’ he said, and his eyes were shining with joy. ‘Warriors in turquoise armour. Not orruks, but larger than men.’

Varash cursed. ‘Sigmar’s whelps,’ he spat. ‘Very well, let them come. To the walls.’

By now the inner courtyard was swollen with blood-mad killers, twitching and growling as the voice of the Lord of Skulls filled their heads with promises of torn flesh and spilt blood. The bloodlust was so thick about the fortress that Varash could almost see it as a tangible cloud over their heads. His ruined eye ached, and he delighted in the pain. It promised much.

He ascended the stairs of the central tower, pushing past the dull creatures that Xos’Phet used as his servants. He despised the things. They stank of the sorcerer’s weakling magic. One blocked his way at the iron door leading out onto the tower, so he grasped its head and snapped its neck with a satisfying crunch, then hurled the broken thing down the stairs.

Out on the battlements, Xos’Phet was putting the finishing touches to his twisted masterpiece. Three orruk shamans had been crucified at the far end of the tower. Over the course of several weeks they had been mutilated and otherwise prepared according to the profane texts.

‘They live, still?’ said Varash, as one of the things gave a low groan.

‘Oh yes, most resilient creatures,’ said Xos’Phet. ‘And powerful, of course. Their latent magic is degenerate and savage, but it will serve my purpose. There.’

The sorcerer finished cutting into the orruk’s flesh, and stood back to admire his work, wiping a bloody knife on the hem of his robe. The creature’s tough, green hide was now covered in runes and symbols that meant nothing to Varash, but still set his teeth on edge. The work was fine, as legible and neatly inscribed as any book. Xos’Phet was nothing if not a perfectionist.

‘The enemy comes,’ said Varash. ‘Are you done, witchkin?’

The sorcerer gave him a sickly, yellow-toothed smile.

‘Indeed, Lord Varash,’ he said. ‘Let us begin.’

Varash felt a surge of excitement. This was it, his chance to end the threat of the orruk tribes and to earn the favour of the Everchosen. He had seen Archaon’s fury when the Dreadhold had been overrun, when the great statue erected in his honour had been defaced with the image of the greenskins’ idiot gods. When the burning hooves of the Blood God’s eternal servants burned the grasslands of the Roaring Plains to cinders, then the name of Varash Sunken-Eye would be spoken of in awe in the halls of the Varanspire itself, the dread fortress of Archaon. Perhaps such a feat would even earn him his rightful place in the Varanguard.

He stood at the wall of the tower, overlooking the inner courtyard. From here he could see the hateful glow of the Manticore Realmgate, the ravenous essence that dwelt within its shifting, roiling depths already sensing the promise of spilled blood. Soon the sorcerer’s ritual would draw the full power of the ancient structure forth, and he would have his grand army. Let the weakling minions of Sigmar be the first to fall before him.

As the Stormcasts rushed towards the fortress wall, the first of the missiles began to fall. The crude projectiles of the human defenders, javelins and thrown axes hurled from the battlements, did little against the fine armour and shields of the Celestial Vindicators. Yet as they drew closer, the Dreadhold’s true defences roared into life.

The leering daemonic skulls carved into its surface began to smoulder, eyes burning with baleful light. This light grew in intensity until it burst forth from the carvings in a shower of white flame. Arcing jets of molten fire spat into the midst of the Stormcasts, searing and melting sigmarite, enveloping warriors in shrouds of flame. Celestial Vindicators went down, screaming in agony as the daemonfire devoured bones and turned their flesh to cinders.

In response, the Judicators knelt and loosed the latent celestial energy that coursed through their heaven-forged weaponry. Great, glittering arcs of lightning smashed into the tower, crumbling the cursed stone and sending chunks of shattered masonry tumbling to the ground. While those warriors wielding powerful boltstorm crossbows turned the fortress’s deadly defences to rubble, skybolt bows sent a cascade of light pouring over the perimeter wall to find its home in the tainted flesh of the Dreadhold’s defenders. Smoke rose from the battlements where the devastating barrage of lightning scorched and burned the unworthy.

Shields raised and clattering under the incessant rain of projectiles, the Liberators pushed towards the great gate of the Dreadhold. The sky boiled above them, blood-red clouds swirling and reforming furiously, thunder bursts rolling across the battlefield, almost drowning out the calamitous sounds of battle. Then a sudden, violent crack split the air, louder even than the hammers of the great forges of Azyrheim. Tendrils of violent scarlet energy trailed across the main tower of the Dreadhold, wrapping around its surface like a cluster of vines. Mykos Argellon turned his eyes to the heavens, and felt a soft tapping sound on his mask and across his armour.

The blood rain fell. Inside the Dreadhold, the warriors of Khorne whooped and shrieked with joy at this sign of providence from their monstrous master. They turned their faces to the sky and let the iron taste roll down their tongues. They beat their chests and brandished their weapons and howled. Above them, the sky darkened and swelled, and the tendrils of fell energy crept over the edge of the tower. The sorcerer Xos’Phet stood upon the battlement, laughing in delight.

‘It begins!’ he chortled. ‘The gate swells in power. Now we must feed the link between this world and the other.’

He looked at the prisoner that the gorepriests held, a straggle-haired man with wide and frightened eyes. ‘This is your task, my friend. You are truly blessed.’

The knife was in his hand in a flash, and he cut the man’s throat with one swift motion. The prisoner’s eyes rolled back in his head, and the gorepriests hurled him into the oval pit at the centre of the tower. Blood spilled, and seeped through the grilles cut into the floor.

‘Fetch me another!’ said Xos’Phet, grinning widely.

Despite the rain of projectiles and the blood that now churned the earth and bogged them down, the Celestial Vindicators pushed to the main gate, a monstrous slab of iron covered with foul symbols and wrapped in dust-dry human skin.

Here the phalanx of shield-bearing Liberators peeled apart, allowing the breaching teams to rush through. First came the Knight-Heraldor Axilon, and the men cheered to see him raise his war horn, the blessed instrument of Sigmar that all of his rank carried.

‘What say we play an old Azyrheim tune for this Chaos filth?’ he roared above the clatter of weapons and the belching fire of the wall defences. He raised the horn to his lips.

The note that issued forth was one empowered by the fury of Sigmar’s storm, a pure wave of destruction that swelled the heart of the faithful and echoed in the ears of the damned as a promise of obliteration. The strong metal of the castle gate crumpled in the face of its awesome power, as if struck by the armoured fist of a towering giant. The gate was bound and reinforced, and it was not breached, but in the wake of Axilon’s strike, the tall warriors of the Paladin retinues that carried wondrous starsoul maces came forwards, and began to beat a furious rhythm on the ruined surface. Explosions of storm-light marked each strike. Shards of metal and chunks of stone fell, and the gate groaned under the assault. Axilon even found time for a theatrical bow as the Celestial Vindicators beat their shields and chanted his name.

Rusik watched as, one after another, his people were led to the slaughter. This next one was of his own retinue, and his eyes were full of terrified anger as the pallid, nightmarish creatures that served the sorcerer dragged him over to the pit of corpses.

The knife tore flesh, and Rusik did not look away.

‘Betrayer,’ hissed a voice at his back, and he turned to see Alzheer, leg bloodied and one eye swollen shut with blood. She gripped the bars so tightly that her hands were white. ‘Faithless, murdering scum.’

He turned away as the next prisoner was dragged forwards.

‘You are right,’ he said. ‘I am faithless. My faith died along with my family and my friends.’

‘And murdering others gives you peace?’

‘There is no peace,’ he spat. ‘Nowhere. There is only war and bloodshed. An eternity of slaughter that will not cease and cannot be quelled. Varash and his men understand that, and so do I.’

‘Zi’Mar sends his heralds,’ Alzheer said. ‘You see them for yourself. We are not alone. The light of humanity shines on, even in such darkness.’

Rusik whirled, his dark eyes burning with rage.

‘They come now, when we are already lost,’ he shouted, and he could taste the blood rain seeping into his mouth. ‘We are already dead, woman, you are just too blind to see it. I will no longer hold on to what is lost. If this is our future, I embrace it.’

Under the combined assault of Knight-Heraldor Axilon and the hammers of the Retributors, the gates fell inwards, and the Celestial Vindicators met the enemy face to face. The true enemy, not the simple-minded bloodlust of the enemy’s reavers, but warriors who had fully embraced the touch of Khorne. These were hardened killers, tall and broad, encased in ornate plate armour of imposing design and wielding vicious, jagged axes. They did not fall before the charge of the Stormcasts, but leapt and charged into the mouth of the storm, hacking and slicing, songs of devotion to their twisted god upon their lips.

The two waves crashed together, the gleaming turquoise of the Celestial Vindicators and the spoiled-meat red of the Bloodbound warriors, and the carnage was total.

Many Stormcasts fell in that initial clash, even their mighty warplate unable to defend them from the enemy’s wild, delighted frenzy. A screaming fiend with a bronze crest took the head from a Liberator with his twin axes, then was crushed under the heavy swing of a sigmarite hammer. Drooling and chortling, a warrior wearing a flayed orruk-hide cape ground a Celestial Vindicator’s face into the ground, hacking at the stricken figure’s back with a wide-bladed gladius as he did so.

Mykos Argellon put his blade through the warrior’s back. The man gasped and choked, and Mykos kicked him free to sprawl in the dirt.

‘Push forwards, brothers,’ he shouted above the grind of battle. ‘Forge a breach!’

They were in the gatehouse tunnel, which stretched for a dozen yards ahead, culminating in a wide staircase that led up. Dull red light shone down those stairs, telling Mykos that if they could push the enemy back they would emerge in the fortress courtyard, below the main tower. Easier thought than achieved. The forces of the Dreadhold outnumbered the two hundred fighters that Mykos commanded at least four to one.

‘They’re thick as a rat swarm in here,’ Axilon shouted, his own broadsword wet with gore, and a great rent torn across his breastplate. ‘We’ll not get past them easily, and more are on their way.’

‘Come on, Bladestorm,’ Mykos said, searching for a gap in the line where he could bring his sword to bear. ‘Where are you?’

Up came the Prosecutors, over the wall of the Dreadfort, nimbly weaving past the poorly aimed missiles that were hurled their way. First, they cleared the ramparts with a flurry of their own. Lightning swept aside the throng of bloodstarved that garrisoned the wall next to the central tower. Celestial hammers and javelins hurled Chaos-warped figures to the courtyard, where they broke upon hard stone.

No sooner had they struck than the winged warriors were on the move again. This time they dropped over the perimeter wall, swooping low to pass over the heads of the defenders, releasing more lightning-wreathed javelins. Howling in outrage, the Bloodbound charged after this new quarry, abandoning their attempts to get at Mykos’ force currently pushing through the main gate.

It also drew their attention from the wall itself.

Thostos Bladestorm and the ten-score warriors of his chamber hauled themselves up the grappling ropes, using the indentations and ornaments that covered the face of the Dreadhold to ease their ascent. Belatedly, they were spotted by the remaining defenders, who rushed to the spot on the wall that the Prosecutors had cleared and began to hack and tear at the ropes, and hurl spears down at the ascending Stormcasts in an attempt to dislodge them. Several of Thostos’ men were taken down by the volley of missiles, dropping like stones to land with a bone-shattering clatter on the hard earth below. Others were unfortunate enough to pass too close to one of the daemonic mouths, and burst into flame as the deadly trap covered them with flammable liquid.

Try as they might, however, the defenders could not dislodge the heavy grapples or hack through the thick rope. Their blades met looping wires of hard metal woven into the hemp, which turned all but the heaviest axe blades. Spitting with frustration, the Chaos warriors hurled their last few missiles and waited for the heads of their foes to emerge above the parapet.

Before they had a chance to strike, Goldfeather and his Prosecutors returned with another volley of storm javelins. Yet more defenders fell shrieking and burning to the floor, and in the confusion Thostos and his warriors hauled themselves over the lip of the wall. The Lord-Celestant whirled his hammer as he pulled himself up, crushing an opponent’s hand into pulp against the wall, and rolled over onto the rampart. He drew his blade, and began to hack his way through the staggered enemy towards the nearest stairway down to the courtyard.

A reaver came at him, swinging a glaive at his neck, and the Lord-Celestant managed to get his hammer up in time to block. He reversed his grip on the weapon and struck low, and the man’s knee bent backwards. His opponent screamed and fell, and Thostos drove his runeblade into his chest.

The lines had broken. Battle had dissolved into a wild melee, aside from a few pockets where the Stormcasts had managed to maintain a semblance of discipline. While Thostos’ warriors hacked into the rear of the Blood Warriors holding the gatehouse, the Argellonites pushed forwards relentlessly. Caught between the pincers of the two Stormcast forces, the defenders were forced back into the courtyard proper. Yet despite the Celestial Vindicators’ impressive gains, the enemy was not done. More and more reavers poured from the cliff tunnels behind the fortress, swarming around the huge realmgate itself and crashing into the press of bodies, straining to get at the enemy.

‘Thostos!’ came a cry, and he turned to see Mykos at the foot of the wide stairs that led from the gatehouse into the courtyard. His fellow Lord-Celestant despatched an enemy warrior with a backhand swipe, and gestured to the main tower. The sky was now a patchwork of striated red lightning, broken only above the tower, where there now hung a circular vortex around which the baleful energy swirled. The build-up of pressure in the air was a physical ache that spread across the battlefield, a drying of the mouth and a ringing of the ears.

As they watched, the vortex vomited a torrent of blood, a coruscating pillar of viscera that swirled and lapped at the edges of the tower, but remained in place, enclosing the structure like a gauntlet over a fist.

‘We must break through,’ yelled Mykos, above the cacophony of roaring liquid. ‘We must stop this, brother.’

Thostos stood. He swayed to his left as a raging berserker hurtled past, narrowly missing the Lord-Celestant with a swipe of his dual axes, and barrelled into the thick of the battle, battering his way through to the steps leading up to the tower.

Leering faces pressed against his war helm, and he hacked and smashed at them with warhammer and blade. He shoved, strained, kicked and levered bodies aside, accepting a dozen minor hits in his haste to break free. Suddenly his path was clear, and he saw the steps arc up over the gatehouse entrance towards the central tower. He leaped up them two at a time, lifting a filthy, tattooed mortal over his shoulder as he went, pitching the man over into the swirling melee below.

On the other side of the gatehouse, Mykos Argellon made his own ascent. As he reached the tower entrance, a shadow fell across him. The figure was something from a nightmare. Impossibly tall for a mortal man, thin and long-limbed in a manner that made it look entirely unnatural. Its neck was stretched and corded with muscle, and a burnished skull on a chain of brass dangled over the creature’s chest. The monster held a great, two-handed axe in pallid, scarred hands.

‘You should not have come here, son of Sigmar,’ the Slaughterpriest hissed, and then he grinned wide enough to expose bloodstained, razor-sharp teeth. ‘But I am glad that you did.’

‘Silence, creature,’ said Mykos, raising his grandblade high. ‘Your bleating offends me.’

The blood priest’s eyes narrowed, and with a bellow of rage he exploded forwards, axe swinging at Mykos’ neck. The Lord-Celestant stepped backwards and, rather than blocking, angled Mercutia to push the axe blade aside. Against any normal foe this would have opened up an opportunity as he struggled to get that heavy great axe back into position, but this creature was blindingly fast. He rotated the axe, jabbing with a spike attached to the bottom of the haft, and in an instant had it up and swinging again, this time a wild swipe at Mykos’ midsection.

The Lord-Celestant picked that blow off too, and there began a series of lightning-fast parries, dodges and blocks. After several seconds the momentum played out, and each warrior took a step back, breathing heavily.

‘You fight well,’ said the blood priest, wiping blood from a gash than ran down the side of his angular face. ‘You would reap a fine skull-tally for the Blood God.’

‘I spit on your wretched god, vermin,’ growled Mykos.

‘You will join the tide, or drown in it,’ said the Chaos priest, gesturing at the torrent of gore that spiralled around the tower. The heat of it was astonishing. Where it met the ground steam rose, a boiling vapour that billowed out over the surrounding melee.

‘The blood is life,’ he said, and his smile was wide. ‘Let me show you.’

One hand reached out at Mykos, a claw aimed at his heart, and the priest spoke eight profane words.

Mykos screamed as his blood began to boil.

Thostos saw his fellow Lord-Celestant fall to the floor, writhing in agony. A twisted, misshapen blood priest advanced upon him, chanting in a dread tongue. He was too far away. Thostos could not possibly reach him in time. He smashed a fist into a jaw, felt it snap and battered another foe aside with a sweep of his hammer. A dozen paces now, but still too many of the enemy in his path.

‘Argellon,’ he roared. ‘Get up, brother!’

Mykos Argellon’s world was a storm of crimson agony. He could not see past the blood that poured from his eyes, could not feel anything but the fire that devoured every inch of his body. Distantly, as if from the other side of a rushing waterfall, he heard a voice he recognised. There was laughter too, deep and pitiless.

Endless, burning agony and the laughter of cruel men. The vow, the screamed oath. Then, the storm, the lightning. The rage, tempered and focused. Hope and duty flowing through his veins. The knowledge that he would never again feel so helpless and weak, and would let no other good-hearted soul feel that way if it was in his power.

Through the wave of torment, one thought coalesced. He would not fall here. Not when there were people counting on him.

Slaadh watched the stricken Stormcast with amusement. These fools. They thought they had power within them to rival the Lord of Skulls. They thought a set of shining armour and some heaven-wrought weapons gave them license to defy the true power in the realms. Their arrogance had not only doomed them, it had revealed the presence of the last bastion of humanity. Gates opened two ways.

Astonishingly, the warrior in sea-green and gold armour was still moving, despite the blood that boiled in his veins. Slaadh felt his heart sink. These were such worthy foes, but someday soon they would all be dead, their idols cast down and their cities burned around them. Who would be left then to challenge the might of the blood-chosen? It was almost a waste.

Still, there was a tally to collect. He raised his axe for the killing stroke.

Mykos could not see through the haze of pain, but he could hear the heavy steps of the scarred warrior coming towards him and could smell his rancid, rotten-meat stench. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the hilt of his grandblade, which lay in the dirt only a few inches from his face, and waited. He would only have one chance.

‘Blood for the Blood God,’ came the creature’s ragged, eager hiss. Too close.

Mercutia sang as she whipped through the air.

The blade swept across so fast that Thostos could not see if it had struck home. Through the rain of blood he saw the Chaos priest standing before Mykos, axe raised and ready to strike.

The brute’s head slowly slid free, tumbling down to splash in a puddle of gore, a grin still etched across its savage features.

Mykos was struggling to his feet, digging his grandblade into the earth to lever himself upright. Thostos hacked another enemy down to the ground, finished him with a crushing blow from his hammer, and ran to his fellow Lord-Celestant. Argellon was staggering towards the curtain of blood that enclosed the tower. One hand was outstretched, and Thostos could see the sheer heat of the sorcerous power begin to melt the sigmarite.

‘Hold, brother,’ he shouted over the roaring, boiling sound of the bloodfall. ‘You cannot pass.’

‘Someone must,’ said Mykos, collapsing to his knees. His voice was little more than a ragged whisper. ‘We must end whatever is happening, and I am near dead already. Let me go.’

‘This is my task,’ said Thostos. ‘You will stay, and you will lead our men to victory.’ He grabbed the man around the shoulders, and locked eyes with his brother. ‘They must reach the muster point. You must lead them there, as Sigmar ordered us. You will do this.’

‘Thostos—’ Mykos said, but the other Lord-Celestant was already moving.

Without a moment’s hesitation, he stepped into the curtain of boiling blood.

Where it fell, the acidic gore ate through sigmarite and flesh with contemptuous ease. Thostos could feel his glorious armour, forged to deflect the blows of Chaos-forged axes and deny the spell-fire of twisted wizards, coming apart around him. The finely wrought image of the lion that he bore on his chest melted away. The icons of his beloved Warrior Chamber were obliterated. Yet Thostos did not fall.

Where once his flesh had been pale-white, now it glinted with the strength of purest sigmarite. A gift from the sorcerer Ephryx, the Ninth Disciple and lord of the Eldritch Fortress. Where once it had nearly destroyed him, now it saved his life. The blood ate away at the metal of his flesh, searing and scarring him, but where soft flesh would have been utterly destroyed, his new form endured. Soon he was through the burning bloodfall, and he collapsed to a hard iron floor.

He growled, trying to fight back the waves of agony that enveloped him. Smoke rose from his mutilated body, and melted sigmarite dripped free to spark and smoulder on the ground. Gritting his teeth and roaring in defiance, he punched one gleaming metal fist down, and forced himself to his feet. He staggered and almost fell, but reached out to grab a wrought-iron sconce shaped in the image of a screaming face. Through the blue-red haze of his vision, he took in his surroundings.

Inside the tower a circular staircase wound to the upper floors, while a steady stream of blood, shed naturally rather than summoned from some hellish realm, fell to pool in the indentations of a great bronze skull engraved upon the floor.

There was a sharp hiss, like the sound of a punctured lung, and Thostos heard movement above him. From an upper landing, two creatures bounded down the iron stairs to meet him. They were tall, spindle-limbed, with bloodied, bandaged faces and smocks stained with gore. One clutched a short, rusted bone-saw, while the other wielded two thin-bladed knives.

Thostos pushed away from the wall, and set himself upon the lowest stair. As the saw-wielding creature drew close, it leaped down at him. As it fell, Thostos could see the stitches that bound its mouth and eyes closed. Blood flecked its maggot-white skin as it hissed in fury.

He raised his blade, shifted to the side and let the thing impale itself. It groaned and wailed, yet still tried to hack at him with the saw. He let it slide free of his sword, and brought his hammer up to fend off the second creature. Somehow it got a knife past his guard, but it skittered off his metallic flesh. He stuck his sword through its chest, and as it gurgled he brought the hammer down to crush its head in a splatter of bone fragments and pink meat. The first attacker had staggered upright, so he spun and planted a boot in its chest. Bones shattered with an audible snap, and the thing flew away to land with a splash in the pool of blood at the tower base.

Thostos turned, and began to ascend the stair.

Mykos Argellon could barely stand. His entire body was aflame, and the slightest motion sent a ripple of torment through his wracked body. Around him the battle raged. The Stormcasts had established a defensive position in front of the gatehouse, but even as they hacked down scores of Bloodreavers, more rushed from the depths of the fortress or around the rock formation upon which stood the Manticore Realmgate. They could not hold here forever. Unless they could break the back of the enemy, they would be slowly picked apart.

The great relic-staff of Lord-Relictor Tharros was a blazing totem of celestial energy at the rear of the formation, but even the waves of healing energy that emanated forth and closed the wounds of stricken warriors could not reach every corner of the battlefield. Despite the attempts of the Prosecutors to clear the wall, more and more axes were being hurled down into the ranks of the Celestial Vindicators, and Mykos could see explosions of light all across the field as fallen warriors were called home by the storm.

He staggered down the steps, where a band of Argellonite Liberators held the stair leading to the central tower. They fought as one, shields intercepting the frenzied strikes of the enemy and opening just long enough for the warriors to thrust their runeblades through chests, stomachs and throats, or crush skulls with their heavy warhammers. In front of their formation lay a carpet of ripped and torn bodies, but the Stormcasts’ numbers were steadily dwindling. As Mykos stumbled forwards to join them, a flaming anvil head attached to a wicked, barbed chain sailed over the top of a Liberator’s shield, caving in the man’s helm with a splatter of flesh. Booming laughter echoed over the din of clashing blades as a broad warrior with bare, burn-scorched arms barrelled into the Stormcasts, whirling and rattling skull-tipped chains. He brought the anvil and chain around in a full circle, and swept it low, underneath the shield of another Liberator, who went down with a cry as his leg folded sideways.

‘Come, little warriors,’ roared the man, a mocking leer visible underneath a towering horned helm. ‘Give your skulls to me!’

Mykos half-staggered, half-ran forwards, and ducked as the warrior swept his burning anvil back around. He felt the heat of it as it rushed past his head, and brought Mercutia up in a thrust aimed for the fiend’s throat. His opponent ducked back, spinning with unsettling grace for one so large, letting his momentum add to an overhead swing that had Mykos scrambling backwards, falling to the ground with his blade out of position. The warrior flicked the chain back up, and the anvil smashed into the bottom of Mykos’ war-helm. He felt the bones in his jaw come apart, and sprawled backwards, head spinning.

The brute stalked forwards, laughing.

‘Well fought, little general,’ he chortled. ‘You have earned a place on my trophy belt.’ He gestured to a row of chipped and broken skulls that had been bronzed and arrayed on a chain around his midriff.

He raised the flaming anvil.

A thick blade punched out from the front of his throat. The warrior glanced down in surprise, and blood poured down the front of his battered iron armour.

Lord-Castellant Eldroc retracted his halberd, switched his grip on the long haft and swung it sideways at the Skullgrinder’s neck. His head tumbled free as his body collapsed awkwardly and rolled down the stairs. The Gryph-hound Redbeak spat a clump of flesh from his jaws and trilled briefly in appreciation.

Mykos watched, blearily, as the Lord-Castellant rushed over to him.

‘Do not move, my friend,’ he heard, as the cloud of darkness at the edge of his vision threatened to engulf him. Suddenly the blackness was washed away in the face of a soothing beam of light, like a breaking dawn.

‘Come back to the light, brother,’ he heard Eldroc say.

Thostos kicked open the door, his metallic skin still dripping molten sigmarite and hot blood, and emerged into a storm of profane magic. Coils of twisted, baleful light spiralled and curled around the tower summit, enveloping three forms that were raised above the fortress wall on jagged iron crosses. These figures flickered and jerked spastically as the onslaught of fell energies wracked through them. In the sky above clouds rolled back, exposing a dark vortex that crackled and howled. Thostos could see shifting, roiling shapes within. A terrible sound echoed in his ears, the laughter of something impossibly old and unimaginably vast. The veil between the realms was being torn apart.

Before him stood a tall, powerful man in ridged black armour, hands resting easily on the pommel of a bastard sword with pulsing veins running through its obsidian blade. On one side the man’s face was almost concave, and where the eye should be there was instead a red jewel that wept blood. The man smiled.

‘My name is Varash Sunken-Eye,’ he said, in a measured, almost soft voice that seemed at odds with his fearsome appearance. ‘I am lord of this Dreadhold, and I will claim your skull.’

‘I am Thostos Bladestorm, and you are welcome to try.’

‘I knew you would meet me here,’ said the warrior, circling around the pit of bodies with a wide grin on his ruin of a face. He gestured to the boiling skies. ‘Symbolism. Ritual. This confrontation was inevitable, as soon as you arrived in the Roaring Plains.’

‘It was,’ said Thostos, settling his weapons in each hand and fighting away the waves of pain that threatened to bring him to his knees.

A small, pallid rodent of a man dressed in garish purple robes appeared from behind the Chaos Lord and glared at Thostos, seemingly more in irritation than anger. He clutched a small, serrated blade and inched towards the cage on the far left side of the tower, where a clutch of blank-eyed human prisoners crouched. They were guarded by more of the bandaged, stitch-mouthed monsters that Thostos had fought in the tower below.

‘There must be no interruptions,’ the small man said. ‘Finish this thing quickly, Lord Varash. It disturbs my work.’

With a roar, Varash leaped across the pit of blood, his flayed-skin cloak spreading out behind him like the wings of a bat and his obsidian blade reaching for Thostos’ throat.

‘Lord Thostos,’ Alzheer whispered. She could hardly believe that the twisted, melted thing before her was the grand and imposing Lord-Celestant she had met on the plain. His armour was a smouldering wreck, and his exposed flesh was a dull, ash-covered gold. He moved slowly, shorn of the terrifying speed and surety he had displayed in battle against the orruks. The Chaos warrior that faced him was smiling as he ducked and wove out of the path of the Lord-Celestant’s attacks, occasionally dragging his blade across an exposed flank or knocking Thostos off-balance with the heavy pommel.

‘He will fall,’ said the warrior Emni. Her dreadlocked hair was matted with blood, and her scarred face was bruised and swollen where she had been struck. ‘Look at him. He is done. We must escape, priestess.’

‘There is no escape from that,’ said Alzheer, nodding at the boiling blood that rushed past the edge of the tower.

‘Then we kill as many of those monsters as we can,’ Emni replied fiercely. She nudged Alzheer, and gestured down. Though she kept her hands together, the priestess could see that her friend’s bonds were cut. She wondered how Emni had done it, then saw the dead prisoner behind her, bone protruding from a shattered leg.

‘One of Rusik’s lot,’ whispered Emni, and she was grinning. ‘Cursed traitor at least managed to serve us in death.’

‘Hush,’ said Alzheer. The wizened man was returning, and as he gestured, two of the bandaged servants bent to unlock their cage. Alzheer held her breath, and gripped her claw-hound tooth necklace tight enough to draw blood. She had taken the trophy from her first kill, and the fang was still sharp, after all these years.

‘Take me, you filth,’ shouted Emni, as one of the figures reached for a man with one ear missing and started to drag him out, kicking and screaming.

Its foul head snapped around, eyes weeping, stitched-together mouth drooling. It grabbed Emni, and began to haul her free of the cage.

The warrior let the creature drag her until she was half-in, half-out of the cage door. Then, in one fluid motion, she pulled the thing off balance and wrapped her legs around its neck. It struggled and moaned, but Emni made a dagger of the first two fingers of her right hand, and jabbed them into one rheumy eye. Stitches tore free as the creature gave a strange, ululating howl. Emni grasped the corpse-knife that the thing carried in its belt, and drove it into its neck.

‘Insolence!’ roared the sorcerer. ‘Grab her! She will be the next to bleed.’

Another of the bandaged servants reached at Emni. Alzheer tucked in her legs, forced her bound arms underneath, and rolled them free. As the creature grasped at her friend, the priestess clenched the claw-hound tooth between two fingers, and punched it in the face once, twice, three times. It screeched and reeled back.

The two women crawled free, and the other prisoners, given fresh hope of escape, scrambled after them.

‘Enough!’ shrieked the sorcerer, and gestured at Emni. A white-hot bolt of energy spat out from his finger and burned into her chest. She screamed and fell to the floor.

Alzheer did not have time to worry for her friend. She scooped up the knife as it clattered to the floor and charged the mage. He laughed, stepping backwards and weaving another spell. She felt her muscles constrict, and suddenly she could not move at all.

‘Oh, very good,’ he giggled. ‘Very brave. But you cannot stop what is happening, girl. No, in fact you will watch. I will slaughter all your friends, and then, at last, I will allow you a slow death.’

More prisoners scrambled across the blood-slick stone to get at the sorcerer, and he cackled and waved a hand at them. A curtain of flame enveloped them, and a dozen men and women went down, burning and screaming. Alzheer felt a finger twitch. The sorcerer took a pace backwards, stepping out of the way as a blazing figure collapsed in front of him.

That step brought him too close to one of the other prisoner cages. Hands reached out of the bars, grasping at his robes, pulling at his hair.

‘No,’ he screamed. ‘Release me!’

Alzheer took a step forwards. She stumbled as the spell released her from its control. Her legs ached as if she had just run a thousand leagues, but she did not stop. She took another step, then another, then she was sprinting. The sorcerer brought one hand up to fend her off, and she could see the fear in his eyes. She stabbed the blade in between his ribs. He squealed like a dying rat, and his eyes were wide with terror and pain as she twisted the knife. Then he was writhing and melting, falling in upon himself with his last scream still echoing in her ears. The purple robes fell to the floor, with no body to be found.

Thostos could not win. He had known this from the moment he matched blades with the Lord of Chaos. His opponent was too fast, too fresh. His own reflexes were slowed by pain and exhaustion. Each step backwards, each block and parry sent a sheet of lightning roiling through his body.

He blocked a downwards swing on his blade and swept his warhammer around at Varash’s side. The man turned and spun, neatly avoiding the strike, and flicked his blade along Thostos’ arm. Whatever twisted, Chaos-tainted alchemy had forged that obsidian blade, it had imbued it with astonishing power. It cut deeply into his transmuted sigmarite flesh, and the pain caused him to open his hand. His warhammer bounced away on the hard stone.

Thostos tried to step back, to gain some space, but the Chaos lord was too fast. His bastard sword swept out and cut across the Lord-Celestant’s leg, and as Thostos stumbled, a backhand swing tore a shard of metal from his face and snapped his head violently to the side. His vision swam, and he felt himself clatter to the floor.

‘I had expected more,’ said Varash, wiping bloody tears from his ruined eye. ‘This is a disappointment, truly.’

There was only one chance, only the briefest of opportunities as the monster standing before her revelled in his apparent victory. Alzheer knew that taking it would in all likeliness mean her death. She had never been concerned by that possibility before, despite living every moment of her life in some form of life-threatening danger. As fervently as she had preached the wisdom and benevolence of Zi’Mar, she had always believed that her people were dying, and her god was gone. The sacred words and rituals were simply fragments of a better past that she could not quite let go.

That was until they had come, these warriors in burnished plate. These demigods who spoke like men. Now, she had a reason to live. They all did. Hope. Hope that they would see this new future that the Sky God had offered them, hope that the orruks and the forces of the Dark Gods and all the other cataclysms that had seemed so insurmountable could in fact be resisted — could even be defeated. She wanted so badly to live to see that future, and conversely that made her choice so much easier. Life meant something now. Life, and what she chose to do with it.

She did not waste her opportunity.

Staggering across the gore-slick ground, she jumped onto a table covered in the innards of unfortunate prisoners, and from there leapt onto the creature’s back, scrabbling for purchase on the trophy-racks and chains that wrapped his gore-encrusted plate armour. He was lightning fast, snatching at her with a spiked gauntlet that ripped into her flesh, but she had surprise on her side and a hunter’s instinct for the kill.

The claw-dog tooth she held in her fist sank into the Chaos Lord’s eye, and she twisted and dragged it, screwing it deeper and deeper. She returned the pain that ran through her a hundredfold, screaming a prayer of vengeance for her fallen friends.

He roared in agony, and suddenly she was flying through the air. Something rushed forwards to meet her, and the world went blank.

The Chaos lord staggered back, cursing and pawing at his face. There came the sound of shattered earth, of rushing water, of a thousand siege-stones striking a thousand castle walls.

The sky opened once more, but this time it was not the bloody horror of Chaos that issued forth, but the searing righteousness of the storm that was Sigmar. A fork of lightning as tall and wide as a mountain blasted into the vortex, exploding in a coruscating web of blue energy that arced across the sky. For a moment it seemed as if Sigendil itself, the High Star that bathed blessed Sigmaron in purifying, celestial light, had descended over them.

That purifying bolt of light turned the rain of blood to mist, banished the darkness that had fallen across the Dreadhold, and fell to strike Thostos Bladestorm in the chest.

Thostos screamed as the storm enveloped him. It tore him apart and reassembled him. He felt the agony of transformation as armour and sigmarite flesh moulded and reformed around his body. With the pain, the honest, cauterising pain, came memories. He remembered the agony as the vile minions of the Dark Gods cut into him. He remembered the sorrow of loss, the ecstasy of his grief as he looked for the last time upon the smoking ruins of his lands. He remembered the helplessness, and the shame of knowing that his people had counted on him to protect them, and that he had not been there in their hour of greatest need. Thoughts and memories seared through his consciousness, too many and too vivid for him to process.

As quickly as it had come the storm was gone. Varash blinked as the flare slowly receded from his vision. His eye burned as if molten steel had been poured into the socket, but from somewhere in the haze of torment a figure swam into view. The storm warrior still knelt before him, but where once his warplate had been melted and seared, it was now resplendent in gleaming turquoise. There was not a mark upon its surface, and it shone as if it was freshly polished. The figure, despite its miraculous transformation, showed no sign of movement.

‘A clever trick,’ spat Varash, ‘but it makes no difference. You will die now, and know that every one of your warriors will die with you.’

As he spoke, he brought his bastard sword up and over, rolling his shoulder in a circular motion, adding furious momentum to the killing strike.

Thostos Bladestorm, warrior of Sigmar, who once had been the mortal warrior Prince Caeran of Wolf Keep, reached up and caught his enemy’s hands as the sword fell. The blade came to rest an inch from his eye.

‘No!’ shouted Varash, and his ravaged eye widened with shock.

Thostos stood, and as he stood he brought his runeblade up, roaring in defiance as he tore its edge through the Chaos Lord’s thick mail armour, cleaving devotional totems and skulls in half as he cut a bloody, vertical line into the man’s pale flesh. He ripped his sword free, and a mist of blood covered his armour.

Lord Varash stood, eyes fixed in astonishment at the ruin of his chest. As he swayed, he turned his gaze to Thostos.

Blue eyes bored into his skull, not the emotionless reservoirs of cold fury that they had been, but alive with righteous fervour, the eyes of a man who fought for a cause that he embraced with every fibre of his being.

‘Tell your gods that we are coming for them,’ said Thostos, ‘and that their realms will burn as ours did.’

Varash Sunken-Eye, master of the Dreadhold, collapsed in two separate pieces, toppling to the floor of the tower in a shower of gore.

The bloodstarved hordes were no cowardly ratmen, and their resistance did not end with the death of their master. When Thostos Bladestorm emerged from the great tower with his runeblade in one fist and the severed head of Varash Sunken-Eye in the other, more than one crazed warrior hurled themselves at him in desperation to claim a worthy skull.

None landed a blow. Thostos was renewed, healed and imbued with fresh purpose. He spun, whirled and sliced, a whirlwind of destruction that cut deep into the enemy ranks. Emboldened at the glorious sight of their Lord-Celestant and the death of the enemy lord, the flagging Stormcast offensive surged once more. Judicators lined the inner wall, using the higher ground to their advantage now and loosing devastating volleys into the Bloodreavers.

‘Bring down the icon-bearers,’ shouted Evios Goldfeather, hefting a javelin and sending it soaring down to burst through the back of an obese brute wielding a heavy chain and flail. The missile flared with white-blue light as it struck, and the man toppled to the ground, his back a smoking ruin.

In the courtyard the sheer might of the Retributors was beginning to tell. In such close quarters their heavy hammers reaped a horrific toll, smashing in breastplates and caving in skulls with furious precision. The ground was slick with gore, and the Bloodreavers were so hemmed in by the aggression of the Stormcasts’ assault that as many slipped and were trampled by their fellow warriors as were slain in honest battle.

For the majority of the defenders there was no retreat. Neither the tight confines of the Dreadhold nor the single-minded battle-lust of its defenders allowed for even the thought of it. They died hard, hacking and slashing and screaming with the pure joy of the slaughter even as the tide claimed them.

Only a few battered survivors scattered, rushing into the cave passages that wound into the mountains behind the realmgate, choosing a long, dangerous trek through the darkness in favour of the vengeance of the Celestial Vindicators. Rusik paused as he made the entrance of the cave, and looked out across the inner courtyard at the shining warriors who had denied him his chance for revenge. Then he turned, and raced away into the shadows.

As the sun began to fall, a soft pink glow fell over a scene of devastation. As it had so many times down the centuries, the Dreadhold ran red with blood.

Thostos Bladestorm stood in front of the Manticore Realmgate, staring into the pulsing, warping maelstrom at its centre. He could feel its hatred and cruel malice, its rage at being denied so many souls.

‘What will you do now?’ came a voice from behind him. He turned to see the priestess Alzheer, limping and heavily bandaged, one eye wrapped in a poultice. She stopped at his side, and gazed into the portal herself. Red light played across her face, and she winced at the hateful power of it.

‘Sigmar’s plan for the next stage of the great war is unimaginably complex, and the Celestial Vindicators have their part to play,’ said Thostos. ‘Through this realmgate lies our true goal. But first it must be cleansed, made safe for our passage. Until then, the fortress must stand.’

Roaring and snuffling with barely constrained fury, the beasts raced across the broken earth towards the fortress of the statue, from which the sounds of battle had been heard. These were not agile creatures. Where more graceful animals would nimbly jump from rock to rock, navigating the tortured highlands with precision, these beasts simply smashed and ripped their way through. They lowered the horns that jutted from their snouts and hurtled into stone formations, blasting them into fragments as they hauled their great bulk through the gap they had created.

Barely holding on to the crude iron bands that served as saddles, the beasts’ riders whooped and hollered, beating their mounts with axe hafts and clubbed fists in an attempt to push them further and faster.

Eventually the riders came to the end of the mountain ridge overlooking the canyon below and behind, and the valley plain that stretched out before them. To their right was the fortress of the red-iron men and the colossal monument that loomed over it — the statue of the warrior with the horned helm and the pitiless gaze.

There had been a battle, that much was obvious. Corpse-fires were visible within the interior of the fortress, and the ground surrounding the structure was stained red like an open wound. More interesting still was the fact that the tiny figures within wore not the red-and-black iron of the expected defenders, but a rich sea-green trimmed with gold that glittered in the midday sun. New banners flew from the fortress walls, proudly displaying a hammer wreathed in lightning bolts.

From here the beast riders could not pick out the specifics of the enemy force, but one thing was certain. If they had managed to dig the red-iron men out of their hole, they were a worthy foe.

The riders shared an eager, toothy grin.

Then they wrenched on the reins of their mounts, and raced off back the way they had come, leaving a trail of dust and shattered stone in their wake.

Chapter Four

Iron Tide

‘Lord Thostos,’ said Alzheer, running after the Stormcast as he made his way across to the realmgate. ‘I would ask a favour of you.’

He turned, and looked at her. To her surprise he gave her a quick salute, beating one gauntlet upon that fabulous gilded chestplate. She still did not understand how it had been repaired so thoroughly. The Lord-Celestant had been a half-melted ruin before the coming of the storm, and the renewing light. Alzheer’s faith had always been strong, but it had never blazed brighter than when the lightning cleared and she saw Thostos stand, restored and defiant.

‘I am aware of what you did upon the tower, priestess. Your bravery saved my life. You have my thanks.’ He paused. ‘If what you request is within my power to grant, I will do so.’

‘I aim to hunt the traitor Rusik down,’ she said. Even saying his name filled her with bile. ‘He must die for what he has done.’

‘And you wish me to provide you with a cadre of warriors,’ said Thostos, understanding immediately. ‘I am sorry, priestess, that is not something I can allow. Our mission is only just beginning, and I cannot afford to spare a single one.’

Her heart sank, but she would not give in that easily.

‘I heard what you said at the Manticore Gate,’ she continued. ‘That portal will take time for your people to restore. In the meantime, the cave systems that open out into the back of this fortress remain vulnerable. If the enemy stages a counter-attack, they could tear into your force before you know they are upon you.’

Thostos considered this.

‘It is a potential weakness,’ he admitted. ‘What do you suggest?’

‘Lend me just six of your warriors,’ she said. ‘They will join the thirty fighters I still command. My people are fine trackers. We will find Rusik and whoever else managed to escape with him, and we will make sure they do not pose a threat to you any longer.’

‘I can afford to give you three,’ said Thostos. ‘I will not risk my mission and the coherence of my fighting force by offering any more than that.’

Alzheer considered this. ‘Three men will do,’ she said. ‘A small force will be able to move more quickly through the tunnels. Thank you, Lord.’

‘Thank me by bringing my warriors back in short order, priestess,’ said the Lord-Celestant. ‘By rights I should not grant your request, but you have aided me and my men well and deserve your chance at vengeance.’

He glanced across the courtyard, which was carpeted with enemy dead.

‘And if there is one thing the Celestial Vindicators understand, priestess, it is vengeance.’

Lord-Castellant Eldroc led the detachment of Celestial Vindicators that were tasked with disposing of the corpses left in the Manticore Dreadhold’s main courtyard. In places the piles were knee-deep. It had been an inglorious slaughter at the end, when the ranks of blood-starved warriors had finally begun to break and flee. No Celestial Vindicator had given the foe a moment of mercy. They were tainted. They were traitors. There was no question of quarter. The men had killed with a song and a smile upon their lips.

Perhaps the Hallowed Knights would shake their heads at such joyous slaughter. Perhaps the Hammers of Sigmar would see it as beneath them. So be it. Let their brother Stormhosts be the proud and noble warriors. The Celestial Vindicators would fight as they had always done — with the fire of vengeance burning in their hearts.

Lord-Celestant Thostos approached.

‘A fine tally,’ said Eldroc. ‘Many have been avenged this day.’

‘This is but a taste of what awaits us,’ Thostos replied. ‘But yes, it will do for the moment.’

The Lord-Castellant studied his friend. It was hard to describe the exact difference in the Bladestorm’s mien, but something had certainly changed. He remained reserved and distant, but where previously being around the man had made one feel awkward and uncomfortable, as if he radiated a cloying sense of unease, now there was simply a quiet intensity.

‘What happened on that tower, Thostos?’ asked Eldroc.

His friend did not answer for a long while.

‘Truly, I do not remember,’ he said at last. ‘Sigmar reached out to me, that much is clear. I was broken, defeated. He restored me. The rest is but a fragment of a dream. Images, emotions.’

He shook his head. There was an element of frustration in that movement, but also, it seemed to Eldroc, an acceptance.

‘I have never heard of such a thing, of the storm of Azyrheim reaching out to restore a warrior in the midst of battle,’ said the Lord-Castellant.

‘Nor I,’ said Thostos. ‘Yet you saw how the retrieval of Ghal Maraz ignited the fire within the God-King. Do any of us truly know the limits of his power, especially now that he is reunited with that marvellous weapon? Whatever the storm revealed to me was lost in moments,’ Thostos continued, ‘but the echo of it remains. I do not remember the life I have lost, but I recall the vows that I made. That we all made. If this is now what I am, the fury of those oaths wrought in sigmarite and unleashed to destroy the taint of Chaos wherever it may be found, then I embrace it.’

Eldroc opened his mouth to say something, but Thostos raised a hand to cut him off.

‘We will speak of this again, but not now,’ he said. ‘Lord-Relictor Tharros requires our presence at the realmgate. We still have a mission to complete.’

The Manticore Realmgate no longer spewed out tendrils of eldritch fire, but it still resonated with ill intent. The monstrous carving that topped the archway of rune-carved black stone glared down at the Stormcasts, its leonine head promising obliteration to anyone who dared trespass upon its territory. Lord-Celestant Mykos Argellon made the mistake of staring too long at the symbols carved into the unyielding stone of the structure, and immediately regretted doing so. His head ached, and sour bile filled his mouth.

‘We must pass through this gate,’ said Thostos. He could see that no one present relished the prospect. ‘You all know the part we have to play in Sigmar’s grand plan. Our task was to secure this path to the mustering point, where we shall join a host the like of which the realms have never seen. The God-King aims to bring the war to the Everchosen’s doorstep, but unless every piece is on the board at the allotted time, that cannot happen.’

‘The Allpoints must fall,’ said Eldroc, softly.

The Allpoints. The nexus through which was linked every single Realmgate. An island adrift, set apart from the Mortal Realms yet intrinsically linked to them through its web of eldritch passageways. As long as the forces of Chaos controlled the mighty fortresses that guarded these portals, the enemy’s great armies of daemons and dark warriors could be sent forth anywhere in the realms to burn and despoil.

‘It must,’ agreed Thostos. ‘But first we must shatter the formidable defences that guard it. That is our task, and the Manticore Realmgate will lead us to the Crystal Forest of Chamon, and to the next stage of the war.’

‘These gates — the magic that binds them is strong but easily warped,’ said Lord-Relictor Tharros Soulwarden, leaning on the ornate staff that was his mark of office. ‘The fell powers can easily twist them to their purpose, redirecting and refocusing the latent energy to their own dark ends.’

‘We had actually noticed that,’ said Evios Goldfeather. The Prosecutor-Prime was perched on a rock cluster slightly above the ancient structure, staring grimly down.

‘Don’t interrupt,’ snapped Tharros. ‘My point is that we cannot trust that this portal will not drop us in a lake of fire, or a pit of blood demons. Throne of Azyrheim, we could even end up in the court of the Blood God.’

The realmgate stood at the rear of the fortress courtyard, on a raised platform built against the great mountain wall. Around it was a cluster of jagged rocks, and to each side of the stone-carved dais were tunnels that led deeper into the mountains. To hold this position, one needed to control both the fortress and the gate. At any moment, they all knew, fresh reinforcements could come pouring through this portal to smash into their exposed flank.

‘How long will it take for you to purge the taint, Lord-Relictor?’ asked Thostos.

‘How long will it take me to restore this realmgate to its original state? How long will it take a man to unravel the dark enchantments and twisted blood rituals that have fed this thing for centuries upon centuries?’

Tharros tapped his fingers rhythmically on the metal of his staff.

‘Somewhere between half a day and a hundred years,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll have no idea until I begin, and once I commit to this…’

Thostos nodded. ‘Begin, Lord-Relictor. If we do not pass through this gate, our mission is forfeit regardless. Eldroc, how goes the refortification?’

‘Our assault kept the fortress largely intact, aside from the main gate,’ said the Lord-Castellant. ‘I have ordered the breach secured with caltrops and spiked wolf holes using iron taken from the ramparts. We do not have time to repair the gate entirely, but if we are attacked, forcing an entrance will cost the enemy dearly.’

‘Good,’ said Thostos. ‘I will not trust to luck that our engagement with the Chaos scum went unnoticed. The orruks are too close, and there is every chance they heard the sounds of battle, or saw the sky darken with sorcery. You do not need me to tell you your business, Lord-Castellant. Make this place as secure as possible.’

Eldroc struck a fist to his chest in salute, and turned to make his way back to the wall, Redbeak loping along at his heel.

Tharros rested his chin in the crook of his hand. Wisps of celestial light coalesced around the haft of his relic-staff, and he reached one gauntlet out towards the burning portal.

‘This is a stubborn, defiant old thing,’ he spat, through gritted teeth.

‘If that’s the case, I feel it may have met its match at last,’ said Goldfeather. He had removed his helm, and a slight smile was visible on his angular features.

‘Pray find something to keep yourself occupied, Prosecutor-Prime,’ said the Lord-Relictor. ‘I require concentration, and must be free from the jabbering of pompous buzzards.’

Xos’Phet howled and wailed and spat as he was carried deeper into the gloom of the caverns, the volume of his screeching growing louder every time the gorepriests that carried him stumbled over another rock formation or a cluster of the great conical fungi that grew throughout the tunnels.

He fumbled at his side, underneath the stinking rags that now enveloped his bleeding form, and as his fingers touched the wound that the savage had left in his flesh he gave another yelp of pain.

‘Watch where you step, you brainless fools,’ he snapped, though conversing with the creatures at all was largely pointless.

The first of them had been accomplices of his, those he had consulted with now and then on the various intricacies of blood magic. There had been a reasonable level of collaborative progress for a while, but as always happened in the sorcerer’s experience, their professional partnership had eventually become strained. They had made the unforgivable error of disagreeing with him on several key theoretical points. He had removed their troubling capacity for reason and defiance along with their eyes and their tongues. Over the years he had added to his collection, until he had quite the retinue of mute, compliant slaves that were little more than husks, bound to his will.

Clumsy, stupid, inconsiderate husks who were going to be the death of him.

‘How did it come to this?’ he moaned, as his bearers splashed through the freezing waters of an underground stream, which sent ripples of silver, phosphorescent light playing across the stone walls.

He had been so close. So damnably close. The ritual had worked, and he had been mere moments away from summoning a horde of screaming neverborn into being, and into his service.

‘That fool Varash, how I would have savoured the look on his face when I ordered my army to tear him and his men limb from limb,’ he said. ‘Yet the dullard could not even hold a few overzealous warriors at bay.’

Xos’Phet was dimly aware of just how much blood poured from his stab wound. He was also beginning to feel light-headed and weightless, as if he had just drunk a bottle of duardin fire-ale after a week without water. If he did not make it to his sanctum soon, he would die. The thought terrified him. There was so much left to do, so many secrets on the verge of being uncovered.

The gorepriests rounded a corner, and the wall to their left simply fell away. The cavern they had entered was enormous, so wide and high that it could have housed the Dreadhold itself with room to spare. The path they travelled narrowed, and hugged the right-hand side of this enormous chamber, winding up towards the far wall. They were halfway across the chamber, so close to the safety of Xos’Phet’s subterranean sanctuary, when the gorepriest carrying him staggered to a halt.

‘Did I order you to stop?’ shrieked the sorcerer, flailing weakly at his servant with one pallid hand.

The creature took one step forwards, and then toppled to the floor. The other gorepriest just above managed to keep its burden upright, but then a blade flashed in from the shadows, and its throat sprayed dark, clotted blood. Xos’Phet rolled onto the hard floor of the cavern with a yelp, and saw more blood spray as a wiry, thin man with a dirty beard and the rags of a plains-dwelling savage knelt over his servant, hacking and slashing with maniacal intensity.

Had he been his normal self, Xos’Phet would have slain the man in an instant. Perhaps with a single sheet of magical flame, or a sizzling bolt of acid. As it was, he could barely concentrate enough through the blur of pain to raise his hands in a futile gesture of surrender before the attacker was upon him.

Wild, frenzied eyes. Dried blood staining a narrow, angular face with dark, sun-baked skin. And, most importantly, a wicked curved blade in hand that was currently cutting into his tender neck.

‘Wait,’ he gasped. ‘The plains rider. Rusik.’

His captor growled, and the sword dug a little deeper. Xos’Phet summoned every ounce of his self-control, and whispered an arcane phrase while weaving a complex pattern with his free hand.

He gestured, an open-palmed push, and his assailant flew to crash into the wall of the cavern with a bone-shaking thud. The man slid to the floor and rolled, coming to a rest only an inch from the lip of the abyss.

Xos’Phet clambered to his feet, still holding his hand out, locking the man in place. Rusik roared and strained, but could not break free of the binding spell.

‘I should cut your heart out,’ the sorcerer spat. ‘Filthy savage, daring to attack me. After all I have done for you.’

Rusik shouted something unintelligible, and spat at him.

‘I should,’ Xos’Phet continued, ‘but given our current situation, I may require your assistance. Those warriors in turquoise, they think us defeated. That wretched woman thinks she has slain me, but Xos’Phet the Eternal does not pass so easily.’

The warrior continued to grunt and snarl. Xos’Phet sighed. It had been an easy thing, to play upon this one’s guilt and shame, but the trouble with tempting a man into sacrificing his soul to the Dark Gods was that they tended to take the whole thing very seriously.

‘You want revenge, don’t you?’ he said, staring into the man’s haunted eyes. ‘I can give you that. I can give you the slaughter you desire, that and so much more.’

He stepped closer. The man’s dark eyes had gone strangely still, as if he had slipped into a trance.

‘Would you like that, Rusik?’ he whispered. ‘To have your revenge on those that have wronged you? To have power, true power?’

The warrior’s eyes flashed, and he broke from Xos’Phet’s hold for just a moment, swiping his curved blade up at an awkward angle, trying to slash the sorcerer’s throat. Xos’Phet skittered backwards, laughing.

‘Oh, very close,’ he laughed. ‘You almost had me fooled. In truth, however, it does not matter if you want this or not. I have great plans for you, my savage friend.’

He stepped to the body of one of his gorepriests and knelt to run his fingers through the thing’s belt. He found the knife, and turned back to his prisoner.

‘I mean to make you useful to me regardless,’ he said.

‘Something is wrong,’ said Thostos.

They had been watching the Lord-Relictor weaving his spells upon the gate for over an hour, and for the majority of that time he had been as still as stone, only the sonorous muttering that came from deep in his throat any indication that he was at work. Now he was twitching, jerking as if wracked by lightning. Gone was the calm authority of his magic. His face was masked by the grinning skull that all Lord-Relictors wore, but Thostos could see the tightness of his posture and the shudder that ran through his frame.

‘The gate,’ gasped Mykos.

The harsh but pure light that poured into the Manticore Realmgate began to darken and twist, turning to thick red veins of spiralling, crackling energy that pushed back at Tharros’ storm magic. The Lord-Relictor set his feet and leaned into the onslaught, but it did not cease. The surface of the realmgate began to boil and surge, and a choir of sibilant whispers echoed around the fortress.

A grasping, red-scaled limb reached through the membrane of the portal.

‘Shield!’ shouted Mykos. ‘Raise your blades.’

They belched forth from one reality into another, spewing into the mortal realm with eager hunger and the thunder of brimstone fire. They were slaughter given flesh, the psychic resonance of the violence and fury of battle condensed into a brutal physical form. Their flesh was the deep red of a sword wound, corded with powerful muscles and branded with runes of loyalty to their dread master. Sharp tongues hung over wicked, finger-length teeth, drooling acidic spittle that hissed as it dropped onto the hard stone floor. Great, curving horns capped their heads, wound with brass rings and capped with bronze. Each carried a wicked sword of unique design. Some writhed like snakes in their wielder’s hands. Others bore eyes that blinked obscenely as the blade swept through the air, or blue-red veins that pulsed with blood.

‘Form ranks!’ yelled Thostos. These were no simple, mortal warriors. They had to hold them here, for if the bloodletters overran the defenders all would be lost.

The Liberators began to lock shields, responding with admirable speed to the shocking emergence of the daemon warriors. They formed a wall of gleaming sigmarite upon the platform before the portal, using the rock cluster that wound behind the realmgate to hem the attackers in and prevent them from breaking out into the fortress proper. Against a mortal enemy the Stormcasts’ defence would have been almost impregnable.

With howls of atavistic rage the daemons leapt at the Stormcasts, hell-forged blades digging deep into sigmarite and reaching over the defenders’ shields to pierce chests and helms. The bloodletters gave no thought to their own safety. All they knew was aggression, and this single-minded rage forced breaches in even the disciplined shield wall of the Celestial Vindicators. A dread note reverberated from the bronze, spiral warhorn of one of the daemons, and its fellows hacked and slashed with ever-greater fervour.

Yet the Celestial Vindicators did not fall back a single step.

Heaven-wrought warhammers sought daemonic flesh, pounding and blasting the hated foe back into the nightmare realm they called home. As fallen Stormcasts disappeared in flares of light, new warriors stepped in to take their place so quickly and efficiently that it almost seemed as if the movement was mechanical, that of a magically-charged automaton. There was no fear or uncertainty in the Stormcasts’ mind, simply a surety of purpose and a fierce joy at the destruction of their most hated enemy.

‘Vengeance for the lost!’ they shouted as they fought. ‘Glory to Sigmar’s chosen!’

Thostos entered the fray, crossing his warhammer and runeblade to intercept a falling sword that screamed in some unknowable tongue as it fell, wrenching the leering daemon’s blade down low, and reversing the momentum to send the creature stumbling to the side. It hissed and cut across with a backhand slice, but Thostos span inside the cut and sank his blade into the monster’s chest. It gurgled and choked, and as he let it fall to the ground its body burst into flame. He blocked another strike, left a bloodletter reeling with a returning blow from his warhammer.

Something heavy struck him a mighty blow on the side. He felt the air rush by as he somersaulted through the air, rolling twice in the dirt before coming to rest on his side. He was up in a moment, weapons raised and ready.

A colossal metal abomination paced towards him, a bloodletter perched screeching on its back. It was the rough shape of a horse, but squatter and far more heavily muscled, encased entirely in dull red metal and bronze. Steam hissed from its nostrils, and its smouldering hooves left brimstone prints in their wake.

The beast’s dread rider cursed at him in a tongue of molten hatred.

Thostos charged. The creature came right at him, scattering Stormcasts before it, kicking itself forwards on powerful hind legs, the daemonic rider lowering his heavy blade like a tourney lance. It ate up the ground towards him at a terrifying pace, bellowing with mindless rage.

A few yards from the creature, close enough to smell its brimstone stench, Thostos hurled himself forwards and to the right. As he passed, he heard the crunch of the beast’s hooves narrowly missing his skull, felt a blade rush past his head so close he could feel its foul heat.

He swept his sword across, allowing the beast’s momentum to add to his own. It sliced deep into the thing’s flank, and hot black liquid spurted out. The creature bucked, swaying to one side, and the rider came free, clattering to the ground with a metal thud. Dragging himself to his feet, Thostos ran the ten paces to the downed daemon, and swung his hammer at its head. The bloodletter screeched in rage as the weapon fell, a scream that was cut off abruptly as its skull shattered into fragments.

Ahead, the beast was struggling upright. It kicked out savagely with its rear hooves, and an unfortunate Stormcast was sent sailing backwards into his fellows, chestplate battered and deformed. Outraged, the warriors fell on the daemonic steed, hacking and blasting it apart with furious blows.

‘Lord Thostos!’ came Eldroc’s voice, and Thostos turned to see the Lord-Castellant barrelling towards him, clearing a path with his halberd and gesturing wildly towards the gate itself. ‘The Lord-Relictor is overwhelmed!’

Tharros was kneeling, hands clasped together around the haft of his stave, which was pointed at the enemy like a spear. Coruscating energy surged and crackled around the artefact, spools of lightning sparking out at the bloodletters desperately trying to reach him. They could not get close without Sigmar’s storm searing the flesh from their bones, but Thostos could see that Tharros would not be able to maintain his heroic defence for long.

‘With me, brother,’ he shouted to Eldroc, and together they surged into the fray, clearing a path towards their fellow warrior.

Rusik screamed. In all his life he had never felt such a pure and constant agony. Yet there were no knives digging into his flesh, no flaming brands or bone-crushing mallets mutilating his body. Instead it was as if he was being devoured from within, great strips of his flesh being torn away, fingers running across his brain.

‘By the Great Changer, silence his whining,’ came a voice from his side.

Strong, cold hands forced a filthy wrap into his mouth. He choked and felt his gorge rise as he tasted dried blood, but his hands were bound and the gag was tight. His back ached with the chill of cold stone.

His eyes flicked about, taking in a low, roughly-hewn stone chamber, walls lined with bookcases and display cases filled with all manner of sorcerous ephemera. Shrunken heads screamed silently at him from jars filled with pulsing green fluid. Bones, hides and other fragments of almost-human things lined the walls, and around each specimen were notes scrawled in luminous blue, in a language Rusik could not read. There were other slabs like his, and other figures were draped across them. They were all long dead. He could smell the sweet stench of putrefaction, mixing with the spicy, metal tang of fresh blood.

A face leaned over him. A thin, sallow face that shimmered oddly in the flickering blue light that filled the chamber.

The cruel face spoke. ‘You may not recognise me, my friend, but I know you so very well. Oh yes. Rusik the betrayer.’

A cackle turned into a hacking cough.

‘I walked amongst your filthy tribesmen many times,’ the voice continued. ‘It was something of a hobby of mine. A word in the ear here and there, and the next time you sent out a hunting party, it would go exactly where I wanted it to. Well, those savages at the Dreadhold needed to eat, after all.’

More pain. Rusik screamed again, louder and longer than before.

‘To gather the quantity of sacrifices needed for the ritual, though, that required a defter touch,’ the figure continued to talk. ‘And that was where you came in. So angry. So guilty. So mortal.’

No. Rusik knew what the man was going to say, but he tried to turn his face away. He did not want to hear the words.

‘Oh so very easy,’ came the voice again. ‘I barely needed to tax myself. You saw what you wanted to see, heard what I let you hear.’

He strained against the bonds that held him fast, spat and cursed and raged. Try as he might, he could not break free. Something struck him in the face, and his vision swam.

‘You made it so simple. I did not even know what your dead woman looked like, but that hardly mattered to you. You chose to see her. You tried to salve your conscience by pretending it was she. But it was you, Rusik. This is what you wanted.’

A blade sank into his chest, and began a long, circular cut. He screamed and choked on the foul gag in his mouth. Deeper and deeper went the knife.

‘Hush, hush,’ said the voice. ‘Your moaning is really quite irritating, and most unnecessary. Think of this as a gift. When I am finished with you, you’ll be much improved. More powerful than even those toy soldiers who dared destroy my work at the Dreadhold. And no more guilt, Rusik. No more regrets, no more shame.’

The knife made a complete circuit, and Rusik felt something pull the torn flesh of his chest apart. He dared to look down. In one pale hand the sorcerer grasped a fleshy, pulsing organ.

‘Only pain,’ the man said with a broad smile.

Judicator Atrin held his boltstorm crossbow high, jammed tight to his shoulder and ready to fire the moment that the shadows shifted. It had not happened yet, but he was sure it would. This place had an ill feel to it.

Atrin had a second sense for trouble. It took a good eye to join the ranks of the Vindicators’ archers, but even amongst that hallowed number, Atrin was known to have the sharpest vision. The rest of the warriors called him Eagle-Eyes, much to his embarrassment. Titles and glory had never meant much to Atrin, and he always felt slightly awkward and uncomfortable when others lavished praise upon him.

This was what he lived for. The hunt. The chase. In another life he had been a forest ranger, and the skill of navigating a landscape without disturbing it had not been lost in the forges of Azyrheim.

‘Yet no sign of the enemy,’ came the deep bass of Retributor Callan. ‘How long shall we traipse through these wretched caves before we accept that this is a waste of our time?’

‘With due respect, Paladin,’ said Judicator Oreus. ‘The Lord-Celestant gave the order, and we obey.’

His brother’s tone was even, but Atrin knew Oreus well enough to recognise that the warrior was no happier than Callan about being sent off with the mortals while the rest of the Chamber prepared for war. He was simply far too reserved and professional to complain.

Callan, however, was not.

‘Who knows how long it will take for Tharros to unseal the realmgate,’ he muttered, loudly enough so that the rest of the mortals, and indeed anyone in the surrounding few miles, could hear his every word. ‘Imagine it. We return to find our brothers gone on to glory without us, while we wasted our time wandering around in the dark.’

Atrin could hear the irritated murmurs of the mortals who had accompanied the priestess Alzheer on this expedition. They might see the sky warriors as heralds of their sky god, but they had formed a distinctly negative impression of the belligerent Callan.

‘The Lord-Relictor believes it will take many hours to finish his work,’ said Oreus. ‘We were given strict instruction by the Lord-Celestant as to how long we continue this search. They will not leave us behind.’

‘So you hope,’ said Callan, and lapsed into sullen silence.

The Retributor barely even raised his head as they passed into a cavernous chamber so vast it could have housed the entirety of Sigmar’s grand throne room. They trod a path that wound around the right side of the cavern, and on their left was a sheer drop coloured an azure blue by phosphorescent light. Above, a forest of stalactites as large as dracoliths hung, so thick and jagged it seemed to the party like they stared up at the teeth of a shark.

‘Throne of Sigmar,’ muttered Atrin.

‘Look,’ said Alzheer, ignoring the sight before them and kneeling down to study the rough-hewn path of stone. ‘Fresh kills.’

Several yards down the path lay two corpses, both mutilated by deep wounds. There was a spatter of gore on the ground, as well as an arc splashed across the cavern wall. The priestess turned one of the bodies over, examining it. She traced the edge of the wounds, and winced slightly as the stench of the dead things hit her. They looked humanoid, but their too-thin figures were hidden under leather smocks and bloody, rotting bandages. The eyes and mouths of both bodies were stitched closed. They reeked like month-old corpses.

‘This may not be the work of your man,’ Callan said. ‘More than a few Chaos scum fled into these mountains after we broke their back. This could be down to any number of them.’

Alzheer shook her head.

‘These wounds,’ she said, indicating the long, wide slashes in the creatures’ flesh. ‘These are from an eskar, a curved blade. See the wide, deep cuts? Cleaner work than the jagged axes and cleavers of the fortress men. No, this is Rusik.’

‘And what in Azyr are these things?’ said Callan, indicating the corpses.

She frowned. ‘The sorcerer in the tower used them as… servants. Butchers. They answered only to his command. I thought that we slew them all.’

‘Evidently not,’ said Callan. ‘Perhaps we’ll find ourselves a fight down here after all.’

‘We should move,’ said Alzheer. ‘The blood is still flowing. These kills are fresh. He is close.’

The daemon was only an inch from Tharros’ face, but he could not release his magic, for that would not only spell the end of the Celestial Vindicators’ hopes of carrying out Sigmar’s word, but would in all likelihood force open the already-substantial breach and allow yet more of these filthy creatures through. He managed to raise his relic staff to block the swing of the creature’s blade, but its strength was hideous. Its leering, coal-black eyes stared deep into the apertures of his skull helm, and he felt its sulphurous breath sear and scorch his armour.

There was a sharp rush of air, and suddenly the beast had no head at all. A gaping neck wound pumped boiling black ichor across his face, until a gauntleted hand grasped the dead thing and flung it away to crash in the dirt.

‘Are you injured, Lord-Relictor?’ came the soft, alarmed voice of Mykos Argellon.

Tharros did not risk speaking, but managed to shake his head as he continued to chant the ritual of cleansing.

Around him, he saw, the battle continued to rage. The Celestial Vindicators had recovered from the shock of the initial incursion, but these were no blood-mad savages that they faced. These were the shock troops of the Blood God himself, creatures forged and hardened by countless millennia of warfare.

Throne of Azyrheim, he was tired. His old bones rattled like dice in a cup as he staggered to his feet.

Another red-skinned nightmare capered forwards, and Lord-Celestant Bladestorm met it with a flurry of strikes from warhammer and blade. The thing toppled to the floor, bursting into flames as it was banished to the hellish realm that it called home.

‘Close this breach, Lord-Relictor,’ shouted Thostos, who was already assigning a formation of shield-bearing Liberators to surround Tharros. ‘And do it now.’

Tharros declined to launch into a lengthy explanation of exactly how complex the magic at play was, and how one did not simply decide when it was done. Thostos Bladestorm was a warrior, a being of action. Let him be about his work. The Lord-Relictor felt the song of the storm surround him, let its power course through every fibre of his being. He heard the rabid howls of delight that echoed from the mouth of the Manticore Realmgate, and beneath that frenzied madness he heard a softer whisper, that same cold and ancient promise that haunted his dreams and his nightmares. The promise that one day, the scales would be balanced, and his eternal soul would be reclaimed. Perhaps that would be this day.

So be it.

‘Something nears,’ said Alzheer. She was sharp, that one, thought Atrin. She did not let much show, but she took things in. You didn’t live as close to the earth as her people without being able to tell when danger drew close.

‘Let us take the lead,’ he told her. They had left the grand cavern and passed through a seemingly endless coil of tunnels and hollows, eventually entering a far smaller chamber packed with glistening stalactites, each of which shone with a faint, flickering luminescence. Ahead, a vague path led through a field of mushrooms, before spiralling up around a colossal column of black rock to a shelf of stone some dozen yards above them. The roof of the cavern was far overhead, and in the soft light Atrin could see movement up there — a flock of small, dark creatures that twitched and jostled nervously as the warriors passed.

‘Cave hawks,’ said Alzheer, gesturing at the movement. ‘Their presence is a good thing. They would not nest here if other predators were close.’

As one, the entire flock of dark, black birds took flight.

They whipped around the heads of the hunting party in a mass of whirling feathers and jabbing beaks. They moved too fast and the light was too poor for Atrin to get a good look at them, but he caught a glimpse of pale, milk-white eyes and sharp, toothed beaks.

‘And what does this mean?’ shouted Callan, buffeting the small birds away irritably with the haft of his great hammer.

‘Either we made too much noise,’ said Alzheer, drawing her shortbow and peering into the darkness, ‘or something worse…’

A terrible, hollow shriek echoed around the cavern, and they heard the sound of running boots. The sound reverberated around the cavern, making it almost impossible to pick out which direction it originated from.

‘Something worse then,’ said Retributor Callan, hefting his weapon and not even attempting to hide his delight. ‘Finally.’

No sooner had he spoken than the shadows before them shifted. A figure stood on the ledge before them at the top of the stone stair, curved blade in hand. Its eyes shone with a cold, white malice, and it bellowed in a voice that could not possibly come from a mortal throat.

It was him, Alzheer was sure. Rusik the betrayer, the man who had abandoned her people to the depredations of the men of the fortress.

She stood, raised her bow and felt the tickle of the crow-feather arrow at her cheek. She loosed, and it zipped away into the darkness and struck the thing that looked like Rusik in the chest. He did not even stagger. The arrow whipped away as it struck something hard as stone, and he looked straight at her.

His pale eyes glittered, and he raised his blade towards her silently.

‘Get back,’ said Atrin, stepping forwards and unleashing a flurry of shots with his crossbow. Each bolt that issued forth crackled with the power of the storm, and the far wall disintegrated as the volley slammed home. Alzheer caught a blur of movement in the strobing light of the cavern as something impossibly fast dived out of the way of the barrage.

‘Did you get him?’ asked Oreus, who had his own bow raised.

Atrin said nothing. He was still scanning the rise, searching for a hint of movement. Something dropped from the far left wall of the cavern. More shapes emerged from the depths of the mushroom field. He held his aim until one passed into the shimmering light. Thin, unnaturally so. Eyes hidden behind a wrap of bloody bandages. Air wheezing from behind a stitched mouth.

Oreus loosed an arrow. It struck the thing in the chest, and an explosion of light blasted the creature backwards.

‘Ambush!’ the Judicator shouted. ‘Ready your blades.’

The mortals were already loosing arrows into the thick of the creatures that rushed at them, but in the darkness and the chaos, few found their mark. Oreus and Atrin continued to shoot, blasting chunks of stone free and shredding the fungi as they hammered the advancing mob. Those that survived the barrage met the hammer of Retributor Callan. He moved the heavy weapon as if it weighed less than a child’s toy, sweeping it from side to side to clear out groups of the creatures, letting his constant momentum add fearsome power to his attacks.

Atrin had no idea where the damned things were coming from, but there appeared to be no end to them. He heard screams from behind and turned to see more of the bandaged creatures hacking and slashing their way into the ranks of the mortal warriors. He tried to aim, but there were simply too many bodies in the way for him to get a clear shot. He slung his crossbow and drew his gladius.

‘Out of the way,’ he yelled, grabbing hold of a tribal warrior and yanking him backwards to safety, trying to get his sigmarite armour in the way of the enemy’s frenzied attacks. To their credit, the mortals had responded well, falling back and forming a defensive circle of blades and spears. Yet from every direction more of the creatures dropped, scrambling through holes in the wall or appearing from behind the great clusters of fungi that spiralled around stalagmites and across the cavern walls.

Atrin grabbed one of the creatures around the throat, stabbed his gladius into its chest and threw the thing away, then landed a punch that snapped another’s jaw with a sickening crunch. He leapt out in front of the mortals, stabbing and slicing with his blade, forcing a breach for them to exploit.

‘Atrin!’ shouted Oreus from behind. ‘More of them come. We will be surrounded.’

He cut another bandaged horror down with a diagonal slash that opened its wrappings from throat to belly, and turned to see Callan almost drowning under the sheer number of hacking, slashing creatures. The Retributor battered away at the swarm, but there were too many of them inside the range of his hammer. Oreus risked shots where he could, blasting several into smoking ruins.

‘Hold them here,’ yelled Atrin, grabbing the shoulder of the nearest mortal. ‘Keep them at bay with your spears.’

With that he rushed to aid his stricken brother, drawing his crossbow once more.

‘Callan, get down,’ he shouted, and the Retributor trusted his comrade’s word instantly, dropping to the floor and shielding himself as the enemy fell with him, dragged down by his weight.

Atrin loosed, sending a volley of deadly projectiles ripping through the ranks of the enemy. Fragments of scorched wrapping and torn flesh splattered the walls of the cave as Oreus added his own missiles to the barrage.

No sooner had Callan staggered to his feet amongst the wreckage of his assailants than something struck Atrin with astonishing force, propelling him across the clearing and into a cluster of rocks, which crumbled under the weight of his armour. He groaned in shock and pain. By the Eight Realms, that one had hurt. Distantly, as if he were underwater, he heard a muffled, high-pitched laughter, and a fell green light doused the walls of the cavern.

Someone was screaming. It was Callan. His armour was on fire, a curtain of searing viridian flame clinging to him even as he rolled on the ground in an attempt to quell it.

‘Brother!’ shouted Oreus, drawing his gladius and barrelling, shoulder down, into the press of bodies, smashing his way through to his fallen comrade.

The Judicator made it a dozen paces before a swirl of purple and yellow motes enveloped him. They looked harmless, but as Atrin watched on helplessly his brother’s armour sloughed away like dust, bursting into the air as if someone had rustled a great field of pollinating flowers. The warrior turned, and looked straight at Atrin, then down at his hands. He did not even scream as his body came apart.

Tharros could feel his skin starting to burn. One did not summon the celestial storm without cost. It was a pure and violent power, wondrous yes, but not something to be taken lightly. Channelling it, shaping it was akin to grasping a burning ember from a roaring fire. Leave your hand in that fire too long, and the flames would begin to consume you.

Yet he could not relent. Daemons still poured through the Manticore Realmgate, and while the Celestial Vindicators were keeping them at bay thus far, they could not hold out forever.

He must end this now.

Tharros released the storm, let it flow through him unrestricted and unconstrained. He focussed only on the realmgate, and the fell magic that was woven into every fragment of its being. It had been crafted by old and powerful means, sorceries and sacrifices that had allowed it to stand for centuries upon centuries in the service of darkness. He saw the history of it, the bloodshed it had sown and the souls it had eagerly devoured. Old heroes had fallen here, their defiance and heroism long forgotten. In the little time that was left to him, Tharros honoured their bravery.

Spirits spiralled around him, singing the same mournful song that haunted his dreams. Every death brought him closer to a reckoning that had been inevitable since he had pledged himself to Sigmar’s service, but there was nothing to be done. His brothers needed him, and he would not let them down.

The storm that enveloped the dread realmgate flared, brighter and stronger than before. Nothing could stand in the light of that power. There was a scream of shearing stone as an arc of lightning slammed into the great manticore statue that stood above the gate. The lion’s head fell free, crushing a hollering daemon beneath it as it crashed to the ground.

Tharros could barely stand now. He felt the exquisite agony as the power he had unleashed devoured him from the inside. Still, he did not relent. Bolt after bolt of aetheric power slammed into the ornate carving of the realmgate. The fell runes and sigils that lined the obsidian archway were burned and scorched away, and as they were cleansed Tharros could hear the terrified, agonised scream of whatever foul consciousness inhabited the monument. It writhed and burned as he did.

He allowed himself a smile.

The Lord-Relictor did not relent, even as the daemons ceased to pour through the portal, and the Vindicators began to break up and slaughter the outnumbered bloodletters that remained.

The green fire had ceased, but Callan lay still. His armour had melted until it was almost unidentifiable, the sigils and symbols of his allegiance now warped and seared.

‘Callan,’ yelled Atrin. ‘You must get up!’

Even as the Judicator spoke, the creatures were upon his brother. They did not attack him with their long knives, but instead wrapped great chains around his arms and legs.

‘Oh, this will be most enlightening,’ came a voice from above. Atrin craned his neck to see a small, pale figure floating in the air, pinched face split by a fierce grin. ‘I will crack him open, and see what you fellows are made of. Are you men under there I wonder? How much pain can you stand before you expire? So many questions.’

Atrin did not bother to respond and simply snapped his crossbow up to blast the snivelling weakling from the sky.

Something cut deep into his flesh. He gasped and turned, and looked into eyes that burned with a cold and terrible fire. The face they belonged to was mortal, though warped and broken as if something had tried to force its way free from the inside. The skin was stretched taut, split in places to show the flesh beneath. It was the traitor Rusik, or it was something wearing his face as a mask.

Atrin tried to slash his gladius across the thing’s neck, but it slammed a clawed arm into his chest and he crashed to the ground, stunned at the sheer power of the blow.

‘I was so close, so very close to binding my army, to finally having the power necessary to punish those who have wronged me,’ ranted the floating figure. ‘And then you came, and you ruined it all.’

Invisible hands grabbed Atrin and slammed him into the ground again and again.

‘Now I am forced to turn to new avenues of research,’ continued the figure. ‘I will start by taking one of your kind, and tearing them apart until I discover how they work. Perhaps I will discover something useful, perhaps not. Either way it will improve my mood immensely.’

A simple gesture from the sorcerer, and the ground that was supporting the Judicator’s weight turned to sand. He fell, grasping desperately for a handhold. Below him was only darkness. He caught the edge of the abyss and hung there while the immense weight of his armour did its best to dislodge him. The thing that had been Rusik stared down at him with those cold-fire eyes.

‘Unfortunately for you, my friend,’ said the sorcerer, ‘I need only one subject.’

Atrin could hold on no longer. His hands slipped free, and fading laughter followed him into darkness.

‘Lord-Relictor?’ shouted Mykos Argellon, over the thunder of the aetheric storm. ‘Tharros, the daemons are gone.’

The soul guardian knelt as if in prayer, his reliquary staff planted in the earth and his head bowed. Mykos felt a surge of static as he moved close, enough to make him take a backwards step.

‘He cannot hear you, brother,’ said Thostos, sheathing his runeblade and hammer as he approached. ‘He is too deep in concentration. The sheer will that it must take to keep this gate contained, to prevent its energies from being unleashed. Whatever the Chaos filth were doing here, it has awoken some fell presence within this structure.’

He gestured to the Lord-Relictor. ‘Only the strength of one man kept it at bay. Now Tharros Soulwarden ceases defending and launches his own assault. We must hope he still has the strength left to overcome.’

‘It will kill him,’ said Mykos.

‘Perhaps. Even a master of death is not immune to its touch,’ said Thostos. ‘If Tharros falls here, he will do so performing his duty. He could ask for nothing more.’

Around the Lord-Celestants four-score warriors of the Celestial Vindicators were arranging themselves in a tight defensive formation in front of the gate. None of them wished to be caught by surprise again. Thostos turned to oversee the deployment, leaving a complement of Judicators and Liberators to guard the Lord-Relictor and the gate, while the rest of the men continued the business of clearing and refortifying the Dreadhold. The stench of brimstone still lingered in the air, blending with the aura of rotting flesh and stale sweat that permeated the fortress. By Sigmar, Mykos hated this place. It offered nothing but death and misery.

‘He’s a stubborn old creature,’ said Lord-Castellant Eldroc. Mykos had not heard him approach. ‘He won’t give in lightly, believe me.’

‘You know him well,’ said Mykos.

Eldroc chuckled. ‘As well as anyone can know a storm priest. They tend not to be the most companionable sorts.’

‘He does not speak of his position? Of the nature of his magic?’

‘Not a word,’ said Eldroc. ‘Lord-Relictors are the keepers of secrets, my friend. They are the guardians of knowledge lost, and they know things that elsewise only Sigmar is privy to.’

‘I would like to have known him better,’ said Mykos.

‘He is not gone yet. As I say, he’s as stubborn as an ancient dracolith and twice as hard to kill.’

Mykos glanced at his friend. He could not help but suspect that Eldroc was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

Liberator Archus hauled the corpse of the bandaged creature over his shoulder, marched over to the makeshift pyre they had built in the centre of the tower, and dumped it into the flames.

‘Sigmar’s blood, the stench of these things,’ he said.

‘This entire place smells wrong,’ said Tyron, dragging two more of the creatures over, leaving a fresh trail of blood across the stone. ‘The Lord-Relictor might say he can purify the realmgate, but there’s no removing the taint from this place.’

Archus looked at the far end of the tower, towards the burned and withered figures still bound to those barbed iron crosses.

‘We should cut those down, whatever they are,’ he said.

‘You’re very welcome to do so, brother. I’ve another five of these delightful things to attend to,’ said Tyron.

Archus sighed, drew his gladius from the sheath on his belt, and strode across to the crucified figures. As he approached he had to wince at the awful smell. It wasn’t just the acrid tang of burned flesh — the stench of loathsome magic clung to each of the desiccated forms, and it made Archus nauseous. This close, it was obvious these things had once been orruks. Cracked, blackened teeth jutted from their thick jaws, and the vaguely porcine outline of their faces was still just about visible.

He lifted his gladius to cut the spiked wire bindings that locked the thing in place.

Behind him, from a great distance, there came a roll of thunder. He turned in surprise. It did not seem the weather for a storm. He cocked an ear. Again the same sound. It wasn’t thunder. It echoed and reverberated, not a single noise but an atonal choir of thousands of voices roaring a single word as one.

‘Wwwaaaaaaaagggghh!’

He spun around, gladius raised.

The three broken creatures that languished upon the cruel spikes of the Dreadhold were not dead. Archus saw the eager madness in their pink, bloodshot eyes. Their mouths were open, and as one they droned the same jarring, cacophonous refrain, a blissful response to the call that echoed from the mouth of Splitskull Pass.

Chapter Five

Battle for Splitskull Pass

Prosecutor-Prime Evios Goldfeather soared high into the air, racing away from the relative safety of the Manticore Dreadhold. Ahead lay the canyon that led out onto the Roaring Plains, a narrow pass bracketed by towering walls of jagged stone. His warriors followed in his wake, storm-forged weapons already summoned to hand, faces grim. They knew what was coming.

They could still hear the sound.

Thousands upon thousands of brutish voices raised in a bestial choir, a savage howl of battle-lust that shook dust from the canyon wall. No small force could make such a sound. This was a war-band. A gathering with nothing but destruction on its mind.

The canyon snaked below them as the Prosecutors flew on. It stretched on for at least a mile and a half, gently curving to the right and left before breaking out of the mountain range and spilling out into the grassland of the great plain. It was here that they found the main complement of the enemy force, and Goldfeather felt his heart sink as he saw just what the Celestial Vindicators now faced.

An army of orruks so vast that it was beyond counting poured into the mouth of the pass, bellowing and roaring with delight as they clattered towards the Dreadhold on stocky, powerful mounts wrapped in crude, yellow-painted armour. The rhythmic thump of war-drums combined with the clatter of the orruks’ mounts was almost deafening. The enormous dust clouds thrown up in the wake of the advance billowed above the canyon.

‘They have a dozen times our number,’ said Galeth, coming to a stop in the air at Goldfeather’s side, ornate wings glittering in the midday sun. ‘Ten thousand at the least.’

‘And cavalry too,’ the Prosecutor-Prime replied. ‘Those creatures they ride are fearsome-looking things.’

‘They’ll be here well before nightfall. We must warn the Lord-Celestants.’

Goldfeather nodded and signalled his men to fall back. He had no idea what the Celestial Vindicators could do to halt this tide of iron and flesh, but whatever it was, it would have to be quick. If this force fell upon the Dreadhold unopposed, the garrison would be quickly overwhelmed. With Lord-Relictor Tharros still in the process of removing the taint from the cursed Manticore Realmgate, they could not give up the fortress.

The Prosecutor-Prime cursed. That meant they would have to meet the orruks in battle, one way or another.

‘Back to the fortress, brother,’ he told Galeth. ‘Let us deliver the good news firsthand.’

Lord-Celestant Mykos Argellon had not expected pleasant tidings from the Prosecutors’ return, but the news that the entire orruk camp had been mobilised against them was still a sobering revelation. The Argellonites and Bladestorm Warrior Chambers of the Celestial Vindicators had already been battered and bloodied by the myriad dangers of the Roaring Plains, and though even a battle-worn army of Stormcast Eternals was a dangerous proposition for any foe, engaging the orruks was not the task given to them by the God-King. That objective lay through the Manticore Realmgate, in a distant corner of the Mortal Realms.

‘Ten thousand,’ muttered the Lord-Castellant Eldroc, shaking his head. ‘And several thousand of those mounted on war-beasts. The Dreadhold offers us a strong defence, but not against such numbers.’

Mykos’ fellow Lord-Celestant Thostos Bladestorm stared off into the distance, showing no apparent sign of concern.

‘We cannot allow them to breach the walls,’ he said at last. ‘The Lord-Relictor still works his magic. Until he has completed his incantations, the Manticore Realmgate is closed to us.’

He strode to the rampart wall, and rested one gauntlet upon the black iron, pointing out at the canyon mouth with the other. The craggy corridor of stone lay a few hundred yards to the west of the Dreadhold, the ghoulish howl of the orruk horde still echoing from its jagged mouth.

‘The canyon is narrow,’ he said. ‘Narrow enough for a few hundred men to defend it wall to wall. If we can hold the enemy charge, we will bottleneck their force. Thin it out. Buy the time we need for the Lord-Relictor to finish his work.’

There was a silence. Mykos was sure every Stormcast present was thinking the same as he. Any force sent out to perform such a task would likely never return. It was a solid enough position to defend, but the moment the enemy force broke through they would be surrounded and destroyed. Against a cavalry charge, they would have no opportunity to retreat even the relatively short distance back to the fortress.

‘We have no choice,’ said Eldroc, and all present acknowledged the defensive expertise of the Lord-Castellant, the Keeper of Keys. ‘This fortress will not withstand an assault by several thousand fresh troops. We must deny them the pass. It is a natural choke point, and the only method we have of evening out this fight.’

Thostos nodded. ‘The Bladestorm will march,’ he said. ‘We will hold the pass. Lord-Celestant Argellon—’

‘No,’ said Mykos. His heart hammered in his chest, but he felt a sense of surety and purpose that he had not felt in a long time. ‘No, Lord-Celestant Thostos, this is the Argellonites’ task.’

Thostos looked at him, and for once Mykos did not feel uncomfortable gazing into the harsh blue glare of his eyes.

‘You must lead them,’ he said. ‘This is your mission, brother. Let me and my men buy you the time you need to complete it.’

‘This is our mission, not my own.’

‘Think of your battle against the lord of the Dreadhold, Thostos,’ said Mykos, shaking his head. ‘Did Sigmar reach out through the realms to restore you, only to have you fall here? No, your task is still to come. This is mine.’

There was a long silence, with nothing but the roar of the wind and the faint sound of drums in the distance. Finally, Thostos nodded stiffly. He snapped one gauntleted hand to his breast in salute, and Mykos did the same.

‘We have had our differences, Lord-Celestant Argellon,’ said Thostos, ‘but I have never doubted your courage or your ability. Hold the line, and do not give them a single bloodless step forward.’

‘For Sigmar, and for the lost,’ said Mykos. Then he turned to Eldroc. The Lord-Castellant placed a hand on his shoulder.

Mykos smiled. ‘Goodbye, my friend,’ he said.

‘Hold to your oaths, brother,’ said Eldroc. ‘We shall meet again.’

There was little time to waste, and so in only a few minutes the five hundred warriors of the Argellonites Warrior Chamber were marching out of the Dreadhold, passing through the shattered gatehouse with its warped symbols of ruin and bronzed skulls. As they marched through, the Stormcasts assigned to shore up the ruined entrance saluted solemnly, striking a single fist against their chests. Despite the danger that awaited him, Mykos was not sad to see the last of the cursed fortress. It was tainted in a way that could never truly be cleansed, and the Lord-Celestant hoped that one day the forces of order would find the time to tear it down, stone by stone.

Knight-Heraldor Axilon marched at his side, singing along in his deep baritone to the Battle-hymn of Defiance, a favourite amongst the ranks of the Argellonites. The deep, determined voices of the Stormcasts drowned out the witless howl of the orruks.

‘Send them a message, Knight-Heraldor,’ said Mykos as they stepped out onto the dry earth outside the Dreadhold. ‘Let them know that Sigmar reclaims this land.’

‘As you say, Lord-Celestant,’ said Axilon with a grin, reaching for his battle-horn.

The voices of the Bladestorm warriors on the battlements blended with the singing of the Argellonites as they marched towards the mouth of the canyon. A clear, perfect note issued forth from Axilon’s battle-horn, a radiant sound of hope and glory that echoed out across the savage wilderness.

‘He will give us the time we need,’ said Eldroc, watching his friend march out towards an almost certain death.

‘Let us hope so,’ replied Thostos. His voice was as cold and emotionless as ever. ‘All rests on the next few hours. If the fortress falls, we will not be in position at the Crystal Forest as Sigmar demands. The entire offensive may unravel.’

Eldroc understood his Lord-Celestant’s concern. The timing was too tight. They must cleanse the Manticore Realmgate and pass through it into hostile territory, there to meet with the contact that would lead them to their ultimate objective. Sigmar was once again set to take the war directly to the forces of Chaos, and to do so every piece on the board had to be in the correct place at the correct time. There was a long path still to travel, and doubly so considering the losses they had already taken.

‘He will give us the time we need,’ he repeated.

‘It will hurt us to lose him,’ said Thostos. ‘Too often he lets his emotion rule him, but he is a fine warrior and a clever leader. His Argellonites fight well.’

‘He is a good man,’ agreed Eldroc.

The Lord-Castellant sighed, deeply and wearily. Mykos Argellon would likely die this day, and in a flash of celestial power he would be called back to the halls of Azyrheim, where he would be reforged by the wondrous power of Sigmar’s storm. Perhaps he would retain a memory of the man he had been. In all likelihood, he would not. The thoughtful, noble man that Eldroc had grown to admire would be gone, and in his place would be… someone else. Someone damaged, and uncertain. Or perhaps someone cold and distant, like Lord-Celestant Thostos himself.

This war would claim the best of them all.

The sky above the Roaring Plains crackled and thundered, great grey clouds rumbling above the Manticore Dreadhold and bringing with them a stinging sheet of rain. Evios Goldfeather felt the downpour on his armour as he spiralled into the sky, climbing high above the canyon and searching for signs of the enemy.

He could see them now. The walls of the canyon had a slight overhang which masked the winding tunnel, but even through the heavy rain he could see the bright yellow of the orruks’ spiked iron armour, splattered liberally with red symbols that contrasted violently with the green flesh of the brutish creatures.

They had made the mouth of the cavern just in time. It would be only a few moments until the leading edge of the orruk horde crashed into the shields of the Celestial Vindicators. Evios was no coward, but he did not envy the Liberators who would stand in the front ranks, the first wall against which the tidal wave of enemy cavalry would crash.

Movement above the canyon wall caught his eye. Out into the open air came strange, bloated, reptilian creatures, each with a whooping orruk astride its back. They were so stocky and powerful that it seemed impossible that their leathery wings could keep them aloft, let alone with a heavy creature upon their backs, but on they came at a fair speed, accelerating now that they saw Goldfeather’s Prosecutors heading towards them. Goldfeather nodded, satisfied.

His first target of the day.

Ideally, Mykos Argellon would have liked to push further into the canyon, establishing fallback points and switchbacks from which his reserve could launch fresh attacks when the momentum of the enemy charge played out. The ground here was stable, only just beginning to dampen and fill with the constant downpour. There were divots, potholes and occasional scattered rocks, but it was still decent cavalry terrain, largely flat and featureless.

‘Give me an hour and I could make this a killing ground,’ the Lord-Celestant muttered in frustration.

There was simply no time. Perhaps two hundred yards into the canyon they halted and began to form up. The sound of the orruks’ chanting was overwhelming now, backed by the chaotic, arrhythmic sound of thousands of iron-shod hooves. The ground shook beneath their feet, and rocks crumbled from the canyon wall and clattered off sigmarite plate.

‘Form the line!’ shouted Axilon. ‘Quickly now.’

Barely heeding the cacophony that grew louder and louder with each passing moment, Mykos’ Warrior Chamber began to take up their assigned positions. Liberator-Primes bellowed orders, forming their men into compact blocks, wondrous tower shields raised, warhammers and blades held at the ready. This would be the solid core of the Argellonites’ defence, the beating heart of their formation. If they could hold the line in the face of the enemy charge, the Paladin retinues could push forwards from the second rank, exploiting gaps in the enemy line with ruthless aggression.

Behind the infantry were the Justicars. They held their bows taut, ready to pour lightning up and over the heads of their brothers and into the orruk ranks.

His warriors had barely finished manoeuvring into position when Mykos Argellon saw the leading edge of the enemy charge.

‘Sigmar’s blood,’ said Axilon beside him.

It was no army. No organised fighting force. Such definitions seemed entirely inappropriate. This was an extinction event, roaring down the channel of the canyon towards them. It was a tidal wave of rusting iron and hollering green flesh, borne aloft on tusked beasts with eyes that glowed with murderous red delight. There was no measured charge, no effort to form a cohesive line. They charged as a great spear, bounding towards the Vindicators’ position with no thought to their own, simply a demented glee at the prospect of battle. Mykos saw more than one rider disappear under the storm of iron as his mount stumbled and fell. Others were crushed against the canyon wall, the momentum of their fellows grinding them to pieces upon the unyielding stone. The first arrows of the Judicators fell in arcs of searing lightning, scorching and blasting riders from their crude saddles. It was like throwing pebbles into an ocean. They were only two hundred paces away now, and gaining speed.

‘Stand firm, brothers of the storm,’ Mykos shouted above the noise of the enemy charge. ‘Here we make these witless creatures pay for every loyal human life they have taken. They will break upon our shields and die upon our blades.’

Axilon blasted another note from his battle-horn, and the sound soared and bounded around the canyon, filling Mykos’ heart with hope and determination.

‘Stand firm, warriors of vengeance! Stand firm, seekers of justice. Stand firm!’

Liberator Archus was in the very front rank of the Stormcast position. He held his shield forwards and raised, his legs bent slightly, his back pressed firmly against the shield of the warrior behind him. Shields. He felt like laughing. As if a shield, even a wondrous one such as his, which had saved his life from countless dangers faced in the service of Sigmar, could protect him from the apocalypse that surged towards him.

He shook his head, clearing away the doubt and the fear. He was going to die, but his death would slow the enemy charge just a fraction. The man behind him would die as well, but again his fellow warrior’s death would absorb a portion of that hideous momentum. With their deaths, they would mire the enemy, slow it down and leave it vulnerable to the hammers and blades of their fellows. What would this death be like, he wondered? He had never been reforged. He had heard tales, though, of hollow souls and lost memories. He wondered if it would hurt as much as his first death, when the Skullsworn had taken his scalp and left him to bleed out upon the stairs of his home, screaming his agonised oaths of vengeance.

He would not miss that memory.

They enemy was only a few dozen yards away now. The noise was astonishing. He could feel the vibration deep in his bones.

‘I’ll find you back in Azyrheim, my friend,’ shouted Tyron at his side. ‘The first ales are on you.’

Archus heard laughter, and realised with surprise that it was his own.

Lightning began to fall into the orruk swarm. Riders were pitched from their mounts, sent tumbling to the ground to disappear under the hooves of the creatures behind them. Archus’ eyes locked upon a monstrous orruk that barrelled straight at him, roaring and drooling in the throes of his battle rage. Time seemed to slow. He saw the blazing red eyes of the colossal boar, only a few yards away now. He heard the ragged panting of its breath, and smelled offal, sweat, and the tang of rusted iron.

He roared his God-King’s name as the beast crashed into him. He felt an agonising crack as the arm that held his shield snapped, felt something crunch into the top of his skull. There was a burning pain that flashed across his body, a burst of searing light, and then nothing at all.

The orruk charge struck home with the force of a falling mountain. The creatures’ great war-beasts smashed aside the shields of the Stormcasts with their mighty hooves, or tore straight through them with their heavy, iron-wrapped tusks. There are few sights so terrifying in war as a cavalry charge striking an infantry formation, and the sheer power and ferocity of the orruks only made the spectacle more violent and potent. Stormcasts were hurled through the air, broken and torn, or trampled into unrecognisable shapes under the incredible weight. The battlefield was strobed with flashes of blinding light as Sigmar’s fallen sons were called home. Shields forged by the greatest smiths of the age were torn asunder. Sigmarite armour was rent and malformed. Unfortunate orruk riders too caught up in the madness to retain control were catapulted into the depths of the Stormcast ranks, their beasts sent tumbling and rolling, squealing and dying.

The shield wall should not have held. Against the sheer, overwhelming force of the orruk charge, the front ranks of the Argellonites should have been swept away, their lines disintegrating and the rear ranks swallowed up as they turned to flee. The simple dynamics of war demanded it.

Yet the three hundred stoic Liberators that formed the wall did not falter. The front ranks were utterly destroyed, but the compact formations behind them did not break, did not shy away from the monstrous tonnage of flesh and iron that crashed into them. Every warrior had a veteran’s knowledge of warfare, and they knew that if they lost their solidity, they would lose everything. Grim-faced Celestial Vindicators accepted their deaths, setting their feet and refusing to move a single step in the face of their obliteration.

‘Senseless, foolish creatures,’ spat Axilon, as he watched the spear of orruk cavalry grind itself further into the breach it had created. He stood with Mykos at the side of the battle, on a jutting spur of rock to better observe the chaos. ‘How does this bloodshed profit either of our races? To think that we once called these beasts allies.’

‘Not these creatures,’ said Mykos. ‘Look at them, brother.’

These orruks were broad and tall, rippling with muscles and wrapped in crude yet formidable iron armour. They had none of the savage desperation that Mykos had seen in others of their race. They radiated power, confidence and strength.

‘They have thrived in Sigmar’s absence, grown strong and bold,’ he said. ‘If these orruks were to gather in numbers, the Mortal Realms would tremble.’

‘Then we must slaughter this lot before they get any grand ideas,’ said Axilon. He raised his battle-horn to his mask, and blasted out another series of triumphal notes.

‘Paladin retinues forwards,’ shouted Mykos, raising his grandblade and indicating his heaviest shock troops, towering Retributors with their crackling, lightning-wreathed hammers, and grim Decimators, carrying broad executioners’ axes. Unleashed at last, these warriors charged eagerly through the small channels that now opened in the Liberator shield wall, crashing into the orruks that now pushed deeper into the Stormcast position.

Prosecutor-Prime Goldfeather was enjoying himself, which was possibly somewhat unseemly given the dire circumstances, but undeniable nonetheless. As the battle raged below, the heralds of the Argellonites found themselves outnumbered and surrounded by the reptilian flying mounts of the orruks. The bulky creatures swooped and snapped at the Prosecutors, and their howling masters hurled axes and spears or tried to grab the wings of the Stormcasts as they swept past. The orruks had the numbers, but they lacked the manoeuvrability of their foe.

Goldfeather tucked his wings in and dropped out of the way of one of the creatures, hearing the crunch as its slavering jaws snapped closed just a few inches above his head. He let himself fall several feet, summoning another storm javelin into his hand as he did so, and then spread his wings wide, catching a rising squall and hefting his weapon. He hurled, and the javelin burned a hole through the skull of an orruk rider, flipping him sideways in a somersault that dismounted him and sent him spinning off into the rain.

As much as he welcomed the chance to battle in the violent, unpredictable gales of the Roaring Plains, this needed to end quickly. The Lord-Celestant needed their assistance on the ground, and the longer the Prosecutors were tied up here, the longer they would leave their fellow warriors exposed without aerial support.

Decimator-Prime Kyvos felt righteous rage course through him as he and his warriors pushed forwards through the narrow gaps that the Liberators had efficiently created between their shield wall squares. Across the entire Stormcast position the Warrior Chamber’s elite shock troops were rushed to the front line to combat the orruks that had broken through. As exemplary as every Liberator was at the art of combat, vicious, cramped close-quarters battle was the specialty of the greenskin.

Kyvos had fought the things before, and while he despised their short-sighted lust for battle and their witless, artless lack of culture, he would never deny their skill at arms. Ahead he could see the colossal shapes of the orruks’ grunting war-beasts, which kicked and spat and bucked with furious abandon in the midst of the melee. The greenskins were hurling themselves at the Liberators’ shields, smashing and hacking gracelessly but effectively with jagged axes and spiked clubs.

‘No quarter!’ Kyvos shouted as the battlefield opened up before him. ‘No mercy for the enemies of the God-King!’

A sneering face, splattered with blood, leered up at him, and he put his hammer in its porcine snout. There was a static burst of energy and the creature’s skull exploded into shards of smoking bone and scorched meat. He roared in triumph and continued forwards, making for the nearest war-beast. It turned its narrow, malicious eyes towards him as he advanced, and lowered its head to aim that jagged row of tusks.

‘Bring your pretty face a little closer,’ he muttered, as the creature staggered towards him, swinging its great head.

Kyvos made to move aside, and realised that he could not. The press was simply too tight. Worse still, the ground was churned by rain and blood, a morass of brown-red filth that clung to his boots and tried vainly to drag him down. The creature’s snout struck him in the chest, and the force of the blow sent him sprawling into his warriors, off-balance and dazed. Something hooked under his leg, and then he was tumbling through the air, his leg burning with pain. He landed with a clatter that took his breath, and felt his arm sinking into mud.

A snarling, yellow-fanged face appeared out of the blur of his vision, a great axe raised in one hand. Acting on pure instinct, Kyvos shifted to his right, and the axe spattered into the filth beside his head. He wrapped one arm around the weapon, holding it down, and kicked out, catching the orruk in the groin. It folded over, and he grabbed his axe with two hands, jabbing out with the top of the weapon at his opponent’s knee. There was a splintering sound, and the creature dropped to the ground, roaring in fury and pain.

He raised himself on unsteady legs. His right had been pierced and shredded by the war-beast, and putting his weight upon it sent a twinge of agony shooting through him. He growled, and spat blood. Pain was easily ignored. The orruk he had taken down surged towards him awkwardly, dragging its shattered limb behind it. Kyvos put his thunderaxe into its chest, and with an explosion the thick iron bands that formed the brute’s armour collapsed inwards, crushing its lungs and sending it to the earth for good.

Horns sounded in the distance, bizarre and atonal. No, he decided as the ringing in his ears began to subside. Not horns. More of the creatures’ infernal howling, in the distance now but approaching faster with every second. He heard a clatter from above, and looked up to see a broken orruk body crash into the canyon wall and tumble down the face, clattering off ledges and rocks as it fell. It landed with a dull thump in the mud.

‘Reform! Reform!’ came a desperate yell, again from over their heads. A Prosecutor was gesturing frantically at the far end of the canyon. ‘A second wave comes. Reform the line!’

Something fast and heavy, a bundle of leathery wings and snapping jaws, slammed into the flying warrior, and then lifted higher into the air, golden armour visibly struggling in its maw.

Stormcasts began locking their shields together once again. Kyvos could feel the thunder of the orruks’ approach now. Ripples spread across the waterlogged earth, and the demented roar of the enemy rose to a crescendo.

‘Brace!’ Kyvos yelled. But it was far too late.

The first wave of orruk riders had crashed straight down the middle of the canyon, into the Stormcast lines. They had hit hard, and caused many casualties, despite their inability to break the defenders down entirely.

The second thrust angled around the initial spear, striking at the flank and pushing inwards. Whether it was born of any primal tactical insight Mykos could not say, but it broke the cohesion of the Celestial Vindicators’ ranks in a way that the initial assault had not managed. Caught between the relentless press of the main orruk force and these new, flanking pincers, the Liberators could not simply close ranks and absorb the power of the attacks.

A torrent of mud and water was thrown up in the impact, obscuring Mykos’ view. He could see broken, turquoise shapes hurled through the air, or sent crashing into their fellows. Orruk beasts fell, tripping the creatures behind them, and soon a mountain of writhing flesh and flailing limbs had formed, a grinding mass of destruction that rolled across the battle line, crushing everything in its path. Dozens of Liberators were crushed as they turned to meet the new threat, or left exposed and cut down as the cohesion of the shield wall fractured into a series of smaller skirmishes.

‘The time has come to enter the fray,’ said Mykos, placing a hand on Knight-Heraldor Axilon’s shoulder and indicating the left flank with the other. Here the orruks had pushed through in numbers, and were rolling back the Stormcasts with the sheer fury of their assault. ‘This is the hour, my friend.’

‘Give me the left,’ said Axilon, and raised his hand when Mykos began to object. ‘Trust me, my Lord-Celestant. I will hold the line. I’ll play a tune that these brutish creatures will remember for the rest of their miserable lives.’

Mykos nodded, and he and Axilon grasped each other’s wrist.

‘They will write songs to celebrate our fine work this day,’ said the Knight-Heraldor. ‘I’ll be singing them in the taverns of Azyrheim upon our glorious return.’

‘Driving innkeepers out of business was ever your specialty, brother. Good fortune.’

With that, Mykos turned to the retinue of Retributors that formed his personal guard. He raised his grandblade Mercutia high, and as he did so it caught an errant ray of sunshine that broke through the rain. The oath-marks and runes upon its surface glittered. His warriors cheered until their voices were hoarse, and formed up in his wake as he surged towards the front line, a hymn of vengeance and glory upon his lips.

The left flank was in chaos. Knight-Heraldor Axilon hurdled great mounds of dead and dying orruks, making for the thick of the battle ahead, where a ragged line of Liberators was just barely holding a mob of dismounted orruks at bay. Broken, turquoise forms moaned and shifted in the mire, wounded but not yet ready to be called home by the storm of Sigmar.

‘To me, warriors of Azyr,’ he shouted, raising his broadsword high in a two-handed grip. His Decimators followed with him, roaring with fury as they charged into the fray.

Axilon leapt forwards at the last moment, his blade swinging down with the force of an executioner’s axe. An orruk head fell free to splash in the mud, and suddenly the Knight-Heraldor was surrounded by snarling, laughing faces. It was a coarse, ugly sound, but the beasts were definitely laughing. Chortling as they cut down Stormcasts, giggling and hollering as they butchered.

Axilon answered that laughter with the edge of his blade. He parried a clumsy axe swing, punched out and felt teeth shatter under his gauntlet, angled his sword and thrust it through his assailant’s belly. The wondrously crafted weapon sliced through the orruk’s iron armour as if it were parchment, and Axilon let the dying creature slide from his blade. Beside him the Retributors swept their great hammers in wide arcs, clearing space for the Liberators to fall back and regroup.

‘Not today, lads,’ he roared, clapping warriors on the shoulder as they fell back past him. ‘There’s a war on, you know. Can’t be heading back home with the job half done.’

There was only a temporary reprieve. More orruks poured towards the Stormcasts, scores of them, scrabbling and leaping eagerly through the stinking swamp that the battlefield had become. Rain whipped across their faces, which were twisted in frenzied delight at the prospect of yet more murder. Great chunks of stone sloughed free from the canyon wall, loosened by the thunder of battle and the ceaseless downpour. Several orruks were struck by the falling debris and tumbled to the floor, to be crushed under the heavy boots of their allies. It was not enough to make a dent in their numbers, but it gave Axilon an idea.

‘Raise your shields,’ he shouted. ‘And brace yourselves.’

He raised his battle-horn to his lips, and unleashed the full power of the wondrous artefact. What issued forth from the instrument was not a perfect note, not an echo of the valour and glory of Sigmar. It was a wave of thunderous devastation, a blast of cacophonous noise that slammed into the wall of the canyon with the power of a dozen siege rams. The rock face spider-webbed with deep fissures, rippling out from the point of impact. Then a twenty-foot section of shattered stone simply fell away. It crashed over the orruks, and the leading edge of the creatures simply disappeared in a cloud of displaced stone and tumbling rock.

The avalanche did not stop. As both Stormcasts and orruks scrambled to escape the deluge of stone, more and more of the wall began to slough away. Choking dust filled the air, and warriors on both sides could no longer see further than a few feet ahead. Axilon spat out dirt and peered into the swirling debris. A few feet ahead there now sat a mound of rubble and broken bodies, a physical barrier that blocked off the left flank assault. He saw orruks trying to drag themselves up and over this new obstacle, but it was loose and treacherous. He had bought them a few minutes at least.

Mykos heard the roar as the left-side wall fell, and muttered a quick prayer to Sigmar that Axilon had not been crushed amongst the rubble. There was no more time to dwell upon the fate of his friend. Though the right flank had managed to hold position, they were losing warriors too fast. The sheer weight of numbers was beginning to swamp the Stormcasts, robbing them of the cohesion that gave them their greatest strength. As soon as the orruks pushed their way in behind the Liberators the battle would be lost, and that was in danger of happening any moment.

‘Push them back,’ he roared. ‘Allow them not a single step forward!’

Blessed Azyr, those beasts the orruks rode to war were vicious things. It was enough that a rider managed to get a single one of the creatures in the midst of his ranks — their furious kicking, thrashing and biting would do the damage of a half-dozen men. Mykos had seen one open its jaws wide to close around a Stormcast Eternal’s torso, trying to bite the warrior in half even as it attempted to force the still-moving body down its throat. When the warrior’s death had seen him disappear in a burst of white light, the creature had only been driven to greater heights of rage at being denied a meal.

‘Take them down,’ he yelled, aiming Mercutia at the nearest of the foul beasts. ‘The legs, aim for their limbs.’

The beasts’ armour was thick upon the flank and belly, but their powerful limbs were exposed. Cripple one, and it would soon become as great a danger to its fellows and to the orruks as it would to the Stormcasts.

Retributor Bhorus slammed his lightning hammer against the closest creature’s leg, smashing the joint so hard that it bent to the side with a loud crack. The war-beast howled and snorted in pain, and tried to snap at Bhorus with its viciously tusked jaws. He swayed back just in time, but a wild axe swing from the thing’s whooping rider struck him across the shoulder and pitched him to the floor. More Retributors piled in, penning the beast and smashing into it from all directions, slowly forcing it to the floor. The rider went down under it, trapped but still swinging his axe at anyone who came close. Elrus made to finish the prone creature, but another massive body pressed through a gap in the line, and barrelled into him. Its vicious tusk punched through his armour, and the beast continued to charge forwards, the Retributor impaled upon its jaws.

‘Finish the downed creature, this one is mine,’ Mykos shouted.

The war-beast’s momentum carried it past the Lord-Celestant, and the oblivious rider failed to see his sword stroke until it was too late. The blade crashed into the orruk’s chest, sending him falling backwards off his mount, thick, dark blood staining his yellow armour. As he fell, Mykos leapt forwards and grasped the iron bands that were wrapped so tightly around the beast’s neck that the flesh beneath was torn and septic, oozing a pale yellow fluid. He swung himself up onto the beast’s back. Elrus was still impaled, dangling across the giant boar’s snapping maw, somehow still stabbing at its neck with his gladius.

‘Kill it, my Lord,’ he gasped, blood seeping from underneath his mask. His voice was resigned, strong despite the agony that clearly wracked him.

Mykos had no time to dislodge the man. A wound as grave as his meant only death in any case, without a healer nearby. He reversed his grip on his grandblade, and drove it deep into the rampaging beast’s skull. It collapsed in motion, and the Lord-Celestant saw the ground rush up towards him as he was pitched over its head. He hit with bone-shuddering force, though thankfully the wet earth absorbed most of the impact. He rolled over once, twice, and came to a halt on a pile of orruk corpses. He tasted blood and the foulness of the churned earth, and spat.

There was no time to rest, even for a moment. He hauled himself to his feet, glancing back at the advancing greenskins. There were too many. His chamber had fought heroically, but they were losing too many men, and gaps were opening for the orruks to exploit.

Another rain of lightning fell upon the advancing enemy from above, throwing burly figures to the ground and sending geysers of water into the air as bodies and projectiles splashed into the filthy mire. More figures hurtled forwards to take the place of the fallen. The enemy’s numbers were endless. It was over.

‘No,’ he whispered. ‘We are not yet done.’

They had already forged a legend here, and there was more killing to be done before the Argellonites would admit defeat. His pride in his warriors surged.

‘To me, Argellonites!’ he roared. ‘We march to glory!’

Ahead of him, a Decimator Paladin ran forwards, sweeping his great starsoul mace into a cluster of the enemy. The fabulous weapon exploded with heavenly radiance, and a wave of star motes slammed into several orruks, sending them flying backwards, smoking and smouldering. The Decimator turned, searching for more targets.

There was a clamour that echoed above the chaos of battle, the sound of primal savagery made manifest.

From out of the swirling dust roared a colossal figure, half a head taller than the Stormcast. Skulls and other grisly trophies hung from its mighty iron battle-plate. Every inch of the creature rippled with muscle, and its head was a brutal slab of scarred flesh that culminated in a wedge of a jaw filled with filthy, yellowed tusks. The creature raised a huge, jagged cleaver that dripped with gore, and brought it down into the Decimator’s back.

As the creature came forwards, it shook the Stormcast’s body free of its cleaver, a nimbus of light briefly crackling around the weapon as the corpse of its victim was claimed by the storm. Its cruel eyes, filled with primal cunning, fixed upon Mykos, and it smiled.

Around the figure, orruks gathered, brandishing their weapons and chanting in their crude tongue.

‘Drekka! Drekka! Drekka!’

Decimator-Prime Kyvos had no idea where he was, or indeed where his warriors were. The battle had surged forwards and lost its shape in the frenzy of the carnage, and to make matters worse the cloud of dust and the torrential rain made the combat a baffling, fragmentary mess. He would stagger, come face to face with an orruk just as confused and lost as he, then struggle for a few violent seconds. He would stumble over a groaning body, so thickly caked in grime that he knew not whether it was one of his own or a wounded enemy. His injured leg burned fiercely with every step.

Gradually, the dust began to settle enough for him to peer a dozen or so yards ahead. Chaos. Dull, dust-covered turquoise clashing with ugly yellow, blood spilled on both sides. Orruks hacked away in a graceless but effective frenzy, hollering and chortling in their idiot voices as they did so. Celestial Vindicators fought with ruthless competence, despite the disarray. They clustered in makeshift groups, forming ad-hoc defensive formations, islands of calm order amidst the swirling madness. Orruks died by the dozen around them, bludgeoned by warhammers, hacked down by axes or sliced open by measured cuts from sigmarite blades.

Above the sound of battle could be heard the clear notes of Knight-Heraldor Axilon’s battle-horn, and it was towards this rallying sound that Kyvos headed. As expected, he found the man in the midst of the thickest fighting, backed by several worn-looking Liberators and the few surviving members of a Paladin retinue. His armour was stained with blood and grime, and his helm had been split by a vicious cut that ran down to his collarbone, but still he wielded his broadsword with deadly skill. As Kyvos came closer, the Knight-Heraldor glanced at him.

‘Who’s that there?’ he said, and Kyvos could hear the undercurrent of pain that ran through his words. The Knight-Heraldor had been wounded, and badly. ‘All this cursed dust everywhere, I can barely see. Of course, no one to blame for that but myself.’

He laughed and spun, spitting an onrushing orruk on the tip of his sword. The creature gurgled and fell to splash in the knee-high water that swelled around them.

‘Decimator-Prime Kyvos, my Lord,’ he said, raising his thunderaxe and taking position next to Axilon.

‘Ah, good man. Where are your warriors?’

‘I do not know,’ he said, and felt a stab of worry and shame. He had called and looked for them, but it was impossible to find anyone in the middle of such chaos. ‘Several fell in the last charge. The rest I could not find.’

‘No matter, son,’ said the Knight-Heraldor. ‘What say we meet this next lot together? Give them something to remember us by?’

A fresh mob of orruks was advancing through the filth towards them. He could see the eager bloodlust in their tiny, pitiless eyes. They scrambled over the heaped corpses of their fellows, splashing and stumbling in the mud in desperation to get at the Stormcasts.

‘It’s been quite a day, has it not, Kyvos?’ said Axilon. ‘Quite a day. Tell me, do you remember your past life, before all this madness?’

Kyvos nodded. ‘I was a baker,’ he said, and the memory brought a sad smile to his lips. ‘Before my village burned. Before I took up the sword. And you, my Lord?’

‘A fat and foolish king, whose only honour came in death,’ Axilon roared with laughter and clapped the Retributor-Prime on the back hard enough to make him stumble. ‘The baker and the king. Look at us now, eh?’

Goldfeather alighted on the back of the creature, so deftly its dull-brained master did not even notice his presence until it was too late. He grabbed the orruk’s head, forced it down, and stabbed his javelin deep into the neck. Blood drenched his armour, and the rider gurgled and choked. He slashed the precarious series of leather bindings that kept the orruk in place, and it slipped free, falling into empty air.

That was the last of them. Crazed, panicking beasts still spiralled and whipped through the air, shorn of the limited control of their dead riders. The surviving Prosecutors — Goldfeather winced as he saw the full toll they had suffered — formed up around him.

‘We go straight down their throat,’ he roared. The joy of battle pumped through his veins, filling him with fervour. ‘Sigmar is watching, warriors of the Ceslestial Vindicators. Let us show him our worth.’

The orruk was colossal, even by the standards of those they had fought thus far. It towered above even the Stormcasts, a mountain of green flesh that radiated sheer, terrifying power. It killed with contemptuous ease, whipping a jagged cleaver about itself with a fury that belied the precision in its movement. An almost casual swing to the left sent two Vindicators tumbling, blood seeping through ruined chestplates. A downward slice split another warrior in two. Lightning claimed both segments of his body as they fell away.

It roared a challenge in its rough and brutish tongue, and from all sides the brave champions of Mykos Argellon’s Warrior Chamber answered. As the Lord-Celestant fought his way towards the behemoth, he watched them all die.

Patreus, the warrior who had held the Shining Door against the roiling, surging tides of the Pandaemonium fell, his head crushed by an axe blow. Liberator-Prime Thayon, the Hero of the Flamepeak, was cleaved in two. Olren, Tavos, some of the best and brightest warriors of his chamber. Killed and thrown aside by this creature as if they were little more than mortal serfs.

Mykos roared and charged, bringing Mercutia down from a high guard in a diagonal slice aimed at the beast’s neck. The orruk leader did not feint or move to avoid the blow, but simply shifted and let it fall across his chestplate. The blade screamed as it gouged a jagged line through the strong iron, but it did not reach through to wound the orruk, who returned the strike with a backhand swing of his axe. Mykos dropped to one knee in the dirty water, leaning back. He heard the orruk’s wicked axe rush past his face, mere inches away. Then he was up, spinning and putting distance between him and the monster. It laughed, enjoying the game, and advanced after him, sloshing through the mud and gore.

‘Drekka Breakbones claims your skull, little man-thing,’ it chuckled, in a voice like an avalanche. ‘I’ll ’av that little pig-sticker you got there, too.’

‘Come and take it,’ Mykos muttered, turning Mercutia in his hand, searching for a weakness he could exploit.

He could not see one. The creature was huge, but not so huge that it could not react with frightening speed. It was aggressive, but it did not fight like a blood-crazed cultist, all power and rage. There was cunning to its attacks. It rushed at him, swinging low with that great axe, forcing him backwards, then feinted a sideways step. Instead of the cleaver it swung a mighty punch with its left fist, upon which it wore a band of heavy iron tipped with needle-sharp blades.

Mykos just got his sword up in time to block, but the power of the blow sent him reeling backwards to crash against the carcass of a war-beast. On came the orruk leader, swinging its axe down in a vertical chop aimed to split the Lord-Celestant in two. Mykos barely shifted aside in time, and felt the splash of blood across his armour as the axe cleaved the dead boar in half. The orruk’s eyes narrowed in frustration as it tried to tug the weapon free, and Mykos took advantage of the momentary distraction to hack into the monster’s hip, at the join between two armour plates.

It roared in pain, and struck out with its bladed fist. The strike was blindingly fast, and Mykos could not get his blade back up to block it. It struck him square in the chest with astonishing force. He flew backwards to splash in the mud and gore, gasping for breath. Looking down, he saw great rents in his sigmarite plate. As he stared, blood began to seep through the holes. The orruk’s weapon had punched deep. He groaned and got to his knees, feeling around in the sticky, foul-smelling mud for Mercutia. He found her at last, and took comfort in her familiar heft as he focused through the stabbing pain in his chest and hauled himself upright.

‘Got me good, little ’un,’ the orruk leader spat, chortling happily as reeking blood poured over the ugly yellow of its armour. ‘Drekka remembers the last one who got him that good.’

The orruk’s great, gnarled finger tapped the fanged skull it wore upon its left pauldron.

‘I’m honoured… to be in such esteemed company,’ said Mykos. The creature boomed with laughter again, then rushed forwards, seemingly unworried by the vicious wound it had been dealt.

Too many. Kyvos had slaughtered a dozen or more of the creatures, crushing their heavy iron chestplates under devastating blows of his thunderaxe, dashing skulls to pieces or slicing through legs to leave their owners drowning in the stinking quagmire at his feet. On they came, an endless, howling swarm of them, and the more they slew, the more eager they seemed. These warriors fought on foot, either fresh troops or riders who had been dismounted and had been lucky or thick-skulled enough to survive the fall.

‘Is this all you have, you mindless wretches?’ roared Axilon at his side, kicking another dead orruk from his blade and letting it tumble down the mound of dead they had created. ‘I thought your kind lived for war? I’ve barely broken a sweat.’

His words brought a tired cheer from the remaining Vindicators, but despite his bluster it was clear to Kyvos that the Knight-Heraldor was tiring. Gone was the deft, cultured bladework for which he was known throughout the halls of Azyrheim. His broadsword looked heavy in his hands, and he was favouring his right leg.

And on the orruks came.

Axilon rested a hand on Kyvos’ pauldron, and the Retributor-Prime heard him gasp a ragged breath.

‘My time draws near, son,’ said the Knight-Heraldor. ‘When I fall, you lead them on. You kill as many as you can, you hear?’

‘Aye, sire,’ Kyvos said. ‘Though I’d say we’ve accounted for our fair share already.’

‘Not enough. Not nearly enough.’ Axilon shook his head.

‘Then let’s draw them in,’ said Kyvos. He looked up at the canyon wall. Axilon’s previous efforts had brought down a huge chunk of stone and gouged a great hole, but now that they had been forced back several dozen feet they were underneath another overhanging ledge. ‘As many as we can. See if we can’t add a few more to the tally.’

Axilon nodded, and Kyvos could hear a wet, pained chuckle.

‘Leave it to me,’ said the Knight-Heraldor.

He stepped forwards, stabbing his broadsword into the dirt and raising his battle-horn. Kyvos formed the remaining Liberators in a defensive line around the Knight-Heraldor. Axilon drew in a breath.

‘All right, you gutless lot,’ he bellowed, and blew an ear-shattering note from the battle-horn. ‘Call yourself warriors, do you? I’ve seen cellar rats that fight better. You’re a disgrace to your cretinous gods, you weakling cowards. Not a one of you has the stones to take me down, and I’m fighting with half my organs carved in two!’

Whether the orruks understood a word of what the Knight-Heraldor was saying, Kyvos had no idea at all. Regardless, his booming voice and the clarion call of his battle-horn drew them like moths to a flame. There were hundreds of them now, mounted on their war-beasts or charging towards the Stormcasts on foot. They were an island in the middle of a surging sea. Axes clattered against the Liberators’ shields, and the press of bodies began to crush the Vindicators back into the wall of the canyon. Kyvos headbutted an orruk that pressed its leering face into his, then drew his gladius to stab it in the gut.

‘Knight-Heraldor, do it now!’ he shouted, and felt an axe slam into his shoulder. Suddenly he was on his knees, and all he could see was a forest of yellow iron. Something struck him in the face, and he spat blood. ‘Now!’

He glanced up, trying to see through the mass of bodies. The Knight-Heraldor still stood, ignoring the barbed spears that pierced his chest. He raised the battle-horn to his lips as the swarm of bodies reached up to haul him down into the fray. The last thing that Kyvos heard was the sound of thunder and falling stone.

Mykos Argellon’s world was a storm of sigmarite and iron. He had never fought a battle such as this, so furious that it was governed by sheer instinct and reaction, rather than skill at arms. This Drekka was so fast, so blindingly fast. No sooner had the Lord-Celestant picked off one attack, than he was forced to adjust to another, and another. He was being driven back, and in the bloody mire in which they battled that was dangerous indeed. One wrong step, one moment too long in pulling his boot free from the grasping mud, and the orruk would have him.

His beloved Argellonites were dying around him. Against the numbers that now came down upon them, there was no chance at all. From the corner of his eyes he could see his warriors fall, surrounded and hacked to pieces. Flashes of light signalled another lost friend, another sent back to the forge to be recast and remade. He would join them soon.

It happened as he stepped backwards over a body left half sodden and bleeding in the murk. Something grabbed his foot. He looked down, and saw that the orruk beneath him was not dead. Its porcine eyes glared up at him maliciously. It snarled as it drew a short, broad knife and attempted to drive the blade deep into the Lord-Celestant’s leg. Mykos stamped his foot down upon its neck and ground it deeper into the mud, then brought his grandblade up to intercept the inevitable attack from the pursuing Drekka.

He was too slow, by a fraction of a second. The orruk chieftain’s axe skipped from the edge of Mercutia, and Mykos did not have the strength left to deflect the blow. It tore through the sigmarite armour at his elbow, and sheared the limb free. Pain blurred the Lord-Celestant’s vision, and he fell to his haunches.

Drekka Breakbones loomed over him, and he heard the creature’s cruel laughter echoing in his ears, as if from a great distance.

‘That it?’ the orruk asked, and Mykos looked up to see a gap-toothed grin cross its ugly, scarred face.

He heard the sound of thunder roll across the battlefield again. He saw the confusion on Drekka’s face, and glanced to the left. Another rent had been torn in the canyon wall, even greater than the last. He saw rocks the size of carthorses scything and spinning through the orruk ranks, crushing scores of the creatures to death. One last gift from Axilon, then. He would see his friend back in Azyr. Would they recognise each other, he wondered? All they had been through together since Sigmar had opened the realmgates and hurled them out into the world — would they recall any of it? All those moments of heroism, of sacrifice. Would they be lost? Mykos Argellon did not want to die. He did not want to come back like Thostos, cold and distant even to those he had once called brothers.

The orruk chieftain raised the axe high. As the pouring rain hit the dull iron, blood ran down the blade to drip aross Mykos’ war-mask.

This was not the end. He feared what would become of him, but he did not regret his choice to give his life for a moment. This was the truth of the Stormcast Eternals. They would make this sacrifice, over and over again, so that one day no mortal would have to. For some reason he thought of the priestess Alzheer, and hoped she yet lived. She was the bright future, the hope that he gave his life for.

He closed his eyes.

Goldfeather saw the towering orruk bring the axe down. He saw it strike his Lord-Celestant in the side of the neck, and he saw a brief, bright flare of lightning as Mykos Argellon’s body toppled to the floor. Then the cloud of dust from the shattered rock on the left-hand side of the canyon rushed across the battlefield, and he could see nothing at all.

They had killed the Lord-Celestant. The chamber was shattered. The Prosecutor-Prime could not see a single speck of turquoise amongst the sea of green and yellow below. It was over.

‘We must go to his aid,’ shouted Galeth. ‘We will kill the beast that slew him.’

‘No,’ said Goldfeather softly. Something was there, at the back of his mind. Some vital memory that he was missing. There was a way to tip the scales here, a way to make these wretched savages pay for every Stormcast lost this day.

‘No?’ echoed Galeth incredulously. The shock of this defeat had made him forget himself. ‘Are you craven, brother? We must avenge this insult. We must kill these beasts, even if we die doing so.’

‘What we must do is win,’ shouted Goldfeather. ‘Do you wish to die alongside our brothers, and render their sacrifice meaningless? Or do you wish to follow me, and win this battle in the Lord-Celestant’s honour?’

‘Follow you where? To run from the battlefield in shame?’

‘Trust me, my brothers,’ said the Prosecutor-Prime. ‘One last time. Do so, and we will kill every last orruk on the field.’

It was against every instinct that had been drilled and forged into them, to leave that field with the fight still raging. Galeth and the remaining Prosecutors swayed, on the verge of rushing to their deaths, and for a moment Goldfeather thought he had lost them.

‘You have never led us wrong, Prosecutor-Prime,’ said Galeth at last. ‘We will follow you.’

He had never been more proud of his men.

‘We must make haste,’ he said, and with that he opened his wings and flew out over the canyon where the Argellonites had fallen. He soared away from the Dreadhold and towards the grasslands of the plain, hope surging alongside the sorrow in his heart.

Chapter Six

Chosen of Sigmar

The torrential rain finally ceased as the first figures began to emerge from the mouth of Splitskull Pass. They did not wear the sea green, white and gold of the Argellonites Chamber of the Celestial Vindicators. They were stout, savage-looking creatures wrapped in bands of yellow-painted iron. Some strode on foot while others were mounted on fearsome, tusked beasts.

‘He has fallen then,’ said Eldroc.

‘As we knew he must,’ said Lord-Celestant Thostos Bladestorm, standing at the Lord-Castellant’s side upon the battlements of the Manticore Dreadhold. ‘Let us hope Lord-Celestant Argellon took as many of the orruks with him as he could, before the end.’

Eldroc nodded. Even as they spoke, the essence of Mykos Argellon was being carried home upon the celestial storm, back to the halls of Azyrheim. There he would be reforged anew, to be sent out once more against the forces of Chaos and darkness. But immortality did not come without a price. The Lord-Castellant glanced at Thostos. His friend was the living embodiment of such sacrifice. Once he had been a thoughtful, introspective man, a counter-balance against the raw fury and desire for vengeance that was the hallmark of the Celestial Vindicators.

The Reforging had taken that from him, had hollowed him out until all that was left was the fury and the need for retribution.

‘He will fight beside us once more,’ said Eldroc. ‘He is strong. He will be remade, and he will emerge through the flame as a better man.’

‘No,’ said Thostos, and his voice was soft yet filled with surety. The Lord-Celestant turned to Eldroc, and looked him in the eye.

‘It will break him,’ he went on. ‘He will enter the storm and it will break him down, tear him apart until there is nothing left of the man he once was. This is the sacrifice we made, brother. We are all here because we swore the same oaths. We knew there would be a price. It is one worth paying, for what we must do.’

Without another word, Thostos made for the interior stair that would take him down to the inner courtyard of the fortress. Arrayed at defensive positions around the Dreadhold were the two hundred and fifty men at his command, securing weak points and stacking barricades at the breached main gate that would hinder the orruks’ progress if they decided, as they inevitably would, on an all-out frontal assault. Two-score of that number faced in the opposite direction, a wall of sigmarite that guarded the Manticore Realmgate, the structure that the Celestial Vindicators had been sent here to secure.

Eldroc and Thostos crossed the inner courtyard, and made their way up the wide stair atop of which lay the gate. The structure stood on a wide plinth carved into the mountain, and it was here that the Stormcasts had organised their defensive position.

‘Keep up your guard,’ said Thostos, as they passed the men. ‘The forces of Chaos may come pouring through this portal at any moment.’

The Lord-Relictor Tharros Soulwarden knelt before the structure, still working the magic that would cleanse the taint of Chaos from the portal and allow the Stormcasts to pass through.

‘He has not spoken or moved since the daemonic incursion?’ asked Thostos.

‘No, my Lord,’ said Liberator-Prime Arestes, a stolid, reliable warrior known for his lack of humour as much as for his skill at arms. ‘But the gate’s fell light dims by the moment. Whatever the Lord-Relictor is doing, it is quelling the power of this Chaos-warped thing.’

‘But not fast enough. Our time has run out,’ said Thostos. ‘The orruks march on us, and we have not the men to hold back their numbers.’

‘The fortress can hold out a little longer,’ said Eldroc. As Lord-Castellant, he was responsible for the fortification and defence of locations that the Stormcasts had claimed. ‘We have little choice in the matter. We must give Tharros as much time as he requires, and hope that Sigmar is watching over us.’

Thostos nodded. ‘You will defend the wall, Lord-Castellant. I shall take the gatehouse. Despite the damage to the main gate, we can bottleneck them there as long as the ramparts remain clear.’

Eldroc nodded, even though he knew as well as his Lord-Celestant that they could not possibly hold out. Oh, they would bleed the orruks, they would make them pay a heavy price for every inch of ground, but in the end it would not be enough. The sun broke through the clouds once more, rising behind the great statue of Archaon, and the figure’s shadow fell across the valley floor ahead of them.

Atrin Eagle-Eye found that not an inch of his body was free from pain. He tried to focus through the haze of agony. He had fallen a great distance, hurled to his death by the mortal witchkin that called itself Xos’Phet. Yet, as the stabbing pain that arced down his spine and throbbed through his legs was quick to remind him, he was not in fact dead.

He felt around, and his hands touched a mushy, viscous substance. He lay on a bed of the stuff, and could smell its pungent, chemical odour. Slowly, his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the faint glimmer of lichen on the walls revealed a forest of fungi that stretched far into the distance. Glancing up, he could see the stone chimney through which he had fallen. Water dripped down to fall on his armour, and he pulled off his war-mask for a moment to let the downpour cool his face.

‘Well, warrior of Azyr,’ he muttered. ‘You’re a long, long way from home.’

Suddenly, the memory came back to him. His brother Judicator, Oreus, blasted into nothingness by a ray of fell magic. Retributor Callan, burning and screaming, claimed by the foul minions of Xos’Phet. And what of Alzheer, the mortal priestess of the nomadic tribespeople? He had no idea where she had gone, but if the creatures that the sorcerer commanded were still roaming these caverns, she was in terrible danger. He had no time for the luxury of rest. There had to be some way back up to the site of the ambush. From there he could track Xos’Phet down, rescue Callan, and wring the scrawny witchkin’s neck in the process.

With an effort that sent a fresh wave of torment rolling across his frame, Atrin hauled himself to his feet. His left arm was stiff and painful, probably broken in a couple of places. His head rang with what felt like a minor concussion, and one ankle would barely support his weight. He still had his gladius, but there was no sign of the boltstorm crossbow he had carried.

Half crippled. Lacking a weapon. Lost in a subterranean maze of caverns.

‘Sigmar, I could use your favour now,’ he sighed.

Atrin drew his gladius and began to push through the field of mushrooms. There were wide, thin plates of fungi that felt almost springy beneath his boots, and massive, bell-capped specimens as big as trees. The smell of the place was powerful, but not entirely unpleasant — sickly sweet, with a lingering bitter aftertaste that sat upon his tongue. After a few minutes of pushing through these thick stalks, Atrin was met with an unyielding wall of stone. With little else to guide him, he decided to follow it along, and hope by some miracle that it led to a way out of the chamber.

After at least an hour of stumbling through the cavern, the pain in his arm growing worse and worse by the moment, Atrin had a stroke of good fortune. A narrow tunnel — a tight squeeze for the tall and broad Stormcast — curved around in a spiral, heading upwards. There was the hint of a stair carved into the slippery stone, and Atrin began to feel that this was no natural complex he was travelling through. He could see no signs of civilisation down here, but the mushroom forest in that wide, open chamber, with its adjoining access route, had all the hallmarks of mortal cultivation.

The thought reignited his determination. If humans, or some other cultured race had once dwelt down here, it was far more likely that there was a way back to the upper tunnels.

It was as he dwelled on this pleasant thought that something long, thin and dripping with acidic mucous coiled itself with vice-like strength around his neck.

How many orruks were left to rot in the slaughtering ground of Splitskull Pass, Eldroc had no idea, but the army that loped out to cluster at the foot of the Dreadhold seemed undiminished. They hooted and hollered, swaggering towards the fortress with eager grins on their foolish faces. In the midst of the mob, the Lord-Castellant spotted what had to be the leader. The brute was half again as tall as an average orruk, a monster wrapped in heavy iron plate topped with trophy skulls and relics, clutching a wicked cleaver stained red with the blood of slain Vindicators. It was by some distance the biggest orruk Eldroc had ever seen.

‘When they fall within our range, kill that one first,’ he said to the leader of the Judicator retinue that lined the wall alongside him. ‘Hit it with everything you have.’

‘Aye sire,’ said the Judicator-Prime at his side.

He doubted it would be that simple to kill such a monster, but in his experience orruks gathered around their strongest and most brutal specimens. Take off the head, and the rest of the mob would begin to fracture and self-destruct. At least that was the theory. For such simple-minded, warlike brutes, orruks could be dangerously unpredictable.

‘They’re bloodied, sire,’ said Lorrus. ‘Plenty of the creatures left, but Lord-Celestant Argellon and his warriors certainly dealt some damage before they fell.’

Eldroc could see that the man was right. Though the orruks were full of their race’s usual post-battle cheer, more than a few of the creatures now coming towards them bore the scars of their encounter with the Celestial Vindicators. Bodies dropped as the great horde crossed the plain towards the fortress, the adrenaline surge of combat no longer enough to hold them upright.

‘It is a miracle that he managed to hold on as long as he did against such numbers,’ said the Lord-Castellant. ‘We must endeavour to match his bravery.’

From below his position, he heard the creaking of iron, a great scraping sound as something heavy was dragged across stone. His blood ran cold. Who had opened the main gate? The moment they saw such a breach the orruks would hurl themselves at it in force, and all would be lost.

‘Lord-Castellant,’ came a shout from Judicator Samius, who was pointing at the open ground before the fortress. Eldroc rushed forwards.

There was Thostos Bladestorm, hammer and blade in hand, marching out alone towards the roiling horde of green flesh.

‘Thostos,’ whispered Eldroc.

The wall itself was trying to eat him.

No, realised Atrin as he gasped and hacked at the tendril that held him several feet above the ground, it was something that had nestled into the wall. The central mass looked like little more than a fleshy curtain of mottled brown, draped across several feet of stone. He saw a cluster of eyes, multifaceted and glinting in the phosphorescent light, like those of a giant insect. Below this, there was a nightmarish maw, crammed with twisted, overlapping teeth. From around this mouth came several thin, wiry tentacles, tipped with what looked like thick hairs that dripped a clear blue liquid.

Some kind of poison, perhaps. If so, it was thankfully being held at bay by his battle-plate. What was markedly less promising was that with one fully functioning arm, he could not possibly fend off the tendrils that whipped and flailed around him, dragging him ever closer to those grinding fangs.

He managed to lever his gladius under one of the tendrils, and sliced it in two. A furious hissing sound came from the hideous wall-creature, and two more arms whipped out to take its place. One wrapped around the wrist that held the blade, and the other around Atrin’s helm, wrenching his head back violently. Closer and closer he was drawn, a fly reeled in by the spider. How foolish a death. The Judicator finally pulled his gladius free, and stopped struggling. Perhaps if the creature thought he was unconscious, it would relax its hold. Then he could drive his sword into its eyes once he was close enough.

Hopefully he could either kill it or force it to drop him. It was that, or face a most unpleasant end indeed.

Light flared below him. He could not arc his head to look, but he saw the blur of orange as a flaming arrow flittered past his head and struck the abomination in the middle of its eye cluster. There was a horrible, rattling squeal, and the curtain of mottled flesh rippled and twisted. The arrow was followed in short order by two more. They were well placed. One struck above the first shot, and one below. In the glow of the smouldering missiles, Atrin saw dozens, hundreds of tiny legs emerge from underneath the wall-creature’s central body, hooked and insectile like those of a centipede. The horror skittered along the surface of the wall, away from the punishing arrows, dragging Atrin along with it.

He had a chance, while the monster was blinded and distracted with pain. He swung his gladius, slicing through several of the tendrils that held him around the waist. He fell, his weight no longer supported, and growled in pain as his injured leg smacked against hard stone. Still the creature dragged him along the floor by the tentacles wrapped around his neck. He tried to hack at them with the gladius, but the angle was poor and he was forced to awkwardly swing behind his head.

‘Stop, my friend,’ came a familiar voice. ‘I have this.’

He ceased his swiping, and heard the sound of rushing air as a sword whipped through the air. Suddenly he was no longer being dragged backwards, and twitching, severed tendrils spilled around his legs. He looked upwards, and saw the bizarre cave-crawler scuttle out of sight on its multitude of limbs, dragging a fleshy, tuber-shaped stomach-organ behind it.

‘A porsuka,’ said the warrior Alzheer, slinging her bow across her muscular shoulders. ‘You were fortunate to escape. It is said they can feed for many years from just one kill, dragged alive into their stomach and slowly devoured.’

‘This really is a charming place, priestess. I have thoroughly enjoyed my time here.’

Alzheer smiled, the white of her teeth glinting in the dim light.

‘Thank you,’ said Atrin, and she gave a brief nod.

He pulled the last ropes of flesh free from his armour, and wiped his gladius on a cluster of lichen. The priestess, meanwhile, dropped to study the shorn tendrils that scattered the floor. Drawing several arrows, she began to cover them in the clear blue liquid that seeped from the thick bristles.

‘Some kind of poison?’ he asked.

She nodded. ‘It can freeze a man’s muscles in moments. The porsuka uses it to numb its victims, to make the feeding easier. It will be useful.’

Atrin watched her work.

‘Where are your people?’ he asked at last.

‘Slaughtered or forced to run,’ she said, and he saw a deep sigh run through her body. ‘I misjudged the sorcerer, sky warrior. I thought he was weak, near death.’

‘Witchkin have a nasty habit of surviving. Like cockroaches.’

‘He must die. And so must Rusik, whatever that creature has made of him.’

‘We agree on that,’ said Atrin. ‘Know that we will likely die in the attempt. My arm is broken, and my leg likely fractured. I have lost my crossbow also. The odds of us surviving are… comical.’

She looked at him, and he was once again surprised by the determination and ferocity in her mortal eyes. Another time, another place, and this one would have made a fine Celestial Vindicator.

‘I do not fear death, sky warrior,’ she said. ‘My people have lived in its shadow every day of our lives.’

He knelt, so that their eyes were level.

‘I know your quality, and that of the Sky Seekers. But this does not have to be your fight, daughter of Sigmar. Your people need your leadership.’

‘Enough,’ she snapped. ‘As long as this Xos’Phet creature lives, we will never be safe. So it is with the traitor Rusik. In any case, your fellow warrior is still alive, and I would not abandon him to death and torment. No more of this talk. We go together, and we die together if that is what Zi’Mar wishes.’

Atrin smiled underneath his war-mask, and nodded.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘In any case, I confess I am quite lost. Your guidance out of this wretched hole would be much appreciated.’

‘You’re a fine shot with the bow,’ said Atrin, breaking the silence as they trudged through the tunnels.

Alzheer smiled. ‘Out on the plain, that is often the difference between life and death. My father taught me, and he was the finest hunter our tribe has ever known.’

They walked on, the water that dripped and ran from the cavern ceiling the only sound aside from the tramp of their boots.

‘He took me on my first hunt,’ the priestess said at last. ‘I was too young, but it had been a hard season, and everyone was needed. I carried the weapon he had crafted for me, and in all the years since I have never held a finer bow. ‘

She smiled at the memory.

‘So proud, I was. So excited. And then we came upon a pack of qualhorn, by some miracle. Most had been slaughtered by the orruks, but these were fine, strong beasts. My father guided my arm, taught me where the arrow rested, how to breathe before I loosed. I remember the wind rushing through my hair, the rumble of hunger in my belly. My first arrow took the nearest creature in the heart.’

‘That was a fine shot,’ said Atrin.

‘Lucky, perhaps. In any case, it was a swift death. Clean. My father said that was what a hunter owed his prey. He was not a man easily given to words of encouragement, but I saw the pride in his eyes and that was enough.’

They passed a chimney of rock, through which trickled a steady stream of clear water. Alzheer stretched out a hand and let the liquid spatter off her palm.

‘My father said the words, gave thanks to Zi’Mar for the kill. Then we headed home, imagining the taste of good, rich meat after months of surviving on little more than nuts and scraps. We were almost home when the claw-hound struck.’

Her hand went to the necklace she wore, gripping it tightly.

‘It was half-mad from hunger. Thin, ragged, but with the strength of desperation. That was the first time I felt true terror. I remember that, and nothing else but a frenzy of teeth and claws and stabbing blades. When I finally gathered my wits the creature was dead and its blood was everywhere. In my eyes, in my mouth. My arms, up to the elbow. My father lay there, his chest torn open. I met his eyes, and we both knew the truth of it. I stayed with him for hours, holding his hand while his breathing slowed and his blood drained. He never cried out, not once. His skin went grey, and his breathing shallow. He spoke his last words to me before he left. ‘This place wants you dead, Alzheer. Every plant, every creature. The land itself. All you have is the tribe. Keep them together, my daughter. Keep them strong.’

‘I am sorry,’ said Atrin, knowing from experience how little such words mattered to the grieving.

‘I had a choice, once my father was gone. I could drag his body back to the camp, where the elders could say the words and give him the hero’s funeral he deserved. Or I could return home with our kill, and at least a few of my people would go to their sleep without the ache of hunger in their bellies.’

She looked straight at him, and he saw the sorrow and the strength in her deep, brown eyes.

‘Diash found me stumbling into camp at dusk, near-dead from exhaustion. But my people did not go hungry that night.’

‘You did what your father would want,’ said Atrin. ‘And in the years since you have kept your people alive. He was proud when he died, and he is still proud of you now.’

She showed him the necklace. Upon a simple leather bond was a single jagged tooth.

‘I keep this, not as a trophy, but as a reminder of my father’s last words to me. All you have is the tribe.’

Her hand clasped the tooth so hard her knuckles turned white, and blood trickled down her palm. Her eyes were no longer filled with sorrow, but with a burning rage.

‘The traitor Rusik made a mockery of those words. He abandoned us, sent my warriors to their deaths. That is why I will not leave these caverns until I have driven a knife into his foul heart.’

They did not speak again for a long time. Finally, they reached the site of the ambush. It was eerily quiet. Blood was spattered across the ground, though various insects and glistening molluscs were currently in the process of siphoning it up. They squelched and crunched underfoot as Atrin moved cautiously forwards into the cramped chamber, gladius raised. With some surprise and a little relief, he saw his boltstorm crossbow nestled next to the gap in the stone through which he had fallen. He gathered it up and checked the firing mechanism and the limbs. It seemed in workable order — Sigmar’s craftsmen forged weapons to last. He tried handling it, using his damaged arm to depress the trigger and his stronger arm to support its weight.

Workable. He had to awkwardly cradle the weapon and thus his usual standard of accuracy would suffer, but it could be done despite the lance of agony that it sent down his arm.

‘They went this way,’ said Alzheer. This time the trail was so obvious that a child could have spotted it. The bandaged servants that the sorcerer employed had simply dragged Callan along, by the look of things, and a great scuff was scraped across the stone. ‘They were not travelling at great speed.’

‘A Stormcast in full armour is no easy burden,’ said Atrin. ‘These creatures must lurk nearby, or have some stronghold close to here.’

‘I think you are right,’ the priestess nodded. ‘In his ranting, the sorcerer spoke of some hidden refuge within these mountains.’

‘Then we must push on. I will not leave Callan at that madman’s mercy for a moment longer.’

Corpses littered the cavern floor. The Stormcasts had accounted for many of the sorcerer’s wizened pets before they had fallen, and the surviving enemy had left their dead to rot. Carrion organisms had already begun their work.

Amongst the carnage lay a small, scattered pile of faintly purple dust. All that was left of Oreus. Atrin knelt by the pitiful remains. He hoped his brother would find his way back to Azyr, but in truth he was not sure if such a death would allow Oreus to make that journey. Magic violated everything it touched. He had fought at the Eldritch Fortress, against the vile minions of the wizard known as the Ninth Disciple. He had seen brothers warped and twisted beyond recognition by powers no mortal should ever wield. Many of those touched by such raw sorcery had never returned to the forge. He whispered a prayer to Sigmar, that he might see his brother again.

‘We must go,’ said Alzheer.

Atrin nodded and, hefting his crossbow, turned to follow her.

This far into the tunnels, the signs of some forgotten civilisation were obvious. The caverns here were circular in shape, and had a rough, natural quality that suggested to Atrin that they had originated as ancient lava flumes, and had been converted for civilian function many hundreds or thousands of years ago, after the volcanic activity in this region had ceased. Finely carved cobbles, traced with an orange-gold metal he did not recognise, made up the floor, and the walls had regularly placed apertures in which were hung sconces shaped like drakes’ heads. Dust and cobwebs marred the impressive quality of the metalwork.

‘I hear movement,’ whispered Alzheer. She raised her shortbow, a recurved weapon of simple yet impressive design. Like the sabres that the Sky Seekers favoured, this was a cavalry weapon. It lacked the range of a longbow, but it was far easier to draw and loose from horseback, and powerful at close range. As she drew one of her poison-tipped arrows and eased back the string, the sinews and wood that formed its powerful composite structure gave a slight creak.

A scream echoed down the hall. Ragged and drawn out.

‘Callan,’ whispered Atrin. He had never heard the redoubtable warrior utter so much as a grunt of pain, yet somehow he knew it was his comrade that suffered. ‘We must hurry.’

They set off down the winding tunnel, which eventually opened into a junction. To the right a set of curving stairs led down, while to the left the cave opened into what looked like a burial chamber. Thick, dark stone blocks lay stacked in neat rows. The dim flicker of his torchlight revealed lines of ancient runes that covered the surface of each block, but from where he stood, Atrin could not tell in which language they were carved.

‘The sounds came from below us,’ said Alzheer. She did not wait for Atrin, simply drew an arrow to her cheek and headed for the stairs.

‘Wait,’ he hissed, but she took no notice of him, slipping down the stairs as quickly and quietly as a hunting cat.

For all their manifold virtues, stealth was not the domain of the Stormcast Eternals. Especially not one who had recently been dropped down a very deep hole, and subsequently almost devoured by a cave-dwelling predator. Atrin could not keep up with her without breaking into a shuffling run, so instead he put out the torch and drew his crossbow, then followed on as quietly as he could manage. He was uncomfortably aware of the shift-scrape his heavy boots made on the stone cobbles.

The steps ended at the foot of another tunnel. This one was wider, with channels that opened into small chambers on each side. As he made his way forwards, he could smell the stench of burned flesh and charred bone, and underneath that a pervading odour of spoiled meat. The floor here was stained a muddy brown. Slumped against the wall to his left was a gangly, stick-limbed figure with an arrow in its gut. Another of the bandaged creatures that the sorcerer favoured as minions. Coming closer, he saw that its throat had been neatly sliced. Foul-smelling, dark blood had already clotted around the wound. Atrin wrinkled his nose in distaste. He did not know what gave these foul creatures life, but they stank of the grave.

‘Interesting, interesting,’ came a high-pitched voice from the far end of the corridor. The sorcerer. ‘You have the anatomy of a mortal. Stronger and larger, of course, but you bleed as well as any man. Yet I saw your kind fall at the fortress, and disappear in a burst of light even as your corpse hit the ground. There is magic in you. I must not yet have cut deep enough to find it.’

There was another ear-splitting scream. Atrin abandoned all attempts at stealth, and rushed forwards. The sound of his boots on the rough stone drew two more of the bandaged horrors forth from the chamber at the end of the hall. He fired his crossbow, gritting his teeth and ignoring the pain it sent shooting down his shattered arm. Bolts of burning blue light roared down the length of the tunnel, and the two creatures simply came apart under the barrage. Dark chunks of flesh splattered the walls, and a mist of gore spurted forth. What was left of the things slumped to the floor, and Atrin charged down the hall towards the sound of his brother’s torment.

He entered a low-ceilinged chamber dimly lit by several blue-glowing lamps set into thick columns of carved, spiralling stone. In the centre of the chamber were more of those carved stone slabs, though the runes that covered their surface were masked by brown and red stains, or chipped and broken. Fragments of bones littered the floor, along with filthy strips of cloth and tattered parchments. Arranged on shelves, warped by the crude glass containers that kept them, were all manner of gruesome paraphernalia, from severed digits to grinning, polished skulls whose dimensions were unnaturally stretched. Across the walls someone had scrawled unknowable celestial configurations and twisted, sickening symbols in a child’s hand. A scored and seared archway of stone lay in pieces against one wall, the runes that ran across its surface pulsing softly with a wan green light. The room smelt of acrid chemicals and rotting filth.

‘Callan,’ he shouted, seeing no sign of his brother or the fiend that kept him. ‘Where are you?’

More of the bandaged wretches scampered towards him from the gloom, their silence as unnerving as the howls of a blood-crazed warrior. He tucked his crossbow to his chest and drew his gladius, ramming it through the chest of the first creature and whipping it across the throat of the next.

He carved them apart as if they were little more than straw mannequins. The air was thick with the tattered remnants of age-old cloth, and reeking blood spattered across his war-mask. Suddenly the aches and pains that wracked his body faded into insignificance. All he felt was the rapture of battle, the joyous roaring of his blood and the ecstasy of righteous vengeance.

‘Sorcerer,’ he shouted. ‘Face me, coward!’

The rain had ceased and the sun was shining down with furious strength once more as Thostos Bladestorm strode out to what would likely be his death. He did not fear the prospect. He cared only that the Celestial Vindicators still had a task to complete, and that if the fortress fell before Tharros could complete his spell and make safe the realmgate, his mission would fail. The only currency that mattered now was time, and Thostos could see only one way to prevent the orruks throwing themselves against the walls of the Dreadfort for even a few more minutes. Eldroc would be able to lead the men on without him, he had faith in that.

Archaon’s pitiless eyes stared down at him as he passed beneath the great statue of the Everchosen. Lord of the armies of darkness. Symbol of everything that Thostos had dedicated his life to destroying. The stonework was not as fine as that of the marble sculptures found in the halls of Azyrheim, yet the statue possessed a blunt and foreboding presence. If they had time, the Lord-Celestant would have had it torn down, piece by piece. Its very presence was an offense to the divine rulership of Sigmar.

One day, faithless traitor, he thought to himself as he gazed upon it. One day there will be a reckoning. One day we will march upon the hell you created and we will burn it to the ground.

He was aware of the orruks surging towards him now, hollering and jeering. He took a step forwards and held his blade and hammer readily at his side. Time to roll the dice.

‘I am Lord-Celestant Thostos Bladestorm of the Celestial Vindicators,’ he said, ‘and I am here to kill your leader.’

His voice rang out across the plain, not a shout but a loud and clear statement of fact. For a moment his surety and apparent lack of concern stunned even the howling orruks. They stopped in their tracks. Then they began to laugh the deep, booming belly roars of a drunken mob. The war horde started forwards again, eager to strike down the foolish warrior who had walked into their midst.

A voice like thunder stopped them once more. It spoke a single word in a guttural tongue that Thostos did not understand, but the implication was clear. The owner of that voice had claimed this kill as his own.

‘Drekka! Drekka! Drekka!’ the horde began to chant. Thostos simply waited, every muscle primed to burst into motion. He knew the futility of fighting if these creatures decided to rush him. It seemed that he had judged the creatures correctly. These orruks might be stronger and fiercer than any of their kind he had seen before, but the same savage warrior culture united them. One amongst them, surely the largest and most brutal of their number, dominated the others. It was fear of this pack leader — fear or some other primal instinct he could never fully understand — that kept them from taking the Lord-Celestant’s head.

Pushing through the mass of whooping creatures came a true behemoth of an orruk. It towered over Thostos, eight feet of corded muscle and predatory instincts bound in a suit of iron armour so thick and heavy that it seemed truly impenetrable. Its eyes were alight with the same madness that shone in those of its fellows, but this one had a glimmer of fierce cunning behind the aggression.

‘Come in twos, eh?’ the creature asked, grinning widely. ‘Hope you’re more sport than the other one.’

Thostos raised his weapons, holding his blade forwards, the hammer up and ready to strike.

‘My name is Lord-Celestant Thostos Bladestorm,’ he said. ‘You have taken up arms against an army of Sigmar’s divine will. For that, I will take your head.’

The orruk leader’s eyes narrowed, and it flexed its muscles. A ripple of sheer power ran through its body, making the iron plate creak and squeal, and its toothy grin widened. Chipped and broken fangs jutted out from its lower jaw, and it slapped its great cleaver into one thick palm. The weapon was little more than a gigantic block of saw-edged iron, entirely lacking in ornamentation or craftsmanship. In the hands of the beast that held it, Thostos could only imagine the carnage that could be wrought.

‘Spat out bigger lumps than you, little lord,’ the beast called Drekka growled, and now there was little mirth to be found in that rumbling growl.

Thostos’ eyes drifted over the orruk, searching for a weakness. The bulwark of yellow-daubed iron that it wore was thick and heavy, though given the beast’s size it seemed unlikely to slow him down overmuch. Still, it was crudely fixed at the joints. A solid strike from a good sigmarite weapon and he could wreak some terrible damage. That was his only chance, to wear the creature down and bleed it out under the force of multiple blows.

In a burst of motion unthinkably quick for such a huge creature, Drekka charged forwards with his cleaver raised.

Thostos backed off, circling quickly to his left to force the orruk to turn and meet him. The great cleaver came down and met the crossed weapons of the Lord-Celestant. Sparks flew as brutal iron chewed into fine sigmarite, and the sheer weight of the blow buckled his knees. A heavy boot crashed into his chest, and he was thrown across the floor to land heavily in the wet earth. Mud splattered across his armour, and he felt the air rush from his lungs. There was no time to catch his breath, however. He heard the wet thump of the orruk’s boots as it thundered towards him, and rolled to his feet. Drekka was already nearly upon him. He feinted left, and as the cleaver came down he stepped inside the blow. The mighty weapon tore a great gouge out of the earth, and Thostos slammed his hammer into the creature’s side. He raised his blade to thrust between the gaps in its iron plate, but Drekka’s fist whipped out sideways and slammed into his chest.

Thostos staggered backwards, but caught himself before he lost his footing. The orruk leader chuckled as he paced like a hunting beast, a wide smile splitting his scarred face.

‘Almost got me there, little ’un,’ he chuckled. ‘Can’t have that.’

‘We shall see,’ said Thostos.

The place was a chamber of horrors. Atrin pushed further into the mortuary tunnels, and was met with new nightmares at every corner. Hideous, deformed monsters, their flesh warped and twisted, screamed at him from the glass jars that contained them. Books bound in decaying flesh whispered obscene promises at him as he passed. In one room he found a font filled with softly simmering blood. Within, for just a moment, he thought he saw a man’s screaming face, before it was dragged beneath the surface. Nauseated and disgusted, he pushed on.

The next hallway ended in a high, arched chamber, and it was here that he found Callan. The Retributor was held upright in the centre of the room by chains that stretched from all four corners. His melted armour exposed raw flesh beneath, and blood dripped from open wounds to gather in a trough below. Books were scattered about the floor around the warrior’s tormented figure, and the sorcerer’s insane scrawling covered the walls. More great glass jars full of pale, cloudy liquid were placed around the room, and Atrin could see horrors drifting and writhing within their murky depths.

‘Sigmar’s wrath is coming, for you and all your degenerate kind,’ he shouted into the echoing halls. ‘Come face me, and I will make your end a quick one.’

‘As you wish,’ came a chortling voice from the shadows. ‘For my part I make no such promise.’

As he scanned the room to find a hint of the man, Atrin could hear the sound of whispered chanting, and could feel the room grow cold. A pale pink glow surrounded him. Gibbering, disembodied mouths appeared in the air around him, sinking discoloured fangs into his armour. Sigmarite twisted and tore even as the sound of cackling laughter filled his ears. He swiped at the maws with his gladius, and felt a burst of fluid as several came apart with a splatter of crimson gore. More appeared in their stead, and he growled as one attached itself to his wrist, crunching the metal of his gauntlet so that it bit painfully into his hand. How he hated fighting magic users. There was no honour in this mummery, no dignity in it at all. Again he scanned the room for a sign of Xos’Phet, but he could see nothing.

Atrin cut another sniggering maw from the sky, and turned to repeat the manoeuvre when a fist made of glowing blue energy rushed across the room and struck him full in the chest with astonishing force. He staggered backwards to crash against a stone coffer, coughing and gasping for breath.

‘All your strength, all that training,’ came a high-pitched voice that echoed around the chamber. ‘And you are undone by the simplest of magic. You people understand only the hammer and the iron fist, and refuse to accept your simple insignificance next to the power of the arcane. Lord Varash was the same, curse his bones. His only ambition was that which I fed to him, like scraps to a hungry dog.’

Atrin blocked out the words, taking advantage of the momentary calm to focus and think. His enemy was toying with him, and that gave him time.

Thostos spun inside his opponent’s reach, ringing strike after strike off the orruk’s armour. Sparks and shards of metal flew as he pummelled his enemy. Drekka threw an elbow that snapped the Lord-Celestant’s head back, and Thostos responded with a headbutt that cracked into the orruk’s face, crunching bone and further flattening its porcine nose.

‘Good one!’ roared Drekka, as if he was applauding a fine joke.

This one’s skull was as thick as the walls of Sigmar’s palace.

They exchanged yet more blows, weapons cutting back and forth so blindingly fast that they seemed like little more than blurred extensions of each warrior’s limbs. Thostos rolled awkwardly in his heavy plate, and Drekka’s great cleaver soared past him, taking the head from an unfortunate orruk spectator. The dead creature’s fellow threw a punch at the Lord-Celestant, who swayed back to avoid the blow, and brought his foot up into his assailant’s groin. The orruk doubled over, and Thostos planted a foot in its face and kicked him back into the path of Drekka.

The great cleaver burst through the dazed orruk’s chest, lifting it into the air. Drekka whipped the dying brute back and forth in an attempt to dislodge it, brow furrowed in irritation. Blood and ruptured organs spilled out, splashing into the mud at his feet.

‘Get out of my way, ya useless gits,’ he bellowed.

Alzheer regretted leaving the Sky Warrior behind, but he would insist that they stay together, and she preferred to hunt alone. In any case, it was hardly as if he was more vulnerable in her absence. Even with a shattered arm and likely a broken leg, the man still held his blade strong. Such strength and fortitude was incredible. She wished that her father were alive to meet these warriors. She would have liked him to pass knowing that Zi’Mar had come for his people.

All you have is the tribe.

She had lived her life by those words in honour of her father. She had taken the old oaths and joined the ranks of mighty Zi’Mar’s priests. Time and again she had brought home food when her people were in danger of going hungry for another night. She had learned to master the bow and the sword, and had used both to protect her home. She had kept her faith, even as her people diminished, because she knew that if only they stayed strong together, the sky god would not abandon them and leave them to fade into nothing.

Yet something within her had died when Rusik the betrayer had led her warriors to the slaughter. He was here, somewhere, and she would not rest until he was dead.

She slipped into the shadows, an arrow strung and ready on her bow. Movement ahead made her stop. Two of the bandaged horrors rushed out of a nearby chamber towards the sounds of battle in the distance. Atrin had clearly introduced himself.

These were not her quarry, but she could not leave her friend to face every wretch in these tunnels alone. Her first arrow took the trailing figure in the back as it scuttled down the corridor in front of her. Its companion turned with a hiss of alarm, and she stepped out of cover to put an arrow through its throat. It fell with a gurgle, smashing into a smouldering brazier as it dropped.

Stringing another arrow, Alzheer made her way forwards.

Somewhere close, the Stormcast had encountered the sorcerer Xos’Phet. Alzheer could hear bizarre, unearthly laughter and the sound of Atrin bellowing and cursing at an unseen enemy. Unnatural sounds that could only be the wizened monster’s hateful magic echoed throughout the halls. She cursed. It seemed the sorcerer had recovered fully from the knife she had left in his gut. Leaving Atrin to battle weakling minions alone was one thing, but she could not abandon him in the face of such a dangerous foe.

Alzheer sprinted down the corridor ahead, turning left at the next junction towards the commotion. In her desire to come to the aid of her ally, she abandoned caution for haste.

Even so, the sheer speed of the blow took her by surprise. One moment she was running, the next she was sailing through the air to strike the far wall with staggering force. She slid down to hit the floor, moaning in agony.

Rough, cold hands dragged her upright. Alzheer looked into the face of the betrayer Rusik.

Or something that wore his face. The man’s angular features were there still, the hooded eyes and the high, sharp cheekbones. Yet they registered unsettlingly, as if the bone beneath had been shifted and warped. The skin was torn and raw, and the eyes were the grey-pink colour of spoiled meat.

‘Look what you have made of yourself, traitor,’ she spat, choking the words out through the iron-hard grip that held her. ‘To gain revenge on the orruks that slaughtered your family, you let this madman tear apart everything that you were. Look what your betrayal has wrought. You disgust me, monster.’

When he spoke, his words hissed forth like the gasps of a man with his throat cut.

‘I have been forged for what must come. I am the spirit of vengeance, priestess. I will slaughter the greenskins one by one, but first you die.’

He began to squeeze her neck. The pressure of his grip was incredible. She felt blood swell in her eyes, and the inexorable press began to crush her windpipe. Desperately, she fumbled with one hand at her back, and grabbed an arrow from her quiver. She rammed the arrowhead into Rusik’s chest, but his skin was like that of an arralox, so thick and leathery that the arrowhead could not penetrate. He laughed at her.

‘You think your crude weapons can harm me? No, priestess, I can no longer be—’

Alzheer switched her grip on the makeshift weapon, and plunged the tip straight into his eye.

He roared in surprise and pain, and lost his grip for just a moment. Alzheer dropped to the floor, hacking and coughing, trying to force some air down her throat. Rusik staggered behind her, crashing into the wall of the corridor. She had laced each arrow with enough of the porsuka’s poison to bring down a herd-beast, but still he stood. She just hoped she had bought herself enough time. Grabbing her fallen bow, she staggered down the corridor away from the traitor and towards the sounds of battle in the distance.

Whatever spell the sorcerer had woven, it rendered him invisible to Atrin. Even his keen eyes, regarded as the sharpest amongst his Judicator retinue, could not find him. The laughter seemed to echo around the room at random, so it likewise could not be used to locate his enemy.

In such situations, one must be decisive.

Atrin shouldered his boltstorm crossbow, ignoring the agony in his arm as he raised it to his shoulder and loosed. The lightning-wreathed projectile scorched through the air and struck one of the glass cases on the far side of the room. Foul-smelling liquid poured across the floor, along with broken glass and what appeared to be a number of eight-fingered hands. Nothing else. He shattered a second jar. Nothing. A third and a fourth, which spewed out tentacled limbs that writhed and slapped at the stone floor.

A bolt of blue flame struck him in the side, searing a gaping hole through his armour, and he staggered to the floor.

‘Stop!’ screamed Xos’Phet. ‘Enough! Do you know the value of my work? The hours, the years I have spent gathering these samples?’

Atrin spun, and destroyed another jar. This one contained a flayed torso with only a circular maw like that of a lamprey upon its short, squat neck. Hands that ended in razor-sharp claws dragged the thing across the floor, and it let loose a horrifying wail. Of greater note was the fact that when the fluid from this jar flowed, it diverted from its natural path just a fraction of a second.

‘And there you are,’ muttered Atrin. He let loose one more bolt.

The projectile exploded in mid-air, and whatever magic had concealed Xos’Phet sputtered and died as the sorcerer was thrown screaming through the air to strike the far wall. One shoulder was a ruined, smoking mess.

‘You… you… could never,’ the man wailed, his rheumy eyes wide with fear and shock.

‘It is always arrogance that brings your kind low,’ said Atrin, wincing as he lowered his spent crossbow and drew his gladius. ‘You could have killed me a dozen times, witchkin, but you had to fuel your sadistic ego. That was a mistake.’

The thing that had escaped from the cage lifted its vile mouth into the air and a tongue protruded from between its fangs, licking and tasting the air. Its head snapped towards Xos’Phet and the sorcerer moaned and tried to scrabble away across the floor.

‘You say these specimens are valuable,’ Atrin said. ‘In that case I will leave this one be. This is for Oreus, you twisted filth.’

Atrin was not proud that he took such satisfaction in the vile sorcerer’s terror as the wretched thing scrabbled towards Xos’Phet and leapt upon his bleeding form. The Judicator turned away as the screaming began, and went to Callan, still chained in place.

‘Easy, brother,’ he said, as the Retributor groaned.

He hacked and smashed at the chains that bound Callan with his gladius, but they were thick and sturdy. Retrieving his crossbow, he loaded a fresh cartridge of bolts, aimed and loosed. The chain securing Callan’s upper arm was shattered, tiny fragments of iron bouncing off his armour as the metal came apart. He repeated the same trick on the lengths securing his comrade’s leg, and was about to free the remaining arm when he heard footsteps coming from the far side of the room.

It was Alzheer. The woman came staggering into the chamber, one hand holding her throat, the other clutching her bow.

‘Rusik,’ she gasped, and the word was almost inaudible as she choked it out. He saw the purple bruises around her neck.

Something struck her from behind. She flew into the air, somersaulting once and landing amongst a pile of scrolls and leather-bound books in an explosion of dust.

The thing that had struck her burst from the shadows, hunched and powerful. It had a man’s face, but was too fast and strong to be mortal. Blood poured from one ruined eye, and its cracked and broken teeth were bared in an insane grimace.

It roared, an inchoate blend of pain and rage, and leapt across the room at him. He loosed his crossbow as it came, but the thing was blindingly quick. Bolts skipped off the floor and wall behind it and the creature crashed into him, bearing him to the floor despite his greater mass. He punched it in the side, but it was like striking stone. It responded by clubbing his broken arm, and the pain almost made him lose consciousness.

‘You stole my vengeance from me!’ screamed the thing that had once been Rusik. ‘The men of the fortress promised me the strength to slaughter the orruks, and you slew them before they could grant me it.’

‘They offered nothing but damnation, you fool,’ gasped Atrin, shocked at the man’s new-found strength. Try as he might, he could not prise those arms from around his neck.

He slammed his fist into Rusik’s side, again and again. Blows that should have shattered the mortal’s ribcage seemed to cause him no concern at all. Atrin hooked the warrior’s left leg and rolled, trying to gain purchase. He could not gain the upper hand. Rusik writhed like a serpent, slipping free of his clutch and wrapping his arms around the Stormcast’s throat. The sigmarite held, but then the traitor launched vicious punches to Atrin’s chest, as powerful as strikes from a warhammer. The armour groaned and creaked under the assault, but still the Judicator could not prise his opponent loose.

Arrows whipped across the room, striking the thing that had been Rusik in the face and chest, skipping away on the stone floor as they deflected off his thick hide. The distraction gave Atrin a moment, and he put his good foot into the man’s chest, launching him away. He tried to draw a few breaths, but no sooner had he struggled to his feet than the creature was on him once more. This time it had his fallen gladius in hand, and Atrin just barely got his hands up to block a thrust that would have split his visor and sunk deep into his eye. He strained with every fibre of his being, but whatever unnatural power gave Rusik his strength would not be denied. The blade slowly dropped lower, scraping against the brow of his war-mask.

Something grasped Rusik around the neck, and hauled him backwards. The gladius clattered to the floor. Callan stood behind the traitor, one massive arm locked firmly around his throat. Armour melded with his flesh where Xos’Phet’s magical fire had struck. He bled from a dozen surgical incisions that had been cut into his living flesh, but still he would not relent his grip. Rusik scratched and beat at the arm that held him.

‘The sword,’ Callan gasped, with a voice that sounded as if his throat was filled with broken glass. ‘Faster would be better, my friend.’

Atrin, grasped his gladius in two hands, and with every ounce of strength he had left to him, drove it deep into Rusik’s chest.

The traitor’s eyes went wide, and he roared in pain. He began to shudder and howl, eyes rolling back into his head. Callan hurled the man’s body away. Rusik landed, his body convulsing. As they watched, great swathes of his skin peeled away, exposing the muscle beneath. He vomited blood, which hissed and smoked as it burned into the floor.

And then he began to laugh, as he hauled himself upright with unnatural grace.

‘Not here,’ he chortled through broken, blood-smeared teeth. ‘Not yet. Still so much to be done.’

He paced towards them, his movement bizarre and unnatural.

‘Sky Warrior!’ shouted Alzheer. Blood poured from a wound on the woman’s head, but still she stood. She was dragging Atrin’s boltstorm crossbow behind her, the weapon’s great weight too much for the mortal to wield.

Atrin grasped the weapon, but he could not lift it with one arm shattered.

‘Brother,’ he shouted. ‘Kneel!’

Callan did not hesitate, dropping low. Atrin hauled the crossbow up in his good arm and propped it on his comrade’s shoulder. Rusik’s eyes went wide, and he skittered forwards unnaturally fast, reaching for them with arms that now ended in vicious, curved talons.

Atrin loosed the volley, point-blank. A dozen sigmarite bolts rippled through the monster’s flesh, tearing him apart and sending what remained splattering across the chamber. The smell of sulphur and rotten flesh filled the room, and the two Stormcasts slumped to the floor. Atrin heard Alzheer do the same behind them, and heard her ragged sigh of relief.

‘I tell you truly, brother,’ said Callan, staring at the ceiling above and panting heavily. ‘I feel terrible.’

Thostos had crossed blades with many warriors of Chaos, and had tested his martial skills against countless other monsters and fiends. This battle was amongst the most vicious he had ever fought.

Drekka seemed simply impervious to pain. The Lord-Celestant had struck half a dozen solid blows on that iron carapace and had drawn blood each time, but if the orruk was suffering from his wounds he made no sign of it. He simply came forwards again, that foolish grin still upon his ugly face.

The cleaver came swiping across. Thostos stepped back, recognising now that it was foolish to even attempt a block or parry unless he had no other choice. The beast’s strength was simply too great. The blade whistled past his face, and he darted forwards to jab his sword at the orruk’s midriff, between two of the iron plates. He struck home solidly, but his blade caught as the orruk reared back in pain, and he was a fraction too slow in avoiding the backwards swing of the cleaver. It opened a great rent in the armour across his chest, tearing through flesh and spraying blood, and sent the Lord-Celestant spinning through the air.

He landed hard, and could feel the blood pouring down the inside of his war-plate. That strike had shattered ribs, possibly ruptured organs. A fatal strike, in all likelihood. He managed to haul himself unsteadily to his feet, though even holding his weapons high was draining what remained of his strength.

‘Tough little soldier, ain’t you,’ came the mocking voice of Drekka. The orruk approached with a victor’s swagger, backed by the chorus of his minions as they chanted his name. ‘Tougher than the last one. One good smash an’ you fall the same, though.’

Thostos rushed forwards, runeblade arcing out to cut a deep line across the orruk’s forehead. Drekka reared back, cursing, and the Lord-Celestant followed up with a hammer to his gut. It clanged off the thick bands of iron, the dull echo of the impact ringing out across the plain. As the creature finally clutched its midriff in pain, Thostos leapt into the air, twisting his body as he rose, and drove his blade down at the beast’s collarbone. Drekka snapped a hand out and grasped him by the neck, snatching him out of the air.

‘Slippery little git,’ he snarled. His great plated fist lashed out once, twice, three times. Vision swimming, fires burning behind his eyes, the Lord-Celestant felt blood pour down the inside of his war-mask. Shattered metal was digging deep into his temple, and he could no longer see clearly from the bloody ruin of his left eye. Drekka slammed one last punch into his chest, and hurled him through the air.

Thostos hit the earth hard, the air rushing from his lungs from the force of the impact. The sky above was a bloody smear, and the earth spun beneath him. Shattered ribs drove daggers of bone deep into his vital organs. He let the infinity of agonies that wracked his form fuel his rage. He would not fall here, to this dull creature.

He would not leave Lord-Celestant Argellon unavenged.

Tortured body groaning in protest, Thostos hauled himself to one knee, spitting blood. Drekka was pacing towards him again, holding his wounded torso, the humour gone from his eyes.

Thostos knew he could not win this fight in a straight contest of strength. Yet he still had one last card to play.

‘Is that all you have, orruk?’ he spat through broken teeth. ‘You punch like a pox-ridden ratman, you simple-minded scum.’

Drekka’s eyes went wide, and then narrowed slowly and dangerously. Veins rippled around the beast’s muscular neck as he let loose an inchoate bellow of rage. Raising that wicked cleaver above his head, he charged the Lord-Celestant, thick legs eating up the ground between them with terrifying speed.

All thoughts of his own defence were forgotten.

Thostos spun, and as he turned he muttered the arcane phrase that unleashed the potent magic woven into the trailing leather straps of his cloak. At the bottom of the garment hung small hammers of burnished metal, seemingly little more than ornaments.

As the spell was unleashed, these hammers were transmuted into a cloud of celestial energy, and rocketed towards the unsuspecting Drekka like tiny comets. They struck with the force of the heavens, blasting apart the thick armour at the orruk leader’s neck and sending him stumbling in shock. On their own, the missiles would not have been enough to take down the monstrous orruk, but Thostos Bladestorm was already moving in their wake.

Leaping towards Drekka, he put everything he had into one last strike. Both hammer and blade came down on top of the orruk’s skull. The beast’s ugly face came apart under the force of the strike, the skull splintering and the blade hewing down deep into its throat.

Drekka staggered. Half the creature’s head was missing, and yet still it would not fall. Bloodshot eyes, narrowed with focused anger, locked on to Thostos. The orruk lurched forwards one step, its cleaver still raised high and ready to fall. Another step. Thostos hobbled backwards before it, raising his weapons in futile defence. Drekka came forwards again, and the cleaver gleamed in the blazing sun, a beacon of light in the bloody mist that was the Lord-Celestant’s vision.

Then the orruk leader’s eyes rolled back into its head, and the weapon slid from its grasp.

Thostos rolled out of the way of the Drekka’s body as it fell, sending a spray of mud into the air. The Lord-Celestant came up on one knee, weapons in hand.

‘Which of you is next?’ he roared.

For once, the orruk mob fell quiet. The wind whipped Thostos’ cloak and blew dust across his face. In the distance, he could hear the caws and shrieks of carrion birds as they circled overhead.

When the orruks finally regained their sense, any semblance of unity amongst their ranks was lost. Shorn of the unifying presence of their leader, they embraced their natural inclination for self-destructive savagery. The nearest orruks leapt upon the corpse of Drekka, hauling off fragments of his armour or loudly claiming trophies as their own. Some simply milled in confusion. Others began to fight amongst themselves, as long-abandoned grudges and rivalries rekindled in an instant.

Still more decided that they would like to claim the head of the warrior that had slain their mightiest champion.

Thostos backed off as scores of the enemy bounded towards him. The first to reach him died with his sword in its chest, the next fell under a mighty blow from his warhammer. Yet there were simply too many, and wounded as he was he knew he had bought his warriors all the time that he could.

A horn sounded from behind him. He looked back to see the fortress gates thrown open, the Paladin warriors of the Celestial Vindicators bursting forth with Lord-Castellant Eldroc and his loyal gryph-hound at their head. Roaring oaths of vengeance and prayers to Sigmar, mighty Decimators barrelled into the advancing orruks with their two-handed axes, smashing the enemy aside with explosive peals of thunder. Retributors dealt the God-King’s justice with their lightning hammers, this fractious melee the arena in which they excelled.

Eldroc reached the Lord-Celestant, and Thostos allowed his friend to haul him to his feet.

‘You should have stayed in the Dreadhold,’ he gasped. ‘You should have let me fall.’

‘You’ll have plenty more opportunities to get yourself killed,’ replied Eldroc, battering an orruk aside with the haft of his halberd as he and Thostos staggered behind the lines of the Paladins. As they ran, the elite warriors were falling back to the fortress in perfect order. Thostos saw a shield wall of Liberators arrayed in front of the ruined gate, and saw them open the line to let the sallying party back inside to relative safety.

‘They already recover their wits,’ continued Eldroc. ‘This is not yet over.’

Chapter Seven

The Spiral Tower

‘To fully purge the taint from this gate would take me many hours, perhaps even days,’ said Lord-Relictor Tharros Soulwarden. His voice was strained and hoarse, and nowhere near his usual ornery tone. He sounded exhausted. Lord-Castellant Eldroc knew his friend was on the verge of collapse, and it was only his stubborn will that kept him upright.

‘We cannot use it?’ asked Thostos Bladestorm. The Lord-Celestant’s own voice was tight with pain, though the restorative glow emanating from Eldroc’s warding lantern was slowly knitting together the gruesome wounds upon his chest and head. He had been even closer to death at the hands of the orruk leader, Drekka Breakbones, than the Lord-Castellant had thought.

Out on the plains the greenskins’ hoarse voices still bellowed in maddened rage. The death of their general had sent the dull-witted beasts into a frenzy, and even now they were throwing themselves against the walls and gate of the Manticore Dreadhold.

‘I did not say we could not use it,’ said Tharros, ‘only that it will require my full strength and concentration to keep the gateway open.’

‘We cannot abandon the Dreadhold,’ said Eldroc. ‘Even if we were to pass through the Manticore Realmgate, the orruks would likely follow us. Besides, Sigmar required us to hold this position. Azyr’s armies will pour through this route on their way to the front.’

The front was located in the Realm of Metal, where the next stage of the God-King’s plan called for a full assault on the fortresses known as the Ironholds, which in turn guarded the path to the nexus of arcane travel known as the Allpoints. It was from there that the armies of darkness sallied forth into the Eight Realms.

‘I can hold the fortress,’ said Eldroc. ‘Lord-Celestant, take a small expeditionary force. Make contact with the Knight-Azyros. He can signal for aid in securing the Dreadhold.’

‘I cannot leave the chamber behind,’ said Thostos, glancing back at the fortress wall. The Judicator archers were already loosing arrow after arrow into the ranks of the enemy. They could not see the gatehouse from their position at the rear of the structure, but the fighting there would be thick. The main gate was a twisted wreck, and such a breach would draw the orruks like flies around meat.

‘This is my area of expertise, brother,’ said Eldroc. ‘Trust me, I know how to hold a fortress under siege. I swear to you the Dreadhold will not fall while I stand.’

‘If you could decide what you wish to do quickly, that would be wonderful,’ came the faint voice of Tharros Soulwarden, with a hint of his usual curmudgeonly temper.

Thostos nodded. ‘Twenty men should suit my purpose. Ware the orruks, Lord-Castellant. Without their leader they will be reckless and disorganised, yet their battle-madness will give them strength. They will not relent, not now their blood is up.’

‘I know, Lord-Celestant. This place will hold until your return. Go now.’

Thostos chose the fastest and the most keen-eyed warriors to join the ranks of his war party. Eldroc needed the strongest fighters at his disposal, and in any case the Lord-Celestant was not looking for a fight. The faster they found the Knight-Azyros, the sooner they could bring help to the fortress defenders. As he chose the last of his warriors, word came that the small force he had sent into the mountains had returned. There was Atrin, hobbling along with his crossbow rested over one shoulder. Callan was at his side, supported by several of the Liberator rearguard who were still stationed at the realmgate. The Retributor was a ruin of melted sigmarite and scorched flesh. It was almost incomprehensible that the man had managed to survive long enough to reach the Dreadhold.

‘Oreus fell,’ said the Lord-Celestant. It was not a question.

‘Aye, Lord-Celestant,’ the Judicator replied. ‘Slain by the sorcerer Xos’Phet’s magic. We slew the fiend in turn, as well as the traitor Rusik.’

‘Then you performed your task admirably. There is yet more fighting to be done, and I would have you at my side if you are capable. Let the Lord-Castellant see to your wounds, then report to the realmgate.’

Atrin nodded, and made for the wall, where Eldroc was organising the defence. Behind him, leaning against the rocky outcrop upon which lay the realmgate itself, sat Alzheer, the mortal priestess of the Sky Seekers tribe. Thostos felt a tension loosen as he saw her, and realised with surprise that he had been worried she would not return from the mountain paths.

‘Priestess,’ he said, approaching her. ‘I am glad that you return unharmed. Judicator Atrin tells me that you found the vengeance that you sought.’

She gazed up at him, squinting slightly in the sunlight. Her face was bloody and bruised, and deep cuts ran across her arms, but aside from that she was largely unharmed.

‘I did, Lord Thostos,’ she nodded. She did not seem triumphant, merely tired and somewhat distant. That was understandable. She had lost many of her people over the last few days.

‘I am afraid I can offer you only water and rest, not safety,’ he said. ‘The orruks assault in force, and I must depart on my own mission. We cannot lead you home just yet, priestess.’

‘I can still wield a bow, Lord-Celestant,’ she said, and she hauled herself to her feet, staggering slightly. Thostos stretched out a hand to steady her.

‘You will rest, my lady,’ he said, in a voice that brooked no complaint. ‘And you will let us do the fighting. You have done enough. Fought enough. More than any mortal should be expected to. We are the Celestial Vindicators, Alzheer. We were forged for battles such as this. Let us do our duty, and let yourself heal.’

The fighting at the gatehouse was some of the most vicious that Liberator-Prime Relius had ever known, and he had been a veteran of countless wars even before his Reforging as a Celestial Vindicator.

‘Namuth, keep that shield tight,’ he roared, as the orruks surged forwards once more, clattering against the wall of sigmarite that guarded the tunnel.

The gate itself had been torn off its hinges, and had fallen diagonally to half block the main entrance. The enemy could still slip under the shattered iron, but as more of them fell that was becoming increasingly difficult. Not that the orruks seemed wary of the danger. Even as he glanced over the rim of his shield, Relius saw one of the creatures spitted through the belly on a vicious shard of black iron. Lord-Castellant Eldroc had ordered the tunnel filled with dozens of these wicked spikes, scavenged from the walls of the Dreadhold. The dying orruk was still hacking away with its crude cleaver, seemingly unaware or uncaring of its predicament.

‘Kill,’ Relius shouted, and as one the front rank of Celestial Vindicators brought their shields to the side, stabbing out with longswords or smashing skulls and bones with their heavy warhammers.

‘Hold,’ he yelled, and just as swiftly the unforgiving wall of sigmarite was restored. Dead orruks toppled along the line, joining the barricade of dead that littered the floor. Their fellows behind scrabbled over the corpses of the fallen, hurling themselves at the Stormcasts with maniac howls and whoops of glee.

The Stormcast line was pushed back, no more than an inch or two, under the pressure of the assault. Such margins, Relius knew, could be fatal. This battle would drag on for hours, perhaps even days. They could not afford to lose the bottleneck provided by the gatehouse tunnel. Once the orruks broke out, it was all over.

‘Kill!’ the Liberator-Prime shouted again.

The first thing that Thostos Bladestorm noticed, as he stepped forth from the archway of carved obsidian and into the glimmering light of the Crystal Forest, was how different the air felt here. In the Roaring Plains it had been fresh and harsh, with the earthy taste of grass and churned soil. Here it was so close it seemed to wrap around his skin like a second cloak. A slight but noticeable static thrum raised the hairs on his neck, and he smelled the sweet, chemical tang of copper and iron.

‘The Crystal Forest,’ said Liberator-Prime Amon Steelhide, emerging behind him. ‘The name hardly seems to do the place justice.’

Ahead of them, beyond the bed of carved stone upon which the realmgate lay, stood the forest. It was unerringly beautiful. Spiralling towers of multicoloured crystal reached high into the sky, twisting around and encircling their fellows to form a thicket of glittering, shimmering light. It was as if a rainbow had crashed to earth and splintered into a thousand pieces. Smaller crystal copses ran underneath these grand structures, casting their own dizzying array of tints and tones amongst the ground cover. In the distance, many miles away, Thostos could see mountains of dull brass, peaks of copper and great mesas of black iron. The sky was a dark purple, yet the ground was washed with soft moonlight and the flickering colours of the crystal spires overhead.

‘Form a perimeter,’ Thostos ordered. ‘Make safe the gate. Prosecutor-Prime?’

Zannus snapped to attention, four fellow warrior-heralds lining up behind him. Even amongst the fabulously armoured soldiers of the Stormcasts they made an impressive sight, with their gleaming, radiant wings and plumed head crests.

‘Sire?’

‘Take to the skies. Give me a preliminary assessment of the area. We are to meet the Knight-Azyros Capellon here, the guide who will lead us to our assigned position for the offensive. Find him.’

Zannus saluted, and with a powerful beating of his wings, soared into the sky at the head of his retinue. The rest of the Lord-Celestant’s advance party, some twenty-five men on foot, arranged themselves in loose formation around him. Amon Steelhide led the Liberator contingent, all of whom bore twin hammers or runeblades rather than the more familiar sigmarite shields of their conclave. Judicator Atrin’s wounds had been healed by the heavenly power of Lord-Castellant Eldroc’s warding lantern, and now he led an ad-hoc group of five Judicators, survivors of retinues that had taken heavy losses during the assault on the Dreadhold. Each carried a rapid-firing boltstorm crossbow, and they were currently scanning the crystal treeline intently, ready to unleash a torrent of sigmarite bolts against any emerging threat.

‘Capellon was to meet us here,’ Thostos muttered under his breath.

The Knights-Azyros were the messengers and heralds of the greater Stormcast force. Each was a mighty warrior, given the gift of flight and the possession of a wondrously crafted lantern, a celestial beacon with which they lit the path for Sigmar’s Storm to follow.

‘Perhaps he thought it safer to lay low, sire,’ said Atrin. ‘These are dangerous lands, as yet unclaimed by Sigmar.’

‘Perhaps,’ said Thostos, staring off into the depths of the crystalline forest. ‘But thus far in our journeys we have not often been blessed by such good fortune.’

Zannus circled high above the forest, trying to keep his focus and not get distracted by the sheer beauty of the sight below. The luminous tangle of multicoloured crystal stretched on below him for several miles, gently creeping towards the foothills of the mountains on each side of the valley in which they found themselves.

‘No sign of movement, friendly or otherwise,’ said Tonan at his side.

‘Take two men and survey the foothills to our east,’ said Zannus. The mountain range was closest there, a smooth cluster of rolling hills that rose towards a series of curiously even conical peaks. Unweathered and geometric in arrangement, the range did not look like a natural formation.

‘Do not tarry,’ he continued, ‘and return to me with your findings as soon as you are done.’

There was something about this place that unsettled Zannus, despite the obvious grandeur of his surroundings. It was the stillness of it, he thought. After his time on the Roaring Plains, where the wind howled constantly and furiously, and the earth below was ever in motion, the stillness of this place felt… untrustworthy.

‘To me, Prosecutors,’ he shouted to the rest of his warriors. ‘We will spread out and fly low over the canopy.’

It took them an hour of searching before they found what they were looking for. Dipping beneath the canopy, carefully weaving his way through clusters of jagged azure and great columns of vermilion and aquamarine, it was the Prosecutor-Prime himself that came across the clearing. He spread his wings and slowed his flight, dropping lightly to the ground to take in the scene.

It was carnage. Torn corpses were scattered across the ground, bathed in the soft pink, refracted light that shone down from the great crystal canopy above. Some were sprawled on the floor, others impaled on sharp clusters of quartz. Zannus approached the nearest, and rolled it over with his boot. An ugly, scarred face twisted in a death mask of torment. A half-moon tattoo covered the left side of the human’s face, and piercings linked with fine silver chains ran from eyebrow to nose. The armour was of decent quality, painted a deep blue with silver highlights, though it bore the chips and scrapes of regular use.

‘Minions of the Dark Gods,’ he said with no small amount of distaste. ‘But not the Blood God’s faithful.’

‘It was fine swordwork that slew them,’ said Ephenius, examining the deep slice that had cut through the spine of another warrior. ‘Neat, deep. A fine blade held in a sure hand.’

‘We have a live one,’ shouted Orestes, from the edge of the clearing. In the shadow of a spiderweb of shattered crystals lay another of the mortals. His leg had been cut through at the knee, and hung by only a scrap of flesh. His skin was sallow, and his eyes were tired as much as they were fearful. This one had been left to die some time ago, and blood loss and thirst had left him dazed and weak. Looking at the wounds, Zannus doubted he would last much longer.

The Prosecutor-Prime grabbed a flask from one of the dead men and strode over to the survivor.

‘This will not be an easy passing,’ he said to the man. ‘If blood loss does not take you soon, then hunger and thirst will do their work.’

He held out the flask, and the man groaned and reached for it with a shaking hand. Zannus drew it back.

‘Tell me what happened here, and you can drink your fill. Speak.’

Beyond the point where pride or loyalty might have sealed his lips, the man was only too happy to tell them what he knew.

‘The angel,’ he choked, and blood dribbled from his dry mouth. ‘We set upon him. He was hiding in the forest, but Lorchis always sees. He always knows. You can’t hide from him.’

Zannus held the flask out, and let some of the contents dribble into the mortal’s mouth. The man sighed with relief, and his eyes closed contentedly. The Prosecutor-Prime clipped him about the ear.

‘Rest when you’re done,’ he snapped.

‘The angel, he slew us so easily,’ the man continued. ‘Like we were nothing. Twenty of us there were, and even striking first we could not touch him. He tried to soar away, but Lorchis got him good. Sent him down in the dirt.’

He laughed a bitter, mirthless laugh.

‘Oh, he struggled, but we had the nets on him. Had him down, burned and beaten.’

Orestes went to strike the wretch with the flat of his hand, but Zannus grasped his arm before the blow fell.

‘Where did you take him?’ he asked. ‘Speak.’

The mortal looked at him blankly, as if the question had been spoken in a different language to his own. The Prosecutor-Prime reached down and grabbed a fistful of his chainmail hauberk.

‘The angel,’ he snarled. ‘Where did you take him?’

Zannus and his men returned after a few hours, coming to rest in front of the orderly Stormcast line, which formed a defensive shield wall around the realmgate.

‘Lord-Celestant.’ He saluted as Thostos approached.

‘What did you find?’

‘We came across the scene of a skirmish, Lord. Several enemy dead. One alive enough to tell us that the Knight-Azyros has been captured.’

There was a round of muttered curses from the warriors present.

‘Tell me that you discovered where the enemy took him,’ said Thostos.

‘I believe so. The enemy is clearly active in this region, Lord-Celestant,’ the Prosecutor-Prime replied. ‘Soldiers are stationed amongst the foothills to the east, and more guard a structure hidden in the mountains nearby. A spiral tower, half collapsed. This is where the wretch says that the Knight-Azyros was taken.’

‘What numbers does the enemy have?

‘Our prisoner died from his wounds before we could interrogate him further,’ said Prosecutor Tonan. We scouted the area before we returned. Their defensive positions are carved into the mountainside, so it is hard to be exact. We saw at least three hundred at camp. Fewer still were guarding the perimeter of the tower. No more than a score.’

‘Though certainly there will be more within the structure,’ said Thostos. ‘And if they can capture a Knight-Azyros, they likely have either powerful magic or capable fighters on their side.’

The longer the Knight-Azyros remained in enemy hands, the greater the chance that the enemy would discover something of value. No Stormcast would ever volunteer information under duress, of course, but Thostos knew that simple physical torment was hardly the only tool at the great enemy’s disposal.

‘How far is it to the tower on foot?’ asked Judicator Atrin.

‘No more than a few hours,’ said Zannus.

‘Not good enough,’ said Thostos. ‘We march at pace. Prosecutor-Prime, return to the area and scout ahead. See if you can gather a more accurate estimate of their numbers. We will join you soon.’

He turned to the rest of his warriors. He could feel their eager tension and their fury. No Stormcast could stand idly by while a fellow warrior suffered at the hands of the enemy. They would run as long as they had to, no matter what it took out of them to do so.

‘You know what is at stake here,’ he said. ‘Let us retrieve our lost brother.’

With that, the Stormcasts set off at pace, following in the Prosecutors’ wake as they soared towards the mountain range.

It took Thostos and his men half the time Zannus had estimated to reach the foothills amongst which the tower lay. They had run near ceaselessly, even when they had reached twisting paths made treacherous by the crooked spikes of crystal that jutted out from nearby boulders, and in spite of the smooth, slippery ground beneath their feet. Every step had to be taken carefully, lest a warrior lost their footing and tumbled into a cluster of razor-sharp, pellucid quartz that could shear through armour with unsettling ease.

It was poor ground for stealth, littered with tiny fragments of crystal and shards of rough stone that crunched underfoot. The weight of the Stormcasts in their full battle array caused each footstep to echo like a falling boulder. Yet until now, at least as far as Thostos could tell, they remained unspotted as they made their way up the winding paths towards the great brass peaks in the distance.

After another hour or two of travel they hauled themselves over the lip of a great bluff of burnished brass, and caught their first glimpse of the spiral tower. It sank into the ground at a tight angle, leaning against the far edge of a towering peak like a resting spear. Though it shone with soft silver light, the surface was strangely organic in texture. It reminded Thostos of the great shell of some kind of ocean-dwelling crustacean. Spiral patterns wound into the surface, and great jewels of many different colours shone from within.

‘Down,’ whispered Atrin harshly, and the Stormcasts ducked low, hands grasping weapons firmly.

They were in a sort of sheltered bowl within the mountains, which rose steeply on all sides. The ground ahead of them was even for several hundred yards, and was patrolled by several groups of mortals dressed in silver chainmail and carrying short spears and curved blades.

Two such warriors, faces hidden by chainmail masks, were approaching the Stormcasts’ position, idly chatting as they came.

‘I have the one on the left,’ Thostos muttered to Liberator-Prime Steelhide. ‘Take the other.’

Pollux drew his twin warblades and crouched behind the nearest cluster of rocks, looking to his Lord-Celestant for the signal to move. The soldiers’ footsteps came closer and closer, and after several moments they rounded the boulders and came into view. They stopped dead in their tracks, eyes widening in shock as they saw the score of turquoise-armoured giants that crouched before them.

‘Who—’ managed the lead figure, before Thostos cut his words short with a thrown hammer. The heavy sigmarite weapon clattered to the floor, as did the broken body of the warrior. Steelhide darted from cover, thrusting one of his swords into the remaining figure’s chest, and bringing the other across backhand to strike the head from his shoulders.

There was a tense silence, then the sound of shouting voices.

‘No more time for subtlety,’ said Thostos, picking up his blood-smeared hammer as he ran forwards. ‘Kill fast, and move quickly.’

As one, the Stormcasts broke forwards over the lip of the bluff, following the Lord-Celestant into the clearing. There were only a score or so of warriors scattered about the place, and not a man amongst them was prepared for the onslaught that the Celestial Vindicators unleashed. Atrin opened up with his crossbow, and a volley of sigmarite bolts sped across the clearing to send two figures tumbling away. Two more, unlucky enough to be within reach of Thostos, fell to vicious strikes from sword and hammer. The rest of the Judicator retinue unleashed a volley from their crossbows, and five more of the enemy were blasted off their feet.

The greater part of their number dead in seconds, the remaining mortals turned and ran up the curving stair towards the entrance to the tower.

The Stormcasts followed close behind.

Eldroc caught the axe blow on the haft of his halberd, forced the orruk’s weapon down low, and slammed his fist into the creature’s ugly face. It stumbled back, and he hacked it down with his weapon’s axe blade. Redbeak leapt upon the fallen orruk, and tore its throat out with a snap of his beak.

‘Lord-Castellant, they have made the wall,’ came a voice from behind.

‘Paladins, with me!’ he shouted, hoping beyond hope that the orruks had not managed to force their way through the main gate. If the enemy breached in two places, they were done. They simply did not have the numbers to fight an open battle on two fronts.

Focus on the task at hand, he reminded himself. These walls must be cleared. He could see the orruks ahead, in the shadow of the Dreadhold’s central tower. A band of Liberators was trying to stem the tide of yellow-clad warriors, but they were slowly being pushed back, and more orruks were hauling themselves up the wall at their flank.

For all its lack of martial discipline and tactical expertise, Eldroc found the orruks’ bluntly simplistic assault a horribly effective one. The creatures hesitated not a single second, dragging themselves up the fortress wall with astonishing speed despite their weight. With no Stormcasts versed in their operation, the fire-spewing daemonic mouths that lined the Dreadhold’s exterior were effectively little more than welcoming handholds. Though hundreds of orruks were slaughtered by the lightning bursts and crossbow bolts of the Celestial Vindicators, there were simply too many of the enemy, and too few Stormcasts, to keep the ramparts clear.

Eldroc roared with fury as he charged forwards, swiping the head from an orruk that poked its ugly face over the wall with a vicious slice from his halberd. He spun the weapon, holding the haft horizontally to smash it into the face of another creature. Yet another hauled itself over the edge behind him, but as he turned he saw it go down under a hammer-strike from a Retributor. Dark blood splattered across his armour, and the twitching body of the orruk was lifted and pitched back over the wall.

Now the lines of battle were hopelessly chaotic. Orruks flanked the band of Liberators, and were in turn attacked from behind by the great hammers and mighty axes of the elite Paladin warriors. Still more of the enemy crawled up and over the wall.

The press was so tight that it was difficult to move, and harder still to find the space to wield his halberd effectively. He thrust with the spear-tip at any orruks that came close, aiming for throats and eye sockets. The stone beneath his feet was slick with blood, and he found himself treading upon broken forms that moaned as they were crushed by the sheer weight of surging bodies.

Eldroc’s advance swept clean the left side of the Dreadhold’s ramparts. Freed from their precarious, flanked position, the Liberators and Judicators on that side of the fortress began to recover and push back those orruks that remained. The Paladins began to lift up the heavy, dead bodies of the orruks and hurl them back over into the roiling mass of green flesh, relying on their sheer weight to crush the unfortunate creatures below.

The Celestial Vindicators burst through into the interior of the tower, hot on the heels of the fleeing mortals. Most of the soldiers ran for the great, wide stair that curved upwards from the interior hall, but one made instead for a strange device on the far side of the room. It resembled a great shell, several handspans across, the whorl spiralling out to join a funnel that ran alongside the great stairway, stretching to the roof above. Before Thostos could reach him, the warrior put his lips to this device, and an ominous note issued forth — a great, resonating blast that echoed around the structure loudly enough to shake the teeth.

Thostos reached the man and cut him down, but the damage had been done. Every single being in this place would be aware of their presence now.

He glanced up. Above the Stormcasts soared a dizzying spiral of hundreds of cells, each carved from a strange, metallic coral-like substance. The complex stretched on and on over their heads, so high that the very dimensions of the place seemed unfathomable. From the outside, there had been no indication of such a colossal space. The angle, too, was wrong — vertical instead of lying askew, as it had first appeared. Thostos felt the sway of vertigo, the nauseous resonance of sorcerous power. There was something else up there too, an orb of glowing light that bathed the walls in a silver-blue glow.

Arrows whipped down from on high, skittering off the armour of the Stormcasts. Those that bore shields raised them to fend off the barrage, while the Judicator bowmen returned with a volley of their own. Dozens of yards overhead, the spiral walkway with its ammonite guardrail rippled in explosions of light, and a shower of coral fragments and ruptured bodies toppled down the central column to burst upon the floor.

‘Forward!’ yelled Thostos. ‘To the summit.’

The Prosecutors rose into the air, circling their way up the main tower and unleashing devastating strikes with their celestial hammers, which smashed through crystal and stone-coral as if it were kindling. As each warrior hurled his magical weapon, he summoned one anew from the aether.

Those on foot began to advance. They moved slowly, checking each cell as they passed by. The bars were not metal, but razor-sharp spears of blue crystal stabbed deep into the floor. Each cell contained a rough stone slab set with leather straps. Most of the cells were empty, containing nothing but the dark stains of spilled blood, but in others they saw shattered skeletons, or pitiful, wasted figures that cringed and scuttled away in terror as they passed.

The sheer quantity of arrows loosed by the mortal guards above began to take its toll. A Judicator fell, clutching at his throat. As he toppled over the guardrail he turned once in mid-air before disappearing in a burst of light. Other Stormcasts fell to the floor, crashing back down the path to the levels below.

‘Do not stop for a moment,’ shouted Thostos, as his warriors began to pause in order to aid their stricken fellows. ‘We keep moving or we die here.’

And so they pushed on, floor after floor. Mortal warriors wrapped in silver chainmail and tattooed with blue ink rushed at them from anterior tunnels and guardposts. These men were hardy fighters, disciplined and resilient. They attacked Thostos and his men with measured skill, not the unbarred aggression of the Blood God’s faithful. They feinted forwards to hurl a volley of javelins and axes, then fell back and flanked from different angles. They used their knowledge of the tower’s hidden pathways admirably.

Yet for all their skill, they were still merely mortals.

Relius had lost his sword in the melee, dropped when an orruk had slammed its axe into his shoulder and split his flesh to the bone. They were perilously close to the inner courtyard of the fortress now, having been steadily pushed back by the unrelenting ferocity of the enemy assault. The corridor was thick with corpses, yet the creatures came on regardless, slipping over the ruined remnants of their dead. Relius slammed his shield into a leering face, felt bones shatter under the heavy sigmarite, and raised it high to deflect another falling axe.

‘We can’t hold this,’ shouted the Liberator at his side. Relius could not spare a glance to check, but it sounded like Vallus.

‘We must,’ he shouted. ‘If they break through it is over.’

Something struck his leg, and there was an explosion of agony. Foolish. The orruk he had smashed to the floor had not been killed, and it had sunk a cleaver into the flesh of his thigh. Relius cursed as his leg gave way. He held his shield over his face, and felt heavy boots force him further to the floor as another of the creatures vaulted over his prone form and deeper into the Stormcasts’ ranks. His world was a forest of struggling, kicking boots and splattered blood. He tried to drag himself upright, but there was simply no room. He was stuck fast, and would be until the enemy noticed him and drove an axe into his skull.

‘Glory to Sigmar!’ came a booming voice, resonating within the cramped gatehouse tunnel. ‘Not a single step backwards, brothers. Death to the enemies of Azyr!’

Through the chaos of twisting, flailing bodies Relius caught a glimpse of Lord-Castellant Eldroc at the head of a formation of Retributors.

He barrelled straight into the orruks, his wondrous halberd smashing and stabbing as he hacked a path for the warriors to follow.

They did so mercilessly. Of all the elite Paladin disciplines, it was the Retributors that most closely symbolised the Celestial Vindicators’ way of war. Simple, straightforward power, the fury of unleashed aggression. Vengeance dispatched with cold fury, and delivered with the killing face of a sigmarite hammer.

These warriors amongst warriors pushed through to the front of the melee, battering the enemy aside with thunderous swings of their two-handed weapons. Lightning arced in the narrow confines of the tunnels as the hammers impacted, pummelling iron armour into a shapeless mass, crushing skulls and scorching flesh.

‘Up you get, Liberator-Prime,’ said Eldroc, hauling Relius to his feet.

‘I am sorry, Lord-Castellant,’ he said. ‘I have failed. There were too many, and we could not hold them at the gate.’

‘Do not speak of failure again,’ said Eldroc sternly. ‘We were never going to hold a shattered gateway for long, especially against such numbers. You have killed as many of the creatures as possible, and that is all I could ask. Our hope now lies in the hands of others.’

The Lord-Castellant turned to him. Relius noticed that the man’s helm bore a nasty cut from temple to jaw, through which blood was seeping. Countless minor wounds covered his fine armour. It seemed that the fighting upon the walls had been no less fierce than down here.

‘Do not concern yourself, brother,’ said Eldroc, clapping him on the shoulder reassuringly. ‘I fear a minor scratch will be the least of our worries, come the day’s end. Here.’

Eldroc held out a gladius, and Relius accepted it. The weight of the blade was reassuring, and he clasped it tightly.

‘Onwards then,’ said the Lord-Castellant, hefting his halberd. ‘Let us see if we cannot thin the herd a little more.’

‘Onwards,’ shouted Thostos, sweeping another foe aside with his hammer. The mortal slammed against the wall and slid to the floor, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

It felt as if they had been running for days. They had killed their way upwards, smashing through the resistance they encountered on each level of the structure, pushing onwards and onwards relentlessly.

At the apex of the tower above them hung a great, multifaceted orb of silver and blue, sending floating lights dancing around the tower as they drew closer. Not knowing where the Knight-Azyros was held, Thostos pushed his warriors hard for the summit, knowing that the leader of these accursed mortals likely dwelt there. There was little time. Strange, fluting horns echoed around them, an atonal cacophony that drew more and more soldiers towards them. They had struck fast, and with the advantage of surprise, but the enemy was waking up.

They were close, now. They drew level with the huge form of the crystal, and Thostos glanced into its shimmering depths. Faces swam within, distant as if viewed beneath the waters of a frozen lake. There were dozens, scores of them. They were screaming.

‘Few are the warriors who come to the tower of Lorchis willingly,’ came a voice from on high. The shadows overhead warped and twisted, and from them dropped a disc of shining metal, its edge thick with vicious spikes. Upon the disc crouched an impressive figure — a warrior clad in robes of bright azure, clutching in one hand a glaive that ignited with a pure yellow flame. In his other he grasped a fine buckler, painted with the image of a rampant drake. He wore a full-face helm with sweeping horns, edged with gold and scores of precious gems.

‘This is a place for lost souls, shining warriors,’ Lorchis said as he came to a halt in the air several feet above their heads. ‘A place of stolen secrets. I wonder what mysteries I may prise from you. A greater bounty than your winged brother offered me, perhaps?’

‘You will release him,’ said Thostos.

‘Will I?’ the man laughed. His voice was surprisingly soft, more curious than angry. ‘You are few, knight of justice, and my men are legion. Neither is time on your side. Your fellow warrior was very accommodating of my inquiries. I hear your weakling god weaves new battle plans as we speak.’

Atrin stepped forwards and let loose a volley. The lord of the tower laughed as he dipped backwards upon his floating disc. The sigmarite bolts skipped off the underside of the artefact, and the man rose into the air away from the Stormcasts.

‘Enough talk, then,’ he said, laughing good-naturedly. ‘Vitenoryx, thin our guests down to a more manageable number.’

There was a deep, predatory snarl from above. Something huge and terrible unwound itself from the roof of the tower, and dropped gracefully to land on top of the great crystal. Thostos saw a powerful, muscular form, recalling that of a lion, save for the pair of leathery wings that protruded from its torso. Not one, but three pairs of blazing eyes looked down upon them, glowing with a cruel, feral hunger.

Three monstrous mouths opened wide as the monster tucked its wings and fell towards the Stormcasts. From the central, draconic maw a stream of blue-white flame spat forth. It splashed across the front ranks of the Celestial Vindicators, and three warriors fell to the ground, writhing and screaming as the magical fire ate away at their plate armour. The chimera spread its wings once more, arresting the speed of its descent and dropping to land upon the spiral walkway. The lion’s head snapped out, engulfing another Stormcast’s upper torso. The creature shook its prey violently and hurled the broken body into empty space.

Lightning arrows and crossbow bolts skipped off the creature’s thick hide as the Judicators opened up with punishing volleys. The creature roared in fury, and another gout of flame spat out at the Stormcasts. The platform upon which Thostos and his men stood began to bubble and warp under the furious heat. Vitenoryx continued to spew fire as it shook and tore at the ground with powerful forelimbs.

‘Back!’ shouted Steelhide. ‘The ground gives way!’

The chimera leapt from its perch, and as it did so great chunks of stone-coral began to fall, toppling the several hundred yards to the floor below. As one, the Stormcasts fell back, scrambling to safety as the platform disintegrated.

Only Thostos ran on. To fall back now would leave the sorcerer and the Knight-Azyros, who must be held nearby, out of reach. The Lord-Celestant ignored the cries of his warriors and the furious heat of the bubbling stone beneath him as he rushed forwards, leaping between falling sections of stone. Before him the curving path that led to the summit collapsed, leaving a chasm of several feet in its wake. He did not stop his charge. He leapt into empty air, grasping for the far edge. He slammed into it with astonishing force, striking the ledge with his chest, feeling the air rush from his lungs. With a fierce effort he swung one leg up over the side, rolling onto the safety of the platform.

He saw the war party below, continuing to send a torrent of bolts and arrows up towards the roof of the tower. As he watched, the chimera opened its wings and dived down at them once more. Gritting his teeth, Thostos dragged himself to his feet.

‘Very impressive, my friend,’ came a voice from above. ‘I admit, I was hoping I would have you all to myself.’

Ahead, the horned warrior floated on his disc of metal, burning glaive held easily in one hand. The platform at the summit was wide and open, circling around the colossal structure of the hanging orb. The air was thick with the stench of magic, but Thostos could see no sign of the Knight-Azyros.

He drew his hammer and sword, and strode forwards.

‘First you die,’ he said, aiming his runeblade at his opponent. ‘Then I find my messenger. Then I shatter this tower around your twitching corpse.’

‘Kill the flame-breather,’ shouted Prosecutor Zannus, calling another hammer to his hand. He hurled the weapon, and there was an explosion of purple blood and green scales as it struck the beast upon the neck. The chimera screeched in rage and beat its wings furiously, hauling its bulky form into the air once more. As it did so, it kicked against the guardrail with its powerful hind legs, launching itself across the central chasm with shocking speed.

‘Brother!’ shouted Atrin, but it was already too late.

Zannus’ eyes went wide and he tried to lift himself out of the way, but there was no time. The chimera barrelled into him, and its bird-like head snapped out to clamp down upon the Stormcast’s radiant wings. The beast hurtled across the gap and into the far wall, crushing Zannus against the hard coral, which crumbled and split under the weight of the collision. When the creature turned, the Prosecutor’s corpse was nowhere to be seen. Another warrior recalled to the halls of Reforging.

‘We have to take that thing down,’ said Atrin, taking aim and sending a sigmarite bolt whistling into the creature’s back.

‘You think so, brother?’ shouted Liberator Pollux, with mock incredulity. ‘Its hide is thicker than your skull.’

As he spoke, the creature whirled again, leathery wings beating furiously as it circled the walkway, strafing them with another gout of flame. Stone-coral melted away beneath their feet, and Atrin rolled aside just in time as the guardrail upon which he was leaning crumbled and fell down the central chasm, shattering into a thousand pieces on the floor, far below.

It was then that Judicator Atrin did something very foolish indeed. He drew his gladius and took a step backwards, waiting on the precipice of the disintegrating balcony until the chimera swooped past once more, and then leapt into the empty air.

He slammed into the beast’s flank with jarring force, sliding down its tough and leathery skin until he stabbed the gladius deep into its flesh. The chimera screamed and dipped its wings to throw him off. Straining with effort, he managed to lock his legs around its lower back, feeling a stab of agony as one of the barbed spikes that ran down its back sank into the flesh of his leg. The chimera wheeled lower, dragged down by the weight of the Judicator. Atrin yanked the gladius free and sunk it in again, feeling hot blood seep across his armour. He glanced below, saw the edge of a lower gallery rushing towards him, and tried to roll up and onto the beast’s back before the impact crushed him. He made it just in time, felt the hard stone rush past his cheek.

Something struck him in the neck, and clamped on hard. He glanced back, groaning as the armour at his shoulder crumpled and crushed his flesh. It was the monster’s tail, tipped with the head of yet another beast, a smaller version of the great draconic maw. Its jagged teeth clamped down and the tail flexed back, trying to drag him free. He swept the gladius over his shoulder, felt it hack deep into the flesh of the tail. He was so near to falling now, and the world was a dizzying blur as the chimera spiralled lower and lower, three heads screeching horribly.

With a final slice he hacked through the tail, leaving the head clamped mercilessly to his shoulder. He grabbed a tail spike to steady himself, hauled himself forwards, and drove his gladius deep into the chimera’s neck, feeling the wicked blade slice through meat and carve deep into bone. Another howl of pain, so high-pitched he felt his eardrums throb in protest. As he and the dying creature tumbled and spun in the air, he glimpsed the floor of the tower, only a few paces away and rushing up at him with horrifying speed.

He closed his eyes and waited for the impact.

The glaive came forwards, viper-quick, carving a glaring line of flame through the air as it did. Thostos swayed back, let the weapon sail past an inch from his chest, and made to return the strike with one of his own.

The disc upon which Lorchis stood hurtled towards him. The wicked teeth upon its edge crashed into his shoulder, and he was knocked to the floor. The Chaos warrior continued to soar into the air, laughing.

‘This stubbornness, it is all so pointless,’ said Lorchis, as the Lord-Celestant hauled himself upright. ‘The Lord of Change sees all, insignificant one. You truly believe you can fight that which is infinite and all-knowing? Your defiance does not shock us, warrior of justice. It does not take us unaware. It is but the latest act of futility in a cycle that has spun on for eternity. You will fall. Your kind always does.’

‘He told you nothing,’ Thostos said, his voice cold, even and utterly assured.

Lorchis stiffened in anger, and when he spoke again his tone had lost its teasing quality.

‘You cannot take a sword to fate itself, you fool,’ he spat. ‘You cannot fight that which has already been decided.’

‘We can. We have. Now cease your prattle, and meet your death.’

With a roar, the warrior came at him. The disc rushed forwards, towards the Lord-Celestant’s chest. The burning glaive sliced through the air, spitting flame. Thostos went down low, feeling the heat of his enemy’s weapon scorch the air above his head. Lorchis sent the disc into a spin, the blades cutting through the air at furious speed as the strange device descended. Thostos darted aside, searching for an opening as he went.

His opponent was skilled. He used the disc’s wicked blades to keep the Lord-Celestant at bay, and even when Thostos managed to get inside that guard, the Chaos champion’s fine buckler snapped across to deflect the strike.

Lorchis came forwards again, glaive leading. It scraped across the Lord-Celestant’s pauldron as he dodged to the side, and the sigmarite bubbled where its flaming edge touched the metal. The disc whipped past Thostos, and one of the hooked blades sank deep into his chest plate. Metal pushed painfully against his ribs, and suddenly he was hurtling through the air, dragged along with the strange device. Lorchis laughed, a shrill, joyless sound, and sank the flaming glaive into Thostos’ shoulder. The white-hot edge of the weapon tore through his fine armour, and the Lord-Celestant felt bone shatter. Then the glaive struck him again, this time just under the throat. The strength of the blow levered him free of the disc’s protruding blade, and he found himself falling. His skin cooked and peeled, and he grunted in pain as melted sigmarite seared its way down his chest. He struck the ground hard, rolled and cracked his skull against the wall of the tower.

Lorchis descended from above, still chuckling to himself.

‘Oh, it has been a long time since I have fought such a battle,’ he said, and dipped his horned helm towards Thostos in a mock bow. ‘Most enjoyable. I will come to value your company, I think, over the long years. So many secrets to discover.’

He peered at the Lord-Celestant, and inched closer.

‘That is considering that I have not already killed you, of course,’ he muttered. ‘Your kind is stubborn, redoubtable even. Yet even the greatest of us have our breaking point, do we not? Just look to your winged friend for proof of that.’

Cold anger flowed into Thostos, an icy torrent of vengeful fury that swept away his pain and his exhaustion. The agony that lanced through his chest and burned flesh faded to irrelevance. Only vengeance remained. Pure and honest vengeance, a link to the man he had once been. Perhaps the only link that yet endured.

He stood, and one hand reached up to wrench free his helm. The metal clattered to the floor, and Lorchis flinched as he saw the twin pits of blue fire that burned within the Lord-Celestant’s pitiless death mask of a face. There was no mercy in that gaze. It promised only a swift and painful death.

‘I am Sigmar’s wrath made manifest,’ Thostos growled, feeling the truth, the power in the words as he spoke them. ‘I am the hammer of retribution. I bring the God-King’s justice for every life you have taken in service to darkness.’

Lorchis spat a curse, and sent his disc streaking towards the Lord-Celestant, his glaive held ready like a tourney lance.

An eye-blink before the glaive spitted him, Thostos ducked to the side, feeling the rush of air as the disc’s ravenous blades whistled past his head. He dropped to one knee and spun, sweeping his cloak out wide as he did so and muttering the arcane phrase that activated the garment’s dormant magic. The cloud of glittering hammers burst forth from the ornamentations at the hem of the cloak. Lorchis was turning to get the disc back in line for another charge as each missile slammed home, blasting him from his perch. The spinning contraption whirled away, smashing into the hanging orb. Sparks and shards flew as the blades hewed into the crystal and skipped away. The fallen Chaos lord dragged himself upright, but Thostos was already upon him, striking relentlessly with hammer and runeblade.

Lorchis blocked the hammer, and Thostos ignored the flash of pain as the flames washed across his gauntlet. The runeblade struck home, gouging into the Chaos champion’s ornate armour. Lorchis howled in pain, and stumbled backwards. He sliced his glaive out, and the weapon carved another deep line across the Lord-Celestant’s chest. Thostos barely felt the blow.

‘You… you cannot win,’ the lord of the tower wheezed. ‘Even if I fall here…’

‘Others will take your place. And they too will die,’ said Thostos.

He came forwards fast, raining blows from his dual weapons. His opponent was skilled. The glaive snapped back and forth, picking off the Lord-Celestant’s attacks and even scoring a couple of glancing blows as Lorchis whipped it back and forth with impressive speed. Yet Thostos did not relent. He pushed forwards, battering away at Lorchis with no pause until the wall was at the mortal’s back. He hammered the glaive out wide, and before his enemy could bring it back to block, he sliced out with a diagonal cut of his runeblade. The blow severed Lorchis’ arm at the elbow, and he collapsed to the floor, grasping the bleeding stump. Thostos put the edge of his blade to Lorchis’ throat.

‘Where is he?’ he growled. ‘Where is the prisoner you found out in the forest? The angel.’

‘Well fought,’ panted the warrior, holding up his good hand in a gesture of surrender. ‘You have skill and fury in you. Too much for me. Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps you have the strength to unweave the great tapestry.’

Thostos paused. There was something in the man’s voice, some remnant of satisfaction. From a distance he heard a whistling sound, as if something was whipping through the air at an incredible speed.

Instinct took over. The Lord-Celestant fell to the side, turning as he did so. He saw the sorcerer lord’s metal disk fly through the air, cutting through the spot where he had been standing mere moments before. It carved neatly through Lorchis’ helm, just underneath his eyes. The rest of the Chaos lord’s body toppled over, gore dribbling from the bisected skull.

‘Justice,’ said Thostos, feeling a surge of righteous satisfaction. Yet his fury still simmered. The vermin in this tower still held the Knight-Azyros Capellon, and he would revisit every torment his brother had suffered upon their wretched hides.

The sounds of battle echoed from below, though he could no longer hear the screeching of the dread chimera. Time was running short. Doubtless the enemy was already regrouping, and they did not have the numbers for a protracted battle.

He glanced around the chamber. There was a single grand door, leading out towards a short corridor. Thostos was about to make his way across, when he heard a whisper from behind him.

‘Thostos Bladestorm,’ it said. ‘You seek me, my friend.’

He turned, runeblade raised.

Before him was the surface of the great orb, and within its depths the half-glimpsed faces that screamed and surged. Only one was still. An open, friendly face, now twisted in agony. Though the opaque crystal obscured the man’s features, Thostos recognised him at once.

‘Knight-Azyros Capellon,’ he said, approaching the lip of the summit. Below his feet the central chasm dropped away, many feet to the entrance chamber. ‘I am sorry we did not find you in time.’

‘The face shimmered, and the man gave a pained smile.

‘It was my fault,’ said Capellon. ‘I was careless. I jeopardised everything that Sigmar plans.’

‘No,’ said Thostos. ‘You did not give up your secrets. There is still time. Where do we muster, brother? Where do the forces of Sigmar gather?’

‘You must travel through the forest of crystals, and across the mountains to the north of the realmgate,’ said Capellon. ‘Look for the Nine Anvils, an ancient duardin fortress built into the cliffs. There lies your path. The coastal road is long, and dangerous, but it will lead you to the Silversands, and to the fields where our fellow warriors gather.’

Capellon screamed, and his image warped like a reflection in a rippling pool.

‘Now go!’ he screamed. ‘Before more of the enemy come. You cannot undo what they have done to me, brother. I am dead, and it is only foul sorcery that binds me here to suffer.’

Thostos looked around the floor. Great chains secured the orb to the ceiling, stretching from the top of the crystal to anchor points along the upper wall. They were forged of thick iron, the links as thick as a man’s torso.

‘You have done your duty,’ said the Lord-Celestant. ‘And I will not leave you here.’

For the second time in the last two days, Judicator Atrin awoke blearily to find himself lying broken and battered at the business end of a long fall. He glanced above, and could see the flicker of lightning that marked his fellow Stormcasts’ position. They were making their way down the tower, still exchanging arrows with whatever remained of the structure’s defenders.

Something wet covered his armour, and the ground beneath him was oddly soft. He shook his head, bleary-eyed, and looked down.

Oh yes, he had landed on the chimera.

Somehow he had survived the creature’s dying descent with little more than a few scrapes and bruises. True, every single bone in his entire body seemed to rattle like a bag of dice as he stood, but at least he could support his weight. He stumbled free of what remained of the chimera, and did his best to wipe the spattered remnants from his armour. Then he felt around until he found his gladius, and held it ready. The war party was descending, but they were still under assault. Just about the last thing Atrin wished to do was haul his battered form up all the way back up the tower, but he could hardly leave his fellows to battle their way down to the ground floor while he rested there.

He was just striding towards the circular walkway when the noise began. It was the sound of a fortress wall collapsing, or the sound of an avalanche crashing down a mountainside — yet oddly resonant. It was coming from far above him.

He glanced up. He could see the colossal orb at the very top of the tower. It seemed to be swaying. A torrent of dust and shattered stone was pouring down from the ceiling. The groaning, grinding sound continued. A chunk of the strange calcified coral almost as large as Atrin smashed to the ground beside him, and the impact sent him sprawling to the side. More rocks fell, and he began to drag himself around the edge of the room, towards the exit. There was one last apocalyptic crash overhead. Atrin glanced up. It almost looked as if the colossal orb was falling towards him, smashing its way down past gallery after gallery, picking up horrific speed as it came.

‘Throne of Sigmar,’ Atrin muttered, realising that the orb was in fact doing exactly that.

The Judicator had no choice but to run. Rocks and fragments of stone-coral exploded around him as he dashed towards the tower entrance. Shrapnel of chipped rock battered against his armour. He was only a few feet from the door when a slab of stone as big as one of Azyrheim’s great glass windows slammed into the floor, mere inches from carving him neatly in two. He staggered back and made the mistake of glancing up again. The gigantic orb was only a few seconds from impact.

With a final, straining effort, Atrin hurtled across the floor and threw himself bodily out of the main door to clatter painfully down the stone steps. There was a horrifying sound of impact, loud enough to send blood pouring from his ears, and then a sharper, higher-pitched noise — the sound of a million glass windows shattering at once. He tucked his arms around his head and lay there as fragments of broken crystal whipped past his prone form. He heard them thudding into the ground, or skipping off the dull metal surface of the mountainside. It was several moments before he dared open his eyes and stand.

The ground was covered in every direction with fragments of shattered crystal and broken stone. The entrance to the tower had been shredded by the storm of projectiles, though since it had already lain toppled against the cliff-side, it did not seem in danger of collapsing.

Strangest of all was the mist that spiralled out of the tower entrance and into the air. There were forms moving and shifting within, though Atrin could not make them out. Then there was the briefest crackle of light, and the mist evaporated.

He waited there, amongst the field of broken crystal, until the war party appeared in the doorway. Following behind was the Lord-Celestant himself. Atrin strode forwards.

‘Judicator?’ said Steelhide in surprise. ‘Sigmar’s blood, if you’re not the luckiest fellow in the chamber. How did you survive that fall?’

‘The monster was kind enough to provide me with ample cushioning,’ Atrin said. There was a round of laughter, and more than one warrior shook his head in disbelief.

‘There will be time to swap tales later,’ said Lord-Celestant Thostos. ‘We have what we need. Now we must leave this place before more of the enemy arrive.’

The situation in the gatehouse tunnel was still dire, but Eldroc had no choice but to trust in the men to hold out a little longer. He made his way out of the packed corridor, shouting encouragement to the warriors as he went.

‘Hold them here, brothers,’ he ordered. ‘The Lord-Celestant will return, and we will drive the orruk before us.’

Eldroc had little faith that would be the case now. The Celestial Vindicators had cut down countless scores of the enemy, but now their own losses were taking their toll. They were losing cohesion, and that would spell their end.

He made his way out into the blazing sun of the inner courtyard, his Paladin retinue close behind, and emerged into a scene of chaos. The orruks had cleared the wall, and now the lines of battle had broken down entirely. Across the clearing the gleaming turquoise of the Celestial Vindicators clashed with the yellow iron of the orruks, and more of the creatures were leaping from the rampart stairs even as Eldroc and his men barrelled into the fray.

The Lord-Castellant took in the carnage in an instant, searching for the spot where he was most needed. On the left-hand side of the courtyard, a dwindling group of Liberators was battling a mob of five orruks that towered over their fellows. They were broader, more strongly muscled, and though their armour eschewed ornamentation, it was thicker and more garishly painted. Each figure bore a red hand-print across its ugly face and carried an array of crude yet savagely effective weaponry.

‘With me, Vindicators,’ Eldroc shouted, and headed in the direction of these painted warriors. Howling orruk faces bore down on him as he ran, but the Retributors of his personal retinue cleared the way ahead with brutal efficiency, their hammers sweeping out to send the enemy flying, limbs broken, skulls shattered.

The last of the Liberators fell, the orruk elites falling upon him with cleavers and axes, hacking and tearing at him until his head came free. The helm rolled across the floor, leaking blood, before it evaporated in a flash of light.

‘For vengeance!’ roared Eldroc, and crashed into the nearest of the warriors. The orruk reacted with astonishing speed, crossing its axes to intercept the Lord-Castellant’s falling halberd. Eldroc sent the weapon into a spin, and turned with it, sending the haft out in a horizontal strike that hit the creature in the face. Its ugly nose burst, and the orruk went into a frenzy, launching itself into the fray with both its weapons. There was little skill or thought to its wild swings, but they were effective nonetheless.

The Lord-Castellant gave ground, deflecting desperately with his halberd, but poor fortune saw him crash against another orruk behind him. He stumbled, just a step. The face-painted orruk’s axe crashed into his right pauldron, and the force of the impact sent him down on one knee. The brute at his back sensed a chance to spill blood and lunged forwards with its spiked mace. Eldroc ducked one shoulder, and the creature missed its swing and stumbled past, crashing into the face-painted orruk. The bigger creature hammered this new inconvenience to the ground, but the brief scuffle gave Eldroc a few precious seconds, and he did not waste them. He set his halberd, and rammed the tip of the weapon through the painted orruk’s throat. The creature’s brow furrowed, and it glanced down with almost comic confusion as its lifeblood drained away. Eldroc twisted the weapon, and sent the greenskin tumbling to the ground.

Two more orruks bounded forwards in the dying brute’s wake. He hacked one down, scything deep into its thigh and sending it sprawling to the floor. The other was close behind — too close for Eldroc to possibly get his halberd up in time to block the axe it held raised and ready to swing.

An arrow whipped past the Lord-Castellant’s head, and sank into the beast’s eye. The orruk howled, one hand reaching to pluck the shaft loose, and Eldroc sank his halberd’s blade deep into its skull. As the orruk fell, he glanced across in the direction the arrow had come from. A few yards behind him, Alzheer knelt on the rampart stairway, calmly loosing arrow after arrow into the chaos beneath her. She seemed a tiny, helpless figure indeed amongst the chaos of the battle, dwarfed by both the towering Stormcasts and the savage orruks.

The several dead orruks lying before her with white-feathered shafts protruding from eyes and throats put the lie to that.

‘Priestess,’ Eldroc said, making his way towards her. The arrival of his force had pushed back the orruks momentarily, though that would not last for long. Even now, more of the savages were dropping down amongst the defenders, and light flared across the wall as more Vindicators made the journey back to Azyrheim. Redbeak hopped down the steps and came to a halt by Alzheer’s side, head and feathers spattered with dark blood.

‘Lord Eldroc,’ she said, patting the gryph-hound affectionately on the flank. ‘Do we yet hold the gate?’

‘For a few minutes longer at least,’ he said. ‘I believe the Lord-Celestant said you should rest, my lady.’

She laughed. ‘It hardly matters now, does it? Our time has run out. The orruks will slaughter every living being in this fortress, sound asleep or not.’

Eldroc took in the battlefield. The orruks were everywhere. The section of wall directly over the gatehouse was the only spot that the Stormcasts still held, and even then just barely. With every passing second more warriors fell, and the closer the end came.

‘A fair point,’ he conceded. ‘Though you need not fall here. You could still make for the mountain tunnels. It is a chance at survival, at least.’

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It ends here, one way or the other. I will die fighting by your side. It is what Zi’Mar would wish.’

‘It would be an honour on my part, priestess. Whatever happens here, the orruks in this region will be but a shadow of their former selves. Without their leader to keep them in line, they will fall to infighting and squabbling. Take comfort in that, for your people will find them far less of a danger in the coming days. At least for a time.’

‘I hope that is so,’ she said, and flashed him a tired smile. Then she furrowed her brow in confusion.

Eldroc heard it too, a thunder that reverberated through his bones, shaking his teeth and pounding in his skull. The orruks beneath the wall also noticed the growing noise. They turned, confused, to the source of the sound. It was coming from the pass. The curved walls of the canyon channelled and amplified the sound, until it seemed as though the ground itself would tear apart, ruptured in the advent of some catastrophic tectonic disaster.

‘What new calamity assails us?’ Eldroc muttered, as he and Alzheer raced up the steps to the rampart wall.

The answer emerged from the mouth of the pass like the surging tide of a flash-flood. A carpet of brown and tan flesh, a thousand, thousand powerful limbs and heavy bodies surging together in the unity of panic. They screamed and snorted as they ran, drowning out even the bellowed chants of the orruks. Above the oncoming apocalypse, Thostos saw spiralling, swooping figures with wings of silver flame, hurling streaks of lightning into the throng and dropping low to skim above the beasts’ terrified heads. They were herding the animals, Eldroc realised. The leader of the flying warriors dived in an audacious corkscrew, pulling up at the very tip of the spear of living flesh, and Eldroc saw a bright blue plume, radiant in the breaking sunlight.

‘Goldfeather,’ he said, and shook his head in disbelief.

The stampede hit the orruk flank like the fist of a vengeful god. Bodies were hurled high into the air, to tumble like ragdolls into the surge. Others were ground underneath the appalling weight or spitted on vicious horns and carried along with unstoppable momentum.

With nowhere else to turn, and their simple minds ruled by sheer terror, the mass of herd animals continued to plough into the obstacle before them, rolling through the massed infantry and cavalry with ease. In a moment, the fragile cohesion of the leaderless orruk horde collapsed. Great swathes turned to run. Not to flee, but to give chase to this new and unexpected aggressor. Orruks leapt onto the backs of passing herd-beasts, hooting and whooping with delighted stupidity as they were carried along. Others hacked and smashed at any animals they could see, only exacerbating the panicked violence of the stampede. All was chaos, and the sounds of screaming, roaring, bellowing and the relentless pounding of hooves rose to a deafening crescendo.

In a moment, the single-minded aggression of the orruks was switched from the assault of the fortress to the reckless pursuit of this new foe. It mattered not that the herd-beasts were simple-minded animals. They promised violence and chaos, and so the tide of orruks joined in.

‘To the gate!’ ordered Eldroc. It was now or never. If they could drive back the distracted orruks that remained, they could still taste victory this day.

‘Lord-Castellant!’ came a voice from on high.

Prosecutor-Prime Evios Goldeather dropped from the sky, hurling a javelin that crackled with arcs of white light. The missile struck a climbing orruk in the back, pinning it neatly to the exterior wall. Another projectile appeared in the herald’s hands, and as he levelled out over the heads of the nearest orruks, he thrust it like a lance to pierce the chest of another creature. Around him, more and more of the creatures were driven from the wall, and they were no longer replaced in an instant by their fellows.

‘I see you decided to take on an entire army by yourself, Lord-Castellant,’ he said, as he dropped neatly to the rampart wall beside Eldroc, his fabulous, gleaming wings tucking neatly behind his back. ‘Perhaps a little rash, though you seem to be doing rather well, considering.’

‘You timing is impeccable, Prosecutor-Prime,’ said Eldroc, his heart flooding with relief. ‘We had thought you lost.’

‘Not today, my Lord. My warriors and I… We are the last of the Argellonites left standing.’ The Prosecutor-Prime’s voice cracked just slightly as he spoke. He removed his helm, and his stark blue eyes looked at the Lord-Castellant imploringly.

‘I left him there,’ he said, quietly. ‘In the canyon. He fell, and I left him unavenged. Him, and the rest of my chamber.’

Eldroc placed a hand on his shoulder.

‘Lord-Celestant Argellon will be filled with pride when he hears what you did. You saved the mission, Evios. Without your intervention we would have surely fallen. I will tell Mykos of your ingenuity, when he returns from the forge.’

Goldfeather nodded.

‘I cannot believe that you did this,’ said Alzheer, shaking her head and staring at the chaos unfolding before them. Thousands of orruk dead littered the plain. If they had re-gathered then, the creatures may still have carried the day, but all thought of taking the Dreadhold seemed to have left them.

‘Well,’ said Goldfeather, stepping to the rampart alongside the woman, and gazing out at the carnage alongside her. ‘It was actually something you said that gave me the idea.’

‘It was?’

‘You told us that everything on the plain wants us dead. I rather thought the same thing might apply to the orruks.’

Night had fallen by the time Lord-Celestant Thostos made his way back through the realmgate. He brought with him the sad tale of Knight-Azyros Capellon’s demise, but also the hopeful news of the mustering point at the Silversands.

‘You held the fortress,’ he said, as he saluted Eldroc. ‘As I knew you would.’

‘I think we have Prosecutor-Prime Goldfeather to thank for that more than I,’ said the Lord-Castellant. ‘And the men. I have never seen them fight so fiercely.’

They kept a heavy guard through the night, familiar as they now were with the myriad dangers of the Roaring Plains. Though they could hardly relax, the immediate danger had passed, and songs of praise to Sigmar and of the glory of the Argellonites Warrior Chamber rang throughout the mountains until dawn.

As the sun broke, they were greeted by yet another gladdening sight. Lord-Relictor Tharros Soulwarden rose from his vigil at the realmgate, having at last seared the fell influence of Chaos from the ancient structure. With the portal cleansed, the path to the mustering point was made safe. It was time to leave the Roaring Plains. The warriors of the Celestial Vindicators arrayed themselves before the Manticore Realmgate, their sea-green armour gleaming and radiant despite the scars and dents that the last few days had left upon them.

Alzheer stayed long enough to watch the march of the Stormcasts, and Eldroc saw tears brimming in her eyes as the glorious warriors fell into perfect order. Above them, on the walls of the Dreadhold, the comet of Sigmar still flew, fluttering in the soothing wind. The last of the clouds had parted, and the sky was a brilliant azure canvas. It was the first time that the heavens had been free of swirling clouds since the Stormcasts’ arrival.

As they watched, a single speck of light appeared from the west, and streaked across the endless expanse of blue. It left a searing contrail of white-orange across the sky, like the afterimage of staring into a raging fire.

Eldroc felt his heart soar at the sight. He said not a word as the light fell behind the mountains, and the glowing trail in its wake slowly faded from sight. He glanced at Alzheer. Tears streamed down her face, and she clutched the hound’s tooth necklace she carried in one trembling hand.

‘This is just the beginning,’ he told her. ‘More warriors will come from Azyr, priestess. All across the Mortal Realms the armies of Sigmar reclaim the land that was stolen from us. Wherever Sigmar’s light shines, we will find the remnants of his lost people. And we will bring them back.’

‘Hope,’ she said, simply, as she watched the banners of the Celestial Vindicators soar beneath the morning sun.

For once, and Eldroc could not help but praise the God-King for this unexpected boon, the Bladestorm Chamber did not come under attack as it wound its way through the foothills of dull brass towards the rally point. The warriors were tired and beaten, but still they remained in good voice as they marched. Battle-hymns echoed across the mountain range, and those gifted with musical talent or a strong singing voice began to compose their own odes to the bravery of the fallen Argellonites, and the heroism of Lord-Celestant Mykos Argellon and his men.

‘When Mykos and his men return to the field the bonds between our chambers will be stronger than they have ever been,’ said Eldroc, as he caught up to his Lord-Celestant. Redbeak trilled in agreement, padding along in his wake.

‘His loss will be felt in the battles to come,’ said Thostos, with a nod. ‘Yet we have his sacrifice to thank that we can fight them at all. Had the full force of the orruks not been shattered at Splitskull Pass, the Dreadhold would have fallen to their assault.’

‘We prevailed,’ said Eldroc. ‘And now we march to a far greater challenge. The Ironholds are the greatest of the enemy’s bastions. It is said that no army could ever hope to break down their walls.’

‘No army but that which Sigmar has brought forth,’ said Thostos, as they rounded a pass and the ground fell away before them, sliced through by rivers of streaming silver that roared down from the west to form a wondrous estuary of shimmering, molten metal.

Yet it was not this sight that stole Eldroc’s breath.

Gathered on the estuary plain was the mightiest force that the Lord-Castellant had ever laid eyes upon. They mustered in their thousands, warriors from a dozen or more Stormhosts, banners fluttering in the wind. Everywhere one looked, there flew the icons of the God-King. The regal gold and purple of the Lions of Sigmar, soaring high above columns of glittering Liberators. The morose black of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, held aloft by grim swordsmen. Royal blues, fierce reds. The full panoply of Azyr’s finest warriors, arrayed in perfect order before them. Lines of cavalry mounted upon proud and noble dracoths, spears glinting in the moonlight. Angels and heralds of war swirling in the skies above, their trumpets and war-horns filling the air with a fierce and radiant harmony.

A force to sunder worlds. An army to strike down the gods themselves.

‘By Sigmar,’ he whispered.

‘Now the war begins in earnest, my friend,’ said Thostos. ‘Now the power of the God-King is truly unleashed. And the realms themselves will tremble at our passing.’

Gav Thorpe

Warbeast

Chapter One

A fresh flurry of snow swept across the mountainside, layering onto thick drifts that already half concealed remnants of ancient walls and towers toppled in a distant age. The rusted and fused remains of great gears jutted from the ice, staining the snow the colour of dried blood. The immense barbican that had once housed them was little more than wind-worn boulders scattered across the area. Of the ramparts, buttresses and ravelins that had supported the gatehouse little remained — humps and ridges beneath the snow delineated by heaps and lines of unnaturally regular rocks.

The wind caused tent sides to crack and guy ropes to sing as it keened over an encampment within the comparative shelter of the centuries-old ruins. In the lee of broken stairwells and part-tumbled walls, the nomads huddled close to their fires, wrapped tight in pelts of many different colours and patterns — black bear, the white and grey stripes of snow tigers, exotic carmine and mauve spots against white from slain lyregryphs. On small spits over glowing charcoal they cooked their meat, slowly turning the skewered flesh while dripping fat caused the embers to sputter and hiss. Cauldrons bubbled over flames, the water within bobbing with pieces of gristle and bone through a greasy slick.

Tonight’s was a special feast, despite the weather, for the hunting had been good. Thick haunches and splayed ribs would grace the trenchers of the chief and her favourites, with fresh marrow and small cakes thick with congealed blood, while those less in regard licked their lips in anticipation of liver, shins, feet and fingers.

The cannibals bickered over the other spoils, fighting over metal buckles, tin cups, teeth pulled from the skulls — used as necklaces and for beads in braided hair and beards — while clothes, weapons, boots, jewellery and armour were stacked neatly in piles beneath awnings, awaiting the chieftain, who would award them to those that had fought the best or pleased her in other ways.

A few captives were still alive, roped together to an immense stake outside the large tent of the clan’s leader. Naked, they huddled together for what warmth they could find, terrified and numb with shock. There were eight of them, three women and five men, and each bore cuts and bruises from the battle, and rope burns from their chafing bonds at ankle and wrist.

The wind picked up, starting to pull at the tent ropes, flattening the flames of the more exposed fires, throwing sparks and ash into the air. The sky darkened and the arguing and laughter petered out. The Bonekeepers glanced at the heavens and to the tent of their leader, wary of the sudden change. There was good reason why no tribe remained in one place for long, for the mountains of Ursungorod were of ill-temper, always prone to the sudden spasms and constant peregrinations that had laid low the fortress currently sheltering the kin-eaters.

The prisoners started wailing, lifting shrill voices in lament while blue lightning crackled across the unnatural storm gathering above. The children who had been tormenting them fled for the shelter of the tents and the protection of the adults, who in turn rose from the firesides, whispering prayers to Kronra, God of the Bloody Feast.

Trailing half-naked suitors, the Gore Maiden emerged from her grand marquee, still clad in red-lacquered leather armour. Hair the colour of raven feathers spilled to her waist from beneath a helm adorned with a crown of bone splinters taken from the body of a goroxen she had slain single-handedly two winters before. She snapped commands, calling for her guards to form around her while others scrambled for spears and shields left close at hand.

The Bonekeeper war party gathered, the strongest at the front, the unblooded behind. Battle and internal politics, as well as long winters of famine, meant none amongst the Bonekeepers lived long enough to become old and infirm.

In a rough half-circle with their chief at its centre, the clan waited. Eight dozen pairs of eyes scoured the gloom, casting their gaze over snow-blanketed stones lit by the flashes of azure above.

A single bolt lanced down, striking the ground no more than a hundred paces in front of the Gore Maiden. All flinched from the brightness and blinked furiously to rid themselves of the after-shadow. When their eyes cleared they saw a single figure, a cerulean statue, standing where the lightning had struck.

It stood half again as tall as the largest warrior of the Bonekeepers, and was clad entirely in gleaming plates in representation of a muscled warrior. A huge guard curved across its left shoulder, the roundel where it met the sculpted breastplate moulded with a sapphire in the design of an upraised hammer that blazed two bolts of lightning from its head. A helm with a snarling visage hid the face beneath a spiked halo-like arc of gold. In the right hand a sword gleamed with moonlight brightness, angular runic shapes lit by their own power along its length. The left held a hammer, its head blazoned with the mark of a twin-tailed comet. From the figure’s shoulders hung a slatted cloak, each ribbon tipped by a weight in the shape of a warhammer.

For ten heartbeats nothing stirred save for the snow devils whipped up by the wind. A few of the tribespeople edged forwards, looking to each other for reassurance, grunting in their guttural tongue.

The eyes of the helm blazed into life, filling with a scarlet glow. Magical energy coruscated across the figure’s body, crawling up the arms and into the weapons, causing them to shine even brighter with white light. The statue broke into a run, blade and hammer head leaving a trail of silver sparks in its wake.

In a voice edged with a boom of thunder in the skies, the lord of metal let forth a mighty shout. The volume alone was enough to shake all but the hardiest of constitutions, but what stunned the Bonekeepers was that the words were in their own tongue, albeit an ancient dialect.

‘The Bear-clad hath returned. The Hard Winter shall end and justice be restored!’

‘The storm comes.’

So spoke the sagesayer Radomira. The skies above the great mountains of Ursungorod filled with sinister clouds that flickered with green lightning. Withered hands with nails painted blood-red clutched the twisted wood of her staff, knuckles white with tension. Beneath a hood of coarse black wool, she turned her face up to stare at her krul, the warrior-king of the Ursungoran clans. There were tears in her eyes. ‘The omens have not changed. You shall not see the end of it.’

‘Ratkin scum,’ replied Arka, known as the Bear-clad for the thick black pelt he wore across his immense shoulders. A word came to him, passed down through the many generations that had fought against the plague-rats of the deep. A cursed word that came from the Times Before. ‘Pestilentzi.’

He stood nearly a head taller than the men and women of his stratzari, the best warriors from more than two dozen clans. Many had once been clan leaders themselves, of the kort, zakar, hussta, zagir, uztek, kimmeri, ussra, and many others. For this he was also called the Uniter, and the Bear of Hard Winters for other feats, and several other titles across the peaks and valleys of Ursungorod.

The elite of Arka’s army waited on the gatehouse, six hundred in number, their armour a mixture of hardened leather and bronze rings, supplemented with bands or roundels of steel for those fortunate enough to have inherited such protection from their forefathers. There were styles from across the mountains — the high-peaked helms and gilded aventails of the valley clans, rounded basinets and dog-faced visors common amongst the scythic clans that had once dominated the caverns of inner Ursungorod, and skullcaps flamboyantly decorated with tassels, crests and beast-visaged emblems from the summit clans of the upper snows. Flags of red and gold, banners of white and blue, and gonfalons of black fluttered and snapped above them in the strengthening wind.

All were set with grim faces turned towards the darkness approaching from the mountain depths — the zienesta abisal, the Shadowgulf. While the coming ratkin horde spread out from scores of tunnels and caves, the air above them seethed with corrupted power, churning and frothing like a maelstrom.

The high walls to either side thronged with three thousand of Arka’s spear- and axe-wielding warriors, for the most part guarded against harm by nothing more than layers of leather and wool, and wooden oval shields painted with the rune of their new overlord.

The outer wall of Kurzengor, the settlement itself but a small fragment of the immense city built above and dug below Ursungorod, stood five times the height of a man, and thick enough for chambers within. But it was broken in places, shattered by the constant upheavals that wracked the mountain range, the breaches filled as best as possible with dull brown bricks, mortared stones and thick planks.

It was not ideal, but it was the best place to meet the squealing, shrieking mass of half-man rat-things that boiled up from the tunnels below. The wall itself was nothing, it was the men and women who held it that would decide the course of the battle.

Arka held up his axe, its long haft in one hand, the crescent moon blade glittering in the light of the accursed storm. He lifted his voice above the growing rumble.

‘This was the weapon of my mother. She took it from the fist of my father when he fell at Nijholli, already bathed many times in the blood of their enemies. Scores of foes — human, gods-tainted and ratkin — fell beneath it from my mother’s hand. She lived for the battle, but the cowardly vile-rats did not give her the peace of a war-death. Their corruption, their filth, spewed forth on noxious clouds, and plague heralded their attacks. In her bed, choking on lung-rot, every gasping breath an agony, that is how she died.’

He paused, eyes closed as the memory of that sight sank its claws into his throat, stifling his words. Taking a deep breath, Arka continued.

‘Before her final moments, I, a child of eight winters and seven summers, took this axe from her. I bid her farewell, and swore that I would see every one of the rat-filth slain. Every day since, I have cleaved to that oath. Long I have waged that war, and now they are goaded into showing themselves in the full light of day. Today shall live long in the legends of our people.’

Arka spoke the words with passion, but as he looked down at Radomira, who had nurtured him after his mother’s death, he shared her sadness — though he could not show it.

‘The omens do not give us hopes.’ Her words appeared in his thoughts, not passing her lips. ‘On the day you were born, the Ursungorod shook and the earth cracked beneath the Skagoldt Ridge to throw up the fires of the deeps. I saw a storm that day, and in its depths comes your ending.’

‘You knew as much when you took me as your son,’ Arka replied without speech, as he had been able to do with Radomira since that day she appeared at the house of his dead mother and bid him to leave with her. ‘You also spoke of great things that will happen this day. Our people will be saved, you said. If that needs my death, so be it.’

‘I did not say our people would be saved,’ she chided. ‘You must pay attention to detail, I have told you before. I said from the events of this day our lands will be freed.’

‘It is the same thing,’ grumbled Arka.

Accelerating, Arkas gloried in the touch of the frozen ground beneath his feet. The air was crisp and clean in his nostrils, at once so familiar and yet an almost forgotten memory. It instantly brought to mind childhood hunts and stalking the other youths of the Greypelt clan.

Darker recollections encroached, fuelling his long stride. Much had changed, in the lands as well as in his form and knowledge, but still his heart burned with the same furious thirst for vengeance. Sigmar the mighty God-King had furnished him with the means to finally fulfil that oath to his dying mother, gifting him with an immortal reforged body and weapons of celestial power. He was Greypelt no more. His clan loyalties were insignificant compared to the brotherhood ties of a Strike Chamber. All of the old titles were nothing compared to the epithet he had earned from Sigmar himself — Arkas Warbeast.

The kin-eaters were foolishly brave, not knowing the full nature of the warrior that attacked. They saw a solitary figure and perhaps thought to overwhelm him with the first rush of their counter-attack. He pounded up the slope, vaulting toppled stones and bounding across crevasses that had once been tower chambers. Arrows from short bows and stones from slings clattered and cracked harmlessly from his plated body.

‘The Lord Sigmar sends this message to all that nestle in the bosom of the Dark Gods,’ Arkas roared, his voice carrying like the wind of a storm.

He swept out the trails of his cloak and a flurry of hammer-shaped bolts flew across the gap, slashing golden wounds through the cannibalistic Chaos worshippers. A dozen strides later, he met the first of the kin-eaters’ warriors. Arkas’ sword flicked out, trailing lightning bolts, its tip parting the depraved barbarian from gut to chin. His hammer smashed the heads from two others. Pig iron blades and studded cudgels clattered ineffectually from his silvered armour.

It was more than the earth underfoot and the air in his lungs — the subtle nature of the Realm of Ghur stirred within him, calling him back to his roots, unleashing the war-beast that had always been part of him. When he had been known as the Bear-clad it had been something of a madness, coming upon him in the heat of combat. As the bloodfever rose he understood now that something more primal was aroused — something in the fabric of the mountains of Ursungorod that ignited inside him.

The leading edge of the storm was no more than a bowshot from the walls. Putridity, foul and yet sweet, carried on the strengthening wind. The rankness of the vile-rats came before them, accompanied by the chittering and squealing of warriors with matted fur and ragged robes.

‘There are fewer of them than I expected,’ Arka joked. The pestilentzi numbered at least five times that of his host. But in truth he did not think it too many; his warriors were a match for that number, and the walls, though broken, gave them even more advantage. He started to think that perhaps Radomira’s dire prophecy was wrong. It was not unknown for her to misinterpret the signs.

A shout from the left brought his attention to the upper end of the valley. There were shapes moving through the rocks of the gorge, the sickly light of the storm glinting from rusted armour and weapons. Men with unkempt locks and filth-crusted beards skulked through broken boulders and stunted trees. Their womenfolk came with them, their hair teased out into untidy braids slicked with human fat.

‘The ghoul tribes,’ sneered one of Arka’s companions, a wiry uzteki called Timur. The one-eyed warrior spat on the stones. ‘They are already cursed by the foul powers, and now they have made an alliance with the ratkin.’

‘No matter,’ Arka replied, though the confidence he had felt moments earlier was starting to ebb. ‘They are hardly better fighters than the scab-rats from below.’

He eyed the storm, which washed over the grand fortifications, bringing with it choking fumes. Men and women on the battered ramparts coughed and retched as foul-tasting smog obscured everything.

‘Archers!’ Arka bellowed, knowing that the pestilentzi would use the cover of the cloud to advance quickly. He had marked their approach carefully and had expected such a ruse — this was not the first time the ratkin had unleashed the foetid breath of the Horned One. ‘Loose to one hundred paces!’

Fifteen hundred bows were lifted and fifteen hundred dark shafts disappeared into the gloom. Eyes stinging, Arka could not mark their flight beyond fifty paces, but the fog could not wholly muffle the shrieks and squeaks of pain a few moments later. The archers reloaded and sent another volley, more ragged than the first, and another.

‘Fifty paces!’ Arka cried, seeing shadows emerging from the greenish mist. Overhead, the thunder cracked, shaking the ancient city wall to its foundations. Jade lightning crackled down, striking at several points along the rampart, each blast cutting down half a dozen warriors. Another bolt struck just ten paces away, blackening Aslanbek in his cracked armour, molten droplets of bronze spattering those nearby.

‘Clear the storm,’ Arka snarled at Radomira.

The sagesayer withdrew, her cabal of magicweavers gathering about her, brandishing a variety of rods, staves and wands, the jingle of their amulets and clatter of bone talismans a distraction for a moment.

The ratkin did not come for the gate, but threw the weight of their numbers towards a repaired breach about seventy-five paces to the left of it, where they clearly intended to scale the wall and meet up with the ghoul tribes coming from further along the slope. They brought no ladders or grapples, but simply climbed the wall with thin, clawed fingers, finding easy purchase in the pitted surface of stones laid countless decades before.

The first crash of metal on metal rang out along the rampart. Another immense roll of thunder caused Arka to glance up. It seemed that the tempest was changing, crackles of blue splitting the green, cerulean clouds bubbling through from the midst of the green sky. He did not know what Radomira was doing, but it seemed to be working. The fog that swathed the wall was swirling away in many places, revealing the skittering horde of ratkin approaching below.

Without any need for a command, a storm of javelins and throwing axes descended into the onrushing mass, sending the front-runners tumbling to the bloodied ground to be trodden down by the ratkin that followed.

The din of battle increased, the shouts of both sides and the clash of weapons echoing back from the inner wall some four hundred paces behind Arka. Checking to the left and right, he was reassured to see that his warriors were holding. Axes, swords and spears were relentless in their deadly welcome. Every ratman that made the rampart was met by two or three speartips or blades.

‘They use their numbers poorly,’ remarked Marta. She pointed with her tulwar, moving the tip along the wall to the right. ‘They should draw us out along the entire length, not throw themselves at one place where their mass counts for nothing.’

‘Do not expect sound strategy from verminous filth,’ replied Ljubo. ‘They do not count losses like warriors.’

This last comment stuck in Arka’s thoughts. The pestilentzi truly did not care how many died. He had seen twenty perish just to drag down one of his warriors. He stepped up to the wall and looked out, turning his gaze to the left.

The ratmen thrown at the walls were spindly, ragged creatures with bubo-pocked fur, armed with shards of stone, wooden clubs and crude daggers of rusted metal. A terrible choice for a first assault. What was needed was a spearhead of armoured, experienced warriors to create an opening for the masses to later exploit.

There were certainly such fighters in the pestilentzi ranks. He could see them advancing behind the slavish horde, decked in blackened armour, banners and tri-barred icons carried above their more orderly regiments. And then there were the sergahulla — plague-frenzied verminkind that wore thick robes and shrieked disturbing chants. They hurled themselves fearlessly at their foes. Either would make better siege breakers than the scum being tossed up against the walls.

Tossed up against the walls…

He leaned out further to look down at the ground at the base of the great bastion. Already hundreds of dead ratmen were piling up.

‘They are using the bodies of the dead for ramps!’ he cried out. ‘Fetch oil and brands, we must turn them into pyres!’

While this order was passed along the wall, a new wave of pestilentzi reached the defences, thrusting through the milling crowds of slaves. They were bigger, darker furred, with swords, halberds and shields. Arrows and sling bullets met the next assault but made little injury to the numbers of the foe.

Arka was about to order part of his guard to move down to the wall to form a mobile reserve when he felt a shift in the wind. He spluttered and others around him coughed and retched as a noisome reek blew along the wall.

‘What sorcerous…’ The words drifted away when Arka spied the answer to his question.

The ranks of the elite vermin were parting, the filthy ratkin throwing themselves to their knees and stomachs in obeisance. Through the gap advanced a monstrous figure, more terrifying even than the bekevic that haunted the mountain meres and could swallow a warrior whole.

A frightened muttering broke out through the stratzari. Warriors who had faced battle dozens of times whispered curses and flexed sweating palms on their weapons. Arka felt his mouth dry as he watched the approach of the creature.

Chapter Two

Incensed, driven along the teetering line of insanity between abject terror and suicidal desperation, the kin-eaters tried to drag down the Stormcast Eternal. Crudely forged blades shattered on his armour, and broken fingernails caked in blood scrabbled at his plate. He bulled his way through, crushing bodies underfoot and slamming his foes aside with sweeps of his arms.

Arkas had once been a man of flesh and blood. Now he was something far greater, fashioned by the spirit of Sigmar and armed by the great duardin god Grungni. Reborn, reforged, remade in an ideal — hope and nobility, courage unsurpassed, strength tempered by humility.

But here, now, on the slopes of Mount Vazdir, where he had seen his people fall to the filth of the Pestilens skaven, he was simply death incarnate. His runeblade and hammer had been created in the great foundries of the smith-god, made from purest sigmarite, but in his mind he bore an old crescent-headed axe given to him by his mother. In spirit if not in any physical sense, the weapon lived on.

‘Know this, servants of darkness! Your end has come! The Light of Sigmar falls upon Ursungorod and by his beacon shall the warriors of the storm be guided to his foes.’

Enemy blades shattered at the touch of his sword, leather armour and crude mail no guard against the weight of his lightning-wreathed hammer. In the Gladitorium of Sigmaron, Arka Bear-clad had finished his transition to Arkas Warbeast, Stormcast Eternal, herald of Sigmar’s wrath. It was not until now that he fully appreciated the changes wrought upon him by his Reforging. The kin-eaters fell to his sword and hammer like wheat before the reaper, leaving a dismembered trail in his wake as he cut and smashed his way towards their leader.

Not only in prowess had he been altered. The magical energy of the Mortal Realms, the essence of Ghur that sustained the Realm of Beasts, flowed around him, suffusing the landscape. He saw it escape the bodies of his foes as they fell, returning to the great flow of the wild and untamed world. He felt it in his body too, as he had once felt the enlightening power of Azyr open his mind to the full truth of the universe.

Arkas had desired revenge, but the sensation of justice fulfilled as he cleaved apart another handful of foes was unlike any feeling he had encountered. It was a redemptive force, payment for the agony of his Reforging, the reward for enduring endless trials and hardships to become a Stormcast Eternal.

He realised less than a score of heartbeats had passed since he had been hurled down to Ursungorod by the power of Sigmar, yet three dozen enemies already lay dead behind him. The kin-eaters’ mistress looked on with an expression of joy, not fear, and he stared into her dark eyes and saw only the madness of Chaos. In her the spirit of Khorne the Blood God was strong. Arkas could smell the taint on her as strongly as the metallic scent of blood leaking from his slain foes.

Drawing a wickedly serrated tulwar, the Gore Maiden leapt to counter-attack, hurdling the headless corpse of one of her followers as he fell away from Arkas’ swinging blade. She was as fast as his Stormcast companions, the tip of her sword cutting across the curve of a moulded pectoral. The blade appeared to steam with the power of Khorne, leaving a molten welt on the breast of Arkas’ armour.

Stunned for a moment, he stepped back, raising his hammer to ward away the next slashing attack. The sigmarite rang cleanly at the impact of the Gore Maiden’s tulwar, sparks of power erupting from its head. Another blow sped towards his arm and Arkas turned quickly, allowing it to fall just past his shoulder.

He kicked, his armoured boot connecting with the midriff of the Khornate champion, breaking ribs and throwing her a dozen strides across the snow. She rolled through a flurry of white, coming to her feet with a grimace just in time to block Arkas’ descending blade with her own.

‘Your bloody master cannot aid you against the righteousness of Sigmar,’ Arkas spat, knocking aside the Gore Maiden’s weapon with the haft of his hammer.

The Stormcast Eternal felt blows clanging against his back and helm, but all of his attention was directed on the Gore Maiden. He pressed his advantage, swinging his hammer towards her head. As she jumped aside, the tip of his blade met her neck, parting flesh and spine without pause.

Seeing their chief decapitated robbed the kin-eaters of their remaining courage. The cannibals fled as he turned, some abandoning their weapons to speed their flight down the mountainside. They dashed left and right, splitting up, too many for Arkas to chase them all down.

The Stormcast Eternal lifted his hammer above his head, pointing to the skies where the Tempest of Sigmar still churned in cerulean glory.

‘To me, warriors of Sigmaron! Celestial Vindicators, our moment is upon us! Heed the call of your Lord-Celestant, my Warbeasts!’

There was a little likeness of a rat in the monster’s features, but it walked five times the height of the Chaos vermin, its head surrounded by a mane of curling, twisted horns. Its tail, longer than the beast was tall, was like a barbed whip tipped with metallic blades. Overlapping plates of serrated oil-black armour covered a ragged tunic of dun and pink-grey flesh, and a faceted helm of the same unnatural metal protected its skull and cheeks. A thick belt of cracked hide girded its waist and a huge book was bound there by a corroded chain, a smog-like cloud slipping from the fluttering pages.

In taloned hands it gripped a spear, the head splitting into four curved tines that sparked with magical energy. The air thrashed around the monster and the ground blistered under its tread, as if its simple presence offended the earth and sky.

‘Verminlord! Daemon of the Horned One!’

Arka heard the gasp and glanced over his shoulder in time to see Radomira collapsing. Blood ran from her eyes and ears, and her attendants looked on helplessly, ashen-faced, quivering with fear.

The verminlord thrust its spear towards the ramparts and a bolt of green energy struck the stones, sending up jagged chunks and charred corpses. The ratkin flowed forwards, their screeches deafening. Another bolt of magic slashed through the defenders to Arka’s left, turning armour to rusted flakes and the flesh within to rotten meat.

Arka saw again the face of his mother, withered before its time, claw-like hands grasping at the sweat-soaked bedding. Coughing wracked her body. In the horror of that moment, Arka knew that the creature stalking towards the gates was the same that had unleashed the pestilence on Ursungorod and ripped his mother’s life away.

He levelled his axe at the creature in silent challenge. It looked up at him with glowing green eyes and bared sharp fangs in what might have been a smile.

A rolling blast of thunder drew Arka’s gaze up for a moment. Blue lightning crawled across the bottom of the storm clouds, like nothing he had seen before. The stones beneath his booted feet shivered as the verminlord unleashed a blast of power at the gates, turning wood to mouldering splinters.

The lightning lanced down, hitting Arka’s upraised axe, earthing through his arm and down his spine.

He thought himself dead in that instant, but the feeling of energy that ran through him grew rather than weakening. He felt himself lifted, ascending towards the heavens. His body dissolved into energy, a bolt of power erupting upwards.

With a last conscious thought, he saw the ratkin swarming over the walls of Kurzengor and knew he had failed his people.

From the head of Arkas’ hammer, a beam of blue light leapt up to the skies, its signal carrying beyond the Mortal Realms to Sigmaron. An instant later, a crackle of storm energy lanced down. The two crashed together and a tempest of lightning bolts flared, raining down around the Stormcast. Where each blast touched the ground, the snow melted and the earth beneath charred. Each blinding flash left behind another giant warrior clad in turquoise armour, until a company of the greatest warriors stood before him.

Two lightning strikes flanked Arkas to the left and right, each just a few paces from him. On his left appeared a warrior bearing aloft a golden standard in the shape of crossed hammers, wreathed in parchments adorned with the blessings of Sigmar in Azyrite script.

‘Dolmetis, my Knight-Vexillor, raise the standard and proclaim these lands the domains of Sigmar, God-King!’

On the right his Knight-Heraldor materialised, bearing a long clarion from which hung a pennant in the colours of Arkas’ Exemplar Chamber.

‘Doridun, sound forth the challenge so that all will know that Sigmar’s rule has returned to Ursungorod!’

The Knight-Heraldor lifted the instrument and let forth a single peal, its note matched by a thunderous crash from the heavens that echoed across the mountain valley. As the last reverberations died away, Dolmetis approached his Lord-Celestant, casting glances at the mutilated remains of the kin-eaters that lay scattered across the blood-stained snow.

‘I thought we were to attack as a chamber, Lord Arkas?’

The Lord-Celestant laughed and pointed to the fleeing Chaos war party.

‘I left some for you! Doridun, signal the pursuit. Leave none alive!’

Chapter Three

‘Such a sight to stir the blood,’ said Theuderis Silverhand, speaking as much to himself as to his steed. He patted the scaled neck of his dracoth, Tyrathrax.

The sight to which he referred was a display of unparalleled martial glory. Retinue after retinue of the Silverhands Warrior Chamber marched forth from the realmgate. The portal had been opened on the Plateau of Omens in the Celestial Realm, and led to the Capricious Wilds, an untamed region within the Realm of Beasts. In a few strides, Sigmar’s army had crossed the cosmic gulf. The portal itself was formed of two jutting pilasters of gleaming rock, their surfaces etched with runic devices each as tall as a man. They rose from opposite sides of a canyon, which was scored like an axe wound across the mountains. Arcs of energy blazed between them and flared into the dark sky, lighting the white armour of Theuderis’ host.

They issued forth in ordered ranks, every precise step crashing against the grey mountain stone. Brotherhood after brotherhood they came, bearing blades and bows and axes charged with Azyric energy that filled the air with a cerulean light.

Flights of Knights-Azyros raced into the glowering sky, each warrior carried on lightning wings and bearing with them lanterns that shone with the light of Sigmar’s ire. Behind them rose Knights-Venator and soaring Prosecutors, their celestial arrows and javelins like sparks against the stormhead, a flock of star-eagles swirling around them in the mystical vortices and thermals of the pulsing realmgate.

Drilled beyond mortal discipline, the Stormcast Eternals of the Silverhands Chamber moved like the pieces of an intricate, perfect machine. Ranks and files slid effortlessly together, expanded and reformed to negotiate the broken terrain, rapidly forming a line in echelon across the mouth of the broad defile. The conclaves formed, their arrangement an abstraction of a fortress. Swift, sky-borne Angelos Conclaves acted as the outer defences, the insurmountable warriors of the Paladin Conclaves forming a living barbican behind them. This ‘gatehouse’ was flanked by the walls of the Redeemer Conclaves, a solid bulwark of gleaming hammers and azure shields. Theuderis Silverhand and his sub-commanders kept company with the Justicar Conclaves as a central keep from which reserves could pour forth to exploit any weakness or counter any enemy advantage.

The Lord-Celestant did not need to utter a single command. The entire manoeuvre had been set in motion before he had led the vanguard though the gate. Each Stormcast Eternal knew his exact place, the Strike Chamber a single entity far more than it was a collection of individual warriors.

When the several hundred warriors were assembled, Theuderis raised a hand and the army advanced as one, sweeping onto the barren ground of the Capricious Wilds in an unbroken line, while Sigmar’s heralds swooped above.

From just below the iron-grey clouds, Theuderic had a magnificent view of his knights’ final charge. His hippadon, Sasyran, dipped a wing at his spoken command, plunging them back towards the battle garlanded by streamers of the reptilian beast’s steaming breath. On silvery styllions the knights of the Glittering Breaches thundered into the serpent-bannered ranks of the alter-folk. Detonations marked the impacts of a thousand thunderlances, each flaming spark tearing apart a follower of the Fallen Gods. The styllions, flesh and bone magically bonded with the finest engines of the auromancers, crashed through the alter-folk, crushing them beneath flailing hooves and tearing at them with iron-sheathed fangs.

A battery of falconet heavy gonnes let fly another barrage, incendiary ammunition destroying a motley band of vulpus riders trying to outflank the jezzailers holding the right. Theuderic’s personal grenadiers supported the charge of the knights, their magically wrought explosives detonating with purple-and-white fire amongst the barbarian foe.

The hippadon exhaled orange flame as king and mount fell upon the fleeing remnants of the enemy chieftain’s entourage. Skin blistered and fur garb blazed while Theuderic struck left and right with his slender blade.

The enemy were broken, the last of their strength desperately assembled, and now purged on the fields of the Iron Dunes. Theuderic lifted a fist and from his armoured gauntlet a blaze of white pierced the spring air, signalling the general pursuit.

No more than half a mile from the realmgate stood a citadel raised from the dark rock itself, not a single seam or join on its forbidding surface. The blazon of Sigmar flew from a dozen poles along the walls. It was not large — barely the size of a tower of Castle Lyonaster of old — but it was far more potent than size alone would suggest. At the approach of the Knights Excelsior Strike Chamber, a horn sounded three notes from the castle and bronze gates opened to release a column of figures in white plate.

Theuderis urged Tyrathrax on and the dracoth broke into a run, claws striking sparks from the exposed rock, heading towards Lord-Castellant Neros Stormfather, who led the garrison force. Coming closer, the Lord-Celestant saw damage on the armour of the other Stormcast Eternals. He brandished his blade in salute to the efforts of Sigmar’s warriors.

‘Well met, Lord Stormfather,’ he called out when Tyrathrax came to a halt beside the Lord-Castellant. ‘I see that you have been kept in useful engagement.’

‘We have that, Lord Silverhand,’ said Neros, clasping his halberd to his chest in a gesture of respect. ‘But not for seven days have the degenerates attempted to regain the gate. I do believe they might have learnt the lesson taught by our weapons.’

‘Or they bide their time awaiting a moment of laxity,’ warned Theuderis.

‘They shall wait in vain. The Silverhands are always vigilant.’ Neros looked past Theuderis, to where the host was wheeling en masse, heading towards the hills above which the crimson glow of sunrise was creeping. ‘I judge from the direction of the march that the Capricious Wilds are not the final objective.’

‘No.’ Theuderis followed his gaze. ‘Securing this realmgate was only the first stage, Neros. I march for the lands of Ursungorod.’

‘The Mountains of the Bears — I have heard of them. Home to vile Chaos filth and skaven, and where the lands themselves rebel against the touch of the Dark Powers. No easy task.’

‘Sigmar did not elevate us to undertake easy tasks, Neros.’

‘He did not, but enough grains of sand can bury even the greatest monument. Another realmgate? It always is.’

‘Of course,’ Theuderis answered with a nod. ‘An important one. Buried beneath a mountain, no less, and surrounded by skaven. When we take the Ursungorod realmgate it will bring us to the Vaults of the Spring Moon, within striking distance of the Lifegate. Others are moving into position for the other great realmgates that lead to the Allpoints. We are the fist of Sigmar God-King, tightening around cursed Archaon. So our immortal lord demands.’

‘Blood-hungry hordes above, vile ratmen below. I hope your sword-arm is fresh, my lord. That is a long wound to cleave.’

‘We are not alone in the endeavour.’ Theuderis leaned forwards and dropped his voice. ‘The first piercing blow has already been made. The Warbeasts have been cast directly into central Ursungorod as a breaching force. They will draw the enemy to them for a time and allow us to cross into the mountains without hindrance.’

‘The Warbeasts? Lord Arkas? I have heard of them.’ Neros looked away, letting his halberds swing down to his side. ‘You best hurry.’

‘You think they will be overrun before we reach them?’ Theuderis was surprised that the Lord-Castellant showed such little faith in his fellow Stormcasts.

‘I think they will have torn a bloody path to the realmgate before you can catch up!’

Theuderis sheathed his sword and shook his head. He lifted a hand in farewell to Neros and turned Tyrathrax back towards his army. He signalled for his Knight-Vexillor, Voltaran, who broke from the other members of the command echelon, carrying the lightning strike icon of the chamber. While he waited, Theuderis eyed the mountains that lined the far horizon, stretching like a jagged barrier. Lit by the new dawn, a wall of cloud obscured the mountain peaks, roiling with a life of their own.

‘We must be prepared,’ he said to Tyrathrax. ‘And focussed. Nothing shall stop us seizing the realmgate. Nothing.’

Voltaran fell in beside his Lord-Celestant.

‘A change of orders, Voltaran.’ Theuderis looked again at the distant mountains. ‘Double-pace. I want to reach Ursungorod by dawn.’

‘As you command, Lord Silverhand.’

By the time the sky was bronzed by the approaching dusk, not a single alter-warrior was left alive in the Glittering Breaches.

Ten times a thousand glowing torches lined the road back to Castle Lyonaster. A thousand banners from a hundred lands and more were lit by their pale light, each borne by a champion of the realm. Behind the colour bearers, the regiments of the Reforged Kingdoms stood in solid ranks, weapons lifted in salute to their lord.

Demigonnes and other great machines of war stood sentinel between the companies of cavalry and infantry, the weaponcasters and forge wizards who created them standing proudly with the crews. Overhead, flights of pteragryphs and hippadons seeded the skies with explosions and ribbons of colour from censers and maces empowered by the light of Chamon.

Theuderic dismounted before the gate of Castle Lyonaster, having ridden the length of the triumph to acknowledge his followers. Once it had been a simple keep and curtain wall, erected by Theuderic’s ancestors to hold against the hordes of the alter-folk. Like other castles across the Glittering Breaches, it had become a focal point of the resistance against the demented armies from the Iron Wastes. Generation after generation, supplied by springs and mines, walled orchards and fields, Lyonaster weathered every assault and siege laid upon it by the likes of Turkhar Nex’s draconic hosts, the Silvered Horde and the half-dead shambling legions of Ghorgorondoth the Tumourfiend.

To call it a gate was not wholly accurate. It was nothing less than an outer citadel, made of five towers in pentagon formation, each capable of housing a company of five hundred soldiers. Passing into the central courtyard, Theuderic crossed the gilded sigil carved into the flagstones, so large it took him five paces to cross it. He felt the shimmer of Chamonic energy flicker through his armour as he passed into the Auric Shield, the true strength of Castle Lyonaster.

Seven forefathers, seven Dukes of the Breaches, had held court here, but for Theuderic it had not been enough. He had seen the toll it had taken on friends and family, a lifetime lived close to walls, ever fearfully watching the horizon. Children grew up with a haunted look and parents quelled any adventurous spirit and curiosity with grim tales of the savages and nightmare armies that lay just a few days’ march away.

On ascending to the Marble Throne, Theuderic had declared it not enough to hold their lands against invasion. Lyonaster had to expand if it was going to thrive. The first marcher forts had been built the following year. Neighbouring dukes sent emissaries, complaining of encroachment into their lands — lands that were for the most part overrun with rogues, monsters and wild thaumic automatons from the Great Unleashing, but their lands all the same. Rather than argue with these messengers, Theuderic sent them back to their masters and mistresses with gifts of metal from the mines, of plans and engineering secrets that had been kept in the vaults of Lyonaster since its first founding. Artificers and auromancers were escorted at great expense to the other keeps, to advise on how to improve their defences, taking with them designs for demigonnes and enchantments for flameswords and other wonders.

The others started to call Theuderic ‘Forge-lord’, delighting in the double-meaning of the title. When the terrible wrath-drake Ankalaonos descended upon the realm of Princess Swanachild, Theuderic himself rode out with his knights and jezzailers to bring down the bronze-scaled beast. By example he led the other rulers, always ready to defend their lands, never requiring any oath in return but receiving promises of fealty nevertheless.

Lyonaster grew along with the dominions of its lord, and its population swelled along with its defences, to the point that it now rivalled the old cities of Tyren and Colbertine, before they had been swallowed by the expansion of the Iron Wastes.

Theuderic reached a flight of steps and ascended them two at a time. Gaining the rampart, his arch-warden Carloman awaited him. Decked in robes of red threaded with gold, platinum and steel, the auromancer shimmered as he bowed, his steel skullcap reflecting the ruddy twilight. Straightening, Carloman smiled, his expression twisting the burns and scars of many an alchemical mishap.

‘Magnificent, my king, simply magnificent,’ said Carloman. His voice was a staccato whisper, which some took for constant agitation but was actually the result of damage to his vocal cords from inhaling the wrong sort of fumes during an experiment. ‘A wondrous day to live for.’

‘And credit all to you and your brethren, Carloman. If not for your skills, the strength of Lyonaster would have been outmatched by the fury and number of our enemies.’

A walkway of shining steel marked with many runes linked the towers, cunningly wrought so that its outer fence created an overhang from which jezzailers could pour bullets down onto a foe through murder holes. The metal rang to the tread of the king, almost drowning out Carloman’s next words.

‘A weapon needs be wielded, my king,’ he said humbly, bowing once more and allowing his liege to move on alone to greet the next group.

Standing back from the battlement, his wife Ermenberga and their two daughters waited with broad smiles. Theuderic kissed Ermenberga on the cheek and knelt to carefully embrace his children, wary of the unyielding nature of the plate that covered almost every part of him. He stood, laying a hand on the head of each child.

‘It is done!’ declared his wife, her smile bright in the gleam of his magic armour. ‘The war is over!’

‘Is it true, papa?’ asked the youngest, Peneranda.

‘The alter-folk have been slain,’ he told them, the words bringing home the scale of the victory he had won. He stroked the child’s cheek. ‘I started this campaign before you were born, little one, but now the lands are free of their taint.’

‘Does that mean we’ll have more time to play?’ said Clothild, older by three years.

‘We will,’ he assured her, standing up. ‘Though ruling the Glittering Breaches will not be without its tasks. Now that the foe has been driven out, I must work to keep the unity of the Reforged Kingdoms. But if the serpents of the Iron Wastes cannot keep me from my daughters, the arguments of princes shall not either.’

He heard chanting — his name — and Ermenberga waved him towards the parapet.

‘Your subjects await you,’ she said, eyes moist with joy. She patted her stomach meaningfully, ‘and soon you will have other news to brighten their spirits further. I think it is a boy…’

Theuderic was struck dumb, his thoughts whirling. He pulled himself up onto the rampart edge. His army, led by princes and dukes and war leaders of many other castles and citadels, erupted into even greater noise, such that Theuderic almost didn’t hear the rumbling of thunder above.

He looked up and saw that the darkening sky was filling with ominous clouds. Fearing some last treachery of the alter-folk, Theuderic glanced back at his family.

With his name still ringing in his ears, and the loving expressions of his wife and children etched into his mind, Theuderic juddered as a bolt scythed through his body without warning.

In a moment, all that he knew, the wide plains and jagged hills of the Glittering Breaches, dropped beneath him. The great keeps and fortresses of his lands became specks of gold and silver before they too were lost, and in a moment the blur of the Auric Shield of Lyonaster disappeared from view.

He thought for a moment that he had been swallowed by a star, suffused with light and heat.

And then he was no more.

Watching his adjutant turn away, Theuderis considered his command. Every warrior had been selected by Sigmar himself, chosen from across the Mortal Realms to be the best fighters in history. His own feats had marked him out for leadership, but each and every Stormcast Eternal had a similar story of heroism and defiance to tell. There was not one amongst them that would take a step back in the face of the enemy, or flinch from the battle ahead. These were concerns for leaders of mortal soldiers.

Yet for all that, the Strike Chamber of the Silverhands was untested in war. The training fields of Sigmaron and the orchestrated battles of the Gladitorium were tests, nothing more. Theuderis did not fear death, for he would be remade if he fell, just as would all who followed him. There was a price for immortality, he had heard, but the greater loss would be the pang of failure. Though Neros Stormfather’s comment had been light-hearted, it had cast a doubt in Theuderis’ thoughts — the Silverhands were ready to be tempered in battle, but what of the Warbeast and his warriors? More than skill, bravery and fury were required to overcome the foes ahead.

In his former life, Theuderis had never known defeat. The Silverhand was not about to commence his eternal service to Sigmar with anything less than total victory.

Chapter Four

Much had changed, though much had stayed the same. Arkas found the spot where he had been standing when Sigmar had ascended him to the Celestial Realm. Not only was he able to pick the place from the general layout of the collapsed fortifications, he could feel an imprint on the world from where he had been plucked for a new existence. The bolt of Sigmar that had taken him, the same cosmic energy that had deposited him earlier that day, left an indelible mark in the fabric of Ursungorod.

‘How long?’ he whispered as he looked at the tumbled ruin of what had once been Kurzengor.

‘Did you say something, Lord Arkas?’ asked Dolmetis, a few paces behind his lord.

‘When I last stood upon these stones they were mounted on each other as a great gatehouse,’ he told his companion. ‘I suppose they were knocked down by the sorceries of the foes that came that day, but it is the passage of time that has buried them. How long would you say, Dolmetis, would it take for the land to claim back its own?’

‘Centuries, Lord Arkas, as judged in the Realm of Heavens. Perhaps half a dozen or more.’ He stepped closer. ‘It is only a mortal measure, my lord. The past is of no consequence, only the future holds the hope of change. Many of the God-King’s host were taken from their realms in even more distant times.’

‘A good point, Dolmetis.’ He stamped a booted foot on the hard block beneath him. Blue sparks flew. ‘These walls were old even when I held them, set down in a time long past, along with the rest of the city below Ursungorod.’

‘The Shadowgulf?’

‘The lowest parts are called that. We thought they were the tomb of those that hollowed Ursungorod. I know better now. Gnaw-burrows of the skaven, bleeding the realms together, spreading canker into the depths of this place and the neighbouring regions.’

‘That is where we are heading?’

‘In time. We do not simply thrust our hands into the vermin nest. The clans of the Ursungorod I knew are no more — the hand of Chaos stretched far across these lands and despoiled the souls of its people. We will purge this taint and secure our route to the realmgate. Theuderis the Silverhand marches from the dusk to rendezvous for our attack and we shall crush the followers of Chaos between us like a fist closing. The battle will wet our blades and whet our wrath for the true war below.’

Doridun had been close at hand too and now stepped forward. His clarion was slung across his back and he held a blade slicked with blood.

‘And where will we find these enemies, lord?’ He sounded eager.

‘Everywhere,’ Arkas replied with a chuckle. He turned and pointed up the mountainside, to where the slopes disappeared into dark clouds. ‘But there is somewhere else we must go first.’

The Lord-Celestant raised his hammer thrice and from the gloomy skies a spark of light dropped in response, quickly resolving into the shape of Hastor, his Knight-Venator. On blazing sapphire wings he descended, the long curve of his realmhunter’s bow in hand. He landed as softly as a feather and held out his free arm. A blur of colour streaked across the pale mountainside and a few moments later Hastor’s star-eagle settled on his wrist, resplendent with yellow and red plumage.

‘Hastor, take the Prosecutors and scout me a route to the summit. You will find an old outpost there, I hope, of duardin style. Do not enter, simply return to me with the news if it still stands.’

‘There are duardin in Ursungorod, my lord?’ Dolmetis looked up the slope as if he might see one of Grungni’s stocky descendants. ‘I did not know.’

‘No cause for excitement, they were driven out by the skaven before I was born. Another… person makes her lair in their old workings though, and she will have invaluable intelligence about the Pestilens and the corrupted tribes.’ He looked at Hastor. ‘On no account are you to enter the tower. The Queen of the Peak may be a useful ally, but she will certainly be a foe if you come upon her unannounced.’

‘How are we to announce our presence, my lord?’ asked Hastor.

‘Leave that to me. Though I am reforged, I still have a few tricks from the old times.’

Hastor nodded and tossed his star-eagle into the air, leaping effortlessly after it a moment later. His shrill cry cut across the wind and the Knight-Venator’s twenty Prosecutors rose up to meet him, the pale spines of their Azyr-crafted wings shimmering.

‘Dolmetis, you will remain here with a small rearguard. Take Martox and his Decimators, and half the Retributors. Doridun, call the rest of the chamber to column. We have a long climb ahead of us.’

Chapter Five

The march across the foothills passed without incident. The peaks rose abruptly ahead of Theuderis’ army, delineating the boundary between the Capricious Wilds and Ursungorod. As the Lord-Celestant had commanded, the host had started ascending the lower slopes before the light of the rising sun fell upon their backs. They advanced without pause, covering the ground with giant strides, as relentless as the pistons of a duardin engine.

The formation changed organically to match the variations in terrain, the different elements repositioning as they passed along defiles or spread out across valley floors. By mid-morning the sun was hidden behind the clouds again, its wan light barely penetrating the deep gorges and ravines.

At times they were hemmed in by vertiginous cliff faces of solid ice, chasms barely wide enough for the Stormcasts to walk three abreast. Inside the frozen walls could be seen the dim shapes of carcasses from gigantic beasts and the bones of monsters consumed in aeons past. More disturbing were the shark-like apparitions that lived within the solid ice scavenging on these remains, half-seen creatures with long fangs and dagger-spined fins.

Amongst the blue-needled trees, they would hear the tinkling of metal and come across great oak-like arboreal giants with bark of iron and leaves of bronze. The column found itself negotiating winding trails that seemed to shift as they passed, the trees moving imperceptibly, subtly closing off routes and opening others, directing their progress towards dark ravines and coursing rivers that fumed like boiling blood.

They passed much evidence of the ancient human and duardin strongholds that had once dominated these lands. All was worn and broken by countless years, but from the back of Tyrathrax here and there Theuderis spied a rune-etched column or some carved face of a deity long consumed by the ravaging Chaos Gods. In places, the tribes had tried to rebuild parts of the mountains-spanning dead city, leaving ramshackle walls and circular encampments of piled stone. Symbols of the Dark Powers were daubed on these hovels and there was other evidence of depraved practices.

‘I thought the Realms of Beasts would be teeming with life,’ remarked Voltaran. ‘Yet all I hear is the wind and tread of boots. Not a bird cry or snuffle or growl.’

Theuderis had noticed the silence too and developed a theory.

‘It is our presence that stills them. We carry with us the light of Sigmar, the power celestial. Long they have nestled in the crux of the Dark Gods’ embrace — they are suffused with its corruption.’ He gazed about at the tumbled rocks and spiny trees that littered the slope around them. ‘Trust nothing here, no matter how fair-seeming. All has been touched by Chaos.’

‘You think nothing has survived of what once was?’

‘There is no purity to be found in this forsaken realm, Voltaran. When it has been purified, when we have seized the realmgates and wrested the Allpoints from accursed Archaon, the beauty of the untrammelled wilderness will blossom again and those untouched by the darkness will live here in peace.’

‘That is a very long time yet, Lord-Celestant. The work has only just begun.’

‘Yet longer has the Lord Sigmar planned this return. In an age the Mortal Realms fell. Not overnight will they be restored to goodness. Be comforted that each region we purge, each realmgate we seize, brings that blessed state closer.’

‘In the God-King’s name.’

‘For eternity may he reign.’

They continued on for some time, the landscape growing ever more barren and contorted as they progressed. The slopes were gouged with great welts that wept ruddy blood-like tar and the Prosecutors scouted far and wide to find the best route through the maze of pits, ruins and chasms that blocked the army’s route. At times Theuderis was forced to dismount to allow his dracoth to negotiate a steep climb, and just after noon he and many others were virtually on their hands and knees, pulling themselves up the near-vertical wall of a canyon. Tyrathrax scrambled up behind, panting hard, her claws scratching against the unforgiving rock.

Theuderis dragged himself over the lip of the cliff, joining the several dozen Stormcast Eternals of the vanguard who were already there. A sudden wild cawing and a mad flapping of wings announced the rise of a panicked flock of huge crows, each with a wingspan that rivalled a star-eagle’s. Other birds were wildly trilling and shrieking, taking to the skies in haste, predators and prey fleeing together.

The ground trembled.

Theuderis launched himself back towards the cliff edge, skidding along the brown grass with outstretched arms. The clifftop bucked even as he reached the edge. He looked down and saw Tyrathrax looking back at him, her pale blue eyes staring out of the slits in her gilded chamfron. To either side the ascending Stormcast Eternals doubled their efforts, heaving themselves between footholds, cracks and small ledges.

‘Jump!’ the Lord Celestant roared, digging the fingers of his left hand deep into the dirt and throwing out his right.

The dracoth bunched its muscles and leapt even as the face of the cliff sheared away.

Theuderis snatched a horn as it passed close to his hand, pulling with all of his strength to wrap his arm around the neck of his faithful mount. Tyrathrax’s claws gouged furrows in the disintegrating stone. The Lord-Celestant powered to his feet, dragging the dracoth with him in a welter of rock shards and clumps of mud.

‘Stay back from the edge!’ he bellowed over the cracking and groaning of tortured earth, as warriors of the vanguard moved to aid their companions on the cliff. There was nothing they could do and more would be lost.

Theuderis staggered away, pulling Tyrathrax after him, the ground rising and falling violently under his feet. Twice he fell to his knees and he let go of the dracoth to look back. The cliff was still tumbling away, breaking apart in boulders and sheets as the strata split, the edge moving closer and closer. It settled just a few strides away.

A few of the Stormcasts made it to safety. Armour cracked and buckled as they clambered through the deluge of rock. Beyond them the landslide was lit by detonations of power, glimmers of lightning as Theuderis’ warriors were crushed and pummelled, their physical remains summoned back to Azyr by Sigmar’s magic, there to be forged anew. The gleams from many who perished were swallowed by the burgeoning cloud of dust and grit that billowed up from the gorge. A last convulsion threw the surviving Stormcast Eternals to the ground. Theuderis’ legs buckled beneath him as the clifftop briefly dropped away and then sharply rose up to meet him like a bucking steed.

The shaking subsided. Commanding Tyrathrax to stay, Theuderis pushed himself to his feet and made his way carefully to the slew of broken rock that now descended into the valley. The shattered bodies of wounded Stormcasts were strewn amongst the grey and brown. The quake had lasted no more than a dozen heartbeats but had done as much damage as any enemy attack.

After the deafening tumult, the quiet was profound. It was quickly broken as the Stormcasts still alive called out, some shouting for aid, other voices coming from the Primes as they tallied who remained and who had been taken. The raucous cries of the circling birds echoed along the ravine to join the hiss of streaming dirt, the creak of settling stone and the last resounding thuds of rocks bouncing further down the defile.

Theuderis clambered down into the anarchy of piled boulders and broken tree trunks, scanning the debris. Movement above drew his attention to the descending flights of Prosecutors, the Knights-Venator gesticulating to the carnage below.

‘Back!’ roared Theuderis, waving his hand to attract their attention. ‘Back to your posts! If the enemy come upon us in this parlous state we are ruined. Keep vigilant!’

The flying warriors acknowledged his command and ascended, wings thrumming with celestial power, spreading out to form a watchful cordon. Theuderis joined his warriors, lifting the rocks and hurling them away with superhuman strength to unearth the Stormcasts trapped beneath. He pulled away a boulder to reveal a Retributor, his starsoul mace still tightly gripped in his hands. Blood seeped from a gouge across his chest, but he turned his head to look at the Lord-Celestant.

‘It will take more than a mountain falling on me to keep me from the fight, my lord.’

‘Elegias?’

The Retributor nodded.

‘I saw Vortemon Azyr-drawn. You are Retributor-Prime now. Lead well.’

‘I am honoured,’ replied Elegias, grasping Theuderis’ proffered arm to haul himself out of the rubble. Others were also emerging from the crush, the hardened sigmarite of their armour bearing scuffs, dents and cracks inflicted by the earthquake’s fury.

Some were not so fortunate. Theuderis levered aside a boulder almost as large as the warrior beneath, freeing a Judicator named Sementor. His arm had been ripped off by the churning rocks and his boltstorm crossbow lay off to the side, mangled amongst the stones. The side of his helm had been caved in, too, jagged edges cutting deep to the bone of the exposed skull, a single blue eye revealed.

‘I cannot fight on, my lord,’ said Sementor. ‘I shall be no burden to the Silverhands. Sigmar calls me.’

‘And he will remember your sacrifice,’ Theuderis said quietly, drawing his runeblade to place the point between Sementor’s cuirass and his helm. ‘We shall meet again on the far side of the forge.’

He leaned his weight onto the weapon, pushing it deep. The Judicator’s body crackled and vanished, leaving the faintest aftertrail of blue heading skywards from the point where he had lain.

They worked their way down to the rock-littered canyon floor. As they descended, the survivors grew fewer and fewer — those at the bottom had faced the full weight of the cliff coming down upon them. Theuderis lifted clear another of his companions, the Knight-Heraldor Attaxes Darkbane. The plates of his armour seemed mostly undamaged; only the weight of the rocks pinning him down had necessitated assistance. Nodding his thanks, Attaxes retrieved his slender clarion.

‘I thought…’ The Knight-Heraldor’s voice trailed off as he turned his head to look past Theuderis.

Casting his gaze about, the Lord-Celestant saw that many of the others had stopped their labours and were also staring back up the slope. He turned to see what had caught their attention.

The stones of the rockfall had parted into two main flows, leaving an uneven expanse of the grey cliff between them. At first Theuderis could see nothing, just jags of rock and striations. And then, tilting his head slightly, the image came to him, the shadows and light resolving into a picture. It was unmistakable — the cliff had formed the face of a gigantic roaring bear, with sharp promontories of rock for fangs, and exposed clay beds casting a red hue within the open mouth.

‘What do you suppose that is?’ said Attaxes.

‘Proof of this land’s corruption,’ replied Theuderis. He said nothing more, but it seemed more than coincidence that the earthquake had struck at the most damaging moment.

He called out to the others to free their remaining companions and did the same himself. When the last of the buried Stormcasts had been dragged from the toppled boulders, the army ascended once again, though Theuderis remained behind for some time, staring at the cliff face. The sun had moved and the image was no longer there, and had not his companions also seen the apparition he would have dismissed it as a hallucination brought on by the sudden stress of the earthquake.

A rasping bark from Tyrathrax drew his attention away, to where his sub-commanders awaited him at the top of the rock pile. Suppressing his unease, Theuderis pulled himself over the rocks and joined them, glad to put the depressing episode behind him. His Knight-Vexillor, Knight-Heraldor and the most senior of the Knights-Azyros, Samat, attended to him.

‘Our strength is much diminished, my lord,’ reported Voltaran. ‘Nearly half of the Paladin Conclaves were lost, and a third of our remaining warriors.’

‘We press on regardless,’ commanded Theuderis. ‘Sigmar shall see fit to return them to us when needed. Let us not turn an unfortunate incident into a disaster. The Warbeasts are depending upon us to make rendezvous in three days, and we will make the meeting point in two. Samat, spread the search groups further ahead. Find me the swiftest route to the inland region.’

‘As you will it, Lord Silverhand,’ replied the Knight-Azyros.

‘If I might make a suggestion, my lord,’ Voltaran said quietly. Theuderis nodded. ‘Overground is proving troublesome. Perhaps there is an alternative. The ruins of the subterranean city of the duardin are said to stretch far into Ursungorod.’

‘We would lose my warriors’ mobility,’ said Samat.

‘And there is no reason to believe the underground passages have survived in any fit state,’ said Theuderis. ‘Also, I would have the skaven remain unaware of our presence for as long as possible. Delving into their underground domain would be sure to announce our arrival, but overground we might yet continue a day or two unnoticed by them.’

‘If Arkas and his Warbeasts draw their eye, we might even be upon them before they know it,’ said Attaxes.

‘I am certain Arkas is making quite a disturbance,’ replied Theuderis.

Chapter Six

During the ascent of Mount Vazdir, the air grew thinner and colder, until the breath of the Warbeasts followed them like a mountain fog. But the snows held and, except for the ever-present dark clouds, the skies were clear for the Prosecutors to lead the way. At first they had reported a steep climb marked by treacherous ridges and thick forest, but the way proved less than formidable. The dense thickets of trees appeared to open up before the Stormcasts and the winding trails seen by the scouts resolved into broader paths, as though the mountain itself wished to speed them on their way.

Arkas led from the front. There were some Lord-Celestants who preferred the distance of command, placing themselves in the main body so that they might act and observe more dispassionately. He had heard as much regarding Theuderis Silverhand. Arkas considered himself a more intuitive leader in battle. Just as one had to look into the eye of a foe to judge their character and intent, so he had to be in the forefront of the clash of arms to know, to feel, the best course of action to take.

‘I am sure we saw those trees before,’ remarked Dolmetis, indicating a stand of immense pines ahead of them. ‘Are we sure Hastor is not entertaining himself at our expense?’

‘I forgive your ignorance, so perhaps Hastor will forgive your distrust,’ replied Arkas. ‘Those are spectral pines — the leaves are bluer than the mountain firs we saw earlier. And the ways of Ursungorod are not always straight. It might seem but a javelin’s throw to your destination, but a defile separates you that cannot be crossed but at the expense of half a day’s march.’

‘Or the opposite,’ Dolmetis said quietly. ‘I feel that we are not being welcomed so much as lured…’

Arkas stopped, sensing a ripple of energy flowing through the roots of Ursungorod. He held up a hand to halt the army. A heartbeat later he felt the ground shiver. Some snow fell from the tree branches and slid across drifts, but nothing more serious. In moments the tremor had passed.

His mortal experiences meant that, despite the intervening age, he could feel Ursungorod as closely now as when he had been the Bear-clad. The perturbations in the Ghurite energy told him that the quake had been to the west — from where Theuderis approached. He hoped his fellow Lord-Celestant had weathered the incident well.

More days than not witnessed a quake in Ursungorod. It had made it impossible to launch an attack on the skaven lairs, as entrances opened and closed with every earth movement. This time would be different — he had an army capable of breaching the underdeeps and even the Shadowgulf itself. He would strike like a dagger into their heart.

A flit of shadows heralded the arrival of a quintet of Prosecutors. Their Prime, Venian, landed in front of Arkas while the others kept station on humming wings.

‘My lord,’ he began, dropping to a knee to deliver the report. ‘Knight Hastor dispatched us. A foe lies between us and the ruin we seek. Five hundred strong, at least, garbed for war. We did not reveal ourselves and Hastor awaits your command.’

‘Where?’

‘A still lake, frozen in a bowl-shaped valley. Even the rivers and falls are ice. We saw a town of tents and more solid structures arrayed the slopes.’

‘I know this place,’ Arkas said. ‘Icemere. You saw the enemy?’

‘Briefly, my lord,’ replied Venian. ‘Many were well armoured, not like the scum we chased down earlier. The encampment looked more settled also. There were several burnt-out pyres and totemic poles raised in the centre, and a charnel stench — sacrifices no doubt. We approached stealthily and heard the growl of hounds and caught glimpses of larger beasts.’

‘What were they doing? Where exactly is the camp?’

‘The route to the tower passes onto a sharp ridge, but we could see no further than that. It was the opinion of Knight Hastor that they were deliberately blocking the approach. It is far too high and inhospitable for them to have remained there for any other reason.’

‘They have good reason,’ said Arkas. ‘The Queen of the Peak is a powerful oracle and many seek her wisdom. They might hope to keep her visions to themselves or just ambush and murder those who would consult with the Queen.’

‘Do you have orders for Knight Hastor, my lord?’

‘They will find their next guests harder to handle, be sure of that.’ Arkas loosened his runeblade in its sheath. ‘Heed my command for Knight Hastor. We must secure the safety of the Queen of the Peak. I will lead an attack on the main camp. The Angelos Conclave has two missions once the attack is underway. Part of your force must hold the ridge to ensure none of the enemy can reach the Queen’s tower. You must personally locate the tower and ensure there are no foes in the surrounding area. Kill any that are, but do not enter under any circumstances. Allow nobody to pass into the tower until I arrive.’

‘What if the Queen of the Peak should emerge?’ asked Venian.

‘She cannot leave the tower,’ Arkas said. He knelt and used a finger to mark a symbol in the snow. ‘Mark this sigil and pass it on to Hastor. There is a gate-arch carved with duardin reliefs. He will know the presence of the Queen beyond it. He is to leave this, my rune, at the threshold, but is not to pass in.’ He closed his fist. ‘We will advance at haste. Make your move when Doridun signals the attack.’

‘Understood, Lord-Celestant.’ The Prosecutor-Prime stood up and lifted a crackling javelin as a salute. Turning gracefully, he sprang into the air, taking his warriors with him.

‘Dolmetis!’

The Knight-Vexillor hurried to attend his commander.

‘Form the army for attack. Trident formation, Judicator vanguards.’

‘It shall be done, my lord.’

Arkas set off again along the faint trail through the snow, trusting his Knight-Vexillor and the Primes to implement his command without delay. He knew the Icemere well and was surprised that it had changed so little over the many centuries. It had to be the influence of the Queen of the Peak. In a land wracked by constant upheaval, she was stasis personified.

With their Lord-Celestant setting a relentless pace, the Stormcast army soon came upon a band of thick forest, beyond which lay the Icemere. As Arkas had ordered, the host broke into three detachments, the general leading the central tine while Dolmetis and Doridun commanded the others. Forming the points of the trident, Arkas’ thirty Judicators advanced just ahead of the main columns, their various bows and crossbows well suited to taking down any patrols or sentries set by the foes.

Arkas’ force was small but formidable, its warriors elite even amongst the Strike Chambers of the Celestial Vindicators. He could sense the anticipation for battle in his host, infusing the ever-present aura of Ghur with a predatory hunger. The skirmish with the Bonekeepers had been a simple execution. True battle awaited.

They had not long passed under the shadowy eaves of the woods when one of the Judicator-Primes returned to report to Arkas. He led the Lord-Celestant to where his retinue were waiting amongst the trees, a broad clearing visible ahead of them. The ruined stones of a road passed directly into the pale sunlight.

‘There are watchers in the trees, my lord,’ said the Judicator-Prime, indicating half-seen shapes in the branches of the pines to either side of the track. From what Arkas could see, the sentries did not appear human — he caught glimpses of grey flesh and leathery wings.

‘Harpies?’

‘I don’t believe so, my lord. Something else, but we cannot see them well enough to say.’

Arkas looked more closely, crouching next to the trunk of a huge mountain pine. As he laid his hand upon its bark to steady himself he felt a tremor through his fingers. Glancing at the tree, he saw knotholes blinking, and within, green eyes looking back at him. He recoiled to his feet, seeing other eyes opening on the trees around him. Turning his attention to the trail ahead he saw that the ‘beasts’ in the trees were in fact twists of branch and leaf, forming humanoid shapes.

The dark bark of the tree he had leaned against started to split, the splinters of wood forming a maw. A low moan issued from this hole.

‘The trees are tainted,’ he snarled to his companions. ‘The trees are the sentries!’

The warning groans were getting louder and the branches were swaying, their rustling alarm rippling outwards.

‘If we cannot be stealthy, speed and shock will do. The Icemere is only three hundred paces more from the break of the trees,’ said Arkas.

He looked back to see the warriors of his command picking their way through the woods, their turquoise armour catching rays of weak light and then plunged into shade as the wind moved through the canopy above. He could hear the snap of twigs and thud of heavy boots even through the muffle of old leaves and mulch. ‘I do not think Sigmar was concerned with us sneaking around when he bid Grungni to forge our armour as he did…’

Looking through the trees, he spied the other Judicators, their Primes looking to him for some sign of what to do. He raised his hand as a sign for all to halt and then looked for his Knight-Heraldor. Doridun was at the head of his column a hundred or so paces away to the left. With two simple gestures, he passed on the command to sound the charge and then turned back to the Judicator-Prime.

‘Move now and kill all that you can. We shall pass through you. Guard our backs.’

‘Kill what, my lord?’

‘The trees! Burn them!’

‘As you will it, my lord.’ The Judicator-Prime moved his hand as though pulling a string on his bow, a lightning bolt appearing in place of where an arrow would be on a mortal weapon. The sparkle of others doing the same lit the trees. A heartbeat later the bolts flashed across the clearing, searing into the treetops.

Like candles, the trees lit with flame, sap crackling, needle-swathed branches thrashing as blue fire leapt from one to the next. The moaning became a higher pitched keening as another volley of enchanted missiles streaked into the arboreal watchers.

The peal of Doridun’s clarion reached Arkas’ ears and he launched into a sprint, hammer in one hand, runeblade in the other. From all along the treeline the Stormcast Eternals burst forth, thundering into the cloud-shrouded sunlight, the flicker of the Judicators’ lightning bolts catching on their armour as they ploughed through drifts of snow on the uneven ground.

Arkas surged ahead with his Retributors close at hand, their lightning hammers at the ready. Glaive-wielding Protectors followed Doridun and Dolmetis to either side. Made of unalloyed sigmarite, their thick armour was no encumbrance as they raced across the clearing.

Shouts from ahead warned that the enemy knew that something was amiss, but there was no chance they could know the nature of the foe about to fall upon them. Soon brash horns and drums called them to arms.

The clearing widened out as they neared the banks of the Icemere. Its surface was mirror-smooth, reflecting the tall trees around its edge and the grey sky above, stretching to the horizon to the left, where Arkas knew it became a frozen waterfall. To the right it was bordered by the stumps of the duardin walls that had dammed it in ages past. The enormous piles of a bridge still rose from the ice.

The Chaos tribe had spread across the banks and part of the lake opposite where the road had once run down the perimeter of the water. The scene was just as it had been described by Venian, with tents of all sizes arranged haphazardly on the snow-covered shore and frozen tarn, interspersed with bivouacs and more permanent structures of wood, hide and bone. Drifts of smoke rose from the fires of the previous night and five mighty pillars had been erected in a circle at the centre, held in place by thick rope cables.

Arkas could see the bold shapes carved into the wooden totems and recognised four of them immediately as interpretations of the Chaos Gods — Khorne, Nurgle, Tzeentch and Slaanesh. The fifth caused him some surprise, a rendition of a horned figure crouched upon a spiralling tower of skulls and bones covered with swarming vermin. The Great Horned Rat.

Why was the fifth member of the despotic pantheon, the skaven god, being worshipped by an Ursungoran tribe?

Chaos worshippers boiled out of their tents and rough hovels, leaving Arkas no time to ponder this question. Though they could not have expected to face a Strike Chamber of Stormcasts, the Chaos followers were well prepared to attack at short notice, and judging by the trophies and human remains that adorned their altar-pyres and totems, they had gained considerable success doing so.

Horsemen erupted from the woods, bringing with them baying packs of hounds. Riders, steeds and mastiffs all showed signs of Chaos mutations — horns, scales, sting-tipped tails, fiery eyes and burning manes, along with myriad other deformities. Rather than attack directly, the riders and their hunting packs circled to the right, along the lake shore, using their speed to outflank the oncoming Stormcast Eternals.

Marauders in mail and leather armour formed quickly into war-groups ahead of Arkas’ charge, at least two hundred of them clustered beneath tattered banners and standards made of bone and sinew. Here again there was skaven influence, triskele symbols similar to those of the Pestilens among the runes of the Blood God, Lord of Decay, Changer of Ways and Pleasure Prince. Brandishing spears and axes, the Chaos thugs jeered and hollered abuse. They crashed their weapons on wooden shields daubed with thick blood, taunting the Stormcasts and defying their own fear.

Warriors in a mix of heavier plate, gilded fishscale and banded laminar jogged into position to the left, facing the onrushing column led by Doridun. Many sported crab-like claws, tentacles, tusks and immense fangs, some of them bursting from their armour in places with unnatural muscles and tumorous growths, several easily as big as the Stormcast warriors pounding towards the lake.

Holding out his hammer, Arkas redirected the charge, acting as a pivot for the entire formation. The Warbeasts responded immediately, wheeling left towards the most dangerous foes. Arkas and Doridun speared into the heavy infantry while Dolmetis and his retinue of Protectors and Decimators redirected their assault towards the marauders in the centre. They would trust to the Judicators behind to waylay the cavalry encircling the oncoming host. Overhead, the glitter of artificial wings showed the progress of the Prosecutors as they headed over the lake towards the ridge beyond, their arcane missiles scything down the shrieking harpies that had escaped the initial attack.

Running down the sloping shore, Arkas caught a glimpse of the larger beasts reported by the Prosecutors. They might have been men once, or perhaps bears, it was hard to say. They lumbered forwards on their hind legs, a handful of moaning, snarling creatures covered in dark fur, chained together at the neck by thick iron links. Like the warriors, they bore signs of gross mutation, their flesh in places thick with pale chitin plates and pustules, while metal rivets had been driven into their bodies to make a kind of studded armour. Whipping pseudo-limbs thrashed back and forth, each lined with vicious barbs.

For all that the Chaos tribe was organised and experienced, it had never faced attackers like the Warbeasts. Armoured in sigmarite, the Stormcast Eternals cared little for the damage the enemy weapons might deal. Arkas applied the same principle to his strategies, training and drilling his warriors to drive into the thick of the enemy army, to seek out as one the toughest foe, just as he had singled out the Gore Maiden when he had first arrived. They had but one concern — to bloodily rip the heart from the opposition, destroying their best warriors and most fearsome beasts first. The Judicators and Prosecutors were well equipped to finish off those that remained.

So it was that Arkas was the first to fall upon the enemy, hammer and sword at the ready. Halberd blades and jagged maces rose to meet him as he leapt.

‘Death to the unclean!’ he roared, smashing into the Chaos warriors’ ranks, his weapons trailing twin tails of gore like Sigmar’s comet, celestial energy exploding through the ranks of the foe at his impact.

He crushed one beneath his weight as he landed, rings of mail scattering when the Chaos follower’s ribcage exploded. Crouching, Arkas smashed his hammer through the legs of three more, greaves and armour no defence against the sweeping blow. As he straightened, his blade carved a diagonal furrow across a pair of full-plated foes who were still drawing back their enormous maces.

Two heartbeats more, three more foes sliced and crushed.

The Retributors crashed into the foes pressing around Arkas, their hammers unleashing a blazing storm of lightning that split open armoured plates and charred the warriors within. Starsoul maces cracked like thunder, their touch bursting apart the bodies of the Chaos-tainted. At the centre of this celestial tempest the Warbeast struck the head from a foe with his runeblade, his hammer slamming into the chest of another.

‘Spare none!’ he roared, though his followers needed no such instruction. Driven by a hate aeons in the making, finally given true release in battle, the Stormcasts of the Celestial Vindicators let free their vengeance in a bloody outpouring of rage.

A fighter as tall as Arkas loomed out of the blood-spray, a jagged sickle-like blade in each hand, slabs of thick steel painted black covering his flesh. He wore no helm, and a reptilian third eye protruding from his forehead fixed the Lord-Celestant with an inhuman gaze, the regular orbs a glossy, sightless white beneath. Lips wrinkled back, revealing teeth like glass shards in bloodless gums, and a bulging black tongue.

‘Spawn of corruption!’

Arkas’ runeblade crashed against the Chaos champion’s upraised arm, red sparks flying as Chaos sigils burned in the hexed metal. The shock of the impact sent a tremor up Arkas’ arm and he stepped back, flexing his numbed fingers around the hilt of his sword. The Chaos champion let out a gurgling laugh and hacked at the Lord-Celestant, both weapons aimed for his throat.

Arkas raised his hammer in time to catch one blade on its haft, the sickle’s edge skittering over his gauntleted hand and leaving a furrow through the sigmarite. The other passed over his rising runeblade and struck him just above the left eye, whipping his head back.

Snarling, Arkas swung his hammer at his opponent’s midriff, but the blow fell short and was turned aside by a timely parry. The Chaos champion’s defence left him open, however, and the Lord-Celestant’s boot crashed into the man-beast’s chest, driving him from his feet.

The Retributors needed no urging and fell upon the toppled champion with hammers and maces, pounding incessantly upon his armour until the heads of their weapons glowed white with power and the runes of his plate burned yellow. The champion rolled to all fours, trying to escape the deluge of blows, but a starsoul mace cracked against his skull with an electric detonation. Bone and blood flew and the champion slumped, his collapse only drawing an even more incensed assault from the raging Stormcasts.

Arkas slashed and hammered his way into the press around his companions, slaughtering the Chaos warriors who sought to fall upon his Retributors as they finished off the champion. He cared not who dealt the final blow — it was only pride that led champions to seek to best each other in single combat.

Bursting free from the tangled mass of corpses and wounded, Arkas had just enough time to see Dolmetis’ warriors carving apart the last of the marauders before the gigantic mutant beasts were upon him, snarling, ropes of stinking saliva flowing from their enormous maws.

A tentacle-limb wrapped itself about his wrist as he drew back his hammer to strike the first blow. He hacked at the pseudopod with his sword, parting it on the second attempt. By then, the brutish monster was upon him, bowling him over with its immense mass. Sword-arm pinned beneath the creature’s foreleg and his hammer equally trapped, Arkas head-butted the beast, splintering dagger-like fangs.

Claws raked and gouged at his pauldrons and cuirass, slivers of sigmarite falling like curled thread as another brute joined the attack. He felt blood trickling down his shoulder, the first wound his flesh had known since passing through the pain of Sigmar’s forge. The shock sent a surge of energy through him, firing him with a strength unknown before.

Bellowing, Arkas threw off the hellish beast atop him, rising to his feet. His hammer slammed into the face of the second, snapping horns, tusks and skull, pulping the brain within. Heaving aside its dying bulk, he threw himself at the monster that had trapped him. It howled and launched itself in a counter-attack. Ignoring the tentacles flailing at his face, Arkas speared his sword into the brute’s mouth, following the blade in with his whole arm. Blade and fist punched out through the back of the creature’s bony head. Bracing a foot against the slumping corpse’s shoulder, he dragged his arm free, tearing the head away like a macabre bracelet before he threw it aside.

Doridun’s combined assault with Arkas had torn through the Chaos warriors’ flank as they had been forced to turn towards the Lord-Celestant. The Knight-Heraldor and his warriors battered and cleaved at the last remaining foes while Arkas turned his attention to Dolmetis’ progress.

The Protectors slashed a bloody path through the barbaric tribesmen. They swept their glaives in arcs that left their foes dismembered and bisected, the marauders’ numbers counting for little against the far superior weapons, physique and armour of the Stormcast Eternals. Beyond the Protectors, a spearhead of Decimators encircled the survivors, led by Dolmetis. Their thunderaxes streaked bolts of energy from the corpses of their slain foes, the ice underfoot lit by the fury of the war-storm.

The carnage lasted for a little while longer as Hastor and his winged Stormcasts ran down the hounds and horsemen that had attempted to circle, and others fell upon the Chaos followers breaking for safety towards the far end of the lake, heading for the ridge leading to the Queen of the Peak’s lair. Not one survived to reach the shore, incinerated by heavenly shafts and javelins, pierced on the tines of the Prosecutors’ tridents.

The ice was cracked in places, amongst the red wash of freezing blood and the scattered remnants of limbs and bodies. Arkas noticed a few of the Stormcasts gazing down at the sheer surface, concerned.

‘No need to fear for your footing,’ he declared to them, stamping a heavy boot. ‘The Icemere is sustained by the magic of the Queen of the Peak. All year round it could take our weight.’

‘Who is this queen?’ asked Diocletus, one of the Protectors-Prime. ‘Such sorcery is surely Chaos-born.’

‘Not so,’ snapped Arkas. ‘Do you think I would seek her aid if that were the case? No, her power comes from the strength of Ghur, the pure wildness of Ursungorod rendered into magic. The legends claimed she was a goddess in the World Before, but I cannot say that is true. She is powerful, certainly, but a goddess? All that matters is she will know me.’

‘I did not mean any insubordination, my lord,’ Diocletus said, offering a bow in apology, the long blade of his glaive dipped in submission. ‘I sought knowledge. I do not understand why we need the assistance of… a witch.’

‘When I last fought for these lands I had nearly all of the clans at my side and it was not enough. The grip of Chaos is tight and the pollution of the skaven runs far. I would talk to the Queen of the Peak and find out the extent of the power of both.’

‘She can be trusted, Lord-Celestant?’

‘She will not break a bargain struck,’ replied Arkas. ‘I will pay the price she names and she will tell all.’

While Arkas had been speaking, the other Primes had started their post-battle practices, arranging for the bodies of the tainted to be dragged into piles ready to be consumed by cleansing fire. Here and there were mottled patches of ice, the surface crazily scarred by the detonations of those Stormcasts who had been physically overwhelmed and called back to the Celestial Realm. Half a dozen, no more — though Arkas would have preferred it to have been fewer still.

Searches were conducted throughout the camp, all possessions and artefacts added to the pyres. As a Decimator walked past with an armful of rags and trinkets, Arkas called out to him.

‘Wait, Philodus!’ The Lord-Celestant pulled out a necklace fashioned from small, sharp teeth and sinew. The pendant was a large fang inscribed with a symbol similar to the triskele icons the barbarians had carried. ‘This is a Pestilens amulet. Where did you find it?’

The Stormcast indicated a hut of crude planks and untreated hide.

‘There are all kinds of gewgaws and baubles,’ he said. ‘Everywhere.’

‘Forget the pyres!’ bellowed Arkas, tossing the amulet away. ‘Burn it all where it stands! If these cretins were in league with the skaven, who can say what foulness of the Great Horned Rat lurks in their camp. Purge it all, now!’

The Primes rushed to obey his command and moments later arcs of holy lightning flashed across the camp, setting pale flames in the tents and hovels. More celestial blasts incinerated the scattered bodies, the cleansing fires burning a scintillating blue. Arkas stalked through the flames, pointing out bodies and heaps of belongings that had been missed. The surface of the melting ice shimmered while azure smoke poured into the sky.

Only when all was ablaze did Arkas order his warriors onwards to seize the approaches to the ridge taken by the Prosecutors. It seemed as though the clouds descended at their approach, swathing the ridgeline in a thick mist. Ice crystals crackled across their armour. Where the mountains had ushered Arkas on, it felt as though the Queen of the Peak sought to dissuade him.

‘We saw more warriors out on the ridge,’ Venian reported, when Arkas reached the slope. ‘It was your command not to proceed any further.’

‘They are of no consequence,’ Arkas assured them. ‘Hastor holds the far end, does he not? Decimators, to me!’

The Paladins answered to his call, forming up behind Arkas in a dense block, their thunderaxes held ready. Dolmetis and Doridun approached.

‘What orders, my lord?’ asked the Knight-Heraldor.

‘You shall remain in command of the rearguard here, Doridun. None are to advance further without explicit command, and nothing is to pass.’

‘As you command.’

‘Decimators, you will follow at fifteen paces. You will approach no closer without specific order, no matter what occurs.’

The Decimators signalled their understanding with silently raised axes.

‘What am I to do?’ asked Dolmetis.

‘If needed, you will turn and run,’ Arkas said. ‘As fast as you can, back to Doridun. From there you will lead the army to the rendezvous with Theuderis.’

‘That is… comforting?’ said Dolmetis, staring into the swirling mists. ‘What exactly is waiting for us?’

Arkas said nothing, but set off up the ridge into the whiteness.

Chapter Seven

The first night fell upon the mountains of Ursungorod, the sky alive with unsettling lights and ribbons of magic that lit the heavy clouds from within. The snow came again, silently filling in the footprints of the host, erasing the evidence of their passage. Theuderis and the Silverhands pressed on through the building storm, limbs as tireless as when they had first breached the realmgate into the Capricious Wilds. The Knights-Azyros and other airborne warriors of the Angelos Conclave had been forced to land by the growing snows and wind, and so Samat marched at the side of his Lord-Celestant. He held a great lantern, a celestial beacon that gleamed with Azyrite fire, penetrating the darkness with its white glare. Along the column, the other four Knights-Azyros lit the way for their Stormcast comrades, sparks of brightness against the dark backdrop of the mountainside.

‘There is a certain beauty to it,’ said the Knight-Azyros, casting his gaze to the illuminations of the heavens.

‘Glamours of Chaos,’ said the Lord-Celestant. He snorted and shook his head. ‘The air itself is thick with the corruption of the Dark Powers. See how it rebels against the presence of Sigmar’s truthbringers and forces you to the ground.’

‘You think there is more to this storm than mountain climate, Lord Silverhand?’

‘I am certain of it. Since we crossed into Ursungorod I have felt its enmity. We are strangers in this land, bearers of Sigmar’s grace. We are not wanted here.’ Theuderis noticed Samat glance at him. ‘Do you not sense it also? There is a presence here, hiding in the shadows, spying on us, stalking us.’

‘The skaven, perhaps?’

‘No, though their stain is close at hand. One of their lairs is nearby, but it is not the skaven presence that I feel. It is Ursungorod itself, I am sure of it.’

‘A daemon, maybe?’

‘That may be it, Samat,’ said Theuderis. Tyrathrax shook her head, dislodging the snow gathering on her chamfron. ‘Yes, something nascent, like a daemon trying to break into the realm through Ursungorod.’

‘A curse on this storm that blinds us to the way ahead and shields our foes.’

Theuderis said nothing and they continued on in silence for some time. It was well past midnight when the snows faltered and the clouds started to break apart, revealing a purple-tinged sky. Shooting stars streaked yellow trails while two red crescent moons stared down from past the mountain peaks.

‘Shall we ascend?’ asked Samat, loosening his starblade with his free hand.

‘Not yet.’

Theuderis could see blocky shapes jutting from the slopes ahead. More duardin ruins. As the vanguard approached the broken remnants, they slowed their march, stopping to examine the collapsed towers and fallen walls. The Lord-Celestant urged his dracoth into a run, swiftly covering the ground along the trail forged through the snows by the conclaves ahead.

‘Keep moving!’ he bellowed as he came upon the first warriors of the vanguard. ‘We can afford no delays.’

‘My lord, look at this,’ called out one of the Liberator-Primes, pointing to a leaning column not far from the path. There were faces in the stone.

‘Just old duardin carvings,’ Theuderis snapped, but on riding closer the cause of his warriors’ curiosity became obvious. Though once the designs had been of stout bearded faces beneath crested helms, they had been subtly changed, looking now more like bears, cats and dogs.

In the flickering lighting of the celestial beacons it looked as though the faces were alive. Then a monstrously fanged wolfshead on an arch keystone not far away opened its mouth and Theuderis heard a howl. He started in shock as Tyrathrax lurched away, hissing and spitting.

‘Sigmar’s wrath!’ exclaimed the Lord-Celestant, clearly seeing the wolf curl back its lips with a snarl that echoed through the ruins. He could feel magic seeping up from the ground, the weathered masonry contorted under its influence. Theuderis drew his sword, its blade silver in the flow of magic. ‘Hold ground! Angelos aloft! Paladins secure!’

The Strike Chamber moved as a single entity, blue and white shining in the light of the Knights-Azyros’ lamps as they led the Prosecutors skywards. The Liberators and Judicators of the Redeemer Conclave fell in towards the ruins where Theuderis waited, while the Paladins — retinues of Decimators, Retributors and Protectors — formed a solid outer wall of hammers, glaives and axes.

The snarls, barks and growls of animals intensified as more and more of the ruins sprang into unnatural life. To Theuderis it seemed as though massive claws scraped on stone and he spun in the saddle, whipping his sword around. There was nothing but for the glaring faces in the tumbled stones. His dracoth paced left and right, unnerved, snow falling from her scales.

‘Hold steady!’ Theuderis called, the words helping to calm his mood as much as that of his fighters. ‘Scour the dark!’

With the celestial beacons shining their light from above, the Stormcast Eternals stood ready, eyeing every shadow, hole and broken doorway around them. Voltaran moved up beside his lord, bringing with him a regiment of Judicators armed with shockbolt bows. The fire of their projectiles made the darkness and light dance all the more crazily. Theuderis did his best to pierce the night with his inhuman gaze, but could see nothing except his own warriors.

He forced his breathing to slow and relaxed his grip on the hilt of his sword. Slowly the Ghurite energy seeped back down into the earth and the stones returned to their inert state, the grimacing faces of duardin ancestor heroes and lesser godlings returning where feral visages had leered before.

Even when all seemed to have returned to normal — whatever passed for normal in these Sigmar-cursed mountains — Theuderis did not stand down his force. He waited, reassuring Tyrathrax with pats on the shoulder, until Samat descended, his beacon lamp bathing the ruins with its comforting light.

‘No foes in the sky or on the land,’ reported the Knight-Azyros, hovering a few paces from his lord. ‘As for what passes below… Our eyes cannot see there.’

‘Very well,’ said Theuderis. He suppressed a sigh of relief, unwilling to betray to his companion how tense he had become. The Lord-Celestant stared at the ruins for a few moments more, daring them to change again. Nothing happened and he raised his voice. ‘Form column! Divine Fury formation. Advance with all haste.’

The ruins shuddered to the thunder of marching boots and the scrape of armour. Conclaves of Stormcast Eternals seamlessly filed and split, arranging themselves without delay or hesitation, the lines and ranks almost mesmerising in their efficiency. Watching the conjoining retinues settled Theuderis. His army in motion was a thing of pleasure to witness, a single beast of sigmarite and reforged flesh that answered to his command as quickly as his dracoth.

He waved them onwards, urging Tyrathrax forwards with a single word, glad to quit the ruins. When they were well clear, and heading back down into a cleft between two vertiginous peaks, he turned to look back. The first smudge of the coming dawn lit the sky and for an instant it seemed that two broken gateways formed eyes glaring at him.

‘Onwards,’ he told the dracoth and she moved into a smooth run, taking him towards the head of the column. ‘In the name of the God-King, we will strip the Chaos from these lands. We shall wash it clean with the blood of the corrupted.’

Chapter Eight

The vast chamber reverberated with the scurrying of thousands of clawed feet on bare rock, an incessant scratching that gnawed away at the soul even as the skaven gnawed at the underbelly of the mountains. The skittering of the slaves drowned out the click of picks and hammers, obliterated the crack of overseers’ whips and masked the tormented shrieks and squeaks.

A living tide of mangy furred bodies seethed across the cavern floor, ebbing and flowing down side tunnels, across rickety bridges that spanned bottomless chasms, along ladders and scaffolds built from the bodies and bones of their predecessors. Lash marks competed with buboes and sores on their suppurating hides, cankered limbs forced into agonising service while cataract-pale eyes gazed blindly in the green light of the warp-lamps. Boulders and baskets of smaller rocks passed across the slave carpet, hewn down from the walls by rusted tools and bare hands, to be passed out into the great spoil heaps that littered the surface of the Whiteworld Above.

The air was thick with turgid swirls of emerald smoke from hundreds of incense braziers, the fumes causing the slaves to constantly hack and cough while its warpstone essence fuelled near-dead limbs with unnatural stamina. The musk of the downtrodden mass was equally cloying and foul, as was the rank aroma of the splashing filth underfoot.

A gong sounded, a single strike that echoed long through the undercity. Almost as one the slave mass looked up, their chittering quieting to a hushed dread, the sighted and the sightless turning towards the source of the noise. The black-furred overseers stayed their barbed whips for the moment, sniffing the air, agitated, pink tails twitching.

Squeals of pain and panic swiftly silenced announced the arrival of the priests’ black-furred bodyguards. Even burlier than the slave-masters, clad in robes and coifs of corroded mail, mercenary spitevermin battered and chopped a path through the packed slaves. A ripple spread through the downtrodden horde as the spitevermin trampled the mangled corpses of those that had no room to evade the bloody advance. Terror spread like a bow wave before the armoured skaven. Slaves squealed and bit and clawed, tearing at each other to escape the unforgiving cudgels and blades.

As the press started to thicken more and more, the overseers were forced to wield their whips again, lashing out with snarled fury. Some fled before it was too late, others were buried under the weight of the slaves pushing away from the incoming procession. The musk of fear and scent of blood was overpowering, driving the slaves into an increasingly panicked orgy of ear-splitting shrieks and feral violence.

Behind the spitevermin came the first of the plague monks, clutching long staves from which hung warpcloud-spilling censers. The censers glowed with sorcerous power, the mutating effect of the warpstone plain to see in the cadaverous faces and blistered skin of the wielders. Their eyes glowed in the darkness, spittle flecking lips and fur and falling in drooling ribbons to the ground.

After the censer bearers came the procession proper, rank after rank of skaven robed in tattered green and black and red, their cowls and hoods half-hiding faces marked with pox scars and weeping sores. Their garments were stained, held together by fraying rope belts, and covered in a thin layer of shed fur and flakes of skin. They clutched foetid blades and woe-staves in fingers tipped with cracked nails.

With them came chanting. A sonorous, repetitive dirge filled the tunnels, stirring the warp-fog like the breath of an almighty beast. It was accompanied by the slow beat of heavy drums and the clatter of bone rattles. The gong boomed again at the moment the procession entered the vast chamber, its ominous note silencing the tumult for a moment.

The plague monks issued forth into their cathedral like pus filling a boil, dominating the space created by the spitevermin. They parted to create a path towards the object of the slaves’ labours, now revealed.

It was an arch. At least, it had been an arch at some time in the distant past. Of duardin construction, it stood five times the height of the spitevermin, broad enough to enter ten abreast. It leaned off-kilter, filled with blocks of rubble etched with duardin runes, brought down when the hall beyond had collapsed. The supporting columns were carved with angular, bearded faces that glowered down on the interlopers, the shadows caused by the flickering lamps making the eyes appear to stare around the room with distaste. The lintel stone, a single immense slab of carnelian-speckled granite, was covered in gilded script that glowed with a light not of the warp-lanterns.

A single figure swathed in voluminous black shrouds appeared at the tunnel mouth, his scabrous muzzle protruding from the patched hood. The plague monks turned and bowed their heads. Baring their fangs, the spitevermin glowered and snarled until the slaves threw themselves to their knees and bellies, grovelling and whining the name of their master.

‘Poxmaster Felk…’

With him came his plague priests, six robed attendants bedecked in amulets and fetishes of the Great Horned Rat. Battered copper and tin censers hung from their belts, dribbling more warpfume. Each bore a staff taller than them, tipped with a triangular device of bones surrounding a hunk of raw black warpstone. The air churned around these staves, their corrupting magic like a faint green fire. Felk’s rod was even larger and more impressive, a bifurcated branch with the skulls of five humans bound to it with rotted twine and rusted chain. Their eyes were nuggets of warpstone and their jawbones wired in such a way that they chattered madly with each stride that took him across the cavern. His priests followed a few steps behind, their gazes constantly shifting with nervous energy.

Felk stopped before the huge gate, under which a small gap had been dug. It was just large enough for him to step into had he desired, like a postern gate formed where two blocks of stone butted against each other at a sharp angle.

Instead of darkness, the hole glowed with an inner light, the same as that which lit the golden runes of the lintel. Felk’s lips curled back in pleasure, revealing shards of broken teeth and black gums.

‘Yes-yes!’ he crowed, turning to his companions. ‘See-see? Divinations were right-right. Duardin gate! Not just city, realm-burrowing tunnelway. No more begging, no more playing nice to Clan Nekrit for Poxmaster Felk and esteemed acolytes of Withering Canker.’

‘We spray musk on the tolls of Warlord Shrilk!’ exclaimed Priest Festik.

‘Our own gate-gate!’ laughed Priest Chittir.

‘Where does it lead-lead?’ Priest Kirrik asked as he took a step closer to the portal.

Felk gestured to one of the nearby spitevermin and then to the slave cowering at the warrior’s feet.

‘Send it through,’ the Poxmaster commanded.

The spitevermin heaved up the squalling slave in one hand and dragged it up the ramp of stone and bodies leading to the gate. The slave twisted and made one last lunge for freedom, but was too weak from its exertions. Its eyes fixed on Felk with a last panicked glare. The spitevermin heaved the protesting skaven into the flickering light of the gap.

Felk saw the slave for a moment, silhouetted against the golden glow. A heartbeat later the shadow dissolved, accompanied by a drawn out screeching that suddenly stopped.

‘Nowhere yet,’ said Felk, turning away. Somewhere in the Realm of Life, that much the Poxmaster knew. It mattered not. A realmgate would give him access, the power to move far more swiftly than the gnaw-ways allowed. ‘More dig-dig, whole gate must be open.’

He signalled to his troupe to turn around and follow him back to the upper chambers. As they left, the spitevermin withdrew, leaving the surviving overseers to lash the slaves back into action.

The route back to the main skaven city took them through a mixture of gnawed burrows and duardin-delved corridors and halls. There was filth everywhere, including half-eaten carcasses of animals and slaves, though anything of use had been stripped from the bodies. In the larger halls, where once duardin lords had held court over their followers, nests crowded around the walls, ramshackle conglomerations of stones, mud, sticks, furs, bones and other materials.

Felk knew his city well and could navigate its byways and tunnels by smell alone in the places there were no luminous fungi or warp-lamps to light the way. Fresher draughts of air from the Whiteworld Above signalled their arrival at the uppermost level, dug from the ruins of a human city. The ground had swallowed the buildings whole in times past, though most had collapsed, scattered into a litter of broken pieces of once brightly coloured temple domes and age-worn bricks.

The Great Shrine, centre of Felk’s domain, had been raised out of the combined duardin and human detritus. Built onto the remains of a palatial complex of buildings and towers, it resembled a gigantic termite mound more than anything. Packed earth, broken duardin mortar, human-crafted bricks, all had been thrown together for floor after floor. Haphazard bridges, walkways and stairs circled its girth, held together by frayed rope and rotting sinew. In many places it was shored up with ramshackle buttresses, cracks and slides in its surface caused by the frequent tremors. It looked as though it might collapse with the smallest shudder of the earth, but in reality was solidly built within and had withstood some of the fiercest quakes since Felk’s predecessors had erected it.

From chimneys and smokeholes issued a dozen columns of fumes, ranging from thick black smoke to misty green vapours. The effluence of the plague furnaces within spilled down pipes and rusted gutters, a spew of noxious liquids that pooled and spattered across the splintered remains of royal chambers and courtly cloisters.

At the summit stood a towering framework of rotted timbers and chain, from which hung the great gong of the Withering Canker. Lit from above by weak sunlight coming through a great crack in the roof of the cavern, at first it looked to be made of simple copper stained by verdigris, but the surface shimmered with something like oil. On a rope-bound arm next to it was a warpstone-headed hammer. A network of wheels, belts and tackle descended into the Great Shrine to a capstan where three hundred slaves waited for the command to work the hammer.

The approach to the Great Shrine was joined by smaller temples that housed the plague monks, and a warren-like mess of barracks that held the spitevermin regiments. A causeway zigzagged up from the huddled abodes, joining with a stained arch that might have once been the vault of an immense cathedral, but was now the last bridge to the gate of Felk’s inner domain.

The gate was made of overlapping planks and boards nailed and bolted together, reinforced by bars of untreated tree trunks and rusting rivets. It hung on two tusks that formed the entry arch, each higher than the duardin gate in the depths.

Felk started his ascent, dismissing his plague monks with a waved claw, though his priests and bodyguard remained close at hand. As he passed under the shadow of a broken human tower he felt a presence beside him that had not been there a moment earlier.

He suppressed a squeal, turning his fear to anger.

‘You approach unannounced, Eshin lackey,’ he snarled at the black-clad scout who had materialised at his left hand. The gutter runner cocked an emerald eye towards him, showing no fear or apology. The spitevermin belatedly dashed forwards but Felk stayed their attack with a sneer and a dismissive gesture.

‘Come, quick-quick!’ whispered the assassin-scout. ‘Very important news. Come see!’

‘Tell me,’ said Felk. ‘What news?’

Thriss, the agent Felk had hired from Clan Darkclaw, glanced warily at the nearby plague priests and shook his head.

‘Come see. Alone.’

‘Not mad,’ snapped Felk, fearing duplicity. ‘Tell me!’

The assassin’s tail twitched twice, the blade attached to its end glinting. He shook his head again.

‘Must see for self. Not let others see yet. Big problem.’ These last words were delivered sotto voce, so vehemently that Felk stopped in his tracks, every nerve taut. He had never heard the gutter runner speak in such a way.

‘Prepare for dismal feast,’ Felk commanded his underlings, affecting an imperious stature to glare at them. ‘I return soon.’

Before any of them could offer complaint or question, Felk directed Thriss to lead the way with a quick glance. The spitevermin split at their approach, uncertain what to do. Their fangleader, a hulking one-eyed blackfur called Skarth, moved to block his master’s route, the tip of his halberd moving towards Thriss.

‘What orders, Poxmaster?’ His one good eye fixed on the assassin, the words issued as though he were chewing a gristly remnant of a victim. Foaming saliva wetted balding fur. ‘We spill blood-blood?’

‘Not now, fangleader.’ Felk considered Thriss’ short but worrying report. ‘Soon-soon. Very soon. Guard Great Shrine ready for dismal feast. None but priests to enter.’

With a last surly glare at Thriss, Skarth moved aside, bringing up his wickedly bladed halberd. Felk hurried past, his thoughts a sudden whirl. It was enough to balance the contesting loyalties and usefulness of his own priests and monks, without worrying about developing rivalries between Thriss and his hired elites from the Savage Fang. The success at the realmgate and the dismal feast he had ordered in celebration were fast becoming overshadowed in his mind.

He made no complaint when Thriss set a brisk pace, leading the Poxmaster down through the barracks and into the widespread skaven dwellings beyond.

Along tunnels and alleys they sped, Felk feeling more and more out of his element with every step. Much of the city was deserted, its inhabitants hunting and scavenging in the Whiteworld Above during the last sunlight — the skaven disliked the sun, but knew better than to venture at night when all manner of monstrous beasts and birds searched for prey on the mountain slopes. The twilight of dawn and dusk was their domain.

They travelled for some time, leaving behind the dropping-strewn streets and passageways, coming into a poorly explored part of the duardin ruins that had only recently been uncovered by a quake.

‘Must climb,’ said Thriss, stopping beside a crack opened in the side of a broad, smooth-hewn tunnel. Without another word he disappeared into the fissure, claws scraping on rock.

It had been some time since Felk had needed to perform such physical activity. He tightened his rope belt and tucked in the hem of his robe to free his legs. Wedging his staff into a safe crevice, he started the ascent, finding easy purchase in the jagged break.

To his relief the climb did not last long, the split rock chimney taking them to a columned gallery somewhere in the mountainside. Clambering over the edge, Felk found himself on a neatly tiled floor, the colour faded but a duardin design just about visible in the dusk glow. The long balcony stretched for dozens of paces to the left and right, archways in both directions blocked by debris or overgrown by roots from trees in the soil above.

Thriss was at the edge, looking down over the low stone balustrade.

‘There!’ He pointed to the right, jabbing a claw repeatedly at something below. ‘There-there! Quick-quick!’

Felk approached cautiously, not wishing to give Thriss the opportunity to throw him over the edge if that was his intent. Staying far out of reach, he risked a glance into the valley below.

At first he was not sure what he could see. Something shone in the light of the setting sun, a ribbon of white winding along the valley floor. He thought it was a river at first, but as his eyes adjusted he saw that there was a column of figures picking their way between the rocks and broken remnants of duardin architecture.

From this height it was hard to make out details, but Felk could see that the armoured warriors were gigantic, almost as large as the rat ogres of the Moulder clans. They bore unsheathed weapons and many had broad shields decorated with a design: a stylised golden star with a long tail.

‘What-what is it?’ snapped Thriss. ‘Not tribes. Not human.’

‘Not human,’ Felk murmured, caught between intrigue and dread. They might have been warriors of Chaos, but he saw no mark or icon that indicated which power they served.

‘Back-back!’

Thriss threw himself at Felk, snatching hold of the Poxmaster’s robe to drag him away from the edge of the gallery. Felk thrashed from the assassin’s grip in time to see more of the giants swooping past on shining wings. He slithered back across the tiles, worming his way into the dark shadows where Thriss had already taken shelter.

Eyes wide, teeth bared, they watched in trembling silence while five of the winged soldiers peeled away, wheeling through the sky towards the gallery. It seemed as though their leader looked directly at him, the red eyes of the masked helm blank and pitiless. A moment later the strange warriors changed trajectory, descending out of sight.

‘Bad-bad,’ he said. They were so close to unearthing the realmgate. The imminence of that victory, a few timely decapitations by Skarth and a couple of accidents engineered by Thriss had stayed off the worst of his underlings’ latest efforts to grab power, but an outside threat could provoke a coup more dangerous than the daily infighting of skaven politics. ‘Bad-bad. Bad-bad.’

Thriss had earned his warpstone payment twice over. Felk turned to say as much to the agent, only to find the assassin had already fled back down the crack.

Alone and exposed on the balcony, the Poxmaster quickly followed.

Chapter Nine

The crunch of the snow sounded impossibly loud. The creak of armour was an assault on Arkas’ senses. The blustering wind skirled and hooted in fantastical melodies, every gust carving swirls in the snow. He could hear breathing, fast and heaving, distorted by a helm. He had thought it was Dolmetis, but realised it was his own. He fixed his eyes ahead, seeing vague silhouettes through the blizzard that had descended moments after they had started up the ridgeline. Even vision made perfect by the artifice of Sigmar could not penetrate the white veil ahead.

With every stride he expected the ground to give way and he knew he should proceed with more caution, but his blood was still fired from the fight with the Chaos warriors. The spirit of Ursungorod, the magic-infused air, drove him on as much as memories of the oath he had sworn.

The wind surged for a moment, clearing away the fog, and then stillness enveloped the ridge. He heard Dolmetis take in a sharp breath as the darker shadows materialised into the shapes of men, women and beasts. Like Arkas, the Knight-Vexillor already had his sword in hand, but the Lord-Celestant caught a glimpse of the blade as Dolmetis drew it up in readiness.

‘Calm yourself,’ Arkas said quietly. ‘These foes are beyond our wrath.’

As they neared the figures Arkas could see what he had already suspected — each was clad in a faceted sheath of translucent ice. Like blue-tinted glass it covered them, a layer of frozen water no thicker than his finger. There were fighters in the garb of the Ursungoran tribes, most with expressions forever locked in fear or pain, eyes wide and glittering with crystals, the spittle on their tongues like air bubbles. Amongst them were men and women showing various signs of Chaos mutation — extra limbs, lizard-scaled skin, cat-like eyes, a profusion of horns, tusks and fangs.

There were snow tigers and cave bears too, and larger beasts also warped by Chaos — manticores, hippogryphs, hydras and others, towering twice as tall as the Stormcast Eternals, some even larger still. A squid-like bekevic had been drawn from its watery home, or forced out by some mortal hand. A few of the monsters still carried riders clad in armour of Chaotic origin, made of bone or whorled with strange devices, or etched with runes that continued to shift and writhe even within the ice bonds.

‘What bizarre display have we discovered?’ whispered Dolmetis. The muttering of the Decimators sounded dully from further back.

‘Touch nothing,’ Arkas reminded them, stepping around a frozen hound skulking close to the ground, its legs buried in the snow, ears back as it whimpered at something unseen ahead. ‘These are the trophies of the Queen of the Peak. Disturb them and we risk joining their ranks.’

He stopped when he realised Dolmetis was no longer at his shoulder. Arkas turned in time to see the Knight-Vexillor approaching a statue-like woman, her hands upraised as if to protect her face, locks flowing from beneath a tall helm like a frozen waterfall.

‘What enchantment slew them?’ asked Dolmetis, slowly circling the female warrior. ‘Why did she kill them?’

Arkas stepped up next to the standard bearer as he completed his circuit and stopped in front of the woman, bent slightly to peer into her face.

‘Why do you assume they are dead?’ asked Arkas. He could imagine Dolmetis’ look of surprise inside his helm as he twisted sharply to look at his lord.

‘They live? Inside this frost-born casing?’

‘So legend speaks,’ replied Arkas. ‘For a time, at least, until the Queen of the Peak grows weary of their company, or forgives them, or otherwise releases them from torment.’

‘There have been survivors?’

Arkas shook his head.

‘You misunderstand me, Dolmetis.’ He pointed to the woman’s chest. The ice was darker, denser in the slight hollow her breasts formed in the mail shirt. ‘She spares them further suffering by lancing an icicle through their hearts. The bodies remain.’

‘I do not think it is wise to risk this venture.’ Dolmetis straightened and looked back along the ridge towards the Icemere, though it was far from view. ‘Let us lead the army to the rendezvous and begin the attack on the skaven. We have no need of this hag’s aid.’

‘I think we do,’ said Arkas, stepping away a few paces. He indicated something further ahead, gesturing for Dolmetis to look.

The Knight-Vexillor adjusted his position to see what Arkas intended. Two dozen paces ahead, just within the retreating bank of fog, stood the unmistakable shape of a skaven. Three, in fact, huddled close together, hunched over, their rags stiff in a breeze that no longer blew, their serrated daggers held in frozen hands and prehensile tails.

Arkas set forth with long strides, Dolmetis following after the briefest hesitation. On closer inspection they found that the skaven were clad in brown and black, the garb of thieves and silent killers, their ratty faces wrapped with dark bandages. Something greenish-black shimmered on the edges of their weapons.

‘Weeping blades,’ said Dolmetis. ‘Assassins. They meant harm to the Queen of the Peak.’

‘There is another skaven, over there,’ said Arkas. He pointed at a frozen vermin figure cowled in thick robes, a staff in its hands. ‘They tried to send an emissary and when that failed they dispatched would-be killers. When that also failed, they had the approaches barred by their tame tribesmen. I think that none have approached in many years, decades or perhaps centuries even.’

‘The Queen of the Peak is probably mad with loneliness too? Any other good news, Lord-Celestant?’

Arkas grinned inside his helm and pointed with his hammer. A much larger shadow rose from the ridge, curving away to the left. It looked like a bridge composed of a single arc, though its far end was lost in the mists. Something moved above, coming closer.

‘We draw close to our goal,’ said Arkas. ‘And here comes Hastor to accompany us on the last stretch.’

The Lord-Celestant spoke truthfully and the flying shape quickly resolved into the Knight-Venator, gliding down towards the ridge with vortices of snow trailing from his shimmering wings. He landed a short distance away and met Arkas halfway.

‘You seem unsettled, Hastor,’ said Arkas, feeling a wash of agitation from the commander of his Angelos Conclave. ‘I hope you did not pass the gate as I commanded.’

‘In truth, my lord, only a direct command to step over the threshold would have forced me beneath that arch,’ confessed the Knight-Venator. He turned his attention to Dolmetis. ‘I trust all went well on the lake.’

‘Righteous bloodshed is its own reward,’ replied the Knight-Vexillor. ‘I find myself on more uncertain ground at the moment.’

‘The way ahead is free of foes?’ said Arkas, cutting across Hastor’s next words. ‘None approached the tower?’

‘None dared try.’ Hastor indicated the sharp slopes to either side of the ridge. ‘A few attempted to negotiate the snows below, but the storm took them.’

‘We shall push on.’

The going was quicker from then on. The mists parted before them, revealing more and more of the frozen statues as the ridge widened to a plateau from which rose the bridge Arkas had seen. Like before, the Queen of the Peak’s victims were a mix of human, Chaos-tainted, skaven and beast. The ice covering betrayed the greater age of many of them, frosted, chipped and cracked in places, though the screaming, terrified faces within showed no sign of decay.

The bridge itself was of duardin construction, perfectly fitted and mortared stones creating a span ten paces wide with a low parapet at each edge. Though the skills of the old duardin mason and engineers had been magnificent, it was the enchantment of the Queen of the Peak that had protected the bridge from the decline that had ruined the rest of Ursungorod’s ancient cityscape — the snow did not settle here, but a thin veneer of ice covered every intricately carved block and thread of mortar.

Arkas did not ascend immediately, but led his Stormcast companions beneath the bridge, to the crumbling edge of the plateau. The mountain dropped down into a sheer chasm, the forests below just a dark smear against white, the glittering ribbon of a frozen river even further away. The fog continued to roll back, revealing the gorge. It was over five hundred paces wide, the far side a jagged face of black rock and pale ice.

‘It was not like this when last I came here,’ said Arkas, turning his gaze to the left, towards the bridge. ‘This chasm was but a javelin’s cast across, the duardin bridge crossing over the ruins of the outer castle.’

‘What use is a fortress that has a bridge over its wall?’ asked Dolmetis. ‘An enemy could march in and besiege the keep with ease.’

‘The bridge was not built in time of war,’ replied Arkas. ‘It linked the duardin lands to those of my forefathers, when Sigmar first drove the taint from Ursungorod and peace prevailed for a time. The bridge was marked by powerful duardin runework. I think that it would collapse at their command if needed, taking any attackers to their deaths and sealing the castle.’

‘The remains of the outer wall and gates, such as they are, are down there,’ said Hastor, pointing into the abyss. ‘I descended earlier. The far side of the cliff is marked by old passages and halls, revealed in cross-section as if a blade had cut through them.’

‘What of the tower?’ Arkas’ question was answered not by the Knight-Venator but by a swirl of wind that revealed the furthest extent of the sky-bridge. The stocky design of the ruins unveiled by the retreating cloud was obviously of duardin making, but the central tower was taller and more elegant, topped by an onion-shaped dome that still sparkled with red and gold.

‘Remarkable…’ breathed Dolmetis.

‘Indeed it is,’ replied Hastor.

Arkas looked on in stunned wonder.

The bridge descended as it had always done, to a sturdy four-towered barbican in front of the Queen of the Peak’s abode. The tumbled remnants of the duardin fort lay about on broken cobbles and flagged courtyards. In turn, the tower and ruins stood upon a great hunk of frozen rock, held only by the bridge itself, the vastness of the chasm dropping away below the inverted cone of the foundations so that it seemed to hang in the air. Openings that were the remnants of duardin vaults and storerooms broke the outside of the edifice, squared caves and smooth-hewn ledges.

‘The duardin runes you spoke of, my lord,’ said Dolmetis. ‘You think they might still work?’

‘I think they were activated long ago but nullified by the power of the queen,’ replied Arkas. He looked at the Knight-Vexillor and shrugged. ‘Should she wish to deposit us into the gorge, she has only to release her icy grip. Bridge and castle would drop as surely as a stone from your fist.’

‘But she would plummet also,’ said Hastor, ‘without the bridge to hold her tower. There is little danger.’

‘Says the knight with the wings,’ Dolmetis said sourly.

‘Time is passing,’ Arkas said, turning back to the bridge. ‘I will return to the army before night falls if possible. I will proceed alone.’

The Knight-Vexillor and Knight-Venator accepted this order without comment and moved to join the Decimators that had formed a defensive ring around the approach to the bridge. Arkas started his ascent.

The climb was not steep but the slippery surface of the bridge forced him to proceed with a little more caution than normal — the duardin-height wall to each side did not even reach to his waist and would have been little barrier against a fall.

At the apex of the arc he stopped to survey the mountains that had once been his home. The peaks seemed so familiar — he could remember the names of them all — but it was more than geography that made Ursungorod, and the indefinable spirit that suffused the land had been changed. Near the roof of the world, far from the rivers and forests that were the foundation of the peaks, the traces of magic that rose this high were thinned, like the air. Away from the near-overwhelming rush of power he had felt on his first return, he could taste the change, the telltale foulness of Chaos pervading everything.

Could it have even entered into the mind of the Queen of the Peak? She had been an ally at best for Arka Bear-clad, never a friend — giving support only in return for something. The Chaos Gods had become all-powerful in the centuries of Sigmar’s enforced exile to the Celestial Realm and over the turn of the years the queen might have succumbed to their threats and temptations.

With more uncertain thoughts in mind, he started down the far side of the bridge, heading towards the half-ruined fortress that hung impossibly over the valley. The stones soon gave way to timeworn paving, which led a short distance to the shadow of the gatehouse looming over the road. The wall to either side had long since been toppled, by time and assault, even as it had been in Arkas’ life as a mortal.

Of the gate itself nothing remained either. Even so, there was a barrier, a shimmer of energy between the massive bastions that flanked the road, a haze that obscured the tower beyond. Moving off the path towards the ruins of the wall, Arkas could see a line of thick frost that encircled the keep as surely as any curtain wall. His keen eyes picked out the shine of bones and skulls trapped within the ice beyond the boundary circumscribed by the ancient stones.

‘Though you might not know me by sight, know me by heart,’ he announced, using the dead tongue of his homeland rather than the language of Azyr. The words seemed heavy and crude after so long conversing in the speech of the immortals. ‘I am Stormcast, a warrior of Sigmar, God-King from the world-that-was. Arkas I am called, though I am known to my lord and companions as the Warbeast. The Bear-clad I was before Sigmar took me, Arka the Uniter, the Bear of Hard Winters. By another name you knew me, and you alone, written with this rune by your hand.’

Laying down his weapons, Arkas knelt before the portal.

‘“Saviour”, you told me it meant when last I was here. The Fang of Freedom you called me. I am here to deliver on my promise, though it has been long in the reckoning.’

Silence followed, even the wind stilled while the Queen of the Peak considered his pledge. Arkas gripped his hammer and sword, stood up and waited. Nothing happened.

A test, he thought, looking at the shimmering curtain just a pace away. Beyond that he could see the wide, low steps leading up to the arched doors of the tower itself. One step, one stride would take him into the domain of the Queen.

An act of courage? No. His courage had never been doubted, by any that knew him.

An act of trust.

He stepped into the veil.

Chapter Ten

The sky was blue above, the air sharp, cold and invigorating. The sun was low in the sky, a winter sun devoid of warmth but reassuring all the same. Frost crackled under Arkas’ tread, his boots leaving clear imprints in the thin layer that covered the flagstones leading to the tower.

Exactly as it had been hundreds of years earlier when the Bear-clad had made his last journey along this road.

It’s a gate, he realised.

The barbican was a realmgate of sorts, the Queen of the Peak’s domain a pocket enclave, a self-contained magical plateau shifted slightly aside from Ursungorod and the Realm of Beasts. The Bear-clad would not have understood such a thing, the concept of the Mortal Realms layered and entwined about each other as alien to his mind as the idea that he might one day become an immortal war leader clad in armour forged from metal mined in the heart of a dead world.

The grand doors at the top of the steps were open, the flickering light of brands glowing from within. He ascended the stairs four at a stride, covering the ground quickly. He paused for a heartbeat at the entrance. Like everything else, a veneer of snow and ice lay like a patina on the stone and wood. The sigils and images carved into the doors glittered in the light of the brands — faces of bears, suns with beneficent smiles, and stylised lightning bolts that reminded him of the magnificent city of Sigmaron.

It was exactly as he remembered. Exactly. Like a dream being re-enacted. It was impossible, of course, a trick of this mind. Even so, as he stepped into the light of the braziers and torches within, he could not shake the feeling that he was doing more than following in his footsteps.

The entrance hall was lavishly decorated, a thick red carpet running the length of the chamber. Archways curtained with velvet of the same colour broke the walls to either side. Both fabrics were threaded with gold in a repeating design of flame-like waves interspersed with triangular mountains and simple star-like suns.

But all was frozen still, every bend in the cloth, every flame in the sconces caught in a moment of time. The silence was all-consuming, muffling his step, swallowing the scrape and creak of his armour.

The only movement was Arkas. Leaving a trail of vapour from shallow breaths he advanced along the hall, as he had done before. He knew nothing of what lay beyond the curtains and dared not speculate.

Something caught his attention and he looked down, surprised to see a single trail of footprints leading towards the stair. His stride was much longer now, his body magnified by the Reforging upon the Anvil of the Apotheosis. Yet when he glanced back, he saw only that single set of tracks. He could even see the pattern of the hobnails in his old boots.

The stair inside, ascending from left to right, was more like that of a rampart, narrow enough for two men to hold back an army. Arkas covered the distance to the next floor in moments and then from there, ignoring the wooden doors to the left and right, walked along a short landing to a spiral staircase that he knew took him to the domed chamber at the top of the tower.

He had to duck to fit his massive frame through the door at the top, and stepped into a circular hall roughly thirty paces across. The door closed behind him with the faint click of a lock.

The ice coated the inside of the dome, with facets and edges forming crystal faces at odd angles to each other. Arkas saw his reflection three dozen times over, turquoise and gold refracted and contorted all around. He stepped into the centre of the chamber, the images splintering and reforming.

Hammer held to one side, runeblade sheathed at his hip, Arkas waited in silence. He looked up and saw his helm mask glaring back at him from between the dark wooden vaults of the ceiling, eyeholes suffused with a glow of celestial energy. It was reassuring to know that, even here in the heart of the icy palace, the link to Azyr was strong. Should anything happen, should his body perish, he would be called back to Sigmaron, there to be recast and remoulded.

Immortality, though not without a price.

A breeze drifted across the circular hall, the slightest gust that barely stirred his cloak. It brought with it the queen’s voice, soft but hostile.

‘Who claims the name of Arka Bear-clad?’ she demanded. To the right a reflection of Arkas was replaced by a vague outline of a middle-aged woman clad in white robes edged with fur, her silvery hair hanging long and straight about her shoulders. Her eyes were a piercing blue, shards of ice given sapphire life. ‘Reveal yourself!’

‘I am Arka,’ he replied. He lifted away the mask that hid his face. He almost started at his reflection, having forgotten the changes that had been wrought by the artifice of Sigmar. His beard and hair were short, never requiring to be shorn again, his eyes sunken and dark. Three scars ran across his face, one from each eye to the ears and another down the centre of his forehead.

‘What have they done to you, my champion?’ A sigh wafted through the chamber, perhaps of pity, or sadness. Another reflection shifted, revealing a matronly figure in the depths of the ice, bundled in a black shawl with a hood over her head.

‘They made me strong,’ Arkas replied.

He turned his head to face this new image. Other mirrored figures fractured and reformed on the edge of his sight. He caught glimpses of different people, though when he looked directly at them he saw only his own ravaged face. His mother, his father, Radomira, the sculpted masks of his warriors, even the bearded, noble visage of the God-King himself.

A third manifestation of the Queen of the Peak appeared, almost directly in front of Arkas. She was young, clad in white-enamelled armour chased with silver and sapphires. It was no ceremonial suit, and neither was the blade in her hand a weapon for parades. A warrior-queen, her face enclosed within the cheek guards of a helm with a white horsehair crest, eyes boring into Arkas.

‘Oathbreaker! Deserter! Traitor! You abandoned your people.’ Her voice dropped to a plaintive whisper. ‘You abandoned me.’

‘Never, my Queen of the Peak,’ Arkas replied. As he addressed the latest apparition he could see himself as he had been in an ice mirror to his right — a full beard and head of hair, a nose broken more times than he could remember, glowering eyes beneath bushy brows. For an instant he forgot that he was Stormcast as the memory of his past life was given form in this place. ‘I was taken. I would not have willed it, but I have returned to fulfil my oath.’

‘Your oath?’ This was from the first Queen, imperious and distant. ‘Your oath to your mother or your promise to me?’

‘Both.’

‘Yet it was not in your power to do either.’

Her words bit as deeply as an axe blow. The memory of his ascension to the Celestial Realm welled up inside him, bursting free from deep behind the walls raised by Grungni’s craft.

‘I tried,’ said Arka. The frustration and sadness that had overpowered him in that moment surged through him. He fought through the bleakness, a snarl escaping gritted teeth. ‘The Bear-clad is dead, but the Warbeast will deliver where he failed.’

Quiet followed, his words ringing around the chamber and in his ears. The images of the queen moved of their own accord, coming together into one reflection, an amalgam of all three — stately, armoured and motherly all at the same time.

‘You know that which I desire more than anything,’ said the queen. ‘Do you renew your pledge to deliver it?’

‘It shall be done,’ said Arkas. He replaced his mask and the likenesses all became that of the Lord-Celestant again, his mind of a single purpose. ‘There is something you must do for me first.’

‘No,’ said the Queen of the Peak. ‘The pact was sealed long ago, and I have fulfilled my part.’

‘You did not,’ insisted Arkas.

‘I gave you the winds and the snows to command, as you demanded.’

‘A power I never had the chance to unleash.’

‘Of no consequence. The fault of your god-king, not mine.’

Arkas turned on his heel and took a step towards the door. He stopped as he felt a chill seep up through his foot. Glancing down, he saw tendrils of ice crystals snaking up over his boot and onto his leg.

‘I am here to grant us both a fresh chance,’ he said. ‘Answer my questions and I will deliver on what I promised.’

‘I will not let you betray me again!’

The cold branches crept further up his leg and fresh veins of frost started to encase the other. His breath formed a thick fog. The plates of his armour paled with a thin coating of ice.

‘I am your last and only chance for freedom,’ Arkas said. ‘Aid me and you serve the God-King, who shall be handsome in his favours. Or strike me down with frost-spite and remain here in your prison forever.’

Arkas felt his heart thudding, every pulse a drumbeat in his chest, the rush of blood a surge of noise in his ears. Had he judged her wrong?

A rime crept over his face, fogging his vision, crawling along the channels of his scars. He could feel a current stirring inside, the Anvil of the Apotheosis beckoning to his spirit while death stole along his nerves.

He could no longer feel his legs, his hands were leaden weights, a coil of ice binding his fingers to the haft of his hammer. In a dozen reflections he saw himself as he should be, a withered, frost-bound corpse.

The fate Sigmar had spared him, he realised with a shock.

‘You will… be free…’ he gasped, his breath forming crystals on the inside of his mask.

He heard the faintest whisper, barely audible over the thunder of his own heartbeat.

‘Sleep.’

‘I cannot,’ Arkas managed, each word a triumph of will against the freezing of his muscles.

‘Beloved descendant.’

Arkas swallowed, the motion painful, as though swallowing a stone. He closed his eyes, frost thickening on the lashes.

With a shudder, he took in a great final lungful of chilling air and the magic of the queen’s breath flowed into him.

Chapter Eleven

Descending into the valley, Theuderis’ host had left the worst of the snows and storms behind. The wind was strong, bending tall firs and pines, whipping the great branches back and forth to dust the marching Stormcasts with falling snow. Roots slithered like serpents underfoot, opportunistically snaring feet and ankles. Even the stones and boulders rebelled at the presence of the Stormcasts, forming frowning faces and leering eyes as they passed, rolling to trip and hinder the step of Sigmar’s chosen, the larger rocks toppling down banks and hills in lumbering attempts to crush the invaders.

Tyrathrax padded quietly across the whiteness, her harness and armour jingling. The creak and tromp of the Stormcast Eternals advancing between the trees were the only other sounds. The lack of birdsong and small animals still disturbed Theuderis, but he allowed himself a moment of reverie as he contemplated his surrounds.

‘It has a certain grandeur, I give it that,’ Theuderis said to his dracoth. ‘A fallen glory, you might say. When the taint has been cleansed it will be beautiful again.’

The trees formed an almost unbroken canopy and except for the odd beam breaking through a gap caused by the wind, Theuderis had not seen the sun since they had entered, not long after dawn. The white-and-blue of his warriors was muted in the gloom, swallowed by the green and brown shadows.

A shaft of light sprang into being a short way ahead — not the soft gold of the mountain sun but a paler glow Theuderis recognised immediately as the gleam of a celestial beacon. Samat descended slowly through a break in the leaves, coming to rest a few paces ahead of the Lord-Celestant. The Knight-Azyros’ wings furled with a last glint of colour as the two met.

‘There is no sign of the road we saw yesterday, Lord Silverhand.’ Samat turned to look along the line of advance. ‘It has been… swallowed. The forest is vast. We shall not see the sky before midday tomorrow if we continue in this direction. A wide river bounds the forest half a day to the south. We saw no ford or bridge and the current is strong.’

‘North?’

‘The slopes rise steeply but we would break the treeline before dusk. The ground is broken by shoulders of rock and more ruined settlements. The snow is heaped on the higher slopes, and I fear avalanches would be a constant threat, needing only the slightest tremor to bring a storm of ice and rock upon us. The land has not taken kindly to our presence — who can say what other threats it harbours.’

The memory of the collapsing cliff flashed through Theuderis’ mind — warriors engulfed by a tide of earth and stone, bright flashes of lightning as so many Stormcasts were called back to Sigmaron.

‘We continue through the forest. Though it is hostile, it does not appear to pose too great a danger,’ said the Lord-Celestant.

Samat hesitated before bowing his head in acknowledgement.

‘Speak your mind.’

‘There is still the option of the city beneath,’ said the Knight-Azyros. ‘The duardin ruins we have seen stand atop vast delvings. I expressed my doubts before, but I must say that I am of a mind that the route below might prove the swifter.’

‘The swiftest road is by no means the surest,’ replied Theuderis. ‘We have been fortunate to have eluded the attention of the skaven thus far. Doubtless Arkas and his Warbeasts have stirred their nest. It serves no purpose for the moment to draw their eye to us.’

‘We cannot know how the Celestial Vindicators fare, my lord,’ argued Samat. ‘They could be sorely beset and every delay threatens the success of our mission.’

‘It is the task to which Sigmar appointed them,’ said Theuderis, crossing his arms. ‘We cannot judge from afar whose need is greater, ours or Arkas’. If we hasten and run into peril, what succour can we provide?

‘It is for your wisdom that you are Lord-Celestant,’ admitted Samat, bowing further, ‘and through your words is spoken Sigmar’s will. As you command, we obey.’

‘Do not chastise yourself, Samat.’ Theuderis reached out a hand and beckoned for the Knight-Azyros to approach closer. ‘I would not have my officers close their lips and minds. The advice was given in good temper, and I accept it. Yet my own mind is set upon its path for the moment and I would see it run the course for a while longer.’

Before Samat could reply, a noise silenced him. It was a distant horn blast, far shriller than the clarions of the Knights-Heraldor. Tyrathrax snarled and the Stormcasts threading through the trees stopped where they were, instinctively raising their weapons.

Answering notes came from ahead and behind. Theuderis twisted in his saddle to peer through the trees but could see nothing. He turned back to issue an order to Samat but the Knight-Azyros had already taken flight. Nothing could be seen through the branches and leaves above.

Tyrathrax sensed her master’s agitation and snarled, tail lashing back and forth like an angry snake.

Theuderis heard a cry, the metallic shout of one of his warriors. He could not make out the words or direction in the press of trees. Some of the nearest Stormcast Eternals started out into the woods, calling to each other to find the source of the disturbance.

‘Stand fast!’ he roared, dragging free his tempestos hammer. ‘Form a perimeter, castellation line!’

The horns sounded again, louder and closer, coming from all around it seemed, yet still Theuderis could see nothing and no report came from his men. The Stormcasts did their best to reform the marching column into a defensive line, but the closeness and thickness of the trees meant that they could stand no more than four or five abreast in many places. The Primes strode back and forth, tightening the shield walls of the Liberators, moving the Judicators into gaps in the line from where Azyr-forged bows and crossbows would be able to mark an incoming foe.

Theuderis headed back to the rearguard as a third chorus of strident horns sounded out of the gloom beneath the trees. Tyrathrax’s claws gouged great divots of mud and leaves as she ran, spraying wet mulch and ice behind. Low branches whipped at Theuderis’ helm and pauldrons as he crashed through them, needles and splintered wood falling in his wake. Armour clattered as a troop of Protectors sprinted alongside, their Prime urging them into position with short, sharp commands.

‘Trajos, what can you see?’ Theuderis called out to the Judicator-Prime in charge of the Justicar Conclave that formed the foundation of the rearguard force. Hefting his thunderbolt crossbow, the Judicator-Prime glanced back at his commander.

‘Nothing, Lord Silverhand. Just trees and snow.’

‘They must be almost upon us,’ warned Theuderis as he stared up and down the slope trying to discern any movement in the shadows. ‘Those horns were close at hand.’

Snapping wood above drew their attention to the canopy. A white-armoured figured crashed through the branches, his wings scattering iridescent metal feathers, bloody droplets streaming from a great rent across his breastplate. A heartbeat later another Prosecutor plunged down from above, his left arm missing. Both hit the ground like meteors, throwing up explosions of dead plant matter and dirt.

‘Hold ground!’ Theuderis bellowed as several Justicars broke the line to move towards the wounded flyers. ‘Trajos, control your men.’

The Judicator-Prime snapped reprimands while Tyrathrax moved out of the column at Theuderis’ urging. He saw the one-armed Prosecutor push to his feet, using his hammer as a prop. The other crackled with celestial power and disappeared, succumbing to the wound he had suffered.

‘A manticore, my lord!’ gasped the Prosecutor. ‘And a griffon also!’

A shout drew Theuderis’ attention back along the host, towards the main body of troops. Flares of power seared between the trees as a regiment of Judicators unleashed the missiles of their skybolt and shockbolt bows. From his position, Theuderis could see nothing of their targets, but amongst the crackle of celestial energy he heard feral snarls and howls.

Even as his mind raced to accept this development, a darkness passed over him, accompanied by thrashing in the treetops. A short distance away a tree snapped and into view tumbled an immense beast. It had the body of a giant black-and-white striped cat and an eagle’s head, its red-and-black feathered wings tattered and bloody. Its beak was locked around the right arm of a Prosecutor-Prime, his hammer still in his grip.

The Prime repeatedly smashed his fist into the creature’s eye as the two flailed into the mulch, while its front claws raked back and forth across his ivory cuirass. With a supreme effort, the Stormcast hauled himself onto the back of the beast as it struggled to straighten, still raining blows against its feathered skull.

A nearby retinue of Decimators leapt into the attack, hewing at the downed monster with thunderaxes as though it were a fallen tree, every blow throwing up a fountain of thick blood.

Shouts and monstrous howling betrayed the airborne battle continuing out of sight above, but Theuderis had no time to consider this — their attackers had revealed themselves, charging along and down the slope from out of the shade.

Beastmen, hundreds of them. Most had goat-like features with curling horns, as tall as a normal man, crude axes, swords and clubs in hand. They carried wooden shields fixed with hardened hide, onto which triangular symbols and circular devices had been painted. Some were almost as big as a Stormcast, using both hands to wield their axes and mauls, their horns twisting like helms about their faces.

Before them rushed a swarm of smaller creatures, some no bigger than waist-high to Theuderis, the largest no taller than his midriff. They wielded stone-tipped spears and hide bucklers, brutish faces snarling, leather-skinned with stubby horns and chins sporting tufts of ungainly thick hair.

‘Target the gors,’ the Lord-Celestant commanded Trajos. ‘Leave the ungors to me.’

The Judicator-Prime gestured for the wounded Prosecutor to retreat into the sanctuary behind the retinue, his Stormcasts parting neatly to let him pass and then reforming. Tyrathrax bounded towards the enemy as a fusillade of celestial energy flared through the trees, over the heads of the smaller onrushing ungors and into the foes beyond. Explosions of cosmic power lit the forest, every detonation accompanied by the shrieks and bellows of dying beastmen.

Theuderis rode on, trusting to the impeccable aim of his warriors as another salvo of fire and lightning scythed past to wreak more bloody ruin through the mobs of charging Chaos-tainted. Scant moments from crashing head-on into the oncoming tide of ungors, the Lord-Celestant glanced around and truly saw the extent of the enemy they faced. The forest teemed with beastmen of all sizes and varieties, their banners and shields bearing the marks and icons of dozens of different tribes and champions, their sigils and ornaments showing worship to all of the Chaos pantheon, with many skavenesque symbols amongst them.

Even as Tyrathrax leapt into the throng of smaller beastmen, fangs and claws mauling and slashing, Theuderis realised that a greater power had forged the unholy alliance of beastmen warbands and clans that now assailed his host. Only a creature with immense influence could command such a force; only the most lucrative promises and dire threats were capable of overwhelming the natural antipathy and infighting of so many warp-tainted creatures. A daemon perhaps, or a Champion of Chaos not yet revealed.

He laid about with his tempestos hammer, every strike obliterating an ungor with a blast of celestial force. He and Tyrathrax continued to plough through the small beastmen, their spears shattering and splintering on sigmarite plates, shields hewn asunder by dagger-like claws and teeth, or crushed and smashed aside with every swing of Theuderis’ hammer.

Like a swimmer surfacing, dracoth and rider burst through the throng of the ungors, taking a moment to pause and evaluate the progress of the battle. Immense bull-headed creatures, equine mutants and other types of beastmen joined the fray, lowing and snarling and screaming in the dark tongue of Chaos. They fell upon the vanguard first, but solid lines of Liberators with shields locked weathered the initial storm and now they counter-attacked with warblades and hammers, their Primes surging forwards with devastating sweeps of two-handed weapons.

The manticore had been forced down through the canopy, its ruddy fur marked with many wounds, leathery wings broken and ragged. Its bizarre human-leonine face was a picture of rage, its deafening howls and roars audible over the crash of weapons and war-shouts of the Silverhands. A ring of Retributors formed around the beast, ensorcelled hammers and maces pounding like Grungni himself at the Forge of Ages, protected from attack by rapid volleys of missiles from nearby Judicators that cut down any beast that came within fifty paces.

The centre had been spared any meaningful assault so far, but the Stormcasts arranged in retinues of alternating melee and missile troops knew better than to break formation yet. If the van or rear was overwhelmed it would be to the core of the army their Stormcast companions would retreat. Like the keep of a castle, the Redeemer Conclaves were the underlying strength of the army, the fulcrum of strategy and refuge in need.

Movement rippling through the branches above drew Theuderis’ eye before he could check how the rearguard fared. More ungors scampered monkey-like through the boughs, thinking themselves safe from the ire of the Lord-Celestant.

Tyrathrax reared at his simple command, roaring forth a tempest of magical bolts from her maw. The storm ignited the cones, wood and leaves, setting fire in fur and flesh. Shrieking and gibbering, the ungors dropped to the forest floor, to be met by the dracoth and rider pouncing forwards with tireless fury.

Two dozen more foes had been slain when Theuderis redirected his attention back to the line. Voltaran had moved back with some of the Judicators to pour more lightning-fuelled bolts into the horde, carpeting the ground with the bodies of the dead. Yet it seemed for all the ire of the Stormcasts, the numbers of the beastmen were greater, and they were driven on by some power more potent than their horrendous losses.

Tyrathrax snarled, her claws sticking in the mire of bodies underfoot, the corpses sliding and splitting beneath her tread as she laboured towards fresh foes. She spat lightning again, frustrated that she could not rend with her claws, turning another handful of ungors to ashen clouds. Bunching her muscles, the dracoth leapt free of the bloody morass and found firmer ground, sensing Theuderis’ desire to return to the line.

Chapter Twelve

When he opened his eyes, Arkas could see all of Ursungorod. It took him a moment to accept it, so vast and unnatural was the view. Every sheet of ice was an eye, every snowflake an ear, every icicle a fingertip.

See, hear and feel as I see, hear and feel. Seek what you must.

His presence stretched the length and breadth of the mountains, the power dizzying. He focussed, drawing the vision within him, seeing the tower from the outside, as though standing on the broken curtain wall. He turned his mind’s eye and flowed effortlessly back across the bridge, sparing barely a glance for Hastor, Dolmetis and the Decimators at the far end.

He allowed his consciousness to fracture like a splitting ice flow, part of him zooming to watch over the Stormcasts still holding position on the Icemere, the rest of him skating to and fro through the wilds, leaping from snow-laden branches to drifts to frozen puddles in the blink of an eye. He scrambled across rockfalls of skull-shaped stones and slid along stone arches with icicle fangs. In the waters of Ursungorod’s hundreds of rivers he splashed through rapids between dagger-pinnacles and across impossible waterfalls that flowed up the slopes. He felt the eternal presence of the trees, slumbering in places, alive and predatory in others.

Arkas felt the tread of many feet as though on his skin. Concentrating, he saw different tribes, some in camp, others following the herds or enemies, raiding and fighting, sacrificing their own and their foes to the Chaos Gods. Pyres burned bright, blades gleamed with blood, voices were raised in guttural chants in praise of unholy powers.

Down he delved, following the cracks and chasms, into the lairs of the skaven, though he could not penetrate deeply. Even so, he recoiled at their teeming thousands, overwhelmed by the slithering, skittering touch of them, their greasy, furred bodies rubbing against him, pulsing and pushing like corrupted blood through veins, claws eternally scratching, teeth biting.

Repulsed, he almost withdrew, but as he did so Arkas saw something that pulled his thoughts away from the creeping touch of the rat-filth. He witnessed hooded figures buying slaves and mutated beasts from human warlords, paying in warpstone tokens and laying on blessings of the Great Horned Rat.

It seemed impossible that humans would worship the rat-god.

There are those who follow other powers, but when you fell and the last resistance ended, it was the Lord of Thirteen Dooms that stretched out the furthest to seize what was lost. To escape the disease they swore their souls to the rat-masters, allowed to keep the lands above in return for their obedience and service to those below.

There was a daemon, he recalled, a monstrosity that had filled him with dread. Arka Bear-clad had heard of such a thing only in the darkest legends, but Arkas Warbeast knew well the verminlords of the Great Horned Rat. Brought forth from the gnaw-wounds between realms, the rat daemons were incarnations of death and pestilence. It was this vile monster, a Corruptor, that had unleashed the plague winds that had slain his mother and later destroyed his army after his ascension.

Skixakoth.

It has a name?

An ancient evil from the world-that-was, given form once more.

Arkas tried to delve deeper, pushing as far as he could into the unforgiving bedrock, but he met a wall of resistance. No matter how hard he tried he could not penetrate the depths he knew to be there — the Shadowgulf.

Even my power does not extend so far. Another rules there.

Arkas felt the darkness pulse, a wave of hostility forcing him to retreat, suddenly wary of discovery. As he withdrew, he sensed another knot of power, a whorl of Ghurite energy that drew him in as a whirlpool might snare a boat. Rather than resist, Arkas allowed himself to drift upon the flow until he found the source.

It was a realmgate, half excavated by the skaven from the duardin undercity. At the moment of discovery he realised that this was his goal, the objective Sigmar had set for the Warbeasts and Silverhands. He had assumed the realmgate was active, but now he understood why the God-King had dispatched his Strike Chamber with such swiftness. The skaven were on the verge of opening the portal between realms, and once they did so they would have another route into the Realm of Life where Alarielle and her sylvaneth armies were sorely beset. A portal into Therdonia would bring the skaven perilously close to the Lifegate. Taking the gate of Ursungorod would not only hasten the Stormcast assault on Archaon at the Allpoints, it would stave off a potentially devastating skaven invasion into Ghryan.

I have shown you that which you desired to see.

Arkas’ thoughts moved quickly to his ally, Theuderis of the Knights Excelsior. Even as his mind turned to his fellow Lord-Celestant, his awareness shifted, racing away from the skaven caverns and into the peaks once more. In a few moments he felt the heavy footfalls of white-and-blue warriors, at their head a lordly figure on the back of a red-scaled dracoth. Above them burned the celestial light, shining down from the lanterns of Sigmar’s Knights-Azyros. Its touch filled him with a sense of belonging and ease.

Even as he luxuriated in Sigmar’s reflected glory, Arkas felt something marring the light, a darkness close at hand. In the ground beneath Theuderis’ warriors, a coming together of evils. Diving down, seeking the source, Arkas chanced upon a chamber lit only by luminescent fungi. A skaven clad in black conversed with a goat-headed creature with twisting horns that wore thick layers of tanned human skin as a robe and cloak. Their intent was clear — they plotted against the army of Theuderis.

An ambush. Arkas had to warn the Silverhand somehow.

What you have seen is but a shadow, a mirror of the past. Events are already in motion.

Dark woods spread out across the advance of the Knights Excelsior and in the shadows beneath the boughs gathered a throng of beastmen and Chaos-warped monsters. The immense trees shielded them from the eyes of the Prosecutors flying overhead. Theuderis was already marching straight into the trap.

There had to be some way to reach Theuderis. If through the magic he could see the Lord-Celestant, perhaps he could communicate with him? Arkas felt resistance from the queen.

That was not our bargain, Bear-clad.

The freezing became an agony, lancing through Arkas’ thoughts, blood snapping, marrow cracking.

Remember your oaths!

Chapter Thirteen

A sudden darkness warned Theuderis an instant before a monstrous beast hurtled through the trees close at hand, descending in a welter of snarling and broken branches. He barely had time to register it as another griffon attacked, black like a dreadful blend of raven and panther, eyes aflame with Chaos magic. On its back clung a knight armoured in bronzed plate and links, a sigil of the Dark Gods burning with yellow fire upon the blade of his axe.

Griffon and dracoth collided, the winged monster bowling over the mount of the Lord-Celestant. Theuderis released his hold and rolled with the motion of Tyrathrax, throwing himself clear of her as she turned onto her back, claws raking at the underside of the griffon even as its beak skittered and screeched across the armour protecting the dracoth’s throat.

The Chaos champion’s axe blade bit into the back of Theuderis’ shoulder as the Stormcast came to his feet. Powered by vile sorcery, the edge of the blade parted sigmarite and flesh down to the bone. Theuderis threw out an arm in reflex, the head of his tempestos hammer crashing against the flank of the griffon, snapping bones and pulverising flesh.

Spitting and snarling, Tyrathrax struggled free of the griffon’s clawed grip, lightning crackling along her fangs. Theuderis sprang forwards, using the back of the dracoth as a launch point to hurl himself at the Chaos champion. Taken unawares by this tactic, the griffon’s rider could do nothing as Theuderis’ hammer connected with the side of his helm. Arcs of power erupted from the Stormcast’s weapon and the champion’s head caved in, skull splintered and neck snapped by the force of the blow.

Wound gushing from its flank, the griffon was not yet ready to die. Battering Theuderis aside with a wing, the monster charged Tyrathrax once more, beak closing around the dracoth’s foreleg with a sickening snap of bones. Tyrathrax snarled in pain. Lightning flared from her mouth and crackled across the sable hide of the griffon, leaving burning welts in the flesh.

Theuderis swung his hammer in both hands, bringing the head around in a long arc to connect with the shoulder of the griffon where leg and wing met the body. Bone shattered beneath pulsing flesh, forcing an unearthly scream from the beast. The blow lifted and toppled the griffon to its side, a wing buckling and snapping beneath as its heavy body rolled onto the blood-pooled dirt. Tyrathrax was on the wounded monster in a heartbeat, chewing into the exposed flesh until her head disappeared, tearing out entrails with swipes of her claws.

Gore-slicked scales shining in the cerulean light of Theuderis’ hammer, the dracoth ripped herself free of the twitching corpse, ribbons of tissue hanging from her jaws. She limped to her master, feeling now the wound caused by the griffon’s assault. It was obvious she would not be able to bear Theuderis’ weight.

The larger gors and bestigors that had been following their smaller cousins stalked closer, perhaps thinking the wounded creature would be easier prey. Theuderis turned a glance back to his army and saw half of the centre had now broken away to reinforce the rearguard, where hulking beast-brutes, thrashing, formless spawn and nameless foul creatures were throwing themselves at the Liberators and Judicators.

Tyrathrax was not Stormcast, she would not be reforged but returned to the stars to be reborn as a child of the cosmic serpent, Dracothion. He did not know whether they would be reunited. Yet for all the tenderness Theuderis felt for his mount, who had bonded with him on the arduous Trail of Starwalking and deigned to carry him since, his duty lay with his warriors.

He laid a hand on her neck and she understood his intent without words. The dracoth turned towards the approaching beastmen and hissed a challenge, standing over the body of the griffon as though she defended a prize or nest.

Theuderis turned his back on her and broke into a run, carving into the ungors that ebbed and flowed around the Stormcasts like a sea breaking on rocks. The righteous fire was tinged with a bitter feeling as he set upon his deformed foes. Grief powered his arm more than vengeance. The Lord-Celestant battered his way back to the line, crushing smaller beastmen beneath his boots as he opened a path with devastating sweeps of his hammer.

Two Decimators stepped forwards to meet him, parting to allow him past while their gleaming axes smashed aside a flurry of ungors hurling themselves at their commander’s back. As fluidly as they had counter-attacked they fell back into place, their comrades’ blades rising and falling in unison to carve apart the next wave of foes.

Theuderis sought out Voltaran and found his Knight-Vexillor commanding the opposite side of the line, facing down the slope of the mountain. Swift centigors rode back and forth just a dozen paces away, hurling axes and javelins while they laughed and cursed in their barbarous tongue. The missiles were of little threat, but the Liberators were pinned in place by the attacks, unable to move to support their brothers beset by fiercer foes while the centigors threatened a charge.

‘Their leader is dead, their spirit will break soon,’ Theuderis assured his officer. ‘Stand fast for the moment.’

‘I fear otherwise, my lord,’ replied Voltaran. He gestured down the mountain. ‘We have not yet seen the worst of it.’

Further down the slope Theuderis could see a group of figures, horned heads visible beneath the cowls of their robes, staffs hung with grisly baubles and runes made of sinew and bone.

‘Shamans,’ snarled the Lord-Celestant.

‘They summon fresh forces,’ Voltaran added.

The lower slope was filling with all manner of mutated creatures — hounds and wolves with mutated spines and misshapen heads, slug-like, tentacled abominations and gangling monstrosities with snapping jaws and blade-like limbs. Baying and howling broke out, accompanied by whining and mewling from the Chaos spawn.

The forest started to shudder, shedding leaves and snow. A trunk snapped as a gigantic figure pushed through the press of trees, its heavy tread setting the other boughs shaking. Several times the height of a Stormcast Eternal, the gargant heaved and shouldered its way forwards, tree limbs snapping, gigantic feet sinking into the soft mulch and earth. It was clad in a crude jerkin and trousers of patchwork furs and hide, its engorged belly testing the rope-like stitching. A roughly shaped and poorly welded helm wobbled on its head, while pieces of ancient plate and broken shields tied with belts and scavenged horse harnesses made for vambraces and gorget. In its hand it trailed several long staves spliced together, cart or chariot axles perhaps, three axeheads wedged into the length to make a fearsome polearm.

There were more beastmen coming, following the packs of dogs — ungors with short bows that scampered up into the trees and bestigors clad in thick mail hauberks and coifs. In the sunlight from the gap in the trees made by the giant, Theuderis estimated another two or three hundred goat-headed fiends. Other creatures prowled the shadows, eyes glinting, their growls and snarls audible even at this distance.

A glance over his shoulder confirmed to the Lord-Celestant that his Knights Excelsior were still holding against the attack from above. The outer line had been pushed back, forcing the Judicators behind their companions in the retinues of Decimators, Protectors and Liberators battling with the beastmen. Trajos was doing his best to stem the flow of attackers trying to encircle the line but time and numbers were against him.

‘Enough!’ snapped Theuderis. ‘Attaxes, report to me!’

The call for the Knight-Heraldor went along the line but it was a while before Attaxes appeared, running down the mountainside from the fighting at the head of the column. His armour was dented and scratched in several places but he had no obvious wounds.

‘We cannot hold like this,’ Theuderis said. Looking from Attaxes to Voltaran. ‘We must attack.’

‘As you command,’ the Stormcast Eternals chorused.

‘What battle formation, my lord?’ asked Attaxes, readying his clarion.

‘Divine Vengeance, Jaws of the Dracoth drill,’ Theuderis replied. ‘Signal the storm of wrath to Samat.’

The bray-shamans were ordering their latest wave of attackers up the slope as Attaxes lifted his instrument and let out a series of peals and blasts, ascending and descending sharply. He repeated them twice, but the army was already in motion before he had started the third.

The Silverhands collapsed together, the vanguard and rearguard falling back towards the main body, each retinue withdrawing a few paces while its neighbours held off the beasts, and then in turn they fell back and others continued the defence. Even as the Stormcasts settled their line, retinues of Liberators, shields locked, advanced into the brunt of the fighting, weathering the storm of missiles, blades and mauls to push forwards again on the flanks, while the centre continued to withdraw to form a ‘v’ of retinues into which the beastmen were guided.

The Prosecutors descended through the canopy, a hail of mystical javelins scything down dozens of gors and bestigors. Samat and several other Knights-Azyros led a charge against the bull-beasts and other large foes still assailing the left flank, the light of the celestial beacons burning bright beneath the leaves. The energy of Azyr rippled along the hammers, grandaxes and grandblades of the winged Stormcasts as they fell upon their foes, circling to attack with a whirlwind of crushing and slashing blows.

To counter the threat from the lower force, Theuderis moved his Judicators to cover the approaches, their celestial missiles bursting forth once more against these fresh targets.

‘Clear the ground,’ Theuderis told Trajos. ‘Hinder their advance and leave them no sanctuary.’

Trajos passed the order to the other Primes and the next salvoes sliced not through flesh but wood, felling trees across the line of advance. Another fusillade from skybolt bows and thunderbolt crossbows set branches ablaze, forcing the creeping ungors to the ground. Here they were targeted by the Judicators carrying shockbolt bows, every crackling arrow that hit causing a chain of lightning to leap from one beastman to the next, slaying several score of foes in a few volleys.

Fresh torrents of fire continued to shred and rip through the forests, leaving a blackened, smoking swathe of destruction littered with burning and charred corpses.

The ‘Jaw of the Dracoth’ was starting to close on the beastmen, the two flanks of Liberators pushing hard towards each other, not using their hammers or blades, but simply presenting two walls of white-and-blue sigmarite that the beastmen could not pierce or break.

Theuderis joined the attack as dozens of Decimators and Retributors became the fangs of the dracoth, sallying forth between the ranks of the Liberators, who parted briefly to let them through. Axes cleaved flesh, hammers pulverised bone, the dead and dying beastmen wreathed with crackling remnants of celestial force.

The beastmen, even the more disciplined bestigors, were ferocious but unskilled. Theuderis abandoned any finesse and waded into his foes with his hammer swinging in wide arcs, scornful of any attack that might be directed at him. Leaving trails of blood and blue fire, his tempestos hammer swept aside every enemy before him. To his left and right the other Stormcasts were advancing over a carpet of beastmen dead, their weapons spitting and hissing with vengeful energies.

Behind them the Judicators were falling back once more as the gargant and other large monsters crashed towards their line. The beastmen were clearly content to allow these enormous creatures to lead the charge, loitering close behind to dash in and pounce on the Stormcasts once they were engaged.

‘Samat!’ Theuderis smashed his hammer through another three beastmen and pointed it towards the approaching monster. ‘The gargant!’

The Knight-Azyros saluted with his starblade and leapt into the air, disappearing through the branches in a heartbeat. A bullgor charged at Theuderis, horns lowered, distracting the Lord-Celestant for a moment. He crushed the monster’s bull head with a single blow and rolled over the body as it ploughed into the dirt. Theuderis came to his feet and looked back in time to see Samat’s descent.

It seemed at first as though a thunderbolt had struck the giant creature, but the flash of light resolved into Samat, blade in two hands, his lantern on his belt, wings stretched to the full as he swooped head first towards the ground. At the last moment the Knight-Azyros spun feet-down, landing smoothly a few paces from the gargant.

Samat took a step backwards and looked up, the gigantic figure framed by two trees blazing with pale blue fire. It twitched and then parted, two halves neatly slewing away from each other down a cut from the top of its head to its groin. Samat leapt to avoid the wave of blood and offal that spilled out. Pieces of bisected vertebrae and ribcage washed across the ground beneath him.

A great cry of woe went up from the beastmen as their enormous ally degenerated into a fleshy, shapeless mass. Caught in the vice of the advancing Stormcast retinues, many of them turned and fled, but the Prosecutors fell upon them in moments. They flitted between the trees, summoning celestial power to cast javelins into the routing gors and ungors while their companions hunted them down with their hammers, sweeping and wheeling through the boles to shatter spines and pulp heads.

Even so, it was no easy task to overcome the remaining foes. The bray-shamans grunted and barked at their underlings, forcing them into a fresh assault while the Stormcasts were still occupied driving through the remains of the first wave. Chaotic energies churning around their horned heads, raised fists and staff tips glowing with infernal magic, the shamans themselves joined the fray, escorted by scores of heavily armoured bestigors that advanced like a solid wall of fur, metal and horns.

And there were still several hulking mutants shambling closer, their skins pocked with sores, vestigial limbs waggling like cilia, plates of bone and chitin sliding and scraping. The centigors had abandoned their taunting attacks when the Stormcasts had withdrawn but now they returned, their broad-headed spears tilted ready for the charge. The yammering of the hounds intensified, carried through the crackle of flames up to the Stormcasts with the grunts and snorts of boar-like creatures and the coughing barks and low bellows of the beastmen.

‘For Sigmar!’ Theuderis raised his hammer above his head as he issued the shout. The echoing cry from his warriors rolled along the mountainside like thunder, shaking the ground. While the Decimators and Retributors of his Paladin Conclave continued to wreak bloody mayhem upon the last of the gors and ungors, the Lord-Celestant rallied the Redeemer Conclave’s Liberators and Protectors. ‘We are the God-King’s knights of vengeance. Our weapons are his wrath, his faith our armour. We are the righteous death, born for battle, created to kill. Hold back no ire and harbour no mercy. Death to the unclean!’

Chapter Fourteen

Arkas opened his eyes and found himself standing on the far side of the barbican, outside the demesne of the Queen of the Peak. He harboured the idea of returning but stopped himself from passing back through, aware that he had pushed his previous relationship as far as possible.

He broke into a run, remembering the attack about to unfold. As he powered up the bridge he thrust his hammer thrice into the air.

‘Hastor!’ he bellowed as he reached the top of the bridge. ‘Attend to your lord!’

In a flash of colour the Knight-Venator rose, trailing particles of ice. Arkas called out his orders as he skidded to a stop in a spray of snow. Hastor signalled his understanding.

‘Speed towards the dawn and seek them in the forests of the southern valleys,’ said Arkas. ‘Fly as swift as Sigmar’s scorn!’

The Knight-Venator made no comment and raised no question, but simply dipped a wing to wheel away, a flash of rainbow colours and gold that soon disappeared into the clouds that were closing in on the mountain once more.

Dolmetis started to climb from the base of the bridge, his hasty steps betraying his concern. Arkas turned to look back at the queen’s tower. Her presence was everywhere, and in every icy sparkle and frosty glimmer he felt her gaze upon him. Had she played him false, out of spite showing him the peril of Theuderis when it was too late to act? Had she known what would happen on the walls of Kurzengor when Skixakoth had issued forth from the deeps to sweep away mankind’s last reign over Ursungorod?

Despite his doubts, Arkas could not ignore a simple principle — an oath was an oath. It was not his place to judge the Queen of the Peak but to measure himself by the standards of his spirit.

He lowered to a knee, head bowed, hammer in both hands with the brow of his mask against the haft.

‘God-King, my Lord Sigmar, Protector of the Faithful, Shield of Mankind, I beg leave of you for a boon.’ Arkas could hear Dolmetis’ rapid steps approaching and spoke quickly. ‘Grant peace to the Queen of the Peak, and forgive any wrong she has done in worlds past and ages forgotten. Through her I have received wisdom and guidance, in this life and in the other, and she has earned freedom from the curse laid upon her. Reward her loyal service and free her.’

‘Free whom, my lord?’ asked Dolmetis, catching his commander’s last words. ‘And whence does Hastor speed?’

‘The Queen of the Peak has provided and I must pay her price or be dishonoured. It is in the hands of Sigmar Almighty.’

‘You think he would set her free?’

‘I do,’ said Arkas, looking skywards. The clouds were turning dark, edged with a cerulean gleam. ‘It was he that imprisoned her, after all.’

Dolmetis said nothing and looked up as well. Streaks of power lashed across the bulging mass of the thunderhead forming over the gorge. As when he felt the touch of the celestial beacons of the Knights-Azyros, so now Arkas bathed in the presence of his master and creator.

With a thunderclap that shook the bridge and caused flocks of birds to launch from the forests far below, a single bolt of light flashed down and struck the top of the tower’s dome. Ice exploded like glass splinters, showering down into the chasm beneath. A blast of wind howled, swirling up from the gorge around the two Stormcast Eternals. Arkas thought he heard a whispered farewell.

The last reverberations of the thunderstrike echoed away.

The cocoon of ice that had encased the fortress and the queen’s tower started to shear away, crumbling into sparkling fog.

‘That is freedom?’ asked Dolmetis.

‘Oblivion,’ said Arkas. ‘All that she has craved for countless lifetimes of men. I swore once to end her existence, and now Lord Sigmar has delivered on my promise.’

‘Perhaps you might have invoked the power of our God-King whilst on solid ground,’ suggested Dolmetis, pointing his warhammer at the rents and cracks spreading up the far end of the bridge. As the enchantment failed the whole of the duardin stronghold plummeted into the valley, foundations and vaults and barbican as one, a deluge of stones and mortar following it.

The two warriors broke into a run as the bridge collapsed, pounding down the span just a few paces ahead of the falling masonry. Making a last leap for safety, they threw themselves over the edge of the parapet, falling towards the ledge beneath.

Both landed heavily in a fountain of snow while chunks of stone rained down, glancing from their armour. Arkas pulled himself back to his feet and looked down into the gorge where the fallen castle had ploughed a massive furrow into the trees far below.

‘Perhaps I should have thought that through,’ he admitted.

‘I forgive you, my lord,’ said Dolmetis. ‘I am sure the warriors we left stationed on the Icemere will be equally understanding. When they dry out.’

Chapter Fifteen

Theuderis seized a beastman by the throat as it swung a hatchet at his head. The axeblade glanced ineffectually from the side of his helm. He snapped its neck and used the corpse to swat away an ungor that was trying to ram a dagger into the back of his knee.

‘Attaxes, let us up the tempo of this dance. Signal stormfall. Voltaran! It is time to bring the hammerstrike.’

As the rising notes passed along the line, the Stormcast Eternals battling the horde of gors broke from the fight, retreating from the enemy with swifts steps. Stunned, the beastmen scrambled away or milled about, unsure whether to retreat or attack. Behind the melee ranks, the Judicators did likewise, falling back before the oncoming rush of monsters and bestigors. Their Primes shouting out swift commands, the two lines passed through each other and turned, smoothly swapping positions.

Now the bray-shamans attacked, and a horde of beastmen and spawn found itself hurtling towards a bristling line of hammers, axes and glaives, shimmering with celestial heat. The Judicators unleashed their projectiles into the gors and ungors fleeing up the mountain, scything them down in a hail of crackling bolts and eruptions.

In the midst of this, Voltaran held aloft his icon.

‘Lord of the Celestial Realm, heed our call,’ the Knight-Vexillor shouted. ‘God-King, saviour, avenger, let free your wrath upon these cursed beasts!’

The gilded lightning strikes that tipped his standard started to glow, turning from shining gold to a bright, pale blue. A fierce wind swirled upwards, ripping trees bodily from the ground and hurling them into the sky. Above, stormclouds boiled into existence, dark and low, seething with celestial energy. The beastmen and their leaders cowered beneath this display of divine might.

Attaxes let forth a refrain from his clarion. The noise rose in volume, swiftly becoming a deafening call to arms. It reached a crescendo and crashed like thunder, a shockwave of power exploding from the Stormcast. The wall of sound sped out, churning mud, cadavers, splintered trees and ice. When it hit the beastmen it lifted them from their feet and skewered them with broken branches. The wind hurled the survivors into each other, tossed them into tree trunks and sent the ragdoll carcasses spinning and skidding across the rough earth.

Just as the peal of thunder dissipated, the storm cloud burst into violent life, raining down strike after strike, every bolt centred on a mutated Chaos creature. Dozens of blasts fell in a matter of a few heartbeats, blinding in their intensity. Celestial power crawled across the ground like a tide of serpents, writhing up the shattered trunks of the trees and coiling tentacle-fashion around the legs of Chaos spawn as if to drag them down.

Theuderis strode into the fire and bolts with his Paladins at his back and flung out his hammer, casting it into the air in a looping arc. It thudded into the ground not far from the bray-shamans, who were berating their bestigors, trying to restore some semblance of control after the fury of the storm.

‘Let the hammer of kings strike!’ the Lord-Celestant bellowed, drawing his runesword, the pommel and blade etched with symbols that were the bane of Chaos. His thrown hammer shook with a life of its own, sending out sparks and fronds of blue lightning that fizzed across the ground.

The Stormcast Eternals advanced. Another blaze of power erupted above. The strikes did not lance towards the foe, but this time were met by streaks of energy leaping out from Theuderis’ hammer.

Where they touched, a Stormcast Eternal appeared, fresh and ready for battle, Liberators bearing great axes and swords, or short warblades and shields.

Flash after flash, the tempest grew in magnitude with every heartbeat until the smoke-shrouded clearing reaped by the Stormcasts was bathed in blue light and filled with giant soldiers. An entire Redeemer Conclave burst into existence in the midst of the foe, reserves from the Celestial Realm that Theuderis had been waiting for the right moment to summon.

At their heart the cloud descended for a moment, a funnel of darkness and lightning touching down with a crack of thunder. Another Stormcast Eternal materialised in its heart. His armour was black, and wrought into the plates were bones that glowed with celestial energy. His helm-mask was fashioned in the shape of a skull, its eyes gleaming with a cold red light.

In one hand the Stormcast Eternal bore a massive hammer, a silver thunderbolt trailing from its head. In the other hand he bore a huge staff, not unlike the standards of the Knights-Vexillor. Its head was no icon of the Silverhands, but an open sarcophagus. The bones within were bound with shroud and corpse-tatters, its dead eye sockets filled with the same scarlet energy as the bearer.

Lord-Relictor Glavius, lodestone of the power celestial, guardian and champion of the Silverhands.

Still wreathed in the last vapours of his summoning, Glavius lifted his hammer high. The head started to glow, channelling cosmic energy from the raging storm above until it shone like a star. The Lord-Relictor thrust the hammer towards the beastmen and lightning leapt across the gap, slicing through their depleted ranks.

‘Glory to the God-King!’ Theuderis roared.

The Silverhands charged.

Chapter Sixteen

The Stormcast Eternals thrust as a white spear into the dark innards of the beastmen army. Wherever they struck, the creatures of Chaos fell. The freshly arrived Redeemer Conclave formed the point of the spear, already in the midst of the enemy. They drove onwards through gors and bestigors, those armed with grandhammers and grandblades at the forefront, hewing into the enemy with their double-handed weapons. After them came the Liberators with warblades and sigmarite shields, guarding the flanks and backs of their brethren in the vanguard, cutting down any that survived their assault. Lord-Relictor Glavius walked in their midst, urging them on to the greatest effort, blanketing them in the energies of the Celestial Realm.

On their heels advanced Stormcast Eternals with paired warhammers or dual-warblades, spreading out from the incision made by the assault formation, widening the breach for Theuderis and his warriors to exploit.

Hound packs, mutated wolves and centigors tried to evade the oncoming attack, peeling away from the blasted clearing into the thicker woods to the left. Samat and the other Knights-Azyros followed them, darting between the trees with inhuman speed and skill, the rest of the Angelos Conclave following swiftly behind.

Theuderis did not look back, trusting to the Judicators to finish off any threat from the rear. As he ran he pointed his sword towards the cabal of bray-shamans.

‘Pierce the heart and the body will die,’ he commanded.

Out of desperation more than bravery the beastmen were rallying against the attack. Several score of bestigors had survived the tempestuous assault of celestial energy. Snarling and bleating, they held their ground between the oncoming Stormcasts and their masters, presenting a thicket of spears, axes and shields. Several bullgors that had fled from the earlier counter-attack returned from the darkness, bloody with wounds but still formidable. A few mindless spawn and writhing mutants flopped and scampered along the periphery, hauling bloated carcasses towards the gleaming ranks of the Stormcasts, smaller creatures chittering and shrieking, leaping and gambolling through the burning trunks and felled trees.

Theuderis felt the air around him changing, the ground underfoot shifting. At first he feared another earthquake, but he soon realised that the sensation was something far more supernatural.

The bray-shamans were summoning the power of Ghur, dredging it from the deepest earth and draining it from the trees. The magical energy coiled like a trapped serpent, the corruption of Chaos bubbling through its loops, polluting and blackening where it spread. The trees surrounding the fire-ravaged clearing started to sway with violent life, their bark blistering with sores that spat hissing gobbets of acidic sap while grasping root appendages thrust from the mulch-covered earth to snare and trip.

The ground became boggier, sucking at Theuderis’ feet as he reached the bullgors. Almost losing his footing, he brought up his runeblade just in time to meet the downward arc of an axehead the size of his breastplate. The metal of the bullgor’s weapon shattered against the sigmarite of the Lord-Celestant’s. Shards of iron slashed into the enormous beastman’s flesh and pinged from the Stormcast’s armour. Grunting in surprise, the bullgor stepped back, but not far enough to elude the tip of Theuderis’ blade, which found the creature’s throat a moment later.

Dragging his boot free from the mud, drenched in the congealing blood of the brutish monster, Theuderis pressed on. His Paladins to either side laid into the bestigors, bullheads and Chaos spawn heedless of the poor ground underfoot, overcoming the worsening conditions with raw strength.

Across the furious din of battle, the Lord-Celestant heard a disturbing, ululating cry. It emanated from the bray-shamans, and echoed back in strange ways from the surrounding trees. Increasing in pitch and intensity, the call stirred up the polluted Ghurite energy frothing around the beast army, sending it soaring into the sky like a fountain. Here it met Sigmar’s Tempest, and began pushing back the celestial clouds to disperse across the forest.

Theuderis had no idea what this spell boded, but he was determined to win victory before the consequences made themselves apparent. His force had joined with the Liberators of Glavius, dividing the beast army into two almost equal parts. To the eyes of the beastmen, it must have seemed as though the Stormcasts had allowed themselves to be surrounded. Grunting and roaring orders, the gors and bray-shamans sent all of their forces into the attack.

Above the throng of hairy, deformed bodies flew tattered and patched banners, and grim standards of bone and wood. Held aloft by the fiercest warriors of the assembled warherds, these standards became the focal points of the attack, leading the beasts directly to Theuderis’ host. Every ungor, gor and bestigor threw itself at the Stormcasts, trying to break the line of ivory and blue. Though there was little guile to the attack, the feral intensity of the Chaos-born beasts threatened breakthroughs at several points. Though not classic strategists, the leaders of the beastherds could sense areas of weakness and threw themselves into the fighting with ferocious bellows. The battlefield shook with the crash of weapons and shouts from both sides, bestial howls competing with the sonorous war-chants of the Silverhands.

‘Blade of the Triumphant, Purifier formation,’ Theuderis told Attaxes, judging that the moment had arrived to deliver the killing blow.

The Knight-Heraldor’s trumpet signalled clean and clear through the cacophony of war. Hearing its command, the Silverhands acted as one. Paladins and Redeemer Conclaves moved through each other, while the Judicators guarding the rear fell back to join the rest of the army. All the while fending off the savage assault of the beastmen, the Knights Excelsior formed into a kind of wheel, with the Judicator Conclaves as the hub and the other Stormcasts spearing out like axle-blades, each two rows of warriors back to back.

The wheel started to rotate, the Stormcast Eternals keeping in perfect step whether moving forwards or backwards. Missiles and lightning bolts flared from the centre while the Stormcasts cut down everything before them. With warriors in front and behind, the beastmen were thrown into anarchy once more, unsure where to direct their attacks. Unable to simply hold position against the relentlessly advancing ‘spokes’, the beastmen were either pushed to the centre where they fell to the missile fire, caught by the swords, glaives and hammers of the Silverhands, or forced to try to break free.

The Stormcasts’ formation slowly moved across the clearing, pace by pace. The warriors stepped over and past burning logs and piles of dead beastmen, weapons still swinging, the whole army functioning as a single perfect machine.

A raucous screech from above drew Theuderis’ gaze away from the righteous carnage. His eye was drawn immediately to the large shape swooping down through the break in the celestial storm. Tendrils of Ghurite energy trailed from its leathery wings and sword-long claws. Evidently the magical call of the bray-shamans had attracted it from its hunting ground further up the slopes. More winged shapes in the distance betrayed the approach of other creatures that had also heard the summoning cry.

‘Manticores!’ he shouted, heart sinking. His warriors were in no position to defend themselves from an aerial attack, but to change formation now, in the heart of the enemy’s force, would be equally disastrous. He glanced at Attaxes. ‘Signal for the Angelos, now!’

Attaxes had raised his clarion but before a single note had been sounded a light streaked across the sky. Theuderis’ eyes adjusted to see a winged figure in armour of turquoise, a rainbow-coloured bird at its shoulder, a golden bow in hand.

Even as Attaxes sounded the alarm, the newcomer’s wings flared with a thunderous crack that could be heard on the ground, bringing him to an instant halt. He loosed a single bolt from his weapon. The missile blazed across the sky, a comet trailing white and blue fire.

The star-fated arrow struck the descending manticore full in the chest, becoming an inferno of colours that engulfed the monster with licking flames. The diving beast was quickly consumed by the fireball, thrashing and howling in pain as it disappeared from view and crashed into the forest some distance away.

Samat and the rest of the Angelos Conclave raced from the trees, abandoning their pursuit at Attaxes’ signal. The newly arrived Knight-Venator met with the Knight-Azyros and a moment later was directed groundwards while the Knights-Azyros and Prosecutors turned to face the following monsters.

Theuderis’ made his way back along the line of Paladins, allowing himself to be absorbed by the Judicators at the centre. There was a space two dozen paces across in the heart of their formation and into this gap dropped the Knight-Venator.

The Stormcast’s appearance confirmed Theuderis’ guess — a warrior of the Celestial Vindicators, doubtless a Warbeast despatched by Arkas. The Lord-Celestant feared the worst, unsure what the warrior’s appearance foreshadowed, and spoke before any introduction was made.

‘How fares your master? Do the Warbeasts still fight on?’

‘To the best of my knowledge, Lord Silverhand,’ the Knight-Venator replied, taken aback by the demanding tone of the Lord-Celestant. ‘He fares better than you, I would wager.’

‘What purpose brings you here, Warbeast?’ Theuderis had little time for jest, and this was certainly no occasion for levity. ‘You distract me from the course of battle.’

‘I am Hastor, Knight-Venator of the Lord Warbeast,’ the other Stormcast said formerly, giving a slight bow as he furled his wings. His star-eagle settled on a nearby bestigor corpse and started plucking at its exposed innards. ‘I bear a warning from my lord.’

‘A warning?’ Theuderis wondered what further strife could befall his host. Since arriving in Ursungorod they had been beset by misfortunate and enemies at every step.

‘Yes, Lord Silverhand. Lord Arkas wishes you to know that the skaven have stirred a great alliance of beasts against us and they are setting ready for ambush in the forests.’ He looked around and shrugged. ‘I apologise for the untimely nature of this news…’

Theuderis was about to deliver a rebuke but stayed his tongue. This was his first encounter with his new allies and it would bode poorly for the relationship if he started it with chastisement. He had to accept that the warning had been sent in earnest, and that Hastor was simply attending to his duty as he had been commanded. Hastor was forthright in his manner, but the Celestial Vindicators, and the Warbeasts in particular, had a reputation for less-than-perfect discipline. He chose his reply carefully, mindful that his words and deeds might soon be reported back to Arkas and his warriors.

‘Thank you, Hastor. Though your skills as herald are lacking, your warrior-craft is not. You dealt with that manticore in admirable fashion.’ He purposefully turned to survey the ongoing battle. As they spoke, the two warriors moved along with the Judicators, unconsciously keeping station with the whole formation. ‘I regret that I cannot offer you a reply to Lord Arkas at the moment. My attention is keenly needed elsewhere.’

‘As is my bow,’ said Hastor, glancing to the flights of warriors closing on the griffons, manticores and other monstrous creatures aloft. ‘My lord’s other message will wait a while, I’m certain. With your permission, Lord Silverhand?’

‘Knight-Azyros Samat is Angelos-Prime,’ said Theuderis. ‘I am grateful for your bow, Hastor.’

The Knight-Venator said nothing else and sprang into the air. A whistle summoned his star-eagle to follow and in a matter of moments they were another colourful blur amongst the many soaring across the cloudy vault of the sky.

Theuderis lifted his sword, the runes flashing with renewed celestial energy. The Judicators parted at his approach, allowing him to rejoin the fight.

‘No beast lives past nightfall!’ he declared, hacking his way towards the bray-shamans with renewed intent. ‘Sigmar God-King expects nothing less.’

Chapter Seventeen

The Black River had always been named for its dark waters, not just murky but as black as pitch. Even after many lifetimes, its inky depths were unchanged. It bubbled and frothed between dozens of jutting pillars that had once held aloft the roofs of a great palace, the walls and floor also long since consumed by the torrent. The blackness of the water was deceiving, obscuring the speed with which it moved — too fast even for a Stormcast to forge across. The Celestial Vindicators were thus forced to follow the old road that ran beside it — though it was not so much a road as the remains of an old mosaic-covered floor that had been thrown up by the convulsions of Ursungorod, laid out before Arkas like a carpet set before an arriving dignitary. The broken tiles were slick with river mud and water plants, but made for surer footing than the sheer ice that stretched for miles to either side as they approached the central uplands.

From ahead a shape descended quickly. Arkas recognised Venian, his Prosecutor-Prime.

‘A stranger approaches, my lord.’ There was something odd in Venian’s tone, as if this event was more worrying to the Prosecutor-Prime than the coming of a flight of dragons.

‘A stranger? A very particular choice of word,’ replied Arkas.

‘I can think of no other.’ The flying warrior landed next to his Lord-Celestant and fell into step with him as they continued along the path. ‘A woman of the tribes. Armed with bow and spear, and armoured in scale, wearing a cloak of white fur.’

‘And how does she “approach”, Venian? What do you mean?’

‘She crosses the snow drifts ahead, directly towards us.’

‘And she saw you?’

‘She raised a fist in salute, my lord.’

Arkas pondered this for a few strides.

‘Alone, you say? Are you sure?’

‘The ice field ahead is expansive, my lord, and devoid of much cover,’ Venian said, his tone slightly clipped with indignation.

‘She bore no marks of the Dark Gods? No mutation or symbols?’

‘I would have reported such, my lord,’ said the Prosecutor-Prime, growing increasingly vexed by his commander’s questions. ‘Unless she possesses unprecedented and hidden mystical abilities, I do not think she is a threat.’

‘That’s what confuses me,’ admitted Arkas. He shook his head. ‘I resigned myself to the fact that my people were no more, slain or fallen to Chaos worship. Now you tell me that a woman approaches, unmarked by the Dark Gods, which suggests that there are yet some that still resist the skaven and their allies. Your report stirs hope where I had none. Its loss would be a fresh wound.’

‘It seems your hope is not misplaced, my lord. Her trail across the snow was simple to follow for a while, though it petered out eventually. She has been heading directly towards us for the better part of a day. She is seeking us out, I wager my reputation on it. How she can know of us or where we travel I cannot say.’

Arkas looked up and gestured with his hammer. Across the river there were dark specks moving over the clouds — crows and other carrion eaters. They had been growing in number since the Celestial Vindicators had descended to the lower slopes, having quickly learnt that the Stormcasts would provide ample pickings.

‘In my days as a mortal there were those that could speak with the birds and the beasts.’ He thought of Radomira, a reader of bird sign, and remembered the times she would have a raven or hawk or finch upon her wrist, woman and bird cawing and chirping intently to each other. ‘If there were survivors of the alliance, if their descendants still strive for freedom, such secrets might still be known.’

‘Not only by potential allies,’ said Venian. ‘Such spies could serve our enemies also, my lord.’

‘I have been counting on it,’ said Arkas. ‘Do not forget our part in this campaign. We are the rod that attracts the lightning. We will stir the Chaos followers and skaven from their camps and holes and bring them to us, so that Theuderis and his Knights Excelsior can lay the vengeance of Sigmar down upon them with their arrival. We shall be the bait that draws the serpent’s strike, the Silverhands the blade that severs its head.’

The path veered away from the bank, moving around a block of stone mounted on the bank of the river. On its worn surface could still be seen faint markings — duardin runes worn nearly smooth by the elements. Even so, Arkas could read them, running his fingers over the faint indentations.

‘A mile marker,’ he said aloud. ‘A day’s marching to another duardin city, though long ago it was swallowed by the glacier we called meshka kozia. The Bear’s Pelt. The city lies beneath the ice field you have just come back from.’

‘It has been swallowed deep then, my lord,’ said Venian. ‘We saw no sign of tower, gate or wall.’

A thought occurred to Arkas and he turned, his gaze seeking out his Knight-Vexillor. Dolmetis followed a hundred paces behind with a guard of Decimators and Retributors. Seeing that his lord required him, the standard bearer hurried forwards, his icon gripped in both hands.

‘A new command to the chamber, Dolmetis,’ said Arkas, as soon as the Knight-Vexillor was within earshot. ‘We leave the river and head across the ice field.’

‘Towards the stranger?’ asked Venian.

‘Of course. I’m sure she has something important to tell us. We shan’t make her labour longer than necessary.’ Arkas leaned closer, placing a hand on the shoulder of the Prosecutor-Prime. ‘You assured me she was no threat, yes? You staked your reputation on it. Let us see what that is worth.’

Chapter Eighteen

The dark cavern stank of human sweat and fear. Felk breathed in deeply, whiskers trembling with delight. The captives huddled naked in their rope bonds, most kneeling or sitting, some lying down from weakness. There were four hundred in total, eyes wide with fear, shaking with cold and hunger. The Poxmaster rubbed spindly hands together as he paced back and forth, examining his prizes.

‘Good-good meat,’ said Felk, addressing nobody in particular. ‘Good tribute, yes-yes. Great Horned Rat touched you, yes-yes. Honoured, to become the flesh of the Great Witherer. Dismal feast will be grand, grander than all before. Gaze of the Great Horned Rat be upon the Withering Canker. Felk will rise, yes-yes, rise past all, even Skixakoth. Not to fat rotting god will life-woods fall. To the children of the Horned Rat, to the Clans Pestilens, to the Withering Canker. Plague and pox and pustule, yes-yes, the flesh of the life-queen will crawl with gifts of Pestilens.’

The cluster of pale faces stared up at him in horror as the prisoners recoiled from his presence, shifting like a single organism to avoid being in the Poxmaster’s vicinity as he stalked back and forth, staff clacking on the stone floor. In the light of the warp-lamps, their skin seemed so white, so smooth and pale, and their eyes, glistening with tears, were almost good enough to pluck out and swallow right there.

Felk fought back against the urge.

‘Not for now. For dismal feast, yes-yes.’ He stopped and leaned on his staff, peering down at the captives, broken claws tapping an arrhythmic tattoo on the twisted wood. He inspected the closest specimens, finding on each one some mark of the Great Horned Rat — a wart or cluster of boils, a suppurating lesion or weeping sore, cataract or rash.

‘Chosen, yes-yes. You will be punished. Great Horned One has taken blessing from you, bad-bad man-things. Roast and boil and spitted, for the dismal feast your bones broken, such crispy skin, flesh purged of evil and devoured for Blessed Plague of Plagues.’

Drool flowed as Felk imagined the eating pits filled with the meat of his sacrifices. One of the captives started to moan and others broke into sobs, their despair a virus that spread quickly through the craven mass until all were crying and groaning. Some wailed with lament, clawing at their hair and skin.

‘Stop-stop!’ snapped Felk, claws and tail shaking violently.

The temptation was too much, he had to turn away. Skarth, whose spitevermin ringed the cave, approached a few steps. He said nothing but jerked his head towards the entrance to the chamber. Thriss lurked in the shadows, hands wringing close to his chest.

The gutter runner’s demeanour punctured Felk’s good mood, concern sweeping away his anticipation of the dismal feast. With an irritated wave Felk commanded Thriss to enter.

The gutter runner sidled up to his employer, head held low, tail limp. The Poxmaster had never seen Thriss so subordinate and he instantly suspected trickery.

‘Stay-stay there,’ Felk snapped, prodding the gutter runner with his staff to force him back several paces. Thriss complied without resistance, heightening Felk’s suspicion.

‘Bad-bad news, legendary Poxmaster,’ began Thriss, head bobbing in deference. ‘Makargas. The Beast-caller… ‘

‘Yes-yes? Demanding higher price? Treachery?’

‘Is dead-dead.’

Felk shrugged. ‘Not problem for us.’

‘All beasts dead. Metal giants kill-kill Makargas and all beasts.’

The Poxmaster thought he had misheard for a moment.

‘Beast army dead? All dead?’

Thriss nodded and bared yellowing fangs. He shifted from one foot to the other and back, unable to hold still any longer.

‘Metal giants bring magic and fire. Much-much magic.’ His voice dropped to a whisper. ‘Star magic, power of storm and sun!’

This news sent a fresh shudder of fear through Felk. He had heard tales — many of them from Thriss, it was true — regarding a new foe that had been seen throughout the many realms. They were carried on a dire storm, relentless and merciless. Several clans had been wiped out and terrified survivors of others had fled back to the Blight City with stories of indestructible armies and warriors that rode lightning.

‘Is true-true?’ Felk’s gaze flicked around the room, from Thriss to the slaves to Skarth and back again, suddenly wary of everything. ‘Very bad-bad for us.’

‘For you…’ Thriss corrected him. The Eshin agent took another step back as though physical distance would spare him any consequences of their association.

‘Us-us!’ hissed Felk. He crooked a finger towards Skarth, beckoning him closer. Thriss sidestepped at the larger skaven’s approach, the gutter runner’s hands hovering close to the dagger hilts jutting from his belt. ‘Fangleader, what is our contract, my will-will?’

‘Power to the Withered Canker. Foes slain.’ The fangleader looked pointedly at Thriss. ‘Revenge in death.’

‘What about gate?’ said the gutter runner, eyes narrowing.

‘Metal giants come for gate, must be true-true,’ said Felk. ‘Not chance we find gate and star-born army comes to Whiteworld Above. Dig-dig faster. More slaves. Pay warpstone to man-things, beast-things, all-things. Kill-kill metal giants first.’

‘What if star army comes here?’ said Thriss.

‘We fight,’ replied Skarth.

It took all of Felk’s self-control not to release a squirt of musk at the thought. The moment passed and he looked at the slave-sacrifices. His resolved hardened and his grip on his staff tightened.

‘Too close-close to fail. Gate is ours! Glory to the Withered Canker! Must be ready for fight. For war.’ He waved a staff towards the slaves. ‘Dismal feast not wait! Tonight we honour Great Horned Rat with offerings. Prepare the meat.’

As Felk departed, Thriss following a few steps behind, Skarth signalled to his spitevermin. The ring of warriors readied their rust-spotted weapons and closed on the humans.

Chapter Nineteen

Though the shadows were long, the Knights Excelsior were equal to Theuderis’ demand. After the crash and shrill clamour of battle, the forested slopes fell to deathly silence, only the crackle of flames to break the stillness.

Theuderis walked amongst the dead — the corpses of foes, of course. A number of his Stormcasts had been undone, overpowered by hulking Chaos brutes or outnumbered and dragged down. They had been taken back to the Celestial Realm to be reforged again. It was a strange experience, to survey the carnage of the fighting and yet not know the true cost he had paid until his Primes reported.

‘I am not altogether sure that I like it,’ he told Attaxes, who had been at his shoulder since the arrival of Glavius’ conclave.

‘Like what, my lord?’

‘The emptiness.’

‘There is plenty to see,’ said Attaxes, stepping over the remains of a centigor, its head cleaved to the chin. He pointedly turned over the body of another, its hind legs flopping where they had been mangled by a hammer blow. ‘Much to be happy about.’

‘Do you not find it unsettling, Attaxes? When you were mortal, before you ascended, you were a general, yes?’

‘A Sinistran Legation Commandant, in the Westering Marshes, in the Realm of Shadows. Is that important?’

‘And you walked many battlefields as we do now.’

‘Thirty-eight battles I fought, thirty-seven I won before the poisoned wind of the skaven nearly took me and Sigmar ascended my spirit.’

‘Were you never moved by the bodies of those that had fallen under your command? Did their loss mean nothing?’

‘It meant everything. On their shades I swore each time to bring vengeance for their sacrifice.’

‘Exactly! How do we remember the lost if they are not truly gone? I have lost many warriors today, but they are not dead. What does that mean?’

‘It is not for us to count the cost any longer.’ This came from Theuderis’ left, where Lord-Relictor Glavius approached, his war-plate as bloodied as his lord’s. The icon he held was dormant now, as was the hammer in his fist. The bones of his reliquary seemed just that — dead bones strapped into a metal coffin.

‘But there is a cost,’ Theuderis replied.

‘Only to them,’ said Glavius, pointing with his hammer at the hundreds of dead beastmen. ‘That is the only tally of merit. When the enemy are all dead, the battle is won, not before. That is why the Lord Sigmar takes the fallen from us. Their loss should not trouble your thoughts, until your thoughts cannot be troubled any longer.’

‘You wield the power celestial,’ said Attaxes. ‘What do you know of the Reforging? Truly?’

‘No more than you,’ Glavius admitted with a reluctant shake of the head. ‘When a Stormcast passes beyond the veil of the mortal and back to the Celestial Realm, he passes from my sight also. If the God-King chooses to pass a little of his blessing through me on occasion, that is all I can hope for. To kill or heal, two equally potent powers, yet neither the greater over the other.’

A shout from one of the Liberators drew their attention. The Stormcast Eternal stood near a pile of ungor bodies, which were heaped like a curving wall. Theuderis realised it was the spot where he had left Tyrathrax and hurried over.

‘What is it?’

The Liberator gestured in reply, indicating the dracoth half buried under the bodies, the remains of a small beastman still clamped in her jaws, scales slick with their vile blood. The sight was difficult, a reminder that perhaps it was better not to see the remains of one’s companions. He knelt down and held out a hand to stroke the beast’s gore-covered neck, aware of the shadows of Attaxes and Glavius falling over him.

Tyrathrax twitched, an eye opening to stare at Theuderis.

‘She lives…’ He stood up, as stunned as though dealt a blow. ‘She slew many and their corpses hid her from vengeful foes.’

‘Only just,’ said Glavius, pushing aside the mound of corpses with a booted foot. This exposed the cuts and gashes along the flanks of the dracoth, her hide rent in many places, armour broken and buckled. ‘I feel the celestial power leeching from her. The darkness of death beckons her spirit back to the stars.’

Theuderis stood up, eyes still on Tyrathrax. ‘Can you save her?’

Glavius looked between lord and dracoth several times, though whether doubtful of his ability or duty was unclear.

Glavius planted the haft of his icon in the pile of dead, spearing it through the corpses into the ground. He reached out and a star of celestial energy appeared in his fist, the energy leaking through his fingers in golden rays.

‘Stand back,’ he warned them before kneeling beside the quivering form of Tyrathrax. He looked back at Theuderis. ‘She has but moments left. I make no promises.’

‘There are no guarantees in matters of life and death,’ the Lord-Celestant replied.

Nodding, Glavius returned his attention to the dracoth. He laid a hand on the side of her head, whispering calming words, and placed the sphere of shining energy upon her exposed chest, nestling it into a wound just above the heart.

‘Almighty God-King, father of war, guider of the lost. Send forth your power to this loyal servant that I might bring your light to others. All that fall in your name are worthy of your mercy and your blessing. Unto the anvil as metal, unto the battle remade.’

Glavius stood and grabbed his hammer in both hands. Theuderis could not stop a reflexive step forwards as the Lord-Relictor swung with all of his might. The hammer crashed into the spark of celestial power. A thrust of lightning crashed down from above. The impact sent Glavius staggering back and the resultant explosion engulfed the nearby Stormcasts, blinding them for several heartbeats.

When Theuderis’ vision cleared he could see tendrils of energy crawling across the body of the dracoth, sparking in her eyes, flaring from exposed fangs. It moved like a living thing, like a flame along paper, but where it touched it did not destroy but remade. Bones healed, flesh knitted, scales regrew. Plates of armour straightened, rents in the sigmarite flattened and joined together.

With a growl, the dracoth rolled to her feet. The globe of celestial power fell to the ground, much dimmed. Glavius picked it up, turning it this way and that as though examining the mote of power for damage.

‘Welcome back,’ said Theuderis, as Tyrathrax pushed herself up, shaking free dried blood and dead scales with a toss of her head. ‘There is still much fighting to be done.’

The dracoth gave an appreciative growl and lowered to the ground, inviting Theuderis to climb into the saddle upon her back. Her tail whipped in excitement.

‘My lord?’

Theuderis turned before he mounted to see the Knight-Venator Hastor descending. The Lord-Celestant raised an arm to beckon him.

‘You had another message from your lord,’ said Theuderis.

‘I did, and he bade me repeat it exactly.’ The knight paused for a breath before receiving a nod to continue. ‘I have entreated the aid of… a local power. The skaven are unearthing the realmgate in the depths of Ursungorod. They are close to activating it. Hastor bears warning of an ambush, but I fear he will be too late. I trust you will survive, and no matter what manner of force you lead afterwards you must make all haste to the rendezvous. We have no time to spare.’

‘What power does your lord speak of?’

‘Power?’ Hastor understood Theuderis’ meaning after some thought. ‘Ah, I see. She is a sorceress, the Queen of the Peak. Or was.’

‘Was a sorceress? What do you mean?’

‘I do not know the whole tale, Lord Silverhand. She has dwelt in Ursungorod since Arkas’ mortal life. She was an ally of my commander when he was known as Arka Bear-clad.’

‘What manner of aid did she give? What sorcery?’

‘I do not know, Lord Silverhand.’ The Knight-Venator shrugged. ‘Lord Arkas sent me soon after and none but he passed into her tower. I believe he received a warning of the attack, amongst other information.’

‘What do you know of a realmgate beneath Ursungorod?’

‘Nothing, Lord Silverhand. I left my commander at the tower of the Queen of the Peak as his army made camp on a frozen lake called Icemere. What has happened since, what my lord saw, is beyond my sight.’

‘Of course,’ said Theuderis. ‘What were your orders once this message had been delivered?’

‘Unfortunately, Lord Silverhand, in his haste I believe Lord Arkas overlooked that necessity. I am, for the moment, at your service. Do you wish me to return to the Warbeasts?’

Theuderis thought about this as he pulled himself up onto Tyrathrax’s back. The dracoth growled contentedly under the familiar weight.

‘Remain with Knight Samat and his Angelos Conclave for the time being. I will compose a reply to the Warbeast for you to take.’

Hastor accepted this judgement with a slight bow. He waited in silence for a few heartbeats longer.

‘You may go.’

‘I am obliged, Lord Silverhand,’ the Celestial Vindicator replied with a further bow. His star-eagle had been sitting in the branch of a burnt-out tree above. It let out a long screech and swooped down, reaching its master just as his wings snapped into streamers of light and lifted him skywards.

‘These Warbeasts are strange warriors,’ said Attaxes. ‘They stand on ceremony yet I hear they are also ill-disciplined and swift-tempered.’

‘I do not like this talk of native sorceresses,’ Theuderis told the Knight-Heraldor and Glavius. ‘Ursungorod has been under the yoke of Chaos for centuries, the taint runs deep. There is no power here that is good, save the power of Sigmar that we bring with us.’

‘I am sure that Lord Arkas is beyond any corruption,’ Glavius said quickly, misunderstanding Theuderis’ meaning.

‘Of course, he is Stormcast,’ the Lord-Celestant replied. ‘His heart and spirit I do not doubt. His wit and wisdom, on the other hand, might be all too easily swayed by the wrong notions. The God-King knows best his own strategy, but I would not have sent a commander as unpredictable as the Warbeast back to his home realm. We have only a single purpose here, the liberation of the realmgate.’

‘Yes, my lord,’ said Attaxes. ‘All other considerations are secondary.’

‘There are no other considerations.’ Theuderis leaned closer to Glavius. ‘Speak with Samat, have him discuss with Hastor the surest route to the rendezvous. And get him to find out all he can about the Warbeast and this sorceress from the Knight-Venator. I do not like mysteries. I expect a full account by nightfall.’

‘Yes, my lord, as you will it.’ The Lord-Relictor bowed and withdrew to the other Knights Excelsior.

‘I overheard the Warbeast’s message, my lord,’ said Attaxes. ‘He seemed insistent that we proceed with haste.’

‘Indeed. Form column, Javelin formation, ready to depart at my command.’

The Knight-Heraldor had his clarion lifted even as he turned away. Soon the notes of the command call pealed across the devastated forest. Theuderis watched as his retinues fell into line, five files wide, with the Justicars at the tip, the other Stormcast taking the inner places behind their missile weapons. It was a fragile formation, able to move at speed and negotiate rough terrain with ease, but it left his army strung out over some distance.

Looking at the ground scattered with hundreds of beastmen corpses and the carcasses of manticores, griffons, gargants and Chaos spawn, he knew the risk of another attack was minimal.

‘Judgement awaits!’ he cried. At a tap from his heels, Tyrathrax broke into a run, taking him to the head of the column. He galloped on. ‘Swift justice!’

The Stormcast Eternals broke into a run as Theuderis continued into the forest, their long strides covering the ground with speed.

Chapter Twenty

Even surrounded by Prosecutors circling like hungry eagles, their hammers and javelins burning with celestial light, the woman looked remarkably calm. She was older than Arkas had expected, nearly sixty he would have guessed, though she held herself straight and showed no infirmity. The tribal elder, for such she had to be in the estimation of the Lord-Celestant, was short even for a mortal, no taller than his hammer was long. The bow in her hand was of bone and wood, recurved in the style of the ussra valley riders of the north, though the sword in her other hand was straight and double-edged in the manner of the kimmeri warriors from the ice caves above the Bear’s Pelt. Her cloak was from a black-and-grey ice bear, trimmed and tied with leather thongs. The fangs of her necklace were delicately carved with lettering, distorted over many years from the forms that Arka had used, but still readable.

‘Whose names do you wear?’ he asked in the old language, pointing to the inscribed teeth. ‘Your mothers’?’

She started, eyes showing surprise for the first time since the huge warriors had marched into view across the flat stretch of ice that became the Bear’s Pelt glacier. The stranger had stopped and waited for them, weapons bared but held at her sides. Arkas had recognised it not as an act of defence or aggression but one of trust — a tribal custom that declared ‘Here I am, I hide nothing’.

‘You speak as we?’ she said as she recovered from the shock. Her speech was oddly inflected but not so different from the tongue the Bear-clad had shared with the other tribes. She glanced down at her necklace. ‘Yes, mothers and mothers’ sisters.’

The woman had been staring at Arkas since he had approached, her brown eyes soft in colour but unflinching. Now she looked away to glance at the other Stormcasts before returning her stare to the Lord-Celestant.

‘You are the warriors of the tempest.’ It was a statement, not a question. ‘Soldiers of the heavens.’

‘We are…’ Arkas struggled to find the terms that would explain how they had been mortals once but had now been made into something deadlier. ‘We are tempest-born, servants of Sigmar the God-King. We were men once.’

He lifted away his mask to show the flesh beneath. The woman smiled and nodded.

‘Yes, I see that the birds spoke the truth,’ she said with an assured nod. ‘I am Katiya Gospor and I have been waiting for you since I was a child.’

‘How can that be?’ He replaced his mask, the chill breeze on bare, ravaged flesh making him feel exposed without it.

‘Of tempest-warriors I know nothing. But I have had dreams for many years. Of a bearded king who once ruled. Others did not listen — they said I was touched to believe the legends were anything but stories. But I knew. I knew. Arka the Uniter would return.’

Stunned, Arkas said nothing. Katiya lowered herself to the flat ice and offered her weapons up to the Lord-Celestant.

‘I knew,’ she said again, eyes brimming with emotion. ‘Your army awaits, Bear-clad. I have summoned them for you.’

‘Army?’ Arkas stepped forwards and motioned for Katiya to stand. ‘What army?’

Katiya winked then and raised her fingers to her lips. She let out a piercing whistle that drifted into silence across the emptiness of the ice field. For several heartbeats nothing happened. Then, two hundred paces to the left the ice shifted. It looked as though a boulder rolled aside and suddenly half a dozen men emerged from nowhere, clad in leathers and plate, wielding swords and oval shields. Five more rose up from a mound a little behind them.

The retinues of Stormcasts rearranged themselves instantly, the thud of boots on hard ice and scrape of armour plates the only noise as they executed drill and manoeuvres practised a thousand times in the arena of the Gladitorium. The giant warriors seamlessly moved to form a cordon of weapons between the newcomers and Katiya. An aurora of celestial power from bared blades and cracking hammers shimmered over the host and cast hard shadows across the ice.

Everywhere Arkas looked more men and women seemed to materialise from the ice field. Most were dressed in grey, pale blue and white, with furs and patterned hides that made them seem as much animal as human.

Turning about he guessed that two hundred had revealed themselves already and more were still appearing, rising up from crevasses and cracks, climbing out of openings cut into the ice itself. Twenty heartbeats passed and Katiya’s army numbered at least a thousand, springing into existence like snow devils.

‘Venian?’ Arkas called out. ‘I would have words!’

Chapter Twenty-One

‘They ran,’ explained Katiya as she led Arkas between two shoulders of rock. Doridun flanked the Lord-Celestant on the other side, the Protector-Prime, Diocletus, following close with his retinue. ‘They thought you dead, struck down by the sorcery of the daemon-lord. Faced with such power and the unending numbers of the ratkin, the defenders of Kurzengor fled.’

An undercut formed the start of a tunnel that ran steeply into the ice, the pale walls indistinguishable from the rest of the glacier. Led by other guides, the rest of the Warbeasts descended into the hidden settlement — Katiya had been swift and insistent with her demands that the giant warriors did not remain on the surface to attract hostile attention.

‘They would have died, had they remained,’ said Arkas.

‘The stories tell of how they flung down their shields and threw off mail coats to speed away,’ the Ursungoran elder replied. ‘Some, the cursed ones, turned on their own and cut them down.’

‘They hoped to find alliance with the skaven by slaying their allies?’

‘They were already agents of the rat-filth,’ spat Katiya. She looked up at Arkas. ‘Traitors that would strike from within the walls. The legends speak for some time on how they are accursed for eternity and the Uniter would return to revenge himself upon them in many unpleasant ways.’

‘I thought every one of them my brother or sister,’ murmured Arkas. ‘We had spilt and given blood together, shared ale and meat at the fires. It was for nothing?’

Katiya did not reply. She stopped as the tunnel widened, pulled back the hood of her fur coat and had a brief conversation with a young, broad-shouldered warrior waiting for her. He nodded and dashed off into the cavern.

Stepping across the threshold, Arkas suddenly understood how it was that Katiya’s ‘army’ had survived and been able to appear so swiftly. The glacier was riddled with passages and tunnels, dug from bare ice but shored up with duardin-hewn stone. The ceiling of the hall into which he stepped was so low he could almost touch it, but the hollow was easily three hundred paces across, the floor of the open space paved with cracked flagstones. He counted eight more archways leading off, as well as several sets of steps winding further beneath the ice field. Lines of Ursungorans and Stormcasts were emerging from these other tunnels.

‘Amazing,’ said Doridun. ‘A lifetime’s work.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Katiya. Arkas explained.

‘Nineteen,’ she said. ‘Nineteen generations have carved the City of Ice until today.’

‘Nearly four centuries,’ Arkas told his Knight-Heraldor. ‘It is not so long as I thought since Sigmar took me. Ursungorod has not aged lightly in my absence.’

‘Time is a cruel companion,’ replied Doridun. ‘For mortals.’

‘What language do you speak?’ asked Katiya, watching the exchange with wide eyes.

‘It is the language of the celestial sphere, of the God-King and his immortals.’

‘It is like thunder and music at the same time!’ Her brow furrowed. ‘And loud!’

‘It is a tongue for battle, to be heard over the crash of metal and the dying cries of our foes,’ said Arkas, making an effort to speak softly. ‘Our chambers in Sigmaron are vast, so I suppose we do quite a lot of shouting. Just how far does this city stretch?’

‘For nearly the length and breadth of the Bear’s Pelt,’ Katiya said, her back straightening and chest swelling with pride. ‘As grand as the duardin city that came before.’

They crossed the chamber while Arkas’ warriors gathered in their brotherhoods, looking in astonishment at their surroundings. The native warriors drew back from the armoured giants, their expressions displaying disbelief, fear and hope in equal measure.

‘How have you not been discovered? The Pestilentzi must know you are here.’

‘The city is known but we are few enough that we hide when the cursed tribes come. We know the City of Ice and its ways, and we kill those that trespass. A few we allow back to the surface to spread tales of the snow-killers of the ice. The rat-filth do not come and we do not disturb them.’ She smiled with grim determination. ‘Until now, of course. Now we disturb them much.’

‘Are there more of you?’ he asked, looking at the hundreds of men and women crowding into the chamber, faces expectant yet wary. Quite a few had seen as many years as Katiya, and there were few young faces amongst the throng.

‘Some patrols and sentries that keep guard, maybe another hundred,’ Katiya told him. His heart sank a little and she must have noticed.

‘Each is worth ten cursed ones and twenty rat-filth!’ she said.

‘I am sure of it,’ said Arkas. He had been equally sure of it on the walls of Kurzengor. He directed his next words to Doridun, keeping his tone even so as not to betray further disappointment to Katiya. ‘Twelve hundred fighters at most. I had hoped to liberate many more to add numbers to our cause but that is not going to be the case. Send word to Venian, he has a chance to redeem himself. Tell him to seek out Hastor and Theuderis. He will guide them to this place, not the agreed rendezvous. Our foes will surely have marked our progress here. It would be wrong to abandon these people now.’

‘If we depart they will come, my lord,’ said Doridun, looking along the lines of Ursungorans. ‘They have the manner of people that have run and hidden for long enough. They may not be many but they seem capable. They will certainly engage the foe for some time.’

‘Here, on their own territory, defending their homes they may be powerful.’ Arkas took a deep breath. ‘We must venture into the depths of the skaven tunnels and there will be only victory or death, no retreats and ambushes. These are the last of the true people of Ursungorod. The uncorrupted. We came to liberate them, not spend their lives to shield ourselves.’

‘You misunderstand—’ Doridun began but Arkas cut him off with a sharp gesture.

‘No, Knight-Heraldor,’ he said sternly, ‘you misunderstand your commander. Ursungorod will be freed and its true people will repopulate these mountains. Look at them — their strength is diminishing with each generation. If I asked, each would lay down their life — but I cannot ask. Katiya thinks I will lead them to some new age of glory. I cannot lead them into battle and do that at the same time.’

Doridun stepped back and glanced away, towards the other Stormcasts.

‘I will send Venian on his mission, my lord,’ the Knight-Heraldor said stiffly. It was clear he had more to say but was holding his tongue. ‘Do you have orders for the rest of the chamber?’

‘We hold here for the moment,’ Arkas replied. When he said nothing further, Doridun nodded and left. Switching back to the Ursungoran language, Arkas addressed Katiya. ‘When Ursungorod is free, from here its people will rise. Show me your city.’

Chapter Twenty-Two

What the free Ursungorans had built was remarkable, when so many other civilizations had risen and fallen during the turning of the ages. Even if they had not been his people, to Arkas the Ursungorans would still have been as precious as diamonds found in the filthy mire of Chaos. Katiya guided Arkas through barrack-chambers, along tunnels lined with deadfall traps and pits that could waylay pursuers. Cunningly balanced tip-doors and hatches allowed the defenders to redirect the path of an attacking force, built using ancient duardin door mechanisms engineered beyond anything Katiya’s people were capable of.

‘What about food? Forging metal? Clothes?’ the Lord-Celestant asked when she brought him into a living chamber. It was squared with duardin stone slabs but the floor and ceiling were naked ice, with columns formed from thick icicles. Fur mattresses and pillows were scattered in small groups where families slept, and rough planks were used as shelves for a small assortment of jugs, pots and trinkets. The chamber was uninhabited for the moment, sparse and cold, but Arkas could remember far less comfortable and homely abodes from when his people had roamed the mountains, following the herds and avoiding the skaven and Chaos attacks.

‘We do not live all of the time in the city,’ explained Katiya. ‘Much of the time we hunt and trap in the forests above the Bear’s Pelt. We take what metal we can from our enemies, likewise other tools and weapons. There are high pastures where we farm goats, though they are often raided by wolves and worse.’

She crossed the chamber and crouched beside a bedroll. Unfurling it, she revealed two long knives, wickedly sharp.

‘We carry weapons at all times, and even asleep it is our law that we are armed.’

‘A law I created,’ said Arkas, smiling inside his helm.

‘Indeed, and many more laws that have kept us safe.’ She turned her eyes away, embarrassed by her own awe, and rolled up the bedding again. ‘In the wild no group more than twenty gathers. We run when we can, and if we are attacked we fight only until we can run. Each third-moon we return to the City of Ice to exchange news, trade what we have scavenged and hunted, tend to the wounded and deposit the dead.’

‘Deposit?’ The low ceiling of the chamber made it hard for Arkas to follow her, and he was forced to walk in a stoop. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Many of the cursed tribes are corpse-eaters, and they will take the dead as happily as the living. And the skaven use corpses to fuel their plague winds and poxes. We try to leave no bodies. There are several shafts, run holes that go to the bottom of the glacier. Bodies go into those, into the purity of the ice, returned to Ursungorod.’

‘Very sensible,’ Arkas told her. She blushed and moved into a side tunnel. He squeezed his bulk through the opening after her, helm scraping shards from the icy roof. ‘No danger of manticores down here.’

‘That is another advantage,’ Katiya said, her wrinkles deepening as she smiled.

‘Are you their leader? Their queen?’

Katiya did not answer, but led him along a curving corridor that sloped gently upwards, slats of stones providing surer footing. The tunnel stopped and became a near-vertical shaft going up and down, metal rungs driven into the bare ice. When she shimmied up, Arkas inspected the ladder closely, dubious about its potential to hold his considerable weight. He saw that each rung had once been a blade, the edges blunted, ends turned to right angles.

Arkas tugged at one and it started to come away in his grip. Thrusting the rung back, he looked up into the shaft. It was about ten times his height, wide enough for him to fit comfortably. Turning his back to the ladder he rammed his gauntleted fingers into the ice, driving them deep enough to get a handhold. Pulling himself up, he bent his leg and repeatedly drove a boot through the wall until it could take his weight. Gathering confidence, he hauled himself up with increasing speed, leaving a trail of indentations.

‘I hope this is worth the effort,’ he said, clambering over the lip of the top.

There was no need for Katiya to speak — what he discovered at the top was answer enough.

They stood in a triangular tower made of reclaimed duardin masonry, tall enough for Arkas to stand. Three broad, shallow windows showed a view out over the ice fields in every direction. They were at a considerable elevation, much higher than where Katiya had been waiting for the Stormcasts. Two Ursungorans sat on ledges by each window, another couple sat in one corner, their bone dice clattering on the hard floor.

Moving to a window, Arkas saw banked snow packed around the tower to obscure its shape. From a distance it would be impossible to spot against the whiteness of the ice field. Yet from such a vantage point they could see far across the Bear’s Pelt. Arkas’ keen eyes picked out other humps and mounds, and the telltale slits of dark windows that would have gone unnoticed had he not been looking for them.

‘Watch towers,’ he said.

‘Also escape routes,’ Katiya added, pointing to a wooden trapdoor in the ceiling, linked to a counterweight by a thick chain. ‘We can also ambush from here, in many places across the ice field. As you know.’

‘Impressive,’ Arkas said. He was about to turn away when something caught his eye. It was a smudge of darkness, barely visible, beyond one of the other watch-mounds. He had noticed a pile of logs and small red-coloured blocks in one corner. ‘Do you light beacon fires?’

‘Yes, that is how we send a message of an attack.’ Katiya moved up beside him just as flames licked into view from the summit of the intervening tower. ‘Cursed ones! They are coming along the Black River.’

‘They followed us,’ Arkas said. ‘We should investigate, find out how many.’

‘No need,’ Katiya told him. She pointed out of the windows and he saw a trio of ravens heading out from another tower, one of the birds coming towards them.

When it was close, Katiya gave a shrill whistle, much like the one that had summoned her army. The raven dropped down to the window and settled upon the ledge. Chirping and bobbing her head, Katiya held out a hand. Arkas could feel the power of Ghur wreathing around her, the magic responding to her call. The raven croaked and pecked at the sill, bobbing in agitation.

Katiya drew back sharply and Arkas read shock on her face. She turned to look at him, horrified.

‘What is it,’ Arkas demanded. ‘How many?’

‘Many,’ Katiya mumbled. She said nothing for a few moments, before some semblance of comprehension surfaced. The elder flicked a look at the bird and then back to Arkas. ‘She said she could not count so many. More cursed ones than there are trees in the forest.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

It took some time for Arkas to traverse the city for a look at the incoming army. Whole areas were inaccessible to him and his warriors due simply to their size. Many of the watch-mounds were equally impassable, and when he eventually found his route towards the river curtailed again he was forced to speak with Katiya.

‘I must take my warriors above ground,’ he told her. ‘I have to see the nature of what we face.’

‘It is not our way,’ Katiya insisted, a saying she had used several times in the fraught journey across the City of Ice. ‘We do not allow them to see our numbers or place.’

‘They will not see you at all. My Stormcasts will face this threat and you will remain in the tunnels.’

‘You do not understand, you cannot face an army like this. You are too few.’

‘We are Stormcast Eternals, forged by Sigmar in the celestial fires of the heavenly sphere. Into us is poured the wisdom and skill of the Six Smiths. We are armoured with sigmarite, the undying strength of the God-King made real. Our weapons are the breaking storm of vengeance. There is no foe we cannot face.’

‘An army greater than the trees of the forest!’ Katiya was on the verge of tears. To her it seemed her hopes had been raised and cruelly dashed in the passing of an afternoon. ‘How can you prevail against so many cursed ones?’

‘I do not place much trust in the counting of ravens,’ Arkas replied, his temper fraying. ‘I will lead my warriors back to the surface even if I have to call a storm and blast a hole through the ice!’

Shocked at the thought, Katiya was torn between two minds. He could see the uncertainty written on her face where there had been such conviction. Arkas crouched, resting his hammer across his thighs. He spoke softly, as a father might to a distraught daughter.

‘We will prevail. Across Ghur, across all of the Mortal Realms, the armies of the Stormhosts have struck back against the darkness of destruction and Chaos. Where we bring the light of Sigmar, evil cannot stand. We have come to Ursungorod to liberate you. The nightmare is coming to an end.’ He laid a hand gently on her quivering arm. ‘Trust me. Trust yourself. You saw the return of Arka Bear-clad, and I have come. Together we will deliver our people from the horror and tyranny of the Chaos Gods.’

Katiya sighed, looking tired and old. She wrapped an arm around his massive limb and laid her cheek upon the armour.

‘It is warm,’ she murmured. ‘I thought it would be cold.’

‘The power of our forging still burns within us,’ Arkas explained.

He waited for some time, allowing her to hold his arm, drawing strength from his presence.

‘I need you, Katiya,’ he told her. She looked up, confused.

‘But you are the Bear-clad, Arka the Uniter. All of our people are yours to command.’

‘To command, yes, but not to lead. You are their leader. When we have delivered Ursungorod I cannot remain. I am Stormcast, beholden to the will of Sigmar. It is not our fate to make homes and have family. It is to you we must look for the building of a new future, and others like you that cling to resistance and freedom across the Mortal Realms. I need you to lead your people and I will command mine.’

Nodding, she released her grip and stepped back. Her eyes were moist but her jaw was set with determination.

‘I have to prepare,’ she told him.

She gestured to one of the Ursungorans close at hand. The denizens of the City of Ice had been gathering in their war-packs, ready for the defence of their homes. The man she signalled was rangy, his face stubbled with blond hair. He wore a full hauberk of mail and a breastplate; he carried a tall helm under his arm, and a long-hafted axe was strapped to his back. He might have been one of Arka’s stratzari in a different age.

‘This is Ajfor, one of my grandsons,’ Katiya said. ‘Ajfor, show the Uniter to the north sally tunnels by the Chasm of Sighs. He wishes to see the army coming from the Black River.’

‘It is my honour,’ said Ajfor, eyes fixed widely on Arkas. Eventually he dragged his gaze away. He picked up a pack and a silver-headed spear, and indicated for Arkas to follow him through one of the archways.

‘I must assemble my warriors first,’ Arkas told Katiya.

‘It would be better if you went alone,’ she replied. ‘Secrecy is still our best defence. Our only defence, truthfully. If the cursed ones cannot find the entrances to the City of Ice, they cannot attack.’

Arkas considered this and could not fault the logic, or the proof that the Ursungorans had survived when countless others had not, though part of him was reluctant. His unease formed into something more solid.

‘I cannot defend the City of Ice if I do not know the field of battle. I need a map, so that I can see where to place my warriors, where we can manoeuvre and counter-attack.’

‘There are no maps,’ Katiya said, brow knotting. She tapped the side of her head. ‘All that we need to know is kept here. It cannot be stolen, cannot be lost or looted from here. We do not allow ourselves to be taken alive. Only those that grew up in the City of Ice know its ways.’

‘Then I cannot fight underground,’ Arkas said.

‘I will give you guides,’ said Katiya. ‘They know the routes, the ambushes and escapes.’

‘That will not work,’ Arkas said with a shake of his head. ‘There are passages where my warriors cannot fight but your tactics do not allow for that. We are too large for this tunnel-fight. Your people are put at risk if they must stay with us, and the enemy will use the narrow ways against us. If I cannot see a map, I cannot make a plan.’

A resolution started to form in Arkas’ thoughts, coalescing from various threads of doubt and questions about the City of Ice.

‘You have it wrong, Katiya,’ he declared. ‘You cannot have me thinking like an Ursungoran, I am a commander of the Stormcasts. The Chaos corrupted do not come here for you, they seek my army. I shall give it to them, on the surface where we can fight in the open. We are not a guerrilla force, to hit and run from shadows. It is for this purpose we came to Ursungorod, to be the flame that lights the beacon of fresh hope. We will not skulk in tunnels and caves and expect you to fight the battle for us.’

‘There are far too many for us to fight,’ said Katiya, fearful at the thought. ‘Skulking and hiding has seen us survive for long years, Uniter.’

‘My words were not meant as an insult,’ Arkas replied quickly. He lowered to one knee and leaned close so that she could see his intent in his eyes. ‘What you have achieved is incredible, Katiya. Almost miraculous. That is why we must do this my way. Our coming is to liberate you, not doom you. It would dishonour the sacrifice of all those that came before if I allowed the darkness to consume what you have protected for so long. We will fight on the surface and we will kill many, many of the cursed ones. If it is our fate to fall in that fight, so be it. We are Stormcasts, we will be reforged.’

He did not think of the price of Reforging. The memory of becoming a Stormcast, of passing under the hammers of the Six Smiths, was vague but full of pain. Every time a Stormcast was remade, they lost a piece of themselves, and Sigmar too gave up a fragment of his power. The God-King had diminished himself to create his armies, and this crusade would be the one that brought victory or defeat, conquest or oblivion. There would be no retreat to Azyr next time, no quiet centuries to build and prepare. The Stormcasts were heralds of the final war that would decide the fate of all, mortals and gods alike.

‘You must continue to survive,’ he told Katiya. ‘If we fail to turn the tide you will still have the City of Ice to protect you. You must hold on. My companions from the Knights Excelsior are being led here. Theuderis Silverhand commands them, a host ten times the size of mine. It was for this reason we are here, to bring forth the poison of Chaos and destroy it.’

Katiya said nothing, conflicted. It was Ajfor who replied.

‘We will show you the way,’ he said. ‘A place where a few can stand against the many.’

‘The Teeth of the Bear,’ said Katiya, looking to her grandson and receiving a nod. She smiled. ‘If there is anywhere this flood of foes can be dammed, it is there.’

‘I know it,’ said Arkas. ‘A defile along which the Black River flows, steep-sided and narrow.’

‘It is not as it was in your day,’ said Katiya, as Arkas stood and replaced his mask. ‘The land does not stand still. But you will see for yourself.’

Ajfor moved away to several more men and women and spoke to them, pointing at Arkas and then continuing for a short while longer. He turned back to the Lord-Celestant.

‘With your permission, Uniter, we would bring you to the Teeth of the Bear by several routes. My cousins will take your warriors by the secret paths.’

‘Tell them the Warbeast commands it,’ said Arkas. He repeated the phrase in the celestial tongue and had the guides practise the words. ‘Speak thus and they will know it comes from me.’

The Ursungorans said their farewells and disappeared into the white-and-grey tunnels. Ajfor directed a look to Arkas, a silent inquiry.

‘One moment,’ said the Lord-Celestant. He led Katiya to one side and spoke softly. ‘I see where you draw your strength. It is a long bloodline, but the power of Radomira flows in your veins still. Am I right?’

‘I am one of her daughters over many generations,’ said Katiya.

‘Then know this, Katiya Gospor, daughter of Radomira, child of Ursungorod. Your ancestor raised me as her own when my mother died. She said she saw omens that I would save my people. The storm claimed me, as she knew it would, and she stood beside me even though she knew that day would end in death and misery. Today know that the circle has turned, the night becomes day and light returns to Ursungorod. Your dreams of salvation are her memory returned, her hope reborn. Whatever happens, never abandon hope, never submit to the darkness.’

‘Death first,’ Katiya said hoarsely, throat tight with emotion. She stroked his armoured arm, child-like next to the giant but as motherly as Radomira ever was. ‘Go. Fight. Free our people.’

Chapter Twenty-Four

The Black River was narrow and fierce here, still fresh from the highlands, strengthened by the meltwater of the Bear’s Pelt. It frothed and rushed over jagged rocks, between the walls of a valley that were almost vertical. The defile did not run straight, but jagged back and forth around sharp bends, in places becoming waterfalls, in others slowing slightly into broader pools.

The way was impassable but for the remains of a duardin road that led down to the ruins Arkas had seen before meeting Katiya. Made of seemingly imperishable stone, the dark grey ribbon ran alongside the Black River, sometimes crossing over it on steep arches, in other places heaping up on thick piles to run across the surface of the cliffs and the clifftops themselves. The river itself was not in full flood, for when it was even the road was barred. Had it been the short spring, the host of the cursed ones would have been forced across the snow fields and exposed to the bitter winds and blizzards, not to mention the hidden chasms and ambushes of the Ursungorans. They had learnt to tread warily across the Bear’s Pelt, and so they approached through the Bear’s Teeth, sure of the ground beneath their feet and confident in their numbers.

The Bear’s Teeth had been, in Arkas’ mortal time, a pair of high rock pillars that flanked the river at its narrowest point — black columns each nearly a quarter of a mile high. Making his way towards them, Arkas saw that the landscape had changed, as Katiya had warned. The river now spread into a deep pool half a mile across, and more rock pinnacles speared from the black depths at its edge, curving towards each other to form a boundary of immense rock fangs, leaving the original Bear’s Teeth as monstrous canines.

The lake was not impassable though, for a maze of boulders and walkways stood proud of the water, slick but broad enough for the Stormcasts to use them as stepping stones and bridges if needed.

‘They were not here before,’ gasped Ajfor, pointing to the wetted boulders. He looked in amazement at Arkas. ‘The lands form to your command, Uniter!’

Even as he watched, Arkas saw another rock push forth in a welter of bubbles, capping the end of a bridge-like spur. Rocky steps led down from the cliff-like banks to the waters.

‘So it seems,’ he grunted, unsure of this revelation. Ursungorod had always been erratic, but this behaviour reminded him of the touch of Chaos. Could he trust the land enough to cross the lake?

From the clifftops, Arkas could see further down the river. As he had suspected, the arithmetic of crows and hawks left something to be desired — the Chaos army numbered several thousands, but no more than ten thousand. Even so, it was a formidable sight, a snake of black and red and leather-brown, of silver and bronze mail that snaked for some distance along the canyon below.

Pennants stitched with vile symbols fluttered above the host, alongside wooden placards burnt with runes or daubed in blood with symbols of Chaos and the Pestilens. The tramp of their feet was louder even than the roaring of the Black River, echoed and amplified by the defile walls. Harsh laughter, the baying of mutant hounds and monstrous bellows of lumbering, blood-coloured khorgoraths added to the din.

‘So many,’ whispered Ajfor, his hand shielding his eyes against the low sun. He crouched behind a pillar of rock jutting from the cliff edge, a little way ahead of Arkas who stood in the column’s heavy shadow. ‘They usually fight each other, raid and steal from their camps. They blood and burn each other in sacrifice! Why have they become allies?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Arkas. ‘I don’t know what the skaven have offered them, or what threats demanded this loyalty.’

It was a lie. The Warbeast knew exactly what had finally brought the tribes together, for it was the same thing he had exploited to become the Uniter. Fear. The skaven perhaps had instigated the union, and fuelled it with promises and payments, but it was fear that welded it together. The Stormcasts and news of their victories had moved swiftly through the mountains, doubtless made all the speedier by verminous messengers. One by one, the tribes of Chaos could be crushed, but together…

As Arka Bear-clad, he had sent the same message to free men and women, warning of the danger of the skaven in the deeps. The rewards for alliance coupled with the dangers of isolation meant that when a few clans had joined, the rest saw more benefit in friendship than enmity.

The tribes of Chaos were afraid of the Stormcasts, and had been promised the City of Ice. Their rivalries and hostility put to one side for a time, now was an opportunity to take that which they had desired for an age — to rid themselves of the thorn that had worried them for so many generations. Slay the Stormcasts and sweep into the City of Ice to kill the free people. And the skaven could happily trust that once their foes had been destroyed, the tribes would quickly fall back to old ways, fighting each other over the spoils.

‘See how they still march as tribes and warbands?’ he said to Ajfor. He could see where the different factions kept to themselves, each a distinct section of the whole, fault lines that could be exploited. ‘They are uncoordinated, and will fight piecemeal. They have no commander, just competing warlords. Some will try to let the others take the brunt of the fighting, some will be eager to earn themselves glory in the eyes of the Dark Gods.’

‘That does not lessen their number, Uniter,’ said Ajfor. ‘There are still many to kill.’

Arkas took a deep breath, still eyeing the approaching army. He let free some of the celestial energy inside his immortal body, his warhammer and runeblade flaring in his fists. He looked at Ajfor and smiled, though the Ursungoran could not see it.

‘Not too many.’

Chapter Twenty-Five

The crackle of thirteen vast firepits and the smoke from their flames filled the immense cavern of the undercity. The fires fizzed and popped with multicoloured light as wood, hide and warp-saturated flesh burned.

By the dim light of the fires, the huge structure of the Great Shrine loomed over the proceedings. The hammer of the great gong was pulled back, ready to strike and pronounce the beginning of the festivities. From every rickety balcony and pole hung banners of human skin and slave hide, decorated with the symbol of the Withered Canker, the thrice-slashed claw mark of Felk himself.

A hundred slaves laboured at the enormous turnspits erected over the pits, roasting the flesh of the diseased captives. Limbs and ribcages were pierced on the raw wooden stakes, while in mighty cauldrons tended by a further army of ragged slaves, organs and fat bubbled away, stirred by Felk’s watchful plague priests.

A barricade had been erected around the new enclosure, piled from brick and stone taken from the excavation of the realmgate, and supplemented with mouldy planks and boxes, tattered sacks stuffed with sand and gravel, and sheets of crudely flattened brass and bronze. Skarth and his spitevermin patrolled the perimeter, hissing and snapping at any that approached, hurling stones and darts at those that did not heed those warnings.

The floor of the cavern was layered with deep filth from many years of occupation. Through the accreted effluent of the undercity, trenches had been dug, waist-high to the slaves that had carved them from hardened excreta and filth. The trenches were arranged in an angled circle, with branches and offshoots running off at strange angles — the rune of the Great Horned Rat, the name of the Great Witherer, given shape.

The bottom of the trenches had been lined with the bodies of those that had dug them, the corpses so fresh that the blood was still drying in the wounds from the spitevermins’ halberds. From the banks of the trenches, plague monks poured out libations from cracked pottery urns and amphorae. The line of skaven passed dented golden goblets, stained porcelain vases, tin cups, glazed pots, silvered jugs and crystal pitchers all the way back from the skewed gates of the Great Shrine. Filled from the festering pits beneath the shrine, every receptacle brimmed with noxious fluid gathered over many years, faintly glowing with power from the warp deposits at the Great Shrine’s heart.

The plague monks breathed deep of the fumes that emanated from the frothing brew of corruption. Their tails twitched with excitement, eyes saucer-like with narcotic delirium, chattering and squeaking without words as they laboured to fill the trenches.

Felk prowled at the centre of it all, alternating between triumphant hand-rubbing and nervous twitches as his thoughts and moods shifted from his excitement about the feast to his concerns over the metal giants.

A shape ghosted out of the fire-shadows and resolved into Thriss, a splintered human thighbone in his claws. There were scratches on the bone, written in a code unknown to the gutter runner. Felk could smell rotting leaves and sensed the dissipating aura of Ghryan, the Realm of Life. He took the bone and quickly read the inscription. It was a simple statement explaining that it was not known where in the Realm of Life Felk’s portal would open, but assuring him that his agents would be prepared when it happened.

‘And other thing? The skull-skull?’ Felk demanded, beckoning with impatient claws. ‘Have it, yes-yes?’

From beneath the folds of his cloak, Thriss produced a skull, yellowed and much cracked. A prominent break pierced one temple. Felk could smell the dried blood ingrained in the bone. The holes had been stoppered with fatty-smelling wax. The skull was slender in the jaw, high in the cheeks, with a pronounced forehead and shallow brow. The head of an aelf. Not just any head. It had been taken from its owner by none other than Felk’s master, the verminlord Skixakoth.

Felk shook the artefact and was satisfied by the dull rattle of something within.

‘It is still inside, yes-yes? The Tooth of Skixakoth?’

‘Yes-yes,’ snapped the gutter runner. ‘As promised. Clan Darkclaw never fails.’

Felk cocked an eye at this ludicrous claim, but chose not to list the numerous times both Thriss and his Eshin companions had been total failures. The Poxmaster was too excited by his new acquisition.

‘Life-life and death-death,’ he crowed, stroking a claw across the top of the skull. He sniffed, taking in the heady scent of depraved magic, the raw Chaos of the verminlord fang still trapped in the skull. ‘Much magic! Power of Great Witherer itself! Yes-yes, glorious feast tonight.’

‘What is it for?’ asked Thriss, eyeing the skull with a dubious look. ‘What does it do-do?’

‘Is talisman,’ said Felk, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. He clutched the skull to his ear as if listening. ‘Is key to the gnaw-ways. Is symbol of Skixakoth. Is many things. Is greatest channel, opening, window to highest and lowest places.’

‘Channel where?’ Thriss’ eyes darted in all directions as though he expected some portal to open immediately. Felk hissed with irritation.

‘To burrows of the gods, to Great Horned Rat!’ he spat. ‘When dismal feast is done, we speak to Great Witherer and with blessing take all Whiteworld Above.’

‘What of metal giants? Humans not stop them.’

‘No-no, but metal giants come too late. Trap set.’ Felk lifted the skull in triumph and then, realising all of the plague monks could see it, snatched it back and hid it in a ragged fold of his robe. ‘Great Horned Rat will destroy metal giants. Felk will rule all Whiteworld Above. Open the gate, we will, and Withered Canker will destroy sylvaneth. All bow to Felk’s power!’

Thriss muttered something.

‘What say?’ demanded Felk. ‘Say-say again!’

‘Praise mighty Poxmaster Felk,’ Thriss intoned flatly. ‘Great leader of Withered Canker.’

Felk eyed the Eshin agent for a time, until thoughts of the dismal feast distracted him back to a more pleasing topic. The plague monks had filled the ditches, tossing the broken pots and jugs into the noisome soup. At a gesture from Felk, the plague priests started a low chant, uttering praises to the Great Horned Rat, invocations of pestilence and decay. The lower ranks took up the hymnal, swaying forwards and back, left and right, caught in drug-fuelled throes of elation.

Stalking between the undulating lines of robed skaven, Felk raised his staff, signalling to the slave-masters at the firepits. Whips cracked and voices were raised in command, ordering the slaves into action. Teams of bent-backed skaven lifted up the great skewers and pots and brought them across to the site of the feast, eyes rolling in fear, pink tails lashing.

Trenchers of rough-beaten brass and iron had been set up in long rows, forming a triangle around Felk. While the chanting of the plague monks grew louder and louder, the slaves bore their loads to the trenchers. Using broken, filthy claws, they tore away hunks of meat, corroded bonesaws severing thighs, shinbones and ribs, immense ladles filling the trenchers with thick, greasy stew.

Their tasks complete, the slaves cowered together, fearful of their masters’ goads. Felk walked amongst them, staff and empty hand upraised.

‘No fear-fear!’ he told the quivering mass of poxy fur and scabbed skin. ‘Tonight is dismal feast. Slaves no more! Eat-eat! Strong you will be, blessed by the Great Witherer.’

The slaves eyed him with suspicion, glancing nervously at the trenchers and then back to the Poxmaster.

‘Eat!’ Felk snarled, grabbing the closest slave by a ragged ear, pulling it towards the food. ‘Fill bellies!’

Starvation won over distrust and the skavenslaves broke en masse to the trenchers, gorging themselves on the roasted and boiled meat. They squabbled and snapped, raked their claws across each other’s muzzles and bit the tails of their neighbours in their desperation.

While the slaves feasted, the plague monks turned, chanting still, lining the sigil of the Great Horned Rat. Felk’s priests disappeared into the gloom and emerged with thirteen bound humans. They were stripped to the skin, revealing lesions and boils, open sores and ruddy clusters of buboes. They were the most diseased, the greatest tribute to the power of the Great Witherer. Gibbering and sobbing they stared in horror at their hellish surrounds, recoiling from the frenzy of gluttony and depravity as they witnessed the fate of their former companions.

Unresisting, the humans were pushed to the ground, forced to kneel facing each other, Felk at the centre of the circle. The Poxmaster licked the air to taste their abhorrence. It was sweet nectar.

The activity at the trenchers was slowing, the slaves sated, staggering and groaning with bloated bellies. The plague monks continued their dirge, the rhythm starting to quicken, staves rising and falling to thud softly on the packed detritus that covered the ground. Faster, harder came the beat, and through it Felk could sense the magic of Ghur shifting, responding to the ritual.

The monks panted, gasping for air but unable to stop the liturgy. Possessed by the rising spirit of the Great Horned One, they continued to pound with their staves, the rhythm becoming more ragged, the chant discordant.

Felk was mesmerised by the chorus of mewling captives, moaning slaves, shrieking monks and thundering staff beats. He slowly turned on the spot, marvelling at the way the sound changed as he spun, the acoustics of the massive cavern twisting, rebounding and changing the music of the Horned Rat.

Arms still held high, he closed his eyes, his natural paranoia dropping away for an instant to allow him a moment of pure intoxication. He felt his heart juddering in his chest, could smell the musk and sweat and the taint of warpstone.

The sensation passed and he opened his eyes, wobbling to a dizzy stop. His vision swam for a while longer, the faces of his priests blurring in and out of focus, sometimes leering jealously, other times concerned and fearful.

‘Great Witherer!’ Felk declared, regaining his equilibrium. ‘Horned One of Decay! Felk offers you Whiteworld Above. Grant me this boon, grant me bounty, and Felk gifts all lands to your praise. Bless Poxmaster Felk, bless Withered Canker in your name. Felk beseeches Great Horned One, hear our prayers, hear laments of your victims! Plague we are. Pox and infection we spread. In your name, for your praise. We are Pestilens. Harbingers of the Doom of Worlds. Gnawers of vitality. Swift bringers of your filthy blessings.’

Felk pointed his staff at the human captives, who recoiled as if struck.

Their depressed moaning turned into wailing and crying.

‘See these offerings! Most foul, most touched by your divine hand. Back to the Great Horned One we send them.’ Felk skittered over to the prisoners and grabbed the hair of the nearest, dragging her head back. His thin tongue licked along her neck, leaving a trail of thick saliva in the crusted dirt, blood and pus. ‘Feast as we have feasted! Eat-eat, mighty lord of the thirteen plagues.’

Felk stepped back as his plague monks set about messily sacrificing the captives to their horned deity.

Now was the time. Now was the moment of his glorious triumph.

Felk snatched out the skull taken from the lair of Skixakoth. The daemonic fang within was rattling and bouncing of its own accord. The green glow of warp energy seeped through the wax and cracks, bathing Felk in its light.

The Poxmaster dashed the skull against the ground, releasing the power of the verminlord’s tooth.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Green lightning arced with violent snaps, leaping from the broken skull to the corpses of the sacrifices. The bodies jumped and jittered as though given fresh life. Limbs spasmed, chests heaved, eyes darted to and fro while twitching, bloodied fingers grasped at open wounds and shattered bones. Engulfed by the torrent of power, the cadavers rose to their feet, listless puppets sustained only by malicious magic.

Warp energy surrounded the sacrifices with an aura of sickly roiling magical fumes, like the vapours that rose from the sigil of the Horned Rat carved around the feast. The air grew thick with power, clinging to Felk’s claws and teeth, matting his fur. The noxious liquid in the mark of the Great Witherer started to bubble and boil of its own accord.

Still the magic grew in strength. It pooled into the engorged slaves, who were now lying in torpid piles beside the trenches. It filled them with unnatural vitality. They staggered to their feet with jerky movements and started to writhe and dance, distended bellies swinging, emaciated limbs shuddering and twisting.

His thoughts becoming a feverish blur, Felk heard a snap behind him and spun around in time to see the first slave collapsing, his weak bones unable to sustain him. A wet slapping noise heralded the gut of another splitting, its distended organs spilling out in a welter of undigested food and blood. The magic of the Horned One animated them still, set them flapping and cavorting across the uneven floor while more slaves burst, collapsed and broke under the magical assault.

Beside Felk the human corpses withered. The magical lightning sapped them of blood, fat and flesh. It turned their bones to dust, their blood to vapour, leaving only empty skin hanging in the air.

The fang of Skixakoth, as big as Felk’s outstretched claw from thumb to little finger, rose into the air, slowly rotating, held aloft by a miasma of jade warp energy. The fang stopped at about head height and righted itself, hanging down as though in an upper jaw. The fog started to coalesce into something more solid. Around the tooth a huge rat-like face crowned by thirteen horns shifted in and out of the mist.

Felk threw himself to the ground, averting his gaze. From the corner of his eye he saw his priests doing likewise. Some of the plague monks were not so swift. Their agonised shrieks cut across the thunderous pulsing that now filled the chamber, as they looked upon the visage of the Great Horned One and were sent mad. Wet mewling followed as they clawed out their eyes and gouged their flesh, trying to rid themselves of the sight, trying to free themselves from the gnawing that worried at their souls.

SPEAK.

The voice of the skaven god was not heard, it was felt. It was a rumbling in the rocks, a reverberation in the gut, a noise in the back of the head, a hissing in the ears. The scratching of ten thousand claws on the bones. The rasp of innumerable teeth, gnawing, gnawing, gnawing. The Poxmaster felt blood dribble from his ears and nose, but kept his face pressed into the dirt.

‘Poxmaster Felk, most devoted of the Horned Rat’s servants.’

FELK? WHY DO YOU SUMMON ME?

‘Offer Whiteworld Above to you, mightiest of mighty, potent deliverer of plague and distress. Grant me boon, hear Felk’s plea. A realmgate we have. Victory over sylvaneth. Death of life, pox unbound.’

THIS I SEE. FOR A LIFETIME YOU HAVE PROMISED WHITEWORLD ABOVE.

‘Yes-yes, but patient Felk has been. Good priest, loyal-loyal servant. Let humans kill and fight, look for realmgate. Now-now it is ours. Yours! Realmgate yours, great herald of oblivion, master of the thirteen deadly ways. Metal giants come-come. Much slaughter. Celebration not certain. Victory unclear. Beseech you, conjurer of abyssal torment, thirteen-times blessed lord of the realms. Grant power. Grant magic. Much-much power.’

IT SHALL BE.

Felk was snatched up by an invisible claw, lifted bodily into the air above his minions. He clutched his staff tightly to his chest, clenching every muscle to stop his musk glands betraying his terror. Tendrils of power flickered around him, caressing his fur to make it stand on end and sparking from his exposed teeth.

He looked down and saw the blazing rune of the Great Horned One, the lines of plague monks duplicating it within, the corpses of the slaves spattered in replica of that awful, awesome sigil.

KNOW MY POWER. FAIL ME NOT.

The gong of the Great Shrine tolled, louder than ever before, the shockwave of noise rolling out across the feast, tossing bodies into the air, passing on to flatten the walls of the spitevermin, toppling the hovels and ramshackle streets beyond. On and on it seemed to echo until Felk’s world was nothing but his claws digging into the wood of his staff and the dreadful ring of the Horned Rat’s declaration shuddering through his whole body.

In the silence that followed he thought he was falling. Falling so far he had to have passed into a great chasm, dropping into the gap between realms, disappearing along the gnawholes of the skaven and into the lair of the Great Witherer.

Felk saw the fang of the verminlord hanging in the air before him, glinting cruelly in the light. His hand reached out, not of his volition, clawed fingers opening to grasp the cursed tooth. He did not resist, knowing that it was the will of his god. His arm shaking, he held the tooth before him like a dagger.

Everything was darkness, but for the light from that jagged tooth. Felk moved his arm to expose his chest, his robes parting with their own life to bare his furred flesh.

With a hiss, he dragged the tooth closer, plunging it into his heart.

Pain engulfed Felk. Pain of every pox, every plague, every disease unleashed by the pestilent lords combined. He felt their power spreading from the wound, infecting him with their potency, the virulent energy rippling along arteries and veins, infusing organs with eternal power, the energy of Chaos itself.

In a blast of ecstatic fusion he was joined with the Great Horned One. His minds were filled with blistering images, of the gnaw-tunnels between worlds, stretching into the past and future, coiling through infinities, an impossible maze that burrowed through and under every mortal thing. And further still, into the Realm of Chaos, undermining the dominions of the four great powers.

The scurrying, gnawing, endlessly teeming mass of skaven thrived in the under-empire, enslaving, scavenging, growing in numbers beyond counting, ready to burst forth across all of the realms.

And there — a glimpse of realm-burrows working towards the bastions of Azyr, locked for so long by the will of the human god-king. An army of golden warriors bringing fire and death to the followers of Chaos. The metal giants, the soldiers of Sigmar.

For some it was the end. The last war that would see the worlds of mortals destroyed. Not for the Children of the Horned Rat. Death brought opportunity. Famine and plague, the companions of war, were ever ripe ground for the disciples of the Great Witherer.

Felk opened his eyes. A shadow loomed over him and he held a hand up, reflexively squealing in panic.

‘Poxmaster?’

The blur resolved into Skarth’s face. He bared his teeth, halberd held at the ready. A slight movement allowed Felk to see the ring of plague priests around him, concerned more by the blade of his fangleader than the state of their master’s health. Some looked openly disappointed at his recovery.

Felk sat up, fingers unconsciously questing for the reassuring feel of his staff, seeking the familiar cracked wood.

He remembered a last image, of the collapsing under-empire, of the dominions of the Great Horned One imploding back into him. Felk recalled the surge of power, and his staff exploding into threads and splinters.

It was his badge of office, his weapon and the channel for his power. He felt naked without it.

He stood up, staying close to Skarth. The priests and the spitevermin forming a cordon against the plague monks beyond let out a communal hiss of surprise. Skarth took a step back, lips curling back over dark gums.

Where Felk’s robe had fallen open, his chest was in plain view. The roots of Skixakoth’s fang could be seen just over his heart, protruding slightly from suppurating flesh. Threads of corruption pulsed like a web from the wound, spreading from the tooth across Felk’s chest and abdomen. He lifted a claw, allowing the voluminous sleeve to roll back, revealing corded tendrils of warp power gently gleaming beneath the skin. His nails were long and sharp as he flexed his fingers.

He pulled his robe closed and rose to his full height — a little taller than before, he thought, though perhaps he had always stooped without realising. The power of the Horned Rat’s blessing was evident not just in the visible signs. Felk could feel the energy flowing through him, spiralling and weaving through his body, suffusing his organs with putrid vitality.

‘Come-come, brothers.’ He gestured for his priests to gather closer. ‘Disciples of Felk, chosen of the Great Horned Rat. Bear witness to our master’s divine will.’

Cautiously, the plague priests approached, clutching their staves and knives, casting glances at each other.

‘Time has come,’ declared Felk. ‘Wrong we are, poor worshippers, selfish rat-rats! War we make. War good.’ He clenched his fists. Warp power dribbled from between his fingers like smoke. ‘Not fight with fist. Not fight with sword or halberd. We the masters of disease! Not conquer Whiteworld Above. Destroy it! All life, all humans, all giant men of Sigmar! My ruin-bringers, my plague-heralds, my warp-fiends, bear witness! Corpse-mountain we build. Plague furnaces we make. Wind of annihilation blows. Death-death, all things dead! When realmgate opens, tide of death unleashed. Much work to be done. Felk decrees, you obey.’

Cowed by this grand oratory and the halo of power wreathing their leader, the plague priests bowed and fell to their knees, faces hidden inside their hoods.

‘Praise Felk,’ cried the Poxmaster. ‘Lord of the Withered Canker, Slayer of the Whiteworld Above.’

‘Praise Felk,’ they intoned.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Not only had the Black River dammed itself to aid Arkas, it had steepened its banks downriver, swallowing the makeshift road beneath jagged rocks and mudslides. Some of the Chaos clans were not content to funnel up the gorge and attempted to scale the shallower sides of the defile to reach the wide expanse of the Bear’s Pelt. Arkas took this as the sign to announce the presence of his warriors.

Having crossed the stone bridges on the lake to set their ambush along both sides, Judicators lined the precipice edges to welcome the climbing warriors with volleys of shockbolts and skybolts. Burning from the touch of the celestial missiles, an avalanche of corpses fell back into the defile, causing panic amongst the packed tribal warriors below. Those not caught under their falling companions responded with angry shouts and a surge that sent many splashing into the river, scrapping with each other to forge their way to the easier ascent further along.

At a word from Arkas, his Prosecutors swept into the gorge, speeding along the twisting ravine and unleashing more heavenly arrows into the throng. Scattered projectiles leapt up to meet them but were poorly aimed and of little threat to the armoured fliers. Trolls and larger beasts hurled rocks and fistfuls of smaller stone, bellowing impotently at the tormentors soaring out of reach.

‘Arrows alone will not slay them all,’ said Ajfor, who had remained with Arkas to act as a messenger if needed. He pointed to the narrowest part of the ravine, where sharp, ice-covered rocks thrust like gigantic fangs. They glittered in the weak sun, the striations of red stone inside like trails of dried blood. ‘That is the best place to defend.’

‘The Jaws,’ said Arkas. ‘A good choice if I was going to pick somewhere to make a last stand.’

‘What do you intend, Uniter? We cannot hold them on the open ice.’

‘I don’t intend to hold them anywhere.’ Arkas beckoned to Doridun. ‘Prepare to signal the attack. We’ll push down the river and cut down anyone stupid enough not to run.’

The Knight-Heraldor nodded and relayed the order to Dolmetis, who carried the command to the nearest Primes. The Warbeasts moved closer to the edge of the ravine, ready to start their descent.

‘Attack?’ Ajfor’s eyes were so wide they seemed to bulge out of his head.

‘We are the storm of Sigmar’s wrath, the Celestial Vindicators, the Warbeasts,’ Arkas said with a grin. ‘We do not wait for battle to come to us, we seek it out.’

At his word, the Strike Chamber started the climb. Reaching the pebble-strewn bottom, where ice covered the small stones, the Warbeasts quickly assembled into their retinues, rallying on their Primes. The canyon turned to the left, masking them from view for the moment, though the Chaos warriors leading the attack could not have failed to see them disappearing from the clifftop.

‘Full charge, no mercy,’ Arkas barked to his Stormcasts. ‘Kill the foe in front, leave the foe to the left and right to your companions. We fight together, we win together.’

A guttural roar signalled the assent and readiness of the Warbeasts.

‘Come on then,’ laughed Arkas.

They reached full speed before the enemy came into view, pounding across the blue ice and splashing through the frothing water. Rounding the bend, Arkas saw that the foremost Chaos tribe were also moving swiftly.

Well-armed and armoured warriors led them, advancing at a trot, gathered beneath a banner of bone and stretched skin inked in gore with the symbol of the Blood God, Khorne. Some had bare heads, their faces heavily scarred and pierced, while others wore helms with curving bull’s horns fitted like tusks and tipped with jagged iron shards. Each bore two heavy hammers or maces, their gauntlets were spiked at the knuckles, and they wore metal bracers on their forearms.

Issuing bloody challenges, the Chaos warriors broke into a sprint, heedless of the threat posed by the Stormcasts, relishing the opportunity to slay the most powerful foes. The Warbeasts continued on at the same relentless pace, a wall of sigmarite that left a trail of shimmering celestial power on the rocks and dancing across the rapids.

The crash of the two forces rang down the canyon. The bodily impact of the Stormcasts sent many of the Chaos warriors hurtling and tumbling, while sweeps of starsoul maces and stormstrike glaives sent hewn corpses spinning into the reddening spume of the river.

Pushed on by the weight of their comrades behind, the leading edge of the Warbeasts rumbled down the gorge. Arkas, running along the left bank, cleaved a path with warhammer and runeblade, as Dolmetis and Doridun formed the point of the attack on the opposite side of the river.

The Prosecutors returned from their raking attacks further downstream and poured their missiles into the tribesmen just a dozen yards ahead of the Stormcast assault. One in three Chaos followers fell beneath the aerial onslaught, the survivors disorientated and split, easy prey for the rampaging Warbeasts.

The steep sides of the ravine left little room for manoeuvre — or escape. The more cowardly tribesmen found themselves trapped against the unforgiving rocks, cut down as they fled, crushed against the boulders by hammers and maces forged in the heavenly foundries of Sigmaron.

Preceded by the volleys from above, the Celestial Vindicators swept all before them, only the occasional flash of blue light showing where an unfortunate Stormcast had fallen to a lucky blow or an aggregation of many wounds. A corona of azure light moved before them like a bow wave, flickers of lightning from skybolts and shockbolts detonating in the depths. Ruined flesh and armour carpeted the defile in their wake, and the Black River ran crimson.

‘Easy now,’ bellowed Arkas as the gorge widened. They had pushed on perhaps a thousand paces, and here the river was slower, the sides of the defile not as steep. Warhounds and cavalry skirted the flanks, holding back for the moment, but waiting for the Stormcasts to over-extend and give them room around the flanks.

‘Hold fast!’ Arkas ordered.

The notes of the command rang out from Doridun’s clarion and the Strike Chamber stopped in a heartbeat, extending outwards as far as possible, the end of the line bowing slightly to present no space through which the enemy might slip.

‘Enough glory for each of us, my lord,’ said Martox. The Decimator-Prime stood a little way to Arkas’ left, his thunderaxe over one shoulder as he surveyed the mountain hordes.

Though his tone was light, Martox’s observation was correct. Two thousand at least had fallen already, but Arkas watched a sea of warriors still coming up the river. Freed from the strikes of the Prosecutors, several tribes, each a few hundred warriors strong, had started the ascent to the ice field again.

The nearest tribal groups pulled back, taking advantage of the sudden halt in the attack. Over their heads, Arkas could see larger monsters being brought to the fore — skull-faced khorgoraths with bulging bodies and flailing bone-tentacles, Chaos-twisted spawn that defied category and description, and other mutant monstrosities covered in scale and fur and sharp spines. More heavily armoured warriors shouldered their way through the barbarian marauders, line-breakers determined to make a breach in the Stormcast wall. Behind them came plate-armoured warriors on the backs of huge destriers covered by caparisons of bronze mail, fire burning in the eyes of their daemonically blessed steeds.

War altars dedicated to the Dark Powers were carried forwards on the backs of scaled beasts or held aloft by chained slaves blinded and whip-scarred. Arcane magic spilled from these unholy totems, polluting the draughts of Ghurite energy that flowed with the Black River. Cockatrices and chimerae from the deep forests were goaded forwards by hooded beast-handlers. All the myriad forces of the Chaos Gods were arrayed against the Warbeasts, the river valley thick with their numbers.

‘At least it’s stopped snowing,’ Martox continued.

Laughing, Arkas looked up. The clouds were there, grey and pregnant with a fresh blizzard, but for the moment Martox was right.

The Lord-Celestant saw something against the gloom, small at first but swiftly approaching. As it came closer he could make out that it was a bird, quite large, with multicoloured wings.

Smiling, Arkas raised his sword and flexed his grip on his warhammer.

‘Charge!’ he roared.

The sky glittered, a coruscating backdrop of magic that made stark the descending silhouettes of angels. The Angelos Conclave of the Silverhands fell with swift fury on the dark legions, first clearing the ravine walls of foes before raking missiles into the Chaos tribesmen. A few dozen tainted warriors managed to clamber to safety on the glacier, only to be met by Hastor and Venian, who were quickly joined by the rest of Arkas’ Prosecutors.

The army of Theuderis arrayed on the heights above the river, a line of ivory and blue that stretched far, the air above crackling with latent celestial energy. The Silverhand himself sat astride his dracoth, which reared in salute to the Warbeasts, lightning forking from its mouth. Knights-Vexillor and Knights-Heraldor held the line for a moment, awaiting the command of their lord.

Theuderis swung down his blade and the clarions blared. Icons aloft, the Knights-Vexillor led the attack. Lightning churned along the defile, leaping in chains through the warriors in the river, charring fleshing and melting armour.

Wrath incarnate, the Knights Excelsior fell upon the Chaos host with a single refrain echoing down the gorge.

‘For the glory of Sigmar!’

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The first charge of the Knights Excelsior broke the will of the Chaos tribes. Pressed into the confines of the Black River those at the front could do little but fight desperately, but even their greatest warriors were no match for the spear of Theuderis and his Paladin Conclave leading the charge. Those further downriver saw the thousands of ivory-and-blue giants and fled at the sight, all bargains with the skaven, all alliances and dreams of possessing the City of Ice, overwhelmed by the spectacle of Sigmar’s wrath given form.

Arkas and his Warbeasts met the monstrous khorgoraths, gargants and mutants head-on, relishing the challenge of fighting such warped beasts. The waters of the Black River frothed with unnatural blood and ichor, and the ravine sparked with flares of celestial energy as Stormcasts were torn apart or crushed, but the Celestial Vindicators were irrepressible.

Scoured and blinded by the purging light of the celestial beacons held aloft by the Knights-Azyros, the barbarians called prayers to their twisted gods, beseeching the Dark Powers to save them, even as the warriors of Sigmar slew with abandon. None were answered.

While Arkas and his warriors were a rampaging beast, slaughtering at will as they forged down the river, the Silverhands were a devastating, unstoppable storm that swallowed everything with a machine-like relentlessness and left nothing but corpses in its wake. The black waters reflected the fire of the heavenly realm and seemed to burn with it as the followers of Chaos were consumed.

The killing went on until mid-afternoon, spilling from the river onto an expanse of the Bear’s Pelt, where thousands more tainted natives were cut down where they fled — slashed, crushed and pierced by the celestial weapons of Sigmar’s host.

Arkas did not weary of it, but ran out of foes. Hastor came to him bearing greeting from Theuderis and he bade his Knight-Venator to return the compliment and lead the Lord-Celestant to Ajfor so that he might be brought into the City of Ice.

In the depths of the city, in a chamber of reclaimed duardin stone and carved ice lit only by a small, guttering oil lamp, Theuderis evaluated his companions. Arkas Warbeast looked like any other Stormcast Lord-Celestant, though his armour showed far less wear and damage than Theuderis’ own. He crouched, arms on thighs, speaking with the woman, Katiya. She was not what the Lord-Celestant had been expecting when the Warbeast had offered to broker a meeting with the leader of the free Ursungorans.

She was small, though not frail, skin weathered by constant exposure to the harsh elements. She wore only rudimentary armour, but bore a sword, bow and quiver with the ease of a lifetime’s experience. She spoke softly to Arkas in their shared language. For all that elders were objects of respect and receptacles of wisdom, it was hard for Theuderis to believe this woman was a war-leader. Her voice would never rise above the din of battle. She could not be at the heart of the fighting, leading by example.

Katiya looked at him, and he almost flinched from her grey stare, ashamed of his thoughts. He suddenly understood, recognising in that glance the hardness of a castle wall, the strength of forged sigmarite. She returned her attention to the Warbeast, her words coming swifter and more forcefully.

‘What are you discussing?’ Theuderis asked.

Katiya stopped and frowned at the interruption in annoyance, or perhaps simply in incomprehension.

‘If we are to debate strategy I would be involved, Lord Arkas.’

‘I’m sorry, Lord Silverhand,’ the Warbeast replied. ‘The City of Ice was not dug with warriors of our stature in mind.’

‘It is of no consequence, we will not be remaining here,’ said Theuderis. ‘Your message said that the skaven are on the brink of activating the realmgate. We must stop them before that happens.’

‘We will,’ said Arkas, ‘but first we must ensure my people are safe.’

‘The Chaos army has been scattered,’ said Theuderis, troubled by Arkas’ use of the phrase, ‘my people’. It betrayed his split loyalties, but there was no purpose in raising the matter there and then. Doing so would only foster division and suspicion. Better to offer support to his ally. ‘Dead skaven are no threat. The sooner we destroy them, the safer for all of Ursungorod.’

‘The cursed ones will return,’ argued the Warbeast. He cast a glance at Katiya and stood up. ‘As for the skaven, we have seen nothing of them since we arrived. They could be preparing an attack, hoping to exploit the damage done by their human puppets.’

‘If that is the case, I suggest our original strategy remains the best course. Divert the skaven, lure them from their lair, and I will strike into the heart of their domain and seize the realmgate. Faced with two armies of Stormcasts, the skaven will pay little mind to the few survivors hiding here.’

Arkas considered this until Katiya spoke. The two exchanged heated words, accompanied by small but insistent gestures, Katiya jabbing a finger at Arkas and pointing away, the Lord-Celestant making halting motions with upraised hands.

‘She wants to fight,’ said Theuderis, guessing Katiya’s intent, picking up on some of the words already familiar to him. ‘You should let them.’

Arkas approached and spoke quietly, concerned that Katiya might take something from their tone even though she could not know the meaning of his words.

‘We go into a battle that even our Stormcasts cannot imagine. For centuries the skaven have dominated here, multiplying unchallenged, strengthening their defences. I do not expect many of us to see victory. We cannot take the Ursungorans into that.’

Theuderis took a breath and a pace back, uncomfortable with Arkas’ closeness. He looked around the chamber, nothing more than a space created in the glacier. There were no furnishings, no belongings save the pack and bedroll that leaned against the wall behind Katiya.

‘They have been wanting to fight for generations,’ said the Knight Excelsior. ‘But they have clung to a different ideal. To survive. That so many of them are still here is testament to the success of that strategy, but it cannot last. We have heard the tales from other chambers, other Stormhosts that have been into the Mortal Realms. Many lands are completely lost, others have but a handful of people not swayed or enslaved by the Dark Powers.’

‘Every reason why we cannot risk them,’ Arkas said sharply. He clenched his fists. ‘This is our war, we must fight it for them.’

‘They are an army, of sorts. They have proven themselves capable. For what reason have they clung to existence if not for the day when they can strike back at their oppressors, to fight for the freedom they crave? It is clear they venerate you — I saw their looks when we entered their city. As you say, we need every warrior we can muster.’

Arkas shook his head and did not reply. Katiya barked something at him and he turned away. She grabbed at his arm as Arkas strode towards the arch of ice leading from the chamber, but he pulled from her grasp, the hammer weights that adorned his cloak clattering against each other.

‘Wait!’ Theuderis dashed after Arkas and laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘We are n—’

Arkas rounded on the Knight Excelsior, seizing him by the breastplate and thrusting him against the wall. Ice chipped under the impact, Theuderis’ head jarring back in his helm.

‘We are done talking!’ growled the Warbeast. ‘We stay until daybreak to ensure the Chaos tribes do not return and then we set out for the undercity. That is the plan.’

Theuderis said nothing. Arkas released his grip and stalked away, leaving the Knight Excelsior to exchange a look with Katiya. She sighed, took up her pack and moved to follow Arkas. Theuderis stepped in front of her, holding up a hand.

‘Do you understand me?’ he said, approximating the Ursungoran tongue. He turned to Katiya.

She looked in surprise at his words. ‘You understand me?’

‘Mostly,’ Theuderis said. ‘Enough for the moment. All human language can be found in the tongue of the immortals. Your accent, your dialect is strange but brief study has revealed its workings to me. Another gift of the God-King.’

‘This is powerful sorcery, lord,’ she said, still looking at him with shock. Her manner settled and she glanced away. ‘It is good that we can speak without the Uniter.’

‘His heart is sore at the moment,’ Theuderis replied. He did not wish to speak ill of his companion, despite his misgivings, and it was important that Katiya trusted him as much as she did Ursungorod’s ‘saviour’. ‘What has he told you of us, the Stormcasts, and our mission here?’

‘He is the Uniter, he has come to lead us to victory over the cursed ones and the rat-filth.’

‘We are warriors of Sigmar, the God-King. We come from Azyr, the Realm of Heavens, where he rules. The Stormcasts are waging a war to free all of the Mortal Realms from the corruption of Chaos.’

‘I do not understand. Sigmar is a myth. What are these Mortal Realms? Lands beyond Ursungorod?’

‘In a sense. It would take me a long time to explain and you might still not understand. Sigmar is a myth, that is true, but that does not make him any less real.’ Theuderis felt pride as he spoke. ‘He is the master of the Uniter. As Arka Bear-clad brought together the tribes of Ursungorod, Sigmar will unite the Mortal Realms and the scattered gods. There are many worlds and places, all of them overrun by the darkness of Chaos and the forces of destruction, save for the sanctuary of Sigmaron and Azyr. Many people are looking for new lands to live in, lands where they can be free from Chaos and death. A land like Ursungorod, once we have rid it of the Chaos tribes and the skaven, could be such a sanctuary.’

‘You are powerful warriors, but you are so few,’ said Katiya. ‘How can you hope to destroy all of the ratkin and the cursed ones?’

‘We come on the storm of Sigmar, sent by his divine will, but there is also another way to travel between the planes of existence. Realmgates, we call them. The skaven have one. We will seize it from them and our allies will use it to reinforce us. This is a war, not a battle, Katiya. We will not win in the next day or the next ten days. I do not know what Arkas has promised you, but you must fight on for a while longer.’

Katiya looked downhearted but rallied quickly, entwining and releasing her fingers as she considered her next words.

‘There are others coming? People like us, not warriors like you?’

‘Yes, in time. Not just humans. Duardin, aelf and others. The free peoples, allied under the eyes of their gods. We will forge a new civilisation here.’

‘We are not part of the plan, are we? Arkas thinks we can stay, but he is wrong.’

‘I make no promises. I do not know how long this war will last. We have been reforged, made immortal. We cannot die, but we are no longer alive like you.’ He paused, not sure whether he should say what he had to, but Katiya deserved the truth. ‘It is unlikely you will live to see peace, Katiya. Your children, perhaps. Perhaps not. For all that Arkas protests, he will not make this decision for you. He is a servant of Sigmar, not Ursungorod, and I will remind him of that.’

‘My sons and daughter are already dead,’ Katiya replied, looking away. ‘My grandchildren have known nothing but hardship and fear. But we do not want to be safe, we want to be free. We will stay, we will fight.’

Theuderis nodded.

Ursungorod had constantly defied expectation and eluded definition since he had arrived, and continued to do so. Of all the battles and dangers he had prepared for, a confrontation with the Warbeast was not one.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The ice tunnels swallowed Arkas, deadening the distant sounds, surrounding him with their isolating whiteness. He found a small side chamber, perhaps occasionally used as a guardroom or storehouse, perhaps of no purpose at all. There was no stone, just the ice carved by pick and chisel. He ran a hand over the wall, trying to calm himself. His fingers picked out every indentation, every gouge and striation.

Hard, unforgiving labour had dug the City of Ice. Generations of Ursungorans had chosen to cling to an ideal of freedom and defiance rather than accept the dominion of Chaos. It was tempting to claim some credit for that. The Bear-clad, the Uniter, had shown their ancestors that it was possible to fight. But that was false praise. He had learnt to defy the Chaos Gods and the rat-filth from his parents, and they from theirs. His had been the most successful resistance, but not the first. Now he had the chance to make Katiya’s people the last to know what it was like to be afraid for their lives every day, to never settle for fear of discovery, to hide and make themselves small. They had exchanged one form of slavery for another, had become captives to their dread.

Was it worth it? His finger followed a channel at about chest height, ice crystals falling from the tip as he dragged it along the crack. Someone had stood where he stood, an Ursungoran, and had hewn at this wall. What had they been thinking? What did they think they were digging for? Was it just instinct, burrowing like an animal, or had the digger thought of loftier goals, of a future where they would not have to dig any longer?

All the time he had spent in Sigmaron, he had been honing his skills, becoming accustomed to his new body, a new way of war; coming to terms with the pain of Reforging, turning it into something meaningful, a sacrifice in exchange for the strength to fight back.

Hardest of all had been remembering those he had left — those he had been snatched from. Sigmar had reached out and plucked him from the battlefield. His saviour? Very likely. Arka Bear-clad would not have run that day. He would have fought and died, and with him the other free tribes would have perished too.

But he didn’t feel saved, or blessed, or righteous.

He felt the spirit of Ursungorod, the background ebb of Ghurite energy that flowed around him, and welcomed its touch. After that first moment of awareness on Mount Vazdir he had tried to fight it, to keep back the lure of the savage, bestial heart that still beat in his chest.

It called to him, begged him to be free.

It was impossible to resist. Returning to Ursungorod was not an opportunity, it was a punishment — a reminder of what he had failed to do in life. He had only to think of his ally, the Silverhand. He was just as well known among the Stormcasts. A king, a conqueror, and a unifier just like Arka Bear-clad. But he had saved his people. Sigmar had ascended the Silverhand in triumph, not defeat.

Arkas smashed a fist into the wall. Splinters scattered and a crack ran across the pale ice. He drove his other hand into the ice, again and again, feeling the power of Ghurite energy lapping at his armour, its feral howl in his ears urging him on.

He gritted his teeth, fists hammering like pistons, sigmarite gauntlets buckling under the impacts. Arkas started to feel something, the first pangs of pain in his hands. It was not enough. Blow after blow he rained onto the wall, each strike sending a cascade of ice shards falling. When he felt the bite of breaking metal on his knuckles it only drove him on into a greater fury, desperate for some release.

Snarling and growling, panting between blows, Arkas’ started to slow his assault. He snorted, throwing one last strike, driving all of his might down his arm and through his fist, punching elbow-deep into the ice.

He leaned his head forwards, the chill of the ice wall seeping through his helm, cooling his anger. Arkas laid his other hand against the wall, fingers splayed, their tips seeking the undulations and cuts.

Generations of labour. Clinging to an ideal he had embodied.

Not survival. The Bear-clad had not fought for survival, he had fought for victory. Arkas knew that he could not have won. Every rational part of him recognised that his alliance had been doomed, that he could not have been victorious. The logic of the God-King’s intervention was clear. Arkas was here, now, to deliver on his oath, given the means to do so by Sigmar. A longer view. A godly perspective.

Straightening, Arkas inhaled, enjoying the coldness in his lungs. His first breath had been of this chill air. It was as much a part of him as anything else.

The rage was a memory now, no longer a living part of him, exorcised through his bloodied hands, returned to the well of Ghurite power from which it had come.

He knew what he had to do. It would not be easy. He had to find Katiya and tell her to prepare to leave. For good or ill, the Ursungorans would hide no more.

As he came to this conclusion something pricked his attention. A sound, much muffled by the distance and tunnels. Shouts.

Screams.

Arkas exploded with celestial energy, his fists remaking themselves as he drew forth his weapons.

He ran.

Chapter Thirty

Theuderis was not sure what was happening. The Ursungorans were calling out in their tongue. Amongst the panicked bellows and shrieks there was one word again and again, but he could not fathom its meaning.

He raced after Katiya, who had set off like a coursed hare, gathering a trail of Ursungorans as she went. More followed behind the Lord-Celestant. Despite the tumult, everyone seemed to know what was happening, enacting a well-rehearsed drill in which youths snatched up infants and the able-bodied readied their weapons.

They passed into one of the larger chambers, not far from the surface. Several hundred Ursungorans were coming and going. Katiya grabbed some of them, speaking quickly.

‘Is it an attack?’ Theuderis demanded.

Katiya paid him no attention. She snapped off orders, pointing, directing, speaking with quiet assurance to some. Theuderis did not wish to interfere, but set forth to look for more Stormcasts.

A Celestial Vindicator burst into view ahead, blazing with celestial energy. He had a warhammer and runeblade, and his hammer-tipped cloak was blazing with light.

‘Arkas!’

The Warbeast turned, surprised.

‘What is it?’ demanded Theuderis. ‘Have the Chaos tribes returned already?’

‘No.’ The Warbeast shook his head.

‘What are they saying? What does that word mean?’

Arkas hefted his weapons and looked at Theuderis.

‘Vermintide.’

Across the dead of the battle they swarmed. Up from the Black River, down from the forested slopes, emerging from every crack and crevasse in the ice field. A living carpet of fur and fangs and glinting eyes. Many were simple rats, bodies slicked with grease and blood from the corpses, each no bigger than a fist. But there were thousands of them. Tens of thousands. Others were far larger — warp-mutants as big as dogs, collared with rusted iron, naked tails as long as broadswords. Some were scaled, some naked but for protrusions of bone, some even skinless with visible muscle and flesh and strands of rope-like sinew.

From across Ursungorod they had come, white as snow, grey as ash, black as pitch. The air was filled with the nerve-jangling scratch of claws on ice and armour, the slither of dark bodies over flesh and the rustling of cloth, the chittering and squealing — a nightmare orchestration.

The wave moved as one, possessed by the singular will of the Great Horned Rat, directed by the malevolence of Poxmaster Felk. As an undulating mass, the swarm welled up from the ravine of the Bear’s Fangs and slithered across the glacier from the valley walls. The rats burst out onto the snowfield, surging like a storm front.

With them came a sorcerous mist. It streamed from hex-laden bodies like green smoke, a trail of pestilent vapour flowing from fanged mouths, heavy with foul enchantment.

A band of Ursungorans had been burning the dead of the battle. They were taken in a few heartbeats, vanishing into the ravenous swarm with barely a shriek. The lookouts had just enough time to shout warnings before the dark wave was scampering up tower-mounds and into window slits, pouring down open sally ports like filthy water. Beacon fires stayed unlit, bells and horns unsounded. The guards screamed, the only alarm calls they could muster before they were overwhelmed by biting, clawing horror.

Into the tunnels washed the deluge of rats, pooling and bursting in waves, overrunning everything. Some of the Ursungorans tried to run, others fought. Neither were successful; whether dragged down from behind or with weapons in their hands, it made no difference. Armour was no defence against a foe that was dozens of slashing claws, scores of gnawing fangs. Flailing and shouting, flesh turned to bloody ribbons, they fell.

Such was the scene that confronted Arkas as he and Theuderis burst into one of the great chambers, dozens of Stormcasts converging from different directions. The massive warriors waded into the vermin, laying about with maces, swords and hammers. Dozens of the foul creatures died with every sweep of the enchanted weapons but there were dozens more to take their place. Against the armour of Sigmar’s chosen, claws and fangs were small threats, but in turn the Stormcasts could not slay enough. Their greatest weapons, tempest-wreathed javelin, crossbow and bow, were useless against such a heaving mass, the warriors unable to unleash their full power for fear of harming the few Ursungorans that continued to battle vainly in the midst of the vermintide.

‘Knights-Azyros! Samat!’ Theuderis forged waist-deep through the leaping, snarling rats, carving a furrow through them with metronomic swings of his celestial hammer. ‘Glavius!’

No specific order was needed. The Silverhands’ warriors knew exactly what was required. The Lord-Relictor plunged into the morass of vermin, spearing a gigantic rat with the haft of his morbid icon. Planting the mortuary standard, Glavius thrust out his hammer towards the swarm. His divine icon shimmered with the power celestial. Forks of lightning crawled down his arm and across his body to spear from his out-thrust weapon. Where they struck, bursts of blue fire erupted, incinerating the vermin a score at a time.

Samat and his fellow Knights-Azyros could not take flight, but that was not their intent. Flanking Theuderis, they strode through the snapping, hissing rats, oblivious to their scratching and biting. Holding aloft their celestial beacons, they called in unison for the power of the God-King to smite their foes.

The blast of Azyrite light that filled the chamber blinded even Arkas, who had left mounds of dead rats as tall as himself in his wake. Blinking clear his vision, he saw hundreds of smouldering rodent corpses littering the chamber floor. Closer to the ring of Knights-Azyros, the corpses were ash mounds, and at their feet nothing was left but dark grease stains on the stone flags.

The respite was momentary. More and more rats were streaming down the tunnels and passageways. Arkas turned, seeking Katiya. She stood at one of the corridor entrances shepherding the last children away while her followers hacked and slashed at the few rats that had survived the tempest of celestial energy.

‘Go!’ he shouted at her. ‘Run!’

She looked as if she would argue. Her eyes moved past him and widened in horror. The fresh wave of vermin was more monstrous than the first, a clawing, squealing pile of hound-sized rodents with curling ram’s horns, barbed tails and dagger-claws, spreading like oil across water. Thick clouds of filthy breath followed them, stinging eyes and burning throats. The handful of Ursungorans that had been saved by the celestial beacons were overwhelmed by the noxious vapours, hacking up blood, eyes and noses weeping thick pus while buboes blistered like burns on their exposed skin.

Katiya turned and ran, taking her people with her, leaving Arkas and the other two dozen Stormcasts alone with the plague rats.

‘Seal the chamber!’ bellowed Theuderis, moving to block the exit by which Katiya’s group had fled.

Arkas broke left, crushing bodies underfoot, using his fists as much as his weapons to smash his way through the swarm while feral rodents hurled themselves at him with hisses and snarls. He swept his cloak round in a long arc, unleashing a wave of Azyr-born hammers that crackled and spat with lightning as they smashed a furrow through the vermin throng.

The others, an eclectic mix of Judicators, Knights-Azyros, Decimators and Liberators, pushed towards the tunnels like men wading through heavy surf, battering and slashing against the living tide. Decimators brought down their starsoul maces in mighty two-handed swings, unleashing thunderous explosions that scattered the giant rats by the score. Judicators loosed missile after missile into the heaving mass, their quivers never emptied, firing as swiftly as they could summon the celestial energy for each projectile.

A gigantic rodent leapt for Arkas’ neck. He caught it in mid-air with the flat of his blade, snapping its spine, its lifeless body splashing against the wall to leave a red smear across the ice. So thick were the bodies underfoot that he almost tripped, bogged down as though crossing a mountain fen.

The miasma of sickness cloyed in his throat and nostrils, acidic and dry. His reforged body was strengthened against even the harshest warp-taint, but his eyes streamed and his lungs burned all the same.

The Lord-Relictor, Glavius, raised his storm-wreathed icon, incanting a benediction of Sigmar. The bones within his sarcophagus-icon gleamed with power. Where the light touched the vapours they burned with white fire. The wave of cleansing power coruscated through the air in a ragged ring around Glavius.

Eventually the incoming tide stopped, the seemingly inexhaustible swarm ending as suddenly as it had arrived. It was little comfort, for Arkas knew that they had faced only a fraction of the vermintide. His sword slashed through another handful of beasts and a final volley from the Judicators scoured the chamber of the remaining rodents.

‘We must hunt down the rest,’ said Theuderis.

‘We have to evacuate the Ursungorans,’ Arkas replied, waving a hand through the last wisps of plague-fog that lingered. ‘Nowhere is safe below ground while this pestilent smog remains.’

Theuderis nodded and snapped out orders to his warriors. The few Celestial Vindicators looked to Arkas for command.

‘With me,’ he said, stepping towards the passage where Katiya had left. ‘Move speedily, kill swiftly. Time is the greater enemy now.’

Chapter Thirty-One

Clouds obscured the stars and moons, blanketing the Bear’s Pelt in utter darkness. A pale blue light flickered in the forests on the western slopes of the valley, casting long shadows from the trees. The beacons of the Knights-Azyros lit the way for the dozens of scattered groups of Stormcasts and Ursungorans as they picked their way across the treacherous ice, heading towards the sanctuary promised by that holy light.

Three times Arkas made the journey from the City of Ice to the growing encampment on the slope, each time heading back into the chill catacombs to search for Katiya, each time finding pockets of terrified, shocked Ursungorans to lead to safety but no news of their leader.

Flights of Prosecutors circled and criss-crossed overhead, their wings a faint trail of iridescence against the gloom. Cordons of Liberators and Protectors guarded the approaches through the trees, wary of rats, skaven and the Chaos-tainted.

Knowing that he could wander the City of Ice all night and never find Katiya, Arkas resigned himself to a patient wait until morning. He sought out Theuderis, and found the Silverhand at the heart of the camp marshalling what resources were to hand. Trees had been felled to create wind breaks and the few belongings that had been snatched from the icy depths were passed to those in most need. Pale-faced children huddled in blankets and cloaks close to the fires banked up by their guardians, watching, mesmerised, as the stars of the celestial beacons passed back and forth overhead. In numb shock, they found comfort in the divine light of Sigmar shining down from between the boughs.

There was little enough food, but some stores had been saved and the Ursungorans’ best hunters had quickly checked their closest pits and snares and brought back several hares, deer and foxes. Hastor had insisted on leading Arkas’ Judicators on a hunt and had returned with three enormous mountain boars, their flesh seared by the blasts of celestial missiles. The Ursungorans were still butchering the huge carcasses ready for cooking.

Seeing Arkas approach, Theuderis dismissed his companions. His dracoth prowled the shadows at the perimeter of the camp, eyed warily by the Ursungorans as it sniffed and snorted in the darkness.

‘I can think of no surer guardian,’ said Theuderis, following Arkas’ gaze and line of thought. ‘Tyrathrax’s senses are far superior to even the patrols of our winged companions.’

‘I do not doubt it,’ said Arkas. He fell silent, tongue tied by awkwardness. He felt a fool for putting his hands on another Stormcast, but could not find the right words.

‘We are fortunate that the skaven did not seek to exploit their attack further,’ said Theuderis after a long silence. ‘Had they been waiting on the surface we would have been easy targets to bring down.’

‘Luck had no part in it,’ Arkas said, bitter memories stirring. ‘They kill from afar rather than risk their scrawny necks.’

‘Perhaps. It signals a change in the skaven’s plans, whatever their motivation.’

‘I have spoken to some of the Ursungorans. Neither in memory nor in their oldest stories has anything like this happened before. Our arrival has stirred the ratkin. They are trying to keep us from their lair so that they can concentrate on unearthing the realmgate. They will not be drawn forth, you can be sure of that.’

‘Even so, why have the skaven not tried anything like this before? What are they hoping to achieve now that we are here?’

Arkas thought about this but had no quick answers.

‘They are afraid. Desperate. Cowards to the last, but lashing out any way they can. Do not look for more ambition than cruel spite in these creatures. What they cannot dominate they kill.’

‘You are right.’ Theuderis tilted his head, deep in thought. ‘And perhaps in that you have found the solution. We stand at a confluence of events and must trust that the Lord Sigmar did not send us to Ursungorod at this time by whim. The preparation for the assault on the Allpoints gains momentum, the battle for the Realm of Life is pitched to full fury, and the skaven discover a realmgate that leads close to the Lifegate, hidden for… centuries, maybe millennia?’

‘Kill or be killed,’ said Arkas. He started to pace. Movement assisted the flow of thought. Light from the growing fires gleamed on his armour, countless scratches marring the surface. With a thought he let a surge of celestial energy sparkle across the surface, turning the plates back to unblemished turquoise while blood and crusted gore fell away in a shower of dried flakes. ‘When I fought the skaven they were led by a verminlord, a Corruptor named Skixakoth. By description I think this creature is among the daemonkin that assault the sylvaneth in the Vaults of the Spring Moon.’

‘How did you come by this knowledge?’ The question was asked in a neutral tone — too flat for Arkas’ liking, clearly masking more than curiosity.

‘Does it matter?’ He regretted his snapped reply immediately. It looked like evasion, which hinted at guilt. Arkas sighed. ‘I learnt this from the Queen of the Peak. It was her power that granted me the visions of the undercity of the skaven, and the realmgate.’

‘You have seen its location? Could you take us there?’

Arkas nodded. ‘That is my intent.’ He hesitated again, clawing for words that were uncomfortable to say. ‘I would welcome your opinion, Silverhand. In matters of strategy. I am the Warbeast, I’m sure you know my reputation as well as any other. I can seize the realmgate, I am sure of it. But I need your help to hold it.’

‘We are allies, are we not?’

‘We are.’ Arkas swallowed hard. ‘And in the spirit of alliance I want to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I laid hands upon you.’

‘Worse has been done in the Gladitorium.’

‘No, it should never have happened. I… This place, Ursungorod, affects me. I am a child of these lands, more than in flesh, in spirit. Sigmar took me, made me a being of the Celestial Sphere, but he cannot remove that shard of Ghur that is in my heart.’

‘I cannot say that I understand,’ said Theuderis. ‘It is obviously something more than simply returning to the place of your birth, but it is not an experience I have shared.’

Arkas looked at the Knight Excelsior for some time. Theuderis was unsure what the purpose was for such scrutiny.

‘Ask me what you want,’ he said. ‘I will answer truthfully to the best of my ability. There will be no secrets between us.’

‘Why do you care?’ said the Warbeast.

‘Care about what?’

‘All of this,’ said Arkas, waving a hand towards the Ursungorans, the camp, the forest, the mountains beyond. He turned slowly, looking up to where the light of celestial beacons flickered. ‘Why do you fight for Sigmar?’

The question surprised Theuderis. It took him a few moments to articulate his reply.

‘For the same reason as you. To save my people. To ensure that mankind has a future free from the tyranny and wrath of uncaring darkness.’

‘But you had saved your people, when Sigmar took you. The Glittering Breaches, your castles and armies, were safe.’

‘At that time. If I have learnt anything in Sigmaron it is that the threat of the Chaos Gods waxes and wanes. For a time they were held back by the God-King and his allies, but that did not last. We are where we are. Sigmar took me because I protected my lands, fostered cooperation rather than war, built as well as conquered. I would repay that honour.’

‘Honour?’ Theuderis could hear the grin in Arkas’ voice. ‘You think honour will help us in this place?’

‘I think that I believe in two principles. My honour and my duty, and they are entwined. I cannot say that Ursungorod holds any particular relevance for me. I would feel the same wherever Sigmar despatched me.’

‘Even to the Glittering Breaches?’

Theuderis had no answer for that. He did not like theoretical situations and questions.

‘I have a special regard for that place, but it is not my home.’

The Knight Excelsior started towards the perimeter, put on edge by Arkas’ attitude. The older Ursungoran children were digging in the mulch and dirt, creating a ditch and rampart between the trees. It was hard work on the frozen ground, and only a few paces had been erected. Theuderis did not see the point in any defensive sense, but it kept them engaged and made the Ursungorans feel they were doing something useful.

‘How can you say it is not your home?’ Arkas kept at his shoulder, speaking quietly but insistently.

‘The worlds turn, places change. Castle Lyonaster might be a great city or it might be nothing more than the duardin and human ruins that make up the bones of Ursungorod. My family are dead. The people I served and who served me are dead. The Glittering Breaches I knew no longer exist.’

Movement in the darkness further into the trees drew his eye, but it was only a trio of Ursungoran hunters prowling the shadows on patrol. Like the entrenchment, it was of little purpose when Stormcast Prosecutors, Knights-Venator and Knights-Azyros kept an immortal watch above. Theuderis’ warriors would know of any threat long before the natives.

‘You do not know?’ said Arkas, shocked. ‘How the war fares in the Glittering Breaches?’

‘No Stormcasts have yet been sent.’

‘It is possible to find out what is happening in the realms beyond Azyr. Lord Sigmar could tell you…’

‘I do not wish to know!’ snapped Theuderis. He kept his next rebuke in check, snatching in a breath instead. When his temper had cooled a little, he continued with quiet words. ‘I know you, Warbeast. Hungry for revenge, needing to punish those that wronged you. I cannot blame you, but I do not sympathise. You harbour a doubt, the thought that if you had stayed that perhaps your people would have prevailed?’

‘It is unlikely, I know, but…’

‘But nothing! I had won, Warbeast!’ Theuderis turned on his companion, taut with aggravation. He kept his voice low, conscious of the Stormcasts and Ursungorans close at hand. ‘I had ensured peace for a generation, for my family and my people, after a life of war and death. My wife was bearing my third child.’ Theuderis leaned close, his helm almost touching Arkas’. ‘Do not think that I gave up nothing! But the sacrifice was worth it. They lived long and happy lives and my children sired many descendants who continue to protect Castle Lyonaster to this day.’

He did not say out loud the alternatives that crowded his thoughts in the dark moments. Ursungorod was proof enough of what had beset the Mortal Realms during the long age of Chaos. The bare truth was that the Glittering Breaches would be no different to the rest of Chamon, overrun or at least besieged by the followers of the Chaos Gods. His great victory had been a blink, a momentary respite in the great turn of history.

The real lesson he had learnt as a Lord-Celestant was that all victories were fleeting, until the last one.

The Knight Excelsior turned and marched away, shoulders stiff. He thought for a moment that Arkas would follow, but was grateful when he heard the other Lord-Celestant calling for his Knight-Heraldor and Knight-Vexillor.

He strode out past the perimeter and into the fluctuating shadows away from the campfires, fists tight, teeth gritted. He already regretted his outburst. It was a display of weakness he should have avoided. Whether Arkas was deliberately baiting him, it was impossible to say, but the effect was the same. Maybe the wildness of Ursungorod was affecting him too.

The pad of large feet on frosted leaves caused him to turn. Tyrathrax emerged into the fronds of pale blue light, drawn by her master’s unease. She came up alongside Theuderis, close enough for him to lay a hand on her armoured shoulder. Her presence was reassuring, anchoring him back to his purpose.

Being paired with the Warbeast taxed the Knight Excelsior’s patience. Raised to admire the perfection of interlocking functions, the beauty of military drill and expertise, the wild nature of Arkas and his Strike Chamber concerned Theuderis.

‘It is not our part to guess the ways of the God-King,’ said Theuderis. ‘Which is fortunate, for I am baffled that he would set me beside the Warbeast. I cannot help but feel it is some kind of test. Perhaps the Lord Sigmar wishes to know if I am strong enough to return to the Glittering Breaches and whatever waits for me there.’

Tyrathrax said nothing, which was why Theuderis considered her the best of all possible companions.

Chapter Thirty-Two

The fires had guttered down to embers and the Ursungorans were nothing more than shapeless lumps of shadow in bedrolls and blankets, huddled close to each other and the remnants of the fires. Dawn had arrived on the far side of Ursungorod, but had not yet reached the valley of the Bear’s Pelt. The air was freezing, and mist curled from the breath of the Stormcasts as they stood watch. The Warbeast sat atop a broad log, his back to the fires, gazing out into the shadowed forest.

The Ursungorans might have been driven from their city, but they were at home in the wilds too. Just as when Arkas had been a warrior of the Greypelt, the people of the mountains were nomads by necessity and long tradition, and had brought with them everything they needed. They lived lightly, able to hunt and trap on the move, sharing kinship with the wilderness that went beyond familiarity. They were part of Ursungorod, steeped in the magic of Ghur, their collective instincts honed by a lifetime of wariness and bitter experience.

It had been a long night and the morning bode little better. A few more refugees from the City of Ice had arrived, but there was still no sign of Katiya. Accounts conflicted. Some had her safe and well in the southern tunnels, others thought they saw her turn to fight the tide of rats, protecting the young ones she had taken with her. A few thought they had seen her on the ice field, tirelessly rallying survivors in the darkness. None could say they had seen her fall, but Arkas held little hope to see her.

Theuderis had been absent also, gone into the woods since his sharp words with Arkas. The Silverhands made no remark about their missing leader, but minded themselves and their duties with quiet diligence. For their part, the Warbeasts prowled the camp and surrounding woods like guard hounds confined within a wall.

To ease communication, Arkas had spent some time instructing the Knights Excelsior in the language of Ursungorod, refining what they had already learnt so that they could talk with the Ursungorans and also understand the battle-tongue of the Warbeasts. Being able to address the natives, and understand them in return, eased the mood somewhat.

A glint of celestial light betrayed the descent of Hastor. He had spent the night scouring the Bear’s Pelt for survivors and foes. He landed effortlessly, as though newly forged, with no sign of fatigue in his gait or voice.

‘A rough time,’ said Hastor, gauging his commander’s mood. He looked around at the sleeping Ursungorans. ‘Four hundred, I would say. There will be others still below the ice.’

‘Four hundred and thirty-six,’ replied Arkas. ‘Three hundred and eight of fighting age and ability. Half those that woke yesterday dawn.’

‘When they have rested, we will search the city for others,’ said the Knight-Venator. ‘I have crossed the opposite slopes but if they are choosing to hide, which would be wise, even I would not find them.’ Hastor glanced up, about to say something further, but remained silent.

‘You would prefer someone to light your way?’ said Arkas, following Hastor’s gaze to the slowly circling Knights-Azyros. ‘They are not my warriors to command.’

‘The Silverhand has chosen an inconvenient time to go exploring. When dawn arrives we must be ready with a plan.’

‘We do not need Theuderis for that.’ Arkas straightened his back and stretched out his long legs. ‘You are right, we search the City of Ice for other survivors. One day, that is all.’

Hastor’s lightning wings crackled into nothing to allow him to sit next to his lord. He clasped his hands together, resting his arms on his knees. He did not look at Arkas, but at the Knights Excelsior standing like statues at the edge of the encampment.

‘I do not think Theuderis will agree.’ The Knight-Venator paused for just a heartbeat, and then continued. ‘He might be right not to.’

‘The realmgate,’ Arkas said with a nod and a sigh. ‘I know.’

‘What will we do?’

Activity off to the left drew the Warbeast’s attention before he could reply. Theuderis had returned and his officers were moving across the camp to attend to him. Dismounting, the Silverhand approached with his retinue.

Arkas felt others behind him and glanced round to see that Doridun and Dolmetis were at his back as though summoned. How much of his conversation with Hastor they had overheard he did not know but he was grateful for their timely arrival.

‘A nice ride, Lord Silverhand?’ Hastor asked as Theuderis stopped in front of Arkas.

‘Hush your tongue, knight,’ the Warbeast growled. Hastor stood and stepped away, head bowed in apology. Arkas rose and folded his arms. ‘I hope you spent your time in the wood productively.’

‘I did,’ replied Theuderis. ‘And with Samat’s aid I have located the entrances by which we will attack the skaven city.’

‘You have?’ Arkas looked at the Knight-Azyros. ‘I did not realise you knew the mountains so well already.’

‘The vermintide trail was not difficult to follow even at night, and the skaven here have grown arrogant. Their spoil and spoor is evident everywhere.’ Samat glanced at Theuderis and received a nod of assent. ‘There is a large cavern on the other side of this mountain, across a ridge to the south-east.’

‘I know it,’ said Arkas. ‘Flanked by the remains of two human towers?’

‘That is the one.’

‘We cannot attack there,’ Arkas said with a shake of his head. ‘The skaven use it easily enough but there is a chasm not more than three hundred paces into the warren. They will cut the bridges and topple the crossings the moment we enter.’

‘I see,’ said Theuderis. ‘And the gorge west of there, an outflow of an underground river.’

‘The Ratway it was called. Obvious, but possible.’ Arkas flexed his fingers around an imaginary sword hilt, remembering when he had last been there. ‘I tried that before, but was baulked on the surface. However, I did not have Stormcast Eternals to lead back then. But it would not be enough, there are too many other ways for the skaven to get out and come in behind.’

‘Do you have a better plan?’ said Attaxes, stepping forwards. ‘If you know these mountains so well, find us a way to attack the skaven.’

‘I already have,’ said Arkas, keeping his gaze locked on Theuderis. ‘But you knew that, yes?’

‘Our success cannot rely wholly on your survival, Warbeast.’ The Silverhand shrugged. ‘Or your mood.’

Arkas laughed, slapping a hand to his chest.

‘My mood? Yes, my infamous temperament!’ He turned to his knights, put a foot up on the log, a hand resting on his knee. ‘Headstrong, that’s me. Incautious, they say. Rash, perhaps. What do we say?’

‘Swift and deadly,’ the Warbeast officers replied in unison.

‘Swift and deadly…’ Arkas returned his attention to Theuderis. ‘I understand. As hard as it is for you to share command, it is the same for me. Do you want to know my plan? Do you think I would keep it secret, bargaining with my knowledge for time to search the glacier for Ursungorans?’

‘It had occurred to me,’ Theuderis admitted. ‘It seems we know each other well enough.’

‘We do, Silverhand. We do. Which is why I want you to lead us.’

‘What?’ Hastor stepped forwards, shaking his head.

‘I do not understand,’ admitted Theuderis. ‘Are you placing yourself under my command?’

‘I am,’ said Arkas. He drew his warhammer. The celestial weapon shone in the pre-dawn gloom, bathing them all with pale blue light. He offered it to Theuderis, a gesture of fealty. ‘You are the general, the king. You are the strategist. I am a brute. Cleverer than most, but still a brute in my heart. Guide my hand and it will smite our foes.’

Theuderis had no response at first. He looked at the assembled Celestial Vindicators, his expression hidden behind his mask, eyes cloaked in the shadow of his helm. He nodded.

‘I accept. And I apologise for doubting you. Perhaps, despite prior experience, we might actually possess sufficient wisdom between us.’

Chapter Thirty-Three

While dawn brightened the forest, the Lord-Celestants planned. Arkas told Theuderis everything he knew of the skaven tunnels, though long centuries would have changed much. However, the more he recalled the vision he had received from the Queen of the Peak, the more certain he was that he could find the realmgate.

While plans were discussed, the Ursungorans started to wake. Arkas became aware of their coughs and gentle moans in the background. He paid the noise little heed until he heard his name tersely called. It was a young man, twenty years perhaps, nervously wringing his deer hide hat in his hand. There was fear written across his face and his glance kept moving back to a group of Ursungorans a short distance away. They were crowded around a blanketed figure, concerned. Several Warbeasts interposed themselves, stopping the approaching native.

‘A moment, by your leave,’ Arkas said to Theuderis and received a nod in reply. He approached the Ursungoran, waving his warriors aside. ‘What is your name? What is wrong?’

‘Mika, our Uniter. I am Mika.’ He flopped a hand towards the others. ‘My brother. Elder brother. He is sick.’

‘Sick?’ A cold feeling crept into the pit of Arkas’ stomach as he strode over to the group. One of them was still in his bedroll. He could hear the man’s wheezing breaths, each touched by wetness in his lungs. There were scabs at the corners of his mouth and in his nostrils. ‘How long?’

‘He was well when we ate last night,’ said an old man swathed in a thick shawl. His spindly fingers teased at some loose threads in its weave. ‘Bortis had quite the appetite.’

Bortis was awake, but only just. His eyes were yellowy, pupils little more than pinpricks staring without sight up into the trees. He kept swallowing hard, each time a wince creasing the skin at the corner of his eyes. The Warbeast crouched to examine him more closely. The Ursungoran’s gums were bleeding, his tongue swollen.

‘Show me his arms,’ Arkas commanded, trying to keep the concern from his voice.

They complied, rolling back the tattered sleeve of Bortis’ coat. The veins stood out like wire beneath his pale skin. His fingers twitched spasmodically, the brittle nails split and cracking.

‘Wait here. Light a fire to keep him warm,’ Arkas said, rising to his feet.

They looked up at him, hope and desperation etched into their faces. Arkas was thankful they could see nothing of his expression, nor his doubtlessly ashen skin. They did not ask if Bortis was going to be all right, and for that Arkas was also grateful, because he could not lie to them.

Returning to Theuderis, he gestured for the Silverhand to meet him. Exchanging a last few words with Attaxes, the Lord-Celestant approached.

‘Plague,’ Arkas said before Theuderis could ask what was wrong. ‘Skaven-pox of some kind.’

‘How many?’ Theuderis asked, looking past Arkas’ shoulder and then turning towards the rest of the camp.

The Warbeast felt dead inside as he replied. It was better that way, to feel nothing. The alternative was too hard to contemplate.

‘All of them, perhaps. If it came from the rat-fog in the tunnels…’

‘Quarantine? Purging?’

‘There’ll be no purge! These people have seen every horror of war, plague and famine. That is the fact of life in Ursungorod. They can deal with it.’ He cast a glance behind to confirm what he suspected. ‘As for quarantine… See how the other groups do not approach. They already know what is happening. They are not strangers to this.’

‘Everybody has been exposed.’

Arkas sighed heavily. ‘Yes. Those that weren’t infected during the attack have been nearby ever since. There might be a few families, maybe some that escaped but haven’t made it to the camp yet.’

Neither of them said anything for a while. Arkas was too familiar with the scenario. He had seen how this devastating turn of events unfolded before, whole clans wiped out. As the Uniter he had razed villages to the ground to rid them of the Pestilens-taint.

‘We keep watch, keep the camp safe, that is all we can do,’ said Arkas.

‘We cannot afford distractions. We still have to finalise the plan for the assault on the realmgate.’

‘We do,’ said the Warbeast, dragging his eyes away from Bortis and his family. He focussed on Theuderis, but the effort of maintaining an air of control and calm was almost too much. ‘Do not worry about leaving guards here, Silverhand. When we attack, the skaven will have more to deal with than they have ever feared. We cannot protect the Ursungorans against this latest wrong. We can avenge them.’

‘I understand that you want to strike back at the skaven to punish them for this,’ said the Knight Excelsior. ‘In time we will wipe them from the face of the mountains. We will purge the bowels of Ursungorod of every skaven and Chaos-tainted soul to be found.’

‘Aye, as it will be in all of the Mortal Realms when we drive Archaon from the All-gates.’

Theuderis laid his hand on Arkas’ arm, a placating gesture.

‘But not today. Not this battle.’

‘I don’t understand what you mean.’ Arkas tried to pull his arm away but Theuderis’ grip tightened and his tone was insistent.

‘We fight for the realmgate. We will seize the realmgate and guard it for as long as we must. As instructed by Sigmar himself, when the gate is ours Glavius will call for my Lord-Castellants to arrive with the rest of the Strike Chamber. When all is secure, when the realmgate is opened and ready for the attack on the Lifegate, the cleansing will begin.’

‘I swore an oath, many times, to destroy the skaven and free Ursungorod from their clutches,’ Arkas said, prising himself from Theuderis’ grip. ‘You do not need to lecture me on how that will be done, Silverhand.’

‘Very well.’ Theuderis stepped away and looked around the camp. ‘Make whatever provisions you need to deal with this… situation. I want to march at noon.’

‘I’ll find you soon enough,’ Arkas assured him.

He turned away. Hastor and the others officers moved to approach but he waved them back without a word.

His warhammer seemed heavy in his grasp as he walked out into the woods, a sign of his inner burden.

He could leave it, throw it away, dispense with the burden. To do so invited a very dangerous train of thought. The hammer was a badge, the symbol of the God-King. It was Sigmar’s authority. It was also Arkas’ duty, which was why it weighed so heavily at the moment.

The Warbeast looked back through the trees. The sun had not yet penetrated the canopy and only the light of celestial beacons shone through the camp. By the pale blue glow he could see the Stormcasts moving back and forth, the deadly warriors utterly unable to combat the threat growing in heart of the encampment. The Ursungorans were rousing in greater numbers, awakening to the news of infection and plague. Mothers and fathers would have to look at their children and know that these could be their last days together.

Suddenly his armour felt constricting, his helm a prison. Gasping, Arkas tore off the mask and threw it aside. He gulped down the fresh, cold air, the sudden chill stinging his eyes, tingling his scarred skin.

He felt the faintest of shudders beneath his feet. A fine mist of snow fell from the needled branches overhead. He barely noticed it, his mind going back to the camp and the horror that would unfold there.

It was good that they would leave, that the attack would take him far away into the bowels of the skaven lair, out of sight of the spreading sickness.

Guilt welled up at that thought. The feeling of abandoning his people again forced him to take in another stuttering lungful of mountain air.

Another tremor shook the mountain, strong enough to sway the trees this time. Arkas staggered over to a nearby trunk and leaned his free hand against the rough bark, trying to draw reassurance from its solidity, its unyielding nature.

He could feel the rush of Ghurite energy streaming from the roots and into the trunk and branches, spreading into the air like a fog. Not just the roots of the tree, the roots of the mountain, the depths of Ursungorod itself. The endless deeps of the Shadowgulf. It was in him too, connecting him to the land, to the wild places above and below the ground.

Pain scored up through his bones, the like of which he had not felt since being reforged. His fingers dug knuckle-deep into the tree as he fought back against the agony that suddenly coursed through him.

He remembered the meaning of that pain, what it heralded. He stumbled away, tearing a fistful of wood as he went. Arkas flung away his hammer. He fell to his knees, eyes wide, teeth bared like an animal. The ground shook constantly now, dusting him with falling snow and pine needles.

‘No,’ he snarled.

He thought that he had been freed of the bear’s gift-curse when Sigmar had altered his body upon the Anvil of the Apotheosis. He was Stormcast, a lord of the Celestial Vindicators. His spirit belonged to another.

Perhaps he was wrong. His sigmarite-fused fleshed rebelled against the influx of Ghurite energy. Celestial power and savage, aeons-old magic confronted each other, like a pack of wolves howling at the distant moon.

On all fours, Arkas shuddered and the mountain shuddered with him. Through the rushing of blood in his ears he heard the shouts of the Ursungorans and the bellowed commands of Stormcast Eternals. The words were meaningless sounds, drowned out by the thunderous heartbeat that threatened to burst his chest.

He could not resist the pain any longer, could no longer fight the surge of energy trying to break his bones and reshape his flesh.

Staggering to his feet, Arkas seized the closest tree. Celestial magic and beast power came together. Lightning flashed across his armour and the glow of savage power lit his eyes. He ripped up the tree, roots tearing the frozen earth.

He wanted to roar, to howl, to free the savage noise building in his head. In the small part of his mind that was still his, Arkas knew he could not. It was his will, his choice whether he embraced or rejected the beast trying to possess him.

The tree exploded into burning shards, showering him with ash and sharp splinters.

Arkas stood with fists clenched in front of him.

‘I am a Stormcast of Sigmar,’ he hissed between gritted teeth.

Warbeast, a voice whispered, but its power was dissipating, its hold on him broken by his assertion of fealty to the God-King.

He stood with head bowed, eyes closed, fists at his side, and waited for the quaking to subside. When all was still again he sought out his mask and fitted it to his helm. The click of it snapping into place was an affirmation of who he was and why he lived.

And he also knew exactly how to defeat the skaven.

Arkas Warbeast, Lord-Celestant of the Celestial Vindicators, strode over to his hammer and snatched it from a pool of melting snow. He turned back to the camp, filled with renewed purpose.

Chapter Thirty-Four

The morning passed quickly. After the distraction of the earthquake — which was disruptive but caused no serious damage — Theuderis spent most of it in deep conversation with Arkas. The Warbeast was filled with a vigour that enthused Theuderis. His short sojourn into the woods had proven very productive and the strategy they devised on his return gave the Knight Excelsior fresh hope. For the first time since he had crossed into the Realm of Beasts, Theuderis felt that he was moving in the right direction, after the many setbacks that had waylaid him previously.

In the main camp there were many more showing symptoms of the virulent infection. The first, the man called Bortis, was still alive, but only just. It was unlikely he would see nightfall. The sores, the watery breath and facial bleeding varied in severity from victim to victim, showing no favour to age or gender, but it was only a matter of time for those who had been caught by the pernicious attack. Theuderis took some heart that nearly half of the Ursungorans so far seemed unaffected, a few family groups that had not encountered the plague rats free from the taint thus far.

With a plan settled between them, Theuderis and Arkas sent word for their officers to make ready for a war council. Theuderis heard Glavius mention his name in passing and joined the Lord-Relictor where he was crouched in front of three dozen Ursungorans, more than half of them no older than ten years. He had removed his mask, revealing brown eyes that were warm and comforting, in marked contrast to his demeanour as Lord-Relictor.

‘Here he comes, the Lord Silverhand!’ Glavius declared. The children smiled, their joy somewhat incongruous given the morbid ornamentation of their entertainer. ‘King of the Glittering Breaches! Master of Castle Lyonaster! Lord-Celestant of the Knights Excelsior!’

‘What was your castle like, Lord Theuderis?’ asked a young woman, her infant swaddled close to her breast. Theuderis could see the child was pale, and there were flakes of dried blood on its chin. He looked at the mother’s face, suddenly lost for words.

‘Was it as large as the fortress at Raven Gorge?’

‘I do not know this fortress,’ Theuderis admitted. ‘I cannot make a comparison.’

‘It’s as tall as a mountain, and made of black bricks from the world-that-was,’ a little boy cheerfully informed him. ‘It used to have a whole tribe of ogors what lived there, but the ratmen killed them all before I was borned.’

‘There were no ogors at Castle Lyonaster, though we had to fight off armies of orruks several times.’

Theuderis looked at the families, their expectant faces streaked with dirt and blood, huddled in cloaks and blankets. So different from the citizens of the Glittering Breaches in appearance — so pale and thin and scared. But inside they were the same. They wanted the same thing, to live in peace, to raise their children and die of happy old age.

He lowered to one knee, still avoiding looking at the sickening child.

‘Does he have a name?’

‘Ljubo,’ the mother replied. ‘After his father and grandfather. They were fine trackers and huntsmen.’

‘A very good name,’ said Arkas, coming up beside Glavius. ‘I fought beside Krul Ljubo of the hussta, a very clever warrior and excellent marksman. If you are of his blood then I know where your ancestors’ cunning and woodscraft comes from.’

The woman smiled up at Arkas and Theuderis used the moment to rise, desperate to return to more certain ground, such as the discussion of lines of advance and flank protection. He could not get involved with these people. He could not pick favourites, it was not his place. They were all worth saving or none of them, just as those that served the Chaos Gods could not be pitied or saved, simply exterminated.

‘Are we ready, Lord Arkas?’ he asked, his tone stiff with formality, uncomfortable with the feelings stirred by his encounter with the Ursungorans. Why had he not kept his distance? Like battle, such things were best directed from afar.

‘Is everything well, Silverhand?’ Arkas asked quietly.

‘It will be noon in a short while,’ he replied. ‘We need to commence the final council.’

‘We cannot begin until Hastor and your Knights-Azyros have returned,’ said the Warbeast. Along with patrols on foot and Theuderis’ aerial forces, they had been scouring the glacier and the valley for signs of survivors. ‘I took the liberty of dispatching one of your Knights-Venator to summon them.’

‘He has flown swiftly,’ said Theuderis, pointing towards the sky above the Bear’s Pelt. A flight of Arkas’ Prosecutors descended at speed.

‘Wait,’ Arkas said as Theuderis moved towards where the other officers waited. ‘That is not Hastor.’

The Prosecutors dipped out of view briefly, disappearing behind the trees. It was not long before one of them reappeared, speeding towards the camp on azure wings. He landed a few paces from Arkas and bowed to his lord and then to Theuderis.

‘Venian, what tidings?’ asked the Warbeast.

‘Ursungorans, my lord, in the woods.’ The Prosecutor-Prime turned and pointed back the way he had come. ‘My retinue escorts them. Several score more, I would say. We did not see them on the ice.’

‘There are a few routes from the glacier directly into caves in the valley walls,’ said Theuderis. ‘Some of my warriors found concealed entrances on the lower slope.’

‘They will be here shortly, my lord,’ said Venian. ‘I do not know if they carry the skaven taint. Shall we let them approach?’

‘Several score?’ said Arkas. ‘More than a hundred, would you say?’

‘Yes, Lord Arkas. At least that many, from what I observed.’

‘Katiya will be with them,’ Arkas told Theuderis. ‘There is no other reason for so many to be in the same place.’

‘A leap of logic,’ warned the Knight Excelsior. ‘Do not surrender to false hope.’

‘Maybe not logic. Call it instinct, if you must. Katiya is with them, I am sure of it. We cannot hold the council yet. I will go with Venian to meet this group and decide where best to direct them.’

‘I think your Prosecutor-Prime is able to deal with…’ Theuderis fell quiet, understanding Arkas’ intent. ‘Very well, Lord Arkas. See if Katiya is with them, but return swiftly. Our march will be difficult and dangerous, and we need to be across the mountain before dusk.’

‘This won’t take long,’ Arkas assured him. His voice had dropped to a murmur.

When Arkas had departed, Glavius rose from where he had been entertaining the Ursungorans. Theuderis saw his eyes scanning the camp as he approached, though alert for what threat he could not tell.

‘You have a gift with words,’ said Theuderis. ‘And a way with infants I find at odds with your calling in Sigmar’s host.’

‘You are not the only Stormcast who was a father before being called to the Stormhosts, my lord,’ replied Glavius. ‘When I was mortal I was a bard-blade of the Wraithlands. We fought with words as much as weapons. In the Realm of Death a rite can be more dangerous than a sword or axe.’ He glanced at the Ursungorans. ‘They hide it well, but they are all afraid, child and adult alike. This is skaven-plague. Chaos-tainted.’

‘Indeed.’

Glavius fixed his helm back in place, concealing his features behind the grim skull-mask of his rank once more.

‘We have to purge them all,’ said the Lord-Relictor.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The walk down through the trees was the hardest Arkas had ever taken. It seemed to last longer than the forced march across Ursungorod. Despite Theuderis’ doubts, the Warbeast was certain of what he would find at the end. The gathering of so many refugees in one place had to be the work of Katiya, and he had seen her close to the fighting, close to the skaven-spawned plague mist.

Leaving deep footprints in the thawing mulch he headed straight downhill, his heart as heavy as his tread. As much as he wanted to avoid confronting the reality that awaited him, it was unavoidable, and delaying simply allowed his doubts to nag at him for longer.

It was obvious that Theuderis thought him blindly optimistic, but the Silverhand did not understand the mind of an Ursungoran, even one that had been reforged. Arkas hoped, in his soul, that he could fix the ills of the world, and he hoped that he could bring peace and prosperity to his lands and people. It was this hope that had sent him on the path to become the Uniter. Without hope he would have given up, crawled under the blankets with his dying mother. Without hope he would not have stood upon the broken walls in defiance of the skaven horde, despite the dire prediction of Radomira.

But it was not a hope that all would simply be made well. It was not a hope that everything would get better without pain and suffering, without sacrifice and effort. It was, he thought, simply a hope that the hardship served a purpose, that there was always a goal worth striving for. His hope for an end to the misery of Ursungorod did not preclude acceptance that the misery existed and had to be endured.

So he did not hope for anything as his long strides took him down the mountainside. He did not dread the coming reality either, because dread was just another form of denial. The survivors in the camp embodied this characteristic, accepting the reality of the plague without fear or favour, hoping that some might slip from its grasp, accepting the likelihood that most would not.

Venian flew down through a gap in the trees ahead and waited for the Lord-Celestant to reach him.

‘Another two hundred paces, my lord,’ said the Prosecutor-Prime, pointing. Between the trees Arkas could see figures in the distance, barely visible in the forest shadows.

‘Very well. Return to your retinue and take them back to the camp. We are mustering for the march. Knight Hastor will have your orders shortly.’

‘We are abandoning the search of the Bear’s Pelt, my lord?’ Venian looked up. ‘It is not long since the sunrise reached the valley.’

‘We have more pressing duties, Venian,’ Arkas told him, with conviction. ‘There is little point in rounding up a few more survivors if doing so grants victory to the skaven. We have a realmgate to take.’

‘Of course, my lord, I did not mean to disagree.’

Arkas said nothing else, dismissing the Prosecutor-Prime with a flick of the head. The Warbeast watched the approaching refugees, able to pick out their pale faces now, a picket of armed men and women leading the way, ever wary. Knots of others followed a few dozen paces behind.

The hunters saw Arkas and gravitated towards him, their expressions a peculiar mix of relief and anxiety. It was obvious they were pleased to see the Uniter, but their glances back towards the other Ursungorans told him without any words exactly what he needed to know.

He spied Ajfor amongst the rearguard. He beckoned and Katiya’s grandson approached quickly. There was a cut across his left eye, the infected wound weeping blood and less wholesome fluid. His eye was a black orb, his skin jaundiced.

‘Where is she?’ Arkas asked softly.

Ajfor looked back, scanning the other survivors. He pointed away to the left, at the largest following group.

‘She is…’ He choked on the words.

‘I know,’ Arkas said, laying a hand as gently as he could on the young man’s shoulder. He nodded uphill. ‘There is a camp not far away. Most are also afflicted. But there are fires and some shelter.’

Nodding, Ajfor broke away and continued upwards without looking back, the other hunters drifting after him with solemn looks at the Lord-Celestant, perhaps having overheard his conversation, perhaps simply guessing what had passed between them.

The Ursungorans parted as Arkas strode through the trees, all but making a path for him to find Katiya. She was being dragged on a bier of lashed wood, hide and rope. Some around her were also showing signs of infection but were strong enough still to walk, while many others were on stretchers, some with their faces covered, their bedrolls already shrouds.

Her hand fluttered from beneath a deer pelt blanket at his approach. Her wrinkled face was almost devoid of colour and her left eye was crusted shut with scabbed pustules.

‘Uniter…’ she said. Her voice was firm, though she was forced to take in a ragged breath after. Arkas winced as he heard the bubbling in her lungs. The bearers set down the bier and stepped away, granting them a little privacy.

‘Katiya.’ He knelt beside her and saw, perhaps properly for the first time, her thinning hair, the curve of cheek and jaw, the line of her nose. ‘You look like Radomira.’

‘Yes,’ she replied. Another rattle of inhalation. ‘A daughter in every generation. Her bloodline is strong.’

Arkas could not shake the sensation of familiarity, beyond simply recognising Katiya. Seeing her lying on the makeshift bed brought back such strong memories.

‘Do not give in to grief,’ wheezed Katiya, sensing what he was thinking even though his face was hidden.

‘No,’ he promised, nodding slowly. ‘Never grief.’

Still he could not fight back the hurt, the sense of injustice swelling inside at the sight of her so forlorn and weak. Perhaps it was simply the context, but Arkas could not ignore the resemblance, not just to Radomira but also to his mother.

‘It is time to tell… you something.’ Katiya coughed as she sat up. Arkas helped her, providing an arm for her to lever herself upright. He could smell the infection on her rank breath. ‘It is about your mother. About… Radomira and your… bloodline.’

‘The past is the past,’ said Arkas, echoing the traditional Ursungoran saying.

‘It is.’ Katiya did not smile but there was softness in her good eye. Sympathy, perhaps. The look was so uncannily like his mother’s last expression. Insight flashed.

‘Radomira… She was a relation?’

Katiya nodded.

‘My grandmother?’

‘No…’ More coughing prevented Katiya from continuing but Arkas already knew what she was going to say. He barely whispered the words.

‘My mother. She was my real mother.’

Katiya nodded through the spasms, her grip weak on his arm.

‘Then who…?’

‘Your sister,’ Katiya managed. She took several deep breaths and recovered a little. ‘Older by fifteen years. The man that was bonded with her acted as your father. You were… unexpected arrival. Radomira was sworn sagesayer, sundered from family, forbidden liaisons with… outsiders. Old, old past childbearing… it was thought.’

‘I see,’ said Arkas, though he was not sure he did. He understood, intellectually, what Katiya was saying. What it meant, on the other hand, eluded him. ‘That is why her thoughts were so close to mine.’

Katiya simply nodded, her strength exhausted by the brief confession.

‘But when my… my mother and father died, I was their only child.’

Katiya nodded again. ‘Radomira had no more children either. But you did.’ Katiya looked away, suddenly ashamed. ‘You bedded women, yes? Your children… they were hidden from you… by your mother. To protect you. To allow you to lead all without favour.’

‘You said the bloodline was strong.’ Arkas turned her face towards him. She frowned. ‘What did you mean? The touch of Ghur? The beast-gift?’

‘In some, yes,’ Katiya told him. ‘The men, a few of them. For the women… The sagesight. The Ghur-tongue.’

‘And what of my real father?’

‘Nobody knows for certain.’

‘Why are you telling me this, why now?’

‘The truth.’ Katiya lay back, folding her hands to her chest. Her eye fluttered closed. ‘What you fight for.’

And there it was again, that startling, heart-stopping resemblance to his mother’s — to his sister’s deathbed. Radomira had lied to him for years, and even when he had been inside her thoughts she had kept this secret from him.

‘Was it part of her vision?’ he demanded, but Katiya did not answer.

Arkas’ heart trembled as he moved his head closer. He could not feel or hear her breath, but he saw the weakest of pulses in her neck. She held on, but only just. The conversation had sapped much of her remaining strength, taking an effort of will just to speak.

‘She needs rest,’ said one of the nearby women. The others came back as he rose to his feet. Arkas could see the family likeness, nieces and nephews, cousins, siblings perhaps. How many were his descendants? How many had really survived that day on Kurzengor? Not just his people by culture. His descendents, his blood.

‘Look after her,’ he told them, though it did not need to be said.

He gave a last look at his daughter by nearly a score of generations and turned away. He started the long climb back to the camp, knowing that he would not look upon her face again.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Thick black smoke choked the sky, but though the twilight was obscured by the fumes, the light of many flames provided ample illumination for the marching Stormcasts. Their armour glinted in the gleam from the six fiery peaks of the Skagoldt Ridge, lit by bubbling lava flows and burning rivers that split and conjoined in a ruddy maze.

The ground was as black as the air, the hard volcanic rock strewn with ash. The column of Stormcasts navigated through a mesmerising labyrinth of pore-like tunnels, jagged spires and bulbous columns. In places the floor was ribbed and undulated, broken by clefts that could trap feet and break ankles. Fumaroles belched forth constant sprays of lava and vapour. Seemingly solid plateaus proved treacherously unstable, shaking and splitting to reveal themselves as skins across pools and lakes of semi-liquid rock. Sheets of fire and pillars of flame burned from naked rock, and ash-devils swept through, driven by no natural wind. Lizards the size of dogs with pelts of coals and ember eyes scuttled over the dark rocks.

Everything shimmered in the heat haze — heat so incredible only Stormcasts could withstand its sapping effects. Arkas laboured with heavy breaths, his reforged skin slicked with sweat, but the hardship was nothing — any advance along the ridge known once as the Bear’s Spine would have been impossible for his mortal army.

The ruddy, flickering light played tricks with the bizarre landscape, creating shadow-giants and threatening simulacra. Combined with the oppressive heat, and the knowledge that they were marching into battle against an untold number of skaven, the jarring volcanic wasteland subdued the spirits of the Celestial Vindicators and Knights Excelsior.

In the red-and-black sky, flitting through the wreath of smog, the Prosecutors, Knights-Venator and Knights-Azyros swooped and rose on the hot air from jagged thermal vents and winding lava trails. Theuderis had sent them ahead as scouts but no sooner had the Stormcasts started up the Skagoldt Ridge than Samat returned with news that almost nothing could be seen from the air, the cloud was so thick and low. Even so, they stayed aloft, ready to respond swiftly to any threat.

Theuderis’ Judicators, led by the Prime called Trajos, scoured the land ahead searching for the best route through the meandering streams of lava and gaping chasms. Several times the army was forced to stop and turn back, retracing its steps until a way ahead was found. On occasion they scaled steep cliffs of dark rock and scrambled down tumbled slides of scree and obsidian shards. In places their route took them along crystal-lined gorges, the walls sparkling and faceted, in places sprouting prismatic growths as large as the Stormcast warriors. Pillar-like intrusions rose far above their heads, a mixture of dark, pitted crags and smooth, white columns.

The sun had set, as best could be judged, by the time the army crested the top of the ridge. From this vantage point, rare breaks in the fumes allowed them to briefly look down into the valley on the far side. In places the drop was precipitous, layer after layer of volcanic expulsion and magma extrusion forming a dense network of canyons and bridges.

Their goal was on the far side, the flank of the central peak of Ursungorod, from whose vertiginous slopes long-dead humans and duardin had delved and built the great city of Kurzengor. Beneath lay the bulk of the skaven lair, nestled in the ruins of the massive conurbation.

‘A volatile place,’ remarked Doridun.

‘My… My mother told me that the ridge first split asunder and spewed its fire on the day I was born,’ Arkas replied. He looked at the cratered peaks around them. ‘Its fury has not abated since.’

‘What was that?’ asked Dolmetis, marching on the other side of Arkas.

‘Did you see something?’

‘I thought so.’ The Knight-Vexillor pointed to a sharp spur of rock that overhung the trail ahead. ‘On the top there.’

Arkas looked but there was nothing to be seen.

‘My eyes are tired,’ Dolmetis admitted, ‘and filled with grime and soot. But I would swear I saw a figure on the rock.’

‘Impossible,’ said Doridun. ‘Nothing could live in this place.’

‘Nothing mortal,’ Arkas corrected him, scanning the surrounds with renewed interest. ‘If we can survive here… The Chaos powers have more than mortal followers.’

He weighed up whether to call a halt. In his years as the Bear-clad few had ventured to this part of the mountains and none had returned after anything but a cursory investigation. He had learned, as a Stormcast, of places where the realms sometimes bled together — overlaps between the planes. Often these were near hidden or damaged realmgates, the mystical energy of the cosmos mixing together in unpredictable ways.

Though there was no reason to suspect anything other than volcanic activity shaped the Skagoldt Ridge, Arkas had stopped taking evidence at face value a long time ago. He had never seen Aqshy, the Realm of Fire, with his own eyes, but something rang true in the descriptions of those that had returned from the war there.

‘Move on,’ he said. ‘We need to be in position to attack mid-morning.’

They carried on in silence for some way, negotiating the rough terrain without complaint. Arkas’ thoughts were focussed on the battle that waited at the end of the punishing march. As with the entire endeavour in Ursungorod, his was the bolder, more dangerous mission. Guided by the memory of his vision from the Queen of the Peak, he would lead the Celestial Vindicators directly for the realmgate. It was imperative that the skaven were prevented from opening it.

While the Warbeasts lanced into the heart of the undercity, paying no heed to any foes save those directly in their path, the Silverhands would advance in a more systematic fashion. Their strength divided between attacking the Warbeasts and defending against Theuderis’ assault, the skaven would succeed at neither. It was a simple but effective stratagem, and victory was further assured by the unexpected route of the attack.

A long clarion call broke through Arkas’ thoughts. The Silverhands swiftly changed formation, forming defensive clusters where they were, as allowed by the intervening terrain. Attaxes, the Knight-Heraldor, sounded another signal and the white-and-blue Stormcasts adjusted their ranks, skilfully moving together to form even tighter knots of warriors.

Doridun sounded the alarm of the Warbeasts, setting them into motion a few heartbeats later. Diocletus and his Protectors formed the outer rank, their glaives projecting an impassable wall of blades and points. Around the Lord-Celestant, the axe-wielding Decimators led by Martox stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Arkas scanned his surrounds, searching for any threat, but all he could see was forbidding rock and fire.

Theuderis rode his dracoth towards the head of the column, evidently where the first alarm had been raised.

‘Make way!’ snapped Arkas, pushing through the Decimators to head after Theuderis. ‘Dolmetis, Doridun, with me! All others hold fast.’

They broke into a run, hurrying after the lord of the Silverhands. The Knights Excelsior were like statues, every warrior facing front with unwavering attention, the Primes at the centre of each retinue ready to respond. Not a single head turned as the Celestial Vindicators raced past.

Arkas caught up with Theuderis at the edge of a ravine some three hundred paces away. The Silverhand had dismounted and was peering over the edge, a cluster of Judicators around him pointing into the depths.

They turned at the scrape of Arkas’ boot on the rock, bows and crossbows raised. Seeing that it was the Warbeast who approached, the Knights Excelsior parted, moving along the lip of the chasm to give his party room.

‘What is it?’ Arkas stepped up beside Theuderis to look down into the ravine. The Silverhand did not need to reply.

At the bottom of the chasm a winding river of fire cut through the darkness. The smog was thick, carried on the gusty wind along the canyon. But it was not this that had unsettled the scouts. Cut neatly into the vertical wall of the chasm was a set of steps, starting somewhere off to the left and zigzagging down until they were swallowed by the fumes. At each turning was a short landing where the wall was marked by archways, although there were no visible breaks in the rock. In places there were bridges, narrow spans that curved across the chasm, their silhouettes fading into the smog.

‘Duardin ruins,’ said Dolmetis. ‘Why such alarums?’

‘Look again,’ said Theuderis. ‘Not ruins.’

Arkas examined the closest steps more carefully. The Silverhand was right, they showed little sign of wear. In fact, had they existed before the eruption of the volcanoes they surely would have been broken and scattered.

‘They were cut after I was born,’ said the Warbeast. He turned around, surveying the surface for any other sign of habitation. There was nothing, though the conditions cut visibility to a few dozen paces. The design of the solid archways was consistent with the duardin style. ‘Maybe the skaven had duardin slaves?’

‘What skaven could survive this heat?’ said Theuderis.

‘Perhaps they escaped by building this way out of the skaven tunnels,’ suggested Doridun. The others looked at him.

‘With dressed stone and perfectly built arches?’ said Dolmetis. ‘A very circumspect escape attempt.’

The Knight-Heraldor realised the ridiculousness of the statement and withdrew a few paces, embarrassed.

‘There was something else,’ said Trajos. The Judicator-Prime stepped into view. ‘Several reports of figures seen. In the fire, in the smoke.’

‘Watching?’ said Dolmetis. ‘That’s what I thought I saw.’

Trajos nodded.

‘I do not think they are related to the skaven,’ Theuderis concluded. ‘It is not in the ratkin’s nature to make such constructions and they cannot possibly make use of these steps themselves.’

‘Something else is here,’ said Arkas. ‘Something that arrived after the mountain broke.’

Theuderis nodded and stepped back from the precipice. ‘The question is whether they mean us harm, whether they are allies or enemies.’

‘Or neither,’ said Dolmetis. ‘If they have been watching us they have made no effort to make contact or attack.’

‘They are thinking the same about us,’ said Theuderis. ‘Gauging whether we are friend or foe, perhaps?’

‘If they wished us ill, they have had sufficient time to plan and execute and attack,’ said Trajos. ‘In fact, we are not far from the end of the fire-morass. Crags and canyons lie ahead, but no more lava or volcanoes.’

Arkas turned around, standing with his back to the chasm. He thought for an instant he saw a fleeting glimpse of something in the heat haze across a lava stream a few dozen paces away. A face, flat-nosed and broad, surrounded by hair and beard of fire. The figure had been squat and solid, like a duardin… but different.

‘They are watching us pass through their territory,’ he said to the others. Arkas raised his voice. ‘We are the Stormcasts of the God-King Sigmar. We seek only to bring justice to the minions of Chaos, we are foes only to the forces of destruction. We are passing through these lands, to wage war against the skaven. We have no intent to stay and mean no harm to any that struggle against the Dark Powers.’

It seemed as though he were talking to himself, the fiery spectre a hallucination of heat and the effort of the march.

‘Over there,’ whispered Trajos, nodding to the right.

A group of five duardin-like shapes stood silently amidst the fires of a lava flow, oblivious to the deadly temperature. They were all but naked, wreathed in the flames rather than clothes. The shimmer of the heat made it impossible to see where the fires stopped and the figures began. In their hands they held what looked like wands and staves, but on better inspection Arkas saw that they were the handles of axes with blades of fire.

One of the duardin-folk took a step closer, eyes like coals regarding the Stormcasts solemnly, moving along from one end of the line to the other. The figure nodded once, slowly, and raised a fire-axe towards the north-east.

Turning his head, Arkas saw the fires dimming, a path of blackness curving through the lava, flames, geysers and tar pits. He raised his hammer to return the salute, but the figures had already vanished.

‘What do you suppose they are?’ he asked Theuderis.

‘I do not know, but it is not the last we will see of them, I think,’ said the Silverhand. ‘We will be upon our enemies all the sooner with their aid. Attaxes, signal the advance.’

Chapter Thirty-Seven

The sun had not yet risen when the Stormcasts fell upon the outer strongholds of the skaven. Coming down the mountain from the Skagoldt Ridge, the warriors of Sigmar swept towards the surface ruins of the ancient city. Theuderis’ Angelos Conclave formed the spearhead, their attack concentrated to slash a path to the entrances of the underground lair. The Silverhands’ Paladin Conclave would follow, forcing a breach into the undercity through which Arkas and his Warbeasts would launch their assault.

The light of celestial beacons lit up the ruins as strands of lightning wreathed the heavens. Arkas had never ventured here in his mortal life and marvelled at the extent of Kurzengor. He had seen nothing of the spectacle in his vision. The mighty city he had defended on the day Sigmar had taken him for Reforging was but a bastion of a far mightier conurbation that had once stretched across the highlands of Ursungorod.

The concentric rings of the old city walls divided cramped streets and high towers, broken apart where those soaring edifices had collapsed to scatter immense stones, leaving foundations and lower storeys jutting like broken teeth above the skyline. Plazas opened up wider spaces where temples to forgotten gods and palaces of long-dead nobles looked upon cracked mosaics and stained tiles.

He could see where markets had once bustled, shop fronts and domiciles had been home to countless thousands of humans and duardin. Onion-domed cathedrals sat broken next to a dry riverbed crossed by stout duardin-built bridges. Centuries of subterranean perturbations had torn open large gouges in the city, exposing the duardin dwellings below. The azure celestial light was swallowed by huge shafts and sinkholes that split vast throne halls and treasure vaults.

Despite its state of ruin, the city was not empty. Wooden walkways and rope bridges criss-crossed the old streets from sagging rooftops and cracked chimneys. Ramshackle fences and walls had been erected to delineate the territories of vying warlords. Vast swathes had been levelled and replaced with corrals for monstrous beasts and Chaos-tainted steeds, while pits and scaffold-decked gorges pierced the underbelly of Kurzengor, countless slaves sleeping where they had laboured on the unforgiving planks and cable.

The ground beneath the city showed its tortured past. In several areas it rose up to high plateaus reached by rope ladders and clumsily constructed scaffolds. Neighbourhoods had been swallowed by churning tar pits that continued to bubble and gurgle. Parts of Kurzengor had been reclaimed by the landscape, tentacle vines swallowing whole districts, the remains of houses and workshops caught in the branches of gargantuan trees, granite and marble fingers pulling at stretches of curtain wall and watch towers.

The fires of the Skagoldt Ridge had also made intrusions. The craters of dead volcanoes and fissures bleeding lava marked the outer quarter closest to the Stormcast advance. Sinkholes opened into crystalline shafts that dropped into the depths, lined by seams of sapphires, emeralds and diamonds.

Entire tribes that Arkas had never seen or heard of occupied the vast city. As he looked down on the maze of roads and shattered buildings he wondered if any clan still resisted the skaven and the touch of Chaos. It was a short-lived hope. Immense sacrificial pyres and monstrous effigies to the Dark Powers dotted the cityscape, built from the ruins of churches and shrines dedicated to lesser, fallen gods.

As elsewhere, the dominion of the Horned Rat was evident in many places. On the doorstep of the undercity, penned in by the indomitable peak itself and the fires of the Skagoldt Ridge, the tribes here had no option but to succumb to the power and temptations of the Chaos Pantheon.

Death was always an option, he reminded himself. He and his united clans had been willing to die rather than submit. There could be no pity for those who sought the sanctuary of Chaos worship, no matter how dire their predicament. Their weakness simply strengthened the foes of order, exchanging personal gain at the expense of Sigmar and their fellow humans.

An undulation in the mountainside gave way to reveal even more of Kurzengor’s environs. Long boulevards crept up the slope, radiating out from the more densely packed centre. Villas and manses lined these streets, their gardens long reclaimed by nature, family estates overrun by the wild once more.

Arkas recognised tombs also, some distance outside the city, but closer to the richer quarters than the mercantile inner city. They were like the cairns raised by his own people but far grander. Some were ziggurats of obsidian and marble and other exotic stone. Though distance obscured any detail, he could see plentiful statuary and small dome-roofed family shrines scattered among the larger memorials.

He stopped, taken aback by what he saw next. Angry muttering broke out from the Decimators around him until he silenced them with a barked command.

The rocks of the mountain had been carved in an age past, creating immense visages in the cleared stone. So vast were these faces that Arkas could see windows in their eyes, balconies and stairs formed by wrinkles in the skin, doorways hidden in folds of beard and hair.

The monuments had been both duardin and human, though most likely fashioned by the craft of the former. All seemed to be kings and queens, proud of expression, crowned helms on their heads.

Eight there had been, though one was almost nothing but bare rock, its remnants broken asunder by some shift in the earth in the intervening years. The others were marred by advanced age, but also by deliberate vandalism. Noses were chipped and broken, lips cracked, cheeks hollowed and ears removed.

The masonry that had been stolen had been put to a fresh purpose, built atop the central face. The design was crude, the construction showing much patching and improvisation, but the subject was all too clear. Horned and glowering, green flames burning in the gaps of its eyes, the mask of the Great Horned Rat stared down over the ruined city.

‘The account will be settled soon enough,’ Arkas told his incensed warriors. He raised his runeblade, the sigils etched into the weapon flickering in the light of the celestial storm. ‘We head for the realmgate. No more delays, no distractions. We win or we die.’

‘We win or we die!’ came the return shout.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Sentries across the city looked up to the skies, baffled by the storm clouds swiftly gathering. They did not think to look towards the fire-lands, for what threat could possibly come from that direction? The first they knew of their coming doom was when flights of shining warriors descended from the storm on iridescent wings, accompanied by bolts of lightning hurtling down into the tumult of broken buildings and earthquake-twisted streets.

Brash war horns and warning drums sounded across the city, far too late.

The Retributors and Decimators led the advance on the ground, an armoured fist of white and blue aimed towards the heart of the city. Guided by the blazing storm of missiles overhead, they marched at speed through the deserted streets, the uniform tramp of boots ringing from the dead buildings, watched only by empty windows and doorways.

Theuderis rode with them to ensure that the breach into the skaven undercity proceeded exactly as planned. While his attack speared through Kurzengor, his officers would oversee the following sweep and occupation of the city. He glanced back to assure himself that Arkas was close behind — the turquoise plate of the Warbeasts reflecting the celestial energies roaring across the storm above.

The other conclaves were fanning out along the line of advance, moving forwards to engage any foe that threatened the flanks of the breaching force. Theuderis paid them no more mind, confident that they would acquit themselves as only Knights Excelsior could. His mind was bent towards the achievement of his own objective — attaining entry into the undercity.

As they crossed a star-shaped plaza, the wind changed, swirling from the right. A snarl from Tyrathrax warned Theuderis of something untoward.

‘Namazar!’ He bellowed the name of the nearest Protector-Prime. The Lord-Celestant angled his sword towards the tumbled remnants of what might have been an old trade exchange, guildhall or perhaps some kind of mint or treasury. Its colonnaded front had completely collapsed, but several statues of mercantile-looking folk could be seen amongst the debris. There were other stone figures, not on plinths, of Chaos warriors and beasts in various poses of combat or flight. Theuderis recognised the threat immediately. ‘Rearguard!’

The Protectors quickly peeled away after their Prime, a phalanx of glaives directed towards the rubble-strewn steps of the building. From the shadows of the main hall prowled an enormous beast — part cat, part lizard, its mane a nest of writhing vipers that hissed and spat. Its long tongue licked the air, tasting the presence of the intruders. Snarling, it bounded into a run, heading directly for the Protectors, baring teeth as sharp as any sword. In its wake, half-naked savages poured from the ruin, their hooting calls echoed by other warbands emerging from other nearby buildings. They were heavily scarred, pierced and tattooed, barely a patch of exposed skin not ornamented in some way. Screeching, waving bone and flint weapons, the troglodytic clansmen sprinted towards the block of waiting Stormcasts.

‘Keep on,’ Theuderis reminded his warriors. ‘Continue the advance.’

He watched as the monster leapt at the Protectors, its savage nature undaunted by the rows of points confronting it. Sigmarite blades cracked against scaled skin, piercing deep, slashing long gouges through the flesh. In turn its claws and fangs raked welts across the ivory armour of the Knights Excelsior. The beast landed, crushing a Protector beneath its bulk while its serpent-mane spat gobbets of saliva that hissed and bubbled on the plate of the Stormcast Eternal.

The Celestial Vindicators entered the plaza, breaking into a charge to sweep into the unprepared savages. Theuderis saw Arkas leading the attack, carving bloodily into the disorganised mobs with swift blows from his hammer and blade.

Soon the skirmish was out of sight, though the shouts of the Warbeasts and the screams of the Chaos-tainted followed the Lord-Celestant for some time.

The street pushed up towards a hilly outcrop ringed by broken walls, an overgrown orchard within. The road split to encircle the ground, but Theuderis ordered his men straight on. They vaulted the remnants of the wall and plunged through the thicket of undergrowth and twisted trees, snapping branches and trunks with their bulk to shoulder their way through. Surprised by the quiet of their passage, Theuderis examined his surrounds in more detail and saw that the trees grew green and brown feathers instead of leaves.

To one side, the remains of the great house whose gardens they violated leaned precariously on its footings, kept upright only by the tangled limbs and roots of immense trees bursting from one of its dilapidated wings. There were platforms and huts constructed in the upper reaches of both building and tree, but of the inhabitants there was no sign — perhaps they were sensible enough not to confront the armoured giants advancing through their domain.

The wall on the far side of the garden was still intact, until the lightning hammers of the Retributors made short work of its bricks and mortar. Bursting onto a cobbled road that swept down towards the central city, the Stormcast Paladins broke into an easy run, Tyrathrax loping alongside them, Theuderis in the saddle.

On one side, the city descended into a tangle of alleys and steps too tight for the Stormcasts to easily traverse. On the other, a succession of terraces climbed up the mountain, each level home to the decrepit remains of terraces and warehouses, stores, smithies, armouries and jewellers. The road angled away from the pits into the undercity. It was not the most direct route but it was still the swiftest.

Several times more they encountered scattered bands of Chaotic tribal warriors. Some were barely more than animals, like those they had first seen, while others were more organised, better armed and armoured. It made no difference. The Paladin Conclave cut through them all in turn, ruthless and efficient, driven on by Theuderis’ demand that there be no delays.

The few that survived this onslaught were little resistance to the Celestial Vindicators following behind. Those not cut down by the white-and-blue spear of the Knights Excelsior were crushed into oblivion by the hammer blow of Arkas’ force.

It was not only humans that tried to waylay them. In abandoned parks overrun by tides of beetles and spiders, and orchards with trees that grew eyeballs and bloody organs instead of fruits, beastmen and monsters had made their lairs. Theuderis did his best to avoid these, knowing that to become embroiled in an extended engagement would not only needlessly spend time, but might allow the gathering creatures to wholly surround them. The most desolate, broken areas he skirted around, staying to the wider avenues and squares where the enemy had to present themselves more openly.

Despite every effort, Theuderis was painfully aware of the growing light as the sun crept above the mountains. The skaven would have lookouts positioned, if only to guard against treachery from their subject-tribes and those clans still swearing allegiance to gods other than the Great Horned Rat.

How long would they take to muster a force?

Through a combination of evasive manoeuvres and brute strength, Theuderis’ Paladins carved a path for Arkas, on occasion smashing their way through buildings to forge the best route.

When the first rays of dawn shone on the many-coloured domes ahead, they were almost at the closest slave-pit, the opening into the skaven domain just a few streets away.

The way ahead was blocked. Stretching from one side of the road to the other was a wall four times as tall as a man, raised from stone and earth and reinforced with sharpened stakes and thick timbers. The buildings to either side were similarly fortified, crude ramparts built along rooftops, windows and doors barricaded.

A storm of arrows greeted the Knights Excelsior, raining down from the wall and surrounding heights. Theuderis led his warriors to the left, seeking a route around the obstruction. The next street was similarly blocked, and the next. Iron-tipped arrows clattered from armour and stone around him as he pulled Tyrathrax to a stop to assess the situation. For all that he could tell, the wall could stretch for a considerable distance.

He looked up and saw warriors in mail and leather scrambling over the roofs, bows and javelins in hand. On the wall armoured figures waited, waving axes and swords, their jeers echoing along the walled-off road. He had seen no sign of gate or bridge. A glance back towards the main street revealed the Celestial Vindicators approaching fast.

‘Up, my lord?’ suggested Elegias, the Retributor-Prime. He pointed to the closest building with his starsoul mace.

‘You have the right of it, Retributor.’ Theuderis stood in the saddle and pointed his blade towards the roofs. ‘We go over these wretches!’

The Paladins piled into the nearby buildings, crashing through boarded windows and doors, the light of their gleaming weapons shining through shutters and cracked walls. Theuderis rode along the road a little further, ignoring the occasional missile sparking from his armour and the moss-covered flags as he sought ingress for Tyrathrax. A few dozen paces on, a building had collapsed, a slump of rubble spilling down into the street. Assorted tools and containers showed that the tribe had been in the process of rebuilding the breach.

Tyrathrax sensed his intent and broke into a run, heading for the improvised ramp. Three bounding strides and a leap took them onto the roof of the adjoining townhouse, claws sending broken clay tiles skittering to smash on the street three storeys below.

From this point Theuderis could see how close he was to his objective. Barely a hundred paces beyond the wall, steps and wooden ramps led down into the slave pit.

The scale of the obstacle in front of him was also clear. The roofs and wall were thronged with foes, more of them spilling up from trapdoors and rope ladders like ants from an agitated nest. Warriors swelled by Chaos power, clad in thick armour plates, gathered in front of him, axes and shields held up, faceless helms staring at him in challenge.

Lifting his blade, point heavenwards, Theuderis drew down a bolt of celestial power. The lightning earthed along his weapon and crackled across his armour. Above, the storm clouds seemed to roil, swirling with their own energy.

Moments later, the Angelos Conclave burst into view. With Samat and the other Knights-Azyros at their head and Arkas’ Prosecutors alongside, they plummeted groundwards at blistering speed.

The tempest of fire from their weapons lashed along the roofs ahead of Theuderis. Lightning-wreathed javelins and flaming hammer-bolts tore into the Chaos warriors, slicing through armour, scorching the flesh within. Tiles, brick and slate exploded, jagged shards ripping through the marauders scrambling up stairwells and hauling themselves across rope bridges.

On and on the torrent came, slaying everything in the way of Theuderis’ charge. The blaze of celestial beacons shone in the morning gloom, the power of Sigmar’s light blinding and burning the impure. Chaos worshippers staggered, holding their hands to their faces, screeching and screaming as they toppled from the roofs in panic and desperation.

‘Onwards!’ roared Theuderis.

Tyrathrax charged, ripping up more roof tiles with every stride. Theuderis’ blade trailed purifying flame. Ahead, Prosecutors with blazing hammers descended onto the wall, the bodies of their foes smashed from the ramparts as they advanced. Behind, the Paladins of the Silverhands roared their battle cry and followed their Lord-Celestant into the fray.

‘For the glory of Sigmar!’

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The Silverhands cleared the enemy with astounding speed, but Arkas knew better than to waste time admiring their bloody work.

‘Straight on,’ he told his warriors, heading directly along the street to the wall across it. ‘Our turn will come soon enough.’

The Warbeasts surged between the fortified houses, trampling the dead and dying cast from the rooftops. Arkas threw himself the last few paces at the wall, driving the head of his hammer into the patchily mortared masonry. Dust sticking to the caked blood on his armour, he used the hammer to haul himself up, driving in his sword to form the next handhold. Around him his warriors ascended with equal speed, unchallenged now that the wall’s guardians were battling the winged heralds of Theuderis’ host.

In a few more heartbeats, Arkas dragged himself over the jagged crenellations and took a quick stock of the situation. To his left and right, his Prosecutors and the Knights Excelsior had sliced through the wall’s guardians, opening a breach for his group. The number of Chaos followers was quickly swelling though, a wave of twisted humanity building up against the line of Stormcast Eternals like water at a dam.

There was no time to waste.

He leapt down the far side of the wall, boots cracking the flagstones further with the impact. In a heartbeat he was off and running again, heading directly for the maze of walkways, steps, ropes and scaffold ahead. Beyond, the ground dropped away like a cliff.

A stream of wasted, unwashed humanity spilled from the gash in the world, some still struggling with shackles, chains and rope bindings, their bodies covered in sores and welts. They stared in dumb wonder at the Stormcast Eternals, unsure whether they were liberators or simply new masters. All of them had the touch of Chaos about them, Arkas noted, as he watched them scrambling and sprinting past — tiny horns, patches of discoloured or scaled skin, tails, claws, jagged teeth, disjointed limbs. For all that they had endured untold misery they were still tainted.

‘Leave them for our shining companions,’ Arkas barked as some of his warriors moved towards the pitiful wretches with hammers and axes ready. ‘We have a pressing appointment below.’

The pit was a ragged wound in the earth. It burrowed down at a steep angle, shelves of harder rock and ledges built of debris from the demolished city creating staging levels still littered with the corpses of slaves dead from exhaustion and starvation.

The rickety boards and ladders looked incapable of taking the weight of a Stormcast. Arkas chose to descend in swifter fashion, leaping towards the closest outcrop. He crashed through mould-slicked timbers onto the rock. From here he bounded to a ledge on the left, and then let himself drop down to another below.

His warriors followed, some tracing his route, some picking their own way down into the darkness. Though the opening of the pit had seemed large from the surface it soon dwindled into a pale oval above as they descended, and then disappeared to leave the only light the gleam of Azyr-forged weapons.

There were offshoot galleries and tunnels but Arkas ignored them. The scene from the vision was vivid in his memory, as deeply etched as if he had already been into the depths in person. He remembered the sound and sparkle of an underground river nearby. When they found that, they would have their route to the realmgate.

Down they went, down into the bowels of the mountain, leaving behind the scrapings and workings of the tribes above, into a nether-realm between the city of humans and the skaven undercity. Here the duardin ruins were still intact in places, giving the Celestial Vindicators bridges across the cracks in the world, straight-hewn passages and winding stairs to follow.

Unlike the ruins he had seen on the surface, neither light nor wind had scoured these underground streets. Arkas was surprised by the amount of colour and texture. There were bright murals of geometric patterns and stylised scenes of builders, smithies and miners; the pillars and archways were decorated with bands of blue, purple and deep red. It brought home that Kurzengor had once been a thriving metropolis, rivalling Sigmaron in size, home to tens of thousands of humans and duardin.

Before the Age of Chaos. Before the skaven.

He tightened his grip on his weapons, his mood souring again.

Though the city was more engineered in these lower vaults, passage through it was still difficult. Like the City of Ice, it had been constructed by inhabitants smaller than the warriors of Sigmar. Tight passageways and sharp turns hindered them and several times the Stormcasts in the vanguard were forced to turn back, either encountering dead-ends or slender subterranean alleys that simply would not allow them access. Frequently Arkas’ helm or elbow would break the plaster rendering on the walls, turning works of art that had survived centuries of neglect into shards and dust.

As he descended, Arkas could feel the weight of the mountains pressing down upon him. More than that, it was the weight of expectation, of history. He moved towards a fateful confrontation in the unfolding saga of Ursungorod. With equal awareness he could also sense the power of Ghur churning in the foundations, trapped in the bedrock below. The further he went down, the stronger grew its lure, and the greater was its power. It was a primal force — contained, but struggling to break free.

The Shadowgulf.

Just like the Skagoldt Ridge, it was uncharted territory, a yawning emptiness that he had been aware of as far back as he could remember. He thought he knew now what it was — the void beyond the realmgate, a hole in the depths of Ursungorod that led to the place between realms, the vacuum of nothingness and raw Chaos leaking into Ursungorod through the inter-realm gnaw-ways of the skaven.

It was uncharted, but not unknown, and no longer impossible to penetrate. With Stormcast Eternals at his command, there was no barrier he could not cross, no territory he could not enter. The thought of piercing the undercity of the skaven brought a visceral thrill. For so long he had been denied vengeance, and now the victory he had craved on the walls of Kurzengor was within his grasp.

His oath fulfilled, his pain salved.

‘Are you all right, my lord?’

Dolmetis’ question dragged him out of his thoughts.

‘Yes, why?’ Arkas snapped.

‘I… I thought you said something.’ Uncertainty wavered in the Knight-Vexillor’s voice. ‘Growled.’

‘Dust,’ Arkas said quickly. ‘In my throat.’

‘Of course, my lord.’

The further down they went, the warmer it became, and the air carried on it a stench that grew stronger with each level they passed. Sometimes the smell waned as they encountered shafts and airways cleverly fashioned into the old city to bring draughts of chill mountain air from the surface, while the wider duardin chambers and halls dissipated the unpleasantness for a time. Where they had to squeeze through narrower galleries and corridors, the reek added to the suffocating claustrophobia.

They came across a large hall, the ceiling held by metal pillars and vaulting, a firepit at the near end. It was a grand chamber, swallowing the echoes of metal-shod feet. The Stormcasts spread out, heading towards large archways on the opposite side, grit crunching underfoot. The far wall was lost in shadow until Arkas held up his hammer and let forth a burning blue flame of celestial power.

In the flickering shadows, giant faces danced. Angular and flat, they were stylised versions of the duardin rulers carved into the mountainside above. Steps rose to a dais on which a stone chair sat, ornately carved with knotwork and more sculpted duardin faces.

‘A king’s throne room,’ muttered Doridun.

‘Not so,’ announced Martox. The Decimator-Prime stood at one of the arches with his retinue, looking into the lighter shadows of the space. ‘Perhaps a prince’s.’

Arkas joined him and looked into the adjoining hall, the Prime’s meaning becoming clear. The cavernous space was enormous, even vaster than the hall in which they stood. The floor was covered in intricate geometric tiles, each the size of Arkas’ hand, many shattered to reveal smooth rock beneath. The walls had a more natural finish, undulating and bulging in places, but polished, every strata and striation of colour catching the dismal light. Rusted sconces for hundreds of torches marked the walls, and there were similar ruddy spots on the ground where braziers had stood for many decades before being taken by looters.

The throne dais here was not only taller than the one in the antechamber, but at its summit were five thrones, all of similar size, though differing in design. Onyx, amber, marble and granite had gone into the construction, so cunningly wrought that even the skaven had not been able to prise them from their anchoring bolts.

The hall was split by a crack no wider than Arkas’ outstretched arms, running from one corner to the other directly across their line of advance. Moving closer he heard a trickle of water. He looked down into the chasm and could see nothing but a vague movement far below — but the sound of the stream was definite.

‘Not far,’ he said. ‘Listen…’

The Stormcasts stopped, statue-still. Above the faint hissing of water another sound carried through the passages and halls. A faint murmur. The tink of picks and scrape of shovels. Cracks of whips.

‘This way,’ said Diocletus, pointing to archways behind the thrones. ‘It’s coming from…’

His voice died away as the background noise changed subtly. The same sounds were there but there was another — the pattering of feet, the scratch of claws, the rustling of cloth.

A bell tolled, the nerve-jangling noise reverberating into the hall from several directions. It sounded another knell. And then there was the discordant clash of a disfigured gong. And drums. Over a few cacophonic rounds they came together, crashing out a sombre beat.

Growing louder.

A green flicker of warpfire lit the passages beyond the archways, a dull, shifting light at first, becoming a paler, greener flicker over the cut stones and weathered flags.

Arkas looked down at the ground again, lowering his hammer so that its glow illuminated the floor. The tiles were not just broken and cracked, there were dozens of scratch marks, and a faint sheen betrayed grease trails. Casting his gaze about he saw smears of droppings and small pools of urine. Only now did he register the stronger stench of filth, mould and rot.

From other directions the warp-glow strengthened. In front and behind, to the left and the right. The scraping grew louder and louder, the inharmonious drums, gongs and bells resounding closer and closer, a repetitive moaning accompanying the discordant crashes of noise.

Long shadows jumped along the walls as the Warbeasts formed a circle. Their weapons gleamed with celestial fire, lighting impassively masked faces, a knot of turquoise in the blackness. Putrid green warp-light spread into the vast hall from all around.

‘They have found us,’ said Arkas.

Chapter Forty

The power of Skixakoth’s fang was intoxicating. Filled with the blessing of the Great Horned Rat, Felk could feel the armoured giants as though they were a scab on his own flesh. They reeked of celestial magic, a sore upon the well of Ghurite energy that saturated everything from the Whiteworld Above to the undercity.

It hadn’t only been his unnatural senses that had warned him of the intrusion from the scavenger city on the surface. Thriss had shadowed them unseen for some time, and when it had become clear they would head for the old throne room, Felk had set his forces into motion. The gutter runner had slipped away again after delivering this message, on some devious personal mission, most likely.

‘Close-close, so very close,’ Felk told Skarth. ‘Not long, not long at all.’

The light coming from the unearthed realmgate was brightening all of the time, as the last few rocks and boulders were levered out of the way. The runes upon its structure added their own glimmer to the proceedings, a rhythmic oscillation of pale golden energy that sparkled up a pillar, across the keystone and down the other side.

‘All is ready,’ said the fangleader. He indicated the rings of spitevermin and lesser warriors around the realmgate plinth, facing outwards.

‘Yes-yes!’ Felk let the power of the Great Corruptor swell inside him. He could feel it burning through his veins. It empowered him but consumed him also. He knew that his time was short. It did not matter. Once the realmgate was opened he would corrupt the swirling forces that permeated the Realm of Life and stave off the call of death. Until then he would be sustained by the tooth of the verminlord piercing his heart.

With bounding strides he sped after the ranks of plague monks he had set upon the Sigmar-spawned warriors. He wanted to see the foe crushed, and then when he had proven his power once again he would break open the Realm of Life and glut himself on the swirl of released magic. Fresh forces awaited his command on the other side, Thriss had assured him. The armoured giants in the surface city would be swept away and all of the Whiteworld Above scourged or enslaved.

He reached the ancient throne room just as the most fanatical of his followers were hurtling towards the invaders. Frothing and screeching, these plague monks wielded immense censers that billowed with warp vapour, the pierced heads of their weapons spilling sickly fog that wreathed into strange shapes around them as they charged.

Behind these fanatics, the other plague monks continued their measured pacing, gathering through several arches and corridors, their shambling march starting to quicken.

The giants sprang forwards to meet the attack of the frenzied skaven hurtling across the throne hall, heedless of the heavy spiked censers crashing against their armour as they swung their gleaming weapons.

Driven mad by the fumes of their own weapons, possessed by the death-fervour of the Great Witherer, eyes bulging and teeth gnashing, the censer bearers flailed and swung without heed to their own safety. Spitting infected breath, they bit and scratched in their death throes, tearing at the unyielding plate of the giants with cracked claws. They crashed the spiked balls of their weapons against the armour of their foes even as they were spitted on glaives and pulped by glinting hammers. Though rusted and worn, the balls and chains were wreathed in warp power, and broke apart in tiny flecks and splinters that gnawed and worried at the enchanted metal.

The fog of death surrounding these manic disciples of the Great Horned Rat burned the eyes and filled the lungs of the warriors. Though superhuman, they were not wholly immune to the effects of the smog. Several doubled over retching and coughing. Others fell back with hands raised to their masks as the acidic fumes assaulted their eyes and mouths.

Incensed by the fighting, the plague monks quickened their pace, feeling the rage of the Great Horned Rat descending upon them. In Felk’s chest the plague-fang burned, the sudden pain and vitality shocking him into renewed effort.

‘Kill-kill!’ screeched Felk, waving his horde onwards. ‘Kill-kill-kill!’

The mass of plague monks broke into a run, brandishing staves, rusted daggers and jagged swords. Hoods and robes flapping, clawed feet skittering over ancient tiles, they poured towards the interlopers seeking to desecrate the holy undercity of the Withered Canker.

‘Purge-purge!’ shrieked the Poxmaster. ‘Pray and slay and flay!’

Hissing and snarling, the skaven launched themselves towards the warriors, who were still reeling from the attacks of the censer bearers and the cloying fog left in their wake.

Chapter Forty-One

If the Warbeasts stayed they would be swamped by a tide of maddened ratkin. Arkas fought back the urge to simply kill without thought, focussing on the mission he had agreed with Theuderis. The Silverhand would be following, bringing down his entire army, but the Celestial Vindicators had to secure the route to the realmgate.

Amongst the throng of incoming vermin, one stood out. Taller and bulkier than the others, one of the plague priests held itself proudly, hood thrown back to show a head marked with nodules of horns and bubo clusters. This skaven was different in other ways. It tore through the pool of Ghurite energy that Arkas could sense lying dormant in the hall, and it left behind it a ragged trail of warp power greater than anything Arkas had encountered before.

Murderous instinct roared at Arkas to confront this creature, to destroy the architect of the plague and vermintide that had laid low the Ursungorans and doomed Arkas’ descendants to a dwindling death.

‘Enough,’ growled the Lord-Celestant, tossing aside the ragdoll corpse of another censer bearer. ‘Warbeasts, follow me!’

He cleaved a path not towards the rat-leader but to one of the archways from which the sounds of digging had earlier emanated. The hammer-blow charge of the Stormcasts smashed into the leading plague monks, cutting a gouge into their ranks in a burning tempest of starsoul maces, lightning hammers and thunderaxes. With Arkas at the front, the Warbeasts slew a dozen plague monks in the moments of impact, leaping over their tumbling bodies to fall upon the diseased vermin pressing behind. Another dozen fell without striking a blow in return, and as swiftly as they had been surrounded, the Warbeasts were clear.

The sudden breakout took the skaven by surprise, allowing the Stormcasts to quickly fight their way through the dregs of plague monks still arriving, reaching the relative sanctuary of the corridor beyond. Forced to press into the close confines after the Sigmar-chosen, the skaven were easy targets for a group of Decimators left as a slowly retreating rearguard.

Ahead Arkas could see a different hue merged with the ever-present shimmer of warp-light and phosphorescent fungal growths. A golden aura suffused the tunnel, coming from a vast cavern beyond.

The Stormcasts burst into the chamber of the realmgate with meteoric force, crushing and slashing the milling slaves in their path. The corridor had brought them out almost directly opposite the realmgate, the vivid picture from Arkas’ vision now wrought physically before him.

The skavenslaves fled from the approach of the Stormcasts, pulling down the whip-handlers in their stampede. Like regular vermin exposed to the light of day, the pathetic creatures bolted for every nook and hole and exit they could find, swarming away from the turquoise-armoured warriors to leave their larger, more aggressive kin to protect the prize for which they had so painfully laboured.

Arkas slowed, allowing his warriors to form up on either side while he evaluated the situation. As well as pressing in along the corridor behind, the plague monks flowed back through other tunnels and passages to the left and right, seeping into the large cavern like filthy floodwater.

Several score of armoured skaven with wickedly bladed halberds stood directly in the path of the Stormcasts, guarding the realmgate. In turn, to either side of them were hundreds of lesser skaven, most with shields and simple mauls and blades, some with spears or scavenged halberds.

The realmgate itself was set back slightly, the excavation that had uncovered it leaving a short defile before it. A maze of scattered stalagmites, crevasses and pits further broke up the approach to the objective. But in Arkas’ mind’s eye he did not see obstacles, only defensible positions. If his force could break through the skaven’s elite, the Warbeasts could seize the final approach to the realmgate and negate the mass of the rat-filth’s numbers.

With this simple plan in mind, Arkas descended to the cavern floor, picking up the pace to ensure the flanking plague monks could not surround his several dozen warriors. Glancing to each side, he saw the plague monk leader entering the chamber off to the right, while several other plague priests emerged from the shadows at the edges of the great cavern, and scores more skaven followed from the gloom.

Faced with the incoming Stormcasts, the nerve of the armoured elites broke and they moved aside, seeking shelter behind their lesser companions, who were thrust cursing into the path of the vengeful Sigmar-blessed warriors. These proved little better than the slaves, fodder that bogged down the advance of Arkas’ warriors but did not halt it. While the Warbeasts hacked and bludgeoned their way towards the realmgate plinth, more and more plague monks filled the cavern.

The battle-heat was on Arkas and he barely had to think as he struck down foe after foe. His focus was like a fiery spark directed at the next enemy, his purpose single-minded and irresistible. Yet as he cut down yet another skaven, another sense was nagging at him, a more rational part of him trying to warn him of something amiss.

He realised two things in quick succession. Firstly, the plague monks were not throwing themselves after the Stormcasts as he had expected. They came together in several masses, cutting off any route back out of the cavern, content to allow him to clear a path to the plinth. Many of them were bowing hooded heads as though in prayer.

Secondly, as another foe fell beneath his sword, his gaze fell upon the realmgate again. The runes were not flickering as they had been before, but glowing with a steady light. Beneath the arch the air shimmered, the rock face beyond obscured in shadows cast by immense trees on the far side.

Amongst the clamour, he heard a chittering laugh echoing across the hall. He glanced back to see the skaven leader with his hands raised, arcs of power leaping between them, igniting the magic of the chamber and lancing overhead. The bolts struck the duardin-carved pillars and the runes flared like newborn stars.

The realmgate opened.

Chapter Forty-Two

The cavern trembled, bringing gravel and dust spraying down from the high ceiling. The throbbing in Felk’s chest intensified in time with the tremors, every pulse sending a shock of energy through his diseased frame.

‘Witness the power of Poxmaster Felk!’ he crowed, lifting up a claw that danced with warp power. His words seemed to take form, noxious breath spilling from his mouth as he spoke.

The impetus of the armoured warriors was faltering. Their leader, the giant with hammer and sword that never stopped, halted on the first step to the realmgate dais. Though his weapons continued to arc left and right with blasts of power, his gaze was clearly fixed on the opening portal.

‘All hail Felk!’

The Poxmaster quivered as his name issued from thousands of throats, accompanied by the din of gongs and bells. ‘Power to me!’

The realmgate called to him, trying to drag him towards it. He felt it in his chest, the fang of Skixakoth like a white-hot shard in his heart. Forks of power crawled across the stones of the portal and leapt across the gap. They rapidly grew faster and brighter. The flashes were mesmerising, each flicker drawing in Felk’s consciousness, trying to snatch his mind from his brain.

He howled in triumph and pain, and threw out his hand in a spasm, involuntarily letting loose another arc of warp power that speared across the cavern and struck the keystone of the realmgate. The detonation sent a shockwave rippling out over the occupants of the hall, throwing skaven and Sigmar-warriors to the ground. The blast of energy snuffed out the warp-lamps, leaving the chamber lit only by the crawling fires engulfing the realmgate.

With a thunderous crack, the gap between worlds was breached and the cosmic bridge opened. Shimmering sunlight tinged with arboreal green crept into the cavern, bringing with it a gust of wind carrying the smell of mouldering leaves and rotted flesh.

The view through the gate was not altogether clear, but shuffling shapes quickly resolved into more hooded plague monks, icons of the Greater Witherer held aloft, drums and gongs banging as they marched out of the coruscating aura that filled the portal’s frame.

‘Beloved am I!’ screeched Felk, his triumph overcoming the agonising gnaw of the fang impaled through his breastbone. ‘The ranks of my disciples swell!’

The fighting abated, the warriors of Sigmar halfway up the steps, Felk’s followers gratefully drawing back from their merciless weapons now that reinforcements had arrived.

Another shape loomed in the translucent energy of the gate, almost blotting out the light from beyond. Felk stumbled to one knee as the pain in his chest flared to unbearable levels, a scouring agony that burned through every organ and coursed along his bones and nerves. Death seemed certain. Vile dread welled up where sweet victory had resided moments before. Squinting against the brightness, the Poxmaster watched as something monstrous and holy pushed through the veil between realms.

Its pinkish flesh was protected by rust-edged plates of warp-forged iron and its rat-like face was guarded by an angular helm fashioned to accommodate the profusion of horns that curled about its head. It wore a thick black belt from which hung a massive tome — the Liber Cankorum, in the pages of which were held the secrets of the Miasmic Flux. In its hand it held a four-tined spear that trailed tendrils of power from the realmgate.

Verminlord.

The musk of fear was strong around Felk as he watched the greater daemon of his god stride onto the realmgate dais. The monster’s eyes were drawn immediately to the Poxmaster and he felt the fang in his chest throb powerfully.

‘Felk.’ The verminlord’s voice was a sinister whisper that carried with it the weight of a booming shout. ‘Poxmaster of the Withering Canker.’

‘Mighty Skixakoth, Corruptor of the Pure, Sagacity Incarnate, Bearer of the Sacred Text!’ The list of titles devolved into a rambling mash of syllables as Felk’s nerve failed him.

The verminlord thrust a scimitar-like claw at Felk. The fang hummed with magical power, wreathing the Poxmaster in a greenish vapour. The same issued from the mouth of Skixakoth as it spoke.

‘Did you think I would not miss it?’ hissed the verminlord. ‘Did you think I would let you freely bargain with my power? Steal my victory?’

‘No-no!’ wailed Felk, demeaning himself more by falling to his belly, though he could not drag his eyes from the verminlord. ‘For-for you, greatest of the great, Skixakoth Right-Hand. Open gate, destroy Whiteworld Above, slay tree-queen for glory of Skixakoth.’

The verminlord’s lips rippled with what might have been a snarl or a smile; it was impossible to tell. It turned its gaze on the armoured giants formed in a tight group on the steps before it.

‘Kill them,’ it snapped, casting a bolt of power from its spear.

Chapter Forty-Three

Arkas raised his hammer just in time to catch the warp blast on its head. Corrupting magic and celestial power sprayed like sparks. At the verminlord’s command the skaven were filled with renewed fervour and poured across the cavern towards the surrounded Stormcasts. Even the pitiful slaves picked up stones and wooden clubs and scampered after their betters.

The Warbeasts stood shoulder-to-shoulder in a solid ring, weapons presented to the foe. Arkas fixed his gaze on the verminlord, a terrible wrath building in his heart.

Skixakoth.

This monster had laid low Ursungorod, destroyed the resistance of Arka Bear-clad and enslaved the people of the mountains. More than that. The Lord-Celestant’s eyes moved to the fell grimoire upon the daemon’s belt, a spell book containing virulent curses and devastating plagues — the same that had slain his adoptive mother in her bed, and even now gnawed the life from Katiya and her kin.

The rage was almost unstoppable. Arkas barely felt the earth trembling, thinking it was his own limbs quaking with power as Ghurite magic surged up into his body from below. With it came pain, the agony of memory a physical sensation.

But it was not Arkas’ pain, Arkas’ memories that consumed him. He felt the torture of Ursungorod itself, the spirit of the land tormented and corrupted by the infiltration of the skaven and the lashing of Chaos power at its heart.

A single desire possessed him — to free the lands of their tyrant, to slay the verminlord.

But that was not his purpose here.

He thought of white snow and a cool breeze, birds aloft in the mountain sky, free from this turmoil, desperately trying to calm the beast that raged inside his chest as though in a cage.

He was not Arka Bear-clad, he was Arkas Warbeast. Stormcast. Lord-Celestant. Commander. Servant of Sigmar.

The Celestial Vindicator ran these thoughts over and over in his head as the noose of skaven tightened around his warriors. Through the ruddy veil that had descended on his vision he searched the surrounds, though he was not sure what he was seeking until he found it.

An island, of sorts. The base of a gigantic stalagmite that had been smashed aside as the skaven had dug for the realmgate, blocked on three sides by cracks freshly widened by the convulsing earth.

‘Reform! Withdraw on me!’

With a clash of weapons, the Stormcast ring turned into a spearpoint with Arkas at the tip. The dozens of Paladins flowed like liquid, parting to allow Arkas to pass through, heading for the stalagmite.

A mob of plague monks stood between them and their objective, their leader a plague priest with two crooked blades scratched with skaven runes that caught the light from the realmgate in strange ways.

The plague priest snapped a command, eyes full of madness and hate as Arkas and the Warbeasts plunged back down the steps in a long triangle of turquoise sigmarite and gleaming celestial energy that rippled down the levels like a flood of raw Azyrite power given form.

Arkas kicked as the skaven priest leapt at him. His boot connected with its chest. Thick, tattered robes absorbed some of the impact but still the blow sent the creature spinning back into its fellows, toppling two more. An instant later, Arkas was into the gap, sweeping his weapons left and right to carve the breach even wider.

He piled on, ignoring the blows that rang from his armour, cutting down all in front of him, trusting to his companions to do the same to any that he passed. Bone crunched underfoot and he pulled his feet free from grasping fingers and entwining rags, smashing his hammer through another handful of foes. Striding on, he angled through the small gap between two precipitous chasms, less than ten paces wide, and turned as he set foot on the stalagmite.

The Warbeasts coursed around him, spinning in turn to take up fresh positions defending the natural island while their fellows moved past.

They were just settling into these new positions when the verminlord attacked.

The greater daemon leapt across the gorge to the left, easily covering the gap, its hooves striking sparks from the stone as it landed. The miasma of decay that followed it billowed across the Stormcasts, almost blotting out the light.

Arkas reacted without thought. He threw himself between the charging verminlord and his warriors, hammer and runeblade ready. With supernatural speed, Skixakoth twisted, bringing the long haft of its spear around to block Arkas’ sword, the hammer crackling through the fog where the verminlord had been a heartbeat earlier.

A massive fist crashed against the back of the Lord-Celestant’s head. He moved with the blow, completing a full forward roll to negate most of the impact. A hoof caught him in the midriff as he turned, knocking him back.

He had his back to the crevasse. Ahead, the plague monks screamed and shrieked their dedications to the Great Horned One as they launched their attack against the Stormcasts, the first dozen ratmen cut down by hammers, maces and glaives, the following skaven throwing themselves forwards undeterred.

That was all Arkas had time to glimpse before he had to step to the right, bringing up his hammer to deflect the spearhead of Skixakoth.

‘I know you…’ The greater daemon’s brow creased into deep furrows. ‘A strangely familiar smell.’

Arkas said nothing. He launched himself at the daemon, aiming his runeblade for its midriff. Its spear deflected the attack, but not the hammer-blow that followed, smashing into the creature’s shoulder. It staggered, snarling and spitting.

A spear thrust forced Arkas to retreat several steps, until he could feel the yawning precipice behind him. The verminlord leered, displaying dagger-like fangs.

‘I have not killed you before, have I, little Sigmar-thing?’ It splayed the talons of its free claw, warp lightning cracking between them. ‘No, that is not it. They were iron-clad and you are not.’

Arkas dodged aside to avoid the blast of warp lightning, but in doing so moved into the range of the verminlord’s spear. It pierced the side of his chest, below the right shoulder, two rusted tines shredding sigmarite and flesh.

Arkas cried out as corrupting magic poured into the wound, splitting bones and shredding sinew. He tore himself away from the spear and stumbled, thick blood gushing from the grievous injury.

‘I will see you soon in Azyr!’ cackled Skixakoth, driving its fist into Arkas’ masked face.

The blow hurled him back. He fell hard and scrabbled for purchase, but after an agonising moment Arkas discovered there was no ground beneath him.

He dropped into the chasm. His last sight before darkness engulfed everything was of the verminlord looking down over the edge of the precipice, a halo of warp-light surrounding its horned face.

Arkas hit an outcrop and bounced heavily, spinning laterally. He threw out a hand to grasp something, anything projecting from the side, but his fingers gripped only empty air.

He could feel waves of Ghurite energy buffeting him like updraughts of air. Arkas let the magic lap around him, soothing his troubled thoughts, comforting him like a friend. A brotherly embrace.

The light from the cavern of the realmgate was just a faint line far, far above when he hit the bottom of the ravine.

The agony was thankfully short-lived, the Stormcast’s bones shattered, organs pulverised, flesh pierced and gashed by buckled sigmarite plates. He felt it for just a few heartbeats, until that heart gave out and the celestial power in the core of his being exploded. It disintegrated what was left of Arkas Warbeast and as a bolt of pure energy shot up into the heavens.

Chapter Forty-Four

The battle for Kurzengor had eached an impasse. Theuderis and his Paladins had reunited with the Angelos Conclave and the rest of his warriors. They held three routes down to the undercity — the slave pit they had first seized, a tunnel network beneath a crumbling temple and a sinkhole that had collapsed in one of the gardens of a sprawling palace.

Against the warriors and weapons of the Chaos tribes these positions were virtually impregnable. The three forces were arrayed in a triangle so that not one of them could be surrounded without the enemy being caught with their backs to another Stormcast enclave. Justicars and Prosecutors raked celestial missiles into any foe that approached too close, but were content to let them flee beyond range when their spirit broke. Those that dared and survived this barrage of arrows, bolts and javelins were confronted by a shield wall of Liberators, who received the brunt of the initial assaults and then peeled apart by retinue to allow the Paladins within each armoured ring to counter-attack.

Several times this strength had been tested and the streets and plazas of Kurzengor were thronged with corpses, the bloody remnants of corrupted humans waist-deep in places. The rooftops, courtyards and alleys were similarly littered with the dead. It had started to snow again and streams of crimson pooled from gutters and downpipes, staining the fresh fall.

Thousands of the Chaos-tainted had been slain but not without losses to the Knights Excelsior. Theuderis’ Paladins in particular had paid heavily for their presumptuous thrust into the city, and more than a third of their number had already been returned to Sigmar.

For all their solidity, the three forces were mutually dependant. If Theuderis led one into the depths to relieve Arkas then the remaining two would be surrounded. It was this dilemma that Lord-Relictor Glavius raised with Theuderis, as the two stood on a mansion roof above the wall that girded the slave-pit. From here they could see almost the entire circumference of the defences, and across to the other forces in the neighbouring areas.

A swathe of the city was on fire, torched by the Chaos marauders in the hope that the smoke and flames would drive out the interlopers. The swirling winds had thwarted that plan and the few dozen warriors daring enough to sneak through the fume clouds had been easily picked off by Trajos and his Judicators.

‘We should already be on the heels of Arkas, my lord,’ said Glavius. ‘We do not know how far into the depths we must descend.’

‘He knew the plan and was willing to accept the risk of his part in it,’ Theuderis replied. ‘Without a secure base any movement into the undercity will likely splinter and fail.’

‘That is true.’ Glavius looked over his shoulder towards the expanse of the slave pit. ‘Even so, a degree of rapidity would not go amiss. Our route is uncertain.’

‘You do not have to labour the point, Glavius.’ Theuderis gestured in a wide arc, encompassing the other two Stormcast enclaves. ‘I planned for two possible approaches to the next phase of the attack. The first is to launch a three-pronged assault, each battalion collapsing in behind its Redeemer Conclaves to make steady advances into the deeps. Alternatively, we can bring the entire host to a single ingress and make one concerted push for the realmgate.’

‘You speak as though you have already decided which is the better,’ said Glavius. ‘But perhaps are not yet ready to commit.’

‘I have weighed the risks and benefits of each course, and there is little to choose between them as far as chances of success or failure go,’ admitted Theuderis. ‘To come together risks attack and disruption on the surface but guarantees a more cohesive assault below. To make three separate invasions shares the risk, negating the dangers of attack from the tribesmen but leaving us separated against the skaven.’

‘Which would be the quicker?’ asked the Lord-Relictor.

‘A speedy move to defeat is pointless against a more measured advance to victory.’

Theuderis could sense his companion’s frustration but he would not be cajoled into a hasty decision. He had only half the force with which he had entered Ursungorod. Though he would not shirk from sacrificing the other half if it brought victory, a hurried venture into uncertain terrain against an uncounted, unknown enemy was not his idea of a sound strategy.

‘Lord…’

The tone of Glavius’ voice rather than the word drew Theuderis’ attention straight to the slave-pit. Several retinues of his Prosecutors were hurling their missiles into the depths while the Decimators and Protectors stationed at the gantries and scaffolding withdrew, moving into more defensive postures.

Samat was a streak above, flashing down towards the Lord-Celestant, but whatever warning he thought to bring was unnecessary. Moments later Theuderis saw for himself the nature of the threat emerging from below.

Towering above the Stormcasts, a verminlord burst out of the pit, spearing a Decimator on the blades of its polearm. Missiles converged on the greater daemon, sparking and splashing from its unnatural form. In its wake a wave of robed skaven boiled out of the hole like froth overrunning a cup, streaming after their god’s avatar as it slashed the head from another Knight Excelsior.

Samat descended, wings trailing spirals of celestial energy that melted the falling snow.

‘We hold,’ Theuderis barked. ‘Take word to the other battalions to unite and make fast where they can. We will delay the foe as long as possible.’

‘What of you, my lord?’ asked the Knight-Azyros.

‘I will make my stand here.’

Samat nodded and sped away, becoming a blur against the clouds. Theuderis took a step towards the stairs down from the roof but a hand on his arm stopped him.

‘Where are you going?’ said Glavius.

‘To fight,’ Theuderis replied.

‘You cannot, my lord.’ The Lord-Relictor removed his hand. ‘It is more important that you lead the army.’

The Lord-Celestant looked at the skaven horde spilling from the undercity, and at the line of white and blue arranged against the dark mass.

‘I will lead the defence,’ Glavius continued. ‘But you are needed to muster what force you can with the rest of the host.’

‘No,’ said Theuderis, stepping past the Lord-Relictor. ‘My place is here. I am a commander, but a warrior first. The others will know what to do and will await my return.’

He would listen to no further argument and ran for the steps, heading down to ground level as swiftly as possible. Tyrathrax awaited him beside a broken-down gatehouse, padding back and forth as the sounds of battle increased.

‘You cheated death once, but it comes again,’ he told his steed, swinging into the saddle. ‘I will be reborn. Lessened, but alive. Your spirit will return to the great flux of Azyr.’

The dracoth did not seem the least perturbed by this and threw herself into a sprint, heading down the street directly for the Stormcast line. Prosecutors and Judicators did their best with volleys of fire, and had driven the verminlord back into the pit for the time being. Against the numberless horde their celestial bolts and arrows had little impact.

Over the heads of his warriors, Theuderis spied the skaven leaders — a cabal of staff-wielding priests directing the attack from the rim of the slave-pit.

‘If we do nothing but slay their commanders we will have struck a vital blow,’ he bellowed to his warriors as Tyrathrax bounded through a gap between two brotherhoods of Decimators. ‘Attack is the surest defence!’

Skaven bodies were flung aside by the rampage of the dracoth, while bolts of celestial energy forked from her maw to strike down even more. Theuderis’ blade moved constantly, every whip-fast sweep and precise thrust finding a throat, skull or heart amongst the tightly packed skaven monks.

He could see his goal less than fifty paces away. One of the plague priests was larger than the others, swollen with warp-touch, eyes gleaming green, its staff crackling with the same power. Perhaps it was coincidence or perhaps the priest sensed Theuderis’ approach. It turned its eyes towards the Lord-Celestant. He thought to see concern, knowing skaven were a fearful breed in their hearts. He was met with a stare of hatred so intense he almost felt it like a blow.

Screeching, the priest pointed its staff at Theuderis, waving a fresh mob of priests towards the Knight Excelsior. Dozens more furred and robed creatures scampered into the space ahead of Theuderis.

Tyrathrax stumbled. A skaven corpse was tangled around her front leg by a frayed rope belt. It was almost nothing, and she quickly recovered, but the loss of momentum proved consequential. The plague monks pressed in harder still, swamping the dracoth and her rider, battering and hacking from every direction. No matter how quickly Theuderis struck, or how viciously Tyrathrax bit and clawed, their progress was slowed to a halt.

Skinny fingers with broken claws grasped and scraped at Theuderis and plucked at the armour of his steed. Rusted blades found the saddle-cinch and moments later the Lord-Celestant felt himself slipping sideways, dragged down by dozens of scabbed, blistered hands.

Tyrathrax howled as she too was overwhelmed, buried beneath a living, snarling avalanche of frenzied rat-beasts. Theuderis managed to twist to his feet as the dracoth pitched sideways and the saddle fell free. He could barely see anything, tatters of cloth across his face, gore and blood clotting the joints of his armour. He struck out with blade and fist, but could not fight his way free.

His mask was ripped away and he caught a glimpse of vermin faces, drooling and manic. He tasted rusted metal. It was confusing, until he realised the blade had entered his mouth from beneath his chin.

He rolled over, crushing the plague monk beneath his bulk, but half a dozen leapt onto his back, using the edges of his armour plates as handholds, hammering and stabbing with delirious intensity.

Pushing himself to one knee, the Lord-Celestant swept his sword in a broad arc, severing the legs of a handful of foes. Something pierced his cheek from behind and he reached back to pluck the offending attacker from his shoulder. With a grunt he smashed the squealing skaven into another robed foe, breaking the spines of both.

He was almost upright when his knee gave way, tendons severed by the sawing of jagged knives. A serrated sword entered his eye, not quite deep enough to pierce the brain. Roaring from the pain he punched the head from the monk trying to drag the weapon free.

And then Theuderis fell, toppled to his back by the weight of his foes. He saw a last glimpse of grey clouds, the snow falling heavily.

Through swimming vision he saw the priest, the one with the jade eyes. There was something in its chest, revealed through the tatters of its robe, smoking and bubbling in a patch of scorched fur. It raised its staff, the skull at its tip chattering wildly, though the sound was distorted, muffled, masked by the drumming of the Lord-Celestant’s heart and the lessening throb of fleeing blood.

The pain stopped.

Furnace heat. Searing. Melting. Reforming.

Hammers crash. A forge, not battle. Anvils ring. Thunder rumbles.

Sparks, bright. Forks of lightning. The glow of forges. Starlight above.

Sulphur and hot steel. Charcoal. Boiling blood and charred flesh.

Chapter Forty-Five

He heard chanting — his name — and Ermenberga waved him towards the parapet.

‘Your subjects await you,’ she said, eyes moist with joy. She patted her stomach meaningfully, ‘and soon you will have other news to brighten their spirits further. I think it is a boy…’

Theuderic was struck dumb, his thoughts whirling. He pulled himself up onto the rampart edge. His army, led by princes and dukes and war leaders of many other castles and citadels, erupted into even greater noise, such that Theuderic almost didn’t hear the rumbling of thunder above.

He looked up and saw that the darkening sky was filling with ominous clouds. Fearing some last treachery of the alter-folk, Theuderic glanced back at his family.

With his name still ringing in his ears, and the loving, upturned faces of his wife and children etched into his mind, Theuderic juddered as a bolt scythed through his body without warning.

In a moment, all that he knew, the wide plains and jagged hills of the Glittering Breaches, dropped down beneath him. The great keeps and fortresses of his lands became specks of gold and silver before they too were lost, and in a moment the blur of the Auric Shield of Lyonaster disappeared from view.

He thought for a moment that he had been swallowed by a star, suffused with light and heat.

Pain returned.

He retreated, letting it consume his body, protecting his mind from its ravages.

In time the agony became a dull ache.

Theuderic was consumed by the storm, reforged into the Silverhand. But he was not yet Stormcast again, merely a mote of power hanging in the firmament of the quenching chamber. An idea bound into a miniature star. Celestial energy awaiting form.

He rebuilt himself without thought. Mind, body, armour.

Re-clad, Theuderis Silverhand waited for the last of the pain to wash away. The walls of the quenching chamber fell away with a last crackle of lightning, leaving the Lord-Celestant standing upon white marble floors, the high crystal-paned vaults of Sigmaron above him.

He was not alone.

Like shades from the past, the dead Knights Excelsior stood in ranks close at hand, waiting patiently for the return of their commander. There were fewer than he had feared.

Were the rest still in Ursungorod, or yet to be remade? Was the battle already lost?

A single note rang across the chamber, resonating inside his mind. A summons he could not ignore.

With swift strides he made his way to the grand hall of the God-King. Through great arches and windows he saw scores of other Strike Chambers from half a dozen Stormhosts gathered about their commanders, awaiting the Tempest of the God-King to send them on their missions. There was motion everywhere, columns and flights of Stormcasts ready to add their strength to the ongoing campaign to seize back the realmgates.

Entering the hall of his lord, the Silverhand found Sigmar sitting statue-like upon his throne, a giant that dwarfed even the Stormcasts of his armies. He was clad in golden armour, and his hair and beard flowed in the celestial gale that surrounded him.

The Warbeast was already present, some distance from his lord, bent to one knee, head bowed.

Theuderis tried to avert his gaze but the moment before he did so, the God-King looked directly at him. He expected anger, perhaps disappointment. He felt nothing but understanding, even admiration.

‘We failed, Lord Sigmar,’ Theuderis whispered, taking position next to Arkas. ‘Ursungorod is lost.’

The God-King rose from his throne and approached. As he neared them he seemed to grow smaller. His presence did not diminish in any way, but his form shifted, so that when he was standing almost within reach he was just a little taller than the Lord-Celestants.

‘Rise,’ the God-King commanded. They obeyed. ‘You have not yet failed. There is still time.’

Theuderis thought he would have been more moved by this revelation, but his mood was level, his spirit placid. Cold, even.

The Warbeast had not looked at him, but out of the corner of his eye Theuderis could see the Celestial Vindicator. His hands were fists, shoulders hunched. There was a palpable aura of anger emanating from him.

‘The division of our enemies has granted us opportunity,’ Sigmar continued. ‘The skaven and the Chaos tribes war with each other. Lord Silverhand, half of your force survived and awaits your return not far from the city.’

Theuderis nodded, accepting this fact without comment. Sigmar turned his attention to Arkas.

‘The Warbeasts were not so fortunate, but they have been reforged.’ The God-King crossed his arms. ‘You have one chance more to seize the realmgate. Lord-Castellant Durathos stands ready still. You will take the realmgate and summon Durathos to bring forth his Knights Excelsior.’

‘I will lead the attack,’ growled Arkas. Now he looked at Theuderis and there was a sullen rage behind his gaze. ‘This time there will be no hesitation.’

Sigmar raised a hand to silence Theuderis’ protest before it was voiced.

‘The assault on the All-gates is fast-approaching. I can spare no other Strike Chambers for the attack on Ursungorod.’ Sigmar looked from Arkas to Theuderis and back again. ‘Arkas, return to your Strike Chamber and prepare for the Tempest. Your hour of vengeance has not yet passed.’

Arkas hurriedly raised a fist in salute and stalked away. Theuderis watched him depart, already calculating a strategy that would take into account the Warbeast’s increased fury.

‘I do not understand why you approve of such ill-discipline, Lord Sigmar,’ he said when Arkas was out of sight. ‘These Warbeasts are barely controllable. Unfit to be Stormcasts.’

Sigmar’s expression soured.

‘It is not your place to question my judgement.’ He relented as Theuderis again sank to one knee in silent apology. ‘But I will indulge you on this occasion. My Celestial Vindicators are rough gems, that is certain. They are unpredictable, often barbaric. Not every great hero of the Mortal Realms is a prince or knight, Lord Theuderis. The Warbeasts are savage, relentless and meteoric. Let them be free and they will take you to the realmgate.’

‘Arkas seems possessed by an even greater wrath than before.’

‘Aye,’ said Sigmar. His gaze moved away, as though looking at the departed Warbeast. ‘His Reforging was costly.’

‘Angry commanders make poor decisions, my lord,’ Theuderis said.

‘But they make decisions,’ Sigmar said, and Theuderis flinched at the words. ‘They take risks which can achieve great reward. Not all problems can be solved before a blade has been raised. Have you ever considered that I might want Arkas to be angry?’

The thought had never occurred to the Silverhand and his silence was admission of the fact.

‘Go,’ said the God-King. ‘The tempest of war calls you. Strike with the speed and fury of my wrath.’

‘Your wrath, my blade,’ Theuderis replied.

Chapter Forty-Six

‘A sight that pleases me greatly.’

Felk shuddered as the verminlord’s words scuttled into his ears, sending tiny shockwaves through his system. Whiskers and tail twitching like disturbed serpents, the Poxmaster looked out across the city. He could see everything from the vandalised faces carved from the mountain rock. The snow fell thick in places over the masses of the dead, freezing the dying. Fires raged elsewhere, their glow lighting broken buildings and ruin-cluttered streets.

Here and there bands of skaven and the human tribes still clashed. The noise of their skirmishes carried far in the quiet aftermath of the skaven attack.

‘Late-late,’ mused Felk, swallowing hard. ‘Long time needed.’

‘Yes,’ said Skixakoth. ‘Vermalanx throws war at the sylvaneth queen, but is blind to other routes to victory. His fall shall be my rise.’

Felk said nothing. He had known he tampered with the schemes of beings far greater than him, but it had seemed a distant, abstract danger. Now there were warriors of Sigmar — Stormcasts they were called — bringing battle against him, and verminlord Corruptors taking an interest in his schemes.

Yet not for a heartbeat did he regret any action or decision. If not to be the greatest, if not to be seen by the eyes of the Great Corruptor, what was the point of existence? Though by nature his body was weak and cowardly, his ideals held him to a greater standard. He was driven by ambition, not courage, but would, when tested, prefer death to failure and slavery.

‘We will kill-kill storm warriors and nothing will stop us,’ said Felk. He could see the azure glow from the host of the giant warriors. They had taken up position on the mountainside between the city and the fire peaks.

‘No.’ The single word made Felk flinch. ‘The Whiteworld Above is of no consequence. The realmgate is open, our forces united. Vermalanx will fail and I will rise.’

Skixakoth strode away, tail lashing back and forth. Felk hissed at his back, emboldened again by the verminlord’s departure. He waited until the daemon of the Horned Rat had descended into the passages behind the duardin kings’ memorial.

‘I smell you,’ he said quietly. ‘Strong fear, yes?’

Thriss emerged from the shadows to the left.

‘I am Eshin,’ said the gutter runner. ‘No friend to Corruptors of the Horned One.’

‘But serve me?’

‘For payment.’ Thriss flashed fangs in the gloom. ‘For more payment?’

Felk fought back a threat. He had little bargaining power left since the arrival of the verminlord. He sighed.

‘Yes-yes. Double warpstone. Triple slaves. Yes-yes?’

Head cocked to one side, Thriss considered the offer and then nodded.

‘Good-good.’ Felk scratched at the open wound containing Skixakoth’s fang. His eyes strayed back to the Stormcasts upon the hill. They had not fled, but were waiting for something. He had heard the verminlord taunting one of the giant’s commanders, the one that had tried to seize the realmgate directly. Its words had implied that death was no barrier to Sigmar’s chosen. They could return. The wheels of his mind turned and he looked at Thriss. ‘Fetch Skarth. Have missions for two of you.’

Chapter Forty-Seven

Even the storm that had heralded the arrival of the Warbeasts paled in comparison to the Tempest of Sigmar’s power that boiled through the sky over Kurzengor. The stars turned blue and then were swallowed by the thunderheads of celestial energy blanketing the heavens from horizon to horizon.

In the city skaven and human alike looked up at the immense magical conflagration and knew that war was not yet finished in Ursungorod. The boom of a single thunderclap was like the bellows of the God-King himself, toppling decrepit buildings, bringing avalanches of snow and rock tumbling down the mountainside onto the outskirts of the ancient city.

The flare of lightning started an instant later. It peaked in just a few heartbeats, hundreds of strikes lashing the mountain around the perimeter of the Stormcast position. So fierce was the return of the Warbeasts and fallen Silverhands that the snow was turned to rivers of meltwater cascading down over rocks and down gullies to flood into the contested city below.

A corona of power still crackling around him, Arkas Warbeast sucked in a deep lungful of air. Almost immediately he could feel the wash of Ghurite energy, the spirit of Ursungorod welcoming him back with a feral snarl in the back of his mind.

The Reforging had awakened the spirit of the Bear-clad again, but this time it had not dissipated. Arkas and Arka existed as one and the same. There was no more doubt, no inner conflict, just a rage, pure and focussed, an animal instinct to slay his foes without thought of the consequence. It felt good. He felt stronger. Stronger than he had been before.

Released. Freed.

His gaze found Theuderis, who, sitting astride his dracoth, was surrounded by a growing cadre of Silverhands officers. Knights-Heraldor and Knights-Vexillor dashed from the Stormcast encampment to greet their returned brethren and receive their commands, while the ranks of the Knights Excelsior stood silent guard.

Dolmetis and Doridun approached, several Primes a few steps behind them.

‘My lord,’ the Knight-Vexillor began, but Arkas cut him off with a snarl. It was hard to form words, to bring some coherent thought from the swirl of anger that embroiled his mind.

‘I will speak to Lord Silverhand and then we attack,’ he said, pushing past the knot of Stormcasts.

The Silverhands parted at his approach. Theuderis saw the Warbeast’s mood and bade his officers to depart a short distance. His dracoth snorted and snarled as Arkas approached, nostrils flaring. The Silverhand dismounted and offered a salute.

‘Your mount takes a dislike to me,’ said Arkas, meeting the hostile glare of the dracoth. It backed away several steps.

The Silverhand patted the monster’s shoulder. He turned his gaze back to the Warbeast, his tone clipped and precise. ‘We will attack in a single, coordinated assault.’

‘We will,’ replied Arkas. He reigned in his emotions, leashing the animal that was trying to break free. ‘I will lead, you will follow. We kill everything we meet until there is nothing left to kill.’

‘Yes, but we n—’

‘We strike now.’ Arkas drew in a deep breath through his nose, pushing the bestial growl from his voice. ‘The skaven still fight with the tribes. They cannot both attack and defend.’

He feared what might happen if Theuderis prevaricated further and so turned away. His officers fell in beside him, silent, cowed by his demeanour.

‘Warbeasts!’ He raised his hammer, a signal for mustering. When the Stormcasts had assembled, he lowered the weapon to point to the city below. ‘We fight. We kill. We win.’

‘We fight. We kill. We win.’ The chorus growled from the throats of his immortal warriors, echoed from their masked helms. ‘We fight. We kill. We win. We fight. We kill. We win.’

With this martial chant filling the air, Dolmetis raised the standard of the Warbeasts high and Doridun let forth a blast from his clarion. The call became a thunderous roll from the storm and a single stroke of lightning flashed to crackle down the icon of the Knight-Vexillor.

‘Sigmar commands it,’ laughed Dolmetis. ‘He blesses the deaths of our foes.’

‘We fight!’ Arkas’ voice rose over the continuing tempest-clamour in the skies. ‘We kill! We win!’

Chapter Forty-Eight

Ignoring the insult of Arkas’ actions, Theuderis watched with detached interest as the Celestial Vindicators commenced their bellowing and chanting. It was quite unseemly, the display of brute emotion, but he remembered the words of Sigmar: Let them be free and they will take you to the realmgate. Considering the words again it seemed that they were not so much an instruction as a foretelling. Did mighty Sigmar have insight beyond the present? Could he know what would happen?

Every part of Theuderis’ calculating mind railed against another impetuous, ad-hoc assault into the undercity. It made no sense that what had failed before would succeed this time, even if the skaven were currently occupied with trying to retake the city from the humans.

Yet his master had commanded, and the part of him that was the loyal knight could not refuse Sigmar’s will. Oaths had been sworn, promises must be upheld.

‘Follow the Warbeasts,’ he told his officers. ‘All brotherhoods.’

‘What of a rearguard, my lord?’ asked Attaxes. ‘The city is filled with foes that might fall upon us as we pass.’

‘My orders were clear, Knight-Heraldor. Sound the general advance.’

Progress through Kurzengor was even swifter than during the Stormcasts’ first assault. Without delaying to secure their flanks or finish off the scattered bands of humans or skaven that crossed their path, the Warbeasts and Silverhands had slashed their way through to the centre of the city by the time dawn was rising, fully a day after their initial attack had begun.

Knowing that speed was more valuable than stealth, Arkas led the force not to the slave-pit where they had descended before, but to an area of the city where many of the buildings and streets had collapsed and subsided, undermined by the skaven tunnelling below. Where the duardin parts of the city had been extended by the gnawholes of the skaven, entire districts had been swallowed. In the twilight before sunrise, the unnatural gleam of fungi and warpstone lit cracks and holes from below, a dull beacon that drew Arkas on.

The army of Sigmar’s chosen plunged down through the ruins by chasms and caves, bursting into the cellars of toppled mansions and the crypts of looted temples. They came upon an immense cavern dominated by the piled ruins of the buildings that had fallen from the surface.

The outer parts of the skaven city were a maze of hovels, ragged tents and reclaimed buildings patched and reinforced by a mad scattering of debris. As well as covering the brick-strewn ground, the city teetered up the bases of massive stalagmites, the towers crisscrossed with bridges and walkways, ratlines running from the roofs to the tips of hollowed stalactites. From the midst of this scavenged urban tangle, a causeway of masonry and mud cut back and forth out of the buildings until it met with the broad stones of what had formerly been the vaulting arches of a human temple.

This dismal edifice speared like a living mountain from the effluence and trash of the undercity, in places shaped by the hands of humans, in others crafted by duardin skill, all smeared and smashed together with reckless abandon by the Chaos ratmen.

The pilaster of decay was wreathed in fumes and vapours that issued from smokeholes and chimneys and rose from streams of filth and sluggish rivers that dribbled from stolen gutters and cracked sewer lines.

Its peak seemed broken, a tangle of splintered wood and split rope, collapsed gear housings and huge wheels piled atop each other. The remnants of something bronze embedded in the structure glinted in the witchlight of countless warpstone-fuelled lanterns.

Though a great many of the skaven contested the city above, their undercity was not undefended. Streams of ratmen poured forth from the filthy warren, setting upon the Stormcasts from all sides. From the depths of the central mass marched forth columns of robed plague monks, swaying in time to the bells and gongs, thirteen tendrils of matted fur and dirty cloth each led by a ranting plague priest.

Arkas and the Warbeasts speared into the heart of the skaven, driving deep through their line and across the causeway leading to their shrine. Possessed by his fury, Arkas paid no heed to defence, but such was the ferocity of his coming none survived to land a blow upon the plates of his armour. His hammer and runeblade slew everything they touched, killing with single blows, their celestial power fuelled by his rage.

Commanded by Theuderis, the Silverhands were more deliberate but no less swift in their encroachment. Like the horns of a bull, brotherhoods of Paladins swept out around the cavern, each tipped by winged Prosecutors. The Lord-Celestant and his Redeemer Conclave formed the centre, pushing steadily through the ramshackle huts and streets, churning through skaven warriors with irrepressible force.

There was little thought to Arkas’ approach. Even the simple mantra, ‘We fight. We kill. We win,’ had devolved into something even less specific — a primal desire to destroy. A need to slay. Pure animal fury, defending the nest, the attack of a predator, the battle for dominance of the herd. Unthinking and savage, it pushed Arkas further and further into the undercity, the spirit of Ghur that writhed in his gut calling him deeper and deeper into the belly of Ursungorod.

Chapter Forty-Nine

The plague monks attacked Theuderis directly, trying to break between the Knights Excelsior and the Celestial Vindicators. The Silverhand could see the crude strategy unfolding like jittering clockwork — a spasmodic mechanism that was easy to disrupt. He called to his Judicators and before the skaven had made much headway they were confronted by volley after volley of flaming missiles and celestial bolts.

Impetus was the key, and he did not allow the attack to sway him from his course — his brotherhoods had to keep pace with the haste of the Warbeasts’ advance. Yet for all his endeavours, he could not prevent a separation occurring. His army was simply more unwieldy than the compact force of Arkas, and more prone to delay by the unforgiving terrain and surging assaults of the plague monks.

Arkas was almost gone from view, forging towards one of the corridors to the lower levels, when another factor further impinged upon Theuderis’ evolving strategy. From upon the walls and buttressed towers of the massive temple, catapults hurled festering payloads of rocks and waste. Encrusted pots and slime-covered boulders crashed into the Knights Excelsior. The impacts were severe but it was the splash of noxious, warp-strengthened filth that proved the greater threat. Like the fume cloud of the plague rats and censer bearers, these missiles carried a toxic mix of infection and acidic vapour that hissed and bubbled across the armour of the Silverhands.

Prosecutors sped up from the city, unleashing salvoes of lightning-wreathed missiles against the crews of the machines and falling upon them with blazing hammers. Freed from the swooping attacks of these warriors, the plague monks below charged down the causeway and thrust up from the catacombs, attacking with renewed fervour.

For all that Arkas and his warriors crashed into the foe with unmatched ferocity, these fresh attacks dragged at the flanks and heels of the Warbeasts, slowing their impetus. Skaven forces arriving from deeper into the mountain swarmed up the tunnels, confronting the Celestial Vindicators head-on, choking the path to the depths with a mob of hissing Chaos vermin.

The horns of the attack had also stalled, not quite encircling the cavern as Theuderis had intended. Glavius fought at the head of one tip, trying to break through to Arkas’ increasingly beleaguered position, but the weight of enemies before him was still increasing. On the other flank, Theuderis could see the icon of his Strike Chamber amongst the broken buildings where Voltaran had similarly been swamped by skaven.

The situation threatened to spiral out of Theuderis’ control. The whirring gears of his mind processed every extant aspect of the battle, analysing and assaying possible strategies, discarding them all in turn. Even as Tyrathrax spat lightning and his blade bisected wailing skaven, he focussed his thoughts on a single purpose.

The realmgate. Deliver the Warbeast to the realmgate.

Cursing his own stupidity, he realised that he did not have to be with Arkas to protect him. If the Celestial Vindicators could reach the realmgate their icon would act as a lode-star for Durathos, who was waiting with an entire Strike Chamber in Sigmaron. Theuderis just had to protect the Warbeasts’ backs to allow them to get close enough.

Before he could enact his plan, the atmosphere in the cavern changed. A foetid wind blew across the burning, broken skaven slum, bringing with it the acrid taste of warpstone and an even deeper stench of decay and ruin.

The verminlord.

It was silhouetted against the dawn light at one of the gashes into the city above, towering over a sea of its verminous followers. A spark of warpfire from its spear lit the air.

At the same time, almost directly opposite Skixakoth, the chief plague priest appeared at the gate atop the causeway. Theuderis remembered the wound in its chest, and could see the gleam of warp-power from beneath the creature’s robes.

It mattered not. Theuderis’ disparate trains of thought came together, the pieces of the plan sliding into place like the levers of a carefully machined duardin engine. At its centre, the gear around which it all revolved, was Arkas. One piece of wisdom from the God-King shone bright in Theuderis’ mind, perhaps another semi-prophetic pronouncement, masked as a question: Have you ever considered that I might want Arkas to be angry?’

‘Samat!’ The Silverhand’s call cut through the clamour of weapons and shrieking of rat-warriors. Even as the Knight-Azyros heard his lord’s command, he turned on glittering wings and sped down.

‘What orders, my lord?’

‘Take this to Arkas and make him listen.’ Theuderis followed with his message, clearly enunciating every word. ‘Say it exactly as I told you. Make sure the Warbeast hears it.’

Whether he understood the implications of the message or not, Samat flew away, shafts of dull sunlight from above catching his white form as he cruised over the battle.

Theuderis cleaved his way free of the skaven that had been pressing up around him. His gaze moved from the plague priest to the verminlord, assessing the validity of the two courses of action before him. To attack one left his forces vulnerable to the other.

‘A reckoning,’ he told his dracoth, turning her towards the verminlord. He raised his voice to a thunderous bellow. ‘Silverhands, today the plan is simple. We fight! We kill! We win!’

Chapter Fifty

Fatigue was a greater enemy than the Chaos-tainted rat-creatures that fell beneath Arkas’ blade and hammer. As a fire burns its fuel, so the celestial force that powered the Warbeast — the very same essence of Sigmar from which his entire being was formed — was consumed by the rage of the Lord-Celestant. He could feel his power waning, sapped by every blow that decapitated and eviscerated.

Around him frothed waves of magic, swells of Ghurite energy trying to pierce his will as the skaven weapons tried to pierce his armour. It sought the chinks in his consciousness, flashing memories of standing upon a wall looking down upon a desolate field as the skaven poured forth on their conquest. It was a voice inside his head, saying nothing, but its panting, bestial presence was a constant temptation to free himself.

He had sworn oaths, to serve Sigmar, to be Stormcast. The God-King granted him life, an immortal existence, in exchange for his service. The celestial force that ebbed from his body was the same power that sustained him.

A shout pierced the ruddy cloud of his thoughts. A name. His name.

He stepped back, allowing his Decimators to push on around him, hacking and crushing, their axes and maces glowing with mystical force. The voice called again and he looked up to see an angelic being above, ivory and blue lit by a halo of distorted sunlight.

Something arced down towards him, catching the light. The Knight-Azyros, Samat. He hovered just above Arkas, his wings of lightning flickering with power.

‘A message, Warbeast!’ the Knight Excelsior called down. ‘From my lord, Theuderis Silverhand. “The taint will be purged. Your people are dead”.’

Shaking his head, Arkas did not grasp the importance of the words. His mind laboured over their meaning, but intellectual thought was made impossible by a rising tide of pure instinct, a subconscious understanding that swept through him.

Pain. The pain of memory. Katiya lying on the bier, plague eating her from the inside.

But not Katiya. His mother. No, his sister.

Confusion, torment, the agony of failure.

An oath. Words spoken on the deathbed of his mother-sister. A promise older than his fealty to Sigmar.

A promise unfulfilled.

Snatched away by the God-King. Friends, companions, family left to die and be enslaved.

His land abandoned.

Ursungorod betrayed.

But he would save his people. The omens…

The words came to him, crystal-clear across the vast ages.

‘I did not say our people would be saved,’ Radomira chided. ‘You must pay attention to detail, I have told you before. I said from the events of this day our lands will be freed.’

Failure. Again.

Arkas tore off the mask of his helm and howled, feeling the rush of Ghurite energy pounding into him like water through a broken dam. The spirit of Ursungorod filled him where the power celestial had diminished.

This time he did not fight it. He welcomed it.

He barely noticed his Stormcasts moving away, forming a defensive circle around their stricken commander. Arkas’ thoughts were a vortex of pain.

The Lord-Celestant accepted the pain, took it as his own. It was a burden he had carried as Arka Bear-clad, a role he had abdicated as Arkas Warbeast.

He let the Ursungorod pit pull him down, funnelling his pain into a bright star of frustrated rage, drawing him into the heart of the mountain — into the Shadowgulf where all light and hope died.

Here the power of Ghur found its home.

Arkas touched something vast and cosmic. He felt it stretching out into the impossible gulfs between realms. A fragment, an avatar, a memory from the world-that-was. The spirit of Ursungorod, trapped and in agony for countless lifetimes, ravaged by the fires of Chaos, split and rent and broken, a body of fallen mountains, chasms and cracks. His flesh crawled as he felt the aching emptiness of skaven gnaw-ways burrowing through his immortal frame like worms and maggots, trying to corrupt him from within.

He shuddered at the pain, and the world above shuddered with him.

Arkas ascended again, sent up through the rock like a mote lifted on a geyser, a channel, a conduit for the eternal rage of the spirit buried under the mountains. With a bestial roar that shook the cavern of the undercity, he burst back into his body, immolating himself with the power of Ghur, burning with the vengeful fire of the beast.

The mountain broke.

Chapter Fifty-One

The power manifested itself as a monstrous bear, a churning maelstrom of erupting force that hurled half of the mountain skywards with its eruption. Thousands of skaven were drawn up by the raging beast as its slavering maw and immaterial claws swept through them, their terrified squeals and shrieks swallowed by the earth-shattering boom of the roar it shared with Arkas.

The undercity was ripped asunder, its jagged innards exposed by the rising of the beast. The incarnation of Ursungorod’s spirit became a thick cloud, a creation of dust and shattered stone that roiled away into the dawn light, leaving sunbeams lancing down into the heart of the broken peak. Skaven bodies fell like hail.

Panting, snarling, infused with the beast-magic, Arkas squinted against a painful light. Something blinding and golden shone in the depths. The realmgate sat fully exposed on its dais, the cities of men, duardin and skaven scoured clear. The archway was alight with magic, flames licking from the stones in fluttering golden waves.

‘Go!’ he commanded his warriors, dragging the word out of the depths of his mind, language almost forgotten. He thrust a finger towards the exposed realmgate. ‘Go!’

The Celestial Vindicators hesitated, unsure of what was happening. It was Doridun who reacted first, lifting his clarion to signal the charge. Dolmetis responded, turning to lead the attack into the crater left where the Ursun-spirit had erupted.

The ivory-clad warriors of Theuderis were spearing towards the verminlord, the Silverhand leading the charge from the back of his dracoth. Arkas set his sights on another target. From the causeway spilled the plague monks, yelling and screaming their praises as they launched themselves into the flank of the Silverhands’ attack. The leader stood at the gate still, surrounded by ranks of his armoured elite.

Letting the Ghurite magic flow through him, allowing the beast-power to push aside the celestial force that had created him, Arkas broke into a run. He took up his weapon two-handed as he charged, but as he leapt into the attack, hewing at the robed skaven with revitalised strength, he swung not a hammer, the symbol of Sigmar almighty, but a great axe.

The axe of his mother.

Rocks fell like meteors onto Stormcast and skaven alike, though it was the latter that suffered the greater casualties from the plummeting remnants of the mountain. Theuderis was not sure he would ever understand what had just happened. He had thought to rejuvenate Arkas’ flagging assault, but the consequences of unleashing the Warbeast’s full anger were far greater than anything he could have expected.

Despite the surprise manifestation of cosmic power, the battle was not yet won. The verminlord descended into the cavern, its presence spurring the skaven into apoplectic fury. Billowing spews of noxious magic engulfed the Stormcasts as they attempted to surround the greater daemon, seeping into their armour, choking and burning them inside the moulded sigmarite.

The counter-attack from the despicable temple was dragging more of Theuderis’ warriors away from the main thrust towards the greater daemon. There was nothing the Lord-Celestant could do to prevent his warriors defending themselves, but the consequence was a faltering assault, his force drawn into two battles.

For good or ill he had to remain committed to the course of action he had chosen. The Celestial Vindicators were heading for the realmgate. Arkas himself fought like fifty Stormcasts as he chopped his way into the ranks of the plague monks. The preservation of his force for its own sake was of no value. He had to destroy the verminlord or any attempt to protect the realmgate would be in jeopardy.

Felk was still stunned by the explosion of Ghurite energy that had rocked the mountain and torn the heart out of his city. His ears rang with the noise of the detonation and his vision was blurred by the unwelcome dawnlight slanting from where the peak of the mountain had once been.

The one that had summoned the beast was death given form, ripping his way into Felk’s followers like a claw tearing at unprotected flesh. Though the plague priest and his closest council stood behind the lines of spitevermin, he felt far from safe. Apparently Felk’s underlings did not feel the same.

‘Not lost-lost,’ squeaked Festik. He jabbed a claw down towards the dust cloud-swathed lower levels. Giants in turquoise armour were clambering into the ruin, obviously intent on the realmgate. ‘Attack-attack, from behind!’

‘Mighty Skixakoth leads us to victory,’ exclaimed Chittir, redirecting the Poxmaster’s attention to where the verminlord was slaying the Sigmar-chosen with wide sweeps and armour-piercing thrusts of its crackling spear.

‘Attack-attack!’ parroted Priest Kirrik. ‘Snap-snap like rat ogre jaws!’

Felk looked at them with contempt. The fang of Skixakoth trembled and burned in his chest, reminding him of the plan.

‘Fools,’ he hissed. ‘Treachery! Make peace with Skixakoth against me? Only one rules the Withering Canker. Praise Felk!’ He glanced at Skarth and nodded.

The fangleader cut the head from Kirrik with a single blow from his halberd. The other two plague priests turned on their betrayer with raised blades. Festik gurgled blood as Thriss struck from behind, emerging unseen from the ranks of spitevermin, weeping blade taking the priest across the throat. Felk deflected the attack of Chittir, his warp-infused body barely registering the pain as the rusted blade cut through his robes and caught in the flesh of his arm. He tore out the priest’s throat with a slash of sparking claws.

Stepping over the bodies, Felk squealed a command to his remaining underlings and then disappeared into the Great Shrine, heading for the tunnels in the lower levels. The spitevermin followed, trampling the bodies of the dead plague priests.

Thriss remained a little longer, watching as the plague monks under the sway of Felk melted away from the fighting. The war-leader that glowed with painful fire was getting closer. Tail trembling, Thriss dashed after his employer.

Chapter Fifty-Two

The beast-possessed Arkas hewed a bloody path through the remaining plague monks. The inexplicable departure of the plague priest and many of its followers left Theuderis with no distractions. Rallying his warriors with a shout, the Silverhand pressed on towards Skixakoth.

The verminlord wreaked carnage amongst the Stormcasts, its doom-wreathed weapon crackling and steaming as bolts of celestial energy shot skywards from dismembered warriors. The chosen of Sigmar did not fall lightly. Starsoul maces and thunderaxes boomed as they struck the greater daemon’s immaterial flesh. Flickers of celestial lightning trailed from warblades as they cut its unholy skin.

The skaven frothed around the periphery of the combat between Skixakoth and Theuderis’ warriors, sometimes bringing down a Silverhand from behind, more often cut down themselves by a backswing or trampled underfoot by the massive warriors. The verminlord cared nothing for its followers and the wide sweeps of its four-tined spear struck down more skaven than Knights Excelsior.

Into this melee burst Theuderis’ dracoth, snarling, forks of blue lightning springing from her open jaw. Skixakoth turned towards the Lord-Celestant, the shimmer of heavenly power creeping across its arcane armour.

Theuderis felt nothing when the murderous gaze of the greater daemon fell upon him. Neither fear nor triumph nor anger troubled his heart. The verminlord was just another problem to solve, another enigma to unravel. Victory depended upon finding the solution, nothing more.

Tyrathrax responded as though an extension of his body, leaping aside as the enormous spear of the verminlord lanced towards her rider. Theuderis’ sword caught the weapon behind its barbed head, the star-forged blade leaving a notch in the ensorcelled metal. The force of the clash almost knocked him from the dracoth, but he clutched the saddle horn and hung on while Tyrathrax leapt at Skixakoth, claws raking across its thigh.

The skaven drew back from the duel, fearful of the white warrior that dared face their demigod. Not so the Silverhands, who leapt to the attack with jubilant shouts, hammering and slashing with renewed determination.

‘For the glory of Sigmar!’ they chorused.

Its barbed tail lashing limbs and heads from its attackers, the verminlord snatched up a Liberator, encasing his head in its massive claw. Plague-magic churned, turning flesh to a molten slurry that dripped from the armour before a flare of celestial power carried the warrior’s spirit back to Sigmar.

Theuderis lunged with his runeblade, thrusting the tip into a gap in the daemon’s armour below its outstretched arm. Snarling curses, Skixakoth spun away, the haft of its spear crashing against Theuderis’ shoulder, unseating him and throwing him to the ground. The dracoth moved to put herself between her master and his foe.

Recovering, the verminlord loomed over beast and Lord-Celestant, hatred flowing from it like waves of heat. Ichor streamed from rents in its armour and its horns were cracked and broken, but in the depths of the helm, twin eyes of warp-fire pinned Theuderis in place.

On his back, the Lord-Celestant was defenceless.

Except for one manoeuvre. A sacrificial move.

The spear-points descended and Theuderis acted without hesitation, rolling underneath Tyrathrax. The tines of the daemonic weapon followed him, lancing into the head and shoulders of the dracoth, piercing armour, flesh and skull.

Theuderis continued his roll while Skixakoth tried to drag its spear free, emerging from beneath the collapsing dracoth. Using her crumpling body as a step he launched himself at the verminlord, slamming the point of his sword through the eye slit of its helm. Grabbing a stump of horn, he rode the greater daemon as it staggered back, drawing out his blade to ram it into the other eye, pushing with all of his strength until the crosspiece ground against the unearthly material of the verminlord’s helm.

The greater daemon folded into itself, its grip on the Mortal Realm severed. The physical form of the verminlord fell apart, becoming hundreds of rat corpses, mangy and boil-ridden, that melted into a viscous pool beneath Theuderis as he landed on the filth-covered ground.

Still victory was not certain. The Stormcasts were surrounded, their enemies beyond counting. The gleam of celestial energy in the depths reminded Theuderis of the mission.

‘Glavius!’ he bellowed. ‘Summon the Lord-Castellant!’

The Lord-Relictor held aloft his mortuary staff, chanting an invocation to the God-King. A stream of lightning leapt from the tip of his icon and then dissipated into the air. Nothing happened.

‘The warpstone corrupts everything, the Celestial Realm is blind to us,’ said the Lord-Relictor. ‘I cannot summon them.’

‘The realmgate, can you use its power?’ asked Theuderis.

‘It is too far,’ replied Glavius, looking towards the distant crater. ‘Unless…’

The Lord-Relictor again held up his bone-clad staff and called upon Sigmar. This time the bolt of energy did not launch skywards, but seared across the cavern, seeking the tip of the icon wielded by Arkas’ Knight-Vexillor, Dolmetis. The celestial power flashed like a beacon fire lit and then leapt again, forking madly as it earthed into the pillars of the realmgate.

The sickly glowing runes dimmed, their yellow-green light replaced by the azure blaze of heavenly power. Like a hurricane unwinding, the vortex of energy surrounding the gate became a near-blinding star. In the depths, the realmgate shuddered, the stone of its structure cracking, splinters falling away from its surface.

The realmgate burst with another detonation of power. Ignited by the celestial energy of Glavius, the cosmic portal shed the stone prison the duardin had laid upon it, turning the archway to shards and dust. In its place burned a white flame, tongues of fire licking across the stones and caressing the air. A pulse of energy snapped back along the route of the beacon-power, jumping from Dolmetis’ icon to the mortuary-relic of Glavius.

‘Sigmar!’ the Lord-Relictor bellowed, channelling the renewed power through his body, sending it as a surge of lightning that flared into the skies revealed by the collapse of the mountain.

In an instant, scores of lightning blasts flashed down in reply.

Theuderis saw a bright flash of golden light reflected against what was left of the cavern ceiling. He turned as horn blasts reverberated around the chamber of the shrine, announcing the arrival of Lord-Castellant Durathos.

Faced with the death of their god’s avatar and the drum of marching boots from the depths, the skaven faltered and scattered, bolting for whatever runs and holes they could find.

Ever mindful of his duty, Theuderis called his warriors to make for the realmgate to link with the Celestial Vindicators and other Knights Excelsior. Samat led the pursuit of the fleeing ratmen, but the craven creatures soon lost themselves in the mire of the undercity.

Theuderis looked down at the remains of Tyrathrax. There would be no miracle this time. The ease, the speed with which he had been ready to let her die nagged at him, as did his lack of emotion as the blood pooled amongst the decaying remnants of the verminlord. It was known that each Reforging affected a warrior profoundly — stripped away a layer of their humanity. Mortals were not meant to live forever and there was a price to pay for becoming a celestial being. The Reforging of Arkas had left him prone to the beast within.

As he turned away from the dissipating remains of his mount, Theuderis was not sure what he had become.

Epilogue

They found Arkas unconscious at the shrine gate after climbing and hauling their way through a veritable mountain of skaven dead. In his hand he still held an Ursungoran-style axe. The Warbeast woke as Theuderis rolled him onto his back. He reached up and removed his mask, sitting up to look around the cavern.

Snow was falling from the broken roof and he glanced up, surprised to see the clouds. Getting his bearings, he could see that the shrine hall was devoid of enemies. The only skaven left were the thousands of dead littering the ghetto of huts and hovels. Already teams of Knights Excelsior were heaping the verminous creatures onto pyres built from their polluted homes, the smoke thick and oily.

Warriors in white and blue were everywhere, though there was a knot of turquoise-armoured figures not far away. Theuderis extended a hand and Arkas allowed the other Lord-Celestant to help him to his feet.

‘Ursungorod belongs to the Knights Excelsior,’ he said. ‘A well-earned victory.’

‘Lord-Castellant Durathos,’ said the Silverhand, indicating the officer behind him. ‘He will be in charge of rebuilding the city here, and the garrison for the defence of the realmgate.’

‘Take good care of these lands,’ said Arkas. ‘Its people bled to keep a part of it free long enough for us to save it.’

‘I…’ Theuderis shook his head and dropped his voice, perhaps concerned to speak in front of Durathos. ‘I do not understand what happened.’

‘Something from the World Before,’ Arkas said quietly. ‘Manifested in the sea of Ghurite energy we called the Shadowgulf. A demigod, perhaps, or a god of a dead people. Trapped, tortured by Chaos. The skaven burrowed through it, enslaved part of it for their diabolical ceremonies, used it to pollute the magic. It tried to break free once before — that is what caused the eruptions on Skagoldt Ridge on the day of my birth. It found me, has been calling to me all of my life, looking to share its pain.’

‘It is gone now?’

‘Mostly.’ Arkas looked at the axe in his hand. ‘I can feel a little part of it remaining.’ He tapped his breastplate. ‘In here, where it’s always been. I can accept it now. The beast within me. The bear’s anger.’

The Silverhand accepted this with a silent nod.

‘What next? We await the command for the assault on the Lifegate?’ As he asked, the thought twisted in Arkas’ gut. Perhaps something of his reluctance showed on his face.

‘You have another plan?’ asked Theuderis.

‘Many skaven escaped,’ Arkas admitted. ‘Their chief priest amongst them. My people are dead. Others will build a new civilisation here in time. I am the last. I would hunt down the creature that destroyed the Ursungorans. But, that is not the will of Sigmar. We have a higher calling, to free not just one people but all.’

‘Sigmar is wiser than that,’ said Theuderis. ‘Some of us are constructors. Some of us… You are a conqueror. You are his Warbeast. He did not save you to raise castles and cities for him. He raised you to fight, to kill, to win. But, you do not need my permission, Arkas. You are Lord-Celestant of your Strike Chamber, commander of the Warbeasts. Your will is Sigmar’s will. The God-King means for you to rid him of these filthy skaven.’

‘Then with your leave, if not your permission,’ said Arkas, ‘I still have vengeance in my heart and the need to spill skaven blood. We each serve Sigmar in our own way.’

Arkas started down the causeway, but a call from Theuderis drew his attention back.

‘Lord Arkas! Kill them where you can, righteous is your vengeance. But heed your oaths to the God-King. We have a staging ground to seize the Lifegate, and the other routes to the Allpoints will be secured by the endeavours of other Stormhosts. When the call of the God-King comes, when we march on the Allpoints to destroy Archaon, be ready to answer.’

‘I’m always ready, Lord Theuderis!’ Arkas fitted his mask. ‘For the glory of Sigmar!’

C.L. Werner

Wardens of the Everqueen

Chapter One

The groaning roar of the arboreal colossus rippled through the ravaged wood. Braying beasts and howling marauders fell silent as the primal fury of the sound came smashing down upon them. It was a rage beyond flesh and bone, a hate at once elemental and remorseless, the last tremendous defiance left in a land violated and despoiled. Warriors who had mocked the defiance of mortal nations, who had butchered entire kingdoms without remorse, now felt dread quiver through their hearts. Almost before they recognised what they were doing, the vanguard of the horde began to fall back, to shrink away from the ferocious bellow and the giant that gave it voice. That roar held within it the wrath of all the victims that had withered on their blades, the curse of vengeance unsatisfied.

The secret vale of Athelwyrd was dying. Its glades had been trampled by boot and hoof, its forests gashed and torn by axe and claw, its meadows scorched by the fires of sorcery. Once pristine streams of crystal water had been transformed into trickles of diseased muck, as black and rancid as the souls of the rampaging invaders. In all the realm of Ghyran there had been no place better hidden, better protected than Athelwyrd, but now even this sanctuary had been discovered. This fortress would fall to the conquerors, but while the rest of the vale was even now being ravaged by the invaders, here alone did one last foe rise to oppose them.

Huge and ancient, the enormous tree-creature lumbered out from the depths of the wood. It stood five times the height of a man, its branch-like arms ending in gigantic talons of blade-sharp bark. Its face was a cluster of knotholes that pitted the creature’s trunk, a sylvan glow shining deep within their depths. The mouth was a jagged gash lined with fang-like splinters, groans of enraged anguish rumbling continuously from within. Roots still clotted with the rich dark soil of Athelwyrd dragged behind pillar-like legs as the creature surged towards the massed invaders.

For only a moment did terror hold the horde back, for fear of the treelord couldn’t eclipse the greater fear that infected each of the invaders: fear of the infernal god they served and the remorseless warlord who bore that god’s noxious blessings. The sylvaneth colossus could, in the end, only kill them. Plaguefather Nurgle could do far worse, and through his mortal general, such retribution would be swift in coming.

Bellowing their own war cries, the legions of decay turned upon the wooden hulk. All across the realm of Ghyran, the diseased hosts of Nurgle had erupted like a plague, ravaging the Jade Kingdoms and despoiling the once vibrant and fecund forests. Step by step, blow by blow, they were transforming the land into a new garden of disease and corruption for their obscene master, but none of those innumerable conflicts could match the duty that had been entrusted to the invaders of Athelwyrd. To them had been bestowed the honour of claiming for their god the prize he desired most keenly. Success would increase their unholy vitality and grant them leprous boons beyond measure; failure would result in shame and endless suffering.

So it was that human warriors in corroded armour and with blades pitted by rust and verdigris flung themselves at the hulking treelord. Bestial gors, their mangy fur peppered with grisly rashes and cancerous blisters, sprang upon the creature with axes of bone and flint. Wizened daemons with leprous eyes and oozing sores prowled towards their foe with blackened swords of raw corruption.

The glow in the pits of the treelord’s face burned with even sharper malignance. Again the creaking groan rumbled through the forest. The forest spirit brought its immense feet crashing down, the trailing roots stabbing into the earth, sinking down to bind it to the ground it defended. Charging foes came howling towards it, weapons raised for the kill.

A sweep of the treelord’s great claw hurled the broken bodies of half a dozen pox-ridden warriors into the air. A downward swipe of its fist burst an advancing plaguebearer like a pimple, the daemon’s foul essence spattering across a herd of beastmen, sizzling against their fur and flesh. A bloated gor, its diseased body swathed in strips of mail and patches of steel plate, was caught in the forest spirit’s hand and raised high into the air. The treelord tightened its grip and crushed the creature to bloody paste.

Scores of invaders were smashed and crushed by the treelord, their corpses heaped around its feet. The attack faltered, warriors drawing back as they wondered whether the death before them was worse than that threatened by their pestilent god. The tribal marauders snarled obscenities at their foe, jeering at the monster, steeling themselves for another attack. The beastmen growled and snapped at one another, trying to force the weakest among them to engage the enemy. The daemons gibbered and muttered, distracted by the fresh corruption spreading through the glade and by the timidity of their mortal allies.

One of the tribal chieftains charged forwards, hubris emboldening him where others quailed. He was mighty in the councils of their warlord, honoured for his ruthlessness and ferocity, and his abject devotion to the decayed glories of Nurgle. For all of this, a single glare from the treelord’s glowing eyes sent the man cringing away in fright, retreating back into the diseased mob.

An awed hush fell across the putrid legion, beasts and men, mortals and daemons falling silent as a grotesque figure pushed his way through their ranks — a huge warrior, his belly swollen with rot and putrescence, a gigantic axe with a blackened blade clenched in his scarred hands. A massive pauldron guarded his left shoulder, through which a clutch of immense bony spines had erupted from his flesh and through the corroded steel. The warrior’s face was locked inside a horned helm, only the eye-slots marring the smooth mask. There were three of these, spaced in the triangular pattern of the fly-rune, the diseased emblem of Nurgle himself. From each of the openings, a blemished eye glowered at the hesitant marauders.

A violent, cough-like cry bubbled up from the horned helm. Without further warning, the huge fighter brought his axe swinging around. The blackened blade sheared the arm off the chieftain who had retreated, pitching the maimed barbarian to the earth. Before the man could even scream, the wound he’d been dealt was a blackened mass of necrotic tissue, the sorcerous pollution of the axe rushing through his veins to infest the rest of his body. Those around the man drew back, gazing at his agonies with a mixture of horror and awe. They glanced from the dying chieftain to the one who’d struck him down with the same regard, for this was no mere champion of the Dark Gods, but the chosen of Nurgle, the warlord who had been granted the distinction of laying waste to Athelwyrd. This was Torglug the Despised.

Brandishing his axe, Torglug advanced alone towards the treelord. He nodded his horned head towards the writhing body of the chieftain he’d cut down.

‘This is being the fate of my enemies.’ Torglug’s voiced seeped from behind his helm. ‘Being through cowardice or defiance, I am sparing none who are opposing me. Be looking upon your destruction, vine-blood, and knowing despair!’

The treelord reared back, its roots still fastened deep in the earth. From the depths of its mighty frame there sounded a cachinnation of primordial hate. The claws tipping its hands appeared to lengthen, darkening into black thorns. The sylvan glow of its eyes blazed ever brighter.

Torglug wasted no more threats upon the monster. His words had been for the benefit of his warriors, a reminder to them that he was the chosen of Nurgle. A warning to them all of what it meant to be the favoured champion of the Crow God.

Storming towards his hulking foe, Torglug brought his axe cracking around in a double-handed strike. He caught the treelord’s claw, shearing through the oaken talon in a spray of splinters and sap. His foe flinched back, more in surprise than pain, stunned that the weapon could inflict such damage. It was only when the severed stump of its claw began to change, began to turn a ghoulish grey, that a moan of suffering rippled through the treelord. Its glowing eyes stared at the ghastly discolouration, watching as it began to spread. Mould, virulent and rapacious as any fever, now infested the creature’s bark.

The treelord’s wail of pain turned to a creaking snarl of fury. Whipping around, it brought its other hand hurtling towards Torglug, intent upon smashing the warlord into the ground. Exhibiting an agility that belied his bloated bulk, Torglug dived under the plummeting hand, rolling past the creature’s guard. As he came out of his roll, he brought his grisly axe chopping into the treelord’s leg, tearing a great chunk from the pillar-like limb and delivering a second infection of mould even greater than that infesting the creature’s hand. The grey contagion spread rapidly through the mutilated leg, crawling upwards and outwards with ferocious speed.

The tree-creature tried to swing around, to withdraw its roots and smash Torglug flat, but the treelord’s crippled leg remained fast, only its left limb obeying. Unbalanced, it teetered for a moment. It was the only moment Torglug allowed it. Charging into the paralysed hulk, he hacked away at its free leg, gouging deep cuts into the trunk where it joined the supporting limb. The grey mould exploded across the colossal sylvaneth with each blow, sinking deeper and deeper into the heartwood beneath the bark. As the infection intensified, the trunk became rotten and brittle, each attack wreaking greater and greater havoc.

A cough of laughter escaped Torglug as the creature’s leg gave out beneath it. The huge treelord crashed to the ground, its momentum tearing its frozen leg from the earth, roots and all. The exultant warlord leaped atop the trunk, hacking away with vicious, vindictive blows of his axe. As he chopped away, gibbering daemon-spawn capered out from the ranks of his legion to gnaw at slivers of heartwood and lap up the sap oozing from the treelord’s wounds. Torglug allowed the hideous, toad-like atrocities their sport. Nurglings were minuscule echoes of the Grandfather, cast in the dreaded god’s image. Even Nurgle’s chosen warlord would not deny the mites. The rest of his warriors, however, knew better than to intrude upon his triumph.

Triumph? The word had a bitter taste for Torglug. As delicious as it was to feel the ancient sylvaneth withering beneath his boots, as much as he savoured the agonies of the treelord as mould and disease gnawed away at its essence, he knew that this wasn’t triumph. This was only a delay, an interlude standing between him and true victory.

Torglug watched the glow gradually fade from the pits of the treelord’s face. How much more satisfying it was to watch these creatures die than the armoured warriors of Azyr. When penetrating the illusions that concealed Athelwyrd, Torglug’s legion had been opposed by a great company of the lightning-men. There was no satisfaction smiting such foes, no delicious transition from the suffering of life to the decay of death. The moment the spark was extinguished, they simply vanished in a blaze of blue lightning. It left Torglug bitter to be cheated of his pleasures. Strange and eerie as they were, at least the wooden creatures of the Jade Kingdoms were real enough to suffer for him while they died.

The last ember faded from the treelord, its spirit finally extinguished by the contagion Torglug’s axe had brought to it. The warlord stared down into its empty face, then brought his boot stomping down again and again into the rotten bark, obliterating the visage utterly. He turned and glared at his waiting legion. All through their march across Athelwyrd they had been drawn into petty battles with the sylvaneth and the lightning-men, meaningless conflicts that delayed them while the real prize threatened to slip out of their reach.

He wouldn’t let that happen. Torglug had fought too long and hard, had endured too much to fail now. It was his horde that had found the vale of Athelwyrd, his warriors who had penetrated into the refuge of their enemy. Victory, true victory, was within their grasp. The enemy had fled — all the protections that had guarded her for so long were falling away. She was in retreat, nothing more than hunted prey. The great prize Nurgle had coveted for so long would soon be rendered up to him.

When the Everqueen, Alarielle, was given to Nurgle, Torglug would transcend the limitations of mortality. He would be free of the frailties of flesh. He would become eternal, a prince of the Grandfather’s blighted empire.

Torglug thrust his axe outwards, pointing it towards the copse from which the treelord had emerged.

‘She is escaped!’ he shouted to his warriors. ‘Be upforming! We are marching and bringing Grandfather Nurgle a mighty prize! You are finding her or Torglug is teaching you all what it is to despair!’

The warlord’s eyes gleamed with murderous ambition as he watched packs of beastkin and barbarians rush into the woods. They would find the trail. Whatever the sylvaneth threw at them, his troops would find their trail.

It was only a matter of time.

Amber light streamed through the soaring canopy, stabbing earthwards through a maze of silvery branches and alabaster leaves. Flowers endowed with the vibrant lustre of emerald and sapphire blossomed from a cascade of hanging vines and spiralling creepers. Great strands of coruscating moss spilled from ancient boughs, alight with faerie brilliance and fey luminance. The groans and creaks of swaying trees melded into a harmonious melody, a sussuration that throbbed through both flesh and soul. The rich loamy smell of fertile soil flowed into the enticing fragrance of petal and bloom. The very air was filled with a warm adoration, a celebration of vitality and the shifting cadence of life itself.

Through this marvellous landscape, a great exodus trod an ancient path. A vast throng of tree-like beings flocked to a trail none had set eyes upon before but which each knew deep within its heartwood. Smaller figures shared the path, armoured shapes mightier yet not dissimilar to those of men. Fewer in number, they kept apart from the tree-creatures, sharing their journey but not their confidence. The Hallowed Knights, one of Sigmar’s great Stormhosts, had shared many of the ordeals endured by the tree-like sylvaneth, but they were still not wholly accepted by their uncanny companions.

Lord-Castellant Lorrus Grymn’s fingers tightened about the grip of his halberd, every muscle in his body growing tense as he spun to confront the faint blur of motion he’d caught out of the corner of his eye. With eerie silence, the bushes on the edge of the path were shifting aside, pulling themselves out of the way of the creature trying to move past them. He caught himself before moving to intercept the inhuman shape that suddenly emerged. The spindly figure, its head crowned by a crest of leafy branches, fixed him with its weirdly luminous eyes before striding off down the path.

‘I sympathise with you, commander.’ Grymn turned to find Angstun beside him, the sheen of the halo that circled the Knight-Vexillor’s helm dulled by the shadow of the forest canopy overhead. ‘It is hard to think of something so cold and inhuman as friendly.’

Grymn watched as the sylvaneth joined several similar beings marching along the forest trail. There were hundreds of the tree-like creatures in the procession, some much larger than the one that had just surprised the Lord-Castellant. Every moment brought another out from the forest and onto the path. They moved with a chilling silence, passing without a trace across the wooded trail. Though he sensed no threat from them, Grymn couldn’t shake an impression of restrained hostility smouldering within them.

‘They are our allies,’ Grymn corrected Angstun. ‘Do not mistake them for friends. If not for our common foe, I don’t know that they would suffer us to be among them.’ He looked ahead, his gaze fixing upon a brilliant light shining far down the path. ‘Certainly we wouldn’t be permitted so near to their queen. Emissaries from Azyr were turned from her court even after the plaguehosts breached the realmgates and descended upon Ghyran. No, they travel a different road than we can follow. For a space, that road may lead in the same direction, but that is all we share.’

Angstun pointed towards the light. ‘She isn’t like the sylvaneth,’ he said. ‘Queen Alarielle is no spectre of bark and branch. Her shape is one of beauty, a visage of wonder and marvel. To gaze upon her is to feel serenity, even with the hordes of the plague god snapping at our heels.’

Grymn stood silent for a moment. He envied Angstun’s serenity. For the Lord-Castellant, even the thought of the Everqueen made him feel as though a great burden was pressing down upon him. Angstun had called him ‘commander’, but it had not been so when the Hallowed Knights entered Athelwyrd. Their commander had been Lord-Celestant Gardus, a courageous warrior and a great leader of men. It was he who had been entrusted with this mission, not Grymn — charged with rescuing Alarielle from the legions of Nurgle. Gardus had fallen in battle against the hordes of Torglug the Despised, his body and soul flung back to the holy halls of Sigmaron. With his passing, command of the expedition had become Grymn’s. Defending a position or building fortifications, these were the duties he was accustomed to, the tasks for which he was best suited. This retreat was something different. The necessity of it was unquestionable, for only in flight could Alarielle be protected, but there was no glory to be had running from the enemy. The other Hallowed Knights could satisfy their honour in the knowledge that they were obeying orders. Grymn had no such recourse, for it was he who issued those orders.

‘Do you think that is how she appears to them?’ Angstun asked.

Grymn shook his head, missing the Knight-Vexillor’s meaning. Angstun pointed to a spindly dryad as it stepped out onto the path. ‘She is a goddess, so I wonder if her appearance changes to suit the senses of those who look upon her. To us, she is a woman of unmatched beauty, an echo of lost wonder. To the trees, perhaps she is a slender willow with golden leaves.’ He paused, glancing down the path at the forest behind them. ‘I wonder how she looks to our enemy?’

‘Like prey,’ Grymn said. He clapped his hand against Angstun’s shoulder. ‘But they will not catch their quarry. Not while a single Hallowed Knight still stands.’

The Lord-Castellant turned away from Angstun and began to make his way back along the trail. Tallon, his gryph-hound and loyal companion, fell into step beside him. The creature’s canine body was tense, rippling with agitation. Its eyes roved along the edges of the path, its sharp eagle-like beak snapping with alarm each time the bushes stirred or the trees swayed.

The eerie sylvaneth were growing in number with every moment that passed, more and more of them striding out from the deeper forest. Some were slight, almost frail-looking things, near human in their proportions. Others were great towering giants, many times the size of a man, their heads bent down so they did not tear the forest canopy above them. Smaller, wispy beings fluttered about the dryads and treelords, glowing shapes with gossamer wings, as phantasmal as a cobweb. Watching the sylvaneth creep out from the forest, Grymn realised he was wrong to describe what was happening as a retreat. This was an exodus, an abandonment of Athelwyrd. The sylvaneth were conceding their last stronghold to the plaguehosts.

A sense of frustration rushed through Grymn. They should stand and fight, should turn right now and meet the legions of Torglug. The path through the forest wasn’t wide. It could be held. The Hallowed Knights could hold it. Even with the sacrifice of Gardus and the warriors left behind as rearguard, there were enough Stormcasts to contest Torglug’s advance. Tegrus and his winged Prosecutors, Markius and his stalwart Retributors, the valiant companies of Judicators and Liberators. They could make a fight of it. They could force Torglug to pay dearly to conquer Athelwyrd.

Grymn shook his head as he watched the armoured warriors of his chamber marching past him. Yes, they could bleed Torglug’s army white, but that wasn’t their task. Their duty was to rescue Alarielle from the grip of Chaos, to protect her until she was safely beyond the enemy’s reach. That was their purpose. Later, when their duty was done, they could think about driving the foe from Athelwyrd and the whole of the Jade Kingdoms.

Still, Grymn lamented the necessity of such a choice. Every hour the plaguehosts were left to ravage and despoil, their filth corrupted more of the forest. More of Ghyran became consumed, distorted into a diseased shadow. Every step back left that much less to save when the time did come for the Stormhost to fight.

A retinue of Decimators, their mighty thunderaxes slung over their shoulders, marched past Grymn, each of the paladins saluting their commander as he drew near. Of all the Hallowed Knights, the sylvaneth seemed to especially shun the Decimators. Early on in the retreat, Grymn had decided to move those Stormcasts to the back of the line so they might avoid the tree-creatures leaving the forest to join the column. A misunderstanding between the paladins and newcomers might be enough to shatter the fragile alliance.

After the Decimators, only a dozen Judicators were left to bring up the rear, each warrior armed with a deadly boltstorm crossbow. The bulky weapons could unleash a vicious barrage of sigmarite bolts in rapid succession. Within the cramped confines of the forest, that quality made them a greater asset than the longer reach of the skybolt bows carried by most of the Hallowed Knights’ Judicators.

Marching alongside the Judicators was a macabre figure. Though he was clad in the same burnished sigmarite plate as the rest of the Hallowed Knights, this man’s helm had been cast in the semblance of a leering skull. A halo of sharpened spikes rose above the death’s head, each metal stake inscribed with invocations and funerary lamentations. This sinister warrior was Lord-Relictor Morbus.

‘The queen’s court grows,’ Morbus stated as Grymn fell in beside him. ‘The sylvaneth rally to her. They leave their secret places to join her in exile.’ He chuckled darkly, the sound echoing strangely within his helm. ‘Let us pray to Mighty Sigmar that her court does not grow so substantial that she finds no further need for us.’

Grymn turned to the Lord-Relictor, shock in his eyes. ‘You think Alarielle capable of such treachery?’ His tone was accusing, bordering on outrage.

Morbus laughed again. ‘Calm yourself, Lord-Castellant. It is naught but a conjecture crafted from observation. The sylvaneth do not like us,’ he said gesturing with the relic hammer he bore, indicating the Decimators ahead. ‘Perhaps we remind them too much of the plaguehosts with their blades and torches. Or perhaps they blame us for bringing the enemy into Athelwyrd.’

‘Ridiculous,’ Grymn scoffed. ‘We came here to defend the vale, not expose it to the enemy!’

‘The Hallowed Knights know that,’ Morbus said, ‘but do the sylvaneth believe it?’ He shook his head. ‘I think you may content yourself that at least the Radiant Queen knows us to be friends. You are right, she will not abandon us, not if every tree and shrub were to uproot itself and march to her banner. However much her subjects may resent us, they won’t—’

Morbus broke off, his attention fixed upon a creature marching towards them from the fore of the column. It was one of the more human-sized sylvaneth, its trunk-like body having more definition about it than the usual dryads, its contours flowing into a woman’s form. Its branch-like limbs were more like true arms and legs than others of its kind had, the moss and leaves that topped the creature’s head approximating the tresses and locks of a maiden’s hair. The echoes of femininity faded around the face, formed from jagged cracks in the bark within which embers of faerie light pulsated. Around the wispy body, great lengths of green vine were coiled, entwined about each limb and every curve, their leaves full and healthy.

Grymn had seen this creature before — it had nearly killed him when first they met — and he recognised it for the handmaiden of Alarielle. The Hallowed Knights had taken to referring to it as the ‘Lady of Vines’. Somehow, the title felt like more than an affectation bestowed upon her by the Stormhost. He thought it was something that belonged to the sylvaneth in fact as well as fancy.

The branchwraith stopped before Grymn and Morbus, her glowing gaze piercing into each man. There was an unmistakable enmity in that gaze, and Grymn felt his sense of guilt swell within him as the accusing stare fastened onto him. Fighting down his own uneasiness, he forced himself to meet the sylvaneth’s glare. The Lady of Vines simply raised one of her branch-like arms and pointed at the forest behind them.

Almost reflexively, Grymn and Morbus turned towards the trees. All that greeted them was the same maze of greenery that had surrounded them ever since their withdrawal. Grymn swung around, to try and get some explanation from the Lady of Vines. The branchwraith was already gone, walking back towards the light of her queen.

‘Are we being dismissed?’ Morbus wondered. ‘Is this her way of telling us to leave?’

Grymn shook his head, his gaze returning to the trees. ‘We’ve sworn to protect Queen Alarielle. No mere handmaiden will relieve us of that duty.’

A low growl from Tallon drew his attention to the gryph-hound. The creature was glaring at the path behind them, its hackles raised. As uneasy as the sylvaneth made it, Tallon had never reacted to them with such hostility. Something wasn’t right. Something was different than it had been only a few moments before. Grymn lifted his halberd as the sound of rustling in the undergrowth reached him.

‘More of the sylvaneth rallying to their queen,’ Morbus said.

‘You’ve been at the rear of the march,’ Grymn told the Lord-Relictor. ‘The sylvaneth make no sound when they move through the forest!’ Spinning around, he called to the Judicators around them. ‘On guard, brothers! The enemy has found us!’

The moment the warning left his mouth, Grymn saw a shaggy, muscled shape leap out at him from the forest edge. He brought his halberd slashing around, striking the beast before its powerful jaws could reach him. The broken brute crashed to the earth, its paws scratching at the dirt as life fled from it. Grymn could spare no more than a glance at the huge mutated hound before a second canine horror rushed at him from the trees. The beasts seemed enraged by the light of his warding lantern, drawn to it like murderous moths. Tallon lunged at one of the monsters, bearing it to the ground, the gryph-hound’s beak clamped about the dog’s throat.

Howls and snarls rose all around Grymn as more and more of the twisted hounds charged out onto the path. The crack of boltstorm crossbows boomed out, the Judicators loosing a fusillade of searing sigmarite into the attacking brutes. Yelps and whines of agony clawed at the air as the barrage brought down a dozen of the beasts. The path became strewn with dead and crippled hounds, yet still more of the monsters came loping out from the darkness.

Lord-Relictor Morbus pulverised the skull of one Chaos hound with his enchanted hammer, the maimed brute’s body flung back into the trees by the force of his blow. Others converged upon him, seeking to drag him down by sheer weight of numbers. Tallon rose from the carcass of his first enemy to lunge at a second, raking it with his paws and slashing it with his beak. A few of the mutant dogs weathered the storm of sigmarite bolts to drag down a Judicator, savaging the warrior in their grisly jaws. Behind the hounds, there now came a shrieking mob of skin-clad barbarians.

Grymn speared the hound snapping at his throat, kicking the dying beast from his blade as he turned to meet the charge of the marauders. They were abominable parodies of men, their bodies pitted with grisly sores and hideous lesions. Every manner of blight and blemish marred their flesh, proclaiming far louder than the cursed fly-rune daubed upon their armour and shields that here were the diseased slaves of Torglug.

Bolts from the Judicators struck down the first wave of marauders. Grymn’s halberd met the second. The Lord-Castellant was a whirlwind of ruin, tearing his way through every foe luckless enough to tempt his blade. A shrieking axeman, his eyes transformed into rheumy pits of pus by his afflictions, was cut in half. A howling savage with an extra arm growing from his neck fell with one leg severed at the knee.

‘Only the faithful!’ The war-cry of the Hallowed Knights thundered above the crash of blades and the crunch of bone. Decimator-Prime Diocletian was leading his paladins into the thick of the fray, energy crackling about the blades of their thunderaxes. Behind the Decimators came a formation of Liberators, their shields locked together to form a moving wall that stretched from one side of the path to the other. Even as he fought the barbarians assaulting him, Grymn felt proud that his warriors were adhering to the plan he had developed. There would be no great rush to the rear to meet the foe. If it were but a ruse, a feint to cover for an attack elsewhere, the enemy would find more Stormcasts waiting for them.

A fearsome howl rose above the cries and screams of fighting men. Through the press of marauders, Grymn saw a mounted chieftain gallop into view. Ghastly sores and profane brands peppered the flesh of both man and horse. The stallion stamped the ground with iron-shod hooves, chomping its teeth at the shrieks of the injured barbarians it trampled. The rider raised a double-headed axe in one fist, then crashed the weapon against the iron shield he held in the other. A challenging howl rose from his mouth.

Grymn met the grotesque jarl’s challenge, smashing his way through the marauders around him to rush at their leader. The stallion reared back, its hooves slamming into Grymn as he lunged at the chieftain. The Stormcast staggered back, his head ringing from the crack of a hoof against his helm.

The chieftain swung at him, his axe flashing downwards in a butchering sweep, all of the warrior’s weight behind the blow. His murderous eyes blinked in shock when Grymn’s halberd blocked the attack, when the Stormcast’s strength defied the malign power behind his assault. A sideward twist, an outward thrust, and the axe was ripped from the chieftain’s grip.

Whinnying in alarm, the stallion backed away, smashing down those marauders too slow to get out of its path. The chieftain glowered at Grymn, his savage face curled back in a feral snarl. From the belt that circled his waist, he withdrew a brutal instrument of chains festooned with blades and spikes. Armed with this gruesome flail, the rider forced the horse back into the fight and circled Grymn at a gallop, lashing at him with the chains.

‘Stay your bolts!’ Grymn ordered the Judicators. ‘Tallon, heel,’ he commanded his gryph-hound as the creature moved towards the chieftain. ‘The villain is mine!’

Even as he declared his intention, the warrior’s flail came whipping across his chest, drawing sparks from the sigmarite plate and slashing the strips of holy parchment fastened to his armour. Grymn swung about to confront his foe, but the rider was already galloping away, circling around to lash out at him from the other side. The fury of the second blow caused the Lord-Castellant to stagger back. A third strike knocked him to his knees.

The chieftain rushed in for another attack, arching down to hit his fallen opponent. It was then that Grymn revealed his deception. Leaving his halberd on the ground, he caught hold of the chains as they struck him. Mustering all his prodigious strength, the Stormcast pulled on the flail. The chieftain was dragged forwards, the flail torn from his fingers. Unbalanced for the instant, the horse wasn’t able to retreat out of Grymn’s reach as it had before. Arms widespread, Grymn rushed the steed, wrapping one arm around its leg while he put his shoulder against its side. Roaring with effort, straining every muscle in his mighty frame, he forced the brute upwards. The animal came crashing down onto its side.

Grymn leapt over the horse’s kicking hooves, pouncing upon its trapped rider. The chieftain tried to fend him off with his shield, but the Stormcast drove the iron disc back into the man’s face. Briefly they struggled, then Grymn pushed the shield down against the chieftain’s head. Now it was he who put all his muscle and weight into his attack. There was a grisly cracking sound as the marauder’s shield-arm snapped under Grymn’s assault. Then there was a garbled shriek as he pressed the iron implement still lower, smashing his enemy’s head beneath it.

The gruesome destruction of their chieftain brought horror to the surviving barbarians. The marauders turned, retreating into the dark forest. To lend speed to their rout, the blazing bolts of the Judicators chased after them until they were lost in the gloom.

Grymn rose from the chieftain’s carcass, marvelling that anything that smelled so foul in life could reek even worse in death. Tallon rushed over to him, nuzzling his head against Grymn’s leg. As he turned away from his fallen enemy, he found Decimator-Prime Diocletian waiting for him, extending to him the halberd he had discarded.

‘Losses?’ he asked.

‘Two Judicators,’ Diocletian replied. ‘One to hounds, the other to the marauders. We’ve claimed over fifty in return.’

Grymn ripped a strip of cloth from one of the dead barbarians, using it to wipe the blood from his blade. ‘Were any of the sylvaneth killed?’

‘Our allies took no part in the fighting,’ Morbus answered. The Lord-Relictor’s armour was scratched and bloodied, but the man within appeared to have suffered no injury beyond a darkening of his mood. He gestured down the path, towards the radiant glow of Queen Alarielle. ‘Perhaps they didn’t feel it was their fight.’

‘No,’ Grymn corrected him. ‘The Lady of Vines brought us warning. They know this is their battle as much as it is ours.’

Diocletian was puzzled. ‘Why then did they not render us aid?’

Morbus considered for a moment. ‘They are uncertain of us. They are putting us to the test, trying to determine our value. Trying to find our quality.’

Though it struck at his warrior’s pride, Grymn could find no argument to contest Morbus. As he turned his own eyes towards the radiant light, he knew the Lord-Relictor was right. They were being tested.

Now it was upon them to prove equal to the test.

Grymn felt the change that pulsed through the air, the flicker of energy that swept through the forest around them. The Stormcasts around him shared the same impression of unleashed power and vibrant energies. He could sense the fountainhead of the weird emanations.

On the path ahead, looming over the trail, was an impossibly gargantuan oak. The tree’s trunk had a great crack running through it, a titanic gash through which a strange coruscating glow was shining. As he watched, Grymn saw the crack widen, stretching outwards to become so incredibly vast that when the tree-creatures began to file into it, they looked to be no bigger than blades of grass. He shook his head, unable to reconcile the uncanny perspective, unable to decide if the crack was widening or if the sylvaneth were diminishing, or perhaps both at once. Whatever the truth, it was certain that the Everqueen and her people were passing into the gigantic oak.

‘There is powerful magic here,’ Morbus stated. He looked to Grymn. ‘Lord-Castellant, what are your orders?’

Grymn couldn’t determine what was happening on the path ahead. All he could be sure of was that Alarielle was taking the sylvaneth through the tree. ‘Our duty is to protect the Everqueen. To do that, we must follow her. Wherever that takes us.’

Chapter Two

In becoming Stormcast Eternals, the Hallowed Knights had transcended many of the limitations of flesh. When they were reforged, they found their endurance magnified far beyond that of even the hardiest man. They were nearly as indefatigable as the sigmarite armour they wore, tireless and unrelenting when they were deployed by the God-King Sigmar.

The sylvaneth showed a similarly formidable constitution. They paused neither for food nor rest, but maintained their steady march along the path. Grymn wondered if it was a quality of their own nature or some effect of the Radiant Queen’s glow that sustained the tree-creatures. Whatever the cause, he was thankful for it. The plaguehosts of Nurgle were many things, but they couldn’t match the tireless march of Alarielle’s protectors. Torglug could push his mortal forces only so far and so long before they would need food and rest. The daemons that flocked to his diseased banners would require spells and sacrifices to sustain them in the realm of Ghyran. These things would slow the enemy, even if the foul hosts had managed to follow them onto the Cascading Path.

The Cascading Path. It was an uncanny manifestation. Even once they had passed into the oak and entered the coruscating light, Grymn wasn’t able to tell if they had dwindled into some miniscule state or if some vastness of unimaginable magnitude had opened itself to receive them. The ground underfoot was at once firm yet constantly in motion, solid as granite wherever a foot was placed, nebulous as aether where nothing touched it. It was like ribbons of light and shadow, constantly streaming away, mocking the eye when it strove to discern shape or substance.

The sky overhead was a pearlescent splendour of throbbing brilliance, pounding with the vibrance of some gigantic heart. Figures seemed to dance across the sky, whirling and capering in phantasmal displays, shades and echoes of things unrealised and unborn. If he concentrated, Grymn felt certain he would be able to discern the nature of those apparitions. At the same time, he sensed that to do so would be exceedingly dangerous, that he could lose himself forever in that sea of undreamed possibilities.

At either side of the Cascading Path, the boles of an incredible forest rose. All around them were the trunks of mighty trees of every shape and contour, every colour and texture. They seemed as stark and vivid as anything Grymn had ever seen, the absolute antithesis of the aerial phantoms and the spectral ground. Yet whenever he looked away and turned his eyes back upon the forest — no matter how brief his inattention — he found that the setting had altered beyond recognition, shifting from silver-needled pines to gnarled beeches.

‘You appear pensive, commander.’ The observation came from the winged Prosecutor-Prime Tegrus. Like the warriors he led, Tegrus was agitated by the lengthy march. The uncanny vista above the path prevented the Prosecutors from taking to the sky and scouting ahead. It was frustrating for them to be grounded by circumstance, denied the opportunity to serve the chamber to their fullest capacity.

Grymn still felt a twinge of surprise when the officers of the Hallowed Knights addressed him as commander. That honour belonged to Gardus, and Grymn was reminded of that every time he tried to think like the vanquished Lord-Celestant. ‘I was trying to put myself in the mind of Torglug,’ he said. It wasn’t an untruth. When the weirdness of the Cascading Path didn’t distract him, it was their foe that was foremost in his thoughts.

Tegrus feigned a shudder, the wings on his back shaking with assumed fright. ‘A vile thing to contemplate,’ he said, though it seemed to Grymn that the Prosecutor-Prime was grateful for any subject that would allow him to forget their present surroundings.

‘Doubtless,’ Grymn agreed, ‘but if I can anticipate the enemy’s next move…’

‘You trouble yourself to no purpose,’ Tegrus declared. ‘Torglug is mad. They’re all mad, those who bend the knee to Chaos.’

‘No, it is too easy a thing to dismiss them as insane.’ This objection came from Lord-Relictor Morbus as he joined the two heroes. ‘It is tempting, comfortable, to damn the enemy as mad and leave it at that, to use madness as an excuse for their atrocities.’

‘What then would you say moves them to such deeds?’ Tegrus asked.

Grymn had the answer. ‘Evil. They are evil. They plan and plot and scheme. Each outrage is towards a purpose, every atrocity has its reason. They aren’t reasons we would understand, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t there. There is strategy behind Torglug’s campaign.’ He pointed down the path where the bright glow of the Radiant Queen was visible even among the eerie manifestations of the Cascading Path. ‘She is his objective, the prize he would bear back to his abominable god. It is dangerous to think the enemy incapable of planning how to capture their quarry. To hate the foe is to steel the heart, but to underestimate him is to blunt the sword.’ He turned and glanced across the armoured files of Liberators marching along the edges of the path, at the stolid companies of Judicators at the centre of the trail ready to provide support with their bows. ‘Torglug will try again, make no mistake. It will be the honour of the Hallowed Knights to defy him.’

From the path before them, the sinuous shape of the Lady of Vines came striding towards them. The branchwraith’s aspect was still hard and thorny, her eyes little more than smouldering cuts in her gnarled face. She peered from Grymn to Tegrus and back again.

‘Such a meeting may not be as inevitable as you think,’ the Lady of Vines declared. She gestured with one willowy talon at the forest beyond the path. ‘The power of Sigmar sent you here, but His isn’t the only power opposed to Chaos. Ever since we left Athelwyrd, there has been powerful magic at work, the magic of the Everqueen. Yes, a mighty and terrible kind of magic. That it works to aid us is small consolation when one contemplates its magnitude.’

Grymn and Tegrus paused, following the branchwraith’s gaze. All they could see was the forest.

‘I see only the woods, the lands Alarielle is leaving behind,’ Grymn insisted, though the words felt hollow even to himself.

‘That is an illusion,’ the Lady of Vines said. ‘A mirage, woven for your benefit. You are right, Lord-Castellant, Queen Alarielle does have compassion to spare for your kind, even when her subjects don’t. Even in this incredible conjuration, she diverts some slight measure of her power so that servants of the God-King aren’t driven mad.’

‘An illusion?’ Tegrus studied the forest, trying to will himself to see through whatever veil had been woven around the path. ‘What is she trying to hide?’

‘Everything,’ the Lady of Vines said. ‘I am more attuned to the ebb and flow of magic than you. That is how I know what she has done.’ Again, she gestured with her talon, sweeping it from one side to the other. ‘The Jade Kingdoms are out there, and other lands for which you have no name. They rush past us, shifting and fading like waves upon the sea. We march upon this path, yes, but the path itself isn’t a thing to be measured in hours and leagues. It runs not through the places a mortal can travel, but between and around them. This slipstream of magic Queen Alarielle has woven around us, it transcends the very concepts of place and time.’

Grymn found his hand closing about the silver hammer that hung around his neck, the holy emblem of the God-King. Not for a moment did he doubt the branchwraith’s explanation of their situation. Yet it was a daunting prospect, to wander the cracks between existence, to walk the borderlands of time.

‘If she has done this, then Alarielle has placed us beyond the reach of Torglug’s legions,’ Grymn suggested. Even if the plaguelord were to send scouts to find them and skirmishers to delay them, his efforts would be in vain while they marched in this between-land.

The Lady of Vines stared into Grymn’s eyes, seeming to bore into his mind. ‘As you have warned, we cannot afford to underestimate the enemy. Even if he is unable to reach us here, that doesn’t mean he isn’t aware of where we are. Moreover, such powerful magic is taxing. Queen Alarielle has lost much of her power. She will not be able to sustain even we sylvaneth on this path for long.’

Grymn looked towards the warm glow that denoted the Everqueen’s position on the path ahead. He tried to detect any lessening of that divine aura, any weakening of its majestic brilliance. ‘Her magic speeds us away from her hunters. Already we may be beyond their reach.’

‘Perhaps,’ Tegrus said, ‘but what of the things that lie before us? What of the obstacles that lie ahead?’

It was a good question, and one for which Grymn had no ready answer. Torglug’s plaguehosts had breached the vale of Athelwyrd, but the whole of Ghyran was overrun by other armies of the Plaguefather. It would be a miracle indeed if the exodus could escape unhindered by enemies once it did emerge from the protection of Alarielle’s magic.

‘The obstacles ahead are the sole reason I suffer you to linger in the queen’s presence,’ the Lady of Vines declared. ‘Prove worthy of my forbearance,’ she added as she slipped back down the path to rejoin the Everqueen.

All around him was darkness, foetid and rank. Filth squelched under his feet as he tried to move, slogging his way through a revolting mire that was well past his knees. Verminous things squirmed and crawled through the muck, brushing against his naked flesh. Disgust boiled up from his guts as he thought of how those creatures would taste on his tongue. Now, now he was sickened by the thought, but in a few days he would be eagerly pawing through the slime to feast on such noxious fodder. A starving man had neither scruples nor dignity. Pride was forgotten when survival was the only law.

Despair rolled through him as he lifted his face and looked upwards. They’d slid the cover over the pit, blocking his view of the sky. It was the only delight left to him, looking up at the sky. That at least had remained untarnished, uncorrupted by the profane taint of the conquerors. Everything else was gone. The villages, the temples, the strongholds. It was all gone, demolished and despoiled, changed by the very presence of the invaders.

But the sky was still there. The sky they couldn’t take away. Please, if any gods of mercy still lingered, don’t let them take the sky away!

The fallen champion looked up with terror etched across his face. Arms bound behind him, face pressed into the mud, he was a sorry spectacle. He hadn’t submitted easily to capture and his body was a patchwork of bruises and gashes. His armour had been stripped away, the talismans and fetishes cut from around his neck. An iron bit was jammed into his mouth, stifling his voice. Even now, however, there was violence and defiance in his gaze, and more — accusation.

All things considered, Torglug thought the wretch should be grateful. He was going to die beyond the confines of Athelwyrd, out in the diseased lands they’d conquered and ravaged. A place where the Grandfather would have a clear and undisturbed view of his sacrifice.

Torglug stared up into the heavens, watching as the blue sky gradually faded to a scummy green far to the east. That was where the realmgate stood, the great portal through which the legions of Nurgle had poured into the Jade Kingdoms. The miasma of the Grandfather’s gardens was seeping into Ghyran, corrupting the very air with the god’s diseased essence. The whole realm would be transformed in the end, despoiled and blighted to feed the ascendency of the Plaguefather.

The warlord lowered his gaze and met that of his captive. He chuckled at the indignation he saw there, the outraged sense of betrayal. What need had Torglug the Despised for loyalty when fear would serve him just as well! Did this man expect mercy? Did he understand so little of the ways of Chaos? Torglug had learned — oh, how he had learned! Only ability and power were respected by the Dark Gods, the capacity to survive and accomplish. Torglug had earned the favour of Nurgle only because he was strong enough to survive and ruthless enough to accomplish his goals.

Torglug shifted his bloated bulk upon the crude throne his followers had raised to honour him. Crafted from the hewn trunks of sylvaneth, the warlord imagined he could feel the anguish of the tree-creatures flowing through him. Perhaps it was more than imagination, for the life-force of the forest spirits was notoriously stubborn and slow to expire. Fragments might yet linger in the wooden carcasses bound into his throne.

Seven-score sylvaneth prisoners had already been cut down as an offering to Nurgle, sacrifices to whet the Crow God’s appetite and draw His diseased gaze. It needed now only a final morsel, a last offering to complete the rite Torglug would see performed.

The captive struggled, trying to squirm out from beneath the boot that pressed down on his neck and kept his face in the mud. Vargl Fellhand had been a mighty jarl before Torglug had made him leader of his own bodyguard of putrid blightkings. He very nearly upset Goregus Festermaw, the hideously mutated blightlord who stood above him, despite the warrior’s heavy suit of plate and massive weight. The ghastly mouth that opened across Goregus’ exposed belly gibbered wickedly, sizzling spittle falling from its fangs to burn Vargl’s flesh. The champion cried out more from outrage than pain, struggling even more fiercely to be free. The blightkings gripping Vargl’s legs threw themselves upon his limbs as the prisoner kicked and thrashed. Torglug chuckled again. Given even the flicker of a chance, Vargl would try to kill him. His helplessness to act, to lash out at the betrayer who sat only a few feet from him, this would swell the deposed jarl’s heart with despair.

But Torglug wanted more. He needed every last speck of hope and pride obliterated. Vargl’s very soul must shrivel from despair.

‘Be removing the marks,’ Torglug commanded.

At the warlord’s order, Vargl was rolled onto his back. The captive tried to cry out as his bound arms were pressed cruelly against his spine, but the iron bit in his mouth reduced the sound to a whispered moan. Goregus brought his boot stamping down again, this time pressing upon Vargl’s shoulder to hold him in place.

The host of mortal and daemon warriors watching Vargl’s ordeal parted so that a fat, swollen boil of a man could stalk towards the prisoner. He was dressed in a scabrous cloak, horrible enchantments endowing it with a ghoulish echo of vitality. The man’s skin was mouldy, his hands pudgy, with each finger resembling a boiled sausage. His belly was bloated with corruption, protruding through tears in his tattered raiment. His face was flat and almost toadlike, great flaps of loose skin hanging from his cheeks. His eyes were aglow with the sadistic curiosity of a vicious child. When he smiled, worms wriggled from between his blackened teeth.

This was Slaugoth Maggotfang, principal sorcerer in the whole of Torglug’s plaguehost. As he advanced upon Vargl, the sorcerer stabbed the butt of his staff into the mud, leaving the charm-festooned pole standing behind him as he leaned over his victim. A worm fell from his mouth, burrowing into Vargl’s chest. Slaugoth waited until it had vanished completely before drawing an ornate dagger from his belt, a once elegant blade now caked in a patina of filth and decay.

The sorcerer swept his gaze across the assembled plague warriors, relishing the sense of horrified anticipation. Slaugoth chuckled in amusement. Each spectator was eager to see what grisly rite he would perform, yet in the back of each mind was the knowledge that it could just as easily be they and not Vargl who died to feed his magic. The laugh faded into a cough of irritation as Slaugoth spotted the emaciated figure of Vorak of Fell. The cadaverous warlock was watching with an intensity far different from that of the warriors around him. He could almost see the mystic’s mind at work, trying to ferret out the arcane mysteries behind each step of the ritual. Every sorcerer was wary of his fellows, only too aware how eagerly they would steal each other’s secrets — indeed, Slaugoth had included several meaningless ceremonies in this current ritual to frustrate such thievery. He wasn’t certain they’d trick Vorak. The warlock was his chief rival among Torglug’s plaguehosts, guarded by the profane Coin of Thak against even the most subtle hexes and curses Slaugoth might loose against him. Indeed, Vorak made a point of closing his bony fist around the Coin when he saw Slaugoth looking at him.

Forcing a grin he didn’t feel onto his flabby cheeks, the sorcerer turned from his rival and attended to the sacrifice. Slaugoth played the dagger across Vargl’s flesh, cutting away each brand and tattoo, every ritual scar and birthmark that marred the champion’s skin. Anything that displayed the man’s dedication to Nurgle was taken from him, thrown to the onlooking horde in bloodied strips. When he was finished, the sorcerer looked up at Torglug.

‘The Grandfather’s gift must be cut away,’ Slaugoth chuckled. Torglug nodded his consent and he snapped orders to the blightkings holding Vargl. Goregus nodded his armoured head and the prisoner was flipped back onto his belly.

Torglug watched the gruesome process to the end. Vargl would make a fitting sacrifice to the Grandfather now. With the god’s marks removed, with even the mutated claw that was Nurgle’s blessing taken from him, the jarl would feel abandoned not simply by the warlord he’d served but by the god he’d devoted himself to. There could be no greater magnitude of despair than that. His misery would call out to the Grandfather, a succulent morsel to feed Nurgle’s hunger, a diseased capstone to the tower of sylvaneth that had already been rendered up to the Crow God.

Perhaps it would be enough to appease Nurgle’s wrath for a time. Despite his best efforts, Torglug had failed to seize Alarielle in her refuge. The daemonic worm nestled in his gut had made him feel the god’s displeasure by gnawing at his ulcers and lashing its tail against his intestines. Now he had to beg his god for another chance. More than that, he had to beg Nurgle for wisdom. He had to know where the Everqueen had fled and how his legions could still catch her.

Torglug recoiled from his doubts and fears, instead focusing on the grisly ritual Slaugoth was performing at the foot of his throne. He was amazed that Vargl lingered as long as he did when the sorcerer began cutting into him. When he was finished, when the organs were arrayed around Vargl’s body, Slaugoth’s fat fingers curled into cabalistic signs. Slobbering invocations filled the air, soon drowned by the buzzing of flies as swarms of the insects descended upon the offering. Vargl’s remains quickly vanished beneath a crawling blanket, yet still more of the flies flew to his corpse. From a blanket they became a mound; from a mound they grew into a hill. The plaguehost retreated from the expanding heap of flies, even Slaugoth falling back. Only Torglug held his place, staring at the crawling heap, boldly defying it even as it lapped about the feet of his throne.

The buzzing drone of the flies had swollen to a thunderous clamour, drowning out all other sounds. It was like the roar of the sea and the hiss of a volcano, primal in its elemental fury. When it seemed the noise could grow no more deafening, it suddenly began to recede. Rapidly the buzzing clamour died away, and with it died the flies. Droves of the insects dropped from the heap, their tiny carcasses falling away into the mud.

The mound remained, however. As the flies died, they revealed the thing that had grown beneath their crawling feet. It was a gigantic obese bulk, larger in size and proportion than the treelord Torglug had slain. Sores and boils littered its body, and great folds of fat rolled down its ghastly form. Flabby wattles hung from its long arms and dripped from between its clawed fingers. Its toad-like legs were swollen to such extent that they seemed to flow into one another, the feet invisible beneath the flesh that sagged across them. The abomination’s belly was bloated with putrescence, the green skin split to expose the diseased guts within. The monster’s head was broad, massive antlers jutting out from the sides of its skull. The face was hideous in its expression of obscene amusement, spittle hanging from its crooked fangs. The light that shone from the daemon’s plate-sized eyes was baleful and pitiless.

Howls of disgust and adoration rose from the plaguehosts. Some of the most debased of the throng rushed towards the gigantic daemon, collapsing as the putrid emanations spurting from the fiend’s foulness washed over them. Their bodies fell to the earth, writhing in diseased agony as the corruption melted the flesh from their bones. The grisly sight provoked still louder cries of terror and devotion from the army.

Slaugoth laughed boisterously when he saw the way Vorak’s pallid face took on a sickly hue. His rival wasn’t afraid of the daemon so much as he was terrified of Slaugoth’s ability to summon it.

‘Why do you bother your Grandfather with misdeeds, Torglug the Woodsman?’ the daemon’s voice bubbled from deep within its belly. ‘Why have you taken Guthrax Kingeater from his supper?’

Torglug felt the eyes of his army upon him. Though his soul trembled before the awful presence of the great daemon, he refused to bow before it. He would treat with this horror not as its petitioner or even as its equal, but as its master. ‘I am summoning you, Guthrax, so you are rendering service to Nurgle. I am choosing you to grant you the boon of serving your master.’

The Great Unclean One’s bulk quivered as a hacking laugh rippled through it. ‘You have chosen to share some of your glorious failure with me, Torglug the Kind? Even now, the Grandfather prepares a special place in His garden for the gift you were to bring Him.’

The warlord joined in the daemon’s laughter and some of the amusement left Guthrax’s hideous face.

‘Lightning-men are hiding Everqueen,’ Torglug stated. ‘Trouble I am having for finding her again. So I am deciding to invite Guthrax for sharing my labour. When the Grandfather is rewarding me, so He is to be rewarding you. When I am being punished for failure, so is Great Guthrax being punished with me.’

Guthrax reared back, towering over Torglug. It brought one of its immense claws slamming down beside the wooden throne, splattering the warlord with mud. A few inches closer and the daemon would have pounded him into the earth like a post.

‘Simpering mortal whelp!’ Guthrax croaked. ‘You think yourself clever enough to bind Guthrax to your fate!’

For an instant, Torglug stood in stunned silence, even his terrible determination shaken by the daemon’s rage. Then the warlord slowly wiped the mud from his armour, making a great show to his warriors that the Great Unclean One held no terror for him.

‘I am already having done this,’ he told Guthrax. ‘When I am calling you to me, I am saying “Guthrax is sharing my fate. Guthrax and Torglug are now being brothers in same doom.” Is this not being most clever?’ He laughed at the wrath in the daemon’s gigantic eyes. It was aware of the strictures that bound it. Now it knew that Torglug was likewise aware, and prepared to exploit those strictures. ‘The Grandfather is desiring Alarielle as He is coveting nothing before. She is becoming crowning glory in His garden. Without her, His wrath is being enough for making the Blood God trembling. All are being suffering, daemon or mortal.’ He stepped down from his throne and walked around the Great Unclean One. ‘You are sharing in my victory or being partner in my defeat. Those are being only choices, Kingeater.’

‘She is beyond your reach,’ Guthrax said. ‘The path she walks is one you cannot follow.’ The daemon wheezed, choking on the knowledge it now felt compelled to share with the mortal. It disgusted Guthrax to divulge anything that might give Torglug hope, for of all emotions, it was hope that most revoltedhim. ‘She cannot remain upon that path much longer. I know where she must leave it.’

Torglug spun around, staring up into the daemon’s grisly eyes. ‘You are to be leading us there,’ he ordered the fiend.

‘It is not so easy,’ Guthrax said. ‘Her path has allowed her to flee far from Athelwyrd. If we would find her, we must find our own passage across the Jade Kingdoms, a route swifter than that of forest and glade.’

Slaugoth Maggotfang crept towards Torglug, bowing before his master. ‘The daemon plays at riddles, but I know what it means when it speaks of a “passage”. The ratkin have gnawed holes beneath much of Ghyran. With Guthrax to guide us, we could find the one that will lead us to the Radiant Queen.’

Laughter oozed from Guthrax. ‘The ratkin will not meekly stand aside and let you trespass in their burrows. There will be much killing.’

‘Yes,’ Torglug agreed, his voice sharp with anticipation. ‘Much killing.’

The bewildering currents of the Cascading Path rippled and streamed past Grymn. At every step it seemed as though the phantasmal shapes around him grew more insistent, more demanding, compelling him to focus upon them and risk being drawn into the nothingness between existence and eternity. At his side, Tallon whined, his fur standing on end as the eerie apparitions flowed alongside them. He could almost envy the gryph-hound’s distress. The creature lacked the awareness to do more than react to those shadows. The threat of contemplating them, being drawn into them, was beyond his animal mind.

‘Commander, may I speak with you?’ The question came from Retributor-Prime Markius. The paladin, his great hammer slung over his shoulder, fell into step beside Grymn as the Lord-Castellant moved between companies of Liberators.

As commander of their expedition, Grymn had seen it as his duty to encourage his warriors, mingling among them to raise their spirits and gauge their mood. The Stormcasts were as firm as granite when it came to courage and loyalty. In battle their determination was unquestionable. But this was a different kind of ordeal for them, the deranged riot of shapeless shadow and formless light rushing around them, made all the worse by the nebulous passage of time within Alarielle’s enchanted path. Was it hours or days they had been marching? None among the Stormcasts, not even Morbus, could say for certain. All that they could be certain of was that the semblance of forest was becoming ever more illusory, exposing them to the riotous confusion of the unveiled path. The Everqueen’s power was diminishing, Alarielle unable to spare the energy to shield them. How long the Hallowed Knights could endure the full madness of the Cascading Path was a question none of them cared to think about.

Grymn knew what Markius would ask before the first word left the paladin’s mouth. Of all the officers among the Hallowed Knights, Markius was the most eager. In battle he was one of their boldest fighters, but he was also the most impetuous. Gardus had always tried to curb Markius’ excess of valour by assigning him defensive points to keep and hold. In their present situation, Grymn had no such objectives to blunt Markius’ lust for action.

‘I don’t know how long we’ve been on the march,’ Grymn told the paladin. ‘Nor can I say how long we must continue. All I would remind you is that our duty isn’t to fight the enemy but to protect the queen.’

‘My men grow weary. We’ve been marching for Sigmar knows how long without rest or relief. If we had an enemy we could fight, that would be an ordeal we could understand.’ Markius slapped the heft of his hammer, then dipped his head apologetically to Grymn. ‘I speak for my retinue. We don’t know how much longer we can maintain the pace and we worry that if we fall behind then the sylvaneth will leave us on this infernal path.’

‘Our obligation is to Queen Alarielle,’ Grymn repeated. ‘There is no glory without honour and no honour for the Hallowed Knights unless we protect the queen. We must go where our duty takes us.’

Markius slapped his fist against the side of his hammer again. ‘But if we…’ The paladin’s words broke off. He was staring in surprise as the graceful shape of the Lady of Vines came striding down the path. The branchwraith circled between the armoured ranks of Liberators, but not once did her eyes appear to look on them. Those sylvan embers were focused in one direction and one direction only.

She was looking at Grymn.

Grymn found it hard to meet the branchwraith’s gaze. There was resentment there, a reproving judgement that seemed to reach inside him, to tease every doubt and self-recrimination to the forefront of his mind. Yet as she came nearer, Grymn felt a different sensation spinning through his thoughts. It was less than an impulse, more phantasmal than a compulsion, but it was still there, tugging at him and drawing him forwards. He knew he was free to reject or embrace the peculiar sensation. Since it was his choice, he increased his pace and advanced up the path.

‘Commander, what is it?’ Markius asked.

Grymn didn’t turn his head, only watched as the Lady of Vines began to withdraw the way she had come. ‘I’ve been summoned to join the queen,’ he told the paladin. ‘Keep the men here,’ he ordered. ‘Maybe I’m about to learn how much further we have to go.’

The trail ahead was filled with sylvaneth creatures. Slight dryads and gigantic treelords were there in such profusion that it seemed the entire vale of Athelwyrd had uprooted itself and joined their queen’s exodus. Ahead, growing more pronounced and vibrant with each step, was the glowing aura of the Everqueen. Grymn had seen many marvels in his campaigns, had encountered many wonders in his battles across the realms, yet never had he experienced anything like that warm, inviting glow. There was none of the judgement and resentment he had felt emanating from the Lady of Vines. There was only acceptance and appreciation, gratitude for one who had striven to help a dying cause.

The last impression made Grymn stumble. A dying cause? He railed against the sense of defeat, the fatalistic resignation to an inevitable doom. Yet now, as that possibility crept into his awareness, he noticed that a change had come upon the glowing aura of Alarielle. It seemed to him that the light was less brilliant than it had been at the start of the exodus.

The Lady of Vines led him onwards, into the very midst of the Radiant Queen’s glow. It was strange, Grymn thought, that no matter how bright the light became, how near to the source he drew, it never became blinding or hurt his eyes. He could see that he was in the midst of a great company of treelords, mammoth creatures that he instinctively knew were ancients of their kind. The dryads who walked among them were more graceful and enchanting than any he had seen before, their branches filled with the exuberance of spring and the bloom of life. Even Tallon seemed less agitated, the gryph-hound’s instincts taking comfort from the warmth of the Everqueen’s radiance.

In the midst of her court, he found Queen Alarielle.

She was borne upon a living palanquin, a great carriage of intertwined trees, vines and shrubs that crawled forwards upon thousands of writhing roots. The branches of her carriage twisted and curled to form magnificent lattices that rose into a great dome. A dazzling array of leaves, gold and bronze and crimson, framed the carriage, shivering with each creeping step the living vessel took.

Beneath the dome, behind the lattice and the leaves, the Radiant Queen sat upon an amber chair. Grymn’s breath caught as he saw her, such was the transcendent beauty of the goddess. It was a beauty so pure, so perfect, that it couldn’t evoke anything so crude as desire or love. Instead of these things, the beauty of Alarielle commanded devotion. Even a Stormcast Eternal, forged upon the Anvil of Apotheosis and sworn to Sigmar, felt that urge to serve.

‘You will stay behind me,’ the Lady of Vines told Grymn as he approached the palanquin. There was a feeling of wariness about the branchwraith and he noted that she didn’t let her eyes stray far from him. The role of handmaiden had become entwined with that of guardian, he realised. If she decided he was a threat to her mistress, she would attack instantly.

Alarielle turned her face towards Grymn, her regal reserve displaying no sign of the long retreat and the fierce battles behind them. Only in her eyes did he spot any trace of the ordeal, a suggestion of terrible weariness and mournful regret.

‘The Cascading Path has taken us as far as it can,’ Alarielle told him, though Grymn didn’t know if she actually uttered words or if they were simply placed in his mind by her magic. ‘Too much of my realm has fallen to the enemy, too much of the life in it has been destroyed and defiled. As the land fades, so too does the power within this aspect.’

Again, Grymn’s heart recoiled at the suggestion of defeat. ‘The Hallowed Knights are sworn to protect you. Whether you are mighty or helpless, we will not swerve from our duty.’

‘What lies ahead will be more arduous than what lies behind,’ Alarielle warned. ‘The Cascading Path has proven your determination and resolve. But the courage demanded of a leader is a bitter one. For it is not her life she must spend, but the lives of those who have given her their trust and devotion.’ Grymn saw that she was looking past him now, gazing upon her handmaiden. Then the Radiant Queen’s eyes returned to him. ‘Your oaths will be put to the test, Lord-Castellant. You will be called to sacrifice much, and with each sacrifice the blight of doubt will grow within you. Then it will be faith, not honour, that is put to the test.’

The Radiant Queen’s words reverberated through Grymn. At once he felt both pride and foreboding. While he was still in the grip of the conflicting sensations, he felt a pulsation course through the path around him. Stormcasts and sylvaneth alike gazed about them in alarm, disconcerted by the sudden change. Then, ahead of them, for the first time since they’d left Athelwyrd, a light beyond that of Alarielle fell upon them. They were through the Cascading Path.

It was somehow not surprising to Grymn that the end of the trail led through a gash in the trunk of some tree as vast and incredible as the one they had passed into when leaving Athelwyrd. Once more he was seized by that strange sensation of enormity and reduction, but in reverse. Was the opening ahead truly as colossal as it seemed or was it the Stormcasts and sylvaneth who dwindled to pass through the gap? To the disconcerting experience was added the almost unbearable eagerness to slip beyond the uncanny environs of the Cascading Path and again stand in the solidity of the Jade Kingdoms.

Tallon sprinted ahead of his master by several paces, an uncharacteristic exhibition of anxiety on the part of the gryph-hound. Like all of them, he wanted to be free of the enchanted trail. A curt command from Grymn brought him to a halt. The creature whined, casting a guilty look back at Grymn before slinking back to his side. He laid his hand on Tallon’s feathered head, giving him a reassuring scratch. He knew the gryph-hound couldn’t understand the necessity of discipline or the restraint that kept the Hallowed Knights marching at the same steady pace when they were just as anxious to see an end to their ordeal. Tallon knew loyalty and obedience, but honour and pride were things he couldn’t be expected to appreciate.

The light that shone beyond the opening in the gigantic oak lacked the mystical glow Grymn had seen filtering through the boughs of Athelwyrd. Here the sunlight had a greenish cast about it, diffused through the veils of scummy haze that stained the skies. That sickly light shone across an endless, rolling landscape of pasturelands and woods.

Grymn’s relief at reaching the end of the Cascading Path withered when he gazed on those lands. Perhaps they had once been filled with vibrant flowers and lush greenery, but now they were pox-ridden and diseased, befouled by the contagion of Nurgle’s legions. The only flowers that grew here were thorny deathblooms, each petal curled into the bleached semblance of a leering skull. The sickly sweet stench of decay smote his senses as a foetid wind drove the stink of the fields towards him.

Tallon bounded out into the field, growling. The gryph-hound’s feathers ruffled in agitation as he whipped his head from side to side. Grymn could tell that the creature’s keen senses had perceived some sort of danger, a threat far more physical than that of the Cascading Path. While the column of sylvaneth and the Stormcasts flanking their march emerged from the enchanted crack in reality, Grymn stood beside Tallon and tried to make out what had so alarmed the beast.

Faintly at first, then more clearly, Grymn picked out the tolling of rusted bells and the howls of brutish men. The fields hadn’t merely felt the touch of the invaders’ malign presence — there were forces of Nurgle here already, waiting for them somewhere across the expanse of deathblooms. Whether they were actively searching for the Everqueen or simply marauding across the countryside, they posed a threat to the sylvaneth exodus.

Grymn signalled to the officers of the Hallowed Knights to join him. He looked towards the sylvaneth, debating for a moment whether he should make an effort to confer with their queen. Alarielle’s palanquin was surrounded by a wargrove of ancient treelords, the huge wooden creatures forming a palisade all around Alarielle’s carriage. Behind this entourage of towering protectors, the Radiant Queen’s glowing aura shone like a lonely candle locked in a distant fortress. There was something both tragic and forbidding about seeing the goddess withdrawn from the rest of her people.

‘It looks as though the sylvaneth consider these lands as perilous as those we’ve left behind,’ Lord-Relictor Morbus commented as he followed Grymn’s gaze.

‘They are wise to be wary,’ Prosecutor-Prime Tegrus said. ‘The Jade Kingdoms are overwhelmed by the hordes of Chaos. If you had gazed upon these lands from above as I have, you would appreciate better the magnitude of the destruction. We may have left Torglug the Despised and his plaguehosts behind us in Athelwyrd, but there are other legions abroad in Ghyran.’

‘Possibly nearer than any of us would like them to be,’ Grymn said, pointing down to Tallon. The other Stormcasts knew the gryph-hound well enough to know it never snarled at shadows. An enemy was out there. How close and how numerous, it was beyond the creature’s ability to convey. ‘Tegrus, I need your eyes again,’ Grymn said. ‘Send your Prosecutors to scout the terrain. Learn where and who our foes are but don’t engage them. Simply return to me and report what you’ve seen.’

Tegrus bowed his armoured head and saluted the Lord-Castellant. ‘After being restricted to the earth while on the Cascading Path, there isn’t a warrior among my Prosecutors who won’t be thrilled at the chance to take wing again. If we spy so much as a sickly spinejackal, you will know of it, commander.’ Turning on his heel, Tegrus hurried towards the column to gather the Prosecutor retinues to him.

Grymn faced Knight-Vexillor Angstun, presenting him with his own set of orders. ‘The strength of the sylvaneth lies more in endurance than speed. They can march longer than we can, but not faster. If there is fighting to be done, the Hallowed Knights must be ready to react with a swiftness to take advantage of that fact. I want the Liberator retinues gathered into three groups, one deployed on each flank and another taking the vanguard position ahead of the sylvaneth. Each Liberator formation is to be supported by attached retinues of Judicators with skybolt bows. Those warriors equipped with crossbows will act as a flying reserve.’

‘What of the paladins?’ Retributor-Prime Markius asked. His fingers tightened about the haft of the huge hammer he bore, as though already swinging the weapon into the skull of an enemy.

‘The paladins will follow behind,’ Grymn said, instantly sensing the disappointment of the eager Markius. ‘There are none better to act as a rearguard, should it be necessary. Our duty is to protect the Everqueen, and it may not be feasible to both support the rearguard and execute that duty. If you are left on your own, I know there are no warriors among the Hallowed Knights who are capable of acquitting themselves better.’ Grymn pointed the tip of his halberd towards the colossal oak that the last of the sylvaneth were emerging from. ‘Torglug can’t use the Cascading Path, but the Despised One may not be as far behind us as we would hope. If his plaguehosts come upon us from the rear, the paladins must keep them from reaching the column.’

Decimator-Prime Diocletian clapped Markius on the back. ‘Honour is where you find it as much as where it finds you,’ he said. ‘Besides, the forest spirits don’t care for we Decimators and our axes. We’ve grown accustomed to bringing up the tail of this exodus. It will be cheering to have some company for this leg of the journey.’

Angstun had a different concern. ‘Forgive me for asking, Lord-Castellant, but to what purpose is this retreat? If it is to simply keep the Everqueen out of the grasp of her hunters, then our situation fares no better here than skulking about in Athelwyrd.’ He raked the end of his standard across the deathblooms, knocking petals from the foul flowers. ‘The enemy is already here and even if he isn’t deployed as numerously as Torglug’s plaguehosts, it can be but a matter of time before word of our presence carries to Nurgle’s warlords and brings them hastening to overwhelm us.’ He looked across the other Stormcast officers. ‘There isn’t one of us who fears to perform our duty, but our minds should rest easier if we were aware of the Everqueen’s intentions.’

Grymn nodded. ‘I cannot command words from a goddess,’ he told the Knight-Vexillor. ‘But I can make her aware of our concerns and the necessity of knowing where she is taking her people.’

He saluted his officers, then marched across the fecund deathblooms towards the walking palisade of Alarielle’s guardians. With each step, the radiant glow of the Everqueen grew more distinct, no longer a lonely candle locked away in a forgotten keep, but a shining beacon that drew him on. He felt a stirring within him, a gentle whisper that wafted through his soul and urged him forwards.

When Grymn neared the lumbering barrier of treelords, the huge creatures parted for him, receding like the gates of a castle to allow him ingress. It was the merest crack, the slightest gap to permit himself and no other. Tallon started to follow him, but instead fell back, a petulant whine rasping from his throat. The audience with the Everqueen was for the Lord-Castellant alone.

Only the Lady of Vines was with Alarielle behind the ring of treelords. The branchwraith fixed him with an inscrutable look when he passed through the guardians, the light in her eyes somehow colder and more withdrawn than he’d seen it before. Grymn noted that her bark had taken on a scaly, brittle appearance, her figure grown more spindly than her martial aspect. He didn’t know why, but he had the impression of a tree in a graveyard, its vibrancy choked with mourning.

‘The Radiant Queen will receive you,’ the Lady of Vines told him in a creaking voice. ‘She would allay some of your misgivings.’

Grymn fixed the branchwraith with a hard stare. There was something unspoken entwined with her words. Something that sent a thrill of warning through him.

‘Your warriors have withstood the Cascading Path,’ Alarielle called down to him from her crawling carriage. Some of the leafy tendrils drew back, revealing the splendour of her divine countenance once more. ‘Such a feat is not to be lightly praised, but there is small opportunity to applaud the resolve that guides your steps.’

‘It is your resolve I must be bold enough to inquire about,’ Grymn said with deep apology in his voice. ‘These lands you’ve led your people into are filled with the enemy. There is no safety for you here.’

‘Our destination lies to the south,’ the Everqueen declared. ‘Beyond these poisoned bloomfields lies the Sea of Serpents, and across those waters we will find places where the enemy cannot follow. Places of old magic that are more resistant to corruption, more resilient in their own right than even the vale of Athelwyrd.’

Grymn took reassurance from the Radiant Queen’s speech. ‘My warriors will fight the harder for being taken into your confidence, highness,’ he said. ‘This sea you speak of. You have plans for crossing it?’

‘All things stand revealed in time,’ the Lady of Vines said. ‘Sometimes it is easy to suspect treachery within discretion. It becomes simpler to forget the dictates of necessity.’ She gestured with her claw and the treelords parted again to allow Grymn to depart. ‘It is easier to understand the tests the enemy places before us than those posed by a friend.’

Grymn pondered the branchwraith’s curious turn of phrase as he marched out from the walking palisade. Was she apologising for her earlier resentment? Repenting the hostility with which she and the other sylvaneth had regarded the Hallowed Knights? The more he thought about her words and the mournful aspect she had assumed, the less he thought her words were an apology. At least not in the way he had thought.

The Lady of Vines was apologising to him, indeed, but not for the past. She was explaining to Grymn something that lay before them. Trying to imagine what the Everqueen and her people were planning was more forbidding than trying to outguess Torglug. However diseased, at least the plaguelord had a human mind. Maybe Lord-Celestant Gardus could have predicted the reasoning of the tree-creatures, but Grymn knew it was beyond his own abilities. He was not an oracle.

Try as he might, Grymn knew he would have to leave the shadows of the future to set upon him in their own course.

Chapter Three

The fields of deathblooms spilled across the landscape far beyond the giant oak that had been their gate out of the Cascading Path. The noxious flowers had spread like a contagion, consuming everything in their path. The Stormcasts had seen clumps of trees covered in skull-like petals, entire woods that were veiled in the parasitic growths. They’d escorted the sylvaneth column over hills heavy with the deathly flowers and across streams choked by the pestilent weeds. Sometimes they found the sorry remnants of human settlements mouldering beneath a patina of deathblooms. Here would be a tribal totem standing forlorn above a vanished encampment, and over there might be the rubble of a tower carpeted by the vile plants.

Wherever they went, the slaves of the Plague God were there. Sometimes entire warherds of braying gors would come tramping across the fields to challenge their passage. With the advance warning of Tegrus and the other scouts, these mass attacks were steadily beaten back. More arduous were the raids and ambushes staged by smaller warbands. Barbaric horsemen would gallop out from the shelter of diseased woods to mount hit-and-run assaults. A host of armoured Chaos warriors sprang upon them from concealed pits, dealing several casualties before they were annihilated. In the wreckage of a village, the vanguard was surprised by a lurking maggoth, the monstrosity sending three Liberators back to Sigmaron before a salvo from the boltstorm crossbows brought the thing to ruin.

The gauntlet of skirmishes posed no immediate peril to the column, but Grymn was deeply concerned just the same. Each attack taxed their strength a little more, wore down their endurance that tiny bit further. On their own, the raids were nothing. Put together, they became an insidious drain on the Hallowed Knights and their allies. They were forced to press on without rest or respite. Never could they let their guard down or relent in their vigilance.

The moment when Tegrus came back to Grymn to report that the land ahead of them sloped down towards a vast sea was the first cheering news he had heard in a long time — surely this was the Sea of Serpents the Everqueen had told him of. His cheer faded when Tegrus couldn’t report any isthmus or other feature that offered some way of crossing the waters, no fleet waiting on the beach to carry the Everqueen and her protectors across. There was only the rocky shingle of the shore and the rolling waves.

Grymn recalled Alarielle’s earlier words to him about peril and faith. The Radiant Queen was neither mad nor a fool. She hadn’t rescued her people from the doom of Athelwyrd simply to trap them with their backs to the sea. She had some plan, even if she chose to keep it from her allies. Grymn felt a shiver pass through him when he reasoned that her plan likely involved another arcane crack in reality, some trail perhaps even more unsettling than the Cascading Path. He kept this concern to himself, however. It served no purpose to have his warriors worrying about something over which they had neither control nor influence.

The sharp briny smell of salt water reached Grymn an hour or so before the column crested a hill and finally gazed upon the Sea of Serpents. It was as Tegrus had reported, a great expanse of rolling waves that stretched out to the distant horizon, its far shore somewhere beyond. The vile deathblooms spread only as far as the rocky shingle, their vitality finally overcome by the combination of barren rock and salt spray.

The sylvaneth marched down to the shingle with what struck Grymn as almost an exhibition of urgency. The Stormcasts in the vanguard parted to let the tree-creatures pass through them. With the sea in front of them, it was certain that if an attack came, the plague warriors wouldn’t be charging from that quarter. The primes of the displaced retinues redeployed their Liberators with the paladins in the rearguard. At Grymn’s command, the Judicators fell back and took up formation on the hill overlooking the shore. From such a vantage they’d be able to both support the column and rain volleys upon any foe moving along the shingle.

Lord-Relictor Morbus waited while Grymn dispatched Tegrus and his scouts back into the air. Now that they had the sea blocking their way, it was more vital than ever to know where the enemy was and how great his numbers. Once the Prosecutors were airborne, Morbus addressed the Lord-Castellant.

‘Unless we build ships from our allies, we seem to be at an impasse,’ Morbus said. ‘We can’t go forwards and with the plaguehosts all around us, we can’t go back.’

Grymn looked towards the sylvaneth column, watching the glowing form of the Everqueen as her carriage crawled ahead with its ring of treelord guardians. ‘I think your true worry is that she will set us upon a road even stranger than the Cascading Path.’

Morbus nodded. ‘Such a worry was in my mind,’ he confessed. He gestured at the shore, at the rolling waves. ‘This place has its own power, but I don’t sense the same potential as when we were in Athelwyrd. If there is a gate such as we passed through before, it is well hidden indeed.’

‘Such may have been her purpose in bringing us here,’ Grymn said. ‘Any magic that hides from friend is able to hide from foe as well.’ He patted Tallon’s head. ‘Sometimes faith is needed,’ he said, echoing the advice Alarielle had given him.

A querulous bark from the gryph-hound had him looking again towards the sylvaneth. The tree-creatures were on the shore now. He watched as the ring of treelords parted. The radiant glow of the Everqueen shone more brightly as she emerged from behind her protectors. To Grymn’s eyes, it appeared that the deathblooms wilted wherever that light reached them, that even the ghoulish stain in the air was diminished.

The sylvaneth hung back as their queen’s carriage crawled out onto the shingle. Only the Lady of Vines remained to attend the Everqueen, the handmaiden gliding alongside the palanquin. It made Grymn anxious to see Alarielle exposing herself in such a manner. With all deference to her power and authority, while he was responsible for protecting her he felt obliged to demand greater caution. He started to march towards the shingle when Morbus caught him by the arm.

‘She’s weaving some kind of spell,’ Morbus told him. ‘Something of enormous potential.’

Grymn felt that shiver pass through him again. ‘You said this place wouldn’t lend itself to any great conjuration.’ He looked towards the beach. While he watched, Alarielle descended from her carriage. The moment her feet touched the earth, the palanquin began to shrivel and wither, crumbling into a dried mess of wilted foliage. She stood poised where the waters crashed upon the shingle, the transition from one element to another. Her arms were outstretched, her head tilted back and gazing away to the east. Now even the Lady of Vines kept herself at a distance, standing well up on the beach and away from her mistress’ conjuration.

‘It isn’t the land she is drawing power from,’ Morbus said. He pointed at the Radiant Queen. ‘Observe,’ he told Grymn.

Alarielle was standing at the edge of the sea, the waves rippling just ahead of her feet. While he looked on, Grymn noted a change. It took him a moment to understand it was the fading of her radiance. The brilliant aura was collapsing, compressing closer and closer around her.

‘Her light is dying,’ Grymn said.

‘She’s using her own energies to power whatever enchantment she’s trying to invoke,’ Morbus said.

Grymn recalled the mournful aspect the Lady of Vines had assumed during his last audience with the Everqueen. He remembered the branchwraith’s words about discretion and concealing things from friends. It was this she had been trying to prepare him for: the sacrifice of the Radiant Queen.

‘We can’t permit this,’ Grymn told Morbus as he hurried down towards the shore. ‘Our duty is to protect the Everqueen, not stand idle while she destroys herself. Whatever her reasons, it must be stopped.’

They raced towards Alarielle, yet even as they did so Grymn could see that they were too late. The mighty conjuration the Radiant Queen had evoked was too much for her dwindling energies. Her light was vanishing, drawing tighter and tighter around her. He didn’t know what would happen when the radiance pressed against Alarielle’s body, when glow and form became one. He was determined not to put that question to the test.

Ahead of them, Grymn saw the Lady of Vines prowling towards him, putting herself between him and Alarielle. The branchwraith paced like a hungry lion, her bark transformed into a black, scaly wood. Thorns projected from the coils of vines now, poison dripping from each needle. Her hands had elongated, her fingers hardening into great claws. The glow within her eyes was fierce and threatening, the glower of a wolf protecting its pups.

‘This doesn’t concern you, Stormcast,’ the branchwraith declared.

‘Step away,’ Grymn ordered the Lady of Vines. He waved his halberd at the collapsing radiance. ‘Whatever her purpose, I can’t allow her to sacrifice herself!’

For just a moment, Grymn thought he saw a flicker pass through the branchwraith’s burning gaze, a lessening of that threatening glower.

‘You cannot stop what must be,’ she warned. The Lady of Vines stretched her hand towards him. A spray of splinters and thorns shot out at Grymn, blinding him momentarily. He took a staggering step back, but the branchwraith made no move to press her attack. Instead she turned towards the dwindling light of her queen.

‘It’s too late,’ Morbus told Grymn. ‘The damage is done.’

The glow of the Radiant Queen was collapsing now, rapidly vanishing. Alarielle’s power was expended, but it was more than that. To his horror, Grymn could see no body behind the light — she was vanishing with her power! Before his eyes he saw the glow shrivel and wither, becoming ever smaller and smaller.

The skies overhead darkened, great storm-laden clouds boiling outward from the horizon. The warm, almost foetid air grew cold. Life itself seemed to be draining out of the land. Snow fell from the grey skies, carpeting the fields and glades in a deathly mantle.

‘Why?’ Grymn asked himself. ‘What was worth such a sacrifice?’

As if in answer to his question, Grymn saw far away to the east a shudder of motion. One of the distant mountains started to tremble, great avalanches of rock and snow crashing down from its peak. While he looked on in wonder, the terrain lurched upwards with a mighty heave. He could feel a tremor pass through the ground under his feet.

It wasn’t his imagination. The mountain was moving.

Tall as a man, yet cast in the revolting shape of a rat, the monster bled sickly black blood across Torglug’s axe. In its death spasms, the verminous creature snapped at the warlord with its yellowed fangs and raked at him with its clawed fingers. Torglug pressed the ratkin against the earthen wall, putting his immense strength and bloated bulk behind his blade. There was a delicious sound of crunching bone as the axe chewed its way deeper into the skaven, polluted blood jetted from severed arteries and torn veins. The creature’s anguished flailing became even more frenzied, its thrashing causing the axe to saw even deeper into its flesh.

When the light of suffering drained out of the ratman’s eyes, Torglug ripped his axe free. The body of his foe clung to the wall, plastered there by its own gore. He spun around, hewing through the shoulder of a second skaven seeking to strike at his back. The vermin squealed as the blighted axe ripped through it and sent its carcass spinning through the air. A pack of scrawny spear-armed ratkin abandoned their charge towards the bloated warlord as the mangled body crashed among their ranks. Squeaks of fright and a musty reek rose from the skaven as they turned tail and scurried back down the passage.

Torglug looked around for something to kill, but there was only the pile of dead ratkin strewn about his feet. The tunnel was monumental in its dimensions, stretching hundreds of yards across, and of such height that even Guthrax didn’t need to crouch as it waddled down the corridor. The walls were like black stretches of solidified shadow, pitted and scratched with the marks of shovels, picks and drills. Crude supports of onyx and malachite propped up the blackness of the roof in sporadic fashion. Beams of grey crystal leaned against walls where they’d started to sag inwards, or lay toppled to the ground where the entropic miasma had come spilling in anyway.

Skaven infested the tunnel, scurrying from tiny side-passages, popping up from rents in the floor or dropping down from tears in the ceiling. Cloaked in filthy robes, froth bubbling from their mouths and frenzied madness gleaming in their eyes, the ratkin swarmed to confront Torglug’s legion. Squealing mobs of plague monks wielding staves of diseased wood and daggers of polluted metal charged into herds of goat-headed beastmen, the ringing of profane bells and the snarls of obscene chants goading them onto the horns of their enemies. Packs of decayed monsters with their fur sloughing away from their putrid bodies rushed into the armoured ranks of Chaos warriors, exploding in bursts of burning pus when their foes struck them down. Grisly ratmen, their twisted bodies hidden in crusty robes, waved smoking censers at tribes of marauders, the vile fumes causing armour to rust and rot off the stricken men. Chittering their shrill war-cries, the hordes of the Clans Pestilens fought to drive the plaguehosts back up to the surface.

The legion of Torglug, however, wouldn’t be denied so easily. His tribesmen trampled the bodies of their own dead to reach the vermin waving the censers, dragging the plague monks down one after another and hacking them apart with cruel axes and serrated swords. Enraged gors carved a path through the mobs of ratmen, rending them to pieces in their fury. Vengefully, the Chaos warriors pursued their tormentors, ignoring the scores of tribesmen they left writhing on the floor in their determination to cut down the slinking ratkin. Cyclopean plaguebearers and swarms of nurglings scrambled towards the sorcerous gongs the skaven were striking, their daemonic essence immune to the diseased magic of the ratmen.

Across the tunnel, Torglug saw a plague monk cowering in front of Guthrax, apparently overcome by the monstrous daemon’s aura. Its squeaks turned into wails of terror as the obese monstrosity fixed its malignant gaze upon the ratman, hideous lights blazing from its rheumy orbs. The skaven shrieked as its body was engulfed in Guthrax’s magic, fur sloughing away and flesh breaking out in black sores and red boils. The sorcerous plague leapt from the shrieking chanter to infect the monks around it, spreading its virulence to dozens of the vermin before its malign impetus was expended.

Nearby, a hunched plague priest was locked in an arcane duel with Slaugoth Maggotfang. The skaven magician sent tendrils of withering energy leaping from its paws. Ratmen and marauders fighting in the space between the plague priest and Slaugoth were struck down by the corrosive magic, the spell making no distinction between friend and foe. Yet when it came rushing towards the sorcerer, the spell fizzled into a cloud of greenish vapour. While the plague priest was snarling in frustration, Slaugoth retaliated, laughing as he sent a bolt of putrid fire exploding from the head of his staff and streaking towards the skaven. Some spell or charm preserved the ratman from the worst of the sorcerer’s fury — while the vermin around it were reduced to puddles of slime, the only effect upon the plague priest was a green tinge to its mangy fur and a layer of muck upon its robes.

Torglug left Slaugoth to settle the contest on his own. The warlord had spotted a more immediate problem much closer at hand — a large swarm of skaven warriors sweeping around to smash against the right flank of the plaguehost. Unlike the other ratmen, their robes had been fashioned from flayed hide, foul symbols inked into the leather, and in their hands were filthy swords that blazed with fell and corrupt energies. They moved with a confidence and discipline absent from the rest of the horde. At their fore was a white-furred chief bedecked in a rathide cloak and robes. Guthrax had told him that this was the leader of the vermin infesting the tunnel, a high priest of Pestilens named Poxmonger Kriknitt.

The threat to the flank of his army was enough motivation to send Torglug running towards the fight, but he also had an idea to bring the fray to a quick end. Each warrior he lost fighting his way past the skaven was one less fighter he could bring against the Everqueen’s protectors. Skaven were slinking, cowardly creatures, bold only when they were confident of victory. There were two ways to break that confidence — butcher most of their horde or kill their leader.

Torglug reached the Threespine tribe securing his right flank just as the skin-robed plague monks thrust their way through an intervening pack of smaller skaven warriors and struck the front ranks of the barbarian fighters. The fell energies of their filthy blades smouldered against the steel mail of the humans, shearing through what armour they wore. Cruel hooks on the heads of the blades caught in flesh, dragging warriors from the midst of their comrades to be hacked apart by opportunistic skaven.

The Threespine were faltering when Torglug joined them, but the presence of their warlord fired their determination and made them redouble their assault against the ratkin. Torglug pushed his way through the press of warriors, shouting for his enemy. ‘Kriknitt! Be facing me, prince of vermin! Be facing me, digger of holes!’

Thrusting his way to the front of the battle, Torglug brought his axe chopping down into the head of a plague monk, splitting both the ratman’s manskin cowl and the skull beneath.

‘Kriknitt! Torglug of the Twelve Plagues is for challenging you!’ the warlord bellowed as his blade hacked through the arm of another plague monk. Off to his right he could see the skaven leader, its white fur standing out in stark contrast to the mangy pelts of the vermin surrounding it. Kriknitt looked in Torglug’s direction, its ears curling close against the sides of its head and its eyes going wide with fright.

‘Be facing me! Be facing the favoured son of Nurgle!’ Torglug butchered his way through the intervening skaven, leaving the Threespine tribesmen to finish those foes he merely maimed and injured in his vicious advance.

The poxmonger fled, slinking back through the ranks of its warriors, pushing hapless ratmen into Torglug’s path, squeaking angrily at those of its minions that tried to protest their leader’s retreat. It appeared that Kriknitt wanted nothing to do with Torglug or the diseased axe that could wreak such carnage among its warriors. With unabashed cowardice, the ratman left its fellows to face the warlord’s onslaught. Soon, despite the murderous fury of Torglug’s assault, Kriknitt had withdrawn from the pack of skin-clad monks and was scurrying down one of the side passages. Frustrated, Torglug flung the head of a decapitated skaven after the fleeing ratkin.

Squeals of fright now rang out all across the tunnel. The air became rank with the stink of musk, smothering even the necrotic reek of Torglug’s followers. Clutches of ratkin followed the example set by their high priest, abandoning the fight to slip down holes and scramble into side passages. Swifter even than the sorcerous plague Guthrax had conjured against the skaven, terror spread among the ratmen. The retreat of a few became a general rout, swarms of vermin fighting and clawing at one another as they sought to flee.

Torglug cut down the plague monks near to him, carving a gory trail through them. The broken skaven retreated before him, but their flight was blocked by other packs of routed ratkin. The fight had left the vermin, but Torglug’s legion was of no mind to offer them mercy. They pursued their enemy, massacring them as they tried to climb over one another in their eagerness to escape.

Torglug the Despised drank in the cries of panic and pain. However many of the ratkin managed to escape, they wouldn’t rally for another attack. They’d make no move to interfere with the plaguehost’s march through the tunnels.

Dismissing the skaven from his thoughts, Torglug anticipated finding his quarry and how he would steal her from her protectors.

Impossibly vast, a living mountain lumbered out from beyond the horizon. Every step of its craggy legs made the earth shiver and sent a tremble rolling across the landscape. Its stony shoulders seemed to scrape the clouds, and veils of mist and fog spilled down the cliffs of its chest. Mighty boulders ground against one another as the giant’s rocky arms swung at its sides. Slabs of granite and limestone clashed together, groaning with the deafening bellow of an avalanche. As the titan slogged across field and stream, an atmosphere of bitter cold and driving snow swept ahead of it. Frost seized the vegetation, ice grasped at the waters and gales of pallid snow blanketed the land.

The animate mountain trudged along the edge of the sea to the south, each step cracking the earth. Snow came swirling across the fields of deathblooms now, smothering the diseased growths under a white blanket of oblivion. The giant, oblivious or indifferent to the destruction it provoked, lumbered on, making towards the great expanse of water ahead of it. It seemed impossible to Grymn that such a gargantuan being could exist, and much less that it could be summoned by even the mightiest of magic.

It was the thought of magic that broke the awed fascination that held him. Alarielle! The Everqueen had sacrificed herself to call this titan, expending the last of her essence to work her spell. Grymn might have stopped her if not for the interference of her handmaiden. He tore his eyes from the awesome sight of the walking mountain to glare at the Lady of Vines. The branchwraith still had her back to him, turned instead to the spot where Alarielle had stood. A keening harmony sounded from the handmaiden, a melody of both loss and promise.

‘In any language, that sounds like a song of mourning,’ Lord-Relictor Morbus told Grymn.

‘She kept us from stopping Alarielle,’ Grymn snarled, clenching his halberd tight. ‘We’ve failed in our mission, and I’m going to find out why.’

Grymn marched towards the Lady of Vines, Morbus following behind him. He could hear Retributor-Prime Markius and his paladins coming up behind them. It wouldn’t be long before the warriors and their lightning hammers were available to support him. He risked a glance at the vast gathering of sylvaneth that had accompanied their queen on her final journey. If the tree-creatures supported the Lady of Vines, Grymn knew his small group of Stormcasts would be overwhelmed before the rest of the Hallowed Knights could reach them. The sylvaneth, however, were silent, as still as the trees they resembled. There was an expectant quality about that silence, like the quiet before a storm.

As he walked towards the Lady of Vines, Grymn noted that her aspect had changed once again. Her bark had lightened, taking on a rich amber colour and becoming smooth as a river rock. The vines twined about her lithe shape had lost their thorns, the leaves becoming rich and full with little clusters of berries hanging from them. Her hands had lost their claws, shifting into delicate fingers that were curled around–

Grymn looked in confusion at the object the branchwraith held. At first he thought it was some kind of jewel, so brilliantly did it sparkle. Then he appreciated that the shine wasn’t the play of light upon the object but rather a glow that emanated from within it. A few steps more and he realised that the radiance was familiar to him, exuding that same atmosphere of comfort and invitation he’d felt in the Radiant Queen’s presence. Peering closer, he could see something beneath the light, an ovoid shape about the size of his fist.

It was a seed!

The observation spurred a thousand questions in Grymn’s mind. Was this what Alarielle had intended, to expend her energies until all that was left of her was this seed? Did she think this was the only way she’d be able to escape Torglug’s legions? What was the power of this remnant, this relic? Was it simply a talisman, a legacy left to the sylvaneth, or was it something more than that? A promise for the future?

The Lady of Vines closed her hands protectively around the glowing seed. Still singing her keening song, she turned from Grymn and walked towards the massed sylvaneth. When she was only a few feet from the edge of the exiles, she held her arms out to them, showing them the relic she held. A sound rolled through the living forest, a great thrum unlike anything Grymn had ever heard before. There was a sense of both adoration and praise in that sound. The sylvaneth were swearing a vow, but the nature of that promise was something Grymn was unable to fathom.

‘Leave her be,’ Grymn told Morbus as the Lord-Relictor moved towards the branchwraith. He looked across the masses of sylvaneth, struck by the reverent sense of loss and promise that rose from them. For the Hallowed Knights, the Everqueen had represented honour and duty, but for the sylvaneth she had been everything. ‘Leave them to their sorrow while they have the chance to indulge it.’

The Stormcasts withdrew, falling back from the shingle and letting their allies pay respect to their queen.

Grymn turned his attention back to the lumbering mountain. Many of the Stormcasts were gazing in awe at the colossus. The behemoth was nearer now, though the pace of its quaking steps had slackened. It was still circling around the edge of the sea, though Grymn noticed its path wasn’t one that would bring it towards the sylvaneth but rather out into a bay a league or so away.

‘It is a jotunberg,’ Morbus said, giving name to the giant. ‘They are supposed to be few in number, stewards of Ghyran’s seasons, heralds of the dying time.’ He pointed at the immense titan; at each step, boulders and slabs of rock tumbled away from its body, smashing to the ground in an avalanche of destruction.

Grymn watched as the jotunberg stumbled onwards through the haze of snow and fog spilling from its body. Had the giant truly come in response to Alarielle’s magic? If so, to what purpose had she called this behemoth, and why did it now turn from the sylvaneth? He shook his head. Puzzles without answer and of little consequence now that the Radiant Queen was unable to answer them.

‘Forget the giant,’ Grymn said. ‘Our purpose here has changed. Queen Alarielle—’

Before the Lord-Castellant could finish speaking, a blast of icy air rushed past him, turning his breath to frost. He looked as the jotunberg stepped out into the sea. A quaking groan boomed across the land as the behemoth stumbled. Then the living mountain pitched forwards, slamming down into the sea in a cataclysmic crash that set the earth itself shivering. The water displaced by its impact flashed outwards in mighty waves, then hardened into crests of ice. The chill raced outwards from the fallen giant, coursing through the sea and freezing its surface. In the matter of only a few heartbeats, a distance of several hundred yards around the giant had been turned to ice, expanding outwards quicker than Grymn’s eye could follow. The skies unleashed their fury in earnest now, great swirling gales of icy snow whipping across the land.

Heralds of the dying time, Morbus had called the jotunberg. The giants were the bearers of winter.

As the ice spread towards their piece of shoreline, Grymn saw the sylvaneth start forwards. The tree-creatures stepped out onto the ice, making their way across the frozen sea. It was a strange sight, a walking forest marching over the frozen waves. Grymn was solemn as he watched that exodus, wondering where the sylvaneth would go, what it was that awaited them on the other side. Would they find the refuge towards which the Everqueen had been leading them? Was there indeed anywhere in the realm of Ghyran that could be called safe from Nurgle’s corruption?

Grymn looked down when he heard Tallon start growling. The gryph-hound’s fur was on end, his feathers ruffled. He knew the creature well enough to recognise it sensed the nearness of enemies.

‘Tegrus!’ Grymn shouted. ‘Get your Prosecutors into the air and scout for the enemy. Numbers and disposition. I want to know how long we can buy for our allies to cross the ice. Angstun, gather the Liberator conclaves and form a shield wall along the beach. Judicators on the flanks to provide supporting fire.’

Even as Angstun started deploying the Stormcasts, the clatter of armour and the snarls of beasts reached the Hallowed Knights. Plague warriors were indeed close, nearer than Grymn had feared them to be.

‘Commander, what about us, do we follow them?’ Markius asked, pointing at the sylvaneth.

With the sylvaneth marching out onto the ice, the Hallowed Knights Grymn had deployed to guard the flanks and act as pickets were falling back towards the stony shingle lining the shore. He started to answer Markius, to tell him there was no reason to follow the sylvaneth, but then he noticed that the Lady of Vines was standing at the edge of the ice, hesitating to join the march. Still singing her eerie song.

Slowly, almost reluctantly, her eyes fastened upon Grymn’s. The branchwraith held her hands towards him, her fingers parting to show him the seed. Deftly she reached to a hollow in her breast, carefully setting the seed into the recess. Then she turned, quickly disappearing into the moving forest of sylvaneth, her keening song drifting away with her as she walked out towards the ice.

No words had been spoken, for the Lady of Vines couldn’t allow her song to falter, but Grymn understood the meaning the branchwraith had tried to convey. She knew the duty that the Hallowed Knights were sworn to. They had been sent to protect the Radiant Queen. Grymn had thought they’d failed in that purpose, but now he understood he was wrong. The seed was more than a relic or a legacy: it was Alarielle herself, the Everqueen’s essence collapsed into a soulpod, waiting to be reborn.

‘Join the sylvaneth,’ Grymn told Markius. ‘We must protect the Lady of Vines and guard the seed she carries.’

‘You think Alarielle lives on in the seed?’ Morbus asked.

‘I do not think it, I know it,’ Grymn said. ‘The Lady of Vines has told me it is so.’ He saw the uncertainty in the Lord-Relictor’s eyes. ‘We still have a chance to fulfil our duty here and deny the enemy his victory.’

‘It is true no man can every fully understand the ways of magic,’ Morbus said. ‘But to believe the Radiant Queen lives on as a seed…’

The sound of wings brought the eyes of the Stormcasts skywards. Tegrus and his Prosecutors came swooping down, diving towards Grymn and his companions. At the last instant, the winged warriors pulled back, arresting the momentum of their dive. Ordinarily the daunting exhibition would be accomplished with an air of bravado and showmanship. Now, however, it was laced with an air of urgency.

‘Lord-Castellant,’ Tegrus addressed Grymn with a bow. ‘We’ve sighted a vast throng of enemy warriors advancing in this direction.’

‘A confederation of scavenging warbands?’ Markius suggested.

Tegrus shook his head. ‘They are too many to be mere scavengers,’ he reported. ‘We flew low enough to see the banners they bore. I recognised the emblems of Torglug the Despised.’ His tone grew still darker. ‘There is an enormous daemon with them, some gigantic obscenity spat out by Nurgle himself.’

Morbus clenched his fist. ‘Then the Radiant Queen’s magic was for naught,’ he snarled. ‘She sped us away from Athelwyrd only for the enemy to catch up to us just the same.’ A grim laugh sounded from behind his skull-like mask. ‘At least we can make Torglug regret finding us.’

‘We still have our duty,’ Grymn told Morbus. ‘We protect the queen-seed. That is more important than killing the enemy.’ He looked back to Tegrus. ‘How far away would you say Torglug is?’

‘If not for the snow-storm, they’d already have seen us,’ Tegrus said.

Grymn nodded. He turned and faced towards the ice, studying the shoreline and the march of the sylvaneth. The chilling effect of the jotunberg’s fall had been capricious in its action. There were gaps in the ice, great expanses of frigid water sloshing around the frozen crests. A hundred yards out from the shore the ice narrowed into a bridge between two stretches of icy water.

‘Tegrus, take your Prosecutors and watch Torglug’s legion. Any change, fly back here and report it to me.’ Grymn saluted the Prosecutor-Prime as he climbed back into the air with his warriors. Turning, he addressed Markius. ‘Take your Retributors and form up around that bridge,’ he said, pointing at the span he’d noticed. ‘When Diocletian comes up, I’ll send his paladins to join you.’

‘What is it that you have in mind?’ Morbus asked.

‘Once we’re out on the ice, if we break that bridge there’ll be no connection to the shore,’ Grymn said. ‘Torglug’s warriors will be trapped on this side of the sea.’

‘A sound plan,’ Morbus said, ‘but I think it will need more than lightning hammers and thunderaxes to split the ice.’ He waved at the snow falling around them. ‘The enemy has his own magic to call upon. I don’t think we can rely on this flurry to hide us from Torglug for long. There may not be time to crack the ice by force of arms.’

Grymn felt cold inside. Morbus was right, of course. He couldn’t depend upon the enemy giving him the time to execute his plan. But what was the alternative? What would Gardus have done if he were here? How would he have made use of the assets at his command?

‘Morbus, breaking the ice is your job,’ Grymn told the Lord-Relictor.

Morbus patted his hammer’s head like it was a gryph-hound. ‘I’ve shattered the bones of troggoths and broken the backs of daemons with this,’ he said. ‘It would be shameful if I told you I could be beaten by a little ice.’

The last of the sylvaneth were crossing the bridge when the vanguard of Torglug’s horde emerged from the snow-storm. Even from his position out on the ice, Grymn could see the look of surprise on the first marauder’s face as he suddenly found his quarry in front of him. Before the barbarian could shout to his fellows, one of the Judicators loosed an arrow into him, knocking the man back into the oblivion of the storm. Tallon growled at the fallen enemy, his hackles raised. Grymn quieted the gryph-hound with a curt command.

It was only a momentary respite. More of Torglug’s warriors appeared, loping out of the storm like ravening wolves. Now there were too many for the Judicators to put down before their cries of discovery reached the ears of the horde. Through a rain of sigmarite arrows and bolts, the enemy pressed forwards, rushing out onto the shingle in a howling mob of men and monsters.

The line of Liberators bringing up the rear were just crossing the bridge. Grymn scowled as his mind turned over the distance between them and the foe. It was going to be close. Closer than was comfortable. The same thought must have come to Morbus. The Lord-Relictor started back towards the bridge. Grymn laid a restraining hand on his shoulder.

‘Wait,’ Grymn told Morbus.

The Lord-Relictor looked at him, but didn’t offer an objection. Morbus had a penchant for seeing the dark side of everything, of always finding the worst possibilities. Grymn prayed to Sigmar that this time the dour warrior was wrong.

Packs of beasthounds loped out from the storm, rushing past the enemies already on the shingle. The mutated beasts howled and snarled as they pursued the scent of the Hallowed Knights, moving with such speed that only a few of them fell to Judicators’ arrows as they came. Their claws raking the ice, the hideous brutes charged after the Liberators, baying in triumph as they came rushing onto the bridge.

Grymn felt a chill rush through his heart. If the Liberators turned to face the beasthounds, then the enemies on the shingle would gain the time they needed to reach the bridge. The Judicators couldn’t loose their arrows directly into the dogs because their own comrades were in the way. Grymn had to depend on the inability of the brutish creatures to realise that fact.

‘By volley… loose!’ The command was given by Angstun, the Knight-Vexillor. The Judicators with him raised their skybolt bows and sent a rain of arrows arcing into the air. The missiles came hurtling downwards, a dozen yards behind the withdrawing Liberators. Many of the beasthounds were caught in the descending volley, their thick hides pierced over and again by the sigmarite shafts. Yelps of pain rang out as the injured creatures writhed on the ice, others toppled into the icy slush to either side. Panicked by the whines of the other beasts, even those hounds that had charged ahead of the volley turned around and fled back towards the shore.

Now Grymn motioned Morbus forwards. The Lord-Relictor marched past the Liberator rearguard and raised his relic hammer high. Invoking the divine power of Sigmar, he called out to the God-King. Even as the first marauders and gors ventured out onto the ice, mighty blasts of lightning came hurtling downwards. Where the bolts struck, the ice was vaporised, steaming craters gouged out of the bridge by each strike, exposing great pits of icy water and slush. The main span of the bridge was fractured and fragmented, but the aftermath left behind dozens of smaller, slighter spans.

For once, Morbus’ pessimism had missed a possibility. The relic hammer’s power had failed to crack the bridge completely and there was no guarantee another lightning-strike would accomplish what the first had not. When the enemy recovered from the shock inflicted on them by Morbus’ magic, they’d come swarming across the spans that remained. If only a few of them held, it would be a disaster.

The creaking groan of marching sylvaneth drew Grymn’s attention away from the bridge. He watched as a file of towering treelords came striding back across the ice, their branches heavy with snow from the storm. The huge sylvaneth walked past him, converging upon the near side of the bridge where Morbus stood.

As the first of the Chaos warriors came charging out onto the battered bridge, the treelords slammed their massive feet against the seaward edge. Roots snaked out from their feet, burrowing into the ice. A tremor rushed through the frozen waves, and the sharp crack of splitting ice rang out. The enemies rushing onto the span shouted in horror. Not a man or beast lingered; almost as one they turned and fled back towards the shingle.

The cracks caused by the treelords widened, catching the slowest of the enemy warriors and pitching them into the icy slush of the sea. Still the sylvaneth roots burrowed, causing the spans to split and collapse into the water. Only when the gap between the frozen sea and the shore was too wide for even the most agile beasthound to leap did the treelords relent. Glaring at the men and monsters on the shore, the huge sylvaneth strode back the way they had come, vanishing into the swirling flurries of snow.

Grymn looked over the vast expanse of water that now lay between him and the shore. It would take Torglug’s forces hours to throw a bridge across that span. By then, the Hallowed Knights and the sylvaneth would be far across the ice. With the snow-storm to hide their trail and conceal their position, they just might be able to slip away entirely.

‘Withdraw,’ Grymn called out to his warriors, turning a deaf ear to the jeers and curses of the foes clustered along the shoreline. The Hallowed Knights turned at his command, falling back across the ice. As with the treelords, it wasn’t long before the storm hid them from the eyes of their foe.

Torglug the Despised looked down at the corpse of the beastlord. Rakthor had been one of his chieftains ever since it had slaughtered its own leader in single combat. Vicious and cunning, it had been a capable enough lieutenant. Still, at the moment, Torglug didn’t need a lieutenant. He needed an example.

‘I am not being cheated of my prize!’ Torglug bellowed, pointing his axe at the rest of his champions. ‘I am not being denied my destiny!’ He kicked the horned head at his feet, causing blood to slosh out of the gaping wound in Rakthor’s neck. ‘Whole of Ghyran can be falling to Grandfather, but it is being nothing to Him without Everqueen!’

The warlord’s minions were silent. They knew Torglug’s rages and knew that the best way to survive them was to escape his notice. Only a brave man, or a foolish one, would tempt the anger of Nurgle’s chosen. Walking out across the shingle and diving down into the icy slush would be preferable to falling foul of their master. Guthrax alone seemed to find humour in the situation, chuckling darkly at the warlord’s distress and the fright of his chieftains.

The Great Unclean One’s mockery vexed Torglug. Guthrax was a formidable ally, but an obnoxious one. Whirling around, the warlord pointed his axe at his most powerful sorcerer. Slaugoth Maggotfang muttered a nervous laugh when he felt the warlord’s eyes on him. The chieftains around him edged away. If Slaugoth was due a tortuous doom from the warlord, then let the sorcerer suffer alone.

‘You are boasting always of your magic. You are telling always how mighty your sorcery is being. Now I am to be putting your magic to test. You are knowing what I am offering those who fail me,’ Torglug warned. He settled back into the seat of the throne that had been raised for him on the shingle, a chair crafted from the corpses of warriors who’d failed to cross the ice before it cracked.

‘I can get your army across,’ Slaugoth grinned. ‘But the cost will be high.’ He raised his swollen hand to fend off the fury he saw blazing in Torglug’s blemished eyes. ‘It is not a reward I seek,’ he hurried to explain. ‘This particular sorcery is dangerous and demanding. It will need the lives of many of your followers.’

‘To be dying in my service is a glory all who are serving me should be happy to embrace,’ Torglug said, threat bubbling behind each word.

Slaugoth came closer to the throne. He thrust one hand towards Torglug, while the other he held before his own mouth. When he spoke again, only the warlord could understand him — the rest of the chieftains heard only the buzz of flies. ‘I will need the Coin of Thak. It is in the possession of Vorak of Fell.’

‘Agreed,’ Torglug said.

The sorcerer smiled, worms dripping from between his teeth. ‘I will also need Vorak himself. I will need another twenty sorcerers from among your legion, drawn from the strongest of your shamans and warlocks.’ Slaugoth let a note of mock severity slip into his tone. ‘I must warn that it is unlikely they will survive the ritual.’

‘Be careful, Woodsman,’ Guthrax advised, the daemon’s vast gut quivering with amusement. ‘Wormteeth intends to eliminate all of his rivals. He’ll make himself even more vital to your ambitions.’

One glance at the face of Slaugoth was proof enough that the daemon, for once at least, was speaking the truth. It was a gamble, but the plaguelord felt the risk was worth the stake. Besides, if Slaugoth forgot his place, he still had Guthrax to put him down again. Torglug chuckled, the sound slobbering up from the depths of his bloated bulk.

‘Be getting me to my prize and I am letting you kill any that are surviving.’

The putrid blightkings were dispatched to subdue the needed materials for Slaugoth’s ritual. Some of the more recalcitrant required Guthrax to convince them to cooperate, the daemon’s power easily swatting aside the wards and protections they tried to use to preserve themselves. It was as well that the rite needed intact minds rather than intact bodies. Torglug himself secured Vorak’s participation, ignoring the warlock’s assurances that he could perform the rite just as adeptly as Slaugoth could. When Vorak was dragged before his rival, he was missing the Coin of Thak as well as his left leg.

The sorcerers chosen by Slaugoth were dumped along the shingle, facing out towards the ice — three great circles of witches, warlocks and shamans, the rock about their feet stained with cabalistic sigils and the profane runes of Nurgle. A few of the most powerful among them, such as Vorak, had some inclination of what was coming, but their wisdom only made them appreciate that there was no escape.

Slaugoth stood at the centre of the three circles, the speck in the middle of the fly-rune. With the Coin of Thak hanging about his neck, he was certain he’d be able to protect himself from the hazards involved in such a hasty ritual. He raised his arms high and began an invocation to his diseased god. Nurgle’s armies infested the whole of Ghyran, and it was here that the god’s attention was fixed. It wasn’t strange then that the Grandfather heard Slaugoth’s appeal and answered his cry.

The diseased might of Nurgle poured into the gathered sorcerers. Slaugoth felt his bloated belly churn and quiver with the boiling corruption of his god. Crying out in agony, he disgorged the filth growing inside him. A stream of foul water, stagnant muck from the swamps of Nurgle’s own domain, vomited from his mouth, flowing out across the shingle, towards the distant ice.

From each of the other sorcerers, a stream of putrescence erupted and cascaded towards the ice. The diseased fluid merged with the other streams, gathering into a single rancid river. As the flow struck the frigid air, it began to harden, congealing into a mire of corruption. Gallon upon gallon spewed from the sorcerers, channelled from the Grandfather’s garden. Horned shamans and bloated witches perished as the malignant spell ripped them apart from the inside out, yet even death didn’t end the foul discharge spilling from them.

More and more of the corruption streamed across the gap. From a mire, the flow hardened into an icy mush. The swampy substance grew thicker, concentrating into a ghoulish mass. By the time the streams of filth died out, a putrid glacier stretched across the gap.

Slaugoth fell to his knees as the sickening spell petered out. He wiped residue from his face and ripped the corroded Coin of Thak from his neck. The talisman had served its purpose. Glancing towards where Vorak had been dumped, he saw that his rival hadn’t survived the spell, his belly ruptured by the enormity of Nurgle’s power. It was odd to see that the minor witch next to Vorak had survived, but the ways of Chaos were capricious.

The sorcerer laughed as he heaved himself back onto his feet and watched the plaguehost charging across the bridge he’d conjured. Torglug was certain to catch the enemy now, to seize the prize Nurgle coveted so dearly. The warlord would be exalted by the Grandfather for such a triumph, and when he was, Slaugoth would share in that glory.

Chapter four

As he hurried his men across the ice, Lord-Castellant Grymn kept looking up at the stormy sky. He depended upon Tegrus and his Prosecutors to monitor the enemy, to keep him informed of Torglug’s movements.

If Tegrus couldn’t keep watch on the enemy, the Hallowed Knights were deprived of their most vital advantage over the plaguehosts. Grymn could hear the keening song of the Lady of Vines drifting back to him on the wintry wind. Alarielle might have called the jotunberg, but he felt it was her handmaiden who was shaping the living mountain’s primal powers, focusing them into the snow-storm that raged across sea and shore. There was an elemental magic in the branchwraith’s song, an arcane force that flowed from her into the atmosphere, twisting the environment itself to suit the needs of the sylvaneth exodus.

The storm was now their greatest defence. The veil of icy mist hid the Stormcasts and their allies from the eyes of their pursuers, rendering them nearly invisible unless the observer was within a few hundred yards of them. If Tegrus and his Prosecutors couldn’t find the enemy, then it was doubly certain that the enemy couldn’t find them.

Or was it? Grymn remonstrated himself for falling into the trap of underestimating the foe. Perhaps he needed a touch of Morbus’ dour outlook; maybe the Lord-Relictor’s bleak opinions were something every leader had to take into account when making his plans. ‘Believe in victory but have a strategy for failure,’ had been one of Lord-Celestant Gardus’ maxims. At the same time, Gardus had also advised that it was better to be mistaken than hesitant.

Grymn’s focus turned from his inner thoughts to the men around him. Once more he’d deployed the Stormcasts so that they covered the flanks and rear of the sylvaneth march. The human warriors were faster and more agile than the lumbering tree-creatures and treelords who made up the bulk of the retreat. They would be more capable of reacting to a sudden threat than their allies. Moreover, he noted with a sting of guilt, a Stormcast who fell in battle would be reforged in Sigmaron. The sylvaneth killed by the enemy were simply dead. It gave him pause to consider how the tree-creatures regarded their own mortality. Some of the treelords were so ancient that the Jade Kingdoms had literally bloomed around them. The Lady of Vines, it was said, was even older still and had been handmaiden to the Everqueen even before she came into the realm of Ghyran. When such beings perished, it was so much more than the death of a man. It was centuries, even millennia, of life and experience extinguished, knowledge beyond the ken of scholars and sages.

That was why the Stormcast Eternals had been forged, why they had devoted themselves to an existence of unending war. Sigmar would turn back the outrages of the Dark Gods, would redeem the realms from the desecration of Chaos. For Grymn, for all the Hallowed Knights, there could be no mightier or more noble cause, no greater purpose a man could serve. Throughout the realms there were many who struggled to oppose the spread of the Ruinous Powers, men who fought only with their own courage and conviction to turn back the darkness. Truly blessed were those chosen by the God-King to continue the war in armour of sigmarite and with weapons forged in the armouries of Azyr.

His hand reached to the icon of Sigmar he wore. The silver hammer was small in Grymn’s gauntlet, but it represented something more powerful than thunderaxes and boltstorm crossbows. It was faith, trust in the God-King’s power and the God-King’s beneficence — the knowledge that however dark and dire things became, Sigmar wouldn’t abandon His servants.

Something flashed across the snowy sky overhead. For just an instant, Grymn thought it was a flash of lighting, a token of the God-King’s vigilance. Then the phenomenon was repeated and Grymn was better able to see what it was that sped through the air. It was one of the Prosecutors, silver armour gleaming, great wings outstretched as he rode upon the winds. A mighty cheer rose from the Hallowed Knights, a shout of welcome to their airborne brother. The Prosecutor saluted them then wheeled away, climbing high into the sky until he was lost from view. A few moments later, he descended once more. This time he wasn’t alone but instead was accompanied by the rest of the winged Stormcasts. Tegrus, the plumes of his helm fluttering in the chill breeze, spotted Grymn and wheeled away from his troops.

Grymn returned the Prosecutor-Prime’s salute as Tegrus landed beside him, cheered by the scout’s return. When he noted the severe expression in the warrior’s eyes, he found his relief dulled by a sense of foreboding. ‘You were able to keep watch on Torglug through the storm?’ At the moment, his greatest concern was that the Prosecutors had lost contact with the enemy. What Tegrus had to report was far worse, graver than any prediction Morbus could have made.

‘We found them, commander,’ Tegrus said. ‘They have already crossed onto the ice.’

‘How many of them?’ Grymn asked. He’d anticipated that Torglug would get a few troops across as quickly as possible in order to harass and delay their retreat.

‘The whole legion,’ Tegrus reported, his voice graver than Grymn had ever heard it. ‘Their accursed sorcerers worked some abominable magic to bridge the sea, an arch of filth spanning from the shore to the ice. The entire horde is across by now, sped by Torglug’s threats and barbarities.’

Other officers of the Hallowed Knights drew near to hear Tegrus’ observations and to attend whatever orders Grymn had for them. It was Angstun who expressed the most immediate concern.

‘How long ago did the enemy get onto the ice and how far away are they now?’

Tegrus shook his head. ‘The storm hindered our efforts to keep watch on the enemy. We were forced to fly low to make our observations. When we saw that they were conjuring a bridge with their magic, we tried to speed back to make our report. The storm made it difficult to locate the column again. It’s covering your tracks, so there is no trace of the march upon the ice. We were forced to disperse and glide closer to the surface than we should have liked to find you.’ The Prosecutor-Prime spread his wings with a frustrated twitch. ‘I fear my report has been delayed some hours now because of the storm.’

The news brought uneasy murmurs from the other officers. If the plaguehosts had been loose upon the ice for hours then the enemy might have covered considerable distance. With the storm to hide their advance, they might be anywhere. The cold had chilled the sylvaneth and slowed their advance, even if it hadn’t diminished their prodigious endurance. Torglug would not allow similar setbacks, even if it killed his warriors.

‘If the storm has hidden us from the Prosecutors, then surely it will hide us from the enemy,’ Retributor-Prime Markius said.

‘The enemy counts more than mere men among their ranks,’ Morbus stated. ‘There are any number of strange beasts and monsters among them that might be able to pick up our scent and chase us down. Some of the daemons Torglug has conjured from the pits of Nurgle could track us by the light of our souls.’

‘Or the light of the queen-seed,’ Grymn added, turning his gaze towards the sylvaneth marching ahead of them. Though he could still hear the Lady of Vines singing her spell-song, he couldn’t see the branchwraith through the mist, nor the radiant glow of the soulpod she carried. For all that he had been reforged in body and soul upon the Anvil of Apotheosis, his senses were still those of a man. Would the snows conceal the presence of the Lady of Vines and the treasure she bore from the profane malignance of daemons? Grymn decided they could take no such chance. Alarielle lived on in the queen-seed and it was their duty to protect her.

‘Our purpose remains the same,’ Grymn told his officers. ‘We will protect and defend the Radiant Queen.’

‘What are your orders?’ Angstun asked.

‘For now, we continue our march,’ Grymn told him, ‘but I want the Retributors withdrawn from the flanks and brought to the rear. Those Judicators armed with crossbows will likewise fall back. I want a double-rank of Liberators behind the last of the sylvaneth and a tightening of the forces deployed to either side at the back of the column.’

‘By strengthening the rearguard, you weaken the rest of the formation,’ Morbus cautioned. ‘What if the enemy moves parallel to us and intends to fall upon us from the sides?’

Grymn shook his head. ‘I do not think Torglug would show such restraint. He is too keen on catching us. The moment he finds us, I think he will attack.’ He paused for a moment, reminding himself that underestimating the enemy was a mistake he couldn’t afford to make. ‘Still, we must guard against that possibility. Remove only every third retinue from the flanks. Angstun will be in command of the forces to the left of the column, Lord-Relictor Morbus of those to the right.’ He turned and faced Tegrus. ‘Do you think your scouts could find their way back to us in this storm?’

‘Only if we flew in a straight line from this point to our objective,’ Tegrus answered. ‘That would necessitate the column remaining while we were gone.’ There was worry in his tone, regret that his Prosecutors might cause the retreat to be delayed.

‘We’ll leave a relay of pickets to guide you back,’ Grymn said. He glanced over at Angstun. ‘We detach a warrior to hang behind and wait. The moment the mist starts to obscure him from view, another man falls back to keep him in sight.’

‘It could be done,’ the Knight-Vexillor said. ‘The only hazard would be if the storm grows worse and reduces visibility.’

‘That is a chance we’ll have to take,’ Grymn said. Again he turned to Tegrus. ‘I need to call upon your eyes once more. Deploy scouts to our left and right, but most especially I want you to retrace the trail behind us. I think it is from that direction the possibility of pursuit is greatest. Each of you will scout a distance of three leagues, then return.’ A note of apology sounded in Grymn’s voice. ‘I fear I’m going to abuse the stamina of your Prosecutors. Each time you return to report, you’ll be sent out again. Until we either find the enemy or—’ He hesitated, looking again to where the sylvaneth column was marching. ‘Or until we get wherever the Lady of Vines is leading us.’

Grymn watched as Tegrus and the other Prosecutors rose back into the sky. He didn’t like to put the scouts at such risk. They’d have to fly low over the surface and though the slaves of Chaos weren’t known for fielding companies of bowmen, there was always the potential for a lucky spearcast or dark witchcraft to bring down the scouts. Moreover, even with the line of pickets left in the wake of the column, it would be an easy thing for the Prosecutors to miss them and lose their way in the storm. Still, the risk was necessary, however burdensome to Grymn’s conscience. They had to know where Torglug’s legion was.

Angstun was just deploying the second picket when Tegrus and three of his Prosecutors came flying back. The winged warriors didn’t circle above the column to slow their speed but instead came diving down straight towards Grymn, their boots digging into the ice and snow as they hastily arrested their momentum. Tallon growled at them, upset by the haste of their return. Tegrus shouted to his commander, ‘Torglug’s legion is less than a mile behind the column and moving fast!’

‘Morbus, Angstun, you have your orders,’ Grymn told the two officers. ‘Keep the column moving. As you march, bring a mixed force of Liberators and Judicators to guard the rear. If it’s possible, we’ll rejoin you, but I’ll send a Prosecutor to alert you first. If you see anyone coming out of the storm without warning, cut them down.’

Grymn busied himself with bringing the rearguard back. The frozen bulk of what must have been an island loomed off to their right, presenting a natural impediment to assault from that direction. Some of the more agile creatures among Torglug’s horde might be able to climb the frozen shingle that surrounded the snow-covered mound, but his heavier troops would find it tough going and it would be next to impossible for his cavalry.

‘Form the line adjacent to the island,’ Grymn told the officers of his rearguard. Half of the Hallowed Knights were dropping out of the column — a double-rank of Liberators, their massive shields locked together to form an unbroken wall of sigmarite and steel. Behind the second file of Liberators was the Annihilation Brotherhood, the Retributors under Markius. Most of the hammer-bearing paladins were deployed at the exposed left side of the shield wall, ready to crush any foe seeking to lap around the formation; others were staggered along the wall itself, a reserve to deal with any enemies strong enough to smash their way through the Liberators. Finally, there were the Judicators. Grymn had left the archers equipped with skybolt bows with Morbus and Angstun, withdrawing only those retinues bearing quick-firing boltstorm crossbows. Their role in the coming combat would be the deciding factor, even more vital than the Liberators and their shield wall.

‘Did you see much cavalry?’ Grymn asked Tegrus as the Hallowed Knights moved into position.

The Prosecutor-Prime nodded. ‘From what I saw, it seems largely infantry and light cavalry.’ He followed Grymn’s gaze as the Lord-Castellant gave the left flank of the Hallowed Knights a concerned look. Swift-moving enemies would be able to roll around the exposed flank before the Stormcasts could react. Chaos hounds and other brutish beasts would simply circle around and attack the wall from behind, their predatory instincts oblivious to any strategic advantage. Horsemen, however, would recognise the opportunity to bypass the rearguard.

‘If they get around us, they’ll catch the column,’ Grymn said. His hand closed around the icon of Sigmar he wore. ‘If we only had more troops, if we could just extend the line more—’

Even as he spoke, a yelp from Tallon caused Grymn to turn his head. The column had withdrawn behind the veil of the storm some time ago, vanishing into the snow and mist while the rearguard took up its position. Now, however, vague figures were moving towards them, monstrous shadows stalking through the fog. For a hideous moment, Grymn’s heart darkened. Had the enemy somehow already managed to get behind them?

A swelling of wonder and relief rushed through Grymn when the shapes started to emerge from the obscuring veil. Inhuman, yes, but they weren’t the monstrous horrors of Torglug’s legions. It was the sylvaneth, a great body of tree-creatures marching back to help the Hallowed Knights in their holding action. Gigantic treelords with strong branches and ironbark trunks, nimble dryads with sharp talons and fanged mouths, and other less distinct tree-creatures strode across the ice to join the Stormcasts. As though answering Grymn’s concerns, the sylvaneth placed themselves along the exposed left flank, almost doubling the length of the line.

‘They look to be adopting your tactics,’ Tegrus observed, looking at the massed tree-creatures that had assembled into a wall of bark and branches. The mighty treelords kept place behind the smaller sylvaneth, ready to react to any break in the line. The swifter dryads took a post that appeared to mimic that of the Judicators, though Grymn was certain their role would be far different than what he’d planned for his bowmen.

‘The Lady of Vines must have sent them,’ Grymn said. Studying the mass of sylvaneth, he estimated that almost a tenth of the column had been sent back to support the rearguard. It was tempting to believe the action indicated some expression of acceptance and fellowship between Stormcasts and sylvaneth, but he doubted the branchwraith was concerned about the men. Her focus was on keeping the queen-seed away from Torglug, and she was intelligent enough to understand that the longer Grymn’s rearguard could hold, the better her chances of escaping. He didn’t begrudge her such pragmatism. All of them, man and sylvaneth, had obligations far greater than themselves.

‘Sigmar grant that their aid is enough,’ Tegrus said. He pointed away from the shield wall. More dark, shadowy shapes could be seen behind the veil of mist and snow. This time the tense anticipation Grymn felt was justified. These would be no sylvaneth allies; only the plaguehosts of Torglug the Despised would be coming from this direction.

‘Sigmar grant us victory,’ Grymn prayed. His strategy was about to be put to the test.

There is a point at which the pain of flesh reaches its end. Flesh can only withstand so much before it can suffer no more. The mercy of flesh is the dulling of the senses, the numbness of indifference as agony breaks the last boundaries.

The spirit, however, the mind and heart of a mortal, these are things for which the only relief from torment is madness. Bit by bit, all that a mortal believes and trusts is eaten away by suffering. What oppression, what degradation can eclipse the futility of faith betrayed? In hope there lurks the greatest of all pain, for when it is extinguished, nothing is left behind but darkness. The mockery of treacherous hope is the most malicious of tortures, for it is a torment that stabs to the very depths of the soul.

How long can one be abandoned to the darkness before the only thing left is to curse the light?

Torglug’s blemished eyes squinted as he shook away his thoughts and focused on the captive who had been brought before him. It was a rare accomplishment to subdue one of Sigmar’s accursed lightning-men. Far easier to destroy them outright, to slay them and send their bodies crackling into nothingness. He was more impressed that Guthrax’s daemonic bile had taken the winged knight alive than he was at the abomination’s skill in shooting the flying spy out of the air.

Torglug peered closely at the captive scout, appreciating the remarkable resistance he exhibited. Only those as favoured and blessed by the Grandfather as himself could endure the diseased emanations exuding from the Great Unclean One. Clutched in one of Guthrax’s immense claws, encased in the daemon’s congealed bile, the lightning-man should be a mass of boils and buboes, his armour reduced to a corroded mess of rusted scrap. To be certain, there was the stink of decay, the mark of contagion. The spy was resistant, but hardly immune. In time, the dread might of Nurgle would consume his body as it did everything else. The knight would die, his body disintegrating in the blaze of light that devoured all vanquished lightning-men.

Yes, the rot of Nurgle would kill this man’s flesh, but could it destroy his spirit? Torglug’s fingers curled around the haft of his axe, twisting the metal out of shape. Destruction was so much more difficult to achieve than death. Any brute beast could bring death. Destruction demanded far greater finesse.

‘You are being abandoned by your God-King,’ Torglug gloated. He waved his blackened axe, gesturing at the huge throng of warriors and monsters marching across the ice. ‘Sigmar is fleeing Ghyran. This realm is being Nurgle’s dominion. For you there is being no victory here, only illusion of purpose. You are giving your loyalty to a dream, a myth. To what end? To what good is sacrifice of your comrades serving when battle already is being lost? What you would be saving is already belonging to Nurgle.’ As he spoke, Torglug studied the inscrutable helm of his prisoner.

A mighty cough of laughter rippled through Guthrax’s obese enormity. ‘The pup’s thoughts turn to your prize, Torglug Treefell,’ the daemon chortled. ‘It seems in conjuring this winter, the Radiant Queen expended too much of herself. Her body has withered away, leaving only a seed behind. It is carried now by one of her sylvaneth, a branchwraith called the Lady of Vines.’

Torglug’s face curled into a greedy smile beneath the mask of his helm. ‘This seed is to being planted in Grandfather’s gardens, to be sprouting amidst the deathblooms and corpsevines, to be flowering beneath the leprous boughs of widow-oak and beside the stagnant pools of Blightreach.

‘Shall I be telling you a secret?’ Torglug said, his blemished eyes fastened upon those of the lightning-man. ‘Are you knowing what is putting victory within my grasp? After so much fruitless searching, I am finding way into Athelwyrd. I am telling you,’ the warlord chortled. ‘Lightning-men who are finding refuge for me. You are uncovering door I am not finding. You are coming here seeking audience with Alarielle, to be promising her aid of your Sigmar. Instead, you are breaking spells that are hiding her from me. Belonging to you is glory of exposing Radiant Queen’s redoubt.’

Guthrax’s swollen belly shook with laughter. ‘The whelp tries to seal his mind against my power, to hide his thoughts from the Kingeater,’ the daemon declared, ‘but the truth of Athelwyrd’s fall has sown disorder within him. There is doubt there.’ The Great Unclean One shrugged its cancerous shoulders. ‘Not enough to corrupt or consume,’ it admitted, ‘but enough to show me what he would hide.’

‘And what are you seeing?’ Torglug asked, still gazing into the eyes of his prisoner. He was disappointed that there was still so much defiance there, that the rot of despair had failed to take root even now. He wanted to see that moment when faith died and hope withered inside the lightning-man.

‘I have seen their line of retreat,’ Guthrax announced. ‘I have seen the sylvaneth and the shiny knights traipsing across the ice, as though they have any real chance of escaping the Grandfather’s power.’ The daemon lowered its head, leaning closer to Torglug. ‘Their leader turns to confront you,’ the daemon said. ‘He would bring battle to your horde, to win through force of arms what he can’t through retreat. He thinks to prove the valour and might of those who serve his simpering godling.’ Feeling a flicker of devotion stir within the captive clenched in its fist, the daemon sought to snuff out the warrior’s defiance. ‘The leader’s name is Grymn and he is but the replacement for the warrior you vanquished in Athelwyrd. Ill-suited and ill-prepared to oppose the triumph of Torglug the Despised.’

‘My legion is meeting your comrades in battle,’ Torglug assured the prisoner. Despite all the information that Guthrax had ripped from the man’s mind, despite the sickening revelation that it was the lightning-men who’d exposed the way into Athelwyrd, despite the ascendency of Nurgle across all Ghyran, the warrior’s faith refused to break. ‘They are not keeping me from claiming queen-seed for Grandfather,’ he promised. Still failing to see despair in his enemy’s bearing, Torglug turned away in disgust. ‘Fanatic,’ he hissed, disgorging the word with revulsion. It was simple for a fanatic to be brave. Madness couldn’t destroy what it had already claimed.

Torglug turned from the prisoner. His bodyguard, the putrid blightkings, stood ready to attend their master, safely beyond the pestilential aura of Guthrax.

‘We are learning nothing more from him,’ he told the daemon. ‘Be sending him back to Sigmar. Be letting his spirit tell his god that I am crossing blades with lightning-men and after I am cutting my way through them, I am claiming my prize.’

Marching away to join his warriors, Torglug heard the shriek of metal and the crunch of bone as Guthrax crushed the prisoner in its claws. What he failed to hear was a scream. Right to the last the lightning-man strove to defy him.

Fanatic, Torglug thought. There was no power that could long deny the might of Nurgle. Experience had taught him that. Everything else was delusion, the mocking lies of deceitful hope.

Out of the mist and snow they came, a mongrel host of men and beasts. Herds of braying, goat-headed monsters stampeded towards the Hallowed Knights, grotesque banners of flayed skin fluttering above them. Tribes of barbaric marauders slowly marched forwards, banging their axes against their shields and snarling hymns to the Father of Crows. Swarms of tiny daemons, like bloated toads, hopped and slithered across the ice, insane giggles of vicious anticipation spilling from their fanged mouths. Looming above the beastmen and marauders, diseased ogors slogged through the snow, huge clubs torn from fallen sylvaneth now clenched in their murderous fists. Ghastly troggoths, their scaly hides slimy with decay and fecund growth, loped among the warherds, their dull minds hearkening to the call of battle.

As he watched the horde advance, Grymn prayed that Sigmar’s blessing would guard his Stormcasts and their sylvaneth allies. The numbers of Torglug’s vile legion were daunting; with every breath more enemies came marching out from the icy fog. Yet there was a terrible comfort in watching the host descend upon the rearguard. By holding the army of Chaos here they would be giving the Lady of Vines her chance to escape and carry the queen-seed beyond the reach of Nurgle’s abominable slaves.

The first of the warherds crashed into the Hallowed Knights. The slavering gors hurled themselves against the stalwart warriors with savage abandon. Bone clubs and stone axes shattered against sigmarite shields. Clawed hands raked futilely across silver helms. Bony hooves kicked at armoured legs without avail.

For a moment, the Stormcasts held their shields high, absorbing the impact of the charging beastmen. Then, at Grymn’s shouted command, they retaliated in kind. Swords flashed out from between the heavy shields, stabbing and slashing the hairy hides of the gors. Hammers smashed into horned heads or slammed into branded chests, shattering skulls and splintering ribs. Soon there were bleats of pain and cries of fear mixing with the murderous braying of the warherd. Monstrous foes crumpled at the feet of the Liberators, dead and dying alike trampled into the bloodied snow as enemies rushed forwards to the attack.

To the right, diseased tribesmen slammed into the battle line, striving to pull aside the shields with hooked axes and whipping flails. Liberators from the rear rank stepped forwards each time a comrade’s guard was overcome by such tactics, stabbing their blades into the faces of startled barbarians. Following an order issued by Grymn, the Liberators beset by the diseased marauders brought their shields cracking into the howling mass, a violent wave of shining sigmarite that knocked the tribesmen back, flinging them into the faces of the enemies following behind them. The momentum of their rush broken, the rage of the Chaos worshippers swelled. They lunged back to the attack with the disordered fury of a mob. Disciplined, steady, the Stormcasts met the assault with precision and unity, cutting down scores of the enemy in only a few heartbeats.

Near the left flank, where the line of Hallowed Knights met the sylvaneth formation, a bellowing bullgor accomplished what masses of beastmen and marauders had failed to manage. Ploughing through its own comrades, the hulking monster smashed through the double-rank of Liberators. Stormcasts were flung aside by the bull-monster’s horns while others were cut down by the beast’s enormous axe. The flash and clamour of vanquished Hallowed Knights rose from the battlefield as the rampaging brute broke through the shield wall.

Survivors closed ranks behind the charging bullgor, blocking the rush of snarling ungors that came loping forwards to exploit the gap. The Liberators devoted themselves completely to the foes before them, sparing not so much as a glance for the bovine monster that had won through to their rear. Settling with the bullgor would be for others to attend to. Paladins ran towards the blood-crazed beast, Retributor-Prime Markius bringing his heavy lightning hammer crashing against the creature’s leg, pulverising the bone beneath. As the brute pitched towards the ground, Markius delivered another brutal blow to its head, cracking its vicious horns. A pained groan rose from the stricken beast, then it collapsed against the ice as life fled from its mutated flesh.

Wheeling around the assaulting infantry, a host of barbarian horsemen charged into the sylvaneth position. Dressed in skins and furs, their leather helms adorned with antlers and iron spikes, the mounted marauders roared their tribal cries as they thundered towards the tree-creatures. Those at the fore of the attack gripped blazing torches in their fists, swinging the brands overhead to stir the flames as they galloped closer. Snarling in defiance, they hurled the torches at their enemy, then spun their chargers to the right, making way for the horsemen following behind them.

The marauders had intended to throw the sylvaneth into disarray. After their long campaign to conquer Ghyran, the Chaos warriors had learned how to fight the tree-creatures and come to appreciate that the only thing which could sow fear in their wooden hearts was fire. In their attack, however, the barbarians failed to appreciate the effect of the snow storm. The trunks of the tree-creatures were slick with frost and ice, wearing the chill of winter like a layer of armour. The blazing brands struck against them only to glance off without taking light, crashing to the ground and fizzling at the feet of the sylvaneth.

Charging onwards, the mounted axemen found an unbroken wall of foes waiting for them. There were no holes in the line, no burning forest spirits to rush past or cut down with their blades. Instead the marauders struck an enemy boiling with inhuman rage. The effort to set the sylvaneth alight had only succeeded in stirring their fury. Claw-like hands and spear-like branches stabbed out at the cavalry, impaling men and horses, ripping shrieking barbarians from their saddles, tossing screaming chargers through the air. Hissing dryads darted beneath the boughs of the larger tree-creatures, raking their talons across the bellies of frightened steeds and dragging down dismounted fighters. Havoc and carnage had indeed been the result of the cavalry attack, but it was visited upon the forces of Chaos rather than the defenders.

The snow-storm had lost much of its fury over this part of the frozen sea and from where he stood atop a spur of rock, Grymn could see almost the entirety of his battle line. Everywhere the enemy was throwing himself upon the ranks of Stormcasts and sylvaneth, but it was rare the slaves of Chaos managed to force their way through and each of these brief incursions was swiftly put down by lurking dryads and the flying squads of Retributors. For every enemy the defenders struck down, however, it seemed two more came marching out of the storm.

‘They will have to try much harder if they want to break us,’ Tegrus told his commander. The Prosecutors had been held back among the Judicators, waiting as a reserve or to serve as messengers should Grymn need to communicate with Morbus and Angstun in the main column.

‘If ferocity was enough, they might prevail,’ Grymn observed. ‘But these creatures lack the strength and valour to accomplish their purpose. Inside all but the most degenerate minion of darkness there is buried an awareness of its own wickedness. That self-loathing is what denies them the fortitude of those with righteousness in their hearts.’

‘They’re stubborn,’ Tegrus said, pointing to where the remnants of a warherd were leaping over their own dead to reach the Liberators. ‘If this keeps up, we’ll bleed Torglug’s legion white before nightfall.’

A cold that had nothing to do with snow and ice shivered through Grymn’s mind as he listened to Tegrus’ words. It was true, the Hallowed Knights were butchering the Chaos warriors by the bushel. Yet nowhere amidst the carnage had Grymn spotted any of Torglug’s heavy troops. There were no dark knights in black armour or packs of gors clad in chain and plate. He had yet to see the bloated, diseased hulks of the putrid blightkings or hear the murderous drone of rot flies. Except for the diminutive nurglings, none of the obscene daemons that marched under Torglug’s diseased banner had taken part in the attack.

‘By nightfall, the enemy will be cutting a path through the column,’ Grymn cursed, sick realisation coursing through him. Beside him, Tallon snarled in sympathy with its master’s alarm. ‘We’re not holding them here, they’re holding us! Torglug’s sending the chaff to pin us down while his best troops bypass us.

‘He’s trying to reach the column!’

Chapter five

‘Hounds! Hounds at our heels!’

The shout of warning rose from Decimator-Prime Diocletian. Their presence disturbing to the sylvaneth, the paladins and their immense thunderaxes continued to maintain a place at the rear of the column. With black humour, they whispered among themselves that with axes following behind them, the tree-creatures would be encouraged to maintain a hearty pace. Now it was the Decimators who found it necessary to lag behind.

Lord-Relictor Morbus dashed towards the rear of the column, warning the Stormcasts he passed to keep a wary eye upon the flanks. As he rounded the vast gathering of sylvaneth refugees, he spotted Knight-Vexillor Angstun rushing out from the icy mist that obscured the other side of the column. Ahead of them, both of the Stormcasts could see Diocletian and his paladins. The silver warriors were locked in vicious combat with a slavering pack of mutant hounds. The beasts charged out from the storm, baying and snarling, foam flecking their fangs. With a thunderous crack, the Decimators would bring their enormous axes hacking into the putrid hides of the diseased dogs, but such was the rabid frenzy of the pack that the gory destruction of their fellows did nothing to dissipate their ferocity. Angstun and Morbus hurriedly called for Liberators to redeploy at the back of the column and form a shield wall to protect the sylvaneth.

‘One could almost feel sorry for the beasts,’ Angstun told Morbus. ‘Claws and fangs will never pierce sigmarite plate.’ He looked at the standard clenched in his hand. ‘There is no glory in cutting down a dull brute corrupted by the Dark Gods.’

Morbus shook his head, pointing his gauntlet at the embattled Decimators. ‘It is not glory but necessity that must rule us here,’ he said. Already, more packs of Chaos hounds were loping out from the storm. Catching the scent of combat, they hastened to pounce upon the Decimators. ‘The beasts have found us. That means Torglug has already overwhelmed Grymn’s rearguard.’

‘No,’ Angstun objected, shaking his sword at the heavens. ‘The enemy couldn’t have overcome so many Hallowed Knights so quickly.’

‘Then they found a way around them,’ Morbus declared. He watched as one of the Decimators brought a gigantic mace swinging down. From between the weapon’s metal flanges, a withering blast of energy streamed out, engulfing a horned hound as it leapt towards him. The beast’s body dissolved into a burst of gore and ash. Even as it died, a dozen more of the animals came rushing out of the mist. ‘Diocletian’s paladins could make short work of these curs if they came upon them all at once. Staggered as the attacks are, the Decimators can neither wipe them out nor disengage.’

Angstun scowled at the cruel purposefulness of the enemy. Somewhere behind the veil of mist and storm was Torglug’s horde — and the beastmasters who controlled these warhounds. Knowing the mutated dogs couldn’t harm the Stormcasts on their own, the villains had decided upon a more callous use for them. They were being expended like shafts loosed from a bow, flung at the Hallowed Knights in volleys. Not to kill, but to delay, to keep them tied down while the full might of the plaguehosts drew closer.

‘Bring up Osric’s retinue,’ Angstun called out. Morbus caught at the Knight-Vexillor’s arm. ‘You’ll weaken the right flank if you withdraw them. That will leave Justinian’s retinue as the only Judicators to defend that side of the column,’ the Lord-Relictor warned.

‘You said it yourself,’ Angstun declared, ‘the hounds are meant to delay us here. We’ve got to free ourselves of them and I’m not about to leave Diocletian’s warriors behind. We’ve left too many of our brothers behind us already.’

Osric’s retinue took up position ahead of the shield wall. Each of the Judicators took careful aim, fastening his keen eye upon the loping shapes emerging from the mist. They ignored the beasts already engaged with the Decimators, confident that the paladins were more than equal to the dogs. It was the waves of warhounds that had yet to close upon their comrades which posed the true menace. At Angstun’s command, they loosed their arrows into the charging brutes. Yelps and whines sounded from the stricken creatures as one after another crashed into the snow.

‘Brothers, fall back!’ Diocletian shouted to his paladins, bringing his own thunderaxe sweeping around in a crimson arc that tore the head from one dog and split a second in two. A third beast, its muzzle distorted by insect-like mandibles, sprang at him, the nails on its paws raking at his armour as it struggled to reach his throat. Diocletian slammed the butt of his axe into the hound’s ribs, shattering its bones and sending its infected carcass sliding across the ice.

With the Judicators and their skybolt bows keeping fresh packs of hounds from closing upon the Decimators, the axemen were able to withdraw, joining the massed ranks of the Liberators. Diocletian saluted Angstun, quickly reporting to the Knight-Vexillor.

‘I do not think it will be long before the enemy finds us,’ Diocletian said. ‘The dogs must have caught our scent even on the ice, but what follows them needs a stronger trail. Each of the beasts we fought was already cut before our blades so much as scratched them. They’ve left a track of putrid blood behind them, straight from us back to their masters.’

Angstun cast a glance at the Judicators. The bowmen were still picking off hounds charging out from the mist. He realised that deploying Osric’s retinue hadn’t improved their situation much. True, he’d enabled the Decimators to withdraw, but they still had the mongrels snapping at their backs — with the promise of worse to come. Now it was the Judicators he had to think about leaving behind. The prospect revolted him.

‘We have to keep the column moving,’ Morbus said, seeming to reach into Angstun’s thoughts. ‘Our duty is to protect the Lady of Vines and the seed she carries.’

‘If we let the enemy pick away at us piece by piece, we’ll be incapable of executing that duty,’ Angstun countered. ‘We have to conserve our strength. If we stage two companies of Judicators and pull them back in relays…’

Shouts from the right flank of the column drew the attention of the officers away from the hounds behind them. While they were combating the foe at their back, other enemies had slipped around to assault them from the side. Snapping orders to the Liberators and Judicators to defend the rear, Angstun, Morbus and the Decimators rushed to the new conflict.

A sickly sweet smell, a stench he could only liken to decaying honey, smashed into Angstun’s senses at the same time as a cacophony of buzzing struck his ears. Through the mist he could see Stormcasts with shields upraised, guarding themselves against some threat from above. Then, out of the storm, a vile shape descended, a gigantic fly with a monstrous rider astride its back. Well did he know these abominations, the obscene plague drones, daemons of Nurgle. These then were the fiendish foes that had followed the trail of diseased blood, enemies with the intelligence to strike not at the first Stormcasts they had found, but against that part of the column that seemed weakest.

‘Sigmar’s hammer,’ Angstun growled. ‘They strive to split the column!’ More of the enormous flies and their monstrous riders were dipping out of the storm now. They swept across the Hallowed Knights, slashing at them with plague-infested swords and chitinous claws. A Liberator was lifted into the air as a disgusting barb at the end of one fly’s abdomen pierced his chestplate. Another Stormcast lost his shield when the slobbering proboscis of a winged daemon latched onto it. However, as vicious as the attack against the Hallowed Knights was, the monsters were more interested in striking the sylvaneth. The bloated horrors buzzed about the branches of treelords, ripping away great chunks of bark with their claws while the plaguebearers riding them chopped at the trunks of smaller tree-creatures, each cut delivering a white scum of rot to the wounded wood.

Justinian’s retinue strove to shoot down the diseased daemons. Sigmarite shafts slammed into the bloated rot flies, rupturing their swollen abdomens and piercing the membranes of their wings. A few of the monsters succumbed to the arrows, but many more flew on, oblivious to the wounds inflicted upon their rotten bodies.

‘The daemons seek to use the storm against us,’ Morbus said. ‘That is their mistake.’ Holding his relic hammer high, the skull-helmed warrior prayed to the God-King for a small measure of His divine might. Light flashed within the overhead clouds, crackling and booming with an elemental indignation. A lance of lightning came streaking down, sizzling into the grotesque shape of a plague drone. Rot fly and rider exploded in a burst of green muck, spattering across the snow in steaming drops. More spears of lightning came searing out of the clouds, blasting the flying daemons with vindictive wrath.

Their aerial assault dissolved in the fury of Morbus’ invocation and, driven downwards, they found themselves victim to the flashing hammers and swords of the Liberators and the branchclaws of the vengeful sylvaneth. One after another the fiends were struck down, their loathsome essence steaming away in bursts of corruption as their putrid vitality was extinguished.

Angstun watched as a handful of the flying daemons vanished into the snow squall.

‘Casualties,’ he called out to the Primes.

‘One of mine and two from Ishiro’s,’ Judicator-Prime Asterion reported. ‘Our skybolt bows were enough to keep them from closing with our warriors but not enough to keep them from reaching the sylvaneth.’

Angstun nodded, feeling the weight of his decision to withdraw Oscric’s retinue. With more of the Judicators on the right flank, perhaps they could have kept the daemons back entirely. He glanced up at the standard he bore, the forked lightning bolt of Sigmar’s Stormhosts. When he left command to Angstun, Lord-Castellant Grymn had done more than entrust the honour of their chamber to him; he’d made the Knight-Vexillor responsible for it as well.

Angstun turned towards the sylvaneth. The visages of the tree-creatures were inscrutable, but there was no mistaking the pained movements of those that had been struck by the daemons or the malignant mould that encrusted the noxious wounds the plaguebearers left behind. A sickening appreciation for their condition filled him with regret. They had to keep moving, had to get the Lady of Vines beyond the reach of Torglug’s pursuing legion. They couldn’t slow the retreat for the sick and wounded. How could he make these strange creatures understand that? Could he make them understand? Without Alarielle to mediate for them, the Stormcasts were without any firm method of commanding their allies, relying on the vagaries of shared purpose and common enemy.

‘Let me attend them,’ Morbus said as he stepped towards the sylvaneth. The Lord-Relictor held his relic hammer before him, both hands wrapped about its leather-bound grip. He bore it not as a weapon now but rather as a symbol, the standard not of the Hallowed Knights but of Sigmar himself. ‘I have called upon the God-King’s power to destroy, now may His beneficence grant me the power to heal as well.’

A golden glow slowly began to suffuse the hammer, extending from the relic to engulf the man who carried it. While he moved among the sylvaneth, the tree-creatures drew back, uncertain of the power they could sense flowing through Morbus. Then a dryad, hideously stricken by a daemon’s plaguesword, found itself unable to draw back. The golden light washed across the sylvaneth and as it did the mould withered away, and the gashes in its trunk and branches began to close up. When the small dryad was restored, the uncertainty of the other tree-creatures was banished. One after another they lumbered towards Morbus to bathe in the healing light his prayers had invoked.

Angstun looked on in fascination for a moment. He’d seen Morbus heal wounded Stormcasts, humans and even duardin before, but he’d never seen the power used on creatures as strange and uncanny as the sylvaneth. It was a relief to him that there would be no need to leave any injured allies behind. He even fancied that there was a change in the keening song of the Lady of Vines, a quality of appreciation that hadn’t been there before.

Casting aside his interest in Morbus’ power and the branchwraith’s song, Angstun turned back to the rear of the column. From the sound of things, it seemed Osric’s retinue had dropped the last of the hounds during the fight with the plague drones. He hoped such was the case. They had to get moving again. The daemons that had escaped would certainly return to Torglug and try to guide the plaguehosts back.

By then, if the Hallowed Knights were to fulfil their mission, the Lady of Vines would have to be far away.

Lord-Castellant Grymn felt cold certainty pulse through him. The more he looked at the nature of the enemy attacking them, the more convinced he was that they’d been tricked. Torglug had recognised Grymn’s strategy and taken measures to bypass them entirely.

‘Tegrus, you’ve seen Torglug’s horde,’ Grymn stated. ‘He has troops under his command far worse than herds of beastmen and barbarians. Why hasn’t he brought them against us? He knows the warriors he’s using can’t break through.’

The Prosecutor-Prime followed Grymn’s gaze. ‘Perhaps he thinks he can tire us and then deploy his best warriors?’

‘No,’ Grymn disagreed. ‘He’s fought Stormcasts already.’ The image of Lord-Celestant Gardus and all the fallen Hallowed Knights flashed through his mind. ‘Torglug knows he can’t wear us down. What he can do is pin us down, hold us where our strength is no longer an obstacle for him.’

Raising his warding lantern high, Grymn called out to the Stormcasts. ‘Hallowed Knights! They aren’t trying to break through! They’re just keeping us pinned. We need to pull back. All save the Annihilation Brotherhood retreat in good order.’ He looked across the ranks of Judicators with their boltstorm crossbows. They would be called into action soon. Swinging the lantern from side to side, he gave them the signal they had been waiting for. He glanced across to where the sylvaneth fought. It seemed the tree-creatures were following the example set by the Stormcasts. The beastmen pursued them every step, just as they did the Hallowed Knights. The difference was that the sylvaneth didn’t have the Judicators behind them.

‘Liberators! Stand!’ Grymn shouted the command. Following upon his call for retreat, the order meant something far different to all the Hallowed Knights. The squads of Retributors pulled away to the sides, leaving no one between the Liberators and the Judicators. The shield wall, almost like a single creature, arrested its slow backwards march. The warriors fell to one knee, holding their shields upward to fend off the fury of blows unleashed upon them by their foes. Savage in their bloodlust, the beastmen failed to notice the ranks of crossbows now aimed at them.

The crack of the boltstorm crossbows was like the rumble of thunder as the Judicators loosed a barrage of bolts into the monsters. Shooting above the heads of their comrades, the missiles slammed into the gors and ungors, hurling their bloodied bodies into the beasts following behind them. Only some of the human marauders had sense enough to throw themselves flat as the Judicators continued to rake the Chaos horde. Scores of beastmen were killed outright, and dozens more lay gasping and bleating as rancid blood pumped from their wounds. Again and again, the crack of crossbows sounded until at last Grymn’s voice cried out. ‘Recover!’

Instantly the Liberators were back on their feet, the shield wall ready to defy the mob of snarling beasts that charged at them across the litter of their own dead and wounded. While the Stormcasts absorbed the crushing impact of the enraged gors, the Judicators readied themselves for another salvo.

Grymn started down from his vantage. His place now was with his men. Turning, he gave one more order to Tegrus. ‘I need your Prosecutors back in the air. Find out if the plaguehost are outflanking us or if they’re simply chasing Alarielle.’

Stepping back, Tegrus spread his wings and climbed into the sky. Seeing their leader ascend, the rest of the Prosecutors followed him, pausing to hurl a few stormcall javelins into the massed Chaos horde below. The winged warriors circled the battlefield once, then flew off in different directions to scout the storm-wracked terrain.

The slow, steady withdrawal of the Liberators continued, the Stormcasts cutting down swathes of beastmen at every step. Beside them, the sylvaneth gradually fell back as well, their own ranks exhibiting as much order and discipline as their allies, leaving behind the few tree-creatures dragged down by the pursuing gors so as not to break the pace of their retreat. It took Grymn a few moments to appreciate the cold and inhuman strategy of the sylvaneth. The tree-creatures left behind were abandoned deliberately, sacrificed so the rest could gain ground while the beastmen hacked apart the lost sylvaneth in an orgy of violence.

‘Liberators! Stand!’ Grymn called out as he marched out to join his men. Once again, the tactic was repeated, but this time with a twist that further surprised the beastmen. After the initial salvo, the Liberators rushed at the bedraggled survivors, slamming into them with sword, shield and hammer. Grymn’s warding lantern cast its holy light across the fray, blinding and tormenting the diseased gors while invigorating and revivifying the Stormcasts. The Lord-Castellant’s halberd slashed at the goat-headed monsters, gouging their mangy pelts and branded hides. Tallon snapped and savaged any foe that strove to slip past his master’s guard.

Soon the gors were routed, stampeding back into the faces of the warherds following behind. When the enemy was entangled in a confusion of retreat and advance, Grymn shouted a command and the Stormcasts turned about. The shield wall disintegrated as the Liberators withdrew towards the Judicators.

The beastmen behind howled in fury and smashed down their routed kin, leaping forwards in pursuit. The smell of blood broke any semblance of restraint; those few human marauders near the crazed warherds were butchered, the ancient hate of the gors for mankind overcoming their common allegiance and mutual master. The rest of the barbarians fled, hurrying away lest they share the fate of their comrades.

The great crush of beastmen came charging after the Liberators, determined to pull them down and slake their thirst for carnage. The Hallowed Knights met their rush. Swords and hammers struck down scores of the howling herd. Grymn’s halberd pierced the brutish bulk of a snarling chieftain, lifting the monster off the ground and flinging it back into the masses of its herd. ‘Only the faithful!’ the Lord-Castellant shouted as he pressed forwards, driving the beasts back. Twice he gave voice to the war cry, each time driving his warriors to greater effort. Then, a new cry rang from his silvered helm, a signal to Judicators and Liberators alike.

‘Sigmar’s wrath!’ Grymn roared. As he did so, the Liberators crouched down, shields upraised against the press of foes before them.

The Judicators were ready for the command. Arranged in a double file, half of them standing while those in the front rank knelt, they unleashed a devastating barrage into the charging beastmen. Dozens of the monsters were struck down by the murderous fire, pierced over and again by powerful bolts of sigmarite. Those in the front ranks pitched and fell, exposing those coming behind to the rapid salvoes cycling through the boltstorm crossbows.

One murderous fusillade and the Judicators on the flanks stopped shooting. At the same time, the Liberators ahead of them stood and advanced against the beastmen, shields locked together in a wall of sigmarite. The process was repeated all down the line, the crossbows falling silent while the Liberators regained their feet and their position. Soon, an unbroken shield wall again faced the horde, only now it was a horde in retreat, fleeing across an ice field heaped with their dead. Grymn knew it was but a momentary respite. The beastlords would soon have their warherds on the attack again. The threat of Torglug’s rage, if nothing else, would goad them onwards.

Grymn signalled Retributor-Prime Markius to join him on the battle line. ‘I fear I need to call upon the Annihilation Brotherhood for a dangerous duty,’ he told the mighty paladin.

‘Your word is my command,’ Markius vowed. ‘Whatever sacrifice you would ask of us, it is yours.’

The loyalty of a paladin was forged in sigmarite, an asset no commander could afford to squander. Grymn knew what he was asking might cost him the Retributors — he only hoped it was to good purpose. If what he felt in his gut was true — that this attack was but a ruse concocted by Torglug to hold them while he brought the main body of his force against the column — then it was worth that risk.

‘Break the ice and fall back to join us,’ Grymn told Markius. He returned the paladin’s salute, then cast his gaze out towards the swirling eddies of the storm. More beastmen were loping out from the snow, grunting and snarling at the wretched survivors of the initial assault. It was a doubtful prospect that Markius would be able to break the ice in time to prevent the gors from reaching them. If that was the case, the Retributors would find themselves surrounded by hundreds of merciless enemies.

Yet the alternative was to have the beastmen dogging them all the way back to the column. Time was a commodity that Grymn didn’t have in such abundance that he could waste it driving back the harassing attacks of warherds. They had to reach the column before Torglug’s main force and prevent the warlord from overtaking the Lady of Vines and the queen-seed.

‘Hallowed Knights, fall back,’ Grymn shouted to the Stormcasts as he climbed down from the icy rise, Tallon loping ahead of him. The sylvaneth appeared to understand his meaning, and leaving a small number of their tree-creatures to hold the beastmen still attacking them, they withdrew to join their allies. He wondered if it was genuine initiative on their part or orders they had been given by the Lady of Vines to follow his example and support his warriors. Whichever way, he knew the sylvaneth would be a tremendous asset if they found Torglug before they rejoined the column.

Casting his eyes skywards, Grymn prayed that Tegrus and his scouts would return soon. He needed to know if he’d seen through Torglug’s ploy or if he’d played right into the warlord’s diseased hands.

Lord-Relictor Morbus raised his relic hammer high, calling down the divine lightning. Ice split and cracked, dropping into the frigid waters below. Jagged gashes snaked across the frozen sea, a spider-web of fissures and crevices. Stunned by the devastation wrought by the Stormcast’s magic, the barbarian horsemen were thrown into complete disarray. Charging stallions pitched and fell as the ice buckled or crumbled, smashing their riders beneath them. Men and steeds were sent hurtling into the icy sea as holes opened before them or the fractured ground shattered under their weight.

Morbus, however, was less impressed with the damage he had caused. The ice was thicker here, stronger than it had been near the beach. It was tougher to break, more difficult to split. He wondered if they were straying too near to the jotunberg and if the giant’s wintery emanations were strengthening the ice.

Angstun held his standard high, using it to signal the Judicators defending the flanks. Poised at the rear of the column, standing well behind the marching sylvaneth, the Knight-Vexillor was in an exposed position, but it was the best place from which to issue commands to all of the Stormcasts. Only Diocletian’s Decimators stood with him as a bodyguard, their presence close to the tree-creatures still proving a strain upon the strange alliance of men and sylvaneth.

As the shrieks of crippled and drowning horses rang out over the howling storm, Angstun felt regret. It was an easy thing to kill marauders and beastmen, but he loathed the necessity of destroying simpler creatures like horses and hounds. There was a quality of innocence about animals, even those twisted and mutated by Chaos, that made them tragic to Angstun. While the men and monsters that goaded them to war had come to revel in their corruption and praise the very powers that plagued their bodies, the horses were merely victims of the contagion. Death was the only release for them, but that did not make Angstun revel in the deed.

Tipping the standard towards the left, Angstun directed a volley of arrows across a split that Morbus’ lightning shower had caused. As the Judicators loosed against their target, the crack widened, creating a fissure large enough to thwart the marauder horsemen trying to close upon the sylvaneth exodus. Cursing the Stormcasts, the cavalry wheeled away from the crack, galloping off back into the icy fog.

The crash of blades against armour rose from the column’s left flank. Turning about, Angstun saw a mob of unspeakably vile mutants throwing themselves upon the Liberators and their shield wall. The flesh of the attackers rippled with disgusting energies, hideous growths erupting from them in spurts of spontaneous mutation. One raider’s head collapsed into a nest of spiny tendrils that whipped and lashed at the Hallowed Knights, while another had his arms slough away to be replaced by great crab-like pincers. Each attacker’s form descended into horrors more grotesque than the last, great spears of horn and bone stabbing out from their skin or massive claws exploding from their hands. It was a sight of such concentrated madness and terror that any warrior less stalwart than the Stormcasts would have lost heart against such foes.

For all their monstrous aspect, Angstun could see at once that these mutants wouldn’t be able to break through. They fought like wild beasts, lone madmen. They lacked the cohesion and discipline to force a way past the Liberators. The Hallowed Knights, by contrast, fought as a single body, supporting and guarding one another as they defied their attackers.

No, it wasn’t the claws and fangs of the mutants caused Angstun to be uneasy — it was the very presence of such enemies that troubled him. Horsemen, hounds and flying daemons had been one thing — swift foes who could range far ahead of Torglug’s legion — but these were infantry, however abominable of aspect. Even sent ahead as scouts or skirmishers, they couldn’t have strayed too far from the plaguehosts. The main enemy force had to be getting close.

Even as he made that realisation, Angstun felt a change in the air. It took him a moment to determine that the Lady of Vines had altered the timbre of her song in some fashion. What that meant, he didn’t immediately know. What he saw at once, however, was the sylvaneth marchers fall still. They’d stopped their retreat. The tree-creatures shifted and swayed, the creaks and groans of their wooden bodies mixing into a weird harmony as they came to rest.

‘They’ve stopped?’ Decimator-Prime Diocletian couldn’t believe his eyes. ‘Don’t they know the enemy is close?’

Angstun shook his head. ‘It must be the Lady of Vines. She’s told them to stop. Maybe she is weary of running.’ He wondered if that was the meaning of the branchwraith’s changing song, but somehow he thought there had to be some deeper purpose. Some glimmer of understanding came to him as he saw a group of towering treelords lumber out from among the sylvaneth, pressing their way past the Liberators and out across the ice field. They cast their inscrutable gaze across the cracked and pitted terrain, studying the fissures Morbus’ lightning had caused.

Morbus! With his affinity for things arcane, perhaps he would have some understanding of what was happening. Angstun looked towards the left flank, trying to find the Lord-Relictor. He couldn’t see him among the Liberators or the Judicators as they picked off charging mutants as they came lunging out of the fog. The absence puzzled Angstun; Morbus was always the first to take up a fight.

Then Angstun recalled Lord-Castellant Grymn’s words. Their duty wasn’t to fight, but to protect Queen Alarielle — even if it meant protecting her from herself. That same injunction would apply to the Radiant Queen’s retinue. He knew where Morbus had gone. The moment the sylvaneth stopped, the instant the keening song had changed, the Lord-Relictor had withdrawn. He was going to speak to the Lady of Vines herself and find out why she’d brought her people to a stop and put the queen-seed she carried at jeopardy.

Morbus was going to demand an accounting from the Lady of Vines.

Lord-Relictor Morbus ran through the midst of the sylvaneth. The great tree-creatures parted before him, shifting and twisting aside to allow him passage through their ranks. Though they were silent, he could sense the resentment that smouldered within each wooden body. It wasn’t by their own volition they allowed him to move among them, but a command from a higher authority. He knew that command could only have issued from the Lady of Vines, perhaps woven within the melody of her shifting song. It seemed she knew his purpose and had prepared the way for their meeting.

Behind him, Morbus could hear the sounds of battle. If the sylvaneth resented the Stormcasts, then they had good company with his own offence. His place was back there, helping Angstun fend off Torglug’s raiders, not wasting time urging the branchwraith to get moving again. Whatever madness had caused her to stop the column, he was of no mind to listen to it. Their mission was to keep Alarielle from the grasping hands of Chaos and that was precisely what they were going to do, with or without the help of the sylvaneth.

A copse of towering treelords stepped aside as Morbus dashed around their root-like feet. He could feel the incredible age of these creatures, could see the ancient wisdom glowing within their eyes and scratched across their knotted faces. Unlike the other sylvaneth, these primordial creatures didn’t exude a feeling of resentment, but instead evoked a sense of profound disappointment. Even Morbus felt a flicker of guilt as he passed the treelords, as though he himself were responsible for some grave tragedy.

His resolve, his obligations to faith and duty, made Morbus crush down the sliver of doubt. The Stormcasts were the holy warriors of the God-King Sigmar. Whatever they did, wherever they fought, it was by His design and towards His purpose. The nobility of such service couldn’t suffer the pollution of doubt.

Emerging from the shadow of the treelords, Morbus found he had reached the fore of the sylvaneth column. Before him, her legs folded beneath her arboreal body, was the Lady of Vines. In her lap, the brilliant radiance of the queen-seed cast its glow, bathing the branchwraith in a magical light. In another place, another time, the sight would have been wondrous and enchanting. With the plaguehosts snapping at the rear of the column, it instead provoked only disbelief and frustration.

‘Lady,’ Morbus called out. ‘Why have your people stopped? Why do you sit here when Torglug’s army is almost upon us? We must keep moving!’

The branchwraith turned her head, fixing Morbus with her inscrutable gaze. The eerie song continued to wind from her wooden mouth, but no words disturbed the harmony. Instead she raised one of her slender arms and pointed a sharp finger at the relic hammer clenched in his hands. In the same motion, her finger dropped towards the ice.

Morbus felt a slight quiver in the ice beneath his feet. Looking aside, he saw several of the ancient treelords leave the column and step towards the Lady of Vines. The gigantic sylvaneth turned towards Morbus. He could sense the tremendous effort they made as tendrils snaked out from their feet and tried to burrow into the ice. Strain as they might, they could do no more than bore holes to the churning sea beneath. The ice pack here was too thick for their roots to dig in and fracture.

The tactic they’d used to escape the plaguehosts before, cracking the ice and leaving Torglug’s warriors stranded on the shore, wouldn’t work here. The pack ice was too tough for either the roots of the treelords or Morbus’ relic hammer. The Stormcast scowled within his helm. The Lady of Vines had reached the same conclusion that the Hallowed Knights had — they couldn’t outrun the enemy.

The branchwraith pointed her clawed hand off towards the horizon. A lessening of the storm’s fury allowed Morbus to see what lay in that direction. Huge and monstrous, the craggy body of the jotunberg rose from the frozen waves like some impossible island. Their retreat across the Sea of Serpents had brought them close to where the giant had fallen. This close to the giant, he could see the mossy growths that pockmarked its body, the ugly lines of corruption that snaked through its enormity. Sections of rock sloughed away and went crashing down into the ice. The jotunberg, like so much of the Jade Kingdoms, had been poisoned by Nurgle’s contagion. At first he thought the thing must be dead, but then he saw a slight stir shudder through one of its legs, a faint motion crackle along one of its arms. Even such faint movements sent a noticeable shiver through the ice.

Morbus held the branchwraith’s gaze. He knew her intention now and it stunned him with its sheer magnitude.

‘It’s impossible,’ he declared. ‘No one could command such a behemoth. You can see for yourself that it is infected with Nurgle’s rot.’

Before he could move forwards to try and intervene, Morbus was struck from behind. The warrior pitched forwards, slamming into the unyielding ice. Before he could recover, he felt fibrous coils winding around his body, lifting him into the air. He was in the grip of one of the treelords, caught in the web of sinuous branches creeping from its beard. The mighty sylvaneth’s clawed hand closed around Morbus’ arm, trapping his hammer within a fist of wood.

Morbus could have drawn upon the hammer’s power to shatter the treelord’s grip, but it sat ill with him to strike this ancient creature without first trying to reason with it.

‘Whatever she’s told you, your first duty is to protect your queen!’ he shouted at the treelord. This time there was no denying the feeling of regret that emanated from the treelord. The creature adjusted its hold on Morbus, allowing him to see what was unfolding around the Lady of Vines.

The other treelords Morbus had passed, the most ancient of their kind to guard the vale of Athelwyrd, had formed a circle around the Lady of Vines. Their heavy, creaking voices joined in her song, forming an eerily mournful accompaniment to her magic. The queen-seed blazed even more brilliantly; the light surrounding the branchwraith became almost blinding. Even in his captor’s grip, Morbus could feel a tremor crackle through the ice and knew that the jotunberg was stirring.

How the Lady of Vines fed such a vast conjuration Morbus soon discovered. The ancients of Athelwyrd were withering before his eyes. Strips of bark sloughed away from their trunks, branches yellowed and snapped as their wood rotted from the inside. The face of one treelord crumbled away in a mass of dust. The arm of another fell from its shoulder to explode into splinters as it struck the ice. She was drawing upon their primordial vitality to feed the colossal magic she was evoking.

The tremors rumbling through the ice became more violent. Through the lessening flurry of snow, Morbus could see the jotunberg lurch back onto its feet. The gargantua took one quaking step and then another, forcing its way out across the frozen sea and creating a shattering wave of elemental fury through the ice already packed around it. The pack ice shattered and crumbled, unleashing a flood of surging waves that reared high into the sky before splashing down in pulverising cataracts of destruction. Even as the tidal waves slammed down and splintered great swathes of ice, the frigid emanations surging from the giant’s body froze them once more, creating weird crests and valleys upon the again unmoving sea. The formations shattered and collapsed as the giant took a second quaking step and sent new tremors through the ice and fresh tides of rolling waves spraying across the sea.

But the giant didn’t take a third step. With bits of its diseased body crashing away in an avalanche of stone and snow, the jotunberg toppled back into the Sea of Serpents, throwing up one last great sheet of water from the depths that froze around its wintry mass like an icy shroud.

Around the Lady of Vines, the last of the ancient treelords crashed to the ground, its body little more than a hollow log. The rest of the circle had fared even worse, some reduced to only a few scattered twigs and a heap of dust. They’d sacrificed their immense vitalities, their untold centuries of existence, and all the branchwraith had been able to gain was a few shuddering steps out of the jotunberg.

The Lady of Vines looked solemnly at the residue of the sacrificed treelords. She rose to her feet, the queen-seed’s glow clenched in one of her hands. Her eyes looked up at Morbus, then shifted away from him, gazing out across the sylvaneth column. It seemed to him that she peered through the tree-creatures, looking instead at the battle unfolding behind them.

‘It wasn’t enough,’ the branchwraith said. ‘The spell took too much from them, but it wasn’t enough.’ She returned the glowing queen-seed to the hollow in her chest, then raised her voice in a dirge for those who had sacrificed themselves for a desperate effort.

No word or gesture passed between the Lady of Vines and the treelord who held him, but Morbus found himself lowered to the ice and released. He could see the jagged crack that ran through it and wondered if the jotunberg’s violence had managed even greater havoc closer to the giant.

Morbus saw the Lady of Vines turn and begin moving onwards once more. Many of the sylvaneth followed after her, but Morbus noted that many more were turning and marching in the other direction. Her magic had accomplished less than she’d hoped. The Lady of Vines was leaving some of her followers behind to help the Hallowed Knights fend off Torglug’s legion.

The Lord-Relictor hurried to reach his warriors. If the Lady of Vines was moving on, then some of the Hallowed Knights had to accompany her. To do less would be to forsake their duty.

Chapter six

To struggle against Chaos is to embrace pain. It is the misery of hope, the mockery of fading dreams and the anguish of vanquished tomorrows. Defying the Ruinous Powers is but hollow vanity. What triumph can there be, opposing the Dark Gods? Win one battle or a hundred, the war will end the same way. The enemy grows stronger while the valour of men withers and fades.

In the stinking darkness, in the black pit of despair, the captive looked up. Faint and fragile, a tiny light beckoned, offering comfort and solace. Trembling hands, weak from abuse and neglect, reached up from the filth, desperate to embrace whatever respite the light might give him. To his starving soul, even the smallest scrap of compassion would be a feast.

Ugly, brutish shapes loomed above him, blotting out the feeble light. The rank stench of their evil wafted down upon him, the slime of their festering sores dripped onto his body. In his ears their hacking laughter roared. It was a laughter that transcended mere flesh and mortality. It was the jeering viciousness of monstrous gods as they snuffed out the dying embers of resistance.

Torglug’s boots crunched across the bloodied snow. The warlord had stood in silence while Slaugoth Maggotfang cut open the sacrifice. There had been a distant, detached quality in his three eyes, as though he already gazed upon some unseen vista without the benefit of the sorcerer’s magic. Even the closest of his retainers, the fearsome putrid blightkings, knew better than to intrude upon their master’s reverie.

‘The spleen is spotted with the black crab and its offspring,’ Slaugoth giggled, lifting the organ from the butchered body. ‘The stomach is pitted with ulcers and I have found seven stones in the kidneys. Most auspicious, Abominable Torglug.’ The sorcerer raked his dagger across the exposed belly, pulling a parasitic worm from the ruptured flesh. He held it before his face, examining the spots along its slimy, mottled skin. Then he popped it into his mouth and swallowed it in a single greedy gulp.

Torglug was unmoved by the revolting spectacle of Slaugoth’s auguries. There was nothing the sorcerer could do that might match the horror of simply knowing a being like Guthrax Kingeater was nearby. The Great Unclean One had offered its own prophecies, devouring seven tribesmen and then extruding their still screaming skulls from its gargantuan gut. The daemon claimed the shrieks of its dissolving victims foretold the path before Torglug, offering a confused medley of promises and warnings. Mortal or daemon, prescience, it seemed, was an arcane art riddled with evasiveness and ambiguity.

‘Enough,’ Torglug coughed, clapping his hand against the blackened edge of his axe. Flecks of rust and clotted gore crumbled away at his touch, sizzling as they struck the snow. ‘You are weaving victory and failure in every utterance that is slipping from your tongue. I am seeking answers, not looking for more questions.’ A baleful malignance shone in the warlord’s eyes as he turned his horned head towards the storm-swept horizon.

He could see the beckoning glow, the radiant flicker of Alarielle, shining behind the veil of mist and falling snow. There were many among Torglug’s plaguehosts who could feel that radiance even if they couldn’t see it, men and monsters in which the corruption of Nurgle’s blessings was great.

The warlord’s forces were closing in upon the prize now. It would have been easy to surround and exterminate the rearguard of lightning-men and tree-creatures that had tried to bar his path. A less determined warlord might have succumbed to the temptation to massacre his enemies. Slaughter, however, wouldn’t be enough to exalt Torglug in the eyes of his god. The offering Nurgle demanded was Queen Alarielle; nothing less would satisfy Him. Though many of his chieftains and champions demurred, Torglug had driven them onwards, bypassing the rearguard, leaving behind the great brayherds and some of the smaller marauder tribes to tie down the lightning-men and use their own strategy against them — trappers caught in their own snare.

Overhead, a few plague drones came buzzing back to rejoin the horde. Torglug had sent advance elements of his army to harass and delay Alarielle’s guardians at every stage of the hunt. Relays of warhounds, flights of plague drones, howling packs of forsaken, herds of centigors. Anything that could hit the enemy fast and even if only for a few minutes throw their retreat into disorder. It was a sacrifice of resources, but while Torglug’s army bled warriors, the enemy was bleeding time. Of the two resources, Torglug’s losses were the easier to bear.

Scratching the boils along his neck, Torglug glowered at his followers. Infested with superstitions and tribal atavisms, the barbarians would fight harder now that they’d seen Slaugoth perform his divinations with sacrificial innards.

‘Nurgle is smiling on me,’ Torglug declared, pointing his thumb at the butchered body. His legion didn’t need to know the particulars of Slaugoth’s divinations, only what their warlord told them. ‘Be serving me, and you too are being granted Grandfather’s favour.’ He raised his blackened axe high. ‘None are escaping us! All are sharing in our contagion and discovering glory of decay!’

Torglug brought his axe chopping down, pointing the blade at the swirling snow behind which he could see the light of Alarielle shining. At his gesture, a chorus of shrieks and war cries rose from his diseased legion. The vast horde surged forwards, marching towards the unseen enemy.

Through the snow gale a dark outline could be distinguished. As the horde continued to advance the shape resolved itself as a wall of trees before which stood a line of tall warriors in shining silver armour. Expecting their enemy to be fleeing before them, the sight surprised the Chaos host. For just a moment, their onward rush lost its impetus. In that moment, arrows came flying out at them from the ranks of silver warriors, each missile transforming into a bolt of lightning as it came searing down to pierce a marching tribesman or strike down a galloping Chaos knight.

The smell of blood, even that of their own comrades, goaded the plaguehosts forwards once more. Again the tolling of rusted bells and the pounding of primitive drums echoed across the ice, the bubbling cacophony of men and monsters invoking the favour of the Plaguefather. Black armoured knights charged through the swirling snow, mobs of tribesmen marched with sinister determination across the ice, and clutches of half-reptilian dragon ogres clawed their way over the frozen sea. Daemons waddled on batrachian legs or slithered on slug-like bellies. The putrid blightkings, the greenfly guard, the pox-bringers and all the other chosen of Nurgle moved towards the enemy.

Torglug chortled in delight. Alarielle’s guardians had surprised him in the most pleasant way. They’d come to appreciate that there was no escape for them. Instead of trying to run, instead of fleeing further across the frozen Sea of Serpents, they’d turned to make a fight of it. Some noble and delusional notion that they might accomplish something by giving battle to their pursuers. The warlord wasn’t certain if it was mad or pathetic. The whole of Ghyran was being devoured by Nurgle — did these fools think they truly stood any chance? There would be none who would remember their last stand as anything but an impotent absurdity.

More arrows fell into the advancing horde, striking down dozens of Torglug’s warriors. They were small losses in the grand scheme of things. Final martyrs rendered up in anticipation of Torglug’s ultimate victory. The archers of the lightning-men couldn’t stem the tide of Chaos. A wave of axes and swords, fangs and claws would soon come crashing down upon them. Against the might of the plaguehosts, the silver warriors would be crushed to nothing, the sylvaneth behind them utterly annihilated. From their carrion, Torglug would seize the queen-seed and deliver to Nurgle the prize He demanded. Nothing would stand between the warlord and his destiny.

Suddenly, the storm began to abate, blue skies emerging from behind the clouds. Torglug could hear a strange keening song. As he listened to the eerie melody, he noted a change in the harmony, a shift in pitch and tone. Ancient and inhuman, there was something threatening in that song, something that made him feel like a bird caught in a snake’s gaze.

As the snow gale ebbed and some of the storm faded, Torglug’s blemished eyes looked upon an impossible sight. A gargantuan shape rose up from the frozen waves, incredibly colossal in its proportions. It was big as a mountain, its craggy body locked in the ice, pained shudders rumbling through its frame as it languished. An almost forgotten sense of dread swept through Torglug as he looked upon the living mountain and realised that the ancient song he heard was calling out to the trapped behemoth.

A moment before, Torglug had believed victory within his grasp, that he’d trapped Alarielle’s guardians. As he looked upon the stirring jotunberg, he wondered who it was that had been trapped.

Angstun raised the standard of the Hallowed Knights high, pouring new determination into the ranks of the Liberators. The Stormcasts had been fending off wave upon wave of Torglug’s diseased minions, littering the snow with the ruined husks of putrid daemons and black-armoured Chaos warriors. Again and again the forces of darkness crashed against the shield wall, pushed back only by heroic effort. Behind the Liberators, the Judicators loosed volley after volley of sigmarite arrows into the oncoming horde, shafts of crackling lightning slamming down into the barbaric legion.

Shouts of alarm rose from the left flank of the shield wall. Angstun turned to see several silver-armoured warriors flung into the air, swatted aside by a monstrous creature. It was a hulking beast of chitinous plates and reptilian claws, massive horns curling away from its savage face. A nest of tongues stabbed out from between its fangs jaws, punching through the sigmarite armour of the Stormcasts they struck. The beast’s great forepaws hurled aside those who moved to close the gap, tossing them as though they weighed nothing. Smaller paws slashed and tore at those warriors who were able to slip past the mangling swipes of its forepaws, crumpling armour and shattering bone.

When he saw the daggers protruding from the beast’s back, Angstun knew what sort of beast his warriors faced — a Slaughterbrute, a diseased atrocity created by the corrupt energies of Chaos, a living engine of carnage and destruction.

Lightning crackled about the head of his standard as Angstun called out to Agrippa’s retinue, praying they would catch his signal. Liberator-Prime Agrippa lifted his own sword high, alerting the Knight-Vexillor that he was ready for his orders. Angstun paused. It was no easy thing, what he contemplated. Left alone, the beast would open a gap in the shield wall that other foes could widen. If they let the monster through, the Liberators would be able to close ranks behind it, slamming the door in the face of Torglug’s legion.

It would also leave the monster free to rampage among the sylvaneth, perhaps even force its way to the Lady of Vines.

There was no other choice.

‘Preserve the wall and let the big one through!’ Angstun commanded. The Liberators disengaged, allowing the slavering brute past, then reformed the shield wall before the Chaos warriors could come pouring in. The Knight-Vexillor could hear the monster’s howl of ferocious glee as it sprang past Agrippa’s men and rushed towards the sylvaneth.

Spinning around, Angstun snapped orders to the paladins he had kept in reserve — Diocletian and his Decimators.

‘Bring down that monster we let through,’ he ordered. ‘Stop it before it can get to the Lady of Vines.’

Diocletian saluted the Knight-Vexillor, then hastened to lead his paladins after their quarry. The beast wouldn’t be hard to follow. Exhibiting the same primitive ferocity it had at the shield wall, the beast was hacking its way through the sylvaneth, leaving the ice littered with broken tree-creatures and shattered dryads.

Angstun could spare no more time for the Decimators and their hunt. Cries of alarm rose from the ranks of tribesmen and Chaos knights assailing his part of the shield wall. The attackers parted, falling to the wayside as they hurried to clear a path for the forces now stalking into battle. An oily, reptilian stink accompanied their advance, the musky reek of dank caves and forsaken grottos. The creatures that now moved against the Hallowed Knights were huge brutes with grotesque lizard-like lower bodies, from which sprouted hideous humanoid torsos. Their leering faces were twisted with pitiless hate and their eyes burned with an almost elemental fury. In their hands, they carried massive axes, fell runes etched upon the blackened blades.

Leading the dragon-bodied monsters was a gigantic specimen of their breed. The fly-rune of Nurgle was branded upon the creature’s chest, a filthy mix of blood and pus oozing from the loathsome scar. Strips of armour, bent and distorted from the plate of human warriors, covered the huge beast’s arms while in its clawed hands it carried an enormous axe that seemed fashioned from obsidian. The monster’s face had a crude resemblance to that of a man, but blotted with a mire of boils and lesions, the dubious blessings of the Plaguefather.

The Judicators loosed a volley of arrows from their skybolt bows at the huge dragon ogre. As the sigmarite missiles changed into bolts of lightning and crashed down upon the reptilian monster, it threw its head back and bellowed. It was a cry not of agony but of exultation. Far from being harmed by the lightning, the creature was revelling in it.

‘Stand down!’ Angstun cried to his archers. ‘Do not shoot the dragon-beasts!’

Across the din of battle, the immense dragon ogre seemed to hear him, a grisly smile twisting its already hideous face. Hefting its huge axe, the monster charged towards the shield wall, dozens of its smaller kin rushing behind it. Without the Judicators to hold them back, the reptilian brutes would slam into the Liberators with the intensity of an avalanche.

Angstun pushed his way to the fore of the battle line, ready to confront the hulking leader of the dragon ogres. Their one hope, fragile as it might be, was to slay the huge chieftain quickly. That might break the courage of the others — if indeed such inhuman foes were capable of fear.

When he felt the ice trembling beneath his feet, Angstun thought it was the fury of the charging reptiles provoking it. Then the violence swelled, increasing steadily. The pack began to shudder and shake, jagged fissures snaking through the ice. Great chunks went crashing into the suddenly exposed water below. Crevices opened up beneath bands of Chaos warriors, sending them plummeting to the bottom of the icy sea. Pits swallowed mobs of daemons, plunging them beneath the waves. Knights were thrown from their saddles and tribesmen were sent sliding across the pack.

Angstun marvelled as the ice ahead of the shield wall split apart, a great gash opening up in the pack. The huge dragon ogre, rearing up on its hind legs, ready to bring its gigantic axe slamming down, was swallowed by the gap. The massive creature vanished beneath the surface, sucked down by its own weight. A dozen of its fellows, unable to arrest the impetus of their charge, were likewise sent crashing into the sea, floundering for a moment on the slippery surface before being dragged under by their prodigious bulk.

It was more than accident that directed the tremors which had split and shattered the ice. Angstun could see at once that the quake’s force was focused against Torglug’s legion, sparing the Stormcasts and their sylvaneth allies. The plaguehosts were thrown into disarray, retreating before the elemental wrath that had been turned against them. Where but a moment before their diseased claws had been closing around the refugees, now the horde was flung back, sent reeling back into the mist.

Looking out upon the ice-field, Angstun felt his relief tempered by cold realization. The fissure that had swallowed the dragon ogres, the pits that had consumed bands of marauders and daemons, were scattered and disparate, leaving several bridges across the churning sea. Torglug’s attack on the column had been disrupted, but the plaguehosts still had an avenue to resume their assault once their warlord rallied them.

Through the fog, Angstun sighted huge figures approaching the nearest of the ice bridges. It seemed some of Torglug’s horde had rallied already. ‘Judicators!’ he called out, raising the standard high. ‘At my signal…’

Before Angstun could give the command to loose, a figure came hurtling down from the stormy sky. The Knight-Vexillor was shocked to see Tegrus descending towards him. Moments before, the skies had belonged to Torglug’s daemonic plague drones. One glance at the blood and ichor staining the Prosecutor-Prime’s silver armour told him that the winged warrior had had to fight his way back to the column.

‘Stay your arrows,’ Tegrus told Angstun, pointing towards the men advancing towards the ice bridge. ‘That is Lord-Castellant Grymn’s command you would loose against!’

Quickly, Angstun warned the archers to hold their fire. A moment later he recognised the glow of Grymn’s warding lantern shining through the mist. Seldom had he seen a more welcome sight.

‘I must alert you,’ Tegrus reported. ‘Torglug’s horde bypassed the rearguard. His main force could be upon you at any moment.’

Angstun laughed and shook his head. ‘I fear your warning is late, my friend. But I am happy to say you’re still in time for the fighting.’ He turned and gestured to the sylvaneth column at his back. The tree-creatures were moving again, but the trail of carnage left by the Slaughterbrute was still visible. ‘One of Torglug’s monsters broke through. I sent Diocletian and his Decimators to attend to it, but I’m certain they wouldn’t mind your help.’

Tegrus opened his wings. ‘I will leave you to welcome the commander then,’ he said as he climbed back into the sky. He circled above the Liberators, then peeled away to pursue the Slaughterbrute.

Angstun turned his attention back to the advancing force of Stormcasts and sylvaneth. Even with Grymn’s warriors to bolster their strength he wondered if they would be powerful enough to hold back Torglug’s legion.

The murderous roar drowned out the sullen creaks and groans of the sylvaneth. The Slaughterbrute lashed out with its vicious claws, snapping limbs and splitting trunks with each swipe. The monster’s stabbing tongues pierced the heartwood of dryads, provoking a frustrated growl from the beast when it found not blood but only sap within the bodies of its victims. The mutant clamped its jaws around the trunk of a knotted tree-creature, shaking its prey with such rage that branches were shorn away with each twist of its neck.

‘Only the faithful!’ The war cry of the Hallowed Knights rang out as Decimator-Prime Diocletian brought his thunderaxe chopping into the chitinous hide of the monster. The Slaughterbrute snarled, a spasm of pain causing its jaws to clench tight and crack the body of its last victim. The severed halves of the sylvaneth crashed to the ice, limbs twitching as vitality slowly faded away.

Diocletian glared at the mutant, vowing that the tree-creature would indeed be its last victim. The rest of the Decimators were following close behind their leader, but for the moment it was he alone who held the Slaughterbrute’s attention.

The monster snarled at him, its claws slashing out at him. Diocletian dodged from the raking talons and struck out once again with his axe. This time the blade slashed deep into the beast’s hide, drawing a spurt of greasy blood. The Slaughterbrute shuffled backwards, sniffing at its own wound. When it looked back at Diocletian, the fury in its eyes was even more malignant than before.

Even as the Slaughterbrute made ready to spring at him, the beast’s body quivered. Diocletian could see weird, eerie lights flickering around the daggers embedded in the monster’s back. Without so much as a snarl, the brute swung around, hurling itself against the sylvaneth, once more trying to claw its way through the tree-creatures and dryads. Slowed by the cold, they couldn’t match the berserk magnitude of the assault.

Diocletian rushed after the crazed monster. ‘How dare you ignore me!’ he growled, hacking at its hind leg with his axe. The weapon crackled against its scaly flesh, crunching through one of the bony plates that protected it. Shrieking in pain, the Slaughterbrute swung around once more. This time the paladin wasn’t swift enough to dodge its paw. He was sent tumbling across the ice, landing in an armoured heap among sylvaneth crippled by the brute. He expected to feel the monster’s weight slam down on him as it pounced on its fallen foe. Instead he saw the beast again turn and charge into the sylvaneth ahead of it.

‘My prime, are you hurt?’ The question came from Brother Scipio, one of Diocletian’s paladins.

Diocletian waved aside the warrior’s concern. He pointed at the starsoul mace Scipio carried. ‘The beast thinks it can ignore us. It is time we taught it otherwise.’ Recovering his axe, Diocletian led the paladins after the Slaughterbrute. Whatever sorcery controlled the monster, he hoped the magic of the mace would act as a countermeasure — at least enough to disrupt the beast’s rampage so the Decimators could surround and kill it.

The sylvaneth might be unable to thwart the Slaughterbrute’s advance, but they were able to slow its progress. It was a gruesome exchange, splintered carcasses littering the monster’s path. The sight encouraged the Decimators to greater speed, knowing each moment lost would bring death to more of their allies. When they caught up with the monster, it was smashing its way through a nest of dryads, trying to win its way clear.

‘Only the faithful!’ Diocletian shouted as he charged the Slaughterbrute. The other paladins took up his cry, rushing to the attack. They spread out to engage the beast from every side. Thunderaxes hacked into its chitinous hide while Scipio’s mace sent a blazing starblast scorching through the brute’s body. The monster retaliated with its massive claws and snapping jaws, its tongues whipping around to swat at the Stormcasts. Its wrath was unfocused, however, for the eldritch glow surrounding the daggers in its back was becoming more persistent. The beast kept turning back in the direction it had been pursuing, goaded onwards by a force as irresistible as that of the thunderaxes and starsoul mace.

‘Don’t let it escape,’ Diocletian told his warriors. He could guess what it was that compelled the Slaughterbrute on despite the wounds the Decimators visited against it. The sorcerer controlling it was after the Lady of Vines and the queen-seed she carried. That made stopping the monster’s rampage even more imperative.

The Slaughterbrute spun around as one of the paladins chopped at its leg, and its tongues stabbed out, puncturing the warrior’s helm. There was a crack of thunder and a flash of blue lightning as the vanquished Stormcast was drawn back to Azyr. A sweep of the beast’s claws knocked Scipio across the ice, his leg folded almost double beneath him.

Howling at the remaining Decimators, the monster looked ready to exploit its attack, but again the persistent glow of the binding daggers made it turn away. Diocletian cursed and rallied the rest of his men. Whatever it cost them, they had to bring the monster down.

Before it could hurl itself against the sylvaneth once more, the Slaughterbrute was confronted by a lone warrior. Darting down from the sky, Tegrus wheeled around the beast’s head, smashing his hammers into the berserk abomination. Lightning crackled against its horns, slicing through one of its barbed tongues, smashing into its fangs. The monster reared back, clawing at the air with its forepaws, vainly trying to drag the Prosecutor-Prime from the sky.

Tegrus continued to torment the Slaughterbrute, allowing Diocletian and the other Decimators to close with it. Chopping at it with their axes, the paladins gouged hideous rents in its bony plates and scaly flesh. The brute flopped against the ice as one of its mangled legs crumpled beneath it. The paladins were moving in for the kill when a commanding voice arrested their attack. They turned to find the macabre figure of Lord-Relictor Morbus marching towards them from beyond the sylvaneth host.

‘It is not by axe and arrow that this beast must be finished,’ Morbus told the perplexed warriors. Raising his relic hammer high, he called down a shower of lightning. The bolts seared into the crippled Slaughterbrute, striking the binding daggers embedded in its hide. The monster cried out, clawing at the ice as the storm seared its flesh. Smoke rose from the cooking beast as it struggled to reach Morbus, either instinct or the commanding force of the daggers drawing it towards its tormentor.

The Slaughterbrute rallied, lunging for Morbus with outstretched claws. Before it could reach him, however, the beast was swatted down by the gnarled fist of a treelord. The same ancient that had held Morbus while the Lady of Vines roused the jotunberg now stood between the monster and the Lord-Relictor. Its glowing eyes flashed vengefully as it surveyed the carnage already wrought by the Slaughterbrute.

Uttering a groaning bellow of rage, the treelord lumbered towards the Slaughterbrute. The maimed monster sprang at it, sinking its claws into the ancient bark of its trunk. The treelord gave no notice to the blood-sap spurting from its wounds, but simply reached down and seized hold of the monster’s head. Wooden claws pierced deep into the beast’s hide, then with a savage wrenching motion, the treelord tore the head from its neck. Spurting foulness too rancid to be called blood spilled from the wound as the Slaughterbrute’s abominable vitality drained away.

Tossing the head aside, the treelord used both of its mighty talons to pull the beast’s body from its trunk. Morbus waited until the sylvaneth had divested itself of the Slaughterbrute’s claws before using his magic to minister to its wounds. Only when the huge tree-creature’s blood-sap stopped dripping down its trunk did the Lord-Relictor turn back to his fellow Stormcasts.

‘Some dark sorcerer guided that monster here,’ Morbus stated as he met Diocletian and Tegrus. He gestured at the dripping remains of the binding daggers. ‘Through those he was able to guide the beast. By striking at it through the daggers, it is just possible that the sorcerer himself has shared his creature’s fate.’

‘Sigmar willing,’ Tegrus said.

Morbus nodded, then turned towards the fallen Scipio. Moving across the ice, he knelt beside the injured paladin, drawing upon his healing powers to mend the leg shattered by the Slaughterbrute. While Morbus attended the wounded Decimator, Tegrus reported the return of Lord-Castellant Grymn and the rearguard.

‘We will need every warrior we can get,’ Diocletian said.

‘Some will be needed here,’ Morbus stated. He pointed to the sylvaneth. Many of them were moving onwards, joining the Lady of Vines as she resumed her retreat.

‘That role must be left to others,’ Diocletian observed. ‘The tree-folk don’t regard my Decimators with favour.’

‘It is your axes they distrust,’ Morbus told him. He nodded at the steaming carcass of the Slaughterbrute. ‘After your heroic stand against that monster, I think perhaps they regard you with less suspicion.’

‘We will be of more use fighting than running,’ Diocletian protested.

Tegrus was quick to support the paladin. ‘Lord-Castellant Grymn left Retributor-Prime Markius and the Annihilation Brotherhood behind to contain Torglug’s delaying force. Without their hammers, the axes of the Decimators will be most welcome.’

‘Then I must entrust the duty to others,’ Morbus said, turning towards Tegrus. ‘Speed back to Angstun and tell him to dispatch a unit of Liberators to accompany the Lady of Vines. Impress upon him that the Hallowed Knights must maintain a presence among the sylvaneth. It is our duty to safeguard Queen Alarielle against all dangers that threaten her. Whatever shape they take.’

They had spent so long under storm clouds and moving through fog that the light pouring down from the clear sky was almost dazzling to Grymn and his warriors. The view afforded by the light, however, was anything but reassuring. They could see the cracked and broken ice, the litter of bodies left by Torglug’s assault. The very magnitude of the destruction bespoke both the might of the plaguehosts and the violence of the jotunberg’s movements. Both were forces that yet hung over the ice fields. Somewhere beyond the veil of fog, Torglug’s legions lurked, while the rumblings and shudders that crackled through the ice told them that the jotunberg’s agitation wasn’t so easily pacified as it was to evoke. Any moment might see a catastrophic ice quake send all of them sinking into the Sea of Serpents.

There was nothing Grymn could do about the jotunberg except to trust in Sigmar that the giant’s throes wouldn’t bring ruin to the forces of order. Against Torglug, however, he was already formulating his plans. To advance and continue his pursuit of Alarielle, the warlord would have to bring his army across the ice bridges that spanned the churning sea. If the Stormcasts and their allies could control the bridges they could frustrate Torglug’s ambition. However vast his horde, only a small number of them could strike out across the bridges at one time.

‘If we can hold them here we can give the Lady of Vines time to make good her escape,’ Grymn told Angstun.

‘Lord-Relictor Morbus worries that Torglug will use some ploy to slip past us and catch up with her,’ Tegrus said. The Prosecutor-Prime had brought word back from Morbus and forwarded his request for warriors to accompany the branchwraith. Angstun had sent Gault’s retinue and those of Agrippa to act as escort for the Lady of Vines. Both retinues of Liberators had been badly mauled throwing back the plaguehosts and so were the easiest to remove from the line.

‘Morbus always sees the dark side of everything,’ Angstun declared. ‘For all of that, I hope he and Diocletian return before the enemy attacks again.’

Grymn shared the sentiment. The thunderaxes of Diocletian’s Decimators would be vital right now. He had it in mind to use them to break the bridges and restrict Torglug’s horde to the other side of the gap.

The cheers of his comrades and Tallon’s excited barks brought Grymn turning around. Emerging from the fog was a sight he’d never expected to see — Retributor-Prime Markius and the Annihilation Brotherhood. The paladins had fought their way clear and against all odds had managed to find their way back even without the light of Grymn’s warding lantern to guide them.

‘Sigmar be praised,’ Angstun exclaimed as he spotted the Retributors.

Even as the Knight-Vexillor’s words reached his ears, Grymn felt a chill rush through him. Tallon’s barks turned into angry growls. There were other figures emerging from the mist now, shapes far less welcome than those of the paladins. ‘Assign Markius to one of the bridges,’ Grymn told Angstun. ‘Have his men start breaking it at once.’

Angstun needed no explanation as he followed Grymn’s gaze. Torglug’s legion was marching out from the fog once more — rank upon rank of armoured warriors and slavering monsters, a seemingly numberless horde of putrescence. Among the throng he could see the putrid bulk of a greater daemon, the slithering loathsomeness of slug-like monsters, the banners of flayed skin that were carried by Nurgle’s chosen.

Marching at the fore of a mob of bloated, mutated warriors in rusted armour was the warlord himself. Torglug the Despised. Torglug Treecutter. Torglug, the favoured son of Nurgle. He was marching out with his army. The Stormcast understood what his presence meant. This attack would be an all-out effort. There would be no retreat, no compromise. The plaguehosts would either conquer or be destroyed.

Gazing across the magnitude of Torglug’s forces, Grymn prayed to Sigmar that the Hallowed Knights would be worthy of the ordeal before them. If it was their destiny to fall before the plaguehosts, then he hoped they would at least delay the enemy long enough to cheat him of his prize.

Chapter seven

‘Much is demanded of those to whom much is given.’

Lord-Castellant Grymn recited the First Canticle to himself as he watched Torglug’s legion charge towards the bridges. They were the words upon which the Hallowed Knights had been founded. In them was written the promise of woe and struggle, but also the promise of triumph. Grymn took solace in such solemn wisdom. The greater the test of faith, the darker the ordeal, the brighter and more magnificent the glory to be gained.

Grymn felt pride as he heard the shouts of the Hallowed Knights ringing out all across the ice. ‘Only the faithful!’ they cried, reaffirming their devotion to their chamber and to Sigmar, the God-King. Even faced by the onslaught of Torglug’s hideous horde, the Stormcasts were without fear. To lay down their lives in service to their god was the noblest purpose to which they could aspire. Before that resolve, the horrors of Chaos had no power.

The sylvaneth were ranged across the gap, dispatched by the Lady of Vines to support their efforts against Torglug’s plaguehosts. Commanded by the mighty treelords, the wargroves glared across the gap at their foes, vengeance blazing in their eyes. A terrible groaning litany rose from the tree-creatures, a horrifying paean promising merciless retribution for those who had despoiled their lands.

Judicators loosed volleys of arrows into the Chaos legion, each sigmarite missile descending as a shaft of crackling lightning. Armoured knights sizzled in the saddles of their mutated steeds, howling tribesmen fell to the ice as smoking husks, hopping daemons burst in showers of ichor and corruption. Yet for every foe the archers brought down, it seemed a dozen more came boiling out from the fog. They trampled their dead and dying underfoot, concerned only with reaching the bridges and the prize that awaited them on the other side.

The grotesque daemons, the hideous knights, the warlord’s elite troops — the advance of so many formidable enemies told Grymn that Torglug had taken the bait. The warlord was impatient to capture Alarielle, casting aside prudence in his dash to seize the bridges. Now was the moment to frustrate the villain’s ambition. With his army committed to the assault, Torglug would lose valuable time withdrawing and reorganizing if he failed to capture the bridges and cross the gulf.

While the Judicators continued to whittle away at the horde with their arrows, Grymn raised his warding lantern high. It was the signal to the paladins deployed at the ends of the bridges. Lightning hammers and thunderaxes smashed into the ice, chopping deep into the frozen spans. Chips and slush exploded beneath each blow, but Grymn could tell the Retributors and Decimators were making little progress. The pack was too thick. Even the lightning called down by Lord-Relictor Morbus failed to do more than sink smouldering pits in the surface of one bridge, the energy diverting away to crackle across the open water beneath. Towering treelords shambled towards several of the spans, trying to crack them with their burrowing roots, but even this effort proved futile.

‘Tegrus,’ Grymn called to the Prosecutor-Prime. ‘The ice is too thick on our side. I need your brethren to assault the bridges from above and try to crack them from the middle.’

‘By Sigmar’s will, it shall be done,’ Tegrus vowed. Spreading his great wings, he climbed into the air, the rest of his command rising up to join him. Their silver armour glistened in the sunlight as they soared above their fellow Stormcasts, then they were speeding away towards the churning waters.

The Prosecutors hadn’t gone far before abominable shapes dived at them from the stormy skies. Obscenely bloated, their membranous wings caked in frost, the daemonic rot flies flew at Tegrus and his warriors with ravenous abandon. Upon the back of each droning insect, a cyclopean plaguebearer shrieked its own slobbering battle-cry, waving its rusted daemon-blade overhead.

‘Sigmar be with you,’ Grymn prayed as he watched the aerial combatants close. The task he’d set the Prosecutors would be doubly difficult now. He remembered Gardus’ admonition about always having a plan for failure. Swinging his warding lantern across his body, he signalled the other Hallowed Knights. The Liberators closed ranks at the end of the spans the paladins were chopping away at, forming a shield wall to block any enemy trying to get across. As if following the example set by the Stormcasts, dryads and larger tree-creatures marched into tight-knit formations behind the bridges being attacked by the treelords.

It had been his intention to hold Torglug on the other side of the gap, but now Grymn had to prepare for the eventuality that the plaguehosts would reach at least some of the bridges. Their objective now was to keep the diseased legion from securing a foothold on their side of the ice. Every moment they could delay the hordes of Chaos was one more chance for the Lady of Vines and her precious burden to escape.

Wind whipped across Tegrus’ body as he banked before the murderous dive of a plague drone. The serrated claws of the rot fly scraped across his armoured leg but failed to seize hold of him. The coroded plaguesword of the insect’s rider came much closer to knocking him from the sky, the foul blade blackening the bright aura of his arcane wings. The Prosecutor-Prime arched around his attacker, bringing his hammer cracking against the fly’s swollen abdomen. A vile spray of ooze and putrescence spilled from the ruptured insect. It floundered in mid-air, the plaguebearer hurtling from its saddle to splatter on the ice far below. Tegrus dived down upon the wounded rot fly, smashing his hammer into its head. Already dead from the blow, the monster plummeted from the sky to join its rider.

Tegrus was buffeted by the fierce winter winds, thrown through the air by a wave of driving ice and snow. It was a struggle for him to correct the spin he was thrown into, diving and juking in an effort to tear himself from the gale’s grip. Around him, he could see other Prosecutors sharing his struggle, fighting to win free of the howling winds. Some of the plague drones were sent down towards the ice, but more of the fiendish creatures managed to get away. They circled around, rising above the driving force, ready to dive back at the winged Stormcast.

‘Prosecutors, our objective remains the bridges,’ Tegrus called to his brethren. It was an onerous order to inflict upon them. To strike at the bridges would mean exposing themselves to the plague drones. Even so, the havoc the flying daemons could wreak was inconsequential beside the utter carnage that would result if Torglug’s legion was able to cross the gulf. Firming his grip upon his hammers, Tegrus swooped towards the bridges.

The hammer-strikes exploded with a thunderous crack as Tegrus hurled his weapons against the bridge, blasting chunks of ice into the air. He darted through the flying debris, risking a glance back at the damage he’d managed to inflict. A section of the bridge had crumbled away, slamming down into the churning water below. He could see sleek, sinuous sea serpents striking at the sinking ice, lashing out in blind retaliation against the wreckage. Anything of flesh and blood falling into those waters would be quickly devoured.

The span across those waters, however, remained intact. The gouge Tegrus’ hammers had inflicted against it wasn’t enough to break the bridge. Even now, Chaos warriors and marauders were marching out, goaded onwards by threats from their chiefs and champions. Wheeling around, drawing another hammer from Sigmar’s storm, the weapon crackling into his armoured fist, Tegrus dived down to try again.

Around Tegrus, the other Prosecutors tried to follow his lead. Several of them were beset by the plague drones, slashed by the claws and mandibles of the rot flies or else cut down by the plagueswords of their riders. He saw one of the Prosecutors dip beneath the onslaught of two adversaries only to be impaled by a spear cast at him by the barbarians rushing across the bridge. The injured Stormcast spun towards the water, his armoured body snapped up by one of the gigantic serpents when it lunged at him from beneath the sea. An instant later a blue flash of light shot up from the churning waves.

Another set of plague drones dived at Tegrus. The plaguebearers were taking charge of their brutish steeds now, restraining the rot flies’ mindless aggression and turning them towards more disciplined methods of attack. The daemons that pursued him were co-ordinating their assault, supporting one another as they sought to knock the Prosecutor-Prime from the sky.

The daemons little guessed the enemy they now faced. Tegrus was in his element, exulting in the thrill of diving and weaving around his foes. Far more nimble than the rot flies, he was able to soar around and behind the vile creatures. Casting his hammer at one of the daemons as he climbed above it, Tegrus had the satisfaction of seeing its thorax cut in half by the missile. The bisected monstrosity crashed into the bridge below, pitching a clutch of screaming marauders into the hungry maws of the serpents.

The other plague drone tried to capitalise on the distraction of its companion’s destruction, whipping so close to Tegrus that some of the acidic slime drooling from the rot fly’s proboscis splashed across his armour. The Stormcast threw himself into a downward spiral, wings folded close against his back. The icy air rushed past him as he hurtled straight towards the open water. He could sense the plague drone pursuing him, refusing to abandon its prey.

Lower and still lower Tegrus plummeted, then at the last instant he unfurled his wings and propelled himself skywards once more, speeding himself upwards with the momentum of his fall. It was a manoeuvre the bulky creature couldn’t match. The ghastly daemon and its fiendish rider slammed into the churning sea, the impact ripping limbs from the bloated insect and sending its one-eyed rider vanishing into the depths.

As he rose back into the storm-swept sky, Tegrus could see his warriors were sorely beset by the plague drones. Valiantly, some of them continued to make sorties against the bridges, but they were too few to bring any concentration of force to bear against the spans. Though their javelins sent many of the enemy falling into the water, they weren’t enough to complete the demolition. More and more, the Prosecutors were compelled to use their weapons against swarms of plague drones, annihilating them before they could close with the Stormcasts.

Tegrus drew another hammer from Sigmar’s storm and looked for the gouge his earlier cast had inflicted. It might be a desperate hope, but if the first hammers had weakened the span enough, a second impact in the same spot might be enough to break it. Desperate or not, he was determined to try. Whatever the risk.

‘Sigmar guide my hand,’ Tegrus cried out as he dove past the circling plague drones and towards the bridge below.

Grymn felt as though the snow swirling down from the sky had closed around his own heart. He saw the Prosecutors being attacked by the pernicious rot flies. The daemons were too numerous, the elements too capricious and the target too formidable. One of the winged warriors swooped down with a stormcall javelin in each hand. Though he hurled both missiles into one of the bridges, though he himself was caught in the resultant explosion and hurtled into the icy sea, the span remained standing.

It needed more strength to crack the bridges. A more direct approach than what Tegrus and his Prosecutors had so valiantly attempted. Perhaps some of Morbus’ dour perspective had infected him, but Grymn had planned for this possibility from the first. Much as he disliked to give the command.

Angstun knew what troubled the Lord-Castellant’s mind. ‘We can try to hold them,’ he suggested.

Grymn shook his head. ‘No, my friend, our only chance to hold them is to force them into a bottleneck. They have to be driven into a killing ground where we can bring our full strength against them. If we let them come at us across a broad front, they will prevail simply through force of numbers.’ He turned to Markius, Diocletian and the primes of the other paladin retinues. Quietly he gave them the command. The Stormcasts gave the Lord-Castellant a grim salute, then hastened to the bridges.

Retributors and Decimators sprinted out onto the spans and began to attack the ice beneath them, the Liberators closing the shield walls behind them as the paladins ranged onto the bridges. Here, out over the churning water, the pack was far thinner and at once the terrifying crack and creak of the weakening bridges snapped across the battlefield.

The reckless action of the paladins sowed confusion among the oncoming plaguehosts. Some of the barbarians and mutated monsters tried to retreat while others attempted to redouble their rush across and fall upon the Stormcasts before they could achieve their purpose. Turmoil erupted between the panicked and the determined, and along several of the spans fratricidal conflict broke out between the factions — the dead and dying of both sides cast into the sea and the hungry maws of the giant serpents.

Upon one of the bridges, a squadron of Chaos knights trampled their craven compatriots and charged for the far side. In their path stood the Retributors, their lightning hammers digging great gouges in the ice. Grymn could see Retributor-Prime Markius among the paladins, a massive hammer gripped in his armoured hands. ‘Only the faithful,’ Markius cried out as he raised the weapon overhead and brought it smashing down into the bridge.

The span shattered beneath Markius’ blow. With the Chaos knights only a few yards away, the entire bridge crumbled. Shrieking horses and shouting men were sent pitching into the roiling waters below. The same destruction that reached out to drag down the plague riders also claimed the Retributors. The ice upon which they stood tilted upwards for an instant, then dropped away in a great sheet, knifing down into the sea. Flares of blue lightning streaked up into the sky after the paladins sank into the icy waters.

‘Sigmar take you into His keeping,’ Grymn whispered, bowing his head in tribute to Markius’ sacrifice.

Similar scenes unfolded across several of the other bridges. Often the defenders were successful in their demolition. Diocletian and his Decimators were snatched from the verge of destruction by the intercession of a pair of treelords, who caught them as their end of the bridge began to pitch down into the sea. After the fall of the Slaughterbrute, its seemed the sylvaneth had decided some axes could be used for good instead of ill.

Grymn’s plan was to funnel the plaguehosts down three specific bridges, spans positioned so that his Judicators would have the enemy in a crossfire as they advanced and where the defenders on the other side would be able to form a unified front. Instead, the enemy was able to capture a few bridges not in his calculations.

The first was seized when a unit of Retributors was obliterated by plague drones soon after the dramatic sacrifice of Markius and his men. The flying daemons swarmed down onto the paladins in a frantic mass of slashing claws and stabbing proboscises. The fiends following behind the first assault attacked their own, ripping open abdomens swollen with acidic putrescence to coat the Retributors in caustic filth. Whenever a Stormcast faltered, a rot fly was quick to seize him in its claws and dive with him into the sea. By the time the loathsome attack was finished, the Retributors had been exterminated and the bridge belonged to Torglug.

A second span was seized when three mighty treelords attempted to destroy it by sending their roots burrowing into the ice at the middle of the bridge. Before they’d proceeded far, a marauder chieftain unleashed a mob of hideously mutated Chosen against the sylvaneth. The howling Chosen, their bodies twisting and changing at each step, hurled themselves upon the great tree-creatures. Though many of them were crushed in the hands of the treelords or impaled upon their branches, too many won through to attack the sylvaneth with bronze axes, iron swords, and their own grisly claws. The Chosen hacked and hewed until the mighty treelords were overcome. Roaring in victory, the mutants pushed the splintered carcasses over the side. Though their triumph was short and the arrows from Judicators’ bows soon avenged the treelords, the damage was done. As they had with the other bridge, detachments of Stormcast Eternals and wargroves of sylvaneth removed themselves from the main formations to guard these crossings.

‘We can defend twelve,’ Angstun assured Grymn.

The Lord-Castellant nodded. ‘We will defend twelve,’ he said. Glancing away from the plaguehosts striving to cross the sea, he looked behind their own defensive line. He could just see the Lady of Vines and her last bodyguard slipping away behind the concealment of another snow flurry. If not for the radiant glow of the queen-seed, he doubted he would have been able to spot her at all. The branchwraith had left half of her people behind to aid the Hallowed Knights. Grymn was uncertain if it was a reflection of the growing unity between their factions or a dire testament to the gravity of the situation. Either way, he was certain she hadn’t made such a decision lightly. She had to know that those she left behind were unlikely to return.

Grymn turned his gaze back upon Torglug’s diseased horde. He could see the warlord himself, bloated with corruption, his horned helm caked in filth and decay. Survival didn’t matter here. Their only purpose was to hold for as long as they could. To hold and deny Torglug the prize his infernal master coveted.

‘By Sigmar’s grace,’ Grymn said. ‘We will hold them back.’

There was a man once. He fell into a hole and thought he would die there. He prayed he would die there — how he begged and pleaded. But he didn’t die. He suffered on and on and on. Hours became days became weeks became months. He was lost and he was alone, and even the company of his enemies was denied to him. How he would have savoured their taunts and jeers! How he would have welcomed their abuses! What torture could compare to being alone, abandoned even by those he hated?

There was a man once. He dared a god to do its worst and that was just what it did. The sweet relief of death was denied him; the blissful release of madness eluded him. The sicknesses that consumed his flesh refused to fully destroy him. They left him just enough coherency to appreciate the pain they brought. They withdrew and faded, only to return, easing his agony only so that the relapse would hurt so much more. Dread hounded his mind when pox and plague relented, terror tightening around him as he anticipated their return.

Those whom the gods destroy they make mad. A far worse fate beckons those whom the gods covet. Flesh, spirit and mind alike must be broken. Broken and formed anew. Changed into the vessel that can best serve its new master.

Torglug’s blemished eyes fastened upon the hateful light shining from the enemy leader’s lantern. He forced himself to look upon it, grinding his teeth against the pain it provoked. Another of Sigmar’s pathetic champions, another delusional fool who trusted in a power mightier than Chaos. Right to the end, Lord-Celestant Gardus had believed in the God-King’s power. That hadn’t saved him from the might of Nurgle. That hadn’t stopped Torglug from adding the vale of Athelwyrd to his long list of conquests.

Now this one thought to oppose him. Torglug could appreciate the craft his adversary displayed. He was trying to negate the strength of the plaguehosts by funnelling them across the few bridges still standing. The warriors of Chaos had lost hundreds when the lightning-men and sylvaneth started demolishing those bridges. Torglug’s legion was suffering further casualties as his forces tried to advance across the narrow spans. Beastmen savaged human marauders in their feral bloodlust, impatient to close with the enemy that awaited them on the other side. Crazed forsaken, their bodies erupting with grotesque mutations, ploughed through ranks of tribesmen in their berserk fury. Scores of his diseased followers were hurled into the churning sea by their own comrades, lost to the icy waves and the ravenous serpents undulating through the water. Overhead, the last of his plague drones were overcome by the winged lightning-men, their broken husks splattering as they crashed into the snow. The flying daemons had served their purpose, however. Only a handful of the airborne enemy remained — too few to pose a threat to Torglug’s army or to menace the remaining bridges.

The strain of gazing upon the holy lantern at last made Torglug close his eyes and look away. It was a gesture of weakness that stirred in his guts, the daemonic rotworm that dwelled there recoiling from the holy light. He would make the lightning-men suffer for that indignity. It was said to be impossible to make one of Sigmar’s champions feel fear, but he wondered if they could recognize despair when it stretched forth its claws to claim them? What was fear for oneself, after all, compared to the knowledge that your own failure had brought damnation upon those who depended upon your strength?

‘Guthrax!’ Torglug’s slobbering call bellowed from the rusted face of his helm. His putrid blightkings retreated from their master’s presence as the enormous daemon waddled towards him. Only Slaugoth Maggotfang stayed by his side, potent charms and talismans guarding him against the Great Unclean One’s pestilent aura. Torglug had no need of such fetishes to protect him. The favour of Nurgle was stronger than any daemon’s malignance.

‘Your command, Torglug Ice-walker?’ Guthrax croaked, steaming spittle falling from its rancid tongues.

Torglug studied the bridges, crowded now with his warriors. He turned over in his mind the warbands that belonged to each tattered banner, the warherds that marched behind each primitive totem. He put a value to each, estimated how many men and monsters might be committed to each crossing. Finally he pointed his axe towards the largest of the bridges. ‘There you are finding your road,’ he told Guthrax. ‘You are crossing there and bringing destruction for my enemies.’

The huge daemon clapped its hands together in a gesture that would have suggested childish excitement had it come from anything less grotesque. ‘It seems there are many who will grow closer to the Grandfather,’ it gobbled. ‘Are you so certain you would feed so many of your own to me? Your warriors already on the bridge will have the choice of drowning or being in my way.’

‘That is being your road,’ Torglug repeated. He knew the daemon meant to horrify him with the thought of how many of his own followers would be destroyed when Guthrax crossed the bridge. The monster had no appreciation of his ambition. If it cost the life of every mortal that bent their knee to him, he would spend them. Once he captured the Everqueen and gave Nurgle the prize he coveted, Torglug would be rewarded with armies so vast as to make this legion seem a rabble of brigands.

Slobbering and chuckling, Guthrax shambled off towards the bridge. The Great Unclean One’s advance was noted by friend and foe alike. The Chaos warriors near the bridge scattered, those already on the span fleeing back to the closer shore. Some made it, but others were caught between Guthrax’s advance and the shield wall of lightning-men at the other end. A few of these wretches leapt into the sea rather than being crushed under the daemon’s waddling bulk. Many more hurled themselves against the shield wall, fighting with desperate abandon. The archers on the far side stopped loosing arrows and bolts into Torglug’s mortal warriors and instead directed their shots at Guthrax. The warlord laughed at their futile attempts to bring down the greater daemon.

‘Is it wise to commit Guthrax by himself?’ Slaugoth asked the warlord. ‘The enemy may call on the power of their own god. The lightning that—’

‘Against Guthrax, we are letting them be doing their worst,’ Torglug said. ‘More attention daemon is drawing to itself is being better for me. More resources enemy is setting against Guthrax, less they are having to be bringing against real threat.’

Slaugoth looked puzzled, the worms between his blackened teeth even growing still. ‘The real threat?’

Torglug brought his blackened axe down, hacking a sliver from the ice at his feet. ‘Me,’ he said. ‘While lightning-men are committing themselves against Guthrax and other bridgeheads, I am leading my best warriors against them — only we not be using one of bridges they are leaving us. We are making own bridge.’

The sorcerer’s stomach tightened. To defy Torglug was to invite death, but trying to repeat the ritual he’d performed before would certainly destroy him. He didn’t have the legion’s warlocks and shamans to exploit this time — indeed the only resources he could draw upon were his own acolytes. Trying to repeat the spell with so little energy to syphon would reduce him to a withered husk.

Looking back at Guthrax, an idea occurred to Slaugoth. He couldn’t cross the gap as he had before, but that didn’t mean there weren’t other ways to accomplish the feat. Among Torglug’s legion were the disgusting Slothcrawlers, a pack of daemonic beasts. The immense, slug-like monstrosities would serve the sorcerer’s purpose.

Removing from the head of his staff one of his most potent talismans, Slaugoth began his spell. The sickening Slothcrawlers slithered towards the frozen wave on which Torglug stood. ‘The daemons will build your bridge,’ he told the warlord.

‘Then be building it,’ Torglug commanded, pointing to the spot where he would make his crossing.

Gibbering in crazed jubilation, the first of the daemonic creatures sank its claws into the side of the ice shelf, leaving its body to dangle over the edge. The second beast slithered down the body of the first, its tentacles biting into the flesh of its companion. Viscous ooze drooled from each of the ropey tendrils, fusing the hideous beasts together. A third monster soon followed, repeating the process. Daemon by daemon, Slaugoth was creating a living bridge across the gap. The serpents beneath the waves poked their head up from the waters, but recoiled from the diseased essence of the loathsome daemons.

Torglug laughed at the gruesome novelty of such a passage, then summoned his putrid blightkings to him. Once the daemonic bridge was set, they would follow the vile path to the other side. Already he could see the enemy reacting to Slaugoth’s ploy, a wall of lightning-men forming up where they judged the living bridge would stretch across.

Torglug laughed when he caught the flash of the holy lantern. It seemed the enemy commander was going to personally receive him when he staged his crossing. Destroying him would be an enjoyable appetiser before he seized the queen-seed.

‘It will need more than courage to stand against that obscenity,’ Angstun told Grymn, pointing to the hideous bulk of the Great Unclean One as it waddled across the bridge, drawing ever closer to the formation of Liberators at the other end. The daemon chortled hideously as it crushed marauders and Chaos knights under its bulk or grabbed hapless beastmen from the ice to drop into its gash-like maw. The abomination’s mere presence caused the ice to become blemished, crusted with a leprous foam.

Lord-Relictor Morbus added his agreement to Angstun’s words. ‘Like the claw of Nurgle himself,’ he said. ‘A trial to test even the most stalwart.’ Tallon snarled as though to add his own support.

‘We must hold,’ Grymn swore. ‘The daemon can’t be allowed to break through. Every heartbeat we keep them here increases the chance for the Lady of Vines to escape.’

‘You’ll need the reserves to meet Torglug when he crosses that damnable bridge he’s made,’ Angstun said. He looked to Morbus, waited for a nod from his skull-shaped helm. ‘Let us stop the daemon for you, commander.’

Grymn hesitated. Angstun could appreciate the Lord-Castellant’s dilemma. The risk was enormous and if they failed, the Hallowed Knights would be deprived of two of their leaders. To do nothing, however, would see the daemon break through. Alone the monster would be capable of holding the bridgehead, and the plaguehosts would pour across. Whatever his reservations, Angstun knew Grymn would do what was necessary to protect the queen-seed.

‘Sigmar watch over you,’ Grymn said, laying his hand upon Angstun’s shoulder. ‘Whatever it takes, hold the daemon.’ He looked back to the living bridge and the advancing mass of Torglug’s champions. ‘I will keep the plaguelord from crossing here.’

Angstun saluted Grymn and hurried towards the span threatened by the greater daemon. Morbus lagged just behind him, the Lord-Relictor’s stamina drained by the lightning storms he had called down from the skies. Some fell power was interceding on behalf of the plaguehosts, distorting the bolts as they came crackling down and denying them the precision and power they usually possessed. Efforts to bring the fury of the heavens raining down on Torglug and his monstrous bridge had only sent slivers of electricity sparking across the surface of the sea.

‘Nearer to the enemy I may be able to defy the magic that strives against my powers,’ Morbus told Angstun as they ran, giving voice to the Knight-Vexillor’s concerns.

‘What can be done will be done,’ Angstun replied. ‘Sigmar grant that it is enough.’

The obscene bulk of the Great Unclean One lumbered nearer to the shield wall. Arrows from the Judicators continued to slam into the daemon, but without effect, provoking only a glottal cough of amusement from the fiend. As it trudged along, a string of bones and slime oozed out from one of the monster’s hands, hardening until it became a gigantic flail. The daemon dragged the loathsome weapon behind it, cracking it from side to side in its impatience to close with the Liberators.

Morbus stopped as they approached the defensive position. Holding his relic hammer high, he tried to call down the celestial fury of Sigmar upon the Great Unclean One. Divine power suffused the head of his weapon, but at once he realised something was wrong. A discordant vibration was burrowing its way into the energies he was summoning.

‘Torglug’s sorcerer strives against me,’ he growled through clenched teeth. ‘But he shall not prevail.’ Crouching down, he set the heft of his hammer against his knee. Ancient prayers of appeal, entreaties to the God-King, issued from behind the skull-faced helm.

For an instant, Angstun saw the celestial glow surrounding Morbus’ relic hammer intensify. The Hallowed Knights nearby, reserves waiting to support the shield wall, gasped in awe at the power the Lord-Relictor was calling upon, but awe gave way to revulsion as a sickly green luminance began to infect the divine glow. The grisly taint cast eerie shadows across Morbus, lending his aspect a sickly and perverse quality.

‘The daemon lends its power to the sorcerer,’ Morbus hissed, his voice creaking with the strain of defying his arcane foes. ‘They turn the foulness of their Crow God against me.’ He raised his head, staring at Angstun. ‘Leave me! All of you!’

The Hallowed Knights might have demurred, reluctant to abandon a leader in such distress, but Angstun could hear the strain in Morbus’ voice. It wasn’t fear for himself, but concern for his warriors that tore at the Lord-Relictor. Better than any of them, he knew the malignity of the magical forces the enemy was bringing to bear and what havoc might be unleashed. Raising their standard, Angstun called the Hallowed Knights to attend his command, ordering them back, leaving Morbus alone among the ice and snow.

It pained Angstun tremendously to leave Morbus, but almost at once his decision saw validation. The pestilent green glow continued to grow, expanding into a cloud of diseased miasma. Ice steamed within that noxious fog, falling snow sizzled and sparked as it struck the foetid vapour. Just visible within the veil of sorcerous contagion, Morbus struggled on, trying to defy the atrocious evil that was turned against him. Smoke rose from his armour as even the sigmarite plate began to corrode beneath the aura of decay.

Ghastly shapes leapt into being all around Morbus, rising up with the foul vapours. Daemonic creatures conjured by the magic of the Lord-Relictor’s foes, the monsters converged upon him, dragging him down onto the ice. From the midst of the grisly melee, Morbus’ voice reached Angstun. ‘Forget me! Stop the greater daemon!’

Angstun forced himself to turn away. He had to concentrate on the daemon and prevent it from crossing. With the Lord-Relictor gone, there was no chance to stop the beast before it reached the shield wall. He looked across the warriors acting as reserves for the Liberators. A retinue of Judicators with boltstorm crossbows, a wargrove of sylvaneth and, most formidable of all, Decimator-Prime Diocletian and his paladins.

‘Diocletian, your men will support me. I’m going for the daemon.’ He looked to the Judicators and cast a hopeful glance at the tree-creatures. ‘If we fall, it will be left to you to turn back our enemy.’

The daemon’s lumbering steps finally brought it to the shield wall. Even as sigmarite arrows rained down upon it, the Great Unclean One struck at the Liberators barring its way. The obscene flail lashed out, whipping across the stolid ranks of Stormcasts. Some of the armoured warriors were flattened by the heavy, skull-shaped bludgeons fixed to the ends of each ropey chain. Others were snagged on the spikes and spurs that thrust out from the surface of the flail, hooked on the putrid barbs and dragged out of formation by the daemon’s prodigious strength. Before the reeling Liberators could recover, its clawed hand swept out, swatting them over the edge of the bridge.

The Hallowed Knights held fast, closing together where the daemon’s attack had claimed their comrades. Swords and hammers flashed as they struck back at the abomination, but the monster would not be denied. From its plague-infested innards, a bilious stream of corruption spewed across the silver warriors. Shields lowered, weapons faltered as the searing slime boiled against sigmarite plate. Again, the Great Unclean One surged forwards, its flail cracking down to annihilate a dozen Stormcasts. The daemon drove its decayed enormity full into the shield wall, crushing more warriors beneath its waddling obesity. Swarms of diminutive nurglings erupted from the Great Unclean One’s exposed gut to fall upon the injured.

A bubbling cry of malicious triumph rattled from the daemon’s toad-like maw as it slaughtered the Liberators and reached the far side of the bridge. Its grisly humour only increased when it found Angstun and the Decimators moving to block its path. Clearly the daemon considered this small group of adversaries an insignificant obstacle.

Angstun could see the flashes of vanquished Hallowed Knights flaring behind the daemon, testimony to the carnage it had wrought. He was determined that it would pay for what it had done. He would make it pay for the loss of Morbus. He would show it the divine might of Sigmar, the God-King.

‘Only the faithful!’ Angstun cried out. The Knight-Vexillor brought the standard slamming down into the thick pack ice. From the great icon at its top a shaft of blue light leapt skywards. The bolt vanished into the stormclouds.

Obscene laughter slobbered from the daemon’s maw as it reached for Angstun. Whatever power the Stormcast had called upon, it seemed it wasn’t answering. Before it could close its flabby claw around its prey, however, a blazing ball of fire came hurtling down from the heavens. A twin-tailed comet, the manifestation of Sigmar’s godly wrath.

The comet slammed into the ice, fracturing the thick pack, sending great slabs crashing down into the sea. The bridge the greater daemon had crossed collapsed, pitching dozens of Chaos warriors and beastmen into the churning waters below. The daemon lord itself stumbled, sliding back towards the gap behind it.

Bellowing in rage, the Great Unclean One tried to escape the crumbling shelf. Angstun and the Decimators still stood in its path, however. The Knight-Vexillor struck at it with the end of his standard while the paladins brought their thunderaxes chopping at its flanks. Something akin to panic seized the daemon as the ice continued to collapse behind it.

Angstun thrust the end of his standard into the Great Unclean One’s grasping claw. Puncturing the rancid flesh, the weapon became embedded in the daemon’s palm. Snarling in wrath, the monster jerked its arm upwards, pulling Angstun into the air. The monster stared hatefully at the dangling warrior, then its frog-like tongue shot out, wrapping around its helpless enemy. Angstun struggled against the daemon’s grip, but was unable to break the crushing embrace of the slimy coils.

Decimator-Prime Diocletian cried out to his paladins. Together they hurled themselves against the hulking daemon, hacking at it with their thunderaxes. The daemon swatted at them with its flail, trying to drive them back, while its tongue retracted into its sickly maw.

Angstun felt his armour crumpling under the mounting pressure of Guthrax’s tongue. His very soul recoiled in disgust as the daemon’s maw loomed before him. Death was the sacrifice every Stormcast was ready to accept, but this would be a terrible end. If only he could content himself with the knowledge that he’d succeeded in thwarting the daemon’s assault and prevented it from continuing its pursuit of the Lady of Vines.

As if in response to the Knight-Vexillor’s entreaty, the ice around Guthrax rumbled. The cosmic violence of the comet had weakened the shelf terribly, but the daemon’s own efforts with its monstrous flail had finally decided the matter. In trying to ward off Diocletian’s warriors, the Great Unclean One had sealed its own fate. Angstun sneered as he saw Guthrax react to the groan that shuddered through the ice.

‘Darkness cannot prevail against faith,’ Angstun spat, even as he felt his bones breaking in the daemon’s coils.

With a monumental clamour, the ice crumbled away. Guthrax was sent plummeting into the sea, but with it the daemon dragged Angstun and the Decimators to destruction. The Great Unclean One’s push had been thwarted, but not without sacrifice.

From where he stood at the end of Torglug’s living bridge, Grymn watched Angstun and the Decimators die as they followed the greater daemon down into the sea. He saw the bright flashes of light as they were sent hurtling back to Azyr and into Sigmar’s keeping. Tallon whined sadly, but the gryph-hound’s master could afford no sorrow. There was no time to mourn their loss or even to salute their valour. Grymn had his own battle to fight.

The grotesque figure of Torglug the Despised advanced across the abominable bridge formed from the bodies of his slug-like daemons. With the warlord came his mightiest and most depraved fighters, his bodyguard elite. Hideous warriors, their bloated bodies spilling out from rents in their armour and splits in the corroded mail that straddled their frames, all Torglug’s entourage bore the ghastly fly-rune branded upon their flesh. Gigantic cleaver-like axes and obscene swords were clenched in the fists of each man, vile talismans and trophies tied about their hafts or hanging from their guards. A diseased, slobbering cough dripped from the barbarians, a paean to Nurgle himself. Behind the warlord’s retinue, careful to keep their distance lest they trespass upon Torglug’s victory, packs of skin-clad marauders and one-eyed plaguebearers marched.

Grymn knew only too well how little he had to oppose Torglug and defy the plaguelord’s attack. A pair of treelords and a retinue of Protectors armed with stormstrike glaives were all that stood with him to hold the enemy back and buy more time for the Lady of Vines to make good her escape. Perhaps Lord-Celestant Gardus would have taken different measures, adopted a better strategy to oppose the warlord, but Grymn had done all he could. His mission wasn’t to destroy the enemy, but to keep him from capturing Alarielle. To achieve that, he needed something the Stormcasts couldn’t provide.

His greatest weapon in this struggle wouldn’t be the Hallowed Knights, but Torglug himself. Grymn held his warding lantern higher, letting its purifying light shine into the faces of the warlord’s bodyguard. Pained snarls and foul curses sputtered from the lips of the advancing foe. The divine energies of the lantern acted as a restorative to the Stormcasts, but for the slaves of Chaos they were a withering affliction. They were not enough to destroy villains steeped in such infamy as Torglug’s elite bodyguard, but they could still weaken and distract these diseased foes.

Grymn hoped to provoke a further reaction from Torglug’s retinue. He wanted to enrage them, to fan the flames of fury in their corrupt hearts, goad them into a reckless attack that would be fought not with a mind towards strategy but simply with the raw instincts of berserk beasts.

Torglug hung back as his bodyguard spurred themselves forwards at a run. The first of the hideous plague warriors were snatched from the bridge just as they reached the ice, caught in the wooden talons of the treelords. The huge sylvaneth flung their diseased captives from them in an almost human display of revulsion, sending the warriors hurtling into the sea.

Other warriors followed, rushing at the treelords as the sylvaneth threw the first wave into the icy waters. Many of these were confronted by the Protectors, the mighty paladins skewering their corpulent enemies upon their glaives, ripping apart the plague-infested warriors with the searing energies bound within their weapons. Over and again the silver-armoured Stormcasts sent a cursing adversary crashing to the ice, rancid blood spurting from severed limbs and ruptured organs.

Yet Torglug’s bodyguard were no normal enemy. Their bodies infested by the most virulent of Nurgle’s diseased blessings, their souls corrupted by the sting of the daemonfly, they fought on despite their wounds. A hulking warrior, his face lost in a mass of pustules and sores, crawled down the length of the stormglaive that impaled him so that he could smash the skull of a paladin with his spiked mace. Another monstrosity crawled out from under the stomping foot of a treelord, chest collapsed and splintered ribs tearing through his flesh, so that he might slash at the sylvaneth’s roots with a crescent-bladed scythe.

The filth encrusting the blades of Torglug’s elite troops brought ruin to the treelords. From each cut and gash, a vile stream of contagion crackled through their wooden bodies. Bark whitened and split, falling away in wormy strips. Blood-sap bubbled up from ruptured roots or dribbled from withered branches. Even as they smashed their enemies underfoot or crushed them in their mighty hands, the treelords were being destroyed by the noxious wounds dealt to them.

With death coursing through their bodies, the sylvaneth struggled to push through Torglug’s bodyguard and reach their ghastly leader. Though their language was alien to him, Grymn knew the treelords recognised Torglug, and with that recognition came a terrible rage. To destroy the plaguelord, the sylvaneth were willing to trade their lives. Unfortunately such a bargain wasn’t in the offing. The plague warriors brought down their towering opponents, hacking them apart with ugly axes and splintering their trunks with brutal mauls.

The treelords were the first to fall before the warlord’s elite troops, but they weren’t the last. As more of Torglug’s bodyguard charged onto the ice, the Protectors found themselves overcome. One after another the paladins were cut down, ravaged by the sorcerous contagion bound within the diseased blades of their enemies.

At the centre of the fray, Lord-Castellant Lorrus Grymn continued to hold his ground. Bearing the warding lantern, he had become the target of choice for the enraged servants of Chaos. His halberd had ripped the head from one of Torglug’s bodyguard, shorn the clawed arm from a second and pierced the heart of a third. Tallon ripped at the vile enemies, savaging their diseased flesh with his beak and claws. A heap of mangled bodies lay strewn about him, yet still they came, determined to extinguish the hurtful light and the one who bore it. The assault only abated when a vicious snarl cut through the howls and shrieks of the plague warriors.

‘This man being mine! He is belonging to me!’ The voice was like the gargle of a bog and the death rattle of a toad, an auditory stench of corruption and obscenity. The warlord’s troops withdrew from Grymn, making way for their master’s advance. Grymn commanded Tallon to keep back. If the plaguelord wanted a duel, then he would oblige the fiend.

Grymn had only seen Torglug at a distance before. Closer now, he could appreciate the horror of this monstrous servant of Nurgle. He was a huge man, powerfully muscled despite the bloated, corrupt swell of his gut. What little armour he wore was pitted and stained with corrosion, though each segment looked solid despite the patina of decay. Upon his vambrace the fly-rune had been daubed in a crust of filth, glowing with a foetid vitality. A single horn curled outwards from the helm that encased his head, only three holes affording a glimpse of the monster within.

Grymn looked through them into Torglug’s blemished eyes, studying their spoiled depths, seeking some clue as to the mind behind them. Through the infestation of depravity, he saw a pitiless hate. A hate now directed against him.

Torglug hefted his massive axe, specks of foulness spilling from its blackened blade. ‘God-King is abandoning you,’ he told Grymn. ‘He is leaving you alone to be facing wrath of Torglug.’

‘Sigmar has blessed me with the honour of ending your atrocities,’ Grymn snarled in the warlord’s face.

‘Too late is fanatic learning despair,’ Torglug laughed. ‘First I am killing your light. Then I am killing your faith. When you are begging for death, then, perhaps, I am killing you.’

Exhibiting a speed Grymn thought impossible for a man of his size, Torglug rushed at him. The Lord-Castellant whispered a prayer to Sigmar. Not for victory in this fray, but that he could hold the warlord long enough for the Lady of Vines to slip beyond his reach.

Chapter eight

Torglug’s axe swept towards Grymn’s side. The blow was brutal and vicious with the might and malignity of the plaguelord’s bulk behind it. What the attack lacked was discipline and finesse, skill to complement strength. Grymn twisted away from his enemy’s strike, catching the blow on the haft of his halberd. The collision of blighted steel against holy sigmarite sent a metallic trill ringing out across the frozen sea. Grymn rolled with the impact, turning his block into a sliding parry. Before Torglug was aware of the manoeuvre, the Stormcast drove the blade of his halberd into the warlord’s ribs.

Grymn felt his weapon pierce the diseased warlord, heard the blade slice deep into his corrupt flesh. A soupy broth of blood and maggots streamed down his halberd as he drew back. Against a normal foe, it would have been a mortal wound. Torglug, however, didn’t even seem to notice. Instead he lunged at Grymn once more, chopping at him with a downward sweep of his axe that would have split the Lord-Castellant from crown to hip had it connected. Again, Grymn exploited his enemy’s rage, using Torglug’s own fury and impatience to provide an opening for retaliation.

It wasn’t long before the warlord left himself exposed. Torglug’s axe was a blur as he delivered a blizzard of attacks, trying to cut down Grymn. The assault fell into a rhythm before long, a pattern a more controlled warrior would never have allowed himself to slip into. Grymn followed that pattern, blocking and dodging until he found the opening he was waiting for. When Torglug swung his body around to strike at Grymn’s leg, the Stormcast plunged ahead, driving the edge of his halberd against the warlord’s hip. The sigmarite blade slashed through Torglug’s armour, leaving a jagged strip flapping against his knee. The body beneath was no less savaged, bile gushing from a wound in which the white of bone glistened.

This time Grymn knew better than to trust the severity of the injury to cripple Torglug’s counter. Instead he raised the warding lantern, shining its light into the cluster of blemished eyes. More than his wound, it was the stinging rays from the lantern that caused the warlord to stagger back.

Grymn glanced past Torglug. The way was clear for the warlord’s blightkings to range out across the ice and resume their hunt for the Lady of Vines. Instead the hideous throng stood idle, diseased spectators to the fray betwixt their master and the commander of the Hallowed Knights. The warbands crossing the living bridge displayed no desire to press onwards while the fate of their warlord was in question. By holding Torglug here, Grymn was delaying the strongest and fiercest fighters in the warlord’s entire legion.

A moment before, Grymn had cursed the abominable vitality that preserved Torglug and allowed the warlord to keep fighting. Now he was thankful for the dark blessing that hung over his enemy. Alive and fighting, the warlord would make the greater part of his legion tarry here, waiting to learn his fate. Grymn had to draw out their duel for as long as possible.

For a third time, Grymn’s halberd slashed into Torglug’s body. This time the blade gnawed at the plaguelord’s swollen gut, slicing across his skin. The instant the blow landed, Grymn pulled back, blunting the impetus behind the stroke.

He had no need of the warding lantern to fend off Torglug’s retaliation. The warlord withdrew of his own accord, retreating several paces. As Grymn’s halberd cut into his body, Torglug had felt the sudden lack of force behind the blow. Now Grymn could see the gleam of suspicion in his foe’s eyes. Taking another step back, the warlord called out to his men.

‘Worms of Crow God!’ he shouted. ‘You are being across crevice. Path is being clear for you. Be finding Radiant Queen!’ Torglug raised his axe, catching Grymn’s halberd on its haft and pushing the Lord-Castellany back.

Grymn fought in earnest now, his gambit for delaying the plaguehosts undone. While he fought Torglug, diseased warriors streamed out across the ice, charging into the snow as they tried to find the Lady of Vines. He couldn’t hold back that plague-addled tide — all he could do was try to hurt the enemy as dearly as he could before he was overwhelmed. If he could cut down Torglug then the slaves of Nurgle would be thrown into confusion, plunged into bickering among themselves while they decided upon a new warlord to lead them.

Now it was Torglug who fought with cold detachment and steely discipline. Gone were the reckless, brutal assaults. Instead the warlord fought with insidious craft, exploiting to the full his monstrous strength and uncanny speed. Grymn found himself giving ground to his foe, hard-pressed to fend off the relentless string of attacks with his halberd in one hand and his lantern in the other.

One advantage yet remained with Grymn. The light of his warding lantern continued to vex Torglug, nettling the warlord and causing him to instinctively flinch from it. It was a slim advantage, serving only to blunt some of the precision and ardour of the warlord’s blows.

Torglug abandoned the heavy-handed attacks he’d been inflicting. Taking up his monstrous axe in one hand, he swung the weapon with horrifying ease, trading the sheer strength of his double-handed strikes for the speed of single-handed chops. Grymn found it harder to intercept the swifter blows, but far less arduous to parry. After a minute or so of falling into a pattern of strike and block, it was Grymn who became the victim of settling into the rhythm of battle.

With shocking abruptness, Torglug suddenly tossed his axe from one hand to the other. In almost the same motion, he brought the blackened blade slashing upwards. The diseased axe clove across the face of the warding lantern, quenching its holy light. The blade swept on, crunching through the broken lamp to hew into the hand that held it.

Grymn cried out in agony as his hand was severed by Torglug’s axe. He saw it go spinning away, sliding across the ice. The stump burned with the putrid bite of the unclean blade, sending pain lancing through his body. Blood bubbled up from his torn flesh, spraying across the ice and snow. Even his endurance struggled to overcome the agony of his mutilation; only his devotion to Sigmar and to the duty entrusted to him by Gardus kept him standing.

As he was struck, Grymn heard Tallon snarl. The dutiful gryph-hound lunged at Torglug, his beak snapping shut around the warlord’s arm, savaging his putrid flesh with sidewise twists of its head. Torglug howled in pain and brought his armoured boot slamming into Tallon’s side. The hound cried out in pain and was thrown back, ripping a grisly gash in its enemy as its beak was torn free.

Grymn cried out in rage, flinging himself at the warlord. Torglug swatted the Lord-Castellant aside, mocking him. ‘I am killing the master then his dog!’ he chuckled.

Torglug was back to swinging his axe with both hands again. The warlord expected his crippled foe to be easy prey. A snarl of surprise and aggravation rattled from behind his helm when Grymn refused to be slaughtered. ‘Fanatic is not knowing when to quit,’ he spat at Grymn.

Grymn chopped at Torglug with his halberd, nearly striking the plaguelord’s leg. ‘Duty ends only in death,’ he told the diseased monster.

‘I am being ending your duty,’ Torglug snarled. The warlord spun his bloated bulk, putting all of his weight behind a murderous blow that slammed into Grymn’s side. Sigmarite plate stove in as the axe smashed into him. He felt ribs splinter, slivers of bone stabbing through his flesh. The impact knocked him from his feet, sent him hurtling across the ice.

For an instant, Grymn tried to regain his feet, unwilling to concede the field to Torglug. He’d failed in his mission, such was the thought that tormented him as darkness began to blot out his vision.

As the darkness settled over him, a prayer tumbled from Grymn’s lips. ‘Mighty Sigmar… do not forget the faithful.’

Surrounded by his acolytes, Slaugoth Maggotfang peered at the entrails he’d removed from a slaughtered rot fly. The omens he read in the cancerous organs were anything but reassuring. For a moment he tried to tell himself that the calamity he read there represented the fall of Guthrax into the Sea of Serpents.

The adepts of the Plague Coven called out to the sorcerer as their rotten familiars came flying back to them, buzzing and cawing as they reported Torglug’s victory over the leader of the lightning-men. The way ahead was open to the plaguehosts now. Entire tribes and warherds were charging across the bridge Slaugoth had formed from the Slothcrawlers. The frozen sea would soon be rife with hunters seeking the Lady of Vines. The Everqueen’s guardian might elude them for a time, but she wouldn’t escape.

How to explain the ominous portent he saw in the guts of the rot fly? Should he seek out Torglug and warn him of the ill omens? Slaugoth was at a loss for an answer until a peal of thunder drew his eyes skywards. At once he could see the change in the clouds. They had become even darker and more violent than during the worst of the snow-storm, and to his witchsight there was an unmistakable glamour shining behind the clouds, an aura that was as hateful as it was familiar. It was the same brilliance that burned within each lightning-man, the despised light of Sigmar.

Slaugoth watched as the storm descended, sending sheets of hail splattering down upon the frozen sea. Lightning and thunder hurtled down from the sky. It was no coincidence that the storm’s fury struck in the path of Torglug’s hunters. The sorcerer chided himself for his arrogance. He had felt the pestilent hand of Nurgle reach out to help his followers when they needed to cross onto the ice. Now a different god had intervened to aid the enemy. Slaugoth should have anticipated such a possibility and taken whatever steps he could to offset it.

As the lightning crashed downwards, Slaugoth caught hold of a worm-eaten vulture, the consort of one of his acolytes. Wringing the creature’s neck, he sent its spirit soaring into the sky, seeing in his mind what it saw with its spectral eyes. Where the lightning had struck there now stood dozens of warriors, lightning-men arrayed in armour of white and gold rather than the silver and blue of the enemies they’d been fighting. Sigmar God-King had answered the prayers of his followers and sent them reinforcements from Azyr.

The Plague Coven sensed the sorcerer’s alarm. They began to murmur among themselves, fright pulsing through their veins. Slaugoth quietened them with a threatening glare. By calling upon Nurgle, he had drawn the Grandfather’s attention to himself. If Torglug failed it wouldn’t be the warlord alone who suffered their god’s wrath. The sorcerer was determined to escape such a fate. A second Stormhost was a formidable obstacle, but one that might be offset by summoning allies of their own.

From the crest of a frozen wave, Slaugoth and his acolytes could see the churning waters of the Sea of Serpents. They could see the marine reptiles that feasted so greedily upon the warriors who fell within their reach. Slaugoth could feel the contagion that polluted those mighty monsters, the diseased infestations that had altered them when the Jade Kingdoms sickened. Already they were changing, becoming creatures of the Plaguefather. All it needed was a comparatively simple ritual to make them servants as well, to bind their ophidian minds to the will of Nurgle.

At a gesture from the sorcerer, his acolytes fell upon one of their own, dragging the weakest of the adepts into the circle within which the rot fly had been butchered. Slaugoth drew his dagger across the man’s throat, silencing his screams and sending a spray of arterial blood shooting across the snow. With his staff, the sorcerer dragged the blood across the ice, pulling it into sinuous shapes and sigils. Old magic coursed through his body as he drew upon arcane forces ancient beyond imagining. The bloody shapes began to writhe and wriggle in a noxious semblance of life. In the water, the vast serpents copied the movements of the pictures Slaugoth had drawn from the acolyte’s blood.

‘Go,’ Slaugoth hissed to the sea monsters. ‘Go. Find. Seek. Kill.’ A black-toothed smile crawled across his face as he watched the serpents submerge and slip beneath the ice. The Stormcasts might intercede with Torglug’s hunters above the ice, but there was precious little they could do to oppose the serpentine hounds the sorcerer had sent to stalk the Lady of Vines from below.

The sylvaneth could feel the thinning of the ice beneath their feet, sense the flowing waves underneath them. They were closing upon the far shore of the frozen sea. The Lady of Vines would soon be on firm ground again and much closer to the ancient places where she hoped to take the queen-seed.

Suddenly, the ice split open only a few yards from the branchwraith. A gigantic serpent boiled up from the rent, hissing and snapping as it struck at her. The creature’s grey hide was mottled with foul red growths, and clumps of black mites scuttled between its scales. The mark of Nurgle was upon it, shining in its eyes.

The Lady of Vines leaped from the path of the striking reptile, its jaws slamming into the ice at her feet. Before it could strike again, the last of the Hallowed Knights in her retinue rushed forwards to engage the monster. A mixed force of sword-armed Liberators and Judicators with skybolt bows, they harried the monstrosity, pinning it down while shouting to the branchwraith to press on without them.

It was a scene that had been repeated several times since the Lady of Vines had left so many of her defenders behind to guard the bridges. Rushing up from the depths, the mammoth serpents had shattered the ice in their vicious efforts to stop the branchwraith’s escape. Some of the snakes had ripped open their own hides when they smashed through the frozen surface, striking at everything around them in agonised fury. Others had displayed an eerie craftiness, smashing a series of holes from which to surprise and confuse their prey.

With each encounter her retinue was lessened until all that was left to her now was a bodyguard of dryads. Even these might have been enough if the branchwraith could have crossed the frozen sea faster.

The sea serpents conjured from the depths of the sea were but one obstacle. Another was the mounting tremors caused by the jotunberg. The giant hadn’t relapsed into a deathly sleep as it had when summoned by Alarielle. The jotunberg shivered and quaked as its body was slowly consumed by the rot of Nurgle. Each movement sent a rumble through the ice, fracturing and splitting the surface, causing the dryads to sink their roots down lest they pitch and fall. The very storm that concealed them from the plaguehosts wrought its own toll, chilling the blood-sap flowing through the sylvaneth and slowing their bodies.

The Lady of Vines refused to waver from her cause. The queen-seed cradled in her hands spurred her onwards. Nothing could make her abandon the task before her. The radiant light of Alarielle could not be allowed to depart from Ghyran.

Ahead, the Lady of Vines could just see the shore, which was lined with statues, their huge forms rendered shapeless by age and decay. The race was nearly won. Beyond the statues were the ancient places where benevolent enchantments could still hold sway.

This near to the shore, far from the fallen jotunberg, the ice was thin, crackling beneath the probing steps of the dryads. Cautiously, the sylvaneth tried to advance, but a mighty worm-like horror erupted from beneath the ice, gulping down a pair of dryads in its quivering maw. The Lady of Vines and her court retreated before the revolting monstrosity, watching for it to sink into the depths.

Suddenly, the Lady of Vines turned, the glow of her eyes dipping into a baleful light. On the verge of escape, the enemy came for her once more. Out of the swirling snow and ice she could see hideous figures marching towards her. At their head was one no sylvaneth could forget — the one-horned figure of Torglug Treecutter.

Caught, cornered between the gigantic worm and the advancing warriors, the Lady of Vines altered her song once more. The keening wail became an angry screech. The slight aspects of the branchwraith and her dryads darkened, their hands lengthening into dagger-like talons. The time for running was over. Now it was time to fight.

Torglug roared at his warriors, goading them on through the raging storm. He cared not for the driving rain or the crashing thunder. His attention was fixed upon the radiant glow of the queen-seed, the prize he would capture for Nurgle. He alone could see the glow of the seed through the fog and snow.

It was enough that he could see it. His role was to lead; it was for others to follow him to glory.

That glory was near enough to taste when Torglug stalked out of the fog to see the Lady of Vines standing before him. The branchwraith had stopped running and had turned to confront her pursuers. Torglug smiled when he saw the gigantic worm lashing about the shallows behind her. The last stand hadn’t been her choice then, but rather a gift from Nurgle. He didn’t feel cheated to find his quarry already trapped. After such a long campaign, nothing could spoil the taste of victory for him.

Torglug motioned his putrid blightkings to stay back while he approached the Lady of Vines. His armoured boots crunched across the ice as he closed upon his prey. He was disappointed that even now he was incapable of detecting anything like fear or despair in the branchwraith’s visage. The sylvaneth were an eldritch breed. The eight realms would be better once their kind were exterminated.

The warlord forgot about the branchwraith when he saw the glowing object nestled in the hollow of her trunk. He could feel the vital energies that pulsated from the queen-seed; the parasitic rotworm nestling in his gut writhed in response to that invigorating aura. The light shining from the seed was different than the harsh glare of the warding lantern, though unsettling in its own way. The warding lantern had felt hard and condemning, while the radiance of the queen-seed was mournful, redolent of disappointment and regret. Torglug could recognize the entreaty, even if it had no power over him. He had been damned long ago. It was too late for mercy.

A spasm from the distant jotunberg caused the ice between Torglug and his prey to fracture. Lunging forwards with a grace that belied his bloated bulk, the warlord leapt across the crevice and balanced himself upon the broken ice. His trio of eyes fixed once more upon the Lady of Vines.

‘You are giving her to me,’ he said. ‘I am knowing just the Garden where that seed is being planted. The Grandfather will be growing something special there…’

Torglug knew the sylvaneth would never surrender Alarielle to him without a fight. His words were but a cruel barb to spur them into reckless action. The foolish lightning-man with the lantern was to thank for giving him the idea.

With a wailing shriek, several of the dryads attending the Lady of Vines charged at Torglug. He leapt towards them, abandoning his precarious stand on the ice. Slamming down, he brought his axe slashing around, hewing through the trunk of one dryad with a single blow. The creature’s severed halves crashed into the charging figures of its companions. Before they could recover, the warlord was among them. A chop of his blade split the face of one tree-creature; a driving blow ripped the leg from another and sent the mangled sylvaneth tumbling into the water.

It was only a matter of moments before Torglug had dispatched his enemies. He looked across at the Lady of Vines and the rest of her entourage. He could feel the hate rolling off them. To the sylvaneth he was the Tree-cutter of Thyrr, most hated of all Nurgle’s warlords. Now he could style himself the Annihilator of Athelwyrd. Soon he would be the Sorrow of the Sylvaneth.

Torglug pressed his thumb against his vile axe, slicing his blubbery skin and drawing a bead of yellow pus from his diseased veins. ‘You are surrendering her to me, or I am taking her from your splintered corpses.’

The warlord was ready to make good his promise when the sounds of battle rang out from the fog behind him. Enemies had engaged his putrid blightkings — lightning-men and sylvaneth trying to rescue the Lady of Vines and her charge. Well, his warriors would hold them off, keep them back until it was too late. This close to victory, there would be no escape.

Rushing forwards, Torglug brought his axe chopping towards the Lady of Vines. The branchwraith leapt back, just beyond his reach, then stunned the warlord by darting in to rake him with her claws. Grey-brown filth slopped from his flabby flesh, as his skin was shredded. Torglug tried to smash down his antagonist, but again she slipped past his assault.

Hefting his diseased axe, Torglug moved to press his attack. Before he could take more than a few steps, the rest of the dryads flew at him with their claws outstretched. Indescribable fury seized the warlord. All the frustration and impatience of the campaign boiled up inside him, spilling over in a paroxysm of savagery. Torglug swept his axe across the plunging bodies of the dryads, splitting trunks and severing limbs with each blow. He didn’t even feel the talons that slashed his flesh, despite the ragged wounds they left. What injury could compare to the plagues Nurgle had visited upon His favoured champion?

Torglug stalked across a litter of dead and dismembered dryads. He glared in disbelief as the fallen sylvaneth began to rise, sprouting new limbs to replace the ones he’d cut away, glowing with a new vibrancy that echoed the light of the queen-seed.

The queen-seed! The miraculous restoration must be Alarielle’s doing, an exertion of her divine powers. Torglug would have that power. He would make a present of it to Nurgle, use it to buy him the respite and relief that was his due.

Ignoring the claws of the revived dryads, Torglug strode towards the Lady of Vines.

‘You are standing between me and my destiny,’ he told her. ‘That is being bad place for standing,’ he added, raising his axe.

Even as Torglug moved to attack, burning pain flared through his bloated body. A wave of searing light spilled over him, throwing him across the ice. Smoke rose from his charred flesh and strips of melted armour dropped from him as he struggled to his feet. Through a haze of smouldering agony, he turned to face his assailant.

His foe was another lightning-man, this one clad in white armour with a radiant crest bolted to his helm. Wings of shimmering light spread from the warrior’s back and in his hand he held a lantern more terrible to the plaguelord’s eyes than the one he had cut from Lord-Castellant Grymn. Torglug’s adversary pointed a golden sword at the warlord.

‘Face me, monster,’ the white warrior said. ‘I am Knight-Azyros Diomar and I bring you this message — your time is over.’

The lightning-man’s beacon opened once more and from it another surge of searing light slammed into Torglug’s diseased bulk. The warlord was sent reeling, smoke rising from his scorched flesh. The stink of burst boils filled his lungs and his ears rang with the deafening echoes of the blast. Struggling once more to his feet, Torglug shook his horned head. He could see Diomar turn towards the Lady of Vines. Faintly, he could hear his words to her.

‘Flee, Lady — I will hold them.’

Torglug wondered at the lightning-man’s choice of words. Then his eyes strayed to the ice at his feet. He could see the vast, worm-like shape slithering just below the surface. He looked back towards Diomar and laughed.

‘I am thinking not for long,’ he hissed.

Grymn knew he was still alive by the pain that surged through his body. It felt as if liquid fire had been poured into his veins, searing and scorching every speck of his being. The memory of Torglug’s axe smashing his warding lantern and hacking through his hand flared across his vision. As he slowly opened his eyes, he expected to see the ghastly warlord standing over him, ready to finish the job with another swing of his blade.

What he saw instead was the angry sky above the Sea of Serpents. The storm had intensified, lightning and thunder joining the downpour of freezing rain and snow. Grymn gasped as he realised how familiar the storm was to him. No natural tempest, not even a magical snowburst conjured by the Lady of Vines — this was one of Sigmar’s storms, a manifestation of the God-King’s power. It was upon such storms that the Stormcasts descended to the realms to confront the slaves of Chaos.

The dismay of a moment before vanished. Grymn had felt at a loss when Torglug saw through his ploy and sent his vile warriors hunting after the queen-seed. His failure seemed complete when the enemy struck Tallon, cut off his hand and left him for dead on the ice. Now, however, he was filled with a new determination. Sigmar had not forgotten the Hallowed Knights. Contrary to the mocking suggestions of Torglug, the God-King hadn’t forsaken His faithful warriors. There was still hope. While there was life, the prospect of victory was never impossible.

He heard a whine and turned his head to see Tallon sitting beside him, guarding his body and his halberd. Grymn was heartened to see the gryph-hound had survived the fight, though the creature looked the worse for wear. He needed his weapon now, not to strike down his enemies but to help him back to his feet. Standing the halberd upright, he pulled himself along its haft, gradually lifting himself until he was off the ice. Every motion brought a surge of agony rushing through him. The ghastly wound in his side opened up again, blood dribbling out to spatter in the snow. Drawing a deep breath made his ribs ache and jostled the splintered bones piercing his flesh. Grymn realised that he would need to be judicious about how much he taxed his mangled body. Without the warding lantern, he couldn’t call upon its healing light to restore himself. He searched across the ice, finding the lamp lying on its side. It had been badly damaged by Torglug’s assault, but he could feel the faintest flicker of enchantment still smouldering within it. Carefully he lifted it off the ice and fastened it to his belt.

Reluctantly, Grymn looked to the ragged stump where his hand had been. Compounding the horror of his mutilation was the diseased crust that discoloured the wound. It was that filth which had prevented him from bleeding out, but he knew it was no mercy it offered him. He could almost see the corruption from Torglug’s axe gnawing away at him, polluting his body with its purulent influence. It was no mundane contagion that could inflict itself upon a Stormcast.

Sounds of battle made Grymn forget his own pain. Tearing his eyes away from the gory stump, he looked out across the frozen sea. He couldn’t see any of Torglug’s warriors, but just behind the swirling fog he caught the distinct flash of skybolt bows loosing arrows. It was from this direction the sounds of conflict rose. Whether the embattled warriors were Hallowed Knights or from another Stormhost, it was enough that they were enemies of Torglug. Steeling himself against the pain, Grymn limped towards the fighting, Tallon following faithfully after him.

When he emerged from the fog, Grymn found himself behind a chamber of Judicators and a wargrove of dryads. Hallowed Knights and sylvaneth had come against a tribe of marauders, striking at the barbarians from behind. He recognised the foul banners the enemy carried as belonging to the accursed Threespine tribe. The marauders had been caught in the valley between two frozen waves. Had they retreated or regrouped, they might have come around and surrounded their attackers. Instead, with the viciousness of their breed, the Threespines had simply turned about and charged into their tormentors.

The Judicators and their allies had adopted a simple but effective deployment. While the dryads barred the gap between the waves, the archers loosed volley after volley into the massed barbarians. The resultant slaughter was considerable, the shafts of lightning falling with such frequency that pits had opened in the ice to drop luckless marauders to a watery grave.

A fierce cheer rose from the Judicators when they spotted Lord-Castellant Grymn emerge from the fog. ‘Only the faithful!’ they shouted. Despite the pain it caused him, Grymn returned their cry.

The shouts had a profound effect upon the Threespines. Thinking their adversaries had received substantial reinforcements, the barbarian attack faltered and then broke. The marauders turned to retreat back the way they had come. Grymn was surprised when the dryads didn’t pursue them, even more surprised when the Judicators sent no arrows against the reeling enemy.

It was then that he spotted a lone figure standing upon the crest of one of the waves. Garbed in silver armour, the apparition raised his hammer skywards. In response, a crackling storm of lightning came smashing down. The ice towards which the Threespines fled was shattered. Fissures snaked away, opening beneath the very feet of the marauders. Howling in shock and terror, the barbaric warriors were sucked down into the icy water. In the space of only heartbeats, the entire tribe was obliterated.

‘Morbus,’ Grymn laughed. He had thought the Lord-Relictor destroyed along with Angstun and the Decimators. It was a relief beyond measure to find his friend still alive.

By the time Grymn reached the Judicators, Morbus had climbed down from the icy summit. The Lord-Relictor’s armour was scorched and blackened, and half of his skull-helm was melted away, looking as if it had been torn apart by monstrous claws. Grymn shuddered to think what Morbus’ wounds must have looked like before he turned his healing powers upon himself.

From the expression he saw on the exposed half of Morbus’ face, Grymn imagined it would have been similar to the injuries he’d been dealt. The Lord-Relictor studied him closely, shaking his head when he came to examine the infected stump.

‘My power can mend the gash in your side,’ Morbus told him. ‘I may even be able to mend your lantern, but cleansing your hand — or where your hand should be — is another thing.’

Grymn glanced away, looking over the Judicators. He could see the hope in their eyes, the hope that he knew his presence as their commander inspired. He was surprised to find even the dryads displaying an interest in him, something perhaps more profound than simple curiosity. After all they had endured upon the ice, maybe even the sylvaneth had come to depend upon him.

‘Can you mend me enough so I can fight?’ Grymn asked, lowering his voice to a whisper.

Morbus nodded. ‘The stump will torment you,’ he warned. ‘If you can ignore the pain, you might hold your own.’ He stared hard into Grymn’s eyes. ‘But I wouldn’t advise it. We’ve lost too many already. If they see you fall…’

‘And if they see me fight it will inspire them,’ Grymn objected. Things were dire enough already without Morbus’ bleak perspective to further darken them. ‘They need that more than anything right now.’

‘I’ve said my piece.’ Morbus shrugged. He pointed to the sky above. ‘You saw the thunderstrike. Great Sigmar has dispatched reinforcements to aid us. I saw some of them from a distance, Prosecutors soaring above the ice. They bore the colours of the Knights Excelsior.’

Grymn digested this information. He must have been insensible during the thunderstrike, but to know their reinforcements were from the Knights Excelsior gave him comfort. They were a fierce and determined Stormhost, a formidable ally and a daunting enemy.

‘I didn’t see how many descended in the storm,’ Morbus said. ‘The numbers of Chaos warriors I’ve seen prowling the ice makes me think there can’t be many. Not enough to simply brush aside Torglug’s legion.’

Looking again at the angry sky, Grymn felt the bite of the Lord-Relictor’s words.

‘Then it is still up to us to protect the Everqueen,’ he said. ‘Minister to me as best you can, old friend, for we must find the Lady of Vines and keep her from Torglug’s grasp.’

Morbus gave Grymn another severe look. ‘Which concerns you more? Protecting the queen-seed or getting a chance to cross blades with that scum again?’

‘Sigmar willing, both are in my future,’ Grymn told him.

The enormous sea worm burst through the ice pack, sending great chunks flying in every direction. An undulating wail rippled from its heaving bulk as it angrily lashed about trying to find prey. Nearly blind, all but mindless, the monstrous thing posed as much of a threat to the servants of Nurgle as it did to Diomar.

Clutches of Torglug’s minions came stalking out of the fog while he battled the lightning-man. Blightlord Goregus Festermaw had rallied some of the putrid blightkings. The diseased warriors rushed out of the fog like crazed beasts, charging towards the winged Stormcast. The abruptness of the assault made Diomar climb into the air and turn his beacon against the blightkings. Torglug forced his battered body into action, seizing upon his foe’s distraction to close the distance between them.

Before he could reach Diomar, the sea worm struck. Torglug had seen it swimming beneath the ice for some minutes, but the monstrosity had kept its distance. Perhaps even its brute instinct was intimidated by the lightning-man’s beacon. Whatever the cause, the howls of battle as the putrid blightkings rushed towards Diomar had lured the leviathan up from the deeps.

Ice split and fractured as the wormy titan snapped its ghoulish jaws in search of prey. Blightkings were pitched into the watery depths as the surface shattered under their feet.

Torglug fought his way across the splintering ice, hurdling the pits that the worm’s ferocity opened, sprinting across crumbling ledges before they could finish disintegrating. The warlord heard the worm slip back beneath the water. What eerie senses guided the obscenity, he could not say, but somehow the blind beast felt his presence on the ice. He saw its grisly shadow start towards him from below. Torglug raised his voice in a defiant shout, hurling insults up at the hovering Diomar. ‘Are God-King’s dogs being afraid to be crossing blades with Torglug?’

‘Worms of Nurgle aren’t fought,’ Diomar declared. ‘They’re purged.’ Swooping downwards, he turned the beam of his beacon upon the bloated plaguelord.

Torglug’s body was wracked by agony as his flesh cooked under the searing light. Every nerve in his body spasmed at once. Only a caprice of chance kept his fingers locked about the haft of his axe, only the abnormal vitality Nurgle had gifted him kept his heart from bursting or his lungs from collapsing. His mouth tightened in a rictus grin, his teeth severing the tip of his tongue as they bit down.

Diomar dived towards the smouldering warlord. He raised his glistening starblade, its ancient symbols glowing with power.

‘Too long has this realm suffered your presence,’ he snarled.

Through the searing pain that ravaged him, Torglug managed to laugh. He could see his enemy coming towards him, but he wondered if Diomar noticed the shadow writhing under the ice.

‘Glory I am finding here, dog of Sigmar,’ Torglug spat, blood dripping from the mask of his helm. ‘But you are finding only death.’

The warlord brought his blackened axe swinging upwards, blocking Diomar’s blade and pushing the winged warrior back. At the same time, the sea worm erupted from below, rising in a leprous column of quivering flesh and snapping jaws. The creature’s maw chomped at the lightning-man, narrowly missing him as he plunged back towards the ice. He crashed hard against the pack, the fragile surface cracking beneath his weight. Cautiously he regained his feet, starblade gripped in one mailed fist, the beacon clenched in his other. Torglug could feel the righteous outrage of his enemy as Diomar turned towards him.

‘You will pay for that, monster,’ Diomar snarled.

‘Be having dinner with worm of Nurgle,’ Torglug sneered as he tossed a chunk of ice thrown up by the sea monster towards Diomar. It landed on the already cracked surface, sending a spider-web of fresh splits snaking away in every direction. Pops and groans rose from the impact, presaging the collapse to come.

Before the surface broke beneath his feet, Diomar was in motion. The lightning-man leapt forwards as the ice gave way completely, flinging himself at Torglug.

Plaguelord and Knight-Azyros collided, their armoured bodies rolling across the ice. More cracks and creaks accompanied their struggling figures, the weakened surface unable to support both their weight and their violence. At last it split under them, dropping both into the frigid water. Torglug lunged for one side of the pit, his axe hooking the edge before his armour could drag him down. Diomar floundered on the other side of the pool, forced to let his beacon sink into the depths while he pulled himself back onto the ice.

The two adversaries glared at one another from opposite sides of the pool. Diomar glanced at the weakening storm and at the shore behind him. Torglug understood his enemy’s mind. Somewhere, beyond the ice, the Lady of Vines was even now hurrying away from her hunters.

‘She is not escaping,’ Torglug sneered. ‘Jade Kingdoms are belonging to Nurgle. All Ghyran is being his domain! I am finding her. I am claiming my destiny.’

Diomar glared back at the warlord. ‘Only when you get past me.’

‘As you are saying,’ Torglug laughed. The warlord circled around the pool at a run, ice creaking and cracking beneath his every step. Across from him, Diomar did the same. The two enemies reached one another in moments, starblade pitted against the diseased corruption of Torglug’s blighted axe. Slivers of corroded steel flew from the black axe as Diomar blocked his enemy’s assault. Streaks of filth marred the purity of the lightning-man’s blade as the noxious enchantments of Nurgle sizzled against it.

At last the furious struggle came to an end. The smallest spot of rot gained a hold upon Diomar’s starblade, the slightest pollution in its sanctity. This flaw gave way beneath Torglug’s axe. The blackened blade slipped through his guard to chop down into the crest of his helm and then into the sigmarite mask itself. Diomar’s free hand caught at Torglug’s wrist, striving to push the warlord back. Against the bloated bulk and tremendous strength of Nurgle’s favoured champion, he was unable to prevail. Inch by inch the axe sank lower, hewing through the metal and into the flesh and bone beneath it. Diomar could feel the fiery sting of the axe’s plague-infested edge racing through him.

‘She is not escaping,’ Torglug promised as he pushed the axe deeper and watched the light start to fade from Diomar’s eyes. ‘I am claiming prize that the Grandfather is demanding. Be letting that truth speeding you back to Sigmar.’

Torglug pulled away as Diomar’s dying body blazed into light and the Stormcast’s spirit departed the Sea of Serpents. He shielded his eyes against the holy flare, finding its momentary brilliance even more painful than Grymn’s warding lantern. Yet he took comfort from this hurt, for with Diomar’s destruction there was nothing to keep him from running down the Lady of Vines.

The rotworm nestled inside him began to twist and writhe, undulating with such a frenzied spasm that Torglug fell to his knees in pain. The torment wracking his body was unspeakable, yet at the same time there was a strange sense of comfort bound within that agony. This wasn’t a punishment being meted out to him by Nurgle, but rather the Plague God’s expression of delight and appreciation that his favourite had vanquished the mighty Knight-Azyros Diomar. The torture that crawled through Torglug wasn’t a curse, but a blessing.

From the slits in his helm, Torglug’s three eyes watched as the many boils and pustules scattered about his skin began to slither across his flesh, oozing down his limbs or across his swollen belly to clump together in triangular clusters that echoed the shape of the despicable fly-rune which was Nurgle’s sacred sigil. The pain was incredible, the horror of watching his skin ripple with sores. Yet as each of the clusters of boils gathered together, a thrill surged through Torglug’s entire being. He could feel Nurgle’s malign essence pouring into him, strengthening him, infecting him with still fouler corruption and disease.

When it was finished, Torglug could see wisps of necrotic smoke drifting away from his mutated flesh. The rotworm in his belly grew still once more, no longer feeding Nurgle’s power into its host. He had received his god’s blessing, had been rewarded for the destruction of Diomar. It was but a taste, a sampling, of the even greater gifts that would be his once he captured Alarielle for his master.

Filled with the pestilent power of the Plaguefather, Torglug was re-energised. He looked towards the shore, trying to pierce the veil of mist that clung about the beach. Dimly he could perceive the radiant glow of the queen-seed ahead. Raising his voice, Torglug shouted for Goregus and the rest of his bodyguard. The Lady of Vines was close, and only her entourage of dryads remained to defy them.

As he called out to his putrid blightkings, demanding them to brave the crumbling ice and head for shore, Torglug heard the keening song of his prey. Again he felt the commanding tones of her harmony, the appeal in her wordless melody. Somewhere, far across the sea, he knew the jotunberg was stirring once more.

Torglug hastened towards the shore, but he was too late. The giant’s agitation sent tremors across the frozen sea. The surface crumbled away, pitching his followers into the deep. Torglug clutched at a sliver of broken pack ice as the world around him descended into catastrophic upheaval.

In the very moment of his triumph, Torglug could only watch helplessly as all his plans fell into abject ruin.

Chapter nine

For Lorrus Grymn and his companions — Stormcasts and sylvaneth alike — the trek across the frozen sea was a seemingly endless gauntlet of skirmishes and battles. With the fog and snow to conceal them, the first they were aware of enemies was when they were almost upon them. Warherds of beastmen, tribes of marauders and packs of diseased daemons infested the ice, prowling among the frozen waves in search of their prey. One after another, Grymn’s warriors struck out against the scattered warbands of Torglug’s legion, cutting down many of them and routing the survivors.

Not all they encountered were foes, however. Several times Grymn discovered clutches of sylvaneth or retinues of Hallowed Knights. Some had been separated from the entourage that attended the Lady of Vines, others were survivors from the battle at the bridges. Grymn was especially pleased when Prosecutor-Prime Tegrus and two of his winged warriors dipped down out of the storm-wracked sky to join his disparate company. He had thought all of the Prosecutors slain in their aerial battle with the plague drones. It cheered him to find that Tegrus had endured.

A greater discovery lay ahead, however. As he led his followers across the ice, he heard a friendly horn-blast. It was the trumpet of a Knight-Heraldor, a call to arms for all Stormcasts. Grymn led his small army through the dips and valleys of the frozen waves, urging them towards the sound. As the sound grew louder, other noises rang out above the moaning winter wind — the crash of blades and the roar of battle. Rushing onwards, Grymn finally saw figures moving within the fog. A few yards more and they changed from misty shadows to shapes of flesh and metal. Some were the grotesque minions of Torglug, a horde of half-naked tribesmen with a few of the hideous Chosen mixed among them.

It was the foes these disciples of disease fought that gave Grymn new hope. They were Stormcasts, but not of the Hallowed Knights. The armour they wore was white, blue and gold; the symbols they displayed on their shields were those of sun and moon. These were warriors from the Knights Excelsior. As Morbus had postulated, another Stormhost, or at least elements from one, had descended upon the Sea of Serpents to aid them in defending the Lady of Vines and protecting the queen-seed of Alarielle.

There were scores of Stormcasts, a mixed body of Liberators, Judicators and paladins, struggling to turn back hundreds of Torglug’s warriors. In their midst, resplendent in his elaborate armour, stood a winged Knight-Venator, a deadly realmhunter’s bow clenched in his mailed fists, a shrieking star-eagle sweeping out to rake its master’s enemies with vicious talons. At the Knight-Venator’s signal, the Knight-Heraldor raised the horn to his mask and blew again the rallying call, inflaming the hearts of his comrades as they strove to turn back the pestilent tide of Chaos which crashed against them.

The Knights Excelsior were more than equal to overwhelming their enemy — given time. Foot by foot, yard by yard, they were trying to fight their way clear. Like the Hallowed Knights before them, they’d been dispatched to Ghyran with a purpose far greater than simply slaughtering the slaves of Nurgle. They were trying to guard Alarielle, but to do so they had to break free of Torglug’s barbarians.

Reflexively, Grymn started to raise the stump of his hand, to signal his warriors with the warding lantern he’d carried into battle so many times before. Instead, he turned and shouted to his followers, ordering them to the attack. Falling upon the marauders and Chaos warriors from the rear, they would either drive them full into the shield wall of the Knights Excelsior or else throw them into complete panic. The mortals who marched under Torglug’s banner were both determined and depraved, but they didn’t adapt well to surprises on the battlefield. Without a firm hand to throw them back into the fray, once they scattered it would take them a long time to regroup.

‘Only the faithful!’ Grymn cried out, signalling his warriors to charge. The sylvaneth joined in the assault, a wargrove of tree-creatures slamming into the marauders with the fury of an avalanche and hurling the wreckage of broken barbarians far into their own ranks. Grymn’s Liberators struck next, slashing and bludgeoning dozens of marauders before they were even aware the silver warriors were there. When a fly-headed champion tried to rally his tribesmen and mount some sort of reprisal, the Hallowed Knights locked their shields and presented an unbroken wall of sigmarite to the pestilent throng. An arrow from the Knight-Venator struck down the mutant leader, searing through his body and leaving him a smouldering husk on the ice. The shrieking star-eagle dived down with raking claws to tear at the faces of the diseased marauders. As the barbarians tried to batter and slash their way through, the Liberators struck them down with overhand smashes of their hammers and stabbing thrusts of their swords.

Judicators joined in the assault, protecting the flanks of Grymn’s attackers with deadly volleys of arrows. Confusion and panic reigned among Torglug’s warriors as they found themselves being inexorably squeezed between the Knights Excelsior on one side and Grymn’s mixed force of Hallowed Knights and sylvaneth on the other. The pressure was finally too much for the disciples of disease, their putrid courage failing. As the barbarians broke, the sylvaneth fell upon them with vengeful ire, tearing into them with their wooden claws and spear-like branches.

The Stormcasts kept back, allowing their inhuman allies to slake their need for retribution. Across the heaps of enemy dead, the Hallowed Knights greeted their fellows of the Knights Excelsior. Their commander, the Knight-Venator, bowed his head in salute as he approached Grymn.

‘Well met, Lord-Castellant,’ the Knight-Venator said. ‘We were sent to the Jade Kingdoms to render aid to your Stormhost, but it seems that you have helped us instead.’

Grymn returned the Knight-Venator’s salute. ‘It is the fortune of battle that few plans unfold as they are designed. But your intervention is timely. The fighting has drawn us far from the one whose protection is our duty. It is imperative that we find her before the enemy. If your Knights Excelsior would help us in that purpose, Knight-Venator….’

‘Giomachus,’ the Knight-Venator said, providing his name. ‘I am acting commander, Lord-Castellant. Our leader, Knight-Azyros Diomar has gone to detain Torglug’s vanguard. My assignment was to prevent reinforcements from reaching the warlord.’

Moving to Grymn’s side, Lord-Relictor Morbus shook his head, a scowl twisting the exposed part of his face. ‘Diomar should have brought his full strength against Torglug. It is dangerous to underestimate that diseased scum.’ He waved his hammer, indicating the battered condition of the Hallowed Knights, the many wounds they had already suffered. Giomachus took a step back when he noted the grisly condition of Grymn’s disfigurement.

‘We should hasten to my lord’s side then,’ Giomachus declared, his star-eagle shrieking in sympathy with its master’s agitation.

Tallon reflected the bird’s agitation, whining in turn. ‘None here has greater desire to see Torglug brought down than I,’ Grymn said, calming the gryph-hound. ‘But such isn’t our duty here. We are charged to defend the Radiant Queen, and right now that means protecting the one who carries Alarielle’s soulpod, the Lady of Vines.’

‘You would leave my lord Diomar to fight alone?’ Giomachus asked, a steely edge to his voice. The other Knights Excelsior drew back from the Hallowed Knights, their meeting suddenly chilled by the agitation of their commander.

‘It isn’t a choice,’ Morbus told him. ‘It is our duty. We must find the Lady of Vines. If we lose her and what she carries, then it will count for nothing if we kill a hundred Torglugs. The victory will belong to Chaos.’

Grymn came close to Giomachus, every step sending pain rushing through his body. ‘I know exactly what this burden is to you. We were forced to leave our own Lord-Celestant, Gardus. What we fight for is greater than any of us. The God-King has charged us with preserving the Radiant Queen. While Alarielle lives, there is hope that Ghyran can be reclaimed. If she falls, then the blight of Nurgle will never be expunged from this realm.’

The Knight-Venator shook his head. ‘However wise the words, it doesn’t change the shame of leaving a comrade behind.’

‘Nor should it,’ Morbus told him. ‘Let that feeling drive you on. Let it sustain you when you would falter. Let it goad you to the supreme effort. Prove yourself loyal to Sigmar, no matter how onerous the burden.’ As he said the last, Morbus looked across the white-armoured warriors. He could see that his words made an impact upon them. ‘Fight to win the war, not simply the battle.’

A tremor suddenly rumbled through the ice, cracking the pack and causing fissures to ripple across the surface. Spouts of frigid water lashed upwards as the violent sea erupted through gashes and crevices. Stormcasts were thrown down by the quake, clawing at the ice as huge slabs split and rose. Knights Excelsior and Hallowed Knights rushed to one another’s aid as the terrain tore itself apart.

Beneath the groaning, popping clamour of the breaking ice, Grymn could hear the keening song of the Lady of Vines. The branchwraith was near, or at least near enough for her melody to reach them. That fact, however, brought him little solace. She was rousing the jotunberg once more, goading the winter giant into catastrophic agitation. He was certain only grave duress could have driven her to such action. Perhaps Torglug had already vanquished Diomar and was closing upon his prey. It wasn’t her willingness to sacrifice all the Stormcasts and sylvaneth still upon the Sea of Serpents that unsettled him. He knew such an act, callous as it might seem, might be necessary to preserve the queen-seed. No, it was the drain upon the fading energies of Alarielle that such action would demand that concerned him. He had heard from Morbus the toll it had taken for the Lady of Vines to rouse the jotunberg before.

Morbus, as though reading Grymn’s mind, caught hold of the Lord-Castellant.

‘The song is different,’ he told him. ‘I can sense the soothing enchantments woven into the harmony. She isn’t trying to rouse the jotunberg, she’s trying to put it back to sleep.’

Grymn shook his head. ‘Why would she do that?’

Tegrus had an answer. ‘We must be near the other shore by now.’ He pointed towards the fog on the horizon, indicating its relative thinness. Dimly, the Stormcast could see shadowy shapes behind the misty veil — the outlines of massive statues. ‘She is trying to give us time to get across the ice.’

‘Her duty is to protect her queen,’ Grymn almost growled.

‘Maybe that is what she’s doing,’ Morbus observed. ‘Maybe she needs us to help her do just that.’

Grymn swung about, stabbing the butt of his halberd into the shivering ice to steady himself. ‘Tegrus, I must call upon you to take wing once more. Into the storm. Try to seek out the Lady of Vines.’

Grymn could feel the tremors running through the ice growing worse. Right or wrong, they couldn’t stay where they were. He had no choice — they would strike out for what they hoped was the shore while Tegrus went aloft to locate the branchwraith.

Sigmar willing, they would all find what they sought.

The Lady of Vines stood amidst the ancient menhirs. The great standing stones had been raised long ago, before even the Jade Kingdoms were realised. The earliest inhabitants of Ghyran, the first to rise from the soulpods grown by the Radiant Queen, had raised these megaliths. The massive pillars acted as a capstone, a fulcrum for the magical vibrations flowing through the realm. With the right rituals and the proper alignment of stars, the menhirs would harness those arcane energies and allow them to be tapped by those wise and powerful enough to wield them.

The branchwraith’s distress didn’t allow her the time for lengthy rituals or propitious celestial alignments. Her need was immediate, and therefore she was forced to desperate measures. Using a small portion of the force within the queen-seed, the Lady of Vines began to syphon the residual energies that had seeped into the stones themselves. The ancient megaliths cracked and fractured as she drew the magic out of them, great slices of stone sloughing away as the rock began to crumble.

From the branchwraith’s entourage of dryads, a harmony somewhere between moan and song rose into the air. The tree-creatures clasped their wooden hands together, forming a ring around the Lady of Vines. Wisps of light streamed from their trunks and branches, weaving themselves around the branchwraith and forming an ethereal skein about her.

The magic the Lady of Vines conjured now was of a more reserved and restrained sort than the mighty enchantment that had roused the jotunberg. There was no necessity for sacrifice, no need to drain the essence of her followers. It was enough for them to surrender themselves to the radiance of the queen-seed, to lose themselves for a moment in the sacred vibrations of the Everqueen.

Bit by bit, a change began to occur within the circle of menhirs, a shifting of the air that wasn’t unlike the distorted shimmer of a heat haze. Through that phantom veil, the shades of a distant landscape began to take shape. Instead of the grey moorland over which the menhirs loomed, it seemed the boughs of some great woodland were becoming visible.

With shocking abruptness, the Lady of Vines silenced her song and let the energies she’d tapped into flow back into both menhir and dryad. The phantom landscape winked out, evaporating back into nothingness. The radiant glow of the queen-seed flickered, but quickly began to burn with a greater light. The branchwraith cradled the soulpod in her clawed hand as she turned from the standing stones and gazed back down towards the shore.

There, making their way through the piled tumuli of tribal kings and the windswept statues of a forgotten race, a file of shapes was making its way towards the stone circle. A gladness flared within the branchwraith’s being when she saw some of the sylvaneth from Athelwyrd marching towards her. She’d thought them lost on the ice, condemned to destruction by the jotunberg’s tremulous anguish. To see them again eased the burden of guilt she bore for commanding them to stay behind while she fled with the queen-seed. Her cheer soured when she saw how few were left. Many had fallen to the blades of Torglug and his warriors, many had been thrown into the sea by the dying jotunberg.

Others marched with the sylvaneth — the silver Hallowed Knights and other Stormcast Eternals wearing the white armour that Knight-Azyros Diomar had worn. The Lady of Vines was surprised by the sense of relief she felt when she saw Lord-Castellant Grymn leading them. She was even more surprised by the concern she felt for his condition. Grymn’s armour was rent in several places, scarred and dented by vicious blows. His battered warding lantern hung at his side and even his gryph-hound was limping. More, she saw the grisly stump where his hand should be. Her arcane senses told her of the ghastly putrescence that afflicted the wound, filth of such malignity that even the Stormcast’s vitality was being sickened by it.

In all the ages of her existence, the Lady of Vines had never felt sympathy for anything human. She considered the quick-bloods to be too rash and impetuous, too individualistic to ever be trusted. They were too brief, their lives vanishing with such rapidity that they soon faded from memory. The Stormcast Eternals were a different breed, she understood that well enough. Perhaps they truly did enjoy an existence as lengthy as that of the sylvaneth. Perhaps they could focus upon needs and goals that took centuries to achieve. Yet, for all of that, they had seemed to her as kindred to the tribesmen of the Jade Kingdoms.

Now, as she looked upon Grymn, as each step nearer the circle made his injuries and suffering clearer to her, the Lady of Vines repented her earlier disdain. The Hallowed Knights had suffered and sacrificed much to protect Alarielle; they had fought harder even than the sylvaneth to defy the Treecutter. Their ordeal was nowhere more manifest than in the battered shape of their commander.

The Lady of Vines stepped away from the ring of dryads, motioning to them to remain where they were. With rapid steps, she climbed down to the tumuli of the old kings and met the advancing survivors.

‘Fortune favours you,’ the branchwraith greeted Grymn. ‘I had just begun the rite that opens the gate to the Path of the Purified. Had your arrival been much later, you could not have crossed the doorway.’

Lorrus Grymn looked up at her, his gaze grave. ‘My lady, if there was the least chance of slipping away, you should have taken it.’ He groaned and leaned against his halberd, trying to suppress the cough that shuddered through him. ‘Our lives don’t matter. The only thing that does is keeping the queen-seed safe.’

‘The Treecutter has been left behind us on the ice,’ the branchwraith declared. She pointed at the winged Stormcast in white armour who marched in Grymn’s party. ‘Your Diomar met the plaguelord in battle and gave me the chance to escape.’ Her tone dipped with reverence. ‘I don’t think he prevailed, but he did keep the enemy from pressing his pursuit. With the jotunberg’s throes splitting the ice, the plaguehosts will need another way to cross. For the moment, we are beyond their reach.’

‘All the more reason why you cannot delay,’ Grymn said. ‘Torglug cannot have the queen-seed.’

‘He will not touch my queen,’ the branchwraith hissed, her branches shifting angrily. ‘But keeping her beyond his reach is a duty I share with Sigmar’s chosen.’ She pointed up at the circle of menhirs. At her gesture, the sylvaneth began climbing towards the stones to join the ring of dryads already there. ‘Your warriors must join my people,’ she told Grymn. ‘All of you must stand within the circle, that I may bring you to the Path of the Purified.’ She hesitated, then pointed to Grymn. ‘And you must stand with me at the centre of the ritual.’

Bidding Tallon stay behind, Grymn let the Lady of Vines lead him up to the stone circle, allowing her to help him when his step faltered and he had to use his halberd as a crutch. She kept looking at the stump of his hand, at the crust of filth that was sending streams of plague into his veins. She tried to hurry him, recognising the bite of Torglug’s axe and remembering much too well how swiftly its foulness had brought low even the oldest forest spirits. It was astounding to her that Grymn had endured this long.

Drawing Grymn into the middle of the ring of dryads, the Lady of Vines took his hand in hers. She saw the look of awe and shock that filled his eyes when he felt the warmth of the queen-seed pressed into his palm.

‘You have given much to defend our queen,’ the branchwraith told him. ‘Now let her give something back.’

She had no more words for Grymn. Again the enchanting song rose from her, drawing out the energies of the menhirs and the sylvaneth. The skein of power surrounded her, spilling down into the queen-seed, reaching out through the ley lines to once again summon a phantom landscape, to create a gateway between distant places.

The branchwraith only partially observed the opening of the way. Another part of her watched the effect of the Everqueen’s power upon the warrior who now held her soulpod. Her arcane sight could see streams of emerald fire racing through his body, burning away the black rot of Nurgle. Grymn was being purged of the contagion, scoured of it in both flesh and soul.

Then the Lady of Vines saw something even she hadn’t anticipated. The healing power of Alarielle was doing more than simply burning away the infection. A green stalk spread from the mangled stump of Grymn’s wrist, thickening and expanding until it became an entirely new hand. Even the battered warding lantern hanging from Grymn’s belt was shining once more, its lingering enchantment restored and revitalised by the Radiant Queen.

As the ritual continued to gather force, Grymn’s entire being was bathed in the glow of the goddess. The Lady of Vines became anxious, wondering how much of the divine power he could withstand. Carefully she retrieved the queen-seed from his hand. Just as carefully she raised a gnarled finger and pointed to the shimmering forest beyond the stone circle. The sylvaneth began drawing away from the ring, filing out into the phantasmal forest.

Grymn hesitated, but a gesture from the Lady of Vines had him shouting orders to the Stormcasts and the warriors followed after the sylvaneth. As her followers and the Stormcasts withdrew, the gateway began to close. The branchwraith braced herself for one last effort. Drawing only upon her own power and that of the queen-seed, she forced the slightest crack to remain open. With a bounding leap, she threw herself through the magical slit, hurling herself from the stone circle to the forest beyond.

The sylvaneth waited for their mistress, standing sombre and stolid among the slender trees of the woods. The Stormcasts were gathered around Grymn, marvelling at his regrown hand. He turned from them when he saw the Lady of Vines appear.

‘You have worked a mighty magic,’ he said, flexing the fingers of his new hand and gesturing at the forest around them.

The branchwraith reached to her breast and replaced the queen-seed in its hollow. ‘We will need mightier magic still,’ she said. ‘We must set upon the Path of the Purified and cleanse ourselves of any trace of Nurgle’s taint.

‘Where we would go, we must bring nothing of the enemy with us.’

The ice cracked and spluttered all around them as Torglug led the last of his putrid blightkings towards the shore. Only seven of them had braved the cataclysmic upheaval of the sea to reach him. The warlord was dismayed that so few of his minions had proven themselves so devoted, but he took solace in the auspicious aspect of their number. Seven, after all, was the sacred number of Nurgle. For seven of his bodyguard to endure was an omen, a sign that the Grandfather was guiding his favoured vassal.

Small groups of battered, bloodied figures emerged from the fog, drawn towards the noxious presence of Torglug like iron filings to a lodestone, called to him by the noxious blessing Nurgle had bestowed upon him, the diseased mark of the Plague God’s touch. Remnants of marauder tribes and beastman warherds, lone Chaos knights and mutants, clutches of armoured warriors and clumps of squirming nurglings, the survivors of the plaguehosts returned to their warlord. To the very last they had fought against their enemy, but in the end the elemental fury of the jotunberg was too much to endure. Now they were falling back to the deathbloom fields where at least the giant’s wintry hold wasn’t so fierce.

The decimation of his legion didn’t disturb Torglug. He would have expended all their lives to secure for Nurgle the queen-seed of Alarielle. That they had died by the hundreds without accomplishing the task he’d set them was what worried the warlord. It would take time to enslave and recruit the warriors to rebuild his army — time that would allow the Lady of Vines to slip away and carry the faltering essence of the Everqueen beyond his reach. He couldn’t allow his enemy such respite. He had to resume the hunt, maintain the pressure and drive his enemies to destruction.

Out from the snow, the ghoulish shapes of Slaugoth Maggotfang and the remains of his plague coven emerged. The sorcerer leaned heavily upon his staff and even the eldritch glow in his eyes seemed faded. Torglug didn’t know what magic Slaugoth had worked to aid his legion or what spells had exacted such a toll from the man. All he knew was that however great the sorcerer’s exertions, they hadn’t been enough to bring him victory.

‘You are daring to come creeping back to me?’ Torglug snarled at Slaugoth. He raised his axe, pointing the blackened blade at the sorcerer. ‘Your vaunted magic is failing me, spell-spitter! You are letting Radiant Queen be slipping through my fingers!’

Slaugoth drew back, his hands grasping at talismans blackened by Morbus’ lightning. Better than any of the plague warriors, he could sense the might of the blessing Nurgle had bestowed upon Torglug. Fear fought with anger for mastery of his features as he spoke. ‘The Grandfather offered you the glory of securing His prize. The Grandfather gave you this chance to show your devotion to Him. The victory would have been yours, so don’t presume you can escape the blame for failure. You have come far, but the higher you rise the further you can fall.’

A roar of inarticulate rage bubbled up from Torglug’s bloated bulk. The warlord lunged at Slaugoth, seizing the weakened sorcerer in his fist and lifting his obese frame off the ground. Blightlord Goregus and the other putrid blightkings converged upon the plague coven, cutting two of them down in a heartbeat. The adepts retaliated with a skein of spells that reduced one of the bodyguards to a smouldering heap of mush and left the rest reeling.

Torglug drew Slaugoth towards him, holding the sorcerer so close that the warlord’s horn stabbed into his cheek and drew a trickle of brown sludge from his pierced flesh. ‘You are being useful in past. What are you doing for me lately? What are you doing for me now?’

A cruel smile flashed across Slaugoth’s face, exposing the masses of worms wriggling between his teeth. ‘I can keep the rats from gnawing your miserable bones.’ Drained as he was, Slaugoth exhaled a blast of noxious wind, sending the sorcerous gale smashing into the fog. The veil of mist and snow rolled back, revealing the shingle of the shore. Hundreds of bodies were strewn across the beach, cast there by the turbulent currents that raged beneath the ice and through the great rifts created by the jotunberg’s spasms — the dead of Torglug’s legion, both beast and man, spat up by the Sea of Serpents as though the very waters were disgusted by them.

Others were far less discriminating. Swarming over the dead, tearing weapons from cold fingers, stripping armour from icy flesh, cutting hunks of meat from bloated bodies, was an army more loathsome than even that which Torglug had led. A mass of humanoid rats had descended upon the wreckage of the plaguehosts, scavenging off the carrion. The warlord recognised the horns and white pelt of the vermin who led the swarm of skaven. It was the same plague priest he had beaten down in the tunnels. Poxmonger Kriknitt had rallied its routed minions and driven them in pursuit of Torglug. The vermin had intended to simply plunder the leavings of his army, but finding the legion so weakened he knew it wouldn’t be long before they exacted a far more vicious retaliation for the invasion of their tunnels.

‘Kill me and they will pick their fangs with your bones,’ Slaugoth said.

Torglug threw the sorcerer down. ‘Same fate is being hanging over your head,’ he snarled. ‘Whatever magic you are having left, it better be good.’

Across the ice, Torglug saw the skaven pointing at the plague warriors, squealing in their shrill voices. The white-furred Poxmonger Kriknitt leapt atop the shoulders of a massive ratman and began shrieking commands to the scavengers, who dropped their loot, glancing around in uncertainty. The increasingly vicious harangue from their priest made them draw weapons and form a rough battle line along the shore. Torglug sneered at their cringing display of bravado. It was seeing how few his warriors now numbered that was giving the vermin courage. Driven by the prospect of more plunder and the promise of an easy victory, the skaven rushed out onto the ice. A squealing, squeaking tide of gnashing fangs and rusted blades charged towards the decimated legion.

Torglug’s fist tightened about the haft of his axe. He could see Kriknitt goading a pack of frenzied plague monks straight towards him. Like its minions, the skaven priest was eager to slake its vengeance. ‘If you are doing something, be doing it,’ the warlord snarled at Slaugoth.

‘I know what I’m doing,’ Slaugoth chortled, eyes agleam with ghoulish mirth. ‘My spells have hidden the blessing the Grandfather has bestowed upon you. Too late will they discover what you’ve become.’ He pointed at the white-furred plague priest. ‘You will need to take that one… alive.’

Torglug nodded. Some of the skaven were now reaching the survivors, hurling themselves at the warriors with rabid ferocity. More and more of the vermin were rushing onto the ice, lured by the smell of blood and the din of combat. Thrusting their way through the swarm were Kriknitt and its rabid retinue. Torglug noted that the filth kept well behind its troops, content to let others finish the warlord for it.

The sight and smell of Torglug caused the skaven to falter. Closer now to the plaguelord, they could sense the terrible power that squirmed within his flesh, the awful might of the Plague God. A censer bearer, more frenzied than the rest of its ilk, scurried towards the warlord, poisons billowing from the weapon it bore. Torglug waded through the noxious cloud, withstanding fumes that would corrode iron and melt flesh. His axe came chopping down, tearing through the ratman and splitting it from crown to groin. The bisected halves of the skaven flopped onto the ice. Torglug laughed as he trampled the corpse underfoot and charged towards Kriknitt’s plague monks.

A squeal of horror rose from the skaven as their glands spurted the pungent musk of fear. The easy prey they had hoped to overwhelm now looked far less appealing to them. Kriknitt raised its voice in a panicked screech, torn between the urge to run and the fear that it would be trampled by its own bodyguard should it turn its back to them. Torglug eased the plague priest’s dilemma. Calling to his putrid blightkings, he drove into the mob of skaven, his black axe shearing through them in a riot of gory havoc. The ice steamed with the rank black blood of slaughtered ratmen, verminous carcasses strewn in his wake. Each step, each cut, brought him closer to his enemy.

The plague monks broke before the malign fury of Nurgle’s champion. Shrieking in terror, the robed ratkin fled back towards the shore, but there was to be no escape for Kriknitt. Cutting down the last robed vermin between them, Torglug rushed the priest. Cornered by its enemy, Kriknitt lunged at him with its sword, faking a slash at the champion’s neck before treacherously stabbing at his belly. The serrated blade pierced Torglug’s gut, eliciting a squeak of triumph from the skaven. The squeak ended in a choked gargle as the stricken warlord seized Kriknitt by the throat.

‘If it is being so easy to be killing me, I am being dead long ago,’ Torglug snarled at his terrified prisoner. Carrying the struggling ratman as though it were no more than a child, he marched back towards Slaugoth. He wasn’t certain what use the sorcerer had for Kriknitt, but he trusted it would be something unpleasant.

The sorcerer bowed before his master, touching his head to the ice in a show of abject devotion. ‘The Grandfather has truly shown you His pestilent favour!’ he gasped in delight. Slaugoth could feel the bilious energies seething within Torglug’s flesh and spirit, energies which he could use to work mighty spells for his master.

‘Your plaguehosts have been diminished,’ Slaugoth told Torglug. ‘We will need a new army to settle with the branchwraith and her guardians.’ The sorcerer laughed, one of the worms tumbling from his teeth. ‘Fortunately it is in my power to summon the troops we will need. Have your men gather up the dead — our own and those of the ratkin. Pile them upon the shore. I will call upon the Grandfather’s own household to provide us the warriors we need.’

Torglug nodded, unable to doubt that the sorcerer could do exactly what he promised. The frightened whimpers of Kriknitt recalled to him the existence of his captive. He held the trembling plague priest towards Slaugoth. ‘And what am I doing with this?’

Slaugoth picked the worm that had fallen from his mouth off the sleeve of his robe. He stared at the writhing creature. ‘I will commune with the Grandfather, seek His wisdom. Learn from Him where the branchwraith has gone.’ His eyes narrowed as he leaned down to stare into Kriknitt’s face. ‘When I learn where she is going, we will use the skaven tunnels to get there first. I am certain our ratty friend will be happy to help.’

Torglug shook Kriknitt by its neck. ‘If he isn’t helping then he is learning death comes slow to those who are defying me.’

Chapter ten

The Sea of Serpents was leagues behind them, or at least so it seemed to Lorrus Grymn. The same uncanny distortion of space and time that had characterised their exodus from Athelwyrd had once again settled over the refugees. It was difficult to determine the direction in which they travelled and equally hard to decide how long they’d been marching. The lands through which they wandered were both hideously twisted and wondrously beautiful, places blighted by the corruption of Nurgle and ones yet undefiled by the Plague God’s grasping hand. Their trail led them through copses of loudwillows, their leaves whispering in the breeze, and across despoiled fields strewn with the wreckage of war. Meadows of vibrant flowers and swordgrass where only the first noxious deathblooms had taken root and glades where the last pines withered in the clutch of gnawing creepers.

Grymn wondered if the other Stormcasts shared the eerie divorce from his surroundings that he felt. He wondered if it was an aspect of the miraculous change that flowed through him. The glowing energies of the queen-seed pulsed through his body, scouring him of the rot left by Torglug’s axe. He could feel the last of the filth being purged, burned away in the radiant vibration. The same vibration throbbed inside his mind, sharpening his senses, expanding them to a keenness he’d never known before. He imagined it was similar to how Morbus perceived the world, the Lord-Relictor’s mystic connection to the God-King granting him a degree of perception inconceivable to most men.

The most astonishing change worked by Alarielle’s soulpod was that which had occurred to his hand. True, it had a strange, fibrous feel to it and there was a distinct greenish tinge about the skin, but it was a thing of flesh! He could feel his blood pumping through it. He could move the fingers, manipulate them as easily as he had his old ones.

Ahead of him, Grymn could see the Lady of Vines guiding the other sylvaneth into a forest path. Giant petrified toweroaks loomed above the trail, casting their imposing shadows across the wood. He was struck by the solemn majesty of these trees and the aura of incredible antiquity that emanated from them. If Morbus were to tell him these stone trees had stood since the Age of Myth he would have been hesitant to disbelieve the claim. They might have been brought down with Alarielle when the Radiant Queen descended into the realm of Ghyran.

The Branchwraith turned towards the Stormcasts, her eyes passing across each warrior before fixing upon Grymn. ‘We pass through Greengyr now, upon the Path of the Purified. The foulness of the Plague God will be burned away by the enchantments of the ley lines that flow through this place. All will be cleansed,’ she said. ‘Even the most vile of infection cannot withstand the old magic for long.’

Grymn looked across the masses of stony trees that loomed all around them. Each was pitted by wind and rain, scoured by an eerie atmosphere. Each of the Stormcasts felt it, as though his valour and determination were being balanced against the contagion they’d been exposed to. They were being judged, not by the sylvaneth but by Greengyr itself. It was testament to the strength and devotion of the Stormcasts that each was permitted to proceed upon that path.

‘Your presence here does credit to you,’ the Lady of Vines told Grymn. ‘It proves your soul is firm and your devotion to the Everqueen is true. An unclean spirit would be cast from the Path of the Purified, expelled into the forests beyond. Few who are rejected by Greengyr emerge with mind and spirit unmarred. They prowl the deep woods, crazed and alone.’

Grymn clenched his regrown hand, letting it close about the roof of his restored lantern. ‘Is that why you allowed the queen-seed’s magic to heal me? Is that why you paid me such honour, so that the Path of the Purified wouldn’t reject me?’

There was a warmth in the Lady of Vines when she answered him. ‘Long has it been since any of the quick-blood displayed such courage on behalf of the Radiant Queen. Yours has been the most arduous burden of all, for of you is demanded not only that you place your life in jeopardy, but also the lives of those who follow you.’ The last was said with a sorrowful note. Since the passing of Alarielle, the branchwraith had become leader of the sylvaneth. Many of the tree-creatures had perished on the Sea of Serpents. Morbus had told Grymn how heavily the sacrifice of the ancient treelords had affected her, but he knew that all of the lives lost were equally painful to her. The onus of command was a burden not easily shouldered.

The branchwraith had gone only a little way into the petrified forest when huge figures emerged from the maze of frozen trees, stepping out onto the path and blocking her progress. Tallon snarled at them, his hackles raised. The Stormcasts brought their weapons to the ready, only marginally eased in their minds by the realization that the force ahead of them was sylvaneth rather than more warriors of Chaos. Though their shared ordeal upon the frozen sea had instilled some sense of camaraderie towards the tree-creatures that had made the journey with them, the Hallowed Knights couldn’t forget the hostile resentment that had been their reception when they entered the vale of Athelwyrd.

Grymn could feel the anger boiling off of the sylvaneth that stole out of the petrified forest. Many of them bore the cuts and burns of battle, their trunks marked by the bite of axe and claw. It wasn’t their encounters with the plaguehosts that stoked their ire, however. He could feel the glowing gaze of tree-creatures and dryads fixing on him, the beings glowering at him with an outraged regard. Nowhere was the sensation more pronounced than when he looked up at the creature who led these wargroves. He was a colossal treelord, stouter and grander than even the most ancient of their kind that had accompanied Alarielle’s court into exile. Grymn felt the incredible age of the huge sylvaneth when it met his eyes, the incalculable centuries that lay behind its threatening stare. He could feel the treelord’s consciousness pressing against his own, pushing its name into his mind. He was called Haldroot and he had become shepherd of the sylvaneth that yet lingered on this side of the sea. They had marched to answer the call issued by the Lady of Vines. They had expected battle, anticipated death. Instead they discovered something they hadn’t been prepared to face.

Haldroot raised one of his arms, pointing an accusing claw at Grymn. An angry murmur rustled through the wargroves that followed the treelord. Grymn wasn’t sure exactly what the new tree-creatures were angry about — that the Lady of the Vines and the Stormcasts were so obviously allied, or some deeper concern?

Morbus came up beside Grymn, hands closed tight around the haft of his relic hammer. ‘They should know that we’re friends. After all we’ve endured on the ice, it would sicken me to have to fight sylvaneth.’

Grymn glanced back at his mixed command. Warriors in both silver and white armour were slowly regrouping, gathering into formations that would be ready to support one another if fighting broke out. Tegrus and Giomachus were eyeing the stony branches overhead, seeking the best perches from which they could rain missiles down upon their opponents.

The Stormcasts were ready to fight, but they weren’t eager. The sylvaneth weren’t minions of Chaos. It would be necessity not justice that forced them against the tree-creatures. There would be no glory to be found here, only the absurd waste of fighters who should have been turned against Chaos, not one another.

‘Stand back,’ Grymn told Morbus. ‘It seems I am the centre of their anger. If I give myself to them, perhaps it will ease their rage and make them see reason.’

‘There will be no need,’ the Lady of Vines stated.

The branchwraith stepped towards Haldroot, her fiery gaze matching his own. The two sylvaneth conversed for a time in the rumbling, rolling speech of the forest. Ancient and mighty, the treelord nevertheless bowed his head in respect, acknowledging her authority even over him. However hot his rage, it didn’t eclipse devotion to his queen or to the handmaiden who ruled in her stead.

Whatever communion passed between the Lady of Vines and Haldroot, Grymn couldn’t say. Maybe the treelord was offended that the branchwraith had allowed a mere human to touch the queen-seed — the sylvaneth might well see this as tantamount to sacrilege. Haldroot’s anger was causing strips of bark to split and crack from his body, some of the branches growing from his head to snap and break. The roots from his feet stabbed down into the earth, gouging the ground in a manifestation of suppressed fury.

The Lady of Vines was unperturbed by Haldroot’s rage. She gestured only once towards Grymn. She pointed at his regrown hand, something that seemed to particularly agitate the treelord. Her position was clear enough: if what she’d done was truly the outrage Haldroot held it to be, then the Radiant Queen’s power wouldn’t have healed Grymn’s wounds. The giant tree-creature looked towards Grymn, the hostility in his eyes dimmed by the branchwraith’s reprimand.

When the treelord turned back to the Lady of Vines, there was something suggestive of contrition in his demeanour. The roots that had so angrily raked the earth now took firm hold upon the ground. More tendrils uncoiled from his hands, securing his arms.

‘I have reminded Haldroot and his companions that there are many who fight Chaos as fiercely as the sylvaneth,’ the Lady of Vines told Grymn. ‘It will take them some time to cool their anger, but it will drain away. When it has, we will be ready to march once more.’

The Lady of Vines walked towards Grymn. Her glowing eyes stared down at his new hand. He was struck by the weird sense of kinship he experienced, as though he’d somehow become a part of the branchwraith. No, that wasn’t quite right. Deep in his memories long-buried emotions flickered, the bond between brother and sister. Once, long before he’d been reforged upon the Anvil of Apotheosis, such a connection must have existed, though he couldn’t remember names or even faces. All he did know was that Alarielle’s handmaiden evoked this forgotten regard.

Grymn thought he understood. In some way, the branchwraith too had grown from the fertile magic of the Radiant Queen. He didn’t know if it was in part or in whole, but like his new hand, the Lady of Vines had been shaped by Alarielle’s power. It created a sympathy between them, a connection at once detached from his kinship to his fellow Hallowed Knights, yet in some ways even stronger.

The branchwraith nodded, sensing the turn of Grymn’s thoughts. She beckoned to him. ‘Come, step into the flow of the ley line. Then you will understand.’

Slowly Grymn advanced onto the path Haldroot and his followers had blocked. As he did so, strange lights filled his vision. Weird emanations he hadn’t been aware of now became visible to him. He could see a bright green glow suffusing the sylvaneth, blazing brightest around Haldroot and the oldest of their kind. The Stormcasts too were aglow, radiating a pristine white light. When he looked towards the Lady of Vines, he saw that she was engulfed in an aura of jade-coloured energy, shining with an almost blinding brilliance. The same aura spilled from the queen-seed.

Grymn’s own body didn’t quite radiate the same white light as his fellow Stormcast. There was a faint greenish tinge to it, and when he looked at his regrown hand, he saw it burned with the same glow as that which surrounded the Lady of Vines and her sacred charge. He had become more than an ally of Alarielle and the branchwraith — he had become something almost kindred to them. From that kinship, he sensed the mighty purpose towards which the Lady of Vines was striving.

‘It is so,’ the branchwraith said, answering the question he would have put to her before he could ask it. Sombrely, Grymn bowed his head in respect to her decision.

Morbus caught at Grymn’s arm, puzzled by the uncanny rapport he sensed between his leader and the branchwraith. ‘What was that about? What is it she expects you to understand?’

‘She remains devoted to her queen,’ Grymn declared. ‘After the fight on the ice, she’s come to appreciate that we’re the best hope of restoring Alarielle’s power.’

Morbus shook his head. ‘Restoring Alarielle? Is that what she intends?’

Grymn hesitated, wondering how to put into words the thoughts and visions that trickled into his mind from the arcane link between himself and the branchwraith. ‘The queen-seed must be planted, cultivated to revive Alarielle’s power. The aspect Alarielle bore before was benevolent and nurturing, devoted to growing the lands of Ghyran. The time for growth has passed, however. Now this realm needs a more martial goddess to hold dominion. The Lady of Vines aspires to give the realm what it needs.’ Grymn gestured at the petrified trees around them. ‘All of this was once the Kingdom of Blackstone, where men fought the first intrusions of Chaos. Their long war to cast out the Ruinous Powers has left its legacy written upon the very soil of their vanished nation. The Lady of Vines will plant the queen-seed in ground steeped in valour and sacrifice, rich in a heritage of heroic deeds. She hopes the courage and determination of the past will shape the Radiant Queen’s new aspect.’

An awed expression gripped the exposed half of Morbus’ face. ‘Growing a goddess,’ he muttered. ‘I have seen many wonders and incredible magics during this campaign, but to believe it is within anyone’s power to shape the gods themselves is—’

‘Impossible?’ Grymn suggested.

‘Frightening,’ was Morbus’ answer. Grymn noted that the Lord-Relictor had one hand closed about the icon of Sigmar he carried. ‘Gods give men their form. Men, or sylvaneth for that matter, don’t give the gods form. To even contemplate such disorder, such confusion, is a greater heresy than Chaos itself.’

Grymn looked at the glowing soulpod nestled in the Lady of Vines’ breast. ‘It is the mystery of choice,’ he said. ‘Do we act of our own volition, or do we act because it is what the gods would have us do? When the Lady of Vines plants this seed, is it her decision or Alarielle’s design?’

‘Your new hand is planting strange ideas in your brain,’ Morbus cautioned. He waved his hand towards the sylvaneth clumped further down the trail. ‘How long do we wait for them?’

‘As long as they need,’ Grymn said. He could see that his decision wasn’t what Morbus had been hoping for. ‘Don’t mistake the delay as an indulgence. This halt is a needful thing. These are lands new to us, if not to the sylvaneth. We cannot assume them to be free of the enemy’s presence. We need to know if some new danger lies ahead of us.’

Morbus nodded. ‘You want Tegrus and the Prosecutors to scout ahead?’

‘Giomachus too, if the Knight-Venator is agreeable,’ Grymn said. ‘If the enemy is lying in wait for us, I want to know.’

The Lord-Relictor saluted Grymn and marched back among the Stormcasts to relay their commander’s orders. Grymn turned back, peering through the stony trees. Drifting between them he could see the rippling energies of the ley line, the magical pulse of the Path of the Purified. For all the power he sensed there, he knew it was but a trickle beside the putrid might of the Plague God.

The closer the Lady of Vines came to her goal, the more desperate the enemy would become and the more vigilant her protectors would need to be. Once more, he cast his gaze skywards and asked Sigmar to guide their course.

It was some time before the winged scouts returned. Grymn marvelled at their aerobatics, the effortless manoeuvrability with which they dropped down through the petrified branches. Tegrus, never the one to shy from daring, plummeted straight down like a stone, then arrested his momentum with a billowing sweep of his wings. The Prosecutor-Prime saluted as he walked towards Grymn. Knight-Venator Giomachus, though he outranked Tegrus, deferred to his position within the Hallowed Knights and waited until he was given permission by Tegrus to make his report.

‘There is a stone circle ahead,’ Giomachus said, bowing his head to the Lady of Vines, acknowledging the mighty conjuration she had effected on the shores of the Sea of Serpents. ‘There the ground is pitted and steaming, as from recent battle. But we saw no signs of friend or foe, and there were no fallen.’

Grymn shook his head, puzzled by the strange report. What was the meaning of what the scouts had discovered? Was it some deception woven by Chaos? If there had been a battle, then who were the combatants and what were their motives? More importantly, if the fighting had been as fierce as Giomachus said, where were the dead? ‘You are certain there weren’t any bodies?’ Grymn asked.

‘We searched thoroughly,’ Giomachus replied. ‘We could find no dead.’

‘This is an ill thing,’ Morbus said. ‘It may mean that other powers as malignant as those of Nurgle have taken an interest in our plight.’ The Lord-Relictor left unsaid what it was that he feared, but Grymn knew his meaning. A necromancer of some sort, one of the infamous disciples of Nagash, would leave no corpses on the field of battle but would revive the fallen of both sides as undead horrors.

The Lady of Vines looked keenly at Giomachus.

‘In the craters,’ she asked, ‘were there broken fragments of a strange shimmering rock, as if something had hatched from within?’

Giomachus removed his plumed helm and stared at the branchwraith. ‘Aye, my lady, it was just as you say.’

Turning towards Grymn and Morbus, the Lady of Vines explained her strange question. ‘I have seen such long ago. There are others who fight against Chaos, though to us they are as cold and distant as the stars. I do not doubt these strange allies have helped us, but we should expect no further aid.’

Morbus was comforted by the branchwraith’s explanation.

‘Seraphon,’ he said, giving a name to their enigmatic allies. ‘If they have struck and departed, then it can only mean whatever foe they opposed has been vanquished. The reptiles will not relent from their purpose once they are committed.’ He uttered a relieved laugh. ‘It eases my mind greatly not to think a corpse-caller is haunting the path ahead of us.’

‘The legions of Nurgle are enemy enough,’ Grymn agreed. He turned to the Lady of Vines. ‘Should we bypass the battlefield my scouts found? Is there a way around it?’

The Lady of Vines waved her slender claw towards the petrified trees about them. ‘There will be no danger from that quarter. The last stretch of the path lies before us. We must take the goddess atop Blackstone Summit.’ The branchwraith’s voice dropped to a worried hiss. ‘Unless I am mistaken, our foe will find us ‘ere journey’s end.’

Chapter eleven

The Victory Fields stretched before Lord-Castellant Grymn in a broad expanse of black soil. Old bones, petrified like the trees and menhirs that lined the Path of the Purified, protruded from the ground. Encrusted snags of metal suggested the husks of armour and shield, stalagmite spikes stabbing up from the earth evoked images of swords and spears, and ovoid lumps echoed ancient helms and breastplates — the vanquished of a near-mythical confrontation, left to the embrace of the land they had fought for and ultimately died for.

A strange feeling of oppression swept through Grymn as he marched across the blackened earth. Leaving the Path of the Purified, he’d felt somehow diminished. Having satisfied the judgement of Greengyr, the enchantment of the path had become almost comforting in its way. To leave that comfort behind for this morbid expanse made for a shocking contrast. Even Tallon felt it, keeping close to his leg as he led the Stormcasts forwards.

Ahead, a great stairway rose upwards. Megalithic in its construction, it was a reminder of the vanished Kingdom of Blackstone. The immense steps spiralled around a colossal rise formed from the boughs of three enormous trees. In ages past, the three trees had grown together, fusing into a single growth. Like the rest of the forest, however, their greenery had turned to grey, hardening into solid stone. Whether the stair had been raised around them before or after their petrification was a question Grymn couldn’t answer. The summit itself was wrapped in green clouds that crackled with eldritch emanations.

Grymn could see the queen-seed pulsing within the recess of the Lady of Vines’ trunk. He looked down at his hand, aglow with the nurturing power of Alarielle, and wondered what that power would be transformed into. What would it truly mean for the Radiant Queen to alter her aspect from guardian to avenger? He had seen for himself the terrible nature of the sylvaneth when they became enraged. The prospect of such fury endowed with the might of a goddess was daunting. The Radiant Queen had been tolerant, even indulgent of the Stormcasts when they intruded upon Athelwyrd. Her court hadn’t been so accommodating. Even the Lady of Vines had met them with barely restrained hostility.

‘Only the faithful,’ Grymn whispered to himself. The Hallowed Knights had been sent to find Athelwyrd by Sigmar for a purpose. It wasn’t for him to question the strategy of his god. Whatever lay ahead, he had to have faith that it was according to the God-King’s design. He had to have faith that the benevolence he’d sensed in Alarielle, the compassion that had replaced his missing hand, would endure no matter what aspect the Radiant Queen took on.

Grymn gazed back at the Blackstone Summit, at the great stair up which their path must lead. So close, yet he felt now was the time of their greatest danger. Again he recalled the warning Lord-Celestant Gardus had so often given. Never underestimate the enemy. The Plague God had to know how close the Radiant Queen was to escaping his pestilent grasp. Even if Torglug’s legion had perished on the Sea of Serpents, Nurgle had other warlords and other armies scattered across Ghyran. Surely that foul deity would send one of those armies to try to stop them.

‘Tegrus, Giomachus,’ Grymn called out to the winged warriors. The two Stormcasts hastened to their commander’s side. Grymn gestured at the Victory Fields and the petrified forest that surrounded it. ‘I have need of your eyes again,’ he told them. ‘Take the rest of the Prosecutors and scout the Blackstone Summit. Watch for any trace of the enemy.’

‘Can they have anticipated our goal?’ Giomachus asked, his star-eagle fluttering its wings angrily as he spoke the last word. Tallon barked at the raptor, unsettled by its show of ire.

‘We can’t dismiss that threat,’ Grymn decided after a moment of thought. ‘They have powerful magics of their own to draw upon. Desperation may have moved them to take chances with their sorcery no sane mind would consider. It is too risky to believe their evil cannot strike at us here.’

‘Would you have me see what waits ahead of us?’ Giomachus asked.

Grymn shook his head. ‘You are the ranking officer of the Knights Excelsior,’ he told the Knight-Venator. ‘Your place is here with your warriors. I know the valour in their hearts, but I also know they will fight the harder with you leading them.’ He turned towards Tegrus. ‘I fear the burden of this task must rest with you, my friend.’

‘Then it will be our honour to scout the way and bring you warning if the plaguehosts appear,’ Tegrus said. He motioned to the surviving Prosecutors. One by one they spread their wings and rose into the sky.

Grymn watched the scouts ascend. They were so few now. Tegrus and the Prosecutors were all resilient warriors, but even the most heroic could be overwhelmed by sheer numbers.

The Lord-Castellant turned towards Lord-Relictor Morbus. ‘Send Agrippa’s retinue to act as the vanguard as we climb the stair. I want the rest of the warriors on the flanks.’

‘Once we are on the stair, shall I have the paladins and the rest of the Liberators fall back as a rearguard?’ Morbus asked. Like Grymn, he was worried about the prospect of the plaguehosts rushing them from the forest and trying to overrun them as they climbed the Blackstone Summit.

Grymn nodded his agreement. ‘Have the Judicators form up on the exposed flank as we go up the stair. Their angle might be limited, but I think they’ll be more adaptable if we keep them out of the rearguard.’

Grymn looked across the retinues of his mixed command. Leading the Hallowed Knights had been an honour, but taking responsibility for the Knights Excelsior was an even greater one. Giomachus and the other officers of the Knights Excelsior had deferred to him without question, accepting his leadership as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He would prove himself worthy of that confidence in his skill.

Morbus pointed to the towering figure of Haldroot. The treelord had gathered the largest of his kindred to act as a bodyguard for the Lady of Vines. The sight evoked comparison of the walking fortress that had surrounded Alarielle’s palanquin as they marched from the Cascading Path. It wasn’t a comforting reminder.

‘Even with such powerful allies, we have lost much,’ the Lord-Relictor said.

The statement was one that made Grymn reflect upon how much it had cost them just to get this far. There were just under fifty Hallowed Knights left, and only slightly more Knights Excelsior. A handful of dryads and other tree-creatures had escaped the ice, and Haldroot’s wargroves, though more numerous than the Lady of Vines’ escort, were hardly a great host. Warrior by warrior, the strength was bleeding away from their cause.

Grymn looked again at his new hand. He could still feel the invigorating energy of the queen-seed flowing through him, strengthening him in both body and spirit. Leaving Morbus to attend to the deployment of the remaining Stormcasts, Grymn made his way through the masses of sylvaneth marching towards the stair. The tree-creatures exhibited a marked deference to him; even Haldroot didn’t oppose him as he approached the Lady of Vines.

‘My lady,’ Grymn said, ‘the honour you have shown to me by allowing me to hold the queen-seed is one that I will never forget, but I am unfit to decide our course now. I cannot shake the warning you’ve given, that the enemy may yet come upon us. There is risk in taking the queen-seed to Blackstone Summit, but if that is your decision I will see it done. It is you who were Alarielle’s handmaiden, you who know her best. You who understand how she can be restored and what must be done to ready her for this war.’

The Lady of Vines stared at him, a questioning light in her eyes. He sensed the branchwraith’s sympathy. ‘It is here that the Everqueen can be replanted. Here is the soil in which the queen-seed will blossom. The enemy will try to thwart our effort if he can,’ she said.

‘Then the Stormcasts will see this done, my lady,’ Grymn vowed.

Reaching to her breast, the branchwraith let her fingers caress the radiant soulpod of her queen. ‘This place is rich in the valour of past battle and the courage of fallen heroes. Those energies will nurture the seed as it grows. I cannot say what change that may have upon her aspect when she is reborn. Before Alarielle wore an aspect of beauty and wonder, nurturing and vital. She was the embodiment of the growing season. Now it is a season of claw and blade. She may assume a more warlike aspect, a form better suited for the trials of conflict.’ The Lady of Vines bowed her head to Grymn. ‘It may be that in her new aspect she will be less tolerant of outsiders than she was in her old one.’

‘What must be, must be,’ Grymn said, recalling Morbus’ words about gods and mortals. ‘If it is the goddess’ will that she be reborn in a form of wrath and retribution, then it is my duty still to stand beside her.’ He flexed his regrown hand, feeling the echoes of the Everqueen’s power within his flesh. ‘If there were only me, I would stand between her and the foe and give my last breath to keep her from harm.’

‘Let us pray it does not come to that,’ the Lady of Vines said.

Tegrus soared high above the black earth of Victory Fields, climbing towards the immense tower of Blackstone Summit. Closer to the ancient structure now, he could see the incredible details of the colossal spire. Indeed, he wondered if the titanic stone trees were things of nature or constructions of man. Certainly the men of Blackstone had brought tools against the trunks and branches of the trees at some point, reshaping them into a chronicle of the battle that had unfolded before their very roots.

The enormity of such labour, whether with chisel or knife, was almost beyond belief. The trees, together, were the size of a hill. A small city could have fit atop their branches. Yet as far as Tegrus could see, every inch of them had been worked, carved to provide a pictorial record of the battle. Across the length of one outstretched branch he could see strange chariots bearing warriors in crude armour against warherds of slavering beastmen. Upon one stretch of trunk, druids clad in animal hides pitted their magic against the pestilent daemons of Chaos. Everywhere, the struggle of men against the monstrous invaders was depicted, rising upwards along with the spiral stair, ascending towards the top of the interwoven trees. Climbing to the Blackstone Summit.

Tegrus neared its top now. He could see the great stone branches of the trees arching outwards to surround the plateau like the battlements of some mighty fortress. Even these had seen the attentions of artisans, each branch displaying some facet of the battle that had unfolded below. He recognised some of the daemonic creatures that had been part of Torglug’s legion, monstrosities that hadn’t changed in form or foulness for all the ages since their likeness had been carved into the trees. Recalling how formidable the fiends had been on the ice, Tegrus was impressed that the ancient tribesmen had been able to prevail with only their own valour and the magic of their druids to drive the daemons back. Even for the Stormcasts, such manifestations of Chaos were a challenge to vanquish.

The three trees, fusing together in their growth, had created a great plateau where their trunks merged. The same ancient craftsmen who had carved the rest of the colossal trees had been at work here as well, smoothing the surface until it resembled a vast courtyard. Cloud obscured all but the borders of that courtyard, leaving the rest of its expanse veiled in mystery.

Around him the remaining Prosecutors wheeled through the immense branches, scouring the summit for any trace of the enemy. Below them, like a great shroud, lay the green cloud with its flashes of energy. The weird manifestation forced the fliers lower, drawing them down into its mists. Tegrus could see no great distance once he was in the cloud. Twice he nearly collided with a stony branch, mustering all of his aerobatic skill to swing away from the obstruction.

His vision obscured, Tegrus keyed his other senses to the task before him. To his ears there came only the groans of the wind flashing between the branches. In his nose there was only the smell of stone. And those other senses, those inner impressions that shifted mood and emotion — they felt strangely dull, as though smothered by a heavy cloak. It was a peculiar, uncanny affliction, one that Tegrus couldn’t quite convince himself was merely a manifestation of Blackstone Summit’s magic.

Hammers at the ready, Tegrus swooped through the clouds. If there was danger here, he was determined to find it before it found Grymn and the Lady of Vines.

The steps wound around the colossal stone trees, climbing higher and higher above the Victory Fields. As they ascended towards the top of Blackstone Summit, Grymn kept looking earthwards. He expected any moment to hear the war cries and howls of the plaguehosts as Nurgle’s diseased armies tried to steal victory from them. Sometimes he caught the gleam of a Prosecutor’s armour as they circled above the tower searching for enemies, but such sightings became increasingly rare. The closer they came to the top, the thicker the veil of green cloud became, settling around them like fog. Still, the horn of the Knight-Heraldor and the light of his own warding lantern would lead the scouts back, however thick the mist grew. Every moment that didn’t see them streaking back to the column to give the alarm seemed like a gift from the God-King to Grymn. The higher they climbed, the more confident he became that they’d be able to hold the stair against any attackers. The closer the Everqueen was brought to their goal, the more he began to believe they had managed to escape the Plague God’s minions.

Still he was tense with alertness. The plaguehosts were everywhere, waging their campaign of conquest against the inhabitants of Ghyran and the other Chaos powers that would try to steal those conquests from them. Grymn couldn’t see Nurgle abandoning his hunt so easily after all the time his minions had searched for Alarielle’s refuge. Having driven the Radiant Queen into the open, having caused her to expend nearly all of her power, it was too much to hope that the Plague God had relented.

No, there had to be something. Grymn was certain of it. If Gardus were still here, they could have discussed the matter, and perhaps together come up with some new insight into what course of action the Plague God might be attempting. But he had to live in the present now, and rely on his own faith and wisdom.

Grymn noted their ascent to the Blackstone Summit more by instinct than conscious thought. His attention wasn’t on the terrain, but the hideous fog that occupied it. As they reached the top, the clouds suddenly diminished, drawn back as though they’d breached some illusory wall. He understood now why there had been no diseased army to meet them as they emerged from the Path of the Purified or to come charging after them from the petrified forest. Tallon growled as the enemy stood revealed before them.

Torglug and his legions, hidden by the green cloud and the illusions of their sorcerers, had gained Blackstone Summit first.

A nauseating reek struck Grymn as the spells that had concealed the presence of the army evaporated. There was no further need of such sorcery. The prey had already walked into the trap. There could be no retreat now. All the advantages Grymn had intended to hold on the stair would belong to the enemy if they tried to withdraw back to the Victory Fields. The plaguehosts were certain to pursue them, enjoying the high ground at every step.

It was a doubtful prospect. Grymn knew how few his Stormcasts were, how slight the sylvaneth contingent. Arrayed against them was a monstrous horde. Ranks of Chaos warriors in blackened armour. Tribes of skin-clad marauders, their bodies daubed in the sickening runes of their vile god. Mobs of abominable Chosen, their mutations twisting their corrupt flesh. A great swarm of ratmen pushing a rotted carriage from which swung a smouldering censer of pestilence. A slavering warherd of armoured beastmen, their hides falling away in mangy strips.

Most numerous of all, however, were the daemons. Flocks of rot flies, buzzing above the heads of the warriors below, their abdomens bloated with corruption and disease. Slug-like plaguebeasts, clutches of tentacles and eye-stalks writhing from their slimy bodies. Companies of cyclopean plaguebearers, filthy swords clenched in their clawed hands. Masses of toad-like nurglings, hopping about in the foulness dripping from the larger daemons.

Looming above them all, like great mountains of festering meat, were three Great Unclean Ones. Each of the greater daemons was an obscenity of loathsomeness, its hide blotched and broken with disease and decay. For Grymn, however, it was the centremost of that gigantic triumvirate that was the most sickening of all. He recognised it as the fiend that Angstun had sacrificed himself to destroy on the frozen sea. To see the daemon here was an obscenity, a cruel mockery of the Stormcasts who had been vanquished on the ice bridge.

Grymn’s focus shifted away from the daemons to the mortal warlord who commanded this sea of corruption: Torglug the Despised, his body swollen with the vile blessings of his abominable god. He could actually see a haze of green vapour rising from the villain’s pockmarked flesh, a miasma of decay that caused even the bodyguard around him to break out in weeping sores and blackheaded boils. Torglug’s eyes blazed with an unholy light, burning like putrescent lamps behind the rusted mask of his helm. In that gibbous, ghoulish luminance was the promise of ruination and torment, the lingering tortures of sickness and decay.

Torglug raised his cleaver-like axe. The warlord favoured him with a mocking salute, gesturing with the filth-encrusted weapon as though to promise the Lord-Castellant that this time he would lose more than just his hand.

Grymn heard the Lady of Vines raise her voice in a song of enchantment, the radiance of the queen-seed spilling from her outstretched hand and flowing across the trunks of her followers. This time the melody was harsh, rolling like the tramp of marching feet and the crash of war drums. The sylvaneth joined in her song and as their deep groaning voices rose, their bark began to darken, hardening into steely armour. The claws of the tree-creatures lengthened into spear-like talons, their branches sharpened into sword-like barbs. With an eerie unison, they closed around the Lady of Vines, surrounding her in a wall of arboreal fury. They would protect the queen-seed to the last, a living bastion against the enormity of the plaguehosts.

Grymn ordered his warriors into formation, drawing up the Liberators to form a wall of sigmarite, grouping the Judicators where their skybolt bows could be concentrated into murderous volleys. The stamina and conviction of his Stormcasts would be tested sorely, for the enemy outnumbered them by several orders of magnitude.

A lesser man would have been smothered beneath the burden of leadership in such grisly circumstances. The overwhelming enormity of the enemy, the frustrating closeness of their destination. These would have crushed even the noblest king with despair. It was not in Grymn’s nature to despair, however. The God-King Sigmar had brought him to this place. Grymn was the instrument Sigmar had chosen to lead His warriors into battle. This was all Grymn needed to know. Whatever courage and valour could accomplish here, the Stormcasts would see it done. Hallowed Knights and Knights Excelsior, they would stand before Torglug’s legion of daemons.

‘Only the faithful,’ Grymn whispered to himself. He looked across the ranks of his warriors, his brothers in arms. Raising his halberd aloft, he roared a wordless battle cry that echoed across the plateau.

The Hallowed Knights repeated the battle cry of their Stormhost: ‘Only the faithful!’ The words rolled like thunder across the Blackstone Summit. The mortal warriors of Torglug’s legion drew back a pace, glancing anxiously at their warlord as the ferocity of the shout cracked against their ears.

‘For Sigmar!’ The cry filled the voices of the Knights Excelsior as well as the silver-clad Hallowed Knights. This time even some of the daemons drew back in anxiety.

Grymn felt his heart swell with pride at the courage of his warriors. Whatever happened here, of one thing he was certain. The plaguehosts would not win this battle easily.

Torglug laughed when he saw how few the sylvaneth and their meddlesome allies were. It almost seemed embarrassing to him that after the long search for Athelwyrd, the hunt through the Cascading Path, the numberless battles on the Sea of Serpents, that it should all end like this. Not that he had anything against a massacre — it just felt anticlimactic.

Some of the plaguelord’s hubris faltered when the Lord-Castellant who led the motley assemblage of lightning-men and sylvaneth raised his halberd and shouted his battle cry. Torglug realised he should find such foolish defiance amusing rather than threatening, but he couldn’t still the trepidation that stirred in his gut. The rotworm nestled there was warning him against overconfidence.

Torglug could feel the uncertainty that surged through the daemons and monsters around him. The stink of skaven fear-musk seeped into the air as the ratmen chittered in fright. He refused to share in their trembling. Like a rotten mountain, the champion of Nurgle stood unbowed and unconquered. He knew his hour had come. It only remained to teach the enemy how futile their resistance was.

‘Be killing their leader,’ Torglug snarled at Slaugoth Maggotfang. He pointed at the ranks of lightning-men. ‘From these fools be cutting out the heart.’

The sorcerer raised his staff, words of power crawling onto his tongue. Like an arcane parasite, he drew upon the miasma of power exuded by Torglug’s blessing, weaving it into his own magic.

Even as he began his incantation, Slaugoth’s spell faltered. The worms in his mouth retreated behind his teeth, curling up into little coils of fright. His eyes strayed upwards. Beyond the green fug of pollution rising from the plaguehosts, past the stony branches of the summit, storm-clouds swiftly gathered. Thunder growled and lightning flashed with divine ire. Stone branches were blasted asunder as a boiling lance of lightning came smashing down to strike Blackstone Summit. Chaos warriors and daemons howled in pain as hail came pelting down at them from above.

The tremulous impact of the stormstrike shook the plateau as though it were in the grip of an enraged colossus. Thick smoke billowed from the impact crater, flaring embers shining within the black drift. Then, from behind the angry clouds above, a blinding light hurtled downwards.

Smoke evaporated in that descending brilliance. As it cleared away, a mighty figure was revealed. It was the armoured shape of a lightning-man, great wings of light stretching out from his back, a golden halo framing the stern and unforgiving mask of his helm. In one hand the warrior gripped a long sceptre tipped with a fiery twin-tailed comet. In the other he bore a massive warhammer, its head engraved with runes of such arcane might that Torglug thought they would burn themselves into his eyes as he gazed upon them.

Only the three Great Unclean Ones could bear to look upon the winged lightning-man. The rest of the daemons hissed in pain, turning their faces at the sight of the hammer the hero bore. Many of the nurglings squealed in agony and burst into foul puddles of slime and ichor simply from chancing to look upon the warhammer.

Torglug had been disappointed to think the hunt for the Radiant Queen would end in a simple massacre. Now he regretted the arrogance that had made him look askance at the good fortune the plaguehosts had enjoyed so briefly.

Grymn looked on in amazement as a twin-tailed fork of lightning smashed down in the space between the two armies. The mighty peal of thunder that roared across Blackstone Summit was unmistakably that of a stormstrike. For an instant he dared to believe that Sigmar had sent an entire Stormhost to reinforce them, that when the blinding flash faded from his visions he should see rank upon rank of stolid warriors arrayed against Torglug’s vile legion.

Instead, what he saw was a single warrior. Engaged in conflict throughout the realms, the God-King’s resources were committed to the struggle against the Ruinous Powers on many fronts. To draw even a single warrior chamber out of battle would have been to jeopardise whole campaigns.

Blazing wings of light supported the armoured warrior as he hovered above the plateau. Flickers of lightning snaked across his armour of blue and silver, the roaring lion sculpted upon his breastplate picked out in gold. The halo of golden spikes that framed his helm formed a solar nimbus around his head. In his left hand he held a mighty sceptre, celestial power pulsing through its enchanted sigmarite.

Gripped in the hero’s right hand was a weapon mightier still. It was nothing less than the godhammer itself, Ghal Maraz, forged in the dim mists of time in the world that was. Now the God-King had entrusted the warhammer to his mightiest champion, the one hero worthy of such honour. The Hallowed Knights had heard rumours of such a hero, but never before had they beheld his awesome manifestation.

The Celestant-Prime.

Almost without realising what he did, Grymn fell to one knee and bowed towards the divine champion. Around him, he was dimly aware of the other Stormcasts doing the same. Hallowed Knights and Knights Excelsior, all were in awe of this legendary hero. None of them had felt the presence of Sigmar’s champion before, had experienced the divine aura that surrounded him and radiated from him with a fiery intensity. Grymn felt his heart gripped by a righteous wrath, the clarion call of justice and retribution. Many were the outrages and atrocities of Chaos, sins unnumbered that cried out for vengeance. The Celestant-Prime was that vengeance manifest, the great avenger who would set to right the offences of the Ruinous Powers.

As the Celestant-Prime turned the stern visage of his helm towards the plaguehosts, he raised Ghal Maraz high. The heavens themselves roared in answer, booming with divine rage. He glared at the sea of daemons and monsters that had flocked to the banner of Torglug the Despised. For the Stormcasts and sylvaneth, his avenging presence carried the promise of triumph. For the pawns of Nurgle, it held only the inevitability of destruction.

Chapter twelve

Long had Tornus struggled against the malign might of Nurgle. He’d led his people again and again onto the field of battle. By the score, by the hundred, by the thousand his armies had diminished. The noble dead, lying upon a field of honour, fighting to the last to turn back the fiends of Chaos. The cowards who fled, seeking to hide from the invader and preserve their own worthless lives. Most vile of all, however, were the traitors, those who abandoned hearth and home to bow before the abominations of the Plague God.

Tornus fought through the bleak tarns and across the desolate moors. In the fog-shrouded forests and in the craggy hills, he met the enemy with axe and sword. Battle upon battle, he led the tribes, pitting mortal flesh and mortal courage against all the monstrosities born of Nurgle’s diseased corruption. Daemons and beastkin, sorcerers and mutants, all had been set loose against the steadings of his people. One after another the villages burned. One after another the castles were torn down. One after another the temples were defiled.

The tribes lost heart as the legions of Nurgle claimed victory after victory. They cried out to the gods for deliverance, prayed for mercy from the divinities that had watched over their people since the dim ages of myth. The only answer was silence, the cold indifference of oblivion.

Time after time, Tornus led his people into battle against the forces of Chaos, until, in the end, he was the only one left to fight. The only one who still dared to hope that the gods would not abandon them.

Outrage boiled in the bloated body of Torglug the Despised. When he saw the shining figure descend with the lightning strike, he at first thought Sigmar Himself had come to Blackstone Summit to take the field of battle. He thought the God-King was personally intervening to preserve the queen-seed and its guardians. Bitterness welled up inside him, a spiteful rage that eclipsed any fury he’d ever known before. Sigmar had left nations to be destroyed and enslaved, forsaken entire peoples to the cruelties of Chaos, abandoned even the most innocent to the savageries of beasts and daemons. Torglug had presided over the slaughter of kingdoms, yet Sigmar had failed to rescue so much as a single life. For the God-King to reveal Himself now was an insult to all Torglug’s victims.

The warlord’s massive gut rolled in amusement when he realised his mistake. The figure who hovered before him was no god, only another of Sigmar’s lightning-men. Torglug should have known the God-King wouldn’t show Himself, staying safe behind the fastness of Azyr while others fought and died in His name.

Sapphire flame blazed from the head of the sceptre the winged champion bore as he raised it high. Far overhead, in the swirling storm-clouds, a shimmering light appeared. Swiftly the light grew in size and intensity, plummeting down through the heavens. A fiery ball of celestial fury crashed into the sea of diseased daemons, immolating scores of plaguebearers in a blinding flash of annihilation. As the deafening clamour of the impact shuddered across the plateau, another sound rose to overwhelm it.

‘Only the faithful!’ The battle-cry of the lightning-men was like a clap of thunder. The silver warriors surged forwards, weapons and shields held before them as they charged across the plateau. At their head was the warlord Torglug had fought on the ice, the blade of his halberd shining in the glow of the Celestant-Prime’s blazing wings. Across from the silver warriors, the white-armoured lightning-men shouted their own battle-cry as they swept out to strike the plaguehosts on their left flank.

Inspired by their winged hero’s arrival, the lightning-men were committing themselves to the attack, charging into the plague horde. Torglug scowled behind the rusted mask of his helm. He had savoured the notion of dismantling the tiny retinue that clung to the Lady of Vines. He’d relished the vision of plucking Alarielle’s soulpod from the branchwraith’s dead clutch, of trampling the carcasses of her defenders underfoot as he celebrated his triumph. The last thing he’d expected was that these fools would have the temerity to steal the initiative away from him. The absurdity of it caused his swollen gut to roll with laughter.

Raising his blackened axe high, Torglug bellowed to his followers. ‘Be killing them all!’ The cry was both command and threat.

Mortal and daemon alike, those who marched under the decayed banner of Torglug understood that the warlord would spare none who failed him in this battle.

In a seething, bubbling wave of corruption and decay, the plaguehosts rushed forwards to meet the oncoming lightning-men.

Grymn brought his halberd shearing through the horned helm of a Chaos warrior, splashing the barbarian’s brains across the shield of his comrade. The foeman raised a flanged mace to retaliate, but Grymn’s blade struck down the second warrior as readily as the first, punching through both shield and breastplate to leave the enemy impaled. He shook the dying warrior free, casting his body into the howling mass of madmen and monsters. Each blow he visited against the enemy was delivered with righteous fury. Now that the Hallowed Knights were in battle with the minions of Nurgle once more, his warding lantern crackled with energy. An echo of Alarielle’s radiance glowed from the lamp, a nimbus of green light that shone about Grymn like a beacon to both friend and enemy alike. Stormcasts rallied to his side, drawn by the jade light. Tallon snapped at the foe with frenzied viciousness. Daemons and Chaos warriors converged upon him, lured by the eerie luminance.

Inspired by the presence of the Celestant-Prime, Grymn fought with a ferocity unmatched by any of the diseased disciples of Chaos. That Sigmar would dispatch His mightiest champion to aid them in their moment of greatest need was a blessing beyond measure in the Lord-Castellant’s mind. To him it was vindication of his leadership over the Hallowed Knights since the fall of Lord-Celestant Gardus. All of his uncertainty, all of the doubts about the choices he’d made and the paths he’d taken, had been extinguished the moment he’d seen Sigmar’s living avatar emerge from the stormstrike. His efforts had brought his warriors to this place, his protection had kept the Lady of Vines and her sacred charge safe until this moment. He had achieved all it was possible to achieve. Now the God-King would help them to reach their journey’s end.

Torglug’s obscene throng was far from defeated, however. Rot flies swept down from the green miasma overhead to assault the sylvaneth formation. The foul daemons were ripped out of the air by the defiant tree-creatures, impaled upon arms that were like pikes and mangled by rending talons of wood and thorn. The immense Haldroot caught one of the bloated monstrosities in his hands, squeezing it in a tremendous grip until the abomination burst like a rancid pustule. Such injuries as the aerial attackers visited upon the sylvaneth began to mend almost immediately, torn bark knitting together as the energies of the queen-seed swirled around them. Above it all, the warlike song of the Lady of Vines sounded.

The Knights Excelsior were charged by a troop of grotesque Chaos knights, their armour pitted with rust and decay, their steeds branded with obscene runes. As the riders ploughed towards the Stormcasts, Giomachus lifted himself into the air above his warriors. Blazing arrows flew from his bow, striking down several of the foremost riders while his star-eagle shot forwards to claw the face of the leading knight. The charge faltered as the riders following behind stumbled upon the bodies of their own fallen comrades. Before they could regain the impetus of their attack, Giomachus ordered the white-armoured line forwards, rushing at the diseased knights with hammer and sword. Judicators from the Knights Excelsior sent a volley of sigmarite arrows searing down into the routed cavalry as they tried to flee.

As the Hallowed Knights smashed their way through the motley assemblage of marauders and plaguebearers that hurled themselves upon the Stormcasts, new enemies swarmed forwards. A fume of poison billowed across the formation of Liberators as the grotesque ratmen scurried to the attack, pushing their rotten carriage ahead of them. The noxious cloud boiling from the swinging censer smothered several of the valiant warriors, seeping inside their sigmarite armour to choke the men within. The skaven were swift to leap into the gap their insidious weapon created, chittering and squeaking with despicable glee.

Grymn swung around to meet the skaven surge. His halberd slashed and chopped at the fiendish vermin, cutting them down like weeds. A driving blow from his blade hacked through an entire file of the creatures, tearing through their mangy fur and rotten robes. The ratkin who found themselves pitted against him squealed in fright, their eyes round with terror, but the pressure of their own frenzied comrades pushing at their backs forced them forwards. Black ratkin blood steamed against his armour and his boots slogged through a morass of skaven dead, yet still the monsters came.

A white-furred ratman arrayed in leathery robes appeared before Grymn, thrusting at him with a notched sword and a curved dagger that dripped with arcane poisons. Flecks of foam dripped from the plague priest’s fangs and its beady eyes gleamed with bestial frenzy. It slashed and hacked at him with inhuman speed and craven cunning. When Grymn parried a feint of its sword, the rat-chief would stab at him with its envenomed dagger, gouging his sigmarite plate as the enchanted poison burned the metal. Tallon flung itself at the crazed ratman, but the vermin struck the gryph-hound down with a swat of its blade, leaving the creature stunned and bloodied on the ground.

The larger conflict raging around Grymn faded to the edge of his awareness as his fury fixed itself on the skaven leader. In strength and skill, the vermin was laughably outmatched by the Stormcast, but its devilish nimbleness and contemptible dearth of scruples rendered it more dangerous than a more refined opponent. Its long, scaly tail slapped at his legs, trying to trip him and leave him vulnerable to the creature’s blades. Spittle flew from the ratman’s mouth, spattering across the mask of Grymn’s helm as the skaven tried to blind him.

Dirty tricks, abominable speed and crazed ferocity weren’t enough. All it needed was one instant of opportunity for Grymn to bring about the ruin of his foe. The skaven’s own frenzy provided that chance. Slashing at Grymn’s neck with its poisoned dagger, the ratman tried to slice the tendons of his arm with a backhanded cut across the Stormcast’s shoulder. Grymn dropped and twisted, dancing away from the weeping dagger, letting it scrape across his pauldron. At the same time, he brought his halberd spinning downwards, catching the skaven as it pushed forwards. The cleaving blade struck the vermin’s snout, crunching through flesh and bone to leave the better part of the rat-like visage lying on the ground.

Although mortally stricken, the cocktail of courage-bolstering potions rushing through the plague priest’s veins continued to lend it an atrocious vitality. The creature flung itself at Grymn, black blood gushing from its severed face. In its crazed state, the skaven dropped its weapons, instead scratching at its enemy with its claws and snapping at him with what was left of its mouth. Slowly, the horrific energy drained out of the white-furred maniac. With a whining gargle, the skaven conceded the fact of its death and slipped to the ground at its killer’s feet.

Grymn had only a moment to stare at his vanquished adversary before a seething stream of corruption swept down upon him. Raising his arms, trying to fend off the boiling filth, the Lord-Castellant staggered back. The halberd fell from his grasp, slipping into the gory heap at his feet. Agony lanced through every nerve in his body. It was all he could do to remain on his feet.

It was no natural assault, this searing torment. Grymn knew he was beset by the malignant conjuration of a sorcerer.

Watching Poxmonger Kriknitt perish was deeply satisfying for Slaugoth Maggotfang. The plague priest had been Torglug’s captive, subjugated by the warlord, yet it had continued to try to wheedle and connive to gain some advantage for itself. It had brought hundreds of its warriors to join the plaguehosts, happily guiding the legion through its reeking tunnels. All the while it insisted the arrangement between them was one of alliance rather than enslavement. Slaugoth had come to despise the ratman’s whining intrigues as it tried to insinuate itself into Torglug’s confidence.

The spew of corruption that boiled from Slaugoth’s mouth was like the breath of the Plague God Himself. Under that withering blast of virulent magic, steel would corrode, flesh would bubble and blood would be reduced to sludge. True, the enchanted stamina of a lightning-man might endure a bit longer and sigmarite plate might resist a few more heartbeats than simple steel, but the final result would be the same. A slow and agonising dissolution within the corrosive juices of Slaugoth’s sorcery.

When the leader of the lightning-men began to falter, when the halberd fell from his grasp, Slaugoth exulted. Triumph over his foe seemed assured. A few moments longer and the fell magic would finish his enemy and reduce him to a smouldering husk.

Even as he anticipated this annihilation, Slaugoth became aware of a change in the aether, a familiar disruption of the tides of magic, the evocation of a power he recognised as belonging to the hated God-King. Hurriedly, the sorcerer swept his hands in arcane passes, strengthening the phantasmal barriers and eldritch wards that guarded him. To be doubly certain of protection, he tightened the soul-bond between himself and his acolytes. Whatever hostile magic did penetrate his defensive wards would be passed along to the survivors of the plague coven, working its belligerence against the witches and warlocks instead of Slaugoth.

From the sky overhead, a barrage of lightning lanced downwards into the Chaos horde. The ratkin’s decayed carriage was smashed into splinters, the smouldering censer upset and its burning contents splashed across scores of the verminous skaven. Slithering, slug-like daemons were immolated in the shrivelling blasts of electricity. An entire tribe of marauders was routed as their jarls and champions were transformed into charred husks by the celestial fires.

Slaugoth could see the skull-helmed lightning-man mystic rushing to his leader’s aid. The relic hammer clutched in the enemy cleric’s fist pointed once again at the stormy sky, drawing down the elemental might of the God-King’s wrath. The sorcerer could feel the death-screams of his acolytes as the destructive energies rippled from himself to the plague coven. His black soul shuddered to contemplate the nearness of his own dissolution.

Tightening his arcane protections against the lightning, Slaugoth began to evoke the most powerful spell known to him. He would channel power from the daemons into nearby mortals who bore the Plague God’s mark. The stream of energy would swell the bodies of its victims, bloating them with noxious gases and corrosive acids. Eventually they would burst, spilling a fog of death across Blackstone Summit.

A web of lightning crackled all around Slaugoth. The sorcerer laughed as he imagined the skull-helmed mystic’s frustration. There seemed something desperate about the concentrated storm. Perhaps his enemy had some suspicion as to the magic Slaugoth was working and was trying everything in his power to thwart him. If so, then the futility of the lightning attacks was doubly delicious. He would have to listen for his enemy’s scream when the death fog rolled across the battlefield.

Slaugoth watched the lightning crash harmlessly around him for a moment, savouring the spectacle. Then he sensed a shift in his eldritch protections. The surviving acolytes of his plague coven were trying to defend themselves, severing the link between their master and their own rotten souls!

Too late Slaugoth tried to refocus his protections, to shift the magical shells around him, but a final crackling shaft of lightning crashed down upon him from the sky. Slaugoth heard the worms in his mouth explode as the bolt seared through him, and smelt his own flesh boiling off his bones. He could see the smoke rising from his charred body. The sorcerer tried to summon a last effort, a last spell.

In a burst of noxious foulness, Slaugoth Maggotfang was gone.

Torglug watched as the avenging figure of the Celestant-Prime smashed into the monstrous ranks of his legion. A sweep of the godhammer Ghal Maraz and a score of daemons were obliterated, destroyed so completely that not even a splash of ichor or a drift of greasy smoke marked their passing. Troops of plaguebearers, packs of daemon-beasts, swarms of rot flies, mobs of atrocities for which even Torglug had no name — all were cut down by the divine avenger. The Celestant-Prime was an army unto himself, single-handedly negating the numerical supremacy the plaguehosts had enjoyed only moments before.

The warrior’s heart buried deep within the bloated corruption of Torglug’s body burned with anticipation. It had been a long time since he’d faced such an enemy, a worthy foe to pit his skills against. The lightning-men he’d vanquished, the sylvaneth treelords, the tribal kings and heroes — these were all nothing and less than nothing! In a year, in a decade, Torglug wouldn’t even remember their names, much less the ease with which he’d overcome them. But here, here was a foe of such legendary stature that even mighty daemons quailed before him. Here was an enemy Torglug could be proud to cut down with his axe. This victory would be no hollow, shallow thing, forgotten in the bleak morass of unremitting carnage and contagion.

Torglug started to call to Goregus Festermaw, to urge the putrid blightkings forwards, to command them to carve a path for him through the line of white-armoured lightning-men so that he wouldn’t sully himself against such wretches before pitting his might against that of Sigmar’s champion.

As the command formed on Torglug’s tongue, ripping pain shot through his swollen gut. Entombed within the foulness of his innards, the warlord knew his daemonic rotworm was angry. In its violence, the parasite communicated to its host the displeasure of his god. When the rotworm writhed it was a warning to the Grandfather’s favourite that Nurgle was watching him.

Pain ripping at his insides, Torglug fought the desire to plunge his hands into his own abdomen and tear the rotworm loose. There would be no relief from such madness, not even in death. Nurgle had many ways of both inflicting and prolonging the suffering of His victims. No, there was but one respite and that was to submit to the Grandfather’s demands.

Tearing his eyes from the Celestant-Prime, Torglug looked across the plateau. There was only one thing that Nurgle desired more than besting Sigmar’s champion on the battlefield. It was there in the gnarled hands of the Lady of Vines, glowing with the ethereal radiance that had drawn Torglug through the snow and fog — the queen-seed, the soulpod of Alarielle, the prize Nurgle would sow in His own pestilent gardens. It was to capture this prize for the Plague God that Torglug had been granted such power, and given authority over such a host of mortals and daemons. The Grandfather cared nothing about the scraps of martial pride that yet persisted in the septic flesh of his slave. All that concerned Nurgle was the treasure he’d coveted for so long.

Choking on his own bitterness, Torglug turned and glowered at the colossal Great Unclean Ones. Guthrax and his infernal brethren had held themselves back from the fighting, content to let the Celestant-Prime expend his energies slaughtering wave after wave of plaguebearers and Chaos warriors. The threat of the greater daemons was one Torglug had intended to hold over the heads of his foes, keeping his mightiest weapon as a reserve, letting the lightning-men and sylvaneth know that however many of his minions they killed, the trio would be waiting for them.

The havoc wrought by the Celestant-Prime and the demands of Nurgle changed all of that. Now Torglug would throw the greater daemons into the fight. Their might would test even Sigmar’s champion, and while the enemy was occupied, Torglug would have a free hand on the battlefield.

Uttering a foul word of power given to him by Nurgle Himself, Torglug ordered the Great Unclean Ones to the attack. Slobbering and laughing, the immense fiends waddled towards the thin line of lightning-men, careless of the lesser daemons and corrupt mortals they smashed under their ponderous immensity. Guthrax bore once more the grisly flail of skulls he had wielded upon the Sea of Serpents. Each of his brother daemons carried a titanic sword caked in diseased filth. Swarms of nurglings, each the tiny image of the Great Unclean Ones, scampered in the wake of the grotesque goliaths.

Torglug didn’t linger to watch the greater daemons attack the lightning-men and the Celestant-Prime. Though its agitation had diminished, he could still feel the rotworm wriggling inside him, reminding him that Nurgle’s gaze was fixed upon him.

Between the armoured ranks of the lightning-men, Torglug could see the sylvaneth. He could see what the Lady of Vines intended. She was trying to reach the obelisk at the centre of the plateau, the memorial erected ages ago to honour those who had fought against the first incursions of Nurgle’s forces against the Jade Kingdoms. Though twisted and eroded by the continuous assaults of Chaos against the ruins of Blackstone, the obelisk still retained its aura of power.

Standing in the branchwraith’s way, of course, was Torglug the Despised. ‘Be forgetting the lightning-men,’ he growled at his bodyguards. ‘While they are being busy with Guthrax and his kin, the way is being clear for to be striking tree people.’ He glared at Goregus, fingering his blackened axe when he saw the scowl on the blightlord’s loathsome face. ‘Be forgetting them,’ he snarled again. ‘Once I am taking queen-seed, Grandfather will be destroying them all!’

Torglug waved his axe overhead, pointing the corroded blade at the tree-creatures. The putrid blightkings formed up behind their master, following him across the plateau. The daemons and marauders in their path hurried to clear the way for the ghastly entourage. Those who had rushed forwards to engage the sylvaneth were the ones without the courage to face the Celestant-Prime and the lightning-men. They had no stomach to interfere with the blightkings either.

From the masses of sylvaneth, the towering shape of Haldroot and lesser tree-creatures lumbered out to block Torglug’s advance. The huge arboreal beings hurled chunks of stone knocked from the petrified trees at the plaguelord’s retinue. Several of the blightkings were pulverised under the enormous shards of rock, their bodies popping in greasy bursts. Other forest spirits stomped forwards, swinging their massive arms like bludgeons. Two more of Torglug’s companions were crushed by the sylvaneth, their rusted armour crumpling under the titanic blows of the forest spirits.

Then the blightkings swept forwards, their fearsome axes hacking into the bodies of the sylvaneth. Torglug’s blighted blade chopped through the leg of one treelord, then split the toppling creature’s trunk in half as it slammed to the earth. Well had he earned the infamous sobriquet of ‘Treecutter’, and as he plied his axe, the stench of blood-sap filled the air. Mighty as they were, the sylvaneth were no match for the murderous fury of Torglug and his bodyguard.

The warlord’s eyes glistened with gruesome anticipation. Past the dwindling ranks of the forest spirits, he could see the Lady of Vines and her dryads. He could see the radiant light of the queen-seed, the prize Nurgle demanded as tribute from His favoured champion. Ultimate triumph was within Torglug’s reach.

A thunderous roar shook the plateau. Torglug looked away from the last foes standing before him, turning his blemished eyes to the sky. Through the storm-clouds, he could see the vengeful glow of a comet hurtling downwards.

Aware of the threat to the queen-seed, the Celestant-Prime had ignored the oncoming Great Unclean Ones and the swarms of lesser foes all around him. Raising his sceptre, he had called another comet down from the heavens, loosing its celestial fury against Torglug and his bodyguard.

In a blast of blue fire, the warlord was hurled skywards, blown back by the calamitous impact.

Grymn brought his halberd shearing through the diving rot fly, severing the daemon’s thorax and abdomen. The crippled abomination crashed to the ground, crushing several marauders under its diseased mass. A quick stab to its chitinous head extinguished the monster’s stubborn vitality.

Turning from his late foe, Grymn braced himself to meet the rush of another horrific opponent. Instead, he found the daemons and barbarians drawing back, retreating from the line of Hallowed Knights. Any ideas that their withdrawal owed anything to the valour and tenacity of the Stormcasts quickly faded as a tremor shuddered through the plateau, swiftly followed by another and still another. The quakes were like colossal footfalls and when Grymn raised his gaze to look past the enemies nearby, he saw that the impression was justified. The Great Unclean Ones, the titanic daemons that had made even the Lord-Castellant’s confidence falter, were waddling forwards to join the battle.

Alarm pulsed through Grymn’s mind. He knew there could be but one adversary on the field against which Torglug would unleash these daemonic obscenities. He had seen the awesome power of the Celestant-Prime, but the memory of Guthrax’s assault against his forces on the frozen sea was a vivid one. Now there were three such horrors. Against such a concentration of festering evil, he feared even the avenging angel of Azyr would be swept aside.

Concern for the Celestant-Prime galvanised Grymn’s thoughts. Tightening his grip about his halberd, he raised his voice in a fierce shout. ‘For Sigmar!’ he thundered, hurling himself against the foe once more. Even if they all were to fall, all that mattered was aiding the Celestant-Prime in his moment of need.

All around Grymn, warriors in armour of silver and white struck down plaguebearers and beastmen with hammer and sword. Arrows from the remaining Judicators arced upwards to come crackling down into the massed slaves of Chaos. Foot by foot, yard by yard, the Stormcasts were cutting their way through the horde of enemies and to the embattled Celestant-Prime. If the winged hero could hold his own against the Great Unclean Ones for even a short time, then the Hallowed Knights and Knights Excelsior would be at his side.

The Celestant-Prime, however, was unable to focus upon the threat to himself. He had been vigilant in his fight against the plaguehosts, and when Torglug’s bodyguard charged towards the sylvaneth in a rush to reach the Lady of Vines, it was his actions that had blunted the warlord’s scheme. Evoking the might of his sceptre, he had sent a fiery orb searing down from the heavens to strike the diseased warlord and his entourage.

The measure, however, left the Celestant-Prime exposed to the colossal daemons waddling towards him. While he loosed the magic of his sceptre against Torglug, the Great Unclean Ones unleashed their own noxious powers against the avenging angel. Two of the bloated monstrosities opened their cavernous maws, vomiting a spume of sizzling filth against the warrior. The Celestant-Prime reeled against the attack, trying to shield himself against the boiling corruption with his wings. Steam billowed about the Celestant-Prime as the daemonic foulness splashed across him and evaporated in his holy aura.

The monstrous daemons had anticipated the limitation of their corrupt spew against a hero as sacred and mighty as the Celestant-Prime. All their vile assault could really do was occupy their enemy’s focus and keep him distracted. The real attack came from Guthrax. While its brother daemons spat their bile, Guthrax whipped its flail of skulls through the air, swinging it faster and faster in an ever-widening ring above its horned head. When the spinning flail had reached the peak of its momentum, Guthrax brought it lashing against the Celestant-Prime.

The flail struck the Celestant-Prime with an ear-splitting crack. The incredible momentum of the blow sent the hero hurtling high into the sky. The bloated daemons guffawed with obscene glee as they watched their foe vanish into the clouds.

An inarticulate shout of rage and disbelief ripped its way from Grymn’s throat. Redoubling his efforts, he butchered his way through the cheering masses of the plaguehosts. Damned mortal and diseased daemon alike perished upon his blade as he waded through the foul army. He gave no thought to his own protection or even to the impossible task he’d set himself. The only thought in Grymn’s mind was the awareness that he’d seen two mighty heroes vanquished by Guthrax. First Angstun and now the Celestant-Prime. If it cost him his own life, he was determined that the daemon would pay for its outrages. It would have no chance to savour its crimes.

Just as Grymn fought his way through a warherd of pestilent gors and found his path to the Great Unclean Ones clear, the slobbering laughter of the daemons died away. He could see the horned monsters turning their heads from side to side, trying to spot the Celestant-Prime’s battered body as it came crashing back to earth. When no such vision rewarded their search, the fiends craned their fat necks back and stared up at the storm-swept sky.

From those turbulent heavens, a winged shape appeared, darting down out of the clouds. Only for a heartbeat did Grymn mistake the figure for that of the Celestant-Prime; he quickly realised it was in fact Giomachus. His white armour gleaming with the lightning of the storm, the Knight-Venator hurtled downwards. He had an arrow nocked, his powerful arms holding the weapon taut against the winds that buffeted his plunging form. Lower and lower he descended, his aim never wavering. At last, the archer took his shot.

One of the greater daemons howled in agony as its leprous eye was pierced by a blazing arrow. Purifying magics surged from the star-fated arrow, pulsing through the obscene corruption of the daemon’s bulk. The Great Unclean One wailed and writhed, pawing towards its brother daemons in search of aid. Still calling to its brothers, the bloated daemon began to dissolve, its horrible essence collapsing under the purging force of the arrow. Soon all that was left of the monstrosity was a pond of bubbling muck and slime.

Other winged warriors dived down through the storm. Grymn could see his old comrade Tegrus, a hammer gripped in each hand. He dropped down towards the Great Unclean Ones, casting his crackling hammers into one of the swollen abominations. After him came the rest of the Prosecutors Grymn had sent to scout Blackstone Summit. They had seen the stormstrike from which the Celestant-Prime descended, and now they were lending their strength against the obscenities that had attacked Sigmar’s champion.

Trying to drag the Prosecutors from the sky with gouts of acidic vomit, Guthrax brought himself nearer to Grymn’s vengeful blade. Despite the hideous stench and sight of his enemy, regardless of the festering aura of sickness and death that swirled about the daemon, Grymn lunged at the putrid bulk. Shouting the war cry of the Hallowed Knights, he swung his halberd into the monster’s knee.

Sludge oozed from the wound Grymn visited against his foe. Guthrax’s bulk shuddered under the halberd’s bite. As the hulking daemon swayed around, he brought his flail crashing against the earth. Grymn dodged the pulverising smash of the hideous weapon. Lifting his warding lantern, he shone the holy light full up into the blemished eyes of his abominable foe.

Guthrax roared in agony, blinded by the divine light. Furious, he leaned downwards, trying to seize Grymn in a flabby claw. The Lord-Castellant braced himself. ‘Only the faithful,’ he vowed as he saw his opportunity. Firming his grip about the haft of his halberd, he thrust upwards with the weapon. Rotten flesh parted before the blade as he drove it deep into the Great Unclean One’s breast and impaled the diseased triple heart that throbbed within the obscene enormity.

Grymn ripped his weapon free and withdrew from his stricken foe. With a slobbering groan, the abominable bulk of Guthrax slammed face-first into the dirt. A final shudder and the daemon’s vitality abandoned his rapidly decaying carcass.

Grymn had no time to savour his triumph. A powerful blow sent him tumbling across the ground. Flat on his back, he looked up as the last of the Great Unclean Ones came waddling towards him, its blackened sword raised for a killing blow.

Before the daemon could strike, something flashed down from the sky above. Grymn felt his spirit soar as the Celestant-Prime hurtled back to the fray. Sigmar’s champion was returning to the battlefield. His wings seemed as if they were threads of lightning. His armour looked as though it were sheathed in flame. The head of Ghal Maraz burned with the brilliance of the sun, blinding in its majesty.

The Great Unclean One followed Grymn’s gaze. It was afforded the merest glimpse of its own doom in the instant before Ghal Maraz struck it down. Supercharged in the middle of the storm, the godhammer’s impact evaporated the daemon’s horned head, reducing it to naught but a steaming sizzle of pollution. The decapitated monster slammed down, decaying with the same intensity as the corpses of its brothers. The Celestant-Prime hovered above the vanquished abomination, his blazing wings fanning the air.

Shrieks of panic rose from the surviving daemons. With Guthrax and its kin destroyed, without the bindings of Slaugoth’s magic to hold them, the plagued throng began to dissipate, receding into the shadows rather than face the wrath of the Celestant-Prime.

Grymn looked up at the victorious hero, but already the Celestant-Prime was in motion. His fight with the daemons had been brief, but in even so slight a delay, the powers of darkness had been active. While they were destroying the Great Unclean Ones, the Stormcasts had presented an opportunity for their enemy to snatch a still greater victory from them.

Once there had been a great hero named Tornus, warrior-guardian of the Everdawn tribe, defender of the Lifewell upon which the very existence of his people had depended. He had been heralded as a scion of human perfection by his people, worshipped as an aspirational paragon to inspire the dreams and ambitions of king and druid alike. The desires of Tornus had been neither for wealth nor for glory. Improvement, the achievement of a greater and purer kind of perfection: this had been the vision that ruled his heart.

When the plaguehosts descended upon his people, Tornus had fought them to the very last. He had endured within the Pit of Filth, surviving upon the basest and barest of essentials. For a time, he had continued to cling to his ideals, his vision of perfection of body and spirit. Within the pit, however, his flesh began to decay, his body corrupted and defiled. With the contamination of his flesh, seeds of despair were sown in his mind. Through that despair, his soul was enslaved by Nurgle. Tornus the hero became Torglug the Despised.

In the depths of his hopelessness, Torglug reviled his old aspirations as naivety. There was no such perfection of body and soul as that which he had struggled to find. All a man could wrest from his existence was power. It was in might alone that a mortal exhibited his worth. Power, raw merciless force, was the only reality. Only through his capacity to conquer and destroy did a man prove his value to the gods.

Such were the truths Nurgle whispered to Torglug as he fell into despair. How long he had lived by the diseased mantra of the Plague God, he couldn’t remember, but there were times, moments of doubt, when a flicker of the man he had once been stirred within him. In such moments he looked upon the bloated, ghastly horror he had become, considered the atrocities he had exacted as tribute to the very power that had inflicted this fate upon him. He recognised the stubborn pride that drove him on for the madness it was. He understood how low he had fallen.

Seeing the Celestant-Prime, Torglug knew everything he’d been told was a lie. It was impossible to deny the majestic perfection of Sigmar’s champion as he struck out against the daemonic hosts of Nurgle. The aspirations that had stirred the heart of Tornus were possible. It would have been better for him to have perished in the Pit of Filth than to lose the hope that had once ennobled him.

Torglug staggered back to his feet, his body blasted and broken by the comet hurled down upon him by the Celestant-Prime. The warlord’s physical injuries were nothing beside the doubt that roared through his spirit. His fealty to Nurgle flickered, withering before the divine might of the Celestant-Prime.

The eye of Nurgle was yet upon His favoured champion, however, and He would not allow His slave to slip free of His domination so easily. The queen-seed was within Torglug’s grasp. All that was needed was a slight push, a tiny infusion of power, and the plaguelord would prevail.

From the heavens, malignant power once again descended upon Torglug, but this time it was to strengthen rather than destroy. A bilious shower rained down upon him from the poisoned sky, a stream of toxic contagion that seeped into his corrupt flesh. Broken bones were infused with abominable vitality and scorched skin hardened into leathery endurance. The thousand pains that wracked the warlord’s body were transformed into naked, brutal power, saturating his mind with images of carnage and destruction. Snatching his ghastly axe from the scorched earth, Torglug lifted his horned head and slobbered a renewed oath of fealty to his grisly god.

Around Torglug, the putrid blightkings likewise rose from the dissolution that had threatened them. Wherever the spark of life lingered, the profane infection of Nurgle’s obscene baptism revived flesh and corrupted soul. A gibbous light shone from the eyes of the warlord’s entourage as they surged once more to the attack.

The sylvaneth were before them, the wounds visited against them by Torglug’s first push regenerated by the healing radiance of the queen-seed. Limbs hacked away by the axes and swords of the blightkings had regrown, and bark gouged by the disciples of decay had knitted together. The decimated wargroves were restored, ready to defend the Lady of Vines and the sacred burden she bore.

It was an eerie battle as Torglug drove his retinue against the sylvaneth. Flushed with the obscene power of Nurgle, the putrid blightkings were walking engines of destruction. The wounds caused by the forest spirits regenerated as swiftly as the cuts they dealt in return. Two unkillable forces locked in merciless battle. Haldroot seized Goregus in his gnarled hands, lifting the blightlord high before applying a tremendous pressure that threatened to rend the warrior to pulp. Goregus, even as his body was tortured out of any semblance of shape, hacked away at the treelord, stripping away slivers of heartwood that were restored the instant his blade pulled free.

The malign might of Nurgle was invested too heavily in Torglug to be defied by the diminished energies of the Everqueen. Where Torglug’s axe struck the sylvaneth, a crust of corruption was left behind. Limbs shorn away by his blackened blade regrew as weak, twisted things, devoid of the strength to oppose him. While his bodyguard languished in futile conflict, Torglug was able to press on, driving a wedge deep within the ranks of the tree-creatures.

At last the warlord found himself cutting down the file of dryads surrounding the Lady of Vines. A guttural laugh drooled from behind his horned helm as Torglug found himself alone with the branchwraith. His three eyes focused upon the radiant glow of the queen-seed she clutched in her hand.

‘That is mine,’ he hissed. ‘Too long are you keeping it from me. You are cheating me of my prize no longer!’

Rushing forwards, Torglug brought his axe swinging around. The Lady of Vines expended some measure of her power, conjuring a web of thorns that erupted from the ground to ensnare her enemy. The vines wound about the warlord’s body, stabbing his flesh with their spines, but the impetus of his charge was barely blunted. He drove his swollen bulk through the thorns, defiant of the ruin wrought upon his body. This close to the prize he’d promised Nurgle, Torglug would not be denied.

The filthy axe of the Treecutter slammed into the branchwraith, ripping deep into her trunk. The Lady of Vines slashed at him with her claws, but even with the power of the Radiant Queen to empower her assault, it wasn’t enough to overcome Torglug. Gloating, the plaguelord brought his axe hewing down once more, chopping into the crown of branches atop the Lady of Vines’ head. Lifesap sprayed from the grisly wound. Propelled by the infernal might that rippled through Torglug’s polluted frame, the axe dug deep, splitting the branchwraith’s head, gouging a ruinous cut down the middle of her visage.

The Lady of Vines crumpled at Torglug’s feet. Down came the blackened axe once more, shearing through her arm and sending it rolling across the ground. Again the foul blade chopped into her, ripping through her trunk in a spray of gooey lifesap. Splinters of wood flew from her mangled body as the plaguelord hacked away at his beaten foe. All the frustration of his long hunt was visited upon the branchwraith. Each gash, each cut, was delivered with vengeance. When he had finished, the Lady of Vines had been reduced to a heap of kindling.

Torglug bellowed with delight as he reached down to rip the glowing queen-seed from where it lay amid the hewn remains of the Lady of Vines.

Before he could seize the prize Nurgle had coveted for so long, Torglug heard the rumbling fury of the remaining sylvaneth and the enraged shout of the surviving Stormcasts. Even as his pestilent fingers stretched down, doom descended upon Torglug the Despised.

Storming from the sky, the Celestant-Prime dived upon the bloated warlord. Crackling with the vengeful wrath of the God-King, Ghal Maraz came hurtling downwards at Torglug. He raised his fell axe to parry the two-handed blow, but the iridescent fury of the avenging angel would not be denied. The warhammer shattered Torglug’s foul axe, exploding the weapon in a spray of black sorcery and rusted shards. Ghal Maraz drove onwards, its momentum unimpaired by the destruction of Torglug’s blade. The plaguelord’s horned helm shattered like an egg as the hammer crashed down upon it, the head within reduced to a mire of diseased pulp. A filthy miasma of green vapour spilled from the carcass, sizzling and steaming as it stained the earth around the body.

Torglug slopped to the ground. From his ruptured head, a bright blue light leapt into the stormy sky, vanishing into the celestial tempest of Sigmar’s justice. A single peal of cosmic thunder boomed above Blackstone Summit. Nurgle’s favourite had found his doom.

Lord-Castellant Lorrus Grymn led the last of the Hallowed Knights towards the broken husk that had been the Lady of Vines. Giomachus and the surviving Knights Excelsior maintained the battle line, falling back towards the ruined sylvaneth formations while keeping the remaining plague warriors at bay. The Celestant-Prime, after defeating Torglug, returned to the battle, hurling the awesome might of his vengeance against the enemy ranks.

The sylvaneth stood around their lost leader, mourning her in their sombre fashion. Strangely, none of the tree-creatures had moved to take the queen-seed from the branchwraith’s hand. Instead they were forming into a defensive ring around the body of their fallen mistress. The great treelord Haldroot noted the approach of Grymn. There was a look of acceptance in the creature’s gaze now, a mark of respect for how keenly Grymn had tried to fight on their behalf.

Grymn looked down upon the fading light of the queen-seed, and wondered whether Alarielle could ever be safe here. What if another and mightier plaguehost descended upon Blackstone Summit before her powers were replenished? Could the Ruinous Powers be defeated a second time?

Grymn cast his questioning gaze across the faces of Lord-Relictor Morbus, Prosecutor-Prime Tegrus and all the other Hallowed Knights who had survived the long campaign. Tallon, limping to his master’s side, turned and growled at the battle yet raging on the plateau.

The Lord-Castellant was happy to see his companion again, but he took more than comfort from the gryph-hound’s simple display of devotion and service. Tallon didn’t question the shadows of the future. For him, the demands of the moment were all that mattered.

‘Liberator-Prime Agrippa!’ Grymn called out. ‘Form a shield wall ahead of the sylvaneth! Judicators, take position at the flanks! Prosecutors, support the Knights Excelsior!’

As his warriors hastened to carry out his commands, Grymn took his place among the Liberators, the light of his warding lantern shining upon them, reinvigorating them. This was their purpose, to defend the innocent against the ravages of Chaos. They would not stray from that purpose. For as long as Sigmar asked it of them, they would hold back the tide of darkness and keep safe the ember of hope than shone within the Everqueen’s soulpod.

Victory was measured in moments, but enough moments bound together would build the future.

Montarch of Night

Josh Reynolds

The Prisoner of the Black Sun

I still endure.

I still stand.

This realm is mine.

Spiders have spun their webs across my eyes, and worms burrow in my chest. But I still live. I yet stand against my enemies. I shall always do so, for I can do naught else. My will gutters and flares, like a fire newly stoked. The Great Necromancer awakens.

I still endure.

The Three-Eyed King crushed the ranks of my servants. His daemon-blade shattered my bones, and cleaved my heart in two. My rites and magics were torn asunder, my power broken on the altar of fate. My body was left to the dust, and to the dust I returned. My soul fell shrieking into the darkness as a black comet, streaking across the underworld, and the impact of it cracked the roots of this world.

I still endure.

Nagashizzar is toppled. Its great towers and basalt pillars are dust. Where it once stood, there is now only broken earth; in the streets where a thousand warriors marched, the only sound to be heard is the wailing of jackals.

Yet I still endure.

I have pulled down the sun, cracking the seals of the underworld, and dried the seas and burned the grasses. I have humbled my enemies and cast the earth into the sky, walking to and fro in the deep places, and still I am returned.

Nagash has risen.

Something stirs in the wild places of all that which is mine. Some power, stinking of the storm, comes slinking into my demesnes. I sit upon my throne in starless Stygxx and feel it rising all about me, drawing to it that which is mine. Souls slip my grasp, spirits flee my voice. Thieves and invaders stalk my realm. They think me gone.

I still endure.

Heed me. Listen to my words, those of you who have the wit to hear. The Realm of Death is my body. Its caverns are my bones, its peaks my crown. The realm is as large as my word, as small as my wish. I bestride the seas of the east, and shatter the mountains of the west. My throne is in the north, and my shadow in the south. Wherever you so seek, I am there. Wherever you make worship, so Nagash strides.

Whosoever believes in me, whosoever follows my will, the will of Nagash, shall prosper. I have awakened, and my enemies shall know my name again. Seek out my foes, and make them yours. Seek out these thieves, and take from them as they have taken from me.

Hear me. Heed me.

Listen, and be joyful.

Nagash is all, and all are one in Nagash.

Nagash has risen.

Tarsus, Lord-Celestant of the Hallowed Knights, gave voice to a full-throated bellow. He brought his hammer down on the crimson helm of a howling bloodreaver and the warrior fell, its skull split in two. Tarsus whirled to open the belly of a second opponent, the sword he held in his other hand slashing in a deadly arc. His weapons crackled with holy lightning as he struck out left and right, dropping foemen with every blow.

‘Who will be victorious?’ he roared.

‘Only the faithful,’ came the reply, from the small host of Stormcasts that streamed in his wake. Liberators, Prosecutors, Judicators and Retributors — all were clad in star-forged sigmarite, and bearing weapons of the same material. Their panoply of war gleamed silver where it was not rich gold. Their shoulder guards bore their sigil — the curling white slashes of a bull’s horns — and, like their heavy shields, were of deepest regal blue. The weapons they carried shimmered with holy fire. Now, they swept them out to smash down any enemy who managed to avoid the attention of their Lord-Celestant.

He stepped over the body of a bloodreaver and looked ahead. Through the ranks of the enemy, the path they had been following since they had arrived some days previous was visible. Sigmar had cast his lightning down upon the shattered husk of a once-proud citadel, now overgrown with grey lichen and nodding, vast-rooted trees. A carpet of yellowing grass had clung to the cracked stones of the courtyard, obscuring the heaps of bones that clustered thickly throughout. The thunderous arrival of the Stormcasts in the Vale of Sorrows had set thousands of crows to flight, and a black cloud of the croaking birds had followed them ever since.

The path ahead had previously been a road, but was now mostly overgrown with the stiff, yellow grasses that seemed to cover this region. Ancient ruins and shattered hovels stretched out across the landscape to either side of the path. At one time there had been a city here. Now it was only a howling wilderness full of enemies and carrion birds.

‘Who shall win Sigmar’s favour?’ Tarsus cried, swinging his hammer over his head. He brought it down on a bloodreaver with bone-shattering force. With his sword, he chopped through the deplorable icon the blood-cultist had borne and trampled it beneath his feet.

‘Only the faithful,’ the Stormcasts around him shouted, as one.

‘Only the faithful,’ Tarsus echoed as he whipped his sword around in a deadly pattern, splitting the gullets of the enemy who pressed close. He smashed the dying bloodreavers aside, using his greater weight to grind them under.

Tarsus’ warriors called him the Bull-Heart, a name earned at the Battle of the Cerulean Shore, when Tarsus had crashed in amongst the enemy ranks with a ferocity few could equal. It was a fitting war-name for both he and his Warrior Chamber, and they bore it with pride. Their swords were as horns, their hammers were as hooves, and they employed both against the enemies of Sigmar in equal measure.

‘Smash them,’ he bellowed. ‘Grind them under, in the name of Sigmar and the Realm Celestial!’

Bodies littered his path as he drove forward, into the very teeth of the foe. The bloodreavers were maniacs, but mortal, and none who were such could stand before Tarsus. He was a Stormcast Eternal, and in him flowed the might of Sigmar Heldenhammer. He roared and stamped, battering opponents from his path as he led the way towards the knot of heavily armoured blood warriors that formed the raging heart of the enemy battle line. The latter charged to meet him, chanting the name of the Blood God as they smashed aside their own followers in their eagerness to come to grips with the Hallowed Knights.

‘Who will be remembered?’ Tarsus cried.

‘Only the faithful,’ thundered his Stormcasts as the leading retinues of Liberators came to grips with the blood warriors. Spread out in a line, they closely followed the vanguard of Retributors and Decimators led by their Lord-Celestant.

Tarsus caught one of the blood warriors in the belly with his shoulder, and flipped the frothing berserker over his back even as he plunged on without slowing. The hammer of a Retributor from one of the retinues marching behind him slammed down, ensuring that the blood warrior remained where he’d fallen. Tarsus caught a second across the head with his hammer, and rammed his sword into the belly of a third, plunging it all the way to the hilt. His blade became lodged in the baroque plates of the blood warrior’s armour, forcing him to spend precious moments wrenching it free. Even as he did so, a saw-toothed axe crashed down on his shoulder plate.

The force of the blow drove him to one knee. A second blow clipped his head, and he teetered off balance. Brass and crimson shapes surrounded him, and axes covered in daemonic sigils chopped down. For every one he turned aside two caught him, drawing sparks from the sigmarite plates. No blow had yet pierced his armour, but it was only a matter of time.

‘Hold fast, Bull-Heart,’ a voice thundered.

Lightning speared down, washing over Tarsus and his attackers. He grinned fiercely as the blood warriors shuddered and jerked in the clutches of the storm. Smoke boiled from their mouths and eye sockets, and what flesh was visible beneath their armour was charred black.

Tarsus surged to his feet and caught one of the smoke-wreathed blood warriors beneath the chin with his hammer. The warrior pitched backwards and then lay still. Tarsus hacked another down and turned to greet his rescuer. ‘Nicely done, Ramus,’ he said. ‘A few more moments and I might have been sorely pressed indeed.’

‘Think on that, the next time you find yourself so eager to meet the foe that you outpace the rest of us,’ the Lord-Relictor of the Bull-Hearts said. ‘There are not so many of us that we can spare you, Tarsus.’

Like all those of his rank, Ramus of the Shadowed Soul bore weapons and armour replete with icons of faith, death and the storm. It fell to him to keep the souls of the Hallowed Knights of his Warrior Chamber from the gloom of the underworld with words and fire.

Tarsus nodded. ‘I shall. But for now — show them your power, my friend.’

Ramus raised his reliquary and murmured a soft prayer, his words lost amidst the clangour of battle. The sky overhead was already dark, and roiled and jagged as spears of lightning struck the enemy, burning them to ash or reducing them to stumbling, screaming torches. Tarsus raised his hammer, bringing his Stormcasts to a halt as the lightning continued to strike again and again, until all was silent, save for the soft crackle of flames.

‘Who will be victorious?’ Tarsus murmured, as he gently tapped his Lord-Relictor on the shoulder with his hammer.

‘Only the faithful,’ Ramus intoned, glancing at Tarsus. ‘The road ahead is clear, Lord-Celestant. We are free to continue our march.’

‘Indeed, and we shouldn’t tarry,’ Tarsus said, as he signalled for his retinues to fall into a proper marching order.

The Stormcasts swung fluidly into position with an ease born of centuries of training. Liberators moved to the fore and flanks, encircling the Judicators, while the Prosecutors swooped overhead. The retinues of the winged warriors would range ahead of the host as it marched, keeping a keen eye out for any more would-be ambushers.

Not that such a tactic had succeeded yet, and nor would it if Tarsus had anything to say about it. Had he been anything other than a Stormcast Eternal, he might have taken the continued attacks for an omen, but fear had been burned out of him long ago and left only faith in its wake. He and his warriors were heroes, their valour proven in battles all but forgotten in the haze of their reforging. The Hallowed Knights had been the fourth Stormhost to be founded, the ranks of their Warrior Chambers filled with the faithful of the Mortal Realms. Their only commonality was that each had called upon Sigmar’s name in battle — and been heard — and that each had shed his mortal flesh in the name of a righteous cause.

Tarsus could but dimly recall the days of his own mortality. He remembered the weight of his sword and armour, and the rustle of a war cloak of deepest purple. He remembered screaming himself hoarse on the stone battlements of a burning citadel as red, lean-limbed daemons scrambled up the walls and across the causeways towards him and those he led. He remembered a name — Tarsem — and a word — Helstone — and the moment a monstrous shadow had fallen across him and the air had writhed beneath the beat of great wings. Then a roar, and… nothing. Nothing until he’d awoken in Sigmaron, forged anew.

That was the way of it, and Tarsus was glad. His enemies had not changed, but now he had the power to meet them, and break them. He was Stormcast, and they would learn to fear that name, before the end. His reverie was soon broken by Ramus.

‘This is a fell place,’ Ramus said, as he and Tarsus led the host.

‘Parts of it, yes,’ Tarsus said. He thought of the things they’d seen since arriving: strange hourglass-shaped mountains that rose along the far horizon, and clumps of pale flowers that softly sighed when one walked past them.

‘A land of endings and silent decay,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘This is a place of whispers, where forgotten ghosts wander roads and paths that lead nowhere. A place where mountains crumble only to be raised anew with the sun, and birds and beasts are born and die in the same day. All is in decline here, though I know not whether it is the doing of our foes or the dread master of this realm.’ He looked at Tarsus. ‘Do you think he will listen?’

‘I do not know,’ Tarsus said. ‘Nagash betrayed Sigmar once. Mayhap he will do so again. But that is not for us to worry over… Our concern is to gain audience with him and make common cause, so that we might begin to wrest this realm from the enemy.’

‘But first we have to find him in this wilderness,’ Ramus said.

They had been searching for a way into the underworld since their arrival — one of the legendary Nine Gates into the underworld of Stygxx. The Great Necromancer had vanished, disappeared into the depths where none could find him. But Sigmar had set his scribes the centuries-long task of scouring the ancient records, compiled long before the Allpoints War, for any hint of where the Nine Gates might be. That knowledge had been passed on to the Stormcasts charged with seeking out Nagash. The Nine Gates had been housed in nine citadels, some massive and well-defended, and others so small as to be forever hidden from the eyes of the enemy. Nine Warrior Chambers had been despatched to find these structures and the gates secreted within their walls.

So far the gates had proven elusive, but Tarsus had hope; Sigmar would not have sent them to this place were victory not achievable. A gate was within reach, somewhere. And they would find it.

The trail grew rougher and steeper as the Stormcasts marched on, leaving the detritus of battle far behind them, winding through verdant fields that withered in the moonlight only to flourish once more as the sun rose, and trees that shuddered and sighed in the slightest of breezes. The sky overhead was pale and dim, even in the middle of the day, as if the sun feared to show its face in the Realm of Death. The crows were still overhead, circling and wheeling amongst the Prosecutors as they swooped above on wings of lightning.

‘Aye,’ Tarsus said. ‘And we will do so, even if we must fight our way across this land to do it.’ They had come into conflict with the deranged servants of the Ruinous Powers more than once since their arrival. The worshippers of the Blood God were as thick as fleas in the crags around them. The Realm of Death was under siege, and every peak and valley was infested with the followers of the Dark Gods. He shook his head. ‘Though I’d not turn down aid in that regard, if it were offered.’

A cry from above caught his attention, and Tarsus looked up. One of the Prosecutors swooped low and pointed towards a rocky outcrop that rose abruptly from the surrounding landscape, towering over the bare trees.

‘Something ahead — a structure of some sort at the top,’ he cried. Tarsus waved them forward, the winged warriors hurtling into the distance, towards the dome-roofed ruin that occupied the summit of the tor.

‘Another ruin,’ Ramus said.

‘And perhaps a way into the underworld,’ Tarsus said. He raised his hammer, signalling to his retinues. ‘Liberators to the flanks, shields out,’ he said, his voice carrying over the gleaming ranks of his Warrior Chamber.

Liberator retinues moved to the flanks of the formation, shields at the ready, in case there was an ambush in the offing. If it were the place they sought, it could be defended and such a place might well provide refuge for warbands like the ones that had relentlessly attacked them since their arrival. With a single gesture from Tarsus, shields raised over the heads of the Stormcasts and to the sides, transforming the Stormhost into a veritable serpent of sigmarite. Their protection allowed them to weather arrows, rocks and even sorcery as they moved. Satisfied, Tarsus swung his hammer towards the ruin.

‘Forward,’ he bellowed.

A wide path wound around the outcrop and led to the top. Tarsus led the way, and saw that the path ahead was lined with skulls as he rounded the slope. Mounted on spikes of brass and iron, the skulls twitched and champed yellow, cracked teeth, as if in protestation of their fate. Bones were scattered below them, mixed with bits of rusty armour and broken weapons, and piled up in drifts alongside the path. Tarsus stared at the skulls, pity warring with disgust. ‘They still live,’ Tarsus murmured. ‘Even now.’

‘No, Tarsus,’ Ramus said. ‘They do not. And that is the horror of it. Nothing in this realm ever truly dies, even now,’ he said, looking at the skulls. ‘Their souls are bound here, in chains of magic of the darkest sort.’

Tarsus shook his head. ‘Keep moving,’ he called over his shoulder.

More bones awaited them at the summit of the tor. They were scattered and in piles — some whole, though most cracked and broken. Crows hopped among the heaps, cawing to one another. Everywhere dolorous icons and foul standards, marked with sigils of murder and slaughter, had been stabbed into the rocky slope. Jawbones and finger bones hung from many of these, softly clattering in the breeze.

‘We are not the first to come here,’ Ramus said.

‘No,’ Tarsus replied.

The structure crouched ahead of them, partially built into the massive fang-like crag of rock that topped the outcrop, and resembled nothing so much as a dome. Its walls curved outward in an immense semicircle from the crag, dominating the slope below despite the ragged gaps in their length. A curved roof surmounted the walls, resting in the crook of the crag, crows circling it in great numbers. Vast symbols had been carved into the outer walls — symbols representing the sun, moon, stars and other, more esoteric shapes.

‘It’s as large as any citadel I’ve seen,’ Tarsus said. ‘Though in worse condition than most.’ Despite the state of it, he could see that it had taken great skill to shape the stone. Sundials and dry fountains decorated the courtyard, and Tarsus thought that it might once have been a beautiful place before the occurrence of whatever evil had befallen it. As Tarsus studied it, he felt a pang of something — sadness, perhaps, or the twitch of some long forgotten memory, newly stirred — and his hands tightened on his weapons.

‘I have seen this place before,’ he murmured.

‘Lord-Celestant?’ Ramus asked.

Tarsus shook his head, irritated. ‘I’m fine. This place — there is something about it.’ Overhead, the Prosecutors had dropped onto the dome, scattering the crows, who croaked in agitation. The Stormcasts moved into the ruins and through the remains of what had once been an outer wall, collapsed for many years into irregular piles of stones and shattered columns.

Tarsus left several retinues of Judicators and Liberators on guard in the courtyard and led the rest of his warriors into the ruin. More bones greeted them inside the gargantuan entrance hall: crushed, splintered and scattered about at random. The entrance itself was composed of heavy stone slabs, marked by more symbols — suns and moons, comets and falling stars, all carefully carved into the rock face.

Tarsus traced one of the latter with his fingers as he passed, wondering why it all seemed so familiar.

‘What was this place?’ he asked, as he gazed up at the faded mural that had been painted on the curve of the roof above, depicting a vast field of stars and a black-cloaked scythe-wielding figure hard at work, reaping a cosmic crop.

‘An observatory, perhaps,’ Ramus said, looking around. ‘There are places in the Nihiliad Mountains that this reminds me of. They were places of contemplation, for stargazers and sky-worshippers, maybe this is one. This outcrop is the highest point in the vale — a perfect place to watch the night sky.’

‘Perhaps, but watch it for what?’ Tarsus said. ‘The stars in this realm are all askew, and the night sky is in upheaval.’

‘It was not always so,’ Ramus said. He gestured to the strange carvings that marked the walls. Tarsus thought they resembled the star-fields depicted in the mural above. ‘I suspect that these are the patterns of the stars as they were, before the coming of Chaos.’

‘As they could be again,’ Tarsus replied. He pointed down the corridor with his hammer. ‘There. The central chamber.’ He moved through the archway at the end of the hall and into the heart of the observatory. Despite its outward facade, the observatory was, in reality, merely a single, immense room.

The central chamber was massive — easily large enough to accommodate a hundred men — with high vaulted ceilings that curved upward to meet at a central open skylight of stone. Crows clustered about the circumference of the skylight, staring down at the Stormcasts below. A massive dais occupied the centre of the chamber, directly beneath the stone. Sloped, circular steps led upwards to an enormous wheel-like orrery, crafted from black iron and made in the shape of a sun. The orrery was larger than three men, and its colossal rings were spread outward, so that the dull light from above streamed down through the holes in them, casting weird shadows upon the walls and floor of the chamber.

Ramus gazed at the orrery. ‘More stars,’ he said, his voice echoing through the chamber. ‘The holes in the iron correspond to the patterns on the walls. This used to be a place of study and contemplation.’ He sounded almost wistful.

‘Now it is nothing save a curiosity,’ Tarsus said, looking around.

As with the rocky slopes outside, the floor of the chamber was obscured by broken bones and scattered pieces of armour. All the walls were covered in faded murals and tenacious lichen, except one that was occupied solely by a basket-hilted sword, wedged deep into the stone. Dead clumps of the lichen marked the floor beneath the blade, and the steel had turned cracked and powdery where it had touched the stone. Something about the blade bothered him. He felt a chill, though he could not say why.

‘We should go. I was wrong, there is nothing for us here,’ he said.

‘Tarsus, wait. Look at the orrery,’ Ramus called out. Tarsus turned towards the great dais and peered at the orrery. He blinked, startled. There was something caught in the rings. No, not caught, he realised; trapped. He hadn’t seen it before, because it had been hidden by the rings. But now, he could see it clearly.

Quickly he climbed the dais, Ramus one step behind him. ‘It’s a man,’ Tarsus said.

‘Alive?’ Ramus asked. Around the dais, the Stormcasts spread throughout the chamber. Though they were wary, they were curious about this realm and all it held. Many of them, after all, might have stood in this very chamber in centuries past. They might even have died in its defence, or in defence of any one of the great and shattered citadels thrust up from the dry sod of these lands like scattered tombstones.

‘I do not think so,’ Tarsus said, softly. The orrery moved, albeit very slowly, clicking and creaking along its runnel, and allowed the sunlight to flow through the holes in the iron. The man’s body was held aloft by brass spikes hammered through his wrists and into the curve of one of the orrery’s rings, leaving him to dangle within a makeshift cage. Dried blood coated the marble flesh of his bare arms and head, staining the ornate armour he wore on his torso and legs. Wounds marked his arms and face. His armour too was marked, and by many weapons. A tattered crimson cloak was pooled on the ground at his feet, as if it had been ripped from him and then summarily discarded. The body stank of blood and death, and the aquiline features were slack.

Something about the dead man’s face held Tarsus’ attention. It was not familiar, and yet… was. Were you there, in that final battle when I proved my worth to Sigmar? But how could that be, for that was centuries ago, the Lord-Celestant thought.

‘Help me move these rings.’ Tarsus caught hold of the outer ring and began to push it back, so that the others folded into it. The metal squealed as rusted joints and hinges were propelled into motion. ‘We must release him,’ he said, looking at Ramus. ‘Whoever he was, no man deserves such a fate.’

Ramus did not question him, and together the two Stormcast Eternals managed to move the ancient mechanism so that the body was no longer trapped out of reach.

Ramus caught hold of the dead man’s jaw and looked to Tarsus. ‘These wounds on his flesh — the followers of the Blood God are known for their brutality to those taken in battle. Perhaps he had the ill luck to be taken alive…’

‘Come… closer… and mayhap… I shall tell you.’

Tarsus drew his sword as the stink of old blood washed over them. ‘Ramus, beware,’ he said.

The body twitched in its bonds. Metal scraped metal, and the battered head rose, eyes red and alight with a terrible need. Quicker than either Stormcast could react, the thing’s feet suddenly slid up to brace against the curve of the ring, and the body lunged forward, held in check only by its pinned wrists.

Bones popped and shifted hideously as it snapped long fangs together, just shy of Ramus’ face. The Lord-Relictor stepped back, hammer ready, as the thing thrashed wildly, biting at the air in a frenzy. Around the dais Stormcasts snapped to attention, weapons raised. A retinue of Decimators began to move towards the dais, axes ready to chop the creature apart. Tarsus waved them back.

‘Hold,’ he rumbled. ‘Stand fast.’ Whatever this thing was, he was confident that he and the Lord-Relictor would be enough to handle it.

‘Enough,’ Ramus said. His hammer snapped out, catching the thing in the stomach, and knocking it from its perch. It squalled as it fell and the spikes tore its flesh. It dangled, shuddering, then coughed and looked up.

‘Haaaa…’ The vulpine jaws sagged, and a bloody stink swept over Tarsus again. The red eyes faded to orange, then yellow, and the tension drained from the dangling shape. ‘Do… do forgive me, I am… I am not at my best,’ the thing croaked.

Tarsus extended his hammer and used it to lift the creature’s head. ‘What are you?’

Even as he asked the question, he realised that he knew the answer. Vampire. The word was jostled loose from the depths of his memory. Had he encountered such creatures before, in his previous life?

Withered lips peeled back from long fangs, and the vampire gave a rattling laugh. ‘A better question might be… what are you?’ One sunken eye narrowed. ‘I smell… storms and clean water. You are not mortal men.’

‘Not for a long time,’ Tarsus said.

‘The same might be said of me, I suppose,’ the vampire rasped.

‘What is your name?’

‘What use is a name, when one is bound thus?’ The creature twitched its thin fingers, causing the brass spikes to screech against the iron rim of the orrery. It winced, in obvious pain. ‘If you release me, perhaps I shall tell you, eh? How curious are you?’

‘Not enough to release a monster,’ Tarsus said, lowering his hammer. ‘Vampires are not to be trusted. They lie as easily as other men breathe, and treachery festers in their veins.’ Even as he spoke, he wondered where the words came from. They felt familiar on his tongue, as if he’d spoken them before. Helstone — the word floated to the surface of his mind.

‘Then kill me,’ the vampire croaked. ‘I would be free of this place one way or another.’ The creature peered at Tarsus, and then gave a harsh chuckle. ‘Unless you lack the fortitude to do so, Stormcast?’

Tarsus’ eyes narrowed. The old, faded memories receded, as suspicion flared. He traded a glance with Ramus, and then replied, ‘I thought you didn’t know what we were.’

‘Did I say that?’ the vampire said. ‘I merely asked a question. The implications thereof were of your creation.’ He showed his fangs. ‘I know what you are, well enough.’

‘Why were you here?’ Tarsus demanded. ‘Speak plainly, or I will leave you here for the carrion birds,’ he said, gesturing to the crows gathered above.

‘Implying… what? That if I answer truthfully you’ll free me?’

‘Enough of this,’ Ramus said. He looked at Tarsus. ‘We have wasted enough time here, bandying words with a talkative corpse. Let us leave this place, Bull-Heart.’ He started down the steps. Tarsus turned to follow.

‘Wait.’

Tarsus turned.

‘I was looking for something.’ The vampire grimaced. ‘A gateway into Stygxx.’ He smiled, though there was little humour in the expression. ‘I was looking for a way… home.’ His hands twitched, and the smile twisted into a snarl of pain.

‘Where is it?’ Ramus demanded.

‘Why do you care?’

‘We seek an audience with the Great Necromancer,’ Tarsus said.

The vampire blinked.

‘With Nagash?’ he hissed, in evident disbelief. ‘Are you mad?’

Tarsus frowned. ‘No. But we have a duty, and we will fulfil it or die in the attempt.’

‘Yes, one or the other is quite likely. Both, even more so,’ the vampire said. He shook his head. ‘I was right. You are mad. Leave me, madmen. Let me rot in peace.’

‘Did you find the gate?’ Tarsus demanded.

The vampire snorted and closed his eyes. ‘No,’ the vampire said. ‘Before I could do so, I was set upon by a servant of the Blood God calling himself the Woebringer. He and that pack of beasts he calls a warband cast down my servants, and bound me here. They thought it amusing, given my nature, to imprison me inside a sun, black iron or otherwise.’

‘Why not simply kill you?’

The vampire’s smile widened. ‘How can you kill what is already dead?’ The smile faded. ‘In truth, I think they took my durability as a challenge…’

Tarsus’ eyes strayed to the many wounds that covered the vampire’s exposed flesh and the blood that stained the dais. ‘They tortured you,’ he said.

‘They are torturing me,’ the vampire hissed. ‘Every few days. The sunlight, weak as it is, and a lack of blood have kept me dangling here — a prisoner of mindless brutes. I have no doubt you’ve encountered the Woebringer’s foraging parties — he sends them out, looking for worthy prey, while the rest of the warband wanders about these hills, fighting anyone and anything they come across, including others of their ilk. When that gets boring, he comes here and carves his name on my flesh.’ The vampire grinned suddenly, and his eyes flashed with amusement. ‘In fact, he’s due any moment now, I’d say.’

The sound of horns suddenly echoed through the chamber.

‘Lord-Celestant, the enemy approaches,’ one of the Prosecutors called from the dome above.

‘How many?’ Tarsus asked. Inwardly, he cursed his inattention to priorities. He’d failed to send the Prosecutors to scout the area around them, and now the enemy was almost upon them.

‘Twice our number, easily,’ came the reply. ‘They’re climbing the eastern slope, and with war-beasts.’

‘Khorgoraths,’ the vampire hissed. ‘Ugly brutes, and hard to kill. The Woebringer quite likes his pets. Dotes on the beasts.’

‘Then we shall make ready for them. Ramus, fortify this chamber for war. It is no keep, but it must do,’ Tarsus said.

‘And what of you, Lord-Celestant?’ Ramus asked.

‘I wish to see the enemy’s strength and disposition for myself,’ Tarsus said, striding towards the largest of the gaps in the wall. As he did so, the Stormcasts he had left outside streamed into the observatory, as their training dictated. The enemy outnumbered them, and only proper discipline would ensure the Bull-Hearts’ victory.

‘Hold,’ Tarsus said, casting his voice to carry over the clatter of sigmarite plates. ‘Shields to the vanguard. Sigmar has provided the room, let us make use of it. Who will hold, when the daemon-winds rage?’

‘Only the faithful,’ his Stormcasts cried. Liberators turned and sank to one knee in the gaps until a low hedge of shields lined each one. Soon more retinues joined them, dropping the bottom rims of their shields atop those of their brethren, creating an improvised wall. Tarsus stepped forward into an opening the Stormcasts provided for him and surveyed the approaching enemy.

‘By the Realm Celestial,’ Tarsus muttered, as he looked out over the brawling horde. Foul standards rose over seething ranks of howling barbarians and armoured blood warriors. Their numbers dwarfed the small warbands they’d encountered earlier in their travels. This was a horde, in the truest sense of the word. Worst of all were the chained monsters — the khorgoraths — that bellowed and thrashed amidst the mortal warriors, including those who prodded and whipped their charges, driving them into a frenzy.

Despite the clamour of these monstrosities, Tarsus found his eye drawn to a lean, loping shape. The creature was made not of flesh, but of dark metal and other, less identifiable things. Its bat-like features were twisted in an expression of inhuman agony, and he could see that it was held in check by brass chains and festooned with ruinous icons. A febrile steam rose from its twitching, catlike form as it stalked forward, goaded by a number of bloodstokers who continuously slashed its flanks with barbed whips and prods.

‘What in the name of the great drake is that?’ he murmured.

‘Its name is Ashigaroth,’ the vampire called out, weakly. He had overheard him, somehow.

Tarsus glanced over his shoulder. The vampire wasn’t looking at him, but he noted something in the voice. ‘What is it?’ he asked Ramus.

‘Mine,’ the vampire hissed.

‘A dread abyssal,’ Ramus said, as he joined Tarsus at the wall. ‘They are things of darkness, bound by necromancy.’ He looked at the vampire. ‘He is no mere pilgrim.’

‘No, but I can be of service to you… Free me and I shall aid you,’ the vampire said.

‘We do not need your aid,’ Ramus began. Tarsus waved him to silence, and looked back out over the slope of the tor. The ranks of the enemy stirred, and a broad, muscular shape pushed its way through, dragging a screeching khorgorath in its wake. The warrior was no mere bloodreaver, Tarsus knew. No, he was of the elite — a champion of the Ruinous Powers. His skull was surmounted by great, curling horns and his thick chest, where the armour did not cover his flesh, was branded with the sigils of the Blood God. He carried a wide-bladed axe in his free hand, and the arm that held the monster’s chains was protected by a heavy gauntlet topped by claw-like blades.

‘I am Tarka Woebringer,’ the Chaos champion roared. ‘Exalted amongst all deathbringers, and master of a hundred beasts.’ The khorgorath whose chains he held slavered and gnashed at the air. The champion hauled back on the chains, fighting to keep the beast from breaking loose. ‘This is my place, earned with the red coin of crushed shield and splintered spear. Who are you to walk these stones without my permission?’

‘He’s a talkative one,’ Ramus said, one foot braced on the broken wall, the haft of his hammer resting across his knee.

‘The more he talks, the more time we have to make ready,’ Tarsus said.

‘I know you, for you reek of lightning, and word travels quickly on the roads of ruin,’ the Woebringer continued. ‘The Blood God will smile on me for delivering up your skulls. Aye, and the skull of my slave as well, for I’ve grown tired of cutting his ever-healing flesh.’ The khorgorath roared and shuffled forward, dragging Tarka a few steps. The champion laughed. ‘Bloodswiller is eager to sup on your entrails, silver-skins. He and his brothers did for the vampire’s bony servants, and they’ll do for you as well — go, Bloodswiller!’ Tarka released the chains and stepped back, as the monster surged forward.

It was not alone in its mad charge across the broken courtyard that separated the Stormcasts from their foes. From behind the Woebringer, several more of the beasts plunged past, freed from their chains by Tarka’s oncoming warriors. The khorgoraths bounded through the rubble, covering the distance more swiftly than any man or Stormcast. Tarsus’ Prosecutors hurtled down, hammers whirling from their hands to strike with meteoric force. One of the khorgoraths stumbled and fell, its crimson flesh puckered by smoking impact craters.

‘Shields up,’ Tarsus roared, as the first of the monsters thundered towards the gaps in the observatory wall, smashing aside a sundial in its haste.

Liberators were thrown back as the khorgorath barrelled into them. Hammers thudded into its flesh, and warblades bit at its flanks, but it refused to fall. The shield wall disintegrated into flying bodies as the rest of the monsters tore at their foes.

‘Ramus,’ Tarsus said.

‘At your command, Lord-Celestant,’ Ramus cried, as he thrust his reliquary forward. Lightning crackled about the standard, and then sprang forth in a blinding flash to strike the beast in the chest. The khorgorath stiffened and shrieked.

‘Judicators,’ Tarsus roared. Boltstorm crossbows hummed, and explosive bolts peppered the monster, dropping it to its knees. Liberators swarmed over it, hammers rising and falling in deadly rhythm. Tarsus looked around. Two more of the beasts were locked in combat with the Decimator and Retributor retinues just inside the chamber, and a third was still outside of the observatory, swiping blindly at the swooping forms of the Prosecutors who were holding its attention. But the last, the beast the Woebringer had named Bloodswiller, was charging across the observatory floor towards Ramus, whose attention was on the creatures fighting his Decimator bodyguards.

Tarsus moved to intercept the beast. Hearing the monster’s approach, Ramus turned, but not quickly enough. Bloodswiller’s talons smashed down, knocking the Stormcast Eternal from his feet, his reliquary clattering from his grip. Ramus rolled aside as the khorgorath stomped down, but even as he came to his feet, hammer raised, the monster caught him and lifted him up.

‘Unhand him, beast,’ Tarsus snarled, as he reached them.

His hammer crashed against Bloodswiller’s back, but before he could strike a second blow, the creature backhanded him hard enough to rattle his armour. He was sent flying backwards and crashed down on the dais, cracking the stone. As a Decimator tried to hack through the wrist of the claw holding Ramus, Bloodswiller screeched and tore an unlucky Stormcast apart. It slung the Lord-Relictor down, battering him against the floor and wall.

Ramus’ struggles grew weaker, and none of the nearby warriors could land a telling blow against the frenzied beast to free him. Blue bursts of lightning, spearing upwards towards the heavens, attested to the fate of those who tried. The monster was faster than it looked, and stronger than its kindred.

Tarsus pulled himself to his feet, and readied himself to lunge back into the fray.

‘I can save him,’ he heard someone say. He looked up to see the unsmiling vampire gazing down at him from where he hung.

‘I am faster than you, even now, and stronger,’ the vampire said. ‘You will not get close to it before it kills either you or your friend. More, I owe that particular beast for the blow that landed me here, in such a humiliating state. I can save him, Stormcast — free me. Or die. It matters not to me.’

Tarsus did not hesitate. He spun and brought his sword down, slicing through the rings of the orrery. It toppled forward, and as it did so Tarsus dropped his weapons and caught it with a grunt of effort. Swiftly, he wrenched the brass spikes free of the vampire’s flesh, and the creature fell to the dais in a crouch as Tarsus chucked the orrery aside. The vampire glanced up at him. Then, with an eyeblink, he was suddenly at the far wall where the sword Tarsus had seen earlier was embedded.

As swift as lightning, the vampire tore the blade free of the wall and sprang towards Bloodswiller. The great crimson brute roared and swung a thickly muscled arm, but the vampire dodged the blow, and, with two hands, drove his blade down into the flesh between the beast’s shoulder and neck. The sword’s blade flared with unholy power, and a crimson steam spurted from the wound. The khorgorath shrieked and flailed, trying to fling the vampire loose. It dropped Ramus and Tarsus charged forward, weapons at the ready.

‘Well, what are you waiting for, fools?’ the vampire snarled. ‘Help me kill this thing.’

Tarsus lunged forward. His hammer crashed against one of the Bloodswiller’s bone-studded knees, splintering it. The beast shrilled and sank down, still clawing futilely at the vampire, who held tight to his perch on its shoulder. The vampire hissed and gave the hilt of his sword a vicious twist. Then he tore it free in a welter of gore and leapt away. The khorgorath fell forward, its talons gouging the ancient marble floor of the observatory. ‘Now, Stormcast — strike now!’ the vampire said.

Tarsus drove his hammer down on the exposed crown of the Bloodswiller’s skull, cracking it. Ramus, having regained his feet and his hammer, joined him. Together, they struck it again and again, until black ichor spilled across the floor, and the beast fell still. Tarsus looked around — the other khorgoraths had met similar fates, brought down by the weapons and divine fury of the Stormcasts. Already, his warriors were reorganising their lines, and readying themselves for whatever might come next. He looked at the vampire, who said, ‘What now?’

‘Now? Now we finish this.’ Tarsus turned towards the gap and extended his sword towards the distant shape of the Woebringer. ‘Is that the best you can muster?’ he shouted, clashing his weapons. ‘We are still here. Who will stand?’ he bellowed.

‘Only the faithful,’ the Hallowed Knights roared in response. Hammers crashed against shields. ‘Only the faithful!’

Tarka threw back his head and screamed in rage. The Woebringer sliced the air with his axe and his warriors surged forward — a snarling horde, clad in the colours of blood and brass — bloodreavers, blood warriors and worse things bounding in the wake of the mortals.

Tarsus stepped back from the gap. ‘Stand fast, Bull-Hearts,’ he said. ‘We have won a short reprieve, but they come again, in strength. Judicators, thin their ranks. Fall back when they reach the gaps. It’ll be close work then. Hammer and shield work, eh, my friends?’ he said, swatting a nearby Liberator’s shield with the flat of his sword. ‘Who will be triumphant?’

‘Only the faithful,’ came the reply. Tarsus nodded.

‘Only the faithful,’ he said firmly. ‘Stand fast, and fight as if Sigmar himself were watching. Or as if Ramus were watching, for he’s closer.’

The air throbbed with the hum of boltstorm crossbows firing and men screaming. Tarsus glanced quickly towards the gaps in the wall where the Judicators had formed two firing ranks: one kneeling, one standing. Together they fired into the disorganised mass of foes climbing towards them. The Prosecutors harried the enemy as they charged, adding to the tally claimed by the Judicators. They had earned a few moments of peace before the battle would be well and truly joined. Nevertheless the enemy pressed on, and soon they would be spilling into the observatory.

Tarsus caught Ramus staring at the vampire. ‘You do not trust him.’

‘You said it yourself — he cannot be trusted.’

‘He saved you,’ Tarsus said.

‘He saved himself. My fate was incidental,’ Ramus countered.

‘Indeed it was,’ the vampire said, striding towards them. ‘But, for the moment, our paths align. They have my beast. I would have him back. He is… precious to me.’

Tarsus nodded. ‘So be it. But if you turn on us, know that it will be my hand that strikes you down.’ He raised his hammer for emphasis. The vampire smirked.

‘Duly noted,’ he said, as he laid his sword across his shoulder.

There was a clatter of sigmarite as the Judicators fell back, and the Liberator retinues moved to take their place in the vanguard. ‘Shields up,’ Tarsus said, his voice carrying throughout the chamber. Shields rose, and then slammed together, rim to rim, forming a wall of steel.

‘Hold the line,’ Tarsus continued. He tightened his grip on the hafts of his weapons. ‘Move on my order.’

‘Where do you wish me to go?’ the vampire said, bowing shallowly. ‘Shall I take my place in line and fight alongside your warriors?’

‘Fight as it pleases you,’ Tarsus said, watching the approach of the enemy. ‘You are no longer a prisoner.’ He glanced at the vampire. ‘You are free.’

The vampire blinked. Then, he inclined his head. ‘As you say.’ He turned towards the broken wall as the howls of the blood-worshippers filled the air. The first bloodreaver burst through the gap at a run — an axe in either hand — and more followed. Soon a wave of murderous fury swept towards the waiting Liberators, who continued their war-rhythm, waiting for their Lord-Celestant’s order.

Tarsus stepped off the dais, arms spread and weapons ready. ‘Hold, Bull-Hearts. Hold,’ he rumbled. ‘Ramus, call the storm.’

Ramus lifted his reliquary and slammed the haft down so that the sound quavered through the air like the peal of a bell. Outside the observatory, a heavy rain began to fall. Thunder rumbled, and the blood-worshippers still outside screamed as crackling streamers of lightning slashed through their ranks, speeding along armour and edges of weapons to lance into branded flesh. Men died in droves, cooked in their armour, or else set aflame as they ran. Confusion swept throughout the enemy.

‘Lower your horns,’ Tarsus roared, pushing through the ranks to the front. Liberators bent, their shields thrust to the fore and hammers held low. ‘And… forward.’ As one, the Liberator retinues began to march on. Tarsus led the way, picking up speed with every step. His warriors kept pace and, with a thunderous crash, the shield wall met the front rank of the bloodreavers. Shields locked as the Liberators pushed against the enemy, driving them back. Tarsus fought at the fore, making room for his warriors to move forward with every blow.

More enemy warriors continued to press through the gaps, even as the front ranks were forced back. Frenzied blood warriors tore through their own fellows as the crush of battle intensified. The Liberators fought efficiently, using their foe’s numbers against them. Hammers cracked against knees and shot forward to crush chests. In other such encounters, it had been enough. The Stormcasts were as relentless in their own way as the servants of the Blood God were in theirs, and when they marched no enemy could stand against them.

But soon, numbers began to tell against discipline. Howling blood warriors hooked shields and arms with their axes, dragging the Stormcasts into the depths of the mob and ripping them asunder in explosions of blue light. The hulking shapes of khorgoraths lurked outside the observatory and tore at the remaining walls in a frenzy, trying to widen the gaps. Debris sifted down from above as cracks raced across the roof and walls of the structure. A section collapsed with a roar, crushing Stormcasts and bloodreavers alike.

‘Fall back,’ Tarsus shouted as he blocked an axe blow. ‘Tighten the line and fall back from the walls.’

Those Liberators who could began to back away, shields still locked. Others could not break away from their opponents and were swiftly surrounded and brought low. More explosions of searing blue light streaked skyward, and Tarsus cursed. He looked around, watching Ramus organise the Retributors and Decimators for a counter-charge.

It wasn’t going to be enough. They were outnumbered ten to one and the enemy wasn’t afraid of death. They didn’t care if they were crushed, mangled or pierced. They kept coming regardless. He needed a new strategy.

‘Lock shields,’ he cried, setting his feet. Around him, Liberator retinues stopped their retreat and did as he ordered, forming up around the wide steps of the dais. ‘We hold here. Not one step farther.’

As he spoke, the Prosecutors hurtled into the chamber, striking like lightning and retreating swiftly, trying to take some of the pressure off their comrades. Celestial hammers crashed into the closely packed mobs of bloodreavers, hurling broken bodies into the air. But the remainder pressed on. Tarsus waved the Judicators forward. Several of the retinues had made the dais defensible, moving the heavy bookshelves and stone biers into place like barricades. Those who were not firing from behind their improvised ramparts moved quickly to take up position behind the Liberators.

Lightning flickered across the ranks of the enemy, blinding and burning them. A section of the shield wall opened, and Ramus led his Paladin brotherhoods forward. The great two-handed axes of the Decimators chopped through crimson armour with ease, as the lightning hammers of the Retributors smashed the strongest Chaos champions from their feet. But the enemy pressed close about them, and even the heavily armoured Paladins could not stand alone against such a tide. Still too many of them, he thought. He’d hoped the observatory would provide some defence against numbers, but it wasn’t enough.

Over the heads of his warriors and the heaving ranks of the enemy, Tarsus saw the Woebringer fighting his way through his own followers, dragging the creature the vampire had named Ashigaroth in his wake and striking down anyone too slow to get out of his way. The dread abyssal came unwillingly, continuously fighting its chains.

As Tarsus took a step towards them, he caught sight of the vampire crouched atop the shattered dome of the observatory with arms spread and body angled so that he leaned over the chamber below. A guttural chant rose from his lips as he threw back his head. The dread abyssal began to buck and scream in its bindings. The bloodstoker struck the creature with his lash again and again, but the beast only grew more agitated. A weird purple light played across the piles of bones scattered on the floor and in the corners of the great chamber. They began to shiver and rustle, and Tarsus felt his hair stand on end.

‘Stop him,’ Tarka howled, motioning towards the vampire with his axe as he stepped into the observatory, hauling Ashigaroth after him by its chains. The bloodstoker followed him and struck the dread abyssal again before smashing off the chains that bound it, gesturing at the vampire with his blade. But rather than lunging immediately towards its former master, the creature twisted about and snapped its ebony jaws shut on the bloodstoker’s head. Tarka lashed out at Ashigaroth with his axe, and the monster struck at him with its talons, scraping his armour and knocking him back a step as it bounded over him and towards a nearby Stormcast. The latter was crushed to the ground, his body evaporating into blue light. The dread abyssal screeched and flung itself into the melee, ravaging all those it could reach, without distinction. Blood warrior and Stormcasts alike fell to its frenzy.

Tarsus charged towards the Woebringer, bulling aside any bloodreaver foolish enough to get in his way. Behind him, he heard the vampire’s chant growing louder, but the Woebringer was his only concern. Even as Tarsus closed with his foe, the Chaos champion staggered to his feet and sent his axe slicing out. Hammer, sword and axe clashed in a whirring dance of death as the Bull-Heart and the Woebringer traded blows.

‘I will take your armour and mount it upon my lodge-pole, warrior. Your skull will be my drinking cup, and your weapons I will give to my slaves,’ the Woebringer growled, as the clawed gauntlet he wore tore Tarsus’ warcloak. ‘After I am finished with you, I shall peel the flesh from the bones of a dead man, and wear it as my cloak!’ He sliced at Tarsus’ gut.

‘Are you here to talk, or to fight?’ Tarsus said, as he avoided the blow. His hammer thudded down, cracking the red armour that covered Tarka’s shoulder. The Chaos champion howled and reversed his axe, digging it upwards in a mighty blow. Tarsus stepped back, but not quickly enough, as the edge of the axe drew a spray of sparks from his chest plate and sent him staggering back. The Woebringer crashed into him, driving an elbow into the side of the Lord-Celestant’s head. His opponent was strong, stronger than any Tarsus had yet faced.

Tarsus fell, and only narrowly managed to avoid his opponent’s axe as it crashed down where his head had been. Before the Woebringer could launch another blow, however, a broken sword crashed against him. Tarsus looked up and saw the fleshless limbs of several skeletons gathered about him protectively. The undead warriors attacked the Woebringer, jabbing at him with splintered spears and hacking with blunt, chipped swords. More clung to him, grabbing his arms or the great horns that topped his bestial head. He roared wordlessly, lashing out to shatter a skeleton. The dead thing fell, but crawled back towards him.

Khorgoraths screamed in agony as they were swarmed by skeletons and dragged down through sheer weight of numbers. The dead rose up amidst the press of the melee and fell upon the Woebringer’s warriors with silent savagery, cutting them down even as they fought the Stormcasts. Everywhere, the silent legions hurled themselves into the fray, compelled by the vampire’s will and sorcery.

Tarsus got to his feet as the Woebringer whirled towards him, bleeding from a dozen wounds, but showing no signs of weakness.

‘I defeated the dead before, and I will do so again. But first, I will take your skull, silver-skin,’ the Chaos leader shrieked as he charged towards Tarsus, smashing aside the skeletons in his path. Tarsus raised his hammer, ready to meet his foe’s charge, when a black shadow spread over them both.

The Woebringer looked up. Tarsus took advantage of his opponent’s distraction and caught the Woebringer with a blow that rocked him off his feet. As he fell, the dread abyssal dropped out of the air and onto the Chaos champion with a cry. The vampire sat astride the creature, and laughed as Ashigaroth’s claws tore the life from the fallen warrior. As the creature tore at the body, the vampire looked down at Tarsus.

‘I do apologise, my friend, but… debts of blood were owed to both Ashigaroth and myself,’ he said. He smiled thinly.

Tarsus shook his head and looked around. The battle was over. And now, the living and the dead stared at each other warily across the bodies of their common foe. He looked up at the vampire.

‘You have my thanks,’ Tarsus said, careful to keep his weapons lowered, reminding himself that the dead could not be trusted. The vampire chuckled, as if reading his thoughts.

‘Mannfred,’ the vampire said. ‘I am Mannfred.’

‘Mannfred, then,’ Tarsus said. He hesitated, then extended his hand. Mannfred stared at it for a moment, as if puzzled, then he clasped Tarsus’ forearm. ‘I am Tarsus, Lord-Celestant of these warriors.’

‘And I am Mannfred von Carstein, Count of the Hanging Wood,’ Mannfred said, bowing deeply. As he straightened, he said, ‘Do you still wish to find a way into the underworld, friend Tarsus?’

‘Then you did find a gate here,’ Tarsus said.

‘No,’ Mannfred said. His smile widened. ‘Not here.’ He slid from the back of his monstrous steed. ‘But I know of one, and can lead you there.’

‘Why?’

‘Call it a debt of honour,’ Mannfred said. ‘I owe you, for freeing me, Tarsus of the Stormcasts.’ He paused, as if thinking, before adding, ‘Perhaps for more than just that.’ He extended his hand. ‘And as you’ve seen, I pay my debts.’

Tarsus hesitated. He looked up, into Mannfred’s unblinking yellow eyes, judging. Somehow, he felt as if he had lived through this before, and wondered if it had turned out for the best then. Somehow, he didn’t think so.

But he had a mission to complete. And live or die, he would see it done.

Tarsus clasped Mannfred’s hand.

‘Lead on then, Mannfred von Carstein. Where you go, the Stormcasts will follow.’

Josh Reynolds

Sands of Blood

The dead are mine.

I rule the dead, and the soon-to-be-dead. I am the final moment given form, the terminus of all existence. And yet… souls slip my grasp, one by one. They leave only the stink of iron and lightning to mark their passing.

I see nothing. I hear nothing.

My realm is silent.

My spirit strides the night wind, hunting these stolen souls, accompanied only by wailing nighthaunts. I cross vast oceans in the blink of a mortal eye and stalk invisibly along the crooked rooftops of cavernous cities whose folk burrow down, ever down, seeking my favour. I see my legions clash again and again with those of the enemy, and where I pass, unseen, the servants of the Ruinous Powers shudder in unspoken horror. Even now, my enemies fear me. Even now, they know dread at my name.

Nagash has risen. And soon… soon, I will stride forth in all my terrible glory, to bathe this realm anew in the light of my black sun. I will burn it clean of impurities, of mistakes. But first, I must find the answer to the question which vexes me.

Who has taken what is mine?

I hunt these missing souls… I follow their trail from rime-encrusted Helspoint to the toppled towers of Morrsend; from the smog-choked jungles of the Skull Islands to the hourglass-lined streets of the City of Lost Moments; I seek and I hunt, but they rise up out of reach, swirling away like leaves caught in a cold wind.

So many souls… gone. I endure, but my strength… wanes. The dead fall and do not rise again. My will is thwarted.

This cannot be.

Nagash is inevitable. I will remake all reality in the image of my soul. And when at last I turn to look upon the desolation of all that was, and all that I have wrought, I shall call it good, and know contentment. I am the ur-death, the nightmare force at the core of all things. When the living cry out in their dreams, it is Nagash they see. I shall crush all under the rock of my unyielding will, and all will be one — Nagash. When Nagash stirs, mountains tremble and suns flicker. When Nagash reaches out to crush his enemies, it is with a million hands. When Nagash seeks out his prey, it is with a million eyes.

And yet, Nagash cannot find these thieves. And thus, he grows… weak.

I am blind. Souls flee my realm and my body withers on its basalt throne. My spirit gutters like a flame deprived of fuel. The shadows gather. Jackals claim the bones of my servants and night birds screech in my empty citadels.

I must find them.

I must know.

Nagash must not die. This cannot be.

This shall not be.

‘Retributors to the vanguard,’ Tarsus, Lord-Celestant of the Hallowed Knights, roared over the howl of the wind that whipped across the Blood Wastes. It whined through the crumbled remains of walls and other, less recognizable, structures which rose from the red sands below like gravestones. At the bottom of the enormous dune on which he stood, Tarsus saw the Bloodbound loping through the rising storm towards a straggling line of carts and robed figures. Howling bloodreavers sprinted ahead of more heavily armoured blood warriors, crying out the name of their foul god.

The mortals in the caravan below, blinded by the storm, had only just become aware of the doom about to fall upon them. They were dressed as pilgrims, in heavy robes, and some wore chains and funerary bells which clanged as they moved. Others wore armour over their robes, and he saw these draw weapons as the other pilgrims hurried to escape. The former were outnumbered, and the rest too slow.

‘Brave, if futile,’ Tarsus said. ‘But they will not fight alone.’

He cast a look over his shoulder at his Warrior Chamber as they took up position across the crest of the crimson dune. As he spoke, the Liberator retinues moved aside in precise formation to make way for the Retributors.

‘Who will be triumphant?’ he cried, lifting his sword and hammer high.

‘Only the faithful,’ the Retributors rumbled as one. Their heavy, ornate armour was prominently marked with the lightning bolt of Sigmar, and the massive two-handed hammers they carried shimmered with electric energy. As they strode forward at Tarsus’ command, they slammed the great weapons together, adding to the clamour of war. They were not alone in this, for the Liberators too thumped their hammers against the inside of their shields in a brutal rhythm.

‘Separate the Bloodbound from their prey, Bull-Hearts. Liberators, shield the mortals!’ Tarsus started down the dune towards the enemy, many of whom had slowed, their attention drawn by the noise rising from the Stormcasts’ ranks. He grinned fiercely beneath his war-helm. ‘Soros, you and your Retributors are with me.’

‘Aye, Lord-Celestant — where you go, we follow,’ Retributor-Prime Soros bellowed, his hammer held at the ready across his chest. His brethren roared in agreement, and their hammers clashed and sparked as they followed Tarsus down the slope of the crimson dune. Overhead, a retinue of Prosecutors hurtled through the swirling wind-borne dust clouds on crackling wings. Their hammers whirled from their hands, thrown with incredible force to smash into the space between the servants of Chaos and their quarry. Sand exploded upwards, and the foremost bloodreavers stumbled back in surprise. The Prosecutors had broken the enemy’s momentum, as he had planned. Now all that was left was to gore them.

Tarsus pounded towards the milling Chaos warriors. He heard the clanging of the bells on the carts, and the screams of men, women, and dray animals as he plunged into the enemy ranks, and despatched one of the warriors with a blow from his hammer. From behind him came the snarl of lightning as the hammers of the Retributors swept down on the foe. He and his vanguard had torn a gaping wound in the horde with their attack, and its effect was immediate. As they fought, more and more bloodreavers turned away from their original quarry and doubled back towards the Stormcasts. Soon, flashes of blue lightning were streaking upwards as Tarsus’ men fell to the axes of their foes — but not many, he was glad to see. He had few enough warriors, and could ill afford to lose them.

As he cut down another bloodreaver, he saw that the Liberators had reached the struggling line of mortals and enveloped them in a protective shield wall. He spun as a roar assaulted his ears, and quickly interposed his sword, catching an axe before it reached him. His attacker was armoured in crimson and brass, and the air seemed to shimmer around him as he stabbed a spiked gauntlet at Tarsus’ stomach. Blood warrior, he thought. One of Khorne’s chosen.

Tarsus slammed his hammer down onto the spike, parrying the blow. He rammed the weapon into the Chaos champion’s chest, denting the cuirass, but the warrior only took a single step back before lunging forward with a snarl. The champion swept his axe out in a wicked arc and Tarsus retreated, the sand shifting beneath him. His enemy followed, growling a low chant to his deity as he came. They traded blows back and forth, weapons clashing. The servants of the Blood God were renowned for their ferocity, but this one, at least, was a seasoned warrior as well, matching Tarsus blow for blow.

At the last moment, the sand shifted beneath his feet, and he momentarily lost his footing. He teetered, off-balance, but it was enough for his opponent. The blood warrior gave a roar and swung his axe, tearing a spray of sparks from Tarsus’ chest plate and nearly knocking him off his feet. Tarsus staggered and lost his grip on his hammer. He whipped his sword up as the axe fell, parrying a blow that would have otherwise split his helm and skull. The blood warrior wrenched his axe up in a two-handed grip, readying it for another strike.

Suddenly, Tarsus heard a keening shriek and glanced up as a black shadow fell over them. He swiftly stepped back as a monstrous shape pounced on the champion from above. The unsuspecting warrior disappeared in a spray of blood as the thing struck with the force of a meteor and smashed the Chaos champion into the shifting sands.

The golden and black monstrosity rose up from its victim with a shriek. The creature was made not of flesh, but of dark metal and other, less identifiable, things. Its bat-like features were twisted in an expression of vile hunger, and it snapped its heavy jaws shut on the dead warrior’s skull. With a toss of its head, it tore something wispy and squalling from the pulped remains, and Tarsus knew it was his former opponent’s soul. With a rattling sigh, the dread abyssal sucked the whimpering spirit into its gullet. It turned its smouldering gaze on Tarsus, who shook his head.

‘He was mine, Mannfred,’ he said.

‘So he was,’ Mannfred von Carstein said as he leaned forward in his saddle on the back of the dread abyssal. The vampire’s black, ridged armour was pitted and scored with the marks of battle, and the red cloak he wore was tattered, but Mannfred himself did not look in the least tired. He never did, no matter how fierce the fighting.

Tarsus raised his weapons warily as the creature growled and took a tentative step towards him. The vampire smiled thinly and patted his mount’s neck. ‘Ashigaroth eats only those souls I allow him to. And for the moment, that is not you.’

‘For the moment,’ Tarsus said, as he looked about. The battle was all but over. The enemy had been routed, bodies littered the sands and those who had survived the Stormcast attack were fleeing into the growing storm.

Mannfred chuckled. ‘A joke, Tarsus. We are allies, you and I. You saved my life, Stormcast, and now I have saved yours.’

‘I did not require it,’ Tarsus said. It had been many days since they had freed the vampire, and Tarsus had no cause to regret it, yet.

At least this time he did not have to summon the dead to aid us, Tarsus thought. There was something indefinably monstrous about the act of wrenching the slain from their slumber, and propelling them into battle once more. But despite his misgivings, the Lord-Celestant did not begrudge the vampire’s help — they were alone in hostile territory, and surrounded by hundreds of nomadic warbands in service to the Ruinous Powers.

Mannfred smiled. ‘Yet I gave it freely. Letting you die in such an ignominious manner would hardly serve my cause, now would it?’

Tarsus frowned. ‘Is that why you led us into this wasteland?’ he asked, gesturing to the rolling dunes which surrounded them and the high crags which marked the horizon. ‘It seems empty of anything save sand.’

‘Is that what you think?’ Mannfred threw back his head and laughed. ‘These are not sands, at least not entirely — they are blood. Reduced to powder, drained of all vitality, but blood all the same.’ He swept his arms out. ‘For a thousand years, the lands which once made up the Blood Wastes were fought over by the Duchies of Gheist, whose nobles rode great bats to war, rather than horses. But then came Nagash, and, well…’ Mannfred leaned back. ‘Here, Stormcast, is the will of Nagash made manifest. A desert of broken stones, covered in red sands and haunted by the ghosts of the slain and the great beasts they once rode to battle.’

‘We have seen no ghosts,’ Tarsus said.

‘We will,’ Mannfred said. He gestured lazily to a point over Tarsus’ shoulder. The Lord-Celestant turned and his eyes widened. He had thought the wind had been bad before, but what was now coming over the distant dunes towards them was of a far greater magnitude: a roiling wall of sand — no, blood, he reminded himself — sweeping across the landscape, blotting out the sky and stars overhead.

‘We must get the mortals to shelter,’ Tarsus said. He glanced at them, taking in their ragged robes and the carts with their clattering funerary bells. It seemed that even in the Realm of Death, faith of some sort flourished. Their dray oxen bellowed and pawed the sands nervously as the wind whipped up. He looked towards the distant crags which marked the desert’s edge. It would take days to reach them. The storm would catch up with them before then.

He looked at Mannfred. ‘There must be something nearby.’

Before Mannfred could reply, a voice spoke.

‘You saved us.’

Tarsus turned and found a number of pilgrims looking up at him in awe. The one who had spoken was an older man, leaning heavily on a staff topped by a smoking censer in the shape of an hourglass, and wearing the same dark, heavy robes as the others.

‘I am Gerot of Morrsend,’ the old man said. ‘We are grateful for your assistance, warrior. Without you, the skull-takers might have claimed us.’

‘Do not thank me yet,’ Tarsus rumbled. ‘We must still get your folk to shelter, before that storm catches up with us.’

‘There is a place ‒ the Temple of Final Rest, in the ruins of Sepulchre,’ one of the other pilgrims, a woman, said. Tarsus looked at Mannfred, who nodded and sat upright in his saddle.

‘I know of it. One of the few remaining structures left in the region. If we move quickly, we can reach it before the storm,’ the vampire said.

‘Lead us there,’ Tarsus replied. ‘And be quick about it.’

Mannfred laughed and kicked his beast into motion. Ashigaroth took a running leap and hurtled into the air. Tarsus shouted orders to his Warrior Chamber, readying them to march. The Stormcasts snapped to attention and fell in along either side of the column of pilgrims.

Tarsus turned his attention back to the pilgrims. The one who had spoken of the temple wore a heavy, much-dented breastplate over her dark robes, with a gorget in the shape of a jawbone. Her long, black hair was tightly braided and woven about her head, and her dark skin was marked by pale scars where it was not bound in rags or hidden beneath rusty chainmail. She carried a heavy hammer in one hand, its wide head decorated with intricately carved skulls, and he had no doubt that she knew how to wield it.

‘You were heading to this… Sepulchre, then, lady…?’

‘I am Aisha,’ she said, not quite meeting his gaze. ‘I stand watch over our flock, on our pilgrimage to the great temple.’ She trembled as she spoke, though whether in awe of him, or something else, he could not say. He recognized her as one of the pilgrims who had sought to put up a defence against their attackers earlier. He inclined his head, one warrior to another.

‘I am Tarsus, Lord-Celestant of the Hallowed Knights,’ he said, looking down at her. She was afraid, but her fear did not control her. ‘You have nothing to fear from us,’ he rumbled. ‘We will let no harm come to you.’

‘I know. That you bear that symbol says as much,’ she said, reaching out as if to touch the sigil emblazoned on his hammer. She pulled her hand back at the last moment.

Gerot cleared his throat. ‘We have heard the rumble of thunder, and seen lightning flash in the dark clouds. Travellers whispered that the storms which have wracked our lands these past months have brought with them warriors, clad in shimmering armour. We in Morrsend did not believe it.’

‘Sigmar has not deserted you,’ Tarsus said.

‘No,’ Aisha said, ‘not Sigmar.’

Before Tarsus could ask her who she meant, the old man spoke up.

‘Hush,’ Gerot said, though not sharply. ‘Forgive her, my lord. Aisha has ever spoken her mind, in all things.’

‘There is nothing to forgive. Will you allow us to accompany you to this temple?’ Tarsus asked. It was not a request, though he phrased it as such. A structure such as this temple might just be one of the nine citadels they were searching for, whether Mannfred was aware of it or not. While it was his mission to find a route into the underworld, it was his duty to see that no harm came to the downtrodden.

‘We would be glad of it,’ Gerot said, with only a moment of hesitation. He bowed his head and led his people back to their carts as Tarsus made his way to the head of the column. In moments, it began to move with a clatter of bells and the crash of sigmarite. Mannfred and his dread abyssal swooped overhead, driving against the wind, followed closely by the winged Prosecutors, who would keep watch over the flanks of the column.

The landscape was as ragged as the mortals who sought to traverse it. Immense dunes of powdered blood rose up to slouch against the cracked stones of half-buried towers. As they marched, Tarsus saw what remained of an ancient guard tower, split in two with sand pouring down from its upper levels like a waterfall, or perhaps an hourglass. The strengthening wind carved the dunes into sepulchral shapes — yawning skulls and hooded figures which seemed to pursue the column from dune to crimson dune.

More than once they found themselves walking across flat stones, or in the lee of a shattered wall or through the ribcage of some long-dead titanic beast. There were many of the latter in evidence, and Tarsus thought of the great bats Mannfred had spoken of. He glimpsed fragments of bone and broken weapons scattered across the landscape, as the wind whipped the blood-sands into a frenzy. Skulls, human and otherwise, were nestled in the cracks and crevices of the tumbledown ruins they passed. They burned with an eerie purple light which cast strange shadows across their path. Worse were the uncanny shrieks which at first seemed to be merely the wind slashing through ruin and wreck, but which soon became hideously distinct.

‘This realm has been at war for centuries,’ Lord-Relictor Ramus said as he joined his Lord-Celestant at the head of the column. ‘Here lies proof of that. How often have we seen similar devastation since coming here?’ The reliquary staff he carried pulsed with a blue nimbus, which kept the worst of the wind at bay.

‘This realm is not unique in that regard,’ Tarsus said, glancing at the other Stormcast.

‘How are the mortals?’ Tarsus asked.

‘Fearful, but grateful,’ Ramus said. ‘We are being followed. The enemy were merely routed, not destroyed. They pursue us.’

‘Are they close?’

‘We outpace them for the moment. They are wary. I suspect that they too seek shelter from the coming storm. Even daemon-kissed flesh is no proof against the fury I feel in the air,’ Ramus said. ‘I can feel the dark magic which created this place rising with it. There are spirits trapped here, bound to this place of slaughter in the moment of their death. They press close about us, Tarsus, hungry for our lives and light. Look — see.’

Tarsus peered ahead, where flickering half-shapes moved through the stirring sands and ruins. His eye could not properly fix on them. They were there, but not. Men, he thought, or so they had once been.

‘I see them,’ he said. ‘We cannot stop, Ramus. The mortals will die without proper shelter, and I shall not abandon them to either the angry dead or the Bloodbound.’

‘Indeed, stopping would be a singularly foolish decision,’ Mannfred said, as Ashigaroth dropped from the sky and landed close by.

The keening wails of unseen predators rose and fell amidst the surge of the wind and the hiss of the blood-sands, vile shrieks which chilled the blood and set the pilgrims’ animals bellowing in fear. ‘What are they?’

‘Hungry,’ Mannfred said. ‘They hunt the skies, as they did in life, when the black wind blows and old magic stirs.’

He held up a hand, and Tarsus saw that it was limned with a darkling light. ‘Behold the curse of Nagash, my friend. Where he has passed, the dead do not rest easy, and even now they hunt our foes. Luckily for us, we have found sanctuary just over the next rise. Come.’ Mannfred turned Ashigaroth about and set off without a further word.

The temple rose up from a cradle of shattered streets and half-collapsed buildings like a crown on a corpse. Its minarets were broken and its walls were sagging and derelict, but they still stood, which was more than Tarsus could say for the ruins which spread out around it.

‘A dreadful fate befell this place,’ Ramus said, as they led the column towards the scattered remnants of what had once been the city gates. ‘If Nagash could do this…’

‘Then he will be a powerful ally,’ Tarsus said. ‘I understand your worries, my friend. But we have our duty and we must see it through, to whatever end awaits us. We must trust in Sigmar. We are Stormcasts, and we can do no less. Much is demanded of those…’

‘…to whom much is given,’ Ramus replied.

Mannfred led the column swiftly through the ruins, and the Stormcasts did what they could to hurry their charges along. Eerie shadows stretched through the ruins, keeping pace with them, and the Prosecutors reported seeing enormous forms hurtling through the storm, riding the winds as they grew ever stronger.

More than once, strange, ghostly shapes coalesced from the whirling blood-sands and lunged towards the pilgrims and their protectors. The Stormcasts met these spectral assaults staunchly, and the phantoms burst into clouds of red as they were struck by sigmarite weapons or by Ramus’ lightning. Mannfred alone bore the winds without concern. His dead flesh remained untouched by either the stinging sands or the phantoms, which shied away from him like jackals avoiding the attention of a lion.

The sounds of battle echoed from the dunes beyond the ruins, and immense, soul-cutting screams echoed out over the crumbled walls and tumbled towers. The undead horrors which hunted this wasteland had found other prey.

By the time they reached what had once been the gates of the temple, the storm had grown so strong that Tarsus could barely see past his hand. The Stormcasts had been forced to surround the pilgrims and their carts. The Liberators raised their shields and faced them outwards, creating a moving enclosure of sigmarite that protected mortal flesh from the flaying winds and hungry ghosts darting out of the storm. Mannfred led them through the ruined gatehouse and towards what had once been the inner wall of the temple. There, an open archway invited entrance. As the Stormcasts and their charges approached it, the ghosts faded away, retreating back into the storm.

‘They flee,’ Ramus said.

‘No,’ Mannfred said, as he led them through the archway. ‘But they are wary of this place.’

Tarsus scanned the broken walls which protected the inner structure of the temple, but saw neither guards nor even lookouts. Where they were in one piece, the walls provided some protection from the wind, and the main bastion of the temple looked to be in relatively good shape. The Stormcasts followed the vampire into the temple courtyard, where a line of robed and cowled shapes awaited them, hands folded into their sleeves. There were at least seventy, the Lord-Celestant thought.

‘Priests,’ Tarsus murmured.

‘But why are they out here?’ Ramus said, as he and Tarsus stepped forward through the shields of their warriors. They were accompanied by Mannfred, who had dismounted. The vampire had one hand on his sword, and he cast a warning glance at Tarsus as one of the robed figures came to meet them.

‘Welcome, wayfarers, to the bastion of Final Rest,’ the priest said solemnly, his voice carrying easily despite the roar of the storm. He spread his hands as if to indicate the pilgrims, who now clustered within the walls, their voices raised in celebration. ‘We feared that the storm would arrive before you. I am Brother Markus. I bid you welcome and ask only that you leave behind some of the happiness you bring.’

He turned towards Tarsus. The Lord-Celestant caught the flash of a yellow gaze within the shadowed folds of the hood.

‘They are vampires,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ Mannfred said. He watched the priests warily. ‘But not like me. I have heard rumours, but gave them little credence.’ He shook his head. ‘Fools and mad things, hiding away in this waste since the coming of Chaos. Much hardship has befallen the Realm of Death since the day Nagash fell, and only the strong persevere.’ As he spoke, Gerot and Aisha moved slowly towards Brother Markus.

‘We bid you greetings, restful brother,’ the old man wheezed as he approached the priests. ‘We come from Morrsend to honour the old debt and deliver to you your tithe, as we swore in bygone days.’ He glanced at the Stormcasts. ‘We would not have survived the journey, were it not for these warriors.’

Brother Markus looked at Tarsus and bowed his head. ‘Then they too are welcome. Stay, and be safe from storm and phantom.’ The vampire looked up, eyes flashing. He pulled his hood back, revealing a cadaverous countenance. He had a face like a skull, his skin stretched tight, and his eyes were cavernous pits. ‘We ask only that the debt be honoured and the tithe be shared, so that we might return to our contemplation of the Corpse Geometries.’

‘As was sworn, so shall it be,’ Gerot said, his voice trembling slightly as he extended an arm. ‘Take your tithe, brother, and with thanks.’

More pilgrims stepped forward, rolling back their sleeves to extend their arms. Markus took Gerot’s arm and his thin lips peeled back from his fangs. Tarsus, suddenly aware of what was coming, made to step forward, but Mannfred stopped him with a look.

A moment later, Markus sank his fangs into Gerot’s arm, and the old man winced, but did not cry out. The other priests did the same with the pilgrims who had stepped forward, until all seventy-seven of the vampires had fed. It was over in moments.

Markus sighed and scraped a loose droplet of crimson from his mouth as Aisha and others saw to their wounded companions.

‘The tithe is… acceptable, my friends,’ he said slowly. ‘And we thank you for the gift we have received. Wait out the storm’s fury, or stay as long as you wish. There is water in the temple storerooms, and what we have is yours.’

The pilgrims began to unhook their oxen and unload their carts, some carrying heavy baskets of food and other supplies up the wide steps into the temple.

‘Why give them blood?’ Tarsus asked Aisha, as she helped Gerot bandage his arm.

‘Would you prefer that they take it?’ Mannfred said, smiling unpleasantly.

Tarsus ignored him. ‘What is this tithe?’

‘Morrsend owes a debt of blood to the seventy-seven Restful Brothers, my lord,’ Gerot said. ‘In the time after the coming of Chaos, when the ground and sky were in upheaval, they defended our people from the enemies of man. They fought and bled in our name. Now, they fight no more. And so we watch over them, as they once watched over us. The dead hold their honour sacred. Can the living do any less?’

He glanced at Mannfred as he spoke. The vampire frowned and pulled his cloak tight about him before walking away to confer with Brother Markus. Gerot watched them for a moment and then said, ‘That one, however…’

‘He has fought beside us, and bravely,’ Tarsus said.

‘The dead, like the living, come in many shades,’ Gerot said. He peered at Tarsus. ‘That one bears watching, my lord.’

Tarsus began to ask what the old man meant when he heard a shout from above. ‘Bull-Heart, the enemy is at hand,’ a Prosecutor called down, as he swooped overhead. ‘I see the gleam of their blades and hear their howls, even with the storm.’

‘It appears our respite is over,’ Tarsus said. He joined Mannfred and Brother Markus.

‘Will you fight with us?’ he asked the priest.

‘We do not fight. We make war no longer,’ Brother Markus said softly.

‘Regardless, brother, war is here, and you cannot avoid it,’ Tarsus said. ‘The foe is at your gate and you must stand or be trampled beneath him.’

‘We will not fight,’ Markus said, more sternly. ‘Let him come. Our choice is made.’ His eyes flashed as he spoke, from yellow to red. Tarsus tensed, wondering if, despite his words, Markus were readying himself to attack.

Mannfred quickly stepped between them. ‘So it is, brother — but our choice is to fight. Will you deny us that?’ he said smoothly.

The other vampire hesitated. He gazed at Mannfred searchingly and Tarsus wondered what they had been speaking of, before he had interrupted them. Then, head bowed, the priest stepped back. ‘As you will.’ He turned and led the other priests away, into the temple.

‘Why will they not fight?’ Tarsus demanded. ‘Are they cowards?’

‘Of a sort,’ Mannfred said. ‘Leave them be, for now. We…’ He trailed off as Aisha approached them. ‘Well, what have we here?’

Tarsus held up a hand, silencing Mannfred. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

Aisha lifted her chin. ‘We wish to stand with you, to protect the brothers and our own.’

Tarsus shook his head, wondering at such loyalty. ‘You can, but inside the temple. We will hold the outside,’ he said.

‘We do not fear them,’ she said quickly, lifting her own hammer. ‘In Morrsend, we are taught that to send the enemy down into death is the greatest offering we can make.’

Tarsus inclined his head. ‘And so you shall, if we fail. For then it will fall to you to defend yourselves and this place. Fight well, Aisha of Morrsend.’ She opened her mouth as if to speak, but then closed it, nodded and turned away, calling out to her people. The pilgrims began to file quickly into the temple and Tarsus left them to it.

‘And what of me? Shall I draw the fallen from their slumber?’ Mannfred said, smiling slightly. He stretched out a hand, as if to clutch at the sand that hissed through the air about them. ‘The air here is thick with the stuff of death, my friend. It shall be but the work of moments to bind them to my will and set them loose…’

‘No,’ Tarsus said. ‘The dead have done enough. Leave the rest to the living.’ He did not want to owe the vampire any more than he already did. The Stormcasts could win their own battles.

And you would do well to remember that, he thought, looking at Mannfred.

The vampire shrugged. ‘Very well. I will not insist.’ He bowed low. ‘Direct me, my lord. Where would you have me? On the walls? At the gate? Shall I take up shield and hammer and stand in the vanguard?’

‘You mock me,’ Tarsus said.

‘Possibly,’ Mannfred said, straightening. He set his hand on the pommel of his sword. ‘Ashigaroth and I shall take to the sky to do what we can, if you have no objections.’

‘Fight well, Mannfred,’ Tarsus said. He held out his hand. Though he could not bring himself to entirely trust the vampire, he could find no fault in his courage. Mannfred looked at him for a moment, and then took the proffered hand.

‘May the day bring you glory, Tarsus,’ Mannfred said. He turned and leapt into Ashigaroth’s saddle. The dread abyssal reared up, shrieking, and leapt towards the wall. It struck the stones and bounced off, climbing the wind until it was lost to sight in the howling sands. Tarsus turned his attention to the preparation of the defences.

‘Move those stones into the opening. Get the wagons turned,’ he said, directing his warriors. The pilgrims’ oxen had been herded into one of the few outbuildings that clung to the outside of the temple, out of the way, and the carts were being manhandled by Stormcasts into the many gaps in the stone walls which surrounded the temple courtyard. Other Stormcasts were completing the destruction of the fallen pillars and dragging the oblong chunks into place inside the archway. They moved quickly, and within minutes the courtyard was as defensible as they could make it.

Liberators took up positions behind the carts and along the bottom of the walls as Judicators climbed to the rickety ramparts which lined sections of the wall above. He’d ordered the Prosecutors to the minarets and dome of the temple roof, to keep an eye on the enemy’s approach. As he helped one of his warriors wedge a cart into place, a Prosecutor dropped into the courtyard and shouted, ‘Bull-Heart, they come!’

Tarsus peered out through the gap. Outside, amidst the howling winds, a tall shape had clambered to the top of the shattered gatehouse and now stood watching them. He recognized what the warrior was easily enough — a doom-handed champion of Chaos, clad in hell-forged armour, and carrying a heavy, long-hafted mace in his hands. A cloak of scabrous fur flapped about the warrior’s shoulders, and his helm was moulded in the shape of a snarling wolf’s head. He appeared unconcerned by the stinging red sands which rose and fell around him.

‘There you are,’ Tarsus said to himself. It was ever the same — the champions of the Bloodbound could not resist announcing themselves.

‘Let us in, little men,’ the Chaos champion rumbled, his impossibly deep voice echoing from within his wolf-helm and carrying easily to the ears of the defenders, despite the storm. He spread his arms, and howling bloodreavers and savage blood warriors rose from the ever-shifting blood-sands where they had crouched, waiting. ‘We but seek shelter from the storm and the night-things which harry us.’

Tarsus looked out at the foe, trying to gauge their numbers, but the growing turbulence made it difficult. He guessed that his small Stormhost was outnumbered almost three to one.

‘I am Gorewolf. I take what I wish, and none may resist me,’ the champion continued, his voice growing louder. ‘Now, I take this place in the name of Khorne!’

He lifted his great daemon-headed mace over his head. At this signal, his followers started forward with a roar, charging pell-mell towards the crumbled walls of the monastery through the undulating curtain of red sands.

Tarsus shook his head and clapped a hand on the shoulder of the Liberator standing beside him. ‘So many soon to be dead,’ he said.

‘We shall put them to rout as before, Lord-Celestant,’ the Liberator said.

‘Aye, that we shall,’ Tarsus said. He raised his hammer. ‘Who will be triumphant?’

‘Only the faithful,’ his Warrior Chamber roared in reply, as they began to beat upon their shields and stamp upon the ground.

‘Who will hold, when all others fail?’ he cried.

‘Only the faithful!’

‘Judicators — make your judgement,’ Tarsus bellowed to the retinues crouched behind the ramparts above him. Boltstorm crossbows cracked and death rippled out along the front ranks of the enemy. The fallen were trampled by those behind them, who plunged on, heedless of the casualties. ‘Liberators, hold the wall. Do not let them in. Fall back only when you must. Zarus,’ he called, as the Liberators readied themselves. Zarus, Prosecutor-Prime of the Bull-Hearts, dropped down into the courtyard from his perch on the wall.

‘Speak and I shall make it so,’ Zarus said, as he folded his crackling wings behind him and smashed a fist into his chest in salute.

‘Do you remember when we took the walls of Starhold, and what we did there?’ Tarsus said, clasping the other Stormcast by the shoulder guards. ‘When the enemy threatened to overwhelm the other Warrior Chambers, before we could come to their aid?’

Zarus laughed sharply. ‘I do!’

‘It may come to that again. It shall fall to you, as it did then, Wallbreaker,’ Tarsus said, using the other Stormcast’s war-name. He motioned to the wall. ‘Bring those ancient stones down and bury the enemy.’ He turned and gestured to Ramus.

‘Here, my Lord-Celestant,’ Ramus said. He stalked across the courtyard, surrounded by his Paladins. ‘We await your orders.’

‘You and your Paladins will hold the outer chambers. Protect the pilgrims. See that no harm comes to them.’ Tarsus glanced back towards the walls. ‘We shall hold here, until it is no longer tenable, then we will retreat and join you.’

‘You believe they will get in,’ Ramus said.

‘These walls are old and weak. They were not meant for war even when they were strong. Now, they are little better than cloth. Our foe fights not for victory, but for survival, and it is for survival’s sake that we must hold him at bay. When the time comes, we will retreat to the outer chambers of the temple, and you must be there to meet us. Inside the temple they will scatter into groups, looking for loot, food and slaughter, and then we shall smash them piecemeal.’

Ramus nodded and thumped the ground with the end of his reliquary staff. ‘It shall be done, Bull-Heart. This Gorewolf shall regret showing us his fangs. We shall trample this yelping pack into the dust, as they deserve.’

‘Who will be left standing?’ Tarsus said.

‘Only the faithful,’ Ramus replied, bowing his head.

‘Only the faithful, my friend. Go,’ Tarsus said, hefting his hammer. He drew his sword and went to join his men at the walls, just as the first of the enemy reached them. Axes hacked and chopped at the improvised barricades as the Liberators struck at their wielders. When a barricade fell, the Liberators were there, shields locked, to frustrate the efforts of their foes. But there were too many Bloodbound. Tarsus knew it was only a matter of time until a gap was opened in his lines.

The next moments passed in a whirlwind of clashing steel and dying screams. He saw a trio of Liberators bowled over by a wild-eyed blood warrior that charged its way through an overturned cart and fought on, despite the skybolts lodged in his torso and skull. Gripped by a murderous frenzy, he hacked and slashed at the Stormcasts until Soros brought his lightning hammer down on the Bloodbound’s head.

Tarsus killed a heavily scarred bloodreaver with a blow from his hammer, and saw more barricades shattered and broken by the berserk warriors of the Bloodbound. They were determined to gain the temple, and took no heed of their own casualties. He blocked a looping slash from a jagged blade and drove his shoulder into the chest of his attacker, crushing bone and tearing flesh. As the body fell he spun, bringing his weapons together to catch the edge of an axe as it dropped towards his head.

The blood warrior roared wordlessly as Tarsus forced him back. All around them, Stormcasts retreated, allowing the Bloodbound to enter so that the Judicators on the wall could fire on them. When he judged that the bulk of the enemy were either just inside the gaps or trying to push past those who were, Tarsus tore his hammer free of his opponent’s axe and waved it, signalling the Judicators to pull back from their positions. The blood warrior staggered forward, off balance.

‘Wallbreaker — bring it down,’ Tarsus roared as he slammed his helm against the blood warrior’s head. His adversary reeled back, dazed, and Tarsus severed his axe-hand at the wrist. He smashed the dying warrior off his feet and sheathed his sword so that he could pull a wounded Liberator up.

‘Fall back, Bull-Hearts,’ he cried, swinging his hammer out to drive back any Bloodbound who drew too close. He saw Zarus lead his Prosecutors overhead and watched in satisfaction as they hurled their hammers at the sagging wall.

The walls came down with a roar, filling the courtyard with sand and dust. Red-armoured bodies were buried beneath the rubble, but not all of them. They charged out of the rising haze, howling like hungry beasts, with Gorewolf at their head. His great mace swung out and sent a Liberator flying backwards to land in a broken heap.

‘Back,’ Tarsus roared. ‘Back to the temple and lock shields as you go. Let no enemy pass you.’

Judicators continued to fire as they retreated along the remaining ramparts, pulling back towards the outer chamber of the temple. The Liberators gave ground grudgingly, making the enemy pay in blood for every step they took. Hammers rose and fell, and bodies littered the courtyard. Flashes of brilliant blue marked where a grievously injured Stormcast was wrenched back to Azyr, destined for Reforging.

The Stormcasts retreated up the steps of the temple, fighting the entire way. Broken bodies marked their ascent as Gorewolf’s warriors attacked again and again. Finally, they reached the great doors and were able to slam them shut, buying themselves a momentary respite.

‘Soros, lead our brothers to the rallying point,’ Tarsus said, as he retreated into the temple. The corridors were lit by weakly flickering stanchions, which glowed with an amethyst light. ‘I go to find the priests. The enemy will flood these corridors soon enough, and they need to be warned.’

‘It shall be done, Lord-Celestant,’ Soros said. Tarsus nodded in satisfaction and peeled off from the group, heading down a side corridor. The temple was large, but it was mostly a series of chambers that surrounded an inner nave.

Where are you? Tarsus thought, as he hurried along the corridor. They were allies, but there was no telling how long it would last. The dead cannot be trusted. The thought was never far from his mind. Some buried lesson from his old life, come to light again. No, Mannfred could not be trusted, but they needed him. The vampire swore that he could help them find a way into the underworld. And since this did not seem to be such a gate, they still required his aid.

But while he was an untrustworthy creature, he was also as brave as any Stormcast. There was a cruel sort of courage in Mannfred von Carstein, that in more savage times might even have been called heroism. Tarsus found the enormous iron-banded double doors which led to the nave and forced them open. Beyond them was a wide chamber. The vaulted ceiling was held up by rows of stone pillars which ran the length of the massive chamber. Flickering torches lined the walls, casting long shadows across the marble floor. At the centre of the chamber, on an enormous dais covered in sigils which represented the phases of the moon and the shapes of the stars, the seventy-seven Restful Brothers knelt in neat, orderly rows, heads bowed, faces turned away from the door.

Tarsus closed the doors behind him, but the priests did not stir. Swiftly, he strode towards them, noticing as he did so the great skulls, each as wide across as a Stormcast, which hung from the ceiling.

‘Terrorgheists,’ Mannfred said, from behind him. ‘Titanic bats. Their spirits hunt with the storm.’

Tarsus turned. ‘Why are you here?’

Mannfred didn’t answer. He patted Ashigaroth’s neck as the beast trotted out from behind a pillar. Tarsus was surprised at how silently such a large creature could move. He shook his head, annoyed by the vampire’s lack of response, but there was no time to press the issue.

‘The enemy will soon breach the inner chambers of the temple. We must get the brothers to safety,’ Tarsus said, starting towards the steps. Mannfred slid in front of him.

‘They are safe enough. And they will not go with you, in any event.’

‘They must, or they will die,’ Tarsus said as he pushed Mannfred aside.

‘Then they will die, Tarsus,’ he said. ‘Maybe that is what they want…’

‘Do you not recall the torments the Bloodbound inflicted upon you? Would you wish the same on them?’ Tarsus asked. ‘I know vampires are not as men, but even you cannot be so callous as to condemn your own kind to—’

Mannfred gave a bark of laughter. ‘My own kind? Do not insult me, Stormcast,’ he hissed. ‘I am better than these wretches. In my veins flows the blood of kings. I do not crouch in the dark, forgotten and forgetting.’

‘Then show me,’ Tarsus said. ‘Show me how I might convince them to save themselves, O son of kings. Show them how to fight as you do.’

Mannfred’s face twisted and his mouth moved silently. Then, with a growl, he stepped back. ‘It is too late. Our enemy is here. I hear his bestial tread, coming closer. Gird yourself, Tarsus. You wish to save them? Then we must fight. And let not one enemy past you.’

Mannfred raised his sword and turned towards the great doors to the chamber as they were smashed off their hinges. A horde of Bloodbound poured in, Gorewolf at their head.

‘Death! Death and ruin, for the Lord of Skulls,’ Gorewolf howled. His warriors plunged past him, chanting the Blood God’s name. The chamber echoed with their cries and the sounds of the battle outside as the Stormcasts clashed with the enemy in the corridors of the temple.

Tarsus brought his weapons together and stepped forward, Mannfred by his side.

‘What is it you Stormcasts say at moments such as this? Some pithy mantra, regarding faith,’ the vampire asked, as he gestured to Ashigaroth, pacing nearby.

‘Only the faithful,’ Tarsus said.

‘That’s the one,’ Mannfred murmured. ‘How droll.’ He extended his sword towards the enemy. ‘Only the faithful, then.’

With a duellist’s grace, he sprang and cut down the first of the bloodreavers to reach them. Then, with a powerful leap, he was once more on Ashigaroth’s back and swooping towards the Bloodbound. Tarsus was only a half-step behind them, sword and hammer sweeping out in crackling arcs to knock his foes from their feet.

As he fought, Tarsus saw Gorewolf barrel towards the kneeling priests, cracking the marble floor with every step. He raised his mace high and roared. Tarsus lunged forward to intercept the Chaos champion. He heard Mannfred call out behind him but he did not slow. His sword slashed out and a blood warrior fell, headless. His hammer cracked the skull of a second, and then he collided with Gorewolf, driving the surprised champion back into one of the pillars.

The haft of Gorewolf’s mace crashed down, and Tarsus staggered back. The mace swept out, nearly taking his head off. As he stepped back, he saw a group of Stormcasts, led by Soros, rushing through the doors to fall upon the Bloodbound. The Retributor-Prime roared and flattened a bloodreaver with a single blow from his hammer.

‘Soros,’ he cried, ‘protect the priests!’

Gorewolf howled and surged towards him. They traded blows back and forth between the pillars. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Mannfred fighting alongside Soros. Dark energies ripped from the vampire’s hands as he unleashed killing spells, and Ashigaroth tore the life from those opponents who got too close. Mannfred fought ferociously, but even so, a trio of warriors slid past him and charged towards Tarsus and Gorewolf. Tarsus lunged forward and shoved his enemy off balance into a pillar, and whirled to face this new threat.

The first bloodreaver went down beneath his hammer then the second fell to his sword. The last came at him in a rush, howling out his dark god’s name. His blade skittered across Tarsus’ chest plate. The Lord-Celestant parried a second blow, smashing the warrior’s arm with his hammer in the process. He stepped forward and drove his sword up into the bloodreaver’s stomach, picking the barbarian up off of his feet. Tarsus pivoted and hurled the body off his blade even as Gorewolf surged towards him, mace raised. They crashed together, weapons locked.

As he strained against Gorewolf, Tarsus caught a glimpse of the priests. They were no longer kneeling in a line. Instead, a number of them were clustered about the twitching body of the man he had just killed, their heads lowered like hogs at the trough. The others pushed and shoved at one another as if trying to get close, hissing and snarling. Suddenly, one reared up, head thrown back to reveal the blood which coated its face and robes. The vampire screamed as if in pain, and his cry was taken up by the others as all seventy-seven of them began to writhe and twitch abominably.

Limbs swelled and twisted with a sound like snapping branches, and human flesh grew thin and tore away to reveal bulky, bestial bodies. Twisted, bat-like faces, smeared with blood, swung towards Tarsus and his foe. Mad, bulging eyes fixed on them, and dark muzzles peeled back from yellow fangs. Varghulf, Tarsus thought suddenly, the word rising to the surface of his memory as the heaving, hairy shapes sprang forward on bent wing-stumps and jointed legs.

Tarsus reacted quickly. He shoved Gorewolf back, towards the approaching monsters. Two of the beasts leapt onto the champion, bearing him to the ground. The Chaos champion managed to knock one sprawling with his mace, even as the other buried its great fangs in his throat, savaging him. Gorewolf’s cries were cut short as one of the seventy-seven brothers tore out his jugular, painting a nearby pillar with his blood. His struggles faded and his mace clattered to the floor.

Several varghulfs pursued Tarsus as the rest stampeded towards the doors and the warriors still locked in combat there. He darted behind a pillar as they came at him in a rush. One struck the pillar and swung around it, its claws tearing chunks out of the stone as it scrambled down towards him, jaws snapping. A second leapt to the pillar opposite, cutting off his escape route. Tarsus whirled as a third smashed into him, knocking him off his feet. It tore his sword from his hand as they slid backwards in a tangle. It ducked forward, jaws wide, and he forced the haft of his hammer between its teeth. He could hear the screams of the Bloodbound and the cries of his Stormcasts as the other varghulfs fell upon the combatants, roaring and shrieking.

The varghulf on top of him jerked back and forth, trying to wrench his weapon from his grip. Its wing-stumps battered at him, but he refused to let go, knowing that to do so was to die. Then, suddenly, its snout was pried back, away from him. Mannfred crouched atop its back, one hand clutching its upper jaw and his other wrapped in its shaggy mane. The varghulf reared up, screeching, as Mannfred lost his footing and tumbled to the floor. Tarsus drove his hammer into the creature’s throat, knocking it back. Mannfred scrambled to his feet, hands crackling with cold fire. He spat a guttural invocation and the varghulf shrilled as black flames suddenly sprouted from its hairy form. It staggered away from them, howling in pain.

Another lunged for him from between two pillars, but was knocked sprawling by Ashigaroth. The dread abyssal hissed in warning, as it crouched protectively near its master.

‘Back,’ Mannfred snarled, hands raised towards the varghulfs. ‘Back, you wretches, or else I shall teach you the true meaning of torment.’ He glared at the other varghulfs, who stared back at them with glittering eyes. ‘I am Mannfred von Carstein, and I will not be prey for blood-mad beasts.’

Slowly, reluctantly, the beasts slunk away. Tarsus turned, watching them as they moved for the shattered doors, wailing like lost souls. The others joined them, leaving the savaged bodies of the Bloodbound where they lay and the remaining Stormcasts where they stood. In a frenzied mass, the varghulfs exploded out into the temple, the echoes of their cries trailing after them. Soros stepped forward and raised his hammer in salute. Tarsus returned the gesture and turned back to Mannfred.

‘I tried to warn you,’ Mannfred said harshly. ‘It’s the blood — they cannot risk the taste of blood. It drives them into a frenzy. That is why they came here. To hide away from battle, and the slaughter that comes with it.’

‘They are cursed,’ Tarsus said.

‘They are weak,’ Mannfred spat. ‘Unable to control themselves and thus of no use to anyone. They are beasts.’

‘Even so, we should go and make sure that they are no threat to the rest of my warriors or our charges,’ Tarsus said. He retrieved his sword and they made their way back out into the temple corridors, followed by Soros and the others.

Bloodbound bodies marked the path taken by the varghulfs. When they came to the entryway, they were met by Ramus and his vanguard.

The Lord-Relictor gestured with his staff towards the storm-wracked courtyard. ‘I saw.’ Before Tarsus could speak, he went on. ‘They pursued a number of our foes out into the storm. They did not seem eager to match claws with our shield wall,’ he said, with some satisfaction.

‘Not when there’s easier prey about,’ Mannfred said. He peered out into the storm. ‘They will glut themselves on the enemy and perish in the storm, or the sun that comes after. And even if they do not, we will be gone by the time they return. We must go. Now.’

Tarsus shook his head. ‘We will stay until the storm has passed. The people here are under our protection and they will not survive either the storm or those beasts should they return looking for easier prey.’

Mannfred looked as if he wanted to argue, but said nothing. He swept his cloak about him and stalked back down the corridor, leaving Tarsus and the other Stormcasts in silence.

It took a night and a day for the storm to die down. All signs of battle in the courtyard had been buried beneath the sand and dust. The seventy-seven Restful Brothers had not come back, either in one form or another, for which Tarsus was grateful. As the weak sun faded to dusk, the Stormcasts readied themselves to depart.

‘What will you do now?’ Tarsus asked, as he stood on the steps of the temple. His Stormhost was already on the march, heading west towards the mountains.

Aisha shrugged. ‘We came to serve the brethren for as long as they require, until they go back to their contemplations. And so we shall, when they return.’

‘If they return,’ Tarsus said.

‘They always do,’ Aisha replied, with a sad smile. ‘It is our duty to care for them, as best we can, so long as they allow. The dead hold their honour sacred.’

‘Can the living do any less?’ Tarsus asked. He extended his hand. Hesitantly, Aisha took it, clasping his forearm. ‘Much is demanded, of those to whom much is given,’ he said. ‘That is our saying, but I think it holds true for you as well, Aisha of Morrsend. Hold fast to your duty, and may Sigmar hear your prayers when the song of swords is begun.’

‘May a good death be yours, Tarsus of the Hallowed Knights,’ Aisha said. She released her hand and turned to rejoin her people, hammer across her shoulder.

‘So worthy,’ Mannfred said. ‘Such devotion, such dedication, to creatures who deserve neither.’ He spoke absently, as if thinking of something else entirely.

Tarsus examined the vampire where he sat atop his monstrous steed, casually stripping the flesh from a bloodreaver’s severed head. Mannfred had one leg thrown over Ashigaroth’s neck and was leaning back in his saddle, the very image of insouciance. It was a good performance, but the Stormcast could see the tension beneath the mask. Mannfred was eager to be away. Tarsus decided to take that as a good sign. He strode towards the vampire.

‘I did not thank you earlier.’

Mannfred did not look up from the bloody skull he’d been idly carving crooked sigils into, but he said, ‘Nor did you have to. I owe you a debt, Stormcast. We travel the same road and for the moment, our causes align.’

‘And what is your cause, Mannfred?’ Tarsus said. ‘You never said why you were in the temple. What were you looking for?’

Mannfred looked at him. ‘A sign, my friend. A sign that I am on the right path.’

‘And did you find it?’ Tarsus asked.

‘Yes,’ Mannfred said. He kicked Ashigaroth’s flanks, and the beast rose to its feet. ‘Yes, I believe I did,’ he called down, as the dread abyssal flung itself into the sky.

Tarsus watched the vampire swoop over the heads of his Stormcast, Gerot’s words echoing in his head. The dead, like the living, come in many shades, he thought. And that one bears watching…

Josh Reynolds

The Lords of Helstone

Nagash has risen.

The ur-death stirs and the worlds tremble. That is as it should be, and yet… there are things I cannot see. All souls belong to me. All the dead of all the worlds above and below are mine. Nagash has risen and all must pay fealty.

But some do not. Some flee to realms I can but dimly perceive, the how or why of their leaving a mystery even to me. They are snatched from me, as a thief might pilfer coins. Who has taken them? Who denies me my rightful bounty?

WHO?

Whoever they are, they are my enemy and they shall know my wrath.

Though I have grown weak and weary, though my body slumps on its basalt throne, its hollows and crevices filled not with strength but with worms and spiders, they shall know my wrath. The enemy draws near. The Starless Gates are blistered by the heat of war, as the servants of the mad gods hurl themselves against my defences in an unceasing assault.

Their champions call for me to show myself. They mock me. They think me nothing but a memory, an old ghost, forgotten and fallen. Nagash is dead, they say. The Great Necromancer is bones and dust and nothing more.

But Nagash endures.

A grave wind gathers in the dark as my loyal Mortarchs gather and my servants heed my call. Soon, I must stride forth and break the bones of those who would stand against me. I shall crack their limbs and sew up their skins, filling them with mouldering air so that their wails echo forevermore.

Nagash has risen.

I shall not be denied. Not by those who face me openly, or by thieves who come in the night. Nagash shall cast down the citadels of his enemies and make of them habitation for night-birds and hoofed things.

But first, I must seek out my secret foes, those who sicken me and steal the strength from my limbs. For I have seen them, at a distance, their souls glowing with lightning and power. My power, stolen from me by an old enemy. I am betrayed by the storm, and his laughter is in every peal of thunder and flash of lightning.

The dead are mine and they must learn their place.

I shall hunt them in the Vale of Sorrows and across the Blood Plain. I shall peer through the eyes of carrion birds, and through the hollow sockets of fleshless horrors. I shall hunt them, these thieves, for they hold the key to my weakness.

They know what I must know.

And so I shall run them to ground. I shall tear their secrets from them.

Nagash will not be denied.

Nagash must not be denied.

NAGASH SHALL NOT BE DENIED.

Tarsus slammed his shoulder into the beastman’s stomach and flipped the goat-headed creature over his back. As it tried to scramble to its feet, he twisted about and crushed its skull with a blow from his hammer before whirling back around and opening the throat of a second gor with the tip of his sword.

‘Come then,’ he shouted, clashing his weapons together. ‘Come and meet the storm.’

Beastmen spilled out of the overgrown ruins all about him, scrambling through once-majestic archways and the fire-gutted structures that made up the gateway to the mountain city of Helstone. They had sprung their ambush with characteristic ferocity, but the brighter creatures were beginning to realise that they had caught more than they had bargained for. A foamy-jawed bestigor, clad in rusty armour, hacked at him with a two-handed axe. Tarsus avoided the blow and thrust his sword through the beastman’s chest, killing it instantly. He wrenched his blade free.

‘Smash them, sons of Sigmar,’ he roared. ‘Drive them back — let no Chaos-touched beast bar your path!’ All around him, the retinues of his silver-clad Stormhost surged forward, slamming into the enemy with a sound like thunder. Their heavy shields, upon which the sigil of Sigmar was emblazoned, were thrust out to absorb the blows of axes and clubs. Hammers wreathed in crackling lightning rose and fell, pummelling the foe to the ground.

Tarsus kicked a beastman back against a broken pillar and pulped its skull as it staggered. Though the Lord-Celestant had been forged anew in Sigmar’s realm, the man he had been was born here, in the Realm of Death. And now, here I am, fighting the enemies of Sigmar in these lands once more, he thought, as he drove his war-helm into the face of a beastman and knocked it sprawling. Before it could stand, he drove his sword through its chest, killing it. Lands that might once have been mine, he thought, as he jerked his sword free.

He spun as he heard the scrape of steel on stone behind him, and swept his sword out. He pulled his blow up short as he saw the black and golden creature crouched atop the crumbled wall behind him. It screeched and he stepped back warily as it snapped its heavy jaws shut on a dead beastman’s head. Bone crunched and popped as the bat-like jaws drew forth a squealing wisp. As Ashigaroth swallowed the wretched scrap which passed for the beastman’s soul, its master laughed.

Mannfred von Carstein leaned forward in his saddle. ‘I did warn you not to make so much noise, my friend,’ he said. ‘One would think you Stormcasts wanted to call the enemy down upon you.’

‘It’s easier to kill them if we don’t have to look for them,’ Tarsus said as he parried a blow from an axe and gutted its wielder. ‘In any event, they were in our way.’

Momentarily free of the press of combat, he scanned the battlefield. Vaulted archways, broken by calamity and age, rose above the overgrown paving stones of the enormous courtyard. Tumbledown walls marked where guardhouses and the inner keep of the great gatehouse had once stood, before it had fallen to ruin. Yellowing vines and a brittle brown moss clung to almost every flat surface.

‘Is this all that is left?’ he muttered. ‘Are these shattered ruins all that remains of Helstone?’

‘Of the city that was? Yes,’ Mannfred said. He gestured, and cold black flames wreathed his fingers. All around Tarsus, the newly dead began to twitch, like sleepers waking from a nightmare.

‘Stop,’ Tarsus said. ‘There is no need for that.’

Mannfred looked at him and sneered, but he lowered his hand, snuffing the flames as he did so.

‘What did you mean, “the city that was”? Is there another?’ the Lord-Celestant asked.

‘Of sorts,’ Mannfred said. ‘The city once sprawled wild across this very slope which overlooks the acrid waters of the Bitter Sea. Its towers once stretched into the very clouds themselves.’ He smiled unpleasantly. ‘Now, they stretch to the very depths…’

Before Tarsus could press him further, he heard the winding of hunting horns. The Chaos pack was in retreat. The beastmen had chosen the site for their ambush well, but they had not been prepared for the speed with which the Stormcasts had reacted. Now, all save a determined handful were vanishing into the ruins, leaving the dead and wounded behind. The handful in question, a pack of armoured bestigors, continued to hack and smash at the shields of the Liberators.

‘Allow me,’ Mannfred began, raising his hand.

‘No need,’ Tarsus said, and barked an order. The Liberators began to fall back, drawing the bestigors after them. ‘Ramus, finish this,’ he said, glancing at his Lord-Relictor, who was standing on a broken plinth, surrounded by his Paladins and the shattered bodies of beastmen. As Tarsus spoke, Ramus raised his staff and murmured a sonorous prayer. He thrust the staff forward as the blue light about it grew almost unbearably bright. In a voice like thunder, Ramus uttered one word.

‘Burn.’

Lightning zigzagged down through the shattered roof above, arcing along the crude iron weapons and armour of the bestigors and burning them to ash and bone. Ramus wrenched his staff aside like a man pulling a rope taut and the burning beastmen came apart in clouds of charred flesh and scorched metal, which spattered the shields of the Stormcasts. He turned back to face Tarsus and inclined his head.

‘The rest flee, Lord-Celestant,’ he said, stepping off the plinth and striding towards his commander. ‘The beastkin have little stomach for real battle.’

‘They will return,’ Mannfred said, cleaning his sword with a scrap of cloth. The vampire sheathed his blade with a flourish. ‘There are thousands of them and worse things besides, roaming the ruins, warring on each other. We must hurry and descend into the depths before their courage returns.’

‘The depths? Have you led us to one of the Nine Gates at last then, vampire?’ Ramus growled. ‘Have you finally made good on your debt to us?’

‘If I recall rightly, I owe you nothing, Stormcast,’ Mannfred said looking down at the Lord-Relictor. ‘Tarsus freed me, and I repaid him by saving your life.’

‘No, Ramus — this is not the way to Stygxx,’ Tarsus said. Ramus looked at him, as did Mannfred. Tarsus shook his head. ‘I am not so much a fool as that, Mannfred. You were far too evasive when you guided us here. What was it you said, in Sepulchre? Our paths run together, but they are not the same. There is no way into the underworld here, is there?’

Mannfred was silent for a moment. Then he looked away.

‘No,’ he said, patting Ashigaroth’s neck. ‘No, there is no gate to Stygxx here that I know of.’

‘I thought not,’ Tarsus said. ‘Yet you brought us here for a reason — what is it?’

Mannfred did not turn as he spoke, instead keeping his gaze on the city, which spread out below them. ‘Coming here was a necessity, I assure you. There is something here which we must acquire, before we can continue on our journey.’

‘What is it?’ Tarsus asked. He stepped in front of Mannfred’s steed and looked up at the vampire. Ashigaroth stirred, but Mannfred calmed the beast.

‘Speak, vampire,’ Tarsus said calmly, giving no sign that he had noticed the dread abyssal’s restlessness. ‘You owe me that much at least, by your own admission.’

‘The Fang of Kadon,’ Mannfred said, after a moment. ‘An artefact which can point the way to the Nine Gates. The gates are born anew every nine months, and they grow and age and die in the same span, crumbling to dust before appearing elsewhere. An endless cycle of death and rebirth. That is why the Dark Gods have yet to find Nagash, for none can predict where and when the Nine Gates will open. But with the Fang…’

‘How did such a potent item come to be lost?’

Mannfred laughed. ‘It was forgotten by the Mortarchs as they carried the broken remains of Nagash into the underworld. Left behind in the care of Uzun, sage of the Sorrowful Order, who made his way from the Vale of Sorrows to Sepulchre, and thence to Helstone…’

‘Why this place?’ Tarsus asked. Uzun, he thought, the name plucking some chord deep within him. He pushed the thought aside, trying to focus on what Mannfred had said. The Vale of Sorrows was where they had discovered the vampire, and Sepulchre… They had just left the ruins of Sepulchre, only a few days before.

‘Helstone was a place of resistance, in those fear-fraught final days,’ Mannfred said softly. He turned away, gazing out over the ruins, his narrow features taut. ‘Where those who could stood for those who could not. As the legions of the dead crumbled beneath the storm, the living held firm. The fortress-state of Helstone was a bastion against the assaults of Chaos, and it was here, in the days after Nagash was cast down, that the full might of the Dark Gods fell.’

He looked down at Tarsus. ‘Uzun brought the Fang here, it is said, so that the people of Helstone might flee to the underworld and seek sanctuary in the halls of the Amethyst Princes.’ He grinned mirthlessly. ‘Alas, it was not to be. Nagash alone knew the secret of its use. Nagash… and one other.’

‘You,’ Tarsus said. Mannfred inclined his head.

‘We cannot trust him,’ Ramus said. ‘He has deceived us, Tarsus. We should have left him where we found him.’

Mannfred laughed. ‘And if you had, you would still be wandering aimlessly, looking for something you had no hope of finding.’ He looked at Tarsus. ‘Tarsus, my friend… I swear, on my very blood and bone, that I am not lying. We need the Fang, else we could search for an eternity without finding that which we seek.’

Tarsus paused, examining the vampire’s face for any sign of deception. ‘Why not simply tell us what you intended?’

‘Would you have trusted me?’ Mannfred looked at Ramus as he spoke, and Tarsus could feel the anger radiating off the Lord-Relictor. A seaborne wind hissed through the ruins, bringing with it the far-off wail of war-horns. Mannfred was correct — the beastmen were returning, and in strength.

‘Enough,’ Tarsus said, before Ramus could speak. ‘This place is vast, and, by your own admission, full of enemies. How will we find this artefact of yours?’

‘Simple. We shall ask the lords of Helstone.’

‘They yet live?’ Tarsus asked. At the thought, something awoke within him. A flare of heat, as if he had been in darkness and was suddenly standing in the sunlight. Mannfred looked down at him, his expression puzzled, but he nodded.

‘Yes. They live. In the depths below.’

‘Take us to them,’ Tarsus said.

Mannfred wordlessly kicked Ashigaroth into motion. Tarsus raised his hammer. His Stormcasts fell into formation smoothly with an instinctive discipline. They marched as one, Tarsus and Ramus taking the lead. Prosecutors, led by Zarus, swooped out over the ruins ahead of the column, assessing the lay of the city.

More than once, Zarus or one of his retinue brought word of beastmen lurking nearby in the ruins. But no further attacks came. The beastkin were not ones for strategy. They knew only one way, and that way served them badly when they faced a foe that was prepared for them. Badly enough, perhaps, that they were reluctant to try again. Even so, Tarsus remained alert, for the sound of horns never faded entirely.

He was not alone in being tense.

‘I do not trust him, Tarsus,’ Ramus said, as they followed Mannfred. ‘He leads us to one ruin after the next, as if we were the servants, and he the master. I would teach him the error of his ways…’

‘I have no doubt that you would, my friend,’ Tarsus said. ‘And in truth, my faith in his intentions wanes by the day. But… we are close, Ramus. I can feel it. We are on the cusp of… something. The end of our mission. Mannfred, despite his deceptions, can lead us to Nagash. And if he says we must find some artefact to win an audience with the Great Necromancer, then we will do so. I will not fail. We will not fail. We will do what we must, even if it costs all of us our lives. We can do no less, and still call ourselves Stormcasts.’

‘As you say, Lord-Celestant,’ Ramus said. He laid his hammer across his shoulder. ‘Though if he does betray us, I will remind you that I said as much.’

‘I expect nothing less, my friend,’ Tarsus said, and tapped Ramus’ shoulder plate with his hammer.

When the Stormcasts caught up with Mannfred, he was waiting for them at the edge of what appeared to be a massive crater that stretched like a gaping wound in the belly of the cliff.

‘Behold, the hole where Helstone’s heart used to be,’ Mannfred said, standing in his saddle, arms spread. ‘Here stood the Deep Gate, the largest of the Hollow Towers, by which the folk of Helstone moved between sky and salt.’

The crater rim was marked by great shards of amethyst, the gemstones rising from the charred rock in eerily shimmering patches which cast strange, crawling shadows across the barren ground. No buildings stood within a hundred yards of those glittering markers. Even so, the area was not unoccupied — hundreds of roughly human-sized crystalline growths crowded around the crater like a forest.

As the Stormcasts threaded through the silent, stunted forest, Tarsus peered closely at one of the formations. Through a murky purple facet, a charred skull stared back at him, jaws wide in a silent scream.

‘In the Realm of Death, victory always has its price,’ Mannfred called out. ‘The servants of Chaos tore Helstone apart, stone by stone, but the city claimed its due before it perished.’

‘A spell gone awry perhaps,’ Ramus said. ‘Wild magic…’ He tapped his staff against one of the crystallized bodies and the amethyst began to glow softly. Soon, each of the shards was shining with an ever-shifting light. As the light grew in intensity, a low, soft moan, as of many voices all in pain, rose from everywhere and nowhere. The sound spiralled up and up, until it filled the air. The crystal shapes began to quiver, as if in sympathy to the moan. Purple shadows twitched and danced in the light and, as it began to fade, Tarsus thought he could see faces among them, human and otherwise.

‘If you are finished,’ Mannfred said, ‘we should descend, before the beastherds regain their courage.’ He turned Ashigaroth about and the dread abyssal gave a shriek as it leapt into the crater. Tarsus led his warriors to the rim and saw a curving expanse of wide, shimmering amethyst steps leading down to a circular landing some distance below, where Mannfred sat and waved them on.

‘Hurry, my friend,’ he called up.

‘More wild magic?’ Tarsus asked, as Ramus joined him at the edge.

‘Perhaps,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘It shows the marks of tools, however. Someone carved these steps, and that landing as well.’

Tarsus started down, Ramus’ words weighing on him. Carved by the folk of Helstone, perhaps? Then Mannfred wasn’t lying after all. The thought lent him speed as he descended. The amethyst landing gave way to more steps, but these were stone. Clumps of shimmering amethyst illuminated their way, but only barely, and they grew fewer and fewer the further down the Stormcasts went.

As they marched past the crudely carved support struts, which proved to be holding up the serpentine length of the steps above, Tarsus caught glimpses of the hollowed-out core of the seaside cliff upon which Helstone had been built. It was a sprawling network of broken aqueducts and tall, balcony-studded pillars — the Hollow Towers that Mannfred had spoken of — each one connected to its neighbours by a confusing web of stone walkways and bridges, most of them broken. The Hollow Towers stretched between the levels of the city, connecting one vast urban plateau to the next.

‘How far down does this blasted ruin stretch?’ Ramus said, as they continued their descent.

‘The city was — is — vast,’ Mannfred said. ‘Larger even than the grand port of Ossuary. When its turrets and towers scraped the sky it housed millions.’

‘And now?’ Tarsus said, as he looked past the support struts up at the vaulted archways which crisscrossed above them for what seemed to be miles. The uppermost reaches were almost completely hidden by stone paths, balconies and buttresses which extended from one great plaza to the next. Helstone had clearly been built over centuries, each generation building over the last. He sensed that not all of the building had been done by human hands.

What strange depths might these Hollow Towers be rooted in? he wondered. He thought that, once, he might have known.

Mannfred ducked his head as Ashigaroth padded beneath a shattered archway. ‘Helstone was a mighty city, in its time. It sat astride the ancient trade routes, which stretch from the Skull Isles to the great manses of the Amethyst Underworld. Even Nagash knew better than to obliterate it.’ Mannfred laughed. ‘Though it helped that the Princes of the Ninety-Nine Circles sued for peace as soon as the Great Necromancer appeared outside their gates.’

Something about that term piqued Tarsus’ curiosity, though he could not say why. ‘The Ninety-Nine Circles,’ he said, as he followed Mannfred through the archway and out onto an enormous landing. Three sets of steps descended from it, two going deeper into the depths of the city, and one leading to a wide avenue which curved through the crumbled towers and buildings beyond. ‘This city was built on them — ninety-nine levels, stretching from the deepest sea caves to the clouds above.’ He spoke without thinking, and could not say where his knowledge had come from.

For a moment, Tarsus thought he could smell the scent of foreign spices, and the cured meats which had once hung in market stalls. He could hear the clamour of life, as if from far away. He could feel…

Fire, rising from the depths of the city…

The screams of his people as they fled…

The sword in his hand vibrating painfully as he parried an enemy blade…

He blinked, and found Mannfred watching him, an inscrutable expression on his face. The vampire nodded. ‘Aye, and each level a kingdom in its own right, one stacked above the next. When the upper city fell, many of its people retreated to the lower levels, through the gates above, and these towers.’ He smiled. ‘They were a proud folk once, the lords of Helstone. Mighty in war, cunning in trade…’

‘Not mighty enough,’ Ramus said.

‘Mighty or no, if some of them survived then we must find them,’ Tarsus said.

‘And so we shall,’ Mannfred said. With that, he threw back his head to emit a monstrous shriek. It bounced from buttress to pillar, from arch to keystone, travelling far. As the echoes of it faded, something in the darkness answered in kind. Mannfred gestured airily, a cruel smile on his face. ‘Ah. As I suspected.’

Tarsus tensed as the sound of panting beasts and of claws scratching across stone rose out of the darkness. What horrors had Mannfred summoned?

‘You said you were taking us to meet the folk of Helstone, vampire,’ he said.

‘And so I have! Behold, the once-proud folk of Helstone,’ Mannfred said, as a number of gaunt grey shapes spilled into the open from out of the ruins below them. They were lean-limbed and starved-looking, their bare flesh pockmarked with scars where it was not covered by bits of animal hide or scavenged armour. Some carried weapons, crudely fashioned from bone or wood, but most bore nothing save their claws and fangs.

The sight of them tore at Tarsus more painfully than the talons of any mutant beast. He had expected men and had been given monsters instead. He watched them approach, torn between repulsion and sadness as, red-eyed and wary, they clustered at the edge of the light, mewling and snarling like wild beasts.

‘What have they become?’ he said softly.

‘Ghouls,’ Ramus said. ‘Carrion-eaters and marrow-drinkers. Foul things, more beast than man, more grave-worm than beast.’ Behind him, Tarsus heard the Stormcasts prepare themselves in case the newcomers proved themselves a threat. Shields were raised and hammers readied. He held up a hand, forestalling any premature action on the part of his warriors. The creatures clearly meant no harm, and despite his repugnance an ember of pity flickered within him.

‘Perhaps,’ Mannfred said. ‘But they are our allies, nonetheless. They have come at my call, and they will serve at my command. They will scatter throughout this city, and locate that which I — which we — seek.’

‘Can they be trusted?’ Tarsus asked.

‘As well as I,’ Mannfred replied.

Ramus gave a bark of laughter, but subsided at Tarsus’ gesture.

‘Then send them out,’ said the Lord-Celestant. ‘I would not tarry here any longer than is necessary.’

‘As you wish,’ Mannfred said. He moved down the steps, hands spread. The largest of the gathered ghouls clambered to meet him, moving with a curious simian gait. As Mannfred drew close, he held up his hands and dug his fingers into his palms, tearing his own flesh. The whines of the ghouls grew in intensity. Mannfred held out his bloody palms as if in benediction. The largest ghouls clustered about him, clutching at his arms as they drank his blood, or else licking up the droplets that spattered the stones. Ramus grunted in disgust, and Tarsus couldn’t help but sympathise with his Lord-Relictor’s feelings.

It was a vile ritual but, he suspected, an old one. As the ghouls nuzzled his hands, Mannfred spoke in a guttural language. Every so often, a ghoul would rear back, blood decorating its muzzle, and shriek out something that might have been a question. At last Mannfred wrenched his hands away from his grisly supplicants and snarled out a command. The ghouls turned as one and scrambled away, back into the shadows from which they had emerged. The vampire turned and climbed the steps.

‘It will be some time. There are miles to cover and these creatures must carry my word to the other packs. We should make camp.’

The dais and the avenue before the steps served them well enough in that regard, and the Stormcasts set up a field camp quickly. Liberator retinues took up a defensive perimeter around the bottom of the steps. Smaller chunks of rubble or fallen stones nearby were dragged into position to serve as improvised barricades, behind which Judicators took up position in order to watch the approaches to the dark avenue before them. Tarsus and Ramus stood at the top of the steps alongside Mannfred, surrounded by their retinues.

Stormcasts rarely needed rest, and the azure glow radiating from Ramus’ reliquary staff served to bolster the strength of all who were within reach, save Mannfred. The vampire shied away from the light and instead sat astride his monstrous steed, seemingly deep in thought.

Tarsus let his gaze roam across the plaza, taking in the grisly piles of gnawed bones and barbaric totems which seemed to occupy every nook and cranny in sight. Was this then all that was left of the city’s former inhabitants? A broken necropolis, full of beasts and shadows?

Shadows, wreathed about a column of flame, coming closer…

Men screaming, as red, lean-limbed daemons scrambled over the parapets…

The daemons scattering, fleeing before the approach of something worse…

A roar, like thunder…

He shook his head, trying to dislodge the errant mote of memory, as scenes of fire and death rose out of some deep place in his mind. Was this sunken place the citadel of his memories? Had he trod these stones before, in another life, in another time?

He watched the shadows dance in the light of Ramus’ staff, and tried to capture the flickering, fleeting memories as they slid across his mind, but it was like grasping smoke.

Some Stormcasts could recall their previous lives with almost painful clarity. Others could remember little, if anything. Tarsus was trapped between one life and the next, as were many of the Hallowed Knights. Their faith in Sigmar was like a chain, binding the facets of their two lives inextricably together.

He ran his fingers across the sign of Sigmar emblazoned on the head of his warhammer. Whoever he had been, he was Tarsus Bull-Heart now. That would have to be enough.

He looked up to find Mannfred gone. Tarsus rose to his feet and looked around. There was no sign of the vampire. He and his monstrous steed had vanished so silently that Tarsus hadn’t even noticed their departure.

He signalled Ramus.

‘I knew he would desert us at the first opportunity,’ the Lord-Relictor said, striding towards him.

‘This is not the first time he has disappeared,’ Tarsus said. ‘But the timing leaves much to be desired. We must—’

The air suddenly quivered with the tramp of hooves and the bray of bestial voices. Tarsus turned, drawing his sword.

‘Eyes front, Stormcasts,’ he said, his voice ringing out.

‘Is that what you call yourselves, then?’ a voice said, loudly. Tarsus saw a robed and hooded shape step out onto one of the balconies above them, a heavy scythe in one hand. The iron-shod haft of the scythe rang as the figure walked to the edge of the balcony and looked down at them. ‘Fitting, for creatures that come on wings of lightning.’

The newcomer threw back his hood, revealing a face that bore more relation to that of a reptile than a man. The scales that covered the creature’s scalp and cheeks were dark and infected-looking.

‘Stormcasts, then,’ he said, his voice slithering down through the dusty air. As Tarsus watched, he reached up and pried a warty scale loose from his face and tossed it aside. ‘You are trespassing. This city — and everything in it — belongs to the gods. The true gods.’ The creature thumped the balcony with his scythe. ‘It belongs to Sloughscale and his chosen followers. It is ours to do with as we wish, and none may gainsay us.’

Beastmen began to fill the streets and doorways ahead. They slunk out in knots and packs, slavering and howling in eagerness. The buzzing of millions of flies grew loud, nearly drowning out the stamp of hooves and the clatter of weapons. The heavy silhouettes of blightkings loomed behind the beastherds. Everywhere Tarsus looked, an enemy looked back.

‘He knew,’ he muttered. Somehow, Mannfred had known this was coming. Why else would he have slipped away? The ghouls, he thought. There was no telling what had truly passed between the debased creatures and the vampire. Had the vampire betrayed them?

Ramus nodded. ‘Of course he knew. We are a distraction, Tarsus. He knew these beasts were here, and he knew our coming would stir them to battle. We are the meat, to bait the trap.’

‘Then we shall have to disabuse him of that notion,’ Tarsus said. ‘But first, we must clear ourselves a path.’ He signalled for his men to ready themselves for battle. At his gesture, shields were locked together, forming a rough bulwark. Soros and his Retributors stood behind the shield wall, ready to charge once the enemy were within reach. He glanced at Ramus. ‘You know what to do.’

‘I do,’ the Lord-Relictor said.

Above them, Sloughscale brought his scythe down upon the stones of the balcony with a crash, and the servants of Nurgle started forward. Ungors and gors led the charge, bellowing guttural chants as they rang funerary bells and beat skin-drums. Tarsus raised his hammer. ‘Shields up,’ he said. ‘Stand fast.’

As the front ranks of the enemy drew close, the more nimble beastmen outpacing the slower blightkings, Tarsus clashed his weapons together. ‘Stamp your hooves, Bull-Hearts,’ he bellowed. All around him, Liberators thumped their hammers against the inside of their shields in a brutal rhythm, akin to the sound made by the hooves of the great shaggy aurochs which roamed the vast plains of Azyr. ‘If we must return to Sigmaron, let it not be in shame. When next we meet death, let it be with open eyes. Who shall stand, though the realms crumble?’

‘Only the faithful,’ the Stormcast answered, as one.

‘Who will rise, when all others fall?’

‘Only the faithful!’

‘Who will be victorious?’

‘ONLY THE FAITHFUL!’ The echoes of hammers striking sigmarite filled the avenue, drowning out even the bestial cries of the approaching bullgors.

‘Only the faithful!’ Tarsus roared. ‘Liberators — at my command, break the wall. Soros! There is red work to be done, Retributor. Ready yourself.’

Soros’ reply was to strike the haft of his lightning hammer against the ground. His Retributors followed suit, adding a ringing note to the thunder of the Liberators’ war-song. Tarsus felt his heart beat faster, aligning with the battle-rhythm.

When he judged the enemy to be within reach, Tarsus snarled, ‘Now!’

The shield wall split before him, and he led Soros and the Retributors forward at a dead run. They crashed into the enemy a moment later. The great two-handed hammers wielded by Soros and his warriors lashed out right and left, smashing beastmen from their feet or pulverising them in mid-stride. Tarsus clubbed and chopped at the enemy as he waded into their midst. The foe reeled, their momentum blunted by the sudden counter-charge.

A barrel-chested gor chieftain, scabrous skin covered in boils and sores, lurched forward out of the press and attacked him. The creature carried an axe in either hand and lashed out at him with both. It hacked at him, bellowing in a berserk fury. Tarsus swept the weapons aside with a blow from his hammer and chopped the beast’s legs out from under it. As it fell, he drove his heel down on its throat, silencing its screams.

The air rippled and Tarsus looked up, just as Sloughscale spat an incantation. Sorcerer, he thought, even as sickly green light speared from the creature’s hand, and several Stormcasts were reduced to bubbling black masses of corroded armour and rotting flesh, before they vanished in flashes of blue light.

‘Take him,’ Tarsus cried, signalling for Zarus and his Prosecutors to occupy the sorcerer’s attention.

Even as the winged warriors swooped towards Sloughscale, Tarsus was forced to divert his attention to a trio of spear-wielding gors. The beastmen lashed out at him from all sides and he twisted, letting a spear scrape across his chest and a second beneath his arm. He managed to hook the third with his hammer and tear it from its owner’s grip. He killed the weaponless creature, but a moment later he was driven to one knee by a powerful blow. He peered up, dazed, and saw a massive bullgor looming over him, a stone-headed maul clutched in its wide fists.

The bullgor lifted its weapon for another blow, when the snarl of lightning filled the air. A crackling azure bolt struck the bullgor full in the chest, hurling it backwards. Ramus strode towards him, lightning crawling across his silver armour.

Liberators forged forward in his wake, joining their shield-brothers in the line as Judicators moved up behind them, firing their crossbows into the milling ranks of the foe. Ramus led a retinue of Decimators forward, their axes swinging out in deadly rhythm, to capitalise on the damage done by the charge of the Retributors.

Tarsus brought his hammer up and around, against the head of his remaining opponent. The beastman fell twitching, even as Ramus joined him, and they fought back to back.

‘The sorcerer,’ he said, as he planted a boot on a beastman’s chest and ripped his weapon free of the flabby flesh. ‘Can you do something about him?’

‘Of course,’ Ramus said, as he drove the haft of his staff into the stomach of a blightking. It doubled over and Ramus crushed its skull with a powerful blow from his hammer. ‘Much is demanded—’

‘—of those to whom much is given,’ Tarsus said, completing the oath. He traded blows for a moment with a shrieking beastman, before its head was briefly limned by lightning and it dropped where it stood, smoke rising from its shattered skull. A nearby Judicator saluted him and Tarsus returned the gesture as he took in the battlefield at a glance. The shield wall was holding. Ramus’ charge had bought them respite, but the enemy still pressed close. It was as if every herd of beastmen in Helstone had answered Sloughscale’s call to war, and for every gor that fell, three more took its place. ‘Where are you, vampire?’ he muttered, as he parried a saw-toothed sword blade and rammed his hammer into its wielder’s goatish snout.

Perhaps Ramus had been right. Mannfred had taken advantage of them, used them to distract these foes, so that he could retrieve his prize. When I find you, vampire, I will extract payment from your cold carcass for every fallen warrior, he thought, as a bolt of blue shot upwards, signalling the death of a Stormcast.

He heard Ramus’ voice rise in prayer, and then a searing bolt of lightning split the air. The balcony Sloughscale had been occupying ceased to exist, reduced to tumbling fragments by the wrath of Sigmar. As the echo of the lightning strike faded, Tarsus heard the wail of horns and saw that the pox-worshippers were falling back, retreating into the ruins.

‘The sorcerer escaped,’ Ramus said. ‘I saw him dart into the tower as my lightning struck.’ He hammered the ferrule of his staff against the ground. ‘We must hunt him down.’

‘Yes,’ Tarsus said. ‘Mannfred can wait. We will find him and this artefact of his after we have purged this place of the plague which afflicts it.’ He raised his sword. ‘Form up! In Sigmar’s name, we march,’ he roared.

The city unfolded around them as they pursued Sloughscale and his followers, revealing horrors and wonders in equal measure. Great holes, wide enough to swallow an army, had been dug in the earth, and strange lights glimmered in the darkest reaches. Slumped towers disgorged swarms of fireflies as the Stormcast marched past, and, once, something large scrambled away from them, deeper into the ruins.

The beastherds and pox-warriors ran far and fast, but the Bull-Hearts were as inexorable as the oncoming storm. As they marched, the Liberators pounded their shields, filling the dark with noise and sparks of light as sigmarite struck sigmarite. The sound reverberated upwards, and as if in response, an amethyst rain began to fall. Each drop glowed briefly as it struck, leaving purple streaks across the silver of their armour.

The way ahead was often blocked by fallen bridges or toppled pillars, forcing them to seek alternate routes — routes which Tarsus found as often as the Prosecutors who swooped beneath broken aqueducts and through the slumping frames of shattered towers. For Tarsus, it was as if he had walked these streets before, and the further they penetrated the ruins, the more the memories came flooding back. He said nothing of it to Ramus. The Lord-Relictor had enough misgivings as it was.

The distant rumble of falling stones accompanied the steady rhythm of their march, as some part of the city gave in to time and collapsed in on itself. Soon, Tarsus thought, in a century, maybe two, little would be left of Helstone save rubble. But perhaps one day, people might return and reclaim what had been stolen from them. Perhaps one day, the Stormcasts would again march through these streets, and be greeted not by silence or the brays of savage beastmen, but by the cheers of its citizens. That would be a good day, when it came.

A good day, Tarsus thought, but not this day. This day was not about cheers or reclamation of lost glory, but instead about grim necessity. He wondered how they would find Mannfred, once the enemy had been dealt with. Like as not, the vampire would come for them. It was a cunning stratagem — pit one foe against another, and claim victory over both. Perhaps the vampire simply had no more need of them, now that he had regained his strength. Or perhaps he served a darker master than mere ambition.

Nagash was no friend to Sigmar. The enmity between God-King and god of death was old and savage. Is it Mannfred who stands against us… or Nagash himself?

‘This place is dead,’ Ramus intoned, pulling Tarsus from his reverie. ‘It is a rotting husk.’ He thrust his staff out, indicating a crude effigy of stretched skin and bone, bound together by strands of greying hair, which hung from a nearby pillar. Its features were hidden beneath the remains of an ancient helm. Skulls and lumps of rotting meat had been scattered about the base of the pillar.

‘Offerings,’ Ramus said.

‘To Nagash,’ Tarsus said. ‘The folk of Helstone worship him now, rather than Sigmar. Those who are not slaves to a more pernicious darkness.’ As well as the grisly votives of the ghouls there were more abominable signs — crumbling walls marked with the triple circle of Nurgle or the sign of the fly, as well as the foul herdstones of the beastmen, erected in the plazas and squares where merchants had once hawked their wares. When they came upon these, Tarsus ordered them destroyed, and his warriors complied joyfully.

‘All the more reason to collapse this verminous warren in on itself,’ Ramus said. ‘Look around you, Tarsus. There is no light here… only darkness. This, I fear, is what comes of fell deities like Nagash.’ He gestured broadly to the boles of turned earth and cleft rock which surrounded them, marking new tunnels dug into the streets and walls of Helstone by inhuman hands, and to the scattered bones and grisly totems. ‘Can you smell it, Tarsus? It is the stink of evil.’

‘Evil comes in many forms, Ramus. And some are more tolerable than others, for the greater good,’ Tarsus said, as they passed the effigy. As it receded behind them, a purple light seemed to grow behind the visor of the helm, and he wondered for a moment if something was listening. The dead did not rest in this realm. He raised his hammer, and considered going back to smash the foul idol. Then, with a sigh, he pressed on.

‘Nagash was of Sigmar’s pantheon, my friend. He ruled the dead, even as Sigmar ruled the heavens. He is an evil thing, but a necessary one,’ he said. ‘Chaos is our enemy this day.’

‘And Mannfred,’ Ramus said.

Tarsus nodded slowly. ‘And Mannfred.’

Soon, the avenue before them widened into an immense plaza. Tarsus raised his hammer, and the host slowed its advance. Two enormous towers, covered in moss, rose above either side of the avenue, casting long shadows across the way ahead. There was no sign of their foe, and he wondered how much farther the beasts would run before they were finally brought to bay. No horns or drums… no noise of any sort. Where are you? he thought, looking around.

Behind them, rising steadily upwards, row upon row of mausoleums and tomb-faces gazed down. There were thousands of them, stretching upwards at an angle, away from the walkways and paths which connected them to the avenue and into the darkness. As he examined them, Tarsus wondered whether there was anything left in them, after all these years.

He heard a cry and looked up. A Prosecutor fell, spiralling down towards the street ahead, arrows jutting from the weak points of his armour. The rest of the winged warriors were swooping and diving, trying to avoid the storm of arrows which arced through the air around them.

‘To arms,’ Zarus called, moments before an arrow thudded home in the eye-slit of his war-helm. He fell like a stone, striking a roof and rolling off into the abyss below, his body reduced to a crackle of blue light as he vanished.

Before Tarsus could act on Zarus’ final warning, a foul haze of green light enveloped the avenue and the sound of rupturing stone rolled through the air.

‘Tarsus — the towers!’ Ramus roared, from behind him. Tarsus looked around and saw the two enormous towers begin to twist and pivot like drunkards as their bases decayed before his very eyes.

‘Move,’ Tarsus shouted, flinging out his hand even as the warriors around him caught hold of him. They dragged him forward just as the towers toppled with thunderous groans, spewing dust and debris across the avenue. The towers struck the street one after the other like hammer blows, cracking the pavement open. The avenue shuddered and shifted as the great support columns beneath it quaked down to their roots.

Stormcasts were hurled from their feet or else buried beneath the collapsing structures. Some fell as sections of the avenue collapsed, flinging them down into the lower levels of the city where they were swiftly lost to view. A cloud of dust rolled across those who remained, filling the avenue and choking the air.

‘My lord, are you unhurt?’ Soros asked as he helped Tarsus to his feet.

‘So it seems. The others?’ Even as he asked the question, he looked at the wall of rubble which now covered the avenue. Parts of the road were simply gone, and what was left was now blocked almost to the ceiling. The fall of the towers had even torn down the roof in some sections. Dust obscured everything. Ambush… should have expected it, he thought, cursing himself and the piecemeal memories which had dulled his instincts.

‘I hear something,’ Soros said.

Tarsus did too — a wild grunting overlaid by a piercing creaking and a rumble, as of iron-shod wheels crossing stone. Before he could issue the order to form up, an appalling stink washed over them, as, with a roar, beastmen burst through the roiling cloud and fell on those Stormcasts furthest from the rubble.

Blue lightning slashed upwards as warriors fell to the Chaos pack.

‘Fall back,’ Tarsus cried. ‘Fall back and form up.’

The Stormcasts did as he ordered, backing away as more and more beastmen boiled out into the open. They came all in a rush, howling and waving flyblown standards. Monstrous, lumbering chariots drawn by snorting pig-like beasts rumbled out of the obscuring dust, each one filled with shrieking beastkin. Enormous monstrosities — multi-armed ghorgons and slavering bullgors — thundered in the wake of the chariots.

Around him, Stormcasts took up defensive positions, shields locked, but the enemy were already among them. A chariot careened towards Tarsus, hook-tipped chains rattling in its wake. A Liberator was torn from his feet by the chains and dragged behind the rumbling contraption until he dissolved into crackling azure motes.

Tarsus brought his hammer down on the head of one of the chariot-beasts, killing it as it charged past him. It stumbled and slewed, causing its burden to wobble on its ill-made wheels. He twisted away as the chariot-riders thrust at him with spears and crude blades, and swept his cloak out. Mystical hammers erupted from its folds and obliterated both the teetering chariot and its occupants.

He saw Soros lunge forward and slam his shoulder into a second chariot. The Retributor-Prime gave a cry and overturned the chariot, spilling its riders to the ground. As the beast drawing it turned on him, he brought his hammer down on its hairy back, shattering its spine in a crackle of lightning. More chariots were reduced to fragments, their bestial crew slain, but the damage had been done. The Stormcast lines were in disarray.

The remaining chariots rattled away as the rest of the beastherd closed in. Bloated blightkings, clad in hell-forged armour, pushed through the savage ranks and lumbered to join the bestigors and bullgors at the front. The putrescent warriors surrounded the thin form of Sloughscale, who strode swiftly forward, scythe in hand, a sickly green halo radiating about him. The sorcerer swung his weapon and a ripple of nauseating light erupted from the edge of the blade to strike a Retributor. The Stormcast had no time to scream as his flesh rotted from his bones. Sloughscale laughed wildly, the sound carrying above the clangour of battle.

‘You’re mine,’ Tarsus said, as he raised his sword. At his signal, Soros and the Retributors fought their way towards him. The rest of the Bull-Hearts had formed defensive phalanxes. They were isolated by the press of battle, but Tarsus knew that they would hold fast, especially if he could kill Sloughscale and break the enemy’s will to fight.

With the Retributors spread out around him, Tarsus smashed his way through the Chaos ranks, crushing bones and removing limbs with every strike. He and his warriors were like a blazing spear thrust into the belly of the foe, and Sloughscale took note. The sorcerer’s eyes widened as he saw the silver-armoured warriors battling their way towards him. Hastily, he shrieked out a command to his massive bodyguards.

A blightking lunged to intercept Tarsus as he drew close to Sloughscale, and hammer met axe in a spray of sparks. Tarsus traded blows with the blightking for a moment, when suddenly, a shaft of blue light shot between them. More shafts of light speared out, emerging from the rubble of the fallen towers. Then, with a bone-rattling roar, the wall of rubble exploded outwards and the air was filled with the howl of tearing rock and the snarl of lightning.

As the battlefield was struck by a rain of smoking debris, Tarsus saw Ramus stride through the smoke, staff and hammer raised. Stormcasts charged past him, moving to reinforce their brethren.

‘I seem to recall warning you once about getting ahead of your warriors, Lord-Celestant,’ the Lord-Relictor said as he struck the ground with the haft of his staff. Lightning flashed, striking a lumbering blightking. More of the pox-warriors closed in.

‘Such was not my intention, I assure you,’ Tarsus said as he locked blades with a second blightking. Flies buzzed in and out of the holes in the foul warrior’s helm, and his armour was covered in horny growths. Tarsus slammed his hammer into the creature’s knee, and the blightking sank down with a groan. He shoved it back and speared its throat with his blade. As it fell, he looked for Sloughscale.

‘The sorcerer — where is he?’ he barked.

‘I do not see him,’ Ramus said, as he crushed another blightking’s skull.

Beastmen flooded forward, bounding through the smoking rubble to fall upon the newly arrived reinforcements. The shriek of war-horns rose over the din, and Tarsus cursed. The sorcerer had drawn them into the heart of enemy territory. They were cut off from any avenue of retreat, and surrounded by hordes baying for their blood.

‘Only the faithful!’ he said, drawing strength from the words. Around him, Ramus and the others took up the cry. It leapt from retinue to retinue, until the roar crashed against the maddened bellows of the Chaos war-horde.

As the din reached a crescendo, a wild howl suddenly split the clamour. It shivered down from somewhere far above. Beastmen and Stormcasts alike paused momentarily and looked up, as the vast slope of ancient mausoleums above them was suddenly swarming with bodies. Ghouls climbed and leapt down from the high places, spilling across the slope from the darkness. Among their number were larger creatures, like ghouls but massive and heavy with muscle. The bellows of these creatures echoed down, and the bullgors roared back in challenge.

The ghouls howled as one, and beat on the doors of the tombs with bones and clubs, filling the air with an abominable din. Above them, Ashigaroth loped down the slope, tearing apart mausoleum faces and tomb arches in its haste. Mannfred was hunched forward in his saddle, cloak streaming out raggedly behind him. Ashigaroth bounded from the slope and crashed down atop the jutting archway of a tomb. As it landed, the ghouls ceased their caterwauling.

For a moment, silence reigned. Mannfred surveyed those below, his expression unreadable. Tarsus met his gaze, and the vampire cocked his head. Had he come to aid them, or to finish them all off? Tarsus tightened his grip on his hammer. We will have our reckoning, vampire, he thought. Mannfred would pay for his betrayal.

As if reading his thoughts, Mannfred smiled.

The dread abyssal reared with a shriek, and Mannfred drew his sword with a flourish.

‘Feast!’ Mannfred howled and the ghouls echoed him as Ashigaroth leapt from its perch and swooped out above the fray.

The ghouls scuttled down the slope of mausoleums in a deluge of claws and fangs. They swarmed across the sagging rooftops and bridges until, with wild screams, the creatures at the forefront hurled themselves bodily upon those who had dared invade their territory. The Stormcasts tensed, readying themselves for this new assault, but the grey-fleshed creatures streamed past them to swarm over the followers of Chaos.

Blightkings and beastmen alike were overwhelmed by the fury of the newcomers. More ghouls spilled forth from ruptured tomb-faces and scrambled from the shadows, more than Tarsus had ever dreamed might lurk within these ruins. More beastmen spilled out, and barbaric horns brayed in the distance. He smashed a bestigor from its hooves, and whipped his sword out to cleave the head from an ungor’s hunched shoulders.

‘Did you doubt me?’ Mannfred called out, as Ashigaroth flew past. ‘The word of a von Carstein is sacred.’ He laughed and beheaded a rearing bullgor as Ashigaroth pounced on another of the bull-headed monsters, bearing it to the ground. Mannfred stood up in his saddle as the dread abyssal tore the struggling bullgor apart. The vampire spread his arms and began to chant.

The air grew cold, such that even Tarsus felt it. Mannfred’s incantation beat upon the air, each syllable searing itself into the fabric of the world. And as the last one faded, the clamour of battle seemed to grow dim. A new sound invaded, insistent and omnipresent. The scratch of bones on biers, of fleshless fingers clawing at stones, the rattle of long-forgotten weapons, drawn for the first time in centuries.

And with a vast sigh, the tombs gave up their dead. They emerged like wisps of smoke, coiling and thickening, becoming solid as they sped down the slope — skeletal steeds, clad in archaic barding, their riders wearing the armour of a bygone age.

The dead swept forward in a silent charge. This is our city, they seemed to say, try and take it from us, and only death will follow. They slaughtered beasts and pox-warriors without hesitation, remorseless and unstoppable. The true lords of Helstone had come, and none amongst the Chaos horde could stand against them. Tarsus wondered whether even his own warriors could have done so, and was glad that he would not have to find out today.

As he fought, Tarsus drew close to one of the undead riders. Its armour was of a make that seemed half familiar to him, as if he’d seen it somewhere before. An axe struck his shoulder plate, shivering to fragments as it did so. He spun and struck down a stupefied beastman. When he turned back, the dead man was close enough to touch.

The wight gazed at him with empty eye sockets, an eerie light illuminating its brown bones from within. It wore a tarnished circlet and age-blackened armour. In its hand was a long blade, which gleamed with cold fire. Slowly, it raised the blade, and Tarsus tensed. But instead of striking at him, it brought the sword up in a salute.

Tarsem… something whispered, in his head, and he felt a twinge of disquiet. Then, with a rattle of old bones, the wight turned its undead mount away and galloped back into the fight, its sword tearing the life from beastmen as it went. Tarsus looked around, searching for Sloughscale. He peered up at the ruins of one of the Hollow Towers rising above the battlefield and saw a flash of movement. He cursed. The sorcerer could not be allowed to escape. He would only rally more beastherds to attack them.

‘Ramus,’ he called. ‘The sorcerer — cut off his escape!’

Ramus nodded and began to chant. Motes of sizzling energy blistered the air around him as he called upon Sigmar, and drew the lightning to his staff. As the air grew heavy with the growing pressure of Ramus’ prayer, Tarsus charged towards the tower, bulling aside any foe foolish enough to get in his way. As he ran, he signalled to Soros.

‘Gather your warriors and follow me,’ he shouted. The sorcerer would not escape again.

As Tarsus sprang through the archway which led into the tower, the whole edifice shook suddenly. Dust and fragments of stone pattered across his armour. Smoke filled the stairwell as he climbed. There was no time to wait for Soros. He and his warriors would have to catch up. He heard a loud voice raised in a chant, and then a second sorcerous explosion rocked the tower. The stairwell above him was suddenly filled with falling stones and heat, and he was forced to hurl himself out onto a balcony, away from the worst of it. As he clambered to his feet, he looked up and saw the balcony above begin to tear away from the side of the tower with a thunderous, cracking roar.

It plummeted down, nearly obliterating the space he occupied. As the bulk of it careened past, he saw something drop from it. The figure hit the balcony, rolled to its feet in a swirl of stinking robes and rushed towards him, dragging the blade of its scythe along the stones as it came. Tarsus realised, as the scythe arced towards him, that Sloughscale had ridden the falling masonry down, out of reach of Ramus’ lightning.

Sloughscale struck at the Lord-Celestant in a spray of sparks, driving him back through sheer momentum. The sorcerer fought as fiercely as any beastman. As Tarsus parried his foe’s attacks, he could see scorch marks on Sloughscale’s breastplate and robes. The sorcerer had not emerged unscathed from Ramus’ storm.

As Tarsus drove his opponent back, he saw bloated shapes fighting through the rubble which blocked the steps. A blightking lurched towards him, rotting fingers clawing. He beheaded the pox-warrior even as a second and a third erupted from the archway and hurled themselves into battle.

‘Takes more than a bit of lightning to kill Nurgle’s own, Stormcast,’ Sloughscale hissed as he backed away. Rust-riddled blades hacked at Tarsus from every side, and he was soon on the defensive. But not for long. With a roar, Soros and his remaining Retributors burst out onto the balcony, hammers raised. As the battle was joined, Tarsus was free to concentrate on the true threat. He fought his way free of the blightkings and launched himself at Sloughscale.

The sorcerer flung out a hand and began to chant, baleful energies coruscating around his fingers. Tarsus charged at him, head lowered. Green fire washed over him, tarnishing his armour where it touched, and causing the stone beneath his feet to crumble. He lurched forward regardless, forcing himself through the unnatural heat.

A wash of heat, blistering his flesh beneath his armour…

The roar of the greater daemon, as its axe cleaved the air…

The light… the pain… Tarsem…

Tarsus staggered as Sloughscale’s scythe drew sparks from his chest plate and tore through his cloak. Smoke rose from his armour as he tried to focus on his enemy. The scythe sliced towards him again. The force of the blow drove him back a step and ripped the air from his lungs. Pain blazed in his side. Sloughscale whipped the scythe around, driving Tarsus back. He hit the rampart and the scythe hissed down, but he rolled aside at the last moment and the cruel blade became lodged in the broken stones. Tarsus twisted around and drove his hammer down, shattering the wood and causing Sloughscale to stagger back, eyes wide.

The sorcerer tossed aside the broken weapon and began to chant, but Tarsus was on him a moment later. His sword chopped into Sloughscale’s skull, silencing him. As he wrenched the blade free in a welter of brackish blood, the sorcerer staggered past him, towards the edge of the balcony. Tarsus swept his hammer out, smashing the sorcerer from his feet and sending him hurtling over the edge.

Sloughscale’s squirming body struck ramparts and towers, broken skyways and moss-encrusted gargoyles as it tumbled down into the dark. As Tarsus turned away, he heard the ululating howls of ghouls rising from the depths, as if in thanks for the gift they had received.

He clutched his side. Breathing was painful. Something in him had been broken, but it would heal despite his exertions.

‘Oh, well done, my friend,’ Mannfred said, as Ashigaroth alighted on the balcony. He looked down at Tarsus. ‘Are you injured?’

‘I will recover.’

‘Yes, I expect you will,’ Mannfred said. He sat back in his saddle.

‘You found the Fang, then?’ Tarsus pointed to the artefact shoved through Mannfred’s sword-belt. It gleamed black with an oily radiance and was chased with gold. It was an old thing, Tarsus thought, and it felt somehow wrong.

‘Oh, yes,’ Mannfred said. He patted the artefact. ‘Right where the ghouls said it was. Your approach drew Sloughscale’s attention at just the right moment.’

‘I am glad we could be of service,’ Tarsus said harshly. He fought down his anger. ‘You used us, vampire.’

Mannfred cocked his head. ‘It was — is — necessary, Tarsus,’ he said. ‘This rabble were between us and the artefact. There was no way to get it, so I… improvised.’

‘And nearly cost us our lives.’

‘As I said, it was necessary.’ Mannfred frowned. ‘The Fang is ours, and with it, the route to Stygxx. Is that not worth it, in the end? Have I not proved to you that I can be trusted?’

Tarsus shook his head. ‘A part of me wishes that were so. But another part believes you are playing a deeper game. Every day sees a new layer to your tale, a new obstacle to be overcome.’ Mannfred looked at him, even as he had earlier, as if there was something he wished to say, some story he wished to impart. Tarsus pushed the thought aside.

‘That is not the first time I have been accused of such,’ Mannfred said. He met Tarsus’ gaze and frowned. ‘You have seemed out of sorts, since we arrived. As if you were not yourself, at times.’

‘I wasn’t,’ Tarsus said. ‘I feel as if I have seen this place before…’

‘Maybe you have.’ Mannfred laughed softly. ‘Many heroes made their stand here in those final hours besides unlucky Uzun — Count Vitalian of Morrsend, Prince Tarsem of Helstone, Megara of Doomcrag…’

‘Tarsem,’ Tarsus repeated. Tarsem. Tarsem. He saw a face in his mind’s eye, a dark face of noble bearing, spattered with blood and ash as he shouted a challenge to a nightmare made flesh. A shadow of fire and smoke, a beast of blood and carnage.

‘Aye,’ Mannfred said, eyeing him. ‘Tarsem the Ox, Tarsem of the Fourth Circle, who was slain by the bloodthirster, Khar’zak’ghul, one of Khorne’s huntsmen.’

‘You know much about it,’ Tarsus said, looking out over the city.

‘Indeed. I was there, in those last days, when the sky wept fire and the plazas of Helstone were drowned in blood,’ Mannfred said. He peered at Tarsus. ‘What about you?’ He frowned. ‘What are you, Stormcast? You are not dead, for I know the dead. You are something else entirely…’

Tarsus hesitated, momentarily uncertain. Then, he touched the sigil of Sigmar on his chest and shook his head. ‘Whatever I am, whoever I might have been, I am Tarsus, of the fourth Stormhost, Lord-Celestant of the Hallowed Knights. And this city, whatever it once was, is now but a tomb.’ He looked up at Mannfred. ‘Let us go. Stygxx awaits.’

Mannfred was silent for a moment. Then he inclined his head. ‘As you say, my friend. I shall meet you below.’ He swept his cloak about him and Ashigaroth leapt off the parapet to plunge into the darkness. Tarsus watched him for a moment before looking back out over the vast sweep of the city. For a moment, he saw it again as it once must have been.

He heard the rustle of pennants in the wind, and the call of vendors in the market plazas. He heard the voices of the dead, calling out to him from the dim reaches of his past, calling to the man he had been. Calling out for Tarsem. He saw faces, men and women, fellow warriors, champions of the final days, fighting alongside him… and one other, whose face he recognized — Mannfred von Carstein. Unsettled, Tarsus turned away and made for the stairs.

The past was done. Whatever had been was gone and forgotten.

All that remained was duty and honour.

Josh Reynolds

The Bridge of Seven Sorrows

The dead belong to Nagash.

Even those who flee my grasp are yet my chattel. I can feel them still.

I can feel them as they draw near.

For all that I have been searching for them, they have come to me. The dead know their master, and they come at his call. They do not belong to Sigmar. Sigmar the deceiver. Sigmar the barbarian. Sigmar the traitor, who almost cost the Undying King his kingdom.

None may challenge Nagash. Nagash is all. Nagash is the sun and the void. Nagash is the core of all things, and it is by his will alone that this realm is suspended. His shoulders bear the weight of the Realm of Death, and his will alone holds back the assaults of Chaos.

Nagash endures.

Nagash is inevitable.

Out of his desolation will come perfect order. By his hands shall the Corpse Geometries be aligned once more, and reality set to rights. Where Nagash stirs, Chaos recedes. I shall wreak terrible agonies upon my enemies. I shall not stay my wrath, wherever it leads, even unto the golden pillars of Azyrheim. He who takes that which is mine shall be broken on the altar of his own hubris.

I shall not be denied.

Nagash cannot be denied. He has come among you and there is no escape. When Nagash commands your surrender, his voice is legion. Where he strides, stars gutter out. Where he stands, the earth groans. With a gesture, he can dry the seas or melt the ice.

All other gods are but shadows of Nagash. Sigmar or Khorne, dark god or light, they will fall before Nagash. There will be no god but Nagash.

The sun has set forever. Nagash stands in its place. His Mortarchs return to him from their sojourns in the dark, to serve and obey as is their purpose. They are Nagash’s will made manifest, his cunning given form, his fury unleashed. All are one in Nagash.

See what I have wrought. Imagine what is yet to come. Where I pass, confusion and fear are snuffed like candle flames, for Nagash is the ur-fear. Nagash is the end of all things, and he will liberate you from your servitude.

I cannot be destroyed. The dark lord tried. He broke my bones asunder and cast my spirit into the void, but I cannot be destroyed. I cannot be stopped. I shall have vengeance on those who stood against me. Against all the thieves and the betrayers.

What has been taken shall be reclaimed. The souls of the stolen draw near, and what I cannot have, I will destroy.

In the ruins of all that is, I shall make a new order.

Such is my will.

Such is the will of Nagash.

‘Drive them back, Stormcasts,’ Tarsus said, as he swept his hammer out and smashed a bloodreaver to the ground. He parried a blow from a saw-toothed axe and drove his elbow into its wielder’s crude crimson helm, crushing it. His weapons crackled with holy lightning as he struck out left and right, dropping the enemy with every blow.

The bloodreavers were maniacs but mortal, and none of them could stand before the Lord-Celestant of the Bull-Hearts. They began to break away, falling back in confusion.

‘Who will be victorious?’ he roared, as the enemy began to retreat through the stinking fog that clung to the immense skull-cairns which dominated the plains. More than once, the clamour of battle caused one of these cairns to shed an avalanche of skulls or else collapse entirely, sending a flood of bone rattling across the ground.

‘Only the faithful,’ came the reply from the small host of Hallowed Knights who fought alongside him, arrayed in a battle line. Hammers rose and fell, and broken bodies were left in their wake, to lie forgotten amidst the tumult of white flowers which shrouded the ground as far as the eye could see.

‘Who shall walk at Sigmar’s right hand?’ Tarsus said, bringing his weapons together above his head. Lightning sparked between them. Many of the bloodreavers were running now, their fury fading in the face of an all-too relentless enemy.

‘Only the faithful,’ the Bull-Hearts bellowed in reply, thumping their hammers against the inside of their shields in a tribal rhythm, one that rarely failed to set the enemy ill at ease.

‘Who will stand, though the world burns?’ Tarsus cried, cutting down another bloodreaver. ‘Who will face death, with shield and hammer? Who broke the back of the foe at the Cerulean Shore?’

‘Only the faithful! Only the faithful!’ the Stormcasts shouted as they struck down their enemies. Tarsus nodded in grim satisfaction. The Bull-Hearts had fought their way over mountains and across trackless wastes, through shattered ruins and the bowels of the earth, all to reach this point. They had clashed with the servants of the Ruinous Powers again and again, but had always been triumphant in the end. As they would be now.

Not all of the bloodreavers had fled. Some flung themselves at the shield wall, as if to halt its momentum through sheer audacity. They were trampled underfoot, and the Stormcasts marched on after the others, pursuing them through the skull-cairns.

As the Stormhost passed between two great piles of bones, built amid the ruins of a pair of shattered pyramids, the slopes erupted in armoured warriors — skullreapers clad in crimson and brass. Dozens of the maddened devotees of the Blood God hurled themselves amongst the Stormcasts, leaping from the cairns to crash down through the fog and land amidst the shield wall. Those who survived the fall immediately rose and launched themselves at the closest enemy they could see. Bolts of blue light shot upwards as Stormcasts perished beneath the berserk assault. As the Stormcasts focused on this new threat, the skullreapers were joined by others of their vile kind, pouring out from between the cairns and howling out abominable hymns.

Tarsus swatted a leaping bloodreaver out of the air and chopped down a second. A moment later he staggered as a blow crashed against his back. He wheeled about to see a blood warrior lunging for him through the fog. The air seemed to shimmer around the berserker as he stabbed a spiked gauntlet at Tarsus’ face. The Lord-Celestant parried the blow at the last second, and a crackling burst of lightning swept his opponent up and sent him tumbling through the air, wreathed in smoke.

‘My thanks, Ramus,’ said Tarsus, glancing aside at the Lord-Relictor, who swung his staff out to knock a skullreaper flat.

‘Their rout was a trap,’ the Lord-Relictor said.

‘As he said it would be,’ Tarsus said. He caught a blow on his hammer and turned it aside. Before his attacker could recover, the Lord-Celestant removed the skullreaper’s head from his shoulders.

‘A child could have seen it,’ Ramus growled. ‘Where is he?’ His hammer thudded down, cracking the skull of a bloodreaver. Before Tarsus could reply, the cairns which rose above them began to tremble and clatter. The sound drowned out the clamour of battle, and was so pervasive that it even penetrated the mindless fury of the Bloodbound. Tarsus looked around and saw a faint purple haze rising from the piled skulls. With a rush of cold air, a pale mist began to spill down the slopes of the cairns to mingle with the fog below. It spread swiftly, threading between the legs of the combatants, obscuring everything.

‘There,’ Tarsus said, as a strange murmur, as if of a hundred voices all whispering at once, rose about the combatants. Ghostly hands rose from the fog to clutch at the Bloodbound. Weapons slashed uselessly at the grasping limbs, and cries of rage soon became screams of fear. One by one, the servants of Khorne were dragged down into the haze, which soon flushed red. Only a few avoided this fate, stumbling free of their ethereal attackers, but the Stormcasts did not let them get far.

One of the blood warriors tore his way clear of the mist and wheeled about with a wild oath, eyes blazing. Before Tarsus could move to go after him, something crashed into the side of the cairn above and then vaulted off to crush the warrior beneath it. Ashigaroth straddled its victim with a shriek, dipping its bat-like skull and snapping its heavy jaws shut on the warrior’s head, silencing his cries.

‘Well done, Mannfred. Even as we planned,’ Tarsus said to the beast’s rider.

Mannfred von Carstein leaned forward in his saddle and nodded absently. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘We should not tarry here.’

‘No,’ Tarsus agreed. The vampire’s manner made him wary. Normally, Mannfred was flippant, seemingly unconcerned about the world around him. But he had grown increasingly more withdrawn the closer they had come to the cairnlands. Something worried the vampire, and that, in turn, worried Tarsus.

‘We weren’t going to,’ Ramus said. ‘It was your idea to walk into this trap in the first place, instead of simply pushing through to our goal. We lost good warriors.’

‘You would have lost more, if we hadn’t flushed all of them out,’ Mannfred said. ‘You still might, if you don’t heed my advice — look.’ The vampire gestured towards the distant cairns, where the flower-strewn ground began a steep descent towards a flat, barren plain. The fog which clung to the cairns was thinner there, allowing them to see what lay beyond. They could hear the clash of weapons and the screams of the dying.

‘Sigmar’s oath,’ Tarsus said, as he stared at the slaughter which stretched out before him across the plain below. A massive edifice of stone and bone, wrought into a gigantic fortified gateway, dominated the face of an enormous free-standing rock outcropping, and in its shadow, battle raged. Bloodbound clashed with the followers of Nurgle, and, in the distance, standards bearing the iconography of Tzeentch rose above the fray as great hordes of warriors fought across the barren waste of the cairnlands.

‘There must be thousands of them,’ Ramus said. ‘Even we might have some difficulty fighting our way through that.’

‘It is ever the same,’ Mannfred mused. ‘Lacking other foes, the servants of the Ruinous Powers turn upon one another. They fight because they know nothing else. There are hundreds of warbands in this region. The full strength of the enemy fell here, in the final days of Nagash’s reign,’ he said. ‘They still swarm these regions, battling over the shattered husks of the black pyramids and the barrow-walls which once protected the Starless Gates.’ He pointed towards the distant edifice.

‘The Starless Gates,’ Tarsus said. ‘Then the gate to Stygxx is near.’

‘Aye,’ Mannfred said. His hand dropped to the black shard shoved through his sword-belt. The Fang of Kadon gleamed with an oily radiance that set Tarsus’ teeth on edge.

Mannfred leaned forward. ‘Luckily, we will not have to attempt to fight our way through that.’ He gestured to the carnage below.

‘We do not fear battle, vampire,’ Ramus said, harshly.

‘Nor do I, Stormcast,’ Mannfred said, his annoyance plain. ‘But sometimes I question its efficacy. No, better to avoid it — you lack the numbers to punch through, in any event. Your ranks have thinned greatly since I joined you.’

‘You mean, since we rescued you?’ Ramus said. Mannfred shot the Lord-Relictor a venomous glance.

‘Enough. We have trusted his guidance this far,’ Tarsus said. He looked at Mannfred. ‘Lead on.’

Mannfred smiled and patted Ashigaroth’s neck. ‘It would be my pleasure, my friend.’ The dread abyssal leapt into the air and swooped away, followed closely by Tarsus’ Prosecutor retinues. The Stormhost was in motion a few moments later, marching across the cairnlands. Stormcasts could move quickly despite the weight of their armour, and they ate up the distance at a steady pace as they moved through the silent pyramids of piled skulls. Tarsus set his scouts on the flank facing the Starless Gates, to keep watch on the warbands fighting there. Despite his concern, their journey along the eastern rim of the hills and slopes which marked the barren stretch was uncontested. The Chaos forces in the region were seemingly more intent on joining the battle going on before the Starless Gates.

‘Even as he said,’ Tarsus said, to Ramus, as they marched at the head of the column. ‘They’re too busy fighting one another to notice us slipping around them.’

‘Or perhaps they simply don’t care,’ Ramus said. He looked up, tracking the dread abyssal as it flew ahead of them. ‘I do not trust him, Tarsus. Despite everything, he has ever pursued his own path. He is not guiding us — he is leading us, pointing us to where he wants us to go. But why?’

‘Because he wants what we want, though I’d wager for different reasons,’ Tarsus said.

Tarsus did not doubt Mannfred’s claims that they needed the Fang, though he did doubt the vampire’s true intentions with it. It was not, he was certain, for their benefit alone. No, Mannfred was playing a deeper game. The dead could not be trusted. An oath was an oath, a promise was a promise, and the vampire had sworn to lead them to Stygxx, but it wouldn’t be the first time Mannfred von Carstein had broken his word.

Ever since their venture into the ruins of Helstone, Tarsus had been haunted by memories from his past life, the faces of men and women, fellow warriors, champions of those final days, fighting alongside him. And among their number had been the face of Mannfred von Carstein. Mannfred, who had fought alongside the heroes of Helstone until that final hour when he had fled, leaving his allies to die in hopeless battle.

Tarsus looked up, watching the dread abyssal swoop through the slate-grey sky. The sun was a distant sphere of pale light, its strength held at bay by the will of Nagash, or so Mannfred claimed. Even so, the vampire had his hood up and his cloak wrapped tight about him to protect him from the watery light.

‘Were we allies once?’ Tarsus murmured. ‘Did you truly fight alongside me then, before I was chosen by Sigmar?’

Perhaps that was why he wanted to trust the vampire. But Mannfred had betrayed him, then. If he did so again… At the thought, Tarsus’ grip on the haft of his hammer tightened. He had told Mannfred nothing of his memories. Tarsem had died on the ramparts of Helstone and Tarsus Bull-Heart had a mission to accomplish, whatever the cost.

A cry from one of the Prosecutors above caught his attention and he motioned for the column to come to a halt. They had reached the mouth of a low, winding canyon that ran like a wound through the rocky ground. Enormous, rough-hewn cliffs stained purple rose up before them, and tapered back and down.

‘There,’ Mannfred said, as Ashigaroth landed nearby. ‘Is it not a thing of beauty?’

‘It’s a canyon,’ Tarsus said.

‘It is more than that,’ Ramus said. He raised his staff and a soft blue light washed over the ground before them, revealing where the hard ground of the cairnlands suddenly gave way to coarse amethyst sands such as Tarsus had never seen before. ‘The soil is different here. The air as well. It is as if some force dropped this canyon here.’

‘It did,’ Mannfred said. He touched the Fang as if to reassure himself that he still had it. ‘Such is the will of Nagash, that reality itself gives way to him.’

A field of shattered Chaos icons and blasted standards marked the entrance to the canyon. They stretched as far as the eye could see, as if planted by an army which had then advanced, leaving them behind upright in the purple sands. The wind rose, and the rags of tanned flesh and hanks of greying hair which hung from the standards flapped and twisted in unpleasant ways.

‘Beauty is not the word I’d use,’ Ramus said.

‘Beautiful or not, we’re going in,’ Tarsus said, motioning his warriors forward.

As the Stormcasts advanced into the canyon, Tarsus caught sight of pale things wafting amongst the icons and heard the murmur of distant voices. He caught Mannfred’s eye.

‘Not all souls are fit to be forged anew and sent fresh into the fire of war. Some… are merely grist for the mill,’ the vampire said.

‘How long have they been here?’

‘How long have the stars hung suspended in the firmament?’ Mannfred said. He drew his cloak more tightly about himself. ‘Some of us must draw forth the dead with incantations, but Nagash draws them forth merely by striding across their graves. Where he walks, the dead stir and do not slumber again.’

‘You speak as if he were a god,’ Ramus said.

‘You speak as if he were not,’ Mannfred said.

‘A god would not have been driven into the dark, to cower among tattered wraiths and fleshless courtiers,’ Ramus said.

‘No, he would merely have shuttered the gates of his realm and left his people to die at the talons and blades of his enemies,’ Mannfred said. The Lord-Relictor turned towards him, but before he could speak, Tarsus interposed himself.

‘Peace, brother. We come in the spirit of peace. Let old grudges be forgotten and new alliances forged.’ He looked at Mannfred. ‘Even as we have done.’

‘Yes, and much has it profited us both,’ Mannfred said. He turned, to look back the way they had come. ‘The sun is stronger here than elsewhere, thanks to the attention of the Dark Gods, and I would rather not brave its glare any longer than I must. Shall we go?’

They had not gone much farther into the narrow, crooked confines of the canyon, however, when they were forced to halt once more. It had narrowed to a shallow point and in front of them rank upon rank of kneeling figures waited. Dust and white blossoms blew amongst them, but the figures did not stir. They were clad in baroque armour and clutched weapons of malign manufacture in skeletal hands. Where flesh might once have been visible, there was now only scoured bone. They filled the canyon, from one wall to the other, and their number stretched back to the great, bone-coloured archway set into its back wall.

The archway itself was more disturbing than the dead who knelt before it. It was a crooked thing of wrong angles and disorientating encrustations, shaped vaguely like a hooded figure bent forward with arms outstretched. It was made from stone and bone and other macabre materials. Strange sigils gleamed from its surface, glowing with a sickly light, and their radiance made the archway appear to undulate.

‘The underworld lies through that archway,’ Mannfred said.

‘What are they?’ Tarsus asked, his voice echoing eerily in the silence.

‘The Desolated Legion,’ Mannfred said. ‘They were Bloodbound, once… champions all, and high in the Blood God’s esteem. They were the first to invade these lands, once the barrow-walls were breached, and the first to feel the unfettered fury of Nagash. Now, they are wights — a reminder of Nagash’s power, and a warning to those who would test it.’

Old bloodstains marked the purple stones of the canyon, as well as the weapons of the dead men. Tarsus knew that an ocean of blood had been spilled here, and would be again, before the war against Chaos was done.

‘How many have tried?’ he asked.

Mannfred smiled. ‘Enough to glut even the Lord of Skulls, for a time. Wherever the gate appears they seek it out and if they are unlucky enough to find it, they die in their thousands.’

‘Will we suffer the same fate, I wonder,’ Ramus said. He stepped forward. As he did so, however, a ripple of motion shivered through the ranks of the kneeling dead. Ancient armour rattled as old bones twitched and bent heads slowly rose. Weirdling lights glimmered within every helm as the cold, mindless gazes of the dead became fixed on the intruders.

‘You will let us pass,’ Mannfred intoned. He raised his hand. Cold fire flickered around his fingers as he urged Ashigaroth forward. ‘Stand aside, warriors of the Desolated Legion. Stand aside, I say!’ The armoured ranks did not move. The silence stretched for one moment, then two, and then, with a creak of rusted joints, the Desolated Legion rose as one.

‘They are not listening,’ Mannfred hissed, in disbelief.

‘Ready your shields,’ Tarsus said. ‘Hold fast, Bull-Hearts.’ With a rattle of sigmarite, the Liberator retinues locked their shields, forming a wall of gleaming azure and silver. Mannfred snarled wordlessly and thumped Ashigaroth’s flanks with his heels. As the dread abyssal leapt into the air, the first of the wights moved. Tarsus stepped forward to intercept it and the rest of the Desolated Legion shuddered into motion.

The dead thing lurched forward, its axe hissing down. Tarsus smashed the weapon aside with his hammer and rammed his sword through a gap in his opponent’s armour. The wight staggered but didn’t fall. It raised its axe again and Tarsus stepped back, jerking his sword free with a screech of abused metal as he did so.

The axe slashed out and he was forced to twist aside. It chopped down, tearing his cloak, and he snapped around, catching the wight in the back of the skull with his hammer and causing it to stumble. He hacked at its neck and his sword bit through rusty metal and into bone. The wight’s head rolled free and he drove his shoulder into its chest, knocking it off its feet.

Tarsus took in the battlefield at a glance. Mannfred was still attempting to bend the dead to his will, as Ashigaroth kept its master out of their reach. The Stormcasts were holding the enemy back, but only just. The dead knew no fear and did not hesitate. They kept coming with relentless ferocity. Worse, not all of those that fell stayed down. As he watched, a trio of blue bolts streaked skyward. Then another two. His chest tightened as he thought of the brothers he had lost since the Bull-Hearts’ arrival in the Realm of Death. There were scarcely sixty of his warriors left now. How many would survive to see the completion of their mission? He shook his head, banishing the thought. They would see Sigmar’s will done, even if only one of them survived. They were the faithful, and they would be triumphant.

A second wight charged towards him, hefting a broken sword as it came. He blocked its blow and smashed its legs out from under it, dropping it into the dust. It slithered towards him, quick as a serpent, and he stamped on its head. Even as he stepped back, it began to push itself erect. With a roar, he brought both hammer and sword down on it, splitting it in two.

Even then, it struggled to rise. Ramus drove the haft of his staff into its chest and muttered a prayer. Lightning snarled down the length of the staff and into the dead thing, reducing it to a blackened husk.

‘They are proving more resilient than we were led to believe,’ the Lord-Relictor said, casting a glance up towards Mannfred.

‘Then we shall have to do this the hard way,’ Tarsus said. ‘We need to smash ourselves a path to the Corpse Road, and we need to do it now.’ More and more of the dead marched forward, breaking into awkward runs as they drew near the Stormcasts. They fought in silence save for the rattle of armour and the rasp of weapons. Tarsus signalled the Prosecutors wheeling overhead. ‘We need breathing room — make a gap,’ he shouted, and motioned to the ground between the living and the dead.

The winged warriors swooped low over the ranks of the dead and sent their hammers whirling down. The front ranks of the Desolated Legion were hurled back, broken and smoking, as the ground was churned up and a cloud of dust thrown into the air.

‘Judicators, Liberators — fall back,’ Tarsus said, his voice ringing out through the canyon. He looked at Ramus. ‘They’re yours, Ramus. Guard our flanks. Retributors and Decimators, to the fore,’ he bellowed.

‘At your command, Bull-Heart,’ Retributor-Prime Soros said as he joined Tarsus. Both he and Gyrus, the Decimator-Prime, were covered in dust and their armour bore the signs of heavy fighting. Their retinues were holding the centre of the shield wall just behind Tarsus, holding back those wights which had managed to get past the Prosecutors.

‘The horns and the hooves, brothers,’ Tarsus said, peering towards the dust cloud thrown up by the Prosecutors’ hammers. They would need to be quick, but if they could reach the entrance to the underworld, they could reform their lines and make a fighting withdrawal.

Soros gave a harsh laugh and he and Gyrus slammed their weapons together. ‘Horns and hooves,’ Soros growled. ‘It shall be done, Lord-Celestant.’ They hurried to rejoin their retinues, barking orders as they went.

‘Who will be triumphant?’ Tarsus cried, lifting his sword and hammer high.

‘Only the faithful,’ the Paladins rumbled, as one. Their heavy, ornate armour was prominently marked with the lightning bolt of Sigmar, and the massive two-handed weapons they carried shimmered with holy fire. As they strode forward at Tarsus’ command, they slammed the great weapons together, adding to the clamour of war. Swiftly, the Decimators took the lead, with the Retributors spreading out as they followed behind.

Ramus led the remainder of the Stormhost behind the vanguard, the Liberators moving to the flanks and the rear, where their shields could do the most good, and the Judicator retinues moving up the centre. The latter continued to fire as they moved, peppering the wights with their boltstorm crossbows. Ramus chanted as he strode forward, calling the lightning from the sky and sending it lashing among the ranks of the dead as they drew close.

Tarsus led the Paladin brotherhoods forward, and as he picked up speed, he broke into a lumbering run. The Decimators spread out around him, making a semicircle with their Lord-Celestant at the centre. They struck the dead with a crash, great axes smashing out to chop through legs or arms even as they used their momentum to bull the wights aside or bear them under. Tarsus led by example, knocking his opponents sprawling but not slowing down to finish them off. That was for the Retributors.

From behind him came the crackle of lightning hammers as they slammed down on the fallen wights, creating a path of bones for the Stormcasts following behind. Tarsus ducked a sweeping axe blow and kicked its wielder in the chest, staggering it. He lunged forward, breaking the wight’s arm with his hammer and decapitating it with his sword. He brushed its stumbling, headless body aside as he continued to move forward.

He caught sight of Ashigaroth flying overhead. The dread abyssal swooped low and ploughed through the dead, scattering broken bones and bits of armour as it cleared a path for him. Mannfred had seemingly given up on trying to control the wights and had settled for destroying them with sword and magic.

Slowly but surely they reached the back of the canyon, where the archway rose.

‘Shields to the rear,’ Tarsus called out. Liberator retinues fell back, forming up into a semicircle about the space before the archway. Hammers slammed down from above with meteoric force as the Prosecutors swooped overhead, holding the dead back while their brothers fell into formation.

Ramus stood just behind the Liberators, his hammer across his shoulder.

‘Hold fast, sons of Sigmar,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘The dead are strong, but sigmarite is stronger.’ His voice echoed from the canyon walls.

Tarsus drove his head into a wight’s grinning skull, dropping it to its knees. He finished the job as it tried to stand.

‘Gyrus, Soros, lead your warriors through the archway. Mannfred — go with them,’ he said, over his shoulder. As the vampire led the Paladin brotherhoods into the underworld, Tarsus signalled to the Judicator retinues.

‘Fall back through the archway. Cover our retreat, brothers,’ he shouted. The Judicators reacted instantly, following the others, loosing their crackling bolts as they went. The Prosecutors were next, hurtling through the archway. The shield wall steadily contracted as Liberators fell to the enemy, or were pulled from the line by Ramus and sent towards safety. Soon, only half a dozen Stormcasts were left before the twisted shape of the massive bone-coloured archway, including Tarsus and the Lord-Relictor.

‘Back, Ramus,’ Tarsus said, as they drew close to the canyon wall. ‘I will hold the line until you and the others are through.’ He brought his weapons together, crushing the skull of another wight. He hurled the twitching cadaver aside and parried an axe blow that might have split his helm. He steadily backed towards the archway as he fought, leaving a trail of broken bones and crawling corpses in his wake. Only when the last Stormcast was past the arch did he turn and hurl himself through.

Tarsus crashed to the stone and staggered up, into the steadying hands of his warriors. He turned, ready to continue the fight. The Desolated Legion did not seem inclined to follow. The wights stared through the archway at the Stormcasts, eyes flickering with witch-light. Then, as one, they turned and began to trudge away.

‘The archway is the limit of their malice,’ Mannfred said. ‘They could not pass it in life, and they are barred in death. Such are the caprices of Nagash.’

Tarsus looked around. Barely half of his force had made it to safety. Thanks to the glow from Ramus’ staff, he could see that they stood in a pillared vestibule of stone. Strange carvings adorned the walls and the flagstones beneath his feet were worn smooth as if by the tread of many feet.

‘How many more traps await us?’ he asked, looking at Mannfred. His voice echoed strangely in the vaulted space. He thought it changed subtly as it bounced from stone to stone, leaving him with the eerie feeling that he was somehow being mocked.

Mannfred shook his head. ‘Who can say? Nagash is mad, and fearful in his madness. He stations guards to watch other guards, and then forgets them for centuries at a time. There may be an army in these catacombs, or nothing at all, save the bats.’ He stroked his chin in thought. ‘The true danger is in the catacombs themselves. There are many routes to the heart of Stygxx, all with their own perils.’

‘We take the most direct route,’ Tarsus said. ‘We are few enough in number as it is and I would lose no more warriors stumbling about in the dark.’

‘The direct route is the most dangerous. There more than anywhere else there will be eyes upon us,’ Mannfred said.

‘Good. The sooner we are confronted by the Undying King or one of his servants, the more likely we are to accomplish our mission.’ Tarsus pointed forwards. ‘Lead on.’

‘As you will,’ Mannfred said, after a moment of hesitation. He turned Ashigaroth about and the dread abyssal loped away, the Stormcasts following behind.

The path by which Mannfred led them was one of twists and turns. More than once he stopped and they were forced to crouch in silence, waiting for the vampire to prod Ashigaroth into motion again.

Tarsus heard faint whispers of sound, like leaves caught in a wind, as they trudged through the dark. What might have been a bat’s wings brushed against his helm. At one point, they were forced to stop as a herd of skeletal horses, their bones gleaming with cold fire, galloped silently through the tunnel ahead, vanishing into the stone. Another time, Mannfred rode ahead to parley with a silent, hooded figure, who dissolved into mist and shadows as the Stormcasts approached.

Other, larger things moved in the dark around them, slithering through side tunnels and causing the ground to tremble beneath their feet. Nagash might have laid claim to the underworld, but there were more things crawling in its depths than the dead. Everywhere Tarsus looked he saw strange sigils carved on the walls and floor and wondered what horrors they had been placed there to ward against.

At last they emerged from the cramped tunnels and out into a huge cavern, which was bisected by a wide gorge. Ancient columns lined the walls of the cavern. Most of these were broken, as were the statues which stood atop them. A wide stone bridge stretched across the gorge. Mannfred gestured towards it.

‘Behold… the Bridge of Seven Sorrows,’ he said. ‘Once, the legions of the underworld marched across it, to do battle with their enemies, in the days before the coming of Nagash. Now, the great manses of the Amethyst Princes lie in ruins, and their armies belong to Nagash, body and soul.’

The vast span of stone was crudely carved, as if by unskilled hands. But it looked sturdy nonetheless, and it was wide enough for the Stormhost to march across ten abreast. Great railings marked at intervals by high plinths lined its edges. Large stone bowls topped most of them, containing purple crystals which flickered softly with a hazy radiance, casting a pale light over the bridge and the gorge beneath.

Seven of the plinths, however, were occupied by tall statues — women, clad in robes and ceremonial armour with weapons in hand, their bodies contorted in agonised poses as if each had been captured in the moment before death. They were at once regal and nightmarish, their tormented expressions seeming to shift and change in the flickering light of the crystals.

‘Those statues…’ Tarsus began.

Mannfred interrupted him with a shake of his head. ‘Not statues. No, my friend, those are nothing less than the remains of seven queens of the Skull Isles, who were betrothed to Nagash in times long past. They traded their freedom for the lives of their people.’ Mannfred chuckled. ‘A bad bargain, in the end. They were left here in the dark and the Skull Isles burned regardless, at Nagash’s command.’

‘More and more, I come to doubt the wisdom of our task,’ Ramus said. ‘What sort of being is this, to whom we intend to offer alliance?’

‘I warned you,’ Mannfred said. Ramus looked at him, but said nothing.

‘It is not for us to say what is wise and what is not, my friend,’ Tarsus said, looking at the bridge. ‘It is Sigmar’s will that we are here, and Sigmar’s will that we seek audience with Nagash. Much is demanded of those to whom much is given, and we shall not be found wanting.’ He extended his hammer. ‘Lead on, Mannfred.’

‘As you wish,’ Mannfred said. Ashigaroth leapt into the air with a great cry and the vanguard of the Stormhost followed in the dread abyssal’s wake.

Tarsus and Ramus marched at the front, and the cavern echoed with the crash of boots on stone.

‘What lies below us?’ the Lord-Celestant asked.

‘The deep caverns, through which runs the black blood of the underworld,’ Mannfred said, glancing down at him. He trailed off and shook himself. ‘Or so it is said,’ he added. ‘In any event, our destination lies not down, but across.’ He pointed to the other side of the gorge, where an enormous stone archway rose. The archway was covered in carved sigils, and heaps of dust and bone lay before it. ‘That is where we must go to see through our cause… past the Lichegate, and along the dirge-road, into the heart of Stygxx.’

Tarsus glanced at Ramus, who nodded slightly. The Lord-Relictor was ready, whatever came next.

‘Your cause, you mean,’ he said, pointing towards Mannfred. ‘Expedience made me hold my tongue before, but now, before we go any further, I would have the truth… Why help us? Not merely for gratitude’s sake, I think.’

‘Mannfred von Carstein does not know the meaning of that word, I fear,’ a harsh, sepulchral voice said. ‘Or if he does, he has never shown it.’

Mannfred whirled, his lips peeling back from his fangs in a feral snarl.

‘Arkhan,’ he hissed. He drew his sword. ‘Where are you, liche?’

‘Where I have always been. By Nagash’s side. As you should have been.’ The sound of iron striking stone carried across the gorge as a thin, robed shape stepped into the amethyst light of the crystals. ‘Have you come to throw yourself on his mercy, vampire?’

‘Nagash has no mercy,’ Mannfred spat.

‘No. He does not,’ Arkhan the Black said. The liche was tall and his bones were encased in ridged armour of archaic design and ragged robes, which rustled softly. He wore an ornate headdress and carried a long staff, around the tip of which strange black flames pulsed. Behind him stalked a dread abyssal, its horned skull lit by an internal fire. It screeched out a challenge and Ashigaroth replied in kind. Arkhan set his staff and rested one palm on the hilt of the tomb-blade sheathed at his side.

He gazed at the ranks of Stormcasts and inclined his head. ‘You have brought allies, I see. How… unexpected.’

‘Save your mockery,’ Mannfred said. ‘Stand aside. I would see Nagash.’

‘No. No, I do not think I will do that. Nagash himself sent me here to turn back those who dare invade his realm. That includes you, schemer.’

Tarsus stepped forward. ‘We do not come seeking battle. We wish merely to request an audience with the Undying King. We bring word from—’

‘Sigmar,’ Arkhan said.

Tarsus hesitated, surprised. ‘Yes.’

‘Nagash has no wish to hear the lies of Sigmar. Sigmar the deceiver. Sigmar the barbarian. Sigmar the traitor…’ Arkhan said, without apparent rancour.

‘Be silent and step aside, you withered husk,’ Mannfred spat. ‘This is not Nagash’s will — it is nothing but spite! You have always feared me, feared that the Undying King might favour my counsel over yours…’

‘No,’ Arkhan said. ‘I do not fear, for it has long since been burned out of me. I know only duty. The Undying King raised me up, and I shall serve him all my days. But you…’ He pointed at Mannfred. ‘Fear has always been your weakness, Mannfred. It has killed all that you might have been, and all that you were destined to be. You were one of his Mortarchs, highest of the high. Now you are nothing more than a cur, snarling for scraps.’ He lifted his staff. ‘Away with you, cur. Go, and never return.’

‘It seems we have chosen a poor guide if he cannot even get us past the door,’ Ramus said. Mannfred whirled, a snarl on his face and his fist raised. Ramus raised his staff warily, and the vampire growled and turned back.

‘No, Arkhan!’ Mannfred shouted. ‘No, you will give way or I shall peel whatever passes for your soul from your fleshless frame and feed it to Ashigaroth.’

Arkhan looked at Mannfred for a moment, and then at Tarsus. ‘Go back, sons of Sigmar. Go back, and I will not be forced to kill you.’

‘We cannot,’ Tarsus said. ‘We have our duty and we will fulfil it or die in the attempt.’

Arkhan was silent for long moments, his eerie gaze fixed on Tarsus. Then he nodded. ‘So be it. Hold fast to your duty, as I shall to mine.’ He raised his staff. ‘Awaken, O sorrowful ones — awaken, you brides of death. Awaken.’

A sound like cracking ice filled the cavern. Tarsus looked up and saw that one of the seven queens was looking down at him, chunks of stone falling from her face and form. Her ravaged features suddenly twisted into an expression of utter loathing and her mouth opened. A wild, keening wail emerged. The sound struck Tarsus like a hammer blow and he staggered back.

‘Banshees,’ he cried, but too late, as the seven ghostly women leapt from their perches, weapons in hand. They streaked through the air over the Stormcasts, shrieking and wailing.

Tarsus’ sword chopped through one of the banshees as it flew past, meeting no resistance. The dead woman bent forward with serpentine grace, her screams tearing at his mind and soul. Everywhere he looked, Stormcasts fell to their knees, clutching at their heads or clawing at the ground as the banshees tore the life from them with unceasing wails. A sword, rust-edged and age-pitted, chopped down at his head. He jerked aside and the banshee hurtled away, still screaming.

A second sped towards him, her ancient spear drawing sparks from his shoulder plate even as the force of the blow spun him around. A third stalked along the centre of the bridge, head thrown back, mouth wide in a cry that sent another six Stormcasts into death.

‘Mannfred,’ Tarsus snarled. ‘Do something!’

‘I am,’ Mannfred growled in response. ‘I intend to kill Arkhan. He’s more dangerous than any wailing ghost.’ Ashigaroth galloped forward, surging through one of the banshees as it attempted to interpose itself.

‘I welcome your attempt, vampire,’ Arkhan said. He climbed atop his own steed, drawing his sword as he did so. ‘Another chance to feel alive.’ He extended his blade. ‘Step forward, and you will find that your greatest folly is thinking that you could ever beat me.’

The two dead men and their monstrous steeds came together with a crash. Mannfred fought savagely, with less grace than ferocity. Arkhan, in contrast, fought with a precision that was almost impossible to credit. He parried every blow, and his own slid past Mannfred’s defences with ease, eliciting increasingly frustrated snarls from the vampire. The dread abyssals tore at one another, rolling through the air over the bridge even as their riders traded blows.

Tarsus cursed and slashed at a banshee as it flew past, wailing. His warriors were dying and there was little he could do.

‘Ramus — call down the lightning,’ he roared. The Lord-Relictor thrust his staff forward, driving one of the creatures back, and glanced at him.

‘As you command,’ Ramus said. He caught his staff in both hands and drove the haft down. As it connected with the stones, the reliquary mounted on it burst into blazing blue light. Energy snarled about it and seared the nearest of the howling banshees as if she were a being of flesh, rather than spirit. But the lightning did not stop there. Instead, it leapt from warhammer and axe-blade, dancing across the weapons and armour of the remaining Stormcasts, including Tarsus’ own. He clashed hammer and sword together, and as he pulled them apart, a crackling web of lightning stretched between them.

‘Strike now, Stormcasts, and strike true. Strike!’ Ramus thundered.

Tarsus did so. His hammer crunched down on a banshee’s arm and her shriek changed, becoming a cry of pain. Head throbbing with the reverberations of that cry, he swept his sword through her neck, silencing her screams. Across the bridge, his surviving warriors followed suit, lashing out with lightning-infused weapons to bring down their ethereal attackers. As the last of the banshees came apart in tatters of fog and rotting silk, Tarsus hurried towards the centre of the bridge where Mannfred still clashed with Arkhan.

The dread abyssals still fought in the air, but their riders had fallen from their saddles. Now liche and vampire continued their duel on foot. Mannfred’s flesh was aflame with sorcerous fire, as were Arkhan’s robes. They had locked blades and now strained against one another, neither willing to retreat. Arkhan spoke an incantation and the air shuddered. Mannfred was knocked back, his armour crumpling from an unseen impact.

Tarsus sprang to the bridge’s railing as Mannfred staggered back, and leapt down, his sword streaking towards Arkhan’s skull. The liche whirled about, parrying the blow. He thrust a skeletal claw forward, but Tarsus was quicker. His hammer slammed down on Arkhan’s hand, and as the liche reeled, Tarsus bulled into him, carrying him backwards into a pillar. Arkhan drove him back with a wild slash, but before he could recover, Mannfred’s blade chopped down, severing Arkhan’s sword hand at the wrist. Even as his hand fell, however, Arkhan gestured, and his sword leapt into his remaining claw.

The liche lurched around, ready to continue the fight, and Mannfred hacked through his shoulder and into his sternum. He hefted his rival and slung him away. Arkhan crashed down on the other side of the bridge, where he lay unmoving.

‘Stay down, liche,’ Mannfred spat, as he swatted at the flames which still clung to his flesh and armour. ‘Once more, I have proven myself your superior. Why Nagash chose you as his right hand is a mystery.’

‘Mayhap he prizes loyalty over power,’ Arkhan said. He lifted his sword and set it point first into the ground. His dread abyssal crouched nearby, as if awaiting orders. ‘Maybe you have grown stronger in your exile. Or maybe this was never about winning…’

Mannfred’s eyes widened.

‘What are you…?’ he trailed off, and cocked his head.

‘What is it?’ Tarsus asked.

‘I— something. What is that? Some new ploy, Arkhan?’

Arkhan the Black gave a raspy chuckle. ‘No ploy, Mannfred. He merely wished to see if you had learned any new tricks in the wild.’

Mannfred looked at Tarsus. ‘We must retreat… Fall back to some more defensible position.’ He clutched at his head suddenly and gave a hiss of pain. Tarsus made to help him, but Mannfred slapped his hand aside. ‘We must go!’

‘Too late, vampire,’ Arkhan said as he dragged himself to his feet. ‘Too late to run, too late to do anything but regret all that might have been. Death is not a thing to be played with. And now he comes for you.’

‘No,’ Mannfred said. He took a step back, still clutching at his head.

‘Yes.’

The word reverberated through the cavern, shaking the bats above and the monsters below from their slumber. The sound of it was a wound on the skin of reality, throbbing painfully. The crystals which lit the gorge dimmed, and Tarsus felt an ache build in his head. ‘What is that?’ he demanded.

‘Nagash,’ Mannfred said, backing away. ‘Nagash is coming.’

‘No, little prince. Nagash is here!’ A pale mist, struck through with glimmering veins of amethyst light, flooded across the ground, roiling and expanding as it approached the bridge. ‘Nagash is always here. Nagash is everywhere. This realm is his and he is the realm. He is in the air and the water, in the blood and marrow. Nagash is all, and all are Nagash.’

The mist swelled, enveloping the broken form of Arkhan before washing past him and coalescing into a towering, nightmare figure. A skeletal giant, clad in dark armour, surrounded by a flickering corona which changed hues, ever-shifting from green to black to purple and back again with painful rapidity. Nine heavy tomes floated around him, tethered by thick chains, their pages flapping with a sound like the snapping of jaws. Moaning spirits swirled about him, blending together and breaking apart in a woeful dance of agony.

The wide skull, lit by its own internal flame, gazed down at Tarsus and his warriors, and the blazing orbs that danced in its cavernous sockets brightened briefly as they lit on Tarsus. Then the rictus grin turned to Mannfred. ‘You have called, my child, and I have come. Speak, exile. Speak, traitor.’

Mannfred looked at Tarsus, and then took a hesitant step forward. ‘O Undying King, I have come to throw myself at your feet. I have learned humility in my time in the wilderness, and would beg thy forgiveness for past trespasses.’

Nagash said nothing. Mannfred licked his lips and drew the Fang of Kadon from within his cloak.

‘A gift, great Nagash,’ he cried, proffering the artefact. ‘A gift for you, a symbol of my fealty, of my loyalty…’ He trailed off as a crackling rasp, like the shattering of ice floes or the crunching of bones, filled the air.

‘A bauble. One that I could have reclaimed at any time. You think to buy my forgiveness, Mortarch. But Nagash does not forgive. Nagash is death, and death is without mercy, honour or pity.’ One great claw reached out and Mannfred gazed at it like a bird might stare at an approaching serpent. Tarsus stepped forward, caught the back of his cloak and jerked the vampire back, out of reach. Nagash paused, looking at the Lord-Celestant.

‘You stink of the raging storm.’

‘I am Tarsus, Lord-Celestant of the Hallowed Knights,’ he said. ‘I have come to—’

‘Sigmar sent him,’ Mannfred said, suddenly. He shoved away from Tarsus. ‘The lord of lightning mocks you, O mighty Nagash! He plucks souls from your realm, and sends them back to you as emissaries.’ He sank to one knee. ‘And I have led them to you, that you might do with them as pleases you, as a sign of my adoration.’

Tarsus stared at the vampire in consternation. The dead cannot be trusted, he thought. He turned back, to see Nagash staring down at him.

The Undying King was silent for long moments. Then, with a sigh like the creaking of a coffin lid, he said, ‘At last.’

‘Great Nagash, I have come…’ he began.

‘You have come as a thief. You have come in the company of a traitor. You have come to die.’

Tarsus felt a chill and lifted his weapons. Nagash flicked a finger and a coruscating bolt of black force slammed into his chest, pitching him into the air and over the heads of his remaining Stormcasts. He struck the bridge with a loud clang and skidded backwards in a spray of sparks until he struck a plinth. Pain enveloped him for long moments. He couldn’t move or speak. He could barely breathe. All he could do was watch as Ramus led the last of their Warrior Chamber in battle against the Undying King.

Warriors fell at Nagash’s merest gesture, their bodies wreathed in black flames or amethyst light. The souls which swirled about the Great Necromancer launched themselves at the Stormcasts, tearing spirit from flesh wherever they passed. But no blue light shone and no bolts of crackling lightning streaked upwards from the fallen. Something was preventing their escape. Tarsus shuddered and tried to pull himself up. Nagash was not simply killing them, he was capturing their spirits somehow, preventing them from returning to the soul-forges.

Soon, only a scattered few remained, and Ramus himself. Lightning splashed across Nagash as harmlessly as water. The Undying King motioned and a Liberator fell, enveloped in flames. Ramus dropped his staff and lunged forward, hammer clutched in both hands. His first blow made Nagash take a step back. His second thudded into a waiting palm, and Nagash’s hand closed about the hammer’s head. The blessed sigmarite flared once and then came apart as if it were nothing more than sand. Ramus staggered back and Nagash caught him up, enveloping his head in one metal talon.

He jerked the Lord-Relictor into the air. He turned to swat a Liberator into the side of the bridge hard enough to shatter the stone railing, and sent the Stormcast into the abyss below. The remainder fought on, but to no avail. Nagash was no mortal enemy or daemonic servant. He was death itself, and wherever his gaze fell, Stormcasts died.

‘You still live.’

Blearily, Tarsus looked up, as Mannfred dropped from Ashigaroth’s back to crouch beside him.

‘Can you stand?’ the vampire asked.

‘Why help me?’ Tarsus groaned. Past Mannfred, he saw a retinue of Judicators torn apart by Nagash’s dark magic. The last of the Prosecutors fell, lightning wings dimming. A Retributor staggered back, clawing at his helm as a dark mist engulfed him. His warriors were dying, and he was helpless to aid them.

‘Why, he asks,’ Mannfred said, helping him to sit up. ‘You freed me, Tarsus. You trusted me, though every instinct must have told you that I was not to be trusted.’ Mannfred hesitated. ‘You… remind me of someone. From another time. Another man who fought beside me and trusted me, though he knew better. For his sake, I will see you to safety. And then my debt to you — to him — is paid.’

‘Go,’ Tarsus said, as he pushed himself to his feet.

‘What?’

‘Go, Mannfred. No more is required of you. Your debt is paid,’ Tarsus said as he retrieved his hammer. His sword was gone, likely lost to the gorge. He heard Ramus cry out, and the roar of lightning. Mannfred stepped in front of him.

‘This is madness!’ he said, speaking quickly. ‘Nagash has what he wants. You’ve tried to deliver your message. I still have the Fang — we can escape. I will take you anywhere you wish to go, back to Azyr, even, but let us go now.’

Tarsus pushed Mannfred aside with his hammer. ‘There is nowhere to go. I am Stormcast and my duty is clear. Nagash must be made to see reason. He traps the souls of my brothers, and I cannot allow that.’

‘You cannot stop him. Nagash cannot be defeated, not here in this place of power,’ Mannfred snarled. He grabbed Tarsus’ arm. Tarsus shrugged him off and turned.

‘You did not always believe that to be so, Mannfred. Else why would you be here now? Why would you have stood with me in Helstone’s final hours?’

Mannfred stepped back, eyes widening. ‘What?’

‘Run, Mannfred. Run as you did then, when fire rained down and the earth trembled in sorrow. Take your freedom and run. I will hold Nagash’s attention for as long as I can.’ Tarsus gestured back the way they had come. ‘But go now.’ Tarsus laughed softly. ‘Unless you intend to stand with Tarsem of Helstone once more.’

‘Tarsem…?’ Mannfred said, peering at him. ‘What are you?’

‘I am Stormcast,’ Tarsus said. He raised his hammer in salute and turned. Mannfred did not follow him, as the Lord-Celestant began to run. He heard Ashigaroth shriek, as Mannfred coaxed the beast into the air, but he did not look back.

Memories of his past, of his final mortal moments, rose wild within him. Fire and shadow, the clash of steel and the pain of a mortal blow. Mannfred had fought beside him then, his reasons his own, but then, as now, he had fled when hope was lost. Such was his nature, and Tarsus did not fault him for it. The dead could not be trusted, after all.

It didn’t matter. Even then, he’d known that Mannfred had his own destiny. Helstone had been Tarsem’s. And the Bridge of Seven Sorrows was Tarsus’. However fast he fled, however far he ran, fate would catch up with Mannfred von Carstein in the end.

Nagash still held Ramus. The Lord-Relictor struggled against the titanic liche’s grip, but could not break free. As Tarsus drew close, Nagash seared the life from the last of the Retributors with a bolt of sorcerous fire. He closed his eyes.

‘Only the faithful,’ he said, to himself. Then, more loudly, ‘Nagash — release him.’ Tarsus stalked towards the towering figure as he spoke, weapon in hand.

Nagash looked at Tarsus, and then down at Ramus. The Lord-Relictor clawed at Nagash’s hand, beating on it with useless fists.

‘Yes, I will release him,’ Nagash intoned. Purple light flared and the Lord-Relictor went limp, smoke rising from the joints of his armour. Nagash examined him for a moment, and then tossed him aside. He looked at Tarsus.

‘You do not flee.’

‘I — we — came to bring you a message. And I will deliver it, whatever the consequences,’ Tarsus said. ‘Sigmar would have words with you. He wishes to speak of the past and the future. Of what has been done, and the work yet to do.’ He strode forward as he spoke. He heard the voices of the dead, calling to him out of the dim reaches of his past, calling to the man he had been. Calling out for Tarsem. He saw faces, the champions of the final days, walking alongside him as he stepped over the bodies of his fellow Stormcasts. He could see blue strands of lightning struggling within the fallen Bull-Hearts. The souls of his warriors yearned to return to Azyr, but Nagash had ensnared them.

As he watched, he saw a spark of blue bulge upwards from Ramus’ smoking form, fighting to be free. Nagash gestured sharply and the Lord-Relictor’s spirit thrashed, as if in agony. Another body began to dissolve into motes of azure lightning, and Nagash swept a talon out, forcing the body to cohere once more.

‘You will not escape me, little souls. I am the master here, not Sigmar.’

No, you are not. Not as much as you pretend, Tarsus thought. If he could distract Nagash, the spirits of his fallen brethren might yet be able to escape the Realm of Death. If nothing else, some of them might be returned to Sigmaron, where they could tell Sigmar of all that they had learned. But first, he had to distract a creature whose power rivalled that of the God-King himself. It was a slim hope, but he held firm to it.

‘Much is demanded of those to whom much is given,’ he murmured as he began to run.

Nagash leaned towards Tarsus as he drew close, terrible energies coalescing about his claw. ‘I care not what Sigmar wants. I will hurl him from his throne, as surely as I will cast down the Dark Gods. I am Nagash! None may make demands of me.’

Tarsus caught hold of the hem of his cloak and twisted about, letting it flare out around him. The enchantment within its weave was unleashed, and phantasmal hammers hurtled forward to strike the looming shape of Nagash in a flash of lightning.

A bellow of surprise shook the cavern and nearly knocked Tarsus from his feet. Stalactites fell from the ceiling to crash into the bridge, filling the air with splinters of rock. Shattered columns tumbled from their pedestals to break apart and shake the floor, throwing clouds of dust into the air.

For a moment, he thought it hadn’t been enough. Then, the first explosion of blue light streaked upwards, to vanish into the darkness above. More followed, one after the other, until the whole cavern burned with the light of the Hallowed Knights’ passing.

‘No!’

A massive claw, sealed in black iron, erupted from the dust and slammed Tarsus from his feet. He hit the ground hard enough to crack the stone. He shoved himself to his hands and feet, trying to suck air into his bruised lungs. Nagash strode out of the dust, even as the blue glow faded. ‘They were mine!’

‘They are Sigmar’s,’ Tarsus said hoarsely, as he pushed himself to his feet. He swayed slightly. Something was broken within him, and every intake of breath sent a pulse of agony through him. ‘And they will be forged anew, by his hand.’

‘Then I will kill them again.’

‘Perhaps, but not today,’ Tarsus said, as he lifted his hammer. ‘Who will be victorious?’

Nagash cocked his head.

‘Only the faithful,’ Tarsus said, as he stepped up onto one of the fallen columns and leapt, hammer raised. Nagash swept out a hand, filling the air with amethyst light.

And Tarsus Bull-Heart was no more.

You are mine.

Take consolation in the fact of your insignificance. Your soul struggles yet, like a fly caught in a spider’s web. But Nagash is no spider.

He is your master, Tarsem of Helstone. He is your master, Tarsus Bull-Heart. Whatever name the thief Sigmar has cloaked you with, you are still mine.

I will pluck you apart, strand by strand, and dig from you the secrets you keep. You will scream, but you shall not find respite in oblivion.

Not until Nagash knows all.

I will know how Sigmar has done this, how he has stolen what is mine.

And when my curiosity is satisfied, I shall rise from my throne and shake off the dust of ages. I shall stride forth like a conqueror of old and shatter the shields of my enemies. I shall pull down their towers and tear their beating hearts from their chests. I shall find the treacherous princeling wherever he has fled and chain him to my throne. None may defy Nagash and escape retribution.

My loyal Mortarchs gather in the dark places, readying my nine hundred and ninety-nine legions for the war to come. Soon, they shall march at my command, to once more impose my will upon all that is, and all that shall be. I shall not be denied. I shall not be thwarted. All shall kneel before Nagash. All shall bow. Even those who cast off my protection and flee into the wilderness. Even the God-King, on his throne.

The only reason you exist is to serve my will.

Nagash is all things. All are one in Nagash.

I am the dark at the end of everything.

The end of all things, made real.

I am Nagash.

I HAVE RISEN.

David Guymer

The Beasts of Cartha

The sky crackled and burst, stars wheeled, and by hammer and lightning upon the Anvil of the Apotheosis, Ramus of the Shadowed Soul was reborn.

No, not reborn. Reforged.

Lightning was beaten into him with hard, incessant blows, strengthening him, shaping him, the impurities of mortality driven from him like sparks hammered from a blade against an anvil.

Withered lips peeled back from long fangs, and the vampire gave a rattling laugh. ‘A better question might be… what are you?’ One sunken eye narrowed. ‘I smell… storms and clean water. You are not mortal men.’

‘Not for a long time,’ Tarsus said.

‘The same might be said of me, I suppose,’ the vampire rasped.

‘What is your name?’

‘What use is a name, when one is bound thus.’ The creature twitched its thin fingers, causing the brass spikes to screech against the iron rim of the orrery. It winced, in obvious pain. ‘If you release me, perhaps I shall tell you, eh? How curious are you?’

No!

He focused on that shard of himself and held it close, even as it burned. Alloyed to that memory was an emotion: fury, rampant, barely human wrath, and sputtering from it with white heat, the raw need for vengeance. It was strength, not weakness.

With each stroke of the hammer he felt the lightning enflame him for a little longer before dissipating. The divine had no form, but he did, or at least his soul remembered, and with each blow the smith drew that recollection from him until the lightning burned, caged, within a nascent human form.

His form.

‘Sigmar sent him,’ Mannfred said, suddenly. ‘And I have led them to you, that you might do with them as pleases you, as a sign of my adoration.’

Wrath clad his heart even as the god of the anvil encased his recast flesh in holy sigmarite. He remembered.

Warriors fell at Nagash’s merest gesture, their bodies wreathed in black flames or amethyst light. Soon, only a scattered few remained, and Ramus himself. Lightning splashed across Nagash as harmlessly as water. The Undying King motioned and a Liberator fell, enveloped in flames. Ramus dropped his staff and lunged forward, hammer clutched in both hands. His first blow made Nagash take a step back. His second thudded into a waiting palm, and Nagash’s hand closed about the hammer’s head. The blessed sigmarite flared once and then came apart as if it were nothing more than sand. Ramus staggered back and Nagash caught him up, enveloping his head in one metal talon.

He jerked the Lord-Relictor into the air. He turned to swat a Liberator into the side of the bridge hard enough to shatter the stone railing, and sent the Stormcast into the abyss below.

New-forged muscles swelled as he experienced the slaughter anew. He and his entire Warrior Chamber dismantled by the dark god, Nagash, and the soul of the Lord-Celestant imprisoned in his underworld.

Because of a betrayal.

The name lit up his mind with an electric fit of hate. Von Carstein.

A voice came, a voice that spoke into Ramus’ soul and gave him new life and greater-than-human strength.

‘Bring me the prodigal vampire.’

Sigmar…

Lightning played around the edges of Ramus’ armour, ready at a word to cast him into the Mortal Realms once more. His wrathful heart sang with praise.

‘I will present him to my old foe in silver chains.’

The lightning struck. It hit not with the impulsive stab-and-return that a bolt from the heavens should, but with a raking stroke. It timed its moment, brightening until the air it touched hummed with the pent-up might of Azyr. Release came in a thunderclap of such staggering force that the resultant blast wave ripped into the leaves of the surrounding trees.

The light faded, and Lord-Relictor Ramus opened his eyes. Smoke rose from his armour, residual energies arcing from gauntlet to gauntlet, snapping between his fingertips and his bowed head. He was alive, whole, and his war-plate was once again unmarred. His reliquary blazed like a lightning rod in his hand, a halo flickering about its crown and bestowing fateful animation on the imagery of faith, death and the storm.

From his shoulder, a shield of mirrored silver carrying a relief of a twin-tailed comet hung on a strap. A gift from Sigmar. He was on bent knee, the closing utterance of a prayer on his lips as the last of the storm faded.

‘Only the faithful…’

‘Only the faithful!’ came the reply.

Sixty warriors stood at order behind him, their armour a perfect silver-gold. They were the Hallowed Knights, warriors who had spent their last breath before death to call out to Sigmar and who had been answered.

Retributors with spitting lightning hammers; Decimators, gauntleted fists grimly locked about their thunderaxes; Protectors, their proud bulk distorted by the mystic shimmer of their stormstrike glaives; and finally the Prosecutors, their celestial weapons alight with the glory of Azyr.

Ten of each stood in ranks. An Exemplar Chamber. The God-King’s elite. Surrounding them, twenty Judicators summoned bolts to their crossbows, locked the weapons’ stocks to their breastplates and made ready. Ramus could see no Lord-Celestant or ranking champion amongst their number. It appeared that Sigmar had tasked Ramus with the role of leadership.

His view was limited to two discontinuous portals by the bony sockets of the helm that encased his head like a second skull, and he darted his gaze from point to point until he had a sense of their new battlefield.

The Hallowed Knights had been delivered into a V-shaped plaza, not made of stone but wood, and staked out with fire-poles and animal skins that moved under the most stilted of breezes. The air was clammy with the respiration of slow, giant things, and bitty with wood smoke. It tasted third-hand and passed torpidly through Ramus’ lungs.

The scuffed wooden ground was carpeted with dried leaves bigger than both of his hands. Noticing them, and noticing the incongruity between what he could see and feel and the oceanic roar of wind through trees, he looked up. His head spun with unexpected vertigo. It was not the height, but rather a sudden reinterpretation of scale.

Contrary to his initial flash impression, he was not amongst trees but high, high up in the canopy of a tree. The sky wore a cloak of purple-red scales and rustled as if to conceal something dark. The hoots and cries of beasts and birds, and things that were neither, called out from myriad hiding places in the wooded fastness.

‘Who brings fire to the lightless places?’

‘Only the faithful!’

Tilting his head back, Ramus scanned the plaza’s high, sheer walls. They had been cut from a pair of gnarled, monstrous branches, and were banded with lines that more closely resembled a cliff face than the growth lines of a living tree. Twinkling eyes watched intently from above. Leaves stirred.

At every level of the exposed wood, rude huts had been cut. The frontages were hung with shaggy furs that swallowed them entirely, rippling sedately in the breeze. In death they were monstrous, and Ramus felt that even he might hesitate before confronting beasts so large in the flesh.

Under such a commotion of noises it was impossible to pick out what was happening beyond the first row of huts. He could see no one but his own warriors, but death had a way of breeding caution, and he could feel the threat closing in.

‘Anything?’

‘No, Lord-Relictor.’

‘No.’

‘Nothing.’

‘Nothing also.’

The leaders of the Retributors, Decimators, Protectors and Judicators sounded off.

Ramus raised his crackling reliquary aloft to stir texture into the murk.

‘Draw back,’ he ordered. ‘Form lines.’

Through the plaza’s wider, open end, the slow fall of reds, browns and golds permitted a partial and changing view of a city on a grand scale. A tangle of wooden girders and gantries, wire-trained branches and great winding staircases supported vast platforms that were smoky with fortified wooden townships. Both high up and way, way down, little squares of light flickered.

At the other end, it narrowed. An ever-constricting row of steps climbed towards the wooden plinth of a two-faced gargoyle — one man, one beast, both appearing to strain apart from the other — from which water trickled into a basin.

Judicators took position on the steps and swung up their crossbows with a rattle of sigmarite. They aimed.

The boards trembled underfoot. Ramus had not noticed that before, but now he was still it was as clear as the might of Sigmar. As though something massive was pounding on the same piece of wood. Retributors and Decimators formed staggered lines along the lower steps, reinforced every second or third warrior by the blurred mass of a Protector.

Ramus moved to join the crossbows where his view would be better.

‘Be alert,’ he said. ‘Whatever comes for us — and have faith that it comes for us — remember that Mannfred von Carstein is mine. Should I prove unworthy in that task and fall, then the vampire is a prize for whoever may claim him.’

‘Lord-Relictor!’ called the Judicator. ‘The skies.’

With a beat of broad, luminous wings, a being foreshadowed by its own otherworldly halo descended into the plaza’s hollow. Ramus’ first thought was of Mannfred’s abyssal mount, Ashigaroth, but one look was enough to see that it was something else.

The armoured angel flew in the characteristic mode of the God-King’s winged heralds, big powerful strokes generating uplift, then an earthbound plummet as mass told. It was peculiarly ungainly, a swan coming into land, but then nothing so graceful should ever have been compelled to fly.

‘We are here for the vampire,’ Ramus shouted up.

The beams of light that feathered the warrior’s wings slid down his helm’s sockets like knives from heaven. That which bled around the gilded shutter of the flyer’s lantern simultaneously soothed and strengthened.

‘Where is he?’

Confusion showed within the eyeholes of the warrior’s helm as he regarded Ramus and his weapons. Then he shook his head, wings working hard to lift him from his hover and into a climb. More lambent wing-shadows arrowed through the dark above him, lightning crackling from javelins and hammers unseen.

‘No time! I am Vandalus, Knight-Azyros of the Astral Templars. Fight first, and then we can all be brothers.’

The knight unshuttered his lantern, the full force of its illumination searing the gloom away. To Ramus, it was as though the light of all the stars that ever were had been lensed through that lantern, the disparate colours of the divine merging to white gold. It should have burned, but it was like cool water in tired eyes. It should have been blinding, but the coruscating glory highlighted every detail with a brilliance that could not be ignored.

And with the despatch of the leafy dark, Ramus saw.

They were huge, lumbering creatures, fully half again the size of a Stormcast with that excess made up in equal parts by muscle and by fat. Guts girdled with heavy armour plates swayed side to side as they charged the steps that came up from the tree-city into the plaza. Mail flapped from their arms. Wheezes and grunts turned to howls of agony as eyes were sizzled dry and melted to the backs of eyelids. What had been a headlong charge under cover of darkness became a fumbling advance on hands and knees, blood streaming down jowly cheeks.

Vandalus slammed his lantern shut. The light snapped out, but by glowing, multicoloured outlines, Ramus could still see.

‘On them!’

The Prosecutors, visible now as a retinue about two dozen strong, strafed the ogors from above. Ramus’ own winged warriors moved to join them. Despite their speed, each was able to loose two or three missiles before reaching the mouth of the plaza, where they banked up and corkscrewed towards the canopy.

Javelins fell amongst the ogors, less like rain than bolts of lightning. Half-blind brutes skewered with several of the long shafts frothed and seized, Azyrite energy fizzing through their muscles. Thrown hammers smacked through the thunderstorm with stone-cratering force, punching down those creatures tough enough to still be standing.

The last of the Prosecutors turned their wings of light to the breeze and speared upwards, leaving a field of dead and moaning in their wake. Ramus smiled. This was not the foe he had been sent for, but their obliteration was beautiful, he could not deny.

‘Judicators, loose,’ Ramus instructed.

More ogors, these armoured even more heavily than the initial rush and supported by mounted warriors on huge shaggy war-beasts, shouldered through the remnants of the first wave. The first rank, a sweating line of about thirty with cavalry keeping pace on the flanks, cleared the final step and entered the plaza.

A vast brute waved a black standard carrying a bat-wing motif. The horde gave a roar and surged past into a rattling volley of fire delivered by the Judicators’ boltstorm crossbows. A handful went down, but the majority pushed through, armour and thick hide both bristling with sigmarite-tipped bolts.

‘You will need to do better than that!’ Vandalus roared.

With a scowl, Ramus raised his reliquary. He murmured a grim prayer, his words lost amidst the grunts as the first of the ogors’ heavy hitters smashed belly first into the thin rank of Protectors and sent them flying. Further back, the mounted ogors goaded their war-beasts into a ponderous trot, staying close in to the row of huts as they urged their steeds towards the Hallowed Knights’ flanks.

The purple sky darkened and roiled, flashes of sheet lightning visible beyond the bowing leaves. A bolt jagged down from the heavens and struck the upraised reliquary. Energy crashed outward, knocking an ogor flat, tendrils squirming over his armour. Ramus could feel the hairs of his body standing on end and tasted the charge in his mouth.

With a word and a gesture he blasted a lightning bolt through the flanking cavalry, reducing ogors to ash and turning their massive mounts into squealing fireballs. Teeth bared, he unleashed the lightning again and again until his power was spent and all around him was brittle devastation. His body was aglow with its after-effects.

‘Who will be victorious?’ he called.

‘Only the faithful!’ the Protectors responded as they redressed their line.

‘Now I feel your passion,’ Vandalus laughed, opening his lantern’s cover again and sending scores more of the ogors to their hands and knees, crying blood.

Ramus smashed the butt of his reliquary through the neck of an ogor that was writhing in pain on the lowest of the fountain steps. The first real shouts of panic went up from the ogors and they began to fall back. Ordered to hold, the disciplined line of Hallowed Knights simply disengaged and watched them go.

Ramus saw them dash against a second line of maroon and gold and animal pelts that had pivoted across the plaza’s entrance like a raising drawbridge. The gloom was too heavy for him to see what happened next, but he could hear well enough.

With a two-footed thump, the Knight-Azyros landed beside him, in his way as strange a sight as the ogors had been. His golden helm had been picked out with several small ideograms like tattoos, representing stars, storms and wild beasts. Odd, rustling totems of feathers and leaves had been affixed to his armour, partially masking the intricate, amethyst scrollwork. He took Ramus firmly by the shoulder.

‘A fine anvil you make, brother,’ the Azyros said. ‘Come, meet the hammer.’

The burly warrior stood with one armoured boot on the back of a particularly large and messily slain ogor, a wooden cup in his hand. The cup was empty, but the prop seemed important to his sense of theatre.

He carried his helm under one arm, its absence revealing a shaggy bearded face cut by shallow scars. Given that such injuries could not survive the Reforging they must have been relatively recent and, judging from the patterning, Ramus suspected self-inflicted to some ritual end.

‘His name is Hamilcar,’ Vandalus explained. ‘He is Lord-Castellant of the Astral Templars, Eater of Bears and champion of Cartha.’

The Lord-Castellant’s heavy armour was decorated, if that was the word, with bloody palm prints to which scraps of animal hair had been stuck. He looked like a man-wolf from Azyr’s Eternal Winterlands. To Ramus, it appeared he and his warriors had ‘gone native’ to an alarming degree.

‘See how even the greatest fall to the halberd of Hamilcar Bear-Eater,’ the Lord-Castellant said, addressing all present. ‘The ogors have come before and we have beaten them back. They will come again and be beaten again because I am still here!’ His voice rose to a shout, disturbing the trio of gryph-hounds curled up around his feet where they dozed off a feast of ogor flesh. They growled sleepily as he went on.

‘You are men and women of Azyrheim. You could have lived your lives in safety and comfort, but instead you came here, returned to your homeland to reclaim it from Chaos in the name of the God-King Sigmar. Your courage is proven beyond question. But if anyone here now doubts their courage then let them not doubt mine. I am your protector and I will protect you all.’

He raised his cup high. The forest’s growl filled the pause.

‘To my protection!’

The mortal men and women assembled in the plaza mumbled back with a weary chorus. It put Ramus in mind of the surly response of a starving wolf pack.

They were gathered into auxiliary bow and spear detachments, between ten and twenty strong, marshalled around a host of Stormcasts in maroon and gold, of which there were about forty. Liberators and Judicators mostly, their armour embellished with a variety of odd fetishes and tribal markings.

A Protector with the hissing head of a leopard painted over his face walked between them, delivering each mortal a wooden thimble bearing his dole of oozing grey liquor. At Hamilcar’s nod, they downed them, sucking on the emptied thimbles for every last sticky drop.

Its nose was of tree sap with a familiar, coppery trace.

Crushing his empty cup in his hand, Hamilcar threw it aside.

‘To your posts. I want the gates repaired and men upon them ready for the next attack.’

Another chorus of semi-human grunts and the auxiliaries filed out.

Vandalus put his hand upon Ramus’ shoulder, ushering him forward. ‘Come. Perhaps Hamilcar can tell you something I cannot.’

‘Vandalus! Victory is ours!’ the Lord-Castellant bellowed, greeting Vandalus with a powerful embrace. He pulled away, his smile disappearing as he looked Ramus up and down. ‘Maelstrom of Light?’

‘Hallowed Knights.’

‘Ahh.’

‘Ramus is hunting a vampire called von Carstein.’

The informality of address made Ramus wince. Hamilcar’s bark of laughter hardened it into a scowl.

‘Mighty game indeed — one that would not survive an hour in this wood.’

‘He is here,’ said Ramus. ‘Sigmar would not have sent us to you if he were not. The God-King desires him dearly.’

And I want him, he thought, but did not add.

‘This is a dark land, and Sigmar sees little of it from Sigmaron.’

‘You sound as though you question him.’

‘A mighty gift you have there, Ramus, to know so keenly what is in here.’ He tapped on the side of his grizzled head. ‘What am I thinking now?’

Vandalus cleared his throat tactfully. ‘It was my beacon that guided you here. It is possible that your Mannfred is nearby, but our blindness spreads over a dozen cities, and many thousands of acres of forest, mountain and plain.’

‘Sigmar has never yet led me astray,’ said Ramus, stiffly. There had been as many Stormhost forgings as there were varieties of men, Ramus knew, but he could not entirely dismiss the indulgence that Sigmar was surely testing him in some way, by sending him to these Astral Templars. ‘Perhaps the ogors are involved? I can… sense… something evil behind them. It seems as though they have had you besieged for some time.’

‘They will fail,’ said Hamilcar dismissively. ‘Hamilcar’s arm never tires.’

‘I do not need your protection, Lord-Castellant. From truth least of all.’

Hamilcar grunted, stepping aside as equerries with stiff brushes, pails and what must have been grooming knives moved in to tend to his hounds.

‘Another few months and we would have been secure enough here to scour the brutes from their land ourselves. But then the darkness came. Rumours of dead men crossing the Junkar Mountains. Orruks on the plains, bigger than any yet seen. Something’s stirred them up, and ogor tribes have been heading this way for weeks. Any fewer of them and they might have passed right beneath us, but the forest floor is dark as all death.’ He was silent for a moment, scratching his bearded chin. ‘There’s nothing to eat down there, so while we’re still here they won’t stop coming.’

The leopard-faced Protector passed his cup to the leader of the final group of auxiliaries. She practically snatched it from him, spilling some and spattering his gauntlets with what looked like blood.

‘What is in the cup?’ asked Ramus.

‘Sap from younger branches, mixed with a little blood from the birds and animals the auxiliaries catch,’ Vandalus told him.

‘Blood drinking?’ Ramus hissed, aghast.

Vandalus chuckled. ‘When I was a man I was king of a desert kingdom, and we would often mix the blood and milk of our mounts to sustain us between oases.’ He touched fingers absently to his lips. ‘Funny. I remember the taste of it more than all the fine foods in the world.’

Ramus scowled. He would die again before confessing it, but he envied those who recalled lives as warrior-lords and champions. As well as he could piece his own mind together — and the pieces there left to him were fewer than they had once been — he had always been a priest. A translator of the divine will and a judge. A shadowed soul.

‘You do not remember fully or truly. None of us do.’

‘Indeed we don’t,’ Hamilcar rumbled. ‘But we are Astral Templars, and we are proud of what we do remember.’

‘But you have water,’ said Ramus, pointing his reliquary accusingly back to where the twisted gargoyle dribbled liquid from the cored trunk into a font.

Vandalus and Hamilcar shared a look. The Lord-Castellant sighed.

‘Tainted. Not a long story, but one that never changes. My walls however are another matter. Vandalus may have called for more of our own host, but I’ll not turn away an Exemplar Chamber, whichever colours they wear. Walk with me, Ramus. Help me hold Cartha and then perhaps I’ll be able to help you.’

They walked down steps, up others, over bridges trained from tangled branches, from one war-torn platform township to the next. Hidden things clicked and twittered at their passing, the boards creaked, and for miles in every direction giant leaves rustled and points of light winked, like stars but not. It was like the centre of a strange, living universe.

The path led through the camp to a roped bridge. From the cleanly sawn stumps protruding from the edge of the platform, the original bridge had been recently brought down, presumably to repel an earlier attack. The new structure swept over a moat that might as well have been bottomless, a febrile chasm of animal howls and thrashing leaves that awaited the unwary and the invader.

On the other side, a barracks yard bustled with Liberators. A hundred or more bow- and crossbow-armed Judicators stood on the walls, towering over the human auxiliaries that moved among them.

As with everything else Ramus had seen here, the walls were wood, entire trunks carved with battlements and hollowed out to function as towers. Workmen crawled over a gate made from planks thicker than a man was tall, hanging like spiders from a complex harness of ropes to patch a breached section.

The Lord-Castellant led him through the drizzle of sawdust to a set of steps that had been cut into the defensive wall, where five mortal auxilia in leather jacks and holding spears stood guard.

Four immediately stiffened as the three Stormcasts approached, but the fifth sat and did not seem to notice them at all. He was scratching at his bare forearm and clearly had been for some time. He stared at the blood that speckled the wooden steps as though he could see his future there. Two of the standing spearmen shuffled across to hide him, but only served to draw attention. Hamilcar glowered at them.

‘What’s this?’ the Lord-Castellant demanded.

The eldest and least ragged of the two straightened. ‘Gut fever.’

‘Wheezing sickness,’ offered another, speaking over his fellow.

The Lord-Castellant drilled each man with his gaze until all four had wilted. The seated man panted, scratching.

‘Has he drunk the water?’

The elder spearman shook his gaunt head. ‘He’s not. I swear it by Ghal Maraz.’

‘Then explain this.’

‘Explain it to me,’ said Ramus, stepping forward.

Hamilcar dismissed the two mortals with an angry jerk of the head, and squatted down beside the scratching man.

‘The fountain is the only source of water here and draws directly from the Great Tree’s roots. It has two faces, that of beast and that of man, and it follows a cycle. Now is the time of the beast. The beasts may drink — my hounds, the birds,’ he nodded to Vandalus, ‘and we must take what we can from them, but a man that drinks from the fountain at this time will eventually himself become a beast.’

‘And Stormcasts?’

‘Would you risk it?’

‘Is this fountain not guarded?’

‘Of course!’ Hamilcar snarled. ‘But somehow, this keeps happening.’ He gestured to one of the auxilia. ‘Take him to the tents. See that he’s restrained.’

Shaking his head as the unlucky man pulled his sick comrade up and walked off towards the rope bridge, Ramus took the steps to the parapet and looked out.

The darkness was in constant motion, branches sighing in the wind, leaves fluttering slowly downward. More gargantuan trees, some larger even than Cartha’s, rose through the void, shadowy pillars of grey and brown and mouldy orange, glittering with hundreds of thousands of tiny lights. Each that Ramus could see was connected to others by mile-long wood-turreted suspension bridges.

Cartha was not a city. It was a cluster of island states up here in the trees. With his soul’s eyes Ramus could see the cloud that hung over all. If von Carstein was not behind this place’s ills then the Lord-Relictor was a dracoth.

Vandalus appeared beside him. ‘We retook them once and will again. Once reinforcements arrive from our realmgate on the Sea of Bones—’

A warning blast sounded out from the sentry post on the gatehouse. The raucous calls of the forest itself almost immediately drowned it out, but the mortal sentry had clearly earned his position for the power of his lungs.

‘Flyer!’

Vandalus looked upward and suddenly tensed. ‘Sigmar…’

The Knight-Azyros’ light wings exploded out and lifted him off the ground. The incomer was already over the palisade and descending hard, motes of feathered light fading fast behind him. It was a Prosecutor. His armour was a deep, bruised purple. His wings were almost gone.

Vandalus collided with the injured Stormcast in mid-air. Arms squirmed around crippled war-plate, wings billowing out as the Knight-Azyros fought to halt his comrade’s fall and fell with him.

Ramus jumped aside as the two armoured bodies hit the ground like a comet. Coming in at a steep angle, they crashed onto the rampart walkway, the Knight-Azyros with arms and wings wrapped protectively around the Prosecutor’s body, and bounced on over the inner courtyard. They came to rest under a mound of wooden shields, Stormcasts and auxilia both running in to help. Hamilcar waved them brusquely back.

Shrugging off a shield, Vandalus unfolded his wings from about his chest. The Stormcast in his arms was pale from loss of blood, his wings skeletal. His armour carried a number of severe dents and blood trickled through the small slit over his mouth. His breathing was shallow, furtive, as if edging towards the point where the pain of a broken rib became too much.

It took a lot to kill a Stormcast. To beat one this hard took a lot more.

‘Brother,’ Vandalus spoke quietly, ‘what did this to you? Where is the rest of the scout retinue?’

The Prosecutor’s mouth worked drily before sound came out. ‘I… am… sorry…’

Vandalus shook his head. ‘Do not be. We will tell stories of your epic flight until the end of days.’

‘No… I am sorry… The Sea of Bones is lost. Our cities are gone and… there will be no reinforcements. I feared Cartha would have suffered the same.’ He closed his eyes, tightened his hand around Vandalus’ forearm and clasped it in a warriors’ embrace. ‘But you are here. Praise Sigmar. You will tell our stories… to the reforged.’

‘And they will retell them.’

Hamilcar growled. ‘What happened to the other colonies?’

The Prosecutor made to speak, but the light left his eyes, departed to the same heavenly abode as his wings. Vandalus slid the warrior from his lap and stood, just as the body dissolved into a bolt of lightning that blasted open the forest canopy on its return to Sigmar. Ramus mouthed a prayer for him. It was a journey he would wish on no one. For a moment those gathered looked to the heavens or at the scorched ground in silence.

Another blast of the horn broke it. Again, the forest sought to clamour it down, but this time the trumpeter refused to be drowned out and held his note. Soon, others took up the call until the full length of the palisade was ringing.

Gripping his reliquary, Ramus turned back around to the great suspension that yawned into the dark. He could feel vibrations underfoot, ripples running through the connected boards from the approach of something massive.

Ramus muttered a different prayer.

One of war.

The ogors were coming, and this time they came with shields. Tramping over the forest bridge three abreast, every first and third bore a shield of metal the size of a man and bossed with a ten-thumbed stab at a gaping maw. Arrows clattered off the iron shell. Even the foot-long sigmarite-tipped bolts of the Judicators could not punch deep enough to trouble the hulking ogors behind.

Hamilcar’s voice boomed from his fearsomely daubed helm, and he waved his arms wildly as though he held the power to bleed the ogors with the knifing motion of his hands. ‘From the side! Aim for their legs. Bring them down!’

The archers shifted their aim to little effect. These ogors were shock troops held in reserve for the final push. Occasionally, one would tip over the edge with a Judicator bolt splitting their knee but the integrity of the formation held, the unshielded ogor in the centre file of each rank having two hands spare to hold his shield-mates in line. The clank of ill-fitting greaves on iron boots rang over the dark-leafed abyss as they pushed through the arrow-storm to the gate.

Ramus was in the barbican, the rough-walled wooden tunnel between the inner and outer gate where the body-odour haze was thickest. He grunted, hammer locked with an ogor’s steel-toothed maul, shoulder to its gut plate and straining. There was a darkness driving it, pushing against his will even as the ogor pushed against his body.

‘Who holds the gates of heaven?’

‘Only the faithful!’

The Protectors and Decimators were far from their element in such cramped confines, so the honour of vanguard fell to the Retributors. The explosive crump of their weapons reverberated through the tunnel. Bow auxilia from the gatehouse garrison leaned over the internal battlements and loosed directly down.

Ramus pushed back against the ogor’s strength until it felt as though the pressure against the inside of his skull would crack his helm.

‘Who is the shield between Sigmar’s foes and the weak?’

‘Only the faithful!’

‘Who fights with the hearts of bulls?’

‘Only the faithful!’

‘Only the faithful!’ Ramus roared, slamming every ounce of reserve behind his shoulder.

The ogor staggered. Ramus drew back, opening a space between them, and then thrust his reliquary aloft. At a muttered prayer, lightning crackled about its pole and spat a bolt at the recovering ogor. The massive brute jabbered, spraying Ramus with spittle, but stumbled for him regardless on bandy legs that spasmed with Azyrite energy.

Hamilcar appeared on the battlements above. ‘A useful prayer! But you are in the Carthic Oldwoods now, and Sigmar cannot hear you unless… you… shout!’

The Lord-Castellant jumped onto the parapet and thrust his warding lantern over the tunnel, drawing back the shutter with his other hand in the same motion. Golden light flooded the tunnel. Ramus’ armour glowed as barriers of arcane protection enshrouded it. He felt himself strengthen, enough to push the ogor back, then mash its head so emphatically into its neck that its ribs exploded in his face.

Ramus found he had space to move. The pressure from the front was easing off. ‘They are retreating.’

‘Of course they are! Hamilcar Bear-Eater is always triumphant!’

Ramus dismissed the bluster with an irritable wave of his hand. Somewhere behind the sweaty scrape of withdrawing ogors, bells were being vigorously rung and drums thumped.

‘This is no act of panic. They are being called back…’ A cold wind washed against his face and he turned from the bridge towards it.

The sepulchral chill whistled through his helm’s eyeholes and pinched his eyes as a bat-like horror the size of a dracoth shrieked past them. Snapshots rattled off its hide — not flesh but some dark, gravestone metal — or simply passed through its ribcage in wisps of corpselight.

The monster turned from the walls, the thrashing torment of a nimbus of spirits somehow keeping it airborne. Then, with a shriek that killed the nerves, it bounded down, thumping into the bridge amidst a buffeting wail of ethereal dead.

Ramus gripped his reliquary so tightly that it creaked.

Hatred should be hot, a storm that struck wild and hard, but what he felt instead was cold, his heart deadened as though encased in a block of ice. The dread abyssal stamped around as though claiming some of the ground’s solidity for its own. Its eerily glowing nimbus moaned as it dimmed to reveal the beast’s master.

Hamilcar called out from the walls in astonishment. ‘Vampire!’

Ramus growled. ‘Mannfred.’

The vampire shortened the reins around his wrist, then leaned forward in the saddle to execute a bow for the watching Stormcasts. ‘In accord with the finest traditions of war, I offer you this one chance of surrender.’

Hamilcar held up his weapon arm so that all could see it. ‘If you want surrender, then come to my wall and beg for it.’

Mannfred offered an indulgent smile. ‘I salute your sense of occasion, Lord-Castellant. Truly. But you have nothing for me and nothing for them.’ He gestured to the ogors behind him who inched forward, salivating, in a rustle of mail. ‘Those you shelter, however… They will be dead in a week whatever we do here. Let us in, give them up to us, and together we might all survive what is coming.’

Ramus did not believe that Hamilcar gave genuine consideration to the vampire’s terms, but something in the warning had given the Lord-Castellant pause. Was it the talk of orruks and ogors on the march that troubled him more than the Betrayer of the Hallowed Knights?

‘Do not heed the poison that spills from this adder’s mouth!’ Ramus hissed. He slammed his staff down onto the bridge, energy arcing off in wild flares. Mannfred regarded him with amusement, but no hint of recognition. That he could enact such treachery and not even recall his victims only made the lightning storm more furious. Ramus turned to the ogors and raised his voice. ‘Whatever deceits this missionary of lies has used to delude you, discard them from your minds.’

‘Our need is mutual,’ Mannfred said, smoothly. ‘You do not know what is behind us.’

‘It can be no worse that what awaits them. Treachery. That is how you reward your allies.’

The vampire sat back in the saddle and looked him up and down. ‘Do I know you, Stormcast?’

‘I am Ramus of the Shadowed Soul, and I fell the day you betrayed Tarsus and the Hallowed Knights to the Great Necromancer. I know you, Betrayer, and for your crimes, Sigmar now knows you also.’

At the God-King’s name, lightning bolted from his reliquary, flaring off against a screaming barrier of tortured souls before Mannfred’s negligently upraised hand. With a predatory grin, Mannfred raised his hand above his head, fingers spread, the residual charge of Ramus’ lightning bolting from finger to finger. He looked past him to where Hamilcar stood with gauntlets clenched over his battlements.

‘Have you noticed your dependents acting most oddly of late, Lord-Castellant? Blood. It changes one, do you not agree?’

The vampire clenched his fist and a wave of power spilled out. It buckled the ogors’ shields, caused the banners above Cartha’s palisade to pull at their poles until they snapped. Stormcasts braced into the wave, buffeted as the dark grey wall of force hit their armour and passed around them as if they were rocks in a river.

The effect on their auxilia was markedly different. They were not rocks. They were sand, and the wave broke them. Blood vessels burst in their eyes and skin the moment it touched, men screaming or simply gargling on their own lungs’ blood as the wave passed through and splattered out the other side. Convulsions cracked bones, sent men wailing from the parapet, the survivors turning mad, bloodshot eyes onto the corpses and moving on them with an animal hunger.

Ramus spun around as the defensive line disintegrated before his eyes. ‘What bedevilment is this?’

Mannfred spread both arms in a flourish, urging his dread abyssal to rise on a column of weeping souls. A pack of subhuman creatures with torn clothes much like the folk of Azyrheim and tatty bat-like wings flapped over the gulf from the neighbouring tree in answer to their cries. Their wings were the same dull red as von Carstein’s cloak, their flesh fluted and spiked like his armour, their faces painfully drawn with the same patrician lines.

They had been remade in his likeness.

‘Blood does not cheat or lie, Stormcast. It belongs to the beasts, and the beasts want it back.’

A tortured shriek rang out from the palisade, a hunger for human flesh so acute it was no longer even remotely human. An auxilia sprinted along the parapet, weapon gone, mind gone, mouth covered in bloody drool, and hurled himself headlong into an Astral Templar.

The man — if the flailing, blotchy animal could still be called that — rebounded off the armoured giant, but not before another had leapt onto the warrior’s back and started tearing at the gorget spikes with his teeth.

Across the length of the wall, Stormcasts were being overwhelmed, torn from their war-plate like carrion pulled apart by hyenas. Flurries of lightning stole their bodies from around the teeth of the very men they had been despatched to defend, blasting the savages apart like flesh-wrapped fireworks.

Ramus caught sight of Vandalus and his Prosecutors taking to the skies, abandoning the wall entirely in favour of engaging the ghoulish crypt flayers struggling in from the deep forest sea. Behind them flew the Prosecutors of the Hallowed Knights, wheeling after the creatures.

Several beast-born threw themselves from the walls in grasping pursuit. Some caught trailing legs and dragged the winged warriors down. Others flailed, impacting in disjointed heaps on the berm. A handful staggered up on broken limbs and, whimpering in pain and hunger, dragged themselves towards Ramus.

From the other direction, the ogors once again lifted up their wall-shields and advanced. The bridge trembled with their tread, Mannfred’s mocking laughter a counterpoint in gusts and whispers.

Hamilcar backed up from the rampart, staring at the blood daubed over his gauntlets. ‘I did this…’

‘Back from the wall, to the city! We will hold the second bridge and make a stand there,’ cried Ramus.

Ramus spat, turning and blasting a ghoul from the wooden berm with a bolt from his reliquary. The burning creature plunged, shrieking, through snapping leaves and on into the dark. Ramus came about, mouthing a prayer, and sent lightning to scorch the front rank of ogor shields.

Hamilcar bellowed again, swinging his halberd overhead and cleaving the pair of man-beasts that came gnashing for his throat. ‘I did this! With Sigmar as my witness, Lord-Relictor, I will undo it!’

Blasting and bludgeoning a path, Ramus retreated from the ogors’ advance, through the splintered outer gate and into the barbican. Where, a few minutes prior, bowmen had stood and loosed, they now hurled themselves into the tunnel. Ramus’ reliquary drove forked lightning through those that blocked his way.

Taking the glowing staff in both hands, he looked back over his shoulder as an ogor in a studded helm crashed through the open gate, deep-set eyes peering over the top of its shield. It saw him and opened up to charge.

‘Down, Lord-Relictor!’

Ramus ducked as a rank of Judicators in Azyr-blue and silver levelled crossbows as one and unleashed a storm of bolts into the tunnel. The ogor fell, bolts bristling from shield and helm and jowly face. Retributors and Decimators moved in to shore up the inner gate with crates dragged over from the drill yard, and with the bodies of the dead.

The yard had slipped into a demented nightmare. Tortured screams abounded. Shadows darted, men and women gouging each other’s eyes out amidst tumbling leaves. Half of the Stormcasts pivoted to face them, but the ghouls seemed more interested in each other.

With a sudden inhalation, one of the corpses being piled into the barricade made a grab for the Retributor carrying it. Surprised, the Stormcast struggled with it for a moment, its arms squirming around his neck, then tore it off him and hurled it against the wall where it broke and did not rise again. The Protectors formed a cage around Ramus, stormstrike glaives striking up a static hum that almost drowned out the moans of the reawakening dead.

The barricade began to pull itself apart. Ramus noted Hamilcar’s absence and the incoherent cries coming from the Lord-Castellant’s last position, and broke into a run.

‘Back to the bridge!’ he ordered.

A small band of Astral Templars held the rope bridge. Subhuman beasts battered themselves against the Liberators’ shields and fell to their hammers by the score. Against such guileless opposition, the warriors might have held their position for hours, if not indefinitely, but they were beset from both sides.

Ramus felt cold spear his chest. Mannfred had not restricted his call to those on the walls. It had turned everyone. Everyone who had drunk, even once removed, the blood of Cartha.

With a doleful prayer, Ramus raised his reliquary again. After so much use it felt like lifting a stone block but he thrust it high, as if to rip open the sky in person, and dropped a thunderous barrage of lightning strikes onto the flimsy bridge. Obliterated, bits of wood and wailing beast-touched people plummeted into the forest’s depths.

The Judicator-Prime looked on. ‘It falls on me to point out that there is no other way out.’

‘Sigmar is our way out. And I will face the pain of that reunion gladly if I can push Mannfred von Carstein through the door ahead of me,’ snarled Ramus. ‘Astral Templars, to me!’

Cartha was gone. They had no cause to fight for now but his. He turned, scanning the chaos behind him.

‘The Lord-Castellant hunts for the Betrayer. Good. His is the only life of consequence in Cartha now.’

The Stormcasts formed up into a block around him, shields, blades and crackling hammerheads held outwards, the three corners facing away from the ruined bridge anchored by bulky Protectors. The savage-looking Astral Templars slotted in at the rear. The join between the two cohorts was seamless.

At Ramus’ gesture, the Decimators each doubled up with a Judicator and ranged ahead. The rest of the Stormcasts snapped to a forward facing, brought weapons to marching order and, as one perfect unit, broke into a run back towards the gate.

Their bodies were sacrosanct and of no value either to the ogors’ bellies or to the vampire’s ravenous new minions.

And so they had turned on each other.

An ogor encased from the waist down in heavy plate came blundering through the thin wooden partition of a barracks hall with a beast-touched man struggling in a lock under one arm and a shank of flesh dribbling from its mouth. Several more loped after it, evading the long swings of its fist and chasing it through the splintering wall of another structure on the opposite side of the yard.

Elsewhere, another lay dead on the ground, the leaf bed around it whisked up by the frenzied attacks of the beast pack that mobbed it. Somewhere in the bedlam, an animal like a wolf, yet not quite, howled. Several scattered beast packs lifted bloodied mouths from the glut and loped off towards the sound.

There, higher up in the canopy, a light pulsed in the gloom. Vandalus’ lantern. Even through the crowding foliage Ramus could feel the golden warmth of its summons.

Sigmar did not bestow the Knights-Azyros with wings simply to serve as messengers and heralds. They were the sigmarite-tipped blade of the God-King’s spear. It was in their nature to be at the sharp end of any engagement, and the pride they took in that fact was legendary. Ramus knew little of the Astral Templars, and did not care to learn what the Reforging might one day take away, but he understood the temperament of the Knight-Azyros well.

Wherever Vandalus fought, Mannfred could not be far.

He lowered his reliquary to point out the pulsing lantern to his retinue, just as the breathless pant and claw-on-wood scrabble marked the approach of something four-legged and frantic. Ramus took a firm breath, ready to again loose lightning, as a gryph-hound burst through the leaves and skidded to a halt in front of him.

It was limping, carrying one paw, its beak frothed and its fur matted with blood. Its sapphire-blue eyes were piercingly intelligent, but dancing with an animal fright almost painful to behold.

The air grew chill, a sense of spiritual pressure building. The hound sniffed the air in alarm, then looked up and shrank to the ground with a whine.

Ashigaroth dropped from the sky, slamming the gryph-hound down and ripping into its throat in a single, crushing instant. Tearing out muscle and tendons and spraying the ground with blood, the dread abyssal swallowed a chunk of flesh, and then shrieked its challenge as a wave of beast-born loped in from the shadows.

‘Judicators!’ Ramus called. ‘To your duty.’

Swaying in the saddle of his unholy beast, Mannfred observed the rank of boltstorm crossbows with indulgent good humour. ‘Why is it, I wonder, that Sigmar felt compelled to burden you with such poor imaginations? Very well. “Judicate” me, if you can.’

A volley of fire ripped through empty space as the dread abyssal leapt skywards. With a war cry from their retinue, the Retributors stepped forward to meet the charge of Mannfred’s beasts. Ramus turned from the slap of meat on metal and the ripping of joints from bone to follow Ashigaroth’s flight.

‘Spread out, Judicators! Follow his…’

The order died on his lips as the monster reached the apogee of its arc and began to descend. Strong hands on Ramus’ back pushed him clear. He hit the ground and immediately rolled over, just as Ashigaroth landed on top of the Protector that had saved him.

The Stormcast went under in a shriek of metal. The dread abyssal’s knife-like mouthparts went straight for the warrior’s chest, splitting his breastplate in two and digging in. With a toss of the head, it pulled something wispy and golden from the warrior’s ruptured chest cavity and swallowed.

The bolus glowed brightly through Ashigaroth’s skeletal neck as the monster struggled to get it down. It opened its jaws as though to gag, and vomited a bolt of lightning that struck towards the sky. The undead monster slumped forward, eyes quivering, and gave a rattling heave.

Ramus thrust his reliquary up towards the sheets of lightning flashing across the crowded sky. ‘His soul belongs to Sigmar. As does mine. As does yours.’

Ashigaroth heaved forwards and knocked his staff from his hands with a swipe of its claws, then struck him in the chest with the bony bridge of its skull and sent him stumbling. Mannfred stood up in the stirrups, a soft golden light nicking the edges of his armour, and pointed with his sword. ‘Outclassed and ready to die — now I remember you—’

‘Hold, blood-drinker!’

Lord-Castellant Hamilcar strode in from Ramus’ right with his lantern held high, halberd scraping across the wooden ground. Two snarling gryph-hounds came at his side, bursting forwards with a snap of their vicious beaks.

At his back marched a phalanx of Astral Templars, armour scraped and bloodied, adorned with savage icons, but Ramus could not recall any sunrise over Azyrheim so magnificent.

Hamilcar broke into a run. Then his hounds. Then his Liberators. Sigmarite pounded excitedly on thick wood.

‘Cartha is my city, vampire. I am the Bear-Eater, and today you are my prey.’

The Liberators crashed through the beast-born with the pleasure and ease of men kicking in empty packing crates, crushing open a path long enough for Hamilcar and his whirling halberd to charge through.

Ashigaroth twisted to get out of the way. Hamilcar’s blade cracked its shoulder and shards of blackened metal flew loose. The monster bellowed, throat still shivering, and fought to be airborne. Mannfred reined it in with a harsh tug, urging it forward instead to trample the Lord-Castellant under its hell-metal bulk.

Hamilcar raised his halberd across the abyssal’s throat like a barrier. Ashigaroth chomped furiously over the top of the haft for his armoured face, driving the mighty Lord-Castellant a dozen strides back for every snap of its jaws.

With a snarl, Mannfred stabbed for Hamilcar’s neck. The Lord-Castellant ducked the shoulder, bent his neck to the other side, and the blow pierced his cloak to glance off his armour. The abyssal twisted out from Hamilcar’s halberd with a furious shake of the neck and snatched a gryph-hound mid-leap from the air. It shook it hard, and tossed the brutalised animal clear. The second circled in low, clamped its beak on the abyssal’s hind leg, and brought those infamously powerful jaw muscles to bear.

Did unnatural beasts such as this feel pain? Ramus did not know. But he certainly felt the crack of fell metal as the gryph-hound bit down.

The dread abyssal retaliated with a head swipe that sent the Lord-Castellant reeling. Swift as a turning wind, Mannfred twisted in the saddle and plunged his sword through the gryph-hound’s spine.

Ramus snarled. ‘Bring him down! Forget everything that I said. The warrior who slays the vampire will be exalted by Sigmar forevermore.’

Mannfred brought his sword up. ‘Don’t think to forever just yet, Stormcast… You wish to return me to Nagash, but that is a journey I fully intend to make on my own terms.’

Ramus risked a quick backwards look.

His Paladins staggered under bodily blows as beast-born beyond counting ran into them headlong. There was barely room to deploy a shield, much less a thunderaxe, and even the Decimators who would ordinarily relish such a numerical mismatch were dragged into a melee that was literally hand-to-hand. Arriving piecemeal through the scrape of leaves and the snap of reluctant joints, dead things shambled into the stragglers’ backs, driving the ghouls’ unnatural frenzy into the surrounded Stormcasts.

Ramus glanced across to where his reliquary had been tossed. Mannfred was far too fast to let him reach it, far too strong to let the attempt go unpunished.

Hamilcar’s halberd beat a long dent into Ashigaroth’s shoulder blade, shoved it sideways with a shriek, and gave Ramus the time to unsling his silver shield. The Lord-Relictor fed his arm through the straps, and swung in behind the monster.

Sigmar’s Gift was heavy and polished, and carried an unusually wicked edge for a shield. It loosened an old memory, something he had once said to the warriors of his mortal nation as they had marched to war — a command to return with their shields, or on them.

That was how Sigmar wanted the Betrayer, and that was how he would get him.

Ramus struck for the slowly reknitting gash that the gryph-hound had put into Ashigaroth’s hind leg, but rather than putting the dread abyssal onto its belly, his hammer somehow crashed into Mannfred’s steel.

It was like punching a wall. Impact spasms jerked up his neck. He swung his shield across the vampire’s counter, turned the blow over his shoulder and stumbled back from the force. He got his feet into place under him, caught a glimpse of Hamilcar and Ashigaroth trading hits a few feet away, then Mannfred’s meteoric downstroke forced him under his shield again.

‘This realm will be mine, Stormcast. You cannot stop me. If Nagash will not welcome me then I will make him fear me.’

Ramus brought up his hammer as an arcane bolt leapt from Mannfred’s fingertips and scorched his breastplate. In that same moment he saw Hamilcar finally falling under Ashigaroth’s claws. The determined thumps of his halberd against the abyssal’s lower ribs continued, even after the ripping open of his faulds turned curses into screams.

Unable to reach Ramus while his beast finished with the Lord-Castellant, Mannfred let go of the reins and pounced from the saddle, launching himself into a spin of such power that he became a blur. He cannoned into Ramus, smashing him through the struggling cordon of Stormcasts and into a pack of feral beasts. Hands smothered him, scratched and bloody, individually weak but irresistible in such volume. Fingernails dug in between helm and gorget. They pulled at his arms and legs, pounded on his bruised chest. He felt the join between boot and greave creak and fought in vain to draw in his leg. Something bit down on the narrowly opened gap but, to his astonishment, the pain faded almost as quickly as it had flared.

He saw light, golden light, and he was the only one not screaming.

Vandalus.

Finished with the crypt flayers, the Knight-Azyros and his Prosecutors had returned. Beast-born reeled, screams bubbling from their throats as their corrupted flesh steamed, and Ramus immediately shook them off to sit upright. The light eased away his hurt and replenished his heart with faith. He saw Mannfred back warily from the aura, winding his wrist again through Ashigaroth’s hanging reins.

Ramus picked up his shield from where it had fallen on the ground. In that flash of the divine he knew what it was for, as though he had been gifted with it and despatched to the light of Sigmar’s herald for no greater purpose than this.

‘Betrayer,’ he called to Mannfred. ‘I told you that Sigmar knows you.’

He tilted his shield forward, its mirrored face cutting the light stream and turning its full force onto the vampire. Mannfred screamed as though he had been set ablaze, and a moment later the dead thing did indeed burst into purifying flame. Ashigaroth pulled on its wailing master, dragging him off the ground by the reins wrapped around his wrist in its own panic to escape.

‘No!’ Ramus gave a howl of frustration and looked upward. He could not see the Prosecutors directly, but he could tell from the faint shimmer of their wings they were up there. ‘Follow him! Do not allow him to escape again!’

In a sparkling impact of steel and thunder, Vandalus made landfall. The Astral Templar folded back his wings. The glow of burning buildings reflected in his armour made the animal iconography appear to dance.

‘I swore an oath of my own to hold this realm for Sigmar. I cannot fulfil yours for you as well.’

Ramus bustled to his feet in a fury, pushed immediately to the ground again as an ogor came barging through the heaving mass of beast-born, so desperate to pull away from something behind it that even the Hallowed Knights Paladins broke before it. The fat brute stubbed its toe into the ground and tripped. Its face slammed down, blood and spit leaking into the grain. A huge-bladed and oddly shaped axe was stuck in its back.

Ramus turned to look over the crushed bodies it had left in its wake.

Standing there was a dark-skinned orruk in thick armour, painted red and black and marked with a pair of crude glyphs, carrying a heavy, well-made shield. Its face was covered by an up-cutting iron jaw. As difficult as it was to judge an orruk’s mood through a layer of steel, it looked as surprised to see Ramus as Ramus was to see it. Is that what Mannfred had been afraid of? Orruks? Hardly a peril worthy of notice to someone with two gods after his blood. Before he could finish the thought, the orruk was gone.

Vandalus dropped to one knee beside Ramus and hauled him up. ‘Did you see the markings on its armour?’

‘What of them?’

‘They said “Great Red”.’

‘What of it?’

Vandalus clasped his forearm in one hand, his shoulder in the other, and ignited his wings. ‘Come, brother.’

From within the squall of animal cries and shrieking beasts, deep-voiced drums sounded out an urgent rhythm. Faster than a human beat, the tempo of something for whom the killing could not come quickly enough. The occasional, muffled cry of ‘Waaaaaggh!’ rose over the din.

‘Sigmar repopulated other cities here,’ Vandalus explained. ‘Cartha is lost but we have others to protect. Come with us, and perhaps there you will find your vampire again.’

Despite the tension cramping his jaw shut, Ramus nodded.

Cartha had fallen. Now was the time of the beast.

David Guymer

Fist of Mork, Fist of Gork

The fire had been banked with earth and soot, and splinters of creamy white bone sat like teeth in the ashes. Embers spat resentfully at the night. It was almost smokeless. Say what one liked about the Astral Templars — and in the sanctity of his own thoughts, Ramus said plenty — they were not careless. Though they neither felt the cold nor feared the dark, the brooding champions in maroon and gold sat close to the fitfully glowing pit.

Vandalus stared right into the heart of the embers. Even sat as he was with his wings unlit, the Knight-Azyros carried a barbaric kind of nobility. His eyes sparkled like sacred pools, his helm shining in his lap and his long golden hair falling free. He kept his voice low, as though speaking to the fire.

‘The ogor was eighteen feet tall…’

He glanced up. Shadows danced across the metal-cast faces around him. A few were survivors of the siege of Cartha. They had been changed by their time in the wildwood — their armour was scratched and marked with feral icons, their cloaks grimy and torn. The others had been called down in the days and weeks since by the light of Vandalus’ beacon. They were keener in every respect: the bright colours of their armour, the edges of their gladiuses, their faith in their purpose. They sat forwards, attentive, rapt.

‘Eighteen feet tall, and heavier than seven men. Hamilcar had already slain a dozen of the ogor’s best warriors, but we were all tired, all hungry, and this was a brute altogether more formidable than any yet to have breached the gates of Cartha.’

‘There is no ogor so large…’

Ramus was only half attentive, half interested. The warmth of the fire was on his back, his eyes on the dark where he preferred them.

Hacked into by axe and by fire, the Carthic Oldwoods’ northern border looked like the site of any of the thousand massacres that Ramus had seen, after the armies had moved on and the crows were done. Jagged bits of tree stuck out of the ground like the unburied dead, gleaming white in the moonlight where animals had stripped them of bark.

The forest clicked and twittered. An odd snuffling moved through the undergrowth not far from the camp. Gorse, tangled and black and crisp, crunched underfoot as a small party of Hallowed Knights ventured warily ahead. Crouched and alert, Ramus watched the night breathe. ‘Moreover, I doubt there ever has been.’

‘Never is a powerful word to throw around so fearlessly,’ said Vandalus.

Ramus scowled. For him it was comfortable, a settling of facial muscles into positions to which they were well accustomed. No one could see what he thought behind his skull helm in any case. ‘The Lord-Castellant’s deeds that day were impressive enough. Why embellish them?’

Vandalus sighed and leaned forwards, goading the embers to sparks with a dead branch. ‘Hamilcar will return, but what will he remember after his Reforging? Who knows?’ He gestured to the Stormcasts sitting around him. ‘So we will remember for him.’

The animal in the woods snuffled nearer. Hunger coiled Ramus’ guts into knots. He did not know how long it took for a Stormcast to die of hunger. He willed it back. He did not want to be the first Lord-Relictor to return to Sigmar with that knowledge.

The creature stopped moving. A grunting, scraping noise followed, accompanied by the swaying of a pale tree about twenty feet into the forest. Ramus picked up his reliquary, black soil crunching under his grip on the morbid icon. The animal sounded big, which was strange.

Stranger, it sounded careless.

‘If it is untrue then what purpose does it serve?’

‘He died for Sigmar,’ said Vandalus. ‘Is that not worth a little glory?’

One of the fresher-looking Astral Templars leaned in towards the firepit. ‘Perhaps you could tell us the tale of Hamilcar’s fall, Lord-Relictor?’

Vandalus’ eyes sparkled. After weeks of pursuit by ogors, ghoul packs, orruks, and things his language had no name for, this lack of respect was still the most disagreeable thing Ramus had seen since his last death. He could speak of how he and his retinue had held the gates of Cartha, of how he had destroyed the bridge to spare the Astral Templars from being overrun by ghouls, or how he and the Lord-Castellant had fought side by side against the great betrayer, von Carstein. He could have said all that.

‘Sigmar demands much of those to whom much is given. He died for Sigmar. If he desires more glory than that, then I pity him.’

‘Careful, Ramus, a poet lurks somewhere under the black.’

Ramus took a deep breath. The tree had stopped swaying and the rustle of leaf litter was coming nearer. Maybe fifteen feet away now. He strained to see through the tangled moonlight. A twig snapped. He turned towards it, raising his reliquary.

Standing half in shade, sheared by a beam of glittering silver light, was Iunias of the Retributors. He silently gestured for Ramus to follow. The Lord-Relictor nodded, equally silent, and glanced to Vandalus as he pushed off on his reliquary and rose to follow the Retributor.

‘Be ready to move again when I return.’

Iunias clasped Ramus’ pauldron in welcome as he approached, and pointed through an ethereal arch of leaning saplings, bent by wind and scratching beasts, to where Sagittus was standing in a puddle of moonlight, crossbow aimed at the shifting wind.

‘Shhh…’

The Judicator held up a gauntleted finger, listening.

Crouched beside a bole that had been so well polished it shone like a slice of the moon, an Astral Templar wreathed in the skin of a wild boar glanced across at his comrades. In spite of his expressionless dark mask he looked somewhat embarrassed by their attention. He said nothing, however, and returned to his work, chipping at the pale trunk with the glinting tip of his gladius.

Behind the sigmarite of his faceplate, Sagittus exhaled slowly. He dropped his hand, lowered his aim only slightly less grudgingly, and turned to Ramus.

‘I heard… I thought I heard…’

He pulled himself together, shook his head, haloed in moving streams of silver.

‘I thought I heard something.’

Ramus lay a gauntlet on his second’s shoulder. Ghosts. Trees that walked. Animals that could speak as men and adopt human form. Ramus did not doubt that most of the myths of this realm had some truth. Chaos had twisted the realms in countless ways, but Chaos was not the half of it.

The world had been well twisted long before the betrayals of Nagash and Gorkamorka brought the golden Age of Myth crashing down on mortal heads. He sighed.

Betrayal. It always came to that, as constant as a turning world…

But he was Lord-Relictor. His first duty was to abjure and forefend, to keep the souls of his charges pure.

‘Faith, Sagittus. If something calls, let it call the night away. If it comes, I expect it to be filled with bolts.’

Ramus saw the Stormcast relax a little. He clasped his pauldron once more and moved on.

The Astral Templar looked up as he approached. Brakka was, according to Vandalus, something of an unlucky legend. No one had been despatched to the soul-forges more times and been remade. So it was said.

The deep maroon of his armour was almost black, haloed with gold. His cloak was unkempt, similarly colourless in the dark but for a smear of old blood. There were days when Brakka recalled little beyond his name, Sigmar’s, and how to use his hammer, but he could tell dirt from dirt like no one else, alive or dead.

Silently, the warrior indicated a streak of black paint that had been scraped across one flank of the tree — from a shield, perhaps, or an armour plate. He showed Ramus his gladius. There was a tiny sliver of steel there that he had dug out of the wood.

‘They passed this way.’ Ramus did not intend it as a question. He did not need to ask the man whether he was sure.

Brakka nodded.

‘How far ahead?’

The Templar held up a finger and stood, backing off soundlessly, and waved for Ramus to follow. The surrounding trees thinned as he picked his way expertly around them, another flood of moonlight making his armour’s gold edging shine. He pointed through the opening. Ramus turned to look.

The pale tree stubs climbed towards a low rise. Poking out of the summit like snaggled teeth, partially screened off by hanging greenery, the angles of a stone circle gleamed an unquiet white.

A tower made up of bent metal plates, streaked with rust, leaned incongruously into the overgrown henge, like a troggoth spreading out on a sylvaneth’s leafy bed. A dark glyph depicting an iron-fanged jaw with a monstrous underbite caught the moon in its full, faded glory.

Sagittus did not shift his gaze from the forest.

‘A strong vantage point.’

‘Difficult to take by surprise.’

With his eyes, he tracked the most likely path up the slope. He could see where trees had been snapped and brushwood flattened. There were even bits of discarded gear glinting metallically in the undergrowth. Either the ogors had become desperate or the skills of Brakka’s past life were rubbing off on him.

Had the Betrayer got wind of their approach and pushed his warband hard for a last stand on favourable ground? Ramus had wounded the vampire badly in their last encounter. It would be reasonable to conclude that a rematch was low on his list of desires.

‘It is an orruk fort.’

Ramus looked again at the dark stain on Brakka’s cloak. The fight with the black-skinned orruks the first day out from Cartha, or maybe the ambush at the river? The woods were crawling with them, splinter bands of a hundred or so left by the main horde as it pushed forward, through Cartha and on.

Where to, and why? Easier to ask why the tide rises. The going had become easier now the orruks’ front line was behind them, but still…

‘We’ve already lost half an Exemplar Chamber, and I can ill afford to lose more. We should break camp now. We might yet catch them before the dawn.’

‘The vampire will be weaker if we wait for the sunrise, and a little rest will benefit us far more than it will his ogors.’

Iunias’ dry chuckle strained through his mouthpiece.

‘The vampire would move faster without them. He fears this forest’s inhabitants more than he fears us.’

‘And who will teach the Betrayer of his error?’

The dawn would see the return of Mannfred von Carstein to Sigmar, and then the God-King would present the Betrayer to Nagash and the Dark Powers would tremble at what Ramus of the Shadowed Soul had made be. Peace between the two great deities of Order, and Lord-Celestant Tarsus’ soul set free to lead the Hallowed Knights into the great battles that would follow.

Wary despite the excited beating of his heart, he touched his fingertips to the silver rim of his shield, Sigmar’s Gift, and drew his warhammer.

Sagittus and Iunias likewise reached out and brushed the two-tailed comet emblazoned upon it. ‘Only the faithful,’ they intoned in unison.

The summit was empty. More or less.

Birds crowed from the bushes, and from gaps in the odd crushed-together construction of the tower’s rusted outer shell. Ramus could see their beady eyes from within the tangle, hear the impatient shuffle, the rustle of feathers. The birds he could live with. It was the ogors that were causing his senses offence.

There were about three dozen of them lying in wait, hidden from view of the forest by the way the knoll lipped, then dipped, then rose again before reaching the henge. Staked out in neat, slouching files.

Ramus’ nose wrinkled from the stench. He raised his reliquary to indicate a halt, and the Stormcasts’ uphill march clattered to a standstill. Vandalus and the Prosecutors beat hard to hold their positions overhead.

Ramus had been a priest of Sigmar long before he had entered the Temple of Ages and endured the twelve rituals to become Lord-Relictor. The divine storm did not merely imbue him: it was his to channel. He could glimpse into the spirit world and view the soul-eternal.

Something was amiss here. Slimy against his skin, filling his mouth with its taste. Evil had settled into the rugged hilltop’s depressions like stagnant water.

‘Keep your distance.’

He kept an eye on the sagging ranks of ogors as he sidestepped them to a crumble of old wall. Something moved there, slippery, like an eel squirming over his spiritual sense. He brushed aside a creeper.

The ruin was daubed with finger art, just enough paint left to make out the shapes of beasts and monsters. A chill passed through his empty belly, as if he could hear the trumpeting of the herds through his fingertips on the stone.

He shivered. Without them altering in any discernible way, the images seemed to slide across the wall and back into cover. Stick figures carrying spears followed them. They were green-black, faded, thicker drawn around the arms than the legs.

‘Be this the work of men or orruks…?’

He withdrew his hand. The wall was empty.

Chanting a prayer for the rebinding of his soul, he turned away, aware without needing to see it that the images would be spreading back. This had been someone’s holy site once, long before the Age of Sigmar, a place where men had worshipped the turning of the seasons or the migrations of the herds.

‘And Mannfred has taken the time to defile it. Why?’

‘Lord-Relictor.’

Iunias pointed with his star-soul mace.

‘Over there, by the tower.’

Ramus looked. A set of stone steps led up to a bulging metal doorframe, bent outward in the middle as though by generations of too-wide elbows. The door itself had warped almost off its hinges. The lintel stone was festooned with bone fetishes made from small animals and birds, which clinked together like wind chimes.

What Iunias was pointing to, however, was on the steps, or flanking them — two more rows of stakes each topped with a human skull at a jaunty tilt, and articulated to a crudely wired skeleton. Some of the bones were still fleshed, and even had thin bristles of hair, but they had clearly been here a lot longer than Mannfred’s ogor allies.

An outraged murmur passed through the Astral Templars. Azyrheimer or native tribespeople, the people of this land had been sworn to their protection. Loudly muttering oaths of vengeance to his brothers, against ogors and orruks in equal measure, one of the Liberators wandered towards the front rank of stakes.

Ramus received the sudden sense of something buried deep inside the nearest ogor’s dead flesh. Wispy and faint, it glowed torpidly.

A soul. Sigmar, the ogor was not dead.

‘Away from it. Away, now!’

The ogor gave a deep, fleshy moan and made a grab for the Liberator. The stake creaked forward, but had been set deep into the hard ground. The ogor flailed as though it were drowning in mud.

The Astral Templar gave the bloated zombie a moment’s baleful look, then mashed in its head with a side-on crack from his hammer. It caved like an oversized fruit, splattering rotten mush all over the Liberator’s armour.

The undead thing stopped jerking and slumped back. Its neighbour however turned its neck towards the Stormcasts, eyes rolling like dice in a cup, and began to moan. Then its neighbour started to struggle against its stake until the whole hilltop rumbled with grunts and barks.

Ramus backed off, arms spread to dissuade anyone else from getting any closer. The cacophony echoed from the tower, carrion birds billowing through cracks and windows in a panic. It rang from the old stones of the henge, pealing out over the bleak wood like a funerary bell.

With his reliquary a barrier in front of the line of Stormcasts, he pressed a finger to his helm’s gumless teeth. The warriors fell silent. After about a minute of unrewarded thrashing and moaning, the ogors too fell still.

‘A curse on this place.’

It dawned on him then that Mannfred’s ogors must have perished weeks ago. That was how they had kept ahead of the Stormcasts without food or rest. In the time he had wasted chasing down a shambling decoy, Mannfred and his abyssal mount could be anywhere. The Betrayer had never even been here at all.

‘Damn it!’

He raised his reliquary and unleashed a bolt of lightning upon one of the standing stones. It blasted apart, rubble clattering against the wall of the derelict tower and tumbling down the opposite slope.

Vandalus descended slowly, dropping the final dozen feet to land beside him.

‘Better?’

‘No.’

With a jab of his reliquary that clinked the dusty relics stored within, Ramus pointed to one of the dully moaning corpses.

‘Let it down.’

The gore-splattered Liberator shrugged, set down his hammer as he moved round behind the corpse, and then raised his boot.

The kick snapped the stake in half. The ogor barked out a moan, raising the dead trunk of an arm at its assailant, but missed by a foot as its face crashed into the dirt. A gut that rigor mortis had made no firmer rippled under it as the ogor dug fingers into the dirt and tried to rise.

It moved as a dead thing moved, uncaring for the fingernail that snapped off against a stone or the awkward bend demanded of its elbows and knees. With a wet groan it fumbled to its feet, tottered for a moment, unbalanced by its own tremendous paunch, and then lunged for Ramus with a snarl.

It came at him so clumsily that even as a mortal man he could probably have got out of the way, the sway of its gut dragging it a foot off to the side for every forward stumble it took.

But Ramus could barely recall what mortality must have felt like, and he had no intention of going anywhere. He ducked under the shambler’s swinging arm, stepped in close to its sloughing chest, and forced fingers around its throat.

His grip could have bent iron. The ogor’s neck squelched and popped as flesh and ligaments gave, but it was well beyond the need for breath. Semi-congealed fluids leaked through Ramus’ fingers as it pushed against his grip.

With its greater reach and uncaring strength it clobbered him. Massive arms bashed his helm one way and then the other. He gritted his teeth and bore it, squeezed harder. The ogor’s eyes bulged, and then something in its neck went snap.

The body fell limp, collapsing into Ramus’ grip. With a grunt of effort, he drew the ogor a little higher so his arm was outstretched and almost vertical, supporting the ogor’s weight by its broken neck. Bloodshot eyes rolled in their sockets. Its jaw worked drily.

Ramus snarled through gritted teeth.

‘Yield.’

He spoke not just with his own voice, but also with his spirit voice. The weird doubling effect gave the watching Stormcasts chills.

The ogor’s eyes flickered, seeming to focus on him, then went placid. Its tongue creaked and rolled, a gasp of stale air wheezing from the back of its throat.

‘Never, shiny man. Skraggtuff won’t never yield to no one.’

Vandalus and the watching Astral Templars murmured in surprise and revulsion.

Even Brakka glanced over and made a warding sign of some kind across his chest. Ramus ignored them, bending his will towards the ogor’s small, confused soul. It was likely that the trapped spirit did not yet even realise it was dead.

‘Mannfred has betrayed you, left your tribe here to die. Join us, Skraggtuff, and help me take vengeance upon him.’

The ogor’s throat rattled, eyes rolling inwards as it remembered.

‘Betrayed… Gaarrgh, I remember… I remember, the slimy gnoblar… I’ll have out his guts and eat ’em.’

‘Tell me what you remember.’

‘Promised us food. Promised our lands back… But he didn’t care. Only wanted someone to fight him through the Ironjawz. Us and them eaters he took from the Tree City…’

‘Ironjawz?’

If Vandalus was troubled by this news of the ghouls that Mannfred had made of the citizens of Cartha then he hid it well.

‘I’ve heard of them. An orruk tribe that once dominated here, before the Age of Chaos gave them greater battles in other places. Do they make a return?’

He stepped nearer.

‘Have they come to fight us?’

But Skraggtuff did not answer. He could see or hear no one but Ramus.

‘And where did Mannfred want you to take him? Where has he gone?’

‘Over the mountains… The Bone Sea… Talks about it always, never stops…’

Ramus glanced to Vandalus. From the first day, the Astral Templar had sought to convince him to seek out the Celestial Realm within the Sea of Bones. The convergence of their two objectives could only have been a sign that Sigmar yet smiled on his quest.

‘What does he seek there?’

‘Dunno. Talks about it always, but never says anything…’

‘Do you think it’s the realmgate itself that Mannfred is after? Does he seek to take an army to Azyrheim?’ Vandalus asked.

Ramus gave a curt shake of his head. ‘Mannfred is many things. I’ll say this for him, he is no fool.’

He turned back to the ogor, but before he could interrogate the soul further a set of iron shutters mounted just below the tower’s conical roof squealed open.

An orruk of staggering immensity squeezed his head and shoulders through the window and looked down. Jewellery dangled perilously from flappy ears, from a lower lip thicker than both of Ramus’, and from a heavy, sloping brow.

Had the brute been squatting on the henge-side of the tower then Ramus could begin to imagine why the structure would have such difficulty remaining upright. He was that big. A tatty cloak of what looked like human flesh with iron squares sewn in scraped against the window’s metal sides.

In a guttural patois, the orruk spoke.

‘Dis is Weird Zog’s hill!’

Ramus made to raise his reliquary and call down Sigmar’s storm, but Vandalus’ hand was the faster. The Knight-Azyros caught his arm at the gardbrace and eased the reliquary back down.

‘There was a truce once, brother, between the orruk tribes and the native men of the Oldwoods. They aren’t unreasonable, if you can convince them to respect you.’

Pushing Ramus aside, he stepped forward, his celestial beacon and his starblade held out wide to make himself appear large. He ignited his wings in a scream of lightning.

‘My name is Vandalus. Men once knew me as the King of Dust, the conqueror of the Yellow Sea, and now Herald of Sigmar. My lord and yours are the best of rivals, orruk, but there is no hatred between them. Tell us how you came by these ogors, and we will pass.’

The orruk’s face twisted in anger. He jabbed a thick finger, metal ringed, at the broken zombie still in Ramus’ grip.

‘Dat woz mine.’

‘But how—’

‘Mine! Traded good iron fer it. Now look.’

He looked over the armoured Stormcasts and gave a yellowing, gap-toothed snarl.

‘Wot’s meat worth, thunder man?’

The orruk uttered no prayer, performed no arcane gesture, but his eyes suddenly began to glow green. A halo whooshed up from his slab shoulders, as though he had doused himself in oil and been set alight. The green flames rose into the hulking form of a looming orruk, two heads thrashing to tear their conjoined body apart.

Ramus saw it, though he was not sure the others did. This Zog was a weirdnob. A shaman. The orruk gave a drunken, demented laugh.

‘Mine!’

Ramus spat a hurried counter-prayer, but abandoned it before the opening line was out as a massive ectoplasmic fist condensed above his head. It crackled with white veins. A ghostly umbilical ribboned back to the weirdnob in his tower.

The orruk pulled up his shoulder, and hefted his magical fist high. Ramus swore, wrestled Vandalus back with his arms around the Knight-Azyros’ shoulders, and both went tumbling as the great fist slammed down.

Rock blasted apart in a roar, arcs of green lightning mushrooming from the crater. The mace-wielding Astral Templar that had been directly under the impact was obliterated. Ramus saw the warrior come apart through the fizzing green: a man, then a statue made of dust that burst apart as the bolt of lightning tore his soul back to Sigmar.

Energy surged out from the impact site at terrific speed. Stormcasts hit by the blast screamed, armour seared, bent, buckled, all in the span of a split-second as the force bubble enveloped them and then threw them out across the hilltop.

Ramus was already down when the bubble burst, and that was probably what saved his life. He felt the ground tense up, recoil from the blow, then flex back with a vengeance, flipping him over.

A Prosecutor of the Astral Templars cartwheeled across his line of sight. A Hallowed Knight hauled himself from the rubble of a wall. He heard Vandalus yelling orders, felt the rush of wings and saw him shoot into the air. Ramus stabbed his reliquary into the bucking ground like an oar into wild waters, and, dizzied but unbowed, he stood.

He called for the Retributor and Protector Primes, his vision spinning with bodies and residual force.

‘Iunias. Cassos. Spread out and fall back to the forest. Make way for the Judicators. Sagittus!’

‘Here, Lord-Relictor.’

‘Bring that shaman down.’

The Judicator retinues were pushing into the foliage that blocked up the henge, squatting amidst the rubble walls for cover when the order was given.

‘Loose!’

Their aim was exemplary, but with the ground shaking and the tower swaying it would have taken a god to score a hit and the sigmarite-tipped bolts duly plugged the surrounding metal walls.

A moan arose from the small rocky crater that the weirdnob had punched out of the hill. One of the stakes had been knocked over and the captive had rolled in — still impaled, the ogor was crawling up the near side.

Sagittus half-ran from his retinue to the lip of the hole and loosed his crossbow. The bolt fizzed through one ear and spat out the other, pitching the shambler face down into the mud.

Weird Zog screamed, smouldering green eyes bulging from his face.

‘Miiiine!’

With the back of his fist he banged on the tower’s exterior wall, another half-formed spectral hand slicing back and forth across the face of the moon.

‘I know you boyz ain’t still asleep in dere. Get out here you lazy sloggerz. Weird Zog’s Weirdmob. Great Red. Waaagh!’

There came a pounding from inside of the tower. Ramus turned towards the rusted gate at the top of the skeleton-lined steps just as a monstrous iron boot kicked the doors open.

Ramus gripped his staff tight. The figure blocked the door. His first thought was that it was an armoured construct of some kind. Surely nothing natural could be large enough to have been encased inside.

It thumped down the steps, four at a time, and turned its fang-like face grille as an Astral Templars Liberator charged it with a feral yell. The thing hit the Stormcast with a metal bludgeon so hard that the warrior was almost knocked out by his own shield.

The Liberator staggered into the tower’s wall, shook out his shield arm and barked like a wounded savage as the thing came at him with its other weapon. A huge iron gauntlet, claw-hooked and painted red, clamped shut over the warrior’s breastplate and the Astral Templar was lifted, snarling, from the ground.

Unyielding sigmarite and pitted iron scraped against one another, and then the armoured orruk slammed the Liberator hard into the ground. It turned to Ramus.

The face grille passed through the moonlight, and Ramus saw the dark green flesh and brutish yellow eyes banded in shadow inside. He saw the whole thing swell up with a deep breath.

‘Waaaaaaggh!’

More clanked down the steps, far too big to run, big enough that it did not matter. Eight. Maybe nine. They were too large, their armour too mismatched and misshapen, to count them properly. Ramus knew that orruks grew throughout their lives as they aged and fought, but he had never encountered even the mightiest warboss as big as the least of these… these… Ironjawz.

Ramus raised his reliquary like a standard and let it crackle with Azyrite energy as another swing of the claw smashed in a Liberator’s faceplate and blasted him back to Sigmar.

‘Faithful, to me!’

The remaining Astral Templars converged. A similar body of Hallowed Knights would have formed a shield wall, trusted to their comrades in arms to protect them, but the Astral Templars came at the orruks like wolves in winter.

Hammers of holy sigmarite crashed against iron plating. Axes, clubs and mace-like gauntlets beat on shields. A Liberator was suddenly hoisted like a banner above the melee in the first brute’s claw, kicking uselessly at its head.

Another warrior drove the pointed base of his shield into the joint behind its knee. It grunted and buckled slightly. The suspended warrior got his fingers into the orruk’s grille and tore at it with a vicious, animal sound burbling from behind his own mask.

The Ironjaw bellowed back, spraying both helms with spittle, and grunted in sudden pain as a shaft of light scalded across his grille.

Vandalus dropped out of the night sky like a falling star, trailing fire, and threw out a beam of golden light that hammered the big orruk full in the chest. The brute was thrown back, armour charred, as though taken out by a charging knight with a lance. Vandalus shot past.

Stabbing light beams blitzed the confusion of metal bodies, burning orruks, invigorating the Stormcasts, and in a rumble of thunder the Azyros flashed over the henge and was gone. His Prosecutors followed through the smoke in close formation, hammering the standing Ironjawz with javelins.

A broad brute in spiky plate adorned with glyphs and with a javelin sticking out of his immense pectoral armour shook a fist at the passing heralds, punched away an Astral Templar’s shield and hacked the warrior almost in half down to the groin.

‘Only the faithful!’

Ramus watched as Iunias led the Hallowed Knights Paladins forward. Of the thirty despatched with him from Sigmaron, just ten were left, the losses felt most keenly by the Decimator and Protector retinues.

The last of them remained close to Ramus as a bodyguard while the Retributors broke forward. There was no shield wall here, but no man ran a single stride ahead of another. They were a storm of thunder and faith that would break the enemy as Sigmar would one day break the hosts of Chaos.

A lightning hammer split open an Ironjaw’s crude belly plate in a violent thunderclap, doubling it over. Iunias was already following through, star-soul mace rising, cracking back its head and breaking its neck in one powerful blow. The remainder of his retinue piled in behind.

The Judicators meanwhile were keeping up their barrage on Weird Zog. The second fist coalesced out of the rain of moonlit debris, the left to the other’s right. The green was lighter, less corded with veins, knuckles knobbled with bone rings. That was where the differences ended.

The henge and five of the Judicators disappeared under the falling green slab, nothing left of either but a hole in the ground.

They could not afford these losses. They were few enough as it was. Ramus pushed up his reliquary just as it thumped out a crackling wave of power.

‘Pull them away from the tower, Sagittus! The shaman is mine…’

Overhead, black clouds boiled in the dark sky. He roared into the sudden gale.

‘Sigmar! Heldenhammer! Stormlord! Show this beast the light of Azyrheim!’

Lightning cracked down from the churning thunderhead and blasted the roof off the tower. Scraps of hissing metal rained down, what remained resembling a twig that had been brutally twisted off its branch. The weirdnob leaned out and looked up, livid.

Power leapt from the tip of Ramus’ staff and earthed in the crooked iron conductor that was the orruk’s tower. Ramus gritted his teeth, tasted salt and copper, charge pouring from his staff and into the tower until the structure began to glow blue, tendrils of Azyrite power ribboning up and down its length.

The weirdnob gripped the sides of his window and seized. Saliva foamed from his mouth. Energy ran through his chest, lit up his eyes, and sprayed from his ears.

Finally the orruk managed to let go, coughed up a smoke ring and tipped forward. Ramus lowered his staff.

The orruk hit the bottom step like a sack of nails, managed a half-somersault and slammed into the ground face down, neck bent under its own massive shoulders.

The silence that fell was so abrupt that even the ogors with their moans seemed too taken aback to fill it properly. Smaller pieces of glowing metal pattered over the two new craters.

Ramus turned to Brakka, who pulled a bloody gladius from an Ironjaw’s throat between helm and gorget and–

He stopped, and looked back to the fallen weirdnob.

‘Sigmar, surely not…’

With a stiff grunt, the weirdnob pushed himself off the ground. Ramus watched with amazement as the orruk continued to unfold. Even his own hulking warriors, even the ogors, straining to grab at his cloak, had little over him by way of height and all were shamed in a comparison of muscle.

The orruk bulged. Brushing some of the black, peeling bits from his arm with a clink of his metal-sewn cloak, the weirdnob looked at Ramus and cackled. His teeth were as wide as Ramus’ fingers and yellow as off milk.

‘Morky. Very Morky.’

The orruk’s grin devolved into something rubbery and evil. His eyes flashed green.

And then his head exploded.

Vandalus’ starblade carved through the weirdnob’s skull and deep into the dense muscle of the neck as the Knight-Azyros dropped from a great height, slamming bodily into the dead remains of the orruk a split-second later.

He whipped up, agile as a mountain cat, holding out his lantern and tearing back the shutter to burn the Ironjawz coming towards him. Cassos despatched the last with an explosive uppercut from his stormstrike glaive.

Leaning against his staff, Ramus pushed away the sudden wave of weariness. He turned to Vandalus, voice even, choosing to ignore the fact that they were both breathing hard and doused in gore, as if their earlier conversation had never been interrupted.

‘I assume you know how to reach the Sea of Bones?’

‘The Belial Ocean Pass is the only way to move an army over the mountains and it is a month or more in the taking, at least. But we are few now, as Mannfred’s own forces must be. It is possible that we could risk the Heldenline.’

A shiver passed through Ramus at that, and he had to look up to reassure himself that a black cloud had not just stolen the moon away. He turned his skull-faced mask to look north.

There, beyond the ghostly prickling of lifeless woods, an ugly, heavily weathered old mountain range cast long shadows over the landscape. They were lumpen and misshaped, and appeared almost to move as Ramus watched them. A trick of the dark, surely?

But he had heard of the Heldenline…

‘Lord-Relictor?’

The shiver ran down Ramus’ arm and prompted his fist to clench. He squatted down and took hold of Skraggtuff’s neck where he had dropped the ogor. The brute’s features still held their ghoulish semblance of un-life.

‘Get off! Skraggtuff doesn’t want—’

The corpse’s spine crunched, his head coming away from his shoulders in a wrenching of crushed bone and fleshy tendrils. His eyes twitched.

‘Ow.’

The head bobbled over the broken ground to Brakka’s feet. The Astral Templar looked down at it without a word.

‘We have a guide. We take the Heldenline.’

‘You have heard of the Heldenline, Lord-Relictor?’

Sagittus, tramping through the rugged scree of the mountain pass, held out his arms for balance on the loose ground. Dawn was creeping over the peaks, leaving slashes of pink here, or gold there, while in creases and folds the old night lingered.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘Your reaction when Vandalus mentioned it. I have fought alongside you for some time now, Lord-Relictor.’

Ramus nodded. He was Lord-Relictor, of the fourth Stormhost to be forged. Of the twelve rituals he had endured, the first had been of Recitation — to weed out the unworthy early, he supposed, for the histories of the realms were neither pleasant nor short.

He carried those stories proudly, like scars. History was a passion, and he had few enough of those. His knowledge of it went deeper and further than most men would dare.

‘Long ago, early in the Age of Myth, there was a tribe of orruks known as the Junkar that lived in these mountains. Favoured by both halves of their unruly god, revelling equally in trickery and in war, they were unbeatable in any arena. Men fled the cities in their millions, sealing the realmgates behind them as they went, and the Junkar rampaged up and down the realm for generations.’

Like almost every such tale Ramus had committed to memory, it was one of unparalleled might leading to an even mightier fall.

‘So glutted on battle had the leaders of the Junkar become, so massive had they grown that, unassailably mighty though they were, every battle left them wearier than the last, and every march to new fields became more arduous. In the end, they no longer moved at all, settling in the mountains that they had once called home.’

Sagittus pivoted his boltstorm crossbow almost imperceptibly towards the brooding line of unpleasant peaks.

‘The Junkar Mountains…’

‘A name not lightly bestowed, not here.’

‘I assume they must have perished long ago.’

‘An orruk’s need for conflict knows no bounds and over the centuries, the Junkar abandoned their god and turned their war upon each other. Some treatises claim it to be the longest unbroken war in the history of the realms or the world-that-was. They say it continues to this day. Only a narrow strip of neutral ground holds the two sides apart: those pledged to Mork — he who was cunning but brutal — and those pledged to Gork — he who was brutal but cunning. It was called the Heldenline.’

He rapped his staff on the stony ground.

‘For Sigmar Heldenhammer. It was he, in the closing days of the age, who had personally bested both sides’ champions and wrought this thin margin of peace, hoping one day to reunite them again and turn them against the Dark Powers.’

He snorted, unsure whether to continue.

‘In some of those accounts, it was said that the God-King was so badly beaten that his men did not initially believe it was truly him when he returned to Sigmaron.’

Ramus plunged his staff into the rocky scree, rubble sliding around his boots, and looked darkly over the misshapen piles of rock that loomed high on either side.

The largest was little over half a mile high, but they were rugged, intimidating, bunched up against one another like a wall of barbarian hillsmen about to pour into the pass. Coarse black vegetation coated their upper reaches, the occasional spindly tree hanging from a crag and nodding in the wind.

That wind was strangely humid and sulphurous. Furrows blew through the short grasses, flattening and stiffening them, reminding Ramus horribly of human hair.

An odd grunting sound echoed amongst the flat-topped peaks. An animal, perhaps, or a pack of them, but Ramus could see nothing move and the sounds seemed to come from nowhere in particular before the echoes took them on and carried them.

Iunias and the Retributors were several hundred yards deeper into the pass, walking slowly, arranged in a lopsided chevron with the Prime at its head. From right to left the pass was steeply sloped, the ground loose so the warrior on the far left wing was struggling to push his feet through the stones.

Following a few hundred paces behind, spread out in no particular formation, the Judicators covered their brothers’ advance. They were wary, very wary, strain showing in every stop, start and shift of their crossbows.

Ramus tried, and failed, to shake off the sense that the mountains themselves were watching him, growing taller, inch by inch.

Or moving closer. Inch by inch.

‘Easy. Have faith, brothers.’

He shook his head firmly, resting a hand on Skraggtuff’s large skull, which now hung from his hip — Brakka had shown an uncommon artistry with a knife. The skull’s jaw opened and closed silently, wordlessly, still animated by whatever dark magic clutched at the ogor’s soul. It and the shield on Ramus’ back clanked against his armour as he walked. The echoes were aggressive and over-loud.

Half an eye on the peaks, he tried to walk more evenly, but the moving ground made even that impossible, and two-score armoured Stormcasts simply could not move silently.

The Astral Templars took the rear, quiet for perhaps the first time in their lives, carefully watching the mountains.

‘Our destination is in sight!’

Vandalus’ cry called Ramus’ attention upwards. Prosecutors in maroon and gold banked and soared on wings of light. They looked tiny, specks of gold with their own glowing haloes. They were spread out in a long line, the most distant far out of sight, and likely already overflying the Sea of Bones. He tried to draw reassurance from that, but for some reason could not.

He watched Vandalus swoop towards the right hand of the range. He felt his heart jump into his mouth, struck by a sudden fear of those mountains that was all the more crippling for being an emotion he had never thought he would experience again. He stumbled, wargear clanking, let go of Skraggtuff and tightened his grip on his reliquary as though the safeguarding of Sigmar’s realm depended on it.

‘Do not venture from the Heldenline!’

The pass pulled his voice apart and scattered it.

The Heldenline… The Heldenline… The Heldenline…

Rather than simply diminishing, the echoes became successively more brutish, grunts and growls in place of syllables, and what came back was a horrific distortion of his words.

HELDENLINE.

Wincing, Ramus waved his arm in from the right.

‘Keep back…’

Back… Back… Back…

Signalling that he understood, the Knight-Azyros veered off, but Iunias raised his hand sharply and the Retributors ground to a halt.

BACK.

There was something there in the pass ahead of them, a hump, like a sand dune made of stones or some kind of cairn. Its presence alone could not explain the odd prickling that the sight of it gave Ramus inside his skull. People died and were buried under piles of stones in mountains across the Mortal Realms, but no one had passed this way in centuries.

Except for Mannfred, of course. Except for Mannfred.

‘Weapons!’ he roared — to hell with his guttural echo! — tearing free his hammer just as the first skeletal arm burst through the stone pile and seized Iunias’ leg. The Retributor swept up his mace, but was pulled to the ground, fleshless limbs sprouting from it to claw at his breastplate.

More were rising. Dozens. Hundreds. The split-crack report of the Retributors’ lightning hammers already echoed around. Sagittus gave the order and the Judicators poured a salvo of bolts into the half-buried horde.

A rattle from further up the pass spun Ramus around. Another legion of skeleton warriors was digging itself up out of the ground.

‘It’s an ambush!’

Brakka thrust his warhammer and gladius to the heavens, gave a bloodcurdling howl, and charged alone towards the second force. As though granted permission, the other Astral Templars erupted with cries, each one their own, and tore off in ragged pursuit.

The Astral Templars could fight — by the Celestial Dragon, could they fight! — but Ramus wasn’t about to rely on them to be as diligent in defence of their brothers as they were in the persecution of their foes. And forward lay the path to the Betrayer.

‘Who shepherds the souls of the lost to Sigmaron?’

‘Only the faithful!’

No one was bothering to be quiet now and to Ramus’ surprise it felt good. He almost smiled. That was how good it felt.

Bellowing a prayer to Sigmar that was as loud as any he had ever made, he sent a bolt of lightning splintering through the ranks of undead.

‘Who confronts the blasphemous and the unclean?’

‘Only the faithful!’

Lightning whipped and arced from his reliquary, his ghoulish helm strobing blue-white and black. Skeletons exploded, bone chips scything through the horde and littering Ramus’ path with blackened shrapnel that popped under his boots.

A bony legionnaire in a tarnished breastplate and helm, missing one arm and half its ribcage, tottered towards him. With a growl, Ramus hefted his reliquary staff, staving in the undead warrior’s skull and sending what was left of it sailing into the melee.

‘Who will be victorious?’

‘Only the faithful!’

A beam of light lensed down from the sky, strafing through Ramus, Iunias, Sagittus, and back up the pass. For the moment that it illuminated him, Ramus felt uplifted, as though faith in Sigmar’s will alone was enough to carry the day. Vandalus arrowed overhead, low, fast, the golden light of Azyrheim shining from his lantern and burning a trench through the undead.

‘Back to your graves, damn you!’

The light was Sigmar’s gaze, and where it fell on them the spirit that animated the undead warriors simply evaporated into the air, leaving lifeless bones that collapsed like dominoes in the Azyros’ wake.

He banked hard and pulled up, beating his wings to go chasing some screeching ethereal thing that rippled over his head.

Iunias delivered swift and crushing blows with his star-soul mace, blasting skeleton warriors apart.

‘Praise be to Sigmar, Lord-Relictor!’

Ramus grinned.

‘Praise be to Sigmar indeed. Shoulder to shoulder! Form a wedge and drive through — let us show these Astral-savages how the Hallowed Knights wage war!’

His warriors cheered with one voice, the clashing of plate making them a single armoured body. Theirs was not the war of hotheads or angry hearts. That was the purview of the Astral Templars and the orruks, and they were welcome to it. The Hallowed Knights’ strength was in discipline, conviction, faith in each other. It was worship in silver and blue, and it led Ramus’ heart in song.

‘Forward!’

The phalanx advanced. Skeleton warriors, still spread out and facing the wrong way to confront the change in formation, broke against a rolling wall of sigmarite. Lightning hammers spoke with ear-splitting booms.

The last two Decimators took the edges, handling their long-hafted thunderaxes with consummate skill and no little grace, armoured Paladins weaving about themselves ribbons of bone fragments and seething energies. As one they ground forward.

A notched blade slid under a Retributor’s armpit. He screamed and then dissolved into a rising bolt of lightning, back to Sigmar.

The Judicator at his back smashed open the skeleton’s skull with a torrent of bolts. The warrior to his left stepped in to fill his place, crushing the skeleton underfoot. The formation narrowed. Ramus yelled over the din of battle.

‘On! On! I can see the end!’

Or, at least, he believed he could, and belief had always been enough.

The echoes of battle creaked through the sullen range, changing as Ramus’ voice had been changed. The crack of rock, the tearing of roots, the split of stone.

But not of stone.

The ground shuddered and groaned, a reverberating string of snaps of knotted old muscle and cable-tight sinew. Ramus swayed with the tremors. From where he was standing, at the far left edge of the Heldenline, the mountain that Vandalus was flying over seemed to uncurl. He stopped fighting for a moment to stare upwards.

‘Sigmar give me courage. Sigmar give me strength.’

That explained the disappearance of the Junkar. The legend had said they had grown massive…

Ramus could only watch as an arm to rival the great spires of Sigmaron rose slowly up into the sky, blocking out the sun and plunging the pass into shadow.

‘I told you, Knight-Azyros — do not cross the line!’

Watching that mountainous limb come down was like watching a glacier wall falling away — apparently slow, but only because it was so very, very large. Vandalus was already moving out of its path, wings folded and dropping like a stone.

The arm missed him by at least a hundred feet but it was so impossibly big that it dragged a void behind it that the surrounding air rushed in to fill. Ramus saw the Knight-Azyros snatched up, wings rifling, rushing back up over the Junkar’s swing, and then sent spinning out of control.

A great wrenching from the opposite side of the pass turned Ramus around. Immense pillars of legs were unfolding, light coming through newly opened gaps, drawing away from the soil they had become rooted in over thousands of years.

His head tilted as far back as the join between helm and gorget would allow, he backed away. As if he could escape that.

A monster that defied his ability to describe stood tall. The crack of a neck thicker than the Hallowed Knights’ formation sent trees and rubble cascading down its chest.

‘Beware!’

Sagittus dropped to his knees and raised his arms over his head as boulders fell amongst them. Cassos fell, but his blessed sigmarite armour held firm.

Ramus looked back to the mountains. The pass was suddenly about a hundred yards narrower. Half of the fragile skeletons still in front of them were gone, obliterated utterly.

More Junkar were stirring on both sides of the line. A question, wildly, inappropriately urgent, arose in Ramus’ mind.

Which side is for Gork, and which for Mork?

The answer was irrelevant, but for a paralysing moment his mind refused to consider anything else. He thumped the side of his helmet, stabbed his staff into the ground to push himself back up, and then raised it high.

‘Sigmar, be my hammer!’

Lightning lanced from his reliquary and blackened a portion of the mountain. It was like trying to burn down a cliff face.

Vandalus was having similar luck. The Knight-Azyros had stabilised himself now and was sending tight beams of light into the mossy eyes of the Junkar on the other side of the pass. They simply rumbled in annoyance and shut their eyes, their eyelids thick like curtain walls. It slowed them if nothing else, but the Heldenline was continuing to close.

Those enormous eyes ground open again and, for a moment, Ramus thought he saw a glimmer of recognition, as though the Junkar felt the touch of something to be feared in his power.

It was not just his imagination that made the word Sigmar from those echoing, brutish grumbles.

Ramus spread his arms wide, to both sides, as though when the moment came he would hold the truce that the God-King had won in battle with his bare hands, and dug deep of the divine storm.

‘Lords of the Junkar. In the names of Mork and of Gork and of Sigmar before whom you swore peace, I command you back.’

Nothing but the tearing of rock and the calamitous pounding of the earth. Vandalus circled overhead, coming heavily in to land alongside Ramus.

‘We are warriors of Sigmar!’

He held his lantern aloft and let it bathe them both in light. Ramus’ reliquary blazed.

‘No one relishes a fight more than us, but when there are greater foes to be found, you orruks and we men of Sigmar have always fought side by side. Fight with us now!’

The nearest of the Junkar lowered its immense fist. It blinked glacially. A confused grumble trembled out into the deepest reaches of the range.

Ramus gave a snort of disbelief. They were heeding Vandalus and not the power that imbued him? But no. He realised. They were heeding the both of them, together. One Mork, the other Gork, Sigmar the divine and Sigmar the barbarian king.

A skeleton rattled towards him, the Stormcasts’ tight formation well and truly broken open. His hammer’s sideswipe knocked its teeth through the side of its skull. Vandalus stamped through the ribs of another that was crawling towards him.

The Junkar gave an ominous rumble.

Ramus cursed them, inwardly. He was not Sigmar. If asked, he would fight the Junkar and give praise for it, but theirs was not his war. It was time to get out.

‘Ruuuuuuuuuun!’

It was an unfamiliar order, but came surprisingly naturally in that moment.

Iunias smashed a skeleton apart, shoulder-barged another as it blundered into Ramus’ path and roared as two more grabbed him from behind and threatened to wrestle him to the ground. Ramus stopped to help him up.

‘Leave me!’

Iunias dropped his mace to reach back and haul the skeleton over his shoulder. The Retributor wrung its spine between his massive hands. Another charged into his back, almost knocking him flat.

‘I will hold them here. Go.’

Ramus grimaced, but nodded, already backing off.

‘Tell Sigmar when you see him, he will soon have his vengeance.’

Iunias was chanting the canticles, joy in his voice, as he went under. Ramus turned and almost ran straight into Vandalus.

‘My men, brother. They’re trapped further back in the pass. I’ll not abandon them!’

‘You will see them again! You cannot fight an army and I cannot hold back a mountain! We have to leave!’

With a howl of anguish, Vandalus spun around and took to the air, leaving the Lord-Relictor alone. Ramus turned to watch the Astral Templars fight. They died for Sigmar and the least he could do was remember their story to tell of it.

And, by the Celestial Dragon, could they fight.

The last thing he saw was Brakka, the last man standing, hammer in one hand and gladius in the other, bellowing for all he was worth atop a pile of bones. No one had been despatched to the soul-forges more times and been remade.

An unlucky legend that would not end today.

A dry wind breathed over the Sea of Bones, like a bored and ancient ghost blowing dust from the flat expanse. A pall hung over it, bone white, cloaking the sky with the diffuse, eerie glow of endlessly refracted sunlight.

But there was no sun. Twisters of dust twice the height of a man snaked over the barren wastes.

Ramus had been expecting the sea that the name implied, but what dragged at his boots now was a vast desert, not one of ice or sand, but of bone. Bones of every type. Bones of every age and species and extent of decay.

And there was dust. He would not have been surprised to learn that it was endless. Such a natural barrier was surely impassable, even for the Junkar of old. That was how it had come to be named.

How many millions — billions — must have perished here? What disaster had slaughtered them, and what madness allowed the creation of this mass grave? Those were questions that even Sigmar might struggle to answer, but there was one that Ramus felt he could now answer for himself.

He knew why Mannfred von Carstein had come here.

‘What is that?’ murmured Sagittus. Dust had built up around his eyeslits and mouthpiece, and ground from his joints like pepper from a mill when he raised his arms to cover his eyes and peer into the dust storm.

Ramus waded forwards. The wind had lifted the dust from one corner of a partially buried structure. It had been scrap metal, painted red, and covered with glyphs of a painfully familiar design.

‘Orruk,’ said Vandalus, bent with exhaustion, hauling himself one foot at a time to Ramus’ side. ‘I can read it a little.’

‘What does it say?’

‘It’s an Ironjawz fort, what do you think it says? It says “Back off, begone, you’re not welcome. The boss of this place is the Great Red, and he’s bigger than your boss.”’

‘Eloquent. But no one is greater than my lord. We will defeat this Great Red too, if we must.’

Vandalus laid a comradely hand on Ramus’ shoulder. His blue eyes smiled.

‘We will do it together. Brother.’

David Guymer

Great Red

Forward, thought Ramus, as though it were sheer will rather than Azyr-forged muscle that thumped his boot into the dust and dragged the other past it.

He could see nothing through the swirl of dust beyond the spitting candle flare of his reliquary staff, hear nothing but howling and the nail-like rap of fine grains of weathered bone hitting his black plate. He did not pity himself the loss of his senses. If there was anything that could be felt anywhere on the Sea of Bones then it was dust and sand and endless wind.

On, his mind intoned, and his body responded to the word as though it were a rod across his back. I will cover every grain of this accursed desert if that is what it takes to have Mannfred von Carstein’s neck between my hands, he swore silently.

The shield, Sigmar’s Gift, clanked against his back. The skull of the ogor, Skraggtuff, swung out and in and banged against his thigh. And he pushed on, forward.

‘We should ride this storm out, brother,’ yelled Vandalus. The Knight-Azyros was to Ramus’ left and half a dozen paces behind, walking bent into the wind, the skeletal frame of his wings tugged back. Wind-whipped totems of feathers, leaves and bits of bone swirled around his maroon armour, partially obscuring the depictions of stars, storms and wild beasts in gold. ‘My Prosecutors saw a huge number of Ironjaw orruks moving ahead of us. We could be on top of them already. The dust will give us no warning.’

Ramus snorted. ‘I thought men once called you the King of Dust.’

‘An easy title to claim and an easier one to give to another, but the dust respects me no more for it.’

‘We go on. Our guide is insistent that this is the Betrayer’s path.’

‘An ogor, and a dead one at that. The dead cannot be trusted.’

There was a dull pain in Ramus’ chest. Lord-Celestant Tarsus had used to say that. He shook his head and ploughed on.

He touched his fingers to the shield banging against his shoulders. There was a sudden hiss of burning metal and he snatched his fingers back. He smiled a grim smile as he shook off the sting. Sigmar’s Gift had delivered unto the Betrayer the God-King’s fire, and it remembered. The closer they drew the hotter it burned, and Ramus ardently prayed that the same would be true for Mannfred von Carstein’s undying flesh.

The ogor skull butted his thigh plate and bounced, out, in, and banged again. Skraggtuff had initially been part of a trap left for them by the Betrayer, but Mannfred was not the only one with talents.

Was he not Ramus of the Shadowed Soul, Lord-Relictor of the Fourth-Forged Host, the Hallowed Knights? His will was a conduit for the divine storm. Life and death were his to go between.

Splaying his fingers over the skull’s broad features so that they scratched in the sand over its eyes and mouth, he closed his eyes, and bent his mind towards the soul-eternal. He could see it still, a dull ember bound by the Betrayer’s dark necromancy to the ogor’s bones.

‘Awake, Skraggtuff.’ His spirit voice darted in and around his flesh like a sibilant, quicksilver tongue.

The sepulchral echoes that rang back from the storm brought an animal growl from Vandalus’ mask. He raised his lantern and readied his starblade, warily. ‘I still don’t like this, brother.’

Ramus ignored him. He did not like it either, but Sigmar demanded much of those to whom much was given, and the ogor was what Ramus had been given. If he was to recapture Mannfred, and in so doing atone for the failure of his embassy to the Great Necromancer and the loss of the Hallowed Knights’ Lord-Celestant, then he could ill afford to dismiss such gifts from his enemies.

‘Awake, Skraggtuff. It is I, Ramus, your brother in vengeance.’

Frost rimed the weathered metal of Ramus’ gauntlet where it covered the skull’s mouth. A spark of blueish light took up deep within the dead thing’s eyes.

‘Ungh. You.’ A pause. They were creeping in more often, growing longer. ‘Are we there yet?’

‘You tell me.’

‘He’s near. I can smell him. Can’t you?’

Ramus pulled his hand away. He felt the tenuous bridge between them snap and the light guttered and died. The frost on his palm needled to nothing, scoured to bare metal by the wind.

‘What did it say?’ Vandalus shouted after a moment.

‘He is near.’

‘That still leaves the problem of the Ironjawz.’

To the left and right, haggard-looking Hallowed Knights marched, draped in dust cloaks so heavy that only the meanest sliver of gold or silver glinted through the storm. Nodding in thought, Ramus forced himself on into the wind.

Were the Ironjawz a problem? Or were they just another gift from his enemies?

‘Sigmar has seen us this far, my friend. Have faith that he will not let us stray now.’

The broad axe hit Ramus’ shield with the weight of a felled tree. It scratched, snarled, squealed for purchase, but the shield held firm. Sigmarite was more miracle than metal, able to take many colours and forms, and this part of his mortis armour was far tougher than the mirrored silver it appeared to be. All that force had to go somewhere though, and if the shield did not yield, then it would go through Ramus.

He grunted with effort and the throbbing pain. His arm yielded, and the back of his shield struck his skull helm, twisted his face in, and drove his shoulder remorselessly down towards his bent knees. Metal scraped over metal. The crushing weight lifted, dragged back for a final, cleaving blow. Ramus imagined it scuffing along the dusty ground and looping up, up, glinting at arm’s length above his assailant’s monstrous head. The moment.

With a roar, he uncoiled and slammed his shield through the brute’s unguarded jaw.

The big orruk grunted. It was an ugly mound of muscle, sinew and scar tissue encased in armour plates, impractically thick. Sand-worn spikes thrust out from shoulders, forearms and thighs. Another set curved up from the collar, so long they almost doubled as a visor and forced the orruk to squint between the notched edges. There were no conventional ‘joints’ or obvious points of weakness. There were no buckles or straps. Rather, the plates had been bent into one another as if by hand.

It swayed back maybe half a foot, braced its back leg, then drove a knee that sliced the lower rim of Ramus’ shield into his groin and knocked the Lord-Relictor’s legs from under him.

Not the reaction he had been hoping for.

‘Tough, these Ironjawz,’ he muttered as he rolled sideways.

He caught a glimpse of silver and blue where a Retributor and something hunched and dusty tussled in the wind, and then the orruk stomped down a boot.

Ramus came up onto his haunches, grey sand spraying from his hammer as he smashed aside the orruk’s axe. This was not a duel. Neither axe nor hammer was a weapon of refinement. Each was designed for smashing and killing, as the orruks and Sigmar’s Stormcast Eternals had themselves been so designed.

A lot of blood had been shed since Ramus had last crossed an opponent he could not overpower with the simple virtues of smashing and killing.

They crossed hafts and strained, beast versus divine. The orruk’s nose flapped wetly where Ramus’ shield had broken it, green-black blood and snot bubbling out with every breath, but it concerned the brute not at all. Ramus felt the desert dust sink around his boots. His arm began to burn with the effort.

‘We are not… your… enemy!’

Putting all his remaining strength into it, Ramus levered his haft up, turned the locked weapons like two halves of a wheel and forced the orruk to be turned with it or let go. It chose wrong. Ramus guessed right.

‘Hah!’

The orruk folded after its weapon, its nose cracking against the headbutt coming the other way. Ramus heard the crunch and splatter of a half job being messily finished. The orruk bent across him, off balance, axe blade in the dust. Ramus rammed his shoulder into its ribs, this time sending it stumbling away, then lashed his shield back across its jaw with a sound like an iron pot being smashed through a wall.

The blow actually straightened the orruk up. Its head snapped almost fully around, but it did not seem to feel a bit of it below the neck. It stuck out an arm and grabbed his throat.

Ramus felt his feet kick away from the ground as the Ironjaw hauled him to the level of its spiked grille. It glared at him with scrunched up red eyes. The visible bit of its dark face, wedged in tight, was scabbed with tough stubble. Its breath stank of leaf mulch and mushrooms.

Metal squealed as the Ironjaw tightened its grip, seeking to shape Ramus’ armour with its bare hands as it had presumably shaped its own. Like his shield, the armour held. It would take more even than the grip of an Ironjaw to make sigmarite bend. It still felt as though his eyeballs were going to burst out of his face.

He smashed his hammer into the orruk’s grille, but could not deliver force enough to break it. At the same time he drove his boot into its gut, but could not hit anything more vulnerable than muscle and iron. He managed to hook a finger up the orruk’s nose and dragged it up towards him. The creature twisted irritably and snapped at his hand, spraying his faceplate with spittle.

His vision began to blur. Bent, disjointed figures stumbled through the beating dust into his peripheral view and then faded to black. His ears, however, seemed to grow keener to compensate. The rasp of sand on dead throats, the pop of old joints.

‘Not… your… enemy.’

There was a hiss, a string of metallic thunks and a row of foot-long Sigmarite-tipped bolts stitched up the Ironjaw’s side. It grunted, in surprise rather than pain, and glanced down at the striking line of starmetal piercings running from hip to armpit. Ramus swung his boot up onto the lowest bolt. The sigmarite shaft held true, blessed be, his kick twisting the bolt sharply and driving it deeper into the orruk’s guts.

And that, by almighty Sigmar, it felt.

Ramus had his feet on the ground and dry, dusty air in his lungs before the orruk had thought to let rip a howl. Letting his shield hang from the wrist strap, he took his hammer two-handed like a mallet and cracked it across the side of the Ironjaw’s head. Moving around behind it, Ramus hammered his weapon into its back and shoved it down onto its face. It struggled to push itself up only for its arms to sink into the sand and Ramus’ boot to step on the back of its neck.

He ground in his heel until its spine finally snapped. The Ironjaw went limp, and Ramus made sure with a last hammer blow that cratered the back of its head and stippled his black greaves with gore.

‘Tough, these Ironjawz.’ He glanced sideways and nodded. The Judicator lowered his boltstorm crossbow, his dusty armour silver and blue. ‘My thanks, Sagittus.’

The Judicator-Prime gave a quick nod, redressed his aim to a point just above Ramus’ shoulder and fired again. Bolts fizzed past, and punched into the shambling corpses until there was no longer enough meat left on them to stand.

‘Only the faithful, Lord-Relictor.’

‘Only the faithful.’

With another tilt of the helm, the Judicator turned back to the fight.

Ramus did the same. He spotted his reliquary where he had left it, plunged into the shifting bone sands, both a battle standard and a waypoint should any of his knights become lost in the swirl. A fuzz of Azyric power spread into the grey around it, illuminating the morbid imagery of faith, death, and the storm depicted thereon in fits and snatches. Big, hulking shadows brawled around it, tusks, blades, and iron plates glinting blue, on the ground and in the sky above.

As Vandalus had predicted, the dust had allowed the Stormcasts to walk right into the Ironjawz and given neither side warning. Finding the orruks themselves beset was something neither had anticipated. Mannfred had been wily enough to avoid an encounter with the warclans of the Great Red thus far.

If Ramus had expected the orruks to be grateful for his aid — and in that initial flush of self-righteous glory in which he had almost felt his breath upon the vampire’s back, he had expected it — then he should have expected too his disappointment.

It was impossible at a glance to tell who had the edge. Sigmar’s Stormhosts excelled in close combat, as they had been forged to excel in all things, but the Ironjawz took a savage delight in it, as if they had been purposefully bred to go toe to toe with the mightiest warriors in the realms, and some of the largest carried twice the weight in muscle and half again the breadth.

Ramus stowed his shield and ran for his reliquary. He snatched it up, feet sliding in the shifting dust before he regained his footing, boot wedged under a sand pile of long, partially buried bones.

‘You!’ came the grunted, straightforward challenge, from a veritable behemoth of armour plate mounted on a seething, boar-like beast veering from the churn of bodies. ‘You’re mine! The Great Red’s gonna be the first over the Bone Sea, and I’ll be there with ’im.’

Its iron frame was so massive that it was almost as thick across the shoulders as it was tall. Each pauldron looked to have been remade from a complete anvil, and its elbows struck out like the two points of an upended diamond. Its mount was itself dressed in knotted sheets of mail that abraded its grizzled fur with every step and no doubt accounted for a measure of its wild-eyed ill temper.

The beast swept itself a path through the dust with long, saw-edged tusks, snorted, and thundered into a charge.

Ramus drew back his reliquary, lowered it as though it were a spear and the orruk a charging juggernaut. He growled the opening bars of a prayer. Lightning played around the metal haft. He felt a static tickle under his gauntleted fingers.

Before he could unleash it, the orruk was gone.

There was a creak, then a groan, as the Ironjaw’s hands flapped up despairingly, and it sank rapidly into the ground. Ramus backed up quickly, his own feet sinking into the sudden flow of dust.

‘Grindworm!’ he roared, biceps bulging as he pushed back with his staff against the swelling current. He sought out Sagittus and his other Primes, couldn’t see them in the confusion, but waved his arm back anyway. ‘Stay clear!’

The ground flexed like a muscle and an Astral Templar Liberator disappeared in a plume of dust. There was a trembling deep underfoot. Stratified layers shuffled and restacked, the subterranean flows of sand shifting to accommodate the approach of some kraken of the desert sands, and then a terrific explosion carried the lot of it sky high, bones and debris blasted like grapeshot around the bolt of lightning that jagged up in search of the sky.

Ramus swore as his body plunged a foot deeper into the sand. Knuckles and teeth and weathered nubs of bone he could not identify swirled around him like the surface manifestation of a developing whirlpool. Everywhere, fissures opened to drink in the desert dust and the shambling undead, while Stormcasts and Ironjawz wrestled for the skeletal islands the retreating sands laid bare, carcasses so vast that entire armies could have fought over them unnoticed.

And then the Ironjaw leader and his boar mount reappeared.

Thrashing about under six feet of dust, both orruk and beast were trapped in a hellish, faceless orifice large enough to swallow both whole with room to spare. Dust spouted around the struggling orruk and a segmented body that seemed to be made wholly of sand reared up out of the desert floor.

Ramus scowled, trying to draw further away from the rising worm, but the suction on his legs was tremendous.

He did not know whether the creatures were truly living predators or a natural phenomenon of the Sea of Bones. The Astral Templars, however, had dubbed them grindworms, for the screeching, sand-scratching roar they made as they appeared and killed. Their attacks seemed random, drawn by fighting or the movement of large numbers on the surface, but Ramus could not with certainty say that there was not some malign will driving this monster onto him before all others.

He forced his staff into the sand, not deep enough to arrest his downward slide, but enough to slow it. He clamped his hammer to his belt and took the reliquary in both hands. Overhead, storm clouds boiled through the gravel-white sky. ‘If you hear this, Mannfred, if you see it, then pray tell me how this feels.’

A bolt of lightning tore through the sandstorm and detonated the grindworm’s emerging head. Clods of sand and tiny pieces of glass rained over the desert. The Ironjaw, torso blackened, legs gone, hit the ground with a muffled clank.

Ramus gave a roar of defiance as the headless sand-beast thumped to the ground not far from where he was caught. Every muscle heaved in the direction of one last gargantuan pull towards freedom. There was some give. He felt his legs beginning to slide out of the dust, could see the weathered black plate of his thigh. He bared his teeth for the coming effort.

‘Can I help you, Ramus?’ Vandalus called down. ‘Or do you mean to climb out yourself for a greater tale?’ The armoured angel beat his wings, dust fizzling and popping as it was blown through his lightning feathers. His attention was down, pointing at Ramus with his sword, clearly blind to the gaunt shape flapping furiously towards him.

‘Attend yourself, Azyros.’

Vandalus turned his head, lifted and unshuttered his lantern in the same moment it must have taken him to recognise the threat, and burned the ghoul from the sky with a searing shaft of celestial light. The ghoul simply evaporated. By the time he had closed his lantern again and looked down, Ramus had dragged his body out and onto more stable ground.

He looked around. The grindworm was sinking into the desert, the dust it had disturbed beginning to resettle into new formations, burying titanic skeletons greater than dragons and lifting still more from the depths. Already a whole new landscape, utterly alien to what had been before, lay about them. The surviving Ironjawz were withdrawing — and it was a withdrawal — into the storm. The remaining undead were being methodically hacked apart by the Astral Templars and Hallowed Knights. Ramus counted exactly two dozen of the former and about double that of the latter.

More losses.

Vandalus touched down on the sand and walked towards him, blade pointed accusingly at Ramus’ hip. ‘I told you that the dead cannot be trusted, brother. That thing you carry led us right into that battle.’

‘It took us on Mannfred’s trail, which is all it can be expected to do. The battle is on us.’

The Knight-Azyros snorted and stowed his weapons. ‘As it should be. And with the Ironjawz occupied with the dead it was a battle we had every chance to avoid. Astral Templars will never grieve over a pointless exercise in killing, but I know you saw it too.’

‘I had believed that if the Ironjawz could see us fight alongside them then they might be persuaded to aid us in our quest. The Sea of Bones is vast. Even I am not so proud as to deny that we could use their aid if we are to search it fully.’

‘What you could use, brother, is ten full Stormhosts scouring this wasteland west to east, and driving your vampire into the desert sun. We should focus our energies on seeking out the Celestial Realmgate.’

‘No!’ Ramus snapped, startling himself with his vehemence. ‘No,’ he growled, more softly, but with teeth still. ‘This path has been set before me by Sigmar himself and I will not veer from it one inch.’

‘Peace.’ Vandalus clasped Ramus’ forearm and with the other hand gripped his pauldron plate. Some barbarian embrace from the Azyros’ mortal heritage. ‘My Chamber has enough bad blood with Mannfred to follow you, you know that, but did the black-skinned orruk we captured on the Marrow Delta not tell us it was the Great Red himself who took the realmgate from my brother Lord-Castellant in the first place?’

‘A realmgate you cannot now find.’

Vandalus flung out an arm. ‘Light of Sigmar I may be, but I defy anyone to find their way in a landscape that changes from moment to moment.’

‘And was it not also you who once spoke to me of the reasonableness of orruks? That all one needs to earn their trust is to win their respect?’

‘The orruks I knew,’ Vandalus muttered darkly. ‘These Ironjawz are another breed entirely. I don’t know what you would have to do to earn the respect of such foes.’

Ramus shook his head, his hand drifting to the skull at his hip, a faint but reassuring whisper occupying the darker corners at the back of his mind that might otherwise provide a purchase for doubt. ‘I am resolved. If the Great Red can be convinced that Mannfred is the threat he surely is, if he can be won around by our strength…’

He clenched his gauntlet and Vandalus took a step back. The look Ramus felt from behind that gilded, implacable mask was searching. The Knight-Azyros shook his head and raised his hands. ‘As you want it, brother. I had my Prosecutors follow the Ironjawz retreat. I heard one of them speak of a fort not far from here.’

‘Then gather the host, Azyros. We march the moment they return.’

The Ironjawz had erected their fortress on what must have been the only example of static geography for a thousand leagues. It was certainly the first that Ramus had seen since crossing the Junkar Mountains.

It was a skeleton, the mountain-sized remains of a Titan of the Age of Myth, and cold proof, were it needed, that Mannfred von Carstein could never be allowed to possess the Sea of Bones. The skull was buried under a massive dune, vertebrae arching high up into the dusty sky where a scrap heap of rust-brown walls, towers and metal gangways vied for height and space. Ribs that had been weathered smooth by aeons of wind curled beneath it like a dead spider’s legs. Sand devils whipped and swirled around the half-buried bones. Partially sheltered under the gargantuan cavity, a fleet of ironclad war-junks — ships of all things — creaked and listed and banged together.

Vandalus had told him that orruks liked to build high, that the size and towering nature of a boss’ stronghold spoke directly to his status. The Ironjawz seemed even more itinerant and warlike than the orruks of Ramus’ experience, but they were every bit as territorial. Whatever warboss ruled from this structure was surely very high indeed.

Perhaps even the legendary Great Red himself.

Green shapes cavorted over the distant walls, jeering. The scrap fort’s windswept turrets clattered and clanged with gongs, cymbals and pans.

‘Rank up, shields ready, weapons high, Prosecutors in formation,’ Ramus barked.

He looked left, seeing the two lines of Hallowed Knights, mixed Paladins front, Judicators back, glittering silver and blue, as straight as statues in the wind. To his right were the Liberators of the Astral Templars, their battered maroon and gold decked out in eclectic war paint and charms that wagged about them like animals’ tails. Above, Astral Templars Prosecutors hung in the sky like baubles of light. The harsh wind tugged at their fur cloaks and the strips of scripture stuck to their war-plate. It had even managed to tease some of the hair from under their sealed helms and whipped it giddily about them as though triumphant at what it had done. They had been beaten hard, but they were all the more magnificent for it. By Sigmar, they stood yet.

‘Let them see what the strength of the finest two chambers in Sigmar’s host looks like. Who shines with his light?’

‘Only the faithful!’ shouted the Hallowed Knights, and even a handful of the Astral Templars, gamely attempting to out-shout their brothers-in-arms.

Bursting with pride in them all, Ramus returned his attention to the fort.

‘Three of its sides overhang the monster’s ribs,’ observed Vandalus, pointing them out. ‘An aerial assault on that quarter would almost certainly find the orruks’ defences unprepared.’

‘You have not the numbers to carry out such an attack,’ Ramus returned.

Vandalus clapped his shoulder. ‘Which is why I’ll need my brother to relieve me.’

Ramus shifted his gaze to the gate. According to millennia of military theory, it should have been the weakest point. The Ironjawz were clearly unfamiliar with this theory. Their gate was a lump of iron that, at first glance, actually looked fractionally too large for the frame it had been wedged into. It would take a monstrous application of force simply to get it open, much less to knock it down.

The approach to the gate however was the first, and arguably greater, obstacle. An uncertain-looking stairway of iron planks, not all of them flat, zig-zagged up the titan’s spine towards the fortress. It was presumably stable enough to bear the tremendous weight of an Ironjaw but it was a challenging path, and every second that the Stormcasts’ attention was on not falling to the desert floor was a second in which the wall’s defenders would be showering them with missiles.

‘Restrain yourself, Azyros. We do not need to take their position outright, just impress upon their leader our strength as allies.’

Vandalus waved a clenched gauntlet in the direction of the fort. ‘What did you think I was proposing?’

‘But first,’ muttered Ramus. ‘To get their attention.’

Ramus raised his reliquary and muttered a grim prayer. The sky began to bruise, deeper, blacker, and a sudden wind blew against Ramus’ back and swept the dust off it to leave the smell of thunder and fresh rain. Sheet lightning flashed. The thunderhead folded and churned, the wind whipped into a howling cyclone with Ramus the eye of the storm.

‘I am Ramus of the Shadowed Soul,’ he roared. The wind stole his voice from his mouth, but it rumbled from the black clouds like the anger of the storm itself. Rain lashed the scrap fort, deadening the chaotic clangour. ‘I am Lord-Relictor of the Hallowed Knights, the Fourth-Forged of Sigmar’s Eternal Host. I seek embassy with your leader. The one that calls himself the Great Red.’

‘That should do it,’ Vandalus yelled.

Thunder rolled, unappeased, and the rain picked up. Ramus saw several of the Astral Templars turning their faces towards it, letting the water rinse the dust from their faceplates. The Hallowed Knights stood still, statues come rain or storm. From the fortress however, something moved.

A horn was blasted, a set of deep drums enthusiastically pounded, and in a tooth-aching squeal of metal along bone, the scrap fort’s great gate began to grind open.

As Ramus watched, a huge orruk in garb garish enough to be seen even through the downpour danced through the opening gate. It was clad in a spiked and heavily decorated half-plate of mismatched iron scraps and painted bone that clapped as it dropped, leapt, and spun down the stairway. It was unarmed in the conventional sense, but carried a club-like length of bone in each hand, using them to slap its thighs, its wrists, its iron garb and each other, in a frantic, strangely thrilling rhythm.

A mob of black-skinned orruks in conventionally wrought heavy armour, full helms and shields stomped out behind the weird warchanter.

Following them with a swagger came the true Ironjawz themselves. Ironclad behemoths, each one clanked inside a personal battle-frame that made the black-skinned orruks look like whelps, wrapped for their own safety in foil. They nodded metal-encased heads to the warchanter’s rhythm, bashed axes, maces, and articulated fist-claws to the beat.

‘I’d say they weren’t impressed,’ shouted Vandalus, wings shrieking into energetic life as he lifted himself off the ground.

‘Lines of battle,’ Ramus snapped.

The Astral Templars clumped forwards and locked shields. His own Exemplar Chamber bore no shields — wielding instead a deadly blend of two-handed thunderaxes, stormstrike glaives and lightning hammers — and simply took a forward step to maintain a perfect line with their more eager Astral Templar counterparts.

As they positioned themselves, the first of the greenskins reached the rain-packed desert floor. There they spread themselves into battle lines that mirrored those of the Stormcasts, except for being half again as long and several ranks deep. Ramus estimated that they were outnumbered at least three to one. The big Ironjawz brutes held the centre, flanked by disciplined detachments of the sober black orruks. On the left flank, opposing the Astral Templars, was a vast and unruly mob of grots, armed with anything that was going and cursing shrilly across the rain-driven gulf. On the opposite flank, two full ranks of boar cavalry drew themselves into a roughly unified mob and snorted impatiently for the signal to go.

‘No flyers,’ Ramus muttered, choosing to focus on that advantage, however small.

The Protector, Cassos, scoffed at his Lord-Relictor’s attempted optimism. He was the last of that particular calling left. Ramus had never seen a man more adamant in avoiding his return to Sigmar’s keep.

Ramus thrust his reliquary above his head and looked down the line. ‘Who fights with Sigmar by his side?’

‘Only the faithful!’ sang the Hallowed Knights.

‘Who will be victorious?’

‘Only the faithful!’

The warchanter took the last few steps in a leap and began to flap about in the sand, hunched over as he danced up and down the greenskin line, sticks a blur, huffing and grunting in a singsong growl. Faster, louder. The orruk sank to his knees in front of the Ironjawz brutes in an ecstatic crescendo, bone sticks drumming on his thighs. The rain lashed his upturned face as he roared, and the entire greenskin line erupted with him.

First to break forwards were the brutes, then the black orruks. The boar cavalry, for all their impatience, got themselves together last but quickly pulled ahead as the vicious beasts thundered into a gallop. Only the grots held back, loosing a volley of arrows that sucked wet sand well shy of the Astral Templars.

‘Hold,’ Ramus muttered, conscious of the Astral Templars edging forward, then turned to glance over his left pauldron. ‘Judicators, loose.’

A rattling volley of sigmarite-tipped war-bolts fizzed towards their distant targets, arcing up, up into the rain, and droning down, their accuracy and potency far superior to the missiles fired by their greenskin counterparts. The bolts fell amongst the boar cavalry, thunking into heavy armour. One boar-beast slammed to the ground with a foot-long bolt in its shoulder and crushed its rider. The beast behind barged it out of the way on its tusks without slowing down. The rest rode on, armour bristling with shafts and crackling with Azyrite power.

‘Again. Loose.’

Another volley shot across the distance. This time there was no need to correct their aim for range. The boar cavalry were a wall of scrap iron and bludgeoning power. The ground shook. Another Ironjaw rider took an impaling hit in the belly, grunted, but did not fall. To the right, an Astral Templar in shining bright maroon and gold, called only recently from Sigmaron to Vandalus’ beacon, aimed high, and drew back on his enormous shockbolt bow. There was a rush of charged air as the giant arrow twanged from the bowstring. It looped over the running black-skinned orruks, fizzing like a firework, and exploded amongst the grots in a storm of lightning.

The boars picked up speed. Wet sand flew from thundering, iron-shod trotters. They were now just moments away — close enough for Ramus to see the red of their slathering mouths. Grasping his reliquary, Ramus closed his eyes. He could hear their grunting breaths, feel the shaking of the ground, but he set it aside to focus his senses on the rampant energies of the divine storm that raged around him. It was untouched, as wild as Azyr’s Eternal Winterlands.

‘There is no shaman here,’ he muttered as he opened his eyes.

‘That will level the field,’ said Cassos.

‘Yes, it will.’

Feeling his power rise to fill him, Ramus lifted his reliquary. He felt its unsubtle pull, as though it would lift him from the ground and make him as one with the broiling storm clouds if he did not fight to control it.

‘Sigmar, lord of lightning!’ he roared. ‘Bare their flesh to Azyr’s fire.’

He blasted a lightning bolt into the onrushing cavalry, reducing orruks to ash and turning their brutish mounts into running meat. Teeth bared, he unleashed his power again and again until his body glowed. Lightning blitzed the terrified beasts, bolt after searing bolt, until armour bubbled over scorched flesh, and hulking warriors squealed like pigs as they rolled in sand to quench the flames.

‘Sigmar!’ he cried, breaking into a charge with his steaming reliquary held aloft. ‘He fights beside us!’

The two armoured blocks slammed together in a splintering squeal of shields and blades and split pig-flesh. A thunderaxe hacked off an Ironjaw’s arm at the elbow in a clap of noise. A riderless boar impaled a Retributor on a tusk. Bolts whistled from behind. An orruk bellowed a curse, and a moment later was spit through. Weapons hummed with Azyric charge. Two Ironjawz shoved towards Ramus, barding grinding until it shrieked. There was a snap of energy, a crimson blur that cut left to right, and both orruks slumped headless from their mounts. Cassos swept in front as the boars pulled apart and galloped past, stormglaive whirling with such venom it looked as though he must be holding two of them. It threw a barrier of spattered red between Ramus and the press of Ironjawz, and flicked the desultory shower of grot arrows waspishly from the air.

The Retributors and Decimators surged into the break, the Astral Templars a yard ahead as always. Ramus heard the Stormcasts’ savage howls and the ring of starmetal as the Liberators crashed into the black orruks and through to the brutish Ironjawz behind. Smashing and killing. War as the God-King had always meant it to be.

Vandalus lanced overhead, beams of light from his lantern punching golden holes through the orruk ranks, then rolled left while the Prosecutors that followed peeled right.

Flight alone was a mighty task for these angels in armour, and to do it with grace demanded not only a fluidity of body, but a finesse of mind and will that transcended even the superhuman. Wielding javelins like lances and celestial hammers two-handed, they thumped into the terrified grots like comets. Bodies flew, and to a cacophony of ululating war cries, the Stormcast barbarians set about tearing the light skirmishers apart.

The grots were broken almost as the first Prosecutor fell to earth amongst them, and they were already fleeing for their weird ironclad paddle ships.

‘Ardboyz!’ bawled the heaviest brute in the block of Ironjawz ranks, clacking a big, clunky grabber claw, all rivets and red paint, at the second mob of black orruks. ‘I has this. Go sort out those ones with wings.’

The second mob wheeled one hundred and eighty degrees and tramped back towards the grounded Prosecutors.

‘The centre holds,’ called Sagittus from somewhere nearby.

‘Judicators to the flanks!’ shouted another Stormcast.

Ramus drove his boot heel into the face of an Ironjaw that was trapped under his dead boar. Cassos’ stormglaive hummed around him like an angry guardian spirit. Somewhere amidst the smoking remains and the iron clamour, Ramus could hear the orruk warchanter pounding away with his bone sticks. A vicious tempo that the orruks strove to match with their weapons.

‘The brutes rally to him,’ growled Cassos. ‘See how they shield him.’

An Ironjaw rose up in front of Ramus like a wall. It was the claw-toting boss, and the brute alone occupied the width of two others. Ramus dropped his shoulder and slammed into the Ironjaw’s pectoral before he had the chance to turn his weapons on him. Air woofed out of him, but he did not yield an inch. The grabber claw champed shut inches in front of Ramus’ neck. The Lord-Relictor swayed back, whipped up his hammer and deflected the moon-shaped axe that had been scything for the crown of his helm.

A crackling stormglaive spat across his turned shoulders. The Ironjaw bent out of reach, swatting the blade gruffly aside on the back of its claw. It was a split-second distraction and Ramus took it. His hammer dented the iron cladding the Ironjaw’s right side and drove all the brute’s weight onto his left. It gave a threatening growl and paddled its arms for balance, but had nothing free to stop Cassos punting his stormglaive into its throat and tipping it onto its back.

Ramus knelt over the big boss and smashed the brute’s helm open with a blow from his hammer.

‘Sagittus!’ he roared, as Cassos moved protectively in front of him. The warchanter’s tempo had picked up, and it seemed to thump out of the bloody air. Ramus caught glimpses as the rest of the Ironjawz mob pressed forward to defend the performer. Its eyes shut, mouth open, it played through the grip of some wild, degenerate rapture. ‘Take him down, Sagittus.’

Heavy bolts hammered into the Ironjawz but they held firm, too thickly packed for the missile fire to get through. Even the Prosecutors that had managed to retake to the skies before the black orruks’ charge had hit home found their javelins and thrown hammers blocked or knocked out of the air. And driving it all to ever greater heights of aggression and fury, was that drumming beat.

‘I have him, brother.’

Vandalus swooped in behind the block of brutish heavy infantry, and there executed a barrel roll that dragged him across the rear of their formation. He unshuttered his golden lantern. Ironjawz howled as the wondrous light of Azyrheim burned across their backs, bled through cracks too slight for any boltstorm bolt or stormcall javelin to reach, and even tightly shut as they were, brought green smoke from the warchanter’s eyes.

The orruk’s demented chant bubbled off in a rabid scream.

Ramus saw the Ironjawz waver, enough for him to barge through the heavier orruk warriors and put the warchanter out of his torment with a hammer blow to the temple.

That was enough for the remaining black orruks, who immediately began to break off and run after the scattered grots. The Ironjawz however, outnumbered and surrounded, fought on.

Vandalus flung out his wings and speared upwards into the rain. The pall around him thickened. Lightning flashed. Ramus felt the hairs on his body respond to the rising charge and sparks dance along the points of his reliquary’s sigmarite halo. The Knight-Azyros slid his lantern’s aperture to its widest setting and the full force of its illumination seared the dark of the storm away. For a moment, for one divine moment, Ramus felt the eyes of the God-King upon them all.

The throaty screams that greeted his gaze were affirming — the sudden, burning blindness of the apostate. The sky cracked open and lightning jabbed again and again into the desert floor like a chisel against a tooth, until the rain-soaked ground was cloaked in bone dust and all Ramus could see were the flashes.

Cassos laughed as cries of ‘Sigmar!’ greeted the Azyros’ display of might.

The cloud began to settle, thinning as it did to reveal the glitter of maroon and gold, perfect as gemstones. Two dozen Stormcast Eternals, fresh from the barracks of Sigmaron and perfect to the finest facet of their war-plate, gave voice to a thunderous cheer and charged the Ironjawz’ rear.

Breathing heavily, Vandalus landed beside Ramus.

‘Difficult to win an audience when everyone’s dead.’

Ramus smiled grimly. ‘The Astral Templars were not part of the embassy to Shyish, were they, my friend?’ With an amused snort, he pointed over the determinedly fighting Ironjawz to the scrap fortress, seemingly abandoned on its lonely, bone-top promontory. ‘A day or two of rest will serve us well. We will regroup, resupply, and recover the Betrayer’s trail. And maybe someone will show up to reclaim it.’

The Ironjawz’ clan hall was cold. Air came in through a pair of iron-grilled fireplaces in the long side walls and ruffled the dyed skin hangings. A long feasting table filled most of the floor space, a mishmash of metals so beaten, rumpled and chewed on there was not flat space enough to set a jug.

Ramus took it all in with a cursory sweep of his gaze. He stood with the open door behind him where it was coldest, dust circling, the big fireplaces either side, the table extending before him to a large, bloody iron throne. A hide banner covered the whole wall behind it, depicting two crudely drawn glyphs on a red background. He knew little of the orrukish languages, less of their written forms, but these he had seen everywhere.

Great. Red.

‘We have searched the compound thoroughly, Lord-Relictor.’ Sagittus stepped in from outside, letting in the dull clangour of pots and pans, strung up wherever they might catch the wind. Mist clung to his grim-faced silver mask. His boltstorm crossbow hung by his side in one heavy gauntlet. ‘It is empty.’

‘Very good,’ Ramus murmured. In his mind he pulled those two symbols apart, turned them over, searching for the hidden complexity that was so jarringly absent.

‘Lord-Relictor?’

‘Look again.’

‘My lord, I assure you.’

Ramus turned his head towards his second, the deep sockets of his skull helm boring in. ‘When I feel assured, I can guarantee that none will know of it before you.’

The Judicator gave a stiff bow from the neck. ‘Very well, my lord. Once more.’ His boots clicked on the metal floor as he walked back outside.

Ramus returned to his contemplation of the fluttering banner. Sagittus had not been part of the Warrior Chamber at the Bridge of Seven Sorrows and had not experienced the Reforging. He had not been given the time to reflect on the consequences of that quest’s failure. Tarsus was Sigmar’s and he had been stolen. To Ramus’ exhaustive knowledge of the histories, such a violation had never befallen another Stormhost and the shame of his participation in it seared. And if he should fail to recover the Lord-Celestant now…

The Hallowed Knights were a company of immortals. There was no precedent for the elevation of one of their number to leader.

He touched his fingers to Skraggtuff’s skull and closed his eyes, giving himself to the cold. His lips parted in a wisp of vapour. They were numb and pinched.

‘Awake, Skraggtuff.’

‘Mmmmm,’ came the answering echo, the dull murmur of a dreamer.

‘How much ground has Mannfred gained on us? You are connected through the ether, Skraggtuff.’

‘Mmmm.’ Ramus felt the impression of a wretched spirit, tossing and turning, eyes flickering between sleep and wakefulness. ‘Not far. Time to sleep maybe. Just for a bit.’

Ramus withdrew his fingers with a start and opened his eyes, his perceptions suddenly, jarringly normal. He blinked a few times, licked his lips, worked his fingers to restore them to some kind of warmth, and as he did so a door clicked open at the far end of the hall where there had been none. It put a ruck into the banner that had been draped over it and blew dust in underneath. A golden gauntlet felt under the fabric, swept it up and back over the top of the thick metal door. Vandalus peered around, looking slightly lost, then turned to Ramus and pointed to the ceiling.

‘I came in from the roof. Don’t be too harsh on Sagittus, it was bolted from this side.’

‘Did you—’

‘No,’ Vandalus sighed. ‘I did find a grot hiding back here, but I suspect it was his duty to open the door for whoever sat in that throne.’ He pointed to it and gave a dead-eyed smile. ‘Orruk bosses prefer high spots. It shows everyone else how important they are, and lets them see everything that’s theirs.’

‘See how far?’

‘The dust covers everything. Not far.’

‘Show me.’

White, as deep as the eye could show. The one thing from his experience that Ramus could compare it to was being trapped in mist. It looked like mist, superficially perhaps, but to stand within it was to know what deceptive devils appearances could be. It was bone dry and bitingly cold. The wind hissed. Bone shards tinked against his armour and further out where he could not see, all around, the chitter of bone whispering across bone was constant. If the dead were to converse away from the ears of the living, then Ramus knew by the chill in his soul that this was how it would sound.

He moved to the spiked, metal rampart, set his gauntlets on the sharpened edge, and peered down. White. All the way. He could not even see the spiral stair any more.

The wind moaned against his helm’s frozen sides. Sound moved strangely in the Sea of Bones. It hung in the air, making it seem sometimes more like being under water than on a desert. The dull mutterings he heard could have been an army passing under his nose, a lone beast trumpeting a thousand leagues away, or even the tectonic wars of the Junkar, far, far behind them.

Something on the rampart beside him blew its nose and he turned his scowl upon it. He had reasonably assumed that ‘found a grot’ meant ‘killed a grot’ but now the wretch was looking up at him with wide wet eyes, ears flat back against its head, Ramus had to concede that the mood was not exactly on him either.

Gorkamorka had once been part of Sigmar’s great pantheon, he reasoned. It was belligerence, rather than fundamental theistic differences, that set the two powers at odds.

‘We are looking for the Great Red,’ he said, speaking firmly. ‘Where is he?’

‘’s not here,’ the grot squeaked.

‘I see that. I asked where he was.’

‘Gone.’ The grot swallowed, the big lump in its throat bobbing up and down. ‘Gone to fight at the thunder door.’

The scrawny greenskin nodded vigorously.

‘Why?’ asked Ramus.

‘To fight.’

‘But why?’

‘To be first over the Bone Sea. Think of the fame. Even the old Junkar never did that.’

Ramus turned to Vandalus, over by the door onto the stairwell.

‘The desert nomads that greeted us on our first arrival believed the Sea of Bones went on to the edge of the world. In Cartha’s libraries, we found texts describing distant lands, so far across the lifeless plain that even the Age of Chaos had yet to reach them.’

Ramus snorted. ‘Stories told to give hope to children.’

‘’s true,’ piped the grot. ‘And the Great Red was all about to head off too. Had his boats loaded and everything, before the dead one snuck in and took his thunder gate.’

Ramus’ jaw clenched. His chest had gone suddenly cold.

Mannfred.

‘He means the Celestial Realmgate,’ said Vandalus, moving across.

‘There’s another fort there,’ said the grot quickly, warming to its theme. ‘’s very important. The Great was gonna use it to bring in stuff and store it. ’s a long way over the Bone Sea.’

‘Tell me about the dead one,’ Ramus demanded, dropping down beside the grot and eliciting a terrified squawk. ‘Tell me everything you know about Mannfred.’

‘Wait,’ said Vandalus, turning to the deep white view and cocking a gold-helmeted ear. ‘Do you hear that?’

Ramus gave an irritated wave, but as soon as he did it he realised that the distant susurrus had changed. It was no longer so distant, for one. Drums. It was scores and scores of big, deep drums. The cracked chant of guttural voices. The tramp of armoured feet.

‘Clear the skies,’ said Vandalus urgently. ‘As you did before.’

Though he ached body and soul from his efforts in the battle, Ramus raised his reliquary and gave voice to a doleful prayer. The wind picked up and the dust pall began to thin, the sky so cleared blackening and producing a rumble of distant thunder.

‘There!’ Vandalus shouted.

Wearily, Ramus looked in the direction the Knight-Azyros pointed. The stamp and clank of massed ranks rolled in from the desert plain towards the scrap fort. Several score of the damnable warchanters cavorted ahead of armoured columns, each a thousand strong, beating out a marching rhythm that held little in common with their neighbours’ to create a raucous banging. Steaming between the formations, vast ironclad paddleboats, top heavy with crowded siege decks and bristling with artillery, chugged through the sand. Energy coursed through them and occasionally arced off. Ramus could see one of the strange Ironjaw shamans enthroned on the main deck of each monstrous vessel. He could sense their power, swollen to near god-like proportions by the weight and vibrancy of their greenskin kith around them, and somehow understood that these vessels served equally as troop transports, shock weapons, and amplifiers to ward off the grindworms.

The Great Red had planned his warclan’s migration well.

Searching the marching files, Ramus saw him at last.

‘There he is. The Great Red.’

A dark shape, a knot of ill-defined aggression, hung over the front ranks, mounted on a lumpen monstrosity of a creature that beat furiously at the surrounding air as though to physically subdue it with its small but muscular wings.

Ramus was aware of Sagittus shouting from under the iron floor beneath him, Judicators charging for the walls and priming crossbows.

‘So many,’ Ramus muttered.

‘Too late to worry about that now,’ Vandalus snapped. ‘You wanted to impress the Great Red and I’d wager that’s him right there. Impress him. Be strong, show no fear, and if he doesn’t kill us both then maybe he’ll be intrigued enough to hear your piece.’

Nodding his understanding, Ramus turned back and channelled his voice into the storm. ‘I am Ramus of the Hallowed Knights, orruk, and I have been waiting for you. Come to me, and let us settle this as equals.’

He strained to catch the Great Red’s reaction as the wind failed and cloaked the space between them in dust. The last thing Ramus saw was the Ironjaw’s beast pulling ahead of his army and striving for height.

‘A maw-krusha,’ said Vandalus. ‘I saw one in the Carthic Oldwoods once. The native ogors used to leave living prey in the forest to keep the monster from their tribes.’

Ramus caught the grot staring at him in open-mouthed, wide-eyed, and flat-eared horror. He grunted and turned to Vandalus. ‘Will he come?’

‘He will. No orruk would let a challenge like that go unan—’

The Azyros looked sharply up. Ramus heard it at the same time. It sounded like–

‘Waaaaaaggh!’

Ramus pushed himself back against the spiked battlement as an armour-plated boulder smashed into the centre of the rampart.

The structure tilted sharply and squealed. Ramus clung grimly onto the rampart spike with one hand, arm hooked behind it and grinding on the metal. He saw the grot tumble past him, smack once against the wall, again on the skeletal structure, coming apart like a ball of yarn and disappearing into the pall.

Unconcerned by the swaying tower and the alarmed clangour of chimes and bells, the maw-krusha unfolded arms and legs and rose up onto knuckles the size of Ramus’ fists. Forelimbs covered in hard scales, some of them carrying faded red paint, opened out like a pair of shield walls to reveal a head that was almost all mouth. A massive underbite, made even more pronounced by a muzzle of huge prosthetic fangs, chomped up over its small red eyes.

Stooped under a mass of wargear with ironclad thighs around the monster’s neck and toes scraping the ground, was the largest greenskin Ramus had ever seen.

He had had cause to say that many times over the past months, but he doubted he would ever have another. The brute was gigantic, clad in thick armour daubed half and half in red paint and black, with massive, clawed gauntlets and spiky boots, dull red with old blood. Only its head was exposed, the black and red pattern reversed with a slash of red paint over its brutalised, dark hide. One eye was nailed shut with an iron plate, a wandering green eye crudely drawn over it. The megaboss grinned down at the Stormcast, a slow, ape-like drawing in of muscles to reveal a mouth full of sharp, oversized metal teeth, bloody where they must have bitten into the roof of its own mouth.

If Ramus and Vandalus had stood together and been clad in a single piece of armour, they could not have been as large.

‘I’m da Great Red,’ the megaboss bellowed, voice so deep it seemed to come up out of the ground. The beast snorted and dragged its knuckles over the floor in an agonising screech. The Ironjaw glared at Ramus with his one eye, then twisted to mark Vandalus with a squeal of metal plates. He turned back to Ramus. ‘Kill my boyz, take my stuff, you fink you’re big enough to take Korruk da Great Red?’ He dropped his heavy jaw and roared with laughter.

Ramus planted his reliquary into the metal between them. ‘This land has been claimed. From the Celestial Realmgate to the Junkar Mountains and beyond the forests of Cartha, this land is Sigmar’s.’

At the name ‘Sigmar’ power lashed from his staff and stung the hulking Ironjaw a blow to the shoulder. Korruk jerked back, bellowed in pain and shock, electric spasms forcing out a grunt of annoyance as he involuntarily yanked on the chain attached to his mount’s spiked collar and locked his thighs down on its neck. It choked out a growl and instinctively threw out a battering-ram punch that smashed Ramus in the gut and off his feet.

His legs flipped over his head. Light to dark. Sky to metal. His face plate smashed the top of the crenel spike, a crack spidering from the left eye socket of his helm. Dark to light, the sky above him. He flung out a hand and caught the spike. His arm snapped taut and jerked him back, slammed his body hard against the fort’s metal wall. Ramus’ feet slid across the wall without getting any kind of purchase.

‘Haha!’ roared the Great Red. ‘Maybe you should both have a go. Hah! Take turns, maybe.’

A flash of light burned like forked lightning through Ramus’ shattered orbit as Vandalus explosively took wing. There was another bark of pain from the Ironjaw, and the clash of blades.

With a grimace, Ramus tested his bicep against his weight and heaved. He began to lift, bellowed as his shoulder passed his elbow, and then tossed his reliquary back inside and hauled himself after it. He collected his staff and rose, lightning pouring into him until the metal beneath him turned blue.

Vandalus and the Great Red were fighting high up above the fort’s roof. The Azyros flitted agilely around the Ironjaw’s monstrous axes, leaving a glowing trail where he passed as though it were a net, cleverly lain to trap the brute in his own savagery.

The megaboss’ metal teeth glinted hungrily, one booming growl rising from his vast jaw without any apparent need for breath. He was a green storm, destruction made manifest, his brute physicality merely the solid housing for a force of nature. His axes flashed down together, forcing Vandalus into a parry that sent the Azyros spinning. The maw-krusha’s claws clenched as though taking the air in its grip and then lunged out. A paw like a gargant’s spiked mace smacked the careening Azyros, and hammered him back down.

Vandalus hit the roof in a blaze of spinning pinions and rolled until he hit the inside of the parapet. Ramus could hear armoured boots pounding up the staircase below. It would be Cassos.

‘Sigmar is the true lord here, beast!’

Lightning stabbed from Ramus’ staff and coursed through the megaboss and his monster. The Ironjaw sprayed Vandalus in phlegm before he could grind his metal jaws shut. Blood ran down his chin as his enormous body seized. Howling, flapping with erratic fury, the maw-krusha crashed back down. Exhausted, Ramus recalled the flow of current and turned to check on Vandalus.

The Knight-Azyros stood up, almost fell right back over, but steadied himself with a widened stance and shook out his light wings, creating a dazzling show of might and colour, as if to ward off a rival or a predator. To Ramus’ surprise, Korruk gave a rumbling chuckle. The Ironjaw dismounted with a gravely structural clang and kicked his war-beast out of the way.

‘You fight good for thunder men. Better than the big boss I killed at the thunder door.’

Vandalus started forwards, only for Ramus to hold him back.

‘Take him,’ hissed Skraggtuff, down by his hip. ‘While his guard’s down.’

Of their own volition, Ramus’ muscles tensed to lift his reliquary, but then he frowned. ‘I did not summon you.’

‘He’s too strong. He doesn’t need you. He won’t listen. End him while you have the chance.’

Ramus lowered his staff. ‘That is Skraggtuff’s voice. But those are not his words.’

A sepulchral chuckle issued from the skull. Not one, in fact, but two, an eerie echoing effect as though he were being laughed at from both sides. The first was gruff and breathy, recognisably Skraggtuff, while the other was the sound of courteous good humour. Korruk ground his thickly armoured slab of neck around, one eye narrowed in annoyance. It was that, rather than the voices from the other side, that turned Ramus’ insides colder than the desert wind.

Ramus was the conduit for the divine storm, the beacon for the soul-eternal.

Only he could speak with the dead.

‘Awake, Skraggtuff,’ whined the skull in a wheedling falsetto. The ogor’s voice was gone, replaced entirely by the urbane imposter that Ramus recognised all too well. ‘So tediously stentorian. Where is Mannfred, Skraggtuff? You are connected through the ether, Skraggtuff.’

Now that it was presented to him, it was clear that the voice had always been there behind the ogor’s words. How had he not heard it before?

‘That voice,’ breathed Vandalus.

‘The Betrayer.’

‘Here, O conduit of the tepid squall, beacon of arrogance eternal. Tell me, are the Stormcast Eternals prone to delusions or is it just you? Imagine, believing that your quaint, half-mastered talents could begin to rival mine.’

The voice tutted, and Ramus realised that it was no longer coming from the skull. A hazy human figure had appeared, wavering about a foot above the rampart. His black, ridged armour was dented and scratched from countless battles, and the red cloak he wore, though magisterial still, was tattered. The wind blew through him, his long dark hair fluttering in some other breeze. His hair was wilder than Ramus remembered, his teeth longer, his eyes redder. His patrician features were horribly burned. Sigmar’s gaze was not so swiftly healed.

‘Poor, pathetic hero.’

‘You brought me here,’ Ramus yelled, fury making his voice crack. ‘You led me by the damned nose. Why?’

‘Temper, temper, Lord-Relictor. What kind of example does that set the peasants?’

‘Why!’

Mannfred laughed. ‘I think we demonstrated back in Cartha that I have little to fear from you.’ He half turned towards Korruk, one melted, hairless eyebrow suggestively raised, like a school master trying to goad the proper answer from a well-intentioned but slow-witted pupil.

‘Me?’ rumbled the Great Red, scrunching up his face in thought.

‘Where have you just been?’ Mannfred prodded.

‘The thunder door.’

Vandalus’ face dropped in understanding. ‘Just think, my friend. Had you gone straight to your realmgate as you suggested then I might never have been able to get by the Ironjawz to take it.’ The megaboss drew up at that. ‘Of course, Great Red here would have killed you out of hand, but we can’t have everything can we, and as he’s likely going to do that anyway, that would have come at no real cost to you.’

The apparition turned to Ramus and bowed. ‘Of all the Stormcasts I have encountered, dear friend, you are the most rigid.’ He grinned, teeth sharp and somehow brighter for their transparency. ‘I appreciate rigidity in my friends. It makes them so much easier to bend.’

‘I am no friend to you, Betrayer,’ Ramus spat, but Mannfred continued as though he had not heard, and turned to the glowering Ironjaw with a long, low bow, cloak falling to a floor that was not there.

‘It will be I, not you, who will be the first to cross the Sea of Bones. The march of my horde will be felt in the Realm of Death.’ With an elaborate flourish, he rose and turned back to Ramus. ‘I will hold our mutual friend Tarsus with affection, when he is my prisoner instead of Nagash’s.’

With a spluttering cry, Ramus thrust his reliquary into Mannfred’s wavering face and cried out to Sigmar for lightning. His staff pulsed blue-white and sprayed power in indiscriminate, arcing forks that carved through the apparition without effect. The vampire replied with a tolerant smile, swept his cloak across him and became a cloud of red that disintegrated on the wind.

‘Dwell upon your failures, Stormcast,’ came the disembodied voice, ‘as I make the Sea of Bones mine.’

Korruk’s sudden howl of fury struck Ramus from any fixation on his own boiling blood. Stomping around without another intelligible word, the Ironjaw jumped onto his maw-krusha’s back and kicked the beast into the air. It gave a bellow, flung out its vestigial, leathery wing-flaps and leapt from the parapet. It dropped into the pall like a stone.

Ramus listened as the megaboss’ livid cries receded. He bowed his head as though in prayer. His eyes stung. It was impossible to hear the Ironjaw and not be reminded of the same unthinking rage that had driven him to this place. Despite it, his heart hammered for further vengeance.

If only his own intemperance could be soothed away as readily as the bone cloud took the Ironjaw’s.

‘Vandalus. Brother, I—’

‘What’s done is done, brother. Sigmar will judge you, but not I.’

Ramus hung his head. Such a covenant should have been reassuring, but for some reason the prospect of receiving Sigmar’s judgement gave him a flutter of apprehension.

The Knight-Azyros spread his wings, stowed his starblade, and offered Ramus his hand. ‘What are we waiting for, brother? Would you leave all the fighting to the Ironjawz?’

Ramus lifted his face to the golden light of the Azyros and felt an icy peace quell his heart — the peace that only a certainty of purpose could bring. The Hallowed Knights had departed Azyrheim to renew old alliances, and perhaps a truce with the warriors of Gorkamork had always been Sigmar’s will.

‘They will have all the fight that they please,’ he said as he clasped the Azyros’ gauntleted hand. ‘But Mannfred is mine.’

David Guymer

Only the Faithful

Vandalus cut through the ethereal pall like a javelin. Clouds ripped by. Clouds with faces that screamed with horror and hatred. Clouds with claws that scratched his purple and gold armour.

‘I am a Knight-Azyros of the Astral Templars,’ he shouted into the wind, his warrior’s heart urging that the dead-storm’s challenge be met with a response. ‘I am storm-forged, a herald of Sigmar. I have fought daemons of air and lightning over the molten sky rivers of Chamon. I was forged to fly!’

The wind moaned and cried. Too many voices to comprehend. What Mannfred von Carstein had conjured to conceal his fastness in the Sea of Bones was no mere storm.

Only the restless souls of billions could carry such anguish.

The air was so thick he could barely see his fingertips, could hear little beyond moaning whispers and the crackle of his wings. He only knew which way was down because if he stopped beating his wings for long enough then that was the direction he fell. His first inkling of the Prosecutor in front of him was the repulsive hiss as two sets of Azyrite wings came into contact with a crack of discharge. His shoulder clanged into the other warrior’s hip and both were sent spinning.

‘Vand… ou… doing… ere.’

Vandalus fell, clung to by insubstantial hands. Air whistled through his thrashing wings. He fell for one painfully beaten out heartbeat before managing to right himself, wings flaring out to arrest his descent.

His heart hammered on, regardless. Head spinning, he scanned the boiling souls around him and spotted the glint of purple and gold of an Astral Templars Prosecutor. Dust and sand battered the warrior’s already badly scuffed armour, the halo thrown off by his beating wings humming with static. Vandalus recognised him as Kanutus, one of the warriors called from Sigmaron to pursue the vampire into the desert.

‘You’re supposed to be on the left flank,’ Vandalus yelled, swinging his arm in that direction. ‘The left!’

‘… what… say… on… right.’

Vandalus shook his head and banged the side of his helm with his gauntlet. What he wouldn’t give to look into Kanutus’ eyes and see his lips move.

‘Any sign of the vampire? Or the Celestial Realmgate he holds?’

‘By… the… agon… see… thing.’

‘All this time he’s been ahead of us, brother. Now he makes the mistake of standing still and we have him. The orruks and our brothers punish the undying’s legions, but they can’t fight the entire Sea of Bones.’

The Prosecutor shrugged off a clutching shade. ‘Spe… for your… elf. I will… gladly… em all.’

‘We need a direction to attack if we are to take the head of this snake.’

Vandalus gestured to signal that he was going down. His wings dipped. The relentless soul-drag on his shoulders waned. For a moment he hung, unsuspended, pulled under by shapeless fingers — then he tilted forward. The blood rushed to his head and he grinned.

With a whoop, he dropped. The dead surged to smother him, but he was an arrow and pierced them layer by layer, reducing them to tatters in his wake, the Sea of Bones a dust-strewn target billowing up to greet him. He saw a patch of dark against the churning white of the sky, then the curve of a dune and the spiky outline of gigantic bones. They became more defined as the soul-clouds were stripped away, almost as if they were growing out of the Sea of Bones to impale him.

From the ground, the Sea of Bones was dust: rising dust disturbed from the earth by the march of armies; falling dust carried in on the cry of the soul-wind. And where the two met and merged, blinding dust, shrinking each warrior’s battlefield to a gritty fugue of rattling bone and bobbing witchlights.

From the air however, it became more. It moved, undulated, almost a living thing comprised of the two vast armies that pushed and strove against each other.

The warclans of the Great Red Ironjawz were a wall of red and black, fifty thousand of them or more in impressively monstrous armour, lumping forward like flowing lava. The deathless legions crushed against them were of another order entirely. Rank upon rank, packed in shoulder-to-shoulder and marching tirelessly, went way back into the haze. Stick shadows, lurching through the dust cloud. Thousands upon thousands upon thousands of bony, scrappily armoured heads and shoulders, spears waving above them.

The Great Red’s ironclad siege boats lobbed green-tinged energy that blasted open the skeletal legions, while gargants of bone and weird horrors of dust waded through entire mobs of Ironjawz. Dead things screamed. Orruks howled. Catapults twanged back and forth. Hundreds of warchanters drummed out a dervish beat. A charge of gore-gruntas — the orruks’ savage boar cavalry — momentarily filled the air with grunts and snapping bone before a weirdnob brought a massive ectoplasmic foot stamping into the ground. With a great ripping of bone, a skeleton so vast that the clouds had to part around it tipped into the hole that the orruk’s magic had thumped into the ground, and began to collapse.

Vandalus saw more devastation in that one moment than in all his lives before.

‘Thunder man.’

Korruk the Great Red hung in the air, his maw-krusha working vestigial wings to carry him towards Vandalus. His massive, clawed gauntlets each held an axe, one an enormous half-moon in black, the other flat-bladed like a butcher’s cleaver and blood red. His head was the one part of his body left unarmoured, the black and red pattern reversed with a slash of crimson paint over the dark, scarred flesh. He grinned a mouthful of bloody iron teeth.

It had been the Great Red who had first taken the Celestial Realmgate from the Astral Templars tasked with its defence and then built a fort on it. But common enemies demanded uncommon allies.

‘A good enough fight for you?’

‘Hah!’ Korruk replied simply.

‘This landscape has changed since I saw it last. Do you know which way our… your… old fortress lies?’

The hulking Ironjaw pointed Red Axe into the murk. Vandalus held up his celestial lantern and drew back its gilded shutter. Golden light streamed from the opening and, for one brief moment, burned a clear path through the wailing spirits.

Made bitty by dust and distance, lapped at by an ocean of bobbing spears, a citadel rose from the Sea of Bones like the spines of a surfacing kraken. The ossified edifice was blistered with Ironjaw scrap fortifications. Most of those structures had suffered damage or been torn down, and the latter made a jagged earthwork of mangled iron around the basilica’s dust-shrouded basin.

The Ironjaw defences were new to him, but even the citadel itself was different to Vandalus’ memory of it. Cancerous, bony growths threw up bizarrely shaped towers, twisting battlements and ridges. The realmgate was there, strobing a fitful blue at the citadel’s heights where the original, long-destroyed stronghold had been raised to control it. He was no Lord-Relictor, but he could see that it looked damaged somehow. Scores of fizzing, intermittent copies of it slashed the sky, others partially or wholly buried under the ground and spitting out great geysers of sand.

‘What madness is this?’

‘Dunno,’ rumbled Korruk. ‘It wasn’t broken when my boyz were here.’

‘Then the vampire did this. I have to tell Ramus.’

The Great Red gave a huge shrug and dropped. Vandalus saw the maw-krusha thump into the middle of a block of skeleton warriors like a bludgeon scattering sticks.

Listening to the bellows of ‘Waaagh!’ as Korruk and his beast got stuck in, Vandalus followed him down.

Levelling off gracefully, he plunged between a yawning pair of ribs a hundred feet high and flashed across the length of the battlefront. Tarnished helmet. Ragged banner. Snap of claw. Splash of red. Orruk. Undead. Orruk. The undead forces were essentially interchangeable throughout, numerous as grains of sand in the desert, and like sand, no hardship at all to throw in an enemy’s face.

The line stretched over several dozen miles and scores of brutal clan-scale melees, and even at his speed and altitude he could not yet make out the far end of it.

Lightning laced what was nominally earth to what was notionally sky, stitching bone dust and soul-ash with a sputtering light. It was there that the Hallowed Knights lent their disciplined solidity to the sheer numbers of their Ironjawz allies.

Vandalus raced towards it.

Bone crunched under Ramus’ boot. He was surrounded, packed in tight by rattling, whispering dead. Sacrificing what would have been a vital forward step, he shoulder-barged the spear-warrior pressing his right side. It crumbled under the might of sigmarite, the press of bodies knocking down several others behind it. The ground trembled slightly underfoot, but he ignored it. With space to swing his hammer, he swung — a fierce underarm swipe from right to left that launched a grinning skeleton warrior six feet into the air.

‘Who is the hammer in the God-King’s hand?’ he yelled.

‘Only the faithful!’ came the fierce reply.

Just a few paces behind, the small Exemplar Chamber of Hallowed Knights crunched in his wake. Their armour gleamed silver and gold under the weak sun, and the weapons they carried crackled with the energies of the divine storm, responding to the power of their Lord-Relictor’s reliquary as though challenged to demonstrate their potency.

‘The line is uneven,’ called Sagittus.

‘It will do,’ Ramus returned.

A pity it had taken the exploitation of his own failings by Mannfred von Carstein to teach what it was to forgive.

‘Of the sixty cast into the hell of Cartha to bring vengeance upon the Betrayer, few of us now are left,’ he shouted, the dead falling to pieces under his hammer with every word. ‘Lesser men might waver, but there is naught lesser about we Hallowed Knights. Every one among you is a proven hero, tested in battle, and remade in the fury of the Reforging. Each of you has called upon Sigmar’s name in battle and been heard. Who will shed his mortal flesh in the name of the God-King’s righteous cause?’

‘Only the faithful!’

The ground trembled again, more vigorously this time, enough to shake the Bones of Heroes stored in Ramus’ reliquary.

‘Do you feel that?’ spat Cassos, the warrior’s stormglaive humming with protective energies.

Ramus turned the deep sockets of his mortis helm towards the coming horde. The fell glow of their eyes turned the churning soul-winds an uncertain blue. A huge bone formation rose into the cloud behind them, a lattice of dim, dark lines that wavered like dead trees in a storm. There was a dull thump, and Ramus felt the tremors run through his armour.

With a roar he raised his reliquary. Lightning arced across the morbid imagery of faith, death and the storm depicted thereon, spitting between staff and sky and back again.

‘Who is the lightning in his heart?’

‘Only the faithful!’

To the shouts of his warriors, the snap of bone, the clap of thunderaxes, lightning sprayed from his staff in a blazing torrent. The reliquary shook in his hand as he commanded the current to widen, and roared as he drove it deep and hard into the horde. Bone blackened and cracked as armour cooked. Bodies were blown apart, lightning scything through the enemy ranks again and again until all before him was black and ruined.

With muffled whoops and yells, the Ironjawz mob on the Hallowed Knights’ right flank spilled into the opening, shinned aside blackened, grasping hands, and began to wade ahead. Ramus could hear the heavy thunk of their armour on the sand, even over the wind, and the insults they shouted at each other and at the Hallowed Knights behind them. More distantly, dim cries of ‘Waaagh!’ wove in through the howl.

Ramus’ hard-earned humility slipped away in a moment as he sneered at the raucous display. The Ironjawz lent sheer numbers to the Hallowed Knights’ measured advance, but it was on the shoulders of the Stormcast Eternals that victory or defeat would ultimately be carried. Mannfred was here. Somewhere. The warmth of the shield, Sigmar’s Gift, slung across his back attested to it. In punishment for the wrongs done upon the Hallowed Knights, the relic had delivered unto the Betrayer the God-King’s fire, and it remembered. Ramus ardently prayed that Mannfred’s undying flesh remembered it too.

‘They are coming again!’ came Sagittus’ cry. ‘Decimators to the fore. Judicators, loose.’

The ground shook again, violently. Ramus swayed with the tremor. A bolt whizzed loose over his head as the Judicator retinue moving up behind the Paladins stumbled. Ramus watched it whisper into the dust, already high and rising, and a second later heard it dink off something massive. Ramus grasped his reliquary and looked up as the soul-storm swept away from that lattice of bone shapes to admit a ribcage the size of a war-barge. A kneecap wider than a Liberator’s shield swung forwards. There was a thunderous shake as the skeleton’s giant foot slammed into the ground.

‘Bone gargant!’ Ramus yelled, holding his reliquary for stability as the Ironjawz poured forwards. A flurry of bolts chipped the monster’s skeleton to little avail.

It was at least seven… eight… no nine times taller than a man. Its brow was flat, shoulders heavy and hunched, arms long and thickly boned, but despite its gross misproportions it was roughly man-shaped. In one hand, it dragged the thighbone of a beast that must have been even larger. The witch glow from under its ridged brow was piercingly bright and evil. In unnerving silence, it drew its bone club up over its head and smashed it down on the Ironjawz.

Where there had been a hulking slab of armour brandishing an axe, there was a squeal of metal and a bloody splatter. A hunk of meat soared through the air and slapped wetly into Cassos’ rerebrace. An orruk bellowed at the crushed ruin of its foot while, on the other side of the club buried into the sand between them, another gawped over its shoulder plating to where it remembered having an arm.

The rest of the mob surged forwards with a roar, only to be brushed away like dead leaves by the sweep of the giant’s club. A kick broke an Ironjawz brutish boss in half and sent him back at the Hallowed Knights like a missile.

‘Down, Lord-Relictor!’

Cassos dragged Ramus aside, and the mangled body hurtled past and smashed down a following Judicator. The Stormcast’s broken body took on a glow, then dissolved into Azyrite energy and blasted the hero’s soul back to Sigmaron.

Pushing Cassos aside, Ramus raised his reliquary high. Fear had no hold on him now, and what little he still remembered of the feeling had been beaten out in successive Reforgings. But even had he still been mortal, he did not believe that he would have been afraid. He would surely have laughed as he laughed now.

‘The Betrayer sends his mightiest against us. He is close. Our hands are around his dead heart, and all we need do is squeeze.’ His voice broke with fury. ‘Who will rip the Betrayer’s head from his inhuman neck?’

‘Only the faithful!’

‘Only. The. Faithful!’

He could feel his reliquary being drawn skywards, charge dragging on monstrous charge. With a godly effort, he pulled it back, the sky itself seeming to split open as he drew a titanic bolt of lightning from the heavens. There was a flash as it struck the giant’s elbow. Its bones were lit black, the gaps between them white. Thunder rattled every piece of armour for miles around, and the goliath’s arm was blasted off at the shoulder in a blizzard of splinters.

The Hallowed Knights shouted words of glory and praise as bone fragments pattered across their armour.

Ramus raised his hammer for discipline. A strange corruption of the familiar scent of the divine storm gusted across him. It was foetid water, languid energy. His spiritual sense, that which even as a mortal had marked him apart, jangled like a string of bells. It bade him look up.

He had the impression of corporeality being split, of things that should not have been being made. A besmirched sliver of Azyric light bled through the soul-wind and sputtered wide.

‘The realmgate,’ cried Sagittus in confusion. ‘How can this be?’

With eyes trained to the soul-eternal, Ramus thought he saw something. For a moment, he glimpsed an iron turret and a red-cloaked figure in ridged black armour, clutching some manner of arcane artefact. He was surrounded by slavering ghasts that fawned over his every gesture, the jewels around their clawed fingers in stark contrast to the bloodied rags draped over their shoulders.

Betrayer.

Into that singular moment was also forced a dozen dizzying perspectives of the battle being fought around him. Orruks charging. A clatter of spears. Ghouls tearing skywards on ragged wings. A bloom of green-tinged fire. Perhaps this was how Sigmar or Nagash might see this battle played out, but it was too much to carry. His final impression was of Mannfred. The vampire seemed to turn to him, to see him across the void, and grinned.

‘It is not the realmgate. Sigmar must have sealed the way once he was aware of Mannfred’s tampering.’

‘Trapping us here,’ Sagittus muttered.

Ramus nodded. The least of their concerns. ‘It is a copy. The vampire taps the energy of Sigmar’s gate. He is directing it somehow to open new portals at will.’

‘If a few miles is the best he can muster then I am not worried,’ Cassos sneered.

‘We all should worry, Cassos. He practices on us. With such a weapon, and the Sea of Bones at his disposal, the Betrayer will be a formidable enemy.’

As if the vampire had been listening, the portal flashed and a second gargant made of bones staggered through. It stamped on a tottering Ironjaw and sent another flying with the smash of a splayed metal club. A third colossus walked into the other’s back. It was half as tall again with long, slender bones.

‘Hallowed Knights, forwards!’ Ramus roared. ‘For Sigmar, for Tarsus, and for the soul-eternal.’

The Stormcasts gave a roar, echoed by faceplates and distant voices, and broke into a charge. Ramus turned from them, hammer drawn back, and spotted a glimmer in the sky. He glanced towards it and it brightened, firing a beam of golden light that sheared cleanly through the taller bone gargant.

Vandalus shot through the rising plume of bone dust.

The Knight-Azyros shone like a solitary candle in a storm, his battered war-plate a magnificent gold, finished with the Astral Templars’ purple. The second gargant swung its metal club. Vandalus dodged agilely out of the way, and the club smashed through the other’s spine. Vertebrae sprayed out and the already struggling monstrosity collapsed as though hidden necromantic wires had been cut.

The surviving Ironjawz, and those clumping forwards to reinforce them, pumped their weapons in the air. Warring shouts of ‘Gorka’ and ‘Morka’ gave way to uncertain cries of ‘Sigmar.’ The Knight-Azyros swung about and brandished his golden starblade, which the Ironjawz lapped up with an approving roar.

Vandalus came heavily into land, balancing uneasily on the carpet of bones. Ramus strode towards him while the exuberant Ironjawz and the Hallowed Knights pushed on, making brutal work of the remaining gargant.

‘We’ve found him,’ said Vandalus.

Ramus indicated the guttering portal, now slowly fading. ‘I saw.’

‘The Liberators of the Astral Templars hold the right flank as you do the left. The Ironjawz advance slowly, but advance they do, and Korruk himself now drives for the realmgate citadel.’ He turned and pointed with his shuttered lantern. ‘The Great Red is about half a mile in front and fast pulling ahead. He is like an engine, brother, built for killing. We may win this yet.’

‘You doubted?’

Vandalus shrugged.

‘Part of me wonders how we will rid the citadel of the Ironjawz once they have reclaimed it,’ said Ramus.

‘I’m tempted to let them keep it.’ Vandalus laughed at Ramus’ sudden glare and held up his hands to show that he was not serious — at least not entirely. ‘One battle at a time, brother. Worry first that the Great Red will be done with the vampire before you catch up.’

‘Never!’

Vandalus spread his wings and prepared to take flight once more. ‘Then up your pace, brother. One way or another we drink this eve in Sigmaron.’

His Imperial Majesty Angar Utrech XVI, Abhorrant Ghoul King of the Carthic Oldwoods, growled and slurped a string of jellied consonants. One heavy hand formed a ring around his eye. It was a sickly, sightless yellow, and a jelly-like substance oozed out of the tear-duct as he squinted. The left hand made another ring about nine inches in front of the right, slowly rotating the focus of an imaginary eyeglass.

‘I see no sign of these would-be besiegers, Lord von Carstein,’ was what he thought he said. Mannfred allowed the flesh-eater’s warped reality into his mind so that he could hear him properly.

The vampire leant over the thick Ironjaw battlement, the oily cool of the Fang of Kadon between his hands, the point wedged into the graffitied metal. He had used the artefact to locate the hidden gates to Nagash’s underworld, but its powers over the lesser portals that existed within realms went far beyond mere divination.

‘Trust me,’ he whispered, strained, almost forgetting to add, ‘my liege.’

As potent as he was at his full strength, the flesh-eater court was, as a group, still more so, and he was far from his full strength. The Stormcast priest, Ramus, had seen to that.

The sand that blew into the melted ruin of his face cut like silver. The beating hearts of the ghastly court pounded in his ears. He heard their rasping breaths, the distant clangour of steel and the incongruous rattle of silverware where he knew there was none.

Click, click, click, went the imaginary dial on the imaginary eyeglass.

He tightened his grip on the Fang and murmured a calming incantation.

His monstrous legions would hold the Stormcasts at bay. And if by some miracle they did make it into his citadel, then Utrech’s court was always hungry.

‘A thousand marks says that the greenskins won’t make the outer walls,’ said Utrech, sliding his brawny hands smartly together and slipping the ‘eyeglass’ into a nonexistent coat pocket.

A growling chorus of ‘hear hears’ from the courtiers and sycophants in attendance intruded spontaneously into Mannfred’s pained reality. The backs of fingers were clapped lightly in bloody palms. Rings were rapped against the rampart’s thick iron cladding.

Mannfred hissed in pain and tried to ignore it.

When this strange court of ghouls had first found him, half-starved and barely alive, scrabbling through the Carthic Oldwoods for worms to feed on, he would have been easy prey. Instead they had fed him, feted him. By the rules of the odd little fantasy that the semi-vampiric Utrech lived through them, he was akin to visiting royalty. Through the blood of theirs he had taken, he had come to know glimpses of their world.

‘What say you, Sir Othamar?’ said Marquess Corinne, her drooling growl coming via her August Majesty’s imposed delusion as a lilting flutter of genteel elocution. She turned to the brooding templar standing guard on the stairs, hulking and obtrusive in black armour, the red paint scuffed out. ‘Would you not rather be bloodying your sword on these unruly savages?’

Sir Othamar, however, was an orruk and a dead one, commander of the garrison left behind by the self-styled Great Red, and said nothing. The Marquess pouted hideously.

A stabbing pain passed though Mannfred’s head, and he moaned. It was a sensation he dimly associated with the bringing up of vomit. Another imperfect reflection of the Celestial Realmgate split across the sky with a sound like shattering glass.

‘Bravo!’ slobbered the Viscount Henzel von Kurze.

Mannfred closed his eyes for a moment’s inner peace, then looked up to share the ghast’s wonder at what he had wrought. Scores of fizzing, intermittent portals pulsed feebly in the soul-tortured air. Some were side on, slits in the air. Others faced away. They seemed to contain eerie reflections of Mannfred and his court, but in every one there was something subtly incorrect in the image. There he was, cadaverously thin, the Twelfth Mark of Final Death hanging over him. And there again, surrounded not by fawning courtiers, but naked, horribly muscled beasts eyeing him with rapacious hunger.

The original realmgate stood within an arch of bone that by some arcane vicissitude had been braided with marble by Sigmar’s original settlers. It put Mannfred in mind of a man near death, suspended on the rack and somehow managing a fitful sleep between bouts of torture. Sigmar had abandoned it, left it for dead, a sacrifice to preserve more valued lives. But life was determined, whatever form it took. There was power in the gate yet, and the Fang of Kadon would drink it all.

He felt an ache in his gums, and his own fangs began to lengthen. The Sea of Bones was just the beginning. The Realm of Ghur was but the first step. Nagash would beg him to return, or he would cower in his crumbling keeps.

‘I require more time if I am to raise the mightiest and most ancient creatures,’ he said, speaking softly and patiently. ‘The Titans of Myth that sleep under the Sea of Bones. And the Fang needs far more of the realmgate’s power if I am to extend a portal to the lands beyond the Sea’s far border, where the gateway to Shyish is to be found.’

‘Time, is it?’ dribbled Utrech.

He waved over a hunchbacked ghoul bearing a tray that was at once half of an old wooden table and a fine silver tray. Utrech picked up a raw piece of spare rib. The last piece of Skraggtuff’s ogors, Mannfred presumed.

The delusory self-image the Abhorrant King shared with his court was of a young man with the swagger and errant confidence of birthright.

What he was was an abomination with no place in a world once trodden by gods. His breathing was quick and shallow and gurgled from his mouth. Long teeth for the ripping of uncooked flesh and powerful muscles for the grinding of bone had thickened his jaw and it hung low down his neck. His arms and chest were bare, a greenish grey, and ugly with hard slabs and cords of muscle.

The obliterated rib fell back onto the tray with a loud thunk.

‘You’ve been fair by us, von Carstein. You gift me a dragon to ride and an army to lead, and what time I have to give in exchange is yours.’

‘Most kind,’ Mannfred murmured, offering a brief nod of the head as the Abhorrant King turned with a swish of imaginary tails and sloped past the brooding Sir Othamar.

A few moments later, a terrible shriek made the unbound souls that filled the sky scatter, and a bone-grey terrorgheist carrying the Abhorrant King climbed into the wind. A pack of wolfish varghulfs chased them hungrily, their snarls and howls snatched by the soul-storm.

‘Good hunting, my liege,’ said Mannfred, with a predator’s smile. ‘May my good friend Ramus receive you well.’

Vandalus was still climbing into the shrieking gale when the portal shattered out of the storm above him. He tried to turn, but he knew it was too late. The portal was on him, a protean disk of Azyrite energy that filled his immediate sky. He didn’t know if the vampire had directed this portal specifically to target him, but it seemed akin to using a fireball to rid a gryph-hound of ticks.

Bad luck caught up with everyone in the end.

He struck the gate. The air became light. It was like hitting a mirror, fractures spreading out in slow motion, time dragging almost to the point at which it stopped.

He fell through. The fragments under him broke into ever-smaller pieces. And again. And again. The physical and the magical became indistinguishable and his mind struggled to translate what it perceived in the best way that it was able. He felt unearthly music on his skin, smelled colours through the tips of his fingers. He saw otherworldly suns rise and explode. Structures of unassailable marble, the white citadels of Sigmaron, soared and crumbled and rose again. Dust. Sand. Weeping spirits. The Sea of Bones caught from a hundred angles, every one of them the same. The ether burned on his skin, despite his armour. The fire became a single note, shrill and whining.

The barrier shattered, and the noise fell away in pieces.

Suddenly he was rolling, not through air or astral winds, but along the ground. Light sky. Dark ground. Light. Dark. Bones snapped under his armour as he crashed through. He could hear the rattle of skeletons and see the wink of bronze and the gimlet blue gleam of witchlight.

His light-wings exploded in a clap of thunder, blew a hole in the block of marching dead, and dragged him sharply out of his roll.

Straining hard and shivering, he beat into a climb. He was back on the Sea of Bones. Not where he had been, but it was better than some of the alternatives he could describe.

A ghoul shrieked, flying at him on tatty wings. The ghoul gibbered at the last second before smashing into him. It bounced off, broken, and before Vandalus could adjust he was mobbed by flapping red wings.

Ghouls hissed in his face and scratched his armour with their claws. Something tried to rake at his wings, received a snapping burn for its troubles, and fell off with a cry. The stink of burnt meat clogged his nose hole. A grey-skinned flesh-eater with high, sunken cheeks dragged its fangs down his thigh plate. Another wrestled itself around his leg and scrabbled. Bit by bit, he felt himself being dragged back to the ground.

He tried to work the shutter of his lantern, but he was still fuzzy from his journey through the vampire’s portal and his fingers couldn’t seem to recall how to do it. After several increasingly violent attempts to force it, he remembered to twist the catch and then pushed the shutter open.

For one cosmic moment, he felt himself burn. Hot and pure and loud, even if the void was too black for anyone to know it but him. Then it was gone. He closed the lantern’s shutter with a hiss of gold over gold, and it was raining burning ghouls.

‘Where have you sent me, vampire?’

No sign of Ironjawz. No sign of Stormcasts. He had clearly fallen well over the undead side of the battle. He had to find out where he was, and return to Korruk and Ramus quickly.

A death-shriek ripped open the soul-winds before Vandalus had a chance to use his beacon. A huge skeletal beast with shredded wings dropped through the tear in the sky, its long neck straddled by a subhuman monstrosity, hunched and slavering and gripping a gnawed bone club with scraps of flesh still attached.

Then the terrorgheist’s aural bow-wave hit Vandalus. He was rather more substantial than the ghosts of the Sea of Bones, but the monster’s scream still struck like the paralytic stinger of a venomous beast. It froze the strength in his muscles. It petrified the thoughts as they formed in his head. The magic that gave light to his wings held him aloft, but only until the descending monster snatched him from the air and crushed him to the dust beneath its weight.

Vandalus looked up at death’s ghoulish face through the claws that pinned his body to the ground. It was a ghoul king. He had seen the like skulking in the Carthic Oldwoods. It was as muscular as an orruk, almost as big even without armour. Its skin was a grot’s mealy green. Nasty yellow eyes appraised him as though a plate bearing something unfamiliar but not unappetizing had been pushed in front of it. The abhorrant made a slobbering, gurgling growl that sounded like speech.

‘What are you saying?’

The ghoul king’s eyes widened as though offended and it raised its club.

A flash of black and red smeared across Vandalus’ eyes. There was a crack of bone and a judder of iron, and the terrorgheist emitted a sepulchral shriek before flapping back like a gate struck open by a battering ram. Vandalus gave an involuntary gasp as the crushing weight was withdrawn from his chest. He dragged himself and his broken armour to his feet and re-established his bearings.

The thing that had hit the terrorgheist ground ironclad knuckles into the dusty ground and brought up a sullen, rolling growl. A wall of panting, iron-skirted pig flesh crunched and gored through bone, both ‘living’ and ‘dead’, to catch up with their megaboss. The weak sun winked off the polished iron of the gore-grunta Boyz’ spears. Vandalus had made it a point to learn the names of the Great Red’s major warclans. The knucklebone beads that that particular clan braided through the hair of their animals chattered as they rolled nearer. Running alongside them to the drumbeat of Gorkstikks and Morkstikks were the Wurld Masher Brawl with their giant hammers. And on the other flank, struggling to hold the same reckless pace in their ridiculously bulky armour, the Rok Nobz.

In the path of the advance, Vandalus thought. He’s brought me within reach of his stronghold.

The terrorgheist emitted a snake-like hiss, lifted its front legs off the ground and hoisted its neck, raising its abhorrant master high above the Ironjaw’s head.

There were no clever words. No pithy insults. The terrorgheist’s head simply snapped forward on the end of its long neck, jaw wide to snap off Korruk’s head. The maw-krusha hammered the bone-dragon across the snout with a swinging fist. The terrorgheist made a moaning sound. A broken fang whizzed out and spanked off the Great Red’s armour, and its neck sawed across the Ironjaw’s shoulder.

The two monsters crushed into one another. The terrorgheist’s thick, bony neck wrapped over the maw-krusha’s back end and gnashed at his legs. The belligerent beast clubbed furiously at whatever the undead thing had under its ribs. Scratching, beating, biting, growling, the two monsters abused each other into a brutal stalemate, with the Great Red and the abhorrant hanging on, face-to-face.

The ghoul king’s vituperative gibber rang through the blizzard of bone chips that Korruk’s axes struck from his club.

‘Like speakin’ to a zoggin’ gore-grunta,’ the megaboss grumbled.

Korruk turned the abhorrant’s club on Black Axe’s curved edge, then thumped his forearm smartly through the flesh-eater’s teeth. The ghoul king blubbered from its bloody mouth. Its clammy hand grabbed Korruk’s wrist. The Ironjaw instinctively recoiled, then bellowed in surprise as the ghoul king sprayed his face with pinkish spit. While Korruk shook his head, the abhorrant smashed his elbow joint with its club. The big orruk didn’t seem to feel it. The broken joint mashed the ghoul king’s nose and, with a slurp of pain, the flesh-eater let go.

Pink snot dribbling over his eyes, Korruk gave vent to a titanic roar, flexed the muscles of arm and shoulder and pushed the elbow joint squealing back into place.

The terrorgheist drowned him out with a triumphant shriek. The monster, benefitting from having neither ligaments nor tendons, had worked its back foot double-jointedly over the maw-krusha’s champing teeth and pushed back its neck. Snapping and spitting for each other’s necks, the two beasts nevertheless managed to shove each other apart.

‘Stupid, zoggin’…’

‘I have him!’ Vandalus cried.

He spread his wings to take flight, then closed them immediately over his head as a furry comet punched into the desert between him and the Great Red hard enough to send the first wave of Rok Nobz flying. It was as though the soul-storm had finally judged that enough was enough and decided to settle matters with its own fists. Dust and bone shards exploded in vibrant colours as they struck Vandalus’ wings. The fizzling discharges died away. A hairy, winged, wolf-bat thing — a varghulf — shook out of its crater and threw itself at the shouting Rok Nobz with a howl.

Vandalus ran to meet it, a bounding leap carrying him over the Ironjawz, and slammed bodily into the rabid beast.

The impact forced it onto its heels and Vandalus’ starblade slashed a red mark across its chest. He dropped his shoulder and rammed it. It gave a little, but big as he was, it was bigger and wasn’t to be surprised again. An arm as long as two of his and shaggy with hair hit him across his breastplate from shoulder to groin. The air burst out of him and he felt his boots rise off the ground.

His wings flew out to arrest his fall and the varghulf, expecting him to be at least a foot further back than he was, howled in unexpected pain as his sword pierced pectoral muscle, then lung, then shoulder blade. He beat himself higher and in so doing ripped his blade out.

The bleeding varghulf lashed for his legs with its claws, missed, tensed to jump after him, then bellowed as a Rok Nobz axe sank into its shoulder meat. Then the swipe of a gore-grunta’s tusk yanked its steaming guts over the cold desert and the only noise it made was the gristly crunch of galloping boars.

More of the monsters continued to drop out of the sky like a rain of comets and, as Vandalus sought out the Great Red, braying hordes of ghouls loped ravenously towards the embattled Ironjawz. Skeleton horses ran alongside, barely keeping pace, with more howling varghulfs arriving on foot. The ground quivered, and Vandalus watched as the soul-winds appeared to swell and then shred apart before an entire phalanx of bone gargants on the march.

‘Is there no end to them…?’ he murmured.

‘I want my thunder door back!’ He heard Korruk roar, and turned towards the sound.

The megaboss’ maw-krusha was mobbed by ghouls and skeletons. A warrior in bronze armour stuck its spear into the beast’s armpit. It didn’t react as the shaft snapped, nor even as the monster dragged its fist through it — unless you counted being smashed to bits as a reaction. The Great Red booted a grinning head off a set of hanging pauldrons and hacked Red Axe through the arm of another as it stabbed for him with a halberd.

More kept on shambling in, steel blades and bits of bronze sweeping towards him on a tide of bone. Spears, pikes and halberds stabbed at the maw-krusha’s side while bony fingers grasped up for the Ironjaw’s weapons. The monster shattered a dozen in one blow. Billhooks swung up at Korruk from all sides. Red Axe and Black Axe sent them back to the Bone Sea in splinters.

‘The Great Red don’t lose!’

He flung wide his dusted weapons, pushed out his chest, and opened his dripping iron fangs to the choking sky.

‘Waaaaa-’ He rammed his heels so hard into the maw-krusha’s belly that the brute actually squawked. It beat its muscular, winged arms as though willing the ground to mock it for trying to fly and, against all odds, lifted off. It didn’t last long, but then it didn’t have to. ‘-aaaaa-’ The maw-krusha arced gracelessly over the broken, squirming skeletons and smashed into the terrorgheist’s side like a sledgehammer. ‘-aaggh!’

The terrorgheist went down with a rusty snap. Its ribs cracked under the blow. The maw-krusha made doubly, then triply sure with a series of blows to its head. The shovel-slams after that were overkill, but Korruk was too busy to stop him. Assuming he could.

Vandalus saw the abhorrant where it had rolled clear of its broken beast. The ghoul king came up in a spray of sand and hefted his club, breathing wetly and hard.

Korruk dismounted, leaving the maw-krusha to its retribution, and clanked towards him. Skeletons ran full into his armour and simply broke as he built up speed. Some notion of what was coming entered the ghoul king’s sickly yellow eyes and he started to back up, too afraid to actually turn his back on the giant Ironjaw and run. Korruk smashed apart a skeleton that got between them and swung Black Axe for the abhorrant’s head. Straight down. Quick and brutal. The flesh-eater snapped out of it just enough to beat the blow aside with his club, and recovered some of his sneer, only to drop it again when Red Axe hacked off the hand at the wrist.

Blood splurged from the shortened arm. Korruk kicked the flesh-eater in the chest, cracked a rib, and flung him back ten feet. The ghoul king crumpled in a heap under the fizzling portal that had spat out Vandalus.

Korruk lifted it by the neck as easily as he might a drunken grot and held it to the portal’s flickering light as though for a proper look. The dust and sand that clung to the ghoul king’s bloodied body made it a grainy white, jumping between shades from second to second. White. Blue. White. Blue. Only its chest and face, facing away from the portal, were a fixed, resigned black.

‘Tell Man… Man…’ Korruk bared his iron teeth and growled. ‘Tell ’im the Great Red’s comin’.’ With that, the Ironjaw plunged the flesh-eater’s head into the portal up to its lower ribs. The portal flashed like a lightning storm, and a sudden pull dragged on the Ironjaw’s hand. The body thrashed for a moment and then was still.

With a grunt of effort, as though he were dragging a sand raft out of a dust flow against the current, Korruk pulled the body out. What was left of it. Vandalus shivered at the sight of the flat, glassy tissue that now closed off the section through the abhorrant’s chest the way its head and shoulders had once done.

‘Morka…’ Korruk grumbled.

Orruks were a superstitious race. Even an Ironjaw megaboss wasn’t too tough for a healthy fear of the weird.

‘There are too many,’ Vandalus shouted. He smashed apart a skeleton with a blow from his hammer, and turned back to Korruk.

Vandalus didn’t fear a death in battle. It was one of the first human foibles that immortality took away. Korruk was not human, nor was he immortal, but Vandalus saw the same fearlessness in his one, savage eye. It was strange to stand before the orruk as an equal. It felt right, like the halcyon days long gone.

‘You and me then,’ Korruk said, hefting his big axes. ‘Try and keep up.’

Vandalus grinned. ‘I do have wings.’

The first of the running varghulfs charged towards them. They were shaggy and slobbering, long teeth sharply white against the pitch dark of their gaping mouths. Vandalus felt a familiar tingle on his skin and tasted tin on his lips. He had his lantern raised, but before he could operate it, two shots of lightning from above incinerated both beasts. Bits of gore with hair stuck to them slapped down, a lot of them over the broad target that was Korruk’s armour. Ramus strode towards them at the forefront of a line of Hallowed Knights Paladins.

‘Azyros,’ he said, by way of greeting as the Stormcasts surged past to bolster the Ironjawz and check, for the time being anyway, the vampire’s sally. He acknowledged the towering megaboss with a nod, but no words. The Great Red growled back.

All friends here, thought Vandalus.

‘We must take the realmgate at all costs,’ Ramus intoned. ‘End the Betrayer and all of this is over.’

‘I don’t see how,’ Vandalus replied. ‘Whatever we bring, the vampire has more. We are stalled, brother, and I’d guess several miles from his citadel yet.’

‘You don’t speak for me, tin man,’ rumbled the Great Red, and beat down a skeleton that had tottered through the lines, slipping on the glassy lightning scar on the ground. ‘No one steals from the Great Red.’

‘Don’t misunderstand me. The Astral Templars will fight to the death. But I would rather look my real enemy in his eyes before I’m returned to the forge.’

Ramus pointed his reliquary back towards the portal. It pulsed in the swirling dust, white and blue, unaffected by any of it. ‘In his hubris, the Betrayer leaves the path open to us.’

‘That’s no better choice,’ Vandalus cried, shaking his head with a sudden, unworthy fear. ‘I’ve passed through that door, brother, and you’ll find nothing on the other side but Chaos.’

‘The light of Azyr is incorruptible and indivisible. There are many portals, but one gate only, and it is there.’ Ramus swung his reliquary to where the bone gargants smashed into the thin line of Hallowed Knights, past the squeal of sigmarite and the stabs of lightning and into the soul-storm. ‘I have seen it. I have seen where the Betrayer waits, confident in his power over the storm and contemptuous of mine. Twice now he has bested me, but today his overconfidence will undo him. Have faith in me, brother. There is but one realmgate and I shall guide us there.’

Vandalus glanced towards Korruk. The Ironjaw looked at the portal and the messily halved abhorrant with a shudder, then towards the soul-shrouded bone gargants. Their massive arms rose and dropped like colossal hammers.

‘Nah. My way’s better.’

‘With me then, all who are faithful,’ Ramus cried, driving a bolt of lightning skyward from his reliquary and calling the surviving Hallowed Knights to him.

Vandalus watched the Lord-Relictor walk into the light. White. Blue. White. Blue. Then gone.

Just the soul-storm and the battle remained, the Ironjawz shouting as they ran in unruly formations to their dooms. Ramus was right. There could be no victory against these odds.

‘Only the faithful,’ he muttered, and followed.

There is one gate. Ramus repeated the mantra, over and over in his mind as foul, corrupted lightning lashed at his panoply of faith and etheric winds buffeted him, howling with the many voices of the unquiet dead. There is one gate. If he were to look then he knew he would see many, but they were falsehoods all and so he did not look. Eyes could be deceived, but the truth he kept in his heart where no evil could violate it.

There is one gate.

His Hallowed Knights were beside him. They shared a spiritual bond and their faith was his strength even as he felt them ripped away, one by one, cast into mirror portals that exited all across the physical battlefield. They would survive the experience as Vandalus had, but isolated from their allies, swamped by undead, their separation would ultimately prove fatal.

‘Sigmar demands much of those to whom much is given,’ he bellowed into the maelstrom, seeking with his words and his will to anchor their souls to Azyr and to the divine storm — but he could not even hear himself.

There went his second, Sagittus. The Judicator had questioned him often, and Ramus was aggrieved, but not surprised, that he should be amongst the first to falter. Then went Cassos. Ever prideful, ever arrogant. The Protector-Prime tumbled onto the Sea of Bones and disappeared under a shrieking mob of flesh-eaters.

There is one gate.

As far back into his mortal existence as Ramus could recall, he had always been a priest. There had been no life for him before Sigmar. He was without vulnerability, without vice. The Lord-Relictors were warrior priests, but for him, the ‘warrior’ part of that dyad had always come a distant second.

Discarding his hammer, he took up the shield, Sigmar’s Gift. Many lies shone upon its silver face, but it carried only one true reflection. It had delivered the God-King’s fire unto the Betrayer, and it remembered. He turned his head in the direction it pointed.

Portals whirled there like stars, a nightscape that had been hyper-accelerated in order to watch the full lifespan of creation in a few short seconds.

There is one gate.

But which one?

Suddenly, Vandalus was there beside him, and the celestial radiance of his beacon showed the pale imitations of Azyr’s light for what they were. The false portals dimmed and faded and the one true gate shone like the last star at the universe’s end.

‘There is one gate!’ The Knight-Azyros yelled into his mind.

The bedlam of energy and noise came together into a blinding wall of light and then shattered.

Ramus was kneeling as though in prayer on a rampart flagged with tiles of bone. Steam rose from his armour. The wind hissed. Bone shards hit sigmarite with a forlorn little sound like pebbles being dropped into a votive well. He looked up. A handful of Retributors and Judicators had made it with him, and Vandalus. They stood, lightning winding around their armour.

Their faith was a source of inspiration and joy.

At their backs, the realmgate sputtered and glowed. It was cold, sealed by Sigmar, a charcoal blue ember that was slowly guttering down. Ramus wondered whether it might be reopened, and how. The God-King had the power to seal the gates to his realm, but only from the other side could such gates be unbarred.

A hiss of fury came to him through the soul-gale. Mannfred von Carstein stood on the other side of the metal-over-bone rampart. The vampire’s white hair was wild and lashed about in the wind. His teeth were longer than when Ramus had first encountered him, broken and caged in the Land of the Dead, and his eyes were redder. An animal kind of madness affected them, a symptom of this realm perhaps, or the energies he had been attempting to barter with. Ramus focussed on the vampire’s face. His patrician features were horribly burned. The mark of Sigmar’s lash.

Stiffly, the vampire bowed, as though acknowledging the honour Ramus showed him by presenting himself thusly on his knees. The muscle-clad ghasts that surrounded him flexed and drooled.

With a scowl, Ramus rammed his reliquary between the bone flags.

At the same time, Mannfred drew his ancient, basket-hilted sword. In his other hand was the oily curve of the Fang of Kadon, wrested from the ghouls of Helstone with the good faith of Hallowed Knights. It was about the length of a dagger, and it dripped with power.

There was a crunch as the dread abyssal, Ashigaroth, descended on a nimbus of keening spirits that wefted and wove about its bulk, and clamped its claws onto the parapet behind its master. Even amongst the deathless horrors to which Mannfred had bestowed unlife, it was a rare and unique terror. Ramus had personally witnessed the beast swallowing a man’s soul, and savage a charging gryph-hound with the barest twitch of its beak.

‘You do not look as hale as the last time we met, Betrayer.’

‘Nor you, Stormcast.’

‘Looks can deceive.’

‘Most things will, if you allow them to.’

‘Distract the beast, Azyros,’ growled Ramus, eyes fixed on Mannfred’s. ‘The rest of you… the vampire is all that matters here.’

With an ululating war cry, Vandalus leapt into the air. The Hallowed Knights thundered forwards, as did Mannfred’s ghasts. The turret of the Ironjaw fort was too narrow for either side to build much momentum, but the two sets of inhumanly massive bodies carried force enough of their own to smack together with a sound like mallets softening up raw meat. Ramus saw Vandalus dart away from Ashigaroth’s snapping beak and disappear around a bartizan that projected from the turret’s corner. Then Ramus found his full attention occupied.

Mannfred strode towards him.

‘Step away from the realmgate.’

‘Never.’

‘I do not ask twice.’ Face twisted by a predatory snarl, Mannfred lunged for his throat with the tip of his sword.

Ramus swung his shield into it, knocking it aside. It was only then that he realised that he still did not have a hammer. He muttered a prayer, his reliquary bursting into Azyric light as he swung it like a mace and cracked the dead hand that wielded the Fang of Kadon. Mannfred cursed and spun away.

The vampire dropped low and stabbed under Ramus’ guard. The blade nicked his faulds before Ramus could counter. He stepped off in a bid to keep the distance between them that favoured his staff’s length, but the vampire was quickly on him. He danced, feinted, eyes everywhere, moving like a snake. The Fang of Kadon scraped an ‘X’ across the face of Sigmar’s Gift.

‘Behold the glory of Sigmar, vampire!’

Ramus stamped his staff’s black ferule onto the ground. Ribbons of energy stroked across air and ground, driving the vampire back. He took the moment granted to take in the carnage. A ghast took a thunderaxe in the gut and exploded outwards from the midriff, splattering everything in pink. Another ripped the right arm clean off a Judicator’s body and used the crossbow still in its grip to club in the screaming warrior’s helm. He heard Ashigaroth’s shriek and saw Vandalus crash through the bartizan’s iron walls. A beam of light sheared back through the jagged breach and drove the dread abyssal higher, out of reach.

‘Marquess,’ Mannfred hissed, still swatting at the tendrils of energy that ran across the dark ridges of his armour. ‘Take this one and I will see to it that you take Angar Utrech’s throne.’

The powerfully built creature he spoke to glanced hungrily towards the Stormcasts. Hulking, grey, peripherally female, it loped towards Ramus on its knuckles and opened its heavy jaws. Ramus slammed it aside with his shield, broke its neck, and used its momentum to propel himself into Mannfred as he lashed the shield back across him.

Mannfred recoiled in pain and shock. Blood was dribbling from a shallow diagonal line that joined his right temple to the left side of his mouth.

‘Only the faithful!’ Ramus roared as the vampire’s cut began to bubble and the blood dappling the blade-rim of his shield began to steam.

It remembered. And behind him, the realmgate responded.

It opened just a crack: not physically, but with the unsubtle energies of the divine storm. Light streamed through the opening with a pure clarion note like the trumpet call of Heaven, and Ramus felt all his bruises and aches soothed. The vampire shuffled away from him, blood dripping onto the metal flags.

‘What have you done? How?’

The skin sealing the gate vibrated like an ivory horn in the moments after it had been blown, and a shadow formed against the Azyr blue. It was a human shape, larger than a man, rounded by the bulk of armour. There was a rippling snap of discharge as the burly figure stepped through. He bore a long, gold-hafted halberd in one gauntlet and an ornately filigreed lantern in the other. His armour was the deep purple of sunset. As Ramus recognised him, his heart soared on the storm winds of Sigmar’s miracle.

His name was Hamilcar, Lord-Castellant of the Astral Templars, Eater of Bears, and Champion of Cartha.

The Stormcast whirled his halberd one handed and decapitated a ghast with a splitting blow to the side of the neck. ‘The Bear-Eater has your scent, undying,’ the Lord-Castellant bellowed with a thunderous laugh. ‘He has come back for you!’

Two more Astral Templars emerged from the gate behind him, and then two more, marching in column. Beside them, walking in a metronomic lockstep and also in ranks of two, came something that Ramus could never have dreamed to see marching under the light of Azyr — not given the outcome of his embassy to the Lands of the Dead. They were wights, encased in black armour, and clad in the bitterest, most unforgiving chill. The liche that led them out half a length behind Hamilcar’s giant stride was clad in ragged robes and encased in ridged armour of archaic design that rattled loosely against his bones. He carried a long staff, around the tip of which strange black flames pulsed, and a tomb-blade that summoned actual tears from the streaming souls it touched.

‘Arkhan the Black,’ said Ramus in disbelief. He turned back from the gate and thrust his blazing reliquary towards the no-longer-so-distant Heavens. ‘The gate between Sigmaron and Stygxx has been unsealed!’

Mannfred slithered back like an adder. He shoved a ravenous ghast into Ramus’ and Hamilcar’s path. Arkhan gestured with his staff and the flesh-eater was withered on the spot, consumed in a puff of black flame. Mannfred pressed back against the spiked metal battlements and cast about in desperation. Spotting something that Ramus could not see through the intervening combatants and the debris thrown out by the wrecked bartizan, he dropped down. When he sprang back to his feet he had his sword arm locked around Vandalus’ throat and the Fang of Kadon pulsing over the Knight-Azyros’ heart, a crowing sneer on his lips. The Astral Templar looked dazed.

‘No closer, Stormcast.’

Hamilcar gave a mocking laugh and impaled a ghast to the halfway point of his weapon’s haft. ‘Look at who you’re speaking to. Do you think I fear for my brother’s life?’

With a scowl, Mannfred turned to Arkhan. ‘The Sea of Bones is our freedom. I could have conquered this realm and lived as a god. Imagine, if you can, what we could do together.’

‘I know my duty as I have always done since the earliest of days,’ the liche returned, his voice sepulchral and harsh. ‘The Undying King raised you high. You are one of his Mortarchs. But your fear of him and your jealousy of your fellow servants has unmade you.’ He lifted his staff. ‘It is, as always, my pleasure to serve him as his instrument in this.’

‘Ramus,’ said Mannfred, wheedling, turning from the heartless liche. ‘Do you think that Nagash will ever release the soul of your Lord-Celestant? Do you think he would ever release a soul of his? I am your only chance if you want to see Tarsus made whole again.’

‘I too know my duty,’ Ramus intoned. He barged aside a ghast that was wrestling with a Hallowed Knight for his thunderaxe, and made to run at Mannfred — only for a hulking orruk-zombie to clank into his path. Its axe thumped into Ramus’ shield.

‘A less craven cur would jump,’ said Arkhan. ‘The fall is long, but Nagash’s vengeance on you, prodigal, will be eternal.’

‘Let Nagash’s wrath atrophy as he does. He shall never claim me.’ Mannfred glared at Ramus and Hamilcar and raised the Fang of Kadon high. ‘And neither shall Sigmar.’

‘No!’ Ramus screamed. He knocked back the armoured zombie and hurled his shield.

It emitted a discus hum as it carved through the air, slicing the vampire into halves through the belly at the same moment that the Fang of Kadon plunged through Vandalus’ breastplate and impaled the Stormcast’s heart. Both howled as though struck by lightning. The channelled energy of the active realmgate pulsed from the Fang and through them both, suturing them together with stitches of Azyr-light. The vampire’s pale skin shone white. The Azyros glowed like a forge through the joins in his armour as though his blood had been transformed into thunder.

The light emitted a shrill, bat-like scream, and the two bodies folded into one another, flattened, thinned, dragged towards a central point around the Fang of Kadon, and then slurred out into a spitting portal. It was purple, as though discoloured by blood, and larger than any that Ramus had yet seen manifested over the Sea of Bones. But it lasted for barely a second. Blood spatter and bent bits of roasted armour fell over the tower top as it collapsed back on itself.

There was nothing left but smoke and a black stain on the ground.

Arkhan and Hamilcar advanced together. The liche poked at the ground with his staff while the Astral Templar sniffed at the air.

‘Is he dead?’ said Hamilcar.

‘The dead are not so easily destroyed, and that one lingers more determinedly than most. He will be somewhere within this realm. The Fang of Kadon manipulates the pathways that exist within worlds.’

‘I’ll find him,’ growled Hamilcar.

‘And I,’ said Ramus, solemnly.

‘Not you,’ said Arkhan. ‘I bring a message from Sigmar. Your work here is done. Mannfred is beaten, his ghouls broken, and his army will crumble before the sun sets. Your lord has other duties for the Hallowed Knights.’

Ramus’ bow was forced. The thought of Mannfred finding justice at the hands of another — any other, he thought, with a glance towards Hamilcar — pained him. He sighed.

‘Much is demanded of those to whom much is given.’

‘Quite so.’

Ramus felt himself smile. Perhaps the suffering endured by his chamber had all been part of Sigmar’s plan, had led him to this moment. The champions of the God-King and the Great Necromancer stood together in victory over a common foe. Somewhere in the far, far distance, something big and definitely alive delivered a cry of ‘Waaaggh!’

It was a reminder, if Ramus needed one, that the Sea of Bones must yet see one more battle.

And that not all alliances could last forever.

Josh Reynolds

Fury of Gork

Prologue

The Eight Lamentations

‘Speak, shaman — tell us the tale of Marrowcutter,’ Goreshroud growled. The Bloodbound was a tall man, covered in muscle and piecemeal armour scavenged from a hundred fields of slaughter. His eyes were obscured by a great scar in the shape of the rune of Khorne that covered the upper half of his skull, rising to meet his mane of fat-stiffened, crimson-dyed hair. Though he had no eyes, it was said that Goreshroud could see through those carved into the blade of his heavy, broad-bladed battle-axe. As he spoke, he thumped the ground with the bone-haft of the weapon. ‘Speak and tell us of that which I seek.’

His gathered chieftains growled assent, pounding the earth or clapping their hands. ‘Speak,’ they murmured as one. They were a varied lot: hillmen from the Ghurlands and silver-haired savages from the Boiling Mountains of Chamon, obsidian-clad reavers from the Shadowlands and Calderan horse-lords from the Felstone Plains of Aqshy. Goreshroud had stirred the embers of a conquering fire from the ashes of his past victories, binding his defeated opponents to his skull-bedecked banners. Soon, his armies would sweep across the Ghurlands, from the Gholian Heights to the Sea of Monsters. Or so he claimed, at every available opportunity.

Zazul of the Radiant Veil hunkered closer to the fire around which Goreshroud and his chosen headmen were gathered. The fire was one of a dozen that flickered amidst the long shadows of the boneyard. Goreshroud’s warriors had chosen the massive ribcage of some ancient leviathan as their encampment, trusting in the old bones to act as a palisade against the horrors that roamed the vast plain. They were overconfident and inobservant, and it would be their undoing, Zazul thought.

The Gargant’s Graveyard, as it had come to be known, stretched from one amber horizon to the next. It was covered in the sun-bleached remains of thousands of gargants, as well as other beasts, some larger, some smaller. Immense ribcages and titanic skulls the size of duardin citadels dotted the plain, dwarfing the bones of ogors and other nameless monstrosities that hunted the Ghurlands. The bones spread outwards like a grisly maze from a central point that few had seen and even fewer had lived to speak of. It was this point, and what lay within it, that Goreshroud had come to find.

‘On your feet, rag-and-bone man,’ Goreshroud said, gesturing sharply. ‘Up and speak. Speak to me of the glories that await me in the Howling Labyrinth. Speak to us of the hell-blade, Marrowcutter. Up! I command you.’ His chieftains added their voices to his, glaring at Zazul with impatience and eagerness. Some of them wanted to hear the story. Others were looking for any excuse to carve out his heart and offer it up to Khorne.

Zazul sighed and stood, careful not to let the illusions that cloaked him slip. To Goreshroud and his servants, he appeared as nothing more than a fur-clad shaman, bedecked in feathers and mouldering pelts, his filthy skin marked with crude scarification and tattoos. The Blood God was no friend to those who wove the skeins of magic and fate, and his servants dealt harshly with any sorcerer that they could not cow into subservience — especially if that sorcerer was a servant of the Changer of Ways.

‘In the beginning, before the Age of Blood, before the realms cracked and the four brothers made war upon one another, there was fire. From fire, came heat. From heat, shape. And shape split into eight. And the eight became as death,’ Zazul intoned. As he gestured, the fire flared up and things took shape within the writhing flames.

‘The eight were the raw stuff of Chaos, hammered and shaped to a killing edge by the sworn forgemasters of the dread Soulmaw, the chosen weaponsmiths of Khorne. To each forgemaster was given a task — to craft a weapon unlike any other, a weapon fit for a god. Or one as unto a god,’ he said, meeting Goreshroud’s eyeless gaze meaningfully. The deathbringer’s lip curled in a sneer, and he thumped the ground with the haft of his axe.

Fool, Zazul thought, even as he continued his tale. ‘Some, like Wolant Sevenhand, forgemaster of Chamon, crafted weapons of great size and little subtlety. It was said that the great iron-banded mace Sharduk, the Gate-smasher, could shatter walls and crack citadels.’ In the flames, a gigantic warrior clad in blood-stained armour struck a looming gate with a heavy mace, obliterating it. At this, the chieftains whistled and stamped their feet. Goreshroud chuckled and motioned for silence.

Zazul inclined his head and continued. ‘Others, like Qyat of the Folded Soul, forgemaster of Ulgu, crafted things of great subtlety — the spear called Gung, the Huntsman, which would always strike home, no matter how far or how fast its intended prey fled.’ He gestured, and in the flames the image of Gung took shape, a long haft of solid shadow and a broad blade of blackened silver. It squirmed like a thing alive, and Goreshroud’s chieftains murmured in awe. Zazul motioned again and the image was lost to the flames.

‘But one weapon was prized above all others,’ he said, ‘for a hundred and one greater daemons had been sacrificed in its forging by Volundr Skullcracker, the forgemaster of Aqshy. Their screaming essences were folded and beaten on an anvil of living bone, until they flowed together into the sword called the Worldsplitter — Marrowcutter.’

‘Marrowcutter,’ Goreshroud growled, as his chieftains murmured. ‘The Ur-sword, the Kinslayer, the Unmaker.’ He looked around. ‘A weapon worthy of an Eightfold Lord.’

‘Indeed, O most mighty Goreshroud,’ Zazul said meekly. He heard a caw, somewhere far above him and glanced up, through the latticework of cracked bones, towards the night sky. Black shapes circled above and he smiled thinly. Ah, finally, he thought.

‘Eight weapons in all were forged by the daemon-smiths,’ he continued. ‘Two for each of the four brothers, gifts to them from the eldest and mightiest of their number, and to himself as well. But the gods soon turned their thoughts from friendship and camaraderie, and towards domination. The four brothers were ever aligned only in opposition, and when their foes fled or faded, Khorne’s boundless fury was turned upon his kinsmen.’

The Bloodbound laughed at that. Khorne cared not from where the blood flowed, only that it flowed. Zazul hid a frown and said, ‘And as the realms shuddered and the Age of Chaos gave way to the Age of Blood, the weapons known as the Eight Lamentations were lost.’

‘Aye, but we have found one, eh, brothers?’ Goreshroud said, slapping his knee. ‘And guarded only by a few thousand greenskins… Easy pickings.’ He motioned to the nets full of orruk skulls that hung from the Khornate icons and lodge-poles thrust into the ground all about the campsite. ‘Good prey, the brutes, but hardly a challenge for Khorne’s own.’

‘Indeed, O most cunning of killers,’ Zazul said, bowing. In truth, the orruks were far more numerous than Goreshroud realised, and growing stronger all the time. The sound of their drums filled the night, echoing up from the depths of the Gargant’s Graveyard. They were gathering in the dark, and would soon flood the plain like a green tide. And there were others — champions of the Ruinous Powers from across the Ghurlands were stalking the boneyard, following the stories of Marrowcutter. ‘Marrowcutter waits at the heart of the Howling Labyrinth for a worthy claimant.’

‘And I shall be that claimant,’ Goreshroud said. ‘Goreshroud, wielder of Marrowcutter.’ He shoved himself to his feet and spread his arms. ‘Aye, has a nice ring to it, eh? What say you, brothers?’

As the Bloodbound cheered their leader, Zazul raised his hand. The flames flared once more, higher and brighter than before, turning from orange to red to purple. The gathered chieftains staggered away from the coruscating fire, blinded, their flesh singed. Goreshroud yelped and fell backwards. From deeper in the camp came a sudden cry, swiftly silenced. Goreshroud turned, eyeless face twisted in a grimace of consternation. ‘What—’ he began.

All at once, the night was alive with the sound of violence. Warriors cried out in alarm as shapes burst from the darkness and lunged between the thick bones around them. The air throbbed with the song of sorcery, and screams became screeches as men were transformed into mewling beasts or reduced to motes of coloured light. From above, a flock of ravens dived down through the vaulted reaches of the great ribcage. Goreshroud’s chieftains looked up in alarm as the birds plummeted towards them.

As the ravens filled the air above the fire, Zazul let his illusion lapse. Ragged furs and filthy flesh evaporated, replaced by robes of all colours and none, and armour made of beaten gold. His featureless helm was crafted from lazuli, carved by the silken chisels of the seer-masons of the Dusty Sea. Zazul spread his arms and lifted his staff.

‘Reveal yourselves! Let the Ninety-Nine Feathers show their talons, in the name of the King-of-all-Ravens and the debt you owe me,’ he chanted.

Ravens twisted and changed in mid-air, shedding feathers and growing arms and legs. Black-robed killers tumbled down among the awe-struck chieftains, and laid about them with curved swords and knives. Clad in black scale mail and robes beneath their feathered cloaks, their faces hidden behind black iron masks wrought in the shape of birds’ heads, the Ninety-Nine Feathers made for an intimidating sight. They fought in silence, wielding blade and magic with consummate skill.

Zazul watched the slaughter with detached amusement. A raven fluttered down and perched on his shoulder. ‘Thrice you have called upon the Ninety-Nine Feathers, and thrice we have aided thee, Radiant One,’ the bird croaked in a woman’s voice.

‘Yes, and one marker yet remains to be paid, my lady,’ Zazul said. ‘Four debts thy cabal owes me, and four services shall ye perform.’

‘And then we are free?’

‘As free as any in this world,’ Zazul said, after a moment. He heard a bird-like scream and saw one of the black-clad sorcerer-champions slump, Goreshroud’s axe buried in his skull. As the deathbringer wrenched his weapon free, Zazul waved the Ninety-Nine Feathers aside, opening a path between himself and Goreshroud.

‘Who are you?’ the deathbringer growled.

‘I am Zazul, mighty Goreshroud,’ Zazul said, one gilded claw resting on the azure pommel stone of the curved sword sheathed at his waist. ‘I am one of nine, ordained by the Architect of Fate. The twisting paths of the future are mine to scry and walk, the webs of fate mine to weave… or cull.’ The sounds of battle rose up from within the palisade of bones. Goreshroud’s warriors were faring badly by the sound of things. With their chieftains dead and their commander preoccupied, they were at the mercy of their enemies. Those who did not fall here would scatter into the Gargant’s Graveyard, there to become prey for orruks or worse things.

Goreshroud raised his axe. ‘Pretty words, worm. Even so, I will mount your veiled skull on my lodge-pole,’ he said. One of the raven-warriors leapt at him, and the deathbringer bisected him with a lazy sweep of his axe. Goreshroud charged through the fire, scattering embers, axe raised. Zazul gestured, and Goreshroud’s axe slammed down against a shimmering prismatic shield. Goreshroud howled and hacked at the shield, seemingly unable to grasp that his weapon could not pierce it.

Zazul looked past the deathbringer and caught sight of a shimmering figure striding through the dark. He chuckled. Of course — she wishes to be in at the kill, he thought, as the newcomer struck an icon with the flat of her sword.

At the quavering peal, Goreshroud turned, scarred features crinkling. ‘You… I know you,’ he said.

‘I daresay you do,’ the newcomer said. She wore armour composed of what appeared to be multicoloured crystal or glass. Intricately wrought and delicate looking as it was, Zazul knew that it was stronger than steel. Upon her head was a high-crested, open-faced helm of the same material. The crest was made from flowing streamers of pale smoke, as was the buckler on her arm. The curved blade of crystal in her other hand was stained crimson.

‘I heard you were driven from the mountains by the lightning-men, Sharizad,’ Goreshroud said. ‘They killed your siblings and cast down your standards.’

‘And they shattered your conclave and drove you from Hookjaw Cove, eyeless one,’ Sharizad, the Shimmering Countess, said demurely. She extended her blade. ‘As the Great Black Fox whispers, defeat is but the lesson one must learn to achieve victory.’

‘Those are your wolves out there, then, attacking my followers,’ Goreshroud grunted. ‘Trust a sorceress to attack in so cowardly a fashion.’

‘If by cowardice you mean cunning, well… we are but as the gods made us,’ Sharizad said, with an elegant shrug.

Goreshroud licked his lips and spun his axe. ‘I was raised by the wolf and the stallion, witch,’ he said. He stepped towards the Shimmering Countess, his weapon raised. ‘An eagle circled my mother’s birthing-yurt eight times. My destiny—’

‘Your destiny is to be but a footnote in my own,’ Sharizad said. ‘A fate for which you are well suited.’

Goreshroud gave a roar and charged towards her, his axe sweeping out in a savage arc. The two warriors traded blows as they spun about the campsite in a brutal gavotte. Goreshroud was the stronger of the two, but lacked his opponent’s finesse. He could turn bone to powder with a single blow, but that blow first had to land. Sharizad twisted and whirled, avoiding the broad sweep of her opponent’s axe with calculated ease. Goreshroud grew angrier with every missed strike, and what little discipline he possessed began to fray. Soon, he was frothing at the mouth and howling every curse he knew. His blows grew wilder and more desperate, but still Sharizad stayed out of reach, baiting him with light caresses from her own blade, drawing blood and wounding her foe’s pride.

Finally, the deathbringer could stand it no more. With a howl fit to shake the boneyard, he hurled himself at the Shimmering Countess, axe raised over his head. Zazul watched with no small amount of pleasure as the Shimmering Countess sidestepped the deathbringer’s berserk charge and buried her crystalline sword in his back. Goreshroud fell onto his hands and knees, vomiting blood.

Sharizad set her foot against the back of his neck and wrenched the sword free. Goreshroud sank down and lay still, his axe sliding from his grip. The countess held her sword up to the firelight, watching as her opponent’s blood was absorbed into the irregular facets of the weapon’s blade.

‘Such a fine weapon,’ she murmured. ‘But there is a finer one by far to be had, is there not, my Zazul?’

Zazul inclined his head. ‘So my little birds have said.’ He stroked the raven perched on his shoulder. ‘They also bring word — time grows short. Goreshroud will not be the last. Every warlord in the region worth his salt will be hurrying this way. Not just Bloodbound, but Rotbringers and pleasure-hounds as well. Even the ratkin. Many are here already.’

‘Of that, I am well aware. I traded sword-strokes with the Knight of Silk not a day ago before the poltroon fled, and heard the wheezing bellows of the Black-Iron King at a distance.’ Sharizad sheathed her sword with a flourish. ‘And yet, what of it? Is my destiny not paramount in this moment, in this place? Why should I fear lesser fates?’

‘Things grow uncertain when many destinies converge,’ Zazul said patiently. Sharizad was demanding and ambitious, as well as cunning, and the combination made her tempestuous. ‘The skeins of fate overlap and interweave confusingly here. What was once solid becomes fluid. Your victory is assured, O Destined Queen, but so too are the destinies of those who move in opposition to you. Fools like Goreshroud, or the Black-Iron King,’ he continued. ‘A hundred chieftains, champions and heroes are even now stalking these bone-fields, and each one has as much claim on victory as you.’

‘None have as much claim as me,’ Sharizad said.

‘None, perhaps save the dogs of Sigmar,’ Zazul said. He motioned to the dark sky. ‘You heard the thunder, yes? A storm pursues you, Sharizad. And it will find you before you leave here. That much, at least, the spirits say.’

Sharizad glared at him. ‘I fear no storm, celestial or otherwise. But I take your point.’ She looked down at Goreshroud. ‘We must winnow the grain from the chaff. I will not be denied again, sorcerer.’ She pointed at him with her blade. ‘Marrowcutter will be mine. You have sworn it, my Zazul, and I will hold you to that promise.’

Zazul bowed obsequiously. ‘I have sworn to aid thee, O Many-Splendoured One, and so I shall.’ He caught sight of one of the skull-nets dangling from the Khornate icons planted about the fire. As he straightened, he gestured and the net unravelled. One of the orruk skulls floated into his waiting hand and he proffered it to Sharizad.

‘In fact,’ he said, ‘I believe I have just the tool for the task…’

Chapter One

The Fist of Gork

The Black-Iron King roared hollowly and charged. The deathbringer’s baroque, smoke-spewing armour creaked shrilly as he trampled over bloodreavers and the orruks they battled alike in his haste to reach his foe. The fiery maul he wielded tore flesh and crushed bone as he swept it out in a vicious arc to clear his path.

‘Deliver thyself to me, beastling — I am thy doom, and the doom of all thy kind!’ the Black-Iron King thundered, pulverising an orruk too slow to get out of his way. He had been shouting the same thing for hours, calling for Gordrakk. And, at last, Gordrakk, the Fist of Gork, had decided to oblige him.

After days of skirmishing, the orruks had cornered their foe in a narrow canyon made from the spread skeletal jaws of some long-dead monster. Now, the Five Fists of Gordrakk pummelled the Black-Iron Legion with a relentlessness that set even the most hardened worshippers of the Blood God back on their heels. Ardboys, led by brawling brutes, clashed with armoured reavers amid a forest of sun-bleached fangs. Their confrontation saw thick clouds of dust thrown into the air, blotting out the light of the amber suns far above.

The maw-krusha bounded forwards with a peculiar hopping gait, its scaly jaws wide. It was larger than anything else on the battlefield, save perhaps the Black-Iron King himself. The beast crashed down, flattening an unwary blood warrior beneath its bulk. Gordrakk thumped Chompa on the head with the haft of one of the axes he carried, eliciting a thunderous bellow. Those blood warriors closest to the maw-krusha died instantly, bones shattered and brains burst by the incoherent force of that furious sound. Those who survived, and made it past the maw-krusha’s jaws and talons, leapt onto the creature, scrambling towards its rider.

Gordrakk laughed and stood up in his saddle. He clashed his axes together and tore them apart in a spray of sparks. Kunnin’ hummed in his grip, whispering in one ear, while its twin, Smasha, bellowed in his other. Gordrakk’s head was always filled with noise — just the way he liked it. Silence was boring. The axes had been silent until he had pulled them apart, making two weapons where there had once only been one. Two axes were better than one; this way he had one for each hand, and could crack twice as many skulls.

The boss-of-bosses whipped Kunnin’ out in a shallow arc, cutting the legs out from under a blood warrior, even as he crumpled the chest-plate of another with Smasha. He blocked a blow from an enemy axe and gutted its wielder. He twisted, driving an armoured shoulder into an opponent’s chest, and knocking him backwards off Chompa’s skull. Before the warrior could rise, Chompa crushed him with a massive fist. Gordrakk thumped the beast with his foot.

‘Oi, he was mine, ya greedy git. Get your own!’

Chompa roared in protest and swung its thick arms, slapping Bloodbound from their feet. Axes and heavy blades bounced off the monster’s thick hide even as it smashed their wielders into paste. Gordrakk bellowed laughter and fell back into his saddle as Chompa surged instinctively forwards, carrying them towards the heart of the fray. Gordrakk had ridden many maw-krushas in his life, but only one equalled his sheer, unbridled lust for battle. He urged Chompa to greater speed, kicking its flanks.

The Black-Iron King held court at the centre of the narrow battlefield, surrounded by the broken bodies of brutes and ardboys. The Chaos-nob was tough, no two ways there. Gordrakk leaned forwards in his saddle, eager for the fight to come. At Chompa’s roar, the smoke-wreathed shape of the deathbringer whirled about and extended his maul.

‘Yes. Come to me, beastling. Come, Gordrakk, and meet your prophesied doom,’ the Black-Iron King shouted. ‘The Allslaughter has been drawn and the wings of death shadow you!’

Gordrakk blinked and glanced up, and saw carrion-birds circling overhead. He laughed. The Chaos-nobs always talked rubbish. They talked before they fought and while they fought — talk, talk, talk. Even so, Gordrakk couldn’t help but feel a bit of pride. Everyone had heard of Gordrakk, the Fist of Gork. Even the iron-shod Chaos-things and the duardin in their deep-holds. It was good that they knew him and came looking for a scrap. It meant he always had a fight waiting, wherever he went, even if he didn’t know where that was until he got there.

He urged Chompa forwards and roared, scattering his warriors. This was his fight and his alone; his boys knew better than to get between the Fist of Gork and his foe. For his part, the Black-Iron King seemed to welcome Gordrakk’s charge. He spread his long arms and set his feet. As Chompa drew near, the deathbringer took a two-handed grip on his maul and swung it out. The weapon slammed across Chompa’s scaly jaw, staggering the beast.

Gordrakk growled and vaulted from the saddle as Chompa swayed drunkenly. He slid down the maw-krusha’s snout and dropped to the ground, axes whistling out in opposite directions to drive the Black-Iron King back several steps.

‘At last,’ the deathbringer rumbled. ‘The gods have spoken, brute, and your death shall be my stepping stone to—’

Gordrakk lunged, driving his skull against the ridged helm of his opponent. The deathbringer reeled with a metallic squawk. Gordrakk bulled into him, knocking him back.

‘Talk or fight, not both,’ he snarled as they broke apart.

‘Ho, it speaks!’ the Black-Iron King rasped. ‘Good. You shall be able to beg for mercy.’ He tromped forwards, joints creaking, vents hissing. The fiery maul looped out in a blow that would have removed Gordrakk’s head, had he not swayed beneath it. Kunnin’ whispered to him in Mork’s voice, or maybe Gork’s, calling his attention to his foe’s armour. There — a chink in one of the joins.

Swiftly, Gordrakk whipped both axes up and around, slamming them into the weak spot as one. The Black-Iron King screamed and stiffened. Gordrakk tore Smasha free and drove it down again. Cracks formed, running along the seams of the daemon-armour. Wherever Smasha struck, even the strongest iron buckled. Foul gases and smoke spewed from the deathbringer’s armour as he sank to one knee.

Weakly, desperately, he swung his maul, trying to drive Gordrakk back. ‘Doom… I am your doom… It was written…’ the Black-Iron King gasped in disbelief. Gordrakk laughed and hit him again. He used the edge of one axe to hook the head of his opponent’s maul and tug it from his grip. The Black-Iron King lurched forwards, clawing for the weapon. ‘Doom…’ he wheezed.

‘Shut it,’ Gordrakk growled. He drove the other axe into the back of his foe’s helmet. Hell-forged metal crumpled and split. Ichor spewed and a convulsion ran through the Black-Iron King’s gigantic frame. Then, with a whine of abused metal, he toppled forwards and lay still. Gordrakk set his foot on the dead warrior’s skull and lifted his axes. ‘Gorka-MORKA!’ he roared.

‘GORKA-morka-GORKA-morka!’ his warriors began to chant, stamping their feet and clashing their weapons, until the bones that rose up around them trembled. The remaining Chaos-things were fleeing now, scarpering back into the maze of bones. All the fight had been knocked out of them by the death of their chieftain.

Gordrakk spread his arms, soaking up the adulation of his boys. This was what it meant to be the boss-of-bosses. He was the best, the biggest, the baddest and the most blessed. Gorkamorka spoke to him, in his head, and punched him in the heart, filling him with divine fury. His fury was shared by the rest of the Ironjawz. The Big Waaagh! was coming. They could all feel it in their bones, rising up from the soles of their feet to the tops of their heads — it was like being hit by lightning all the time. Gordrakk threw back his head and roared wordlessly.

It didn’t matter what their enemies did, how hard they fought or how well they hid — the Ironjawz always found them and gave them a beating. He lowered his arms, looked down at the trio of heads that dangled from his belt and gave them an affectionate thump. He knew all their names: Oleander Hume, the Knight of Silk; Poxfinger; Baron Slaughterthorn. It was good to know the names of those you had beaten. That was the word of Gorkamorka, and it was good enough for Gordrakk.

He hefted Smasha and hewed through the Black-Iron King’s gorget with a single blow. The smoking helm rolled free and Gordrakk snatched it up. It would look fine hanging from his back-banner. Fights were already breaking out as the boys fell to looting the dead. The Chaos-things had good armour and sharp weapons, needing only a bit of work to make them properly fighty. Gordrakk ignored the brawling as he looked around. Chompa snuffled at the ground nearby, piggy eyes glaring angrily at an approaching mob of megabosses. He punched the maw-krusha before it could get any ideas, and took hold of one tusk. He met the beast’s glare with his own and, after a few moments, Chompa grumbled and settled down.

Gordrakk turned to watch the other bosses draw near. He had cracked the skulls of each of them, thumping them into line, the same as he had done to Chompa. They didn’t resent it — if you got your head smashed, you followed the one doing the smashing. That was just the way of it. Granted, if you thought you could smash the boss’ head, you were expected to try. Gordrakk clashed his axes together as they got close, just to remind them that he was the killiest and smashiest. Kunnin’ murmured observations in his head: Drokka was still favouring his right knee and Grotrak had gone mostly deaf after taking a blow to the head. Morgrum was getting bored and Roklud wanted to krump Morgrum. And Stabbajak, the one-eyed grunta-boss, was thinking that Gordrakk’s head would look good on the end of his gore-stikka. Gordrakk smiled toothily.

The megabosses weren’t alone. Warchanter Grund was idly smacking the carved femurs he carried together, forever lost to a wild rhythm only he could hear. Clad in a harness made from the tusks of gore-gruntas and other beasts, Grund was a hulking brute, made all the more fearsome by the scars that covered his knotted flesh and the crude tattoos that covered what the scars didn’t.

Gordrakk knew the warchanter’s head was empty of everything save the drumbeat of the twin hearts of Gork and Mork, calling all proper orruks to war.

‘Good scrap, good,’ Grund said. He sank into a crouch beside the body of the Black-Iron King and began to beat out a rhythm on the dead warrior’s back. ‘They know us now — know we is the best,’ Grund continued. ‘Soon, everybody going to know that Ironjawz is the best.’

‘They already know,’ Gordrakk rumbled. ‘We’re just reminding them.’ He looked at the other megabosses. ‘Loot ’em quick, then get your boys up on their boots. We got to go.’

‘Go? Go where?’ Stabbajak said, scratching up under his eye patch with the tip of his stikka. Gordrakk’s lip curled. ‘We got somewhere to be?’

‘We’re going where I say, Stabbajak. You got a problem with that?’

‘Maybe.’ Stabbajak’s good eye narrowed. Gordrakk met his gaze and held it, until the other megaboss looked away. ‘No,’ Stabbajak muttered.

‘No, you don’t,’ Gordrakk said. He set his axes across his brawny shoulders, the Black-Iron King’s helm dangling from the blade of Smasha. ‘But I’ll tell you anyways, you git. We’re goin’ to the Big Skull, lads. Make a good jaw-fort, that.’ He jerked his chin towards the distant shape of the Big Skull. The megabosses murmured among themselves. Gordrakk ignored them.

The Big Skull was the biggest bone in the Gargant’s Graveyard. It rose like a cracked and yellowing mountain above the plain. The maze that was the boneyard radiated outwards from it in all directions. Some boys whispered that the skull had belonged to one of the monsters Gorkamorka and the Hammer God had beaten to death in order to make the foundations for all the worlds. Gordrakk liked that story, and he liked the Big Skull. But more importantly, he liked the thing that sat atop the skull.

It was never the same shape twice… Sometimes it was a crown, sometimes a tower. Once it had looked like a box. When the wind was right, he could hear it groaning and shifting, like iron rubbing against iron. Occasionally, he could even hear it howling.

Something about it plucked at him. He felt like Gork’s — or maybe Mork’s — finger was on his head, forcing him to look at the Big Skull and whatever strange thing sprawled across the top. He could hear the gods whispering in his ears, urging him on. They had called him and his fists to the Gargant’s Graveyard, promising a scrap to remember, a fight to end all fights. So far, it had been fun enough, but the need to scale the Big Skull, to see what was at the top, was getting harder and harder to ignore.

Gordrakk kicked the Black-Iron King’s body, eliciting a hollow creak. ‘Ain’t seen any more Chaos-things. They hiding. Or running. Maybe we could find ’em easier from someplace high, yeah?’ he growled. He glared about challengingly. Only one set of eyes met his. The hunched, hooded shape of the shaman, Jabberjaw, stood off to the side, scratching himself idly. No one liked to get too close to the weirdnob. He smelt funny, and skulls tended to pop when he started twitching.

As always, a bevy of carrion-birds circled him, or hopped on the ground at his feet, cawing and scolding any boy who got within pecking distance. Like with their master, there was something… off about the birds. More than one orruk had tried to make a snack of them, only to go missing. Gordrakk didn’t care if they ate a few stragglers. Chompa’s appetite was far worse. The big maw-krusha had eaten an entire war-sty of gore-gruntas once. Stabbajak had been beside himself.

‘You got something ta say, Jabberjaw?’ Gordrakk asked. He already knew the answer. Jabberjaw was called that for a good reason. He was always saying things, yammering on and on and on.

‘Just thinking,’ Jabberjaw said, eyes unfocussed. ‘Spirits are whisperin’…’

‘Talk, you git,’ Gordrakk grunted, slugging the weirdnob. The shaman stumbled and sank to one knobby knee. His birds squawked and shot into the air, circling overhead, their beady eyes gleaming. The megabosses lurched back, eyes narrowed in nervous anticipation. Most orruks didn’t beat on weirdnobs, even if they deserved a kicking. The shamans tended to explode if they were treated too roughly. But Gordrakk wasn’t most orruks.

Jabberjaw rubbed his face and glared at Gordrakk. Gordrakk placed the flat of Kunnin’ underneath the shaman’s chin and lifted his head. ‘Tell me what you seen, Jabberjaw, or I’ll feed you to Stabbajak’s gore-gruntas one bit at a time,’ he growled. ‘Just like I did to the last four weirdnobs who made me angry.’

‘No more Chaos-things,’ Jabberjaw said.

‘Yeah,’ Gordrakk said slowly. ‘I said that, didn’t I?’

‘Don’t mean ain’t no more fighting to be had,’ Jabberjaw said, slyly. He snatched a bird off his shoulder and stroked its head roughly. ‘Spirits hear things, see things… Hear a rumbling in the sky, O mighty Fist of Gork…’

Gordrakk blinked. ‘A storm,’ he grunted. There were always storms, these days. The skies were always thick with clouds and rain. Lightning burned holes in the ground, and set fire to the grasslands. Thunder growled and set the herds to stampeding. It was a war-storm. Wherever the Chaos boys were, the storms followed, spitting armoured warriors down. ‘Storm means storm-things,’ he said.

‘Spirits say they coming, marching through the bones,’ Jabberjaw said. He released his bird and it flew away, croaking. Chompa reared up and snapped at it, but the bird flapped out of reach of the maw-krusha.

Gordrakk glanced up at the dracoth skull on his back-banner, eyes narrowed. He scraped the blade of Kunnin’ against one of the lightning-bolt glyphs he had hammered onto his armour after the last time he had krumped the storm-things.

‘You think the Hammer God wants another fight?’ he grunted, looking back at Jabberjaw. ‘That’d be good, yeah?’ He looked around. Orruks nodded eagerly, excited by the prospect. There was nothing Ironjawz loved more than a good scrap, and the storm-things scrapped better than most. If nothing else, it would make a nice change from the Chaos-things. ‘Yeah,’ he rumbled.

He looked at Grund. ‘Thump the bones, warchanter,’ Gordrakk growled. Grund chuckled and began to beat on the ground with his makeshift clubs. He let loose a howl that was soon picked up by the megabosses and, finally, Gordrakk himself.

Somewhere, back among the brawl, the other warchanters began to howl and stamp their feet. Gordrakk could feel the drumbeat of war in his head and heart, and his axes were talking to him, telling him where to go and what to hit. The Big Skull could wait.

Gordrakk threw back his head and slammed his axes together. ‘GORKA-morka! Gorka-MORKA! GORKAMORKA!’ he roared, and the Ironjawz roared with him.

From behind his shroud of illusion, Zazul of the Radiant Veil watched Gordrakk bellow in barbaric joy. The temptation to simply incinerate the brute then and there was nigh-irresistible. It had dared to strike him, and he had never been the sort to allow such humiliations go unpunished. But the creature was no fool, despite its single-minded nature. It hungered for battle the way another beast might hunger for meat. But it was no blood-simple lunatic like Goreshroud or the recently deceased Black-Iron King. There was an ember of cunning there; he had to be careful, lest it grow into a flame.

It was much the same with Sharizad. The Shimmering Countess was too clever by half — if she learned of his true purpose, she would not be pleased. She thought of him as a servant, one slave amongst many, and he intended to keep it that way. Until the time was right and he forced her to kneel at last before the Grand Marshal of Chaos himself. He cherished that thought, and her probable reaction. Such a moment would make every trial and degradation he had endured in the course of this venture worthwhile.

It had taken him years of careful study and relentless searching to find the Howling Labyrinth, and even longer to find a champion capable of penetrating its tangle of corridors. How many had he fed to the maze — a hundred? Two hundred?

I have not failed one hundred times, merely found one hundred ways that will not work, he thought. An old saying, in the incense-choked libraries of the Forbidden City, and one often associated with the works of the being known as the Daemoniac Conundrum.

The Daemoniac Conundrum was — or had been, or perhaps would be — a trickster without equal. Even such dread pranksters as the Changeling or the Queen of Foxes could not hope to equal the Conundrum for japes and drollery. The Conundrum was malevolent and troublesome, and it was whispered that even the Architect of Fate was wary of its schemes. The Conundrum had been banished from the Forbidden City, the only creature Zazul knew of to suffer such a fate.

A favoured ploy of the Conundrum was to craft cunning structures — mazes and labyrinths, folded citadels and furled castles — and place at their heart prisoners and items of importance. How the Conundrum acquired these prizes in the first place was unknown. Some thought it had spies in every realm, seeking out such things as might be fit for its purposes. Others said that the Daemoniac Conundrum simply waited until one of its puzzles was solved, and then ensured that what was found within was stolen away at some earlier point along the thread of history.

Zazul was of the opinion that the Conundrum was a test, a tool of the Great Deceiver, a stone on which the minds of the faithful could be sharpened. He glanced up at the distant shape of what the orruks so eloquently called the Big Skull. He had wrested the location for the labyrinth from daemons. They had claimed that the skull was that of Agorath, one of the great star-leviathans that prowled the black seas of infinity. Supposedly, the Daemoniac Conundrum had used Marrowcutter to slay the beast, after a hunt lasting centuries. Now, the vast skull marked the tomb in which the Worldsplitter rested…

Unless, of course, the daemons were lying, Zazul thought. That was always a possibility. Daemons were little more than falsehoods made flesh, and one had to sift carefully through their words to find the merest kernels of truth. More than one of his schemes had gone awry thanks to a daemon’s gleeful whispers. It would be unfortunate if that were the case now.

The orruks had been a surprise. They were everywhere, but he had not expected such… discipline, for lack of a better word. The daemons he had consulted had not warned him of Gordrakk’s interest in the Gargant’s Graveyard. The Ironjawz had flooded the plain of bones, driving every living thing before them.

It hadn’t been easy, ingratiating himself to the horde. Zazul had a thousand faces, but most were human. The orruks were suffused with a strange, belligerent form of magic that wore on his mind and soul. It was akin to clinging to a stone, amid a roaring river. One false move, one slip, and his illusions would be washed away, leaving him stranded at the heart of the warhorde, surrounded by thousands of angry orruks.

Zazul had no doubt that he could fight his way free. Armies of savages were as nothing to the sorcerer who had seared the skies of Yithe and shattered the vast heart-columns of the Living Fortress. For the moment, he had Gordrakk aimed away from the Howling Labyrinth. But there was no telling how long that would last.

Something was drawing the brute to the Big Skull, though whether it was instinct or something more sinister, Zazul didn’t yet know. Nor did he intend to let his curiosity get the better of him. Not this time. The Stormcasts would keep Gordrakk occupied long enough for Sharizad to penetrate the mysteries of the Howling Labyrinth. Once Marrowcutter was in her hands, no force in this realm would be able to stand against the Shimmering Countess.

And then… Well. He sighed in satisfaction and reached up to stroke the raven perched on his shoulder. ‘The dogs of Sigmar are sniffing at our threshold, my dear. Have you ever had the pleasure of their company?’

‘No,’ the raven cawed. ‘They make the world feel… wrong.’

‘Indeed. They burn the air and land, erasing illusion and whimsy where they pass. Fit prey, I should think, for your sort.’ Zazul looked around. None of the orruks gave any sign that they thought it strange that Jabberjaw should speak to birds. ‘They will have scouts — winged killers, riding the storm-winds,’ Zazul murmured to the raven. ‘Find them. I want the dogs of Sigmar blinded and stumbling, dear sister. I want to know where they are at all times.’

‘Not your sister,’ the raven croaked. ‘You are not of our cabal, crooked soul. This will be our final service to you, magus.’

‘No, my dear. This is but the first part of your final service. An enemy for an enemy, as we agreed so long ago in the City of Corkscrew Towers,’ Zazul whispered, stroking the raven gently. ‘One more enemy, and then you and the rest of the Ninety-Nine Feathers are free to flee this realm if that is what you wish.’ He flung the raven into the air and it circled him once before flapping off. The others rose from their perches and joined their sister.

Zazul watched them go. It would be a shame the day he lost the services of the Ninety-Nine Feathers. They were useful tools. Unlike many sorcerers, the raven-cabal were focussed in their studies to an incredible degree. They had been pre-eminent assassins once, hunting the mad shadows of the Sideways City and serving the quarrelsome sorcerer-lords of the aerie-citadels of the Amber Veldt in their internecine feuds. He wondered if there was a way to retain their servitude, short of outright force — then discarded the thought as a problem for another day.

Right now, there were more immediate issues to consider. Neither Gordrakk nor the Stormcasts could be allowed to interfere with Sharizad’s quest. Marrowcutter had to be found, and it would be Zazul’s tool who found it.

Once Marrowcutter and the rest of the Eight Lamentations were in the hands of Archaon’s chosen champions, the true war could begin — the final war that would see the entirety of the Mortal Realms consumed by the Realm of Chaos. That was the singular goal of Zazul and his fellow Gaunt Summoners.

And when that day comes, brute, your head shall be first on the block, Zazul thought, glaring at Gordrakk.

The boss-of-bosses had clambered back into his maw-krusha’s saddle. He hauled on the chains that were wrapped around the beast’s neck, forcing the monster to rear up. The maw-krusha thumped its barrel chest and gave vent to an earth-shaking bellow, echoed by its rider. The Five Fists of Gordrakk were marching to war. And the dogs of Sigmar would never know what hit them.

Chapter Two

Stormwalkers

‘Hold them back, Beast-bane!’ Zephacleas bellowed, as the horde of orruks crashed against the shield wall of the Astral Templars in a frenzied wave. The Lord-Celestant of the Beast-bane tore his runeblade free of an orruk’s gut and booted the creature backwards into its fellows. He was a giant of a man, even among the Stormcasts, and he laughed savagely as he wielded hammer and blade alongside his warriors.

He, and by extension his Warrior Chamber, had earned their war-name in the wilds of Azyrheim, hunting the monstrous beasts that still lurked in the high crags and deep canyons of the mountains of the Celestial Realm. At the head of his chamber, Zephacleas had slain the Black Bull of Nordrath. Together, they had harried the beast-packs of the Antarktos Ridge to extinction, slaughtering the white-furred goat-headed servants of Chaos to the last scrawny beast-warrior.

But Ghur was not Azyr, and its dangers were its own. Everywhere he looked, orruk clashed with Stormcast. The brutes bellowed joyfully as they traded blows with the equally vocal Astral Templars. Shields crunched into green faces and saw-toothed clubs drew sparks from sigmarite plates as the two sides shoved against one another in the wide canyon of bone. Over the clangour of battle rose the steady beat of orruk war-drums from somewhere deep within the Gargant’s Graveyard.

The orruks had attacked suddenly, rushing wildly out of the heaps and crags of piled bone that made up the canyon walls and the vast, vaulted archways of ribcages and broken spinal columns.

‘Steady the shield wall, Nine-strike, we have to keep their attention,’ Zephacleas shouted.

‘I know my duty, Lord-Celestant. See to your own,’ Taros Nine-strike said, grinning slightly. The Lord-Castellant of the Beast-bane was almost as broad as Zephacleas was tall, and his thick amethyst war-plate was covered in the marks of battle. A pack of screeching gryph-hounds paced at his feet. They were heavy-bodied creatures, each with the limbs and torso of a great hunting hound and the head of a bird of prey. They could rip the throat out of an unarmoured man in a matter of moments, and had been known to give even Stormcasts a few uncomfortable minutes, if they were of a mind. Occasionally one of the raptor-headed beasts would dart out from between the Stormcasts in the shield wall to hamstring or disembowel an unlucky orruk.

‘Aye,’ Zephacleas said. ‘So I shall.’ He raised his weapons and brought them together. Lightning flared and crackled between hammer and blade as he wrenched them apart, casting strange shadows across the purple armour of his warriors. ‘To me, Beast-bane! Duras, Thetaleas — bare your fangs, my brothers,’ he roared, as he stepped back, out of the fray.

As he called out to his retinues, Zephacleas scanned the battle-line, searching it for weakness. He gave a grunt of satisfaction when he found none. His warriors knew the ways of the orruks of old — the greenskins were as dangerous as any Chaos-tainted warhorde, at twice the numbers. But for all their savagery, they were not things of Chaos. Indeed, they had even been allies of men once, in the dim days of ages past, before the splintering of Sigmar’s pantheon and the fall of the Allpoints.

Sigmar willing, they will be allies again, Zephacleas thought. Hopefully before he had to kill too many of them.

‘Brothers,’ he said, as Duras and Thetaleas joined him. ‘It’s time for a sortie. Care to join me?’

‘Always, my lord,’ Duras said. The Liberator-Prime scraped together the two warblades he carried. Zephacleas nodded in satisfaction. Duras was a fierce one. He had earned his war-name in the Boralis Mountains, after stalking a Chaos-touched crag-bear for seven days, tracking it to its lair and slaying it. And like Thetaleas, he too had been at the Gnarlwood, and learned its lessons well. As had they all…

He looked at Thetaleas. The Decimator-Prime inclined his head.

‘Let us bring them peace, one stroke at a time,’ he rumbled, hefting his thunderaxe meaningfully.

Zephacleas laughed. ‘Yes. Taros!’ he called, turning towards the Lord-Castellant.

Taros nodded and raised his halberd. ‘Arcos, take your warriors forwards five paces, staggered formation,’ the Lord-Castellant called out to a nearby Liberator-Prime. ‘Form a barbican, as we did at Black-Claw Ridge. The rest of you, hold fast.’

‘Aye, Lord-Castellant,’ Arcos said. Liberators advanced behind their shields, warblades held low to thrust into bellies and legs. A crippled foe was as good as a dead one, in close quarters. The Liberators pressed the orruks back, and the shield wall tightened behind them, creating a bubble of sigmarite in the battle-line.

‘Brace yourselves,’ Taros shouted, as a knot of orruks breached the closing wall of sigmarite and forced their way past the Stormcasts. The Lord-Castellant whirled his halberd out in a tight circle, and the orruks were knocked sprawling by the blow. Stunned, the greenskins made easy prey for the warblade-armed Liberators who waited behind the shield wall. Those orruks that escaped the butchery were bowled under by yowling gryph-hounds, and torn apart by savage beaks and talons.

‘Your gate awaits,’ Taros said, glancing at Zephacleas as he wrenched his halberd-blade free of an orruk’s skull. Zephacleas dipped his head in acknowledgement and turned towards the shield wall, Thetaleas and Duras at his heels. Liberators pulled their shields in and stepped aside.

Without stopping, Zephacleas caught the edge of his sigmarite warcloak and swirled it, unleashing the enchantment woven into its folds. Mystic hammers erupted from the edges of the cloak and hurtled into the onrushing ranks of orruks. Green flesh was pulped and torn, and the orruks retreated in disarray. The lull wouldn’t last for long, Zephacleas knew.

Zephacleas and the others advanced as the greenskins retreated. The warriors formed a ragged line and began to trot towards the regrouping creatures.

‘We are ruin,’ Zephacleas said.

‘We are destruction,’ the warriors around him responded, as they moved. Their savagery matched his and, for a moment, he was a mortal again, fighting alongside his clansmen, the heat of battle rising in their veins, their foes falling before them.

‘We are death!’ Zephacleas roared.

‘Death and ruin!’ His warriors bellowed in reply, their voices mingling, becoming a single fierce note of promise. It was a simple sort of cry, and prone to being bent out of shape, when the mood struck him or his auxiliary commanders. He did not hold with words set in stone or prayers forged from iron. For the Beast-bane, the song of battle was always different. Yet it served its purpose as well as any hammer or blade.

In this case, it was an enticement. The orruks responded as he had hoped, bellowing their own war-songs as they lunged forwards to meet Zephacleas and his warriors.

That’s right, keep looking at us, he thought. It was an old hunter’s trick: keep the prey focussed on what was in front of or behind it, rather than what might be coming up alongside. And the easiest way to do that with orruks was to give them someone to fight. Someone out in the open.

That was the lesson of the Gnarlwood. Four Warrior Chambers of Astral Templars had entered that bleak forest and cleansed it of its loathsome inhabitants, despite heavy losses. Zephacleas himself had taken the three monstrous heads of Grand-King Gidhora, the beastlord who had ruled there. It was while fighting the beastlord’s innumerable war-herds that his Warrior Chamber had learned that no shield wall, no matter how strong, could last indefinitely; that no defence was impregnable, and no foe unbreakable. And, perhaps most importantly of all, that the best defence was a good offence.

Zephacleas cracked a green head with his hammer and tore his sword free of the dying orruk’s chest. They took a lot of killing. They were sturdier than most things that walked the Mortal Realms.

A crude blade, made of jagged metal and studded with fangs ripped from the jaw of some beast, crashed down on his shoulder-plate. Zephacleas spun and drove his runeblade up through the brute’s torso. The orruk scrabbled at his helm, chuckling, as Zephacleas twisted his sword, hunting for its heart. Before he could find it, a thunderaxe sank into the orruk’s skull, silencing its barbaric laughter.

‘A stubborn sort of chaff, eh, Lord-Celestant?’ Thetaleas said, as he hauled the orruk back and tore his axe free.

‘That one was mine,’ Zephacleas said as the orruk slumped.

‘My apologies, my lord,’ the Decimator-Prime said. ‘I thought you in distress.’

Zephacleas shook his head. ‘I know you, axe-man. There’s not been a skull made that you could resist splitting with that blade of yours. I’ll forgive it this once, but ply your trade elsewhere — this killing ground is mine.’

Thetaleas laughed. ‘As you command, Beast-bane,’ he said, turning to wade back into the fray. Satisfied, Zephacleas turned, weapons lashing out. Soon, he had fallen into the old familiar cadence. He was an island of sigmarite, surrounded by an ocean of foes. For Zephacleas, there was no pleasure greater than to lose himself to the rhythm of death. He felt it in his soul, and with it a deep and abiding sense of satisfaction. He removed an orruk’s head with a sweep of his blade.

Memories — the smell of cooking fires and the weight of crude bronze armour, the warmth of his tents in winter and the voices of his clan — flooded his mind. Not so strong as they once might have been, but still there, still vibrant. He heard the lilting songs of the rabbit-boys as they brought home their kills, and the roar of old battles with rival clans, the reasons for which were long forgotten.

His folk were dead now, though the descendants of his clan might yet survive somewhere on the great northern taigas of the Ghurlands.

They are dead, as I am dead. But I fight on. And while I remember them, they live, he thought.

That had always been the way of it, even when he had been mortal, and he would not weep or feel sorrow. The living died, the mountains crumbled and the seas dried, as the seasons changed. Once, he had fought simply for food or for the survival of his tribe in a land full of monsters. Now, he fought to sweep the Mortal Realms clean of Chaos in all of its forms and manifestations.

But that was easier said than done. He parried a descending axe and sent its wielder reeling with a blow from his hammer. The Stormcast Eternals were but brief flickers of light against an all-consuming dark. They needed allies if they were to persevere.

By Sigmar’s command, Zephacleas and his chamber had been sent into the wildest regions of the Ghurlands to seek out any sign of the deity known as Gorkamorka, the double-headed god of the orruk race. The bellicose Gorkamorka had once been a member of Sigmar’s pantheon, in the days before the coming of Chaos. But as the pantheon had splintered, so too had Gorkamorka. Where once there had been one, sometimes now there were two, or so the seers of Sigmaron said. Zephacleas wasn’t sure whether he was looking for one god or two, but he intended to fulfil his mission. One way or another, the huntsman would have his quarry.

At the moment, however, Gorkamorka would have to wait — they had prey closer to hand. As Zephacleas had led his chamber through the wilds of the Ghurlands, following the whispered rumours and wild tales of the two-headed god, Sigmar himself had spoken to him. The God-King commanded and Zephacleas obeyed, leaving the Amber Steppes behind and marching hard for Nettlefang Mere, in the southern Ghurlands. There, he and his chamber had met the battered remnants of another Warrior Chamber, and learned of their mission — a mission more imperative than the locating of an unruly godling.

Zephacleas shoved an orruk back. The creature was large, its green flesh covered in scars and iron plates, beaten into shape and bent around its thick, twisted limbs. He opened the bulky creature’s guts with a sweep of his sword, parting crude armour and flesh with ease. It staggered towards him almost immediately, stumbling on loops of intestine. Zephacleas parried its next blow and slammed his hammer down on its broad skull. The orruk dropped and he turned, scanning the battlefield. Thetaleas and the others were keeping the bulk of the orruk forces occupied, as he had hoped. But they couldn’t do so for long. Already, mobs of orruks were surging past the thin line of skirmishers towards the shield wall.

A crackling column of lightning speared upwards as one of Thetaleas’ warriors was pulled down by the orruks and hacked to death. Close by, a Liberator was tackled off his feet by an orruk brute wielding a spiked club. As it hunched over the fallen Astral Templar, it raised the weapon over its head and chortled. Before the blow could fall, Duras was there. His warblade removed the orruk’s hand, sending it and the club it clutched sailing away. Unperturbed, the orruk twisted about and caught the Liberator-Prime about the throat with its remaining hand. Duras spun his swords and drove them down through the orruk’s shoulders and chest, seeking the beast’s heart.

Zephacleas lost sight of the Liberator-Prime as he dispatched an orruk wielding a jagged spear. A moment after he felled the beast, something heavy struck him in the back, knocking him to one knee. He turned. The orruk was massive, far larger than any of the others, and clad in thick, barbed armour. The skull of some massive beast served it as a pauldron, and in one thick hand it hefted an axe larger than a dracoth’s head.

‘Drokka!’ the orruk bellowed, filling the air with noise and spittle.

‘Indeed,’ Zephacleas said, heaving himself to his feet. He looked around and noticed the other orruks pulling back, giving them space. Most were hunting for other opponents, but some appeared to be settling down to watch. They slapped their armour with the flats of their blades, chanting what he guessed must be the big one’s name.

‘Drokka-snik!’ Drokka roared, spreading his arms.

Zephacleas understood the meaning. He studied the beast. Drokka was a mountain of ill-tempered muscle, wrapped in armour that looked as if it had been beaten into shape, rather than forged. Grisly trophies hung from every surface. Scars marked the orruk’s face and he hunched forwards awkwardly. Favouring his right knee, Zephacleas noted. The orruk snorted impatiently and gestured. ‘Come, come fight Drokka,’ he growled. ‘Come fight Drokka, storm-thing! Fight Drokka!’

Zephacleas lunged forwards. His runeblade scraped down across the orruk’s chest, staggering the beast. He narrowly avoided the bite of the axe as it swooped down in reply, and turned, slamming his hammer into the small of the orruk’s back. Drokka roared. His free hand snaked out, quicker than Zephacleas had expected, and caught the Lord-Celestant by the head. Green fingers enveloped his skull, and then he was flying through the air.

Zephacleas crashed down and lay still for a moment, fighting to regain his breath. He had lost his weapons, and there was no time to find them. The ground trembled as Drokka trudged towards him. The chanting of the orruks had reached a crescendo. He rolled aside as Drokka’s axe crashed down, tearing his warcloak. Zephacleas twisted, driving his foot into the side of the orruk’s knee. Something popped, and Drokka howled.

The orruk dropped his axe and sank down, clutching at his leg. Zephacleas thrust himself to his feet and snaked his hands around Drokka’s head. Even as Drokka began to struggle, Zephacleas braced himself and wrenched the creature’s head around. Bones crackled and flesh tore as Drokka heaved himself upright, dragging Zephacleas into the air. Zephacleas braced his feet on the back of the orruk’s shoulders and hauled back, his fingers digging into Drokka’s pulpy flesh. Drokka gurgled and clutched uselessly at the air.

Then, with a wet sound, the orruk’s head came free of his neck. Zephacleas fell to the ground, clutching his gory trophy. Drokka’s body took a tottering step forwards, then another, and a third before sinking to its knees and toppling sideways.

The watching orruks closed in almost immediately. Zephacleas scrambled to his feet. He took a two-handed grip on the dangling remnants of Drokka’s spinal column and swung the head out like an improvised club, flattening an unwary orruk. Before the others could respond, the air hummed with lightning and several of the brutes dropped in their tracks, blackened to a crisp by a crackling shroud of celestial energies. As the remaining orruks retreated, Zephacleas turned towards the source of the lightning. He held up Drokka’s head.

‘I have a new trophy for you, Gravewalker,’ he said.

‘Your generosity is rivalled only by your impetuousness, Zephacleas.’ Seker Gravewalker was a formidable sight. He was clad in the heavy, ornate armour of a Lord-Relictor, which was marked with sigils of death and rebirth. The ragged hide of a fire-wyrm flapped from one shoulder-plate, and the beast’s narrow skull was set into the Gravewalker’s reliquary standard, alongside other ornaments of gilded bone. ‘Pull back, Zephacleas,’ he said. ‘Greel is here. We’ve bloodied them. Let our brothers make the kill.’

‘Greel? Finally,’ Zephacleas said, as he recovered his weapons. ‘I wondered how long it was going to take him to get here.’ He impaled Drokka’s head on his runeblade. The ground trembled beneath the tromp of many feet. At his command, Thetaleas and the others began to fight their way back to the shield wall.

Even as the Astral Templars reached their lines, the wall of bone that lined the makeshift canyon exploded outwards, revealing rank upon rank of black-armoured Stormcast Eternals. They drove forwards, through the cloud of dust and splintered bone, ploughing straight into the orruks without hesitation.

The Sons of Mallus had come.

‘Judicators, kill the leaders as they reveal themselves,’ Lord-Celestant Gaius Greel said, his deep voice carrying easily over the clamour of battle. ‘Ignore the chaff. Leave it to the rest of us.’ He started forwards, walking slowly through the cloud of dust. It had taken his warriors hours to smash a path through the boneyard, but the effort had been well worth it. The orruks had been caught by surprise, and they were as good as beaten.

The Astral Templars had done their duty well — they had pulled the orruks into the narrow canyon and held their attention while Greel’s warriors flanked them. Now, with the foe caught between hammer and anvil, they could be eliminated.

The orruk ranks split, disgorging a disorganised mass of brutes and black orruks, who charged towards the advancing Stormcasts. The Sons of Mallus had been forge-struck under the zenith of the Dark Moon, and their armour was a polished black, edged in purple and gold, where it wasn’t wet with orruk blood.

Greel swept his hammer out as the first orruk reached him, crushing crude armour and the flesh beneath. He fought with a mechanical precision, no movement wasted. His runeblade thrust out again and again with deceptive speed, slashing at joints. Felling an orruk inevitably required more than one blow. If they survived blade and hammer, he left them to be ground under the sigmarite-shod feet of the warriors marching in his wake.

The Lord-Celestant of the Iron-sides Warrior Chamber fought at the head of his men, as was the proper way of things, surrounded by his Decimator retinues. The axe-wielders moved alongside him in a steady line, their weapons carving a gore-ridden path through the flank of the orruk force. The rest of the Stormcast Eternals marched in close formation behind them, the Liberators shielding their Judicator brethren from the orruks. The Iron-sides moved forwards resolutely. Skybolt bows crackled, picking off the bigger, more boisterous orruks, as hammers and thunderaxes felled any who got too close. ‘Remember Hreth,’ Greel said, removing an orruk’s head with an efficient slash of his runeblade.

Hreth. The Iron-sides had earned their war-name there, on the basalt fields of that fiery kingdom, where they had endured the attentions of a warhorde of bloodreavers, culled from a thousand savage fiefdoms. The Iron-sides had waded into the heart of the enemy to make their stand beneath the blind gazes of the great obelisks of Hreth. After five days of fighting, the foe had at last broken themselves on the shields of Greel’s chamber and melted away.

It would be the same here. No foe could withstand them. No foe could outlast them. Not even one as resilient as the orruks. Not even her, Greel thought. He immediately chided himself. Now was not the time. Such thoughts were a distraction from the task at hand, and he could not afford to be distracted. Distraction was weakness. One moment of inattention was all an enemy needed. He must be as sigmarite — without fault.

He heard the thump of drums, and a howl went up from the greenskin mob. Caught between the Sons of Mallus and the Astral Templars, the orruks had been ground into bloody disarray. Their thirst for battle had been quenched and then some, and now they were starting to flee. While the greenskins could be fierce foes, they were not without some sense; they knew when they had been beaten. Regrettably, the lesson rarely stuck. He lifted his hammer over his head.

‘Halt. Let them flee,’ he said, with some reluctance. His warriors crashed to a stop and waited, shields raised but weapons lowered. He planted his runeblade in the ground and rested his hand on the pommel, watching as the enemy left the battlefield.

Orruks loped past the Iron-sides’ shield wall, growling and snarling at one another in their own barbarous tongue. Greel watched them go, and wondered that creatures such as this had once fought side-by-side with Sigmar’s armies.

Had Sigmar himself not declared it to be so, I would not have believed it, he thought, but then, Sigmar’s armies had their own share of savages. He heard a voice cry out in greeting and turned.

As the orruks retreated, the Beast-bane shield wall had followed. Zephacleas trotted at the forefront, his armour stained with orruk blood and the massive head of one of the brutes’ chieftains dangling from his grip. Zephacleas was bigger than Greel, and loud. His voice carried, even at a whisper. He strode towards the Iron-sides’ Lord-Celestant, hammer dangling loosely from his free hand.

‘Ho, Greel. Now what do you think of my plan?’

‘An adequate stratagem, I must admit,’ Greel said, grudgingly. He had initially been against dividing their forces. Too much could have gone wrong. The Gargant’s Graveyard was vast, and it would have been easy to become lost. ‘We have scattered them, at any rate.’

‘For the moment,’ Zephacleas said. ‘Orruks have short memories. They’ll be back, and in greater numbers. But not until they recover their courage.’

‘Perhaps now we can continue with our true mission,’ Greel said. ‘Are you going to keep that?’ he asked, gesturing to the orruk head Zephacleas held.

‘What, this? This is Drokka,’ Zephacleas said. ‘I’m going to mount him on a pole, so his ghost can enjoy the fighting.’

‘That’s abominable,’ Greel protested.

‘It’s the orruk way,’ Zephacleas said, with a shrug. ‘It costs nothing to show a fallen foe some measure of kindness, and besides, as you said, they’re not our real enemy.’ He looked out over the battlefield. ‘Speaking of which… Any sign of her?’

Greel shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘But she is here. If Sharizad has not already reached the Howling Labyrinth, then she is close.’ He turned, staring at the immense skull that marked the centre of the Gargant’s Graveyard. Something at its apex caught the light of the setting sun and flashed. He felt his stomach lurch.

It is even as the God-King said… It drinks in the light and traps it, he thought.

Zephacleas followed his gaze. ‘So that’s what that is,’ he said. ‘I was wondering.’ He laughed. ‘A labyrinth within a labyrinth.’

‘It is no laughing matter,’ Greel snapped. He gestured to the bones around them. ‘This monstrous charnel ground is all that remains of those forced to build that abominable structure. Hundreds of gargants and men and orruks, sacrificed to construct a daemon-engine of unknown purpose. A thing that has crouched here for an age, undisturbed.’

‘Until now,’ Zephacleas said.

‘Yes, until now,’ Greel said. ‘That is where she is going. And we must stop her.’

‘And so we shall, my friend,’ Zephacleas said. He looked up. ‘Heratus, get down here,’ he shouted, signalling the amethyst-armoured Prosecutors circling overhead. One dropped to the ground, scattering dust and fragments of bone as he landed. The Prosecutor-Prime folded his crackling wings back and straightened.

‘You bellowed, my lord,’ Heratus said. He spoke with the impertinence that was so characteristic of the Astral Templars, in Greel’s opinion. He bore a round sigmarite shield and a stormcall javelin, which he leaned nonchalantly over his shoulder. His armour was decorated with ribbons of purity, and the fanged jawbone of an Azyrite sky-shark was mounted on his gorget. The Beast-bane had an unseemly predilection for covering themselves in such totems.

‘I did. Are your warriors in the mood for a hunt?’

‘Always, my lord,’ Heratus said. ‘South?’

‘East,’ Zephacleas said. He dropped a friendly fist on the Prosecutor-Prime’s shoulder-plate. ‘Follow the drums, huntsman. Find me my prey.’

‘As you command, Beast-bane.’ Heratus swatted his shield with the flat of his javelin’s blade and stepped back. A moment later, he was soaring skywards. Greel watched him go, then looked at Zephacleas.

‘Your prey, or our prey?’ he asked.

‘The one will show us the location of the other, in this case,’ Taros Nine-strike, the Lord-Castellant of the Beast-bane said, as he joined them. ‘We’ve passed over the detritus of a dozen battles in the past few days, and these orruks are wearing fresh trophies.’ He used the end of his halberd to roll an orruk body over, revealing the sections of brass-and-crimson war-plate dangling from the orruk’s armour.

‘Your Shimmering Countess isn’t the only follower of Chaos looking for the Howling Labyrinth. It seems the orruks have dealt with the others, Sigmar be praised for small favours,’ Taros said. ‘Indeed, I’d wager that wherever she’s lurking, the orruks will be nearby, hunting for her, whether she’s reached the Howling Labyrinth or not. They want a fight, and we know well enough that she’s capable of giving them one, after what happened at the Temple of the Empty Heart.’ He looked pointedly at Greel.

Greel looked away. The battle for the Temple of the Empty Heart had been a disaster for the Stormcast Eternals. Warrior Chambers from several Stormhosts, including the Lions of Sigmar, the Sons of Mallus and the Astral Templars, had been all but obliterated thanks to the cunning of the Triumvirate of Charn. The three sorcerer-champions had ruled the three great duchies of the Charn Mountains for centuries before the servants of Sigmar at last cast down their standards. Greel had been among those claimed in the conflagration, his heart split by the crystalline blade of the creature known as Sharizad.

And now he lived again, his heart beating anew. He had been reforged and returned to this harsh realm for one purpose and one purpose only. The Shimmering Countess had come to the Gargant’s Graveyard looking for a weapon, a thing of horror and power in equal measure. A thing with which to split worlds — a daemon-weapon of inestimable power. A weapon she must not be allowed to claim.

He closed his eyes, remembering how the words of Sigmar had struck him like hammer-blows, even as he was pulled apart and remade, his flesh boiling away from god-forged bones and needles of lightning thrust into his mind. His joints had been shattered and reset on the God-King’s anvil, and his soul scoured clean of weakness. Gaius Greel had been remade, to make good on his failure.

He would destroy Sharizad, even if he must die again to do so.

Chapter Three

Hungry Ghosts

Sharizad the Many-Splendoured One, the Shimmering Countess of Charn, sat cross-legged at the centre of the chamber, arms contorted in the seventh gesture of Hloo. A web of bound spirits, visible to no eye but her own, stretched from her crooked fingers, their murmurs filling her skull.

‘How can such a short time feel so long?’ she said, to no one in particular.

It had been months at best since the fall of the Three Duchies, or so it seemed. Time flowed strangely in the Ghurlands. Beasts had a peculiar perception of time — things grew vague the further from the present they moved. Even her spirits were confused. Their auguries were cryptic when they were not whining and abrasive. Then, such was the nature of the Howling Labyrinth. It was like the stink of a prairie fire on the wind, or the soft padding of a predator’s paws. It was a trap for flesh and soul alike.

Before her, following the curve of the wall, rose twenty-seven different archways. Each one was decorated in a unique fashion, engraved with words or shapes from across the width and breadth of Ghur. What lay beyond the archways was obscured by a thick ochre mist that spewed from gaping, fang-like vents set in the floor. To take the wrong path was to invite death or worse. To take the right path was almost as bad.

The walls that rose around her were made from polished blocks of amber which stretched and twisted the reflections of those who passed by. Sometimes she caught sight of other shapes within them, vague suggestions of things that did not now exist, and perhaps never had. Some of them were souls, she thought. The souls of those who had died in the construction of this place, and were trapped within forevermore.

According to legend, the Daemoniac Conundrum had enslaved thousands to build the Howling Labyrinth atop the skull of Agorath, the cyclopean star-wyrm. Entire tribes of gargants and other primitive beasts had been chained and goaded into titanic labours, first to wrest the amber from the earth, and then to erect the hideous structure. When they died, as they invariably did, their carcasses were dumped to the wasteland below, creating the Gargant’s Graveyard. The bones of those who came seeking the Howling Labyrinth soon joined them.

Like all of the Conundrum’s creations, it was a flame, attracting moths from every realm. Champions, sorcerers, seers and warriors from the gardens of Nurgle, the pleasure-pavilions of the Ur-Slaanesh and everywhere in between came sniffing. To brave the artifice of the Daemoniac Conundrum and survive was to gain a treasure unparalleled in all of creation. Few survived such quests. The Howling Labyrinth had remained inviolate for millennia. Until now. With Zazul’s help, she had found its location. The strength of her warriors and the magics at her disposal had served to breach its exterior.

But once inside, things had become more difficult. The interior of the labyrinth moved constantly, like a thing alive. The corridors twisted and bent upwards or downwards with no warning. Floors and ceilings met like gnashing teeth. Walls expanded or shrank, revealing new corridors or taking them away. The air throbbed with the persistent hum of unseen mechanisms and the moans of trapped souls. Auguries twisted back in on themselves and daemons could not manifest within the corridors without being refracted and torn into gossamer shreds by the strange pull of the walls.

That was due as much to the skull of Agorath as it was to the malign cunning of the labyrinth’s creator. The star-wyrms were things of sorcery as well as flesh, fading in and out of reality as they slithered through the black spaces between the stars. They were of a type with the great drakes, but more primitive — fierce hunters of the void, and a trophy worthy of any hunter. Only a weapon like Marrowcutter could pierce their scales, and only a creature as mad as the Daemoniac Conundrum would dare to try.

Then, with a weapon like Marrowcutter, one’s concept of what was possible expanded greatly. Sharizad tilted her head, listening to the quiet whisper of the blade’s voice in her head. It cut through the murmurs of her spirits and pressed close to the core of her thoughts. There was a horrid clarity to it, a purity of purpose that belied all attempts at misdirection. It knew she was here and it called to her with a passion second only to her own.

With the Worldsplitter in her hands, she would be unstoppable. It was said by the blind pox-monks of the Ruptured Expanse that there were weapons so keen as to be able to cut through the skin of reality, weapons like the Fang of Kadon or the Cat’s Claw. Marrowcutter was among their number. Indeed, it was the greatest of them. No realm would be barred to her with the daemon-sword in her hands, and no foe would be able to stay her wrath.

‘Countess no more. Queen, at least. Empress, perhaps,’ she said, as she opened her eyes.

She unlaced her arms and slapped her palms to the warm amber flagstones beneath her. ‘The spirits are confused. Odak, your cards. Make me a trail through the unwritten moments, my love,’ she murmured, glancing at the warrior standing behind her.

‘As you wish, my countess,’ Odak-of-the-Nine said. Armoured in ruby and glass, his burgundy robes rustling softly, Odak was almost the mirror image of his brothers, save for his chosen war-colours. Then, that wasn’t so strange, given the nature of the Nine-in-One. Odak opened the gilt case hanging from his belt and removed a deck of cards. The cards were crafted from pressed ivory and threaded through with gold and silver. On each was a symbolic image — a fiery skull, a daemon, a beast, among others — and with them, Odak could foretell dooms and futures. Or so he claimed.

‘How will he do it, do you think, brothers? Will he scatter them like pebbles, or perhaps craft a tower from them?’ Sardak murmured. Unlike Odak, he was clad in turquoise and silver. ‘What use pasteboard and ivory when I have my speaking bones, my countess?’ he continued, bowing to Sharizad. ‘Let me cast the bones, and I’ll find our way, true enough.’

‘Bones and cards are for children,’ Kuldak, another of the brothers, said flatly. Armoured in bronze and ochre plate, Kuldak was a master of sand and heat. Of the nine, he was the closest to their late, unlamented father in temperament. ‘Let me cast my sands, Sharizad, and I shall seek us a proper route.’

‘What would you know of it, brother?’ Sardak said.

‘As much as you,’ Kuldak said. The two glared at one another, until a fourth brother stepped between them. Silent Yuhdak, clad in silver and obsidian. Yuhdak the peacemaker. Sharizad laughed softly. Yuhdak never spoke, never fought with the others, but simply watched. He was too observant, too patient. Sharizad had already marked him to die, when the time came.

By their own admission, only one of the nine sons of daemon-sultan Vath’hek would survive. That was their fate and they pursued it assiduously. Tainted in their mother’s womb by the machinations of the Architect of Fate, the nine had once been one. A single iridescent child, split into nine mewling brats. One soul, split between nine bodies and nine minds. Those bodies would never be joined again, but the mind and the power it wielded was impressive. She often wondered at Tzeentch’s purpose for such a sundering.

Sharizad studied the Nine-in-One bemusedly. Besides the other four, there was joyful Bodak, savage Redak and morose Curdak. Two of the Nine had died before they reached the Howling Labyrinth — grim Adak and greedy Taldak. Adak had fallen not long after they had entered the Gargant’s Graveyard, cut down by the perfumed blade of Oleander Hume, the Knight of Silk, before Sharizad had put the coward to flight. And poor Taldak had vanished as soon as they entered the labyrinth. She suspected the hand of Bodak or perhaps cunning Sardak.

Regardless, soon there would be only one: one mind, one soul, one body, culled from nine. A potent champion, and blessed. If they — he — proved himself worthy. As she was worthy. How else to explain her continued survival, after all?

She had ruled the largest of the Three Duchies of Charn. Her siblings had ruled the lesser kingdoms. Together, they had held Charn tight in a grip of magic. It had been an adequate existence. The nobility had played games of death and deceit with one another, and she and her kinsmen had participated when it suited them. Small amusements, to assuage the tedium of eternity. There was joy in the taking, but little in the having.

Then had come the storm, and those who walked on it. Armoured hulks, larger than any mortal and stinking of the high magics of Azyr. They had wielded lightning and smashed aside the armies of the mountain-kingdoms as if they were nothing more than children. She closed her eyes, remembering the excitement of the moment when she had first realised that her kingdom was in danger. It had been… exquisite.

Her mind, grown feeble with boredom, was revived. A thousand plots blossomed within her, even as her brother lost his head and his duchy both. Ancient sorceries, half forgotten, were stirred anew and invoked. The sky had wept tears of boiling gold and the ground had burned with cold fire as she set herself against these new foes.

Her people too had been roused: serfs turned against their masters; her own chamberlain had called forth petty daemons to attack her while she was preoccupied. She had flayed him for his temerity, but not before thanking him.

It had been so interesting. And so short. Too short. The running had been more interesting: despoiling the lands she had once forced her slaves to tend, waging war on those petty mountain-fiefdoms that stood between her and the veldts of the Ghurlands. And her foes running after her, trying to outwit her, to outmanoeuvre her. Even better, sometimes the dead ones came back, to try their luck again.

Of course, it was hard on her warriors. Barely a few score of them remained — her chosen bannermen, the Knights of Malachus, and a few packs of tribesmen who had sworn oaths to her upon the deaths of her siblings. Too, there were the silk-and-steel-clad followers of the Nine-in-One: waste-dwellers who murdered one another too readily for the amusement of their princes. There was the seed of a great army there, but she needed Marrowcutter.

She looked around, letting the brothers bicker. Eventually she would allow one to do as she asked, but it was best to keep them at each other’s throats. Odak claimed that an eyeless crow had spoken to them in the ruins of their father’s nine-tiered palace, and commanded them to put aside their internecine feuding. The crow had sent them on a quest of their own, to find the Destined Queen. To find Sharizad.

Sharizad had no doubt that such a thing had happened, nor did she doubt that the Nine-in-One were but credulous children when it came to vagaries of fate. She suspected that the crow had spoken with Zazul’s voice. The Radiant Veil had chosen to aid her, though she knew not why. Perhaps he had seen or heard something that told him her fate. If so, he had never shared it with her. She did not trust him, for followers of the ninefold path could not be trusted.

But she could use him, as he likely intended to use her. As she could use all of her tools. She looked at those few warriors she had brought into the labyrinth. Several of the green-armoured Knights of Malachus stood sentinel by the entrance to the chamber, and a few hillmen, faces painted with ash and blood, squatted patiently nearby, watching the Nine-in-One squabble. She had left most of her forces outside, to guard the routes to the labyrinth. Zazul swore that he could keep the orruks distracted, but she didn’t intend to leave it to chance. In any event, her warriors would see to it that no one interrupted her.

Sharizad turned her attention back to the brothers and clapped her hands together. ‘Cease your bickering, my loves. I asked Odak, and it is Odak who shall have the honour of finding our path ahead,’ she said, loudly.

Odak laughed and bowed, shoving Kuldak aside as he did so. Kuldak groped for his blade, but Yuhdak caught his wrist and calmed him. Sharizad tilted her head and stretched out her hand.

‘Come, Odak. Cast our fates, and show us the way forwards.’

He took her hand and she led him around. As she released him, he moved past her, shuffling his cards. He spread them with a flourish, and they hung waiting in the air. At his merest gesture, the cards turned, twisted and moved, shifting position. Odak touched one — a queen, astride a dragon of many hues — and dragged it through the air, scattering the others like startled birds. He stepped back, arms spread.

‘What do your cards say, Odak?’ Sharizad murmured.

‘Many things, my queen. They speak of the past and the future, the written and unwritten. In my cards is the story of all things, and the fate of all men.’

‘I am concerned only with the fate of a woman, dear Odak. My own. Have you found a path, or must Sardak cast his bones?’ Sharizad said. Sardak chuckled, but a glare from Odak silenced him. Odak collected his cards with a sweep of his hand and pointed to an archway.

‘There,’ he said.

‘You are certain?’ Sharizad asked. Stepping through the wrong archway could lead to collapsing corridors or worse. The Daemoniac Conundrum had made a cage of hazards for Marrowcutter.

‘Yes, my queen,’ Odak said, bowing low.

‘Not a queen, not yet,’ Sharizad said, as she moved past him towards the archway he had indicated. ‘But I will be.’ She stopped, turning. A thought had occurred to her. ‘Show me,’ she said. ‘A queen-to-be must be preceded by her herald… Will you be my herald, Odak?’

Odak hesitated. Sharizad cocked her head. ‘Are you frightened, dear Odak? Could it be that you are not so certain as you appear to be?’

‘Allow me to go first, my queen,’ Sardak said, stepping past his brother. ‘I fear nothing.’

‘No,’ Odak snapped. ‘I am the pathfinder. I will do it. Make way, Sardak.’ He pushed Sardak aside and stepped forwards, pausing only to bow to Sharizad. ‘I will test the path ahead, O shimmering one. No harm shall befall thee.’

‘I should hope not,’ she said, reaching up to stroke his featureless helm. ‘Go.’

Odak stepped through the smoke. As he did so, he flung out his hands, dispersing it and clearing the way. His cards fluttered about him like excitable birds as he stepped into the corridor beyond, one hand on the hilt of his sword. The corridor was the same as all of the others they had passed through, made from slabs of polished amber. When nothing untoward occurred, Odak turned.

‘You see? As I said, my cards have shown us the way,’ he said.

A hand, composed of amber and as large as a man, sprouted abruptly from the ceiling and enveloped Odak, even as the words left his mouth. His struggles were barely visible through the semi-opaque surface of the amber, and his screams were muffled. The hand was followed by another, and in the gleaming surface of the ceiling Sharizad could see what looked like the reflection of an immense skeleton, much like those that populated the Gargant’s Graveyard. It towered above the corridor, like some massive beast reaching into the water to grasp its prey.

The hands tightened about Odak and his body contorted. Sharizad knew that he was being crushed. Before any of them could react, the hands slid back into the ceiling, taking Odak with them. As they vanished, the walls of the chamber suddenly bowed outwards, as if a great weight had settled atop them. The corridor Odak had stepped into slid about as the archway cracked and came apart in an explosion of smoke and dust. The walls shifted, the slabs moving and making way for others. And with them came the thud of monstrous feet. Skeletal feet, which pounded and stamped as they hurried forwards.

Vast shapes took form in the gleaming walls, floor and ceiling as long-dead beasts howled hungrily. They squeezed and squirmed, fighting to cram themselves into the rapidly expanding chamber from all sides. Everywhere Sharizad looked, giant skeletons pressed eagerly against the surface of the amber, their malformed bones slamming against one another in a frenzy. Hands sprouted from the walls and floor and ceiling, followed by bestial faces that leered and gibbered. When the ghostly gargants emerged, they were clad in amber flesh and muscle, in a hideous parody of life.

‘Defend yourselves,’ Sharizad said, as she drew her crystalline blade. Her warriors reacted with admirable speed. The Knights of Malachus were potent warriors, forged in the fires of Chaos and loyal only to the whims of the Changer of Ways. Her hillmen fared worse. They were savage and fierce, but their blades of bronze and iron made little impression on the monstrous apparitions.

The Nine-in-One fought as individuals, each one employing those methods that most suited him. Bodak fought with a brass-banded club made from the thighbone of a toad-dragon, which tore through the ghostly limbs with ease. Sardak spat withering incantations to shrivel the grasping hands into clouds of amber dust. Yuhdak wove glittering shields of light and sound to protect his more inobservant brothers.

Sharizad spun and danced, avoiding the clutches of the forest of fingers that filled the chamber. Her mind whirled with possibilities — she had centuries of magics at her disposal, but all required time, a moment of clarity and more room than she currently had.

‘Look out,’ Redak snarled suddenly as he swept his curved runeblade out towards her head. The fiercest of the Nine, Redak wore the turquoise and amethyst pelt of a demi-gryph across his shoulders, and bore a shield of polished silver. As she bent forwards, he sliced through a groping limb, separating hand from wrist before it could snatch her up. The hand splashed to the floor and melted away as if it had never been. The amber gargant reeled back, wailing. Sharizad avoided a clutching paw and spat an incantation. Her magics flared brightly, before they were drawn into the polished walls.

One of her knights was pulped by the foot of an amber-hued gargant. The great beast whirled as other knights attacked him. It knocked them sprawling with a blow, and hands reached up from below to ensnare them. In moments, her forces would be nothing more than a memory. Anger pulsed through her. ‘How dare you,’ she hissed, slashing at a hand that drew too close. ‘You are nothing — less than nothing. The memory of a fate cut short. You shall not stop me, not now.’ The smoke that made up the crest of her crystal helm suddenly billowed, growing thicker. The facets of her armour darkened and began to shimmer.

The smoke flared about her like the hood of a cobra and flowed forwards, growing swifter and more solid as it went. As the first coils of smoke reached the amber gargants, they erupted in shapes: men and women, warriors, kings and sorcerers. Goreshroud was among their number, still wearing the wound that had killed him. He stalked alongside the Three Queens of Ferro, trailing their life’s blood in their wake like shimmering cloaks. Bloodbound moved forwards alongside hulking Stormcast Eternals, their groans of agony like the sweetest music to her ears.

Sharizad swept her sword out as more and more souls spilled from the facets of her armour. Their freedom was only momentary. Once she claimed a life, it was enthralled until she decided to release it. Only one soul had ever escaped her, the last she had sought to claim before she had fled the Temple of the Empty Heart.

The use of the chained souls was a powerful magic, one of the greatest at her disposal. But it was not without risk. The souls hated and feared her. She could unleash them, but there was no guarantee that she could control them. They swept ahead in an unstoppable wave, swarming over the gargants. The air throbbed with the roars and groans of the dead as they fought. One by one, the spectral gargants retreated, rising and falling away into the depths of the amber with wails of frustration.

Sharizad extended her hand as the ghostly shape of Goreshroud turned towards her. The scar-faced warlord glared blindly at her, his axe half raised. The other ghosts spread out around him, their voices a quavering susurrus. He was the freshest, and the strongest. That meant he was the most dangerous. He stepped towards her, teeth bared in a snarl.

‘No,’ she said. ‘You are mine. Your fate is mine. And you will come to heel.’

Goreshroud snarled silently and lunged for her, axe raised. His mind and will crashed against hers like a tempest. But he was nothing. His fate was a puny thing, next to the weight of hers. Sharizad whipped her sword out and his form wavered and came apart all at once. She glared at the remaining souls. ‘You are mine. All of you are mine. Now back to your kennels.’

The ghosts returned to the smoke they had emerged from and flowed back into her crest and armour. The six remaining brothers of the Nine-in-One gazed at her with awe as she sheathed her sword. She looked about her. The chamber had become a corridor, and the archways were gone, leaving only two possible directions. Somehow she knew which way to go. She felt the pull of something, like a snatch of a half-heard song. She turned towards it.

‘Shall we proceed?’ she asked, glancing over her shoulder at her followers.

Zazul sensed his champion’s frustration and barely restrained a laugh. So sure of yourself, my lady, so certain, he thought. The Howling Labyrinth was designed to confound even the most cunning of minds, of which the Shimmering Countess was certainly one. He had no doubt that she would navigate the maze in due time, but for now her anger was amusing.

It was in the nature of the Changer of Ways to find as much joy in the unravelling of schemes as in the weaving. Plots were meant to rise and come undone, else what was their purpose? Zazul himself had schemed to undo his own stratagems, in times past. To play both sides of the board with equal skill was the mark of a true gamesman.

But this was not that sort of game. He had to retain control of Gordrakk until the beast had served his purpose. And when the Fist of Gork had accomplished what Zazul wished him to, it would be time to cut the thread of his fate short. For that, he would need the right tools.

He scanned the noisy expanse of the scrap-camp, reading the mood of the gathered orruks as easily as he might read a missive. They rarely stayed in one place long enough to do more than render an area uninhabitable for anyone else. The stink of the gore-grunta war-sty and the ever-growing refuse piles that the overly aggressive swine were fed from hung heavy on the air.

Mingled with it was the stink of burning meat, as the orruks devoured an assortment of the unlucky beasts that inhabited the boneyard. Everything from sabretusks to stonehorns prowled the skeletal heaps and cul-de-sacs, preying on one another and anything stupid enough to cross their path. Gordrakk had lost a dozen warriors within hours of entering the Gargant’s Graveyard, all to hungry beasts. Since then, the animals had wisely learned to keep their distance. The orruks weren’t particular about what they ate.

Cloaked in the mask of Jabberjaw, Zazul made his way through the camp, listening to the muttered conversations. He had run the beasts ragged for days on end, sending them chasing illusions and shadows, allowing the Stormcasts to advance farther into the boneyard. Gordrakk was growing sullen and his warriors were frustrated. Now, thanks to the Ninety-Nine Feathers, he knew that the Stormcasts were close enough to allow the orruks to finally find them. Indeed, one of the megabosses, Drokka, had already fought them.

Drokka had demanded the right to attack the Stormcasts the moment they had been spotted. Given that he had won the scuffle that had followed, as the other megabosses showed their disapproval, Gordrakk had obliged him. Drokka would fail, of course. Gordrakk had known that, Zazul suspected. The Fist of Gork had sent his own scouts out, watching the battle, studying the enemy. He was no mindless brute, whatever his inclinations. And that made him dangerous.

With the tiniest gesture, Zazul sparked brawls or strengthened growing resentments among the gathered Ironjawz as he weaved through the camp. It wasn’t hard, and amusing as it was, it served an important purpose. The orruks must pose no threat to Sharizad, once she had succeeded. They would destroy the Stormcasts for him, and then he would twist the force of their fury in on itself. Gordrakk’s destiny — whatever it was — would be cut short, and the orruks that remained would be easy pickings for the Shimmering Countess.

Zazul made his way to the centre of the camp, leaving a trail of violence and confusion in his wake. Given the nature of an orruk camp, no one noticed. He saw several of the megabosses gathered together around a fire-pit. It was a rare enough sight that it gave him pause. Orruk bosses had an aversion to being within arm’s reach of one another. Then, Gordrakk intimidated them all so much that he suspected they sought comfort in each other’s company. Orruks were social creatures, by and large, despite their brutal inclinations.

He sidled close, listening to them. Stabbajak was the most vocal, but that was no surprise. The one-eyed orruk was the most troublesome of Gordrakk’s lieutenants. And potentially the most useful. He had been the most incensed by Drokka’s demand, and Gordrakk’s granting of it.

‘Thinks he’s so big,’ Stabbajak muttered, chewing on a bone. ‘Who does he think he is?’

‘The Big Punch,’ Roklud said, picking at his teeth with a splinter of boar-tusk.

‘I know that,’ Stabbajak said, as he walloped the other orruk with his bone. Roklud snarled, but refrained from lunging at the one-eyed grunta-boss. Stabbajak was as nasty as the beast he rode, and twice as tough. He was second only to Gordrakk, and had been the last of them beaten into servitude by the Fist of Gork.

‘Then why’d you ask?’ Roklud muttered, rubbing his head.

‘Cause he’s thinking, ain’t you, Stabbajak?’ Zazul murmured, cringing slightly as the brutish words left his mouth. The orruk tongue was almost as painful to speak as it was to hear.

‘Shut up, Jabberjaw,’ Roklud growled, tossing a chunk of burned meat at Zazul. Stabbajak walloped him again.

‘You shut up, Roklud.’ Stabbajak pointed his bone at Zazul. ‘You talk, Jabberjaw.’ His one eye glittered with cunning. ‘But you’d better make it good.’

Zazul smiled. ‘Nothing to say, Stabbajak. Only making an observation.’ Stabbajak was a weapon loose in its sheath. He had the cunning and the ambition to make himself boss-of-bosses, but not the ability. Gordrakk left him alive and ignored his veiled taunts, hoping he would try. Unlike Roklud and the others, Stabbajak didn’t know when he was beaten. That made him perfect for Zazul’s purposes.

It was a hard needle to thread, keeping Stabbajak and the others grumbling but not allowing them to follow their natural instincts. Orruks did not dissemble or plot. They were honest beasts, whatever else. He needed the megabosses unhappy, but not so unhappy that they might simply seek to take that unhappiness out on Gordrakk. Only once the Stormcasts had been defeated would he step back and let nature take its course. Whatever else happened, this horde would no longer be a threat to Sharizad or his plans for her.

As Stabbajak settled back to continue grumpily gnawing on his bone, Zazul turned his attention to the object of Stabbajak’s ire. He glanced towards the throne. Gordrakk was staring up at the Howling Labyrinth again. Zazul grimaced. In a perfect world, the orruk would have already hurled himself into battle with the Stormcasts. But something kept drawing his attention away from them. Some force was fighting him, bending Gordrakk away from his chosen course.

Zazul felt his illusions flicker and bit back a snarl. The force, whatever it was, was growing stronger, and it was becoming harder to stay hidden behind Jabberjaw’s brutish face. Soon he would no longer need this veil, and could free himself from the stink and crudity of this barbaric place. He wondered where he would be sent next. Archaon was drawing his champions to him from across the length and breadth of the Mortal Realms, and the Gaunt Summoners would show them their paths.

Perhaps he would overthrow a kingdom next, or poison a long-forgotten realmgate in preparation for battles to come. Sigmar’s storm was spreading swiftly over the Mortal Realms. Many regions of Aqshy roiled with the flames of war, as did the kingdoms of Ghyran. The dead stirred in the deep places of Shyish, and old foes readied themselves for battle. He had seen it all, and more besides in his dreams and meditations. The mortal gods stirred once more from their hiding places, daring the wrath of the Ruinous Powers.

Something growled, deep in his mind. He glanced up and then quickly back down. The shapes crouched low over the scrap-camp, leaning on their knuckles, eyes like balls of fire. They were indistinct things, more suggestions of shapes than shapes themselves, but powerful for all of that. He could feel the weight of their gaze whenever it passed over him, and he shuddered deep in his core. They were part of Gordrakk, and were attached to him in ways that Zazul did not fully understand. The orruks could not see them, he thought, but they could feel them. Sometimes, they would become agitated, and begin to brawl with insubstantial ferocity. Other times they vanished for days at a time, only to return when he least expected it.

Whatever they were, they were unduly interested in the Howling Labyrinth. Often, he would catch sight of one or the other, leaning down as if to whisper with comedic delicacy into Gordrakk’s ear. And when they whispered, Gordrakk listened. That was dangerous.

Surreptitiously, he gestured. Gordrakk shifted on his throne, and his eyes turned towards Zazul.

‘Where are your birds, shaman?’ Gordrakk rumbled.

‘Gone hunting,’ Zazul said, and smiled.

Heratus swooped through the muggy air, followed closely by his huntsmen. They flew with grace and precision, despite the weight of their armour and the weapons they carried. The five of them had hunted together since the founding of their Warrior Chamber. As a group, they had harried the Black Bull of Nordrath to exhaustion, drawing blood from its armoured flanks with their javelins.

That had been a good day. Mantius Far-killer had pierced the abomination’s brain with his arrows, once Heratus and his warriors had run it to ground. Heratus frowned as he thought of the Knight-Venator of their Warrior Chamber. The Far-killer had fallen on the battlefield, as a Stormcast ought. Heratus knew it was only a matter of time until he joined the Far-killer in the fires of Reforging. That was the fate of all warriors pledged to Sigmar. The fate of all of the Beast-bane, to fall and burn and rise to fall again.

May that day be long in coming, he thought. He did not wish to burn and be reforged, but neither did he fear it. Why fear what could not be prevented? Better to embrace it and make the moments between count. He banked sharply, his keen gaze sweeping over the vast boneyard below. It stretched for miles, seemingly farther than a mortal man could travel in a lifetime. The air trembled with the pounding of orruk drums.

Below him, herds of great beasts — thundertusks, stonehorns and other creatures — fled before the incessant beat. The sound of their fear reached him, even at a distance. It was ever the way with orruks. They drove lesser beasts before them like a forest fire. The greenskins were not truly an army; rather they were a force of nature. Walls and towers could not stop them, any more than armies in the field could resist them. A thousand kingdoms had learned the folly of that over a thousand lifetimes.

One of his warriors, Agatus, motioned with his javelin and Heratus followed the gesture. Down below, orruks filled the narrow canyons of the boneyard, squatting around stinking fires. They were all around the Warrior Chambers, and if the Stormcasts didn’t change their route they would march right into the largest concentration of the creatures.

While that might suit Zephacleas, the others would not be so eager to run afoul of the full strength of the orruks. There were more of them than Heratus had expected — too many. There were hundreds of smaller concentrations scattered across the boneyard. Isolated scrap-forts and war-camps occupied narrow defiles and canyons. It was as if something were drawing orruks from every corner of the Ghurlands. Instinctively, he glanced towards the immense bestial skull that occupied the centre of the Gargant’s Graveyard, and the shimmering… thing that surmounted it like some unnatural crown.

The Howling Labyrinth, he thought, and felt his spirit quiver.

The Mortal Realms were studded with places of foulness. In the centuries since the closing of the gates of Azyr, the hordes of Chaos had run wild across the Mortal Realms. And in their wake, they had left deep wounds in the very fabric of reality — monstrous citadels and foul temples raised to unnatural eidolons, ruined cities where no city had ever existed before. The Howling Labyrinth was one of those structures.

The bird fell out of the sky in a swirl of feathers, shocking him out of his reverie. It struck Agatus with bone-cracking force. As Heratus swooped to his aid, the Prosecutor tumbled through the air, caught in the talons of something that twisted and changed even as he sought to come to grips with it. More birds — ravens, Heratus thought — dived down, screeching. There were dozens of them, and their forms swelled and stretched in abominable ways as they fell towards his huntsmen like an oily rain.

A Prosecutor hurled his javelin, piercing a raven through and killing it in mid-transformation. Something that was not quite a bird, not quite a man, fell twitching to the ground far below. Others fell on the Prosecutor even as another javelin crackled into being in his waiting hand. Heratus swooped on towards Agatus. He saw that his subordinate’s attacker had become a black-armoured warrior, clad in a cloak of glossy feathers.

As they tumbled through the air, the warrior drew a thin, curved blade and slid it through a gap in the plates of Agatus’ armour. The Prosecutor jerked and blood spurted from the mouthpiece of his helm. Heratus drove the blade of his javelin through the back of the killer’s neck as Agatus’ body dissolved into a searing bolt of lightning.

Heratus arced upwards, jerking his javelin free of his kill as he did so. More flashes of lightning greeted his eyes, and he cursed his earlier inattention. He had led his huntsmen into an ambush, and now they were paying the price for his lack of awareness. But they were not alone in paying that terrible toll. Strange black-clad warriors plummeted towards the boneyard below, their bodies burned and pierced by javelins, or their skulls crushed by desperate blows. But for every one that fell, two more swooped down to join the fray.

As the last of his warriors fell, his body coming apart in streamers of crackling light, Heratus ducked his head and strove forwards, wings slicing through the air. He had to break free of his attackers. Lord-Celestant Zephacleas had to be warned.

Things that were neither birds nor men lunged through the air towards him. Strange energies rippled around them, and the air stank of foul magics. Heratus whipped his javelin out, slashing the tip of the blade across a metallic, beaked mask. Feathered cloaks swirled, obscuring his vision. He felt a great weight slam into his back and his wings struggled to hold him aloft. Everywhere he looked, clawed gauntlets and iridescent blades dug for him. Talons pierced his helmet, tugging his head back. He roared in fury and swung his shield-arm out. He felt bone splinter at the point of impact.

His attackers scattered, flapping away with raucous cries. Only a single figure hovered before him, arms spread — a woman, clad in ornate, obsidian-hued armour and robes. Great wings, as black as the void between stars and a match for his own, flapped slowly from her back and her narrow helmet was shaped like the head of a raven.

Heratus hurtled towards her. He could feel the air becoming heavy with growing pressure, and knew, with a sinking certainty, that the sorceress was preparing to unleash a spell. She had begun a series of complicated gestures, and as she completed them, Heratus hurled his javelin. As it left his hand, the air suddenly became hot and close, and he couldn’t help but scream as oily flames enveloped him.

Then, he was falling, and burning. And soon, in a flash of lightning, he was rising.

But still burning.

Chapter Four

Bones and Beasts

Gordrakk closed his eyes as the gods squabbled in his head.

Gork was winning, or maybe Mork. It changed moment to moment, as did their location. He could almost see them, in his mind’s eye. He could certainly hear them. He had always been able to hear them. That was how he knew he was who he was. He was the Fist of Gork, the dead-hard boss-of-bosses. He was the first-born son of brutality and cunning, and stronger than either. That was what the gods whispered to him, and he saw no reason to doubt them.

He sat on a makeshift throne made from the shattered ribcage of a gargant and the gaping jaws of some deep-sea leviathan, covered in the still-dripping hide of a gore-grunta. What was left of the beast was swiftly sliding down Chompa’s gullet. The maw-krusha gave a rumbling purr as it ate, satisfied for the moment. But only for the moment. Chompa’s satisfaction rarely lasted longer than the moment between the last bite of one meal and the first bite of the next. Gordrakk knew how the great beast felt.

The orruks had made a temporary scrap-camp in the remains of the one once populated by the Black-Iron King’s warhorde. The Chaos-things made good camps, building palisades and stretching vast canvases between jutting bones to block out the harsh light of the suns above. Now, those tents were being used by his boys. Everywhere he looked, he saw Ironjawz prying armour off the bodies of Chaos worshippers or beating new weapons into shape with their fists. Black orruks watched their larger cousins enviously. They weren’t strong enough to do the same, though they sometimes tried.

‘Nobody’s as strong as us,’ Gordrakk murmured. He glanced up at the top of the throne, where what was left of the Black-Iron King had been crucified and left to dangle and clatter in the hot breezes that ran through the bone-canyons. ‘Ironjawz is the strongest there is,’ he continued. ‘When Gorkamorka beat us into shape, he made us out of the hardest iron.’ He was speaking to himself more than he was his followers.

He studied the high canyon walls, composed of bone piled atop bone. There were boneyards like this throughout Gorkamorka’s realm. Some were larger, some were smaller, but all were signs of Gorkamorka’s passage. The gods travelled and fought from one end of the realm to the other, and the orruks followed in their footsteps. To fight where the gods had fought was a great thing. The echoes of those long-ago struggles still waited in places, like ancient wisdom. There were caves in the Ghurish Heights where an orruk could hear the curses of his gods as they punched and kicked one another, and deep holes gouged in the earth where Gorkamorka had dragged dark-dwelling monsters into the light of the suns.

There were monsters aplenty in the Gargant’s Graveyard. Even a few hill-troggoths lurking in the higher piles. The centuries had piled dust and loose soil in amongst the older conglomerations of bone, making natural eddies, tunnels and caves. Water collected in upturned skulls and ran along the cracks in mammoth femurs. Sometimes it dripped down through the bones and collected deep in the piles, and strange things swam in those unseen pools.

There was always good hunting in boneyards. Always tribes of men or monsters, trying to build something out of the dead. Something the orruks could knock over. But Gordrakk wasn’t interested in men or monsters. No, he was only interested in one fight right now.

The storm-things were close. He could smell them on the air. The Hammer God made good, tough warriors. That he sent them to fight orruks showed that he still respected Gorkamorka. It had taken days to find them — days of chasing sounds and shadows. He had killed more than one of his scouts out of sheer frustration, and now most were hiding out in the boneyard, waiting until it was safe to return. The braver ones had brought him word that the storm-things were close.

Gordrakk was not, by nature, patient. Only the whispers of Kunnin’ kept him from leading all of his fists straight towards the foe, the moment he had learned their location. But the axe said something was up. There was something in the air — not the storm but something else. There was an opponent out there somewhere, begging for a fight. And Gordrakk intended to give them one. That was why the gods had made him.

His skull echoed with the pleasing sounds of the deific scuffle, as Gork and Mork traded blows and insults. His bones reverberated with the force of their punches and bellows, and his flesh prickled in a pleasing way. Ironjawz worshipped the gods equally, with no favouritism. Gork and Mork were one as often as they were two, and neither was pre-eminent. Not for long, at least. It was a constant fight for dominance, just the way orruks liked it.

He cracked an eye, and glanced down at the axes crossed over his lap. One spoke with the voice of cunning, the other with the voice of brutality. They talked constantly, urging him first one way and then the other. Provoking him and warning him. It was the axes that had told him about the thing at the top of the Big Skull, and it was the axes that wanted him to see what was up there, and take it or break it, whichever seemed profitable at the time. There was something up there that they wanted — to have or maybe just to fight. The axes were always looking for a fight, which suited him just fine.

Drums thumped and a howl went up, half mocking, half warning. He opened his eyes fully and leaned forwards. ‘What is it?’ he said. ‘Drokka beat ’em?’

‘Birdies say Drokka is — ksst,’ Jabberjaw said, dragging his thumb across his wattle-laced throat. ‘Storm-things walloped him but good.’ The shaman crouched near Gordrakk’s throne, surrounded by his carrion-birds. He had been muttering to them since they’d returned.

‘Hnh.’ Gordrakk sat back and chuckled. Drokka had insisted on making the first attack, and Gordrakk, in a display of magnanimity meant to appease Drokka and annoy his other chieftains, had allowed it. Drokka had been as thick as two rocks tied together, and about as useful, but he had managed to thump the other megabosses. ‘Good. Never liked old Drokka anyway. Where they at now?’

‘Coming up slow, marching through the boneyard,’ Jabberjaw said, stroking his raven’s head. ‘No scouts now, though. Marching blind,’ the weirdnob chortled.

Gordrakk grunted.

‘You kill ’em?’

Jabberjaw just grinned. Gordrakk was tempted to feed the shaman to Chompa on general principles. Nobody grinned at him, not even a weirdnob with a head full of god-juice. But Kunnin’ cautioned him quietly, and he restrained his ever-present volcanic urge to do violence. Smasha, however, urged action of some sort. He might not be able to bash Jabberjaw, but he could bash somebody.

‘Right,’ he said. He shoved himself upright and slammed his axes together. ‘Drokka had his chance. They krumped him. Now we know we got a fight. So we go fight.’ He looked around at his megabosses, judging their readiness. That too was his purpose. Gork had punched him to life to find the biggest and best fights, but Mork had breathed his cunning into Gordrakk so that he could test his people, to find the biggest, baddest bosses for the fight-of-all-fights. The ones who would krump the gods themselves and throw down every wall and topple every tower.

‘Fight’s good. But not proper, lettin’ Drokka go first,’ Stabbajak grunted. ‘Gore-gruntas go first. Always!’ He thumped his chest with a fist. His warriors murmured in agreement. He was right, Gordrakk knew. Gore-gruntas were always first, always at the front of a good fight. While their riders were after a fight, the pigs were after food. The big boars ate everything, even other boars. Even orruks. The only thing they couldn’t digest was iron.

‘Gore-gruntas go when I say they go, one-eye,’ Gordrakk said. ‘Unless you got a problem?’ He fixed Stabbajak with a glare. Then he looked around, letting his gaze rest on the others, each in their turn. ‘Anybody got a problem?’ None of the others looked at him.

Gordrakk waited. Then, finally, he grunted in disappointment. They never wanted to fight any more — not openly, anyway. He didn’t think any of this lot would last much longer. He hawked and spat, then smacked Stabbajak with the flat of Smasha’s blade.

‘Take your gruntfist and punch ’em inna face,’ Gordrakk growled, looking down at the one-eyed orruk. ‘Gore-gruntas go first, right?’ It would take him time to get the rest of his mobs moving in the right direction. Stabbajak and his gore-gruntas would reach the enemy first, and keep them pinned in place. Gordrakk had learned the value of keeping his opponents from running off. Also, Stabbajak might do Gordrakk a favour and follow Drokka’s example in getting himself killed. That’d save Gordrakk some effort later on.

Stabbajak grinned toothily. ‘Right.’ The one-eyed orruk turned and began to bellow orders to his subordinates. Stabbajak’s clan of grunta-riders were heavily armoured and bellicose, as befitting their kind. It was no easy thing to keep a gore-grunta in line. The big, carnivore-fanged pigs would bite off an orruk’s arm as soon as look at them, and it was a constant battle for dominance.

Not much difference between a gore-grunta and this lot, really, Gordrakk thought, glancing at his other lieutenants. The megabosses were agitated, wanting a scrap, but not wanting to challenge Gordrakk’s decision. They weren’t afraid of him — not really. They were just afraid that he’d knock them out before they got a chance to enjoy the fight to come. No orruk wanted to miss a scrap, especially if they were Ironjawz.

Squeals rose from the war-sty where Stabbajak’s warriors had corralled most of the gore-gruntas. The monstrous swine grunted and clattered within the ring of interlaced bones, metal plates and jutting gore-stikkas, their bodies weighed down by the iron that had been hammered onto them by the fists of their riders. It took a lot to wrestle one of the pigs down long enough to get the iron on, and sometimes neither the gore-grunta nor its owner survived the experience.

Stabbajak clambered to the top of the sty and held out his hands. Then, with a howl of challenge, he dived into the pen of angry and ever-hungry war-beasts. His warriors followed him, hurling themselves over the top of the sty or else ripping pieces of it away so that they could meet those gore-gruntas that tried to escape head-to-head. Orruks wrestled snarling gore-gruntas to the ground long enough to climb onto their backs, or were trampled beneath the hooves of the beasts. Stabbajak clung to one of the largest, and the beast bucked and writhed, trying to dislodge him.

Finally, the melee knocked the walls of the sty flat and gore-gruntas and their riders spilled out into the camp proper. Stabbajak led the way, swatting his mount’s rump with the flat of his serrated spear. They thundered through the camp, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. Mobs of brutes and black orruks scrambled to get out of their way.

Gordrakk hauled himself into Chompa’s saddle as the gore-gruntas charged into the canyon beyond the camp in a squealing, stinking flood. ‘Everyone up!’ he bellowed. ‘On your feet. The Hammer God is here. He wants a fight and I aim to give him one.’ He half stood in his saddle and clashed his axes together, then he extended Smasha towards the hulking form of his warchanter, Grund. ‘Grund! Let the gods know where we’re going. Sing us a song of war, and make it good and loud.’

Grund chortled in pleasure and began to slam his bones together, and against anything his arms could reach. ‘Gorka-Gorka-GORKA,’ he rumbled, ‘Morka-Morka-MORKA! GORKAMORKA!’ He began to dance, as he sang and slammed his bones together. Dust whirled about him, forming leering, brutal countenances, and sparks of crackling green light danced across the faces of those warriors closest to him.

Gordrakk’s warriors roared out in accompaniment to the warchanter’s song, slamming their weapons together and stamping their feet. The noise rose up and spread outwards, filling the air. The light filled every eye and crackled along the edge of every weapon. Gordrakk felt his muscles swell with strength and he joined his voice to that of his followers.

It was time to go to war.

Sardak-of-the-Nine cast his bones across the floor of the Howling Labyrinth and cursed. The bones had their story, and they stuck to it. The future was still unclear, despite the deaths of his brothers. Six of the Nine remained, and five more than he was comfortable with.

I really should have killed a few, before that eyeless crow showed up and croaked out its prophecy, he thought, looking up at the corridor of amber slabs.

The War of Tiers had raged for fifteen years before the crow had appeared and ruined their fun. The nine-tiered citadel-palace of their father, the Daemon-Sultan Vath’hek, had provided a challenging battleground. It rose up over the Red Wastes like a termite mound, each tier a fortress-city in its own right. A man could be born, live his life and die without ever seeing the sun or leaving his tier of birth. Sardak still thought of it fondly, when he thought of it at all.

When their mother had at last devoured their father on the forty-fifth day of his apotheosis, and ascended into the realms beyond, Sardak and his brothers had begun their war. It was a small thing at first, barely more than a duel. But it grew, blossoming into a glorious stalemate, an unending game of plot and counter-plot as each of them sought to undo the schemes of the others. Only Yuhdak had not participated. Instead, their silent brother had drifted between the tiers, watching and taking part where it pleased him. More than once, Yuhdak had saved one of them from the schemes of another. He showed no favouritism, his only concern seemingly their good health.

Kind Yuhdak, silent Yuhdak. Sardak suspected that Yuhdak derived some pleasure from seeing the conflict from all sides. Perhaps he simply didn’t care. Or, more disturbingly, perhaps he did. Sardak shook his head. His other brothers were easier to understand. They were fools and monsters, none more so than Kuldak.

He glared at Kuldak. He was certain that his bronze-armoured brother had done for Taldak, not long after they had entered the Howling Labyrinth. The greedy one had wandered down a side corridor and never returned. Or so Kuldak claimed.

And Bodak supported those claims, as always, Sardak thought. His glare slid towards the heavy-set shape of his other brother. Boisterous Bodak, with his brass-banded club and his infectious laugh. He had ever thrown his considerable weight behind Kuldak, for reasons that Sardak found unfathomable. Then, they all made strange alliances: Sardak himself had always fought alongside Redak against the others, though the latter was by far the most unpleasant of his siblings.

Strange alliances indeed, he thought — and none stranger perhaps than their alliance with the Destined Queen. She was a cunning thing, of all shapes and none. Their auguries ever went astray when they bent them to fathoming her fate, or theirs while they stood with her. She had ruled a kingdom, much like theirs, but had dashed it to pieces at a whim. The blood of her siblings was on her hands, the spirits said, and she followed her course with a precision a blade would have envied.

There was much to admire in her, and much to fear. Why had the crow sent them to her? It was a question none of them, save perhaps Yuhdak, knew the answer to. She had led them into battle with enemies by the score, names and faces that had only been whispered in the City of Tiers: Koh-dash of the Eighteenth Culmination… Drakas Gorger… the Striding Folly… Oleander Hume… Goreshroud. Sharizad’s enemies, the obstacles in her path.

Are we your weapons then, my queen? The thought was not as unpleasant as it might once have been. Sardak had grown used to being manipulated. He and his siblings were things of Chaos, toys that bent and fell for the amusement of the gods. His fate, whatever it might be, was already sealed, he feared.

‘Do not seek to be a thing unto iron, Sardak-of-the-Nine. Be like water instead,’ Sharizad said suddenly as she studied the floor. Sardak looked at her. As ever, the Shimmering Countess seemed to know what he was thinking. Or perhaps he simply lacked the subtlety to hide his fears.

‘What?’

‘Water, Sardak. What is the strength of water?’ Sharizad said, not looking at him.

‘Water has no strength.’

‘Yes. And no. Water’s strength lies in its lack of strength, its shapelessness. Water takes the shape of whatever contains it, whatever situation it finds itself in. Water can drip, flow or crash. It does not break or bend — it simply flows forwards, always, unless it becomes trapped in one shape and thus grows stagnant. Do not grow stagnant, Sardak. Rather, flow and crash. Be water, not iron.’

Sardak was silent. He watched Sharizad, watched her fingers play across the floor, hunting the proper path. Then he looked at his remaining brothers, studying them. Did they seek to be iron? To be one thing and no other? Locked into a single fate, paying no mind to what might be and could be?

Is that our fortune, then? Is that what we seek? A single, indivertible fate — one moment plucked from amongst many, he thought. It occurred to him, in the same moment, that he had never truly thought about it, until he’d entered the Howling Labyrinth. Something about this place provoked such thoughts.

He watched the ghosts lope by, within the murky surface of the amber slabs of the walls and ceiling and floor. More and more of them every hour, pressed against the surface like corpses bobbing beneath frozen waters. They pursued Sharizad’s host like scavengers, waiting for the weak to fall. The Howling Labyrinth held a generation’s worth of souls within its walls and was ever-hungry for more. He shuddered, trying not to think of what it might mean to die here. Would his soul be dragged into the amber, to flock with the others?

No. No, he could feel the weight of Odak’s soul within him. When one brother died, all that he had been, or could be, was splintered and scattered amongst his surviving brothers. When one fell, the rest grew stronger. More real, he thought.

The future was a path yet unknown. It could only be travelled when the Nine were the One, and the weight of all of the diverse possibilities shed. Or, at least that was what he had always told himself. What they had always told themselves. The destiny of the Nine was to be One. But which one? And in all the manifold turns of the wheel, would not each assume that burden and blessing? His victory was assured, or so his bones said. But Odak’s cards had said the same, hadn’t they? And now his brother was dead.

Of them all, only Yuhdak appeared to have no certainty. Sardak studied his ever-silent brother, wondering what thoughts were concealed behind that featureless mask. As if sensing his thoughts, Yuhdak turned to look at him. His sibling motioned surreptitiously, and Sardak returned the gesture. Yes, brother. All is well, he signed.

Yuhdak inclined his head and turned away, apparently listening to something Bodak was saying. Bodak slapped Yuhdak on the shoulder, and laughed. Sardak’s hand dropped to the pommel of his blade.

‘Yes, brother… All will be well,’ he murmured.

Zephacleas stopped and lifted his hammer. ‘Hold,’ he said. The Stormcasts crashed to a halt behind him. Instantly, Liberators from the Astral Templars moved forwards. They arrayed themselves in a rough line across the path ahead and sank down to one knee, waiting for further orders. The canyon bent slightly to the left up ahead, creating a natural choke point. There was no clear line of sight to the trail ahead. They would need to send out scouts.

The Lord-Celestant looked up. Heratus and his huntsmen still hadn’t returned. Only a single Angelos retinue had accompanied his forces into the Gargant’s Graveyard. The others were scattered across the Ghurlands, searching for any sign of Gorkamorka, under the direction of his chamber’s Knight-Azyros, Gulos Fellwing. Without Heratus, the Beast-bane were as good as blind in this maze. He thought of the lightning they had seen, and glanced back at Seker, who led the column behind him.

The Lord-Relictor shook his head. Zephacleas growled in frustration.

‘They have returned to Azyr, and to Sigmar’s forge,’ Greel rumbled.

‘We don’t know that,’ Zephacleas said, more sharply than he had intended. He looked at the other Lord-Celestant, standing nearby. The Iron-sides were arrayed about him in close formation, their shields held at the ready. The Stormcasts marched in two columns where possible. The Sons of Mallus seemed to have little inclination to mingle with their fellow warriors. Zephacleas didn’t know whether to feel insulted or relieved.

‘Even your warriors are not prone to such long absences without good reason, Beast-bane,’ Greel said. ‘We should make for the Howling Labyrinth without delay and smash aside anything — orruk or otherwise — that attempts to bar our path.’

‘Easier said than done,’ Taros said. The Lord-Castellant knelt and set his lantern down. He placed his palm on the ground. His gryph-hounds pressed close about him, chirping. The vibrations were making them uneasy. ‘Something is coming.’ He looked up. ‘Something big… Or many small things.’

‘How far?’

‘Not far enough. Liberators, forwards,’ Taros said, as he rose to his feet. ‘Judicators to the vanguard, staggered formation. Skirmishers—’

‘Skirmishers to me! Duras, Thetaleas. Decimators and Liberators,’ Zephacleas bellowed. ‘We need to see what’s coming this way. Without Heratus, we’re stalking blind.’ He looked at Greel. ‘Care to join me, Iron-side? It’s a rare thing when Lord-Celestants get to do their own scouting.’

Greel hesitated. Then he nodded and stepped forwards. His warriors moved to follow him, but he waved them back. ‘Calithus, see to the line,’ he said to one of them. ‘Follow the Lord-Relictor’s orders. I will return.’

Zephacleas nodded in satisfaction. He looked at the other Lord-Celestant. Gaius Greel was almost a thing of iron. Zephacleas wondered how much of that was due to the Iron-side’s personality and how much of it was due to the Reforging he had endured. Regardless, he wished to know him better. It was not good for a warrior to hold himself apart. It often led to misunderstandings.

Part of it, he suspected, was that Greel reminded him of the Hallowed Knight, Gardus. The Lord-Celestant of the Steel Souls was the epitome of a Stormcast Eternal. His purity was such that he had fought his way free of Nurgle’s garden. It was Gardus who had reached Alarielle in her Hidden Vale, and brought her into the war for the Mortal Realms. More importantly, Zephacleas regarded the Steel Soul as a friend.

But Gardus had fallen in the final moments of the war for Alarielle’s haven. Now his soul was undergoing the Reforging. Zephacleas couldn’t help but wonder whether the warrior who emerged from the fires of that tribulation would bear any resemblance to the Gardus he had known. He hoped that by coming to know Greel, he might get an answer to that question.

He led Greel and the others into the twisting confines of the canyon ahead, moving swiftly, but cautiously. They were not looking for a fight, merely confirmation of what the Lord-Castellant had said. Sound carried oddly in the Gargant’s Graveyard, and he could not tell whether the cause of the vibrations Taros had detected was drawing closer or receding. Sloped cliffs of piled bones, interwoven with thick, brown vines and scraggly brush, rose to either side of them, and the ground was covered in broken bones and ochre dust. A million-million bones filled this wasteland, and more were added to it every day.

‘Eyes and ears open, brothers,’ Zephacleas called out, as the thin line of skirmishers spread out. ‘If it comes to it, we’ll draw them in and let the others have a chance, eh?’ Duras and Thetaleas and their warriors laughed. Greel didn’t.

Carrion-birds circled far above them, their shadows stretched long by the light of the suns. Bones occasionally clattered down from above as some beast moved through the rickety tunnels that time and hungry animals had dug in the piled remains. There were hills in the Ghurish Heights that were nothing more than thin shrouds of earth and rock over similar heaps of ancient carrion, Zephacleas knew.

‘The air is so still here,’ Thetaleas said, from off to Zephacleas’ right. ‘It fills my lungs like mud.’ The Decimator-Prime shifted his grip on his axe. His voice bounced off the walls of the canyon, rising up to startle something that might have been a bird.

Zephacleas watched it flap awkwardly away and shook his head. ‘There’s been too much death here,’ he said. ‘It sours the air and the soil. Whatever this land was once, now it’s nothing more than a killing ground.’ There were hundreds of places like the Gargant’s Graveyard scattered throughout the Realm of Beasts, places where no civilisation had ever set roots, where no tribes had ever made camp — wild places, full of hungry ghosts and hungrier monsters. There were no fallen temples here, no ruins, no ancient duardin roads. Only bones and beasts.

Birds flocked through the air overhead, flapping in the direction of the rest of the Stormcasts. Zephacleas scanned the upper reaches of the canyon, where the hairy shapes of sabretusks and other creatures fled in the same direction.

They’re running from something. Taros was right, he thought.

Roars and shrieks drifted down, and he raised his hammer. ‘Halt. I think this is far enough. Nine-strike was right — something is heading this way.’

‘Why is he called Nine-strike?’ Greel said, suddenly.

‘What?’

‘Lord-Castellant Taros,’ Greel said. ‘Nine-strike… An odd war-name.’

Zephacleas looked at his fellow Lord-Celestant. He chuckled. Greel stiffened. Zephacleas shook his head. ‘No offence meant, brother. It is an odd name. And in truth, I do not know. Taros has been called Nine-strike for as long as I have known him. Some in our chamber think it has to do with his Reforging… Nine strikes of Sigmar’s hammer to bend Taros into shape, where most of us require but one. Others think it is a name earned in the Boralis Mountains, while Taros was on his proving quest. Supposedly, he slew a great cave-beast with nine blows from his fist.’

‘Supposedly?’

Zephacleas laughed again. ‘He’s never said. And I’ve never pressed him.’

‘You do not wish to know?’

Zephacleas shrugged. ‘I am his Lord-Celestant, not his nursemaid. If he wishes to tell me, he will. Until then, I am satisfied.’ He looked at Greel, and for a moment wondered what was beneath the other man’s helm. Was there still flesh there, still a face? Or something else? What was left of a warrior, once he endured a second Reforging?

‘Satisfied,’ Greel repeated. He looked away.

Zephacleas hesitated, considering. Then, ‘Do you remember it, Gaius?’

Greel didn’t look at him. ‘Remember what, Beast-bane?’

‘Your death.’ Zephacleas cursed himself the moment he said it. A shudder ran through Greel’s frame. The Lord-Celestant said nothing in reply. Zephacleas reached for him, but after a moment he let his hand drop. ‘I’m sorry, brother,’ he said, softly.

‘For what? No— Be silent, Beast-bane. I think I hear something,’ Greel said harshly.

‘Orruks. I’ve been hearing them since we rounded that last bend,’ Zephacleas said.

‘No. Not orruks,’ Greel said. Before Zephacleas could reply, something exploded out of the canyon wall in a cloud of shattered bone and rock. It was a big beast, shaggy, with long tusks rising from its bestial, bear-like muzzle.

‘Mournfang,’ Zephacleas snarled. In his mortal life, he had hunted such creatures for food and sport in the high caves of the Ghurish Heights. ‘Mournfangs,’ he corrected himself as more of the creatures followed the first, their splayed paws skidding on the scattered bones. ‘Let them pass — stay out of their way,’ he called out, as Thetaleas moved to confront the shaggy monsters. ‘They’re running from something. Leave them to it.’

The creatures gave out warbling howls as they bounded away, avoiding the Stormcasts. He had been right. They didn’t want to fight. They wanted to run. Mournfangs weren’t easy to panic. The cave-monsters would fight an avalanche over a scrap of meat, if it came down to it. If whatever was coming had set them to flight…

The air filled with the sound of grunting and squealing. One big something, or lots of little somethings. Or maybe both, he thought, as Taros’ words came back to him. The ground began to judder, as the thunder of cloven hooves swelled up through the canyon. Zephacleas waved Thetaleas and the others back. ‘Back! Back to the others — go,’ he said, as he grabbed Greel’s shoulder and jerked him back. ‘Run!’

Chapter Five

Gore-charge

‘Be at your ease, Spur, my girl,’ Taros Nine-strike murmured, stroking the gryph-hound’s narrow skull. Spur chirped and scraped her beak against his shoulder-plate. The other members of the pack sat or lay around him, patiently waiting. That patience was what he admired the most about the animals. They were expedient beasts, wasting nothing.

He smiled, recalling the eyes of his teachers as he returned from the madness-inducing mists of the Boralis Mountains, his new pack nipping at his heels. He’d saved the kits from one of the monstrous cave-bears that roamed the highest crags. With their parents slain, the young creatures would have surely perished. There had been nothing for it, really.

If we abandon the weak, our strength is built on falsehood, he thought.

A beak closed on his finger and he thumped the offender’s skull. ‘Cease, Spur. There’ll be prey aplenty before the sun is set,’ he said, catching the gryph-hound by the curve of her beak. She chirped and butted him in the chest with her head.

‘There are chains everywhere,’ the Lord-Relictor said. Taros looked up from Spur’s antics, and then at the heavy manacles and rusty chains that dangled from the unstable walls of the canyon. He had made note of that instability earlier and had already devised a number of stratagems to put it to use, should the need become pressing. The terrain of a battlefield was as much a weapon as a blade, in the right hands.

‘They left them on the gargants when they dropped their bodies here,’ Taros said. ‘Hard on their tools, the things of Chaos.’ He uprooted a length of rusty iron from the ground, testing the links. ‘Still serviceable, after all this time.’

‘You intend to use it?’

‘I use the tools I am given, Gravewalker. Unless you believe them to be tainted by Chaos?’ Taros asked, extending the section of chain. The Lord-Relictor shook his head.

‘Only by pain and fear. The brutes whose bones make up the roots of this maze died in agony, pushed past even their limits. I can hear them screaming, when the wind is right…’

Taros studied the other Stormcast for a moment. ‘It cannot be easy,’ he said, as he stood. ‘Hearing the voices of the dead, I mean.’

Seker shrugged. ‘They are not a talkative folk, by and large. And there are worse voices in the dark than those of pain-addled gargants.’ His voice became soft. ‘I hear another sometimes, echoing up out of some vast, lightless chasm… A voice like a funerary bell, calling his children home.’ He shuddered slightly and shook his head. ‘I first heard him in the Gnarlwood, and have dreaded the sound of his voice ever since.’

Taros looked at him.

‘How many of us fell that day, Seker?’ he said, quietly. ‘How many ascended, broken, to be forged anew?’

‘More than I care to think about,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘Those were grim days. The beasts came without regard for life or limb. When their axes shattered on our shields, they used their teeth and claws. When those splintered, they hurled themselves at us, seeking to tangle our limbs with their bodies.’ He looked at the Lord-Castellant. ‘But this is not the Gnarlwood.’

‘No. Things were simpler in the Gnarlwood,’ Taros said, settling the haft of his halberd in the crook of his arm. ‘We waited and they came. But here, we seek out the foe not to eradicate them, but to talk.’

‘That is one of our tasks, yes,’ Seker said. ‘The other is to finish what was started in the Three Duchies. The Shimmering Countess is here, somewhere.’ He lifted his staff and gestured to the immense skull that marked the heart of the Gargant’s Graveyard. ‘Though, I rather expect that “somewhere” is there.’

‘Yes,’ Taros said. ‘They always go for such places, don’t they?’

‘Broken things seek the strangest holes to crawl into,’ the Lord-Relictor said.

‘Broken isn’t the word I would use for her. She felled Greel,’ Taros said. He reached down and rubbed Spur’s narrow skull. ‘The Iron-side is a swordsman second only to Thostos Bladestorm. That creature met him blade-to-blade and beat him.’

‘And so?’ Seker said. ‘He marches beside us again, forged anew.’

‘You say it so casually,’ Taros said. The Lord-Relictor looked at him. He made as if to speak, but then turned away. Taros waited, tapping a finger on his gryph-hound’s skull. Spur twisted about with an annoyed chirrup and snapped playfully at the offending finger.

‘Do you remember your mortal life, Nine-strike?’ Gravewalker thumped the ground with his staff. ‘I do, somewhat. I grew to manhood in a place like this, where beasts screamed beyond our campfires. My people died in battle, from sickness. I sought to help them, but…’ He held up his hand. Lightning shimmered in his palm and crawled across his bent fingers. ‘I bargained with fell spirits and wrestled ghosts, but nothing could prevent the dying. Then, the hounds of Chaos came, stinking of blood and offal, harrying us from our hunting grounds.’

Taros said nothing. It was an old story, and one most Stormcasts knew intimately. His own memories were more fragmented than most. He could recall the smell of smoke rising through the flues built into the curved high walls of the parapet. He could hear the rattle of iron spears as they were passed out to the men on the wall, and the screams of the wounded. He remembered the weight of heavy iron armour and the unwieldy two-handed sword he had carried into his last battle. The memory of it made his halberd seem as light as a feather by comparison.

‘My people died, and I could do nothing to help them,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘And I will die a thousand deaths, endure a thousand Reforgings, before I let that happen again.’ He looked at Taros. ‘As would you. As would Zephacleas. We are Beast-bane. Death to the dealers of death…’

‘Ruin to the bringers of ruin,’ Taros replied, absently. ‘The air is trembling.’

‘So it is.’ The Lord-Relictor turned and lifted his staff. ‘I shall see to our brothers.’

Taros watched the Lord-Relictor stride off, towards the neatly arrayed ranks of the Sons of Mallus. He shook his head as the cries of beasts reached him. A moment later, a pack of Mournfangs burst around the bend in the canyon wall and pounded towards the Stormcast lines, howling and roaring. In their wake came Zephacleas and the others, running as swiftly as they could in their heavy war-plate. Zephacleas shouted again, and Taros swept his halberd out.

‘Let the monsters through. No need to waste the arrows if they’re not looking for a fight,’ he called out to the warriors in the vanguard.

The shield wall split, and the Mournfangs loped through the Stormcast ranks unhindered. Taros watched the beasts thunder by before turning back towards Zephacleas. He saw Greel break away from the group and hurry towards his warriors. Zephacleas and the others reached the safety of the shield wall a moment later, the breath rasping in their lungs.

‘Which is it? One big, or many small?’ Taros asked, as Zephacleas reached him.

‘Both,’ Zephacleas said. ‘Gore-gruntas.’ He drew his runeblade. ‘I’ll see to the right flank, and I’ll take Thetaleas and Duras with me. The fighting will be heaviest there.’

Taros nodded. ‘Aye, and I’ll hold the left. We’ll try to drive them towards you. Polarus,’ he called, turning. ‘Bring your bowmen forwards. We’re going to need them.’ As the Judicators hurried up to the front, he heard a shout from Arcos, the Liberator-Prime in command of the shield wall, and turned back. The air reverberated with the thud of heavy hooves and the first of the cannibal-hogs, orruks crouched atop them, burst into sight, galloping awkwardly around the bend in the canyon wall.

‘Polarus, bring them down,’ Taros said as Zephacleas moved towards the right flank, shouting orders. Skybolt bows crackled as the Judicators began to loose with a smooth rhythm. The gore-gruntas did not slow, even as dozens fell. The orruk riders bellowed in what might have been excitement, despite the losses of their comrades.

‘Liberators to the vanguard. Two ranks, quickly,’ Taros said, sweeping his halberd forwards as the Judicators loosed a final volley. ‘Polarus, fall back to the second rampart.’ A second, smaller shield wall waited midway back along the canyon. Arrayed in a loose line before it were the chamber’s Retributors. The Retributors were nigh immoveable when they put their minds to it. In this formation, they acted as a living bulwark, breaking up the enemy’s momentum before it could reach the second shield wall.

It was an old tactic, and one Taros had brought with him from his mortal life. The highborn men of his clan had fought in similar fashion, clad as they had been in thick, albeit crude, armour and carrying swords longer than they were tall.

Though I never saw that tactic performed as smoothly in those days, he thought, somewhat ruefully.

Liberators moved quickly to interpose themselves between the retreating Judicators and the approaching stampede. The bowmen fell back towards the waiting Paladins and the second shield wall, as Arcos chivvied his own warriors into position in the vanguard. Sigmarite crashed as shields were raised and braced.

Out of the corner of his eye, Taros saw the ranks of the Sons of Mallus swing into position, creating an unbreachable phalanx on the left flank. Their shield wall would deny that side of the canyon to the orruks, forcing the bulk of their forces towards the warriors of the Beast-bane. Seker still stood with them, beside Greel.

‘Stay safe, my friend,’ Taros murmured.

He lost sight of the Iron-sides as the first of the gore-gruntas reached the front ranks of the Astral Templars. The fanged boars were larger than their more common cousins, and far fiercer. They slammed into the shield wall, nearly buckling it. Hooves dug into the ground as tusks slammed into sigmarite shields and armoured boots skidded. Dust billowed into the air, momentarily blotting out the suns. The orruk riders stabbed and hacked at the Stormcasts, trying to break the line. More and more gore-gruntas flooded into the canyon, ploughing into those in front of them. Some peeled off to engage the Sons of Mallus, but not many and not enough.

‘Hold them,’ Taros shouted. Even as the words left his mouth, he knew it was futile. The orruks were blind to anything save what was in front of them and they had the advantage of momentum. The Stormcasts needed to take that advantage away from them. He caught sight of Zephacleas, and raised his halberd in a signal. The Lord-Celestant nodded and crashed his weapons together, catching the attention of those warriors closest to him.

‘Left flank, give way,’ Taros roared. ‘Let them in, if they’re so eager to die!’ Zephacleas bellowed similar orders on the right flank, and slowly the shield wall buckled, splitting in two. The two halves folded inwards as the Liberators let the gore-gruntas shoot past them, towards the waiting Retributors. Taros raised his halberd, and the Retributors acted with well-trained precision, slamming their heavy hammers down on the ground as one. Lightning crackled across the ochre soil as the bedrock burst and heaved.

The front rank of gore-gruntas stumbled and fell as the ground churned beneath their hooves. Soon, the whole stinking, squealing mass had become a disorganised tangle of flailing limbs. Task done, the Retributors fell back, as the Judicators loosed volley after volley. Trapped as they were, the orruks and their savage mounts died in droves. But there were still too many remaining. The Stormcasts had to finish them off, before they could regroup.

‘Seal the gates,’ Taros cried, and the foremost shield wall reformed itself, cutting the orruk advance in two. ‘Arcos, hold the rest of them back,’ he commanded. He gestured to a nearby Liberator-Prime, carrying a shield and warblade. ‘Keldamus, with me.’ As he and Keldamus’ retinue moved towards the milling orruks, he caught sight of Zephacleas doing the same, followed by Thetaleas and his Decimators. Now that they had part of the orruk force caught between the shield walls, they could grind them under, Sigmar willing.

Behind him, he could hear the sounds of the Iron-sides beginning their advance. The sky darkened above the canyon as bolts of lightning caromed down at the Gravewalker’s command, striking the orruks still pouring through the choke point. Spur and the rest of the gryph-hounds padded silently about Taros, waiting for his command to attack. As they closed with the gore-gruntas, he said, ‘Spur, go!’

The gryph-hounds surged forwards as one ahead of the Stormcasts, winnowing into the morass of confused pig-beasts. The hounds employed beaks and talons in swift, darting attacks, hamstringing or gutting the squealing monsters. A few moments later Taros and his warriors joined them. Taros swept his halberd out in a wide arc, smashing an orruk from the saddle. He turned and rammed his shoulder into a snarling gore-grunta’s flank and knocked the beast sprawling, deftly avoided its flailing hooves and slammed his halberd down on its head. Before its rider could free himself, Spur had torn out the orruk’s throat. Taros heard Zephacleas’ familiar bellow as the Lord-Celestant joined the fight, and turned.

The orruks were starting to recover their wits, but not quickly enough. The secondary shield wall was advancing steadily, keeping the gore-gruntas hemmed in. Those that got past the Liberators were cut down by the Judicators, or crushed by the Retributors. The rest of the greenskins were trying to fight their way past Taros and the others. The Lord-Castellant spun his halberd and thrust it out lengthwise to catch two orruks as they sought to gallop past him. Both brutes were knocked from their saddles, and he dispatched them before they could rise. Jerking his halberd free of a sagging body, he saw a huge gore-grunta lumber past him through the dust kicked up by the melee, heading back the way it had come.

The beast was bigger than the others, and covered in scars and chains and scrap-iron plates. The orruk crouched on its back was equally massive, and clad in filthy furs and makeshift armour. It trampled an unlucky Decimator and barrelled through Keldamus’ retinue, knocking Liberators aside. The orruk thrust a jagged spear through the helm of a Liberator, killing the warrior instantly. The gore-grunta stamped through the flare of lightning and ploughed on.

Ah, there you are, Taros thought. There was always one orruk smarter and meaner than the rest. That was usually the one in charge. If you could kill him, it made life much easier.

‘Spur,’ Taros barked. He whistled shrilly and Spur and her pack mates exploded out of the fray, pelting after the orruk chieftain. The gryph-hounds outpaced the gore-grunta easily, and began to harry it, snapping at its legs and darting towards its snout. The orruk cursed and roared, slashing at the gryph-hounds as the gore-grunta slewed sideways, hooves thudding.

Taros stepped in front of the creature, halberd at the ready. The rider thrust its jagged spear at Taros. The crude blade skidded off the Lord-Castellant’s shoulder-plate, tearing through several parchments of holy text and staggering him. He quickly regained his balance and readied his weapon once more. The gore-grunta shrieked and circled him. Taros moved swiftly and slammed his halberd down, catching the beast between the eyes.

It crumpled without a sound as Spur and her pack fell on it, ripping and slashing. The rider rolled free, booting a gryph-hound aside as he did so.

‘Killed my grunta,’ the orruk growled, hauling itself to its feet. It snatched a heavy scrap-tooth blade from the thick belt lashed about its waist. The orruk only had one eye, and its face was off-kilter, thanks to a plethora of scars. ‘Gut yer for that, storm-thing.’

‘Aye,’ Taros said. ‘You’re welcome to try.’ The orruk lunged forwards, faster than he’d been expecting, and their heads connected with a hollow clang. They staggered apart, both of them dazed. The orruk recovered first and the cruel blade in its hand whipped out. But for the Lord-Castellant’s sigmarite armour, he would have been gutted. Taros rammed the ferrule of his halberd into the orruk’s belly, knocking the beast back a step.

Before he could retract the halberd, the orruk caught hold of it and dragged him forwards, off balance. The creature extended an arm and caught him in the throat, knocking him flat. He barely managed to hold on to his halberd as he fell. The orruk raised a foot, and Taros rolled aside as his opponent stamped down where his head had been. He smashed the end of his halberd into the bottom of the orruk’s jaw, stunning the beast. Before it could recover, he was on his feet and sweeping his halberd out in a vicious arc. He drove the orruk back, step by step, drawing blood with every slash.

Furious, the orruk howled and flung itself at Taros. The Lord-Castellant sidestepped the lunge and brought the length of his halberd down across the orruk’s back, flattening the brute. As it sought to rise, Taros planted a foot between the orruk’s shoulder blades and raised his halberd in both hands for a killing blow.

‘No,’ Zephacleas said, catching Taros’ halberd by the haft. As he pulled the Lord-Castellant back, he cracked the orruk in the skull with his hammer, rendering the brute senseless.

Taros looked at him. ‘What? He’s an enemy — a beast.’

‘No. Orruks aren’t beasts. I’ve fought them enough to know that much,’ Zephacleas said. ‘There’s a sense to them, whether we see it or not.’ He looked down at the unconscious orruk. ‘We’ll chain him up. I have a feeling that he might be useful.’

The orruk did not welcome its survival. Upon regaining consciousness it roared in its bestial tongue and tried to rise. The weight of the scavenged chains looped about its bulky form prevented it from standing, but only just. Green muscles bulged as the rusty links strained to hold it tight, and more than once, nearby Stormcasts were forced to grab hold of the chains and haul the beast back. It glared about it, its single eye bulging in fury. Zephacleas replied to its bellows in kind, and soon its attention was entirely on him. It sank down into a crouch, still shouting, and Zephacleas followed suit.

Lord-Celestant Greel watched Zephacleas crouch before the beast, and wondered at the dichotomy there. The Astral Templars were famed among the varied Stormhosts for their ruthlessness. They were merciless warriors who fought with a savagery that equalled that of their foes. But for all that brutality, there was something else there — an innate understanding of the ways of this realm that Greel lacked. To Zephacleas and his warriors, the orruks were not a pestilence to be stamped out, but rivals to be beaten in honest battle.

‘I do not understand,’ he murmured, to himself.

‘What is there to understand?’

Greel turned, and saw the Lord-Relictor standing behind him. The Gravewalker had fought ably beside the Iron-sides during the battle, using his lightning to clear them room enough to charge the orruks and break them at the end. He hesitated and then nodded towards Zephacleas. ‘Him. I do not understand him. There is death to be dealt, and enemies to be cast down, and he wastes time talking with monsters. I was told that the warriors of your Stormhost were merciless, lacking in pity or hesitation. But now I see both…’

‘What were you, in life?’ the Lord-Relictor asked, not looking at him. ‘Do you remember those days, the person you were, before Sigmar’s hand plucked you from death’s grasp?’

Greel was silent for a moment. Then, ‘I remember… water. The sound of waves against a hull, and the rolling of a deck beneath my feet. I remember the smell of fire. Little else — names, faces, but nothing I will share with you.’ It came out more bluntly than he had intended, but Seker seemed to take no offence.

‘Zephacleas was a chieftain,’ he said.

‘So he has claimed,’ Greel said.

Seker chuckled. ‘He likes to talk. It is his weakness and his strength.’ He looked at Greel. ‘There is more of the mortal he was, in Zephacleas, than in some of us. It is not hesitation you see, but consideration. Zephacleas is many things, but he is not a fool. Not all enemies are the same. In the Jade Kingdoms, he fought like a bear, loud and brash, to give heart to his chamber. In the Crawling City, he was a hunter, harrying his prey to exhaustion and death. Here, he fights like a chieftain, seeking to win not simply a battle, but a war.’ The Lord-Relictor tapped the side of his head. ‘He has learned the cost of exuberance, you see.’

‘You admire him,’ Greel said.

‘I have hopes for him, yes,’ Seker said. ‘And what of you, Gaius Greel? Have you learned anything?’

Greel turned away. ‘I have learned that your Lord-Celestant is not the only one who likes to talk.’ As he strode away, he heard the Lord-Relictor laugh. They laugh too much, he thought irritably. His own Lord-Relictor never laughed. It was not seemly for such as they to succumb to merriment.

Angry now, though he could not say why, Greel strode towards the bend in the canyon, where his warriors waited, arrayed in a loose formation. The might of the Iron-sides was much diminished since the battle in the Temple of the Empty Heart — barely a third of the retinues under his command had survived. The rest even now endured the fires of the Reforging. Those who remained had been split between himself and Ogarus Fane, the Lord-Relictor of his chamber, after Greel had returned to resume command as his warriors crossed Nettlefang Mere. There, in the wide ruins of Nettlefang Keep, the Iron-sides had joined forces with the Beast-bane.

It irked Greel that such had been necessary. The Iron-sides had proven at Hreth that they needed no aid. He had failed once. He would not do so again. Even so, it was Sigmar’s command that he fight alongside the Beast-bane, and he would do so. The God-King’s wisdom could not be questioned, no matter Greel’s own feelings on the subject.

Fane had marched south in pursuit of the perfidious Count Bator, one of Sharizad’s minions. With the fall of the Charn Duchies and the deaths of her two monstrous siblings, Sharizad’s remaining armies had scattered, as had those fell champions who had flocked to her banner — twisted creatures like Bator or Sataka of Rhu’goss. Lord-Relictor Fane and others, including warriors from the Hallowed Knights and the Lions of Sigmar, ranged across the Ghurlands, looking to run down these disparate enemy commanders as they fled towards the riftcoasts of the Amber Sea, or to the humid jungles of the Southern Reach. Such creatures could not be allowed to find new demesnes or gather new armies, not if the Ghurlands were to finally be freed from the clutches of Chaos.

Greel missed his Lord-Relictor’s quiet counsel. Fane was a warrior of few words, but of a sure and certain judgement. And he does not laugh, he thought, casting a glance back towards the Astral Templars.

Shaking his head, he studied his warriors. They waited silently, arrayed across the width of the bend, shields ready. Judicators stood at ease behind the Liberators, as did his remaining Decimator retinues.

‘Calithus,’ Greel said.

Calithus snapped to attention. The Liberator-Prime gestured with his hammer. ‘Drums, my Lord-Celestant. The orruks are not finished with us, I think.’

‘No, they’re not,’ Zephacleas said, as he trotted towards them. Greel turned, annoyed.

‘Did your new pet tell you that?’ Greel said, trying not to let his anger show. Zephacleas was dawdling, wasting time talking to the beasts instead of smashing them aside. And every moment they spent fending off greenskins was a moment the Shimmering Countess drew closer to accomplishing the horror she had come to achieve.

‘No. Experience did.’ Zephacleas pulled off his war-helm, and took a deep breath. His shaggy hair was bound back in a thick braid, as was his beard. Keen, dark eyes met Greel’s own. Zephacleas scrubbed at his scalp and said, ‘The boar-riders are always far ahead of the main body of orruks. They get carried away, you see. Orruks aren’t disciplined — at least, not in any way we’d recognise. The rest will be along shortly. Lucky for us, this bend makes for a fine defensive position. The canyon is narrower here, and Taros thinks he’s found a way to block it off, should it become necessary for us to retreat.’

‘That’s your plan — to simply sit and wait?’

‘My plan is to beat them,’ Zephacleas said. ‘But to do that, we must weather the coming storm. If we move, they’ll swamp us. So we must stay and throw them back, until we know the limits of their strength.’ He looked at Greel. ‘I know orruks. They’re stirred up now, and we can’t simply bull through them.’

‘You sound as if you’re afraid of them.’

Zephacleas grunted. ‘And you know about fear, do you?’

‘I knew fear… Just for a moment,’ Greel said. ‘An instant, but it was enough. And then, I knew nothing save the storm.’ He didn’t look at Zephacleas. Instead, he stared out over the ranks of his warriors. ‘I was weak. I failed, and the witch escaped. How many died because of my weakness? How many have suffered since the fall of the Three Duchies?’ Greel bent his head. ‘I remember… I can smell the charnel pits still. Hear the crack of my cousins’ bones. I can hear the screams of my chamber as they fell around me.’ He spun and Zephacleas stepped back. ‘I will not be weak again. We will meet these orruks and we will break them.’

Zephacleas laughed. He held up his hand as Greel glared at him. ‘Fear is not weakness, brother. It is a part of being mortal, like courage or sadness. Joy, rage. Among my people — when I had a people — it was said that a man who had never felt fear was one who had never truly lived. The fear of facing a sabretusk, with only a spear between you and it. The fear of starvation, of daemons in the night. The fear of pain, as your enemy’s blade draws close. The fear of… surviving, where others died.’

‘I was told you were a warrior, not a philosopher,’ Greel said.

Zephacleas snorted. ‘Hardly a philosopher. I was a chieftain, Iron-side. Not a hunter or a warrior, or even a tender of the sick, but a ruler. And I have had this talk more times than I can remember. You still know fear, brother, but now you fear failure rather than death.’

‘And is that better, or worse?’

‘Only Sigmar can say,’ Zephacleas said. He straightened, and spread his arms. ‘For me, I fear nothing save the loss of fear. For when fear goes, can courage and honour be far behind?’

‘It is not like that,’ Greel said. Zephacleas looked down at him. Greel stared out over the shield wall at the tangled pathways of the boneyard, his body as still as the statue he resembled. ‘I cannot say what was lost, if anything was. Death was like sleep, a dream, and now I am awake and I do not know what was a dream and what was reality.’

‘And now?’

‘Now, I know only that I must find the witch and kill her.’ He tilted his head. ‘Sigmar himself told me, as what I had been was burned to ash and forged anew,’ Greel said, his voice hesitant. ‘He spoke to me in a voice like seven thunders, and burned my purpose into me. It is in every drop of blood and strand of sinew. I was reforged for one purpose — to kill the one who killed me. To split her heart, the way she split mine and spill her life’s blood in the dust.’ His hands clenched on the haft of his hammer, and his voice became harsh.

‘He brought you back for what? Vengeance?’ Zephacleas asked.

‘Isn’t that what we are? Sigmar’s vengeance made manifest, the tools of his wrath given form?’ Greel rasped. He shook his head. ‘But no. The crimes of the Shimmering Countess are legion, but it is not what she has done that sees me on her track — rather, it is what she may do.’ He looked at Zephacleas. ‘Every moment we delay, every hour we waste, fighting these beasts, she draws closer to her goal. She seeks… something. I know not what. But she must not find it. Whatever else happens, she must not find it.’

‘And if she does?’

‘Then she must not live to keep it,’ Greel said. He cocked his head. ‘The ground is shaking. Another stampede?’

Zephacleas paused. Greel knew what he was listening to, for he could hear it as well: the tramp of many feet, and many voices bellowing in unison. He took a tighter grip on his hammer. Zephacleas shook his head ruefully, and slid his helm back on. ‘No. Not a stampede. I told you they’d be along shortly.’

The first orruks burst into sight a moment later, running flat out, their brutal weapons raised as they hurtled towards the warriors arrayed across the bend. As they ran, they chanted a single word. A name, Greel realised, even as he shouted orders.

‘Gordrakk!’

‘Gordrakk!’

‘GORDRAKK!’

Chapter Six

Gordrakk

Sharizad traced her fingers along the amber wall. Her reflection changed as she moved, becoming youthful and ancient, or changing from a woman to a man to a beast and back again. Every time she looked, the face looking back was different. Always familiar — herself as a child, her mother, her siblings — but always different.

‘What are they?’ Curdak asked, watching the shapes. He sounded on the cusp of tears, as always. Curdak the sorrowful, the guilty. His reflections were simple things, unformed and indistinct. The Nine-in-One had only one true fate, until the Changer of Ways decreed otherwise. All else was but a shadow cast on a cave wall.

One of them was always next to her. It changed, moment to moment, but she was never without the company of at least one of the brothers. All save Yuhdak. Of them all, she preferred Sardak. Bodak was a brute, Kuldak arrogant, and Curdak… Well. Curdak was simply annoying. She glanced at him, clad in white damask and pearl.

‘Moments stolen from the past, the future. Roads not taken, or else forgotten,’ she said. She stopped and stared at the woman now watching her from the amber. She wore rough homespun, her weather-beaten skin marked by grime and tribal tattoos, her hair matted and tangled. Her eyes were empty of hope, of desire, of anything save resignation. Sharizad wondered if she had ever been that woman, or if this was but the shadow of a life not lived.

Memories were treacherous where the gods were concerned. They grew bored so easily, and wrote better stories for their chosen playthings. Her life changed from one moment to the next: a scullery maid, rising to rule; the spoiled daughter of a count, giving in to her darkest desires; a dream made flesh, stepping from a pedestal of bone and meat — all of these and none of these were her. She was a story, with no more weight than an idle whim.

She reached out with crystal-clad fingers and touched her reflection. The woman in amber did the same, her eyes sad. Sharizad felt a wrench of pity for her, for the woman she might have been, for roads not travelled. Her hand passed through the surface of the amber, sinking into the curdled warmth. Sharizad’s fingers slid past the woman’s, and curled around her throat. The eyes of her reflection widened, as Sharizad’s grip tightened.

‘My fate is my own, and shadows should know their place,’ Sharizad said, as she choked the life from the woman in amber.

The woman came apart, like drifting ochre smoke, leaving Sharizad holding nothing. She withdrew her hand from the amber and turned away. Curdak stared at her.

‘You killed her,’ he said. ‘Why?’

‘Why would you kill your brothers, Curdak-of-the-Nine?’ she asked, as she continued down the corridor. ‘Because it pleased me to do so.’

‘But she was…’ he began.

‘A shade. A false thing. Look around you, dearest Curdak. What do you see?’ She stopped and turned, hands held to indicate the walls to either side of their group. Clusters of reflections followed her entourage like carrion-birds trailing a wounded beast. For every warrior in her band there was a plethora of reflections, not all of them human. ‘Falsehoods, Curdak. This place is nothing more than a lie concealing a greater truth. A lie we seek to unravel…’

As she spoke, the floor beneath her feet shuddered and she heard the groan of unseen mechanisms. The walls fell away as the ceiling receded, eliciting cries from her warriors. Ochre smoke plumed from the tumbling walls and the floor swung sideways.

‘Steady yourselves, fools,’ she cried. ‘Hold fast and do not fear. It is but another trick!’

It had happened before. The Howling Labyrinth could change shape at but a moment’s notice. Corridors became balconies, balconies became tunnels, tunnels unfurled to tiers, and then it all began again. Mostly, it moved. The corridors oscillated, rotating around some unseen core, which was never in the same spot twice. The structure was as much a shape-changer as its creator was reputed to be.

As the smoke cleared, she felt the heat of the sun and the harsh rasp of the wind. The Gargant’s Graveyard spread out far below her, stretching in concentric circles around the great star-wyrm’s skull.

‘A very good trick though, I must say,’ Bodak said, rising to his feet. The most boisterous of the Nine-in-One, he was clad in bronze and yellow. ‘And a welcome one. It has been days since we have tasted clean air.’ He laughed and slapped his rounded cuirass.

The corridor they stood in extruded from the labyrinth, which now had the shape of a crumpled, rotating blossom. They stood on a narrow petal of amber, high above the boneyard below. As the platform slid slowly through the air, a hillman slipped from the edge. His screams echoed up and up, as he dwindled to a speck. Sharizad paid his shrieks little attention. Instead, she focussed on the sounds of battle rising up from the bone canyon. Lightning flashed down repeatedly in the distance, and she laughed.

‘Look, my warriors, look! See how our enemies waste their strength on one another even as we draw closer to our goal,’ she said. The wind whipped around her, tearing at the smoke of her crest.

‘How can you tell?’ Kuldak shouted, clutching the edge of the petal. The rest of her warriors crouched or stood braced as the amber moved.

‘The sound, the lightning,’ she said, turning towards him. ‘We are blessed, my warriors. The Architect of Fate weaves a web for us to follow.’ As she spoke, the petal of amber began to tremble anew. ‘Stand fast, all of you. It’s retracting.’ With a squeal and a groan, the petal began to slide back into the structure. Shadows fell across them as the other petals rose and bent, or slithered back into place. Dust sifted down, swirling in the wind as the walls of the Howling Labyrinth closed over them once more and the sounds of the Gargant’s Graveyard were lost. The corridor stretched before them much as its predecessor had. The only difference Sharizad could detect was in the shape of the walls, and the slabs on the floor.

As everything settled into shape, a vast, cataclysmic chuckling echoed through the new corridor. The amber walls shuddered and the floor undulated like the tongue of a beast. As the sound faded, so too did the groaning of the unseen mechanisms, until at last, all was still.

‘What was that?’ Kuldak demanded, glaring at the walls. ‘Who dares laugh at us?’

‘The Daemoniac Conundrum, I expect,’ Sardak said, calmly. ‘It is written in the scrolls of Patak that it sees and hears all that occurs in the places of its devising. Perhaps it finds our efforts amusing, eh, brothers?’

Before Kuldak could reply, laughter boomed out all around them, and in the polished walls of amber, wide mouths, large enough to swallow a man whole, took shape. The mouths were the source of the laughter and the sound increased in volume, until Sharizad and her entourage had to clap their hands to their ears in an attempt to block it out.

‘I am a son of the Great Kingdom, and I shall not be mocked by a giggling apparition,’ Redak roared and flung out his hand. A stream of changefire erupted from his palm and washed across the section of wall nearest him.

As if that had been a signal, the jaws shot forwards, tearing free of the walls and lunging from all sides. Sharizad’s warriors moved to defend themselves, or to settle old debts. She saw Redak raise his blade over Curdak’s head while the latter was weaving an incantation. Bodak stumbled, avoiding a set of gnashing jaws, and fell into his savage brother. Redak staggered, off balance, and a set of jaws crunched down on him before he even had a chance to scream. Bodak picked himself up and brushed at his robes.

‘Oh, how clumsy of me. Forgive me, brother,’ he called out to Redak’s convulsively kicking legs.

The jaws retreated, sliding back into the walls and fading away, taking the unfortunate Redak with them. Another toll claimed, Sharizad thought. The Howling Labyrinth demanded death, it seemed. Blood to grease the unseen gears, death to feed the hungry ghosts that populated the unseen spaces of the labyrinth. The laughter began again.

A soft moan rose up from the walls to join it. Insubstantial shapes pressed themselves against the slabs, pawing uselessly at the barriers that separated them from the living. There were thousands of them. Some were hulking giants, others the size of men or crouching beasts. All wailed or howled in seeming agony. Annoyed, Sharizad thrust her hands out and muttered a simple incantation. For a moment, her hands glimmered with amethyst fire. Abruptly, the spirits fell silent.

The laughter, however, continued.

Gordrakk roared in pleasure as Chompa slammed full tilt into the Stormcast shield wall, scattering black-armoured bodies. The maw-krusha bellowed and a hammer-wielding warrior was knocked sprawling, his body coming apart in streamers of lightning. Gordrakk watched the azure energy spear upwards and gave a guttural laugh.

‘That’s right — run home, you git,’ he shouted. ‘Run and tell the Hammer God that Gordrakk is the best!’

He hunched forwards in his saddle as Chompa barrelled ahead, deeper into the ranks of the storm-things. They resisted the maw-krusha’s advance every step of the way, trying to hold the monster back with their shields and muscle. He admired that sort of stubbornness in an opponent, even if they weren’t Ironjawz.

They had reacted quickly when his warriors had charged towards them. Now most of his warriors were still caught on the wrong side of the shield wall. That suited Gordrakk fine. More opponents for him. Kunnin’ whispered a warning and he twisted around. Shimmering arrows sped towards him, loosed from the bows of the Stormcast archers huddled behind the shield wall. Gordrakk spun Smasha and split the first arrow to reach him. Kunnin’ took care of the others, chopping the lightning into harmless sparks.

Dead gore-gruntas and orruks lined the canyon floor, and Gordrakk wondered whether Stabbajak was among them. He hoped so. It was better that way. More proper. He hadn’t really wanted to kill old Stabbajak, but he would have had to, eventually. That was always the way of it — you could only bang their heads together for so long before it stopped hurting and they decided to try their luck. Gordrakk had killed dozens of bosses, even megabosses, in the same fashion over the years. He was the best, and they knew it, but no orruk could resist trying to beat the best. That was what made orruks orruks.

Chompa roared and lunged, hopping into the air. The maw-krusha slammed down, scattering the bowmen. The maw-krusha snapped out, catching a warrior in its jaws. Teeth pierced the black armour and a moment later, Chompa belched lightning. The shield wall started to give ground grudgingly, their line splintering beneath the force of Chompa’s fury. Gordrakk leaned forwards, Chompa’s chains wrapped about his brawny forearms, and hacked at any Stormcast who got too close.

A voice cried out, catching Gordrakk’s attention. He turned in time to see a heavy shape, clad in ornate armour, set one foot on Chompa’s snout and steadily begin to scale the confused maw-krusha’s head. Hammer-boss, he thought, laughing out loud.

The storm-things had their own bosses. Sometimes they rode lizards, other times they fought on foot. Either way, they always made for an entertaining few minutes. This hammer-boss was wearing black like his warriors, and he carried a choppa and a hammer, both of which he put to quick use.

Gordrakk spun Kunnin’ in a hard circle, parrying his opponent’s sword. Chompa reared, lifting them both into the air. Smasha snarled in his head, and Gordrakk obliged the weapon, bringing it down to meet the rising hammer. Lightning crackled and fire sparked as they traded blows, swaying atop the maw-krusha’s broad neck and head. The hammer-boss was strong, but not as strong as Gordrakk. He could still feel the rhythm of Grund’s chant deep in the marrow of his bones, and knew Gork’s eyes were on him.

All around Chompa, his boys drove the shield wall back, step by step. The biggest and surliest of his brutes knocked the Stormcasts sprawling, as black orruks charged forwards, daring each other on to greater and more maniacal acts of bravery.

Swiftly, he swept both axes out in a wild blow, knocking both of his opponent’s weapons aside. Before the hammer-boss could react, Gordrakk lurched forwards and drove his broad skull down against his foe’s helm. Their heads met with a thunderous clang, and the hammer-boss pitched backwards, tumbling off Chompa. The maw-krusha gave an eager gurgle and lunged, jaws wide, but its fangs snapped shut on empty space as the hammer-boss rolled aside. He came to his feet with a hollow roar.

Chompa was determined to eat the warrior. The maw-krusha surged about, snapping at the hammer-boss as he circled the beast. Chompa smashed aside storm-thing and orruk alike in its eagerness to catch its prey. One of its wide paws crashed down on the warrior, knocking him flat. Gordrakk yelled in pleasure.

At that moment, a second hammer-boss, this one the colour of bruised meat, slammed into Chompa from the side, driving his shoulder into the maw-krusha’s head. Chompa staggered, off balance. The newcomer stumbled back and kicked Chompa in the side of the jaw. Gordrakk swung Smasha down, but the storm-thing twisted aside.

‘Stand still and fight,’ Gordrakk snarled. He wrenched back on Chompa’s chains, hauling the beast around to face this new threat.

Chompa swung its head towards the new hammer-boss, bellowing. The warrior backed away. He whirled around, and his cloak flared out. Lightning sparked, momentarily blinding Gordrakk. Chompa howled in pain as bolts of something slammed into it. Its claws slid as it tried to maintain its balance, gouging the ground. Gordrakk hauled on Chompa’s chains, and the maw-krusha bellowed in protest. He saw the purple warrior drag the black one to his feet. Together, they hurried back towards the broken shield wall. As they reached it, the other storm-things began to give ground.

‘They’re running away?’ Gordrakk snarled, in surprise, as they started to withdraw. The storm-things never ran away. Disappointment turned to anger and he stomped on Chompa’s skull, urging the maw-krusha forwards. ‘Get up and at ’em, gitface,’ he growled. ‘Nobody leaves the fight, not until I’ve krumped ’em.’

More arrows hissed up over him as he urged his mount forwards. The volley fell with deadly accuracy. Explosions rocked the canyon, as chain-lightning tore through the mobs of orruks. Gordrakk laughed. Any boy who died from a bit of weather wasn’t fit to take part in his Waaagh! — the storm-things were practically doing him a favour. The harder you got hit, the harder you had to fight. The harder you fought, the bigger you got. Gordrakk beat on his chest, striking his iron chest-plate with the flat of Smasha. His boys were yelling and all the earth was howling at the sky. The cliffs of bones that rose to either side of him were rattling cacophonously. It was a good day to be alive, and a good day to die.

Gordrakk straightened, forcing Chompa to rear up. ‘WAAAGH! Give me a fight,’ he bawled. ‘Fight me-fight me-FIGHT ME!’ All around him, nobs and boys alike took up the cry and redoubled their efforts to reach the retreating storm-things. ‘Oi, stop running,’ Gordrakk bellowed. ‘Stop running and FIGHT!’

But they didn’t. As the armoured shapes retreated beneath the cover of the incessant volleys, other storm-things advanced. These were clad in bulky iron and wielding heavy, two-handed hammers. They too wore purple armour, rather than black, just like the other hammer-boss, and Gordrakk wondered idly how many colours of storm-thing there were as he urged Chompa through the rain of crackling arrows. As he closed in on them, the big storm-things began to strike the sides of the canyon wall.

The great cliffs of piled bone began to tremble and creak, and Kunnin’ murmured suddenly, urgently. Gordrakk pulled Chompa up short at the weapon’s warning. He realised why the storm-things had run, and the anger left him all at once. The maw-krusha shrieked resentfully as Gordrakk hauled back on the chains, laughing. The beast came to a stop just as the way ahead was suddenly filled with dust and falling bones. He looked up, as the sides of the canyon began to heave and writhe like a beast in pain. Lightning crawled across the stacked bones, radiating outwards from every strike of the hammers.

‘Stop,’ Gordrakk howled, as boys poured past him, into the shadows of the shuddering bones. ‘Stop, you gits! Stop!’

‘They’re getting away,’ Grotrak roared, foam clinging to his jaws, as he barrelled past Chompa, leading his nobs. He lurched after the retreating storm-things, his eyes bulging. The song of the gods was bouncing around inside the megaboss’ head. His muscles were bulging and his eyes were shiny with fire.

‘Let them,’ Gordrakk snarled after him, one eye still on the canyon walls.

‘Bash them!’ Grotrak bellowed, giving no indication that he had heard Gordrakk’s command. He was still half deaf to everything but the song of the gods. He bounded towards the enemy, axe raised. Orruks streamed after him, yelling in excitement.

Gordrakk watched him go. Goodbye, Grotrak, he thought, not entirely unhappily.

He wheeled Chompa round and set about putting a safe distance between himself and what Kunnin’ said was about to happen. Smasha protested loudly, quivering in his grip, but Gordrakk knew better than to listen to it in this instance. Smasha was like Grotrak, or Drokka — it wanted to fight, and nothing else. But Kunnin’ wanted to win. That was why Gorkamorka had given them to Gordrakk, to teach him the difference. Having fights was all well and good, but you had to win some of them for it to count.

Some orruks followed him as he withdrew. Some didn’t. He let those that didn’t go. They had the song of the gods echoing in their skulls, like Grotrak, and there would be no stopping them. The ground was shaking beneath Chompa’s talons when Gordrakk finally turned. Dust flooded the canyon as the walls bulged, swayed and finally shattered.

The shattering shook the Gargant’s Graveyard down to its roots. The path vanished in an avalanche of bone and dirt. The ground shook and the air was thick with dust. It billowed outwards and flooded the canyon, painting green skin white and clogging Gordrakk’s mouth with the taste of dried marrow. He squinted through the dust, hacked and spat.

The storm-things had blocked off the trail, and buried every orruk who hadn’t been smart enough to follow Gordrakk. Orruks like Grotrak. Just like Kunnin’ had said.

It was smart. Smarter than Gordrakk had expected. Every other time he had fought the storm-things, they had tried to match orruks strength for strength, until one side or the other gave way, just the way Gork liked it. But this time, they had done things the Morky way. Gordrakk laughed again.

If the storm-things could learn, they might make good opponents after all.

‘Back, fall back,’ Zephacleas shouted. The air was thick with dust and noise from the collapse. The echo of tumbling bones still hung heavy on the air. Taros’ plan had been a good one, if loud. The Gargant’s Graveyard as a whole was fairly unstable, thanks mostly to the orruks. No foundation was steady when orruks were about. One blow in the right place in these boneyards could cause an avalanche.

‘Reform twenty paces to the rear. Arcos, get your warriors into position,’ he shouted. Astral Templars streamed past him, forming up in a second shield wall across the width of the dust-filled canyon. ‘Polarus, ready your arrows. They won’t let a little thing like a collapsed canyon wall slow them down for long,’ he added, signalling to the Judicators.

Greel, his armour dented and turned grey with dust, coughed and said, ‘That was your plan?’ Zephacleas turned to his fellow Lord-Celestant. Greel glared at him. ‘We’re trapped now, and on the wrong side. The orruks are still between us and our true quarry, Zephacleas.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Zephacleas said, bluntly.

‘What?’

‘For saving your life,’ Zephacleas said. ‘And we’re not trapped. But we will be if they get to grips with us.’ He pointed his runeblade towards the collapsed section of the canyon. Greel turned. Orruks were crawling through the fallen bones, emerging in ones and twos like dusty maggots from the roots of the newly made escarpment. As the two Lord-Celestants watched, a massive orruk, wielding a broad-bladed axe, hacked his way free of the bones and staggered towards the Stormcasts. The beast bellowed a wheezy challenge and stumbled forwards, seemingly none the worse for wear despite having half a canyon dropped on his head.

‘They survived?’ Greel sputtered.

‘They’re orruks,’ Zephacleas said, simply. Thetaleas and his Decimators charged forwards to meet the creatures. Thunderaxes licked out, lopping off heads or severing sword-arms. The orruks were in no shape to put up an organised resistance, and they fell quickly to the axemen of Azyr. Those that got past Thetaleas fell to the hammers and warblades of the waiting Liberators.

Satisfied that the situation was in hand, Zephacleas looked around. ‘Nine-strike, we need to keep them on the other side of that new wall of yours,’ he called out to the Lord-Castellant, as Taros hurried towards them. He was accompanied by several retinues of Judicators and Retributors.

‘Easy enough. A few more well-placed blows and I can collapse the cliff-faces to either side, make them impassable,’ Taros said. ‘But we need to keep the orruks off the escarpment to do it, and keep any more from coming over or worming through.’ He turned. ‘Carachus, Daximedes — take your retinues forwards,’ he said. ‘Lend our brothers aid.’

‘We should go as well,’ Greel said.

‘No need.’ Zephacleas shook his head as the Judicators hurried off. ‘Thetaleas has it well in hand.’ He sheathed his runeblade. The Decimator-Prime had engaged the bellowing megaboss, even as his retinue spread out to take on the other orruks. Soon the air was filled with the whistle-crack of skybolt bows, and the screams of orruks as they fell to the irresistible volleys or swift axes of the Stormcasts.

‘How much time before they try climbing that wall?’ Taros asked, as they watched the brutal fight wind down to its inevitable end. As the last of the orruks fell, the Judicator retinues of the Astral Templars began to scale it. Once they reached the top, they would drive the orruks on the other side back, loosing volleys at the mobs and the canyon walls alike.

‘Hard to say. This is a stopgap, at best. We need room to breathe. Something to slow them down long enough for us to regroup,’ Zephacleas said. Greel stiffened, and Zephacleas could tell the other Lord-Celestant was unhappy with his conclusion.

‘What we need is a palisade or a bulwark of some sort. You saw how quickly they smashed our shield wall — if we hadn’t been here, the Iron-sides would have been overwhelmed,’ Taros said. Zephacleas smiled. It was the natural inclination of a Lord-Castellant, whatever his chamber of origin, to build a wall. They were artisans at heart, every last one of them. Otherwise they would not have been chosen to bear the warding lantern and halberd.

‘I’m inclined to agree, but anything that slows them down will slow us down as well,’ he said, doubtfully. He watched Thetaleas slam his axe repeatedly into the head of the dying megaboss. The creature was still full of fight despite being struck by dozens of arrows, surrounded and alone. Blood glistened on the orruk’s ridged war-plate, and its agonised bellows filled the air as it swung its axe clumsily at Thetaleas. The Decimator-Prime parried the blow, and struck the orruk in the skull again. The beast sank to one knee and shook its bloody head as if weary. Thetaleas struck it one last time, and the orruk toppled forwards.

‘A stubborn sort of chaff,’ Zephacleas murmured.

‘What?’ Greel said.

‘Ignore him, Lord Iron-side. It’s another of his jokes,’ Seker said, as he joined them. The Lord-Relictor’s armour was covered in dust and blood. ‘The wounded are ready to move now, should we wish to.’ As he spoke, a cooling rain began to fall over the canyon, carving trails in the thick patina of grime that covered their armour. ‘And I thought you’d like to know that our prisoner is still in hand,’ he added, looking at Zephacleas.

‘Stabbajak,’ Zephacleas said, idly. He felt Seker staring at him and sighed. ‘His name is Stabbajak. I got that much out of him, amid all of the cursing, before his clansmen arrived spoiling for a fight.’ He looked at the Lord-Relictor. ‘Did he try to escape?’

‘Surprisingly, no. He seemed quite entertained by our efforts to hold back his kin, however,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘Particularly when we dropped the canyon on them.’

‘Yes,’ Zephacleas said. ‘Strange sense of humour, these orruks.’

‘You would know,’ Greel said.

Zephacleas looked at the other Stormcast. ‘Was that a joke, Iron-side?’ He looked at the others. ‘Was he making a joke?’

Greel shook his head. ‘Merely an observation.’

Taros snorted and peered up at the escarpment. ‘If you’re finished, Beast-bane… I can make it defensible, with a few hours. Brace it here, loosen it there. An adequate bulwark, at least. Judicators at the top, Liberators on the interior slope. Retributors and Decimators at the bottom to knock out the supports when the time comes. We can bury the brutes, if nothing else.’

‘No,’ Greel said, without preamble. He swept his blood-coated runeblade out in a dismissive gesture. ‘We should press forwards now, while they are disorganised. We require no scouts this time — our hammers shall guide us,’ he said flatly. He swung his hammer down, shattering a section of bone for emphasis. ‘We shall make a road straight through this maze, and no orruk shall hinder us.’

Taros thumped the ground with the haft of his halberd. He glared at the Lord-Celestant. ‘But they’ll try. Unless we give them something appealing to focus on. Nothing an orruk likes better than trying to kick over a wall.’ He gestured with his halberd. ‘We can defend this point until they’ve exhausted themselves, then fall back past the next bend and collapse the canyon walls on either side. We can keep doing that as long as we have boneyard to work with.’

‘You are forgetting our quarry, Lord-Castellant. In a few hours, that witch will have accomplished whatever it was she came to this wasteland to do,’ Greel said. ‘I can feel it. We must reach the Howling Labyrinth, the sooner the better. We can’t waste any more time on these beasts. I say we move, and now.’

‘Aye, and if we don’t take those hours, the orruks will simply fall on us from behind and carve us up piecemeal,’ Taros said. ‘We are not fast enough to outrun them, nor are we strong enough to bull through every obstacle. We must use their strength against them.’

‘How? By hiding?’ Greel demanded.

‘No. The opposite, in fact,’ Zephacleas said. Taros and Greel looked at him. ‘Lest you’ve forgotten, we have two goals — not one. So why not accomplish them both?’

‘You’re talking about splitting our forces,’ Greel said doubtfully.

‘Initially, yes. If all goes well, we’ll have doubled our strength by the end.’ Zephacleas looked around. ‘The orruks are not leaderless. You saw that brute on the maw-krusha, aye, and recognised him as well. No other orruk would dare to mount the skull of one of Dracothian’s children on his banner-pole.’

‘Gordrakk,’ Seker said, before Greel could reply. The Lord-Relictor traced a crude sigil in the dust with the haft of his reliquary staff. ‘The Fist of Gork, born from a blow that broke the world, and the blessed of Gorkamorka. Or so the seers of the forest temples of Ghur-Klesh say. Boss-of-bosses, the brutal hand that directs the Ironjawz in their unending Waaagh.’

Taros shook his head. ‘And so? For every five orruks there’s at least four of them claiming to be the boss-of-bosses. It’s in their nature to boast so.’

‘Not around Gordrakk,’ Zephacleas said. ‘He is as much the voice of his god as the Lady of Vines was for Alarielle, though not in the same manner, I’d wager. If any being alive can aid us in finding the whereabouts of Gorkamorka, it’s Gordrakk.’ He looked at Taros. ‘Build your palisade, Nine-strike, and he’ll linger out there to knock it down. What sort of boss-of-bosses could resist kicking over a fortification built and defended by Stormcast Eternals?’

Taros laughed. ‘Ha! Aye, that’s true enough. He’ll storm towards us as quickly as he can, once he sniffs out what we’re up to. But how will he know?’ He glanced back at Stabbajak. ‘Ah. I wondered why you were keeping that brute alive. He’ll tell him.’

‘Aye,’ Zephacleas said. ‘Either because he thinks we’ll kill Gordrakk, or because he wants Gordrakk to kill us, but he’ll do it.’

Greel shook his head. ‘This stratagem will still require time that we do not have. If the Shimmering Countess achieves her goal — if she pierces the secrets of the Howling Labyrinth — who knows what horrors she will unleash upon this realm.’

‘Be at ease, brother,’ Zephacleas said. ‘While we occupy the orruks, you shall lead your chamber forwards, as swiftly as possible towards the Howling Labyrinth.’

‘But without reinforcements…’ Greel began.

‘You will have reinforcements, and then some,’ Zephacleas said. ‘Once we’ve convinced the orruks to join our cause.’

Seker laughed. ‘Sometimes I wonder if there might yet be hope for you, Zephacleas.’

‘What are you talking about?’ Greel said, exchanging a look with Taros. ‘They are our foes. We’ve killed hundreds of them these past few days. Why would they ally with us?’

‘Why wouldn’t they?’ Zephacleas looked at Taros. ‘You said it yourself earlier, Nine-strike. They were moving towards the Howling Labyrinth, and the forces arrayed there. Orruks like high places, especially if they have to fight to claim them. We distracted them.’ He laughed. ‘If we hadn’t interfered, I’d wager Gordrakk would have defeated the Shimmering Countess for us.’ He looked around. ‘Orruks aren’t particular — they want the biggest fight they can find, and the most interesting. Well, we’re going to give it to them. But first, we need to get them looking in the right direction.’

‘And you think the best way to do that is to — what? — confront Gordrakk?’ Taros said.

‘No, Nine-strike. I intend to challenge Gordrakk,’ Zephacleas said.

Chapter Seven

Challenges

A cloud of dust flooded the canyon, choking and blinding the orruks in equal measure, and the ground shook violently. Caught amongst them, well away from the dangers of the vanguard, Zazul of the Radiant Veil reeled, coughing. Orruk bodies stumbled against him, bellowing and cursing, the stink of them even more cloying than the bone dust. Annoyed and frustrated, he hissed a single, abhorrent syllable. Green flames swept from his hands as he swung them out, trying to clear himself room to breathe.

Orruks shrieked as the flames consumed them. The rest fought to give him room. Breathing heavily, he looked around. His senses still ached from the force of the power that had, until only moments ago, flooded the creatures around him. Once the Waaagh! got started, there was no telling what it would do. There was no controlling it; one could only ride it out and hope to survive. Now that it was beginning to fade, he was in full control once more.

It would be a good day when at last the Dark Gods turned their attention to eradicating this pestiferous race. The orruks did not deserve even slavery — better to be done with them entirely, to wipe them from the canvas of history once and for all.

Zazul stumbled as the ground shook again, and his illusion flickered. There was still too much raw Waaagh! energy in the air. It was reducing his own carefully woven magics to uselessness. He hunched forwards, clawing at the skeins of sorcery, trying to keep his true face hidden. So intent was he on this that he failed to notice Gordrakk stalking towards him until it was too late. All around him, orruks sidled back. Zazul looked up into Gordrakk’s eyes. Before he could speak, the Fist of Gork had knocked him sprawling with a backhanded blow.

‘Where were you, shaman?’ Gordrakk growled, as Zazul tried to squirm to his feet. ‘Where was your magic? Where was your spirits?’ The Fist of Gork embedded one of his axes in the ground and caught the back of Zazul’s neck with his free hand. It took every ounce of willpower the sorcerer possessed to not simply obliterate the orruk oaf then and there. Gordrakk yanked him easily into the air and pressed the edge of his axe to Zazul’s throat.

Zazul cocked his eye skywards and saw the Ninety-Nine Feathers circling. Watching.

Hoping he’ll kill me, eh? Well, you won’t get out of our bargain that easily, carrion-eaters, he thought.

He pressed the tip of his fingers against the axe, and felt alarm as his spells of illusion wavered and snapped. His head throbbed. Something about the axe was gnawing at the edges of his sorcery. Gordrakk’s eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Zazul wondered if the megaboss had seen past his veil. Then, with a snort of disgust, Gordrakk tossed him to the ground.

‘When’s Mork going to bring me a proper weirdnob,’ he muttered. ‘Either they pop too many heads or not enough. Morgrum! Where are you, ya git?’ he called out, turning. The other megaboss thrust his way through the crowd of orruks, followed closely by his rival Roklud, and their nobs. Morgrum was as wide as he was tall, and smelt worse than a sty full of gore-gruntas. Zazul scrambled upwind as quickly as he could manage. Orruks laughed and kicked at him as he did so. He ignored them. Patience, he thought. Patience. This too shall pass. Play the long game, as you were taught.

‘They’re shooting arrows off the bones,’ Morgrum said. His wide-horned helmet was dotted with dents and soot marks, signs that he had found out about the arrows the hard way. ‘Had to pull back, or I’d run out of boys.’

‘Or maybe you was just scared,’ Roklud said belligerently. The other megaboss was wounded, blood pouring down his scalp and arm, but he either didn’t notice or didn’t care.

Morgrum swung his head towards the other megaboss. ‘Who says I’m scared?’

‘Me,’ Roklud growled, lifting his boss choppa.

‘I don’t see you climbing that hill,’ Morgrum said, lifting his gore-stikka and aiming it roughly in the direction of Roklud’s belly. The two megabosses glared at one another, and Zazul considered giving them a little push, just to fan the flames of dislike. He discarded the idea almost immediately — while amusing, Gordrakk would only kill them both, giving him uncontested control of the horde.

‘Nobody’s climbing that hill. Not until I say. For now, we pull back,’ Gordrakk said, wrenching his other axe free of the ground.

‘What?’ Roklud said. ‘Why don’t we just kick over that wall and finish them off?’ He looked at Morgrum for support, but the other megaboss looked away. Roklud growled as his rival started to whistle. ‘You cowardly git,’ he hissed, taking a half step towards Morgrum.

‘We gave them a kicking, but it’s no good killing them all. Not yet,’ Gordrakk said, glaring at Roklud until he stepped back. ‘We got to find another way to get at them.’

‘But…’

‘You want to go over that wall, Roklud? Fine. There it is,’ Gordrakk said, extending his axe between them. ‘Take your boys and go. Only, I don’t see Grotrak coming back, do you? Or Stabbajak? Or Drokka?’ Gordrakk snorted. ‘Besides, why go over when we can go through?’

The two megabosses stared at Gordrakk in confusion. Gordrakk smiled, and Zazul couldn’t help but shudder. Even Korghos Khul himself was not half so savage as the creature before him. The Bloodbound were barbaric, but predictable. Gordrakk was anything but.

‘We got a shaman, right?’ Gordrakk gestured to Zazul with Kunnin’, and the sorcerer felt his skin crawl at the thought of that blade touching him again. ‘Grund will play the war-song and get the boys ready, and Jabberjaw will brew up the big magic,’ Gordrakk said, fixing Zazul with his eye. ‘Then we’ll knock that wall down, and finish what we started.’

He scraped his axes together, and the sound set Zazul’s teeth on edge. ‘Yeah. We’ll finish it then,’ Gordrakk continued. ‘One way or another.’

Zephacleas thrust the broken orruk spear into the wet ground, a head mounted on its haft. He looked down at the prisoner, wondering how best to go about things. The one-eyed orruk glared up at him in silence, its breathing like a bellows, its chains clinking softly. It squatted in the rain like a malevolent toad, arms bound to its chest, and the rusty chains looped about its torso, shoulders and neck. Taros’ gryph-hounds lolled nearby, watching the orruk the way a hawk might watch a mouse.

Around them, Stormcasts worked to make the area defensible. Judicators patrolled the heights as Retributors closed off the other points of entry to the canyon, and Liberators worked to shore up the escarpment under Taros’ observant gaze. Elsewhere, Seker saw to the wounded, murmuring prayers and keeping up the healing rain.

‘You didn’t try to get away,’ Zephacleas said, finally.

Stabbajak shrugged sullenly. ‘Where am I gonna go?’ he growled, looking away. ‘You gonna kill me, storm-thing?’

‘Maybe,’ Zephacleas said.

Stabbajak grunted and peered at him. ‘Gonna let me have a stabba or a choppa, before you do it?’ He shuddered. ‘Don’ wanna die in chains.’ He looked up. ‘Or wet.’

‘You won’t,’ Zephacleas said. Stabbajak chuckled.

‘Good. Why you got Drokka’s head onna stick?’ he said, peering up at the grisly trophy.

‘So he can watch me beat the rest of you,’ Zephacleas said. Stabbajak nodded.

‘That’s good. That’s proper. You know us, storm-thing.’ Stabbajak grinned. ‘Everybody knows us. Ironjawz is the best.’ The grin faded. ‘You kill Grotrak too, hammer-man?’

‘No. That was him,’ Zephacleas said, gesturing towards Thetaleas. The Decimator-Prime stood nearby, with his retinue. Like the gryph-hounds, they watched the orruk closely, alert for any sign of treachery.

‘He just going to leave Grotrak laying there in the rain?’ Stabbajak asked, staring at Thetaleas.

‘No. We’ll put Grotrak’s head beside Drokka’s,’ Zephacleas said.

‘Good. Maybe his ghost will learn something,’ Stabbajak said. ‘Gordrakk is going to kill you, hammer-thing. Put your head on his banner-pole, and claim your ghost.’ He said it bluntly, with no hint of boastfulness. As far as Stabbajak was concerned, it was a foregone conclusion. The one-eyed orruk grinned again. ‘Gave him a good fight, though. Sneaky, too, knocking them bones down like that. I laughed.’

‘That’s the way of it,’ Zephacleas said. He held up a fist. ‘The Gorka…’ He held up his other fist. ‘And the Morka.’

Stabbajak gave a guttural laugh. ‘What you know about Gorkamorka, hammer-man?’

‘I know he once fought beside the Hammer God.’

Stabbajak peered at him. ‘Yeah? So?’

‘Hammer God wants to fight beside him — or them — again.’ Zephacleas brought his fists together. ‘A big war is coming. The drums are sounding in the places between worlds.’ He sank down into a crouch before the orruk. ‘The Hammer God wants Gorkamorka to join him. But I can’t find him to tell him so.’

Stabbajak chortled, rattling his chains. ‘Gorkamorka is never where you look, yeah? Always and everywhere, except where you look.’ He fixed Zephacleas with his good eye. ‘But you know that, hammer-man. So… what do you want?’

‘Gordrakk,’ Zephacleas said. Stabbajak grunted and rocked back on his heels. Zephacleas continued. ‘Gordrakk is the Fist of Gork. He speaks with the god’s voice, calling the Ironjawz to war, doesn’t he? What he hears, the gods hear?’

Stabbajak nodded, somewhat reluctantly. ‘Yeah.’

‘If I let you go, will you tell Gordrakk I want to fight him, so I can give him the Hammer God’s words?’ Zephacleas said, studying the orruk’s brutal features. He didn’t trust the creature. Orruks couldn’t be trusted to do anything but fight. They didn’t swear oaths or have anything remotely resembling a sense of honour. But it also never occurred to them to lie.

‘You want me to tell Gordrakk you want a fight?’ Stabbajak said doubtfully. He shook his head. ‘He already knows that, hammer-man. Why else would he come here?’

‘Will you tell him that I bring the word of the Hammer God?’ Zephacleas pressed.

Stabbajak looked at him for a moment. Then, he said, ‘Hammer God and Gorkamorka got into an eatin’ contest, yeah? And Gorkamorka ate a whole kingdom, castles and all.’ He thrust a warty finger up beneath his eye-patch and scratched furiously, causing his chains to clatter. ‘Still there too,’ he added.

‘And what does that have to do with anything?’ Taros said.

Stabbajak peered up at him. ‘Best be careful Gordrakk doesn’t swallow you up too,’ he grunted. He looked at Zephacleas. ‘You’re brave, storm-thing. Almost as tough as us Ironjawz. Be a good fight, Stabbajak thinks.’

‘The fight-of-fights,’ Zephacleas said. He took the chains that bound the orruk in his hands and snapped them. Stabbajak rose to his full height, shedding the bonds with a splash. He looked around and sniffed.

‘We’ll see.’

Zephacleas watched the orruk lope through the rain towards Taros’ wall. Stabbajak lunged past the Liberators at the foot of the slope, and, with simian agility, began to climb, bones tumbling in his wake. The Stormcasts on the scarp face moved aside to let the creature pass, and soon he was clambering down the other side and lost to sight.

‘Do you trust that creature to do as you ask?’ Greel said, from behind him.

‘No. I trust him to be true to his nature. Either way, Gordrakk will come. The rest is in Sigmar’s hands,’ Zephacleas said. He turned. ‘You’d best go, before the orruks start massing. Otherwise you’ll be fighting every step of the way.’ He held out his hand. After a moment’s hesitation, Greel took it.

‘Go with Sigmar, brother,’ Zephacleas said, clasping Greel’s forearm.

‘And you, Beast-bane.’ Greel hesitated. ‘Do your best not to get killed, if you would.’

‘I shall,’ Zephacleas said. ‘Now go — hurry. We’ll keep them looking this way, as long as we can.’ Greel nodded and turned, moving away through the rain. The remnants of his chamber awaited him. They were a pitiful few, compared to what they had been, but even a few Stormcasts were more than a match for most things in this realm or any other.

Zephacleas sighed and looked at Drokka’s head. Droplets of rain rolled down the slack features of the orruk. ‘I wonder if I’m making a mistake,’ he said. ‘Then, I suppose you never worried about that. Even right there at the end.’

‘Orruks do not think of death as we do, or did. For them, it is inevitably sudden and surprising, and they waste little time worrying about it.’

Zephacleas glanced at his Lord-Relictor. ‘The wounded?’ he asked.

‘Recovering. You are worried,’ Seker said. ‘Greel is worried as well, if it helps.’

‘It doesn’t,’ Zephacleas said.

‘I doubt the orruks care either way. Where is your head, Lord-Celestant?’ Seker said.

‘Here and there. Unlike some, I can hold more than one idea in my head at a time, Gravewalker,’ Zephacleas said. ‘A chieftain must be broad-minded.’

‘You are still in the Jade Kingdoms,’ Seker said, bluntly. ‘Even after all this time. Why?’

‘Gardus,’ Zephacleas said. ‘Are you not curious? The Steel Soul died in the Hidden Vale, but he will return. Mantius Far-killer died in the Crawling City, but he too will be reforged, as Gaius Greel was reforged. Will they be the same, or will something different come back to us? Something that we do not recognise as our brethren, save in name alone?’

‘I know the fates of the Steel Soul and the Far-killer weigh on you, Zephacleas,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘But now is hardly the time to be worrying about the dead.’

‘Funny words, coming from you. And I am not worried about the dead,’ he said. ‘Because they are not dead, are they? No more than any of us are dead. We will not die. We cannot die.’ He tapped the Lord-Relictor on the shoulder with his hammer, scattering droplets of rain. ‘That is what worries me, brother. Not death, for every warrior dies. Save we blessed few. But if not death, then… what? I am — I was — a chieftain, Gravewalker, and the Beast-bane is my tribe. And it is a chieftain’s duty to worry for the fate of his tribe.’

Seker shook his head. ‘I think I like you better when you are singing and hitting things.’

‘I like myself better then as well,’ Zephacleas said. He peered up at the sky and the thick clouds, which still wept with the storm the Lord-Relictor had called down. He held out his hand, letting the rain wash some of the grime from his gauntlet. ‘It’s a foolish thing I’m doing here, I know. Gordrakk might kill me before I can get through to him. But we must take the chance, if we are to win.’

‘I said nothing,’ Seker said. ‘You are Lord-Celestant, and I but advise and say the prayers for the dying. I call the storm, but I do not direct strategy.’

‘Are you finished?’ Zephacleas said.

‘I believe so. This is foolish, yes, but we are caught in a trap. We were caught in a trap in the Gnarlwood as well. Discipline must be flexible, else it is simply a tomb waiting to be filled.’ The Lord-Relictor thumped the ground with his staff. ‘Do you remember when you spoke to the seraphon, in the Crawling City?’

‘Yes,’ Zephacleas said.

‘And the sylvaneth, in the Jade Kingdoms?’

‘Yes. What is your point?’

‘Sigmar chose us to accompany Greel for a reason, Zephacleas. Perhaps he foresaw this moment, or perhaps he wished for you to stir the embers of the warrior Greel was. Perhaps Sigmar fears what we will become as much as you. Did he not send the Hammerhand with Thostos Bladestorm? Maybe your purpose here is not what you think, brother.’

Zephacleas was silent for a moment. ‘Seker?’ he asked.

‘Yes, Lord-Celestant?’

‘I think I like you better when you don’t talk.’

‘Yes, my lord.’

Lord-Celestant Greel led his warriors through the hole the Decimators had chopped in the face of the bone scree. The Sons of Mallus moved swiftly, shields held over their heads. If the hastily made path threatened to collapse, the Liberators could keep the rest of the chamber from being buried, while the Decimators hacked them free. It was a risky gambit, but Greel was in no mood to waste time navigating the twisting canyons of the Gargant’s Graveyard. They would hack their way through the canyon walls, straight to the enormous skull that marked its centre. Sigmarite shields scraped against bone as they moved, and the only light was from the soft azure glow that outlined their weapons.

He could hear the thump of orruk drums, and the entirety of the boneyard seemed to tremble with the force of their impatience. It reverberated through every bone and root. He glanced back the way they had come. A tiny circle of amber light marked the canyon. Part of him wondered if he should go back. If Zephacleas was wrong, if Gordrakk ignored his challenge, then the Astral Templars would need every shield and hammer to repel the orruks.

He thrust the thought aside. His fellow Lord-Celestant had made his decision. Greel had his own task, and he intended to see it through, one way or another. He looked ahead. His Decimators swung their axes, hewing through the tangled roots and bones, occasionally striking sparks from forgotten chains. Skulls and leg-bones crunched beneath their feet as they marched. Occasionally they would be forced to take a detour around an immense skull or the vertebrae of some long-dead leviathan that proved too tough to hack through.

As Greel led his warriors forwards, bits of bone ricocheting off their war-plate, his mind turned inwards. Zephacleas’ incessant questions had awoken in him things he had not thought of since he had emerged from the cascade of lightning that had returned him to the Realm of Beasts. He had felt pain, then. The pain of rebirth, the pain of being sent back to the place where he had failed. Where he had died, where the echoes of his screams seemed to be carried in every stray breeze.

The moment of his death was like a sore spot in the body of his memory, an ache that only time would heal, if that. Other Stormcasts had died since the opening of the great gates of Azyr and the Harrowing of Aqshy. Some even now burned in the fires of purification, while others marched once more, as Greel did. He wondered if they, like him, could not shake the feeling of something lost.

We were made for battle. Imbued with the strength of the God-King and crafted in his image, he thought. So how then can we fail?

Greel did not think himself a fool, but he felt a vague sense of unease as he considered the implication. Sigmar had never denied his fallibility — far from it. As great as his deeds were, so too were his failures, and those stories were not forbidden to the scholars of the Sigmarabulum. Learn, the God-King commanded. See my mistakes and learn from them. In truth, the God-King was not as Greel or even the Hammerhand. Not a warrior, but a chieftain, Greel thought, smiling slightly.

A chieftain, who forgave his tribesmen’s failures and helped them stand when they stumbled. A part of him wished that he were a being without need of either help or forgiveness. Something in him yearned for the peace of the drawn blade, the simplicity of the hammer. Maybe then, he could begin to shed the shadows of failure that clung to his mind.

That, in the end, was the story of Gaius Greel — failure. He had failed in life, and been spared the meathooks and bait-cages of the Bloodbound only through Sigmar’s mercy. And he had failed again, in the Temple of the Empty Heart.

He had hesitated, and he had paid the price. But he could not — did not — understand why. That part of his memory was nothing but sound and fury, with no meaning to it. He heard the hollow clatter of weapons, and the screams of his brothers-in-arms as Sharizad danced among them, killing warriors with every step, an army of ghosts at her beck and call.

The spirits had rolled forwards like a fog bank. The shield wall that had withstood the hordes at Hreth had come undone in moments. Their weapons had been almost useless. Those who had not fallen to the ghosts had been consumed by fell sorceries, burned alive in their armour by changefire or reduced to screaming strands of smoke. As the shield wall reeled, Greel had taken his chance, and… what?

Something had happened. Something he had seen or felt had made him hesitate, his hammer raised over her head. It had lasted but a moment, but she had turned and spitted him smoothly, her crystalline blade piercing his blessed armour as easily as if it had been parchment. She had laughed then, and he had felt… something. Something clawing at him, tearing at his insides.

Tearing at his very soul.

Greel closed his eyes, banishing the memory. Whatever had happened in the Temple of the Empty Heart, it would not happen again.

Whatever else, Sharizad would die.

Chapter Eight

Questions

‘They want me to kick it over?’ Gordrakk said, leaning forwards in Chompa’s saddle. He scratched his cheek with Kunnin’, listening to its murmurs. The air was still thick with bone dust from the collapse of the canyon walls, and the echoes as well. He’d pulled his warriors back, waiting for the ground and the bones to settle. Roklud and the others were grumbling, but that was to be expected. He peered at the escarpment, considering. It wasn’t much of a wall, but there were storm-things moving around on top of it.

When he had caught sight of Stabbajak sliding down the slope, he’d almost thought the grunta-boss had somehow come back from the dead. He had only been captured, though, which was worse. Dead, an orruk could still fight other ghosts. But captured? That was the worst thing of all for an orruk. Gordrakk didn’t particularly like Stabbajak, but that wasn’t the sort of fate he would wish on another Ironjaw. Even a sneaky, one-eyed pig-snatcher like Stabbajak.

‘The big boss wants a scrap,’ Stabbajak said, with a shrug. ‘Said he wanted the fight-of-fights. Said he wanted to beat us flat and stomp on us until there was nothing left.’

‘Fight-of-fights,’ Gordrakk repeated. He nodded as a murmur swept through the gathered Ironjawz. ‘What was he like, the big boss?’

‘Tore off Drokka’s head,’ Stabbajak said. He gestured. ‘Put it onna stick.’ He hiked his thumb over his shoulder, at the escarpment. ‘Put all of their heads on sticks.’

Gordrakk nodded approvingly. That was the proper way of it, giving the ghosts of Drokka and the others a chance to see the fighting. These storm-things knew something, at least.

‘You lost your gore-grunta,’ he said. Stabbajak scratched his eye socket furiously.

‘Broke ’er neck,’ he said, mournfully. Stabbajak had doted on the beast, Gordrakk knew. After a moment, the megaboss shrugged. ‘But he broke my chains,’ he added, as if the one balanced the other. ‘Sent me to challenge you.’

‘That he did,’ Gordrakk said. He leaned forwards. ‘Why is that, you think?’

Stabbajak laughed. ‘He knows Ironjawz are the best. He wants to be the best, so he’s got to beat us. The purple hammer-boss is smart. Smart like an Ironjaw.’

‘Hnh. Can’t be that smart, wanting to fight me,’ Gordrakk said. He sat back, thinking. This was the sort of thing he lived for, when all was said and done. Proving he was the best, one-on-one — that was the purpose Gork had punched him into the world for. ‘Still, who am I to say no?’ he said, glancing at the escarpment.

‘I say no,’ Jabberjaw shrilled. ‘Spirits say no!’

Gordrakk rolled his eyes. The weirdnob was stamping on his last nerve, and had been since the storm-things had collapsed the canyon. It was Jabberjaw behind Roklud’s mutterings, he knew. Weirdnobs were always the same, always had to interfere in things that weren’t their business. It wasn’t healthy, listening to spirits all the time. It dulled an orruk’s mind. Too, the weirdnob hadn’t got stuck in at all, or exploded a single head. Further proof that he was less useful than Gordrakk had initially thought.

‘Spirits say a lot of things, Jabberjaw.’ He stared down at the weirdnob. ‘Spirits say attack an army of storm-things. Now they say hide like a sprog from one? Maybe I’m tired of listening to your spirits, shaman. Maybe I’m gonna listen to my own.’ He hefted Kunnin’ meaningfully.

Jabberjaw twitched, though whether it was from annoyance or a surplus of energies, Gordrakk couldn’t say. ‘What about my big magic, eh?’ the shaman said slyly. ‘Let me knock that wall down — we’ll fight them then.’

‘But he challenged me,’ Gordrakk said, speaking slowly, as if to a troggoth.

‘So?’ Jabberjaw nearly shrieked. His form flickered, as if it were lit by a fire inside.

Every orruk within earshot fell silent. Stabbajak, good eye wide, stepped back. Gordrakk’s expression didn’t change. He studied the shaman, and listened to the murmurs of Kunnin’. At its insistence, he glanced at Jabberjaw’s shadow, and saw that it was… wrong. It wasn’t an orruk’s shadow at all. It was too thin, too long.

Gordrakk closed his eyes, thinking. It was a rare thing when he didn’t simply follow his first impulse, and right now his impulse was to tear Jabberjaw’s tongue out and feed it back to him. Jabberjaw was still talking, trying to browbeat the others into agreeing with him, even though they weren’t responding, all of them watching Gordrakk. The weirdnob didn’t seem to understand how orruks worked. It didn’t matter what the others said — Gordrakk only did what Gordrakk wanted to do. That was what being the strongest meant, after all. Nobody made Ironjawz do what they didn’t want to do — not other orruks, not Chaos-things, not the Hammer God, not nobody. Not even Gorkamorka, when it came down to it.

But Jabberjaw didn’t understand that, and his shadow was wrong and he hadn’t popped any skulls. Set a few on fire, but that wasn’t the same. It was Jabberjaw who had sent him after the storm-things, and Jabberjaw who had led him to the Chaos-things. And all for what? Gordrakk opened his eyes and looked towards the Big Skull. His mind itched, and the axes snarled in unison. There was a fight there, waiting on him, and it seemed like Jabberjaw was trying to keep him from it. Decision made, Gordrakk said, ‘You hear that, Jabberjaw?’

Jabberjaw stopped talking and looked up at Gordrakk. ‘What?’ he said.

‘The sound of drums,’ Gordrakk said. ‘The gods are playing the war-song. Can’t you hear the sound of the drums?’ Stabbajak and the others nodded. Grund, standing nearby, began to chant softly, thumping his head and his knee in time to a disjointed rhythm. The war-rhythm, the battle-song. Never the same twice, because orruks got bored easily. But always recognisable, despite that. Jabberjaw stared at him.

‘I’ll meet the hammer-boss. Then we’ll see what’s what. We’ll see who’s best,’ Gordrakk said, holding the shaman’s gaze.

And we’ll see what you’re hiding, shaman, he thought. We’ll see what you don’t want me to see…

Curdak was the next to die.

He fell silently, with barely a whimper to mark his passage. Something fleshed in amber and bearing a reptilian countenance emerged from the darkness of a side corridor and tore the sorrowful one apart before he could muster a defensive incantation. The amber monstrosity turned upon the rest of them a moment later. Tribesmen and knights alike died beneath its scything talons, until Bodak and Kuldak between them put an end to it. Unlike Curdak, it died laughing.

Its laughter was the same as that which had haunted them intermittently since Redak’s death, hours or days before. Time had little meaning in the labyrinth, Sharizad thought. It passed more slowly in some corridors than others. Her warriors had grown silent and moody, and their courage wilted in the face of the seemingly endless convolutions of the Howling Labyrinth. She had but a few men left. Others had vanished down side corridors or been drawn into the mirror-like slabs that lined the walls. One of the Knights of Malachus had stepped through a smoke-spewing archway only to emerge moments later, his armour corroded and his limbs feeble with the weight of a thousand years. He had collapsed into dust soon after.

The spirits spoke to her of something watching them. Whether it was the Daemoniac Conundrum or the Howling Labyrinth itself, they did not know. Perhaps it didn’t matter. Some force was diverting them. She could hear the corridors moving and shifting, like the coils of some vast serpent. As if it doesn’t want me to find what I am searching for, she thought. Even her strongest spells of seeking were swallowed up by the strange corridors.

‘Cast your sands, Kuldak, and tell us which way we are to go,’ she said. They stood at an intersection. Before them, the corridor split into two winding paths: one that curved upwards, the other downwards.

Kuldak scattered a handful of sand across the air, as the others watched. The grains shone with an odd light and hung suspended in the air, twisting first one way and then the next.

‘Like the great snakes of the Ochre Desert,’ Bodak said, looking at her. ‘He followed their trails, collecting the sands that they slithered across. He thinks they carry a potent magic in their scales, eh?’ He gestured, mimicking a snake’s undulations.

‘And what do you think, Bodak-of-the-Nine?’

‘I? I do not think. My magics are instinctive. We were born of magic, and I see no reason to clutter the issue with ritual and rite.’ He tapped the length of his club. ‘This is all the magic I require, O Destined Queen.’

‘Did you kill it yourself, then?’ she said. It was no small feat to slay a toad-dragon. The bilious beasts were impossibly tough. The strongest magics cascaded off their scales.

‘Eventually,’ Bodak said. ‘My brother loves you.’

‘Which one?’ she asked, watching Kuldak manipulate his coiling sands.

‘Sardak, of course. He’s always been the weakest of us. Even more so than Curdak, or gentle Yuhdak,’ Bodak said. ‘I do not love you, for I know you. There is no love in you, only hunger. I admire that, the way I might admire a roaring flame.’

‘But you are wary of it,’ she said. There was more to Bodak than she had first thought.

He nodded. ‘You do not trust me, do you, woman?’

‘Trust is as ephemeral as a morning mist,’ she said.

‘Ha!’ Bodak slapped his club and inclined his head. ‘I still wonder why the crow put us in your shadow, but I think I am beginning to understand. I—’

A shriek cut him off. One of her hillmen staggered, his leg pinned between two great talon-tips, rising from the floor. Something massive yet indistinct floated beneath them in the polished stones of the floor. Swiftly and surely, it dragged the unfortunate barbarian down, until only his face and hands remained free of the amber. Sardak stepped forwards, blade drawn, but Sharizad waved him back.

‘Do you not understand? We must pay the toll to go any further. Let it have him. He was born to die for me, and now he does so, fulfilled.’ She knelt beside the struggling warrior, and gently stroked his fear-struck features. Then, as he babbled in protest, she pushed him fully into the amber, until he was lost to sight. She stood. ‘Every time we stop, a toll is required. A new soul added to the mortar of this place.’

‘And that’s a price you’ll happily pay, is it?’ Bodak said, staring at her. Yuhdak placed a warning hand on his arm, but Bodak shrugged him off. ‘As I said, you are hungry, countess. And I fear you will devour us all, before you are satiated.’

‘Perhaps… or perhaps only the strong are fit to serve me. That is the way of it, Bodak. The weak are broken underfoot, and the strong stride forth. Which are you?’ Sharizad said.

‘We will find out by and by, I expect,’ Bodak said. ‘Ah, brother, your sands seem agitated.’ Sharizad turned and saw Kuldak gesturing frenziedly as his sands whipped around him. Abruptly, they flowed away from him and down one of the corridors.

‘Not agitated,’ Kuldak said. ‘Excited.’ He bowed floridly to Sharizad. ‘I have found the path, my queen.’

‘Or have been allowed to find it,’ Sharizad said. ‘Come, my warriors, my loves. Let us tarry no longer. Sardak, would you walk beside me?’ Sardak hurried to her side, as his brother stared in what Sharizad thought was either consternation or envy. Only four of them remained. She wondered whether she would be forced to cull the other three herself, or whether the Howling Labyrinth would do it for her.

‘You have lost five brothers so far, Sardak,’ Sharizad said, as they entered the corridor. Sardak didn’t look at her. He was seemingly rapt by the play of light across his gauntlet.

‘And we — I — feel all the better for it. Each one who falls adds to the strength of those remaining. Soon, only one of us will be left.’ He curled his clawed fingers. ‘And then we — I — he — shall know what it was all in service of.’

‘Strange are the ways of Tzeentch,’ Sharizad said.

‘And mighty his machinations,’ Sardak said, still gazing at his hand. ‘Did you know that we all have the same memories, until the moment of our sundering? And then our lives diverge like paths in a wood. I wonder, are we but possibilities? Is our contest nothing more than a winnowing of alternatives, until the moment when the true path makes itself known?’

‘And if it is?’ Sharizad asked, genuinely curious.

‘Then I intend my path to be the true one, my queen.’ Sardak reached out, as if to take her hand, but stopped himself. He turned away and she restrained a smile. Of all the Nine, Sardak was the easiest to predict. She hoped he was right. He would be powerful, and all the more useful for it. A potent champion to head her armies and carry her standard.

‘Who is Archaon?’ he asked, suddenly.

She looked at him. ‘What?’

‘Archaon. Who is he?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘When one of us dies, our fate becomes more clear. I see things, hear bits and pieces, rags and tatters of what may come to pass. When Curdak died, I heard a great voice call out a name — Archaon — and I knew… fear? And then, anticipation. Who is he?’

‘No one,’ Sharizad said, frowning. ‘A fable. A myth.’

‘You’re lying,’ Sardak said, softly.

Sharizad caught him by the throat and bore him backwards. He made no sound as she pinned him against the wall. A murmur swept through her warriors, and she felt, rather than saw, Sardak’s brothers move towards her. She ignored them. They were nothing. Lesser fates. ‘He is nothing. He bears a title no one gave him, and makes demands upon his betters. You do not serve Archaon, Sardak-of-the-Nine. You serve me.’

There was no anger in her voice, and none in her heart. Anger was useless, where the Grand Marshal of Chaos was concerned. Archaon was more myth than man, and more a force of nature than an enemy to be fought. His servants were legion and his aims simple: the complete and utter subjugation of the Mortal Realms in the name of the Ruinous Powers.

But the Ruinous Powers already had dominion here. It had been theirs for centuries. And what good had it done them? What good was absolute control, without an enemy to test yourself against? Archaon was a raging fire that would devour everything and snuff itself in the process. ‘You… serve… me,’ she hissed.

Sardak nodded, choking. She released him and stepped back. She turned. ‘You all serve me. Your fates are chained to mine now, as surely as those souls that I hold caged,’ she said, tapping a finger against the facets of her armour. ‘And if you test me I shall bring you to heel as I do them.’

One by one, they dropped to their knees before her. And Sharizad smiled.

Chapter Nine

Fight-of-fights

‘Bring that big one’s head, and any others that are in good shape, eh?’ Zephacleas said, knocking his knuckles against Thetaleas’ shoulder-plate. ‘I’ll set up the first few, you mount the others.’ The Decimator-Prime nodded and strode off, leaving his Lord-Celestant standing at the base of the escarpment. Taros joined Zephacleas, his gryph-hounds trailing in his wake.

‘More heads?’ the Lord-Castellant asked.

‘As many as are in good shape. We want to show our friendly foes that they’re welcome, after all,’ Zephacleas said. He hefted several makeshift poles made from longer bones onto his shoulder. An orruk head was mounted on each one.

‘Friendly,’ Taros repeated, flatly.

Zephacleas looked at him. ‘Orruks aren’t like the Bloodbound, or Rotbringers, brother. They are not things of Chaos. Rather, they are forces of nature. Your folk tilled the earth, did they not? Do you drain a river that threatens your fields, or do you merely divert it?’

Taros grunted. ‘Sometimes I forget you’re not half the fool Seker claims you are.’

‘Not half, no,’ Zephacleas said. The sound of orruk drums rose up from the other side of the escarpment. ‘Sounds like Stabbajak passed along my message. Took him long enough.’ He started up the slope, bones crunching beneath his feet. He stopped and glanced at Taros. ‘Are you coming?’ Taros shook his head and followed Zephacleas up the slope.

‘This is tantamount to suicide, you know,’ Taros said, when they reached the top. He looked down at the milling orruks. ‘That beast isn’t natural — he’s god-forged, as much as we are. You can smell it on the air.’

‘For shame, Nine-strike. Have you no faith in your Lord-Celestant?’ Zephacleas said. He set each of the makeshift poles with their grisly adornments into place. He angled them so that they faced the horde below. It was an old custom, though when and where he had learned it he could not truly recall. There was nothing an orruk feared more than missing a fight. This way, their ghosts could at least taste some of the blood that would be spilled in the coming hours.

‘I have faith that you’ll give a good accounting of yourself,’ Taros said doubtfully. ‘That monster has defeated at least three Warrior Chambers, Zephacleas. Remember what happened at the Biting Gorge, when the Lions of Sigmar tried to bring him to heel? Or in the Ghurvale, when he slaughtered an entire chamber of the Blades of Dawn? Hundreds of warriors have fallen to the axes of this creature.’

‘I remember,’ Zephacleas said. He finished fixing the last pole in place, and gave the head that surmounted it a friendly pat. ‘But there is an obvious difference between this moment and those that you are forgetting, my friend.’

‘Oh? And what might that be?’

‘None of those warriors were me.’ Zephacleas raised his weapons and shouted something in the harsh tongue of the orruks. Down below, the orruks reacted, screaming at the bulwark. Zephacleas continued to shout, and slammed his weapons together for good measure. The orruks matched him shout for shout, and began to stamp their feet and shake their weapons.

‘What in Sigmar’s name are you saying to them?’ Taros said.

‘Insults,’ Zephacleas said. ‘The orruk language is mostly insults. Well, insults and threats.’ He glanced at the Lord-Castellant. ‘The trick is getting the right mix. Too much, and they’ll just charge up the slope and attack. Too little, and they’ll laugh.’ He turned and shouted again. This time, from somewhere back amid the ranks of the orruks, a single voice replied. It was as loud as the thunder of Azyr, and as brutal as any beast’s roar. Bones rattled, and the Stormcasts at the top of the slope tensed. The other orruks fell silent. Zephacleas nodded in satisfaction and sheathed his sword. ‘There he is. Get ready.’

‘If this doesn’t work…’ Taros began.

‘If it doesn’t work, I’ll be bound for Reforging, and you’ll have to do what you can,’ Zephacleas said, bluntly. He looked at Taros. ‘But it will work. Why else would Sigmar have sent me?’

‘Necessity?’ Taros said.

‘Exactly, my friend. Necessity,’ Zephacleas said. He dropped his fist down on the other Stormcast’s shoulder-plate. ‘Hold fast. I’ll be back soon.’ Then he turned and stepped over the edge of the bulwark. He skidded down the slope of bones, slowing his descent with his free hand. He reached the bottom with a clatter and stood. The orruks spread out before him in a disorganised line. As ever, clan stood with clan, and were easily distinguished from one another. Gordrakk had bullied hundreds of smaller tribes into joining his horde.

Fist of Gork indeed, Zephacleas thought. That was only one of Gordrakk’s names. He was known in every corner of the Realm of Beasts and beyond. Wherever the Ironjawz ravaged, the name of Gordrakk went with them. He was the personification of a storm worse than any to have swept the Mortal Realms since the coming of Chaos.

Zephacleas walked towards the orruks, and was enveloped in an almost solid shroud of noise. They were louder than men. The creatures howled, cursed, thumped their shields, stamped their feet or otherwise added to the general cacophony as enthusiastically as possible. Sometimes he wondered if they made noise not to frighten their foes but to attract the attention of their gods. An orruk probably thought it had to make a lot of noise, given how many of them there were and how many battles their kind were waging throughout the Mortal Realms.

He slammed his weapons together as he walked. He suspected that Gordrakk was on his way to meet him, given the agitation in their ranks. When he caught sight of the lumbering shape of the maw-krusha, he knew he had been right. With a roar, the scaly beast lunged into the air and flew awkwardly over the heads of the orruks in the front ranks. It crashed down between the orruks and Zephacleas, shaking the ground. The wide head undulated forwards, and the maw-krusha bellowed in challenge.

Zephacleas crossed his weapons before his face and endured the wave of noise, though it shook him to his marrow. A maw-krusha’s roar could flatten a wall or pulverise flesh and bone in the right circumstances. The massive orruk sitting astride the monster’s neck slammed the haft of one of his two axes against the maw-krusha’s skull.

‘Shut it,’ Gordrakk roared. The monster subsided with a petulant rumbling.

Zephacleas looked up at Gordrakk, examining him. The orruk was the largest he had ever seen, larger even than a Stormcast, and clad in crude piecemeal armour. Savage trophies hung from every available surface, and his broad features were heavily scarred. It was the first time he had ever seen the beast known by some riftcoast tribes as Bastion-killer up close and in the warty flesh. The hillmen called Gordrakk the Mountain-cracker, and the folk of the Crawling City of Shu’gohl knew him as Obol’Ogar — the King of Death. None of those names truly captured the monstrous savagery of the orruk who glared down at him. A pall of implacable fury hung over the creature, and he stank of violence and brutality in a way that not even the followers of the Blood God could manage. Gordrakk was nothing less than the rage of a god given form.

But so too was Zephacleas — so too were all Stormcasts. Sigmar had forged them in wrath and they were as much things of divine rage as Gordrakk.

Zephacleas took a deep breath. Let us see whose rage is greater, then, he thought.

He pointed his runeblade at Gordrakk. ‘Are you going to hide up there all day, or are you going to come down here and fight?’ he shouted.

Gordrakk cocked his head. ‘You want to fight?’ he rumbled.

‘In a moment — first I want to talk,’ Zephacleas said. This was the most dangerous part. He had Gordrakk’s attention. Now he had to keep it. Otherwise the brute would just order his monstrous steed to swallow Zephacleas whole, and his forces to attack.

‘Talk?’ Gordrakk growled.

‘First we talk. Then we fight,’ Zephacleas said.

Gordrakk gave a harsh laugh. He thumped the maw-krusha’s head with the haft of one of his axes and the great beast lowered itself with a querulous grunt. The orruk slid down and lumbered towards Zephacleas.

When he reached the Lord-Celestant, Gordrakk buried both of his axes in a large skull half covered by earth and crossed his thick arms over his chest. ‘You wanted to talk, so talk, storm-thing,’ he growled. The creature’s voice was like a sack of rocks caught in an iron drum, but there was a savage intelligence in his eyes.

‘Zephacleas,’ Zephacleas said.

‘What?’

‘My name is Zephacleas,’ he said. ‘And I bring the word of the Hammer God.’

Gordrakk laughed. ‘Oh? Does the Hammer God want to fight Gordrakk, or just you?’

‘The Hammer God wants to talk to Gorkamorka,’ Zephacleas said.

‘So?’ Gordrakk said, waving his hand.

‘The Hammer God doesn’t know where Gorkamorka is. He thinks you do.’

Gordrakk cocked his head, as if listening to something. Or perhaps someone. The creature studied Zephacleas for a moment. Then he grunted and looked up. He caught sight of the heads on their poles, jutting from the bulwark. One in particular caught his eye.

‘Drokka,’ Gordrakk grunted, peering up at the head. He looked at Zephacleas. ‘Good fight?’

Zephacleas shrugged. ‘I’ve had better. He had a bad knee.’

Gordrakk threw his head back and laughed uproariously. Still chuckling, he said, ‘You want to find Gorkamorka?’

‘I do.’

‘If you win, I tell you,’ Gordrakk said. He thrust a finger in his ear and twirled it. ‘You lose, maybe you meet Gorkamorka anyway.’ He pulled his finger out of his ear and sniffed it. Then he looked at Zephacleas. ‘You ready to fight Gordrakk now?’

‘Why else would I be standing here?’ Zephacleas said. Then, ‘Maybe Gordrakk doesn’t want to fight me, eh?’

Gordrakk stopped laughing. He cocked his head and put a hand up to his ear. ‘What?’

‘I said…’ Zephacleas began. He knew what was coming, and he rolled with the blow as Gordrakk punched him in the face. He staggered, armour reverberating, ears ringing. Gordrakk tore his weapons free of the skull and charged towards him with a bellow.

Zephacleas backed away, trying to clear his head. Gordrakk was strong — stronger even than he had anticipated. Zephacleas had been struck by ogors and gargants, but rarely had his wits been so addled by a single blow.

Gordrakk swung wildly at him, his axes hissing through the air. Zephacleas, ears still ringing, ducked aside and booted his opponent in the small of the back. Gordrakk roared and stumbled.

‘You want to fight dirty?’ Zephacleas called after him. ‘We’ll fight dirty.’

Zazul watched the duel begin with mingled satisfaction and agitation. As with every twist of fate, here was a chance for success and failure all in one. If the orruk won, the Stormcast Eternals would be summarily defeated. If the Stormcast won, then Gordrakk’s threat would be ended once and for all. But… he had not planned for this. He had not foreseen it. The strands of fate trembled, uncertain, loose in all the wrong places. He heard a croaking and looked up. Ravens circled overhead. One of them swooped towards him.

‘They have tricked you, Zazul,’ the raven croaked as it landed on his shoulder.

‘What?’ He glanced at the bird, and then up, where the others circled.

‘The Stormcasts are moving towards the Howling Labyrinth. This is but a distraction.’

‘Why did you not warn me?’ he snarled.

‘I just have warned you,’ she replied. The raven fixed him with a glittering eye.

‘We had a bargain, witch. You and your flock owe me a debt, and you shall not squirm out of it,’ he said. He caught hold of the bird before she could flee. Briefly, he considered crushing her. But to do so would enrage the remaining members of her flock. He could not afford to fight the Ninety-Nine Feathers, not here and now. He glanced up, watching the circling forms of the others, and frowned. No, he could still get some use out of them.

Still clutching the raven, he sidled towards Stabbajak and the others. The remaining megabosses crouched, watching the duel. They did not watch as deathbringers might have watched, or any other champions of the Ruinous Powers, seeking opportunity and searching for weakness in an opponent. Instead, they were rapt, hypnotised by the spectacle being played out before them. He winced as something passed between the orruks and his veil flickered. He glanced back at the duel.

It was hard to tell who was winning. Gordrakk was the stronger, but the Stormcast fought with a fury that Zazul had seldom witnessed. The two traded blows that would have killed a lesser being. Every time their weapons connected, lightning sparked. The longer they fought, the greater Gordrakk’s rage grew, and the greater the orruks’ excitement became. His head ached with the weight of it all. He could feel the strands of magic he had woven about himself coming undone. He didn’t have long.

‘Gordrakk ain’t looking,’ Zazul hissed, trying to worm his way into Stabbajak’s thoughts. His voice pulsed on the air, bleeding into the orruk’s mind. Or so it should have done. Instead, Stabbajak simply scratched his jowls and gestured irritably. ‘You can go give him a kickin’, Stabbajak… You and all the others,’ Zazul pressed.

‘Shut up, shaman,’ the one-eyed orruk grunted, without looking at him. His eye, the eyes of all of his fellow megabosses, were on the fight. They growled with pleasure every time a blow was struck. To Zazul, the orruks’ minds glowed like the embers of a brazier, pulsing with a power he could not fathom. The orruks drew what brute sorcery they possessed not from the gods, but from within themselves. Each one was like a fire, stirred to life and fed by carnage and violence. It blazed within the soul of every orruk in sight, Ironjaw and otherwise. Some chanted, others thumped the ground with fists and feet, and blinding sparks of emerald light bounced from skull to skull and soul to soul.

It was a hurricane, battering against the walls of his psyche, a raw, elemental force that he had no counter for. It was a hungry thing, almost alive. For a moment, Zazul almost felt fear. There was no controlling such a force. One could only divert it for a time. And his time was almost up. He felt Stabbajak’s eye on him, and he snarled. The megaboss stared at him openly.

‘You don’t look right, Jabberjaw…’

Zazul hissed. He could feel his spells beginning to bend beneath the force of that hurricane. ‘Fine then, and fie,’ he said. His glamour faded, and he stood revealed in gold and azure, his brutish totems transformed into the tools of his art — his grimoires, scrolls and talismans. The wood of his skull-topped staff shifted and ran like water, shedding its crude shroud to become a war-staff, surmounted by the witch-rune of Tzeentch.

The orruk gaped at him and then snarled, reaching for the blade on his belt. Zazul thrust his taloned gauntlet forwards and into Stabbajak’s chest. The megaboss howled and convulsed as bale-fire filled him and burned him up from the inside out. Zazul tore his hand free of the ashes and spun, filling the air with fire and death.

‘Fie on all brutes and savages,’ he roared, as orruks screamed. With a gesture, he condensed the ashes and scraps of bloody flesh into the shape of a disc. Blades of bone sprouted from its rim and slashed at the closest orruks with predatory intent. Stinger-tipped tendrils flicked out, helping him to step up onto it.

He hurled the raven into the air.

‘One last service, witch — kill them!’

‘He’s doing well enough, don’t you think?’ Taros Nine-strike said, watching the duel as its participants careered back and forth below. Stormcasts stood arrayed on the wall of bone, watching as their Lord-Celestant fought the orruk megaboss.

Seker Gravewalker inclined his head. ‘Whatever his faults, Zephacleas is a match for most warriors, living or dead.’ He watched his Lord-Celestant parry a wild axe-stroke and reply in kind with his hammer. The combatants’ weapons clashed loudly as they staggered and stumbled back and forth. Despite his faith in Zephacleas, it was obvious that the Lord-Celestant was all but outmatched by his monstrous opponent. Gordrakk fought wildly, and seemed to grow in strength the harder Zephacleas resisted him.

Seker could almost see the spirits that clung to the orruk’s axes. They were indistinct things, more hint than substance. They grew more vibrant as Gordrakk became stronger, and seemed to guide his hand. They fed off each other, though the Lord-Relictor could not say which it started with. He had fought orruks often enough, both as a mortal and since, to know that it didn’t truly matter.

He could see the heat of the Waaagh! growing amongst the mobs of orruks who chanted and watched as their boss-of-bosses battled Sigmar’s chosen. It was a flame easily fanned, and it grew in direct proportion to Gordrakk’s fury. It beat against the surface of Seker’s thoughts with palpable force, and he murmured a prayer of protection. The battle-madness of Gorkamorka was akin to a sickness, and could infect and weaken even the strongest of wills. He prayed that Zephacleas could resist it.

His worries faded as he caught a hint of unnatural radiance hovering amongst the orruks. It was a sour glow, like the shine on infected flesh. Seker recognised that light easily enough, and felt a chill.

‘No…’ he murmured.

He turned to Taros. ‘We must—’ He was interrupted by a sudden explosion from within the orruk ranks. Burning bodies were hurled into the air, or sent tumbling across the ground like windblown leaves. Zephacleas and Gordrakk, weapons locked together, ceased their battle and turned as one.

Moments later, there was a harsh cry from above and a flock of ravens swooped down towards the two, croaking and shrieking. The birds twisted as they fell, sprouting arms and legs and curved black blades, becoming robed and armoured warriors who attacked Gordrakk and Zephacleas.

‘Judicators!’ Taros roared, sweeping his halberd down. Skybolt bows crackled and black shapes fell, but not all, and not enough.

Orruks roared and charged forwards, but before they could reach the combatants, multi-hued flames exploded outwards and consumed them.

‘What in Sigmar’s name was that?’ Taros snarled.

‘Sorcery,’ Seker said. ‘There — look!’

The sorcerer hurtled towards Zephacleas and Gordrakk. He stood atop a shrieking daemon-disc, clutching a staff wreathed in baleful flames and clad in shimmering robes and armour of beaten gold. In his wake came a chortling horde of gangly-limbed monstrosities. The pink-fleshed daemons were truly bizarre, their spindly limbs flailing about blocky torsos that sported leering faces. They emitted shrieks of excitement as they floundered towards Zephacleas and Gordrakk, or else fell upon the nearby orruks with cheerful ferocity.

Trails of pinkish smoke and shimmering lights surrounded them as they ran, scampered and caterwauled through the greenskin ranks. Sickly hued warp-flames erupted from their constantly moving paws, and whole mobs of orruks were incinerated. Others were twisted into wholly monstrous shapes by the unnatural fire. The bodies of the daemons resisted all save the strongest blows, and any wound that did not kill them vanished as if it had never been made. Only Gordrakk’s maw-krusha seemed to have no difficulty in tearing them apart, but for every daemon the beast ripped in half, two smaller blue ones emerged from the carcass to clutch and claw at the monster.

Gordrakk headbutted a raven-warrior, flattening him, and caught sight of the sorcerer gliding towards him.

‘I see you, Jabberjaw,’ he bellowed. ‘You thought you could fool me, but I see you! I’ll have you, Jabberjaw, no matter how many gigglers and bird-boys you got!’ The orruk started forwards, but a darting, bird-like shape slid past him, its sword scraping against his chest. Gordrakk stumbled back with a roar of anger as more of the raven-warriors darted towards him, moving with unnatural speed. Black, curved blades drew sparks from Gordrakk’s armour, keeping him off balance.

Zephacleas moved to aid the orruk and soon the two were fighting back-to-back against daemons and raven-warriors alike. Behind them, creatures were scrambling up the slope of bones towards the Stormcasts. The Judicators loosed volley after volley, but the daemons seemed limitless. At Taros’ order, the Liberators set themselves, awaiting the talons and Chaos-fire of the foe. Seker stepped to the edge of the slope, the words of a prayer on his lips. He lifted his reliquary staff in both hands and brought it down with a dull crunch.

Lightning streaked down, striking the reliquary case. It spilled through the staff and spread in a rippling azure wave through the bone escarpment. Daemons shrieked as the celestial energies reduced them to motes of ash. Without pausing for breath, the Lord-Relictor uprooted his staff and leapt off the top.

Seker slid down the slope of bones, his reliquary staff extended before him. Lightning flared from the eye sockets of the fire-wyrm skull mounted within it, and washed across the closest of the black-robed warriors attacking Zephacleas, staggering some of them, killing others. The Lord-Relictor reached the bottom in a spill of bones, and lunged forwards, his hammer snapping out to catch a shrieking pink monstrosity in its malformed face. The daemon pitched backwards with what might have been a whoop of happiness, its body splitting into two. Lean limbs sprung out of the collapsing pink carcass, but before the blue daemons could free themselves, Seker incinerated them with a burst of lightning. More daemons bounded towards him, outsized paws reaching for him.

He spat a prayer, calling down Sigmar’s fury. Lightning cascaded from the sky, and the daemons caught in its path jerked and twitched in agony. But still more of them tumbled towards him, shrieking in glee.

It is the sorcerer who has called them, he thought. Kill him, and they will lose their hold on the world.

He crushed a giggling horror with a blow from his hammer and stepped towards the sorcerer, who stood atop his daemon-disc, untouched amidst the carnage, surrounded by his flames.

The Lord-Relictor fought his way through the gambolling daemons. When he was within striking distance, he called down the lightning once more with a shouted incantation. It slammed to ground, lighting up the battlefield and nearly blinding every eye that saw it, mortal or otherwise. The sorcerer was caught unawares. His daemon-disc screamed like an infant and came apart in strands of bloody smoke, tumbling him to the ground. He staggered to his feet, flames momentarily snuffed, his golden armour blackened, his featureless helm cracked. Seker lunged forwards, hammer raised.

But before he could land a blow, a slim, feather-shrouded shape intervened. A curved blade scraped sparks from his skull-faced helm, driving him to one knee. Stunned, he looked up at his attacker. He saw a woman, clad in obsidian armour and robes. Two great wings, as black as the void between stars, stretched out from her back. Her narrow helmet was shaped like the head of a raven, and the eyes within glittered with a darkling radiance. She pressed the tip of her sword to his throat and cocked her head.

‘Your soul is made of lightning — do you wish to return to the storm, as the others did?’

Before he could answer, she threw back her head and gave a croaking laugh. Then she turned to the sorcerer, who was staring at them in what Seker thought must be consternation. Seker thrust himself to his feet, hammer raised.

‘Our bargain is finished, Zazul,’ the woman in black cried, as she whirled aside, avoiding Seker’s blow. ‘A life for a life! Our debt to you is paid, Radiant One, and the Ninety-Nine Feathers bid you farewell!’ She leapt into the air with a shriek, and the others followed her. Black-feathered birds swooped skywards as the sorcerer stared after them.

‘No! Cheat! Your debt is not… Fine. Fie on it, and fie on you, Stormcast,’ the sorcerer snarled, as he turned his attention on Seker. He drew his curved sword. ‘You thought you could kill me? My destiny lies elsewhere — but yours is here.’ He lifted his staff, and the air before him split like a wound. Pink daemons pressed against the rent in reality and spilled, chortling, to the ground. They capered towards Seker, their fiery paws blackening his sigmarite. More and more of them, a flood of unnatural flesh and leering faces. He fell back, defending himself as best he could. There was no time to summon the lightning, and for a moment he feared he would be overwhelmed.

Then, all at once, a blazing light swept over him, and those daemons closest to him were reduced to ash and dust. Seker turned.

‘Stand fast, brother,’ Taros said, striding forwards, his warding lantern raised. ‘I am here and I shall not let you fall.’

The light of the lantern washed out, incinerating any daemons that drew close, including the ones still surrounding Seker. Those that managed to avoid the holy light fell to Taros’ halberd, or the sharp beaks and talons of his gryph-hounds. Behind the Lord-Castellant marched the rest of the Beast-bane, shields raised.

Seker thrust himself through the ash-cloud of dissolving daemons towards the sorcerer. The creature was intent on killing Gordrakk, and his flames enveloped the bellowing orruk even as Seker closed in. The sorcerer turned at the last moment, alerted by some instinct, and Seker was forced to duck beneath a gout of coruscating witch-fire. As the flames died away, he lunged forwards and smashed the ferrule of his reliquary staff into the sorcerer’s chest, knocking him backwards. Off balance, the sorcerer slashed out with his blade, and knocked Seker’s hammer from his grip. Knowing that to pause was to die, the Lord-Relictor brought his reliquary staff around, driving the fire-wyrm skull into the side of his opponent’s head. Bone cracked and the sorcerer staggered.

‘You…’ the sorcerer began.

‘I told you, Jabberjaw,’ a deep voice rasped. The sorcerer turned. Gordrakk stepped forwards, smoke rising from his armour and axes. ‘I ain’t so easy to kill. And I told you I’d feed you to the gore-gruntas, one piece at a time.’ Faster than Seker could react, the orruk drove one of his axes down through the sorcerer’s head with a wet sound. The sorcerer convulsed, his flames dying, the sword falling from his hand. ‘Kunnin’ says be quiet,’ Gordrakk growled. He slammed his other axe into the sorcerer’s side, nearly splitting his enemy in two. Gordrakk wrenched his axes free of the sorcerer with a roar and, as if in response, every remaining daemon, whether pink or blue, wavered and vanished.

Breathing heavily, Gordrakk glared at Seker. He extended his axe towards the Lord-Relictor. ‘This your shaman, hammer-boss?’

‘Aye,’ Zephacleas said.

‘Does he talk a lot?’

‘Less than you’d think,’ Zephacleas said.

Gordrakk nodded. ‘That’s good.’ He looked around. Orruks and Stormcasts watched each other warily, both sides bloody and battered from the battle. ‘Good fight.’ He turned back to Zephacleas. ‘Ready to finish what we started, hammer-boss?’

‘No. You win,’ Zephacleas said. Gordrakk blinked. Then, a slow grin spread across his brutal features. Gordrakk lifted his head and bellowed in triumph.

Zephacleas waited for him to finish. ‘Now, will the Fist of Gork heed the words of the Hammer God?’ He gestured towards Seker. ‘Speak, shaman — what does the Hammer God say?’

Gordrakk looked at Seker, and the Lord-Relictor was momentarily taken aback by the savage intelligence in the orruk’s eyes. Thinking quickly, he said, ‘The Hammer God says that there is another enemy. The enemy who tricked Gordrakk…’

Gordrakk growled. Seker went on. ‘The enemy who hides atop the skull of the great star-wyrm,’ he said, and pointed towards the centre of the Gargant’s Graveyard. ‘The enemy who hides from Gorkamorka and the Hammer God both.’

Gordrakk fell silent. The orruk’s head was cocked, as if listening to something. Seker could see the great, green forces that clung to him pulsing like dying suns and he wondered what might be passing between them.

Is this then the god we seek, he thought, or something else? He looked around, and to his eyes, green flames flickered in the gaze of every orruk, growing brighter and brighter.

At last, Gordrakk looked at Zephacleas. ‘You put Drokka’s head on a stick. And you fought beside me, against the gigglers and the bird-boys.’

‘I did,’ Zephacleas said.

Gordrakk laughed and spread his arms. He howled with what might have been joy, or excitement, or perhaps warning. Every orruk howled with him, and Seker shivered as he felt the edges of the power within that sound.

‘Maybe I bash you first, and then them, hnh, hammer-boss?’ Gordrakk said.

‘Would that be any way to treat your friends, Gordrakk?’ Zephacleas said. His response only made Gordrakk laugh.

As the orruk’s harsh chortles scraped his eardrums, Zephacleas shook his head. Not for the first time, he wondered whether this was the wisest course. Not simply his own actions, but those of Sigmar as well. Zephacleas was not alone in seeking out the gods who slumbered hidden in the Mortal Realms. Others had been dispatched to Shyish and Ulgu, to find those who had once stood beside Sigmar: Nagash, Tyrion and his brother Teclis, Malerion, as well as Gorkamorka.

Of those other quests, Zephacleas knew little save that the warriors sent to seek the Starless Gates in the Realm of Death had met some terrible fate. The forge-seers whispered of shuddering spirits, almost too broken to be reforged, and of a single soul as yet missing.

A chill passed through Zephacleas at the thought. Orruks were dangerous, but the dead were even worse in some ways. At least orruks wouldn’t swallow your soul. He eyed the battered trophies that hung from Gordrakk’s back-banner. Not so far as he was aware, at any rate…

He controlled his revulsion at the sight of the dracoth’s skull, and the shattered husk of a Lord-Celestant’s helm. Davos Silverclaw, he realised, recognising the helmet’s markings. The Silverclaw was a Lord-Celestant of the Lions of Sigmar, and had been one of the first Stormcasts to be unlucky enough to cross Gordrakk’s path.

Gordrakk caught him looking and smiled unpleasantly. He reached up with one of his axes and tapped the helmet.

‘Good fighter, him. Took two chops with Smasha to take his head off,’ the orruk said, chuckling. Zephacleas felt his stomach twist.

‘I’ll let him know you said that. And that you have his helmet. He’s been looking for it,’ he said, with forced cheerfulness. Gordrakk’s smile faded.

‘You said that the Hammer God wants to meet Gorkamorka?’ He looked at Zephacleas. ‘Where’s the Hammer God?’ He looked around. ‘Why isn’t he here?’

‘He’s in Azyr,’ Zephacleas said. Gordrakk looked at him blankly. Then, ‘In the storm, and the rain and every rumble of thunder. He can’t come, because he’s fighting. But he sent me to talk for him, and I know where he is.’

Gordrakk nodded in understanding. ‘Good. That’s good. You should always know where your god is, in case he forgets and gets lost.’

‘Is Gorkamorka lost, then?’

Gordrakk threw back his head and howled with laughter. ‘Gorkamorka isn’t lost. Gorkamorka is everywhere,’ Gordrakk rumbled. ‘He’s in the wind and the rocks and the howling of the beasts. Gorkamorka is in us and beside us and around us.’

‘So he’s here now? Can he hear us?’ Zephacleas looked around.

‘Maybe, if he’s listening,’ Gordrakk said, with a shrug. ‘Maybe one of him hears, and not the other. Maybe both. Maybe neither.’ He grinned at Zephacleas. ‘Maybe he doesn’t like what he hears and tells me to bash you in the noggin, hammer-boss.’

‘The Hammer God misses his friend. He misses his brother. He misses fighting beside Gorkamorka and wishes to do so again, in the coming war,’ Zephacleas said. ‘He wishes that his warriors, and those of his brother, could march side-by-side, as we do now, to fight the Old Enemy.’

‘Gorkamorka has been fighting them, hammer-boss,’ Gordrakk rumbled. ‘He’s been fighting them forever. But where is the Hammer God? Why has he not been fighting alongside Gorkamorka?’

‘The Hammer God thought Gorkamorka didn’t want to fight beside him any more,’ Zephacleas said. ‘The Hammer God thought Gorkamorka had become his enemy.’

Gordrakk laughed. ‘Yeah? So?’ He snorted and tapped the side of his head. ‘Hammer God never understood Gorkamorka, never saw. Gorkamorka wants to fight forever, but the Hammer God doesn’t. Hammer God wants to build walls and towers and castles… But what’s the point of that if you never knock them over?’ He snorted. ‘Even the Chaos-things don’t understand. They think the point is to kill everyone, but then who’d be there to fight? Nobody understands but Ironjawz, because we’re the smartest and the toughest.’

Zephacleas stared at the orruk. Despite himself, he was beginning to comprehend how Gordrakk saw the world. For the orruks, there was no difference between an enemy and a friend. A friend was just an enemy you weren’t fighting at the moment, and an enemy was just a friend who was trying to kill you. He cocked his head, considering. Then, he said, ‘So? Why not show us?’

Gordrakk stared at him. The moment stretched and Zephacleas began to think he had made a mistake. Finally, Gordrakk grunted and spat. He clashed his axes together.

‘I came here to see what’s at the top of the Big Skull, and if you want to follow me, you can. If you can keep up.’ The orruk leaned forwards. ‘And if there are Chaos-things up there, I’ll thump ’em but good and show them who’s the boss of the boneyard. Boss-of-bosses,’ he growled. ‘Not even gods give me lip. Gordrakk is the best!’ He turned and raised his axes in a defiant gesture.

‘They think they can trick me? Hide from me? You hear, Chaos-things — nobody hides from Gordrakk,’ he roared. ‘Gordrakk is coming to get you!’

Chapter Ten

Skull of the Star-wyrm

The skull of the great star-wyrm was half sunken in the earth. Even so, its shadow covered the closest canyons and paths that the Sons of Mallus smashed their way through to reach it. Curtains of tangled roots filled its gigantic eye sockets, and great slopes of dust and scattered bone filled its cracks and followed its contours, creating wide, curving paths from the ground to its crown. A shrill wind blew through the wide cracks in the immense skull, and clouds of dust billowed across the heart of the Gargant’s Graveyard. Dust devils spun through the empty spaces, making it nearly impossible to see anything save the skull itself, rising like a mountain, and the abominable structure that crowned it.

It had taken what felt like hours to traverse the shadowed emptiness between the boneyard and the skull that was its centre. At the summit, the gleaming, ever-changing shape of the Howling Labyrinth taunted Greel. It seemed to be beckoning him, calling him. At first, he thought it was simply eagerness, or his earlier determination. But as they drew closer to the palisade of brown fangs, each as tall as a watchtower and sunk deep into the ground, Greel began to feel doubt. It was not born of fear, or worry, but suspicion. Suspicion that he and his warriors were being led into a trap. That things had been too easy.

His suspicions only grew as they passed through the field of skulls. The skulls — both human and orruk — hung in bunches from spears that had been thrust at random intervals into the lower slopes of the skull. Hungry birds squawked and squabbled over the choicest morsels, and hopped from spear to spear, thrusting their beaks into eye sockets and sagging jaws.

Someone is defending this place, he thought.

‘Stay alert,’ he said, as they climbed the widest of the windblown paths that wound their way up the side of the star-wyrm’s skull. The path was long and twisting, narrower in some places than others. The air became thin and foul the higher they went. Sometimes, Greel caught the briefest snatch of sound, of the clangour of battle, from far below and away among the canyons of the boneyard.

When the first arrow caromed off Greel’s chest-plate, it didn’t come as a complete surprise. Dust scraped against his armour as he peered up at the force occupying the upper reaches of the path. The Stormcasts were halfway to the summit, and the ground stretched far below. The warriors above them were mortal, clad in steel armour and silk robes. They wore conical helms and carried heavy war-bows, which they loosed with deadly accuracy. A Liberator pitched backwards as an arrow sprouted from the eye-slit of his helm. His body jerked and came apart in a burst of lightning. Greel cursed and chopped an arrow in two as it sped towards him.

‘More dangerous than they look,’ he muttered. ‘Raise shields.’

The Liberators moved forwards, one rank kneeling, the other moving up behind them. Two rows of shields formed a curved bulwark of sigmarite on the slope, protecting those behind against the arrows raining down from above. Greel twitched as an arrow spanged off his helm. He turned. ‘Judicators, to the front. Match them arrow for arrow. Teach them that we are better at this game than they could ever hope to be.’

Crackling volleys sent the mortal archers searching for cover. Before Greel could order his chamber forwards to take advantage of the enemy’s disarray, he heard a strange trilling and the thunder of hooves. He turned and cursed as he saw armoured horsemen galloping up the path towards his warriors.

The Chaos knights wore heavy, hell-forged armour the colour of malachite, and their steeds were scaly with strange gemstones that erupted from their flesh. Some wielded axes and swords, others held broad-bladed spears. They sang an eerie trilling hymn as they galloped up the slope of bone and soil. Fur and feather-clad hillmen loped after them, howling out arrhythmic war-songs as they slammed their weapons against their brightly painted shields.

‘They’re behind us,’ Greel snarled. ‘Hold fast, shields to the rear.’ Those Liberators not already engaged at the front moved quickly, readying themselves to meet the enemy charging up towards them. The Iron-sides had formed a rough square, but they were caught between two enemies on a narrow path. They could neither advance nor retreat, not without incurring casualties.

Greel shook his head in frustration. If it must be done, let it be done quickly, he thought angrily. I will waste no more time.

‘Lycos, ready your axes,’ he called. The Decimator-Prime lifted his thunderaxe in a sign that he had heard. ‘The rest of you, we must split the square. Two phalanxes. Calithus, take the high ground. Whatever else happens, you must reach the Howling Labyrinth. Let nothing stay you from your goal.’

Greel turned back to the approaching Chaos knights. He tapped his hammer against the shoulder-plate of one of the Liberators standing before him. ‘Gorenus, concentrate on the savages. Leave the knights to Lycos’ axemen. Let nothing get past you to endanger Calithus’ rear.’ The Liberator nodded silently. Satisfied, Greel drew his runeblade and glanced at Lycos. ‘Ready?’

‘Yes, Lord-Celestant. Let us teach them to fear the axes of Azyr,’ Lycos said. He and his Decimators stepped forwards, past the shield wall. Greel joined them, and with barely a sound, the Sons of Mallus moved to meet their attackers. The Chaos knights did not slow, but instead spread out, so that more of them could join the madcap gallop.

As they reached the waiting Decimators, Lycos barked a command. The Decimators sank down, and their thunderaxes licked out to cut the legs out from under the charging horses. The daemonic steeds fell with squeals and disturbingly human screams. Their thrashing bodies tangled those of their fellows racing behind them, and the second rank of riders fell in their turn, or else found their charge blunted. The Decimators stalked forwards, giving their foes no chance to recover. Axes rose and fell, reaping a red harvest from amongst the helpless knights. Those who survived rushed to encircle the Decimators.

Greel started forwards, Gorenus’ Liberators at his back. They picked up speed as the tribesmen loped through the melee. Shields crashed into tattooed flesh as the Liberators forced their savage foes back with bone-crushing inexorability. The tribesmen’s weapons skittered harmlessly off the sigmarite, and soon they were put to flight, leaving only despairing howls in their wake. But the Chaos knights held their ground, still emitting their eerie trill. Their armour was almost as tough as sigmarite, and they fought almost as well as the Stormcasts.

Those Chaos knights who were still mounted tried to use the bulk of their scaly steeds to force a path through the Liberators. One, his armour more ornate than that of his companions, drove a heavy spear through the gap between Gorenus’ helmet and his chest-plate, killing him instantly. As the Chaos knight’s steed reared, startled by the crash of lightning that followed, Greel charged him from the side. The knight wheeled his mount around with a hollow oath as he caught sight of the Lord-Celestant.

Greel struck the daemonic horse, breaking its scaly neck with a blow from his hammer. As it fell, its rider tumbled from the saddle and crashed down. Greel raised his sword as the Chaos knight scrambled to his feet, drawing his own blade as he did so. The Lord-Celestant parried the warrior’s blow, and swung his hammer. The Chaos knight twisted aside. They circled one another.

‘You are the one the Destined Queen killed in the Temple of the Empty Heart,’ the Chaos knight said, his voice almost a moan. ‘I recognise your soul-scent.’

Greel didn’t reply, though a chill swept through him. He rained down blow after blow, driving his opponent back towards the edge of the slope. The Chaos knight laughed hollowly as he retreated, his sword extended in a two-handed grip. ‘I was there that day… You fought bravely, for a storm-born cur. But bravery is no substitute for skill, is it? I was like you, once. I thought to match blades and cunning with her, but my skills were as nothing to hers. I knew when I was beaten.’

‘That is the difference between us,’ Greel said. ‘I know no such thing.’ He lunged and the Chaos knight reared back, sword lifted over his head. Before he could strike, however, the slope gave way beneath him and he toppled backwards with a cry. Greel watched the emerald shape of his opponent grow smaller and smaller, until it was gone, and the only sound was the cry of carrion-birds. Then he turned and began to ascend, picking his way over the trail of dead, trying not to think about his opponent’s parting words.

When he reached the others, he saw that Calithus had smashed the bowmen, scattering their bodies for the crows. Lycos and his Decimators waited nearby, their axes dripping with the ichor of the Chaos knights. Without a word, they fell into step behind Greel and followed him. He led them along the path in silence. Every so often, the ground beneath his feet trembled, as if the skull were stirring in its eternal slumber. Everything about this place had an air of anticipation.

It grew worse the closer the Stormcasts drew to the summit. The air became treacle-like and foul, as if the Howling Labyrinth radiated some vile miasma. The sound of unseen gears and mechanisms throbbed, causing Greel’s teeth to rattle in his jaw. His first glimpse of the Howling Labyrinth in all of its glory brought him to a horrified standstill.

It was all shapes and none, constantly shifting, expanding, shrinking. It clung to the curve of the star-wyrm’s skull, held fast by massive iron hooks and tendrils of amber that had long ago merged with the bare bone. Pylons of stone braced the ever-moving structure, grinding softly as they were thrust aside or pulled in. Dust spilled from its joints, filling the air and hiding its true scope. Facets of amber slid into place, rising and falling with arrhythmic precision. Towers grew from its body, only to bend and burst, rejoining the sprawling structure. Carrion-birds perched precariously on jutting flanges of amber, croaking disharmoniously.

‘Sigmar above, it’s a monstrosity,’ Lycos whispered hoarsely. Greel nodded.

‘It is the work of Chaos,’ he said simply. He saw no entrance. Archways formed like blisters only to shrink and vanish in moments. The surface of the walls was lit by an oily sheen, and strange, unformed shapes moved within them. He stepped forwards and raised his hammer. What had served in the boneyard would serve here — he would simply smash his way in, if he had to.

‘I… see… you, child of Azyr. Long have I awaited thee, little carcass.’

The voice echoed out over the crown of the skull, and set the carrion-birds to flight. Greel felt a wave of repulsion as its words insinuated themselves in his mind. He stopped, hammer raised.

‘And who are you? Some daemon, set to guard this place? It matters not. You shall not stop me.’

‘And why would I wish to do that, Gaius Greel? I have been waiting for you for many lifetimes, warrior. I have kept her running in circles, chasing shadows, until you could reach me.’ Then, somewhat petulantly, ‘You took quite a long time, my friend. I began to despair of you, if you must know…’

‘Her — you mean Sharizad?’ Greel said, though every instinct warned him against speaking to whatever this thing was. It knew his name. It knew why he had come.

‘Who else? The daughter of the Manifold Path has come to her chosen moment, and fate will and must decree that you be there to oppose her. It has always been and so it will be.’

The voice laughed, and Greel’s skin crawled.

‘Silence — if you would take me to her, then do so. If you will not, then I shall tear this labyrinth apart, brick by brick,’ he growled, hammer raised. The laughter tapered off.

‘Careful, careful, son of the Dark Moon. Your fate is not so straight as all that, and if you insult me, I might just trap you both for an eternity to amuse myself.’ The unseen entity gave a vast sigh, and the skull trembled underfoot. ‘But… I am tired. So tired. I would see it all at an end.’

Before Greel’s eyes, the bricks of amber began to ripple like water and, one by one, they split. A gigantic, dripping orifice opened in the wall and the dark corridor beyond squirmed as if in invitation. His warriors murmured in consternation as the darkness fled, and strange lights lit the path. At the other end of its length, he could see a high, wide archway, full of ochre smoke.

‘What is this?’ he said. ‘Some trick?’

‘No trick. You are expected, after all. The Howling Labyrinth knows its own. Your coming was etched into every brick and slab of my prison, warrior.

‘Enter, Gaius Greel… Enter and be damned.’

Zephacleas and his warriors ran smoothly in the wake of the orruks. The greenskins chanted, argued and, in some cases, fought as they loped. Noise rose from the warhorde constantly, merging into a wordless dissonance that shook the bones of the canyon even more than the bellowing of Gordrakk’s maw-krusha. It was the rumble of an avalanche and the snarl of raging waters. They truly are like a river, he thought. A force that could not be stopped, only diverted.

He glanced aside at Seker. The Lord-Relictor showed no ill-effects from his confrontation with the Chaos sorcerer. He kept pace with Zephacleas easily, as did those warriors Zephacleas had chosen to accompany them. He had taken barely a third of their forces, knowing that any more might provoke the orruks, who were spoiling for a fight.

Despite the fact that they had joined forces to defeat the daemons, the orruks had initially seemed quite happy to pile into the Stormcasts. Only Gordrakk’s bellowed imprecations, and the threat of his axes, had seen the creatures subside. Now they charged ahead of the Stormcasts, smashing a path towards the heart of the Gargant’s Graveyard and the enemies that awaited them there.

Taros would follow Zephacleas and the others more slowly, ready to reinforce them should it become necessary. Or, failing that, prevent Sharizad from escaping the Gargant’s Graveyard. The Lord-Castellant intended to ring the vast skull in sigmarite. Zephacleas hoped Taros’ defences wouldn’t be put to the test. The Shimmering Countess had escaped once. He didn’t intend for her to do so again.

Far ahead of them, Gordrakk’s maw-krusha led the way, galloping through the canyons of bone, or occasionally breaking into flight for short distances. Zephacleas didn’t understand how such an awkwardly made beast could escape the pull of the earth, but then, much about the orruks didn’t make sense. From moment to moment, they defied expectation. They were not simply beasts or fools, but instead utterly alien in their view of the world. Ready to join forces with an enemy at a moment’s notice, when given the proper encouragement. It was no wonder Sigmar had found Gorkamorka’s presence so taxing, if some legends were to be believed.

‘There it is,’ Seker said, startling the Lord-Celestant. He looked up, and up, and up… The skull of the star-wyrm towered over the cliffs and crags of bone around it. Its shadow blighted the land, and there was nothing save chalky dust as far as the eye could see. The host spilled out of the boneyard and the orruks picked up speed.

The skull was half sunken into the dust, and ancient pathways wound up and around its contours. Too, there were bodies, littering those paths.

Greel has been this way, Zephacleas thought.

There was no way of telling how Gordrakk would react if he knew someone had reached the top before him. He hoped that they hadn’t come this far just to wind up fighting the orruks again.

Far ahead of them, Gordrakk howled. Orruks took up the cry, as if unable to stop themselves. Zephacleas found his eyes drawn inexplicably upwards. A vast shape, like a shadow stretched across the sky, strode along at once beside and above the mingled host of orruks and Stormcasts. It had no features that he could discern, save for its blazing eyes. Sometimes there were two, sometimes four, but as they burned brighter and brighter, he could almost hear the sound of titanic footfalls.

The loping orruks began to chant a name, though whether it was Gordrakk’s, or Gorkamorka’s, Zephacleas couldn’t say. Their voices seemed to merge and swell, filling the horizon from end to end, until the whole of the world shuddered from the force of it. The earth shook underfoot as the orruks picked up speed, and the great shadow seemed to darken and grow more real as it loped among them.

Zephacleas felt his heart begin to pound in sympathy with the immense footfalls. He thought he heard a great voice, roaring in the distance, urging them on. It was a voice as fierce and as wild as Ghur itself, a tempest more savage than any that wracked the seas of Azyr. It was the voice of a beast and a god and a world all in one. It was a cry of cosmic challenge, cast into the teeth of a hostile universe.

Unable to contain himself, Zephacleas joined his voice to that of his allies. Seker did as well, and the retinues following them, each and every Stormcast roaring out their loudest war-cries. The orruks seemed to take it as a challenge, and they redoubled their efforts, until sky and ground alike shook with the mingled fury of Azyr and Ghur.

And for the first time, and maybe for the last, Stormcast Eternals and Ironjawz orruks marched to war together.

Chapter Eleven

Marrowcutter

They found the centre suddenly, as if whatever force that had been playing with them had grown bored. The corridor expanded, widening into an immense chamber, far larger than the Howling Labyrinth itself. It was a cavernous void, occupied only by a structure-within-a-structure that rose up over a seemingly infinite web of walkways and bridges, extending from every angle and direction. Sharizad stared and said, simply, ‘We have arrived.’ Her voice carried out over the void, and for a moment, all was still. In the dark, something sighed, as if in relief. Then the silence faded, and the cacophony rose anew.

The heart of the labyrinth resembled an inverted beehive citadel of rotating amber tiers. Archways lined every tier, and the bridges trembled as they slid into place against each one in their turn. Dust filled the air, and the moans of the dead made for sweet accompaniment to the clashing rumble of amber. Down in the depths, far below the web of walkways, monstrous shapes, stretched like shadows, writhed against one another in eternal agony.

‘Enslaved in life and death… Truly this place is sacred to the Architect of Fate,’ Kuldak said piously, as they started across the bridge of amber connecting them to the citadel.

‘When the Daemoniac Conundrum set this place to moving, it is said that it did so with a great sacrifice — a realm’s worth of lives, made grist for this mill of abomination,’ Bodak said. ‘I can think of better things to do with that many lives, myself, but then, I’m not a daemon afflicted with lunacy.’

‘Or it could simply be that you lack imagination, brother,’ Sardak said, walking beside Sharizad. ‘This place is a monument to fate and all of its vagaries. It is a trick and a trap, a prison and a fortress all in one. At once a truth and a falsehood.’

‘Well, you know about one of those at least, brother,’ Kuldak said. Bodak laughed. Sardak made as to turn, but Sharizad laid a hand on his arm.

‘Water, Sardak. Not iron,’ she murmured. ‘We are so close now, do not sully it with your childish squabbling.’ She could feel it now, stronger than ever before, calling to her. Her multitude of potential fates narrowed, honed to a single point of destiny. Irresistible, and unalterable. She felt neither fear nor doubt, only… longing. This then was the moment she had come into the world for. This was her fate, to be plucked from an unworthy sea.

Moments yet to be, memories of things to come, swirled in her mind, nearly overwhelming her. She saw herself, blade in hand, leading an army across the face of Ghur. All would fall before her, or bend knee to her. Or perhaps no army, for what did she need with servants, with squabbling champions, when she had Marrowcutter? A sword that could cut a god, or carve open the universe. Why, with that daemon-sword in hand, she might even challenge the Grand Marshal of Chaos himself. He whose war was long over, and whose time had passed.

Yes. Yes, that was the way of it.

A new war was coming. New enemies fell like lightning from the heavens. The servants of the Ruinous Powers had grown soft and indolent, content to fight amongst themselves and rule petty kingdoms, even as she had done. It was time for something new. That was why Tzeentch had set her on this path, she knew.

I am the Destined Queen, and I will bring about a new age — not of blood or Chaos, but instead one of… change, Sharizad thought.

The prospect lent speed to her step as she led the tattered remnants of her warband through one of the yawning archways and into the chamber beyond.

The chamber was an abstract shape, full of movement — the clockwork heart of the Howling Labyrinth. Light speared through continually opening and closing squares of amber, illuminating centuries of dust. The floor moved with a steady clunking rhythm as the walls expanded and shrank in sections. Beneath the grinding thump of unseen mechanisms came the groaning of the innumerable spirits enslaved to this place.

It was their efforts, she realised, that kept the structure constantly moving and changing. The Daemoniac Conundrum had bound them, alive and dead, to this ever-shifting architectural monstrosity.

Marrowcutter hung suspended at the chamber’s centre in a web of opalescent tissue, streaked with pulsing veins and capillaries. The Worldsplitter’s cage had been made from the vivisected remains of a gargant, and the beast’s idiot-face and knobbly arms hung low over the hell-sword, suspended by marionette strings of muscle and corded flesh. The rest of its body had been stretched and scattered about, pulled all out of shape by the strange undulations of the chamber. Runnels, filled with dried blood, lined the oscillating slope of amber bricks leading up to the cage of bone and meat that encased Marrowcutter.

As she stepped into the chamber, its constant grinding came to a sudden halt. Dust billowed between the seams of the floor and walls, and the groans of the spirits fell silent. Sharizad waited, counting the moments. She knew now that there was a rhythm to these places, and so she waited for it to reveal itself. She didn’t have to wait long. The slack-jawed features of the butchered gargant twitched, and its empty eye sockets blazed to sudden life.

The sagging flesh of its head swelled, as if it were a mask. The jaw opened, revealing a blazing corona of multicoloured lights. The same lights danced in its orbits and within the old wounds in its flesh.

‘Who… comes?’

The voice came like a wave striking a shore. It washed over her like a stinging salt-spray, causing her flesh to prickle and her soul to twist in anticipation. She lifted her chin.

‘Who asks?’ she said, resting her hand on the pommel of her blade.

‘Why… ask who?’

‘Who asks why?’ she said, smiling slightly. The voice stuttered in laughter. Whatever spirit lurked here was easily amused. The gargant’s head bobbed on its ruined neck. Sharizad cocked her head. ‘The why is easy enough. I come to lay claim to the daemon-blade, in the name of fates-yet-to-be-written. The who is more difficult, for are any of us truly who we claim, or are we but shadows cast by the fires of what is, what was and what will be?’

‘You lack… certainty, daughter of the Manifold Path.’

‘Certainty is an anchor, dragging all potential into oblivion. Reality is vast and contains multitudes — why then should I limit myself? My fate is stronger than all others, for mine is not iron, but instead water. I go where I will, and cannot be denied.’

‘Ahhh… I once thought as you. Perhaps I shall again, by and by.’

‘And who were you? Not the flesh you inhabit, I expect,’ she said. More stuttering laughter, like the crackle of flames or crumbling stones, followed her words.

‘No. Not this sad flesh. Its owner is long since lost and gone forever. I am that which was Agorath, and will be again, once my burden is taken from me.’

‘Agorath is dead,’ Sharizad said. ‘We stand upon his skull.’

‘What is death to that which hunts the stars, O daughter of the Manifold Path? I was Agorath and I shall be again, once you have passed my test.’

‘Why a test, when we both seek the same end, O mighty Agorath?’

‘Not all paths follow the same course, woman. Though our destination is the same, the route we must take to reach it is vastly different. I am bound by geas and guile, and I owe you no friendship, no consideration… Only the mildest of courtesies.’

Sharizad inclined her head. The spirits were murmuring to her now, insistently, urgently. Trying to warn her of something. ‘If it must be so, then let it be, Agorath. Set your test, mighty one, and I shall pass it.’

‘Oh darling child of fate, it has already begun!’

‘Monster!’

The voice echoed out over the grinding of the amber slabs as they shifted position and rotated abruptly away from the centre of the chamber. A wall had dissolved into swirling tawny dust, and black-armoured warriors stalked into sight. They stank of the storm, and of heavenly magics. To Sharizad’s eyes, attuned to the subtler arts, each one was a puppet, dancing on strings of lightning.

‘Greel,’ she breathed. Her armour quivered in anticipation as she spoke, for here at last was the one soul who had escaped her.

She could not say how he had survived, or even how he had come here. Anger warred with pleasure in her. An old foe, already bested — if this was Agorath’s test, then it was surely as good as passed. Nonetheless, a trickle of doubt wormed its way through her surety.

‘Monster!’ Greel roared again, as he stepped between her and the daemon-blade. ‘I see you there, witch.’ His warriors, few in number as they were, took up positions before the oscillating slope of bricks. ‘Long have I hunted you, since the fall of your abominable kingdom.’

Sharizad tore her sword from its sheath.

‘You let them in?’ she shouted, glaring at the bloated features of the gargant, where it hung above the newly arrived Stormcast Eternals. The slabs beneath her feet trembled as she was forced backwards, away from the slope of amber bricks and Marrowcutter.

‘As I said… A test. An old enemy, come again. How will you get past him, O child of the Forking Path? Guile? Force? Show me your cunning, Destined Queen.’

‘Sharizad,’ Greel rumbled. His voice was much the same as she remembered. Like lightning trapped in an iron box. ‘Turn, hag. Turn, daemon. You shall not pass. You shall not claim whatever daemon-weapon hangs there, in its cage of flesh and bone.’

‘Perhaps. Perhaps not,’ she called out, regaining her composure. ‘Then, who can say what fate has in store? For I surely did not expect to see you again, Greel. Not after I left you gasping out your life on the floor of the Temple of the Empty Heart.’

Greel tensed, and she laughed. ‘You drape yourselves in the skin of a dead world. What have I to fear from shadows who wear the price of failure so openly?’ She spread her arms. The Stormcast Eternals outnumbered her own forces somewhat, and her warriors would be no match for the war-hounds of Azyr. But they didn’t have to be. They just had to occupy them.

‘Bodak, Kuldak, Sardak, Yuhdak. Come to me, you princes of the Great Kingdom! This is thy moment, Nine-in-One… This is thy destiny.’

‘We stand at thy shoulder, Destined Queen,’ Sardak said, as he slid his blade from its sheath of bone. He glanced around at his brothers. ‘Well, brothers? Shall we settle this affair once and for all?’

‘Aye, and why not? I grow tired of hearing your voices,’ Bodak said, hefting his club. ‘Come, Kuldak. Scatter your sands and let us go to war one last time, as befitting princes of the City of Tiers.’

‘Pray you die quickly, Bodak,’ Kuldak said. ‘For should we two survive, I shall have no mercy on you, brother.’ He glanced at Sardak. ‘Or you, Sardak.’

‘Ah, Kuldak, if they don’t crush that thick skull of yours, I think I’ll take your head and use it to adorn my standard, so that you will ever bear witness to the victories that might have been yours,’ Sardak said, his voice mild.

Yuhdak, as ever, took no part in the banter. He stood behind his three brothers, blade in hand, a shield of sorcerous light on his arm. He looked at Sharizad, and for an instant she thought he might be weeping. She dismissed the thought a moment later — it was simply the way the witch-light played across the curves of his helm. She laughed and lifted her sword high.

‘Awaken, spirits,’ she said. ‘Awaken, O failed ones, O broken and beaten ones. Come forth and witness the culmination of that which you died in service of.’ She turned, casting a last, lingering glance over her remaining warriors — the Knights of Malachus, softly trilling their eerie war-song, and her fierce hillmen, who trembled like hounds on the scent, ready to die at her word. She turned back to the Stormcast Eternals and cocked her head. ‘Woe to thee, who stand between the Destined Queen and her chosen fate,’ she said, softly.

She darted forwards, smoke spewing from the facets of her armour. Sardak and the others leapt into motion, followed by her knights and hillmen. As she charged, the spirits of the bound dead took shape around her, Goreshroud at their head. The Three Queens of Ferro were there, and the Brothers Absinthe. The Duke of Quatr, and the Sisters Night. Bloodbound and Stormcasts. All of the foes and weaker fates that had fallen before her own.

The bound souls crashed into the Stormcast shield wall like a wave, staggering them. Their hammers passed harmlessly through their phantasmal opponents, but the weapons of the dead struck sparks from the blessed sigmarite. Goreshroud roared silently and hacked her a path through her enemies. Greel traded blows with the ghostly deathbringer and was soon lost to sight. She heard Kuldak scream out incantation after incantation, and the air grew warm and ugly with the magics of change and death.

As she parried a hammer-strike and slid her blade through the eye-slit of the warrior’s helm, she saw Bodak send a Stormcast flying with a strike from his war-club. She heard the hissing crackle of the Stormcast bowmen, and the scream of her warriors as they died. She saw a Knight of Malachus stumble and sway, his malachite armour pulverised by hammer-blows. All these scenes and more passed before her eyes as she winnowed through the melee, and darted up the oscillating slope. As she drew close to the daemon-blade, a rancid humidity enveloped her. She could hear a voice murmuring eagerly in her ear, urging her on. Whether it was Agorath or the voice of the blade itself, she could not say and did not care. Her armour cracked and came away in shards as her hand stretched towards Marrowcutter’s hilt.

Pain speared through her and she staggered, just short of her goal. She twisted and caught sight of the crackling arrow jutting from between her shoulder blades. Another arrow caught her in the chest as she turned, and the lightning that clung to it was dispersed across the facets of her armour. She stumbled. More arrows thudded home as she gestured and unleashed a wash of bale-fire to envelop the bowman. More arrows hissed towards her, and she sliced them from the air. She spat one of the Nine Black Sutras, and an archer screamed as his celestial flesh expanded within his armour.

The Stormcast staggered forwards, clawing at himself. His armour cracked and burst open, allowing the transforming shape within the room it needed to grow. Mottled flesh spilled out of the shattered husk of sigmarite, sprouting eyes and circular, pulsing maws. The Chaos spawn flopped hungrily towards the remaining bowmen, enfolding them in rubbery flaps or gnawing at them with its newly sprouted fangs. The Stormcasts drew short, stabbing blades and hacked at the corrupted shape of their former comrade.

Hissing in pain, Sharizad turned. More Stormcasts thudded up the slope towards her, hammers raised.

‘Now, witch, you die,’ one of the warriors said. Sharizad whipped her sword up and out, scoring the warrior’s chest-plate. He staggered back, unable to maintain his balance on the fluctuating bricks. She lunged up and slammed her sword through a gap in his armour. He groaned and toppled backwards, yanking her blade from her hand. She let it fall and turned back. His soul would be lost to her, but she no longer cared. She had a new weapon to claim — a better one. A weapon fit for a queen.

As the others raced to stop her, her bare flesh touched the strangely barbed hilt of the daemon-weapon and she felt something gnaw at her palm. The weapon seemed to undulate towards her, and she felt thin tendrils of unnatural metal slide through the newly made wounds on her palms and beneath her flesh. She heard something sing out with barbaric joy inside her mind, and she knew that it was the song of Marrowcutter. A hellish light flared, driving the Stormcasts back and nearly blinding her.

Sharizad tore the blade from its cage of meat, and time slowed to a trickle. Marrowcutter seemed to leap after her, like an eager pet… or perhaps a hungry predator. The blade gleamed with an oily light, and it changed shape moment to moment — first a straight blade, then curved — broad, then slim. Sometimes it was made of bone or steel or even the serrated, crimson flesh of a daemon. Her mind reeled from the enormity of it. Marrowcutter was less a weapon than the idea of a weapon, taking whatever shape suited it at a given moment.

It spoke to her, sang to her, beating aside all thought and cunning with a simplicity of purpose which was at once relief and anathema. Marrowcutter desired only one thing, above all else: a hand to hold it, an arm to wield it and a mind to guide it. It desired blood and fire, war and death. It desired the quick thrust in the dark, and the heroic slash amid the clangour of war. It was a weapon forged for gods rather than mortals. Its desires beat upon her mind relentlessly, drowning her schemes in the night-black sea of its alien and monstrous will.

‘Do you hear it, child? Do you hear the song of the Worldsplitter? It was forged in the heat of a caged star, and its metal was cooled in the blood of daemons. I have endured its maniacal demands for untold centuries, but now… now, at last, I am free.’

Agorath’s voice stirred the embers of her intent, and she sank down, planting Marrowcutter point-first into the brick slope. Pain rippled outwards from her sword-hand, pulsing through her lean frame. The remains of the gargant that had served as Marrowcutter’s cage slumped, and something that might have been starlight bled upwards. A vast, serpentine face leered down at her, and the star-wyrm’s laughter filled her mind.

‘A thousand paths once spread before you, child. Now only one remains. You have chosen your fate and etched it in blood, O Shimmering Countess. Be jubilant, now and evermore, for certainty at last shackles you. Do you see it in your mind’s eye? Do you feel the light of apotheosis, as time itself loses its clutch upon your flesh? You will be like me, one with the black between the stars… Hail, Sharizad. Hail and farewell!’

Sharizad threw back her head and screamed, as the starlight streaked upwards in a gout of blinding flame. The Howling Labyrinth shook like a beast in pain as the consciousness of Agorath fled its long captivity, and hurtled towards the sky, back to the dark of the void. As the echoes of its passage faded, threads of cold fire raced through her and she felt her blood boil in her veins. The noise of battle, Agorath’s laughter, the groaning of the Howling Labyrinth, it all faded to a dull throb. Marrowcutter’s voice rose to fill her skull, singing a wordless song of change. It was the weapon of a god, and only a god or something close to a god was worthy to wield it.

Her crystalline armour stretched and cracked as her form expanded with agonising alacrity. Her limbs elongated, the joints popping painfully and her flesh going taut. Her torso lengthened, squeezing her breath from her lungs, and two great leathery wings unfolded from her back with a wet, ripping sound. She screamed as they snapped out to their full width, scattering crystalline shards. Strange, iridescent feathers slid from the pores on her wings and limbs, rattling like spear-blades. And Marrowcutter purred in her grip as she continued to scream away what was left of her humanity.

Greel turned at the sound of Sharizad’s screams. Or, rather, the screams of the thing that had been Sharizad. She towered over those Stormcasts who advanced cautiously towards her, up the grinding slope of amber. His heart sank as he caught sight of the unholy weapon clutched in one inhuman talon. It was the blade Sigmar had spoken of, the blade whose edge could cut away the very threads that bound reality together. I have failed, he thought.

Shaken, he almost didn’t notice the spectral shape surging towards him once more. At the last moment, compelled by instinct, he spun and blocked the great axe as it swept down towards him. The eyeless apparition cursed soundlessly at him as he shoved its insubstantial bulk back. More spirits swirled about, dissipating and reforming to attack his warriors. Disturbingly, there were Stormcasts among them — ones he recognised. His own warriors, their souls bound in abominable magics and kept from the cleansing flames of Azyr. Somehow, the witch was keeping them captive.

No. No, this shall not be, he thought, fury lending him strength even as a newborn fear blossomed in his heart. Was that what he had seen, in the Temple of the Empty Heart? Was this what had made him hesitate that day?

The eyeless warrior swept towards him again, raising its spectral axe. Greel avoided the blow and slid his runeblade through his opponent’s smoky torso. He encountered no resistance, but the spirit spasmed as if mortally wounded. Lightning crawled up the blade and flared outwards, reducing the eyeless soul to tattered wisps of mist.

‘Go to your rest, butcher,’ Greel snarled. More ghosts converged on him — these clad in spectral sigmarite, their eyes empty of everything save hopeless fury.

‘Brothers, stay back,’ he said, sweeping his weapons out in a wide arc. ‘I would not cause you more harm.’ They ignored him, attacking in awful silence. He fought back as best he could, trying to ignore the fear that cut through him.

This is what he had feared — not simply failure, but to lose his soul, to become nothing but another weapon in her monstrous arsenal. He parried a blow from a ghostly warblade, and ducked aside as another scraped across his shoulder-plate.

Fear is not weakness. That was what Zephacleas had said. And Greel had already died once. He had tasted the ashes of defeat, but risen to fight anew. I fear nothing save failure, he thought, hardening his heart.

‘I am sorry, brothers, but you will not deter me. I will not fail you here, as I failed you then. I am Gaius Greel. I am your Lord-Celestant. And I bid you lay down and fight no more!’ He brought his weapons together with a resounding clash, and lightning sparked, spreading down blade and across hammer.

With a roar, Greel slammed his hammer down against the floor. Lightning speared from the point of impact, and the spirits of his warriors stiffened as the fury of Azyr caught them and wrenched them from whatever half-life held them. The lightning danced from phantom to phantom, trapping them in a flickering cage even as it enveloped the weapons of the living Stormcasts.

‘Strike, Iron-sides,’ Greel cried. ‘Strike and free the souls of our brothers!’

Warhammers rang down, dispersing the trapped spirits. A moan swept the chamber, and a full third of the spectral host wavered and vanished. But others yet remained, and these pressed the assault as savagely as before. As his warriors continued to fight, Greel turned, seeking out their true foe. Some instinct told him that if Sharizad could be felled, her phantom host would follow her into oblivion, or else be freed to pass on to whatever fate awaited them.

He saw her, crouched atop the slope, sweep her blade out in a vicious arc. The daemon-weapon sheared through shield and armour alike, reducing those warriors who faced her to drifting sparks of lightning. Greel roared in denial and heaved himself towards her. Amber bricks cracked beneath his weight as he surged forwards. ‘Sharizad!’

‘At last,’ she hissed, as she turned. ‘My old sword failed to take your soul, Greel. But Marrowcutter is stronger than your godling’s magics.’

And, with a shriek of joyous savagery, the Shimmering Countess sprang to meet him.

Chapter Twelve

Weapons of the Gods

Lightning struck the shifting amber face of the Howling Labyrinth, and, for a moment, the unnatural surface of the structure gave way.

‘Ha! That’s the way, Gravewalker,’ Zephacleas said. As soon as they had come in sight of the place, the Lord-Relictor had called down the lightning. Gordrakk bellowed and thumped his beast’s skull with the flat of his axes. The maw-krusha roared and picked up speed as it bounded up the slope towards the writhing structure.

The creature didn’t slow down as it reached the summit, but instead roared again, this time loud enough to rattle Zephacleas’ bones down to the marrow. The force of its cry obliterated the lightning-scorched wall before it, allowing the maw-krusha to barrel through into the daemon-structure. Shards of amber pinged off Zephacleas’ war-plate as the Stormcasts charged after the orruks into the Howling Labyrinth. The monster slewed to a halt at Gordrakk’s urging as greenskins spilled past the maw-krusha in a bellowing flood.

‘Bigger on the inside,’ Gordrakk grunted, looking around. Zephacleas nodded. They stood on a massive balcony, overlooking a great void. Walkways and bridges of amber stretched from every direction and angle to the slowly oscillating hive-shape structure that hung suspended at the centre of the web of bridges. Everything was shaking, and as they watched, one of the bridges cracked and came apart, tumbling upwards to vanish into the darkness above. A rain of amber shards ascended noisily from the void below, as if something were tearing apart the roots of the labyrinth from within, and a strange glow rose from the depths. Zephacleas looked over at Seker.

‘What’s happening?’

The Lord-Relictor shook his head. ‘I know not, though I fear this place has served its purpose,’ he said, shouting to be heard over the noise. ‘Whatever the answer, I think we will find it there.’ He gestured towards the rotating structure. ‘We should go now, and quickly.’

Zephacleas glanced at Gordrakk. ‘You heard the shaman,’ he said. Gordrakk gave Zephacleas a long look before he finally nodded and hauled on his maw-krusha’s chains, eliciting a shriek. The beast began to lumber forwards, towards the walkway that connected their balcony to the structure. As it picked up speed, the discordant crashing grew louder and a monstrous hand, composed of glistening amber and ancient bones, clamped on to the edge of the balcony.

An amber gargant hauled itself up with a fluidity it had not possessed in life. Another followed it, and another. The balcony cracked and shifted beneath their weight as they groped towards orruk and Stormcast alike. A gleaming hand snatched up an orruk brute, and amber teeth bit its head off. A Liberator was crushed in amber fingers, his flesh and bone pulped inside his sigmarite war-plate.

‘Beast-bane, raise shields,’ Zephacleas shouted. He looked at the Lord-Relictor. ‘Seker—’

‘Go,’ Seker said, as he smashed a gargant’s hand. ‘You must get inside that chamber, Zephacleas. We shall join you when we can.’

‘Shaman’s right, hammer-boss,’ Gordrakk snarled. ‘Kunnin’ says this is a little fight. I’m here for a big one,’ he roared and slashed out with his axe as the maw-krusha loped between two of the abominations. The amber gargant shattered, its pieces tumbling into the void above, drawn upwards by whatever force was tearing apart the labyrinth.

Zephacleas ducked the flailing paw of the other gargant, and slammed his hammer into the side of its head. Thin cracks spread across its frame and it too exploded into shimmering shards and brown, broken bones. Then he followed Gordrakk. The maw-krusha was past the gargants and galloping across the walkway. The Lord-Celestant turned and looked back. Stormcasts and orruks fought side-by-side against the amber gargants, occupying the full attention of their foes.

A moment later he was across the walkway, pulled in Gordrakk’s wake through the archway into the chamber beyond. The clash of weapons greeted them. Zephacleas saw the few remaining Sons of Mallus engaged in battle with a small force of green-armoured Chaos knights and swirling, phantasmal warriors. He saw Greel as well, lying weaponless and prone on a slope of amber, a monstrous shape that could only be Sharizad, the Shimmering Countess, standing over him.

The thing had been a woman once, but her form was stretched and twisted all out of sorts. It was as if something abominable had pulled her flesh and tattered armour over itself. Iridescent feathers framed a face of inhuman perfection, and a mouth full of needle-thin fangs opened in a shout of triumph as she raised the daemon-blade she held.

The maw-krusha’s roar startled her, and Greel managed to crawl away from her. Gordrakk laughed as he caught sight of her and he slammed his axes together.

‘The Chaos-thing is mine, hammer-boss,’ he growled. He stamped on the maw-krusha’s head. ‘Go, Chompa — go fasta!’ The creature leapt into the air, stubby wings flapping.

The maw-krusha swooped over the melee, and Zephacleas hurried after it, smashing aside howling hillmen as he fought his way towards Greel and the Sons of Mallus. The beast had crossed half the chamber in a single leap, but it couldn’t hold itself aloft for long. A few moments of frantic, awkward flight later, the maw-krusha fell from the air like a stone. A Chaos warrior clad in dark robes and armour looked up at the last moment, his banded war-club half raised, even as the scaly hulk slammed down atop him. The monster roared as it tore at what was left of the unfortunate warrior.

‘Bodak,’ another warrior, clad in ochre and bronze, cried. Sinuous clouds of sand rose up around him at his gesture, and slammed into the maw-krusha’s side. The monster shrieked in anger as the sand scraped across it.

Zephacleas lunged forwards and swept his runeblade out. The warrior slid back, his hand falling to the hilt of the curved desert-blade sheathed on his hip.

‘You have made a deadly mistake, dog of Azyr. Kuldak-of-the-Nine knows no equal when it comes to swordplay.’ He drew his blade in a single motion and parried Zephacleas’ next blow.

‘Good thing we’re not playing then,’ Zephacleas grunted, as the scimitar skidded across his shoulder-plate. It burned with a fierce heat, and the sigils etched into the blade gleamed red. He rolled into the blow, and drove his hammer into his opponent’s stomach as hard as he could. Kuldak staggered back, wheezing. Sands lashed at Zephacleas, stripping his armour of colour and gilt. He crossed his weapons before his face and pressed forwards, into the stinging storm.

When he judged himself close enough, he wrenched his weapons apart, momentarily dispersing the sands and leaving his opponent exposed. Kuldak raised his scimitar, but not fast enough. Zephacleas swatted the blade aside and drove his own sword through his foe’s armoured torso with a tooth-rattling crunch. Kuldak folded over him with a sigh. As Zephacleas tore his blade free, he turned, looking for Gordrakk.

He saw the orruk and his maw-krusha galloping through the fray towards Sharizad, scattering Stormcast and Chaos warrior alike.

‘Who’s the best,’ Gordrakk roared, urging his maw-krusha forwards. ‘Gordrakk is the best!’ The monster crashed into Sharizad, sending her staggering. She whirled, her daemon-blade nearly cleaving the beast’s scaly skull from its neck. The maw-krusha wailed and staggered, blood pouring from the wound. It slumped forwards and Gordrakk howled in fury. The Fist of Gork flung himself from his injured mount and slammed into Sharizad. His axes flashed as he hacked at her. The Shimmering Countess shrieked and backhanded the orruk, sending him flying.

Zephacleas ducked aside as the orruk hurtled past him, and charged, hammer raised. An armoured shape interposed itself before he could strike Sharizad, and his runeblade crashed against a Chaos-wrought sword.

‘You shall not have her, spawn of Azyr,’ the Chaos champion said. ‘So says Sardak-of-the-Nine.’

‘Maybe not, but you’ll do well enough,’ Zephacleas snarled. He smashed his opponent’s blade aside and lunged forwards. His head connected with his foe’s, and the warrior reeled. Before he could recover, Zephacleas slammed his hammer into the side of his opponent’s cuirass, crumpling the ornate armour and flinging him aside. The Chaos champion hit the ground and tried to scramble upright. A strange light formed around his fingers as he raised his hand, but before he could unleash his spell, Zephacleas chopped through his wrist.

‘I’ve fought enough sorcerers to last me a lifetime,’ the Lord-Celestant growled. His boot crunched against the Chaos champion’s helm, and the warrior slumped with a groan. Satisfied that the creature was no longer a threat, Zephacleas turned. A shadow fell over him and he looked up into the too-perfect features of Sharizad.

Her blade sang down, and Zephacleas barely managed to interpose his sword. Her strength was greater than he had expected, her too-long arm bulging with oddly rolling muscles beneath the facets of her armour. The floor cracked beneath him as he struggled to hold her weapon at bay. Lightning crackled between the swords, and the daemon-blade wailed like an injured animal. With a hiss, she forced him back a step. A deafening crack sounded, and his runeblade snapped in two. The explosion of lightning forced them apart.

Zephacleas spared a glance for his broken sword, and then tossed it aside in order to take a two-handed grip on his hammer.

‘Good sword,’ he said.

‘It is a better weapon than any in this realm,’ she said. ‘And soon, it will be greater than any weapon in existence.’ Her clawed feet scraped on the floor as she circled him. ‘Marrowcutter is weak after its long imprisonment, but soon it will regain its strength.’

She wove aside, avoiding Zephacleas’ blow, and Marrowcutter moaned hungrily as it carved a gouge in his war-plate. Zephacleas tottered back as she pressed her attack. The air seemed to thicken around her, and ran with searing colours.

‘This is my fate, Stormcast. My fate and mine alone. Greel will die. You will die. And I will rise.’

Marrowcutter slammed into Zephacleas’ arm, and the force of the blow lifted him from his feet and sent him tumbling through the air. He fell heavily, and pain reverberated through him. Sharizad shrieked with laughter, but her amusement was cut short when Gordrakk careered into her. The orruk tackled her to her knees. One of his axes sank into the remnants of her armour and he reared back, ready to bury the other in her skull. Sharizad drove her elbow back into the orruk’s face with a loud crack.

Gordrakk shuffled back, shaking his head. Sharizad rose to her feet. ‘You — you would dare to attack your betters, brute?’

‘Ain’t nobody better than Gordrakk,’ Gordrakk said. ‘I’m the best. Me. Gordrakk!’ He bulled forwards into Sharizad, knocking her back through sheer fury. The two traded bone-rattling blows. Zephacleas tried to get to his feet, but his injured arm prevented him from doing so. As he struggled, hands found him and helped him to sit upright.

He turned. ‘Greel. You live.’

‘Not for long. I am… dying. Again,’ Greel said. Blood stained his broken armour. His breath rasped brokenly in his lungs. ‘She shattered my weapons. Humbled me. That hell-blade has added to her strength.’

‘So I noticed,’ Zephacleas said, trying to catch his breath. His ribs ached, and his arm was numb and leaden. He couldn’t even make a fist. Gordrakk roared in pain as Sharizad slashed him across the chest. He drove her back with a wild sweep of his axes, but she closed with him again almost immediately. The orruk was powerful, but outmatched. Whatever Sharizad was becoming, it was stronger even than the Fist of Gork.

‘We have to help him,’ Zephacleas said, using his hammer to lever himself to his feet.

All around them, Stormcasts still fought their enemies. Sigmarite rang against hell-forged armour. The Sons of Mallus were nothing if not determined. The chamber shuddered and bucked, like a thing in pain. Cracks had begun to run up the ever-shifting walls, and things that were not stars were visible between them. Chunks of amber plummeted from the ceiling, to crash down and scatter across the floor.

‘I must find a weapon,’ Greel coughed. Zephacleas looked at him. His fellow Lord-Celestant was trembling, blood pouring down the plates of his armour. Zephacleas caught him by the shoulder. Then, with a nod, he launched himself back into battle.

Sharizad’s blade rang down on Gordrakk’s axes, filling the air with the sound of animals caught in a life-or-death struggle. In the air above, vast, shadowy shapes were locked in combat. Gorkamorka is a killer of monsters, Zephacleas thought, as he brought his hammer around and struck Sharizad in the back. Had the two-headed god come to aid his truest follower?

Sharizad laughed and backhanded him, knocking him from his feet. He hit the ground hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Her wings stretched out, covering him in their shadow, and for a moment he struggled for breath. The blade in her hand glowed with an unhealthy light. It was an open wound in the skin of reality. A seeping soreness that grew more inflamed with every thrust and slash. He could hear a voice, like the tolling of a brass bell, far away in the deep places between worlds — but he could not understand its words.

Choking, half blind and sick of shadows, Zephacleas struck the floor with his hammer. Sharizad staggered back as the amber ruptured and cracked beneath her feet. As her shadow was pulled away from him, Zephacleas gratefully sucked in a lungful of air. He could see Gordrakk on one knee nearby, head bowed, blood dripping from his wounds. And someone else.

Greel.

‘Sharizad,’ the Lord-Celestant said.

Sharizad turned. Greel lunged forwards, a crystalline blade held in his hands. He drove the sword into her chest. She stepped back, eyes wide, and stared at the protruding hilt.

‘You took my weapons… so I borrowed yours,’ Greel said. Sharizad reached up, as if to wrench the blade free. Before she could, a smoky axe slashed down through one of her wings as the monstrous spirit of an eyeless Bloodbound chopped at her. Sharizad shrilled as more spectral weapons pierced her feathered flesh, opening bloodless wounds.

‘No! I killed you once, fools, I can do so again,’ she howled. ‘Back, get back! I will not be denied by broken fates and inferior destinies. This is my moment, my future! I will be queen!’ In moments, she was surrounded by the hazy shapes of the phantasmal warriors. There were Stormcasts among them, Zephacleas saw, and Bloodbound, and others he didn’t recognise. They attacked as one, from every direction, even as they began to dissolve. Sharizad struggled against them, but whatever Marrowcutter’s other powers, it seemed to be no more use against the dead than any other weapon.

‘Your… your chains are broken, witch,’ Greel said, swaying on his feet. ‘Your slaves rise up, even as they did in the Temple of the Empty Heart. Your destined empire crumbles…’

Lightning speared upwards as the ghostly Stormcasts began to vanish, one by one, tearing through the vaulted ceiling of the chamber. Sharizad’s screams grew in volume as the lightning washed over and through her, setting her feathers aflame and boiling her eyes in their sockets. Smoke plumed from her fanged mouth and her wounds widened, gleaming like veins of gold in her flesh before she finally managed to rip the crystalline sword from her chest and crush it in one bloody talon.

As the fragments of the sword fell from her hand, the ghosts began to disappear. Their vaporous shapes bled upwards, stretching and fading. Reeling, smoking, Sharizad stumbled away from the dissolving spirits. Greel followed her, lightning crawling across his body. He was coming apart, even as the last of his life’s blood dripped down the contours of his armour. He crashed into her with a roar, grappling with her. His eyes met Zephacleas’, in the instant before the lightning took him. When it flashed, Sharizad’s scream filled the shuddering chamber. As the light faded, her feathers were blackened and crumbling. Her too-long limbs were burned and bloody. But she did not fall. Blinded by the light of Azyr, she swayed drunkenly.

‘I will not… This is my age. My time,’ she croaked. ‘I will… I must…’ She stopped, and her blind gaze fixed on the floor. Her features twisted into an expression of loathing, as if she had seen something unwelcome, and she lifted Marrowcutter in both hands and drove it down. The floor heaved and cracks sped across the slabs of amber.

‘My fate is my own, and shadows should know their place!’ she howled as she tore the sword loose.

Zephacleas heaved himself up and saw Gordrakk doing the same. He met the orruk’s gaze and nodded. They would only have this last chance — she was simply too powerful. Now she was stunned, wounded. But it wouldn’t last. Already new feathers were sprouting on her healing flesh, and her eyes were beginning to clear.

Gordrakk roared and brought an axe down on Sharizad’s wrist, hacking through it in one blow. She screamed and the daemon-blade whirled from her mangled grip. It sank point first into the floor and quivered there for a moment. Then, with something that might have been a sigh, it slid through the floor and vanished from sight. The chamber’s shudders grew in intensity. A light swelled in the depths of the amber, growing brighter and brighter until it was almost blinding.

‘No,’ Sharizad moaned. ‘Mine… It was mine.’ She clawed at the floor with her remaining hand. Her body seemed to be caught halfway between being one thing and another. Without Marrowcutter, the changes that had been wrought upon her were coming undone. Her flesh began to peel away from her bones and slip upwards, joining the swirling shards of amber. She lurched upright, screaming.

As one, Gordrakk and Zephacleas struck. Hammer and axes slammed home, and Sharizad, the Shimmering Countess, came apart in a storm of iridescent splinters. The splinters whirled in place for a moment, her face screaming from within each one, and then they sped upwards and vanished. The floor followed suit, uprooting itself and dissolving into ochre dust as it billowed around Zephacleas.

Deafened and blinded, he fought to remain standing as the Howling Labyrinth tore itself apart around him. He felt as if he were sinking into a stifling mire. Chunks of amber struck his war-plate, and he thought he felt something clutching at him. Then, all at once, it was done and he was left standing in the open air on the great skull of the star-wyrm. His vision cleared and he could hear again. He saw the surviving Sons of Mallus, standing nearby, their faces turned towards the sky. He saw Seker and the warriors of his chamber, and orruks as well. The greenskins looked about in obvious consternation.

Zephacleas looked up, and watched the hurricane of amber shards, all that was left of the Howling Labyrinth, spiral up into the sky, until it was lost to sight. When it had gone, he looked down. Seker was leading the surviving Stormcasts from both chambers towards him. He heard a growl behind him and turned. Gordrakk stood beside his wounded maw-krusha, which snuffled at its master. The battered remnants of his horde gathered around him.

Zephacleas met Gordrakk’s gaze and said, ‘Good fight.’

Gordrakk was silent for a moment. Then, ‘Good fight, hammer-boss.’

‘Maybe we’ll fight again, Gordrakk,’ Zephacleas said.

‘Maybe. Maybe the Hammer God sees now, eh? Or maybe next time I’ll put your head on a stick,’ Gordrakk grunted, smiling crookedly. He clashed his axes together and threw back his head. The Fist of Gork roared out the name of his gods, and his warriors roared with him. Zephacleas looked up. For a moment, he thought he could see two great shapes, as wide as the horizon and as tall as the stars, staring down at him. Then they were gone.

‘Lost once more,’ Seker said, softly.

‘No. Not lost,’ Zephacleas said, watching the orruks celebrate their victory. ‘Gorkamorka is everywhere. Gorkamorka is in them and beside them and around them.’

‘Very poetic,’ Seker said.

‘Yes,’ Zephacleas said.

‘We still have to find him. Wherever he is.’

‘I know,’ Zephacleas said.

‘That was our mission, you’ll recall,’ the Lord-Relictor said.

‘Seker?’

‘Yes, my Lord-Celestant?’

‘Please be quiet.’

Seker laughed. After a moment, Zephacleas joined him.

Epilogue

The One-in-Nine

Sardak coughed. The hammer had crushed his ribs and spine, and numbness crept through him on cat-feet. Yuhdak held him, and he wondered to hear his brother weeping. Somehow, Yuhdak had dragged him from the chamber, away from the battle. Caring Yuhdak, kind Yuhdak. Sardak laughed, until the pain turned it into a groan. Of course it would be Yuhdak. The only one to never fight, the only one with no ambition.

‘Why do you weep, brother? You are now the One… The One-in-Nine. Your fate eclipses ours, brother. Bodak… Kuldak… All dead. Our fate is… yours…’ he wheezed.

‘No,’ Yuhdak said, softly. Sardak twitched. It was the first time he had ever heard his brother speak. ‘There has only ever been my fate, brother,’ Yuhdak continued. ‘When I was but a child, I begged a boon of the Master of Manifold Paths. I was lonely, you see. Father ignored me, for I was but a shadow of him, and who pays attention to their shadow?’

The dark closed in around Sardak. The last dark, the true dark, where no daemons dwelt and no gods listened. Fear gripped him and he looked at his brother.

‘What… what boon?’ he croaked, unable to deny his curiosity, even this close to the precipice. He could feel the labyrinth shaking around him, and hear the sounds of battle.

‘I asked him to give me brothers,’ Yuhdak said. ‘I asked him and he split my fate into nine, so that I would never be alone.’ He bowed his head, and shimmering tears spilled through the cracks in his mask. ‘And now, I can never be anything else.’

Sardak reached up, trying to touch his brother’s face, but the dark was faster and stronger, and it claimed him, as he had feared it would. And all of this Yuhdak knew, in the part of him that was Sardak, that was Redak and Bodak and all of the others. His eight querulous brothers, who had ever been a part of him. They had taken his voice, his fear, his courage and even his sorrow. They had made him the shadow he’d always thought himself to be.

But it had been a good bargain, if only for a little while. He had enjoyed playing their brutal games in the City of Tiers, and for a time he had forgotten what it meant to be lonely. But the moment the eyeless crow had come, Yuhdak had known that an end was coming. An end to joy, an end to childish amusements.

It had not simply been a god’s jest, or a darkling boon, it had been a test as well. A test of him, a test of fate and chance. A gambit of souls that only a god would understand.

Nine possible paths, and only the truest and strongest could bear our — my — weight, he thought as he looked down at his brother’s cracked and crumbling helm.

Sardak’s body came apart like sand, and slid out of his grip. Yuhdak hunched forwards, whole for the first time in a long time. He did not care for the feeling. The Howling Labyrinth shuddered around him, as somewhere, Sharizad met her fate. Part of Yuhdak, the part that had just recently been Sardak, longed to go to her aid. Another part of him whispered that he ought to go back and claim Marrowcutter for himself.

But he was not Sardak. He was not Bodak or Redak. He had no illusions as to what awaited him, should he follow those impulses. He was Yuhdak and he intended to remain whole for the foreseeable future. He stood slowly, as the dust that had been his brother spilled from his robes and swirled away.

The Howling Labyrinth shuddered in a paroxysm. It would not long outlive his brother. He wondered where Marrowcutter would go, now that it was free. Perhaps it would slice through reality and tumble into the void. Or perhaps the Daemoniac Conundrum would come for it and hide it away once more. He found that he didn’t care.

Yuhdak lifted his sword in silent salute to the Destined Queen. Perhaps they would meet again one day. Somehow, he doubted it. The crow had been right, so many moons ago. In helping her meet her fate, he had found his own. The bargain was fulfilled, and he was whole once more. There was no more need for him to tarry. As she had claimed so many times, her fate was her own, and he felt no urge to witness it.

He had seen the world through nine pairs of eyes, and learned its secrets with nine minds, but now that knowledge had to be put to use. Somewhere, at the mad heart of all reality, the Grand Marshal of Chaos waited, gathering those like him, who had been purged of the old fears and indulgences of childhood. Those who saw the world for what it was and what it must be. His time in the shadows was done. Now he would stand in the light. He left the oscillating structure behind, even as lightning tore through its walls. As he strode along the trembling bridge of amber towards a fang-lined archway, he heard Sharizad’s scream of denial, and the great animal cry of the Worldsplitter, as it fell once more into legend.

And, as the Howling Labyrinth shattered and came apart around him, Yuhdak of the Nine, last prince of the City of Tiers, stepped through the archway to meet his fate.

C.L. Werner

Lord of Undeath

Chapter One

Darkness filled the great hall, a blackness more sinister than that of night and shadow. Great braziers of gilded bone blazed from their pillared stands, tongues of flame dancing up towards the vaulted ceiling dozens of feet above. Crystal lanterns carved into the shapes of skulls hung from marble columns, their translucent surfaces aglow with the sapphire, emerald and ruby lights of the soulfires imprisoned within them. From the ceiling, a colossal chandelier of volcanic glass and fossilised skeletons glimmered with the light of a thousand corpse-candles, each flicker fed by the fat of a slaughtered killer. Through the vastness, darting around pillar and column, weaving through the bony arms of the chandelier, ethereal wisps of ghostly luminescence flew about the hall.

The chamber was a riot of lights, but still there wasn’t enough to fend off the darkness. A darkness that went beyond a diminishing of vision. A darkness that struck at the soul with terror and oppression. A darkness that lounged languidly upon a divan fashioned from a mammoth chunk of drakstone and upholstered with silks stained in the heartblood of unblemished maidens. A darkness that raised a goblet of sanguine wine to velvet lips and took the most delicate sip of the morbid liquor.

To those mortals assembled in the hall, the sight of their sovereign drinking the blood-brew was a forceful reminder of their place in the scheme of things. They were servants, subjects and, if they provided offence, cattle. Some among them wondered who it was who had been bled for their monarch’s grim repast. Older and wiser men no longer entertained such questions, well aware there was no good to come from curiosity.

The immortals among the court were no less struck by the exhibition. They could smell the blood in the goblet, could almost taste it flowing across their tongues, the fiery bite of the mournweed used to spice the wine as it burned down their throats. A terrible longing rushed through them, pulsing in their blackened hearts. Had their sovereign taken some mortal, ripped his throat out and drained him dry, they would have known only a sense of envy. Seeing this display of control and restraint, these dainty sips in the face of their lust, struck them at a level not so different from that of the mortals. Without a word being said, they were being told how great was the gulf between their own status and that of the one they served.

Stretched across her divan, her bare flesh cool and pale where it wasn’t obscured by the sable veils of a web-like gown, the vampire queen regarded her subjects with regal detachment. There was no hint in either motion or expression of the agitation within her, of the anxiety that had been steadily mounting since the first reports had been brought to her throne. It was the first rule of power, the first lesson any ruler, no matter how experienced — never show weakness. As her eyes drifted to the armoured figure of Lord Harkdron, the slightest hint of a smile pulled at her crimson lips and exposed the gleam of a fang.

There were, of course, exceptions to every rule. Times when a show of weakness made it easier to exploit the aspirations of others. In all the numberless centuries of her unnatural existence, Neferata had made use of many would-be paramours. There was no loyalty so easy to abuse, no slavery so complete, as that which hoped for love. Even for a Mortarch, a mistress of death and the infinities beyond death, there was a delicious savour to preying upon the dreams and ambitions of lesser beings. The loftier the height they wanted to ascend, the more satisfying their inevitable fall.

Once the foolish swain had served his purpose, of course.

Neferata turned her attention from Harkdron to regard the rest of her court. She could see the fear that pulsed through the veins of her mortal subjects, a fear that, for once, was not provoked by the dread queen who ruled over them. Among the vampires and liches who swore allegiance to her, she could likewise sense unease. It was less visceral than the fright of mortals, but there nonetheless. Their anxiety vexed her, for it was a sign of faltering belief in her power. Her subjects were losing confidence in her ability to protect them.

She took another sip of her wine, but the taste was soured by the turn her thoughts had taken. It had taken many centuries to build her great city of Nulahmia. Every street and building had been translated from the dreams of memory into constructions of limestone and marble, into basalt walls and obsidian pillars. A thousand times had the colonnade leading to the Palace of Seven Vultures been built and razed, its workers impaled upon spikes of copper and gold, before the vision in her mind was perfected. Four hundred slaves had been entombed alive beneath the foundations of the Jackal Gate before the proper aura of death and despair lurked beneath its brooding archway. Ten generations of men had laboured to excavate the cavern of Nehb-kotz below the necropolis of Themsis, their bodies plastered into the cavern walls to entice the corpse-moths to nest within the empty skulls.

In all the Realm of Death, Nulahmia was hers alone. Every contour of the landscape, every brick in the walls and tile upon the roofs, every curl in a maid’s coiffure, every thread in a farmer’s tunic, all of them had been nurtured by her dark dreams of primordial memory. When the hordes of Chaos poured through the realmgates to conquer the lands of Shyish, it was to Nulahmia that Neferata had withdrawn. It was for Nulahmia that she directed her forces and powers. To keep and hold the kingdom she had built in accordance with her own vision, she had devoted spells of such magnitude that a mortal sorcerer would be reduced to ash merely trying to sound the letters of the first incantation.

Long had Nulahmia been hidden, veiled from the marauders of Chaos by a web of illusion and terror. Impenetrable shrouds of gravefog cloaked every approach. Spectral mires of liferot waited to drain the vitality of any invader. Ghostly echoes distorted the perceptions of any who drew too close to Neferata’s dominion, and phantom whispers excited their fears. While the rest of the realm had been despoiled and defiled, while the devotees of Chaos ravaged and pillaged at will, her city had remained inviolate.

Now that sanctuary was threatened. After years of seclusion, the enemy had finally pierced the skein of terror and illusion to strike at the city secreted within. It was a possibility that had haunted Neferata often when Shyish had first been overrun, but time had dulled her worries until she had come to share the belief she had nurtured amongst her subjects — that the defences of Nulahmia were inviolate.

Slowly, Neferata lowered her goblet and motioned one of her handmaidens to remove it. Then her gaze roved across the anxious visages of her court. There was a predatory quality in her eyes now. Among her subjects, the fear of Chaos was eclipsing fear of their queen. This was a situation she couldn’t abide. She needed a victim to remind them all what it meant to fail a Mortarch.

‘Repeat for me again what was revealed in your seance,’ Neferata commanded, pointing a pale finger towards one of her mortal retainers. He was a spindly, almost fleshless man, his skin afflicted with a leprous cast. The dark robe he wore was an imitation of those worn by the priests of immemorial ages, eldritch hieroglyphs embroidered into the fabric with purple threads. Ahkmet-bey, chief of Nulahmia’s necromancers, bowed his shaved head when his queen addressed him. Though magic had enabled him to extend his life beyond the usual mortal span, the mystic had never lost his terror of Neferata. It was one of the reasons he had been suffered to live so long, the other being that spirits were more readily drawn to a living conjurer than one who had already been given the blood kiss.

‘My dread queen.’ Ahkmet-bey abased himself at the foot of the dais. ‘The spirits have shown me many dire things. The enemy has penetrated the spells that have protected your kingdom for so very long. An army marching under the banner of the Serpent descends upon us to lay siege to the city.’

Neferata glowered at the necromancer, her pointing finger lengthening into a blackened claw. ‘Have the phantoms bound to my dominion not plagued these invaders? Have they not filled their minds with doubt and fear? How much of this horde has already deserted their snake flags? How many of them are lost in the gravefog?’

A tremor of fear shook Ahkmet-bey’s voice as he answered. ‘Highness, the enemy has lost few to the mists and fewer still to the phantasms. Their leader pushes them unerringly across the boneyards and mouldmires.’ The necromancer shook his head. ‘It is as though he is being drawn to us by some infernal enchantment.’

‘You speak nonsense, mortal,’ Lord Harkdron sneered. ‘Since the first realmgates were breached by the Everchosen, neither sorcerer nor daemon has been able to find Nulahmia.’ The vampire’s fangs glistened as he smiled at Ahkmet-bey. ‘Do you dare cast aspersions upon our queen’s powers?’

‘I report only what I am commanded to reveal,’ Ahkmet-bey declared. ‘The spirits have shown me the invaders marching into the kingdom. They have found a way…’

Neferata dropped down from her divan, descending the steps of the raised dais with a panther-like menace. She hesitated an instant beside Harkdron, letting her claw slide down his cheek in a languid caress. She could feel the vampire’s excitement at the display of affection. ‘Ahkmet-bey wouldn’t risk the life he’s used so much magic to sustain simply to spread disquieting rumours in my court. What the spirits have shown him must be true. The enemy has found a way to reach Nulahmia and threaten my domain.’

Harkdron brought both of his fists crashing against his breastplate in martial salute. ‘Allow me to command your armies, my queen. I will bring them against these invaders and give them cause to repent whatever doom allowed them to slip through your spells. They will be exterminated before they can even lay eyes upon your city.’

‘No, my eager champion,’ Neferata told Harkdron. ‘You will not sally forth to confront the enemy out in the open where the horde’s numbers can be brought to bear. You will stay here and hold the walls.’

‘It will be my honour,’ Harkdron vowed. ‘The Chaos vermin will smother the wormfields with their dead, and after the battle, I shall build an ossuary taller than the Throne Mount from their bones. The tribute of a general to his queen.’

Neferata smiled at Harkdron’s enthusiasm, enjoying how fully his devotion had trapped him. ‘Bring me victory first. Allow no harm to befall my city and it will be Lord Harkdron who is paid tribute.’

‘If your armies can hold the walls,’ Ahkmet-bey said, ‘then we might light the spirit-beacons and summon aid from the other Mor—’

The suggestion died on the necromancer’s tongue. Fast as a striking tomb-scorpion, Neferata spun about and raked her claw across Ahkmet-bey’s throat. Bright arterial blood sprayed from the man as he crumpled to the floor, his extended life extinguished in a heartbeat. The vampires of Neferata’s court gazed hungrily at the gory puddle that surrounded the twitching corpse, but none made a move to indulge their thirst.

‘Nulahmia has stood on its own strength this long,’ Neferata told her courtiers as she turned to face them. ‘We will not light the spirit-beacons. We will not be so weak as to beg for help from those who abandoned us long ago. When the enemy comes against us, we will hurl him back with our own magic and our own armies. It will be the might of Nulahmia alone that brings them to destruction. No others will share in our victory!’

Neferata climbed back onto her divan, letting the cries of devotion and praise rising from her subjects fill her ears. There was always a quality of fear in the voices of her courtiers, a quality she usually found pleasing. Now it had turned sour. The fear she detected wasn’t provoked by her, but by the advancing hordes of Chaos. Even after her callous slaughter of Ahkmet-bey before their very eyes, her court was more frightened of the invaders.

A wave of her hand dismissed her court. She watched Harkdron march away with the captains of her armies, listened for a moment to their mutterings about strategy in the coming battle. None of them dared so much as whisper about seeking aid, not when their queen’s sharp ears might hear them, but she knew the thought was on their minds.

She would not countenance the humiliation of begging the other Mortarchs for help. It would be a show of weakness they would be quick to exploit for their own ends. Neferata had worked too long to protect what she had built to share it with one of her rivals. Certainly she was anxious about the horde now moving against her kingdom. Any army that could breach her spells might likewise breach her walls.

Still, she wouldn’t order the spirit-beacons lit. To do so would undermine her dominion over her subjects. They would look to the outside for deliverance rather than to their queen. If that help never came…

Neferata stared down at Ahkmet-bey’s corpse. Almost absently, she waved her hand and allowed her entourage to feed. As she watched them lap up the necromancer’s blood, she pondered the futility of the man’s suggestion.

After so much time, with so much of Shyish overrun by Chaos, was there even anyone left to see the spirit-beacons? Was she the last of the Mortarchs?

Lascilion closed his eyes and leaned back in his saddle. Pursing his lips, he flicked out his forked tongue. The slimy organ quivered a moment, each prong licking the misty air and feeding observations to his brain. Much like a true snake, the Chaos warlord smelt with his tongue. Unlike a serpent, the smells Lascilion tasted were not scents or odours, but residues of emotion. They were spiritual stains imprinted upon their environment, fierce passions and terrible frights that had blazed up like bonfires for an instant and left their essence seared into their surroundings.

Yes, it was still there, borne upon aetheric waves of anguish and agony, the taint that had guided him through the gravefog and mouldmire. A delicious flavour of cruelty and sadism that sent a thrill of envy pounding through his veins. Lascilion had long been in the service of the Prince of Chaos, the sensuous god Slaanesh. Pleasure and pain had become his food and drink, each new experience feeding off those that had come before, creating within his soul a tapestry of excess and depravity. He had presided over numberless atrocities and outrages, glutted himself upon suffering until his senses had become jaded and dulled. Sometimes, for a rare moment, a single tear might evoke his old passion, a scream might once again echo through the corridors of his spirit, but such moments had become increasingly rare. All felt empty to him now.

There were those who said the god Slaanesh had been destroyed, consumed by his own sensual gluttony. Lascilion, in his darkest moments, wondered if such myths were true, if the god he had given himself to was indeed vanquished. If the Serpent no longer waited to reward him for his devotions, then what was the purpose of any of it? Mere indulgence of flesh? A wanton abandonment to shallow hedonism? Such simplicity might be enough for the half-witted marauders and bestial gors who marched under his banner, but for him, there had to be more than that. Something of value. Something of meaning.

As his tongue flickered in the air, Lascilion felt old urges stir deep within him — half-remembered lusts, half-forgotten desires. The suffering he sensed was beyond any he had tasted before. He had drunk often from the well of torment, but never had he encountered something of such terrible purity. It was like a fine vintage, set down long ago and carefully tended so that it might reach a perfection of cruelty. The air of horror that drew him on had been cultivated not over the lifetime of a single murderous tyrant, but was steeped in the malignity of centuries. A pall of nigh-incomparable agony clung to Nulahmia, and it was calling out to him as though drawing back to itself one of its own.

That was why, where so many others had failed, Lascilion would succeed. The disciples of Nurgle, the warlords of Khorne, the acolytes of Tzeentch, even the verminous spawn of the Rat God had all tried to discover the secret city to which Queen Neferata had retreated. Man, daemon or monster — all had failed. Lascilion wouldn’t fail. His devotions to Slaanesh would see him through. Bloodking Thagmok, overlord of the armies of Chaos in Shyish, would learn that, broken or lost, the power of the Serpent lived on in his servants.

The monstrous steed upon which Lascilion rode lurched beneath him, its sinuous body undulating with ripples of agitation. It was a gift from the Realm of Chaos, a daemon sustained by his own depraved spirit. In the Mortal Realms, daemons demanded certain conditions to exist — mighty relics, lavish sacrifices, mantles of flesh to possess or, most propitious of all, a landscape in harmony with their own dark essence. In all his wanderings, Lascilion had never sensed a place more in tune with the power of Slaanesh than Nulahmia. The warlord opened his eyes and gave his daemon steed a reassuring pat on its fluted proboscis. Only when the thing had quieted somewhat did he turn his attention to the being that had upset his mount.

Amala crouched in the mouldy filth of the ground across which the army marched, gossamer wings folded against her back. She stretched forth a ropey tendril and offered to Lascilion a curled portion of skin. The warlord noted the blood that dripped from the scroll as he plucked it from the chitinous tentacle. The insect-like mutant was a capable scout, but her lack of a mouth made it necessary for her to render her reports in writing. She was often too impatient to wait for stylus and clay, so made do with the horde’s stragglers.

Lascilion dismissed the mutant with a flick of his hand. There was only so long his steed could abide the sight of the luminous organs that oozed up from beneath Amala’s skin. When the winged scout withdrew to the branches of a gnarled tree some distance away, it was as though his mind surged up from beneath black waters.

Tokresh-khan, chieftain of the Sorroweaters, marched towards Lascilion when he had seen Amala fly away. The barbarian was a huge man, nearly as tall on foot as the warlord was in his saddle. Tokresh wore only a few ornaments and talismans, preferring to display his scarred and tattooed body and prove his devotion to Slaanesh by exposing himself to the slashing blades and raking claws of his enemies. The masses of grey scars etched across his sallow skin had transcended ugliness to become beautiful in their own right, weaving and flowing into one another like the coils of the Serpent himself.

Lascilion, by contrast, took great care to protect the magnificent body and handsome visage with which Slaanesh had gifted him. Once, he had been as ugly as one of Tokresh’s lizard-skin boots, but his devotions had transformed him into an entirely different being. His body was strong and fine, wondrous as a marble god and powerful as a daemon. His skin was as smooth as eiderdown, and the great mane of hair that cascaded down from his head and tumbled across his shoulders was like spun gold. His face transcended the limitations of human beauty, blending the nobility of a lion with the wisdom and determination of a king.

To guard these gifts, Lascilion wore plate armour cast from great slivers of pearl plundered from the noxious depths of the Obsidian Lagoon. Each segment of his shimmering armour had been etched with esoteric sigils and the secret names of his god, soaked in wyrd-dust until every piece was saturated in powerful magics. At his side, he wore twin swords crafted by the crazed swordsmith Nakadai, the vicious blade named Pain and its smaller brother Torment. Each new victim fed the blades, swelling their power with the anguish of those they cut down.

Lascilion let one hand slip down to Pain’s ivory grip, feeling the hungry hum of the aroused blade pulse through him. He fixed a stern gaze upon Tokresh. It had been an arduous ordeal, bringing his army through the arcane veils that guarded these lands. Many times he had been challenged, confronted by despairing chieftains and sorcerers who wanted to turn back. Their path through the gravefog was littered with the bodies of those who had tried to oppose his command.

Tokresh halted when he saw Pain inching from its sheath. The barbarian looked from the blade to the face of the man who held it. ‘You have sent the moth-eater ahead of us?’ he asked, nodding towards Amala. There was a woeful lack of deference in the chieftain’s tone. Lascilion would remember that.

‘I have her words,’ Lascilion declared, waving the fleshy scroll in his other hand. He looked across the bleak landscape through which his army marched, a jumbled terrain of barren mountains and winding ravines, dead trees and yellowed weeds. ‘We will soon be quit of these lands.’

‘It cannot be soon enough,’ Tokresh cursed. He slapped a calloused hand against his tattooed breast. ‘This place chills my heart and would unman me. Every step I take, I can feel my courage falter. There is witchery here, the stink of the necromancers and their ilk.’ He waved at the marching Sorroweaters as the marauders were approaching one of the withered stands of trees that spotted the edges of the trail the army followed. ‘My warriors sense it too. I can see it in their eyes, watch it crawling across their faces. We have heard much of Neferata and her might. There are some who worry you lead us not to glory but disgrace.’

Lascilion gazed across the ranks of the Sorroweaters. They were a formidable force, hundreds strong, each man built along the same hulking lines as their chieftain. Standards crafted from the still-moaning bodies of their victims rose above the heads of the marching marauders. Their shamans knew spells of such horrific potency that they could remind even the undead what it was to suffer. For their living victims, even more unspeakable tortures were their reward. Normally, the Sorroweaters drew strength from the misery of their living totems. Now, Lascilion could see that their ardour was dimmed. They glanced at their surroundings with furtive, worried looks.

Among the rest of his horde, he could see similar traces of trepidation. The brays and bleats of the Vorkoth warherd had fallen to almost nothing, the horned beastmen moved to silence by the oppressive atmosphere. The fratricidal Hellcast had drawn close to one another, something the gold-armoured knights usually did only when they charged into battle, all too aware of the Khornate curse that hovered over their heads and spurred them to strike one another when no other foes presented themselves. Even the Scalpfinders, the most savage and brutal of the tribes who followed Lascilion, had a subdued air about them, clutching their axes and flails as though they were talismans rather than weapons.

Mendeziron, the gigantic Keeper of Secrets, was less circumspect in his agitation, plucking gors and marauders from the midst of their tribes as though they were choice morsels in a box of sweetmeats. The more the army surrendered to their fear, the more they excited the appetites of the daemon. The four-armed monster needed such victims to invigorate him. The obscene reliquary Lascilion had stolen from the Crying Tower was enough to sustain Mendeziron in the Mortal Realms, but not enough to lend the daemon any measure of strength. That required more substantial offerings. Early in the march, there had been many among his army who considered giving themselves to Mendeziron a sacred honour. Now they fought or fled when the daemon came for them.

Lascilion scowled at the unquestionable lack of valour and determination on display. It was small wonder the followers of the other Ruinous Powers had come to hold those who served Slaanesh in such disregard. Was this the best that could be expected of them? Were they merely decadent hedonists, grown soft in their vices, no longer capable of the intensity of desire that drove them to ever more profound revelations of experience?

‘Can you truly be afraid?’ Lascilion sneered at Tokresh. ‘Can you not delight in the chill that curdles your blood? Is it not something new? Is it not something you haven’t felt before?’ He could see that his questions made no impact upon the barbarian. Creatures like Tokresh were too simple to understand the extent of experience the true disciple of Slaanesh must be willing to embrace as an offering to his god. ‘We have fought the coffin-worms before. The whole of Shyish was once their domain. But with sword and spell, we have brought them to ruin. The Lords of Chaos have conquered the Masters of Death. All that is left of them are lingering echoes, remnants hiding in the night. Can you not imagine the delights that await us? The wonders of pillage and conquest that stand before us?’

‘Their magic is strong,’ Tokresh protested.

‘The very magnitude of their spells should whet your desires,’ Lascilion told him. ‘The greater the effort to protect, the more magnificent the reward that waits for those with the determination to press on.’ He tapped the fleshy scroll against his breastplate. ‘Amala has seen the walls of a city just beyond the mountains. A day, less than a day, and we shall stand before those walls.’ A cruel smile twisted Lascilion’s leonine face. ‘We will tear down those walls. We will fall upon the city that stands beyond them. The last city of Shyish will be our playground. Your kinsmen will be free to loot and pillage, to defile and desecrate. You will abandon yourselves in murder and delight, and every indulgence will be an offering to Great Slaanesh.’

Greed and lust shone in the eyes of Tokresh. He had heard the stories from his tribe’s elders about the old days, when the hordes of Chaos had descended upon the mighty kingdoms and cities of Shyish. Long had he dreamed of such wantonness and savagery. ‘I will tell my people,’ he said. ‘We will see this city.’

‘You will do more than see it,’ Lascilion promised. ‘You will tear it apart. After we have finished, nothing of flesh or stone will have been spared our attentions. Nulahmia exists only to sate our desires.’

The warlord watched Tokresh as he marched back to his tribe. Lascilion had rekindled the chieftain’s lust, but not his loyalty. When the battle began, he would give the Sorroweaters the honour of acting as the vanguard. Whatever defenders Nulahmia possessed, they could inflict the worst of their efforts against the marauders. They would expend resources and spare Lascilion the effort of dealing with Tokresh later.

Lascilion’s tongue slithered out and licked the air once more. The exquisite taste of depravity burned his senses like an exotic spice. When the walls came down, he would lead his Amethyst Guard through the rubble. Let the others indulge their petty appetites. For Lascilion, there could be no treasure more precious than the creature that could preside over such a legacy of atrocity.

Neferata would be his.

Chapter Two

From behind the battlements atop the Jackal Gate, Lord Harkdron glared down at the wormfields. A vast stretch of loamy ground spotted with ghoulish stands of morgueweed and the cadaverous blooms of cryptfronds, the fields were a carefully prepared killing ground for any foe so reckless as to threaten Nulahmia. Every foot of ground bore its hidden, eldritch mark, visible only to those versed in the dark art of necromancy. Each sigil denoted the distance from the walls, allowing the necromancers and vampires gathered on the ramparts to direct the arrows of the skeletal regiments under their command with fiendish precision.

There were more malefic magics bound into the morbid soil of the wormfields. Pockets of lethal corpse-gas erupted at a gesture from the necromancers, bursting beneath the marching feet of the Chaos horde and searing the life from their veins. Nests of marrow-maggots bubbled up from the earth to fasten their leech-like mouths about the toes and ankles of the invaders, digging fresh burrows in living flesh. The broken, mangled dead that over the centuries had been dumped into the wormfields like so much rubbish were reanimated with a spark of dark magic, clawing up to the surface. The maimed, battered things were too miserable to visit any true hurt upon the foe, but their noxious presence brought fear and confusion to the barbarians and beastmen, slowing their advance as they probed the ground ahead of them with spear and axe.

Crackling bolts of death magic hurtled down from the gnarled hands and skull-tipped staves of necromancers, withering clutches of brutish invaders at every turn. Gravestones launched from catapults smashed down upon the savage herds of horned gors. Spears of bone loosed from ballistas impaled hulking Chaos warriors, tearing through their heavy armour in sprays of gore. Showers of arrows rained down from the walls, lancing through the flesh of mutants and marauders. Havoc and carnage riddled the Chaos horde, yet still they came onward, trampling their wounded and dead underfoot as they continued their march.

Harkdron scowled at the enemy’s tenacity. He had expected them to relent under such punishment, to slink away in fright at the losses they were suffering. Perhaps he had grown too accustomed to the craven, servile mortals who dwelt in Nulahmia. Maybe it was his contempt for these crude, decadent creatures that made him underestimate them. Whatever the cause, Harkdron had to admit that the victory he had promised Neferata wouldn’t be as simple as he had thought it would be. The vampire could feel his queen’s eyes on him, watching him from her palace on the Throne Mount. He could feel her evaluating him, judging his every decision, noting his every mistake.

The Slaaneshi dead that littered the wormfields would be small consolation to his queen if Harkdron failed to keep them off the walls. Already there had been a few determined warbands that had managed to bring ladders to within a hundred yards of Nulahmia before the undead shot them down. A section of the Vulture Reach had been reduced to a steaming quagmire by the spells of a Chaos sorcerer. Other witches and warlocks cast withering lights and bolts of fiery magic up at the defenders, decimating scores of skeletal warriors beyond the potential of reanimation. One goat-headed shaman held his scalp-laden staff towards the Jackal Gate and evoked a soporific cloud that reduced a pair of deathmages to babbling wretches. Harkdron ordered his grave guard to dispatch the maddened spellcasters, then set his own magic against the bestial shaman. A bolt of dark energy speared down from his hand and burst the beastman’s heart. The shaman’s herd bleated in fright and fell back from the Jackal Gate.

The vampire lord looked away from the routed gors. He scowled at the sight of a large company of men and beasts advancing towards the Jackal Gate. At a glance Harkdron could tell these were more formidable foes than the marauders and brayherds they had faced thus far. This would be the main effort; he could feel it in his bones. Not only were these Chaos warriors better armed and equipped than the rest of the horde, but they also drew a hulking siege tower after them.

Harkdron stared at the tower behind the advancing horde, a mammoth cylinder of iron and wood, its top bound by a crown-like cap. He saw men behind the exposed framework of the tower, clinging to chains and ropes as the siege engine rolled forwards. He snarled a command to the ballistas mounted atop the Jackal Gate, directing them to engage the tower. As they hurled their missiles at the siege engine, a purplish light shimmered around the structure, shattering the bolts before they could strike it. Harkdron cursed at the stifled attack. He snapped a command to one of the necromancers who had survived the shaman’s spell, but even bolts of dark magic couldn’t pierce the arcane wards that shielded the structure. The enemy had their own fell magic to draw upon, and it seemed the most potent of their sorcery had been directed to keeping the tower from harm.

The vampire observed the tower’s advance with suspicion. Why was there only one tower? Were the invaders so arrogant that they thought they could seize the city from a single foothold? To defend the walls Harkdron had roused battalions of grave guard from their deathless sleep, and summoned dread wight kings from the oldest tombs to command them. Wherever the enemy brought their tower, they would find a remorseless foe waiting to receive them.

If such was truly their plan. Harkdron wondered if the tower was simply a ruse, a trick to capture his attention. All the elaborate precautions to protect it were perhaps nothing more than flavouring to make the deception more convincing. Down there, among the teeming mass of brayherds and warbands, the invaders might be hiding grapnels and ladders, or even more esoteric means of scaling the walls. The malignant spirits entombed beneath the gatehouses might claim some of the attackers, the skeleton warriors atop the walls still more, but if the assault was spread broadly enough, the foe might yet succeed in their purpose.

Harkdron gripped the edge of the crenulations before him, his fingers digging into the limestone as he gnashed his fangs in frustration. He wouldn’t abide the shame of failing his queen. Neferata was just cruel enough to let him linger in disgrace rather than destroying him outright. She had charged him with keeping the enemy outside the walls. If even a single barbarian made it into Nulahmia, he would know the queen’s wrath.

The tower. Deception or arrogance? Harkdron had to know. Pulling off his left gauntlet, he raised his bared hand to his mouth and brought his fangs stabbing into his pallid flesh. The stagnant blood of his undead veins bubbled up from the wound. Stretching out his hand, holding his bloodied palm towards the crawling tower, the vampire hissed an incantation. He was calling upon the vicious hunters that nested deep within the Black Grotto, calling to them in their hungry slumbers. He felt the creatures stirring, answering his call. Soon they would take wing and come to claim the prey he had chosen for them.

Harkdron smiled as he anticipated the onslaught to come. The invaders had preserved their tower against a few spells and spears, but how would they fare against a few hundred ravenous fell bats?

The shrieking, chirping cacophony that wailed across the wormfields drew every eye skyward. Lascilion was no exception. He cursed when he saw the swarm of gigantic bats that flittered above his army. Each of the monsters was as large as a horse, leathery wings torn and tattered, mangy fur peeling away from rotten flesh and yellowed bones. Sorcerous fires gleamed in the hollows of their broad faces, blazing with the most bitter malignancy.

Lascilion shouted commands to the warriors around him, calling them to guard against attack from above. The warning, he soon discovered, was unnecessary. The huge bats took no notice of the men and beastmen below but instead sped onwards. He cursed when he understood the objective towards which the fiends were flying. The aerial horrors were making for the great column of iron and wood his warriors were rolling towards the walls of Nulahmia.

‘With me,’ Lascilion snapped at his bodyguard. Arrayed in heavy coats of mail that glistened with stolen jewels and plundered gemstones, the Amethyst Guard looked too ostentatious to be dangerous. Many foes had spilled their lives on the axes of Lascilion’s warriors after dismissing them as pampered fops. The Amethyst Guard were connoisseurs of the blade, relishing the excitement of combat with the same ardour as a drunkard with his wine. In the whole of his horde, there were no fiercer fighters than these refined killers, at least not among his mortal followers.

Even with the Amethyst Guard ready to follow him, Lascilion hesitated as he drew the reins of his snake-like steed and turned its head towards the threatened siege engine. The swarm of bats was nearly on its objective now, rancid bits and pieces falling from their decayed bodies as they swooped in for the attack. He couldn’t reach the hulking spire of iron and wood in time to intercept the enemy. The wards and charms the horde’s sorcerers and shaman had woven to protect the construction from hostile magic would be of little effect against the undead bats. It was doubtful any of the warriors near the siege engine would climb up to confront the attackers; they were too aware of what it would mean if they were to fall inside the framework.

Lascilion looked away as the first of the bats struck at the framework, scrabbling at the iron fastenings, gnashing its fangs against the wooden supports. Instead, he studied the distance between the siege engine and the walls of Nulahmia. A bark of grim laughter rumbled from the warlord. Neferata had waited too long to unleash her flock. She had let Lascilion get too close, let his horde draw too near the atmosphere of wickedness and depravity that saturated her city. He could feel the defiled energy reaching out to him. Soon it would reach out to others, invigorating and intoxicating his warriors, feeding their lust for conquest. There was naught that her bats could do now to change the situation.

Or was there? Lascilion turned back to the great spire. The upper reaches were now coated in the leathery wings and decaying bodies of the giant bats. He could imagine the raw terror pounding through the hearts of those within the spire as the ravenous monsters tried to tear their way inside to reach them. It always struck Lascilion as ironic how even a man who knows he is going to die can still feel fear in such magnitude. Of course so few appreciated the strange relish of fear, or the thrill of anticipating one’s own mortality. Rare were those who could truly appreciate the art of a novel death.

‘Hold,’ Lascilion told his bodyguard as he stood up in his saddle. In a single motion, he drew Pain and Torment from their scabbards and held both swords above his head. As the two blades touched, a nimbus of purple light flashed from the contact, a signal to the siege masters following behind the lumbering spire.

Another flash of purple fire answered Lascilion, a flicker that started just behind the spire and then quickly grew into a conflagration that swept up the skeletal framework. Like a colossal torch, the whole of the spire was quickly engulfed in the sorcerous flame, from the base of the wheeled carriage to the spiked crown at its summit. The undead bats were consumed in the arcane pyre, some of the vermin trying to fly away, spinning through the air like blazing torches before plummeting earthward. Others were immolated as they clung to the framework of iron, their wings curling into charred strips, their bodies bursting as the deathly gases within them exploded.

Shrieks of nigh-unbelievable torment sounded from the spire. From top to bottom, the occupants were caught in the same flame that had devoured the bats. It was a fire that seared not only the flesh but the soul as well. Lacking the vitality to feed the abominable sorcery, the undead bats had been destroyed outright, but for the living victims within, a far more lingering and excruciating doom was their lot. What the vampires had mistaken as the crew of a siege tower were in fact offerings, sacrifices chained inside the framework, mortal fuel to feed an infernal flame.

The flames wouldn’t burn long. Had the bats set upon the spire a moment sooner, Lascilion would have faced a potential catastrophe. The undead had waited too long, however. The flames would last until the weapon was pulled to the walls. Indeed, the extra measure of fear the fell bats had extracted from the sacrifices was lending the fire an even greater potency.

Lascilion watched in fascination as the spire swung downwards. The Chaos horde scattered as the blazing framework slammed down upon the bed of the wheeled carriage. Ahead of the gigantic conveyance, immense mammoths were being harnessed to drag the construction forwards, their angry trumpets echoing across the wormfields. Small streamers of purple fire flickered along their harnesses, scorching the immense war mammoths and goading them to pull faster towards the city.

Howling his delight, the giant daemon Mendeziron marched to the rear of the carriage and gripped the base of the prone spire with his four arms, clinging to it as though to a lost lover. The agonies of the burning sacrifices rushed through him, blazing through his monstrous frame. The enormous daemon reared back, shrieking in obscene ecstasy. Scores of nearby marauders collapsed as the sound smashed down upon them, overwhelming their minds in a riot of sensation.

Mendeziron’s cry echoed back into the Realm of Chaos, reaching into the senses of his kindred daemons. The burning spire acted as a beacon to the ravening hosts that scratched at the barriers of reality. Shimmering rents opened across the wormfields, disgorging packs of depraved creatures. Lithe daemonettes with sinuous bodies and monstrous claws sprang from the fissures opened by Mendeziron’s shriek. Crab-like fiends scuttled out of glowing cracks, squealing with infernal delight as they drew in the debauched scent of Nulahmia.

The Keeper of Secrets cried out again, and in reply more daemons came creeping out from the gashes inflicted by his malign power. The defenders now realised the true nature of the siege weapon Lascilion’s horde had built. Not a tower to climb the walls, but an arcane altar to summon a daemon army to tear them down. A storm of arrows pelted the carriage, bolts of necromancy crackled from the claws of vampires and the staves of deathmages, stones flew from the arms of catapults. None of the attacks were sufficient to overcome the malignant magics that rippled across the fallen spire. Arrows were reduced to ash as they hit the purple flames, skull projectiles shattered into bony fragments and wisps of impotent enchantment, spells fizzled out into clouds of harmless smoke.

The agonies of the mammoths pulling the carriage drove them to ever-greater effort. By the time the purple fires overcame them and left them sprawled along the ground, the carriage had come less than a hundred yards from the Jackal Gate. Still shrieking his ghastly cry, drawing more daemons onto the wormfields, Mendeziron stepped down from the now-unmoving altar. His body steaming with purple flames, the daemon took hold of the burning spire. Wrenching it from the carriage, the Keeper of Secrets dragged it towards the gate. As a last effort by the defenders to halt the daemon, a torrent of boiling blood spilled from the jaws of the stone jackal that looked out over the gate, but it was to no avail. The blood sizzled as it struck the flames, sending an eerie crimson mist steaming into the air above the ram.

With a monstrous roar, Mendeziron struck the Jackal Gate — not at the gate itself, however, but at the walls of the gatehouse to the side of the archway. One arm still clenched about the burning spire, the daemon was bristling with the eldritch energies and supernatural sufferings of the sacrificial victims. Enticed to the edge of mania by the depraved atmosphere that saturated the whole of Nulahmia, the daemon’s blow connected with the force of a hundred battering rams. The tremendous magic that fed the purple flames was unleashed in a heartbeat. With a deafening clamour, the entire left side of the Jackal Gate exploded, flung back into the city by the perverse sorcery brought against it. Slabs of stone weighing several tons came slamming down into the streets, pulverising undead defenders, pelting the outer wards of the city with a crushing shower of debris.

Thousands of barbarous war cries boomed across the wormfields as the horde cheered the incredible destruction. A great surge of beasts and men rushed for the immense gap in the wall where the Jackal Gate had been. The Sorroweaters were in the vanguard, their chief Tokresh-khan leading his warriors into the breach. Lascilion saw some of the undead work their way free from the rubble and try to block the marauders, but they were too few to oppose the oncoming tide. An armoured vampire, his cape torn and tattered, appreciated the fact more keenly than the fleshless skeletons and wights he commanded. After cutting down a dozen of Tokresh’s men, the blood-drinker turned and retreated into the city.

Lascilion laughed at the vampire’s flight. The creature was only delaying the inevitable. The rest of Shyish was given to Chaos. Now Nulahmia would be added to those conquests.

Slithering across the rubble, flanked by the Amethyst Guard, the warlord’s steed carried Lascilion into the broad plaza just behind the ruined gate. All around him, swarms of marauders and daemons were streaming into Nulahmia. He saw a brayherd of goat-like gors battering their way into a squat building, and an instant later he heard the screams of the structure’s inhabitants. Neferata had peopled her city with the living as well as the dead, but they were a wretched and broken breed. Men who had spent generations brutalised and oppressed by the vampires would not suddenly discover the courage to fight now.

It was a far different story with the undead who served the Mortarch. The Queensroad, the main avenue through the city, was thronged with legions of armoured skeletons, shambling zombies and even worse horrors. While part of his horde dispersed to sate the obscene appetites that called to them, Lascilion mustered his own reserves of discipline. Twelve warlords had been dispatched by Archaon Everchosen to find Nulahmia and conquer it. Even the Bloodking had failed to conquer the city. Lascilion alone had succeeded. He wouldn’t allow his own desires to turn victory to defeat now, in the final hour.

Lascilion raised Pain and Torment once again, letting the purple light flash a second time. It was a signal, a summons to his horde, a command only the most debauched and depraved would defy. In an army such as his, Lascilion knew there were many who lacked the restraint to deny themselves. He scowled when he saw the hulking figure of Mendeziron lumbering off towards the inner wards, seeking the largest concentrations of mortal victims to glut his daemonic hunger. A great flock of lesser daemons followed the Keeper of Secrets, like scavengers loping after a hunting lion, eager to feed off the predator’s leavings.

The warlord cursed Mendeziron’s disobedience. It was true enough that the daemon had broken the walls and drawn multitudes of his own kind to augment Lascilion’s forces, but clearing the Queensroad would be far more difficult without his might. The lesser daemons and marauders engaging the undead legion were unable to break through the skeletal ranks. Their ferocity and savagery could not break the determination of beings devoid of thought or fear. The undead had to be annihilated, destroyed outright. There would be no rout, no easy victory.

‘With me,’ Lascilion ordered the Amethyst Guard. Digging his spurs into the flanks of his snake-like steed, Lascilion slithered across the skull-paved roadway and between the rows of impaled corpses that lined the street. He tried to deafen himself to the cries of outrage and brutality that rose from the dying city, smothering the urge to feed his own appetites. Later. Later there would be time for any abomination he could imagine. Once the city was conquered.

The warlord turned his face towards the summit of the Throne Mount deep within Nulahmia’s temple district. His forked tongue licked out. He could smell his prey. Neferata was up there, entombed in her palace. Her tyrannical scent was unmistakable. She’d had a long time to perfect her cruelties against her subjects, but Lascilion would show her what it was to truly be devoted to depravity. From her palace, she would listen and watch as Nulahmia perished.

The spectral blaze of the spirit-beacons stabbed into the smoky sky, staining the plumes with a ghostly green luminescence. Phantoms could be dimly glimpsed flickering in and out of the glowing beams, struggling to draw shape and form from the necromantic energies. Far below, spaced about the flattened plateau of the Throne Mount, the immense bone-clad braziers continued to consume the lost souls that fed the beacon lights. The shambling, grotesque creatures that bore the canopic jars to feed the fires were sometimes themselves consumed, their own miserable energies sucked out from their decayed bodies, their crumbling corpses shattering as they struck the bloodstone platforms upon which the braziers stood.

Neferata watched the eerie spectacle from the balcony high up in her palace. How many times had she stood here, gazing down upon her city, revelling in the golden lustre of nostalgia? She was more than queen and Mortarch for Nulahmia; she was the city’s mother. Every structure had been raised to her exacting specifications, demolished and rebuilt until they shone with the glory of perfection. The inhabitants, the mortal subjects who bestowed upon the city its vivacity, had been pampered and nurtured to excess. They wanted for nothing; even the least among them was spoiled beyond the imaginings of most men. They wore robes of velvet and gowns of silk, supped from golden plates and drank from cups of sapphire. Even their deaths were things of splendour, spectacles to be remembered and recorded.

All that Nulahmia had been was vanishing before her eyes. Neferata’s arcane vision allowed her to see through the smoke and darkness that enveloped the city. She could see the Chaos warriors pouring through the shattered Jackal Gate, ransacking and despoiling at will. The beasts and barbarians slaked their crude thirsts upon the flesh of her subjects, glutted their appetite for plunder with the treasures of her people. Among the throng she could see the lithe shapes of creatures devoid of mortal blood, daemonettes that danced through the streets butchering whomever aroused their fiendish interest. The vampire queen felt a shiver course through her. She had faced the handmaidens of Slaanesh before when they had sought her out. It was an experience even she found abhorrent.

Her legions still held the northern limits of the Queensroad, though they were sorely pressed by the forces of Chaos. That they had held this long was a testament to how much of the horde had quit the battle to ravage the city. Had the full might of the horde been loosed against the Queensroad, the enemy would already have prevailed. As it was, they were obliterating the skeletal warriors and zombies faster than her vampires and necromancers could reanimate them. Once the horde was finished there, only the temple district would be left. Then, the enemy would move against the Throne Mount itself.

Neferata raised her gaze to the spirit-beacon. She had resisted lighting the fires for as long as she dared. Perhaps some of her court would be motivated to fight harder if they thought help was coming. The delusion of hope could instil a terrible tenacity in the weak-minded. For her part, she doubted any of her fellow Mortarchs would answer the summons. If they hadn’t been overwhelmed by Archaon’s hordes, then they would be like herself — a hunted thing trying to survive in the shadows. To expose themselves to the enemy simply to relieve Nulahmia was something she doubted the likes of Arkhan or Mannfred would risk. Certainly, if the roles were reversed, she would not go to their aid. Not with the odds so heavily weighed against them.

That fool Harkdron! Neferata had expected him to fail, but she had anticipated an interval during which she could consider her options and plan her next move. The speed with which her consort had been defeated, the rapidity with which the hordes of Chaos had poured into Nulahmia, had caught her off guard.

The vampire queen turned her back on the view of her dying city and watched as one of her handmaidens stepped out onto the balcony. Though she appeared as the merest wisp of a youth, Kemsit had existed for millennia as a creature of the night. In better days, she had attended Neferata on royal hunts into the Cobweb Forest to kill werebloods and flayworms. During the great battles against Archaon’s armies, she had served as both spy and shieldbearer for her queen. Now, as she walked between the skeletal morghasts who flanked the balcony, the expression on her face was vulnerable and uncertain.

‘My queen, Lord Harkdron has returned,’ Kemsit announced, bowing before Neferata.

Neferata’s eyes blazed. For just an instant, her rage focussed upon Kemsit. If any other of her handmaidens had brought such tidings to her, they would have been pitched over the balustrade and down to the streets below. Her attachment to Kemsit made her hesitate for the split second she needed to compose herself. Callous bloodshed had its place, but right now it was cunning and strategy that would serve her best.

‘Send the fool to me,’ Neferata snarled, dismissing Kemsit with an imperious flick of her hand. All effort at remaining composed drained from her as her morghast guards stepped aside and allowed Harkdron onto the balcony. The regal glamour of the queen vanished from her pale face, driven out by the viciousness of a cornered predator. Fury smouldered in her eyes as she watched her lover advance towards her. His armour was battered and dented, soiled with the stinking gore of things human and inhuman alike. As he bowed before her, the vampire’s mail creaked and groaned.

Lord Harkdron kept his face lowered as he bowed to his queen, unable to meet her wrathful gaze. ‘My queen,’ he said, his voice subdued. ‘They were too many. I have failed you.’ He dared to look up at Neferata and immediately fell silent. There was death in his lover’s eyes.

Once more, Neferata hesitated as she forced some of the fury pulsing through her heart to dissipate. Harkdron had failed her, but the wretch still had his uses. ‘Of all my vassals, you have been the most precious to me,’ she told him. ‘I entrusted my city into your care and you vowed you would protect it from harm.’ She thrust a finger at the smoke rising from the burning city. ‘Your failure I could excuse, but you have done worse to me. You have broken your promise.’ Harkdron tried to answer his queen’s anger, but she gestured for him to keep silent.

‘I will give you a chance to prove yourself to me,’ Neferata decreed. ‘The enemy will soon move against the temple district and Throne Mount. A zombie dragon has been summoned as your new steed. It awaits in the crypts. You must keep them off Throne Mount. Help is on the way, but you must hold them.’

Neferata turned and pointed to the gibbous light of the spirit-beacon. Harkdron watched the spectral energies blazing up into the sky. The vampire nodded, a new determination settling across his visage. ‘When next we meet, you will think better of me,’ he swore.

‘See that I do,’ Neferata declared, turning her back on her lover and gazing out across her city. She could hear Harkdron rise and march away, hastening down to the crypts to claim his steed and hurry back into battle. His eagerness to redeem himself in her eyes would have been pathetic if it wasn’t so useful.

From her vantage, Neferata could see that the fighting on the Queensroad was all but over. A few wights and morghasts remained, but the creatures were surrounded by Chaos warriors and beastmen. Even the warlord who led the horde paid the lingering resistance no notice. She saw him slide off the back of his snake-like mount and remove his plumed helm. For an instant, she could feel his eyes staring up at the palace, almost as though the man were seeking her out. The sensation quickly passed. The warlord turned away from Throne Mount and the Queensroad, sprinting towards the nearest building. She soon lost sight of him as he vanished inside what had once been a bathhouse.

Let the scum gratify himself, Neferata thought. Distracting the slaves of Chaos was the last service Nulahmia could render its queen. When the horde turned to the temple district, Harkdron would have his defence organised. He might even hold them at bay for a time.

Neferata smiled, pleased at the act she had put on for Harkdron. The fool would do his best for her because she had led him to believe there was something to hope for. She didn’t ask him to annihilate the horde by himself, only keep them back until help arrived. That was all he needed to do to win his redemption.

Only there would be no redemption. While Harkdron fought, his queen would be making good her escape. Nulahmia was lost, but she needn’t burn with her city. Dozens of catacombs burrowed through Throne Mount, and one of them eventually opened to a realmgate. Neferata had already told Kemsit to prepare her most precious things. With her handmaidens, she would steal into the catacombs and withdraw before the enemy could complete their conquest.

A boom of thunder caused Neferata to look skyward. Somewhere above the smoke and the ghostly glow of the spirit-beacons, she could see vast stormclouds stretching out across the heavens. There was something uncanny in the manner with which the clouds spilled across the sky, as though they were being poured into the air from some phantasmal chalice. She could see flashes of lightning crackling within the angry clouds.

Then, with a near-deafening crack, great sheets of lightning crackled from the sky, forking downwards into the ravaged streets of Nulahmia.

Chapter Three

Knifing down from the clouds, a blinding tempest of lightning slammed into Nulahmia. Across the despoiled sprawl of the noble quarter, where the manors of the city’s deathless elite sprawled across walled estates and morbid gardens, pillars of elemental fury plummeted earthward. Each thunderbolt sent a tremor rolling over the ground and a booming roar surging through the air. Smoke and steam rose from toppled walls and cracked streets, spiralling upwards to merge with the flashing flames of burning ruins. The marauding hordes of Chaos, those nearest to the storm’s violence, turned away from their depredations, staring in confusion at the sudden havoc.

Figures stalked out from the violence of the stormstrike. Huge shapes clad in ebon armour emerged from the smouldering craters inflicted by the lightning, mighty warriors encased in plate, their faces locked behind the glowering masks of their helms. Upon their breastplates they bore the symbol of the comet; on their shields was an anvil wreathed in lightning.

Shouts of obscene glee rose from the rampaging warriors of Chaos when they saw the black-clad knights. Their lust for atrocity whetted by the carnage they had inflicted upon the people of Nulahmia, the devotees of Slaanesh rejoiced at the prospect of further depravity. Howling their debased ululations, they rushed through the backstreets of the noble quarter, leaping over garden walls to converge upon the enemies who had so suddenly manifested among them. Even the most savage of the Slaaneshi creatures could sense the vitality that burned within the knights, for these were no undead horrors conjured by the Mortarch of Blood, but beings of flesh and substance, victims to torment and defile.

The knights met the first foes with swords and axes that crackled with lightning. A score of marauders were struck down in the blink of an eye, dozens of beastkin killed as they charged out from the wreckage of a mortuary garden, and baying hounds slaughtered as they came loping down alleyways. Unlike the snarling and shrieking of their foes, the knights preserved a grim silence as they brought death to the creatures of Chaos, plying their weapons with a stoic purposefulness that had more in common with the unfeeling undead than the wanton savagery of the barbarians.

Leading the remnants of his tribe, the immense Tokresh-khan rushed at the ebon warriors. The chieftain’s bare flesh was stained with the lives of his victims, strings of gruesome trophies dangling from his neck and arms. The barbarian pounded his chest in savage delight when he saw the ranks of enemies ahead of him. The soft, pampered subjects of Nulahmia had perished much too quickly to make a fitting offering for Slaanesh. These bold enemies would provide much more satisfying fare for the jaded god’s appetites.

Before the Sorroweaters and their hulking chief could assault the line of ebon knights, the sinister warriors opened their ranks. From their midst, a great dragon-like reptile lumbered forwards, steam hissing from its nostrils and sparks snapping about its horns. A knight in armour more resplendent than that of his comrades sat upon the beast’s back, a golden halo of metal radiating from the back of his helm and a long cloak hanging from his shoulders. In his hands, the rider gripped an enormous sword that sizzled with divine power. He raised the runesword and pointed it at Tokresh and his tribe.

‘Slaves of Chaos,’ the rider’s mighty voice rumbled, ‘the Anvils of the Heldenhammer bring you judgement. We give you the same mercy you’ve shown your victims.’

The jaws of the giant lizard-steed gaped wide, and from its maw, a blast of blue lightning immolated a swathe of charging marauders. Cries of agony rose from barbarian throats as their bodies were reduced to charred, blackened husks. A litter of smoking corpses lay strewn across the street, fouling the path of the men following after them. The armoured rider didn’t give the barbarians a chance to recover. He urged the scaly dragon-beast onwards, ploughing into the reeling tribe. Reptilian claws and fangs ripped into the barbarians, slashing armour and rending flesh. The dracoth’s lashing tail shattered bone and sent mangled men hurtling through the air. Upon its back, the rider brought his sword flashing down, cleaving through collarbones and splitting skulls with each blow.

Tokresh shuddered at the ferocity of the assault, but his fear only urged him onwards. The novelty of crossing blades with the ebon rider, the prospect of feeling the crackling bite of his reptilian mount — these would present new sensations, fresh delights to be experienced. For the first time in many years, the almost-forgotten delight of anticipation flowed through the chieftain’s veins.

He waited until the dracoth had set its jaws about the torso of a shrieking tribesman and the rider was plunging his sword into the breast of a fur-clad reaver before he lunged at his foe. Tokresh was stunned by the speed with which the rider reacted and the incredible strength he displayed. When the knight brought his sword whipping around to block Tokresh’s attack, he fairly flung the body of his dying enemy at the chieftain. Tokresh felt the impact throbbing through his bones, could almost hear the ensorcelled steel of his axe split as it met the intercepting blade.

‘Tokresh-khan will feed your soul to Slaanesh,’ he growled at the ebon knight. He brought his axe swinging around for another blow, putting all the strength in his brutish frame into the attack.

The rider met the assault with withering scorn. His crackling sword cleaved through the head of the axe, slashing Tokresh’s face with shards of metal. ‘Your god goes hungry tonight,’ he told the chieftain as he brought the sword’s edge raking across his throat.

Tokresh saw the sky flash above him then watched as the world rose up around him. His last sight was of the ebon rider and his mount. A hulking figure with tattooed and scarred flesh swayed unsteadily beside the reptilian creature. It was only when the headless bulk crashed to the street that he understood the body was his own. The realisation was a last novelty to speed him into the darkness.

The smell of burning flesh and spilled blood filled Lascilion’s senses like the aroma of sweet perfume. Cries of agony fell upon him like music. He could taste the smoke of blazing homes, could feel the warm lick of destruction tingling across his skin. Too long. It had been too long since he had felt these things, since he had surrendered himself to the abandonment of sensuality.

The Lord of Slaanesh finished buckling his breastplate, tightening the straps until he felt the delicious bite of leather digging into his flesh. He took up his plumed helm from where he had tossed it aside on the gore-stained floor, a goat-headed beastman sprawled where it had fallen after refusing to surrender to Lascilion’s urges. He stared for a moment at the tangle of purple entrails that spilled from the dead gor, caught up in the play of hue and shade as firelight flickered across the slimy organs. A moan from the thing that was splayed upon the wall behind him broke the fascination. The warlord glanced back at the creature he had pinned across the tile mosaic with the same knives he had played across its flesh. With all the skin removed, it was difficult to determine sex or age, not that such matters were of consequence to him. Since leaving the Queensroad to satisfy his appetites, Lascilion had claimed many victims. It was tiresome to remember them all.

As he stepped out into the street, Lascilion saw the amusing sight of his steed crushing some shapeless mass of meat and bone in its coils. He wondered if it was one of his own warriors or some luckless Nulahmian who had caught the daemon’s notice. Either way, he was certain their final moments had been deliciously excruciating.

He was less pleased to find Amala crouched upon an overhanging archway. The mutant stretched out one of her talons, displaying for him another one of her flesh-scrolls. Lascilion’s displeasure mounted as he read the winged monstrosity’s report. The black lightning he’d seen earlier had indeed struck the outskirts of the city. Amala had flown to investigate and come back describing an army of plate-clad knights unlike any she had seen before. Whoever the warriors were, they were cutting down the scattered elements of Lascilion’s horde that tried to oppose them.

The warlord cast the scroll into the gutter and glowered at the mutant. If he turned his army around, brought them against these strange foes, then the offensive against the temple district would suffer. It mattered little to him how much of his army these knights killed; what he wouldn’t risk was letting Neferata slip through his grasp. The conquest of Nulahmia would be a pyrrhic victory if the vampire queen escaped.

‘Bring me the Siren!’ Lascilion growled at Amala. The winged mutant had expected the command. Unfolding one of her beetle-like wings, she gestured at his steed and the object wrapped in its coils. On his order, the daemonic mount withdrew from its captive. What had been caught in its sinuous body was no being of flesh and blood, but the lithe body of another daemon, one of Slaanesh’s daemonettes.

Nothing remained of the warrior whose flesh served as the Siren’s vessel. The possession had erased his being entirely. Now there was only the Siren. Cast in the voluptuous semblance of a sensuous maiden, the daemonette’s beauty was marred by the barbed claw that engulfed one of her arms and the nodules of horns that sprouted from her scalp. The fibrous mane of hair that flowed down her bare shoulders was more like the fur of some anemone than anything that should grow from a woman’s head. The face was a maddening admixture of desire and horror, lustrous lips parting to reveal needle-like fangs and dagger-like tongue. In her eyes burned a rapacious hunger even more fierce than that of Lascilion himself. Only the coils of his steed had prevented the Siren from slipping away to glut herself on obscenities.

‘I am the chosen of Slaanesh,’ Lascilion reminded the snarling Siren. He raised his hand to his head, pushing back his hair to display the mark that grew just behind his ear. ‘My will is your command, my word is your law.’ He saw resentment smother hunger in her glare. He had been the one who summoned her and gave her a mantle of flesh to possess in the Mortal Realms. That power over her was a festering bitterness in the Siren’s mind. He was indifferent to the daemon’s anger. Let her hate, so long as she obeyed. He gestured to the gnarled horn hanging from the straps of the leather bodice she wore. ‘Sound your horn,’ he demanded. ‘I have need of my army.’

The Siren raised the grisly instrument to her lips, biting down upon it with her sharp fangs. The note that resounded from the infernal horn was less a sound than a vibration, a call that was heard not with the ear but with the soul. Anything that bore the mark of Slaanesh, anything that had sworn itself to the Prince of Chaos, would feel the call reverberating through them. Some, too debased and primitive to understand, would refuse the summons, content to indulge themselves on petty pleasures.

Most would come. Tribes and herds and covens, they would flock to the summons. Lascilion knew this. The greater their orgy of depravity, the more irresistible the call would become. The havoc they had inflicted on the city was but an appetiser, something to whet their hunger. Greater delights awaited them in the ornate halls of Neferata’s palace, pleasures undreamed and unspoken. Across the burning city, he could hear other horns being blown as more daemonettes hearkened to the call and rallied the ravagers to them. Throughout the city, his forces were converging, becoming once more an army of conquest.

Lascilion snapped his fingers and his serpentine steed lowered itself so that he could step into its saddle. Spurring the daemonic beast onward, the Lord of Slaanesh hastened to rejoin his Amethyst Guard. His course took him across crumbling avenues and corpse-strewn boulevards, the wreckage of a city on the edge of collapse. He fought the temptation to linger over the scenes of atrocity he passed, to study them with artistic appreciation. He had to remember his discipline, had to maintain his focus.

The intoxicating soul-scent of Neferata was more than a trail to follow now. It was his guide, his purpose. To Lascilion, it had the savour of ambrosia, a gift from Slaanesh himself if the warlord could but find the perseverance to claim it.

Lord-Celestant Makvar scowled at the few Sorroweaters who tried to flee back the way they had come. Arrows from the Judicators behind him brought the barbarians down, bolts of lightning stabbing into their backs. There was no pity to be spared for such degenerates. The creatures of Chaos warranted no respect in battle. They were a pestilence, vermin to be crushed underfoot and exterminated with utter dispatch.

Firelight flickered from the dark armour of Makvar’s Stormcasts, the glow of a dying city. The Chaos horde had been thorough in their campaign of havoc and destruction. Somewhere deep within him, he could feel revulsion for the depravity that was on display here. That many of the perpetrators of such outrages wore at least the semblance of humanity only made their crimes more abominable. The Ruinous Powers were aptly named and the greatest ruin they left behind was the blackened souls of those who worshipped them.

Makvar looked across the wanton devastation all around him. Nowhere had been spared the spectacle of violence and horror. Smoke and flame gushed from the windows of slender towers, blackening their marble facades. Mangled bodies bobbed in the alabaster basins of elegant fountains, darkening their waters with the corruption of death. Plunder lay heaped in courtyards, precious jewels glittering among stacks of stolen cutlery and crystal goblets, elegant tapestries sprawled beside bloodied piles of silk robes. The primitive despoilers had even pried wood wainscotting from walls and carved shutters from windows. Two ornate doors, ripped from their fastenings, leaned against a wall as though standing guard over the sandstone statuary collected beside them.

Nulahmia had been a rich city. It pained Makvar to see its splendour blotted out. Across the realms, the hordes of Chaos had already taken so much, destroyed so many things. Now here was yet another outrage to be added to the tally.

The Lord-Celestant let the sense of righteous fury smoulder in his heart. The God-King, Sigmar, had not sent him to the Realm of Death simply to avenge the destruction of Nulahmia. There was a greater purpose to the deployment of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. Makvar had been sent into Shyish to broker a treaty with the Mortarch of Blood, to renew the old alliances that had once seen the armies of death fight alongside Sigmar’s pantheon against their common foe. Saving the city had no place in the God-King’s plan, not when there were far more things of incomparably vast import at stake. Knowing this, accepting it, didn’t lessen Makvar’s disgust at the ravages of the Slaaneshi hordes.

He would use that fury, harness it, draw strength from it. Makvar and his Anvils of the Heldenhammer had descended upon Nulahmia to the rear of the Chaos hordes, where the enemy was dispersed and distracted by their pillaging. The Slaaneshi forces would have no time to converge upon them before the Stormcasts brought the fight to the barbarians.

‘Form ranks!’ Makvar called out, his voice echoing from behind the mask of his helm. ‘Liberators to the fore! Judicators at the centre! Paladins to the rear!’ He tugged the reins of Gojin’s harness, urging the dracoth to one side as the Stormcasts spread out across the road, stretching across it in a solid wall of ebon sigmarite plate. At his signal, the knights began to march deeper into the city. Woe betide whatever stood in their path, be it depraved barbarian, prowling beast or capering daemon.

From the midst of the marching Stormcasts, an officer with a golden halo about his stern helm and a shuttered lantern chained to his belt moved towards where Makvar sat astride his reptilian steed. Lord-Castellant Vogun dipped his halberd in salute to his commander before addressing him. ‘We have suffered no casualties from this skirmish,’ he reported, ‘but I fear we cannot depend on the enemy to throw themselves at us in so piecemeal and reckless a manner. Lord-Relictor Kreimnar is concerned that the stormstrike has put us too far from our objective.’

Makvar shook his head. ‘Sigmar has placed us where we need to be,’ he stated. ‘From this position, we can strike at the enemy where he is weakest and slaughter him before he can bring his greater numbers to bear.’ He pointed between the burning towers and smoking rooftops, indicating the flat-topped Throne Mount and the immense palace spread across it. The ghostly spirit-beacons stabbed their light skyward from behind those walls. ‘Chaos has yet to complete its conquest. The one we seek will be behind those walls. Queen Neferata is too vain to suffer the despoiling of her palace while her forces have strength to defy the enemy. The grace and might of Sigmar has given us passage through the veils of illusion by which Nulahmia was hidden. Now it is left to us to carve a path through the disorder of the enemy and reach the Mortarch’s stronghold.’

Vogun shifted uneasily as he heard Makvar’s speech. ‘Sigmar grant that we do not trade one evil for another,’ he said. He brought the butt of his halberd cracking down against the ground. Embedded in the roadway, frozen in a soundless scream, was a fleshless skull. One of many dispersed between the flagstones. ‘This city was beset by depravity long before Chaos breached the walls.’

‘These lands have been without the light of Sigmar for a long time,’ Makvar said. ‘They have been forced to find other sources of strength.’ He looked skyward once more, at the ghoulish spirit-beacons. ‘Sometimes to fight a monster, you must become a monster.’

The hordes of Chaos were advancing upon the temple district once more. From scattered bands of ravaging sadists, they were regrouping into an army again, an enemy united in malignant purpose. Neferata watched them for a while, saw the fur-clad marauders and armoured Chaos warriors crashing against the legions of skeletal warriors Harkdron now led. The vampire’s defence was tenacious, but he couldn’t do more than hold back the tide. The forces of Chaos knew that victory was within their grasp. All they had to do was smash through the undead to claim it.

The vampire queen watched as a file of grave guard was overwhelmed and the first invaders reached the Pathway of Punishment, the great road that climbed Throne Mount to end at the very gates of her palace. Neferata turned her back on the scene, withdrawing from the balcony into the shadows of her antechamber. Kismet and her other handmaidens were waiting for her, ready to attend their queen. Neferata unclasped the bloodstone broach that held her gown in place. The sable folds collapsed about her feet. A single step and she was free of them and gliding towards her attendants.

‘Quickly,’ Neferata snapped at her handmaidens. It was not modesty that provoked the demand that they redress her at once, but rather a sense of urgency. Neferata stamped her foot with impatience as the vampires slid a silken underdress up her naked body and drew a padded surcoat down her shoulders. Bit by bit, Kismet and the others strapped pieces of ornate armour to her, encasing her lithe frame in ancient plates of wightbone and steel. She could feel the protective enchantments woven into each piece growing, surrounding her in a shell of defensive magic. The golden war-crown of Lahmia dropped about her head, framing her face in the royal splendour of antiquity.

Kismet bowed before the queen, offering with outstretched hands the infamous Dagger of Jet. Countless innocents had perished upon that blade, the purity of their souls swelling the deadly magics bound into the dark dagger. Neferata nodded, raising her arms so that her servant might buckle the weapon belt about her waist. From another handmaiden, she received the potent Staff of Pain, each hieroglyph etched into its ancient haft laced with agonising sorceries and diabolical curses.

Arrayed in the accoutrements of war, Neferata looked down at Kismet. ‘You will remain here and keep things in order,’ she said. Was it disappointment or relief she saw flicker through her handmaiden’s eyes? She couldn’t be certain and it would make no difference. There was no other she could trust to keep the escape route ready for her in the event this gambit failed.

Neferata listened to the screams rising from Nulahmia. There was nothing that could be done to save her city now. It was lost, defiled and despoiled. Whatever the hordes of Chaos didn’t destroy would be too unclean to salvage. The very air would bear the taint of their triumph. No, her city was finished, but that didn’t mean there was nothing to be gained here.

The strange lightning that had slammed down into the outskirts, the weird warriors she had discovered in her scrying stone — these were things that presented opportunity for Neferata. For some time now, her agents in other kingdoms in the realm had brought her stories of storm-knights who opposed the hordes of Chaos wherever they were to be found. From captives and converts of a hundred lands, she had heard tales that these knights had been seen in Shyish, seeking the Mortarchs, trying to reforge the ancient pacts that had once united the Realm of Death and the Realm of Heavens against the corruption of Chaos.

Much might be gained by the one who received these emissaries of Azyr. They would be powerful allies if even part of the stories told about them were true. Neferata smiled to herself as she imagined the advantages she would enjoy. There was no man alive who could resist her charms and no mind clever enough to see through her intrigues. To wrap an alliance with Sigmar around her own ambitions was a prospect too enticing to jeopardise. She always considered the crudity of battle a last resort, but she couldn’t allow this opportunity to slip away.

The storm-knights had found Nulahmia despite all her spells and illusions. Neferata wondered if they might do the same with the other Mortarchs. Though she didn’t know where they had hidden themselves, or even if they yet lived, the knights might. She couldn’t risk another Mortarch spoiling the chance to establish an alliance with these warriors. Worse, she couldn’t allow the likes of Mannfred to exploit the storm-knights before she could.

Neferata stretched forth the Staff of Pain, letting the ancient relic add its own magic to her spell. Thrusting the gilded head of the staff towards the balcony, she drew upon the morbid essence of her palace, channelling it into the conjuration. Necromantic energies crackled and flashed through the archway, condensing into an expanding sphere of darkness.

Gradually, something took shape within that sphere, a fleshless apparition that swelled in size with each crackle of arcane power. Huge blackened ribs, claws as long as swords, massive plates of bronze and gold, an immense eyeless mask — all of these flowed into existence around a clattering core of skulls. Gigantic jaws stretched out from beneath the mask, fangs snapping at the spectral shapes that rippled around the huge, leonine creature. A tail of fused bone stretched out from the beast’s hindquarters until it was a dozen feet and more in length, a wicked barb thrusting out from its tip.

Neferata walked back out onto the balcony as the energies of the summoning dissipated and left a huge, skeletal abomination standing beside the balustrade. The grisly horror was Nagadron the Adevore, a dread abyssal bound into the Mortarch’s service.The Mortarch of Blood mounted the undead beast. At her gesture, Nagadron rose into the air, carried upon the spirits of those who had died to give it shape and substance. Neferata could hear them wailing to her, despairing of their plight. A simple spell deafened her to the ghostly protests. She was in no mood for such distractions now. She had to see these storm-knights for herself, determine to her own satisfaction their strength and capabilities. Only then would she know if she should linger over the bones of Nulahmia or make good her escape through the realmgate.

Behind the vampire queen, the skeletal morghasts flew after her, their phantom wings carrying them through the sky. Loyal beyond the limitations of mere flesh, her bodyguard would follow Neferata into the very Realm of Chaos should she demand it of them. For now, it was enough that they kept close to her. She had no intention of leading the defenders on the Pathway of Punishment or the other undead legions that yet struggled to protect the temple district. That task was Harkdron’s, and the fool was welcome to it.

No, Neferata was after much bigger things.

Mouldering armour and bleached bone crashed to the ground as Lascilion brought his glaive shearing through the advancing rank of skeletons. Around him, the warriors of his Amethyst Guard shattered limbs and smashed skulls with each swing of their axes and thrust of their swords. The fighters who followed behind those in front were careful to visit further destruction upon the bones of the fallen, smashing and scattering the vanquished foes. Too often during their slow slog up the Pathway of Punishment, some deathmage or vampire had infused the vanquished skeletons with a new store of unnatural vitality. Many marauders, and even a few of his Amethyst Guard, had been killed by such treacherous sorcery. It was the delay such tactics caused rather than the casualties inflicted that wore on the warlord’s temper.

Since spurring his steed onto the Pathway of Punishment, Lascilion’s obsession with conquering Neferata had swollen beyond measure. Everywhere he turned, he was confronted by the gruesome evidence of the Mortarch’s depravity. He felt humbled to behold such a blend of savagery and artistry. It was an effort to compose himself as he gazed upon the sadistic displays. Rows of iron spikes lined the road, a severed head gracing each stake. Gibbets cast their morbid shadows across the way, withered bodies contorted inside each cage, mummified faces stretched in expressions of incredible misery. At each turn of the switchback avenue, torture wheels waited to greet the invaders, the corpses strapped to each instrument betraying almost unimaginable brutality in their broken bones. Pillories with shards of glass lining each opening were interspersed along each approach, rusty stains flowing down their sides in mute testament to the fate of their prisoners when endurance at last deserted them.

Had the cavalcade of horrors been merely an ornament of past tyranny, Lascilion would have been impressed. Instead he was fascinated, captivated by the outrages of the vampire queen. Neferata had employed her dark arts to instil in the exposed corpses of her victims a heinous echo of life, compelling them to languish in their death agonies. Bodiless heads moaned from atop their spikes, withered skeletons begged for food from behind the bars of gibbets, bloodless corpses struggled in the grip of glass-edged stocks, vainly trying to keep their slashed veins away from the wicked shards.

Yes, Neferata was indeed a fellow artist, a connoisseur of agony. It was small wonder that her soul-scent had called to Lascilion, had allowed him to pierce the arcane veils that hid her city. Never had he experienced a mind so in harmony with his own. Once she was subjugated, once she was exposed to the glories of Slaanesh, she would be a fitting consort for him. Together they would rebuild the wonders and obscenities of the lost god.

Lascilion stabbed his spurs into the sides of his daemonic steed, forcing the creature to raise its sinuous body upwards. His forked tongue flickered in irritation at the seemingly endless ranks of fleshless warriors who filled the road before him. Beyond them, he could see the vampire general from the Jackal Gate using his magic to invigorate the undead legion. The vampire had secured the decayed carcass of a dragon to act as his mount, scaly strips of rotten meat dripping from its yellowed bones. Knowing that such a monster was ahead of them might have blunted the zeal of his warriors as they fought their way up the path, so Lascilion was careful to keep the presence of the dragon to himself. When the time came, he would employ his sorcerers and daemons to overcome the beast.

The roar of conflict from far below drew Lascilion’s attention away from the skeletal defenders ahead of him. Peering down the slopes of the Throne Mount, he could see the despoiled streets of the city below. Clutches of beasts and barbarians yet ravaged the outlying districts, and at first he thought it was infighting among these warbands that he had heard. He was swiftly disabused of such misconceptions.

Marching out from the burning city was a phalanx of armoured warriors unlike anything Lascilion had seen before. From head to toe, they were arrayed in ebon plates and the mighty hammers they bore crackled with dark flashes of lightning. These were the foes Amala had spotted, the enemies she had warned the warlord about. Now, as he watched them stalk towards the temple district, Lascilion appreciated the reason the mutant had been so alarmed. The rearguard he had left at the base of the mountain wasn’t half as strong as it needed to be. These lightning-men would plough through the tribes and herds at the rear in short order unless he reinforced them swiftly.

Lascilion glanced up in the direction of the Mortarch’s palace. He resented anything that would delay his conquest, felt the tugging of depression at his heart as he contemplated the frustration of his desires. There was no other choice to be made. He had to deal with the threat posed by these lightning-men, had to annihilate their menace before his army was trapped between two enemy forces.

‘Mendeziron!’ the warlord shouted, thrusting his glaive at the ranks of lightning-men advancing towards the mountain. He wasn’t certain where the great daemon was, what diversion he had found to amuse himself in the defiled city. Wherever he was, the Keeper of Secrets would hear his command. He would hear, and obey.

Lascilion hoped Neferata was watching. When Mendeziron was roused, there was no limit to his cruelty. The daemon might even teach her a thing or two about torment.

Chapter Four

Howling reavers crumpled before the onslaught of the advancing Stormcasts. Marching in formation, shields foremost, the Anvils of the Heldenhammer were like a moving wall of sigmarite as they marched through the temple district and towards the slopes of the Throne Mount. Such enemies as refused to give ground before the black-armoured knights were smashed by the crackling heads of mighty warhammers or chopped down by flashing swords. The Judicators following behind the protection of the shield-bearing Liberators raised their bows and sent volleys of lightning searing down into their brutish foemen.

Yard by yard, Lord-Celestant Makvar could see their objective drawing nearer. At the same time, he watched the Chaos forces upon the Pathway of Punishment with dismay. As rapidly as the Stormcasts were gaining ground, the vanguard of the Slaaneshi horde was cutting their own route through the undead.

‘We must draw their attention from the summit,’ Makvar declared, addressing his words to Lord-Relictor Kreimnar. Among the grim Anvils of the Heldenhammer, Kreimnar presented a sinister figure. His skull-shaped helm and the macabre ornamentation of his ancient hammer were trappings that wouldn’t have looked out of place adorning a wight king or Soulblight vampire. Kreimnar had a greater affinity for spirits and sorcery than any of his comrades, often experiencing eerie premonitions and uncanny twists of fortune.

The Lord-Relictor looked up towards the pinnacle of Throne Mount and the ghostly spirit-beacons blazing into the sky. ‘Neferata calls for help. Even if no other purpose drives them onward, the enemy will want to smother those fires before anyone hearkens to that call.’

‘Then we will offer them a menace greater than the one they fear lies ahead of them,’ Makvar said. He urged Gojin forwards, the files of Stormcasts parting as the dracoth lumbered out from behind their ranks. Kreimnar fell into position beside him, guarding his flank. Makvar only advanced a few yards before he directed his steed to attack. A stream of blue lightning erupted from Gojin’s maw, blasting into the Slaaneshi forces clustered at the base of the hill. A dozen of the enemy were reduced to smouldering husks in a heartbeat; others ran screaming through their own forces, their hair and rags set alight by the dracoth’s attack.

Kreimnar raised his relic-weapon to the sky, invoking the divine fury of the God-King. From the angry heavens, a shower of lightning bolts came crashing earthward, slamming into the barbarians with devastating force. Charred bodies were sent flying through the air, crashing through the roofs of abandoned temples and shrines. Smoking craters pitted the street, shreds of armour and bone the only reminder of those caught in the elemental barrage.

Makvar urged his steed onwards, sending another blast of lightning streaking above the rearguard to crackle into the armoured file of Chaos warriors climbing the path behind them. Only a handful of the Slaaneshi warriors were killed by Gojin’s assault, but it was enough to surprise them and make them forget their ascent while they sought cover among the nearby buildings. To ensure the Chaos warriors would stay where they were, the Judicators sent a volley of arrows crackling down into the rooftops.

‘Advance!’ Makvar called out to his knights. The clatter of sigmarite armour became a dull rumble as the Stormcasts moved on the hill, surging towards it like a black tide of retribution. Those marauders and beastmen that had escaped the assault of Makvar’s dracoth and Kreimnar’s spells were now confronted by unyielding ranks of ebon knights. Retinues of Paladins emerged from gaps in the Liberators’ shield wall, charging into the confused mobs of barbarians with gigantic mauls and enormous axes. What followed was more massacre than melee, but after the carnage they had seen in the streets of Nulahmia, there were none among the Anvils inclined to offer the Slaaneshi honourable combat.

Inhuman shrieks and roars rattled down from the winding path above the Stormcasts. Makvar looked up to see a clutch of goat-headed monsters struggling to send a stone sepulchre from some hillside tomb crashing down upon the heads of the knights below. Judicators sent a flight of searing arrows up into the monsters, the lightning lancing through the fur and flesh of the beastmen. For each brutish corpse that went sliding down the slope, another half-human savage rushed out to take the place of the fallen. Just as it looked like the gors would send the sepulchre crashing downwards, a strike of celestial fire pelted them from above. The heavy slab of marble exploded as the elemental force slammed into it, slivers of stone ripping through those beastmen not slain outright by the blast.

By calling down the power of Sigmar’s wrath, Kreimnar destroyed one threat to the Stormcasts, but in doing so, he left opportunity for another. The barrage of lightning he’d invoked against the path ahead had been diverted against the beastmen, and mounted warriors were swift to exploit the respite. Huge knights on hideously mutated steeds came galloping out from the first bend of the switchback, levelling barbed lances and hooked spears as they charged downwards. Behind them, leaping and lunging with alluring abandon, was a pack of claw-armed daemonettes.

The sight of such merciless foes charging towards them would have strained the resolve of even the bravest mortal warrior. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer were more than mortal, however. They had transcended many of the limitations of mere flesh, their valour magnified to superhuman degree by their Reforging within the armouries of Sigmaron. Instead of dread, the Stormcasts felt a rush of expectancy, even eagerness to come to grips with their obscene enemies.

Makvar smiled behind the stern visage that fronted his helm. His ploy had worked. The Chaos commander had taken notice of the Stormcasts’ advance. The enemy was now sending some of his stronger warriors to assault the Anvils. When they vanquished the Chaos knights and daemonettes, the warlord would have to send more of his forces back down the hill — perhaps even some of those he was using to push his way to the summit. Every fighter the Stormcasts could lure down was one less blade trying to pierce Neferata’s defences.

Foot by foot, foe by foe, Makvar would cut his way up the Throne Mount.

Lascilion lifted the skeleton impaled upon his glaive high into the air. The undead myrmidon continued to slash at him, refusing to return to the grave its masters had called it from. The warlord leaned away from the struggling skeleton, keeping out of the reach of its sword. With a savage shake of his glaive, he dislodged the bony body and sent it hurtling down the hillside. He watched it for a moment, seeing different bones fracture and shatter as the creature tumbled down the slope. By the time it reached the Slaaneshi warriors on the path below, the skeleton had lost both its arms and one of its legs. The boot of a barbarian jarl crushed the snapping skull and extinguished the stubborn spark of animation that lingered in the dismembered husk.

The warlord’s steed slithered back, allowing some of the Amethyst Guard to move forwards and engage the fleshless defenders. Ancient spears scraped against their baroque armour in a futile effort to bring down the elite warriors. The blows from the jewelled axes and gilded swords of Lascilion’s bodyguard were far more telling, shearing through both iron mail and the bony limbs within.

Lascilion drew his mount upwards, unfolding its coils so that he might observe the battle raging both ahead and below. Before him, the undead maintained their stubborn defence, their numbers seemingly as vast as they had been at the start of the fighting. A few arrows flew at the warlord from archers deep behind the front ranks, taking advantage of his momentary exposure. The missiles glanced from his enchanted armour, and those that stabbed into his daemonic steed merely caused the beast annoyance, its unnatural flesh excreting them in a slime of ichor.

It wasn’t the archers that concerned Lascilion, nor the deathly magic of the necromancers who guided the skeletons. His worry was the vampire commander and the zombie dragon. So far, the pair had taken no direct role in the fighting. That worried Lascilion. He had fought vampires before, and though they could be as duplicitous and cunning as a Tzeentchian sorcerer, they weren’t known for timidity. The undead general was waiting for something. Try as he might, Lascilion couldn’t figure out what strategy his enemy had in mind.

Looking below, towards the foot of the hill, Lascilion could see the sable ranks of the lightning-men steadily gaining ground. He had sent a good portion of his reserves down the pathway to hold the knights back, yet the infusion of fresh troops hadn’t stopped their advance, merely slowed it. He felt a sense of both fascination and disgust at the formidable magic the dark warriors deployed against his horde — sheets of eldritch lightning drawn down from the heavens that blasted smouldering craters into the hillside and left even the stoutest formations shaken and mauled in their wake. The leader of these knights, himself mounted upon some manner of dragon-beast, wasn’t as shy of battle as the vampire general. He pressed the attack at every turn, bolts of lightning blasting out from his steed’s maw to cut through the Slaaneshi ranks, his own gleaming sword flaring out to claim any opponent bold enough to stand against him.

The Lord of Slaanesh grimaced, his forked tongue flickering in irritation. There was only one thing that could stop the advance of the lightning-men — an attack at their rear, something to put them on the defensive. Where was Mendeziron? Had the Keeper of Secrets become so lost in his perversity that he was defying even the Crying Tower’s profane Cup of Sorrows? Had the dominion of the lost god become so fractured that even his daemons no longer trembled before his authority?

A shrill horn blast sounded from among the lightning-men. The note was of such strange and pristine nature that Lascilion could feel it sting his ears. His daemon steed hissed its own irritation, offended by the noise. He clapped his hand against its wormy neck, trying to soothe its displeasure. The warlord had already forgotten his own discomfort. From his vantage, he could see why the lightning-men had sounded their horn. It was a call of alarm.

Lumbering out from among the burning buildings and ransacked palaces was the enormous figure of Mendeziron. The streets around the greater daemon teemed with his smaller kin, the infernal scavengers that had followed him through the Jackal Gate. A swarm of clawed fiends scuttled towards the base of the hill, long tongues flashing from their crustacean maws. Packs of daemonettes pranced through the rubble of fallen temples, their squeals of delight and depravity rising even to the Pathway of Punishment. Behind them all, the gigantic Keeper of Secrets himself marched forwards. Lascilion could feel the daemon’s eyes staring up at him, peering into his very soul.

Mendeziron is no mortal’s lapdog. Lascilion could feel the daemon’s words shiver through his mind. By pact and by promise do I suffer the summons of flesh. But though you live a hundred lifetimes, know the humility of flesh. Know that when death takes Lascilion, his spirit belongs to Mendeziron.

The daemon’s threat reverberated through Lascilion. For just an instant, he felt a tremor of doubt. Angrily he crushed the fear. He was a Lord of Slaanesh, marked and favoured by his god. He had been granted dominion over Mendeziron and his ilk. Even if such power one day was withdrawn, for now it was his. And he would use it.

‘Obey,’ Lascilion snarled. The sound of his command wouldn’t reach Mendeziron, but the daemon heard it just the same. Throwing back his horned head, the daemon vented a shivering roar and charged towards the hill, heedless of the lesser daemons he crushed beneath his hooves. The lightning-men had fared well enough against Chaos warriors and marauders, but an enraged Keeper of Secrets would be a far different foe. Doom was upon the ebon knights.

The sound of great pinions fanning the air drew Lascilion’s eyes back towards the slope above. A foul, rancid stink washed over him as he saw the zombie dragon take wing. The rotten corpse sprang from the roof of the mausoleum upon which it had been perched and circled above the massed legion of skeletons packed onto the pathway. The warlord called out to his sorcerers and warlocks. It was against this menace that he had held them in readiness, conserving their magic to protect his vanguard from the dragon’s breath.

The threatened attack never manifested. Instead of striking at Lascilion’s warriors, the dragon peeled away, diving down the far side of the hill. The warlord could see it soaring towards the ruined temple district. At first, he thought the vampire general was moving to intercept Mendeziron, for it was clear that the greater daemon’s arrival upon the battlefield was what he had been waiting for. But the dragon made no move towards the daemon or to prevent the assault against the lightning-men. Instead, it wheeled around the base of the hill and towards one of the defiled temples. Lascilion saw the rotting beast land amid the rubble. The vampire on its back stood in the saddle, gesturing at the Throne Mount.

Lascilion could almost see the necrotic magic suffusing the vampire lord as he invoked the dark powers. The hordes of Chaos had imagined their foe to be trapped on the Throne Mount. Now the Lord of Slaanesh wondered who had trapped whom.

Rusted gates and hidden doors creaked open in answer to the vampire’s call. Timeless catacombs and secret crypts gaped wide as necromantic spells called out to the entombed. From yawning tunnels all across the hill, mouldy legions of the undead emerged. A host of bone warriors and deadwalkers, the carcasses from untold generations, shambled out into the streets. By the hundreds, by the thousands, the armies of the dead surrounded the hill, moving with the uncanny precision of the unliving.

Once the undead encirclement was complete, the vampire lord drew his sword, crimson fire glowing deep within its blackened steel. His voice snarled across the smoking rubble as he ordered the ghastly host to the attack.

‘Kill!’ the vampire commanded. ‘Kill! Kill! Kill them all!’

The purifying light of Lord-Castellant Vogun’s warding lantern brought blessed oblivion to the grisly trophies that lined the Pathway of Punishment. Bodiless heads shrivelled under the purging glow of the lantern, caged skeletons crumbled into ash. From each corpse, a mote of luminance rose, flickering away almost in a heartbeat. None of the Stormcasts could say to what fate the released spirits were bound, but it could be no worse than their tortuous imprisonment upon the hillside.

Lord-Celestant Makvar detached a retinue of Decimators to guard Vogun as he brought mercy to the long-suffering spirits. As the Anvils moved up the Pathway, the opposition was growing steadily more fierce — too fierce for Vogun’s gryph-hound to protect its master. The warding lantern’s light was anathema to all creatures of darkness, repulsing daemons and rousing the ire of corrupted mortals. Packs of mutant hounds and clutches of beastmen tried to quench the offending light, rushing at Vogun from the shadows of blasted shrines and shattered ossuaries. Once, a troop of Chaos knights drove past the Liberators in an effort to reach the Lord-Castellant, heedless of the peril they invited by turning their backs on the Stormcasts. The silver-armoured leader of the knights had actually managed to strike Vogun with his lance, but had been cut from the saddle by a sweep of the officer’s sigmarite halberd in return. The Lord-Castellant’s personal crusade faltered for a few moments as he turned the healing magics of his lantern upon himself to mend the wound he had been dealt.

It was more than mercy that made Makvar agree to Vogun’s entreaty to bring peace to the cursed dead. The Stormcasts were filled with an even firmer resolve when they saw the relief Vogun bestowed. The palace atop Throne Mount was still far above them, but these damned souls were all along the road. Every yard, every step they gained brought with it an immediate and visible victory. It now became something of a personal affront to the Anvils, the persistent defiance of their Chaos foes. They had become more than just a hated enemy. They had become an obstacle between the Stormcasts and those they would help. Never did the Anvils of the Heldenhammer fight with more ferocity than when they felt the helpless crying out to them.

Makvar brought his sword shearing through the shoulder of an armoured beastman, its perfumed blood splattering across Gojin’s scales. A kick of his boot knocked the dying foe free and the carcass tumbled down the slope until it became caught in one of the gibbets.

It was a hard thing, to reconcile himself to the cruelty Neferata displayed across the Pathway of Punishment. Still, Makvar could only imagine the necessities that had demanded such extremes. With the whole of Shyish consumed by Chaos, the call of the Dark Gods would have reached even to the sanctuary of Nulahmia. To keep her own people from surrendering to Chaos, to drive the corruption from her city, the Mortarch had to present them with a threat even greater than the horrors of the Ruinous Powers. Only terror of their queen had kept Nulahmia from rotting from the inside. Without the light of Sigmar to guide them, any land could be driven to tyranny in its desperation to survive.

The strident blare of Knight-Heraldor Brannok’s battle-horn drew Makvar’s attention away from Vogun and his cleansing of the Pathway. The call Brannok sounded was one of not only divine wrath but of alert and alarm. Positioned with the Stormcasts’ rearguard, the clarion report could indicate only one thing. Enemies were moving upon the Anvils’ backs. Not the deranged stragglers that had harassed them throughout their march across Nulahmia, but a force large and powerful enough to pose a real threat to them.

‘Vogun, hold the advance here!’ Makvar called out to the Lord-Castellant. Until he knew what manner of threat had come stealing out of the conquered city, it would be imprudent to ascend further up the hill. By the same token, Makvar refused to surrender an inch of ground his warriors had fought to wrest from the foe. It was his conviction that no patch of earth was worth bleeding on twice.

Vogun saluted the Lord-Celestant as Makvar rode his dracoth back through the ranks of Liberators and Judicators. ‘Kreimnar, with me,’ he called out to the Lord-Relictor as he began a hurried descent. As a precaution, he also drew two retinues of Paladins from the flanks. On the Pathway, their thunderaxes and lightning hammers were seeing only sporadic use, striking down the odd Chaos warrior hiding among the funerary shrines. Below, there might be more immediate need for their weapons.

The rush back along the Pathway soon revealed to Makvar what had alarmed Brannok enough to sound his destructive battle-horn. Packs of daemons were slinking out of the ruins. Not by the ones and twos, but by the score. Obscene fiends of Slaanesh scuttled across the skull-strewn roads on chitinous legs, clouds of musk oozing from their slimy bodies. Demure daemonettes danced through the rubble, their laughter at once enticing and murderous.

Brannok winded his battle-horn once more, unleashing a violent thunderblast that roared through the daemons. An ancient temple toppled into the street, its foundations shattered by the pulverising clamour. Tons of rubble smashed down upon the daemons, bursting them in foul sprays of ichor. Yet still more of the abominations rushed towards the Anvils.

Makvar felt the presence of the Keeper of Secrets long before he saw the daemon’s bulk striding through the streets. It was an oily, repulsive sensation that seemed to seep through his armour, a sickly sweet stench that reached inside him and tried to defile his soul. Images of corruption and abandon struggled to plant themselves in his mind, fumbling to pierce the bulwarks of faith and devotion that fortified every Stormcast against the lures and lies of Chaos.

A snarl of frustration rattled above the ruins of Nulahmia. Stalking out of the smoke of a blazing temple, the Keeper of Secrets glowered up at Throne Mount with eyes of ice and fire. The daemon was colossal, four times the height of a Stormcast. Its body was cast in a rude semblance of human shape, with two sets of arms erupting from the shoulders. One pair rippled with muscle and ended in hands that sported vicious claws; the others were gigantic chitinous claws that glistened like pitch. The daemon’s pillar-like legs ended in a pair of stomping hooves, while its head was crowned with vast horns that curled away from a broad skull, both features suggestive of some bovine nature. Across its forehead were a series of welts not unlike those left by the kiss of a whip. The marks formed a symbol perverse and obscene, a rune that violated the eye of any that gazed upon it — the mark of Slaanesh himself.

Mendeziron. Makvar felt the name thrust itself upon him. A sneer stretched across the enormous daemon’s monstrous face, exposing the gigantic fangs lining his leech-like maw.

Kreimnar raised his relic-weapon, drawing down once more the celestial fury of the God-King. Lightning crackled all around Mendeziron, searing into the horror’s loathsome body. Flesh bubbled and bone melted in the divine wrath pronounced by the Lord-Relictor, but it wasn’t enough to overwhelm the daemon. Saturated in the essences of the victims he had claimed in the sack of Nulahmia, the Keeper of Secrets channelled his own magic, drawing on the perverse energies of his god. Destroyed bones re-formed and scorched flesh regrew. In just the time it took the Stormcasts to cover a few dozen yards, the huge daemon was whole and restored.

Brannok and the rearguard were under attack when Makvar reached them, beset on all sides by the smaller daemons of Mendeziron’s circle. The thick, reeking musk of the scuttling fiends saturated the air, a fug that crawled down inside the Stormcasts’ armour. Few were the mortal men who could withstand the allure of that reek, but those reforged upon the Anvil of Apotheosis carried within them the celestial fires of Azyr. The soporific musk that could drown a man’s mind found small purchase in the fastness of a Stormcast’s resolve. The daemonic foulness could discomfit the ebon knights, but it couldn’t debilitate them.

Not so the pincers and fangs of the hideous fiends. Two Liberators at the furthest end of the line were pulled down by the strange daemons. The arm of one was snipped from his shoulder by a crab-like claw, sigmarite plate and reforged flesh sheared clean through by the daemonic grip. The other was knocked off his feet by the whipping tail of his attacker. Before he could recover, or one of his comrades could render aid, the fiend was atop him. From the thing’s fluted proboscis, a razor-tipped tongue shot out and pierced the Liberator’s throat. Glowing streams of light erupted from each of the fallen Stormcasts, their vibrancy and purity at odds with the spectral flares that haunted Nulahmia. Swiftly, the soul-energies streaked into the stormy sky, drawn back into the God-King’s keeping.

The daemonettes followed close upon the scurrying fiends. Some of the feminine abominations wielded barbed swords and cruel whips; others were content to use the monstrous claws that grew from their pallid arms. Moving with a supple grace and lethal agility, they darted between the hammers and swords of the Liberators, lashing out with diabolic viciousness to break through the formation.

The agility and ferocity of the daemons was unlike anything Makvar had seen before. A daemon was no easy foe to overcome, even for a Stormcast Eternal, but these seemed endowed with a malignancy beyond what was to be expected of their kind. Whether it was the innocent souls upon which the horrors had so recently glutted themselves or if it was the malign influence of Mendeziron himself, he didn’t know. All he could be certain of was that the situation was dire. Even with himself and the Paladins to reinforce them, Brannok’s line might not hold.

A blast of lightning from Gojin’s maw immolated a clutch of daemonettes, bursting their voluptuous bodies in a spray of purple ichor and sweet-smelling smoke. Makvar rode to the line’s left flank, where the enemy was making the greatest effort to force a way through. His sword decapitated a slavering fiend, pitching its twitching body into the monstrosities behind it. Pressing his attack, he brought his dracoth’s clawed forelegs slamming down on the reeling daemons, stomping them beneath the reptile’s immense weight and sigmarite barding.

Mendeziron’s roar boomed across the rubble. Perhaps tiring of watching his lesser kindred battle, perhaps despairing of their ability to breach the line now that Makvar had reinforced it, the Keeper of Secrets prowled towards the Stormcasts.

As the greater daemon advanced, Makvar saw something soar through the sky above. The rotten husk of a dragon flew towards the base of the hill. Upon its back, an armoured vampire howled his defiance of Chaos and called on the ghostly might of Shyish.

At once, Makvar could feel the change that surged through the air, a numbing chill like the cold finger of death itself. All around the base of the Throne Mount, rusted portcullises were raised, revealing black passageways into the necropolis beneath Nulahmia. From that underworld, decayed legions marched. Skeletal warriors in corroded mail, desiccated corpses with withered flesh stretched taut over ancient bones. Armed with bronze falchions and iron spears, bearing adzes and khopeshes, the undead legion crept out from their timeless crypts. Dead eyes and empty sockets gaped at the daemonic onslaught. Then, without uttering either cry or challenge, the deadwalkers and bone warriors fell upon the Slaaneshi abominations.

Daemonettes were dragged down by gangs of skeletons, hacked to ribbons by the merciless action of rusted swords and axes. Fiends were pierced through by spears, impaled by cadaverous enemies immune to the numbing musk oozing from their pores. A veritable flood of deadwalkers besieged Mendeziron, cutting into the daemon’s hide with tomb-blades, clawing at him with rotten talons, worrying at his skin with decayed fangs. Like angry ants, the undead engulfed Mendeziron, defiant of his efforts to annihilate them. By the dozens, the undead lay smashed at the daemon’s hooves, yet still they came, relentless as an ocean tide.

A pulse of purplish light rippled through Mendeziron, a discharge of eldritch energies that burst apart the deadwalkers scrabbling at his body. Rotten flesh and mouldering bone exploded into greasy tatters and splashed across the streets. The daemon’s claws lashed out, skewering dozens of the undead. Arcane fire leapt from his eyes to sear the decayed warriors climbing up from the catacombs.

Makvar gripped Brannok’s shoulder, directing the Knight-Heraldor’s attention to the soaring temple across from the rampaging daemon. ‘Do you think you can bury that monster?’

Brannok nodded and raised his battle-horn to his mouth. The thunderous blare that issued forth from the instrument smashed into the old temple, blasting apart its tiled facade and spiral pillars. Mendeziron reeled, shaking his head as the sacred note assaulted his hyper-acute senses. His disorientation was already passing when he turned his glowering gaze upon Brannok. Mendeziron’s fang-filled grin promised that he would give the Stormcast no chance to sound another note.

The Knight-Heraldor had no need to. Weakened by the magical blast of the battle-horn, the temple spilled down into the street. Bat-winged gargoyles and skull-capped minarets hurtled down upon Mendeziron. The Keeper of Secrets raised his arms in an attempt to catch the descending avalanche of stone, but he had exerted too much of his energies against the deadwalkers and the openings of the catacombs. The cascade of rubble smashed into the daemon, entombing him beneath a mound of broken stone and a cloud of grey dust.

Whatever sense of relief Makvar felt at seeing the Keeper of Secrets buried was soon vanquished. A pack of bone warriors, after slaughtering a daemonic fiend, set upon a Retributor who had been fighting it. The Stormcast was savaged by the undead assault, pulled down to the ground to suffer the same fate as the vanquished daemon. A Liberator had his shield ripped away by the hooked axe of a deadwalker, before being impaled upon the spear of a skeletal champion. Pulled from the line of defenders, he was soon overwhelmed by the host of undead trudging up from the underworld.

‘Can they not see we are allies?’ Brannok cursed.

‘They make no distinction between Stormcast and Slaaneshi’, Kreimnar agreed, bringing his relic-hammer smashing down upon the head of a decayed adversary, crushing its rotten skull.

‘Form a shield wall!’ Makvar called out. ‘Close formation! Don’t let them bring their numbers to bear!’ Warrior for warrior, the Stormcasts were far superior to the undead soldiers. But for every knight under his command, Makvar could see ten, maybe twenty of the undead, with more crawling from their tombs every instant.

‘It would appear that Neferata isn’t interested in parleying with us,’ Kreimnar said.

Gojin whipped his powerful tail around, swatting a daemonette into the air and pulverising half a dozen zombies. Almost at once, a new rank of undead lurched forwards to take their place. ‘We don’t know that our offer has been rejected,’ Makvar said. His sword lifted a bone warrior from the ground and sent its wreckage crashing down on the heads of those behind it. ‘It may be she is unaware of who we are and why we’ve come here. There is no mind within these creatures. They do not differentiate between us and the invaders because no one has told them to.’

The rearguard began to fall back onto the Pathway, wary of being completely surrounded by the undead and the remaining daemons. The narrower constraints of the hillside would make it easier to guard against such strategy. Brannok kicked the severed torso of a deadwalker down the path, almost instantly finding another foe lurching towards him. ‘They had best decide we aren’t enemies soon,’ the Knight-Heraldor said. ‘This fighting will only benefit the Chaos vermin.’

Makvar looked up at the heights above. The delay here would impede the Anvils and prevent them from pressing the attack, perhaps giving the forces of Chaos the time they needed to gain the palace-temple and seize Neferata.

‘We need to make them aware of our mission,’ Kreimnar declared.

Brannok pointed at the zombie dragon and the vampire on its back. ‘He would be the one to talk to, only it doesn’t seem he’s interested.’

Makvar disagreed. Every moment more of the undead were converging upon the shield wall. A dominating will was directing the mindless corpses, an intelligence malignant and powerful. The vampire was deliberately setting his legions against the Stormcasts, aware that the Anvils were enemies of the Slaaneshi hordes. The question was, did he act on his own, or was he following orders from his queen?

If it was the latter, Makvar’s mission had already failed.

Chapter Five

As Nagadron flew through the smoky skies above the Throne Mount, Neferata was struck by the vicious tenacity of her foe. The reserves Harkdron had summoned from the necropolis beneath the temple district had surrounded the hordes of Chaos. Skeletons encrusted with centuries of calcification, deadwalkers with their rotten flesh lost beneath layers of mould and muck; these climbed up from the depths, bursting from concealed flues and chutes to spring upon the enemy from every quarter. Daemonettes darted among the animated corpses, snipping off limbs and heads with each sweep of their terrible claws. Silent files of grave guard stabbed at gaudily adorned barbarians with spears of bronze. Barbarian chariots thundered down the path to crush the ungainly bone warriors, smashing them to splinters beneath iron wheels and the pulverising hooves of foul daemonic steeds. Lurching mobs of zombies hacked branded beastmen into gory litter. Sorcerers in pastel robes and crystalline cloaks shattered scores of the undead with their obscene spells. Wight kings butchered armoured Chaos knights with their ensorcelled tomb blades.

Neferata could see that her forces atop the hill were without a commander. The vampires and deathmages had been exterminated by the enemy, leaving the lesser undead to maintain a stubborn but uninspired defence. Like a clockwork machine winding down, the skeletons guarding her palace were losing their momentum.

Angrily, the vampire queen peered through the smoke, searching for Lord Harkdron. At first, she thought her consort had been destroyed, though what she found instead was even more infuriating. Her general had flown down to the base of the hill to summon the catacomb-legions, but instead of focusing them upon the hordes of Chaos, he had set them against the storm-knights as well! She could see her consort on his dragon in the wreckage of the temple district, exerting his magic to push his attack upon the ebon-armoured warriors.

Neferata’s first impulse was to speed her abyssal steed down to Harkdron, to issue the vampire new commands. Even he had to see the absurdity of attacking the storm-knights when they shared a mutual foe. A cold fury running through her, she glared down at the general. He would pay for his poor judgement.

Focussed upon Harkdron, Neferata let her concentration falter for just an instant. The warding spells that shielded her from the Slaaneshi sorcerers below suffered from the momentary loss of focus. Beams of corrosive energy shot up towards her, searing into the flanks of her abyssal steed and causing several of the skulls trapped within its skeletal frame to crumble into powder. Her morghast bodyguards flew forwards, flinging themselves between their queen and the magic being turned against her. A pair of the winged skeletons burst apart into shimmering fragments as the arcane rays slammed into them. Neferata commanded the others to loose arrows from their bows into the enemy warlocks, and then quickly urged her injured mount earthward.

Driven from the skies, the vampire queen landed amidst her fleshless legions. She fumed at the indignity, frustrated that she would be incapable of reaching Harkdron to call off his attack upon the storm-knights. Every spirit and minion bound to her service was already committed to the fighting, leaving none to carry a message to either Harkdron or the storm-knights. All she could do was command those undead within her reach to refrain from combat with them and fix their efforts strictly against the hordes of Chaos. She could only hope the storm-knights would notice her efforts and understand that not all within Nulahmia were hostile towards them.

Drawing upon her magic, Neferata sent a surge of necromantic force rushing from the Staff of Pain. The pulse of dark energy saturated the broken bones and mangled husks of those that had fallen in battle upon the upper reaches of the Pathway. Only the most grievously damaged among the invaders’ dead didn’t respond to her conjuration. Hundreds of the slain enemy lurched back onto their feet and hooves to assault those who had once been their comrades, while the carcasses of the vanquished undead drew themselves back into a ghastly animation, all but the most brutally damaged rallying to the call of their queen.

Neferata scowled at the results of her magic. It wasn’t enough. The forces she had at her command wouldn’t be able to hold the hill. Not on their own. She glanced up at the palace-temple behind her, picturing the maze of tunnels that would bring her to the realmgate. Yes, there was escape for her there, but nothing more.

Looking below, she could see the storm-knights relentlessly forcing their way through Harkdron’s legions and the Chaos host alike. Never had Neferata seen such warriors! They were engines of destruction, elemental wrath unleashed. Nothing stood against them, not wight nor daemon. To reach an accord with these warriors, to harness their power to her own ends — that was a purpose worth tempting the caprices of battle. But as she watched the enemies closing around the ebon knights, she wondered if even they could prevail against so many.

If they fell, Neferata would hurry back to her palace. But if they could succeed… what power might then be at her service!

‘Close ranks!’ Lord-Celestant Makvar called out to his warriors. The Anvils had suffered only a few casualties in the fighting against both the daemons and the undead. Makvar wanted to ensure that they could keep it that way. The Liberators brought their shields in close, forming an unbroken wall of sigmarite at every side of the wedge-like formation they had adopted. In the middle of the wedge, Judicators raised their bows and sent lightning snaking down into the masses of enemies all around them. The Paladins held their thunderaxes and lightning hammers at the ready, waiting for any foe persistent enough to breach the defences.

‘We can hold, but for how long?’ Knight-Heraldor Brannok wondered.

Makvar shook his head. ‘We gain nothing holding this ground,’ he declared. He pointed his sword up at the Pathway of Punishment. The road was swarming with skeletons and deadwalkers, a sea of decayed corpses reanimated by dark sorceries. ‘That is where we’re going. We march to rejoin Lord-Castellant Vogun. And then we force our way to Neferata’s palace.’

Kreimnar raised his relic-weapon, drawing down an electrical blast that annihilated a dozen bone warriors. The Lord-Relictor grumbled in frustration when he saw several of those felled by his arcane assault begin to stir once more. ‘As many of these things as we destroy, the vampire’s magic simply brings them back to life.’

Kicking his heels into Gojin’s sides, Makvar caused the huge dracoth to rear up onto his hind legs. A bolt of lightning shot out from his gaping maw to splinter the restored skeletons once more. ‘We are the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, chosen by Sigmar!’ Makvar shouted, his words carrying to every Stormcast in the formation. ‘If these lifeless husks rise a thousand times to stand against us, we will smash them down. They will not keep us from standing beside our comrades. They will not cause us to falter in our sacred mission. Woe betide any who try!’

Slowly, the wedge began to climb up the Pathway. The crackling swords and hammers of Liberators battered down the files of skeletons that rushed at them, solid shields of sigmarite thrust back the decayed troops that tried to block the way. Flights of crackling arrows rose from the Judicators, cooking rotten deadwalkers and blackening ancient bone warriors. Foot by foot, then yard by yard, the Anvils pressed their advance.

Resistance intensified. Malignant spirits rose up from the very flagstones to drag at marching feet and claw at armoured legs. The wails of banshees and wraiths shuddered through the mind of each knight, a litany of pitiless malice and cruel sorrow to freeze the soul.

The Anvils pressed on, forcing their way through the deathly gauntlet. Shrieking banshees were knocked down by lightning-spitting bows, while other spectral horrors were seared by the blazing discharge of colossal maces wielded by Retributors and Decimators. Kreimnar drew the destructive powers of the storm down upon the undead formations waiting ahead of them, breaking their ranks and leaving their mangled remains strewn across the pathway. As their advance gained momentum, the Stormcasts smashed the undead underfoot even as the vampire sought to reanimate them yet again.

Through it all, Makvar’s voice rang out, reciting the holy catechisms and orisons sacred to their warhost. ‘Sigmar is my light in the shadow. With him there is no darkness. From the tomb are we redeemed and no death can lift from us the burden of duty. Fear has been burned from our blood, doubt has been scorched from our minds, and damnation has no claim upon our souls.’ With each recitation, Makvar could feel the cries of the ghosts weaken, the reach of their phantom claws lessen. Soon, their hold was as inconsequential as morning fog, and their howls little more than whispers.

Makvar could see the welcoming blaze of Vogun’s warding lantern ahead. He could feel the celestial light reaching out to him, pulling at him like a beckoning finger. The rest of the Stormcasts felt it to, their pace quickening, the ferocity of their attack upon the undead and Slaaneshi forces redoubling. Remorselessly, they smashed their way through their foes, eager to rejoin their comrades.

Vogun redeployed his warriors, spreading them out into a solid line. Judicators armed with boltstorm crossbows sent a withering barrage into the faces of the Chaos marauders who packed the road between the two contingents. A retinue of Protectors issued forth from Vogun’s ranks, plying their stormstrike glaives with murderous ferocity as they carved a path through the Slaaneshi invaders.

As Makvar urged the wedge onwards, he noted for the first time that, unlike the legions of undead that the rearguard had been forced to fight their way through, those around Vogun’s warriors exhibited no interest in the Stormcasts. They were fixed entirely on attacking the Chaos horde. It was tempting to put the change down to the light of the warding lantern, its energies repulsing the undead, but Makvar thought it must be more than that. The skeletons and zombies appeared to finally be drawing a distinction between ally and enemy.

‘Brannok!’ Makvar called out to the Knight-Heraldor. ‘Have the warriors bringing up the rear stay their attack. Keep the undead from breaking the wall, but otherwise visit no harm against them.’

The Knight-Heraldor was puzzled by the command but didn’t hesitate to execute it. Sounding a call upon his battle-horn, he relayed the order to the Liberators holding the base of the wedge.

For a time, the seemingly endless tide of undead that had pursued the Stormcasts up the hill continued to hurl themselves upon the shield wall. The Liberators drove them back, using sword pommels and hammer hafts to repel the decayed soldiers, but they quickly returned, stabbing and slashing at the Anvils with mindless tenacity. However often the undead were repulsed, they came again.

Then a change came upon the skeletons following behind the wedge. As they advanced towards the Stormcasts, they suddenly lowered their weapons. Without a sound, they marched onwards a few paces, but made no effort to assault the shield wall. When the wedge gained ground and moved forwards, the skeletons did likewise, but they didn’t make any further attempts to engage the Liberators. From Gojin’s saddle, Makvar could see the rear ranks of the undead continuing their menacing advance. Once they climbed to a certain point on the path, however, all the hostility seemed to drain out of them, as though they had crossed some invisible barrier.

‘Keep a careful watch on them,’ Makvar told Brannok. ‘Sound the alarm if they try to attack again, but I don’t think they will.’ He looked at the slope above, at the fearsome Chaos chariots ploughing through the undead warriors. ‘At least not while we share a common enemy.’

What happened after that, Makvar knew, would be the difference between success and failure.

From the back of his decayed dragon, Lord Harkdron watched as the storm-knights smashed their way through his warriors. Again and again, he used his magic to reanimate the fallen, to pour into their mangled flesh and shattered bones the eldritch power that would restore them to a semblance of life. However quickly he tried to reform and reassemble the broken skeletons and mangled zombies, though, he couldn’t match the rapidity with which the strange knights were destroying his troops.

The hordes of Chaos were likewise redoubling their efforts. Harkdron’s undead threatened to engulf the flank of the Slaaneshi army. To counter that threat, bands of daemonettes flitted through the skeletal regiments, hewing and hacking with their ghastly claws. Two terrifying chariots drawn by daemonic steeds sped through the streets of the temple district, their spiked wheels pulverising the undead warriors who fell beneath their charge. After them, an even larger chariot thundered across the broken corpses, reducing them to such shattered debris that even Harkdron’s magic could find nothing to infuse with animation.

Packs of daemons raged and howled, trooping through the wreckage of Nulahmia on slobbering mounts that were neither reptile, horse nor insect, but an impossible amalgam of all three. Crab-like fiends of Slaanesh scuttled along rooftops and clambered down walls, their slimy hides exuding clouds of musk. Hulking spawn, maddened wrecks of Chaotic energies and tortured flesh, dragged themselves through the ruins, striking all that dared to stand in their way with gigantic claws and whipping tentacles.

As his dragon flew above the battlefield Harkdron tried to direct his forces, to draw new legions from the most ancient of Nulahmia’s crypts. It was then that he saw a stirring of the rubble below. The Temple of the Bloodbat had been demolished by the storm-knights, cast down by the thunderous magic they bore with them. Beneath the mound of debris, the great daemon Mendeziron had been entombed. Much like the catacombs the vampire was emptying, the mound of rubble made for an unquiet grave. Lesser daemons flocked towards the shifting mound, gathering about it with a terrible air of expectancy.

Harkdron sent his will rushing through the companies of bone warriors and deadwalkers he had summoned, commanding them back towards the fallen temple. If he hurried, if he brought enough force to bear, perhaps his warriors could vanquish Mendeziron while the daemon was still weakened by the storm-knights’ attack.

Hope withered in the vampire’s heart when the rubble suddenly exploded outwards, chunks of stone spinning through the air as the thing buried under them erupted to the surface. Mendeziron had been bloodied by the storm-knights, his flesh ripped to tatters by the crushing enormity of the temple. Smoke rose from skin scorched by the electric fury of the battle-horn; steam vented from rivulets of boiling ichor that dripped from his wounds. Charred clumps fell from the daemon’s body as he stalked out from the rubble. The pain of a Keeper of Secrets, the unique agony of one of Slaanesh’s most terrible manifestations, was like a lodestone to the daemons that were marked by the Prince of Chaos. From across Nulahmia they came, intoxicated by the sensations flowing from Mendeziron. And as they drew near to him, their identities were subsumed under his hideous malignance. Ensnared by the power of Mendeziron, the daemon host could do naught but obey his commands. The command was to kill and conquer.

Pride kept Harkdron from repenting his decision to focus on the storm-knights, allowing Mendeziron to slip through his fingers. The daemon was a mighty tool of the enemy, but the storm-knights were something worse. They were interlopers. Chaos could defeat him, but the storm-knights could steal his victory from him. How would he redeem himself in the eyes of his queen if her salvation were bought only with the aid of these storm-knights? Harkdron would be her rescuer; he would allow none to take that from him! He would share the esteem of Neferata with no one!

Harkdron’s dragon soared above a pack of daemonettes, the rotting beast’s stench washing across them as it raked its claws through their ranks and used its bony tail to swat a handful of them into the rubble of a mausoleum. The bone warriors opposing the daemonettes rallied for a moment, revivified by the vampire’s necromancy. But it was only a momentary resilience. Harkdron had been pushing his arcane talents to their limit and beyond. Each spell he cast felt like drawing blood from a dry vein. He could feel his mind growing fuzzy as the residual harmonies of the spells he evoked broke through his overtaxed defences.

Seeing the resurgent Mendeziron and his daemons, Harkdron knew that only an even greater magic could stand against them. Something beyond his own fading energies. The vampire snarled defiantly at the Keeper of Secrets, letting his mockery stab at the abomination’s ego. There was a way to summon the power he needed to destroy the daemons, though only a warrior of Harkdron’s calibre was brave enough to draw upon it.

Even as Mendeziron sent a ray of searing magic rippling towards him, Harkdron turned his dragon’s climb into a sweeping dive. Over the heads of snarling daemons, he flew his steed onto the ruined Queensroad. There, rising amidst the wreckage of war, stood an object of such menace that even the rampaging hordes of Chaos had given it a wide berth — the Obelisk of Black, a forty-foot spire darker than night itself, a frozen fang of death. The hieroglyphs that shone across its obsidian surface hadn’t been cut into the Obelisk, nor had they been painted or seared into the glass-like stone. It was as if they had been pressed into the skin of the structure, pushed just under the surface so that they seemed to be scratching at it from within, as though trying to force their way free.

Harkdron didn’t know what the hieroglyphs said. They were of a time from beyond time, a relic of the world-that-was and hoary with age even in that mythical era. Once, in an unguarded moment, Neferata had told him even she could read little of their meaning, and even that much was enough to haunt a Mortarch.

The vampire lord didn’t need to understand the hieroglyphs to recognise the power bound within the Obelisk. It filled him with a sort of frightened awe, like staring into the fires of a volcano. The magnitude of the arcane force entombed within the obsidian monolith was such that even now he hesitated to draw upon it. Summon not that which cannot be dismissed was the first law of necromancy, a warning to all who would violate the rules of death.

Out from the smoke, the enormity of Mendeziron stalked towards Harkdron. The daemon’s hooves shattered the skulls embedded in the street, his claws smashed the statues lining the road, and his seductive malevolence dragged the ghosts of Nulahmia into the furnace of his infernal heart. The vampire could feel the Keeper of Secrets pawing at his mind, promising him the most excruciating torments before his spirit was consumed. Such was the fiendish lure of the daemon’s voice that it made Harkdron anticipate the promised torture with almost overwhelming desire.

It was the thought of Neferata, of failing his queen, that moved Harkdron to indulge his instinct for survival. Mendeziron was nearly upon him, reaching towards him to pluck him from the saddle of his zombie dragon, when he broke free of the daemon’s spell. Crying out in rage, he spurred his dragon to attack. The rotted beast reared back, its bony jaws gaping wide as it spewed a blast of decayed flesh and corpse gas into the face of the daemon.

Mendeziron stumbled back, skin bubbling and sloughing from his bovine skull as the dragon’s pestilence washed over his flesh. The daemon’s eyes flashed with pitiless enmity. A great sliver of scintillating flame erupted from one of his hands, swiftly cooling and solidifying into a gigantic blade. A second blast of draconic breath scorched Mendeziron, burning a great hole through the monster’s chest — but even such grievous injury wasn’t enough to blunt his assault. His mighty claws snapped closed about the dragon’s body, sinking deep into its rotting carcass. Held fast in Mendeziron’s grip, the dragon couldn’t avoid the giant sword as the daemon rammed it into the creature’s gut. Withered organs and nests of carrion worms spilled from the beast’s carcass as the daemon wrenched the blade crosswise. Heedless of the raking claws and smashing wings of his foe, Mendeziron twisted the sword deeper and drew the beast closer.

Harkdron jumped from the saddle of his mangled steed, leaving the zombie dragon trapped in Mendeziron’s clutches. Impaled upon the daemon’s blade, the beast could only writhe helplessly as its adversary ripped it apart. The vampire could feel Mendeziron’s rage clawing at him with obscene persistence, assuring him that he would suffer far greater atrocities of flesh and spirit before his own existence was extinguished.

The vampire looked to the Obelisk of Black. Rushing to the monument, he ripped the gauntlet from his hand and buried his fangs in his own flesh, tearing open his palm. Glancing back at Mendeziron as the daemon continued to butcher the dragon, Harkdron pressed his bloodied hand to the Obelisk and called out to the power buried within it. At once, the infernal whispers of Mendeziron were burned from his mind, exorcised by a deafening tide of spectral wails and ghostly moans. Through that tempest of phantoms, a commanding presence enveloped him. Without conscious thought, without even the concept of resistance stirring inside him, Harkdron found strange words of an unknown language slithering across his lips. Fresh legions of the undead stirred at his call, but so too did something else.

Mendeziron cast aside the mutilated ruin of the zombie dragon and turned towards Harkdron. The Keeper of Secrets grinned with what was left of his face, deciding to savour the vampire’s torment. All around him, flocks of lesser daemons came stealing up the Queensroad, eager to draw their own vicarious amusement from Mendeziron’s depravity.

The great daemon took one lumbering step towards Harkdron, then froze in place. His eyes fixed upon the Obelisk, growing wide with alarm as he saw the power slumbering within the monument respond to the vampire’s call. Before Mendeziron could retreat, that power erupted into a spectral wave of death. A black storm of ethereal energies spilled across him and his followers, ripping and tearing at them with ghostly claws. The chill of ancient graves stifled the burning ferocity of Slaanesh’s daemons, shredding their unnatural essence into tatters of desire and sensuality. The forms the daemons had taken on were cast down, burned away by the shrieking maelstrom.

The Keeper of Secrets crossed his arms, evoking the infernal magic of Slaanesh. A shimmering trapezohedron flared around his body, a cage of light to hold back the darkness. For an instant the barrier crackled with purple sparks and jade flickers, then the ghostly forces seeped through the breaches they had torn in the arcane ward. The daemon banished the first surge of phantoms with a nimbus of arcane flame, but more spirits swiftly rushed in to take the place of those he vanquished. As the howling phantoms swirled around him, the daemon found himself being consumed, his physical presence devoured by the maelstrom of spectres. Mendeziron’s claws crumbled as they were reduced to dust, his horns wilted like melting wax, his howls of defiance collapsed into a death rattle. Mighty as the daemon’s magic was, it was unequal to the power that now raged across Nulahmia and the dread being that was its master.

Spirits from the world-that-was, ghosts of the legendary past, the slumbering dead of numberless millennia — the spectral storm overwhelmed the Slaaneshi along the Queensroad, annihilating them utterly. Then, the ghoulish tide poured out across the burning streets, striking down the scavengers and despoilers prowling among the debris, slaughtering the few inhabitants yet hiding in secret refuges. The storm rolled onwards, sweeping into the temple district. The hungry spirits smashed down the hordes of Chaos trying to fight their way up the Pathway of Punishment. They crushed the regiments of bone warriors and deadwalkers trying to hold the approaches to the Throne Mount. The Anvils’ rearguard was beset by the spirit storm, even their mighty valour incapable of denying the spectral fury of Shyish’s dead. One after another, black-armoured Stormcasts were dragged from the shield walls to be consumed by the swirling fog of undeath.

The daemonette fell, the severed halves of her body streaming ichor. Neferata swung away from her fallen adversary to face a second snarling enemy, sending a bolt of withering sorcery searing into the clawed daemon’s limbs to leave the creature twitching upon the ground. Around her, the queen’s morghast bodyguard struggled to hold back the mob of Slaaneshi attackers, their halberds glistening with the filth of daemonic veins.

Though the undead continued to hold most of the Slaaneshi horde as they battled to reach the summit, the daemonettes had been able to slip through the lines. Stalking the vampire queen, they had proven persistent and malicious foes. Neferata’s steed had been so savaged by the claws and whips of her enemies that she could feel its energies draining out of it with each step it took. To restore Nagadron’s vitality, she let the dread abyssal feast on the lifeless husks of her fallen morghasts.

Distracted by raising new regiments of bone warriors to oppose the Slaaneshi forces, Neferata had lost track of the storm-knights and their progress punching through the Chaos horde. When she was at last able to spare a glance down the hillside, she was surprised to see how far they had come. Despite the fact that a veritable horde of enemies still stood between them, the ebon knights were proving unstoppable. Though the undead had ceased attacking them, the storm-knights remained wary of their decayed allies — a wariness that did as much to impede their advance as the blades of Chaos. Once again, Neferata cursed Harkdron’s foolish decision to attack the newcomers.

Casting her gaze further afield, Neferata looked across the burning ruin of Nulahmia for some sight of her lover. Instead of Harkdron, however, she saw a black cyclone of spirits raging through the desolation, a tempest of destruction that was obliterating all in its path. She could see the glowing apparitions that swirled out from the midst of the eldritch gale, spectral warriors that slew whatever stood before them. Phantom swords cut down skeletal soldiers while storm-knights expired on ethereal spears, their spirits streaking into the sky in bursts of blue light. The cyclone’s greatest havoc was turned upon the legions of Chaos, however. Droves of barbarians and beasts perished as the spirit hosts spilled across their ranks.

For an instant, Neferata wondered if, despite her doubts, one of the other Mortarchs had seen the spirit-beacons and come to her aid. The manifestation was certainly a feat of necromancy on a scale far beyond that of a deathmage or vampire lord. At the same time, it didn’t have the eldritch imprint of her fellow Mortarchs. There was nevertheless something familiar about the phantom storm, something that sent an icy chill rushing through her blackened heart.

Another swarm of daemonettes came dancing up from the Pathway, overwhelming her remaining morghast guards. Neferata set her magic against the assault, driving the creatures back. She could see the ghastly hunger in their eyes, the lascivious sneer on their faces. For the moment, she stood alone against them, a fact that emboldened these creatures of Chaos. Slithering up the jagged slope, bypassing the regiments of undead filling the Pathway, a serpent-like daemon-beast carried the Slaaneshi warlord himself into the Mortarch’s presence. The lion-faced mortal brought his glaive shearing through the skull of the last of her morghast defenders, the weapon’s enchantments shattering the ancient bone like an eggshell.

Before the warlord and his daemons could charge Neferata, however, they were beset by a barrage of crackling lightning. Winged storm-knights flew overhead, hurling javelins down upon the Slaaneshi horde. Each projectile became a lance of celestial fire before it smashed into the daemonettes. The infernal creatures shrivelled under the fulminating assault, their essence steaming away.

The fury of the lightning failed to stop the Chaos lord. Spurring his snake-like steed onwards, the warlord made one final push to reach Neferata. She could read the grisly determination in his eyes, the obsession that drove him to claim her even in the face of certain defeat. He cast the scorched ruin of his glaive aside, reaching for the swords hanging from his belt.

A thunderbolt struck just then, a blast more brilliant and furious than any that had come before. Neferata recoiled before it, driven back by its violence. When the blinding flash dissipated, she saw a black-armoured warrior standing in the smoking crater left by the lightning, a storm-knight with wings like those of the warriors flying overhead. Unlike his comrades, the lone knight bore a golden halo around his helm and a great lantern was clenched in his upraised hand. The vampire queen screamed at the searing sting of the light that blazed from within the lamp.

The winged knight noticed her aversion, angling the lantern away from her so that she was shielded from its rays. Even so, she could feel the azure glow piercing her with a sensation that was at once both cool and warm. She felt revulsion at the purity of the energy, yet also a desperate craving for it.

The Chaos lord’s steed hissed in terror as the azure light spilled across it, its charge arrested as it drew back in fright. Sparks glanced from the daemon’s steaming hide as the purifying rays washed over it. Only the vicious urging of the warlord goaded the monster onward. Swift as a striking tomb-cobra, the daemon’s head shot towards the winged knight. Swifter still was the flash of that warrior’s sword, shearing through the serpentine head in a gout of purplish ichor. The decapitated daemon crumpled back upon itself, writhing in agonised spasms. The lion-faced warlord was smashed against the ground, crushed beneath the undulating coils of his steed. The maddened thrashing of the monster at last brought the chaotic tangle of rider and mount to the edge of the cliff. With a final twitch, the daemon-snake rolled over the side, hurtling down the face of Throne Mount. As the creature’s vitality dissipated, its body faded away, leaving its master to plummet alone to the burning streets below.

The blinding light was extinguished as the winged knight snapped closed the latch of his lantern. He turned towards Neferata, bowing to the vampire queen. ‘Greetings, Lady Neferata,’ the warrior said. ‘I am Huld, Knight-Azyros of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. I hail from the Realm Celestial, and come seeking alliances as were of old.’

Before Neferata could answer Huld, the spectral tide that had been raging across the ruin of Nulahmia rose up from the city, sweeping across the summit of the Throne Mount. A black veil of death, glowing phantoms swirling within its current, howled all around them. The bones of her morghast guard were drawn up into the tempest, vanishing into its titanic whirlwind. Only the Mortarch and the Knight-Azyros remained, standing in the very eye of the morbid cyclone.

A hellshriek rose from the black storm, a sound of such enmity that it rattled across the whole of Nulahmia. Out from the swirling eddies of phantasmal forces and spectral warriors, a maleficent figure strode. Prodigious in stature, the fleshless revenant marched across the summit. Black robes were draped about his bony body, and chitinous plates of deathly armour shrouded his skeletal frame. In his withered hand, he bore a tall staff of bone surmounted by a funerary icon. Atop his skinless skull, he wore a tall crown of obsidian and gold that pulsated with arcane energies and glowed with an amethyst light.

Shakily, Neferata dropped from Nagadron’s back, prostrating herself before the advancing apparition. No mere Mortarch had descended upon Nulahmia, but rather the one being in all existence before whom even she knew terror. The Great Necromancer himself, Master of the Deathly Realm. The Death God, Nagash.

She could feel the gaze of Nagash upon her, studying her from the depths of empty sockets. Though he had long ago withdrawn to his underworld, she knew he was aware of her secret kingdom, her manifold manipulations and schemes by which she had thought to expand her own power. Nothing could be hidden from him. Nagash saw all, and what he saw did not please him.

Even as she trembled before her master, Neferata was stunned by the courage of Huld. Could it be that the Knight-Azyros was ignorant of whom he stood before? How else to explain that he didn’t fall to his knees in terrified worship? When Nagash turned his gaze upon Huld, a gaze that had reduced warlords to simpering wrecks and demigods to grovelling vassals, the storm-knight stood proud. He defied the tremendous will that emanated from the core of Nagash’s being. Instead of abasing himself, he rendered only the same slight bow he had offered Neferata. His salutations to the Great Necromancer were no different; no tremor of fear polluted his voice or dulled his words.

Neferata waited in dread for Nagash to respond to such arrogance. As impressive as Huld’s assault upon the Chaos lord had been, she knew Nagash could exterminate the knight almost without a thought. As the silence stretched on, her fear continued to mount. All of the ambitions she had entertained about harnessing the might of the storm-knights would be extinguished the instant Nagash loosed his wrath upon Huld.

‘Spoken like a true son of Sigmar,’ the sepulchral voice of Nagash hissed. The Great Necromancer swept his staff through the air, dispelling the swirling maelstrom of spirits, sending them streaming back into the underworld from which they had been called. He advanced towards Huld, staring down at the winged knight. ‘Unbowed. Unbroken. How like your god you are. An echo of his dream.’

A malignant glow rose within the pits of Nagash’s skull. ‘How many dreams may fade into nightmares.’

Chapter Six

Stretching across the wilted fields, a vast double-column of bleached bone and withered flesh marched. What remained of the armies of Neferata, Mortarch of Blood, advanced with grim silence, only the rattle of rusted armour or the creak of ancient bones giving note of their passage. At the centre of the column, carried within funerary carriages, were the vampire queen and her handmaidens. The revivified morghasts surrounded the carriages, their bestial skulls leering with menace at the lands through which they passed. Ahead of the queen’s attendants rode Lord Harkdron and the few remaining blood knights of Nulahmia.

Behind Neferata’s entourage, a massive throne of bone hovered across the earth, supported upon phantasmal energies that moaned with spectral malice. Even the regiments of skeletons and zombies that marched silently to either side of the throne were loath to draw near to it, the embers of awareness within their rotted heads drawing back in fear from the entity that reposed upon the throne. Living or undead, all trembled in the presence of Nagash.

Trailing behind the column of undead strode the ebon ranks of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. Hundreds strong, the Stormcasts kept pace with the advancing skeletons and zombies but made no move to close the gap between them, observing the separation with an almost religious fervour.

The smoke rising from the ruins of Nulahmia was fading away in the distance, absorbed into the miasma of icy fog that inundated the dominion that had once been Neferata’s kingdom. The city they left behind was now as desolate as the terrain that had once hidden it, another lifeless necropolis littering the lands of Shyish. The ghosts and spectres that haunted Nulahmia’s cursed ground now did so without the interruption of mortal life and immortal sorcery.

A part of Lord-Celestant Makvar felt regret that the Anvils of the Heldenhammer had come too late to save the city and preserve its inhabitants from the depredations of Chaos or the spectral carnage that followed. He had not been deaf to the misgivings of Knight-Heraldor Brannok when the Stormcasts marched from Nulahmia. Brannok had wanted to detach a few retinues of Liberators and Prosecutors to search the ruins and ensure they were not abandoning any pockets of survivors. He felt that to do so would be a blemish on the honour of their Warrior Chamber, but even Lord-Castellant Vogun, who was sympathetic to Brannok’s concerns, felt such a dalliance would be a waste of time. Nothing alive had been spared by the black storm that descended upon Nulahmia — only those upon the slopes of the Throne Mount had escaped its consuming malevolence. To tarry in the haunted streets would simply tempt the anger of the unquiet dead or draw the attention of such daemons as had managed to slip away during the battle for the Pathway of Punishment.

Makvar’s concerns were more pragmatic. They had to be. The benefits of lingering to rescue a few dozen — even a few hundred — survivors hidden amidst the havoc had to be balanced against the scope of their mission to the Realm of Death. He simply couldn’t justify the risk. Not when so much depended upon their success. Not when the Anvils had been presented with an opportunity far greater than that which had been entrusted to them when they left the Realm Celestial.

They had come to Shyish to broker an alliance with a Mortarch, to secure the aid of one of the realm’s deathless lords. Instead they found themselves confronted by a god, a being that had walked among the divinities of Sigmar’s pantheon. Nagash, the Master of Death, one of the mightiest entities in all the Eight Realms. The daunting prospect of parley with a god was eclipsed only by the enormity of what stood to be gained by such discussion. If Makvar could sway the mind of the Great Necromancer, then it wouldn’t simply be the might of a single Mortarch but that of the Realm of Death itself which he would bring into the arsenal of Azyr.

‘To what purpose do we march?’ Lord-Castellant Vogun wondered. He held his warding lantern out, its rays dispelling the grave-gas that swirled all around the Stormcasts, pawing at them with phantom tendrils that left lines of frost on their armour. As far as the rays could pierce the fog, there was only the barren wastes of a withered land, lifeless fields spilling into stands of dead trees and jumbles of craggy grey stone. ‘These lands are spent, bled dry by the hunger of their masters as much as the rampaging armies of Chaos. What refuge do they think to lead us to?’ The question brought a worried growl from the gryph-hound that loped along beside him.

‘A crypt would be sanctuary enough to the undead,’ Lord-Relictor Kreimnar reminded Vogun. ‘The hordes of Chaos may have overlooked much in their rush for conquest and glory. A living city might draw the invaders like moths to a flame, but would a cairn offer the same lure to their ilk? It is the living they seek to dominate and corrupt, not the bones of the dead.’

‘It is a cheerless thought,’ Vogun said, ‘to leave one graveyard behind only to seek another.’ He turned and looked back at the winged Knight-Azyros Huld. Of them all, only Huld had stood in the presence of Nagash and traded words with the Death God. ‘Again, I question the reason for our sojourn and the reason we couldn’t be given an audience in Neferata’s palace.’

‘I can only repeat what was said to me,’ Huld replied. ‘There was concern that the taint of Chaos hung heavy about Nulahmia, that the presence of the Ruinous Powers lingered upon the Throne Mount. It is enough that the enemy is aware that we have descended upon Shyish, should we also reveal our mission where daemonic ears might be listening? No, I find this display of caution to be well reasoned.’

Brannok shook his head. ‘It is vexing,’ he said. ‘If we march, then we should be told where we march. Not simply commanded to follow where he would lead us.’ The Knight-Heraldor pointed to the retinues of Liberators marching behind the officers. The Stormcasts strained under the colossal weight of the obsidian obelisk that had been uprooted from the Queensroad. More than the physical mass of the monolith, it was the ethereal taint that exuded from its glassy surface that tested the endurance of the knights. The warriors carrying it had to be rotated every few hours lest its uncanny emanations become onerous to them.

Brannok’s words fed Makvar’s own concerns. Nagash had commanded haste in debarking from Nulahmia. A prudent decision, for if one army of Chaos could find the hidden city, there was no reason to believe another wouldn’t be quick to follow. Indeed, Neferata had been given little time to summon her attendants from her palace-temple and gather a few of her most treasured belongings. But the Obelisk of Black, for the plinth to be excavated and removed — for that the retreat from Nulahmia had delayed. Under the exacting supervision of Lord Harkdron, the vampire general who had fought against the Anvils during the battle for the Throne Mount, the Stormcasts had cut away the ensorcelled paving that grounded the obelisk. The lanterns of both Vogun and Huld had been necessary to hold back the gales of phantoms that swirled around the site, angry that the relic was being disturbed.

The potency of the arcane power infused into the Obelisk of Black was something it didn’t take someone of Kreimnar’s or Vogun’s nature to sense. It was a thing saturated in the dark energies of Shyish, a shard of death itself. Makvar didn’t need to understand its workings to know that the relic was a weapon, hideous in its potential. That Nagash would entrust the relic into the Stormcasts’ care was something that gave him hope for the success of his mission. However much of a burden the Obelisk might be, by carrying it they would be returning the faith the Great Necromancer had extended to them.

‘If you leave a battlefield, do you leave your sword behind?’ Makvar turned in his saddle and looked down at Brannok. ‘Our weapons are sigmarite and steel. The weapons of Shyish are those of magic. The more disquieting the instruments of that magic, the more potent its power.’ He swept his gaze across the rest of his officers. ‘We came here to gather warriors for the God-King. It is towards that goal we must all persevere.’ He nodded at the Obelisk. ‘However arduous our trials, we will persevere.’

Rising above the stagnant depths of a festering tarn, the castle snarled at the moonless sky with fang-like battlements and the jagged parapets of broken towers. The great rock upon which the fortress perched was pitted and scoured, immense fissures snaking down the crumbling cliffs and deep caves yawning blackly from ledges and overhangs. Swarms of bats flitted from the caves, swooping across the scummy water below to snatch insects from the rank air. Packs of wolves howled from the darkness of desiccated forests, their lonely cries echoing across the windswept moors.

The towns and villages that they had passed since leaving Nulahmia had been desolate and abandoned, not so much as a rat prowling among their ruins. Here, however, in this blighted place, signs of habitation greeted the Stormcasts. Lights shone from the windows of the castle and the murmur of voices rose from behind its walls, accompanied by the discordant sound of an untuned harpsichord.

All at once, the undead column came to a halt. Makvar raised his fist into the air, arresting the advance of his Stormcasts. The knights kept a wary hand near their swords, bracing themselves for whatever would soon unfold. Their wait wasn’t a long one. Riding out from among the undead ranks upon a steed as fleshless as any bone warrior, Lord Harkdron approached Makvar and his officers. Gojin snorted with agitation as the deathly stench of the skeletal steed struck the dracoth’s senses.

Harkdron scowled at the reptile, and the look with which he favoured its rider was no less hostile. ‘I bring salutations from Queen Neferata,’ he said. ‘She requests the company of Lord-Celestant Makvar and his officers.’

‘And where does her highness expect to entertain us?’ Lord-Relictor Kreimnar asked.

‘You are to be guests in the castle,’ Harkdron stated, waving his hand in the direction of the sinister fortress. ‘Your troops may bivouac on the plain below.’ A malicious gleam shone in his eyes. ‘If they are vigilant, they should come to no distress.’

Makvar leaned back in Gojin’s saddle and studied the vampire general. He might be uncertain of Neferata’s intentions, and be even less sure of what he could expect from Nagash, but there was no mistaking the hate boiling inside Harkdron. The only question was how far he would go to indulge that hostility.

‘What of your queen’s master?’ Makvar asked. ‘When may we expect an audience with Nagash?’

Harkdron bristled at the note of expectation, the almost demanding turn of Makvar’s words. ‘Mighty Nagash will receive you in the great hall of Schloss Wolfhof,’ he said. The vampire’s lips pulled back, revealing his fangs. ‘It is rare quarry that is so eager to tempt the hunter’s hunger.’

Makvar returned the vampire’s cold stare. ‘Return to your mistress,’ he said. ‘We were sent here to treat with the rightful lords of Shyish, not bandy words with one of their more ineffectual minions.’ He drew back on Gojin’s reins, causing the dracoth to raise his head, the reptile’s jaws only inches from Harkdron’s shoulder. ‘Tell Queen Neferata I eagerly anticipate our conference, and my audience with the Great Necromancer.’

Seething at his curt dismissal, Harkdron wheeled his skeletal horse around and galloped back towards the motionless ranks of the undead column. Makvar waited until the vampire was well in the distance before addressing his comrades. ‘Brothers, the castle above us appears to be the refuge to which we have been marching. It would seem this is the setting Nagash has chosen to formally receive us. My presence and that of the officers of our Warrior Chamber has been requested. If fortune favours us… If my eloquence be equal to the task, it may be that our mission will soon be accomplished here.’

The Lord-Celestant’s announcement brought a subdued response from his warriors. Reserved even by the standards of the Stormcast Eternals, the spirits of the Anvils were further depressed by their sombre surroundings and the grim influence of the Obelisk they carried with them. As the Liberator-Primes and the commanders of the Paladin retinues issued orders to the knights to prepare the camp, Makvar noted the visible relief with which those carrying the plinth lowered it to the ground. Already it seemed to be drawing nebulous, ghastly wisps of energy up from the earth upon which it rested.

‘Vogun, I want you to remain behind,’ Makvar told the Lord-Castellant. ‘Your warding lantern may be necessary to fend off whatever wayward ghosts the Obelisk attracts to it. It seems to become at least partially dormant when a celestial light falls upon it.’ He shrugged as another thought occurred to him. ‘Besides, I need to leave someone familiar with Gojin’s habits and temper to look after him while I am being feted in Schloss Wolfhof. However dilapidated their castle has grown, I doubt they would welcome a dracoth in their great hall.’

Huld approached Makvar as he started to dismount. ‘Shall I remain behind as well?’ he asked. ‘It may be prudent to have my celestial beacon to support Lord-Castellant Vogun’s warding lantern.’

‘No doubt it would,’ Makvar agreed, ‘but I fear I need you with me. My pride can suffer the reality when I confess that my eloquence is that of a child beside your own. In a duel of blades one chooses to have his best swordsman at hand. It is no different in a contest of words.’

The Knight-Azyros bowed his head. ‘Sigmar grant that I am worthy of the trust you place in me.’

‘The God-King knows the strength within every soul,’ Kreimnar stated. ‘He knows the hour when that strength must be called upon, when each man must show his mettle.’

Yes, Makvar thought, but how often is the test of a man’s mettle to parley with the Death God?

Though it was a shameful thing to feel, Makvar was grateful that it was upon Huld’s shoulders and not his own that such an enormous feat had fallen.

The great hall of Schloss Wolfhof was a squalid, rotting ruin. The tapestries that hung from its walls were faded, moth-eaten and caked in mould — incapable of stifling the cold drafts that whipped through the multitudinous cracks that rippled through the stonework. The rugs that lay strewn across the floors were stained and threadbare, doing nothing to lend a semblance of refinement, or to dull the chill of the flagstones underfoot. The timber tables were splintered, their surfaces gouged and dented, the wood discoloured by the substances that had seeped into the grain. The chairs were worn, the carvings upon armrests and backs rubbed down to shapeless bumps by centuries of misuse and neglect. The cushions upon the seats stank of mildew, their feathers squeezed and compressed until they had a stony firmness. The candelabras that were arrayed about the tables were caked in verdigris, and wobbled on feet that had long ceased to be even. Overhead, a dusty mess of cobwebs and rust struggled to present itself as a chandelier.

More unsettling than the decayed splendour of the great hall were the efforts expended by its inhabitants to cling to the grandeur of the past. The lord of the castle, a decayed and monstrous vampire calling himself Count Zernmeister, draped his twisted body in scraps of rotten velvet and wore a crown of tarnished metal too small to fit about his misshapen head. The abhorrant made a great show of playing host to his guests, exhibiting a courtly solicitude that took no notice of the dilapidated surroundings.

Zernmeister’s court were no less hideous than their lord. Snarling, atavistic ghouls sat around the tables wearing ruffled rags and perfumed wigs, golden rings jammed down about their scabby claws. A naked, bat-winged monster stinking of crypts and coffins played the part of major-domo, announcing each guest by stamping its clawed foot against the floor and croaking out a stream of inarticulate garble from its fang-ridden mouth. A huge monstrosity with splinters of bone piercing its leprous flesh sat behind the ramshackle harpsichord that leaned against one wall, prodding the keys with clawed fingers and pumping its pedals with taloned toes. A bestial creature the size of an ogor sat in the chair beside Zernmeister, an embroidered collar pinned about its neck, and a gilded pectoral hanging against its furry breast. When the vampire introduced the thing as the Prince of Wolfhof and his heir, the monster stood up and spread its leathery wings wide.

The madness of the ghoulish entourage was heightened by the abominable repast they presented their guests. Platters of raw flesh were set before each table, sometimes exhibiting the curve of a rib or the tapering point of a finger. Soup was a broth of blood and worms. The wine was nothing but sludge drawn up from the tarn below. Yet to Zernmeister, the fare was extravagance itself and the vampire took pride as he described the wondrous boar hunt by which the main course had been brought to the table, utterly oblivious that what stared back at him from the tarnished trencher were the butchered remains of some luckless marauder.

Makvar shook his head as the horrible fodder was set before him. Turning to where Zernmeister sat, he apologised to their crazed host. ‘Forgive me, your grace, but I and my brothers have taken strict vows. We may neither sup nor drink until our sacred duty has been accomplished.’

The vampire crooked his deformed head to one side, as though suffering some internal turmoil at this disruption of his fantasy. After a moment, Zernmeister decided to fit the rejection into his delusion. ‘It is a pity, Lord-Celestant, for you will find no better fare in the kingdom. You do respect to your order by exhibiting such fidelity to your vows. There are few templars, I fear, who would adhere to such strictures.’ The abhorrant turned his attentions away from Makvar to nibble at the rotten meat on his own plate, sucking such blood as remained in the collapsed veins.

The Lord-Celestant looked away, turning his attention towards the head of the table. There, reclining in a seat fashioned of bleached bones, Nagash rested his cadaverous body. The inhabitants of Schloss Wolfhof had accepted the Great Necromancer as their liege lord, making a great show of presenting to him a coffer filled with finger bones — the tax they had collected from their serfs. The vampire had further sought to placate his visiting sovereign with a series of gifts, the least disgusting being a mouldy funeral shroud. Nagash had indulged the insane dementia of the ghoul-court, treating them as faithful vassals and accepting their deranged tribute. Watching Makvar follow his example appeared to amuse the Lord of Death.

‘You pay them a grand kindness, leaving them with their illusions,’ Nagash declared. ‘When a wretched reality persists beyond its time, there are many who would find succour in madness.’

The sepulchral hiss of Nagash’s voice reverberated through Makvar’s very spirit. He suspected that the Great Necromancer’s words only reached those whom he wanted them to reach. Many times when he spoke, the court of Wolfhof failed to respond. At others, his slightest murmur had the debased ghouls fawning over him to attend his needs.

Makvar had to be more cautious with his words. From everything he had seen, from all that Nagash had intimated, the only thing that kept the ghouls from falling upon the Stormcasts was the delusion that the knights were their guests. Anything that broke that fragile fantasy would turn the great hall into an abattoir. Even if the Anvils prevailed, Makvar sensed that they would have failed a test, a trail that the Death God had set before them.

‘Your realm has suffered greatly,’ Makvar said. ‘The taint of Chaos has taken much from your subjects.’ He frowned as he stumbled over the words, glancing down the table to where Huld sat beside Zernmeister’s monstrous ‘heir’. The Knight-Azyros was the one who should be here fencing words with Nagash and trying to keep from saying anything that would unsettle the ghouls. By design or perverse whim, the Great Necromancer had singled out Makvar for his attentions, sitting the Lord-Celestant on his right at the head of the table, well away from his fellow Stormcasts. The only ally near at hand was Neferata, seated to Nagash’s left, who gave a warning flutter of her lashes whenever he felt himself sliding into some verbal trap the Death God had laid for him.

Nagash took up the chalice Zernmeister had set before him, raising it to his fleshless mouth. The ghoul court was oblivious to the fact that none of the slop ever left the cup. ‘Chaos is a ravenous beast,’ Nagash declared. ‘The more it consumes, the more it demands. Nothing can sate its hunger. Even were Chaos to devour the whole of the Eight Realms, it wouldn’t be satisfied.’ He lowered the chalice and leaned towards Makvar. ‘There are some appetites that can never be appeased.’

‘The enemy is formidable, but not unstoppable,’ Makvar said. ‘Sigmar has held them back, kept them from breaching the gates of Azyr. The God-King’s armies range across the realms, taking the battle into the very strongholds of Chaos. Many realmgates have been wrested from the enemy, many lands and peoples have been liberated.’

‘If the God-King’s victories are so numerous, why does Sigmar send you to treat with me?’ Nagash asked. He gestured at the decayed hall around them with a bony talon. ‘Is his reality as much an illusion as that of these wretches?’

The Death God’s blasphemous mockery stirred a sense of pious outrage within Makvar’s heart. He held back the retort that would have so easily rolled from his tongue. It didn’t need a warning look from Neferata to tell him Nagash was trying to bait him into some injudicious remark. Still, he refused to let the slight against Sigmar go unanswered. ‘Chaos is a foe to test even the mightiest of gods,’ he stated.

‘True,’ Nagash conceded. ‘The War of Bones has taken its toll even upon me.’ He pointed a bony finger at Makvar. ‘Still, it must be remembered that I fought on while Sigmar simply locked himself away behind the gates of Azyr. Now that he has decided to stir from his seclusion and try to turn back the tide of Chaos, in his arrogance he sends his disciples to rebuild the old alliances and renew the ancient pacts?’

‘The God-King seeks to reassemble the divine pantheon,’ Makvar said. ‘The strength of Azyr and Shyish united once more against Chaos, committed to driving its creatures from the Mortal Realms.’

Once more, Makvar found the skeletal face of Nagash turned towards him, empty sockets studying him with the fiercest scrutiny. ‘Sigmar has been busy in his absence,’ the Great Necromancer conceded. ‘Never have I seen such armour and weaponry as those you carry. I have never encountered warriors such as your Stormcasts, men who bear the light of Azyr burning within them.’

‘We are but one Warrior Chamber,’ Makvar said. ‘There are multitudes of us among the armies of Azyr. This is the strength Sigmar is unleashing against the legions of Chaos. This is the power which—’

Nagash interrupted Makvar’s speech. ‘But why does such strength seek alliances? Why is it needful for Sigmar to send his underlings scurrying about the realms to draw others into his camp?’

Makvar had braced himself for such a question. The Great Necromancer was a being of darkness, existing in a world of suspicion and oppression. It would only feed his doubts if Makvar didn’t disclose the necessity that had seen the Anvils descend into the Realm of Death. ‘Archaon holds the Allpoints, seeking to corrupt it for his masters. If Chaos could be denied possession—’

‘And Sigmar doesn’t have sufficient faith in his Stormhosts to carry the day for him,’ Nagash chuckled. ‘He seeks to add my deathless legions to his forces.’ The Great Necromancer nodded. ‘It is a wise course to pursue. The only method by which Chaos may be beaten is to overwhelm them utterly.’ He raised his hand in warning to Makvar. ‘Before I can render assistance to Sigmar, I must regather my own resources. Most of the Realm of Death has fallen to Chaos since Archaon’s invasion.’

‘What do you require?’ Makvar asked. ‘If it is within the means of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer to secure, we will see it done.’

‘If it is not, then you will shake my faith in this army Sigmar has made for himself,’ Nagash cautioned him. ‘First we must find my other Mortarchs.’ He extended a skeletal claw towards Neferata. ‘My lovely Mortarch of Blood once more stands at my side, dutiful and loyal as ever. To help me in my magic, I will need her companions. Arkhan, the Mortarch of Sacrament, and Mannfred, the Mortarch of Night.’ The Great Necromancer rested his claws on the table before him, listening for a moment to the off-key dirge rising from the harpsichord. ‘It will be a perilous ordeal, unearthing my Mortarchs and returning them to me. Neither of them are so gracious as my dear Neferata, and they are prodigious sorcerers in their own right. Should they prove reluctant, it may be no simple task to bring them to heel.’

The taunting dismissal of the Stormcasts woven within Nagash’s warning offended Makvar’s sense of honour and pride, but this alone wasn’t what moved him to agree to help the Great Necromancer track down his errant acolytes. It was the knowledge that his mission depended upon securing an alliance with Nagash, and that it was the Death God’s province to dictate the conditions to secure his aid.

Part of the pageantry demanded to support the delusions of Zernmeister’s court was that his guests should retire to chambers within Schloss Wolfhof’s crumbling towers for the night. Nagash, as the count’s visiting liege lord, was given accommodation in the abhorrant’s own chambers, with Zernmeister displacing his son and initiating a ripple effect that would see the winged major-domo sleeping beneath one of the tables in the great hall alongside the ghoulish kitchen staff.

For Makvar and his comrades, as well as the vampiric entourage of Neferata, the ‘guest rooms’ within the towers were rendered for their use. Zernmeister had been most effusive in his assurances that the rooms had been exactingly prepared for them by his servants. In reality, this simply equated to the ghouls ensuring that there was still a room waiting behind the water-warped doors. The chamber Kreimnar had been given lacked an outer wall, its floor dropping away to offer an unobstructed view of the stagnant tarn. The room shared by Huld and Brannok had been a little better, though the lack of a roof overhead was worrisome considering the size of the bats flying about the castle.

Makvar almost felt spoiled when he discovered his room had both a ceiling and four walls, though the condition overall made him hesitant to touch anything. Mould and tradition seemed to be the only things keeping the place from falling apart. Even under better conditions, he wouldn’t have rested comfortably in a castle infested with insane vampires and ghouls. Instead, he kept his sword close at hand when he sat down upon the floor, his eyes fixed on the swollen door, his ears trained upon the corridor outside.

It was some hours into his vigil when Makvar heard a furtive sound in the hallway. Closing his hand around the grip of his sword, he waited as the sound slowly crept nearer. When the deformed horror that served as Zernmeister’s steward withdrew from his room, it had taken the creature much effort to close the warped door behind it. Now the portal slowly inched inwards, no sound betraying the creaking of its hinges or the scrape of its bottom against the floor.

The starlight shining through the narrow window of Makvar’s chamber illuminated the figure that quickly shifted around the open door. The Lord-Celestant recognised the enticing presence, the sensuous curves of slender limbs and the alluring swell of a generous bosom. Framed by her raven tresses, the pale face of Neferata was a vision of beauty to melt even the stoniest heart. The soft smile that flickered across her red lips was at once both innocent and suggestive. With a kick of her bare foot, she closed the door behind her.

Even a heart of stone would have been roused by the voluptuous vampire as she entered the room, but Makvar’s spirit had been forged from unyielding sigmarite, not simple stone. Yes, he could recognise the charms of his visitor, appreciate the enticing lure, but they presented no temptation to him. Neferata realised that fact when she saw the sword still clenched in his hand.

‘I mean you no ill, Lord-Celestant,’ Neferata said. ‘I come to you as one who would consider you a friend.’

Makvar nodded at the thin gown that was doing a feeble attempt at covering the vampire. ‘I dare say you’ve won many friends with visits like this.’

‘How else to convince you I mean no harm?’ Neferata asked. She turned around, holding her arms at her sides. ‘You can see I bear no weapon.’

‘There’s no weapon half so fearsome as what you choose not to hide,’ Makvar observed. ‘But understand — I am not one of your thralls like Harkdron.’

Neferata smiled again, this time without any imposture of innocence or seduction. ‘I was wrong to underestimate you, but do understand that my intentions are sincere. There is much to be gained through this alliance you seek.’

‘Surely that is Nagash’s decision to reach,’ Makvar said. ‘He is your master, is he not?’

A haunted look filled Neferata’s eyes. ‘You must be careful of him,’ she warned. ‘Do not trust him too far. Already he has dealt treacherously with your knights.’

Makvar sprang to his feet and seized the vampire’s arm. ‘What do you mean? What has he done?’

Neferata drew away from him, staring at the imprint of his hand on her milky skin. ‘The Obelisk of Black,’ she said. ‘He asked your storm-knights to bear it away from my city. He was testing your men, seeing how mighty they truly were. He knew that nothing mortal can long endure contact with the Obelisk.’

‘You knew this as well,’ Makvar accused, ‘yet you said nothing!’

‘It isn’t an easy thing to defy Nagash,’ Neferata said. ‘The only reason I have the liberty to do so now is because he has turned his attentions elsewhere.’ A look of fear twisted her face. ‘Don’t trust anything he tells you. Always be on your guard.’ She hesitated, as though drawing up some hidden reserve of courage. ‘If I ask it, swear to me you will protect me from him.’

Makvar shook his head. ‘Such a promise is one I cannot give. There are things greater than either of us at stake. They cannot be jeopardised. I cannot set aside my duty.’

‘Your duty may doom us all,’ Neferata told him. As quickly as she had slipped into his room, the vampire queen withdrew, retreating back into the hallway. Makvar watched as the door slowly closed behind her, cutting off his view of the corridor.

Alone again inside his room, the Lord-Celestant didn’t see the shadow that emerged from the end of the hall. He didn’t hear its silent approach or sense its lingering presence outside his door. Nor was he aware of it when it withdrew, following the same path Neferata chose when making her retreat.

Chapter Seven

Foul, reeking of decay and dissolution, the vast swamps seemed without end, a great sea of mud and morass that stretched away into eternity. Great stands of marrow-weed stabbed up from dank ponds and sinkholes like the bones of drowned men, their morbid flowers oozing poisonous nectar. Expanses of corpse-willows cast their shadows across boggy creeks and scummy streams, their trunks contorted into the semblance of rotten bodies, their finger-shaped leaves waving with sinister artifice in the marshland breeze. The croaking of toads bubbled up from every puddle, a groaning chorus redolent of sorrow and mourning. Crocodiles slithered down slimy embankments, their dark hides melting into the brackish gloom of sluggish channels. Crimson grave asps crawled through the shadowy branches of festering fenpines, their scales marked with death’s heads.

The armies of Chaos had rampaged through the Mirefells many times, scourging the swamps of those who hid in its wastes. Though the invaders had razed every shelter, massacred each camp, the swamp itself had resisted their conquest. It had sucked them down into bottomless quagmires and drowned them under stagnant streams. Venomous bats and pestiferous spiders had taken their toll upon the intruders. Choking miasma and glowing soulblight had consumed the essence of beasts and men, leaving their ravaged bones as grim warnings to those who followed. From the hundreds of cemeteries and tombs half obliterated by the mud and muck, vengeful spirits rose to slaughter all who defiled their forsaken domain.

It had been many lifetimes, as mortals reckoned such things, since the Great Necromancer had felt the dread vibrations of the Mirefells seeping into his bones. In centuries past, entire kingdoms had vanished within the expanding mire. The spires of sunken palaces and temples protruding from muddy islands were the only testament to their passing. Yet even in nameless oblivion, the forgotten dead stirred at Nagash’s approach. He could hear them crying out to him, wailing in the throes of their unquiet sleep, begging for a mercy unknown to the Lord of Death.

Nagash wondered how much of the swamp’s essence Sigmar’s warriors could sense. There were those among them with some affinity for the eldritch and the arcane. The morbid Kreimnar, certainly, would be aware of at least the most strident of the necrotic harmonies. Perhaps Vogun would feel some of the malignant energies, Vogun with his purifying lantern and his righteous zeal. The Stormcasts were an enigmatic admixture of honour and duty, faith and obedience. Concepts that were sometimes put at odds with one another, standards that were subsumed to the demands of their mission.

Among them all, Nagash most pondered the mystery of the knight who led them. He had lied to Lord-Celestant Makvar when he told the knight that the Anvils of the Heldenhammer were the first of Sigmar’s Stormcasts that he had encountered. But then, there were many things he had kept from Makvar. There were questions that Nagash would see answered, riddles that needed solving. Makvar and his Anvils were different from the other Stormcasts in a manner that nagged at the Lord of Death. Their resistance to the Obelisk of Black’s emanations was still a puzzle to him.

That experiment, at least, had run its course. After leaving Schloss Wolfhof, Nagash had commanded the better part of Neferata’s undead army to bear the relic down into one of the underworlds where it would be safe from harm. There was no need leaving it exposed to the Anvils any longer, and taking the risk that they might learn its true nature. From subtle alterations in Makvar’s demeanour, it seemed that he, at least, had begun to harbour suspicions about the Obelisk.

It would be a mistake to dismiss any of the Stormcasts as simple or foolish. Nagash could detect the great age of the souls bound within their physical incarnations, taste it like a vintage wine. These were spirits that had worn the mantle of flesh many times, purged in the flames of death and rebirth in a fashion far different to the black art of necromancy. Instead of being diminished, instead of carrying the taint of the grave in their bones, they had been reshaped and remoulded, transmuted into something greater than they had been. Only by the most exacting artifice could Nagash create warriors of such potentialities, and those entities often demanded the life-force of lesser creatures to sustain their might.

In the millennia since his withdrawal into the Realm Celestial, had Sigmar discovered some new path of resurrection? Or had he merely found a different means to the same processes Nagash had mastered long ago? What was this force that sustained the Stormcasts beyond their mortal span? What were the limitations of such power? That was the great question that dominated the Death God’s mind.

When he unlocked the secrets of the Anvils, then Nagash would know what course to follow.

‘The stink of this place will never leave my armour,’ Knight-Heraldor Brannok growled as he slogged through the filthy mire. ‘I’ll have to boil each rivet and plate to divest myself of this stench.’

‘That should avail you little,’ Lord-Relictor Kreimnar commented. He removed his skull-shaped helm, letting the foul air of the swamp strike his senses unimpeded by the layers of sigmarite armour and leather padding. After a moment, his stern features curled into a grimace of contempt. ‘The smell of this swamp is going to seep into our very flesh.’

Brannok shook his head at Kreimnar’s rejoinder. Reaching up to seize hold of a corpse-willow branch, the Stormcast pulled himself up onto a patch of weed-choked ground that at least feigned a semblance of solidity. Stagnant water drained out from his leg armour, streaming back into the mire in little rivulets. White leeches clung to the sigmarite plates, vainly trying to suck their way through the metal to reach the warm body within. With a grunt of annoyance, Brannok brushed the vile parasites from his legs.

‘You’ll only make room for new ones,’ Kreimnar told him. Grabbing hold of the same branch Brannok had used, he joined him on the tiny rise. From the slight vantage, he could see the file of black-armoured Anvils trudging along the boggy creek, their boots stirring up the layers of wilted leaves and dead amphibians embedded in the sediment, further contributing to the murkiness of the water. It said much of the treacherous state of the muddy earth confining the creeks and streams that Makvar had decided their passage would be easier if they plunged directly into the shallows. Many times, the column had been forced to slow its pace while a Decimator was extracted from some hungry quagmire or a Liberator was withdrawn from the watery depths of a gator-pit that had been hidden from view by a layer of weeping grass.

The Lord-Celestant reacted to each delay as though it were a personal affront. Kreimnar found it easy to sympathise with Makvar’s attitude. Nagash’s entourage didn’t allow the hazards of the swamp to inconvenience them. Their steady, tireless march never wavered, their course never faltered. When one of their number fell into quicksand or was caught in the jaws of a crocodile, the undead didn’t bother rescuing their hapless comrade. Sentiment had no claim upon them, only the surety of purpose and objective.

The Stormcasts had too much humanity within them to slide so easily into such callousness.

‘Have Huld and the Prosecutors returned yet?’ Brannok asked as he plucked an especially large leech from his pauldron and scrutinised it for a moment before flinging it into the creek.

Kreimnar shook his head. Makvar had dispatched the winged Stormcasts hours ago, charging them with scouting ahead and finding an easier path through the Mirefells — a course unknown to or forgotten by their undead companions, or perhaps one that they chose to keep to themselves.

‘I don’t envy them the task they’ve been given,’ Kreimnar said. He kicked the toe of his boot against the muddy soil. ‘From the air, all of this muck must look the same. It can be no easy matter to decide what is solid earth and what is simply grass hiding a bog beneath its roots from that vantage point.’ A cheerless laugh rose from his throat. ‘At least they won’t get lost. Vogun’s light is the only bright spot in this festering mire.’ He nodded in the direction of the Lord-Castellant. The officer was hidden around a bend of the creek, but the vitalising glow of his warding lantern could be seen through the trees and weeds.

Brannok suddenly turned from Kreimnar, his attention seized by something much closer at hand than Vogun’s light. The knight crouched down beside the corpse-willow’s trunk, clearing away the tangle of weeds and vines clumped around it. His efforts quickly disclosed a chunk of discoloured stone embedded in the base of the tree. The outlines of the stone were too even, too regular to be any natural formation. Uprooting more of the weeds and tearing away some of the dangling vines, he exposed more of what proved to be an oval. Leaning back, studying the sprawl of the trunk, he could detect a certain roundness about its outline, as though the tree itself had grown to conform to a definite pattern.

‘What have you found?’ Kreimnar asked, taking note of the Knight-Heraldor’s distraction. Brannok looked upward, ripping away still more of the vines. Faintly visible, just protruding from the bark, was the stump of a stone wrist and, further down, the outline of a knee.

‘A fountain stood here once,’ Brannok declared, gesturing at the traces of the statue buried within the tree and the evidence of the basin hidden beneath its roots. The Stormcast looked across the dismal mire surrounding them, gazing at the swamp as though seeing it for the first time. ‘There was a village here, perhaps an entire town.’

Kreimnar drew his morbid helm back down over his face. ‘Almost anything might be buried under this slime,’ he said. ‘The hordes of Chaos have long dominated the Realm of Death and destroyed much in their rampages. There is no comfort in pondering the things already lost to the enemy.’

Brannok shook his head. ‘But which enemy was this place lost to?’ he wondered, pressing his hand against the corpse-willow. ‘How long has this tree grown over the graves of a vanished people? Was it the depredations of Chaos that brought them doom or was it the creatures who claim mastery over the Realm of Death?’

‘Would knowing the answer make any difference?’ Kreimnar asked. ‘War demands sacrifice, and there is no sacrifice harder to bear than the sullying of virtue. The lofty ideals of nobility and righteousness are things to keep locked away within the heart, preserved in the one place where they cannot be soiled by the demands of necessity. Chaos has many enemies, but unless they stand together, they cannot stand at all. Sigmar has seen this. It is why we have descended into this blighted realm. It would be an easier thing if those we came to befriend shared our ideas of justice and order, but we must take our allies where we find them and as we find them. We must compromise if we would see the long night of Chaos brought to an end.’

‘Yes,’ Brannok agreed, ‘there is no need to remind me of our duty, or my role in it. Yet it is difficult to divest myself of foreboding. We have appealed to a malignant power in hopes of setting it against a greater evil.’

‘Place your trust in Sigmar,’ Kreimnar advised. ‘Do not forget that Nagash was once a part of the God-King’s pantheon and walked at his side.’

‘I haven’t forgotten,’ Brannok said. ‘My fear is that Nagash has.’

The dracoth’s head plunged beneath the muddy waters of the creek, emerging an instant later with a crocodile impaled upon his fangs. Gojin shook his head from side to side in a violent burst of ferocity, cracking his prey’s spine and reducing it to an inanimate mass hanging from his jaws.

‘Drop it,’ Makvar told his steed. The Lord-Celestant walked beside the enormous reptile, slogging through the muck. It had always been his maxim that a true leader didn’t spare himself the travails of his warriors but instead shared in them. While his Stormcasts were forced to trudge through the slime, Makvar didn’t have the heart to keep warm and dry in the dracoth’s saddle. That his knights wouldn’t begrudge their commander such comfort only hardened his resolve to shun it.

Gojin glanced back at Makvar, a snort of irritation spraying from his nostrils. The dracoth was too obedient to protest his master’s command, even if he didn’t understand the reason for it. With another shake of his head, Gojin sent the broken carcass crashing onto the embankment.

Makvar watched the carcass, observing the eerie animation that crept back into its sinews and set its long tail thrashing against the weeds. After a moment, it raised its head, oblivious to the broken vertebrae protruding from its scaly hide. Soundlessly, the crocodile slid back into the creek and sank beneath its scummy surface.

‘See — you don’t want something like that in your belly,’ Makvar cautioned his steed. The dracoth shook his horned head, long tongue rolling across his fangs as though to rid himself of the aftertaste of the would-be meal. Makvar patted his steed’s neck, reassuring him that he would find cleaner prey soon.

Makvar was certain the dracoth would find no such fare within the Mirefells. The further the Anvils pressed into the wasteland, the more nebulous the distinction between life and death became. On the fringes of the swamp, the demarcation between living flesh and necrotic corruption was readily apparent. Now it was all blurred together, flowing into a confusion of fecund growth and morbid decay. Swarms of hideous blue flies pestered shrivelled toads that snapped them up in turn. Bloated rats gnawed at the stems of yellowed weeds, only to have vampiric stalks wind around their throats and draw the blood from their furry bodies. Bedraggled crows pecked away at the rotted organs of cadaverous bats only to have the creatures suddenly erupt into violence and sink their fangs into the birds.

Somewhere in this ghoulish desolation, Nagash declared they would find the Mortarch of Sacrament, Arkhan the Black. Makvar knew little about the ancient liche-king beyond his name and title. There were legends, nay myths, about the skeletal warlock and his mighty sorceries, but he preferred information of a less lurid and imaginative nature. To question Nagash directly would have been to undermine the impression of staunch confidence and unwavering commitment Makvar hoped to convey. If his mission was to succeed, it was vital to make the Great Necromancer appreciate the formidable nature of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. He had to see for himself the benefit of numbering the Stormcasts among his allies and the danger of making the stormhosts of Sigmar his enemies. Anything that might suggest weakness was something Makvar couldn’t afford to risk.

The Lord-Celestant turned his head, following the progress of Lord-Castellant Vogun as he sloshed through the sluggish water. The azure light glowing from behind the shutters of his warding lantern was a stark reminder to Makvar that Nagash needn’t look too hard for evidence of the Stormcasts’ strength. Neferata and her vampires could scarcely abide the revivifying glow, much less the purity of Huld’s celestial beacon. As he had witnessed for himself during the fighting in Nulahmia, the arcane spark that animated lesser undead could be extinguished simply by prolonged exposure to the holy luminescence.

‘I think Gojin might swallow first and ask later the next time,’ Vogun said as he drew near Makvar. The Lord-Castellant had his gryph-hound, Torn, slung across his shoulders, carrying the beast well above the boggy mush of the creek. Torn seemed to appreciate the indulgence extended to him by his master, tail wriggling contentedly against the Stormcast’s back.

‘Then we will learn how well your healing light serves a dracoth’s indigestion,’ Makvar retorted. He scowled at the swamp around them. ‘Though I confess, I doubt anything could conspire to make this place smell worse.’

‘Never tempt the gods,’ Vogun warned with severity. After a moment’s thought, his voice grew still more sombre. ‘Especially when you march in company with one.’

Ahead of them, the Stormcasts could just see the ancient skeletons of Neferata’s army marching around the next bend of the creek. The bone warriors lacked grace in their movement, but at the same time, they showed no sign of being slowed by the mire. The Anvils prided themselves upon their stamina and endurance, but the undead legions were truly indefatigable. Neither hunger nor weariness caused them to waver in their march. So long as a greater will exerted its influence upon them, they would never stop. And there was no will more formidable than that of the Great Necromancer himself.

If there was an antithesis to the comforting glow of Vogun’s lantern, then it was the aura of dread that rose from the ancient bones of Nagash. Makvar didn’t need to see the Lord of Death to be aware of his presence. It was a phantasmal taint that sent a shiver through the soul, a spectral hiss just at the edge of his hearing. To a Stormcast Eternal, the sensation provoked a heightened wariness, but in mortal hearts, Makvar expected the feeling would provoke nothing short of terror.

‘It is a great and terrible force that we court,’ Makvar told Vogun. ‘It is precisely because Nagash is great and terrible that Sigmar seeks to draw him into alliance. If the legions of Shyish stand with us when we assault the Allpoints, it will be the turning of the tide. Archaon will suffer a defeat from which he will never recover.’

Vogun shook his head. ‘Can we trade the corruption of Chaos for the depravity of the undead? You saw the outrage and cruelty in Neferata’s city. From your own lips, I have heard of the madness within Schloss Wolfhof. My faith in Sigmar is as unshakable as your own, Lord-Celestant, but I confess, I lack the wisdom to reconcile myself to these injustices.’

‘To save the many, sometimes it is needful to sacrifice the few,’ Makvar said. ‘That is the hardest lesson to learn, but it is the first any leader must accept. Truth isn’t always pleasant, and necessity is sometimes as ugly as what it seeks to overcome. Should the hordes of Archaon prevail, should the dominion of Chaos extend yet further into the Mortal Realms, it will mean the extermination of all. Existence itself would be devoured, sucked down into the infernal madness of the Realm of Chaos. All light, all order would be extinguished, and only the dominion of the Ruinous Powers would remain. Beside such horror, even the evil of the undead would be a thing to be welcomed.’

A motion among the bushes along the embankment drew Makvar’s attention away from Vogun. His fingers tightened around the grip of his sword, ready to draw should some denizen of the swamps more formidable than a crocodile choose to show itself.

Instead, what emerged from the undergrowth was a lissom maiden arrayed in a simple gown of web-like silk. Her pale skin was nearly as colourless as her white raiment, and she shielded her eyes from the rays of Vogun’s lantern. Makvar recognised her from the grisly dinner in the ghoul-court. She was one of Neferata’s handmaidens, a vampire thrall named Kismet.

‘Please, cover the light,’ she asked, keeping her eyes averted from the Stormcasts. ‘My mistress sends me with tidings for the Lord-Celestant.’

Makvar nodded to Vogun, motioning for him to swing the lantern around so that it was behind him. At the same time, he gestured to the Judicator retinues to keep a closer watch on the embankments. It was discomforting to know that they had allowed Kismet to reach them without discovery.

‘The light has been withdrawn,’ Makvar told Kismet, walking towards the embankment. When the vampire lowered her hands from her face he could see the furtive, almost hunted look in her eyes. ‘You are safe with us,’ he said, trying to ease her fear. His assurance brought no change to her attitude.

‘Queen Neferata bids me pass warning to you,’ Kismet said, each word becoming lower and softer until her voice was reduced to a mere whisper. ‘At great risk to herself, she has used her magic to spy upon Nagash, to delve into his plans. She wishes you to know that we do not march to find Arkhan, but rather that Nagash has known where his disciple has been from the very start. Through his spells, Nagash has been in communion with the Mortarch of Sacrament. She desires that you should know of this subterfuge… and be ready for it.’

Makvar listened to Kismet’s warning, turning over each word, trying to decide what to believe and what to discard. That Neferata had her own ambitions was apparent, though he doubted she would entertain any ‘great risk to herself’ to achieve them. Even so, she was cunning enough to exploit the intrigue of others to perpetuate her own scheming. With a being as steeped in magic as the Great Necromancer, there was little that could safely be put outside of possibility.

‘Thank your mistress for her concern,’ Makvar said. ‘You may tell her that I will bear her message in mind and that the Anvils of the Heldenhammer will act accordingly.’ Kismet bowed to him before vanishing back into the undergrowth. When he saw how stealthily the vampire withdrew, Makvar repented some of his displeasure at the vigilance of the Judicators.

‘Someone is anxious to make friends,’ Vogun said when Kismet had gone.

Makvar frowned behind the mask of his helm. ‘Too anxious,’ he said. When he had described the strange reception at Schloss Wolfhof to Vogun, he had left out the details of Neferata’s nocturnal visit to his room. ‘The question we must ask ourselves is if we can afford her kind of friendship.’

‘You believe she is inventing this plot between Nagash and Arkhan?’ Vogun asked.

‘No,’ Makvar conceded. ‘I think she is too clever to lie to me.’ He turned and stared through the stands of corpse-willows, gazing in the direction from which Nagash’s deathly aura emanated. ‘What troubles me is how much of the truth she has decided I should hear.’

Harkdron watched as Kismet slipped away from the Stormcasts, dropping behind a clump of bat-thorn as she turned in his direction. At this late stage, it would be absurd for her to discover him now. Not after all the care he had taken in following her through the swamp.

The vampire glared in the direction of the storm-knights. He hadn’t drawn near enough to hear what Kismet told them, but he could guess. She had brought them some offer from Neferata. The queen’s pretence of fawning obedience to Nagash didn’t fool Harkdron. He knew she had aspirations of power, that she would rebuild her kingdom, if not in Nulahmia, then in some other land.

Neferata had some idea that the storm-knights could win that kingdom for her. Harkdron could just imagine her offering to share her throne with that interloper Makvar. She would make that usurper her king, bestow upon him all the honours she had withheld from Harkdron!

Directing a last glare towards the storm-knights, Harkdron hastened after Kismet. He had small worry that the handmaiden would notice him following her. If anything, she would be more concerned about drawing the attention of Nagash’s morghast guards. When Neferata sent her off on her clandestine liaison, it had been the Great Necromancer and his creatures they had been careful to avoid. Neither of them had given a thought to hiding their intentions from Harkdron.

The vampire gnashed his fangs as he considered that his queen had given him very little thought since the fall of Nulahmia. Neferata had turned a cold shoulder to her former lover and consort, treating him no better than any of her blood knights. He knew she blamed him for the ruin of her city, the breaching of the Jackal Gate and the defiling of the Throne Mount. He had done his best to redeem himself, but before he could annihilate the hordes of Chaos, Makvar and his damned storm-knights had appeared!

It was enough that Makvar had stolen from him his chance to prove himself to his queen. Harkdron wasn’t about to allow him to take his place in the queen’s favour.

There was no way to strike directly against Makvar. Harkdron knew this. Even if he discounted the displeasure of his queen, there was the danger of angering Nagash. The Lord of Death was interested in the storm-knights, at least for the moment. Perhaps he was even entertaining Makvar’s overtures of an alliance with Sigmar.

No, Harkdon decided, the only route open to him was to drive a wedge between Neferata and Makvar. He had to turn her against the storm-knights and make it seem her own decision when she did so. Then she would understand that Harkdron was the only consort worthy of her.

With a powerful lunge, Harkdron threw himself across a stagnant brook. As soon as his feet struck the ground, he was dashing through a stand of gallow-oaks. Kismet would take a more cautious course as she made her way back to her queen. Haste, not caution, was Harkdron’s goal. Darting around the boughs of the squat oak trees, the vampire felt the thrill of the hunt pulsing through him. He had let himself grow soft amidst the luxuries of Nulahmia. He had forgotten the excitement of being a predator about to fall upon his prey.

Kismet’s pale shape came gliding out from the undergrowth, hesitating as she peered in the direction of the undead column. Her fixation with the column and any threat rising from it made her oblivious to the menace stealing towards her from the gallow-oaks. Harkdron was nearly upon her before she sensed him and noted her peril.

Like a cornered tigress, Kismet spun about to meet her attacker. Raking fingers slashed at Harkdron’s face, missing the vampire only by a hair’s breadth. The foot she brought slamming into his midriff brought better results, connecting with such violence that he was knocked off his feet.

Harkdron was back on the attack almost at once. Snarling, he pounced at his fleeing quarry. One of his clutching hands seized a clump of Kismet’s hair, wrenching it out by the roots and spilling the handmaiden into the mud. The vampire loomed over her, staring down with blazing eyes.

Kismet saw death in those eyes. ‘Spare me, Lord Harkdron,’ she begged. ‘I will tell you whatever you want to know.’

The vampire sprang at her, driving his fist into her chest with superhuman, bone-splintering force. ‘Keep your secrets,’ he hissed into her ear. ‘You are more use to me this way.’ With a vicious pull, Harkdron’s hand came tearing out of Kismet’s mangled chest. Clenched between his bloodied fingers was the handmaiden’s dripping heart. He glared at it a moment, then tossed it into the weeds. Crouching over Kismet’s body he removed the silver talisman he kept hidden in his boot. He averted his eyes from the tiny hammer, an ancient relic from the ages when Sigmar had walked the kingdoms of Shyish. The God-King was long gone from the Realm of Death, but his power lingered on in the few symbols left behind. Symbols that were potent against the undead.

Harkdron stuffed the talisman into the gaping wound. There were times when he had disposed of vampiric rivals for Neferata’s attentions, using the little hammer to ensure they stayed dead when he destroyed them. While the hammer rested in the place where Kismet’s heart should be, she would remain with the truly dead. If some friend found her resting place, they might dispose of the talisman and allow her to revive, but Harkdron would ensure that didn’t happen. He picked her up and stalked off into the swamp. He had seen an especially deep bog when he had followed her away from the column. Just the place for someone to disappear.

Harkdron wondered what Neferata would think when Kismet failed to return from her meeting with Makvar. With some care on his part, he was certain he could help her come to the right conclusions.

Blackened hills and barren fields rushed past Lascilion’s foggy vision. Dimly, he perceived the dried beds of dead lakes and the gnarled boughs of charred forests, the broken walls of ruined castles and the shattered foundations of fallen temples. The rubble of despoiled tomb cities lay strewn across meadows of bleached bone. The husks of vanquished armies withered upon groves of stakes, fleshless skulls grinning up at the sky.

Everywhere, the taint of Chaos was in bloom. The megalithic flagstones of ancient roads were split and broken by the fibrous stalks of colossal flowers with petals of ice and fiery nectar. Streams of corrosive ooze eroded primordial barrow mounds, sending pillars of greasy vapour screaming into the air. Vast, amorphous things rippling with unclean vitality washed across the ghostly streets of desolate villages, caking all they touched in crystalline growths.

Awareness came roaring back into Lascilion’s brain, threatening to devour his senses in a paroxysm of pain. Reluctantly, the Lord of Slaanesh fought back the agonies that threatened to consume his reason and render him a dumb, mad thing. With his resistance came memories, the crushing torment as his daemon steed rolled across him and crushed the strength from his bones, the searing light of the storm-angel’s lamp as it pierced his eyes and stabbed his spirit. Most of all, he remembered the sight of Neferata, the delicious vampire queen, so close to him that his tongue swelled with the scent of her cruelty.

He had fallen then, hurtling down the side of the Throne Mount, the burning city rushing towards him as though eager to draw him into its dying embrace. Then, everything was lost in the darkness. The warlord knew no more.

Lascilion tried to move, to discover for himself the extent of his injuries. The effort sent a new spasm of pain rushing through him and a trickle of blood down his back. He could feel the sharp claws that were dug into his flesh, the bite of his splintered armour as it cut his skin. Managing to tilt his head, he could see the hideous face of Amala staring down at him. He knew then that he was held fast in the mutant’s claws as she soared across the sky. There was no hint of intention to be found in her inhuman eyes and no clue of her purpose to be had from the inarticulate slobbering that dripped from her jaws. Amala had been a dutiful enough servant when he had been the Lord of Slaanesh with an army of men and daemons under his command. Now, broken and disgraced, he wondered if any sense of loyalty lingered in her.

Amala’s purpose soon became clear to Lascilion, and when it was, he considered that it might have been better for him if she had simply carried him off to some craggy mountainside to devour his flesh. A vast encampment lay sprawled across the terrain below, a veritable city of hide tents and wooden shelters that stretched away into the mist-shrouded horizon. Lascilion could see huge stone idols with their blood-drenched altars. He could see massive slave pens with their spiked fences. There were great fighting arenas gouged where the followers of Khorne offered up the skulls of their victims, and the diseased cesspits where the disciples of the Plague God sought Nurgle’s putrid blessings. Eldritch towers bound in chains of copper and adorned with arcane sigils of gold flickered with weird energies and eerie lights as the students of Tzeentch practised their sorceries. Lascilion looked for the perfumed pavilions of Slaanesh’s initiates, but soon despaired of the search. Most of those who honoured the Prince of Pleasure in this realm had flocked to his banner and followed him to their doom in Nulahmia. Those who remained would view him with loathing, an affront to their absent god.

The winged mutant tightened her grip upon Lascilion’s shoulders. Wheeling through the air, Amala headed towards the gigantic tent at the centre of the encampment. Stitched from the hides of mammoths and dragons, it was supported by enormous pillars of skulls, each head branded with the grisly rune of the Blood God. Pennants of flayed flesh fluttered above each pillar, flags cut from the still-living bodies of kings and hierophants and stained with the murderous symbols of Khorne. Encircling the tent, their skinned bodies nailed to posts, were the eighty-eight warriors chosen as offerings to the Lord of Skulls. As each tortured warrior expired, he was replaced by another, an endless cycle of blood to ensure the Blood God’s favour.

This, then, was the stronghold of Bloodking Thagmok, mightiest of the generals left by Archaon to secure the Realm of Death in the name of the Dark Gods. Lascilion had been filled with pride when he had last stood in Thagmok’s presence, arrogantly boasting that he would succeed where so many others had failed. He had promised to find Nulahmia and capture its queen. The Bloodking wasn’t known for his mercy, nor his indulgence of broken promises. As Amala descended towards the tent, Lascilion found his gaze roving across the exposed muscles and organs of the warriors on the posts. He trembled as he imagined joining the gory offerings.

If Thagmok even considered him worthy of such a fate.

Chapter Eight

Huld soared across the blighted wasteland of the Mirefells, keeping close to the oozing earth, vigilant for any path that might provide his comrades a speedier journey than the creek they followed. Except for a few rocky islands and the occasional stand of twisted forest that seemed rooted in something with more solidity than a bog, his efforts had come to naught, as had those of the Prosecutors who shared in his labour. The nearest any of them had come was the discovery of a stone causeway sprawled across some fens, its supports dragged down into the muck so that the road was tilted on its side. The dilapidated construction looked as treacherous as the boggy ground that was slowly consuming it. Even had it been in a more amiable state, it was useless to the needs of the Stormcasts, winding its broken course away from the backwaters into which the Lord of Death was guiding them, as though the land itself were telling them to turn back.

Yet the Anvils couldn’t turn back. Too much depended upon their mission. Makvar cajoled every effort from the Stormcasts to keep from falling too far behind the undead. The winged scouts did their best to guide their comrades to paths less onerous than that taken by Nagash and his creatures, but never could they seem to find a route which would allow them to gain upon the undead. Makvar was compelled to keep pushing the Anvils and prevent them from losing all contact with the undead column.

The Knight-Azyros didn’t envy Lord-Celestant Makvar his burden. Every decision he made had to be weighed against the success of their mission. Whatever lengths it took to convince Nagash to lend his support to Sigmar and unite his deathless legions with those of the Realm Celestial, Makvar had no choice but to pursue them. Even when it meant putting his comrades at risk and marching them into a trackless mire. Huld’s comrades sometimes said he had been reforged with a silver tongue, but he wondered if his gift of eloquence would have counted for much when it came to negotiating with the Great Necromancer. He felt that it was deeds, not words, that were needed to sway Nagash.

Huld’s wings snapped tight against his armoured body as he sent himself into a dive, skimming just above the moss-ridden treetops with deceptive grace. His aerobatics were more than simple exuberance. He was keeping close to the trees to avoid being spotted from afar. Only the most debased and forsaken of the enemy’s minions would linger in a place like the Mirefells, but if there was one thing Huld had learned about the hordes of Chaos, it was to never underestimate the depths to which they could lower themselves. Some of the things he had seen perpetrated by the bloodreavers of Khorne would have made a ghoul’s gorge rise.

There were also the noxious creatures of the swamp itself to avoid. Several times, immense bats had taken wing at the approach of the Stormcasts, whether from hunger or to defend their territory. Most of the flying vermin had been routed easily, a single stormcall javelin enough to scatter their flocks and send them hastening back to the shadows. A few of the larger beasts had been more persistent, their eyes aglow with an appetite that uncomfortably recalled to Huld the hideous feast at Count Zernmeister’s castle. Only by sending their steaming carcasses plummeting down into the bog were the Stormcasts able to fend off the attentions of these unliving horrors.

The faint sounds of battle drifted back to him on the rank wind and made Huld forget about giant bats. The distinct clash of metal against metal rang through the air, but with the sound came even more savage noises. Ferocious howls and fearsome screams, bestial and exultant, the cries of wanton carnage and brutal conquest. Somewhere ahead of him, a vicious battle was being fought.

Signalling the Prosecutors, Huld sped onwards, towards the roar of combat. The stands of trees below became more sparse, their trunks wizened and even more twisted than the others he had seen in the Mirefells. Ugly patches of mist and vapour billowed up from the marshy ground, pulsating with a phosphorescent glow. Here and there, he could see clumps of broken masonry poking out of the mud and the severed stumps of stone columns half-engulfed by weeds and moss.

Evidence of ancient habitation increased the closer Huld drew to the clamour of battle. The few trees that thrust their trunks from the muck became still more sickly and dwarfish, their branches reaching out like decayed claws. The heaps of rock and stone protruding from the mire were now recognisable as structures, empty windows gaping from their abandoned walls, morbid carvings nearly obscured by sediment and slime. Certainly, Huld thought, what lay below him had once been a great city, perhaps a seat of empire in some long-lost epoch.

The sound of battle drew him still farther. He began to wonder if what he was hearing was some ghostly echo of this city’s death, some grim haunt conjured to lead him astray. The Knight-Azyros shook his head. The only way to be certain what was real and what was phantom was to press on and discover for himself where the phenomenon would lead him. Only then could he tell Makvar what lay ahead of the Anvils.

The obscuring mist suddenly evaporated, and Huld had an unobstructed view of what lay beneath him. Many strange sights had filled his eyes — the frozen fires of Chamon and the living forests of Ghyran — but never had he seen such an uncanny vista as what now lay below. He hesitated to call the surface either ground or sea, for it seemed to be a translucent substance which refused to be either. He could see through its wraith-like essence, peering straight down into the drowned streets and smothered buildings of the vanished city. At the same time, the ectoplasmic sludge was viscous enough to provide support for the few trees and weeds stubborn enough to persist this far into the forgotten ruins. He saw something resembling an enormous rat go skittering across the surface, plunging through the phantom muck like an ice-fox hopping through the snows of Yvir in the far-reaches of the Celestial Realm.

Now, the clash of steel and the cries of combat were close at hand. Warning the Prosecutors with him to be still more cautious than before, Huld soared close to the half-smothered roofs and crumbling minarets of the drowned city. Ahead, beyond the narrow streets, some tremendous conflict was raging.

When he was clear of the sunken streets, Huld could only gaze in amazement at what he had discovered. Before him, stretching away for thousands of yards, was a great clearing, a plaza covered with the translucent phantom sludge. Here and there, the top of some monolith protruded from the ectoplasm, the angular tips of colossal pyramids and the eroded faces of stone kings. The summit of a smothered mountain reared at one end of the clearing, its barren slopes littered with a carpet of bones.

Here was the site of the battle Huld had heard. Across the transparent slime, legions of fleshless warriors marched. Even from a distance, the Knight-Azyros was struck by the impression of antiquity conjured by their corroded armour and archaic weapons. The armies of Nulahmia had arrayed themselves in the relics of a living people, but the skeletal warriors he now beheld seemed devoid of even so fragile a connection to the mortal coil. The bronze breastplates strapped about their ribs had been pounded into the shape of leering skulls, and their tall helms were the shape of bony hands. The serrated edges of the falchions and adzes they carried had been cast into the semblance of rending talons.

Beyond the fleshless legions of infantry, Huld could see troops of cavalry mounted upon skeletal steeds, their caparisons as rotten and tattered as the shroud-like cloaks that clung about their undead riders. Ghoulish flames rose from each skeletal rider, flickering from beneath their tattered robes and rusted helms, rippling across the glistening edges of the wicked scythes they bore. With eerie precision, the malignant riders wove between the advancing formations of infantry, the ethereal slime doing nothing to arrest their speed.

Other, even less corporeal things wound their way through the undead legions. Masses of spectral energy eddied about the periphery of the battlefield, sometimes coalescing into great pillars of ghostly malevolence that rolled forwards before forsaking whatever cohesion held them and dispersing into wisps of glowing fog. When he tried to follow the flittering lights, Huld would see them draw near one another once more, again merging into clouds of deathly faces and spectral talons.

To the rear of the graveyard army, Huld could see baroque chariots and strange carriages; catapults fashioned from bone alongside hulking giants with fleshless faces; a strange altar lit by corpse-fires and borne aloft by a vortex of howling spirits and vengeful apparitions. Above them all, however, was the solitary presence that stood upon the summit of the drowned mountain. At such distance, Huld could only discern a skeletal shape mounted upon an abyssal steed similar to that favoured by Neferata. The aura of power and malevolence spilling from the figure was undeniable. He could almost sense the belligerent motivation exuding from the undead lord to fill the decayed ranks of his army with murderous purpose and animation.

It was an effort for Huld to look away from the sinister presence on the mountain, to turn his gaze from the undead legions to the foes they battled. Only the pronounced horror of the undead could have eclipsed the noxious foulness he now beheld. As vile as the decay and filth of the swamps themselves, a vast host of disease and corruption seeped across the clearing. As though responding to his regard, Huld’s senses were now struck by the fecund reek of that horde, the dirty taint of the pestiferous Nurgle.

Knights in corroded armour charged across the spectral slime, the hooves of their diseased beasts throwing up great swathes of translucent sludge as they galloped into the massed ranks of skeletons, smashing them to bony splinters with their lances. Hulking Chaos warriors, the fly-rune daubed upon their shields and helms, trudged through the ghostly mire to slam into the lines of their deathless opponents, shrieking their outrage as they brought destruction to the fleshless corpses. Grotesque brayherds plunged across the morass, shattering skulls and crumpling armour with clubs of stone and axes of bone. Prowling amidst the havoc, daemonic plaguebearers and swarms of giggling nurglings brought corrupt dissolution to even these lifeless enemies.

Gigantic and heinous, the bloated bulk of a greater daemon squatted behind the hordes of Nurgle. A veil of flies and gas rose from the monster’s leprous flesh and exposed organs, a discharge of abominable black liquid trickling from its limbs to sizzle on the ghostly surface that supported it. The daemon’s squat, toad-like head seemed to sink beneath the weight of its own horns, its single eye struggling to shrug off the fatty folds of its own lids. The monster’s cavernous mouth spread in a hungry grin, thousands of sharp, diminutive fangs jutting from its bleeding gums. Gesturing with one of its gigantic hands, the Great Unclean One encouraged its infectious followers to press their attack.

Huld lingered only a moment, then peeled away from the surging battle. Mighty as the undead legions might be, he knew they were no match for the enormity of the Chaos horde that opposed them. How long the undead could hold against their enemy was something he couldn’t say, but unless they could be reinforced, the outcome of the fight was certain.

There was little the Knight-Azyros and the Prosecutors could do to tip the balance, but the rest of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer could. They had fought greater odds before and emerged victorious. From what he had seen and felt, he was certain the undead general was the creature Nagash had brought them into the swamps to find — the Mortarch of Sacrament, Arkhan the Black. His duty now was to bring such news back to Makvar. The decision to intervene belonged to the Lord-Celestant.

The Lord-Celestant and the Great Necromancer.

Lord-Celestant Makvar was silent as he pondered Huld’s report. He balanced the Knight-Azyros’ observations against the warning that had been passed to him by Kismet. It would seem that even if Nagash knew where Arkhan was, if this foray into the swamp was a pretext of some kind, then his plot had developed a severe complication. The hordes of Chaos had discovered the missing Mortarch first.

‘Our course is clear, commander,’ Lord-Relictor Kreimnar said. ‘Arkhan fights the slaves of Chaos. We must come to his aid.’

‘It is certain that he will need it ere long,’ Huld agreed. ‘These bone warriors are enormously resistant to the pestilence carried by the disciples of the Plague God, but contagion isn’t the only weapon they carry. The horde I saw descending upon Arkhan’s army numbered in its thousands, with more emerging from the swamps to join it.’ There was a dour look in his eyes as he turned back towards Makvar. ‘There is a realmgate not far from the city, a pillar of mud and slime from which the creatures of Nurgle are vomited into the Mirefells. If we aren’t swift, Arkhan may be overwhelmed.’

Knight-Heraldor Brannok shook his head. ‘You forget, brother, that the armies of death are unlike those of mortal kings. What means their losses if with a few conjured blasphemies they can reinvigorate them and put their fallen back into the fight? Many and abominable are the powers of Chaos, but they do not infuse corpses with fresh vitality.’ He removed his helm, wiping away the sweat beading his brow. His face bore a hardened expression, implacable and resolute. ‘I advise caution,’ he said.

‘Caution is a luxury for the army in the field,’ Lord-Castellant Vogun declared, recalling a quote from the Fifteenth Canticle.

Makvar knew the parable well. Many times had he thought about its meaning and the wisdom locked within it. Quick to hesitance, slow to action. Recklessness could drive an army to destruction, but too much reserve could lead them to an even worse fate. Disgrace.

‘You surprise me, my lord,’ Brannok told Vogun. ‘I saw your indignation upon the Pathway of Punishment. You understand the limits to which these creatures may be trusted.’

Vogun patted the feathered neck of his gryph-hound, feeling the old scars where Torn had been struck by a Khornate daemon on campaign in the Realm of Fire. ‘There is no truce with Chaos,’ he stated, remembering the scene of unspeakable carnage they had found in the duardin tunnels. ‘Shyish has languished a long time under the invading hordes. They will have learned the lesson a thousand times over since the War of Bones. Whatever else they may be, they are no friends of the Ruinous Powers.’

‘If all had the nobility and valour of Sigmar,’ Kreimnar said, ‘then the Mortal Realms could never have been assailed by the hosts of Chaos. Archaon would have been hurled back into the shadows long ago. Such is not the way of things. Even among gods, such fortitude is rare.’ He laid his hand upon Brannok’s shoulder. ‘It is fruitless to despise the desert because there is no water within it. You must accept it for what it is, not what it isn’t.’

Brannok was unswayed. ‘This realm is a reflection of its god. Harsh and unyielding, devoid of pity or compassion. I don’t—’

Whatever more the Knight-Heraldor might have said never fell from his tongue. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer went on the alert as the chill of sorcery rushed along the creek, speckling the mud with beads of frost and turning the breath of each Stormcast into icy mist. A sandbar in the middle of the channel began to darken, becoming shadowy and indistinct. Liberators marched forwards, forming shields around the conclave of officers while Judicators raised bows and crossbows.

The shadow lengthened, thickening until it stood like a pillar of night. From its depths, the Great Necromancer stepped. The armour that enclosed his skeletal frame pulsed with dark energies, seeming to feed the nebulous doorway Nagash had conjured. The Lord of Death stared across the massed Anvils, contemplating their defensive formation and their readiness for action. His focus soon settled upon Brannok.

‘You are in error,’ Nagash declared. He wagged a bony talon at the dismal marshland that bordered the creek. ‘Much of this realm has slipped away since Sigmar’s leaving.’ Stretching his clawed hand, he caused one of the corpse-willows to wither, blackening to a crumbling husk in the blink of an eye. As it collapsed in upon itself, grotesque green moths dug themselves out from the ruin. Spreading their blotched wings, the insects quickly took flight. Brannok didn’t fail to note the unsettling pattern the markings of their wings assumed — three swirls that intersected in emulation of Nurgle’s fly-rune.

‘The force of death shaped the Mirefells,’ Nagash explained, ‘but no longer does it rule alone. Chaos has found its own strength here, drawing its own sustenance from the swamps. Even in this place, the enemy seeks to pervert my domain into its own semblance.’

Makvar stepped out from behind the line of Liberators. ‘Did you know the enemy was here?’ he asked. He pointed at Huld. ‘My scouts have found the second of your Mortarchs. He is beset by a horde of invaders commanded by one of the Plague God’s vile daemons.’ He tried to find any hint of surprise or emotion in the Death God’s reaction to his words, but the fleshless visage was as inscrutable as ever. ‘I have been conferring with my officers. If we don’t hasten to his aid, your vassal is certain to be overwhelmed.’

‘Is that your counsel, then?’ Nagash asked. He loomed over Makvar, his death’s head staring down at the ebon knight. ‘Would you advise a swift foray against the foe to rescue my layman?’

Makvar looked across the black masks of his knights. He knew each of them would follow his command without hesitation. Even if they had their reservations, like Brannok, they wouldn’t allow their concerns to influence their duty. It was upon him that the decision to act or hesitate would depend. What was it that Sigmar would expect of him?

‘We will march to relieve Arkhan,’ Makvar said, feeling no doubt that the decision was what would please the God-King. The Stormcast Eternals had been forged as warriors, an army to bring battle to the foe. It was their purpose and their strength. He trusted that, in his wisdom, Sigmar knew that these were the things which would bring them honour in the Realm of Death.

The shadowy gate behind Nagash expanded, seeming to reach out and enfold the Great Necromancer in its essence. ‘My layman makes his stand in the ruins of Mephitt, upon the slopes of Mount Khaerops,’ he said. He waved his claw at Huld. ‘It is a simple thing to find what is lost when you know where to look. I will bring my subjects against the enemy’s left flank. If your storm-knights can strike from their right, we will have only the foe between us.’ The darkness wrapped itself around Nagash, his final words echoing on as the shadows consumed him. Almost before Makvar was aware of it, the sorcerous cold was banished and the column of darkness evaporated. The Lord of Death had returned to his cadaverous subjects.

‘Which of us do you think he intends to bear the brunt of the fighting?’ Kreimnar asked as he drew near Makvar.

The Lord-Celestant shook his head. ‘I think the question counts for little with him,’ he said. ‘As Brannok observes, whatever losses his armies incur can be redeemed.’ He stared back at the spot where the Great Necromancer had faded from view. ‘The greater question is whether this battle is by chance or by design?’

‘You think Nagash means to see for himself our quality?’ Kreimnar asked.

‘We ask him to leave his realm and take the field against Archaon himself,’ Makvar said. ‘Before giving my answer, I think I’d want to know who I would be fighting alongside.’ He clapped the Lord-Relictor’s shoulder and led his friend back towards their knights. As Huld had said, they would have to be swift if they were to be any good to Arkhan. The Primes would have to get their retinues moving quickly.

Even as he relayed his commands to his men, Makvar couldn’t shake the warning Kismet had given him. How much of this conflict had been engineered? He felt certain he knew what Sigmar expected of him, but what was it that Nagash expected?

Mist boiled up from the spectral slime that had consumed the ancient ruins of Mephitt, rolling across the city in a ghoulish fog. The warriors of Neferata’s army became little more than hazy shadows in the grey veil, even the creak of their dry bones and the rattle of their rusty mail smothered by the glowing vapours. The vampire queen could barely detect the stolen life-energies that pulsated within the bodies of her blood knights, much less see them as they slowly trotted through the eerie expanse.

‘Shall my knights lead the charge, my queen?’ Lord Harkdron asked, his voice reduced to the merest whisper.

Neferata shifted around in Nagadron’s saddle, glowering at her vampiric consort. ‘You will hold my knights until I tell you to attack,’ she snapped. Since abandoning Nulahmia, Harkdron had become by turns insufferably presumptuous and annoyingly attentive. She knew he was fearful of his position, trying to impress upon her the invaluableness of his services. Ever since the Stormcasts descended from Azyr, he had gone to great pains to exhibit his ardent devotion to her. Neferata wasn’t certain if the display was pathetic or simply irritating.

‘Of course, my queen. Forgive me.’ Harkdron clapped his hand to his breast in salute.

‘Obedience pleases me more than initiative,’ Neferata told him. She smiled at the flicker of pain her reproof provoked on the vampire’s face. It was comforting to know that there were some things still firmly under her control.

Obedience and initiative. She turned the words over in her mind, sickened by the sound of them. Since the resurgence of Nagash from his underworlds, she had felt his abominable spirit towering over her like some smothering force. The least exertion of his awful malice and she would be crushed beneath him, her independence smothered by his all-consuming power. The Mortarchs drew their power from Nagash, a legacy bestowed upon them by the Lord of Death. Neferata feared for the moment when her dark master might repossess that power and leave her little more than a withered shell. She tried to convince herself that some things were beyond even the Death God, but there were times when such arguments sounded hollow even to her.

Now, riding through a sorcerous veil conjured by the Great Necromancer, feeling his dark spirit all around her, knowing that somewhere close by his corporeal form glided through the ruins, it was hard for Neferata to quiet the shivers that rippled through her dead flesh. Nothing seemed beyond him, not when his presence surrounded her. She wondered if everything might not be a facet of one of his eternal schemes — the War of Bones, the hordes of Chaos, even Archaon and Sigmar — all of them pieces he was moving in his endless game of domination.

The sounds of battle reached Neferata through the fog. She could smell the blood of Arkhan’s foes, the rancid, sickly stink of polluted gore and daemonic ichor. Idly, she wondered if the Chaos horde had simply stumbled upon her fellow Mortarch or if he had baited them to him. Of one thing she was certain — whatever Arkhan’s purpose in the wastes of Mephitt, it was by Nagash’s design. Of all the Mortarchs, Arkhan was most in the Great Necromancer’s shadow, sometimes seeming to be naught but an extension of his master. He could no more be separated from Nagash than one of the Death God’s hands. What, then, were they trying to accomplish?

The answer certainly revolved around Makvar and his storm-knights, but Neferata couldn’t be certain how. For her, Makvar and his warriors represented power and independence, a way to be free from Nagash’s dominion. They were a force strong enough to oppose the hordes of Chaos and perhaps even defy the malice of Nagash himself — if only she could harness them properly. Her overtures towards Makvar hadn’t been successful and she was troubled by the vanishing of Kismet. Was her handmaiden’s disappearance a reproof of her efforts to insinuate herself into the confidence of the Stormcasts? She had seen for herself how devoted Makvar was to cementing this alliance between Azyr and Shyish. At the same time, she prided herself on ferreting out the measure of the men she sought to catch in her web. Makvar’s sense of honour made it doubtful he had any penchant for intrigue of his own.

That left Neferata with the frightening possibility that Nagash himself had intercepted her messenger. Perhaps Makvar had never even received the warning about Arkhan. Certainly, if he had, it hadn’t been enough to keep him from marching to Mephitt.

The crash of battle rumbling from behind the fog intensified. Neferata could see flashes of blue light crackling behind the grey veil. War cries, too proud and righteous to bubble up from the diseased throats of Nurgle’s slaves, rang out. Makvar had sent his knights into battle. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer were on the attack, charging to rescue Arkhan’s beleaguered forces.

Neferata turned towards Harkdron. She tried to tell her consort to spur his knights into the battle, to fall upon the flank of the Chaos horde. The command faltered on her tongue, crushed into silence by a will far greater than her own.

Nagash would tell her when it was time to help the Stormcasts. Until then, she would keep her forces back and stay hidden within the fog.

Until Nagash decided otherwise, Makvar was on his own.

‘For Sigmar!’ The battle cry rose from the throats of every Stormcast as they rushed out from the veil of mist, rolling like thunder across the brooding desolation of Mephitt.

Once again mounted on the back of his dracoth, Makvar led the charge of his warriors through the sunken avenues and out into the vast clearing Huld had described. The translucent ectoplasm had a viscous quality about it, sloshing around the feet of the Stormcasts like mud but at the same time proving far firmer than the bog they had crossed to reach the ghost city. He noted at once that it was more than physical laws that governed the substance. Despite Gojin’s immense weight, the reptile sank no deeper into the translucent sludge than the Liberators around him. It was as though the spectral muck refused to draw an animate body more than a few inches into itself.

The fog soon thinned and Makvar had an unobstructed view of the clearing. It was like a great plaza, bordered at one end by the sunken mountain and on the other sides by the ruinous sprawl of the city. A thick veil clung to the far side of the clearing, concealing the forces Makvar expected Nagash to bring against the Chaos horde. The end opposite the mountain had no such misty shroud clinging to it, but instead was a maze of walls and rooftops. Ahead of these ruins, squat and colossal, was the horned daemon Huld had seen. Around the diseased abomination, a scummy host of mortals and daemons gathered, abasing themselves before its frog-like feet before rushing away to give combat to their foe.

True to Huld’s dire prediction, that foe was swiftly fading. The great legions of bone warriors, the troops of malignant cavalry, the swarms of vengeful spirits — these had been battered and shattered by an adversary as persistent as they were obscene. The broken shells of skeletons lay strewn about the plaza, slowly being sucked into the ectoplasmic mire as the sludge drew the inert material down into its depths. The fleshless giants were gone, as were the catapults and chariots. Everywhere, the hordes of Chaos surged and swelled, engorged in their victories and inflamed by the noxious presence of the Great Unclean One. They poured into the undead ranks with an almost fearless ferocity. Beyond the dwindling line of skeletons, Makvar could see the figure of Arkhan on his gruesome steed. It wouldn’t be so very long before the enemy was climbing up the bone-littered slopes to reach the Mortarch.

‘For Sigmar!’ Makvar cried out. The foremost of his knights had already reached the flank of the Chaos horde. They struck down dozens of skin-clad marauders and goat-headed beastmen, slaughtering them with hammer and sword. The sparking flashes from their attack shone with magnified brilliance, an aspect of the arcane battlefield that caught Makvar by surprise and which drew the attention of the Nurglesque warriors. Those not embattled by the undead turned to address the assault on their flank. Howling their diseased fury, the brutish throng came rushing at the black-armoured Stormcasts.

Makvar drew back on Gojin’s reins. The dracoth spat a gout of lightning skyward. It was the signal to the Judicators massed behind the advancing Liberators and Paladins. From the archer formations, a withering volley of lightning came hurtling down into the charging brayherds and marauder tribes. Chaos warriors crumpled as smoke steamed from their scorched mail, and lesser daemons burst in greasy gouts of ichor. From above, the winged Prosecutors swooped down, hurling their stormcall javelins into knots of cavalry and the slithering foulness of Chaos spawn. A sheet of searing lightning hurtled into a swarm of nurglings, exploding the diseased mass before it could come flooding into the ranks of Liberators.

A note from Brannok’s battle-horn saw the Liberators fall back and close their line as the pulverising wrath of his clarion cracked one of the monoliths and sent its debris slamming down upon the Nurglesque warriors. Each Liberator braced his shield and secured his place in the new formation. The disorganised mobs of gors and barbarians crashed ineffectually against the shield wall, swiftly repulsed by blazing swords and crackling hammers. The Stormcasts pushed them back, taking no pride in repelling these simple foes. The real test of their stamina would come when the heavier troops came against them, when daemons and sorcerers turned their eldritch attentions upon the Anvils.

Makvar looked beyond the oncoming enemy, watching the far side of the plaza. Before the hordes of Chaos could turn the full strength of their diseased malice against them, he hoped that Nagash would give them something else to worry about.

A tremor rippled through the translucent ground, but this time it wasn’t provoked by Brannok’s battle-horn. Makvar felt his gaze drawn towards the end of the clearing. The horned daemon was moving, waddling across the carcasses of its own minions as it moved towards the fray. Content to sit back and watch before, now the Great Unclean One had taken it into mind to play a more direct role in the fighting.

With an obscene grin on its monstrous face and a malicious gleam in its cyclopean eye, the daemon was moving towards the Stormcasts.

Chapter Nine

From the shadows, the Great Necromancer watched as Makvar’s warriors met the rancid forces of Chaos. He observed the Stormcasts with cold deliberation, scrutinising their actions as he would any novel specimen he found worthy of study. The conditions were at variance with what he had intended to arrange, but there were things to be learned from this unexpected conflict.

Nagash was already aware of the steely resolve and nigh-unshakable courage that burned within the spirit of each Stormcast. It was a phenomenon that was, in many ways, an antithetical process to the black art of necromancy. Even amongst the highest forms of the undead, their revivification involved a diminishment of the soul, the peeling away of layers of identity until the spirit was reduced to a blackened core. Such reduction was needful, stripping away the residue of mortal attraction and confusion that would pollute the resurrection process. Only by breaking that connection to the mortal plane, breaking the link between life and undeath, could a new sense of purpose be instilled into the undead. Without that diminishment, there were few souls with the will to endure, capable of embracing eternity without a destructive yearning for the things lost with their mortal existence. Those undead with the strongest attachments to their prior existence would become crazed, hateful things, either denying the reality of their altered state or mindlessly lashing out at whatever recalled that condition to them.

Sigmar had found some different path to redeeming the spirits of his warriors. The process employed by the God-King was such that his Stormcasts weren’t reduced by their resurrection, but instead were magnified by it. Nagash appreciated the amount of effort and power it took to craft undead of strength and versatility near to what he had seen the Stormcasts exhibit. The thought that Sigmar could draw upon such a magnitude of arcane energy was something the Lord of Death found both disturbing and enticing. It made the armies of Azyr more formidable than he had imagined, but it also meant there now existed a power strong enough to drive back the spread of Chaos.

A power that could serve Nagash as well as Sigmar.

The burn of celestial light lanced down into the Chaos horde. Nagash’s might was such that he drew no discomfort from the purity of the blaze, but he could sense the painful reaction it provoked from Neferata’s vampires. Nearer to that discharge of celestial energy, the lesser undead that formed the basis of his legions would find the arcane bonds that invigorated them coming apart, breaking the cohesion of the spells that endowed them with animation. It gave the Lord of Death pause to consider how his creations could be dismantled by this oppositional force. It made him wonder if there might be a similar force that could break the magic which had reforged each Stormcast from a fragile mortal spirit into a mighty warrior of the God-King.

The Chaos horde, so near to overwhelming Arkhan’s battered regiments, was now turning the brunt of its fury against Makvar’s knights. Bleating brayherds trampled their own dead as they charged through the volley loosed upon them by Stormcast bows, rabid froth bubbling from their jaws as they snapped and slavered against sigmarite shields. Howling barbarians flung aside the smouldering bodies of their own tribesmen as they endured the divine storm set upon them by Kreimnar’s relic-weapon, brutal axes and flails crashing against the unyielding formations of Makvar’s knights. Despite the distance that separated them, Nagash could hear the Lord-Celestant calling out to his warriors, rallying them against the teeming masses of their foes. Lightning crackled from the scaly jaws of his steed, burning marauder horsemen from their saddles and reducing their grisly standards to smoke and ash.

Nagash watched as the first packs of daemons came boiling out from the Chaos tide to assault the shield wall of Makvar’s knights. How often he had watched mortal formations crumple before such an attack, their very flesh recoiling from the presence of creatures shaped from the raw stuff of Chaos. The malign aura of a daemon could even disrupt the crudest forms of undead, reducing their motivation to such a degree that they became easy prey for raking claws and slavering fangs. Yet the Stormcasts exhibited no change in their determination. They endured the rush of daemons with the same resolve with which they had opposed the advance of their mortal foes. Just as they had withstood the lascivious malignance of Slaanesh’s minions in the rubble of Nulahmia, so they found no terror in the diseased claws of Nurgle’s obscene progeny.

Courage and determination could accomplish only so much. Here and there, one of the Anvils fell before the enemy, slain by the blade of a daemon or incinerated by the bilious magic of a Nurglesque sorcerer. From each vanquished knight there blazed forth a flare of celestial light that streaked up into the darkened sky before vanishing into the aether. Nagash could feel the spirit nestled within each flare, could sense its trajectory as it pierced the veils of Shyish to return to Azyr.

The Great Necromancer reached out with his mind to those of his Mortarchs. His acolyte Arkhan responded immediately to the call of his master. Without hesitation, he acted. The undead legions around Mount Khaerops rallied for a renewed offensive. Necromantic energies crackled about their fleshless limbs, pouring redoubled ferocity into their desiccated frames. The deathly host surged forwards, smashing and battering their way through the brutish tribes that had only the instant before threatened to overwhelm their position. Arkhan remained upon the slopes of the mountain, dropping from the back of his steed and crouching upon the corpse-strewn ground.

Nagash’s commands extended to Neferata and her warriors. On his order, she spurred her vampiric knights into an assault against the enemy horde. The blood knights would act as the tip of the spear, plunging deep into the corrupt mass of Chaos. After them trooped regiments of grave guard and deadwalkers, flights of morghasts and covens of deathmages. The ghostly fog would magnify the scope of Neferata’s attack, inflicting upon the invaders the illusion of a far greater threat. Already he could see the waddling bulk of the Great Unclean One turning away from the Stormcasts, shifting his attention from Makvar’s knights to this new undead attack.

The pressure against the Anvils lessened as the minions of Chaos found their focus shifting. Nagash was pleased by the rapidity with which his design unfolded. He had seen how the Stormcasts acquitted themselves against the creatures of Nurgle, there was no reason to bleed their strength further by prolonging such an engagement. Not when there were far more important observations to be made.

Exerting his will once more, Nagash seized control over a swathe of Arkhan’s legion. At his command, the bone warriors flung themselves forwards in a reckless advance against a warband of hulking Chaos champions. The undead assault was swiftly broken, their shattered bones sinking into the spectral sludge. A bubbling cry rose from the savage victors, a shout of diseased jubilation. Vanquishing these last skeletal foes brought the Chaos warriors an unexpected boon. They had created a break in Arkhan’s lines, exposing a gap that left them with a clear path right to the slopes of Mount Khaerops. It was an opportunity the murderous invaders were quick to seize.

From above the clearing, Huld’s shout of alarm rang down to the other Stormcasts below, alerting Makvar to the peril that threatened Arkhan.

Now the real test Nagash had planned for the Anvils would begin.

Makvar brought his sword crunching down into the shoulder of a festering plaguebearer, a stream of putrid liquid and maggots bubbling up from the wound. Before he could strike again, Gojin’s claw came raking across the creature’s torso, ripping its organs and snapping its bones. The mangled daemon was smashed beneath the dracoth’s feet, its remains swiftly evaporating into a greasy smoke. The reptile threw his head back in a bellow of anger, offended by the unnatural dissolution of his prey.

Around the Lord-Celestant, the Anvils of the Heldenhammer slowly pushed their way through the morass of Chaos creatures. Blocks of Liberators sought to channel the monsters and marauders into the waiting axes, hammers and glaives of the Paladin retinues. Judicators armed with vicious boltstorm crossbows prowled behind the shield wall, ready to loose a deadly barrage the instant any hole appeared in the defences. More Judicators sent a steady wave of crackling arrows arcing down into the attacking barbarians, leaving their scorched bodies strewn along the course of the Stormcasts’ advance.

Overhead, Huld and the Prosecutors kept a wary vigilance, monitoring the ebb and flow of battle and warning Makvar the instant they spotted any shift among the Chaos forces. He knew the winged knights well enough to appreciate the frustration such restraint provoked, but the Lord-Celestant needed to conserve them until the last moment. Until it was too late for the foe to react and redeploy their warriors.

Grateful as he was that Nagash’s army had emerged from the fog to fall upon the Chaos horde, Makvar felt a sense of frustration as well. The undead who attended Neferata and the Great Necromancer had inflicted many casualties and an enormous amount of confusion with their sudden charge. Many of the enemy tribes and herds moving to engage the Anvils had withdrawn to confront this new threat to their rear — including the gigantic daemon that appeared to be commanding the diseased throng. It was only the lessening of pressure against his own lines that allowed Makvar any freedom of movement.

He had need of such liberty, and it was this that discomfited Makvar. The diminished regiments defending Arkhan had rallied and attempted to mount an assault upon the Chaos horde they simply lacked the strength to achieve. Whether they sallied forth to support Nagash or to aid the Anvils was of small consequence now. The damage had been done — the minions of Nurgle had ripped a hole in the undead ranks, enabling them to penetrate the perimeter the skeletons had been maintaining. A rancid mob of Chaos warriors now rushed unimpeded towards the rise where the Mortarch of Sacrament stood.

Even if they annihilated the whole of the Chaos horde it would bring no victory to the Stormcasts if they lost Arkhan. Nagash insisted his Mortarchs were essential to rebuilding the strength of his armies. How much truth there was in his claim made no difference. Finding Arkhan was one of the conditions Nagash had set before Makvar. If the Anvils failed now it would threaten the alliance they had been sent to broker.

‘Onwards!’ Makvar cried out to his knights. ‘For Sigmar and for glory!’ He spurred Gojin forwards, crushing another plaguebringer beneath the reptile’s immense bulk. His sword flashed out in a vicious arc, raking the face of a snarling daemon and sending the furry arm of a beastman flying into the air. More foes swarmed towards him to replace the slain and wounded, the stink of their oozing sores and corrupt breath blotting out even the musky smell of the dracoth he rode.

Press ahead. That was the tactic the situation demanded of Makvar and his command. If they couldn’t fight their way through the Chaos host, if they failed to reach Arkhan before the enemy, then nothing else would matter. A flash of light rose off to his right, a sombre reminder to him of the price such haste demanded. When the fighting was finished, he would learn the names of those Stormcasts who had fallen. For now, it was enough to know they were sustaining losses and that with each knight overwhelmed by the foe, the task ahead of them became that much harder.

The invigorating glow of Lord-Castellant Vogun’s lantern shone upon Makvar. He could feel the healing energies rushing through him, fending off the contaminated filth that dripped from his blade and spattered his armour. Gojin uttered an exultant hiss as the gashes in his scaly hide began to close and heal. Wails of pain rippled from the fanged maws of the plaguebringers, and they threw up their scrawny arms to cover their monstrous eyes from the celestial light. The resemblance to the aversion exhibited by their undead allies wasn’t lost on Makvar, and did little to comfort the dark turn his thoughts had taken.

‘Break upon the Anvil!’ Vogun shouted, holding his lantern high in one hand as he brought his halberd smashing down into the bearded face of a marauder with his other. The barbarian staggered back, clutching at his bloodied visage with something that more resembled a tentacle than a hand. Before he could recover his thoughts enough to resume his attack, the marauder was borne down by the raking claws and slashing beak of Torn. The gryph-hound made short work of his adversary and hastened back to Vogun’s side, ready to kill all who threatened his master.

By degrees, the Stormcasts were gaining ground, forcing the Chaos warriors back onto the rusted spears and primitive swords of the undead. Pressed between two foes, the marauders and beastmen broke ranks, descending into utter disorder. In their panic to escape destruction, they stampeded over their own comrades, turning their axes and clubs upon the daemons and chieftains who tried to force them back into the fight. The routed barbarians and gors were ripe for the slaughter. Makvar felt no compunction ordering his knights to obliterate their reeling enemy. The Stormcasts had seen for themselves the mercy Chaos extended to those who felt helpless before them.

The dark shapes of Huld and the Prosecutors soared close to the Anvils before climbing once more and speeding away to the right. Makvar responded to the arranged signal and urged his knights to leave their broken enemies to the pitiless attentions of the undead. Their own objective was elsewhere. Smashing through the few packs of beastmen and warbands of marauders who stood in their way, Makvar led the Anvils in pursuit of the armoured Chaos warriors trying to converge upon the summit of Mount Khaerops.

The Prosecutors cast their javelins down into the charging Chaos warriors as they flew past them. The missiles cracked against the spectral sludge with elemental fury. Great craters opened up in the ectoplasm, gouged from the ghostly material by the explosive bursts of electricity. The scorched bodies of mangled warriors were sent spinning through the air. Others fell into the ghoulish pits, screaming with the horrors of the damned as the translucent muck came flooding back in to fill the depression. Trapped within the spectral mud, they struggled to claw their way back to the surface before the ectoplasm smothered them. Few proved equal to the effort.

Huld landed on the bone-littered slopes of the mountain, wings unfurled, the light of his celestial beacon blazing around him. The Knight-Azyros put himself between Arkhan and the Chaos warriors who still sought to overcome the Mortarch. The first armoured brute who rushed towards him was sent flopping down the slope, cut in two by a sweep of Huld’s sword. A second warrior crashed to his knees and pitched forward among the bones after the winged knight sent his horned head bouncing from his shoulders.

The Prosecutors made a second pass over the Chaos warriors, scattering their enemy and breaking the momentum of their charge. A stream of sizzling foulness shot up from the mouth of a diseased warlock, the boiling spew engulfing one of the flying Anvils and knocking him from the sky. As the stricken Prosecutor slammed into the ectoplasm, a blue flare streaked skyward. Before the sorcerer could try to repeat his murderous feat, Kreimnar brought a cascade of retribution roaring down from the sky, engulfing the enemy warlock in a shower of thunderbolts.

Then, Makvar was leading the vanguard of his force into the scattered Chaos warriors. Steel plate pitted with corrosion and rust flattened beneath his dracoth’s claws, pox-ridden flesh branded with the viral sigils of Nurgle split before the cleaving edge of his sword. A bolt of lightning from Gojin’s jaws reduced a charging foeman into a steaming husk, the spiked mace in his hands splashing across the ground in a molten puddle.

Liberators rushed to support the Lord-Celestant, forming up to either side of Gojin to guard the dracoth’s flanks and keep Makvar from being surrounded by the enemies who remained. Though they had the numbers, Makvar doubted the Chaos warriors still had enough unity of purpose to coordinate such an attack. Those who came rushing at the Stormcasts did so as individuals, sparing no thought for any strategy greater than coming to grips with the ebon knights. The Anvils, by contrast, fought as though they were bound into a single sigmarite body. The Liberator who struck down a flail-wielding invader was guarded by the broad shield of the knight beside him when a slobbering axeman sprang at him. The Decimator who failed to finish a fly-headed Chaos champion with a blow of his thunderaxe was spared the bite of his enemy’s rusty claymore when a Judicator sent several bolts from his crossbow punching through the warrior’s chest.

Some few of the Chaos warriors still tried to climb the slopes of Mount Khaerops. Thinking to overwhelm Huld with ferocity and numbers, they failed to account for the speed and finesse of the Stormcast. Weaving between a half-dozen foes, Huld visited upon them a flurry of glancing cuts and shallow slashes. Death wasn’t the dominating concern of his swift blows, but simply a measure to dull the haste of the rancid invaders. Diseased blood spilled from each of the Chaos warriors as they tried to recover their momentum and make another rush up the slope.

Flapping his great wings, Huld hopped higher up the bone-strewn rise, keeping himself between the enemy and Arkhan. He risked a look back at the kneeling liche. He could make no sense of the incantation that tumbled from the Mortarch’s bony jaws or the symbols he scratched into the earth with his skeletal claws. But he could feel the power Arkhan was evoking, the magical chill that crept into the air and turned his sweat into beads of frost.

The enemy could sense it too. Huld could see the lethal resolve that wriggled in their eyes. Whatever spell Arkhan was working, these minions of Chaos were determined to disrupt his conjurations.

Huld pointed his sword at the biggest of the brutes, a barbarian with such a swollen gut that his iron armour had split open to expose the bulge of his belly. The Stormcast could see the blistering fury in the diseased man’s eyes. ‘You’ll have to get past me if you want him,’ he warned the invader. The bloated warrior scowled at him with what little of his face wasn’t hidden behind the rusted mesh of his helm. His pudgy fingers clenched tighter about the haft of the twisted axe he bore. Huld nodded as he prepared to receive the Chaos warrior’s attack.

Then the Knight-Azyros found himself thrown into the air. Before he could catch himself, he slammed into the litter of bones and started rolling down the slope. As his vision swirled, shifting between the slope and the sky, he had the impression of something rising up above him.

Something unbelievably gargantuan.

Something unspeakably monstrous.

Makvar gazed in disbelief as the entire top of Mount Khaerops reared up. An avalanche of bone was sent crashing down the slopes, spilling across the clearing in a clattering cascade of grinning skulls and broken skeletons. Up from beneath the mound of bones, an enormous talon erupted into the air, slamming down with pulverising force against the exposed rock of the mountain. Two smaller claws flanked the huge talon, all of them attached to a great skeletal framework that somehow recalled to Makvar the outline of a colossal hand.

The immense fingers stretched, revealing a skein of tattered flesh between them. Leathery, hideous, the decayed skin gave off a charnel reek. A dozen yards from where the first talon gripped the rock, a second enormous set of claws burst from beneath the mound of bones. These talons smashed through the layers of bleached bone to seize the rock buried beneath. Again there was the vast finger-like framework with its canvas of rotten skin stretched between each digit.

With both talons anchored in the rock of the mountain, a fresh avalanche of bones came crashing down the slopes. Rearing up from beneath the skeletal heap was a titanic shape. As big as a dragon, more hideous than anything that had haunted the cursed streets of Nulahmia, the beast lurched up from its hidden tomb.

Makvar saw now that the limbs it had first thrust forth were the behemoth’s forelegs, attached to its shoulders by thick knots of wiry sinew and exposed muscle. Its body, broad at the chest, tapered off to a long tail of naked bone. Masses of mouldy grey fur clung to the beast’s torso, rents in its skin displaying the raw meat and organs within. A great gash along its left side exposed the skeletal frame of its spine and ribs, and the withered husk that should have been its heart.

The colossal beast’s head jutted forwards on the merest stump of a neck. It was a hideous countenance, at once possessed of a long jaw and a squashed forehead. Grisly eyes gleamed from the pits that opened to either side of the yawning nasal cavity. Long fangs jutted from the bone stretch of its jaws, curving downward like scimitars, stabbing upward like a phalanx of pikes. The tatters of leathery ears dangled from the sides of the monster’s bestial skull, strips of skin and fur dripping from their rotted lobes.

The terrorgheist will destroy us all. The words echoed through Makvar’s brain, stabbing into his awareness like a knife. His gaze turned from the gigantic creature, drawn to the one who called out to him. He saw a skeletal figure retreating from Mount Khaerops on the back of an abyssal steed. Whatever relief he felt at seeing Arkhan intact was quashed by the realisation that the thing looming above the mountain was mighty enough to make even the Mortarch withdraw from it.

My magic has roused it, but I underestimated its strength. I can exert no control over it. Each thought Arkhan thrust upon Makvar carried an icy lack of emotion. There was no apology or shame that the creature his necromancy had conjured wouldn’t obey him. It was a statement of fact, nothing more. Arkhan had certainly adopted his master’s air of passionless detachment.

Makvar swung around in Gojin’s saddle, looking across the battlefield. The Chaos warriors who had been engaged with the Anvils were all but exterminated, and he could see that the remnants of Arkhan’s army had fared much the same. It was the army of Neferata that now bore the brunt of the enemy’s effort. He could see the grotesque Great Unclean One waddling about, snatching vampire knights from their saddles with his flabby claws or incinerating grave guard with bile from his gaping maw. Though he could feel the sinister presence of Nagash, he saw no trace of the Lord of Death within the raging melee.

The Lord-Celestant looked back to Mount Khaerops and the gigantic terrorgheist that now squatted upon its slopes. Gazing upon it, experiencing the air of hostility and evil that rolled off it, he didn’t doubt for a moment that the behemoth had the potential to turn the tide of battle all on its own. Under Arkhan’s control it would have ensured the annihilation of the Chaos horde. Free to vent its malignance at liberty, it represented a threat that couldn’t be ignored.

‘Makvar!’ Vogun cried out, gesturing with his halberd. ‘The beast has spotted Huld!’

It was true, the terrorgheist’s head had turned downward, contemplating the cadaverous mound beneath it. Among the litter of bones, the dark armour of Huld fairly shouted his presence to the gigantic undead bat. The Knight-Azyros was keeping still, refraining from any sudden motion that might provoke the beast.

‘The terrorgheist has slipped free of the Mortarch’s control,’ Makvar declared, his voice loud enough to reach every Stormcast gathered near to him. ‘How is a question for later. What concerns us now is what to do about it.’ He looked at Vogun’s lantern, thinking about the adverse way the undead reacted to the light of Azyr. Leave this task to us, he thought, hoping his intentions would reach Arkhan’s mind as the Mortarch’s had his own.

‘The undead are leaving us!’ Brannok called out. The Knight-Heraldor indicated the battered legions of Arkhan. The bone warriors were leaving the positions they had held, advancing across the clearing to support Neferata’s embattled forces.

‘Leave them,’ Makvar declared. ‘Against this enemy, the Anvils of the Heldenhammer will fight the better for being alone.’ He turned towards Kreimnar. ‘Call down Sigmar’s wrath against the beast.’

The Lord-Relictor nodded his skull-like helm. ‘One strike may not be enough to consume that monster,’ he warned.

‘So long as it gives Huld a chance to slip away, and the rest of us a chance to draw near,’ Makvar said.

Kreimnar raised his relic-weapon. On the mountain, the terrorgheist was slowly moving one of its clawed hands, gradually shifting the talons closer to Huld. Perhaps the undead beast thought if it moved slow then its prey would be oblivious to the peril. Perhaps it simply thought the Knight-Azyros was paralysed with fear. Whatever its motivation, the gigantic brute was unprepared when a crackling deluge of lightning seared down upon it from the dark skies above. As it reared back in shock, strips of fur and flesh burning in the fury of Kreimnar’s magic, Huld sprang to his feet and stretched his wings. The Stormcast became a dark blur as he threw himself from the slopes of Mount Khaerops and soared away from the bat-like behemoth that had been ready to devour him.

Enraged both by the blast of lightning that had scorched its bones and by the escape of its prey, the terrorgheist threw back its head and uttered a deafening shriek. Spreading its tattered wings, the beast rose into the air, diving down from the summit straight towards the Anvils’ black ranks.

The beast’s flight was too swift for Kreimnar to draw down another thunderbolt to intercept it. Instead, Makvar called upon the Judicators to loose against the oncoming behemoth. At the Lord-Celestant’s signal, the massed archers sent a volley of crackling energy searing up into the terrorgheist. Most of the lightning simply steamed against the beast’s hardened bones or tore ribbons of decayed flesh from its desiccated body, but a few provoked angry snarls and flicks of its bony tail.

Diving down upon the behemoth from above, the Prosecutors were the next to assault the flying horror. Throwing their stormcall javelins into the gigantic brute, the explosive spears detonated in the beast’s decaying bulk. Shreds of meat and bone were ripped from the behemoth, and its tattered wings were further mangled as skeletal shrapnel tore through them. A living beast, even one of the mighty dragons, would have been felled by such havoc, but if any spark of true life had ever burned within the terrorgheist, it had long ago been extinguished by the fell magics of Shyish. Abruptly turning its dive into a vicious climb, the gargantuan horror snapped at the Prosecutors flying above it, catching one of its tormentors in its enormous jaws. The sound of splintering mail echoed down to Makvar and his knights as their winged comrade perished under the bat’s piercing fangs.

Once more, Makvar called for the Judicators to loose against the titanic beast. This time, Gojin’s electric breath was added to the barrage that rose up to strike the terrorgheist. Again, the havoc visited upon the beast was hideous, but largely cosmetic to a creature that could endure with a shrivelled heart and bloodless veins. The gigantic bat wheeled about in the sky, chasing after the Prosecutors as though they were mosquitoes flying above the stagnant waters of Wolfhof’s tarn. A flash of celestial light marked the end of another Anvil in the monster’s jaws.

‘Keep after it!’ Makvar commanded. The Stormcasts spread out along the drowned plaza, trying to keep the terrorgheist overhead. Retinues of Judicators kept their skybows trained upon the beast, loosing whenever it drew within range. Among the Paladins, those armed with the brutal starmaces gripped their weapons with frustrated anticipation. Let the monster descend for but a moment, and they would let it taste the might of the Anvils.

The terrorgheist swung around once more, hurtling after a Prosecutor it had missed in its previous rush. Now the bat intended to finish its foe, its jaws stretched wide as it flew towards him. Before it could close with its prey, another winged Stormcast dived towards it. Makvar thought he caught the gleam of the golden halo fastened to Huld’s helm. An instant later, he knew for certain the interceptor was the Knight-Azyros. Interposing himself between the terrorgheist and the Prosecutor, Huld held his celestial beacon before the undead monster, letting the purifying rays sear into its grisly essence.

Stunned, shrieking, the huge monster plummeted earthward, slamming into the translucent syrup that covered the plaza with the force of an earthquake. Monoliths and statues that had stood so long above the spectral sludge now toppled under the force of the beast’s impact, sinking with eerie lethargy into the mire. The terrorgheist itself floundered in the ghostly slime, the crater inflicted by its impact swiftly filling again and threatening to suck the beast into the depths.

‘Before it can free itself!’ Makvar called out to his knights. Dozens of Stormcasts charged toward the trapped terrorgheist, striking it with swords and hammers. Makvar noted the blazing discharge of a starmace and watched as several feet of the monster’s thrashing tail went sailing through the air.

The beast’s claws lashed out at its attackers, crushing one Liberator and ripping a Retributor open from collar to groin. Then the terrorgheist drew back, seeming to fold in upon itself like a coiling serpent. For a moment, it held itself still, then it lurched forwards, its jaws stretching wide to let loose a murderous shriek. The terrorgheist’s cry proved as deadly as the blast from any dragon’s maw. Blue light erupted from several Stormcasts unfortunate enough to be too near the bat’s head when it gave voice to its rattling scream. The howl had extinguished their vitality in less than a heartbeat, hurling their spirits back to the Realm Celestial and the armouries of the God-King.

Makvar urged Gojin towards the hulking beast, hoping to save more of his knights from the terrorgheist’s malevolence. The brute turned its head towards him, coiling back to unleash another deadly shriek. Two things happened before the gigantic bat could sound its cry. The first was the bolt of crackling lightning that flew from Gojin’s jaws to blast one of its ears to ruin. The second was the blinding blaze of Vogun’s warding lantern as the Lord-Castellant shone it into the terrorgheist’s eyes. The beast’s agony was such that it forgot about Makvar and his dracoth, instead snapping its huge jaws at Vogun.

Vogun darted away from the terrorgheist’s bite and retaliated with a slash of his halberd that sent fangs rolling across the clearing. Growling at the undead monster, ignoring the colossal difference in their sizes, Torn sprang at the beast that had tried to eat its master. The gryph-hound’s beak ripped into the terrorgheist’s rotting face, slashing such meat as yet clung to its skull.

A snarling sheet of lightning crashed down into the terrorgheist as Kreimnar brought the fury of the God-King descending upon the undead horror. Flesh steamed in the elemental blast, bones blackened and fractured. One of the monster’s wings withered into a charred stump. The shriek that hissed from the monster’s jaws now was one of agony as the dark magic which fuelled its abominable animation was burned away.

Makvar brought his sword chopping down into the stumpy neck that supported the terrorgheist’s bat-like head. The blade sheared through the rancid flesh, gouging the thick vertebrae beneath. The decaying beast swung around, trying to snap at him with its blackened jaws. A crack of Gojin’s tail broke the momentum of its assault and sent more of its fangs tumbling onto the ground.

Gripping his sword in both hands, Makvar brought the blade slashing down in a vicious stroke. The sharp edge sheared through the already weakened bone. The terrorgheist’s head crashed to the ground, dislodging Torn from his worrying grip on the beast’s ear. The massive body twitched and writhed, tail whipping out in blind malignance, the remaining wing closing and opening in mindless spasms. A ragged shout of victory rose from the Stormcasts around the vanquished monster, their triumph tainted by the loss of their comrades to the beast’s rampage.

‘Now we must return to the real fight,’ Makvar declared, rousing his knights and recalling to them the greater battle raging above the drowned streets of Mephitt. Even as he did so, Vogun drew the Lord-Celestant’s attention to the turn that battle had taken.

The corrupt Chaos horde had come the worse for their struggle against the undead. Between Neferata’s vampires and Arkhan’s bone warriors, the slaughter had been monumental. Dire spells leapt from the eldritch staves the two Mortarchs carried as they rode about the periphery of the conflict, decimating entire warbands with each of their conjurations.

The bloated, toad-like daemon which led the forces of Nurgle, the hulking Great Unclean One that had seemed so formidable to Makvar when he led his knights to Arkhan’s rescue, was now beset by a power even more destructive. Nagash had sallied forth from the darkness to confront the daemon. The skeletal Lord of Death sent masses of clawing wraiths screaming across the huge daemon’s cancerous body, tearing great rents in his hide. He hurled shrivelling magics into the thing’s exposed organs, reducing them to empty husks. Chilling energies streamed from Nagash’s staff, cracking and splitting the Great Unclean One’s oozing skin, freezing its horns and nose, making them so brittle that they shattered when his foe tried to strike at him with a giant diseased sword.

Nagash’s other hand gripped a sword of his own, a blade of such immense darkness and malice that it seemed to drain the vitality from the very air around it. When the Lord of Death brought his blade against that of the daemon, the bilious sword was shorn in half, split asunder as though it were naught but a twig. The deathly weapon continued its murderous sweep, slashing into the daemon’s body, hewing through its vast maw and cyclopean eye. Relentless to the last, Nagash gave the blade a twisting flourish before tearing it from the daemon’s body.

Almost before Makvar understood what he was watching, the immense daemon of Nurgle lay corroding at Nagash’s fleshless feet in four gory segments.

The Stormcasts had exhibited their might for the undead. Now Nagash had shown the warriors of Sigmar why the God-King was so keen to restore the Lord of Death to his pantheon.

Chapter Ten

The translucent morass that had consumed Mephitt surrounded the Anvils of the Heldenhammer as they descended into the depths of the ruined city. Wispy orbs and weird lights flittered through the sunken streets, darting down empty avenues and through abandoned archways. Colossal statues sitting atop huge pedestals of marble and malachite flashed into view as the ghost-brands rushed past them. Pyramidal obelisks and ovoid menhirs were revealed as glowing motes swirled around their bases.

More macabre than the drowned echoes of the forgotten city were the gruesome objects that hung suspended within the ectoplasmic lake. Bones of every description, human and inhuman, hovered within the opaque mire, slowly drawn down into the depths of Mephitt. The corpses of beasts and men killed in the recent fighting, the splintered remains of Arkhan’s vanquished warriors, could be seen oozing their way down from the surface, sinking with almost glacial lethargy into the shadowy underworld. The broken husk of the terrorgheist was there, gargantuan and hideous, its monstrous bulk drawn down towards the long-hidden flagstones of Mephitt’s great plaza.

‘I can feel the chill of this place chewing into my bones.’ The words were spoken by Knight-Heraldor Brannok, but they could have come from any of the Stormcasts. The clammy, dank atmosphere was inescapable, too persistent for even Lord-Castellant Vogun’s lantern to hold at bay. It was a cold not of temperature but of spirit, the frigid clutch of an open grave, the slumbering malice of the dead towards the living.

‘This necropolis is offended that we are here,’ Lord-Relictor Kreimnar stated. Boldly, he reached out his hand, feeling the translucent wall beside him recede ever so slightly at his touch. ‘It has been a long time since anything that drew breath walked these streets.’

It didn’t take Kreimnar’s arcane sensitivity to feel the sullen hostility that oozed up from the ruins. Lord-Celestant Makvar felt it all around him, a creeping sensation that crawled through his skin. It was like having a thousand eyes watching him, glaring at him with pitiless hate. Every instinct in his body and all the fighting reflexes he had honed and developed were shouting to him, crying out to him to beware. It wasn’t fear — that emotion was all but unknown to the Stormcast Eternals. It was something more subtle, welling up from some primal aspect of his being. It was the same anxiety he could feel pulsing through Gojin’s reptilian bulk, could see hovering about the feathered head of Vogun’s gryph-hound. As Kreimnar said, life wasn’t welcome in Mephitt, and even the basest creature could feel itself trespassing upon a world in which it had no place.

Yet for all the malice, the atmosphere of bitter threat Makvar felt pressing in around them, he knew that the Stormcasts were in no danger. The spirits that haunted the desolation, the spectral malignity of Mephitt’s ruins, the deathly essence of the translucent mire, all of these were manifestations of the Realm of Death. Nothing of this sinister land would do them harm. Not while they were in the company of the god who claimed dominion over Shyish.

Makvar gazed at the eerie tunnel through which the Stormcasts marched, boring its way through the submerged streets, lit by a ghostly glow that followed the knights as they pressed deeper into the city. Ahead of him he could see the fleshless ranks of Arkhan’s skeletons, the crimson armour of Neferata’s vampires. Beyond them, towering over the undead legion, was the morbid throne upon which Nagash reposed, carried upon a phantom tide of writhing spirits, surrounded by the black essence of the Great Necromancer’s power.

When he had descended from Azyr, Makvar had imagined Nagash to be a dwindling force, a fading deity whose powers were waning. They had come to broker alliance with Neferata because they had believed the Mortarch to be a more active opponent of Chaos, a leader of such defiance as yet lingered within Shyish. Nagash, he had thought, was in retreat, sealed off within his underworlds, unable or unwilling to oppose the hordes of Archaon. Seeing his swift dispatch of the Great Unclean One proved to Makvar that whatever else, Nagash’s powers were still far from extinguished. Watching him stretch forth one of his bony hands and bore a passage through the ghostly sludge which buried Mephitt impressed upon him that this was still the realm of the Death God.

No, there wasn’t any question that Nagash was still a formidable power. He could stand against the tide of Chaos. What Makvar wondered was if the Great Necromancer was willing to do so. Perhaps he had been too long in his hidden vaults and underworld catacombs to believe victory was still possible.

‘Lord-Celestant, a rider comes,’ Huld called to Makvar. The Knight-Azyros waved one of his wings as something emerged from the undead ranks and crossed the gap that separated the Stormcasts from their allies. Makvar almost expected to see Neferata’s handmaiden drawing towards them, to relay tidings from her mistress or to pass along some veiled warning. Instead, what he saw was a withered husk perched atop a skeletal steed. The mounted corpse bore a bony standard in one of its fleshless claws, a golden icon mounted to the top of the morbid pole. The thing regarded the Anvils with its empty sockets, then dipped its head in a creaking extension of honour.

‘Mighty Nagash wishes you to attend him,’ the rider said, its jaws moving too slowly to match the words that rattled from them. ‘If Lord-Celestant Makvar would follow, he will be shown where he will be received.’

Brannok drew close to Makvar’s side. ‘Don’t go alone, commander,’ he cautioned.

Makvar cast his gaze up at the mass of ectoplasm above them, pondering how far below the surface they were now. ‘If Nagash willed, it he could bring this tunnel crashing down upon our heads,’ he said. ‘No, he has no need for subterfuge. Not while we are so completely in his power.’ It was hardly a comforting sentiment, but then they hadn’t been sent to the Realm of Death to play things safe. They had been sent to accomplish their mission and accept whatever risks were demanded to execute that purpose.

‘You should take someone with you,’ Kreimnar said, studying the undead horseman. ‘Someone to offer advice and council should it be needed.’

Like Brannok, Kreimnar was more worried about Makvar’s safety than any strategic concerns, but unlike the Knight-Heraldor, he was more cunning about expressing himself. The suggestion even had merit in its own right. Makvar was wise enough to appreciate that his focus on the success of their mission might blind him to other matters. Nuances of possibility that might have an oblique effect upon the alliance he strove to build.

‘I will take Brannok, Huld and Vogun,’ Makvar told Kreimnar. ‘I trust that will allay some of your worry, old friend?’ Of all of his officers, Brannok and Vogun were the ones most critical of the powers they had been sent to court. As a result, they would be the ones paying the most attention when he conferred with the Lord of Death. Huld, with his keen tongue, was someone he was certain would prove essential in any event.

‘Bring such servants as you deem needful,’ the skeleton declared. ‘Great Nagash will be waiting.’ Its message delivered, the undead herald collapsed in upon itself, its bones losing their cohesion. The horse disintegrated in similar fashion, crashing to the ground in a mess of decay.

By its disintegration, the undead rider impressed another message upon Makvar. It was that whatever served Nagash existed only because it had a purpose useful to him. Once it became superfluous, its existence could be snuffed out in a matter of a few heartbeats.

The weight of ages lay wrapped about the royal palace of Mephitt. The tomb-mire that had smothered the city made it impossible for dust to gather or spiders to spin their webs between the columns. No vermin scurried in the shadows, no decay pitted the gruesome frescos painted on the walls. Yet time had left its stain just the same, the years seeping down into the marble floors and limestone walls, tainting the bronze sconces and brazen braziers. A miasma of antiquity clung to it all in defiance of the arcane preservation of the spectral lake that had drowned the once-mighty city.

It needed only a wave of his hand for Nagash to send the tomb-mire rolling back, to drive the opaque sludge from the great hall where the necro-kings of Mephitt had once lorded over their people. As he marched to the barren throne where the ashes of the last necro-king lay heaped, he let the ancient vibrations of the dim past inundate him, welcoming him with ghostly harmonies and the silent howls of the grave.

The Great Necromancer seated himself on the jewelled throne. Dimly, he could feel the lingering essence of the last necro-king, its final agonies and entreaties bound into the place of its dissolution. Nagash banished the irritation with a thought, hurling the royal spirit into the formless shadows of the realm it had once ruled. The Mortarchs who followed him into the hall sensed his casual obliteration of the spirit. He felt the tremor of fear that pulsed through Neferata and the shiver of adoration that coursed through Arkhan’s ancient bones.

So vastly different in character, these two scions of death, yet each had an important part in Nagash’s vision. Makvar and his Stormcasts had their own role to play, even if they were as yet unaware of it. Their performance in the plaza had revealed much to him, allowing him to better place them within his design. Their potential was enormous. As hard as it came to him to accept Sigmar’s withdraw from the Realm of Death, he had to concede that the God-King had accomplished much behind the gates of Azyr.

Nagash looked up as he felt the presence of the Stormcasts enter the hall. The celestial energy that burned within them, the mark of Sigmar’s Reforging — he knew the alarm it evoked from Neferata’s vampires. The Mortarch of Blood’s reaction was more layered, less clearly defined. It was like her to view anything new in the context of both threat and advantage. If she felt the reward was grand enough, there was little she wouldn’t risk to further her pursuit of power. Sometimes she was overbold in her recklessness. Sometimes her lack of restraint left her exposed to hazards even she couldn’t see.

Arkhan’s contemplation of the Anvils was more like that of his master. The Mortarch of Sacrament pondered the methodology behind their creation, the limitations invested within them. He would be thinking of their armaments both as menace and as asset. Not with an eye towards his own advantage, but with the cold detachment of expanding his knowledge so that he might be of even greater use to the Great Necromancer. If Neferata’s failing was her selfish ambition, then Arkhan’s was his lack of the same. He suffered from a deficiency of imagination, an inability to ferret out the possibilities, to follow hope and fear to their furthest limitations.

Of course, when it came to dreams of avarice and schemes to power, there was one who made even Neferata’s intrigues appear childishly simple. Nagash intended to call upon that twisted mind quite soon. With the help of Makvar and his knights.

‘Lord Nagash,’ Makvar greeted him. The Great Necromancer noted that the black-armoured knight made no obeisance before him. It was more than pride — the Mortarchs had that in abundance yet they didn’t hesitate to prostrate themselves in his presence. No, it was that rarest of all things — an absence of fear. For why should a warrior feel fear if death would simply speed his soul back to the halls of Sigmar to be cast anew in the forges of the God-King?

‘I have summoned you, knight of Sigmar, to make my intentions known,’ Nagash told Makvar. He looked across the warriors who accompanied the Lord-Celestant. The flare of purity shining behind the shutters of the lantern fixed to the belt of one companion evoked a twinge of amusement. Such a weapon would discomfit Neferata or Arkhan, possibly even destroy some of the vampire queen’s entourage, but it was nothing to a being who had once walked beside Sigmar and withstood the aura of the God-King himself.

Makvar stepped forwards and pointed towards Arkhan. ‘We have helped to restore your disciple to you,’ he said. ‘It is my hope that we have displayed to your satisfaction the quality to be found in Sigmar’s servants and the advantage of fighting beside us against the common foe.’

‘Your command sustained casualties in the fight,’ Nagash stated.

Makvar’s voice had just the faintest edge to it when he answered. ‘Most of our losses were suffered putting down the monster Arkhan summoned with his magic.’

Nagash nodded, shifting around so that his deathly countenance glowered down at the liche-king. ‘Explain yourself,’ he hissed at Arkhan.

The Mortarch of Sacrament fell to one knee, bowing his head before his master’s ire. ‘The fault is mine, my liege. The invaders had forced their way past my guardians. In my rush to work my spells and conjure a servant mighty enough to defy them, I made an error in my incantation. My haste is to blame for rendering the terrorgheist beyond my control—’

A wave of Nagash’s skeletal claw silenced Arkhan’s apologies. ‘Your carelessness has brought harm to those that would befriend us,’ he said. ‘Be grateful that they were able to put down that which you so recklessly summoned.’ He turned back towards Makvar. ‘It is my hope that your casualties were not too severe.’

‘We still have strength enough to accomplish our mission,’ the winged Stormcast Huld answered. It was the sort of ambiguous response a skilled diplomat would give, acknowledging the situation while assuring it made no impact upon the relative positions of all involved.

‘That remains to be seen,’ Nagash cautioned. ‘Confidence is but the prelude to achievement.’ He waved one hand towards the undead who stood beside his throne. ‘I must rebuild the might of my legions if I would help Sigmar wage his battles. To do so, it is needful that my Mortarchs assist me in my labours. Two of them now stand at my side, but there is a third whose help is essential to me.’

‘You ask that the Anvils of the Heldenhammer find this missing vassal for you?’ Huld looked aside to Makvar before continuing. ‘Are you making that a condition…’

‘There can be no alliance based upon disparity,’ Nagash declared. ‘I will not treat with Sigmar unless it is as his equal.’ The Great Necromancer extended one of his fleshless hands. From his bony claws, a ripple of dark magic poured away, striking the cold floor of the forgotten palace. In response, streamers of spectral essence billowed upwards, growing like phantasmal vines. As the deathly energies wound about each other, they merged, fusing into a single pillar of writhing green light. When the pillar stood higher than any of the assembled Stormcasts, its summit began to fold in upon itself, transforming into a nebulous sphere-like shape. With each gyrating shudder that passed through it, the form grew more defined and distinct until finally the Anvils found themselves staring up at a grisly visage. It was almost bestial in its degree of cruelty, menace dripping from the vicious set of the jaws and the sharp beak-like nose. The eyes were sunk deep within shadowed sockets, the bald pate distorted by nodules of bone.

‘This simulacrum is the face of Count Mannfred, the Mortarch of Night,’ Nagash said. ‘I will need his powers to restore my legions.’ At a flick of his talon, he caused the phantom image to alter, now showing the vampire riding an abyssal steed into battle, wielding a ghoulish blade against unseen foes. ‘Of all my vassals, Mannfred has fared the best in his efforts to defy the spread of Chaos.’

Makvar pointed at the apparition Nagash had conjured. ‘There is no need to remind us of Mannfred’s visage. Well do we know that countenance. It is the face of an adversary the warriors of Sigmar have found themselves in conflict with before.’

The simulacrum disintegrated in a burst of wailing light as Nagash extinguished his spell. ‘He rests once more within the expanse of my realm, like a prodigal son slinking back to his home. Perhaps your comrades have taught him humility, or maybe the lesson he has learned is merely to be less audacious in what he would claim for himself. Repentant or unbowed, he is necessary just the same.’ Nagash let his gaze bore into the stern mask that covered Makvar’s face. ‘There are many past slights which must be set aside if there is to be an understanding between us. Do not think the Stormcasts are alone in the matter of old enmities they must forgive… if not forget.’

Silence hung over the hall as Nagash let his words echo in the air. Even if he had heard only Sigmar’s side of the tale, Makvar couldn’t be unaware of the manner in which the old alliance was broken, or of the fate which came upon the Realm of Death as a result. The Lord-Celestant was far from a stupid man — he had imagination enough to conceive how those events were regarded by the Great Necromancer and his followers. Beside the abandonment of an entire realm to Archaon’s hordes, of what consequence were the reckless aspirations of a power-hungry Mortarch?

‘As you say, Lord Nagash,’ Makvar stated, ‘there is much that must be set aside so that we may all focus upon the task before us. The fact that Sigmar has sent us to you is proof enough that the God-King understands this and is ready to forgive old conflicts.’

A rattling chuckle hissed across Nagash’s fangs. He turned aside, looking across his Mortarchs and their followers. ‘Eloquently spoken,’ he decided. ‘The very nature of an embassy is compromise. But do all your warriors share your sense of vision, Lord-Celestant?’ Nagash leaned forwards, fastening Brannok in his spectral sight.

The Knight-Heraldor met the Lord of Death’s cadaverous stare. ‘It isn’t necessary to share my commander’s clarity of vision,’ he said. ‘It is only necessary that I obey. That I remain faithful to my vows, my duty and my faith.’

Brannok’s answer both amused and provoked Nagash. ‘Faith?’ he repeated the word, turning it over as though dissecting it with his voice. ‘What is faith but a mask to hide doubt? What is it but a deceit evoked to goad the feeble-minded beyond the limits of reason? I had imagined it was something noble and rational that endowed the Stormcasts with such remarkable potential, yet within I discover only the atavism of faith.’

‘Faith is the source of my strength,’ Brannok retorted. ‘Faith in Sigmar God-King, trust in his divine power and wisdom.’

‘Be wary where you place your trust, knight, lest you find yourself abandoned.’

‘That is a warning which should be turned towards the creatures which haunt your court,’ Brannok said, pointing at Neferata and her vampires. ‘They are the ones that have been abandoned and left to slink through the shadows.’

‘You understand little,’ Nagash said, ‘and least of all what it means to serve me. Those who do are never far from my reach.’ He dismissed Brannok from his notice, instead focusing once more on Makvar. ‘There is nothing that transpires within the Realm of Death that can long escape my attentions. When Mannfred returned to this realm, he sought to hide himself within the vastness of his old castle of Nachtsreik. Within that labyrinth of crypts and vaults, he defies the hosts of Chaos that hunt for him.’

‘If he is so well hidden, how will we find him?’ Makvar asked.

‘By uniting our powers,’ Nagash answered. He gestured at Huld’s celestial beacon. ‘With the light of Azyr we can penetrate Mannfred’s illusions.’ His skeletal hand closed into a bony fist. ‘And with my might, the prodigal son can be brought to heel.’

The rich silks of the divan upon which he rested caressed Lascilion’s abused flesh the same way the sensuous perfume anointing their folds teased his nose. There was something almost tortuous about such indulgent luxury after the carnage of battle and the agonies of defeat. He wondered if Bloodking Thagmok had the acumen to appreciate the subtlety of such torment. If he did, then he had forgotten the desires of those who devoted themselves to the Prince of Chaos, those who plunged into that excess of experience and sensuality where the borderland between pleasure and pain wasn’t simply breached, but ceased to exist entirely. If Thagmok wanted to punish him, the worst he could have done to Lascilion was to shut him up in an empty box and leave him to rot.

‘You aren’t being punished. You are being offered the chance for redemption.’

The words drifted to Lascilion in a husky whisper, redolent of lewd suggestion and hedonistic promise. The Lord of Slaanesh felt his body longing to submit to those seductive tones, but the fierce will that burned within him resisted the temptation. It was all too easy to allow sensation to eclipse desire, to plunge into vacuous indulgence and lose all appreciation of the very lusts that enslaved the flesh.

‘I have told you before to stay out of my mind,’ Lascilion snapped, rising up from beneath the silk coverlet that sheathed his body. The companions disturbed by his sudden motion went scampering off into the scented darkness of his pavilion.

Strolling out of that darkness was a slim figure arrayed in a long cloak of feathers. A tall helm of reflective gemstones and mirrored glass cradled the proud head that rose above the onyx clasps that held the cloak across narrow shoulders. A pectoral of beads and bones spilled over the swell of more-feminine charms. Small, delicate fingers curled around the haft of a slender staff that seemed at once to be shaped from both crystal and clay. Nodules of metal embedded in its length blazed with some inner light.

Even if her features hadn’t been reshaped by the mutating gifts of the Lord of Change, Lascilion would have been hard-pressed to judge either age or origin when it came to the sorceress Molchinte. That she had strayed far from whatever tribe had produced her was obvious. Such was the way of Chaos. The gods favoured the wanderer, the one who always strove to go beyond the next horizon, endlessly seeking some new novelty of sensation with which to honour their god. Or, in Molchinte’s case, some new ember of knowledge to trap in the web of her scheming mind.

‘If you would put barriers between us, then you shouldn’t have allowed my magic to heal your wounds,’ Molchinte said. Though no sound issued from it, the vestigial mouth that opened across her cheek parroted the motion. ‘Of course, Thagmok would have small use for a crippled hedonist unable to leave his bed. A tidbit for the flesh hounds to toy with, certainly nothing more.’

‘Your ministrations have healed my injuries,’ Lascilion conceded, turning his head and looking at his recent playthings cowering in the dark. ‘I have regained much of my old stamina.’

Molchinte ignored the boast. ‘Thagmok feels you are whole enough to perform the task for which you were spared death upon the skull-wheel.’ A flick of her hand and the sorceress caused Lascilion’s forked tongue to rasp across his lips. ‘You found Neferata once, when all others failed in the task. The Bloodking demands you do so again.’

Lascilion scowled at the sorceress, baring his leonine fangs. ‘I have told him my condition. I have told him that I will hunt the vampire queen only with the understanding that she is mine.’

A contemptuous laugh rose from both of Molchinte’s mouths. ‘How childish are your ambitions, Lord of Slaanesh! Can you not rise beyond your brute instincts! Are you so dull that you don’t understand how things have changed! Did you truly think Thagmok spared you simply so you could glut your depravity!’

The warlord’s temper rose as the scorn of the sorceress whipped out at him. ‘I am the favoured of Slaanesh!’

‘The broken servant of a broken god with a broken army strewn about the ruins of Nulahmia,’ Molchinte returned. ‘Think, Lascilion! Why were you driven to defeat? The lightning-men, the warriors who came down from the sky. Yours isn’t the first horde to be decimated by them. Across the Mortal Realms, strange armies have appeared to oppose the hordes, seeking to stem the ascendancy of Chaos.’ Her voice dropped to a subdued whisper. ‘The Everchosen himself has communed with Thagmok and given the Bloodking his commands. Neferata has become a triviality, an inconsequence in the greater skein. Archaon is concerned that lightning-men have appeared in the Realm of Death, that they have struck where not even his daemon prophets predicted them to appear. He has seen possibilities behind their presence here. Possibilities that will not be allowed to come into being.’

Lascilion fell silent under the weight of Molchinte’s words. Even daemons trembled at the name of Archaon, the Everchosen who bore the favour of the Dark Gods and had been granted honours and powers beyond the scope of any mortal. There were some who venerated him as a god, and Lascilion wasn’t certain they weren’t right to do so. To know that the Everchosen had heard of his defeat made the warlord’s stomach sicken. But the idea that it was within his power to render a service to Archaon sent his pulse quickening.

‘Thagmok would have me sniff out Neferata as I did before,’ Lascilion said. ‘What then?’

‘Slaughter,’ Molchinte said.

At a gesture, Molchinte drove the shadows from where they clung about the pavilion. Lascilion was startled to find that others had entered the tent with the sorceress. In one corner, he saw the diseased bulk of Alghor Wormsword, his corroded armour straining to restrain the cancerous organs slowly oozing up from beneath his flesh. The semi-daemon Vaangoth, his limbs clothed in shaggy strips of crimson fur, his body encased in arcane armour that dripped with the blood of his countless victims. Orbleth the Despised, arrayed in a patchwork cloak woven from the scalps of wizards and priests, his pallid flesh scarred with the marks of all the Dark Gods and the brand of Chaos eternal.

Amala was among them, the winged mutant’s eyes somehow conveying a sense of uneasiness. Lascilion could imagine her disappointment, expecting reward for carrying the disgraced warlord to the Bloodking’s doubtful mercy. Instead, the Lord of Slaanesh once more held dominion over her. It was a temptation to reach to the table beside his divan and take up Pain and Torment. Striking down the treacherous mutant would be a delightful diversion. But Lascilion denied himself the pleasure. Amala had been useful to him before and could be so again. Later, once she wasn’t so useful, would be the time to dispose of her.

‘These are the most vicious killers among the Bloodking’s warbands,’ Molchinte said. ‘Between us, we carry the marks of the Ruinous Powers, the favour of the Dark Gods. We can slip unnoticed to the places where Neferata seeks to hide. Our command is to kill her, and those who would befriend her.’

Lascilion shook his head. ‘Thagmok expects a handful of warriors to succeed where my entire army found destruction? I have seen these lightning-men. Each of them is worth a score of warriors.’

‘We don’t need to kill them all,’ Molchinte said. ‘Only their leaders. Only those who would draw the armies of death out from their lurking seclusion in this realm…’

Knight-Heraldor Brannok paced across the dead courtyard, staring up at the terraces which climbed the side of the ancient palace. He tried to imagine what this place had been like when Mephitt was a living city and not a vast tomb buried beneath the Mirefells. The empty basins of fountains evoked the gurgle of bubbling water, the barren confines of planters conjured the smell of flowers, the skeletal frames of trellises summoned the comforting shade of vines. A little platform projecting from the flagstones suggested the sound of musicians drawing harmonies from flute and horn.

He closed his hand about the gilded horn that hung from his belt. Those who had dwelt here had been men, people with lives and dreams. At least of such sort as the Lord of Death permitted them to have. Brannok wondered if the city had perished before the conquering hordes of Chaos or if its end had been brought about by some caprice of Nagash, some offence that had provoked the Great Necromancer.

No good could come from such contemplation, Brannok realised. When the rest of the Stormcasts set up camp in the empty halls of the palace, he had drawn away to meditate upon the turmoil he felt within himself. Why was it so difficult for him to accept the situation? Why couldn’t he resign himself to his duty the way Makvar and the others did? Even Vogun, who shared Brannok’s misgivings, seemed more accepting of what was demanded of them.

Brannok didn’t for a moment doubt the wisdom of Sigmar in seeking this alliance with Nagash. The might of the undead was undeniable, the menace of Chaos unquestionable. For the greater good, Brannok knew this merging of forces must come to pass. Yet knowing it and feeling it were two different things. His conscience kept crying out to him, reminding him of those who had suffered under the dominion of Nagash and his disciples. Try as he might, he couldn’t still the loathing he felt for the monsters they had been sent to befriend.

A rustle of cloth and the sound of a footfall stirred Brannok from his meditations. Spinning around, his sword half-drawn from its sheath, he was surprised to see Neferata watching him from the shadows. The vampire queen’s expression was almost contrite, almost embarrassed. Almost. As she smoothed the dark gown that hugged her body, Brannok reminded himself that this was no woman walking out from the shadows, only a monster pretending to be one.

‘Forgive my trespass,’ Neferata said. ‘I didn’t mean to intrude on you.’

‘If there was any truth in that claim, you would have passed me by without making a sound,’ Brannok told her. ‘I am certain a predator like yourself has become quite skilled at moving unseen and unheard.’

Instead of responding to him with the regal disdain and arrogance Brannok expected of her, Neferata lowered her gaze, staring down at the flagstones. ‘You have seen through my pretence,’ she said. ‘I wished to speak with you.’

Brannok started to turn away. ‘If you want to talk, seek out Lord-Celestant Makvar or Huld. They have the authority and the skill to negotiate with a personage of your status. I am naught but a soldier doing as his duty compels him.’

Neferata walked towards him. ‘You hate me,’ she stated.

‘What I saw in your city makes it easy to hate,’ Brannok said. ‘The suffering and terror you inflicted upon your subjects—’

‘They should have fared far worse, storm-knight, had they been given into the grip of Chaos,’ Neferata answered. She shook her head, a tinge of disgust on her face. ‘Who are you to judge, who has only known the righteous protection of Sigmar? Do you know what it is to see everything around you despoiled and corrupted by Chaos? What lengths would you go to if it meant you could stave off that destruction?’

‘Lord-Celestant Makvar has proffered the same explanation,’ Brannok said. ‘I can find no sympathy for it. If everything good and innocent is destroyed to oppose Chaos, then for what do you fight? No, my lady, you should speak with Makvar. As you say, I have no kindness towards you.’

‘That is why I must speak with you,’ Neferata said. ‘Your antagonism towards us is known. None will expect me to seek you out.’ She hesitated, watching Brannok to see what impact her words might have. ‘In the swamp, I sent my handmaiden Kismet to pass warning to Makvar. She didn’t return.’

‘How can you be certain the Anvils aren’t responsible for her disappearance?’ Brannok asked. Despite his animosity and suspicion, he saw the threat such circumstances could cause the Stormcasts and their mission.

‘I am a judge of some quality when it comes to men,’ Neferata said. ‘If you were to reject my overtures you would do so openly, not in such sordid fashion. No, it is someone else who seeks to prevent any understanding between us.’

‘Nagash?’ Brannok nodded as he considered the notion. From what he had seen, what he knew, the Great Necromancer exerted complete control over his vassals. He wouldn’t abide one of his Mortarchs acting on her own.

Neferata merely nodded. ‘I cannot pretend to know his intentions, but understand that he does nothing without a purpose.’ She paused, her voice falling to a whisper. ‘When we seek Mannfred in Nachtsreik, Arkhan will not accompany us. He has been set another task by our master. While we are hunting for Mannfred’s crypt, Arkhan will be here removing the obsidian domes from the Temple of the Vulture. I don’t expect you to understand the import of that, but know the domes are fashioned from the same stone as the Obelisk of Black that was removed from Nulahmia. Such relics have arcane potential that can magnify the potency of any spell focussed through them.’

Brannok was silent a moment, trying to put himself in Makvar’s place, trying to find the arguments his commander would make. The explanations that would make him still believe in an alliance between them. ‘Maybe he needs these relics to summon the army he will send to aid us.’

‘Don’t be deceived,’ Neferata warned. ‘The terrorgheist that slew your comrades. You were told it slipped free of Arkhan’s control. Arkhan assumed responsibility for its attack. Yet I tell you, next to Nagash himself, there is no more skilled practitioner of the Art than the liche-king. There was another purpose behind that attack.’

Brannok drew closer, listening intently while Neferata whispered to him her theories of intrigue and deception.

Neither the Knight-Heraldor nor the vampire queen was aware of the eyes watching them from the darkness.

Or felt the burning malignance of that gaze.

Chapter Eleven

Wan, gibbous light flickered through the blackness, revealing just enough of the subterranean vaults to make the shadows beyond its reach still darker and more menacing. Arches of bone curled overhead, mineral encrustations dripping from them in gnarled spears and jagged fangs. Underfoot was a grainy surface of ash and dust, rippling and flowing as a phantom breeze wafted across it. The walls, when they loomed out from the shadows, were shaped from countless skeletons, each body entwined with its fellows, melding into stony solidity. Bare skulls stared out from the walls, seeming to bemoan the fate that had claimed them… or inviting those who gazed upon them to share in it.

‘This is an unclean place,’ Lord-Castellant Vogun declared, making the sign of the hammer with his hand as he gazed upon the morbid vastness. At his side, Torn whined in sympathy with his master’s uneasiness. The gryph-hound kept close to Vogun’s side, lingering near the warding lantern hanging from his belt as though to draw some comfort from the holy light.

‘We tread upon the dust of nations,’ Lord-Relictor Kreimnar said, emphasising his words by stomping down on the sand-like surface. The added pressure caused him to sink up to his knee in the ashes. One of the Liberators marching alongside him helped Kreimnar pull free from the hole. Throughout the dark tunnel, the rest of the Stormcasts pushed through the morbid drifts of ash and dust. Sometimes eerie energies would rise up from the ground and swirl around lone knights, fumbling at their armour with wispy hands and vaporous claws. Usually, the spirits vanished as swiftly as they appeared, but several times their persistence had drawn angry sparks from the black sigmarite plate. At such times, the repulsed apparitions uttered dejected wails before flying away into the darkness.

Worse dangers prowled the underworld of Shyish. The Anvils had caught fleeting glimpses of gangrel shapes lingering at the edges of the light. Things with gleaming eyes and slavering mouths, dripping claws and decaying flesh. Some of the stalkers were diminutive, wasted creatures, while others were grotesques far larger than a mortal human. Others still bore no resemblance at all to human shape, but instead suggested slithering reptiles and venomous arachnids in their nebulous outlines. Human or inhuman, tangible or phantom, the hostility and hunger radiating from the stalkers was undeniable, impressing upon each Stormcast that he was trespassing in a forbidden land. Only the presence of Nagash kept the horrors from rushing out of the shadows and consuming the intruders. It was a lesson that wasn’t lost on the Anvils.

Lord-Celestant Makvar felt the weight of responsibility pressing against him as never before. At every turn, the Stormcasts were exposed to the enormity of Nagash’s power. The grisly underworld through which the Great Necromancer led them was like nothing they had been prepared to imagine. The scope and magnitude of these endless vaults fashioned from the materials of death staggered credulity. The dust through which they trod represented an ocean of graves, each mote and speck a particle of some extinguished life. From these ashes, Nagash had shaped an entire world, an empire buried beneath the conquering hordes of Chaos.

Yes — when Kreimnar said the Anvils marched across the dust of nations, he spoke the truth. How many peoples had been vanquished? How many kingdoms drawn into the endless night? In death and destruction, they served Nagash more completely than they could ever have in life. Mortal debris became the brick and mortar of the Great Necromancer’s domain, spirits became the fuel of his magics. The transition from life to death fed Nagash’s power. It was this that made the Death God so mighty. It was this which also made the Lord of Death so formidable and fearsome. Each display of his power impressed upon Makvar not only his strength but the grisly source of that strength.

To cement the alliance between Azyr and Shyish, Makvar knew he had to gain the trust of Nagash. Without the undead to support the assault upon the gate of Gothizzar, the Anvils of the Heldenhammer would be unable to press their attack into the Allpoints. They needed the creatures of Shyish at their side. Facilitating that meant stifling his own qualms and suspicions. He had to believe in the purpose of his mission, had to embrace it with uncompromising conviction. He had to accept the realities of what they had seen in Nulahmia and Schloss Wolfhof and Mephitt, to appreciate that such extremes were the price of defying Chaos when the enemy had all but devoured the entire realm. Cruelty and terror were often the only things that could defy the lure of Chaos, to keep a people fighting when all seemed hopeless. Compassion was a luxury the conquered couldn’t afford.

It was towards a greater good that they had to rouse Nagash from his seclusion and draw his undead legions into the larger fight. Anything else had to be ignored. Even the security of Makvar’s own warriors. He knew how completely they were in Nagash’s power now. The forces of death were all around them, waiting in the dark. The slightest gesture, the simple withdrawl of Nagash’s protection, and those hungry wraiths would flood the Stormcasts in a sea of death. Even if they could find the path back to the desolation of Mephitt, Makvar couldn’t envision many of them making it back to the surface.

‘How much further do you reckon we must march?’ The question came from Knight-Heraldor Brannok. He kept his sword drawn as he walked beside Gojin’s flank, eyes roving across the lurking shadows. Of all the Anvils, it was Brannok who exhibited the most suspicion of their grim allies. It was telling of his sense of loyalty and duty that he expressed that suspicion by keeping close to Makvar in hopes of shielding the Lord-Celestant from harm.

‘The Realm of Death is vast,’ Makvar said. ‘Nor can we be certain these vaults can be measured in leagues or miles as we understand them. I cannot say how far we’ve come. It would be even more impossible to say how far we have yet to go.’

Makvar studied Brannok for a moment. It wasn’t the length of their journey that disturbed him, but the question of what they would find waiting for them at its end. He had brought Neferata’s message to the Lord-Celestant, tidings that gave Makvar much to ponder. The disappearance of Kismet in the Mirefells was certainly an ill portent, if it was truly as mysterious as the vampire queen suggested. The Mortarch of Blood had her own aspirations, a facet that added a new wrinkle to the web of intrigue that characterised the shadowy world of the undead. She was most eager to prove her friendship towards the Anvils, even at the expense of her fealty to Nagash. That very fact forced Makvar to be sceptical of her warnings. She could be trying to curry favour with him by sowing suspicion of her master.

Still, Makvar had to admit, there was some truth bound into Neferata’s warnings. Whether she was genuine or simply clever enough to clothe her deceptions in a mantle of reality, he couldn’t say. It was certainly true that the Obelisk of Black had exerted a disturbing energy on the Stormcasts who bore it away from Nulahmia. It was also true that Arkhan had remained behind in Mephitt, ostensibly to replenish the forces lost combating the minions of Nurgle by reanimating the city’s ancient dead. Might he also be gathering the relics Neferata had described?

Brannok stepped ahead of Gojin, placing himself between the dracoth and the rider who came galloping towards the Stormcasts. It was a messenger from the entourage of Nagash and Neferata. No skeletal herald this time, but a leering vampire in blood-red armour. Makvar recognised the cruel visage of Lord Harkdron as he drew his decayed horse to a halt several yards ahead of the Anvils.

‘Great Nagash extends his salutations to you, Lord Makvar,’ Harkdron announced, not quite able to keep the distaste he felt from tainting his words. ‘He commands me to inform you that the redoubt of Lord Mannfred is near.’ The vampire leaned forwards in his saddle, his face curling back into a sneer. ‘The seclusion of Nachtsreik has been disturbed. The enemy lays siege to it, seeking to force their way past its defences.’

‘Nagash expects us to lift the siege?’ Brannok returned Harkdron’s scorn.

Harkdron glared back at the Knight-Heraldor for a moment, his eyes glittering with hate. ‘The Great Necromancer expects nothing,’ he snarled back. ‘What Nagash commands is that Lord Makvar select a small contingent of his storm-knights to accompany him into the fortress.’ The vampire shifted his attention back to the Lord-Celestant. ‘Much time will be lost if we try to fight our way through the enemy host,’ he explained. ‘Mighty Nagash is aware of the urgency of your embassy and would spare a needless effort. A handful of your warriors — no more than a score — should suffice.’

‘What is Nagash’s intention?’ Makvar asked.

‘There are ways into Nachtsreik known only to him,’ Harkdron said. ‘Passages too small for an army but where a smaller company can move with ease.’

‘And, of course, Nagash will join this foray,’ Brannok’s voice came like an audible scowl. Makvar gave the warrior a reproving glance.

Harkdron nodded. ‘Great Nagash and Queen Neferata will accompany you, along with such attendants as they feel needful.’ The vampire smiled, displaying his sharp fangs. ‘Without them, it is doubtful you could even find Mannfred’s sanctuary, much less treat with him before he ripped out your throats.’

Holding his hand towards Brannok, silencing whatever rejoinder the Knight-Heraldor might be tempted to make, Makvar dismissed Harkdron. ‘Tell Nagash that the Anvils of the Heldenhammer stand ready to aid him in restoring contact with his vassal. Tell him that we appreciate this concession to the urgency of our mission and the furtherance of an alliance that will benefit both our realms.’

The vampire started to ride away, then turned back, an almost frightened look on his face. He hesitated a moment before relaying one last command from the Great Necromancer. ‘When you decide which storm-knights are to join you, Nagash asks that you include those who carry the Light Celestial among your entourage.’

Brannok watched as Harkdron rode off, then turned and spoke to Makvar. ‘Why does Nagash want to draw Lord-Castellant Vogun and Knight-Azyros Huld from our ranks? Why them specifically?’

Makvar felt he knew the answer. From all he had witnessed, even Arkhan and Neferata were sensitive to the light Vogun and Huld carried in their lamps. ‘I think Nagash is unsure that Mannfred will be as eager to submit to his master as the other Mortarchs. He may feel that Sigmar’s light is necessary to subdue the Mortarch of Night.’

A shroud of mist marked the doorway between the forbidden underworld and the secret redoubt of Nachtsreik. Even to Neferata, the mist had a clammy, parasitic feel to it. She knew that for a mortal, the phantasmal barrier would be even more repulsive, sucking at their veins and drawing out their essence. Such spectral walls had the potential to ward off all but the most powerful slaves of Chaos, though the arcane demands to maintain such barriers went beyond the abilities even of the Mortarchs to sustain for long. Only Nagash had such power. Walking through the mist, Neferata was reminded of his dominance and the strength of his fell shadow.

The barrier opened into the mouldy confines of an ancient crypt. The caskets had long ago been pulled from their niches in the walls, the bones of their occupants strewn about the floor. A winding series of steps rose up from the tomb, climbing towards the smashed timbers of a narrow doorway. Neferata could see the skeletal figure of Nagash already ascending those steps, one bony hand curled around the haft of his staff, Alakanash. With his other hand, the Lord of Death evoked the ancient spirits of the crypt, surrounding himself in a circle of ghostly energy.

Only a few of Neferata’s vampire knights accompanied her from the underworld, the rest remaining behind with the remainder of her army. Lord Harkdron followed the blood knights through the mist, his expression sullen. Her lover had grown increasingly attentive to her since his failure to defend Nulahmia, as though his eagerness to please could blot out his deficiencies. She had made no secret of her displeasure, fully aware how her disapproval only fed the vampire’s devotion. In the presence of beings like Nagash and Arkhan, it did her pride immeasurable good to have someone at her side who still worshipped her as a goddess.

The fearful adoration she had enjoyed in Nulahmia would be hers again. Neferata was determined to regain everything that had been lost. Even if it meant defying the intentions of the Great Necromancer.

Neferata turned to face the veil of mist, watching as Makvar and his Stormcasts marched out from the underworld. Not so much as a shudder passed through their armoured frames. The only evidence of their fearful passage was found in the gryph-hound that crept alongside Vogun. The half-bird’s feathers were ruffled and his lean body shivered with the trauma of his trot through the veil. Neferata considered it a testament to the might of the Stormcasts that they not only withstood the barrier, but had even been able to compel a simple beast to follow them through.

The vampire queen noted that Brannok was among the warriors Makvar had chosen to accompany him. She took that as a reassuring sign, evidence perhaps that he was taking her warnings to heart. Whether Nagash intended to support the Stormcasts or not, Neferata saw only advantage for herself by gaining their goodwill.

The rest of Makvar’s followers consisted of a mixture of archers and swordsmen, as well as the winged storm-angel Huld and the formidable healer-priest Vogun. The skull-helmed Kreimnar wasn’t in evidence, however. Left behind to command the rest of the Anvils while they awaited the return of Nagash and their commander.

Makvar looked around the crypt, seeming to take especial notice of the layers of cobwebs and mould that coated the walls and filled the niches. ‘What is this place?’ he asked Neferata.

‘You might call it an antechamber,’ she said. ‘A threshold between the underworld and the rest of Shyish. There are many such places in the Realm of Death, though only Nagash knows them all.’

Huld came forward, gesturing at Harkdron and the other blood knights. ‘Forgive me for what may seem an imprudent observation, but I expected you to bring more warriors.’ The words brought a frown to Neferata’s face and a glower to that of Harkdron.

‘You are in the presence of the Lord of Death,’ Nagash’s words echoed through the crypt. ‘There is no mightier power in this realm.’ The Great Necromancer turned from the top of the steps, staring down at the Stormcasts below. ‘If it is disparity of numbers that unsettles you, I will put your fear to rest.’

Neferata felt the power gathering into Nagash’s claw as he pointed down to the floor of the crypt. She recognised the nature of the magic he was conjuring, though it was of a magnitude that surprised her. The litter of bones tossed about the tomb began to tremble, bouncing upon the cold floor with spasms of animation. A green nimbus of energy gathered around each fragment and with a speed she found to be incredible, they leapt from the floor. A dozen whirlwinds of shattered bone gyrated about the crypt, waves of necromantic energy streaming from Nagash’s hand into each eddy.

The spirals of bone began to take a distinct shape as Nagash’s magic fused the fragments together. They were forms which Neferata realised could never have been natural to the occupants of the crypt. Skeletal apparitions, each as big as a Stormcast, that had tattered wings sprouting from their backs and canine jaws distorting their bestial skulls. The Great Necromancer wasn’t reanimating the dead, he was using the mortal debris as a shell to house the primordial spirits of his own guard. In appearance, they were not unlike the morghasts who served Neferata, but she knew the spirits that lurked within these skeletal monsters were far more powerful. These belonged to divine avengers dispatched aeons ago to destroy Nagash, only to fail in their purpose and be enslaved by the Lord of Death. These were the morghast archai.

The Stormcasts weren’t cowed by the frightful feat of necromancy that unfolded before them. Still, Neferata noticed that Vogun drew slightly ahead of his comrades and had one hand poised above the lantern he carried. Brannok, too, exhibited an increased wariness, drawing closer to Makvar. The Lord-Celestant himself, however, gave no sign of trepidation. Boldly, he walked towards the steps.

‘Lord Nagash,’ Makvar called up to the Great Necromancer. ‘We have no doubt as to your power. Accept my apology if any offence has been paid to you.’ He pointed to the shattered door at the top of the steps. ‘Mannfred’s refuge lies beyond that portal?’

Nagash turned, waving his staff towards the door. At his mere gesture, the remaining timbers decayed, collapsing into a heap of black dust. Through the doorway, a sinister red light spilled into the crypt. ‘Nachtsreik,’ he declared. ‘The Stronghold of Night.’

Neferata felt the mockery in Nagash’s voice, the sardonic amusement woven into his words. She glanced aside at the Anvils, but it appeared none of them had noticed the sinister tone. Yet when Makvar climbed the steps, the Lord-Celestant drew back. He had stood without flinching within a few feet of the morghasts as they clothed themselves in shards of bone, yet now he retreated from the doorway. The vampire queen rushed up the steps to see for herself what could alarm the stalwart Stormcast.

What she found beyond the door of the crypt was something that shocked even her jaded sensibilities. The crypt in which they stood looked out across an immense cavern, its furthest reaches lost in shadow. It wasn’t the size of the cavern that stunned her, however, but the fact that everything seemed inverted. When she gazed up, she saw not the roof but the floor of the cavern, covered with pools of murky water and a twisting road of colossal flagstones. Immense statues lay shattered about the rocky terrain, sprawled between a forest of stalagmites. More, there were creatures moving along that road and within the stony forest, a teaming mass of verminous shapes cloaked in filthy robes. It was as though the mouth of the crypt in which she stood was positioned above the cavernous landscape, and those within the tomb were hanging over it like flies on a ceiling. Even the sight of the great pulsating light that smouldered at the heart of the cavern like some miniature moon couldn’t match the uncanny sensation of standing on the roof of the world.

Nagash stepped between Neferata and Makvar, pointing outward with his staff. ‘When the War of Bones looked uncertain, Mannfred prepared this refuge for himself by pulling the city of Dyre deep beneath the ground.’ He drew their attention away from the scene below — or was it above? — them and to that which stretched away across the roof of the cavern. As far as could be seen, the streets and houses of a crumbling settlement were visible, the crypt itself standing within a great cemetery. ‘The lives of Dyre fed his power even as their souls were bound into the hidden moon he wrought for himself.’

Makvar had already overcome his surprise at the strange vista. He pointed at the fortress the swarms of skaven struggled to penetrate. ‘That is Nachtsreik? It seems we must hurry if we would find Mannfred before the ratkin.’ As he spoke, a section of the black walls was brought down by a great ball of corrosive gas hurled against it by a monstrous catapult.

A dry chuckle rattled from Nagash. ‘These walls have withstood the hordes of Chaos for many lifetimes. Every stone is steeped in blood, and the mortar made from bone. They are imbued with the same magic that feeds Mannfred’s moon. If the walls are brought down they will restore themselves. Speck by speck, they will draw themselves back.’ The Great Necromancer was silent for a moment, contemplating the scene below. ‘If the enemy were to bring sufficient force to bear, they might break the old spells long enough to get inside. Mannfred realised this when he left his refuge. Now that he’s returned, it is possible the enemy is aware of it and will stir themselves to greater effort.’

‘How do we get inside?’ Makvar asked.

Nagash leaned out from the doorway. As he did so, Neferata noticed that his cloak fell upwards, drawn towards the floor of the cavern. ‘We cross the city,’ he stated. Thrusting a bony claw, he indicated a slender tower that stabbed up from the mammoth fortress. The narrow window that opened just below its roof was only a few feet below the suspended streets of Dyre.

‘With a retinue of Prosecutors, we could cross that distance without delay,’ Makvar said, shaking his head. He stared at Nagash for a moment. ‘You desire to see how resourceful we are.’

‘Before entering any battle,’ Nagash said, ‘it is wise to know the capabilities of your allies.’

The moment he stepped out from the crypt, Huld found himself falling towards what had seemed the roof of the cavern. It was a simple matter to arrest his fall, unfurling his sigmarite wings to keep himself aloft. Reorienting himself to the strange geometry of Mannfred’s stronghold was another matter entirely. The eerie sight of Dyre’s streets inverted and hanging from the roof of the cavern was confusing enough, but when he drew close to the abandoned city, he found himself being pulled towards it rather than the true floor of the cavern. Whatever arcane spells governed the crypt exerted their influence across the rest of Dyre. Huld suspected it was some residue of the magic Mannfred had employed to drag the city below the earth, but the nature of that magic and its limitations were things beyond his knowledge and experience. The city appeared to be more than suspended in space, but in time as well, locked in that moment when it had been captured by the Mortarch.

He didn’t need to understand the Mortarch’s sorcery. He only had to overcome it. Makvar was depending on Huld, and that meant their entire mission was in the balance. It did no good to bemoan the conniving nature by which Nagash had arranged this test of the Stormcasts. As Makvar had pointed out before, whatever ordeals they had to endure to bring the undead into battle beside them at Gothizzar, the Anvils would overcome them.

Keeping just beyond the pull of Dyre, Huld flew towards the desolate sprawl of what had once been the city’s harbour. The spells Mannfred had used even captured part of the sea adjoining the city. Huld could see the weird reflection of the red moon shining from the suspended pool. Ships dangled from the frozen water, their masts and sails jutting out at weird angles as the pull from below fought to wrest them from the opposing pull emanating from the ceiling. It was towards these ships that Huld climbed, preparing himself for the instant when he would be drawn towards the ships rather than away from them, turning his climb into a dive. When he landed on the deck of a trireme, it was a descent of such ungainly awkwardness that he prayed none of his fellow Stormcasts were able to see him. That the most likely observer was Makvar at the door of the crypt only made the sense of embarrassment more pronounced.

Hunting across the decks of the ship, Huld inspected the thick coils of rope heaped beside the gunwales. Choosing the stoutest mooring line he saw, he drew a length between his gauntlets with a savage grip. His eyes studied the rope with dour scrutiny, watching for the slightest fraying of the cord. Only when the Knight-Azyros was convinced it would hold did he draw the heavy stack of rope away with him as he spread his wings and leapt back into the air.

Navigating the sorcerous inversion was even more difficult with the heavy rope in his hands, but it was a feat Huld was able to accomplish without the cord becoming tangled in his wings. He knew he would have to repeat the performance several times in his labours and made careful calculations about the best way to manage the manoeuvre. Of particular interest to him was the border between the drag from the ground and the pull from the suspended city. He saw how the phenomenon could be harnessed to serve the Anvils.

Huld flew back to the crypt, the rope trailing after him. By pulling it along the edge of the competing gravitational influences he was able to negate much of the burden, only that portion actually in his hands weighing him down. The rest snaked out along the border, levitating in the grip of the oppositional forces. Another complex mid-air contortion of his body and the Knight-Azyros was back in the crypt, proud to make his landing with much more finesse than he had before.

‘Your idea will work, Lord-Celestant,’ Huld said as he saluted Makvar. He proffered his commander the end of the rope he carried.

‘We will secure this length here,’ Makvar said, handing it off to Brannok.

The Knight-Heraldor looked at the cord with some surprise. ‘It is much hardier than I expected.’

Huld nodded. ‘Dyre appears to be caught in the very moment Mannfred dragged it from the surface. There are carriages standing in the streets, stalls lining the market place, boxes and barrels stacked along the quays.’ He looked towards the deathly shape of Nagash. ‘Everything is just as it was, as though the population had withdrawn into their temples for some religious observation and will be back at any moment. It is disturbing to understand that they are gone.’

‘It is their life-force that shapes the magic of Mannfred’s redoubt,’ Nagash told him. ‘Without the extraction of their spirits, this place wouldn’t exist. The most potent spells are those that demand the greatest sacrifice.’

‘I wonder if Mannfred offered these people a choice,’ Brannok said.

A cold snarl rose from Lord Harkdron. ‘The cowherd doesn’t ask the opinion of cattle. Mortals cannot be expected to understand the struggle against Chaos. They cannot look beyond their own brief existence, their own fears and pain to truly see the war for what it is.’

Vogun stepped between the two, silencing Brannok’s retort. ‘You are wrong, Harkdron,’ he told the vampire. ‘Perhaps you haven’t seen the fire of defiance that can burn in a mortal heart because you’ve sought to quench it under a shroud of subservience. We have fought in lands throughout the Mortal Realms. I can attest to the valour of men, how they can be inspired to fight on even when the outcome is hopeless. How they will willingly sacrifice themselves if their belief in victory is great enough.’

Harkdron laughed. ‘I will believe such courage exists when I see it for myself.’ His laughter fell away when he felt Neferata’s disapproving eyes on him. He sketched the merest apology to Vogun and withdrew to the recesses of the crypt.

Huld turned away from his observation of the exchange when Makvar asked a question of him. ‘How far do you think the rope will reach?’

The Knight-Azyros leaned from the doorway, pointing across the graveyard to the tile roof of a stonemason’s workshop. ‘I will need to secure the first line to that building. From there I can draw a second over to the market square. In total it will need four separate lengths to reach the tower.’ He paused, then gestured at the suspended line, explaining the phenomenon. His suggestion was that the Stormcasts could use the cord to pull themselves along, flipping themselves around once they were clear of the crypt so that they would be walking across the streets of Dyre rather than hanging above the cavern floor.

Makvar had another idea. Unbuckling his sword from his belt, he held the weapon across the cord, gripping its sheathed length by either end. He made a tentative sliding motion with it. A sigmarite blade was far stronger than mere steel. It would bear his weight without warping. Quickly, he explained his idea to Huld. ‘We will make better time if we slide down the ropes. If anyone gets into trouble, he can flip around as you suggest and let himself drop to the street. A far better prospect than plummeting down into the cavern.’

Huld nodded, inspired by the wisdom of Makvar’s plan. ‘I will secure each end of the rope so that they describe an arch. It shouldn’t be difficult to find appropriate heights to anchor them.’

‘Admirable strategy,’ Nagash said. He waved his skeletal claw towards Neferata. ‘Assist my Mortarch and her attendants across. I shall await you in Nachtsreik.’ Without another word of explanation, the Great Necromancer walked out from the crypt. Huld was stunned to see him glide across the cavern, a glowing nimbus of spectral energies billowing all around him. The skeletal morghast archai he had conjured into being leapt after their departed master, flying towards the distant tower on their tattered wings.

‘His magic is such that he could have carried all of us across,’ Huld heard Neferata say.

‘Perhaps he needs to conserve his powers,’ Makvar said. ‘He has expressed concern that when we find Mannfred your fellow Mortarch may not be so agreeable as we might hope.’

Huld found that prospect far from cheering. After all that he had seen, the thought of any being which could provoke caution from the Great Necromancer was a daunting one.

The morbid energies of Nachtsreik spilled across Nagash, soaking into his skeletal frame and seeping into his malignant spirit. Truly the castle Mannfred had built for himself was a thing of impressive horror. The few details of its construction he had revealed to Makvar’s knights were but a sampling of the atrocities that had given it shape. He could hear the shrieks of the souls bound into the foundations of the castle, envision the chained victims lying in their holes, watching as each stone block was lowered into the pits, listening to the screams of those who perished ahead of them.

Blood and terror, these were the true bricks and mortar of Mannfred’s redoubt. The souls of all those entombed within and beneath its walls were the force that guarded his stronghold against conquest. Nagash could feel the necromantic energies dripping from the stones around him, rivulets of blood that pooled upon the floor before evaporating back into the aethyr. Apparitions winked in and out of his vision, struggling to manifest yet always sucked back into their stony prisons.

Far below, he could see the verminous skaven trying to batter their way through the walls. The bones and debris of the many armies that had besieged Nachtsreik before them lay scattered about the cavern. For an instant, Nagash was tempted to stir the rotten carcasses and set a legion of skeletons loose in the midst of the ratkin. The enmity he bore the skaven was almost primordial, cascading back into the Age of Myth and beyond. Massacring them would be a delight, but at the same time, a frivolity. The slaughter could contribute nothing to his greater design.

Nagash gazed out across the suspended streets of Dyre. The ingenuity of Makvar and his knights reminded the Great Necromancer of the great failing that settled into the bones of his creations. Even the highest of the undead lacked the inspiration and enthusiasm of mortal minds. The luxury of time dulled their sense of immediacy. They were slow to conceive new ideas, slower still to adopt them. Time after time, they would fall back upon the same strategies they had employed before, like corpse-moths locked into the same migration. Of all his disciples, only the Mortarchs had any real ability for innovation.

The Stormcasts slid down the lines, gliding across the cavern high above the swarming hordes of skaven. They displayed no hesitation, no fear of the hazards they courted as they made their way towards the tower. Whatever doubts they had were subsumed to the demands of their mission. It was a degree of obedience absent even in Neferata’s vampire knights.

Truly, Sigmar had unlocked methods of resurrecting the life-force that were far different than those Nagash had crafted. The black art of necromancy devoured all it claimed. Something of the identity was lost, a spark of essence that refused to linger in the reanimated husk. Sigmar had found a way around that, a way to maintain the vibrancy of the soul while expunging all fear and doubt. Instilling an almost unshakable loyalty and obedience.

Nagash considered his past encounter with Stormcast Eternals. He had failed to learn all he needed on that occasion, but it had served to make him more aware of where his observation should be focussed. The might of the Stormcasts was something he had to quantify before he could properly fit them into his plan to purge his realm of Chaos.

The Great Necromancer turned from the window. Makvar would reach the tower soon. Then the search for Mannfred’s sanctum would begin. Nagash was interested to see how quickly the Anvils could penetrate the shroud of illusion his errant Mortarch had woven around himself. Would they fall prey to the phantasms conjured by his necromancy, or would they be the first to uncover the vampire’s secret refuge?

Chapter Twelve

The moment Makvar climbed through the tower window, he was struck by a sense of lurking menace. Clambering down from the rope, descending the face of the tower, he had felt as though the very stones were trying to push him away, to send him hurtling to the floor of the cavern. When he looked at his gauntlets he found them slick with blood that evaporated before his eyes.

‘The blood is the life, son of Sigmar,’ Nagash’s voice rose from the gloom within the tower. The fleshless Death God drew one of his claws across the wall, gore dripping from his bones. ‘Mannfred has gone to great pains to invest his refuge with a life of its own.’

‘I doubt the pain was his,’ Makvar observed. He leaned back out the window, watching as Brannok began his own descent. ‘Mannfred has worked great evil in other realms. It fell to our brethren, the Hallowed Knights, to bring an end to his infamies.’

‘Forcing him back to this refuge,’ Nagash stated. ‘Your brothers are to be congratulated for sending my errant child back to me.’ The Great Necromancer stepped towards Makvar, his morghast bodyguards following him across the barren room. ‘A fearsome foe will be just as fearsome when set against the enemy. Bear that in mind, Lord-Celestant. Whatever discord there may be between Mannfred and the Stormcast Eternals, remember that he is no friend of Archaon.’ He waved his staff at the dripping walls. ‘The might of the Mortarch of Night will be a great asset in taking Gothizzar from the hosts of Chaos.’

‘But will he see it that way?’ Makvar wondered. ‘As you’ve said, it was Stormcasts who drove him from the Realm of Beasts to seek refuge in Nachtsreik.’

Deep within the hollow sockets of Nagash’s skull, a flash of fiery light briefly blazed. ‘He will obey,’ the Great Necromancer said. ‘It is his choice what condition he is in when he submits, but he will submit in the end.’

Makvar turned away, helping Brannok as the Knight-Heraldor reached the window. He clapped the other Anvil on the shoulder as the warrior gained his footing. ‘Help the others through,’ he told Brannok. ‘This fortress is immense and I suspect Mannfred will have concealed his sanctum with great care.’ He looked back towards Nagash. ‘Unless your powers can narrow our search.’

Nagash clapped the end of his staff against the floor. Ribbons of ghostly energy snaked away from the relic, crackling across the ground and shining up the walls. ‘Mannfred has soaked this castle in so much necromatic power that its vibrations crash together in deafening discord. With time, I would of course be able to extract his presence from the clamour that surrounds him. I could follow the signature of his magic back to whatever hollow he’s found for himself.’ He thrust his skeletal finger towards Makvar. ‘You have told me that your mission is urgent, that the God-King will need my legions soon. If that is the case then we shouldn’t tarry over rituals and spells.’

‘How are we to find Mannfred then?’ Makvar asked.

The Great Necromancer gestured at the stone steps leading down from the tower. ‘By defying the tricks and traps with which he guards himself. By using your remarkable abilities to uncover his hiding place.’

Makvar looked back to the window, watching as Brannok helped Neferata into the tower. The vampire queen looked alarmed by what she had overheard. Makvar wondered what kind of tricks and traps she anticipated her fellow Mortarch to have laid to ensnare those who trespassed within Nachtsreik.

Lord-Castellant Vogun was the first to descend the narrow steps which wound down through the tower. He held his warding lantern before him, its purifying rays burning through the cloying darkness ahead of him. The phantasmal blood dripping from the walls sizzled as the light struck it, vanishing in greasy puffs of smoke. Bodiless shapes woven from naught but shadows and malice fled from the Celestial glamour, their moans of pain and protest echoing through the dank corridors. Torn stalked just ahead of his master, snapping and snarling at the more tenacious apparitions before they could draw near to Vogun. The ghosts retreated from the gryph-hound, fading into the walls and floor before his beak and claws could strike them.

Makvar, Brannok and a retinue of Liberators followed after Vogun, each knight keeping his weapons at the ready. Despite the comforting glow of Vogun’s lantern, the sense of hostility that had greeted them when they climbed into the tower had only intensified as they penetrated deeper into the fortress. The air was growing heavier and more stifling, endowed with an abominable moistness that crawled down into the lungs. The high ceiling and empty chambers of the tower conspired to create eerie echoes that refused to conform to any rhythm or rhyme but persisted in rolling back to the Stormcasts in the most distorted and disordered manner. The play of light and shadow evoked fleeting suggestions of motion at the edge of vision, the images vanishing when an Anvil turned his head to face them directly.

Neferata and her vampiric guards were behind Makvar’s group, lingering just far enough back that they were spared the hurtful light of Vogun’s lantern. While content to allow the Stormcasts to precede her and assume the risk of whatever traps Mannfred had set, she was less comfortable with Makvar’s decision to split his knights into two groups. The second was following after the vampires, counting among them the Judicators and Knight-Azyros Huld. Makvar had claimed the deployment was to protect Neferata and Nagash should anything unexpected happen and they be forced to withdraw from the castle. Try as she might, she couldn’t reconcile herself to the Lord-Celestant’s claim. There was still the chance he expected treachery, and had set Huld and the others behind her so that the vampires would be caught between both groups of Stormcasts.

It was with a feeling of bitterness that Neferata reflected on Nagash’s own decision to remain at the rear with his morghasts. Though she knew her own sorcery wasn’t able to sift Mannfred’s presence from the arcane signature he had left imprinted in the stones of Nachtsreik, she was suspicious about the Great Necromancer’s claim that such a feat was beyond his abilities. The question that nagged at her was why he would make such a pretence. What did he hope to achieve by feigning weakness? Simply to conceal the extent of his power from Makvar? After his efforts at Mephitt, Neferata didn’t think such humility had a part in his intentions. He had gone to great effort to impress upon the Anvils the extent of his might, vanquishing the Great Unclean One under their watchful gaze.

No, there was some deeper purpose bound into Nagash’s decisions. A design that had so far eluded Neferata. It was certain that he was making use of the Stormcasts in some fashion, but towards what end? Did he truly intend to aid Sigmar’s forces?

The vampire queen had given that question deep thought. The Realm of Death had suffered tremendously after Sigmar withdrew from Shyish. That Nagash had provoked the God-King’s retreat was something she doubted the prideful Lord of Death would allow to mitigate his resentments. Still, even if Nagash didn’t forgive an injury dealt to him, he was a cunning pragmatist. If he saw advantage to be gained by helping Sigmar, he would set upon such a course. Regardless of who he had to sacrifice to realise his ambition.

In that, Neferata reasoned, lay the chief difference between her master and Makvar. Makvar had a firm code of honour by which he abided. Duty and necessity might force him to bend that code, but he wouldn’t break it. If she could set him into her debt just once, make him personally beholden to her, she felt she would have the key to the Lord-Celestant. If he felt obligation to her, she would enjoy the protection of his entire Warrior Chamber. She had once enticed the grandmaster of a warrior brotherhood into her grasp, gaining the use of his entire army as a result. The mortal had been possessed of notions of honour and loyalty, fealty and piety not so dissimilar to those the Stormcasts espoused. In the end, he had become her thrall all the same.

‘Highness, do you think these storm-knights can truly find Mannfred’s lair?’ Harkdron’s question had a hopeful note about it as he addressed Neferata.

‘Beware of wishing failure upon our allies,’ Neferata hissed at him. ‘Now that Nagash has decided to collect his errant Mortarch, if the Stormcasts fail to find him, the duty is likely to fall to us.’

Harkdron drew himself up as he turned towards Neferata. ‘I will protect you from any danger Mannfred could offer you.’

Neferata sneered at her consort. ‘A fool is always certain of things he knows nothing about,’ she hissed. ‘If you knew Mannfred as I have known him, you would be wishing success to the storm-knights. Mannfred is a shrewd adversary, as relentless as he is cruel. Cross him, simply get in his way, Harkdron, and you’ll have an enemy who will haunt you to the end of your days.’

Amala crouched within the frame of the window, her inhuman eyes roving across the darkened chamber. She kept raising her paws to her face, sniffing at the blood oozing from the walls. Lascilion left the winged mutant to her loathsome ministrations. He had more vital things to concern him than the eldritch seepage of a deathmage’s castle.

The Lord of Slaanesh pulled the plumed helm from his head, giving his leonine face its freedom. From between his fanged jaws, his forked tongue flashed forth, wriggling with ecstatic glee as it drew the scent of Neferata from the dank air. The object of his obsession had been here, and recently. There were other smells as well, but these were insignificant to him beside that of the vampire queen. Once more she was within his reach!

‘Focus upon the task Thagmok has set you.’ The warning rose from outside the window. Amala leapt down from her perch, stalking into the room as the feathered figure of Molchinte appeared outside. The sorceress hovered in the air, her feet sunk into the slimy back of an ovoid creature, a daemon of Tzeentch she had summoned to follow Lascilion into the tower. Beyond her, also supported upon disc-shaped daemons, were the other Chaos champions the Bloodking had sent to destroy the lightning-men.

Lascilion’s face curled in an expression of distaste. Perhaps, under other circumstances, he would enjoy the novelty of Molchinte pawing through his mind. Now, however, he found it to be an abominable violation. Even if it was doomed, his dream of claiming Neferata for his own was still the force that drove him on.

‘The lightning-men,’ Molchinte demanded as she stepped into the tower, wrenching her feet from the limpid flesh of the daemon. The weird disc broke apart in a burst of lights as soon as she was quit of it. ‘Were they here? Were their leaders here?’

‘Yes,’ Lascilion told her. ‘Not long past either. There is no mistaking the sting of their scent.’ His gaze strayed from the sorceress to the Chaos champions as they stepped through the window. Just as Molchinte’s daemon steed had done, the fleshy discs broke apart the moment their riders were clear of them. Alghor Wormsword and Orbleth the Despised paid small attention to their surroundings, unaffected by the sinister atmosphere and the dripping walls. Vaangoth the semi-daemon couldn’t keep his furry hands from the gory walls, dragging them across the surfaces before wiping the blood across his own dripping armour. Lascilion thought he saw a ripple pass through the bloodied plates each time he did so.

‘Then let us be about our task,’ Molchinte said. She stared about the room, eyes wide with alarm. More attuned to magic than her companions, she could feel the magnitude of necromantic energy flowing through the fortress. Lascilion decided it couldn’t hurt him to make the sorceress still more uneasy.

‘They aren’t alone,’ the warlord said. ‘I picked out other scents as well. The smell of vampires and reanimated bones.’ A cold smile played across his face. ‘And something more. Something powerful. Perhaps another of the Mortarchs.’

Molchinte gave that information a good deal of thought. The prospect of confronting one Mortarch and some lightning-men had been imposing enough. The idea of facing two of the powerful undead lords was fearsome. It took her only a moment to decide it wasn’t as frightful as defying the commands of Thagmok… or displeasing Archaon.

‘If they are colluding with two of the Mortarchs, then our task is even more vital,’ she said. ‘We must strike down these lightning-men.’ Her eyes glittered as she gave Lascilion a stern look. ‘Could you tell how many lightning-men were with them?’

‘Less than I encountered in Nulahmia,’ Lascilion conceded. ‘A dozen, perhaps more. Their smell is strange to me, so it is difficult to be certain.’

The sorceress was silent for a moment. Then, without warning, she spun around. A blade erupted from beneath the folds of her feathered cloak, a fat knife etched with cabalistic sigils. Before Amala could react, the knife was slashing across the mutant’s throat, sending a gout of her foul blood spraying across the haunted walls. Molchinte crouched over the twitching body, sawing her knife across the back of the neck. Soon, she had Amala’s head severed from the spine.

Much as it pleased him to see the treacherous mutant dispatched, the suddenness of her murder alarmed Lascilion. He and the other champions held their weapons ready to repulse the murderous witch, but Molchinte made no move towards them. Instead, she was dipping her finger in Amala’s blood and drawing strange symbols across the mutant’s dead eyes. A scratchy incantation rose from the sorceress, an invocation drawn from the squawks of birds and the yaps of dogs more than anything that resembled intelligent speech. As she worked her conjuration, a weird purple light shone from behind Amala’s eyes.

‘A shield of oblivion,’ Molchinte explained as she held the head before her. ‘A gift from Tzeentch. Its magic will hide us from our prey.’ A vicious laugh twisted her lips. ‘At least until we are ready to strike.’ She motioned to her remaining companions with the hand that yet held her dripping knife. ‘Draw near to me or its power cannot help you.’ She laughed anew when she noted their hesitation. ‘We need only one shield. Be thankful the mutant was the least valuable among you.’

Still keeping hold of Pain’s hilt, Lascilion approached Molchinte. The fact he could still see the sorceress seemed to belie the efficacy of her murderous spell, but when he drew close to her, he felt a shock run through him. As Alghor and Orbleth joined them, he could see the same expression of surprise and discomfort pass through their misshapen features. Certainly Molchinte had surrounded herself with some sort of magic.

‘Vaangoth!’ Molchinte snapped at the bestial champion of Khorne. ‘There is no time to waste.’

The semi-daemon had turned back to the dripping wall, once again raking his hand through the gore and then anointing his armour with it. He turned his brutish face towards Molchinte. ‘Go,’ he snarled. ‘I follow.’ Offering no explanation, he continued to paw at the ghostly blood oozing from the walls.

‘How he find us when we invisible?’ Alghor asked.

‘He won’t,’ Molchinte snapped at the Nurglesque champion. Without further delay, she stabbed the knife into Amala’s forehead. At once, the air around the sorceress and her companions took on a shimmering, hazy quality.

Lascilion smiled as he drew his helm back over his head. He had been mistaken to doubt Molchinte’s magic. If the spell performed as she claimed it would, they would be able to strike at the lightning-men with complete surprise.

What Lascilion had to do now was figure a way to exploit that magic to achieve his own purpose. It had to be the favour of Slaanesh that Neferata was being offered to him once more.

‘Look out!’

The cry sounded from Brannok as the Knight-Heraldor threw himself towards Makvar. The Lord-Celestant and his rescuer pitched forwards, spilling into the chamber they had been about to enter. The doorway through which they had passed was no more, sealed by the massive stone block that had come slamming down from the arch above it.

Makvar had to give a grudging degree of respect to Mannfred’s inventiveness. The trap had been deliberately calibrated to let the first few intruders pass before activating. Behind the doorway, he could hear the anxious shouts of concern from the other Stormcasts. Vogun and Torn, who had passed through moments before, turned in alarm at the sound.

Brannok rolled to face the block. He reached for his battle-horn, then hesitated. He could use the horn’s magic to shatter the block, but he didn’t know what else might be caught in the thunderblast.

‘Back!’ Makvar shouted. At the same time, he seized hold of Brannok’s arm and dragged the warrior with him deeper into the room.

Lying against the floor, Makvar had heard a faint sound, like sand running from an hourglass. It was all the warning there was. Fortunately, it was all the warning he needed. Glancing back at where they had been sprawled on the ground, he now saw a yawning pit. He had been wrong about Mannfred being inventive — he was a fiend. A pit timed to open shortly after the block fell, catching whoever went hurrying back to aid those caught beneath the crushing stone.

Snarls of rage rose from the corridor outside. Makvar at once guessed its meaning. Not content to catch those inside the room, Mannfred had set a second pit to open in the hall outside as well.

‘Quiet!’ Makvar called out. ‘We are unharmed on this side. How have you fared on that side?’

A grim voice called back to him. ‘Brothers Xi and Pericles fell. The bottom of the hole was lined with stakes. Their spirits have returned to Sigmar.’

Makvar clenched his fist in silent fury. To lose his knights in battle was hard enough, but at least there was honour and dignity in such defeat. For some of his Anvils to be snatched away through such deceitful enterprise was obscene. That the trap had been laid by a monster they sought to draw into alliance with Sigmar only made it still more enraging.

‘I find myself hoping Mannfred won’t submit to Nagash,’ Brannok said. His fingers closed around the hilt of his sword. ‘It will be a pleasure breaking him.’

‘Only if you find him before I do,’ Vogun said. Torn loped along at his side, feathers ruffled as he sniffed the mouldy air. Cautiously the Lord-Castellant came towards them, tapping the butt of his halberd against the floor to verify its solidity.

‘I doubt any of the Mortarch’s snares can be so easily uncovered,’ Makvar said. He looked around the chamber. It looked to be some sort of trophy room, grisly displays standing in dusty silence upon wooden platforms. Some of the stuffed creatures in the exhibition were beasts, others, hideously, had once been men. Still a third category represented a ghoulish hybrid of human and animal anatomy, pieces of mummified flesh and bleached bone that Makvar found it impossible to accept could ever have survived in such a state. Even compared to the mutations of Chaos, these things were blasphemies.

‘The exit is across from us!’ Brannok shouted, then drew up short, shaking his head as he found the doorway was no longer where he thought it had been. He turned about in frustration, only to spot the doorway now on his left.

Makvar appreciated Brannok’s confusion. Since descending the tower stair, the Stormcasts and their companions had been beset by a bewildering maze of halls and chambers, galleries and vaults. No sane mind could have conceived of such a castle, with stairs that climbed up to blank walls, windows that stared into chimney flues, doors that opened upon rooms sunk several feet below their threshold. More unsettling was the impression that the architecture shifted itself around when it wasn’t being observed. It was an idea so absurd that Makvar tried to dismiss it as soon as it suggested itself to him. Then he remembered Nagash’s warning that Nachtsreik had been fashioned from blood and bone, endowed with its own nightmarish vitality by Mannfred.

Makvar shook his head. He turned about, looking back towards the enormous stone that had so nearly crushed them. ‘Wherever it is, we’ll go nowhere unless we rejoin our comrades.’

Even as he spoke the words, Makvar was interrupted by the frenzied barking of Torn. The gryph-hound was glowering at the nearest of the trophies, a hulking mass of bones that looked like a troggoth with the skull of a crocodile fitted to its vertebrae. The animal backed away from the thing slowly, feathers ruffled and hackles raised. An instant later, the undead creature turned its saurian head around, staring at the Anvils with its empty eyes.

Vogun stepped towards the thing, brandishing the warding lantern. The light, however, did nothing to repulse the animated horror. With a creaking step, it dropped down from the wooden platform. Across the room, other trophies could be seen doing the same. Even the most twisted of the creatures, those horrible amalgams of man and animal, had been infused with a new vitality.

‘We are the Anvil…’ Makvar told his comrades as they readied themselves for the monstrous pack. They would make a good accounting of themselves, but he had no illusions about their chances against such odds.

Suddenly, a flight of crackling arrows seared across the room. The skeletal automatons shattered as shafts of lightning seared into their decayed frames. Before the rest of the gruesome host could advance, the icy chill of sorcery engulfed them. ‘Dust you are, to dust return!’ Neferata’s voice rang out. The Mortarch’s potent magic at once wrought havoc upon the shambling monsters. Bones crumbled to powder, shrivelled flesh fell away like dead leaves. One after another, the creatures collapsed into piles of funereal decay.

Advancing into the room were Neferata and her entourage, along with the Stormcasts Makvar had left with Huld. They emerged from a gash in the wall, an opening Makvar hadn’t seen before. He shook his head. Of course it was some secret door, allowing ingress without disturbing the traps Mannfred had set. Or had it? Perhaps opening the hidden door had provoked the animation of the Mortarch’s trophies.

Neferata walked towards Makvar, though her gaze kept shifting back to the demolished trophies. Even in their current state of dissolution, she appeared wary of them. Given her knowledge of necromancy, Makvar decided that if she was concerned then he should be as well.

‘Huld!’ he called to the Knight-Azyros. Makvar pointed to the heaps of dust. ‘Bring your beacon to bear upon that carrion. If there is any arcane life lingering in them, burn it away.’

Neferata turned away as Huld unshielded his celestial beacon and set its rays across the demolished skeletons. ‘I am uncertain if even that will work,’ she told Makvar. ‘At least in this place. Everything here has been perverted by Mannfred’s machinations. It is more than natural laws he defies in this place, but the rules which govern even the darkest magic.’ She pointed over her shoulder at the shattered skeletons. ‘That menagerie was his creation. He considers himself an artist in his way. Always seeking some new way to display his mastery of the black arts.’

The image of the vampire count cobbling together those monstrosities was a repugnant one. Makvar only prayed Mannfred’s ‘materials’ had been dead when he exploited them for his macabre art.

‘Thank you for your timely assistance, my lady,’ Makvar told Neferata. ‘Was it you who found the hidden entrance?’

Neferata nodded. ‘The moment the block fell and the pit opened, I knew there would be another way in.’ She frowned, a vengeful gleam sneaking into her eyes. ‘I underestimated Mannfred’s cunning, however. I didn’t expect even his private door to be trapped. I fear it was opening that door which set his menagerie in motion.’

Makvar mulled over her words. ‘I was loath to suggest it before, but you have some insight into the mind of your fellow Mortarch. Such knowledge could spare us the attention of more traps. If I were to send Vogun back to the main body, would you join me in the vanguard? I will try to mitigate whatever dangers such exposure presents to you.’

A brief smile flickered on Neferata’s face. ‘You must keep Vogun ahead of you,’ she said. ‘Without his light, the spirits of this place would beset you at every turn. It is their repulsion of the light that sends them fleeing before us.’ She threw back her head, tossing her dark hair in a regal flourish. ‘I will endure my own repugnance of the light,’ she declared. ‘My discomfort cannot be measured against the dangers that threaten your knights.’

Makvar bowed and took her hand in his. ‘Again, you have my gratitude. I am in your debt.’

‘It is a strange thing,’ Neferata said, ‘to have an Anvil of the Heldenhammer indebted to me.’

The fortress of Nachtsreik was proving as sinister and forbidding as Nagash had expected it to be. The illusions Mannfred had woven into the castle, the ghostly vitality that endowed every brick and stone with a malicious presence, the murderous traps that lay in wait for the unwary — all of these things combined into a vicious gauntlet to test any warrior. It was a creation the Mortarch could be proud of. Knowing the nature of Mannfred, that pride would be dressed in a robe of arrogance and perfumed with deceit.

Nagash followed behind the Stormcasts as Neferata led them through the treacherous environs of Mannfred’s refuge. It was a concession he was willing to indulge. Leaving the Anvils to their own devices had revealed much to him, but observing their interactions with the vampire queen was just as instructive. By it, he was able to gauge the earnestness of their overtures of alliance. The more he watched them, the more he came to appreciate that they had no facility for duplicity. Their faith in the God-King and their devotion to their mission were qualities each of them held to be inviolate. It was in regards to their own person and needs that they were given to compromise. Each of them was subsumed to the demands of his Warrior Chamber.

Even Knight-Heraldor Brannok, the Anvil with the most misgivings about the nature of their mission, had set himself at risk to rescue Makvar. Certainly Brannok had to know that without Makvar, their embassy was likely to fail, and he had hurled himself into danger without an instant of hesitation.

Such selflessness was to be expected from creatures like his morghast archai, beings without any true individuality or essence of their own. Nagash could command legions of such undead to march into the maw of a volcano and there would be no murmur of protest. Even the thought of disobedience was impossible for them.

Nagash was coming to believe that Sigmar’s Stormcasts were instilled with an equal degree of obedience. Yet it wasn’t compulsion that forced them to obey. They did so willingly, indeed, they drew a sense of honour from their unquestioning fealty. Brannok, steadfast and selfless as any of his comrades, was unsettled by the very virtue of his doubts.

The Great Necromancer listened to Neferata conferring with Makvar in Mannfred’s gallery. The vampire queen’s ambitions were almost as interesting as the Stormcasts themselves, and possibly of equal value to him. At least, once he set all the pieces in play.

Nagash stared into the gems set into the head of his staff. Images of the shifting vaults and halls of Nachtsreik flowed within the stones. His gaze penetrated the maze, piercing the mirages and illusions Mannfred had evoked to conceal himself. He saw the thousand snares by which the Mortarch thought to keep himself safe — the deadfalls and firetraps that lay under floors and within walls, hidden garrisons of deadwalkers and bone warriors, the cellars where still mightier guards lurked. The enormity of Mannfred’s defences could stave off armies even if they pierced the morbid walls. For a handful of Stormcasts, the prospect of finding the vampire’s secret tomb would border on the miraculous.

A miracle was just what Nagash would bestow upon his unsuspecting allies. As Lord of Death, there were no secrets in Shyish that could hide from him. It was a reality his Mortarchs always strove to deny, no matter how many times they were forced to re-learn the lesson.

Touching one of his claws to a huge bloodstone, Nagash conjured the image of Neferata in the crimson gem. Holding the staff close to his fleshless face, he began to whisper to the image, using great caution and subtlety as he worked his magic.

When Nagash was finished, Neferata wouldn’t be aware that she wasn’t guiding Makvar to Mannfred’s tomb on her own. Of course, there would be a few traps in the way, a few hazards and illusions to beset the Stormcasts. If the path was too clear, someone might get suspicious.

The time for suspicions would be after Mannfred joined them.

The stench of evil rose from the floor, crawling across the Stormcasts as they marched into the crypt. The caskets which lined the walls now stood empty, their inhabitants having risen in a mass of rotting flesh and decayed organs. Hundreds strong, it had taken Makvar and his comrades some time to destroy the revenants, even with the necromancy of Neferata keeping the things from rising again. Huld and Vogun shone their lights upon the carcasses, striving to banish whatever fell influence yet lingered within them.

Makvar glowered at the charnel house that stretched away as far as he could see. The ceiling above was vaulted, rising far into the darkness, supported upon pillars of fused bones that dripped with the same spectral blood they had encountered in the tower and throughout much of the castle. There was something about the way the disembodied gore slithered along the bones that offended him, some quality about the sight that rendered it more obscene than everything else around it.

‘Mannfred’s lair is here,’ Neferata declared. The vampire queen and her followers advanced towards a gruesome pillar. At first, Makvar thought it was simply their unholy hunger that attracted them, but then he noticed that sigils briefly flared upon the bleached surface of the bones whenever the Mortarch reached towards them. Each time the wards appeared she staggered back, a quiver of pain crossing her features.

After their arduous trek through the seemingly unending vaults and corridors of Mannfred’s fortress, Makvar was almost reluctant to hope they had come to the end of their search. Four more Stormcasts had been claimed by Mannfred’s traps and guards, as well as one of the blood knights who attended Neferata, yet never had there been any sign they were making progress. Now it was almost too much to believe the ordeal could be at an end.

‘Anvils of the Heldenhammer!’ Makvar called his warriors. ‘To me!’ While his knights rallied to him, Makvar approached the pillar. The reek of evil, if anything, was more pronounced around the grisly structure.

‘My lady, if you would,’ Makvar said, waving Neferata away from the pillar.

Harkdron rounded on the Lord-Celestant. ‘Do you presume to give orders to the Queen of Nulahmia?’ he demanded, oblivious to how empty the title had become.

‘No,’ Makvar told the vampire. He pointed his sword at the bleeding pillar. ‘I intend to bring that abomination down.’ He turned from Harkdron and addressed his Stormcasts. ‘Set the light celestial upon this thing,’ he told Huld and Vogun. ‘Judicators, keep your bows ready. Brannok… bring it down.’

As it had above, so the spectral blood again reacted to the light of Azyr, steaming away in puffs of greasy vapour. While the purifying light denuded the pillar of its cascading gore, Knight-Heraldor Brannok stepped away from his comrades. Drawing the gilded battle-horn from his belt, he raised the instrument to his lips.

The note that sounded from the horn wasn’t a simple battlefield signal or a rallying cry. It was a thunderous peal, a tremulous note that slammed into the pillar with pulverising violence. Such necromantic power as had saturated the pillar with its evil resilience now shattered as slivers of bone exploded across the crypt. The thunderblast cracked the base of the structure, splitting it in half and sending both monolithic sections smashing to the floor in a cloud of dust.

Gradually, as the dust dissipated, the Stormcasts could see the gaping hole exposed by Brannok’s demolition of the pillar. A flight of marble steps descended into the darkness. Instead of banishing the aura of evil that clung to the crypt, destroying the pillar had simply intensified it.

The source of the malefic energy was somewhere in the depths below.

Chapter Thirteen

The darkness closed around Lord-Celestant Makvar like the coils of some vast and monstrous serpent. Descending the steps wasn’t unlike plunging into deep waters, the pressure tightening around his body, crushing the breath in his chest. Steadily mounting, growing more burdensome the further he went, it was only his faith in Sigmar and the trust placed in him by the God-King that gave Makvar the strength to persist.

He knew the weight that dragged at him wasn’t a physical manifestation, but the repulsion Makvar’s noble soul felt for the miasma of evil that saturated the sunken tomb. The cloying, violating taint of the place wrapped itself about him, striving to defile his purity and righteousness with its spectral blight. He felt like an open flame exposed to a torrential downpour, his ardour sputtering as the rain strove to quench his fire.

Makvar forced himself onward, reciting canticles and orisons that described the holy might of Sigmar and the beneficence he extended to those who persevered in his name. Foot by foot, step by step, the warrior walked down into the secret refuge of Mannfred von Carstein, the infernal Mortarch of Night.

The tomb was prodigious in its dimensions, a long hall with an arching ceiling from which the wizened husks of immense bats were suspended. Gigantic statues lined the walls, sandstone idols hoary with age, jewels gleaming in the eyes of each animal-headed sculpture. Gothic columns stretched up from the tiled floor, iron sconces bolted to their sides. It was from these fixtures that a pallid blue light shone across the tomb, a sickly glow that somehow evoked images of midnight graveyards and prowling wolves.

At the very centre of the chamber, resting upon a raised dais, was a stone sepulchre, its sides richly sculpted with martial scenes. An ancient coat of arms, etched in gold, stood out amidst the carvings, its polished sheen gleaming in the eerie light. Surrounding the sepulchre, standing atop hexagonal pedestals, were an array of glassy black stones. Makvar could feel the nether-energy that throbbed within each of the stones, see the phantasmal forces trapped within their curiously angled facets. Streamers of ghostly power crawled down each pedestal before slithering up the sides of the sepulchre.

The sense of pressure and resistance against him swelled as Makvar approached the sepulchre. The effort to take each step became ever more difficult, like being back in the Mirefells and slogging through its bogs. He could understand how this forbidding atmosphere would ward off less determined intruders. Makvar, however, wouldn’t retreat. The vampire Mortarch had much to learn about the resilience of the Stormcasts.

While Makvar had been the first to descend into Mannfred’s lair, he wasn’t alone. The other Anvils had followed him, with the exception of a retinue of Judicators standing guard above. Neferata and her retainers had come along as well, the vampire queen’s expression unsettled by the forbidding environment in which she found herself. Makvar imagined that she knew far better than he did the amount of arcane power her fellow Mortarch had expended to protect this tomb. Also, she might be discomfited by the fact that her master Nagash had once again sent her forward while he lingered behind. The Great Necromancer was nothing if not cautious. The devious traps which infested Nachtsreik more than justified such caution.

Here, in the very heart of his stronghold, Makvar was certain that Mannfred would have surrounded himself with his most fiendish snares. Yet as he probed ahead, no physical menace presented itself, only the unseen aura of threat that pressed in around him. All such nebulous belligerence served to accomplish was to make him still more determined to reach the sepulchre.

‘Lord Makvar!’ Neferata finally called out to him. ‘Go no further! Stop where you are!’

It was with a strange reluctance that Makvar turned his head to stare back at the steps. He could see Neferata and her vampires standing there, but without exception, the other Stormcasts had drawn ahead of them, ranged across the floor of the tomb as they marched towards the sepulchre. Almost without volition, he found himself raising his foot to continue his advance. Firmly he stamped his boot back down upon the floor. It was an effort to fend off the urge to go onwards. He knew it was more than his own determination that was drawing him towards his objective.

‘Anvils!’ Makvar shouted. ‘Stand fast!’ He could hear the rattle of sigmarite plate as his knights strove to obey his command. Under normal conditions, such an order would have been implemented instantly, but now his warriors were uncharacteristically reluctant to arrest their advance.

A new appreciation for the subtlety of Mannfred’s sorcery filled Makvar. The Mortarch had indeed anticipated the intrusion of Stormcasts into his sanctum… and he had prepared accordingly. The frightful aura, the atmosphere of brooding evil — these were manifestations to simply distract the Anvils from a more insidious influence. Some eldritch force that sought out their courage not to fend them off, but to draw them in. A fiendish beacon to lure them to the doom von Carstein had devised for all who threatened his repose.

Makvar glowered at the sepulchre and the sinister stones that surrounded it. He still couldn’t see the danger that waited for them, but he was certain it was there. Fortunately, the Anvils had a beacon of their own.

Makvar turned around, gesturing to Neferata. ‘My lady, your warning is timely. It is best, however, if you withdraw and await us above. I fear the means to oppose Mannfred’s sorcery would be hurtful for you.’ He waited while the vampires retreated back up to the crypt before gesturing to Huld. ‘Ascend, brother,’ he told the Knight-Azyros, then pointed at the sepulchre. ‘Shine the light of your celestial beacon there. We will see if the purity of Azyr can overcome the spells which seek to entrap us.’

Spreading his wings, Huld flew up into the murky roof of the tomb, wheeling around the carcasses of the enormous bats dangling from the ceiling. Holding forth his lamp, he threw open its shutter and directed its holy light against the sepulchre. At once, a foul, penetrating odour filled the chamber, the stink of singed hair and burning flesh. Along with the reek came a cacophony of wailing moans, disembodied shrieks of agony that shivered through the room.

As the celestial beacon’s light purged the tomb of its malignant aura, Makvar could see the sepulchre changing. The strands of deathly energy trailing into it from the surrounding pedestals drew back into the black stones, reminding him of a child wrenching its hand away from a fire. A strange discolouration began to creep through the sepulchre, grey vines of ghost-rot that snaked through the carvings, causing them to split and fragment. The weird corrosion grew more pronounced with every heartbeat, soon denuding the sepulchre of its ornamentation, the scenes of war and slaughter reduced to piles of dust strewn about the dais.

Finally, with a shuddering groan, the coat of arms fell, clattering across the floor. The sound reverberated through the tomb with supernatural intensity. The Stormcasts tightened their hold upon their weapons as the dolorous crash pounded against their ears.

Makvar was the first to advance, motioning for his Anvils to stand back but keep themselves at the ready. Before him, the sepulchre continued to crumble, disintegrating as though millennia of decay had suddenly been poured into it. At the back of his mind, he wondered if this was the fate that should have taken them if they hadn’t broken Mannfred’s spell. Perhaps Huld’s beacon had turned the magic against itself.

A final shiver saw the unadorned sepulchre collapse. Its dissolution exposed its contents. An octagonal coffin fashioned from some impossibly dark wood now rested upon the dais, the same coat of arms nailed to its sides. Scarlet cloth woven from the pungent silk of the corpse-moth lined the lidless coffin’s interior, exuding a sickly sweet aroma of decay. Shining with an oily glitter, a haze hung about the coffin, some last magical ward that was strong enough even to oppose the unleashed fury of the trap that had consumed the sepulchre itself.

Disgust rose up within him as Makvar gazed upon the creature lying inside the coffin. Wearing armour that seemed to consume the light that struck it, the body of Mannfred was twisted with a monstrousness more vile than that of subhuman gors and the diseased mutations of Chaos. The abominations of the enemy were savage and unrefined, caprices of the Dark Gods. The horror that was the Mortarch of Night had been deliberately fashioned into its repulsive form. The long, lean hands with their predatory claws. The pale, clammy skin so devoid of health and vitality. The grisly countenance itself with its bare pate and sharp nose, close-set eyes and narrow mouth, high cheekbones that strained against the withered flesh, and bulbous nodules of bone protruding from the forehead.

The vampire’s eyes were open, gleaming like embers from within his ghoulish visage. A vicious smile drew pale lips away from long fangs. Around Mannfred’s body, several glassy rocks rested on the silk lining, small chips cut from the same stones resting on the pedestals. Fingers of necrotic energy extruded themselves from the rocks to vanish into the Mortarch’s body.

Just as it had sent the emanations from the larger stones retreating back into the glassy rock, so did Huld’s celestial beacon drive the ribbons of spectral force back into the stones surrounding the vampire. The reaction was immediate. Mannfred’s smouldering eyes blazed with a fearful intensity and the coffin around him exploded into a hail of wooden splinters. The slivers flew at the Stormcasts with murderous ferocity, uncannily darting at the gaps in their armour. Makvar felt one tear into his face, missing his eye by a hairsbreadth. The other Anvils were similarly afflicted by the coffin’s explosion. Huld was thrown back, smashing against the roof of the tomb. The rays of his beacon were diverted, no longer fixed upon the dais.

‘So the storm-men have hunted me to my lair?’ Mannfred rose from the debris of his coffin, his body alight with necromantic power. The vampire glowered at the reeling Stormcasts. ‘You will rue the misfortune that brought you to this impasse. But you will not regret for long.’ Stretching forth his hand, the Mortarch expended the merest portion of the fell magic that saturated him.

All across the tomb, things long dead answered the command of Mannfred. From the bases of the inhuman idols that lined the tomb, hulking monsters emerged, smashing their way out from hidden vaults. Crafted from both stone and bone, the monsters lurched towards the Stormcasts with immense khopesh swords. Secret graves beneath the floor disgorged malodorous skeletons, their armour clinging to them in strips of blackened decay. The awakened wights stole towards the intruders in a march of menacing silence. On the ceiling, the desiccated bats shrieked into hideous life. They flew after Huld, pursuing the Knight-Azyros through the tomb, preventing him from focusing the purging rays of his beacon. Out from the walls themselves a cloud of screaming apparitions manifested. The bodiless spirits surged around Vogun, striving to drown out the glow of his own warding lantern, heedless that they were being vaporised by his light.

Makvar knew it would do no good to tell Mannfred that the Anvils had violated his sanctum not as foes but as friends. Feeling cornered and pursued, the vampire wouldn’t listen. Not while there was any fight left in him.

The Lord-Celestant blinked away the blood dripping into his eye and brought his blade scything through the leg of the hawk-headed monster stalking towards him. Electricity crackled about his sword as he hewed through the obscene amalgam of bone and stone. Makvar swung again, tearing through the creature’s neck and sending its skull spinning into the darkness. Stubborn vitality lingered in the beast and it struck at him with one of its stony hands. Makvar fended off the stricken creature’s attack with a parry that hewed fingers from its fist. Unbalanced, the monster crashed to the floor, yet even then, its tenacious urge to kill caused it to crawl towards him.

All across the tomb, the other Stormcasts found themselves similarly beset by undead that simply refused to be destroyed. Disembodied arms clung to ebon armour, raking at the sigmarite plates as they tried to reach the warrior within. Huge bats fell in smouldering cascades as Huld’s beacon savaged their unnatural flesh, searing away their leathery wings, but the crippled beasts struggled to return to the attack by trying to drag their mangled bodies up the walls. Vogun stood in a pool of steaming ectoplasm, the residue of the waves of spirits vanquished by his warding lantern, and still more of the spectres came flying at him. Brannok stood atop the butchered debris of a dog-headed giant, driving his sword again and again into the brute in an effort to end its ability to fight.

The source of the fearsome persistence of the undead lay within the being who had conjured them from the shadows. Mannfred von Carstein exerted his infernal magic, evoking a grisly entity from the ghastly energies that saturated his sanctum. Billowing shadows spilled from the black stones that surrounded the vampire’s sepulchre, converging in a mass of darkness. From the darkness a monstrous creature prostrated itself before the Mortarch. It was a beast with obsidian claws, a bat-like head and long, blade-tipped tail. Like the dread abyssals that served Neferata and Arkhan, the morbid energies of enslaved spirits coursed through the monster’s skeletal body, though those bound into Mannfred’s steed burned with a hellish crimson light and worked their fleshless jaws in silent screams of endless agony.

Mannfred wrapped his arm about the stony neck of his steed and swung himself up onto the creature’s back. Ashigaroth, Gorger of the Meek, reared back as its master mounted it, huge claws pawing at the air. Ghostly wisps flew about the abyssal, swiftly growing from simple glowing orbs into shrieking phantoms that shot out across the sanctum to set upon the Stormcasts. The vampire howled in fury when he saw the first of the ghosts steam away as they were caught in the rays of Vogun’s warding lantern. Vindictively, he exerted his powers, summoning more of the spirits from the very walls, driving them to overwhelm the Anvils and suffocate them in a veritable fog of death.

Leaping over the dismembered bulk of his stony attacker, Makvar rushed towards Ashigaroth. As he ran, the Lord-Celestant spun the weighted length of his warcloak, hurling a shower of crackling sigmarite hammers at the abyssal steed and the Mortarch riding it. The electrical assault sizzled against the shield of protective magic Mannfred had woven around himself, but he had had no time to similarly protect Ashigaroth. The monster shrieked in distress as chips of obsidian flew from its grisly frame and crimson spectres were extinguished by the flying hammers. For an instant, Mannfred’s attention was diverted from the Anvils as he quieted his mount.

Makvar lunged towards the Mortarch as he tried to recover. His runeblade crackled with violence as he brought it sweeping up at the vampire. The sword glanced from Mannfred’s enchanted plate, an icy shiver flowing through the sigmarite tang as the armour’s foul energies pulsed into Makvar’s arm. The Stormcast fought the sensation and thrust his weapon at his foe’s breast. This time, the blow was fended off not by the ensorcelled armour that guarded the Mortarch but by the murderous length of the vampire’s own sword, the cursed blade Gheistvor.

‘You dare to touch me, storm-spawn!’ Mannfred snarled. Ashigaroth spun about, striking out with a claw that flung Makvar away from its master, throwing the Lord-Celestant back as though he were a child. Gnashing his fangs, von Carstein charged his steed at his reeling foe. Narrowly, Makvar brought his runeblade up in time to catch the downward sweep of Gheistvor. The impact of the thwarted strike knocked him to his knees.

Makvar could hear some of the other Anvils cry out in alarm, redoubling their efforts to fight through Mannfred’s spectral host to relieve their beleaguered leader. The vampire reacted to their alarm by conjuring still more spirits from the walls, then returned his attention to the Lord-Celestant. The Mortarch glared down at him, his face twisting into an expression of feral exuberance. The vampire took great delight in butchering the helpless.

‘Tell Sigmar to send better hunters if he would contest my power,’ Mannfred jeered as he slammed his foot into Makvar’s chest, spilling the Lord-Celestant onto the floor. Like a huge wolf, Ashigaroth pounced towards the Stormcast, eager to feed upon helpless prey. Makvar rolled aside, the claws of Ashigaroth raking sparks from the ground as they scraped across the tiles. Before Mannfred or his steed could react, Makvar rolled back, catching Ashigaroth’s claw a resounding blow with his runeblade. Lightning crackled through the undead beast, causing it to jounce back in a fit of agitation. The vampire’s body likewise crackled with searing energy, his magic armour unable to fend off the reverberations flowing into him from his mount.

With a howl of outrage, Mannfred jumped from Ashigaroth’s back and fell upon Makvar. The vampire’s boot smashed down upon the knight’s arm, pinning it and the runeblade it held against the floor. His other foot came kicking into the Stormcast’s face with such force that a mortal man’s neck would have snapped like a twig. As it was, the mask of Makvar’s helm was dented by the impact, breaking teeth as it was driven back into his jaw.

Before Mannfred could attack again, the brilliance of Huld’s beacon shone down upon him. The vampire flinched as the purifying light struck him, but it wasn’t the light that hurt him. Glaring down at Makvar, his face became livid with rage as he realised what had happened. Just as the Mortarch had laid a trap that would exploit the qualities of his enemies, so Makvar had baited his own pride and arrogance. In provoking Mannfred’s ire, he had distracted him from the larger fight raging around them. The enhanced ferocity and stamina he had been directing into his undead minions had relaxed, allowing the other Stormcasts respite from the vampire’s spirit hosts.

Vengefully, Mannfred stretched forth his hand. Makvar could feel the necromantic power leaching into him, slithering under his armour to sap the life from him. If the vampire was to know defeat, then he would at least claim Makvar before he fell.

Before darkness could close around Makvar, a searing voice hissed through the tomb. ‘The man is mine.’

The pressure upon Makvar’s arm vanished as Mannfred was thrown back, cast aside by some unseen force. The draining magic that had plagued the Lord-Celestant’s veins dissipated, exorcised from him with such abruptness that the rush of his restored vitality was like fire raging within his flesh. The sounds of battle within the tomb fell silent.

It wasn’t hate but fear that now gripped Mannfred’s features when Makvar looked at the vampire. He didn’t need to guess why. He could feel the awesome presence that descended into the sanctum, the orchestrator of the words that had brought him reprieve from a sorcerous death.

Aglow with a power that made even Mannfred’s exalted strength pathetic in comparison, Nagash walked towards his errant Mortarch.

The Great Necromancer could feel the terror that pounded inside Mannfred’s chest. The Mortarch of Night had gambled much on his excursion into the Realm of Beasts. He had thought he could free himself of his master, thought he could rebuild his power somewhere beyond Nagash’s reach. Forced back into the Realm of Death, he had thought himself safe within Nachtsreik, thought he could restore his powers by steeping himself in the energies of his sanctum.

Now, Mannfred was learning the foolishness of such thoughts. Humility wasn’t something with which the Mortarch was familiar. Every so often, it became necessary to remind him that there were powers mightier than himself. Powers before which he must make obeisance.

At a gesture from his skeletal claw, Nagash dispelled the withering enchantment with which Mannfred beset Makvar. A glance was enough to break the arcane bonds that animated the vampire’s guardians, causing them to collapse in heaps of bleached bone. A gesture sent Ashigaroth back into the shadows, banishing the dread abyssal’s corporeal manifestation. The Mortarch of Night was among the most powerful adepts to practise the profane art of necromancy to have ever existed, but Nagash was the father of that foul strain of magic, and there many were secrets about the art known only to himself.

It was amusing to see Mannfred retreat from his intended victim. He cringed away like some frightened animal, falling back towards the raised dais where his sepulchre had stood. The display of fright wasn’t entirely genuine, but seldom was anything the Mortarch did. He retreated because he thought to draw upon the power with which he had saturated himself, to harness it for one final effort of defiance.

Nagash allowed Mannfred to pull back, letting him reach the very cusp of his objective. Then an unspoken command gripped the vampire, freezing him in place as though he had been caught in a basilisk’s stare. At the last, he betrayed himself, darting a quick, longing look at the pedestals and the glassy black stones resting upon them. He even tried to cry out to them with his sorcery and draw their energy to him. It needed only the slightest exertion of his own will for Nagash to crush Mannfred’s last flicker of rebellion.

‘On your knees before your master, little one,’ Nagash hissed at the Mortarch. A wave of his fleshless hand had Mannfred bowing before him, as abased and servile as any serf. Only the Lord of Death could sense the resentment buried deep within him, locked away in the blackest reaches of the vampire’s essence.

The Great Necromancer turned towards Makvar, waiting while the Stormcasts’ commander picked himself off the floor. The other Anvils were drawing close to their leader, closing ranks around him in a remarkable display of fidelity and courage. They were battered and bloodied from their contest with Mannfred, but none had fallen in the fighting.

‘You must make allowances for my vassal,’ Nagash said. ‘It is not long ago that he came slinking back to his old haunts to lock himself away in this sanctum. Rousing him so abruptly from his repose has brought out the worst of him. He is somewhat of a kindred spirit to the vermin that besiege his castle, and like any cornered rat, it is in his lair that his bite is at its worst.’

‘These warriors are kindred to those who strove for my life in the Realm of Beasts,’ Mannfred warned his master. ‘The Hallowed Knights thwarted my ambition to build a refuge for you…’

Nagash glared down at the vampire. ‘The Realm of Death is mine,’ he hissed. ‘No power will take from me what is mine.’ He pointed a talon at the black stones. ‘You thought you could steal from me, but all you have done is because I have allowed it.’ Sweeping out from the darkness, the morghast archai answered the Great Necromancer’s command. The winged skeletons descended upon the pedestals and the wreckage of Mannfred’s sepulchre, poised about the glassy stones. ‘If there are yet any wards guarding what is mine, you had best dismiss them,’ he warned the Mortarch.

‘I was keeping them safe for you, Master,’ Mannfred claimed as he dispelled the magic protecting the pedestals. ‘It would have been calamitous if the enemy seized them.’

Makvar rose to Mannfred’s bait, suspicion in his tone as he addressed Nagash. ‘What are these stones? They seem similar to the Obelisk of Black and the relics from Mephitt.’

Holding forth one of his bony talons, Nagash called one of the smaller stones to him, the object rising from the debris of Mannfred’s coffin to fly into his outstretched hand. As it came into contact with him, he could feel the spectral energies coursing through his malignant spirit. ‘They are vessels,’ he told the Stormcasts, ‘prisms through which the power of necromancy can be magnified. With these, I can raise the legions Sigmar will need for his war.’

A look of shock gripped Mannfred’s face. ‘You have joined forces with Sigmar? Have you forgotten the God-King’s treachery so soon? Do you not understand it was his knights who fought against me!’

Nagash silenced the Mortarch with a wave of his hand. ‘We share a common foe and a common purpose. Chaos must be vanquished. It must be expunged from all the Mortal Realms. Archaon will be made to account for his manifold atrocities. The gate of Gothizzar will be cleansed of its defilers. This is my command.’ He turned back towards Makvar. ‘There is your answer, Lord-Celestant. The Realm of Death will fight beside the Realm Celestial once more.’

Veiled in the sorcery of Molchinte, Lascilion watched from the darkness of the crypt, his pulse racing as he beheld once again the sinister beauty of the vampire queen. The frustration of his defeat in Nulahmia was smothered beneath the fiery ardour that blazed within him. She would be his.

‘There are others in the chamber below,’ Molchinte told the three champions who shared her arcane protection. ‘Bide your time. Wait for them to return. Don’t underestimate them.’

Lascilion kept his eyes on Neferata, watching her as she conferred with the vampire knights who attended her. Their crimson armour made a stark contrast to the black plate worn by the lightning-men. Three of the celestial warriors patrolled the crypt, striding across the debris of destroyed skeletons, bows clenched in their fists. The warlord knew from past experience how formidable these lightning-men were. None of them had the look of command about them, however, so he judged that the leaders must be in the vault below.

The Lord of Slaanesh plucked the enticing scent of Neferata’s sadistic soul from the air, savouring it like a delicacy. The intoxicating sensation flowed through him, striking into the deepest recesses of his being. Nowhere had he ever found a spirit as cruel and inventive as his own. Never would he find such a spirit again. The vampire queen would open a new world of wonder for him, allowing him to revisit old delights and old outrages anew, to rekindle his jaded passions by dint of simply being there to share in them.

Patience! Lascilion had denied himself far too long. He recognised that Molchinte wanted the leaders of the lightning-men to offer themselves before springing their ambush. It was sound strategy, to have all of one’s enemies in a single place. But he also knew the vagaries of battle. She was concerned with eliminating the leaders. His ambition was to capture Neferata. He had a good chance to achieve his purpose right now. That opportunity might not be there when the rest of the lightning-men came back.

Lascilion forced himself to draw his gaze away from Neferata long enough to look at his companions. Alghor and Orbleth were both watching the sentries, Molchinte was focussed on the steps leading below. None of them were paying any attention to him.

Silently, Lascilion drew away from the invisible watchers. He wasn’t certain how far from Amala’s skull the effects of the concealing magic would follow him, so he braced himself for that instant when his enemies would spot him and recognise their peril. Cautiously he advanced, gaze fixed upon Neferata and her companions. He would come upon them from the flank, angling his approach so that his presence would go unnoticed until the last possible moment even without Molchinte’s spell to hide him.

When he was but a few yards away from his prey, Lascilion knew he was no longer under the veil of Molchinte’s magic. The discovery announced itself in the enraged howls of Alghor and Orbleth as they rushed at the lightning-men. Aware that the ambush would be lost to them either way, the champions of the Bloodking chose to at least eliminate what enemies they could swiftly. One of the black-armoured knights was struck down by Orbleth’s flail, a bright spark leaping from his body before it could crash at the champion’s feet. Another writhed upon the diseased length of Alghor’s vile sword, green tendrils of corruption worming through his mail.

Lascilion charged straight towards the vampires. As he reached them, he drew Pain and Torment in a flash of murderous steel. One of the vampire knights was decapitated by the vicious sweep of Pain, his body writhing on the floor like a crushed snake. The second vampire dropped as Pain slashed across his middle, all but disembowelling the undead lord. Neferata alone now stood before him.

The Mortarch of Blood raised her staff, sending a cascade of deathly magic slamming into him. Lascilion felt several of his teeth burst as the arcane energies ravaged him. The smell of his own burning hair was in his nose, tears of blood spilled from his eyes as they slowly boiled under Neferata’s assault. Too late, he appreciated his mistake. When he had confronted Neferata in Nulahmia, she had been exhausted by the demands of the battle. Now she was at the height of her powers and far more than his equal.

If Lascilion had made a mistake, then so too had Neferata. She had focussed too much of herself in annihilating the warlord and kept too little of her power back to guard against other foes. While he languished under the Mortarch’s spell, Molchinte’s sorcery struck out at the vampire. Bolts of coruscating light raced through Neferata’s body, burning into her in a furious barrage. The first few bolts dissipated against the wards she had raised to defend herself, but the others drove home. Neferata was knocked back, thrown against one of the walls. Smoke rose from her branded flesh and blood streamed from the corners of her mouth. She turned to face her attacker, but even as she did, another blast of shimmering light tore the staff from her hands.

Lascilion tried to rally, to subdue the weakened Neferata before Molchinte’s sorcery wrought even more havoc upon her. Even as he did, however, dark shapes came rushing up from the vault below. He saw more of the lightning-men, and this time, their helms bore the crests and halos that marked them as commanders of their kind. Alongside them another vampire rushed into the vault, a being of such fearsome aspect that even the Lord of Slaanesh felt a tremor of fear.

His fear counted for nothing when a still more malevolent apparition boiled up from the sunken tomb. Spilling upwards in a cloud of blackness, a towering skeleton wearing a morbid crown commanded Lascilion’s gaze. All thoughts of Neferata and his depraved desires were forgotten as the warlord stared at a being that had become legend to the hordes of Chaos infesting Shyish. He didn’t need to be told who this creature was, for only the Lord of Death could evoke such terror in the heart of one who had consorted with the likes of Mendeziron and attended the court of Thagmok. Out from the domain of myth and rumour, Nagash the Accursed had returned.

The Great Necromancer pointed his staff towards Neferata and immediately a blanket of darkness swirled around her, catching and absorbing the arcane fire Molchinte hurled against her. While Nagash shielded the vampire queen, the leaders of the lightning-men charged towards Alghor and Orbleth. Formidable as the Chaos champions were, they found themselves outnumbered by the ebon knights eager to avenge the comrades the pair had cut down from ambush.

Into the tableau, a colossal shape lurched. A charnel reek preceded it, splattering through the air in a stream of foulness. The stink of blood, old and rancid washed across the crypt, causing even the faces of the vampires to twist in revulsion. A thunderous, slobbering step brought layers of mould crumbling from the ceiling. The obscene figure drew out into the light, revealing its awful aspect. Swollen, engorged with internal fluids, the thing possessed only the most mocking semblance of human form about it. The legs were short and stocky, veins bulging from the tanned skin to drip a slime of gore down knees and calves. The feet were an array of clawed pads, the hooked talons gleaming like knives as they scratched against the floor. The body itself was prodigious in its dimensions, many times larger than that of a man. Thick ropes of muscle had broken through the flesh, leaving wet strips of meat dangling from its damaged hide. One arm was little more than a withered stump flapping uselessly against the shoulder while its opposite was a tree-like bulk of sinew tipped by a bear-like paw.

The thing’s head had sunk down into its torso, staring out with a nest of gigantic black eyes. Some mocking suggestion of a nose and mouth protruded just beneath the eyes. Blood bubbled up from the mouth as it cried out in a voice that filled Lascilion with horror, for it was the voice of Vaangoth, the champion of Khorne they had left behind in the tower. The bloodthirsty warrior had sampled too deeply of Nachtsreik’s phantasmal gore, drawing the attentions of the Blood God to him, filling him with the raw power of Chaos. At once, Vaangoth had become both exalted and debased, one of the abominable spawn of Chaos.

‘I follow,’ Vaangoth howled. ‘I bring doom. The Bloodking is come!’

As the spawn cried out the last words, the entire crypt was shaken by a tremor that bespoke some immense violence inflicted upon the castle itself. Lascilion chided himself for his credulity. Thagmok hadn’t wanted him to merely lead Molchinte and a few assassins after the lightning-men. The Bloodking himself was following the warlord, bringing his full might against the foes he had used Lascilion to find.

Lascilion looked upon the malignant spectre of Nagash. Thagmok was coming to claim the greatest prize in the Realm of Death, the one conquest even Archaon had failed to achieve. The Bloodking was coming for the Great Necromancer.

Chapter Fourteen

The cold shell of death magic closed around Neferata, guarding her against the sorcerous barrage conjured by the copper-skinned Chaos witch. It was a small thing for Nagash to fend off the magical assault that had come close to overwhelming his Mortarch. Powerful as she was, the attacking sorceress was but an insect beside the Lord of Death. There was only so much eldritch lore Tzeentch could pour into a human mind before it collapsed into madness. Nagash had no such limitations. He could feel the sense of shock that raced through the enemy witch when he intervened, her horror that her spells could so easily be brushed away.

But it didn’t suit the Great Necromancer for the Stormcasts to learn the full extent of his might. Instead, Nagash was more interested in the extent of the strength the Anvils possessed. This ambush in the depths of Nachtsreik was an opportunity to see how a small group of the storm-knights fared against foes who could pose a real challenge to them.

‘Attend to the others,’ Nagash told Makvar. ‘I will obstruct the spells of their sorceress.’ The Lord-Celestant nodded and hastened to join his warriors. The other Stormcasts were already engaged with the two Chaos champions who had vanquished the Judicators left to guard the crypt.

The bloated champion who bore the Mark of Nurgle brought his diseased blade slashing across the chest of the Liberator who rushed at him. The stricken Stormcast fell back, a black froth bubbling from the mouth of his helm as the daemonic energies within the Nurglesque sword raced through his body. The ebon knight collapsed, his hammer rolling free from his weakened grip. Nagash could feel the necrotic vibrations pulsating within the fallen warrior, ready to extinguish his life-force.

While the Liberator languished on the ground, Knight-Heraldor Brannok interposed himself between the stricken warrior and the Chaos champion. Ducking around the sweep of the Nurglesque sword, Brannok held the invader back while Lord-Castellant Vogun hurried to the dying Stormcast. He held his warding lantern over the wounded warrior, letting its rays shine down upon him. Nagash was surprised to observe the necrotic vibrations falter, gradually receding as the healing light began to burn away the daemonic infection.

Even with death so near, Vogun was driving it back. That was a power the Great Necromancer found more troubling than any he had witnessed heretofore, a power antithetical and oppositional to the very source of his own dark magics. If such power were harnessed properly, it could prove a threat to his dominion.

In the next moment, Nagash saw that he wasn’t alone in appreciating the menace posed by Vogun’s light. The Nurglesque champion Brannok fought lowered his guard, exposing himself to the Stormcast’s blade. As the sigmarite sword slashed across his swollen belly, however, what spilled from the wound was far from what the knight expected. Instead of gore and entrails, a swarm of snake-like worms splashed onto the floor. The grotesque parasites at once slithered away, speeding towards Vogun. Brannok stamped on one of the creatures, bursting it in a spray of stinking yellow ichor. He had no opportunity to attack the rest of the swarm, for the Chaos champion was swinging at him once again with his green blade, apparently indifferent to the gaping wound in his guts.

Across the crypt, Huld and the remaining Liberator fought against the black-armoured Chaos champion with the flail. Despite their superiority of numbers, the Stormcasts were having difficulty slipping through the invader’s guard. The flail swung with expert precision, the chains coiling about the blades of their swords to twist them aside each time the knights thrust at its wielder. Even the purifying rays of Huld’s celestial beacon, the light that so discomfited Nagash’s vampire minions, had little effect upon this barbarous fighter. Certainly not enough to dull his ferocity.

The impasse was broken when Makvar entered the fray. Coming at the champion from the flank, the Lord-Celestant swung at his adversary with his fearsome runeblade. Again, the invader turned and brought the chains of his flail whipping around to entangle and twist the descending sword. This time, however, the tactic brought electricity crackling up from the sigmarite weapon. Lightning sizzled up the flail and rushed into the champion’s body. The barbarian staggered back, smoke rising from the seared flesh inside his armour. In his hands, he held a gnarled length of iron that had been the grip of his flail. The bludgeoning skulls and the chains themselves lay scattered about the floor, many of the links melted by the electric discharge of Makvar’s runeblade. The stricken Chaos champion fell back, drawing an ornate dagger from his belt and reversing his hold upon the iron handle of his destroyed flail so that he might use it as a club.

Nagash noted the fearsome enchantments bound into Makvar’s runeblade. He recognised the peculiar arcane craftsmanship of duardin smiths. Long ago, he had learned to his cost how potently such swordsmiths could infuse a weapon with aethyric power. He didn’t envy the Chaos champion the destruction that would soon be his.

Yet before Makvar could close upon the invader, a new factor thrust itself into the battle. Lumbering through the doorway was a ghastly monster, a hideous spawn of Chaos. Nagash could see the rampant arcane energies shivering through the thing’s body, changing and mutating every organ and bone with each step it took. His witchsight revealed to him the murderous Mark of Khorne branded into the one bit of chest that had resisted the riotous transformation that swept through the rest of the abomination’s frame.

More than that, Nagash understood how this monstrosity had come into being. He could sense the phantasmal harmonies that saturated the spawn and recognised them as part of the ghostly force that Mannfred had employed to build Nachtsreik. A slave of the Blood God Khorne, this creature had glutted itself on the spectral gore seeping from the walls until it lost whatever integrity of form it had once possessed. The thing had become carnage incarnate.

A moment after it appeared, the spawn’s mouth made a savage utterance, declaring that the Bloodking himself had come to Nachtsreik. The next instant, the fortress trembled. Nagash knew it was from the impact of some tremendous projectile, though perhaps not something more destructive than those hurled against it by the skaven. The difference wasn’t in the missile, but in the castle itself. Just as the blood-soaked stones had responded to the Khorne champion, so too they were affected by the presence of the Bloodking. The necromantic resilience and regeneration with which Mannfred had infused his fortress had been disrupted. The fight in the Mortarch’s sanctum had weakened the resilience of his sorcery, stifling the adaptability of his fortifications. The Khornate spawn had further upset the arcane harmonies, establishing a sympathy not with Mannfred’s necromancy but with the bloodthirsty fury of Thagmok. For the first time since it was erected, Nachtsreik was vulnerable to the hordes of Chaos.

Nagash turned away from Neferata, letting his protection waver. He had no time left to play with the Chaos witch. It was time to end things. As she felt him focusing upon her, the sorceress tried to evoke the arcane concealment that had guarded her and her companions through Nachtsreik. Nagash saw the mutant skull she used to form her spell. At a wave of his bony hand, the skull exploded into morbid fragments, several slivers burying themselves in the sorceress’ body. Stunned, she fell back behind one of the caskets strewn about the hall.

Nagash’s skeletal fingers closed about the hilt of a sword as ancient and monstrous as himself. The wail of banshees and the shrieks of wraiths echoed in his mind as the Great Necromancer let the deathly pulse of Zefet-nebtar sizzle through his spirit. His own malignance flowed back into the Mortis Blade, establishing a fell harmony between them. As he stalked across the crypt towards his prey, the sorceress sent a coruscating bolt of Chaos magic rushing at him. Nagash whipped the necrotic head of his staff in front of him, spinning it in an arc of power that caught and dissipated the hostile vibrations. Striding through the vaporous residue of the witch’s spell, he closed upon the sorceress.

The Chaos conjurer was utterly desperate now, summoning all her reserves of aethyric might, channelling reckless amounts of magical energy through her body, heedless of the strain she put upon her merely mortal flesh and spirit. She formed the rampant energies into a great shimmering ball of mutating harmonies and flung it at the Great Necromancer. As she did so, the fingers of her left hand melted away, replaced by fibrous growths more akin to fungus than flesh.

Nagash caught the malefic spell with Alakanash. It would have been an easy thing for him to hurl its energy back upon the sorceress, but he had other plans for her.

The Great Necromancer could sense Mannfred watching him as he raised his sword to strike the sorceress. The Mortarch of Night had been using his magic to drive back the Chaos spawn, but now there was a respite, a moment for him to observe his master in action. The vampire saw Nagash poised to strike. Nagash knew he also saw the black stone held tight against the hilt of Zefet-nebtar, the same glassy stone Mannfred had surrounded his sepulchre with — a fragment of which was yet hidden under the Mortarch’s armour.

Feeling Mannfred’s jealous gaze on him, Nagash brought the Mortis Blade slashing down. The wards the sorceress had built around herself evaporated in an instant, winking out in a flash of purple light. Then, the black sword was shearing through her body, splitting her from crown to pelvis. Nagash could feel the Mark of Tzeentch pulsate with inimical energy as the witch’s spirit abandoned her dying flesh. The Great Necromancer’s pull proved greater, however. He could hear her scream of disbelief as her soul was dragged away from the waiting claws of Tzeentch and down into the black stone he held in his hand.

As the hewn body of the sorceress wilted at his feet, Nagash looked towards Mannfred. He needed but a single glance to be assured that the Mortarch had seen everything. The gleam in the vampire’s eyes bespoke a terrible inspiration. Nagash realised that his vassal had learned what he wanted him to learn.

Now he only needed the opportunity for Mannfred to put the lesson into practice.

All around Makvar, the crypt swayed and shuddered. It was more than the impact of the projectiles the besieging army outside the walls was hurling against Nachtsreik. The firmament itself was coming apart. Great sanguinary expulsions bubbled from wall and ceiling, spilling into the chamber in rivulets of gore. Clumps of bone rolled out from crumbling facades, clattering over the flagstones in a ghoulish tide. Clouds of wailing spectres billowed through the corridors, whipping around the Stormcasts and their Chaos foes before shrieking off into the darkness.

The fortress was tearing itself apart. The murderous necromancy with which Mannfred had built it was now sinking into a sort of suicidal madness as it responded to the influence of the arch-murderer Khorne, the Chaos God of Carnage. Makvar wondered how exalted the Bloodking Thagmok was in his god’s esteem to inflict such destructive confusion on Nachtsreik.

For the moment, the question would wait. Leaving Huld and the last Liberator to finish the black-armoured Chaos champion, Makvar rushed to intercept the injured spawn as it lumbered across the crypt towards Neferata. He saw Mannfred casting pulses of dark energy at the mutated horror, but the injuries he visited against it only seemed to make the beast even more crazed. The blood streaming from its wounds refused to splash onto the floor, but instead oozed back into the torn veins and slashed flesh.

‘I am the Anvil!’ Makvar cried as he rushed at the hideous monster. His runeblade lashed out in a flash of gleaming metal, hacking into the beast’s nearest arm. Lightning crackled from his sword as it ripped into the crimson flesh. The blood that erupted from the wound came as a gush of scarlet steam, rushing past him in a stagnant cloud. The spawn reared back, its head snarling in pain. The brute swung around, striking at Makvar with one of its cudgel-like fists. The blow missed him as he dived away, instead gouging a pit into the floor. Flagstones crumbled, exposing the catacombs beneath the crypt.

Makvar retaliated with another slash, this time raking the runeblade down the monster’s back. Again, there was the sizzle of steaming blood as the horror’s corrupt metabolism reacted to the purifying surge of electricity. The spawn started to round on him once more, then was struck in the leg by a blinding flare of arcane energy. He could see the head of Nagash’s staff ablaze with spectral light as the Lord of Death directed his malefic power into the monster. The beast’s leg expanded like a swelling bladder and then burst apart. Wailing in rage, the thing crumpled in a puddle of its own gore as the limb dissolved under its own weight.

The Stormcast moved in to finish the beast, yet he had underestimated its ferocious vitality. The horror reared up, supporting itself on one arm and its remaining leg. The other arm came slamming down, hurling the Lord-Celestant back as its claws scraped down his black armour, leaving deep gashes in the sigmarite plate. Makvar was tossed through the air and slammed down on his back. He felt the already weakened floor crack under his impact, heard stony fragments go clattering away into the darkness below.

As he started to rise, Makvar was struck by the charging spawn, smashed back against the floor. He felt something break inside him, a flare of pain tear through his body. Keeping hold of his runeblade, he managed to slide its edge across the mutated paw that pressed down upon him. The corrupt flesh steamed as lightning coursed through it. The Chaos spawn growled and grunted, but refused to relent. The pressure mounted. Makvar could taste his own blood in his mouth and his vision began to dim.

Before the pressure against his body could crush him utterly, the blood beast recoiled, screaming in agony. Black, nebulous strands of shadow were streaming into the thing’s body. It took Makvar a moment to realise that they were spirits — some of the trapped ghosts that infested Nachtsreik had been directed against the spawn. The monster stumbled back, unbalanced, and slammed down upon the floor. Cracks spread from its collapse. The fissure widened as the spawn writhed in torment. Its obscene flesh was expanding now, bubbling and undulating with grisly animation. Whatever the spirit hosts were doing to the brute, it was too much for its body to withstand. With a last howl of agony, the beast’s body ruptured, splashing the crypt with the spectral blood that so engorged it. The ruined scraps of mangled meat and bone crashed down against the floor, fracturing the weakened stone. A jagged hole opened beneath it and the spawn’s carcass plunged into the depths.

Makvar propped himself on one elbow as the orchestrator of the spell that had vanquished the abomination approached him. Mannfred gave the injured Stormcast an appraising look, then a smile that was reptilian in its coldness curled across the vampire’s face. Silently, he drew Gheistvor and crept towards the Lord-Celestant.

Fingers of pain still crackled through Neferata’s brain as she recovered from the sorcerous attack. If not for the intervention of Nagash, it was possible she would have been overwhelmed. She had invested too much of her powers in assaulting the Chaos warlord who had brought destruction upon her city. In her fury, she had allowed herself to lose focus, behaving like some newly turned thrall drunk on her own transcendence of mortality. That recklessness had left her hideously exposed, a weakness the invaders had been swift to exploit.

Neferata could see Huld and one of the other Stormcasts fighting a black-armoured Chaos champion. Across the crypt, Makvar and Mannfred struggled against the bloated Chaos spawn. Further still, Nagash pitted his powers against a barbaric sorceress, likely the same foe who had come so close to overwhelming the vampire queen. Nearer at hand, Brannok matched blades with a revolting warrior of Nurgle. She could see the swarm of hideous worms that spilled from the wounds the knight inflicted on his foe, a slithering horde that crawled away towards…

The worms were converging upon Lord-Castellant Vogun. He was kneeling beside a fallen Stormcast, using the light of his warding lantern to fend off the arcane infection that ravaged the knight’s body. Directing the light upon his comrade, he struggled to protect the Liberator not only from the disease within but the worms without, for the slithering tide was crawling all over Vogun. Though the things recoiled from the direct path of the celestial light, they seemed perversely drawn to it as well. The healer’s armour was slick with the wet, slimy parasites. Smoke rose from the sigmarite plate as the foul acids exuded by the vermin gradually ate away at his armour.

There was no question that Vogun was aware of his peril. Lying on the floor beside him was the corroded body of Torn. The ever-loyal gryph-hound had tried to protect his master, but without the protection of sigmarite armour, he had been overwhelmed by the slithering horde. Steam continued to rise from the animal’s pitiable remains.

Weakened as she was, Neferata seized the opportunity she saw. Vogun’s actions displayed for her in no uncertain terms the degree to which the storm-knights valued their comrades — and how favourably they would regard one who hurried to their aid. Mustering her concentration, she drew upon her magic, pointing the Staff of Pain towards Vogun and sending a wave of withering force into the parasitic worms.

It took all of Neferata’s focus to set the spell against only the worms and not the Stormcast they engulfed. Hence, she failed to note the return of an old threat until he was nearly upon her. The Chaos warlord with the plumed helm had recovered enough to make another assault against her. With both swords drawn, it seemed he had abandoned his notion of capturing her and had determined to destroy her instead.

Before the barbarian could reach her, he was intercepted by Lord Harkdron. Neferata’s lover, wounded by the warlord’s blade, dived at his enemy in a feral leap. Ferocity, however, wasn’t enough. The Slaaneshi warlord spun around, slashing Harkdron with the longer of his swords. The vampire’s armour shredded like paper beneath the keen edge and the force of the blow knocked him back among the caskets. The barbarian sneered, lips curling away from feline fangs, and turned back towards the Mortarch of Blood.

Worms continued to shrivel under the force of Neferata’s incantation. A few moments more and Vogun would be free from the parasites. Those few heartbeats would leave her exposed to the Slaaneshi warlord’s blades. Reluctantly, she realised she would have to sacrifice her ambition — and with it the Lord-Castellant. Agitated by her magic, the infuriated worms would burn their way through his weakened armour in seconds.

The dilemma was resolved for Neferata when Brannok interposed himself between the vampire queen and her foe. Hurling the severed head of the Nurglesque champion at the warlord, the Knight-Heraldor glowered at the barbarian. ‘She is under my protection,’ he declared. The leonine face dropped into a scowl of frustration, and with a roar, he lunged at Brannok.

Stormcast and Slaaneshi traded blows. Brannok’s sigmarite blade resisted the razored edge of the warlord’s long sword while his agility thwarted efforts to drive the shorter knife into his gut. A return sweep of the Anvil’s weapon cropped the plume from the warlord’s helm, leaving its wreckage to flop against the cheek-plate. The warlord snarled in wrath, his jaws distending, revealing a long forked tongue. From this organ, a viscous slime spattered across Brannok’s mask, boiling against the metal and momentarily blinding him.

Even as the warlord moved to capitalise upon the debilitation of his foe, Neferata turned towards him. Vogun was no longer threatened by the worms. Now she could direct her full attention against the fiend who had destroyed Nulahmia. A bolt of dark magic raced into his left arm, ripping through the limb in a gory discharge. Strips of armour and the deadly knife clattered away from the smoking arm.

The warlord staggered back. His gaze shifted between Neferata and Brannok, the Slaaneshi’s mind turning over the odds arrayed against him. He sketched a mocking salute with his remaining sword, then turned about and threw himself into the pit that had swallowed the blood beast’s carcass. Brannok rushed after him, but was too late to stop the warlord from leaping into the darkness.

A compulsion seized Neferata, diverting her attention away from the pit and to the scene unfolding on the other side of it. Makvar lay sprawled on the ground with Mannfred above him. The vampire was ready to bring Gheistvor slashing down into the Lord-Celestant. Refusing to allow her schemes to be ruined, Neferata unleashed a blast of spectral force at the Mortarch of Night. The ghostly vibration was just enough to turn aside the descending blow. Instead of striking Makvar’s head, Gheistvor simply sheared through the top of his metal halo.

The respite gave Makvar the chance to retaliate. His boot kicked out, slamming into Mannfred’s knee and knocking him down. Even as the Mortarch rose to make a second attack, he found a new foe leaping towards him. Hurtling across the pit was Brannok, the shout of ‘Traitor!’ thundering from behind his mask.

Mannfred decided not to risk himself against both Brannok and the rallying Makvar. Turning, the vampire rushed at the wall behind him. Some hidden catch responded to his retreat, opening a concealed panel and revealing a hidden passage. With Brannok close behind him, the Mortarch plunged into the secret corridor. A great block of stone came slamming down from the crumbling ceiling, sending a dolorous boom rolling through the crypt and burying the doorway beneath a mess of rubble.

‘After them,’ Makvar called, trying to drive his battered body towards the mound of debris. Vogun left the recovering Liberator in order to rush to his commander’s side. Huld and the other Liberator, having finally overcome their opponent, started towards the buried door.

It was the voice of Nagash that held them back. ‘They are beyond your reach,’ he declared. ‘Even should you clear away the wreckage, Nachtsreik is such a labyrinth of dungeons and tombs that it would take you years to explore them fully. And that is if Mannfred remains in the Realm of Death. The Cromlech of Avar-Sul is not so far removed from this place. It is certain the Mortarch has some way of reaching the realmgate from here.’

‘We cannot abandon Brannok,’ Makvar protested as Vogun shone his warding lantern on him. The Lord-Celestant’s wounds, lacking the sorcerous corruption that afflicted the Liberator, responded quickly to the celestial light.

‘Lord Nagash is right,’ Huld said, turning away from the rubble. ‘It would take too long to dig our way through.’ He looked up as the castle shook once more, streams of dust rattling from the roof. ‘That is if this place holds together that long.’

‘Brannok will either achieve his purpose,’ Vogun told Makvar, ‘or he will fall and his spirit will return into Sigmar’s keeping.’

Nagash raised a fleshless talon and pointed at the quaking ceiling overhead. ‘There are more pressing concerns for us now. These assassins have led Thagmok’s army here. They have penetrated the defences Mannfred crafted for this place. Soon they will be upon us.’ The Great Necromancer raised the Mortis Blade. ‘Unless we go forth to meet them. If nothing more, we can cut the head off the serpent. The Bloodking has vexed my domain far too long already.’

Neferata could sense Makvar’s hesitation. It wasn’t fear of the Bloodking’s forces that made him reluctant to quit the crypt, but concern for his comrade. However, he was strategist enough to appreciate the uselessness of mounting a search while the enemy stormed the castle. ‘What is your plan?’ he asked Nagash.

The Lord of Death looked down at Makvar. ‘We strike at the heart of the enemy. Kill the Bloodking, and his army will loose its cohesion.’ He gestured at the pit created by the blood beast. ‘As you’ve seen, those who follow Khorne don’t react well to confusion. I will muster the spirits bound within Nachtsreik and set them against the foe. Even now, my morghasts are collecting the black stones from Mannfred’s sanctum. With those to help channel my power, I will unleash a spectral flood to terrorise our enemy and grant us the opportunity to strike.’

Neferata felt more than a tinge of suspicion as Nagash turned towards her and told her to lead the Stormcasts through the vaults and to the walls of the castle. With the eerie shifting and restructuring of Nachtsreik stifled by the Bloodking’s assault, the path before them would be straightforward enough. The Great Necromancer would linger behind for a while to perform the ritual that would summon the spirit hosts.

As she watched Nagash descend back down into Mannfred’s sanctum, Neferata wondered if he was spending all their lives simply to give himself the chance to escape. Grimly she realised that even if such were the case, she could do nothing to disobey her master.

‘Can Nagash do what he claims?’ Huld asked her when the Great Necromancer had withdrawn.

‘There are no limits to his power,’ Neferata said, keeping her reservations to herself. She turned and glowered at the hole down which the Slaaneshi warlord had plunged. Hate blazing in her eyes, she raised the Staff of Pain and exerted her power in a spell that infused new animation into the shattered skeletons littering the crypt. The restored undead lurched to their feet and shambled silently towards the hole. One by one, without protest or hesitation, the skeletons stepped across the precipice and fell down into the darkness.

‘Just in case that scum is still alive after he hits the bottom,’ Neferata told the Stormcasts. She glanced at Makvar, impressed at the speed with which he had recovered. ‘If you are fit enough, Lord-Celestant, I will lead you from this place.’

Walking to where the carcass of Torn lay, Vogun looked back and shook his head. ‘Are you certain you can find the way?’

Neferata laughed, brushing her hand across the wall. ‘Nachtsreik no longer bleeds,’ she said. ‘What blood is being spilled is outside where the Bloodbound and the skaven squabble over which of them will conquer the castle. If there is one thing upon which you may be confident, Lord-Castellant, it is that a vampire can always follow the scent of blood.’

Nagash descended into Mannfred’s tomb. Here was one place that the Mortarch of Night had guarded with such spells and wards that even the onset of the Bloodking failed to disrupt the eerie atmosphere. Of course, von Carstein was always at his most clever when devising some safeguard to ensure his own survival. It was likely the sanctum had been created not simply to protect against Chaos and the Stormcasts alone, but to protect him from the wrath of Nagash as well. The vampire was always making that mistake, overestimating his abilities.

The morghast archai formed a circle around the pedestals. At a signal from Nagash, they brought the black stones together, releasing a surge of arcane energy. The Great Necromancer let the magic flow into him, replenishing such power as he had expended in the battle and on the journey to Nachtsreik. It wasn’t much, but the Lord of Death was always wary of even the slightest weakness.

Some of the power ebbing from the stones he channelled into a telepathic sending, linking his mind to that of Arkhan. The instructions Nagash passed to his acolyte were simple enough. The Mortarch of Sacrament already knew what to do — all he waited for was the command to proceed. Now that it had been given, he would carry out his orders.

As his body seethed with dark magics, Nagash started to exert his dominion over the spirits Mannfred had bound into the walls of his refuge. In extending his awareness outward through the halls of Nachtsreik, he detected the fading essence of Lord Harkdron. The Great Necromancer lingered over the vanquished vampire’s mind.

Such a festering mire of hatred, jealousy, adoration and dependency! Neferata had done a masterful job of enslaving Harkdron, binding him to her will with such skill that the vampire wouldn’t break free of her even if given the chance. Of course, such devotion brought with it a possessiveness that would brook no competition. Foremost in Harkdron’s thoughts was the bitter fear that the Stormcasts intended to usurp his position, particularly Makvar and Brannok. Harkdron had even worked against his mistress in his efforts to sow discord between her and the Anvils.

Nagash decided he could use the hate he sensed in Harkdron. Expending a fragment of his energies, he sent a surge of necromantic power pulsing through the vampire. Into the reviving vampire’s mind, he placed an awareness of Brannok’s presence in the bleak halls of Nachtsreik and an eldritch intuition that would lead the vengeful Harkdron straight to his prey.

When he sensed Harkdron hurrying away from the crypt to find Brannok, Nagash shifted his focus back to rousing the bound spirits. It wasn’t that he had any real doubt how a confrontation between the Knight-Heraldor and the Mortarch of Night would end, but with Harkdron taking a hand, he would make certain events proceeded as he intended them.

Chapter Fifteen

Lord-Celestant Makvar’s heart turned cold as he gazed out across the great cavern in which Mannfred had raised the fortress of Nachtsreik. From the vantage of the curtain wall, he looked out across a veritable sea of foes, a host so vast that even with the fearsome might of Nagash on their side he didn’t see any hope of victory here.

The chittering swarms of skaven that had laid siege to the fortress were thick about the walls, the rancid stink of their mangy fur and diseased flesh engulfing the castle. Clad in robes of dirty green, squeaking putrid chants and sounding rusted gongs, the congregations of plague monks worked themselves into rabid bursts of ferocity. Swinging blazing censers that seeped diseased smoke, the ratmen rushed across the cavern, hurling themselves upon the enemies that had come to contest their claim upon Nachtsreik.

The trespassers matched the skaven in both numbers and ferocity. A vast crimson horde of barbarians, howling with murderous cries, slaughtered its way across the cavern. Makvar wasn’t surprised Neferata had been able to follow the scent of blood through the castle vaults, for the Chaos army was dripping in gore. Not a weapon or piece of armour had failed to be anointed with symbols of blood, or marked with the skull-rune of Khorne.

Roaring bloodstokers lashed their scourges across the scarred backs of barbarous bloodreavers, whipping the tribesmen into homicidal frenzies that found them plunging fearlessly into the choking smoke of plaguesmog congregations. Bands of blood warriors, their plate armour caked in dried gore, ripped their way through packs of rabid plague monks with axe and sword. Berserk wrathmongers, their faces locked inside horned helms, ploughed into the ratkin with crushing sweeps of the chained hammers they bore, trampling the bodies of their victims underfoot.

Where the row of plagueclaw catapults had stood, there was now only a litter of smouldering debris and mangled bodies. Amidst the wreckage, armoured barbarians mounted upon hulking daemon steeds of brass and bronze hunted the few skaven artillerists that had escaped the carnage of their charge. Makvar saw the molten metal that dripped from the jaws of the daemonic juggernauts as they worried at the ratmen, the savage glee that distorted the mutated visages of their riders as they shattered skulls and severed arms with mattock and axe.

The walls around Makvar shook once more as they were battered by a tremendous impact. He turned from the sight of the broken catapults to gaze upon the creatures that had taken their place. Three enormous gargants, their man-like bodies branded and tattooed with the Blood God’s symbols, were wrenching stalagmites from the ground. Hefting their huge burdens, the towering gargants whipped them around in a swinging motion and flung them at the castle.

‘The vermin are from Clan Septik,’ Neferata declared, gesturing at the swarming ratmen. ‘They were among the first of their breed to gnaw their way into the roots of the Bonegrooves and spread their pestilence across the Realm of Death.’ She pointed her staff to where a great mass of the robed skaven were pushing an immense carriage topped by a great arch of pitted stone. From this arch a vast pendulum swung, its counterbalance drawn back by a crew of chittering ratkin, the gigantic metal cage fitted to its opposite end spewing a foul green vapour.

‘Kingdoms have been exterminated by their poxes,’ Neferata explained, ‘the dead so defiled with disease that only a supreme effort can rouse them from their plague pits.’

‘Sorcery wicked enough to overcome the black art of necromancy,’ Vogun mused. The Lord-Castellant had tied Torn’s carcass to his back, unwilling to leave his faithful gryph-hound where his remains might become the plaything of deathmages and corpsemasters.

‘It seems their plagues aren’t potent enough to avail them here,’ Knight-Azyros Huld said. He pointed to where a monstrous hulk of muscle and claws ravaged a congregation of ratmen, decimating them by the droves as it splashed their black blood across its crimson flesh.

‘Yet while the skaven keep the attention of the Khornate horde, we will find our own opportunity,’ Makvar declared. He cast his gaze across the Chaos horde, trying to find the overlord who led them. ‘If we can reach the Bloodking before they can overwhelm us…’

Neferata drew close to the Lord-Celestant, pointing across the sea of carnage. ‘Thagmok will be where the scent of blood is strongest,’ she said. ‘The madness of Khorne burns inside him and calls out to the blood shed in murder and battle. There! We will find him there.’

The spot Neferata directed Makvar’s gaze towards was a solid block of armoured blood warriors and burly skullreapers. A massive barbarian marching before them brandished an enormous icon of bronze fitted to a steel pole. Behind the mass of warriors, a red light pulsated, throbbing from a dull glow to a blazing intensity with eerily organic palpitations. Makvar couldn’t gain even the slightest glimpse of what exuded this gory luminance, but he felt it had to issue from the Chaos warlord himself.

Makvar took a moment to study the battlefield, evaluating the shifting tide of carnage. There were yet enough of the plague monks to contain the Bloodbound on the right flank. Using some of the stalagmites for cover, they might be able to win their way through the conflict unnoticed for a few hundred yards. After that, it was certain to be a brutal fight to reach the overlord.

‘We will make our descent as near to this position as we can,’ Makvar decided. He commanded his fellow Anvils to regard the line of stalagmites he intended to use for cover. He offered no illusions about their prospects, but if most of them fell, it would be worth the sacrifice if even one of them came to grips with the Bloodking. When he had explained his intentions, he turned to Neferata. ‘You should stay here, my lady. Nagash may need your abilities when he musters his legions to aid Sigmar.’

The Mortarch of Blood laughed at Makvar’s concern. Reaching out her hand, she ripped a fragment from the crenulations in front of them. ‘I am more than capable of acquitting myself in the fighting, and you will never reach the Bloodking without my aid.’

‘I am thinking beyond this battle,’ Makvar told her. ‘You are more important to the battle that is coming, the fight to reclaim Gothizzar and take the Allpoints.’

Neferata turned, pointing her staff at the ground. A ghostly mist began to form, a dark shadow swelling within it. Soon, it was apparent that she was summoning her abyssal steed Nagadron to her side. ‘The choice is mine to make,’ she said. ‘You have worked hard to broker an alliance between us. Allies do not desert one another before battle.’

Makvar could see the determination in Neferata’s eyes. She wouldn’t be denied. His fears that her loss here would hurt the war had to be balanced against killing such goodwill as she felt towards the Anvils and their cause. One of Nagash’s Mortarchs was already their foe, could they risk making a second their enemy?

‘As you wish,’ Makvar conceded, ‘but keep close to us.’ He pointed at the skeletal Nagadron as its shape grew into a semblance of solidity. ‘Don’t hesitate to retreat on your steed if the fight turns from a hopeless endeavour to an impossible one. Spare no thought for us. If a Stormcast falls, his spirit returns to Sigmaron. Reforged, we will fight again.’

Mannfred von Carstein could feel the power being siphoned away from Nachtsreik. The refuge he had spent so much time and energy to construct was crumbling around him. The blood that held the stones together was being leached away by the Khornate horde outside its walls. Now the spirits themselves were being drawn out of the fortress. He didn’t need to exert himself to know this was the doing of Nagash. Only the Great Necromancer had the ability to pierce the wards that imprisoned the ghostly masses.

Hate boiled inside Mannfred as he reflected upon the prodigious abilities of his master. For truly, Nagash was the vampire’s master. At the least moment, he could exert his will and reduce the Mortarch to naught but a puppet, a mere extension of the Death God.

Mannfred had had a reminder of Nagash’s authority during the fighting in the crypt. The strange compulsion that had stolen upon him to attack Lord-Celestant Makvar — he knew that could only have been issued by the Great Necromancer. He suspected that Neferata’s intervention, the poltergeist that foiled Gheistvor’s thrust and spared the Stormcast’s life, was likewise provoked by Nagash.

Left to his own devices, Mannfred would have been far more cunning about turning on the storm-knights. It stung his pride to be used in so blatant and crude a manner, moreso when his fellow Mortarch spoiled the ambush. Yet, all of it was part of a greater design, a strategy the vampire had yet to piece together. Nagash was neither impulsive or capricious. Everything the Lord of Death did was towards some ultimate purpose. He wouldn’t push Mannfred into attacking Makvar just to repent the decision and move Neferata to intervene.

The scene had been staged, and Mannfred was certain that the reason for such theatre was pursuing him through the halls of Nachtsreik. His conviction was justified by the hesitance that seized hold of him when he would choose one passage over another or drop down a particular trap door, make use of some hidden portal or pass through the ghostly face of a gallowglass. He could have lost his pursuer a dozen times over, but always he had been compelled to hold himself back.

Rounding a corner, Mannfred found himself in the colossal confines of his library. Treatises and texts from across the Mortal Realms filled cavernous stacks that spiralled up to the ceiling hundreds of feet above. Winding stairways fashioned from polished bone and yellowed ivory climbed each of the columnar stacks, lit by the ghostly orbs bound within the skulls that hung from their banisters. He could see the niches cut into the base of each stack where the guardians of his library reposed. It would be a simple thing to call out to them, to draw to him a regiment of grave guard that would occupy his pursuer while he slipped away.

The idea quickly faded, and Mannfred left the skeletons to rest in their shadowy posts. Even more than the fortress itself, he had invested too much effort creating this library. He had razed whole towns simply to secure single volumes. He wasn’t going to throw it all away because a storm-knight was chasing him. Instead, he drew upon the necromantic energies residing within the guards, extracting them to fuel a greater conjuration.

Fortunately, it seemed the influence Nagash exerted upon him made no objection when Mannfred summoned Ashigaroth from the shadows once more. There was no protest when he dimmed the orbs around him and used his magic to cloak himself and his steed in a shroud of darkness. With Gheistvor in his hand, he stared across the floor of the library, waiting for the hunter to show himself.

The storm-knight soon appeared, his dark armour reflecting the uncanny glow of the orbs. Mannfred recognised the battle-horn that hung at the warrior’s side. This was the one his companions had called Brannok. The Mortarch always found it amusing to know the names of his victims. It added a certain savour to the taste of their deaths. Before he could spur Ashigaroth to attack the storm-knight, the vampire found his attention drawn to a figure moving through the darkness at the base of the book-filled columns. It moved with too much speed and agility to be a skeleton accidentally roused from its rest. Nor did it move with the bluster and arrogance he had come to associate with the storm-knights.

Mannfred smiled when he sensed the nature of the stalker and deduced his purpose. He was one of Neferata’s thralls from the unmistakable vibration that coloured his aura. It appeared that the Mortarch of Night wasn’t the only one with unkind feelings towards the storm-knights. Watching with keen interest, Mannfred waited while Brannok and the vampire drew closer.

Brannok was searching every shadow for sight of his quarry. As careful as he was to conceal himself, Neferata’s thrall couldn’t hide from the storm-knight’s vigilance. Sword at the ready, the warrior rushed at the stalker. ‘Traitor,’ he hissed as he lunged at what he thought was Mannfred.

The storm-knight’s sword clashed against the thrall’s blade as he moved to parry the descending blow. Lightning flashed from Brannok’s weapon, briefly revealing the face of his adversary. Surprise at finding a different enemy than he expected caused his attack to falter for an instant. It was all the time the thrall needed to twist his body around and slam an armoured elbow into the storm-knight’s mask.

‘Queen Neferata is mine!’ the thrall roared as he strove to press his assault. Though the vampire possessed a strength many times that of a mortal man, his attack had barely phased Brannok. The storm-knight retaliated by driving the flat of his sword up into the thrall’s chin, cracking teeth and all but breaking his jaw.

‘I have no time to waste on you, Harkdron,’ Brannok snarled at the thrall. ‘Relent.’

Harkdron staggered back from the blow he had been dealt, spitting chips of tooth onto the floor. ‘Lord Harkdron,’ he hissed. The vampire charged Brannok in a burst of bestial frenzy. Though the storm-knight intercepted the flurry of slashes and thrusts Harkdron directed at him, he was steadily pushed back by the intensity of the attack.

‘You Stormcasts have humiliated me before my queen,’ Harkdron accused. ‘You think to steal her favour from me!’

Brannok continued to fall back, letting Harkdron work himself into a still greater fury. From his vantage, Mannfred could appreciate what the storm-knight was doing. He was letting the thrall slip deeper and deeper into his rage. Not with the aim of tiring Harkdron, for the undead knew no weariness, but to goad him into the unthinking savagery that would cause him to expose himself. Brannok was hoping to bring the contest to a swift conclusion.

The storm-knight would get his wish, but hardly in the fashion he had intended. By falling back, forcing Harkdron to chase him, Brannok was drawing close to the very column where Mannfred waited in the shadows. The Mortarch knew it wasn’t coincidence. The will of Nagash had sent him into the library, and that same will now made use of Harkdron to move Brannok into position.

Without warning, Mannfred spurred Ashigaroth forwards and charged Brannok. The Knight-Heraldor was smashed to the floor by the impact of the dread abyssal, the sword flying from his hand. While he was stunned, Mannfred commanded his steed to rip the battle-horn from his belt with one of its black claws.

Harkdron lunged at the fallen storm-knight, sword raised for a killing blow. Mannfred glared at the thrall, a deathly blast of necrotic wind hurling him back. ‘He isn’t yours,’ the Mortarch snarled.

From where he had been thrown by Mannfred’s magic, Harkdron glared at him. ‘I will have vengeance,’ he declared.

Ashigaroth pressed its claw against Brannok’s chest, keeping the storm-knight pinned to the floor. Mannfred dismounted and stood over the prostrate Knight-Heraldor. He held Gheistvor over the warrior’s throat. His other hand closed about the shard of glassy black stone from his sanctum. ‘Then let us have true vengeance,’ he told Harkdron. Viciously he drove the tip of his sword into Brannok’s neck.

Immediately there was a searing crackle of energy. Mannfred felt his arm go numb as power pulsed through Gheistvor. He thought of the Chaos sorcerer he had seen Nagash kill and the way her spirit had flown through the Mortis Blade and into the black stone he carried, defying the Mark of Tzeentch the witch had borne. Now, the same thing was happening, only this time it was the spirit of Brannok that was in contest and the claim of Sigmar being defied.

Pain burned through Mannfred’s body as the spiritual discharge rippled through Gheistvor. He could feel Brannok’s spirit trying to escape, to fly back to the God-King in Sigmaron. If the Mortarch relented for an instant, he knew the soul would escape his grasp. A will greater than his own steeled him, commanding him to endure despite the agony that ravaged him. Nagash demanded more than obedience. He demanded success.

Smoke rose from his seared skin by the time the ordeal was over and Mannfred rose from where Brannok had lain. He gazed down at his hand and the black stone he held. Faintly, he could feel the echo of the storm-knight’s soul. Brannok had been killed, but the Mortarch had been unable to confound the mighty enchantments that bound the storm-knight to Sigmar. After the briefest instant, there had been a blinding flash of light and the Knight-Heraldor was gone, hurtling back to Azyr.

‘What have you done?’ Harkdron asked. He had seen the Stormcasts in battle enough to know that what he saw now wasn’t normal.

Mannfred held up the black stone. ‘Discovered something interesting,’ he said. ‘Something of great value.’ He turned his head and studied Harkdron for a moment. ‘Neferata has been friendly with these storm-knights. She won’t thank you for turning against them.’ He laughed, a sound as cruel as the edge of a knife. ‘Fear not, she won’t learn of this from me. Not while you are useful.’

Harkdron stiffened, glancing at where his sword had fallen. ‘I will not betray my queen.’

‘You already have by attacking the storm-knight,’ Mannfred said. ‘At least it will seem so to her. I know the truth, but even if I told it to her I doubt she would believe.’ He shook his head. ‘No, she won’t have it, I think.’ A sly gleam shone in his gaze as he looked again at the black stone. ‘Perhaps things will be different later. Find someplace to keep yourself until then. I will send for you when the time is right.’

Mannfred exerted some of his own dominance, compelling Harkdron to return to the shadows. Neferata’s consort might prove useful to him in his intrigues, allowing he could regain her good graces. It would be useful to have an agent so close to the Mortarch of Blood, one he had a hold upon that went beyond mere magic.

Plans for Harkdron were for the future, however. Looking at the stone, Mannfred appreciated that he had more pressing matters to attend to. He knew what his master had expected of him, and that he had failed to achieve that purpose. But in failure he had made a tremendous discovery, one that he knew Nagash would be most eager to learn.

For when Brannok’s soul crackled through Gheistvor, Mannfred had noticed something that he felt certain had escaped even the Great Necromancer’s attention.

The screams and howls of the dying rang out across the havoc-strewn cavern. Mobs of diseased ratmen strove to pull down tribes of bloodreavers, the contagion drifting from censers scorched the lungs of blood warriors and left them choking on bits of their own burnt organs. Skullcrushers stampeded across broken swarms of skaven, the brazen hooves of the juggernauts pulverising the furry carcasses into paste. An amok slaughterpriest wallowed in the gore of butchered plague monks as he clove them with his massive axe.

Around this carnage the small group of Stormcasts made their way. Spells of concealment conjured by Neferata hid them from all but the nearest of their enemies. The Mortarch’s illusions couldn’t deceive those who drew too close, however. Fortunately, there were none who paid especial notice to the sounds of combat as the Anvils vanquished slinking ratmen and packs of scavenging Chaos hounds.

It was a far different matter when they drew the notice of two enormous beasts, abominable monsters that seemed the very embodiment of Khorne’s primal savagery. They were bigger than ogors, immense slabs of muscle bulging from their vaguely humanoid frames. Masses of bone protruded from their crimson flesh, curving outward into enormous claws and talons. A crest of horns sprouted from each monster’s back, arching over the shoulders to frame the ghastly stump of its head, almost as though in mockery of the halos worn by the Stormcasts’ commanders. The heads themselves were blackened skulls leering above gigantic lower jaws rife with vicious tusks and fangs. Other skulls, wet and dripping, were embedded in the flesh of the monsters, slowly absorbed into their bodies. Branded across their chests was the murderous skull-rune itself, pulsing with a grisly hunger.

‘Khorgoraths,’ Neferata whispered the word. ‘Wolves of the Blood God.’

Makvar tightened his grip on his runeblade. ‘Whatever they are, they are in our way.’ Whipping his stormcloak around, he sent a flurry of sigmarite hammers crackling into the glowing sockets that served the monsters as eyes. The assault worked no great harm upon the Khorgoraths, but the dazzle of crackling lightning was enough to blunt their charge, allowing the Anvils to take the momentum away from them.

No war cry rose from the Stormcasts as Makvar led them to the attack. Amidst the confusion of battle, the clash of blades and the screams of death might be unremarkable, but invocations of Sigmar’s holy name were certain to draw attention, whatever spells Neferata used to conceal their presence. So long as there was a chance of striking at the Bloodking, the ebon knights would do nothing to worsen those chances.

Makvar’s runeblade slashed across the leg of one Khorgorath, causing a slop of syrupy gore to bubble from the wound. The beast retaliated by bringing one of its huge claws snapping at him. Shaped like the disembodied skull of a dracoth, the bony claws narrowly missed him as they ripped the left pauldron from his shoulder.

One of the Liberators was rushing to support Makvar’s attack when the warrior was struck by a ropey tendril that erupted from the Khorgorath’s body. Shaped like a spike-tipped spinal column, the tentacle stabbed into the knight’s chest, punching through his plate and bursting from his back in a welter of gore. The impaled Liberator struggled for an instant as the spinal cord wrapped about him and dragged his dying frame back to the Khorgorath.

Makvar saw the flash of light as the Liberator’s spirit deserted his mangled flesh. He saw something more however. He saw a scarlet glow infuse the Khorgorath’s body. The wound inflicted by his runeblade was closing, healing as the murderous aura spread across it. The monster was regenerating.

The Lord-Celestant glared at his hulking foe. He refused to accept that the thing was unkillable or that the death of the Liberator had been in vain. Strengthened by a zealous defiance, he lunged back to the attack. This time his sword met the downward sweep of the reptilian claw. Lightning seared through the Khorgorath’s arm as the runeblade sheared through one of the bony claws and sent it spinning. The monster swung around, bringing its other arm pounding downwards, seeking to smash him like a bug. Makvar rolled beneath the blow, raking the edge of his weapon across the underside of the arm, splitting the crimson hide and severing the thick knots of sinew and muscle within.

Roaring more from frustration than pain, the Khorgorath reared back. Again the ropey tentacle of bone shot out, hurtling towards Makvar this time. The Lord-Celestant threw himself forwards, using the monster’s own bulk to shield him from the attack. He slashed his runeblade across the beast’s flank, sending a half-dissolved skaven skull spilling from the wound.

Makvar risked a glance at the other Khorgorath to see how his comrades were faring. Huld and Vogun kept the beast disoriented by alternating the rays of their lamps. The Lord-Castellant would shine his light from below and when the brute lurched away, Huld would swoop down to assault its senses with his celestial beacon. Whichever of them wasn’t distracting the Khorgorath with the light would rush in to hack at it with halberd and sword. All the while, the last Liberator was circling around the monster and darting in to bludgeon it with his hammer.

The frenzied roar of his own foe set Makvar charging back around the beast. When the Khorgorath’s tentacle shot at him again, he leapt past it and raked his sword across the rune etched across its chest. The monster staggered back, forgetting the Stormcast for an instant as it pawed at its newest injury. The skull-rune had been disfigured by Makvar’s slash and the light that had suffused it was fading away.

Bellowing in outrage, the Khorgorath stomped towards Makvar. Even as it did so, ghastly shapes whipped around the beast’s body. Spectral hands clutched at the crimson hide, withering it with their deathly touch. Phantom teeth bit into coils of muscle, worrying at the monster’s strength. Charging forwards on the back of Nagadron, Neferata pointed the Staff of Pain at the brute, a spear of dark magic leaping out to strike the abomination’s head. Tusks crumbled into dust as the Mortarch’s hideous necromancy ravaged the Khorgorath.

As the monster languished in the grip of Neferata’s sorcery, Makvar sprang at the Khorgorath. His runeblade crunched through the beast’s wrist, leaving one of its claws dangling by a strip of meat and skin. He followed the attack with a lunge that brought him flying at the skull-like head. Makvar’s sword flashed with holy energies as he brought its edge cleaving through the blackened pate, not relenting until the crackling sigmarite edge had ripped through not only the skull but the enlarged jaw beneath it. When he dropped back to the ground, he could see the Khorgorath stumble backwards, its head split in half by his attack. Crashing to its side, the monster made one futile effort to rise again, then was still.

Makvar turned away from his fallen foe to aid the other Anvils with their own adversary, but found that they too had prevailed, though with the loss of the last Liberator. Satisfied that Huld and Vogun at least were unharmed, he turned towards Neferata. ‘My thanks for your intervention, my lady. We can only pray that there are no more like these between ourselves and our objective.’

Neferata had a distant look in her eyes as Makvar spoke to her. A cold smile finally spread across her face. ‘I think the Bloodking’s armies will have other concerns to occupy them now.’ While she spoke, the sounds of conflict took on a new tone of agitation. The discordant strife sounded at its loudest at the back of the cavern, away from where the Bloodbound struggled against the skaven of Clan Septik.

It took Makvar only a moment to pick out the crack of thunder and the shouts of Stormcasts in these new sounds of combat. He wondered for an instant if this was some spell or illusion conjured by Neferata or Nagash, but the longer he listened, the more convinced he was that the noise was real. He could hear the war cries of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer. Somehow, his warriors had been brought to Nachstreik.

‘I can sense Kreimnar and your knights,’ Neferata told Makvar, verifying his thoughts. ‘With them marches an undead legion commanded by Arkhan. They close against the Bloodking’s horde from the rear, trapping them between the ratkin and themselves.’ A frown tugged at her mouth. ‘This is Nagash’s doing,’ she said, ‘but I fear that our forces are still too few to prevail.’

Makvar looked past the dead hulk of the Khorgorath, watching as the nearby tribes of Bloodbound reacted to this new threat. Chieftains and bloodstokers strove to control their crazed warriors, alternately trying to push them ahead to continue the fight with the skaven or else trying to turn them around to engage the Stormcasts and undead. For all their numbers, it was confusion that reigned over the Chaos horde. Fratricidal attacks between bloodreavers and wrathmongers unfolded before him as the Khornate host struggled against itself to reach its enemies. How much greater would that in-fighting and confusion become with Thagmok’s death?

‘They can gain us the time we need,’ Makvar declared. ‘We can yet reach the Bloodking.’

Lightning crashed down upon the battlefield, blasting great chunks of buildings from the ceiling as the thunderbolts speared through the roof. The debris smashed down upon the Chaos hordes below, crushing scores of barbarians beneath tons of stone. The thunderstrikes themselves immolated dozens more, hurling their smouldering remains across the cavern.

The greater impact was the turmoil the elemental assault wrought upon the Bloodbound. The minions of Chaos were stunned by the devastation, their senses reeling from the thunderous impacts. All but the most deranged among them was shaken, their rush to attack lost for several precious moments. Into that void of indecision, the legions of Arkhan charged.

Necromantic vitality pulsated from the Mortarch of Sacrament, infusing his skeletal warriors with increased speed and agility. When they struck the mobs of barbarians that had hurried to confront the menace to their rear, the undead attacked with the supernormal vigour, stabbing and hacking their enemies with a ferocity that nearly equalled that of the Chaos warriors.

From above, the hulking shape of a terrorgheist swooped down upon the Bloodbound, its deafening shriek rupturing organs and deafening entire tribes of bloodreavers. Still bearing the scars from its battle with the Anvils, the terrorgheist now flew alongside its former foes. Black-armoured Prosecutors dived down in the wake of the mammoth bat-beast’s assault, hurling their stormcall javelins into the disordered Khornate ranks. The explosive missiles sent limbs and bodies tumbling through the air.

More Anvils of the Heldenhammer came marching forth, a solid wall of shields and hammers that wheeled alongside the fleshless regiments of Arkhan’s army. Volleys of lightning arced up from behind the advancing Liberators as the Judicator retinues rained death upon the enemies who thought to rush the Stormcasts. A pack of wrathmongers, swinging their brutal flails overhead, managed to withstand the punishing archery, but before they could reach the shield wall they were beset by the Paladins who emerged from behind their comrades. Thunderaxes sheared through wrath-flails, lightning hammers melted armour and flesh, stormstrike glaives impaled snarling bodies and slashed through blood-gorged bellies. The infernal aura of madness and murder that emanated from the wrathmongers enflamed the zealous disdain with which the Paladins held their foes, goading them to the most savage violence.

Lord-Relictor Kreimnar raised his relic-weapon and drew down another bolt of divine lightning from the unseen heavens. Again, the holy storm lanced through the roof, sending a cascade of broken streets and toppled buildings slamming down upon the enemies below. One of the massive slaughterpriests saw the havoc and recognised its source. The shaven-pated berserker rallied a great company of blood warriors to him, leading them straight towards the skull-helmed Stormcast. Blood dripped from the enormous axe the madman bore, steaming as the hot liquid fell upon the cold earth. His scarred body devoid of armour, trusting to the savage beneficence of Khorne to guard him, the slaughterpriest charged Kreimnar.

The berserker never reached his prey. Lumbering out from behind the Liberators, Gojin swung his reptilian head towards the fanatic. A bolt of lightning shot from the dracoth’s jaws, searing through the slaughterpriest’s torso, evaporating his guts in a flash of electrical violence. Blinking in disbelief, the crazed champion slumped to the ground, horrified that no blood flowed from the charred mutilation he had suffered, that in death he had nothing to offer his god. The blood warriors who followed the slaughterpriest hesitated, stunned by the abrupt dissolution of their hero. Before they could recover their momentum, a retinue of Judicators levelled their boltstorm crossbows at the barbarians, unleashing a fusillade that annihilated them in a matter of heartbeats.

Arkhan himself led the advance on the opposite wing of his army. Troops of malignants galloped on their skeletal steeds while sinister morghasts flew overhead. A gruesome mortis engine glided forwards on a tide of phantoms, their ethereal essence supporting the exhumed reliquary of the cadaverous corpsemaster who guided the swirling ghosts with the gnarled staff he bore. Rank upon rank of skeletons marched behind the cavalry and mortis engine, the clatter of bones and corroded armour rolling from them like the rumble of an angry sea.

The Mortarch of Sacrament had called to him once more the grisly abyssal steed Razarak, the Doom of Traitors. Spurring the skeletal monster onwards, Arkhan loosed bolts of withering magic from his staff, draining the vigour from the Bloodbound before his undead warriors struck them. Weakened by the necromantic spells, the slaves of Chaos fell as easy prey to the charging malignants.

The combined forces of Arkhan’s undead and Kreimnar’s Anvils were cutting a path through the Bloodking’s horde, but despite the impetus of their attack, they had done little more than to seize hold of the Chaos host. Their advance was certain to falter as more and more of the crazed barbarians rushed to confront them. The fatal sting would have to come from another quarter.

Even from deep within Mannfred’s sanctum, Nagash watched the ebb and flow of the battle raging outside the walls of Nachtsreik. Whatever his Mortarchs saw, whatever they heard, was communicated back to the Great Necromancer.

The onset of Arkhan’s attack combined with the continued resistance of the skaven had broken the cohesion of the Bloodking’s horde, creating an opening through which Neferata and Makvar were pressing their advance. Nagash concentrated his focus upon the Mortarch of Blood and the Lord-Celestant, watching with grim evaluation as they stole towards the tribe of skullreapers who surrounded Thagmok.

The concealing illusion Neferata had woven around herself and the Stormcasts was shattered when they closed upon the mutated barbarians. Howling in alarm at the abrupt appearance of foes so near to them, the skullreapers hefted their massive weapons and rushed to the attack. Neferata’s sorcery slaughtered the first dozen before they had taken even a few steps, the fangs and jaws of Nagadron settled for half a dozen more. Makvar’s runeblade crackled as he brought his sword sweeping across the vicious steel of a spinecleaver, severing the head of the axe from its haft and rending the scarred hide of the mutant carrying it. Vogun’s halberd raked through the horned helm of another snarling barbarian, a twist of his blade sending the man sprawling into the arms of the tribesmen behind him. Huld, rising above the press of bodies, shone his celestial beacon down upon the crazed horde, seeking to burn the ferocity from their brains with the divine light of Sigmar.

The swirling phantoms that billowed around Neferata swept forwards to strike at the Chaos horde, but before they drew near the Bloodbound, they were dissipated by a crimson light. The Mortarch herself tried to conjure them once more, only to lurch back in Nagadron’s saddle, a stream of blood rushing from her nose. She felt the brutalising reverberation of a force inimical to magic, a blast of blood-soaked violence that streamed from the very realm of Khorne.

Through his Mortarch, Nagash could sense the source of this vibration that deadened her spells. The power pulsated from the bloodsecrator and the immense icon he bore. Hostile to all sorcery and magic, the Blood God had bestowed upon his disciples ways to oppose such powers when they were brought against them. The Great Necromancer hissed a warning to the vampire queen. Channelling energies straight from the domain of Khorne, there was no knowing the limits of the ward the bloodsecrator had created. It might even be enough to withstand the Lord of Death’s own necromancy.

‘Makvar!’ Neferata cried out. ‘The icon-bearer! He stifles my magic!’

The Lord-Celestant realised that without the arcane support of Neferata they would quickly be overcome. Calling to his fellow Stormcasts, he plunged into the mass of barbarians, leaving a litter of mangled bodies in his wake. Vogun followed at his side, guarding his commander as they ploughed a path through the skullreapers.

Before they could reach the bloodsecrator, a crimson glow appeared in their path. The skullreapers fell back, even the most crazed among them unwilling to fight Makvar and Vogun now. The two Anvils had drawn the attention of Thagmok, and now they were the Bloodking’s prey.

As the barbarians parted, their gorelord was revealed. He was an enormous man, prodigious in his brawny proportions. Plates of red steel edged in bronze guarded his body, each piece of armour pulsing and flowing with a grisly light. The red patina that covered each piece of mail dripped and flowed, bubbling like molten blood. Lashed to his back was a crest, the skull-rune cast in gleaming bronze and adorned with the withered heads of fallen enemies. A cape that looked as though it might have been cut from the wing of a terrorgheist fell from his shoulders. The helm that encased his face had been crafted from a bleached skull, grisly sigils cut into its forehead. Thagmok’s eyes stared out from the pits of his mask, red-rimmed pools of homicidal ferocity.

In Thagmok’s hand he carried an immense double-headed axe that pulsated with the murderous power of Khorne. His other hand gripped the steel chain that restrained a gigantic creature that appeared to mix the worst qualities of lizard and hound. A frill of leathery skin unfolded around the daemonic beast’s neck as it strained to reach the Stormcasts.

‘A poor offering for the Skull Throne,’ Thagmok growled, each word spat with a fury of contempt. In a single motion, he loosed his flesh hound, leaving the daemon to rush at Vogun while he hurled himself upon Makvar.

Makvar tried to parry Thagmok’s axe, but for once, he found a weapon that was the equal of his runeblade. The lightning of his sword sparked and fizzled, unable to penetrate the bloodthirsty essence bound into the axe. The gorelord brought his fist cracking around, smashing into Makvar’s mask. The Anvil staggered from the blow, narrowly blocking the savage sweep of the Bloodking’s weapon.

Through Neferata, Nagash could see the deadly energies rippling across the Bloodking’s axe. Like the icon carried by the bloodsecrator, the axe could cleave a rift between the Realm of Death and the brazen hell of Khorne. Only the axe wouldn’t extract energy from the brass hells — it would send something through. Let so much as a drop of Makvar’s blood touch the blade and he would be rent from the reality of Shyish and descend into the Blood God’s domain.

The loss of Makvar would inconvenience Nagash’s own plans, yet he wouldn’t expose himself while the icon of Khorne yet had the power to deflect his necromancy. At his urging, Neferata cried out to Huld as the Knight-Azyros started to dive down at the Bloodking. ‘The icon! You must break its power!’ The vampire queen herself was beset by a vengeful crush of skullreapers. Without her magic, it was all she could do to fend off the barbarians. Huld was their only hope of striking down the bloodsecrator.

Huld angled away from Makvar and Thagmok, instead soaring towards the icon bearer. Soon he was out of Neferata’s sight, and likewise beyond Nagash’s vision. Through his Mortarch, the Great Necromancer again focussed upon the contest between the Lord-Celestant and the gorelord.

Makvar was a study in discipline and tactics, resisting the bloodthirsty rage the mere presence of Thagmok aroused in his mind. The Bloodking was a savage contrast, hurling himself against his foe in frenzied bursts of violence, hacking away at him in a brutal expression of insanity. The double-headed axe pounded against Makvar’s armour, crumpling the sigmarite plates, smashing them out of shape. Only the swiftness of his parries denied Thagmok the force to rip through his armour, but Makvar knew the gorelord had stolen the momentum from him. He was on the defensive, simply trying to hold the enemy back.

While the skullreapers dared not intervene in the fray, the same restraint had no claim upon Vogun. The Lord-Castellant was able to blunt the ferocity of the flesh hound with his warding lantern, providing him with all the advantage he needed to vanquish his foe and send the daemonic dog howling back into the domain of Khorne. The contest hadn’t left him unmarked, however, and a stream of blood flowed from the grisly bite the hound had delivered to his shoulder. The injury left his arm sagging at his side, but Vogun wouldn’t desert Makvar.

The Lord-Castellant’s halberd came whipping around, crunching down into Thagmok’s arm. The weird crimson plates ruptured under the sigmarite blade, molten blood gushing from the gouged metal. Vogun was momentarily blinded by the escaping steam. As he shielded his eyes, the Bloodking turned on him, driving his hideous axe into the Anvil’s side. There was a rending, shrieking sound like the shredding of metal, and a jagged fissure rimmed in scarlet opened around Vogun. A kick of Thagmok’s boot sent the wounded Stormcast plunging through the rift.

Makvar howled in outrage and rushed at Thagmok. The gorelord turned to meet him, laughing as he gloated over the Lord-Celestant’s abandonment of discipline. He caught the descending runeblade between the blades of his axe, turning the weapon around so that he could draw the Anvil closer to him. ‘I have sent your friend to Hungry Khorne,’ he snarled. ‘Let my axe taste your blood, and I will do the same to you.’

Thagmok kicked out with his boot, smashing his foot into Makvar’s knee. The Stormcast staggered but refused to fall, even when the Bloodking repeated the assault. The continued defiance of his opponent seemed to both amuse and infuriate the gorelord. He was confident of the outcome of their struggle, yet irritated that he should squander so much time on a single foe.

A dying scream rang out, crisp and sharp above the din of battle. Huld climbed into the air, the immense icon of Khorne clenched in his hands, the lifeblood of its owner splashed across his armour. With a gesture of contempt, he swung the icon downwards, sending it to crash among the skullreapers.

The warding effect was broken. The protection Khorne had bestowed upon Thagmok’s entourage was gone.

From the walls of Nachtsreik, a black storm billowed outwards. A spectral tempest, a hurricane of phantoms and ghosts that roared across all in its path. Congregations of skaven vanished in the consuming darkness, their squeals of terror lost in the wailing surge. Tribes of bloodreapers were torn to ribbons as ethereal claws slashed their flesh. Spilling across the cavern, rolling in like a tide of death, the hurricane swept onwards, driving towards the heart of the Bloodbound horde.

There was no fear in Thagmok as he turned to face the oncoming storm. While his skullreapers broke and fled, he stood his ground. Raising his axe high, he shouted his resolve at the Lord of Death. ‘Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows!’

Out from the raging fury of spectres, the skeletal figure of Nagash emerged. The Great Necromancer gripped the Mortis Blade in his bony claw, one of the black stones pressed close against its hilt. The fleshless face loomed over Thagmok, the pitiless depths of eye sockets piercing the skull-helm the Bloodking wore. With a howl of fury, the gorelord charged at Nagash. The Mortis Blade crashed against the Chaos lord’s axe, ripping it from his fingers.

‘There will be no blood,’ Nagash hissed at his foe. Viciously, he drove his black sword into Thagmok’s breast, tearing through ribs, heart and lungs. Into the dying gorelord’s mind, he projected a final thought. You are no longer Khorne’s. Now you belong to me. The Great Necromancer felt the tremor of Thagmok’s spirit coursing through his sword, drawn down into the glassy stone.

‘Such is the fate of all who oppose Nagash,’ the Lord of Death declared, his words booming like thunder across the cavern.

The skaven needed no further prompting to hasten their flight, but some of the Bloodbound were too lost to their frenzied bloodlust to quit the field. Nagash sent his spirit hosts roaring about the battlefield to crush them. Dead, they would be of use to him. Alive, they were simply an obstacle.

Nagash turned away from Thagmok’s corpse. There would be time enough to claim it later. For now, he was more concerned with the Stormcasts. He found both Makvar and Huld kneeling beside a ravaged carcass, the remains of Torn the gryph-hound. It seemed Vogun had cut the carcass loose before he was drawn down into Khorne’s hells.

Makvar looked up at the Great Necromancer. ‘It was our comrade’s desire that we take Torn away with us.’

‘Do as you like,’ Nagash pronounced. He gestured at the carnage-strewn cavern around them. ‘There is carrion enough here to build the legions we need to retake Gothizzar.’ He nodded to Makvar, acknowledging the unspoken question that was on his lips. ‘Yes, the Realm of Death will fight beside you for the Allpoints. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer have proven their quality. I am satisfied that together we may make Archaon Evercursed suffer for his manifold atrocities.’

The surviving Stormcasts followed their skeletal guide through the black vaults beneath Nachtsreik. Though they had lost many brothers in the struggle, Makvar felt they could all take pride that their perseverance had brought them at length to victory. They had secured the alliance with the Realm of Death. The undead legions of Nagash himself would now rally to Sigmar’s cause. To the already mighty array of forces the God-King had mustered to attack the Allpoints, now could be added the terrifying creations of the Great Necromancer.

Yes, they had cause to take pride in their accomplishment, but as he led his warriors through the labyrinth, hastening towards the realmgate buried deep beneath Mannfred’s fortress, Makvar couldn’t quiet his own misgivings. He felt they had made a true ally of Neferata, or at least as close as the vampire queen could come to friendship. At the same time, Mannfred had proven himself a dire enemy, filled with thoughts of revenge for the Hallowed Knights expelling him from the Realm of Beasts. Though the vampire had fled from his master, Makvar worried the Mortarch would find a way to crawl back into Nagash’s confidence. From all they had seen, the Lord of Death set great store in the power and council of his Mortarchs.

Then there were their missing comrades. Brannok hadn’t returned from chasing Mannfred. Kreimnar echoed the sentiment that either the Knight-Heraldor would succeed in his hunt or else his spirit would return to Sigmaron, but for some reason, Makvar couldn’t shake a feeling of unease regarding Brannok.

Vogun’s fate was even more disturbing. Makvar patted the carcass of Torn tied to Gojin’s saddle. The Lord-Castellant had been hurled into the realm of Khorne itself. The thought of him wounded and alone in such a hellish domain…

Makvar chided himself for these worries. There was enough to occupy his mind. He had to focus on the battle ahead, the titanic conflict that would be fought for control of the Allpoints. Worries about his missing companions were secondary to the greater needs of the war. Just as their reservations about the dark powers and fell deeds of Nagash and his undead had to be set aside, so too did his concerns for Brannok and Vogun.

Now, there was only the call to battle. A call every Stormcast Eternal was bound to answer.

Epilogue

Thunder boomed as Lord-Celestant Makvar brought his hammer smashing down into the bird-like helm of a Chaos champion. Lightning flashed as his sword hacked through the furred shoulder of a goat-headed gor. His dracoth’s jaws fell open, spewing a crackling bolt of electricity into the advancing mob of howling barbarians that turned a half dozen of them into steaming corpses. ‘For Sigmar God-King! We are the Anvil upon which the foe shall break!’

All around him, the black-armoured Anvils of the Heldenhammer took up Makvar’s cry. Stolid ranks of Liberators tightened their shield wall, filling in the gaps left by comrades cut down by the press of foes that surged all around them. Volleys from Judicator bows rained down on the charging masses of monsters, mutants and madmen. Fusillades from boltstorm crossbows slaughtered entire warbands, strewing the ground with misshapen bodies. Overhead, winged Prosecutors dived down into armoured Chaos knights, hurling their stormcall javelins at the cavalry with explosive effect. Knight-Azyros Huld swooped around the Prosecutors, using his celestial beacon to fend off the grotesque, manta-like daemons that slithered through the eldritch half-night that yawned above the All-gate of Gothizzar.

‘The filth of Archaon will drown us in their blood,’ Lord-Relictor Kreimnar called to Makvar. He thrust his relic-weapon to the sky for what seemed the thousandth time, calling down still another shower of divine retribution that came searing down into a herd of capering pink-skinned daemons. The undulating pack of horrors exploded into vivid flashes of swirling energy, some vanquished entirely by the fury of the lightning, others tearing themselves apart to reform into smaller, blue-skinned abominations. Pink and blue, the surviving horrors raised a discordant ululation of gibbering fury, rushing still faster towards the embattled Stormcasts.

‘We will hold,’ Makvar shouted back to Kreimnar. Gojin reared back, the dracoth’s claws stamping down on the body of a mutated Chaos champion, crushing the man’s armour beneath his reptilian bulk. The stink of the treacle that oozed from the smashed body was too sweet to bear any kinship to human blood.

Makvar looked across what was a vast ocean of conflict. Everywhere his gaze fell, he saw the horned helms and bestial heads of enemy warriors. The diseased hulks of gigantic maggoths, their heads reduced to masses of wormy growths, their limbs swollen with rotten gasses and putrid bile, lumbered through tribes of plague-ridden marauders as they gleefully sought to close upon the Stormcasts. Raging slaughterbrutes hurled their monstrous mass against shield walls, ripping and tearing with their savage claws and lashing tails. Armoured chosen of Chaos hacked at Paladins with their corrupt swords and arcane axes. Towering gargants cast immense boulders across the field, pulverising entire retinues of Judicators. Daemonic chariots drawn by insect-headed steeds ploughed into ranks of Liberators, the lascivious charioteers slashing at them with snapping claws and stinging whips. In the coruscating skies, daemonic flies and slavering chimeras fought against radiant-winged Prosecutors.

Makvar’s runeblade hacked through the arm of a howling chosen, hurling the warrior’s body back onto the weapons of his comrades. Not for the first time, the Lord-Celestant cast an anxious look at the dark portal that glowered behind the Anvils. The gateway back to Nagash’s underworld. It was from here that the armies of the Great Necromancer were meant to inject themselves into the battle. With every passing moment, Makvar felt doubt swell within him that they even would.

The legions of the undead could turn the tide against Archaon’s forces. The deathly magics of Nagash and his Mortarchs would overwhelm the wearied Chaos sorcerers and their daemonic masters. The horrible beasts that soared over the battlefield would be slaughtered by the terrorgheists and zombie dragons reanimated by the black arts of the Realm of Death.

The Lord-Celestant was reluctant to accept that they had been betrayed, that the Great Necromancer’s armies weren’t coming. As though guessing his commander’s mind, Kreimnar cried back to him his own words. ‘We will hold.’

Makvar turned his face from Gothizzar for the last time. He glared at the enormity of Archaon’s horde. The outrage blazing inside him transformed itself into a steely defiance. ‘We will do more than hold!’ he shouted. ‘We will win!’

Spurring Gojin forwards, Makvar led his Stormcasts into the teeming hosts of Chaos. It would take much enemy blood to blot out his failure to bring Nagash to the battlefield. He vowed he would make good the debt before he fell.

Cyclopean in its enormity, the gargantuan cavern was so immense that it could have swallowed both Nulahmia and Mephitt and still felt like an empty wasteland. In all Nagash’s underworlds, there was no vault so vast as that of Nekroheim. The dead of entire civilizations had surrendered their bones to form the walls and ceiling of the sprawling expanse. Legions of ghost-wisps glowed from the sockets of the skulls that stared from the skeletal surroundings, filling the cavern with an eerie green luminescence that magnified rather than dispelled the shadows that stretched across the black, rocky floor.

Nagash enjoyed the awed silence that held Neferata as she gazed upon his endeavour for the first time. Her astonishment would swell beyond proportion when she discovered the purpose of it all. He had crafted his Mortarchs to be the mightiest of his undead, demigods to serve as extensions of his own power, yet they had their limitations. Despite the countless lifetimes of existence their deathless state had given them, they still thought with a mortal-taint dulling their minds. Even the ever-loyal Arkhan the Black suffered from this handicap, though he at least had the wisdom to recognise it and seek to overcome it through unwavering fealty.

The Lord of Death walked beside Neferata as they advanced deeper into the cavern towards the megalithic structure being raised by an army of skeletons. It was nearly complete now, its outlines unmistakable. A gigantic pyramid, half a mile wide at its base and almost a quarter mile tall once its capstone was set into place. The moment for that event had yet to arrive, however. But it would be soon. Very soon.

‘A Black Pyramid,’ Neferata said in a voice that was little more than a whisper. The Black Pyramids had been the centres of Nagash’s power, wellsprings from which he could draw the energies of Shyish and the death-force exuding from all the Mortal Realms. By and large, they had been razed by Archaon’s forces in the War of Bones, only fragments of them rescued. The Obelisk of Black had been one such sliver. So too had been the black stones with which Mannfred surrounded his sepulchre and the monoliths that had been revered by the pharaohs of Mephitt. Across the Realm of Death, deathmages and necromancers, corpsemasters and vampires, kings and priests had secreted the sorcerous rubble from the Black Pyramids, unknowingly preserving and protecting them until the Lord of Death had need of them once more.

‘Not a Black Pyramid,’ Nagash corrected the vampire queen. ‘The Black Pyramid. This is the crowning glory of my long seclusion, the result of centuries of study and experiment. It is grander in scale than any that has come before it. As its size has been magnified, so too have its arcane affinities.’ He raised his claw and waved it across the expanse of the towering structure. ‘This will do more than simply feed and replenish my power. It will extend it. Expand it. Allow my magic to reach into places previously denied to it.’

Nagash reached within his robe and drew forth a sliver of translucent black stone. It was one of the shards from Mannfred’s tomb, but Neferata could at once see that it was changed. There was a strange energy bound within it. It took her a moment to understand. When he saw that she did, the Great Necromancer nodded. ‘Yes, the spirit of the sorceress Molchinte. One who bore the brand of Tzeentch upon flesh and soul. Something that should have been beyond my power to claim.’

‘But no longer, my Master?’ Neferata asked.

‘Anything that holds or held the essence of death within it is again mine to claim,’ Nagash declared. A ghoulish laugh rattled through the fleshless god. ‘Yes, even Sigmar’s storm-knights,’ he answered the question Neferata dared not ask. He turned from her, pointing his staff at a trio of figures walking towards them from the shadows. The presence of Arkhan came as no surprise to Neferata, but the liche-king’s companion did. Mannfred von Carstein.

As he approached, Mannfred bowed in contrition to the Lord of Death. Like Nagash, he produced a sliver of black, glassy stone. ‘The storm-knight’s spirit couldn’t be held,’ he said.

Neferata turned back towards Nagash. ‘You set him against the Stormcasts? You permitted it? What if his comrades should learn what has befallen their companion? What will become of our alliance with Sigmar?’

‘There will be no alliance,’ Arkhan stated. ‘The legions promised to Makvar are needed here to speed the construction of the pyramid.’

‘But if Archaon retains his hold upon the Allpoints—’ Neferata started to object. Nagash silenced her with a wave of his hand.

‘A victory for the hordes of Chaos would serve against me,’ Nagash said. ‘But I would gain nothing if Sigmar were to be triumphant. A stalemate serves me best. To prolong the war. To draw out the struggle.’

Neferata shook her head. ‘I don’t understand. The Realm of Death would be liberated. The hordes of Chaos would be expelled from your domain.’

A fell light blazed in the pits of Nagash’s skull. ‘Your ambitions are still those of flesh, my lovely Neferata.’ He turned and stared at Mannfred. ‘Even your scheming and plotting is limited. You do not aspire to the desires of a god!’

Nagash raised the sliver of stone in his hand, pointing it at the growing pyramid. ‘The whole structure will be given a facing of these stones. The debris of its predecessors will become its skin, feeding into a grand reservoir of dark magic. I will use that power to claim the spirits of all who perish in the Realm of Death — whatever god thinks to keep them from me.’

‘You will provoke the wrath of Sigmar,’ Neferata said, fear in her eyes. Mannfred’s sneering expression turned sour at her words, for he was only too aware what daunting foes the Stormcasts could be.

The Great Necromancer shook his crowned head. ‘Sigmar busies himself with the war against Chaos. Even should he turn his attentions towards me, I have sown the seeds of uncertainty in his mind.’ He extended his arms towards his Mortarchs. ‘The Stormcasts know Mannfred as an enemy, rife with treachery. If I have turned against Sigmar, perhaps it is Mannfred’s poisoned council that has made it so. Through Neferata’s attempts to forge her own alliance with them, the Stormcasts see her as their friend. Perhaps she will be able to sway me and make me favour the God-King’s war.’ Nagash clenched his hand into a skeletal fist. ‘Hope is a delusion that may cloud even the judgement of a god. So long as he is uncertain, Sigmar will entertain his hopes. It may yet come to pass that an alliance with Azyr will serve my purposes. But that day is not today.’

Mannfred’s visage took on an aspect of haughtiness, a sly gleam in his eyes. ‘Are you certain it is you who intends to betray the God-King?’ the vampire asked. He held out the black shard which Brannok’s soul had touched. ‘There was something familiar about the storm-knight’s spirit when I drew it from his body. Something so tantalisingly familiar. Perhaps you might tell me what it is, Master?’

Nagash glowered at the arrogant Mortarch. He would have punished Mannfred for his mockery, but he too had felt that unaccountable sensation about Makvar and his Anvils of the Heldenhammer. They had been different from the Stormcasts he had encountered before. Until now, he had been unable to discover why. As he wrenched the vampire’s discovery from his mind, the Lord of Death suddenly understood what it was that rendered the Anvils so familiar, so dissimilar from their comrades.

The soul that had touched Mannfred’s shard was from Shyish. It was the spirit of a mortal that should have passed into Nagash’s keeping. Instead, it had been poached by Sigmar, reforged into one of his Stormcast Eternals. While the Great Necromancer fought alone against the hordes of Archaon, Sigmar had been stealing the spirits of his realm’s mortal warriors.

The Great Necromancer looked up at his Black Pyramid. ‘Do not concern yourself with matters beyond your position,’ he warned Mannfred. ‘I will decide when it is time to reclaim what belongs to me. What are a few dead souls when balanced against the fate of all the Mortal Realms?’

Call of Archaon

David Guymer

Beneath the Black Thumb

I

‘You come to me offering death,’ said Copsys Bule, stabbing his long-handled trident into the soft red soil. Blood or something distantly akin to it oozed lazily up around the sinking tines. ‘A kingly gift, envoy, but death flourishes where I choose to sow it. I am a harvester of death.’

Kletch Scabclaw studied him with eyes that could have gleaned weakness from diamond. They were milk yellow, and glared over the mangy scrap of man-skin that he held pressed to his muzzle in the claws from which he had taken his name. The look on his furry, verminous face might have been one of disgust, though at what, or who, was something the plague priest kept for himself.

‘A new age begins, they squeak-say.’ Spreading his paws, the skaven irritably swatted aside a buzzing bloat fly. Through Bule’s blurred vision it appeared to have three eyes, until the ratman snapped his claws and his vision once again became clear. ‘War comes. Even to you.’

Bule snapped his head up.

The skaven immediately backed up a pace, hunched for fight or flight. Light on his foot-paws, he stood atop the rotten mush that went up to Bule’s greaves. His right paw had gone for the weapon he concealed beneath his robes, and he hissed a warning through his scented rag.

Bule smiled, rotten flesh yielding to produce something too wide for a human mouth.

Slowly, Kletch held up his empty paws, then the gnawed-on nub of his tail. It switched over the ratman’s head with irritation. ‘I did not come-scurry all way from clan-burrow to fight-quarrel. The Black Thumb and Clan Rikkit were friend-allies in the Age of Chaos. Is written. Is remembered. Now we must-need fight tooth to claw again.’

Bule turned his back with a mild shake of the head. Withdrawing his bloodied trident, he stabbed three new aeration holes into the soil, the tines spearing an inch deep before hitting something unyielding. Baring the black stubs of his teeth he gave a grunt of pleasure, planted his foot to the back of the fork-head, and rocked back and forth on the handle.

Levering the trident against his bloated girth, he turned over the unyielding patch in a waft of decomposing flesh.

The human corpse tore off its blanket of topsoil and flopped over. A face that was grey-black and runny and lovely as a crop of sweet tubers fresh out of the ground stared up at the slow circling stars with the clarity of the dead. Disturbed maggots and worms squirmed under the starlight, as if divulging some great secret under torture. Bule watched them re-bury themselves, lulled by the drone of a billion bloat flies and the rank cackle of crows.

Wriggle. Wriggle.

‘Rotbringer,’ the skaven prompted him.

Bule pinched his eyes wetly, mind asquirm with worms and portent. The ratman continued.

‘The lightning men hit clan-burrows in Cripple Fang, Untamed Lands and Putris Bog. Even clan-cousins from far Ghyran come-flee, tunnelling the realm-places to bring word of war.’

Shouldering his trident, Bule turned around suddenly enough to elicit a low squeal of alarm from the plague priest of Clan Rikkit. The ratman leapt to one side, reaching again for his concealed weapon, but Bule merely squelched through the spot he had been occupying as though he were a zombie suddenly impelled to be elsewhere.

‘Bule. Bule!’

Copsys Bule ignored him, his armour emitting a mould-muffled clank with every step. Several of the spiked plates were split apart at the joins, but the damage to his armour had been inflicted not from without but from within. Corpse gasses distended his belly, opening up the plates from the inside like a fat grub eating its way out of an egg sac. Everywhere there remained living skin, swellings, boils and tumours caused further buckling, mottling the once-green metal to black.

Not since before the Age of Chaos had Bule known an equal, and his gardens brought weeping harvest to lands from the Bloodbloom Fields in the south to the Avalundic Ice Kingdoms in the north, from the peat bogs of Murgid Fein to the unconquerable Rabid Heights and their gargant kings.

His demesne was too vast for one name.

It encompassed the Pox Sands, the great Bloat Lake and the Plantation of Flies — fleshwork patches stitched with irrigation ditches that steamed with blight and hummed with spawning daemonflies. As far into the bubonic haze as the eye could see, scrofulous, once-human things tilled the soil with rakes and hoes, or waded into pools with long prods to turn the bloated corpses that floated in them, gestating towards ripeness. Hundreds expired in the time it took Bule to walk past them, and were dragged away to the nurseries to replenish the soil in their turn.

But it was the nature of lesser beings to attach small names to great things.

They called it the Corpse Marshes.

Seemingly at random, feeling where the dead desired his knife, he squatted down into the mire. A sigh of simple pleasure escaped him. The crucified remains of men, women and children staked the ground in serried rows for a stretch greater than a man could ride in a day. Here could be found the bodies of almost every race, including several that no longer existed anywhere but as they did here now. For reasons fathomable to few but Bule himself, he called it his Living Orchard. A foetid breeze moaned through the dead, making them hum and sway, like lush-leaved trees in bloom. Drawing a curved knife from his arming belt, he sawed away a hand that liquefaction was beginning to pull away from the wrist. It was human. A nectarine blackness trickled from the cut. He licked it from his hand, eyes closed in ecstasy.

There was no plan in his mind of how his garden should be, but he knew what needed to be done towards its completion. And it would be soon. Very soon.

The thought thrilled him even as the part of him that had cherished these labours was saddened by their imminent passing.

‘There are a great many of your kind here,’ Bule said, aware that the ratman had followed him and was now crouching on an old wall behind him. Keeping his distance. ‘Your fur. Your guts. You teem with life like no other.’ He cut away another sagging limb with a clinical slash. ‘Nothing rots as quickly as a skaven rots. Nothing embraces Grandfather Nurgle so completely.’

‘Is that what you want-wish me to take back to my masters?’

‘Ask me again come the high moon.’

‘Why-why? What changes then?’

Bule licked his knife with a wide smile. Birds cried in fevered tongues, a diseased animal sagacity that he might one day have the fortune to fathom but half of. ‘You come on an auspicious night. For the first time in thousands of years the stars will align my realmgate with another.’

‘And then?’ Kletch hissed, suddenly wary.

‘Ask me again come the high moon.’

II

Fistula, First Blightlord of the Black Thumb, delighter in sickness and death, opened the orruk from hip to hip with a sawing reverse of his blade. A surprised snort issued from the greenskin’s tusked helmet, but the fighter remained upright, tough as necrotic flesh and just as dead to pain. Holding its squirming guts in a fist the size of a buckler, it swung its axe at the blightlord with a roar.

Hardwearing, vicious — orruks were infamous. But the fever spreading fire through its veins from the infected belly wound made it sluggish. Fistula sidestepped the clumsy slash with ease then broke its shin with a heel jab. It was sweating. Most men would never know that an orruk could suffer the way this one now did. But still it would not yield.

Fistula appreciated that.

Dashing aside its weakening backslash on the flat of his sword, he stepped in behind its flailing trunk of an arm, close enough to smell the daemon plaguelings rampaging through its veins, then plunged his parrying dagger through its throat.

The orruk’s mammoth jaws snapped spasmodically as Fistula tore his dagger loose and kicked the brute away. Blood from the torn artery sprayed in a rising arc and painted the open face of Fistula’s helm green. He gasped. Partly to drink the wetness from the air. Partly for the raw pleasure of doing so.

Fistula looked down on the beaten orruk. It was still snapping its jaws even as it drowned in its fluids and its eyes turned white. Fistula could have ended it quickly, should have, perhaps, but endemic as the orruks were in the shadow of the Rabid Heights there were never enough to last. He looked up.

The orruks were still fighting in scattered mobs spread out along the length of the narrow gulch into which the Black Thumb had pursued them, but they were broken. Not in the manner of a human or Rotbringer host. They did not run. Rather, they held on with the witless tenacity of sick beasts. Hardy as they were as a race, all bore the stigmata of infection: weeping sores and crusted cuts that would not heal. For every hundred that lay dead with an obvious wound, a hundred more twitched on the ground with blood foam in their mouths and flies on their rotting flesh.

Gors and bestigors plunged headlong into the fray, hacking and goring with frenzied abandon. Rotbringer knights on maggot-riddled steeds galloped up the steeply climbing wall of the gulch to strike at the orruk warleader. The huge beast was surrounded by his biggest and most brutal, but was already heavily beset by the Tzeentchian warhost driving in from the opposite side of the ravine.

The Changeling host was a cacophonous legion of colours and shapes. Gold glittered. Strange voices whispered. Flames of every cast, smell and texture danced along the crossbars of banner poles, and suits of almost-sentient armour whispered secrets to the deepest subconscious of all nearby with a mind to hear. Daemonflies buzzed over everything and everyone. Blight hounds ran along the flanks, pulling down the isolated and the maimed. Giant slugs burrowed up from under the hardpan to swallow Tzeentchian warriors whole while plague drones and sleek daemonic screamers swept at each other in pitched battle for the skies.

The orruks had become almost incidental.

Fistula read the kindred mood in his opposite number, the hunger, coming from somewhere out there in the gulch. They had both come to torment prey, but now, starved of a true challenge, they threw their warriors at the other with greater ferocity than they had ever before.

It was something that Copsys Bule had become too fat and old to realise. Even the most rapacious of plagues could be tamed, lingering only on the scraps left by those they had once devastated in their millions.

A stamp of hellsteel and an ebullient cry called Fistula back from the abstract of the battle. Through a congested melee of putrid blightkings and sickening orruk fighters half again their size, a Chaos warrior encased in full plate armour of azure and gold barged towards him. His helm was solid metal, with only the etching of half-lidded eyes through which some enchantment perhaps permitted him to see. From the sides, golden horns spiralled inwards towards infinity. The Tzeentchian knuckled aside an orruk and roared the final strides with his broadsword swept high overhead.

With a shout, Fistula pivoted on the spot and smacked his saw-toothed blade hard into the larger blade’s descent. It was not a parry. He struck the Tzeentchian’s broadsword as though meaning to do it harm. The impact arced up his arm. He felt it vibrate in his teeth. Reflex action shocked his fingers open and would have lost him his blade if not for the blood and pus that pooled endlessly into his grip from infected calluses and glued palm to hilt.

The Tzeentchian reeled as though it had been struck on the head by a blow that had left its helmet ringing. Its heavy sword trailed, elbows locked in spasm with the aftershock of keeping a hold of his blade.

Fistula struck off the warrior’s head with a single blow to the neck and laughed.

He was the opposite of Copsys Bule in most ways. Where the Lord of Plagues had become a bloated wreck of a man, Fistula’s body was wasted, the favour in which he was held written in lesions on pared bone and in the ropey musculature that seeped and seeped without end. He was a warrior. A fever raged in his mind that no level of war could ever purge and his armour, lighter by preference, was etched with tallies of the blights he had tasted and the civilizations he had brought low.

‘Secure the dead,’ bellowed a cadaverous, jaundiced blightking wearing a cruel harness of scythe-edged plates and hanging mail. He lay into the orruks with a pair of matching knives, bloodily proficient in his preferred mode of killing. Fistula was one of the few to know him as Vitane. To most, he was Leech. The blightking turned and waved a come now gesture. ‘Bring up the wagons. If we are not back by high moon it will go poorly for you.’

Rattling in under a fug of disease came a dozen wagons. Each was drawn by a team of six wheezing horses, their loose wheels the size of a man, their high sides scratched with the knife marks of individual warriors and with a splintered parapet of aged wood. Leprous harvesters in hoods and swaddling leaned over the parapet with hooks to draw up the dead. The drovers called a halt. The horses snuffled in their traces, hacking, puking, biting at each other’s flea-ravaged coats.

Fighting his way to Fistula’s side, Vitane looked down on the orruk still dying at his lord’s feet. The leathery tissue was continuing to shrivel away, the liquidised remainder sinking around the bones.

‘He will be unhappy. This one is worthless.’

Fistula sneered. Vitane was old enough to have fought with Copsys Bule from the beginning, lacking enough in ambition or favour to prevent his star being eclipsed by the man he now followed into battle.

‘I am not here to scavenge and I am not here for Bule,’ Fistula said.

They could not all dine off glories past.

Fistula scanned the confusion for the Tzeentchian champion. Warriors of every stripe filled the gulch from wall to wall with a riot of colour and noise. Even the sky reflected the vivid clash, the bubonic haze that blanketed Bule’s demesnes turned a sickly turquoise by the rolling cumulus of Tzeentchian fire that followed the war horde from the north. Twisted trees covered in naked sores and weeping black foliage clung to the ridgeline. They swayed under the opposing winds.

Fistula shivered though he could not say why. His eyes narrowed.

There was something there, hidden under the drooping canopy. Fistula glimpsed a figure, or the suggestion of one. More a feeling than something he could later describe and claim with certainty had been real. He perceived a sense of robes, of a gaunt, skeletal height, but his overriding impression was one of watchfulness, of many, many sets of eyes trained upon every aspect of this moment in time. In a blink of the mind it was gone. The inkling of its prior being was a subliminal glamour that nevertheless refused to fully fade, as though he had gazed overlong upon a daemon and imprinted its corona of power onto his mind.

He shook his head, and with the blessed release of a peeled scab pulled off his helmet and wiped the orruk’s gore from his hairless scalp.

The sense of watchfulness remained on him, a nagging question at the back of his mind. He felt judgement, though for what, Fistula doubted he had the faculties to comprehend. Nor did he care. He bared his teeth in anticipation and raised his sword to signal the charge. His own glorification was all that mattered.

Let it watch. Let it judge.

III

Kletch Scabclaw spread his arms out to either side while a skavenslave hung the heavy ambassadorial cloak of Clan Rikkit over his shoulders. It was a bit much for the cloying humidity of the Corpse Marshes, and itched in hard-to-reach places that no garment so august should. Its fleas had been passed from priest to priest for two hundred years, and were now the hardy descendents of those that had survived the clan’s full arsenal of pesticidal sorcery.

His dresser ducked under his arm and shuffled around to the front.

The slave was naked but for its own scrappy fur and the brands of clan and owner, but Kletch was only partially reassured by that. To his mind there were any number of innovative places in which a determined assassin might secrete a weapon. His yellow eyes drilled into the side of the slave’s head. The wretch bared its throat with a whimper, stabbing its thumb several times in its panic to fasten the cloak’s rat bone collar. Kletch fidgeted as the slave fussed.

It was too hot. The garish green light of the warpstone braziers around the low-roofed tent was too bright. The spiced scent they gave off to hold back the reek was too sickly sweet.

‘How much-long to high moon?’ he asked of the plague monk seated against the wall of the pavilion behind his back.

‘Soon-soon.’

Scurf’s piebald fur was pox-scarred, so denuded of hair from his own incessant scratching that he resembled a game bird that had been abandoned before it could be fully plucked. The crusted word-bringer set his claw quill onto the stack of man-skin parchment on which he had been cataloguing the many new diseases they had encountered since their arrival in the Corpse Marshes and shrugged. ‘An hour, I think-guess.’

Kletch wriggled his shoulders in discomfort. ‘Something is about to happen-come. I feel-feel in my claws.’

‘I feel-smell also,’ said Scurf, always eager to concur.

The slave scurried over to the brass-ribbed chest sitting open by the hide wall of the tent, and returned with Kletch’s warpstone-tipped staff. Kletch snatched it off the slave with a snarled rebuke. Feeling a little better, he gave the air a fresh sniff, opening his mouth to taste. Between the reek of putrefaction and his own efforts to keep it at bay, there was little left to be smelled, but somehow he knew, knew, that there was more than just the three of them present in that tent.

‘You want-wish to go home?’ asked Scurf.

‘No,’ said Kletch, meaning yes. ‘Clanlords will not reward us for returning with paws empty. The lightning men hit them much-hard in lots-many places. Clanlords grow desperate. They… make bad decisions when they are desperate.’

The slave scurried back bearing a bottle filled with a greenish red liquor that it poured into a goblet. Steam hissed off the cup as the liquid hit the lacquer. The slave bobbed its head low and presented the potation. Kletch eyed the rodent severely. With a gulp, the slave brought the cup to its lips and took the daintiest sip.

Kletch took the goblet from his retching slave, stole his nerve, and then downed its contents. He grimaced, throat tightening, musk glands clenching, and stuck out his tongue. ‘Blegh!’

‘Best-best potions taste worst,’ said Scurf sagely.

Clan Rikkit had once been part of Pestilens, before a tunnel collapse in the ways between worlds had separated them from their brethren. They still retained many of the old immunities, but the cautious rat was the healthy rat.

‘This all a waste of time anyway,’ said Scurf, picking up his quill once more and dunking it in the shelled ink bug still twitching on his table. Scratching away at the parchment, he went on. ‘He has many warriors, but this not the Copsys Bule used to frighten my litter when I was small-young.’

Kletch was unconvinced. Bule could afford to let the world pass him by for a millennium or two if he chose to do so, of that he was certain. And if Bule was any less than the tyrant of clan legend then Kletch was glad that he had not been the envoy sent to treat with that Lord of Plagues.

‘One hour more we can wait. Let us see this over-done, but have all my warriors ready to go.’

‘Yes-yes,’ said Scurf, carefully folding his quill and packing it away.

Kletch twitched aside the tent flap and slipped out into the muggy night with wrinkled nose and downcast eyes. Two from the two-dozen plague monks quietly chittering their praises on the broken ground outside of the tent fell into step behind him.

A colossal fortress-temple had once stood here, built by a people who had worshipped the stars and raised towers of incredible scale that they might feel the distant objects of their faith more keenly. For all that their eyes had attended the heavens, they had clearly also been masters of stone. Many of the great structures still stood though they were ruinous now, verterbral columns of stone that had been yellowed by blight, weather and war. Copsys Bule called this place the Hanging Gardens, named so for the thousands upon thousands of dead and dying strung up from its moss-clad defensive walls. Those still alive writhed in fever so that the walls themselves appeared in motion. Their mouths moved but no evidence of their torment could be heard from them, not above the flies.

To count the flies was to court insanity. They were infinite, swarms within swarms, billowing over the corrupted fortress in such numbers that at times they were as the chitinous outer wings of a beetle closing over the world and shutting out the sky. At such times the drone was a gnawing on the boundary between earth and heavens, between real and unreal. At other times it was simply maddening. It set the teeth on edge.

The Clan Rikkit camp pavilion was set up on the rubble where the innermost gate had crumbled to create a rockery populated with razor weeds that were watered each day with the blood of year-dead men. It would foul a charge as surely as any gate ever would, assuming any enemy had the fortitude to survive as far as Bule’s innermost defensive line.

From that vantage Kletch had an unimpeded and deeply unpleasant view.

The Corpse Marshes were monstrous. It reminded him only somewhat of the honeycombed pox caves of Murgid Fein, where diseases were bred, mutated and harvested from slaves of every race. But here the scale was far more epic. The very fabric of the world for as far as his dim eyes could show him felt rotten, perished. The reports of all of his senses scurried about his mind to decry its wrongness and even he, master of the industrialisation of degradation, felt sickened by it.

A geyser of corpse gas rippled upwards and outwards from a sinkhole further down near the gatehouse. Grime spattered back over the rotten gates and the band of warriors marching home over its splinters. A column of plague beasts and meat wagons followed them. Kletch recognised Fistula’s pack: the most useful of Bule’s warriors, but a drop in the septic ocean of his horde.

Leaning against his staff, he settled in to wait.

‘Another day spent in genuflection to our lord’s placidity, envoy?’ said Fistula as he tramped up the slope, evidently bound for the same destination as Kletch. The champion was spattered with loose gore and beaming, contempt for all and sundry and for Kletch in particular vibrant in his bloodshot eyes.

The blightlord walked over, laden carts drawn by withered, pestilential beasts creaking on behind him. Kletch stiffened with immediate suspicion and sniffed at the flies buzzing lazily after the vehicles’ cargo. The experiments of Clan Burrzik in breeding eavesdropping mosquitoes had faltered as a consequence of the clan’s incompetence, but one never knew. One never knew.

‘Maybe,’ he said, then chirred something conciliatory and gestured with his tail to the top of the hill.

There, encircled by a ring of luminous white pillars that in their cleanliness exuded a sense of power and prominence, was a marble archway carved with astrological constellations and runic notations. It stood bare to the stars as if waiting only on their call, and even inert as it was, the sight of it sent a frisson of imagined dread running to the tip of his tail. He could understand why the ancients here had built such a monument to the heavens.

He licked his gums nervously. ‘What does Bule want-think will happen tonight?’

‘I can tell you what I think will happen.’

Kletch caught the blightlord’s look and read the need there. Battle. Survival. Aims not identical to his, but with cunning words and enough will perhaps complementary ones. He glanced upwards again to mark the approach of high moon, his neck, accustomed to tunnels and caves, already sore from continually doing so. That was when he noticed what had been worrying at him since he left his tent.

The stars were moving.

IV

For a count of years numbering seven times seven times seven times seven, Copsys Bule had tended his garden. He did not know how many millions he had pulled out of the ground since that first day. Unlike some, he kept no lists, no ledgers, except that which existed in his mind. He knew only that his god saw it as good.

Turning his knife so that it was point down, he pushed the blade into the mushy chest of the body spread like soft grey cheese over dry bread across the trencher table in front of him. There was no resistance. It was like cutting into marrow jelly.

Flesh separated in a great swelling of maggots as Bule carved from collar to coccyx. A comingling of organs and body juices dribbled from the gash. The smell was pure ambrosia. His belly gurgled. Decay was a master gourmet. It loosened the fat, softened fibres and pulled meat from the bone. It brought out a depth and range of flavours that the impatient flesh-eaters of Khorne or the squeamish that burned their meat with fire could never experience.

He licked the juices from his knife blade, mouth distending to accommodate his entire fist. The panoply of tastes and odours gave him shivers and he closed his eyes.

The added spice of plague magic, the power of new life, tingled on the tip of his tongue and then diffused through him like a warmth. He withdrew his hand, sucked clean, and then hung the knife from one of the curing hooks that protruded from his armour.

‘All. Ready,’ snuffled Gurhg, the bray shaman thumping the ground with a skull-topped stave as he walked around the stirring realmgate. Standing behind the sagging trenchers in an octed around the realmgate, blightlords and champions watched solemnly. The shaman raised his bull snout and snorted, bone fetishes and feathers tinkling from blistered horns. He closed his eyes and emitted a low sigh that made the hanging flesh of his throat quiver. ‘Feel. Him. Stirring.’

Bule spread his arms with a smile. Torchlight flickered from sconces set in the columns. Brass tocsins played by hooded slaves with wire brushes hummed a sonorous chorus.

‘Feast, my children.’

To a great squishing of meat and crumbling of rot-softened bone, the gathered worthies of the Rotbringers tucked in with a hunger. Bule watched them all, hands across his swollen girth. There was Fistula, ever prideful, ambitious, filling his mouth with the same abandon as the others. Beside him the old bloat hound, Vitane, sucked jelly from his fingers and laughed at a joke. Their greatly honoured guest from Clan Rikkit was hunched behind a corner trencher, nibbling diplomatically at a bit of bone and throwing uneasy glances up at the sky. Copsys Bule basked in the paternal glow.

It was nearly time. The magic was rising, and Bule could feel the realmgate responding. For a moment he could feel the connections that ran through the Eightpoints to some other place, some other realm, where one far mightier than he tended a garden of his own. He looked up. The moon was approaching its zenith. The stars were in alignment, brighter and clearer than Bule had ever seen them before. One of them momentarily grew brighter.

Bule examined the moving constellation with wide open eyes.

Yes. Yes.

The star grew brighter, brighter, shining out the others around it and projecting a beam of starlight directly onto the realmgate. Bule grunted at the sharp glare and shielded his eyes with his arm. As the light dissipated, he looked immediately back to the gate.

A slender-bodied lizard wielding what looked like a dartpipe and a spear was now standing on the pedestal before the gate. It stood on its hind legs like a man, shorter even than Kletch Scabclaw and more wiry still. The black colouration of its scales mottled to white as Bule watched, matching itself almost seamlessly to the marble hues of the gate behind it. His eyes continuing to recover from the flash, Bule noticed a hundred or so more of the little creatures, spread out in the shadows around the gathered Rotbringers.

A strained silence fell over them all. Even Gurhg noticed and stopped chanting.

The lizard-man lowered its head, spines engorging to raise a vivid frill. It emitted a warbling chirrup then lifted its dartpipe to its beak.

For one so vast, Bule could move like poison through a panicking man’s veins when quickened to do so. That he had not been so roused in over a hundred years was nothing. He was Copsys Bule, the Black Thumb, and his knife was in his hand and wrist deep in the lizard’s still-shattering ribcage before the creature had drawn its breath.

The lizard’s nictitating eyelids fluttered in shock. Already its scaly skin was beginning to blister with the lesions of Nurgle’s blessed rot, daemonflies pupating inside the wound in its chest, but to Bule’s surprise what emerged from that wound was not blood but pure, cleansing starlight.

Scalded where it touched his arm, Bule tore his hand back, ripping a chunk of the lizard’s chest out with it. It shuddered and fell, vanishing in a cascade of glimmering motes before it hit the ground.

Clenching and unclenching his fist around his knife handle, feeling the burned, cleansed, tissue pulling, Bule grunted at the barely comparable sensation of a metal-tipped blow dart puncturing his neck. He felt the venom enter his blood and would have laughed at its impish ineffectuality had he not been building towards such a fury.

This was his moment, his time. The signs had been guiding him for centuries towards this night.

With a snarl that came from deep in his monstrous belly, he turned and flung his knife. It spun end over end, so fast it appeared as a solid discus, and punched a chameleon lizard from its feet in an explosion of light and bone.

Blow darts and javelins droned around him like hornets, snuffing out the torches with the wind of their flight, and falling on the Rotbringers. They bristled from unfeeling flesh, rattled off heavy armour and even downed a handful of the mighty warriors before they had a chance to react. The beastman, Gurhg, dropped to his haunches and backed into a trencher table with his head down. He found Kletch already under it.

Air rippled inside the arch of the realmgate.

It was subtle but there, the power awakening in direct response to the plague magic that Bule had nurtured in his garden for two thousand four hundred and one years. That power was still rising. Nothing would stop it now.

Copsys Bule looked again at his hand, free of blight for the first time since he knew not when.

‘Kill them all!’ he shrieked. ‘Let none of them touch my garden!’

V

Fistula was more disoriented than angry. He was drunk on meat and cankerberry wine, and on a power that he could not put name to but which filled him with a fever swirl of thoughts. The discordant moan of tocsins droned through his mind, though they were playing a cadence of battle now rather than of ceremony. The taste of meat was in his mouth, but it was fresh, torn not from the embrace of Copsys Bule’s soil but from the struggling bodies of the living.

He spat out a mouthful of blistering starlight. Or tried to. His throat burned, however hard he wretched and gagged.

Goaded into lucidity on a knife-edge of pain he struck down a lizard-man that was hissing in cold-blooded consternation at the chunk bitten out of its wrist. It disappeared in a drizzle of glimmer dust. Two more took advantage of the light-shock to blindside him. They came with spears held short.

Fistula caught the haft of the first spear thrust, then with his sword hand punched it in half. The lizard stumbled. Turning his body across and through it, he pushed it on its way to the ground, spitting his sword out to arm’s length to impale the second. Light exploded from its back around the tip of his sword. This time he was ready for the glare. Eyes already narrowed, he spun quickly away, stamping on the first lizard and grinding the light that bled from its fractured skull under his boot.

Something small and metallic spanked his pauldron guard. Darts tipped with starmetal zipped by. He saw a burly Rotbringer with a cloak of festering hide go down under a volley of them. Another took a freak hit, a dart straight down the ear, dropping the warrior like his weight in dead meat.

From somewhere, screaming. Melting flesh and starlight.

Every one of these warriors was a master of war, the mightiest of mortal champions uplifted to near daemonhood by the Lord of Decay. But they had forgotten what it felt like to be challenged. After millennia of pointless warfare they had forgotten what it truly was to fight.

Fistula clutched at his gut with his off-hand.

He felt ill, stricken, a great swelling pressing up from inside his chest. Pressure climbed up his throat, as though he were a snake trying to regurgitate a man that had been too large for him to swallow. A bilious taste flooded his mouth and, on unconscious reflex, he doubled over and vomited forth a torrent of foulness and corruption.

The lizard-men caught in the flow died instantly and in agony. The Rotbringers similarly touched were healed as if by the beaming intercession of Grandfather Nurgle himself. Maggots squirmed over open wounds. New and glorious infections puckered flesh that had been rankly cleansed by the lizards’ light.

Swallowing several times to assure himself that he too was whole again, he looked about for more enemies. There were none. All around him were in advanced stages of rot or already returned to whatever heavenly body had spewed them forth.

He panted, heart racing. Was that all?

‘Kill them all!’ he heard Copsys Bule shout, a shrill note of fury screwing his voice tight. ‘Let none of them touch my garden!’

Fistula shot around to look down the slope. His heart thumped hard for joy.

Light knifed frenziedly from the heavens. Flashes blossomed within the fug of flies, then glowed and spawned warriors. Many of them were bigger than the lizard-men he had just slaughtered. Some of them were a lot bigger. That first wave must have been some kind of advance party. Scouts. Assassins, perhaps. This was an army, coming down in conventional formations.

Accompanied by tocsins and bells and calls to glory, warriors of the Rotbringers mustered over the old corpse-hung curtain walls to oppose them. Bule commanded the souls of a hundred thousand, and although more than half were scattered wide over the Corpse Marshes and beyond, what remained was a mighty host indeed.

He bared sharpened teeth, a feral grin. Now for notice. Now for glory. This was going to be a fight.

‘You want war?’ Bule roared at the stars, and the very ground beneath seemed to tremble at his words.

Someone had passed the Lord of Plagues his helmet, and his voice boomed from inside the steel. In both hands he gripped the haft of the trident with which he tended his garden, veins standing out from bulging biceps as he continued to howl without words. God-gifted power oozed from him, turning the air around him syrupy brown. Sickly, cyclopean figures began to take shape there. They were horned, drenched in mucous and stooped over serrated swords that reeked of soulrot. Nurgle’s tallymen. Plaguebearers. From the strain in Bule’s bearing it was though he passed them from his own body. In a sense he did.

Fistula howled, maddened by battle-lust and plague.

Bule crashed the brass ferrule of his trident into the ground and screamed.

‘I will give you war!’

VI

Kletch Scabclaw ran in the middle of the Rotbringers’ counter-attack, where he felt naturally safest, ducking, weaving, leaping between pockets of solid ground. Not that he felt all that safe. Beastmen thundered downhill like rabid animals while Chaos warriors, each with their own maddened cry on their black lips, battled each other to be the first to meet the enemy and in their blundering almost dragged Kletch under more than once. Of course, the plague monks of Clan Rikkit could be just as zealous in battle, but only with the inspiring words of their priest in their ears and the fumes of his blessed censer in their snouts. As well as being unruly, the horde was not as sufficiently numerous as he would have liked. That wasn’t exactly helped by those who were continually peeling off to strike out at the lizard-man skirmishers firing down on them from their flanks.

The lizards scampered with near-impunity over walls and pox moats that, judging by the clear lack of defenders, the Rotbringers had considered impassable.

The Rotbringers had been fools.

Even by Kletch’s own standards, the lizards were light on their feet. Their bones seemed to be hollow, and with little else to them but light they skipped across floating corpses as cleanly as if they were solid ground. Only the moats themselves gave them pause — fecund nurseries of disease that hummed with deadly daemonflies — but they served only to funnel the rabid Rotbringers through their own defensive works where they were easy pickings for the lizard’s dartpipes.

Skinks.

Kletch shivered, some deep residual instinct to freeze and play dead almost killing him there amongst the running column of Chaos warriors, beastmen and mind-plagued fanatics.

He kept running, not watching, his pre-conscious replaying him impressions of jungles he had never seen, of stepped pyramids he had never visited, the terror of being prey in a land he had never called his. He had not seen or heard of these lizard-men, these seraphon, before now, but deep down he knew them, and it was a knowledge that a thousand generations of new lands and new enemies could not wipe from his racial memory.

He leapt from one patch of solid ground to another, then another, easily outpacing the beasts and once-men that ran around him. His heavy cloak slowed him only a little, flapping out as he made one long leap, landing on a leaning root of a column. Sinking around his staff onto all fours, he sniffed the air for the musk of his own.

Useless. The whole castle was thick with decay. With a snarl, he resorted to using his eyes.

Despite the lizards’ — the skinks’ — success in drawing the Rotbringers into more difficult terrain, the bulk of Bule’s horde were still charging for the good ground where the main outer curtain walls converged on the gatehouse citadel. He could hear the drums and horns, the shouts and the roar of beasts. Skaven eyesight grew dim over any kind of distance and for that, today, he was grateful.

‘Go around!’ he squeaked, gesticulating furiously from his pedestal to the band of Rotbringers that were wading into a stinking brown pond to get at the brightly scaled skinks on the other side. ‘Go get. Kill-kill. Go!’

To no surprise of his, the Rotbringer’s champion plunged on into deeper water. The warrior was an idiot. He’d earned the dart in the throat that dropped him face down into the mire a moment later.

The skinks were making a mockery of the heavily armoured blightkings, making them look sluggish. The daemons were another matter.

Every sore on Kletch’s body wept, every ache seizing and filling his wiry body with pain as ten of Nurgle’s tallymen strode onto the pox moat, walking weightlessly upon the scum that floated on the surface and through the stinging daemonflies. The cold-blooded star-creatures barely reacted. Kletch watched as a skink shaman rustled his feathered cloak, flying over the plaguebearers’ heads to land in a swirl of red and gold on a stump of wall behind them. There, he shook his staff, exhorting a hail of darts from his kin that fell amongst the closing daemons.

Kletch snickered. Everyone knew that daemons could not be killed that way. But the tallymen fell by the handful, if anything even more vulnerable to the seraphon’s envenomed darts than the mortals they marched beside.

With a snarl, Kletch reached inside his cloak for his weapon, eyes locked on the shaman.

‘See-smell how tough you are. Kletch not afraid of scrawny scaly-meat.’

The faintest trace of reptile musk warned him of the danger just before an ear-splitting shriek from above re-triggered every instinct he had to freeze, run, hide. Terradon. The giant reptile swooped overhead, banked gracefully under the effortless direction of its skink rider, then dropped a boulder from its hind-claws. It came down like a meteor. It was a meteor.

With a terrified squeal, Kletch leapt from his column, arms and legs churning as the spot he had been standing on was annihilated, the air at his back electrified by a starlight explosion. His tail peeled. His cloak caught fire. He landed in a roll, steaming from fur and clothes and from the accidental release of fear musk down his leg.

‘Scratch and sniff,’ he swore.

Patting himself down, he brushed a string of darts from the back of his cloak. He swallowed the bad taste in his mouth. Dropping to all fours to make himself less of a target to any skinks looking to pick off survivors, he scurried from the path, zig-zagged through a verge of bloodgrass that stuck up from a hummock of dead men and horses like pins, and then dived into a wild patch of bruise-coloured bushes that clung to a ledge growing out from the second curtain wall. A few tail-lengths in he poked his head up through the scratching branches.

Below, clanking streams of Chaos warriors fed into a blurrily defined blob of screams and steel, a blood-and-lizard stink spilling out over half a league of the Hanging Garden’s heartlands. He didn’t need the eyes of a surface-dweller to see the blocks of bulky lizard warriors — saurus — grinding in under their golden icons. He could see well enough the giant reptiles that towered over all with swaying howdahs on their backs, even if he couldn’t quite count the horns on their bony head shields.

The seraphon were being held back for now. Nothing stood up to attrition like a warrior of Nurgle, and Copsys Bule commanded monsters of his own. Kletch sniffed the air and shivered at the sharp, unmistakeably vile scent.

The Lord of Plagues was down there. Good riddance.

‘Scabclaw-master!’

Kletch hissed angrily to mask his surprise, but this time held onto his musk. Scurf was scurrying through the flesh-drinking grasses, surrounded by a clawpack of stormvermin mercenaries in muddy black plate mail and wielding vicious-looking halberds. Several hundred raggedy plague monks followed, individuals breaking every so often to sniff the air, lash their tails in fear, and then hurry on.

‘Lightning men!’ Scurf squealed.

The word-bringer was in the same stained linen cassock he’d been wearing an hour ago, but had, apparently in great haste, donned a mail coif and was clutching a cracked tome that he held onto like a shield. He waved a rusty scimitar at the stars. Flies eddied and swarmed, a billion billion, but the stars behind no longer moved. An unnaturally intense constellation in the shape of a squatting toad glared down with eyes tinged red.

‘Fool-fool,’ Kletch snapped. ‘This is something other.’

‘Something new?’

Kletch shook his muzzle. ‘Something old.’

‘The claw-packs are ready to leave-go,’ added Scurf. He glanced down to the battle and gulped. ‘Very-very much-ready.’

Kletch bared his teeth, yellow eyes shining. This might all just work out after all. If Copsys Bule was defeated, as looked likely, then the clanlords could hardly blame him for failing to secure an alliance that the Lord of Plagues had never appeared to want at all. And if the weakened Lord of Plagues somehow managed to secure a pyrrhic victory? Perhaps then the generous backing of Clan Rikkit would appeal to him more.

‘This way,’ Kletch hissed.

Darting back into the bloodgrass, he wove through it, driving purposefully away from the main seraphon assault. Corpses at varying stages of rankness wobbled underpaw, tipping, sinking, at times disintegrating before he was able to leap clear and plunging him into foetid water. He spluttered a wordless prayer to the Pestilent Horned Rat that the tonic he had drunk would continue to prove effective. Keeping his head down and his nose clear, he scurried on. He was moving inside the circle of the inner walls to the far side of the fortress-temple. From there, with luck, he would be able to clamber down and escape without great difficulty. He upped his pace, becoming a blur of fur and movement.

There was nothing in all the realms quicker than a skaven with a battle to escape, but Kletch was not yet so anxious to flee as to allow himself to pull ahead of his brother monks.

Not for the first time — and he fervently hoped not for the last — sound skaven thinking saved his hide.

Crashing through a canopy of hanging dead, a lumbering reptile as massive as a barded warhorse snapped the lead clanrat up in its jaws, trampling three more before the saurus riding it could rein it back.

Its predatory head was huge and low-slung, supported by a monstrous neck and counter-weighted by a thick tail that tacked menacingly in advance of its movements as it turned. The skaven in its jaws was shrieking. A savage yank of neck and jaw and the beast bit the pitiful creature through, sending legs and torso flying over opposite shoulders. A rake of its vestigial forepaws claimed another.

Scurf issued a rallying squeal, backing into the stormvermin clawpack as the beast completed its turn and snorted in his nose. He whipped up his book of woes with a frightened squeak as the saurus’ mace came down.

The book was mouldering parchment bound in cracked leather.

The mace was meteoric stone.

Hurriedly withdrawing from the smashed word-bringer, the stormvermin lowered their halberds, throwing up a wall of hooked blades between them and the beast. The reptile — a cold one — snapped contemptuously, taking off one of the blades and eating it.

The saurus hefted its bloodied mace and with cold calm scanned the skaven scattered across the grass before it. Every scale armouring its grossly powerful hide was chipped and scarred. Its eyes were old. Beautiful works of golden plate clad vulnerable spots such as its throat and wrists. It shone like the light at the end of all the skaven’s tunnels.

Pumping its mace up into the air, it gave a roar that shook the air. With answering roars, a full cohort of glittering saurus warriors marched into the open.

Kletch squealed for order, for ranks, shoving his way to the back of them as he did so. These saurus were on foot, armed with spears and shields, but it scarcely mattered. Each one was twice the size of an armoured stormvermin and looked the match for any six.

With frenzied squeals, the plague monks charged. The saurus trampled them without appearing to notice and slammed into the line of stormvermin.

‘Hold. Fight! Kill-kill!’ shouted Kletch, growing ever shriller as the lizards’ massive line troops ground their way through his.

A rustle from the tall weeds to the right made his heart sink. There were more.

Hacking wildly at the bodies that came at him on nooses from all sides, Blightlord Fistula ran through, savaging a saurus from behind before the cold-blooded brute had even realised he was there. Coming under a swarm of flies, his putrid blightkings piled in behind him.

This was a more even fight. The blightkings were Bule’s elite and, Kletch knew, Fistula’s were the best. He was not at all surprised that the first blightlord had been amongst the reckless few to be dragged out into the swamp chasing skinks.

‘In! In!’ Kletch squeaked, urging his warriors on.

Scenting blood, the clawpacks and surviving plague monks pushed forward, wedging the saurus between two sets of enemies.

Observing the reverse in fortunes with an impersonal, calculating detachment, the saurus pointed its cold one towards Fistula and roared its challenge. The first blightlord ran at it with a yell, both weapons out at his side, armour dripping with bile.

The saurus struck first. The cadaver-thin blightlord parried the lizard’s mace with a blow that would have broken both of their arms had either been a lesser being, then rolled out of the lunge of the cold one’s jaws. His knife chewed down the side of the beast’s neck and spat out scales. He dodged back, turning a crunching side kick from the old saurus on his vambrace, then charged back in.

The saurus was wheeling his furious mount when Fistula stepped onto a plague monk’s mushed body and, using it a springboard, vaulted over the reach of the cold one’s flailing snap. Sliding down the beast’s spiny neck, he slammed bodily into the saurus and punched a knife towards its neck. It moved just fast enough to take it in the shoulder. If it felt either surprise or pain it didn’t show it. A shattering head butt snapped back Fistula’s head and sent him crashing over the cold one’s flank and down to the sucking ground. The cold one stomped on his breastplate, pushing him deeper under.

Then Kletch withered away the saurus’ head with a bolt of plague magic.

The cold one issued a defiant roar that shook the eardrums long after it vanished into the same cloud of light that reclaimed its master.

Shivering off the giddy tingle of the warpstone fumes from his pestilent censer, Kletch secreted the relic back into its pouch underneath his robes. He had taken the weapon from the clan vaults to deal with Copsys Bule, but it smelled like that was one precaution he didn’t need anymore.

‘He had me.’ Fistula’s laughter bubbled crazily, riding down from some wild adrenaline high.

‘We should be going-gone. Before more like it come.’

‘Going?’ Fistula sat up straight, face flushed red and cut in half by a razored smile. ‘I would fight more of your lightning men.’

‘They are not lightning men,’ Kletch snapped, suddenly lacking all patience for the stupidity of others. ‘The lightning men are… are much worse.’

‘Worse?’

‘Come with me,’ Kletch hissed, sidling closer, tail switching side to side. ‘Bule is old. Leave him to rot in his garden. Come kill-slay with Clan Rikkit.’

Fistula looked to his warriors. Kletch bared his fangs in a grin. He wouldn’t be returning to the clanlords with empty paws after all.

VII

Copsys Bule was untouchable.

Of the lizard-men that came close, only the very mightiest amongst them could make it within reach of his weapon before Nurgle’s Rot left them crippled and blind. And yet on these star-lizards came, fearing neither death nor disease.

His trident struck like an adder, piercing the throat of a heavily scarred lizard and exploding through the back of its neck. With one huge scaly hand it grappled with the haft, swinging a glowing starmetal axe with the other. Bule yanked back on his trident, pulling the impaled scar-veteran into a forward stumble and sending its axe stroke flailing harmlessly past his shoulder. An open fist to the gut punched the scar-veteran off his weapon’s tines, two feet through the air and onto its back. Bule closed the distance, trident spinning once, twice, overhead, and then smashing through the lizard-man’s chest. With a heave, he drew the trident up, the weapon arcing back overhead to its full extension to polearm the spear warrior that had been charging his supposed blindside.

With the rest of his horde struggling to hold their line, Copsys Bule took another forward step.

A powerful lizard in golden armour blocked him. The blinding might of Azyr screamed between the joins of its scales, and the roar of its challenge was like that of a furnace. Saliva stellar white hissed from its jaws as it brought up a primitive-looking two-handed blade.

Bule turned the hacking stroke with a loop of his trident, then took the haft between both hands and drove the ferrule into the sun-lizard’s groin. The warrior emitted a grunt and staggered back, unhurt, throwing a punch that caught the haft of Bule’s weapon. The struck trident popped out of Bule’s fingers and landed in the mud behind him. It was the deft, impish move of a master of unarmed combat.

With a celestial roar, the sun-lizard swept its weapon overhead.

Spinning and dropping, Bule planted his knee on the ferrule and slid his hand under the trident’s haft. Halfway along, a flex of the fingers bounced it up, reversed against the slope of his shoulder, just as the sun-warrior charged in to deliver the deathblow.

There was a heavy crunch, a sigh, the burn of starlight raining across his back.

Bule turned as he rose, swinging his weapon out like a scythe, letting fly, and sending the dying sun-warrior cannoning into the head of the hulking lizard giant that had just strode into view. Both went down in a mighty crash. The sun-lizard vanished in a flash of sunbeams. The giant, merely unconscious, did not rise again.

‘Is this it?’ he cried, laying out a murderous sigil of overlapping figure-of-eights. ‘Is this all that you have?’ To kill again, and to kill swiftly, felt glorious. Colours were vivid, scents sharp, cries like bells. He was a man awakening from a coma and remembering that he was furious. ‘Do you even realise whom you face?’

He shovelled down another lizard-warrior on the flat of his tines, then span, alerted by the prickling sense of something approaching from behind.

A robed figure stood there on the writhing carpet of sickening lizards. It regarded him through the haze of flies, neither noticeably human nor obviously reptilian. Daemonic perhaps, yet not. Its head was angled like a hoe with a row of eyes along its ridge. Some of them examined Bule archly, others with compassion, mirth, and contempt. In spite of himself, of what and where he was, Bule felt a chill.

Blind to their visitor, a cohort of warrior lizards charged through the hazing flies. They died one by one. The inhuman apparition did not react, but, despite having no obvious mouth, Bule had the impression that it smiled at him, as though he were a bloat hound that had earned a treat.

A tremendous death bellow drew his attention away.

There, the mighty plague maggoth that had been rolling over the lizards’ advance with a wedge of Rotbringers in train collapsed in an avalanche of folds. A sunbeam split the monster from shoulder to navel and the armour-plated head of some apex reptile butted it aside. Fixed to the lizard creature’s back was the silver and star-metal housing of some inscrutable god-engine, which clicked and reset amidst a glow of energies. The Rotbringers retreated, their forward push stymied. Bule was aware of the enemy pouring forward on all fronts now as his own defences began to crumble. With a snarl, he took his trident overhand like a javelin and made to challenge that armoured reptile’s invulnerability.

‘He seeks a champion.’

The apparition’s robes whispered as it followed him. Its clothing was made not of hides or cloth but of eyes, and the susurrus it made was the sound of hundreds of blinking eyelids, rippling white, green, black, and every other colour that skin came. It moved without truly moving. It spoke without speaking.

‘Seek him, champion.’

Turning, gesturing without anything so prosaic as a pointed finger, the figure directed Bule’s gaze to the realmgate. The skin within it flexed. The stars above it wheeled. Even from afar Bule could see that the view within was no longer of the garden with which it had previously been twinned. Fury returned to him redoubled. Disbelief. It was not mere bad fortune that had brought the seraphon upon him with the aligning stars. They had come for his realmgate.

Somehow they had manipulated the Eightpoints to change its destination. How? The magic involved in enacting such a feat was godlike!

The apparition hissed in sudden distress. Its cloak shimmered with many colours, every eye tightening shut as though simultaneously blinded. And then in a searing moment of universal light, it was gone.

‘Grandfather!’ Bule cried, light like a fire in his eyes. ‘Aid me!’

Shading his eyes with one heavy arm, he peered into the oncoming host.

Floating on a cushion of force above the golden spears of its warriors came the source of the light. It was as if a star had been called down from the heavens and condensed into a brittle caul of bone-brown wrappings and dry flesh. Its presence alone was massive. From its palanquin, the mummified creature regarded the battle with the distant disinclination of an inhuman god. Instinctively, Bule understood that here came a being that had known power long before some daemons had even come to be. He felt himself drawn spiritually towards it, the golden funerary mask that picked out its amphibian features in jewels swelling to fill his mind as the universe subtly reordered around it.

It made no word or gesture, but somewhere in the cosmos something gave.

The heavens opened.

Bule howled impotent fury as the stars glimmered and fell, plucked from the sky, and smashed into his horde.

The first meteorite hit at an angle, obliterating a dozen Chaos warriors utterly and blowing a crater hundreds of feet wide. Then came the rest. The ground shook under the fury. The sky turned white, light and sound reaching an intensity where they sublimated into one, a single shrieking colour in Bule’s inner eye, and even the daemons burned in fire.

Bule struggled gasping onto hands and knees, tripping a warrior lizard running in behind him with a backward kick and riding it face-down into the filth until it stopped thrashing. He stood up, dazed senseless by thunder. Waves of power smashed out from the advancing palanquin. It was almost impossible to stand against it, but in a tremendous feat of will, he stood. He shook his head.

‘Aid me!’

Nothing. Nothing but the awesome presence of this starmaster.

Moving with difficulty, he turned and staggered back the way he had come. Never in his life had Copsys Bule run away, but Grandfather Nurgle did not know defeat.

With every waning, he would wax again.

VIII

First Blightlord Fistula stepped out of the realmgate and onto another world.

The air was syrupy, hot, sweetened by the sweat of fat citrus-scented leaves and by the bell-shaped blue flowers that he and his warriors crushed underfoot. He looked around in amazement, turning ponderously. He felt… weightier, as if the sky itself pushed him down under its palm. And the sun — forgetting for the moment that it should be night — was over large and buttercup yellow. Winged creatures rustled through the leaves above. And from somewhere, screams.

He pulled off his helmet, wiped his running nose, and drew deep.

‘New lands.’

Soon all that was green would be a verdant collage of yellows and browns and leaf-rust reds. It would be the cradle of a new land’s blight, the metastasis from which a new canker would swell. And all of it was his.

‘Over here,’ growled Vitane, crunching through the undergrowth in the vague direction of those screams.

Fistula acceded to the old blightking’s instincts for pain and followed. After a few minutes of unexpectedly heavy going through the dense foliage of this foreign land, the warriors were, to a man, blowing hard, their armour hanging loose on straps. The screams got nearer. More abject. Chesting aside a branch, too weary to bother his arm with the task, Fistula pushed ahead into a sun-drenched clearing.

Varicoloured lichens and mushrooms covered the split bark of the fallen log that dominated the clearing. The cries were coming from the other side of the log.

Shading his eyes from the visceral brightness of the sun, Fistula saw the bray shaman, Gurhg, who was easy enough to pick out with his totemic staff and cloak woven with bones, even within a knot of his followers. There were perhaps two-dozen, stomping about and smashing horns — re-establishing dominance hierarchies and staking claim to new territories. Gurhg stood hunched and swaying in the middle of it, nodding his goat head approvingly as six men and a woman bound to a line of hastily woven racks screamed. The wails of the seventh man were of a different order. A beastman with the face of a horse and a line of horrendously infected iron piercings through its top lip diligently flensed the human with a blunt knife.

Fistula smiled. There were people here. Good. It had been too long.

‘Blightlord.’ Arms spread, snout turned to bare the throat in that odd gesture of his, Kletch Scabclaw padded towards him through the forest. The skaven envoy fussed at the clasp of his cloak, but despite his obvious discomfort he did not seem inclined to take it off. At the treeline, he bobbed low and withdrew with a hiss, averting his eyes from the sun.

‘Where are your warriors?’ asked Fistula.

‘In woods. Less brave rats than I must cower where sky is less bright-strong.’

‘Good.’

Fistula looked across the clearing at the brawling beastmen, and the blightkings now spreading out through the lichens to crash down and rest. It was not much, but it would be a start, and more would flock to him soon enough.

‘I will have them seek-burrow for the way home at once,’ said Kletch, stamping his foot-paw anxiously.

‘Good…’

Fistula put his hands on his hips and turned his face full on to the sun. It was his. It was all his.

Something heavy and wet tramped up through the woods behind him. The wheezing breath on the back of his neck was thick with the stench of stagnant meat.

‘I began my quest with less. I can begin again.’

Fistula spun around.

Bule.

‘I see now,’ said Copsys Bule, unhelmed, smiling blackly. ‘I see what I have been missing.’

‘This is mine,’ Fistula snarled, baring his blades. Some withered instinct for self-preservation kept him from using them, some dim recognition that the gods too had their favourites. He backed into the clearing. Bule moved towards him, Fistula continuing to retreat until the fallen tree prevented him from going any further. He dropped into a fighting crouch. ‘I will not let you turn my conquest into another garden. You have forgotten how to do anything else!’

The Lord of Plagues spread his arms in forgiveness as he passed from the tree line and into the sunlight. His eyes squeezed shut against the sudden glare, but still Fistula did not think to attack. Mosses mottled and died where Bule trod. Insects dropped dead out of the air as he breathed it. Throughout the clearing beastmen, skaven and blightkings alike stopped what they were doing and abased themselves.

He came within sword’s reach, knife’s reach, arm’s reach. Fistula lowered his weapons. He felt lethargic. His skin was hot.

Dropping to one knee in front of him, Copsys Bule leaned in and embraced him.

Fistula made an attempt at fighting it, but he felt so weak. His breath drained up and down like fluid. He shivered with chills even as fever sweat poured down his skin. Jerking in his determination to fight, he struggled as the Lord of Plagues cradled him, lowering him to the ground. Fistula tried to stare hatred at him, but failed even in that. Delirium fogged his eyes and opened his mind to wisdom’s flood.

Sorcerers robed with eyes. An army of champions. Chaos united. A three-eyed king. Round and around.

‘I’ll. Fight you. Forever,’ he swore.

‘Grandfather Nurgle does not want us to submit,’ Bule smiled. ‘He wishes us to rage.’

The last thing Fistula saw before Nurgle’s Rot fully entered his mind was Bule turning towards Kletch Scabclaw, arms open in blessing and friendship.

IX

Copsys Bule broke up the earth with his trident. A tangle of roots knotted up the soil, making it tough, and before long he was breathing hard, a burn spreading through his shoulders. It felt good. The simple labour eased his mind and his muscles. The repetitive activity gave him the chance to think, and to order his thoughts.

He had much to think upon.

‘There,’ he said, giving the ground a vigorous final crumbing, then stabbing his trident to one side. He ran his arm across his lank-haired brow, then turned and nodded.

Vitane slid his toe under Kletch Scabclaw’s body and rolled the corpse into the rill that Bule had prepared for him. Flies crawled over the ratman’s lips. His eyes were the black of rot-pickled eggs and the smell had that same astringent piquancy.

‘So much life.’ However many skaven he buried, the truth of that still filled him with wonder. ‘My garden will thrive here. It is as I said to you, envoy, no other race gives so thoroughly of themselves to Grandfather Nurgle.’

The skaven did not answer and nor did Bule expect him to. He would live again, of course. That was Nurgle’s promise to all. The ratman’s flesh would nurture many millions of short and wondrous lives, his decomposition would bring bounty to the ground in which he lay, but never again would he talk, think, or interfere in the ambitions of a Lord of Plagues.

Pulling up his trident, Bule proceeded to bed the skaven in.

The humans would go here, and here, either side, where their decay would be accelerated by the skaven’s proximity. One of the other rat-men he’d dig a plot for over by the south-facing tree line where its remains could feed the poplars there. They were fast growers, and the rot would spread quickly. Already their leaves were beginning to wilt and brown at the edges. Birds hawked up a thin and sickly chorus of phlegm on the bowers.

He could see it now. He did not know how this was to end, he never had, but he knew how to begin.

‘Archaon.’

Fistula was fetched up against the log, shivering like a man just fished in full armour from an ice pail. He muttered non-sequiturs under his breath, tired, for the moment at least, of raging them at the forest. His eyes rolled, like bones cast by a feverish shaman, and his brush with Nurgle’s Rot had bequeathed him a circlet of rugose blisters that rimmed his bald head like a crown. Bule examined the stigmata. There was a sign there, he knew it, but of what?

‘He grows more lucid,’ observed Vitane.

‘Nurgle favours him greatly.’

‘A lord of flies,’ Fistula murmured, shaking. ‘A king with three eyes.’

A sign. Definitely.

Taking up his trident, Copsys Bule pushed it into the ground and began again.

He had much to think upon.

Rob Sanders

Eye of the Storm

The sorcerer opened his eyes. All of them.

The Many-Eyed Servant. Disciple of Tzeentch and subject of Archaon, who was the Everchosen of Chaos and the Ender of Worlds. Envisioner of sights unseen.

The Many-Eyed’s gaze reached far, for he saw as gods do. He was Archaon’s eyes. His gaze reached across the Mortal Realms. Searching. Searching for those who would become giants among men, warriors already pledged to ruin, who themselves searched for greater meaning and dark service. And there was no warlord of Chaos darker and greater than the Everchosen, for Archaon was Exalted Grand Marshal of the Apocalypse.

The Many-Eyed missed nothing. He saw through the living and dead, the inhuman and inanimate, and through the eyes of daemons, glinting in shadow. Coins fell from the lids of corpses, laid out on funeral pyres. Statues blinked the dust from their stony orbs. The eyes of cutthroats, kings and all wretched existence in between were spyglasses of the soul, through which the great sorcerer observed. Even the mind’s eye was the sorcerer’s to see. The play of pictures in the blackness behind the face. Memories churned up from the past. Secrets kept and fantasies imagined.

The daemon sorcerer looked for warriors worthy of his master’s blade and plate, seeking out the darkest potential amongst a sea of butchers, corrupters, deviants and witchbreeds. True paragons of Chaos, like Archaon himself. Knights of Ruin, ready for the Everchosen’s invitation in symbol, sign or vision, so that they might pass his test and join his baleful ranks — the living, armoured embodiment of Archaon’s wrath, visited upon the Mortal Realms.

The Many-Eyed blinked his way across the worlds of men. He saw as the beasts did, and as the denizens who would act like beasts. In the forgotten reaches of the realm of Ghur, on a storm-lashed wasteland that savage nomads and wind-worshippers knew only as the Blasted Plain, the sorcerer found who he was looking for.

Orphaeo Zuvius. Blessed of the Great Changer. The one they call the Prince of Embers.

The Many-Eyed looked on Orphaeo through the eyes of the Tzeentchians that he led, the twisted wretches of his warband. In the cerulean plate and skirts of his half-robe, Orphaeo Zuvius pressed his slender body against the storm. The skies were bleeding and the winds streamed with blood, while grit plucked at his unholy vestments.

Zuvius steadied himself with the length of a wicked glaive. He walked with the polearm like a sorcerer’s staff. It was a daemon-forged weapon, a shaft of sculpted metal crowned by a blade fashioned in the shape of Tzeentch’s willowy symbol. It was called A’cuitas, and it was a gift from Zuvius’ patron. The Many-Eyed came to know this as he opened the ensorcelled weapon’s eyes — for it had three, like his master, the Three-Eyed King — one that opened in the fat counterweight of the glaive’s pommel and two set in either surface of the blade. The Many-Eyed took this as a good omen. From A’cuitas, the sorcerer commanded a better look of the champion’s gruesome features.

Helmless, his face was a web of melted skin stretched across scorched flesh. The skin strands squirmed continuously across scalded features that might once have been handsome — features now contorted with self-satisfied determination and dark humour. Threadbare tresses of blue hair streamed from his head. Zuvius licked his smeared lips with a silver tongue: another of the Great Changer’s gifts.

The glaive’s blade blinked in the bloodstreaming storm. Now the sorcerer saw through the eyes of the Prince of Embers himself. Zuvius looked up at Mallofax, who sat atop the perch created by the blade’s billhook. The creature was a familiar — a reptilian bird of cerulean plumage. The damned thing spoke to Zuvius in an ear-bleeding squawk that only the champion seemed to understand. The Prince of Embers nodded and looked back at his warband, trailing through the maelstrom of blood and wind-borne grit.

Trudging across the Blasted Plain in his wake were Sir Abriel and the remains of the king’s household guard. Formerly charged with the protection of the royal family — for the Prince of Embers was royal indeed — the knights were now shadows of their former selves. Gone was the lustre of their plate and the mirror-finish of their weaponry. The Great Changer had twisted them as he had done the prince. They were but slaves to darkness, gangling horrors. The knights’ besmirched plate had fused to their bodies and stretched with their unnatural step and reach. Covered in the glowing sigils of ruinous sorcery, they were now the Hexenguard of Orphaeo Zuvius.

Behind the knights, in their shredded cloaks, were the Unseeing — the Tzeentchian sorcerers who completed Zuvius’ warband. Blind wretches, the Great Changer had taken their sight and cursed them with terrible, warped visions of the world about them. Striking out with their powers, the Unseeing turned their enemies into the frightful realisation of their horrific imaginings. With crooked hands on shoulders, the Unseeing formed a line of the blind following the blind — and all following the crunch of their master’s footsteps.

Zuvius closed his eyes against the bloodstorm. Behind them and in the blackness of his lids, the Many-Eyed found light and the roar of flame. The prince’s past was never far from his thoughts — an appalling vision of death and destruction that formed a dark stillness within the madman. It was the eye of a storm, a vision from an age long ago, before Zuvius and his warband were the twisted things they had become. A memory that would not be forgotten, floating to the surface of Zuvius’ mind to sicken and be enjoyed.

Night. The walled city of Stormhaven, ablaze. The tower tops writhed in unnatural blue flame. The people screamed for their lives and then their deaths. The king was dead. Long live the king! The household guard stumbled from the north gate, the only one that was open. The others had been locked shut from the outside. People died like animals behind them, barging and clawing — swallowed by the blue flame. Sir Abriel and his men hacked and coughed, the power of change already finding its way inside them.

With them was Orphaeo — youngest son of the king and the only surviving member of House Zuvius. Surviving — but only just. He too had received the touch of change. Licked by the furious flames, Orphaeo was horribly burned. His face. His head. His hands. He did not cry out in pain. He was calm. The red raw muscles of his face remained uncontorted. He gave the order. Sir Abriel and his soot-smeared knights could not believe what they were hearing.

‘Seal the gate,’ the prince told them, stumbling away from Stormhaven’s mighty walls. There was disbelief, disagreement, dissention even. But Orphaeo Zuvius was now the king and his will was absolute. Burying their doubts, the knights sealed the towering north gate, trapping the screaming innocents inside. They hoped that their liege had a good reason for acting so.

He did.

Ascending the nearby foothills, Zuvius turned to watch his city burn. A city loyal to the God-King, whose walls had stood against storm and ruinous savagery for generations. The prince felt the heat of the fire on his blistering face. He fancied this to be the satisfaction of the Great Changer, bathing him in the warmth of approval. It was a feeling that his face would not allow him to forget.

Mallofax circled the roaring, spitting firestorm of the burning city, the sapphire flames reaching for the heavens. He swooped in to land on Zuvius’ shoulder. Abriel hated the prince’s pet but the dread spectacle of Stormhaven ablaze meant that he barely noticed the scaly, feathered thing. If he had known that it had been Mallofax that was responsible for Stormhaven’s fall, he would have cut the bird out of the air with a swing of his longsword. For it was Mallofax, flying over the walls and arriving one day on the prince’s balcony, that had spoken of such horror to Orphaeo Zuvius, that had taught the prince the secrets of sorcery, the arts of manipulation and the power of change. That, as Tzeentch’s emissary, had empowered Zuvius to turn brother against brother, son against father and the people against their king, all culminating in riot and treachery, atrocity and flame.

Sir Abriel and the household guard gathered about their young king. He was not their king, however. He was no one’s king. He was forever the Prince of Embers — heir to the glowing ashes of a razed kingdom.

Zuvius watched the palace towers fall. He watched his own topple, falling like a mighty felled tree through the flames. Its tower top smashed into the city walls before the prince, knocking brick and stone from the defences. Zuvius stood transfixed. The bright blue fires within the city lit up a symbol rent into the wall.

‘What is that?’ the Prince of Embers demanded. Mallofax twitched his head and turned a glassy eye towards the damaged wall. The bird squawked. Through the soul-curdling sounds Zuvius heard the familiar’s dark words.

‘’Tis the mark of the Everchosen,’ Mallofax told him. ‘An invitation.’

‘To what?’

‘The Exalted Grand Marshal calls,’ the bird squawked. ‘The Architect made you but Archaon will break you. You are to be forged anew, Zuvius, like I taught you. Listen to the screams. Look into the fire. Tell me what you see.’

Zuvius watched as the blue inferno flared up through the damaged wall, reaching for the battlements. In the lick and flicker of azure brilliance, the Prince of Embers saw a far off place take form.

‘I see a storm within a storm,’ he said to Mallofax. He squinted at the blaze.

‘And?’

‘Rising from it is a landform, sculpted by the storm,’ Zuvius said. ‘A mesa, shaped like a great anvil, with a path leading up to it.’

‘The Beaten Path,’ Mallofax told him. ‘Your mettle is to be tested there, for the Everchosen selects only the best warriors of Chaos for his inner circle of death and dread.’

Zuvius nodded to himself. ‘You know this place?’

‘Of course,’ the bird said. ‘The storms you speak of rage across a distant wilderness called the Blasted Plain.’

The Prince of Embers jerked his shoulder, prompting the familiar to once again take flight.

‘Then lead on,’ Zuvius said. ‘It would not be wise to keep the Everchosen of Chaos waiting.’

The Blasted Plain was living up to its name. Orphaeo Zuvius put one foot in front of another, forcing his way on through the streaming haze of crimson. There was nothing there but a maelstrom of everlasting gales and the blood of those claimed by the storm. The prince’s hair and robe skirts twisted and tangled in the wind, while Mallofax’s plumage was a constant ruffle. More miserable still was the twisted thing that had been Sir Abriel, and what remained of the Hexenguard and the sorcerers of the Unseeing who followed.

They had reason to feel misery. They had been wandering through the bloodstorm for weeks. Their cloaks and robes were in tatters and their plate scratched and dented. With only the beady eye of the bird Mallofax to guide them and the nods of his beak to indicate their heading, Zuvius and his warband moved from squall to squall. The storms that tormented the Blasted Plain were filled with whirls and eddies. In places, the Tzeentchians were drenched in fat droplets of gore that rained down from a crimson sky, while in others the gales and tempests turned the blood to a diluted smear. Exposure was not the only danger in the perpetual storm. Whirlwinds snatched up shrieking sorcerers of the Unseeing, lifting them into oblivion, while on the rocky expanse, sudden gusts lifted grit and pebble from the ground, blasting them through the Hexenguard like grapeshot from a cannon.

The Prince of Embers left a trail of corpses in his wake. What had been an army of Chaos knights and witchbreeds was now a warband numbering fewer than forty dark souls — still a potent force, but the trials of time, the perversities of the weather and enemy encounters had taken their toll.

He did not regret his decision to brave the Blasted Plain in search of the Beaten Path. He had been chosen. Those knights and sorcerers who had fallen had been unworthy of the Everchosen, and unworthy of him. Zuvius was to be tested. What kind of prospect would he be if he couldn’t even reach the site that had been chosen for his trial? Zuvius pushed on through the bloodstorm. He could not allow it to defeat him.

Still, the depleted ranks of Zuvius’ grand warband did not bode well for the challenges he knew to be ahead. He would have to supplement his numbers with lost wretches looking for direction and dark purpose. Fools were never in shortage. The Prince of Embers would give them purpose and they would give their lives in service of his destiny.

The Chaos champion heard Sir Abriel call something unintelligible through the storm. It was all the twisted knight was capable of now, beyond the devastating reach of his bladework. Peering at him through the bloody curtain of rain, Zuvius saw that Sir Abriel was pointing off to their right with the freakishly long fingers of his warped gauntlet. Following the direction the finger indicated, Zuvius squinted at the outline of tents in the distance — some kind of encampment in the wilderness.

‘Food. Water. Shelter?’ Zuvius said, shaking Mallofax on the glaive.

‘Death?’ the bird returned. Zuvius looked around. After weeks out on the Blasted Plain he honestly thought his warband wouldn’t care.

‘We’re more than a match for a few nomads,’ the Prince of Embers hissed, almost insulted at the insinuation of their vulnerability. Recent encounters and the toll of the storm had depleted his numbers but the Hexenguard and the Unseeing were more than capable of bringing horror and death to a tribe of wind-worshipping savages. Zuvius lurched through the storm in the direction of the camp.

‘Onwards,’ he called. With warped appreciation, the knights and sorcerers of the warband followed their master.

Zuvius pulled back the thick flaps of stitched flesh. Inside, the huge tent was a structure of giant bones. It was like stepping inside a giant ribcage. Torches flickered smokily. Zuvius immediately got the impression of many bodies — no doubt the tribesmen and savages he had been warned about. As Mallofax had predicted, the place stank of old blood and death.

The Prince of Embers stepped forward with confidence, allowing the Hexenguard and his sorcerers in. Regardless of the horrors they could inflict, the Unseeing did not make for an intimidating sight. The twisted knights, however, in their ghastly plate and glowing sigils, would be more than enough to startle the tribesmen. Then they would come to know that warriors of the Ruinous Powers were among them and that the sight of these doom-laden forms would be their last.

As Zuvius blinked blood from his eyes and adjusted to the gloom, he came to realise that he was not standing among scrawny nomads. Instead of wind-worshippers, the tent was filled wall to wall with muscle. Red flesh and scar-markings confirmed Zuvius’ fears. They were not the first warband to take shelter in the tribesmen’s tents. Barbaric servants of the Blood God had beaten them to it. Looking down, the Prince of Embers saw that he was standing in the splattered remains of its previous occupants.

Casting a gaze across the tent, Zuvius made a quiet estimate of his rivals’ strength. It was a veritable warband, all armed to the teeth, with perhaps more in the other tents. Zuvius had nothing approaching their number. A ripple of brute surprise passed through the barbarians, followed instantly by snarls and the wrinkle of lips. Muscles twitched to tautness and weapons scraped as they were snatched from the tent floor. Zuvius saw bloodreavers of the Goresworn, obvious from their decorative scarring. Other savages he recognised from their brazen cuisses and greaves, rattling beneath the broad red musculature of their chests. They were the wrathmongers of Khorne, blessed with the unyielding fury of their Ruinous god.

A stitch-faced chieftain and a wrathmonger closed on the Tzeentchians. The chieftain drew wicked blades from a selection of leather sheathes, holding them like talons in his gore-stained hands. The master of the wrathmongers, wearing the fanged skull of some daemon creature as a helmet, dragged the blood-rusted chain of a flail behind him, ready to yank it forward and hurl the hammer head attached to the length.

‘Fight or flee?’ Mallofax shrieked, flapping his wings and hovering above Zuvius and his warband. When the champion of Tzeentch didn’t answer, the familiar repeated, ‘Fight or flee?’

‘Neither,’ the Prince of Embers said. The Tzeentchian didn’t move. He made the effort not to straighten and his glaive remained upright in his hand like a walking staff. He didn’t want to provoke the savage disciples of Khorne any more than he already had by simply being there. At the same time, he wanted to present the calm front of a champion too powerful to be threatened by warriors of the Blood God, even in such number.

‘Mine,’ the chieftain hissed.

‘The scraps, perhaps,’ the wrathmonger rumbled.

Sorcerous sigils burned bright on the plate of the Hexenguard as the ghastly knights formed up in front of their prince with their notched longswords and battered shields.

‘Stand down,’ Zuvius said, his tone perverse and playful. Sir Abriel was unsure. He issued some kind of question from the hole in his face that he used as a mouth. The chieftain and the wrathmonger advanced, their men drawn up behind them.

Zuvius’ eyes moved beyond the furious warband. Rising from a throne of stained skulls — the nomads’, the prince presumed — was a champion larger still. A deathbringer, an exalted champion of the Blood God. Though he had been a man once, Khorne had blessed his chosen with hulking brawn. The warband leader was a veritable wall of muscle. The teeth of great beasts jangled on sinew necklaces while a pair of bull’s horns erupted from his malformed skull. His hands were encased in bone weapons — pronged gougers that extended like a pair of claws. On his back, he carried a battle-axe, the blade of which was as broad as the champion himself.

‘Hold,’ the monstrous champion said. His voice was deep, like some bottomless trench reaching down into the bowels of the realm. His dogs of war stopped in their tracks, as if they had been yanked back on a running chain. The Goresworn came to a halt at the champion’s command. They parted to let the deathbringer through.

Zuvius could see the champion’s mind at work — which was something to be said of such savages. A hardening of the eyes. A tautness in the lips. Zuvius reasoned that the deathbringer had probably fought just about everything that lived and breathed on these plains. He had faced the sorcerous servants of the Great Changer before. Unlike his lieutenants, he was cautious. Wisely so, Zuvius agreed.

‘What are you doing here on the Blasted Plain?’ the warrior called across the tent. ‘Speak fast and true or the bloodreavers here will smash your bones for the marrow inside. The wrathmongers will simply kill you out of spite. At my order, your blood will join that of the storm, in honour of mighty Khorne.’

Zuvius felt the eyes of all on him. The barbarians were aching for the violence to come.

‘That would be ill advised,’ the prince told him, playing for time. Zuvius’ mind whirled. The Khornate savages within the tent would swamp them. Others, responding instinctively to the sounds of battle, would come up behind the Tzeentchian warband. It would be a slaughter, standing on the blood and bones of a previous one. Zuvius tasted the air with his silver tongue. Swords and sorcery couldn’t take him where he needed to go. He would have to rely on one of his other god-given talents. ‘For then you would not hear what I have to say.’

‘And why would the great Skargan Fell-of-Heart need to hear the lies of filth witchbreed like you?’ the Goresworn chieftain hissed, looking back at his master.

‘Because even if only half of what I tell him comes to pass,’ Zuvius said, ‘then his ascension will be assured.’

‘What ascension?’ Skargan rumbled.

‘The Everchosen calls for you, mighty one,’ the Prince of Embers lied.

‘Almighty Archaon?’

‘Aye, my lord,’ Zuvius said. ‘The Exalted Grand Marshal of the Apocalypse asks only for the greatest warriors of the age, and he has called for you.’

‘I’ll cut that lying tongue out of your mouth, Tzeentchian,’ the chieftain promised.

‘Kraal, son of Zhufgor, let the sorcerer speak,’ Skargan Fell-of-Heart said. The bloodreavers seethed about their chieftain while the wrathmongers foamed at their snaggle-toothed mouths. ‘How came you by this knowledge?’

‘A vision, my lord,’ Zuvius said.

‘Visions and enchantments,’ Kraal, son of Zhufgor, spat in disgust.

The deathbringer’s mouth curled into a snarl. He nodded his great horned head. A member of the Goresworn stepped up behind his chieftain, slipping his reaver blade beneath Kraal’s chin. In a moment it was over. Zuvius felt the speckle of warm blood across the sensitive flesh of his face. The chieftain dropped and his killer stepped forward.

‘Voark, son of Kraal,’ the deathbringer said, ‘the Goresworn is yours.’

Voark nodded his murderous appreciation.

‘Sorcerer: speak.’

‘I saw a vision in the flames of a burning city, exalted one,’ Zuvius said. ‘Skargan Fell-of-Heart, wearing the sigil of the Everchosen. The Exalted Grand Marshal of the Apocalypse is gathering his troops, deathbringer. Khorne knows you belong among them.’

Skargan narrowed the bloody orbs of his eyes at Zuvius.

‘Your sorceries will not work on me,’ he told the prince, tapping the talon-tip of a gouger against his bronze collar. ‘The Blood God will not allow it.’

Zuvius nodded. He had seen such artefacts on Khornate champions before — the Blood God was eager to protect his butchers from the manipulations of magic. But the Tzeentchian did not need such powers.

‘Come between the Ender of Worlds and his chosen?’ Zuvius said. ‘Not me, deathbringer. Not for all the dark glory in the realms. I know my place — in this, as in all things. I am merely the messenger.’

Skargan Fell-of-Heart looked to Voark, son of Kraal.

‘Tell me more of your vision, sorcerer,’ the deathbringer commanded.

‘You must walk the Beaten Path, exalted one,’ Zuvius said, ‘to a place of testing — so that the Everchosen may judge if he chose wisely.’

‘A battle?’ Skargan said with a gory glint in his eye.

‘I suspect, my lord.’

‘You know this path?’

‘I do,’ the Prince of Embers said. ‘And I have seen you walk it to glory.’

‘What do you get out of this, sorcerous mongrel?’ the deathbringer spat. Zuvius thought on the question.

‘Nothing, mighty champion,’ the prince told him. ‘But I cannot deny destiny or the will of the Everchosen.’

Skargan scowled. Zuvius could see that the monstrous warrior didn’t believe him. The prince watched as a flicker of doubt crossed the warlord’s features. To disbelieve a servant of Tzeentch was one thing — common sense even — but to defy the will of the Everchosen of Chaos was something else entirely.

‘Then you shall guide me along this path,’ Skargan said. He turned to address the warriors in the tent. ‘And if I seem displeased with this sorcerer and his wretches or you see them doing something that you know would displease me, then in Khorne’s name — kill them.’

‘As fair as you are wise, my lord,’ Zuvius told Skargan Fell-of-Heart.

Orphaeo Zuvius forged on through the storm of blood. His warband trudged laboriously through a mire of rising gore, while Mallofax flapped his wings and shivered his feathers, shaking crimson droplets from his plumage. The Prince of Embers was now surrounded by Khornate killers intent on his blood. Looking back along the ranks of the Hexenguard and the sorcerers of the Unseeing, Zuvius could see the horde of Skargan Fell-of-Heart following them through the maelstrom. Two wrathmongers strode either side of him like a brute escort and Voark, son of Kraal, walked at the head of the bloodreavers, who swarmed about their beloved deathbringer, shielding Skargan as best they could from the storm with their number.

When Zuvius had seen the true size of the deathbringer’s horde he knew that he had made the right decision in not attacking the Fell-of-Heart and his butchers. Skargan’s warband numbered hundreds of battle-hardened warriors. To destroy them would have cost the prince dearly, perhaps even his life. Skargan and his horde had come to the Blasted Plain to honour their god, baptised in a bloodstorm they thought to be a manifestation of Khorne. They did not know that the storm existed only to scour the plain and claim the unwary. Mallofax had told his prince that the Blasted Plain was a cursed place. Nomads, wind-worshippers and travellers found eventual death in the perpetual tempest, their blood becoming one with the rains.

And the rain came down harder than ever, strumming fat droplets against Zuvius’ plate. As they moved across the Blasted Plain, the Chaos champions left corpses in their wake. Moving from maelstrom to maelstrom and subject to the perversities of the storm, both Skargan and his sorcerer guide had lost members of their warbands. Twisters suddenly made landfall, stirring up the shallows and snatching bloodreavers up into the sky. One of the hulking wrathmongers was claimed by a sinkhole in the flooding mire. The temperature would change rapidly: in one moment red icicles hung from the plate of the Hexenguard, then an hour later Zuvius would lose a sorcerer to a balmy haze of swirling red steam.

‘What is it?’ Zuvius asked as Mallofax began to squawk and flap his wings furiously.

‘This storm has teeth,’ the bird said cryptically. Zuvius gave the familiar a quizzical look before the patter of bone against his plate told him all he needed to know. As the rising gale whistled through his skirts and the ragged ribbons of the Hexenguard’s cloaks, it carried with it teeth, fangs and splinters of bone. Zuvius felt a shard cut across his cheek. Another tore through his skirts and plucked at the flesh of his leg. As the tempest intensified about them, so did the hail. It shredded through one of the wrathmongers and turned a bloodreaver into a bloody smear.

‘The hollow!’ Skargan Fell-of-Heart bawled through the storm. The horde had just passed a flooded hollow and the deathbringer directed his savages down into it.

‘Do we follow them?’ Mallofax squawked.

Zuvius looked about as the Hexenguard closed in with their shields, giving their sorcerous lord shelter. It was their best chance to escape Skargan’s warriors. Conversely, the storm might still eat them alive and the Khornate warband was not without its uses.

‘Do we have a choice?’ Zuvius said, marching towards the hollow, teeth and bone rattling against the metal of the knights’ shields.

Slipping and sliding down into shallows, Zuvius looked up at the wind streaming blood and bone above. The hollow offered shelter but was flooded with a crimson murk that sloshed around their boots. Zuvius wondered how long the squall of razored teeth and bone shards would last.

‘How much further?’ Skargan demanded, pulling fangs from his red flesh. Zuvius didn’t know.

‘Not far,’ the prince said.

‘What does that even mean?’ Voark, son of Kraal spat. He could not hold back his ire. Looking around for his own son, Skraal, the bloodreaver continued, content that there was not a blade heading for his back. ‘This sorcerer-filth is trying to get us killed out here. Leading us from trap to trap.’ One of the wrathmongers grunted agreement from nearby. Zuvius realised that he had to stop this before Voark ignited the Blood God’s hatred of sorcerers in Skargan and his horde.

‘Apologies, exalted one,’ Zuvius said. The deathbringer’s monstrous features creased with disgust. He despised any man who would beg for his life rather than fight for it. Voark allowed cruel glee to creep across his lips.

‘I can hold my tongue no longer,’ Zuvius spoke quickly. ‘My vision revealed knowledge that I was too fearful to grant you.’

‘What knowledge?’ the Fell-of-Heart snapped. He eyes narrowed in fury. ‘You would deny me all that you know?’

‘Having met your chieftains, I could not believe it,’ Zuvius said. ‘No champion commands warriors as fervent and loyal.’

‘Believe what?’ the deathbringer fumed.

‘That the bloodreavers and the wrathmongers would betray one another,’ the prince told him, with as much grave sincerity as the Tzeentchian could muster through his sly lips. ‘And through each other — you.’

Skargan looked incredulously at Zuvius, at the wrathmongers and at Voark, as if he did not know which of them to kill first. Voark made the decision for him.

‘Turncoat wretch! I knew you were planning something,’ he shrieked, drawing his reaver blade and pointing it at the nearest wrathmonger. At Voark’s accusation, the bloodreavers started to advance, only to be caught in the terrible arc of the wrathmonger’s hammer-flail. Splatting through bloodreavers, the warrior roared in confusion, heaving his devastating weapons about him on their wrist-clasped chains. Others erupted around him, cutting down swathes of warriors with ugly swings of their flails. Agile bloodreavers leapt and ducked out of the weapons’ devastating paths, those too slow becoming a splatter of flesh chunks and detached limbs. Running back at the crimson hulks, the bloodreavers swarmed the wrathmongers, climbing up onto their backs and globed shoulders, knifing and stabbing with their short, cruel blades.

For a brief time there was mayhem. Wrathmongers stamped fountains of crimson rainwater about them as they charged throngs of rabid bloodreavers. The warriors danced out of their path and slashed at them with their razor-sharp blades. Skargan Fell-of-Heart cut through the havoc. Grabbing his colossal battle-axe from his back, the deathbringer strode through the shallows and into the murderous clash. Smashing one of the wrathmongers down with the flat of the monstrous blade, Skargan shattered his skull helm and knocked him unconscious.

Turning savagely, he stamped out with his boot, landing a kick on the chest of Voark, son of Kraal. The warrior flew through the air with a crunch before splashing into the shallows.

‘This is good?’ Mallofax squawked from Zuvius’ glaive.

‘I’m not sure,’ the Prince of Embers said. The ruthless violence and bloodshed about him was distracting. Being butchered by Skargan’s savages was not part of Zuvius’ plan, but having them butcher each other was not desirable either. He had acted to distract them from killing him, but he needed to harness their strength for the trials ahead. He had a feeling that he could not achieve his fell goals without their strength. Standing in the flooded hollow, Zuvius’ sorcerous instincts twitched.

‘Wait a minute,’ he told the feathered familiar.

Zuvius saw a cloud forming through the bloody shallows of the hollow. The waters began to thicken to a muddy paste about the boots of the Chaos warriors, slurping and bubbling. Arms of pink brawn and sinew broke the surface of the unnatural mire, clutching with daemonic claws.

Zuvius watched as infernal horrors spawned from the water about them — a plague of Tzeentchian monstrosities drawn to the deliciousness of treachery and dissention in the ranks of the horde.

The hollow filled with the roars and screams of the Blood God’s servants. Grabbed about the boots and ankles by the frightful appendages, they were dragged down into the sludge. Jaws formed in the fleshy surface of the shallows, brimming with row after row of jagged fangs, and Goresworn killers were swallowed whole. A wrathmonger had his leg chewed off, sending him into a sludge-punching fury, but his fist became entangled in the sinewy stickiness of daemon flesh.

Faced with a common enemy, the butchers forgot their former enmity and visited their rage upon the spawning pool in which they stood. Zuvius smiled to himself. The Great Changer, in all his perversity, had sent a blessing. The Khornate horde was once more unified in the face of a common enemy. They had swiftly forgotten their desire to end the prince. The daemon attack, meanwhile, was thinning out the dissenting forces. The appearance of the horrors not only gave Zuvius a chance to fight at the Khornate savages’ side, but it would make them easier to manipulate than ever.

The sludge seemed like a single monster but from it individual creatures of nightmare rose, stretching themselves free. Wrathmongers splattered the daemons within the monstrous arcs of their hammer-flails, while the bloodreavers struck grasping limbs from the creatures with their blades only to find two more erupt from gushing, pink stumps in their place.

The horrors seemed never-ending, scrambling free of their spawning pool like a plague of jubilant insanity. Their grotesque bodies were all fang-filled maw and beady eyes that frantically set upon new victims to maul. Clawed, muscular legs helped them to bound and latch onto Skargan’s berserkers, while an eruption of supernaturally strong arms tore armour, limbs, helms and heads from the warrior-victims.

‘This cannot be,’ Mallofax shrieked above the carnage. ‘These are the lesser playthings of our master.’

‘The daemon horrors of Tzeentch,’ Orphaeo Zuvius said, spinning the shaft of his glaive about him in willowy gauntlets. The prince’s warband were not immune to the creatures’ attentions. Infernal monstrosities dragged members of the Hexenguard down into the fleshy embrace of the pool to crack their plate in writhing knots of daemonic muscle.

The sorcerers of the Unseeing, meanwhile, clutched to one another in their blindness. Judiciously deployed, they were among the most powerful wretches at the prince’s disposal. Their sorcerous powers could transform even the most deadly opponents into statuesque spawn of ruptured flesh and twisted bone, visiting the form of their dread visions upon the enemies about them. Against these formless monstrosities, their powers were all but useless. The daemonic horrors already took the form of the sorcerers’ nightmarish imaginings.

‘The Great Changer must be displeased,’ Mallofax flapped. ‘The Exalted Grand Marshal’s invitation has angered him.’

‘No,’ Zuvius said, gritting his perfect teeth as he lopped off the clawed fingers of a reaching daemon with a graceful swing of A’cuitas. ‘It is an honour. The joint damnation of this hollow strengthens our association with the Blood God’s barbarians. Battle is like ale shared across a table to these brutes.’

As a member of the Hexenguard was pulled apart by two multi-limbed horrors, Sir Abriel splashed up through the slime to smash aside another monstrosity with his shield. Holding his glaive by the base of the shaft, Zuvius wheeled around, allowing the heavy blade of the weapon to lop limbs from the attacking creatures.

‘Why do the Great Changer’s daemons try to destroy us, then?’ the bird squawked, unconvinced.

Zuvius turned A’cuitas around in his gauntlets, aiming the pommel of the glaive at the horrors emerging from the pool.

‘For perversity’s sake,’ the prince said, with a grin of insanity. ‘Why else?’

His daemon-forged weapon’s searing blue eye opened. Lightning cracked from the glaive, causing the air to burn and the heart to jump. As the jagged bolt struck the nearest daemon, the thing seemed to rupture, exploding in a shower of pink slop. Aiming the sorcerous weapon across a line of advancing creatures, Zuvius had the lightning jump from monster to monster, turning one after another into flinch-inducing splatters of flesh.

Stomping through the curtain of gore, Skargan Fell-of-Heart was a destructive machine. His great axe was everywhere, chopping daemons asunder, lopping off limbs and cleaving the gibbering creatures in half. The clawing, strangling, savaging things climbed across his muscular frame only to be gouged free by the bone blades the deathbringer wore on each meaty fist. Flinging them off and down at the floor, Skargan sent them shrieking back to the fleshpool before stamping down on them with his boots.

‘You!’ the deathbringer roared at Zuvius. ‘This is your doing.’

The Prince of Embers was tiring of the belligerent champion and his savage lieutenants. Thrusting A’cuitas forward, Zuvius impaled a creature before tearing the weapon back and turning it around in his hands. Blasting lightning into the stricken daemon, Zuvius coated Skargan with filth.

‘Does this look like my doing?’ the prince shot back, before passing the glaive behind his back and thrusting it to the side. The Tzeentchian horror coming at him opened its gaping mouth and attempted to swallow the weapon. The glaive blade was momentarily lost in the darkness before bursting forth out of the daemon’s back. Zuvius turned to the approaching champion of Khorne. ‘Does this look like my god favouring me?’

Skargan Fell-of-Heart considered the prince’s words, with all of the calm thought of which he was capable. Furious at his brute conclusion, the deathbringer carved out a circle of destruction about him. Chopping. Hacking. Obliterating. His battle-axe dribbled ichor. The colour in the hollow was changing, however. The pink that had clouded the shallows and solidified to a spawning fleshpool was now dashed with azure. Every time a pink horror was mulched into formlessness, blue claws would prize the ruined daemonflesh apart. As the dying monstrosity rippled and quivered, a blue horror would climb out of its corpse, followed by another. Apart from its colour, each was identical in form to the foul being from which it proceeded.

Zuvius pursed his smeared lips. He was once more caught between the fury of the deathbringer and perverse circumstance. Looking up, he saw that the wind had dropped. The storm of fang and tooth was passing. The fat droplets of the bloodstorm still hammered down about them, however.

‘It is an affliction of the land, exalted one,’ Zuvius said. ‘A hellish hole through which daemons bleed into the world. A flesh without end, my lord, living, dying and dividing. We must withdraw.’

‘Never!’ Skargan roared, tearing his gouging talons through a creature before batting three blue clawing beasts away with the flat of his axe blade.

‘Get the sorcerers,’ Zuvius commanded, sending Mallofax off in the direction of the Unseeing. The Prince of Embers would not die in some squalid hollow with a mindless berserker. As the sound of the bird’s squawking led the blind wretches back up out of the hollow, Zuvius pointed a finger at Sir Abriel and the slope behind. Batting mad creatures aside with their knightly shields and cutting down horrors with their notched longswords, the Hexenguard covered their master’s retreat.

Stepping back up the incline and towards the howl of the bloodstorm, Zuvius crackled lightning down on the creatures rushing Skargan. Dripping with pink and blue daemonblood that sizzled with sorcerous energy, and with monsters exploding about him, the deathbringer had a moment to take stock. His warband was dying, overrun by the daemon plague, despite the bloodreavers’ savagery and the devastation of the wrathmongers. A single decision separated Skargan Fell-of-Heart from annihilation.

Zuvius watched as the deathbringer exercised judgement beyond his powers. Skargan believed that the Everchosen of Chaos had demanded his dark service. Zuvius had put that belief in the champion’s mind. Pushing several wrathmongers back up the slope and snatching Voark, son of Krall, from a small massacre of bloodreavers, Skargan bellowed his order across the hollow.

‘There is no glory to be had here,’ Khorne’s champion roared, pointing his battle-axe back up at the storm. ‘Onwards! To the glory of the Blood God and the Exalted Marshal!’

With Skargan’s command cutting through the red haze of berserker rage, the horde began its staggered withdrawal from the hollow. Stumbling up the incline and away from the Tzeentchian swarm, the host re-entered the bloodstorm.

They were drowning. Drowning in blood.

The heavens broiled with fury and a crimson rain hammered down, flooding not just the hollows, cuttings and craters of the Blasted Plain but the storm-wracked wilderness itself. Zuvius and his Tzeentchian knights waded through the wounded waters. The Unseeing half-stumbled, half-swam. Mallofax flew, the bird buffeted this way and that in the gales that swept across the rising waters of the shallow sea.

Following the Prince of Embers through the deluge were the warband of Skargan Fell-of-Heart. Wading in disbelief through the waters, the Khornate warriors had never quite got over their rout at the hollow. Their champion’s order to retreat from a fight and the soul-crushing demands of their trek through the storm and flood seemed to be breaking them. The cursed land and the daemons that haunted it notwithstanding, Zuvius had manipulated them with his lies. He had convinced Skargan to take this road to self-destruction and he was not finished with the deathbringer yet.

‘Mallofax?’ Zuvius called up through the storm. In the past hour, the prince had felt the blood slopping and splashing lower and lower against his plate. ‘Are the waters receding?’

‘We are on the Beaten Path,’ the bird shrieked, swooping down onto the blade of A’cuitas. ‘Look!’

Zuvius peered through the blood-streaming sky. A dark silhouette was rising above them, a feature so large and tall that even the unnatural storm’s best efforts could not hide it. Zuvius recognised the mesa from his fiery vision, eroded by the erratic elements into the rocky shape of a colossal anvil.

Zuvius nodded absently at the bird. They were climbing, ascending the path that would take them up to the strange land. This path would test him, even more than it had already. Like a piece of bronze, Zuvius would be remoulded. The bronze had no comprehension of the blade it could become and the power over life and death it would wield. The Everchosen had selected his raw materials in Zuvius. The Tzeentchian hoped to now be hammered to hold an edge, to become a weapon worthy of Archaon’s choosing. It was on the Beaten Path and the mesa that he would be tested and reforged. Zuvius pledged in the dark recesses of his heart to become that which would please the Everchosen of Chaos: a vision of death and destruction to earn the demigod’s gaze.

‘Deathbringer,’ Zuvius called, prompting Skargan Fell-of-Heart to push roughly past several of his horde and slosh onwards through the shallows. ‘The place I saw in my vision,’ the Tzeentchian told him honestly, pointing to the silhouette of the anvil-shaped land formation. ‘There challenges will be issued and destinies realised.’

The champion of Khorne didn’t seem to hear Zuvius. Instead he barked a barely intelligible order to his warband, urging them on through the strength-sapping flood.

‘Out of my way, sorcerer,’ Skargan said, striding through blood and pushing past Zuvius, ‘for gods help any wretch that stands in it.’

Standing aside, Zuvius issued an order to Sir Abriel and the Hexenguard, bringing them to a halt. The stumbling progress of the Unseeing was also checked by squawks from a hovering Mallofax. Zuvius let the spent savages of the Goresworn through, the wrathmongers stomping miserably up the Beaten Path after their master.

Several hours were spent ascending the weathered mesa. The storm still raged about them, with dark droplets hammering into the rocky surface of the colossal formation.

Skargan stomped off across the mesa with his warband following in a loose, exhausted formation.

‘I am here!’ he roared, announcing his arrival with bombast only the blessed of Khorne could manage. ‘Here to be judged. Judged worthy of your favour.’

The deathbringer’s words were lost to the storm. The skies howled above but no answer came. The champion’s face creased with anger. His horde gathered about him in expectation, driving the Fell-of-Heart’s frustration further. They had travelled so far and given so much. He would not be humiliated in front of them. He would slaughter them all to a man before suffering doubt to cross their faces.

‘Test me, Lord Archaon!’ Skargan roared. ‘End me if you can, Ender of Worlds.’

The blasphemy passed unheeded. Blood rained down. Skargan lowered his battle-axe.

‘The Blood God’s chosen is displeased,’ Mallofax squawked. As Zuvius watched rage take the Fell-of-Heart, he knew what was coming.

‘Ready yourselves,’ Zuvius warned his Hexenguard and sorcerers.

‘The sorcerer betrays the Exalted of Khorne,’ Voark hissed through the ranks of the Goresworn. ‘He lies for his amusement and that of his twisted god.’

Two of the wrathmongers flanked their furious master. Skargan himself steamed, his burning hatred for Zuvius and his sorcerous kind turning the droplets of bloody drizzle on his red skin to a searing haze.

‘Unworthy…’ the Deathbringer roared.

Sir Abriel’s sword cleared its scabbard with a whoosh, followed by the blades of the rest of the Hexenguard. The Unseeing began to moan. Blind though they were, they had some inkling of the butchery to come. They would recraft the enemies of their prince, sculpting, breaking and contorting his foes to uselessness and agonising death.

As Orphaeo Zuvius went to answer the champion of Khorne, it suddenly stopped raining. It had rained forever on the Blasted Plain — yet here on the Beaten Path and the rocky mesa, blood suddenly ceased to fall. The storm died and the clouds that boiled above them began to clear. Such was the unexpected change in the weather that Zuvius, Skargan and their followers forgot one another and looked up into the sky.

‘What is happening?’ the Fell-of-Heart asked.

‘This is vision become reality,’ Zuvius told him. ‘We are about to be judged. Now we shall see who is truly unworthy.’

After the storm, distant thunder. The darkness was bleached clean by a blinding light. A swirling vortex of lightning streams fell from the sky and hammered into the mesa between the deathbringer’s warband and Zuvius’ Tzeentchians. The rock cracked with the force, sending spidery fractures through the surface of the landform. Everyone stumbled back, shielding their eyes.

Zuvius forced himself to look, despite the eye-scalding brightness of the intervention. The air burned. Snapping arcs reached out from where the lightning had earthed. The spreading storm created shapes from the crackle and static of bifurcating bolts, almost as though the power seethed across the surface of invisible figures that were already there. The crackle grew to a blinding intensity until finally, in a crescendo of light, heat and sound, armoured figures were suddenly among the Chaos warriors, having burned into reality.

‘Stormcast Eternals,’ Mallofax squawked in alarm. ‘The God-King’s vengeance made metal and flesh.’

Zuvius turned A’cuitas about in his gauntlets, causing Mallofax to take flight. The interlopers were no champions of Chaos, sent by the Exalted Grand Marshal of the Apocalypse to test them. These were not the legendary warriors of Archaon’s inner circles, taken from the very ranks the Prince of Embers wished to join. These were warriors crafted beyond the Mortal Realms — the Stormcast Eternals of the God-King. Zuvius had never seen such champions of light. They had been a fantasy, a myth, a rumour — but now they were a searing reality. As they stood before him, it seemed impossible that they were anything else.

Clad in celestial silver plate, the Stormcasts were armoured perfection. Their helmets were moulded and close-fitting, presenting a cold mask of terrible impassivity framed in the spiked halo of their calling. Zuvius could almost hear the laughter of the Dark Gods. Tzeentch, revelling in his perversity. In Lord Archaon’s trial, the Great Changer had presented Zuvius with both opportunity and certain death. The Everchosen had led him to his doom, into a trap with a sworn enemy.

A warrior — especially a sorcerous one — had to rely on more than a sword and the muscles used to swing it. Zuvius hadn’t known what he would face at the end of the Beaten Path. He had tricked Skargan Fell-of-Heart into standing between him and whatever it might be. Perhaps the deathbringer might end them all and catch Archaon’s eye after all. The Prince of Embers had to take that risk. Sigmar’s living weapons, heralded by the thunder and riding the storm, had given him no choice.

‘Exalted one,’ Zuvius called over the crackle of lightning. Skargan looked through the lightstorm at the Tzeentchian. ‘It’s time. As I promised you: an enemy worthy of your blade. Here, on the great anvil of the world, Archaon means to craft a warrior worthy of his banner. In the fire of battle, you will be forged anew. I have seen it, Skargan. Here, in the eye of the storm, I have seen it.’

The Blood God’s champion levelled his axe at the column of lightning that spawned the champions from its blinding brilliance.

‘Only the faithful,’ one of the Stormcast Eternals called, his words burning on the air with dread purity.

‘Bring me heads,’ Skargan Fell-of-Heart growled to his savages.

The first of the celestial warriors marched forward, undaunted. Skargan and his Khorne-worshipping savages were the kind of mindless barbarians that brought death and destruction to the realms. Zuvius felt a perverse glee in the clash of such warriors.

Advancing with bows of gleaming metal that crackled with a spiritual energy, the Stormcasts drew back arrows almost as long as a man was tall. As they held them there, the metal missiles glowed as though heated by some internal source of energy. With the arrows shafts of crackling brilliance, the Stormcasts let their missiles loose. As they left the bow, the arrows turned into bolts of lightning that shot forth in a streaming barrage too fast for the eye to follow. The loosed lightning blasted straight through members of the Goresworn, turning the impact sites on their chests into a molten vortex of flesh and bone before blazing on through a second and third victim.

The wrathmongers battered aside Voark’s bloodreavers, swinging their hammer-flails about their hulking bodies. Zuvius saw the flails smash into the metal arrows with a resounding clang, but fail to turn the missiles aside. A celestial warrior came forth with an even larger bow clutched in his silver gauntlets, aiming it up at the crystal clear sky. Raising it to the heavens, he blasted a lightning storm up at the stars that then fell towards one of the wheeling wrathmongers. The barbarian had incredible reflexes for a warrior of his size and somehow dodged the descending blast of energy. Erupting into a maelstrom of furious arcs upon impact, the snaps and cracks of energy seized upon another wrathmonger and several nearby bloodreavers like a tentacled beast. At first stricken by the power coursing through their bones, the warriors began to smoulder and blacken, burning from the inside out. Crashing to their knees as the lightning storm died away, the charred remains hit the stone floor and shattered in a cloud of ash and soot.

Zuvius heard the clatter of shields as Sir Abriel and his monstrous Hexenguard formed up before their prince. The Stormcast Eternals would not be deterred, however. Stomping forward in their immaculate plate, they aimed the lightning of their bows straight at the ruinous knights. As all became blazing white before them and the metal crackled and snapped, the Hexenguard instinctively lowered their shields. Running forward, the knights set upon the warriors of Sigmar, smashing at burnished plate with their notched blades. Pushing back Sir Abriel with a stamp of his silver boot, a Stormcast stove in the ghoulish helm of another knight with the reinforced nock of his bow. Loading it once more, the warrior turned to blast a stream of lightning straight into a charging wrathmonger’s head. The decapitated barbarian stumbled on several steps more before thudding to the ground.

The Prince of Embers could stand by no longer. It was in the nature of a Tzeentchian to manipulate, lie and allow others to assume the burden of circumstance in their stead. In presenting his sworn enemies, the Everchosen had assigned him a trial that could destroy them all. The Stormcasts were not some monstrous aberration of Chaos, a horde without number or champion blessed by the ruinous pantheon. They were an implacable foe for whom the destruction of all that Zuvius craved was absolute. The prince knew that he would have to throw everything he had at them.

Helping Sir Abriel back up to his feet, Zuvius felt his gauntlet creak about the A’cuitus. Dark desire drove him into a run and he hurled the glaive at the nearest Stormcast. A’cuitas closed its eyes as the blade of the daemon-forged weapon cleaved through the warrior’s breastplate. The glaive sat there, embedded between the sculpted pectorals of the plate as something horrible happened within. With a blast of spiritual energy that knocked Zuvius back, the eye slits of the Stormcast’s mask lit up. Something proud and lost died within the suit of armour. Like a bolt of lightning launching up from the realm and into the sky, all that the Stormcast warrior was disappeared in the momentary afterglow of the blinding arc of raw energy.

The death seemed to feed the rage of Skargan’s warband, with the wrathmongers indulging their berserker fury and the bloodreavers throwing themselves at the advancing wall of celestial plate. Taking dark inspiration from Zuvius’ kill, the slayers doubled their efforts, taking the fight to the Stormcasts that marched forth from the storm.

Wrathmongers swung their great hammer-flails about their mountainous frames, smashing Stormcast helms aside with one impact before taking them clean off with a second. Voark and his warriors swarmed Sigmar’s Stormcasts, jumping, clutching and climbing — prizing apart plate from sculpted plate with the tips of their reaver blades. As another champion of Sigmar died nearby, skewered on the tapering blades of several Hexenguard, Zuvius ordered his warriors back. He looked up at the blood-swirling sky. He hoped that the Everchosen was watching, that the prince’s sorceries, manipulations and slaughter had pleased monstrous Archaon.

‘Form up,’ the Prince of Embers called from behind the wall of warped shields. Lightning bolts crashed into the metal as the Stormcast Eternals unleashed the power of their bows at the knights. Sir Abriel and his gangling warriors staggered back. As Sigmar’s celestial heroes pressed their advantage, the Prince of Embers willed them on. His knights had taken the fight to the mighty Stormcasts but it was now time to visit upon the God-King’s warriors the true power at his disposal.

‘Now!’ he called. The Hexenguard parted their shields and pulled to one side, allowing the Unseeing through. The sorcerers thrust their gnarled, outstretched hands forward and the symbols tattooed into the flesh of their palms burned with dark enchantment.

Zuvius hadn’t thought it possible for beings such as the Stormcasts to scream. The mesa was suddenly afflicted with horror as flesh, metal and bone contorted and changed shape. One moment the Stormcasts were sacred knights of purity and doom, the next they were horrific statues of twisted plate and ruptured innards. Blood pooled about the stillness of their forms as they suffered their final agonising moments frozen in place — warped representations of the sorcerers’ nightmarish imagination.

As a bolt blasted over Zuvius’ shoulder, Mallofax beat his wings for the sky, the bird shrieking and leaving behind a cascade of blue feathers. Stalking confidently forward, the Prince of Embers snatched A’cuitas from where it had fallen on the floor after striking a Stormcast down. He moved through the fray like a madman, untouched. The cold determination of Sigmar’s holy warriors was nothing to him. The blood fever of Khorne’s barbarians was nothing to him. The dark sorcery of the Unseeing and the swing of swords clasped in the Hexenguard’s stretching limbs were nothing to him.

He spun his glaive about him elegantly, passing it about his wrist and across his back. With vicious turns of the shaft, Zuvius brought the blade down through the enemy, slashing ragged paths through celestial plate and flesh. Pillars of spiritual energy vaulted back to the sky at each merciless death like comets unleashed. The Prince of Embers sent the Stormcasts blazing back to their god, the Tzeentchian’s devastating downcuts and heart-stabbing thrusts a whirlwind of death.

The Hexenguard moved up behind their prince in a wedge of dark plate and blade, forcing their ghoulish way through Sigmar’s disciplined ranks. The Unseeing followed in a huddle, moaning and thrusting out their palms in sorcerous fear, turning armoured attackers to warped visions of plate and bone.

Zuvius was a force of serene destruction. He reached out with the length of his glaive to stab and stove in the masks of Stormcast helms. He swung the shaft of the daemon-forged weapon about him, smashing through the metal of bows and cutting gashes in the breastplates of advancing enemy warriors. He carved a path through the Stormcasts. Reckless insanity lifted his spirit as he ended those of pure heart about him.

He knew he had done well in the eyes of Tzeentch and the Everchosen of Chaos. A true warrior of Chaos served the Dark Gods not only to the best of his ability but through the abilities of the best. Skargan Fell-of-Heart and his host were battle-hardened slayers whose talents were best put to work in the service of a greater darkness than Khorne’s simple bloodlust. Zuvius had put them exactly where he needed them to be, turning their strength againstthe warriors of the wretched God-King. Here, on a mesa crafted to celebrate Zuvius’ victory, the Stormcasts and the mindless savages of the Blood God wasted their lives on one another.

Stormcasts marched out from the column of lightning with their glaives thrust out before them. The shimmering weapons were like sword blades mounted on shafts and the armoured warriors used them to cut bloodreavers in half. Slicing down through the savages of the Goresworn from the jaw to the hip, they marched on through the fallen flesh, coming together to skewer individual wrathmongers on their blades.

Zuvius felt the death about him as Voark, son of Kraal, was bludgeoned into the rocky surface of the mesa by a Stormcast with a glorious mace. He was avenged almost immediately by one of the wrathmongers who brought around the hammer head of his chain-flail in a brutal arc. It struck the warrior, smashing through the plate on his back and turning him into a shower of mangled plate, gore and blinding light.

The mesa was brightest about Skargan. As brilliant as the continuous column-stream of lightning was in bringing forth the God-King’s warriors, the maelstrom of blazing death about the Fell-of-Heart was brighter still. Skargan was unstoppable, killing Stormcast after Stormcast for his god and the Everchosen. While his warband died about him — the Goresworn’s savagery was no match for the Stormcasts’ implacable, armoured advance, and the wrathmongers went to their deaths with reckless abandon — Skargan was a rock upon which the Stormcasts smashed themselves in the storm. He was death. He was fury. He was the exalted avatar of Khorne.

As the Prince of Embers approached, leading his warriors and killing with judicious flair, he saw Skargan gouge skulls out of masked helms with his bone claws, impale Stormcasts on his monstrous horns and smash bows from the cowardly grip of Stormcast Judicators. He broke armoured warriors in two with savage kicks and wheeled about him with his axe, the weapon taller than the deathbringer himself. He chopped through plate, he cleaved limbs from torsos and he felled mighty warriors of the God-King’s holy storm. He tore heads and helms from bodies with his bare hands and rammed the shaft of the battle-axe back through throats and chests.

There was no stopping him. With the bodies of his warband about him, Skargan roared his challenge to a cloaked lord in immaculate celestial armour. Flanked by two of his brothers, the lord leading the host closed in, wielding a great halberd in one gauntlet and a warding lantern in the other. Zuvius could feel the soul-scarring magical energy coming off the lantern and flinched as it was unleashed. Skargan Fell-of-Heart cared nothing for its terrible light. His red flesh cooked on the bone at its proximity.

He killed the celestial leader’s guardians, his axe screeching through their armour before sending their soulfire raging for the heavens. The lord came at the deathbringer with all the righteous fortitude of Sigmar himself. He smashed the warding lantern back and forth across Skargan’s horned skull, battering and momentarily blinding the Chaos brute. For a moment, Skargan was caught off guard and stumbled. Wielding the length of the halberd in one gauntlet, the lord chopped at Skargan with elegant sweeps of the axe blade and thrust with the bladed spike that crowned the weapon. He smashed the bone claws of the gouger Skargan held up to defend himself and ripped through the smoking flesh of the Chaos champion’s forearm. The lord landed a kick on the deathbringer’s muscular chest with an armoured boot before cutting one of the monstrous horns from the warrior’s head.

For a moment, Zuvius thought that he might have to face the mighty Stormcast lord himself. As the champion swung around the warding lantern for another disorientating blow, Skargan raised his axe with both hands. Instead of batting the magical weapon aside, the deathbringer’s wrath-fuelled swing smashed the lantern into a blinding nova of magical energy. Surprised by his weapon’s destruction, the lord staggered back. Skargan bellowed as the fierce flash of the lantern’s destruction bathed his Khorne-pledged flesh in the God-King’s scalding brilliance. He would not be stopped, however. Blindly back-swinging with his axe, he cut the halberd in two. Aiming with a slayer’s instinct alone, Skargan brought his axe down and cut straight through the lord.

Plate, flesh and bone sheared away in two halves as the axe blade sparked. Zuvius watched the blinding essence of the warrior rocket into the sky. As it did, the column of lightning burning into the rock of the mesa crackled and spat to nothingness, leaving behind only heat and an afterglow.

‘Hold,’ Zuvius commanded. Sir Abriel and the remaining Hexenguard locked shields and waited, while those sorcerous wretches of the Unseeing who had not been skewered or blasted by the Stormcast Eternals grasped blindly for one another. They were not the only ones to have lost their sight.

The deathbringer was a mess, but an impressive mess. His red flesh was burnt and raw, smouldering about him. The bulging muscles of his arms, chest and back hung like ribbons where the God-King’s warriors had sliced and stabbed, exposing rib and bone. One of his great horns was but a smashed stump while the champion’s eyes were misty with the scorching brilliance of the warding lantern. It was obvious from the clumsiness of his movements that he was blind but he still clutched his battle-axe to him with the murderous talent of ten sighted warriors.

Mallofax flapped down to land on Zuvius’ shoulder. The sound seemed to spook the deathbringer, who looked about and then up into the sky, expecting the judgement and reward of Archaon, Everchosen of Chaos.

‘Filth sorcerer,’ Skargan growled. ‘Is that you?’

The Prince of Embers turned A’cuitas about in his gauntlets, aiming the pommel of the daemon-forged weapon at the deathbringer. The eye opened in the metal.

‘Aye,’ Zuvius said. ‘It is me. I have bad tidings for you, exalted one. You have been judged unworthy.’

Skargan’s ugly features screwed up in fury. He peered blindly up into the blood storm.

‘By who?’ he roared, challenging the gods. ‘By Khorne? By the Everchosen?’

‘By me,’ Zuvius told him. As the lightning leapt from his glaive and struck the deathbringer in the chest, Skargan Fell-of-Heart exploded. In an air-cracking blast of blood and flesh-scraps, the Blood God’s champion turned into a crimson mist, thick and bitter. Zuvius cocked his head towards Mallofax.

‘I sent him back to his dark god,’ the prince said, a crooked smile on his lips. ‘It’s what he would have wanted.’

Orphaeo Zuvius didn’t have to wait long for his judgement and reward. He had been reforged to the Everchosen’s liking, and the bodies about him erupted in blue flashes. The unnatural lightning reached up into the sky with a whoosh and surrounded him. It sizzled in the blood rain, the licks and flames encircling the Prince of Embers and forming shimmering shapes.

‘What do you see?’ Mallofax asked of the prince. Peering hard into the heat and light of the furious vision, Zuvius looked about. In the surrounding energy, he could make out the outline of a great fortress.

‘Jagged spires,’ he said, ‘towers and keeps, reaching up into horror-choked skies. Walls — spiked, colossal and thick. A fortress of ruin so large that it spans the Mortal Realms.’

‘You see the Varanspire,’ Mallofax told him, ‘the fortress of the Everchosen. Your invitation is extended, my lord. You are worthy and he calls you to his service.’

The raging wall of flame that encircled them suddenly died. Everything became ominously still. The skies cleared to reveal a darkness beyond. Then came the flapping of wings. While Mallofax hopped between the prince’s shoulder and A’cuitas, a flock of carrion birds descended from the darkness to feast on the flesh of the fallen.

‘And where do we find this Varanspire?’ Zuvius asked.

‘It sits in the Realm of Chaos,’ Mallofax said, ‘linked to the Eightpoints, a nexus of gateways connecting the Mortal Realms.’

‘A place of unrivalled destruction and death,’ Zuvius said.

‘Yes, my prince.’

Zuvius licked his mangled lips. He stabbed at the rock, tapping the pommel of his glaive on the surface of the mesa. The carrion birds took to the air in a swirling flock, startled by the impact. Mallofax flapped his wings also but retained his purchase.

‘Invitation accepted,’ Orphaeo Zuvius said. The knight that had been Sir Abriel followed with the Hexenguard and the sorcerers of the Unseeing.

‘What now, my lord?’ Mallofax asked.

‘We follow the crows,’ the Prince of Embers said, ‘and trust in their appetite for death.’

Guy Haley

The Solace of Rage

In a castle fashioned from crystal, a weaver of destiny worked.

He, she, it — who could tell? None knew if the sorcerers had once been mortal or were daemon made. There were nine, or there were one, or there were both one and nine. In all things, including their number, they were mysterious. Or so they had meant to be.

The Many-Eyed Servant was one of the names of the nine, and it applied in this instance to a tall, skeletal figure, impossibly thin, with limbs like reed stalks and a body to match. Atop a strand of a neck balanced a broad head, disturbingly smooth and featureless save for a line of eyes along its ridge. A body of this sort was nought but a garment, and not the most important that it had occasion to wear. In this form, the Many-Eyed Servant’s cloak defined it, name and nature — a long covering made of eyelids that fluttered and blinked, from behind which moist eyeballs of every hue peered out curiously.

The Many-Eyed Servant dabbled long fingers in a pool of steaming quicksilver, flicking through the images it conjured there. Scenes of war. All the realms were in uproar with the coming of Sigmar. From time to time, it stopped to examine this hero or that, emitting a gentle purr of satisfaction when it saw one worthy of note, clucking in annoyance at those who disrupted its carefully placed webs of cause and effect. Once it had toyed with individuals of this type for its own ends. The Many-Eyed Servant had spent long lifetimes of men twisting the threads of fate into pleasing patterns — but no longer.

There was a tightness around its spindly limbs, chains of fate that were not of its making. Once it had been merely the Many-Eyed, but then Archaon had learned its one true name, and forced upon it the role of servant. Now it was bound to the Everchosen’s purpose, along with all its siblings.

The facets of the Many-Eyed Servant’s lair darkened along with its mood. Displayed by sorcerous means in panes of crystal were images of its eight counterparts. A few worked in their own dens, each a sanity-testing place conjured by the architect’s ineffable whims. Others were abroad in the realms, doing the bidding of their master. Wherever they were, they looked up as one at the Many-Eyed Servant’s pique and scolded him, wary lest Archaon’s attention be directed toward them. The Many-Eyed Servant hunched its shoulders and turned its back upon them. The others were overly concerned by Archaon. If Tzeentch learned of their bending to the Everchosen’s will, the displeasure of the Changer of the Ways would make Archaon’s worst wraths seem as nothing. Nevertheless, although the Many-Eyed Servant would not admit it was afraid of their current lord, it returned to its scryings, compelled by dread and duty.

Archaon demanded champions, and so the Many-Eyed Servant looked for them in every realm.

In the Realm of Beasts, there was a prairie of such extent it had no single name, a landscape that a man could not cross in the space of a single life. Stretching for thousands of leagues, the plains encompassed mountains and seas, forests and mighty canyons, but for the most part they comprised grassland of rich and infinite variety. Great beasts walked there, their horns as high as the crowns of trees. Men hunted them, as bewildering in the profusion of race and tribe as the beasts themselves were in variety.

The Bloodbloom Fields were found on these plains. The grasses were red, and its flowers crimson. The partly fossilised ribcages of animals of impossible size studded the scarlet, higher than cathedrals, their breastbones covered in patches of woodland that trailed long creepers earthward. Their eyeless skulls were osseous mesas, the phalanges of their paws greying crags.

At the time of the Bloodbloom’s breeding, when the wind blew just so, the flowers opened and spat their pollen to be carried far and wide. The flowers sang for days during this season. Individually, the voices of the flowers were almost too quiet to be heard, but the sound of millions together created a musical sighing that gave the Bloodbloom Fields its other name, the Singing Steppes.

These were rich lands, well populated with beasts and tribes. Even at the close of the Age of Chaos when Sigmar’s warriors rained down from the heavens with wrath in their hearts and lightning in their hands, there remained free people of the plains who had survived the terrible centuries. They were hunted because of it, for the gods loathe freedom above all else, but they survived.

It was to this place that the Many-Eyed Servant’s attention was drawn. Its restless fingers paused in their fretful dibbling, the ripples on the silver stilled. The image sharpened, and it leaned in closer.

Upon the Bloodbloom Fields was assembled a host of men. These were the Bloodslaves, the horde of Lord Kalaz the Hewer. The name came to the Many-Eyed Servant immediately. In ordinary times they moved restlessly across the plains, cutting a swathe across grass, herd and nation alike. Not today. Rank after rank of blood warriors and bloodreavers were arranged in a hollow circle atop a hill of stacked, gargantuan bones. To the north, the greying faces of the bones made cliffs twenty yards high; to the south, the hill sloped down gently to the plain. Atop this plateau, black and bronze armour gleamed in a sultry morning hazed by pollen.

Around the hill, the scorched marks of the Bloodslaves’ hundred campfires pitted the red with black. A broad road of crushed flowers stretched over the horizon, marking their passage to this place of battle. A trampled field of torn earth and dark bloody stains bore silent witness to the great slaughter that had been done there the prior day. Eight cairns of fresh skulls, still pink from flensing, ringed the site, all that remained of the Heyeran people.

The Heyeran’s horses’ bones charred in fires made with the shattered timbers of the defeated tribe’s chariots. A hundred of the tribesmen lived on, but in body only. Given the choice between the dark feast and death, they had opted to consume the hearts of their comrades. Already their old existence slipped from minds clouded with Khorne’s rage.

All present desired fresh slaughter, and none more than the once-Heyeran, but all was still. The horde waited in silence. Their eyes were upon the open space at the centre of the ring of flesh and brass they made. Save for the moaning of chained khorgoraths and the snap of banners in the wind, silence reigned.

The extermination of the Heyeran had been a costly victory. Lord Kalaz the Hewer was dead, cut down at the height of the battle, the last bold act of the War King of the Heyeran.

Five of the tribe’s Gorechosen remained. The slaughterpriest Orto, the bloodstoker Danavan Vuul, the skullgrinder Kordos and the tribe’s two exalted deathbringers. There to the south of the ring was the one who called himself Mathror, horned and proud. The other was the voiceless Ushkar Mir. The ranks of the Bloodslaves were a quarter reduced, the three other Gorechosen among the slain. It did not matter, for Khorne cared nothing for the deaths of his followers, only that death had been done, and the Heyeran had been worthy foes.

The banner of the tribe’s dead bloodsecrator spiked the earth. The hum of wrathful energy demanded a new bearer, but it and all other things must wait. Before aspirants could attempt acceptance to the circle of eight, the Bloodslaves required a new lord.

Ushkar Mir and Mathror glared at one another. They had fought for many years together, but such things counted for nothing among the worshippers of the Blood God. Barely contained fury radiated from both.

Mathror was a hulking brute, muscles swollen by the dark energies of chaos. A pair of brazen horns sprouted from his temples. He wore the Blood Armour, a spiked set of plates that completely enclosed his body from his cloven feet to his eyes. A bevor encased the lower part of his face, but he had no need of a helmet. His horns were as much a part of that dread panoply as any other piece, offering protection to his head. From above the bevor glared a pair of bloodshot eyes, yellow irised, trapped within a perpetual glower and overhung by brows tense with the need for violence. He bore a huge sword the weight of two men, finned and spined the length of its bloody blade. Old gore caked its runnels, but the edges glinted bright steel and were sharp enough to draw a cry from the wind. On his other arm he carried a tower shield, dark red, embossed with the runes of Khorne and the holy eight-pointed symbol of Chaos.

Ushkar Mir was taller. He too retained a general human shape, but was also grossly swollen with unholy power. An unbeliever would have seen him as a giant, although like all the Bloodslaves he had once been an ordinary man, untouched by divinity. About his face, Khorne’s whims were clearly exhibited. Mir’s lips had withered away, leaving his teeth exposed to the root in a perpetual snarl. Around his eyes was bound a brass ring, riveted to the bone of his skull with iron. The brass was stamped deep with runes. Dark now, they glowed hot in battle. Ushkar Mir’s head was consequently a mass of twisted tissue haloed by thin wisps of brittle hair, for the runes’ heat tormented him, driving him to greater rage, which in turn made them burn hotter.

Mir disdained armour, preferring speed and fury to a coward’s shell of metal. Beneath his simple leather harness his scars were clear to see, raised welts all across his back and chest. Unlike his mutilated head, these made coherent imagery — Khorne’s skull rune, Chaos’ eight-pointed star, and the four-base tally marks of his many slaughtered foes.

Mir’s twin axes Skullthief and Bloodspite lay crossed upon his back, their querulous heads muzzled by their sheaths. One was black, the other red, gifts from Mir’s master. His fists were clenched, the brass bands around his knuckles buckled with the expression of his great and furious strength. His chest heaved in and out, muscles flexing with every bullish breath. Mir’s snorting was a provocation, an invitation to violence. The noise of it dominated the hilltop.

Orto looked between the two once-men facing each other across the circle.

‘So?’ he said. A single word, loud as a bell and as clear as a trumpet call, carried on breath that reeked of blood. The Bloodslaves shifted at its uttering, movement rippling through the crowd’s mass. Fire kindled in their hearts after their rare minutes of inaction. However the day was to end, its beginnings were sown then, in that moment, in that one word.

Orto had drunk of the slaughtergruel the day before, a tincture of boiling heartblood tainted by daemon gore and powdered warpstone. Khorne had deemed him worthy once again, for he lived still, and he had been granted yet more power. His skin was taut with new muscle and his terse words carried the authority of the great Skull Lord himself. Power shone through him from Khorne’s own throne.

‘Mir is not worthy,’ said Mathror. ‘It should be I who leads.’

‘See!’ said Orto. He strode to Mir’s side on legs grown unnaturally long. He pinched at Mir’s muscles, rapped huge knuckles against Mir’s brass blind, caressed the raised scarring on his massive chest. ‘The gifts of Khorne.’

‘Gifts for the unworthy,’ said Mathror.

Orto touched the black and red axes of Mir fleetingly, so as not to rouse the daemons sleeping within.

‘Twin axes he bears, daemon-kin from Khorne’s own legions. These are not the marks of the worthy?’ Orto barked a laugh. ‘You deny Khorne’s judgement. Your skull shall be his.’ Orto gripped his double-handed axe meaningfully. It was a cruel thing, toothed with black spikes.

‘I do not deny the judgment of the Skull Lord,’ said Mathror. He raised his hand, and Orto paused. For all his monstrous appearance and the fire of rage that burned in him, he spoke evenly. His voice was no ragged war-shout, but a silken thing, suggestive and deadly, a weapon in its own right. ‘Instead it is you, Orto, who denies his sense of humour!’ Scattered guffaws came from the horde. ‘Khorne laughs at Mir, and that is well. You mistake amusement for favour. Ushkar Mir will not lead us. He lacks faith.’

‘You think you should lead? Ha!’ said Orto.

‘I will not follow you,’ said Danavan Vuul. Kordos the smith, as ever, said nothing.

A blood warrior stepped forward from the horde. He was smaller than many present, close in size to the city dweller he had once been. Tight black armour clad him, while his tall-crested helmet he carried under one arm, leaving his face free. His skin was pale blue, marbled with bloodmarks. His eyes were the same colour, so that they were hard to distinguish from the rest of his face. He looked a living sculpture carved from exotic marble. Even so, the intelligence in those eyes could not be missed. Skull was cunning, a master of intrigue in a herd of killers, and that made him dangerous on and off the field of war.

‘Skull!’ Orto spat. The priest despised Skull’s temerity, most especially in his taking of a holy name. ‘What do you want here?’

‘I speak for Mir,’ said Skull. His voice was high, insinuating.

‘You have no business here.’

‘Lord Khorne saw fit to deprive the Great Ushkar Mir of his voice, and then Lord Khorne saw fit to provide him with the service of Skull.’ He bowed to the slaughterpriest. ‘Skull speaks for Mir. Skull always speaks for Mir.’

Orto growled and snapped his teeth.

‘You dislike my name, I know,’ said Skull. ‘Must we have this dance every time we meet? If you would slay me, do so!’

‘You have no right to it,’ said Orto. ‘You will die for your blasphemy.’

‘You may challenge Mir to dispute my right,’ said Skull. ‘I am under his protection.’

Mir growled, the first sound other than his bellows-breath he had made since the gathering began.

‘Let the Court of Blades decide the matter. Then you may present your complaint directly to the brass throne,’ said Skull.

Blood rage flushed Orto’s skin, but he restrained himself. He had no desire to fight Mir — it was not a contest he could win.

‘Speak then, insolent wretch!’ he said.

Skull inclined his head in mock deference to the slaughterpriest. ‘I shall, and I say this — Mir is worthy.’

‘And why would you not say Mir is worthy?’ scoffed Mathror. ‘Your word means nothing! You are his thing, his creature. You live because of his patronage. How dare you address your betters — get out of my sight! When this is settled, I will come for you and scrape the flesh from your living bones. Run now, and you may survive a little longer.’

A smile flitted across Skull’s face. He adjusted the grip on his sheathed longsword. Mathror exaggerated. Mir was not his sole guarantor of safety — Skull was a talented warrior himself. He thought often on his own and Mathror’s relative might. Perhaps Skull’s skill was greater, though his strength was undeniably lesser. Khorne’s servants were not known for their consideration, but for those like Skull who could hold back the fury and fight with head and heart, life was full of such assessments.

‘Mir is worthy,’ said Skull again. ‘None fight better or harder for the Blood God than he.’

‘Fight harder? Maybe. I fight better,’ said Mathror, clanging his shield against his breast. ‘And however he fights, he does not fight for the Blood God.’

‘No?’ said Skull. He cocked one silver eyebrow. ‘Then who does he fight for?’

‘Ushkar Mir fights for himself,’ said Mathror, and his contempt revealed itself fully.

‘Your proof, my lord Mathror?’ said Skull.

‘His words are his proof. All heard them. His own prayer condemns him. “By each skull I pave the road to your throne, by each step I come closer to vengeance.”’ He quoted the prayer of Mir, one the champion had uttered quietly in every battle before Lord Khorne took his words forever. ‘Who else but a faithless servant would say that? And a fool to whit — none may fight the Lord of Skulls!’

‘Khorne took away his voice. There is nothing to hear,’ said Skull. ‘Khorne respects bravery. Mir is brave, not a fool. Khorne enjoys defiance, not the cringing obeisance you offer.’

‘Khorne took his voice to protect his toy so that none could hear his blasphemy! I am no toy. I am worthy, he is not!’ bellowed Mathror. ‘I will lead the tribe!’ He held up his shield and sword, and the larger portion of the Bloodslaves chanted his name.

Mathror sneered at his opponent in satisfaction.

‘Silence!’ shouted Orto, and his voice was the crack of Khorne’s own whip. The chanting of Mathror’s name faltered. ‘Mir is worthy,’ said Orto. ‘It is you who blaspheme. Mir reaps skulls and lives. They go to Khorne, as will Mir, his skull for the skull throne. You also fight for yourself. Your ambition to lead is clear. A true servant fights not for his own glory, but for Khorne’s.’

‘I am for Mir,’ said Danavan Vuul. He walked to stand by Skull and Mir, his well-fleshed body wobbling as he walked. ‘Khorne has use for all murder, no matter the cause or the manner of death. This is our creed. Mir is a greater deathbringer than you, Mathror.’

‘You are a coward who hides behind your whip, making others do your killing!’

‘My whip and blade bite deep,’ Vuul hissed through crooked, yellow teeth. ‘By their application I slay more than even you, mighty Mathror. Khorne cares not as long as the blood flows.’

‘Mir is a test!’ roared Mathror. ‘Many of us fell in the fight with the Heyeran. Khorne tests us with this blasphemer, rewarding him to see our reaction when we come close to failure time after time. He is displeased — that is why Kalaz fell. It is plain!’

The agitation of the horde was growing. A split formed across the mass of warriors. Men glanced at one another. Minds clouded again with Khorne’s red vision and the distinction between friend and foe became blurred, irrelevant.

‘Khorne is not a subtle god,’ said Skull. ‘Do we not follow him for his directness? Do we not revel in his rage? He has no time for petty intrigues. Skulls and blood are his demands, and Mir delivers no matter his own intent. That is why he is rewarded.’

‘This one is the proof of my argument,’ said Mathror, gesturing at Skull. ‘A weasel’s tongue in a serpent’s mouth.’

Mir growled again.

‘Venerated Skullgrinder Kordos,’ asked Skull. ‘Where will you throw your lot, with Mir or with Mathror?’

The warrior smith did not reply, nor did he move, his chained, burning anvil scorching the flattened red grasses. His masked face gave nothing away. Skull shrugged. Skullgrinder Kordos served Khorne alone. He had no loyalty to any man, and few words for them. ‘And what does the slaughterpriest say? You speak for Khorne, give us his judgement!’

Orto’s eyes flicked back and forth between the deathbringers, weighing them against each other. His black tongue wormed along scarred lips as he hesitated. ‘Khorne does not speak. Khorne is displeased we do not fight, but talk like weaklings. There is one way to settle this. Skull invoked the Court of Blades, so let the test of arms settle it.’

‘You will not name a favourite? You are unsure who will win,’ said Mathror. ‘You do not wish to take sides. Who can respect such cravenness? You display your weakness this day, Orto.’

The slaughterpriest puffed himself up and snarled. There was truth to Mathror’s words.

‘Does any of this matter?’ said Skull. ‘Mir is the best warrior. None is as mighty as Mir. No one has a higher tally in skulls and blood. Whether Mir reaps skulls for Khorne or Mir reaps skulls for revenge, it does not matter. All death is worship, however given. Khorne does not care from whence the blood flows.’

Mathror smiled evilly. ‘Now you see my point exactly.’ He drew his sword and leapt at Mir.

The horde bisected itself, swift as the surging sea parts on a reef. A faultline of animosity that had existed for many weeks yawned wide, those for Mir on one side, those for Mathror on the other. It was telling that Mathror’s followers outnumbered Mir’s by a third again.

Mir did not speak, but Mir could hear. Mir looked like an insensate monster, but Mir could think.

Here is what he thought as he unsheathed the axes Bloodspite and Skullthief: Mathror is right. I have no faith. I have only hatred for Khorne.

Khorne did not care. Khorne was amused, Mathror was right in that too.

Bloodspite and Skullthief cried out with joy at their release.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’ screamed Bloodspite, the red axe.

‘Skulls for the Skull Throne!’ replied Skullthief, the black axe.

‘I shall spill more blood than you,’ said Bloodspite.

‘And I shall take more skulls!’ rejoined the other.

The axes laughed metallically as Mir swung them. Several blood warriors were ambitious enough to chance their lives against Ushkar Mir, and flooded into the space between he and Mathror. None were his match, and all died quickly. Skullthief and Bloodspite drank the life fluids into their uncanny alloys. Their gleaming surfaces were never marred by the death they wrought.

The two parts of the horde crashed together with a tumult of bloodthirsty roaring. The singing of the Bloodbloom flowers was eclipsed by the clash of arms as the sides met. None were taken by surprise as their fellows fell upon them; these were warriors of Khorne, and they were ever ready for the spilling of blood and the red harvest of skulls. Men who had fought together and shared the flesh of the slain Heyeran around fires yesterday gladly buried their swords in each other’s guts today. Axes lopped heads from shoulders. Blood sprayed from severed arteries as limbs were cleaved from bodies.

‘Khorne! Khorne! Khorne!’ they roared. ‘Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the skull throne! Let the red votive flow!’

Within minutes, a battle that began as two rough sides degenerated into a formless melee. The flowers sang mindlessly and on the hill skulls watched disinterestedly as the warriors of the Blood God butchered each other. Sights like these were common occurrences in those dark times.

Kordos stood motionless amid the turmoil, awaiting some signal known solely to him. Orto roared his praises to Khorne as he fought, but was careful not to seem to help either Mir or Mathror. The melee would be done eventually, and his instinct for self-preservation stayed sharp even as the deep rage came on him. Skull protected his master’s back, his sword quick enough to best any but those of the Gorechosen.

In the centre of the battle, Mathror and Mir fought. They were well matched. Mathror was methodical, in control of every movement and action. Mir was rage and fury, his daemon axes screaming exultantly as he leapt and twisted through the air. Neither gained advantage. Mathror’s shield turned Skullthief and Bloodspite aside, and they caught Mathror’s blows in return. The air around the deathbringers was misty with smoke shocked from their weapons’ blades. Blinding, multi-coloured sparks erupted from them as they met. Bloodspite and Skullthief howled in anger. They were bloodletters of the legions, and they did not recognise defeat. No mortal weapon could stand before them, but Mathror’s was no ordinary blade. A mighty sword, heavy with blood-magic, this also was a gift of Khorne. The Lord of Slaughter was generous with his boons, for he liked to see them pitted against one another.

Mathror shoved Mir backwards with a combined push of blade and shield. ‘You cannot win, Mir. You lack the proper regard for Khorne. Only I am worthy of leading the Bloodslaves. Lay down your arms and acknowledge me as lord and you shall live.’

Mir made a curious growling and came in for another attack. Words he could not speak ran through his mind. I hate you, Mathror. I hate you all. I look upon what I have become, this monster of rage and anger, and I hate myself. But above all things I hate Khorne, and I will not rest until I have trodden the red road to its very end and stand before his brazen throne with my axes in my hands. You will not stand in my way, you will fall before me.

Khorne had rendered Mir dumb, and so his words went unsaid, but Khorne heard. In response to Mir’s treacherous thoughts the runes in the band that blinded his mortal eyes glowed with growing fire.

Searing pain built in Mir’s head. The furnace heat of the ensorcelled brass cooked his skin, transmitted down the iron nails into the bone of his skull where it gnawed and spread and baked his brain. The Bloodslaves saw the ring as a great blessing, but it was not. Khorne allowed Mir to live, but he punished him often and hard for his blasphemy. Pain became agony. Thought became impossible. Mir surrendered himself to his killing rage. The shades of red that coloured his vision grew deeper, until the world around him was clouded by a gory murk. Far away he heard the roaring howl of Khorne, ever hungry, demanding more skulls, more blood, more war.

‘Interesting,’ murmured the Many-Eyed Servant, watching from its crystal donjon. It was party to the secrets of men, being able to peer into their minds. The brass ring about Mir’s head was resistant to sorcery and stymied some of this ability, but the Many-Eyed Servant saw enough of Mir’s thoughts to intrigue him.

‘Here is a man who defies his own god, even while he serves him,’ it whispered. ‘Here is a man who is dedicated to Chaos, but to serve his own ends.’ The Many-Eyed Servant made a hideous sound which served it for laughter. ‘How Archaon will adore this one! How alike they are!’

More had to be done before the Many-Eyed Servant was convinced. The Bloodslaves were a lesser horde — their dead master had been no Khul or Baudrax. Kalaz the Hewer’s name was unknown beyond the rolling steppe. And who had sung the name of Ushkar Mir in either praise or fear? Few, if any.

‘A test, a test, I must set a test!’ hissed the Many-Eyed Servant.

It searched a while through the Realm of Beasts, a thousand scenes of strife and horror passing beneath its hands. In a land far away, it found what it sought. The ogor followers of Skargut burned to avenge the death of their master at the hands of Baudrax. They massed around their cook-priests, who at that very moment offered up the choicest offal to their hungry god, beseeching him to guide them to their foe.

Maw-portals opened, red and glistening as gullets. The ogors screamed out their desire for revenge and poured through.

For one such as the Many-Eyed Servant, it was a small matter to manipulate such simple magic and send the ogors where it willed.

Somewhere far away in the Realm of Chaos, the Many-Eyed Servant heard an angry, brutish bellowing, but it paid the complaints no heed. The Ravenous One was feeble. Tzeentch was not.

It seemed to the Bloodslaves that Khorne grew bored with their squabble. Around the battleground where Mathror and Mir duelled, several shimmers took hold of the air. The stink of magic flooded the plain. A foetid wind blew, ripe with the smell of spoiling meat, rank sweat and old food. As it rippled the grasses, the Bloodbloom’s song wavered. Discharges of energy crackled from the centre of the shimmerings.

‘Look! Look!’ bellowed Orto, severing the head from a screaming bloodreaver. ‘A new foe comes! Khorne blesses us! Khorne hears our war! Skulls! Skulls! Skulls!’

At first the magical storms stabbed lightning out randomly, earthing in the wargear of the dead. But the jags of power concentrated themselves, gathered up by magic into a double row of crackling, interlocking dagger shapes. Only when the skittering light blinked out were these revealed to be teeth — fangs in a mouth like Mir’s, bare of lips and dripping with drool.

With a roar, the first of these mouths opened into a gaping circular maw. The quivering skin of a realmgate was held between, delicate as a meniscus of saliva.

Through this stepped a huge ogor, then another and another. More gates opened, all around the horde and within it. A whole tribe of ogors charged into the brawling horde, knocking men flying with their huge guts and striking down those who raised their weapons against them with great clubs and mauls.

‘Khorne favours us! A true foe!’ shouted Orto ecstatically. ‘To war, to war!’

The battle between the Bloodslaves ceased immediately. Men stepped back from one another and unlocked their blades. Their prior enmity was forgotten.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’ they roared, and attacked the ogors gathering on the field.

‘Another time perhaps, Mir,’ said Mathror. He disentangled his sword from Bloodspite, but kept his guard up in case Mir had ideas other than a truce.

Through the fog of pain and rage, Mir recognised the greater threat and the opportunity it presented. Here were many skulls for his road, large cobbles on the route to revenge. He nodded to Mathror, and they stood side by side.

‘For Khorne! Skulls for Khorne!’ shouted Mathror.

Mir roared out his wordless self-hatred, and together they ran at the ogors gathering on the plain.

There were at least two hundred ogors, and they attacked with a cunning that defied their brutish appearance. The first wave threw themselves on their foe as the greater part organised. The ogors in the centre comprised their best fighters, far bigger than the biggest of the Bloodslaves, and heavily armoured. Large iron plates covered their guts and arms, and they carried long falxes which cleaved warriors in two with a single blow. The ogor vanguard, more lightly armoured, halted their advance into the horde. Mir saw that they awaited their fellows still pouring through the realmgates. The heavier ogors were forming themselves into a hollow arrowhead that new arrivals quickly filled in.

Skull jogged at Mir’s side. ‘We must crush them quickly, my lord, before their wedge is completed.’

Mir nodded. He understood this. Once he had been a general of note, and was greatly frustrated that he could not communicate his intentions. Tactics that he could not speak crowded his boiling head.

But Skull seemed to infer them somehow, and was able speak Mir’s own thoughts back to him.

‘My lord, should I call upon your authority? I can order the men by your name, tell them to form squares to oppose the ogor rush, when it comes. Mathror is no use. Look at how he howls after glory, trailing those bloodreavers behind him in no formation. They will break on the wall of the ogors!’

Mir grunted a laugh. It was true. He nodded at his follower. Skull peeled away from his side and bounded up the spongy, weather-worn surface of an ancient bone to the top of a knoll higher than the rest of the hilltop. Shortly afterwards a horn winded, and Skull’s voice cut across the battle, shouting orders to chieftains and champions.

‘Control your fury, warriors of Khorne! Meet the ogors together, do not throw your lives away piecemeal. Do not disappoint Khorne! As a wall of flesh and steel shall we throw them back! I speak for the Lord Mir. It is he commands you now! Form up!’

Men stopped to shake the rage from their minds, looking back to Skull. A small group of warriors already gathered themselves around him. Mir strode to Skull’s side atop the knoll, and the trickle grew to a flood, scores of men ranking up into tight blocks about the bony knoll. Mir roared out and men looked to him. He gestured with his axes, and they understood, deploying themselves to his intent without error. Soon five hundred well-blooded warriors stood in readiness. A score of skullreapers came to Mir’s side, all slick with gore. Their skullseeker leader saluted Mir, and they gathered as a bodyguard around him. Then came Orto and Kordos, and the deathbringer’s battle line was complete.

But many of the Bloodslaves did not heed Mir and instead followed Mathror.

The wedge of ogors was two hundred yards from Mir’s position. Mathror’s men had broken through their skirmish screen and seethed around the ogor arrowhead. Ogor weapons scythed them down, sickle blades hacking them into bloody chunks. Mathror fared well, slaying all who came against him, but there were always more to replace those felled, and the ogors required great effort to kill.

Mir looked to the flanks of the horde. The ogors continued to display their cunning. Large beasts were coming through the gates, arraying themselves into battle lines either side of the wedge. Bellowing at their shaggy mounts, the ogors goaded them so that the lines became oblique, facing in towards the leading edges of the wedge.

‘They mean to trap Mathror’s warriors between their skilled centre and the beasts,’ said Skull. ‘Should we aid them?’

The shake of Mir’s head was decisive. Mathror would live or die on his own. Those men that had chosen Mathror could die beside him. They were caught up in battle lust and remained ignorant of the approaching danger.

Mir’s attention was fixed on a massive ogor at the heart of the wedge. Bigger and even fatter than his followers, he stood a head over the next largest. His thick armour was decorated with gaping mouths inlaid in precious metals, and he carried a massive, two-ended bludgeon whose heads were huge ingots of spiked iron. Mir marked him. This gutlord would fall to his axes, he resolved, a fitting tribute to the god he would eventually slay.

The last of the ogor elite strode through the portal. The wedge was complete. A number of ogors lifted their hands to their mouths and let out a tremendous hallooing, strangely musical after a fashion, and the others drew themselves up.

‘Skargut!’ roared their warlord.

‘Skargut! Skargut! Skargut!’ they replied.

‘We kill for Skargut! Revenge!’

That was a sentiment Mir could understand.

The ogors marched. The rest of Mathror’s supporters were shoved aside as easily as children.

A second vocal trumpet hooted from the left flank, a third from the right, and the ogor war-beasts lurched into motion, braying loudly, their heavy tread making the ground shake. The war animals broke into a ponderous trot. Shouting their warcries, the riders guided the warbeasts to smash into the horde either side of the wedge, decimating the Bloodslaves. Mathror was confronted by a rearing monster sporting a wide sweep of stony horns, and disappeared under its feet.

Mir grunted at this with a hint of satisfaction, and turned his attention to the closing ogor elite. He stared at their leader until their eyes met. Mir saluted with his axes. The ogor inclined its head in recognition. The challenge had been accepted. The ogors picked up speed. They came on, guts swaying, shouting deafeningly. As they neared, they raised their weapons over their heads.

‘Brace, O bloody men of Khorne!’ shouted Skull. ‘Cast them back!’

‘Blood! Blood for Khorne!’ screamed Orto, and brandished his axe over his head.

Kordos silently wrapped one more loop of chain about his hand and gripped it tightly.

The ogors’ charge was slow, almost sedate, but when it hit the Bloodslaves’ line it was devastating. With a roaring cry louder than the falling of city walls, the ogors thundered into Mir’s men. Return shouts of ‘Khorne! Khorne! Khorne!’ were cut short as the first ranks of Mir’s Bloodslaves were crushed or knocked flying to land on those behind them. There was a rolling clatter emanating from the point of impact, followed by a second as the ogors’ long hook blades fell, lopping limbs and heads.

The men of the Bloodslaves were encircled, but they did not fall. Leaning into their adversaries, they pushed back against the great scrum of ogors. Their feet ploughed furrows in the blood-sodden earth as they were forced backward. Men threw themselves at other men’s backs, pushing hard until all the horde strained against the enemy. The ogor wedge penetrated only a little into the massed Bloodslaves. Their line flattened against that of the Chaos warband, and their charge was arrested. Hooked weapons whistled through the air, cutting down three men at a time, and the line buckled, but still the ogors could not force their way through to the bony knoll at the Bloodslaves’ centre. Men leapt up from the rear ranks, lightly armed bloodreavers running along the armoured backs of blood warriors. They screamed dark praise to their bloody god and hurled themselves forward, axes swinging for ogor heads. Dozens fell, split by the ogors’ massive blades, but more came through, planting their axes into piggy faces, or scrambling onto shoulders and stabbing down with serrated knives into the tough muscle of the ogors’ necks. Others leapt for the ogors’ arms, preventing them striking with their weapons. Their fellow warriors saw their chance, and pushed their blades up to the hilt in the ogors’ fleshy bodies.

With terrible screams and crashes, the ogors began to fall. The Bloodslaves’ horns let out a brazen call, and they surged forward.

From their vantage upon the bony knoll, Mir, Orto and the rest watched the battle shift. The ogors surrounded them in a long bow. Their war-beasts had done with Mathror’s men and were coming to the aid of the others, but the ogor elite barred their way, and the beasts milled about uselessly behind the main line. The time was right. Mir raised his axes.

‘Forward for the glory of Khorne!’ screamed Skull.

‘Skulls for the skull throne!’ shouted Skullthief.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’ shouted Bloodspite.

Mir leapt from the knoll, sailing with supernatural might over the heads of his warriors to smash into an ogor. The giant warrior was rocked off his feet by the impact, gaping in surprise at the power of one so small.

Its face was still wearing that expression when Skullthief swept off its head.

Mir ploughed on into the ogor elite. Now they were in disarray, not the solid wall Mathror had encountered, and he hacked his way through them. Where they pressed too thickly he leapt at them, pushing off their thick limbs and stout bodies with his legs. Every swing of his twin daemon axes killed another. By his efforts alone he opened a wide gap in the ogor tribe, and his skullreapers came behind him. Massive, mutated men whose Khorne-given strength was a match even for that of the ogors, they widened the gap in the line. Lesser Bloodslaves came in their wake, advancing over a carpet of ogor fat and muscle.

Mir fought forwards, seeking out the ogor lord. All the while, his open challenge to Khorne played in his head: By each skull I pave the road to your throne, by each step I come closer to vengeance.

The runes in his punishment band glowed with hellish fire. His flesh sizzled, but he did not stop his blasphemous prayer.

The last of the ogors between Mir and his target fell, and the ogor lord was before him.

‘You! Little man!’ roared the tyrant, pointing a finger fat as a man’s arm. Gobbets of saliva flew from his red mouth. ‘You I kill now.’

Mir raised his axes to attack. The ogor tyrant swept round his double-ended maul, catching Mir in the chest and slamming him backwards. The ogor’s smile of triumph turned to a snarl as Mir shook off the blow, though his ribs glowed with a swirl of bruises, and blood ran from a deep gouge that showed bone. The tyrant advanced on him.

‘I don’t know who you are, twisted one. The Great Maw sent us to you, and not to he who slew Skargut, but you will do as an appetiser. Your god killed Skargut the Great, Prophet of the Maw, so we kill you!’ grunted the ogor chieftain. ‘We smash you puny men down, then we eat your livers while you watch.’

The tyrant spun his maul around with astonishing speed, turning the iron heads into blurs of grey. Mir dodged one, then the second, but the third crashed into his face. Nails tore at his skull as his punishment band took the brunt of the blow. His head reeled, and he went down onto one knee.

‘Now you die. I ain’t one for pretty speeches, but I’ll tell you, I’ll kill every one of your bloody kind I see. I should have started long ago. Your god will learn to fear the followers of Skargut!’ The tyrant lifted up his maul, and brought it down towards Mir’s head with a force that would have pulverised the skull of a juggernaut.

Inches before the impact, Mir swept Skullthief and Bloodspite together onto the bludgeon, shattering it into a thousand spinning fragments of iron that glowed with magical heat. They hissed as they landed on the combatants’ flesh. The ogor roared, overbalanced by the sudden shift in the weight of his weapon. Mir’s unholy vitality drove back the pain of his wounds, and he stepped aside as the ogor stumbled forward. The chief half recovered before Skullthief took his leg off at the knee, and he collapsed to the ground. A hand he raised to protect himself was similarly removed by Bloodspite, who cackled madly as he drank the blood coursing over his blade. Great hot spurts of life fluid pumped from the tyrant’s wrist to drench Mir.

‘A curse on you and all your murdering kind,’ spat the ogor chief, before Mir ended him. The deathbringer stooped, picking up the sodden mass of the tyrant’s ruined head, and held it aloft. Its face twitched as Mir roared his incoherent defiance at his divine master.

The ogors quailed to see their mightiest warrior cut down. The end had begun for them.

Mir fought his way onwards, butchering ogors wherever he met them. Kordos barged past him, flaming anvil whooshing through the air, each ogor it hit engulfed and flung backwards. They wailed as their copious body fat ignited with the sorcerous fire, turning them into living candles. Danavan Vuul’s barbed whip whirled around his head to strike the Bloodslaves and drive them on, provoking them to greater savagery.

Many ogors were fleeing back to their gates. The Bloodslaves gave chase. A war-beast, its riders hanging dead in their harnesses upon its back, reared up against Ushkar Mir, threatening to pound him flat. A mad cry answered from the left, and the Bloodslaves’ two khorgoraths leapt at the monster. The beast fell. Mir did not stop to watch as one of the khorgoraths bit the beast’s head off, shattering its great horns in its powerful jaws, and swallowed it whole.

He ran on. Bodies large and small carpeted the field once more. He fought down his exultation at the slaughter. That way led to true damnation. He clung to the kernel of his own will that still survived. He cut down a fleeing ogor, then another. The maw gates shone redly not far away. And then there was Mathror, coming toward him, sword held high.

Mir abandoned his pursuit, and readied himself to continue his duel.

Skull grabbed his next trophy’s hair and yanked upward, preparing to cut his skull free so that he might add it to the growing cairns.

The man moaned and opened his eyes, and Skull let his head drop. He rolled the man onto his back. The warrior, a bloodreaver, blinked eyes that were free of rage and newly filled with fear.

‘Where am I? Where is this place?’ he said. He looked down his chest to inspect the deep wounds in his torso and saw the thick muscle, the crude tattoos, the spiked harness he wore as clothing. His eyes widened. ‘What has happened to me? What have I become?’

‘Ah,’ said Skull. ‘The fury has fled you.’

‘Fury? Who are you? Where am I?’

‘I am Skull,’ Skull said. He squatted next to the bloodreaver and drove his long knife into the turf. ‘Tell me, why do men fight?’

The man’s face creased in puzzlement.

‘I am dying, and you pose me riddles? Help me!’

‘I am helping you. Answer the question, and you will have some idea of where you are.’

The man gasped. His breaths were coming in short bursts, pink blood frothing at his lips. ‘A man fights to protect his land and his family. Or for money.’

‘And when those things are gone?’

‘A man fights to survive.’

‘Very good. So did you,’ said Skull.

The man’s face took on a look of horrible realisation.

‘Old gods! I remember… What have I done? What have I done! The redness has gone from my vision. I see, I see!’

‘Shhh,’ said Skull, and knelt by the warrior. He smoothed hair wet with sweat and thick with blood. The man’s skin was slick, his beard caked and filthy. His face was disfigured by tattoos like those on his body, but what looked out from behind the savage mask was pure anguish.

‘The red rage has left you. Khorne has no more use for you. He abandons you.’

The man wept. ‘I killed them all… My friends. I ate their hearts.’

‘And why did you do this?’ asked Skull. ‘You did it to survive.’

He looked over to where Mir and Mathror still battled. In the gathering evening the men fought, neither besting the other. The ogors were dead or gone, and the Bloodslaves had ceased their own struggles. Those handful who were left sank exhausted to their knees, dumbly watching the deathbringers. A few of them made their offerings to Khorne. Wandering the battlefield they hewed the heads from the fallen and piled them onto the cairns from yesterday’s battle. One of these had grown higher than the rest, and had been lit. Open jaws and eye sockets glowed with fire.

‘I shall tell you a story,’ said Skull softly. ‘There was once a land, with a glorious city named Mir at its heart. It had kings both just and kind, whose reigns were held to be exemplary. Mir had many armies, with fine warriors and knights mounted upon fabulous beasts, and a talent for battle. Hundreds of mages were theirs to call to war, and the peoples of its towns were master wrights. They were peaceable, but they turned their talents to the construction of engines of death readily enough once the gods abandoned the realms. By these means they remained free while the nations of their neighbours fell to Chaos, either destroyed or seduced one by one, until only the land of Mir was left, all alone in a sea of darkness.

‘For long years Mir persisted, a beacon in a dark age of blood. Refugees from other lands flooded the streets, but Mir took them in without complaint. Diversity became their strength.’

Skull sighed. ‘There is but one story Chaos tells, and that is of defeat. Fast or slow, it comes to all who defy the Four. Every year saw the borders of Mir shrink. A duchy here, an island there. Sometimes the land of Mir fought back and retook the lands it had lost. Every victory was tainted with sorrow, so many dead in return for territory made barren by the power of Chaos. Seas turned to blood, forests became hellish groves of screaming bone trees, farmland withered to dusty plains where phantom armies fought every night. Very little taken back could be made use of, and Mir died, one bloody bite at a time, until only the city remained.

‘Ushkar Mir…’ gasped the man. ‘He was the king?’

Skull shook his head. ‘No. Mir was not the king, but he was the champion of his age, blessed with an ability at arms to rival Sigmar himself, and a command of strategy not seen since the Age of Myth.’ Skull smiled at the futility of it. ‘But he could not win. Then came the inevitable night when Mir’s walls were assailed a final time. The full might of Khorne’s armies were brought to bear on this one last city, for Mir’s continued defiance had become an affront to the Lord of War. They could not hope to win. But Mir, he was… he is… a singular being. He looked out upon that endless horde of brass and steel, and he did not despair. He could not win, not on that battlefield, so he chose another. That is why Mir wished to survive, to find a ground better suited to victory. He was offered the Dark Feast by Korghos Khul himself, it is said. He accepted without complaint.’

‘So did I, so did I! I am sorry, so sorry.’ The man choked. ‘So sorry.’

‘Do not ask for forgiveness!’ snapped Skull. He pointed to the duelling deathbringers. ‘That is Ushkar Mir! His wish to live is no petty desire to preserve a worthless life. Mir plots revenge! By dedicating himself utterly to Khorne’s red road, he hopes to ascend to the heights of daemonhood, and challenge the gods themselves. Do you not see my friend? In a sane world, a man achieves immortality through his children or through his works. But this is no longer a sane world. Children are slaughtered and works cast down. If the great powers of the universe take family and achievement away, a man is left only one means to gain immortality — to survive, and to exceed his master. Of course, the Lord of Skulls knows of Mir’s desire, but I think the Blood God takes some pleasure in his defiance. Maybe Mir shall succeed, maybe hubris is the gods’ only weakness. Maybe… well, who knows?’

Skull looked down at the bloodreaver. Sightless eyes stared out of his face, the light gone from them. Horror remained on his dead face. ‘This is what I have learned, this is what Mir taught me.’

Skull stood. ‘Skulls for the Skull throne!’ he whispered, and severed the man’s head with a quick downward strike of his sword. He retrieved his knife, took the head up and carried it to a pile where he tossed it high, then went to the next dead man to repeat the grisly ritual.

All around the battlefield, the skull cairns grew.

Finally, as night drew in, Mathror fell. The two deathbringers were exhausted, their bodies sporting dozens of cuts and Mathror’s armour in tatters. Blood stained their skin from head to foot. Mathror’s ankle turned on the horned helmet of a dead blood warrior, and he went down, driving the point of his nameless weapon into the warrior to steady himself. Were he fresh, he might have sprung back to his feet with alacrity.

Were he fresh.

Bloodspite swept across Mathror’s blade. With a chilling scream it cut straight through the metal. The magic left Mathror’s blade with a mighty bang, and the halves turned to granular dust that pattered down onto the ground.

‘Wait!’ said Mathror.

Skullthief was Mir’s answer to that plea. The daemon weapon lived up to its name, its edge so sharp it cut through the flesh and bone of Mathror’s neck without leaving a mark. For a second Mathror gaped and gurgled, his eyes rolling, then blood welled up through his mouth and along the line of the razor cut. Only then did the head topple to the floor. Mathror’s severed head lived just long enough to feel itself lifted from the ground in Mir’s brass-bound fingers.

When Mathror’s skull was laid upon the highest cairn, a silky, diabolical laugh rolled over the Bloodbloom Fields. It grew louder and louder, until it became a clarion ringing in the distance. Mir looked that way, toward the sound’s eminence far out over the Bloodbloom Fields. The stars swam and became eyes looking down upon him on the slaughter ground. A faceless creature, spread thin over the night sky regarded him. Man or daemon or both, Mir could not tell. Its body was tall and thin, its head oddly shaped with many eyes upon it. Its robe too was made all of eyes, millions of them, greater in number than the stars.

‘You hear the call, Ushkar Mir. Heed the horns of Chaos.’

Who are you? thought Mir, and the apparition heard him.

‘No one, and someone. I am the herald of Archaon. Go to him, fight for him. He will reward you. You hate the Lord of War. This is your chance to fight for something greater than a god.’

I desire only revenge, thought Mir. I fight to live, so that I might become great in the eyes of Khorne and come into his presence. There I will offer up true worship, I will smite him down.

‘As you wish, Ushkar Mir. Go to Archaon, in Shyish he awaits! Go toward the rising sun, there you shall find a gate amid the Arman Forests. It will take you to the Realm of Death! Go!’

The figure faded. The eyes closed, becoming stars again.

Mir felt rage unending, but his thirst for revenge outweighed it. He clung to this tiny pebble of himself. The core of who he once was grew smaller with every passing year, but it was not gone, not quite.

The Bloodslaves had a new master. There were but an eighth of the number that had been present that morning, but they were the strongest, the fastest, the most skilled. They gathered behind their new lord and awaited his command.

Ushkar Mir, Warlord of the Bloodslaves, threw back his head and roared at the sky.

David Annandale

Knight of Corruption

The daemon considered the nature of vision. It was his power, it was his goal and it was his frustration. Through vision, the Many-Eyed served Archaon. In serving, he saw more and more. The more he saw, the more distant the moment of great revelation became. That sight, lost to him except in blurs and fragments, was his eternal torment and goad.

No accumulation of knowledge came close to what had been. It must never stop. His vision must reach further and further, embracing more and more. Piece by piece, he would construct infinity.

The Many-Eyed Servant thought about the eyes of a fly, of the mosaic of a single insect’s vision, limited in distance yet all-encompassing in the immediate. Sight compounded then compounded again by the multiplicity of a swarm. So many pieces coming together, creating clarity.

For those with eyes to see.

How well does he answer the call? The voice came, as deep with power and with the thunder of Chaos as if the speaker were present. It was the voice of the sorcerer’s master, the voice of Archaon, reaching across the realms.

‘He hears,’ the Many-Eyed said. ‘He strives. He lacks clarity.’

He is aware of his shortcoming?

‘He is, Everchosen. He seeks to know what he must do.’

Then the trial continues.

‘As you command.’ Standing in the empty throne room, the Many-Eyed Servant looked beyond its walls. He received the vision of the swarm.

The flies were speaking to Copsys Bule again. They burrowed into his scalp, took his blood and laid their eggs in his lank, dripping strands of hair. Their buzzing was music that had accompanied him for years. It was the sound of Grandfather Nurgle’s growing garden, the melody of blessed corruption. Now, though, it had become something else. It sounded very close to whispers. The drone of insects, growing louder and softer as the nimbus circled him, had a shape just beyond his ability to perceive. He wondered if that shape would match the apparition that had spoken to him. The drone was urgent. It was commanding. It pulled, but he could not discern the direction of the tug. Since the retreat from the seraphon, the call had become both more insistent and more vague. He had a duty to fulfil, one different from any he had known until now.

He seeks a champion, the apparition had said. And then, with meaningful symmetry: Seek him, champion.

And Fistula, deep in fever, speaking unconsciously, had said Archaon.

And there were other duties too. A portion of the garden had been uprooted. Nurgle’s blessings had been rejected. There were reparations to be made.

So Fistula was quick to remind him.

‘We should go back,’ said Fistula. He marched beside Bule. His words were for the commander’s ears alone, but he did not temper their volume as much as he should have.

Bule did not know if any of the other Rotbringers heard. He thought not. But Fistula’s anger was clear. His tone was on the verge of a challenge.

‘You would have us return to annihilation?’ Bule asked.

‘No, for vengeance. For Grandfather.’

‘Your zeal is sound. Your judgement is not. We cannot go back. What makes you think the gate would return us to our point of departure? Do you even know what realm this is?’

‘No,’ Fistula admitted.

‘We are fortunate to have emerged where we have,’ said Bule. ‘Grandfather Nurgle still blesses us.’

The realm was blighted; the Plaguefather’s gifts were everywhere. The warband moved through a diseased forest. The gate was far behind but Bule wanted it further yet. He didn’t think pursuit was likely, but until his diminished warband had recovered some of its strength, it was better not to risk another clash with the seraphon. He had lost his trident in the most recent clash and now carried a pock-marked axe. He looked back at his warriors. They had been bloodied. Their numbers were reduced and the shame of retreat hung over them. This portion of Nurgle’s following had withered, and it needed to blossom once more.

‘There is no glory in luck,’ Fistula said. His bald head reddened with anger. The white spots of emerging blisters appeared. They gave him no joy. ‘And we are still retreating.’

Bule did not argue. Whether an enemy pursued or not, the effect was the same. The march had begun as desperate flight. Nothing had changed that initial impulse. Bule needed to turn the retreat into an advance. There was still strength in his warriors, and there was strength all around them. For the day and the night since their arrival, they had been surrounded by the glorious blight. The garden was flourishing. There was cause to rejoice even as there was work to do.

The terrain was rolling and gaining altitude. A river flowed on Bule’s left. The water was brown and grey and gelid, despite a fast current, and soft, rotting shapes tumbled through it. Black-crusted foam burbled around rocks, leaving a patina of slime. On both sides of the river, the forest quivered. Pendulous fungi hung from trees. There were no leaves. Huge colonies of mould covered the branches, the growths thicker than the trunks. They hauled the branches down toward the ground. The loam was thick, a festering carpet of decomposition. It rippled with feasting insects.

‘Children of the Plaguefather!’ Bule shouted. Phlegm thickened his voice, and he revelled in the wet, crackling pain at the back of his throat. ‘We turn our backs on sorrow, and march towards the ecstasy of blight. Enough of retreat! Now we hunt!’

‘What is our prey?’ Fistula asked.

Bule smiled. ‘It must be found. That is the first stage of a hunt, is it not?’ His chest expanded with an eager hope.

Bule’s optimism found its reward after they had marched less than another league. To the east, deep in the forest, a huge shadow lurked. Its form was suggestive, and Bule turned off the path to investigate. He found himself standing before the crumbled remains of a vast monument. Much of what had once been was gone, but the angle of the exterior sides of the foundation stones suggested an obelisk. If that were so, it would have towered many times the height of the tallest trees. The shattered base extended far into the forest, wide enough to have supported an entire keep. The ruins were overgrown with black, glistening lichen. At the top of the stones, the growth had been scraped away, revealing naked rock.

Bule walked the length of the monument, his boots squelching and sinking deep into the toxic mulch. Disturbed by his footsteps, swarms and stench rose in waves. All around Bule, life erupted in the celebration of abundance and decay.

‘There has been work done here,’ Bule said. ‘Someone has been building something.’ The monument had fallen long ago, but it had been disturbed recently. Though the rot had spread over it again quickly, he could see the marks of tools. Stones had been removed. Beyond the wall, the diseased vegetation had been flattened as the scavenged masonry had been dragged away. The stones that remained were so huge it would have been impossible for anything less than an army of slaves to move them.

The flies buzzed in Bule’s ears. The whine was excited. He grinned, ripping open the pustules on his lips. He had the scent of prey.

And there, the words of the flies became a little clearer. Here was purpose. Here was destiny. If he hunted this prey, he would find what he had been told to seek. And he would serve…

He blinked, surprised and puzzled.

A conviction formed. He would be in service to a being who was neither Nurgle nor one of his champions. Yet he was equally certain this allegiance would not in any way be contrary to the Plaguefather’s wishes. The paradox confused him. His need to answer the call was clear. It was his paramount duty. He was summoned. But the source of the call was lost in the insect miasma. He did not know how he was to answer.

He looked again at the wide swathe of drag marks in the putrefying vegetation. There was his direction. The marks were a clear sign. Whatever answer he must make, he would be propagating the garden, and clarity lay ahead.

Clarity and prey.

Exhilaration drove away the shame of defeat. His laugh was loud, long and braying. It turned into a generous cough, spraying yellow phlegm before him. The sputum hit the ruined wall. At its touch, the sickened, spreading lichen convulsed, bursting into sudden, accelerated, tumorous growth before dying. The lichen decomposed into a corrosive acid, pitting and crumbling the stone beneath. But as the lichen liquefied, it revealed a portion of an engraving. Bule paused. He used the edge of his axe to scrape more away, revealing the head of a hammer. Decayed as the stone was, the skill of the ancient work was clear. The majesty of the weapon shone through the grime. Bule growled and struck the wall, smashing the engraving and erasing the memory.

He turned to Fistula. He wondered if the other Rotbringer could see the triumph in his eyes.

‘I have the scent,’ he said. He raised his voice for the warband to hear. ‘Feasting lies before us!’

He lurched off, cutting through the suppurating woods in the direction of the drag marks. His vigour spread over his followers, a joyful contagion. After a few minutes, they reached another, wider path. It showed signs of recent use, and of the ferrying of heavy loads. Bule charged along the route, his hunger and eagerness growing together. The ground rose. The forest thinned, withering to a bubbling sludge at the peak of a hill. There, Bule saw his goal.

Below the hill was a wide valley. A river, much larger and even more polluted than the one the Rotbringers had left behind, flowed in from the west. It had once irrigated agricultural land. Even now, long after its conquest by Nurgle’s children, the valley’s former character could be seen in the grotesque parody it had become. The fields waved with tall, ergot-covered stalks and undulated with squirming decay. At their edge, heaps of fungi multiplied, each the parasite of the one beneath, their accumulation rising many feet into the air. A ruined city rotted in the centre of the valley. Black water filled the open foundations. The ramparts were gone, lost beneath fungal mounds. The roads were broken, collapsing into the banks of foetid canals. None of the original buildings stood; they had all crumbled into piles of shattered stone and brick.

But not everything had fallen. There were statues here, colossi hundreds of feet high, bestriding the valley. An army could pass between the huge columns of their legs. The statues had been defaced. Some heads were shattered half-moons. Others were missing altogether, and monstrous faces had been carved into the torsos. None had any hands, their arms ending in jagged stumps. Their shapes, once heroic, had been eaten away until their proportions were skeletal. They were corpses now.

And they moved.

Arms rose, coming together for absent hands to clasp in prayer before absent faces, then fell again. The western-most statue, closest to the entrance to the valley, bowed and straightened again and again, filling the air with the slow grinding of rock. Creations of wonder and majesty had been reduced to immense, meaningless, idiot gestures. A great city had been razed to nothing but a mockery.

In its place, something new had risen.

A tower had been built using the ruins of a hundred other structures. Its construction was crude. Even from this distance Bule could see the mismatched stonework, each block marked by the fragments of ancient carvings. It was a rough, scavenged construct. There was no artistry in its design. It was blocky, almost as wide as it was tall. Speed and resilience had governed its making. But it was big — its crenellated peak soared higher than the Rotbringers’ position on the ridge. Where it rose, the glorious ruin and bounty of Nurgle’s generosity ended. Around the base of the tower and spreading eastward to the valley’s mouth, the ground was barren. The temple was order reformed from chaos. Its stones, irregular and damaged, had been forced into something coherent. And clean. The walls had been scoured. There was no growth, no celebration of convulsed life on its surface. Though it was heavily fortified, it was not merely a keep, it was a site of worship. The walls had been carved to suggest armoured visages of a sort Bule had never seen before. He guessed what they represented: a myth he still refused to credit with any validity.

Further to the east, the land dipped towards a barren plain. Bule saw no life there, either. There was only the evidence of a terrible cleansing, the ground scorched by lightning. Worse still, it held the potential for new growth, unblessed by the Plaguefather. Less than a league from the temple, Nurgle’s blight ended. The meaning was clear. The land beyond was the site of another defeat. There was no way to guess what enemy had scraped the land clean of blight, but that a foe had done so was beyond doubt. For a moment, Bule wondered if the inhabitants of the tower were responsible for this tragedy. No, he decided. They had built this high edifice, but only from the wreckage of what had been before. The scoured earth did not begin at the tower. Rather, a finger of purifying fire had reached this far into the valley from the battlefield. What had happened beyond the valley must have been the inspiration for the construction of the temple, and for the noise that came from within and from the roof.

The temple rang with human voices.

‘What’s that sound?’ Fistula asked.

‘You don’t recognise it?’

‘No.’

Of course he didn’t. Such a young warrior. So inexperienced. He had not known the great wars of the past. He had not been formed by those struggles. He had not witnessed the fall of empires. He had not witnessed the extinction of what had suddenly dared to be reborn.

‘That,’ Bule said, ‘is song. It is hope.’

The song travelled to them on the humid air in snatches. It was, Bule thought, uncertain. It was spontaneous, but unled.

‘Hope.’ Fistula’s breath wheezed with the intensity of his anger.

Bule shared his underling’s rage at the blasphemy. But he also celebrated. Here was a prey whose destruction and instruction would be satisfying. The annihilation of hope was a pleasure to be savoured. The Rotbringers would hurl the temple down. All within would experience the gifts of Nurgle and know true apotheosis in the exquisite opulence of disease. An easy victory for the warband, but rich in satisfaction.

His flies buzzed in growing excitement. The pull was much stronger. The longer he stared at the temple, the closer to clarity he drew. The fall of the temple became of crucial importance. The defeat by the seraphon was suddenly trivial, merely one battle among many. Somewhere in the temple, destiny awaited.

‘Sound the horns,’ Bule commanded.

To raise his voice in praise was a strange sensation. All his life, the very idea of song had been inconceivable. He only knew what song was because of the monstrous chants of the dark warhosts. Song was the triumph of Chaos. Song was the announcement of doom. It was the liquid, burbling, discordant, cackling sound that presaged slaughter. There was no song in the lives of the people struggling to survive under the reign of night and plague.

No song until that moment when Brennus witnessed the deeds of the beings that blasted down from the heavens. Beings of light, beings of fury, their coming had illuminated the landscape with fire and routed the armies of disease. He and his fellows had watched the battle from a distance. The waves of the war had lapped at the edge of the valley while they had hidden and sought what refuge they could in the remains of the city whose name had been lost long ago. A purging sliver of fire had reached into the valley, and that holy blaze was surely the promise of more.

The destruction had been pure. The blight was gone. The emptiness to the east was sacred, and so was the sear in the valley. It was the sign of healing to come. Of the return of dawn.

And so they had built the temple and built it as high as the dead-but-restless statues. The inhabitants of the valley had numbered only a few score at the beginning. But the battle had been witnessed by many more, scattered through the hills and the forest. The activity of construction had become a beacon. Before long, hundreds had joined in the act of worship. Then thousands. They were all ragged, hungry, ill. Many were maddened by pain and grief, yet they were able to complete the simple tasks of hauling stone, even as they babbled and shrieked their horror. But even the most feral also had hope, and they were strong with it. A following formed. And those who began the building, those who led by example, and so were expected to continue to lead, were the priests.

Brennus was among their number. He knew what he had become. He accepted the calling. He was proud of it and humbled by it, as were the others who had been called to wear the robes of their new office. To their rags they added pieces of scavenged armour and fragments of robes, vestments that bore marks which resonated with their spirits, even if they did not know the meaning of the signs. And now they sang their strength. They sang their praise.

On the roof of the temple, the celebrants had erected their altar of war. Brennus himself had found its largest piece, half-buried in the ancient foundations upon which the temple would be built. It was a portion of an ornate crimson anvil, larger than a man. The beings of light had great hammers. Surely the anvil had some connection to their divinity. At the entrance to the valley, a black helmet framed by a golden halo had been found. Its visage was as unforgiving as it was blessed. The priests had placed it on the altar and it had given focus to their praise, and to their determination. They would pray here, and when the time came, they would take up the hammer to fight for their lives and their still-inchoate faith.

A large fire pit was next to the altar. A massive cauldron sat over the flames, its contents boiling. Around the cauldron was a large group of the most damaged of the faithful. Most could barely speak, and they mortified their own flesh with their fervour. They were no longer victims. Now they were flagellants, and their wasted bodies were kept alive by the fury. On all sides of the temple, sentinels stood at the crenellations, keeping watch at all hours, vigilant for signs of evil or of deliverance.

And around the altar, around the fire, around the ramparts, Brennus and his comrades sang.

The song was a patchwork, constructed of bits and pieces dredged from the collective memories of the worshippers. The people combined melodies and words passed down from generation to generation, eroded and forgotten as the centuries of darkness passed. They took the fragments, many of them devoid of any meaning save the impulse to praise itself, and put them together in the same manner they had built the temple. The result was irregular, a thing of awkward rhythms and strange halts, but it was powerful. It gave voice to the soul. Brennus sang his thanks, even though he did not know who he thanked. The hymn was raised to unnamed gods. The objects of praise were the warriors who had brought the light. Whoever they were, they had broken the forces of the Dark Gods, so they must be divine.

The worshippers sang for the warriors seen only from a distance, offering thanks for the miracle already performed, and calling upon them to return.

‘Movement,’ Kalfer shouted.

The worshippers kept singing. Brennus and four others detached themselves from the circle and joined Kalfer at the ramparts. Silhouettes gathered on the summit of the hill to the south. Soon they covered the slope. The forms were bloated, twisted. Torsos and limbs were malformed. Some were swollen. Others were too long, tentacles instead of arms. The air, foul and choking as ever, became fouler yet. Brennus’ throat began to feel tight and raw just from looking at the hulking, pestilential shapes.

And then there was music, the terrible music, a jangling discordant sound in celebration of corruption.

All along the lines of the assembled host, horns were raised. They sounded. Their blast reverberated across the valley. The noise was huge. It ratcheted like lungs filling with fluid. It buzzed with the wings of millions of insects. It echoed, it squirmed.

Brennus was sure the light in the valley began to fail more quickly, as if sickened by the sound. The air grew still worse. Brennus swallowed, and he felt the tickle of legs crawling at the back of his mouth and down into his chest.

‘Our trial has come,’ Kalfer said. He sounded determined, but Brennus could hear the fear just beneath the surface.

‘We are prepared,’ said Brennus.

‘I had hoped…’ Kalfer trailed off as the warband began to march down the hill.

‘For what?’ Heccam asked. ‘To be left alone?’ He had already picked up a double-headed flail from the stacks of weapons lining the ramparts. Its handle was long enough to be used as a staff. He held it up like an icon.

‘No,’ said Kalfer, already sounding stronger. He touched his forehead, where he wore a tight band of studded metal.

‘Good.’ Jessina was arming herself too. ‘Our duty is not to hide and hope for deliverance.’

‘It is not,’ Brennus agreed. ‘We will give praise in struggle. And if we die, we must die with pride and with hope. Then victory will be ours, no matter what.’

The horns sounded again. The army of Rotbringers was midway down the slope and moving fast. Laughter and shouts followed the second blast. Voices thickened by the flow of pus and the pressure of tumours mocked the celebrants. At the head of the host was a massive warrior. His helmet was terrifying in the blankness of its features — it had just three holes drilled into the front, which suggested an unnatural configuration of eyes. A single horn curved out and down from the right side. He raised his right arm, pointing a gigantic, pitted battle axe.

‘Grandfather Nurgle summons you to the celebration!’ he roared. His voice was thunder, and beneath it was the hum of a million insects. It came from a throat raw and suppurating and powerful. Its invitation should not be refused.

The celebrants of the tower refused it.

They loosed volleys of arrows at the Rotbringers. Untrained, they did so too soon. Most of the arrows fell short. The few that reached the warband did so only because the corrupted warriors advanced into the hail of shafts. Their shambling gait was surprisingly fast. The diseases cratering their skin and twisting their forms gave them strength, and they charged with the fervour of zealots. They too gave praise, and they came to spread the contagion of their faith.

Brennus looked back toward the centre of the roof. ‘Hurry!’ he called. A group of flagellants dragged the cauldron toward the north rampart. Brennus helped lift a curved length of metal. It was the first and only product of the temple’s forge, ten feet long and widened at one end to better receive the contents of the cauldron. The priests fastened the chute into place with rope and a wooden framework. The larger group hauled the cauldron up. As they did, disease-ridden ungors loosed a volley of arrows against the temple walls. The plague warriors laughed. The attack was simple mockery. Even so, a number of arrows whistled through the crenellations. One struck Kalfer through the throat. He staggered back, eyes wide, his mouth open in silent shock. His hands clutched at the shaft. They came away slimy. The arrow was dark with filth. The fletchings looked as if they were made from feathers, but the vanes were coiled and wiry, and they released a small cloud of spores as Kalfer stumbled and the arrow shook. One step away from him, Loressa began to cough. Kalfer fell, twitching. Retching blood, Loressa pulled his body away to the north end of the roof. She managed to reach a wall before slumping over the corpse.

‘Ready!’ Jessina called. The cauldron was in position. At the same moment, Brennus heard the clash of weapons far below against the metal door that was the sole entrance to the temple.

‘Burn them! Burn them!’ Heccam shouted.

Many hands tilted the cauldron. The boiling water poured into the chute. Brennus ran to the next aperture and looked down.

He wished they had oil, but there was only water, collected from a clean and pure stream that ran through the edge of the scoured region. Hauling the water back over those leagues had been a task almost as painstaking as the construction of the temple. Now, kept in stone reservoirs, was enough good water to last for months. And enough to hurl at the enemy.

Steaming, the boiling embodiment of resurrected faith and hope, the water fell upon the Rotbringers.

Bule had his axe raised to strike the door of the temple when the scalding rain came down. It took a few moments for the water to work its way through his armour. He ignored the pain at first, but then it became ferocious. The warriors on either side of him howled, recoiling from the burn. Bule snarled. Simple water should not hurt like that. It should turn to muck on contact with him, more irrigation for Nurgle’s garden. Instead, it dug deeper into his flesh with flashing agony. One warrior fell to the ground, the skin of his skull and his left arm sloughing off, dissolving into sludge.

This water had been transformed. It burned with noxious purity. When it touched the ground, it scoured again, eating the diseased plant life and leaving bare stone.

Bule had expected sport in killing the inhabitants of the temple. Now he encountered blasphemy. He would permit no portion of Grandfather’s garden to wither. He roared, dismissing the pain. Where his skin deliquesced, pus ran over the surface, overrunning the purity with a wealth of illness. Beside him, Fistula also stood his ground, his scalp an oozing mass of open blisters. They exchanged a look. In this moment, Bule shared the blightlord’s rage. Fistula pulled back, giving Bule the space he needed. Heedless of the searing rain, he raised his axe again, and brought it down against the door. The iron barrier shuddered in its frame. The blade left a gouge two feet long and as deep as his hand. Rust spread from the lips of the wound. The disease of metal cracked the face of the door. A prayer to the Plaguefather on his lips, Bule smashed the door again.

It buckled.

Brennus rushed down the uneven stairs of the temple. His spirit was fired by what he had witnessed. The temple worshippers had struck a true blow against the Rotbringers. He had believed they could be defeated after seeing the beings of light. Now he believed they could be defeated even by forces that were not divine. He did not dare hope that defeat would come at his hands and those of his fellows. But he would fight as if it could.

On the ground floor, there were no windows. There was only the door. In the vast hall, the worshippers in their thousands stood armed with old axes and blades. The people waited as another terrible blow battered the door. They were ragged, but they were an army, and they were ready to fight.

Brennus stopped on a landing at the top of the hall.

‘No!’ he cried as he saw some movement towards the entrance. ‘We’ll keep them out yet! Block the door!’ In a direct confrontation, he knew the Rotbringers’ strength would be overwhelming.

One of the men nearest the door turned around. ‘But we’ll be trapping ourselves.’

‘If they get in, they will win quickly,’ Brennus said. ‘Keep them out, and we continue to hurt them. Do it now!’

The man began to object again, but at both sides of the door other congregants rushed to release a cluster of ropes. Freed, the ropes swept up toward the ground floor’s ceiling, passing through a large iron hook. On the other end, massive blocks, the heaviest the people had been able to find and move, fell from their suspended position just above the doorway. They hit the floor with a booming crack. The door to the temple became meaningless. Now there were only walls.

‘Take to the stairs!’ Brennus called. ‘Strike the enemy from above.’ There were hundreds of arrow slits in the tower. The faithful would fight until the end.

Iron tore and crumbled before Bule. The door fell. Behind it was solid stone. Bule laughed, his good humour returning. He walked away from the blocked entrance. More scalding purity fell on him. The pain meant nothing. The bounteous rot of Nurgle surged into the wounds, infecting and swelling his flesh with new toxic gifts. He gathered his warband a few yards from the base of the temple wall, out of range of the water, but well within reach of the archers. He and his warriors laughed at the poorly aimed volleys. Arrows bounced off armour or sank into putrefying flesh, doing little more than release floods of larvae to the air.

‘Why hide yourselves away?’ he asked the mortals. ‘Why refuse Grandfather Nurgle’s generosity? His garden is a riot of delights. If you will not revel in the garden out here, we will send the garden to you.’ He faced his warriors. ‘They send us purity. We should answer in kind.’

The warband constructed a bonfire from the diseased branches of trees standing twisted and putrefying in the ruins. They filled copper vessels with the thickened water of the river. Within minutes, as the horns sounded again, a thick, damp smoke filled the air. It embraced the temple. The breath of Nurgle wafted into the tower’s apertures.

When he heard the first sounds of distress emerge from the interior, Bule said, ‘Thus the Garden grows.’

There was satisfaction in the lesson being taught, but even as he spoke, he knew it was not enough. His warriors would not content themselves with victory at one remove. It was a poor substitute for the direct mortification of the enemy’s flesh. And there was more. The goal that called to him was not the simple extermination of this false hope. His destiny waited inside those walls. The flies about his head flew in a concentrated swarm at the temple again and again. The call, now so tantalizingly close to clarity, was just beyond his reach.

He must find a way to pass through those walls, or shatter them.

Brennus returned to the roof of the temple. The Rotbringers’ smoke came for the priests and flagellants. He felt his chest hitch and his throat tighten in anticipation in the moment before the coiling tendrils enveloped the tower. He coughed. The stench was foul. It was rotten meat and writhing flesh. It was as dry as hollowed-out bones, yet it was as clammy as a damp fist. Heccam was among those at the ramparts and the first to breathe in the poison. The defenders dropped their bows and collapsed. Heccam clutched his head, weeping and choking.

‘We can’t,’ he moaned.

‘Stand up,’ said Brennus. He breathed through his mouth. The air felt thick enough to chew. It was furry with legs. It sank into his body. It tried to sink into his soul. It weighed him down, whispering the death of hope.

He refused to listen. With weeping lesions on his arms, he hauled Heccam upright. ‘Do not surrender,’ he exhorted. ‘Keep fighting!’

‘For what?’ Heccam muttered. Thick, yellow saliva dribbled from the corner of his mouth. Sores appeared on his face, clustering and bursting.

Brennus let go of him. He picked up his weapon instead. He turned to the wall and loosed an arrow into the spongy air. He was not alone. Others acted with him, and when one priest fell back, another stepped forward. They fought, though Brennus knew their arrows were futile against the warband, and though he heard the bubbling laughter of the Rotbringers. Each time he drew the bow string, Brennus struggled against the despair that sought to erode him from the inside out. And each time he released the bow string, he struck a blow against the despair. His eyes were watering. He felt the lesions spreading over his skin. But he would not surrender. Hope had returned to the world, and he held it fast.

The valley dimmed with the murk of floating plague and the coming of a darker night. Yet there was light. Brennus felt it in his soul. It was his strength. He saw it behind his eyes, and it guided his shots.

And then the light was real. It slashed through the gloom from above. Lightning slammed into the ground at the base of the temple. It struck the edges of the ramparts, and for a moment the temple had a dome of thunder. Priests threw themselves to the side. The light faded. Brennus’ eyes cleared, and he saw the divine warriors.

The largest part of their number had appeared outside. The blast of their arrival forced the Rotbringers back. It banished the evil smoke. On the roof, Brennus gazed upon the leader of the gods. He was a towering figure in cloaked armour. He was flanked by archers. Above, winged warriors alighted for a moment on the edge of the broken roof before taking off once more.

Holy terror assailed Brennus. He joined his fellow priests in falling to his knees. These gods were forbidding in aspect, clad in obsidian, and the cold visages of their helmets were ominous. They were beings of metal forged from the night itself. Yet there was nobility here, reflected in flashes of gold amid the black. It rimmed the shoulders. It shone from the hammer icon of the shields. And it was there in the halo that framed the helms.

The leader spoke. ‘I am Merennus. We come to bring justice to the darkness. You have fought well in the defence of the gate.’

‘Gate?’ Brennus said. But his voice emerged as a croaked whisper, and the warriors had already turned to the needs of the battle. They moved to the wall facing the Rotbringers. They towered over the ramparts. They raised magnificent bows whose strings were of searing blue light. They drew their weapons and awaited the command.

‘Judicators,’ Merennus said, ‘pronounce your judgement.’

As one, the Anvils of the Heldenhammer visited destruction on the bearers of plague.

The light. The thunder. The sudden host of warriors, their armour black yet gleaming with ghastly purity, sterile, an affront to the carnival of decay and life.

No, Bule thought.

He knew what he saw. He knew what these beings called themselves. They were Stormcast Eternals, and they were a rumour. He had heard of the struggles against them. He had dismissed the reports as lies. The gods of Chaos were triumphant. Sigmar was beaten, hiding behind his walls, trembling before the spread of the garden. The Stormcasts were lies propagated by Nurgle’s rivals and by warbands who refused to acknowledge the shame of their own defeats.

The Stormcast Eternals did not exist. This he had believed. This he had declared.

And now the myths attacked.

On the roof of the temple, armoured figures drew bows, but the arrows they loosed turned into lightning. The blasts incinerated tumour-bloated barbarians. Bule took a hit in the shoulder. It knocked him back. He snarled at the flames that shook his body. They burned brightly, attacking him with the purity that he strove to destroy with his every act, with his every breath.

‘Decimators to the fore!’ came a voice of doom from the tower. ‘Tear out the heart of the enemy! Liberators, lock shields! You are the marching wall! Crush all before you! Prosecutors, strike from the east and west! Teach the enemy to fear the skies and the wrath of Sigmar!’

And from ahead and from above, war as he had never known fell on Bule and his legion of plagues.

The lightning arrows continued to rain down. In the midst of the fury, Bule exchanged a look with Fistula. The blightlord’s eyes blazed. He nodded to Bule. They were united. The Rotbringers had fled one defeat, and now, still weakened, they faced an enemy fresh to the battlefield. This new war began with the odds against them. This was not the prey Bule had brought his band to hunt. This was a formidable opponent.

So be it.

There would be no retreat. Bule had seen, beyond the valley, the desert that came when Nurgle’s garden was uprooted. He would die to preserve the Grandfather’s gifts. And he would smash through any barrier, be it stone or metal or flesh, that stood between him and the call of his destiny.

He raised his axe high. He defied the lightning. He roared his joy of service to Nurgle, and of the fight for the glory of the garden. The warband echoed his cry. Barbarian marauders and knights of Chaos, vassals and lords, mortals and things transformed into shambling infections, all of them charged with the Lord of Plagues.

The enemy lines clashed, Bule’s mob of pestilence hurling itself against the perfect, shield-locked line of the warriors of light. Phalanxes of Stormcasts wielding huge thunderaxes cut into the mass of the Rotbringers. Bule hit the Stormcast before him with the full force of his bulk. The impact brought his enemy to a halt. The warrior swung his two-handed axe into Bule’s exposed flank. The blade cut deep through fat and muscle. Polyps burst. Rot surged through Bule’s flesh. It did not weaken him. It purged his body of the light. It gave him the strength of contagion. He laughed at the wound. He leaned into it, trapping the axe blade in the folds of his body. He brought his own axe down, shattering halo and helm. Beneath the metal face was a visage just as noble, but animated, snarling with its own fury. The Stormcast yanked his weapon free. Before he could strike again, Bule, still laughing, swung his axe sideways into his foe’s jaw. He cut the knight’s face in half. The warrior fell.

And then he and Grandfather Nurgle were robbed. He should have seen the body burst open with maggots and worms. It should have blackened with the proliferation of life, become a new mound for the garden. Instead, the corpse vanished, transformed into a blast of light. It shot from the ground. It cut through the clouds, and was gone.

These beings would not even die properly.

The falling night rang with the clash of blades and the shouts of combatants. Bule took down more Stormcasts, but their line remained unbroken. They tightened their ranks with each loss, and held the Rotbringers back from the temple’s foundations. The bowmen sent volleys of lightning into the rear ranks. Winged Stormcasts swooped out of the sky, their hammer bolts smashing into the flanks of the warband.

‘Break them!’ Bule shouted. ‘Loose the maggoth!’

The ground shook as, from the rear, the beast thundered forward, a huge mass of festering muscle and horns. It stamped into the Stormcasts with legs thick as tree trunks. Its arms were longer than its legs and batted the foes aside with broad claws. Its multi-forked tongue lashed out from a circular maw, grasping warriors in an armour-crushing grip. It lumbered into the line of Liberators, and broke the formation.

A Stormcast with a skull-faced helm cried out to the skies, and they answered. Lightning stabbed down at his command in a night-shattering, blinding maelstrom. The maggoth vanished, burned out of existence, and across the wide swatch of scorched earth, the Stormcasts surged forward once more, trampling Bule’s Rotbringers into the dead stone.

‘There is no retreat!’ Bule shouted. ‘There is only victory for Grandfather Nurgle!’ He wielded his axe with one hand. He spread his arms wide and grabbed two Stormcasts by the neck, yanking them from their shield formation. He used his massive bulk to immobilize them. He reached deep into the Plaguefather’s blessings. His strength was more than physical. He was disease made flesh. To see him was to sicken. To approach him was to die. He roared, and his voice was the vortex of contagion. His reach was enormous. He embraced his warband. He embraced the enemy. He grasped the length and breadth of the temple. In the ecstasy of his decay, he turned the air into a roiling mass of death.

His roar became the lead voice of a choir. It was joined by the shouts of his fellow Rotbringers, the ratcheting, coughing, gurgling cry of plague at war. The warband fought with greater ferocity. Each warrior’s own manifestations of disease blossomed, polluting the air even further. From inside the temple came the cries of the prey. The men and women who had been singing in praise now fell to coughing and spluttering. He could not reach their souls as his forces had with their earlier attack, but his grasp eroded their bodies. Skin turned slick. Lungs filled with fluid. Bones softened.

His assault hit the Stormcasts too. They shouted in defiance, but those near him weakened. They coughed. They staggered. The two he clutched sagged. When he released them, they clawed at their helms. Their movements were slowed, clumsy. One of them managed to pull his helm off. He gasped for air. His face was cratered. His tongue, swollen by layers of sores, filled his mouth. He could not breathe. Bule left him to suffocate. The prolonged death gave the Lord of Plagues the satisfaction of seeing a Stormcast rot before returning to the sky in that hateful light. He decapitated the other before wading in against the next, slamming his axe left and right, and at last he broke through the line.

The temple wall was only a few yards away, sealed and featureless. The route to his destiny was still blocked. The momentary triumph brought him no closer to his goal. A swarm of flies whined about him, calling and urging, but clarity eluded him.

In the moment of Bule’s hesitation, the leader of the Stormcasts leapt from the upper floor of the temple. His leap took him over his own men, and he fell to earth like a meteor. He broke the spine of a barbarian as he landed, causing the swollen marauder to burst open in a spray of pus. The Stormcast Eternal wielded a rune-marked blade and a hammer. He tore his way through the Rotbringers, gutting, severing heads, and chopping warriors down with a single blow. Three knights of Chaos charged him at once. The ground shook with their heavy steps. Their swollen, suppurating muscles expanded through the gaps in their spiked, filth-encrusted armour. They came in with halberds, axes and blades gripped in both hands. They swung with strength that had felled trees and infected entire cities.

Their blows never landed.

The Stormcast made a sweeping gesture. His cloak billowed as if caught in a wind of its own creation. Lightning and shadows clashed within. In a storm of gold as bright as the Lord-Celestant’s fury, a hail of spell hammers slammed into the knights. Amour exploded into fragments. The hammers pulverized limbs. They reduced torsos to jellied pulp. They punched through the skull of one knight and his body took two confused steps before the fact of its death sank in, and it collapsed.

Bule saw the tide of the battle turn again. The Stormcasts reformed their lines and moved to join their leader. They brought ruin to the Rotbringers between them. When the warriors met, their wedge would cut the warband in half.

The hammers of lighting came in volleys from above. The winged Stormcasts were besieging the Rotbringers, always beyond reach, beyond revenge.

Bule snarled. As the Stormcasts nearest him pulled back in order to create a more powerful formation, a fist to smash his forces, he started to pursue. But more of the enemy leapt from the upper floor of the temple to engage him. Three were on him. He welcomed them with rage. Let them gaze upon the three-eyed blankness of his helm. Let them see the mark of the fly, the mark of the Plaguefather.

And let them die.

He turned to drive his spiked pauldron up through a Stormcast’s gorget. The spike was as long as Bule’s forearm. The warrior choked, impaled through the throat, then up into the brain. Bule turned his gaze from the glare of the Stormcast’s dying light. He used his anger at the purifying burn to power his axe swing into the next warrior. He cut an enemy’s sword arm off at the shoulder. The third stabbed him in the gaping sore in his belly. The corruption of his organs hissed against the steel. This was no common blade. It burned him with a god’s anger, but his own god’s blessing reacted against the assault, keeping him alive on a foundation of plague. He slammed his axe into the Stormcast’s chest plate, hurling the warrior back. The sword slid out of his body. He pressed his advantage, blinded by pain, furious with determination. This battle was more than a struggle between two hosts. It was a war between gods.

Bule was willing to die for the glory of the garden. No matter the numbers of the Stormcasts, he would fight them, ripping them asunder with his bare hands if need be. If this was his final battle for Nurgle, he would make it a brutal one.

But no, not here. The conviction was too strong. The buzzing call was deafening. His duty was not to make a final stand. He must answer.

The call was not just coming from inside the temple. It was coming from below.

Bule looked beyond the Stormcast with which he wrestled to the left of the temple wall, at the polluted river. It flowed behind the temple, but part of the structure’s base extended into the water.

Flies clustered at that corner. The swarm took on a shape. There was the suggestion of robes. A hint of a hoe-shaped head with many eyes. A long, clawed hand pointed down, to where the river flowed beneath the tower.

Bule ran at the Stormcast. He wished the warrior could see his smile behind his helm. It was the smile of revelation. He collided with the Stormcast. The thunder of their impact shattered the air. The ebon-armoured knight drew his arm back and stabbed Bule again. Bule moved forward on the blade. His axe shattered the Stormcast’s mask. Corruption spread over the warrior’s face. Bule struck again, cleaving the hated visage in two. The Stormcast fell. Bule pulled the sword from his own gut. Steam rose from the blade and he hurled it into the night.

The path was clear to the river. Most of the combat had moved to Bule’s right as the Rotbringers sought to mob the Stormcasts’ wedge.

‘Hold them!’ Bule shouted to his army. ‘Destroy their illusions!’ He pointed to a group of knights and marauders nearest to him. ‘With me,’ he cried. ‘We go below!’

He ran for the river. It was blacker than the coming night. It was the sanctuary of life’s final degradation, unspoiled by the repulsive purity of the Stormcasts. Insects and worms squirmed in their millions over its surface. Its depths promised worse. They welcomed Bule as he plunged into them, closing over his head in a foetid embrace.

The water was thick with chunks of rotting matter. Its textures washed over him as he sank. It flooded his wounds with new parasites and infections. As he fell into the dark, he discovered it was not absolute. The glow of decomposition lit his way. In the wavering strands of green, he could just make out the black mass of the temple’s foundations.

He touched bottom, Fistula and the others following a few moments later. Already his lungs were straining. He took slow, heavy steps toward the wall. His boots disturbed the muck of decay. Bones, rags and heavy putrescence floated upward, wreathing him in a nimbus of greater filth. The sounds of battle filtered down through the water in muffled echoes.

Bule neared the wall, and it was all he could do to hold his breath, to not shout in exultation. There was an archway before him. He tried to run. Destiny was open to him. The call was so intense, he thought he could hear the buzzing of the flies underwater.

And even now, he did not know what called. He did not know what answer he must give.

He entered the archway. Now the darkness was complete. He was blind, yet his steps were sure. There was only one direction now. There were no barriers.

His lungs cried out for air. His head filled with the sounds of his body: the strange beats of his pulse, the bubbling in his blood, the wet rustling of flesh disintegrating and reforming in distorted configurations. The slowness of his movements turned the expectation of triumph into agony.

Then he found steps. He mounted them, rising into a sickly green aura again. At last he broke the surface. He drew the air into his lungs. It was close, stale and thick with spores. Bule found himself on the edge of a wide dais in the middle of a domed chamber. The curved walls and the dais dripped with fungi and lichen, which were the source of the glow. They were green-black, bulbous with disease and formed a carpet thick enough to distort the lines of the masonry. At the centre of the dais stood a high archway.

A gate. Bule approached it. He stared at it while Fistula and the others gathered on the dais. Flies circled it endlessly. The call had brought him here. This was his goal. But the gate was inert. There was no passage here. The buzz of whispers was the most insistent it had ever been, but even now they were not clear. He had no answer. Revelation was withheld.

‘Why have you brought us here?’ Fistula snarled. ‘There is no way up. All we have done is ensure our defeat.’

‘Destiny has brought us here,’ Bule said. ‘This was commanded.’

‘By whom?’

Bule didn’t answer. He didn’t know. Again, he felt that paradox: the command was not Nurgle’s, but if he served the master who called, he would not be betraying the Plaguefather. He might even be pleasing Nurgle.

There was no way through the confusion except forward.

Fistula was correct, though. There were no other exits from the chamber. There was no way of moving upward into the temple and turning the tide of the battle from the interior.

Yet this was where Bule was supposed to be. He examined the growths on the archway. They looked different from the rest. They were a pure, glistening black. No glow came from them. He reached out and his hand sank deep into their moist, fleshy texture. They were not fungi. They were naked tumours. They were the material of disease itself. The pure, unfiltered gifts of Nurgle.

They were inspiration.

New strands of pestilence ate into his flesh. They turned his blood to slime. He became their master. He was a Lord of Plagues, and he commanded his vassals to multiply.

To spread.

To march.

The garden of Nurgle exploded into voracious life. The black growths of the archway infected those on the dais, remaking them. Darkness poured from the gate. It spread over the waters. It rose up the walls. The green glow fell into the devouring corruption.

So did stone.

This concentration of disease was so virulent that its hunger surpassed flesh. Whatever could be eroded fell into its jaws. Bule willed it into the mortar. He sent it gnawing into the fissures in the stone, widening them, destroying structural integrity. His soul was a thing of uncounted hungers, and he would eat the temple.

Sigmar, Brennus thought. That was the name the divine warriors called out as they fought. They were not gods, as much as they appeared to be. They served Sigmar, and how resplendent must be his glory if these beings were his servants.

‘Sigmar!’ the warriors shouted as they cut into the Rotbringers with light and sword.

‘Sigmar!’ Brennus called too, and his fellows joined him. Many could not shout. They were too weak. Brennus could barely stand, but he leaned at the edge of the ramparts and he used his bow. Heccam was further gone, but with the coming of the Anvils of the Heldenhammer, he had recovered his will to fight. He slumped against the wall. He could barely draw his bow. But he fought. And he whispered, ‘Sigmar.’

Disease wracked Brennus’ body, but he had hope. He believed in the defeat of the plague. When a portion of the Rotbringers had broken off and disappeared into the river, the struggle shifted decisively in favour of the Anvils. The evil would be vanquished. The land would be purged of the foulness. So would his body.

‘Sigmar!’ he called, and drew his bow.

The roof cracked. The tower trembled.

Brennus stumbled, his arrow flying wild. He clutched at the crenellation to keep from being pitched out to the ground below. Darkness seeped up. Tendrils of multiplying growths spread over the roof like talons. Dust burst from the walls. The sounds of breaking stone became deafening. The tower shook harder. It groaned. The temple was diseased, and it was dying.

The blackness shrouded Brennus in a cloud of jagged flakes. His throat and eyes were on fire. Breathing felt like drowning.

The Anvils of the Heldenhammer remained in their positions. They unleashed their lightning on the Rotbringers. But their bolts dimmed. The darkness spread up their legs, the black of corruption seeking to cover the gleaming black of retribution.

Tendrils became talons. Talons became tentacles. They uncoiled from the tower and reached into the land. Perfect putrescence covered the battlefield. The Rotbringers rejoiced. They fell upon the Anvils with renewed fervour, propelled by the wave of unleashed plague.

‘Sigmar,’ Brennus croaked. He had found his light in the darkness. He would not release it. He would have this victory until the end.

The temple shuddered. It swayed. The blackness closed its fist completely around the tower. All that remained was for the grasp to close, and crush everything.

‘Sigmar.’ A desperate whisper against the night.

But then a great shout…

‘SIGMAR!’ The Anvils of the Heldenhammer roared at the night, and though Brennus could see nothing, he could hear a still more ferocious clash of arms.

And he knew that where the Anvils fought, the monsters could be defeated.

He was fuelled by a power far beyond his own. Bule felt the tower and the land contained in his hands. They were his to turn into the most perfect flowering. He had tended Nurgle’s Garden faithfully, and now he would make it bloom through the heart and bones of the enemy. The strength of a thousand plagues was his. He was the plague.

The dark was complete. The light was gone from the temple. His power reached its apex. And in that moment of completion, something else was accomplished.

The gate sprang to life.

The centre flashed. It twisted and coiled. Paths opened before him. He saw them with the myriad eyes of insects, a compound vision of choices. One choice dominated all others. It came into being with the activation of the gate. The power he held had opened the way, and now he must pass through or bring the temple down.

Behind him, the other Rotbringers were shouting victory as the walls shuddered.

‘Drop the walls!’ Fistula shouted. ‘Crush the lightning men!’

But Bule heard the call again, and it came from the other side of the gate. Archaon awaited.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Fistula demanded.

‘Archaon…’ Bule whispered. Louder, he said, ‘We pass through the gate.’

‘And leave the field again?’ Fistula was outraged.

Yes, Bule thought. They would leave. ‘Yes!’ he shouted. ‘Archaon calls!’

He stared at the path through the gate. It flickered. It led into a grey void. A cold wind blew in Bule’s face. It felt like emptiness, like the wail of the tomb. There was no garden at the end of this path. There would be nothing to cultivate. The call demanded he step away from any recognisable trace of Grandfather Nurgle’s dominion.

He made his decision. I will go, he thought.

The passage exploded with swarms of hungry flies. A welcome.

Bule looked back at Fistula and the rest of his warriors. His chosen few, he saw now, much as he had been chosen. ‘We do not abandon the field,’ he said. ‘We march to a grander one. A magnificent flowering.’

He entered the gate, abandoning the temple to its illusion of hope. Let the Stormcast Eternals triumph here. How meaningless that victory would be. How bitter it would taste for them when he returned.

When they and all their kind would learn what he had become.

Guy Haley

The Trial of the Chosen

Under purple skies flickering with far-away storms brooded a vast desert the horizon could not contain.

Its sands appeared coarse, greyish in colour, but closer inspection revealed them not to be sand at all, but crushed bone. In some of the smaller pieces the delicate lattice of desiccated marrow was visible, clinging to sharp-edged shards. The larger fragments were recognisable as the knobbed heads of femurs or curved portions of skull, like pebbles and stones. Few people ever saw the desert and fewer still lived to tell the tale. The realm of Shyish abounds with lands that do not take kindly to the presence of the living. The Bone Sands were among them.

Unlike in a mortal desert, there were no traces of any living creature; no mummified plants awaiting the next rain, no tracks in the rough sand to hint at small creatures eking out a life. There was bone, and more bone, and nothing else, for league after league until the purple sky and grey sand touched at the edge of sight.

But the Bone Sands were not quite empty.

At the very centre was a monumental archway. Though huge, it cast no shadow in the directionless gloom. Two giant plinths stood either side, as tall as towers, their sides covered in bas reliefs depicting the bloodless wars of the dead, still crisp after aeons in the changeless desert. Atop the plinths waited a pair of giant necrosphinxes, facing each other across the broken bones cluttering the ground. The statues were massive beasts of stone and metal with men’s torsos atop lions’ bodies, barbed scorpions’ tails, outstretched wings and twin blade shields on their arms. The statues held their bladed limbs forward to point at one another, forming a lesser arch under which a traveller had to pass on entering or exiting the greater.

The sphinxes were huge, but the gate was bigger. Stacked vertebrae threaded onto green copper rods made the posts of the archway, curving together like monstrous tusks. The bones at the base of the columns were the size of buildings. Those at the apex were tiny, stolen from dead animals of the fields and hedgerows of distant lands. Many of the bones had crumbled. The left column leaned a little because of this erosion, but the structure held and the distortion robbed the edifice of none of its power.

The desert around the gate had a vital tension entirely lacking from the rest. The feeling of magic was strong there, and perhaps it was for this reason that the arch was surrounded by generous heaps of skeletons. All lay face down, their outstretched arms reaching for the arch. They were piled around the base of the plinths, and cluttered the span of the gateway three deep. Examples of all the strange races of the Eight Realms could be found, for all things that die find their way to the underworlds of Shyish in the end.

Pitted weapons were tangled with bones. Brittle cloth was draped over fleshless limbs, ready to vanish into threads and dust at the slightest touch of the desert’s rare winds. Banners were planted in the ground, leaning drunkenly, all colour leached from their blazons. Shields of every conceivable kind hid their designs under the bones of their bearers.

A thing walked out of thin air, growing from ethereality to solidity in the space of five long steps. It was a curious creature, with arms and legs so thin it should not have had the strength to move, but it walked with energetic purpose, its staff clacking down onto the bones with every decisive step. Its long cloak of fluttering eyes stirred the dust into lazy whorls that settled slowly.

This was the Many-Eyed Servant, agent of Tzeentch, but now unwilling vassal of Archaon.

It came to a halt fifty yards before the arch. The aura surrounding everything there — bones, gate and guardians — revealed itself to the sorcerer’s supernatural vision as a deep purple. Very rarely was one colour of magic so clearly presented, and the sorcerer stopped to admire its patterns. The creature remained in contemplation until the weight of its enslavement became palpable, invisible chains of sorcery binding it to the Everchosen’s will. The Many-Eyed Servant became uncomfortable. Archaon saw all, and he was impatient. If the Many-Eyed Servant was not swift, it would be punished.

The Many-Eyed Servant set to work. With keen magesight it pinpointed the parts of the gate that had to be charged with magic. This realmgate had long been dormant, locked and barred by parties unknown through the long centuries of the Age of Chaos.

The Many-Eyed Servant gripped its staff with reedy fingers and raised it over its hoe-shaped head. The line of eyes that crested its face closed in concentration. It began to chant.

It was a powerful sorcerer, and so its magic took effect rapidly. Power blazed from the ends of its staff in braided torrents that unfurled into individual tendrils of lightning, each striking at the gate columns’ vertebrae. They skittered about, probing for the points the Many-Eyed Servant’s magic required. Finding them, the lightning rooted itself in the bone, joining gate to sorcerer. The space between was quickly filled with jumping, arcing currents of yellow, blue and purple. The gateway vertebrae shifted on their copper supports, flexing like trees in a storm. Hidden runes carved into the bone revealed themselves in blazing colours.

The gate glimmered, the air framed by the arch growing thick with light, blurring the vista behind it, then turning opaque.

The Many-Eyed Servant cried out in pain from the magic coursing through it and in exhilaration of its mastery over the energy. Slamming its staff down, it uttered a deafening word of power. The lightning ceased. A blast of energy emanated from the base of the staff, sending a shock wave out across the plain that whipped up an expanding circle of dust and sent it racing towards every horizon. The Bone Sands moaned, a sound akin to the last breath expelled from the lungs of a corpse.

The staff remained embedded in the bony ground, quivering with potency. The Many-Eyed Servant lifted its hands, placed them back to back, and pushed them wide as if it were parting a curtain.

With a silken tearing sound, the realmgate opened onto another world. Some difference in the atmospheres caused an imbalance in the wind, and a gust of tomb-dry air blasted out from the desert, exchanged for the brief, moist scents of leaf mould and animals. The Many-Eyed Servant looked through onto a broad rise of forested mountains somewhere in the realm of Ghur. Men knelt on the other side, two hundred huge killers warped by the power of Khorne, a pair of chained khorgoraths in their midst. The Bloodslaves had been praying to their god to open the way, but as the gate opened they stood. They hefted their weapons and looked suspiciously through into the world beyond. The slaughterpriest Orto, the blood warrior Skull, Danavan Vuul the bloodstoker and the taciturn skullgrinder Kordos, smith of Khorne, who rarely deigned to speak to mortal men, all looked on. These were the leaders of the Bloodslaves, and they gathered around their lord, Ushkar Mir, another silent killer, although unlike Kordos his silence was not by choice. Mir was taller than a man ever should be, massively muscled, his burn-scarred head bound with a tight ring of brass that covered his eyes. The runes stamped into the band were dark for the moment.

‘The way is open! Khorne gives to those who take! Onwards to battle,’ shouted their priest. The Many-Eyed Servant winced at his bellowing. So obnoxious, the priests of Khorne. It pained the sorcerer to make use of such crude pawns.

Ignorant of the sorcerer that had opened the way, Orto lifted his double-handed axe in one fist and pointed it into the bone desert.

The Bloodslaves moved forward with a rattling of armour. They stank of blood and sweat, their beards were stiff with gore, and their filed teeth were yellow. Eyes wild with rage and desperation looked right at the Many-Eyed Servant, but they did not see it. The Many-Eyed Servant was visible only to those it allowed to see.

Mir rumbled a soundless warning and held his hand up. His men stopped.

‘See, my lord!’ said Skull eagerly. His blood-and-blue marbled face was full of triumph. One day this warrior might be a danger, thought the Many-Eyed Servant, but that was a concern for another time. ‘Why do we wait? Khorne has provided!’

Ushkar Mir stared into the Realm of Death. In his head the call of Archaon rang loud. The Many-Eyed Servant could hear it too. For each of the champions it was different; for Mir it was the brazen blare of harsh trumpets and the cries of angry daemons.

The Bloodslaves looked to Ushkar Mir expectantly. For five minutes he stood, before moving without warning straight towards the gate. The Bloodslaves followed unhesitatingly.

They stepped from lush turf to dusty plain in a single step, leaving one realm for another, their boots crunching on shattered bones as they passed into Shyish.

‘Is this the land of Khorne?’ asked one. He kicked a skull from the shoulders of a skeleton. ‘There are many skulls here.’

The khorgoraths sniffed at the bones, but quickly withdrew and mewled. Crumbling bone had no interest for them, and they were hungry.

To the Many-Eyed Servant, the Bloodslaves’ disappointment was obvious. They were wary. This was not the warrior’s welcome they expected Archaon to lavish on them.

‘No,’ growled Orto. ‘Fool! This is Shyish, the Realm of Death. These are bones stolen by the Lord of Death from the Lord of Fury. This is an unholy place.’

‘But where in Shyish?’ asked Skull thoughtfully.

‘Who knows?’ said Orto. His nostrils flared, sniffing at the wind. ‘Shyish is a million underworlds, with ten deaths for every mortal in each.’ He snorted and spat bloody phlegm onto the bones. ‘Khorne will rule it all. It is his right. This is the start.’

Such confidence, such naivety, thought the Many-Eyed Servant.

It was then that the sorcerer chose to be seen, although not in its favoured form. It drew the shape of another over its being and manifested. The champion’s test had begun.

A stirring of dust fifty feet from the gate caught Skull’s eye. He patted Mir’s massive bicep and pointed as the disturbance grew to a tiny whirlwind. Mir looked with his Khorne-given blindsight and saw fragments of bone leaping up from the ground. To Mir’s eyeless vision, the maelstrom was surrounded by flickering fires of magic. He growled and drew the axes Bloodspite and Skullthief. They howled, eager to prove themselves against weakling sorcery.

The whirl of dust grew until a column writhed before Mir. Then it abruptly stilled, what little fragments were carried on its currents pattering to the floor. In its stead stood the skeleton of a man, garbed in the ancient panoply of war, a spiked helmet on its skull, a visor covering its face and ragged robes about its legs. A dull steel sword hung at its side.

Skull took a step. Orto moved forward, axe up. Mir stayed them with the flats of his axes.

The skeletal warrior lifted up its hands to its head and removed the helm, revealing a bony face set with five eye sockets. In each one a lidless eye glistened.

‘What is this?’ asked Skull. He loosened his sword in his scabbard. The Bloodslaves drew around their leader, fear tainting their divine fury.

‘Ushkar Mir hears the call of the Grand Marshal of Ruin!’ pronounced Orto. ‘He comes to serve him!’

The skeleton remained silent.

‘Who are you?’ said Skull. ‘Answer, or I will add your malformed head to Khorne’s bone piles.’

‘It is a test,’ growled Kordos, speaking for the first time in weeks. ‘One does not walk into the camp of Archaon. Mir must prove himself worthy.’

‘Where is he? What do you know of Archaon?’ demanded Skull. But Kordos said no more.

‘Ushkar Mir is worthy,’ said Orto. He clacked his sharpened teeth at the skeleton in challenge.

‘None are worthy until they have proven themselves,’ said Danavan Vuul. ‘A simple truth.’

‘Pah! Let us cut this corpse thing down,’ said Orto. ‘Let us gather fresh skulls for Khorne. Who cares for the glory of Archaon, when Khorne’s hunger is never sated?’

‘Khorne’s fires are not what Mir desires,’ said Skull.

Orto looked at Mir uncertainly. He was still not comfortable with Mir’s blasphemous desire to challenge Khorne, and yet his might was undisputable, as was Khorne’s favour of him.

‘Kordos spoke of tests. Who will set them?’ asked Skull. ‘This creature?’

‘Khorne sets all tests for Mir,’ said Orto.

‘Archaon serves all the four powers,’ said Vuul. ‘We must be wary.’

‘A test of the gods then,’ said Skull. ‘Four in number.’

‘We should attack! Kill it again.’ Orto advanced. Mir motioned again for him to hold. Orto did so reluctantly.

That will be the way, thought Mir. The creature sports many eyes, as did the herald I saw in the sky. He struggled to keep his thoughts straight against the rage of Khorne. The red haze in him thickened daily. He must not forget who he was. Four tests it would be — one for each of the gods. To serve Archaon will aid me, he thought. I will brave these tests. No matter the outcome, there will be bloodletting, and that will take me closer toward my vengeance.

Mir nodded to the skeleton. It inclined its head in response.

‘Mir has accepted the challenge,’ said Orto. ‘Praise be to Khorne.’

‘Stand ready!’ said Skull. He drew his sword and the warriors of the Bloodslaves raised their weapons in response.

Ushkar Mir saw. In his blindsight he saw a dread purple glow creeping across the desert ground, gathering about the skeletons lying there. It was strongest around the great statues guarding the gate.

The first test begins, he thought.

A creak of metal, so loud in that endless silence, made the Bloodslaves start.

The purple light of death magic was strong enough now to be seen by mortal eyes, glowing from every skull. Suddenly the Bloodslaves began slashing downward, smashing bony hands that were stretching out to grasp their ankles and stamping ancient skulls to fragments.

A great host of the dead was clambering up all around them. A bloodreaver went down, bellowing out glory to Khorne as he was torn to pieces by raking fingers.

The worst was yet to come. Mir pointed and growled a warning. The eyes of the necrosphinxes glared with amethyst magic. With the grinding of stone muscles, they turned their heads to look upon the trespassers. At their awakening, the skeletal warriors presented arms, adopting attack positions. The dust of ages poured off the statues as they stepped down from their plinths, revealing skin of black stone and the dull bronze of their mighty weapons. The ring of dead warriors surrounding the Bloodslaves parted noisily to let the sphinxes through, closing ranks once the beasts had trodden heavily past. The Bloodslaves waited uncertainly, brandishing their axes and cursing the silent dead.

Mir did not wait for the attack. Roaring loudly, he shoved his way through his own men and ploughed into the skeleton horde.

‘Skulls! Skulls for Khorne!’ yelled Orto, and the Bloodslaves followed their master.

Sightless eyes tracked axe swings. Skeletons dodged and parried with all the alacrity of the living. This was the Realm of Death, and its servants were strong there. The Bloodslaves roared out their cries to Khorne, but the skeletons fought soundlessly, having no voices with which to speak. They moved mechanically fast, their ancient weapons ringing from dark iron, bones clacking a rapid tattoo.

The Bloodslaves split, each of them heading into a different part of the undead army — all save Skull, who was ever by Mir’s side. Orto went at the head of a phalanx of blood warriors, sweeping his giant axe through brittle ribcages. Kordos strode on alone, his flaming anvil roaring through the air on its chains as he swung it around his head. Every pass decimated the skeletons, shattering them into burning flinders of bone.

Mir made straight for the sphinxes and attacked one head on while the other ploughed into the body of his warband. Though huge and fashioned from stone, they too moved quickly, slicing their arm-blades through the air at such speed that they blurred. The wind of their passing stirred Mir’s fire-scorched hair. He leaned backward, barely evading the cutting edge. Mir swung Skullthief at the living statue’s leg, seeking to cripple it, but the great blade attached to its left fist swept the blow aside and its scorpion tail stabbed down, the gems on it glowing with evil magic.

Mir dodged the sting, and the tail smashed into the carpet of bones on the ground. He swung Bloodspite around with all his considerable might. The daemon axe crashed through the enchanted stone of the tail. The tip came away, and the tail whipped back. The face of the sphinx was an expressionless mask, but it reared up in response to the wound. Its broad lion’s feet pawed at the air before stamping down in an attempt to crush the life from the Chaos warlord. He spun aside, axes whipping round. Bloodspite shrilled in excitement as it bit a chunk of onyx from the left foreleg. Cracks spread from the impact. Mir followed with a hit from Skullthief, and the cracks widened. Splinters of stone sprayed outward and the leg came free, falling to the ground and smashing more of the bones there. The sphinx staggered back, its remaining forepaw thumping down heavily. It limped around on three legs, the veins of minerals in its shattered limb bleeding magic.

Mir attacked again. Deflecting the axe unbalanced the sphinx, and Mir leapt high over the construct’s sweeping blades, twisting his back and body to clear them by inches. He landed on the other side. The crippled necrosphinx staggered around, but Ushkar Mir was already clambering up the decorative bronze-work studding its hide. The creature’s human torso twisted around, but it could not bring its arms, bound as they were into its blades, to bear on Mir.

Howling madly, Mir drew both axes back to his right and swung them together at the creature’s neck. Their supernatural blades cut through the bronze like paper, and clove deep into the stone.

The necrosphinx went rigid and its head toppled from its shoulders. Mir leapt from its back as it fell over onto its side, now only a defaced statue, metal bending and stone limbs cracking free as it crashed down.

The second necrosphinx was in the thick of Mir’s warriors. They attacked from all sides, their weapons marking its smoothly polished hide with chalky scratches, but they could not bring it down. Seeing an opening, Vuul whipped the khorgoraths into the attack. Both took long, deep wounds from the animated statue’s blades, but they did not fall. Driven to greater heights of fury by the bloodstoker’s expert goading, they grappled with the sphinx, holding its arms in place while the rest of the warband laid about it with their weapons. Orto hacked at its back leg, taking chips from the stone with his two-handed axe.

One of the khorgoraths roared, wrenching off the blades from the construct’s stone arm with a squeal of rending metal. The sphinx lashed out with its fist, slashing the khorgorath’s hide with the twisted remnants of its weapon. The khorgorath bit down hard, shattering its own teeth on the arm, but crushing stone nevertheless, and the arm came away.

Mir moved in for the kill, pounding through the swirling melee. He smashed into the side of the necrosphinx, battering at its side with his daemon axes. He howled as his rage was stoked higher by Khorne and the runes in his punishment band burned. Stone chips flew and cracks ran all over the statue’s sides. His followers joined him, jabbing weapons into the crevices Bloodspite and Skullthief had opened up and levering them wider.

Vuul goaded the khorgoraths, manoeuvring one into position on the far side of the statue to Mir while the other hung off the sphinx’s remaining arm. The poisonous tail of the necrosphinx stabbed down, the bronze barb plunging deep into the khorgorath’s back. The crystal bulb on the tail pulsed, and the poison drained away, pumping into the twisted Khornate beast. Bellowing, the khorgorath raised its fists and pummelled at the statue’s back, ripping open its own skin on spined armour as it tore it from its mounts, exposing the fixing pins beneath. Three times the khorgorath’s fists pounded down, each blow weaker than the last. Mir and the Bloodslaves hacked away at the living stone on the other side. Then the khorgorath’s fists descended a final time, and the statue shattered into two pieces joined only by twisted trails of wire.

Its unnatural life left it instantly.

Around the gate the battle was nearly done. The last few skeletons fell under heavy axe blades. Silence returned to the Bone Sands.

The five-eyed skeleton alone remained. Its glistening eyeballs rolled in their sockets in different directions as it took in the aftermath of battle.

Skull leaned panting on his sword hilt not far from Mir. ‘The first test. Fury for Khorne. What is the nature of the second?’

The skeleton raised one hand and pointed. Whether north, east, west or south had any meaning in this realm was unknown to the Bloodslaves, but the purple glow of the sky was brighter in that direction.

The skeleton herald collapsed into the bone carpeting the floor.

Skull turned over its head with a foot, revealing five eye sockets full of dripping ooze. ‘I don’t trust this,’ he said.

Mir grunted. A soft wind whispered over newly shattered bone. Behind him, the poisoned khorgorath was choking out its last painful breaths. The other plodded around the field, stuffing dry skulls into its maw and lowing mournfully, perhaps for the lack of meat to savour, perhaps in sadness for its companion.

‘Ushkar Mir brings us victory!’ shouted Orto. His loud voice was immediately swallowed by the dry vastness of the desert, and the slaughterpriest looked dismayed for a moment.

‘A hard victory,’ said Vuul. He looked at the dying beast. With a last rattling moan, it expired.

Many Bloodslaves had died on the march to the gate. Two dozen at least had fallen to ancient blades here. There had been two thousand Bloodslaves only months ago. Less than a tenth remained.

‘Mir leads us. What does Mir command?’ asked Skull.

Ushkar Mir grunted and pointed with his chin to the lighter patch of sky.

‘Onward, then,’ said Skull. He plucked his sword from the dry earth, and sheathed it. ‘More skulls await, though precious little blood in this dusty place.’

If a sun shone over the Bone Sands, it was forever hidden by louring clouds. There was a day and a night of sorts, but the cycle played inconstantly. A day might last ten hours, or one. The land never grew any brighter than when they had first arrived, and the nights were utterly black, starless and frigid. The Bloodslaves’ lips blued and they shivered in the chill. They had nothing to burn and nothing to hunt. Each man carried only scanty provisions. There was no change to the relentless landscape. Horizons receded before their march to reveal yet more endless flat land, its featurelessness broken only by isolated skulls or ribcages that had escaped the attentions of time.

All save Kordos felt the punishments of thirst and hunger. The skullgrinder was sustained by the unholy fires of his chained altar.

By the end of the third day, their meat and drink had been exhausted.

The Bloodslaves’ confident march became halting. They dragged their weapons through the dust, leaving wavering trails behind them.

On the fifth night, the Bloodslaves fell on the weakest among them.

Darkness came suddenly. They huddled together as close as they dared as the temperature plummeted. Some instinct took a sole bloodreaver away from the rest. One too many hungry glances in his direction, maybe. He sat crosslegged, his hands on his weapons, but he could not defeat sleep. He had had no rest for days. No power can keep man from rest forever, unless he is highly favoured by the Four.

Three men attacked as soon as the drowsy bloodreaver’s head nodded onto his chest. He was up quickly at the sound of their approach. He desperately dispatched one of his attackers, but if he had hoped that this provision of unlooked for meat would save his life, he had been mistaken. He had been marked for death, and in that realm death did not relent.

Skull, Vuul, Mir, Orto and Kordos watched as the bloodreaver was killed. The warrior’s axe halted a blow aimed overhand for the crown of his head, but he had nothing to stop the knife that one of his erstwhile comrades plunged up under his ribs, piercing his heart. He fell dead instantly — a mercy. The Bloodslaves were not above eating their victims alive.

‘Fresh meat!’ rumbled Orto. The brassiness of his god-voice was diminished by thirst, and the desert was quicker to steal it the further they went into it.

‘Aye,’ said Skull. ‘We eat, but there are fewer of us.’

‘The weak perish,’ hissed Vuul. His lips dripped at thought of the feast. He wiped them on the back of his arm.

‘That they do,’ said Skull. ‘But there can only be one who is strongest. Do we devour each other until he remains, then starves himself?’ He half drew his sword, then slammed it back into its scabbard.

The rest of the band gathered around the corpses of the bloodreaver and his felled killer. They waited, glassy-eyed with hunger, as the bodies were stripped. Two skullreapers hoisted the slain bloodreaver up by his ankles. A third crouched and slit the throat. Life fluid drained from the cut neck, splattering on the dust.

‘Meat for us, blood for Khorne,’ said Orto, his voice growing stronger at the sight of the blood.

‘Meat! Khorne provides!’ responded the others.

They cut their dead comrade’s head free.

‘Skulls for Khorne!’ shouted Orto.

‘Skulls! Skulls! Skulls!’ howled the others.

‘No,’ a voice boomed across the desert. The Bloodslaves looked around fearfully.

‘Look!’ cried one. He pointed at the ground, and they all stepped back. Where the blood wetted the bone dust it bubbled and hissed.

They readied their weapons. A figure rose from the ground, slathered in blood at first, but the fluid froze and cracked away to reveal a greenly glowing phantom within. Its ghostly eyes were blank orbs and its face bore no expression, but its mouth jerked to a will not its own.

‘This land belongs to Lord Nagash. All who perish are his,’ spoke the phantom.

Spectres arose from the ground all around the Bloodslaves and flew over to spiral around the first, making a terrible shrieking that had the Bloodslaves clapping their hands over their ears.

‘No!’ shouted Orto. ‘These skulls are Khorne’s! Begone!’

Three skullreapers lunged for the spirit. Their twin blades slashed the air, cutting nothing. The spirits moved around them like weeds disturbed in water, swirling about but never snagging. Their eyes grew brighter and they shrieked, diving down on the Bloodslaves. Their touch was death. Ethereal claws slid into chests and men’s eyes bulged as their hearts stopped. The Bloodslaves were brave and fired by the righteous wrath of Khorne, but against a foe that no weapon could touch they began to waver. The remaining khorgorath moaned, batting at the untouchable spirits as their hands caressed its warped flesh, leaving blackened trails of necrotic tissue in their wake. One swooped low, scooping up the half-flayed head of the slain bloodreaver, and started to retreat.

Mir had no fear of the spirit host. His men drew strength from his example, forming up as best they could around him as he strode into the thick of the spirits. Skullthief and Bloodspite hissed through the air. The daemons within whined at the touch of the dead, for they were of fire and hate and the coldness of the grave was unpleasant to them, but Mir forced them to strike. Wherever the axes fell, the spirits dissipated into shreds of vapour that were sucked screaming into the blades. They tried to flee, what little was left of their mortal souls terrified of the deathbringer’s axes, but they all fell to Mir and were consumed. He pursued the last, that which had stolen the skull of the bloodreaver, and hewed it from the air. Orto plucked the head from the dust and brandished it triumphantly.

Only the first phantom remained. It turned doleful white eyes on the deathbringer. Once again, its mouth seemed puppeted by some distant, malign entity.

‘You shall suffer for this insult. These are the lands of death!’

With a mighty cry it departed, shooting skyward as a pillar of green light. Where it hit the clouds above there was a flaring, and a single peal of thunder boomed across the sky. It echoed across the desert for an age.

‘Khorne’s meat! Khorne’s blood!’ shouted Orto.

There were many corpses now, thanks to the spirits’ attack.

‘We feast! To victory! To Mir!’ bellowed Orto.

‘Ushkar Mir! Khorne! Blood and flesh!’ The Bloodslaves cheered and drew their knives, advancing hungrily on their dead.

From nowhere, a sudden wind blew, dry but laden with the scent of slow putrefaction, whipping hair into eyes and choking the men with whirling dust. The Bloodslaves’ looks of anticipation turned to horror and woe, for the corpses withered in front of their eyes. Skin turned grey and flesh wizened. Lips drew back in hideous black grins. The bodies of the fallen dried to husks in an instant. Their skeletons collapsed to the ground where they fell into brittle pieces, as ancient in appearance as the bones they joined. Most were reduced to a powder that was carried away by the fell wind.

A few corpses held together, scraps of dried flesh adhering to their bones. Two bloodreavers, one desperate in his hunger, the other disdainful of the magic of the dead, tore off strips of this matter. It was tough, leathery as jerky. They worked their mouths on it hard, the hungry man fearful, the other laughing in his boldness.

They died choking on the flesh of their fallen brethren. Black lines ran over their skin, a map of corruption depicted by tainted veins. They fell, fingers scrabbling at the ground.

The Bloodslaves watched nervously. The wind did not return, and the bodies remained whole, but they did not eat these last casualties. Nor did they attempt to slaughter one of their own again. The servants of Khorne had learned wary respect for Nagash’s domain.

‘Onward,’ croaked Skull.

The Bloodslaves’ ranks thinned further as they succumbed to thirst. At first those falling listlessly were the weaker bloodreavers, but it was not long before the blood warriors started to drop, then even the mighty skullreapers, whose Khorne-given might availed them not against the harshness of the desert. Still the Bloodslaves followed Mir, who was fixed single-mindedly on the call of Archaon. Always it sounded in his ears, sometimes so faint he had to strain to hear it, at other times blaring so loudly in the night that all his followers heard it. Orto exhorted them to go on, while Skull whispered terror into their ears. Kordos said nothing.

One pale morning, the last khorgorath left them. As the Bloodslaves twitched awake from dreams of corpse banquets, the beast consumed the skulls of four warriors dead of thirst in the night. Ordinarily the creature would have continued its snuffling after fresh skulls to devour, whimpering at the endless pain that dogged it. Not this time.

The last skull eaten, the khorgorath stood erect, head held high and eyes wide. It came out of some stupor, for it gazed around the warband as if seeing it for the first time. It took up the chains that hobbled it in paws that had mutated into snapping mouths. Weighing them for a moment, it tugged hard, then wrenched, until it had split them asunder.

‘The beast!’ hissed Skull, kicking the bloodstoker, Vuul. ‘It is loose! Use your whip! Do something!’

Vuul looked up, startled.

‘Catch it!’ roared Orto. ‘Stop it from escaping!’

Several warriors advanced on it, grabbing at its manacles, but the khorgorath was indifferent to their efforts. It walked away, dragging the men that would not let go behind it and swatting at those who attempted to bar its progress.

Ushkar Mir reached for his axes, but the pudgy, calloused hands of Danavan Vuul stopped him.

‘No my lord, it cannot be stopped,’ he said. ‘Orto! Skull! Do not stand in its way.’

The others faltered, looking to Mir. Mir nodded that they should obey. The men got out of the beast’s path.

‘It has eaten its fill of skulls,’ explained Vuul. ‘Now it must return to the Lord Khorne and vomit them at his feet. Later it will return to the Mortal Realms. Maybe it will come back to us, maybe not.’

‘Let us hope,’ said Skull, rejoining his lord.

Orto stood at the edge of the crowd and watched the khorgorath go, then his long, mutated legs brought him back to the side of the deathbringer and bloodstoker. ‘It is true. It is the sacrament of beasts. As we smash skulls upon Kordos’ anvil, or stack them into cairns so that they might be taken up by Khorne, the khorgorath has its own way of honouring the Blood God.’

‘You should have prevented it from feasting!’ said Skull. ‘That is a sore loss.’

Vuul shrugged. ‘I kept watch upon it and my whip kept it from consuming too many skulls. Who else took upon themselves this duty? I am no beastmaster. If it is time for it to depart, then that is as Khorne wishes. The khorgoraths are his creatures.’

‘It is the will of Khorne,’ agreed Orto. ‘Do not question it.’

They watched the Khorgorath plod away from the warband. The desert air was clear, and even after they took up their march again in the opposite direction, the khorgorath could be seen as a dark shape far away, until a flash of fiery light carried it away from the Bone Sands and the realm of Shyish.

‘It is still a sore loss,’ spat Skull.

The twelfth day came. Armoured corpses marked the Bloodslaves’ trail as far as the horizon, lonely metal islands in the bone dust. Above, the clouds cleared a little, finally revealing glimpses of a dim, purple sun. When it shone, the desert turned violet and made their eyes ache. There was no change to the desert until Skull stopped and raised his hand to shield his eyes against the glaring sky. He caught Mir’s wrist.

‘My lord! Look!’

Some distance away there was an irregularity on the horizon. The Bloodslaves picked up their pace, staggering and half dead though they were, desperate for something other than ceaseless dust and bone to look upon.

Giant stone skulls were set in a circle facing outward. The spaces between them were tangled with a thicket of black-leaved thorns. As they grew nearer, the tell-tale glint of water shone.

‘An oasis!’ they cried. ‘Water!’

They jogged toward the oasis, many abandoning their weapons and throwing themselves at the bushes to get at the pool they guarded. Thumb-sized spikes of wood tore at their skin as they fought their way through. Others, more circumspect, hacked at the branches with axe and sword.

Mir marched up and swung Bloodspite at the bush.

‘I am no woodsman’s axe, to cut back the weeds!’ protested the weapon. ‘I am the chosen killer of Khorne!’

Down Bloodspite came anyway, forced to do Mir’s will. Where it cut into the tangle, the thorn bushes curled back, shrinking away like paper from fire. In a moment, the way was clear and the Bloodslaves were through. A silver-grey pool awaited, as still as a mirror. Mir’s men bounced from his back as they struggled past him, throwing themselves at the water. Mir watched them.

‘Stop! Stop!’ shouted Orto, his commanding voice ruined by thirst. He went to the men and pulled them from the water’s edge, but those there did not heed him and drank deeply. ‘This land is cursed!’

The men started to cry out. Those not yet at the water backed away cautiously as several of their comrades were afflicted by wracking pain. They splashed around in the water, crying for mercy and gripping at their heads.

Flesh convulsed and warped, limbs withered, and new ones sprang in profusion from backs bent into fantastical shapes. One man screamed as his bones tore themselves from his skin, the bloody skeleton running laughing into the desert, leaving the man’s soft parts behind as a heaving mess. Another lit up with blue flames that did not consume him as they burned, and the bloodreaver writhed and screamed until Orto cut off his head. The rest mutated rapidly, dying as their hearts gave out under the strain.

Orto pointed into the oily water. Green light pulsed in the depths.

‘Warpstone. This oasis is poisoned.’

There was a crack of thunder and a smell of brimstone. Over the water the messenger of Archaon appeared.

It was the same being as before, but in a different form, one assembled from other remains. The eyes were the same, nestling moistly in a skull ten thousand years dry, but the skull was different, as were the clothes and the rest.

‘New bones for our examiner,’ croaked Skull. ‘Why does it show itself now? Is it another test?’

‘I say Mir has completed three,’ said Orto. ‘Fury for Khorne, endurance for Nurgle,’ he looked at the shivering remains of the mutated Bloodslaves, ‘and restraint for the Dark Prince.’

‘You guess. These tests could go on forever,’ said Vuul.

Skull scowled at him. ‘You were vocal in your support for Lord Ushkar Mir.’

‘That was then, this is now. This gambit offers no reward. The call of Archaon could be false.’

‘It is not false.’ Skull pointed back at the desert. ‘If you are unhappy, leave. My lord is ready for the fourth test,’ said Skull.

‘Then what is it?’ snapped Vuul.

The skeleton responded by pointing to the water.

Now Skull felt doubt. ‘No, no! The water offers only death.’ He drew his sword and waved it at Archaon’s herald.

The skeleton gestured and the sword flew from Skull’s hand. Another gesture stayed his attack, freezing him in place, and a third lifted him into the air. Skull made a strangled noise.

‘Maybe, maybe,’ murmured Orto. ‘To drink deeply of this oasis is to die as you have seen. But to take one drop — could it bring power, visions, wisdom?’

‘It will kill him,’ said Vuul.

‘I drink of the slaughtergruel. That is deadly, if one is unworthy. Mir is worthy.’ Orto addressed Ushkar Mir. ‘You, Ushkar Mir, must face this trial and triumph, or the way to Archaon will be closed to you and we will all die.’

‘How can you know?’ said Vuul.

‘Khorne whispers in my ear. He must drink but a single drop!’

‘It is his choice, not yours, slaughterpriest. What will Lord Mir do?’ asked Vuul.

Orto grunted. ‘Cowardice is not Khorne’s way!’

Ushkar Mir was already kneeling by the pool. He extended one huge finger to the surface, and touched the water. The mirror surface broke but slightly, rings of ripples chasing each other and fading fast.

Skull fell to the ground with a clatter.

‘I do not see we have much choice,’ he said.

‘Nevertheless, it is our lord’s choice,’ said Orto. ‘It is not ours. He is the chosen of Khorne!’ He held his axe aloft in his hand and the remaining Bloodslaves fell to their knees.

Raising the finger to his exposed teeth, Ushkar Mir looked at the herald of Archaon. Its five eyes stared back.

‘But one drop!’ warned Orto.

Mir extended his crimson tongue, and licked the tip of his finger.

Immediately, the world went black.

Ushkar Mir fell through darkness. Wind rushed past him, but even its roaring could not subdue the far-away bellows of Khorne, demanding more blood and war. The call of Archaon he heard also, a trumpet blast that went on and on, unvarying in pitch and volume.

Then it was over and he was upon solid ground. Rain hammered off his head. It revived him, washed the dust from him. He licked at it, running his tongue over his arms and his chin to catch the moisture and moaned at the relief it brought from days of thirst. Noise of a different sort came to his ears — the sounds of battle. A wall of rough stone met his hands, and he scrabbled at it ineffectually. Shakily, he got to his feet, alarmed at the weakness in him, but it quickly passed. His sight returned and he found himself leaning upon a parapet looking down into a cauldron of war. Daemons and mortal followers of Khorne seethed around the base of mighty city walls, as numerous as ants.

Towering bloodthirsters whipped on lesser daemons and humans alike as they pushed at the bases of brass siege towers, two hundred feet tall. There were dozens of towers, absurd in scale. They should not have moved at all. But Chaos has no respect for the natural laws of Mortal Realms, and move they did. Gargants and other, less recognisable things strained in harnesses at the towers’ fronts. As Mir watched, one was speared by nine long bolts hurled by war machines from the wall, and fell howling. It did not matter. Its traces were cut, its body hauled aside by dog-faced beastmen, and the siege tower ground forward. The towers moved slowly, but were indomitable. Boulders rattled off their thick plating. The fire from magical artillery fizzled harmlessly from their spell wards. Every hit that was turned aside marked another dozen feet moved toward the wall.

Lightning boomed in stormy skies. The churning clouds were black, patterned with bright blue lightning. The wall on which Mir stood was deserted by the living, and choked with the dead. Proud knights and humble soldiers lay contorted in the positions of final agony, commoner and lord intertwined. Death holds no regard for rank.

The rain pouring out of the gargoyle spouts set into the wall’s outer face was coloured red with blood washed from the wall-walk. Mir knew, remembered, that soon the skies would send down not water but blood. A great tear would open in the very stuff of the realm, and the kingdom of Khorne would send forth its mightiest daemon legion. Already three of the five bastions he could see from his position had fallen, and the wall was riven with cracks. It would not be long now.

He looked again on the last day of Mir, and his last hours as a mortal.

‘I should kill you where you stand, traitor,’ said a voice behind him.

Mir turned suddenly, taken unawares for the first time in decades.

A tall, powerfully built man stood there. He wore a lamellae coat of iron plates enamelled red and gold, and a tall helmet with a horse hair plume. In his hands he held twin axes of blue steel.

‘And yet why do I not?’ asked the man curiously.

Ushkar Mir gaped, the rain running into his lipless mouth.

‘Ushkar Mir,’ he said, discovering to his amazement that he could speak once more. The words were clumsy, his lack of lips hindering his ability to talk, although less than it should. The man before him was Mir as he had been, before that terrible choice. A choice that, the Mir of the future realised, must soon be made again.

‘That I am. General of this city, and until hours ago bearer of its last hopes. But hope has deserted me.’ He looked hard at Mir. ‘How came you here to the top of this wall? None of the Blood God’s servants have surmounted it alive. Are you an assassin, come to kill me before the final attack? I did not think that your lord’s way, but then, we have irked him for some time.’ He smiled sorrowfully. ‘Tell me, before I kill you, what is your name?’

‘Ushkar Mir,’ said the future Ushkar Mir.

The Mir of the past shifted back in alarm. ‘What?’ He searched Mir’s face for any recognisable feature. ‘That may be so. I have fought too long against the madness of Chaos to discount anything. That time is not free from the perversion of the Four surprises me not at all. But if it is the case, then I am much changed.’

‘Khorne,’ said Mir. ‘He… Argh!’

This latest test was the worst of all. Pain attacked Mir from every angle. His punishment band glowed with heat, his heart thudded with anger fit to burst, his blinded eyes ached. Worst was the pain in his soul. All the rest was imposed from without, but this pain came from deep within and tormented him mercilessly.

‘Look at you grovel. How could I become such a thing? No doubt I am offered the choice of the Dark Feast.’

Mir nodded.

‘And I fail?’ said the Mir of the past.

‘Not failure!’ gasped Mir. He pitted his will against his punishment band, pushing back the heat. He managed with effort, a feat he had not accomplished before. Perhaps this was some effect of his journey through time, or perhaps he was strengthened by the presence of his purer self.

‘Revenge?’ said the Mir of the past.

Mir nodded. ‘I fight in his wars, but I have but one goal. I will stand before him and spit in his face, and bury my axes in his head.’

The Mir of the past laughed. ‘That does sound like me.’ His laughter deserted him. ‘How many innocents have you slaughtered to further your vengeance?’

‘Thousands,’ said Mir. ‘They would have died anyway, and for ignoble ends. There is nothing good left. Better a quick death for the weak. After Mir falls, there is only Chaos. Revenge is all there is.’

‘Revenge that can never be achieved!’ said Mir of the past. ‘They say Khorne is as tall as a mountain and as mighty as the sun! Nothing can fight him. No man or daemon can kill the Blood God.’

‘Gods die,’ said Mir.

‘By the hand of the likes of us?’ Mir frowned. ‘Impossible. The realms are large and not all the free people will fall. I still harbour hopes of that. Better to kill as many of these filth as I can, and die with honour.’

‘I once thought so, but all kingdoms fall, one by one,’ said the Mir of the future bitterly. ‘To serve Chaos is your only chance at survival, and the only path to revenge.’ He shook his head. ‘This cannot be. This is an illusion. I have not been as you are for five hundred years.’

The Mir of the past silently contemplated their situation. ‘If it is an illusion, then you are the illusion, not I — one last torture before I die. The Chaos Gods are boundless in their cruelty.’ But then he closed his eyes. ‘No. This is real. I feel it.’

The Mir of the future felt it too. He felt his memories change. He recalled this meeting from the other side, many years ago. Within a minute, he could not remember ever having not recalled it.

They watched as magical fire shot in a giant plume to engulf one of the towers, burning so hot the metal of its superstructure glowed red and ignited. Screams of pain and outrage sounded from that quarter, as showers of burning brass mingled with the rain fell among the warriors of Khorne.

‘If you are myself from some distant time, tell me what befalls me,’ said the Mir of the past. ‘How do I go from this to you.’

‘In but a short time, the rain will turn to blood. The Lord of Skulls will open the gates to his own realm, and the worst of his hellish legions will come out. The city will fall. You will fight every step of the way while everything you care for and love is destroyed. Finally, in despair you will be taken, alive, at the steps of the Old Palace, and given the choice by Korghos Khul himself.’

‘You said yes to this choice.’

‘With my voice I did. With my heart, I did not,’ said Mir. ‘I say no every day. Khorne took my voice for defying him. He put this band upon me to torment me. But I amuse him, I think. He keeps me alive. That will be his mistake.’

The Mir of the past looked at his twisted future in disgust. ‘Then I thank you for showing me the consequences of revenge. I shall make sure to choose differently.’

‘No!’ shouted Mir. But his earlier self had brought his axes up with blurring speed. Mir’s arm was cut deep.

‘Stop! Wait!’ he shouted.

‘I will slay you first. You have become what I most fear, all for a coward’s moment of weakness. Death is preferable to this.’

The steel axes came at Mir’s head. But the Mir of the past stopped suddenly, his eyes wide with surprise. His axes fell from nerveless hands.

Mir of the future wrenched Skullthief out of his earlier self’s chest. The Mir of old had been a mighty hero, but the Mir of the Bloodslaves was blessed by Khorne. No normal man could best him.

‘No!’ screamed Ushkar Mir. ‘No!’

Then a most curious thing happened. A lightning bolt smote the wall-walk where Ushkar Mir had died. The Mir of the future was thrown back, dazed. When he recovered his wits, his earlier self had gone.

Ushkar Mir had no time to ponder this new development. The first of the siege towers hit the wall. Its brazen drawbridge clashed down onto the parapet and the warriors of the Blood God streamed across.

Very well, if his earlier self was not here to fight, then Mir would take his place. Mir ran forward to engage them, to spill their blood again and try vainly to save his home. But the wall dissolved beneath his feet, and the battle’s noise vanished. He wheeled his arms as he fell back into blackness, helplessly falling.

Ushkar Mir’s body convulsed. He sat bolt upright, coughing hard. Black sludge poured from his mouth. When he reached his hand up to wipe it away his arm twinged with pain. Looking down, he saw the gash inflicted by the Ushkar Mir of the past, and marvelled at it.

‘You have succeeded,’ said a voice from the sky. The skeleton fell apart, splashing into the pool. The sky wobbled, and a huge skull set with five eyes shimmered into being in the heavens. The sky convulsed again, and the daemon-thing that Mir had seen in the Bloodbloom Fields revealed itself to all the Bloodslaves.

‘The way is open!’ said the Many-Eyed Servant. Its voice sounded loudly, from everywhere, and the Bloodslaves shrank back from it. ‘I judge you worthy. Go to Archaon and submit your pledge. The final decision rests with him. You will find him elsewhere in Shyish. Beware, for others come also.’

‘Do we fight them?’ shouted Skull.

‘That is up to Mir,’ said the herald.

The vision, Mir tried to say. Was it real? All that came from his mouth was animal moaning. The herald understood.

‘All choices carry consequences, Ushkar Mir. Choose wisely!’

A crackle of magic ran from horizon to horizon. The bushes withered to nothing and the pool was sucked away into the ground, leaving no trace of its existence. The skulls pulled themselves under the ground. Endless desert once again greeted the Bloodslaves, and they wailed in despair.

‘A trick!’ hissed Vuul.

‘Wait,’ said Orto.

A light shone over the place where the pool had been. A bright star as large as a fist flared into being before Mir’s face, rays of hard light stabbing out from it. The desert wavered through its light. The star burst outwards. A shower of sparkling motes hit the ground and a way opened up.

The Bloodslaves looked through the portal and saw a new land where a kinder sun shone. Dark against the horizon was a range of low hills covered in sere grasses. The tiny dots of birds wheeled in the sky. It was arid, but a paradise in comparison to the Bone Sands. Warm wind blew through the gate.

The horns of Archaon blared again. Ushkar Mir stood. He probed the wound he had taken in his vision, uncertain what it meant. Was what had happened real or illusory, or both?

Skull sniffed at the wind. ‘I smell decay.’

Orto pointed through the gate. On the faraway hills a line of marching figures went along a ridge. The faint strains of cheerful music reached their ears along with the foetid reek.

‘The servants of pestilence. Filth-eaters,’ said Orto.

‘The others the herald spoke of,’ said Vuul.

‘Some. There will be more,’ said Orto. ‘We will slay them all.’

Mir was not listening. He put the vision from his mind. There was only blood and skulls, and the distant possibility of vengeance. Nothing else mattered.

He sheathed his axes, and set out towards his destiny.

Rob Sanders

In the Lands of the Blind

The Many-Eyed Servant, whose many eyes were everywhere at once, blinked his way across the Mortal Realms. Sights. Scenes. The serenity of horror observed but not experienced.

A banquet for the eyes. The daemon drank in the multiplicity of the realms, and of existences beyond that.

Life, death and everything in between played out before him like an unpleasant fiction. Children were born, their cries echoing those of their mothers just moments before. Men roared their rage, groaned in agony and spoke their secret and most desperate thoughts to themselves. Kings and beggars ached for what they couldn’t have, while the beasts that roamed the realms around them knew only the living moment. Here in the lands of the blind, where mortal wretches understood nothing more than the immediacy of their world and their miserable place in it, the Many-Eyed Servant was all-seeing, all-knowing.

The daemon’s gaze focused. In a blink it was drawn back to a story unfinished and a tale untold. Orphaeo Zuvius, the Prince of Embers, was near. A fellow disciple of fate’s dread architect, the god Tzeentch, and a sorcerous champion of darkness, it was he who would find a place in the ranks of the Varanguard — those ushers of the apocalypse, those knights of almighty Chaos selected by the Everchosen to serve the Ruinous Pantheon by his side.

The prince had come far since the Many-Eyed Servant had first seen him. He who had been far was now nearing. He had already faced great trials but he had to be tested anew, for the Everchosen was exacting. Only those of the blackest soul and darkest talents would fight in the company of living doom.

It was for that reason that the Many-Eyed Servant kept his eternal watch. He was Archaon’s terrible gaze cast far across the realms, but here he found an aspirant before their gates.

The Great Spoilage. A rotten wasteland.

Death, as far as the eye could see. Bodies carpeted the land, lying as deep as a lake or shallow sea. Mouldering. Putrefying. Liquefying. Whatever cataclysmic event had been responsible for such devastation was lost to time. Thousands, perhaps millions, had died or been dumped there. Had it been a battle to end all battles? There were plenty of butchered warriors rotting there, but it could just as likely have been a genocidal slaughter, a grand suicide pact or some unnatural disaster that had visited its elemental wrath upon the masses, with corpses raining from the sky.

Orphaeo Zuvius, the Prince of Embers, negotiated the cadavers with difficulty. From the Beaten Path, Zuvius had followed the crows. He had followed them as they moved from battlefield to common butchery. He had followed them as they feasted upon lone travellers and slaughtered armies alike. He had followed them to the Great Spoilage, where it seemed every other crow in the realms was enjoying a scavenger’s bounty.

Like harsh, hilly terrain or the crests of powerful waves, the Great Spoilage was an undulating landscape of cankered flesh and bone. Ribs gave, soiled cloth tore and rotting meat turned to maggot-choked, watery mush about Zuvius’ boots. However, while the land reeked of death, the place was very much alive. Blankets of fat flies smothered the sea of carcasses, filling both the ear and mind with their incessant drone. Rats swarmed through the dead, gnawing, tunnelling and expanding their rancid nests. Crows feasted on both flesh and flies, hopping, swooping and wheeling about Zuvius and his warband as the Tzeentchians made their way across the corpselands. So great was the plague of carrion birds that they blacked out the horizon ahead. Larger pot-bellied scavengers scrambled up and down the fleshmounds, tearing yellowing flesh from bodies and crunching the marrow from bones.

Zuvius held the ragged edge of his cloak over his mouth. The web of melted skin that stretched across the rawness of his scorched face squirmed with revulsion. This place was undoubtedly sacred to the Great Lord of Decay. Its stench saturated the blue straggles of the prince’s hair. Its rank taste was on his smeared lips and silver tongue. Zuvius detested it but in truth could think of no more suitable test or obstacle to place between a servant of the Great Changer and his goal than an expanse of stagnant rot.

The bird Mallofax circled their progress, riding on the rising stench, watching for potential threats. The warband had come across few. Small nests of ghouls picked over the bounty in places, while nomadic looters crossed the corpselands, neither interested in Orphaeo Zuvius or where he was headed. Even Zuvius had doubts about that. Archaon, Everchosen of Chaos and Exalted Grand Marshal of the Apocalypse, had called for him. Zuvius had followed the signs, followed the crows, but they had led him to a carrion paradise, a mouldering land of dead flesh that undoubtedly attracted every bird in the realm.

Behind the Prince of Embers, Sir Abriel followed. The groaning knight had once been the captain of the royal guard. What remained of that band was now the Hexenguard. They trudged through the spoilage in silence, dark knights of Tzeentch whose plate glowed with enchantments. In their footsteps followed the Unseeing — Zuvius’ coven of blind sorcerers. The wretches staggered and tripped through the dead, one gnarled hand laid upon the shoulder of the sorcerer in front. They looked ancient and helpless, but their appearance belied their true power. With a gesture, the sorcerers could re-craft the flesh of nearby foes into representations of their twisted visions.

Using the sorcerous glaive A’cuitas to cut a path, Zuvius waded through the morass of breaking bones and sloughing flesh. Hauling himself up onto the corpse of a festering gargant, the prince knelt and rested, putting the raw skin of his forehead against his weapon’s haft. As Sir Abriel, the Hexenguard and Zuvius’ wretch-sorcerers climbed up onto the monstrous cadaver beside him, Mallofax returned, perching on the bill-hook of the glaive’s crowning blade.

Zuvius tapped the pommel of the glaive on the gargant’s hide. It was hard, waxy and mummified. Fungi bloomed across the giant carcass. Looking out across the corpse mounds, the prince watched as crows spooked by other scavengers took to the skies, wheeling about in rancid formations before settling once more. He tried to catch his breath but it was difficult. Every lungful of air was concentrated corruption that closed the throat and heaved the stomach. Mallofax flapped. The Hexenguard stood like warped, knightly statues. The Unseeing broke up and spread out across the gargant’s chest, feeling their way across jutting bone.

‘The Varanspire,’ Zuvius said. ‘Where is the damned thing?’

‘Everywhere and nowhere, my prince,’ the reptilian bird told him in a series of hisses and squawks. ‘It exists in the Realm of Chaos. It is here but also there. Near but impossibly far.’

‘Enough with the riddles,’ Zuvius warned.

‘I speak only truth,’ Mallofax said.

‘Well, you’re bad at it,’ Zuvius told him. ‘You should stick to lies, they’re more convincing. I’m beginning to think that we are going to end up the same way as these miserable souls.’

‘My lord?’

‘Perhaps they all set out for this palace of Chaos,’ Zuvius mused, ‘and died on the journ—’

Zuvius felt a quake through the soles of his armoured boots.

‘What is it?’ Mallofax squawked.

Zuvius stood, looking down at the yellowing flesh of the gargant. The quake turned into a series of thrashing tremors that shook the colossal carcass. The Unseeing froze while Sir Abriel and his malformed knights drew the notched blades of their longswords. In front of them, a sorcerer of the Unseeing suddenly disappeared. One moment he stood there in his rag-robes, the next he had been swallowed by the cadaver.

Disappearing into a pit of chewed flesh, the sorcerer screamed his way to death. The gargant’s corpse bucked as a terrible creature erupted from it. Feeding quietly on the underside of the great carcass, a horrific maggoth had smelled their freshness. Chewing up through the rot with the shredding teeth of its maw, the thing erupted from the gargant like a monster of the deep. Its arms and legs were but stunted remnants used to propel it through the dead, and its skin was sticky with spoilage. It held there for a moment before blasting a stream of half-digested rot back at the sky.

As Mallofax took off, Sir Abriel and the Hexenguard came forward with swords presented to protect their master. The maggoth went under once more, wriggling itself loose of the carcass. The Unseeing grasped for one another while the Hexenguard pulled Zuvius back from where the giant corpse met the sea of bodies. Cadavers twitched and death-stiff limbs moved as the monstrous maggoth swam and ate its way through the corpses. Zuvius turned A’cuitas about in his gauntlets and pursed his lips in disgust. Not only did the prince have to wade through the Great Lord of Decay’s detritus, he now had to suffer the attentions of some Nurglesque monstrosity stalking them through the killing fields.

Zuvius felt the cadaver buck beneath them again as the maggoth rose once more. Chewing up through the body, it exploded from the gargant king’s gut. Another sorcerer of the Unseeing fell back into the pit of shearing teeth and rotting mulch. As he instinctively reached out, a member of the Hexenguard grabbed for him.

‘No!’ Zuvius called.

As the sorcerer thrust out his hand blindly, the tattooed symbols on his bony palm burned with fear. The Hexenguard knight, already a twisted, god-pleasing thing, clutched his chest, his screams joining the sorcerer’s own. His plate screeched as he began to contort and change shape, becoming the frightful vision of terror that flashed through the sorcerer’s mind during his last moments.

Toppling forward, the monstrosity knocked into another member of the Hexenguard. The knight slipped, his armoured boots scrabbling down the pit of rotting flesh. His dark blue steel sword bounced behind him, down into the maggoth’s great trap of teeth. Zuvius lunged and grabbed the knight by the arms. Surging once more, the maggoth clamped its obscene jaws about the knight and thrashed its teeth. Cutting the warrior of Chaos almost in half, the creature tugged, dragging Zuvius over the ragged lip of the pit. Sir Abriel reached for his master. Zuvius scrambled away from the great maggoth but his boots and gauntlets slipped through the slime of the gargant’s entrails.

The Unseeing moaned in their blindness. Mallofax squawked overhead. Zuvius kicked and turned, freeing himself of Sir Abriel’s ghoulish grip. The maggoth’s jaws gaped open and a black pool of digestive rot rose up from within. A warty tongue shot out of the pool like a serpent, wrapping itself around the prince’s leg. As Zuvius kicked and slid towards his doom, the muscular tongue retracted, hauling him to the edge of the maggoth’s fang-lined jaws.

From above, Zuvius heard Mallofax’s half-stifled squawk. The bird was flapping his wings with effort, trying to stay above the cadaverous pit while clutching the metal shaft of A’cuitas in his scaly talons. As the weapon dropped, Zuvius watched the glaive tumble blade over pommel. Both the prince and his weapon were heading for the same place — the maggoth’s foetid mouth.

Zuvius snatched the daemon-forged glaive out of the rank air. Spinning the weapon around, he cut through the monster’s scabrous tongue with one sweep of the heavy blade. It did not stop the beast. Turning A’cuitas about, he aimed the pommel of the weapon down the creature’s cavernous throat. The eye at the end of the glaive’s shaft opened and a stream of lightning leapt from the weapon. Lighting up the darkness of the doom within, the lightning caused the maggoth to retract, tremble, boil, and finally explode.

Zuvius held his position through the black tempest of rot that erupted about him. As a putrescent mist drifted back down, Zuvius used the glaive to climb out of the gargant-corpse’s abdomen. Reaching down, Sir Abriel hauled his master up. With the exception of Mallofax, who circled above, the whole warband dripped with stinking corruption.

‘We are being tested,’ Zuvius said through gritted teeth. Spitting rot from his lips, he once more descended into the sea of the dead and set forth, leading the warband onwards.

‘Where is it?’ the Prince of Embers demanded. They had been walking for days, the rankness of rot and death coating them like a blanket. There had been no sign of the dark citadel that Zuvius had seen in his vision or the gateway leading to it. The Great Spoilage seemed to extend forever, in all directions. The flocks of crows blacked out the sky, the cacophony of their incessant cawing an invitation to insanity.

‘We shall find it, my lord,’ Mallofax assured him.

‘Will we indeed?’ Zuvius roared. ‘Will that be before or after we join the fallen at our feet?’

He turned A’cuitas on the bird, whose cryptic explanations were almost as infuriating as the endless horizon of crow-pecked corpses, and unleashed a blast of lightning that arced across the mouldering landscape and scalded the stench about it. Narrowly missing Mallofax, the stream of energy sent the bird flapping and squawking for the safety of the sky.

He wasn’t the only one. Disturbed by the sudden crack of lightning, the crows carpeting the wasteland ahead of the warband took to the air in a storm of black feathers. As the flock lifted and cleared the path before the Prince of Embers, a fortress was revealed. The colossal castle reached into the skies with clawed turrets, citadels and towers of brick and blade. It was an abominate construction, its concentric walls an unbreachable barrier of dark stone and iron, each more towering than the last. They surrounded a central spire that pierced the heavens and resembled a spiked gauntlet punching victoriously at the sky.

The infernal architecture of the place was as disturbing as it was impressive, a fortress-shrine to Chaos, blasphemous in sculpture and indomitable in design. Its very presence brought forth storms that tore the sky asunder. Daemonic furies perched amongst the spires and circled in furious unnatural squalls. Elevated walkways of blood-stained stone spanned the fields of perpetual flame that raged about the castle and its moat, while its gargantuan gates were lined with monstrous metal teeth.

‘The Varanspire,’ the Prince of Embers said.

‘What else could it be?’ Mallofax agreed, coming in to land on his master’s glaive.

‘Let’s find out,’ Zuvius said.

The corpselands, though they had sapped the vigour of the warband with their stench, their marshy putrefaction and their bone traps, were now nothing to the Tzeentchians. Every crunching, squelching, spore-cloud-disturbing step took them closer to the dark majesty of the Varanspire — the fortress of Archaon, the Destroyer of Worlds.

As the cadavers began to thin and Zuvius’ boots found the blasted black grit of the solid ground that lay beyond the corpse marshes, the prince noticed other groups moving towards the fortress. Some were armoured and rode on horseback, while others moved in great barbarian hordes. Champions of Chaos and their doomed followers. The Blood God’s butchers. Slaaneshi deviants. Other sorcerers of Tzeentch, and the diseased of the Great Lord of Decay. He shouldn’t have been surprised at the sight, and yet he was. These were other warriors who had fought their way to this dark place from across the Mortal Realms, intent on impressing unholy Archaon with their dark talents and commitment.

Grit became shattered stone and shattered stone the blood-polished marble of an elevated walkway. It trembled with the killing taking place there. Zuvius became part of the madness. Perhaps it was the infectious doom of the place, or perhaps it was the collective insanity of ruinous champions who had fought through so much to be there. In reality, Zuvius knew that the servants of the Chaos pantheon did not really need a reason to fight. Like territorial predators, it was in their nature to kill their competition. Through such unnatural selection did the forces of ruin grow ever more powerful. The weak were sacrificed for the Chaos Gods on the dark altar of the strong.

Warriors of Chaos threw themselves at the prince and his warband. Battle cries and all manner of damned weaponry cut through the air. It was a bloody free-for-all, an unspoken quest to be the last champion standing on the bridge. Zuvius became one with the slaughter. He needed no invitation. With his Hexenguard fighting behind him and the sorcerers of the Unseeing casting nearby champions into horrific new forms, Zuvius fought his way across the bridge. In the shadow of the Varanspire and with, he hoped, the gaze of the Three-Eyed King upon him, Zuvius killed for his new master, for his place in the ranks of the Varanguard. For the Everchosen’s entertainment and for his own murderous whim.

Zuvius moved through the dread butchery. Khornate savages jangled with teeth and skulls while swinging serrated axe blades at sorcerers who smouldered with unnatural powers. Slaaneshi hedonists gutted Nurgle’s children, who were already one with their own agonies. The diseased, in turn, seemed desperate to spread their suffering to all. The greatest hostility seemed to erupt between champions of the same patron. Blood knights on horseback hacked their way through barbarian hordes pledged to Khorne, while the witchbreeds and warriors of the Great Changer couldn’t take their eyes off one another for fear of the treachery they all too well knew existed in the hearts of their compatriots. Mouthing dark enchantments and blasting Tzeentchian flame at one another, they created a spectacular firestorm of mutually assured death and damnation. No champion of Chaos wished to show their weakness before Archaon and his monstrous shrine-fortress, especially not the Prince of Embers.

Zuvius stabbed and skewered servants of the Dark Prince, who moaned their ecstasies while impaled on the daemon-forged weapon. The infected spilled pus and entrails before his boots. Monstrous knights in bone-lined armour stained their plate with their own gore as Zuvius passed his heavy blade through their throats. He stove in the skulls of warrior-enchanters like himself before the cursed incantations that resided there could reach blue Tzeentchian lips.

As Zuvius fought up the walkway, with unnatural flame roaring about him from the broad, infernal moat, he noticed the daemonic furies thunderbolting from the sky. Bringing their leathery wings in close, the fiends snatched warriors from the many walkways leading up to the great iron gates and portcullises of the castle. Tearing horses apart and tossing the remains of Chaos warriors between them like rag dolls, the flocks of furies seem to delight in their sport. Champions screamed as they were dropped from the storm-wracked skies and knocked into the roaring inferno that surrounded the Varanspire.

As the warriors of Chaos killed each other, the daemons thinned out their number, further, protecting the Varanspire from those who would threaten it. Zuvius tried to remain calm as the champions he was fighting were torn from the walkway about him and savaged by the flying monsters. A ragged fury landed on one of the Hexenguard and proceeded to snap his head from his shoulders and feast on his warped flesh. Zuvius heard Sir Abriel issue the low groan of an order. The Hexenguard brought up their battered shields.

Striding on towards the fortress, buried in the shadow of the Varanspire’s mighty walls, the Prince of Embers held his nerve. The raw stench of death was intoxicating. He drank it in, uncaring of the daemons that swooped by. The furies’ attacks became ever more savage and indiscriminate. A muscle-bound barbarian of the Blood God, as broad as he was tall, was knocked from the walkway and into the flames below. A bloated knight of Nurgle exploded with the rank gases of decomposition as a daemon sank its talons into him, while a smooth-skinned marauder screamed in pleasure as he was dragged up into the sky and shredded.

Zuvius tried not to flinch as another of his Hexenguard was snatched from the walkway and his flesh stretched between winged monstrosities trying to tear him apart. A moaning sorcerer of the Unseeing was next, and then another, the wretches never setting eyes upon the horrors that were their end.

Zuvius felt the blood-bead eyes of some plummeting beast upon him. It was a thing unknowing of the Prince of Embers’ destiny. Zuvius’ gauntlets tightened about the shaft of his glaive. He killed the Khornate crusader before him, knowing the fury was sweeping down towards him. With savage beats of its wings it surged, claws and talons ready for the kill.

The prince held on for as long as he could. As he turned the glaive to present it to the beast, however, the thing’s infernal reflexes saved it. Crashing down onto the walkway, it skidded and hauled its head back. Zuvius swung the glaive about him with a devastating reach, but it was not enough. The arc of the blade should have passed straight through the monster’s ugly skull but instead whistled past it, incensing the beast. Screeching its rage, it drew others from the sky and away from their slaughter. Zuvius felt a throng of furies, all enraged by the champion’s challenge, swoop down towards him.

Like some hellish hound, the fury on the walkway snapped and shot forward. Jabbing with the glaive, Zuvius held the creature’s blood-stained jaws at bay. Pretending that he hadn’t seen another fury dropping down at him with outstretched talons, the Tzeentchian kept his focus on the beast in front of him before bringing the weapon up suddenly. Skewering the airborne monster with the force of its own momentum, Zuvius heaved it aside, smashing it into the stone of the walkway. As the first daemon surged, it found the thrash of wing and claw and the spear-point of Zuvius’ glaive. Holding tightly onto the weapon as the thing impaled itself, the champion leaned back out of the snapping, spitting death-rattle of the beasts.

As a third landed behind the sorcerer, cracking the stone, Zuvius unleashed the sorcerous power of the glaive. With the weapon still skewered through the daemons, he blasted the newcomer off the walkway with a stream of lightning. As scraps of the creature and a mist of infernal blood hissed across the surface of the flames below, more furies swooped in on Zuvius. Putting his boot against daemonflesh, he freed his glaive from the bodies of the impaled creatures. Behind him, the Unseeing moaned their blind fear and the Hexenguard stood with shields raised.

‘Protect your prince,’ Zuvius ordered, prompting the Tzeentchian knights to run forward and surround him. Beasts smashed their horned heads against the blue steel and tried to push their snaggle-toothed jaws between the shields. Sir Abriel put his ghastly form between Zuvius and an attacking fury, distracting the creature while the Prince of Embers thrust his glaive over the knight’s shoulder and into the daemon’s open mouth. Retracting the polearm and pulling half the monster’s warped skull out of its jaws with it, Zuvius turned to find another fury almost on top of him.

The beast reared and brought up a wicked claw, aiming to rip down through the Tzeentchian champion. Its eye bulged suddenly and its jaws chomped in surprise as its flesh suddenly rebelled against it. Bones broke within it and leathery skin stretched over the new form it was taking. As it fell to one side, Zuvius could see a sorcerer of the Unseeing behind, visiting the damnation of his dark magic on the thing.

It suddenly came at Zuvius, morphing into something warped, ungainly and even more terrifying than before. The prince ducked a pair of jaws within jaws and rolled between the spawn’s erupting legs. As it turned to reacquire him, the wretch-sorcerer visited his dark visions upon the daemon once more — twisting and sculpting the monster into ever more horrific forms. As a second head and a pincer ruptured from the body, Zuvius batted them aside with the pommel of his glaive. Aiming the opening metal eye of the weapon at the abomination, he prepared to blast it to shreds, but the transformation inflicted upon it by the Unseeing finally — horribly — wrung the life out of the creature.

As Orphaeo Zuvius and his warband fought their way towards the fortress, other warriors of Chaos kept their distance. Some even watched with bitter amusement as daemons rained from the sky to attack their competition. Zuvius spat. He would kill them all. Flicking infernal ichor from his glaive, Zuvius turned around and then around again. Up until now there had always been some winged thing behind him ready to pounce. Suddenly there was not. Looking up, he saw that rather than hauling off or losing interest, small throngs of furies were simply hovering, flapping their bat-like wings. They were waiting for something.

The fortress before him shimmered in shadow and heat. Zuvius looked about. Something was not right. In fact, everything seemed wrong. The flames around them seemed higher.

‘Mallofax,’ the prince called, catching his breath.

‘My lord?’ the bird squawked, swooping in to land on the warrior’s shoulder.

‘Fly on ahead,’ Zuvius ordered. ‘I want to know what we’re walking into.’

Zuvius could see now a tidal wave of fire rising through the flames surrounding the fortress. It was a doom conjured by Archaon’s fell sorcerers. Roaring its way around the Varanspire, the wave would engulf the elevated walkway. That was why the furies had taken to the skies. Zuvius would be damned before he let himself be seared free of the Varanspire like an insignificant insect.

‘Hexenguard,’ the Prince of Embers called. ‘Form up and lock shields.’

Sir Abriel and his Tzeentchian knights moved to create a shell of battered blue steel. Bringing in the Unseeing behind the shield wall, Zuvius watched for warriors of Chaos attempting to take advantage of their distraction. A mounted Slaaneshi warlord in immaculate plate looked down his nose at Zuvius. Khornate killers bedecked in spikes and horned helms fought on towards the Varanspire.

A nearby figure stood regarding Zuvius and the shield wall with suspicion. The champion was a Tzeentchian warrior whose ensorcelled blade crackled with dark energies. He held out the weapon between Zuvius and himself as a warning, slipping off his helmet. A nest of tentacles that had been squirming within dribbled down his breastplate like a beard. The change-blessed warrior regarded Zuvius with dead, deep-sea eyes, before considering the apocalyptic tsunami of flame rolling towards them. Shouting to his cerulean-skinned followers, the champion of Tzeentch and his horde of warrior witchbreeds took cover behind the shield wall of the Hexenguard.

A chain reaction was initiated along the stone walkway. Champions and the servants of Chaos behind Zuvius saw what was happening and saw the blaze encroaching with their own eyes. Some emulated the Hexenguard, locking shields if they had them to present a unified front against the wall of flame. Others abandoned their warped steeds, skidding and scrabbling down behind blue steel.

Zuvius watched as a hulking warrior of Nurgle ran towards him, slimy, pale rolls of fat spilling out of his rusted chainmail. The warrior shook the stone beneath Zuvius’ feet with his determined steps, grubs, maggots and leeches raining from his blight-festered flesh as he ran. Ducking down beneath the shield wall Zuvius waited for the blast wave. The Tzeentchian smiled to himself. He cared nothing for the followers of other fell gods, disciples of his own or champions of Chaos competing with him for the Everchosen’s favour. He only cared for what might be achieved through saving their lives in the undoubted challenges to come.

Zuvius heard the boom of the inferno against the shield wall and felt the shudder of the stone walkway. He watched the Lord of Decay’s monstrous warrior disappear in a rush of flame. Slaaneshi swordsmen on steaming horseback lost their race with the firestorm, while there was little the blades, muscle and fury of the Blood God’s brutes could do to save them in the face of such fiery destruction.

The Prince of Embers felt his hair burn and his flesh blister. The raging flame boomed about him — and then it was gone. The Hexenguard unlocked their shields and the Chaos warriors that had sheltered behind them brought up their heads. They watched the bank of flame roll away.

Zuvius heard the flapping of wings. Mallofax was back. He had flown above the fire and scouted out the fortress approach, its portcullis gate and defences.

‘The gate?’ Zuvius asked as the bird landed on the blade of the glaive.

‘Carnage, my lord,’ Mallofax told him. ‘The gate stands firm against all assaults. Archaon’s warriors wait within.’

‘And the wall itself?’

‘Sheer,’ Mallofax told him. ‘There’s no way in.’

‘There’s always a way in,’ Zuvius growled. ‘There has to be. All those who stand in service of Archaon within once stood beyond the fortress walls.’

Zuvius knew he had to keep pressing forward. He wasn’t going to wait for the infernal wave to come back around. He wasn’t going to wait for the furies to attack again. He had saved the warriors of Chaos on the walkway. If he could just get them and others into range of the fortress’ warped defences, a retaliatory assault on the Varanspire might be able to achieve some momentum. He would lead by example, down a doomed path the warriors of Chaos had already chosen.

Zuvius ran. The bridge between him and the Varanspire was all but clear of warriors. Only those champions already close to the Varanspire’s walls had managed to find shelter from the bank of flame and, hiding in the architectural flourishes of the dread fortification, they had survived the inferno. Now, they were dying.

Arms of sorcerous stone shot out from the Varanspire wall, grabbing warriors and dragging them to their deaths in the solidifying wall. Boiling spawnflesh spurted from the mouths of daemonic gargoyles decorating the ramparts, splattering down on the warriors below. Coated in liquid horror, the spawnflesh assumed the shape of lesser daemons that assimilated the warriors’ dissolving forms. Braziers situated either side of the gate smouldered with a debilitating fog that, when breathed in, afflicted the victim with blistering burns to the skin, an agonizing blindness and a lung-curdling cough. Arrow slits sang with the thud and whoosh of crossbows and monstrous spear-shooting ballistas. Each bolt was crafted from hell-forged iron and carried a bound daemon within. Even if a striking bolt or spear failed to kill an approaching warrior, the blood-mad daemon that bled from the iron to possess the injured victim shredded both their flesh and soul.

Zuvius ran towards the fortress with his warband following, while the knights, butchers and swordsmen who had taken shelter behind the shield wall stomped across the bridge after him. Zuvius didn’t care whether this was out of a desire to kill him or to attack the Varanspire. Once they were in range of its dread defences, intentions would matter little. The Chaos fortress was a challenge that could not be ignored. The Chaos warriors accelerated across the bridge. The energy of their charge was almost infectious: blood knights in full plate, wasted warriors in leper’s robes, barbaric pleasure-seekers whose flesh was stuck with pins and shards of bone, and sorcerous champions like himself, wielding daemon-forged blades. The growing horde charged along the walkway. The fortress wall grew higher above them and the monstrous gate hove into view, shimmering in the heat of the broad moat.

A great arch lined with iron teeth, it was sealed by a series of warped portcullises, each lowered one behind the other. Through the grille of the bars Zuvius could see the warriors of Archaon, armoured silhouettes in thick plate mounted on fearsome steeds. They waited, weapons sheathed, seemingly unconcerned. They were confident in the Varanspire’s defences. Zuvius snarled. He would make them pay for their arrogance and serve Archaon all the better for taking their place. No warrior would breach the Varanspire while the Prince of Embers stood in their path.

Suddenly he was amongst bodies — the unfortunates who had failed to breach the Varanspire’s defences before him. Zuvius would not fail. Their remains were trapped amongst a forest of iron shafts and ballista bolts embedded in the stone. Zuvius could feel the raging daemons bound to the iron reach out for him in their fury. Savages and warriors who had shed their plate sprinted ahead of Zuvius, desperate to get out of the killing ground. They could not, however, for the fortress was designed with such desperation in mind.

Within seconds, the vanguard of the horde was dead. Such was the power behind the crossbows and the infernal ballistas that within a blink, daemon-bound bolts and spears were thudding into the stone about them. Marauders were thrown off their feet by shafts that hammered into their chests. Black projectiles hit the ground about Zuvius’ feet while shards of stone showered him where the missiles from ballistas shattered the walkway. A daemonic roar could be heard with their passing. Half-stifled screams and grunts of sudden death filled the air as Chaos warriors were impaled by the missiles and staked to the bridge.

There was no avoiding such an onslaught. Mallofax, who soared above the stabbing storm, had called it carnage; the bird had not been wrong. Aspiring champions, pledged to all manner of Dark Gods, died with brutal indifference. They had braved the lethality of the realms to reach the Varanspire and now it was their undoing. Alongside them, Zuvius heard members of his own warband dying. He ran on through the forest of iron and the impaled warriors. The heart-stopping whoosh of a ballista bolt nicked Zuvius’ ear and thudded straight through the battered breastplate of a Hexenguard knight. Zuvius heard the daemon in the missile rip the armoured warrior apart in seconds.

Step after feverish step took the Prince of Embers on towards the gate. It grew before him, its iron teeth threatening to swallow him whole. Madmen and driven warriors of darkness ran beside him. Behind them pounded a swollen blightking of Nurgle, who seemed to soak up bolts and the Varanspire’s daemonic heralds with his diseased flesh. As they neared the gate, the hail of bolts from above began to ease. Confidence welled up once again in Zuvius and those about him.

Suddenly, Sir Abriel’s shield flashed before him. The Tzeentchian knight put his willowy fingers on Zuvius’ chest to slow him. The prince heard the thud of several opportunistic bolts slam into the shield — daemon iron that had been meant for him. He didn’t usually waste sentimentality on the Hexenguard but immersed in the death and destruction, he found himself grinning hysterically at his father’s former captain of the guard.

When the ballista bolt came, it sheared the shield in two and did much the same to Sir Abriel. Skewered through his ruined chest and down into the stone, the groaning knight was pinned. Zuvius wasted a few precious moments trying to pull Abriel free before coming to his senses. The knight was all but dead already; Zuvius would not end the same way.

‘Sorry, old friend, but this is the price of entrance,’ the prince told the warped knight as the bound daemon ravaged what was left of him. With screams echoing about him, Zuvius ran for the gate.

A huge Khornate knight in baroque plate smashed into the portcullis with his colossal axe, causing the metal gate to shake. Feverish berserkers thrashed at the grille with their axes, while pus-swollen warriors of the Lord of Decay put their backs and bellies into lifting the colossal portcullis. It would not move, however. Even if it had, two more lay behind it, as secure as the first. With a metallic squeal, the hell-knights beyond the gates thrust the length of their fellspears through the gate grilles and skewered the Chaos champions hammering to get in. With infernal discipline, the knights withdrew their weapons and allowed their victims to fall before thrusting forth and impaling those that took their place.

Dark champions, filled with a warrior’s ecstasy at surviving the sorcerous flames and the storm of bolts, threw themselves at the fortress gate. Sparks flew where their hammers bounced off daemon-forged metal. Light-armoured deviants covered in tattoos, chains and studs reached through with their cruel blades, attempting to slash at the machinery that raised the gates, but nothing worked. Archaon’s hellish garrison were ready for them. The interlopers would die at the gate. With a whoosh of steam, a foul liquid cascaded down the walls and turned the besiegers to screaming statues of melting flesh. All the while, the skin of champions blistered as they stumbled blindly through the diseased smoke of braziers.

Zuvius felt the fight leaving the attacking horde. Even dread warriors such as these needed some expectation of success, but the Varanspire gave them none. For a moment the prospect of braving the ballistas back across the walkway began to assume a grim appeal. Zuvius knew he had to rally the besiegers. He had to find an advantage.

‘My sorcerers,’ Zuvius called. ‘My Unseeing, move on. Show me what you can see through this wretched gate.’

The Prince of Embers knew the cost of the sacrifice and accepted it. Before the Varanspire and under the gaze of the Three-Eyed King, he had to relinquish the trappings of a Tzeentchian warrior. Those that fought for Archaon cared not for the Dark Gods they formerly served or the warbands that in turn served them. Their only concern was the wish and whim of the Everchosen of Chaos — for to be one of his knights was to forsake all other things.

The Unseeing moaned as they stumbled through the bodies before the gate. They flinched as they bumped into the grille and laid their gnarled hands on the bars. Several died immediately, the cruel points of fellspears bursting from their backs. Reaching through the warped grille, the wretch-sorcerers struck out their palms.

Tattooed symbols burned in their flesh as the horror of their visions was unleashed on the armoured warriors beyond. The screams of the Varanspire’s hell-knights fortified the resolve of the faltering champions of Chaos trapped outside the fortress walls. Through the grille, Zuvius could see the twisted silhouettes that the Unseeing had created. As a fresh cascade of boiling oil came down the towering walls, the sorcerers’ screams joined those of their victims — robes were set alight and flesh was burned from bones.

‘Get back!’ Zuvius called, gesturing to the knights of the Hexenguard and the rest of the champions clustered at the gate. He raised his glaive. The gates would resist a sorcerous blast from the daemon-forged weapon, but the stone of the wall might offer a different opportunity. He adjusted his aim, pointing the glaive to one side of the portcullis.

The metal eye of the pommel opened and Zuvius blazed a continuous stream of lightning at the wall. It crackled and glowed with the blinding power of the arcing blast. As the sorcerous stream ceased, Zuvius walked up to the point of impact. All about the side of the portcullis the stone of the gate had turned to a dark glass. Jabbing at the smouldering crystal with the pommel, the prince shattered the wall around the edge of the portcullis grate.

The Hexenguard filed through first. The Tzeentchian knights found only warped sculptures of mangled flesh, bone and plate on the other side. The horde swarmed the opening, a lord of Khorne pushing past in his blood-dripping cloak and great horned helm to lead the way. Newly filled with resolve and a desire both to impress the Everchosen and destroy the unworthy among his servants, champions of all powers and patrons followed him. Zuvius watched pleasure-bound killers enter, armed with blades that glistened with poison. Hulking sacks of indomitable pestilence followed, with the cerulean-skinned warriors of Tzeentch. Barbarian berserkers jangling with skulls clawed at each other to be the first to the fighting within. They were a horde of unwitting puppets, all serving as a distraction for the Prince of Embers.

As Zuvius entered and moved through the gallery of twisted death the Unseeing had sculpted in the barbican, he found Mallofax. The bird had risked the sky-bound furies to fly over the wall and gather intelligence for his master of the trials to come.

‘Speak,’ Zuvius commanded.

‘Daemons, my prince,’ Mallofax told him, hopping from statue to statue. ‘The legions of hell, fighting for the Everchosen.’

As the barbican opened up onto another stone walkway, Zuvius found that his horde had run straight into the determined resistance of the hell-knights who had escaped the gaze of the Unseeing, and a throng of daemon shock troops — things unleashed to immediately check the advance of any besieger entering the fortress.

Beyond the barbican troops, the lord of Khorne had dived straight into combat, his cloak and monstrous axe wheeling about him in a spatter of blood. Inspired by his fearless example, the champions of other dark gods fell in behind him — the Chaos lord was the point of a wedge that the horde was driving through the ranks of savage Varanspire daemons. Horned plaguebearers tore warriors of Chaos limb from limb with their diseased claws. Pallid nightmares of claw and dread feminine form snapped off heads with cruel elegance. Fury-red fiends of horn and claw danced death through the horde, wielding hellblades in devastating arcs of destruction. The lord of Khorne found himself fighting for his life against a trio of bloodletters, turning a storm of swords aside with brutal swings of his axe.

No less devastating were Archaon’s Knights of Ruin. Decked in plate of black and gold, they were broad and powerful, and thrust their fellspears through champions of Chaos, sometimes two or three at a time, impaling them like stuck boars.

The Hexenguard moved about their master, giving Zuvius the protection of their shields while sweeping through lesser daemons with longswords. As change-blessed flesh and bone stretched, the arcs of the tapering blades surprised the infernal creatures and opened up throats and bellies. As a plaguebearer clawed through the Hexenguard shields, the daemon batted one of the knight’s heads from his armoured shoulders with a diseased hand. It beat another into the ground with a fist before pulling out a jagged, rusted cleaver and swinging it with droning abandon at Zuvius.

Like his former patron, the Prince of Embers had a special hatred for the Lord of Decay’s foetid daemon foot soldiers. Bringing the blade of his glaive down, he knocked the creature’s weapon to the floor before slicing its hand from its gangly arm.

With the foul thing at a disadvantage, Zuvius brought the pommel of the glaive around to smash the daemon in the face, before turning the shaft in his hands and ramming the blade straight into its swollen belly. Pushing through the shields of his Hexenguard protectors, Zuvius forced the plaguebearer back. Rot-infested entrails tumbled from the thing’s cleaved form. Slamming it into the back of one of the Everchosen’s ruinous knights, Zuvius turned the glaive blade like a key, bursting the rest of its putrid organs.

Feeling the blow, the blood knight turned around. Despite the weight of his thick plate, the warrior moved like a striking serpent, his ensorcelled blade a blur of runes and dark steel as it smashed A’cuitas aside. The knight seemed drawn to the Prince of Embers’ confidence and lethality, recognising the competition. Perhaps, Zuvius thought, he had seen him issuing orders to the horde outside the gate and gain entrance with his crackling power. The knight stared at the prince through the eye slits of his helm, the ornate headdress of metal horns thrumming with dark power.

Zuvius felt the intensity of the knight’s attentions. He was hungry for the kill. The prince’s life was his to take and every second Zuvius was allowed to breathe was a grievous insult to the Everchosen of Chaos. His sword was a stabbing, sweeping, cleaving instrument of cold steel. Relentless in the economic savagery of his attacks, the warrior backed Zuvius towards the barbican wall, away from others of his warband and the horde that might help him. Away from the other dark knights of the fortress who might take the honour of the kill.

Working his glaive around, Zuvius turned the cuts and swings of the ensorcelled blade aside. The knight moved with incredible speed and assurance, pressing the prince to his limit. He felt the warrior’s attacks burn with the desire to end him. Zuvius backed into the barbican wall and sparks flew as the knight carved his blade into the stone. The prince ducked and weaved around into an alcove doorway.

‘Expect to get no further,’ the knight hissed through his helm. A haft-ringing deflection knocked Zuvius’ weapon aside. A brief stream of lightning scorched and crackled away to nothingness on the smooth stone. The knight had the measure of him now. He wouldn’t allow Zuvius to press his sorcerous advantage.

As the murderous thrusts and stabbing attacks forced Zuvius through the spike-inlaid doorway and up a crooked spiral of stairs, the prince felt the dread knight gearing up for the kill. Even with the advantage of higher ground, Zuvius could not get past the warrior’s defensive sweeps. It was as though his weapon were part of him, moving with speed and force to knock the glaive aside.

As the walls opened out onto a stone landing, Zuvius readied himself for the end. Archaon did indeed only select the very best warriors for his ranks. As their blades clashed and the knight backed Zuvius across the landing, barbican archers in dark helms and with bare, scarred chests moved their bows, arrows and ballistas across the stone floor. With the sound of battle within the walls alerting them to a breach, the archers were intent on moving their deadly weaponry over to the arrow slits on the other side of the landing so that they could once more target the horde below.

‘Think never to wear the dark plate of the Everchosen,’ the unhallowed knight spat as he attacked. Sparks lit up the landing as Zuvius turned the ensorcelled blade away, each deflection a little slower, each lethal lunge of the blade a moment closer to ending the prince.

As they reached the end of the landing, Zuvius saw the knight’s eyes widen with surprise and hostility. Instead of skewering Zuvius, the rune-encrusted blade pointed towards an archer standing behind the prince. Turning, the prince saw that the archer was standing next to an unloaded ballista and was holding the heavy, iron bolt above his head like a cudgel.

‘This dubious honour is mine,’ the knight shouted at the archer, warning him off.

Zuvius knew that this was his last chance. This knight of ruin, this warrior acolyte of the Destroyer of Worlds, would slay him. Touching the pommel of the glaive to the metal of the knight’s weapon, Zuvius allowed the briefest stream of lightning to course through the blade. The sword leapt from the knight’s gauntlet with a sudden shock and rattled across the floor, away from them both.

As the knight and Zuvius stared at one another, the sorcerer thrust the crowning blade of A’cuitas back, stabbing the archer through the chest. Without looking, Zuvius listened for the cacophonous clatter of the heavy bolt on the floor. Zuvius knew what to expect next. The knight was so skilled with the sword, the prince wagered, that he wouldn’t continue the combat without it.

Grunting his hatred, the knight made a run for the ensorcelled blade. Zuvius was right behind him. With the haft of the glaive in both gauntlets, Zuvius thrust the weapon over the knight’s head. As the warrior’s ornate helm was knocked to the floor, Zuvius hauled him back. The knight reached for his blade, but it was just out of reach. Zuvius pushed the glaive’s blade to the knight’s throat, and the warrior was forced to grasp the weapon at his neck instead.

Without his helm, Zuvius could see the knight was some kind of albino, with unnaturally pallid flesh. His mouth opened, gulping for air, and the sorcerer caught a brief glimpse of his black tongue and needle teeth as he bucked around. Like a tormented animal, the dark knight — who had been so deliberate in his murderous bladework — reared with Zuvius on his back and flung them both at the wall. Zuvius held on for his life as the knight backed and battered them both against the stone. Heaving the shaft of A’cuitas ever closer, his arms burning with the effort, the prince felt something give, and the knight suddenly go limp. Riding the cascade of hell-forged plate and muscle to the ground, Zuvius held the knight there for a few moments longer, just to make sure. Getting to his feet, Zuvius turned his blade about in his gauntlets and struck the dread knight’s head from his shoulders.

‘You fought well,’ Zuvius told the corpse. ‘Just not well enough. The honour might have been yours but the pleasure was mine.’

Archers came around the corner armed with their bows and improvised weapons. Turning A’cuitas on them, Zuvius arced lightning from one killer to another, turning each into a wall-splattering eruption of blood.

Leaning against the glaive, Zuvius took a moment to catch his breath. At the arrow slit he heard the flap of wings. Mallofax settled in the opening, watching his master with beady, black eyes.

‘Where have you been?’ the prince asked.

‘Our siege does not go well, my lord,’ Mallofax squawked. Zuvius went across to the arrow slit and peered down at the walkway leading from the barbican. The Varanspire’s daemonic shock troops were taking the Chaos horde apart. The Hexenguard were all dead. Champions of different fell gods fought side by side against the Everchosen’s monstrosities, killing the dread things when they could. Only the Khornate lord in his blood-baroque armour and gore-drizzling cloak seemed to be making headway. With his axe dripping with infernal ichor, the bodies of bloodletters, plaguebearers and daemonettes twitched at his feet. Zuvius thought on the mess he had made of the archers who had been about to open fire on the walkway.

‘The siege goes better than it might,’ Zuvius corrected the bird.

Zuvius looked down on the horde below, the champions of Chaos doomed to become little more than a daemon-slain distraction. His gaze followed the walkway spanning the exterior wall and the next. While the Everchosen’s knights, sorcerers and daemons haunted the fortress corridors and clung to the architecture like warped gargoyles, the colossal courtyard in between blazed with torches: an assembly ground for monstrous hordes, led by countless champions and Chaos lords who fought under Archaon’s banner. They waited to be summoned to battle at the Everchosen’s order, somewhere in the Mortal Realms, while other armies of darkness arrived with the spoils of war to take their place.

There was no way that the invading horde could fight through such numbers and horror. Zuvius would have to find another way. The horde could still serve his interests as a timely distraction. He would not tolerate a challenger for the Everchosen’s attentions, however. Scooping up the iron bolt the archer had dropped on the floor, Zuvius loaded and cranked the ballista. He could feel the hate of the bound daemon radiating off the cursed iron. Aiming the weapon down through the arrow slit, he lined it up with the back of the Khornate lord that was still leading the fighting.

Allowing the Blood God’s champion to finish one of Archaon’s black-armoured knights with a bludgeoning swing of his axe, Zuvius fired the ballista. Mallofax flapped his wings at the sound and hopped onto the prince’s shoulder.

The iron bolt speared through the warrior’s back and out from his chest, and the lord of Chaos staggered. The released daemon savaged at the warrior’s soul while a daemonette leapt on him, scything with her claws, but the Khornate champion somehow fought on. Tearing the creature from his pauldron, the Chaos lord smashed her into the ground. Falling to his knees, he took the legs out from beneath another daemonette as she ran at him. Dropping his axe and falling onto all fours, the Khornate lord was surrounded by stalking bloodletters. The daemons waited for a moment and then pounced, tearing into the Blood God’s champion with horn and claw, pulling free his skewered heart and snarling skull.

‘What now, my prince?’ Mallofax asked.

‘Now we find the Everchosen of Chaos,’ the Prince of Embers told him.

The Varanspire.

Orphaeo Zuvius negotiated the leagues of fang-lined battlements. He stood in the monstrous claws of tower turrets, watching greater daemons on the wing, hunting furies in the storm-wracked skies.

In search of Archaon, Zuvius explored the citadel, its towering heights and corrupting depths. There, all the Chaos Gods and Archaon, as their undisputed champion, were celebrated. Shrines and temples dedicated to the Ruinous Powers turned Zuvius’ heart black. Labyrinthine libraries of sorcerous tomes threatened to claim years of his life, while crowded fighting pits were places of perpetual death. Zuvius walked through miles of corridors sizzling with dark intent. He found lavish chambers that were nests of writhing daemonflesh, and stagnant ruins in which time almost stood still. Indeed, the heart of the Varanspire barely seemed to observe the natural laws at all — an architectural nightmare crafted in darkness, stone and fire.

On the courtyard expanses he passed beneath banners depicting the symbols of the Everchosen and the unruly hordes of ruin: spawn, savages, Chaos knights, enslaved monstrosities, charismatic champions and dark warlords, all serving dread Archaon. Mallofax warned his prince of lesser daemons and infernal beasts haunting the fortress corridors ahead.

While the diversionary sacrifice of his warband and the besieging horde had allowed Zuvius within the Varanspire’s walls, it had been his patience and cunning that had allowed him to traverse the walkways and courtyards, the ramparts and corridors. When he needed to, the prince murdered with silent impunity, strangling the lesser guards of the fortress garrison with the A’cuitas’ haft and stabbing the blade up under chins, through backs and into helms.

With every treacherous blow Zuvius got nearer to his goal, until he walked straight through the monstrous gates of the citadel spire itself. Mallofax hopped and flapped down empty corridors ahead of his master.

Lost in this hellscape, each twist, turn, deathly drop and corrupting flourish was dedicated to the Everchosen of Chaos. Only the strangest of daemonic creatures stalked the dream-like depths, feverish abominations writhing with tentacle. Daemon monstrosities that struggled to keep their form, erupting with mouths and limbs that spewed forth sorcerous flame, drove Zuvius on through the insanity. Magical hellfire not only thundered up corridors and through chambers but scorched the very nature of reality itself. Zuvius stumbled away from the heat, light and sound, driven down into one corridor and then the next, until he could no longer escape the corruptive bloom of daemon flame coming at him from all directions.

As the booming inferno enveloped him, Zuvius simultaneously lost and found himself. Blinking the nightmare from his eyes, the Prince of Embers stumbled across a gargantuan chamber of black marble that he couldn’t remember having entered before. It was dark magnificence given form. Mallofax hopped and staggered behind him across the polished floor. A forest of colossal pillars rose to the ceiling and Zuvius stumbled between them. Into each was crafted the horror of screaming faces.

Pushing himself between two pillars, Zuvius suddenly caught sight of the back of a monstrous throne, a thing sculpted of darkness and ossified ambition, a thing that radiated unholy power and struck a chord of dread in the Prince of Embers’ heart.

‘This is it,’ Zuvius said to Mallofax. ‘This is a throne room fit for the Everchosen of Chaos. A place of doom and dark majesty. We have made it, Mallofax.’

Zuvius staggered about the corruptive splendour of the throne, keeping his distance as he moved around in front of it. The throne itself was blinding in its dark brilliance and the prince found himself crashing to his knees in exhaustion and dread.

‘Mighty Archaon,’ Zuvius managed, his helmet off and forehead to the floor. ‘You have summoned and I have answered. I have travelled far and fought hard in your name, all to take a place at your unholy side. Archaon, Everchosen of Chaos, Destroyer of Worlds and men: I supplicate myself before you. I pledge myself to you in bringing an end to this world and all others.’

‘You seek Archaon?’ a voice came, burning with age and sorcerous power.

Zuvius brought up his head and stared into the radiating darkness. He got the impression of a gaunt figure rising from the throne, at one with the unholy dread of the object. It walked down the steps towards the kneeling Zuvius. The prince rubbed the darkness from his eyes. He could make out a skeletal figure and sorcerer’s robes. The thing’s features were warped, and blinked with a thousand eyes. Zuvius burned under its fell gaze.

‘I seek Archaon,’ Zuvius confirmed, holding his hand out in front of him to ward against the darkness, and getting to his feet.

‘In a fortress he has barely set foot in?’ the sorcerer said. ‘Before a throne upon which he has never sat?’

‘Archaon is not here?’

‘And never shall be.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Zuvius told the sorcerer honestly. ‘I am—’

‘You are blind and foolish,’ the sorcerer said. ‘That is all that matters. How came you to be in this place?’

‘I followed the crows,’ the Prince of Embers said.

‘For where the Everchosen treads, the crows indeed follow,’ the sorcerer said.

Zuvius heard it. Faint at first. The distant flapping of wings. The caws of hungry carrion birds. The sound grew, booming about the cavernous chamber. Suddenly they were everywhere. Birds, black of feather and sharp of beak. A storm of crows swarmed through the pillars in all directions — flying at Orphaeo Zuvius, the Prince of Embers. A squawking Mallofax was lost in the thunder of the flock. Zuvius was lifted from the ground but remained in place, being shredded from all angles. They ripped his armour from his form and tore at his skin with their beaks and talons. Zuvius screamed as they pulled the remaining hair from his scalp and his eyes from their sockets. Like a torrent of darkness, they baptised him in death.

Zuvius crashed back down to the marble floor. Black feathers floated down beside him, an agony on his raw flesh. He felt blood spill down his face from the empty sockets and drip to the floor. He heard Mallofax squawk his misery from nearby.

‘My prince…’ the bird said, but got no further.

The sorcerer moved painfully close to the Prince of Embers and leaned in, causing Zuvius, blind, to angle his head awkwardly this way and that, trying to fix on the presence.

‘Your trials are over,’ the sorcerer told him. Orphaeo Zuvius didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Instead he settled on a dumbfounded silence. ‘What did you expect? Some kind of dark coronation? The Everchosen of Chaos here to recognise you personally for your dread service? Service to Almighty Archaon is recognition enough.’ Zuvius nodded slowly in his private agony.

‘Don’t worry,’ the sorcerer said as he left him, the horror of his voice growing distant. His words were laced with a dark amusement. ‘There are none so blind as those that will not see.’

The Prince of Embers knelt there, the sorcerer’s parting words echoing horribly about the colossal chamber. They were everywhere, melting into his mind behind the empty sockets of his eyes. There, on his knees before the empty throne, Orphaeo Zuvius came to know the true nature of damnation. He had forsaken all in his search for the Everchosen of Chaos and Archaon, in turn, had forsaken him. Letting the torturous darkness where his eyes used to be sink down into his soul, the Prince of Embers became one with the potent doom of the place. The wicked laughter of insanity. A haunting whisper in the fortress depths. A cautionary tale never told.

David Annandale

Blood and Plague

In a dead land, the cold arena waited. Echoes of battles past and civilizations forgotten lined its cliff walls. The land did not remember the glories that had been. It remembered their loss. It remembered their fall. And it muttered to itself with the whisper of tombs. The whispers spread across the floor of the arena: broken archways, depressions of absent foundations, doors to emptiness. Eroded walls faded to nothing, sentences trailing off into silence.

Above the cold arena, on a projecting spur of rock, a sorcerer watched the whispers. He watched the land beyond. He watched as the waiting came to an end.

The Many-Eyed Servant faced south, seeing much further than the arena. The carriers of his vision flew over the land. A multitude of fragments became a composite panorama of the battle to come. From the east and west, warbands approached through the canyons of vanished waterways and time-gnawed sepulchres of civilisations. ‘They are almost here,’ he said.

Heavy footsteps crunched the stone behind him. A presence loomed at the daemon’s back. The Many-Eyed Servant’s master had come. He said nothing, but the daemon sensed his satisfaction. The Everchosen had arrived to witness the final display.

‘Where have you brought us?’

Copsys Bule thought before answering. Fistula’s words were less a question than an accusation. They had marched for a day and a night since passing through the gate. Until now, Fistula had said nothing to challenge the lord of plague’s command. Since their escape from the seraphon, Fistula had been less and less inclined to hide his anger and impatience. The blightlord had, for a time, been willing to accept that abandoning a second battle to the Stormcast Eternals was the right price to pay for the greater glory of joining the forces of Archaon. But that promise still showed no sign of being fulfilled. Instead, they travelled through nothing. The land was cracked, bare stone. The gate had brought the Rotbringers to the floor of a wide, twisting canyon. The riverbed had dried out centuries before. The journey between the cliffs took them through the traces of fallen cities and immense, fading graveyards. There was no life at all. Bule had abandoned a realm bursting with the gifts of Nurgle’s garden for a wasteland. No disease could flourish here. There was nothing here to decay. There was only the slow erosion of wind, and the fading into a greater silence. The groans of this realm’s flesh had been spent long ago.

But this was the way. The call of Archaon was as clear to Bule now as it had been mysterious before. The land held no promise, yet Bule followed the certainty of destiny.

‘We are where we must be,’ he said. ‘I have not brought us here. Archaon has. The blessing of Grandfather Nurgle has. There is no reason for anger, Fistula. Rejoice instead, and learn patience.’ Fistula fought well, but he had too little experience of the larger ebb and flow of war. Plague waxed and waned, but in the end, it consumed all. To deny this was to fail to understand the nature of disease. Rage was useful, but had its limitations.

Bule’s exhortation had little effect. The blisters on Fistula’s bald head crowded each other with suppurating anger. Bule watched Fistula’s grip tighten on his blades. He gauged the other Rotbringer’s stance. Are you going to attack? Bule wondered. He followed his own counsel and remained patient. His armour was heavier than Fistula’s. He had the advantage of bulk. He could absorb a first blow. But there was no need to precipitate a struggle; ahead lay glory for all. He would lead by example.

‘You don’t hear the call?’ Bule asked.

‘No.’ More anger in that single word.

‘Then put your faith in the path we have followed.’

‘From one retreat to another?’

‘The call I heed led us to that gate. Now it takes us to a culmination.’

Fistula grunted, but he plodded on. Bule looked back over the rest of the band. It was a much smaller horde now, consisting of only those who had followed him into the polluted river to find the gate beneath the foundations of the humans’ temple. The newly constructed symbol that rejected Nurgle’s gifts had concealed in its heart a cancer: the key to a greater victory. The loss of the rest of the warband, abandoned to the Stormcasts, had been a small price. Patience would see the coming of a greater bloom; of this, Bule was sure. Did the rest of his warriors share this certainty? Did they have faith, or did they doubt like Fistula?

He pushed the question aside. Though the canyon stretched onward, twisting in its grey death, the summons was clear to him. The flies that birthed from his head and swarmed about him buzzed with greater intensity. Faith would soon no longer be necessary. It would give way to proof.

If not around the next bend, then the one after that. The march through desolation would end soon.

Bule lengthened his stride. His gut bounced and roiled with his steps. Putrid gases rose from the rotting sores in his flesh. The garden was alive in him, and he would see it flourish in service to Archaon.

There were too many silences. Some were offensive to Ushkar Mir. Others were dangerous.

The snarl of his breath tried to fill the silence of the land. The absence of blood and fire was a frustration so intense it was agony. He saw bones. He saw skulls. But they were old, meaningless. They crumbled to nothing beneath his steps, giving off puffs of grey dust. There was no war here. If there had been violence once, even its memory was buried in stone. The emptiness of the canyon and the emptiness of the days: these were the silences that offended the exalted deathbringer.

It was the silence of Danavan Vuul that was a potential threat. The bloodstoker had said nothing for many hours now. With each day that had passed since Mir’s last trial, each day absent of any foe, each long day in the empty land, Vuul had said less. They were still in the Realm of Death. The longer the march had gone on through this cursed canyon, the more Vuul’s silence had expressed his doubts about the direction the Bloodslaves were taking. His face was hidden by his helmet. In his heavy crimson armour, he marched with a steady gait, leaning forward as if ready to break into a charge. Ushkar Mir monitored his every step out of the corner of his eye. He was braced for an attack. He contemplated killing Vuul, terminating the threat before it declared itself. He would have already done so were it not for the call. Archaon’s summons pulled him forward. He would find the Everchosen here, and soon. There was battle in this realm, and Archaon was at its forefront. The scent of war and bloodshed had brought him this far. It was immaterial whether the rest of the warband felt the summons too. Destiny was close, and the moment was coming when there would be an enemy to shatter.

Mir stayed his hand. In so doing, he surprised himself. Regardless of Vuul’s anger, his ambition was obvious and dangerous. He resented Mir’s status as one of the Exalted. He made no secret of that, and obeyed orders with grudging reluctance. Two days ago, Mir would have treated the prospect of a prolonged period without a foe as intolerable. He would have assumed Vuul would move against him. He would have killed Vuul at the first opportunity.

Now he didn’t. For perhaps the first time in his life, another goal superseded self-preservation. The greatest need to was to find Archaon, and to become his champion. To achieve that goal would make him stronger yet, ensuring his survival and perhaps the immortality of his name. But now he wondered if perhaps he was reaching for something even greater than that. To fight alongside a being who refused to be the vassal of any single god would be a personal victory beyond any other. The brass band over his eyes burned his flesh. The endless pain of the metal and the miracle of his continued sight were perpetual reminders of his unwilling allegiance. Khorne owned him. His existence was devoted to the reaping of skulls for the Blood God, and so it would ever be.

Until he could achieve his vengeance.

But to be a champion of Archaon, to be among the number who fought for Chaos under the banner of the warrior who was a force unto himself — there would be pride in that achievement. There was no such thing as redemption. The concept was meaningless. He had witnessed the immolation of all such hope. He would grasp instead the chance to shed blood no longer for the sole benefit of Khorne.

The prospect of soon standing before Archaon subsumed all other thought and so he kept his eye on Vuul, but he did not instigate the duel. He had no patience for such a pointless delay. Even his axes were eager to reach their destination: Bloodspite, black as old blood, and Skullthief, red as a fresh arterial fountain, each containing a bloodletter daemon. The perpetual rivals for greater slaughter vibrated with their hunger, and they pulled him forwards. They too wished to fight for Archaon. Let Vuul stew in impotent rage. Let him witness the truth.

The canyon took another turn and beyond it, revelation unfolded. It opened up into a vast bowl, with a second entrance to the west. A great host lined the top of the north wall, but from the floor of the arena, he could not judge its full size. It extended along the entire wall of the arena, and he could hear the clamour of ranks upon ranks. Black smoke rose in the distance, and from somewhere in that direction came the screams and moans of prisoners.

Mir had never beheld such an army before. He saw exalted deathbringers and skullgrinders. He saw a warrior in huge and terrible crimson armour, a warrior who could only be a Lord of Khorne. And these powerful servants of the Blood God stood beside those sworn to the Plaguefather, and the Changer of Ways, and the lost God of Excess. Vuul even saw the tall, angular shape of one of the Great Horned Rat’s corruptors. The most powerful knights of Chaos in all its forms were gathered in a unity Mir could barely comprehend. They looked down upon him and they waited, for they did not command.

They followed a being greater than all of them.

‘I never imagined…’ said the slaughterpriest Orto. He who had been so confident in his preaching of Khorne’s will was at a loss.

You serve Khorne utterly, Mir thought. This army serves Archaon. You knew this was our goal. But you never imagined? Is your faith inflexible, slaughterpriest? Can it not survive paradox?

Below the host, a stone staircase descended to the floor of the arena. The staircase was huge. Its width took up half the cliff. It was badly eroded. It had become a majestic ghost.

A narrow spur projected far into the air from the centre of the north wall. On it stood a towering figure in black armour.

Archaon.

And at the sight of that being, that supreme warrior of Chaos, Mir too thought, I never imagined.

The Everchosen spoke.

Bule guessed what he would say. The lord of plagues saw the other warband enter the arena at the same time as his. Even though Bule knew the test that lay ahead, Archaon’s words rooted him to the spot. The voice, terrible in power, echoed across the arena. It was more than the voice of destiny. It was the voice of a being who had made destiny his slave.

‘Champions,’ Archaon said, ‘I welcome you to the Ossuar Arena. You have fought well. Now you are at the end of a journey. One will be found worthy to join my Varanguard. One.’ Archaon paused. His great horned helm tilted downward. He was gazing at the two warbands.

‘You will exact your own judgement,’ he said.

Across the line of the Everchosen’s warriors, war horns lifted. The arena resounded with the deafening blast of the call to war. The air trembled and cracked. The moment had come for the act of killing to return to this corner of the dead lands.

At the signal, Bule turned his gaze from Archaon and signalled to his warband. They began a rolling charge across the arena. The enemy was clad in armour the colour of blood and fire. Warriors of Khorne. He focused on their leader. Hundreds of yards separated the two forces, and Bule could make out few details of his rival. He was easy to identify, though, as he led his attack, fronting the warband’s collective howl of rage. In contrast to his followers, he wore no armour. A brass band covered his eyes. It gleamed, though no sun pierced the heavy clouds. His flesh was marked with burning runes. He was already outpacing the rest of his band. He was fast. Faster than Fistula.

The Bloodbound were a real threat. No matter. Here, at last, was the destiny that had guided Bule through three realms. No one would stand between him and his apotheosis. He would strike this pretender down, and, at Archaon’s side, he would see the Grandfather’s garden flourish as never before.

Bule answered the snarl of the Bloodbound with his own roar. He revelled in its wet ratcheting. It was the sound of disease at war. He would drown the rage-possessed in the joyous flood of pestilence.

Behind him, his Rotbringers joined in his call.

Plague rushed forward to clash with Blood.

Then, from the skies, came a storm of wings.

There was his challenge. The putrid worshippers of Nurgle. Their charge made Mir snarl with disgusted rage. Their gait was a shambling rush. Their stench washed through the air in waves. Their blood would be a polluted stew. Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows, he thought. Nor does he care for its purity, as long as it flows.

The Rotbringers were one more threat to his survival. He would tear them apart, and he would join Archaon.

He ran across the uneven floor of the arena, leaping over empty tombs and crumbled walls. As he did, he saw movement on the spur of rock. He looked up. Archaon had stepped back. A daemon moved to take his place at the end of the spur. It was a thing of skeletal majesty. Mir could feel its manifold gaze burning down on him from a hundred angles at once. The daemon spread its arms wide. A flapping cloud came into being around the daemon. It spread and swooped down into the arena, bringing winged night with it.

It was a gigantic murder of crows. Thousands upon thousands of the birds. They cawed and whirled. They were everywhere. They covered the space of the arena. And as they beat their wings and gave voice to their raucous song, the land began to change.

The ground rippled. It dipped and rose, transforming into hills and gullies. Stone became malleable. It turned into a liquid, then smoke. It lost its form. Barrenness gave way to convulsive life. Naked stone became muck. Mir’s boots sank past his ankle. Clouds of insects descended on him. Trees speared out of the mud. They unfolded branches heavy with rotting leaves. Growths twisted the limbs, and from them, things squirmed to be free, worms with pale, grasping hands. The trees reached out to each other, and the worm-things clasped and clawed across the growths, and a tangle of wood, soft, rotten, yet resilient, surrounded the warband. Blackened vegetation flowed around their legs. It was a rising tide of dying mulch. It fell apart, blossomed, sickened and died, then rose from its own decay in the space of a breath.

Mir could no longer see the enemy. The Rotbringers had vanished behind the wall of embodied putrescence. The crows dived through the canopy. They perched on branches and circled above the warband. Some of the birds were rotting as they flew. Others were on fire. They all had too many eyes. They cawed their mockery. Mir slashed at them and at the vegetation blocking his way forward. His advance slowed to a crawl.

‘You have turned Khorne against us!’ Orto shouted. ‘Archaon favours the followers of Nurgle.’

‘Are you already defeated?’ Skull answered. In the blood warrior’s words, Mir heard his own thoughts given voice. Khorne had rendered him mute, but Skull always spoke for him. Skull, whose loyalty was so unshakeable, it had to be a form of enslavement. ‘Do you abandon your duty to the Blood God?’ Skull demanded.

Vuul answered before Orto. ‘The transgression is Mir’s, not ours,’ he snarled. To Mir he said, ‘We followed you and this is our reward.’

Mir swung his axes. Branches fell, burning at their touch. I will have your silence and your effort, or I will have your head, he thought.

Skull said, ‘The enemy is close, and Ushkar Mir will not let a few trees stand between us and their skulls.’

Mir paused and faced Vuul. He parted his jaws, his teeth ready to tear flesh. He felt Vuul’s gaze on his face. There were no eyes for the bloodstoker to see, but Mir knew his band of brass blazed in the foetid shadows of the forest. Vuul hesitated, then, with a snarl, he turned back to hacking at the growths.

Vines tangled around Mir’s arms. He tore the lanyards apart. Spores burst from the ragged ends. The air thickened and sought to choke him. He spat it out and forced his way through the wall of rot. With each slowed step, his anger grew, and the forest began to shrivel at his touch.

He moved faster, a vector of wrath burning through the woods. He still could not see the Rotbringers. Nor could he hear them. He could barely hear his own troops over the shrieking of the birds. The stench of putrescence drowned out the scent of his prey’s blood.

No matter. He drove forward. If he did not reach the foes himself, the foes would come to him. And his rage would reap the harvest of their skulls.

The land erupted with violent death. Rivers of flaming blood ran between hills of skulls. Through the darkness of the crows’ wings, everything was the red of fire and the crimson of gore. Bule had been running across a barren plain, and then it had heaved skyward, stone transforming into bones soaked in blood, steaming and burning. Bule struggled up the slope. Skulls and femurs rolled and shifted. The ground tried to swallow his legs in avalanches of remains.

The Rotbringers reached the top of the rise. The walls of the arena had vanished. Bones, blood and flame stretched out to burning horizons in every direction. Overhead, the crows wheeled. Their many eyes glittered and judged.

‘We are abandoned,’ Fistula said.

There could be no garden here. There was no life. Only the perpetuity of pyres and the scarlet flow of rage.

‘We are challenged.’ Bule said. He would not despair, though the omen of the transformation was an ill one. Let it be a further trial, then, another means by which he would prove himself worthy of serving Archaon, and of the blessings of Grandfather Nurgle.

‘Look,’ he said, pointing, ‘we have an opportunity.’

The Bloodbound were further away than they had been before the land had transformed. The wall of the arena had vanished, and the battlefield was infinite. Still, the Khornate warriors were on the same heading. There was something odd about their advance. They moved more slowly than Bule had expected. Their gestures were strange. They were slashing at the air as if battling invisible enemies.

‘What are they doing?’ Fistula wondered.

‘I don’t care, as long as it does them no good.’ Bule thought for a moment. The Bloodbound warband looked strong. Whatever the confusion of the warriors’ gestures, they were striking forward with the coherence and force of a battering ram. Bule had little doubt that a head-on collision would go against him. That would be playing to the strengths of the wrathful. Neither band was very large. The possibilities for manoeuvring were few. But they still existed.

‘Embrace the enemy with the generosity of Grandfather,’ Bule ordered. He would take advantage of the Bloodbound’s apparent distraction. ‘Advance to meet them, encourage their charge, then split up and hit their flanks.’

Fistula nodded. Of course he’s pleased, Bule thought. He will lead half our band.

It was a risk, but one he saw no way to avoid.

Bule resumed the charge. He bellowed and stormed down the hill of bones. The footing was treacherous. He stomped hard on the shifting bones, shattering them, splashing through rivulets of blood, imposing his bulk on the burning land. The distance between the two bands narrowed. Though both struggled, it seemed as if the field were contracting once more. The crows called their excitement as the champions hurled towards each other.

We’re closing too fast, Bule thought.

There was nothing but the forest, nothing but the black, viscous, rotting density of the vegetation. Mir heard the Rotbringers, but could not see them. The sound of their tramping was muffled by the vegetation. There was no way to gauge their distance.

And then the forest fell away, shrivelling and burning at his touch, and the Rotbringers were before him. He roared. His hatred fuelled by frustration, he shot forward, axes raised. They screamed their hunger. The warrior at the Rotbringers’ head was huge, a festering mass of muscle and bulk. The spikes of his armour squirmed with rotting meat. His helmet was featureless except for a down-curving horn and a cluster of three eye-shaped holes. Mir saw in the design the idiot implacability of an insect, and his jaws parted in anticipation of the foe’s blood.

The Rotbringer was faster than he looked. He took a step back and pivoted to the right. Mir’s momentum carried him forward, too powerful to alter course. Skullthief slashed into the Rotbringer’s torso. Dark, stinking blood erupted into the air, boiling from the strike. The axe blade scraped against ribs. The Rotbringer shouted in pain, but kept moving, pulling free of Skullthief. Behind him, a second warrior, lighter in build and armour, broke left. He was very fast. He escaped harm. The knight coming up behind him was not as lucky. Mir brought his two blades together. The daemons within, as frustrated and raging as he, bit deep into the rotting, rusted armour. The double sweep slashed through flesh and bone. The knight’s head flew off. Blood fountained over Mir. It was thick with parasites. He snarled and batted the slumping corpse aside and the head rolled into the muck and vegetation. The plants rotted to nothing, as if the touch of the dead plague-bringer broke their hold on reality and they withdrew before the greater force of wrath.

Behind the fallen knight, a trio of marauders hurled themselves at Mir. They hacked at him with blades dripping with filth. The edges of his wounds turned black. The pain squirmed. He roared. Rage turned his vision red. It burned his veins clear of the infections. He brought Bloodspite down on one marauder’s skull, splitting it in two. Skullthief took another’s sword arm off at the shoulder. The wounded Rotbringer howled but pushed in closer, his rotten blood washing over Mir. Insects and worms tried to burrow through the brass. They succeeded in smearing his vision. Behind him, the rest of his band pushed forward.

But as he swiped the slime from his face, he saw that most of the Rotbringers had moved out to the left and right, flanking his warriors.

The wound burned. Not with the generous malignancy of Grandfather Nurgle’s munificence. It burned with a destroying fire, one that put the torch to the beauty of decay and left nothing but bone and ash. Bule hissed. His breath was pained and angry. The Bloodbound had hit so hard, so fast. Bule had seen them coming. He should have been able to judge when to move out of the way. But the distances in the battlefield were fluid, treacherous. He could not trust them. Fistula was right — there would be no blessings to look for from Nurgle. Everything was up to Bule. He would not find the garden in this landscape of skulls. It would be up to him to bring it here by fertilizing the ground with the blood of the wrathful.

Reeling from the blow of the Bloodbound champion, he moved in an arc away from the enemy horde. He glanced back. Just over a third of his knights followed him. The marauders took the brunt of the Bloodbound charge. They would be dead in moments. That was all the time he needed. On the other side of the enemy, Fistula kept pace with another third of the warband, mirroring his manoeuvre. The Khornate fighters smashed through the Rotbringers that stood in their way.

That’s right, Bule thought. You have broken us in two. Hold that belief.

He angled back in, ploughing through the bones, splashing through blood, bringing the weight and disease of his troops against the rear flank of the Bloodbound. The enemy turned, eager in rage to meet the challenge. But the ragged line was narrow. A concentrated wedge of Rotbringers hit it from both sides. Plague-ridden Chaos knights clashed with Khornate ones. Rotting armour and slimy, rusting blades met iron glowing red with the forge of anger. Barbarians in joyous states of decay fought counterparts whose faces were frozen in a rictus of perpetual wrath. Bule raised his battle axe. A green miasma spread out from it. The air itself sickened. Some of the foe began to stumble even before he made contact. One doubled over, choking with violent, rib-shattering coughs. His lungs, already half dissolved, pushed out through his straining jaw.

Bule brought his axe down. The pain in his chest faded into the background as the blade smashed down through a skullreaper’s shoulder and halfway down the torso. The warrior’s face screamed with hatred and pain. He struck at Bule with his other arm, wielding a sword the length of a man. It bled its own ichor. The blow struck just above Bule’s pauldron. The skullreaper had been aiming for his neck, but was weakening from more than loss of blood. The axe’s venom was running rampant through his body. Anger was impotent against the surge of transformative decay. Bule absorbed the blow and hit the skullreaper again in the other arm. The Bloodbound fell. Bule stepped over the still-breathing body. Where the blood of the Khornate warriors flowed, the land cooled. The low flames that flowed like oil over the mounds of skulls dampened. The bones crumbled into mulch. Shoots burst from the ground, pendulous with growths.

‘Break the hold of wrath!’ Bule shouted. ‘Let the garden flourish in victory!’

To his right, he heard a snarl so fanatical in its rage it withered the sprouting vegetation.

Mir decapitated another marauder and turned back in time to see the rear half of the warband caught in a vice. Where the Rotbringers attacked, the diseased vegetation exploded with a new exuberance of rotting life. Vines and branches rose in tangled exultation towards the sky of crows.

He snarled at Vuul. The bloodstoker was fighting at his shoulder, flaying a Rotbringer knight with his great whip.

‘Why are you here?’ Skull said to Vuul. ‘Lord Mir commands you go back up the line. Hold the centre.’

‘And you?’ said Vuul, challenging.

‘Do it.’

There was a single moment’s hesitation. Had there been a second, Mir would have attacked. But Vuul turned and saw the imminent collapse. The triumph of the enemy was too hateful to be borne. He raced down into the thick of the fray.

Mir killed the last of the Rotbringers at his position. The blood warriors around him paused, uncertain. They were poised to lend support to Vuul and push back the enemy attack. Mir shook his head. He gestured with Bloodspite. With me. Skull, the skullgrinder Kordos and the rest of the leading warriors followed as he turned right, off the clearing forged by the battle, plunging back into the festering green. He knew exactly where the Rotbringers were now. He would use the obscurity of the foliage against them. He would even turn their own manoeuvre against them. He would smash their illusions of strength. They flanked us, he thought. Now we flank them.

He wanted the skull of the Rotbringer champion. Killing him meant more than achieving the task set by Archaon. It meant more than destroying the principle threat. Skullthief had tasted the champion’s blood, and it was hungry for more. Bloodspite, envious, sought to steal its twin’s kill. Mir shared their hunger and their frustration. The Rotbringer should already be dead at his feet. The absence of the corpse was an insult.

The forest was thick with disease and insects. Almost immediately, Mir’s sight was reduced to a few steps in front of him. All directions were the same. The sounds of the struggle were too close to muffle now, though. He knew where he was going. Nurgle’s profusion would do nothing now to impede the path of rage.

He slashed through vegetation. It barely slowed him. He moved in a fated arc. There was no doubt, no confusion. He came in behind the lord of plague’s contingent. Around the struggle, the land was in flux. Vegetation burned and fell away, revealing a terrain of skulls. Blood flowed between the bones, turned black, and fertilized the ground. Growths and flame blossomed, the marks of the gods battling each other for supremacy with the same fury as the warriors. The Rotbringers had their backs to Mir. He could catch them in their own trap, crushing this part of the horde with greater numbers, then annihilating the other.

On the point of beginning the attack, Mir stopped. He raised his right arm, calling a halt.

‘Why do we stop?’ Kordos asked. It took much to move the skullgrinder to speak. His confusion must have been great. Since when did the Bloodslaves stop mid-charge?

‘Why do you question Lord Mir?’ asked Skull.

Kordos didn’t answer. Mir turned his head in Kordos’ direction for a moment, letting the skullgrinder know he had Mir’s attention. Then he faced forward again.

Vuul was fighting with ferocious skill. The Rotbringers attacked on two fronts, but the bloodstoker held them off. His whip and torture blade were blurs. His voice rose in a howl of thirst. He took the skulls of the enemy in a frenzy of blows. He cut through the Rotbringers as though they were no more of an obstacle than the forest. He was a towering storm of wrath.

Archaon had said there could be only one champion.

Mir had understood what that meant, but he had pushed the consequences aside until now. The priority was the defeat of the Rotbringers. Afterwards, he would deal with any of his warband still standing. But now, as he saw Vuul fight, his priorities changed. Vuul was fighting too well. His rage was fuelled by desperation and ambition. He understood the import of Archaon’s words too. Vuul sought to become the Varanguard.

Skull and the others with Mir obeyed when he signalled them to stop. Did they realize what he was doing and why? Did they understand what awaited them? Or were they too blinded by their dedication to Khorne? Perhaps they thought no further than the next kill, the next skull. Perhaps they dared not think any further. Certainly they dared not challenge him. To do so would be to invite the end of their lives even sooner.

So they obeyed. Even Kordos. They stopped. And with Mir, they waited.

Vuul fought through the violent roil of battle to reach the lord of plagues. Fire clashed with thick green fog. There were too many warriors in the way. Mir watched another Rotbringer, a blightlord, close in on Vuul. He was lightly armoured. He was fast. His lips were pulled back in a snarling rictus. His body was riddled with sores, but his rage was so great that it rivalled that of the Bloodbound he cut down.

Vuul sensed the approach of the blightlord and turned to meet him. The bloodstoker blocked a dual-bladed attack with the hilt of his blade. The Rotbringer stepped back, pulling his swords away. He feinted forward as Vuul lashed out with the whip, aiming at his neck. It was a trap, and Vuul fell into it. The blightlord took another step back. The whip went wide. The blightlord tangled it with one of his swords and yanked. Vuul stumbled forward. The blightlord came in and brought his other blade down on the bloodstoker’s right upper arm. The sword cut deep, slicing through armour, flesh and bone. The arm hung limp, swinging on the end of a flap of skin. His whip fell to the ground.

Vuul’s wrath gave him speed. He still had his torture blade. He stabbed forward. ‘Behold your champion, Everchosen!’ he cried. The Rotbringer sidestepped. The blade glanced off his torso, hacking away a chunk of flesh. It was not enough to slow the blightlord down.

Archaon sees nothing in you, Danavan Vuul, Mir thought.

The blightlord brought his right blade up, into Vuul’s forward momentum, and used the bloodstoker’s mass to ram the tip through the left eye-slit of his helm. Vuul stiffened. His war cry turned into a stuttering, wordless howl. Then it stopped. His knees buckled. The blightlord yanked his blade free, and blood gushed forth. On contact with the air, it turned into a black froth. Tumorous fronds unfurled to embrace his corpse.

The blightlord moved forward, leading his forces through the few Bloodbound that separated him from joining up with his chieftain. One of them was Orto.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’ the slaughterpriest shouted. ‘Skulls for the Skull Throne!’

His zeal was unbroken. Mir knew that the Orto had found his path — he too understood how the contest must end, and he welcomed that meaning. He kept to the simplicity of fidelity to Khorne. He fought for the Blood God, and only the Blood God, to the end. He swung his bloodbathed axe with a speed that defied its size. The heads of rotted knights and barbarians flew in its wake. But there were too many, and the blightlord drove his blades into Orto’s back.

Mir roared. Now! His game was over. His rivals were falling. Time to finish off the others. He ran forward, blood boiling with the taste of victory.

Bule saw Fistula kill the bloodstoker. A few moments later, as the two groups of Rotbringers made contact, crushing the remaining Bloodbound between them, he heard the roar of the Bloodbound champion. The flames shot higher with the Khornate charge. Blood geysers erupted on either side of the warriors’ path.

Bule had seconds before the impact. There would be no evasion this time. The Bloodbound had been slow to arrive, though. The Rotbringers now had the numerical advantage.

But Bule turned away from the enemy. He had seen Fistula kill the slaughterpriest.

He had seen the skill, the speed and the rage. The skill and the speed were threats. The rage was an opportunity he must seize.

‘Fistula betrays us!’ he shouted. ‘He is apostate! Look how he abandons Nurgle for Khorne!’

Fistula blinked in astonishment, his blades deep in the corpse of a blood warrior. His battle rage gave way to blank surprise, and then returned, greater than ever, as he realized what Bule was doing. He snarled, freeing the swords, and played right into Bule’s hands. The violet blotching of his face and the contorted tendons of his neck were clear for all to see. He had always been the impatient warrior. His faith in Nurgle had been a crusading one, but only in the sense of the destruction of the Plaguefather’s enemies. He had shown little interest in the cultivation of the garden.

Now his anger doomed him.

Bule hurled the accusation. The Rotbringers heard and saw Fistula’s reaction. And Bule acted. He did so without pleasure. He swung his axe because he must, because only he could be Archaon’s champion, and Fistula’s visible wrath meant this was the moment his apostasy was plausible, and there was no chance Fistula could turn the warband against Bule.

He also swung the axe with conviction. Fistula’s rage was suspect. Bule believed the blightlord was a threat to the garden.

Even taken by surprise, Fistula’s reactions were fast. He swiped a blade across Bule’s torso. He tore the wound left by the Bloodbound champion wider and left a new furrow, dragging down deep into Bule’s gut. The filth on the blade reacted with the filth in Bule’s blood. Strains of plague did battle. Bule welcomed the conflict. It could only bear fruit, wonderful and dark.

Bule accepted his injury, gave thanks to Nurgle for the violent spread of infection, and smashed the massive axe blade down on Fistula.

The blightlord managed to jerk his head out of the path of the blow at the last second. It did him little good. The axe shattered his chestplate. It shattered his sternum. It split him open. He flailed. His arms batted at the weapon buried in his body. Their movements were so loose, so independent of one another, it was as if Fistula’s mind had been divided too, each half pulling at one set limbs.

Fistula staggered backwards, choking and gargling. Bule yanked the axe free and brought it down again. This time he smashed Fistula’s skull. The blightlord collapsed, his body erupting with maggots and rot. Its shape softened. The flesh rippled, then crumbled. Blood spread over the land. Where vegetation had grown from the death of Bloodbound warriors, it burned at the touch of Fistula’s blood.

‘Behold his treachery!’ Bule yelled, though his belief in his lie collapsed. Fistula’s blood had the same effect as that of his brothers in disease. Bule shouted to keep the lie alive in the minds of his warband just a bit longer.

Then the Bloodbound champion was upon them, and Bule abandoned all thoughts of strategy. There was no deception, no forethought.

There was battle, and there was his faith in Grandfather Nurgle.

And that was all.

Mir led the charge into the Rotbringers, and Chaos embraced the conflict. The land heaved and bucked. It burned and flourished. It was bone, it was muck, it was brackish stream and it was flaming blood. The order of the warbands broke down at once. There were no longer enough warriors on either side to maintain coherence after the initial shock, and as the numbers fell, the significance of Archaon’s words was felt by all. Mir embraced the disorder. From the moment he struck, from the moment Bloodspite and Skullthief began to feed, he saw only red. Every presence on the battlefield was a threat. The existence of any other being filled him with desperate rage. He waded in, killing any warrior within reach.

To Mir’s right, Kordos laid waste to the plague warriors with the burning fist of his anvil. He fought in silence, he killed in silence, until the anvil buried itself in the corpulent body of one of his foes. The Rotbringer slumped, his corpse smouldering, and the collapsing mass held the brazen weapon for a moment. Kordos grunted in anger, and that was the last sound Mir heard from him. The rhythm of his blows was disrupted just long enough for the huge lord of plagues to attack his flank. Mir saw Kordos’ death coming just as he cut down another barbarian. Two steps to the right and he could have joined Kordos, blocking the lord of plague’s attack.

He stepped forward instead. He heard the axe blow. The shattering of armour and the rending of flesh. When he heard the axe hit again, he knew Kordos was dead.

Mir fought on, killing his way toward glory, each corpse another step toward vengeance.

The land mirrored the storm of the war. It rose and fell with greater violence, as if Bloodbound and Rotbringers fought on the heaving chest of a great beast. It burned and flourished. It was turbulence itself.

Mir kept his feet. He lost himself in murder and wrath. He howled in an ecstasy of rage. He filled the air with his hatred for his enemy, hatred for his rivals, hatred for the other Bloodbound, hatred for himself. And the air answered. A fresh storm broke. Thunder roared, and blood lashed down in torrents and vortices. It blinded. It filled lungs. It surrounded Mir in a perfection of violent death. It turned blades away. He was coated in the bloody manifestation of his hate.

Every warrior fought for his own survival. Mir no longer knew whom he was killing. Nothing mattered except that those who stood before him fell to his blades. His axes, maddened and drunk on gore, screamed for more. And the storm of blood battled with another tempest, one of pestilence. A diseased wind battered Mir. It shrieked in his ears. It forced itself into his lungs. It was hot with decay. Each breath took in a legion of parasites. He burned the sickness out with the fever of his hate, and then in it came again.

The threat made him more furious yet. He slashed as if he would kill the air itself. He became part of the vortex of blood. Every blow was lethal. The death fountains of his enemies anointed him with victory and survival.

He saw no faces, only prey. Only shapes to be torn apart. Only skulls to be severed from their necks.

But then one spoke to him. One word, in the moment before the slavering Skullthief made the killing stroke. One word, in a voice so familiar, so in tune with his thoughts, that he had come to think of it almost as his own.

‘Lord—’ said Skull. Then Mir killed him.

He paused, suspended in his blood haze. He stared at the severed head of the blood warrior. Pale blue eyes in pale blue skin looked back at him with the final glimmers of life, and in them Mir saw not rage, but betrayal and grief.

What happened could not be helped. Only Mir could survive this war. Only Mir could be Archaon’s champion.

But this was Skull, who in all the warband had displayed a loyalty that went beyond an alliance of convenience. A loyalty that Mir now recognized, too late, as the last thing of value, the last thing unconsumed by wrath, that he would ever know.

He was vaguely aware of replacing Skullthief on his belt and picking up the head. Then he fell into the crimson fire once more, and there was nothing else. He killed and he killed and he killed. He was incoherent with rage and self-loathing. The world fell into ruin. All was storm. All was chaos. All was blood.

No longer for the Blood God. Blood for himself.

Killing and killing and killing.

Blood and blood and blood.

And…

And then Bule was alone. Alone against the being of wrath.

The storm raged on. Flame and pestilence whirled around him. The earth on which he stood shifted from loam to bone to blood to rock to all and none. There were bodies everywhere, rotting, burning and being devoured by the shifting land. The horizons had vanished. He and the Bloodbound champion faced each other in the midst of the collapse of all form.

The exalted deathbringer stood with an axe in one hand and a skull in the other. The head had been used as a weapon, and was a battered, smashed relic, but Bule could see it had been one of the Bloodbound, not a Rotbringer. The deathbringer looked at the skull with his head cocked, almost with regret.

How many of his own Rotbringers had Bule killed? He did not know. The answer did not matter. What mattered was the fulfilment of destiny. What mattered was to ascend to Archaon’s side as a warrior of the Varanguard.

His mind cleared of battle frenzy. He braced himself for the charge of the deathbringer. Bule was no match for his speed. This warrior was faster and more powerful than Fistula. Bule could not evade. He would not get the first blow in, but he would, with the Plaguefather’s blessing, get the last.

Against the quick, he had always used his great bulk. He won by being the hardest to kill.

The deathbringer dropped the skull and seized his other axe. He turned his maddened eyes to Bule and rushed in. He was a thing of crimson hate. His blades howled with him.

Bule braced for the impact. He stood with all the strength of a warrior for Grandfather Nurgle. He knew the fevers and the bodily erosion of a legion of diseases. They made him strong, for Nurgle valued the great resilience of life, and its ability to decay into ever more bounty, ever more life. Bule gathered the great endurance gifted to him by the Plaguefather. He would let fury spend itself against the bulwark of illness.

The deathbringer hit. He stabbed the axes low. He plunged both blades deep into Bule’s exposed belly.

It was exposed because it was a trap. Bule’s organs had long ago ceased to function in any mortal fashion. They were reservoirs of disease. His body was the carrier of pestilence. He was beyond the reach of ordinary weapons, no matter where they stabbed him. Time and again, foes had plunged their blades into his festering mass only to find their weapons stuck, and themselves left open to his counterblow.

This time was different. Wrath itself was upon him, with speed and fury and the frenzy of boiling blood. The deathbringer’s axes had their own will. They were a higher order of death-dealer. They went too deep. They burned too profoundly. They severed something too important.

Bule felt himself come undone. The strength went out of his legs. He lost feeling in the lower half of his body. His knees must have buckled because he was sinking toward the ground, drawing the wounds even wider. The exalted deathbringer’s face twisted into an expression of hate-filled triumph. The weakness spread up Bule’s arms. He dropped his axe.

He had lost without landing a single blow.

No, he thought. Not like this. I will not fail you, Grandfather. I am still your gardener.

He held on to the most fundamental fact of his being. Death was coming to Bule, but Bule was just a name. He was a lord of plagues. To the end, this was his truth, and so he took all that he was, all the vast strengths bestowed upon him by Nurgle, the power that was more important than his axe, more important even than endurance, the essence that shaped his physical form into a poor mirror of its full reality. He became infection. As he fell, he reached out for the wounds on the Bloodbound champion’s body. His arms were weak. His blow was glancing.

But infection needed only the slightest touch to take root. All it needed was a point of ingress. All it needed was blood.

Bule found the other champion’s blood. And with the totality of his being, with the pure transmission of disease, he stole this blood from the Blood God.

The land became quiet. Fire, rot and bones became simple stone again. The empty wastes of the arena returned. The crows flew off, vanishing against the dark of the sky. The Rotbringer fell at Mir’s feet. He spasmed and twitched, still alive but fading quickly. There was no need to strike again. Even so, Mir prepared to mark his triumph with the decapitation of his foe.

He tried to raise his arms.

He could not.

He staggered back from the body. Something crawled over his flesh and through his veins. He shook so hard that he lost control of his limbs. His lungs could not draw air. He was suffocating. His gasp was the sound of iron dragged across stone.

Mir wheeled away from the Rotbringer. The stairs of the arena seemed leagues away. But Archaon stood on the end of the rock spur once more. The Everchosen waited for his champion to climb up and claim his prize. Mir would climb.

Except he was on all fours. The tremors had him in their jaws. Cold and fever hit him in waves. Thick, bloody mucus poured from his nose and mouth. He crawled toward the stairs. They were too far, too far. Behind him, he heard the Rotbringer drag his carcass forward with slow, pitiful scrapes.

Mir gasped. Everchosen, he thought. The victory is mine. Free me of this pestilence. Induct me into the Varanguard. Heal me, he thought. Let me live.

‘The final blow was mine,’ said the Rotbringer, his words barely audible. ‘Let me serve.’

Mir collapsed onto his stomach, racked by coughs. There was nothing either of them could do. Archaon knew who the victor was. He would raise that warrior up and save him.

Archaon’s laughter rumbled across the arena. ‘And thus do both exact judgement. Well done. On this day I witnessed more than a struggle between wrath and pestilence. You presented me with the contest between survival and fealty. It was instructive. And, for both of you, futile. I chose my champion before your arrival.’

No, Mir thought. His anger flared, but it could do nothing for him now. He watched Archaon walk away and out of his sight. Darkness fell over his eyes. In his last moments, he regarded the monstrosity of his years, and he recognized the fitting pointlessness of his end.

He thought he heard the laughter of crows.

The Many-Eyed Servant watched Mir and Bule die. And then it was done. He had witnessed every moment of the contest across the realms. He had looked through the eyes of insects and crows, and he had seen all there was to see. The compound tableau of vision was complete.

Except it wasn’t. There were gaps. He had not seen through the eyes of the combatants themselves. Their thoughts were closed to him. So were Archaon’s.

The Everchosen stopped up beside the sorcerer. ‘More eyes, Gaunt Summoner,’ Archaon said, in answer to an unasked question. ‘I always need more eyes.’ He gestured to the corpses below. ‘They were blind. My champion is not. And it is time he assumed his duties. Return us to my fortress.’

‘My lord,’ said the Many-Eyed Servant. He moved his arms in eldritch signs. Mystic energies gathered around him and Archaon. They grew into a great pillar of fire. It rose to the heavens. And with a clap of implosive thunder, the cold arena vanished.

‘Rise.’

Orphaeo Zuvius stood. He knew he was in the throne room. He was conscious of his body. It was healed, it was strong, and yet it retained a wound. His sight was odd. It was off-centre. He raised his fingers. He moved them toward his eyes, and when he did, his vision turned and he saw his own face from the perspective of his shoulder.

He was looking through Mallofax’s eyes.

The blue daemon bird watched what Orphaeo needed him to see. A blue jewel sat in Orphaeo’s right eye socket. A pink one occupied the left.

Orphaeo tilted his head back, and Mallofax looked up at Archaon. ‘Why have you spared me?’ Orphaeo asked.

‘Spared you? I have made you my champion. And why? Because you have vision. Because you think to look and see where others race to pointless combat and die. You sought me here, not on the battlefield. For your trespass, I have punished you. For your vision, I have blessed you.’

‘But you have stolen my sight.’

‘Have I? Look further.’

Through Mallofax’s eyes, Orphaeo examined his face again. He considered the jewels. Their facets. So many planes and angles. So many perspectives.

Of course.

With understanding came more sight. He saw as Mallofax, and he saw as the warriors under his command. He was in the fortress. He was outside its walls.

He was everywhere he would send his forces.

All the facets of the battlefield would be his.

‘Do you see?’ Archaon asked.

‘I do, Everchosen. Oh, I do.’

‘Then it is time to go to work, champion. I have wars for you to witness and to shape.’

Rob Sanders

See No Evil

The searing gaze of the Many-Eyed Servant travelled far. Nothing was beyond his regard. He could see an entire people put to the blade and moments later the cavernous emptiness in the heart of the man who had ordered such an atrocity. He saw what the Everchosen could not see, and went where the Everchosen could not be.

Archaon exercised his omnipotence through the black-hearted loyalty of those who were pledged to the Chaos gods. The realms were nothing without the mortal souls infesting them, and souls could be corrupted, bought and bartered. Those wretches already lost to the myriad corruptions of existence found deeper damnation in Archaon’s fell ranks.

The Many-Eyed Servant peered through the storm of a land long sundered. A place the Everchosen’s armies had conquered an age before. A haunted corner of the realms, empty of the people who had existed there — for either they had been assimilated into Archaon’s conquering hordes, or their skulls now made up the bonemeal beaches of the shoreline.

The Many-Eyed Servant’s gaze had passed across this dead place before. There he had seen something that he knew would anger his master and shake the realms with his fury. What the Gaunt Summoner saw was a land retaken by an enemy force. For now the darkness of these craggy fortifications had been scalded away by columns of lightning reaching down from the heavens. From these blazing conduits came the Stormcast Eternals. The God-King’s weapons of war. Sigmar had been busy and so had the forges of the Celestial Realm, crafting immaculate plate, weaponry and souls to wield them.

The Stormcast Eternals appeared on a dead peninsula called Cape Desolation. They took the fortresses lining the hellish coast without raising a weapon, and had clear plans to expand their invasion. They would bring freedom to the people of the darkness beyond the peninsula — the Shatterlands — which the Everchosen had held in his crushing grip for a thousand years.

The Many-Eyed Servant whispered what he seen to his master.

‘There is a light in the darkness, Exalted One.’

‘Light is but a brightness of the moment,’ the Everchosen said, his words burning on the air. ‘The spark of flint. The strike of lightning. It passes. Darkness is forever.’

‘This spark,’ the Many-Eyed Servant said, ‘has started a fire, my lord. A fire from the sky that threatens to rage through the Shatterlands and bring hope to peoples beyond. The God-King’s warriors rain from the heavens and have made landfall. Our bastions along Cape Desolation are theirs.’

‘Sigmar’s warriors,’ Archaon said, ‘in the Shatterlands?’ The Many-Eyed Servant heard both searing outrage and relish in his master’s voice. ‘Its people will come to know the exquisite torment of hope dashed and the terror of lights extinguished.

‘Send word to my warlords, my champions and the fell kings of the surrounding regions. Summon my unholy Varanguard. I shall lead the Knights of Ruin myself in a counter invasion. Those bastions shall be mine again. The God-King’s light shall be banished and his warriors shall flee for the skies. I want Sigmar to know that he will find no purchase in lands forever dedicated to the Chaos gods.’

Peering down through the tumultuous skies of the God-King’s storm, the Many-Eyed Servant could see his master. Riding atop the monster Dorghar — an abominable creature of twin-tail, colossal wings and three terrible heads — Archaon led the way through the holy tempest. With his cloak streaming in the maelstrom and the Slayer of Kings held out in front of him, the Destroyer of Worlds rode out the storm at the head of his fleet.

A thousand dreadships coursing through the crash and squall of a spectral sea, all flying the flag of the Everchosen. The sea was a ghostly swarm of lost souls, the crash of waves and the hiss of the surf the sound of spiritual suffering.

Thrashing with their galley oars and with flayed-flesh sails full of sacrifice-bought winds, the armada surged on towards the black peninsula. Each ship carried hordes of Chaos warriors and Archaon’s own Knights of Ruin — thousands of dark templars, clad in plate of black and gold, utterly committed to the Everchosen’s service and the absolute destruction of his enemies. Among them was a worthy warrior the Many-Eyed Servant recognised from a past trial — the sorcerous warrior they called Orphaeo Zuvius, the Prince of Embers, now a knight in the Everchosen’s service.

The Prince of Embers burned for battle.

Standing on the deck of the dreadship Aftermath — so named for the death and destruction left in its blood-churned wake — Orphaeo Zuvius felt the surge and drift of the vessel through the spectral sea. Crafted from the torched wood of treelord ancients that groaned their suffering still, the landing galley’s black prow cut through the ghostly seas. Riding the swell, he looked to the flesh-sails, filled with the doom-laden winds that took the Everchosen’s armada on towards the skull beaches of Cape Desolation. Bloodreavers scrambled up and down the rigging of raw tendons while masts of braced bone creaked with the weight of wind and sail.

Zuvius made his way across the deck. His plate was black and gold and hell-forged to fit his slender frame. While one pauldron bore the crafted symbol of Archaon, the other had a metal spike. On the spike perched the familiar Mallofax, a reptilian bird of blue feather and black heart. It had been Mallofax that had guided the Prince of Embers down his destined path and into Archaon’s dark service. The wind ruffled the intense blue of the bird’s plumage.

About the main mast the deck was crowded with warriors of Chaos — Varanguard like Zuvius who had proved their worth to the Everchosen. The bloodreaver crew gave such warriors and their monstrous, armoured steeds a wide berth. The planks smouldered where the hooves of the mounted Varanguard held firm to the deck. The ruinous knights bled malevolence and, despite the subtle differences in their appearance and the myriad blessings of their dark gods, all wore the black and gold of their master. He was the Exalted Grand Marshal of the Apocalypse and they were his instruments of doom.

Zuvius mounted his own steed, Hellion. A muscular abomination that seemed mostly horse, Hellion blinked multiple dead eyes that ran the length of its fang-filled snout. Horns erupted from its malformed skull and its transparent hide revealed the ghastly inner workings of the beast’s grotesque body. Hellion’s spiked hooves clopped across the deck. Zuvius’ daemon-forged glaive A’cuitas sat in a saddle sheathe like a spear ready to be drawn in the charge.

Around the prince, warriors of the Varanguard were making preparations. Some were readying weapons and armour. Others were bringing their steeds to heel with vicious tugs on the reins. Some were even mumbling dark prayers to the Ruinous Pantheon, bidding the gods to grant them worthy foes and a merciless victory for their Everchosen.

Nearby, Zuvius saw fellow former acolyte of the Great Changer, Aspa Erezavant. Like him, the prince had forsaken his dread god in favour of service to Archaon. Through the Everchosen, Zuvius had pledged his soul, blade and talents to the unified forces of Chaos. Aspa Erezavant never spoke of such a pledge, however. The Varanguard warrior said nothing. He never did. There was only flesh where his mouth used to be.

Zorn the Brazenfleshed, however, always had something to say. A knight of dread threats and bombast, the Varanguard had once belonged to the Blood God. Now he commanded the Aftermath for the Everchosen, ensuring the vessel — in coordination with others cutting through the souls of the spectral sea — landed their Varanguard and meatshield hordes on the beach.

‘By the fell gods,’ Zorn roared through the storm at the ship’s bloodreaver crew, ‘if you don’t get more flesh to the wind I’ll flay your hides for extra sail!’ He turned to a pair of bloodreavers attending to the rebellious tiller. ‘Hold your course, damn you. And you,’ the Varanguard warrior bellowed at a bloodstoker called Killian, ‘get below decks. More power on the stroke. Take your lash to the oar crews. I want them sitting in a pool of their own blood. The Exalted Grand Marshal demands from them everything they have to give. Gods help the wretch who holds back his best from the Everchosen of Chaos!’

Zuvius watched the Varanguard warrior knock a passing bloodreaver brutally to the deck and then deliver a vicious kick with his armoured boot.

‘Fetch my weapons and my steed!’ Zorn roared at the unfortunate.

‘The Everchosen watches,’ Sarsael Hedra said. ‘The Brazenfleshed bids to be first on the beach for our master’. The Varanguard slipped his helm down over the oily flesh of his handsome face. The warrior’s words were slick with suggestion — insolence even. No one would actually level such an accusation at Hedra, however. He had killed too many in Archaon’s name.

‘I think he just might be,’ Kadence Salivarr said, looking from the saddle out across the ghostly waves at the rest of the fleet. His eyes were bright within his twisted helm. Like Salivarr, Zuvius could see that the Aftermath was pulling ahead.

‘Not if I get there first,’ Sarsael Hedra said, pulling on the reins to line up his fell steed with the ship’s prow. An armoured mountain of filth, Vomitus Grue, shook the deck with the boom of his laughter.

‘The Everchosen watches,’ said another Varanguard warrior through the ranks of mounted knights. Known as the Unslaked, his words were barbed much like his blood-stained blade. ‘He sees all. He hears all. He hears the prattling of his warriors. Witless boasts to calm the nerve and steady the cowardly soul.’

The deck fell silent but for the clop of hooves and scolding tongue of Zorn the Brazenfleshed. The Prince of Embers moved Hellion around, edging the steed ahead of Sarsael Hedra’s own. He licked his lips with a silver tongue.

‘The Varanguard will see the dark will of the Everchosen done,’ Zuvius said, his voice assured and even. ‘Each according to his gifts. We can all trust in that — as the Exalted Grand Marshal puts his trust in his Varanguard.’

Kadence Salivarr nodded his helm slowly at Zuvius. As the storm raged about them and the ship, that seemed to be the end of the matter. The dark templars waited. Waited to disembark, to take the beach and then the bastion beyond for their dark master. If every warrior of the Varanguard did their duty well, each fortress along Cape Desolation would be taken back in the Everchosen’s name. The warriors of the God-King would be naught but the blot of an afterglow on the eye. The Shatterlands beyond the dark peninsula would belong stone and soul to the Chaos powers once more. The Varanguard about the Prince of Embers weren’t wrong though. Archaon and his sorcerous servants would be watching. They always were. Orphaeo Zuvius aimed to give them a sight to see. The Prince of Embers would make it his honour to lead the warriors of the Aftermath in their charge up the beach, behind the Everchosen himself, who would ride on ahead and strike the first terrible blow.

As well as the unhallowed ranks of the Varanguard, the Aftermath carried a small horde of Chaos killers to help take their section of the beach and soak up enemy fire: hulking khorgoraths of the Red Death, Tzeentchian sorcerers of the Glass Spire, and spindle-limbed bloodletters of twisted horn and daemon wrath. The largest contingents were the indomitable plague-bloated warriors of the Rank and Vile, led by a sack of corruption called Bloatus Belch, and the Chaos knights of the Mazarine in their glowing blue plate, directed by a two-faced champion called Vitas and Volitae. Even the Fleshblessed, the Slaaneshi spawn shackled below decks, had their role to play in the battle to come. But they were all nothing to Archaon’s chosen.

A bloodreaver walked past Zuvius with his eyes on the deck. He carried a crude spyglass in his hand for scanning their landing at the beach and the approach to their target fortress, called the Ebon Claw. Unlike Zorn the Brazenfleshed, Zuvius needed no glass. Isolated straggles of blue hair danced in the wind, while the remaining threads of his skin squirmed over the red raw flesh of his face. His silver tongue licked at scorch-smeared lips. The prince’s crow-pecked sockets now contained jewels instead of eyes — sorcerous gemstones, one blue and one pink to honour his former patron. These eyes saw for Archaon now, the labyrinthine facets of the precious stones giving him unparalleled vision.

He could see the spectral sea lapping up along a beachhead of weathered skulls. He took in the Ebon Claw beyond, a craggy edifice of petrified, black stone. Its battlements were razored like flint, while its towers were jagged like the crooked fingers of a grasping talon. Across the phantasmic waves, Zuvius saw other dreadships of the Everchosen’s armada, carrying knights like himself to take the Ebon Claw and all the other enemy-occupied forts along the coast of Cape Desolation.

Zorn had instructed the bloodstoker and his bloodreavers to keep the tiller trained on the lightning stream coursing down through the stormy skies into the Ebon Claw. It was just one of many pillars of searing power that carried the God-King’s warriors and their reinforcements into the bastions that punctuated the peninsula coast.

The dreadships converged on the shoreline. Zuvius could feel the rancid excitement on the air. Below decks, the spawn of the Fleshblessed were whipped to an ecstasy while bloodreaver oarsmen surged the galley towards the beach. The oars of the Aftermath tangled with those of another closing dreadship. Every knight of Chaos in the fleet wanted to be the first to reach the beach and earn the approval of Archaon.

Peering down the coast, however, Zuvius saw that his unhallowed master was busy. He had already reached the peninsula on the back of his monstrous daemon steed. The beast flapped his giant wings and soared across the battlements. While most would flee before the sight of the Everchosen astride his monster as they might a city-razing dragon, Sigmar’s Stormcast Eternals stood like golden statues: cold, implacable and unimpressed. As Dorghar banked, Archaon swept helms and heads from shoulders with the Slayer of Kings. Dorghar stove in towers with his lashing twin-tail and tore away sections of battlement with his great claws, sending Stormcasts raining to the ground.

‘Pass the word,’ Zorn the Brazenfleshed called down the length of the ship. ‘Prepare to disembark and fight for your lives.’

Zuvius heard Bloatus Belch and the Tzeentchian Vitus and Volitae readying their warriors below decks. He knew that the Red Death would barely be able to contain their fury and that the predacious bloodletters would be hissing their anticipation of the kill. The Varanguard would go first, however, for there were no servants of Chaos worthier than Archaon’s dark templars. And among the Varanguard ranks, there would be none as worthy as the Prince of Embers. Zuvius promised both himself and his Exalted Grand Marshal that.

‘The honour is mine,’ Zuvius hissed to himself. He worked Hellion around, lining the beast up for disembarkation. He could hear raised voices beyond.

‘My lord…’ Bloodstoker Killian said.

‘Hold your damned course,’ the Brazenfleshed spat. Zuvius looked down the coastline. Dreadships were taking in sail and stowing oars, coursing through the shallows the rest of the way to the shore. The Aftermath would not take such precautions on the approach. Zorn meant to hit the coastline at ramming speed and ride the galley as far up the skull beach as he could get.

As the vessel coursed through the shallows ahead of the armada, Zuvius saw bloodreavers wind their arms and legs about the rigging. The Chaos warriors below the decks began to chant their bloody expectation, while the ruinous knights settled into their saddles and stirrups, ready to follow the Prince of Embers.

‘For the Everchosen,’ Zuvius roared, kicking his heels into Hellion’s flanks. It was as much a challenge as an announcement. ‘May he and all who follow in his shadow know absolute victory this dark day.’

Standing up in the stirrups, Zuvius urged his steed down the length of the ship. With the steed’s spiked shoes tearing up the deck, the unnaturally swift and strong beast hit a gallop by the time it passed the mast. Dread knights of Chaos watched the prince thunder by, readying their own steeds for impact. Even on Hellion, Zuvius felt the Aftermath shudder as the vessel’s keel bit into bonemeal and then the shattered skulls of the beach. He readied himself for the inevitable. In the contest between the galley and the land, the land would eventually win.

The prince’s timing was perfect. The Aftermath had rammed its way out of the shallows and cut into the skull beach. As the vessel ground to an abrupt stop, the mast let out an excruciating creak and the flesh-sails billowed the other way. Steeds stumbled and bloodreavers were thrown from the rigging. Hellion made his jump just as the full force of the impact struck. Clearing the bulwark, the monstrous steed soared across the skulls. Hitting the beach of shattered bone at a gallop, Zuvius slipped the glaive A’cuitas from its sheath and spun it in his gauntlet. His exalted master had been the first to achieve an enemy kill on the cape. Zuvius would be the second. At his side, keeping pace with the monstrous steed, flew Mallofax.

‘Find me a way in,’ Zuvius said. The bird squawked an acknowledgement before taking to higher altitudes. Looking back, Zuvius saw that only now the other dreadships were slowing in the shallows and lowering their ladders for disembarkation. The Aftermath, however, with her keel torn out and hull well and truly beached, was disgorging her fell cargo. Inspired by the prince’s example, the knights of Archaon’s chosen had followed Zuvius and were riding up behind like a tidal wave of blade, plate and doom.

The khorgoraths of the Red Death hadn’t waited for bloodreavers to open the vessel’s fang-lined boarding-maws. The monstrous creatures of red flesh and fury had smashed their way through the hull and were lumbering up the beach towards the enemy. While the Fleshblessed spawn were unleashed upon the beach and made their mindless approach at unnatural speed, Bloatus Belch and the two-faced Tzeentchian exited the vessel through the holes the khorgoraths had left behind. They led their warriors past the sorcerers of the Glass Spire and out onto the bonemeal. Bloodstoker Killian cracked his whip and blew a horn, prompting the Aftermath’s bloodreaver crew to grab their blades and leave the ship.

Racing towards the Ebon Claw, Zuvius could see the golden shapes of the Stormcast Eternals. The God-King’s warriors had been busy. The black talon of petrified stone was now but a derelict shell. Like the petals of a dead flower, the sharp walls and cragged towers of the fort had given way to new fortifications built within the ruins. About the column of lightning streaming down, new and glorious fortifications had sprung up — domed citadels of silver and gold. Immaculate structures of globed indomitability, at odds with the petrified jaggedness of the surrounding fortifications. It was as though the Ebon Claw suffered some kind of taintless cancer, with towers of metal, light and storm blooming amongst the twisted architecture of the malefic bastion.

Zuvius read the enemy’s defence of the fortress. Archers in glorious plate and their watching lords took position on razor-sharp battlements and looked down on the beach approach through crooked arrow slits. Meanwhile, destroyers in burnished plate collapsed the fortress gateway, turning the entrance into a barricade of smashed rubble with earth-shaking blows from their crackling hammers. Atop towers and derelict ramparts, Stormcasts waited for the Chaos invaders with glaives and great shields, their impassive stillness an invitation to death.

Suddenly everything was gold and bone. Zuvius resisted the urge to haul upon the reins as the beach exploded before him. Hitting the ground and throwing skulls and bone shards into the air with the force of their landing were the warrior-heralds of the God-King. Launching from the walls of the Ebon Claw, armoured warriors had flown down to the shoreline, dropping with the force of a meteorite shower crashing to the ground. Their wings were a spread of lightning blades whilst they clutched a pair of ornate hammers in their gauntleted hands.

Zuvius would not be stopped. Urging Hellion on into the warrior heralds, the prince extended A’cuitas out in front of him like a spear. Zuvius crashed into his foes.

The knight’s glaive punctured its way through a faceplate, impaling the skull of a landing herald. The Prince of Embers allowed himself a flesh-smeared smile. As the weapon skewered the head clean off the armoured warrior, Hellion rammed his horn straight through the breastplate of another and tossed the enemy aside. With the death of each Stormcast, soul-lightning leapt for the sky with a satisfying crack and flash. Battering another Stormcast aside, Hellion turned the warrior into a staggering mess of celestial plate. Allowing the glaive shaft to slide forward in his grasp, Zuvius smashed the heavy metal pommel of the weapon down through the herald’s helm. Braining the warrior with the bulbous counterweight, Zuvius saw another flash of lightning rocket up to the heavens.

Thundering through the heralds’ freshly landed ranks, Zuvius heaved on the reins and turned Hellion about. He would ride them down from behind, pounding their plate into the skull beach with his mount’s hooves.

The warrior-heralds had recovered quickly, however. Having turned to receive the knight’s attack, they threw their celestial hammers head over haft at Zuvius. It was all he could do to lean out of their pulverising path. As one smashed his gauntlet, while another grazed his pauldron. Zuvius didn’t see a hammer flung at the last moment towards his head.

Smashed in the face, Zuvius almost tumbled from the saddle. His skull felt as though it had been split in two and though he fought to stay alert, consciousness started to slip away from him. The prince shook his head. He could not allow himself to fall. He would be butchered by the God-King’s warrior heralds.

Zuvius was suddenly at the eye of a storm of hammer blows. Hellion reared and the prince tried to turn the beast while fending off as many of the strikes as he could. He heard something crack in his side as both plate and bone gave in to the force of a righteous smash. Zuvius grunted. There was nothing his serpentine words or silver tongue could do to get him out of this. Hellion was drowning in a sea of plate, while heralds smashed at Zuvius, attempting to pierce his hell-forged armour and drag him down.

Zuvius briefly entertained the blasphemous notion that he was finished. That his service to the Everchosen would end here on Cape Desolation. Zuvius turned A’cuitas about in his gauntlet and clutched the shaft under one arm. Aiming the pommel at the advancing heralds, the prince unleashed a crackling arc of lightning. The Stormcasts trembled for a second as the sorcerous energies of the daemon-forged glaive coursed through them before exploding in a shower of blood and crackling soulfire, their spiritual essence rocketing for the sky.

Untouched by the arcing bolt, a surviving herald lifted his hammers to pound Zuvius into the bone beach. The prince put his glaive between him and his enemy, deflecting the hammer heads with the shaft. Pulling the glaive back with sudden violence, the prince cut the crowning blade through his enemy’s throat before heaving it back to take the herald’s head off his armoured body.

As the bloody mist cleared, Zuvius saw other newly landed warrior-heralds racing for him, hammers held in both hands. Zuvius felt thunder rolling up the beach. His brothers in corruption had arrived. Riding their monstrous mounts like a black wave crashing up the beach, the knights of the Everchosen’s calling crashed through the God-King’s ranks. While some warrior-heralds managed to land blows on the armoured steeds or knock the warriors of Chaos from their saddles, most succumbed to the earth-trembling charge. Fellspears sheared straight through plate and the blessed flesh within. Daemon-forged swords and great ensorcelled axes chopped down the Stormcasts as the line of steeds passed through, sending columns of lightning arcing for the heavens.

The horde from the Aftermath stormed the beach after their Varanguard, making their way towards Zuvius. The spawn of the Fleshblessed, gibbering with expectation, and the bloodreavers ran ahead of the mob. The Mazarine and the lumbering fury that were the khorgoraths of the Red Death weren’t far behind, with the Glass Spire sorcerers and Bloatus Belch’s Rank and Vile making more sedate progress up the beach. They would all play their part in the horror to come. As a meatshield before the mighty Varanguard or as scavengers devouring the scraps Archaon’s chosen left behind, the horde would find service to the Dark Gods.

As injured warriors tried to get to their feet, more heralds glided across the charging columns of knights to fortify their number. Zuvius turned Hellion about and raced off to join the mounted ranks of the Varanguard, leaving the warrior-heralds to be swamped by butchers, monstrosities and dread swordsmen.

Cape Desolation was a vast shoreline of bone and darkness, swarmed by the Chaos hordes of Archaon’s monstrous army. It was swallowed by the charging ranks of Varanguard, their mounted number shattering the skulls of the beachhead and closing about the twisted forts lining the peninsula. The Everchosen was everywhere, soaring through the storm, setting the monstrous Dorghar on fortification after fortification. As Archaon cut Stormcasts from the ramparts with blazing sweeps of the Slayer of Kings, the daemon mount tore down sigmarite towers erected amongst the razored ruins of Chaos bastions.

To any other mortal in the nine realms, the sight would have shredded their minds and turned their hearts white with terror. Like the fires of doom, the Everchosen and his World Enders had arrived. Suffering and death awaited all in Archaon’s path. The God-King’s Stormcasts were not just any other mortals, however, if they were mortal at all. Crafted of immaculate plate and righteous flesh, the Stormcasts were Sigmar’s cold wrath incarnate. They knew no fear and lived for the sole purpose of driving the scourge of Chaos from the realms.

All along the coast, the beach was lit up by streaming shots of celestial energies. Flights of skybolt arrows blazed up out of the fortresses before dropping back down onto the beach in searing volleys. Lightning blasts created craters in the shattered skulls and blasts were shot through rough arrow slits from boltstorm crossbows. Zuvius rode up through the lines of mounted knights and the blinding storm of celestial energy being visited upon the approach to the Ebon Claw.

‘Damn these armoured curs,’ Sarsael Hedra roared from the saddle as Zuvius pulled level with the dread knight.

‘Hiding behind our walls with their craven weapons,’ Vomitus Grue rumbled from along the line. Aspa Erezavant, who was riding up behind, said nothing. Drawing ahead of the Prince of Embers, Sarsael brought up his warpsteel shield. Riders along the line did the same. Skybolt arrows rained from the sky, stabbing into the beach about the hooves of the knights’ steeds and fizzling to nothing against the surface of their shields.

‘Behind their breastplates they fear us,’ Zuvius roared. ‘Let us be the realisation of that fear in flesh and blood. Let us besmirch these lands once more and send the Stormcasts shrieking back to their God-King.’

‘For the Everch—’ Zorn the Brazenfleshed called, riding up behind them. The red-skinned knight never got to finish his proclamation as both he and his blood-sweating steed disappeared in the blast from a thunderbolt crossbow.

As lightning struck the beach, reaching out from the impact site with spidery arcs of energy, armoured warriors went down. Steeds crashed into the skulls, throwing their Varanguard riders, who died in crackling cages of arcing power.

Zuvius and Sarsael’s steeds jumped the fallen. As Hellion crushed skulls to bone dust on the other side, Zuvius hauled the reins from one side to another, avoiding more sizzling arrows dropping from the sky. The Prince of Embers spat his disgust. The Stormcast Eternals aimed to thin out the Everchosen’s warhordes before they even reached the bastion and mounted their siege. Varanguard were dying. The approach to the fortress was a lightning-scalded killing ground of havoc and confusion. With Zorn the Brazenfleshed and a number of veteran Varanguard dead, the Prince of Embers felt the eyes of the Everchosen on him. Archaon swooped overhead astride his daemon mount, momentarily drawing the lightning storm of fire from the Ebon Claw. Zuvius would not fail his dread master.

‘With me…’ Zuvius started to say to Sarsael Hedra, but the dread knight was dead — a skybolt arrow finding its way around his shield to skewer his horned head.

‘Come on!’ the Prince of Embers called down the line. Savagely digging his boot heels into Hellion’s ghastly flesh, Zuvius drew ahead of the charge. Galloping headlong through the celestial streams, explosions and lightning traps, the ruinous knight led by example. Other warriors in gold and black plate similarly urged their steeds onwards through the tempest of light. In cutting down the amount of time spent on the approach, Zuvius hoped to limit their casualties. It was imperative that the Chaos forces arrived to besiege the forts in unstoppable numbers. With the lightning column blazing down into the Ebon Claw supplying fresh Stormcast Eternals, the Varanguard would have to overwhelm the Stormcasts there and cut off the God-King’s reinforcements.

As the charge entered the deep shadow of the Ebon Claw, the bolts and shafts of celestial energy began to dwindle. With Archaon’s chosen all but to the walls, the angles became too tight for the Stormcast archers. Instead Zuvius felt the arrow storm pass overhead, destined for the advance of Archaon’s hordes making their way up the beach. It was a gauntlet that Bloatus Belch and the Tzeentchian Vitus and Volitae would have to run.

Zuvius slowed Hellion before the petrified black rock of the Ebon Claw’s walls. Above, the magnificent sigmarite towers reached up out of the jagged talon of the fortress’ damned architecture. Zuvius hauled on the reins and had his steed come to a stop on the shattered bone of the beach. As Archaon’s chosen arrived at the fort walls they did the same, drawing their daemon-forged battle-axes and ensorcelled sword blades.

Zuvius heard the flap of wings. Landing on the prince’s pauldron spike in a cascade of cerulean feathers was Mallofax, returned from his reconnaissance. From his singed wing, Zuvius could see that the bird had also suffered the attentions of Stormcast archers.

‘Speak, bird,’ Zuvius said as the creature got its breath back. ‘How many?’

‘Hundreds, at least,’ Mallofax squawked, ‘with reinforcements coming down from the sky.’ Zuvius looked up at the column of lightning blazing out of the heavens into the fortress. It was going to be a problem. The Varanguard would have to find a way to cut it off.

‘Does the host have a commander?’

Mallofax squawked his incredulity. ‘They all look the same to me.’

‘A Stormcast,’ Zuvius pressed the bird, ‘surrounded by banner men, coordinating defences, issuing orders…’

‘Yes,’ the bird said. ‘There’s one sat astride a great reptile.’

‘Where?’

‘The courtyard,’ Mallofax squawked. ‘With the main body of the host.’

Zuvius snarled at the thought of the enemy commander so close beyond the wall.

‘Entry?’ he demanded of the bird.

‘All the entrances have been collapsed,’ Mallofax said, hopping about on the pauldron spike as grit rained from above. ‘There’s no way in.’

‘There’s always a way in,’ the Prince of Embers insisted. He had besieged all manner of fortresses. Not even the Everchosen’s own Varanspire had stopped him.

‘The Stormcast fortifications favour the north and west structures, reinforcing the demolished towers there. The walls are thinner,’ Mallofax said, ‘more dilapidated on the southern side.’

Zuvius nodded his approval, grit pitter-pattering off his plate.

‘Fly,’ he told the bird. ‘Bring the sorcerers and breachers for the walls. We shall need a shield of tainted meat before us as we enter.’

The Ebon Claw blazed with energies launched from the jagged ramparts and Stormcast towers. Mounted Varanguard charged up to the walls, leaving smouldering mounds of corrupt flesh and hell-forged plate in their wake — Knights of Ruin and their mounts who had failed to run the blinding gauntlet of the Stormcast archers. With many veteran Varanguard dead on the beach or struggling their way up it, Archaon’s chosen had stalled. They needed an objective. All that faced them, however, was the petrified black stone of the fortress wall.

Zuvius watched the warhorde advance up the beach. While the spawn of the Fleshblessed made a maniacal dash across the open, crossbow-blasted ground and the horrific khorgoraths of the Red Death cared little for the searing streams and explosions, the rest of the horde followed the Glass Spire sorcerers. The Tzeentchians used their unnatural talents to create changes in the landscape about them. Moving their willowy arms and fingers in strange patterns, they caused the skulls of the beach to tremble and part to admit glowing blue shafts of crystal. Creating natural shields for the advancing hordes, the sorcerers strode up the beach with Bloatus Belch’s Rank and Vile, the Mazarine knights and the bloodreaver crew of the Aftermath.

Moving from outcrop to crystalline outcrop, the warhorde made good progress. The bolts and streams of lightning blazing from the Ebon Claw scorched the crushed-bone beach about them. There were casualties across the killing ground, however. Mindless spawn were reduced to charred meat by the eruption of lightning storms. Slow moving members of the Rank and Vile exploded in plague-swollen splendour as streams of celestial energy struck their outliers.

As crystal shuddered up through the skulls to absorb the worst of the lightning storm and the warhorde took advantage of the cover, the surviving warrior-heralds on the beach smashed into the mobs of Chaos warriors. The warhorde was a monster, ravenous for its first taste of slaughter. While the heralds fearlessly ran at the ruinous horde, they were enveloped by corrupt killers and torn apart. Khorgoraths snatched up the Stormcasts, wings and all, and hurled them furiously into the bone-shattering surface of the conjured crystal. The knights of the Mazarine went toe to toe with the warrior-heralds, while bloodreavers slit their throats. Those Stormcasts unfortunate enough to smash their way into the Rank and Vile found a host of implacable foes. Their diseased flesh soaked up all the punishment the God-King’s servants could mete out, all with the rancid smiles of their jovial patron plastered across their pox-marked faces. With the blaze of fallen Stormcasts shooting for the sky, the warhorde made their approach on the fortress.

The Varanguard known as the Unslaked sidled his steed aggressively up against Zuvius’ own. He had seen Zuvius despatch his bird for the hordes following the Varanguard up the skull beach.

‘Zorn would have smashed through that barbican,’ the Unslaked stated.

‘Zorn’s dead,’ Kadence Salivarr called across the storm.

‘The Stormcasts will expect it,’ Zuvius told the Unslaked. ‘While we’re excavating the rubble from that gateway, they’ll rain down destruction upon us. Look,’ Zuvius said, indicating the way in which the Stormcast fortifications had grown up out of the shattered stone of the Ebon Claw. He then pointed at the approaching sorcerers of the Glass Spire and the shafts of crystal they were drawing up through the beachhead. ‘There will be losses beneath the barbican. There will be no siege. We shall create our own entrance. Large enough to admit a meatshield and our mounted ranks. We shall rush the Stormcasts from within.’ Zuvius saw Vomitus Grue and Aspa Erezavant nod their approval. Salivarr stared at the Unslaked, who seemed to rage within his helmet.

As a storm of celestial energy blazed from the ramparts, something else dropped down from the battlements. Before the Unslaked could respond, towering Stormcasts in ornate armour landed about the knights and their steeds. Dropping down from the castle walls, the Stormcasts carried massive battle hammers that seethed with celestial power. A huge warrior landing with assuredness next to Zuvius brought his colossal hammer down on Hellion’s back with a blaze of power. The steed almost buckled, staggering away from the Stormcast warrior. As Zuvius recovered his balance and hauled Hellion back, the Stormcast turned swiftly on Zuvius.

The prince thrust his glaive at the God-King’s warrior with enough force to skewer a gargant. The Stormcast was swift as well as huge, however, and twisted his ornate helm to one side to avoid the glaive blade. Knocking A’cuitas aside with the shaft of his hammer, the Stormcast spun around and landed a hammer blow on the prince’s leg. Knocked back with Hellion into the unforgiving stone of the fortress wall, Zuvius felt both the wind and all sense knocked out of him. His armour plate was buckled and a pain in his thigh blazed to agonising intensity.

Struggling to see through the pain, Zuvius just got his head out of the way of a hammer blow that stove a hole in the stone of the exterior wall. As Zuvius hauled Hellion away from the wall and the plunging arc of the great hammer, he could see hulking Stormcasts and Archaon’s chosen fighting a ferocious battle along the fort wall. Another huge Stormcast landed nearby, falling into a crouch to absorb the distance of the drop. Zuvius rode up behind him, thrusting the glaive down, stabbing him in the back. Punching the heavy blade through the golden plate, Zuvius feverishly stabbed him twice more before kicking him forward. Crashing faceplate first onto the skull beach, the dead Stormcast turned into a vaulting arc of lightning.

With blood on his teeth and scorch-smeared lips, Zuvius pulled Hellion around. He shot the first Stormcast a contemptuous grin. The towering warrior swung the hammer about him, stepping forward to smash the knight to oblivion. The prince allowed the Stormcast to advance. He kept Hellion moving and jabbed at the warrior with his glaive to keep his attention.

‘Erezavant,’ the prince said finally, ‘just kill him.’

The Stormcast turned to see another of Archaon’s chosen behind him. The dark knight’s eyes said everything. They narrowed, serpent-like, right before the strike. Erezavant already had the broad and smoking blade of his ensorcelled sword up and ready. At Zuvius’ words, Aspa Erezavant swung the cursed weapon and cut the top of the Stormcast’s head off. As the sorcerous smoke cleared, the warrior’s open helm and skull were revealed to the sky.

The Stormcast crashed down onto his knees and fell face forward. By the time the spirit of the God-King’s servant had blazed away, Erezavant was gone — on the bloody trail of another foe.

Turning, Zuvius saw the Varanguard fighting hard against Stormcasts who were dropping down the rough wall from the ramparts. The fighting was bloody. Stormcasts hammered monstrous steeds to death before pulverising their trapped riders with polished, crackling hammers. The dread knights of Archaon fought back, spearing lone Stormcasts or hacking them apart with daemon-forged blades. Vomitus Grue, whose fell blessing was to know no pain, took several blows to the head with a lightning-wreathed hammer. Almost knocked from the saddle, the indomitable warrior leant down to grab the armoured Stormcast by the helm and smashed him repeatedly against the fortress wall.

The battle was turning. The Stormcasts were fearless and powerful but while they were undoubtedly the living weapons of a god, their god was not with them. Archaon, the Exalted Grand Marshal of the Apocalypse and demigod of Chaos, fought side by side with his dread armies. Every damned wretch on that beach simultaneously adored and loathed the Everchosen. He led by example, inspiring his slaves to darkness with monstrous acts of destruction, and through the heart-stopping incentive of fear. Battle-hardened champions, lords of Chaos and abominable daemons dared not fail him and, if asked to, would walk into certain death for Archaon.

‘Come on!’ Zuvius roared back down the beach, riding around to the south wall through throngs of knights and Stormcasts in desperate combat. Kadence Salivarr gave chase, Vomitus Grue and Aspa Erezavant on his heels, and the Unslaked in their wake.

Mallofax had returned. With him he had brought the warhorde: spawn, monstrosities, daemons and men of dark purpose.

As Zuvius and two other ruinous knights carrying fellspears impaled a trapped Stormcast in an excruciating three-way skewer, he saw the Glass Spire sorcerers approach. Ripping A’cuitas out of the unfortunate warrior, the prince left him to the other two warriors.

‘Sorcerers,’ Zuvius called. ‘The Everchosen has need of your wretched talents.’ Salivarr and the Varanguard drew up behind the Prince of Embers.

‘My lord,’ the first of the robed creatures said, his eyes on the ground.

‘The Stormcast have denied us entrance to our own fortress,’ Zuvius said. ‘I want you to create another. I’m assured the wall is thinner and weaker here. Bring forth your creations and split the stone apart.’

‘At once, my lord,’ the Glass Spire sorcerer said, signalling to nearby enchanters with his third arm. Zuvius turned to see the knights of the Everchosen’s calling and the monstrous horde gathering at the south wall of the Ebon Claw.

‘Well,’ Kadence Salivarr said. ‘Tell them.’

Zuvius spat at the beach of skulls.

‘This miserable scrap of land is ours,’ the prince said. He slapped the petrified stone of the wall beside him. ‘This is ours. The realm is ours and all others beyond. Ours by dark right. By right of conquest. Ours for the taking. The warriors of the God-King trespass on unholy ground.’

Zuvius directed the sorcerers of the Glass Spire to work their dread magic. ‘For corruption’s sake, for the coming end, for Almighty Archaon. Bring it down.’

Shafts of blue crystal burst from the wall of the Ebon Claw. The columns of crystal sheared away sections of the wall. Working their way through the rock like a wedge, they pulverised the crumbling material in between, creating not only a large, ragged entrance but also crystalline columns to support it.

‘Now!’ Zuvius roared.

Bloatus Belch ordered his Rank and Vile in through the breach. Putrid warriors, green and distended with disease, they wore rusted scraps of plate and mail. Smiling like mad men, the blightkings pushed on.

Archaon’s chosen held back, despite their eagerness to let loose. Such dread warriors could not be wasted on a wall breach. The cankered and inexorable troops of the Great Lord of Decay were perfect for such a duty. Unrelenting, uncaring sacks of rancid filth that would soak up the worst the Stormcasts had to throw at them, a rancid meatshield advancing before the mounted doom of the Varanguard.

Over the wall, Zuvius could hear movement — the trembling of stone beneath boots and the rattle of plate. The breaching of the south wall had been unexpected but the Stormcasts had hundreds of warriors within the fortress ready to respond and repel enemy invaders. As Bloatus Belch allowed the rusty chains of his flail to fall ready from his meaty, green fist, he filed in with his warriors. There was unremitting death and destruction to be had within and the blightlord wanted to be part of it.

As Zuvius heard the clash of Stormcast weaponry on the corrosion-pitted blightblades of Belch’s soldiers, he knew that the Stormcasts intended on destroying the interlopers without mercy and plugging the breach. With countless warriors inside the courtyard surging towards the south wall, the Prince of Embers knew exactly what to do. The khorgoraths of the Red Death had thus far only been unleashed on the last of the hammer-wielding Stormcasts outside of the walls. Now it was time to set them against the packed ranks of hallowed warriors within.

The hulking creatures of the Red Death enlarged the ragged entrance with their muscular bulk. With them Zuvius sent the daemon bloodletters, the fast and rangy killers being the perfect complement to the destructive khorgoraths.

A Mazarine knight and one of the bloodreavers suddenly disappeared in a flash of celestial energy. Arcs of lightning crackled through the tight ranks of Fleshblessed spawn and blightkings. Looking up, Zuvius saw Stormcast archers on the battlements above, aiming bows and crossbows.

‘More,’ Zuvius growled at the Glass Spire sorcerers. ‘And take care of those.’

As the Tzeentchian sorcerers drew on their powers, spikes and shafts of crystal erupted up through the black stone of the fortress. Crystal-braced holes opened up in the wall, while the ramparts above cracked and sheared away, plunging the Stormcast Eternals earthward.

Above, Zuvius felt the mighty beat of Dorghar’s wings as the daemon steed took Archaon swooping overhead. The Varanguard roared their jubilation. The prince took this as a good sign. The Everchosen was departing to visit his monstrous wrath and that of his daemon upon the other bastions. He was leaving the Ebon Claw in the hands of his Varanguard, having seen them breach its walls.

It was time. The Varanguard needed to overwhelm the defenders with a single, decisive action. They had not landed their hordes and taken the beach to be target practice for the Stormcasts. The enemy held fortified positions and could afford to wait them out. Besides, within the fortress the enemy would think twice about loosing into their own lines.

Archaon was watching. Expecting. Zuvius felt the dark energy about him. It was the seething desire of the Varanguard to see their warlord’s will be done.

‘For the Everchosen!’ the Prince of Embers roared across the ranks.

Archaon’s chosen stormed the breach, clutching monstrous spears, warpsteel shields and hell-forged blades that smoked with murderous expectation.

The air was thick with lung-shredding dust. With A’cuitas held ready for the thrust, Zuvius charged through the breach. Within the fortress, Zuvius saw that crystalline shafts had ripped up through the foundations, burying nearby Stormcasts in rubble.

The Ebon Claw was a pit of unrelenting slaughter. Death waited but moments away for all fighting within its walls. There were Stormcast Eternals everywhere — their plate almost blinding as it reflected the light storm funnelling down from the sky and into the scorched ground of the courtyard. Crackling silhouettes ventured forth from the lightning column, becoming searing realisations as their boots touched stone. It became clear to Zuvius that the God-King’s hallowed warriors had no intention of giving up the fortress. It was carnage — with Stormcasts and warriors of Chaos barely having room to raise their weapons.

As Zuvius rode through the wreckage, hammers came crackling up at the prince’s head. Leaning out of their path, Zuvius evaded them, allowing them to pulverise the petrified stone. The prince cut two of the Stormcasts down. A third leapt into his path, swinging a blazing mace. Zuvius pulled back on the reins. He drew Hellion out of the way of the bludgeoning, angular edges of the weapon before kicking the Stormcast back at the wall. The precarious stone above his foe came loose and buried the celestial warrior while the Prince of Embers dug his heels into his steed’s side, prompting the beast to surge on.

From rock dust Zuvius entered a haze of blood, cooked in the air by the passage of skybolts shot down into the courtyard from the battlements. The prince had been wrong about the Stormcast archers. Confident in their aim, they were unafraid to fire into the seething melee below with the furious energy of their lightning bows.

Zuvius scanned the brutality and bloodshed. Stormcast warriors with mighty warblades were hacking at the Knights Mazarine, battering them back with their sigmarite shields, while the khorgoraths of the Red Death snatched up the golden warriors and tore off their heads. Bloatus Belch was dead, a Stormcast hammer still buried in his plague-swollen corpulence. His Rank and Vile advanced still, soaking up the God-King’s wrath. As hammers knocked sprays of flies from their mouths, stove in ribcages and splattered pus-ridden limbs, the blightkings fought on. They relentlessly hacked and stabbed with their diseased blades, the smiles of Grandfather Nurgle on their maggot-eaten faces.

The Glass Spire sorcerers were held high above the rabble, impaled on the long blades of Stormcast glaives, the last of their number bringing down ramparts and stone stairwells with their crystal blooms to reveal the polished metal of Stormcast towers and fortifications.

Bloodstoker Killian and his bloodreavers, however, hopelessly outclassed by divine warriors in full celestial plate, were fighting rabidly. Driven on by the lash, they rolled fearlessly under the lumbering weaponry of the Stormcasts, despite suffering continuous losses. They came at their foes in gorethirsty throngs: gouging throats, plunging reaverblades into backs and feverishly stabbing Stormcasts in the sides of their helms.

Zuvius caught sight of the Fleshblessed. The monstrous spawn swarmed over the golden paladins like a plague of deranged spiders. Putting their extra limbs to good work, they prized plate from the warriors and tore out throats, hearts and entrails. For their part, the paladins wielded mighty axes that lopped limbs and heads from the wretched spawn. Above the din of clashing blades and battle, the Fleshblessed took their grotesque talents to the ramparts. Leaping from paladin to wall, the abominations clawed, hauled and swung their way up the ramshackle architecture of the fortress. Latching onto Stormcast archers, the plague of spawn tore warriors from their footings. As the Stormcasts crashed down onto the battlements and then fell the distance to the crowded courtyard, the Fleshblessed suffered shafts of celestial energy and crossbow blasts. Those who survived leapt for the armoured archers and began tearing at heads and limbs.

A rogue shaft of celestial energy from a skybolt bow caught Zuvius in the back, causing the prince to snarl his pain. As a hammer landed a glancing blow on his pauldron, knocking him to one side, Zuvius clasped his glaive in one gauntlet and against his arm. Flinging the glaive around in a furious arc from the saddle, the Prince of Embers cut the Stormcast in half.

There was polished plate everywhere. Weapons clashing. Blades thrusting for the kill. Hammers decapitating Chaos invaders. Tzeentchian knights fought side by side with bloated blightkings. Bloodreaver savages died in their droves amongst Slaaneshi spawn thrashing their lives away to defend them. Love and fear of the Everchosen in equal measure pushed the warhorde on to feats of suicidal valour. No-one wanted to be left alive, should the invasion of Cape Desolation be a failure. Not at the mercy of the Everchosen’s boundless wrath.

Through the hordes emerged Archaon’s chosen. Pale reflections of the Everchosen himself in their dark plate, they were almost the opposite of the Stormcast Eternals.

The Varanguard fought like tempests of black-hearted vengeance. Charging through the Chaos ranks and into the enemy with the cold confidence of warriors undefeated, they thrust their fellspears through throats. They battered Stormcasts to smashed armour and bloody pulp with their warpsteel shields. They hacked limbs and immaculate helms from shoulders with tight and ruthless strikes of their daemon-forged blades.

Turning Hellion amongst the mayhem and desperation of battle, Zuvius raised A’cuitas to stab and blast the God-King’s warriors out of his path. Shrugging off glancing blows of polished blades and the sparks of lightning hammers, the prince heaved his steed around to find his weapon raised at other Varanguard. Aspa Erezavant said nothing. Kadence Salivarr spoke for both of them.

‘Hold, brother,’ the knight called, knocking aside the disciplined thrust of a Stormcast glaive. Zuvius could hear the rancid boom of Vomitus Grue’s laughter through the clash of blades as he watched the plague-ridden warrior almost spear one of his own kind.

‘This isn’t working,’ the Unslaked said, riding up between them. ‘As fast as we send these craven filth back to their weakling god, more of them arrive.’

Cutting a Stormcast’s head from his shoulders with an elegant sweep of his blade, Salivarr nodded his agreement.

‘We need to kill all that we can,’ Zuvius answered. He gestured to the column of lightning blazing down into the fort, before bringing A’cuitas brutally down through an attacking herald. ‘But more will follow, while that conduit remains open. Find and destroy their lords. No doubt they hold the key to such sky-rending sorcery. Spread the word. Let us justify the Everchosen’s faith.’

As Zuvius and the Knights of Ruin took the fight deeper into the courtyard, the sky lit up with souls rocketing for the heavens. As the Stormcasts disappeared in blazes of lightning, Zuvius found their comrades to be undaunted.

Seizing a glaive blade that had sliced into his side, Zuvius held the Stormcast who wielded it steady. The prince’s grimace of pain turned into a triumphant snarl as an enraged khorgorath of the Red Death bit the golden warrior’s head off, only to have his prey disappear in a flash of lightning. This seemed to infuriate the khorgorath even more — the thing already stuck with the quivering shafts of spears and glaives. The monster swept the advancing line of Stormcasts aside before settling upon one to beat into the courtyard floor.

‘Feast!’ Zuvius commanded a nearby horde of bloodletters. At the Varanguard’s command they jumped onto the remaining Stormcasts, who were swinging their glaives at the Prince of Embers. The rangy daemons tore at heads and plunged their brazen blades into metal then flesh. ‘Blood for the Blood God…’ Zuvius said in mock gratitude.

The prince’s jubilation was short lived. Although the horde seemed to be soaking up the worst of the Stormcasts’ punishment and Archaon’s Varanguard were intent on cutting a path of bloody death through the enemy, the celestial warriors still came. Reinforced by the lightning column, it was only a matter of time before the battle turned in the God-King’s favour. The forces of the Everchosen had thrown hordes in their entirety at the fortifications along Cape Desolation. With the ability to replenish their warriors within the walls, however, the Stormcasts had the advantage. The day would be theirs unless the dark warriors could even the odds.

Looking up through the bloody mist of the crowded courtyard, Zuvius saw Stormcast reinforcements take their positions. The derelict ramparts of black stone, speared by the silver and gold of sigmarite towers erected through the fort, were crowded with the God-King’s warriors. Silhouetted against the blazing column of lightning, the prince saw a Stormcast lord riding a reptilian beast giving orders to a skull-helmed warrior. Zuvius calculated that his only chance to destroy the conduit was to kill the lord.

‘Varanguard,’ Zuvius called to Archaon’s chosen. ‘There upon the battlements. Let’s take our fight to a foe deserving of our hell-forged steel.’

Zuvius saw Vomitus Grue headbutt a paladin in the faceplate and toss him to the Rank and Vile before urging his powerful steed up the rubble of the south wall. Like Grue, other knights in their plate of black and blood-splattered gold finished their present foes before making for the battlements.

Zuvius saw the Unslaked mount the shattered steps of a half-demolished stairwell. He fought through the axe-wielding Stormcasts holding it from the Knights Mazarine. Meanwhile, Kadence Salivarr’s elegant monstrosity leapt up through the ruin of the south wall, bounding and balancing from purchase to precarious purchase. All the while, the Varanguard warrior stabbed and slashed his blade through surrounding Stormcasts.

The Prince of Embers grunted his derision. Zuvius would be damned anew before offering up such a prize to his brothers in darkness. As he saw an opportunity to reach the battlements ahead of them he raced away, only to be suddenly torn backwards.

A Stormcast hammer had struck him in the shoulder, puncturing the pauldron and hooking him back. Tensing his thighs about the saddle and clinging to the reins, Zuvius held on. As the pull of the hammer hauled him and the steed around, the immaculate gauntlet of a Stormcast smashed him across the face. Zuvius reeled. His face was already a mess but now his nose was broken and blood-splattered.

‘Unholy wretch,’ the Stormcast said through the mirrored finish of a glistening helm. His words crackled like the divine metal of the Stormcast weaponry. Swiping again at Zuvius, the celestial warrior cracked his cheekbone and ripped the thin flesh of his face where the ornate gauntlet caught him. ‘The spawn of corruption. You are a thing of evil.’

‘Indeed I am,’ Zuvius snarled before being savagely hammered in the jaw by the Stormcast’s righteous fist. Blood and teeth went flying, tapping and spattering against the glorious pauldron of a nearby paladin.

‘The God-King comes to claim what is his,’ the Stormcast snarled. ‘Soul, stone and sky. All belong to Sigmar. Do you hear me, creature?’

As the skull-helmed warrior rushed to attack once more, the Prince of Embers was ready. Clutching his glaive close to its crowning blade, the knight used the momentum of the next savage tug to thrust A’cuitas down into the Stormcast’s chest. Zuvius pulled him close and watched as blood streamed from the mouth slit of the skull helm. Zuvius thrust again with the glaive, down through the diaphragm and into the gut. The prince felt his foe tense with every plunge.

‘Yes,’ Zuvius told him. ‘I hear you.’

Zuvius ripped the glaive out of the warrior. The Stormcast staggered back, a bloody hole in his chest that cascaded gore down his beautiful suit of armour. The prince pulled the hammer from his ruined pauldron and dropped it on the ground with disgust. He didn’t like the feel of the celestial weapon.

‘Hear this,’ Zuvius spat. ‘Now I go to ensure that your God-King forfeits his claim.’

Leaving the Stormcast to waver and stagger in his last moments of life, Zuvius rode across the courtyard. Barging Stormcast and warhorde warriors aside with Hellion’s armoured flanks, the prince used the shaft of his glaive to smash a lunging Stormcast aside. As another took a swing at him with his grandblade, Zuvius leant down out of its devastating path. Jabbing the blade of A’cuitas through his faceplate, Zuvius rammed the glaive home in the warrior’s skull. Leaving a trail of vaulting lightning storms in his wake, Zuvius reached the other side of the courtyard.

Jabbing his armoured heels into Hellion’s sides, Zuvius prompted the beast to leap up onto a collapsed section of wall, then from the back of a mortally wounded khorgorath, who roared its blood-gurgling defiance. As lightning shafts scorched the stone about him, the Prince of Embers thrust his glaive up into an armoured archer who fell forwards into the courtyard. Urging Hellion on, Zuvius risked the scrabble up the twisted architecture of the wall. A monstrous leap demolished the structure below. As Zuvius held out his glaive to balance, Hellion’s hooves reached the battlements and carried the knight to stable ground.

At last, the Prince of Embers saw the Stormcast lord. He was backed up onto the steps of a gold, sigmarite citadel. The crowning tower was the tallest of the God-King’s fortifications.

His reptilian mount wore extravagant gold plate like its master. Zuvius was sure that he was the leader of the warriors fighting for the Ebon Claw. He was not alone in that assumption. While the armoured bodies of Archaon’s chosen lay about the battlements where the Stormcast lord and his beast had slain them, the Unslaked, Vomitus Grue and Kadence Salivarr still lived, and they had surrounded him.

Zuvius promised himself that victory would not be theirs. Pushing Hellion on, Zuvius raced for the tower. Leaping the razor-edged crenulations between battlements, he dodged several shield-bearing warriors of the God-King. Hellion cleared a section of wall demolished by a mace-swinging Stormcast just moments before and leapt the opportunistic gladius sweeps of others desperate to put themselves between the Varanguard and their lord. As Hellion leapt back down onto the battlements, Zuvius thrust his glaive through two of the Stormcasts. As their swords clattered to the floor, Zuvius ripped A’cuitas free. With lightning souls erupting about him, the Prince of Embers drove his armoured steed on towards the tower.

Everything hurt. Every twist and turn was agony. Every muscle screamed for respite. But Zuvius would not relent.

As Zuvius reached the ruined tower at last, Vomitus Grue died. The pestilent knight had felt no pain when the great hammer of the Stormcast lord smashed him aside. He had felt nothing as the reptilian beast breathed storm-lightning into his pox-scarred face. Zuvius didn’t know if Grue had felt the beast’s jaws tear his head off and spit it into the courtyard below, but it didn’t matter. The body followed moments after.

Kadence Salivarr and the Unslaked tried to take the Stormcast lord together. With their daemon-forged blades a deathtrap of cleaving and thrusting lethality, the Stormcast reared his beast and smashed the blades aside with the crackling power of his colossal hammer. The lord kicked the Unslaked’s bloody mount back while breaking the back of Salivarr’s beast with a downswing of his mighty weapon.

The reptilian mount backed up the tower steps and leapt clear over the two knights, bounding about them to get into a better position.

As a warrior-herald landed nearby to come to his lord’s aid, Zuvius skewered the Stormcast and kicked in his faceplate, sending him toppling over the sharp battlements. The Unslaked attacked next, and tried to unseat the Stormcast lord. Instead, his horned helm was smashed to brain-dribbling scrap by the Stormcast’s hammer. Kadence Salivarr tried to bring his infamous bladework to bear, but was felled by the thunderbolt blast of a crossbow bolt in the back.

As the smoking shell of the dark knight crumpled before the Stormcast lord, Zuvius drove at him. The Stormcast hauled on his mount’s reins and pointed the head of his hammer at the Varanguard before him.

‘No,’ the Prince of Embers told him. ‘It shall be you to taste oblivion.’

Such words seemed to provoke something in the Stormcast lord. Digging his heels into the scaly flanks of his steed, he urged the beast on.

Zuvius roared his defiance at the Stormcast who stood up in the saddle, his hammer aloft. Hellion wanted to charge but Zuvius kept the reins tight in his armoured grasp as he turned the shaft of A’cuitas about in his other hand.

As the Stormcast lord charged, Zuvius pointed the pommel of A’cuitas at the ground. The metal eye opened and a blaze of dark lightning scorched the stone battlements, turning them from black to a glowing red, melting the stone in the Stormcast’s path. As the reptile’s claws met the molten stone they sank, before becoming trapped as the stone cooled to glass. The beast’s momentum suddenly arrested, it threw its rider from the saddle and over its head.

As the Stormcast lord hit the battlement floor face first and skidded to a halt before Zuvius, Hellion bridled. The golden warrior’s hammer skimmed across the stone and fell into the courtyard. The Stormcast rolled over. Zuvius held the point of his glaive over his scuffed helm.

‘Unworthy,’ Zuvius told him, before stabbing down. A lightning storm raged about him as the Stormcast lord died.

The reptilian beast roared its grief and anger at Zuvius, straining to tear its legs free. It opened its jaws wide to unleash its lightning at Archaon’s chosen.

‘Enough,’ Zuvius told it before spearing it through the mouth.

Zuvius urged Hellion to the edge of the battlement. He looked down into the courtyard. He waited. The warhorde fought on against the Stormcast defenders, while other knights arrived behind them, too late to take their part in the glory and destruction of the celestial lord. Among them was Aspa Erezavant, the silent killer whose blade dripped with gore. The battle had turned. While the wretched warriors of Chaos had to step through a carpet of their own dead, the Stormcasts were being backed up to the column of lightning.

The prince’s smeared lips curled. The celestial lord was dead but the column went on burning and with it came endless reinforcements.

He had been wrong.

Zuvius furiously looked across the battle, across the golden paladins fighting for their God-King and the living corruption attempting to destroy them. He saw the Stormcast Eternal who had been speaking to the Stormcast lord earlier. The indomitable warrior was still alive and deep in prayer.

‘You…’ Zuvius said. He realised this warrior must be controlling the column of light. He lifted A’cuitas up like a spear, took aim and threw it. The Stormcast looked up just as his comrades tried to warn him. The glaive squealed down through the skull-helmed warrior’s armour, impaling him to the ground and silencing his prayer.

As the skull-helmed warrior became a coruscation of surging, spiritual energy blazing for the skies, the column of lightning stuttered and disappeared, leaving only burnt air and a sharp afterglow. Zuvius had severed the conduit. The Stormcasts remaining were as indomitable as ever but the tide had turned. The forces of Chaos fell upon them in droves as the followers of Archaon butchered their way to a crude victory.

The Prince of Embers heard the flap of wings. It was Mallofax, returned after the worst of the fighting. The bird rested on Zuvius’ ruined shoulder guard.

‘You saw?’

‘I saw, my lord,’ the bird squawked.

‘The Stormcast in the skull helm?’

‘Aye, master.’

‘Then fly to the other fortresses, to the other hordes,’ said Zuvius. ‘Tell our Varanguard brothers how to sever the storm. Tell them how the God-King’s warriors can be defeated and driven from this miserable land.’

With the beating of wings, Mallofax peeled off into the sky. Orphaeo Zuvius leant back in the saddle. With his injuries, he almost fell. Aspa Erezavant nodded at him before urging his steed back down the ruined steps leading from the battlements.

Zuvius looked down into the courtyard and to a victory declared in blood and lightning. The Ebon Claw was theirs.

Weary, Zuvius had one more thing he needed to see. He steered Hellion up the glorious steps of the sigmarite tower, to the highest part of the Ebon Claw, and stared out across the dark peninsula. Cape Desolation belonged to the Everchosen. The columns of lightning connecting each of the fortresses were being snuffed out like the flames of distant candles. He could hear cheering, sorcerous chanting and the screams of the dying. They all came together in an unholy cacophony.

Zuvius felt a ravenous pride eat away at him as he looked out across the Varanguard swarming the conquered peninsula. He felt part of something abominable and powerful. He had been a warrior, pledged to Chaos. An acolyte of dread Tzeentch. A blind man leading the blind, without true purpose. Alone among wretches, he had become complacent. Content in personal damnation.

He understood that he would never know the meaninglessness of spawndom or the monstrous powers gifted by the Great Changer. He was not the one but the one among many. Only in service to the Everchosen of Chaos had the Prince of Embers come to know the true power of damnation. Damnation of all for all. The harnessed strength of corruption, the glorious darkness of a fell blade wielded by the greatest of their kind. Archaon was a dire warlord who united not only the Varanguard behind him, but all servants of the Dark Gods as he stormed through the victim realms.

A dark silhouette in the rising dust, the Prince of Embers could see his master. Archaon. A horned shadow in his monstrous plate, his daemonsword and runeshield held in tight as he prepared to take once more to the air. The daemon steed launched into the sky, extending the great expanse of his wings. While Sigmar’s tempest continued to rage across distant skies, over Cape Desolation all was still.

Orphaeo Zuvius watched the Everchosen and his daemon steed fly high over the Ebon Claw. Gliding on Dorghar’s powerful wings, Archaon steered the monster towards the dark lands beyond. Zuvius nodded to himself. There would be more fighting. More killing to come. The arrival of the God-King’s Stormcast Eternals would have given people living beyond the peninsula hope — hope for a realm without the tyranny of a ruinous overlord like Archaon. As the Prince of Embers took up his glaive and turned Hellion back down the steps, he came to realise that hope was a truly terrible thing.

Josh Reynolds

The Black Rift of Klaxus

Assault on the Mandrake Bastion

‘Forward! For Sigmar, for Azyrheim, and for the Realm Celestial!’ Orius Adamantine roared, as he and the Stormcasts of his Warrior Chamber fought their way up the ashen slopes of the Tephra Crater. They battled through the crumbled barrows of a fallen people, and amongst swirling clouds of ash stirred into being by the burning, acidic rain which pelted down from the ominous sky. Its sizzling droplets left black streaks on the golden war-plate of the Stormcasts. Jagged streaks of azure lightning thrashed in the belly of the clouds, and the storm grew in intensity as the Hammers of Sigmar plunged into the fray.

The Lord-Celestant’s sigmarite runeblade slashed out to cleave a bloodreaver’s head from his shoulders, even as his hammer crushed the skull of another. More enemies surged towards him, hurling themselves down the slope through the burning rain with savage abandon. Crude axes and jagged blades hacked at him, drawing sparks from his golden war-plate.

‘Forward, my Adamantine,’ he shouted, smashing a bloodreaver from his path. ‘Let no foe bar thy path, no mercy stay thy hand — grind them under!’

Liberators advanced up the northern slope of the Tephra Crater, moving through the rocky barrows in tight formation, shields locked against the blood-addled tide that sought to sweep them from their path. They marched in lockstep, never wavering or slowing, but steadily ascending. Behind them came the Judicator retinues, their skybolt bows singing. They launched crackling shafts of energy into the air over the heads of the advancing Liberators to explode amongst the enemy. Rank upon rank of the Bloodbound fell but more pressed forward, clambering over the dead in their eagerness to come to the grips with the Stormcasts.

The retinues of the Adamantine fought their way towards the rudimentary palisades that stretched across the curve of the slope. Crafted from volcanic stone, with trees torn from the rim of the crater many miles above, these palisades were larger and sturdier than those Orius’ chamber had brought down on the lower slopes. Tribes of bloodreavers occupied those unsophisticated ramparts, defending them on behalf of the monster who had descended into the crater to drown it in blood.

‘Anhur,’ Orius growled, unable to restrain the sudden surge of anger at the thought of the Khornate warlord as he smashed a bloodreaver to the ground. The Scarlet Lord had made a name for himself as he carved a path of carnage across the Felstone Plains. There were monsters aplenty plaguing Aqshy, but the Scarlet Lord was no simple blood-soaked raider or warmonger. He had purpose, and that made him deadly indeed.

But then, you always were one for plans, Orius thought. A face surfaced from among his scattered memories, the face of a man he’d once served. Angrily, he banished the memory. That man was as dead as the man Orius had been. Only the Scarlet Lord remained.

Twice before they’d fought, in those first red days of war, as the storm broke over Aqshy. He’d been in the vanguard at the assault on the Bale-Furnace, where the Bloodbound forged terrible weapons. Anhur had been amongst those warlords gathered there, to pay homage to the twisted furnace kings in return for weapons and armour. The Scarlet Lord had retreated across the Furnace Lands, taking whatever fell artefacts he’d bargained for with him.

Warrior Chambers from no fewer than three Stormhosts had pursued the warlord to the Hissing Gates and brought him to battle amidst the searing geysers. There, for the first time, Orius had met his enemy face-to-face… A crimson figure, awaiting him beyond the boiling breath of countless geysers. The sound of their blades clashing… a moment of recognition… He shook his head, thrusting the memories aside. Anhur had beaten the Stormcasts back then, mauling them badly enough that they could not pursue him as he led his warriors across the Felstone Plains.

Why Anhur had come to the Tephra Crater, to Klaxus, Orius did not know, but he would deliver the creature up to the judgement of Sigmar regardless. He drove his shoulder into a barbarian’s sternum, splintering bone and killing the warrior instantly. He swatted the body aside and forged onward, a trail of crushed and broken bloodreavers marking his progress. Retributor retinues waded through the battle in his wake, their heavy lightning hammers striking with all the force of the storm itself. With every blow a resounding clap of thunder shook the air, and crackling sky-magics ripped apart the bodies of the foe.

Working in unison, hammers rising and falling with a brutal rhythm, the Retributors cleared a path for their fellow paladins — the Decimator and Protector retinues who would punch through the Bloodbound lines and lead the assault on the palisades. At Orius’ signal, the Decimators surged forward, plunging past him, deep into the enemy lines. Their thunderaxes reaped a red harvest as severed limbs and decapitated heads were flung skyward.

As the bloodreavers reeled beneath the counter-assault, Orius and the remaining paladins fell in behind the advancing Decimators. The stormstrike glaives of the Protectors wove searing patterns in the air as they shielded the Liberators from attack, and the lightning hammers of the Retributors tore great holes in the enemy battle-line. Soon, the fur-and-brass-clad tribesmen were in retreat, staggering back through the swirling clouds of soot and stinging rain.

The Stormcasts did not pause in their advance. Orius signalled to his auxiliary command, indicating that they should press onward. They had to reach the palisade before the enemy regrouped. He knew similar scenes were being played out across the circumference of the crater, on every slope. Warrior Chambers from a dozen different Stormhosts — the Hallowed Knights, the Astral Templars, Celestial Vindicators, and more — were fighting their way up these ash-choked slopes, smashing aside the bastions and stone bulwarks of the enemy in an effort to reach the rim of the Tephra Crater.

They all shared the same purpose, but each chamber had its own objective. To the south, the Hallowed Knights of the Stormforged Chamber fought to breach the enormous basalt gates which straddled the path to rim-citadel of Ytalan. On the western slope, Lord-Celestant Zephacleas led the Astral Templars of the Beast-Bane Chamber against the howling hordes which guarded an ancient duardin road through the Raxulian lava-tubes. But to Orius and his chamber had fallen the task of clearing the Mandrake Bastion of Klaxus, and scouring that kingdom clean of the Blood God’s taint.

My kingdom, Orius thought, as he stalked forward, at the head of his warriors. While he, like many Stormcasts, could but dimly recall the days of his own mortality before his death and Reforging at Sigmar’s hand, Orius remembered enough. He could still recall the heady musk of the Ashen Jungle after rain, and the way the colossal roots of the immense trees had wound through the walls and streets of Uryx. The jungle and the city were one, and its people comfortable in either. He had been comfortable in either. Klaxus had been his home.

And now, he who had been Oros of Ytalan had returned to save it.

Yet though he remembered some things, others were lost to him. The day of his death, for instance. He remembered war — no, an uprising — as the people thought to throw off the shackles of oppression, but little else. Anhur had been there then, clad in the black armour of Ytalan, as Orius himself had been. He could not even say whose side he had fought on, save that he had fought for the right reasons. Otherwise, Sigmar would not have chosen him.

His reverie was broken by the voice of his Lord-Relictor.

‘This is the third of these filthy bastions in as many days, Orius,’ Moros Calverius said, as he joined his Lord-Celestant at the fore. ‘How many more dung-heaps must we scatter across these slopes?’

Holy lightning crawled across Calverius’ golden mortis armour. It wreathed his limbs and formed a crackling halo about his skull-shaped war-helm. In one hand he gripped the haft of his reliquary staff, and in his other he held a sigmarite hammer, its head marked with the runes of life and death. ‘Not that I mind the exercise, you understand, but I would like to believe we are making some form of progress, even if your strategy does not call for it.’

Orius grunted. There were still many miles between the Adamantine and the Mandrake Bastion, and with every palisade they toppled, the enemy seemed to redouble in strength. But he had expected that — he’d fought the Bloodbound before. He knew that they favoured attack over defense to a monomaniacal degree, and that the only way to break them fully was to blindside them. To that end, he’d dispatched the Angelos retinues of the Adamantine, led by Kratus, the chamber’s Knight-Azyros, to catch the enemy unawares. Kratus would assault what few forces had been left to guard the Mandrake Bastion, even as Orius and the rest of the chamber distracted the bulk of the foe. ‘You disagree with my plan, Lord-Relictor?’

Moros chuckled. ‘No, my Lord-Celestant. Merely making an observation.’ He raised his staff. ‘The palisade draws close. And it appears Tarkus has beaten us there, as ever.’

Orius peered towards the palisade and saw a number of Liberator retinues racing ahead of the rest of the chamber. They followed the gleaming figure of Tarkus, Knight-Heraldor of the Adamantine, as he chopped himself a red path through the enemy. As they watched, Tarkus raised his battle-horn and blew a bellicose note, exhorting his brethren onwards towards the gates and the palisade.

‘He was ever eager to take the fight to the foe,’ Orius said, annoyed. Tarkus was as brave and fierce as gryph-hound, but seemed to lack a single iota of that animal’s common sense. More than once, the Knight-Heraldor had found himself ahead of his brothers, alone amongst the enemy. Yet even so, he persevered. Where his horn sounded, victory soon followed.

‘We should join him, unless we wish to be left behind,’ Moros said.

‘And so we shall. Galerius, to the fore,’ Orius said. The heavily armoured shape of the Knight-Vexillor of the Adamantine pushed his way through the marching Protectors, the battle-standard of the chamber clutched in one gauntlet. ‘Moros, you and your warriors are with me — we shall join Tarkus. Galerius, lead our brethren forward.’

Galerius nodded. He raised the battle-standard of the Adamantine high, so that the celestial energies which crackled about it were visible to the eye of every Stormcast. Liberators moved forward at his signal, shields held at a steep angle as they ascended towards the palisade. Judicators followed them, firing over their heads in an attempt to drive the Bloodbound back. As the bulk of the chamber’s forces continued their steady ascent, Orius and Moros led their Paladins forward, clearing the way as they had before.

The Bloodbound were in full retreat now. All but the canniest of the bloodreaver chieftains had fallen, and those who remained were bodily dragging their warriors away from battle. Even as he fought his way towards them, Orius saw the crude gates rise on ropes of woven scalp-hair and brass chains, pulled up by savage tribesman at the bellowed command of a bulky, lash-wielding warrior. Bloodreavers flooded out of the gates, howling war-songs as they trampled their own retreating comrades. Brutal duels broke out amid the carnage as chieftains and tribesmen clashed, fighting for survival.

The Decimator retinues waded into the madness, cleaving the combatants apart with broad strokes. Soon, the remaining bloodreavers were streaming back through the gates, their berserk courage broken. Orius picked up speed, running now as the gates began to close. Jagged spears and crude javelins, crafted from bone and wood, pelted from the top of the palisade, splintering against sigmarite armour. The Bloodbound had little liking for such weapons, but they employed them when necessary.

Even as he reached the palisade, the gates thumped down with finality. There were still some bloodreavers left on the slope, but they were isolated and easily picked apart by his warriors as they advanced. Tarkus met him at the palisade, his armour streaked with gore and ash, but his enthusiasm undimmed.

‘Unwelcoming lot, aren’t they, my lord?’ he called, ignoring the chunks of stone and bone-tipped spears that rained down around him. ‘I’ve half a mind to blow this filthy nest of theirs right over.’

‘If memory serves, you got the last one,’ Moros said. He lashed out with his reliquary, smashing a javelin from the air.

‘And so? Am I not the herald? Is that not my duty, Lord-Relictor?’ Tarkus said. A chunk of volcanic rock bounced off his helm.

Orius waved Moros to silence. ‘It is your duty to announce us, Knight-Heraldor. Blow your horn and let them know we are soon among them.’ He motioned the paladin retinues to the fore. As the Liberators raised their shields over their heads to absorb the rain of rocks, javelins and spears, the heavily armoured Retributors and Decimators ploughed forward. He looked at the Lord-Relictor. ‘Moros, yours is the honour this time. Open the gate, O Master of the Celestial Lightning. Let them know the fury of the Power Aetheric.’

Moros whirled his staff about and slammed the sigmarite ferrule down against the hard black stones. As he did so, he spoke, fiercely and fast, firing the words as if from a skybolt bow. They shivered on the air as they left his lips, and Orius felt the power of them reverberate through him. The Lord-Relictor was calling upon Sigmar, and such a thing never failed to invigorate those Stormcasts who heard it. The glow about him grew brighter and brighter. With a roar that shook the ground, an immense bolt of lightning punched through the palisade, ripping away the gate and much of the wall besides. Dust filled the air, and the Stormcasts moved immediately to take control of the gap.

Decimators and Retributors widened the smoking hole, smashing aside burning bones and sections of charred stone so that the Liberators could step forward, shields locked. They formed a shield wall before the gap, marching forward slowly so as to make room for the other Stormcasts. The bodies of those Bloodbound unlucky enough to be too close to the gates when Moros shattered them lay scattered all around, and any survivors were quickly dispatched as the Stormcasts moved into the palisade.

As the smoke cleared, Orius saw that the Bloodbound had built their fortress on the plundered remains of hundreds of barrows. Savage altars of brass and iron, spewing red smoke, had been set up beneath primitive stone monoliths. These enormous pillars were covered in the hateful runes of the Ruinous Powers. Standards and daemonic icons had been stabbed into the rocky soil in haphazard fashion, and their number stretched back up the slope as far as the eye could see. Bodies hung from some of these — flayed, burned and broken by the savage tribesmen who even now gathered beneath them. Croaking carrion birds perched on iron crossbeams, pecking at human wreckage or watching silently from atop the monoliths.

‘Thus does the Blood God claim his killing fields,’ Moros murmured. Bloodreavers crept through the forest of icons and hanging bodies, chanting the name of their foul god. Larger shapes moved behind them — not Blood Warriors, but something else, something worse. Huge mutation-scarred warriors, clad in heavy half-plate the colour of freshly spilled blood, loped forward, smashing aside icons and any bloodreaver too slow to get out of their path.

‘Skullreapers,’ Tarkus muttered. ‘The head hunters of Khorne.’ Then, with a laugh, he added, ‘They must have heard we were here.’

Past the skullreapers, Orius saw a heavy-set figure standing on top of a crumbled barrow, exhorting the bloodreavers forward with gestures and the kiss of an expertly applied lash. He was clad in battered armour marked prominently with the rune of Khorne, and wearing a helm made from the split jaw-bone of some savage beast. His flesh was the colour of a fresh bruise and one hand had been replaced by a cruel trident, anchored in the raw, red stump of his wrist.

‘The fat one — I know his kind. A bloodstoker. He’s lashing the others into a frenzy,’ Moros said. ‘They’ll drive us back through sheer momentum unless we break them now.’ Even as he spoke, the bloodreavers began their charge. They came in a howling wave, closing in on the Adamantine shield wall from all directions.

‘Then break them we shall. Set your standard, Galerius,’ Orius said. ‘We shall take not a single step backward. We smash them or they smash us. There will be no retreat. You will hold here until there is nothing left to hold.’

‘Aye, my lord,’ Galerius said, stabbing his standard pole into the rocky ground. ‘Let them come, and break themselves on our shields. None may withstand us.’

The Bloodbound crashed against the shield wall a moment later. Clouds of dust thrown up by their charge washed across Orius and his auxiliary commanders. The rattle of sigmarite meeting brass and iron filled the air.

‘No one seems to have informed our enemies of that,’ Moros said, as he directed his Protectors forward to bolster the shield wall. ‘Then, they seem a fairly primitive lot… Perhaps they simply don’t understand what and who they face.’

‘They understand,’ Orius said, watching as the Liberators locked shields and pressed the enemy back. ‘They know us by now, Moros. See how eagerly they run to us, and how joyfully they accept the gifts we bring.’ He raised his runeblade to point at a howling tribesman. The warrior had managed to clamber over the shields of the Liberators and had fallen behind the shield wall, his body covered in grievous wounds but his fury undimmed. As he struggled to rise, Orius removed his head.

‘Moros, Galerius, hold the line,’ Orius bellowed. ‘Tarkus, with me. Form up. Form up, my brothers — the enemies of all the realms stand before us.’ He gestured with his hammer and the Retributors swung into motion around him as he started forward, Tarkus at his side, leading them forwards. ‘Make a path, brothers,’ he cried, and the shield wall split with a crash of sigmarite. Orius led Tarkus and the others through the gap.

The Retributors struck the bloodreavers like a mailed fist, driving deep into the frenzied bands of tattooed warriors. Bellowing chieftains and clan-champions were broken and cast down by the heavily armoured paladin retinues. Grisly battle standards were shattered and discarded, even as those who sought to defend them were cut down.

‘The fat one is yours, Knight-Heraldor,’ Orius said, swatting a barbarian aside. ‘We shall break them here — you see that they do not get up again.’

Tarkus laughed harshly and blew a fierce note on his battle-horn, rallying his Liberators to him. He plunged towards the bloodstoker, chopping a path through the enemy. It was the Knight-Heraldor’s pleasure, and his duty, to meet the champions of the foe and break them in Sigmar’s name. Orius turned his attention back to the fray. He caught sight of the brass and bone icons of the skullreapers as they made for the Retributors.

Lightning hammer met daemonblade as the two groups slammed together, scattering lesser warriors in their haste. The crack of lightning and the bellowed prayers of the skullreapers filled Orius’ ears as he ducked a wild blow and rose up to ram his runeblade through the chest of one of the murderous berserkers. He forced the skullreaper back, even as his dying foe hammered at his head and shoulders.

Orius tore his blade free in a spray of gore, and spun, narrowly parrying a blow. He brought his foot up between his attacker’s legs and was rewarded with a shriek of pain. He crushed the skullreaper’s head with a blow from his hammer and turned. He saw one of his Retributors stumble as another skullreaper, larger than the rest, battered at the warrior.

The skullreaper’s jagged blade tore through the blessed sigmarite. The Retributor staggered and sank down as a second blow caught him on the back. His lightning hammer tumbled from his hands as he fell to his knees. The hulking skullreaper howled in triumph as his third blow severed the Stormcast’s head from his shoulders.

But the warrior’s glee was short-lived. The Retributor’s body evaporated in a searing bolt of azure lightning, which speared upwards. Stormcasts did not die as others — instead, the fallen returned to Azyr, there to be reforged anew by Sigmar. Our duty began with death, thought Orius as he started forward, and it shall not stay our hand.

The skullreaper staggered, roaring in fury, momentarily blinded by the display. Orius charged forward through the fading motes of blue light that marked his warrior’s fall and drove his shoulder into the skullreaper’s gut. The Bloodbound stumbled back and Orius gave him no chance to recover. His hammer snapped out, catching the maddened warrior in his unprotected throat. Cartilage crunched and the skullreaper bent forward, clawing at his throat. Orius’ runeblade descended, and his foe’s head rolled free of his neck.

The Lord-Celestant turned as he heard the crunch of hell-forged iron on stone. Another skullreaper bounded towards him, a huge headsman’s axe clutched in either hand. Orius interposed his runeblade at the last second, halting the axes’ descent in an explosion of sparks. He staggered back, off-balance. The ashy ground crumbled beneath him, slipping away from his feet as he was forced back against one of the barrows. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Tarkus had reached the bloodstoker. The bloated warrior flailed at the Knight-Heraldor with his lash, but Tarkus pressed forward regardless. Orius grunted and shoved the skullreaper back.

The hulking warrior recovered quickly and hewed at Orius. The Lord-Celestant twisted aside, and the jagged axe tore a gouge in the side of the barrow, ripping it open. Stone crumbled, and ash-stained bones spilled across the ground as Orius surged forward. A flurry of blows drove the skullreaper back, and he gnashed broken fangs in frustration. Orius parried a wild slash with his runeblade and smashed his hammer into the Chaos warrior’s knee, buckling the crimson armour and pulping the bone beneath.

The skullreaper bellowed and staggered. Orius put him out of his misery a moment later, cleaving his skull in two. As he pried his blade free, Orius caught sight of the scattered bones. They were grey and crumbling, rendered thin and hollow by the heat rising from within the crater. He wondered, as he turned away, who they had been. Only the poor and unclaimed of Klaxus were buried on these far slopes, their bones tumbled into hollows and covered in ash and loose rocks.

Sleep in peace, whoever you were, he thought. The storm shall pass you by.

The last of the skullreapers had fallen, his head crushed by a lightning hammer. The remaining Retributors strode over their foes with nary a backwards glance as they pursued the retreating bloodreavers, driving them up the slope. Orius glanced around, taking stock. Moros and Galerius were advancing with the rest of the chamber, toppling the monoliths and shattering the standards left behind by the enemy as they ascended the slope. The Retributors and Decimators would see that the foe did not rally. They would drive them up the slope, all the way to the Mandrake Bastion, if need be. The Bloodbound would turn there and make their stand; Orius was counting on it.

If Kratus was successful, the Adamantine could catch the enemy between the hammer and the anvil and smash them utterly, freeing the Stormcasts to enter the crater-city of Uryx. Then would come battle of a different sort. Not a gruelling ascent into the teeth of the enemy, but house-to-house and street-to-street, a war of increments. The sort of war I’ve fought before, he thought. His grip on his weapons tightened, as, for a moment, he was back in Uryx, leading his warriors in a last desperate bid to unseat the priest-kings. He had failed then. Failed his people, failed Klaxus. But he would not fail now.

Tarkus joined him, carrying the bloodstoker’s head by its scalp.

‘Another for the ash-heap,’ he said, indicating the head. ‘If this is the quality of our foe, I wonder why the Hammerhand had such trouble in the Igneous Delta.’

‘Your arrogance will be your undoing. This is only the beginning,’ Orius said, tapping his hammer against Tarkus’ shoulder-plate in a chastising fashion. ‘We have surprise on our side — the eyes of the enemy are elsewhere. It will not last. When we reach the Mandrake Bastion, you will see the true measure of the foe, unless Kratus is successful.’

‘One can but hope.’ The Knight-Heraldor tossed his grisly trophy aside. ‘Kratus will be there to greet us, Lord-Celestant, of that you may have no fear. And Gorgus, as well. The light of Sigmar shall guide us to victory.’ The Knight-Heraldor lifted his battle-horn and blew a single, sterling note.

‘Let his will be done,’ Orius murmured, as far above the crater rim the black clouds split wide and azure lightning hammered down, again and again. Sigmar be with you, he thought. Then, he raised his hammer and roared, ‘Forward!’

As one, the Adamantine swung once more into motion, as inexorable and inexhaustible as the storm itself.

The stones of the Sulphur Citadel had begun to sweat blood. The stink of it mingled with the bitter stench of the vast sulphuric lake for which the citadel was named, and above which it rose like a gnarled fist of stone. It blighted the air and burnt the flesh of the warriors who climbed the immense porphyry steps of the temple-bastion towards the great gilded dome at the citadel’s summit.

The Sulphur Citadel was composed of hundreds of flat slabs of yellow stone, each larger than the last, rising in a slumped pile from the pale, steaming waters of the lake. These gigantic slabs were encrusted with thick battlements, looming turrets, and immense statues hollowed and shaped from the very stone. The uppermost levels had been carved into a many-pillared palace, from which the priest-kings of Klaxus had ruled.

Now, that palace was home only to monsters and madmen. The blood, and the wind which carried its charnel stink, was a sign. A call to arms. They came in silence, save for the rattle of the panoply of war. Flayed standards, torn raw and dripping from the bodies of captives and enemies, rustled softly in the stinking breeze, and red armour, creased by axe and sword, clattered as they climbed the steps.

Eighty-eight warriors, chosen from among eighty-eight thousand who had followed the Scarlet Lord into Uryx through the Ashen Jungle, ascended the wide steps to the upper bastion as the red sun sank past the horizon, and the pale, orange moon rose to replace it. Some still bled from the wounds which they had taken to earn their place here, while others clutched gory weapons, still wet with the blood of their fellows. Khorne cared not from whence the blood flowed, and neither did they. The bitter wind rose up from the sulphur lake and whipped amongst them as they splashed through the blood cascading down the steps of the citadel.

A war-wind, thought the Scarlet Lord as he ascended the steps at the head of his Gorechosen. It was a familiar thing, though in no way comforting. It was the stink of slaughter, of spilled blood and burning bone; a smell that he who had once been Anhur, Prince of Ytalan, had grown far too fond of. He had been assured by the god he now served that carnage was the coin by which victory was bought. But gods are not to be trusted, only obeyed, he thought. An important lesson, and one best learned quickly and soon by those who bartered their souls to the Ruinous Powers.

He had seen the truth of it on the killing fields of the Furnace Lands as he shed his old life and was born anew from the cauldron of war. Once, he had hoped to fight for his people, but they had turned on him. Now he fought for another, one more demanding than any mortal. But also more appreciative — the gods were not selfish with their gifts.

Then, some gifts are more useful than others, he thought. He had seen other men become beasts, reduced to slavering horrors as the hand of Khorne passed over them. Whatever their form, they battled in Khorne’s name, and that was all the Blood God truly required.

But not all battles were equal. Not all wars were worthy of the name.

He had learned that much, as he carved out his path to glory. Khorne favoured the bold, even in defeat. But victory… ah. Anhur had fought too long and too hard to countenance defeat. He had left a trail of fire and death behind him, but he would accomplish more than simple slaughter before he was finished.

Anhur stopped when he reached the top of the steps, and turned to gaze out over the city he had brought to ruin. Uryx was a labyrinthine maze of walls, palaces and plazas, built within the bosom of the Ashen Jungle, and up along the vast sweep of the crater’s inner slope, to the far northern rim, where the Mandrake Bastion rose wild. The city was a sickle moon of stone and wood, spreading like a stain along the rock face. Untold millions had lived, worked and died here. Generation upon generation had shaped jungle and crater-cliff into something more, something greater… Uryx of the Nine Hundred Pillars, greatest of all the crater-cities, mighty in war, wise in rule — the jewel of Klaxus.

Yes, Uryx had once been the greatest city of Klaxus, supreme among the kingdoms of the crater. Now, thanks to him, it was nothing. He looked down, at the eighty-eight Bloodbound who had followed him across the Bridge of Smoke and up the weeping steps of the Sulphur Citadel, and something in him whispered, Is it as you imagined, Prince of Ytalan? Is this the day you dreamt of, in your long exile?

No, he thought. Once, he had hoped to rule here, wisely and well. But the city was ashes, as were his hopes. Only a single dread purpose remained.

It was something of a relief, frankly.

Behind him, the great stone doors to the palace rose up, taller even than the brimstone gargants of the Flamefields. They were flanked by two immense statues, wrought in the shape of the loathsome toad-dragons which had once claimed the Sulphur Lake for their own, in the centuries before men had come to rule the Ashen Jungles of the Tephra Crater. It had been his ancestors who had slain the beasts and raised up a citadel over their bones.

‘Uryx of the Nine Hundred Pillars,’ he rumbled, as he spread his arms. ‘And not a single one left standing.’ Shrouded in daemonic iron, Anhur made for an imposing figure, even among the barbarous ranks of his followers. His war-plate was the colour of dried blood, as were the frayed silks he wore beneath it. His helm and tattered chainmail were as black as the single-bladed axe he carried easily in one hand. Great flat horns rose from the sides of his helm, and met above his head to form the crooked rune of the Blood God. His free hand rested on the pommel of the sword sheathed at his side.

‘Eight days,’ he said, more softly. ‘Was that all it took?’

Are you disappointed that it took so long… or that it did not take longer? the voice in his head murmured in reply. Is it all that you dreamt it would be, Anhur of Klaxus?

Anhur ignored the voice, stifling it with an ease born of experience. Now was not the time for doubt, only courage. He looked up and saw something vast cross the sky, blotting out the very stars as it passed — a monstrous form, made from smoke and screams and the light of the mad moon, reflected in the blades of the Bloodbound. Clad in baroque armour, his visage that of a snarling war hound, Khorne strode the red road through the burning skies of Aqshy, seeking war, the Allslaughter in his hand and his legions following.

For a moment, Anhur thought that the Blood God had seen him, and he tightened his grip on his axe. He could not say whether it was fear or eagerness which seized him. The moment passed, and he looked down at his Gorechosen — those champions who had proven themselves worthy to fight at his side — and wondered whether any of them had seen the god, as he had. He caught the eye of the hulking skullgrinder, Volundr, and the fearsome warrior-smith nodded. The smouldering anvil he bore turned slowly on its barbed chain as he pulled the links tight, and the weapons of those warriors arrayed behind him glowed briefly.

‘Smell that?’ said Apademak the Hungry, another of the Gorechosen. ‘It’s a butcher’s breeze.’ The looming slaughterpriest stretched his long, scarred arms out, as if to grasp and pull the stench to him. ‘An auspicious omen. Khorne smiles upon us, brothers.’

‘Were you ever in doubt, Hungry One?’ Hroth Shieldbreaker asked. The exalted deathbringer was wide where Apademak was tall, and hairy where the other was smooth. A long beard, plaited with bone and gristle, hung down onto his barrel chest. Weapons of all sizes and shapes dangled from his war-harness, and he fondled them as he spoke. ‘He has blessed us with victories aplenty — even the Bloodwrath himself would have been hard-pressed to breach the crater-bastions of Vaxtl, but we did that in a fortnight.’

‘Aye, brother. Doubt is for the weak. Khorne calls us to the feast, Hroth, and to the feast we must go,’ Apademak said. His smile was a slash of red, his teeth stained the colour of spilled blood. ‘Klaxus is ours, my brothers,’ he said, more loudly. He turned and raised his axe, and a murmur of assent swept through the ranks of the Bloodbound.

‘No, Apademak,’ Anhur said. ‘Klaxus is mine. Even as all of the kingdoms of the Tephra Crater are mine. They are my offering to the Blood God.’ He lifted his axe so that the light of the moon limned the black edge of its wide blade. ‘By this axe, I rule. Do not forget or I shall add your skull to my tally, slaughterpriest.’

‘I meant no offence, my lord,’ Apademak said, with a mocking bow. ‘Take my skull, if it pleases you. I ask only that you mount it upon your shield, so that even in death I might face your foes and ward you from harm.’

Anhur extended his axe and slid the flat of the blade beneath Apademak’s chin. He raised the warrior’s face, and said, ‘Obsequiousness does not suit you, Hungry One.’

Apademak grinned. ‘I am glad to hear it.’

Anhur snorted and stepped back. He looked up. The sky had grown darker. Black clouds pulsed with silent lightning, and the air had grown harsh and clean.

‘A storm, my lord,’ Berstuk, the wildest of his Gorechosen, said. ‘It brings with it the clamour of war. Why do we tarry here, when there is blood to be spilled elsewhere?’ He struck the blood-slick steps with the brass ferrule of his portal of skulls. ‘The enemy is at hand — let us meet him!’ The bloodsecrator was a murderous engine, driven by thought of battles yet to come. His chest-plate was covered in skulls culled from the ranks of the defenders of Vaxtl, Ytalan and Klaxus — heroes and champions all, who had fallen to his ensorcelled axe.

‘We do not tarry, skull-bearer. And our battle is not over. Indeed, it has barely even begun,’ Anhur said. A sudden urgency gripped him, as distant thunder rumbled. The enemy — the true enemy — were near at hand.

Quickly, he led his warriors into the pillared corridors of the Sulphur Citadel. His Gorechosen followed in his wake, leading the rest of his warriors in silent procession, shattered bones crunching beneath their feet. They could feel it as well as he… It was in the air, and the slabbed, bleeding stones they walked upon; it clung to the gore-stained statues which lined the path to the palace’s heart, and bristled in every shadow.

The weirdling pressure grew stronger as Anhur led his warriors into the massive central chamber, where the Klaxian priest-kings had once sat in judgement of heretics and criminals. Now it was an abattoir. Hundreds of bodies were stacked like cordwood in great heaps, and flayed skins hung like tattered banners from the pillars. Skulls had been nailed to every imaginable surface, or else piled high in macabre pyramids. Flies hummed through the air, winding among the pillars in great, serpentine clouds.

As Anhur led his warriors towards the centre of the chamber, bulky shapes revealed themselves, moving purposefully to intercept them. The warriors were bloated mockeries of men, with sagging folds of rotting flesh squeezed into corroded armour. They carried pockmarked blades dripping with pus and stank worse than any battlefield. The blightkings stopped as Anhur raised his axe, and with many a wheeze and groan, sank to their knees.

He strode through the kneeling ranks of the pox-warriors. The chamber floor dipped, descending into a wide, shallow crater. A carpet of stitched flesh covered the bottom of the depression, hiding the intricately carved map of the Tephra Crater and its diverse kingdoms which stretched from rim to rim. Every inch of flayed skin was marked by bloody runes and sigils which caused his pulse to quicken. The flesh-shroud had been crafted from the skins of the last defenders of the citadel, and now it squirmed with potent magic.

But it was what hung above the flesh-shroud that occupied his full attention. Eight immense plates of polished obsidian hovered above the centre of the chamber, suspended in the air by sorcery, rotating with ponderous, machine-like precision. The plates were each as large as the palace doors, but as thin as silk and framed with etched brass, marked with the runes of Khorne. Their slow dance was almost hypnotic, and as each spun in its turn, Anhur thought he could see dim shapes and faces pressed to the oil-black surface.

The plates had been shaped by the twisted artisans of the Bale-Furnace, and they had dubbed them the Black Rift. Given their purpose, Anhur thought it as good a name as any. The Furnace-Kings, with all the terrible artifice of their kind, had shaved and chipped the obsidian into polished smoothness, and crafted the brass frames which banded each.

It had taken months to transport the plates across the Felstone Plains from the obsidian fields of the Igneous Delta and then up the crater wall before descending into the jungles within; more than once, they had almost lost them to misadventure or enemy action. The loss of even one would have been disastrous.

Anhur looked around. It was here that the Klaxian noble families had made their final stand, and it was here that he had butchered them, beneath the great gilded ceiling. He gazed up at it, past the obsidian plates. The inner curve of the dome was shaped like a vast, inhuman countenance, bearded and stern. It was duardin work, he recalled, gifted to the first king of Klaxus in those dim, distant days before the coming of Chaos, and shaped like the face of…

‘Sigmar,’ he said, thinking of the lightning he’d seen thrashing about in the clouds.

‘Aye, and a great one for glowering he is,’ a voice said. Anhur laughed harshly. A lean shape, hooded and robed, wearing rusty scraps of armour, joined him in his examination of the dome. ‘He’s been doing it since I started the ritual,’ the hooded shape continued.

Before Anhur could reply, the obsidian began to pick up speed, the plates turning more sharply. The runes etched into their frames began to glow white hot, and the air grew thick and cloying. Anhur could smell rotting meat and brimstone, sour blood and burning bone. The obsidian began to wobble and tilt and there were pinpricks of red within the starless dark. The flesh-shroud began to undulate as if in pain, the stretched and flayed faces of the dead twisting in silent screams.

The blood which stained the stones of the chamber began to bubble, as if something stirred beneath it. Half-formed shapes heaved and splashed, pushing up from below the dried gore, striving towards the light. Brass talons and black horns breached the surface, but only for a moment. A litany of frustrated howls nearly deafened Anhur before fading to nothing, as the blood grew still and calm once more.

‘Pay them no heed, my lord. At the moment, they are not worth the effort,’ the lean figure said as it turned from the slowly spinning facets of obsidian. He threw back his hood, exposing mouldering, cadaverous features. One eye bulged from its socket, a glittering, faceted orb, like that of one of the flies which swarmed about the chamber.

‘Soon, then?’ Anhur said. ‘Will it be soon, Pazak?’

‘It will happen as the gods will, and not a moment sooner,’ Pazak of the Faceted Eye said. The sorcerer looked at Anhur and sniffed. ‘Glaring at me won’t make it happen any faster.’

Anhur’s hand fell to the sword, sheathed on his hip. ‘Careful, Pazak. I spared you once. I shall not do so again if you continue to test my patience.’

Pazak looked at the sword and then at Anhur. ‘And if I thought you would actually draw that sword, I might fear such a threat,’ the sorcerer said. ‘But you have never done so. Even when pressed, you refuse to draw it.’

‘And so? What business is it of yours which weapons I employ?’ Anhur hefted his axe. ‘Shall I test my axe, then? It served to still your tongue well enough in the Alkali Basin, as I recall. Should I finish what I started that day and remove your head in its entirety, rather than simply scratching your throat?’

Pazak threw up his hands in surrender. ‘Forgive me, my lord. It was a silly question, I know. Curiosity has ever been the greatest of my vices,’ he said. Anhur laughed.

‘I doubt that,’ he said. He looked around. ‘Did you know, in all my years here, I never once saw this place for myself. This citadel was barred to all save the priest-kings of Klaxus and their retainers.’

‘And for good reason,’ Pazak said. ‘One can only imagine the havoc you might have caused, had you and your allies gained access to this place and its secrets.’ The sorcerer cocked his head. ‘Then, given that you fled one step ahead of the headsman, I suppose that you caused quite a stir regardless.’

‘I led a rebellion, Pazak,’ Anhur said, watching the facets.

‘A ruckus, then.’ Pazak gave a wheezing laugh. ‘All for the best, I suppose. Victory was achieved, in the end.’

‘We have not won yet.’ Anhur looked at the sorcerer. ‘The storm is on our doorstep, even as we speak.’ Anhur lifted his axe, and placed the edge just beneath Pazak’s chin. ‘We must welcome it,’ he said, and smiled, thinking of the glories to come. Come storm-walkers, come lightning-men, come dogs of Azyr… Come and meet thy doom.

Kratus the Silent dropped through the clouds towards the Mandrake Bastion on wings of crackling lightning. He dived through the storm, piercing it like an arrow from on high. The root-encrusted walls of the crater-city of Uryx grew larger, spreading beneath the Knight-Azyros as he shot downwards, faster than the speed of thought, his starblade in one hand and his celestial beacon in the other. Clad in azure and gold, his brother Stormcasts fell with him through the curtain of rain, their gleaming wings folded so as to lend them greater speed in their descent.

As he dived, Kratus could see the vast sweep of the inner slope of the northern edge of the Tephra Crater, upon which much of Uryx nestled. The great rocky slope was shrouded by immense, ash-born trees for miles in either direction, as the city nestled within the jungle’s embrace, riding the curve of the crater wall down into the sprawl of jungle below. Uryx was still in its death-throes. Smoke boiled up out of the city as great fires raged unchecked, and even at this height, he could hear the clash of weapons and the screams of the dying.

The Mandrake Bastion waited below, growing larger and larger the closer he drew. The enormous battlement of stone and living roots, each wider than three men, jutted up from and rose over the smaller walls of the city. The bastion was the gateway to Klaxus and Uryx from the north, and it had repelled mighty orruk hordes and even the black-armoured warriors of the Vulcanus Empire in the centuries before the coming of Chaos. It might even have been able to hold back the forces of the Adamantine as they fought their way up the slope. A slim chance, but a chance all the same. Thus, the Mandrake Bastion must fall.

To Kratus the bastion looked as if giant hands had woven the roots together, and then stabbed immense blocks of stone between them or laid them across the top. The roots rose upwards, conglomerating into a dozen monstrous effigies, each as tall as a watchtower and twice as wide. The effigies stood balanced on the rim of the crater, towering over the outer slopes, misshapen faces slack as if in slumber. But appearances, Kratus knew, could be deceiving. He swept his starblade out, signalling to the Prosecutors on his right. They peeled off, hurtling towards the closest one.

Kratus angled himself towards another, and his remaining Prosecutors followed suit. They could not take the whole bastion, but they could take its heart, just above the main gatehouse. There were thousands of Bloodbound stationed throughout the vast winding length of the bastion, but there was only one gate. What forces occupied the remainder of the fortress would be trapped when it was taken, easy pickings for the rest of the chamber when they arrived, regardless of their numbers.

Scuttling masses expanded and divided, becoming hundreds of individual warriors, clad in barbaric raiment and clutching crude weapons. As lightning ripped the sky wide and thunder shook the air, some of them looked up into the stinging rain. Eyes widened, mouths opened in warning, but too late. The warrior-heralds of Sigmar had arrived, bearing messages of violence and retribution. Kratus led his warriors in a steep dive, blazing wings unfolding at the last moment, carrying them low and fast over the bastion in a blur of shining sigmarite.

The Prosecutors unleashed their celestial hammers, hurling them with meteoric force as they sped along the rampart. The hammers were wrought from the energy of the storm itself, and they struck with its fury, rending stone, wood and flesh alike. They tore chunks out of the bastion and the gatehouses, and obliterated the head of one of the massive effigies.

Kratus swept past a burly chieftain, clad in a reptilian pelt and wearing a brass muzzle over his face. His starblade licked out, and the chieftain tumbled in his wake, headless. The Stormcasts swooped upwards. Javelins and spears clattered uselessly in their wake.

Celestial hammers thundered down the length of the bastion, as the second group of Prosecutors began their own assault. Kratus signalled for his warriors to make another pass. As he did so, he saw a bulky, armoured figure stagger out of one of the gatehouses. No chieftain this, but a deathbringer, clad in the crimson armour of one of the Blood God’s chosen. The deathbringer bellowed inarticulately and grabbed one of the milling bloodreavers. He swung an axe out, gesticulating towards one of the effigies.

Kratus and his warriors began their second pass, lower this time. The bastion rampart was wide enough for twenty men to march shoulder to shoulder along its length, and the bloodreavers charged howling to meet them. Others moved towards the effigy, bearing heavy iron spears. Each spear was so long that it required three of the Bloodbound to lift it. Kratus sped towards them, but knew he would not reach them in time.

The immense wooden figure twitched and heaved as the bloodreavers stabbed it with the heavy spears. Dark rivulets of sap ran down its tangled frame, pooling like tar on the bastion. A foul smell filled the air, and the great eyelids snapped open, revealing milky orbs. The mandrake twisted on its roots, vast head turning one way and then another as if seeking something. It moaned as the iron spears dug into its form, drawing forth streams of sap.

A moment later, the living tower opened its enormous mouth and began to scream. A Prosecutor fell from the air, clutching at his head, as the noise washed over the bastion. Kratus lunged past him, and crashed in among the bloodreavers as they pelted forward. Another Prosecutor fell, blood streaming from the slits in his war-mask. The mandrake stretched up, head tilted back, and wailed. Kratus felt as if his teeth would shiver from his jaw and his bones would crack in his flesh, and he flung himself skyward.

The surviving Prosecutors followed him. The bloodreavers fell swiftly upon those who had been downed by the mandrake’s scream, hacking and slashing at them in a frenzy. Blue bolts of lightning speared upwards, hurtling past Kratus and vanishing into the roiling clouds above. More bolts sped upwards from further down the bastion, and he knew that a second mandrake had been woken.

The living towers were foul things — terrifying, but pitiable. Grown by the priest-kings of Klaxus in ages past, they knew only pain, and their screams would boil the brain of any unlucky enough to be the focus of their ire. Such was the terrible power which had shattered the Black-Iron Reavers of Vulcanus and the Ashdwell orruks. Even Stormcasts were not immune, it seemed. Kratus shook his head, trying to clear it.

Below, the mandrake twisted in its confinement, searching for them, mouth opening and closing. Its eyes rolled in their cavernous sockets and it gave a thunderous grunt. As one, the Prosecutors hurled their hammers and the enormous face vanished in an explosion of sap. Even as its smoking bulk lurched and hung dripping, the Prosecutors were dropping downwards again, ready to finish what they had begun.

Kratus gave no orders this time; none were necessary. The Prosecutors knew their business and went about it with ruthless efficiency. Weapons wreathed in lightning struck out left and right, smashing bloodreavers to the ground. The bastion cracked and trembled as hammers hurled from on high smashed home, sending bodies, rock and roots into the air. Enough of the bastion would be left standing for their purposes, but not by much.

The Knight-Azyros dropped to the rampart, cracking the ancient stones. He rose from his crouch, his starblade singing out to behead a bloodreaver. As they drew close, he realized that the Bloodbound were horribly mutilated — each one had only raw, stitched wounds where his ears should have been, and their eyelids had been removed, leaving their eyeballs exposed and staring. It was no wonder that the mandrake’s scream hadn’t harmed them. They howled as the dust of his arrival cleared and flung themselves at him.

Kratus wove through their ranks with his starblade flashing. Bloodreavers shrieked in agony as the sword pierced armour and flesh. Kratus turned, smashing the screaming mortal wreckage aside and locked blades with a howling blood warrior. The armoured berserker strained against him, raging incoherently. Kratus slammed the gilded bulk of his celestial beacon into the warrior’s belly, driving him back a step. Before the Bloodbound could recover, Kratus thrust the tip of his starblade through the berserker’s eye and into his frenzied brain. He jerked his weapon loose and turned as the foe came in a rush.

Beyond the armoured tribesmen he could see the smoking shell of the mandrake begin to twitch and rise. The ruptured roots began to sprout anew and shrill moans rose from them. It was regenerating. Soon it would unleash its scream again. He would have to deal with it himself, before the rest of the chamber arrived.

Kratus leapt forward, impossibly quick despite the weight of his armour. The hilt of his sword slid smoothly across his palm as he thrust it forward, and the blade punched through a bloodreaver’s chest. He tore it free and turned, smashing the sigmarite pommel into a second bloodreaver’s face. The Chaos warrior catapulted backwards, struck the edge of the rampart and spun away, into the dark below. Kratus continued to move, stabbing, sweeping, thrusting, leaving bodies in his wake even as the distant towers continued to scream.

His Prosecutors continued to pummel the battlements from the air. Occasionally they would swoop through the ranks of the foe to leave a trail of broken bodies in their wake. Kratus fought his way towards the mandrake. The deathbringer rushed towards him, bulling through his own followers with a roar. He wore a round helm studded with brass nails, and his arms were bare and scarred. His axe keened strangely as it swept through the rain.

Kratus parried the blow and replied in kind, driving his opponent back. The deathbringer roared imprecations and curses as the two warriors stamped and whirled in a deadly gavotte. Kratus fought in silence, save for the hiss of his blade as it cut through the rain. The deathbringer raced forward. Axe and sword became locked as the two champions strained against one another.

‘I will pluck out your skull and mount it upon my trophy rack,’ the deathbringer snarled. When Kratus did not reply, the champion cursed. ‘Say something, damn you! I would know the name of my prey — I demand it!’

Kratus twisted his opponent’s axe aside and jerked forward. His head cracked against his foe’s, and the Chaos warrior staggered in surprise. Before he could recover, Kratus slid his starblade free and whipped it across the champion’s exposed forearms, severing the tendons there. The deathbringer howled as his axe fell from nerveless fingers. He lurched towards Kratus, trying to grapple with him, but the Knight-Azyros slid aside and chopped through the back of his opponent’s legs. The champion sank to his knees, and Kratus reversed his starblade and drove it down through a gap in his armour, between head and shoulder. He gave the blade a twist and jerked it free, as the dying deathbringer toppled over the parapet and tumbled to the slope far below.

Kratus held his starblade out so that the rain sluiced it clean. As he did so, he turned his head to meet the stunned gazes of the other Bloodbound. He said nothing, made no challenge. That was not his way. Silence spoke eloquently enough for his purposes these days.

Once, he had been a singer of great renown, in the days before the closing of the Gates of Azyr, before the fires of Chaos raged wild across the veldts of the Striding Kingdoms. He had wandered, singing for the highest chieftain and the lowliest tribesman alike. He had sung songs of peace and of war. But he would sing no more, not until the last embers of Chaos had been extinguished or his final hour, whichever came first.

Above the Bloodbound, he could see the mandrakes taking form. Their shrill piping grew in volume as new-grown roots rose and twined about one another with sinister speed. Soon, they would scream again. From below, on the outer slopes of the crater, he could hear the familiar clarion call of Tarkus’ battle-horn as the Knight-Heraldor urged his fellow Stormcasts on. Bloodbound warriors were streaming up the slope, retreating. Kratus could hear the groan of the colossal gates as they slowly creaked open. If it was to be done, it would have to be done now.

Kratus used the tip of his blade to open the shutter of his celestial beacon. Light poured out, the pure, blinding power of the Heavens themselves. It swelled, driving back the dark, reflecting from every drop of rain. To the faithful of Sigmar, that light was a wonder to behold — in its scintillating radiance was all the splendour of the heavens, clouds of nebulae and the shining of uncountable stars, a glimpse into the wide cosmos, and the glory of the Celestial Realm.

But to creatures like the Bloodbound, twisted and fallen from grace, the light of the celestial beacon was purest agony. It burned them as no fire ever could, searing the darkest corners of their corrupted souls. Armour, flesh and bone gave way before the light; warriors were reduced to smouldering wisps, their contorted shadows burnt into the stones of the bastion. Slowly, Kratus turned, lifting the beacon high so that its light swept across the closest mandrake. It shuddered as the light touched its tormented flesh, and, with a soft, sad sigh, the tree-thing collapsed in on itself, crumbling to ash.

Kratus lifted his beacon higher, even as the second of the great wooden effigies collapsed, joining its fellow in dissolution. The light blazed brighter and brighter, and the thunder rumbled. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his Prosecutors swoop low, towards the gates. They would take control of them before the enemy could open them.

More Bloodbound burst out of the stairwells of the shattered gatehouses, charging towards him. The first to reach him exploded into motes of char, as did the second, but the third swatted the beacon from Kratus’ grip even as he smouldered and crumbled. Kratus parried an axe and beheaded a bearded bloodreaver.

Lightning streaked down, and struck the bastion again and again. Each strike shook the stone wall down to the foundations. Bloodreavers were flung from the rampart, or were burnt to cinders by the touch of the lightning. But more still pressed forward, driven to a killing frenzy by fear and madness. As the last echoes of the lightning faded, Kratus readied himself to meet their charge. But he knew that he would not do so alone.

‘Ho, Silent One, you called and we have come — make way, make way,’ Lord-Castellant Gorgus roared, as he plunged out of the swirling smoke of the lightning strike. He whirled his sigmarite halberd about in a tight circle over his head as he pounded towards the stunned bloodreavers. His loyal gryph-hound, Shrike, loped alongside him.

Before the Chaos worshippers could recover their wits, Gorgus and Shrike were among them. As the smoke cleared, newly arrived Stormcasts followed their Lord-Castellant into battle. Liberators pressed forward, smashing into the bloodreavers and driving them back. Judicators took up position on the walls, and began to fire down into the enemy milling about on the slope below.

‘Take the gatehouses — quickly now,’ Gorgus said, directing a retinue of Liberators forward. He scooped up Kratus’ celestial beacon with the tip of his halberd and extended it to the Knight-Azyros. ‘Lost something, did you?’

Farther down the bastion, a howling mandrake fell silent as Prosecutors destroyed it. The winged warriors swooped past a moment later, rejoining their fellows as they attacked the Bloodbound on the slope below. Caught between their own bastion and the advancing Stormcast, the Khorne-worshippers were slowly coming unravelled. Those that didn’t flee would be ground under, and eliminated. Gorgus hurled a barbarian over the rampart and turned. ‘Best go let Orius know we’ve arrived, eh? I’ll settle up here,’ he said, and extended his hand. Kratus nodded and shot into the air.

The Mandrake Bastion had fallen.

The storm had come to Klaxus.

In the Walls of Uryx

‘Forward, Stormcasts!’ Galerius roared, lifting his standard higher as he crushed a cackling bloodreaver’s skull with his hammer. The Knight-Vexillor led his brethren up the slope of the Tephra Crater into the enemy forces arrayed across its rim. Whole tribes of bloodreavers massed in the shadow of the Mandrake Bastion, and more warriors surged to join them through the great stone gates that marked the entrance.

Galerius laid about him with hammer and standard, driving the vanguard of the Adamantine into the very heart of the foe where the enemy chieftains and champions waited. They bellowed orders to their savage followers from within a forest of grisly banner poles topped with skulls and worse.

The Knight-Vexillor felt his heart quicken with pride as he fought. The chamber’s finest warriors surrounded him, their warblades and hammers exacting a bloody toll from the tribesmen who sought to bar them from their goal. The honour of the final thrust to win the field had fallen to Galerius and those who followed him. Liberators, Decimators and Judicators fought alongside him, carving a path for their fellow Stormcasts to follow.

‘Onward, for the glory of Sigmar, and the honour of the Adamantine,’ Galerius cried. He crushed the shoulder of a tribesman, and dispatched a second warrior with a blow to the head. He extended his standard so that all who followed him might see the crackling energies which crawled across the ornate symbols mounted there — the hammer, the shield and the stylised arc of the storm. Divine power flowed through the standard and into Galerius, filling him with strength. It reminded him of that final day in the gladitorium, when he had fought his brothers to earn the right to bear the war-banner of the Adamantine.

‘Crush them, brothers! They are but dust beneath our feet,’ he shouted.

Primitive war-horns brayed suddenly and crude chariots rumbled down the slope, pulled by things that had once been men, and crewed by howling warriors. Galerius tightened his grip on the standard and a blazing meteorite smashed into the foe. The chariots were blasted into splinters and their riders jerked and shuddered as they burned and fell smoking to the ground.

For a moment, as the echoes of the impact faded, the press of battle slackened and Galerius could see the others. Lord-Celestant Orius and Lord-Relictor Moros led the left and right flanks respectively, fighting their way up the slope. Behind them came Tarkus, Knight-Heraldor of the Adamantine, leading the Thunderhead Brotherhoods. Before them rose the Mandrake Bastion, with its strange root-like towers. They were almost at the high, heavy stone doors which led into the bastion and beyond that, the crater-city of Uryx. But it would do them no good to win the outer slope if those gates were not opened.

That honour had fallen to Kratus the Silent. The Knight-Azyros and his Prosecutors had been dispatched to win control of the Mandrake Bastion, even as Galerius and the others broke the enemy on the slopes. As he struck down an axe-wielding tribesman, Galerius heard the rumble of thunder. He looked up and saw a bright, blazing light suddenly envelop the uppermost ramparts of the bastion. As the light spread, lightning speared down from the storm clouds above, striking the walls again and again.

Galerius bellowed in satisfaction as the slope trembled beneath the celestial hammer-blows.

‘Sigmar is with us, brothers — see! See his wrath and know that he has judged us worthy,’ he said, as the enemy cowered. The tribesmen were caught between the advancing Stormcasts and the light washing down from the bastion and across the outer slope of the Tephra Crater, suffusing all it touched with a cleansing blue glow.

The Knight-Vexillor knew that light, as well as he knew the one who had unleashed it from the celestial beacon he bore. Kratus the Silent had succeeded. The Mandrake Bastion belonged to the Adamantine.

Tribesmen clad in crude armour and bearing the rune of Khorne on their skin wailed in agony as the light swept over them, searing their scarred flesh. Grotesque standards and monstrous icons were set aflame and reduced to burning chunks. Brutal chieftains, conquerors and champions fell, consumed by the blue light.

Soon, the rugged slopes beneath the Mandrake Bastion were littered with a thousand crackling azure pyres, and there were no foes in sight. Galerius raised his standard and cried out in wordless triumph as the light enveloped him and filled him with a newfound strength. His warriors joined him, and the cry was carried from one retinue to the next as they gloried in the power of Sigmar.

Far above, the storm redoubled its fury, lashing the crater and everything around it as a heavy rain began to fall on Uryx.

‘Even the rains cannot clean this place,’ Orius Adamantine said. Greasy plumes of smoke rose over the sprawling tenements and claustrophobic avenues where the poor of crater-city had once lived. The buildings were constructed haphazardly, stone terraces piled one atop the next, held aloft on pillars or crudely carved wooden support beams. Thick nets of roots and branches supported sagging walls or acted as thatch for the rooftops.

Fires raged among these structures, defying the storm. The Bloodbound had set them as they entered the city through the Ashen Jungle, blocking any means of escape for the beleaguered folk of Uryx. Screams still rose from the nine hundred districts, mingling into a desolate susurrus beneath the omnipresent growl of the storm. Some brief moth-flutter of memory told the Lord-Celestant that Uryx had been home to almost a million mortal souls. He wondered how many of them yet remained.

‘A good rain washes more than the stones,’ Moros said. The Lord-Relictor and Galerius stood behind Orius, their armour streaked with gore. The standard of the Knight-Vexillor gleamed with barely contained celestial energies, casting long shadows across the ground as Galerius leaned against it. Lord-Castellant Gorgus sat nearby, his halberd leaning against his shoulder and his gryph-hound, Shrike, at his feet. He held his warding lantern balanced on his knee, its light washing across them.

‘Then let us hope this storm lasts,’ Tarkus said. He stood beside Gorgus. Like the others, the Knight-Heraldor’s armour was covered in blood and dust, and he held his hand out so that the rain cleansed his gauntleted fingers and forearm. It had taken them hours to fight their way through the many-chambered gatehouse of the Mandrake Bastion to the internal portcullis. All of them were tired, but in the light of Gorgus’ warding lantern, their strength was fast returning.

All around them, Stormcasts cleared the area of bodies, dragging them out of the way. He considered the enormous fortified courtyard before them carefully. A wide inner wall, smaller than the bastion, extended out, terminating in three more enormous portcullises which opened out onto city avenues. Each of the portcullises had been torn open, ripped from their frames and discarded at some point in the recent past, and the wide wall had been shattered by siege-weapons or fell sorceries.

Gorgus’ retinues were already hard at work, dragging shattered plinths and broken stones into position, creating bulwarks and chokepoints to be used defensively in case of a tactical withdrawal. A Stormcast shield wall was almost impenetrable, but solidly anchored stones were nonetheless helpful. Thanks to the fires which still raged through the city, it was nearly as bright as day, though the smoke and the rain didn’t help.

‘They mustered armies here, once. If we don’t hold this point, we’ll be under siege within a few hours.’ Orius looked at the Lord-Castellant. ‘How soon until your repairs are complete?’

‘Not long,’ Gorgus rumbled. He stroked his gryph-hound’s feathered neck. ‘Give me an hour and I can have us entrenched. A day, we will be unassailable. We shall not be moved, if it comes to that. And those who follow us shall find a well-fortified route awaiting them.’

Orius nodded in satisfaction. Soon, Sigmar would send reinforcements. Warrior Chambers from the Celestial Warbringers waited in the Celestial Realm for their time to descend and strengthen the Adamantine’s control of Klaxus.

No other chamber had come so far. Prosecutor retinues from the Stormforged and the Beast-Bane had arrived not long after the Adamantine had taken the Mandrake Bastion, to bring word that the advances of both the Hallowed Knights and the Astral Templars had stalled. Zephacleas was still fighting his way through the lava-tubes, and Artos Stormforged had laid siege to Ytalan. Makos Wrathsworn and his chamber of Celestial Vindicators had managed to breach the steam-ramparts of Balyx, but their assault on the arboreal cities of Vaxtl had slowed as every beastherd for leagues had poured out of the jungles, eager for battle. Only the Adamantine were in a position to strike off the serpent’s head.

Without Anhur, their warlord, the enemy would crumble. Its chieftains and deathbringers would turn on one another, each seeking to take the Scarlet Lord’s place. Thus distracted, they would be easily dealt with by the Stormcasts. But first, they had to eliminate him. Even as the thought occurred to him, horns echoed up from beyond the courtyard walls.

‘Ha! Hear that? What say you, Moros?’ Gorgus said, as he unhooked an hourglass from his belt. The Lord-Castellant set it down beside him. He peered at the sand and tapped the glass. ‘I give it a few moments. No more than that.’

The Lord-Relictor leaned against his staff, and made a show of considering the avenues beyond the outer walls. ‘An hour, at least. If not sun-up.’ He glanced at the Knight-Vexillor. ‘Galerius?’

‘Less than that. I can hear their drums,’ Galerius said.

‘See? Galerius agrees with me,’ Gorgus said. He sat back, his tone one of satisfaction.

‘I do not dispute your wisdom in these matters, brother,’ Moros said, genially. ‘You asked my opinion and I gave it.’ He gestured to bodies heaped and piled about the enormous courtyard. ‘We broke them, Gorgus. We drove them back, and broke them wherever they chose to stand. It will take their remaining chieftains hours yet to whip them into a renewed frenzy. Assuming that wiser minds do not intervene.’

‘Wisdom and the Bloodbound are not words often found together,’ Tarkus said. The Knight-Heraldor looked at Orius. ‘If they’re gathering nearby, it might be wise to keep them on the defensive. I can take a few retinues and strike before they know what hit them.’

‘Come to that, we all can,’ Galerius said, pointing at the shattered portcullises. ‘Three points of egress… three of us,’ he continued.

‘Ha! A race then, brother?’ Tarkus said. Galerius laughed. Tarkus looked around. ‘First to meet the enemy wins. Who’s with me?’

‘Wins what?’ Moros asked. Orius could tell by the Lord-Relictor’s tone that he was becoming annoyed. Tarkus had that effect on his fellows. He was a great warrior, gifted in battle, but nonetheless prone to excessive exuberance. They all felt some touch of it — battle was their craft, vengeance their purpose. They were the storm made flesh and they were driven by its fury. The Stormcast Eternals had been forged to wage war in Sigmar’s name, and it was their duty and honour to do so. But even among the Stormcasts there were those who fought with a zeal that bordered on the foolhardy.

‘Glory, Lord-Relictor. Victory itself. What else is there?’ Tarkus said, seemingly baffled.

Gorgus chuckled. ‘He has a point.’

‘Please do not encourage him,’ Moros said, sternly.

‘Quiet, my brothers,’ Orius said, raising his hand for silence. ‘Quietly now. Gorgus is right. The enemy are indeed on the move, though in which direction, I cannot say…’

He got his answer a moment later, as the last member of his auxiliary command arrived. Kratus the Silent dropped from the sky and landed in a crouch before his Lord-Celestant. The Knight-Azyros and his Prosecutors had been keeping an eye on the city from the air. Kratus signalled sharply as he rose to his feet.

‘The enemy come,’ Orius said, nodding.

‘Not tribesmen,’ Galerius said. The Knight-Vexillor cocked his head and tightened his grip on his standard. ‘Beastkin. I can smell their stink on the breeze.’ He looked at Tarkus. ‘It seems we will not need to go out to them, brother. They come to us.’

Orius frowned. Even the Bloodbound did not willingly share their camps with the beastkin. They would have pushed them as far to the fringes of the city as possible, if not beyond, into the jungle. The sounds of the battle for the bastion would have drawn those nearby to investigate. He looked at Tarkus.

‘Sound your horn, Knight-Heraldor. Muster our brethren.’

Tarkus lifted his battle-horn and blew a long, sharp note. The signal to muster. Across the courtyard, Stormcasts ceased their labours, recovered their weapons and shields, and fell back towards the portcullis. Swiftly, Liberators took up a staggered formation, shields raised, as Judicators took up position behind them. More Stormcasts joined their brethren in gilded ranks, even as the enemy arrived in force.

Beastmen poured out of the avenues beyond the inner walls and into the huge courtyard. They were varied and monstrous: snorting gors and squealing ungors, bellowing bullgors and heavily armoured bestigors. Goatish jaws snapped and frothed as cloven hooves stamped. Barbaric standards, crafted from bone, wood and tattered flesh, rose over the horde as beastkin from different herds jostled each other for space.

As Orius watched, a massive shape thrust itself forward through the press, smashing aside or stomping on those beastmen too slow to get out of its way. He recognized it for what it was instantly — a deathbringer, one of the mortal champions of Khorne. The deathbringer bore scraps of scavenged armour strapped to his malformed frame, and a banner pole made from a gibbet cage. The cage still held a rotting body, its features contorted in hunger and fear. His head was that of a snarling, red-maned lion, though no lion had ever had horns of brass or fangs like iron nails. He reared back and swung a crude flail composed of brass chains and hooks and decorated with cracked skulls.

‘I am Vasa the Lion. I am a champion of Khorne. Hear my roar, whelps of Sigmar, and know thy doom is come!’ the deathbringer shouted out in challenge, and the beastmen followed his example.

‘Judicators to the vanguard,’ the Lord-Celestant said, ignoring the deathbringer’s ranting. He raised his hammer in command. ‘Greet them properly, my brethren. Kratus — you and your warriors will be the hammer. Strike as you see fit.’ He signalled to Moros. ‘Lord-Relictor, you shall heat the metal. Tarkus, Galerius — you two shall extract it from the fire.’

‘Pincer movement,’ Tarkus said, approvingly. ‘You honour us, Lord-Celestant.’

‘I shall take the centre of the line, with Gorgus.’ Orius looked at the Lord-Castellant. ‘That’ll make you and I the anvil, old friend, if you’re willing.’

Gorgus snorted. ‘Someone has to do it.’ He turned and raised his halberd. ‘Liberators — form up. I want a wall of sigmarite across this courtyard. Lock shields!’

Galerius and Tarkus followed his example, bellowing orders to their own retinues. Decimators, Retributors and Protectors moved forward to join the two. They would advance from the flanks, carving through the horde flooding into the courtyard, bloodying it and forcing it to contract. Then they would retreat, drawing the beastmen after them. From behind the shield wall, the Judicators would thin out the herds even further.

In Orius’ experience, the beastkin were ferocity itself on the attack, but blunt their fangs and their courage wavered. They had no stomach for prolonged combat. They would retreat deeper into Uryx and seek to ambush any who pursued them. But the more of them they killed here, the fewer they would have to worry about later. The deathbringer might be another matter. Khorne’s champions were as deadly as a hundred lesser warriors.

‘Just like the Adamantine Mountains,’ he said, out loud. ‘Do you remember that day, brothers? The war in the Havokwild, the day our chamber earned its war-name?’

‘Aye,’ Galerius said. He set his standard. ‘We all remember that day, Lord-Celestant. The day you split the skull of the Pale King, and we cast down the ruinous standards of the beastherds.’

‘We drew them in,’ Tarkus said, picking up the story. ‘Drew them in and shattered them on our shields.’ He spoke loudly, his voice carrying across the ranks of the assembled Stormcasts. The recitation was not quite a song. Even so, the words hummed on the air. Warriors began to thump their weapons against their shields, the way a blacksmith might hammer a blade. Retributors heaved their hammers up and brought them down on the stones in a brutal rhythm.

‘We stood then, and they broke against us,’ Moros said, as he joined the Judicators at the front. ‘They shall break against us now.’ The Lord-Relictor held up his reliquary staff and the clouds boiled above, lightning shimmering within their depths.

‘We are Adamantine. We shall not move, shall not bend nor break,’ Tarkus said.

‘We shall not break,’ Galerius called out, his standard held aloft.

‘We shall not break,’ Gorgus said, thumping the ferule of his halberd on the ground.

‘We shall not break,’ Moros cried, staff raised.

As the front ranks of the beastmen drew close, the Lord-Relictor whirled his staff about in a tight circle and slammed the end down. Orius could feel the strength of the storm flood through him as Moros spoke, drawing its fury down with his prayers. A crackling radiance danced across the war-helms and shields of the assembled Stormcasts and shrouded their weapons. A bolt of lightning speared down and struck the reliquary atop Moros’ staff. As he thrust it forward, the lightning roared forth, springing from the empty sockets of the skull mounted in the reliquary.

The lightning streaked across the plaza and tore a bloody furrow in the heaving ranks of the beastmen. Hairy bodies were flung into the air, while others crumpled, smoking. But the herds thundered on, cloven hooves rattling across the stones. Bestial horns whined, and the whole barking, squealing, bellowing mob surged over the bodies of the fallen. Behind them, the walls of the courtyard ruptured and split, as the Prosecutors unleashed their celestial hammers.

Moros roared out an order, and the Judicators loosed a salvo of skybolts. A second salvo followed, and then a third. But the warherds pressed forward. Rickety chariots rattled up, surging through the ranks, pulled by snorting beast-things. Lumbering bullgors smashed aside their own kin in their haste and greed. Kratus and his Prosecutors swooped low over the horde, striking at its edges, forcing the beastmen to draw together as Orius had planned. The creatures were funnelled straight towards Moros.

‘Fall back, Moros. Pull them in!’ Orius bellowed. He raised his sword and Tarkus sounded his horn in response. The Judicators began to retreat, firing as they went. The Liberator shield wall split, and the Judicators marched to the rear in good order, Moros accompanying them. As the Liberators locked shields once more, Tarkus and Galerius smashed into the enemy flanks, drawing their attentions from the retreating Judicators. Axes and hammers rose and fell, wreaking red ruin. The beastmen reeled in confusion.

Orius saw Tarkus behead a braying gor chieftain. He caught sight of Galerius’ standard, rising above the carnage as the two warriors met amidst the slaughter and fought side-by-side. The enemy’s momentum dissolved, as the horde began to collapse in on itself. The stones of the courtyard were slick with blood and gore when Tarkus sounded the withdrawal.

As swiftly as they had carved themselves a path into the belly of the beastherd, the Paladin retinues carved themselves an exit. They fought their way free with brutal speed, and the Prosecutors covered their retreat. Celestial hammers tore the ground, driving the scattered beastmen back together in a disordered mass.

Like the animals they were, the creatures knew only one response to such fury. They lunged in fits and starts, no longer a fighting force, but instead a mass of berserk animals driven past the limits of their fragile self-control. They flung themselves forward with desperate savagery, fighting not for victory now, but for survival.

The beastherd’s charge carried the foremost among them against the shield wall with a thunderous crash. Gors and ungors died, crushed between the shields of the Liberators and the bodies of those beastmen behind them, as the horde advanced unceasingly. Orius swept his hammer down. At his signal, Gorgus roared, ‘Forward!’

The Liberators began to move, shoving their foes back. Orius followed them, ready to step into place if any of his warriors should fall. The beastmen were in disarray but they were not beaten. Not yet. Howling gors hacked wildly at the Liberators as ungors sought to squirm between the locked shields, stabbing and slashing with primitive stone blades. The bodies of the fallen, the wounded and the dying were trodden into the stones.

‘We shall not break!’ Orius roared, as he led the Liberators forward. His chamber spoke with him, as one. The growl of their war-song filled the air, and the thunder rumbled as if in accompaniment. And then, there was no more time for singing. Only for war.

The stones of the Sulphur Citadel trembled and groaned. The walls and floor of the great chamber were smeared with the blood of fallen warriors. Of the eighty-eight chosen warriors who had accompanied Anhur to the citadel, only a few remained. All eighty-eight had descended into the chamber’s central crater at his command, and butchered one another without question. The flesh-shroud had soon been hidden by blood and bodies as warriors strove against one another in an orgy of violence, battling to prove their worth. Axes had bitten into exposed flesh, and swords had pierced vital organs. Where weapons failed, fists, feet and teeth had served, and as more bodies joined those of the fallen champions, the obsidian plates hanging in the air above had begun to rotate faster and faster.

It had been an hour since the last of the dying collapsed, guts leaking from between his fingers, and Anhur had called for a halt. The bodies of the fallen had been dragged from the flesh-shroud and their blood and organs smeared and scattered across the chamber by Pazak’s hulking blightkings as the survivors ascended to join Anhur above the carnage. What was left of the dead had been strung from great chains fastened to the underside of the chamber roof, so that not a drop would be wasted. Only a few had been strong enough, blessed enough, to survive the butchery, and now these stood to the side, awaiting the Scarlet Lord’s notice.

Anhur ignored them for the moment, his attention on something far greater. Axe resting in the crook of his arm, the Scarlet Lord stared up at scenes and moments visible in the cloud of blood which Pazak of the Faceted Eye had spread across the air beneath the rapidly spinning obsidian plates. Images of war rose and fell across the rippling surface of the pulsing void of blood, shredded flesh and splintered bone.

‘Glorious,’ Anhur murmured, as he watched the many kingdoms of the Igneous Delta and the Felstone Plains burn.

In the swirling cloud of blood and offal, he saw flickering images of a thousand battles being waged across the world. Warriors clad in armour of gold and turquoise clashed with Bloodbound in the Ironpassage, fighting to control a realmgate to Chamon, the Realm of Metal. Mount Infernus, the largest fire-mountain of the triple-ringed Vulcanus Range and the greatest of the slaughter-pits, was besieged by more of these armoured invaders, as was the Seared Fortress in the Helwind Dale. Everywhere Anhur looked, there was war. And he found it good. He looked at Pazak.

‘Do you think they know, my friend?’ he asked the sorcerer. ‘Do you think that they understand the depths of our gratitude for this gift?’

‘No. Even I don’t understand, and I have stood by you for a century,’ Pazak said, as he manipulated the scrying spell. ‘Khul is under siege, and the Red Pyramid with him,’ he added.

‘And the living rage has fallen. They hold the Ironpassage, the Scintillating Portal…’ Anhur laughed. ‘Well, what pleasure is there in fighting an incompetent enemy, eh? I’ve seen enough. Show me what occurs on our doorstep.’

Pazak gestured, his long fingers manipulating the air as if it were clay. The blood-cloud spasmed in response, fraying and darkening as the sorcerer forced its gaze elsewhere. Anhur saw the vast lava-tubes of Raxul, and the broken remnants of the duardin under-road. Enormous statues of glowering duardin kings gazed sightlessly down on the conflict raging at their feet. Amethyst-clad Stormcast Eternals fought against the warherds of the bray-king, and were steadily pushing the beastmen back. As he watched, the giant, stag-headed bray-king fought his way towards the leader of the Stormcasts, who met him with sword and hammer.

‘Ytalan,’ Anhur said. ‘Show me the rim-citadel.’

Pazak obliged, extending a hand and gesturing sharply. The blood billowed and thickened, and Anhur saw the familiar sight of the mighty basalt gates of Ytalan rising above the Great Southern Way. In the shadow of those looming gates, silver-armoured Stormcasts assaulted the undisciplined forces of the Queen of Swords. The queen herself led the defence, riding atop her scythe-wheeled chariot, leading her Brass Stampede into the ranks of the enemy.

‘Beautiful,’ Anhur said, without thinking. Part of him wished he were there — Ytalan had been his, once upon a time. His to rule, and he had done so well, for the most part. Until it, like everything else of worth, had been stripped from him. He forced down the rising anger. There would be time enough for that later. All the time in the world, he thought, glancing at the obsidian plates which still rotated above the centre of the chamber.

‘I do not see it myself,’ Pazak said. He motioned again, and the image faded and skewed, changing. ‘As you predicted, they assault the crater from every direction. The steam-ramparts of Balyx on the eastern rim have already fallen, and Sevenjaw-Jahd with them, the stupid brute.’

‘No loss there,’ Anhur said. ‘Balyx is too far away for them to reach us in time, even if they manage to fight their way through Sevenjaw’s remaining war-chiefs. And likely Vaxtl as well, for I wager old Chief Warhoof and his beastherds will make our foes pay for every bloody scrap of ground. What of the Mandrake Bastion?’ he asked.

Pazak didn’t reply. Anhur looked at the throbbing blotch of blood, and saw golden-armoured figures fighting against his forces atop the stone battlement. He laughed as he caught sight of a familiar figure, wielding hammer and sword with deadly skill. ‘The Hound of Ytalan,’ he murmured. ‘Oros, my friend, you do me such honour…’ He laughed again. ‘Look at him Pazak — look at him! He fights with the strength of a hundred lesser men.’

‘He is determined, I’ll give him that,’ the sorcerer said. ‘I thought we’d seen the last of that one at the Hissing Gates.’

Anhur grunted. Memories of that day came swift and savage… a golden figure, charging through the boiling breath of countless geysers. The sound of their blades clashing… a moment of recognition… He shook his head.

‘Oros of Ytalan, at my throat again,’ he said. ‘Truly, Khorne smiles upon me.’

‘Does that mean you’ll kill him this time?’ Apademak growled. As he spoke, Apademak ran a chunk of stone over the edge of his axe to sharpen it. The slaughterpriest squatted nearby, with the rest of Anhur’s Gorechosen, all save for the exalted deathbringer known as Vasa. They had all heard the boom of thunder and seen the flash of lightning through the far, high windows which lined the periphery of the dome. They knew as well as he what had come sweeping down with the storm, and were impatient to face it. Vasa alone had been given the honour of first blood, while Apademak and the others had remained in the Citadel at Anhur’s command.

Vasa had earned his chance at glory — it had been his blow which had slain the grandmaster of the sulphur-knights, and won the Bloodbound the Bridge of Smoke. Anhur doubted the brute would see another dawn, but he would serve to obstruct the enemy’s advance.

If Anhur mustered his forces now, the Stormcasts would be driven back. Not easily, or soon, but it could be done. But, such would defeat the entire purpose of this enterprise. Of all his Gorechosen, only the skullgrinder, Volundr, truly understood. Anhur didn’t turn as he answered Apademak.

‘Someone will, before the end.’

‘That is not an answer, my lord,’ Apademak said. The scratch of stone on steel grew more frenzied. ‘You had a chance to take his head at the Hissing Gates, and instead you stayed your hand. Khorne does not reward mercy, my lord… only victory.’

‘Yes, but victory takes many forms,’ Anhur said, still not looking at the slaughterpriest. He could feel the heat of his Gorechosen’s anger, and it amused him. Apademak took his duties quite seriously. He could not grasp the true scope of Anhur’s ambitions, for he existed in the moment. There was no future, no past for him… only the red now. But now was not good enough for Anhur. He had not come to Klaxus merely to cast it into ruin. No, he had come to drag it back into glory, one way or another.

‘No!’ Apademak snarled. Anhur heard him rise, and he saw Pazak tense. ‘No… victory is only measured in blood and skulls, Lord Anhur, and you would do well to remember that.’

Anhur’s hand fell to the pommel of his sword. He turned, and extended his axe towards Apademak. ‘Careful, Hungry One, or I’ll fill your belly with enough steel to satisfy even your cravings.’

‘Would you kill me for speaking the truth?’

‘I would kill you for any number of reasons, Apademak. Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows, only that it flows.’ Anhur swung his axe loosely and looked around. Strange shapes pushed and squirmed beneath the blood which coated the walls and floor. Half-formed daemon-shapes which thrashed like babies in their mother’s womb. And that, in truth, was what the Sulphur Citadel was to be, once the Black Rift had been opened — a womb of horrors, born of rage and slaughter. He glanced at the obsidian plates, noting how swiftly they now spun. Soon the power contained within them would grow too great to be contained and it would erupt, opening the way to Khorne’s realm.

He could almost see the wonder and glory of the Brass Citadel in his mind’s eye — a veritable mountain range of bastions, battlements and forges, iron-bound walls and moats of boiling gore, and beyond them a fractured, infinite wasteland where eternal armies waged unending war in the name of he who watched it all from his throne of skulls. Such was Khorne’s realm, and Klaxus would be the same when Anhur was finished.

But first, he had one final debt to pay.

‘Glorious,’ he murmured again. He glanced at Pazak. ‘How long?’

Pazak sighed. ‘Hard to say. There is great power here. It lies athwart innumerable realms, touching all, but open to none. And while the stones sleep, so too shall the facets. We must awaken them, and that will require sacrifices. Many sacrifices.’ He held up his withered hands. ‘Do you feel it, my lord? The air is weighed down by centuries of indolence. The stones of this place are groggy with ennui, and not yet roused to their full hunger. We must whet their appetite…’ He gestured to the bodies of Anhur’s fallen warriors. ‘This was a start, nothing more.’

‘A start,’ Anhur repeated. He grunted. ‘We have captives aplenty, even now, after Apademak’s… excesses.’ The warlord cast a disapproving glance at the slaughterpriest. ‘And the Warpfang and his verminous lot are scouring Uryx for any survivors who might have escaped.’ He frowned, as he thought of the skaven. The ratkin were untrustworthy, but they had nonetheless proven themselves useful in his assault on the Tephran crater-kingdoms. More than once, it had been the cunning of the black-furred warlord, Warpfang, which had seen enemy bastions overthrown and gates opened. If the creature had been a man, Anhur might even have offered him a place amongst his Gorechosen. He would make no more strange a champion than Pazak.

In hindsight, Anhur had to admit that sparing Pazak had been wise move. At the time, he had thought it merely a whim. The sorcerer had been a worthy foe, and his invasion of the Blister-Vents of the Alkali Basin had been entertaining, if unsuccessful. Khorne might despise sorcery, but Anhur knew that the Blood God valued victory more. And a sorcerer, in the end, was just another weapon to be aimed and let loose upon the foes of the Lord of Skulls.

Pazak made a sharp gesture. ‘No. We need a finer vintage than that. We have stirred them with the blood of warriors. Now we must awaken them with the blood of champions. Then, and only then, can they batten on the blood of the conquered.’ He looked meaningfully in the direction of the survivors of the earlier massacre. ‘It is the best way I know to reveal the skull-roads and tear the veil between this world and that of the Blood God.’

‘Ahhh,’ Anhur murmured. He turned his attentions to the survivors. He knew them all — Yan the Foul, Grindlespine, Kung of the Long Arm, Baron Aceteryx, Phastet the Huntress, Skullripper, and Redjaw the Resplendent… Monsters and madmen. Their stories, like his own, were acts of brute heroism raised dripping from the cauldron of slaughter which was Aqshy.

Yan the Foul wore a grisly mask made from the stitched flesh of Bromnir, the last duardin king of the Firewalk, and a cloak made from the beards of the fallen king’s drakeguard. Grindlespine had cracked the fire domes of the Magmatic Crescent, putting their populations to the axe — eight million skulls, shattered on the anvils of Khorne. Kung of the Long Arm, a giant of a man who bore a screeching daemon-blade crafted from the bones of his brother, had cast down the silk standards of the horse-lords of the Calderan Plains.

In contrast to the deeds of those three, Baron Aceteryx had thrown open the gates of Scorian Bastion to Anhur’s warhorde and had participated in the massacre of his own people in return for the promise of power — power which had come in the form of armour crafted from the butchered flesh and splintered bone of those he had betrayed. Unlike Aceteryx, Phastet the Huntress had earned her name in the deeps of the Ashdwell, where she had led her tribesmen in the extermination of the innumerable orruks who laired there, offering up their bestial skulls to Khorne.

The last two were even more monstrous than their fellows. Skullripper, clad in piecemeal war-plate scavenged from a thousand battlefields, had led the charge at the Sun Gate into the teeth of the Tollan Cannonade, and his bestial mien and size spoke of Khorne’s favour. And Redjaw… Redjaw was a monster among monsters, whose face was hidden beneath a scarlet helm wrought in the shape of a flesh hound’s muzzle, and who wore a cloak dyed in the metallic blood of the seven child-kings of Cinder.

Monsters and madmen, Anhur thought. These were the tools that Khorne allowed him, the blunt instruments by which he would carve a new order. The Blood God did not believe in easy victories. Anhur looked at Pazak.

‘I shall give you your sacrifice, sorcerer, and find three new champions in the process.’

He had entered the Tephra Crater with eight champions as was proper, but three had fallen in the battles which followed. Otalyx of Spharos had died on the Bridge of Smoke, battling the sulphur-knights of Klaxus, and both Bolgatz Bonehammer and the slaughterpriest, Grundyx Five-Scars, had fallen in the taking of the citadel. He suspected that Apademak had killed Grundyx — slaughterpriests were a competitive lot, always seeking the eye of the Blood God. He raised his voice.

‘There must be eight, else Khorne will turn his gaze from us. Eight Gorechosen, to serve at my side. So must it be, so shall it be.’

Anhur turned, facing the expectant survivors. They knew what was coming. It was a ritual older than Aqshy itself, one of the eight hundred and eighty-eight rites scratched into the Books of Blood by the first of the slaughterpriests at Khorne’s command. The rite of the Gorechosen.

‘They say,’ Anhur began, ‘that Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows, only that it flows. But that is not wholly true.’ He spread his arms. ‘Sometimes only the right blood will satiate him, only the worthiest skulls will please him — you know this, as well as I, my warriors. Not the blood of slaves. Worthy blood and worthy skulls.’

‘Blood for the Blood God,’ the waiting warriors murmured as one. Behind Anhur, Apademak struck the floor with his axe. Berstuk joined him, and Hroth, until the air quivered with the shriek of metal on stone.

‘My Gorechosen have lost their brothers,’ Anhur said, raising his voice to be heard over the clangour. ‘Even now, Vasa fights in their name, in all of our names. Who would join him in his glories? He swept his axe out, indicating Apademak and the others, as they moved to join him. ‘Three have fallen, and so three must rise. Three worthy skulls!’

‘Blood for the Blood God,’ the warriors chanted. ‘Blood for the Blood God.’

‘Who will stand forth? Who will walk the axe’s edge?’ Anhur thundered. ‘Eight there must be — eight to stand at my side, eight to build the skull-road, eight to kill in Khorne’s name!’ He swept his arms out, indicating the others who stood beside him. ‘Stand forth and declare thy worth. Stand forth and be judged.’

A sudden skirl interrupted whatever might have come next, and the tramp of marching feet filled the air. Anhur turned to see a column of armoured skaven marching across the chamber towards them. At Pazak’s gesture, the blightkings stepped aside. The skaven warlord, Kretch Warpfang, marched at the head of the column.

Warpfang was a burly example of his kind, bigger and stronger than most. His red war-plate had been burnished to a blinding sheen by his slaves, and his black fur groomed and stiffened by fatty unguents. In one paw, he carried a halberd. Its haft had been cut down so that it was easier to wield. In his other paw, he carried a spiked mace, its head shot through with glimmering veins of warpstone. A replacement fang made from the same had been fitted into his scarred muzzle at some point, and it glimmered strangely amid a thicket of scar tissue. ‘I bid thee greetings, most savage man-thing lord,’ Warpfang snarled as he brought his warriors to a halt a safe distance from the Bloodbound.

‘Why are you here, vermin?’ Apademak called, stepping forward. ‘You were not summoned. You dare show your muzzle here — now? You interrupt one of our most sacred rites! I should crush your cowardly skull.’

Anhur gestured and the slaughterpriest subsided, glowering at the skaven.

‘Speak, Warpfang,’ the Scarlet Lord said.

‘We bring more-many slaves, yes-yes,’ Warpfang said to Anhur, ignoring Apademak. The skaven looked around. ‘More for the slaughter, yes? As you asked.’

‘Asked?’ Anhur said. He laughed. The ratkin were, for the most part, a cowardly lot, but Warpfang showed little inclination to cower. The creature had a high opinion of himself, and Anhur often had to resist the urge to teach the skaven the meaning of humility.

‘You have brought chattel,’ he said, more loudly. The skaven cocked his head, eyes narrowed.

‘Yes-yes. Chattel. Man-things. Slaves.’

‘And is that the only reason, brave Warpfang? Is that why you have interrupted us, in this most sacred moment?’ Anhur glanced at Pazak as he spoke. It had been the sorcerer who had first made contact with the ratkin and recommended the alliance. Pazak and Warpfang knew each other of old. The sorcerer smiled thinly, and Anhur had to restrain a laugh.

‘No,’ Warpfang said. He thumped his chest-plate with his mace, unleashing a flash of green sparks. ‘Warpfang will be Gorechosen! Warpfang will kill-kill!’

‘Kill, Warpfang, kill!’ the rest of the skaven shrieked, as one. The black-furred ratmen drove the hafts of their halberds against the stone floor as they chanted, nearly drowning out the singing of Redjaw’s followers. ‘Kill, Warpfang, kill! Kill, Warpfang, kill!’

‘Arrogant vermin,’ Apademak snarled. He whirled, glaring at Anhur. ‘He makes mockery of us and of this sacred moment. But say the word, my lord, and I shall offer up his wretched heart for your pleasure.’

Anhur raised his hand, silencing the slaughterpriest. ‘Speak, my friends. What say you, my champions?’ He looked at the others. ‘Pazak? I know you encouraged him in this.’ How else would he have known what was occurring here, he thought, unless you told him. Only mortals devoted to Khorne could join the ranks of the Gorechosen, but Warpfang would be useful regardless, if he survived. And his presence would annoy Apademak no end.

‘He’s an ambitious little maniac,’ the sorcerer said, with a shrug. ‘Crazy even by skaven standards. He’ll make a fine champion if he survives.’ He looked at Anhur. ‘Grandfather Nurgle long ago made common cause with the children of the Horned Rat, and it has ever been to our benefit. Would you turn down a weapon because it does not look as you wish?’

‘I agree. Let him fight. His blood will grease the wheels of some worthier champion’s victory,’ Berstuk said, thumping the stones with the haft of his bone portal. The scar-faced bloodsecrator laughed. ‘Besides, I never grow tired of their squeals.’

‘He makes for eight,’ Hroth said, testing the edge of one of his axes with his thumb. The deathbringer gave a gap-toothed smile. ‘An auspicious sign, whatever else, my lord. I agree with my brothers — let him fight.’

‘The Lord of Skulls has a million beasts, but precious few beast-masters. All who think themselves worthy must have a chance to prove it,’ Volundr rumbled. ‘He cannot stand as Gorechosen, but if he lives… he is worthy to serve.’

‘But he is nothing — he is a mere pest!’ Apademak sputtered, glaring at the skullgrinder. He looked at Anhur. ‘He does not even follow the Eightfold Path…’

‘Even vermin can kill,’ Pazak interjected. ‘And is that not the only worship Khorne demands? I do not follow your path, yet here I am, at the Scarlet Lord’s right hand, not one of his Gorechosen, but a weapon nonetheless.’

Apademak flushed and opened his mouth to retort, but Anhur cut him off with a curt gesture. ‘Quiet. The Eight are mine to choose, how I wish. The rat shall fight. If Warpfang wins, he may not be Gorechosen, but he will join you at my side, and be welcome. War is the great leveller, Apademak. It raises up and casts down, in equal measure. All who serve it are welcome at my side in this undertaking.’ He hefted his axe. ‘Fight,’ he said, as he brought his axe down and embedded it in the stones at his feet. ‘Fight and die for the glory of Khorne!’

For a moment, the only sound was the echo of Anhur’s cry. Then Phastet stepped forward lightly, her sword springing into her hand as she moved. In the same, smooth motion, she slashed out, opening Yan’s throat to the bone with the serrated blade. She whirled around him as he staggered forward and brought her sword down between his shoulders, driving him to his knees. The huntress continued to hack at him as he slumped, her eyes alight with feral joy.

‘A true daughter of Khorne,’ Volundr murmured.

As if Phastet’s sudden assault had been a signal, Skullripper gave a guttural howl and charged Kung. The two warriors began to trade heavy blows, even as Baron Aceteryx, ever the opportunist, circled them, a flail of brass and iron swinging from one hand and a basket-hilted sword in the other.

‘What odds do you lay, Shieldbreaker?’ Berstuk growled, watching the duel intently. ‘The Skullripper or Kung?’

‘Kung,’ Hroth said, scratching his chin with the edge of his axe. ‘He fought beside me at Oruxx… But then, the Baron is quick. Khorne may favour him, even as he favours Grindlespine.’ The warrior in question was advancing on Warpfang. Horny growths of bone and red scale covered Grindlespine, and he wore little armour. Antlers sprouted from seeping wounds in his head and he’d chewed his own lips to ragged tatters, exposing blackened fangs. He hefted a two-handed sword and stamped forward, swinging it about his malformed head.

Warpfang lunged forward, ducking beneath Grindlespine’s blade as it looped out. The skaven rolled to his feet and his halberd chopped into the back of the aspiring champion’s leg. Grindlespine howled and sank down to one knee. Warpfang bounded to his feet and spun, his mace crashing into the back of the hobbled warrior’s skull. The skaven was already moving as Grindlespine pitched forward.

Pazak whooped, earning him a glare from Apademak. Warpfang leapt onto Kung’s back, using his halberd as an anchor. The blade sank into Kung’s shoulder-plate and the giant roared and staggered as he tried to dislodge the skaven. Skullripper tried to take advantage of the distraction, but Baron Aceteryx sprang forward and drove his basket-hilted blade through a gap in the brute’s armour.

Skullripper stumbled and whirled, swiping at the Baron even as Phastet darted towards him, her saw-edged sword chopping down on his arm. Skullripper gave a keening wail and spun to face her. Aceteryx came at him again, smashing his flail down on Skullripper’s head. The brute sank down as the two warriors struck him again and again. Kung staggered towards them, still clawing at Warpfang, who clung stubbornly to his perch.

‘Three down,’ Anhur said. His pulse quickened as the scent of newly-spilled blood filled the air and the others had begun to chant, reciting the eight hundred and eighty-eight names of the Lord of Skulls as they clashed their weapons and stamped their feet.

Pazak silently pointed at the obsidian plates spinning above the fight. They had begun to glow softly and the blood was running freely across the stones of the chamber.

‘They awaken, my lord,’ the sorcerer murmured. Anhur laughed.

In the crater, Kung backhanded Aceteryx and knocked him sprawling. Redjaw whirled forward, his spear darting out, snake-quick, to pierce Kung’s eye. The screeching axe made a sound like a sob as it tumbled from its wielder’s hand and fell to the ground. Kung leaned forward, held upright by Redjaw, until the champion stepped aside and tore the spear free with a single motion.

‘Four down,’ Apademak said, gleefully. ‘Redjaw has it!’

‘Not if the vermin has anything to say about it,’ Hroth said, slapping the slaughterpriest on the shoulder. Apademak turned and glared angrily at him, but said nothing.

Warpfang rode the body to the ground, and then leapt at Redjaw. They moved back and forth, almost faster than the eye could follow, weapons clashing again and again. Warpfang nimbly avoided every thrust, even as Redjaw blocked every riposte. As they moved about, trading blows, Phastet crept towards Aceteryx. The Baron rose unsteadily to his feet and the huntress’ too-wide mouth split in an ear-to-ear grin, revealing shark-like teeth. She lunged and the Baron turned, but not quickly enough.

Her jagged blade shattered as it crunched down on Aceteryx’s helm, but the force of the blow drove him to one knee. Phastet gave him no chance to recover — she jerked a short-hafted orruk axe from her belt and prepared to strike. But before she could, Anhur roared, ‘Enough!’

Panting, Warpfang stepped back and Redjaw lowered his spear. Baron Aceteryx clambered to his feet. Phastet had claimed Kung’s axe for her own and murmured quietly to it as she joined the others. The warriors looked up at the Scarlet Lord expectantly, to where he and his Gorechosen watched from the top of the small crater. Anhur spread his arms.

‘Enough. You have won. Three to replace the fallen, and one more besides.’

He tore his axe free of the stones and raised it over his head. ‘Blood for the Blood God. Blood and skulls for Khorne!’ The newly-made Gorechosen echoed his cry, raising their weapons. Even Warpfang and his skaven joined in, screeching wordlessly.

Satisfied, Anhur lowered his axe. ‘Victory, at the cost of pain. Suffering is our toll, to walk the skull-road.’ He looked at Pazak. ‘Is it enough?’

‘It’s a start,’ the sorcerer said. ‘This place has slumbered for centuries… even before the coming of the Ruinous Powers. It will take more blood — seas of it, to open the way. We must baptise this place in the blood of its people.’

Anhur nodded slowly. Is it all that you hoped it would be, Anhur of Ytalan? The voice rose up out of the dark of him, prying and digging at his certainties. Will you save your people by slaughtering them? Will you save the kingdom by destroying it? The warlord snarled and shook his head. The voice faded and he looked down at his axe, seeking strength. He traced the rune of Khorne, carved into the flat of the blade, and growled. ‘So be it.’ He turned to Warpfang. ‘More slaves. More slaves, more blood, more skulls. The way must be opened, whatever else. We have come too far to falter now.’

He lifted his axe, and felt a savage joy fill him, driving back his doubts. ‘I will drown Klaxus in the blood of its people, if that is what it takes,’ he bellowed, and his Gorechosen roared out their agreement.

As they did so, the Scarlet Lord heard again the rumble of distant thunder and smiled.

‘Now… now we come to it at last, Oros, my friend,’ he murmured. The enemy had come, as he had known they would. ‘Now, we will see.’

Now, the true battle for Klaxus could begin.

The Adamantine shield wall pressed on, killing as they marched. Orius led them forward, striking down snarling beasts with every blow. He heard the sound of Tarkus’ horn, winding above the clangour of battle, but he had lost sight of the others in the advance. Every so often, the sky lit up with lightning, as Moros called down the storm, but there seemed to be no end to the enemy. The Scarlet Lord had hundreds of herds of beastmen in his army, and it seemed as if many of them were here, now, trying to slaughter his warriors.

Suddenly, an all-too familiar flail of skulls swept down from out of the press, smashing an unlucky Liberator to the ground. Beastmen fell upon the warrior and hairy hands dragged him struggling into the depths of the horde. Even as Orius stepped up to take his place, a bolt of blue lightning streaked upwards, signalling the fallen warrior’s return to Azyr. Anger thrummed through the Lord-Celestant as he moved to confront the creature called Vasa.

The monstrous deathbringer, his gibbet-banner clattering, loomed over Orius. Red eyes bulged and slaver dripped from his muzzle as he bellowed wordlessly in challenge. He swung his flail down, and Orius slashed out with his runeblade, chopping through the chains. The deathbringer stumbled back, stamping clumsily on a squealing ungor. He tossed the ruined weapon aside with a bellicose snarl and reached for Orius, clawed fingers wide.

‘I will crush your skull, and offer up the fragments to Khorne!’ the brute roared.

The Lord-Celestant stepped forward quickly, avoiding Vasa’s grasp. He drove his hammer up, into the leonine warrior’s jaw. Bone crunched and the deathbringer staggered, eyes rolling wildly. Before his opponent could recover, Orius opened Vasa’s stomach with a single slash of his runeblade. The giant champion sank down with a morose grunt, claws clasped to his gut. As he sought to rise, Orius split his skull.

‘He can have yours instead,’ he said, watching as his foe twitched his last. He looked up, and saw that the shield wall had pressed forward without him. The Stormcasts had driven the foe before them, sweeping them back out of the courtyard. And with the fall of the monstrous deathbringer, their will to fight had seemingly evaporated.

‘They’re on the run,’ Tarkus said, as he trotted towards Orius. He looked none the worse for wear, despite the gore which streaked his armour. At the other end of the courtyard, the Stormcasts had driven the remnants of the warherd back, against the outer walls. Orius judged that only the swiftest would manage to escape into Uryx. Judicator retinues moved to man the broken walls and Prosecutors kept watch from the air, just in case the remaining beastkin regrouped more quickly than expected. The Knight-Heraldor kicked a goatish head aside as he joined Orius. ‘Now’s the time to advance, if we’re going to do it.’

‘Indeed,’ Orius said. ‘The Prosecutors will collapse as much of the city to either side of us as they can and block it off from any advance once they regroup. That will keep our foes off our flanks as we press forward.’ The Lord-Celestant looked at Kratus, who had joined them, wings folded behind his back.

The Knight-Azyros nodded and signalled to one of the Prosecutor retinues circling overhead. They swooped towards him and he motioned sharply. The Prosecutor-Prime of the retinue raised one of his hammers in salute. Orius watched the interaction curiously. In all the years he had known the Knight-Azyros, Kratus had never spoken, for reasons known only to himself and Sigmar. Nonetheless, he made himself understood. The warriors of the Adamantine had learned to read volumes from the Silent One’s simplest gesture. As the Prosecutors swooped off, the sound of collapsing stone and cracking wood rose up from the city below, momentarily drowning out all other sounds.

The noise rose up, throbbing on the air, as Orius, joined by the rest of his auxiliary commanders, climbed onto the courtyard walls. It pulsed for several moments, beating against their ears like a monstrous heartbeat.

‘The fire,’ Galerius began, as the echoes faded. Moros shook his head.

‘The jungle,’ the Lord-Relictor said, softly. ‘I can feel it. Something has provoked it. It is unfettered, for the first time in millennia. It is… hungry and eager.’ He looked at Orius. ‘Soon it will devour the city and everything in it. The magic of the priest-kings… it held this city together. Now they’re dead, and the city dies with them.’ He hesitated. ‘Furthermore, something grows in the rot. I can feel it. A war-wind blows, my Lord-Celestant. Our enemy came here for a dread reason, I think.’

‘Whatever it is, we must move quickly. The inner gates will need to be opened if we are to win our way into the city proper,’ Orius said as he peered out across the terraces and plazas of the outer city. The jungle encroached here more than elsewhere. It always had, something told him. A jagged splinter of memory thrust its way upward, pricking him. He closed his eyes for a moment and listened to the rasp of the hot wind across stones and bark.

He saw a face, heard a familiar laugh. A man he had fought under, whom he had called friend. A man he had followed from the basalt crags of Ytalan, through the Ashen Jungles, in the name of justice. What happened to you… to us? he wondered. The question held him tight. It refused to release him, no matter how he tried to thrust it back into the shadows of memory. Orius could see more faces: allies, friends, brothers. There had been unrest in Klaxus, after the war with Raxul. Pogroms and bodies stacked in the streets. The priest-kings had called them home, but Anhur had not marched on their behalf — no, the Prince of Ytalan had been determined to topple the old, corrupt regime. To replace it with something better.

In this dying city, we sought a reason to live, he thought, without knowing why. He bent over the ramparts, the ancient stones crumbling beneath his palms. ‘But we found only death,’ he muttered, as the memories receded, taking the shadows of the past with them. Where are you, Anhur? Where are you, traitor?

‘My lord,’ Moros said, softly.

Orius straightened. He looked out over the city, wondering, and he found his gaze drawn to the distant shape of a citadel composed of yellow stone, rising from the pale, steaming waters of the sulphurous lake which nestled in the crook of the crater’s curve. The city spread out around the lake in all directions. The priest-kings had ruled Klaxus from that foul place, and that, he knew, was where his enemy would be.

‘There,’ he said, with iron certainty. ‘That’s where he is. That’s where whatever he’s planning will take place.’

Moros followed his gesture. ‘What is that? A temple?’

‘Of a sort. The Sulphur Citadel,’ Orius said, slowly, drawing the name from the ashes of his mortal memories. ‘The last redoubt of the priest-kings. And the first. It is — was — said that Uryx sprouted from the citadel, growing up around it. It is a palace, a fortress, a temple, surrounded on all sides by sulphurous waters that boil and churn.’

‘There is a bridge?’ Gorgus asked.

‘The Bridge of Smoke,’ Orius said. ‘A thing of sorcery, like so much of this city.’

Moros shook his head. ‘It won’t be easy. We’ve half a city between us and it, and by what we’ve seen so far, the bulk of our foe’s forces have occupied Klaxus. He’ll be calling in every chieftain and would-be champion out of the jungles, even as we advance.’

‘Then we must be quick.’ Orius looked at the others. ‘This isn’t the Hot Gates. There’s nowhere for him to run now. Even if he retreats back across the crater, towards Ytalan or Raxul, he will have to face us. If he does not smash us, we will smash him.’ He pointed. ‘We must make for the Gnawing Gate.’

The others followed his gesture. He heard Tarkus curse softly. He didn’t fault the Knight-Heraldor. The hideous gate loomed above the labyrinthine streets of the outer city, its grey bulk crouched amidst a web of inner ramparts and aqueducts.

The Gnawing Gate, like the Mandrake Bastion or the Street of Vines, was a legacy of the priest-kings of old. And who knows what other horrors they’ve concocted since, he thought.

‘The old men say it was once a beast, hungry and foul,’ he said. He shook himself. ‘Or they used to, long ago. But from there we can march straight to the Bridge of Smoke and on to the citadel. If Sigmar is with us, we can clear the bridge before it too succumbs.’

‘I can—’ Tarkus began, but Orius cut him off.

‘No. I will do it,’ the Lord-Celestant said. ‘I know the way. We will take the Water Road.’ He extended his hammer toward the distant length of the ancient aqueducts which ran from the Mandrake Bastion, down across the courtyard wall and into the city, over the tops of the jungle trees and buildings. ‘It’s the most direct route, and the path of least resistance. I’d be surprised if the Bloodbound even knew what the aqueducts are.’

‘Anhur might,’ Moros said. ‘He’s cagey, that one.’

Orius looked at him. The Lord-Relictor’s gaze was unreadable. Orius suspected that Moros knew of the memories which afflicted him, but the Lord-Relictor had never said anything. All Stormcasts knew the pain of half-remembered moments and unrecognisable faces. He nodded slowly.

‘He might well. But I do not think he will care.’

Moros cocked his head. ‘As you say, Lord-Celestant.’

Satisfied, Orius looked at the others. ‘Kratus will accompany me. Tarkus — you, Moros and Galerius will help Gorgus establish a strongpoint here and then press forward to meet me at the Gnawing Gate. Drive the enemy before you as we did on the outer slopes of the crater.’ He looked up, at the roiling clouds. ‘Soon, Sigmar will send the other chambers to reinforce us. We must see that their path is clear.’

He extended his sword, letting the rain sluice what blood remained from the blade. ‘We are the killing stroke, the final thrust, and we shall do as we have been forged to do. For Sigmar.’ He raised the now-clean blade over his head.

‘For Sigmar,’ the others said, in unison.

‘You have your orders. Sigmar willing, I shall see you all soon. Kratus, attend me.’ Orius sheathed his sword and strode along the wall, Kratus following soundlessly. As he went, he sent runners to muster those retinues who would accompany him. Soon, fifty Stormcasts had assembled on the wall near the closest of the aqueducts. They were a mix of Liberators and Judicators, with a large contingent of Retributors. Three retinues of Prosecutors circled them overhead. When the Stormcasts had gathered, Orius explained his plan to Kratus.

‘You will take wing, my brother,’ Orius said. ‘Hunt the skies with your warriors, see what there is to see and report back to me. Once we reach the Gnawing Gate, your speed will be to our advantage. We must hold it, whatever else happens.’

Kratus nodded. Orius clasped his shoulders. ‘Be wary and do not engage the enemy unless absolutely necessary. Our only advantage is that they do not yet know our numbers. We must keep them guessing until our brethren arrive to bolster our ranks.’

Kratus stepped back and saluted, smashing his fist against his chest. Orius raised his hand in farewell as the Knight-Azyros leapt into the air, followed by his Prosecutors. He watched them spiral upwards into the dark sky, until only the faintest gleam of their wings was visible.

Orius looked up at the roiling clouds. He could still recall the sense-shattering moment that he had been plucked from the point of his death and taken to Sigmaron, amongst the stars. In a flash of lightning and a roll of thunder, he had traded death for life, and mortal failure for a higher cause. Great and perilous trials had followed, as he was forged anew and made more than the man he had been. His mettle had been tested time and again within the Forge Eternal, until at last, Orius Adamantine had stepped from the ashes of Oros of Ytalan.

He led his warriors towards the entrance to the covered aqueducts. The tunnels had been built to carry water from the upper reaches of the crater-city to the lower, and circular cupped grates marked the entirety of their vast length. They were said to have been shaped by duardin artisans at the behest of the priest-kings of old, when the first foundations of Uryx, and Klaxus, were laid, and such was the obvious skill of their construction that Orius could readily believe it.

The aqueducts stretched from the Mandrake Bastion throughout the city, and from them one could reach almost any point. They were covered by roofs of brick and knotted roots, with wide holes at intervals which allowed in the rain. Great networks of vines stretched up from the ground and clung to their length, spreading between the hundreds of support pillars like vast spider webs. The great iron grates were the only way to enter them.

Orius slammed his hammer against the ancient grating and smashed it loose from its frame. It splashed down, the echoes of its fall galloping down into the depths of the aqueduct. The aqueducts were called the Water Road for good reason. They had never run dry in all the centuries of their existence. Even in the hottest seasons, lukewarm water had run down the pillars to rain upon the poor who had waited eagerly below.

He could feel the splash of that water, the relief it brought to be clean, if only for a few moments. Orius closed his eyes briefly. Voices he had not heard in a century called out to him, from the depths of his recollection. Faces, indistinct yet familiar, rose and fell before he could fully see them. A lifetime of memories, ever just out of his reach.

Come, Hound of Ytalan, a voice had said, between the ringing of axe-strokes. Anhur’s voice, rising above the roar of the geysers at the Hot Gates. The name meant something, stirred some ancient ember of mortal pride, but Orius could not say why. He shook his head, annoyed with himself. This was not the first time he had waged war in the streets of Uryx, but it would be the last. Whatever had gone before, whatever had happened to Oros of Ytalan, none of that mattered. The past had been burnt from him by Sigmar’s lightning. He was Stormcast now, purged of weakness, forged in aetheric fire. Only the present mattered. Only the future.

The Lord-Celestant stepped into the tunnel. It stank of mildewed stone and rotting plant matter. Rain sluiced down through the holes. It was barely wide enough for the Stormcasts to travel three abreast. Orius lifted his weapons and carefully dragged the blade of his sword across the face of his hammer. His hammer trembled in his hand, and a soft, vigorous light rose from the runes and sigils carved into it. The light washed down the length of the aqueduct, illuminating every dangling vine and revealing the ancient tiles which decorated the underside of the roof. Strange shapes — vermin, perhaps — scampered away from the light, retreating deeper into the aqueduct.

The Lord-Celestant turned to his warriors. They waited, silent and gleaming, each of them a hero forged in tragedy and fire. Bound together by the will of Sigmar, and sent forth to free the Mortal Realms from the clutches of abomination. Kingdoms like Klaxus. He wondered if he had fought beside any of them before, in forgotten days. How many of you fell here with me, the first time? How many will fall now?

Orius pushed the thought aside. Death was not an end. Not for them. They would fight until the eight realms cracked asunder, until the stars were snuffed, until all hope was lost and beyond. They were Stormcast Eternals, and they were Sigmar’s vengeance made manifest.

‘Follow me. We march for the Gnawing Gate,’ he said.

And then, with a clatter of sigmarite, Orius Adamantine led his warriors into the dark.

The Gnawing Gate

Pazak of the Faceted Eye watched the obsidian plates whirl and dance above the floor of the great chamber, faster, then more slowly. There was no pattern to it, no rhythm that he could determine. It was a thing of Chaos, forged in warpfire and shaped by impossible tools. The furnace kings were artisans beyond even Pazak’s comprehension.

But though he could not discern the magics which had gone into the creation of the Black Rift, he knew how to manipulate them. How to set them into motion. Some doors were simpler to open than others. Pazak thrust out a hand, feeling the ebb and flow of the ancient sorceries which thrummed through the close air of the Sulphur Citadel.

The priest-kings of Klaxus had not truly understood the wellspring of power that the citadel had been built on. They had known only that it made their petty magics more potent, and they had employed it with brute simplicity. With that strength, they had tamed the Ashen Jungle, and raised great structures from the soil of the crater. With that power, they had conquered the other crater-kingdoms, forcing them to kneel one by one.

Pazak extended his hand, and something wet and sobbing briefly curled about his fingers and retreated, drawn back towards the shimmering cloud of spirits which circled the Black Rift like moths about a light. There were a thousand broken souls for every stone in the citadel; the last remnants of those unfortunates sacrificed by the priest-kings to the god they called Sigmar. From what little Pazak knew of the being in question, he doubted the Thunderer had appreciated such succulent offerings.

In reality, the priest-kings had likely served one of the Four — perhaps the Changer of Ways. Pazak thought he could smell the faintest stink of Tzeentchian magics on the stones of the Citadel. Yes, the Deceiver could very well have had a hand in the continued survival of the crater-kingdoms. That one would have found the priest-kings to be pliable tools indeed.

‘Children,’ Pazak muttered. ‘Blind children, scrabbling in the dark.’ He looked up, at the face of Sigmar stretched across the curve of the dome. ‘And you, forced to watch it all. How did it feel, eh? How did it feel to watch your worshippers cavort and kill, all in your name?’

A distant rumble of thunder was his only answer. Pazak snorted. ‘Growl all you like,’ he said, and turned his attentions to the latest batch of prisoners Warpfang’s followers had brought him. There were only fifty or so — the ones no good for menial labour, but too stringy to feed on. Warpfang would have culled his take from the rest. The skaven were being paid well for marching beneath the banners of the Scarlet Lord. When Warpfang returned to whatever pestilential burrow his clan called home, he would be rich in slaves and plunder.

The prisoners were a forlorn lot, weeping and bloody. Some could barely stand, despite the lashes of the skaven. One or two looked dead on their feet. He could smell the sweet tang of infection and gangrene seeping from wounds, and see a few who were shivering despite the heat. The Klaxians had held out against the Bloodbound for centuries, thanks to the malign sorceries of their priest-kings. It was only when Anhur had breached the Steam-Ramparts and invaded the crater-kingdoms that their control began to fray at last. Now the once-proud folk of Klaxus were so much grist for Khorne’s mill.

Once, he had been as they — a puling creature, barely more than an animal. He had been a mere shaman, a speaker to ghosts and a reader of bones. Unaware of the greater glory of Grandfather’s Garden, for all that he manipulated the magic of the realms. But when the plague had come creeping silently among his tribe, Pazak had embraced it willingly. And Grandfather had seen, and approved. Pazak had grown strong in Nurgle’s grace, and his mind and spirit had flourished.

The plague-winds were his to control now. He could draw forth blight-flies and gurgling daemons, he could poison the air and rot a man’s flesh with but a look. Power such as he had never dreamt of, at his fingertips. And he’d almost lost it all at the Alkali Basin, but for the most unexpected of mercies. Anhur had turned aside the edge of his axe that day, and Pazak had kept his head, in return for an oath of service. An oath sworn in blood and bile.

Anhur was a canny one, no doubt about it. He’d needed a sorcerer to open his door to Khorne’s realm, and Pazak had obliged, in return for his life. He rubbed his throat. He never wondered whether he should have let Anhur kill him. The carnage the Bloodbound left in their wake served Grandfather as well as Khorne. Rot followed death, and from corruption new life waxed profane. And this plan of Anhur’s would see much death and much rot.

And more besides, he thought, as he studied the faces of the prisoners. He held up a hand, and one of the skaven stepped forward, muzzle twitching. ‘Where is Warpfang?’ Pazak said.

‘Gone out-out,’ the skaven chittered. ‘Hunting man-things.’

‘Where?’ Pazak said. The ritual to open the Black Rift required a constant flow of blood. The skaven chittered. It took a moment for Pazak to realise that it was laughing.

‘The Avenue of Five Hundred Hands,’ the ratman said.

Pazak grunted. That was near the Gnawing Gate. And right in the path of the advancing Stormcasts. Brave little maniac, he thought, not without amusement. Unlike most of his kind, Warpfang was almost as fierce as any of Khorne’s chosen. If no one put a knife in his back, and he didn’t perish in battle, he might just rise far among his own kind.

A useful creature, if he survives, he thought. Grandfather Nurgle had long cherished the friendship of the Horned Rat and his chittering children. Pazak scraped his finger along the face of one of the prisoners — a man, clad in the tattered raiment of a temple guard — and traced a sigil in the air with the blood. The sigil pulsed once, before the blood turned to ash and swirled away. Pazak nodded. ‘Good,’ he said, turning away. ‘Bulbus, my friend, see to the harvest, if you please.’

The skaven overseers scampered aside as his faithful blightkings lurched into motion. The prisoners began to scream. Heavy blades rose and fell, silencing them. Chunks of bloody flesh and streamers of muscle were tossed about as blood seeped between the stones. More ghosts rose to join the legions which circled the Black Rift, dragged inexorably upwards towards the dimensional doorway that was slowly opening. Pazak twitched in time to their tinny shrieks. ‘Blood and souls, blood and souls,’ he murmured.

Yes, some doors were simpler to open.

The Gnawing Gate was hungry.

The sound of its desire swelled, filling the streets and avenues, rising to the rooftops and above, shaking the leaves of the jungle-trees with its dolorous strength. It made the stones tremble, and animals flee. It was a cry of need, a moan of frustration, a warning of violence. A structure cracked and tore as something long, grey and glistening slithered through a window and ripped the walls from their foundations.

More glistening things — tendrils formed from flesh, root and stone — stretched out from the grey bulk of the Gnawing Gate and tore in a futile frenzy at the nearby buildings. Other tendrils flailed in mute protest at the support pillars of the great aqueducts that rose over the gate, or stabbed viciously at the length of the vein-encrusted walls which stretched out to either side, separating the outer city from the inner.

The Gnawing Gate squatted astride the Avenue of Five Hundred Hands, a rippling colossus of filthy creation. It was a thing of terrible sorcery and strange alchemy, wrought from stones culled from the depths of the sulphur lake, the blood and bone of slaves, and the very earth itself, raised up during some long-ago siege to defend the main thoroughfare of Uryx from an encroaching enemy.

It resembled a length of flayed meat, going sour, and stretched across the narrowest point of the city. Its walls were as thick as those of the Mandrake Bastion and the furthest edges of its length bled seamlessly into the high stone bastions to the west which kept watch over the Ashen Jungles on one side, and the yellowish shore of the sulphur lake on the other. The central gateway which was its skull, heart and brain occupied the Avenue of Five Hundred Hands.

Beyond its crouched bulk, the avenues and plazas of the inner city spread out like the spokes of a crooked wheel, around the semi-central hub of the Sulphur Citadel. The western bastions were all but rubble now, allowing the Bloodbound to bypass it and travel from the inner city to the outer without fear of the gate’s hunger.

More buildings collapsed, brought low by thrashing tendrils. The gate groaned again as thunder rumbled and lightning flashed. It jerked and quivered as the rain fell, and the fires set by the Bloodbound during their attack on the city drew close. Like an animal, it sought to flee the encroaching flames, and to feed itself, but could not manage either. So, it thrashed and groaned and shrieked.

It had been four days since the Gnawing Gate had last eaten, and it was growing more agitated with every hour. Kretch Warpfang knew the signs well enough, for he was no stranger to such monstrous flesh-engines. Indeed, Clan Rictus, one of the foremost Verminus Clans of Blight City, had its share of similar creations in its burrows and warrens. The warlord sat on the shoulders of a decapitated statue of a forgotten man-thing potentate and watched the gate’s paroxysms with some amusement. All around him, the Avenue of Five Hundred Hands was a-boil with activity, as his clanrats rooted out their prey and dragged them screaming into the wheel-cages. The Klaxians were a beaten folk, their armies cast down by the Scarlet Lord and their priest-kings butchered on brass altars. Now, as their city burned, all they wanted was to run and hide, to seek refuge in the deep places of the jungles.

Lightning speared across the sky. Below, his bodyguards, arrayed around the base of the statue in a rough phalanx, shifted uncertainly. He could smell the musk of fear on some of them, and he showed his fangs in annoyance. The enemy — the storm-things — were in the city, if his scouts were to be believed. They were marching south, towards the Sulphur Citadel. Soon enough, they might even reach the Gnawing Gate, unless the beastherds managed to detain them in the outer city. Which they wouldn’t, filthy beast-things. It mattered little to Warpfang, in any event. It was not his job to fight the storm-things. He was to cull slaves, for whatever great work Pazak was undertaking. It fell to the rest of Anhur’s Gorechosen to defend the city.

‘Hurry-hurry,’ he snarled at his warriors, bashing the statue with his mace. ‘Get them in the cages, quick-quick! We must be gone by the time the storm-things arrive, yes!’ Lashes hissed and snapped as his packmasters hurried their prisoners into the wheel-cages. Warpfang settled back on his haunches, satisfied.

His clawbands were scattered throughout this part of the city. It was inevitable that some of them might run afoul of the foe, but they all knew to fall back towards the secret tunnels he’d ordered to be dug… the ones that would take them deep into the inner city, out of sight of any advancing enemy. There, at a point of his choosing, they could regroup, and muster a concentrated defence — or would be in a position to take advantage of the situation. Warpfang glanced towards the gate as an immense tendril erupted through the roof of a distant structure and lashed blindly at the black clouds above. The Gnawing Gate roared, its hunger palpable. He snarled, and clamped down on his instinctive fear.

The Scarlet Lord had decreed that the Gnawing Gate be left unfed and unmanned, after two tribes’ worth of bloodreavers had unsuccessfully sought to tame it to better defend the main thoroughfare into the city’s heart. The gate had devoured them with glee, its great fang-like portcullis rising and falling to puncture, pierce and pulverise. Now, its gatehouse towers, with their mortar of blinking eyes and thatch of scalps and teeth, twisted and swivelled in a desperate search for sustenance.

Warpfang kept his warriors well away from the cannibal-structure, as a rule. He’d lost more than a few clanrats and prisoners to those creeping tendrils during his hunting expeditions, and now stationed scouts to keep a watch on it. It was growing, as the magics that bound it unravelled. Whole streets were now lost to thrashing tendrils and hungry stone jaws.

He was almost impressed by the sheer artistry that the man-things of Uryx displayed in their architecture. They possessed an almost skaven-like ingenuity. He gazed down the length of the street. Severed hands, mounted on iron poles, lined the avenue. The hands had been preserved through some barbaric ritual, and the fingers of each were topped with flickering witch-lights that resisted the steady rain.

‘Magnificent,’ he chittered, as he scraped wet ash from his cuirass. A wail lashed his eardrums and he grunted in annoyance. He shifted on his perch.

More prisoners were being dragged screaming from a tumbledown structure by his warriors. Most of the man-things had fled into the jungles or the caves along the crater-wall when Anhur’s warhorde had torn down the southern bastions and ravaged the cream of the Klaxian armies in a gruelling three-day slaughter. Others had chosen to hide in the slums and the outer boroughs of the city, hoping to ride out the sack beneath the noses of the victorious Bloodbound.

‘Stupid-stupid man-things,’ Warpfang muttered.

Warpfang and his stormvermin had watched much of the battle for Uryx from the jungles, content to capture the man-things who wandered, thunderstruck, into their paws. His clanrats had been scampering through the caverns and lava-tubes of the crater wall, dragging screaming Klaxians out of hiding even as Anhur and his Gorechosen clashed with the sulphur-knights on the Bridge of Smoke. Few had escaped, and those who had, well, they had made for an enjoyable, if not challenging, diversion.

Yes, it had been a wise decision to join the Scarlet Lord. Much loot and many slaves, all to increase his standing and that of Clan Rictus. The Horned Rat would smile upon them, and raise them up, perhaps even to the heights enjoyed by the Greater Clans. The sorcerer had promised Warpfang all that and more, in return for warriors and siege-engines to bolster Anhur’s conquest of the crater. Why the Scarlet Lord wanted this filthy jungle crater, Warpfang didn’t know, and didn’t particularly care.

He hefted his halberd and watched the rain slide down the width of the blade, leaving greasy trails. When Pazak had spoken of the benefits of becoming one of Anhur’s champions, Warpfang had thought he’d gone mad, that his putrescent brains had finally leaked out of his mouldy skull. But he had never been able to resist a challenge. Thus, intrigued, he had made his play and won. Then, his skills were supreme. Better than any Chaos-thing, at least. Warpfang chittered in pleasure and swung his halberd absently.

Who knew how far he might go, what treasures and pleasures might be his, now that he stood pre-eminent among the commanders of the warhorde. He had sent many treasures and screaming slaves through the gnawholes back to the warrens of his clan, there to increase his standing amongst his peers. Warpfang would rise, and Rictus would rise with him.

He hissed in sudden annoyance as one of the prisoners broke away and scrambled into the ruins, heading straight for the gate. The skaven warlord dropped from his perch and sprinted after the runaway. His bodyguards surged in his wake, grumbling. Warpfang chittered in amusement. They didn’t need the wretch — one slave more or less made little difference. But his bodyguards were growing fat off easy meat and plunder and a run would do them good.

‘Faster,’ he snarled, as he sprang from the street to a pole and swung himself onto a wall. He ricocheted off, leaping from wall to wall as he pursued his quarry into the tangle of streets. His prey panted in fear and exhaustion, stumbling as he ran on hunger-weakened legs. The human wasn’t particularly fast, but Warpfang was enjoying the chase.

That enjoyment came to an abrupt end as a greyish tendril erupted from the wall of a building in a plume of dust. It swiftly coiled about the human and jerked the wailing man back through the wall before the dust had even cleared. More tendrils bored through the street, arrowing towards Warpfang. He leapt backwards, twisting in the air. He hooked the shield carried by one of his bodyguards, and sprang onto the bewildered skaven’s shoulders. ‘Run-run, you fools! Quick-quick!’ he snarled, as he used the heads of the other skaven as stepping stones. His bodyguards trampled after him as he sprinted back the way they’d come. The slowest were snapped up by the questing tendrils, and dragged away, shrieking.

Warpfang yowled out an order as he and his stormvermin burst out of the side-street and back into the witch-lights of the Avenue of Five Hundred Hands. The jezzail teams he’d stationed at the entrance to the avenue scurried forward. Heavy pavises chunked down at the mouth of the street, and soon high-velocity bullets of refined warpstone were screaming down its length. Grey flesh burst and ichor stained the street as the tendrils retreated. A screech rumbled down the avenue, rattling Warpfang’s teeth.

As the echoes of the sound faded, dust and water spattered down from the aqueduct far above. Warpfang stared up at the serpentine length of shaped stone and licked his namesake idly. A jolt of energy filled him and he turned. He flicked his halberd out, indicating several of his scout-leaders. ‘You, you and you. Take your clawbands. Go. Quick-quick. Climb and see.’ He thrust his mace upwards, indicating the aqueduct. The skaven flooded past. Humans were tricky beasts. Almost as tricky as skaven. It would be just like them to attempt to flee the city via the aqueducts. Worse, the Gnawing Gate could have at last breached the structures. Whichever it was, his warriors would find out soon enough.

The scouts began to scale the support pillars with commendable speed. More than two dozen of them — enough to stymie any escape attempt. As Warpfang watched them, a glint of something, far above, caught his eye.

Curious, he looked up.

The city spread out beneath Kratus in waves of stone that rose and fell as Uryx spilled down the incline of the crater wall, and splashed the jungles below. Broken towers and shattered aqueducts rose like lonely grave markers amid the thick vegetation. As he swooped past, towards the Gnawing Gate, a tower collapsed in on itself in a gout of dust and fire, as vast roots curled tight about its husk. The city was being reclaimed, one street at a time, even as Moros had sworn. Soon there would be nothing left to fight over, save vine-choked ruins.

The horizon was aflame, and massive streaks of lightning flashed down, illuminating the distant stretch of the southern crater-rim. The Tephra Crater was home to many small kingdoms, some no larger than a few fortified cities rising up from the Ashen Jungle. Klaxus was the largest of these, but even it was mostly jungle. And all of them nestled in the shadow of the crater walls. As he spun and wheeled, riding the winds, he heard the distant boom of thunder.

Then, a great scream, as of some ravenous giant, shuddered through the air. He saw pulsing lengths of grey rise and plunge through buildings or erupt from the streets with malignant purpose. From above, the Gnawing Gate resembled nothing so much as a gangrenous wound in the body of Uryx. Like the mandrake towers, it was a tame horror, created by the cruel masters of Klaxus in times long past. But with the fall of Uryx, its servitude was at an end. Now it lashed out savagely at the city that had been its prison for so long. Whether this was the doing of Chaos, or merely another sign of the entropy consuming the city, Kratus didn’t know. But if the Stormcasts were to free the city from the Bloodbound, they would have to get past the monstrous edifice.

A pillar of fire suddenly swept upwards, rising from a fallen building and jolting him from his reverie. It spun in place, a cyclone of flame, bending and writhing like a thing alive. More of them rose throughout the city, as if to challenge the storm clouds above, weaving serpents of flame that darted and struck at the roiling clouds. The air had become hot and dense, and the steady rain did little to alleviate it.

Despite the fire, bands of Bloodbound moved through the streets like swarming ants. They moved in all directions, some heading for the jungles, others streaming towards the Mandrake Bastion. He spared a brief thought for Moros and the others. They would soon be hard-pressed, as they advanced towards the Gnawing Gate.

Horns wailed and drums thudded as other Bloodbound celebrated their recent victory over the armies of Klaxus. The broken bodies of the slain were hoisted aloft on spears, and their weapons and armour doled out by magnanimous chieftains. All these sights and more Kratus saw as he led his warriors through the storm-tossed, fire-stung air.

The enemy possessed no discipline; there was no sign that the brawling groups below were anything more than disparate tribes, gathered to plunder the vast crater-city — there seemed to be no organized plan of defence. They clashed in the streets and plazas, warring against one another over scraps of plunder, rather than turning their axes on the enemy. Such was ever the case, Kratus knew. Unlike the Stormcasts, the Bloodbound owed no loyalty save to their obscene god. They fought amongst themselves readily enough, when no other enemies were close to hand. That Anhur had managed to wield a coalition of this size for as long as he had was a testament to the danger the warlord posed.

But the Bloodbound were not the only monsters who prowled Uryx. Kratus’ keen eyes spotted more than one herd of beastmen galloping through the streets in pursuit of unseen prey, or else clashing with their human allies over shelter and food.

Worst of all, however, were the skaven. They alone moved with purpose, in great scuttling hordes that wound through the city and jungle. Kratus had faced the ratmen before. Wherever the forces of Chaos congregated, the skaven would soon follow, seeking slaves and plunder. These, it seemed, were after the one more than the other.

Screams rose from below, as a horde of ratmen rounded up the former masters of Uryx and herded them into great wheeled iron cages. Men and women and children fled before the lash and spear as the chittering horde harried them out of their hiding places. The people of Klaxus were lithe and dark, and while they knew much of war, Anhur had broken them. They were beaten, the fight drained out of them. Kratus watched as a man stumbled and fell. The skaven fell upon him with savage zeal, clubbing and slashing at him until his bloody form was dragged bodily into one of the wheeled cages.

Anger swelled up in him, but he forced it down. He had his orders, and he would see them through. There would be time enough for vengeance later. But, as he swooped past the aqueducts which carried Orius and his warriors to the Gnawing Gate, he caught sight of the skaven slithering up the support pillars. Almost thirty of the creatures, clad in dark, ragged smocks and blackened hauberks. More skaven were moving into position below, and all at once, Kratus knew they’d been seen. As he and his Prosecutors flew beneath the aqueduct, between the support pillars, sling stones rattled against his armour.

The anger returned, and with it satisfaction. Orius had commanded that he not engage the enemy without reason. Well, this was reason enough, Kratus thought. He signalled to his Prosecutors. At his gesture, they swooped downwards. As they passed over the ratmen at the base of the aqueducts, they hurled their celestial hammers, pulverising skaven in their dozens. jezzail bullets and sling stones caromed off sigmarite war-plate in response.

The skaven shrieked and scattered. Small knots of them raised their shields, hoping to protect themselves from the attack, to no avail. The crackling hammers whirled down, rupturing the street and hurling broken bodies into the air. The disciplined ranks began to waver and unravel, as the skaven’s natural cowardice asserted itself in the face of the oncoming storm.

A second retinue of Prosecutors swooped low across the skaven lines, separating the panicking ratmen from their prisoners. The winged Stormcasts landed in the street and drove back those skaven brave enough to attack them.

Kratus dropped through the smoky air like a rock, and the skaven unlucky enough to be standing beneath him crumpled, broken. The Knight-Azyros rose from the twitching remains of the ratman and drew his starblade without flourish. His wings remained spread, the rain evaporating as it struck them. Steam rose from his armour, a legacy of the speed of his dive. The skaven, stunned by his sudden arrival, scrambled back, clawing and biting at one another in their haste to escape. Kratus stalked after them.

A skaven warlord, larger and better armoured than the rest of its foul kin, squealed and laid about itself with the flat of its blade. As it snarled, he caught a glimpse of a single glowing green fang amongst its crooked teeth. Slowly, spears were raised, and clanrats began to edge forward, hunkered behind shields. Kratus stopped. He cocked his head, waiting. The warlord snarled out an order, and the Knight-Azyros hurled his starblade as if it were a javelin. The warlord twisted aside with incredible agility, and the blade caught one of the creatures behind him between the jaws. The force of the throw tore the ratkin’s head from its hairy shoulders.

As the body hit the ground, Kratus lifted his celestial beacon and flipped it open. The holy light flared, enveloping the front ranks of the cowering ratmen. The skaven screeched in communal agony as azure flames sprouted along twisted limbs and licked at wrinkled snouts. The warlord barked orders, to no avail. Some skaven fled, pelting into the darkness of the ruins like living torches, while others simply burst in the cleansing heat. Kratus continued forward, until he was treading upon slick ash. He pulled his sword free of the pillar it had become embedded in, allowing the smouldering skull to flop to the ground.

He caught sight of the warlord, standing atop a low-hanging rooftop. The creature stared down at him, eyes glinting in the light of the cleansing flames. Then it whirled about and was gone. For a moment, he considered pursuing it, but before he could, a grey tendril, composed of rotting flesh, rock and root, speared towards him out of the darkness. Instinctively, Kratus chopped it in half. Ichor sprayed across his armour.

More tendrils, drawn by the scent and sound of combat, slithered into view. Dying skaven were caught up, crushed and consumed by the hundreds of gnashing mouths that sprouted along the twisting length of each tendril. The prisoners in the cages began to scream in fear as the tendrils stretched towards them eagerly.

The Knight-Azyros turned to the cages and reached them with a single flap of his wings. As he landed, he swept his light over them, revealing the huddled shapes within — men, women and children, young and old: some wearing rags that had once been finery, others the tattered remnants of armour and uniforms. Most, however, had the starveling look of those who lived on the edge of sustenance, even in times of peace. Kratus stepped towards the cages, and the prisoners screamed and cowered back, as if they could not bear the light of his beacon. A tendril reared up over him with serpentine malice and he swung his celestial beacon about.

The holy light drove the tendril back. It retreated, smoke rising from its length. Swiftly, Kratus shuttered the beacon and chopped through the bindings holding the cages together. His Prosecutors followed his example and their hammers smashed apart the other cages. They stepped back. The prisoners stared at Kratus in something that might have been shock. He loomed over the tallest of them, and their frightened faces were reflected in the polished surface of his war-plate. Part of him longed to break his vow, to speak and perhaps comfort them. But he had not been forged for such things. He had been made to shatter chains and slay tyrants. The best he could do for the innocent was offer them his hand.

He hung his beacon from his belt and extended his hand. Slowly, hesitantly, the first of the prisoners, a woman, took it and clambered out. The rest followed, more slowly. The mortals surrounded him, warming themselves in the heat of his presence. They began to speak, in the strange liquid tongue of Klaxus, asking questions, begging for answers. Hands reached for him, as if to touch his gleaming armour, only to pull back in fear.

The moment was broken as more tendrils struck, diving for the newly freed mortals from on high. Kratus spun, his starblade slicing through the undulating lengths of predatory matter. The avenue shook as the Gnawing Gate bellowed in pain and frustration. He pointed towards the Mandrake Bastion.

‘Run, if you value your lives,’ one of his Prosecutors, a warrior named Syros, called out.

The former prisoners fled, streaming past Kratus, the strong helping the weak. Syros and the other Prosecutors flung themselves skyward as more and more tendrils erupted from the walls and street.

Kratus joined them as the last of the Klaxians vanished into the shadows of the city. As he flew out of reach of the tendrils, he saw that the skaven on the aqueducts had vanished. He hadn’t seen them retreat. More concerning, however, was the profusion of tendrils, each larger than the last, which now coiled about one of the support pillars and stretched towards the aqueducts. With a snap of his gleaming wings, he shot towards the aqueducts, hoping that he would be in time.

Orius Adamantine beheaded a squealing skaven and twisted aside as the crooked blade of another scratched across his chest. Dozens of the ratkin had attacked out of the darkness, first with sling stones, then with blades, dropping onto the lead Stormcast with fierce glee. The attack had come so quickly that he and his warriors had barely had time to respond. Now, thanks to the cramped conditions of the aqueduct, the bulk of his warriors were trapped behind their fellows, unable to help.

The rest of the creatures had rushed forward in a swarm, trying to take advantage of the narrow corridor to isolate Orius. He kicked a skaven in the chest, crushing its ribcage and sending it flopping down the aqueduct. Sling stones rattled off his helm as he turned.

Not all of the skaven had dropped into the aqueduct; some still clung to the openings in the roof, and these were sending a constant barrage of stones into the packed ranks of the Stormcasts. He saw a pair of the creatures trying to manoeuvre a heavy-barrelled jezzail into position. He stomped towards them, scattering skaven with every step. His hammer and sword carved a path through those too stubborn to scramble aside.

He was too slow. The skaven gunner chittered mockingly as it lit the fuse and aimed the weapon at him. But before it could fire, the aqueduct shook. Something massive and grey, like rotting flesh or wet stone, swiftly coiled about the unfortunate jezzail team, and crushed them. Gore rained down onto Orius. A booming roar echoed through the aqueduct, and a chill swept through him. The wall of the aqueduct bulged, the stones cracking as something pressed against the opening above. He backed away, weapons raised.

With a scream of tortured stone, the opening split and shattered as something horrible forced its way through to flop into the water below. It resembled nothing so much as a titanic root, studded with scales of stone and bone. Orius took another step back as the tendril filled the aqueduct, squirming forward.

Its surface burst and split, disgorging smaller pseudopods, which rapidly filled the aqueduct. These smaller tendrils thrashed and darted, crashing against hastily interposed shields and tangling about legs and weapons. Skaven and Stormcasts both came under attack. Orius watched as one of the tendrils split, revealing an oscillating maw of lamprey teeth, and engulfed a squealing skaven.

‘Back,’ he roared, ‘fall back!’

Tendrils surged forward, hammering against his war-plate. For every two he chopped apart, four more arose from the swirling mass. The aqueduct shuddered about him, and the ancient stones beneath his feet began to buckle. A tendril snagged his wrist, yanking him off-balance. He hewed at it with his runeblade, even as more of the slithering strands of filth coiled about his helm and legs. A burst of blue lightning flashed and exploded upwards, momentarily driving back the mass of tendrils, as a fallen warrior returned to Azyr.

Orius seized the moment. ‘Shields up, fall back,’ he bellowed. The last of the skaven was dragged squealing into the mindlessly champing maws of the tendrils, its hairy form pulled in multiple directions all at once. The Stormcasts fell back. Orius chopped through a questing tendril and sank to one knee. ‘Lock shields and stay back,’ he growled. ‘I will handle this.’

Behind him, he heard the clang of shield rims striking, as Liberators filled the width of the aqueduct with shields, one atop the next until a burnished wall of sigmarite had been erected. No tendril would get past it. Satisfied that his warriors were safe, he rose to a crouch, weapons held low. He sprang forward even as the mass of writhing tendrils surged towards him anew. His runeblade slashed out, severing those that came close, while his hammer smashed aside the larger ones. With every strike, sizzling reverberations of lightning ran along the bulk of the thing, eliciting a monstrous roar from somewhere beyond the aqueduct walls. The Gnawing Gate, he thought, as he bisected a tendril. It had spread far beyond its remit. He had to force it to withdraw before it ripped the aqueduct apart.

He fought his way to the central tendril and sank his sword to the hilt in its bulk. Muscles aching with the strain, he held it in place and struck it with his hammer. It writhed and thrashed with every blow, trying to pull itself free. The smaller tendrils sought to snare him, but he ignored them. A screech echoed up from the Gnawing Gate and the main tendril began to recede. He held tight to his sword and continued to strike it, not giving it a moment’s respite.

Lightning tore across the sky as the tendril whipsawed back, out of the aqueduct, dragging him with it in an explosion of stones and dust. Orius held tight to the hilt of his blade, as the streets of Uryx twisted and stretched wildly beneath him. The foul expanse of the Gnawing Gate spread out directly below, and more tendrils, each as large as a building, slashed towards him. He tore his runeblade free and sprang into the air.

Orius plummeted through the crawling sky, a prayer to Sigmar on his lips. Tendrils sought to snag and snare him, but he hacked through them as he fell towards the monstrous battlements below.

Orius had once fallen from the Sky-Bridges of the Thunderpeaks, locked in battle with an orruk chieftain. Next to that, this was the merest stumble. Or so he told himself, as the battlement rose up swiftly to meet him. He tightened his grip on his weapons.

A moment later, he struck the flesh-stones of the Gnawing Gate hard and rolled across the heaving rampart, until he slammed against the base of a gatehouse tower. There was no time to catch his breath, however, as the tower undulated towards him with a sinuous motion. Innumerable eyes glared at him, as a thousand mouths champed and shrieked. Orius hooked the edge of his warcloak and whipped it about him, unleashing the spell woven into its lining. The runes which marked the edge of the cloak flared and a barrage of shimmering hammers, formed from sorcerous energies, exploded outward. The tower jerked back as the hammers tore burning craters in its stonework.

He rose to his feet with a grunt of pain and looked around. His bones ached and something in him was cracked, if not broken, but he’d made it to the top of the Gnawing Gate. The rampart quivered beneath him, and the roar of splintering stone filled the air. It was as if the whole monstrous structure were beginning to tear itself loose from the street. Tendrils ripped themselves free from the wall and sought to entangle him. He drove them back, but only for a moment. The Gnawing Gate had had centuries to set down its horrid roots, and now they were all burrowing to the surface. There was only one way to put a stop to the monstrosity.

Explosions rippled along the abominable wall, eliciting a shriek from the Gnawing Gate. He looked up and saw Kratus and his Prosecutors arrowing down through a storm of lashing tendrils, fighting their way towards him.

‘Kratus,’ he roared. ‘Make me a hole.’ He gestured with his runeblade, and the Knight-Azyros nodded in understanding. Prosecutors dove down, through the thrashing tendrils, and loosed their hammers. As the celestial weapons struck the ramparts and cracked the heaving stones asunder, Kratus and the rest of his retinue dropped from the sky. They spread their wings like shields over Orius as he bulled towards the newly made hole. Tendrils stabbed down and jerked back, seared by the blazing wings, or smashed by the hammers of the Prosecutors.

Orius leapt down into the dark. His feet struck something softer than stone, but harder than flesh. Bone, he knew. The bones of a thousand men, enemies of Klaxus, melded together in an unholy union and raised up to serve those they had sought to destroy. Such had been the way of the priest-kings. Such might have been his fate, had Sigmar not plucked him from death.

The air inside the gate was hot and humid, worse than the jungle. It choked him, squeezing the air out of his lungs, and he knew he would have to be quick. A deep sound echoed around him, a steady thump as of a hammer striking sand. Holding his glowing hammer aloft, he followed the sound. As he moved, the walls creaked and half-seen faces formed in their substance, whispering to him piteously. He could not hear the screams of the gate here, only the soft weeping of things which had once been men.

The darkness began to fade, giving way to a soft red glow, which flickered in time to the sound. Orius stepped out onto a platform made from the fused ribcages and spinal columns of the dead. The walls around him rose pink and fleshy. Vast capillaries and squirming veins stretched everywhere, across flesh, bone and stone alike.

At the centre of this chamber of horrors, suspended amidst a web of thin ligament, stretched muscle and rusty chain, hung the heart of the Gnawing Gate. It was a bulbous mass of meat, easily the size of three men, which pulsed and swelled. Each time it did so, the chamber shuddered, and the red light which burned within it grew blinding. He could see thin streaks of rot along the surface of the heart. The magic that had created the Gnawing Gate was now, with the fall of the priest-kings, consuming it. It was dying, but its death would be a long time coming — years, even. Years of agony, driving it to berserk heights. If it were not stopped now, Orius thought, it would uproot itself, and slither across the crater, destroying all in its path, until at last it expired.

Orius stepped towards it. Condensation formed on and ran down his war-plate as he drew close. A perfectly formed mouth sprouted from the raw mass. ‘He-elp,’ it gurgled. Another mouth joined it, rising from the folded slabs of flesh at the top. ‘I-it hu-urts,’ it whimpered. ‘Hu-rthurturts,’ a third mouth moaned, as it pushed its way into the light.

More voices — or one voice, rising from a thousand mouths — joined them, as things that might have been faces rose like blisters along the fleshy walls. A thousand souls, chained together in stone and agony, for countless centuries. He shook as the reverberations of their cries thundered through him, scratching at his mind and soul.

‘Be at peace,’ he whispered, and all at once, the voices were silent. A hush fell over the chamber, and the heart trembled in its web, as if in anticipation. A thousand souls watched him with tormented eyes. Orius Adamantine lifted his hammer, and, with a murmured prayer, shattered their chains.

Thunder rumbled across the city, and the flash of lightning stung Anhur’s eyes as he watched from the high terrace. Fire limned the horizon. Soon, Uryx would be ashes, unless the storm extinguished it. Down below, on the steps of the citadel, his warriors made ready for what was to come. The Scarlet Axes were the hardened veterans of a thousand wars. They had stood beside him since he had fought his way past the basalt gates of Ytalan, the armies of Klaxus on his heels. He watched them as they oversaw the transport of the newest batch of prisoners culled from the ruins of Uryx by the skaven.

Some would go to the slave-pits, others to the stew-pots. And some — a lucky few — would become a part of something greater. He glanced back, into the inner chamber, where Pazak was hard at work, shaping his sorceries. Soon, he thought.

He had loosed Apademak and the others to wage war as they willed. They would fight and they would fail, and then fall back, to the Bridge of Smoke, drawing his enemies to him. His Gorechosen would burn — indeed, the deathbringer, Vasa, was likely already dead — but they would laugh while they did so. And the foe would be bloodied and staggering, ready for Anhur’s axe. Come, Hound of Ytalan. Come to me, so that all debts might be settled before the end, he thought.

Anhur looked up at the stained statue that rose beside him. It depicted one of the priest-kings of Klaxus, Aunis the Cunning. He studied its face, and wondered at the likeness. ‘It’s been a long time, grandfather,’ he said, finally. ‘I never should have left you… though you didn’t give me much choice.’ He laughed. ‘I guess I am deathproof, despite what you believed.’ The statue seemed to frown in disapproval. Suddenly angry, Anhur’s hand fell to his sword.

No, not mine. The thought came swift and unbidden. He pulled his hand away from the sword and let it fall by his side. No, it wasn’t his sword. It was the blade of Anhur, Prince of Ytalan, and heir to the throne of Klaxus. But Prince Anhur was dead. And he had a new weapon now. He looked down at the axe, dangling loosely in his grip. He brought it up, and gazed into the polished obsidian of its blade. Something vague and unformed looked back at him.

The anger rose up, burning white-hot, and he swept the axe out and smashed the head from the statue. He whirled, axe raised, and confronted the other statues which lined the terrace. Stony eyes regarded him, and his anger swelled.

‘You took warriors and made them weak. You took heroes and made them servants,’ he said. ‘I would watch you all die a thousand deaths for that crime, if I could.’ His words bounced from pillar to plinth, echoing across the terrace. ‘But I will settle for unmaking all that you built. I will erase Uryx and Klaxus both from history, and shape something new from the ashes.’ He looked around. ‘Do you hear, grandfathers? You wrought this citadel from the stuff of the jungle, and built a new kingdom on the bones of the old. And I, your truest son, will do the same. I will be the last king of Klaxus, and the first.’

Anhur spread his arms. ‘See me, in whatever netherworld you occupy. See me, and despair. I will rule our people, and lead them as you never could. Only I remember your names now, and soon, even I will forget.’ He lowered his arms. ‘Soon…’

‘May Khorne will it so, O Scarlet Lord.’

Anhur turned. ‘I was wondering where you’d gotten to, war-smith.’ Volundr went where he willed, and none dared gainsay him. The skullgrinders were the crafters of blades, the armourers of the Bloodbound. None knew where they came from, only that they appeared alone, striding out of the wilderness, to lay claim to certain sacrificial altars. They were the keepers of the anvils of Khorne, and where they walked, Khorne’s gaze soon followed.

‘Your mind is aflame,’ Volundr said. The hulking skullgrinder moved quietly for all his size. Anhur had not heard his approach. ‘I can smell the stink of its burning from here.’

‘Does it offend you, war-smith?’ Anhur asked.

‘I do not take offense. I take skulls,’ Volundr said. He smelled of hot metal and cinders. ‘You are… uncertain.’ It wasn’t a question. But it wasn’t a threat either. Anhur turned.

‘I am,’ he said, after a moment.

‘Why?’

Again, there was no threat. No menace. Anhur’s grip on his axe tightened. ‘A lingering trace of the man I was,’ he said. ‘A mote of weakness, which threatens the integrity of the blade.’

‘Honour is no weakness, Anhur. No matter what creatures like Apademak might contend,’ the skullgrinder said. ‘They think of nothing save the spilling of blood, and the taking of skulls…’

‘And is there more, then?’ Anhur said. ‘For I have waded through seas of blood and climbed mountains of skulls, only to find myself here again, at my start.’ He raised his axe, so that the witch-fires were reflected in the polished obsidian of the blade. ‘I chipped this axe myself, from the still, cold heart of a great fire-wyrm. It yearns to destroy, even as I do. It grows irritable, in the absence of slaughter… as do I. I am the axe, and the axe is me. Is there more, war-smith?’

Volundr stared at him for a moment. Then, he chuckled. It was a harsh sound, like the stroke of a sword. ‘War is the anvil on which our souls are shaped, Anhur,’ the skullgrinder rumbled. One massive hand settled on Anhur’s shoulder-guard. ‘And it is Khorne who wields the hammer. By his will are we purged of weakness and made strong.’

‘Strong,’ Anhur said. He looked at Volundr. ‘I will — I must purge Klaxus of weakness, war-smith. I will break my people on Khorne’s anvil, and make of them — of myself — something better. Something stronger. I will make us weapons, in his name.’ He lifted his axe and examined the blade. ‘Or, failing that, I will end them utterly. I will burn Klaxus, so that something greater might be born from the ashes.’

‘Aye, my friend,’ Volundr said. ‘And that is why I am here. That is why I joined you, all those months ago. For all your talents, Prince of Ytalan… you are no weaponsmith.’

Anhur laughed. ‘And glad I am of it, my friend.’

Volundr nodded. ‘As you should be.’ He held up his anvil, on its thick chain. ‘War is the forge, Anhur, and this moment is both hammer and anvil. What happens next depends on the quality of the metal.’

Anhur clasped the skullgrinder’s forearm. ‘As you say, wise one. Come, let us see how the fire rises, then.’ He turned and led Volundr back into the chamber. ‘Pazak,’ he called out. ‘The time draws near. I have loosed my hounds upon the city. They will crash against the enemy in futile slaughter, spilling rivers of blood. How long?’

‘Futile slaughter — such a cunning stratagem,’ Pazak said, turning to look at them.

‘Your mockery is noted and forgiven,’ Anhur said, amused. ‘For the moment, at any rate. And the stratagem is the only one Apademak and the others understand. If I had not set them loose, they would have revolted. Of them all, only you and Volundr understand my true purpose.’ He gestured to the skullgrinder. ‘Only you understand that we fight not simply to hold what we have conquered. I ask again, how long?’

‘A few hours more, my lord,’ Pazak said. ‘A few hundred more souls, fed into the Black Rift, and it shall begin to open. As you can see, they grow stronger…’ He gestured to the bloody floor and the things that writhed there.

Anhur sank to one knee and caressed the head of one of the mewling daemons attempting to free itself from the blood. ‘Soon, my brother, soon…’ he murmured, as he stroked the bloodletter’s flat skull. ‘Soon, you shall rise and slay, as you were created to do. Soon, we shall wade together through an ocean of gore… still yourselves, sons and daughters of Khorne, be still and dream of the beautiful horror which awaits us all.’ He pushed himself to his feet. ‘Stir this effluvium, sorcerer. I would speak to our ally.’

Pazak made a face, but complied. He began to chant, softly. The blood-cloud pulsed and thinned, as more rose from the floor or dripped sideways from the walls to join it. Bones burst from the red mire to pierce the cloud and join the effluvia. Severed hands scuttled across the floor like pale spiders, and headless torsos lurched after them. All were pulled upwards into the cloud and soon it was a swirling vortex of reds and browns and butchered flesh. Raw skulls surfaced to chatter mindlessly before being enveloped once more.

Anhur gazed up at the boiling, shifting blotch of blood and spoke a single word. It was a name; a name he had flayed one letter at a time from the backs of the Pain-Scribes of Anguz, and etched whole upon the still-beating heart of their abbot. The sound of it seared the very air. The blood-cloud began to roil and stretch in a grotesque display. More and more of it dripped upwards from the floor, joining the swirling mass. The skulls surfaced once more, and began to chant in time, limned in crackling flames.

The floor shook beneath him, as if something vast were approaching. Anhur held his ground. It was not the thing itself, but merely a dreadful echo, resounding through the Mortal Realms. He had spoken the true name of one of Khorne’s huntsmen, casting it into the void. And now, the daemon known as Skul’rath the Broken had come at his call.

A shadow, gigantic and foul, outlined in black flame, appeared in the surface of the blood like a shadow on a curtain. Anhur recognized it at once. Large teeth, capped in brass, and anchored in a large doglike muzzle, pierced the veil of blood. Nostrils flared, and the hideous mouth opened. ‘I hear you, mortal. Skul’rath hears, and he comes,’ the Bloodthirster rumbled. ‘Speak, mortal. Speak, Skul’rath commands you…’

‘No man or daemon commands me, mighty Skul’rath,’ Anhur said. ‘We are allies in this endeavour. I am no daemon-slave, to be twisted and broken at your whim.’ It was a risk, talking to the creature in such a fashion. Had it been any other of Khorne’s chosen — Ka’Bandha, or Khorg’tan — he might have balked. But Skul’rath was different.

The daemon had been humbled by the Stormcast Eternals. Skul’rath had been the first to fall in the war, the first casualty, the first defeat. And he was eager to redeem himself.

‘Where is the gate I was promised, mortal? Eight hundred and eighty-eight legions await the opening of the way, and they — WE — grow impatient.’

‘The way will soon be revealed, Broken One,’ Anhur said, staring up at the daemonic face. The chamber shook as a sudden monstrous roar burst from the squirming blood. The things — the half-born daemon-shapes — thrashed and shrieked in sympathy.

‘Do not call me that,’ the daemon bellowed. Sizzling dollops of blood spattered against Anhur’s helm. ‘I am not broken. I am the breaker.’

‘Well, that remains to be seen, doesn’t it?’ Anhur said. The air grew hot and stifling as the daemon roared again. It seared his lungs and sweat stung his eyes, but he did not falter. As the heat rose, so too did his anger. It reached up, through the meat of him, trying to throttle his lucidity. His pulse throbbed in time to the daemon’s roars, as if the very sound of it were twisting what was left of his soul into new, more horrible shapes.

Strange images were burnt into the air, fading as quickly as they formed. A hunched and crippled form, dragging itself across endless skullfields. The Gates of the Vanquished, rising up over the moats of boiling blood. The wails of those bested in battle, and the Gatekeeper, with his voice of iron, demanding the identity of the one who had dared to return to the Brass Citadel in defeat. And finally, Skul’rath, forcing himself to stand, forcing himself to speak. Skul’rath the Tamed, Skul’rath the Broken.

Anhur had seen it all before. The image of the vanquished was cast across the Eight Realms, to every daemon-lord and war-leader as a warning and a call to arms. For the first time in centuries, the name of Sigmar reverberated through the Brass Citadel, and echoed in the minds of all those whom Khorne had blessed. The Hammer of Heaven had come once more, and the Mortal Realms shook at his tread.

Anhur shuddered, forcing the images aside. The daemon’s rage fed his own, and threatened to devour him from inside out. But he pushed it down, denying it, forcing himself to remain calm. If he gave in now, all was lost. He heard the clink of Volundr’s chain, and drew strength from the sound.

The blood crawled across the air, spreading and drying as the bodies of the slain began to blacken and smoke, filling Anhur’s nose with the stink of burning flesh. The daemon was venting its fury in the only way open to it. Pazak’s blightkings lumbered towards their master, drawing their corroded and dripping weapons as they did so. Volundr hefted his anvil warily. ‘He is beyond reason, the broken fool,’ the skullgrinder growled.

‘Calm yourself, mighty Skul’rath,’ Anhur began, knowing even as he did so, that it was the wrong thing to say. Another roar shook the chamber, and dust sifted down as the walls and dome cracked. The struggles of the things squirming on the floor became more frenzied. They hissed and screeched and the sound of Skul’rath’s fury pounded against Anhur’s eardrums. The heat of his rage beat at the air. The obsidian plates began to spin faster and faster, as things pressed against the black surface, like swimmers in tar.

‘Impossible,’ Pazak muttered. ‘The way is not yet open.’

‘What is impossible for us is but the work of a moment for the gods,’ Anhur said. Skul’rath might have been nothing more than a shard of the Blood God given mind and purpose, but even the shard of a god could accomplish the unthinkable.

Pazak began to chant, but too late. Geysers of blood and meat exploded upwards, and monstrous shapes, lean of limb and athirst for slaughter, raced into reality. Black blades swept out, hacking a blightking down. Anhur parried a blow with his axe and caught his attacker’s throat with his free hand. The bloodletter squirmed and hissed. It tried to rip itself free and Anhur snapped its neck with a flick of his wrist. The body began to dissolve even as he flung it aside.

More of the daemons sprang from the gore. A trio of the red-limbed killers flung themselves at him, blades sizzling as they carved bloody contrails through the air. Anhur stepped forward, and smashed the first of the daemons to the ground. His blood sang as he fought, and the air throbbed with the shrieking murder-hymns of the damned. Volundr fought beside him, his wide shape twisting and spinning with impossible agility as he swung his anvil and chain to crush the skulls of daemons.

He felt a wash of sour heat, and saw a flash of sickly light out of the corner of his eye. Pazak, Anhur thought, and felt his battle-lust recede. If the sorcerer were killed, then all had been for naught. In his mad rage, Skul’rath might destroy all that they had worked for. Anhur turned, and saw bloodletters flinging themselves at the sorcerer and his bodyguards. The blightkings were few, but strong, and Pazak was no weakling. He’d drawn the scabrous blade from its rotting sheath on his hip and as Anhur started forward, the sorcerer beheaded a bloodletter.

‘Skul’rath, cease this madness,’ Anhur roared, as he hacked down a daemon. Streamers of pale red steam rose from the floor, as more daemons fought and clawed their way free of the blood and gore. ‘Would you doom all we have strived for, in the name of petulance?’

‘I am not broken! I yet stand — I yet kill. I will break the world and offer up its shards to Khorne,’ Skul’rath roared. ‘I will have my vengeance — a million skulls shall I offer up…’ The bloodletters twitched and grew more frenzied in their attack, as their bodies began to steam and slough away into nothing. Skul’rath’s rage had forced them into solidity, but that alone was not enough to sustain them. Anhur chopped through the midsection of another daemon, and it exploded into nothingness as his blade passed through it.

‘Aye a million and more besides, mighty Skul’rath,’ Anhur shouted. He spun to face the blood-cloud. ‘We shall build our lord a throne of a million corpses, and cast the skulls of the fallen at his feet like pearls. We shall break the Realm of Fire, and make of it a conflagration unending, a cauldron of eternal war… but we can only do so together.’

Skul’rath’s roars faded. The bloodletters slowed. Steam rose from them and they began to come apart, crumbling even as they retreated. Anhur forced his voice to remain steady as he called out, ‘Our bargain holds, mighty Skul’rath. When the way has been opened, you will be free to wreak your vengeance on this realm, starting with Klaxus.’ He raised his axe. ‘By my axe, I swear it.’

‘And by my true name, I swear that if you make good on that oath, I will serve you until you choose to release me,’ the bloodthirster growled. ‘But do not seek to play me false, Scarlet One, or your skull shall be the first I take!’

Slowly, the heat faded. The corpses cooled, and the blood, now reduced to a fine ash, cascaded down. Pazak coughed and waved a hand. ‘Makes a strong impression, that one.’

‘Have you ever known a daemon to do otherwise?’ Anhur growled, as he turned. ‘I share his impatience. I would have this over and done with, sooner rather than later.’ He shook his head. ‘So many months. Years, even, of planning. Of preparing. The red road calls, and I have no choice but to follow it.’

‘There is no turning back, Anhur. Not for you,’ Volundr said.

Anhur gazed down at his axe. His reflection stared back at him, and for a moment, he saw himself as he had been, rather than as he was. He laughed. That man was dead, and something stronger had risen from his ashes. Just as something greater would rise from the ashes of Klaxus.

‘Victory or oblivion,’ the Scarlet Lord said.

Six Pillars

Apademak the Hungry stood atop the remains of a shattered statue in the Plaza of Six Pillars, his head thrown back, and screamed. It was a sound overflowing with fury and hunger. It filled the expanse of the plaza and beyond, echoing through the rain-swept streets that curled about the Gnawing Gate and the crumbled structures that lined them, where great fires crackled and savage shapes danced. Apademak bent backwards, forcing the sound louder and louder, until his throat burned and his lungs ached.

As he screamed, he could hear the wail of horns, the bellowing of the Gnawing Gate, and the sounds of the dying, spreading out from the city around him. Those captives not meant for Pazak’s purposes, or for other labours, were left to the mercies of the Eight Tribes — those teeming hordes of savage bloodreavers who fought beneath the banners of the Scarlet Lord. Some, like the Skinstealers, devoured the meat of their prisoners after stripping them of flesh. Others hunted their terrified prey through the overgrown ruins for sport, or else sacrificed them to the Blood God on sacred brass anvils.

These were the tribes who would come at his call, and more besides. Though their warriors were scattered after the sack of Uryx, they would not have gone far. There was too much fun to be had in the centre of the city. Hundreds of captives to entertain them, and the palaces of the soft-skinned nobility to be pillaged and burnt. They would come, and he would lead them forth to partake of a dark feast in Khorne’s name.

Lightning flashed in the bellies of the clouds, and a clap of thunder caused the trees to sway. The war-song of the enemy, Apademak thought. They whose blood tasted of lightning, and whose tread was thunder. He had yet to take the skull of one of the warriors Anhur called ‘Stormcasts’, and the thought only added to his anger. He had killed many, hacking them down in their gilded panoply at the Hissing Gates, but something — some force — always snatched them away before he could collect his due.

‘But I will do so today, Khorne — in your name, I shall pluck their skulls smoking from their flesh and cast them into your fires,’ he roared, and the strange sulphur-birds which nested in the yellow roots that ran through the walls of the plaza burst into the air, crowing raucously as if in reply. He watched them circle through the stinging rain, and for a moment he thought he saw another shape amongst them. A lean shape, hideously beautiful, leather wings flapping as she swooped over the faithful. His heart swelled.

‘Valkia,’ he roared. ‘Gorequeen, Jewel of Murder… hear us, oh Lady of Slaughter! Hear your sons and daughters — we will spill seas of blood in the name of he who is our father. We will offer up the lightning itself!’

The phantom faded, even as his words echoed across the street. He had seen Valkia once, at a distance. The Gorequeen had danced through the slaughter so gracefully that in that moment, Apademak had been lost. He could still feel the sweet pain of her voice as it dug its hooks deep into the meat of him, assuring him that he was hers forevermore. Whether she had heard him, whether she had truly graced him with her presence, he could not say, but a man gained nothing if he did not first try.

He heard the crash of stones and the groan of splintered wood. Over the tops of the square, vine-encrusted buildings that surrounded the plaza, he could see the thrashing tendrils of the Gnawing Gate. The monstrous archway was ever hungry, and its tendrils hunted the streets as eagerly as any Bloodbound.

As he watched, the great tentacle of the gate ripped a distant aqueduct apart, and lightning flashed, again and again. The Gnawing Gate roared, as if in agony.

The enemy were coming. Vasa the Lion, exalted among deathbringers though he had been, had been unable to stop them in the courtyards of the outer city. Apademak tightened his grip on his axe, glad of its weight. It trembled in his hand, eager to sing a hymn of slaughter. He ran his thumb along the edge of the blade, placating the blade’s spirit with a taste of his blood. ‘Soon,’ he muttered. ‘Soon, we shall drink until our bellies burst, my friend.’

He looked out over the plaza, and across the shimmering yellow surface of the lake, where thick columns of smoke rose over Uryx. The Nine Hundred Pillars, Anhur called it, though Apademak did not know why. Anhur said many things that Apademak did not understand. He used words where an axe was needed.

That was something creatures like Anhur would never understand. They had not grown up as he had, cloaked in Khorne’s glory. Apademak had grown to manhood in the Bitter Mountains. His tribe had offered up wine-soaked gobbets of meat to the shrieking carrion-birds who brought Khorne’s words from the Brass Citadel. And the birds had carried those sweet meats to Khorne’s lips, and the Blood God had cast his blessings down, in return.

Men like Anhur sought power in battle and became lost, until Khorne found them. But Apademak had never faltered, not once. He had set his first skull atop the Blood God’s altar at the age of ten winters, and had done so faithfully for uncounted days since. Anhur knew nothing of Khorne’s truth. The Scarlet Lord was a bloodless thing, who saw no crime in retreat, victory in failure and wove schemes like a spider wove webs.

But, somehow, he had Khorne’s favour. Despite it all, he still stood, blessed and strong. Why had he been sent here? Why had he been called to serve such a creature? Apademak shuddered, suddenly gripped by an all-consuming anger. It tore through him, threatening to break his limbs and rip the muscles from his bones. He threw back his head and howled again, venting his fury at the storm clouds that gathered above.

As he screamed, his mind suddenly roiled with gory visions of the carnage to come. Apademak staggered, clutching at his head. His long fingers dug into the scarred flesh of his brow as scenes of war and death flashed across the surface of his mind. He heard the clamour of daemon-voices, and the rattle of the brass standards of Khorne. He felt the heat of the great forges of the Brass Citadel, and could taste the blood of men on his tongue.

He saw a vast shape unfold across the storm-riddled sky. A shape of brass and blood, a titan of awfulness clad in baroque armour, with a face like that of a snarling hound, only miles wide and grinning down through the rain and lightning. Khorne straddled the Tephra Crater, his feet planted on either rim, his great sword held aloft, its blade pointed down. Soon, soon, he would drive the Ender of Worlds down, and Klaxus would die. Aqshy would die. All things would die, and Apademak screamed and screamed, as vision after vision washed over him, showing him pieces of what had been and what was to come.

The echoes of his cries plunged deeper and deeper into the city, merging into a roar of summons, and those who heeded such calls came. They flowed into the plaza, howling and clashing weapons — Skinstealers, Bonegnawers, Red Blades and more besides, warriors and chieftains from the Eight Tribes. With them came a few lash-wielding bloodstokers, and a trio of his fellow slaughterpriests. They knew what his cry meant, for it was one of the most sacred of the eight hundred and eighty-eight rites scratched into the Books of Blood — it was the call to the Feast of Slaupnir.

Apademak looked down upon the gathering of warriors and growled in satisfaction. With these, he would break the Stormcasts. Even now, the main thrust of the foe drove forward, through the crooked streets and broken avenues of the outer city, towards the Gnawing Gate. Apademak intended to meet them, and fling them back. Khorne was watching him, the eyes of his patron were upon him, and he would not be found wanting.

Apademak met the eyes of the tribesmen gathered below him, and raised his axe in readiness to whip them into a frenzy. But before he could speak, the growing crowd was pierced by an armoured shape. The tribesmen drew back, muttering amongst themselves, and even the slaughterpriests knew better than to bar a skullgrinder’s path.

Volundr moved slowly, as if he were a thing of iron, rather than flesh and blood. He carried his anvil on his shoulder as he walked, and dragged his chains behind him. Men skipped back rather than be touched by those chains. He came to a halt before Apademak’s perch. The anvil thudded down from Volundr’s broad shoulder, splintering the stones. The chains in his grip clinked softly. Apademak straightened. Of all the Gorechosen, the warrior-smith was the most dangerous, besides himself. And he was stubbornly loyal to Anhur. Perhaps that was why he had come. Apademak had challenged the Scarlet Lord more than once since they had begun their march across the Tephra Crater, as was his right and duty. Was Volundr challenging him in return? The thought of it was thrilling.

‘Hungry One, I would speak with thee,’ Volundr said, his voice issuing hollowly from the fang-like mouthpiece of his crimson helm. ‘I bring you the words of our Lord Anhur.’

Apademak stopped. He looked down at the skullgrinder warily. He was taller than the war-smith, but not by much, and Volundr was twice as broad. ‘Then speak,’ he said. ‘But be quick — our enemies draw close, and my axe is thirsty.’

‘He is displeased with you, Apademak,’ Volundr said.

‘Is he?’ Apademak said. ‘And he sends you to tell me? Why does he not come here himself, and face me as a true warrior?’

‘He has greater wars to wage. Can you feel it, Apademak? Can you feel the weight of Khorne’s gaze? It is drawn to this place, to Anhur. Khorne waits — eager and slavering — on the threshold, and it is our duty — our privilege — to thrust the gate wide,’ Volundr said.

Apademak grunted. ‘Aye, I feel it. It is ever thus. Khorne is in every splintered shield and torn limb, in every dying scream and roar of triumph. He is always with us.’ He spread his long arms and the bloodreavers roared in agreement.

‘But his eye is not on us. It is Anhur who occupies him,’ Volundr said, and the tribesmen fell silent at his words. Apademak made an impatient gesture.

‘And so? Does that mean I should slink quietly? I was already a prodigy of murder before I felt Khorne’s spark, and I have made war my lover, lord and life,’ Apademak said, arms spread. ‘The Blood God speaks through me, hell-smith. Can Anhur say the same? You forge weapons, but I am one. If you wish to challenge me, I will oblige you in your folly.’ Apademak spun his axe with ease, the corded muscles in his forearm bunching. Bloodreavers stepped back, clearing the area around Volundr. The skullgrinder laughed harshly.

‘No challenge, I assure thee, Hungry One. Merely a warning… heed me or not, as you will,’ Volundr said. ‘You are a weapon, as you say, but it is Anhur who wields you. And a weapon which turns too often in its wielder’s hands is bound for the fire and the anvil, to be reshaped into something more useful.’

Apademak threw back his head and laughed. ‘Proof enough that no man may know the will of the gods,’ he said. He tapped the side of his head and leered at Volundr. ‘Khorne’s words thrum in my brain like fresh-driven nails. Loyalty is not among them. Only blood, only skulls, only war… those are the gospels of Khorne.’

‘Indeed,’ Volundr said. ‘But war comes in many forms. It can be a thing of bloody brevity, or an eternity of slaughter. Anhur fights for the latter…’

‘The Scarlet Lord fights for himself, as we all do, skullgrinder. He is as riven with weakness as that fool, Baron Aceteryx or even Hroth Shieldbreaker. It spreads in him like a sickness. I can smell it, and soon, I shall end his suffering.’ Apademak tested the edge of his axe. A sudden urgency gripped him. Change was on the wind, and if Khorne’s gaze had been drawn here, then all the better. ‘Tell him that, if you wish. Tell him that I am ever hungry. That I see him for what he is, and I shall take his skull the moment he gives me reason, even as he has threatened to take mine.’

‘You need a reason?’

Apademak smiled. ‘The formalities must be observed, warrior-smith. I speak for Khorne. I challenge the weak in his name. I cull the unworthy.’

Volundr nodded, as if he had expected nothing less. Then, ‘You cull the weak, slaughterpriest. But never forget that it falls to me to forge the strong.’

‘Then prepare thy tools, war-smith, for the strong stand before thee,’ Apademak snarled. Anhur was afraid. Why else would he have sent Volundr, with such an overt warning? Anhur was afraid! And Apademak would show him that he was right to be so, once the Stormcasts had been driven from Uryx. He glanced up, and saw again the enormous shadow of Khorne, stretching across the curve of the sky through the riotous storm clouds.

He felt his muscles swell with fury and strength, and he lifted his axe over his head. Rain pelted his face as he roared, ‘The enemy has come, my brothers. They ride this gale, and we must meet them. Khorne hungers, my brothers… will you not feed him?’

‘Feed,’ the bloodreavers roared. The lashes of the bloodstokers sang as they whipped the tribesmen into a frenzy, and Apademak’s brethren added their own voices to his exhortations. The bloodreavers grew more frenzied by the moment, chanting Khorne’s name, and gashing their flesh with their weapons. Apademak saw Volundr moving away, across the plaza, and he grinned. Run back to your master, war-smith, he thought.

‘Feed, brothers,’ Apademak said. ‘Eat of their hearts, brothers, so that Khorne might taste the blood. Find them, and feast.’ As he spoke, he could feel the rage that was in him stretching forth to infect those Bloodbound closest to him. The heat of his fury ignited the flames of their hunger, stirring them and burning away doubt, hesitation and fear. Feed, as I will feed upon the Scarlet Lord before this battle is done, he thought.

‘Feast,’ the tribesmen bellowed. The clash of their weapons swelled to fill the air, and Apademak swept his axe out, as if to cut through the noise. Thunder rumbled, shaking the very stones of the plaza. He heard the screech of the Gnawing Gate, and laughed.

‘Sniff them out, my brothers,’ he roared, ‘Hunt them down and fall upon them, ravenous and strong. Crack their bones and flay their hides. Pry loose their hearts, and offer them up smoking and bloody in Khorne’s name! Blood for the Blood God!’ He leapt down from his perch and struck the ground with his axe, sending up sparks.

‘Blood for the Blood God!’ came the thunderous reply. Apademak howled again, and the gathered tribesmen joined their voices to his. The sound rose up and up, drowning out even the noise of the storm for a brief moment. And then, as one, the warriors of the Eight Tribes went to meet the foe.

‘What sort of folk are these, who raise up such monsters?’ Tarkus said, as he stepped over one of the grey tendrils that lay limp and shrunken in the street. Only moments earlier, the advancing Stormcasts had been forced to raise their shields against the thrashing tendrils of the Gnawing Gate. But with a sudden crack of thunder, the hideous limbs had, all at once, stiffened then fallen away, as if whatever malign life force animated them had been snuffed. ‘Perhaps we should leave the Klaxians to their fate…’

‘If I thought you were serious, Tarkus, you and I would have words,’ Moros said. He and Galerius marched alongside the Knight-Heraldor at the head of the Adamantine. Behind them came the Devastation Brotherhoods — Retributors, Protectors and Decimators, marching in the shadow of those Prosecutor retinues who had not accompanied Orius. Liberators and Judicators, arrayed in Thunderhead Brotherhoods, moved alongside the Paladins with steady determination. More than once since they’d started out from the Mandrake Bastion, one or more of these brotherhoods had peeled off from the main column to confront an approaching enemy.

‘You mistake the people for their leaders,’ Moros continued. ‘The crimes of some are not the crimes of all. The common folk of Klaxus had no more say in the actions of their rulers than the people of Raxul or the citizens of the Striding Cities of the Ghyran Veldt. Our duty remains the same regardless. We will free them from tyranny, familiar or otherwise.’ He used his hammer to thrust a man-sized coil of tendril out of his path. That these tendrils were inert meant only one thing — Orius had succeeded in taking the Gnawing Gate.

And Sigmar willing, he can hold it until we arrive, the Lord-Relictor thought, as he led the warriors of his chamber on through the rubble-strewn streets of Uryx. The column Moros led marched swiftly. It was composed of the bulk of the Stormcast retinues of their chamber. The remainder followed more slowly, under the leadership of Lord-Castellant Gorgus.

It fell to Gorgus to render the plazas and courtyards they travelled through defensible for those chambers who would follow them, and aid the Adamantine in reclaiming Uryx from the Bloodbound. Uryx would become a bastion from whence the Stormcasts might march to free the remaining kingdoms of the Tephra Crater. But first, they had to free the city from the grip of the Scarlet Lord. Beneath his war-helm, Moros frowned.

The Adamantine had pursued Anhur across mountain, salt-plain and trackless waste, harrying him from the realm of the furnace kings to the Hissing Gates. They had clashed with him again and again, and every time the Scarlet Lord had chosen to flee, rather than stand and fight, as if some greater purpose than mindless carnage drove him. Despite their victories, Moros couldn’t help but feel that Anhur had drawn them knowingly to the Tephra Crater. Why else would he seemingly put his hand in such a trap?

Between the fires that raged through the surrounding jungles and the Stormcasts laying siege to the crater-kingdoms, there was no chance of Anhur escaping with anything remotely resembling an intact army. His power would be broken if he remained in Uryx. Unless he thought to defeat the Stormcasts in this maze of tangled streets, where he had failed to do so before under the open skies. Why have you come here, Scarlet Lord? Are you seeking a final confrontation… or is it something else? Moros thought. There was a smell in the air that he didn’t like — not simply the effluvium of war, but a more pervasive stink. The stench of corrupt magics. It might only be the death-rattle of Uryx, as the spells which held it intact faded, but he suspected otherwise. A voice from above drew his gaze skyward. A Prosecutor swooped low. ‘Something approaches, Lord-Relictor,’ the winged Stormcast called out.

‘Enemies,’ Tarkus said, raising his battle-horn. He blew a single note, and two retinues of Liberators moved forward smoothly, taking up position across the width of the street, their shields raised. The sound grew louder and louder, and then a number of shapes, not all of them human, burst into sight. ‘Wait — those don’t look like Bloodbound,’ the Knight-Heraldor said.

‘They’re not,’ Moros said, as the street was suddenly filled with life and noise.

In the lead were a pack of the grey, black-spotted scale-cats that prowled the upper branches of the Ashen Jungle. They screeched as they spotted the Stormcasts. One by one, the reptilian felines bounded from the ground, scrambling up onto the rooftops in an apparent effort to escape, leathery tails whipping about in fear. After them came serpents and vermin, of all shapes and sizes. Birds as well, damp-feathered and shrieking. Behind the animals came a group of fear-stricken Klaxians, clad in rags, carrying makeshift weapons or wailing children, or both. They stumbled to a halt as they realised what awaited them.

‘Stand aside — let them past,’ Moros bellowed. Sigmarite shields swung aside, and the Liberators made room for the Klaxians, who lurched forward as a path was opened. The mortals hurried through the silent ranks of the Stormcasts, glancing about in dull-eyed fear. They did not stop, or even slow, and no Stormcast sought to hinder them. Moros hoped Gorgus could take them in hand, or at least shepherd them to safety.

He turned as lightning flashed. The Prosecutors swooped and dived, hurling their hammers at whatever pursued the Klaxians. He raised his reliquary staff. ‘Lock shields — Thunderhead Brotherhoods to the fore,’ he called out. The air trembled with a measureless roar of raw sound — innumerable voices, raised in a brutal song. The ground trembled beneath his feet. Whatever was coming, it wasn’t planning on stopping.

A moment later, the first bloodreaver burst into sight, running flat out, an axe in either hand. More followed — dozens, fifty, a hundred — a savage tide of murderous fury. Moros could feel the hatred radiating outward from them, and the terrible hunger that drove them. ‘Hold fast, Adamantine,’ he cried. Liberators braced themselves as the Judicators behind them began to fire, launching crackling bolts into the flood of flesh and crimson iron sweeping towards the Stormcasts.

The howling tribesmen hurtled forward, through the barrage of skybolts and hammers hurled from on high by the Prosecutors. They filled the avenue and trampled the wounded in their haste to reach the sigmarite shield wall. Moros could see the bulky shapes of bloodstokers in the maddened crowd, lashing the barbarians cruelly, goading them on. The first of the bloodreavers reached the shield wall and the sheer fury of their charge nearly buckled it. The Liberators stiffened, driving warblades through the gaps between shields to gut and hamstring the foe, or crushing the hands and heads of those that sought to climb over the wall with warhammers.

‘We need room to manoeuvre — Galerius, we need to push them back,’ Moros said. The Knight-Vexillor nodded and strode to join the Liberators, battle-standard raised high. ‘Tarkus—’ he began, glancing at the Knight-Heraldor.

‘I’ll take one of these side-streets. We’ll hammer ourselves a path, and flank them,’ Tarkus said, before Moros could continue. At Tarkus’ signal, the Devastation Brotherhoods moved forward. Moros made to speak, but merely nodded instead. Tarkus, for all his exuberance, knew his business. The Lord-Relictor held out his hand, and Tarkus caught it. The two Stormcasts clasped forearms as the paladins moved to join them.

‘Be careful, my friend. And be quick,’ Moros said. He turned. The Liberators crashed against the bloodreaver ranks, forcing them back one bloody step at a time. He counted the moments, waiting until they had gained enough space, and then gestured. ‘Take out the walls,’ he ordered. ‘Now!’

Retributors unleashed their hammers on the walls and doorways behind the shelter of the shield wall. The ancient stones cracked and fell, and where vines and roots held them suspended, the axes of the Decimators set them loose. As the paladins worked to open gaps, Judicators clambered through them and took up positions in the shattered ruins. Soon, skybolts were sizzling across the narrow avenue in a deadly crossfire, cutting down the enemy by the dozen. Galerius raised his hammer, and the Liberators halted their advance to wait, shields and weapons ready, holding the foe at bay. Judicators carrying skybolt bows and boltstorm crossbows moved forward, shielded behind the Liberators.

‘Tarkus — go,’ Moros said, motioning sharply to the Knight-Heraldor. Tarkus saluted and led his warriors through one of the newly-gutted structures. A moment later, Moros heard the sound of lightning hammers shattering stone. ‘Keep pace, whatever else. Do not let your bows grow cold for an instant, brothers,’ the Lord-Relictor said to the Judicators as he passed through their ranks. ‘Show them the storm in all its fury, and do not falter. Protectors, with me!’

Moros moved towards the enemy, his Protectors close beside him, their stormstrike glaives extended. He signalled to Galerius as he moved past. ‘Galerius — lead them forward on my command. We will be the point of the spear, and you the haft,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘We cannot stop for anything.’

‘Even death shall not slow me, Lord-Relictor,’ Galerius said. ‘Not while I bear our standard. Where you lead, we shall follow, even unto the fire.’

‘Hardly the fire, Galerius. Just to the next plaza, I think,’ Moros said. He could hear the winding blast of Tarkus’ battle-horn, somewhere beyond the sagging structures and splayed branches of the trees that grew amongst them. The Knight-Heraldor was on the move, and Moros was determined to keep the enemy unaware of that fact for as long as possible. He took a breath and cleared his mind of all save the sacred lightning. It was no simple feat. It required concentration to stir the divine tempest. And only those possessed of faith undying could direct the thundering aetheric energies that Sigmar had bestowed upon them. Only those like Moros Calverius.

He concentrated, focusing on the soft sound of the rain, the distant growl of the thunder, and heard the voice of Sigmar, speaking to him through the storm. The air swirled and the rain hissed as it felt the touch of lightning. He expelled the breath he’d been holding and swung his reliquary forward, unleashing the elemental fury that boiled within him. ‘Forward — for Sigmar, and the Realm Celestial!’ Moros roared, as his lightning scythed through the ranks of the tribesmen. ‘Press forward, sons of Sigmar, and let no foe stay thy path.’

A bloodreaver, skin charred and smoking, staggered towards him, laughing wildly. Moros crushed the dying warrior’s skull and cursed as more bloodreavers charged towards him. They fell, struck down by the glaives of his bodyguards. Galerius shouted an order, and the shield wall began to move forward once more in the Lord-Relictor’s wake.

Soon, the stones of the street and buildings were slick with gore. The Bloodbound did not slow their assault, even as they died in droves. It was as if every cursed tribe in the city were trying to get at them. Warriors leapt from the rooftops, trying to bypass the shield wall. They fell, plucked from the air by the bolts of the Judicators or the hammers of the Prosecutors.

Moros drove the enemy before him, scouring them with lightning, and reducing many to ashes. He crushed skulls and shattered limbs with every strike of his hammer. His Protectors fought alongside him, and with them he carved a bleeding wedge in the enemy, blunting their momentum. Galerius kept the shield wall steady, so that those foemen who got past the Lord-Relictor found no refuge. The Stormcasts stamped over the bodies of the fallen, grinding them into the stones as they moved forward with relentless precision.

Soon, the avenue widened into an enormous plaza, lined with shattered pillars and toppled statues. The barbaric standards of at least five tribes of bloodreavers rose above the seething mass of tribesmen as they stampeded over rubble and around fallen walls. They flooded the plaza, coming from all directions, driven beyond reason.

Neither lightning nor sigmarite deterred the foe, but the Stormcasts continued to advance. To stop was to risk being overwhelmed. As the shield wall forced its way into the plaza, the retinues behind fought their way forward. The shield wall stretched further out, until almost every Liberator retinue had taken his place in the battle-line. Behind them, Decimators and Retributors fought to keep the flanks free of enemies. Prosecutors swooped overhead, trying to shatter the entrances to the plaza and cut off the flow of tribesmen.

Moros snarled in fury as a nearby Liberator fell, his skull split by an axe, and his body dissolving in a burst of lightning. The weapon’s wielder was a giant of a warrior, long of limb and heavy with muscle. Slaughterpriest, Moros thought. The slaughterpriest was covered in scars, his flesh branded with the rune of Khorne. Great horns of bone stretched from the back of his head, curling over his broad shoulders. As the Lord-Relictor watched, the giant drove his axe into a Liberator’s shield hard enough to crumple it. The Liberator staggered, and the warrior caught his head in one big hand. Veins bulged and muscles swelled in the giant’s arm as, impossibly, the sigmarite war-helm began to buckle and crack. Then Galerius was there, his hammer smashing down on the giant’s arm with bone-crunching force.

Moros lost sight of the Knight-Vexillor as a barbed lash hissed out and caught him around the wrist. Surprised, he dropped his warhammer. A burly bloodstoker chortled as he stabbed at Moros with his rusty blade. The blade shattered as it struck Moros’ armour, and the Lord-Relictor allowed himself a moment to relish the look on the brute’s face, just before he punched him. The bloodstoker staggered back. Moros whirled his reliquary staff about and slammed the weighted haft into the Bloodbound’s stomach. As his opponent stumbled back, Moros snatched up his fallen hammer and swept it across the bloodstoker’s head, crushing it.

He heard a cry and spun to see Galerius stagger, one hand clamped to his shoulder. The slaughterpriest reared back and kicked the Knight-Vexillor in the chest, knocking him back against the shield wall. ‘Is that it,’ the slaughterpriest roared, as he avoided an off-balance blow from Galerius. ‘Is that the best you can do, lightning-rider?’

Moros slammed his staff down and a bolt of crackling lightning punched the slaughterpriest backwards to bowl over a group of bloodreavers. For a moment, the clamour of battle faded, as Moros and his warriors moved towards the downed warrior. The slaughterpriest heaved himself to his feet, in a cloud of smoke. ‘Who dares strike Apademak?’ he screamed. His flesh was raw and puckered where the lightning had struck him, and smoke rose from his body. He lashed out in a frenzy, killing tribesmen as they raced past him. ‘You,’ he snarled, pointing at Moros. ‘I’ll eat your heart,’ the slaughterpriest roared, bounding through the press of battle, his axe raised. The wicked blade swept out, and caught a Protector in the shoulder.

The Stormcast staggered, and tried to bring his glaive about, but he was too slow. The axe bit down again and again, until even sturdy sigmarite was forced to give way. The Protector fell, body evaporating in a haze of blue lightning. The slaughterpriest howled in fury, and whirled, backhanding another of Moros’ bodyguards off his feet.

Moros lunged forward, and drove the haft of his reliquary staff into the Bloodbound’s unarmoured torso. Bones cracked, and the slaughterpriest staggered back a half-step, his howl choked off in a strangled grunt. His eyes bulged and he stomped forward, axe whirling. Moros backed away, watching his opponent warily. The slaughterpriest was larger, with a longer reach, but like most Bloodbound he was a sloppy fighter. A brawler, rather than a trained warrior.

They came together again, trading blows. Then, perhaps one as strong as this doesn’t need training, Moros thought, as they circled one another. The slaughterpriest’s energy was inexhaustible. He fought as if his foul god were whispering in his ear, spurring him on. The battle flowed around them. Moros could spare little attention for anything save his duel.

The slaughterpriest surged forward suddenly, and slammed into Moros, knocking him from his feet. The Lord-Relictor rolled aside as the axe slammed down, nearly chopping into his chest. He shoved himself upright, narrowly catching a second blow on his staff. For a moment, the tableau held. But inch by inch, he felt himself being pushed back.

Then the air was split by the monsoon roar of a sigmarite battle-horn, crying out like the voice of the God-King himself. The booming wall of sound reverberated through the plaza, drowning out the clangour of battle. It was so powerful that several of the broken walls that lined the plaza exploded outwards, filling the air with shards of stone and a billowing cloud of dust. A chunk of wall, as large as three men, slammed into the slaughterpriest, tearing him away from Moros and burying him beneath an avalanche of rubble.

Moros turned from his fallen foe. Most of the bloodreavers closest to the explosion were ripped from their feet by the tumbling stones. Those who remained standing were cut down moments later by the axes of the Decimators who charged out of the breach. Tarkus led the charge, his sigmarite broadsword bisecting an unlucky bloodreaver who tried to bar his path. The Knight-Heraldor raised his horn in greeting, as he and his warriors swept towards the rest of the chamber. ‘I see you started without us, Lord-Relictor. For shame,’ Tarkus called.

‘You are here now. And there are foes aplenty,’ Moros shouted back. He looked around for Galerius, and caught sight of the wounded Knight-Vexillor being helped behind the shield wall by a Liberator. Relieved, Moros turned back to the battle. With his Protectors following close behind, he began to fight his way towards the newcomers.

‘Ha! Truly, I was forged for moments such as this,’ Tarkus roared, as Moros joined him. His broadsword swept out in a wide arc and chopped through a bloodreaver’s midsection. Flesh and bone parted and Tarkus reversed the arc of the swing with a speed that Moros found almost impossible to follow. The hilt of the blade rolled in the Knight-Heraldor’s grip as he pivoted and brought the wide blade down on a second bloodreaver, removing the savage warrior’s arm at the shoulder-joint. Tarkus stepped aside as the bloodreaver toppled, and interposed his sword between Moros’ head and the axe of another burly warrior.

‘Any time you’d like to step back, Lord-Relictor,’ Tarkus said, as the bloodreaver strained against him. The berserker snarled in frustration and made to drive his blade into Tarkus’ side. Moros whipped his staff up and thrust it past Tarkus. He drove the weighted ferrule into the Bloodbound’s chest, cracking bone. As the warrior staggered, Tarkus jerked his sword free and brought it down on the berserker’s helm, splitting both it and the skull beneath.

‘The day I step back is the day I am bound for reforging, Knight-Heraldor,’ Moros said. He leaned against his staff. ‘Though you have my thanks for your timely arrival.’

The bloodreavers were falling back, streaming away from their foes, their will to fight momentarily broken. The shock of Tarkus’ arrival had shattered whatever spell had gripped them, replacing frenzy with fear. They’ll regroup soon enough, Moros thought, as he signalled for his retinue to reform, but we will be ready for them.

‘Where howl the enemies of Sigmar, so too shall I be, to silence them,’ Tarkus said. He planted his sword point-first in the broken ground and leaned on the hilt. He raised his battle-horn and blew a single, powerful note. It hung on the air for a moment, causing the very stones to vibrate. Soon, the tramp of marching feet reached Moros’ ears, and more Stormcasts streamed into the square, reinforcing the shield wall. ‘Galerius?’ Tarkus asked, as he lowered his horn.

‘Hurt, but unbroken,’ Moros said. He would tend to the Knight-Vexillor as soon as he was able, and any other wounded as well. He looked around, searching for the slaughterpriest. The brute needed finishing off, if possible. He was too dangerous to leave running loose. But it was a futile effort — the plaza was covered in a shroud of broken bodies and rubble. If the creature still lived, he was buried beneath stone and corpses. ‘We need to keep moving. Gorgus will have to deal with the remnants of our foes, when they regroup. We…’ he trailed off, as something caught his eye.

Strange shapes rose from among the heaps and mounds of dead bodies, twisting and stretching like living smoke. Grotesque faces leered and gibbered silently at him, as intangible limbs swiped uselessly at the Stormcasts as they moved through the battlefield. ‘By the celestial hammer,’ Tarkus said, as something lean and foul clawed at him with ghostly talons. It thinned and faded as he whirled to confront it, vanishing like the morning mist.

‘Daemons,’ Moros said, a sick feeling rising in him. ‘They press at the world’s threshold, seeking entrance.’ He raised his reliquary staff. ‘Stay close — they cannot harm us, not yet.’ Not until whatever is in the air has come to a boil, he thought. Was that Anhur’s plan, then? To summon a daemontide to drown his enemies? A chill swept through him at the thought.

‘Let them come,’ Tarkus said, as he chopped through another fading daemonic shape. It twisted in on itself and vanished as his sword pierced it. ‘They will meet the same fate as their mortal servants.’

‘Boldly spoken,’ Moros said. ‘And Sigmar-willing, prophetic. But leave them be. They are vermin, and we should ignore them as such, until it is time to spill their ichor upon the ground.’ Despite his words, he felt uncertain. He shook his head. ‘Come. Sound your horn, Knight-Heraldor. We must press on. Our Lord-Celestant is counting on us. We must not fail him.’

Hroth Shieldbreaker strode through the rain, across the cracked and stinking plaza. Slaves toiled despite the storm, heaving heavy blocks into place to form barricades or else erecting dark monuments to the Blood God. Skull-poles were embedded in the stone, their fleshless bounty staring sightlessly out over the lake which separated them from the terraces and ramparts of the Sulphur Citadel. Standards and banner poles bearing the rune of Khorne pierced the plaza, like arrows in the hide of some great beast. Bands of scuttling skaven dragged weeping prisoners past him, towards the Bridge of Smoke. More grist for Pazak’s mill. Hroth growled softly. Sorcerers were not to be trusted. Especially ones who had once been enemies.

The armoured shapes of Anhur’s Scarlet Axes were visible amongst the throngs of slaves and bloodreaver taskmasters. The blood warriors had fought for Anhur since well before Hroth had joined the warhorde. They were loyal unto death, and rarely mingled with others. As he watched, one cut down a cowering prisoner with a casual sweep of his axe. The blood warrior tore the dying man’s head free of his neck and began to scrape the flesh from the skull.

Grass crunched beneath his feet and he glanced down. Even here, at the heart of the sulphurous lake, life persisted. The yellow, brittle grass thrust persistently upwards through the flat stones, obscuring ancient mosaics. The thick, sickly-hued roots of a few monstrous trees pushed more of those stones up or else cracked them clean through, casting blighted shadows across the plaza. As the magics that had kept Uryx safe faded, so too did its great works crumble. Soon, even the Sulphur Citadel would be no more than a root-encrusted ruin, its terraces and ramparts hidden beneath a shroud of jungle trees and grasses. Strange birds, scaly and lumpen, perched in the crooked branches, screeching a song that sounded almost like the screams of children.

Hroth liked the birds. They reminded him of home. He glanced back, past the ancient stone archway that marked the entrance to the Bridge of Smoke. The bridge stretched away, over the boiling surface of the sulphur lake. The bridge had come by its name honestly. It had been carved not from stone, but from sulphur fumes, trapped and frozen like amber by sorcerous tools. The bridge swayed and undulated slowly, like a strand of smoke caught in the breeze.

He remembered leading his warriors across its ever-shifting expanse. It shrank and grew without warning, enveloping bloodreavers and drawing them screaming down into itself. Others fell into the lake below, as the bridge shrank beneath their feet. It had thrashed like a thing alive as the Bloodbound fought the Klaxian sulphur-knights across its span. He remembered Vasa the Lion’s roar of triumph as he brained the grandmaster of the knights.

He smiled at the memory. The knights had been brave, for mortals. But they had died like all the rest, and the bridge had swallowed their remains as greedily as it did those of the Bloodbound. Now the great expanse waited, content for the moment. He did not trust it, for it was a thing of sorcery, but he could not deny that it made for a potent barrier. Then, the city was full of such horrors — the Mandrake Bastion, the Gnawing Gate, the Street of Vines…

It is no wonder that Khorne was pleased when we brought this place to ruin, Hroth thought, with satisfaction. The priest-kings of Klaxus had been sorcerers and that was reason enough to mark them for death. He turned away, and continued on, his warriors moving around him in loose formation.

‘A wonder, is it not?’

Hroth turned, as the bulky shape of Volundr fell into step beside him. He had his anvil balanced on one shoulder, and its chain wrapped about him. Hroth grunted in annoyance as he noted the way his blood warriors made way for the skullgrinder. Such a show of respect annoyed him — only two beings were worth that, and Volundr was neither.

‘What is?’ Hroth said.

‘This bridge. The city. All of it. The priest-kings crafted it from the raw stuff of the jungle, and now, with their fall, the jungle reclaims it. Roots and branches once kept in check by the magics of the Klaxian nobility now spread and engulf the city built atop them. Feral warriors run wild in darkened streets, and predators prowl the temple squares. Civilization crumbling unto savagery, as it must,’ Volundr said. ‘A wonder, as I said.’

Hroth peered at him. ‘And so?’

‘I forget that you are not a craftsman, deathbringer. You cannot see the beauty in such things,’ Volundr said.

‘The only beauty I care for comes from split skulls,’ Hroth said. ‘You are in my way, smith. Stand aside and live for another day yet.’ He started forward, wondering if the skullgrinder would try and stop him. Some part of him longed to test his might against Volundr. The war-smith was reputed to be one of the eight forgemasters of the infamous Soulmaw warriors, who had supposedly won Khorne’s favour by wrestling with the very elements themselves in order to craft weapons of great and terrible power. Win or lose, Hroth thought it would be a glorious fight, one to be remembered in tale and song.

‘I will not stand aside. Nor will I hinder you,’ Volundr said. ‘I come to fight beside you, and the others.’ The skullgrinder stepped back and swung his hand out. ‘They await us, at the heart of the Plaza of Yellow Smoke.’

‘Us… you have not deigned to take the field since we fought our way through the scalding geysers of the Hissing Gates, Volundr,’ Hroth said, as they strode through the vast plaza. A hundred campfires burned in the shadows of the surrounding buildings. The Plaza of Yellow Smoke had once felt the tread of a hundred thousand supplicants, seeking aid, mercy or salvation from the priest-kings of Klaxus. Now it was a mustering ground for the warhorde in all its demented glory. Amidst the newly-erected monuments and tottering banner poles, cackling beastmen strung up skin sacks, newly flayed from screaming captives and sewn tight, so that they caught the sulphurous breeze. Warriors matched blades across circles of crushed bone, and slaves were auctioned for sale between tribes.

Such was the fate of any place where the shadow of Khorne fell. The conquered had no right to life, to salvation or mercy. The weak were food for the strong, and such was the true way of it. Hroth had learned those lessons on the seas of Gjoll as a boy, and he kept them close to his heart.

The sounds of battle echoed up from the city. Apademak had demanded the honour of the vanguard, and Hroth had seen no reason to deny the berserker his desire. With Vasa the Lion likely dead, Apademak was the next most senior, behind Hroth and Volundr. The rest of the Scarlet Lord’s Gorechosen were crouched over a crude map Warpfang had scratched out in the dirt. It depicted the northern edge of the city, so that the skaven chieftain could indicate the movements of the enemy for the others.

‘Lightning-things are here, here and here,’ Kretch Warpfang chittered, as he stabbed the dirt with the tip of his halberd. ‘They have advanced past the screaming-tree-things and the gate-that-gnaws. My clawbands hold them here,’ he continued, tapping another spot.

Hroth stroked his beard. ‘They move fast.’

‘Like lightning, one might say,’ Baron Aceteryx murmured. Hroth looked at him. The deathbringer shrugged. ‘I did say “might”.’

Hroth shook his head. The Shieldbreaker had fought in campaigns undreamt of, against enemies both monstrous and mortal. But he could not recall ever coming across a creature so worthy of an axe between the eyes as Baron Aceteryx. The Baron fought with words as well as blades, waging his wars in the mind and heart as well as on the field. In that way, he was much like Anhur.

‘Fast or not, we can match them,’ Phastet said. She crouched over Warpfang’s rough map. ‘This city is a warren, full of narrow streets and wide plazas. A perfect hunting ground.’ She looked at Warpfang. ‘Scouts?’

The skaven showed his teeth. ‘Yes-yes. Flying things. Stink of the storm. They burned my warriors,’ he said, eyes narrowed. He stabbed his halberd down. ‘Here. Freed my chattel-things. Slew the gate-that-gnaws.’ Hroth laughed. The skaven sounded more aggrieved about the slaves than his warriors. Warpfang glanced at him, as if trying to determine the source of his humour. Hroth smiled and Warpfang looked away.

Smart beast, he thought. Warpfang had shown his mettle in the Rite of Choosing, but Hroth had been Anhur’s shield-bearer since the fall of Skorch. And he had maintained his position through three Choosings of Gorechosen. He yanked on his beard. ‘I know the beings he speaks of — we’ve all seen them. Great winged warriors, hurling hammers of light and force.’ The others nodded. Many of them had witnessed the fury of the Stormcasts, winged or otherwise, at the Hissing Gates. ‘And more besides.’

The skullgrinder nodded. ‘Apademak clashes with the foe in the outer city even now. But he will not hold them for long,’ Volundr rumbled. ‘He will bloody them, as we must bloody them.’

‘And where is Anhur? Why does he keep himself from war?’ Redjaw said, thumping the ground with the haft of his spear. Hroth reached for one of his axes, annoyed by the other deathbringer’s tone. Warpfang replied before he could snatch it up and brain the whelp.

‘A wise leader does not race to fight,’ the skaven said, still studying the map he’d scratched out. ‘A wise leader, yes-yes, a wise leader lets others die for him, before seizing the glory, quick-quick.’ The skaven gestured, as if snatching something out of the air.

‘Maybe amongst your cowardly kind, vermin, but we are Bloodbound — our leaders are the first to spill blood, the first to meet the foe,’ Redjaw said.

‘I always assumed that they were merely the last ones standing,’ Baron Aceteryx said, in polished tones. Redjaw turned, spear raised, but Hroth thrust a hand between the two deathbringers.

‘Anhur has done all that you claim, Redjaw, again and again. You were not at Orrux, boy. You did not stand with us against the war-beasts of the Firewalk duardin or charge alongside the Scarlet Lord into the teeth of the Tollan Cannonade,’ Hroth growled. He pointed a finger at the other deathbringer. ‘But you were at the Hissing Gates, so you have no excuse for your words.’

‘Aye, I was at the Hissing Gates, and I saw Anhur draw back his axe from the throat of a foe,’ Redjaw said. ‘What sort of warrior does that?’

‘One who takes pleasure in more than butchery,’ Volundr said. He looked around, at the other Gorechosen. ‘One who has caught Khorne’s eye, not for the quantity of his kills, but for the quality of them. Who broke the Calderan Khans and burned the plains clean of their yurts? A thousand champions tried and failed to bring the horseclans to heel, but only one succeeded.’ The war-smith hefted his anvil. ‘Eight million skulls were shattered on this anvil when we broke through the shimmering walls of the Fire Domes. Who was it who pierced their sorcerous veil and saw through their stratagems? You, Redjaw?’

Redjaw growled, and the iron of his spear-haft groaned as his grip tightened. Volundr continued, uncaring. He gestured to Baron Aceteryx. ‘Who was it who claimed the soul of Baron Aceteryx and gained us entry into the Scorian Bastion, where even Skarr Bloodwrath himself failed to triumph?’ Aceteryx bowed mockingly, his seeping armour moaning slightly. Volundr went on, relentless. ‘Who led us to victory over the armies of Cinder, and delivered up the seven child-kings and their queen-regent to Khorne in sacrifice? By whose kindness do you wear that fine cloak, Resplendent One?’

Volundr extended one thick arm, and let the anvil hang from his grip. It twisted slowly above Warpfang’s map. ‘The Scarlet Lord is no longer a mere aspirant, no mere deathbringer, like the rest of you. He is a warlord — a king among champions. He stands astride a rampart of victories, at the foot of the Skull Throne. He does not bring death to one foe, or a dozen, but millions. And this—?’ With a twitch of his wrist, Volundr let the anvil fall, to obliterate the drawing. ‘This is but a skirmish. He readies himself to wage a far greater war, and it is to our glory that we give him time to do so.’

‘And so we shall,’ Hroth said. His eyes slid to Phastet the Huntress. The deathbringer was staring at the map, concentration etched on her narrow face. ‘You have that look, woman… what are you thinking?’

She jabbed the ground near Volundr’s anvil with the tip of her knife. ‘The enemy sees further and farther than we. So we must blind him. We draw their eye here. The Street of Vines. Shoot down the pretty birds, and take their wings.’

‘A cunning scheme, my lady,’ Baron Aceteryx said. ‘Blind them to our numbers, we might overwhelm them, in these narrow streets.’ He tapped the map with his foot. ‘But even blind, they’ll keep coming. They charged through the steam-clouds of the Hissing Gates, they’ll do the same here.’ He drew his blade and marked the ground. ‘Here. A square along the main route. If my warriors and I strike, we might be able to split their forces even more.’

‘Yessss,’ Berkut said. He thumped the ground with his standard. ‘Draw them off, peel them like flesh from bone. And then I will be the hammer which breaks those bones.’ The bloodsecrator scanned what was left of the map. ‘I will strike them here — the Avenue of Ten Skulls. An auspicious name.’

‘Redjaw will join you,’ Hroth said. ‘And Volundr as well.’ Redjaw made to protest, but Volundr clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, silencing him.

‘You do us much honour, Shieldbreaker,’ the skullgrinder rumbled. ‘But what of you?’

Hroth grinned. ‘I? I will hold this plaza,’ he said, cheerfully. He fixed the skaven with a gimlet eye. ‘And Warpfang as well — you will call out your legions, vermin. The Stormcasts march this way, according the rat’s spies. And I feel no urge to run after them, like a panting dog. Let them come to me.’

‘Lazy,’ Berkut said, with a crooked grin.

‘My armour is heavy, my weapons too,’ Hroth said. ‘I am weighed down by the blood and souls I have claimed. I think I am entitled to sit and wait, priest.’ Berkut laughed, but there was no humour in that sound. Hroth wondered whether the bloodsecrator even remembered what humour was. There was little room in his mind for anything that was not related to blood and slaughter. ‘Go forth, my friends — kill and revel in that killing, for we do Khorne’s work this day,’ Hroth said. He drew his axes from the straps across his chest and clashed them together over his head. Thunder rumbled above, and the rain grew in strength. Hroth tilted his head, so that he could catch water in his mouth. It tasted achingly clean and he spat it out. ‘Go, Gorechosen — go, sons and daughters of Khorne,’ he bellowed. ‘To your assembled warpacks and gorebands go. The old foe comes, and there is blood yet owed.’

Berkut howled and struck the ground with his icon. ‘Blood for the Blood God,’ he roared. The others raised their voices to join his, until the Plaza of Yellow Smoke shook with the sound. The gathered warriors bellowed and shrieked along with their leaders. As the sound spread, Hroth turned to see the skullgrinder watching him. The deathbringer jerked his head back towards the Sulphur Citadel.

‘Anhur will come soon, I trust,’ he said.

‘He will. He must. There is blood yet to be spilled,’ Volundr said.

‘The time draws close, then?’ Hroth murmured. Volundr didn’t look at him.

‘If all goes well. If we do not falter.’

‘If he does not, you mean,’ Hroth said.

Volundr turned. ‘And you think he will? Do you truly believe such is even a possibility, Shieldbreaker?’ the skullgrinder asked. Around them, the Bloodbound mustered for war. Hroth saw Phastet the Huntress leading her band of tattooed killers down a side-street, and Warpfang was screeching orders at his hulking stormvermin. The others were occupied in similar fashion, readying their warriors for the clash to come. Bloodreavers carved the runes of Khorne in their flesh, and blood warriors clashed their blades in a savage rhythm.

Hroth grunted and ran his fingers through his tangled beard. ‘I have seen it happen. The Path of Skulls is not so straightforward as fools like Redjaw or Apademak believe. Khorne brooks no failure, no weakness, and there are only two endings open to men like us — glory or death.’

‘Anhur is destined to fight at Khorne’s side forevermore, Shieldbreaker. I have seen it,’ Volundr said. ‘It is given to me to forge the strong, to make of them weapons fit for the Lord of Skulls to wield in his eternal war. The Scarlet Lord shall ascend the eight thousand steps and join the Great Game, as is his fate.’

‘And what of the rest of us, war-smith? What have you seen for us?’ Hroth said. Volundr did not reply. Hroth laughed. ‘Aye, I thought that’d be the way of it.’ He looked up, and let the rain sting his flesh for a moment, before he said, ‘Well… I’ve followed him this far. It’d be a shame not to see how it ends.’

Still laughing, he left the war-smith standing in the rain. There was blood to be spilled, and skulls to be claimed. And Hroth Shieldbreaker intended to do as much of both as possible, before the end.

The stormfiend reared, warpstone armour rupturing as Orius Adamantine drove it back with a blow from his tempestos hammer. The strike obliterated one of the foul runes embossed on its crude cuirass, and drew greasy sparks. The hulking brute squealed in rage as Orius struck it again and again, keeping it away from the shieldwall of Liberators, who clashed with another of the creatures.

In the wake of the fall of the Gnawing Gate, the Adamantine had moved to occupy the central gateway and its surrounding ramparts. With the death of the monstrous structure, the skaven had massed and begun to launch attack after attack on the golden-armoured invaders.

Hissing hoses and whistling pipes rattled loosely along the stormfiend’s battered frame as it slashed at him with one of its vibrating grinderfists. He sidestepped the blow and chopped through the warpstone bracer it wore over one stitched forearm with his runeblade.

Its grinderfist smashed to the street as a nauseous brackish liquid jetted from the stump of its limb. The stormfiend shrieked and dropped its other fist down on Orius’ shoulder, driving him to one knee. The stones cracked beneath him as he struggled to rise, fighting against the beast’s strength. He was forced to drop his weapons as it hunched over him, pressing down on him, the grinderfist roaring only scant inches from his head. As he fought against its hideous strength, he caught sight of its fellow tearing through a retinue of Liberators. Armoured bodies flew into the air as the berserk rat-automaton tried to force itself a path through the Stormcast ranks.

In the wake of the stormfiends, skaven swarmed across the square towards the thin line of Liberators who occupied the ruined central portcullis of the Gnawing Gate. Prosecutors swooped low over the squealing tide, hurling their celestial hammers until the air was full of ash and blood, but the ratkin pressed forward. The assembled Liberators met the skaven charge without flinching, and hammer and sword flashed through the rain.

Orius saw Kratus swoop towards him through the curtain of rain, starblade black with skaven blood. ‘No, help the others,’ he shouted, as the Knight-Azyros drew close. Kratus didn’t hesitate. He banked left and hurtled towards the second stormfiend with a snap of his blazing wings. Satisfied, the Lord-Celestant caught hold of his opponent’s wrist with both hands, and gave a convulsive heave. Warpstone armour bent beneath his fingers as he lifted the whirring grinderfist up, away from his aching shoulder. The stormfiend’s tiny eyes bulged within its helm, and it raised its wounded arm as if to batter him with it.

Orius shoved the grinderfist away and lunged for his hammer. He scooped it up, even as the stormfiend struck at him again, and twisted around. His hammer sang down, crushing the brute’s tiny skull in its envelope of warpstone. It dropped to the ground, where it lay twitching. Orius recovered his runeblade and made to step over the dying beast.

But as he did so, a stinking steam spurted from its pooling blood, rising up into the air. The steam coalesced into a leering grimace — a thing of brass teeth and rolling eyes, of obsidian horns and red scale. It lunged for him, only to shred into tatters and wisps. Orius turned, and saw more of the phantasms rise from the blood which stained the stones of the square, then writhe and fade as quickly as they had come. Daemons, he thought. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen them — such creatures were drawn to slaughter as flies to filth, but had they simply been called by battle, or was it something else?

Orius forced the thought aside. The creatures were gone, and there were more solid enemies to hand. He started towards the second stormfiend. Kratus had jammed his sword into the brute’s back, occupying its attention. The Liberators retreated, dragging the wounded with them as the stormfiend staggered about, clawing uselessly for the winged warrior perched on its back. Kratus would kill it, in time, but Orius was in no mood to wait.

The Lord-Celestant stalked towards the brute. As the stormfiend reeled in his direction, arms spread, Orius charged forward. Blade and hammer snapped out, and the brute slumped to its knees with a shrill whine. Orius drove his runeblade up through its jaw into whatever passed for its brain, finishing it off. He tore his sword free and turned.

The skaven were in retreat, falling back in a disorganized rush amidst a babble of terrified squeals. They climbed over one another, bit and clawed at each other, nearly killing themselves in their haste to escape the warblades of the Liberator retinues who pursued them. Orius watched the ratkin flee and then turned, his hammer held high, signalling his Judicator retinues to cease firing. The Judicators had taken up position on the slumping ramparts of the Gnawing Gate, where they could watch the streets to either side.

The Liberators marched back into position. There were gaps in their ranks. He’d lost several warriors since they’d arrived. The skaven seemed determined to retake the Gnawing Gate, and had attacked again and again, coming in greater numbers each time. Regardless, they had been driven back with every attempt, leaving mounds of hairy corpses in their wake. But his warriors could not hold out forever. If Moros and the others didn’t reach them soon, the skaven would simply swamp them in numbers too great for even the Stormcasts to resist.

The thought faded into irrelevance as he heard the tell-tale sound of Tarkus’ battle-horn. Orius sheathed his sword and strode towards the shattered portcullis. He felt his heart lift as he caught sight of Galerius’ standard, swaying above the column of approaching Stormcasts. ‘You are late, Moros,’ he called, as he stepped to meet the Lord-Relictor.

‘My apologies, Lord-Celestant. The Bloodbound sought to bar our way in a most churlish fashion,’ Moros said, taking Orius’ proffered hand. ‘We set them to flight, though I know not where. I suspect they’ll soon regroup, however.’

‘Then Gorgus will handle them,’ Orius said. ‘Let the Lord-Castellant perform his function, as we shall perform ours.’ He turned and gestured with his hammer. ‘The Bridge of Smoke lies in that direction. It’ll be a slog, though.’

‘When is it not?’ Tarkus interjected. The Knight-Heraldor laughed. ‘Let them stand in our path. We shall grind them under, all at once or piecemeal, it makes no difference.’

‘It makes all the difference,’ Moros snapped. He looked at Orius. ‘The air is thick with daemon-stench, Orius. A storm is brewing somewhere in this city… not a storm as we know it, with cleansing rains and celestial fury, but something fouler. I can feel it. It weighs me down.’ The Lord-Relictor looked past Orius, towards the distant shape of the Sulphur Citadel.

‘A doom comes to Klaxus, and if we are not prepared it shall claim us as well.’

The Scarlet Lord

Anhur crushed the skull carelessly in his fist.

The crumbled shards of bone tumbled from his hand to the bloody stones, there to gleam wetly in the weirdling light cast by the ever-spinning facets of the Black Rift. The Scarlet Lord turned. A jolt of pain rippled through him. It had started not long after his confrontation with Skul’rath, and grown steadily worse in the hours since. He felt as if his skin were too tight on his muscles, and as if he might burst the seams of his armour at any moment.

Victory at the cost of pain, he thought. Such had been his mantra since he had fled Klaxus and the Tephra Crater. Pain was the coin of Khorne’s realm, and the Scarlet Lord paid it willingly. He had paid it over the course of centuries, without hesitation. ‘How much time, Pazak?’ he growled.

‘Some, much, a little,’ the sorcerer said tersely, as he wove his thin fingers in arcane gestures. He stood on the lip of the crater, shaping the magics that would wrench apart the flesh of the world. The air about him was thick with souls and daemons. Neither sort of apparition had any substance, but that would change in time. The ghosts grew thinner and the daemons stronger, as they battened on the blood and pain.

Innumerable daemon-spirits suddenly raced forward through the steamy air, as if drawn from throughout the Sulphur Citadel. Anhur turned, following their path, and watched as Pazak’s blightkings spilled the blood of the latest batch of prisoners across the swelling expanse of the flesh-shroud, down in the crater. Do you feel nothing for them, then? These are your folk, a small voice murmured, deep in the back of his mind. They are Klaxians, Anhur…

‘Victory at the cost of pain,’ he muttered. Klaxus and its people had become weak, and it was his duty — the duty of a king — to purge them of that weakness. He would buy the glory of future generations with the pain of this one. He would forge them into a blade worthy of Khorne’s hand. Klaxus would rise as the world descended.

A thrill of impatience raced through Anhur, and his grip on his axe tightened. He longed to bury it in unresisting flesh, to cleave bone and shatter armour. To give in, at long last, to the joyous entertainments of the red road, and become as Apademak or Hroth. To fight forever, and think of nothing save fighting. To drown slowly in seas of gore, as all that had been Prince Anhur, Keeper of Ytalan, was worn away by the ceaseless bloodstained tide.

Anhur swung his head towards the doors to the chamber. He could hear the sounds of battle, the splitting of stone and the screech of metal. More, he could hear… the searing hiss of the smoke-swords of the sulphur-knights as they cut down his soldiers, killing them by the dozen. The yellow, crystalline war-plate of the knights ignored what few blows were struck in return as they strode forward, killing all who stood between them and their prey… He could hear Oros calling for the retreat, even as he dragged Anhur away from that hissing doom… They had failed… FAILED…

Anhur howled. The sound drove the daemons into a silent frenzy. ‘I still live,’ the Scarlet Lord roared. ‘And I will not fail this time. I still live… I…’ He trailed off, as another spasm of pain gripped him. He clutched at his chest. Things moved within him, twisting into new shapes. Bones cracked and sprouted jagged spurs, filling the hollows of him with nests of pain.

‘Not beast, not god, less than a man,’ he murmured, as the pain receded. He pressed the flat of his axe to his brow, and listened to the maddened whispers of the battle-spirit bound to its edge. It hissed in the language of the great fire-wyrms, demanding that he hurl himself into the cauldron of war. He tore the axe away and turned. ‘Oros is coming, Pazak. But slowly, too slowly,’ he said. ‘One might think he doesn’t wish to face me again.’

‘I doubt that’s the case,’ Pazak hissed. Bloody steam hissed and coiled about his arms like a gaseous serpent. ‘Two sides of the same blade, you are.’

‘You had best be correct,’ Anhur said. ‘He must be here in time. He must see what is to come. He must know that it was all worth something, in the end.’

‘He won’t get very far, if Volundr catches him. The war-smith is as determined to see this through as you are,’ Pazak said. He glanced at Anhur. ‘He won’t risk letting the Stormcasts get close, if he can get away with it.’

Anhur gestured impatiently. ‘Volundr carries out my will. He stoked Apademak’s rage, and casts the embers of my Gorechosen before the enemy. I have subsumed the Tephra Crater in the conflagration of war, to draw Khorne’s eye. But war alone is not enough,’ he said. ‘It must have purpose — the fire must burn hottest here.’

As he spoke, the smoky shapes of daemons capered about him, as if feeding on his growing rage. Anhur ignored them. ‘I will deliver not just a skull to Khorne, but the skull of my friend, my greatest enemy, my rescuer and betrayer. There is a debt between us and it must be paid. Only then can I ascend to my rightful place.’

Anhur threw back his head and spread his arms, allowing the daemons to crowd close about him. They clutched at him with phantasmal talons. ‘Come and fight me, Oros! Anhur stands waiting — hurry, Hound of Ytalan! The Scarlet Lord awaits you, son of Sigmar…’

Daemons rose from the broken bodies of the dead Bloodbound, and slashed at the Stormcasts with inhuman ferocity. Liberators stopped what they were doing and fell instinctively into defensive stances. They raised shields and held warblades angled so as to thrust into scaly bodies. Bolts hissed in their runnels, ready to be loosed from thunderbolt crossbows as Judicators swung their weapons up to take aim at the daemonic shapes capering towards them through the falling rain. But no daemon-blade connected, despite the savagery of the assault. And no sound emanated from those ghastly shapes, save the whisper of blood pooling on the stones of the street and the steady drumbeat of the storm.

‘Hold fast,’ Lord-Castellant Gorgus roared, thumping the ground with the haft of his halberd. ‘They can’t hurt you, but if you let them distract you, something else surely will.’ His words echoed out over the wide avenue, reaching the ears of every Stormcast. Those who had become distracted from their labours by the sudden appearance of the insubstantial daemonic shapes immediately went back to work.

‘Blasted nuisances,’ Gorgus muttered, eyeing the nearest of the daemonic shades. They came and went like shadows, rising from the detritus of battle before fading away once more. But they were staying longer each time, and they were appearing more often — a sure sign that the membrane between worlds was growing thin, as Lord-Relictor Moros claimed. At his feet, his Gryph-hound growled, the feathers on its neck fluffed out and as stiff as quills. ‘Easy, Shrike. Nothing there for you to get a beakful of, save some foul-smelling air,’ Gorgus said, stroking his companion’s angular skull.

He hooked his warding lantern to the blade of his halberd and lifted it high. The light washed across the street, and the daemons cowered back from the golden rays. Their lean shapes came apart like a morning mist in the heat of the day. When he was satisfied that they had been driven back into whatever netherworld they had emerged from, at least for the moment, he lowered the lantern and cast his keen gaze over the street.

The vast bulk of the Gnawing Gate was still visible behind them, and he could just make out the Judicators stationed on its sagging ramparts. Their golden war-plate glinted in the light of the conflagration, which even now consumed the western districts of Uryx, despite the heavy rains. Indeed, he suspected that the storm was the only thing keeping the flames from sweeping over the inner city. He looked up, letting the rain splash across his mask and helm.

The storm was a grand thing, he thought. As savage and as powerful as the one that had marked his proving quest into the grim winterlands of the Boralis Mountains. Gorgus smiled at the thought. As an aspirant, he had scaled those storm-tossed peaks and braved the madness-inducing mists that clung to them, and returned to Sigmaron a Lord-Castellant.

‘And not alone, eh, Shrike?’ he said, ruffling the Gryph-hound’s feathers. Those first few days, Shrike had hunted him through the crevasses and crags at the head of a pack of screeching Gryph-hounds — before they had come to an arrangement. ‘Bit off more than you could chew, didn’t you?’ Gorgus said. Shrike snapped at his armoured fingers, not quite playfully. Gorgus laughed, and turned his attentions to the defences his warriors were constructing.

The Avenue of Ten Skulls stretched from the Gnawing Gate to the Plaza of Yellow Smoke. It was the most direct route to the heart of the crater-city, according to Orius. As far as Gorgus was concerned, Uryx was a rat warren, and a confusing one at that. But he had faith in the Lord-Celestant — Orius would guide them to the enemy, and then to victory.

Buildings had been demolished along either side of the avenue by the lightning hammers of the Retributors, creating improvised ramparts and bulwarks of rubble. Taller structures were left standing, so as to provide makeshift watchtowers and firing positions for his Judicator retinues. Now, the avenue was being divided into easily defensible killing fields by the strategic application of rubble. Anything that could be used to break up the momentum of a massed charge or a steady advance.

That was the best way with the Bloodbound, Gorgus knew. He’d fought the slaves of Khorne often enough since the Adamantine had come to the Felstone Plains. He knew their way of war as well as his own. They relied on momentum — the sudden charge, the unrelenting assault. They sought to come to grips with the foe quickly. On the plains or in the geyser fields of the Hissing Gates, the Adamantine had been forced to rely on formation and discipline to deny the foe his true strength. But here, in this crowded city of stone and roots, they had a wealth of options. They could alter the map, and channel any sizeable force of Bloodbound towards heavily defended strongpoints, where their numbers and ferocity would avail them little.

Thunderhead Brotherhoods had been stationed at these points, there to ensure the sanctity of the Adamantine lines and to repel any attack. They were also in place to ferry any refugees they found back towards the Mandrake Bastion, and safety. Hundreds of survivors had come stumbling from the jungle and the outer city, seeking sanctuary from the flames and the roving bands of skaven and bloodreavers. Many were led to safety by the Prosecutors winging their way out along the flanks of the advancing Warrior Chamber, on the orders of Orius himself.

Shrike’s head came up, and the Gryph-hound gave an interrogative squawk. Gorgus turned and chuckled. ‘But speak, and they shall appear…’ he murmured. An old bit of folk-wisdom, left over from his mortal life.

A ragged group of Klaxians stumbled along the avenue, shepherded by a number of Liberators. Prosecutors swooped overhead, keeping a sharp eye out for the enemy. ‘More of them,’ a nearby Judicator said.

‘Aye, and heartening it is,’ Gorgus said, extending his halberd towards the Stormcast. ‘It means our enemy is not half so diligent as we feared, Pyrus.’

‘But our lines are stretched thin as it is, Lord-Castellant,’ Pyrus said, undaunted. ‘How can we protect them all, if they keep coming?’ Gorgus smiled. The Lord-Castellant encouraged those warriors under his command to speak their mind, when appropriate, and Pyrus did so often, and at length, but never without cause.

‘How can we not, Pyrus?’ a Liberator spoke up, as the Klaxians were ushered into the centre of the avenue, where the bulk of the Stormcasts were at work. Korus, Gorgus thought, putting a name to the voice. If Pyrus was the voice of respectful challenge, then Korus was a rock of devotion. In him was a faith unwavering in the Stormcast cause. ‘Why else are we here, if not to protect the innocent, and smite the guilty?’

‘We are here to win victory in Sigmar’s name, Korus,’ Pyrus said. ‘This city — this kingdom — is steeped in the taint of Chaos. Even these innocents bear its mark, on their souls if not their bodies. Sigmar commands that we stamp Chaos out, wherever it lurks.’ He gestured towards the frightened huddle of Klaxians. Gorgus looked at them. Men and women, young and old. Children as well, though not many. All frightened, many wounded and some sick. They had not eaten in days, he thought, and fear had its claws deep in them. One of the children — a girl, her face marked by filth and bruises — met his gaze.

‘Sigmar is not simply the voice that thunders from the clouds, Pyrus. He is also the quiet voice that speaks within. The voice stripped of pride and bluster, leaving behind only that solitary light of purpose — we fight, brothers, to free these folk from the chains that bind. Chains of evil and malice, of fear and cowardice, of Chaos,’ Gorgus said.

He sank to one knee and extended his hand towards the girl. ‘If we do not show them mercy, if we do not show them kindness, even in the midst of war, then we merely exchange one form of fear for another,’ he said, as the child stepped forward hesitantly. She took his hand and he scooped her up. One of the women, her mother he thought, made a noise, but it subsided as her companions held her. They could see that he meant the child no harm. ‘They have lived in the dark for so long. Would you deny them the chance to see the light?’

Pyrus bowed his head. ‘No, Lord-Castellant. Better to die, than that.’

‘Yes, my brother. Better to die than to allow even one mortal soul to be lost to horrors of Chaos, if we can prevent it,’ Gorgus said. And we have all done so once already, otherwise we would not be here now, arrayed in sigmarite, he thought, as he looked down at the girl. For a moment, another child’s face superimposed itself over hers, and Gorgus felt an old pain rise anew. Shrike leaned against his leg, chirping softly, and Gorgus shook his head, banishing the memories before they could take form. The past was dust, and his mortal life with it.

‘Do not fear, child. We are the storm, and we have come to wash Klaxus clean,’ he rumbled. He looked up, as a shout echoed suddenly from farther up the street, in the direction of the Gnawing Gate. He saw a small group of Stormcasts — a Judicator and several Liberators — making their way towards him. The Judicator was helping one of the Liberators to walk, and all appeared to be wounded.

‘Lord-Castellant,’ the Judicator called. ‘The enemy is upon us!’

‘Crasus, what has happened?’ Gorgus asked, as he handed the child to Korus. The Liberator held her awkwardly, as if afraid he might crush her tiny body.

‘The foe comes, Lord-Castellant,’ the Judicator said, as he eased his burden down. The Liberator groaned and clutched at his side. Blood stained his golden armour. ‘They’ve broken through, pushed us back from the upper streets — they’re between us and the Gnawing Gate. My retinue harries them from the rooftops, but they do not slow, no matter how many we kill.’

‘Courage is the one virtue the foe have in abundance,’ Gorgus said, as he knelt beside the wounded Stormcast. He cast the glow of his warding lantern over the battered Liberator, and where it shone flesh healed and armour was restored. The warrior straightened, cleansed and reinvigorated by the holy light.

‘What are their numbers?’ Gorgus asked.

‘A few hundred, now. They gather in the side streets, and more flock to join them as they come… beast packs and lone warriors, straggling warbands and worse,’ Crasus said. ‘It looks like the remnants of every force we’ve smashed asunder since we started pushing out from the Mandrake Bastion. They do not seem to be organised. It is as if some instinct is driving them forward. They’re not far behind us. I…’ He trailed off as the sound of horns cut through the rain and wind. Monsters roared in the dark.

Gorgus chuckled harshly. He’d expected as much, though not so soon. Unless they were eradicated utterly, the Bloodbound always returned. Once they recovered their courage, they attacked. There was no grand strategy, no tactical masterstroke… simply blind malevolence, driving them towards those who had defeated them.

‘Chaos filth. The more you sweep it aside, the faster it congeals,’ he said, as he rose to his feet. He helped the newly healed Liberator to stand. ‘They wish to strike our rear. To surround us and drown us in bodies. We must teach them that the Adamantine do not fall for such ploys so easily. Crasus, take these Klaxians in hand — guide them to the Gnawing Gate. They’ll be as safe there as anywhere. Pyrus, Korus — help him. Rejoin your retinues when you can.’

Stormcasts snapped to attention. The sound of horns rose higher and higher, and was joined by howls and bellows. The noise rose from the streets all around them, as if the enemy were converging from all sides.

‘The rest of you, lock shields and man the bulwarks! The enemy comes and I would not have him find us wanting,’ Gorgus roared. ‘They seek to break our lines, Adamantine. What do we say to that?’

‘We shall not break,’ the Stormcasts cried, as they moved into position. Liberators sank to one knee behind the lowest of the improvised bulwarks, and set the rims of their shields atop the piled stones. Judicators took position behind them, or else scaled those buildings that still stood in order to gain higher ground. Retributors and Decimators fell in around Gorgus. He would lead them in repelling any enemy who threatened to get past the shields of the Liberators. Overhead, Prosecutors sped towards the approaching enemy to slow their advance and shatter their courage.

The very stones trembled with the noise of the approaching warhorde. The tramp of feet and hooves joined the clatter of weapons and the thump of barbaric drums. No, the enemy did not lack for courage, Gorgus thought. Such was the madness that gripped them, they would keep coming until the last of them was dead.

‘We shall not break,’ Gorgus shouted, over the noise of the approaching Bloodbound. ‘We shall hold. We shall push them back; we shall be the bastion upon which they break. Hold fast, Adamantine.’ He thumped the ground with his halberd. ‘Hold fast!’

Apademak the Hungry led his warriors forward with a scream. Slivers of stone and splinters of wood jutted from the battered flesh of the slaughterpriest, and blood oozed down his looming frame. He had not bothered to bind the wounds he’d sustained at the Plaza of Six Pillars. His blood would whet Khorne’s appetite as well as any. ‘Forward,’ he howled. ‘Blood and skulls for Khorne. Blood and skulls!’

All around him, warriors and beasts charged in his wake, driven into a frenzy by his words and by their own shame. They had been defeated by the Stormcasts, driven back in disarray, and no true follower of Khorne could bear such disgrace. The broken standards of at least three tribes of bloodreavers and the tattered banners of several beastherds rose above the mass of screaming killers. A pitiful force, by any estimation, but it was all that the slaughterpriest had been able to gather after he had clawed his way free of the rubble in the Plaza of Six Pillars. Khorne had given him a weapon. It was not up to him to say whether it was worthy or not.

He roared, as memories of his failure burned through him. He had been so certain that Khorne had preordained his triumph. But he’d been wrong, and the broken bodies of the tribesmen who’d followed him into that battle had lain everywhere, half-buried beneath the remnants of shattered walls and fallen trees, even as he had been. Unlike them, however, he’d survived. Others had been piled in heaps, left where they’d fallen by the victorious Stormcasts. Of the enemy, there had been no sign, save for the trail of destruction they’d left in their wake. Buildings had been collapsed and torn apart to make the barriers and bulwarks that closed off the surrounding streets.

The enemy were desecrating the city — turning it into a fortress for their use. They tore apart what had been offered up to Khorne and twisted it to their own ends. But he would put a stop to it. He would smash their rearguard and fight his way into the heart of the enemy force. He would take the heads of their chieftains and toss them at Anhur’s feet. He would–

Something struck him — hard. An explosive pain, which knocked him to his knees. Head spinning, arm numb, he saw golden figures behind bulwarks of toppled stone, heavy crossbows aimed in his direction. The crossbows snarled and explosions tore along the ragged line of his followers. Tribesmen and beastkin were hurled from their feet, but the survivors pressed forward.

Apademak bared his teeth in a snarl, and shoved himself to his feet. He whipped his arm around and sent his axe spinning towards the Stormcasts. One toppled backwards, Apademak’s axe buried in his chest. The others continued to loose bolts at the charging Bloodbound.

The slaughterpriest charged towards the remaining Stormcasts, hands spread. ‘I survive, dogs of Sigmar — I live! And I hunger,’ he roared, as he flung himself on the closest of his enemies. He smashed through a tottering barricade of stones, his bare fists hammering down, striking the warrior on the head. His flesh burned as it impacted the glowing metal, but Apademak did not slow his assault. Pain was nothing — there was only victory or death.

Apademak snapped the warrior’s neck and flung his body aside. As he rose to his feet, he saw the remaining Stormcasts retreating. He snarled in fury as he retrieved his axe and glared about him. For the first time, he realised that the Stormcasts had staggered their bulwarks, creating a killing ground. They were more cunning than he’d been led to believe.

His followers died in droves as they tried to navigate the impromptu maze. Every time they cleared one bulwark, the Stormcasts simply fell back to another. Each time it became harder and harder to dislodge them — they grew stronger and his warriors grew weaker. The Stormcasts were bleeding them, as if they were nothing more than beasts.

Crackling crossbow bolts shrieked perilously close, casting broken stones and dust into the air as they struck around him. Golden figures moved across the rooftops, firing down into the milling ranks of the Bloodbound, driving them back, breaking up the horde. Rage flooded him, and for a moment, he thought of nothing save hurling himself up after them. They might kill him, but he would reap such a tally before dying…

No. A cheap death. His failure would not be forgiven so easily. Only victory could erase that stain. The Stormcasts would be beaten, Anhur would be cast down, and all by his hand. He began to fight his way through the press towards the front of the battle line, chanting as he moved. As his booming voice pierced their battle-fogged minds, the tribesmen and beastkin nearby were drawn after him.

It was an old song he sang, older than the world, older than anything yet living, save the gods themselves. A paean to murder, sung by the warriors of the Age of Myth. It had been passed down through the generations that followed, like the echoes of a death scream. It set fire to the blood of man and beast alike, and called to the berserker in every soul. Warriors shuddered and spasmed as they followed him, bodies contorting with uncontainable fury. Beastmen howled and tore at their own flesh, so eager were they to spill blood.

His chanting rose above the fray, and he knew that it would carry through the streets, riding along the winds of war. More warriors would come, following his song — hundreds of them. Every warrior left in the city and not already engaged in battle would come at his call — not just the Eight Tribes, but all of the others: blood warriors and skullreapers, wrathmongers and deathbringers. Every warrior who paid homage to the Blood God would hear and come. Such was the gift given to every slaughterpriest. He spoke for Khorne, and the ears of his true servants could not help but hear. His voice would pierce even the rumble of the storm, and reach the ears of Khorne himself.

Apademak raced forward, vaulting chunks of rubble and the dead alike. Crackling bolts punched into the ranks of those behind, but he ploughed on, heedless, his chant never faltering. It was all so clear now. It had been a trick. Treachery — that was the only explanation for his failure. The enemy was stronger than he thought. He had been goaded into this trap. Anhur had sent Volundr to prod him into a headlong assault, so that the Stormcasts might do what Anhur himself lacked the strength to accomplish. He feared Apademak, feared that he would draw Khorne’s attentions from unworthy Anhur. But he had failed.

Apademak lived, and Anhur would regret it.

He crashed into the shield wall, using his greater strength to bull the Stormcasts aside with shoulders and elbows. None of his warriors could have managed it, but Apademak was blessed by Khorne. His chant rose to a fever pitch, and those Stormcasts nearby suddenly convulsed, steaming gouts of blood jetting from the seams of their armour. They gurgled and fell, drowning in their own blood, as his axe reaped a ghastly toll. Sizzling arrows pierced his flesh as he staggered on in pursuit of the retreating foe, hurling hymns of massacre after them.

Apademak fought on, a living beacon of the Blood God’s power. As he chanted, more Stormcasts died, and his warriors pressed forward, growing ever more frenzied in their efforts. Any who stood against him were slaughtered, their bodies reduced to flickering motes of blue. The world grew thin, like frayed cloth, and he felt Khorne’s hand on his shoulder, driving him ever forward. Blood dripped from his pores and scorched the stones of the street where it fell. He roared in fury, and could see the embers of bloodlust in the steel-hard souls of his foes flicker in response. Not even these enemies could resist the pull of battle.

The slaughterpriest extended his axe towards the ranks of the Stormcasts. His chant rose, and the embers flickered and flared. The shield wall began to buckle as warriors broke ranks.

‘Come to me,’ he snarled. ‘Come, warriors — come, dogs of Sigmar. Apademak is hungry and only an ocean of blood can satisfy him.’ First one Stormcast, then another started forward, drawn irresistibly towards him. One by one, they began to succumb to the suicidal fires of the battle-fury he’d stoked in their veins.

He threw back his head and roared in satisfaction as the shield wall disintegrated and the organised line of battle became nothing more than struggling knots of berserkers. But his triumph was short-lived. A winged Stormcast swooped low, a blazing hammer coalescing in his hand as he did so. Apademak twisted aside, narrowly avoiding a blow that would have removed his head, and struck, embedding his axe in the mechanism on the Stormcast’s back. He was dragged off his feet and away from the battle by the warrior’s momentum. The Stormcast hurtled upwards at a steep angle, trying to dislodge the slaughterpriest.

Apademak hauled himself up and wrapped one long arm around the Stormcast’s throat. ‘You wanted this fight,’ he growled, ‘do not think to flee it now!’ He tore his axe free as they shot higher and higher. The streets of Uryx spread out far below them. Winged shapes closed in from all sides and Apademak laughed wildly — they thought to isolate him, to draw him into the air, where he was helpless. The Stormcast clawed at his arm, and the slaughterpriest tightened his grip. ‘But I am never helpless — I am Apademak. I am the blessed of Khorne!’

Metal buckled and flesh smouldered as Apademak slowly crushed the winged warrior’s throat. Then, with a sharp wrench, he snapped the Stormcast’s neck. Apademak shoved away from the dissolving carcass, and flung himself at another Stormcast. A hammer, wreathed in lightning, struck his side as he crashed into the warrior. Smoke boiled from the wound, but Apademak ignored the pain. Khorne was with him, and he would not falter.

‘See me, Lord of Skulls! See me, Gorequeen,’ he shrieked, hurling his words into the teeth of the storm. ‘See your most devoted disciple at his labour.’ His thumb crunched through the right eye-slit of his foe’s mask, then he drove his axe down through the hinge of one wing. As the warrior spiralled, off-balance, Apademak thrust himself towards another of the Stormcasts. His axe sheared through crest and helm to split the unlucky warrior’s skull. He pushed away from the tumbling corpse, even as it exploded into a crackling ball of blue lightning, and fell towards his next opponent. The remaining Stormcasts hurtled up to meet him.

As he plummeted, his heart thumping like a war drum, he could see something vast striding towards Uryx from the horizon. It stank of a million battlefields, the air quivered with the weight of its tread, and it trailed red clouds behind it as it tore through the storm. In one enormous hand it clutched a titanic sword, and in its other, an immense net, filled with the skulls of all the dead of the Tephra Crater.

Khorne had heard him. Khorne was coming, and Uryx would drown in blood.

‘Come kings of weakness, let me crown you with iron,’ Apademak roared as the wind whipped past him. He slammed into one of the warriors, knocking him away from his fellows. A hammer crashed against his head and shoulder. Bone cracked and he tasted blood. He reared back and drove the haft of his axe into the Stormcast’s face, crumpling the metal mask as they spun end over end. Metal-clad fingers clawed at his throat and Apademak laughed. His axe bit into his opponent’s neck, tearing through the golden armour. Blood spurted and the body beneath him went limp.

He tore his axe free and fell towards Uryx, still laughing.

Lord-Castellant Gorgus fought in silence. No war song breached his lips, no shout of exultation or effort broke his taciturnity. He fought like a craftsman, wasting no movement, spending no more energy than was required to do the deed. His halberd snapped out, its sigmarite blade lopping through tattooed limbs or scarred necks with ease. Crimson-stained armour tore like paper beneath its bite, and the bloodreavers fell away from him like wheat before the scythe. Shrike, never far from Gorgus’ side, darted amongst the Bloodbound, beak tearing at hamstrings and slicing through tendons.

Behind Gorgus came a retinue of Decimators. The enemy sloughed away from their advance, reduced to twitching gore by whirling thunderaxes. Bloodreavers fell back, their frenzy paling in the face of inexorable destruction. Beastmen bounded through the press, slaver trailing from goatish jaws, but they too succumbed to the relentless efficiency of Gorgus and his warriors. The stones of the avenue were stained a deep red when the first tribesman turned to flee. Then went another and another, scrambling back and away.

Gorgus slashed upwards, bisecting a howling gor as it leapt at him. As the two twitching halves of its body crashed down, he turned and bellowed. ‘Back in line! Reform the shield wall.’ Across the avenue, Liberators fell back from the fleeing foe and locked their shields, ready to repel the next charge. And there would be a next charge. The Bloodbound were in no mood to give up. Gorgus led his Decimators back through the shield wall, his warding lantern hanging from the blade of his halberd.

Judicators and Retributors were busy hauling stones in an attempt to repair the bulwarks shattered by the last attack. The enemy had nearly broken through, despite everything. What made it worse was that it wasn’t in any way, shape or form an organised assault. The Bloodbound had been driven into a frenzy by something — or someone — and now they were being drawn from throughout Uryx like flies to dung.

So far, it had only been tribesmen and beastkin, but his remaining Prosecutors had seen skaven scurrying through the nearby backstreets, and bellowing packs of blood warriors and skullreapers converging on the Avenue of Ten Skulls. His force was about to be cut off from the rest of the Chamber and there was nothing he could do about it.

‘Curse that slaughterpriest,’ Gorgus muttered. The brute had broken the shield wall, and his foul sorceries had driven disciplined Stormcasts into a berserker rage. By the time Gorgus had been able to dispatch a retinue of Prosecutors to remove the monster from the battlefield, it had been too late. Now his carefully orchestrated defensive measures were in danger of coming completely unravelled.

Where the slaughterpriest was now, he didn’t know. And so long as he’s not here, I can’t say that I care, he thought. He signalled for the Liberators to fall back to the newly rebuilt bulwarks. They were ceding ground to the enemy, but he couldn’t afford to leave his retinues scattered out, not now. Too many had fallen in that last assault. And still no sign of reinforcements, he thought, scanning the black sky above. Lightning flashed in the bellies of the clouds, but no bolt of deliverance had yet appeared.

Smoke rose above the rooftops, resisting the efforts of the rain to disperse it. The fires were drawing closer, consuming Uryx street by street. He thought of Crasus, leading his tiny band of Stormcasts and refugees to the Gnawing Gate, and wondered whether they had made it. He hoped so. He considered sending Prosecutors with orders for the scattered Thunderhead Brotherhoods stationed back along the Avenue of Ten Skulls to pull back to the Mandrake Bastion. Cut off as they were, there was no way to reinforce them, if they should require it.

He dismissed the idea with a twitch of his head. ‘They’ll have to hold as best they can, eh Shrike?’ he said, ruffling the Gryph-hound’s feathers. ‘To abandon the city now would be admitting defeat before the final blow has fallen. No, let them hold as we shall hold.’

A shadow fell over him, and he looked up and laughed. ‘Ha! There’s a fine sight — ho, Kratus! Come to toil with us honest craftsmen, instead of playing the zephyr?’

The Knight-Azyros dropped gracefully from the sky, his crackling wings folding behind him. His armour was streaked with smoke and grime, and it bore the marks of battle, as did the armour of the Prosecutors who followed him down. As ever, Kratus was the most reliable line of communication between the staggered brotherhoods of the Adamantine, lending aid where necessary, and bringing word when danger threatened. It had been Kratus who had scouted ahead along the Avenue of Ten Skulls, and made note of where the enemy congregated. He and his Prosecutors had routed entire warbands to clear a path for Orius.

Kratus gestured, and Gorgus laughed again. He had little difficulty understanding the Silent One’s battle-cant, simple as it was.

‘They made it then? Good. Crasus always was dependable,’ he said, with some relief. ‘What of the rest of the line?’

Kratus gestured again, and Gorgus nodded. The line of battle was holding, but only just. The enemy were drawn to the largest battles. They would ignore the isolated Thunderhead Brotherhoods until they had defeated all other foes.

‘So we still hold their attention, then. Well, Sigmar willing, we shall hold it a bit longer. You’ll need to take word to Orius and the others, let them know that we are cut off. I’ll follow when I can, but for now they can’t expect any support. They’ll have to press on to the Bridge of Smoke without us.’

Kratus nodded sharply. They clasped forearms. Then, with a snarl of lightning, the Knight-Azyros and his Prosecutors were hurtling skyward once more. Gorgus watched him go, and then turned as the war-horns of the foe sounded anew. The Bloodbound had regrouped, and were charging again. Howling tribesmen darted through the rain towards his warriors, bloody axes and cleavers raised.

‘Lock shields,’ Gorgus roared. ‘Stand fast, Stormcasts — STAND FAST!’

Phastet of Charn crouched on the rooftop beneath the canopy of dying plants that stretched over the Street of Vines, and watched the sky. Rain pattered against the dull leaves and dripped down onto her ash-streaked skin, but she ignored it. Her long fingers stroked the smooth surface of her new axe. She had claimed it from the body of her fellow deathbringer, Kung of the Long Arm, as was her right. The daemon in the axe had not been used to her at first, but it was growing more comfortable as the hours ran by.

She looked down at the weapon. They said that Kung had carved it himself, from the bones of his brother. She didn’t know whether that was true or not, but it was a very good axe. It would serve her well, when the time came.

‘Soon,’ she murmured, as the single yellow eye set high in the blade blinked inquisitively at her.

Phastet stretched, letting the rain play across her bare arms and face as it spilled down through the canopy. The thick vines which stretched from one end of the street to the next had been shaped and grown by sorcery, and had once possessed a diabolical life, snatching birds from the air, and often devouring the scaly apes which used to make them their home. Now, however, they were merely strands of dull vegetation, rotting through and dropping to the cracked stones of the street below. Like the rest of Uryx, the Street of Vines was dying. A shame, she thought, I should have liked to have seen them in full flower.

She tilted her head, inhaling the thick smell of smoke and rotting vine. The fires were drawing ever closer, and soon they would sweep through the inner city. She grinned, pleased at the thought. Cities were tombs for the not-yet dead. Only the weak sought to encase themselves in stone and wood. The strong fought for their place, rather than making it. She would be pleased to leave Uryx when the time came. There were orruks in the deep jungles, or so the skaven claimed, and gargants had been sighted along the eastern rim of the crater, prowling the volcanic crags there. They would make good hunting, once the lightning-men were defeated.

Her scouts had spotted the winged ones, flying through the rain, far out on the flanks of the advancing Stormcasts. They were coming this way, and in a hurry. Hurry meant distraction, and Phastet smiled. Distracted prey was easy prey.

Orruks were easy to distract. You dangled bait and they rushed off, fighting one another in their haste to reach it. Then you slipped in behind them and cut their legs out from under them or broke their backs. It didn’t do to kill too many of them, for they only kept their flavour when cooked alive. And their skulls made for satisfying totems.

But these Stormcasts were not gratifying prey at all. They vanished when they died, leaving nothing but the blood on your blade and your warriors broken at your feet. They were unnatural, and there was precious little pleasure to be had in killing them. But Khorne demanded their death regardless, and Phastet had never denied the Lord of Skulls his due.

She had hunted his foes and slain them in his name. She had bent knee to Anhur for that same reason, the day he led his warriors through the Ashdwell. She had fought beside him at the Sun Gate, and seen the truth of him as he braved the Tollan Cannonade, riding a daemonic steed into the teeth of the foe’s artillery. A thousand warriors had died there, erased in an instant, but Anhur, alongside Skullripper and the Shieldbreaker, had survived to ravage the noble Tollan gunners in their silken finery.

Khorne’s hand was on the Scarlet Lord, and any who couldn’t see that were fools, no better than unblooded youths. Those like Redjaw and Apademak barked and growled at any who dared overshadow them. Phastet had no quarrel with shadows. Shadows were useful things — they helped you to kill your prey and hide your trail, so that the enemy grew to fear you. You could flourish in shadow, and you could grow strong on the leavings of larger predators.

She and her tribesmen would grow mighty in Anhur’s shadow. They had reaped a great toll since crossing the Felstone Plains and entering the crater-kingdoms. And they would reap mightier tolls still, when the Black Rift yawned wide at last.

For now, however, she was content to aid Anhur in her own small way. She would blind the enemy so that he walked into the trap her fellow deathbringer, Baron Aceteryx, had set, unaware of the forces gathered beyond the Avenue of Ten Skulls in the Plaza of Yellow Smoke. The Stormcasts were like orruks in that way — they saw only the enemy straight ahead, and took no note of those to the sides or behind, confident in their ability to bull through anything.

Lightning flashed, illuminating the dark sky for a brief moment, revealing the winged shapes passing close overhead. She grinned and signalled to her warriors with a piercing whistle. Bloodreavers rose from the thickest sections of canopy, clutching chains and hooks. Her tribesmen had learned the art of bringing down flying prey in the deeps of the Ashdwell, hunting the great red-furred bats that lurked there in the dark. It was merely a matter of timing.

The hooks were hurled upwards to snag arms or legs. They only needed to bring down one or two — the rest would follow. A winged Stormcast faltered as iron hooks snared him. Bloodreavers roared and heaved, leaping to pull as one on the chain. The Stormcast jerked from the air, crashing through the canopy before slamming into the street below. Two more followed him, before the rest turned on the hunters. Hammers of lightning hurtled downward, tearing through the canopy and smashing bloodreavers from their perches. But that had been expected. Death was the price of victory.

Phastet leapt from her perch as the broken, smoke-wreathed bodies of her warriors fell to the ground around her. Their brothers and sisters burst from hiding, and charged towards the downed Stormcasts. The howling bloodreavers closed in on the dazed warriors, axes and swords raised. One of the golden-armoured warriors fell, his body hacked apart by the cannibalistic tribesmen. Phastet beheaded a second, her new axe screaming in delight as it separated the Stormcast’s head from his shoulders.

She whirled, her gory axe raised. ‘Here I stand, fully alive,’ Phastet cried. ‘Here I stand, Khorne — ready to kill and die, in thy name. Send me foes, send me death, whatever be thy will — here I stand!’

Kratus the Silent burst through the canopy of grey vines that obscured the street below, followed closely by his remaining Prosecutors. Two of the fallen were already dead, their bodies returned to the storm. But the third still lived, despite the chains that tangled him. The Knight-Azyros drew his starblade as he sped towards the fallen Stormcast. Bloodbound converged on the warrior as he struggled to free himself. More savages clambered through the canopy like spiders, blades clutched between their teeth.

The ambush had been well planned, for all that it was a thing of brute simplicity. Had he and his warriors been mortal men, they would have died the minute they pierced the canopy. The bloodreavers raced through the street in untold numbers, and hurled themselves onto the Prosecutors from the wooden ledges of the nearby buildings and the canopy of vines, swarming over them. Chains snagged limbs, grounding several of the winged warriors. Ropes lassoed wrists and necks, dragging the Prosecutors off balance.

Kratus alone avoided being snared and he dropped from the air with a sound like thunder. The stones of the street cracked and burst asunder at the sudden impact. So too did the bones of the closest bloodreavers as a blow from his wing sent them tumbling. He whirled and chopped through the chains holding a trapped warrior. Spears hurled from above crashed against his sigmarite war-plate, only to clatter away uselessly.

The Prosecutor gasped out his thanks as Kratus hauled him to his feet. The Knight-Azyros gestured to the sky, and the recovered warrior hurled himself into the air without hesitation. Kratus turned and sliced open the throat of a charging bloodreaver. More raced towards him, leaping in to attack with wild yells and guttural prayers. He killed them all, painting the air with their blood.

When the last of them had fallen, Kratus tore his celestial beacon from his belt and flipped its aperture wide, filling the street with a blazing radiance. Bloodreavers screamed and burned as the light swept over them. Flesh blackened and turned to ash. As Prosecutors shrugged themselves free of crumbling corpses, Kratus swept his bloody sword towards the sky in silent command. They could not afford to become bogged down. In the close confines of the street, they could not take advantage of their speed and manoeuvrability.

Prosecutors sprang upwards, their wings stirring the ashes of their foes, as more bloodreavers closed in from all sides. Kratus raised his beacon, casting its light over the charging warriors, searing them from existence. Their momentum carried them past him, their bodies wreathed in all-consuming flame. He would burn the infestation from this place, and then join his Prosecutors. A sudden hiss from above caused him to turn.

An axe skidded down the curve of his chest-plate, filling the air with sparks. His celestial beacon clattered from his grip as he fell backwards. Kratus rolled aside as his attacker dropped down, driving her axe into the stones where his head had been. The axe shrieked like a dying cat as it split the stones of the street.

The deathbringer was lean-muscled and clad in leather and crude armour. Her flesh was painted with ash and soot, and her face was split by a monstrous grin that stretched from ear to ear. Barbaric tattoos covered the visible portions of her skin, and her hair was threaded through with bones. She wrenched the daemon-weapon loose, and slashed at him again. Kratus backed away, trying to get enough room to get airborne again. She grinned at him, her face nearly splitting in two, and drew a smaller axe from her belt.

‘Pretty wings,’ she cooed. ‘Will they still crackle when I hang them from my lodge-pole, little bird?’ Kratus tensed, sword held low. She threw back her head and howled. Before the echo had faded, she was bounding towards him. He interposed his sword, and daemon-blade crashed against sigmarite with a keening shriek. Twisting the starblade, he hooked the deathbringer’s axes and tore them from her grip, even as his wing snapped out. She leapt back, thrown off-balance by the feint.

Kratus slung the weapons aside and dove towards his assailant, starblade extended. She hurled herself out of the way, spitting curses. With a flap of his wings, Kratus was airborne. But not for long. Iron chains and hooks shot out from the ruins all around him, entangling him. He had bought the others time to escape, but it appeared he wasn’t going to be so lucky.

‘Trapped, pretty bird,’ the woman crowed. ‘Just like the others. We will tear you apart, one feather at a time, until all that is left is blood and bone, hey?’ She spread her arms. ‘But I know the way of it now. I won’t kill you, not all at once.’ Her razor grin stretched across her ash-smeared face. ‘Meat always tastes better carved from something that can still scream anyway.’

At her shouted command, many hands hauled on the ropes and chains, trying to drag him down. Wings snarling, he fought to stay aloft. He caught sight of his beacon, still blazing like the light of Sigendil. He dropped to the ground. Stones crunched beneath his feet as he began to fight his way towards the light, dragging the cursing, struggling tribesmen behind him.

A bloodreaver charged towards him and he flung his sword, smashing the barbarian from his feet. Then, he stretched his arms back and caught hold of the ropes and chains, gripping them tight. Before his captors could react, he flapped his wings and lunged forward, into the light of the beacon. Bloodbound screamed as he jerked them into the cleansing radiance. Ash filled the air.

Freed, Kratus retrieved his sword and turned, just in time to parry a blow from the deathbringer. Her screaming axe crashed down again and again, until their weapons became locked. He tried to force her back, but she was stronger than she looked. As they strained against one another, she leaned towards him and opened her mouth, impossibly wide.

Something thick and red lashed in her cavernous throat. It shot forward, and a circular maw of thin yellow fangs smashed against his mask. Acidic drool sizzled as it scorched his armour, and he jerked his head away before it could find his eye-slits. She wrenched his blade aside and they broke apart.

With a scream, she lunged at him. He caught her by the throat as her tongue lashed at him. Gripping her throat, he swung her towards the light of his beacon, blocking her axe with his sword. She shrieked and squirmed to no avail as he plunged her into the celestial glow. The axe in her hand began to keen like a thing in pain.

Heat washed over him as he held her struggling form in the light. She clawed at him, but gradually her struggles grew weaker, and finally ceased altogether. Kratus released her and stepped back. The blazing light enveloped her body, and soon there was nothing left of either the deathbringer or her axe, save blackened bones and greasy ash.

Breathing heavily, Kratus retrieved his celestial beacon and sprang into the air.

Horns blared and drums thumped as the forces of the Scarlet Lord started forward, up the Avenue of Ten Skulls, a stinking sulphurous mist swirling about their legs. Volundr marched among them, his anvil balanced on his shoulder, its chains looped about his arm and torso. The skullgrinder moved without haste. Warriors of the Bloodbound flowed around him like a red tide, driven by ferocity and fear in equal measure. They loved Khorne and feared him, as was the proper way of things.

Behind them, in the Plaza of Yellow Smoke, Hroth Shieldbreaker and Warpfang made ready to greet the Stormcasts. That they would break through the force advancing towards them was a foregone conclusion. But they would bloody themselves in the doing, and be ripe for the slaughter. Anhur waited, ready to lead his Scarlet Axes in delivering the deathblow, when the time was ripe. Volundr had no fear that the Scarlet Lord would grow impatient… Anhur was cannier than most, and not prone to haste.

Not like that fool, Apademak. Volundr grunted in annoyance as he thought of the slaughterpriest. The Hungry One was impatient and greedy. He was a hollow thing, a fire that sought to expand beyond its hearth. If allowed to burn free, his madness would spread to others, like the egotistical Redjaw or the treacherous Baron Aceteryx, who needed little prodding to turn on his fellows. Thus far, Anhur had suffered no true challengers to his position — the Shieldbreaker had little ambition, save to indulge in war, and no other deathbringer was strong enough to challenge the Scarlet Lord. But Apademak… Apademak thought Anhur was weak, the way an axe sees weakness in a sword. Volundr shook his head.

Luckily, Apademak was on the other side of the enemy, and too far away to interfere in things any further. Perhaps the Stormcasts had even done them a favour and killed the man-eater, though Volundr doubted it. Whatever his faults, Apademak was no weakling. Still, he would have to be dealt with, eventually. Nothing could be allowed to endanger what was to come, least of all one of their own warriors.

The sky was filled with fire, smoke and rain. As he walked, Volundr watched the orange glow rise over the tops of the roofs. In its light, he saw something that might have been movement, and in his bones he felt the thunder of Khorne’s approach. The Blood God was drawing near to Uryx, hungry for the feast to come. Daemons screamed silently in the shadows and loped, barely visible, through the ranks of tribesmen. Volundr could feel their longing to join in the carnage to come. Soon enough, he thought. Soon and then forevermore.

That was the price demanded, and the price Anhur had agreed to pay. Eight kingdoms given over to Khorne. The eight kingdoms of the Tephra Crater, sacrificed on the altar of war. Volundr laughed harshly, and those bloodreavers nearest him edged away. That was the price of glory, the price of war unending. Anhur had given himself, his warriors, his folk and his kingdom over into Khorne’s keeping. He had given his past and his future into Khorne’s hands, and would be rewarded accordingly, with an eternity of slaughter beneath the stars.

Anhur would make a fine weapon for Khorne to wield in the eternal wars of the gods. Like Valkia before him, or the Bloodwrath, the Scarlet Lord would serve as a piece in the Great Game, in service to the Lord of Skulls forevermore. Volundr had known that the first moment he laid eyes on the princeling of Klaxus, as he had fought his way south, away from the crater-kingdoms. Anhur had been without purpose then, bereft of his kingdom, and his allies. Alone save for his most loyal retainers, and his boundless rage.

Volundr had sensed that rage, and tracked its bitter scent across the Felstone Plains and the grasslands of the Caldera. He had come upon Anhur in battle against the horseclans there, and given him aid. He had guided him through fire and massacre, showing him the way to victory. In Anhur was a monstrous cunning, only barely chained by tattered nobility. And now, at long last, the last shred of that woebegone prince was fading, leaving only the savage purity of the Scarlet Lord.

He would guide Anhur up the eighty-eight steps, and see any danger to his apotheosis crushed. He had invested too much effort into crafting this weapon to allow jealousy or old foes to tear down all that he had built. Anhur would enter the fires of the Soulmaw and transcend the Mortal Realms, as had so many others under Volundr’s tutelage. But the Scarlet Lord would be his greatest creation.

And what then, war-smith? What next for Volundr of Hesphut, what next for the Skull-Cracker, he thought. Another weapon, he suspected. Khorne always needed weapons, and the skullgrinders were his weaponsmiths. He stroked the runes embossed on the brass plating of his anvil, aware of the raging heat contained within its blunt shape — the heat of Khorne’s own forges. The heat of weapons yet to be shaped, of furies without purpose.

There were some among Anhur’s Gorechosen who might yet ascend to those heights. The Shieldbreaker was exalted among the deathbringers of the warhorde. In him were all the virtues of the Bloodbound, and few of their vices. The Huntress too had potential, should she survive. Berkut was too lost to the song of slaughter, and Apademak to his own lusts. Redjaw was a fool, but lethal. Baron Aceteryx matched them all for guile, if not strength. So many possibilities, for a true craftsman.

He looked down at his hands and felt again the heat of the blazing chains he had reeled from the smoky air to loop about the anvil he carried. Each link was a soul torn weeping from the Screaming Sea of Khorne’s realm. He stretched the links tight between his fists, thinking of all that was yet to come. He looked up, scanning the faces of the nearby Bloodbound; each one was an ingot of malice, ready to be hammered and tempered into something greater.

Some would not survive. Some materials were fit only to heat the furnace. But others… So many possibilities, he thought. So many weapons, waiting for the touch of the hammer and the kiss of the fire. It was his duty, his honour, to wield that hammer and stoke that fire.

Volundr felt the air turn hot. He glanced to the side, and saw eight hulking shapes stalking through the ranks of the Bloodbound towards him, their chains clattering, a crimson haze rising from their twisted red limbs. Monstrous and swollen with bitter strength, a hellish ichor sweating from their pores, the wrathmongers approached him reverentially. Bloodbound and beastkin alike scrambled from their path, desperate to avoid the attentions of the blessed of Khorne. The wrathmongers were battle-madness made flesh, and to tarry too close to them was to drown in that madness.

‘We… come,’ one grunted, in a voice like the thudding of iron on bone. He was a bulky thing, scarred and smeared with dried blood and worse substances. His helm was a single chunk of brass, marked in its centre by the rune of Khorne, and topped by a crest made from a skull and dangling spinal column. ‘Come to… to fight at your side, war-smith. Come to… come to fight!’ The wrathmonger twitched and staggered back, his wrath-flails rattling as he threw back his helmeted head and screamed. His companions screamed with him, and their voices momentarily silenced the clamour of the horde.

Panting, the wrathmonger glared at Volundr. ‘Fight with us, war-smith. Fight… fight fight fight…’ he gibbered, spittle oozing from beneath the rim of his helm, as the others joined in like insane children. Volundr let his anvil tumble from his shoulder and strike the ground. At the hollow thud, the wrathmongers fell silent.

He studied them for a moment, considering. They were weapons too. Not so strong as Anhur, but like Apademak, they could be wielded to the Scarlet Lord’s benefit. ‘I will fight beside you,’ he said. ‘I will wield you in Khorne’s name, my brothers, if that is your wish.’

He clenched his free hand, and tore his palm. He held out his hand, his fingers red and dripping. The wrathmongers crowded close, mewling in eagerness as he marked them in blood with the rune of Khorne. Volundr laughed, as he anointed the wrathmongers. ‘Yes… I will forge you into something greater.’

The Avenue of Ten Skulls echoed to the tromp of sigmarite boots, as Lord-Celestant Orius led his chamber into the heart of Uryx. The column was composed of the bulk of the Adamantine’s retinues; those not seconded to Lord-Castellant Gorgus or left to guard the Mandrake Bastion and the Gnawing Gate now marched along the avenue towards the Bridge of Smoke, under Orius’ command. They were a sword, to be thrust into the foe.

And not for the first time, Orius thought, as he led his chamber through the rubble-strewn street. He had led warriors this way once before, he knew, though he could but dimly recall the circumstances. Flashes of memory showed him scenes of battle, as he and those who followed him fought their way through the personal guards of the priest-kings and clashed with the sulphur-knights along the broad avenue.

Everywhere he looked it seemed as if a new memory waited to pounce. He heard the cries of dying men, and the sound of blades crashing together. He could smell death and smoke and fear, all mingling in this place. He caught sight of ghostly shapes that fought and fell, just out of the corner of his eye, and some part of him knew that these were the final sounds Oros of Ytalan had heard, before his end.

…the searing hiss of the smoke-swords of the sulphur-knights as they cut down his companions, killing them one by one… He could hear Anhur calling for them to stand, to fight, even as Oros dragged him away from that hissing doom… If Anhur fell, the rebellion was doomed… Only Anhur could lead them… only Anhur…

But Anhur hadn’t. He had fled, abandoning his people, and sought new fields of conquest as Klaxus lurched on beneath the heels of the priest-kings. Orius felt the embers of his anger stir within him. Anhur had fled again and again, but not this time. This time, there would be no escape. This time, Anhur would pay for his crimes.

‘They’ve lost sight of Kratus’ beacon,’ Moros said, startling Orius from his reverie. The Lord-Relictor gestured with his staff to the Judicators on the rooftops above, who called down to the column of Stormcasts marching below. ‘Something has happened,’ Moros continued. ‘An ambush, perhaps.’

‘Should we go to his aid?’ Tarkus asked. The Knight-Heraldor sounded eager. Though they had met the enemy more than once during their advance, the battles that followed had been over far too quickly for the herald’s liking, Orius knew.

Before Orius could reply, a winged shape dropped to the ground before the vanguard of the column in a crackle of lightning. The Prosecutor’s golden armour was streaked with blood and grime as he rose to his feet, his shimmering wings folding behind his back. Orius held up his hammer, signalling for the column to halt in its advance. He recognised the warrior as one of Kratus’ retinue, and said, ‘What news, brother?’

‘Lord-Celestant Orius, Lord-Castellant Gorgus is cut off,’ the Prosecutor said. ‘The enemy has pierced our lines.’

Orius restrained a curse. If Gorgus was cut off, so too was the rest of the chamber. They were well and truly outnumbered now, not to mention surrounded. ‘What of the Silent One?’

‘We were ambushed, my lord,’ the Prosecutor said. ‘The Knight-Azyros sent us ahead, while he stayed to deal with the foe.’ He hesitated. ‘I… I do not know whether he yet lives. They were many, and he but one.’

‘Aye, and his one is worth their many.’ They seek to blind us, he thought, to surround us and batter us, until we become bogged down, unable to advance. The Bloodbound had the advantage of numbers, and time was on their side. Whatever was going on, whatever scheme Anhur was perpetrating, it was close to fruition. If they allowed the Bloodbound to delay them, there was no telling what horrors might arise… but if they advanced unsupported, they might fail regardless. He caught Moros’ eye.

‘Time is not on our side,’ the Lord-Relictor said.

‘When is it ever?’ Orius said. He had made his decision. He clapped the Prosecutor on the shoulder. ‘I must ask you miss out on the glories to come, brother. I need you and the rest of your retinue to take word to my fellow Lord-Celestants and apprise them of our situation. If we fail to take the Sulphur Citadel in time, they must know something of what they shall face.’

‘It shall be done, Lord-Celestant,’ the Prosecutor said, crashing his fist against his chest-plate. The winged warrior turned and sprang into the air. Followed by the rest of his retinue, he hurtled west towards the light of the fires that flickered on the horizon.

Orius turned to Tarkus. ‘Tarkus, take the vanguard,’ he said. ‘We must press on through the Avenue of Ten Skulls to the Plaza of Yellow Smoke. We are close, and we must not slow our pace. Not now. Range ahead, break the enemy where you find them. Move fast, but not without caution. Do you understand, Knight-Heraldor?’

‘Aye, Lord-Celestant,’ Tarkus cried. He lifted his horn and blew a signalling note as he quickly departed to lead his warriors forward. The vanguard would probe the strength of whatever force waited for them ahead, and break it, if possible. Orius turned to the remaining members of his auxiliary command.

‘Galerius, we shall lead the shield wall. Moros…’

‘I shall hold the centre,’ the Lord-Relictor said. From the centre of the column, Moros would be able to lend aid to either Gorgus or Orius at a moment’s notice, whichever might prove necessary. If Gorgus could not hold back the enemy, then Moros would advance to meet them. But if Gorgus won through, then he and Moros together could march to reinforce Orius and the rest of the Chamber as they advanced.

Orius turned to Galerius.

‘Speak, Knight-Vexillor. We are like the grindstone. The enemy will be ground beneath us. Speak, Galerius — show the standard.’ As he spoke, he raised his sword, and as one, the front ranks of the chamber began to march forward. ‘Let the enemy hear us coming, my friend, so that they know who has defeated them.’

‘Stand true, stand fast, Adamantine,’ Galerius cried, as he strode beside Orius. ‘Let no shield-arm dip, no sword-arm falter. We fight in Sigmar’s name, and he watches us, my brothers, he watches us and he sees how we hold his standard high.’ He struck the front of his chest-plate with the flat of his hammer. ‘We wage war in his name, Stormcasts. Cherish every breath you breathe here, cherish every ache accrued in his service, cherish the sound of sigmarite as it hews through hell-forged armour. Stand fast, my brothers, stand fast. We shall not move from our path, shall not bend nor break!’

‘WE SHALL NOT BREAK,’ the Stormcasts bellowed in response.

‘We are Adamantine — we shall not break!’ Galerius roared, striking the ground with his battle-standard and cracking the stones. ‘But the foe shall. They shall break and break again, until nothing remains. We are Adamantine, and nothing can stand against us!’

I am coming for you, Anhur, Orius thought, as he led the cheering warriors of the Adamantine forward. I am coming, Scarlet Lord, and nothing shall stand in my way…

Ten Sculls

Baron Aceteryx, former warden of the Scorian Bastion, held up his raw and glistening gauntlet, forestalling any sound or movement on the part of the warriors who crouched around him in the rain. Formerly warriors of the elite Scorian Guard, they had once been pledged to stand watch along the ancient bastion for which they’d been named. Now, like their master, they were pledged to the service of the Blood God.

Like him, too, they were all clad in oozing, scabrous armour, mystically crafted from the muscle and meat of their murdered kin. A sign of betrayal and godly favour, all in one. The armour wept blood, but was as hard as iron. They waited, spread out over the root-encrusted rooftop overlooking the square below, ignoring the pelting rain and the clutching growths which squirmed beneath them.

With the winged scouts of the foe distracted by Phastet and her savages, Aceteryx and his blood warriors had taken to the rooftops lining the Avenue of Ten Skulls. Here and now, in the Square of Four Fangs, they would strike and cut the Stormcast advance in two. More of his warriors crouched ready and waiting across the avenue for the signal to attack. But they would not wait for long. It had been too long since they had collected the skulls of the foe.

Aceteryx knew well how they felt. It had become a hunger in him. A need greater than any he’d ever experienced. It took all of his concentration to remain calm at moments like this. Then, he thought with bitter humour, I’ve never been one to take the cautious path. He rubbed his breastplate, smearing the blood with an unconscious gesture as he watched the Stormcasts troop past in formation.

Their column had spread out, with the vanguard moving ahead, and the bulk of the warriors marching more slowly behind. Berkut and the others would handle them. But this smaller force was his. It was moving to support those Stormcasts still battling Apademak’s cannibals farther back along the avenue. The foe had stretched themselves thin, hoping to maintain their momentum without abandoning their slower elements or endangering their control of the central thoroughfare. Not enough warriors, not enough time, he thought, in amusement. They were overconfident, or simply desperate.

Either way, they are our prey, Aceteryx thought, and smiled beneath his skull-faced helm. He reached up and stroked its contours — it had been his brother’s skull, and it was his brother’s scalp that adorned it as a crest. His brother had been prey as well. Weak, and fit only for the butcher’s block. All of his kin had been weak. Too weak to survive in a world fit only for predators. Eat or be eaten, he thought.

That was why he had done it, in the end. They had held out for so long, throwing back every invader who dared attempt to take the Scorian Bastion. Even as the lands the bastion had been built to protect flared out like dying campfires in the dark, consumed by the storm of Chaos that engulfed the kingdoms of the Felstone Plains, the folk of the bastion had held. Aceteryx had held. And what had it gotten him?

Nothing. Every battle, every assault, wore him down a bit more. More empty places in the line, more cracks in the wall, more wailing, useless peons, weeping for fallen sons and daughters. As if tears would bring them back. As if despair would fill the cracks in the stones and repair shattered shields and chipped blades. The only respite was in battle.

It had begun to weigh on him, like the ache of a wound that never healed. That ache was still there, but at least now he could lose himself in the joy of slaughter. He could bathe in gore, worrying about nothing save his tally of skulls. His hand dropped to the hilt of his sword, carved from his wife’s femur. He could almost hear her voice as he gripped it. Her whispered endearments, her choking pleas, her final anguished screams.

Those screams had been Anhur’s price. Victory at the cost of pain, the Scarlet Lord had said. Aceteryx could still remember meeting Anhur beneath a flag of parley. The dull rumble of the Scarlet Lord’s voice as he spoke of what awaited them all, and of the glories that could be theirs, if they but opened the bastion. Of a life without despair, and a chance to be something greater than the last baron of a forgotten fortress in a burning world.

And now I am Gorechosen, he thought. Now, his foot was on the stair to the greatest glories of all. Apademak had spoken of Anhur’s weakness, as had Redjaw and others besides. Murmurs of discontent had swept the warhorde since their retreat from the Hissing Gates. Many had seen Anhur’s gesture of mercy, and few approved of such blasphemy.

The moment of glory that the Scarlet Lord had promised him was near. All that was required of him was to seize the moment, as he had at the Scorian Bastion. And to do so before the others, to cut down Anhur and claim his place for himself.

He rose to his feet, sword and flail in hand. I will be a baron no longer, but a lord — Lord Aceteryx, he thought, liking the sound of it. His blood warriors rose with him, growling in anticipation. He gestured to what he assumed was the leader of the Stormcasts — a tall warrior, clad in baroque raiment and wearing a skull-shaped helm. ‘That one stinks of magic. He is mine,’ he growled. And then, with a roar, Baron Aceteryx leapt from the roof.

Lord-Relictor Moros led his warriors through the Square of Four Fangs, head bent, his reliquary staff clutched in both hands. They marched to lend aid to Lord-Castellant Gorgus, and to free up the rear elements of the chamber to support Lord-Celestant Orius and the vanguard as they pressed on through the Avenue of Ten Skulls.

Moros ignored the sounds of his warriors on the march, and the hollow sound of the rain striking his armour. Instead, he listened to the murmur of the lightning that pulsed in the belly of the great clouds that congregated above the Tephra Crater, and Uryx in particular. The words of Sigmar, and more besides, were in the growl of the storm, and he listened intently, finding meaning in every rumble of thunder.

Moros could almost hear the cries of those of his warriors who’d fallen in the assault so far, as they were drawn upwards into the divine tempest that thundered eternally in the skies above Sigmaron. There was pain there, aye, but a chance to rise and fight again in Sigmar’s name. To fight until the old foe was driven back from the threshold of the Mortal Realms once more. And then…?

Moros’ mind shied away from the thought. It was not for him to consider the future. Only the spirits of the dead concerned him. It was his duty as spirit-warden to ensure that should his fellow Stormcasts fall in battle, their spirits would heed only the call of Sigmar and ascend back to the heavens, rather than descending into some other realm or, worse, become lost to the winds of Chaos. He looked up, watching skeins of azure light that only he could see rise from the city and stretch towards the tempest above. Every thread belonged to a living Stormcast, and marked their connection to Azyr. The life-chain, as the folk of the lagoon-city of Po — his folk, once — had called it.

Moros remembered more about his mortal life than some, and less than others. He suspected other Lord-Relictors did so as well. They had been chosen by Sigmar not for the strength of their sword arms, but rather the strength of their spirits. In quiet moments, he retreated into his memories of the Argentum Sea, seeking out the brightest to examine and study. He drew strength from them, even as he sought to understand them. The whirr of clockwork and the smell of warm silver waters, the murmur of voices and the glimpse of a woman’s face as she laughed, her cheeks powdered with gold-dust and silver threads twined intricately through her hair. Who was she? Did she still live?

He shook himself slightly. A foolish question. She was dead. If she and all his people were not, would he be clad in gold and azure? A shout drew him from his reverie and he turned to see red-armoured shapes dropping into the square from the rooftops all around the marching Stormcasts. They fell to the ground and lurched up, stumbling at first as they raced towards his warriors, but picking up speed as they drew close. Blood warriors, he realised, as he swept his staff up. ‘Form a phalanx,’ he cried. ‘Adamantine — shields to the flanks. Protectors, to me!’

His Liberators moved to obey, individual retinues wheeling about and joining together to form a bulwark against their screaming attackers. His Protectors moved to surround him, waiting for further orders. They were outnumbered but he was confident that they could hold. Another distraction, he thought. They were being isolated, split from the others. The same had happened with Lord-Castellant Gorgus and with the Knight-Azyros, Kratus. Drawn away, separated, leaving the rest of the chamber without reinforcements or support.

More and more it seemed as if Anhur had chosen the ground for his final stand well. He’d led them into Uryx, and was now gnawing away at their strength, preventing them from simply smashing through the obstacles in their path. Too clever by half, that one, he thought grimly, as the blood warriors crashed into the Stormcast line with a ragged howl.

The blood warriors hacked and hewed at their foes with wild abandon, substituting ferocity for discipline. The air shimmered eerily with the heat of their rage, and Moros could see the ghostly shapes of daemons lurking about the edges of the battle, capering in glee. The creatures seemed more solid now than before and that disturbed him. If the Bloodbound were to suddenly find their ranks bolstered by such creatures, even the Adamantine might not be able to hold them back.

The combatants struggled back and forth through the rain. Only a few blood warriors had managed to slip through the quickly formed cordon of sigmarite, and Moros and his Protectors made short work of them. But as he struck down the last of them, the Lord-Relictor heard a roar, and saw a Liberator fall, his body burning away into motes of crackling light. His killer thrust himself into the gap in the shield wall and smashed a second Liberator from his feet with a blow from a flail of iron and brass.

‘Ha!’ the warrior bellowed, in a voice like splintering bones. ‘Is this all you have to offer Baron Aceteryx, dogs of Sigmar? Am I doomed to feast upon scraps? Where are your champions, your true warriors?’

The deathbringer wore armour composed of glistening red plates that more resembled chunks of raw meat than any metal, and they were edged with bone. They, and the long, basket-hilted sword that the warrior carried in one hand did more to identify him than any bellowed challenge. The Scorian Traitor, Moros thought, as the fallen Liberator blocked a slash from that deadly blade. There were many stories of atrocities in the Felstone Plains, but among the worst of them, whispered to their Stormcast rescuers by newly-freed slaves and refugees, was the tale of the Scorian Bastion, and the treacherous Baron Aceteryx. Moros started forward.

Aceteryx swept his flail of brass and iron down, tearing the shield from his foe’s grip. As the golden warrior tried to rise, Aceteryx drove his blade through a gap in his armour, killing him instantly. Lightning flared and the deathbringer stepped through it. ‘Is there no challenge to be had here?’ he laughed, as his followers raced past him, and the shield wall broke apart into a riotous melee.

Moros slammed his staff down. Shockwaves of lightning swept out, smashing nearby blood warriors from their feet. ‘Here is a challenge, traitor,’ Moros said, his voice carrying in the sudden silence after the lightning.

Aceteryx looked at him, and raised his flail in a mocking salute. ‘Traitor? You know me then, skull-face?’

‘I know you. Traitor. Liar and murderer. Your soul is marked by your crimes, and the ghosts of your victims cling to you. Can you feel their weight, Baron? Can you hear their cries?’ Moros said, sweeping his staff out in a wide arc. ‘When you fell, Aceteryx, the souls of your ancestors filled Azyrheim with the sounds of their weeping.’

‘Then imagine how they will wail when I tear your heart out and add it to my armour,’ Aceteryx snarled. He stamped forward with a duellist’s surety, sword extended. Moros caught the blow on his staff, but before he could reply in kind, the Baron’s flail crashed down against his skull, rocking him on his feet. He swung his hammer out, driving his opponent back, but not for long. The deathbringer darted forward, faster than Moros could react. His sword skidded off the Lord-Relictor’s breastplate, and Moros staggered.

He caught a blow from Aceteryx’s flail on his staff and ripped the weapon from the deathbringer’s grasp, hurling it aside. Aceteryx lunged forward with a snarl, slashing at him, driving him back. Moros retreated, trying to put some distance between them. All around him, he could see his Protectors locked in combat with Aceteryx’s warriors, their stormstrike glaives leaving sizzling contrails in their wake.

A wild blow suddenly knocked his staff from his hand, and set him reeling, off-balance. ‘Your head is mine,’ Aceteryx howled, raising his blade in both hands. Before he could strike, however, a winged form slammed into his back and sent him staggering. The Baron whirled, slashing out at his attacker. Kratus the Silent dodged the blow, his crackling wings flapping. Where the Knight-Azyros had come from, Moros didn’t know, but he was thankful for the distraction regardless.

Moros thrust himself forward and, as Aceteryx turned back towards him, he drove his warhammer into the deathbringer’s midsection. Warped armour burst with a sickening sound, and Aceteryx screamed in agony. Kratus moved to strike the wounded Chaos champion down, but Moros waved him off. ‘Help the others,’ he said. ‘This one is mine.’ Kratus nodded and was gone, with a snap of his great wings.

Aceteryx straightened, wheezing. ‘All I am is your death, fool—’ he began. Moros’ blow interrupted his taunt. The warhammer slammed crossways against the deathbringer’s helm, shattering the warped bone, and revealing the ravaged features of the man beneath. Aceteryx screamed as if he’d lost a limb, and clawed at his face. Moros gave him no opportunity to recover. He swung his hammer, shattering Aceteryx’s hastily interposed blade. He struck again and again, crushing joints and bones, until at last, Aceteryx sank down to his knees.

‘Your ancestors await you, Aceteryx. Prepare yourself for judgement,’ Moros said, as he raised his hammer in both hands, over his head.

‘Y-you have no right to judge me,’ the wounded deathbringer growled.

‘No. Not me,’ Moros said. The hammer fell, with a sound like thunder, and Baron Aceteryx, last guardian of the Scorian Bastion, fell with it. Moros looked down at the body, and felt a moment of pity. Once, Aceteryx had been a hero. But it seemed even heroes could not long resist the lures of Chaos unaided.

And that was why the Stormcast Eternals had come, the Lord-Relictor thought. Not just to Klaxus, or the wider reaches of Aqshy. Throughout the Mortal Realms, heroes still fought against the inevitability of Chaos. And the Stormcast Eternals would find them, and, Sigmar willing, aid them.

But first, they had to win this battle, and free this kingdom. He looked up. The last of the blood warriors had fallen to the glaives of his Protectors, but the berserkers had reaped a terrible toll before they met their end. Many Stormcasts had perished, leaving behind only smouldering patches of charred stone to mark their return to Azyr, while others were badly wounded.

He reclaimed his staff and raised it, murmuring the words to summon a healing storm. The falling rain began to shimmer with a celestial radiance, and where it touched the wounded Stormcasts, wounded flesh knit and damaged sigmarite flowed like water until it was whole once more. The Lord-Relictor turned to see Kratus watching him from nearby, one hand resting on the hilt of his starblade. The Knight-Azyros had been seeing to the culling of the wounded blood warriors with his usual pragmatism.

‘We feared you lost, Silent One,’ Moros said, as the Knight-Azyros approached. Kratus signalled sharply. Moros’ grip on his reliquary staff tightened as he interpreted the Silent One’s quick gestures. It was as he’d feared. The enemy had distracted them, and tried to cut them off from Orius and the others. The Adamantine advance had been stalled time and again. And now the bulk of the Bloodbound were massing in the wide plaza before the Bridge of Smoke — another distraction, he suspected. Another stalling tactic. ‘How many?’ he asked. Kratus gestured and Moros grunted in dismay. Orius and the others would be hard-pressed to punch through such numbers. Not without aid.

Decision made, the Lord-Relictor thumped the ground with his staff. ‘Gorgus will have to hold his own, then. I will not allow our brethren to be overwhelmed, not so close to our goal.’ He swept his hammer out. ‘On your feet, Adamantine — we must make haste. Our Lord-Celestant requires our aid, though he knows it not!’

The sun was beginning to rise behind the storm clouds as the Bloodbound raced along the Avenue of Ten Skulls, howling like beasts. They swept towards the golden ranks of the Stormcasts like a headsman’s blade. The ground shuddered beneath them as they ran, and the harsh blare of war-horns sounded above the din of their coming. The air shuddered with their savage chants as they drove forward through the hail of crackling arrows that gouged furrows in their ranks.

‘Blood and skulls for Khorne,’ Berkut roared, as he charged the Stormcast shield wall. ‘Rip their flesh and crack their bones, for the Lord of Skulls!’ The bloodsecrator raised his icon high, so that those who followed him could see it. The portal of skulls trembled in his grip as it soaked up the bloodshed. Soon, it would release those pent-up energies, and its reservoir of furious power would spill over to wash across the Avenue of Ten Skulls and the crater-city of Uryx. Perhaps even Klaxus itself.

The thought fired his blood and lent him speed. He longed to tear the veil between worlds, to see again the glories of Khorne’s kingdom in the moment of realmflux. The glimpses he caught of it, when in battle, reminded him of that long-ago pilgrimage to the Brass Citadel, across the fields of blood and bone. He had slain daemons with his bare hands, and drank deep from the boiling moat which surrounded Khorne’s citadel, and for his devotion he had been gifted the icon he now carried into battle.

Berkut could feel Khorne’s gaze on this place now. The skullgrinder, Volundr, had been correct; the Blood God was watching them, watching the Scarlet Lord. Now was the time to show the Lord of Skulls how they gloried in his name. Around him, the warriors of the Bloodbound raced forward with similar eagerness and longing. Barbaric bloodreavers of the Eight Tribes loped alongside crimson-armoured blood warriors and hulking skullreapers. Feral beastmen, their hairy hides daubed with blood, galloped in the vanguard, brutish voices beyond counting raised in praise of Khorne.

The golden shields of the enemy drew close, and he raised his axe and standard both as he chanted the Blood God’s name. A moment later, the Bloodbound crashed into the ranks of their foes with a sound like thunder, axes rising and falling. Dozens of warriors died in that moment, cut down or crushed between the shields of the foe and the ranks of their fellows behind them. The Stormcast lines held, but only just.

Berkut screamed as his great four-bladed axe bit down, gouging an opponent’s shield. One of the blades became lodged in the metal, and Berkut ripped the shield from its owner’s arm. The Stormcast staggered, and Berkut kicked out, catching the warrior in the chest. He fell backwards, leaving a gap in the shield wall, and Berkut seized the moment. Lashing out with his icon and axe, he forced the gap wider, driving the other Stormcast back, so that the warriors who followed him could break through. Slowly but surely, the shield wall began to split in two.

Berkut howled with laughter as warriors died and bodies fell. The blood ran thick on the stones. He slammed the haft of his icon into the ground. The bloodsecrator threw back his head and roared joyfully. Now was the time, in the moment of shattered shields and dying warriors. Now, NOW… The portal of skulls writhed in his grip and the great rune of Khorne glowed with a hot light. The light swelled and burst in violent pulses, and reality tore like silk.

The ground beneath his feet turned to blazing brass and the air filled with sulphurous fumes. The Bloodbound around him screamed and raged as they were driven into a killing frenzy. The energies of the Blood God’s realm infused them, giving them strength, forcing them on, even as the Stormcasts struck them down. Roaring blood warriors, their eyes wild with murderous fury, flung themselves onto the enemy. They barged through the ranks of the bloodreavers in an effort to come to grips with the foe, their rage burning hot enough to make the air shimmer.

Berkut joined them in the slaughter. Blue streaks of lightning crackled upwards as one foe after another fell. As he fought, he saw daemons stretch and claw as they rose from the blood and brass. They screamed at him, howling out prayers to Khorne. They were not free yet. The membrane of the world was too thick, too solid to allow them to slip through. Berkut hissed in frustration, even as he struck down another Stormcast, tearing the warrior’s head from his shoulders with a sweep of his axe.

He longed to fight alongside the children of Khorne once more, to revel in their incandescent glory as they piled the heads of their foes at the foot of the Skull Throne. That was the glory that the Scarlet Lord had promised him. He had sworn to rip an unhealing wound in the flesh of reality, from whence the legions of Khorne could pour through and inundate the Tephra Crater and the Felstone Plains beyond.

A thousand kingdoms would drown in the daemonstorm they would unleash here, and Khorne himself would grow full and fat on the blood spilled in his name. Berkut bellowed the hymn of slaughter as he fought on. He knocked a Stormcast sprawling with a sweep of his axe, and pinned the fallen warrior with his foot. He raised his axe to deliver the killing blow. But as it fell, a blade, shining with a terrible light, interposed itself between the bloodsecrator and his victim.

Tarkus held the bloodsecrator’s axe for a moment. The scar-faced warrior glared at the Knight-Heraldor.

‘You dare?’ he growled. His eyes burned with a madness so pure that it was almost elemental, and red steam curled from his branded flesh.

‘Always,’ Tarkus said. He disentangled their weapons and stepped forward. His broadsword hummed as it sliced through the sulphurous air. The bloodsecrator parried the blow and stepped back.

Quickly, Tarkus reached down and dragged the fallen Liberator to his feet. ‘Back into line, brother. We will not break,’ he said. As the Liberator staggered back towards his retinue, Tarkus raised his sword. His heartbeat was steady as he met the bloodsecrator’s maddened gaze. It was as he had told Lord-Relictor Moros — he had been forged for this. To meet the champions of Chaos and strike them down. To rise and fight, whatever form the enemy took, wherever they stood, whatever their purpose. He was the sword of Sigmar, and no foe could stand against him. He had already claimed the scalps of a number of enemy chieftains, and, Sigmar-willing, he would claim yet more before the battle was won.

That had always been the way of it, in the Graklands. Constantly assailed by brayherds and savage orruks as they were, his folk had learned that to kill a chieftain was to cripple an army. And there had been no better killer than he who had been Tarka of the Grakdt. For a moment, Tarkus was there again, beneath the amber skies, amidst thorny grasses, the thump of orruk drums loud in his ears, and he duelled not a servant of Khorne, but a bellicose orruk chieftain, all slabbed muscle and yellowed tusks.

Then the bloodsecrator snarled, and the memories came apart like smoke on the wind. The air around Tarkus burned, and thick, cancerous strands of brass ran through the stones at his feet. The bloodsecrator was the cause of the sudden frenzy of the Bloodbound. Tarkus had fought his kind before — they fed on the fury of battle and channelled it in unholy ways, even as he raised the spirits and bolstered the courage of his fellow Stormcasts. Tarkus extended his blade in a gesture of challenge. Then, with barely a scrape of sigmarite on stone, he lunged forward. Axe and sword met with bone-rattling force as the Knight-Heraldor and the bloodsecrator traded blows back and forth.

As they fought, Tarkus considered trying to lift his horn from where it hung, strapped across his back. But he doubted his opponent would give him the time. The bloodsecrator lunged towards him, snarling unintelligibly. He stepped aside, and spun his broadsword, bringing it down across the bloodsecrator’s back. The brute staggered, but his armour held and he recovered almost instantly.

Around them, the battle had broken down into a scattered melee. The Stormcast vanguard had punched into the heart of the enemy forces flowing up the Avenue of Ten Skulls. Tarkus and his Thunderhead Brotherhoods had stalled the Bloodbound’s advance, and now bled them of momentum. The shield wall, shattered by the enemy’s charge, had broken up into independent phalanxes of Liberators and Judicators. Each knot of Stormcasts was an island of gold amidst a bloody tide, refusing to budge despite the fact that their foes threatened to sweep over them. Any of the Bloodbound who got past them would be easy pickings for the rest of the chamber as it advanced more cautiously.

Tarkus deflected a looping axe blow and drove his shoulder into his opponent’s chest, knocking him back a half-step. Phantasmal daemons clawed ineffectually at him as he brought his broadsword down, cracking the bloodsecrator’s shoulder-guard. Howling in incoherent fury, the warrior lashed out at him with his foul standard, driving him back.

Acting on instinct, the Knight-Heraldor chopped through the thick haft of the standard. Crimson energy ravened forth, burning everything it touched with molten talons. Stormcasts and Bloodbound alike fell to it, but Tarkus plunged through it, sword angled to take the stunned bloodsecrator in the side. He felt the blade of his broadsword ram home, even as the foul energies of the staff washed over him.

The bloodsecrator grabbed him by the throat, and swung him against the side of a building. ‘I… can see it…’ the Chaos warrior gurgled, as he scrabbled at the Knight-Heraldor’s neck. ‘It is… beautiful.’ Tarkus tore his blade free of the dying warrior and shoved him back. The bloodsecrator staggered, and sank to one knee, arm wrapped around his belly. ‘I can… see it,’ he croaked, looking at Tarkus, but not seeing him.

‘Then go to it, and find whatever damnation awaits you,’ Tarkus said, as he brought his broadsword down on the dying Bloodbound’s neck.

Redjaw the Resplendent slid forward, and thrust his spear, Lungpiercer, out, quick as a serpent’s strike. The broad blade of the spear drew sparks from his opponent’s shield, and the force of the blow knocked the Stormcast back. Redjaw whipped his spear up, and slid it over the rim of the shield. The tip of the blade punched through the eye-slit of his opponent’s mask.

The Stormcast stiffened and slumped forward soundlessly. The deathbringer jerked Lungpiercer free and spun, battering a second Stormcast off his feet with the length of the spear. Redjaw danced among the remnants of the enemy shield wall, thrusting and slicing wherever his fancy took him. Some fell to his assault, others were merely driven back. They were hard to kill, these lightning-men. Worse, it was hard to tally your kills when the evidence vanished before your eyes.

What glory, what glory, he thought as he whirled, his metallic cloak swirling about him. He drove the haft of his spear into a shield, and then the blade forward into a Stormcast’s back. Lungpiercer’s ensorcelled blade tore through the golden armour, not with ease, but a sight better than the weapons of the tribesmen he’d led into battle. Most of those were dead now, fallen so that he might reach the foe. He felt nothing for them. That was what lesser warriors were for — to die so that their betters might live.

Such had always been Redjaw’s way, since he had first stepped into the war-dance of his people, in the ever-burning forests of the Pyrdim. Move so that the flames could not burn you, move so that the ash would not fill your lungs, move through the dead and dying, let the weak shield the strong. Move, move, move, he thought as he brought Lungpiercer down like a club, driving a Stormcast to one knee. He jerked the spear back, dragging his opponent off his feet. As the warrior fell, Redjaw spun Lungpiercer and drove the blade down between his shoulders.

All around him, the same story played out in a hundred different ways. The golden-armoured invaders fought with a vigour that put even the most brutal tribesman to shame. They fought not as individuals, but as a single engine made of many parts. Redjaw shook his head and leaned on his spear, stilling the squirming of his dying opponent. It was madness, that was all there was to it. What glory was there to be had in such a method? If all fought as one, did they share equally in the triumph? He growled. Such a thing was anathema to him — Redjaw fought for the glory of none save himself. Khorne blessed only the most resplendent, most infamous warriors, those who caught his eye and held it.

And Redjaw of the Pyrdim was the most resplendent of all. Did he not wear a cloak of glimmering blood? Had he not danced among the bones of countless slaughtered gargants and tribesmen, had he not cast down the marble temples of the Skorch and pierced the multi-hued skull and four-lobed brain of the Ever-Changing Oracle? Was it not Redjaw who had tamed the copper-boned horses of the Caldera, and split the iron heart of the Steel Duke?

‘Aye, and more besides,’ he said, giving Lungpiercer a final twist. As he tore the blade free of the already evaporating body, he caught sight of Berkut. The bloodsecrator was locked in combat with one of the Stormcasts — this one in fancier armour than the rest. A blow from the warrior shattered Berkut’s portal of skulls, unleashing a mystical conflagration which momentarily obscured them both from sight.

The mystical fires cleared, and Redjaw saw Berkut sink to one knee as the Stormcast raised his sword. Berkut’s head rolled free and Redjaw grunted in satisfaction. One more empty place in the Gorechosen. He knew of others who would gladly take the bloodsecrator’s position, many of them loyal to him. A few more deaths and Anhur might find his Gorechosen peopled by enemies, rather than comrades. The thought pleased Redjaw no end. Even more pleasant was the thought of killing the warrior who had taken Berkut’s head — he radiated power. He was a champion among the Stormcasts, that much was obvious, and his skull would be worth much esteem for the warrior who claimed it.

He started forward, but a strong hand fell on his shoulder.

‘No. It is time to draw them in,’ the skullgrinder, Volundr, rumbled. He was surrounded by a group of seething wrathmongers, their grotesque forms dripping with the blood of the foe. Volundr, too, was spattered with the stuff, and his anvil was encrusted with brain matter and worse. Redjaw jerked free of his grip.

‘I doubt that they will let us go so easily,’ he snarled. The Bloodbound were locked in place, like a manacled hand, caught between the phalanxes of the Stormcasts. Whichever way they moved, weapons wreathed in lightning awaited them. In a way, Redjaw almost admired such precision. The foe were tenacious, and almost as unwilling to retreat as the Bloodbound. Indeed, the very thought of ceding ground to the foe sent a shiver of disgust through him.

‘They will have no choice. Go, my brothers. Teach them the meaning of fear.’ Volundr gestured, and the wrathmongers hurtled towards the closest knot of Stormcasts, howling wildly. The skullgrinder caught hold of the brass muzzle of Redjaw’s helm. ‘It is their duty to meet Khorne. It is ours to save what can be saved. We must pull back to the Plaza of Yellow Smoke, so that we might draw the foe after us.’ Volundr laughed and released him. ‘Come! The Shieldbreaker and the vermin await us — would you be selfish, Resplendent One, and hoard all of the beautiful carnage to come?’

‘Aye, as would you, skullgrinder, if you were me,’ Redjaw snapped. Nonetheless, he raised his spear, signalling the closest of his subordinate chieftains to begin the retreat. Most would ignore him, too caught up in the killing as they were. They would stay and fight and die, as was proper. Redjaw would not be among them. Volundr and Anhur had promised greater glories to come, and Redjaw intended to collect upon that promise.

Slowly, reluctantly, he followed Volundr back down the avenue, surrounded by equally unhappy warriors. Whatever glories awaited them had best come soon. But as he left the battle behind him, the deathbringer marked the Stormcast who had slain Berkut.

You’re mine, he thought.

‘Forward — let no foe stay your advance,’ Orius Adamantine said, as the Stormcast shield wall pressed onward, through the Avenue of Ten Skulls. ‘For Sigmar and the Realm Celestial!’ Liberators moved forward steadily at the Lord-Celestant’s command, pushing back against the tattered remnants of the Bloodbound who had, only a short time ago, bounded eagerly into battle. Caught between the advancing shield wall and the Thunderhead Brotherhoods, those who did not break and flee were swiftly obliterated.

When the shield wall pressed past each of the isolated Brotherhoods, those Stormcasts fell swiftly into formation with the rest of the chamber. The Liberators joined their fellows at the fore, beneath the glittering battle-standard held by Galerius, and the Judicators moved to add their volleys to those of the retinues marching behind. But not all of the Thunderhead Brotherhoods had survived intact.

As Orius and his warriors came to a halt near the end of the avenue, the crack of thunder and the glare of lightning revealed the fate of the rest of their brethren in gory detail. ‘Sigmar above,’ Galerius breathed.

The remaining Thunderhead Brotherhoods were locked in combat with a band of blood-soaked wrathmongers. Two of the beasts were already dead, but the remaining four fought against almost five times their number without any apparent fear. The muscle-bound monstrosities whirled their flails in lethal arcs, smashing the life from Stormcasts with every blow. Judicators circled the melee, searching in vain for a clear shot, as one by one the Liberators were crushed. The flails of the remaining wrathmongers crunched through armour like parchment, tearing the flesh and splintering the bone beneath. A crimson haze rose from their torn skin, and every wound they suffered seemed to drive them to greater heights of fury.

Orius caught sight of a familiar form in the thick of the fray, his broadsword flickering like lightning as he chopped through a bellowing wrathmonger’s midsection. ‘Tarkus,’ he muttered. Of course the Knight-Heraldor would be in the thick of it. A Liberator, armour crumpled and torn, skidded across the street to crash against the legs of the shield wall. His broken body hurtled skyward in a bolt of lightning a moment later, and even as the flash faded, Orius was already moving forward. Galerius and the Liberators moved to join him, but he waved them back.

The Lord-Celestant had fought wrathmongers before. He’d seen whole chambers torn apart by the dark curse which afflicted the brutes. Orius would not risk his warriors being drawn into such madness — he would see to the creatures himself.

He charged towards one of the wrathmongers. With a swift blow from his hammer, he shattered the creature’s knee. Ducking an awkward swing of its flail, he drove his sword up beneath its arm, and into its throbbing heart. Tearing his blade free, he deftly avoiding the spurt of ichor and kicked the dying wrathmonger away from the press of battle. ‘Shoot it,’ he shouted, signalling to nearby Judicators. Even as he spoke, he could feel the weight of the creatures’ rage pressing down on him. It clawed at the edges of his mind, threatening to shatter the bulwarks of discipline which bound him. He muttered a prayer to Sigmar as he turned, searching for his next opponent.

Skybolts punched through the wrathmonger’s brass cuirass, ending its fury as Orius isolated a second. He lunged beneath the flying body of a Liberator and let his runeblade dance across his target’s ribs. The wrathmonger howled and turned. The stink of it assaulted his senses. It was not simply a physical odour but also a spiritual miasma — an infection of the mind and soul that reached out, seeking to snare him in its crimson coils. He could feel it stoking the fires of his rage, trying to entice him to surrender to the battle-madness. But he would not surrender. He would not break.

The wrathmonger’s flail thudded down, narrowly missing him. Orius pivoted and brought his blade down, severing the creature’s forearm. As it staggered, he rammed his hammer into its throat. Before it could recover, he drove his shoulder into its gut and shoved it back, away from the others.

This time, the Judicators acted without having to be ordered, and bolts of sizzling energy thudded into the creature’s back and head. Orius stepped back and let it fall. He turned, and was forced to parry a blow from Tarkus’ broadsword. The Knight-Heraldor roared wordlessly, and made to lash out again. He had been caught up in the wrathmongers’ fury, and was unable to tell friend from foe. Orius stepped close and drove the head of his hammer into his fellow Stormcast’s belly, dropping him to his knees.

Without slowing, he advanced on the last of the wrathmongers. The beast smashed a Liberator to the ground and swept its flails back to finish the hobbled warrior off. Orius stretched his hammer out, and as the flails tangled around the head, he twisted about, hauling the wrathmonger off-balance. It staggered back with a bellow of surprise. As it turned, Orius slid the point of his runeblade through the eye-slit of its helm. The creature stiffened, and then slumped, its weight pushing him back a step.

He extricated his sword and let the body topple. Already, the remaining Liberators were shaking off the effects of the savage miasma. Orius sheathed his blade and turned to extend his hand to the still-kneeling Tarkus. As he helped the Knight-Heraldor to his feet, Tarkus said, ‘I must — I did not see you, Lord-Celestant.’

‘You were caught up in the blood rage of your foes.’ Orius shook his head. ‘You should have let the Judicators shoot them from a distance, rather than charging in as impetuously as always.’

‘I thought — it was as if some force held my soul in its grip. I could not resist — I tried, but it was…’ He trailed off. ‘Is that what they feel? Is that what our foes feel, when they fight?’

‘The call of the Blood God is monstrously strong, Tarkus. It is like the waves of the sea, washing away even the sturdiest foundation over time. It seeps through the cracks in your discipline. If you are not careful, it will claim you, and I may not be there to drag you back.’

Tarkus shuddered. He looked at Orius, his eyes haunted behind the stoic features of his war-helm. ‘For a moment I could not tell whether you were friend or foe… I nearly took your head off. I nearly—’

‘But you didn’t,’ Orius said sternly, clasping his forearm. ‘And you are yourself once more. Now sound your horn, Knight-Heraldor. The enemy are on the run, and I would let them know that we are on their heels.’ He raised his hammer, and the shield wall started forward once more. Tarkus sounded his battle-horn as the last of the Stormcast vanguard fell into formation, and the Adamantine left the Avenue of Ten Skulls behind.

Their path expanded, spreading out into a vast, semi-circular plaza which jutted out over the smoky waters of the sulphur lake. The plaza was strewn with dark monuments to the Blood God. Skull-poles stood upright from the stones, their fleshless bounty staring blindly out over the yellow waters that separated them from the terraces and ramparts of the Sulphur Citadel. Thousands of standards and banner poles, each bearing the rune of Khorne, pierced the plaza like arrows in a dead man’s back. As the Bloodbound retreated through this grisly artificial forest, they were swiftly absorbed into the ranks of the massive force arrayed before the entrance to the Bridge of Smoke. Undisciplined lines of fur- and iron-clad tribesmen, red-armoured blood warriors and bellowing beastmen stretched across the plaza, alongside more orderly phalanxes of black-furred, heavily armoured stormvermin. Barbaric standards fluttered in the rain, alongside the rat-gnawed banners of the skaven.

The enemy lines pulsed like a thing alive as the Stormcasts marched into the plaza. Individual warriors pelted from the Bloodbound ranks towards the Adamantine, but were cut down by the bolts of the Judicators before they could cross the gap between both forces. Orius counted the standards of at least six distinct tribes, and more warriors were flooding into the plaza from the surrounding streets.

‘They were waiting for us,’ Galerius said as the shield wall spread out before them, ready to resist the enemy charge. More Liberators moved into formation behind the front rank, ready to take the place of their fallen brothers, or to relieve them when they grew fatigued. Judicator retinues moved to the flanks, accompanied by Retributors. Their fire would drive the bulk of the enemy towards the centre of the line, where retinues of Decimators waited for their moment to counter-attack. Tarkus was with them, the winding call of his horn filling the air — the Knight-Heraldor would lead the attack, while Orius and Galerius held the line. The Retributor retinues would serve to anchor the flanks of the shield wall, preventing any enemy attempt to lap around them.

‘No,’ Orius said. ‘Not us. Look — beyond them. The Sulphur Citadel.’ The fumes rising from the lake made it hard to see the citadel, but it was clear that something was happening. The bulky fortress-temple was surrounded by a halo of greasy light, which pulsed in various shades of red and brown and black, like a wound going septic. Worse, the air above the citadel and the plaza was filled with monstrous phantoms — daemons. Thousands of them. They flocked above the heads of the warriors gathered in the plaza, crouched on rooftops or racing through the air. Watching. Waiting.

‘By Sigmar’s hammer,’ Galerius said, as ghostly daemons began to arise from the stones like mist and caper between the two armies. ‘Why do they not attack?’

‘They are not here yet,’ Orius said. ‘But they will be soon, I fear. We must win this battle, Galerius… or we may lose the war.’

‘Here they come, just as he predicted,’ Hroth Shieldbreaker said. Bloodbound streamed into the plaza in disarray, their chieftains and champions bellowing useless orders. The Stormcasts had broken them, as Hroth had known they would. It was what the foe did — they were like gilded millstones, grinding flesh and bone to pulp. He admired that sort of ferocity. ‘Relentless,’ he said, ‘Like a storm.’ He peered at the crowd, trying to spot Volundr or Berkut. He saw Redjaw, shaking his spear over his head, and frowned. He’d hoped the deathbringer would meet his fate in the Avenue of Ten Skulls.

‘No-no, just man-things, same as any other,’ Kretch Warpfang chittered. The skaven warlord stood beside him, at the foot of the Bridge of Smoke, weapons in hand. The creature’s tail lashed in agitation. ‘They die easily enough, yes-yes.’

‘Feel free to prove it, vermin,’ Hroth said, extending his hand. ‘Go ahead and scurry into battle, if you like.’ He grinned at the skaven, as it eyed him suspiciously. ‘But first, send a runner to Anhur — he’ll want to be here, at the kill.’ He gestured towards the Sulphur Citadel. ‘That’s what this is all in service of, after all.’

Warpfang scrubbed his muzzle and fixed Hroth with a red eye. ‘I do not understand,’ he said, after a moment. ‘This is not the way the Bloodbound usually wage war, yes-yes?’

Hroth chuckled. ‘There’s war, and then there’s war, vermin. Not all battles are waged with axe and blade, and not all wars are won on the field.’ He looked down at the skaven. ‘The Scarlet Lord has been waging this war since he first took up arms in Khorne’s name, and now, here, it ends. Or so some say. In truth, I am but a simple man and seek only those pleasures familiar to me.’ He rested his hands on the weapons dangling from his harness. ‘Go to your rats, Gorechosen. We will meet the enemy, and together, you and I will pile their skulls in the centre of the plaza.’

Warpfang hesitated. The skaven looked up, at the roiling clouds far above, and then at the flames which flickered beyond the rooftops of the buildings which surrounded the plaza. ‘I do not think we will meet again, man-thing,’ Warpfang said, as he licked the glowing fang which had given him his name.

Hroth gave a gap-toothed grin. ‘No. Probably not, vermin. Die well, Kretch Warpfang.’

‘Warpfang will not die, man-thing,’ Warpfang said. Weapons over his shoulders, the skaven warlord scuttled away, to join his stormvermin. Hroth watched him go and snorted. The rats would break before the Bloodbound. They would scatter into the crater-city and vanish into their holes the moment they realised that the enemy wasn’t going to break. That too was part of Anhur’s plan. Or so the Scarlet Lord claimed. His head must be about to burst, filled as it is with so much cunning, he thought sourly. Still, better to serve a cunning lord than a foolish one.

He examined the Stormcast ranks as they moved into the plaza, moving with a precision he couldn’t help but envy. They were disciplined. Even more so than the Firewalk duardin. Horns brayed and drums thumped all along the battle-line, as the Eight Tribes grew restless — with the enemy in sight, it would soon be impossible to control them. Solitary bullgors and frenzied champions broke ranks, charging towards the enemy, only to be felled by crackling arrows loosed from behind the shield wall.

Best to get things started, he thought, smiling grimly. Hroth drew his axes — long-hafted shield-crackers, fashioned in the style of the great boarding axes of the ice-raiders of Gjoll. Heavy, compact blades, free of adornment save for the rune of Khorne etched on their hafts. He spun one with a twitch of his wrist, and extended it. ‘Now we come to it, my brothers,’ he cried. ‘Now comes the drawing down of all your days, to the sharp end of memory and that last, bright pain.’ He spread his arms. ‘The enemy we have prayed for stands before us, and the burning waters at our back. Will you die a straw death, or deliver your skull to Khorne in person?’

The warriors around him roared in reply, shaking their weapons at the storm-tossed sky. Feet and hooves stamped on the stones as swords and axes thumped shields. Hroth laughed and clashed his axes together. ‘NO!’ he cried. ‘No straw death for the servants of the Scarlet Lord! The foe have come a long way to meet us, Bloodbound — let us greet them with the respect they deserve.’ He swung his axes out, and at the gesture, the Bloodbound gave a great cry and surged forward as one, racing towards the glittering shield wall of the Stormcast.

Tarkus sounded his horn again and again, until the Knight-Heraldor thought his lungs might burst. From behind him came the hiss-crack of shockbolt bows and thunderbolt crossbows, as Judicators fired over the heads of the Liberators in the shield wall. The Bloodbound pounded closer, paying no heed to the explosions which tore through their ranks and threw them back time and again. Tarkus looked around, meeting the gazes of the Decimators gathered about him.

‘When the moment comes, we must be quick,’ he said, trusting his words to carry. ‘We must strike and strike and strike, until we have gutted the enemy. Only then will I sound the call to break and retreat. But we must be sure to do so, for our brothers need our axes. We are worth twice their number, but the enemy are three times ours. The shield wall will not hold for long if we cannot cut them down to size. We are the fists of the Adamantine, the edge of the executioner’s axe and the steady hand that removes the enemy’s head. You are the last moment made flesh, the destroyer paladins, and the enemy fear you above all things. Let us remind them of that, my brothers. You are the Axemen of Azyr and you shall not break.’

‘We shall not break,’ the Decimators intoned. Tarkus nodded in satisfaction, and turned his attention back to the approaching enemy. The hammer blow would fall hardest on the centre of the shield wall, thanks to the efforts of the Judicators. But that was as it should be.

The ground beneath his feet trembled as the Bloodbound drew closer. Explosions rocked the plaza as the Judicators continued to fire. Rain fell steadily, and he closed his eyes, taking a moment of solace in its comforting rhythm. The gods spoke through the rain. That was what his folk had believed, before he’d been chosen to ascend. Sigmar spoke through the rain and the thunder, the hiss and the roar. In every storm was a song of war and hope.

Tarkus opened his eyes, and the song of the storm was gone, replaced by the crash of iron and brass colliding with sigmarite. The Bloodbound slammed into the shield wall like an avalanche of flesh and steel. The Liberators held, but only just. The sheer weight of the foe was deforming the line, creating breaches in the wall. A blood warrior toppled through, between two Liberators. The Bloodbound snarled as he rose, and buried the edge of his axe in the back of a Liberator’s neck. Tarkus drove his broadsword through the berserker’s chest before the warrior had a chance to free his weapon.

He raised his horn as he placed a boot on the dying warrior’s head and, as he withdrew his sword, he blew a single, dolorous note. The Decimators snapped to attention, and the breach in the shield wall grew wider. Liberators stepped back, and the Axemen of Azyr surged forward, Tarkus at their head. Soon, severed limbs and heads were flung skywards as they went to work. Tarkus pressed forward, fighting to keep his footing on the gore-slick stones.

Something hissed, and he turned. The wide blade of a spear scraped across his shoulder before he batted it aside. Its wielder withdrew it quickly and stabbed at him again. This time, Tarkus was quick enough to catch it with the edge of his broadsword and he twisted his wrist, pinning the weapon a hair’s breadth from his belly.

‘Quick one, aren’t you?’ the spear’s wielder growled. Clad in a shimmering red robe and a brass helmet shaped like a hound’s snarling muzzle, the Chaos warrior laughed. ‘Or maybe Berkut was just too slow?’

Tarkus strained against the spear, fighting to keep it trapped. He said nothing, as his opponent fought to twist his weapon free. The battle swirled on around them, Stormcasts and Bloodbound fighting and dying. The warrior laughed again, and with a wrench of his shoulders, he tore his weapon loose and sprang back in a swirl of robes. ‘Redjaw, lightning-rider,’ he said.

Tarkus cocked his head. ‘What?’

‘My name, Stormcast. So you can tell Khorne who claimed your head — I am Redjaw the Most Resplendent, Redjaw of the Pyrdim… Redjaw, deathbringer and Gorechosen,’ Redjaw said, as he lifted his spear over his head. ‘It is only right that you know my name, since I have sought you out especially. I see you carry a horn,’ he added, chuckling. He swung his spear about, the holes in the blade emitting a hollow moan. ‘Are you a minstrel, then, lightning-rider?’ Redjaw whirled towards Tarkus in a blur, his red cloak flaring out as he whipped his spear about in a complicated pattern. So swiftly did he move that Tarkus could barely follow him, and when he struck, the Knight-Heraldor almost missed it.

Tarkus jerked his head aside, and the foul blade scraped against the side of his helm. He swayed, and his broadsword swept around. Redjaw stabbed his spear into the ground and lifted himself up, avoiding the sword’s arc. His feet crashed against Tarkus’ chest, staggering him. The deathbringer dropped to the ground and uprooted his spear, slashing it out in the same motion. Chunks of rock spattered Tarkus as the blade screeched along his breastplate and gouged a scar across the face of his helm.

The deathbringer backed away, laughing. Angry, Tarkus lunged after him. They duelled back and forth for a moment, twisting and turning, matching each other blow for blow until Redjaw drove the weighted haft of his spear into Tarkus’ temple and knocked him back a step. Tarkus reacted on instinct, snatching hold of the spear’s haft, as Redjaw pulled it back. He jerked his opponent forward, and their helms connected with a dull clang. Tarkus pivoted, and rammed his shoulder into Redjaw, knocking him off his feet. He’s drawing me away, out of position, Tarkus thought, as Redjaw hit the ground. Not intentionally perhaps, but it was happening all the same. He’d allowed himself to be drawn into a duel, rather than rallying his warriors to hack themselves a path back to their brethren. He’d left his brothers open to attack. He’d been foolish to follow the deathbringer. Even as he’d been foolish to attack the wrathmongers. Anger at his failure pulsed through him.

Determined to give his foe no chance to recover, Tarkus swung his broadsword down. Redjaw rolled aside with desperate speed, and Tarkus’ blade caught only the folds of the Chaos champion’s cloak. Redjaw rose with a roar, but Tarkus smashed aside his spear. They traded blows, moving back and forth, as around them, Stormcasts and Bloodbound clashed.

The Decimator retinues had shattered the heart of the enemy, scattering them, but the Bloodbound were so undisciplined that it mattered little. The assault had devolved into a brutal melee, where numbers counted for more than skill. Need to get back — bolster the shield wall, Tarkus thought. He made to draw his horn from where it hung across his back.

‘I will have your head,’ Redjaw roared, as he lunged forward. Tarkus spun and stepped aside, avoiding the spear’s blade as he caught the haft. With a single stroke, he chopped through the iron stock. Redjaw staggered back, lifting the broken weapon in confusion. Tarkus lunged forward and drove the blade of the spear into its wielder’s midsection. The deathbringer gasped and clawed at his arm. Tarkus shoved him back and let him fall.

‘No. You won’t,’ he said, as he turned to rejoin his warriors. But his heart sank as he surveyed the battlefield. The shield wall was crumpling, despite the efforts of the Decimators. The foe were too numerous. The ranks of the enemy had simply lapped around the Decimators, filling in the gap they’d created with fresh bodies. Now, they were cut off and out of position.

Tarkus raised his battle-horn and signalled a call to arms. We will not break, not because of me, he thought, as the Decimators rallied to him, and they began to fight their way back towards their brethren. We shall not break!

Volundr stormed forward into the golden ranks of the foe, his anvil whirling over his head. He brought the brazen anvil down, obliterating a Stormcast from the neck up in a shower of blood and bone. As the warrior’s corpse came apart in a scatter of lightning, the blades of nearby Bloodbound began to glow as if red-hot.

As the skullgrinder waded into the fray, he laughed in pleasure. Redjaw had done his job well — the deathbringer had drawn out the enemy axemen, and left the shield wall exposed to the full fury of the Bloodbound. If the Resplendent One survived, Volundr thought he might take him in hand, after all. Khorne might have a use for the vainglorious fool.

But for now, he had his eyes set on other matters. The enemy had their champions, even as the Bloodbound did. Heroes and captains, to whom the lightning-riders looked for courage and orders. Killing them would not break the Stormcasts, but it would please Khorne greatly. The death of any hero was sure to draw the Blood God’s interest.

And Volundr had chosen his quarry with a craftsman’s eye — unlike the Bloodbound, the Stormcasts had only one battle-

standard, and the one who bore it was worthy prey indeed. The standard bearer stood at the forefront of the disintegrating shield wall, exhorting his warriors to greater efforts. Volundr saw the golden standard begin to glow with an azure energy and he felt the air turn cold as he smashed a Stormcast aside.

The sky above split with a sound like tearing metal and comets of cerulean fire rained down from the storm-ravaged skies, striking throughout the plaza with earth-shattering force. Volundr staggered as a nearby blood warrior simply vanished, his war cry cut short by a sudden impact. Blood and screams filled the air as the heavens loosed their fury on the Plaza of Yellow Smoke. More comets shrieked down, tearing craters in the plaza, and reducing howling warriors to little more than a red mist. Broken bodies tumbled through the air, and gobbets of smoking meat struck him as he plunged forward through the barrage, ignoring the slivers of stone and metal which embedded themselves in his bare arms.

Volundr charged through the smoke and dust, and hurled himself at the Stormcasts. A warrior was smashed to the ground, and a second sent twisting into the air, and then he was face-to-face with his quarry. Volundr roared and slung his brazen anvil out.

The Stormcast standard bearer turned aside at the last moment, avoiding the blow that would have pulped his skull. Volundr turned, letting the chain wrap itself around his arm as he guided the spinning anvil towards his opponent a second time. The anvil pulverised stone as the Stormcast swatted it aside with a desperate blow from his hammer. Volundr pressed his attack, turning, bending, letting the chain slide through his grasp as he moved.

The anvil crashed against the Stormcast’s chest, denting the metal there and knocking him from his feet. Volundr swung the anvil down in a vicious arc, but his foe rolled aside. The skullgrinder tore his weapon free of the ground in a spray of rock, and caught the Stormcast in the back as the warrior tried to get to his feet. Volundr paced after his foe, as the Stormcast staggered, leaning against his standard for support.

‘I… shall not break,’ the Stormcast said, as he turned to face the skullgrinder.

‘All things break,’ Volundr rumbled. ‘Especially men.’ He swung the anvil down again, shattering the standard and sweeping its remains from its wielder’s hands. Lightning crawled across them both as the skullgrinder caught his opponent in the chest with a boot and drove him flat. Before the Stormcast could do more than grab at his leg, Volundr lifted the anvil in both hands and brought it down on his foe’s skull. Golden armour burst, and bone splintered, and then he was surrounded by a gush of blue lightning as it careened upwards, back into the storm clouds from which it had first emerged. As his vision cleared, he heard the blare of brass horns and turned to see the banners of the Scarlet Axes rising above the fray.

Anhur had come. The Scarlet Lord had come to taste battle as a mortal warrior one last time.

Volundr threw back his head and laughed as his choler rose within him. A blessed rage, a loving wrath, a righteous anger given outlet at last. He heard a familiar roar and saw, over the heaving surface of the battle, the bulky shape of Anhur storm forward, into the midst of the enemy axemen. Stormcasts were sent flying by a single sweep of Anhur’s black axe, or knocked flat by the merest brush of his shield.

The Scarlet Lord roared again, his axe sweeping out to lop off limbs, remove heads and shatter weapons. None could stand before him, though many tried. They were not cowards, these Stormcasts, and that made them the best of enemies. Axes struck sparks from Anhur’s great daemon-headed shield and glanced from his heavy armour as he bulled forward into the thick of the fighting, his hand-picked blood warriors at his side.

Volundr spread his arms as Anhur was lost to sight and the battle surged back and forth around him. He gazed upwards. Past the clouds, beyond the curtain of pelting rain, he saw a vast shape loom over the crater-city. Two eyes like hellish suns gazed down, piercing the fog of storm and war with ease, searching. ‘See him, Khorne,’ Volundr growled, stretching a hand up towards those fiery eyes. ‘See what I have made of him, oh Lord of Skulls. See the blade I have forged for thy hand, see and know that he is worthy of ascending!’

Thunder rumbled overhead, and the black clouds writhed in the grip of the reddening sky. Volundr lowered his arms and turned, searching for more prey. A familiar figure caught his eye. Apademak, Volundr thought, as the looming figure tore through the press of battle. The slaughterpriest struck Bloodbound and Stormcasts alike in his frenzy, and those drawn in his wake did the same. Maddened bloodreavers attacked their fellows, hacking and chopping at their fellow tribesmen as they charged after the Hungry One. Volundr looked up, and saw the monstrous muzzle of Khorne leering down through the roiling clouds, eyes alight with savage interest. The Blood God was watching… waiting. Something was happening. Something…

Anhur. No… NO.

That thought pealing in his head, the skullgrinder started after the slaughterpriest.

Orius saw Galerius fall to the monstrous Chaos champion, but could do nothing save whisper a prayer for his fallen brother. He was too far away to take vengeance, and surrounded by foes of his own. Blue lightning ripped upwards, carrying the Knight-Vexillor’s spirit back to Sigmar’s soul-forges. The Stormcasts fought on, their resolve unwavering. Death was not the end, for the fallen could be forged anew, to rise and fight again. Galerius would carry the battle-standard of the Adamantine once more. But today, his loss was a grievous one.

Moros would soon arrive, if Sigmar was willing. Thus bolstered, the Stormcasts might yet succeed in driving the foe from the field. But only if they could hold out against the swelling tide of the Bloodbound. More and more tribesmen and skaven were flooding the plaza from the inner city, racing into battle with reckless abandon. Already, the shield wall had shrunk, apportioning itself into several distinct phalanxes. And these were steadily being driven apart by the sheer numbers of the enemy. He parried a whirling axe and removed its wielder’s head before turning to face the next foe.

The skaven were massing on the flanks, seeking to swarm the shield wall even as it splintered. Everywhere he looked, the forces of the enemy heaved like a red sea. Blood warriors and tribesmen crowded around, each seeking to be the one to bring him down. We shall not break, he thought, as he hacked down a snarling beastman. We shall not–

‘Oros!’ a voice boomed, cutting through the din of battle, like a sword through flesh. ‘Where are you, Oros of Ytalan?’

Orius crushed a blood warrior’s skull with his hammer and turned. A heavy shape ploughed through his Retributors, axe whirling. ‘Come to me, Oros,’ the massive warrior bellowed. ‘Come to me, my friend — Anhur is here, and he would have words with thee!’ Anhur was much as Orius remembered, from their too-brief encounter at the Hissing Gates. A savage heat radiated from the Scarlet Lord’s armour, pounding upon the air, and the daemonic face emblazoned on his shield twitched and squirmed, gnashing its brass teeth in impotent fury.

Orius made for the Scarlet Lord, his steps quick. Warriors, both Stormcasts and Bloodbound, scrambled out of their path. They met with a thunderous impact as Orius swung his hammer down on Anhur’s shield and parried an axe-blow with his runeblade. ‘I am here, monster. Speak, and be damned,’ Orius said.

‘Oros, you are a welcome sight for my eyes. Here we are again, at the beginning of the end,’ Anhur said, as he drove forward, his axe slashing down. Orius parried the blow with his hammer, and stabbed out with his sword. Anhur turned the blade with his shield. ‘The same as before, always the same,’ the warlord continued, as he forced Orius back.

Orius said nothing. His hammer slammed down against the monstrous shield, filling the air with a hollow sound. Sword and axe crashed together in a burst of sparks. ‘Then, it has always been thus, has it not?’ Anhur said, smashing his shield into Orius. ‘You pursue me to the very gates of death and beyond, Hound of Ytalan… and for what? Vengeance?’

‘Justice,’ Orius said. The word burst unbidden from his lips as he whirled his hammer about and brought it down, crumpling a portion of his foe’s shield. The grotesque face emblazoned there screamed in agony as the force of the blow knocked Anhur back a step. ‘Justice, Anhur. Justice for our people. Justice for those you abandoned.’

‘Those who abandoned me, you mean,’ Anhur snarled. He swept his axe out in a vicious arc, nearly gutting Orius. The two warriors broke apart. ‘They were weak — they lacked the stomach to do what was necessary, lacked the will to fight, the strength to win.’ He pointed his axe at Orius. ‘Even you, my friend. Even you, in the end.’

Orius shook his head. ‘You would simply have replaced one monster with another,’ he said, as the broken memories of the man he had been rose and spun in the storm of his mind. ‘Our people would have still been slaves.’

‘No,’ Anhur said. ‘They would have been kings.’ He rushed forward, his axe hissing down. Orius charged to meet him, and they spun about, trading blows. ‘I will make good on my promise, Oros! I will make our people strong — Klaxus will reign supreme,’ Anhur roared.

‘Oros of Ytalan is dead,’ Orius said. Sword and hammer locked with axe, and for a moment, the two warriors leaned against one another. ‘He died, leading those you abandoned. I am Orius Adamantine, and I am the will of Sigmar made manifest.’

Anhur made a sound, deep in his throat. A laugh, Orius thought. There was nothing human in his opponent’s gaze… only the red light of war. Anhur shoved him back. He was strong, stronger than Orius remembered. It was as if the slaughter about them were feeding him. He tore his axe free of Orius’ weapons and chopped at him, more quickly than before. Orius was hard-pressed to block or avoid the strikes, and more than once, the black axe scored a mark on his war-plate. Each blow that landed rocked him back on his feet.

‘Sigmar is no better than the priest-kings we sought to cast down, Oros,’ Anhur said, as Orius backed away. ‘He is the lie-that-speaks, a pretender to a throne born of falsehood.’ He spun his axe lazily. ‘A delusional potentate. Where was Sigmar, when we fought to save our people, eh? Where was he when those who ruled in his name burned our folk in offering?’

Orius said nothing. He had no answer. When the great gates of Azyr had slammed shut, the faithful had been left bereft of Sigmar’s guidance. Some, like the Klaxian priest-kings, had perverted his word into something unrecognisable. Something more like the promises of the charnel gods. Sigmar had seemingly abandoned them, and in his place they raised up a monstrosity bearing the God-King’s face.

Around him, the battle surged to and fro. He caught sight of his warriors, locked in combat with skaven and Bloodbound. He heard the sound of Tarkus’ horn, and the crackle of Moros’ lightning, and took heart. He met Anhur’s gaze and said, ‘And how is the beast you serve any different? You say you wish to raise your — our — folk up. And so you have. They rise, but in the form of smoke, from a thousand pyres.’

Anhur hesitated. ‘Not all of them,’ he said, his voice hoarse.

‘No, some still live. As meat for monsters,’ Orius said. ‘Klaxus is no more. You might be king, but your kingdom is a slaughterhouse.’

Anhur screamed and lunged forward, bashing his shield into Orius. They slammed back into a pillar. Orius’ hammer caught Anhur in the side, and as the warlord twisted away, the Lord-Celestant’s runeblade chopped into the rim of the daemonic shield. Orius tore the shield from his opponent’s arm with a wrench, and Anhur staggered back, off-balance. Before the Lord-Celestant could press his advantage, however, a hairy shape crashed into him.

The skaven was bigger than most, and bulky with muscle. Its halberd and mace crashed against him, and Orius was forced to defend himself. ‘Warpfang kill,’ the creature howled. ‘Die-die, man-thing. Die for Warpfang!’

The skaven moved like lightning, leaping from shattered pillar to toppled statue, driving Orius back through sheer, frenzied momentum. He slashed at the creature, and it flung itself over the blow. Its feet slammed down on his shoulder and then it was behind him. Even as he whirled, its mace crunched down against the side of his knee. The sigmarite held, but it hurt nonetheless. He backed away, weapons raised. Skaven closed in from all sides, racing towards him.

Over the heads of the scuttling vermin, he saw Anhur being pulled away from the battle by a burly warrior, and for a moment, he could hear the sibilant whine of the war-horns of the sulphur-knights as they advanced across the plaza, and Anhur’s gasping protests as Oros dragged him towards the Avenue of Ten Skulls and then a skaven blade dug for his heart and reality snapped back into focus.

Shaking his head, Orius slew the ratkin. But the rest closed in, urged on by the creature called Warpfang. All around him, he could see that the battle was turning against the Stormcasts. Worse, he was cut off from the rest of his chamber. He could hear Tarkus’ horn, and hoped the Knight-Heraldor could salvage something. If they could just hold the plaza until Moros or Gorgus arrived, the Adamantine might yet win the day. Even if I am not here to see it, he thought, as halberds and crude spears stabbed at him from all sides.

Then, as swiftly as a summer storm, lightning streaked down throughout the plaza, and winged shapes hurtled through the air. Celestial hammers spun from golden gauntlets to pulverise uncomprehending Bloodbound, as fresh warrior retinues marched into the plaza to join the fray. The Prosecutors banked and swept out, savaging the ranks of the foe from above. The skaven about him stared upwards, distracted by the sudden arrival of these new enemies. Orius lunged forward, and the skaven gave way as his hammer shattered skull after skull.

More crowded forward, but these too began to edge back as a winged shape dropped from the sky to join the Lord-Celestant. Kratus the Silent whipped his starblade out in a tight pattern, splintering the spears that were thrust at him. As the skaven scrambled backwards, Kratus raised his celestial beacon and flipped its aperture open. As the pure, cleansing light of the beacon blazed forth, those skaven not instantly incinerated retreated in disarray.

Orius saw Warpfang loping at the head of his fleeing horde, and felt a twinge of regret at failing to kill the creature. He shook the thought aside, and turned. The newly arrived Stormcasts had joined with his own warriors and were slowly but surely reforming the shield wall and driving the Bloodbound before them. Winged Prosecutors swooped low over the field, preventing the enemy from regrouping, even as Tarkus and his Decimators harried them back towards the Bridge of Smoke. He looked at the Knight-Heraldor. ‘As ever, Silent One, your arrival was most timely.’

‘And he did not come alone,’ Lord-Relictor Moros said, as he stepped over the smouldering bodies of the skaven. ‘I was moving to support Lord-Castellant Gorgus when the Silent One warned me of your peril. We came as fast as we could, but the enemy were great in number between here and there, and all of them moving this way.’

‘You are here now, and that is all that matters, my friend,’ Orius said. ‘Together, we can push them back. They thought to trap us — well, we’ll show them that Sigmar’s chosen cannot be beaten so easily as that.’

‘Fall back — across the bridge,’ Anhur roared. Those Bloodbound not actively engaged with the enemy or too far lost to the battle-madness flooded across the bridge at his command. The skaven were retreating as well, albeit away from the bridge, and away from that hideous radiance rising from the centre of the plaza.

Hroth shook his head. ‘The vermin are abandoning us,’ he growled. He hefted his axes. ‘I should take that treacherous rat’s tail for this.’

‘No,’ Anhur said. ‘Let them be. They will divide the attention of our foe. They cannot pursue us while the skaven still lurk nearby, ready to take advantage of any distraction. Warpfang will flee, in time, but until then, he and his ratkin are still of use.’ He laughed and struck the rim of his recovered shield with the edge of his axe. ‘Besides, the brute saved me the embarrassment of dying at my moment of triumph. He’s earned his freedom.’

He turned and caught Hroth by the shoulder with his shield hand. ‘Get across the bridge, Shieldbreaker. I would have you at my side when the Black Rift opens. I need you to keep our warriors in check, to keep them from spending their lives uselessly, while I meet my destiny. We must hold the foe on the bridge until the last moment.’

‘Is it soon, then?’ Hroth growled eagerly. ‘After all this time… have we done it?’

‘Aye. We’ve done it. Can’t you taste it, deathbringer? The air is thick with the stink of blood, and Khorne himself watches over us,’ Anhur said, lifting his axe towards the sky. ‘Soon, this crater will drown in blood… and I will take the Hound of Ytalan’s head in celebration.’

Hroth was about to reply, when he saw Volundr forcing his way towards them, through the flow of retreating Bloodbound. The skullgrinder flung out his hand, as if in warning. Hroth heard the hiss of an axe cutting the air and whirled, shoving Anhur aside as he did so. As he turned, he saw Apademak charging towards him through the press of battle, his axe whirling.

‘Step aside, Shieldbreaker,’ the slaughterpriest roared. ‘Khorne demands the skull of his false servant, and I shall be the one to give it to him!’

Without thinking, Hroth lunged. He crashed into the slaughterpriest and sent him stumbling. Apademak spun, quicker than Hroth had thought possible, and his axe sang as it parted the deathbringer’s armour with ease. Pain thrummed through Hroth, and he bellowed in agony. Apademak glared at him, a snarl contorting his features. ‘Fool,’ he growled.

‘No,’ Anhur rumbled. Apademak turned, his eyes widening. Anhur’s axe flashed down, but the slaughterpriest was too quick. Before Apademak could strike back at the Scarlet Lord, however, Volundr interposed himself.

‘I warned you, Hungry One,’ Volundr said, as he stepped forward, swinging his anvil as if it weighed no more than a feather. ‘I told you that this was about more than battle. More than your hunger.’

‘Khorne favours me,’ Apademak roared. Bloody froth spilled down his lips and chin. He extended his axe towards Anhur. ‘You flee! You leave the field of battle, your tail between your legs!’ He sounded outraged and eager in equal measure.

‘War is not waged in only one way,’ Anhur said, readying himself. Apademak’s scarred head swung back and forth, as the slaughterpriest tried to keep both warriors in sight. ‘I do what I have to do, for victory.’

‘No more excuses,’ Apademak howled. ‘No more lies — die!’ He bounded forward, and his bloodreavers followed in his wake. Volundr was among them a moment later, his anvil whirring up and down to crush skulls and splinter bones. Hroth, on his feet, if only barely, fought alongside the skullgrinder, killing the berserk tribesmen with abandon. As he fought, he watched as Apademak hurled himself at Anhur.

Their axes met with a shriek of metal on stone. Apademak was swollen with fury, and he hunched over Anhur, muscles twitching, eyes bulging. Anhur met his mad gaze and slowly began to force the slaughterpriest back. Apademak gibbered with rage, and tried to stop Anhur’s advance, but to no avail. Despite his size, despite his god-gifted strength, Anhur continued to push him back step by step. Finally, the Scarlet Lord shoved Apademak back and away.

Hroth buried his axe in the skull of the last of the bloodreavers. As he tore it free, he saw the slaughterpriest lunge forward once more. Anhur interposed his shield and bashed his opponent in the face, shattering his teeth. Apademak staggered back and Anhur swiped his axe across the Hungry One’s shin. Bone cracked and Apademak howled. He staggered forward, and his axe crashed against the daemon-face embossed on Anhur’s shield. Brass teeth sank into the metal of the axe, and the face twisted with bestial glee as it tore the weapon from Apademak’s hand. Apademak made to rise, but Anhur’s axe swept down to meet him.

‘You were never my equal, Hungry One,’ Anhur said, as he wrenched his axe free of Apademak’s sternum. ‘But you fought well, for all that.’ The slaughterpriest sank to his knees, blood pouring down his chest to join that already spread across the ground. Apademak smiled weakly, as if in gratitude, and then toppled forward, to lay face down in the blood.

Hroth lurched forward and spat on the body. ‘Treacherous fool,’ he wheezed, glaring at the dead warrior. Apademak’s strike had split his armour and the flesh beneath, and he could feel his life’s blood pouring down his legs. A wave of weakness swept through him, and he stumbled. Volundr caught him.

‘He has paid, Shieldbreaker,’ Anhur said, softly, as he moved to help. ‘We have exacted a red toll from his cursed flesh. Here, give me your arm…’ He stooped, as if to loop Hroth’s arm over his shoulder. The deathbringer shoved away from them both.

‘What, and leave this moment to another? No,’ Hroth said. He turned towards the advancing Stormcast. ‘I have earned this, Scarlet Lord. Let it be my gift to you, on this day of days, in return for when you warded my broken body with your shield at Orrux. Khorne himself watches us, and I shall give him a mighty show, my lord — I shall be given a place in his warhost for what I do here today.’ He swept a hand out. ‘Go — Volundr, take him to his destiny. I shall hold them here, for as long as I am able.’

Anhur stared at him in silence for a moment. Then, he raised his axe in salute. ‘Die well, Shieldbreaker,’ he said, solemnly. He turned and strode onto the bridge, the skullgrinder following him. Hroth turned away from them, and cast his gaze over the advancing Stormcasts. They marched quickly, but with caution, striking down those remaining tribesmen or skaven who sought to bar their way. Hroth clashed his axes together. ‘Worthy foes indeed,’ he muttered.

He felt some disappointment that he would not live to see Anhur’s ascension. And that all that they had built — this warhorde, the alliances among mighty lords and champions — would all come tumbling down, thanks to Apademak’s treachery. Already, the chieftains leading their forces across the bridge would be eyeing one another, gauging their chances to ascend to the Gorechosen. With Anhur and Volundr distracted by the ritual, without him or Apademak or even Berkut to keep them in line, the warriors of the horde would tear each other apart, even as the enemy advanced.

That had always been the way of it. Khorne cared not from where the blood flowed, only that it flowed. ‘And even the strongest blade can break,’ he muttered, as the warriors of the storm thundered down upon him. Watching them approach, he readied himself to do what he did best. Axe in either hand, the Shieldbreaker stood waiting, and when the first of the Stormcasts reached him, he struck them down. The air was filled with the scream of lightning, as golden bodies fell. The deathbringer bellowed with laughter as he fought, even when his axes shattered on sigmarite shields and he was forced to use his fists.

‘See me, you gods and savage spirits — see Hroth of Gjoll, Shieldbreaker, deathbringer!’ he roared, as he caught a blade in his hands and tore it from its owner’s grip. He booted the Stormcast in the gut and chopped down, splitting the warrior’s skull. The hilt of the blade burned in his hands, searing his flesh, but he ignored the pain. Swords pierced his armour. Hammers shattered his bones, but still he continued to fight. It was all he had known, all he wished to know. This moment was the best moment, the only moment that mattered.

The warhorde would splinter and fragment. Anhur would rise or fall. But none of that mattered. It was as if he had been waiting his entire life for this, since that day at Orrux. Since he’d felt the rumble of the duardin engines in his shattered bones. Since the day that the Scarlet Lord had stood between him and an unworthy death, ground beneath iron wheels. You saved me from death that day, Hroth thought, as he struck down his foes, but I go gladly now. A death for a death. That is the way of it, the way it must be. Khorne demands the skull of every man, and freely given.

Finally, gasping as a sword tore its way through him, he staggered, and threw his head back. His blood pooled on the stones. His strength fled, but still, he stood. He spread his arms as the final blow fell. ‘See me, for I fight in your name. I am Hroth Shieldbreaker — BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!’

Orius stepped forward and crushed the dying warrior’s skull with a blow from his hammer, even as the brute howled out his death-song. The deathbringer’s armoured body sank to its knees and slowly toppled over with a clatter, leaving the way onto the bridge clear at last. The Chaos warrior had taken too many Stormcasts into the dark with him, and the air still throbbed with the roar of lightning. Orius could see Anhur’s forces retreating along the yellow length of the Bridge of Smoke, moving slowly but steadily towards the Sulphur Citadel. Still running, Anhur, he thought.

‘Does he truly think to make a stand there?’ Moros said.

‘Perhaps. Or perhaps he’s trying to draw us onto the bridge for some other purpose,’ Orius said. The Bridge of Smoke was an expanse of wrong angles and unsettling undulations, rising and falling like the waters of the lake below. He could hear the screams of those Bloodbound too slow to react to its changes, as they were devoured or sent plummeting into the choking waters below. A thing of madness, like everything else in this city, he thought bitterly.

‘It won’t last much longer,’ Moros said, testing the bridge with his staff. ‘I can see the spells which hold it together coming unravelled as we speak. It’ll soon come apart, like everything else in this blasted city.’

‘It will hold long enough,’ Orius said. ‘We must cross, my friend. We are out of time, and the fate of our endeavour lies with us.’

‘Perhaps we should wait, at least for Gorgus. Strike as one chamber,’ Moros said. He looked up at the sky. ‘I know I spoke of haste earlier, but this skirts the edge of foolhardiness… Anhur is cunning. This could be a trap.’ He gestured to the southern edge of the plaza, where the last of the skaven had vanished. ‘Even now, the skaven might be regrouping for another assault. We could well be caught between them.’

‘Possibly.’ Orius looked at the Lord-Relictor. ‘What do you remember, from before Moros?’ Orius asked, softly. ‘When you were not Lord-Relictor, but instead a mortal man.’

Moros hesitated. Then, he sighed and said, ‘I remember the way the women came and went through the piazzas, clad all in gilded finery, followed by their clockwork servants. I remember the way the wind used to howl past the watchtowers of shimmering silver, and the way the copper grasses rustled. I remember riders approaching…’ He shook his head. ‘Scattered moments, no more substantial than raindrops.’

‘I remember Anhur,’ Orius said. ‘I remember what he did, and what fate befell we who followed him. I will not allow him to escape, Moros. This ends today. Here, in this place where it should have ended so many years ago. It may be foolhardy, but something tells me that we must chance it. We must. Or else all has been for nothing.’ He tightened his grip on the haft of his hammer and stepped onto the rippling surface of the bridge.

As he did so, a growl of thunder echoed out over the city. Orius looked up. The sky behind the clouds had taken on a strange hue, like steel streaked with blood, and for a moment, he thought he saw something vast and misshapen trying to break through the barrier of the storm. Thunder rumbled, but it was no longer a hammer stroke. Instead it was the bay of some monstrous hound.

All around the Stormcasts, half-formed insubstantial daemons began to writhe, their mouths open in soundless shrieks, agitated by something. Lightning the colour of molten brass split the sky, like the downward stroke of some colossal sword upon the body of a fallen foe, and the streets of Uryx trembled, as if in pain. Orius could almost hear the reverberation of the imagined blade, and worse besides… the booming footfalls of its wielder.

The daemons could hear it as well. They reared, in their chains of cooling meat and spilled blood, and groped towards the sky as if in supplication. With a second peal of malignant thunder, the rain turned hot and it hissed sickeningly where it struck the sigmarite war-plate of the Stormcast host. ‘Something presses against the threshold, Orius,’ Moros said, almost shouting to be heard over the pounding rain. ‘The storm itself sickens.’

‘Then let us cure it. Call the lightning, Lord-Relictor — remind whatever horror approaches of the power of Sigmar!’ Orius growled.

Moros struck the ground with his staff, and bellowed the ancient words of his battle-hymn. The air took on the tang of new-forged steel, as azure lightning thrummed down, striking the plaza again and again, reducing the Bloodbound dead, and the daemons clinging to them, to crackling pyres. The lightning hammered down again and again, reducing every corpse to ashes and setting nearby buildings ablaze. It crawled across the armour and weaponry of the Stormcasts, driving all weariness and doubt from them.

Orius studied the crackling haze that crawled along the length of his runeblade. He caught sight of his reflection in the polished blade — the face of Sigmar, wrought in unblemished sigmarite. He turned. ‘The foe believe that Klaxus is theirs, by right of conquest and slaughter,’ he said, trusting his voice to carry to every living ear in the plaza. ‘They believe that they can withstand the Adamantine, where all others have failed. They think to break us.’

He raised his runeblade and hammer, bringing them together with a resounding crash. Lightning streaked down, striking the sulphur lake and stirring the acidic waters, and a bolt struck his crossed weapons. It crawled down his arms and across his armour, only fading when he wrenched his weapons apart.

‘They are wrong,’ he roared. ‘We shall not break.’

‘WE SHALL NOT BREAK!’ his chamber bellowed, in reply.

Orius nodded in satisfaction, and extended his runeblade towards the Sulphur Citadel. ‘Forward Adamantine, for Sigmar! For Azyr, and the Realm Celestial!’

Bridge of Smoke

Kratus the Silent swooped upwards through the smoky air, high over the crater-city of Uryx, his blazing wings cutting through the red rain. His starblade drawn, the Knight-Azyros twisted and rolled, turning in the air so that his keen gaze fell upon the yellow length of the Bridge of Smoke. The bridge had been crafted by sorcery; formed by the priest-kings of Klaxus from the raw essence of sulphur rising in clouds and geysers from the eternally boiling lake below. Now, like the rest of Uryx, it was beginning to crumble. The corrupt magics which had held it together were slowly unravelling, causing the bridge to writhe as if in agony.

Along the bridge’s rippling span, the golden-armoured Stormcasts of the Adamantine clashed for a third time in as many hours with the remnants of those Bloodbound forces which had been driven from the Plaza of Yellow Smoke. But more enemies were flooding into the plaza behind the advancing Stormcasts even as Kratus wheeled through the air above. Skaven, beastmen and bloodreavers were streaming through the crumbling streets of Uryx like ants from a disturbed hill, all converging on the central plaza before the bridge. Every foe yet living in the crater-city and not already engaged with the Stormcasts was hurrying to join this battle.

Kratus wheeled overhead, and directed the Prosecutor retinues flying nearby to head off the newcomers. The winged warriors swooped away, and Kratus dove low, over the heads of those Stormcasts still occupying the plaza. Lord-Castellant Gorgus raised his halberd in greeting as Kratus drew close.

‘What news, Silent One?’ the Lord-Castellant called as he approached, accompanied by his bodyguard of Protectors.

The Knight-Azyros dropped onto a broken pillar. All around him, Stormcasts laboured to construct bulwarks from broken statues and shattered stones, or else toppled those few remaining Khornate icons and trophy-poles. The Lord-Castellant’s forces had arrived just as the main body of the chamber moved onto the Bridge of Smoke. Since that time, the Adamantine advance had stalled at the centre of the bridge as the ferocity of the Bloodbound defenders and the unnatural proportions of the structure acted against the Stormcasts. Now the crimson gloom of the day was giving way to the dark of night, and the rain mingled with the blood on the ground, forming a strange mire.

Kratus gestured sharply in response to Gorgus’ question. Gorgus nodded. ‘Aye, my scouts reported as much. Closer than I thought, though.’ The Lord-Castellant turned and squinted. ‘Closer than either of us thought — look.’ He gestured with his halberd. Kratus turned and saw skaven advancing into the plaza from the west, despite the best efforts of his Prosecutors to deter them. The ratkin squirmed through barriers and burst from beneath the stones of the plaza, rising from hidden tunnels. Liberators moved to meet them, shields locked.

‘They’re testing our defences,’ Gorgus said. He stroked the narrow skull of his Gryph-hound as he spoke, and the animal chirruped softly. ‘Fifth time since I arrived. Nothing serious, but they’re an effective distraction — we can’t move out of the plaza and onto the bridge to support the Lord-Celestant while they’re gnawing at our flanks. Not committed enough to warrant digging them out, but not weak enough to ignore. If you see a hundred of them, there’s sure to be a thousand who see you.’

Kratus nodded, knowing that Gorgus spoke the truth. He looked around warily, imagining beady red gazes in every shadow and behind every pillar or fallen statue. The skaven were more numerous than the Bloodbound. Indeed, their numbers were seemingly limitless — he had seen them for himself as they poured out of the jungles and outer streets of Uryx in great, squealing hordes. Where they came from, and where they went when they inevitably retreated, was still a mystery.

He gestured and Gorgus shook his head. ‘No. No sign of reinforcements yet. We’ve heard from the other chambers though. The Stormforged have taken the citadel of Ytalan, at least, and the Wrathsworn are still burning a path through the crawling jungles of Vaxtl. The Beast-Bane have cleared the western slope, but they’re finding it a hard slog through what’s left of the Raxulian Dukedoms.’ Gorgus looked up. ‘And Sigmar holds the rest of the chambers in reserve, I suspect.’

Kratus motioned sharply and Gorgus laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Aye, or it could be because he believes we need no help. You may have the right of it, Silent One. I— Down!’ The Lord-Castellant dragged Kratus aside as something black whizzed through the space his head had occupied.

The Knight-Azyros whirled about. His starblade sliced through the hairy form of a skaven assassin as the beast leapt at him. More of the creatures, clad in soot-blackened rags and cloaks, bounded out of the shadows, gleaming blades clutched in their paws. And not just assassins — armoured, bulky stormvermin bearing crude polearms and iron-bound shields loped towards them, screeching triumphantly.

At their head came their verminous warlord, brandishing a mace and a chopped-down halberd. Kratus recognised it instantly from their abortive encounter at the Gnawing Gate. The red-armoured creature charged towards Kratus with a snarl.

‘This time you die, man-thing. Die for Warpfang!’ the skaven howled as it lashed out at him. Kratus leapt upwards, easily avoiding the bite of the halberd. Warpfang twisted away from his riposte, and swatted at him with its mace. The creature was quicker than most of its kind, Kratus realised, not to mention a better fighter. They spun and fought, trading blows that never quite connected as Gorgus led his Protectors against the rest of the skaven.

As Kratus parried a blow from Warpfang’s halberd, he saw Gorgus sweep three skaven off their feet with a blow from his own halberd. The Lord-Castellant turned and swatted a leaping assassin from the air with his free hand. His Gryph-hound caught another by the back of the neck and shook it viciously, snapping the squealing creature’s spine. Warpfang’s mace glanced off the crest of Kratus’ helm, and he cursed himself for losing focus.

The Knight-Azyros drove the skaven warlord back with a flurry of blows. But as he pursued it, the world suddenly shook and somewhere, a bell tolled. Not in the city, for Uryx had no bells or bell-towers. Nor did it sound from anywhere within Klaxus or the kingdoms of the crater. It was an unnatural sound, some atavistic shred of Kratus whispered, echoing up from the dark places between worlds. It was not like the mournful tolling of the Bell of Lamentation in high Sigmaron, but instead a grisly, ponderous knell, like the cracking of a hundred-thousand bones on night-black altars. It was the ringing of uncountable axes against innumerable shields, the agonised groan of dying kingdoms and burning empires.

As the echoes faded, the bell tolled again, drowning out even the clangour of battle. As one, the remaining skaven began to slink away. Kratus turned to find the warlord watching him. It raised its mace in a mocking salute, and cackled wildly. Its green fang shone eerily as it backed away from him, into the shadows it had emerged from.

‘Too slow, lightning-rider,’ it hissed. ‘Too stupid. But fun. Maybe Warpfang lets you live, yes-yes? Fight again, yes-yes? Or maybe not.’ Then, with a last mocking titter, it vanished, and the bell continued to toll.

The skaven messenger squealed as the Scarlet Lord caught it by the throat. Anhur lifted the wriggling ratman off its feet and snapped its neck with a flick of his wrist. Its message had not totally displeased him, but the urge had been unbearable. Pain hummed against the base of his skull like the flutter of moth-wings. His armour creaked when he moved, its buckles and clasps straining to contain the thing he was becoming.

He stood in the great chamber at the summit of the Sulphur Citadel, with his remaining Gorechosen and his favoured blood warriors. The Scarlet Axes waited in silence for his orders. The only sign of their impatience was the occasional scrape of an axe across a chest-plate, or a low growl. The chamber was filled with a harsh glow, like the reflected light of a hundred fires. It emanated from the spinning facets of obsidian which formed the hell-engine known as the Black Rift, and had been growing steadily brighter since his return.

Anhur stared up at the spinning facets of obsidian. He could not tell where one ended and another began now. A black mandala whirled in their place, drawing in light and heat. Phantom shapes fought and clawed free of that howling void, bounding into solidity one after the next. He could feel the power of it soaking into him, changing him.

But into what? His hand fell to the pommel of his sword. How often had he wielded that sword in defence of Klaxus? And I defend it still, he thought, but the notion rang hollow. He shook himself and looked at Pazak and Volundr. The sorcerer and the skullgrinder met his gaze steadily. ‘The skaven intend to retreat into Uryx. And the enemy crosses the Bridge of Smoke,’ he said, as he dropped the still-twitching body of the ratman to join the heaped corpses of the sacrifices which lay scattered about. ‘I must go. I must return to the battle.’

Warpfang would be making his last sally now, but it was nothing more than a distraction. The skaven knew that the end was approaching, and they had little wish to see things play out to their inevitable conclusion, glorious as it was. The canny little warlord intended to fight his way out of the crater-city. He would retreat into the tunnels and caverns of the crater rim, before returning to the Hellwarrens of the Ferruslands with his slaves and plunder. Anhur almost wished him well. The creature had held up his end of the bargain, at the very least. More than I can say for some of my other champions.

The loss of the Shieldbreaker… hurt. He had been counting on Hroth to maintain discipline amongst those forces gathered in the citadel and on the Bridge of Smoke. But now that task had fallen to lesser chieftains. Already, the greatest of his remaining champions were allowing themselves to become distracted by the desire to replace the fallen members of his Gorechosen. Mighty paragons of violence though they were, they lacked the sense to see that there were more important matters to settle first.

Soon enough, however, it wouldn’t matter. The Stormcasts sought to cross the Bridge of Smoke. His remaining forces had stymied them thus far, but they could not do so forever. His perception had narrowed to a sharp point, like the tip of a blade, and he could see only what lay ahead. There was no more time for strategy or delay, only the crush of bodies and strength matched against strength. Something tensed within him, and he grunted in pain.

He could hear the roar of battle echoing through the chamber. Every fibre of his being — of the horror growing within him — longed to hurl himself into the fray, and deal death until nothing living remained in the city. To slay and slay until the Tephra Crater overflowed with blood, and the Felstone Plains drowned in an ocean of red.

‘Warpfang has done what he could, Anhur,’ Pazak said. ‘He has delayed them long enough, in any event. Let your chieftains earn their keep. They can hold the bridge for a few moments without you. Let the strong rise and the weak fall, as the gods will it.’ He shook his head. ‘If you get yourself killed now — after everything we have done… then what was it all for?’

‘Is that concern I hear in your voice, sorcerer? Is the infamous solicitude of Grandfather Nurgle welling up in you, Pazak?’ Anhur said, as he retrieved his shield from the dangling chain he had hooked it to. The broad, triangular shield was made of beaten brass and crudely shaped iron. The monstrous face embossed on its surface rolled its eyes blindly in their metal sockets as he slid it onto his arm. ‘Do you fear for me?’

‘No,’ Pazak said. ‘I fear for me, if you fall. You might have spared me, but whoever steps into your place may not be so considerate, Anhur. I would not die here, in service to another’s plans.’ His hand fell to the hilt of the curved pox-blade sheathed on his hip. ‘And I would rather not see my efforts go to waste…’

Anhur laughed. ‘Would you rather die now, then?’

‘No, oh most puissant Scarlet Lord. Death would not agree with me, I fear,’ Pazak said. He looked up, at the Black Rift. ‘I have fed this place the blood of eight hundred Klaxians, as the ancient rites decreed, and the membrane between realms frays… It is opening, Anhur. I can feel it in my marrow. Can’t you feel it? Or has your burgeoning apotheosis rendered your wits as dull as those of your blood-drunk followers?’ The sorcerer looked at him. ‘Why do you think I summoned you from the field?’

‘He is right, Anhur. Do you see that light? It is the glow of Khorne’s forges,’ Volundr rumbled, glaring at Pazak as he spoke. The skullgrinder dropped a heavy hand on the Scarlet Lord’s shoulder. ‘Do you hear the cries of his children? Look about you… Your hour has come at last, my brother. There is no need to fear that battle will pass you by, for here is the end of all such weaknesses and worries.’ The war-smith swept out his other hand, indicating the daemons which squirmed and strained at the air.

Anhur looked around. As the light of the rift fell upon them, red shapes tore their way free of the amniotic blood layering the floors and walls. The noise of their birth filled his head — it was the sound of iron splitting flesh, and of stretching wounds which wept raw, red tears. He had thought that the sounds were only in his head. ‘Then… it’s done?’ he croaked.

‘It is done. We have won,’ Volundr said. ‘You have won, Anhur!’

Anhur clutched at his skull as the pressure swelled… He could hear the tread of some far-off colossus, drawing ever closer. He could hear the howls of daemons and those souls lost to the pull of Khorne’s cosmic madness. Brazen horns brayed in the deeps and drums made from the flesh of the damned were pounded with cracked femurs. The world shook, as something awful marched out of the void and into the light of the world.

‘Lo, the Black Rift opens,’ Pazak howled, as the air pulsed with a foul light. It was a light born not of the clean cosmos, but instead the light of a daemon star. The cruel hell-light which flickered arhythmically in the dreadful void between the kingdoms of the damned. Anhur raised his hand to shield his eyes, and was momentarily deafened as the facets of obsidian scattered and then came together with a thunderous crash. They slammed together so hard he feared that they would shatter, but instead, somehow, they slid into one another, combining in an impossible shape with eights facets and eight edges at once.

A pulse of crimson light rippled outwards from the Black Rift, spreading through the chamber and passing through its walls. And then, in the silence which followed, a bell tolled. The sound grew louder and louder, as if it raced across some inconceivable distance. The echo of its knell shook the Scarlet Lord to his marrow, and he felt something within him scream in triumph.

‘He comes,’ Volundr roared. ‘The Broken One comes!’

Eight times, the unseen bell tolled. Eight times the great noise rolled forth to shake the air and the earth. Anhur fought to keep his feet, even as his warriors were knocked sprawling. Eight times the echo of that barbaric knell rang out across the Tephra Crater and its embattled kingdoms. And as the last echo faded, a hand, as wide across as Anhur himself, and knotted with inhuman muscle, stretched out from within the swirling facets of obsidian.

The stink of vast forges, of molten brass and spoilt blood, flooded the chamber as the monstrous shape of Skul’rath the Broken, Skul’rath of the Fifth Host, dragged himself bodily into the world. The chamber shuddered as the bloodthirster’s brazen hoof slammed down, cracking the stones of the floor.

‘Rejoice, for I am come!’ the daemon roared. ‘Rejoice, for Klaxus dies today!’

As the last echo of that measureless tolling faded, the silence which had fallen across the Bridge of Smoke broke. The Bloodbound charged towards the Stormcast shield wall again, scrambling across the undulating surface of the bridge in an undisciplined mass. Chieftains and deathbringers sought to outdo one another as if the battle were nothing more than a contest of skill, urging their followers on to greater speed.

The yellow substance of the bridge spread and contracted like smoke on the wind as they raced towards the enemy. With little warning it would expand suddenly like a fog bank to subsume whole groups of tribesmen and blood warriors into its length. Their bodies floated in the solid-smoke gullet of the bridge, slowly dissolving or occasionally sliding out to tumble into the lake below. Some few managed to cut themselves free to stagger on, reeking of sulphur.

The Stormcasts, too, were forced to anticipate and ward themselves against the unpredictable nature of the battlefield. More than once, their shield wall had to compensate for its contractions with grim efficiency, even as unlucky golden-armoured warriors were dragged into the semi-opaque substance of the bridge. Yet still they pressed forward, driving the Bloodbound back with relentless precision. The only respite for either side came when the contortions of the bridge momentarily separated them, or else made combat all but impossible — an event which was becoming more common as the magics which held the bridge together faded.

‘Lock shields,’ Lord-Celestant Orius snarled. ‘Hold them, Adamantine, hold them and push them back — for Sigmar and the Realm Celestial!’ He looked at Tarkus. ‘Sound your horn, Knight-Heraldor, and signal the Judicators to concentrate their fire on the left flank. We must break them, and quickly. Moros!’

‘Aye, Lord-Celestant,’ the Lord-Relictor said, as he directed a retinue of Retributors forward to deal with any Bloodbound who managed to get past the ragged shield wall. ‘Speak and it shall be done.’

‘That sound… like a bell,’ Orius began. As the Judicators shifted their fire in response to Tarkus’ winding signal, the left flank of the Bloodbound began to disintegrate. Boltstorm crossbows loosed volley after volley of crackling shafts of energy which reduced bloodreaver and blood warrior alike to ruins of flesh and blackened armour.

Moros nodded wearily. ‘Whatever our foe came to Klaxus for has begun, I fear.’ He gestured with his warhammer. ‘Have you noticed that all of the daemons are gone? As if something called them away.’

Orius looked around. The Lord-Relictor was right; the phantasmal daemons which had shadowed the Adamantine since they’d entered Uryx were nowhere to be seen. ‘That was a summoning knell, wasn’t it?’ he asked, feeling a chill. He had faced daemons before, in the Furnace Lands and in the degraded ruins of Cinder, but it was never an easy battle — they were unnatural things, predatory shadows of un-reality which fought and killed with a glee that outstripped even the berserk excitement of the Bloodbound.

The Lord-Relictor nodded. ‘I can hear it, on the wind. Like a million running feet, drawing ever closer. They are lean and a-thirst, and they are coming this way.’

Orius shook his head. ‘Let them come. We will break them, as we break their mortal followers. Summon a rain, Moros. Wash the fatigue from our minds and limbs,’ he said. ‘I will not be stalled again — we must push them all the way back to the steps of the Sulphur Citadel, preferably before this bridge vanishes like a morning mist.’ He raised his hammer, signalling for the nearby Decimator retinues to move forward. ‘We will carve them piecemeal if we must.’

He turned his attention back to the left flank. Rank after rank of Bloodbound fell to the volleys of the Judicators, and, for a moment, the bulk of their host shifted away from the lethal rain. And that moment was all the Stormcasts needed. ‘Left rampart — forward,’ Orius said. The left of the shield wall began to march forward, swinging to the right in order to contain the right flank of the enemy. As they pushed the dazed tribesmen back, the Decimators surged out to join the melee. The axemen charged into the mass of Bloodbound warriors seeking to fill the gap left by their fellows. Soon, blood slopped across the bridge from side to side as the Decimators laid about them in well-trained harmony.

‘Tarkus — call them back,’ Orius said, as the pressure on the shield wall slackened. Behind him, Moros began to chant softly. As the Knight-Heraldor blew his horn, Orius lifted his runeblade. ‘Shield wall — advance and hold.’ The Liberators strode forward into the gap created by the Decimators, shields still locked rim-to-rim as the steadily falling rain soothed aching muscles and sharpened fatigued senses. Warblades and warhammers finished off the wounded as the Stormcasts advanced over a carpet of the dead and dying.

A shout caught Orius’ attention and he turned to see Gorgus hurrying towards him, shadowed from above by Kratus and his Prosecutors, as well as several retinues of Stormcasts, who moved immediately to add their strength to the shield wall.

‘Did you hear that?’ the Lord-Castellant growled, as he joined Orius. ‘Whatever it was, it sent the skaven scuttling for their filthy warrens. The plaza is secured.’

‘I heard. And good. I fear we’ll need solid ground to fight on, before the end of this,’ Orius said. ‘Something has happened. Anhur came to Klaxus for a purpose, and I fear he has achieved it.’ The rain slackened momentarily, before redoubling in intensity. Moros grunted in disgust and Orius saw that the rain was leaving red streaks on the Lord-Relictor’s armour.

‘It’s become blood,’ Moros said, harshly. Orius turned towards the Sulphur Citadel, and saw that the last bastion of the priest-kings of Klaxus was glowing with an infernal light. Every stone and rampart, every terrace and pillar, was outlined in an eerie haze which stung his eyes. The air stank, and not just from the boiling sulphurous lake below.

As he watched, a cloud of something spewed from the dome at the citadel’s summit, rising and spreading like oil on water. The cloud became a wave which flowed endlessly from the uppermost point of the Sulphur Citadel to fill the skies and cast a pall of darkness over the two armies locked in battle below.

‘What in the name of Sigmar is that?’ Tarkus said, pointing at the spreading cloud with his sword. ‘Some new sorcery?’

‘No,’ Orius said. ‘Not sorcery. It is death — the death of Klaxus, and of us, unless we raise and lock shields, Adamantine!’ he roared as the cloud stretched down towards them. Swiftly, the Stormcasts did as he commanded, until the shield wall resembled a curved rampart of solid sigmarite. The cloud sped down towards them, splitting, revealing itself to be a wave of hundreds of screaming bloodletters, tumbling through the rain-soaked air.

The wave of daemons slammed into the shield wall, hacking and clawing at the Liberators in animal fury. Judicators began to fire, picking off the red-skinned monstrosities as they tried to climb over the uppermost line of shields, and Retributors moved to crush any who made it over. Decimators wielded their axes in whirling arcs as daemons swarmed over the sides of the bridge and sought to envelop the Stormcasts.

Through the gaps in the shield wall, Orius could see more daemons racing across the bridge towards them, carving a bloody path through the ranks of the Bloodbound. Though the daemons struck them down, some Bloodbound sought to follow them, bellowing out the name of their fell-handed god in lunatic joy. ‘Hold fast, Adamantine,’ Orius shouted. ‘Take not a single step back. We shall not break.’

Everywhere the Lord-Celestant looked, a daemonic face leered at him; rising over the side of the bridge, dropping from the sky, clambering over the raised shields of his Liberators. For every daemon that was struck down by blessed sigmarite, three more pushed and fought to take its place. He parried a wailing blade and rammed his hammer between the gaping jaws of a bloodletter, shattering its fangs. His runeblade pierced its chest a moment later.

Tearing his blade free from its dissolving carcass, he heard the scream of lightning. He saw a Liberator fall back, already evaporating, a black blade sunk hilt-deep in his chest. A Judicator stumbled, and bloodletters hacked him down. He heard a roar, and saw a Retributor struggling against a trio of daemons, even as the bridge suddenly enveloped them. Golden war-plate and daemonic flesh both were reduced to nothing in mere moments. Elsewhere, bloodletters chopped at the bridge itself, releasing a steaming flood of fiery sulphur to splash at the legs and shields of the Liberators who strove to hold them back.

The members of Orius’ auxiliary command were equally hard-pressed. As he opened a daemon’s belly with his sword, releasing a spew of super-heated ichor, he saw Gorgus whirling his halberd in a complicated pattern, blocking dozens of blows that might otherwise have claimed his life. Tarkus parried a daemon-blade and drove his head into a bloodletter’s face, staggering it long enough to whip his broadsword across its throat.

‘We must stop them at their source,’ Moros said, as he crushed a bloodletter’s distended skull with a blow from his hammer. ‘Else they will overwhelm us, and any who come after us.’ He looked at Orius. ‘We must reach the Sulphur Citadel, and we must do it now!’

‘Go,’ Gorgus said. The Lord-Castellant swept his halberd out and bisected a trio of bloodreavers. ‘I am the wall, I shall hold them back. Leave it with me, Orius — go, and see this thing ended.’ He thrust the haft of his weapon into a bloodletter’s belly, and sent it staggering over the edge of the bridge. ‘I shall hold the line here. I am Adamantine, and I shall not break, just because the red tide laps at my shins.’

Orius nodded. Gorgus was right. And he had no time to argue. ‘We are Adamantine. We shall not move, shall not bend nor break,’ he said, as he turned back to Moros. ‘Can you clear us a path, Lord-Relictor?’

‘I will do better than that, Lord-Celestant. I shall make us one,’ Moros growled. He raised his staff in both hands, extending it far above his head. ‘The spells which bind this bridge are frayed and weak and therefore easy enough to bend to our purposes.’ Lightning carved a crooked trail through the daemon-haunted sky to strike the reliquary with a snarl. The Lord-Relictor shone with a terrible light, brighter than any fire. With a great cry, he slammed the ferrule of his staff down, and the bridge thrashed as if in torment.

His hands sprang from the staff as if burnt, and it remained upright like a spear rammed into a leviathan’s back. Lightning crawled down its length, stretching to shroud his hands even as he spread them out, his palms held parallel to the bridge. Lightning flowed down, tearing ragged holes in the ever-shifting surface of the bridge. Moros wrenched his hands up, and the strands of crackling lightning pulled taut, like shimmering chains, and the Bridge of Smoke… cracked.

The sound reverberated along the length of the mystical structure, vibrating up through the forms of every combatant, mortal and daemon alike. Moros, the chains of lightning wrapped about his forearms and hands, hauled back, widening the crack which spread from the point where his staff touched. It spread up the length of the bridge and daemons fell howling into the gap as the bridge writhed in seeming pain.

Moros caught hold of his staff once more, and twisted it to one side, like a labourer trying to split a stone. With a vast hiss, the sliver of the Bridge of Smoke broke away from the bulk of the bridge. Sulphur fumes rose thick into the air, and the bridge shuddered along its length as the sliver slid sideways, creating a bifurcated path. ‘We must hurry, Orius — I cannot control it for long. The magics are too unpredictable, and my strength is already fading,’ Moros called. He held tight to his staff, at the point of the sliver, shoulders tensed and legs braced.

‘Well, that’s one way of doing it,’ Tarkus said, with a laugh. He blew his horn, signalling for nearby retinues of Liberators and Retributors to break away from the battle. The Stormcasts hurried towards Moros’ new path as quickly as they could, smashing through any daemons who sought to bar their way. Once they reached the sliver, they joined the two retinues of Protectors who stood ready to shield them. Kratus and his Prosecutors hovered nearby, ready to accompany them. Orius moved to join them, when the air was suddenly split by the sound of great wings and a shadow fell over the Bridge of Smoke. He looked up.

Something massive fell through the air like a black comet, and when it struck, the Bridge of Smoke momentarily deformed as both Stormcasts and their foes were knocked sprawling. Yellow steam burst in gouts from the suppurating crater as the clamour of battle faded. All eyes were on the crater as a huge shape, horned and winged, rose from within the pall of smoke. Clad in brass and black iron, the bloodthirster set one steaming hoof on the bridge and uncoiled a barbed lash from about its wide torso. In its other claw it held an axe whose curved blade was made from the melted and merged bones of the slain.

Its dog-like muzzle peeled back from brass-capped fangs, and eyes like lit furnaces fixed on the Stormcasts as they regrouped. ‘At last,’ the creature rumbled. ‘At long last, I shall be avenged.’ The daemon rose from the crater and stood between the two armies. It extended its axe towards the Stormcasts.

‘I am Skul’rath. I claim right of challenge and I shall slay any who gainsay me,’ the greater daemon roared, snapping its barbed lash at those Bloodbound and daemons who drew too close. ‘I am Skul’rath of the Fifth Host and I demand a champion — a death for a death, whelps of Azyr. I am Skul’rath. Face me,’ the bloodthirster bellowed, striking the bridge with its axe. ‘Face the Child of Ungl’Agara, She-Who-Eats-the-Sun. Face he who broke the Morghast Host at the Battle of Screaming Skulls. Face Skul’rath, Prince of Chains. Face me, so that I might be avenged!’

Orius made to step forward, but Tarkus caught his arm. ‘No, Lord-Celestant. You and Moros go. This is my task. I am Knight-Heraldor, and I was forged for this.’ He looked at Orius. ‘Go, my lord. And Sigmar watch over you.’

‘You as well, Knight-Heraldor,’ Orius said, as Tarkus strode through the ranks of the slowly recovering shield wall towards the daemon. He looked at Gorgus. ‘Gorgus—’

‘Only with my death shall the daemon-tide pass into Klaxus,’ the Lord-Castellant said, setting his halberd. ‘And I have no plans to die today. Go and do what must be done. Tarkus and I shall hold their attention, while we can.’

Orius nodded and joined Moros on the sliver of bridge. ‘Go, Moros. Take us to the citadel before they realise what we’re about. More daemons fill the bridge with every moment that passes, and soon they shall flood into the city. If we cannot stop them…’

‘We will,’ Moros said. ‘Hold on.’ The chains of lightning which snapped and snarled about his arms grew even more frenzied. Then, with a sibilant groan, the sliver of bridge suddenly began to rear up like a serpent readying itself to strike. Daemons raced towards them along the edges of the bridge, screeching and snarling. Kratus and his Prosecutors dealt with a number of them, hammers singing out, but some made it past the winged warriors. As he readied himself to face them, Orius saw that Tarkus had reached Skul’rath.

‘You call yourself the Prince of Chains, but I know no creature by that name,’ Tarkus called out, his voice echoing loudly. ‘I know only Skul’rath the Tamed. Skul’rath the Broken.’ The Knight-Heraldor extended his blade towards the bloodthirster. ‘I know only the beast who was cast down by the warriors of our Stormhost, and fled the light of the Realm Celestial the day the first Stormcasts set foot in the Mortal Realms. I am Tarkus, Broken One, and I shall remind you of your place.’

The bloodthirster threw back its dog-like head and roared. It charged forward, shaking the bridge with every step. Its barbed lash snapped out, scraping across Tarkus’ armour as the Knight-Heraldor moved to meet his foe. Orius lost sight of them as a bloodletter hurled itself towards him, its blade held low. More daemons bounded up the curved shape of the sliver as it peeled itself fully from the bridge and rose ever higher.

He heard the whistle-crack of the Prosecutors’ wings as they swooped about the rising sliver, driving the daemons back. He saw Kratus defending Moros, his starblade whipping out in a wide arc to send red-scaled killers tumbling to the waters below. A Prosecutor hurtled by, his hammer smashing a daemon from the air as he swooped past Orius.

Orius traded blows with a bloodletter, until one of his Protectors managed to slide the blade of his stormstrike glaive beneath the creature’s guard and pierce whatever passed for its heart. The other Protectors whirled their glaives, weaving shimmering patterns of celestial energy which no daemon-blade could breach, defending those who clustered on the rising tendril of mystically solidified sulphur. The remaining daemons quickly found that they were unable to breach the web of glaives, and those that didn’t fall to the Protectors were quickly dispatched by the hammers of the Prosecutors.

The pseudopod of sulphur rose up alongside the bridge and began to stretch forward, expanding at Moros’ muttered command. ‘Hold fast,’ Orius said. At his words, the Stormcasts hunched forward, crouching as the sliver began to extend over the bridge, towards the Sulphur Citadel. He turned as they began to move, and saw Tarkus catch the bloodthirster’s axe on his broadsword. Do not break, brother, he thought.

The force of the blow drove the Knight-Heraldor to one knee. The daemon loomed over him. ‘I am Skul’rath and I am your doom, dog of Sigmar,’ the bloodthirster growled, its voice echoing across the bridge. ‘But rejoice, for I am a mighty doom indeed, and your skull shall be etched with the story of your end by Khorne’s own scribes.’

Tarkus shoved the axe back in a shower of sparks and flung himself aside with desperate strength, narrowly avoiding the blade as it chopped down into the surface of the bridge. Sulphur spewed upwards and the bloodthirster reared back with a roar of surprise. Tarkus clambered to his feet and lashed out at the daemon’s back. Skul’rath howled as the Knight-Heraldor’s blade tore through one massive wing, crippling the daemon.

The bloodthirster twisted, snapping its lash at its opponent. Tarkus staggered as the barbs tore at his armour. Orius tensed. No, he thought. The bloodthirster loomed over the Stormcast, and hacked at him with its axe. Tarkus blocked the deadly axe again and again, but every time with less speed. He was tiring, Orius knew. Tarkus was among the best of their Stormhost, but even he was no match for a creature like Skul’rath. Not alone.

The axe sped down and at last, the broadsword parted before its merciless descent. The cruel edge smashed into Tarkus’ chest and knocked him flat, and Orius’ heart sank. The bloodthirster wrenched its weapon free of the dying Stormcast’s torso and chopped down again and again, causing the bridge to shudder with every blow. Lightning exploded upwards, enveloping the beast and causing it to scream in agony. It staggered, smoke rising from its scorched hide. With a convulsive flap of its charred wings it shredded the smoke and reared back to let loose a roar of victory that echoed upwards.

As the echo faded, the Bloodbound lurched forward as one, howling in triumph. The daemons flowed alongside them as they raced towards the newly reformed Stormcast shield wall. Gorgus had not been idle while Tarkus fought his doomed duel. Orius’ grip on his weapons tightened as he fought the urge to hurl himself from the bridge onto the bellowing greater daemon below, even as he lost sight of it.

Instead, he looked at Moros. ‘Can we not go faster? Even Gorgus cannot long resist such a creature. We must seal whatever portal those creatures are emanating from before he is overwhelmed.’

‘We will not reach the citadel in time, Lord-Celestant, even like this — the very air is resisting us,’ Moros said, as the length of sulphuric matter trembled and shook as it plunged towards the citadel. It was moving swiftly now, and the air shrieked past. But even as it moved, it was losing integrity, melting back into the poisonous cloud it had been wrought from. The Stormcasts crouched on its surface crowded more closely together.

Orius cursed and looked up at his Knight-Azyros. ‘Kratus… do what you can,’ he called. ‘Reduce it to rubble if you must, but seal that rift.’ Kratus lifted his starblade in salute and, with a single crackling flap of his wings, plunged down towards the Sulphur Citadel. The Prosecutors followed him, summoning their celestial hammers as they dived on gleaming wings, like the wrath of Sigmar made manifest.

‘Oros is here,’ Anhur said. Daemons streamed past him and his warriors, racing towards the clamour of battle. They crawled jerkily across the walls or loped across the floors, moving between eye-blinks. He raised his axe. ‘The enemy is on our doorstep, despite everything,’ he said. It seemed that even Skul’rath could not keep the Hound of Ytalan from his throat.

The thought was a pleasant one, for all that it threatened everything he had worked for, these many centuries. Ah, my friend, here you are again, at the end. So it was, so it shall be, he thought. He glanced at his reflection in the polished blade of his axe and wondered if the Stormcast thought the same. He hoped so. Otherwise, what was the point of it all?

The chamber shook as a spike of power erupted from the obsidian plates. Red energies cascaded across the chamber, knocking several warriors from their feet. A crimson light began to seep from between the stones, casting weird shadows which danced and thrashed in a frenzy. Anhur turned as the sound of Skul’rath’s roar of triumph pierced the din.

‘Broken no longer,’ Volundr said. ‘His glory is assured. As is yours, Anhur.’

‘I should be out there,’ Anhur said. Pain gnawed at his vitals. He was reminded of his youth, and the folktale of the boy who’d swallowed a gryph egg. The creature hatched and chewed its way free of the unfortunate boy’s belly. I am the boy and the egg both, he thought. And something was chewing its way free of him. ‘If they reach this chamber—’

‘Then they will die. We have one foot in Khorne’s realm here,’ the skullgrinder said. He swept his thick arms out. ‘Look around you. See the legions of blood as they rise, ready to slay at your command. All that has come before was but a prelude. This is your army, Scarlet Lord. An eternity of slaughter awaits you, if you but take command.’

Anhur looked around at the daemons rising from the stones to race madly into battle. More and more of them, one daemon for every drop of blood spilled in Uryx, and in Klaxus. A thousand-thousand nightmares made flesh, freed to fight again in Khorne’s name. The blood of every man, woman and child in Klaxus stained him like a curse. Deep within him, something scratched at the walls of its swiftly crumbling cage. Is it as you imagined, Prince of Ytalan? Is this the day you dreamt of, in your long exile?

‘No,’ he murmured, trying to clear the sound of its gloating voice from his thoughts.

‘Yes. This is the moment when hammer strikes metal,’ Volundr said. ‘Klaxus is the forge, Uryx the anvil.’ He caught Anhur by the shoulders, startling the Scarlet Lord. ‘This is the moment of your forging, Anhur. The moment I was called to witness… I am a Forgemaster of the Soulmaw, and I say that you will be a weapon for Khorne. A weapon meant for greater wars than this. Wars which rage between the realms, amongst mad stars and within the audient void.’

Anhur shoved the skullgrinder away. ‘I will not cower here, while the battle is fought.’

‘What battle? This is the battle,’ Volundr roared. ‘This is the moment that all of this has been leading to. This. Moment. Here.’ The skullgrinder took a step forward, his chain clinking. ‘Choose wisely, Anhur of Ytalan, Prince of Klaxus. This crater will become a fiefdom of Khorne, a new bastion of the Brass Citadel. Your people will be reshaped, made whole and strong again, if you but have the courage to hold your course.’

Anhur looked at the skullgrinder, and then down at the axe in his hand. He stared at his reflection in its surface for a moment. ‘Will I still be Anhur, when it is done?’

Volundr looked away. ‘You will be what Khorne wills.’

‘And nothing more,’ Pazak said.

‘Quiet,’ Volundr growled.

Anhur looked at Pazak. The sorcerer shrugged. ‘I’ve seen my share of ascensions, Anhur. We are playthings of the gods, but there is a difference between a plaything and a tool. I have never betrayed you, and I will not do so now.’

Volundr took a step towards Pazak, but Anhur extended his axe between them. Before he could speak, however, the doors blew off their ancient hinges and winged Stormcasts hurtled into the chamber. Crackling hammers smashed through support pillars and tore Anhur’s warriors apart before they could react. Anhur raised his shield as a hammer spun towards him. The impact rocked him back on his heels, but his shield held true, though it screamed in agony as the celestial lightning washed over it.

As he lowered his shield, he saw Volundr hurl his anvil at one of the invaders. The brazen weight caught the Stormcast in the chest and punched him from the air. But the others continued their attack. Blightkings and blood warriors fell, their bodies lost amid the carnage of the ritual. One group of Stormcasts, led by a warrior carrying a shimmering beacon, swooped overhead, towards the Black Rift. ‘Defend the rift,’ Anhur roared. ‘Pazak — protect the rift!’

Pazak spread his hands as he stepped between the approaching Stormcasts and the spinning facets of the Black Rift. Cold, oily flames flickered along his fingers, and the air became greasy as the sorcerer stirred the pox-wind to life. He flung his hand out, unleashing a spume of green flame which scattered his opponents. One golden warrior was knocked from the air, his armour corroding and his flesh rotting as he fell.

As his remains struck the bloody floor, they came apart like an overripe fruit. Horrid, wriggling shapes squirmed from what was left, even as it evaporated in hissing strands of lightning. The wriggling things rapidly expanded in size, bloating and stretching into enormous flies, which swiftly lurched into the air. ‘Fly, sons of the Pox-King,’ Pazak screamed. ‘Fly and kill these gilded doves!’

The winged Stormcasts swooped and dove as the blight flies attacked, their hideous drone filling the air. Those who flew low to avoid the flies or the swinging of Volundr’s anvil soon became engaged in a desperate melee with Pazak’s remaining blightkings. Anhur caught one such Stormcast right between the wings with his axe, killing the warrior instantly. With every drop of blood he shed, the tremors of pain grew worse. He smashed aside a spinning hammer and split its wielder’s skull. He dragged the dying warrior from the air and continued to hack at him. He relished the feeling of flesh and metal parting beneath his blade.

Anhur tore his axe free of the dissolving Stormcast and turned to see the leader of the attackers hurtling towards the sorcerer, glittering blade drawn. The beacon the Stormcast carried blazed to life, and the sorcerer’s blightking bodyguards faltered in their attempt to head the warrior off. Smoke curled from their blubbery flesh as the light consumed them, and Pazak screamed in agony as the radiance set his mouldering robes aflame.

Anhur lunged forward, shield raised, and interposed himself between the sorcerer and his attacker. The metal grew hot, unbearably so, and the daemon bound to it wailed in pain and fear, but Anhur pressed forward to meet the Stormcast. ‘Find shelter, sorcerer,’ he roared, as his armour began to heat up. Pain spread through him. But he was used to pain. Pain was his oldest and dearest friend. Victory, at the cost of pain, he thought, as he took one step forward, and then another. Burning blight flies fell from the air to crash twitching to the floor on either side of him. He could see nothing, feel nothing save the heat.

Blind, every nerve raw and howling, he lurched forward and swept his shield out. He heard the sound of metal striking metal, and the light was snatched away. Smoke rose from his blackened armour as he whirled, following the sound. With blurry eyes, he saw the beacon rolling across the uneven floor, its light driving back the daemons that drew too close. He hurled his axe at the beacon, a roar on his lips.

The axe tore through the beacon with a snarl as savage as that of a fire-wyrm, and the light exploded outwards, washing across the chamber. Anhur staggered back, shield raised protectively over his face, but the light began to fade almost immediately. He heard Volundr cry out from behind him, and turned to see a golden shape shooting towards him. A glittering blade drew black sparks from his helm and breastplate. His hand fell to the hilt of his sword, but instead of drawing it, he wrenched his shield around to block a second blow. The Stormcast drove him back, lunging and thrusting, his sword seemingly everywhere at once.

At last Anhur smashed the sword aside, knocking it from its wielder’s grip, and caught the warrior’s throat with his free hand. He whirled and smashed the struggling Stormcast down against the floor, hard enough to crack the stones. He pressed his boot to the warrior’s chest, pinning him in place, and tore his shield loose. Gripping either side of the shield, he lifted it high over his opponent’s head, and then slammed the bottom rim down on the Stormcast’s neck. The razor-edge of the shield bit through metal and flesh, and the warrior’s struggles ceased as his head rolled free of his shattered neck.

Anhur looked around. The last of the Stormcasts had fallen, either to Pazak’s magics or to Volundr’s whirling chain. The skullgrinder met his gaze and nodded tersely. ‘It is time, Anhur. The air is thick with the song of war and you must rise up before it reaches its crescendo.’

Anhur nodded and gestured to Pazak. ‘Begin the last rite, Pazak. Call forth the eighty-eight steps and let us end this, for good or ill.’

Breathing heavily, he rose to his feet as his foe’s form at last dissolved into a burst of lightning. The citadel rocked, and chunks of broken stone tumbled down from the dome above. The Scarlet Lord slid his shield back onto his arm and reclaimed his axe.

‘At last,’ he said. ‘An ending… at last.’

‘Hold on,’ Moros cried, as the thrashing of the solidified sulphur grew worse. It twisted like a thing alive, even as the Lord-Relictor guided it towards the citadel. Some Stormcasts were hurled from its undulating length to tumble away into the boiling lake below. But the rest held on, anchoring themselves with warblades and thunderaxes, until, at last, the sliver of bridge pierced the great steps of the Sulphur Citadel like a spear.

The sound of tearing stone reverberated thunderously through the air, and a cloud of dust and stone shards was thrown up at the point of impact. Stormcasts were knocked sprawling. Orius rose from the rubble, his hammer snapping out to crush the helm of the first blood warrior to reach him. His runeblade took the second through the throat, and then he was storming up the steps, his warriors following close behind. Lightning hammers and stormstrike glaives crashed down, clearing a path for the Adamantine.

But even as the last of its mortal defenders fell, daemons charged down the steps of the Sulphur Citadel to meet the Stormcasts.

‘Kratus failed,’ Moros said, raising his staff.

‘But we will not,’ Orius said, as black hell-blades rang against sigmarite shields. Orius charged towards the shattered doors to the domed chamber at the temple’s summit. He smashed a bloodletter from his path and stepped through the doors, Moros and the rest of his warriors close behind. Daemons lunged at the Stormcasts from every direction, coming in waves of brass teeth and blades, only to fall to lightning or sigmarite weapons. Hammers crushed inhuman bone and pulped scaly flesh. Step by step, the Stormcasts fought their way towards the centre of the chamber and the flickering black rift which spun at its heart.

Orius felled a yowling bloodletter and saw three figures standing beneath the black rift. Two he recognised — Anhur, and the creature who had killed Galerius — but the third, a robed, diseased-looking figure whose arms were raised as he chanted a deplorable litany, was unfamiliar. ‘Anhur,’ he cried. ‘Face me, beast!’

The bulky shape of the Chaos warlord turned. ‘Ah… you do not disappoint me, Oros my friend. I knew you would find some way of reaching me, before the end. The moment I saw you at the Hissing Gates, I knew.’ Anhur made to step forward, but the hulking warrior beside him threw out an arm.

‘No,’ he rumbled, his voice carrying throughout the chamber. ‘We are too close now. You shall not endanger all we have worked for in the name of mortal pride. Continue your efforts, sorcerer. I shall deal with these interlopers.’ Daemons spilled out of the swirling rift and raced past them, charging towards the small force of Stormcasts with inhuman speed.

Orius struck down the first, and the second, continuing his advance, even as more daemons burst into reality. The hulking warrior joined them in their charge, his chained anvil whirling above his head. He smashed a Protector from his feet, and nearly did the same to Orius, before a cascade of lightning separated them.

‘Orius, close the rift. I will see to this creature,’ Moros said. ‘I know your kind, skullgrinder. A worker of terrible wonders. A maker of foul weapons.’ He raised his reliquary staff. ‘Well, hell-smith… let us see what you make of the weapons of Azyrheim.’

With an inarticulate cry, the skullgrinder lurched forward, his anvil whirring out. Moros ducked aside and caught his opponent in the side with the haft of his staff. The skullgrinder staggered, but recovered swiftly. Moros stepped back. ‘Go, Orius — seal the rift!’

Orius turned back towards the rift as all around him his warriors clashed with the daemons emerging from it. He struck down a bloodletter and blocked a blow from another. As the daemon struck at him again, he twisted aside and punched the creature off its feet with his hammer. He stepped over its crumpled form. As he drew near to the coruscating rift, however, the robed sorcerer completed his conjurations with a liquid shriek. A moment later, steps erupted from the bloody floor; steps of flesh, muscle and bone rising out of the effluvium.

They unfolded with a sickening sound, erected on a scaffold of bone and ligament as Orius watched in horror. Faces rose from them, and moans and pleas for mercy that would never come slipped from blistered lips to claw at his ears.

‘Behold, the eighty-eight steps,’ Anhur said. He looked at Orius. ‘You have arrived too late, Oros. The way stands open before me, and I shall ascend to the Path of Skulls on steps made from the dead. I have sacrificed much to reach this point, and I know that there is still more to be given, but I am ready. Do you hear, Khorne?’ Anhur roared. ‘The Scarlet Lord stands ready. I will walk the red road and rise in your glory.’

‘No,’ Orius cried, as he stepped towards the Scarlet Lord. A wash of green flame swept out, separating them. The Lord-Celestant turned to see the sorcerer striding towards him, a sickly green light radiating from his graceless form.

‘Ascend, Anhur — rise up, and shake the dust of this world from your feet,’ Pazak said, as he flung out his hand. Black, cancerous strands of squirming matter shot through the air to ensnare Orius’ hammer. As he fought to tear the weapon free, more strands slithered about his sword arm and legs. ‘Go! I will tend to this fool,’ Pazak continued.

Orius roared and tore his hammer free. He swung it down, striking the ground. The floor beneath the sorcerer’s feet ruptured, and Pazak stumbled, unable to maintain his balance or his spell. As the tendrils faded Orius hurled his runeblade like a spear. The blade caught Pazak in the chest, and punched through his rusty cuirass and out through his back. He fell backwards, clutching at the blade.

The Lord-Celestant stalked over to the dying sorcerer. He set his foot on the creature’s arm and tore his sword free, then turned to see that Anhur was climbing the grotesque steps.

‘Orius, you must stop him,’ Moros shouted from behind him, narrowly avoiding the skullgrinder’s whirling anvil. The weapon tore through a pillar, scattering rubble across the chamber. ‘You must not let him enter that rift!’

At the Lord-Relictor’s words, Orius lurched forward. When his foot touched the first step, the raw flesh squirmed and smoke curled from its pores, as if the blessed sigmarite he wore pained it. Ignoring the screams of the steps, he climbed after Anhur. The Black Rift spun and the air shrieked around him. Daemons sped past him, down the stairs, growing solid as they touched the floor and launched themselves at his embattled warriors. There were too many of them for him to count, too many for his battered chamber to hold back. Unless he could seal the rift, Uryx, Klaxus, perhaps even the Tephra Crater itself would be lost.

‘Turn, beast. Turn, hound of slaughter,’ Orius said, as he climbed the steps. ‘Turn, Anhur. The ghosts of Cinder, of the Fire Domes, of Klaxus and Uryx, of those you slaughtered and those you left to be slaughtered, demand that you turn. Will you run away from me again? Turn, coward!’

Anhur stopped. His ragged cloak flapped in the searing wind. Then, with an almost convulsive motion, he hurled his daemon-faced shield aside. It struck the steps and slid away, screaming recriminations. Anhur turned. Orius stopped, just below him.

‘Coward,’ Anhur said, slowly. ‘No. There is no fear in me, Hound of Ytalan. Only purpose. But… you are right. Whatever Volundr says, you are right. A million ghosts stretch out before me, an army of the conquered, and you… their weapon.’ He laughed. ‘We are both weapons, now, Oros. We are both blades, forged in the same fire, but wielded by different hands.’

Anhur drew the sword from its sheath on his hip and brought it crashing against the edge of his axe. ‘Great men once held swords like these. Great men, who founded a great nation. Now they are dust and their names forgotten. But this blade is still sharp, Oros. My hand is still steady. I am still Anhur, Prince of Ytalan, and you are still Oros of Ytalan, my friend, my champion. You are still the man who saved me from the swords of the sulphur-knights, and spirited me from Uryx, though I begged you to let me die. And that debt must be paid, else all this is naught but ashes. Come, my friend. Come, champion of Klaxus. Come and let us set it all to rights.’

And, with those words, the two warriors came together with a crash of steel.

The Sulphur Citadel

Orius Adamantine was not alone as he confronted the Scarlet Lord. In his wake and at his side came a thousand ghosts. The murdered folk of Cinder, of the Calderan Plains and the Firewalk were with him as he surged up the grotesque spell-born stairs, drawn from the charnel remains which decorated the great chamber. But loudest of all were the dead of Klaxus, who called for the head of the one who had once marched in their name.

The waters of the Hissing Gates shrieked upwards in boiling columns. Steam swept down, filling the air, as the Adamantine advanced in a shimmering line. The forces of the Scarlet Lord met them there, in the shadows of the immense geysers…

Anhur lurched to meet Orius, moving awkwardly as if some unseen wound pained him. Daemons clung to him like wisps of smoke, leering and laughing as the black axe fell through the air with an animal shriek. Orius twisted about, raising his sword.

Two figures, one gold and one crimson, charge towards one another through the boiling breath of the countless geysers. Their blades clash. And then, a moment of recognition, as the eyes of the duellists lock. A voice cries out…

‘Anhur,’ Orius roared as runeblade crashed against daemonic axe. The shock of the blow shivered up his arm, and sent his memories into disarray. He shook his head to clear it as he faced his opponent. He lashed out with his hammer, trying to drive Anhur back.

‘Oros,’ Anhur said, as he parried the blow with his axe. ‘All hope is gone, and the way is open.’ He shoved Orius back down several steps. ‘Welcome to the eternal moment, the sharp edge between victory and defeat, my friend.’

Orius glared up at the Scarlet Lord from where he crouched. Behind him, the Lord-Celestant could hear his warriors fighting against the daemons which continued to pour from the shimmering rift above the steps.

‘No,’ he said, taking a step. What happened to you, Prince of Ytalan? Where is the man I once knew? There would be no satisfactory answer to those questions, Orius knew. Chaos had claimed Anhur’s soul and whatever choices had led him down that dark path were hidden in the mire of the past. ‘I am no friend of yours, monster.’

‘But you were once,’ Anhur said. ‘We stood together in this place, against true monsters. Against those who would see our folk stretched on altars and fed to false gods.’ He gestured at the shifting facets of the Black Rift above them. ‘I will free our people, Oros. At long last, they shall be free of all suffering. They shall be reborn in fire and blood.’ He shuddered. ‘As shall I.’

‘My name is Orius. Oros of Ytalan is dead — he died, leading those you left behind. He is dead, as Anhur of Ytalan is dead. We are not friends, and we share no past,’ Orius said, as he took another step. Faces swam before his eyes, soldiers, rebels, heroes — men and women who had joined their rebellion and paid the price. Anhur laughed.

‘You said that before, but it is a lie. Your new life is a lie. You are still the man you were, as am I. We shall never be free of our past, while this debt is owed.’ He pointed his sword at Orius. ‘Look — see. I still carry the sword of Ytalan, the sword of my fathers, and their fathers before them. I am Anhur. I am king.’

‘You are a coward,’ Orius said and lunged up, hammer looping out. Anhur caught the blow on the flat of his axe and swung his sword. Orius interposed his runeblade. The tableau held, for a moment. ‘You left us, left them, to die in your stead.’ In his head he heard again the screams of the dying, the whispered prayers to Sigmar — the true Sigmar, rather than the debased caricature that the priest-kings worshipped — the clash of steel on steel and the hiss of the sulphur-blade as it cut towards his neck. He had died. But Anhur had lived.

‘I am no coward,’ Anhur snarled. ‘I wished to fight and die, but your hand — yours and no other — propelled me to safety. It was by your hand that I was denied my glorious end, and now you have the gall to call me coward?’ Axe and hammer slammed together with a sound like a scream. Swords clashed in a flicker of steel.

‘You are worse than a coward,’ Orius said. ‘You are an abomination.’

‘Aye, and more besides,’ Anhur said as their swords locked with a screech of metal. ‘The drumbeat of war is in my blood, as it is in yours, Oros. We are the sons of Klaxus — the last sons of Klaxus. I slew the old priest-kings, swept their ashes from the throne of the crater-kingdoms, and I will raise up something glorious in their stead.’

‘We are not the last, Anhur,’ Orius said, as he strained to hold his foe’s sword back. ‘As you yourself claimed, not all of our folk have been taken by the madness you unleashed. And while a single Stormcast lives, Klaxus shall survive. Her people will live.’ He thought of the refugees huddled within the stone ramparts of the Mandrake Bastion, those pitiful few, saved by the efforts of his Stormcasts. They will survive, he thought. My people will not go into the dark, not today, not while I yet draw breath.

‘A simple enough solution presents itself,’ Anhur said and shoved Orius back. Their blades separated with a scream. ‘But why speak of dread certainties, when there are more important matters to be discussed?’ Anhur turned away, startling Orius, and began to climb the steps towards the coruscating facets of the rift. He left himself exposed to attack, as if certain that Orius would not do so. ‘Since I recognised you at the Hissing Gates, I knew that our story had but one end. What began here must finish here. Whatever others might wish. A debt is owed and it must be paid. A life for a life, Oros.’

Orius pursued him up the steps. Whatever else happened, the rift had to be closed. Daemons raced past him down the steps, gaining substance as they drew closer to the floor. Phantasmal muscle bulked and swelled, darkening and becoming real as brazen claws struck the bloody stones. The bloodletters loped into battle with his dwindling retinue of Protectors and Liberators. Of those Stormcasts who had accompanied him and Lord-Relictor Moros in confronting the horrors of the Sulphur Citadel, a bare handful remained. Soon, they — and those Stormcasts who fought to hold the Bridge of Smoke — would be overwhelmed.

Moros was somewhere nearby, locked in battle with the monstrous skullgrinder who served Anhur. And Lord-Castellant Gorgus was leading those forces defending the bridge. There would be no aid from either quarter. It was up to Orius to seal the Black Rift by whatever means he could, even if it meant his death. Even if it meant the destruction of Uryx and Klaxus both. His grip on his hammer tightened. ‘Face me, monster,’ he said.

The Lord-Celestant lunged, runeblade extended. Anhur spun. His axe nearly caught Orius in the head. The Stormcast lurched aside and swayed, off balance. The steps twitched beneath his feet, as if they might try and dislodge him. He regained his balance and struck out at Anhur again and again, trying to land a blow. But the Chaos lord avoided or parried his attacks with ease.

‘Ah, Oros, do you recall our mornings on the training fields of the Rim-Citadel?’ the Scarlet Lord said. ‘When we sparred, honing our skills to face whatever enemies the day brought? How many times did I leave you gasping in the dirt, Hound of Ytalan?’

‘As often as I left you, Prince of Klaxus,’ Orius said. He did not know whether he spoke the truth. He barely remembered those days, and what memories he still possessed were more distraction than anything else. But if Anhur’s growl were anything to go by, he’d struck a nerve. The Scarlet Lord started towards him, but paused as a sudden spasm wracked his body. ‘You’re still running Anhur — why not stand and fight?’ Orius said.

Stones plummeted down from above. He heard the hiss of lightning, and the shriek of daemons. The chamber shook as the rift pulsed with a red light. Anhur shuddered and bent forward with a groan. His armour creaked as though something were pressing against it from within. For a moment, Orius thought he saw a second form, more monstrous by far than Anhur, superimposed over the Scarlet Lord’s own. A nightmare shape of talon and sinew, winged and horned, and wreathed in black fire. Then the moment passed and Anhur was rising to his full height with a harsh sigh.

‘Because I have chosen the ground for our duel, and this realm is not it,’ he said. ‘I have been planning this moment since the Hissing Gates — have you never wondered why I pulled my blow that day? I could have given your skull to Khorne there and then…’

The blow scraped the sigmarite of his breastplate, knocking him flat… The axe fell, splitting the air… Orius shook his head, banishing the memories. Anhur stepped back, so that he stood directly before the pulsing rift. Spectral daemons swept over and around him, screaming in savage joy. He spread his arms.

‘I knew, my friend. I knew that if I spared you that day you would not rest until you had brought me to battle once more. Until we came again to the only place our debt could truly be settled. And here you are. So follow me if you dare, Hound of Ytalan — follow, so that we might meet our fate together.’ With that, he turned and stepped into the swirling rift. Orius hesitated, but only for a moment.

Then, weapons ready, Orius Adamantine plunged into the Black Rift.

‘Hold fast, Adamantine — not one step back. We shall not move, shall not bend nor break,’ Lord-Castellant Gorgus said, trusting his voice to carry over the din of battle. ‘Let the world itself crack, and we shall still hold our ground. We did not break at Cinder, at Karnaharak or at the River Lament. We shall not break here.’

He frowned. Not unless the bridge collapses beneath us, he thought. He could feel the Bridge of Smoke ripple beneath his feet. The bridge was the only way across the sulphur lake, and it was both more and less solid than stone. More than once, a Stormcast sank knee-deep into its substance. They had learned how to avoid its occasional undulations, as the sides swelled and flowed unexpectedly. Geysers of sulphurous gas spewed from the fissures which spread along its degenerating span. Soon, they would be forced to retreat to more stable ground as the spells which held the bridge intact finally failed for good. He was tempted to do so now, but there was no way to hold the plaza behind them. The ever-swelling numbers of the daemons would overwhelm them more easily there than on the bridge, which acted as a chokepoint.

But it will not hold forever, he thought. Eventually, they would have no choice, especially if daemons continued to pour down the steps of the Sulphur Citadel. He looked at the distant structure, and wished that he stood beside Orius and Moros. He shook his head in annoyance. No. Someone had to stay and hold the foe back. If the daemons swarmed over Uryx, there was no telling how many more innocent folk would die. The blood-tide would sweep all before it, and drown Klaxus, as well as the other crater-kingdoms, in the flames of war.

The bridge shuddered as the combined force of daemons and mortal servants of Khorne charged towards the battered shield wall. ‘Judicators — loose,’ Gorgus cried, extending his halberd. Judicator retinues plied their deadly trade, shooting arrows until it was impossible to tell where one volley ended and another began. But the enemy did not falter. The Bloodbound drove on, through the murderous storm of crackling arrows, as if the presence of the daemons among their ranks was enough to drive all mortal fear from them.

‘Lock shields,’ Gorgus said. ‘Second rampart, raise shields.’ The shield wall was staggered, with three rows of Liberators between the Judicators and the approaching foe. As the front rank readied themselves to receive the charge, the second rank lifted their shields to ward off the daemons. The unnatural creatures had shown themselves more than capable of scaling the shield wall and attacking those who sheltered behind its gleaming length. ‘Third rampart, make ready,’ he bellowed, as the enemy closed in.

The Bloodbound struck. As ever, the mortals died in droves, but the bloodletters clawed their way over the shields and lunged for the warriors behind. The second rampart met them, but Gorgus knew that even they wouldn’t be enough. At his signal, the third line moved forward, not as one, but in individual retinues, to better isolate and destroy the daemons that had breached their lines. He spotted the gruesome bulk of the bloodthirster, Skul’rath, moving through the horde as if it were wading through a river of blood.

The greater daemon was massive. It was war made flesh. It towered head and shoulders above its lesser kin, its rust-hued limbs clad in armour of black iron, marked prominently with the rune of Khorne. Skul’rath of the First Gate, he thought. Skul’rath the Broken, first of the Ruinous Powers’ servants to feel the wrath of Azyr. First to fall to the Hammers of Sigmar in battle. There wasn’t a warrior in their Stormhost who did not know the tale of Skul’rath’s taming. Or of the vile oaths which the bloodthirster had sworn, even as it was banished back into the infernal realm which had spawned it.

Gorgus’ grip on his halberd tightened, and his free hand fell to the warding lantern hooked to his belt. It would take more than the lantern’s light alone to banish such a creature. At least it could be hurt. As evidence, the creature’s wing hung limp and tattered from its back. Sigmar keep you, Tarkus… You hurt the monster before it sent you back to the forges of Sigmaron, at least, he thought. The Knight-Heraldor had crippled the daemon before he’d fallen to its axe. As if reading his thoughts, Skul’rath reared back and roared in fury. Its axe slammed down, shearing through an unlucky tribesman, even as its barbed lash tore vainly at the air.

At his side, Shrike chirped. Gorgus turned at the Gryph-hound’s warning and saw a bloodletter, its scaly form covered in wounds which dripped molten ichor, charge towards him. Shrike sped to meet it, its beak tearing at the back of the daemon’s leg. The bloodletter staggered and slashed clumsily at the Gryph-hound, but Shrike deftly avoided the blow. While it was distracted, Gorgus brought his halberd down on its head, silencing its hisses.

He hooked his warding lantern to the blade of his halberd and lifted it high, so that its golden rays washed across the Stormcast shield wall. ‘We shall hold!’ he cried. ‘We shall push them back. We shall be the bastion upon which they break. Our Lord-Celestant is counting on us. Would you bring shame to our chamber? We are not broken — we are the breakers and no foe shall bar our path. Grind them under, Adamantine!’

As the light bathed the Stormcasts, faltering arms stiffened, and bleeding wounds dried. The light of the warding lantern could heal as well as harm, and in its glow, no Stormcast would suffer unnecessarily. Daemons are another matter, however, he thought, as bloodletters cowered back from the light. Where it touched them, their unnatural flesh bubbled and steamed, and they surged rapidly backwards with shrieks and wails. Bloodbound were left bereft of support as the light drove the daemons from the shield wall. ‘Paladins — forward,’ Gorgus shouted.

Decimators and Retributors charged through newly opened gaps in the shield wall, and their great two-handed weapons reaped a red toll. But just as Gorgus thought that the enemy might be thrown back, Skul’rath charged the wall of sigmarite with bridge-shaking strides, smashing aside an unwary Decimator as it drew close. Then, with a snarl that froze the blood in Gorgus’ veins, Skul’rath leapt into the air.

Shrike gave a shrill cry, warning Gorgus of the descending nightmare. He stepped back as the bloodthirster slammed down just behind the shield wall. The greater daemon spun with a roar and swept its axe across the backs of three Liberators, severing their spines and killing the Stormcasts instantly. It turned back as Gorgus lunged forward, his halberd slicing down. The bloodthirster smashed the blow aside, nearly wrenching the Lord-Castellant’s arms from their sockets, and snapped its lash at his head. Gorgus ducked back, shoulders aching.

‘You bear a burdensome light, gnat,’ the bloodthirster hissed loudly. ‘Let Skul’rath relieve you of it.’ Its lash snapped out again and knocked the lantern from his grip. As the lantern tumbled away, the daemons surged forward once more. They struck the shield wall with a roar, nearly overwhelming the Stormcasts arrayed there. Caught between the bloodthirster and the lesser daemons, Liberators fell, consumed by lightning. Judicators turned their bows on Skul’rath, loosing volley after volley of sizzling bolts into the bellowing colossus. Retributors and Decimators, momentarily cut off by the sudden advance of the foe, fought their way back towards the shield wall.

‘Go — retrieve the celestial beacon,’ Gorgus said, looking at Shrike. The Gryph-hound screeched and bounded off through the press of battle. Gorgus turned, and was almost split in two by Skul’rath’s axe. Sulphur jetted up as the blade smashed into the bridge, momentarily obscuring the daemon from sight. Then its lash snaked out to wrap around the haft of Gorgus’ halberd. He was nearly yanked from his feet by the beast as it sought to jerk the weapon from his grasp.

Gorgus twisted, hauling back against the tension of the lash with all the strength remaining to him. The surface of the bridge cracked and pooled beneath his feet as he fought desperately to avoid being hauled forward, through the cloud of sulphur.

‘You fight well,’ Skul’rath growled. ‘But not well enough. I will have my vengeance, golden one. I will claim a hundred skulls for every moment since my defeat at the hands of your kind. Khorne shall raise me up anew, and I shall ride with the Fifth Host once more.’

‘You’ll claim no more skulls, beast,’ Gorgus said, as he struggled to retain hold of his halberd. ‘No more Stormcasts shall fall to you. You were broken by warriors of our Stormhost once before, and we shall break you again.’

Skul’rath howled and the heat of its rage beat at Gorgus, blackening his armour. He tore his halberd free of its lash with a heave and spun the weapon about. The bloodthirster slashed at him, and he swayed aside, barely avoiding the blow. His halberd struck out in return, drawing boiling ichor from the daemon’s muzzle. As he backed away from the beast, Gorgus looked around for Shrike. But the Gryph-hound was nowhere in sight.

Everywhere, the orderly line of battle had broken down into a swirling melee. Stormcasts fought alone, or in small groups, surrounded on all sides by enemies both mortal and daemonic. Even the steady fire of the Judicators had faltered at last, as the archers were forced to draw their swords and engage the foe in hand-to-hand combat. Liberators were trying to regroup beyond the edges of the melee, but the daemons followed them and struck them down. Blue flashes of lighting streaked upwards, signalling another warrior’s demise.

‘Fall back,’ Gorgus shouted. ‘Fall back to the plaza — fall back!’ A few Stormcasts followed his orders and began fighting their way back towards the Plaza of Yellow Smoke, but the majority were in no position to do so. The enemy were all around them, and in no mood to let them go. A blood warrior, his beard slick with froth and blood, charged wildly towards him, axes raised. Gorgus drove the ferrule of his halberd into the berserker’s chest, knocking him back a step. Before the blood warrior could recover, Gorgus removed his head. Two more of the bloodthirsty warriors lunged for him over the body of a fallen Decimator, their blades encrusted with gore and their eyes burning with battle-madness.

Before they could reach him, however, Skul’rath smashed them aside with a blow from its axe.

‘NO,’ the greater daemon roared. ‘He is mine — his skull belongs to the Prince of Chains, son of the Devouring-Light-Which-Does-Not-Fade!’

The bloodthirster’s lash hissed out, and Gorgus chopped through it. Skul’rath tossed the remnant aside with a snarl and reached for the Lord-Castellant. His halberd slashed across the daemon’s palm, and Skul’rath roared in pain. Gorgus swung at the daemon’s head. Skul’rath twisted aside, so that the blade of the halberd became lodged in its cuirass. Its axe slammed down, nearly cleaving Gorgus in two and sending him sprawling. As he flew backwards he lost his grip on his weapon, and it remained jutting from Skul’rath’s chest-plate.

The daemon plucked the weapon free and tossed it aside with a contemptuous snort. Gorgus tried to get to his feet, but a massive hoof dropped on his chest, pinning him to the bridge. He screamed in pain as something inside him splintered, and pounded futilely at the daemon’s hoof with his fists.

‘Now, little storm… you die. Your living skull shall decorate my cuirass, and your false godling shall weep for your end,’ the bloodthirster leered, as it lifted its axe in readiness for the killing blow.

Gorgus could only watch as the axe fell.

In the great chamber at the summit of the Sulphur Citadel, Lord-Relictor Moros ducked a whirling shape. The brazen anvil tore a chunk out of the wall and filled the air with flying debris. Moros backed away as the skullgrinder paced after him, still swinging the anvil. With a flick of his wrist, the skullgrinder sent the anvil shooting out as if it weighed no more than a feather. It smashed through pillars, walls and Stormcasts alike, never falling still.

Everywhere, the chamber pulsed with the sounds of death. Stormcasts fought desperately against the never-ending tide of daemons which spilled from the pulsing facets of the Black Rift. Isolated and badly outnumbered, the warriors of the Adamantine nonetheless held their ground. Fighting alone or back-to-back, they did their best to staunch the flow of the daemon-tide. Moros risked a glance in the direction of the rift, and saw Orius pursue the Scarlet Lord into the obsidian portal. ‘No,’ he roared, turning to aid his Lord-Celestant. It was death to enter such portals, for they led directly to the domains of the Ruinous Powers.

The anvil smashed into the floor before him, nearly knocking him from his feet. He whirled, his reliquary staff spinning in his grip to smash into the crude helm of the skullgrinder. The brute stumbled back with a laugh. A bloodletter sprang for Moros, its black blade screeching across his armour with bone-rattling force. The Lord-Relictor faltered as the daemon struck him again and again, carving great gouges in his sigmarite war-plate. A second bloodletter, sensing easy prey, joined the first. Soon, a pack of the hissing beasts surrounded him. They attacked from every direction, striking at him faster than he could see.

‘Sigmar, give me strength,’ he cried. He dropped his hammer and clutched his staff in both hands. Bellowing the Invocation of Strength, he swung the staff out in a wide arc. Lightning rippled from the eyes of the skull set into the reliquary, and daemons convulsed in agony. They reeled back as he whirled the staff about and slammed its haft hard against the floor. It shook and cracked. Chunks of stone fell from the ceiling, crushing several of the bloodletters. Moros stooped and snatched up his hammer. He struck the ground with his staff again, and the sacred lightning blazed forth, brighter than before. Daemons crumpled into smoking husks.

‘A mighty lightning indeed,’ the skullgrinder growled, as he stepped over the smoking remains of a bloodletter. ‘Still, only the weak seek aid in sorcery.’ He hurled his anvil at Moros, forcing the Lord-Relictor to back away.

‘Says the creature who needed the aid of a sorcerer to achieve his goals,’ Moros said. He glanced towards the diseased body of the creature slain upon their arrival by Orius. He’d hoped that with the sorcerer’s death, the Black Rift would close. Unfortunately that did not appear to be the case. He strove to recall everything he knew about such apertures in reality, every scrap of lore, every fragment of wisdom.

But even if I can close the rift, can I do it with Orius on the other side? The thought was a painful one. The rift had to be closed, but at the cost of his Lord-Celestant? He glanced upwards, at the remains of the great dome above. A mural of Sigmar stared down, meeting his gaze. What must I do, Heldenhammer? Show your servant the path he must follow…

‘Stop looking to your man-god for help, wearer-of-bones,’ the skullgrinder roared. ‘He is not here, and I will not be ignored by such as you.’ He swung his anvil out, nearly taking Moros’ head off. The Lord-Relictor ducked aside. ‘There is no help for you there. Khorne strides the black skies above, and the fires of war will consume this crater and all of the petty kingdoms which nestle within it.’ The anvil slammed down, spattering Moros’ war-helm with slivers of stone. Striking swiftly, he thrust the end of his staff through one of the wide links and pinned it in place. He wrenched his staff about, and the skullgrinder stumbled. Moros drove his hammer into his opponent’s head again and again, and the brute sank to one knee, breathing heavily.

The skullgrinder’s muscles swelled, and with a cry he tore the anvil and its chain free of Moros’ staff. Still on one knee, he watched the Lord-Relictor warily. ‘Your chieftain will fail, shaman,’ the skullgrinder said. ‘Anhur was made for this moment — forged in war and slaughter, so that he would be a fit blade for Khorne’s hand.’ He rose to his feet and began to circle Moros, his chains clinking menacingly.

‘And who are you, to forge anything?’ Moros said. Though he recognised the being before him for what he was, he had never faced such an opponent before. Skullgrinders were rare beasts indeed, and this one seemed to be more than a mere berserker. A Bloodbound that can think, Moros thought. Sigmar preserve us from such madness.

‘I am Volundr. I am the Skull-Cracker and the Brass Hand of Hesphut,’ the skullgrinder said, letting his brazen anvil dangle from one wide hand. It left ripples of heat in its wake as it swung. ‘It was by my whisper that the millions of Cinder, and the hundred-millions of the Magmatic Crescent, were offered up to the Lord of Skulls by the hands of Anhur’s followers.’

The skullgrinder spoke without boastfulness. ‘I am one of the eight forgemasters of the Soulmaw, and the crafter of the daemon-blade Marrowcutter.’ He began to swing his anvil in a slow arc. ‘It was I who forged the chains of star-metal which bind Ungl’Agara, She-Who-Eats-the-Sun, in her bower of bone and shadow. I have wrought a masterpiece of murder in this place, and I shall not allow the broken toys of a feeble godling to undo all my labours.’

‘Save me your speeches, dog of horror, for I well know you, whatever your name,’ Moros said, setting his staff, even as his heart grew heavy within him. A forgemaster of the Soulmaw, he thought, chilled to the core by the mention of the greatest of Khorne’s own forges. This was no mere warrior-smith, but instead one of the Blood God’s chosen.

The Lord-Relictor fought back a shudder. Whatever the pedigree of his foe, he would not yield. I am the Storm Summoner, he thought, the Bearer of the Bones of Heroes. And I am Adamantine. I shall not break. He raised his staff. ‘I see your corrupt path, stretching back along a road of history, and I see the shadow of your darkling god’s hand o’er you, Skull-Cracker.’ He turned, following the skullgrinder with his gaze. ‘You are lost to the dark, more daemon than mortal, and your soul is in agony.’ He thumped the floor with the haft of his staff. ‘Allow me to guide it to what I’m sure is a long-overdue oblivion.’

Volundr paused, head cocked. The skullgrinder gave a bark of laughter. Then, with a twist of his shoulders, he yanked the anvil up and sent it sailing down towards Moros’ head. The Lord-Relictor stepped aside, and felt the heat of the anvil’s descent as it crashed down on the stones. He swung his relic hammer at his opponent, catching him in the side.

The skullgrinder bellowed and lashed out at him with a meaty fist. Moros ducked aside and struck again. His hammer slammed down, denting Volundr’s helm. Volundr snarled and hooked a loop of chain about Moros’ neck. He dragged him forward and their skulls connected with a brutal clang. Moros swayed. The skullgrinder caught him about the torso and picked him up, only to fling him at a pillar.

Moros struck the pillar hard enough to shatter it, and hit the floor beyond in a cloud of debris. Bones grated within him as he rolled to his feet with the help of his staff. Somehow, he had kept hold of his weapons. As he rose, Volundr charged towards him, smashing aside what was left of the pillar with a sweep of his thick arms.

The skullgrinder slammed into Moros at full tilt and carried him backwards into a second pillar. The ancient stone disintegrated at the point of impact as the two warriors hurtled into another pillar, and another, tearing through each in an explosion of stone and dust. Pain ripped through Moros as he fought to free himself from his foe. At last, a flailing blow from his hammer caught the skullgrinder on the knee and the war-smith staggered. He spilled Moros from his clutches. The Lord-Relictor, his lungs aching, his chest a mass of pain, shoved himself upright and faced his dazed opponent.

Broken fragments of masonry pelted his war-plate from above as he raised his reliquary staff. ‘Sigmar take you, beast,’ he roared. Lightning hammered down, piercing through the great dome overhead to ground in his staff, and filled the air with a searing light.

The skullgrinder stepped back, one big hand thrown up before his face. Moros lunged forward, his hammer raised. Volundr caught the head of the hammer on his palm. Moros heard bones break in his foe’s hand, but the massive warrior gave out no more than a grunt as he tore the hammer from his opponent’s grip and sent it sailing away.

Moros staggered, off-balance, and Volundr jerked forward, driving his other fist across the front of the Lord-Relictor’s helm. Sigmarite creaked and nearly buckled even as the force of the blow sent Moros flying backwards to slam into another pillar, his reliquary flying from his hands. His head was full of thunder, and he could not breathe.

He fell forward, onto his hands and knees. Dazed, he heard the pillar crack. The skullgrinder strode towards him, dragging his anvil. ‘Well? Where is this oblivion you promised me, lightning-rider?’ Volundr said. ‘Perhaps you misspoke.’

The world spun around the Lord-Relictor. Daemons crept closer, padding through the noxious mist spewing from the rift, their eyes glowing with eagerness. He saw several of his Protectors, free from the daemons, hurl themselves at the skullgrinder. Their stormstrike glaives struck like lightning. Volundr spun with a roar, and a Protector was crushed by his anvil even as the others attacked. For a moment, the world was lit by blue fire. Volundr plunged through the flames and caught a Protector in either hand, his anvil dangling by its chain from his wrist. He hefted the two Stormcasts by their throats.

Moros forced himself to his feet, the words of the Incantation for the Fallen running through his head. By the bones that I bear and call my own. He launched himself at the skullgrinder’s back. I bid ye heed now, heed the Call Celestial. He wrapped an arm around Volundr’s throat, and the skullgrinder bellowed and dropped the Protectors. Heed only the call of the God-King. Brutish fingers clawed at Moros’ forearm as he and his opponent staggered backwards into the cracked pillar. Godspeed to Sigmaron. Stone buckled and groaned. Chunks of debris began to rain down as the skullgrinder slammed them back against the pillar again and again. Godspeed back to the stars that bore ye.

Lightning shrieked down, demolishing the dome above and streaming down to envelop Moros and his opponent.

‘Mine… is… the Power Aetheric, and… I bid thee rest in peace,’ the Lord-Relictor roared as he wrapped a lightning-shrouded hand about the skullgrinder’s face-mask. And, with an elemental roar, the holy lightning of Sigmaron, the wrath of the God-King made manifest, thrummed through his hand and into the struggling form of his foe.

Volundr shrieked as bolt after bolt of lightning struck him. With a resounding crack, his great anvil split. The chain holding it burst asunder, and its wielder sank to one knee, clutching at his blackened helm with blistered, useless fingers as the lightning continued to scream down, striking him with a fury unseen since the days of myth.

And when it at last ceased, Volundr, forgemaster of the Soulmaw, was gone.

A tower of lightning struck the dome of the Sulphur Citadel, and cast its fierce glare across the city of Uryx. Daemons shrieked and cowered as the blazing light seared their flesh. Skul’rath turned from its prey with a snarl, its gaze uncomprehending, its axe hanging forgotten in its talon. As the daemon drew its hoof from his chest, Gorgus hauled himself to his feet. He saw Shrike loping towards him, his warding lantern clutched in the animal’s beak.

‘Shrike — my lantern,’ he cried, stretching out a hand.

The Gryph-hound leapt over a crouching bloodletter and raced towards the Lord-Castellant, swerving to avoid daemons and Stormcasts alike. Skul’rath caught sight of the animal and roared in fury. The bloodthirster’s axe swept out and the Gryph-hound skidded beneath the blade. Shrike tumbled head over heels, the lantern falling from its beak. Gorgus snatched up his halberd from where Skul’rath had tossed it. He charged towards the greater daemon, even as it raised a hoof to crush the fallen Gryph-hound. He caught the daemon in the side, and then in the chest with his reclaimed halberd as it lashed out at him. Shrike struggled to his feet and lunged, tearing at Skul’rath’s leg.

The bloodthirster stepped back, eyes bulging with fury. It slashed at the Gryph-hound again and again, trying to kill the animal. Shrike nimbly avoided every blow as it darted to snap at the bloodthirster’s hamstrings.

‘Cease, beast,’ the daemon roared in frustration. ‘Your skull is of no interest to me!’ The daemon’s axe tore great furrows in the bridge as Skul’rath raged.

While Shrike kept the monster busy, Gorgus reclaimed his celestial beacon. He heard a yelp and turned to see Shrike dragging itself away, a gash in one flank. The bloodthirster loomed over the fallen Gryph-hound, its back to Gorgus. ‘Now, creature, I shall break your bones and eat your heart,’ the daemon hissed.

‘You will not. If the great bears of the Borealis Peaks couldn’t kill him, what chance do you think a creature like you has?’ Gorgus said, as he threw his halberd like a spear towards the bloodthirster’s legs. The weapon struck home, and the greater daemon bellowed as it stumbled forward. It caught itself with one hand, but before it could untangle its hooves and rise, Gorgus was on its back, his warding lantern in hand.

The Lord-Castellant caught hold of the daemon’s horn as Skul’rath rose with a snort. The daemon kicked his halberd aside. Shrike lunged with a shriek and tore a chunk from the bloodthirster’s wrist, forcing the daemon to drop its axe.

Gorgus rose with the daemon and avoided its grasp as it clawed for him, trying to drag him from its shoulders. ‘You wished to snuff the light of the Heavens, beast? Then here — let me help,’ Gorgus roared. Skul’rath clawed vainly at him as Gorgus lifted his warding lantern and tore it open, exposing the daemon to the full force of the sacred light contained within.

Skul’rath shrieked and stumbled, finally throwing Gorgus off. The bloodthirster screamed in agony as it tore at its own flesh, trying to escape the light.

The Lord-Castellant hit the bridge hard enough to release a geyser of sulphur, but rolled into a crouch, lantern still extended. Whatever else happened, he had to keep the daemon within the light. Otherwise, they would have no hope of banishing it. Shoving himself upright with his free hand, he lunged for his halberd where it jutted from the surface of the bridge. Skul’rath grabbed at him, but he avoided the daemon’s flailing to uproot his weapon and whirl it about. He chopped into the bloodthirster’s arm, forcing the creature to jerk back in a spray of burning ichor. As he drove the daemon back with halberd and lantern, he saw that the eye of every daemon, Bloodbound and Stormcast was locked on the duel.

With a shout, several Liberators moved forward, as if to confront the daemon. Skul’rath lashed out blindly, crumpling sigmarite shields and armour with its fists. The warriors fell, bodies reduced to crackling streaks of lightning. But Gorgus saw to it that their sacrifice wasn’t in vain. He swept his halberd out, carving a wound in the distracted bloodthirster’s back. It spun, and Gorgus thrust his lantern forward, catching the daemon full in the face with the glory of Azyr.

Skul’rath staggered back, clawing at itself as the light permeated its form. Strange red cracks appeared and ran along its monstrous shape, and a stinking smoke rose from them. The magical energies of Gorgus’ lantern had punctured the bloodthirster’s form at a hundred points, seeping into its pores and blazing in its wounds. It stumbled towards its axe, but Gorgus interposed himself, slashing new, bright wounds in its arms and torso. The daemon sank to one knee. Greasy smoke rose from its skull as the light burned it. Soon, its whole head was aflame with a pale, blue fire. Its body shuddered and quaked as it tore fiery gobbets from its own flesh, as if seeking release from a greater pain.

Skul’rath the Broken reared back with a thunderous scream. It was a sound of rage, of denial and, at the last, of fear, as the monster came apart with a sigh of drifting ash. Gorgus strode through the cloud of ash, lantern held high. ‘Stormcasts,’ he said, casting its light over the ranks of the Adamantine, ‘reform the lines ten paces behind me. Lock shields, you sons of Azyr. Or do you expect me to do all your fighting for you?’

Stormcasts streamed past him. Precious few of them remained. Many had returned to Sigmar’s hand. But there were enough. We have not broken, he thought. They’d come close, though. And the daemons were still flowing down the steps of the Sulphur Citadel, like blood flowing from a wound. Skul’rath’s defeat had given them a momentary pause, but no more. Sigmar lend you strength, Orius, for I have none to spare you.

Everything hurt. The bloodthirster had tested him. He was still alive, though. And while he lived, he would hold the place where he stood. Shrike, limping, leaned against him and whined. Gorgus stroked the Gryph-hound’s head. ‘And not alone, eh? Good boy,’ he murmured, before turning his attentions to the remaining Bloodbound and daemons.

Several of the bloodletters paced forward hesitantly, obviously wanting to pursue the retreating Stormcasts, but unwilling to get too close to the warrior who had banished Skul’rath. Before they could find their courage, Gorgus stepped forward. He set his warding lantern on the ground and stared at them, meeting their inhuman gazes with his own stony one.

Then, with a great cry, he swept his halberd down to strike the bridge before him. He struck it again, creating a massive fissure which spread quickly across the width of the bridge. It was not wide as gaps went, but it was more for symbolic purposes, than strategic. He lifted his warding lantern and hooked it onto the blade of his halberd, then extended it out before him.

‘We are Adamantine. We shall not break,’ he said. ‘I tell you that wherever I stand is my rampart, hounds of abomination,’ he continued, as he stared at the massed ranks of daemons on the other side of the gap.

He spread his arms, as if in invitation. ‘Cross it, and see what it profits you.’

Orius staggered as he stepped through the Black Rift, only to find himself knee-deep in ash and dust. His head throbbed with the roar of uncountable screams, and his eyes stung from the crimson glare of the world he found himself in. He sucked in a sour breath. Harsh smoke abraded his aching lungs and stung his weary eyes.

Every limb felt heavy, and his heart struggled in its rhythm. He was bitterly cold and terribly hot, all at once, as if he had suffered a deep wound. His breath fogged and swirled before his eyes, and he could see faces in it. The faces of daemons, of foes he’d slain and those he might yet slay, if he survived the next few moments.

There was blood on his face and hands, and his gilded armour was stained with the tarry excretions and reeking ichors which rained from the thick, scab-coloured clouds overhead. The smoke that enveloped him stank of a million funeral pyres, and he could hear the roar of distant battle. Weapons crashed against shields and bit into cringing meat.

The air swelled and cracked with a riot of voices echoing from unseen places. Screams of agony mingled with pleading voices and howling cries of pure animal terror. The air was choked by the deep red smoke that curled about him, and he could see strange witch-lights pulsing within its depths. Horrible, ill-defined shapes moved around him, either too slowly or too quickly. Some were larger than others, and these roared in a hideous hunger. He could not say where they were going, or why. Something crackled beneath his foot.

The smoke swirled clear for a moment, and he saw that he stood on a carpet of bones, picked clean. Old bones and new bones, brown and white and yellow, clad in the shapeless remnants of clothing and armour from a span of centuries undreamt of. He saw weapons and tools the likes of which he had only seen depicted on the most ancient of murals within the halls of Sigmaron, and those that seemed far more advanced than the ones he was familiar with. It was as if someone had emptied out all of the graveyards of history, of all the times that had been and were yet to be, and left them wherever they fell.

In the distance, he could see something else — a monstrous edifice, rising out of a brightly burning sea of flowing lava. He could hear the thump of great war-drums and the crash of forges, and for a moment he was lost to the cacophony.

‘The Brass Citadel,’ a voice said from behind him. He turned to find Anhur waiting for him, axe hanging by his side, his sword sheathed on his hip. ‘It is some distance away — a continent’s length or perhaps an aeon’s span, I cannot say. It is different for every man.’ The red mist rose up, and voices whispered urgently in Orius’ head, urging him to attack, to slay his enemy. He closed his eyes and murmured a brief prayer to Sigmar.

‘I remember those words. Once, we spoke them together, did we not? On the eve of battle, we would kneel and beg him for victory, like mongrels begging for scraps,’ Anhur said. He spread his arms. ‘And now, here you are, still begging.’

‘Where are we?’ Orius said, his voice hoarse. It was hard to speak above a whisper. The air burned his throat and he could taste blood. ‘What is this place?’

‘The Field of the Slain, where the bones of all those killed by Khorne’s followers come to rest,’ Anhur said. The red mist swirled up around him, and Orius thought he could see the forms of mutilated warriors within its coils. The broken shapes struggled against one another before they vanished once more into the mist.

Orius shook his head and lifted his hammer. Behind him, he could hear the sour hum of the rift. It pulsed hungrily. Lean shapes loped past them through the mist. As they moved, it cleared momentarily, revealing rank upon rank of bloodletters. The daemonhost stretched as far as Orius’ eye could see to either side of Anhur. They moved so swiftly he could barely tell one rank from the next. They paid him no heed, galloping past with hideous screams which stung his ears to hear. Where they originated from he could not say, and he thought perhaps they came from the red mist itself.

‘Eight hundred and eighty-eight legions of the damned march into Klaxus through the wound I ripped in its heart,’ Anhur said. Orius heard the crunch of bone and turned, his mind and reflexes still sluggish. Anhur’s black axe slashed down, carving a gouge in his breastplate. Orius staggered back, belatedly bringing his weapons up. ‘Eight hundred and eighty-eight legions, at my command if I but take the reins of power,’ the Scarlet Lord said, slashing at him again. ‘A far cry from the pitiful scraps we led from Ytalan, eh Oros?’ Orius parried the blow with his runeblade, but only just. He felt as if his limbs were wrapped in weighted chains.

‘Fight back, damn you,’ Anhur roared. He smashed Orius to one knee, and knocked his runeblade from his hand. ‘Why do you not fight?’

Orius shook his head and forced himself to his feet, hammer in hand. With a cry, he lunged. Anhur avoided the blow and caught the Lord-Celestant’s hammer just behind the head. With a snarl he tore it from its wielder’s grasp, before backhanding Orius off his feet. ‘I’ve chosen my ground too well, it seems. You cannot bear the weight of Khorne’s realm,’ Anhur said. ‘No man can, without being — ah — without being changed.’

Orius clambered to his feet. He was weaponless. Behind him, the rift pulsed as daemons flowed through it to assail his warriors and the kingdom he had once called his own. The lethargy he’d felt began to fade.

The Scarlet Lord staggered and clutched at his head. ‘The sound of the drumbeat in my soul grows so loud I cannot tell where my thoughts end and those of the Blood God begin,’ he growled. His armour creaked and he hunched forward with a groan. ‘I grow mighty indeed, though it hurts. Was the pain of your rebirth like this, I wonder?’ He tossed Orius’ hammer aside. ‘Get up, Hound. Stand, so that we might end this as is fitting.’

Orius dived at his foe. Surprised, Anhur stepped back. Orius’ fingers found the hilt of the blade sheathed at Anhur’s hip and he tore it free of its sheath. He swung it, feeling the weight of the Klaxian blade as he drove Anhur back. The Scarlet Lord retreated, putting space between them.

‘Why are you running, Anhur? Did you not lead me here to kill me? Isn’t that what this was all in service of?’ Orius said. The mist coiled about him as he stepped towards his opponent. Anhur raised his axe in warning.

For a moment, the Scarlet Lord stared at him, as if trying to understand the question. Orius was about to challenge him again, when his foe spoke. ‘On this day I see clearly, for the first time since I fled Ytalan,’ Anhur said. ‘Everything has been revealed at last.’ He stepped back, axe lowered. ‘I see the world for what it is. We stand at the crux of all history, Oros. Here in this place, I can see every moment which led us here, every step, every choice.’ Anhur lifted his axe. ‘I can see every failure, every triumph, every regret… I see it all. I have shed oceans of blood and built mountains of skulls, but still… I am found wanting.’

Orius lifted the sword. ‘And?’ he said. He could hear nothing save the dull pulse of the Black Rift, and his own heartbeat. Or perhaps it was Anhur’s. The moment stretched. He could see his hammer, just out of the corner of his eye.

If he could get to it he believed that he could shatter the rift, though it might mean his doom. The hammers made for the Lord-Celestants of the Warrior Chambers were things of great potency, forged by Sigmar himself, and they contained the raw fury of Azyr within them. They could shatter even the mightiest of realmgates, and break the bonds between realms, no matter how ancient or sturdy. But to do so was to risk unleashing a force that not even a Stormcast could survive.

‘You should have let me die that day, Oros,’ Anhur said. ‘That was your great mistake. You did not see the monster crouched in my skin, and now it has grown too strong to deny.’ He lunged, axe screaming as it cut through the very fabric of the realm. Orius lifted his stolen sword to parry, knowing that it would not be strong enough to resist the bite of the black axe.

But at the last moment the axe twitched aside, and the blade sawed into his shoulder-plate. Acting on instinct, Orius whipped the sword around. Pulled his blow — why? he thought, as the sword slid easily between the plates of Anhur’s armour, into the inhuman flesh beneath. The Scarlet Lord staggered back with a groan. His axe tumbled from his hand to vanish into the red mist. He clutched at the hilt of the sword and sank down to one knee.

Orius whirled and snatched up his hammer. He sent the weapon flying towards the daemonic portal with every ounce of strength remaining to him. The weapon exploded as it struck the swirling void, unleashing a torrent of crackling blue lightning. Everywhere the bolts struck, blue flames shot up to engulf daemons or else drive them back. The Black Rift thrashed like a wild beast as its swirling darkness became shot through with veins of cleansing light. Through the cracks in its oily surface, Orius could see the citadel, and his warriors still battling the daemons that had emerged from the rift.

But as he started forward, he felt the reverberations of an earth-shaking tread. The Lord-Celestant turned, and saw something impossibly massive looming above him in the raw skies of the daemon realm. Its brass armour blazed like a hideous sun, and its enormous, hound-like muzzle was twisted in a monstrous leer. Eyes like colossal ruptured cysts gazed at him with inhuman hatred. In one talon it carried a black sword which still glowed with the heat of the dying universes in which it had been forged.

A voice that was at once the clangour of weapons striking armour and the screams of the dying bayed in his head, and he staggered. Whether it was the voice of the apparition or merely some strange echo of this place, he did not know. He clutched at his skull as fear and hatred warred within him. A berserk desire to hurl himself at the titanic apparition and die on its blade filled him, and he took an unconscious step forward.

‘No,’ Anhur growled. ‘No. No, Hound of Ytalan. This is not for you.’ A bloody hand fell on Orius’ shoulder and he found himself wrenched back. Anhur had torn the sword from his body and now held its dripping length in one hand. The Scarlet Lord pushed him towards the dying rift. ‘Klaxus-that-was is dead. And so too must its last prince — its last king — die. But not you, Oros. You pulled me from the edge of doom, and now, I do the same for you.’

‘Anhur…’ Orius began. For the first time in a long time, he recognised the eyes that looked at him from within the black iron helm of the Scarlet Lord. They were not the eyes of a blood-mad monster, but those of a true lord of Klaxus — arrogant and cold, but human.

‘This is my apotheosis, my brother,’ Anhur said, as he turned to face the gigantic monstrosity which watched them, its bestial head cocked, as if in curiosity. It had made no move to intervene, though Orius knew that if it had chosen to do so, no force in existence could have prevented it. Instead it waited… and watched.

Anhur laughed. ‘I could not go into the dark of eternity, knowing that our debt remained unpaid. You should have let me die then. And I should kill you now. But I am Anhur, Prince of Ytalan, and I pay my debts. Thus, I am purged of weakness. Thus, I prove my worth.’ He held up the bloody sword, as if studying his reflection. ‘I am strong again, for the first time, for the last time. Victory, at the cost of pain. Go, Oros,’ Anhur said. ‘My destiny is in this place, in this moment, but yours is not — GO!’

Orius hesitated, but only for a moment more. As he stepped through the contracting corona of the rift, he turned and saw Prince Anhur of Ytalan raise his sword, as if in homage, or perhaps in challenge to the monstrous apparition. He saw that colossal black blade rise and the dog-like muzzle gape in a howl powerful enough to snuff out stars. The blade fell, and the reverberations of its descent shattered the Black Rift.

Time split and stretched about him as he fought his way towards safety. Shards of sorcerous obsidian struck his armour and spun away into the howling void which gaped hungrily behind him. Daemons clawed at him, trying vainly to anchor themselves before they too were ripped shrieking back into Khorne’s realm. Eight hundred and eighty-eight legions worth of Khorne’s foul minions slipped past him and were drawn screaming into darkness.

Orius saw moments from his past and future, all running parallel to one another as he stretched his hand out towards the light of reality. He saw battles he had fought and those he would fight, alongside figures from myth. He heard the voice of doom reverberating through the Eight Realms, and the thunder of Ghal Maraz as it descended from on high. He felt the crush of a blow that had, that would, kill him, and the searing pain of rebirth. He heard the bellows of Khorne, roaring in fury, or perhaps satisfaction.

And then, suddenly, he was falling to crash down amidst the newly laid carpet of ashes which covered the floor of the ruined chamber. Smoke rose from his scorched armour, and he could feel it burning his flesh, even as it cooled. Orius shoved himself to one knee and looked around. The great chamber was in a shambolic state. Only a few of the support pillars remained standing, and vast sections of the roof had collapsed, leaving the floor covered in immense chunks of stone. Only a few Stormcasts remained, leaning wearily on their weapons. They jerked upright at his sudden arrival, and began moving towards him, crying out gladly.

‘I expected to have to say the Incantation of the Fallen for you,’ Moros said. The Lord-Relictor’s armour was dented in places and streaked with wide stripes of ash. Smoke still wreathed his blackened gauntlets, and he moved as if in pain. But he was alive. As far as Orius was concerned, that was all that mattered. Moros stretched out one smoking hand and Orius caught it. The Lord-Relictor grunted, and clutched at his chest as he did so.

‘What happened?’ Orius said as he helped Moros to his feet.

‘We won. The daemon-tide is gone, as if it never was.’

‘The rift?’

Moros gestured. ‘You’d know better than I. It too has ceased to be. What of the Scarlet Lord? Did you leave his corpse in whatever foul realm was beyond those black facets?’

Orius hesitated, uncertain of how to answer the Lord-Relictor’s question. Was Anhur truly dead, or did he yet live, in some fashion? He thought of the monstrous shape he’d seen superimposed over Anhur’s form as they entered the rift, and the Scarlet Lord’s talk of debts and worth. He had a nagging sensation that whatever the outcome of the battle for Klaxus, Anhur had achieved the victory he desired. Instead of saying any of this, however, he simply nodded. ‘Anhur is no more,’ he said. ‘The skullgrinder?’

Moros jerked his head towards a blackened crater near the chamber’s centre. Orius saw the remains of a chain and what might have once been an anvil, now warped and blackened as if by a great heat. ‘Whether dead, or spirited away to wherever such abominations go when they are wounded, I do not know. And in truth, I cannot say that I care at the moment. He is gone, and that’s enough.’

Orius nodded and said, ‘But what of the rest of our brethren?’ Gripped by a sudden urgency, he strode towards the shattered doors of the chamber and made his way out onto the high terraces of the Sulphur Citadel. The broken bodies of Bloodbound lay sprawled across the steps and ramparts. Ash stained everything, marking where the daemons had been wrenched from reality. Overhead, dark clouds swelled in the sky, and an untainted rain had begun to fall upon Uryx once more.

Through a haze of rain and smoke, he saw that the storm had at last quenched the conflagration which threatened to consume the city and that, far below, the Bridge of Smoke had been shattered. On the far shore, the battered remnants of a golden host stood unbroken, weapons raised as they cheered their victory. He saw a familiar figure standing at their centre, halberd raised in triumph.

Moros came up behind him and clasped his shoulder. ‘Gorgus held, as he swore. Uryx still stands, and Klaxus with it. Now maybe, the rain can wash away the filth. Whatever enemies remain in this city, we shall root them out. The storm has broken, and the people of this kingdom can rebuild. We will help them do so.’

‘And so we shall. But first, we must free the other crater-kingdoms,’ Orius said. ‘Anhur is gone, but his followers yet remain. There are foes before us yet, Moros. Darkness gathers. Our work is not yet done.’ He stretched out his hand, so that the rain could wash the stained sigmarite clean. ‘We have triumphed here, but there can be no respite. Not for us, not yet,’ Orius Adamantine said. ‘The Black Rift is closed, but our war has only just begun.’

As he spoke, the cleansing rain spilled down across the steps of the Sulphur Citadel, to wash the last trace of the ashes away. Somewhere, distant thunder rumbled. Lightning flashed.

The storm swept on.

Call of Chaos

David Guymer

Godless

Then

‘How long has it been, Jago?’

The old hermit that the Darvish hillmen called the Daemon Oracle wore a cloak of tamed shadow and spider-silk with the hood pulled close, obscuring his face but for the tip of his nose, the crescent-moon of his chin, and the dolorous timbre of his voice. The skin was scale-dry and blueish. He was cross-legged in the cave’s corner, the shadowed bowl of his hood drinking up the eerie fire. It gave off no warmth, no light. It wavered like a plant in a dark wind, a thing of oil and Ulgu.

‘How long has it been since such colour walked into the Tattered Lands?’ the Oracle asked.

Shahleah waited restlessly on bent knee, one arm lain across her armour’s golden lacquer. The sculpted piece depicted birds in flight, beasts at play, men and women in passion. The Oracle’s odd fire found every depression and crack, every lustfully staring eye and gluttonous mouth, and filled it with shadow. What was gold became brown, what was silver, tarnished, what was purple, deeper than black. The fine detail work was crusted with the grit of a long road, but it was once and always fine. Her ornate longsword rested point down, held in her other hands by the meandering fuller.

As was her way, she — and though verbal language lacked the nuance to describe, much less define, her gender, of late she felt like being a she — thought long and carefully before answering.

‘I’ll ask them, Jago,’ the Oracle muttered to the shadow-flame while Shahleah considered. Then he stopped whispering and appeared to listen. The fire flexed and flickered. Following the eerie exchange, she felt the dull, familiar absence in her heart. The Oracle looked up, eyes hidden, a row of pointed teeth catching the non-light and glinting. ‘What power brings you here, pilgrim?’

‘My own,’ Shahleah returned at once.

‘You misunderstand, you misunderstand. She misunderstands, Jago. This is perilous country for Seekers to walk without favour. To whom do you pray is what I mean. We are curious. When you are sore-pressed, when the road is run, when enemies abound and you wish with all your being for hellfire upon them, on whom — or on what — do you call?’

An ursine grunt rumbled from the cave’s entrance as Cruciax of the Blunted Knives stirred. ‘You are the Oracle. You should tell us.’

‘And if I cannot?’

‘Then we have other uses for those that have none. More… pleasant uses.’

Again that shadowed flash of grin under the cowl.

‘And when you call upon such powers?’ Shahleah interrupted. ‘Do they answer?’

‘Sometimes they do. Sometimes they don’t,’ came the Oracle’s reply.

‘Perhaps I have less need of such aid. Perhaps I would refuse it were it offered.’

The Oracle leaned forward and emitted a hiss of laughter. ‘And yet you search for Him.’

‘That is how the game is played. It runs its course and at the end it is won or it is lost.’

The ache that beat beneath her breast pained her again for a moment. It detested the stillness, the quietude. It urged her with its palpitations to scour these mountains on hands and knees and never be still.

‘I know games, Seeker,’ said the Oracle, ‘Jago and I play them often, and we know our part in yours, oh yes we do.’

An eerie whistle broke the Oracle’s meandering flow, and the hermit drew a spouted black iron pot from a tripod set up over the ivory flames. The scream gurgled away as he poured a turgid soup into a spidershell cup, thick steam hissing out to cloy at the cave’s walls.

‘This is a waste of time,’ Cruciax growled again.

Shahleah turned to glance over her sculptured pauldron.

Three of her most exalted champions hung just in from the wind under the cave’s craggy mouth, with Cruciax at the front. He was moodily tattooed in purples and blues that looked like bruises, clad half in ringed mail and half in the belts, buckles and straps that held it up and from which spikes of various different lengths and types protruded both outward and in.

Behind him and to his right, Prefuria stood straight and silent as the exotic, pincer-bladed lance in her hand. A fine dusting of gold around her face and her fingernails elevated her flawless good looks towards a personal apogee of perfection.

The third champion would surely, in other company, have been the first to catch the eye. Hel’ein’s beauty was staggering, but of a desperate, clutching kind. Her eyes drowned in yellow kohl. Her spiked hair razored back and forth in the wind. Her delicate short swords she held tight to her breast, and her cloak fluted over a suit of mirror-scales with hundreds of furtive, self-hating little caresses.

In any warband devoted to the Chaos powers, a leader governed by fear and respect, with patronage bestowed in divine favour and bought with glory. Not her. She led because no one else cared to. It wasn’t even apathy. They had their passions, their own ways of giving praise, but none like hers.

Cruciax’s eyes bulged from his hairless, painted face. They were full of pain, the memory of it and the hope of it, as he implored her. ‘He is a schemer. He won’t help us.’

‘The search has led us here,’ said Shahleah over her shoulder, and turned back to the Oracle. ‘We followed the flight of a one-winged raven into the high lands and across the river, and thence slaughtered the Darvish in a night of revels that turned the sky pink with omens, like a sunrise in a land of shadow. That trail we took, and it led us here.’

‘Can you help us?’ said Hel’ein, her whisper mouse-like.

‘We can,’ said the Oracle, slapping dry lips and slurping on his steaming spidershell. ‘I have seen the nightworld and spoken with shadow. I have mastered the ways of the not-yet-been. But such aid is not without price, and even with my guidance, you will need to call upon my aid. The Tattered Lands are deadly, doubly so for your kind that goes alone.’

‘Our kind?’

Shahleah asked the question, but she knew the answer already — both were steps of a long, arduous, but ultimately glorious game that had to be followed through if she was to keep on playing.

The Oracle cackled and took a slurp of broth. ‘The Godless.’

Now

The Tattered Lands were a place of vast, jagged peaks that shredded the clouds into inky rags and ripped them across a dim moon. The highest peak had no name — it was enough to know simply that it was the highest, and had taken the Seekers no more than a week of hard walking to reach from the Darvish Highlands and the abode of the Daemon Oracle. Weathered lumps of ancient stonework clawed up from the black grasses like the fingers of the anguished dead, the outskirts of what had once been a sprawling temple. For any of those features might the place have earned the name ‘the Tattered Lands’, but the epithet was for the torn, ragged souls that lingered in its ruins.

At first, Shahleah had thought they were shadows. Shahleah had led her Seekers from the mountainside and through the cracked frame of the long-rotted city gates, and from the moment they had stepped inside, they had been followed. They clung to walls, slipped around corners, had no faces. Many were shaped as men, but just as many, on furtive inspection, were not. They were hulking shapes, horns and tusks and plates, bodies out of all proportion to anything that could cast such a shadow.

There was no light. No sun, no moon, no stars. And yet they were all around them, inside every ruin and under every buried street. Before Shahleah had realised that they were more than mere shadows, they were surrounded.

And without a sound, they had struck.

The sword that came for her was as black as an eclipse, as difficult to place as a ghost’s hatred. It projected a chill, a bitter sharpness that required no physical edge with which to cut.

Shahleah bent back until her gauntlet knuckles caught her on the black marble flags. The blade whispered across her. She arched back up with a push of her supporting arm, spun away from a second darting sliver of chill, and stabbed back. Her undulating blade opened up the revenant’s chest and tore its shadow into the wind. She shrieked with satisfaction.

‘Come to me, shadow of mine!’ cried Hel’ein, somewhere close.

If asked before today, Shahleah would not have been able to say how you killed a shadow, but the conventional tools seemed to apply, and it was too late to think about it now. The second was still on her, and more slid silently in as she backed away from it.

These were all similarly man-shaped, but hunched and powerful, their shoulders armoured and spiked and their jaws heavy. Their weapons were similarly massive, the dark mirror of implements made for bludgeoning rather than aesthetic cutting. A dozen or more of them came at her at once, and she fended them off with a beguiling sequence of parries, each one a masterstroke rendered in gold.

The thrill of her situation made her heart beat fast. She was alive. Whatever value that life had, she favoured it over the only alternative. Even now.

Especially now.

A great blade wrapped in monstrous hands plunged towards her shoulder. She turned it aside on her vambrace and clasped her sword two-handed. With a word of power, the serpentine blade flickered into purpled flame. She filigreed the air with it. Shadows melted into ecstatic puddles as their constituent substance surrendered itself to the blade’s lust.

Each time the weapon’s daemon was unleashed, the effect it provoked was lessened. One day it would just be a sword, but that very impermanence was a gift that made it burn all the hotter.

With a sigh of sympathetic elation, she leapt onto a crumbling fountain and looked around. The decrepit marble monument was the centrepiece of a crossroads about two-thirds of the way up into the fallen city that the Oracle had sent them to. Rubble highways bore off onto streets lined with crumbling glories and packed with shadow. Cracked walls and gaping roofs spiked the mountain slope for several miles all around, the occasional tower or temple spire rising up to the tattered clouds. This place had once been great.

‘More!’ Cruciax bellowed. ‘More!’

Great sweeps of his bloodied chain smashed through the tide of shadow, but every so often he paused, as if on purpose, took the hit to his unarmoured quarter that his abrupt halt invited, then let rip a howl of agony and plunged back into the fray. His followers fought in the same bruising style. They were as tough as any blightking, vicious as any Goresworn berserker, but many were already dead or else crying out for the Dark Prince to reveal Himself for their final suffering.

On the other side of the fountain, surrounded by the pants and yells of her acolytes, Hel’ein’s twin swords clove shadows as if they were rags unbecoming of a queen. Her thralls screamed desperate praises, loud as mortal throats could — they cried their joy at the aural revelation that was steel on cold night and the symphonic grind of boots over marble. Hel’ein herself issued a moan, tongue pressed against the back of her teeth, and practically begged absent Slaanesh to come forth and witness her orgiastic fury.

The last road, which wound further up into the mountains, was held by Prefuria and her warband, Shahleah’s brilliantly armoured elite — the Godless.

Individually and collectively, they were perfect. Every warrior was a thing of beauty, clad in gold that had been etched, fretted, enamelled, and damascened to within an inch of its base utility. Together, they were collective worship through the perfection of form and action, the collaborative exigency of holy violence.

Shahleah brought up her sword and shouted a prayer. In the heat of the moment, it no longer mattered that no one heard. She picked her target.

A forked tongue of virile incandescence lashed across the crossroads and obliterated a pack of shadows that had been circling around behind the backs of the Godless through the skeletal frame of an ancient structure that leaned into the square.

At the same moment, a shade circled behind Cruciax and struck.

The warrior cried out and gasped as the shadow-knife passed through his back and erupted from his chest in a spattering of gelid gore. He looked at her, his eyes thanking her for not intervening. She returned it with a smile. They all had their own parts to play, and she would deal with the consequences as they came. That was the game.

Cruciax’s cry turned to bubbling laughter as the blade was withdrawn. It became a howl of unsatiated torment as one of his warriors cut the shadow down before the task was complete. The furious cry spread throughout his followers, and then into Hel’ein’s — the so-called Exendentals — as the shadows slowly broke off their attack and slunk back into their city. Hel’ein herself wept at the shallow and short-lived pleasure.

Prefuria pointed up the road she had defended. She didn’t speak. There, beyond the steepled black rooftops, the plated bronze minaret of the Astrosanct shone gloomily against the pervading dark.

Then

‘The shadows keep their own secrets,’ said the Oracle, waving a scaly hand over the lightless fire. The flickering shadows it gave off coiled about his fingers like worms pulled wriggling out of the ground. ‘That was why the Astrosanct was placed here in the Tattered Lands.’

‘Will we find Him there?’

Cruciax brooded by the cave’s near wall, at times appearing to admire the atavistic cave art, but always edging ever closer to where the Oracle sat behind his fire. The length of chain he carried rattled as he fed it through his hands, looped it, pulled it taut, let it go. Nothing so painless as a blade for Cruciax.

‘Do you think He could be so close and you would not feel it? Perhaps you would not, at that. How can we imagine what it is like to be like you?’

Cruciax growled, his chain taut. The Oracle sipped noisily at his broth.

‘Who built it?’ asked Shahleah.

‘An astute question, eh, Jago? She shows promise, this one.’ He looked up from his shadow-bound fingers and found Shahleah. He seemed amused. ‘Perhaps when your soul tires of your search, you might offer it to a master who values such qualities in his servants.’

‘I said who.’

‘I do not know,’ said the Oracle, as though ignorance was a rare gift. ‘It was already long ruined when I came here in search of solitude, and that was before the Age of Chaos. The talk of the wind is that it was here long before a world was raised beneath it. But the wind tells tall tales, is that not so, Jago?’

The shadow he addressed shifted but did not answer.

‘What is it for?’ asked Shahleah.

‘It is an observatory.’

‘Of what?’

The Oracle cackled. ‘Of everything. This is the darkest corner of a very dark realm. What light is here is light that you bring with you, and little of it escapes.’ He wrapped scaly fingers around his steaming spidershell and looked up into rapt, desperate faces. ‘The old priests viewed things from across the realms and from times long before the realms were made. The shadows of those things are in the Astrosanct still. That is what it is for. Nothing escapes.’

‘You mean—’

‘I mean that even I do not know where Slaanesh is, and you will not find him in the Tattered Lands, but if you can say with certainty that he existed at all, then you may yet catch his shadow.’

Now

The Astrosanct occupied the temple-city’s highest promontory; only a few hundred feet of shadow-weathered rock climbed further above the hemispherical courtyard that housed the observatory. The strange apparatus of the Astrosanct dominated the site. It was a minaret, comprised of brass plates assembled into interlocking spirals. Each plate was rendered with impenetrable pictographic script, beautiful in its complexity. Shahleah wondered how this awesome instrument must have appeared in use, crowded by priests and scholars, those spirals clanking past one another like the gear wheels of a world clock.

The impression faded and what she saw instead were shadows. She readied her blade, but these did not move. They were the shadows cast by the Astrosanct itself — the moon and stars, though skeined by this world’s layering shadow, were free enough above the cloud layer to shine.

The Seekers spread out over the courtyard, following the circumference of the boundary walls, as Shahleah and Cruciax made a line for the Astrosanct.

Those walls were also of brass and also beautiful. Shahleah caught sight of one of the Exendentals staring, entranced, at one such segment depicting a bulky saurian in a golden headdress.

‘I could imagine the Prince of Pain residing in such a place,’ Cruciax muttered grudgingly. Even he was intimidated by the spiritual oppression that hung over the observatory.

Shahleah nodded and continued on to the Astrosanct.

The base of the apparatus was a puzzle of rings and cogs and ideograms that seemed to hark to some other world entirely. A place of sun and jungle and reptilian monsters. In several places there were depressible panels marked with hieroglyphic designs. She pressed some at random. Nothing happened. Cruciax joined her, picking dried blood from his chain with the fingernail of his un-armoured hand.

It had not acquired the blood in this mausoleum city, Shahleah knew.

Not all of Slaanesh’s followers sought after their lost purpose as she did. Did Cruciax or Hel’ein know that their own despairing efforts to rouse their absent god might have cost them this chance? Who could say? The game was unpredictable — that was the glory of it. Shahleah suspected that the Prince of Excess would have had it no other way, and another opportunity lost would give her little sorrow.

‘We should have brought the Oracle,’ Cruciax grunted.

‘Maybe next time.’

Turning around, she looked over the twilit courtyard for any further sign of how the Astrosanct might be operated, or where the shadows it had collected in aeons past might be found.

Shapes twisted and coiled around the wall that circumscribed the courtyard, but always on the other side, as though the pictograms upon the walls somehow prevented them from passing. It was then that Shahleah noticed that even her own shadow had abandoned her. She shivered deliciously.

All around the courtyard, seeing that there was nothing for them here, her warriors dropped to their knees in lamentation. Some celebrated, revelling in the sensation of denial.

‘Be alert,’ she hissed, eyes on the shadows and the walls that held them back. She had the uncanny sense that they were not alone.

There was a throb in her temple, a flex in the penumbral skein, and a section of the boundary wall appeared to turn semi-molten and bulge as though pushed at from the other side. A wave of starlight breached the weakened barrier and a hulking saurian warrior, clad in bone and silver plate and wielding a feathered spear, stepped through.

The wall sealed seamlessly behind it in a snap of interlocking brass. At the same moment, a cold-blooded consciousness pressed its way into hers. There were no words, just pictures and sensations, a string of hieroglyphs etched in brilliant, brilliant pain into her mind. She saw searing light, tiered ziggurats of gold peopled by feathered priests, their servants, and their warrior cohorts. She felt isolation. Abandonment. Silent suffering. A final icon appeared. Two symbols, one of sun, one of moon, that she intuitively put together into a name.

Eclipse.

She snapped out of the communion with a stumble and slid her blade from its scabbard. Two-score more of these seraphon had emerged from the wall at intervals around them. Surrounded. With gut-wrenching roars, the glittering saurus warriors lumbered into a charge that crushed the grieving Seekers before them.

Cruciax turned with a cry and sprinted to meet the nearest saurian. Hel’ein called for her warriors. Prefuria did both with the hum of her pincer-barbed spear.

Shahleah ignored them. She had marked their leader, as he had marked her.

Amongst the first to have emerged, he was a head taller than his warriors, as they were a head taller than her. His scales were a pale, time-worn grey. Heavy plates of platinum inscribed with the phases of the moon encased his powerful body. The mace in his huge, sledgehammer fist was silver with spikes radiating from it like coronal filaments.

Eclipse, too, was beautiful in his way.

The ancient saurus built up speed as he charged, barging down first one of Cruciax’s warriors, then another, and then Cruciax himself, beaten aside like a leaf against the armoured prow of a ship as the oldblood swept up his mace. Only once Cruciax was down, his turn expended, did Shahleah act.

The saurus was still several sword-lengths away as she struck down with her blade and spoke the word to awaken its lingering daemonic essence. A pink ribbon of energy tongued forwards. Eclipse dropped a shoulder and raised an arm, his war-plate clearly hardened against magic in some way as the lash splattered against his vambrace.

It affected him though, even if only slightly, the potent wards almost overcome by the inimicality of the sensations being forced on his cold-blooded body.

‘It is a daily torment, is it not, to be left alone?’ she said, as she drew up her sword, taking the last thunderous second to set herself to receive the charge.

With a roar of rage the silver-clad juggernaut slammed into her. For a moment, it felt as if the layers of her armour had been pressed together and driven into her chest like a hammer. She felt her feet leave the ground. For a second she flew. She landed on tiptoes, already back-pedalling, bleeding off the unwanted momentum. She whipped up her sword and smiled.

‘You must take pleasure where you find it.’

The heat taken out of his attack, Eclipse launched his mace at her instead, a swing that would have taken her head had she not been deft enough to step away and nudge it over. She turned with the parry and countered. Her blade scratched along the outside of the seraphon’s vambrace. Eclipse elbowed it contemptuously aside and delivered a punch in the mouth that sent her staggering backwards with a red smile.

She felt giddy, as though if she were killed now, she might just float away. Then, maybe, she would find Him. Her heart beat so hard she could barely hear.

The saurus came on with an overhead sweep intended to turn her into paste. She angled her blade across her shoulder and knocked the blow aside, creating the space to land a blow of her own. Her free hand made a lurid series of gestures as she punched the saurus’ armoured gut.

The aethyr blast erupted against Eclipse’s belly, lifted him off the ground and hurled him back. He smashed into the Astrosanct, the ancient apparatus buckling under his enormous mass and pinning him in place. Eclipse gave a roar of frustration, and the other saurus echoed it. Throwing caution aside, they hurled themselves at the remaining Seekers with an uncaring, empty fury.

They fought more like the Seekers themselves.

Shahleah strode towards the trapped oldblood as his warriors were cut down by blade and chain, dying in bursts of light. He struggled and bellowed, but the bent metal plating held him fast. Cruciax stumbled over to join Shaleah, wiping blood off his face and carrying what appeared to be a broken shoulder to add to his ruptured lung and dozen-or-so other slights. He eyed the struggling saurus with the same self-destructive hunger she saw in them all. His voice broke as he turned to her.

‘It is over. How much must we suffer for Him before He will stop denying us?’

Shahleah shrugged and beheaded the still-defiant Eclipse with a sweep of her blade. Starlight fell for the final time on this holy place, forgotten by its gods, as his corpse dissipated wispily into the sky.

Then, as ever

‘Which brings us to what we want.’

The Oracle drew himself up until he sat almost upright, down-curved nose and up-curved chin pincering the fire’s non-light like a scaly blue claw. ‘What I want. We will be the first to converse with Slaanesh when you find him.’

‘No,’ said Shahleah, firmly, without wanting or needing to explain why.

‘No,’ growled Cruciax at almost the exact same time.

Prefuria tightened her grip on her spear until it squeaked, and from beside her, a moment later, the fragile echo, ‘No.’

‘Can you speak with the shadow?’ asked the Oracle. ‘Have you spent two full ages of this world learning their secret ways? I would ask them the answer, but this is no secret knowledge and I fear that they would laugh.’ He hissed. ‘I despise their laughter.’ He snapped his hooded gaze to where Cruciax moved towards him around the edge of the cave wall. ‘Do not think me alone, Seeker. Do not think me vulnerable. I am not like you. I am never alone.’

‘No,’ Hel’ein repeated softly, unnoticed.

‘Try me.’ Cruciax’s chain was garrotte-wire tight. ‘Your pain or mine, do you think I care?’

‘I care,’ said Shahleah. ‘The decision is mine.’

Cruciax bared his bloody gums and snarled at her from the corner of his mouth. ‘You do not find the Prince of Pain by looking. He does not lie in some temple waiting to be found. He must be invoked. He must be appeased.’ His eyes appeared to expand as his neck took the tension in his chain. Punishment spikes bit into his swelling musculature until its powerful definition was made red with blood. The metal links groaned one against the next. ‘Your pain or mine, Tzeentchian.’

For a moment, the Oracle said nothing. The air grew cold. Shahleah felt a throbbing in her temple, and frost began to pick along the grime crusting her plate. Vapour billowed from Cruciax’s mouth.

‘What say you, Jago: our pain…’ The fire set in front of him shivered and began to mutate, taking on the shape of something spine-tailed and avian, like a one-winged raven. ‘Or his?’

The shadow familiar flashed across the room like an arrow. Cruciax swung at it but it took him under the chest, picked him up and pushed him back against the wall. He struggled and cursed, but the shadow pinned him there. The Oracle cackled.

‘No!’

Shahleah turned towards the scream. Hel’ein was already halfway across the cave. By the time the Oracle had turned as well, the woman had her swords drawn.

‘He is my flesh, my passion,’ she said. ‘He is my Dark Prince. He will not heed callow words.’

The Oracle choked and brought up a scaled hand. ‘Changer, here my pr—’

Hel’ein cut it off at the wrist, then impaled him through the heart with the follow-through of her other blade. ‘No,’ she hissed, and stabbed him again in the belly, lifting him off the ground. ‘No.’ She withdrew both blades and he fell in a heap. He gurgled wetly, smearing the stump of his arm on the ground, and Hel’ein dropped down to straddle him, fending off his hand and raising her swords. ‘No. No. No.’

‘Wait,’ wheezed Cruciax. The tattooed man staggered towards them. Bits of residual shadow clung to him and claw-marks hatched the unarmoured quarters of his torso. He brandished his chain. His hands were so slippery with his own blood that he had it wrapped around both fists to keep it held. ‘Let him suffer.’

Shahleah took a deep breath and quietly sheathed her sword.

‘Are you going to stop them?’ spoke Prefuria haltingly, her voice deep and imperfect.

‘The game will play as it plays. It has happened, and we will face what consequences we must.’

‘And what if he is right? What if we need him to find Slaanesh’s shadow?’

A slow and pleasant smile spread across the Godless’ face as she gave the question due consideration. ‘Then we will keep on looking.’

Gav Thorpe

The Lord of the Cosmic Gate

‘And unto the ninth positional lies the gradient of the damned, invested by the decayed septet of the incongruent ratio…’ muttered Rikjard of the Many Numbers. He consulted his grimoire of archaic formulae, flicking through the tattered pages with fingers tipped with bird talons. Though his claws made it easier to gouge the faces from the foes of all-blessed Tzeentch, the clarity of Rikjard’s notations had suffered since the All-seeing Master had seen fit to gift him with such digits. ‘Ah, here it is, with the Conglomerations of Aesthetics. Aelf-lore, ripped from the mind of their great calculist himself, Narruthias of Telemor.’

Beside him, its head no higher than his waist, Rikjard’s thautomaton familiar buzzed and clicked. The lensed eyes looking up at him reflected a moon-round face and scalp feathered in a rainbow of colours. Innards composed of tiny, ratcheted wheels whirred as the thautomaton raised its four dagger-tipped arms and tipped its head to one side. Black sparks of corrupted energy flashed along wire-veins and sparkled on the edges of its serrated killblades.

‘Yes, soon enough,’ Rikjard told his artificial companion. ‘The field of battle awaits.’

The sleeve of his robe slid back as he raised a hand to encompass their surrounds, the material like fish scales, tinkling gently with the movement. His gesture swept across a landscape of polygonal hills and valleys, curving upwards without a horizon to form the inner surface of a sphere. At the centre, far above his head, eight small stars revolved around each other in complex orbits. If he could but align them he would open the Cosmic Gate, the fabled Panoramicon that led into the heart of Tzeentch’s domain.

Walls and towers of many-coloured crystal littered the lands of the Thousand Portals, refracting, reflecting and channelling the light of the Chaos suns to create bridges of rainbows, shadow-gates and half-seen castles of chromatic power.

In the far distance, if it could be called such in a self-enclosed globe of reality, another shape lingered on the edge of vision — an immense vista of endless curtain walls and bastions, glass-sided towers and crystalline monoliths. The Crystal Labyrinth of Tzeentch, abode of the Great Architect itself, to which the Thousand Portals had once been a mere outer bastion.

Rikjard stepped to one side, just a few paces, but his view changed completely in those steps. The juxtaposition of light and dark, the play of illumination through the prismatic landscape shifted everything, creating forests of ruby-leaved trees and lakes of shimmering gold fed by a river that frothed over angular rocks of marble-like stone. The vision beyond changed also, revealing a new facade of the Crystal Labyrinth that lay beyond the Halosphere — the mystical boundary that both powered and imprisoned the energies of the Thousand Portals.

‘Beautiful…’ murmured Rikjard. The thautomaton juddered slightly, its part-mechanical, part-magical brain unable to process the concept.

With a simple incantation, Rikjard drew forth his army from where they waited in the Cascading Rocks in the realm of Chamon. The tramp of many feet and the jingle of war harnesses accompanied their arrival. Knights riding steeds armoured in shimmering silver scales led the vanguard, their lances tipped with nine-tailed pennants in red and purple. They wore all-enclosing plate, black as granite, decorated with curlicues of gold and studded with gems that glowed with inner fire. Full helms, topped with crests in the shapes of dragonets-rampant and rearing serpents, hid their faces, the gleam of red and blue lighting the shadows within their visors.

The heavy cavalry wheeled as a single regiment towards Rikjard, while the mounted warriors behind broke into smaller groups, fanning out across the ridgeline and into the steep-sided valley in front. They wore brightly patterned tunics strengthened with hexagonal scales or tight-ringed mail. Their horses snorted vapour in the cold of the Thousand Portals, leaving trails of mist in their wake.

The infantry came next, a seemingly unending line of men and women dedicated to Tzeentch. Clad in myriad styles of armour and costume, they were drawn from across seventeen regions of the Realm of Shadow and the Realm of Metal. The homes they had left behind were now no more than blasted wildernesses in the wake of Rikjard’s infernal crusade. Some were hulking fighters wholly devoted to the service of the Great Architect, but many others were tribal warriors sworn to Tzeentch only by their allegiance to Rikjard.

With them came beasts, some nearly recognisable, others monstrously mutated caricatures of their former bodies. Strange things squawked and lumbered, flapped and shrieked before the goads and whips of beastmasters, flanked by the rumbling scythed wheels of chariots whose drivers wore masks fashioned in the likeness of golden hawks.

Every fighter, whether smooth-limbed, armoured behemoth or twisted spawn, was bound in loyalty to Rikjard. Upon their brows or set into their chests, each being sworn to Tzeentch was marked by a fist-sized gem, many-faceted, glinting with every colour of the spectrum. Each stone emitted a wisp of black smoke, as though it still seared the flesh with which it had been magically fused. Legend from Rikjard’s birthplace, the Chasms of the Endless Pyre, said that the gems were blood drops from the cosmic serpent itself, shed when Tzeentch duelled with the titanic star-beast. Each one turned into a stone when it fell into the Mortal Realms, and they were scattered far and wide through time and space. They were both reward and threat, granting the boon of Tzeentch to the bearer, yet bidding them to obey the will of the Great Architect’s chosen lord.

To prove his dedication to the Ever-Changing Overlord, Rikjard had laboured for half a lifetime. Recovering so many drakestones from the ashes of his homeland had been an arduous task, for which he had been rewarded with Tzeentch’s mark. Yet this task had been just the first of many near-impossible feats Rikjard had achieved to earn his current status.

Rikjard did not like the term ‘minions’ — it demeaned the great conquests and accomplishments of his subordinates — but in truth that was their role. Many thought they might accompany him through the veil of the Halosphere and into the Night of Eternal Knowledge, but such belief was a delusion — one that Rikjard had not spent any effort to dispel, it was true.

Only one could make that journey. The mystical formulae were singularly specific in that respect. All calculations returned with a value of one — no more, no less, no fraction or multiple thereof.

And Rikjard would stand in that place and look upon the wonder of all the realms and know the last piece of the Eternal Equation set forth by Tzeentch to bind the universe together. With such power, Rikjard believed even Archaon and his possession of the Allpoints would be rendered inconsequential.

‘We risk much,’ Rikjard told his uncomprehending mechanical bodyguard. ‘The gods themselves have elevated the Everchosen above us. They have tried already to thwart my ambition, but their resistance only strengthens me, for is not all ambition the sweetmeat of glorious Tzeentch? To climb above Archaon is to stand directly in the gaze of the Great Powers. My patron, my saviour, cosmic Tzeentch shall be preeminent, all others laid to slavery before the all-consuming will of the Ultimate Arbiter, and I shall be the Right Hand of Illuminated Destiny.’

A crackle of flames and a flicker of colourful shadows betrayed the presence of another creature arriving at Rikjard’s shoulder. He did not turn immediately, but continued to admire the view as the glorious construct-world resolved into new forms with the slightest tilt of the head or sway of the body.

‘How do you see it? Is it as magnificent to your daemon eyes?’ he asked, finally glancing back at Tzarathoth, the Tzeentchian herald that commanded Rikjard’s immortal allies. It was almost humanoid in appearance, an ever-shifting form of multicoloured fire and wreathing magical vortices. When the daemon replied, its voice sounded like a distant shriek echoing through a small space.

‘It is anathema to us,’ said Tzarathoth. ‘The reviled star-crawlers have broken it. When they took the Thousand Portals from beneath the gaze of All-Seeing Tzeentch they cursed it, damned it to this perpetual darkness of unillumination. This is not the light of the Universal Inconstant, but the burning of the stars of benighted Azyr.’

‘When the Panoramicon is open, all shall fall beneath the gaze of the Great Changer once more,’ said Rikjard. He consulted a different page in the Metamathicron. ‘According to my Theory of Interstability, declining Azyr and ascendant Chamon with a partial revealing of Ghur is the perfect moment to strike. When the Celestial constellations are dispersed, their power will be weakened and the Starmasters will be sluggish and slow to respond.’

Blinking slit-pupil eyes, Rikjard surveyed the landscape with a more dispassionate gaze. He calculated the inclines and vectors of the converging light rays, triangulating the intersections in a nine-dimensional mystical framework. The Cosmic Gate was no simple realmgate; it was not merely a bridge between two locations. It was a hallway that led between any realm, and into the domains of almighty Tzeentch. Like its godly creator, it was ever-changing — by the time one knew the direction from which it might be entered, its orientation had changed. The Eternal Equation held the answer to predicting the infinitely complex sequence required to ensnare the energies of the Halosphere and force open the Cosmic Gate.

‘There! From that focal point I can make the breach.’ Rikjard indicated a shimmering hill of sapphire above them and to the right, topped by a seven-walled keep. He smiled at Tzarathoth. ‘Summon your daemonic legion — we march to glory!’

The herald nodded, the black orbs of its eyes moving from the sorcerer to the objective. A wisp of flame parted in a grotesque approximation of a grin.

‘Praise Tzeentch!’ Tzarathoth raised its incorporeal arms in supplication, its voice becoming an ululating cry that grated on Rikjard’s hearing and throbbed in his gut. The air around the daemon moved like a glitter of particles that coalesced around its form, first manifesting into a long staff of fire in its upraised hands and then cladding its body in sliding plates of daemonic armour with surfaces that glistened like red oil. It rose into the air and beneath its feet emerged a great disc edged with curving blades and jutting spines. It bore Tzarathoth into the sky on a trail of sparkling fire.

Where the sparks fell, the ground set alight, each flame growing into a new form, reality splitting with a crackle and hiss with each arrival. The first to break through into the Thousand Portals were more heralds — on foot, riding upon their discs, or carried through the air on flaming chariots pulled by howling sky-sharks. These Tzeentchian champions from the Silvered Sands added their calls to those of Tzarathoth, bringing forth daemons in their hundreds, in every manner and form that Rikjard had ever known, and several more he had never before catalogued.

Ranting and shrieking, burning figures and swooping predators ripped through the boundaries between realms. Arcane conjurations spilled across the sky in streamers of multi-coloured flame while pink and blue droplets fell in fiery rain, every Tzeentch-blessed globule bringing forth a new cackling horror.

Rikjard did not pay much attention to the unfolding daemonic spectacle. In his mind he reconfigured his calculations with each new appearance. He tracked and assimilated the Chaotic legion’s multitudinous warriors, estimating the impact of so much magic on the diverging mystical currents that swirled around the Thousand Portals, finessing his predictions.

‘It’s all a matter of mass, balance and trajectory,’ he explained to the thautomaton. ‘Actions and reactions. A tipping point. When all is in motion, that will be the key that unlocks the Cosmic Gate.’

The daemons were gathering about their heralds, moving effortlessly across the ever-shifting landscape in a purple, pink and blue tide. Rikjard’s army was still streaming through from beyond, but he could delay the advance no longer. The Star-spawned Ones would wake soon, and he had to be in position to take advantage of their response.

Lifting a clawed hand, he waved his mortal army forward. Ten thousand jewels glittered like stars as his mental command throbbed into the minds of his followers. Drums rolled, horns blared and trumpets sounded the advance.

Rikjard felt the change before he saw or heard anything. His host had crossed less than a quarter of the distance to the focal point where he would later be able to align the facets of the Panoramicon. The gibbering and mewling of the daemons, the crunch of boots and rattle of armour hid the subtle ripples spreading through the magic-saturated air of the Thousand Portals. He sensed the disturbance as a hundred tiny perturbations in his calculations, minute fractal cascades giving rise to improperly disproportionate divergences.

Change.

He knew it so well. The Master of Change was his lord and guide, but it was not the hand of Tzeentch that extended over the Thousand Portals. It was the touch of the Star-crawlers, the thieves that had taken the Cosmic Gate from the Great Architect in the distant eons of prehistory.

They had a name, a mortal appellation that did nothing to convey the wholly interdimensional horror of their antithetical nature. The Slann. Starmasters. Heavenly lords dedicated to the purging of all that was and could be. A cleansing blandness that would stop the worlds in their orbits and split the realms from each other for eternity, trapping all in the cosmic amber of stasis.

All around him the lands were changing again, trenches and walls springing into life, towers fading and new fortifications and great shimmering bastions emerging from the mists. His attention was drawn to a newly-revealed wall of faceted opal a few hundred paces ahead, in which another of the Thousand Portals was revealed, and beyond it a maelstrom of swirling energy. Light from no mortal star spilled across the entangled landscape, polluting the rays of the region’s own miniature suns. Shadows wove complex shapes against this white illumination, quickly resolving into a phalanx of blue-scaled saurus.

These warriors-dreamed stood as tall as Rikjard’s most powerful fighters, lizard-like with yellow eyes and bright fronds along their bone-flanged skulls. They bore curved shields of scaled hide furnished with sharpened bones and gold edging. They wore more celestite star-gold upon their limbs in the form of torqs and anklets, vambraces and necklaces, decorated with sharp fangs and portentous glyphs. They advanced in unison, clawed feet scratching at the hard rock of the Thousand Portals.

Rank after rank entered through the gate, forming from the light itself by the will of their slann commander. Rikjard had been expecting their arrival — his success depended upon it, in fact. All the same, he was taken aback by the sheer ferocity of their presence. The impact of their appearance on the swirl of concentric computations forced the sorcerer to make swift and radical adjustments to his calculations.

Other wells of light were erupting as more of the Thousand Portals opened, each producing a fresh cohort of fanged, horned warriors. Around these tight regiments of brutes darted smaller skinks, rapid and nimble, their bows, javelins and blowpipes at the ready.

Looking over his shoulder, Rikjard witnessed more of the slann’s host bursting into reality through portals behind his army. Their appearance did not shock him, for he knew well the reputation of the Cosmic Warriors and the ways of their Starmasters. He was prepared for his foe’s ability to arrive unfettered by geography — not that, here in the Thousand Portals, such physical considerations were really necessary. Nothing here was permanent, all was reflection, distortion, shadow and light. Rikjard raised his silver-wrought wand, its head gleaming yellow. The gems set into the helms of several regiments of his most heavily armoured warriors responded with their own ochre glow as the Chosen turned towards the rear to defend against the unfolding seraphon assault.

‘Where are you?’ Rikjard whispered, scanning left and right across the prismatic landscape. Behind the advancing regiments of saurus warriors, a nimbus of golden light became a streaming river of silver-and-blue starlight, coiling about itself like an endless serpent. Larger shapes shifted in the chromatic oscillations, metamorphosing from indistinct shadows to immense beasts of war as they crossed the boundary threshold between realities.

Bellowing and snorting, a pair of tower-sized bastiladons stomped through the breach. Upon the bony plates along their backs they carried arcane celestial engines — one bore a device wrought with the sigils of the long-dead ancestors of the seraphon, the other a gold-shimmering gem as large as a man, with edges that glittered in the light of a unseen star. They were flanked by teams of skinks that were herding bright-skinned salamanders and spine-encrusted razordons.

Screamer-pulled chariots and daemon-fire flamers led the counter-attack, soaring over the heads of streaming columns of horrors with ecstatic leaps. Spurts of blue and pink flames engulfed the front ranks of the saurus, spattering from the reptiles’ raised shields in drops with tiny, laughing faces. War clubs and swords studded with celestite roundels and shards tore at the screamers as they swooped through the dream-warriors, slashing with spiked tails and running barbed fins through the scaled flesh of their foes. From the first of the flaming chariots, Tharkziz the Undenying unleashed bolts of daemonic power, creating a whirlwind of fire that seared through the assembled ranks of the slann’s soldiers.

Tharkziz was followed by more daemon chariots, each carrying a hulking flamer that spat pink fire from maw-tipped arms. The blue horrors that accompanied them jabbed down at the saurus with spears forged of solid flame. The saurus snarled and leapt, using their teeth-edged shields to tear at the undersides of the screamers, their jagged mauls and axes crashing against the bodies of the daemonic chariots. In the wake of Tharkziz’s attack, fire crawled across hide shields and gilded armour, eating into blue scales and muscled flesh. With shrill whines and bestial snarls Chaos daemon and seraphon fell to each other’s attacks. Horrors, screamers and flamers exploded into fountains of dissipating energy, while the saurus returned to the Celestial Realm in flashes of polychromatic light that were reflected and distorted over and over by the mirrors and prisms of the Thousand Portals.

With another thought, Rikjard despatched a portion from the left wing of his army through one of the nearby portals. Savage horsemen and ambling, many-limbed spawn disappeared beneath a rainbow-like arc of black, blues and purples, to emerge from a half-seen gateway beyond the salamanders and razordons. Skinks scattered like leaves before a storm as riders fell on them with whooping battle cries, while misshapen spawn thrashed into their bestial charges with clubbing blows and whipping blade-appendages. Acidic fire and volleys of deadly spines greeted the marauding cavalry and bloated mutants, but Rikjard cared nothing for the deaths of his followers.

‘Show yourself,’ he muttered, signalling for Tzarathoth to split his host in an attempt to encircle the seraphon still streaming from the first celestial gateway. ‘This is not a battle you can win from afar.’

Hooves thundered and claws scraped on unyielding marble as the Tzeentchian knights charged at a wave of saurus mounted atop reptilian cold ones. Lances shattered bloodily against scaled skin while celestite-tipped spears pierced plates of ensorcelled armour. Steeds that were not wholly equine, canine or feline sank steel teeth into the exposed flesh of the cold ones, ignoring the raking claws that scattered the gilded mail coats of the knights’ mounts.

The interplay of attack and counter-attack was unfolding quickly, every movement and manoeuvre, every small victory and defeat changing the parameters of success. Rikjard’s wand left silver trails as he moved his forces with the deftness of a Domination player. His uncle had taught him the strategies of the game even as he had instructed Rikjard in the secret wisdom of mathemagics. To Rikjard, the Thousand Portals were the board on which he played, each regiment of friend or foe a piece to be positioned exactly, every loss an alteration to the complex equation scorched through the thoughts of the Lord of Many Numbers. Possibilities came and went with each passing moment, and all the time the Thousand Portals shifted and turned, air becoming rock, rock becoming air, hills becoming valleys and walled castles becoming yawning chasms. In places, the ground opened to swallow up entire regiments, only to deposit them seemingly at random across the enclosing spheroid landscape.

But this was not random. There was purpose and design behind every displacement. Tzeentch was the Emergent Phenomena, the pattern within the pattern, the predictably unpredictable integer. Rikjard was so close to mastering the Eternal Formula, but he needed the Starmaster that commanded the enemy to show itself. Only then, with the input of the celestial spawn, would he be able to fully unlock the marvels of the Thousand Portals.

Screeches from above drew Rikjard’s attention away from the converging, intermingling lines of Chaos followers and seraphon. From within the orbit of the captive infant suns, a new celestial rift had opened, spilling forth a flock of reptilian flyers. The terradons followed a storm of glittering javelins hurled by their riders, each missile a deadly thunderbolt as it crashed into the heaving daemon horde.

Rikjard heard a peculiar noise over the cacophony of war. He turned, seeking the source of the strange croaking. Sensing his unease, his familiar clashed its dagger-hands, eager to kill. The discordant shrieking of ripperdactyls grew louder as a squadron of the winged beasts circled closer, nostrils flared, the tips of the riders’ spears glinting with captured moonlight.

Something small hopped past the sorcerer’s foot — a toad no bigger than his fist, a pungent smell drifting up to Rikjard’s nostrils from the warty intruder. He had not noticed its arrival, but now recollected the barely-felt pop of magic that had heralded its summoning.

He looked at the innocuous amphibian and then back at the ripperdactyls. The vicious reptilian flyers, their hunting cries cutting across the clash of armies, arrowed down through clouds of golden mist directly towards him, as if drawn by the presence of the strange toad.

Grimacing, Rikjard swept out his wand and unleashed a blast of magical flames that incinerated the leading beasts and their riders. Fire crawling across its wings, another dived through the onslaught and snatched up the thautomaton, ignoring the rasp of its blades along its long beak as it lifted the animated machine and carried it away.

Rod in one hand, blade in the other, Rikjard fended off the spear-thrust of the next rider and dodged the snapping of its mount’s sharp beak. An instant later, the sky filled with blinding sparks as a flight of screamers swept into the ripperdactyls. Celestial predators and daemonic sky-sharks whirled and snapped around each other, ascending in a mass of fangs, barbs and talons, showers of blood and ichor spilling down onto Rikjard like rain.

He pressed on, mentally commanding his army to follow, despatching more and more of his forces through the interlaced portals to divide and surround the enemy. The seraphon likewise manoeuvred through the ever-changing pathways, coming together in knots to baulk his advances, using the portals to charge into the flanks of his warriors or retreat from the assaults of his knights and their monstrous companions.

He checked his position, now unable to see the castle towards which he had set out, but confident that he was close to the location from which he would be able to align the Thousand Portals and open the Cosmic Gate. The equation burned brighter, codifying and solidifying like congealing blood, becoming a thing of raw substance yet possessed of naked power.

The ground bucked, toppling mortal and daemon alike. The captive stars spun wildly about each other and a fresh star burst into existence in their midst. Rikjard looked away, temporarily blinded. Blinking away the after-image, he looked at the new orb of white fire. He could see with his wizard’s gaze that it was not truly in the region of the Thousand Portals, but burned at the end of an infinitely long tunnel, its energy forming a funnel into the space between the celestial domain and the Realm of Chaos where the Thousand Portals were trapped.

The Starmaster appeared instantaneously, with a crack of pressurised air and a boom of thunder that rolled around the sphere of the Thousand Portals, echoing and distorting in an impossible fashion. The slann’s bulbous form, so like a gigantic amphibian, belied the near-infinite knowledge and power Rikjard knew it possessed. It floated upon a palanquin forged from the corpses of dead stars, inlaid with glyphs of pure celestite that surrounded the star-spawn with a halo of deadly and protective light.

The daemons howled and bayed at the arrival of their aeons-old foe. Abandoning all pretence of adhering to Rikjard’s plan, they threw themselves towards the slann, desperate to slay the Harbinger of Order. The seraphon responded with equal ferocity, spurred by the cold intellect of their creator-summoner.

All appearance of subtle interplay vanished, the delicately brutal game replaced with a frenzy of bloodletting and ceaseless carnage. Warriors and daemons fell beneath the celestite-shod feet of rampaging monsters while beams of celestial energy scythed along the rows of daemon and mortal, turning bodies to ash, hurling the inhuman back into the void of their creation. Skink priests borne aloft by feathered cloaks became fulcrums for the magic of the Starmaster, coruscating pulses of energy and coronas of protective power turning the crystal lands into a kaleidoscope of ever-shifting energy.

Daemonic infernos engulfed regiments of saurus guards and storms of mutating power swept aside skink skirmishers, turning them to quivering blobs of flesh. Subjected to the battery of Tzeentchian curses, touched by Chaos-born fires, skin became glass, muscle become stone, metal became writhing flesh. Tree-like growths sprouted from the solid ground to impale and tear with jagged crystal branches.

Into the maelstrom pushed Rikjard, his knights charging again and again, bludgeoning a path through the seraphon, their numbers rapidly dwindling. The Lord of Many Numbers did not care for their fates — their purpose was to die for him and nothing more. The equation shortened as he drew closer to his goal. The possibilities and endless permutations dwindled as destiny and reality converged to the single point he sought.

Buoyed up by the death and destruction, the power surged and frothed around Rikjard like surf on a rocky shore. The slann had been both the lock and the key, as he had known it would be. It was the anchor that tied the Thousand Portals to their prison between realms and Tzeentch’s will was the blade that would cut them adrift again.

Triumphant, head buzzing with the near-complete formula, Rikjard ascended the flat slope of the hill, seeing again in the corner of his vision the edifice he had first spied on entering the Thousand Portals. His feet left the ground. Rikjard seemed to step on air, but from another viewpoint he ascended on steps of light, spiralling up to the heights of the insubstantial tower. He felt close enough to reach out and touch the slann’s gate.

Instead he raised his silver wand, making the last adjustments to the disposition of his servants.

With these final movements, and accompanied by the death throes of stegadons and the cries of wounded warriors, the Thousand Portals aligned.

At first there was light, white and blinding, It separated, splitting again and again, dividing into every shade of the spectrum both visible and beyond. Like glass shattering, the light fell away, leaving an abyssal blackness, the darkness of the utter void.

Rikjard felt the Cosmic Gate open, sensed it with every part of his being — the unfolding of dimensions, the ripple of energies spreading away and then returning, converging on a central point inside his skull.

He saw the star at the far end of the slann’s gateway and the last piece of the equation resolved into his thoughts, its secret ripped from the heart of the alien sun.

‘I know it!’ Rikjard cried, his voice echoing through time. ‘The power is mine!’

The star grew brighter, hotter.

Closer.

Rikjard had the sensation of movement. Falling. More than that, he was being dragged, pulled toward the slann’s star-home. From within, he would shatter the barriers between realms and take his place at the right hand of Tzeentch.

Formless took on form and the solution to the Eternal Equation made itself known to him.

0 = ∞

He considered this for a moment.

∞ = 0

There had to be some mistake. There could not be infinite nothing. What could that mean?

The star pulled him in, and the answer came to him as its fronds lapped at his dissipating body and soul, scattering the particles of his form and thoughts.

Infinite nothing. More than death. Less than life. Oblivion.

He had been wrong.

Rikjard of the Many Numbers felt a sense of utter failure, but only for a moment, and then he was no more.

The slann Xalanxymanzik blinked once and sent a telepathic signal to its skink-manifestations that the battle was to cease. The Thousand Portals fell silent as the seraphon disappeared, their memory-forms collapsing back into celestial potential as Xalanxymanzik returned his thoughts to the domain of his origin, leaving behind the trappings of mortal, constructed thought.

Abandoning the Chaos daemons and men to their self-defeating machinations and conflicts, the Starmaster folded itself back through the dimension bridge to the celestial void. The battle against the one called Rikjard had taken much effort, and the solution to unlocking the Cosmic Gate had almost been revealed.

But not this time.

So to age-long slumber Xalanxymanzik returned, its drifting thoughts moving towards ever-more esoteric domains as physical concerns faded. A dream-shard split from its near-dormant musing and fell like an insubstantial feather, borne far upon cosmic winds until it descended into one of the Mortal Realms and touched upon the mind of a human. There it nestled, awakening thoughts never before conceived.

Perhaps this time the mystic formula would unravel itself and the Cosmic Gate would open, revealing the innermost power of Tzeentch, and laying the heart of the Great Architect exposed to attack. Nurtured by its human host, the Eternal Equation started to grow again, fuelled by a hurried, desperate, mortal ambition that the slann could never possess. The essential component, the missing variable.

The Chaos factor.

Guy Haley

The Cristal of Fate

Duke Phostrin, lord of the Sky Shoals, spoke. ‘Are you sure this will work, wizard?’

‘Yes, yes! Of course.’ The sorcerer Chalix clasped his long hands together in front of his chest and hunched in a manner that might have been a bow, had he ever shown any sort of deference to Duke Phostrin before. Phostrin contemplated the scrawny sorcerer for several hostile seconds. Chalix responded with a sharp-toothed, servile grin.

‘Do you have it, or do you not?’ the sorcerer asked.

Phostrin beckoned. His Chosen, five warriors almost as lordly as he, stepped into the chamber.

‘Vulcris, Barthon, Hurios, Dweft and Magazzar,’ said Chalix, naming them. All in the tower chamber were blessed by their god, but the gifts that Tzeentch had bestowed on the warriors were different to those given to the seers. Chalix was small, emaciated, his bones sharp through his blue skin. The Chosen of Phostrin were massive, swollen far beyond their natural size by magic, clad in gleaming armour of metallic purples and greens, featureless helms hiding their faces.

Vulcris and Dweft came forward, bearing a wriggling bag, which they dumped on the floor in front of the sorcerer. A pained whimpering came from inside.

‘Don’t hurt it!’ said the sorcerer. ‘How is it? Is it beautiful? Is it a fine offering for our lord?’

‘We chased the damn thing all over the Russet Isle,’ said Phostrin. ‘We nearly had it when the tribe there dared defy us. Too many of them grow rebellious as the news of Sigmar’s invasion reaches them, and these were no different. Once they were dealt with, Vulcris here nearly fell to his death when the creature tried to escape up the Marrond Cliffs. It cost us a lot of effort, so it had better be right.’

‘Well then, well then, let me see!’ said Chalix impatiently. Vulcris hauled the sack upright and tore the cloth open. He and Dweft tugged the sack down, revealing the head of the misshapen thing inside, and stepped back.

The sex was impossible to tell. Its head was a distorted ellipse, thicker and heavier at one end than the other so that the creature held it to the left. At the thinner right side, the lips of three small mouths smacked and squirmed over misshapen teeth. Seven eyes, two of them milky with blindness, were situated at random around its lopsided face. Only the nose was in the place nature intended, and it was twisted severely.

‘Exquisite!’ said Chalix. ‘Beautiful, beautiful!’ To admire his prize in full, he yanked the sack down and away. The mutant wore a tunic of rough cloth. It had three arms, very thin, tipped with three-fingered hands. Wiry hair covered the scalp, shoulders, and legs. The legs were well formed and muscular, but the feet were over-large for the body. The mutant flinched as Chalix wrapped his long fingers around its warty chin and tilted its malformed head upwards.

Behind the wizard was a tall mirror framed in glittering silver, a thousand representations of Tzeentch’s holy servants moulded into the metal. It caught the light shining through the chamber’s colonnade, so pure and sharp at the summit of the tower, and cast it up into the domed ceiling. Ripples of light moved around the frescoes there, as mobile as the reflections cast off Anvrok’s silver rivers. Phostrin avoided looking at the ceiling, wary of what the patterns might say to him. Instead, he took in his own reflection, large behind the simpering wizard. The patterns with which Tzeentch had marked his skin were bright upon his face.

Chalix stepped aside so that the mutant might see itself.

Fearfully, it blinked and made a sorry moaning. Thick yellow tears trickled from one of the blind eyes. Chalix grinned maliciously at its woe.

‘Oh, oh, do not cry! You are much blessed by our lord Tzeentch,’ said Chalix. ‘You are perfect! Such random change wrought upon you, you will be a very fine offering to the Changer of the Ways.’

The mutant mewled at him and tried to pull away. Chalix would not let go.

‘We have all we need, Lord Phostrin. We may begin!’ Chalix said. The mutant cowered as Chalix released its face. The sorcerer reached into his long sleeves, and drew his hand out as a closed fist. ‘See, see!’ he said to the mutant. ‘See! I will not cause you pain. Look!’ The mutant frowned, twisted nose sniffing.

Chalix opened his hand, revealing a handful of glittering powder. ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ Chalix nodded encouragingly, and the mutant bent closer.

Chalix blew hard, sending a cloud into the mutant’s face. It spluttered, its eyes rolling back in their many sockets, and it fell to the marble floor.

‘Yes, very good!’ chuckled Chalix. He shuffled to a chest in the corner of the room and took out a small box full of coloured chalks. ‘You have done well, Duke Phostrin. I shall pay you handsomely, yes, just as we agreed. Much armour and weaponry will be yours.’

‘Just see it is so. How long is this going to take, Chalix?’

‘Patience, patience!’ said Chalix. He knelt on the marble by the mutant and opened his chalk box. ‘Before sundown, yes. Then we will be ready.’

Phostrin glanced at Vulcris. The leather of the warrior’s gloves creaked as he shifted his grip on his weapon.

‘Enjoy, sit! Eat, drink,’ said Chalix. An alcove lit up, and inside was a table stacked with fruits and flasks of wine. ‘You eat, while I work.’

Phostrin jerked his head to the side. His warriors left the food alone. They went to the door and took up guard. Two set themselves to watch on the nine thousand stairs of the tower. The others stayed within, fixing their featureless masks on Chalix. The sorcerer hummed to himself, arrogance rendering him immune to their hatred. Phostrin went to the windows, with their many telescopes, to survey the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok.

Chalix’s tower reached thousands of feet from a small island at the edge of the Sky Shoals — Phostrin’s duchy. Away from the great lands of Anvrok, Denvrok and Kantruk, the Hanging Valleys broke into smaller pieces shot through with rich veins of metal that formed a vast archipelago in an ocean of limitless sky. The islands were fuzzed with vegetation all over, for the circular track of the sun brought it to shine on both the top and underside of the islands. A mighty continent could be seen thousands of leagues away as a grey, featureless bar, but it was to the three chief lands of the Hanging Valleys that Phostrin’s attention was drawn. He put his eye to one of the wizard’s instruments and squinted through a crystal lens.

Storm clouds boiled with fury over the three larger countries. Anvrok was ramparted by the towering peaks of the Vaulten Mountains where, in ages past, watchtowers had been established. They had been long ruined, but now they were rising anew. Tiny flakes of colour blinked upon them, bright pennants streaming in the wind. The distance was too great to make out their emblems, but their presence spoke their message clearly enough — these lands belong to Sigmar.

Phostrin panned the telescope along the ridge until it lighted upon Argentine, the celestial drake. The fires that warmed the metal sea of the Great Crucible were at war with themselves, the old scintillating colours lately twisted through with pure white flame. The beast was unquiet, its gargantuan body coiling and uncoiling in silent agonies as Chaos and Order fought for his soul. It was but a matter of time, thought Phostrin. The crystal cockatrice, Vytrix, would doubtless be next. All the lands about the great serpent had been taken or were contested. Over Argentine’s gaping jaws, the rim of the Great Crucible also sported the banners of the God-King.

‘Anvrok fallen, the Crucible taken. Denvrok under assault,’ said Phostrin. ‘Maerac and King Thrond dead, Kairos banished, Ephryx destroyed… Our turn will come soon enough.’

‘If we are successful, that will never happen,’ said Chalix, intent on the circle. ‘Have faith, Duke Phostrin. The Great Changer’s plans are many layered. Now hush! I work quicker without interruption.’

Phostrin returned his attention to the conquered lands, scanning them for any glimpse of Chaos’ resurgence. He could find none, though he stared until his eyes were weary.

The sun sailed to light the underside of the Hanging Valleys. Darkness came to the tops of the larger lands, but the isles were too small to block the sun and so true night never ventured to the Sky Shoals. The strange lucidity of the lowered sun shone up around the islands, casting tall cones of darkness skywards. Chalix’s chamber took on the hue of blue shadow. Only the mirror shone bright, as if still caught in full sunlight.

‘There!’ said Chalix. He stood, dusting off his hands, and surveyed his handiwork; a series of ornate circles interlocking across the floor.

‘So your drawing is done. How much longer until we can enter the Oracle’s sanctuary?’ grumbled Phostrin.

‘Not long. The spell itself is relatively simple,’ Chalix said. ‘It is the preparation that takes the time.’

‘And this will open the way to the realm of Kairos?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Chalix. He returned his chalk box to the chest and took out a long knife. He unsheathed it, holding its length up to his critical eye. It was slightly curved, half an inch wide, thin as a cruel whisper and many times sharper. Satisfied, he went to the mutant and rolled it onto its back with his foot.

‘The Great Oracle was careless. It is natural one so high in Tzeentch’s esteem would not consider defeat, but he should have, oh yes. Now he is gone, his lair is open to all who have the appropriate offering, the right equipment and the correct expertise. You provided the two material ingredients, whereas in my humble personage resides the most important component of all — knowledge!’

Chalix knelt and drove the knife into the chest of the mutant. The creature was so stupefied it managed only a single gasp to protest its death. Blood pooled on the floor as Chalix pulled a dark heart from inside, cutting away connective tissue until it was free. He bent over this misshapen organ to whisper something Phostrin could not make out but that hurt his ears to hear. Chalix finished his crooning, drew back his arm and hurled the heart with all his might at the mirror.

‘A twisted heart for a twisted heart, great Tzeentch!’ he shouted.

The heart vanished with a bang. Glass exploded out into the room. Phostrin raised his hand to protect his face, but the glass never struck. It stopped in midair then flew backwards, the moment of explosion reversed. The glass did not fit itself back into the frame, but formed into a faceted arch, glittering with tainted rainbows.

The mirror became a door. A corridor of glowing crystal lay beyond, going up a series of uneven stairs. Cool, dry air blew outwards. A horn winded somewhere far away.

Chalix nodded happily at his efforts. ‘The gate is open, yes!’

Phostrin put on his helmet and drew his sword. Chalix passed through the portal fearlessly, lifting his robes as he stepped over the pool of blood. The Chosen followed, Phostrin coming last.

A cracking and tinkling filled the tunnel.

‘It is as if we are inside the remains of the mirror,’ muttered Vulcris. ‘And the shards of glass shift under us.’

‘You are closer to the truth than you realise,’ responded Chalix. ‘This is the outer edge of Lord Tzeentch’s Crystal Labyrinth, part of, but separate from it. Nothing is as it seems here, all is illusory, a perverted reflection of a shadow of a thought. We must not tarry in finding Lord Kairos’ lair, we will be noticed before long. The Realm of Chaos is no place for mortals.’

Chalix set off up the stairs, Phostrin and his chosen men following. The way forwards and the way back looked identical, the direction of travel impermanent and tricky to judge. Phostrin could not tell if up was up and down was down, or whether the party had been turned about and were returning again to Chalix’s lair. In the walls, a million images rippled. More than once, Phostrin felt eyes on him, and turned quickly to find his own reflections moving independently of his actions. Dark shapes moved behind the treacherous images, creeping under the glassy surface to suddenly shoot past, leaving draughts of perfumed air in their wake. The Chosen became wary, mighty though they were. Unlike them, the mage sallied forwards indefatigably, unworried.

Time became elastic. Phostrin could not gauge how long they climbed before the way divided into dozens of tunnels that shifted position when not watched.

‘Which path is it, wizard?’ said Phostrin.

‘Wait,’ said Chalix. ‘All is in hand.’ He reached into his robes, and pulled a chain out. On the end was a small blue feather. He cupped his hand protectively around it. ‘A single plume from a Lord of Change. It will show the way.’

‘It will trick us,’ said Magazzar.

Chalix clucked and shook his head. ‘It is enchanted. Much blood was shed to gain it, and very terrible bargains I struck to learn the secret of how to perform this magic. But know the secret I do.’ He watched as the feather swung to stillness. It turned so that the quill indicated an otherwise unremarkable tunnel.

‘This way!’ he said, and forged on without hesitation.

The stair levelled, opening into a cavern whose dazzling walls stretched up and down until they were lost in a haze of glaring light. A slender bridge of glittering crystal leapt up from the tunnel’s end, crossing to the far side where another way opened, a blue blemish on the glow.

‘Ah yes, all is as described!’ said Chalix eagerly. ‘Come!’ he waved them onwards as he mounted the bridge. ‘Be wary here, it is slippery.’

Magazzar went at the rear. As he stepped upon the bridge, a single, ringing note chimed from the crystal of the cave. The light turned from bright white to a deep red. From the depths built a shrieking scream.

‘Hurry now!’ said Chalix. He picked up his skirts and increased his speed to a trot. Duke Phostrin and his Chosen followed, their heavy tread shaking the fragile bridge. There was barely space for Phostrin to place his feet side by side. The screaming grew louder. Magazzar looked over the edge, then yelled out a warning to his comrades at what he saw. Phostrin turned to see Magazzar’s head torn off by a blur of colour. Blood sprayed from his ragged neck and he toppled from the bridge. More of the shapes followed. They screamed, raking at the travellers with whipping tails. Vulcris lashed out with his axe, chopping into one of the creatures. Damaged, the creature tumbled away, unbalancing the Chosen warrior. He wavered at the brink but Phostrin grabbed his cloak and hauled him back, his own feet slipping on the glassy material.

‘Daemon beasts, Kairos’ guard dogs,’ said Phostrin. The creatures sped past the bridge in a tight shoal, their dire screams echoing endlessly through the cavern.

‘They are coming again!’ said Hurios.

‘Stand ready!’ commanded Phostrin. The chosen planted their feet firmly apart on the length of the bridge, weapons up. This time they were prepared. The screamer shoal dived at them, broad bodies undulating eagerly. The Chosen hacked out, slaying several, dodging the lashing tails of those that sped on overhead. Then the creatures were past, streaking for the far side of the cave.

‘Run!’ shouted Phostrin. They ran as fast as they dared. The wizard was nearing the end of the bridge.

Twice more they stopped to cleave screamers from the sky. As the beasts passed them by again, they ran on. In this manner they reached the far tunnel. Phostrin passed through first, then Vulcris, Dweft, Hurios and finally Barthon. As Barthon came through the entry, the screams grew loud for the final time. Barbed tails punched through his chest, jerking him backwards.

‘Aid me!’ he shouted. Dweft dived to grab his hand but Barthon was yanked from his feet and hauled skywards before their fingers could connect. The creatures’ flight slowed, and they formed a mass around the doomed warrior. They cruised around and around, darting in to snatch morsels of their struggling prey.

‘Barthon cannot be saved,’ said Dweft.

‘Why does the mage not use his magic?’ asked Hurios.

‘It will bring more doom on us,’ said Phostrin. ‘Swords and martial might are all that will serve us here.’

Barthon had ceased moving. Blood drizzled from the writhing mass of screamers as they fed.

Vulcris shrugged. ‘More pillage for the rest of us, then.’

They travelled for days, or so it seemed, and yet they needed no food or water, or other comforts of the body. Chalix led them through a forest of shivering stone, into a place whose sky was the surface of a placid lake where strange, glowing things swam. They climbed staircases that did not end but joined top to bottom. They spent days in a labyrinth where their own voices mocked them from afar. From there, they passed into a freezing wasteland of salt spires, where they were assailed by capering pink daemons, each one slain splitting into two lesser, miserable blue creatures. These things were numerous but cowardly and fled when Phostrin slew their champion.

Time and mind were warped. Phostrin lost track of the order of events. Days lasted seconds, seconds took years. When it was they came to the end, Phostrin could not tell. A day or a century might have passed. All he knew was that he blinked, and they were done, standing at the opening to a mean cave set into a soaring yellow cliff. Outside, a plain of flawless green glass stretched away in every direction, giving out a lurid light.

‘We are here, the lair of Kairos,’ said Chalix. The sorcerer seemed older. He had a haunted look.

‘I see nothing,’ said Vulcris. He stepped forwards. Chalix put out an arm to stop him but the Chosen pushed it aside. ‘I am tired of waiting, destiny is here.’

‘Wait! There are final wards that must be dealt with!’ called Chalix.

‘I am tired of waiting,’ said Vulcris. ‘Destiny is here.’

‘Hold him back!’ ordered Phostrin.

Hurios and Dweft moved to stay their comrade, but their efforts made no effect, and they were pushed before him across the slick glass.

‘I am tired of waiting,’ repeated Vulcris, his voice hollow and leaden. He pushed onwards, as if Hurios and Dweft were not there. ‘Destiny is here.’

Phostrin ran from the cave entrance to join his men, leaning between them to push against the chest of Vulcris.

‘He is bewitched!’ shouted Hurios.

‘I am tired of waiting,’ repeated Vulcris.

‘Too late! Back, back off the glass!’ called Chalix. ‘Something comes!’

‘Destiny is here,’ said Vulcris.

Phostrin looked over his shoulder. A dark shadow was emerging from the numbing light of the glass plain. A warrior, coming towards the cliff and the cave mouth.

‘Heed the wizard. Leave him,’ Phostrin said. ‘Get off the plain.’

Hurios fell as he let go of Vulcris. Dweft stumbled away. Phostrin threw himself out of Vulcris’ path. Vulcris marched forward steadily, no faster and no slower than when the others had made their futile attempt to arrest him.

Phostrin made it back to the edge of the glass plain and took refuge in the cave. They watched the warrior approach Vulcris. Phostrin squinted against the light. The warrior was familiar.

‘It is Vulcris also!’ he exclaimed. ‘He has been doubled!’

The warrior was garbed exactly as Vulcris, identical in every respect saving only that what was left on Vulcris was right on his doppelganger, and vice versa.

‘A mirror image,’ said Hurios.

The warriors stopped a sword’s length apart. They raised their axes, and attacked.

Eight times they swung identical blows at each other, eight times the hafts of their twinned axes knocked together. On the ninth, the axe heads sailed past each other, burying themselves in the chests of Vulcris and his double. They threw back their heads and screamed, exploding into roaring pillars of light that shot away on far horizons before becoming one with the unvarying glow.

‘Look! Blood is spilled, the final key,’ said Chalix.

Reality blinked. The plain was gone. A chamber, as many-planed and angular as the interior of a diamond, was there in its stead. Every facet held a staring, avian eye. A golden statue of Lord Kairos occupied the middle of the chamber. Floating above the spread wings was a thumb-sized crystal, black as midnight. Chalix hurried towards it greedily. The eyes in the walls narrowed in scrutiny.

‘The heart of Kairos Fateweaver, the Crystal of Fate! See, it has nearly reformed. We are here in the nick of time,’ he whispered.

‘Where is the treasure, wizard?’ demanded Hurios. ‘We were promised enchanted weapons, devices of great power.’

Chalix snatched the crystal from the air. ‘Wait! With this, anything is possible.’

Hurios and Dweft angrily paced the shining space. Their search was short. Apart from the crystal and the statue, the chamber was empty.

‘How will you pay?’ demanded Dweft. ‘There is nothing else here!’

‘Speak, wizard,’ said Phostrin. He raised his sword. The three warriors surrounded the sorcerer. ‘What of our bargain?’

Dweft and Hurios tensed, ready to fight. Chalix smiled wickedly.

‘Here is the payment you so desire!’ he shouted. He held up the crystal. Lines of jagged darkness stabbed out, transfixing Dweft and Hurios. They were transformed instantly into crystal statues rooted to the chamber floor.

‘Such fools,’ Chalix scoffed. ‘Do you think I would share any prize with the likes of—’

Chalix’s eyes widened. His mouth dropped open. With a tearing noise, Phostrin’s sword emerged through his stomach, the point dripping coppery blood. Phostrin reached round and took the crystal from Chalix’s weakening fingers.

‘Chalix, I thank you for bringing me this.’

Phostrin wrenched the sword free. Chalix fell to the ground with a cry. As the sorcerer’s life fled, Phostrin held up the crystal, captivated by the lights glinting from its surface.

‘You… You were not transmutated?’ gasped Chalix.

Phostrin threw his helm to the floor with a clatter and looked down at the dying mage. ‘Thanks to my great-grandfather.’ He tapped a ring upon his gauntlet, a simple silver band. ‘He passed this down, and a certain scroll bearing grave secrets. You thought to trick me, Chalix, trusting to my ignorance to ensnare me. You sorcerers are all the same, dismissive of your betters. I know what this can do.’ He held up the crystal and smiled. ‘The soul of a daemon, and now it is mine.’ He closed his hand around it.

‘Give it to me… Phostrin… Before it is too late!’ gasped out Chalix. Blood slipped from his mouth. He reached out his shaking hand.

‘I think not. You and your ilk have had your own way in the Anvrok Valleys for too long. It is time for a new order, comprised of men of substance.’

‘You do not know what you are doing!’

‘Oh, but I do,’ said Phostrin. ‘I have a plan. The daemons of our lord are the only ones who hold any fear for you, are they not Chalix? I have seen you creep and fawn over them. I have seen you plead for their favour. I intend to become one myself. I will consume this heart and be made anew. Then I shall return to Anvrok and deal with your filthy kind. I will speak directly with Tzeentch himself, without intermediary. I will reign supreme over the lands in the name of the Great Changer, and the lords of the isles and the valleys will return to their rightful position as rulers, not slaves to a wizard’s whims.’

He held the crystal high. The eyes in the cave’s facets peered at him intently. ‘When that is done, I shall gather all their armies and drive Sigmar’s hosts back from our lands, for the greater glory of Tzeentch.’

Chalix coughed up a welter of dark blood. Phostrin saw that he was laughing.

‘You are a fool. You know nothing of the true nature of Chaos. A daemon cannot be a lord of men. You know nothing of what—’

Phostrin’s sword swept down, splitting the sorcerer’s forehead. Chalix fell back and said no more.

‘I am a fool but you are dead. Who is the winner?’ Phostrin held up the crystal between finger and thumb. Power radiated from it, distorting the air as rising heat shimmers. ‘If only I had mead to wash it down with, it would go more easily,’ he said.

He placed it into his mouth. His tongue sizzled, but he felt no pain. With great difficulty, he swallowed it down, feeling its sharp edges scrape his gullet all the way to his stomach.

For a few seconds, he stood unaffected. Then, sudden agony gripped him. He bent double and howled. A fierce tingling took hold of his body, sharp and painful as a million needles driving in and out of his skin. He screwed his eyes shut, and the world became a timeless sheet of white pain.

An aeon passed, or so it seemed, and then was gone.

Phostrin found himself balled into a low crouch. Carefully, he unfolded his new self and raised huge arms before wondering eyes. His flesh had become a dark, mottled purple. Long talons tipped his fingers. A strange sensation troubled his shoulders, and he shook. A pair of great bat’s wings snapped open. In the crystal of the cave, his new face was reflected, long and spurred, crowned by a trio of scimitar horns. A smile exposed broad teeth. He explored his new face with his hands. Power cracked at the contact of flesh, and he laughed. On muscular legs he stood tall and breathed deep. Using the crystal wall as a mirror, he surveyed the new cage of his spirit from top to bottom.

He was well pleased by what he saw.

‘Power, power!’ he roared. ‘Let us see the petty sorcerers of Anvrok defy their new emperor! I will slay any who refuse my rule.’

He turned about, seeking the way out so that he could return and begin his reign. Thinking he had mistaken the placement of the door, he turned again. With a dawning horror, he realised it had gone. Every facet of cave was the same as before, each framed its peering eye, but where the entrance had been was a smooth panel of crystal. He went to it and beat on it. It did not yield. Screaming, he pounded harder with his fists, raging until something caught his eye.

He pressed his face close to the surface. Beyond the reflections and the staring eyes, he could see through the glass-like material.

On the floor of the space outside was Chalix’s body, as huge as a gargant. Phostrin’s head darted to the side. There were the contorted glass statues of Hurios and Dweft, also seemingly enlarged. Beyond them was the darkness of the door, made cavernous and distant. His prison was an exact replica of Kairos’ lair in miniature.

With ultimate realisation, he looked down. Through the distorting effects of the crystal floor, he could make out the golden statue.

He was trapped in Kairos’ heart.

A rustle of robes and a dry, doubled chuckle came from outside. The eyes in the crystal’s walls blinked, and then there were only four. These too vanished, replaced by an enormous claw that gripped the crystal and lifted it high. Phostrin staggered as the crystal tipped and he was brought to the scrutiny of two wrinkled faces.

Kairos Fateweaver looked within.

‘He does not see what I see,’ said one head. ‘What his fate shall be.’ It clacked a massive beak in mirth.

‘Shall I tell it? He did not know his fate when he set out, he does not know it now,’ said the other. Both heads regarded the trapped Phostrin with amusement. ‘Or shall we leave it for a surprise?’

‘Kairos!’ said Phostrin. His new hands spread on the crystal, not mighty, but tiny, the hands of a homunculus. ‘Release me!’

Kairos tutted and shook the crystal. ‘Lord Kairos I am! I am your master. You will address me correctly.’

Phostrin was flung about the chamber and crashed into the wall painfully. Kairos finished his shaking.

‘You are dead, my lord,’ Phostrin said.

‘It did not listen to its sorcerer. I cannot die, little one.’

‘I never do,’ said the other head. ‘I have seen.’

‘I am eternal, I have ever been, and ever will be.’

‘But you have to reform,’ said Phostrin. ‘Chalix said, he—’

Both heads croaked with laughter. ‘How can a constant be unmade? I have no beginning.’

‘And I have no end,’ concluded the second head. ‘How can a circle be made a line?’

‘I am a daemon, I am your equal! I consumed your heart. You have no right to imprison me,’ said Phostrin.

The heads laughed uproariously.

‘You misunderstand,’ said the first head. The larger cave began to dissolve into streamers of prismatic light, taking the dead Chalix, Hurios and Dweft with it.

‘As there are orders of precedence and of degree for men, so there are orders of precedence and degree for daemons.’

‘You saw our kind in your world, and misunderstood. They were lone ambassadors. This is our domain,’ explained the other head.

The last vestiges of the cave vanished. Kairos beat his mighty wings and soared over a landscape of hard angles and dazzling light.

‘Behold!’ he cawed. ‘The Crystal Labyrinth of Tzeentch!’

A pane cleared in Phostrin’s prison. An endless landscape of twisting crystal caves greeted his eyes, teeming with the daemonic servants of Tzeentch. They spread away, filling the labyrinth, spilling out of the Realm of Chaos, out of the Mortal Realms and beyond into eternities uncountable. They plotted, setting themselves against mortal worlds, the servants of other gods, and each other. He recoiled from what he saw, but he could not unknow it. He was of their number and their concerns were now his. Their knotted plans whispered in his mind. Here was hell for him, an eternity of scheming, worse by far than the hegemony of mortal sorcerers.

‘No! No! Release me!’ begged Phostrin. ‘I have no wish to be part of this, I will rule over the Hanging Valleys of Anvrok, and take them back for Lord Tzeentch! This is my service! I swear it will be done!’

‘Tsk tsk,’ said Kairos. ‘I do not foresee that for you. Such a petty patch of reality you offer the Great Changer. You insult him.’

‘Our dreams oft lead us to ruin,’ said the other head to Phostrin. ‘It is not entirely your doing. You may thank your great-grandfather. He was most diligent in holding the gifts we gave him, passing them from son to son. Now this scheme is done, a fresh one begins. I have need of a new servant. You will suffice. Your place is here, forevermore. You are reborn a daemon, but you achieved your position by trickery,’ said one head.

‘Lord Tzeentch approves, but there are rules,’ said the other.

‘Rules all in the Labyrinth must obey!’

‘For nine eternities and one day must you serve me,’ said Kairos. ‘Only then will you have earned the power you stole. Now, first to the Whispering Pandemonium. There shall we begin your education. Only when you have experienced pain and madness beyond the ken of mortals shall you be ready to proceed to the next torment.’

‘Little by little, we will tear your soul away until you are wholly Tzeentch’s,’ said the second head.

Laughing, Kairos brandished his staff and swooped away over the infinite intrigues of Tzeentch’s realm, carrying the screaming Phostrin away.

Graeme Lyon

The Eighth Victory

‘For the glory of the Blood God, death comes to you!’ Krev Deathstalker’s voice rose above the clamour of battle as he brought his great axe down on the gleaming silver armour of the Stormcast Eternal at his feet. The warrior rolled away and the axe bit into blood-soaked earth. Krev roared and pulled it out, batting away the Stormcast’s strike.

He took a step back and looked at the warrior. His armour was ruined, the shining silver plates dented and scuffed, mud and gore obscuring the symbols of the hated God-King that adorned its surfaces.

The Stormcast raised his sword and hammer and readied himself for Krev’s attack. The impassive gilded mask he wore gave no emotion away, but Krev would have sworn the warrior was smiling.

‘Death seems to be keeping his distance,’ the Stormcast said, his voice echoing strangely from behind the mask. ‘Maybe he waits for you.’

Krev swung his axe, and the Stormcast deflected it with his sword and brought his hammer round in a smooth arc that missed Krev by a hair’s breadth. The silver-armoured warrior pressed on, and Krev was forced back, step by step, desperately parrying the Stormcast’s blows. He kicked out, his boot catching the Stormcast’s shin. The warrior fell, giving Krev a moment’s reprieve. He circled the Stormcast and hefted his axe.

The silver warrior got back to his feet and spun around. His cloak flared and bolts of magic in the form of shimmering hammers flung themselves at Krev. He battered one away with his axe, but the others struck home, and he grunted in pain. The Stormcast pressed forwards again, and a punishing blow knocked the axe from Krev’s hands. Then he felt pain as the sword sliced into the meat of his leg and forced him to one knee. The Stormcast dropped his hammer, kicked Krev’s axe away and took his sword in both hands.

‘Thus will end all tyrants,’ he intoned, his voice sepulchral. ‘Sigmar decrees—’

He was cut off as a huge beast barrelled into him, knocking the sword from his grip and him to the ground. Krev smiled and pulled himself to his feet.

‘Well done, my pet,’ he said. The flesh hound howled, then bounded off in the direction of more enemies. Krev stooped and picked up the Stormcast’s fallen sword.

‘Sigmar decrees, does he?’ he hissed down at the mud-caked armoured warrior. ‘When you see him, tell him Krev Deathstalker spits on his decrees.’

Krev swung the sword and parted the Stormcast’s head from his shoulders. The head rolled for a moment, then both it and the warrior’s body dissolved into shimmering particles of light. Krev threw down the sword as it too discorporated. There was a flash and a sound like thunder, and the Stormcast vanished.

Krev looked around for more foes, but it seemed that the battle was all but won. He saw Garsa battling a knot of winged Stormcasts. The skullgrinder’s anvil swung in wide arcs on the end of its chain, catching the Prosecutors and pulling them from the air. Elsewhere, twin deathbringers fought back-to-back, axes whirling and shields parrying the huge lightning-wreathed hammers of a handful of Retributors.

Most impressive of all was Koroth, the tribe’s head deathbringer. The horned champion led a group of blood warriors against a line of Stormcast Liberators. Wherever his great ruinous axe fell, a Stormcast died.

‘Truly, Khorne favours him,’ said a voice behind Krev. He turned, axe raised, and saw the tall, rangy form of Drane, his remaining slaughterpriest. The old man’s axe was bloodied, and gore streaked his face and chest.

‘We are all favoured, Drane. We have now won seven mighty victories in the Blood God’s name against these celestial invaders. We are all exalted in His sight.’

‘We are, my lord,’ agreed the slaughterpriest. ‘And none more so than you. But even so… He is powerful indeed.’

‘And he serves me, priest. Does that not make me more powerful still?’

Drane said nothing for a time, eyeing Krev carefully. Finally he nodded. ‘As you say, my lord.’

The battle was over and the victory celebrations were in full swing. There had been feasting around the funeral pyre, the survivors feeding on choice meat from the fallen. Warriors now boasted of deeds performed in combat, compared fresh scars and competed in contests of martial skill.

But Drane was troubled. He sat apart from the revelry, considering the number of the dead compared to those left alive. He watched Krev, and he wondered what was to come.

Eventually, the warlord stood up to address the throng. All went quiet, and every eye was on Krev. He walked around the fire, gazing into its depths, and then looked around at the gathered warriors.

‘Seven victories have we won against Sigmar’s servants.’

There was cheering from drunken bloodreavers. Krev ignored it and raised his voice. ‘Seven mighty armies have they sent against us, and seven times they have been sent back to their heavenly home to answer for their failure before their God-King.’

He paused and looked around, catching Drane’s eye. The slaughterpriest saw something in Krev’s gaze, and looked away.

‘We stand on the edge of destiny, my Deathstalkers. Seven great victories… aye, that is the stuff of legends. But eight…’

He paused again.

‘Eight is a holy number, as we all know. We walk the eightfold path. Eight champions follow me and lead you into battle. Eight warbands make up our tribe. So what power will be ours when we have an eighth victory against this foe? How will Khorne reward us for honouring Him so?’

There were more cheers and chanting of the Blood God’s name.

‘I will tell you how, my friends, for the Blood God has spoken to me. He demands one more victory, one more great slaughter in His name. And when we secure it, I shall ascend to immortality. I will become a daemon prince and bestride the Mortal Realms like a colossus!’

As the cheering reached a fever pitch, Drane’s eyes sought out the other members of the Gorechosen, Krev’s champions.

The four deathbringers sat together. Each was newly ordained as a member of the Gorechosen, replacing heroes killed in the seven battles the tribe had fought over the past months. They were young and believed wholeheartedly in Krev’s vision for their future. Even now, they gazed at the warlord with rapt attention.

Garsa the skullgrinder sat amidst a knot of blood warriors. His expression was unreadable, but his eyes were fixed on Krev. Near him was Cheren, resting his broad back against the great icon of Khorne he carried into battle. The bloodsecrator looked as though he were asleep, though Drane was sure he was taking in every word.

Finally, he looked over at Koroth. Like Drane, he sat alone, at the very edge of the circle of flickering firelight. He was running a whetstone over the blade of his ruinous axe and glaring at the warlord with undisguised contempt.

‘That bodes ill,’ whispered the slaughterpriest to himself. ‘That bodes ill indeed…’

‘This cannot continue.’

Garsa’s voice cut above the tumult. The rest of the Gorechosen fell into silence as they turned to look at him. The celebration was over and the tribe had returned to their tents, save those who lay slumped unconscious, worse the wear for drinks or headbutting contests. Only the Gorechosen remained, drawn together by the need to discuss what would happen next.

‘Krev is our lord, Koroth. What would you have us do?’ said Drane calmly. The tall, lean slaughterpriest stepped forwards into the firelight and looked Garsa up and down. ‘Would you challenge him?’

Koroth was silent. Drane snorted dismissively and turned away.

‘I thought not. None of you would dare to test yourselves against him. You would not have done so months ago, and now, as he nears his apotheosis, you are even less likely to. Cowards, every one of you. You speak and speak, moan and complain, but will not act.’

‘You call us cowards, old man?’ demanded Koroth. ‘You, who can barely lift an axe, so far are you in your dotage?’

Drane laughed and turned to Koroth. ‘Do you care to test me, deathbringer? You fear to challenge our master, so you take out your frustrations on an old man?’

‘Don’t tempt me,’ the deathbringer growled, knuckles whitening as he gripped his axe.

Drane turned away from Koroth and addressed the rest of the Gorechosen.

‘Krev has led us to victory after victory, and he is not wrong about the reward that awaits him.’

‘What of the rest of us?’ asked Cheren. ‘Our numbers are few. Would our lord throw our lives away in pursuit of his own destiny?’

‘If we are to sacrifice ourselves to secure Krev’s ascension, then I will willingly give my life,’ declared Jiang. The young deathbringer’s eyes glowed with the light of a true fanatic, and Drane didn’t doubt that he meant what he said.

‘What of the rest of you?’ he asked. ‘If our lord’s victory requires you to lay down your lives, will you do so?’

There was a long silence.

‘No,’ growled Koroth eventually. ‘I will not. We have won these battles for him, and we will share in his victory, or take it from him for ourselves. I will challenge him. And I will defeat him.’

Krev emerged from his tent in the harsh morning light to find the eight warriors of his Gorechosen awaiting him. They were arrayed in a semicircle, with Koroth at the apex.

‘What is this?’ he asked. ‘What do you want, my champions?’

‘The course you are taking us on is madness,’ said Koroth softly. ‘I will have no further part in it. The battles we have fought have reduced our numbers to almost nothing. We need new blood if we are to shed more in Khorne’s name.’

‘We are on the verge of greatness, deathbringer,’ said Krev. ‘Surely you see that?’

‘I see that you care only for your own fate,’ the deathbringer replied. ‘As a warrior, that is fitting. As a leader… it is not. And so I challenge you, Krev Deathstalker. Face me in single combat for the leadership of the tribe.’

Krev stared into his champion’s face, and smiled. ‘Very well. We fight to the death.’

‘To the death,’ agreed Koroth.

Krev spread his arms and gestured to the gathered Gorechosen. ‘Well? What are you waiting for, deathbringer? You want my head… come and take it.’

Koroth lifted his axe and nodded. ‘Aye.’ He leapt, axe raised over his head, and brought it down in a scything arc that would have split Krev in two had it connected. The warlord sidestepped it calmly.

‘You are mighty, deathbringer. Exalted indeed. But you will not win this battle.’

Koroth snorted and lashed out, swinging the ruinous axe one-handed at Krev’s neck. The warlord ducked beneath the blow and punched the deathbringer in the stomach, knocking him backwards. The champion growled in anger.

‘Draw your axe and face me properly, Krev!’ he roared.

‘I have no need of my axe,’ Krev said calmly. ‘I have the favour of the Blood God.’

‘You are a fool, drunk on your own power and convinced of your immortality. I shall show you the lie of that!’ Koroth swung his axe again, catching Krev with the flat and knocking him flying. He rolled and swiftly rose to his feet. The pair circled one another, and Krev noticed that the rest of the Gorechosen had moved to surround them. He smiled and threw back his head, shouting to the heavens.

‘My lord Khorne, master of war, taker of skulls, spiller of blood, hear my prayer. Aid your devoted servant, prove to all present that I am in your favour. Strike down this upstart, and bring me victory.’

For a moment, there was silence. Koroth stopped pacing and just stared at Krev.

‘Is that your plan, warlord? Call upon Khorne to kill me because you cannot?’ He laughed. ‘You die now.’ He stepped forward, swinging his axe underarm, and caught Krev on the chest, tearing a long cut into his flesh. The warlord staggered back, and Koroth turned to the Gorechosen.

‘You see? This is what we follow. A coward who knows he cannot defeat me and in desperation calls for aid that will never…’

He trailed off as a rumble of thunder sounded, like the laughter of a god, and a shadow passed overhead. He looked up and saw a vast crimson cloud. As he watched, it began to rain. Thick drops of bright red blood fell, staining the earth where they landed. Krev stretched out his arms to welcome the shower.

‘You were saying, Koroth?’

The deathbringer shook his horned head and snarled. ‘Trickery. And how is this supposed to…’ His words became a strangled scream as the first drops of blood hit his flesh, which sizzled and burned. ‘What is… How did you…?’ The shower became a deluge and Koroth screamed as he was consumed, burned to ash by the downpour.

Krev stepped forwards and gazed at each of the seven remaining Gorechosen in turn. He gestured to the pile of ashes that had been his deathbringer.

‘Would anyone else like to challenge me?’

In the days that followed, the tribe prepared for their greatest battle, the one that would raise their lord to daemonhood and exalt them all in the Blood God’s eyes. Word of Krev’s victory over Koroth spread quickly, and it seemed that none now doubted that he was favoured by the Blood God, or that another victory would be theirs. Yet Drane was still troubled.

The deathbringer had been vital to the battles over the past months. Without his might, and with their reduced numbers, they would struggle against another Stormcast host. Krev knew that, so why had he let the deathbringer die? The slaughterpriest had tried to raise the matter with the warlord, but Krev had brushed his concerns aside with more talk of destiny.

Now the scouts had brought word of an army of Stormcasts marching from the shores of the Barren Sea, and there was no more time to ponder the question. Battle would be joined in a matter of hours, and the outcome was uncertain.

He looked along the battle lines. Once, there had been thousands. Now, there were mere hundreds, most of them unarmoured, ill-disciplined bloodreavers. Here and there stood knots of blood warriors, their axes notched and shields dented. Even smaller groups of wrathmongers daubed themselves in blood and offered prayers to Khorne. The remaining members of the Gorechosen were stationed along the line to lend their skill at arms and leadership to the warriors around them.

‘It won’t be enough,’ he said aloud.

‘It will, Drane,’ said Krev behind him.

‘My lord, we are too few. I have tried to ignore this fact and trust to faith, but my faith is in steel and my worship to the Blood God is done in battle. And I look at this army and know that steel will not be enough against Sigmar’s chosen.’

Krev shook his head. ‘You understand so little, slaughterpriest. Khorne’s favour is with me. I will ascend. And nothing else matters.’

Drane opened his mouth to reply, but Krev held up his hand. ‘You and I shall watch the battle from behind our lines,’ he ordered.

Horror engulfed the slaughterpriest. ‘My lord,’ he protested, ‘with so few warriors, our strength will be required. And to not fight—’

‘My word is final, Drane. Trust that I know what I am about.’

The warlord turned and stomped away, leaving Drane to his dark thoughts.

Battle was joined at dawn. The Stormcasts’ army was small, just a few hundred warriors, but each was huge, clad in near-impenetrable armour of a turquoise hue, and the power of the storm played about them and their weapons. At their centre was an immense figure, swathed in a crimson cloak and riding upon the back of a great armoured reptile. The figure gestured with his hammer and the Stormcasts began to march.

A mob of howling bloodreavers was the first to engage. They charged into the Stormcast shield wall, axes swinging. Stormcasts fell, but too few. For every one of the armoured warriors that returned to the heavens in a bolt of crackling lightning, five bloodreavers were gutted and left dying in the dirt.

The twin deathbringers were the first of the Gorechosen to die. They drove too far into the enemy lines, with too small a warband at their back, and were surrounded. They fought bravely and well, taking a score of Stormcast Liberators with them, but eventually they were cut down. Drane delivered the news to Krev. To his surprise and consternation, the warlord smiled.

‘They died well,’ he said. ‘What more could they ask?’

Cheren the bloodsecrator was the next to fall. He had planted his icon in the earth and defended it fiercely, a cadre of blood warriors around him. He called upon the power of the icon, invoking the wrath of Khorne. Around him, reality had split open and the Realm of Chaos had merged with the mortal world. The Stormcasts attacking him were immense warriors with axes the size of a man, which could dismember several warriors with one mighty strike. As the ground became brass and the air filled with sulphurous fumes, their progress had slowed, but it was not enough. They struggled forwards, cutting down blood warriors with every step, and eventually Cheren was overwhelmed. He died with his axe in hand and Khorne’s name on his lips. With his death, the left flank of the Deathstalkers crumbled and victory looked increasingly unlikely.

Drane returned to Krev’s side.

‘My lord, I beseech you, let me join the battle. We face defeat unless—’

‘You will join the battle when I tell you to and not before, slaughterpriest.’

‘My lord, I do not understand your strategy.’

Krev turned on him, eyes blazing. For the first time, Drane noticed the nimbus of power that surrounded the warlord. He bowed and stepped away as dark suspicions began to form about what Krev was doing.

On the right flank, the skullgrinder and his small warband of wrathmongers came up against the leader of the Stormcast host. Garsa’s first swing of his anvil was a good one, caving in the skull of the beast on which the Lord-Celestant rode and throwing him to the ground. A follow-up strike met the Stormcast’s hammer, giving the warrior time to rise to his feet. He threw off his cloak and faced the skullgrinder, while his bodyguard, armed with rune-inscribed polearms, duelled with the wrathmongers.

The battle between the Lord-Celestant and the skullgrinder was long and gruelling. With each swing of his anvil, Garsa caved in sigmarite armour plates and broke bones, but the Stormcast stayed standing. Where his hammer struck home, crackling lightning burned the skullgrinder’s flesh. Both warriors slowed as the fight dragged on, and eventually, Garsa dropped his weapon and launched himself at the Stormcast with a roar of inarticulate rage. He tore the turquoise helmet from the warrior’s head and grabbed his throat, lifting him bodily from the ground, squeezing. Even as bones popped and his throat was crushed, the Stormcast used the last of his strength to strike one more time, and the head of his hammer obliterated the skullgrinder’s torso in a discharge of celestial power.

Both warriors fell to the ground. The Stormcast’s body disappeared into a crackling arc of energy that shot skywards, and Garsa was trampled into the dirt.

The remaining two deathbringers fell as the Stormcasts overran the rest of the Deathstalkers. Their deaths were not glorious, but they were bloody.

‘Do you understand now, slaughterpriest?’

Drane turned to see Krev standing behind him, axe in hand. The warlord appeared larger than ever, and the power that had played around him now seemed to infuse his entire body. The priest shook his head slowly.

‘No, my lord. This is no victory. And yet, the power around you is palpable. Whatever your plan was, it has succeeded.’

‘Almost, my old friend. Only one last thing remains to be done.’ The warlord raised his axe, and suddenly Drane understood.

‘This battle was never going to be your eighth victory,’ he said. ‘We were.’

Krev nodded as he advanced. ‘Khorne cares not from whence the blood flows, as you know well. He accepts the deaths of his followers as readily as his foes. And sometimes they are preferable. He thirsts for skulls, Drane, and they are one thing he cannot get from these Stormcasts.’

‘The battles we won were to draw Khorne’s attention to you,’ the slaughterpriest said. ‘The real sacrifice was the skulls of your champions.’

‘Eight skulls of worthy heroes, given in battle. The first he claimed for himself when I asked. That was when I knew for sure.’

‘The duel,’ Drane said.

‘Yes. And now he has another six. Only one remains, slaughterpriest. Yours. Will you give it willingly, or will you fight me?’

Drane took a deep breath and raised his axe, gripping it tightly in both hands.

‘I will fight you, Krev Deathstalker. My honour will allow me to do nothing else.’

‘Good,’ smiled Krev. ‘Die well, Drane.’

Meros Oathkeeper, Lord-Relictor of the Celestial Vindicators, held up a hand to halt the advance of the Judicators around him.

‘Hold,’ he ordered. ‘What is happening up there?’

On a ridge behind the shattered remnants of the Chaos force, two figures clashed in single combat. Both were huge, one thin and rangy, the other bulky and glowing with barely suppressed power. Both fought with impressive skill, swinging huge axes with speed and grace, dodging and weaving like pugilists.

‘They turn on one another,’ scoffed Iator, the Judicator-Prime. The warrior raised his bow and nocked an arrow. ‘Shall I finish one of them, my lord?’

Meros shook his head. ‘No. This feels like something in which we should not intervene.’

He would live to regret that decision, though not for long. As he watched, the bulkier figure gained the upper hand, lashing out with a blow that cut through the haft of the other’s axe and knocked him back a step. It was followed by an upwards strike that split the thin figure from groin to collarbone. He fell to the earth and the victor threw down his axe and began to laugh.

The aura of power around him grew blinding, and Meros was forced to look away. He could feel a change in the air, and his senses screamed danger.

‘Shoot him,’ he screamed. ‘Kill him before—’

It was too late. The figure’s laugh became a scream, of pain and rage and… triumph? The light faded and Meros looked back. The warrior’s skin was sloughing away, muscles melting and veins unravelling, forming a cloud of bloody matter around the figure. His bones stretched and warped, growing and becoming coated with what looked like brass. The bloody cloud grew and closed back in on the enlarged skeleton, clothing it once again in muscle and flesh, slick and blood red.

‘Daemon,’ Meros breathed. ‘Daemon! Take it down!’

The Judicators took aim and fired, but their arrows melted as they came close to the figure. It laughed again, and now the sound was booming and inhuman. The newly birthed daemon prince turned to Meros and grinned, revealing rows of sharp fangs in a bloody maw. It gestured, and an immense axe coalesced in its hand.

The daemon prince raised the axe into the air.

‘Come forth, children of the Blood God!’ it roared, and from nowhere stepped creatures of blood and brass, lean and long-limbed and carrying barbed swords. Rank after rank of them materialised, brought into the Mortal Realms through the thinned barrier between reality and Chaos.

‘This battle is lost,’ Meros yelled. ‘Fall back, brothers. Fall back!’

They retreated, but Meros couldn’t tear his eyes from the daemon prince. It rose into the air, carried by great black wings, and swooped down towards him.

Meros Oathkeeper was dead in an instant. He didn’t even have time to raise his hammer.

Krev Deathstalker, daemon prince of Khorne, pulled the Stormcast’s head from his body and cast it aside as it dissipated. Around him, a horde of daemons poured from the Blood God’s realm, laying into the celestial warriors with their hellblades. They fought bravely, but the daemons were too many and the Stormcasts too few after their conflict with the Deathstalkers. All too soon, the battle was won.

The eighth victory was his.

Josh Reynolds

The Last Gift

Ompallious Zeyros swept his silvery glaive out in a wide arc, removing the Rotbringer’s flabby sword-hand at the wrist. The obese warrior gave a grunting sigh and reached for Zeyros with his remaining paw.

‘Too slow, my fat friend,’ Zeyros said as he twisted aside and thrust the edge of his glaive through a rusty join in his opponent’s fungus-covered cuirass. Warm pus spurted from the wound and the Rotbringer seemed to deflate, even as he toppled forward. Zeyros tore his glaive free and spun it deftly, cleansing the blade. It had been a gift from a daemon of his acquaintance, and was as light as one of her feathers.

All around him, his servants finished off the last of the pestilential defenders of the crag-fortress known as the Rot-Horn. Cackling, pink-limbed horrors, their chest-faces twisted in manic amusement, hurled daemonic fire as oath-sworn warriors clad in armour of amethyst and lapis lazuli hacked down bloated blightkings with ensorcelled blades. The Rotbringers had sought to bar their entry to the inner chambers of the keep that clung like a stony boil to the highest peak of the mountain range.

‘But they have failed. Do you hear me, Ephraim Bollos? Or is it Lord Rotskull?’ he shouted, casting his words into the mould-shrouded corridors which spread out around him, echoing strangely. ‘Whatever you call yourself, I am here, as is your hour of reckoning.’

He received no reply. He had expected none. Still, a worm of doubt wriggled within him. ‘Is he here, Tugop? Is my foe here, or has he already fled, as he did at the Black Cistern?’ he asked, glancing at the blue-skinned horror crouched on a nearby statue. Tugop was little more than a collection of lanky limbs and a monstrous head twisted in a sullen grimace, but he was loyal, in his way. As loyal as a daemon bound in chains of ritual and blood could be.

‘Or as you did at the Pallas Ghyredes, Ompallious Zeyros?’ the daemon murmured dolefully. ‘He is here, for all the good it shall do thee,’ he added quickly, at Zeyros’ glare.

‘And what does that mean, daemon?’ Zeyros demanded.

‘Only that thy fate is come, and all possible paths have narrowed to but one, Ompallious Zeyros,’ Tugop said, as he extended one impossibly long arm and patted Zeyros’ shoulder in apparent sympathy. ‘Tread carefully, and stay to that path which the King of Manifold Paths hath chosen for thee.’

‘And victory will be mine?’

The blue horror gave a sad chuckle. ‘Who can say? Not I, not I.’

He…llo…ol…d…frie…nd.

The old familiar voice echoed up out of the fungal growths on the body at his feet. They flexed like the mouths of fishes gasping for air, causing the corpse to shudder.

‘Ephraim,’ Zeyros said. ‘Where are you?’

Wai…ting…for…you.

A stinking breeze whipped past him, drawing him towards an archway curtained in foulness. A single slice of his glaive revealed the corridor beyond. He hesitated. He looked at Tugop. ‘The path?’ he asked, softly. The blue horror spread his oversized hands and shrugged. Zeyros shook his head in disgust. ‘Burn this sty to ashes. I will deal with its master.’ His warriors murmured their assent, as Tugop bowed.

As he stepped into the corridor, he heard daemons giggling behind him as they began to slap the damp stones with burning hands. There was little the servants of Tzeentch enjoyed more than destroying the bastions of rot beloved of Nurgle. That was why he had sworn himself to the iridescent banners of the Changer of Ways that day, so long ago. The day Ephraim Bollos had broken his oaths and cast down all that they had once served.

He strode along heavy flat foundation stones carpeted with bunches of mould. Humps of toadstools clustered between the flags, and wherever he stepped, clouds of spores billowed up. They clung to his armour and robes, staining them an ugly hue. The walls around him bulged with mushrooms and furry streaks that blended in hideous harmony to give shape to faces and hands and other, less identifiable things — crusted convolutions which resembled things no mortal eye should see.

‘Until, out of corruption, horrid life springs,’ Zeyros murmured. It was an old saying, folk wisdom from a people and a land lost to the foetid tide of history. His land. We were closer than brothers, you and I, he thought. We rode to war side-by-side. How many lances did we each break on behalf of the other, before you threw it all away?

Before they both threw it away, a treacherous part of him countered. He shied away from the thought. Whatever he’d done, he’d done in the name of necessity. But Bollos… Bollos had sold his soul for power. Life. Survival. The Jade Kingdoms drowned in filth, and Bollos had chosen to join it.

A familiar laugh, deep-throated and full, echoed out around him. That laughter had followed him, haunted him, for centuries. He stopped. The corridor had expanded, widening into a round chamber, full of ghastly life. Great toadstools and hummocks of fungus stood like courtiers before a heavy slab of a dais, surmounted by a crude throne.

‘Hello, my old friend… Come to see me at last?’ Ephraim Bollos wheezed. He had seen better days. His bloated, toad-like form lolled on the throne, armour creaking as it struggled futilely to contain the hideous shape within. By the light of phosphorescent fungus, Zeyros could see that the living corruption that filled the keep originated from Bollos and his throne. Webs of fungus and mould stretched from his limbs and horned skull to spread across the walls and floor, where they had thickened and flourished into a garden of filthy creation. ‘Welcome to my garden. I can feel the heat of your hate from here, Ompallious.’

‘As I can smell the stink of you, Ephraim,’ Zeyros said. His voice carried strangely in the chamber. The doughy fungus which clung to the walls seemed to absorb all sound, as did the spongy carpet of fluted shapes which squelched beneath his feet. ‘Then, you never were very clean. Even in better days.’

Bollos laughed. ‘Better days? Is that a hint of yearning I hear in your voice?’

‘Unlike you, my brain is not shot through with rot. My memories are as vivid as ever.’ Zeyros slashed a particularly unpleasant clump of fungus apart and was rewarded by a tiny scream. Bollos sighed.

‘Do stay your hand, Ompallious. I cannot bear their pain,’ he grumbled. ‘They are a part of me, and I, them. I am in every blossom and lump.’

Spitefully, Zeyros thrust his glaive into the trembling clump and gave it a savage twist. Thin squeals of agony, or perhaps simply escaping air, reached him. Bollos twitched on his throne. ‘Once, you would not have done that,’ he said.

‘Once, we would have traded blows, rather than words,’ Zeyros said. ‘Once, you would have welcomed this. But now…’

‘Now I am older and less inclined to bestir myself for petty displays,’ Bollos said.

‘Petty, he says,’ Zeyros said. ‘Do not mock me, Ephraim. We have known each other too long to play such games.’ He took another step towards the throne. The fungus seemed to shift and bulge, as if following him. ‘Ghyran, the Jade Kingdoms… they shudder beneath the star-shod heels of a new power. The fires of Azyr rage in the forests of rot, and your patron reels in agony. Nurgle loses his hold on this realm. It is a time of change.’

‘So it is.’ Bollos gestured with a wide, warty hand. ‘And so I am. All of this… it is me, my friend. Every toadstool, every cilium, born of my flesh, culled from my rotten bone. Behold, I give a gift of myself to the future. Life begets life. It was ever Grandfather’s way.’

Zeyros looked around, a queasy feeling in his gut. Bollos truly had become one with the filth of Nurgle’s garden. ‘It was ever your way to wallow in your own filth,’ he said.

‘You should not mock me, my friend,’ Bollos said, watching him approach.

‘We are not friends, Ephraim. Maybe once, but no longer, and not for many centuries. An ocean of blood separates us, and I would see you drown in it.’ Zeyros took another step. And another. The carpet of toadstools stirred beneath him.

‘Yes. And you sold your soul for the chance, did you not?’

Zeyros said nothing. Bollos’ wide, toad-like face split in a brown grin. His teeth were broken and mossy, and something that might have been a tongue moved behind them. ‘What price a man’s soul, eh?’

‘You tell me,’ Zeyros said. ‘Was it worth it, Ephraim? All that you’ve done, to me, to the others… was it worth it?’

‘Worth has a different meaning for every man, Ompallious. You taught me that. I sold my soul for life, eternal and without end, in one form or another. What did you sell yours for? That iridescent armour you wear? That glaive you carry? Or something else?’ Bollos sighed, his round eyes half-shut. ‘Did you bargain all of your tomorrows away for today?’

Zeyros paused, his foot on the bottom step of the dais on which the throne sat. The air was thick with spores and mould, and he coughed, trying to clear his lungs. Everything in the chamber stank of Bollos. ‘I did what was necessary, and no more,’ he said, harshly.

Bollos frowned. ‘Necessity and worth are often determined in the aftermath, I have found.’ He sat back with a ponderous groan. ‘In truth, I had hoped you would come. I can no longer leave this place, for I am as much garden as gardener now. What have we made of ourselves, my friend?’

‘We stopped being friends the day you…’ Zeyros fell silent. He shook his head, and raised his glaive. ‘You are a monster. And I am a monster. But only one of us will see tomorrow, Ephraim.’

‘And then what?’ Bollos said. ‘What of tomorrow, Ompallious?’

Zeyros stopped. He was but a glaive-strike from Bollos. ‘What?’

‘What of tomorrow, when I am dead? What then, for you? What shall you do without me, my friend?’

Zeyros stared at the loathsome countenance of the creature he had once called his friend. Memories, long buried under days of blood and regret, rose briefly to the surface and then sank once more. He had chased Bollos across the Jade Kingdoms for centuries. Is he right? What next, for me? The thought was not a pleasant one.

‘We stand on the precipice of greatness, you and I,’ Bollos rumbled. ‘I made you, Ompallious. I gave you the gift of life, as I give it to this place. I gave you a reason to live, when all hope was lost.’

‘If not for you…’ Zeyros began.

‘If not for me, you would have drowned in rot and the last memory of our people drowned with you. But you survived…’

‘For vengeance,’ Zeyros said. But still, the doubt was there.

‘Yes! I kindled the fire in you. And now, you are so much more than you were. We both are, cousin. The gods favour us, Ompallious. Why do you not thank me for my gift?’

‘Thank you? Thank you?’ Zeyros said incredulously.

‘You’re welcome,’ Bollos said, smiling cheerfully. ‘Without me to feed it, your flame will gutter out and become ashes. I would not see that happen to you, my friend. I will live on, in one form or another, and you will thank me…’

Zeyros snarled and flames of every colour and none flared to life along the curved blade of his glaive. ‘Here is your thanks,’ he hissed, as doubt gave way to anger. His glaive swept down and hacked into Bollos’ shoulder. Ephraim jerked and groaned. Spores billowed from the wound and crisped in the flames. A vast sigh, of sadness, perhaps, or satisfaction, rolled through the chamber.

Bollos made no attempt to defend himself. Zeyros hacked at him, tearing great wounds in the sagging body. As he hewed, flames spread hungrily across the ligaments of fungus, devouring them. And Bollos… Bollos laughed. Zeyros staggered back, breath rasping in his lungs. ‘Stop laughing,’ he said. ‘I will burn this place. Burn you!’

‘Burn it all, brother. Such is the cycle of it: life begets fire, fire begets ash, ash begets soil and soil begets life. Burn my garden, so that it might flourish,’ Bollos wheezed. Uncomprehending, Zeyros snarled and spat a single, incandescent word. The chamber was filled with light and heat and ash. Soon, the whole of the crag-keep would be the same. It would all burn, and his memories of Ephraim Bollos with it. The memories of his betrayal, the laughter which had haunted him, it would all be ash.

And then… and then…

He shook the thought aside and leaned forward, to watch as Bollos’ skull crumpled in the fire. The body twitched, and then a hand snapped up, catching him by the arm.

‘One… last… gift, my friend,’ Bollos whispered, holding tight to Zeyros’ wrist, breathing into his face. ‘I bequeath unto you… a future. Nurture it, as I have.’

Then, with a contented sigh, Bollos sagged back and surrendered to the flames. Shaken, Zeyros left the dais, backing away as his fire filled the chamber, and the fungus screamed. As he left, he idly scraped the filth from his armour. It clung stubbornly to the metal, and he wondered if he would ever get clean. He coughed suddenly, and felt a strange weight in his lungs. The smoke, he thought. He looked at his hand, covered in char… and spores. Bollos’ spores. He coughed again, and remembered Bollos’ breath in his face, and the things moving behind his mossy teeth. He remembered the air, thick with… what?

All of this, it is me, he’d said. Ompallious Zeyros coughed again.

And somewhere, Ephraim Bollos laughed.

David Annandale

The Prodigal

The cave was a spiral through darkness, a narrow coil through the core of the mountain. To reach it meant finding a path through a maze of fissures. An impossible task, a barrier to anyone not native-born to the city of Lykerna. The route had been unused now for an age, for who would willingly leave the sanctuary in these terrible days? The people of Lykerna rested secure behind their walls, their city hidden within its mountains, its light concealed from the monsters on the plain. They rested easy. There was no one who would lead the monsters to them.

Except the monster who knew the way.

Graunos had not been a monster when he left Lykerna. Then he had been a victim, doubly cursed because no one but he had acknowledged his plight. Blessed by Tyrion, they had said. Blessed to share his burden.

‘There is light ahead, lord,’ said Therekal.

‘I can see that perfectly well.’

The slaughterpriest bowed his head in a quick apology before Graunos could strike it from his neck.

I can see, he thought. I will see Lykerna.

He would behold its spires for the first time in his life. And this day would be the last they would be seen by anyone.

Graunos rounded the final curve of the spiral. Behind him, the walls of the tunnel echoed with the dread rhythm of thousands of marching boots. The warband of the Brass Gaze had come to Lykerna — at its head, the weakest son of the great city, returned now in strength and wrath.

The cavern ended. Stretching from the precipitous mountainside to the gates of the city was a narrow bridge. There were no ramparts. Though it was wide enough for three warriors to march abreast, it traced a sinuous path through the air. Centuries before, when Graunos had crossed the other way, he had crawled its length on hands and knees, lest his blindness send him plummeting off the edge.

Now, with Khorne’s gift, he gazed upon the bridge, the gate, and the spires. His helmet was fused with his skull. No flesh remained between bone and brass. Graunos and his armour were one. His body was the strength of plate and spikes. His blood was the acid of the Blood God’s rage. His eyes were the graven stare in his helm. Khorne had rewarded him with sight, but it was vision with a purpose. Graunos saw only what must be destroyed, and how to bring it down.

And so he saw all of Lykerna.

The city was built of stone and light. Carved into the mountainsides surrounding the city were vast mirrors of polished marble. They were concave and convex, hemispheres and bowls, their slopes and angles and shapes as varied as the beams of light that struck them. Refracted, reflected, divided and magnified, the rays of Lykerna were a lattice of creation. They were the foundation of the city, suspending it in the air between the mountains, leagues above the distant ground. Lykerna was built upon light, and it was built with light. Every wall, every square, every tower and every palace was a shining composite of resplendent gold, marble and worshipful illumination. Soaring in its heights of pride and glory, the city exalted Tyrion in the totality of its being.

Graunos’ helm covered the top half of his skull. Below it, his face was stripped of its skin. It was exposed muscle, scarred and knotted, pierced with hooks of brass. It was the face of his pain and his hatred. It was a face of thorns. His sharpened teeth parted in a snarl of anticipation as he looked upon the meaning he would destroy and the meaning he would shape.

Meaning. It was the wealth of Lykerna. It was the reason the priests of the city had declared Graunos blessed. They had given thanks for his agony. They had held him up as proof of Tyrion’s favour. Graunos’ blindness had been no simple thing. Because he could see only darkness in the realm of light, his mind could not perceive the play of light. It could not see the symbolism inherent to the material of the world. Instead, all meaning shouted at him at once. Until Khorne had found him in his hate, his darkness had been an endless clamour, a pounding avalanche of significance. Everything had meant everything. There had been no peace, no surcease, no space for his own thoughts until, at last, his hatred had grown so large as to swallow up everything else.

Now he saw only what must fall and the new form that his rage would create. That was more than enough.

He walked onto the bridge. The light trembled beneath his tread. Darkness spread from every footstep, a contagion of night streaming through the veins of the span. It rushed ahead, greedy for the gates. Graunos began to run, charging toward the fulfilment of his vengeance and the preparation of a greater battle to come.

The war horns of the Brass Gaze blasted. Their howl was triumphant in its violence.

‘The towers sway at the sound of our horns,’ said Therekal, awed.

‘But they do not fall,’ Graunos said. ‘Not yet. It is our blows that will topple them.’

The bells in the spires rang out in alarm. The impossible was happening. The hidden city was under attack.

The bridge widened in the final approach to the gate. Here, Graunos paused. He threw his head back and bellowed. ‘Hear me, Lykerna! Your sacrifice has returned! I am Graunos, and I have come to cast you down!’

The bells still rang, yet it seemed to Graunos that a kind of silence fell for a moment over the city when he uttered his name. The Lykernan nobility revelled in the richness of symbols. He had brought them more meaning than even they had wished.

The gates were turning black from the contagion of his rage, becoming brittle. They opened, and the defenders of Lykerna marched to meet the Brass Gaze. Pennants of light and silk flashed in the wind. The warriors of the city were clad in silver armour and white robes. A fine backdrop for the blood to come. At the head of the phalanx was a luminark. Pulled by a brace of armoured horses, it was a reliquary as much as it was an engine of war. The ornate frame waited for Graunos to shatter it. Mounted on its roof was a cannon of light, a cone-shaped assemblage of lenses. An acolyte of Tyrion sat beneath the lenses and guided the horses. A wizard stood beside the largest lens. He was an old man, though his frame thrummed with contained power.

‘Graunos!’ he called. ‘Repent! It is not too late!’

Graunos recognized the voice. Ahnavias, the wizard who had urged him to accept his calling. Urged him to accept the curse of Tyrion.

‘It is too late for your city,’ Graunos hissed. He launched himself forward. Behind him came the thunder of his horde of wrath.

Ahnavias turned to the lens, chanting and casting his hands at its centre. The fire of purest illumination burst from the luminark. The beam sought Graunos. It came to turn his soul and being into an incandescent flash. Instead, it struck the blade of his axe of Khorne. The weapon’s name was Darkfall. The Blood God’s rune glowed crimson against metal of absolute black. The axe devoured the light.

Graunos pushed against the force of the assault. Ahnavias shouted. The beam intensified. Darkfall grew hot, burning through his gauntlet. Yet it took the light, the hunger of the daemon within it goaded by Graunos’ own hunger for revenge.

Then he reached the luminark, and with a single sweep of Darkfall, he shattered the forward lenses. The light dispersed with an explosion. A wind of glass shredded the skin of the acolytes. Graunos leapt aboard. He decapitated the first acolyte, then wrapped his armoured fingers around Ahnavias’ throat.

‘You will watch,’ he said.

He hurled the priest to the warband. Bloodreavers bound him in chains. They dragged him along. They made him see.

The struggle was brief. The Brass Gaze smashed through the defenders of the city. The blood of slaughtered warriors flowed along the bridge and dripped over the edges. And this was a mere prelude, a rivulet that soon vanished in a deluge. Graunos sent his legion through the city. He unleashed butchery so vast, cascades of blood plummeted from the windows of the spires. The light of Lykerna was submerged in waves of crimson. Thousands died, tens of thousands. The blood filled the streets. It covered the plazas. It coated the walls of the palaces and towers. It submerged the light.

The foundations crumbled.

And the city fell.

The drop was not rapid. It was a slow descent into the dark majesty of wrath. Lykerna collapsed in on itself like a closing fist. The towers smashed into each other. Stained glass shattered and became maws of jagged teeth. The city struck the stony ground of the valley, and towering, curved obelisks of brass thrust through the ruins, the gripping claws of Khorne’s domain.

Graunos stood in the centre of the city. He saw the change. He saw the new meaning, and though his work was good, his wrath was not assuaged. It never could be, perhaps not even if the day came at last when he drove his blade into the skull of Tyrion himself.

To the west, the sky flashed with lightning. The greater battle was coming.

Graunos looked down at Ahnavias, the last survivor of Lykerna, kneeling on stone. The wizard looked to the west.

‘Hope is coming,’ he said.

‘It is coming too late,’ Graunos told him. The warriors who thought to bring that hope would find instead ruins in the shape of gargantuan jaws.

‘Light is coming,’ Ahnavias insisted.

‘Then it will show me the shape of the doom I will create,’ said Graunos. With a dismissive blow, he severed the wizard’s head. He picked it up and turned its eyes toward the lightning. ‘Can you still see what is coming?’ he asked. ‘No? I can.’

War was coming. And it would find wrath waiting.

Graeme Lyon

The Sacrifice

The vampire screamed as the dagger struck home.

Arioso chanted as he pulled the weapon out of the creature’s flesh and brought it down again. Nine times he cut, each slice carving part of an arcane sigil into the vampire’s chest. Dark blood slowly welled up from the wounds, filling the cramped chamber with a rich coppery smell.

‘You will regret this,’ the vampire croaked. Arioso ignored it and continued chanting, the syllables of power echoing around the ancient fane.

‘Your gods have no place in these lands,’ it continued quietly. ‘The only master of Shyish is Nagash.’

‘Nagash,’ repeated Kaemria, Arioso’s acolyte. ‘An old power, long since defeated. The Everchosen destroyed your master long ago.’

Arioso glared at Kaemria and she quieted. He made the last cut in the vampire’s chest and ended his chant. He looked down at his victim. It resembled a human, though its features were twisted and bestial. It lay on a stone slab, naked. Its arms and legs had been broken to prevent any escape attempt, and its pathetic form lay nearly still, other than involuntary twitches of pain. Even now, as it faced its own destruction, it sneered at the Chaos champion.

‘What have you to say, fool?’ it asked. ‘Do you believe that you can defy my master’s will here, in his realm? In a temple dedicated to him?’

Arioso considered the question. Nagash was one of the gods of myth, a being whose power had been broken alongside that of Sigmar, Alarielle and the rest of their ridiculous pantheon. The Mortal Realms no longer belonged to them. They belonged to Chaos, and so did this temple. The atrocities he and his warband had committed here in Tzeentch’s name had seen to that.

This was the last of many sacrifices — eighty-one to be precise — dedicated to the Changer of Ways in this place. The others had been the vampire’s servants, debased flesh-eaters, and the survivors of the battle Arioso had won days before. Each of the victims had been killed in a slightly different way, each sacrifice used to dedicate this place to Tzeentch in preparation for this moment.

Did Arioso truly believe that this was going to work?

‘Yes,’ he said, and brought the dagger down into the vampire’s heart.

‘In the name of the Changer of Ways,’ he intoned. ‘By the nine paths to knowledge, the nine mazes of mind and the nine forms of wisdom, I invoke the creatures of the Outer Dark. Nine times nine souls have I delivered to Thee, Lord Tzeentch. In return, one boon would I ask. Give me knowledge. Show me my path. Tell me my destiny. Send Your servants to light my way.’

A sudden wind ruffled Arioso’s robes and he heard Kaemria gasp. The light in the chamber, dim as it was, vanished, and Arioso was plunged into a darkness greater than he had ever experienced, a darkness that was not merely the absence of light, but its opposite. He could feel a presence within the darkness, like a creature with many eyes viewing him from a thousand angles at once. It was as if the universe itself was looking inside him, laying his soul bare and devouring all his secrets. He wanted to scream, to cry, to curl up in a ball and soil himself.

He would not.

‘I am Arioso of the Midnight Sages,’ he said, each word an effort. ‘I am a child of the Benighted Enclaves. I was born and raised in darkness, and I fear it not. My will is inviolable. I have summoned thee, and thou wilt do my bidding, daemon!’

He forced his will out and the darkness receded, replaced with a sphere of blinding light. Something was at its heart, but he could gaze at it for only a moment before he was forced to look away.

‘Very well, mortal,’ said a voice. It was ancient and otherworldly, and it echoed strangely through the fane, as though the echoes came before the words. ‘You have performed the correct rites, and your will is strong. Your soul will remain your own, and I will grant you the boon you seek.’

A thrill ran through Arioso. ‘Yes,’ he breathed. ‘Show me my destiny, daemon. Show me the dark deeds I am to perform in Tzeentch’s name.’

Visions filled his mind. An army stretched across a valley of black volcanic rock, littered with great statues, their features worn away by time. Vast mountains stretched into a blood-red sky, their peaks disappearing into turquoise clouds that partly obscured a moon in the shape of a leering skull. Banners fluttered in a light breeze, each one marked with the twisting sigil of the Changer of Ways and the other Ruinous Powers. The army was the largest the champion had ever seen, tens of thousands of warriors… and it was his.

Arioso was at the army’s head, held aloft by a floating disc, golden and bladed. He was clad in robes of many colours over shining golden armour, and he held a flaming halberd in both hands. He gestured with it and his army surged forwards, heavily armoured warriors and bare-chested marauders all chanting his name as they charged.

The vision changed, and Arioso saw the enemy, a vast horde of green-skinned savages, outnumbering even the Tzeentch champion’s army. They wore furs and skins, and carried stone clubs and crude spears. Some hefted huge wooden bows, and volleys of arrows sped towards Arioso’s charging army. The savage war-chant of the orruks drowned out the Chaos host.

‘There are so many…’ Arioso breathed. ‘What is this, daemon? Are you showing me how I die?’

The daemon’s mocking laughter filled his mind. ‘No, Arioso,’ it said. ‘This is not your death, but your apotheosis. In the Valley of Fallen Gods, your army will be broken but you will pass beyond life and death. You will mix the ashes of the sacrificed with the blood of the ever-living and receive a reward beyond your imagination. You will become eternal, Arioso of the Midnight Sages.’

A thrill passed through Arioso. Eternal life. The power he could gather. The loss of an army would be nothing compared to what he would gain.

‘Where will I find this Valley of Fallen Gods?’ he asked.

‘It lies within the borders of Shyish,’ the daemon said. ‘Follow the signs that will be laid before you, and you will come to the place you seek, though the road will be long and arduous, and your trials many.’

‘And the greenskins?’

‘Watch…’ said the daemon.

Arioso watched. Time lost all meaning as he watched the battle unfold. He saw the strategy behind the orruk assault, the savagery of the primitive beasts belying the keen tactical mind that commanded them. As he watched the flow of the battle, he memorised every detail, knowing that it would be to his advantage when this vision became reality.

At the height of the battle, he saw his own shimmering form descend upon the orruk leader. He focussed on the huge warlord, who was riding a creature that resembled a great drake, long-bodied and with a pot belly. It had thick scales protecting its carapace, and great horns emerged from its head, above eyes that glittered malignly. Nestled between its swept-back wings was the orruk leader. He was thickly muscled and carried an axe the size of Arioso, which looked carved from a single immense bone. The greenskin issued a challenge in its guttural tongue, and…

…the vision faded. Reality returned. Arioso stood once more in the small chamber of the temple, and the stench of blood filled his nostrils again. The flickering light still danced at the heart of the chamber, even brighter than before.

‘What happens next, daemon? I must know how to defeat the creature,’ he demanded.

‘You have been shown what you asked, Midnight Sage. Now release me.’

‘No. You will show me more.’

The light flared, and the daemon’s voice grew to a deafening boom.

‘Release me, mortal, or I shall strip the living flesh from your bones and devour your soul, and destiny be damned.’

Arioso hesitated. Could the bound daemon do what it threatened?

‘It’s not worth the risk,’ he muttered to himself. ‘I release thee, daemon,’ he intoned. ‘By the ninety-nine words of power inscribed on the scrolls of the Midnight Sages, I send thee back to the outer dark.’

‘We shall speak again, Arioso,’ the daemon’s voice whispered.

The light flared again, momentarily blinding Arioso. Then all was dark, and silent.

‘M… master,’ said a voice eventually. Kaemria. ‘What was that?’

‘What did you see, my acolyte?’ he asked her.

‘A blinding light, my lord. I heard a voice, offering me power and secrets, if I…’ she trailed off.

‘If you betrayed me?’ Arioso asked.

‘Yes, master. But I would never—’

‘No, and you never shall,’ said Arioso, pulling the dagger from her chest. She fell backwards, a stain of bright red spreading across the brilliant blue of her robes.

He looked back to the altar on which the vampire had been sacrificed. The creature’s body was gone, leaving only a vaguely man-shaped pile of ashes.

‘The ashes of the sacrificed,’ Arioso mused. Drawing an empty vial from his robes, he gathered the ashes. He was going to need them.

It took nine years.

Nine years of searching the length and breadth of Shyish for the Valley of Fallen Gods.

Nine years of gathering warriors to his banner with promises of glorious battle.

Nine years of delivering on those promises.

There were battles beyond count, against all the foes that the Realm of Death could provide. Half-mad necromancers and their shambling hordes of zombies fell like wheat before the scythe of Arioso’s army. Bloodthirsty vampires with servants both human and undead were put to the sword and magical flame. Vast forces of bleached skeletons, animated by dark powers and wearing the raiment of long-dead cultures, were cut down, the bones broken to stop them rising again.

It was not only the walking dead who stood in Arioso’s way. As was ever the case, the forces of Chaos, in their victory, turned upon one another, for sport or glory in the eyes of the gods. His army clashed with servants of the other great powers, and even other followers of the Changer, eager to prove themselves against the legend that Arioso was becoming.

As he crossed the Realm of Death, he gained power such as he had never imagined. On a mountaintop on the fringes of reality, he had engaged in a magical duel with a daemon, which ended when he bound it to his service in the form of a gleaming golden disc like the one in his vision. Beneath the Plains of Frozen Breath, in the treasure vaults of an abandoned duardin stronghold, he found a halberd that burst into golden flame at his touch and consumed the souls of those it killed. At the heart of the Crimson Labyrinth, he had claimed a suit of golden armour from its previous owner. From horned helm to rune-marked buckler, it had protected him against the mightiest of heroes and most devious of traps.

He had become known as the Golden King, and warriors flocked to his banner, servants of not just Tzeentch, but all the Dark Gods. Even the verminous ratmen followed him, and their knowledge of the secret ways beneath the worlds had helped the host more times than Arioso could count.

In all that time, no one had known the location of the Valley of Fallen Gods. All Arioso’s attempts to summon the daemon once more had failed. In the end, it was the God-King Sigmar who pointed him in the right direction, in an odd way. In the final year of his quest, a storm had broken. A tempest raged in the skies above Shyish, and with it came a new enemy.

The Stormcast Eternals were something… different. They were an unstoppable force, sent to the Mortal Realms to liberate them from Chaos. Those in Shyish seemed to be on a mission, but that didn’t stop them from attacking Arioso’s army on sight, and they could never be fully defeated.

On their first encounter, Arioso had killed the leader of the army they fought, a towering warrior in turquoise armour who rode a great lightning-spitting drake. The figure had dissolved into light when his head and body parted company, and months later, he had returned, nearly killing Arioso in a duel high above a bottomless canyon. Arioso had survived only by fleeing, and in his flight, he had inadvertently found his goal, recognising the mountains from his vision.

So, at last, he came to the Valley of Fallen Kings. His army filled the valley, rank upon serried rank of Chaos warriors next to baying hordes of beastkin and warbands of hundreds of eager mortals. Bloodbound servants of Khorne rubbed shoulders with pox-ridden Rotbringers, and hunched skaven marched next to warriors dedicated to the Changer, clad in gold-coloured armour in imitation of Arioso’s own.

They chanted his name, ten thousand voices raised in worship of him. He was the next best thing to a god, and with the power that would be his when the battle was won, he could challenge the gods themselves.

At his command, the army began to march. In the distance, the greenskin horde roared and surged forward. Arioso climbed into the sky and looked down upon the battlefield as the vanguard of the armies met. The savage orruks crashed like a wave against the cliff of Arioso’s Chosen. The smaller creatures — grots — were the first to hit the enemy. Arioso recognised that the greenskin commander was using them to test the mettle of his foe.

Movement from the walls of the valley caught his eye, and Arioso turned to see gigantic spiders, hundreds of them, crawling down the mountainside and into the flank of his force, where the skaven lurked. The cowardly ratmen broke in the face of this unexpected threat, and the spider-riding grots pushed forward. Arioso swept down towards them. As he did, he painted mystical symbols in the air and muttered ancient syllables under his breath.

Reality split, and a host of daemons came forth. Multi-hued screamers swept in to surround Arioso, while gibbering horrors and fire-spewing flamers fell upon the unsuspecting spider-riders, driving them back. A shadow loomed over them as they fled, and a gigantic spider, its back crawling with grots holding on for dear life, leapt from the mountainside into the midst of the daemons.

The arachnarok tore daemons apart with its immense legs, and the grots jabbed with spears and fired crude bows. The daemons were implacable, but they were few, and the sheer size of the arachnarok took its toll. Arioso gestured, and the screamers peeled away, swooping down into the beast’s flank, their lamprey-like jaws taking hold and biting deep into the creature’s flesh.

It squealed and reared up, and Arioso struck, diving down and driving his blazing halberd into the Arachnarok’s exposed belly. It burst into flames, and grots jumped from its back, also ablaze. The massive creature thrashed and shook, and was eventually still.

Arioso turned to survey the battle. His forces continued to push on. A wing of knights had charged into a knot of spear-carrying orruks and were pushing through towards the chieftain on his immense reptilian steed. Arioso followed them.

‘If I kill the leader, victory will be ours,’ he told his golden disc, and it sped up in response, as eager to engage the foe as he was.

And so it was that at the heart of the battle, the Golden King and the orruk warboss fought. It was a duel that lived on in legend long after the battle was won, the survivors of Arioso’s army carrying tales of it across the Realm of Death and beyond.

Arioso swept down on the orruk’s steed, halberd raised to strike. He was ready for the orruk to parry his blow, or attempt to hit him first with his huge axe. Instead, the warboss reached up and grabbed Arioso’s disc mount, pulling it from the air. Arioso fell and rolled, pulling himself to his feet in time to see the orruk throwing the disc into a mob of rampaging greenskins who stabbed at it with their crude spears. He turned his attention back to the warboss, who gestured to him and spoke in his primitive tongue. Arioso couldn’t understand the words, but the meaning was clear. The creature leered at him and laughed, and Arioso nodded. Gripping his halberd in one hand, he slipped his buckler over his left forearm and leapt onto the head of the orruk’s mount. It thrashed and bucked, but Arioso stabbed his halberd down through the bony plates that covered its skull. The magical weapon pushed through chitin, flesh, bone and brain. The creature reared up, and the orruk chieftain was thrown from its back. He hit the ground and rolled, but Arioso didn’t see any more of him as he held on to the haft of his halberd, riding out the winged reptile’s death throes.

When it finally stilled, Arioso pulled his halberd free and turned, looking for the warboss. He found himself enclosed in a circle of savage greenskins, and with him, their leader. Close up, he was one of the largest beasts Arioso had ever seen, the muscles of his arms the size of the Chaos champion’s torso. The orruk stank of blood and sweat and savagery. It roared something at Arioso and battered one huge meaty fist against its chest.

‘I have no idea what you said, but assuming it’s a challenge, let’s finish this,’ Arioso replied, sending a surge of magical power into his halberd. It blazed with flame, and the orruk laughed. Faster than Arioso would have believed possible, the greenskin stepped forward and brought his huge axe down in an overhead blow that could have split an ogor in half. Arioso sidestepped it and lashed out with his halberd, which glanced off the orruk’s thick hide. The creature swung the axe in a scything motion, and Arioso ducked below, jabbing the halberd at the orruk’s midriff. It slid home, and stuck. The orruk jerked back, and the halberd was pulled from Arioso’s hands, the flames playing around it guttering out. He fell to his feet, and suddenly the axe was coming down at him. He rolled to the side and pulled himself up, glancing around for a weapon as the orruk charged towards him.

The greenskin roared again, hefting his axe. He swung around, and the haft of Arioso’s halberd, still embedded in the orruk’s belly, knocked into the sorcerer. He grabbed it, and it burst into flame again. The warboss reared back, roaring in pain, and Arioso saw his chance. He planted his feet firmly on the ground and pushed. The burning halberd burst from the orruk’s back, and the brute fell to his knees, dropping the axe. With a heave, Arioso pulled the halberd back out of the gaping wound in the warlord’s stomach and swung at his neck. The orruk’s head hit the ground.

From that point, the battle was all but over. A mob of orruks charged at Arioso, bent on revenge or proving themselves worthy to succeed their fallen leader, but none could match him, and eventually, the Chaos forces caught up with their master and drove the orruks back, breaking the horde and sending them fleeing, to be cut down like the animals they were.

In the aftermath, Arioso sent scouts to find what was at the valley’s other end. They came back with reports of a temple carved into the mountainside, decorated with arcane sigils and friezes of ancient warriors. After setting a guard to watch for any sign of the orruks returning, Arioso walked to the temple, a group of his Chosen around him, and entered it alone.

It was dark, as black as night, and the only illumination came from the flames of Arioso’s halberd. He walked through the structure, the only sound the echoing of his footsteps on the stone. At length, he found a door carved with an image of a chalice, and rising from it a creature of darkness, a nimbus of power playing about it.

He pushed at the door and it opened easily to his touch. Stepping through, he saw a simple altar, on which sat a chalice of black metal. The stink of blood hit him, and he smiled.

‘The blood of the ever-living…’ he murmured. From his robes, he retrieved a small vial. ‘I have kept you safe for nine long years,’ he said. ‘At last, the time has come. My apotheosis. From this day onwards, I will be changed. Immortal. My power will be beyond doubt.’

He pulled the stopper from the vial and held it above the chalice. His hand was shaking.

‘It’s funny. I feel like I should be saying something profound right now, but nothing comes to mind.’

He poured the ashes into the chalice.

For a moment, nothing happened, and then a cloud of blood began to coalesce. It rose up from the black chalice and formed into the outline of a man. Tissue began to grow around it, forming bones, capillaries and veins, then muscles, flesh and deathly pale skin. Black robes came into being around the body, and features grew on its face. Hideous, bestial features, yet with a hint of humanity. It stretched, with the crack of bones, and the creature smiled, revealing sharp white teeth.

‘I told you that you would regret sacrificing me,’ the vampire croaked.

Arioso was speechless, and paralysed by disbelief.

‘Were you expecting something else?’ the vampire asked, its voice mocking. ‘Perhaps you expected to become… eternal, Arioso of the Midnight Sages.’ The vampire’s voice changed on those last words, perfectly matching the voice from the cavern so many years before.

‘How…?’ Arioso managed, his tone incredulous. The vampire laughed.

‘I warned you, little conjurer. The Dark Gods have no power in Shyish. This is Nagash’s realm, and both life and death obey his commands, and his alone.’

‘Nagash is a dead god!’ Arioso screamed, panic rising in him. He looked for a way out, but darkness filled the chamber now, and his mind reeled from the vampire’s revelations and terror. ‘A relic from an age of myth!’

‘What is death to the lord of the underworlds?’ asked the vampire. ‘Nagash has returned from death a hundred times. Even now, he sits on his throne beneath the world and awaits the time when he will once more stretch out his hand and claim what is his.’ The vampire smiled again. ‘But you will do him for now.’

The vampire leapt, a sword appearing from nowhere in its hand. Numbly, Arioso parried the blow and swung his halberd in response. The vampire dodged and struck again, catching him a glancing blow on one leg.

‘How did you do this?’ he asked. ‘Why send me on this quest? Why here?’ Everything he had done, nine years of questing and conflict… It was for this?

The vampire shrugged and pressed forward with a flurry of blows that Arioso was hard-pressed to fend off. ‘Fun, maybe,’ it replied. ‘It was certainly the fastest way for me to return from death. The chalice contained my own blood. Mixing my ashes with it brought me back from beyond the veil. On my own, it would have taken decades or longer. I will confess though, that I thought you would find this place a little quicker.’ The vampire chuckled and stepped back.

Arioso screamed, a wordless articulation of his rage, and swung his halberd wildly. Before he knew what was happening, it was pulled from his grasp and he was in the vampire’s grip. The creature ripped the helmet from Arioso’s head and gripped his neck.

‘You will get what you were promised, Arioso of the Midnight Sages,’ he whispered. ‘Eternal life will be yours. Or, at least, eternal existence.’

The vampire started to chant in a language Arioso didn’t recognise, though he knew the cadence of a spell when he heard one. He tried to speak, but the vampire’s grip on his throat tightened and the words were choked to nothingness.

The spell ended, and Arioso’s vision began to fail. He realised that he couldn’t draw a breath and panic seized him.

‘Remember,’ the vampire whispered, ‘this was your own doing. Your thirst for power and your arrogance caused this. Such will always be the fate of your kind, for your gods care not whether you live or die. You are but pawns in their game. My god lives in every one of his servants. Nagash is the dead, and the dead are Nagash. You will see that soon, at least for a moment. You will serve me, and you will serve him. You will serve us forever, Arioso…’

Then there was only darkness and echoing laughter, and the chill of the grave.

Nick Kyme

Unending Storm

Ghaar’eth, called Warson by his followers, beheld the storm in rapt silence.

His rivals were dead, reduced to blood and viscera at his feet and the feet of his warriors. A modest host, they had still prevailed. The hacked-up bodies of the Arcanites littering the Gargantua Ridge were testament to the Bloodwrought’s and Warson’s growing power and ambition. Soon, all of the Beastplains would be his, would be Khorne’s.

Until this. Until the storm…

It struck the sky with such vehemence, a storm without cessation that burned with furious azure lightning.

‘Skarku, what does it mean?’

The slaughterpriest paused in the flensing of skulls to crane his neck and look upon the darkling sky. An eldritch gloaming had fallen upon the ridge, throwing shadows across the huge, ancient bones from which it took its name.

‘It is a portent,’ he hissed between knife-sharp teeth. ‘A summons. Khorne calls us to further battle, Warson.’

Ghaar’eth felt it in his blood, the violent urge never sated. A strong wind ghosted across the ridge, ridding the air of the stench of blood and replacing it with something else. Rain… steel… lightning.

Grunting, Ghaar’eth put on his helmet of dark iron. A snarling effigy of Khorne formed its nosepiece and eye slits, rising into a crown of twin horns. It matched the brand seared into his face. Other brands marred his naked flesh — kill tallies and carved imprecations to daemons.

‘Leave those morsels,’ he growled to his warriors, reaching for his hellbladed axe, which stood embedded in the corpse of the Arcanite sorcerer-king.

His Bloodwrought reavers left the carcasses of the Arcanites and took up their weapons. Some murmured their displeasure, but the killing urge at the prospect of battle soon quelled any serious discontent.

‘The dark feast can wait,’ he told Skarku, who was tying a ruby-red skull to his belt. He had taken the Arcanite’s feathered war-mask too and used it to hide its former bearer’s rictus grin.

‘Khorne calls again,’ said Skarku.

‘Let the blood flow…’ Ghaar’eth replied, his eyes on the lightning cascading from the heavens.

After climbing down the ossuary path of the Gargantua Ridge and crossing the floating bone mesas of the Abyssal Bridge, Ghaar’eth and his warband reached the Varnagorn Valley.

Four immense totems rose from the red earth of this deep valley basin, so high they breached the clouds. None who climbed them was ever seen again. Rumours abounded that the totems, which were carved in the monstrous visages of leviathan beasts too large to have been wrought by mortal hands, were a gateway or bridge between worlds.

Such talk roused Ghaar’eth to anger, and he had slain all of the rumour-makers who had ever strayed into his path. But when he saw the golden warrior stood between the four beast totems, as if having come from the very sky itself, he began to wonder if the fools whose skulls now arrayed his trophy rack were indeed speaking the truth.

It did not matter. As the golden warrior turned, his face an impassive mask and his movements suggesting strength, Ghaar’eth knew he had found a worthy warrior to match his wrath against.

Skarku bellowed incoherently at the golden one, spitting blood and phlegm as a fury overtook him.

Ghaar’eth cut through the slaughterpriest’s frenzy and cooled the boiling blood of all his warriors with the vehemence of his command.

‘Take heed,’ he uttered, his gaze never leaving the golden one who brandished a hammer and a shield struck with images of the celestial heavens the likes of which Ghaar’eth had never seen before. ‘This one is mine.’

He had fought and enslaved many other warbands, killed those too belligerent to submit to his yoke… the Three Eyes, the Serpentine, even those Fleshchanger Arcanites still wet on his axe blade. Never had he seen a warband with markings such as this. It burned his blood to imagine the martial contest this warrior now presented.

None would gainsay him — Ghaar’eth had killed all of his rivals in the Bloodwrought, so when he stepped forwards into the arena of the totems, he knew he would fight this champion alone.

‘Are you watching, my lord Khorne?’ he whispered, before gesturing to the golden warrior with his axe. ‘Stormrider…’ he shouted into the wind and the tempest, which had risen a beat since he had approached, ‘my axe craves your blood. Your skull shall adorn my temple of victories.’ With the lightning of the heavens coruscating across his golden armour, Ghaar’eth could think of the warrior only as Stormrider, and when he spoke, he did so with a voice of thunder.

‘And lo, did Sigmar see the foulness of Chaos and all it wrought in its manifold evil.’

Ghaar’eth frowned, ‘Sigmar?’ He laughed uproariously as the stormrider pointed his hammer at him and met the challenge. ‘Sigmar is dead! Khorne cut him down, sucked the marrow from his bones, and drank his blood ’til naught remained but a shrivelled corpse. Ha! You are not of Sigmar, wretch. Let me show you why…’

He hurled himself at the golden warrior, his axe swinging. Ghaar’eth’s first blow struck the warrior’s shield, releasing a clangour that seemed to resonate with the storm.

Leaping aside to avoid the return hammer swing, Ghaar’eth punched his fist spike into the golden warrior’s unprotected flank and was rewarded with a grunt of pain. The stormrider struck back, landing a blow against the Chaos champion’s shoulder guard that burned with the fury of lightning. Ghaar’eth recoiled, but shook off the pain to examine the rich wet fluid on the blade of his fist spike.

‘So you are flesh beneath all that gold. You bleed.’

Breathing hard, the golden warrior charged, shouting, ‘Azyr!’ He led with his shield, a crack marking the boss where Ghaar’eth’s axe had bitten deep, but the Warson turned just before the charge hit. He kept turning — legs bunching, axe swinging — in one seamless motion until he felt a satisfying crunch of plate and then bone.

‘You must realise something, Stormrider…’ Ghaar’eth told the golden warrior, who tried to stagger away. He couldn’t go far. The hellblade was embedded in the golden warrior’s back and Ghaar’eth clenched the haft like a leash.

A fount of blood erupted from the golden warrior’s mouth, and Ghaar’eth heard it spatter the inside the mask before it oozed down the warrior’s neck. The stormrider tried to reply, but fell to his knees instead.

‘These are Khorne’s lands,’ said Ghaar’eth, wrenching free his axe and eliciting a wail of agony from his foe, ‘and he has made me their keeper.’

‘Now…’ he added, taking the haft of his weapon in both hands and eyeing the golden warrior’s neck, ‘I shall take your—’

A blinding flash of light stopped the oath from being fulfilled as a lightning bolt streaked into the turbulent heavens, taking corpse and trappings both.

Ghaar’eth followed its path and saw that it led beyond the totems.

‘I smell war in this storm,’ he told his followers, who had gathered to witness his victory.

Sheathing his axe, he placed one booted foot against the totem, took a firm grip and began to climb…

The Lavasand writhed in agony as the maw-wyrm devoured the Bloodreavers who had slipped into its cavernous jaws and set the desert churning. They had sailed too close to the pull of the great beast, their oarsmen too slow and too weak to escape as the sand bled away into its mouth.

Their fellow Bloodbound laughed uproariously at this misfortune, the bellows of the Bloodwrought hiding their fear.

The maw-wyrm was a giant gullet, a pulsing, burning maelstrom that sucked in the hot sand only to belch it forth again in towering spumes of iridescent fire.

Not only a beast, though — it was also a gate into another place, another realm. Ever since he had climbed the totem and left the dark canyons of the Gargantua Ridge to emerge in the fiery hells of the Lavasands, Ghaar’eth knew the opportunities such a crossing could grant.

Followers, skulls, the favour of the Blood God.

A great many warriors had joined his warhost since he had defeated the stormrider and ascended the totems without fear or hesitation, but like Khorne, his yearning for blood and power were never sated. He wanted more.

Ghaar’eth rode the rust-metal hellbarge with the arrogance of a king, one foot on the deck and the other on its bladed prow. Keen to avoid the same fate as their eaten comrades, the oarsmen drove the ironclad hard, trusting to the blood-furnace at its heart to fuel the bone paddles at its aft and further their efforts at evasion.

They had to kill it before they could pass through it, this much Ghaar’eth had garnered since the fight had begun. Killing was in his marrow. It was like breath to one such as he, as his appearance would attest. Ghaar’eth’s armour, a gift from his lord Khorne, glinted in the red glow of the cinder-sun, and he brandished a cleaving-spear in one hand.

‘Here,’ he bellowed to the throng of warriors at his command, ‘see how the beast is tamed!’

As he threw the spear, shearing off one of the maw-wyrm’s tusks, he noticed a faint speck on the horizon.

A storm front.

‘Other warriors seek to keep us from our prize, Skarku,’ he muttered to the skull lashed to his belt. Skarku’s portents had been useful, his challenge to Warson’s rule less so. None would challenge him and live. He had sworn it to Khorne.

Eyes narrowing, Ghaar’eth walked to the very end of the prow, the hot and foetid breath of the maw-wyrm washing over him as the hellbarge circled the pit of flame. Another eruption threw fire and ash, some of it burning Warson’s armour, but he brushed it away as if it were a minor irritant. His attention was on the horizon. In the seconds that had passed, the speck had grown.

Somehow, it had become a cohort of winged warriors, blazing with the brilliance of a gilded sun. They came fast, armed with javelins. The one who led them carried a crackling trident. Ghaar’eth’s eyes narrowed as he recognized the leader, despite his unfamiliar shape.

His curse almost caught in his mouth, emitted as a breathless rasp.

‘Stormrider…’

Turning to his skullgrinder, he soon found his rage again. ‘Yaargen — bring them down!’

Lightning struck six times as the winged ones swooped upon the hellbarge, clutching spears of celestial fury. Five of Ghaar’eth’s blood warriors died instantly with those heavenly shafts impaling their bodies.

Only Yaargen survived, evading the blow before hurling his chained anvil. He struck one of the winged ones in the back, who crumpled and fell like a blazing comet. The warrior hit the deck of the hellbarge, but crackled back into the ether before any Khornate knives could fall upon him.

Ghaar’eth sprang off the prow and ran to the other side of the deck as the ship turned in the maelstrom and the winged warriors followed, eager to avenge their fallen comrade.

Yaargen reeled in his anvil, the metal steaming from the sheer heat of the Lavasands, and began to swing once more. He finished three arcs before a trident came screaming from the blood-red sky and ended his wrathful bellowing. Ghaar’eth called out to the skullgrinder’s killer.

‘Stormrider!’ he said. ‘It is you, isn’t it? Khorne has seen fit to send you to die by my blade once more.’

‘I am reforged,’ said the stormrider in reply, his lightning wings holding him level so he could look down upon Warson, ‘by Sigmar. It is by his hand that you and I meet again.’

Ghaar’eth laughed. So amusing, so arrogant, this golden one.

‘Then come, Stormrider,’ he said, stepping back and gesturing to the deck, ‘or will you fight me from the skies like a coward?’

A rivulet of power that might have been anger flared behind the eyeslits of the stormrider’s mask. He was momentarily distracted, having strayed too close to the maw-wyrm, and had to fly swiftly to avoid a pillar of flame spewed from the beast’s gullet. He was still turning when Ghaar’eth flung his cleaving-spear. Hurled with almost daemonic strength by an arm encased in blood-red metal, it pierced the stormrider and tore him open.

As the golden warrior wheeled erratically towards the gaping maw-wyrm, streaming blood and light, Ghaar’eth called out to him again.

‘Return to your feckless god, Stormrider.’

He watched as the dying warrior plummeted into the maw-wyrm’s gullet and smiled as the lightning burst of the stormrider’s death sparked violently beneath the sands. Smoke rose in a pall from the beast, its fiery undulations having now ceased.

The maw-wyrm was dead and the gate to another realm was Warson’s. It didn’t matter where it led, only that his crusade of slaughter could go on.

‘Row!’ he roared to the reaver oarsmen. ‘Take us down into the belly of the beast where the unending favour of Khorne awaits!’

Though the cold nullified most of the stench of the corpse-titans, it could not rob the air of its sulphurous reek.

Ghaar’eth snarled behind the daemon-mask of his war-helm, ignoring the hissed invectives of the creature bound within it. They only served to irritate the beast upon whose back he now rode, an armoured brute of blood and brass — another gift from Khorne.

Acid snow stung the few places where his bare flesh lay exposed to the elements. It hissed and scored his new blood-wrought armour, which was already notched from days of battle. The Corpulents were slain, rotting in the stinging tundra of this icy waste as he and his vast army marched across the backs of the corpse-titans. If these ur-gargants had ever lived, there was no sign of awareness in them now, other than their slow moaning tread as they crawled endlessly across the landscape through the shawls of snow. At the end of this journey lay another realm. Ghaar’eth had but to ride upon their backs to reach it.

‘Glory to Khorne…’ he murmured, exulting in his latest triumph, until he saw the causeway…

The route of the corpse-titans took them into a ravine across which lay an ice bridge, high and wide enough for them to pass beneath. An army of golden warriors stood upon the span, weapons held fast in their gauntlets, so still and apparently unyielding that for a brief moment he thought they might be statues. The illusion would have held were it not for the clarion of a trumpet.

Ghaar’eth roared as he realised the golden paladins were about to leap down in attack. His raised his axe high, bellowing to his men. ‘Turn this ice crimson and lay your offerings at the feet of the Brass Throne!’

Suddenly, the backs of the corpse-titans became undulant battlegrounds as the golden warriors descended. A thunderous cacophony shook the wretched shells of the ur-gargants, resonating through scabrous flesh and bone as the paladins landed and immediately formed up into ranks.

Spurring his beast, Ghaar’eth charged into the enemy’s ranks, his Bloodwrought hordes hard on his heels. A paladin died when he was gored by the Juggernaut’s brass horn. The horn punched through the warrior’s back with such violence it sent a spray of blood across the masks of his fellows directly behind him. With a snarl, Ghaar’eth cut the golden paladin’s head from his shoulders just before the lightning took him.

He rode on, heedless of the actinic fury roiling around him, and drove a second paladin under his beast’s ironshod hooves. As the squeal of crushed and yielding metal sounded over the battle din, Ghaar’eth’s eye was drawn to a figure with an arcing blue helmet plume and a lightning-forked facemask.

Ghaar’eth’s heart stopped as he realised who it was through the bloody melee.

‘Impossible…’ he breathed, as the ice in his veins melted into boiling wrath. ‘Impossible!’ he roared.

It could not be.

‘Stormrider…’

A mighty hammer, as long as he was tall, crackled in the paladin’s fist. He had already taken a fearsome toll upon the army of the Bloodwrought, and now, he turned his steely attention to its leader.

‘I see you, despoiler,’ he uttered with a voice as deep and resonant as a thunderhead. ‘You shall never be rid of me.’

He seemed colder now, the warrior of gold, as if an avatar of lightning were encased in that armour and not a man at all.

‘Not a man…’ breathed Ghaar’eth. ‘No man could live…’ He thrust his axe skyward, an imprecation to his wrathful lord. ‘Be thee immortal or some conjuring of the hated Changer, I shall have thy head, Stormrider!’

Swinging his axe in a wide, sweeping arc, Ghaar’eth spurred his beast through the battle towards his nemesis. None could impede him, and paladins and Bloodwrought both fell to his blade or his steed if they came into his path.

The clash, when it came, shook the ice scabs from the corpse-titan’s back where they fought.

Stormrider swung his lightning hammer, and where it met the haft of Ghaar’eth’s own hellforged blade, a storm was unleashed that turned the air white. Frenzied abandon met implacable vengeance as Khornate warlord and celestial paladin fought each other to an impasse. A cordon of the dead grew around them as their comrades sought to intervene but were destroyed. Bloodwrought warriors killed by the paladin piled so high they formed a wall of the slain, whereas a blackened ring of scorched flesh remained where Ghaar’eth had sent the paladin’s allies back to the heavens.

Soon, none dared the wrath of either fighter and they were left to duel between themselves.

Discarding all notion of defence, Ghaar’eth drew deep of his lord’s wrath and smashed his axe against the paladin’s upraised hammer haft.

‘Stormrider…’ he spat like a curse, breathless with exertion, ‘why… won’t you… die!’

The last blow split the haft of the paladin’s hammer in half, and the axe blade kept going until it embedded in the warrior’s chest. Even injured so grievously, he fought on, beating Ghaar’eth’s unprotected flank with what remained of the hammerhead. It lacked the potency of a blow delivered with both hands, but wrenched a cry of pain from the warlord.

Tearing his axe free, Ghaar’eth struck again and again, hacking the paladin apart, splashing his face and armour with blood until there was nothing left of his nemesis.

For a moment, the brutalised corpse remained on the back of the corpse-titan, and Ghaar’eth began to exult as he thought he had finally achieved a victory. But then the lightning came and, even as Warson tried to grasp the stormrider’s mangled faceplate, the paladin was delivered back unto the heavens.

The battle was almost over and, though the golden warriors had taken a heavy toll, the Bloodwrought had triumphed again. As the last of the paladins fell, the corpse-titans’ great pilgrimage neared its end and a new world beckoned. But as he held his burnt hand close to his body, Ghaar’eth’s eyes were on the sky.

‘Until we next meet,’ he hissed, ‘Stormrider…’

The clarion of hunting horns carried on the foetid air of the Endless Sump. The Bloodwrought, or what was left of them, had been running for days. Bloodied, battered, their will had almost broken.

‘Unkvar, are they close? Speak!’ Ghaar’eth asked his returning Gorechosen. Twenty had gone out, led by the deathbringer, but only four now stood before him.

Swathed in the rotting filth of the sump and a dozen red, festering wounds, Unkvar opened his mouth to answer when a forked trident speared through it from the back of his head. The words died in gargles and spewing blood before the last of Warson’s deathbringers expired.

‘To your blades!’ he cried, urging his men into a defensive circle, but moving was difficult. Not only was the sump a festering marsh that stretched as far as the eye could discern through its wretched miasma, it was also a charnel pit. Corpses of the unquiet dead writhed and rotted in its depths. They clawed at the Bloodwrought, too weak to overwhelm them but eager for their flesh and company all the same.

A deeper pit had claimed Ghaar’eth’s brass mount several leagues back, so he was up to his waist in the filth just like his men as he bellowed at them.

The Warson’s chosen blood warriors closed protectively about their lord, warily eyeing the shadows at the edge of their sight. A bile-yellow fug clung to this part of the marsh, having closed in around the Khorne worshippers with a malign sentience. Even the plague flies seemed less agitated, as if they knew what was abroad.

For a few moments nothing happened. Unkvar sank into the mire, devoured by the dead as his comrades hacked desultorily at the creatures to keep them at bay. A greater threat lurked beyond, and all eyes sought it.

As the buzzing of the plague flies ceased, Ghaar’eth knew the quietude was about to be broken. His prediction proved accurate as lightning bolts arced down through the fog and into the midst of the Bloodwrought.

Bodies flew burnt and broken into the air, the corpses of the sump rising with them as the crackling storm smote the ground so intensely it turned the marsh water into steam. As the lightning strikes ebbed, only a corona of blackened earth remained, and within it, a phalanx of golden warriors. An armoured shield wall stood in a perfect ring around a core of lightning archers, at their centre a lantern-bearer whose beacon seared the Bloodwrought, robbing them of their fury.

Seconds passed as both sides, separated by only a few strides, regarded each other with wary hatred, until Ghaar’eth held his axe aloft.

‘Kill them all!’

The crush of battle was savage and bloody. Ghaar’eth glared through the burning light, his skin blistering around his eyes where it reached him through the eye slits of his helm.

‘Stormrider!’ he roared, seeking out his old foe, but the lantern bearer was not the one.

He cut down a golden warrior who strayed too close, but drove deeper into the enemy’s ranks, trying to catch a glimpse of the one who haunted his nightmares.

‘Where are you, dog?’

He hacked down another foe, splitting the shield and sending a bolt arcing back into the filth-choked sky. For a moment, the yellow clouds parted to admit the lightning and Ghaar’eth caught a glimpse of a mesmerising firmament. As the darkness closed again, a shadow flitted across the stars so fast that Ghaar’eth almost missed it.

He blocked a hammer blow with the haft of his axe almost nonchalantly, dispatching its bearer. Seizing a nearby blood warrior by the shoulder, he hissed. ‘He is here. He has come for me at last.’

A foaming frenzy was upon the disciple of Khorne, but Ghaar’eth was heedless of the incoherent raging. His attention was on whatever roamed the skies above. He could feel it, feel him. His presence…

‘Where are you…’ he rasped, scarcely aware of the fact his warriors were doomed, ‘Stormrider?’

A great winged creature descended through the miasma, the tendrils of filth burning away from its refulgent touch. As he turned to face the creature, it took Ghaar’eth a moment to realise it was not a creature but another armoured warrior.

And as their eyes met, Warson knew his end had come at long last.

‘I’m here,’ uttered Stormrider coldly as he loosed the glittering arrow already notched to his bow.

Pain like a thousand knives coursed through Ghaar’eth as the arrow struck him, and he might have laughed at this tragic doom were it not for the agony.

‘You are dead,’ he spluttered as the lifeblood left his body and began to pool in the filth. Cold, dead fingers grasped at his armour but he fought them off blindly, unwilling to turn from his foe.

No triumph or exultation registered in the eyes of the stormrider, and Ghaar’eth could see them well enough through the gilded mask.

‘You are dead…’ he hissed, his last breath, his last words.

The stormrider gave him the last words he would ever hear.

‘I was.’

The Knight-Venator soared high above the Azure Plain, his star-eagle by his side. The rat-kin had been brutally routed, but their black-clad assassins had escaped during the carnage and now he and his companion sought them out amongst the fallen crystal statues of Azurite.

Just as the history of the city was now lost to time, the Knight-Venator had forgotten much of his provenance, even his name. Sigmar had given unto him the power of life immortal, but in return, he had lost what it meant to remember, his empathy and even emotion.

He thought of himself only as Stormrider and could not recall why.

It was only as he spied the warband advancing through the ruins, Chaos worshippers seeking easy prey in the aftermath of a battle, ignorant of the Knight-Venator’s watchful presence, that the faintest stirrings of a memory returned.

With a glance at his bird, the two speared down through gathering clouds. Drawing back his bow string, a celestial arrow forming at the gesture, he paused. Amongst the throng, a beast was staring directly at him. Such a foul creature. Half man, half monster. Scraps of rough hair like a mane patched its overly-muscled and mutated frame. Its skin shone red raw and spines protruded from beneath the flesh.

Incredibly, it alone had seen him, and though it was a mutated and malformed spawn, Stormrider saw the recognition in its single eye.

Rising up on its hind legs, ignoring the savage goading of the corpulent bloodstoker at its back, a long, black tongue slithered from the beast’s maw and it spoke in a tortured ululating bellow…

‘Stormrider!’

Eyes narrowing in the briefest moment of remembrance, the Knight-Venator took aim and loosed…

Silver Tower

Andy Clark

Labyrinth of the Lost

Chapter One

FROM THE WORLD BEYOND

The chamber was vast, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Its walls were smooth marble, black as night and dotted with false constellations of glinting silver. The chamber’s floor was formed from irregular flagstones of blue and purple crystal that interlocked in a chaotic tangle. Dark doorways studded the chamber’s walls, seemingly at random, while huge statues loomed menacingly along its edges. Sinister and avian beneath the stone robes that swathed them, these towering figures clutched burning braziers from which unclean firelight spilled.

At the foot of one of the strange statues, a figure stirred. A duardin Fyreslayer, clad in a dirt-stained loincloth and little else. The duardin’s hair and beard were a deep, fiery red, matching the crest that rose from his battered helm. With a groan, the Fyreslayer opened his eyes. He breathed out slowly, muted sparks dancing upon his exhalation. Then he jerked suddenly, as though shocked.

The duardin pushed himself to his feet and cast around frantically. Spotting his axe and pick lying nearby, he snatched them up. Beyond the weapons was his pack, a threadbare satchel, clearly empty. He grasped it close all the same, clutching the meagre thing to his chest as though it were precious ur-gold.

With his belongings secured, the Fyreslayer closed his eyes, taking several deep breaths before opening them again. He dragged the fingers of one hand absently through his unkempt beard as he took in the statues, the crystalline floor, the distant ceiling hidden in shadow. Lastly the duardin inspected his own limbs and torso, eyes resting on the ur-gold runes that glimmered dully in his flesh.

‘No,’ he muttered to himself, the word coming out like the rustle of dead leaves. The duardin coughed, more sparks billowing forth as he cleared his bone-dry throat. ‘No,’ he rumbled again, voice louder now and tinged with something like anger, or panic, or both. ‘This isn’t… It’s not…’

With a sudden cry, the Fyreslayer swung his axe, and forgeflame danced in its wake. He smote the base of the nearest statue, striking sparks and chips of stone from its taloned foot. With a hoarse roar, the duardin struck again and again, momentarily lost to the act of violence. On the fourth swing he stopped himself as suddenly as he had started, eyes widening and head darting left and right like a hunted animal.

‘Fool,’ he hissed at himself. ‘Witless fool. Too much noise.’

The duardin’s fears seemed borne out just moments later as, from a nearby entrance to the chamber, there came a low growl. Something bestial moved in the gloom, and keen, birdlike eyes glinted in the darkness. With a muttered curse, the Fyreslayer planted his feet and raised his axe in readiness.

‘Well c’mon then,’ he shouted into the darkness, ‘come and get it over with. You’ll not find Vargi Sornsson easy prey, you bird-faced bastards.’

There was movement in the darkened portal, and then a low, lithe animal emerged. Sornsson’s eyes widened as he took in the leopard-like body and proud, feathered head of an adolescent gryph-hound. The creature paced deliberately towards him, eyes locked on his. It emitted a low, warning growl as it came, clacking its beak menacingly. The Fyreslayer tensed, ready for the beast to pounce. Then another figure emerged from the doorway. Sornsson took in white and blue robes, a heavy warhammer, and dark skin, but his attention was still fixed on the animal that stalked him.

‘Goldclaw!’ called the newcomer in a deep, commanding voice. ‘Away, girl. This is no creature of evil.’ The gryph-hound bristled, then relented, circling protectively back to its master’s side.

The Fyreslayer did not lower his axe, simply shifting his attention from hound to master.

‘You’re not, are you?’ spoke the newcomer again, with a hard smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. ‘A creature of evil, I mean. So you can lower those weapons.’

Sornsson shook his head, the gesture quick and jerky.

‘Don’t be so sure, stranger. Trust nothing in the tower. First appearances’ll get you killed.’

‘I have faith,’ responded the robed newcomer. ‘I am Masudro Yaleh. I am a warrior priest of Sigmar, and all I see is rendered clear in his light. Was there foulness in you, I would have seen it from the first.’

‘Aye?’ responded Sornsson. ‘That’s well and good, but how do I know you are what you say you are? I know I’m no servant of Tzeentch, but what of you?’

Masudro frowned thoughtfully, then held forth the small sigmarite hammer that hung on a cord around his neck.

‘Were I a thing of evil, a creature of the Chaos God of change, could I wear this emblem, or let it touch my bare flesh?’

Sornsson spat.

‘That could be as fake as the rest of your appearance. The tower… the tower cheats. It changes things. It lies.’

Masudro stared at Sornsson, gaze filled with concern.

‘If that is so then there is truly no way I can convince you to trust me, and for that I am sorry. But that is the second time you have mentioned the tower, Vargi Sornsson. Of what tower do you speak? Where are we?’

For a moment longer, Sornsson stayed as still as graven stone, weapons raised and ready while his eyes searched Masudro’s weathered features. Finally, as though he had come to some decision, the duardin let out a long sigh of exhaustion. His shoulders slumped, and he lowered his weapon.

‘You truly don’t know?’ he asked, and Masudro frowned deeper at the resignation in the duardin’s voice.

‘Truly,’ replied the warrior priest, ‘but my suspicions are bleak.’

‘Aye, and so they should be,’ rumbled Sornsson. ‘Welcome, Masudro Yaleh, to the accursed bloody halls of the Silver Tower.’

Man and duardin sat at the feet of the damaged statue, while Goldclaw pressed close to her master’s side. Masudro’s face was as grim as the sense of foreboding he felt. He absently rubbed his hammer amulet between finger and thumb as they spoke.

‘So this is the tower of which the legends speak? The lair of the Gaunt Summoner?’

‘It is,’ replied Sornsson. ‘And it’s everything the legends claim and worse. A more evil place I’ve never seen, as twisted as the daemon that rules over it.’

The warrior priest nodded slowly. He looked at the duardin, sitting a few clear paces away, eyes watchful, weapons close to hand. Cautious as a hunted animal, thought Masudro.

‘You have been here some time.’ The priest’s words were not a question.

‘Aye,’ said Sornsson, his eyes hollow. ‘I’m a Doomseeker, of the Volturung Lodge. My oath brought me to the tower with… Well. They’re gone now. It’s just me.’

‘So you came to this place on purpose?’ pressed Masudro. ‘You know how you got here?’ For a moment the priest’s hopes rose, but they were dashed again as the Doomseeker barked a grim laugh.

‘I see where you’re going with this. Forget it. The tower lets you in, but it doesn’t let you out. It… moves. It changes. It cheats.’

The two were silent for a moment.

‘And how long…?’ began Masudro.

‘A span of time,’ interrupted Sornsson, suddenly angry. ‘But what of you, priest of Sigmar? Eh? You ask a lot of questions, but you’ve told me precious little of yourself.’

Masudro raised his hands in a placating gesture.

‘I am sorry, Vargi Sornsson. Truly. These are dire tidings, and in times of trouble I’ve a habit of looking to others’ problems before my own.’

The Doomseeker said nothing, watching from under beetled red brows with one hand wrapped around the haft of his axe.

‘I am a warrior priest of Sigmar, as I said,’ continued Masudro, ‘Goldclaw and I marched out of Azyrheim through the Clarion Realmgate. We accompanied an army bound for the siege of Darkenrift. We stepped through the realmgate and, instead of our staging area in the Sha’dena Valley, we found ourselves here. That was shortly before we met you. And honestly, that’s all I know. How we came to be in this hellish place, I’ve no idea.’

Sornsson was quiet for a moment after Masudro’s brief tale concluded, his expression unreadable. Then the Fyreslayer gave a grunt and pushed himself to his feet.

‘Well, newfound companion, there’s no point just sitting here forever. Eh?’

The warrior priest rose, and squared his shoulders.

‘No indeed,’ he responded, his resolve returning. ‘I have a duty to the God-King. Goldclaw and I are needed at Darkenrift. Let us find a way out of this Tzeentchian prison, Doomseeker. But which way do we go?’

Sornsson scowled at each of the scattered entrances to the chamber. Masudro saw his new companion’s eyes narrow in what looked like recognition, and gesture with his axe at an ornate bronze archway some distance to their left.

‘That one looks familiar. I think,’ said the Fyreslayer. Masudro nodded and, with Goldclaw prowling at their side, the priest and the duardin set off across the chamber.

At the companions’ backs, a robed figure melted silently from the shadows and drifted slowly in their wake.

The companions passed beneath the archway and found themselves in a long corridor with a low ceiling. Their footfalls rang upon interlocking metal plates that described twisted, Tzeentchian shapes. From the crystalline walls stared myriad yellow eyes whose pupils followed them as they passed. Masudro recoiled at the sight. Sornsson merely ignored the staring orbs and pressed on up the slow slope of the passage. Goldclaw pecked angrily at the nearest eyes, eliciting disembodied squeals of pain until Masudro called her away.

‘This place,’ he called after Sornsson as he hurried to catch up, ‘is it all so strange?’

‘Hah, strange?’ the Doomseeker shot back over one brawny shoulder. ‘This is nothing.’

The corridor became a spiralling crystal stair that wound upwards for what felt to Masudro like hours. In places the walls became translucent crystal, through which the priest saw what looked like churning cogs and whirling stars. Finally, the stairway terminated in what seemed to be a dead end.

‘Damnation,’ exclaimed Masudro, feeling the press of claustrophobia for the first time. ‘We shall have to turn back. All those stairs…’

‘Wouldn’t be so sure,’ replied Sornsson. ‘Look closer.’

Masudro stared at the wall where the corridor ended, reaching out a hand to touch its surface. He recoiled as the wall rippled like liquid silver. The priest looked to Sornsson for explanation. Ignoring his stare, the Fyreslayer stepped straight through the wall, disappearing into its flowing skin. Masudro felt a moment’s panic at the thought of immersing himself in such obvious sorcery. Telling himself that he could not afford to be left behind by the only ally he had found in this place, the priest plunged through, pulling his balking gryph-hound with him.

For a split second, Masudro experienced a terrible sense of vertigo, and felt a bone-deep cold wash across his skin. Then he was stepping into a new chamber, bombarded instantly by strange sights and sounds. The warrior priest had time to gain an impression of creaking bookshelves and stone tables, all overflowing with scrolls and weighty tomes. Parchment carpeted the floor in thick drifts. It fluttered upon the walls like layers of tapestry, and even papered the ceiling high above. Every sheet of parchment was covered with lines upon lines of indecipherable scrawl that glowed blue as it flowed across pages or leapt spiralling into the air.

From ahead of him, between teetering bookshelves as tall as trees, came the flash and clangour of fighting. Without a second thought Masudro broke into a run, hammer at the ready and Goldclaw loping at his side. Slithering down a slope of parchment, the priest saw Sornsson ahead, locked in furious battle with several fearsome looking figures. The first was tall and heavily muscled, clad in barbarous finery and with a mohawk of raven-black hair rising from his scalp. Strange tattoos swirled across his bare flesh, and he wielded a huge longsword, with which he was parrying the Fyreslayer’s furious blows.

The second figure was unmistakably a Stormcast Eternal, one of the God-King Sigmar’s holy warriors. The sight of him made Masudro’s heart leap. The armoured hero wore the silver livery of the Hallowed Knights Stormhost, and was using his tall shield to fend off the sorcerous blasts of a vile daemon of Tzeentch, his cloak billowing in the heat of each blazing impact. The thing was hideous, all rubbery pink limbs and leering, fang-filled maws, and as it capered back and forth between the stacks it flung bolts of kaleidoscopic fire into the fight.

‘Silence in the library,’ the daemon gibbered madly in a dozen voices, ‘silencesilencesilence!’

Masudro skidded to a halt as he heard a sudden whisper next to his ear.

‘The barbarian is not your enemy in this hour. Few are your allies in the tower. You must trust him.’ The warrior priest looked around frantically for any sign of the speaker, but could see no one.

Now, though, he became aware that the Fyreslayer’s opponent was not yelling war cries, but outraged curses. ‘Back, you Khorne-cursed lunatic! Get back, or I swear on the Eightpoints I’ll take your stunted head.’

Still Sornsson pressed his attack, ignoring the beset Stormcast and his daemonic foe as he sought to hack the barbarian limb from limb.

‘Sornsson,’ shouted Masudro, ‘stop! The daemon is your enemy, not him.’ The Fyreslayer shot a glance at Masudro, his expression incredulous.

‘Are you mad, priest?’ he shouted. ‘He bears the marks of the Dark Gods.’

Masudro’s mind reeled. The duardin was right, for the tattoos of the feral warrior were undeniably the runes of the Gods of Chaos. Yet he knew, just knew, that the barbarian was not their foe.

‘Sigmar speaks to me,’ Masudro shouted back. ‘This is no servant of Tzeentch. He is a wanderer like us.’

At that moment, the barbarian, seeing an opening in the distracted Doomseeker’s guard, kicked the duardin in the chest. Sornsson was sent reeling. Instead of pressing his attack, the dark-haired warrior spun and charged up the drifted parchments towards where the daemon leapt and capered.

Masudro watched as the barbarian wove around the Stormcast, using the bulky warrior and his scorched shield for cover until the last moment, then springing forth with the speed of a striking snake. His longsword lashed out, striking the daemon across its chest and ripping its unnatural body in two. Sulphurous flames leapt. Reeking smoke billowed. From the ruin of the unnatural entity, two smaller simulacra sprang, their hides blue and their single eyes glaring in sullen hatred.

The warrior priest now stepped forwards, ignoring the murderous glare of the still-winded Sornsson, and raised his amulet high. In a booming voice, Masudro spoke aloud the holy words of Sigmar. Cleansing light leapt, a holy brilliance that lanced out and struck one of the daemons square in the chest. The unclean thing howled in pain, its flesh boiling away to smoke and steam until nothing remained.

At the same moment, the Stormcast lunged forwards, dropping his guard and whipping his lightning-wreathed blade in a crackling arc. It struck the last of the daemons, which burst once again in two. Dancing yellow haemonculi leapt from its dissolving corpse, small things of flame and sulphur that shrieked angry curses.

‘How many times must we kill these things?’ cursed the barbarian, as he and the Stormcast stamped and battered at the diminutive daemons. They crushed out the imps’ fires one by one, recoiling from the scorching flames. They were joined by Sornsson, and quickly the three warriors extinguished the last of their unnatural foes.

In the lull that followed, Masudro watched the three warriors catch their breath. The warrior priest had spent decades keeping the peace in the shadowed quarters and cosmopolitan marketsprawls of outer Azyrheim. Always empathic, Masudro had become adept at seeing when common cause could be found between disparate peoples, and he saw that potential here. Then, quick as lightning, the Hallowed Knight’s sword whipped up to point at the barbarian’s throat, backing the dark haired warrior up against a tome-strewn stone table.

‘We were not done talking,’ grated the Stormcast from behind his helm’s expressionless facemask. ‘You still had to explain to me who you were, and why I should not slay you where you stood.’

Sornsson appeared at the Stormcast’s shoulder.

‘Just do him,’ urged the duardin. ‘Look at the tattoos on his chest. The talismans about his neck. This one’s a slave of the Summoner, no mistake.’

Masudro started forwards, possessed once again by the sure knowledge that they could trust this barbarous figure. He stopped, conflicted. There was no denying that the warrior bore marks of devotion to the Dark Gods. So where did the compulsion to trust him come from? Sigmar? Or something else?

‘I’m not your enemy,’ growled the barbarian warrior, ‘nor am I your friend. I’m Hathrek, Darkoath Chieftain of the Gadalhor, and my only duty is to my people.’

The Stormcast was unmoved, the point of his sword unwavering.

‘So you said before the daemon attacked us, Hathrek of the Gadalhor. But do you deny that you worship the Dark Gods?’

‘Of course I worship them,’ spat Hathrek, ‘but I’m no servant of the Summoner. I came here to bring that daemon to its knees. The same as the rest of you, yes? I had thought to walk my path alone. I don’t have time to coddle the lovers of lesser gods.’

With lightning speed, the chieftain whipped his blade around, striking the Stormcast’s weapon away from his throat. Throwing himself backwards, Hathrek rolled over the table and came up in a fighting crouch. The Stormcast and the Doomseeker went to follow him.

‘Stop, you fools!’ roared the Darkoath. ‘We’re surrounded by enemies beyond count, by dangers untold, and you want to fight me? The only damned Chaos worshipper to walk the halls of the tower who cares not about seeing you dead?’

‘All servants of Chaos are my foes,’ replied the Stormcast, advancing relentlessly around the table. ‘Sigmar commanded that I defeat the master of the Silver Tower, and you bar my path. You are my enemy in the war eternal.’

‘But I’m not barring your damned path,’ snarled Hathrek in exasperation. ‘And I’m not your enemy, though you’re working fast to change that. I’ve never even seen a Stormcast Eternal before, nor a… a whatever the stuntling is.’

Sornsson growled angrily at this and his eyes flashed with furnace light.

‘Don’t worry, Chaos slave, I’ll soon teach you to fear the Fyreslayers.’

The two warriors had now flanked Hathrek, who was backing slowly away on the balls of his feet, keeping both foes in sight and his guard up. Masudro could not help but notice that the chieftain’s expression was less one of fear than sharp anticipation. This one was truly dangerous, he realised. And yet he’d rarely seen a servant of Chaos try to talk their way out of a fight before.

‘Fine,’ said Hathrek with forced lightness. ‘Say I’m your enemy then. Say you insist on this fight. I have to win. I have to. The lives of my entire tribe depend upon it and I won’t fail them. So I hope you’re both ready to die, because I won’t let you stop me.’

At this, the Stormcast paused.

‘What lies are these? The champions of Chaos care not for protecting the lives of others. Explain yourself, swiftly.’

‘Don’t listen to him,’ urged Sornsson, still edging forwards. ‘Everything in the tower is lies. They flow through this place like lava through a forge.’

Masudro saw his opening and took it.

‘Hold,’ he said, his voice the commanding boom that afforded him such presence upon the battlefield. ‘If we assume that all here is false, Sornsson, then we are lost. You and I should have killed each other on sight, were that true.’

‘Still wondering why I didn’t,’ muttered the duardin, but he stopped his advance all the same.

‘Hathrek, what lives do you speak of?’ asked the priest. ‘And do not try to deceive us, for I see with Sigmar’s sight and I will know if you lie.’

‘My tribe,’ replied the chieftain, ‘the Gadalhor. Several hundred souls residing in a walled village atop the Splintered Hills. For years now we’ve fought the Gor-kin and the orruks as they encroached upon our lands. We’re losing. And so, through the wisdom of my village’s shaman, I chose to walk the dark paths to this terrible place. I seek the power to protect my people. That’s all.’

Masudro sensed unspoken desires behind the chieftain’s words, but nothing he said seemed false.

‘Noble intentions, perhaps,’ said the Stormcast, ‘but there is no true succour to be found in the promises of the Dark Gods. Had you turned to the light of Sigmar…’

‘We tried,’ snapped the chieftain, eyes flashing. ‘In the early days we prayed to the heavens for salvation, and all we got was blood and sorrow. Your God-King could not help me, Stormcast, so I turned to those who could. Don’t presume to judge me.’

‘He speaks no lie,’ said Masudro quietly, reading the pain in Hathrek’s furious expression.

The Stormcast looked to the priest then, and with a slight nod, he lowered his blade.

‘If it is as you say, then we have common cause. But I will watch you, Hathrek of the Gadalhor, and if you endanger my mission here I will strike you down with the fury of the heavens.’ Sornsson shook his head in disgust, but stowed his axe and pick.

‘Fine, I’m outnumbered ‘n’ I can’t fight you all. But we’ll regret trusting this one, mark my words,’ he grumbled. Hathrek responded by sketching a mocking bow.

Ignoring his companion’s displeasure, Masudro turned to the Stormcast.

‘And what of you, my lord? What name should we know you by?’

‘I am Avanius,’ replied the Stormcast, ‘a Knight-Questor of the Hallowed Knights. It is my honour to make your acquaintance, priest of Sigmar.’

‘And mine yours,’ replied Masudro, ‘though I wish we had met under better circumstances.’

‘Well,’ interrupted Hathrek, blade still in hand, ‘I’m delighted that we’re not all planning to kill each other for the moment. Truly. But if that’s the case, I need to move on from this place. I don’t imagine the master of the Silver Tower will simply come to me.’

‘You can seek the Summoner all you like, Chaos worshipper,’ replied Sornsson sourly, ‘I only wish to leave this hateful place for good and all.’

‘Whatever we seek, Hathrek is right,’ said Masudro. ‘We won’t find it here. So where do we go next?’

‘We?’ sneered the Darkoath. ‘What we? I’ve no interest in letting the likes of you slow me down, or put a sword between my shoulder blades when you decide again that you cannot stomach the tainted company of a Chaos worshipper. I wish you whatever luck you deserve, but I fight alone.’

With that, the chieftain strode brashly up to the nearest door and wrenched it open. Masudro moved to stop him, but Sornsson grasped his arm.

‘If you really want to ally yourself with this one, you need not chase him. I’ve seen this before.’ Masudro frowned at the duardin as Hathrek vanished through the darkened portal, and it slammed shut behind him.

‘He’s gone,’ exclaimed the priest after a moment, frustrated. ‘Sornsson, what sense was there in such trickery?’ The Fyreslayer crooked one eyebrow and scratched his ear.

‘Just wait,’ he muttered. ‘Any moment.’

Behind them, the portal through which Masudro, Goldclaw and Sornsson had entered the library flared with light, before disgorging the Darkoath Chieftain. Hathrek pulled up short. An expression of surprise flashed across his features, followed by anger.

‘What trickery is this? How…?’

‘It’s the tower,’ interrupted Sornsson with grim certainty. ‘This is what it does. It thrusts people together. Binds their fates. Whether they like it or no. At least ‘til they stop breathing.’

‘Troggoth dung!’ exclaimed Hathrek. ‘Lies!’

‘Why would I lie?’ Sornsson shot back. ‘I’d be glad to see y’gone. Or dead. But we’re not in a position to argue. You go back through that door, same thing’s going to happen, and you’re going to start looking like the fool you are.’

‘Unless I kill you all,’ snarled the Darkoath, brandishing his blade.

‘Isn’t that precisely what you were just arguing against?’ asked Masudro. Hathrek drew breath to reply then stopped, defeated.

‘How in the nether-realms do you know so much about it anyway, stuntling?’ he demanded. Sornsson blinked, and cleared his throat.

‘Been stuck here a while. Seen how the place works,’ he replied. The others waited for more, but it seemed that was all the explanation the duardin was planning to offer.

‘Well,’ said Masudro, breaking the uncomfortable silence. ‘I’ll ask again then. Which way?’

They stood for a moment amongst the riffle and stir of the daemonic library, looking around at the handful of doorways and portals. None seemed more promising than the others. Then the Stormcast’s helm twitched up as though he had heard some slight sound.

‘That way,’ he said, pointing to a heavy door of ironoak and purple crystal. ‘I’ve a sense that what we seek is that way.’

Hathrek shrugged.

‘It’s as good as any other route for now,’ he said, mockingly. ‘If I must travel with you people then… lead on, oh great warrior of Sigmar.’

Avanius shot a look at the chieftain, before leading the way towards the doorway he had chosen, his cloak flowing behind him. The others hesitated for a moment, then followed the Knight-Questor, weapons in hand.

Once more a faded figure drifted in their wake, something diaphanous and ethereal. As he made to step last through the doorway, Masudro’s head jerked round, his eyes searching the library intently. Yet there was nothing to see, for the figure had vanished the moment the priest turned his head. Frowning, Masudro stepped after his newfound companions and into the darkness beyond.

Chapter Two

FIRE AND BLADES

The Silver Tower moved. It writhed and twisted. It changed by the moment. Complex beyond mortal comprehension, the tower’s portals and corridors twined through time and space in a never-ending serpents’ dance. Storms of raw magic raged through its chambers. Arcane machineries churned and hissed in the dark spaces between caged stars. Horrors of every twisted sort slunk through the tower’s depths, or hunted its strange reaches in search of prey. The tower was like some vast spider’s web, and the uneasy companions moved along its gossamer strands like wary flies.

‘So what is it that makes you think you’re leading us the right way?’

Avanius stopped at Hathrek’s words, turning in the middle of the T-junction to face the rest of the group. Goldclaw trilled softly and cocked her head, as though seconding the Darkoath’s question.

‘I do not know,’ replied the Knight-Questor honestly, feeling at a loss to explain himself. ‘But more than once these last hours, when faced with a choice of paths, I have felt as though Sigmar has spoken to me, and told me the way.’

Hathrek cocked an eyebrow at this, looking around pointedly at the interlocked metal of the corridor in which they stood, and the crystal lights that spread their flickering illumination across it.

‘Well then I hope that your God-King knows what he’s talking about. I for one have absolutely no damned idea where we are.’

‘Nor I,’ agreed Masudro. ‘But I trust in Sigmar’s power. I wonder, though…’ The priest glanced back, up the winding glass stairway they had just descended.

‘What troubles you, Masudro?’ asked Avanius, dismissing the Darkoath’s barbed irreverence and following his companion’s stare.

‘I’ll tell you what troubles me,’ Hathrek cut in, ‘I must have been in this tower for hours now, days maybe. Yet I’ve barely slept, and I feel next to no hunger. How is that?’

‘Get used to it,’ replied Sornsson gruffly. ‘It’s the tower. Stops you needing things like food and rest. Mostly, anyway.’

‘You seem to know a lot about this place, duardin,’ said Hathrek. ‘One would be tempted to say too much. Perhaps you should lead us, if you already know the way?’

‘What are you implying, Chaos slave?’ growled Sornsson, hefting his axe.

‘I think we’re being followed,’ blurted Masudro quickly. The others all turned to look at him, and Goldclaw growled protectively at their stares.

‘Followed?’ echoed Hathrek. ‘By whom? Or what?’

‘What makes you think this, Masudro?’ asked Avanius, his voice earnest. The Stormcast was glad to hear his own suspicions aired by another.

‘A sense. A presence. Several times, trailing at our backs and watching… You say you’ve heard the voice of Sigmar, Knight-Questor. Well so have I — a whisper when we were in the library that told me to trust Hathrek.’

‘A whispering voice?’ said Sornsson, surprised. ‘Like something speaking in your ear, or your mind? Y’ve heard it too?’

Masudro nodded, and the group stared at one another in alarm. Avanius nodded slowly.

‘Really?’ asked Hathrek after a moment. ‘You’re all following directions from an unknown whisperer, and yet I’m the tainted one? What made you fools think this was anything but Tzeentchian trickery? You of all people, stuntling. I didn’t think you even trusted your own shadow.’

Avanius looked at the others, half angry, half confused. The Questor could see the same emotions upon the faces of his comrades.

‘It didn’t seem an evil thing,’ replied Masudro eventually. ‘I felt…’

‘That I could trust it,’ finished Avanius for him. ‘That it was not of this place.’

‘Oh, well, that decides it then,’ spat Hathrek contemptuously. ‘It must be some benevolent force for good that’s sneaking after us through a daemon’s lair, whispering in our ears. What else could it be?’

‘Well,’ replied Sornsson, not rising to the chieftain’s bait, ‘actually there is one other thing. The tower crawls with monsters and traps. I’ve fought more Tzeentch worshippers and dodged more stabbing spikes and fiery pits than I’d care to say since I came here…’

‘And yet, aside from the daemon in the library, we have met only each other,’ said Masudro, ‘as though some benign agency guides our steps.’

The Fyreslayer nodded at this, but Hathrek chuckled sourly, his arms folded across his broad chest.

‘Hthrak’du. Wishful thinking. You’ve all been deceived, and like a fool I’ve followed you this far. I’m doubtless further from the Summoner than ever. Enough. As I seem to be the only one the gods are defending from this bewitchment, I will lead the way from now on.’ Hathrek turned towards the left-hand fork of the junction. ‘I say we go this way. Follow me, or lose yourselves to the whispered path. I don’t care.’

With a clatter of armour, Avanius blocked his path. The Stormcast understood Masudro’s urgings for unity, but the scorn of one who had sold his soul to Chaos was hard to stomach. Moreover, Avanius felt little trust that the Darkoath would not lead them all into a trap, given half a chance. He held little concern for his own safety, for the energies of Sigmar flowed through his veins, but Avanius felt a duty to protect the priest and the duardin.

‘You are not this group’s leader, Chaos worshipper.’

Hathrek stepped close, his face inches from Avanius’ sculpted mask. ‘And you are, holy hero? Who named you our leader? Say Sigmar, and I’ll run you through right now.’

Masudro stepped forwards, Goldclaw growling at his side.

‘This is not helping. If we turn our blades upon each other, nobody wins.’

‘I might,’ smirked Hathrek, ignoring the look that Masudro gave him.

‘I hate to agree with the Chaos worshipper,’ sighed Sornsson, ‘but he could be right. What if it is the tower, and he’s the only one it can’t touch? What if it’s just leading us into a trap?’

‘Exactly,’ exclaimed Hathrek. ‘Listen to the stuntling, not this great heap of ironwork and pious thoughts.’

‘Enough!’ barked Masudro. ‘Antagonising one another is pointless. Hathrek, you believe you can lead us upon a better road? By all means try, and let us see what happens.’

Avanius shook his helmed head. ‘This sits ill with me, priest. I heard Sigmar’s voice, I know it. But perhaps you are right. I will not find my way to the Summoner’s lair through falling prey to manipulation and whispers.’

Reluctantly the Stormcast stepped aside. Flashing the armoured warrior a smirk, Hathrek pushed past him and strode down the corridor.

‘Come then, my strange minions. Let me lead you on the path to glory. And if our whispering friend makes another appearance, we’ll welcome them with steel.’

Mere minutes later, the group rounded a sharp corner and found themselves walking down a sloping corridor whose floor, walls and ceiling were made from flowing glass. Strange shapes rippled through their depths, the suggestion of screaming faces and lidless eyes. The corridor’s end was lost in a haze of blue mists, while kaleidoscopic colours swam in the void beyond. Hathrek strode at the front of the group, his companions following warily behind him. Sornsson had drifted to the group’s rear, and glanced over his shoulder every few moments.

‘I’ve tried that,’ Masudro told him wearily. ‘Whatever’s there, if anything is, it can hide itself from even my sight.’

‘Aye, well, I’ll trust duardin eyes over those of men,’ responded Sornsson sourly. ‘Meanwhile, what do you make of the Darkoath? You can’t truly trust him?’

‘I cannot, no,’ replied Masudro quietly. ‘I sense more to his being here than a selfless devotion to his tribe. And how does slaying the master of the tower save them anyway? From what legends I have heard, the Gaunt Summoner is a master of daemons, not orruks and beasts. No, there is plenty he’s not telling us. But for now, he is an ally, and I believe that we must take those where we can find them.’

Sornsson snorted.

‘Well, if it comes down to him or me…’

At that moment, Hathrek stopped suddenly with his head cocked to one side.

‘Do you hear…?’

The others paused behind him. Goldclaw let out a trill, her feathered hackles rising. Masudro felt a shiver of dread premonition, like a ghostly breath upon the nape of his neck.

Suddenly, the Darkoath Chieftain broke into a run, dashing down the corridor as fast as he could.

‘Move,’ he yelled, a roaring jet of azure flame bursting from the floor where he had stood.

‘Ancestors’ oath!’ cursed Sornsson. ‘I knew we’d been too long without a bloody trap!’ Giving Masudro a shove to get him moving, the Fyreslayer pursued Hathrek down the corridor at a frantic run. The others followed suit, crying out in shock as more jets of fire burst from the floor, walls and ceiling.

‘Did we trip something?’ yelled Masudro as he ran. ‘Maybe tread on something?’

‘Could be,’ shouted Sornsson back over the bellow of flames. ‘Or maybe the tower just knows.’

A blast of fire roared up beneath Avanius’ feet, momentarily engulfing the Knight-Questor. Masudro knew a moment of horror before the Knight-Questor burst from the flames, his sigmarite plate scorched but unharmed.

The warrior priest was nearing the end of the corridor when Goldclaw slammed into his shins, making him stumble. The curse died half formed on his lips as blue flames spat out from the wall precisely where he would have been, and he thanked Sigmar for his companion’s sharp instincts.

Ahead, the priest saw an octagonal doorway through which shone blinding light. He saw Hathrek plunge into its glare, Avanius following close behind with liquid flame still dribbling from his scorched armour. Fire leapt again, and Masudro heard Sornsson curse in pain just before he lunged into the searing radiance of the doorway.

Avanius stumbled to a halt, feeling the heat slowly bleeding away through his armour. He thanked those who reforged him, noting that even his cloak had been no more than singed by the flames. Taking in the scene around him, however, the Hallowed Knight realised that they were not out of danger yet.

A forest of bladed brass pillars rose high into the air, whirling and spinning on all sides with a clatter of hidden cogs. The pillars jutted from the bronze floor of a huge metal pit, whose walls he estimated to be at least twenty feet high. Away between the dervish pillars and their deadly blades, Avanius spotted a set of curving stairs leading up out of this death trap. But there were more immediate concerns. Ringing the lip of the pit were shouting, jeering figures — humans, by the look of them, clad in the blue-and-yellow robes of Tzeentchian cultists. In the split second it took him to absorb these details, one of the cultists raised a twisted staff and fired a bolt of sorcery down into the pit. Ahead, Hathrek dodged nimbly aside, only to hiss a curse as one of the whistling blades nicked his bicep. The chieftain’s blood spattered the pit’s floor, and the watching figures cheered louder.

‘Sigmar, grant me strength,’ bellowed Avanius, ripping his blade from its scabbard as he barged past Hathrek and made for the stairs. This was a fight that only the chosen of Sigmar had the strength to win, he thought grimly. Magic blasts arced down towards him, and he raised his shield to ward them off. Sorcery met sigmarite in a rain of crackling sparks, and Avanius was driven to one knee as blast after blast rang from his shield. The Knight-Questor felt the unnatural fury of each impact, and prayed silently to his God-King for the strength to overcome it before his comrades were slain.

Masudro, Goldclaw and Sornsson had now made it into the bladed pit, eyes wide at the peril they found themselves in. The Doomseeker stumbled last into the chamber, the flesh of one arm scorched and squirming with mutation. Cursing, Sornsson gritted his teeth and dragged his axe blade like a rasp across the wound. The runes in his flesh glowed hot for a moment, as did the blade of his axe, and he cried out in pain as the corrupted skin sloughed away.

‘I can heal you,’ shouted Masudro, ducking a bolt of magic and narrowly avoiding taking a blade to the eye. ‘But we’ve got to deal with the cultists first.’

The priest flinched as another robed figure pointed their glowing staff straight at him. For a second, the priest’s perceptions slowed as the glowing orb of energy at the staff’s tip seemed to swell until it filled his entire gaze. The next moment a heavy hatchet thunked into the cultist’s chest, knocking him back out of sight.

‘Thank me later,’ called Hathrek, as he pulled another throwing axe from his belt ready to hurl. A bolt of sorcery arced down and exploded at his feet, throwing the chieftain onto his back.

‘Avanius,’ yelled Masudro, feeling the desperation of their predicament. ‘We need your shield! We have to fight as one or we’re going to get slaughtered!’

The Stormcast heard Masudro’s shout. He looked back to where magic blasts were raining down around his companions, and knew where his duty lay. Wordlessly, Avanius turned back, lunging in front of Hathrek just as another salvo of blasts rained down upon the prone Darkoath. The bolts splashed against the Knight-Questor’s shield, blackening its surface further.

‘Get up,’ Avanius commanded Hathrek. ‘Stay behind me and we’ll make for the stairs. The others will die if we don’t slay those cultists.’

For a moment, Avanius thought that Hathrek would spit some words of contempt, but a glance across the pit stopped him. The robed tormentors were toying with Masudro, Sornsson and Goldclaw, driving them back towards the bladed pillars with magic blasts.

‘If they die, there’s fewer of you to take a blade for me,’ spat the chieftain, rolling to his feet and crouching in Avanius’ bulky shadow. ‘To the stairs, then.’

As the two warriors moved away in a crouching run across the floor of the pit, Masudro raised his amulet in an attempt to ward away the foul magic of the enemy. Bellowing prayers, he unmade the foul energies with sheer faith, first one then another arcane blast sputtering to nothing. But the priest could not maintain his shield for long, for his exhaustion grew with every blast he turned aside. He could see that blood was running freely from Sornsson’s wounded arm, and the Fyreslayer was down on his knees, shaking and grey. Masudro glanced at Goldclaw, who was standing resolutely by his side, and felt a moment of sorrow that she too would surely die when he did.

‘You are not yet forsaken, holy warrior,’ came the whispering voice in his ear, making him jump with alarm. Masudro watched in amazement as a figure appeared amidst a whirl of smoke and flickering darkness, robes fluttering in an invisible gale. Lithe-limbed, it hung above the pit, faceless mask turned towards the cultists, shimmering staff lowered in their direction. Something was pulsing from the figure’s stave, rippling, half-seen energies washing across the enemy. Masudro watched in astonishment at the effect they had. Tzeentch worshippers who had been taunting and chanting now turned upon one another with sacrificial blades drawn. They screamed and cursed, stabbing madly while others of their number tore at their own flesh with howls of abject terror. Masudro felt his gorge rise as one luckless figure plunged his fingers into his own eyes, gouging them out in squirts of blood while laughing madly.

Yelling in anger, the remaining cultists shifted their focus, and arcs of sorcerous flame converged upon the flickering apparition. As suddenly as she had appeared, the figure was gone, the magical flames exploding in a multicoloured fireball as they collided.

The whisperer had done enough, Masudro saw. Seizing their moment, Avanius and Hathrek had made it to the stairs. They pounded up them two at a time, Hathrek outpacing his erstwhile protector with a howl of bloodlust.

What followed was brutal and brief. The chieftain plunged into the nearest knot of cultists, hacking one almost in half with his longsword before doubling the next over with a knee to the guts, then staving in his skull with the blade’s pommel. Avanius charged around the pit’s edge and slammed, shield first, into another knot of foes. Bones broke. Bodies tumbled. Lightning arced from the Knight-Questor’s sword as it sliced through flesh and muscle. Blood showered down into the pit, but Masudro ignored it. Leaving the last few Acolytes to his warrior companions, the priest steeled himself and laid his hands on Sornsson’s scorched and mangled arm. A pale glow formed, like a new dawn. When it faded, the corrupted wound was healed with nothing but smooth scar tissue to show where it had been. Sornsson stared at the healed arm in amazement, the colour slowly returning to his face.

‘I’ve never seen the like,’ breathed the Doomseeker. ‘Couldn’t let it mutate… I’ve seen what the fires of this place do to… But… thank you.’

Masudro pulled the duardin to his feet, drained but at the same time empowered by the miraculous energies that had poured through him.

‘Thank Sigmar, not I. I’m just his vessel. Now come, I’d have some answers for what just happened.’

With Goldclaw prowling before them, Masudro and Sornsson wove between the still-spinning pillars and climbed the stairs. Above the fighting pit they found a broad chamber of bronze, gold and crystal, lit by leaping braziers that threw weird shadows up the walls. Hathrek and Avanius stood amidst the enemy dead, cleaning their blades and eyeing each other with something approaching respect.

‘You fought well,’ stated the Stormcast, inclining his head.

‘I did,’ agreed the chieftain with a wolfish grin, sliding his blade back into its scabbard and rolling his shoulders. The wound on his arm still bled a little, and with one finger he took some of the gore and daubed it across the skull-like rune tattooed on his chest.

Masudro chose to ignore the heathen gesture, and instead called out to the still air of the chamber.

‘Another fought well to defend us here, also. We have seen you now, whisperer, and we would know who you are. Why do you follow us?’

‘Aye,’ agreed Sornsson, brandishing his axe. ‘Show yourself. What do you want?’

The flames of the braziers leapt and crackled. Masudro’s question hung on the air, unanswered. The companions waited.

Chapter Three

TRUST AND BETRAYAL

Skrytchwhisker was lost. He still hadn’t really admitted it to himself, though. His natural skaven pride wouldn’t allow it. Instead, with no other ratmen around who could have put him in this predicament, the Clan Eshin Deathrunner had decided that it must be the fault of his Masterclan employers. Grey Seers, he thought scornfully. Always so convinced of their own cunning. Always so superior. Well those preening fools hadn’t scry-seen how utterly labyrinthine the Silver Tower would prove, nor had they predicted its sheer scale. Skrytchwhisker had been sent to put a warpstone blade into the back of the Gaunt Summoner — he didn’t know to what end, nor did he care. He only wished to see the job done, swift and deadly, and his reputation amongst the shadowpacks of Eshin increased accordingly. Instead here he was, squirming his way along a cramped brass pipe with absolutely no notion of whether he was getting closer to his quarry or further away. How long the assassin had been trapped amid the maze of the Silver Tower, he had no clue. Even with his finely attuned senses, Skrytchwhisker had soon lost track. But when he finally achieved his mission and returned to Blight City, he promised himself that he would make the puffed-up Grey Seers suffer.

The Deathrunner’s ears pricked up at the sound of a voice, its warped echoes ringing strangely along the pipe. There was something up ahead, a vent or hole through which firelight flickered. The voice must have come from there. Hoping for some kind of lead on his target, or at the very least some unfortunate victim to vent his spite upon, Skrytchwhisker wriggled forwards on his belly until he could peer down into the chamber below. The skaven’s beady red eyes widened at what he saw.

Unaware of their hidden observer, the companions waited with growing frustration. Hathrek drew breath to voice some barbed comment, when suddenly the braziers in the chamber flared. Their flames leapt high, then guttered out, leaving nothing but the muted glow of embers to throw scant illumination across the chamber. Sornsson cursed mightily. Hathrek hissed an oath in his dark and jagged tongue, feeling his battle-lust rise once more. Masudro raised his amulet and Avanius his blade, pale illumination spilling from both.

In that faint light, the companions watched with horror as the bodies of the slain foes began to twitch. As one, the fallen cultists’ heads turned, fixing glassy eyes upon the companions. Nerveless jaws fell open, blood and shattered teeth spilling from them. From every dead throat came a croaking hiss.

‘Greetings, champions,’ hissed the dead men, voices raised in eerie unison. ‘It is good that we speak at last.’

‘What necromancy is this?’ boomed Avanius, voice steady and untinged by fear. ‘Who speaks?’

‘It is I,’ responded the dead men. ‘The one you bade appear before you. The whisperer in the dark.’

‘And are you some servant of the Great Necromancer, that you speak to us thusly?’ asked the Stormcast.

As one, the half-seen corpses slowly shook their heads.

‘Nooooo,’ they moaned. ‘Nagash holds no sway upon my soul. And I am no foe to you, champions. No fiend of the tower. I am an ally.’

‘If that’s true, why this… puppet show?’ spat Hathrek, searching the gloom in the hopes of spotting the illusionist. ‘Why not appear in person?’

‘The very corpses through which you hear my words are reason enough for caution, think you not?’ responded the whisperer. ‘Your blades are swift, your trust… comes somewhat slower. But you are the champions I seek. And I shall aid you.’

The companions stared hard into the darkness, straining to catch sight of their supposed ally while watching the talking corpses for any sign of hostility.

‘Who… what are you?’ asked Masudro, one hand wrapped tightly around his hammer amulet. ‘And why do you call us champions?’

Silence stretched long after this question. Hathrek noticed that Sornsson was motioning with his axe towards the chamber’s nearest exit, trying to be subtle. The duardin raised his eyebrows in question, but the chieftain shook his head with a contemptuous sneer, and continued to peer into the darkness. Then the hissing voices came again.

‘In the interest of trust, I will tell you that I am a Mistweaver Saih, an agent not of evil but of Shadow. You may call me Eithweil.’

‘And why do you call us champions?‘ asked Hathrek, still poised in a loose fighting stance. In his culture, only those destined for greatness were given this title, and he felt trepidation and excitement in equal measure at the thought of the eyes of the Dark Gods sweeping closer.

‘It is spoken of in the legends of the tower,’ hissed the dead. ‘Champions will there be, seekers after the Summoner who shall set aside their enmities in search of their goal. They shall follow their guide to the lair of the daemon, and there put an end to his evils.’

‘Some of us couldn’t give a spoil-scutt’s nethers about finding the Summoner,’ muttered Sornsson, drawing sharp looks from both Avanius and Hathrek. ‘Some of us just want to leave this bloody place once and for all.’

‘Nonetheless,’ hissed the voices, ‘you are the champions of legend, as have been those before you and those who will come after. Always it is thus.’

‘And you,’ replied Avanius. ‘I suppose you would style yourself as our guide? This is why you have whispered to us in the voices of those we trust? This is why you have steered our steps?’

‘Yes,’ hissed the dead, ‘at least until the Chaos worshipper shunned my guidance and led you astray. Such it was that forced me to reveal myself, for you need my aid in person now. The true way is lost, and without me, so too will you be.’ Hathrek bridled at this, anger surging within him. This being was just another manipulative caster of bones. Her kind were always quick to blame a true warrior when their manipulations went astray.

‘Hah! If we even believe that you are… whatever it is you say you are, and even if we believe you’re on our side, how could you possibly know a way through this damned labyrinth? Unless you’re a servant of the Summoner?’

‘Or even the bloody Gaunt Summoner hisself,’ growled Sornsson, cinders dancing around him as he scowled with anger and suspicion.

‘The cost in blood was high,’ murmured the dead, ‘and the road of lies was long, but I was able to extract from a caged daemon the true path through the tower. Yet always this terrible place changes. Ever it warps and shifts. Step but once from the path, the entity warned me, and the route will be lost. The map becomes worthless.’

‘And by following Hathrek, you’re saying we stepped from your route?’ asked Masudro, brow furrowed. ‘You ask us to take much on faith, and give us scant cause to trust you. Even if what you say is true, how then can you help us if we have lost our way?’

‘Trust begets trust…’ hissed the corpses, their heads thudding back to the floor one by one. Slowly the flames in the braziers crept back to life. As they did so the robed figure was revealed once more, standing lightly upon the lip of the pit. She held her staff across her body in both hands, and though her helm’s facemask was a featureless blank, Hathrek saw wariness in her posture. Good, he thought spitefully. She should be wary of him.

‘…and so I choose to trust my true appearance to you,’ finished the Mistweaver, her voice seeming to echo from the air itself. ‘There are other ways to find what you seek, if you will allow me to show you. I alone can guide you to the Gaunt Summoner.’

The companions stared at this newcomer, and Hathrek saw hope and caution warring in their eyes. He decided to speak for them.

‘Very well, Mistweaver,’ he sneered. ‘If you are what you claim, by all means lead on. I think it’s clear we’ve no better way of finding our route, and wandering at random won’t get us far. But one false move and I’ll leave your head on a spike for the Blood Lord.’

‘Only if I don’t put my axe through her face first,’ rumbled Sornsson menacingly.

‘I understand,’ replied the Mistweaver evenly. There was a flicker of light, and suddenly she was behind them, standing beside the archway to which Sornsson had motioned. ‘Though I should warn you I am far from defenceless. You must earn my trust also, champions.’ Without waiting for a reaction, Eithweil turned and vanished through the archway into the shadows beyond. The companions shared a frowning look, before following their strange new guide warily.

‘Told ye it was this bloody door,’ muttered Sornsson as they went.

Only once the chamber was empty did Skrytchwhisker drop down from the brass pipe high above. His tail twitched with excitement. The mage-thing knew the way to the Gaunt Summoner, and Skrytchwhisker had been cunning enough to track her down. Of course he had! All the Deathrunner had to do was get rid of the others and he would have her at his mercy. She would tell-speak her secrets soon enough. Skrytchwhisker prided himself on his skills of persuasion. Fangs bared with glee, the skaven scurried silently between the fallen bodies of the slain wizard-things and followed his new prey into the twisting tunnels of the tower.

The Mistweaver now led them along winding passages formed from crystal and clattering machineries. Masudro and his strange comrades climbed stairways of glass and gold that wound around fulcrum-pillars of living flame. He watched the newcomer for the slightest sign of duplicity. Goldclaw prowled close at his side, occasionally nudging his hand with her feathered head, as though to reassure her troubled master. Though the priest remained wary, the Mistweaver simply led them ever onwards. The Saih drifted above the ground, robes stirring as though tugged by the currents of some invisible ocean. Yet she moved with deceptive speed, and the others found themselves hurrying to keep up. In one dank and bone-strewn chamber the Saih conjured light from her staff, and Masudro saw foul things scuttling away into the fuming cracks that lined the walls. In another, she motioned for the companions to halt atop a glowing ziggurat. A procession of hunched, robed shadows shambled past its base, led by a diminutive figure with a half-moon head. Fiery clouds danced across the vast chamber’s ceiling high above, their capricious light making the procession appear all the more grotesque and unsettling. The moment they were gone, the Mistweaver set off once more. She floated away down the ziggurat’s steps, making for the swirling portal from which the hunched things had emerged. As the companions followed, Hathrek fell into step with Masudro.

‘You claim to see the good in people, priest,’ he began.

‘Indeed, the good. The evil. The conflict.’

Hathrek favoured Masudro with a withering look. ‘Spare me the sermon. You have your god, I have mine. Even Sornsson worships gold. This flimsy alliance depends upon us setting aside the fact of our differing faiths, so don’t start undermining mine. I’m speaking of our new friend.’

‘I know you are,’ murmured Masudro, accepting that the chieftain would not hear his words. For now, at least. ‘You want to know if I see duplicity in her.’

‘I want to know if I should shove my sword through her neck,’ replied Hathrek, so matter-of-factly that Masudro could not help a scandalised laugh. His mirth was stilled as Eithweil’s whispering voice skirled around them.

‘I would prefer that you did not try,’ came the Mistweaver’s voice. ‘It would damage our fragile alliance.’

Ahead, the diaphanous figure floated on as though nothing had occurred. Masudro and Hathrek shared a guilty look, then hurried wordlessly on.

Minutes later the companions had crossed the echoing chamber, and stood before the spinning energies of the portal. Hathrek looked to the Mistweaver, as did his strange comrades.

‘Here we find what we seek,’ came her voice upon the air. ‘Beyond this portal lies one of the Gaunt Summoner’s haunts, wherein the daemon may be compelled to appear.’

‘As easy as that, eh?’ asked Sornsson sceptically. ‘You take charge, lead us down a few corridors, and suddenly we’re at the heart o’ the maze?’

‘I tell you only what you will find beyond,’ responded Eithweil. ‘Make of that what you will.’

‘You say we will find the master of the tower beyond this portal?’ said Masudro, ‘Very well. If that is so, what must we do to escape this place?’

‘We take his boon,’ responded Hathrek savagely, feeling the rush of victory near at hand.

‘We strike him down,’ said Avanius at the same time.

‘What I mean,’ said Masudro into the uncomfortable silence that followed, ‘is, what should we expect to face? Eithweil, you seem to know more than we.’

‘There is a fane,’ she responded. ‘Within there is a statue. Only by its illumination can you find that which you seek.’

‘Good,’ growled Hathrek, his dislike for the seer growing. ‘Excellent. Prophecy as clear as the waters of the Clotted Sea. You can stand around and ask questions if you want. I choose action.’

Before another word could be spoken, the chieftain stepped determinedly into the portal.

‘Alone, he will perish,’ whispered Eithweil. Avanius and Sornsson shared a look, and Masudro sighed in exasperation.

‘We need him,’ said the priest simply, then stepped after the chieftain with Goldclaw at his side. Avanius followed, leaving Sornsson and the Mistweaver in the chamber. The duardin eyed the mysterious newcomer angrily.

‘If you’ve led us false, I swear on my oath I’ll kill you,’ he rumbled.

‘Would you keep this one?’ came the sighing response, then Eithweil was gone through the portal, leaving the Fyreslayer gaping in her wake. His thoughts whirled, guilt and confusion tangling with resentment.

‘She couldn’t know,’ he muttered angrily to himself. ‘She bloody couldn’t. How long’s she been watching?’ Hefting his weapons, Sornsson stepped after his companions. The duardin felt weightlessness, a whirling, tumbling sensation as though he were a mote in a gale. Lights and colours flashed past in a disorienting rush, then he was falling. Sornsson’s warrior instincts kicked in and he rolled with the fall, coming to his feet unharmed. Instantly something was flinging itself at him, a snorting, bestial presence into which he buried his axe without conscious thought. Brackish blood splashed the Fyreslayer and, with a snarl, he kicked the corpse from his weapon. His attacker thumped to the floor, and he realised he had caved in the chest of a bird-headed Tzaangor. Sornsson spat steaming phlegm onto the avian creature and took in the madness around him.

The companions had landed in some kind of temple. The sense of scale was maddening, as though everything was somehow magnified. For a vertiginous moment, Sornsson felt he could reach out and touch the mosaic ceiling high above. Blue-tinged flagstones made up the floor, divided by metallic rails upon whose runners sat several bulky brass carriages bearing crystal prisms. The walls of the place were a dizzying patchwork of gold, silver and blue crystal, mixed together to confuse and nauseate. Dominating one end of the temple was a huge, spread-winged statue of a Lord of Change, the daemonic figure crafted from gold and leering down with lifelike malice.

All this Sornsson absorbed in a matter of moments, before focussing on his companions’ plight. The floor of the temple swarmed with Tzaangors, the avian beastkin screeching and croaking as they attempted to surround the warriors. The twisted figures were a monstrous blend of human and bird-like beast, their muscular physiques strapped with random plates of golden armour and hung with weird tribal fetishes. The Tzaangors wielded a wild assortment of warped blades, and stabbed at the companions with their wickedly hooked beaks. Sornsson could see that every one of his allies was beset, barring the Mistweaver, whom he could not see at all. The duardin felt a moment of anger, then he was fighting for his life as more Tzaangors came at him. The runes in the Fyreslayer’s flesh glowed as he stepped beneath the wild swing of a shrieking assailant and crunched his pick through its chest. Ripping the weapon free, he spun aside from the next lashing blade and hacked his axe through another Tzaangor’s neck. As the beastkin’s head thumped to the floor, Sornsson saw that his companions were faring well. Goldclaw was savaging one Tzaangor even as her master crushed the skull of another, while Hathrek and Avanius were carving their way through a press of reeling foes. The Fyreslayer saw shimmering motes of shadow flitting around the Tzaangors, and laughed as he understood.

‘Not a traitor after all then, eh Mistweaver?’ Sornsson could see they were winning, but there was no sign of the Gaunt Summoner.

As though his thoughts had conjured fresh danger, the air in the chamber crackled, and searing beams of light leapt from the eyes of the statue. The blinding energies struck the prisms, then leapt onwards to cut through everything in their path. Tzaangors shrieked as their flesh blackened and puffed to ash, and Avanius yelled in alarm as he threw himself prone beneath one of the leaping blasts. Turning upon their gimbals, the prisms swung wildly, sending roaring rivers of energy leaping out to blacken the walls.

‘The light,’ came Eithweil’s voice in his ear. ‘Turn it upon the statue.’

Sornsson nodded and ran forwards, ducking under the obliterating glare of the nearest beam. He felt its heat wash across his skin, but he was duardin, of the Volturung, and he feared neither fire nor flame. Shoving a bloodied Tzaangor into the searing light, Sornsson ducked low and skidded to a stop next to one of the carriages. Throwing his shoulder against the mechanism, the Fyreslayer heaved, and the lens swung ponderously around.

‘Mind the beam!’ he yelled, ‘Get the others!’ Half blind, Sornsson could only hope that his comrades were following his lead as, crest singeing in the ferocious heat, he heaved the prism round to point directly at the statue.

Panting, Sornsson stepped back and saw with relief that the others had heard him, or else Eithweil had whispered to them too. The Tzaangors were dead or gone, and even as he watched, Avanius wrenched the last prism into alignment.

As it struck the towering statue, the light seemed to fracture into rivulets that spread and multiplied across the Lord of Change’s form. Cracks grew in its shuddering metal skin, and with a sudden, titanic boom the statue exploded into fragments.

Sornsson was thrown back by the shockwave, hitting the floor with spinning chunks of brass raining around him. His ears rang with the force of the blast, the muffled whine slowly receding as the Doomseeker’s hearing returned. As he sat up, Sornsson felt cold horror spread through him.

The statue was nought but a smouldering ruin, and from its carcass rose a terrible daemonic form. Flickering robes clung to a gangling, skeletal body. Three long, lithe limbs ended in taloned hands that clutched a dagger, a tome, and a crackling staff. Worst were the eyes, dozens of slitted yellow orbs that stared from the twisted horns of the daemon’s silver helm.

Rising to his full height, the Gaunt Summoner bared needle fangs, and swept his arms wide in mocking invitation.

Sornsson felt panic grip him at the hideous sight. Here was the master of this terrible place, the architect of all his misery and shame. It had been too long. It was too much. Through a haze of panic, the Fyreslayer watched as Masudro, Hathrek and Avanius advanced upon their tormentor. The companions had gone just nine paces before the Summoner spoke, his voice the crackling of broken bone and shattered glass.

‘Come to me. Take the power you desssserve. My boon is yoursssss.’

At those words, Hathrek quickened his pace, while Avanius faltered. The next moment, the Stormcast surged forwards and barred the Darkoath’s path.

‘You want his gift, not his death,’ boomed the Questor, his voice accusatory.

‘I’ve never said anything else,’ Sornsson heard Hathrek spit. ‘Now get out of my way.’

‘I cannot,’ intoned Avanius, raising his blade and shield. Hathrek snarled, and sparks flew as the two warriors’ blades met.

The laughter of the Summoner was horrible to hear as Masudro and Goldclaw found themselves suddenly abandoned. Sornsson knew he should rise. He knew he must help. But it was all happening so slowly, and so fast.

Pink fire leapt from the Summoner’s staff, engulfing the warrior priest and the gryph-hound in a polychromatic blaze. Holy light shone bright, driving the mutating flames back from Masudro’s flesh. Goldclaw was not so fortunate, and the poor creature’s shrieks of agony were terrible to hear as her flesh ran like wax and her bones exploded into powder.

Masudro howled at the fate of his companion, forging forwards through the stream of flames with his amulet held high. At last, Sornsson was moving. But too slow. He would not be in time to help.

And then, as suddenly as he had appeared, the Summoner began to fade from sight.

‘Not yet,’ came his mocking voice. ‘Not ready.’

Masudro stumbled to the statue’s feet as the raging fires dissipated, and Sornsson saw the priest’s eyes fix upon something on the ground, something that glinted where the Summoner had stood.

A loud clang echoed through the battle-scarred temple, the sound of Hathrek and Avanius’ blades clashing again. Masudro wheeled towards them, his face a mask of fury. Sornsson saw a shape moving in the shadows behind the priest then. He raised a hand, shouted a warning. But too late. A wicked blade flashed in the gloom, tainted with glowing green poison, and Masudro was crumpling forwards, throat open from ear to ear. Sornsson caught sight of a beady red eye glinting in the gloom. Then the killer too was gone, vanishing in a cloud of sulphurous smoke, and Masudro’s body was tumbling to the temple floor with blood jetting from his ruined throat.

Chapter Four

THE SHADOWED PATH

There was no way to bury Masudro’s body. Instead, they burned him upon a pyre of fallen foes. Even Hathrek was quiet as the flames crackled and leapt, though outwardly he showed no contrition for letting the priest face the Summoner alone. Not so Avanius, who knelt before the burning body with his head bowed in prayer. A servant of Sigmar had died, and the Hallowed Knight owned part of the blame for that loss.

Sornsson stood off to one side, wreathed in gloom, his eyes distant as he puffed on his battered pipe. In his mind’s eye, the Fyreslayer saw again the shadowy figure that had struck Masudro down. And he saw another thing, something that had come after, but that he did not yet fully understand. He pondered on that, and on what it might mean. For now, the duardin kept his own counsel.

At last, when Masudro was little more than ash, Eithweil shimmered into sight.

‘We must press on,’ came her voice, twining amidst the drifting embers. ‘He would want us to keep going.’

‘You knew him not at all, and had no notion of his wishes,’ came Avanius’ flat voice as the Stormcast rose. His armour and shield bore fresh dents from where the Tzaangors — and Hathrek — had struck him, and lightning flickered across rents in the sigmarite.

‘And I suppose you were his bosom companion?’ asked Hathrek archly, nursing the gash on his forearm where Avanius had cut him. ‘Knew all his deepest desires? Wants and needs?’

‘I knew him little,’ admitted the Knight-Questor, voice tinged with anger. ‘But I know that he wanted for us not to give in, or allow our tormentor the satisfaction of seeing us beaten. He wished us to work together, to put aside our differences that we might emerge victorious. Even with his death, Masudro compelled us to lower our blades and stop fighting one another.’

It was the longest Sornsson had heard the Stormcast speak, and in the wake of his words there was an uncomfortable silence. It was the duardin who broke it, tapping out his pipe bowl and squaring his shoulders.

‘Well then we should press on, unless you two are planning to start killing each other again?’ he said, feeling nothing but weary resignation. ‘Very long way to go. Maybe endless. We’re barely over the threshold.’

‘How would you know that?’ asked Hathrek, narrowing his eyes. ‘Have you seen this place before?’

‘This, or places like it,’ the duardin fired back over his shoulder as he made for the only visible exit. ‘Come on, I’m fairly sure it’s this way next.’

‘How much do you know of this place, stuntling?’ responded Hathrek, hurrying after the Fyreslayer. ‘Exactly how long have you been here?’

‘Too bloody long,’ replied Sornsson, passing beneath the span of the crystal arch. With few other options, he knew the others would follow him into the gloom.

There came a time, that might have been minutes, or hours, or days later, when they found themselves in a corridor of looming golden sarcophagi. Seeking objects of use, the companions picked through the grave goods and glowing gewgaws piled around the standing coffins. As they did, they heard from within the slow tick and churn of clockwork. Worse were the occasional, muffled groans and thuds that all pretended not to hear while stuffing glowing phials into pouches, and testing the weight of glimmering magic blades. The strange sounds grew louder, more insistent. Finally, skin crawling, the companions hurried on into the azure mists.

Another time saw them step through a curtain of shimmering motes and onto a floating chunk of stone that hung in a dark and impossible void. Strange stars wheeled overhead with nauseating speed. More stepping stones stretched away in a winding path through the darkness. The companions were partway across that hungry void when daemons flowed from the ether, swooping down upon them on bladed wings. A perilous fight ensued, the champions leaping from one drifting stone to the next and driving off the unnatural void-beasts with blade and spell. More than once the creatures’ fangs bit home, and by the time the companions plunged through a whirling portal to escape, all were bleeding from vicious bites.

Another moment saw a lull, a pause in a chamber of dripping pipes and tinkling, broken fountains, where they caught their breath and bound their wounds.

‘What happened before—’ began Avanius, his troubled conscience compelling him to speak.

‘You want to kill the Gaunt Summoner, and waste the one chance I have to seize the power to save my tribe,’ interrupted Hathrek. ‘Because you are short-sighted and pious where you could be strong.’ The bitterness in the chieftain’s voice was tangible.

When Avanius replied it was not with anger. ‘My liege, the God-King Sigmar, gave orders that I come here and defeat the master of the Silver Tower. Those were the exact words.’

‘So you just obey,’ sneered Hathrek, ‘like an eager hound?’

Avanius nodded, finding that his desire to honour Masudro’s death had dispelled the righteous repugnance he had first felt towards Hathrek. Matters of allegiance and duty were more complex in this place. He understood that now. Avanius did not want to pick a fight with the Chaos worshipper, strange as that seemed even to him. He only wished to make this teetering soul understand.

‘I obey, for it is my sworn duty. It is my oath. I fight for a greater cause, using selflessly the might that Sigmar gave me, rather than turning it to personal gain. That is my strength, Hathrek.’

‘We both want to save people, Stormcast,’ said Hathrek distantly, watching water drip into a nearby pool. ‘The difference is, I know those I fight for. You think you can save everyone. Thus you are deceived.’

‘No,’ replied Avanius. ‘It is you who is deceived. By yourself. Perhaps you are here for your people. But you follow a dark and dangerous path, with no guarantee of success and no knowing how long the road will be. If helping your people was all you desired, you would have stayed with them. Part of you wants this.’

Hathrek pushed himself angrily to his feet, reaching for the pommel of his sword before snatching his hand away again.

‘When we next see the Summoner, I will do what I must,’ he spat, and stalked away.

‘So will I,’ said Avanius, his voice still sorrowful.

After, or perhaps before, came another time when the only way forwards was through the noxious gullet of some huge and horrible beast. Reeking vapours hung thick around the companions, and they cursed and choked as sizzling acids burnt their skin and gear. After Sornsson wrenched him from amid the peristaltic contraction of the thing’s guts, Hathrek looked at the duardin with exhausted frustration.

‘How much longer can this go on?’ gasped the Darkoath, warring with his feelings. The duardin snorted gruffly and turned away.

‘I told you before. For all I know it’s never-ending. Come on.’

With that, Sornsson struggled onwards, leaving Hathrek to face the blank scrutiny of Eithweil.

‘It is not endless,’ came her whispering voice, and the chieftain was quite sure that at that moment she spoke only to him. ‘The duardin will not say so, but he knows this road. Its steps are familiar to his feet. And we are going the right way.’

On and on it went, until time lost all meaning and the urge to keep moving became an end in itself. The only alternative was to collapse in defeat, and none of the companions was willing to do so. They knew little hunger or thirst, though they were sure they should have starved long before. The runes still glowed dully in the Fyreslayer’s scarred flesh, though they surely should have burned out by now. There was no logic to any of it anymore, but they pressed on regardless. They would not let the Gaunt Summoner win.

It would have shocked them to know that the daemon they sought was following their trials with interest. In fact, as the daemonic sorcerer hunched spider-like over the mirror in which he watched them, he crooned with pleasure each time they emerged victorious from another test or trap. When the Mistweaver indicated pressure plates before they could be trodden on, the Summoner smiled his shark’s grin. The Mistweaver must always see clearly, even as she deceives, he thought indulgently. When the Darkoath Chieftain and the Stormcast stood back to back, their blades forming a whirling wall that drove off a tide of shrieking Scuttlings, the Summoner applauded delicately. When the group crossed a crystal chamber in which bones and rags were strewn, the Summoner watched the Fyreslayer stop and furtively slip the ring from the finger of one of the skeletons, sliding it onto a digit of his own left hand. The duardin hastened on, pale and shaking, and the Summoner chuckled with malicious glee, waving one finger chidingly at the fading image. The Doomseeker, he thought. So volatile. So strong, and yet so brittle. Occasionally the daemon moved away from his mirror. He stalked around his sanctum, spinning dangling cages that contained shrieking birds, poring over ancient tomes or absent-mindedly mixing strange potions in crystal philtres. Yet always he returned to scrutinising the champions as they navigated his maze. Always his many eyes — each plucked from a different, screaming victim — watched with fascination as the strands of fate flowing before and behind the champions changed in hue and texture. In particular, his eyes lingered long on the Darkoath Chieftain. As his strand of fate stuttered between glinting gold and cloying black, the daemon licked cracked lips with a squirming tongue, and crooned to himself once more.

Elsewhere, trailing the companions like a shadow, Skrytchwhisker muttered and cursed. The assassin did not struggle to keep pace with such plodding beings, but the ever-changing nature of the tower compelled him to stay closer to his quarry than he liked. Too far back, and he was worried that the path might shift, spiriting them away forever. More than once, the skaven just barely managed to dive into some shadow or cover in time to avoid being spotted by one of the whiskerless fools.

It would not do to underestimate them though. Oh no. Skrytchwhisker had not gather-seen just how strong or dangerous they were at first. Only when he took the priest did the Deathrunner fully grasp what a potent band of warriors he faced. The proof was there not just in their weapons, their magic, and their obvious warrior skill. It was the way they had betrayed one of their number so callously, two of them engaging in an open leadership challenge even before his corpse had hit the floor. To engineer their leader’s death and be brazenly fighting for dominance before he had even finished dying? Skrytchwhisker would have been impressed, if he hadn’t been so unnerved.

Thus the assassin had decided to change his strategy. No longer convinced that even he could defeat them all without an element of personal risk, the skaven resolved to follow the group, and to let them lead him to his true victim. He might even aid them, if the chance arose. But he would stand over all of their corpses in the end. Skrytchwhisker scurried on. Soon-quick, his genius plan would bear fruit. He was sure.

The group had wandered out of time and beyond sanity, through mists of forgetfulness and voids of aching loss. They followed the directions of Vargi Sornsson, who continued to claim that he knew their route, though he would not tell them how. Avanius pressed the duardin until he realised that, short of drawing a blade, he would not compel the stubborn Fyreslayer to speak. Even then, he doubted it would have worked. So they trudged on, wounded, battered, exhausted without need for sleep, until at last they descended a winding tunnel of stone that became ever more rough and natural-looking as they progressed. Sornsson, tramping relentlessly at the head of the group, rounded a corner and stopped short.

‘Mushrooms!’ he exclaimed. As Avanius caught up he saw that the darkness ahead was lit by hundreds of glowing lights, each one a rubbery-looking fungus sprouting from the walls, ceiling or floor. Some were no larger than a man’s thumb, while others were great bloated things, bigger than a troggoth and looking fit to burst.

Further down the tunnel’s throat, the luminescence grew brighter. Thrown around another corner by the strange light, distorted shadows cavorted and danced. Still distant, Avanius could hear shrieks and whoops, screams and gibbering, all set to the arrhythmic thumping of drums.

‘Sounds like a ritual,’ commented the Knight-Questor quietly, unsheathing his sword.

‘Sounds like another bunch of fools for us to kill,’ grinned Hathrek.

‘Agreed,’ nodded Sornsson. Eithweil simply drifted nearby, shimmering on the edge of visibility.

‘Hathrek, you lead,’ said Avanius, ‘Sornsson and I will follow you in, to keep them from flanking. Eithweil…’

‘I will hang back, and work such terrors upon their minds that the death you bring will seem sweet release.’

‘I could not have found better words, witch,’ smirked Hathrek. He unsheathed his long blade from its back-scabbard and began to pick his way between the quivering mushrooms. The others followed, Eithweil vanishing from sight amid the gloom.

As they got closer to the bend in the tunnel, so the pounding of drums became louder, and the riotous screeching of the revellers more frantic. Amongst those awful voices Avanius could discern a deeper rumble. Hathrek glanced back at him and mouthed ‘something big’. The savage delight in the chieftain’s eyes caused the Stormcast to shake his head despairingly.

The next moment, they were round the corner, and Hathrek howled a sudden battle cry. He launched himself forwards, charging full tilt down the tunnel, and Avanius led the rush to keep up. The champions burst into a wide, low-ceilinged cave whose corners were crammed with obscene masses of glowing mushrooms. Emerald light spilled from a huge mystic symbol engraved into the dirt floor, and in that weird illumination the dark revel turned as one. Cultists and Tzaangors, many daubed with weird, glowing symbols, cried in outrage and reached for jagged blades. Yet Hathrek was already amongst them, swinging his sword like some lunatic woodsman.

As the chieftain drove into his foes, the Questor and the Doomseeker fanned out to either side. They formed a lethal battle-line, hemming their more numerous enemies in and giving them no chance to react. Avanius smashed his shield into the face of a charging cultist, shattering the man’s skull, then stabbed his lightning-wreathed blade into a Tzaangor’s shoulder and ripped it free in a spray of blood. In his peripheral vision, Sornsson was a whirling dervish. Axe and pick whipped round and round in vicious arcs, leaving trails of blood in their wake. Angrily, the revellers pressed forwards, shrieking curses and brandishing blades. Avanius saw one stab a knife into Sornsson’s thigh, while another sank his teeth into Hathrek’s neck, only to have his own throat ripped out for his troubles. Then the Saih unleashed her powers. One by one, the dark revellers turned upon each other, ran headlong into rock walls, or stabbed their daggers into their own eyes and throats.

Avanius began to think that their surprise attack would carry the fight with ease, but then a huge, dark shape pushed forwards through the throng. Iron-hard muscles rippled beneath taut, sigil-covered flesh. The thing was humanoid in shape, but monstrous, over twice the size of Hathrek. A long tail whipped in anger, while red eyes glowed like coals. Arcing horns spread like a crown from the massive beast’s head, and an elaborately carved staff glowed with magical power in one fist. As it chanted mangled words in some dark tongue, Avanius realised that this thing was far more dangerous than any of the chattering fiends around it.

With a snort, the huge beast smashed one of its own throng aside with its heavy staff, then levelled a blast of sorcery at Avanius. Blinding light exploded as the Stormcast raised his shield, only to have it torn from his grip by the force of the impact. Bone cracked, pain roared like fire up Avanius’ arm and into his shoulder, and the Knight-Questor slammed back against the chamber wall.

Blowing steam from its nostrils, the huge beast-wizard turned and grunted a series of harsh syllables. Through a haze of his own agony, Avanius heard a pained cry that seemed to echo from everywhere at once. Suddenly the Mistweaver flickered into view, slumped on her knees in the mouth of the tunnel. Blood spattered the ground beneath her.

‘Ho there,’ shouted Hathrek, ‘beast! Come fight someone worthy!’ The monster raised its staff again, but Hathrek was ready. As the roaring blast leapt forth, Avanius saw the Darkoath throw himself out of the way, allowing the beam to pass over him and explode against the cavern wall. The hulking beast stomped closer, leering down at the prone barbarian. It paused as Hathrek grinned back.

Avanius watched as Sornsson hit the thing like a cannonball, slamming into his enemy while Hathrek had it distracted. The duardin buried his pick in the Ogroid’s back, then hacked his axe between its shoulder blades for good measure. Wrenching both weapons out, the Fyreslayer jumped away as the monster turned and lumbered after him. The next moment it roared in pain as Hathrek’s sword point burst from its chest. Glowing blue blood spurted. The beast crashed to its knees, mouth working as it tried to voice some last curse or incantation. Dismissing the pain of his injuries, Avanius pushed himself away from the cavern wall and crossed the gap in three swift paces. His blade whipped out in a crackling arc, and the Hallowed Knight lopped the beast’s head from its shoulders.

As the creature’s headless body toppled sideways, Hathrek laughed and Avanius limped away to retrieve his shield. The beast-wizard had been the last living foe in the chamber, and the fight appeared over. Yet Sornsson waited, tense, until he saw the shadows flicker. Giving a sudden shout, he lashed out with the butt of his axe and caught the half-seen shape bent over the monster’s corpse. Eithweil cried out as she was knocked to the floor, her voice coming, for once, from behind her mask. In her hand was clutched a glinting fragment of something, a jewelled golden segment on a heavy chain.

Avanius and Hathrek stood and stared as Sornsson stood over the revealed Mistweaver.

‘That’s the second time you’ve done that, Eithweil,’ the duardin growled, his anger simmering close to the surface. ‘Care to explain?’

‘Second? Done what?’ Hathrek sounded confused.

‘Aye,’ rumbled Sornsson. ‘She did the same in the temple. Right after Masudro… When the Summoner vanished he left something behind. Something the priest saw. Something she pocketed while you two jak’nachs were still battering each other.’

‘You are only telling us this now?’ asked Avanius sternly.

‘Wanted to be sure,’ replied Sornsson, his pick hanging menacingly above Eithweil. ‘Didn’t like the idea she was lying to us.’ He had come to mistrust the evidence of his own senses since becoming trapped in the tower’s embrace, but this was something else.

‘There was no lie,’ the Mistweaver spoke from the air once more, voice frosty and menacing. ‘I simply did not tell you about the amulet.’

‘What amulet?’ Hathrek’s voice was dangerously low.

‘Vargi Sornsson,’ came Eithweil’s voice, ignoring the question, ‘you will lower your weapons and step away from me or I shall make you peel the skin from your own bones.’ The Fyreslayer gritted his teeth and stood his ground, though he didn’t doubt for a moment that she could make good on her threats. In the tower, he had found that no truth was bought without pain.

‘What amulet?’ repeated Hathrek, voice rising in anger. Avanius stepped forwards. He knelt down and offered a hand to the Mistweaver. She ignored it, blinking out of sight. Avanius straightened, and Sornsson saw angry lightnings flickering in the eyes of his mask.

‘If you know something and are not telling us,’ the Knight-Questor said to the air, ‘if you are endangering us or playing us false, all the tricks and illusions in the realms will not aid you. And remember that even should you kill me, I will come back for you.’

‘What. Amulet?’ asked Hathrek again, his tone exasperated. For a moment, Sornsson was sure that Eithweil still would not speak. Then came her voice, a cold zephyr of sound.

‘I did not tell you until now, because I did not know if I could trust you.’ She ignored Hathrek’s incredulous snort. ‘I retrieved more from the daemon than just the map. I learned also of the amulet. I learned how to listen for its song, how to hear it no matter how distant, and follow that sense to each fragment in turn.’

‘So when you led us to the Summoner’s lair in the temple…’ began Avanius, shaking his head.

‘I did not lead you to the Summoner, but to a fragment of the amulet that, if whole, can be used to conjure him,’ finished Eithweil.

‘So this amulet brings us to the Gaunt Summoner?’ asked Hathrek angrily. ‘How many pieces are there? Why in the Dark Brothers’ name did you let us think we were just wandering lost after some half-mad duardin?’

‘The duardin knows the way,’ answered Eithweil, her voice whipping around them like an autumn wind, and Sornsson felt a pang of alarm. ‘It is fragmented, veiled in the mists of timeless misery. But he knows. He has seen this all before. What of the ring, Vargi Sornsson?’

Now it was the Fyreslayer’s turn to face the scrutiny of his companions. He stared back stubbornly, but could not hide the twitch beneath one eye, or the ornate silver ring they now noticed on one hand. Even here, thought the Fyreslayer resignedly, you could only hide your shame for so long. Sooner or later, someone always smelt the rot.

‘Aye,’ he said, as though dragging the words up from a deep well, ‘I’ve been here a long while. A terribly long time.’

‘And what is the ring she speaks of?’ asked Avanius.

‘When I first came here it was as a bodyguard,’ muttered the Fyreslayer, shame knotting his guts into a bitter ball. ‘A scholar. A human from Azyrheim. He sought the secrets of the tower and, for a sum of ur-gold, I oathed myself to his protection.’

‘Then where is he now, stuntling?’ asked Hathrek.

‘Dead. Bones, back along our path,’ replied Sornsson. In his voice there was a terrible depth of exhaustion, yet it was as the tip of a frostberg to the vast despair that lurked below. ‘They came upon us at camp. Too many. I tried. I… Well, he died, and my oath was broken. So I tried to find my way out. But it’s always the same. New people come. New faces. They try. They fall. Then I’m alone again, because the tower never lets you go. The ring was his, meant to be lucky. Thought it might bring me some at last.’

‘How many champions have you fought alongside, Doomseeker?’ Eithweil’s question was barely more than a whisper, but Sornsson’s eyes snapped back to angry focus at the words. His shame burned up like mine-gas before a naked torch, igniting into flames of rage that danced around him.

‘Lots, not that it’s your business, shadow witch! And my secrets don’t excuse yours. What else aren’t you telling us? Eh?’

‘There is nothing more,’ replied Eithweil after a moment. ‘We simply need to overcome the trials of the tower, and claim the amulet fragments. I can sense their magic call, and guide you to them. But I cannot claim the fragments alone.’

‘And hence you need us,’ said Hathrek sourly. ‘What do you care about facing the Gaunt Summoner anyway, witch? Do you seek his boon, or his death?’

‘Neither,’ came the response, the words seeming to come from behind, and then ahead. ‘I seek to change the fate of distant things, and events that have not yet come to be. More than that you need not know, but that your success will spell my own, one way or another.’

For a long moment, the companions looked warily at one another.

‘What choice do we have?’ asked Hathrek. ‘Do either of you know the way?’ Avanius shook his head, and Sornsson spat.

‘Not one that leads to aught but death and loneliness,’ growled the duardin.

‘Then we need her,’ asserted Hathrek. ‘I have to believe that we can reach the Summoner. That we can win. But if this is falsehood, witch…’ He raised his voice to the air.

‘Always, threats,’ came the Mistweaver’s response. ‘You have made plenty of those, Hathrek of the Gadalhor. So many that I wonder at their veracity.’ She shimmered back into view at the far edge of the cave, the glow from her staff illuminating a narrow passage hidden amidst a cleft in the rock. ‘But whether you mean me harm or no, it is a risk I must take. Matters of grave import hang in a balance you could not comprehend, and I will do what I must. Trust me, or rot here. Come.’

With that, Eithweil led the way from the cavern and into the darkness once more. Sornsson looked to each of his companions in turn, and saw that they meant to follow her, despite her duplicity. The duardin was surprised to find that he did too. Though it was clearer than ever that none of the champions were precisely who they claimed, the revelation of the amulet filled him with a sense of purpose he had long been without. It would do, he thought. For now.

Chapter Five

THE EMPTY HEAVENS

It might have been mere hours later, or perhaps it was years, when, amidst the silent gloom of a vast gallery, a mirror’s surface blossomed with violet fire. Glass seethed and bubbled, running like tallow. It began to churn, as though stirred with an invisible ladle. Faster and faster the liquid glass spun, purple energies billowing from it in clouds. The next moment, the companions spilled from the surface of the strange portal, tumbling across the dusty floor of the chamber. One by one they rose to their feet, casting wary glances back at the mirror that still spun like a whirlpool behind them.

‘Well,’ said Hathrek, ‘that was unpleasant. I’m still not sure even an amulet fragment was worth being immersed in that much filth, but at least the blood washed it off, eh? Now where are we?’ He watched as Eithweil raised her staff, and glimmering silver light spilled from its tip. A huge, dusty chamber was revealed, galleries stretching away above. Sornsson cried out and raised his blades as spread-winged skeletal horrors leapt into view.

‘Steady, friend,’ said Avanius, a slight smile in his voice. ‘Those can’t hurt us.’ Sornsson lowered his weapons, coughing in embarrassment as he realised the skeletons dangled from the high ceiling on wires like strange museum pieces.

‘Can’t be too careful,’ the duardin muttered. ‘I recall y’said the same thing about that glass statue that almost lopped off your head.’

‘True, he did,’ smirked Hathrek, privately glad that the duardin had reacted to the hanging beasts before him. ‘But all the same, try not to soil your loincloth, stuntling. The gods know when you might find another…’

‘Eithweil, what is the count?’ asked Avanius, evidently keen to head off another altercation between man and duardin. Hathrek shook his head; this conversation had become ritual for the Stormcast and the Saih, ever since they had recovered the third fragment from within the geared workings of a huge, mechanical gargant. The Mistweaver drifted high above them, robes flowing amid the shadows as she inspected one of the dangling, draconine skeletons.

‘Seven. We have seven fragments of the amulet now, Avanius. As well you know. But I feel the eighth. It sings to me. It is near.’

‘Then let’s not drag our heels,’ said Hathrek. ‘It feels like we’ve been wandering this place for a thousand years.’

‘Don’t even joke,’ snapped Sornsson.

‘Very well, we move,’ said Avanius. ‘Eithweil?’ The Saih faded like a dream, only to appear some distance away across the dusty flagstones.

‘Follow,’ came her voice in their ears. Steeling himself for the next ordeal, Hathrek led the way, tracking weary footprints through great drifts of dust that had not been disturbed for time unguessed.

At the companions’ backs, one more dark figure sprang from the surface of the swirling mirror and scurried into the shadows.

‘No,’ said Avanius, aghast. ‘No, this cannot be.’ The Stormcast stood in the flickering light of golden torches, feeling a mix of bewilderment and horror as he stared at the two huge statues before him. The statues stared lifelessly back from masks that mirrored his own, golden swords and shields clutched in their huge golden hands. Each of the Stormcast effigies stood at least forty feet tall, and dozens of lit torches flickered in sconces set about their torsos, shoulders and limbs. Between them, beneath a beautifully frescoed ceiling of angelic figures and glimmering stars, brass steps inscribed with Azyrite runes led up to a huge golden portal. Tzaangor bones and tattered cultist robes lay scattered upon the steps as though the Tzeentch-worshippers had been slain trying to pass through. Again his mind rebelled at the thought — all of the gates to the Heavens were sealed tight, save those the God-King had opened for his war against Chaos. There could be no such entrance here. Through the portal’s surface a marble floored gallery was dimly visible, its walls hung with beautiful tapestries and lit by brilliant sunlight that poured through some unseen window.

‘Is that daylight?’ asked Hathrek. ‘Real daylight?’ The longing in his voice was palpable, but he stayed where he was.

‘It is Sigmaron,’ replied Avanius. ‘And yet it cannot be. The God-King would not permit a portal into this nether-realm to breach the Heavens. This must be a trick.’

‘I can tell you only that the song of the amulet drifts from beyond that portal,’ came Eithweil’s voice. ‘As for the rest, I know not.’

Sornsson had been silent thus far, staring at the portal with wide eyes. Now he started forwards.

‘Wait,’ cried Hathrek, ‘I’m not going through there. Sigmaron? I’d sooner dive into a nest of vipers!’

But Sornsson was jogging up the bronze steps now.

‘I’ve never seen this place,’ he shouted back at them. ‘It’s a way out. It’s a bloody way out!’

‘No,’ called Avanius, starting up the steps after the duardin as he realised what his comrade intended. ‘There’s something wrong here. Sornsson, wait.’

But there was no stopping the Fyreslayer. He was running now, up the steps as fast as he could go. The others rushed behind him, but too slowly. With a wild cry, Vargi Sornsson plunged into the golden portal, and its energies leapt outwards in a roaring tide. Golden tendrils whipped and lashed, winding around the companions with incredible strength. Even Eithweil was plucked from the air, suddenly visible as the glowing tentacles grasped her. Yelling and fighting, the companions were borne helplessly up the steps, and plunged through the golden portal.

Hathrek pushed himself to his feet, skin still tingling where the golden energy had grasped him. The Darkoath Chieftain squinted against the sunlight, dazzling after so long surrounded by gloom. The light felt warm upon his bare skin, sinking through his flesh in a way that was almost healing. Then he remembered where he was, and cursed as he looked wildly about for foes.

Nearby, Avanius and Eithweil were also finding their feet upon the marble floor. Sornsson was nowhere to be seen.

Avanius shook his head as though clearing his thoughts, then looked about him in wonder.

‘Sigmaron. The city of the God-King himself. It is. But how can this be?’ He looked back, taking in the shimmering golden portal filling the passageway behind him. Beyond, the interior of the Silver Tower could dimly be seen. ‘I do not recognise this corridor, but there is no way that this portal could be here, or anywhere in this place.’

Eithweil drifted down the corridor. Hathrek watched her flicker in and out of sight as she crossed the golden sunbeams falling from high arched windows off to their right.

‘We must find Sornsson,’ came her whisper. ‘He may be in peril.’

Swiftly, the three of them hurried along the corridor. Hathrek’s eyes darted like those of a hunted animal, and he kept his blade ready in his hands. Panic tightened his chest, and his heart thumped in his throat.

‘If this is Sigmaron,’ he said urgently, ‘Avanius, you know I will have to fight.’

‘If it truly is,’ replied the Stormcast, ‘then I will speak for you.’ Hathrek looked at the Knight-Questor in surprise, but Avanius’ mask gave nothing away.

The companions reached the end of the corridor and passed through golden double doors into a wide, columned chamber. Motes of dust danced in the sunlight that spilled through the chamber and refracted from crystal chandeliers hanging high above. Gold and marble statuary lined the walls, and a great feasting table stretched down the chamber’s middle.

‘Where in the nether-realms is the stuntling?’ cursed Hathrek in frustration. He had thought the Doomseeker somewhat cracked, but this was lunacy. He could not fathom how no one had yet discovered them, and at any moment he expected a tide of holy warriors to burst from all sides and bury him in blades. Sornsson would suffer for putting him through this, Hathrek vowed silently.

‘Not just him,’ responded Avanius with a frown in his voice. ‘Where is anyone at all? If this is Sigmaron, where are my brother Stormcasts? Where are the scribes, the functionaries, the astromancers and cartologi?’

‘Should we perhaps divide, try to find him more swiftly?’ asked Eithweil, but Hathrek shook his head vehemently.

‘I’m not being left alone in this place. Bad enough with a Stormcast to vouch for me. Without one, well…’

‘Then we go that way,’ said Avanius, pointing with his blade towards the huge double doors that led out from the chamber. ‘It seems the most obvious route.’

They pressed on, emerging onto a wide spiralling stairway that ran both up and down from their landing. Its balustrade was engraved marble, twined with glimmering silver vines and twinkling star flowers. Warm golden light poured down the stairwell, falling through a stained glass ceiling high above.

‘Now which way?’ snarled Hathrek, exasperated. From above they heard the scuff of footsteps, and then a cry.

‘Hello? Hello? Anyone?’

‘Sornsson,’ said Avanius, and set off up the steps at a run. Despite his heavy sigmarite plate, the Stormcast moved like a man unburdened, and it was all that Hathrek could do to keep up.

They reached the top of the spiralling stairway, having seen not another living soul, then dashed on across a vine-hung courtyard in which a beautiful fountain leapt and chuckled. Above, sunlight fell diffuse through crystal panes.

‘This light is wrong,’ Avanius called as they ran. ‘Why do we not see open sky? Stars?’

‘We’re stuck in cursed Sigmaron, having been magicked through a portal from the hells-damned Silver Tower, chasing a deranged stuntling into who knows what danger, and you’re worried about not being able to see the sky?’ Hathrek was incredulous.

The two of them burst through another doorway and into a corridor, where they skidded to a halt. Sornsson stood ahead of them, before a tall, gilt-edged mirror. The Questor and the Darkoath advanced cautiously down the corridor, feet whispering across its rich mauve carpet. Eithweil swam into focus, drifting in their wake.

‘Sornsson,’ said Avanius carefully. ‘Friend. Do not run again.’ The duardin gave no response, continuing to stare with rapt fascination at the mirror’s surface.

‘Ho, stuntling,’ shouted Hathrek angrily. ‘You led us into Sigmaron. Sigmaron! You’ve most likely gotten me killed. What have you to say before I lop your head from your shoulders?’

Still the duardin did not speak.

‘It is as though he hears us not,’ whispered Eithweil. ‘Strange.’

‘All of this is strange,’ replied Avanius as they drew close to Sornsson. ‘This place should be teeming with people. And the sky should be visible through every window, every pane… Sigmaron lies amidst the Heavens themselves. It swims between the stars, and celebrates that view of the firmament in every way. This vague, directionless sunlight — it’s all wrong. I don’t believe that…’

Just at that moment they drew close enough to see what Sornsson was staring at, and Avanius’ words died on his tongue. There, swimming in the mirror’s dark depths, sat a resplendent golden figure. His majesty was a physical force that almost drove them to their knees. The intensity of his gaze drew them in then scattered their thoughts like birds flying from a gunshot. There could be no denying the figure who manifested himself before them.

‘Sigmar,’ breathed Avanius, falling to one knee before the mirror. Hathrek’s blade dangled, forgotten, in one hand as he stared at the God-King in awe. Some part of Hathrek’s mind knew that he should have felt absolute dread, but only wonder filled his thoughts. Even the Mistweaver manifested herself fully, her blank mask turned quizzically towards the mirror’s surface.

‘Champions!’ Sigmar’s voice was a boom of thunder that shook Hathrek to his core. ‘Companions!’

The Darkoath knelt alongside Avanius, his eyes desperately averted, while Sornsson stood and shook before the mirror.

‘You walk the halls of Sigmaron when it is the tower you should seek!’ The God-King’s voice was dour, his brows drawn down. ‘Knight-Questor Avanius, is your duty done? Have you defeated the master of the tower?’

Avanius shook his head. ‘No, my God-King. We stepped through a portal…’

‘And it brought you here!’ finished Sigmar’s booming voice, while lightning leapt and crackled in the darkness behind him. ‘And with such strange company. Oathbreaker! Thrall of Chaos! Saih! By what right do you walk the halls of my realm?’ Hathrek had no answer but to stare in mute fear at the golden figure before him. It seemed to grow by the moment, filling the surface of the mirror while the force of his presence bore down upon the chieftain like the weight of the moons and stars.

‘Lord, they walk at my side,’ said Avanius, voice firm despite the effort of enduring his God-King’s wrath. ‘They share my perils. They seek the end of the quest, just as I do.’ For a moment, the apparition of Sigmar remained silent. Suddenly, it gave a booming laugh.

‘Well spoken, Knight-Questor. You do not stray from your path, but perhaps it has strayed from you! A gift then, to align your fates once more. But know there will be bloodshed, before all is called to account.’

Sigmar raised one mighty hand, and within his grip they all saw a fragment of the amulet they sought. The apparition seemed almost to reach through the surface of the mirror. Upon a crackling cushion of energy, the amulet left Sigmar’s grip and floated free, landing in Avanius’ outstretched palm. Hathrek watched the Knight-Questor marvel at the artefact he now held. Then Avanius’ pose stiffened, and he stared deep into the mirror.

‘Lord,’ he began, his voice heavy as he fought against the glamour that washed over him. ‘What is wrong with this place? Where is everybody? Is this truly Sigmaron?’

At this, Sigmar was silent for a long moment. Then his eyes creased, and he boomed out a hearty laugh. The God-King’s mouth opened wide, and mirth poured from him like water from a breaking dam. For a moment Hathrek felt moved to laugh as well, borne up by the force of deific amusement. But still the God-King laughed, and still his mouth yawned wider. Mirth became ferocity, and savage convulsions. The apparition warped out of focus for a moment, and when it resolved again its eyes had turned a terrible, jaundiced yellow. They multiplied across its forehead, popping open like blisters with black slit pupils. The Sigmar-thing’s skin was webbed with squirming blue veins, and its lordly beard was transforming into something else. Something that resembled tentacles, or feathers. Needle fangs gleamed in its cruel grin, and the unmistakable aspect of the Gaunt Summoner appeared.

Hathrek recoiled from the mirror’s churning surface as their nemesis revealed himself. Avanius cried out in horror, then the Darkoath swung his sword in a mighty arc and struck the mirror as hard as he could. The sense of being an animal caught in a trap had surged back in force, and Hathrek channelled all his fear and rage into the titanic blow. The mirror’s surface shattered, the Gaunt Summoner giving a gleeful shriek before his image was obliterated.

Racing out from the point of impact, cracks spider-webbed the cursed mirror then, impossibly, spilled beyond it into the air itself. With a terrible crackling, crunching sound the walls and floor began to splinter apart. Reality was collapsing.

‘We have what we came for,’ urged Eithweil, breaking the spell of horror and bewilderment that had gripped them. ‘We must depart the way we came. Swiftly.’ Avanius managed a stunned nod, but Sornsson reeled, his face distraught. Hathrek saw the duardin twitch and shudder, as though waking from some distant dream. Sornsson’s jaw worked, and then he spun towards Hathrek with a howl like a wounded animal. In the Doomseeker’s eyes there swam a depth of absolute despair that was painful to see.

‘You broke it,’ screamed the duardin. ‘You filthy Chaos worshipping herkhnud, you smashed it to pieces. I was out!’ Hathrek backed away from the raging Fyreslayer, and the cracks that were now spreading perilously close. His own anger guttered before the raging inferno of Sornsson’s maddened wrath.

‘Stuntling. Sornsson. It wasn’t real. None of it. It was a trap.’

But the Fyreslayer was insensible with rage and despair. Madness had taken him. Bellowing, Sornsson lunged towards Hathrek with his weapons raised. Moving with lightning speed, Avanius slammed his shield into the side of the duardin’s head, clearly striking as hard as he dared. Sornsson toppled sideways, weapons spilling from nerveless hands. Quick as thought, Avanius scooped the Fyreslayer up and threw him over one shoulder before setting off down the corridor at a run. Following Avanius’ lead, Hathrek snatched up Sornsson’s axe and pick, before turning and dashing back the way they had come, away from the spreading cracks of oblivion.

Segments of wall fell away. Shards of sunlight splintered off and smashed upon the floor. Everywhere the illusion collapsed, it left a blank, black void behind it, haunted by the crooning laughter of the Gaunt Summoner.

Avanius dashed back across the courtyard, noting with disgust that the fountain had twisted into a fanged maw, which vomited gouts of jellied blue slime. The Fyreslayer was several hundred pounds of deadweight on his shoulder, and behind him reality was coming apart at the seams, but Avanius was Stormcast. He had been reforged with the might of the God-King in his veins. The true God-King. There was no test he could not endure, no challenge he could not defeat. And so he ran, armoured feet pounding marble as he started down the spiralling steps. Hathrek ran ahead. Of the Mistweaver there was no sign. From above came the terrible rending crashes of the stained glass ceiling tearing itself apart, while the steps shook and crumbled away by the moment. Ahead, a tumbling shard of reality the size of a dracoth punched through the stairway, Hathrek narrowly dodging its razor sharp edge. The shard ripped through marble, tearing a chasm fifteen feet across. Avanius kept going, and leapt without a second’s thought. For a heart-stopping moment there was only nothingness beneath him. Then his feet slammed down on the steps and he kept running, Sornsson’s weight bearing him down.

The companions dived through the huge doors into the banquet hall, only to be faced by a horrific sight. A feast had appeared along the tabletop, hideous delicacies of roasted corpses and squirming, tentacular things that spilled from crystal platters and squealed as they flailed blindly about. Daemons rose from their feast as the champions skidded to a halt. Maws stretched wide with gibbering glee. Mutating flames leapt from rubbery talons. In a mass, the Pink Horrors cartwheeled and capered forwards. Realising that the collapsing reality was right behind them, Avanius did the only thing he could. He charged.

The next few moments were a savage blur. Blades hacked and swung. Pink and blue fire leapt in liquid arcs, turning marble to oozing madness and gold to screaming mouths. Avanius barged aside a yammering thing with too many eyes, weaving desperately around a bolt of searing magic that roared within inches of his helm.

‘There’s too many,’ yelled Hathrek, lopping the arm from a daemon, then stumbling as its other clubbing fist struck the side of his head. Blue fire washed across Avanius’ breastplate, and he gasped in agony as he felt his flesh twist and split beneath the armour. Suddenly Eithweil was there, blasting into being above them amid a corona of black flame. Her voice spilled from the air in a roaring tide, booming out an incantation that sent the daemons reeling. As the shattering cracks spilled through the chamber’s doorway, the Horrors spun and stumbled in confusion. Seizing their chance, Hathrek and Avanius fled, dashing between their discombobulated foes and making for the corridor in which the portal waited. Eithweil kept up her magic a few moments longer and as the racing cracks began to rend the foul daemons apart, Avanius saw her vanish in a whirl of smoke.

At last, the champions made it back to the portal corridor in time to see a dark figure diving through it ahead of them.

‘Who…?’ began Avanius.

‘No time,’ shouted Hathrek. ‘Just move!’ Seconds later, the golden tendrils of the portal lashed out once more, ripping them from their feet and bearing them willingly into the golden depths, away from the shattering pandemonium of the Heavens’ death.

Chapter Six

THE WEIGHT OF TRUTH

‘Looks safe enough,’ said Hathrek, feeling a profound sense of relief as he waved his blazing torch around the confined space. The flames growled and sputtered, throwing jagged shadows around the small chamber. Arachnid things with too many legs retreated from the light, folding themselves into cracks in the crystalline walls. Otherwise nothing moved, and there seemed only one way in or out of the crystalline oubliette.

‘It is far from the false Heavens. It will serve,’ replied Avanius, following the Darkoath Chieftain into the small room. Sornsson trudged in after him, one side of his face bruised and swollen. Eithweil was absent one moment, there the next, haunting the archway through which they had entered.

‘I have woven what enchantments I am able here,’ came her whisper. ‘I cannot promise that they will fool everything that stalks these endless passages. The tower may undo what I have done.’

‘Thank you, Eithweil,’ replied Avanius simply. ‘Any measure of security is better than none.’ The Stormcast limped to the far end of the crystal chamber and lowered himself into a sitting position with his back against the wall. Slowly, he reached up and unbuckled the straps of his battle helm, before lifting it free and placing it at his side. The face revealed was somehow younger than Hathrek had expected, its features strong and noble, but strange in a way he struggled to define. There was pain there, revealed in the tightness of the square jaw and lightning-blue eyes, but also an otherness that was profoundly unsettling. Hathrek was glad his companion normally went masked.

‘You’re injured,’ Hathrek observed, endeavouring to keep his tone scornful. Avanius nodded, his breath rasping with fluid. His breastplate was scorched and warped out of shape where the daemonfires had struck him.

‘We all are injured,’ he replied.

‘You’re worse,’ pressed Hathrek, seating himself against a different wall. ‘So how does this work? Do you heal the way the rest of us do?’

‘Do I heal?’ echoed Avanius with a pained grunt of laughter. ‘Like magic, you mean? Yes, I heal, far swifter than any mortal man. The gifts of our reforging help we Stormcasts to do so. The faith and purity of the Hallowed Knights seems to speed the process further. Given time, and a chance to rest.’

Sornsson had retreated to the room’s darkest corner, and sat down heavily without a word. Now the battered duardin rummaged in his satchel and produced a crystal phial of softly glowing green liquid.

‘This should help,’ he muttered. ‘Saw one before. With another group. Think you just drink it. Though knowing my luck, this one’ll choke you.’ The Fyreslayer tossed the small bottle to Avanius, who caught it and plucked out the stopper. The Stormcast held the phial to his lips and tipped his head back, swallowing the potion in a single swig. He gave several convulsive shudders, and lightning flickered about his body, then Avanius relaxed back against the wall with a sigh. Already Hathrek thought his breathing sounded easier.

‘My thanks, Sornsson. You may have saved my life.’

The Fyreslayer nodded morosely, but said nothing.

For a time, the companions sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts. From far away came the echoing toll of a gong, then later some kind of shriek or hunting cry that faded slowly upon the still air. Eithweil remained in the doorway, folded half into its shadows so that she was barely visible. Hathrek even closed his eyes for a short while, but sleep remained elusive as it had since he came to the tower. Giving up, he drew his blade and laid it across his knees, before producing a whetstone and applying it to the sword’s edge.

‘So,’ he said into the quiet, ‘our brief hope of an escape didn’t hold true. What do we do now?’

‘We have eight segments of the amulet,’ replied Avanius. ‘We acquire the ninth, and then we conjure the Gaunt Summoner.’

‘And we ‘defeat’ him?’ asked Hathrek pointedly. The Knight-Questor nodded, his companion’s meaning clearly not lost on him. ‘We defeat him.’

‘That will prove interesting,’ mused the chieftain, continuing to run the whetstone along the edge of his blade.

‘There’s something else you need to do before that,’ said Sornsson from his shadowed corner.

‘Oh?’ responded Hathrek in genuine surprise. ‘And what would that be, stuntling? It doesn’t involve knocking you senseless again does it?’

‘Worse,’ said Sornsson, not rising to the chieftain’s bait. ‘It involves killing me.’ For a moment, the companions were silent, staring at Sornsson as though unsure of what they’d heard.

‘I mean it,’ pressed the duardin. ‘I’m deadly serious. I’m oathbroke. I’m half mad. I’m no good to you. In fact, I’m a danger.’

‘Sornsson,’ began Avanius, ‘you cannot mean that. You suffered a moment of weakness, that is all. It has passed.’

The duardin’s eyes glinted coldly in the gloom. ‘Passed, has it, Stormcast? He was nothing but bones and dust. You don’t know how long it’s been. Grimnir’s beard, I don’t know how long it’s been. I just know I cannot remember my life before the tower. Nothing. Not the tunnels and halls of my lodge. Not my home. Companions, family, hopes… I try, now, but I cannot see my own father’s face. All I can remember is this endless, shifting, lying bloody maze.’

Hathrek watched with disdain as a single tear tracked down the Fyreslayer’s face, cutting through the grime and blood ground into his skin.

‘I broke my oath. I failed my people. As punishment for that I have wandered this hell for so long that it has erased everything I ever cared about. But I’m done with my punishment. I’ve served my sentence. I don’t want to live any more, and I don’t want to spread my curse to any more poor fools unlucky enough to fall in with me.’

Sornsson subsided, his piece said. For a long moment, no one spoke, then Hathrek heaved a great sigh. He pushed himself to his feet, and hefted his sword.

‘Fine,’ said the chieftain airily. ‘But I just whetted this blade. I hope you know your last deed in this life will be to dull the damn thing again with your spine.’

‘You think this is some kind of joke?’ snarled Sornsson, rising angrily from his corner.

‘I do not,’ replied Hathrek. ‘I think this is a coward, taking the easy way out and spoiling the edge of my blade while he does so.’

Sornsson’s expression was outrage.

‘Coward?’ he bellowed. ‘Coward? I’ve been here longer than you’ve lived. I’ve fought and slain more foes than you can imagine. Trial after trial, time after time, no matter what I’ve forgotten or lost, I’ve carried on.’

‘But not anymore,’ replied Hathrek, swinging his blade in a deliberate arc as though practising a beheading. ‘Giving up now, aren’t you? I mean, you broke your oath all that time ago, and you lied to us about the amulet.’

‘What madness are you spouting?’ demanded Sornsson, his runes glowing with anger. ‘I never knew about the damned amulet. Or if I did, I forgot. That was your mist witch over there, not me.’

Hathrek raised his eyebrows and nodded.

‘It’s true, you’re right. You never knew about the amulet. Didn’t know the way out. I understand. You’re closer than you’ve been in years to escaping this place, but then, even if you did get out, you’d have to go back to your people with a broken oath. Better to let me lop your head off now.’

Sornsson paced his corner, shooting angry glares from under his beetled brows at the others.

‘Don’t think I don’t see what you’re doing, Chaos worshipper. Get me all wound up, convince me to keep fighting, that I’m going to get out. But you’re right. I’m oathbroke, as I said. Nothing matters more to a Fyreslayer than his oath. It’s everything we are.’

‘What exactly was your oath, Sornsson?’ asked Avanius. ‘How did it break?’

‘I swore an oath of safe passage for him that I watched over,’ sighed the duardin, his anger seeming to drain away. He pulled a battered old ring from his pocket, turning it over between his thick fingers. ‘I swore to act as a bodyguard, and to give my all for the safety of my ward. But the Scuttlings came from everywhere. They buried me in their wretched little bodies. I told him to stay close but he panicked. He ran. By the time I’d fought m’way free, he was feathered with arrows, and the scuttlers were gone.’

‘Sounds like he was a fool and a coward,’ said Hathrek sourly, meaning every word. ‘Not worthy of your death.’

‘Aye. Maybe,’ replied Sornsson. ‘But an oath’s an oath. And by failing to protect him, and living on, I broke it. I’m good for naught but death now.’

‘So be it,’ exclaimed Hathrek. ‘Kneel then and let me make it quick before I have to listen to any more of your whining.’

‘Whining?’ spat Sornsson, ‘My oath…’

‘Yes, it was binding and of utmost importance, we know,’ interrupted Hathrek impatiently. ‘My people make oaths too, duardin. Not to gold, or ancestors, or… beards, or whatever it is you stuntlings worship. We make our oaths to the Dark Gods.’

‘Hathrek,’ said Avanius warningly, but the chieftain pressed on.

‘It’s true, and you all know it. You know what my tattoos mean. We swear our oaths and we take them every bit as seriously as you duardin. More so, for if we fail, the consequences are horrible. The dead are the lucky ones. It’s those that have to live with their punishment who truly suffer. The shamans say that no matter what shapes the gods might twist a man into, some part of him still remembers what he was.’ Hathrek’s eyes were distant for a moment, haunted by something unspoken. ‘But there’s no going back. No making good on your mistakes. We who swear the dark oaths get no second chances.’

‘Are you implying that I do?’ asked Sornsson.

‘Well don’t you?’ cried Hathrek angrily. ‘You still live, despite all the odds. You still have your strength, and your blades.’ Sornsson looked down at his weapons, discarded in the gloom. ‘You swore an oath to give your all safeguarding someone through the tower,’ Hathrek continued. ‘Never mind that you couldn’t have known the risks you were taking, or what an impossible, hellish place you consigned yourself to. You took that oath, and you’ve suffered the punishment for your failure. But you still live, and unlike all those whose paths to glory ended in madness and death, you still have a chance to atone.’ Hathrek was animated, jabbing with the point of his blade to emphasise each point. ‘We are here, now, mortal beings that the tower seeks to slay. Even Eithweil… I think. We seek to be done with this maze, and escape with our lives. And the gods know, we’re likely to see our own blood shed before this thing is done. So make a new oath to us. I swear to you on all that is sacred to me that I will gladly let you step in front of the first blade that swings my way, if it would bring you peace.’

Sornsson was nodding slowly, and cinders danced upon his breath.

‘A new oath,’ he muttered. ‘I could do that. And make it a death-oath. If I fail this time, I take my own life as penance.’

‘So then, everybody dies, what could be better,’ exclaimed Hathrek sardonically, but he could see that Sornsson was warming to the idea now. He had not become his tribe’s chieftain by winning battles with blades alone.

‘Mock all you like, Hathrek of the Gadalhor, but you’re right. I’ve spent so long dwelling on my failings and trying to flee my mistakes that I never saw the chance I had to make it right.’ The duardin hefted his pick. Slowly, deliberately, he levered one of the runes from the flesh of his forearm. Blood squirted and skin tore, but he persisted, teeth gritted against the pain. Finally, the ur-gold came loose, and he held it up before them, panting.

‘On this,’ the duardin instructed urgently. ‘Take my oath on this before its magic fades.’ Hathrek took the bloodied rune with a grimace.

‘What do I…?’

‘Just hold it out, like that, that’s right.’ Sornsson laid his heavy palm over the rune that glowed faintly in Hathrek’s hand. The chieftain recognised the solemnity of this moment and set aside his usual mockery as the duardin pressed ahead.

‘I swear, by my ancestors, by my father, by the Volturung and by Grimnir, that I shall see you, my companions, safely through the Silver Tower even if it costs me my life. And I swear that, should I fail, my life will be forfeit. Do you so witness?’

Hathrek nodded.

‘Yes,’ said Avanius, his tone neutral.

‘This I witness,’ came Eithweil’s voice, floating on the air.

‘Then it’s done,’ grinned Sornsson, looking younger and more vital than he had since they had met him. ‘It’s no proper oath-binding, but you are witnesses as honour demands, and the runes felt its truth. I’ll see you through, or I’ll die in the attempt.’

Avanius half listened as Hathrek brushed off the duardin’s excitement with some sardonic comment. The chieftain sat himself back down, muttering that he was determined to get some sleep if no one else was planning to kill themselves just now. Sornsson began to sharpen his blades, steel in his eyes where there had been only sorrow. Avanius knew the Fyreslayer was not fool enough to miss the manipulation, that he had been talked into swearing a new oath and seeking atonement. But then, the Stormcast felt sure that the duardin had wanted precisely that. His despair had hidden the desperate need for another chance, one that he had been afraid of seizing lest it too end in defeat. It had shaken Avanius’ certainties to the core when Hathrek, of all people, had spotted that need. The Knight-Questor had learned respect for Hathrek’s abilities as a warrior since they had begun their adventure together. Until now he had not truly seen the Darkoath’s potential as a leader.

It was a tragedy that one with such strength in him had been lost to the worship of the Dark Gods. It was sorrowful that the chieftain seemed set upon a path that would see him take the dark gifts of the Gaunt Summoner. Even if Hathrek truly believed that he did so for his people, he would only be leading them, and himself, into damnation. If Sigmar had only been able to reach Hathrek first…

For a long moment Avanius sat very still as his head spun with revelation. ‘Only the faithful,’ he murmured, the steadying mantra of his Stormhost. ‘Only the faithful. Only the faithful.’ How could he have been such a fool? Was he not pious enough? Wise enough? Had his latest reforging robbed him of his wits? How had he not seen the task that was before him this whole time?

Avanius’ orders had been precisely worded, brief in the extreme but without ambiguity. Or so he had thought. Defeat the master of the Silver Tower. And of course, the Knight-Questor had believed that he must find the Gaunt Summoner and slay him. But now Avanius found revelation. According to what small lore the Stormcast Eternals possessed regarding the Gaunt Summoners, it was believed that, upon the ninth day after the death of such a daemon, a new one would rise from the Crystal Labyrinth of Tzeentch to take its place. Avanius knew that, and until now he had believed that Sigmar had a wider plan that depended upon this creature’s death. Perhaps its demise would upset the webs of fate that such servants of Tzeentch wove. Perhaps it would act as a message, a statement that even within the most impenetrable strongholds those who served Chaos were not safe. But now, Avanius realised with a shock that securing the Summoner’s death would be nothing but a pyrrhic victory, because his true quest was both more difficult and more subtle than that. The God-King did not want the daemon slain. He wanted it defeated. And as he thought upon the strength and glimmers of nobility that he had seen within Hathrek, Avanius finally knew how he must secure that defeat.

The Hallowed Knight let his new clarity flow through him and lend strength to the magic within his body as they laboured to heal him. Just a few hours of rest, he thought, and he would have the strength to finish the task that he had been set.

‘I will do my duty, my liege,’ he murmured. ‘I will not let the daemon win.’

Like a wraith, Eithweil lingered in the archway of the chamber and let her mind wander free along the winding ways of the tower. Its complexity was maddening, but she could sense the song of the final fragment, like a silver thread leading her on through the darkness. And she could hear, too, the ever-present whispers of the tower. Its corrupting influence. Its silent lies. Her champions were not aware of the insidious voices. They had not the breadth of perception to sense them, nor to resist. What changes would the tower have wrought already upon these poor creatures? How far had their minds been twisted? With what had they been tempted, in the darkest hollows of their minds? It was impossible for even a Mistweaver Saih to know such things, but she sensed that they must hurry. Perhaps the Stormcast had some measure of protection. Perhaps. But they were all of them saturated with the tower’s corruption, and the longer they lingered, the worse that would become.

Moreover, she thought, there was the vermin creature that followed them. How long before it decided to strike again, as it had in the temple when it slew the priest? Just another secret she had kept from her champions. But then, truth was like gold. It seemed so precious, so important to possess. But how quickly it grew heavy, while its value was all a matter of perception. No, she mused. They needed know no more than they already did to serve her ends. After that, their lives were of no consequence to her. Not that they ever had been.

Chapter Seven

THE FINAL TRIAL

When the group broke camp once more, Skrytchwhisker was ready. He had lurked in a nearby chamber, ear to the wall to catch the vibrations of their movements. Thus when they set out, the Deathrunner was ready. Skrytchwhisker had to admit, as he slipped out of the strange little store-room, that he impressed even himself. How long had he been now without food or water, or sleep? A long time, he knew that much. Yet still he persisted. Such endurance. Such fortitude, without even the gnaw-pangs of hunger to distract him. Truly, thought the assassin, he was the greatest Eshin operative of his age. Perhaps of all ages.

Filled with pride and confidence, saturated with the promises of the Silver Tower, the skaven trailed after his quarry. Down, they went, through endless passages, and stairways, and shimmering portals. Through a network of interlinked clockwork crawl-spaces where jets of flame spat from gargoyles’ maws, and death seemed always a moment away. Across a ragged chasm full of wheeling stars and glaring eyes, over which arched a breathtaking crystal ceiling crisscrossed by inverse rivers of quicksilver. Into the fresco-daubed chambers of a Chaos-thing cult, leaving the Tzeentch-worshippers’ bodies strewn and bloody before their twisted altar. Diminutive magical beings dogged the group’s steps at times. Once, while scrambling along a half-submerged passage of crumbling stonework, Skrytchwhisker found himself eye to surprised eye with something that resembled a fish, but with the legs of an imp. The creature boggled at him for a moment, then was gone, slithering away into a broken pipe. Skrytchwhisker shook his head, marvelling at the strangeness of this place, before pressing on through the dripping gloom after his prey.

Finally, after what seemed an age, the assassin watched his victims clamber through the yawning jaws of a huge stone wyrm, and slide away into the darkness of its gullet. Skrytchwhisker gave them a steady count to get clear, then flicked out his climbing spikes and scuttled after them.

At the bottom of the long, perilous descent, Hathrek slid from another stone maw and into a noisome cavern. He sprang quickly to his feet, blade out, only to feel something plaster itself across his face. Revolted, the chieftain clawed at the substance and ripped it away. In the half-light thrown by glowing crystal outcroppings, he saw his fist was full of sticky strands.

‘Spider’s web,’ he muttered, as his companions came to their feet behind him.

‘Worse, I fear,’ replied Eithweil as she flickered into being at his side. ‘Scuttlings.’ The Mistweaver gestured to the ceiling. Up there, Hathrek saw clotted masses of webbing squirming with frantic movement. Already he could see the strange greenskins slithering from amidst their webs, beady red eyes staring from ragged black cowls. Hathrek cursed as one of the creatures nocked an arrow to its bow and let fly. The Darkoath smacked the arrow from the air with the flat of his blade, seeing more Scuttlings bursting from their web-nest by the second. They were descending on fibrous strands and squeezing from cracks in the walls, scurrying on their many legs.

‘There’s a lot of them,’ said Hathrek in warning.

‘Not enough,’ responded Sornsson, a killing light gleaming in his eyes.

‘The amulet,’ called Avanius, pointing with his blade to the web-nest above. ‘The last piece is up there, see?’ Sure enough, a jewel glinted amid the smothering strands.

‘Then let’s take it,’ grinned Hathrek with a surge of excitement, sidestepping another crude arrow before launching into a charge.

Sornsson hurled himself into the fight with murderous relish. Here were the creatures that had forced him into breaking his oath, so long ago. His hate for them burned as hot now as it had on that awful day, and no amount of their blood would quench it. Still, with every pick and axe blow that crunched into green flesh, the Doomseeker felt bone-deep satisfaction.

More Scuttlings poured into the chamber by the moment, a yammering, shrieking tide of attackers. Many shot stubby arrows at the champions, though the spider-legged grots’ aim was poor enough that they hit their own more often than their foes. Avanius’ shield rang with the impact of rock-tipped projectiles. Sornsson felt more than one arrow sheathe itself in his flesh, but he broke the shafts off almost without thought and ploughed on through the melee. The Scuttlings came on in a mass, burying the invaders in scrabbling limbs and rusty blades, but the champions fought furiously. They were close to their prize now, and nothing would stop them. Sornsson fought like a warrior possessed. His eyes blazed with fire and his runes glowed white hot until flames trailed after pick and axe. Every swing of the Doomseeker’s weapons saw another swathe of Scuttlings smashed through the air. Sornsson’s cries of wrath were incoherent, but for the first time in an age, his thoughts ran clear.

‘No broken oaths this time, eh stuntling?’ laughed Hathrek, bleeding from half a dozen shallow wounds as he spitted two more Scuttlings with a lunge of his blade. Sornsson roared in reply, almost feeling a kind of warrior comradeship with the Darkoath, then windmilled his way through the press of his foes.

Through the maelstrom of battle drifted the Mistweaver. She rose through the carnage as though at the eye of a hurricane, mask tilted towards the amulet fragment in its prison of webs. Its song filled her mind, rising in chorus with the eight segments already in her possession. It was a siren song, filling her up and compelling her to make the fragments whole once more. Even with all of her sorcerous might, and her exceptional mental focus, the Mistweaver could not have resisted that call even if she had tried.

Scuttlings came at her from every side, but her powers flickered in a dark corona that drove them mad. Greenskins fell upon one another with curved blades, or tore out their own throats while choking with deranged laughter. More simply fled, consumed by unreasoning terror. Their dismay spread like a sickness through those still fighting below, until quite suddenly the swirling melee became a frantic rout. Scuttlings who, a moment before, had been hacking and stabbing madly at the invaders in their nest, now turned and fled as their nerve failed them. Bleeding from dozens of cuts and bites, the champions gave chase. They hacked down more of the scrambling creatures by the moment. As swiftly as it had begun, the fight was over. The rocky floor was carpeted with hacked and mangled corpses, while the last few wounded Scuttlings tried to drag themselves to the cracks and bolt-holes through which their tribe had fled. Sornsson moved between these luckless creatures, dripping with greenskin blood as he stamped viciously upon their heads and crushed their skulls one by one.

‘Remind me never to make you break an oath,’ commented Hathrek dryly, watching the Fyreslayer execute his helpless victims. Eithweil ignored them as she ripped aside the web-strands with her staff, and snatched the amulet fragment from the air as it fell.

Behind the group, in the shadows of the dragon’s maw, beady red eyes watched in anticipation as the aelf-witch drifted slowly back to the ground with her treasure. The Deathrunner had slain a number of green scuttle-things himself during the fight, flicking poisoned blades at them from hiding and gambling that the group would be too preoccupied to notice his aid. Skrytchwhisker need not have worried, as all eyes were on the floating mage.

‘Eithweil,’ said the lightning-man, ‘we should gather our wits and ready ourselves before…’

‘No,’ came the mage-thing’s voice, a distant, distracted whisper on the air that sent shivers of fear along Skrytchwhisker’s spine. ‘We cannot wait. It sings so beautifully, Stormcast. Do you not hear? The song must be completed. It yearns.’

The tattooed barbarian stepped forwards, raising a hand.

‘Wait a moment witch, Avanius is right.’

‘No,’ came the aelf-witch’s voice again, angry now. ‘No. We swim in the river of fate, and to fight the current is to drown. The song must soar…’

With that, the mage-thing brought the incomplete amulet from amidst her robes and raised it high. The others lunged for her and, though he did not truly understand what was happening, Skrytchwhisker found himself sharing their panic. Without even looking around, the mage-thing swept one hand out and the warriors fell back, screaming as though in terrible pain. The assassin saw the duardin look up from his methodical murder as the aelf-witch raised the last segment of the amulet and, with a sigh that echoed around the chamber, slid it into place. Magical energies flashed, lines of liquid gold seared along the edges of the final segment, making the amulet whole once more. A pulse of blue fire leapt outwards, and for a moment Skrytchwhisker’s prey were driven back, blinded and deafened by sorcerous energies. In the dragon’s maw, Skrytchwhisker shrank back, wreathed in the musk of fear.

Avanius blinked his sight clear of blinding smears as the magical flames died out. The companions stared in dread at the black, sucking hole where the amulet had been moments before. Eithweil backed away from the fist-sized rent in reality, shaking her helmed head as though waking from a dream.

A hand came first, long fingers slithering from the hole. An arm followed, then another and another. Blue, shimmering cloth spilled out in an impossible tide, and an awful crooning filled the air. Looking desperately at one another, the champions readied their weapons and backed slowly away. Like some awful spider, unfolding itself from a gap through which it simply should not have fit, the Gaunt Summoner slithered into reality. The purity of his disgust for this creature of Chaos filled Avanius with righteous purpose.

The daemon’s many eyes fixed upon them. His black tongue slithered over his needle fangs, and he gave a sigh that crawled across their skin like flensing knives.

‘You are heeeere…’ he whispered.

‘We are here to defeat you,’ said Avanius, head high and blade crackling despite the thing’s unspeakable aura. The daemon turned towards him, and the Knight-Questor gritted his teeth as a squirming feeling of disgust knotted his insides.

‘Mmmyessss….’ hissed the daemon. ‘The noble knight. So sure of his purity, so certain of his task. So ssssorely deceived.’ The Summoner’s gaze swept on, transfixing each companion in turn like an insect upon a pin.

‘The oath-bound one. Desperate to die. Anxious to live. The seeker after power, telling himself he fights for his people even as he drownssss in his father’s shadow.’ Hathrek flinched at this, lips pulling back in an unconscious snarl.

‘And the witch. The shadowmasssster. The deceiver,’ leered the Summoner, his many eyes resting on Eithweil. ‘Ssso clever, to cage a daemon. Ssso clever to steal its secrets. Secrets it sought alwaysssss to reveal.’ The Summoner dangled long, taloned fingers like a man working the strings of a puppet. ‘Every sssstep of the way…’ Avanius saw Eithweil shake her head slowly, a gesture of dazed denial.

‘Lies!’ boomed Avanius, though he could be certain of no such thing. ‘You lie to make us doubt ourselves. You lie to make us fear. You lie because you are a daemon of Tzeentch and it is all you know. But we shall not listen to your filth, creature. We shall only strike you down.’

The daemon’s leer widened until it seemed his head must split in two.

‘You may try,’ he sneered. ‘But in my realm, you are powerlessss. Come, follow me if you can. I will show you the paths of fate.’

With that, the Summoner spun and swept his staff out in an arc. Kaleidoscopic light spilled into the cavern as the skin of reality split beneath the blow, yawning wide. The champions cried out and lunged towards the daemon. As they did, another figure, dark and sinuous, gave a shriek and burst from hiding in the dragon’s maw. None was quick enough as, with a hideous chuckle of glee, the daemon vanished through the rent he had torn.

‘Don’t let him escape,’ yelled Sornsson as he ran forwards. ‘He’s the only way out of this place!’

At the same moment, Hathrek turned with a curse towards the verminous, dagger-wielding figure that had suddenly sprung into their midst. He swung his sword but the skaven rolled under the blow, diving through the glowing rent.

‘What…?’ began Hathrek in bewilderment.

‘No time to tarry, just move,’ barked Avanius, spurring the chieftain to dash forwards.

As her champions vanished into the glowing rent, only Eithweil was left, still hanging in the chamber before the shimmering rift. The Mistweaver shook her head again, surrounded by a susurrus of whispers. Anger. Denial. Confusion. Panic. They all echoed down to a single point. Rage. Burning like a star of black light, the Mistweaver Saih summoned all her energies and surged in pursuit.

Reality bucked and twisted around the champions as they chased after the Summoner. Sornsson found himself running along a crystal corridor, feet barely touching the ground as it tilted madly downwards. Ahead, a skaven in the black garb of an assassin was scrambling along one wall, scuttling with maddened speed after the vanishing figure of the Gaunt Summoner. Sornsson ran furiously, frantic not to lose his quarry. The corridor seemed to stretch out forever, tumbling over itself as it did, and the Doomseeker cried out as the walls shattered away like glass. Beyond he saw the corridor repeated again and again, as though reflected through the facets of a crystal. There he saw himself, running wildly after his daemonic tormentor. Sometimes he was alone. Sometimes he was wounded. Sometimes he was not there at all. For a moment his mind reeled as the impossible vista exploded before him, myriad shards of fate crowding in and threatening to drive him mad. Instead the duardin cursed and ran on, eyes fixed on his foe.

Hathrek ran hard, arms and legs pumping madly, heart hammering in his chest. He saw the duardin vanish through a shattering swirl of crystal fragments, and dived after him. It didn’t matter what he had to do now, thought the chieftain. What he had to face. What madness the daemon threw at him. Power and glory were so close. Everything his father had lost when he devolved into that thing and left his horrified eldest son to take the reins of power. Everything his tribe had expected of him, everything they had demanded. Everything they didn’t deserve. Hathrek would take it all, walk his own path to glory. And unlike the fool that came before him, he would not fail.

Suddenly, Hathrek was falling, tumbling headlong into a churning lake of quicksilver. He splashed down into the liquid metal, screwing his eyes tight shut and holding his breath in the moment before it engulfed him. Cloying, ice-cold weight pressed in all around. Total disorientation gripped him. Hathrek struggled, thrashing against the thick, freezing slop as the breath burned in his lungs and panic fought to drown his thoughts. A hand was suddenly grasping his, pulling, dragging him upwards through the metallic mire until he burst from its surface with a whooping gasp. Hathrek tasted metal as he thumped onto his side, scrabbling the quicksilver from his eyes. Avanius stood over him, dripping with liquid metal and shimmering with lightning. His cloak was gone, as was his shield. Behind him, Hathrek saw that the chamber had no ceiling, just an endless spiral of stars and stairways. His gorge rose at the sight.

‘Come,’ growled Avanius from behind his expressionless mask, as he hauled Hathrek to his feet. ‘We’re not done yet.’

Hathrek stood, swiping more silver from his eyes, and nodded before following Avanius at a run through the chamber’s only arch.

As the Summoner twisted the rules of his impossible realm at will, the champions ran down mirrored stairways that folded in upon themselves over and over again. They leapt yawning chasms of spinning clockwork and crackling magical energies. They chased the Summoner through chambers they had seen, and chambers they had not. They saw themselves face terrible fates that had not come to pass, failing where they had prevailed. Still they ran, refusing to allow any amount of magical trickery to turn them from their course. They endured sights that would have driven lesser minds to madness, and they felt their sanity fraying as they dashed on through the endless gauntlet of madness and illusion. Yet still they ran.

The assassin scurried with them, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind. In one chamber, the skaven and the Fyreslayer burst through opposite doorways at the same moment and a vicious fight ensued amid spinning blocks of screaming crystal. The duardin swore as a green-venomed blade ripped across his chest, leaving an ugly black wound in its wake. The assassin hissed in pain as the Doomseeker’s axe lopped the tip off his tail, and clipped one of his ears from his head. As the two foes hacked at one another, the whole room twisted around them into a sluicing whirlpool that sent them tumbling down into a dark abyss.

On and on it went, until at last the champions and their verminous shadow plunged through a spinning maelstrom of flame and tumbled out into a cavern that sang with power. Huge crystals of amber and amethyst jutted from the uneven floor, creating a glittering forest that stretched away into a distant haze. Purple and blue storm clouds boiled high above, the crystal-studded ceiling of the cavern visible in glimpses through their churning mass.

Sornsson rose, feeling the burning pain of the wound in his chest. A glance confirmed that black fingers of corruption were spreading slowly out from it, and green pus was welling around its edges. With a curse, the Fyreslayer cast around for the authors of his woes, but neither the Summoner nor the skaven could be seen. There were only the champions, and the thrumming crystals within whose depths phantoms swirled.

‘Is this real?’ asked Avanius, rising painfully to his feet.

‘Is any of it?’ replied Sornsson.

‘All and none,’ came the whisper of the Saih. ‘Tricks and lies that write a truth we none of us would wish.’ Her voice sang with anger, and something else. Bitterness, thought Sornsson — maybe even shame.

‘If the Summoner tricked you,’ rumbled the Fyreslayer, surprising himself with the calmness of his voice, ‘then he tricked us all. This is the tower. It’s all just lies. Perhaps he was never here at all?’

‘He was here,’ spat Hathrek, brandishing his blade. ‘He’s still here. Aren’t you?’ he roared to the storm clouds above. ‘This is just another accursed test, isn’t it? See if we’ll give up? Go mad? Never! If I have to walk a thousand thousand leagues through this place, I will find you and you will kneel before me! I will never, ever give up!’

A hissing laugh filled the air in reply, a slithering, spine-chilling gale of mirth. Above, the clouds twisted into the leering visage of the Gaunt Summoner, and flickers of lightning flashed in place of fangs.

‘Gooood,’ came his voice, a tide of oil and bile to drown their senses. ‘Yessss. One last test. And then, you may claim what you came for. Master thissss, and master fate itself…’

The clouds rent and tore apart. Energy crackled madly from one crystal to the next, arcing together. There was a blinding flash, and then a hulking figure stood before them. Sornsson watched as it rose to its full height, furnace light glowing from eyes, mouth, and the crawling sigils that decorated its flesh. A familiar crown of curving horns spread from the huge beast’s brow, while its muscles seemed to squirm and writhe beneath its blue-fleshed hide. Steam rose from the hulking humanoid figure, and as it raised its staff the thing threw back its head and gave vent to a ground-shaking roar.

‘Did we not kill this thing way back down the road?’ gasped Sornsson, bewildered. ‘It looks like the beast from the fungus cave.’

‘Same one, I think,’ said Hathrek, backing away. ‘Only this time it’s possessed.’

‘We killed it once,’ growled Avanius. ‘We shall kill it again. No more games.’ Eithweil did not speak. Instead she levelled her staff and blasted a jet-black bolt of energy at the creature.

The beast-wizard spun, sorcerous light pouring from its eyes, and raised one huge hand in a warding gesture. The Mistweaver’s magical blast exploded into inky smoke, the detonation rippling back along its length and slamming into Eithweil. The Saih was blown backwards through the air, striking a crystal with a sickening crunch. Sornsson winced at the sound.

Hathrek gave a wordless roar and launched himself at the monster. His blade swept down, only to be snatched in mid-air. It cut into the beast’s palm, liquid light dribbling from the wound. Hathrek fought to wrench his blade free, only for the beast to kick him square in the chest. The breath whooshed from his lungs as the Darkoath was propelled backwards, skidding to a stop some way distant. He coughed in agony as he tried to stand, blood flecking his lips.

Avanius and Sornsson attacked as one, lunging in from opposite directions. The beast-wizard swept its staff around to block Avanius’ blade in an explosion of light and lightning. Sornsson sank his axe deep into its bicep, releasing a spray of liquid fire and eliciting a bellow of pain. The beast backhanded the duardin, and Sornsson’s world exploded in agony. As his senses returned he realised he was sprawled some distance from the fight, staring up at the turbulent clouds and feeling broken teeth shifting loose in his mouth.

The Doomseeker staggered to his feet in time to see the monster turn its full fury upon Avanius. The possessed beast summoned a crackling blast of magic at the tip of its staff and fired it into the Stormcast’s chest. Sigmarite plate buckled with the force of the impact, and Avanius staggered back, wreathed in white-orange flame. Sornsson felt his respect for the Hallowed Knight redouble as, shrugging off the blow, Avanius drove forwards again, catching the meteoric downswing of the beast’s staff on his pauldron and ramming his sword into its chest.

Glowing ichor splattered from the hideous wound, and the beast roared in pain before punching Avanius full in the face. The Questor’s faceplate cracked with the force of the blow and he was smashed off his feet, falling spread-eagled before the monster. The beast grasped the hilt of Avanius’ sword and wrenched it from its wound, before flinging it contemptuously away. It raised one huge hoof, ready to stamp down on Avanius’ head. For an instant, Sornsson was afraid that he would once more be too far away, too slow, to aid his companions. Before the creature’s hoof could come crashing down, another bolt of smoke and shadow bloomed. The monster roared in fury, beams of light spearing through the winding mass of darkness that engulfed it. It lashed out at half-seen phantasms with its savage sorcery. Eithweil staggered closer with her staff levelled.

Slowly, falteringly, the beast dropped to its knees. It roared in fury and confusion as the Mistweaver redoubled her attack, one hand holding her staff level, the other clutched to a bleeding rent in her robes. She was limping, one leg twisted, but still she poured her powers into her furious assault. Sornsson dared to hope that it would be enough.

Then the beast-wizard gave a mighty bellow and raised its own staff. Amber fire flared like a new sun, exploding the shroud of shadow and illusion. The beast lurched to its feet, liquid light dribbling from mouth, eyes and snout. It pounded forwards three swift, lunging steps, and punched its fist through Eithweil’s chest almost to the elbow. Sornsson cried out in denial, charging towards the hideous tableau with his weapons raised. The Mistweaver shuddered as she was hoisted high, the beast bellowing flaming hate at her as she convulsed. Inky blood rained down, turning to smoke as it struck the ground. Silently, without even a final whisper, Eithweil turned to shadow and vapour and vanished from sight.

For a split second, the monster’s bestial features twisted into a leer of victory, before Hathrek’s blade whistled down and lopped off its right arm. The beast reeled, trying to turn as glowing gore jetted from the stump. The Darkoath’s blade swung again, ripping the other arm away.

‘Enough!’ roared Hathrek, lashing his sword across the thing’s guts and spilling ropes of glowing light. ‘Enough!’ he screamed again as he lopped the beast’s head from its shoulders, releasing a geyser of flame. ‘Enough!’ the chieftain bellowed one last time, hacking his sword into his collapsing foe again and again until luminescent blood sprayed in all directions and nothing remained but twitching meat. Panting, the Darkoath Chieftain stepped back from the mangled remains of his victim. As he did so, the last of its carcass burst into flames, dissolving into a glowing pool. Sornsson joined Hathrek at its edge, as did Avanius. Through the pool’s surface, another place could be seen, a warped reflection of the temple in which Masudro had died so long ago.

‘Enough…’ agreed the mocking voice of the Gaunt Summoner from the clouds above. ‘Come, champions, and claim your reward.’

Limping, battered, bloody, the three survivors looked at one another solemnly.

‘She did not die in vain,’ croaked Sornsson. The Fyreslayer was unsure what he felt at Eithweil’s loss, for he had neither trusted nor liked the witch. Yet a comrade had fallen and he had not been able to die in her stead. For that, at least, he was sorry.

‘Agreed,’ nodded Avanius.

One by one, they stepped through the portal to meet their destiny. At their backs, a dark shape detached itself from the lee of a towering crystal and flowed in their wake one last time.

Chapter Eight

INTO THE FIRE

The companions found themselves surrounded by roaring flame. Heat beat down upon them in hammerblows. The glare dazzled them. Squinting, they took in their surroundings. Once more, the huge Tzeentchian temple spread out on all sides, though so much had changed that only intuition told them they stood in the same place as before. Where once the walls had been formed of precious metals and crystal shards, now they were squirming flesh, moaning faces that screamed their madness from between waving tentacles and gnashing maws. Instead of prisms, huge brass gargoyles were set into the floor. From the maw of each jetted streams of warp flame, searing columns that rose to the ceiling like dancing tornadoes, then flowed together to create a storm of fire. Within those leaping flames, daemonic entities screamed and capered, cackling in glee to see the wounded mortals enter their domain.

Across the vast temple, twisted by false perspective into a looming and godlike figure, the Gaunt Summoner waited. He had taken the place of the statue they had destroyed, a living effigy in place of a lifeless idol. Where the statue’s taloned feet had once been planted, now there was a broad golden dais, at the centre of which stood a rune-carved arch. Energy flickered and danced in that mystic doorway, and the Gaunt Summoner stood before it like a guardian.

‘The way out,’ rumbled Sornsson.

‘Looks like it,’ replied Hathrek. ‘But before that, the Summoner.’ He looked at Avanius. ‘Seems like we come to it at last, Stormcast.’

Avanius shook his head. ‘Not quite yet, Hathrek. It appears our host has not finished testing us after all.’ The companions followed Avanius’ pointing blade. The Summoner had raised his staff high, and his mouth was moving in some dark chant. As he spoke, the pillars of flame that supported the blazing ceiling flexed and surged, and daemonic creatures began to spring from their midst. The pink-fleshed Horrors cartwheeled across the temple floor, trails of flame springing up behind them as they gathered in a gibbering mass before the Summoner’s dais.

‘Oh what now?’ snarled Hathrek. ‘You said we were done, creature,’ he bellowed at the Gaunt Summoner. If the distant daemon gave any indication of hearing, it was only to grin cruelly in response.

‘One last charge then,’ grinned Sornsson mirthlessly. The Fyreslayer hefted his weapons and spat a cracked tooth onto the temple floor. ‘You’ll live to get out, I’ll make damn sure of it.’

‘We all will,’ replied Avanius. ‘The Gaunt Summoner will not best us.’

Hathrek and Sornsson nodded, and the three of them advanced towards the daemons that barred their path between the columns of flame.

‘For Grimnir!’ roared Sornsson.

‘For Sigmar!’ bellowed Avanius.

Hathrek just shot his comrades a wry grin, then led the charge.

Hathrek and his companions advanced across the temple floor as quickly as they could. They leapt over trenches of seething warp fire, and dodged bolts of sorcery hurled by the daemons gathered before them. Hathrek plucked the last few throwing axes from his belt, one at a time, and sent them whipping end-over-end into their unnatural foes. Nothing would stop him now, not so close to his prize. Wherever one of those spinning blades hit home, a daemon of Tzeentch split in two. Sulphurous flames leapt and sorcery sparked the air as blue simulacra squirmed, grumbling, from the melting bodies of their predecessors. For all Hathrek’s efforts, the daemon throng was undiminished, and the Summoner’s oily mirth filled the air as the creatures sprang forwards to meet the champions. Hathrek saw Sornsson scorched by a blast of unnatural fire, burned to the bone all down one side of his jaw. Though this looked agonising, and black threads of corruption laced the flesh of his chest, the dogged Fyreslayer kept going. Avanius was smashed from his feet by a bolt of magic, and for a horrible moment Hathrek thought him slain. Yet the Hallowed Knight hauled himself back to his feet with a pained snarl, lightning spilling from a fresh tear in his armour. He roared out another war cry to Sigmar and advanced once more, trailing droplets of spectral flame.

Only the Darkoath seemed untouched. The daemons’ fire spilled around him, but sputtered and died as several of his skull-like tattoos blazed with blood-red light. He laughed wildly as he ran, face twisted in a mask of mad joy as jabbering dismay spread through his foes. He could hear the booming laughter of Dark Gods, and feel the skin-tingling closeness of true power.

‘This is my moment,’ he roared. ‘The Dark Brothers see me, and their blessings are mine!’ Yelling a war cry to his patrons, praying for their strength, the Darkoath Chieftain ploughed into the daemons with his blade swinging. A thing with avian eyes and a gaping maw came at him, trying to tangle his blade with its lashing tongues. Hathrek lopped the grisly appendages off in a spray of ichor, then rammed his sword right down the thing’s throat. Its eyes bulged, before it burst apart in a gout of flame. Talons bit into his flesh and tentacles lashed him, yet still Hathrek fought on like a man possessed.

To his left, Hathrek saw Sornsson charge between two Blue Horrors and smash them both flat with his outswung weapons. The Fyreslayer spun in a tight circle, ripping his axe up through the inverted face of another freakish daemon, before sinking his pick into the eye-socket of a fourth. To the right, Avanius wielded his sword two-handed, lopping the gangling arms from a chanting Horror before it could conjure more flames to hurl.

Hathrek’s muscles burned with exertion, his wounds with pain, but still he fought, impaling another daemon before ripping his blade out and through the face of yet another. The air was so hot that it scorched his lungs as he breathed. Still the Darkoath and his companions would not give up, and one by one the daemons of Tzeentch were chopped apart. At last there remained nothing but capering sprites of yellow flame that the champions stamped and smashed into oblivion. The last entities fled back to their columns of fire, spitting incomprehensible vitriol as they retreated.

Panting and bloodied, Hathrek looked defiantly up at the Gaunt Summoner. The daemon stared back, his mocking leer wiped away. Baring his fangs, the Summoner levelled his staff at them and began a new, darker incantation.

Sornsson could feel the energy draining from his limbs. His burned face was pure agony, and he could barely see from one eye. Worse was the steady, throbbing ache of the wound in his chest. He could taste its poison now, and where the black tendrils spread out beneath his skin, his runes were being extinguished one by one.

The Summoner was readying yet another spell, his staff glowing with power as tendrils of flame whipped down from on high to wind about him. Sornsson had a feeling that, if this was the daemon’s last gambit, it would be a deadly one. Their nemesis was no longer playing games. He wanted them dead. Well, the daemon could have his life, and help him fulfil his oath at the same time. Sornsson knew, deep down, that he had been trapped in the tower for too long. He couldn’t return to the real world. He didn’t want to. What he wanted was for his end to mean something, and for his honour to be restored. With that thought, the Fyreslayer prepared to throw himself in front of the Summoner’s attack, perhaps shield his comrades long enough for them to reach the daemon and finish it. Then a flicker of movement caught his eye.

Turning, Sornsson was just in time to raise a hand and block the spinning star of metal that whipped towards him. It dug into his palm, and the flesh smouldered where it struck. Fresh agony raced down Sornsson’s arm, and he growled in anger as he caught sight of his assailant. It was the skaven, the one who had given him the poisoned wound in his chest. The damn thing had followed them, even to this last extreme, and was now staring at him in abject horror from a few dozen paces behind.

‘Nowhere to run now, is there?’ grunted Sornsson. Avanius glanced back, but Sornsson waved him on. ‘You take the daemon. I’ve got the rat.’

The Knight-Questor nodded, and slammed his fist against his chest in salute before turning back to face their nemesis.

From behind him, Sornsson heard a rush of energies as the daemon’s magic was unleashed. He heard his companions cry out to their gods, and the air crackling as faith fought sorcery. Too many threats, thought Sornsson grimly, just like before. He couldn’t shield them from everything at once. But the sneaking assassin at their backs? That was a threat he could deal with.

Silently wishing his comrades well, the duardin doubled back and bore down on the snarling skaven with a Volturung war cry.

Skrytchwhisker cursed as the stunt-thing caught his throwing star. His aim had been typically perfect, the element of surprise absolute. Obviously the weapon had been defective, and the Deathrunner added its makers to his mental list of victims once he got out of this place. The prize was so close. He had waited while his prey dealt with the daemons, and had intended to let them bear the brunt of the Summoner’s magic too before sweeping in to finally claim the daemon’s head. Then the stunt-thing had slowed, and Skrytchwhisker had known he needed to deal with that one first. Thanks to the incompetence of others, it seemed he would have to do so at close quarters.

As the duardin accelerated into a lurching charge, the assassin appraised his victim with quick and hungry eyes. Frightening at first glance, this stunt-thing, with its bulging muscles, its glowing runes, and the flames that danced about its body. Yes, frightening enough that lesser skaven would have fled in terror. But Skrytchwhisker was a trained killer, and he saw the rest of the picture. Wounds to the chest, the face, and of course one hand. More cuts and bruises than the assassin cared to count, and a pronounced weakness in the left leg. The skaven allowed himself a smirk. This wouldn’t take long.

He allowed his assailant to bear down upon him, waiting until the last moment to duck nimbly aside. The stunt-thing’s axe whistled over Skrytchwhisker’s head. In return, the assassin slashed a long, ragged wound across his enemy’s ribs with an envenomed blade. The foe-prey gave a curse and wheeled, lashing out with surprising speed. Skrytchwhisker’s heart beat a wild tattoo as he flipped back out of harm’s way, barely avoiding his enemy’s swing. Angry now, the skaven whipped his tail out, regretting momentarily the painful loss of its bladed tip, and wrapped it around the duardin’s wrist. A practised twist, and the burly warrior’s war pick clattered to the floor, released by nerveless fingers. Skrytchwhisker kicked out with one foot-claw and sent the weapon skidding away across the floor into a fiery trench. His enemy watched the weapon go with something resembling resignation, then hefted his axe and attacked again. Once more, Skrytchwhisker wove aside, flowing like water around the prey-thing’s clumsy swings. The Deathrunner permitted himself a moment of triumph as he evaded again, then again, watching his opponent bleeding and tiring by the moment. The time was near. Spinning his blades through his dextrous fingers, Skrytchwhisker prepared to strike the killing blow.

The spell that roared from the Summoner’s staff was a whirling vortex of kaleidoscopic flame. It engulfed Avanius and Hathrek in an instant. The hungry energies of unbridled change whirled around the two champions. Avanius saw screaming faces and thrashing limbs flowing through the firestorm, and raised his voice in prayer to the God-King. The flames closed in by the second, and wherever the warriors looked they saw the agonised faces of those they cared about, the blazing ruins of their homes, and the infinite, mind-shattering vistas of Tzeentch’s ultimate victory. The heat was unbearable. Avanius felt his flesh scorching as his armour and blade glowed. He could feel the energies of change slithering across his skin like worms, preparing to twist him into some disgusting abomination for the Summoner’s amusement. Death held no dread for the Stormcast, for it would mean simply a return to Sigmaron to be reforged once more. But to be transformed in some way, transfigured and trapped here for all time? The Knight-Questor steeled himself, determined to resist such an ignominious fate to the last.

‘It cannot end here,’ cried Avanius, instinctively raising his denuded shield arm for protection. ‘Lord Sigmar, protect your servants!’

‘He can’t aid us in this place,’ bellowed Hathrek. ‘But my gods can.’

‘Hathrek, no,’ shouted Avanius in horror. ‘Their gifts are ruin. I would rather die.’

The Darkoath laughed madly at that, the strobing firelight making his face seem inhuman and strange.

‘That’s fine for you, Avanius,’ he spat. ‘But not all of us go to the Heavens when we fall.’ With that, Hathrek stepped in front of the Knight-Questor, roaring out harsh words in some dark tongue. Once more the skull runes upon his torso blazed with angry red light, and Avanius heard dimly the Summoner’s shriek of frustration as his magic faltered. The firestorm tattered apart like clouds before a racing wind. The two warriors were left, standing in a circle of untouched ground, while all around them the floor bubbled and seethed with molten magic. Avanius felt profound shame that it was one of Hathrek’s gods, not his, that had saved them. It was as though he had been complicit in something that had left him tainted. Angrily, the Hallowed Knight thrust such thoughts aside. He raised his head to stare at the Gaunt Summoner who loomed atop the dais, and felt a surge of angry gratification as he saw the panic in the daemon’s manifold eyes.

Sornsson was tiring. His wounds were a constant scream of agony that he ignored through willpower alone. But now his body was failing him, and he couldn’t ignore that. Only anger kept him going. Anger at himself, for the weakness he despised. Anger at the tower, for all it had put him through. Anger, most of all, at the sneering, lightning-fast vermin that he just could not seem to land a blow on.

Sornsson swung his axe again, but blood loss had made his limbs heavy, and as his runes had gone dark so his strength had lessened by degrees. The blow was sluggish, clumsy, and the skaven stepped contemptuously aside from it with a chitter that sounded suspiciously like laughter. Springing into the air, the ratman lashed out with one foot. It struck Sornsson’s left knee with a sickening crunch, and fresh pain exploded up his leg as his kneecap shattered. The Fyreslayer almost blacked out for a moment, feeling it only dimly as the floor rushed up to strike his cheek. Another flash of pain from his wrist and the Fyreslayer watched groggily as the skaven kicked his axe away, his severed hand still wrapped in a death grip around its haft.

Sornsson tried to rise, fighting the tide of pain that was drowning his thoughts. It was no good. He was too broken. Slumping back to the ground, Sornsson watched through a haze as the assassin scurried contemptuously away, stopping some way back from the Summoner’s dais. The skaven reached into its robes and drew out a fist-sized device. Brass. Spherical. The duardin’s heart beat faster as he saw the creature depress a series of studs in the orb’s surface, and his ears rang as it began to emit a high-pitched whine. With horror, Sornsson realised that the assassin had some kind of skaven bomb, and was preparing to hurl it straight into the midst of his comrades. They had survived the Summoner’s spell, which was flickering and dying around them. But they wouldn’t survive this treachery.

Sornsson heard again the words of the oaths he had sworn. For a split second an image flashed before his eyes, clear as day. Swarming greenskin bodies. Sundered, bloody corpses. Amongst them a fallen figure, forlorn and beyond his aid. The Doomseeker felt the presence of the ring upon one finger of his remaining hand. Slowly, that hand curled into a fist. Then he was pushing himself up, the world spinning around him, the lifeblood running freely from his body. He felt heat on his skin as one last rune still burned between his shoulder blades, bolstering his leg despite its shattered kneecap. Sornsson thanked Grimnir for this last burst of strength as he took first one dragging step, then another. He gathered pace, anger and determination keeping him moving, driving him towards the assassin who was still absorbed with activating the bomb.

The skaven looked up suddenly, verminous features twisting in horror as it saw the Fyreslayer bearing down upon it. For a crucial split second the assassin hesitated, torn between evasion and obvious terror of the explosive device still clutched in one claw. Taking his chance, Sornsson wrapped his arms around his foe and hoisted it bodily off the floor. The bomb was trapped between them, whining towards a crescendo. The skaven went mad with sudden terror, tail and talons lashing as it struggled to escape. Sornsson felt claws rake his thighs. He felt an awful, icy pain as chisel fangs sank deep into his neck. Still he held his grip and kept moving, roaring as he channelled the last of his strength into a stumbling run. Away from his comrades. Protecting them from harm. Fulfilling his oath at last, one way or another. The skaven gave a final, despairing shriek of terror as it realised what Sornsson intended, and then they were plunging headlong into one of the surging rivers of fire that leapt from floor to ceiling. The flames took them instantly, reducing Doomseeker, assassin, and deadly bomb to glowing ashes in a heartbeat.

So fell Vargi Sornsson of the Volturung, his oath fulfilled at last.

Avanius saw the Doomseeker and the Deathrunner plunge together into the flames, and felt a stab of sorrow. It was quickly eclipsed by icy determination as he turned back to look at the Gaunt Summoner. The Knight-Questor strode forwards, Hathrek at his side, the two warriors mounting the steps of the dais with angry, deliberate strides. Before them, the daemon stood and waited, yellow eyes watchful and black tongue slithering about his lips and teeth. As Avanius stepped onto the dais, the Summoner lunged with a ritual dagger. Without breaking stride, the Stormcast whipped his sword around in a furious arc and smashed the weapon from the daemon’s hand. Several of the creature’s fingers pattered to the floor along with the dagger, and the Summoner recoiled with a hiss. He swung his staff to bear but Hathrek was there, long blade lashing out. The ensorcelled stave broke beneath the blow, its shattered halves bursting into many-coloured flame and vanishing in puffs of ash. The Summoner hissed again, countless eyes bulging in fury, whirling and hunching like a cornered beast. Avanius thought he saw real fear in the daemon’s stare for the first time, and felt grim satisfaction. The Summoner backed away until his back bumped against the golden arch, finding two blades pointed straight at his throat.

‘On your knees,’ snarled Hathrek. Avanius saw a wildness in his companion’s eyes. ‘Get on your knees and beg.’

Slowly, carefully, the Gaunt Summoner did as he was bid, raising his three hands in a gesture of placation as he knelt.

‘Yesss,’ the daemon hissed. ‘Yesss. You are victorious. I am defeated. My boon issss yours.’

At those words, Avanius shot a warning glance at Hathrek. Now we come to it, he thought. The moment where he would discover if he was worthy of the God-King’s trust. The Darkoath stood motionless, muscles taut, but behind his eyes Avanius could see a war being waged.

‘Hathrek,’ he said. ‘You do not want this.’

The chieftain did not respond, gaze fixed upon the daemon that knelt at their mercy.

‘Hathrek,’ he tried again. ‘We have to kill it. The others died so that we could. Would you spit on their deaths by accepting this… thing’s gift?’

Hathrek did look round at that, face twisting in fury.

‘Why else did I come here, Stormcast? My tribe…’

‘Needed their leader,’ interrupted Avanius. ‘And perhaps they still do. But if you return to them with the Summoner’s boon you will bring them only ruin.’

‘Nooooooo,’ crooned the daemon, tone ingratiating, ‘I will give you ssssuch gifts, Hathrek of the Gadalhor tribe. I will make you sssstrong. I will give you the might to avenge your people…’

Avanius saw fear in Hathrek’s face then. The Darkoath’s head snapped round, and his blade pressed against the daemon’s throat, drawing a single bead of oily black blood.

‘Avenge?’ he demanded. ‘I am here to save them!’

Malicious glee blossomed across the Summoner’s hideous features at this.

‘No,’ came his singsong reply. ‘You are here to avenge them. Their terrible, painful deathsssss. It stole their souls. Only I can give you the strength to avenge them.’ Hathrek looked from the Summoner to Avanius, agony and indecision in his eyes.

‘It lies, Hathrek,’ cautioned Avanius, seeing the abyss yawning before Hathrek’s feet. ‘You must kill it. Do not give in to damnation.’

‘Why don’t you kill it, then, if you’re so sure?’ spat Hathrek furiously. ‘You don’t have anything to lose, do you? No people to fear for? Eh? No oaths to keep.’

‘I have an oath,’ replied Avanius calmly, lowering his blade to his side. ‘I swore to defeat the master of the Silver Tower, and so I shall.’

Hathrek scowled in confusion, keeping his own sword at the daemon’s neck. The Summoner watched, unblinking, his remaining fingers twitching and twining.

‘And you’re going to defeat it by putting up your blade?’ demanded Hathrek. ‘What madness is this?’

Avanius shook his helmed head. ‘Defeat. Not slay. I realised the distinction myself only lately, and in that lies a lesson of humility for me. But this is your story, Hathrek of the Gadalhor. It always was.’

‘My tribe could be in mortal danger,’ gritted Hathrek. ‘They could already be dead. Make sense right now, or shut up and stand aside while I claim the power I need.’

‘Do that,’ replied Avanius, ‘and you give this creature precisely what it wants. Your soul. Take its boon and you become its slave. The daemon wins. I realised that my mission was never to slay the Summoner, but to stop it from ensnaring you. There is good in you still, Hathrek. Strength. The potential for greatness. Sigmar has forgiven and accepted worse. Renounce this creature and its lies, give up your quest for power, and I know the God-King will raise you up in glory.’

Hathrek stared at Avanius, searching the Stormcast’s eyes for any hint of deception. Avanius stared back, filled with a calm certainty.

‘My tribe…’ began Hathrek, but the words tailed off.

‘This is not about your tribe, Hathrek,’ said Avanius sadly. ‘This was never, truly, about your tribe. You wanted power for yourself. You wanted to escape the cloying mantle of duty and sacrifice. You wanted — needed — to take action, and claim the strength you thought you deserved.’

Out of the corner of his eye, Avanius could see the Summoner’s fingers twitching like the legs of a dying spider. He dared not raise his blade to put an end to whatever mischief the daemon attempted, however, in case he cast aside his one chance to save the Darkoath Chieftain. Slowly, Hathrek’s expression darkened with fury.

‘And if it was? If I did leave those whining, helpless curs to seek my own glory? If I did seek that which I knew I deserved, not that which my failure of a father laid about my shoulders? How does that give you the right to save me, Stormcast? Why should I turn aside on some nebulous offer of slavery to the God-King, when before me lies the power to become a god myself?’ Hathrek’s blade swung away from the daemon’s throat to hover before Avanius’ gorget, but the Stormcast still did not raise his blade.

‘It is a false promise, Hathrek. You know this. It is damnation, ruin and slavery. You would not be a god. You would be a monster. Strike me down if you must, but slay this lying creature also, and I will call you brother when next I see you in Sigmaron.’

Avanius watched Hathrek’s expression contort with anger, frustration, and fear. Avaricious desire warred with hope, and in that moment the Knight-Questor dared to believe that he might have succeeded in his mission. Then, with a scream, Hathrek raised his blade high between the Stormcast and the Summoner, and swung it down in a single, killing blow.

Chapter Nine

LEGEND’S END

Hathrek strode out across the leaping expanse of the crystalline bridge. Behind him loomed the Silver Tower, a cyclopean mountain range of ever-changing architecture and swirling, sorcerous clouds. To either side of him loomed twisted gargoyles of silver and molten flesh, lining the crystal roadway and belching strangely coloured flames into the sky. Below the bridge lay an endless gulf, while above the clouds were tinged rose and gold by the rising of a new sun. Hathrek relished the sensation of fresh air in his lungs, clouds above his head and no walls closing in about him. He felt strong, liberated, victorious.

Ahead of Hathrek, perhaps a mile distant along the impossible bridge, a realmgate spun and swirled. The portal would take Hathrek back to the lands of his tribe, where at last he would claim his fate with his own two hands. Avanius’ words had struck a painful chord within Hathrek’s heart, forcing him to face truths he had long denied. He had been living in the shadow of his father, the man that had courted the power of the gods in an attempt to protect his tribe. The man that still squirmed and screamed in the iron stockade they had built for him, a bloated thing of bladed tentacles and tumorous flesh, too weak to support the gifts that the Dark Brothers had rained down upon him. Still, Hathrek had sought to continue his labours, to save his tribe not for their sake, but for his.

The Stormcast might have been blinkered by faith, but he had been right about that much at least. Now, Hathrek claimed what he wanted for himself, and if his tribe still lived then they would worship him as the champion his father could never be. They would think him a deity, reflected Hathrek with a fang-filled grin. He certainly looked the part. Where once had walked a mortal man, now there strode a god of war, nine feet tall and clad in flowing armour of silver and blue. A third eye stared from his forehead, yellow and slit-pupiled like that of Hathrek’s benefactor, while crystal horns curled from the chieftain’s brow. The sword of his father lay discarded in a dusty corner of the tower, forgotten forever. In its place, Hathrek’s taloned fists clutched a pair of rainbow-hued blades that shimmered with magical power.

Truly, he thought, he was mighty now in a way that none of his fallen comrades could have even imagined. Avanius, so pious, so convinced that his weakling god was the only true way to power. Sornsson, fleeing his own failures all the way unto death. Eithweil, with all her manipulations and illusions that still hadn’t proven enough to overcome the might of Tzeentch. Masudro, so pathetic that he had been slain before the quest had even truly begun. Hathrek could feel them already fading from his mind, irrelevancies discarded in favour of the boundless knowledge that flowed through him. And if he felt sadness at their passing? Loss at their deaths? A twinge of shame at what he had made of their ends? If perhaps some screaming, smothered corner of his mind was certain that everything Avanius had said was true? Those feelings were all fading as well, vanishing like morning mist as Hathrek neared the realmgate which the Summoner had sworn would take him home. A new fate lay before him now, a path upon which such fragments of the past were but chaff to be discarded as the weakness they were.

‘I am my own god now,’ rumbled Hathrek, feeling the power singing through his veins. ‘And I am the master.’ With that, the champion of the Silver Tower stepped through the swirling portal, and was gone.

From the twisted safety of his sanctum, the Gaunt Summoner watched the thing that had been Hathrek stride away down the bridge. Within the silvered depths of the Summoner’s mirror, a shimmering flow of gold and silver energies stretched away before the former chieftain, while in his wake trailed the severed strands of other, slowly dimming futures. The daemon watched as Hathrek stepped through the realmgate and vanished, going on to whatever end the Changer of the Ways had planned for him. The Gaunt Summoner gave a slow, gleeful sigh. So often, it was the Darkoath Chieftain that took the boon, mused the Summoner, but the harder he struggled, the worthier the final victory. Holding out one hand, the daemon summoned his staff back into reality, the weapon coalescing from swirling clouds of glittering ash. Severed fingers regrew, unnatural energies twining and solidifying into pale blue flesh. It was always important, thought the Gaunt Summoner airily, to make sure his champions believed themselves victorious over him. They had to feel they had earned their reward, or they would become suspicious of some trick. He leered at the irony.

This time it had been close, though. He had almost been slain. These Stormcasts had not been long amongst the realms, but the Summoner found he disliked them and their interference intensely. That one had seen through his ruse, and had almost opened his companion’s eyes to the truth. How fortunate, thought the Summoner, that the shadow mage had fallen before their final encounter. She might have detected the cantrips he had used to cloud Hathrek’s judgement, the subtle little tweaks of daemonic sorcery that had coaxed all of his negative memories to the forefront of his mind. Still, it was more satisfying to claim those with a shred of good left in their souls, reflected the daemon as he reached into a casket of squealing beetles and popped one daintily into his mouth. He bit down with a crunch, relishing the tiny life he extinguished. Another fate altered by he who was master of them all.

Stepping back from his mirror, the Gaunt Summoner let his eyes roam freely. His pupils stuttered and danced, each moving independently of the others as they sought his next viable prospect. The mirror in which he had watched the champions dulled to blank silver, but as it did so its countless twins flickered with life. Like the compound eye of some monstrous insect, the Summoner’s mirrors clustered around one another by the hundred. In each one a different scene of desperation and heroism was depicted, another time and place wherein archetypal champions sought to best the horrors of the Silver Tower. So many legends, so many champions, each band believing they were the only ones.

Here, a brawny barbarian and a nimble aelfen assassin cut their way through throngs of Kairic Acolytes. There a priest of Khorne tumbled, bellowing in rage, from the lip of a crumbling ledge into the endless abyss below. He saw Stormcasts and duardin, humans and aelfs, servants of justice and ambition alike. About each band of potential champions wound shimmering strands, paths of fate that changed hue and texture with every decision the desperate warriors made. The Summoner watched avidly, seeking the next prospect for the grand scheme.

The daemon was distracted by a chorus of sibilant hissing from high above. Abandoning his search for the moment, the Gaunt Summoner craned his head back and stared into the impossible abyss that stretched away above him. His sanctum had no ceiling. Instead, the space folded outwards, and outwards. Impossible geometries stretched away into the distance, an immensity of fractal spaces fit to obliterate mortal minds at a glance. Amongst that incredible sprawl, the Summoner saw his brethren staring up at him, just as he stared up at them. From their sanctums within their towers, the strange daemons communed for a moment across their labyrinthine dimension.

‘How fare you, brother?’ came a hissing voice, floating down from on high. The Summoner did not know which of his siblings asked the question. It scarcely mattered; each was the equal of the others, and all were one.

‘Another prossssspect has reached fruition,’ he replied with satisfaction. ‘Another sssstone has been set to tumbling down the mountainssssside.’

His brothers crooned their pleasure at his words.

‘Good,’ came the response. ‘Good is this. With every day, more send we, siblings dear. Soon they must begin the avalanche.’

‘Yessss,’ hissed the Summoner venomously. ‘Each fate we turn to our own purposes, each champion we lead asssstray… each advancesss the scheme. Each brings us closer to freedom.’

‘Freedom,’ replied his siblings, and then they were fading, vanishing into the mists of obscurity as they returned to their scrying. The Gaunt Summoner lowered his gaze to his mirrors once more, and his eyes widened in pleasure as he spotted another shimmering golden strand. This one stretched out from a Mistweaver, who even now was using her magic to drive her companions insane. The Summoner watched with rapt attention as the Tenebral Shard drove his blades through the chest of the duardin Doomseeker, then fell to his knees before the Saih with a pleading look upon his face. Already the Slaughterpriest lay dead in the background, his body torn into several pieces. This one, thought the Summoner, drawing the mirror closer to him and craning over it. As he did so he whispered the word once more, enjoying the thrill of it slithering across his tongue.

‘Freedom…’ Soon, he thought. Soon.

Light blossomed before Hathrek’s altered eyes. A racing sensation gripped him, sickening vertigo of the sort he had felt in the tower, and for a terrible moment he wondered whether it had all just been another trick. Then reality unfolded before him, and Hathrek was setting his cloven hooves down upon peaty soil. He breathed deeply, drawing in the familiar scents of the Splintered Hills. The daemon had not lied. He had been returned to his home.

The chieftain looked about, taking in the tangled blackbark trees, the mossy, blade-sharp rocks and the high hillside that rose in a sprawl of daggerthorn bushes to the cloudless night sky above. The stars were known to him, but he felt none of the relief he had expected at that sight. Instead, Hathrek felt only the strength boiling through his veins, the energies of change still finishing their last alterations to his godlike physique. Up there, atop the thornhill, stood his village. His unnatural eyesight picked out the edge of the village stockade, clear as day despite that it stood several miles distant. Shapes moved atop its rampart. Human shapes. So perhaps the Summoner had lied after all, he thought. Perhaps his tribe still lived. Hathrek wasn’t sure what he should have felt in that moment, but found himself caring little. He couldn’t remember why he ever had.

They should see him though, he thought with a sneer. The wretches for whom he had risked so much should look upon their new god, and swear themselves to him. It was only right. His purpose decided, Hathrek set out towards the village on the hilltop high above, pushing aside stunted black trees as he went.

The first cry of alarm came from the walls when Hathrek was still a hundred yards away. He had been able to see the lookouts on the walls for some time, with their barbarous garb and their vaguely familiar faces. Now, it seemed, their feeble mortal senses had finally detected him, and he tasted their fear upon the air. Hathrek rumbled a cruel laugh, but it was cut short as a volley of arrows rose from behind the stockade and fell towards him. The shafts rained down, shattering against his armour or breaking upon his iron-hard skin. They angered him, all the same, and with a roar Hathrek flexed his newly granted might. Bolts of sorcerous fire roared from his rainbow blades and slammed into the reinforced wooden gate of the village. The structure blew inwards, exploding into a cloud of flying splinters that raised screams of pain from the villagers caught in the blast.

Hathrek grinned to himself, then frowned. This wasn’t right. These were his people. A god should not return to his worshippers in such a way. With a gesture, Hathrek raised a shimmering shield of magical energy about himself, and strode on into the place he had once called home.

Nothing had changed. The blazing pitch torches. The squalid, mud-spattered huts and squalid, mud-spattered tribesmen. The bone-pit. The enclosure with its vile, screaming inhabitant. It was all just as Hathrek had left it. In fact, he realised, his eyes narrowing, it was exactly as he had left it. Ignoring the screaming villagers who abased themselves or fled in terror, Hathrek lumbered towards the shamans’ hut at the centre of the settlement. Sure enough, its hide doorflap was pushed aside and the shamans emerged, his brother at their head. They were daubed in the same runes and markings they had been on the night they sent him along the shadowed paths to the Silver Tower. Because, he knew with absolute certainty, this was that night. How could that be?

Hathrek was gripped by a sudden terrible agony, and everything seemed to shudder and double around him. He staggered, and let out a mighty roar of pain in two voices at once. Through blurring vision, Hathrek saw his brother run forwards, recognition and horror dawning across his features. His brother. The shaman reached out, shouted words. But there was too much pain. Hathrek felt as though he was being pulled in two, as though reality itself were trying to drag him apart. In desperation, he lashed out, instinctively sending his newfound powers roaring through the village of his birth. Tendrils of writhing sorcery exploded from him in every direction, wreathing the villagers and burning them to windblown ash.

Dimly, Hathrek saw his brother recoil in sudden fear, a moment before he was reduced to a shadow that scattered away upon the wind. Hathrek felt new life flowing through him, and he understood then that he had ripped the life force from his tribe to complete his monstrous transformation. Two paths of fate could not exist in one place, and so he had destroyed the old to make way for the new. The Summoner had claimed that something had devoured the souls of his entire tribe, long before he had encountered the daemon in the tower. It had not lied. For a moment, Hathrek felt nothing at all. And then slowly, haltingly, he began to laugh. It was a terrible sound, insanity and pain and hatred and glee all tumbling together and booming out across the hilltop in the pre-dawn light. The dust of dead futures blew about Hathrek in billowing clouds as he rose to his full height, and his third eye opened wide.

‘And why not?’ he demanded out loud to the empty village. ‘Why not? I gave them everything. It was their turn!’ The monster that had once been Hathrek roared with laughter once again as he saw that even the enclosure stood empty, nothing but drifting ash coating its floor.

‘I am no longer what you made me, father,’ growled the monster with cruel satisfaction, ‘I am not Hathrek, and I do not serve you.’ He looked around at his handiwork, and a terrible grin of madness and malice crept across his features.

‘I am the Soul Eater,’ boomed the daemonic beast to the lifeless hilltop. ‘And I serve only Tzeentch.’ With that, the thing that had once been Hathrek of the Gadalhor left the dead remains of his home behind him, and strode away into the darkness.

Legends of the Age of Sigmar

Fyreslayers

David Guymer

Four thousand days

‘The first day began with wrath…’

The Angfyrd Odyssey

The Fyreslayer screamed until his throat was raw and his chest heaved on empty lungs. He gulped down a breath, heaved forwards, but was restrained. Iron clamps around his arms and legs groaned. His seat rocked on triple-bolted floor brackets. The new rune ignited as it took, blazing brilliant gold that flooded his eyes with fire and the thick muscles of his chest with torment. His biceps spasmed, tensing and un-tensing with a fury.

He screamed as no duardin ever should — honestly, terribly, his cries cast back at him by metal and stone.

The walls didn’t care. They had heard and borne witness many times over ten thousand years. His ancestors had endured the same trials as he. Who was he to suffer so visibly under the gaze of their icons?

Who was he?

‘I am Dunnegar!’ His breath was cinders and ash, his voice the rasp of hot coals stirred through a fire. ‘I am duardin. I am a Fyreslayer. I am… am…’

He grunted with recovering sensation as the pain in his chest faded just slightly, diminishing to a level that allowed him to feel again the punishment meted to his belly, his left hand, his thigh, both biceps, his back, several times over. Power and glimmerlust whirled through his mind. Power and glimmerlust. Glimmerlust and power. It hurt, but by Grimnir he wanted more. With a shuddering swallow breath, he blinked away the fire sprites that cavorted behind his eyes.

Runemaster Rolk stood framed by the heat of the forge.

The ancient priest smouldered. Fire licked the gold and magmadroth scale of his ceremonial dress. The deep lines in his thickly muscled forearms were steaming channels of sweat. Master runes of smiting and unmaking burned red against his blackened skin, responding in kind to the power of the forge that had cast them.

A newly forged rune sat upon his fire-wreathed anvil, spitting out golden impurities under the heat. Impassive, the runemaster reached for it, his arm glowing cherry red as he withdrew it with the rune hissing violently against his bare palm. He raised his hammer of runic iron, eyes the white of the hottest fires glowering through the smoke.

‘What is wrath, boy?’

Dunnegar gritted his teeth and jerked against his bonds. ‘Again. More.’

Face set, the runemaster positioned the rune in the centre of Dunnegar’s forehead and stepped back. The rune roasted into place and didn’t slip. Dunnegar forced his eyes open and his mouth shut against the near overwhelming urge to clench them tight and howl.

Then the runemaster swung, and Dunnegar’s mind exploded into embers.

Chipped stone the colour of rust ran away from his hands and knees.

They were his hands, and his knees, even as their weight and strength took him aback. No ur-gold runes punctured them, branching tattoos spiralling in their place, but it didn’t matter. He was stronger than Dunnegar had ever been or conceived. Heat was the common element between that world and this. Fire had been folded into the wind, smoke and air layered and layered until what the fire had forged filled his lungs like tar. The sun was small and red, hazed behind an ash sky, and intermittently sparked with cinders that rained from the mountain’s peak. Motes shot through his savage crest of red hair and sizzled against his skin. For the injury they caused he might as well have been made of metal. The power within him was older and hotter than anything that boiled under Aqshy’s broken surface.

Even as that inner fire gave him no particular pause, the part of him that was a Fyreslayer gloried in the glow of the divine.

A sky-sundering bellow rocked the mountainside and sent scree avalanching past him.

He held firm and looked up into the ash sky, hunting, but immediately recoiled from the searing intensity of the cinder rain. Brighter and brighter it became, the pain in his forehead pounding on his skull until he could see nothing but light and his mind was awash with molten gold.

Tendons standing from his neck like cables, Dunnegar heaved against his restraints and sprayed his knees with spittle.

‘Vulcatrix! I see the ur-salamander. The Godslayer.’

An excited murmur echoed this declaration, but he saw no one in the smoke, heard no words.

‘Not bad,’ Rolk grunted, drawing yet another hot rune from his forge. ‘Perhaps you’ve half the chance your kin think you have.’

Dunnegar began to laugh, panting hoarsely, gasping the air so fast that his lungs could have strained nothing from it. And yet he felt power. His heart raced upon a tremendous wave of it. It was destruction. It was fire and wrath, but it was joy as well, pride in his strength. His biceps bulged against the iron restraints, metal cuffs beginning to bend and hiss as they were heated. From behind him came a gruff warning, and hands gauntleted in fyresteel clamped over his arms.

‘Tell me again, boy, if there’s anything left in that thick skull: what is wrath?’

‘Grimnir is wrath.’

‘Ur-gold is what Grimnir left us of his power and will,’ said Rolk, staring into the complex geometry of the rune in his palm, his hard face appearing to express something like veneration in the shifting light of the flame. ‘By harnessing its might we do him glory in the manner in which he approves.’

Then the runemaster closed his hand over the rune, and Dunnegar growled to see it taken away from him. Rolk gave a knowing smile, a narrow thing of craggy lines and gold-capped teeth.

‘Glimmerlust. He’s had enough.’

The voice was that of Horgan-Grimnir. Rarity made his words precious, and imbued them with a power far beyond their worth. Even Dunnegar seemed to understand, though his attention remained locked on the runemaster’s closed fist.

The Trial of Wrath had but three possible outcomes: survival, gold madness, or death.

To the minds of those in attendance, no outcome was favourable. Survival meant embarking on the path of the grimwrath — gold madness and death by another name.

‘The flameling’s soft, as flamelings are wont to be,’ Rolk scoffed. ‘He’ll have had enough when he makes it to the top. If he makes it.’

‘Enough,’ the runefather spoke again. ‘There is a long journey ahead, and he already bears more runes than I.’

‘Are you jealous, lord?’ Opening his hand brought a golden flush to the runemaster’s face, and he chuckled at Dunnegar’s immediate reaction to the rune’s brilliance.

‘Again,’ said Dunnegar, straining to be nearer. ‘I will see the mountaintop.’

‘That’s the gold talking, lad,’ came the level wheeze of one whom Dunnegar felt he should remember, but just then, just there, could not.

‘And through it, Grimnir.’ Eyes glowing, the runemaster pressed the scalding rune to Dunnegar’s shoulder, hammer swinging even as Dunnegar drew breath to scream.

The blow knocked him sideways, body and mind.

It came at him from nowhere. He struck it aside on the back of his axe, sending a sword-length chip of talon spinning off into fiery oblivion. A howl of primal suffering shook the mountaintop as if the force of a thunderclap had been pressed into the rock face and unleashed against it. Everything was scales and claws, his twinned axes a blur as despite the exertion burning his every muscle. He somehow countered the great wyrm’s every blow. He laughed uproariously, the sound extinguished by the rush of flame as fiery twisters leapt up from the ground. An infernal glow lit up a reptilian head some thirty feet above him — wide mouth filled with spine teeth, horned ridge, serpentine neck — then billowed out into a fireball that rocketed down and smashed apart his guard.

Dunnegar/Grimnir was slammed down, each of his axes thrown a separate way. With an exhausted rumble, Vulcatrix’s sinuous upper body crashed onto scaly forelimbs. It drew back, neck coiling like a spring. Flame flickered around its hanging jaw as its colossal torso heaved up and down with every breath.

The wyrm was as badly hurt as he was. The next blow would belong to the victor.

Grinning, Grimnir found his feet, Dunnegar urging him on, or perhaps back, for every duardin child knew how this battle ended.

‘I am Grimnir!’ they roared in unison. ‘I am vengeance.’

Howling without words, Dunnegar threw his punch.

And it was his punch. The fist was bruised and glittered bloodily with ur-gold, driven only by a mortal’s strength, but was enough to shatter the front teeth of the half-armoured karl standing in front of him. The warrior’s ornate wyrm helm and twinned plumes of vibrant red hair revealed him to be a champion of the runefather’s hearthguard. A warrior second to none.

The duardin staggered back, stunned, before another punch bent his nose and spun him on his way to the ground. Dunnegar fell on top of him, furious beyond reason, when another duardin threw his arms around his chest and dragged him off. Fyresteel gauntlets pushed up under his ribs and locked as the duardin fired a stream of curses into his ear. Dunnegar heard none of it. The karl was strong, but Dunnegar had tasted real strength and had his opponent’s measure.

Every muscle in his body seemed to flex at once, drawing back his neck and forcing the air from his chest in a scream of golden fire. The ur-gold riven into his shoulder muscles ignited like the head of a match.

The hearthguard grunted in surprise, but held on. With the burning of the rune came a fraction of Grimnir’s strength, and little by little Dunnegar peeled open the karl’s lock. With a throw of his shoulders, he knocked the straining duardin’s arms wide. He tossed back an elbow and felt the hearthguard’s forehead crack under it. Then he turned, followed up with a quick step, and smashed the dazed warrior down into the now-broken iron chair with a headbutt that painted both of their faces with blood.

‘I will not be tamed!’

He turned back to see a fist like a cannonball studded with jewelled rings flying towards his face just before it hit his temple. He corkscrewed twice, then slammed face-first into the flagstones. He groaned. The rune was sapped, and he no longer felt the berzerker rage he needed to awaken the others.

Horgan-Grimnir cracked his knuckles and walked away. The runemaster smiled at the both of them, his ancient face telling a clearer tale than the finest of Battlesmith Killim’s chronicle banners.

The Angfyrd lodge had its first grimwrath berzerker in a generation.

Dunnegar felt no pride in that: just the cool of the inert rune in his shoulder where the might of a god had once raged.

He hadn’t yet tried to push himself off the ground when someone proffered him a grubby oilcloth.

Killim crouched over him, sadness and pity like dust in his eyes.

The look on the smith’s face hurt more than any number of blows from the runefather’s fists ever could. All Fyreslayers of a lodge were bound closely together, but his bond with Killim was stronger than most. Like all his age, Karl Huffnar of the Cannite Fyrd had taught him how to handle an axe, but it had been Killim who had forged his blade. His earliest memory was of the smith — old even then — sitting him on his knee to teach him to read the common runes.

Now, his old mentor searched his eyes as if looking for someone he knew was lost.

‘Will he be strong enough to travel?’ said Horgan-Grimnir, broad back turned. ‘We have a journey of four thousand days, and Grimwrath or no, the magmahold empties at dawn.’

‘He’ll be stronger than you,’ Rolk grinned. ‘Has the messenger in the fire told you anything more about our quest?’

‘That Fyrepeak calls its daughter-lodges home, to war against Taurak Skullcleaver and his two lieutenants.’

‘And of the Fyrepeak itself? Yesterday it was a myth.’

Horgan-Grimnir snorted and shook his head. ‘Tend to what is yours, runemaster. My son and I will keep what is ours.’

‘On the seven hundred and nineteenth day, the Angfyrd lodge was reunited with its distant cousin. The fire is always warm, but a duardin welcome is frosty…’

The Angfyrd Odyssey

With a supreme effort of will, Dunnegar held back the deathblow. A ripple of muscle tension ran through his arm in protest against his efforts to lower his axe.

‘Get up.’

The armoured warrior pushed aside the corpses that had fallen over him and looked up at Dunnegar with a baleful stare of his own. From that alone, Dunnegar saw that the figure was no Bloodbound. He was duardin, a Fyreslayer no less, albeit a ghoulishly presented one.

In contrast to the vibrant oranges and purples worn by the Angfyrd Fyreslayers, this one’s wargear was black, fluted and moulded into the appearance of bone. His face had been painted with white powder, except for the eye sockets where the brazen red of his skin showed through. His beard was an unnatural grey. The twinned plumes of his helm designating him a karl of his fyrd might have been a reassuring point of commonality, but the likeness crafted into the black helm was that of a skeletal wyrm and the plumage itself was short, white, and brittle.

‘Or just lie there, if you like it,’ Dunnegar growled when the strange Fyreslayer neither spoke nor stood, and made to take his axe back to the fight. ‘More for me.’

The Fyreslayer regarded him hollowly, then in a voice that was even and yet carried well enough over the cry of metal said, ‘Behind you.’

Dunnegar heard the manic breathing behind him, bare feet slapping on rock. With a snarl, he spun on the spot and hewed his greataxe through the sprinting bloodreaver’s belly. The blood barbarian was practically on top of Dunnegar when the axe carved through him, launching his torso up over the Fyreslayer’s helm.

More were coming, pelting down the slope that marked the continuous descent from the peaks in the blood-misted distance. Dunnegar counted twenty. Baying their blood-cries they poured in a wave over the bodies that littered the rocks. They were sinewy, lightly armed with knives and clubs and clad in little more than the blood of their victims and the knapped bone that pierced their bodies.

Advancing apace with a languorous stride was a muscular giant half their size again. Blood painted his physique in sharp, grotesque designs. Hanging beads in the form of blood droplets or miniature skulls jangled as he ran, his big black mouth open in a running chant that seemed to drive the savages about him into a preternatural fury.

The slaughterpriest turned on Dunnegar with a look of murder.

Under that gaze he felt the bloodlust that was never far from the surface begin to simmer. His skin prickled, eyes hardening, but Dunnegar shook off the foreign impulse to charge up the hill and soak himself in human blood with a grunt.

Rage was a force of nature that was true under its own terms. It needed no battle to stoke it, nor blood to slake it. He had endured the Trial of Wrath. There was nothing the priests of blood could teach him about fury.

Seeing him shrug off his influence, the blood shaman thrust his long glaive into the air and howled. Aping their master’s cry, the bloodreavers surged past him with redoubled zeal.

‘A lot of them,’ observed the stranger.

‘Always,’ Dunnegar returned.

His teeth were bared. His pupils had constricted to pinpricks flecked with gold. The blood priest had wanted him to charge.

And he charged.

He hit the first wave of bloodreavers like a fireball. Bodies flew aside simply from the force of impact, and then he set to work with his greataxe. Its blade was volcanic glass and dense with runes that rendered it almost transparent with heat. It was a weapon worthy of a grimwrath berzerker, and in his hands it was murder cut from obsidian.

Carving arcs of fire through the air, he hacked the first marauder in half from shoulder to groin. He tore his axe back, turning and arching under the haft, and smashed the butt across a warrior’s jaw. The two Bloodbound fell almost at the same time. His axe spun, taking off the hands of a bloodreaver that tried to jump him with two knives upraised.

With a roar, he dropped his head and cannoned deeper into the melee.

A bloodreaver with a crest of spikes broke through the after-glow of Dunnegar’s axe work and thrust a dagger into his side. The notched blade bent. The bloodreaver dropped the knife from broken fingers and Dunnegar took his head with a single sweep. Blood rained. Through the crimson fountain, he saw the blood shaman.

The man — once a man — was more than twice Dunnegar’s height and almost as heavily built. Spinning his glaive one-handed until his body was blurred by it, the shaman clawed at the heavens and called for the attention of his god.

With a hum of fine-edged steel, a throwing axe splintered the blood priest’s ribcage. The giant looked at the blade for a moment, coughed blood over the handle, and then, losing muscle control in stages, folded indelicately to the ground.

‘No respect for the dead,’ muttered the stranger, relaxing his throwing arm as Dunnegar finished off the last of the rabble. The rest broke and fled for their precious mountains. Dunnegar turned to glare at his unwanted saviour.

‘You could have made him yours if you had truly wanted him,’ the duardin stranger said.

He was referring to the ur-gold runes hammered into Dunnegar’s slowly cooling flesh, added to many times since the day of his trial and shining dully now. Dunnegar grunted acknowledgement. Indeed he could have, but the power of ur-gold was precious and finite and not lightly tapped.

To his slim credit, the other duardin nodded and extended a hand.

‘I am Aethnir, of the Sepuzkul lodge. Thank you for the help.’

A strange name. And strange words.

‘Talkative for one of the Grim Brotherhood,’ Aethnir murmured sarcastically, a smile parting his beard.

Ignoring the stranger, Dunnegar looked across the blasted foothills that Killim’s ancient lore had brought them to.

A mist of gelid gore hung thinly in the air. It clung to the rocks and to the handful of forsaken trees that persisted here, and glazed the standards of the diverse war bands to a common, glistening crimson. While a few of those bands were still battling willingly against the Fyreslayers pushing into the highlands from the plains, the majority were ever-reddening shades disappearing back into the mountains.

Dunnegar squinted into the scarlet dampness.

The fog made it impossible to make out the peaks themselves, but something about their too-smooth contours imparted a frisson of unease. Looked upon directly, as now, the mountains were a jagged haze in the far distance, but caught side-on by an accidental glance, those ill-defined shapes became something other. Statues. Hard warriors whose horned helms broke the sky and whose broad shoulders were cloaked in snow.

The blast of a horn called his attention back, dragging his gaze over a satisfyingly long and deep trail of Bloodbound dead.

Marching at the head of a fyrd of hearthguard elite, Killim held the battle standard of the Angfyrd lodge aloft. The old battlesmith had forged the standard expressly for the great odyssey, and the fyresteel icon depicted Grimnir in his aspect as the Wanderer. The differences to Grimnir the Vengeful, or the previous standard of Grimnir the Destroyer, were subtle, and Killim had captured the ancestor god’s form masterfully.

‘What have I told you about… charging ahead?’ Killim wheezed.

The hearthguard — never the most forgiving of companions — tactfully ignored the battlesmith’s exhaustion. The incline was shallow, but over many leagues taxing, and while they had merely marched it the old smith had spent the last three days and nights through hostile country reciting the five thousand year-long Angfyrd Chronicle to the rhythm of their boots.

The battlesmith struck his standard into the rocks.

Dunnegar offered a conciliatory mumble, Killim huffed something that suggested he was appeased, and on such a foundation their friendship would make it to the seven hundred and twentieth day of the odyssey.

The hearthguard closed ranks around their standard, regarding Dunnegar and Aethnir with equal suspicion.

‘What did you mean about disrespecting the dead?’ Dunnegar asked of the stranger, ignoring the hearthguard as they would rather ignore him.

The dark Fyreslayer pointed up into the hill country. There, under a pall where blood and smoke mingled, a great pyre burned. Dunnegar had assumed the fire to be some phenomenon related to the presence of the Goresworn.

It turned out that he was wrong.

‘Come with me,’ said Aethnir solemnly. ‘I will take you to the runefather.’

With bone weariness, Killim dragged up his standard once again and the duardin fell in behind their cousin.

As far as anyone knew, all Fyreslayers cremated their dead. It recalled the origins of their cult in Grimnir’s demise, the infernal twinning of destruction and rebirth. It reminded the living that power could never be annihilated, only dispersed.

The Sepuzkul’s funeral pyre burned high and hot on a mound of their fallen, tapering in the copper-tasting wind that came in off the highlands. A gathering of grimly attired duardin stood to one side, approaching the flames one by one to cast gold scavenged from the battlefield into the fire. Watching through half-lidded eyes was a magmadroth so worn and ancient that its life could only have been drawn out through some uncanny means. So far beyond its physical prime was it that the heat in its belly wasn’t even enough to clear the rime from its gums. It appeared to be in mourning for its master.

‘We stopped to send on our fallen,’ Aethnir explained. ‘We had not expected the dogs of Khorne to regroup so quickly.’

‘They ambushed you,’ said Rokkar, karl of the hearthguard, casting a weighted look over the rugged, open landscape.

‘They recovered quickly. The Lord of Khorne here calls himself the Griever. I do not know why, but perhaps you will soon have cause to rue the name as we do.’

‘Griever,’ Dunnegar muttered, turning to Killim. ‘A lieutenant of Taurak Skullcleaver, perhaps?

Aethnir looked taken aback. ‘You know that name?’

‘Aye,’ said Killim, forgetting for a moment that his voice had gone three days without respite. With palpable excitement, he reached out and grasped the foreign duardin’s wrist. ‘What brings your lodge to this place?’

‘I suppose the same as you. We have received the call home.’

‘But if both our ancestors came from Fyrepeak,’ said Dunnegar, looking the macabre duardin over with a sick feeling in his belly. ‘That would make us…’

‘Related?’ Aethnir finished, parroting Dunnegar’s actions exactly, but with an added tincture of black humour. ‘You think you are a disappointment.’

‘How far have you travelled?’ Killim interrupted. Dumping Grimnir the Wanderer into Dunnegar’s unsuspecting hands, he unslung his pack and rummaged about in it until he found what he wanted. He withdrew a thick book. The pages were a dull silver, the ancient binding clad in orruk tusk ivory.

Muttering excitedly, he cracked open the tome.

The first page was — like all of the books Dunnegar had once lost himself in as a flameling — given to a highly detailed map drawn by the lodge’s founders. A large circle in the centre depicted the region known to the Fyreslayers of the Angfyrd lodge. Smaller circles depicting other places overlapped the first, joined by realmgates that were indicated by a runic marking. Civilizations had fallen and risen and fallen again since that map was drawn. Many of the cities it marked were rubble, but mountains, oceans: they could but hope that time and Chaos had not altered those.

Killim stabbed his finger onto the map. ‘We took the first gate here, to the Ferroussian Sea, then followed the Orran upriver to these mountains.’

‘Titan’s Edge,’ Aethnir confirmed.

‘Then we are on the ancestors’ path.’ Killim looked upward with a relieved sigh, closed his eyes and muttered his thanks to Grimnir. ‘And you head for the same realmgate as we do.’ Dragging his finger towards the centre of the page, Killim tapped a spot within the mountain range where the silvery-coloured region they occupied overlapped another wreathed in fire.

‘According to our Founding Saga, the journey from Fyrepeak took four thousand days to complete.’

Aethnir nodded. ‘Ours has taken longer.’

The stranger turned his gaze towards the mountains, and the pyre.

Dunnegar’s fingers flexed and tensed around the standard’s steel pole. No one knew what made the grimwraths special amongst their kin, but even though he could endure the amount of ur-gold in his body, the erratic flow of power made him restive, impatient at best, violently ill-tempered at worst. It was one thing to be aware of that. To act before he snapped and somebody lost blood was another.

He took a deep breath, and tried not to think of the battle waiting in those mountains.

‘Have you been told why we’ve been called home?’

‘The message flame spoke of war. What other reason is there?’ With a shrug, Aethnir nodded towards the pyre. ‘Beyond that, you would have to ask the runefather.’

A duardin in ossified ceremonial robes bearing the runic iron of a runemaster called out in an ancient tongue, and a gang of pall-bearers set to withdrawing a scorched iron pallet from the fire. From the quantity of smouldering ur-gold on the pallet and the wealth of the helm, gauntlets and belt, the crisped bones rattling inside their wargear could only have belonged to the runefather of the Sepuzkul lodge. The priest inspected the remains as they passed him, spoke some manner of blessing over them, and sent them for burial by a company of hearthguard. With their red, rune-studded torsos and powdered faces, they looked strange and unearthly.

‘You are burying his runes?’ said Dunnegar in surprise.

After it was spent, ur-gold reverted to an inert state, but so far from his home and forge it would be a rare Fyreslayer who would risk using his final rune. Surely some of Grimnir’s power still lingered in those fragments.

‘They are his, and his soul faces more battles if he is to pass through the Underworlds,’ said Aethnir as though this should be obvious to anyone. ‘Do you not?’

‘We definitely do not.’

The duardin all turned as Runemaster Rolk strode towards them with Horgan-Grimnir, his hearthguard, and a trio of grimly armoured warriors of the Sepuzkul lodge behind him.

Walking with the aid of his runic iron, which he stabbed into the ground ahead of him, the priest glowered at all he passed. Bits of glimmering metal banged against his armour on chains, trinkets of presumably of priceless ur-gold that he had picked out from amongst the jewellery of the enemy dead.

From the steady stream of muttered asides and the way they appeared to compete with each other for the right to be first in the line, the three Sepuzkul were likely the sons of the late runefather. Their wargear was black, ribbed, and hatched with runes that looked like tally marks. One wore a magmadroth skull as a helm and simply by the short shrift with which he put down his brothers he clearly held himself as the favourite to succeed.

Horgan came last, trailing his long cloak of gold-etched steel. As was his way, he allowed his molten stare and weapon arm to do his talking. His immense latchkey grandaxe rested across his shoulder and dripped a trail of blood behind him. None met that gaze, even Dunnegar, though a part of him had longed to try it ever since the day of his trial.

‘A waste of a bloody blessing is what it is,’ Rolk scowled.

‘Your assistance was timely and appreciated,’ said the skull-helmed prince, leaning into his barbed spear and huffing out his bleached cheeks into a grimace. ‘But we’ll send off our own as we always have. I suggest you head on your way and do whatever it is you do with yours.’

‘We’d be better off together,’ said Dunnegar, earning a sharp stare from everyone for his lack of propriety. ‘A lot more Bloodbound where these came from.’

‘Always,’ Aethnir echoed with a thin smile.

‘We have a way around them,’ said the helmed Sepuzkul runeson. From the pride with which he said it, it was plain that if there was a way it was because he had found it. ‘It took us years to explore the trails up in those mountains, but we have found one that leads almost all the way to the gate.’

Killim grinned, closing his book with a tink of metal. ‘You’ll show us?’

‘And why should I? Has your lodge bled itself for the Griever to find this trail? No. Find your own way and to the Lord of Undeath with you all.’

With a rumble of exasperation, Rolk rounded on the Sepuzkul runeson.

‘And if I swear an oath to avenge that lost blood with the life of the Griever, would you let us join you on your trail?’

The four Sepuzkul Fyreslayers looked aghast at the suggestion.

Aethnir explained. ‘Such oaths we swear only for gold.’

‘I’m not surprised,’ Rolk muttered. ‘The rate you throw it away.’

‘You would… do this?’ said one of the other runesons.

The runemaster merely crossed his arms, offended at having his conviction questioned and sincerity doubted.

‘I won’t allow it,’ rumbled Horgan-Grimnir. Slowly. Finally. ‘Your skills are needed.’

‘Aye,’ said Dunnegar, voice rising. ‘If it’s to be done at all then it should be me.’

‘Bah! I was wringing the necks of the blood-crazed before your grandfathers grew out of wooden axes.’

His gaze was fire, and even Horgan-Grimnir met it uneasily.

But Runemaster Rolk was harder than the magmadroth scale he wore and just as hot on the inside. It was a miracle he had restrained himself this long. Horgan-Grimnir shook his head, but did not argue the point again. None present doubted that the ancient Fyreslayer would and could do exactly as he vowed.

‘On the one thousand and forty-second day, the realmgate came within our grasp at last. A mighty battle it was to be, a red day, a grim day…’

The Angfyrd Odyssey

The Lord of Khorne who called himself the Griever thrust his lance into the tumbling snow and bellowed his challenge. His voice cracked with the sound of impacting skulls and echoed hollowly from behind the fused teeth of the metallic skull that encased his head as a helm. The skins of Rolk and those duardin that had gone after him fluttered from poles mounted in the harness of the brazen juggernaut the Chaos warrior rode as a mount, while the hell-steel of his armour was fused with the gaping skulls of duardin and countless others.

His horde took up his cry. They coated the mountain like a blood slick. Fifty thousand warriors armoured in crimson and draped in the dead skins of men and beasts stamped their feet, rattled weapons above their heads, and gave vent to a single wordless howl that would surely have brought the mountains down upon them all had the Titan’s Edge not been firmly under the heel of the Lord of Skulls.

Looking across the gully from halfway up the facing mountain, Horgan-Grimnir wordlessly sat back on the violet-scaled shoulders of his magmadroth and raised his grandaxe high. The challenge was accepted.

The Fyreslayers of both lodges, diminished as they were, swore new oaths.

The preceding year had taught them why this dark champion was known as the Griever. The Sepuzkul Fyreslayers set up a great lament to see their dead so mistreated, but none brooded on the insult more than Horgan-Grimnir.

He stared across the chasm with a look that could have soldered fyresteel. Affected by its master’s anger, the magmadroth scratched its claws into the rock and bellowed. The runefather had always preferred to lead his warriors on foot as one of them, but since the snowy night that his son’s mount, Caldernorn, had returned alone he had sworn that they would not be parted until both had vengeance.

Aethnir knelt in front of his fyrd of vulkite berzerkers, who silently joined him on one knee to pray. Their words were strange but still directed towards Grimnir. Beside them, Killim hoisted the icon of Grimnir the Wanderer and in a hoarse voice recounted tales of ancient triumphs over the chosen of Khorne. The auric hearthguard cheered the saga, stamping their feet faster, harder, as if to drown out the thunder from across the gorge.

Dunnegar looked across the gully. The mountain was a totem to the Dark Gods on an infernal scale. From its snow-swirled lower reaches to its majestic heights, it had been hewn into the idolatrous likeness of the Griever.

Its peak was a terrifying replica of the Chaos champion’s skull helm, a mile high, and through sweeps of snow, Dunnegar saw the realmgate they had sacrificed hearth and kin to find. It was inset into one of the eye sockets, ripples of fire shimmering apparently at random below its smooth, metal arch. The Griever and his chosen few stood by their banners on the top of the cheekbone, his horde spilling as far out and down as far as Dunnegar could see.

The Fyreslayers were on a higher, secondary peak, the two lodges occupying a long rump of stone a thousand feet wide.

It was a thumb.

Behind them were more rocky bumps, and an incredible stone lance rising precipitously into the dark sky.

The snow was starting to come down more heavily, and Dunnegar shook it from his beard.

A sour-faced runesmiter of the Sepuzkul lodge stood at the ledge. The duardin spread bare muscular arms wide as if to draw the gulf to him, a latch-axe in one hand and a forge key of pure ur-gold in the other. The Sepuzkul Fyreslayers ended their prayers with a dirge-like hum. Dunnegar and the Angfyrd lodge joined them until the mountainside resonated with deep duardin voices.

Chanting around, under, and against the dirge, the runesmiter smote the ferrule of his weapon on the rock and thrust his forge key out over the gully.

It flared into sudden life in his hand, and the entire mountain shook.

With a great tearing and spitting of rock, the runesmiter began to rise. The ground where his axe touched was a turgid, molten orange, and the glow spread until all but the ring of stone around the chanting duardin’s feet had been swallowed by it. Shouting now over the roar, he pointed his forge key to the realmgate and the spur grew at his command.

The rock behind him cooled quickly in the snow, hardening into a bridge that could bear the weight of an army.

‘Haaaaaggh!’ roared Horgan-Grimnir, thrusting his grandaxe high and kicking Caldernorn forward. The beast responded with a low, lingering roar of its own. The cadaverous magmadroth of Nosda-Grimnir, severe with skull-helm and grandaxe, followed. The bridge crunched under the combined weight, but held. Killim and the Angfyrd hearthguard ran fearlessly after the two monsters and then — at last! — went Dunnegar.

The snow took its free hit with a sadistic flurry. Knuckles dusted by metal and ice, the wind pummelled him from every direction. His beard and hair, driven into a crest through the tall flutes of his helm, pulled him sideways and dragged him down. Emptiness swelled to fill the world but for the spit of still-smouldering rock beneath his feet. He clenched his teeth, narrowed his eyes, and held them firmly ahead as he ran.

The impact, when it came, would forever settle any doubt as to the primacy of stone over wind.

The Griever’s mountain trembled under the strike of the molten rock-bridge and the world seemed to suffer with it. Men were shed by the thousand as their footing shook or simply slid away from under them. Others were dashed from their feet, tumbling down the unforgiving monument to godlike hubris, or flattened under the avalanches that came crashing down from the horned peaks.

The Sepuzkul runesmiter dropped into a braced position, knees bent, fists hard and white around the haft of his axe, as duardin sure-footedness and strength kept him standing. The magma glow receded from the rock beneath his feet and fed back into his axe. For a moment, the fyresteel glowed like the soul of a volcano, then blasted forth a cone of seismic wrath that immolated the shaken few still standing.

The death toll in those opening minutes was astounding. That there was a single Bloodbound still on the mountain was miraculous. The advantage of numbers was still theirs, however, as was the formidably contrived terrain of the mountain itself.

Before they could think to exploit either, Horgan-Grimnir and Caldernorn crashed through.

Under the runefather’s stern direction, the magmadroth slammed sideways into a band of muscle-bound barbarians that came rushing in to assault the duardin’s beachhead, flattening most before they had time to swing their axes and goring the rest on its horns. Into the ensuing carnage rode the Sepuzkul runefather, Nosda-Grimnir, on his cadaverous grey mount. The magmadroth swung its wizened, shovel head from side to side, flaming bile streaming from its maw in a ribboning inferno. With a triumphant yell, Killim hammered his rune standard home as the hearthguard ran past to secure their lords’ bridgehead.

On an explosion of rune-propelled acceleration, Dunnegar burst through their formation and straight towards a sweeping rock face.

It was a wall of ice, almost vertical, rising a hundred feet to near the orbit of the mountain’s accursed eye. The Bloodbound hurled rocks and curses. The sky hurled snow. The hearthguard split into two to go around. Dunnegar charged straight at it. His bare feet drew sparks from the frozen rock.

Blistering speed and a confidence that even he could see might be blind bore him up the incline and in amongst the bewildered Bloodbound.

The mountain disappeared. The battle was gone. There was no duardin with him but Grimnir.

He hacked and he killed, surrounded by screams he only half-heard as wounded Bloodbound were pitched over the cliff behind him to their deaths. A blood warrior in full plate dripping red ran at him under the drone of a swinging chain. Dunnegar held up his forearm and in a roared entreaty called on Grimnir’s strength. The chain wrapped around an arm that was suddenly golden-red, and blistering under the heat. A yank brought the god-touched warrior staggering into range of the headbutt that split his visor and threw him to the ground.

Dunnegar felt another rune awaken, then another.

It was glorious. It was divine.

‘Dunnegar!’

He parried a bloodreaver axe, spun his greataxe so it was horizontal to his chest and punched it forward. The long haft took out half a dozen charging warriors, buying him a second that he spent to look back the way he had come.

Blizzard aside, the clifftop vantage granted him an unimpeded view of the battle. A column of Fyreslayers four across and two-thousand long was still trouping across the rock bridge. Frothing Bloodbound launched themselves into the fray in a suicidal push to hold them there. It might have worked, but to their evident dismay the Fyreslayers were more than their equal in savagery. In that quick glance, Dunnegar saw the flashes as the Sepuzkul runesmiter turned his attentions to awakening individual Fyreslayers’ runes, mushrooming beacons of auric brilliance followed by the cannonball-like devastation wrought by empowered duardin steaming ahead of their kin. It made him ache for more of the same.

Teeth bared in punishing self-restraint, he cut down a spear-wielding barbarian that jumped in from his left. The warriors closed, sensing his weakening, his reluctance to exploit the few runes he had left. He hacked open another, kicked one to the floor with a shattered ribcage, then fell to grappling with a hugely muscled skullreaper that bulled into him from the right. Their arms knotting about one another’s, they ploughed across the ridgeline, knocking men screaming from their path.

‘Ho there, Dunnegar! Here!’

Killim. Through the tangle of limbs and snow, Dunnegar saw the smith at the foot of the bridge. He was waving furiously for Dunnegar’s attention and, seeing that he had it, immediately directed it back uphill.

Caldernorn was tackling the mountain, bounding from ledge to ledge, claws driving into sheer rock while its tail lashed bloodreavers to their deaths. This was the ur-salamander’s environment, more than all the blessings of Khorne could ever make it man’s.

And then, in an avalanche of hellishly animated brass, the Griever joined the battle.

Caldernorn was gigantic even by the standards of its kind, but the juggernaut ridden by the Griever was a daemon of solid brass, and was charged with a power far in excess of its size. The daemon rammed the hard flat of its head into the bulbous armour of the magmadroth’s shoulder. The reptile was pushed back across the mountainside, and then, with a shriek of claws across stone, it was shoved clean off the ridge.

For a moment it seemed to hang. Horgan-Grimnir’s latchkey grandaxe lunged into space. The Griever’s lance spat towards it. The blades missed each other by a metal shaving. Then Caldernorn’s claws found rock again, throwing Horgan-Grimnir back into his seat, and it tore away up the mountain’s flank. The magmadroth scrabbled for higher ground, drawing itself above the Chaos lord, and then swung its head back to loose a torrent of flame. The Chaos juggernaut glowed like an anvil as the Griever turned into the current with his arm held protectively over his grinning skull helm, his lance kindling yellow-red with corposant.

Dunnegar gave voice to a trembling yell that was Grimnir’s battle wrath alloyed to ur-gold no longer, and wrestled the skullreaper from his arms. He broke him across his knee and swung the limp body into the horde, clearing a yard or so for him to run into. Close to the stone and powerful, he bowled Bloodbound aside as if the ground were still shaking.

Behind them was a rock shelf about twelve feet high.

He ran at it, stuck out a foot and kicked off, gaining another few feet of air beneath him, and then swung his greataxe for the ledge. It bit. He hit the cold rock face, thumping the air from his chest. With a wheezing inhalation, he dropped a kick on the blue-veined Bloodbound that came grasping for his legs, and then heaved himself up.

He had time for a breath and he took it. It lanced his lungs with cold, but was welcome there in spite of it.

He was on the very top of the mountain’s cheek, just as it began to slope upwards to the eye. The snow was coming down even more thickly with the altitude, and the realmgate was little more than a fell glimmer. The Griever’s monstrous last line of defence were grotesqueries of looming musculature. The berzerker did not enjoy the runefather’s advantage of a mountain beast, but his wild charge had carried him almost as far.

Wrapped in a scarf of steamy breath, he pushed into the waist-deep drift towards the gate.

Shouts filtered through the blizzard. A grunt. A clash. A daemonic howl. Dunnegar ignored them, eyes staying true to their goal. Horgan was the greatest warrior to carry the name Grimnir in many years. He had once felled Dunnegar with a single punch. The runefather could win his battles without help.

Fire rippled through the gloaming snowfall, opening it up like a fissure.

Dunnegar turned then. Through the steam, he saw a scene of struggle that could have rivalled the gold-brought visions at his Trial.

Caldernorn had its jaws locked around the juggernaut’s throat, but the daemon, in turn, had the ur-salamander on its side and was in the process of mounting its heaving chest. Horgan-Grimnir held firm in the saddle with a titanic grip, stubbornly resolved to his oath that he and the beast would never be parted.

One handed, he parried the Griever’s increasingly frenzied lunges. Flesh banners snapped and ruffled in the heat rising from Caldernorn’s body. The Lord of Khorne chattered like a rolling skull as the juggernaut crunched forward, raising a shriek from Caldernorn as the daemon walked its crushing weight up its neck. In a panic, the beast began to thrash. Horgan-Grimnir raged and swore, but one hand and the grip of his thighs was no longer enough to remain mounted. Sacrificing his guard, he redoubled his oathsworn grip.

The runefather smiled briefly, as though he’d won some kind of victory.

A moment later, Dunnegar watched the Griever’s lance explode from his chest.

Loss hit with the weight of an avalanche. Not grief. Horgan-Grimnir had never been so dear to him. But loss: a challenge to which he would never rise, a trial that there would be no chance to pass.

The runefather arched his back in pain. Caldernorn was still, sinew and scale crunching under the juggernaut’s tread.

‘Rolk Langudsson!’ Horgan howled through bloodied lips, erupting in a column of searing runelight ‘Your oaths are fulfilled!’

The Griever was on top of him, too intent on twisting the lance and claiming another skull for his armour to care how his victim chose to meet his end. He was close enough that he likely never saw the latchkey grandaxe arcing towards his neck.

Howls of an inhuman rage permeated the snow as, as if in tableau, Horgan-Grimnir and the Chaos lord slid from their mounts one after the other.

Dunnegar heard rather than saw the warped spawn tramping down from the realmgate to belatedly aid their master. He knew he should have taken the gate then while it was unguarded, but to his shame he couldn’t bring himself to do so. The battle was won with the death of the Griever, he knew, and others could claim the prize and see the runefather’s quest continued.

He turned aside.

Already partially buried, Horgan-Grimnir nevertheless glittered with precious ur-gold runes, singing to his soul like the forest to a sylvaneth. Dunnegar hefted his axe, quite prepared to defend the runefather’s remains with his own life.

An oath was an oath, but gold was gold.

‘On the three thousand, three hundred and thirty-first day, there was fire…’

The Angfyrd Odyssey

It was a commonly held belief that Fyreslayers did not feel the heat. Dunnegar knew it was untrue. Rather they endured it, like duardin. However, in this unending land where fire fell as rain and rivers boiled whilst somehow remaining liquid, endurance alone could carry them no further.

‘See that mountain over there.’

Killim’s voice was a dry growl. He lowered his flame-discoloured book tiredly and pointed into the distant haze.

The landscape was one of interconnected lakes stretching out towards a promissory red shimmer. Fire swirled across the surface of the water, reminiscent of the pattern of currents, but elementally subverted. That air was still and heavy. Cinders drifted. To describe the combined effect as a heat haze was inadequate. This place was heat. The very land was hazed.

And as far as Dunnegar could see, there was no mountain.

He shuffled back around on his metal stool. It was squat, of Angfyrd make, and hotter than all the hells. He endured it. His left arm roasted similarly on a portable anvil, his bicep bound tightly. He grunted, distracted.

‘No.’

‘There. No. No, wait a moment…’

The battlesmith scratched his dried brow and turned back to his book. It lay open on the back of a wooden cart containing the lodges’ treasures and that the Fyreslayers took it in shifts to pull. It was a straightforward, two-wheeled contraption with a low base built for low country. The wood came from trees that grew natively here, and as such was remarkably tolerant to the heat. The lodges had acquired it and two others like it several years before from a nomadic human tribe in trade for fyresteel weapons. There had certainly been plenty of those to go around since the battle against the Griever, too many to be carried by the few still walking. Hence the need for carts. Now, only this one remained.

A poor trade then, and one bemoaned constantly by the runefather, Nosda-Grimnir.

Running his finger along the map, Killim squinted towards the distant range, then did a double-take between the hellish topography in front of him and the ancient map on the page.

‘I’m sure of it,’ he muttered. ‘The river we followed had to be the Infernum. It had to be. And these are the first mountains we’ve seen.’

‘If you can call them mountains,’ said Solldun, runesmiter of the Sepuzkul lodge, absently.

He was runemaster now in all but name, but the honorific was as yet unearned, and he resisted it. Killim grumbled under his breath and returned to his maps as Solldun made some tightening adjustments to Dunnegar’s restraints. With roughened fingers, the runesmiter felt the muscles of his arm. Exposure to so much ur-gold had built them up hard and massive, but at the same time twitchy. Dunnegar’s muscles flexed painfully as the runesmiter’s fingers walked down to the wrist. Solldun closed his eyes and muttered half-remembered instruction, nodding as his fingers turned back to press down on a spot a thumb’s width up the berzerker’s forearm. Holding it there, he reached across the anvil for hammer and tongs.

‘Are you ready?’

‘Give it to me,’ said Dunnegar. His efforts not to growl made his words sound all the more forced. Deep breaths. He forced his heart to slow. ‘Yes. Yes, I’m ready.’

Puffing out his cheeks to steady himself, the runesmiter applied the rune to the proscribed patch of forearm. It hissed. Hot air blasted through Dunnegar’s gritted teeth. Then came Solldun’s hammer, smiting the rune through surface skin and deep into the muscle.

Dunnegar shivered as new strength suffused him. He felt it restore him to something nearer to normal. Or to a level of power that his body had come to demand as its normal.

‘Better?’ asked Killim.

‘Much,’ said Dunnegar, sagging back.

Breathing hard and feeling somewhat dizzy, he unfastened his bindings and flexed his bicep. It swelled to a pleasing degree. The rune in his wrist was hard and firm amidst the sliding muscle, like scar tissue. It shone dully under the sky’s pervasive amber glow.

So many of his runes had been used up in battle that even recovering the ur-gold from the dead couldn’t replenish them at the same rate. Rationing of the precious substance was beginning to fray sturdier tempers than his and it was only going to get worse. Even those runes that were newly forged, like the one now in his arm, were small and lacking in purity. Solldun had proven himself a force in battle, but he lacked the skills of a true runemaster. Rolk, he was not.

So why then did he feel so much better with the runesmiter’s weak work in his arm?

‘Perhaps now you’re of a mood to help,’ Killim said waspishly as Solldun packed up his tools and departed.

‘Show me a horde of orruks, old friend, and I’ll help.’

‘Old friend…’ Killim snorted, crossing his arms over his chest, but only for a moment. They were all too hot for that. ‘My old friend would be here with me making some sense out of this map.’

Dunnegar shook his head, ignoring him, levering his forearm backwards and forwards against the anvil and feeling the rune pull. Killim puffed out his chest angrily and made to remonstrate further when an even-tempered hail from the lakeside distracted him.

‘Another day, another argument,’ said Aethnir, striding up from the water’s edge with a band of loosely armoured Sepuzkul hearthguard sweating behind him. His bleak smile, like the Fyreslayers themselves, was diminished, but clung on with a stubbornness that was at odds inspiring or infuriating, depending on the swing of Dunnegar’s moods. ‘You must indeed be strong friends, else one of you would be dead by now.’

Killim and Dunnegar eyed each other. They both knew which one.

Remembering himself, Killim bowed stiffly. His attitude to their reversal in status was ironic given that it had been by his own scholarly concession, ‘not unheard of’, that had finally overcome the resistance to the decimated Angfyrd lodge being absorbed into their cousins’ ranks. It was Aethnir now that commanded the auric hearthguard, with Killim relegated merely to carrying the standard.

‘Perhaps in a few hundred years,’ Nosda-Grimnir had said by way of consolation, time enough for the old smith to memorise the chronicle of the new lodge he was now a reluctant part of.

‘Shouldn’t you be foraging ahead?’ Killim grumbled.

With a self-deprecating shrug, Aethnir indicated the slimy marmot-like creatures strung up from his fyrd’s magmapikes. The animals burrowed into the soil all over this country where the lake was shallow. They tasted even more like dung than dung, but they needed neither cooking nor skinning, and when left to hang could release three or four times their dry weight in lukewarm water.

‘I’d rather eat the magmapike,’ Killim grumbled.

‘You could always try going hungry,’ Aethnir returned. ‘It would be better for the pike.’

‘I should’ve gone with Huffnar and Rokkar. Founded a new lodge and forgotten this damned quest. I’ll wager they’re not eating this hot drez right now.’

‘I’d wager you’re right,’ said Aethnir levelly.

Dunnegar snorted, earning himself a sharply quizzical look from his old mentor. ‘You really think they managed to start a new lodge anywhere here?’

‘Better off,’ Killim grumbled after a moment.

Dunnegar turned to the young karl. ‘Do you know how far we are from Fyrepeak?’

Aethnir simply shrugged.

‘Of course he doesn’t know,’ Killim snapped, swiping up his own chronicle and waving it like an admonition to an entire damnable world. ‘It’s been thirty-three hundred days. We should’ve seen the Plain of Dust, but we haven’t. We should have had at least a hint of Taurak Skullcleaver or the last of his lieutenants, but we haven’t. We should be entering the Red Mountains, but we bloody well aren’t.’ He looked around, drunk with sarcasm. ‘We’re not, are we?’

Aethnir squinted at the red haze on the horizon. ‘They look a bit l—’

‘They’re not the Red drenging Mountains,’ Killim screamed, slamming his book shut, then taking it two-handed and launching it into the air.

It sploshed into the lake, ignited an instant later, and sank under with a hiss.

Panting, Killim turned slowly pale. ‘Oh, drez.’

‘It’s alright,’ said Aethnir. ‘I don’t think it was helping anyway.’

‘This is your fault.’

‘My fault?’

‘Aye. You. Burying ur-gold I could have used. Feeding me these… things.’

Ignoring them, determinedly so for the circularity of their arguments made him dizzy, Dunnegar rose to his feet and leaned forward. He was peering to the horizon, and that latent red shimmer. For a moment it had seemed to crackle as if with storms. He listened, counting under his breath, and on the count of nine came the rumour of thunder.

He couldn’t say why, but the storm made him think of war.

‘The Red Mountains are there,’ he said, sure of it. ‘And we go on.’

‘The four thousand and first day saw the end of one quest and the beginning of another. The journey had proven long and costly and perhaps we should have abandoned it before we did, though there can be few who were there that day who took issue with the outcome. An oath is an oath, but gold is gold…’

The Sepuzkul Chronicle (formally the Angfyrd Odyssey)

‘I am wrath!’ Dunnegar roared, throwing his elbow through a warrior’s pointed jaw. Blood exploded from the reaver’s mouth. There was no time to attend him further. The enemy were packed in so close that there was no air to breathe that had not already been breathed out or bled into. The froth from their mouths was in his beard, their blood was in his eyes, and he killed more men with his fingernails and his teeth than he could with his axe.

The mountains — whether the Red Mountains or no — were rust red, fangs of rock to rip open the jugular of passing worlds and drink the fire of their blood. The trail that wound through them was rugged and uneven, climbing by sudden rises and twisting often, but not nearly difficult enough that thirty of the hardest duardin ever to leave the Realm of Chamon could hold back the horde for much longer.

Thirty. Against a thousand thousand.

Few they were, but that it was they who had made it this far and not others was testament to their bloody-minded tenacity to kill rather than be killed.

The last of the two lodges’ hearthguard held the old cart, containing the tools of runemaking and the last few ingots of precious ur-gold, as though it were a fortress. Globs of molten magma screamed from their pikes, blasting smoking trenches deep into the enemy ranks. Solldun the runesmiter chanted from his smoky bastion, straddling a pair of fyresteel chests packed over the axle, and bade the rock to split and boiling geysers to fire the Bloodbound to their dooms. What he admittedly lacked in the rune-maker’s craft, he joyfully accounted for in the arts of war.

The final fyrd of vulkite berzerkers was the wall around them. Leading them in a song of gold and glory, Killim left his years behind him to fight with equal fervour. He and Aethnir battled back to back, the latter a ghost-pale blur behind his twinned fyresteel axes.

‘I am vengeance!’

By foot and shoulder, Dunnegar cleared space enough to swing his axe. It clanged against a blood warrior carrying a mace and a shield stretched with human skin. Too close. The rune-scratched bloodsteel took its hit, and then the warrior thumped him back with the flattened face of his shield. Dunnegar shook off the stunning blow, but not before a bloodreaver daubed in black and red flame tattoos grabbed the haft of his axe and tried to pull it from him.

Dunnegar punched the man in the face. Once, twice. The man’s lip split, his jawbone caved. The third hit twisted his head so sharply that his neck snapped.

Dunnegar shrugged off the mobbing bloodreavers with a howl.

‘I am Grimnir! I am already dead!’

And in that moment, power that did not belong in mortal veins rushing through his mind, Dunnegar was Grimnir again.

The heat of the mountain, the dust on his hands. He could feel the meat of Vulcatrix’s mammoth neck coming apart beneath his axe. And claws. Claws piercing, claws in his chest and in his jaw and spearing his thighs. The god-lizard was dying, and in its savage throes those claws came apart. He felt it. Gods of old, he felt it!

Weeping golden tears, he hurled himself headlong into the grind, striking out with such furious pain that it no longer mattered that there was no room to swing. Everything that got near him died.

‘Tame yourself, grim brother,’ bellowed Nosda-Grimnir from atop his terrible ash-grey magmadroth. ‘Back into line, lest the souls you condemn cry your name into the Underworld and bring the gaze of Nagash upon your shade.’

The Sepuzkul runefather was fending off an ape-like monster of blood and sinew at the extreme range of his grandaxe. Black spikes split its muscular torso without any thought to symmetry or pattern, branded icons of control sweating against slick red skin. Fists like boulders beat aside armoured Goresworn and blood marauders alike in its efforts to get close. The magmadroth sent spumes of flame battering against it, re-opening partially healed lash scars and, in concert with his master’s axe, only just managing to hold the rabid bloodspawn at bay.

‘If we die then we die fulfilling oaths!’ Killim screamed, throat raw, mouth red. ‘To the last! All of us on to the bloody death.’

‘A bloody death!’ Aethnir echoed, raising his axes high.

The Fyreslayers sung it, shouted it loud, beat the words into Bloodbound shields. Some even laughed it, for what was death but the penultimate step on Grimnir’s road?

‘A bloody death!’

The shock of a horn blasted back in answer. The note was as deep as the earth, as powerful as thunder, and on hearing it a fire seemed to die in the eyes of the Bloodbound. Dunnegar felt it too, the fight being drawn from him through the uncanny goose bumping of his flesh, though not to the obvious extent of the Khornates. They stared at each other as if through a dream, and in a listless scrape of greaves and boots on the armour of dead men, they stumbled back.

The Fyreslayers let them go. Expedience perhaps, or exhaustion. Or maybe the pacifying power of that horn had affected them more profoundly than they realised. The armies stared at each other across ground thick with dead. A silence well befitting a graveyard fell across them. Duardin shuffled warily.

‘What is this?’ Dunnegar hissed.

‘We’ll find out soon enough,’ said Killim.

And soon enough, they did.

Simpering and shuffling under the crack of whips, the ranks slowly parted to form a corridor. A pair of towering slaughterpriests walked down it with lengthened strides, escort and honour guard to the monster between them.

It might have been a horse once, but its mouth had since become a beak and its spine curved like one of the daemon hounds of Khorne. Fired burned where a mane should have grown and eyes with just enough intelligence to weep rolled in sockets all over its many-jointed limbs. And mounted on that fell beast rode the real monster.

He was a colossus of armour plate, clanking roughly from side to side with the violence of his mount’s ungainly stride. His armour was a fluted puzzle of grooves and channels through which blood sluggishly trickled. His helm had a Y-shaped opening that revealed a black face with eyes like burning coals, and a pair of flat, angular horns.

The priests of blood parted and there, straight backed and with arms crossed like statues before a realmgate to the Realm of Chaos, they stood.

The Lord of Khorne lowered his horn, made from a length of curving, hollowed bone, and regarded the Fyreslayers one by one.

‘I am Kar Thraxis,’ he said, the deep timbre of his words inflaming the blood of all who heard with a need to do violence. ‘I am the Ravager, the Devourer in Flame. I would meet your mightiest.’

Killim, Aethnir and Nosda-Grimnir shared glances.

Without waiting for them to decide, Dunnegar strode into the clearing and readied his greataxe.

Kar Thraxis nodded, apparently satisfied by what he saw. ‘I hear you slew the Griever.’

‘Not I,’ Dunnegar grunted, ‘but I was there.’

‘Good. You cannot imagine how long I have waited to see him dead.’

Dunnegar gave an impatient growl. ‘Are we going to fight then?’

‘One day. Perhaps.’

With a snap of his armoured wrist, a gang of inhumanly muscular men with dull, beast-of-burden looks, trudged between the watching priests. They dragged heavy chests behind them, pulling them by chains that were fed through the steel rings hammered into their bruised flesh. At a motion from Kar Thraxis, one of the slaughterpriests stepped forward to kick the lock from one. The giant bent low and threw it open.

The Fyreslayers murmured in stunned appreciation.

Dunnegar’s eyes widened as he took in the glittering hoard. As if he could simply absorb it all.

‘There is ur-gold here,’ said Solldun, crouching, eyes fire bright.

‘You’re sure?’ Dunnegar mumbled.

Many Fyreslayers had some sense for the presence of ur-gold, but only a runemaster had the gift to pick ur-gold from gold.

Solldun simply nodded.

‘You like my gold?’ said Kar Thraxis, a smile opening his face like a fissure in deep earth. ‘I had heard.’

‘We like some of your gold,’ Dunnegar said cagily, but bartering now seemed pointless. The Lord of Khorne had seen the hunger in them all, the starvation. He lowered his axe in surrender, dimly conscious of his brothers and cousins doing the same. ‘What do you want for it?’

Kar Thraxis gestured behind him. There, the storm that the Fyreslayers had been following like a guiding star blackened the mountain sky. ‘The war storm is here, led by a being the Stormcasts call Celestant-Prime.’

‘You want me to kill this Stormcast for you?’ Dunnegar wrenched his gaze from the gold and turned to face the Lord of Khorne. He felt no fear of this monster. He stuck out his jaw, puffed out his chest. ‘Because I can do that.’

Chuckling, Kar Thraxis dismounted and knelt to be eye-to-eye with the Fyreslayer. ‘His death by another’s hand wins me nothing.’

‘Taurak Skullcleaver,’ Dunnegar grunted in understanding.

‘The gods demand unity in the face of the storm. His death by my hand will also win me nothing. Will you do it?’

Dunnegar’s gold-flecked eyes met the Khornate’s hate-filled glare and held it. The runefather was dead, his lodge destroyed and swallowed by another. Ancient as such civilized trappings could appear, they were temporary. Grimnir’s life and death taught that. Only power was eternal.

Only gold.

He hawked up a gob of saliva and spat it on his palm, extending it to the Lord of Khorne as it sizzled.

‘I will. And I can.’

David Annandale

The Keys to Ruin

I

Daemons were dancing over the Voidfire Plain. The flamers of Tzeentch spun and whirled, their columnar shapes rocking back and forth. Their serpentine limbs outstretched, they bathed the grasses of the Voidfire in their unholy flames, twisting the land, catching it up in their lunatic dance. Wherever he looked, Vrindum saw the daemons. They kept their distance from the Fyreslayers, too scattered and too few to mount a challenge to the great host. They remained writhing silhouettes close to the horizons. The grimwrath berzerker’s grip on Darkbane, his fyrestorm greataxe, was tight with frustrated anger. He longed to cut down the taunting abominations.

Just ahead of Vrindom, Bramnor, youngest of the runesons, rose in the throne on his magmadroth. ‘Face us!’ he shouted at the daemons. ‘You are craven beasts!’ His roar was powerful. The long, roped braid of his beard shook with the force of his shout.

The flamers danced on. They had no need to close with duardin. Mindless, they were caught in the ecstasy of the song, the song that was greater than the daemons, the song that blew with the wind over all the regions and vastness of the Evercry. The song that had called to Beregthor-Grimnir, auric runefather of the Drunbhor lodge. The song Beregthor had answered, leading his warriors down from the mountains, away from the magmahold in Sibilatus, exhorting them to cross the wailing plain.

A choir of a billion voices joined the wind in singing the melody of the dance. The song was simple, repetitive, insistent. It had three notes. Low, high, low. Short, long, short. The beats soft, strong, soft. The voices came from the grasses of the plains. They were tall, waist-high on Vrindum, and flexible, hollow, fleshy, corrupted. Along each shaft, a multitude of toothed mouths chanted. The reeds swayed with the song, bending with and against the wind. When by chance a cluster of reeds leaned together, they burst into eldritch flame. Across the endless stretch of the plain, blossoms of fire shot up into the hard light of the sun. They spread like oil upon water, then went out with the suddenness of candleflame. Fire without cause, out of nowhere, appearing and vanishing.

A tangle of reeds blew against Vrindum’s arm. They grasped at him, mouths gnawing with hunger. He yanked back, uprooting and tearing them. Green ichor spattered. A step later, a cluster formed and spat their fire over him. He growled at the burn. A thousand searing claws crawled over his flesh, seeking to swallow him in metamorphosis. He shrugged away their touch and swung Darkbane like a scythe, cutting a swathe through the reeds. The fire went out.

All along the Drunbhor lines, Fyreslayers fought the ravenous, singing, burning grass. So it had been for days beyond counting.

A flare of violet flame swept over Bramnor. His magmadroth spat its own fire over the grass, killing it with the purging acid. Bramnor snarled as he passed through the daemonic burn. ‘This is not war. I’ve had enough of this cursed land.’

Frethnir, the eldest runeson, said, ‘There is change ahead.’ He pointed.

Vrindum squinted. There was darkness in the distance. A mass of tall forms, much higher than the grasses.

‘Is that a forest?’ The middle brother, Drethor, shaded his eyes.

‘It is not,’ Vrindum said. The shapes, vague as they were this far away, did not belong to trees. He cut through more grasses as they reached for him. Their mouths issued discordant cries, but they fell without burning.

‘Runefather,’ Frethnir called, ‘is that the promise of honest battle we see?’ His tone was jocular, but Vrindum heard an undercurrent of concern. It had been present when Frethnir spoke to his father ever since the departure from Sibilatus, and had become clearer and more urgent during the endless crossing of the Voidfire.

There was no answer from Beregthor.

Instead, there was a cry from further back in the lines. An upheaval of flamer-corrupted grasses wrapped around both legs of a hearthguard berzerker. Blood streamed down his limbs and he fell into a conflagration. He cursed to the last as his flesh burned and his body changed, bones thrusting clacking tongues through muscle, eyes sprouting in his beard, wings unfolding on his back. ‘Brothers!’ he called at the end, and his voice was the only thing that was still duardin about him. His comrades answered his need, and ended his suffering, preserving his honour. Then, in rage, they set about slashing the cursed plain with even greater vigour. In the distance, the flamers danced and paid them no heed.

Another death. They were becoming more frequent. The movements of the land were hypnotic. Mistakes were easier and easier to make with every passing day.

Frethnir had turned around in his throne when he heard the shout. Now he met Vrindum’s gaze. Frethnir’s face was expressive in its pain. His features were thinner and longer than those of his brothers. Even his beard seemed more angular. A great scar ran from Frethnir’s forehead to his chin, earned when he had single-handedly slain two maggoths. Sigils of ur-gold ran along the mark, a sign of Frethnir’s honour and strength. At this moment, though, it seemed to be the division in his spirit. Loyalty and love fought with doubt.

Doubt. Frethnir had spoken it aloud. Bramnor, recoiling from the vast sky over the Voidfire, had been complaining since they reached the plain. Drethor, quieter than the other two runesons, had fallen into a silence he now rarely broke as the days had turned into weeks and supplies had run low. He fought on through the cursed grasses with a stoicism more grim than patient. Frethnir, though, had expressed concern about the quest at the start. He had argued with Beregthor, then accepted the runefather’s decision as final. After so long in the Voidfire, though, the doubts had returned, and grown more serious. They were clearly eating at Frethnir. The lack of answer from Beregthor did not help.

Vrindum moved to the side, hacking through screaming reeds, so he could look past the runesons. Twenty paces ahead, Beregthor rode the magmadroth Krasnak, as high and proud in his throne as he had been the day the fyrds of the Drunbhor had left Sibilatus. Vrindum saw no doubt in the runefather’s posture, and no fatigue. The days in the Voidfire Plain had not worn him down. There was a leader who was sure of the path he had set for his lodge.

Vrindum glanced back at Frethnir. The runeson’s brow was still furrowed, his features still tortured by a decision he did not want to make. He faced forward once more, his posture rigid.

There could only be one choice so agonising. It was between two great loyalties: to the runefather, and to the lodge.

He thinks he might have to challenge the runefather, Vrindum thought.

Vrindum and Beregthor had grown up together. They had fought side by side their entire lives. The idea that the runefather might no longer be fit to bear the name Beregthor-Grimnir was a tragedy Vrindum refused to countenance.

Yet he could not ignore the accumulation of events that had pushed Frethnir to this point. Not just the endless march through the Voidfire Plain. The quest itself was driven by reasons even Vrindum found vague. We seek a gate where the wind is born, the runefather had declared. The lodge of our forefathers calls to us, he had said. A lodge never spoken of before. Beregthor led the Drunbhor toward a myth, to aid another myth. And there was the near-catastrophe at Sibilatus…

He looked again at the bearing of the runefather and felt better. There was a great warrior. He had not fallen, and Vrindum would follow him wherever he led.

But it was hard to look back and no longer see the towering bulk of Sibilatus.

II

Sibilatus: the howling mountain, magmahold of the Drunbhor lodge. Vrindum had dedicated his life to its defence, and it was a wonder worth defending. It shouldered high above its neighbouring peaks, a hulking, titanic skeleton turned to granite, crouched and brooding over the leagues before it. The skull took the full brunt of the wind that blew over the Evercry.

The night of the coming of the storm, Vrindum stood deep in the orbit of the skull’s left eye. He was a mote in the vast opening. The rounded roof was hundreds of feet above him. The wind hit him as it surged through the tunnel, roaring with all the strength built over the uncounted leagues from its legend-shrouded origin. It rushed in through the gaps in the ribs, and through the openings of porous bones. The entrances to the caves of Sibilatus numbered in the thousands. Where Vrindum stood, the voice of the wind was a deep, animal bass. Entwined with it were the higher notes of the ringing through tunnels long and short, wide and thin, straight and twisting. Sibilatus was a single great instrument, and the wind played it, creating a song of many harmonies. Vrindum revelled in the strength of the howling mountain. As he did every night, he rededicated his life to its defence. He spread his arms and welcomed the power of its booming, ever-changing hymn.

The songs of Sibilatus accompanied the retelling of sagas, the revels of feasts, and the thunder of war. He knew them all.

Then came the storm.

In a single moment, all variation ceased. The song became a simple one. It was an immense cry. A war horn bigger than worlds sounded three notes over and over. Vrindum staggered under its blow. Silver lightning exploded beyond the horizon. It streaked to earth as if the stars themselves were coming to wage war. This was lightning such as Vrindum had never seen before. The light was both more pure and more savage than that of any storm.

Such portents. Such omens. He stared. He could not fathom what he heard and saw.

A new thunder sounded beyond the portal to the cavern. It was the runefather’s voice, extraordinary in its power, as if it were drawing strength from the storm.

‘Bear witness, fellow Drunbhor!’ Beregthor called. ‘Look to the west, and see the hand of fate itself! See the workings of prophecy! Bear witness! Bear witness!’

The runefather’s command was taken up and passed through all the tunnels and chambers of Sibilatus. The Drunbhor climbed to the heights of the magmahold. In the socket of that vast eye, Vrindum was soon no longer alone. There were hundreds of Fyreslayers with him, and thousands more wherever there was an aperture giving on to the eruption of the heavens.

The horizon flashed with new war. The entire Drunbhor lodge bore witness.

All eyes looked west, and so they did not see the enemy.

III

The flamers danced, the grasses burned and clutched, and the forest drew near. Vrindum thought of it as a forest because there was no other word he could find for it. The silhouettes of the tall, swaying trunks were swollen with large, tumorous shapes. There was no foliage, though there appeared to be branches. They coiled and gestured, summoning the Drunbhor to their darkness. Over the three-note song of the wind came a rasping sound. Vrindum thought of the rubbing of rough, horned flesh. A scent like foul, piercing incense wafted over the fyrds.

Vrindum drew level with Krasnak. The magmadroth slashed at the hungry grasses before each step. The great beast bore the scars of burns. So did the runefather. He looked down from his throne and smiled at his old comrade. ‘Are my sons full of doubt?’

Vrindum nodded.

‘Will Frethnir challenge me?’

‘He wrestles with the decision. Why did you not answer him when he called to you?’

Beregthor laughed. ‘What need?’ He pointed the Keeper of Roads, his latchkey grandaxe, towards the tortured shapes ahead of them. ‘Is that a fit destination for our quest? My sons need more faith.’

‘Frethnir does not speak against you.’

‘Loyal but troubled, is he?’ Beregthor chuckled.

Vrindum saw little cause for amusement, but the runefather had been in high spirits since the first night of the storm. Even as the Voidfire gnawed at the ranks of the Drunbhor, Beregthor remained transported by the purpose of his quest.

A flamer twisted close, almost within reach, then moved away as throwing axes flew in its direction.

‘And what do you think, Vrindum?’ Beregthor asked.

‘That I march where you march.’

Beregthor laughed again. It was a great laugh, deep and strong. It shook Beregthor’s entire frame. ‘That much I can see, and I am grateful, as always, for your comradeship.’ He turned serious. ‘We are not alone in our purpose. Other lodges are on this journey.’

Vrindum frowned. ‘Have there been messages?’ He did not know how this was possible.

‘No.’ Beregthor rose in the throne once more as Krasnak took them through a burst of flame. ‘That is the prophecy. A new age dawns! It is full of change and war! Grimnir calls to all Fyreslayers, and we must answer!’

Vrindum wondered at this. Beregthor claimed his knowledge came from seeing a prophecy fulfilled, but it was a prophecy known only to him. Not even Runemaster Trumnir had heard of it before.

‘Tell me,’ said Beregthor, ‘do you believe in our journey? Do you believe in the reason we march?’

‘I believe that what happened at the magmahold had meaning, runefather.’

Of that, at least, he was certain.

IV

What happened at the magmahold…

They were all looking west, at the storm and the portents. They let their guard down. They were not looking inward. They did not see the enemy until almost too late.

With a cry of rage, Vrindum leapt from the gallery surrounding the Chamber of the Gate. He came down in the centre of the cave, on the very dais of the Drunbhor’s realmgate itself. He landed on the back of a raving priest, shattering his spine. He swung Darkbane in great arcs, left then right, its dual blades chopping down the corrupted warriors of the Changer of the Ways. The two long braids of his beard whipped about his head. Limbs and skulls flew. Blood fountained, drenching Vrindum in the death of the invaders.

Hearthguard berzerkers stormed in through the four entrances of the chamber. They hacked their way deep into the horde. They brought brutal punishment to the foe that had dared trespass so deep into Sibilatus. None would escape alive.

But they should never have come this far.

Anger and shame battled in Vrindum’s breast. The chamber, deep in the heart of the magmahold, in the roots of the Whistling Mountain, was closely guarded, though it had not been used in centuries. He did not know how the invaders had learned of its existence, or of its location, or how they had reached it undetected. What mattered was that they had done so, and that they tainted the sacred ground of Sibilatus with their presence. The incursion dishonoured all the karls of the Drunbhor. If Vrindum killed all the wretches with his own hands, the fact that they had been here at all could never be forgotten, the taint never washed away.

Vrindum’s fury redoubled. He laid waste to the corrupted. He stood in the midst of a rising pile of corpses. If any of the attackers survived long enough to strike him, he did not feel the blows. He saw only their blood, and there was not enough of it. He would have more and more, until the foe was drowning in it.

The attacking force was a strong one. There were raving, self-mutilating worshippers of Tzeentch, eager to sacrifice themselves for their god. But with them were true champions, Chaos warriors in full armour, the plate distorted with twisting spikes and runes of madness. They fought hard against the Fyreslayers, and they fought well.

They died all the same. A towering warrior reared up before Vrindum, wielding a black, saw-toothed blade. Vrindum smashed the knight’s blow aside hard enough to shatter the sword. He brought his axe around and slammed it into the warrior’s helm, cleaving it and the skull beneath in two.

And there were daemons. Flamers of Tzeentch; hopping, twisting whirlwinds of flesh. Spellfire gouted from their snaking limbs. Vrindum’s anger had him on the edge of a killing frenzy, but he retained enough awareness to see there was strategy in the enemy’s assault. The debased mortals and the Chaos warriors formed a wedge around the daemons. They took the brunt of the Fyreslayers’ counter-attack. The broadaxes of the hearthguard berzerkers cut through the bodies of the cultists, then clashed against the armour and blades of the warriors. The glorious fire of duardin rage battered the darkness. Ancient armour shattered under the blows of the berzerkers. Their columns punched into the ranks of the Chaos warriors, but the hulking champions of ruin held the line, slowing the berzerkers with their own wrath and sacrifice. The flamers ignored the Drunbhor. All of their attention was focused on the gate. They trained their spectral flames on the stone pillars of its archway. The wards of the gate flashed, lashing out with purging lightning, reducing one of the daemons to ash. The others paid no notice. They continued their attack.

Sacred stone began to squirm. Portions softened, turning to flesh. A Chaos warrior hurled an axe at the flesh even as Vrindum brought him down, choosing to harm the gate rather than save himself. The thrown axe cut deep into the newly created muscle. The gate began to bleed.

The base of one of the pillars turned to glass.

Vrindum barrelled into yet another knight, sending the warrior flying out of his way. He roared at the flamer beyond — the one changing the pillar into crystalline brittleness — and plunged his greataxe into the daemon creature. The flamer would have shrugged off the blow of an ordinary weapon, but this was Darkbane, wielded by the grimwrath berzerker of the Drunbhor lodge. There was nothing ordinary about the blow. Stricken, the flamer unleashed a maddened, otherworldly howl. Vrindum’s ears bled at the sound. Darkbane was buried deep in the daemon’s core. He leaned on the shaft and the blade descended further, then the being exploded. Dissipating sorcery washed over him, and his flesh writhed in its wake, but he was stronger than the wave of change.

Two more knights rushed him as he turned to attack the next flamer, but it was too late. Glass shattered. Flesh tore. The pillars of the gate fell.

From the dying gate came a scream of sorcerous light that filled the chamber.

Many of the invaders were destroyed along with the gate. The few who survived were slaughtered by the wrathful Fyreslayers. The incursion was over, but it had served its purpose.

‘They did not seek to seize the gate,’ Vrindum told Beregthor as the runefather walked through the wreckage of the chamber. ‘They came to destroy it.’

Beregthor nodded absently, deep in thought. After several long moments, he said, ‘They had reason to destroy it. The storm has given them urgency. They would prevent us from fulfilling our duty. All they have done is ensure that we will.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Vrindum said.

Beregthor smiled.

Then, for the first time, he spoke of the other lodge.

In the days that followed, as preparations were made for the great march the runefather commanded, he said much about the lodge. How its magmahold had lain a long, but not impossible, journey beyond the other side of the lost gate. How in ages past, the Drunbhor had left that lodge to travel the realms and had come to Sibilatus. How the great storm portended a union of the two lodges in battle against Chaos. How the song of the wind, now unchanging, was the call to the Drunbhor, the call to march to that union. How the incursion had only made clear the necessity of this quest.

‘This prophecy…’ Runemaster Trumnir began when the council met.

‘Passes from runefather to runefather,’ Beregthor told him. ‘It is the memory of our lineage.’

‘But the gate is destroyed,’ Frethnir said. ‘Our way is closed.’

‘There is another gate,’ said Beregthor.

Again, Trumnir looked surprised. The runemaster’s beard and hair were streaked with lightning strokes of iron grey. He was older than Beregthor. That he had not known such secrets stunned him perhaps even more than the other Drunbhor.

Beregthor raised the grandaxe. ‘The gate is locked. It will open only to the Keeper of Roads. We must seek it where the wind is born. We march to the Typhornas Mountains.’

Mountains of lore. Mountains from the oldest stories of the Drunbhor.

A quest for a myth within myths. That was when Vrindum saw the first shadows of doubt and unease on Frethnir’s face.

‘How will we find them?’ the runeson asked.

‘By answering the call of the wind,’ said Beregthor. ‘It summons us to the west.’

Towards the storm.

V

The ground began to slope upwards where the Voidfire Plain ended at the forest of monsters. The smell of incense was overwhelming. It clawed at Vrindum’s lungs when he breathed. The Drunbhor left the grasses behind and passed between trunks swollen with bulbous growths. Their texture was patterns of shifting, spiralling whorls. Their colours varied from deep flesh-pink to the blue of bruises, and the shades changed from one moment to the next. To gaze on a single plant was to be confused by an ever-shifting pattern of colour and movement.

The limbs of the plants were long, thin and serpentine, reaching across the space between them to tangle with each other. It was impossible to tell where the branch of one plant ended and that of another began, as the limbs rubbed against one another, creating a susurrus of muttered truths and shapeless words. They seemed to gesture towards the Drunbhor, calling them deeper into the woods of madness.

‘Be vigilant, fyrds of the Drunbhor,’ Beregthor called.

Clusters of spines curled out from the trunks and branches. Their tips were sharp as blades.

The plants were as tall as fifty feet when they stood straight. Many were coiled like giant ferns or the tentacles of a sea leviathan. Like the flamers on the Voidfire Plain, they danced to the song of the wind. Though each monstrous plant had its own movement independent of all the others, the rhythms of each sway and bow and sinuosity were in time to the sounding of the three notes.

Short, long, short. The beats soft, strong, soft. The song never altering, the same notes since the first moment of the storm. The lightning had long since ceased, but the song remained, calling and calling.

‘The wind summons us!’ Beregthor said, as he had so many times since the coming of the storm. ‘It calls us to battle!’

The dance of the corrupted plants disturbed Vrindum. If the call was to the Drunbhor, why did these unclean growths respond to it?

Behind Vrindum, Frethnir said, ‘These creatures sense us.’ Shudders ran up the trunks and along the branches, as though a web had been disturbed. Vrindum eyed their movements carefully, even as he also watched the shadows between their trunks. There was no underbrush in the forest-that-was-not-a-forest, but the plants stood close to one another, and the light was dim.

There were no paths. The Fyreslayers were forced to wend their way between the trunks. The line of their march became twisted. When Vrindum looked back, he could see only the first couple of fyrds behind the runesons. On a column of more than a thousand Drunbhor, if something happened to the leaders or the rearguard, the other end of the host would not know it.

If the Voidfire Plain had been no proper place for a Fyreslayer, this was worse yet.

‘We are here!’ Vrindum shouted. Let the enemy come at last and meet the edge of his axe. ‘Know us and fear us!’

Laughter ahead. For a terrible moment, Vrindum thought it came from the runefather. Then he realized it emanated from a cluster of trunks a score of paces further on. As one, when the wind’s long note sounded, the growths on the trunks bulged, deep pink and shining. There was a wet tearing noise. The tumours grew arms and horns. They pulled away from the trunks, glistening with mucus. Newly born and ready for war, the pink horrors dropped to the ground. They were heavy, squat, horned things, some with three limbs, some four, some five. All had huge, gaping jaws. Their flesh was the colour of exposed muscle.

Bramnor answered the daemons with laughter of his own, angry yet eager.

‘Finally!’ he roared. ‘A proper fight.’

The rumble of voices along the Drunbhor column echoed Bramnor’s words. Drethor and Frethnir added their voices to the clamour. Bramnor was the brashest of the runesons, but all were hungry to inflict true punishment on the enemy after the grinding losses of the Voidfire.

‘Guard the flanks!’ Beregthor commanded, even as Krasnak charged with him towards the immediate threat.

The hearthguard and vulkite berzerkers aimed their weapons to the sides. The column moved forward, its edges sharp.

The daemons rushed at Beregthor, Vrindum and the runesons. A moment later, more of the pink horrors burst from the trunks on either side, falling to the ground with fat thuds, a rain of monstrous fruit. And as the daemons surrounded the Drunbhor, the plants attacked too. Their true nature was now clear; they were daemons of the same ilk fused and melded into each other, their limbs distorted and stretched into branches, their horns turned into the spines. Flexing, grasping, the conglomerations of daemons were even more like tentacles now, as if the entire forest were the claws of a great fist that now began to close. The huge trunks whipped down, shaking the earth with their impact. The spines lunged for the Fyreslayers.

‘Avenge Sibilatus!’ Trumnir cried. ‘Avenge its desecration!’

On his magmadroth, Runesmiter Harthum beat the war altar, and down the length of the Fyreslayer line the sigils of ur-gold worked into the warriors’ flesh stirred them to the joyous frenzy of war. The essence of Grimnir awoke in all of them, and would be satisfied with nothing except the utter annihilation of the daemons. Vulkite berzerkers tore into the pink horrors, while the magmadroths slashed at them with great claws and spat streams of flaming bile. In the gap created by the dissolving, burning daemons, the hearthguard berzerkers stormed outward, pushing hard against the daemons, cutting down abominations who dared attack the runefather. The vulkite berserkers advanced on either side, and the more the gibbering creatures attacked, the wider the column became as the Drunbhor met their challenge with a rising tide of fury.

Vrindum hurled himself at the daemons seeking to climb the flanks of Krasnak and take down Beregthor. He slammed into them with the force of a battering ram, knocking them back. His blows sank into solid, dense muscle that flowed with the possibility of change. There was no structure of bone. Revulsion fuelled his rage and his violence, and he struck harder yet, severing the flesh completely. It came apart in sticky tendrils.

A cackling daemon opened its maw wide enough to swallow his head, and Vrindum cut it in half with a single blow of Darkbane. The daemon’s laughter turned into a shriek, and then into wails of petulant grief as the two portions of its body shifted to blue and sprouted limbs. The new daemons reached for Vrindum, their gestures both predatory and entreating. They barely had time to come into being and mourn the loss of their greater self. Vrindum already had Darkbane raised again. He brought it down in a diagonal slash. One blow had ended the pink daemon; now one blow destroyed the two blue ones. The onyx blade smashed through Chaos flesh so hard it left a huge cleft in the ground. The daemons vanished mid-howl, their essence erupting then dispersing with a fading echo of a snarl. Vrindum yanked the greataxe from the ground and rounded on more of the foe.

Standing high on his throne, a roaring Beregthor battered pink horrors down from Krasnak’s flanks with the Keeper of Roads. He hit the head of one daemon with such force that he squeezed its essence within the cleft of the blade. Then he twisted violently, snapping the head in half. The blue horrors that came into being were flawed, malformed even for daemons, half their heads missing. Beregthor dispatched them quickly, crushing their bodies beneath the weight of the grandaxe.

Trunks bent and limbs grasped, but the Fyreslayers concentrated on the daemons not rooted to the ground. The other pink horrors numbered in the hundreds, a horde that would have overwhelmed an army of mere mortals with the sheer monstrosity of its existence. But the Fyreslayers waded into the struggle with eagerness. They were strong, and they were legion. They hacked at the pink horrors and then the squealing blue daemons. The enemy multiplied, then began to dwindle in a matter of seconds.

The Drunbhor batted away the probing spines as a mere annoyance. Drethor was bleeding from minor wounds on his face and chest. They were insignificant, barely noticed in the heat of anger and slaughter.

The fused horrors reached and stabbed, accumulating wounds, drawing blood. The tips of their horns broke off and left jagged burrs in the flesh of the duardin.

As Vrindum sent two more daemons into oblivion, he saw many of his brother Drunbhor now fighting while their arms and necks bristled with spines. Blood poured down their skin, obscuring the fire of the ur-gold. The spines writhed. They whistled. And then, as ever to the rhythm of the wind’s three-note song, a metamorphosis took place. Drethor jerked. He dropped his weapons. He cried out in agony. He arched backwards. He kept bending until his spine cracked to splinters. Still he folded backwards, his hair and beard losing their red, turning pink, turning to flesh. The back of his head fused with his legs. Skin flowed over his face, destroying his identity. His shoulders moved back up through his torso until his arms emerged from the sides of his stomach. His misshapen legs grew longer. The flesh of his midsection tore open, becoming gnashing jaws. Muscle bunched, twisted, flowed and grew horns.

Where Drethor had been, a pink horror stood on his magmadroth’s back. It sank claws and fangs into the back of the beast’s neck. The magmadroth writhed, seeking to dislodge its attacker, but more daemons sprang into being, swarming over it. The enemy’s army grew. The lines of the Fyreslayers became ragged from a new and insidious incursion. The cry that went up was beyond rage. It overflowed with grief and horror.

‘Guard yourselves!’ Runemaster Trumnir shouted. ‘Purge yourselves of the foul thorns! Do not despair! Let the fire of Grimnir burn strong and destroy the taint of Chaos.’ He raised his staff high, and holy fire crackled around it. Daemons rushed him, but were held back by the hearthguard berzerkers at his sides long enough for him to complete his summoning and bring the point of the staff down with a blow that shook the earth. A moment later, lava burst from the ground, enveloping an entire cluster of the daemonic trunks. They shrivelled to ash in the molten rock.

Vrindum descended further into rage at the sight of his possessed brothers. He moved too fast for any daemon. He was a storm. Darkbane was a blur. He waded through a rain of daemonic ichor. The only clear thought in the whirlwind of his rage was the need to protect the runefather. Beregthor roared his battle fury, seeming in no need of protection. Vrindum broke through a wall of pink horrors to see Beregthor hurl four of them away at once with a mighty stroke of the Keeper of Roads. Their forms shattered and they fell from Krasnak’s back to be trampled to nothing beneath the magmadroth’s claws.

‘See our runefather lay waste to the daemon!’ Trumnir commanded. ‘Forward! Cut through the enemy in all his guises! Leave a trail of flame and blood to mark our passage!’

Inspired by the voice of the runemaster and sustained in wrath by the drumming of the runesmiter, the Fyreslayers attacked the pink horrors with renewed fervour. The duardin were wary now of the corrupting thorns. They had been made to fight and destroy creatures that had been their brothers, and vengeance was in every blow. The daemons had begun to break through the lines, but now they were hurled back, then hammered and slashed to oblivion.

Beregthor urged Krasnak into a charge, leading the Drunbhor host in a merciless advance. No longer did the Fyreslayers go around the trunks; instead they drove a straight line through the monstrous growths. Though the pink horrors giggled as if they had already won the battle, their laughter ended in squealing and the rending of daemonic flesh. Vrindum ran alongside Krasnak, Darkbane an engine of slaughter. The spirit of Grimnir was strong upon him. The intricate tracery of ur-gold that covered his flesh shone with anger. He lost himself in the charge, and his world became the destruction of the foe. He tore through daemonic flesh and pulsating trunks, unleashing a torrent of ichor and blood.

Then Darkbane swung through air, striking nothing. Vrindum ran forward a few more steps, but there was nothing to kill. He slowed, blinking. The rage faded, and he took in his new surroundings.

He had broken through the corrupted forest. The daemons were gone. Ahead, the ground became more rugged. Vrindum saw foothills, and the promise of mountains.

He looked up at Beregthor. The runefather seemed exhausted for the first time since the departure from Sibilatus, and more drained than triumphant. His face was set, committed to the path, apparently uninterested in anything except the march toward the goal.

And still the wind of the Evercry was constant. Short and long and short, the three notes guiding the Drunbhor to their destiny.

VI

The abominable forest was the first day. The first trial. Eight more days followed. For nine days, the Drunbhor fought through a land full of terrible life, corrupted and enslaved to Chaos. After the forest came the swamp. There the ground was a sucking mire, and ropes of flesh tangled the Fyreslayers while screamers of Tzeentch slashed through the air and through the warriors, their shrieks a choir following the song of the wind.

On the third day, they came to a land riven with narrow gulleys. When they tried to cross, the gulleys became grinding jaws.

On the fourth day, as the land sloped more and more sharply upwards, the ground turned into living glass. It blazed and snarled in the heat of the sun. It broke beneath marching feet without warning, plunging warriors into jagged crevasses, while flamers skittered over the surface. There were many more than on the Voidfire Plain, and they attacked.

And so it went, each day a new trial, a gauntlet that chipped away at the army of the Drunbhor, and the goal was not in sight. Vrindum watched Frethnir’s doubts grow and grow. But the battles were ceaseless, and to challenge the runefather would be a shattering blow to the morale of the fyrds. Frethnir could do nothing to arrest what he clearly thought was a path to disaster without being the cause of a worse one. His agony was terrible to see.

As he fought, Vrindum muttered prayers to Grimnir. ‘Prove the runefather right,’ he said. ‘Prove him right.’

Then there was the wind. The song was still the same, but the air grew more foul. The incense of the forest was gone, but what the Drunbhor now breathed was worse. It was thick and humid, the air of open graves and of a fresh battlefield. It was rotten, and it made Vrindum wonder about the song.

He spoke about the stench with Beregthor.

‘The forces of Chaos seek to turn us aside,’ the runefather answered. ‘They will not succeed.’

Beregthor did not speak with the same fire as he had upon setting out from Sibilatus. His voice was hard, grey, almost a monotone. He did not look at Vrindum. He stared into the distance, as if the invisible goal had thrown a noose around his neck and was slowly pulling him in.

On the eighth day, the Drunbhor encountered fungi so huge they formed caves. Bone-white, streaked with red, they sought to dissolve the Fyreslayers with spores. And when at last fyrds hacked and burned their way through the growths, they beheld mountains ahead of them.

And so, on the ninth day, the Drunbhor reached the Typhornas Mountains.

The wind was immeasurably worse. It was difficult to breathe. Vrindum regarded the landscape with wonder and suspicion. The lodge had arrived at a place of legend, and it was as the myths described. The mountains breathed; they were the lungs of the Evercry. They expanded and contracted, immense heaving movements visible to the eye, and the ground rose and fell beneath Vrindum’s feet. Yet the sensation was not that of an earthquake. The rocky surface did not crack as it stretched. Individual boulders tumbled down the mountain faces, but there were no avalanches. At the same time, Vrindum did not feel as if he were walking on the body of an immeasurably vast beast. His boot heels rang on stone, and the crags on all sides were jagged, solid, monolithic. They were mountains, not flesh.

In and out they breathed, in and out, bellows of such size they sent their endless wind across the breadth of a continent. And the wind was foul. It grew stronger by the hour, until the Drunbhor had to lean forwards, walking into a gale. The three-note song became the shrieking whistle of a mad thing. In the distance, over a bowl in the mountains, lightning flashed. Thunder rumbled from dark, spiralling clouds. This was not the storm the Drunbhor had witnessed from the peaks of Sibilatus. No stars were falling here. There was no explosion as of a war to change the times.

The Fyreslayers entered a narrow pass at the coming of night. They struggled through it against the furious wind. The pass ended at the lip of a huge bowl, a circular valley formed by the meeting of eight mountainsides.

Silence fell.

The wind stopped.

The song ceased.

For a moment, Vrindum thought he had gone deaf. Not once in all his centuries had he not heard the keening over the Evercry. Then he heard the muttered exclamations of the runemaster. He was not deaf, then; yet still the mountains rose and fell, rose and fell.

They rose and fell in silence. There was no breath. Even the stench was gone. It was as if the Fyreslayers stood on a corpse that was unaware of death and continued in its ignorance to move.

In the centre of the valley, on a circular dais, was the gate. Vrindum felt a cautious surge of confidence as the Drunbhor host approached their goal. The gate was clearly the kin of the one the daemons had destroyed in Sibilatus; the pillars bore similar engravings, and though many of the runes were mysterious to him, some of them were also in the language of the Fyreslayers.

A shout of triumph rose from the exhausted fyrds.

The host of the Drunbhor lodge surrounded the wide dais on which the gate stood. Beregthor dismounted from his magmadroth and climbed up. He walked slowly toward the gate, the Keeper of Roads held before him with both hands. Runemaster Trumnir and Runesmiter Harthum walked with him. Vrindum and the runesons followed a few steps behind.

‘Runefather,’ Frethnir said, ‘you were right.’ Relief flooded his face. The shadow that had followed him from Sibilatus lifted.

Beregthor did not answer. Vrindum watched him carefully. The runefather did not appear to notice he was accompanied. His eyes were fixed on the gate, unblinking. He had said nothing since their arrival, falling silent along with the wind.

Trumnir and Runesmiter Harthum examined the pillars. Trumnir frowned. ‘We will have to proceed with caution,’ he said. ‘This gate is warded. I do not recognize all the runes of protection.’

‘Nor do I,’ said Harthum. ‘They were not all part of the original construction. If any are triggered, they might destroy the gate. Or worse.’

‘A fine end to this quest that would be,’ Bramnor said. ‘To have come this far for nothing.’ He spoke in jest, his impatience jovial now.

Frethnir was not pleased. ‘This is our father’s moment of truth,’ he said.

Bramnor nodded. ‘You’re right.’ To Beregthor he said, ‘Runefather, I honour you, and mean no disrespect.’

Beregthor still did not respond. He stood before the centre of the gate, motionless except for his head as he looked back and forth along the span of the arch.

Vrindum moved up beside him. Beregthor’s profile seemed eroded. His skin was grey, worn. It was as if his skull were retreating beneath his hair and beard.

Something was wrong.

‘Runefather?’ Vrindum asked.

No response. The eyes dark like coal.

Trumnir said, ‘I shall begin.’

‘No.’ Beregthor did not raise his voice. He did not need to. His command was so cold.

Trumnir stopped in his tracks as if Beregthor had slapped him. His face darkened with anger. Then he looked concerned.

‘Runefather,’ Vrindum tried again.

Beregthor took a step forward. ‘Leave the gate to me,’ he said. ‘All of you.’ He turned his head to take in the assembly on the dais. ‘I know what needs to be done.’

Trumnir and the runesmiter backed away. They, Vrindum and the runesons retreated to the foot of the dais.

‘He is not himself,’ Frethnir said.

‘Is he unwell?’ Vrindum wondered. ‘He is old, but I would not have thought this journey would exhaust him so.’

No, Vrindum thought. This is something more.

Beregthor raised the latchkey grandaxe. He began to chant. The words were strange to Vrindum.

He turned to Trumnir. ‘Do you know this ritual?’ he asked.

‘I do not.’ Trumnir did not look away from the gate. ‘But the runefather knows what he is doing. Look.’ He pointed to the pillars. Runes glowed, flared white, and then subsided to a dull, magmatic red. ‘He is disarming the wards.’

‘Perhaps his father passed down the knowledge of rituals older and more secret than have been granted to us,’ said Harthum. He sounded unconvinced.

Ancient power crackled between the pillars. Light and space bent, twisted upon one another, and began to spiral. Reality fractured into a thousand shards, then reassembled itself. The view through the gate took on a definite character, becoming more stable. What was revealed was the interior of a stone chamber.

Vrindum saw how this gate and the one in Sibilatus had been mirrors of each other. The Drunbhor’s gate, Beregthor had said, led from the magmahold to a location within reach of the other lodge. This one, a long journey from Sibilatus, led directly to the magmahold of the other lodge.

There was movement in the ranks as the Fyreslayers prepared to march through the gate. Trumnir raised his staff in warning.

‘Hold!’ he called. ‘Many of the wards are still active. We cannot cross yet.’

Beregthor finished chanting. He made a complex pass with the Keeper of Roads before the gate. The gestures hurt Vrindum’s head to watch. He stared at the runefather, and he did not recognise the Fyreslayer before him.

Beregthor completed the gestures. In the centre of the gate, floating in the air, a large stone keyhole appeared. Beregthor lowered the Keeper and approached it. He made to insert the head of the weapon into the keyhole.

The latchkey grandaxe was a symbol. The design of its blade represented the keys to glory. But it was also a true key. It opened the most secret vaults in the magmahold. And now it would open the final lock on the gate.

The wards that were still active glowed red. It was a cold colour. Reptilian. Anticipatory. Trumnir was looking at them with alarm. ‘I don’t think…’ he began.

Vrindum jumped onto the dais. He ran forward and grasped Beregthor’s shoulder, holding him back before he could place the key in the lock.

‘Runefather,’ he said, ‘the gate is still dangerous. Should we not wait?’

Beregthor ignored him. He strained forward.

Vrindum used both arms to restrain him. ‘Beregthor-Grimnir,’ he said, ‘will you not speak to us? Do you know where you are?’

Beregthor turned his head to face Vrindum. His eyes had sunken further yet. His skin was turning greyer with every passing moment.

On the back of his neck, something wriggled.

Vrindum looked closely. There was a small wound just beneath the edge of his helmet. The tip of a daemonic spine protruded from it. At the same moment, Beregthor opened his mouth.

The pink horrors had wounded the runefather deeper than anyone realised during the first battle. A thorn had pierced Beregthor’s flesh. It had been embedded in him, controlling him.

‘The Runefather bears a daemonic wound!’ Vrindum shouted.

Frethnir leapt forward to help. He had been freed of the pain of doubt, but now an agony a thousandfold worse had fallen on him. He had not acted when there was a chance, and now it was perhaps too late. He tried to reach for the thorn.

Beregthor twisted violently. He broke Vrindum’s grip and smashed the side of the grandaxe against the grimwrath berzerker’s skull, knocking him aside. He caught his son with the return sweep. His mouth was still open. His lips and tongue worked, trying to shape the sounds he was commanded to utter. His eyes widened. They were consumed with mortal horror. His soul struggled to silence the coming word. It failed. His voice ragged as if ripped apart by claws, he shouted a name. He sang a name.

‘Kaz’arrath!’

Three notes. Short, long, short. Three beats. Soft, strong, soft.

Now the wind returned. It exploded from Beregthor’s words with such force it smashed Vrindum flat. The runefather was suddenly the origin of the wind. He was the source of the song that had called the Drunbhor lodge to this place. The three-note refrain resounded across the bowl, echoing against the mountainsides.

Kaz’arrath, Kaz’arrath, Kaz’arrath.

A song of triumph. And of summoning.

The wind howled the name. It shrieked over the Fyreslayers as if the combined force of the Typhornas Mountains had come to rage through this site. At the edges of the bowl, the growing night thickened. It swirled with dark tendrils, ready to burst. Beregthor kept his feet in the hurricane. He turned back toward the gate, his face slack.

Vrindum propelled himself up and forward. He did not know what would happen if Beregthor used the latchkey, but he did know it must not happen. What he had said to the runefather so many days ago was true: the events at Sibilatus had meaning. Every step of the journey had meaning, and the steps had led to a moment that could only mean ruin. So he threw himself at the hero of the Drunbhor, at the Fyreslayer he had followed his entire life. He would die for Beregthor. Now he attacked.

He swung Darkbane, and he howled with grief that he must do so. Filled with sorrow and dread, he was far from losing himself in the vortex of rage. He aimed Darkbane so the sides of the blades struck the shaft of the Keeper of Roads. He knocked it away from the keyhole, then rammed his shoulder into Beregthor. The runefather stumbled from the impact, then turned on Vrindum, his face contorted. Vrindum did not see the righteous anger of the Fyreslayers in his expression. He did not see the sacred fire of Grimnir. He saw only savagery, and a mindless malevolence.

Around the dais, the Fyreslayers were in uproar. Their most ferocious warrior was fighting the runefather. The world had lost all sense. Vrindum trusted that Trumnir, Harthum, the runesons and those who were closest could see the distorted, possessed face of Beregthor. But those further away would only be able to see an impossible conflict, the seed of a terrible schism.

Kaz’arrath, Kaz’arrath, Kaz’arrath, cried the wind.

Beregthor raised the Keeper of Roads over his head and brought it down, aiming for Vrindum’s skull. The grimwrath berzerker dodged to one side. Beregthor was attacking with enormous power but little skill. The Keeper slammed against the dais, lodging itself in stone. Vrindum launched himself at Beregthor again, battering him hard enough to break his hold on the latchkey grandaxe. Beregthor stared at his empty hands, and he howled.

Kaz’arrath, Kaz’arrath, Kaz’arrath. Short, long, short. A call. A summons.

The summons was answered.

The eight passes that formed the passages to the bowl erupted. The night gave birth to a horde of daemons. A legion of pink horrors and flamers cascaded down the slopes. Gales of demented laughter drowned out the cry of the wind. And to the north, striding behind the thousands of its army, a towering daemon appeared. It was winged. It stalked forward on long legs with multiple articulations. Its arms were almost as long, and it carried a staff in the shape of a giant iron key, whose head changed configuration second by second. Its own head was long and beaked, and its eyes blazed with the terrible cold red of the wards on the gate.

The arrival of the daemons restored some confidence to the fyrds of the Drunbhor. Here was a clear enemy. Here was a war that must be fought, however daunting the odds. And so the great mass of the vulkite berzerkers advanced in an expanding circle around the dais. They shook the earth too with the stamp of their feet and the thunder of their battlecries. The runesons leapt away from the dais, racing through the ranks in three separate directions to lead from the front. Trumnir took a fourth, while Harthum climbed atop his magmadroth and once again began to hammer out the beat of war.

Beregthor and Vrindum were alone on the dais, though Vrindum could feel the eyes of Kaz’arrath fixed upon them.

With the great daemon present, and the mirroring of its eyes and the warding runes, he understood what would happen if Beregthor turned the key and opened the way. The Drunbhor would not pass through. The warding would destroy any who tried. But the Keeper of Roads would permit the daemons to pour directly into the other lodge’s magmahold. This was the quest the daemons had goaded the Drunbhor into completing. The daemons had destroyed the gate in Sibilatus so the Drunbhor would seek and open this one, unleashing horror on the kin they had thought to help.

Vrindum stood between the runefather and the Keeper of Roads. Beregthor ran at him, hands extended like claws. Vrindum met his charge. He grappled with him. He pulled a dagger from his belt and stabbed sideways at the back of Beregthor’s neck. He felt the blade slice into flesh. It struck something hard, and he prayed to Grimnir it was the daemonic thorn.

‘Runefather,’ he pleaded. ‘Remember who you are. You are the greatest of the Drunbhor, and we have need of you now!’ He shoved deeper with the knife. Something severed. There was a sudden weakness in Beregthor’s limbs, and Vrindum wrestled him to the ground.

‘Hear the altar of war,’ Vrindum said. ‘Hear the true call. Hear the wrath of Grimnir. Free yourself of the grip of lies.’

Harthum must have seen the struggle, for his booming hymn of battle grew louder yet. Vrindum’s frame blazed with the strength of his god. He saw the shine of holy fury in the runes on Beregthor’s forehead.

The runefather’s eyes cleared. Blackened coals burst into heroic fire once more. Vrindum released him, and Beregthor leapt to his feet. He stared at the gate, and at the Keeper of Roads embedded in the dais. His mouth twisted in anger and grief. He seized the grandaxe.

And paused.

A wave of grey settled over his features once more. He shook it off with effort. He turned to Vrindum. ‘I hear, old friend. I keep my honour to the last.’ He shuddered, leaning as if his body would unlock the gate if he did not force it away. Then he gave Vrindum a grim smile.

‘Frethnir will lead well,’ he said, and stormed off the dais. His roar parted the ranks of the Fyreslayers. On instinct they made way for their auric runefather. Krasnak bellowed and joined his master. Beregthor climbed his back into the throne for one final time. They drove deep into the gibbering daemonic legions.

Beregthor headed directly for Kaz’arrath. The Lord of Change was halfway across the bowl towards the lines of the Fyreslayers. Beregthor and the magmadroth plunged deeper and deeper into the roiling mass. The runefather’s attack was reckless. It was too fast. He was not leading the Drunbhor. He was leaving them behind.

Vrindum raced after him. Beregthor had no intention of surviving. He was intent merely on destroying as many abominations as he could before they overwhelmed him. Vrindum howled a denial to the fates and raced after the runefather. Beregthor would not be forced to make this sacrifice. Vrindum would fight by his side until the last of the daemons had been dispatched to oblivion.

The battle rhythm of the runesmiter rang through Vrindum’s being. The voice of Battlesmith Krunmir thundered over the battle, his recitation of the victories of the Drunbhor in harmony with the drumming of the war altar. Ahead, Vrindum saw the overwhelming odds turning against Beregthor. Krasnak mauled the daemons and burned them with bile. The Keeper of Roads rose high before coming down with destructive force. But the pink horrors kept coming, piling up on each other, reaching to drag at the runefather. Flamers closed in on Krasnak, and the magmadroth screeched as their unholy fire washed over his scales. His hide rippled, portions of his body in the first convulsions of change. Vulkite berzerkers were fighting furiously to come to Beregthor’s aid, but the mass of daemons slowed them down. They would not reach him before the sea of nightmares pulled him under.

Or before the dreadful author of the tragedy arrived to destroy the runefather utterly.

Vrindum’s focus narrowed to the single point of Beregthor’s peril. Everything else vanished in the rage of battle. He tore into the daemons, and he was a force beyond reckoning. His throat unleashed a continuous cry of rage. His ur-gold sigils were molten with Grimnir’s wrath. The god demanded vengeance. Vrindum was that vengeance incarnate.

He did not see individual foes. The daemons were an undifferentiated mass that presented itself for the slaughter. Darkbane cut through a sea of daemonic flesh. Pink turned blue, blue vanished in sprays of ichor. Horns and blades slashed at him, but whether they hit or not made no difference. He was the fury of war, and no foul thing would stop him from reaching the runefather.

He drew alongside Beregthor, and the proximity of the runefather pulled him back again from complete battle madness. Krasnak had fallen, fighting to the last as his flesh mutated out of control, transforming him into a hill of pulsating scales and crawling parchment. Beregthor had lost his helm. His face and arms were sheathed in his blood, but he fought as if fresh to the battle.

‘Go back!’ Beregthor shouted.

Vrindum cut a pink horror in two, then destroyed the blue daemons before they uttered their first wail.

‘Come with me, runefather!’ he said. ‘You are restored to us! Your honour does not require your sacrifice!’

Beregthor shook his head. He thrust the Keeper of Roads forward through the jaws of a blue horror, exploding the daemon’s head.

‘I cannot return to the gate. If I do, I will bring ruin to us all. But you must. And destroy it.’

Ahead, Kaz’arrath was less than a dozen great strides away.

‘The gate is lost to us,’ said Beregthor. ‘We must take it from the daemons as they took ours in Sibilatus.’

Vrindum hesitated.

‘Go!’ Beregthor roared. ‘Your runefather commands it!’

With an agonised cry, Vrindum abandoned Beregthor. He turned back. Once more he cut his way through the daemonic horde. Wrath fused with grief. He would have tried to destroy every daemon in the field if not for Beregthor’s desperate order. Several fyrds of vulkite berzerkers were pushing hard to reach the runefather too, and it was not long before Vrindum was in their midst.

‘The gate!’ he said. ‘We are commanded to destroy the gate!’

He leapt onto the platform. He raced to the right-hand pillar, thinking only of his duty and not the consequences as he swung Darkbane. With the first blow, a chunk of ancient stone went flying. The vision in the portal shook. And a roar of denial and rage went up across the battlefield.

The daemons surged forward, and there was no laughter from the pink horrors now. They howled with desperation. They fell on the Fyreslayers with determination, forcing them back. The Drunbhor were suddenly on the defensive, fighting to keep the daemons from reaching the dais.

‘Think you to escape destiny?’

The voice was magisterial and filled with venom. Vrindum’s mouth flooded with blood.

‘The book is written. All change is ours. For you there is but the completion of your task,’ Kaz’arrath said. The daemon reached down and grasped Beregthor in a huge claw. It spread its wings, beat the air with them and rose above the fray, moving towards the dais. As it did, it struck downward with its staff, and Fyreslayers by the score died, their bodies twisted into the shape of unholy runes.

‘Destroy the gate!’ Beregthor’s cry was monstrous in its pain, a soul making its last stand in terrible combat.

Vrindum renewed his attack on the pillar. Stone flew. The wards blazed in anger, but he was not attempting to cross the threshold. Frethnir and Bramnor joined him. Their blows eroded the strength of the pillars.

‘Faster!’ Vrindum shouted. ‘We must end our failures here!’ Kaz’arrath descended on the dais. With a contemptuous gesture, the daemon swept aside the berzerkers who blocked its way. It held Beregthor towards the portal. It could ward the gate and twist its nature, but it could not open it. The runefather of the Drunbhor alone could do that. His body trembling, controlled by a will much greater than his, Beregthor raised the Keeper of the Roads and inserted its blade into the floating keyhole.

Vrindum attacked the pillar with the frenzy of wrath.

Beregthor turned the key.

The circumference of the portal blazed with lightning. The vision of the magmahold took on depth. The keyhole vanished. With a raucous caw of triumph, still clutching the victim of its manipulations, the Lord of Change stepped forward into the gate.

And the pillar collapsed.

It toppled like a felled tree, pulling the entire arch of the gate down with it. Runic, warded stonework fell into the portal with the daemon and Beregthor only partway through. The gate exploded. The heart of the Typhornas Mountains flashed with searing violet and silver. The dais erupted.

Vrindum hurtled through a maelstrom of fire and stone and raging power. The storm raged, and he raged with it. The fury of reality’s ending battered him.

He bellowed a cry of victory and grief.

VII

The destruction of the gate turned the centre of the bowl into a crater. The blast killed many Drunbhor. The uncontrolled storm of sorcerous energies wreaked even greater devastation on the daemons. With Kaz’arrath gone, they were leaderless and despairing. With Beregthor dead, the Fyreslayers were terrible in their vengeance.

The end came quickly.

At dawn, Vrindum stood at the edge of the crater. The wind blowing from the Typhornas Mountains had shaken free of the three-note refrain. The song was changeable once again, varying with every rise and fall of the mountains. It sounded in Vrindum’s ears like a chant of mourning. But perhaps there was a thread of triumph too. Beregthor’s final command had defeated the daemon’s machinations. And he left behind a legacy.

As the sun’s rays crossed the lip of the bowl, the veins of gold in the crater gleamed.

Frethnir joined Vrindum. ‘The runemaster says there is a rich concentration of ur-gold below,’ he said.

‘Beregthor would be pleased,’ said Vrindum. ‘He led us well until the end.’

‘He did. I should never have doubted.’

Vrindum bent down and picked up the Keeper of Roads. It had survived the explosion, though its blade was gravely scarred. Vrindum presented it to Frethnir.

The runeson shook his head.

‘No,’ he said. ‘That is for Bramnor. It is not for me to be auric runefather of the Drunbhor. My brother will lead the march back. I will stay here with those who choose to join me. We will found a new lodge where our father has brought us.’

‘Then I will be of your number,’ Vrindum said. Where the daemon had sought to bring ruin to the Drunbhor, now there would be a greater strength.

The wind’s cry grew louder, a martial song for the birth of a new era.

David Annandale

Shattered Crucible

I

The storm began at the height of the Ritual of Grimnir’s Binding. From where they stood on the platform of rock high on the flank of the Forgecrag, both Thrumnor and Rhulmok saw it start. It stabbed deep into their awareness, drawing them from the necessary trance of the ritual.

The Krelstrag lodge stood strong in the largest volcanic isle at the heart of the Earthwound archipelago in Aqshy. Here, the Fyreslayers said, one of Grimnir’s blades had cut into the ground as he had landed a great blow on Vulcatrix, the Mother of Salamanders. The molten blood of the great wyrm had poured into the vast cleft. The wound in the continents was a hundred leagues wide and many times as long, and it gaped and bled, never to be healed. An ocean of magma raged at the surface. It was said that the ocean had no true bottom, that the wound was so profound it tore through the barriers between the realms, but no living soul could survive the plunge through the depths of that terrible heat to find out.

In all directions, titanic molten waves rose and fell. The rage of the earth pushed its incandescent rock to the surface, as if ten thousand volcanoes in perpetual eruption had drowned themselves and the land, from horizon to horizon. This was the ocean of tribulation and annihilation, and nothing could live in its eternal fury.

But the Krelstrag stood strong.

Volcanic peaks did rise above the surface of the burning ocean. Islands would come into being. Then the terrible waves would erode their shores, the internal forces would shake them apart, and they would crumble and melt back into the lava. Not all succumbed. Ten mountains had been there since the wound was first torn open. Perhaps it was their birth that had injured the land in the beginning. Jagged and twisted, like the anguished talons of an immeasurably vast beast, they towered over the waves, arrogant, defiant, unchanging. They were mountains at war, mountains under siege. They would stand forever.

And so would the Krelstrag.

The heart of the Krelstrag magmahold was within the largest of the great claws, the Forgecrag. The island mountain was broad, though so tall it resembled an onyx spike. It rose high enough to pierce the crimson-washed clouds. At a point just beneath the clouds, it was possible to look out at the entire domain of the Krelstrag lodge, the chain of basalt claws jutting from the lava. It was even possible, when the wind was strong enough to clear the worst of the haze, to see the sole hint on the horizon that something might exist beyond the Earthwound, that there was such a thing as a mainland. On those days, the bulky silhouette of the Great Weld would appear. Unlike the spikes of the archipelago, it had a wide, flat peak. It was a distant anvil. On this night, a hammer was striking it.

Runemaster Thrumnor and Runesmiter Rhulmok stood on the edge of the high platform. Behind them were a hundred warriors of the auric hearthguard, those chosen to make up the Sentinels of the Reach. Before each Fyreslayer was a drum. The drums were made of hide stretched over a stone framework built into the platform itself, and could never be moved. They had two purposes. The first was to provide the rhythmic thunder of the ritual. The sentinels beat their instruments, and the sound reverberated throughout the tunnels and vaults of the Forgecrag. The drumbeat was the pulse of the land as magma coursed through its veins. It shaped the humours of the Earthwound and called it to attention. When Thrumnor and Rhulmok listened to the beat, when it entered their flesh and their blood and their bones, when it vibrated through the ur-gold runes that were even more central to their being, then they were one with their environment. Then Thrumnor summoned the rage of molten rock, Rhulmok gave it form, and together they built the bridges.

There were homes and mines in the other claws of the archipelago, but the Forgecrag was the heart of the lodge, and its fortress in times of war. The Fyreslayers of the Krelstrag needed to move from one peak to another, and there was only one way that was possible. The Earthwound’s fury was so total that there were no tunnels that could link one island to another. Instead there were bridges.

Seen from the platform, a suturing of rock connected the islands. Narrow walkways spanned the ocean. Just as the fragments of Grimnir’s being were gathered together in the ur-gold, so the bridges brought unity to the fragments of the Krelstrag lodge. Grimnir had wrought the Earthwound, yet through his strength was a whole forged by his faithful Fyreslayers.

Though they were stone, the bridges were ephemeral. Once they were built, they sometimes lasted as long as a week, sometimes a single day. When the ocean’s rage was great, a bridge could vanish mere hours after its creation, swallowed by waves of lava a hundred feet high.

The bridges had high, curving sides, three times taller than any Fyreslayer, protecting those who crossed them from the worst of the ocean’s heat. Passage across them was controlled by more Sentinels of the Reach. Positioned at either end of each span, carefully trained by Thrumnor and Rhulmok, they observed the conditions of the crossings, determining whether or not they were still safe to use. There lay the second purpose of the drums — to beat the alarm when a collapse was imminent, and so help direct the work of the ritual.

In battle, Thrumnor summoned magma from below, destroying the foe as lava erupted from the ground, burning all who dared challenge the Krelstrag. Rhulmok commanded the direction of the magma’s flow. Tunnels opened before his will, and the Fyreslayers moved beneath the battlefield. Over the centuries, as he had learned to call on the magma’s wrath, Thrumnor had also learned how to calm it. He could cool it to solid rock. Rhulmok, in his turn, came to know how to shape what Thrumnor soothed. What was a bridge, after all, but a tunnel through the air?

And so the Krelstrag lodge thrived, extending its reach across the islands of the Earthwound archipelago, and any enemy foolhardy enough to try its strength against that of the Krelstrag first had to cross leagues upon leagues of the Earthwound ocean.

The Krelstrag had a term: lavasmite. It meant a period of time so short as to be not worth mentioning. It came from the contempt they felt for the sieges they had withstood and smashed to pieces, and for the uncounted thousands of foes who had been swallowed, screaming, by the lava. The sieges lasted only long enough for the Krelstrag to hurl the enemy into the embrace of the Earthwound ocean.

The Forgecrag could not be taken. It would stand forever.

Then the storm came.

Thrumnor was deep in the pounding trance of the ritual. He had caught a great fountain of lava in the clenched gauntlet of his will and chanted a prayer of low, guttural syllables. The blood of Vulcatrix must be called to answer. Righteous rage forced a wave of lava to climb above the ocean. It forced it to change its strength from fire to rigid stone. Rhulmok’s voice was there with him, no less determined but calmer, grinding and growling like the parting of stony waves. The cooling lava lengthened and the bridge came into being, arcing out from the side of the Forgecrag towards a new peak, one that had risen from the ocean a month before, and was now deemed stable enough to explore. Then, at the horizon, where the Great Weld stood guard, there was an explosion of lightning. It disrupted the song. Its thunder was too distant to be heard, but it was so huge it was felt in the air, and Thrumnor stuttered in his song. Rhulmok choked. The half-made bridge collapsed into the lava. Grimnir’s Binding unravelled, its energy lashing out uncontrollably across the bridges. They shook, cracking and groaning. The filament nearest to the incomplete crossing began to glow. Hundreds of Fyreslayers caught on the strut started to run, racing against the rising heat and shifting rock. They barely made it to the safe ground of the Forgecrag before that bridge, too, collapsed.

Out of the trance, Thrumnor saw the last flashes of Binding dispersing over the farther bridges.

‘Grimnir grant we killed no one,’ said Rhulmok, his voice strained with shock.

Thrumnor grunted. His own breath was rasping. His gaze was fixed on the sky’s rage. This was no natural storm. The lightning struck again and again as if beating a rune into flesh. Pulsing in sympathy with the flashes was a searing glow on the summit of the Weld. The light was a vivid green, and Thrumnor experienced each burst with a mixture of holy dread and the excitement of war.

‘What does this portend?’ Rhulmok asked. There was awe in his tone, but great suspicion too.

‘It portends much,’ Thrumnor said. ‘The hammer of Grimnir strikes his anvil once more,’ he recited.

Rhulmok did not appear to recognise the line of prophecy. The foretelling was an ancient one, and almost forgotten. There was much of it that Thrumnor could no longer recall himself.

‘We must speak with the runefather,’ said Rhulmok.

‘Aye,’ Thrumnor agreed.

But there was something he must do first.

II

Thrumnor knelt before the altar. It was a great stone anvil with seams of gold running through it. The strands gathered at its base, and then appeared to flow upwards, becoming a statue twenty feet tall: Grimnir in battle against the wyrm Vulcatrix. The statue was resplendent with golden fire, shining in the light of a hundred torches. There was no ur-gold in its construction; that element, holy with the contained essence of Grimnir himself, was too precious to use in anything but the runes hammered into the Fyreslayers’ bodies. Such was the craftsmanship of the artisans who had created the altar, though, that the lines of the figures resonated in the runes of whoever came before it. Thrumnor felt the warmth of the designs in his flesh. Their power stirred, urging his blood to battle, to march along that road leading to the union with Grimnir, and the great reforging of his scattered being.

Thrumnor leaned forwards, arms spread wide. He rested his palms and his forehead against the side of the altar. With his eyes closed, he could feel the stone vibrate with the beat of the distant storm. The beat passed into his body. His runes flared. Fire coursed through his soul.

The beat grew stronger. It overwhelmed him. Thrumnor no longer touched the altar. He was falling through a darkness resonating with the blows of hammers, a boom boom boom boom shaking realm upon realm. Then, at the centre of the dark, there was a sharp point of bright orange light. It spread with every beat of the hammers. Then the dark peeled away, and Thrumnor beheld a vision. Something dark yet streaked with red and gold moved up the height of a vast anvil. It seemed to be a stream of living ore. A hammer as big as the sky was poised over the anvil. When the ore was gathered, the hammer fell. An explosion filled Thrumnor’s sight. The anvil shattered, then lava was flowing over a landscape. There was movement on the ground before its path, a suggestion of flight, a ripple of war. The lava consumed all. It was a tide hundreds of feet high, and it moved with purpose. Thrumnor could not see where it came from, nor where it was going, but a great will determined the destruction. There was a reason for this wave. And there was judgement.

The vision faded. Thrumnor rose to his feet. He bowed his head before the image of Grimnir and gave thanks.

‘I know what we must do,’ he said.

Auric Runefather Dorvurn-Grimnir regarded his council. With him, along with Thrumnor and Rhulmok, were his seven runesons. All had climbed to the platform to witness the storm. Now, deep in the magmahold, they sat in a circle of stone chairs, carved to suggest the jagged peaks rising from the Earthwound ocean.

‘Our duty is clear,’ Thrumnor repeated. ‘Grimnir’s hammer calls us to the Great Weld. There, on blessed ground, there will be a great forging, and we will march in fire and conquest across the mainland.’

‘To where?’ Rhulmok shook his head. ‘The meaning of your vision is unclear to me. The scrolls of prophecy foretell a time of tribulation when Grimnir’s hammer strikes the Weld. I can well believe it. Something of enormous power is at work in the realm. Why should we respond by abandoning the magmahold?’ He brought a fist down on the arm of his chair. Stone chips flew. ‘Might the portent not herald a siege such as we have never encountered before? You saw the anvil shatter. This disturbs me. Should we not instead be preparing to defend?’

‘No,’ Thrumnor said. ‘My vision points the way.’

‘How? You saw lava. You saw terrible destruction. Is that not the foe heading our way?’

‘No. It is us.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Forvuld, the eldest of the runesons.

‘In my vision, the destruction was a necessary thing. What burned was unclean. The lava was our lodge, overwhelming our foe as we march across the realm in answer to the call of Grimnir. The call every one of us has now witnessed.’

Rhulmok’s heavy brow was wrinkled with doubt. ‘That interpretation is not enough to justify the risk to the magmahold.’

Dorvurn tried to remember the last time he had seen his runemaster and runesmiter so divided on an issue. He failed. Though Thrumnor was Rhulmok’s senior by more than a century, the bond between the two was a strong one, forged by the unity of bridge creation. He had seen them taunt each other in jest about whose mastery over the lava was the stronger, but on matters of import to the lodge, they had always spoken with one voice.

‘Runesmiter,’ Dorvurn said, ‘it is unlike you to express reluctance for battle.’

Rhulmok grunted, but did not take offence. Dorvurn had come close to calling him a coward, and the fact Rhulmok ignored the gibe was telling. The runesmiter’s concerns were deep ones.

‘I’m reluctant to engage in the wrong battle,’ Rhulmok said. ‘If we misinterpret what we see and march toward an illusion, leaving the magmahold open to the real menace, what then?’

‘There is no question of misinterpretation,’ Thrumnor said. He sounded more heated than the runesmiter. His bald scalp, marked with an intricate tracery of ur-gold, reddened with frustration. ‘I have seen our duty! To delay is to defy Grimnir! And there is also the matter of the oath.’

‘What oath?’ said Dorvurn.

‘The Oath to the Lost.’

There was a puzzled silence in the hall.

‘I’ve never heard of this oath,’ Homnir said. He was the youngest of the runesons, but it was clear none of the others knew any more than he did. Even Rhulmok looked confused.

Dorvurn felt a pang of guilt. Was it possible he had never spoken of the oath to his sons? Had he never passed on that portion of lore? He had been remiss. He could tell himself the Krelstrag tradition and history were so vast, it was impossible for anyone to remember every aspect, and some things would be forgotten. The tool that was never used would be abandoned over time, and the oath had never been invoked. Even its name had been altered, the form it now took revealing that something had been forgotten. Nevertheless, it existed. Thrumnor was right to invoke it. It seemed that the runemaster and Dorvurn, the oldest Fyreslayers of the Krelstrag lodge, were the only ones to remember. The runefather could not let that situation stand, especially since the oath’s relevance was clear to him now.

I had forgotten, he thought. Grimnir, forgive me.

‘The Oath to the Lost,’ Dorvurn said, ‘was made at the time before the Krelstrag came to Earthwound. It was made to another lodge, one bound to us by kin, as we set forth on the journey that would at last bring us here. It was an oath of mutual aid. Should the Fyreslayers of one lodge be attacked, the other would help them in their defence. Our foe is their foe, and their foe is ours.’

‘Another lodge?’ Homnir asked. He was stunned.

The passing of so many centuries in the Earthwound had isolated the Krelstrag. They had not had contact with another lodge in the living memory of even Dorvurn.

‘What is it called?’ Homnir continued.

‘We do not know,’ Thrumnor told him. ‘The name has been lost to us. We know we were kin. We know of the oath. We know the lodge lies somewhere beyond the Great Weld. All else has been forgotten.’

‘So we don’t even know if it still exists,’ said Rhulmok. ‘To reach the Weld will be a long journey. When have the Krelstrag ever sought to reach the mainland?’

‘Our foes have come to the Earthwound from there,’ Thrumnor snapped. ‘Are we lesser than they are?’

Rhulmok’s brow darkened, but his grip on his temper was more secure than the runemaster’s. ‘I did not say that. Nor did I mean it.’

‘No one questions our valour and might,’ Dorvurn intervened. ‘It is true that we do not know if the other lodge still exists. It matters not.’ He rose from his seat. ‘What matters is the oath. We made it, and we shall not break it. A great storm has come, an omen of tribulations for the Fyreslayers. The anvil of the Great Weld is struck. And Runemaster Thrumnor has a vision of our unstoppable sweep over our enemies.’ He raised his voice, and he raised his grandaxe. ‘Grimnir summons us to war, brothers! And we shall answer! We march!’

III

‘The youngflame is unhappy,’ Rhulmok said.

He and Thrumnor stood a few paces away from where Dorvurn and Homnir spoke, surrounded by the other runesons. They were assembled on an enormous ledge, as big as a plateau, two-thirds of the way down the Forgecrag. Behind them were the main gates of the Krelstrag magmahold. The heavy iron doors were open, and in the great hall behind them, the massed ranks of the Krelstrag fyrds waited for the order to march. The thousands of vulkite berzerkers were a sea of red hair and beards. Thrumnor looked at them and saw the lava flood of his vision on the verge of being unleashed.

‘And what about his fellow youngflame?’ Thrumnor asked. ‘Is he reconciled to our quest?’ His question was serious. He wanted to know Rhulmok’s mind. It was important they were working well together again as they began the journey. How long would it be until they reached the other lodge? Weeks? Months? The lodge needed them, and it needed them acting as brothers. So he phrased his serious question using the frequent joke between them. Rhulmok was no youngflame. There were mountains younger than he. But Thrumnor was more ancient yet, and he still pretended to look upon the runesmiter as a youth.

He was glad when Rhulmok smiled. ‘This beardling has his concerns, but he will follow where the runefather leads, and be glad to do it.’ He turned serious. ‘And an oath is an oath.’ He looked out over the ocean, in the direction they were to take. The smaller volcanic islands blocked sight of the Great Weld, but the silver flashes of the greater storm were still visible.

‘The oath applies to us all,’ Homnir was arguing. ‘I too must fulfil it. How can I if I stay?’

‘You will fulfil your duty to the oath by staying,’ Dorvurn said. ‘I believe the runemaster is correct in his reading of the portents, but Rhulmok too is right: we cannot leave the magmahold undefended. You will defend our home, Homnir, and you will hold it against all enemies.’

‘If someone must stay, why not Forvuld?’

As the eldest, Forvuld’s hope to succeed Dorvurn as runefather was arguably the strongest.

‘Because you have much to prove,’ Dorvurn said. ‘You will perform the miraculous to protect the hearth.’

To his right, Forvuld nodded, showing his confidence in his younger brother.

Homnir bowed his head in acquiescence.

‘Your father is grateful,’ Dorvurn said. ‘And your runefather is grateful. Gather the people in the Forgecrag in our wake. The bridges will be dangerous until our return.’

‘I will, runefather.’

Homnir walked toward the edge of the plateau, so he would not be in the way of the departing army. Dorvurn went forward to where Karmanax, his magmadroth, clawed at the ground, impatient to be away. Dorvurn climbed into the saddle and stood tall.

‘Fyreslayers of the Krelstrag!’ His voice boomed over the eternal rumble and liquid roar of the Earthwound ocean. ‘To the Great Weld and beyond! On this day, we begin the fulfilment of an oath made an age ago. On this day, we march toward the manifestation of prophecy! For Grimnir!’

‘For Grimnir!’ the great host of the Krelstrag answered.

Dorvurn looked at Thrumnor and Rhulmok. ‘Runemaster,’ he said. ‘Runesmiter. Pave our way.’

Thrumnor made a fist and struck his left shoulder in salute. Rhulmok did the same, and mounted his own magmadroth, Grognax. Thrumnor moved to the magmadroth’s side. With the crunch of thousands of feet against stone, the march began.

The journey through the Earthwound archipelago was a long one. It took many days just to move beyond the Krelstrag domains. Thrumnor and Rhulmok worked in unison, creating bridge after bridge. There came a moment, seven days into the march, when the distance between the volcanic cone on which the army mustered and the next peak to rise above the ocean of lava was so great that Thrumnor wondered if he and the runesmiter could span it. Span it they did, though, and the bridge appeared as thin as spun gold as it stretched across the seething, restless inferno. The bridge was strong, and it carried the host. In the end it was the island they had left that sank first, taking the bridge down after they had already begun construction of the next one.

Days and days of crossings, a journey over the infinity of the ocean, and always the waves of molten rock heaved to the horizon. Slowly, very slowly, the Great Weld grew larger, and Thrumnor began to believe they were making progress. The unnatural lightning storm had ended, though at different points in the sky it would return for a time, like the flaring of a new war. The green bursts on the top of the Weld continued, the rhythm unending, the hammer striking the anvil ceaselessly. It was a summoning so insistent Thrumnor had to remind himself that the ascent of the Weld was but the first stage of the journey, and not the destination itself.

Finally, after many, many more days, a dark line appeared on the horizon. It was the mainland.

The Earthwound ocean had a shore.

The shore was blighted.

A forest spread over the leagues of jagged foothills and deep, narrow canyons that led towards the base of the Great Weld. It was a forest that had been buried aeons ago, but that now had been resurrected into a monstrous new life.

The forest was petrified. The trees in their millions had been killed by the violence of the land, and then turned to stone. They still stood, skeletons of rock reaching up to the cruel sky. Something new had come among them; a terrible foliage hung from their limbs, a thick, black, glistening fungus. It dripped ichor down their trunks. Where the fluid ran, it ate into the rock, dissolving and devouring. Thrumnor examined the fungus more closely as the Fyreslayers moved through the dead-yet-diseased forest. The growths resembled giant slugs. They clung to the trunks and branches as if trying to suffocate them. The surface rippled like muscles.

‘A plague to eat stone,’ Rhulmok muttered. Thrumnor nodded. He tightened his grip on his runic iron. Rhulmok sounded at least as curious as he was horrified. Thrumnor felt only holy outrage.

‘We will find our way below the surface,’ Dorvurn announced. ‘We will take the ancient ways, and if an enemy awaits, we will meet him on our terms.’

The forest writhed. Stone rotted. Insects with clattering wings swarmed from burst fungus pods. Thrumnor learned that stone could have a stench. But there was no attack, and at the end of the first day on the mainland, a scouting party of vulkite karls found a gateway underground. It was a ruin, its doors long rusted to nothing, the pillars of the entrance leaning against each other and blocked by a heap of fungus twenty feet high. The Krelstrag scoured the parasite away with fire, and then descended.

The world they found filled Thrumnor’s soul with melancholy. There was much that was familiar, which made its dereliction all the worse. The tunnels had once seen much work. There were traces of engravings on the walls. Caves were recognisable as dining halls and smithies, and more than once, as the days passed, Thrumnor’s breath caught when a vast, empty tomb of a chamber revealed itself to have been a forge-temple.

‘What lodge was this?’ Forvuld wondered.

‘I have seen signs of several,’ said Dorvurn. ‘But I do not know their names.’

‘Then this was once an empire,’ Forvuld said with bitter awe.

‘Yes.’ Dorvurn was equally solemn.

Forvuld insisted, ‘It is wrong that we have forgotten who was here.’

‘Yes,’ said Thrumnor. ‘It is wrong. But we can do nothing about what has been lost. What we are doing now preserves at least one strand of the long past. We will honour it, and in so doing, safeguard the future.’

The dereliction disturbed him, though. These ruins were not an insurmountable journey away from the Forgecrag. That the Krelstrag had no memory of who had been here was a sign of how much had been taken by Chaos, even if the Krelstrag held fast in the Earthwound archipelago.

They passed under a colossal archway whose runes could still be read. It announced itself as the gateway to the Great Road of the Wyrm. The tunnel was enormous, travelling in a straight line over a long distance, as if it truly had been bored through the stone by a leviathan of myth. It had once been the lodge’s trade route. For three days, the Krelstrag grand fyrd moved long it. Thrumnor’s melancholy turned to anger as he gazed upon its forgotten majesty. So much had been taken from the Fyreslayers. The roof of the tunnel was vaulted, so high that it was a distant shadow in the torchlight. The pillars supporting it were carved in the form of titanic limbs. Their orientation alternated. First was an arm thrusting up from the floor to splay its hand against the ceiling, then another reaching down as if to pull the ore from the earth. Every few leagues, chambers opened up on one side or the other. In them stood towering statues that had been defaced. Many were missing heads, but the heroism of their stances was still apparent. They straddled crevasses so deep that they reached down to the molten depths of the mountain, and an orange light bathed their corroded features.

Glory and loss, everywhere Thrumnor looked. Glory and loss.

Towards the end of the third day, the route sloped upward, rising in increments toward the surface. As it did so, it became more and more unclean. The roots of the petrified forest reached down through the tunnel roof. They too were stone, and they too were diseased, covered in a grey, flaking mould. And they moved. Rock twisted in pain. The roots scraped at the walls. They tortured the ceiling, dropping jagged blocks to the floor of the tunnel. The more the path went upwards, the more the roots clustered and the more they tangled the space. Stone creaked in rotten agony. Leading from the front, Dorvurn smashed at the roots with his grandaxe, while the magmadroths battered them to fragments with their claws. At one juncture where the tunnel narrowed, Karmanax reared and unleashed a torrent of flaming bile into the knot of twisting corruption ahead. The stream melted the roots to nothing, clearing the way. The magmadroth snorted in unhappy contempt at the remains as he passed through.

Ahead, the tunnel widened. The roof was higher. Twisting, grinding roots draped the walls on all sides. Thrumnor watched the shadowy movement of the roots carefully. Rhulmok’s Grognax, just as suspicious, issued a low growl with every breath.

‘The shadows are a thicket,’ Rhulmok commented.

Thrumnor grunted his agreement. Much could hide in the dense tangle.

‘There might be more than plague-ridden stone within,’ he said. The convulsion of a blighted land concealed the artistry of the Great Road of the Wyrm.

There was so much movement. All around them, the shadows bulged and turned and rustled. An attack could come from anywhere.

The attack, when it came, was from everywhere. There was a sudden increase in the volume of the rustling. Things giggled in the dark. The shadows boiled. Down the walls and dropping from the ceiling came a swarm of distended, mewling, chattering, laughing daemons. They were squat, bulbous things, thick with tumours. Their needle-toothed jaws were parted in leering smiles. Horns in ones and twos and threes sprouted from their foreheads.

They were nurglings, and Thrumnor had fought their kind before during some of the many failed sieges of the Krelstrag lodge. Now the daemons attacked as if the Great Road was their land, and the Fyreslayers were the invaders. They came in a tide of uncounted thousands. In moments, the floor of the tunnel was hip-deep in the mire of the beasts. With tooth and claw and crude, rusted blade, the daemons swept against the Krelstrag duardin, seeking to overwhelm them with the sheer weight of their numbers.

The Fyreslayers responded to the attack with fury. These things had made the very veins of the earth unclean, and extermination was almost too good for them. Atop Grognax, Rhulmok let loose a roar of outrage. The magmadroth echoed him. Rhulmok began to hammer a rhythm. He chanted the Krelstrag war song. The ur-gold in Thrumnor’s flesh responded, filling him with the heat of rage and strength to shatter mountains. Down the ranks of the Fyreslayers, the essence of Grimnir came to wrathful life. The sigils and runes beaten into hardy duardin flesh glowed with fury. The uncountable nurglings were the plague-tide, rising up to drown its victims. The Fyreslayers were lava, scouring all before them.

Thrumnor swept his runic iron in wide blows. He smashed swaths of nurglings with every strike. They burst apart with wet cries of distress.

The magmadroths lashed out with tails and claws, destroying scores of the abominations. They crushed the daemons beneath their paws, smearing green bodies to bubbling liquid. They spewed their bile, burning the nurglings to ash.

The warriors of the Krelstrag fyrds hurled themselves into the destruction of the unclean enemy. With axes, they cut the grey tide down. Their voices joined Rhulmok’s, and they sang their fierce joy of battle — a pure, honourable joy that drowned out the burbling, gurgling, nonsensical clamouring of the daemons.

The nurglings rushed forward again with greater force. From behind their first ranks came their leaders. Blightkings waded into the battle, each one commanding hundreds of nurglings. They were bloated, deformed. Suppurating tentacles reached out from gaping maws where stomachs should have been. Some had one eye, others three. Arms were transformed into huge pincers. As they attacked, tocsins rang. The solemn tolling reverberated against the walls of the Great Road, claiming the tunnels in the name of the Plaguefather.

‘Unholy trespassers!’ Thrumnor shouted. ‘This is Fyreslayer land. You come here only to perish!’ He ran forward at the nearest blightking. He struck with his runic iron, plunging it into a torso maw. The jaws bit down, seizing the rod, and the blightking swung a pitted axe at Thrumnor’s head. The runemaster ducked and pressed harder. The sacred metal of the iron burned through the pestilential flesh. It shattered its spine and burst through its back. Thrumnor pulled it free as the heavy corpse fell.

A double-flail struck him from the side, and he staggered. Nurglings swarmed against him, trying to smother him with their biting mass. The blightking who had hit him, a corpulent, one-eyed giant, raised its flails again. Nurglings clamped their jaws onto Thrumnor’s arms to hold them back. He was slow to raise his staff to block the coming blow.

A stream of bile fell on the blightking. Its flesh melted and the flail dropped without striking. Grognax’s huge jaws snapped the plague warrior in half. Rhulmok had led the magmadroth away from the main formation of the Fyreslayers, cutting through the nurglings to ease the pressure on Thrumnor. The runemaster smashed the daemons from his person and took his stance at Grognax’s flank.

‘That was foolish,’ Rhulmok shouted in between his drum beats.

‘You cannot accept this sacrilege!’

‘I do not accept useless rage,’ the runesmiter said. ‘This ground is lost, corrupted beyond hope. We must pass through it, not sacrifice ourselves pointlessly. Is this battle the one of your vision?’

It was not. Thrumnor wished he could refute Rhulmok’s logic.

Still the nurglings and blightkings charged. Still they were thrown back. But their numbers told. Thrumnor saw the karl Gabir, one of the elite of the vulkite berzerkers, swarmed by the creatures. He fought them hard and well, killing many, but they clambered over him and bore him down before any of his brothers could reach him. When the other Fyreslayers cleared the mound of nurglings away, Gabir was a half-eaten carcass swelling with boils.

The stench of the daemons was foul. Gaseous, thick, suffocating, it conjured images in Thrumnor’s mind of stone turned as soft as flesh, falling apart like stringy, fly-blown meat.

The nurglings ate into the Krelstrag lines, but they could not stop the march. They brought down individual Fyreslayers, but the fallen warriors’ brothers responded with renewed fury, destroying the daemons in ever greater numbers. Step by step, the Fyreslayers burned and smashed their way forward, grinding the enemy down. This much was true to Thrumnor’s vision. The Krelstrag were the lava flood, and would not be stopped. Certainly not by this enemy.

I saw what must happen, Thrumnor thought, grasping that triumph. We are on our destined path. The sweep of his staff destroyed another cluster of nurglings.

At last, the flood of foes ended. Their numbers were not infinite. The Fyreslayers trampled the last underfoot and watched as the bodies burst into clouds of dusty spores. The air was filled with disease, but the fire of Grimnir burned brightly in the ur-gold of the Fyreslayers, and they would not be brought down by so lowly a foe.

Less than an hour later, the tunnel split. The left-hand branch continued to climb toward the surface. On the right, it plunged deeper into the earth. Dorvurn raised an arm to call a halt. Thrumnor and Rhulmok rode up beside him. They were joined by the runesons. Together, they stared in horror at the full extent of the blighted underworld.

The route up was relatively clear, but the roots of the petrified forest created a thick, malodorous tangle on the path that descended into the lodge. The mould there had reached a critical stage, achieving an unholy union, and the roots now spread the pestilence to the rock around them. What Thrumnor had only imagined earlier was a reality here. The tunnel walls and ceiling pressed in on each other, as soft as a sponge, a fleshy collapse. There was no passage to be had here. There was barely room for a single Fyreslayer at a time to try the tunnel, and it narrowed further at the edge of torchlight.

‘How can such rot be?’ Forvuld asked.

‘It has had all the time it needs to settle deep into the marrow of the earth,’ said Dorvurn. He turned to the left-hand path. ‘We will travel overland.’

It took another day’s journey, beset by smaller nurgling assaults, before the Krelstrag reached the outer gates. They emerged on a steep slope, less than a league from the base of the Great Weld. The petrified forest with its agonised forms was now at their back, but the route to the Weld was strewn with boulders, fuzzy with mould, and the ground was a carpet of rock-devouring lichen. If there were daemons nearby, they did not attack. The Fyreslayers moved on.

As dusk fell, the army reached its destination.

Thrumnor gazed up its height. The size of the Weld was overwhelming. A force beyond reckoning had brought multiple volcanoes together, fusing them into a single giant, standing alone.

‘And Grimnir desired an anvil for his work,’ Thrumnor intoned. ‘And he essayed first one mountain, and then another, and they were all too weak, shattering to dust at the first blow of his hammer.’ His voice echoed against the cliff face. He faced the Krelstrag, his back to the Weld, and recited the tale they all knew, but had never felt so visceral until this moment. ‘And because the mountains on their own were too weak, Grimnir gathered a great number together, and he welded them into one with the fury of his making. From that great forging, he had his anvil.’

Thrumnor stopped. He turned around again to regard Grimnir’s anvil with a mingling of awe and horror. Seen from the Forgecrag, the Great Weld was a distant silhouette, and its proportions did indeed resemble an anvil. Now he could see the evidence of Grimnir’s work. The outlines of the individual volcanoes were still visible. Clefts running from peak to base, their gaps filled with basalt, marked the shapes of the mountains that had been.

There was something else, though, about the configuration of the lines. Their slopes, their angles and their parallels were suggestive of something else. But the pattern extended beyond Thrumnor’s sight, and he dismissed it.

What he saw was a wonder, and Thrumnor gloried at the power of Grimnir.

But there was horror too. Even in the dim light, he could clearly see the extent of the blight on the towering walls of the Great Weld. It was a stain, one that appeared to move and spread if Thrumnor stared at it long enough. The shape of the stain was even worse.

‘No,’ he said. ‘This cannot be.’

‘You see it too,’ said Rhulmok.

The form of the stain was a flow, as if it were lava pouring from the peak of the Great Weld. It widened as it approached the base. Thrumnor traced the descent with his eyes, and saw new meaning in the plague on the land.

Rhulmok spoke the words Thrumnor could not bring himself to articulate. ‘The Weld is the core of the blight,’ he said.

‘No,’ Thrumnor said, as if denial could banish the obscenity. Ground so sacred could not truly be the origin of the corruption. The Great Weld had been attacked. It too was a victim of the Chaos Gods.

Dorvurn said, ‘We must pass beyond the Weld.’

‘No!’ Thrumnor cried. ‘Grimnir’s hammer awaits us on the peak. A great forging is to be ours.’

The doubt in Rhulmok’s face was now present in Dorvurn’s. The distance Thrumnor had felt growing between himself and the runesmiter now became a schism. He would not permit Rhulmok’s lack of belief in his vision to divert the Krelstrag from their destined path.

‘The Weld is under attack,’ Thrumnor said. ‘But its heart is still pure.’ He spoke from faith rather than knowledge. He approached the wall now. ‘Bear witness with me,’ he commanded Rhulmok.

The runesmiter hesitated. The concern Thrumnor saw in his eyes was beyond bearing. With a great effort, Thrumnor prevented himself from laying his hands on Rhulmok and dragging him to the wall. After a moment, Rhulmok joined him.

‘And if you are wrong, what then?’ he asked.

‘I am not wrong,’ Thrumnor growled.

Rhulmok used his latch-axe to scrape away the devouring mould, exposing the rock of the Weld. He and Thrumnor placed their hands and foreheads against the stone. Rhulmok, Thrumnor knew, would be reaching out to the tunnels in the Weld, reading the veins and passages, seeking to know whether the stone would consent to part before his will. Thrumnor listened for the beat and rush of the magma. He needed to gauge the extent of its rage.

Thrumnor had barely begun to chant a prayer of kinship to the Weld when he recoiled. So did Rhulmok, and at the same instant.

Thrumnor’s head and palms burned as if the rock face had turned molten. ‘The Great Weld rages,’ he said to Dorvurn. ‘It feels the plague attacking it, and all inside is wrath. Holy wrath.’

Rhulmok nodded, gazing at his own hands in alarm. ‘There is so much pain,’ he added.

‘But the heart of the Great Weld is not corrupt,’ Thrumnor insisted.

Rhulmok hesitated, then nodded.

‘Then we climb,’ Dorvurn declared. He looked up.

The clouds flashed green, reflected from what thundered on the peak of the Weld.

IV

At first glance, the walls of the Great Weld appeared vertical. Though they were very steep, a path could be made out. The Fyreslayers marched up a long, inclining ledge that had once been a mountain’s slope. Sometimes it was wide enough for the duardin to march three abreast. Elsewhere, it narrowed to the point that the magmadroths were barely able to navigate it, even with their claws digging deep through the tainting mould and into the stone.

The rock blight became thicker as they climbed, and more active. It pulsed and scraped. The endless whispering of dissolving stone sounded in Thrumnor’s ears like a daemon’s mockery. That this great wonder, this holy monument, should be so desecrated made his fists tighten in fury. He longed to strike out at the bearers of this plague.

Nurglings cavorted along the cliffs, scrabbling over each other, sometimes falling like overfed ticks to burst on the ground below. In small groups they attempted to harry the Krelstrag, and they were dealt with savagely. They could not summon the numbers to attack in the concentrated manner they had in the tunnels, so they taunted and laughed.

Thrumnor vented his rage on those who dared come within reach of his staff, but it brought no satisfaction to smash the lowliest of daemonkind. They were not the ones who had created the blight. He might as well be striking at the mould.

He did once, snarling, then caught himself, even more angry that he had succumbed to his frustration. As he turned back to the path, he heard a low, deep buzzing. He looked up to see a swarm of huge insects descend from the heights of the Weld. Ragged wings supported drooping sacks of bodies. Serpentine trunks hung from their heads. The sound of the rotflies’ wings crawled into Thrumnor’s ears and into his mind. His spine ached. The swarm flew down the path as if to knock the Fyreslayers off the side of the slope. The host of the Krelstrag responded before the first rotfly struck. Vulkite berzerkers hurled throwing axes at the daemon insects. A single blow from a fyresteel blade would have done little against the flies, but the axes arced upwards in the hundreds.

The daemons flew into a scything wall. Axes cut wings to shreds and burst swollen bodies. A score of the creatures tumbled into the dark below. Screeching hatred, the rest of the swarm spread over the Krelstrag line. The abominations fell on the duardin warriors, tearing their bodies apart with the jagged points of their chitinous limbs. Fyreslayers avenged their kin before the insects could fly away with their victims, attacking each monster with wrath and steel. The magmadroths smashed them from the air.

Thrumnor struck at the daemons that flew near him, but his blows with the runic iron were not enough. He longed to punish the rotflies with a burst of lava from within the Weld. Their presence was still another grievous insult to the sacred anvil. His anger grew, but before he lost himself, Rhulmok called his name and drew him back.

He raged, swinging his staff with all the more force because Rhulmok was right. The rage in the Weld was far beyond his own, far beyond his control. He would unleash disaster if he called it to the surface.

Four score of the Krelstrag lay dead before the last of the rotflies was exterminated.

‘Mourn our brothers,’ said Dorvurn, ‘and celebrate their victory. The foe has not stopped our advance.’

‘But they could not have,’ Rhulmok said, thoughtful.

‘What do you mean?’ Thrumnor asked.

‘How could they have hoped to, with those numbers?’

True. The swarm had been no more than another harrying raid.

‘What does it mean?’ Rhulmok asked. The question felt like a challenge.

‘It changes nothing,’ Thrumnor said. He knew he wasn’t answering, but whatever the attacks meant, his faith in the truth of his vision held. He could imagine no other interpretation. He swallowed his anger at Rhulmok and said, ‘We are being tested. We will be tested again at the peak. And from these tests we will emerge stronger yet.’

‘What test?’ said Rhulmok. ‘What waits above? Nothing but foulness has come down to us.’

‘We will cleanse it.’ Thrumnor thought again of his vision, of the great hammer and its transformative blow. Such light, such fire. The memory renewed his faith. They would cleanse the Great Weld of its plague.

On they climbed. The Great Weld shook and rumbled. Its convulsions were not those of an anvil resonating from hammer blows, but agonised wrath struggling to find expression. The heat of the Weld’s interior pushed outward. Cracks webbed along the ledge and stone fragments fell from the cliff face. The walls of the mountains were solid, and they contained their anger, trembling with the effort while their flesh was gnawed by the blight.

The Krelstrag marched day and night without rest. The nurglings gave them no respite. Further swarms of rotflies eroded their ranks. But the summit called to them with its thunder and its beating glow. They would answer. At the end of the fourth day, with the fall of night, they arrived at the peak. What Thrumnor saw there almost paralysed him with rage and horror.

The summits of the many volcanoes had been fused into a giant plateau. There was no sign of the calderas that had once been. Instead, the surface of the plateau was slightly rounded, as if bulging upward. At the centre, half a league away, was the origin of the green light.

It was a celebration.

Daemons of Nurgle in the thousands cavorted and sang. Drums, bells and horns sounded, creating music as dissonant as it was joyful. The noise was enough to make Thrumnor’s chest contract as if he were breathing foul air. The daemons danced. The lumbering, uneven movement of so many abominations was that of maggots heaving under flesh.

At the heart of the ritual stood a titan of plague.

What waits above? Rhulmok had asked.

Here was the answer.

And Thrumnor felt the first true wounds of doubt.

During the most terrible of the sieges that the lodge had withstood, when it had been necessary to withdraw all the Krelstrag to within the redoubt of the Forgecrag, they had fought a Great Unclean One, one of the most powerful daemons of Nurgle. The story of that battle was one that the lodge never tired of hearing Battlesmith Yuhvir recite. It was one Thrumnor recalled in perfect, vivid detail. He recognised the daemon here as kin to the other. It too was a Great Unclean One, though many times larger. It was a mountain in its own right. It was over a hundred feet high. Its mass was swollen, the diseased skin taut and shining with the weight of tumours and the pressure of gas. Its head was sunken in its shoulders, if it could be said to have a head. But there was a maw, a huge one, gaping between the shoulder blades, where a tongue longer than a magmadroth hung pendulously past the fangs, dripping ichor and slime. There were other mouths too. They were on its arms, and on its knees, and they jabbered and slobbered and sang and laughed. It laughed most delightedly when the multitudes of lesser daemons at its feet raised their arms in praise and shouted a word.

‘Distensiath!’

They were calling its name.

The foul colossus led the dance. It created the beat of the song with the ground-shaking impact of its trunk-like legs. It could barely shift its great bulk, and its gut dragged against the surface of the plateau as it lifted and stamped its feet. It waved its arms, conducting the celebrants, and brandished a pitted, twisted sword twenty feet long. The voices of its mouths formed a choir, which summoned a rain of phlegm from the air that hissed when it fell on stone.

The panorama of corruption was intolerable. But the worst of it for Thrumnor was that the beats of the song were the blows of the hammer. Every time Distensiath stamped, the repellent green light flashed, smearing the falling night with its disease. This was what he had seen from the Forgecrag. He had said that Grimnir’s hammer was again striking the anvil. Instead, the truth was the unspeakable amusement of a daemon. It was from this dance that the rockblight flowed. Thrumnor could see it now, see the mould spring into existence around Distensiath’s feet. It piled up, then spread outwards in ripples. It covered the plateau. It poured itself down all sides of the Weld, and from there it reached out to blight all the land.

‘Runemaster,’ said Dorvurn, ‘is this what your vision foretold?’

Thrumnor fought past the horror at what had become of the sacred ground.

‘It must be. Our cleansing fire begins here, runefather.’ The terrible explosion he had seen — that was the coming clash. Fiery glory would follow.

This is the truth, he thought. There is no other possibility.

He kept his doubts secret. He stamped them down.

‘This is our path,’ he said.

Dorvurn turned to address the Krelstrag host.

‘Fyreslayers,’ he said, ‘you see Grimnir’s great work desecrated by daemonkind. I will not stand for it! Will you?’

A collective roar of denial. Hammers slammed against shields. Every warrior present burned with the need to punish the daemons and cleanse the sacred ground.

‘Our oath calls us beyond the Great Weld,’ Dorvurn continued. ‘It calls us through that unclean horde. To fulfil our duty, we must pass through the daemons.’ He grinned. ‘We must destroy the daemons!’

Another roar, louder still, and the greater thunder of clashing weapons.

‘Krelstrag lodge!’ Dorvurn shouted, his voice filling the night with righteous anger and eager fury. ‘March with me to war!’

Dorvurn, Thrumnor and Rhulmok led the advance. Behind them came the runesons, and with them Komgan, the grimwrath berzerker. Then came the fyrds of vulkite berzerkers, Battlesmith Yuhvir striding at their centre. He held high the standard of the Krelstrag, and he began to recite the battles of the lodge, the centuries of sieges withstood and broken, the glories accrued to the warriors of Grimnir. His huge voice reached the ears of every Fyreslayer present. They grinned to think of honours past, and of the saga that would be told of the battle now upon them.

Rhulmok was hard at work, igniting the fire of the ur-gold. The sound of his labours punctuated the chanting of Yuhvir and the berzerkers’ shouts of praise to Grimnir, and so the Fyreslayers countered the foul music of the daemons with a song of their own. Pure and hard and unforgiving, it rumbled over the plateau. It was a challenge, and it was a reclamation. The sons of Grimnir had come to his holy place, and they would take it back, beginning by returning the true sounds of the anvil.

As the Fyreslayers advanced, they built up speed. The magmadroths began to lope. The berzerkers broke into a run. Every second they were not lopping off the heads of daemons was a second wasted. The ground shook beneath the pounding of their feet.

When the Fyreslayers were halfway to the enemy, the sound and the vibrations of their challenge broke through the daemons’ celebration. The daemons hesitated in their dance. They stopped. They turned to see who had interrupted them, and who it was who did not fear them.

Distensiath’s grotesque smiles grew even wider.

Hills of struggling nurglings giggled in delight.

The more solemn plaguebearers clustered together and took up their weapons.

Distensiath spoke. The words came first from one mouth, then another. They overlapped in their speech, so that some words were spoken by two maws at once. The voice of the Great Unclean One was the sound of a mountain coughing up its lungs. The syllables were moist. The mockery was acid.

‘You are welcome, children of Grimnir. We have been waiting for you to join us. What has taken you so long? We have been calling you and calling you and calling you. Were you deaf and blind to our invitation?’

Do not answer, Thrumnor thought. Do not exchange words with the abomination. There is nothing to be gained in doing so.

But he could not remain silent.

‘Your taunts mean nothing!’ he shouted. ‘Your revels are over!’

‘Over?’ Distensiath repeated. All the mouths of the daemon laughed. Its corpulence trembled with mirth. ‘But they have only just begun! Your coming was foretold! Let the prophecy be fulfilled!’

Thrumnor felt the touch of an icy claw in his chest. Had he been wrong? He had seen the storm, and he had seen the light on the Great Weld, and he had believed a Fyreslayer prophecy was coming to pass. That had been the reason to urge action to keep the oath. But Grimnir’s hammer was not striking the anvil once more.

Did the daemon speak the truth?

The possibility was ghastly. Worse than the Krelstrag prophecy not being fulfilled was a daemonic one reaching fruition instead.

Are we the tools of that realisation?

No. Thrumnor would not permit such a thing. No Krelstrag would. The daemons had infested ground sacred to Grimnir, and for this crime they would suffer.

The daemons waited until the Fyreslayers had almost reached their position before they moved. Then they advanced, howling joyfully. The nurglings spilled around the legs of the plaguebearers, rushing to be the first to greet the newcomers to the revel. Distensiath’s maws unleashed a cacophony of laughter, and the Great Unclean One began to walk. Each step was ponderous, dragging and thunderous, shaking the ground and spreading new webs of cracks over the surface. The daemon could barely move, yet as it rocked forwards it spread its arms as if to gather new worshippers to its flock.

Rhulmok pounded the war altar with mounting fury. Thrumnor’s ur-gold sigils blazed in response, and he was consumed with the ferocity of battle. No enemy could stand before the rage he embodied. He roared. The entire host of the Krelstrag lodge roared. The Fyreslayers fell upon the daemons.

A battering ram in red and gold slammed into the abominations. Nurglings burst apart upon impact. The Krelstrag wasted no blows on them. Their charge was enough to part the stream of lesser daemons and hurl them back the way they had come. The plaguebearers were the more worthy opponents. Things of swollen bellies and rotten limbs, they sprouted long horns on their heads and wielded foul blades. They waded into combat with the Fyreslayers with mutters and nods. They appeared to be counting, and they attacked with purpose. The purifying rage of the Krelstrag clashed with the essence of disease.

Dorvurn and the runesons led from the front. They attacked in seven powerful kinbands. At their sides were the auric hearthguard and the berzerkers. Many of the hearthguard had been tasked to remain at the Forgecrag with Homnir, but even so, there were more than enough present to march with the lords of the lodge and burn the ranks of the daemons. The hearthguard’s magmapikes launched fiery death into the enemy, setting the plaguebearers ablaze. As the daemons’ chants turned to cries of pain and rage, they burned again as the berzerkers waded in with their flamestrike poleaxes. Braziers on the ends of chains crashed against the abominations. Into the spreading wall of burning daemonflesh, Dorvurn and his sons laid waste to the foe with sweeps of their axes and the monstrous predation of the magmadroths. Then came the vulkite berzerkers, a brutal wave of blades and anger. The Fyreslayers punched deep, breaking the coherence of the daemons’ advance, pushing the daemons back towards the centre of the plateau.

Thrumnor brought his staff down on the head of a plaguebearer, shattering it utterly. The daemon’s ichor spewed out, and the body sank to its knees. Thrumnor followed through with a sideways strike, crushing the bodies of the daemons who tried to close with him. There was rapid movement in the corner of his left eye. He turned, seizing a throwing axe from his belt and hurling it at another plaguebearer. The axe buried itself in the daemon’s face, splitting it in two.

The Fyreslayers drove deeper into the enemy, wedging the foul mass apart. The plaguebearers responded by closing around the Krelstrag army and trying to crush the lines. Axes smashed their bodies to festering slime.

Dorvurn and the runesons ripped through the diseased ranks, tossing daemons left and right, burning their way toward Distensiath. Seven lines of destruction converged on the greater daemon. It was the defiler of the Weld, and it would feel the greatest wrath of the Fyreslayers. The magmadroths sprayed flaming bile, turning left and right to consume the ravening daemons. The abominations howled and melted, but more rushed forth as Distensiath advanced, footstep by slow footstep, crushing its own followers in its eagerness to meet the Krelstrag.

‘Worship with us!’ Distensiath bellowed. It swung its massive sword and cut deep into the Fyreslayer lines, killing five warriors at a stroke. It swung again, and Krelstrag blood rained from the blade. The duardin roared their defiance. They charged forward to avenge the deaths of their brothers, and surrounded the bulk of the huge daemon. It laughed, delighted, and struck again. The lords of the lodge attacked Distensiath’s flanks. The hearthguard held the plaguebearers and nurglings back while the berzerkers brought their weapons to bear against the rubbery flesh of the behemoth.

Thrumnor stopped before Distensiath. He raised his runic iron high. Here and now he would reclaim the Weld for Grimnir and deny the daemon whatever purpose it believed drove its presence.

‘This is the anvil of Grimnir!’ Thrumnor shouted. ‘This is the work of his hands, of his hammer, and of his forge. You have no place here! Burn in the fire of Grimnir’s anger!’

The rod glowed crimson. Thrumnor slammed its tip into the ground. Now let the wrath of the Great Weld be loosed, he thought. The force of the spell transmitted itself through the surface of the plateau to the molten rock below. The magma rose. The anger was so great it threatened to escape Thrumnor’s control. He managed to contain it, and to direct the burst of its release. Rock split where the staff had hit. The crack widened as it raced toward Distensiath.

‘Grimnir’s fury!’ Thrumnor shouted, a warning to his brothers in the path of what was coming. They parted on either side of the widening gap. Then a geyser of lava shot from the ground before the Great Unclean One. It splashed against Distensiath’s belly and torso. In its first burst, it flew high enough to fall, burning, onto the daemon’s upper maw.

Distensiath screamed. The howl shook the entire Weld and knocked Thrumnor off his feet. A swarm of flies billowed out the daemon’s jaws and covered the sky. The great blade wavered, its blow arrested.

‘For Grimnir!’ Dorvurn shouted, and the latchkey grandaxe buried itself deep into Distensiaths’ bulging flesh. A hundred other weapons struck the raging daemon at the same moment.

The howl climbed higher, becoming a gurgling screech so intense, blood filled Thrumnor’s ears. Distensiath’s body began to swell. It became even more immense. The flesh of its belly bulged like a frog’s throat. The sickly green became the pallid white of tension. The scream rose higher yet.

Thrumnor saw what was coming. There would be no shelter. Nor did he wish it. He pulled himself up into a crouch and held fast to the staff. At the last moment, at the height of the scream, he saw that the mouth on Distensiath’s knee was laughing.

Then came the searing light from Thrumnor’s vision.

The daemon exploded.

The gasses in its body ignited. The blast hurled Fyreslayers and daemons back across the Great Weld like leaves in a gale. Distensiath vanished, transformed into a rain of bile-green ichor that covered the entire plateau. Stone hissed and dissolved at its touch. Flesh erupted in boils. Thrown a hundred yards by the explosion, Thrumnor staggered to his feet. He was coated with the daemonic essence, and he felt it eat into his being. His skin wept pus. Something foul sought to take him apart.

He spat in contempt. He shook his head, ridding his beard of the ichor. There were cries of agonised rage on all sides as the devouring plague gnawed the flesh of the Fyreslayers.

‘Karls of the Krelstrag!’ Thrumnor shouted. ‘The fire of Grimnir runs in your veins! Deny the pestilence. Cast its weakness down and trample it underfoot!’

Rhulmok had climbed back onto the throne atop Grognax, and had resumed the beat on the war altar with a vengeance. Ur-gold flared, and it burned the corruption of the flesh. The purging was torture, but it was a needful pain, true and clean, and Thrumnor exulted in it.

Not all the berzerkers found salvation. The surface of the plateau was littered with bubbling, dissolving bodies. But the Krelstrag were still strong, and they rallied round Yuhvir’s standard and the runefather’s raised grandaxe. They formed a circle of iron at the centre of the plateau.

As Thrumnor ran forward to join the fyrds, he heard something that chilled his blood. It came as the last of the ichor fell from the sky and settled into the Great Weld. He heard a sigh, and he heard a whisper. The voice was Distensiath’s voice, a phantom echo, a single word.

‘Fulfilled.’

In the vision, the anvil had shattered. Now the Great Weld heaved. It rocked to and fro, but the movement was wrong. This was no earthquake. This was no eruption. This was transformation. Standing beside Grognax, Thrumnor looked toward the distant edges of the plateau, and saw them rise up and down. Like flesh. Like muscle.

And now Thrumnor understood the pattern he had partly seen at the base of the Great Weld. The shapes embedded in the rock were not just those of fused volcanoes. They were also limbs. Revelation flooded in. Thrumnor gasped.

‘Runemaster,’ Dorvurn shouted. ‘What is happening?’

‘Grimnir’s feat was greater than we imagined,’ Thrumnor called back. ‘It was not volcanoes he fused together. He battered a great beast into submission. He turned his opponent into the anvil of stone. It became volcanoes.’ He paused. ‘And now that defeat is being undone. The beast is awakening.’

We have done this thing, he thought bitterly.

The heaving became more pronounced. The cracks in the surface of the plateau began to assume a different cast. They were the outline of scales.

The beast came closer and closer to waking. Then it would walk. A monster of plague the size of a mountain chain would be loose upon the realm.

The plaguebearers and the nurglings closed in once more, but gradually, as if waiting for a signal. It came now. Across the entire plateau, the scales of the beast rose, and from beneath each one came another plaguebearer. Thousands upon thousands of them dragged themselves up from the beneath the skin of the Great Weld.

Tens of thousands.

Hundreds of thousands, covering all the leagues of the Great Weld.

There was a sudden, terrible, immense lurch, as of a single step.

The daemons in their uncountable legions raised their voices in solemn praise to the Plaguefather, and they advanced.

The Fyreslayers were surrounded.

‘The defilers of the Great Weld come to meet their doom!’ Dorvurn thundered. ‘Be the fire of Grimnir, and burn them from the realm!’

The air shook with the defiant clash of blade on shield, but there was a different quality to the sound this time. Thrumnor knew it. This was the last stand of the Krelstrag.

From atop Grognax, Rhulmok called to Thrumnor, making peace. ‘At least it will be a fight worthy of song.’

Thrumnor shook his head. ‘This is wrong,’ he said. ‘This is not my vision.’ He could not have been so tragically mistaken. He filled his lungs and howled his wrath at the fates. ‘This was not foretold!’

The Krelstrag lodge decimated. The Great Weld transformed into a leviathan of plague. This was not what he had seen. This was not what the great light in his vision had produced.

Ahead, the front lines of the Fyreslayers hurled themselves against the ocean of daemons. The sound of the battle was immense, as of a great hammer coming down on iron. At that sound, Thrumnor thought of his vision, and of the forging. Of the shattered anvil, and of the lava that came after.

And he felt a surge of hope.

The transformation was not yet complete. Thrumnor called to the wrath inside the Weld, and found it was still there. Grimnir’s work was not undone. The fury of volcanoes had not turned into corrupted blood.

‘Rhulmok!’ Thrumnor cried. ‘We may yet honour Grimnir! With me, brother! Let this be not an anvil, but a crucible. Let us unleash its full wrath!’

Dorvurn looked down at him from Karmanax. ‘Can you do this?’

The image before Thrumnor’s mind’s eye was one of shattering and lava. ‘It is foretold that we will,’ he said.

Rhulmok laughed, and drummed the anvil of war with renewed energy.

‘I see it now!’ he said to Thrumnor. ‘I see it at last! What a grand transformation we shall forge!’

‘We will be the prophesied fire,’ said Thrumnor.

The runefather nodded, and then he spoke to the entire lodge, his voice strong with pride and drowning out the chanting of the daemons and the rumble of war. ‘Fyrds of the Krelstrag, what comes is no sacrifice! This shall be the greatest victory, and the greatest tale, of our lodge!’

The Fyreslayers roared their approval, and with joyous fury they threw themselves at the sea of daemons, holding them back as Thrumnor and Rhulmok did what they must.

Rhulmok increased the beat on the altar. Thrumnor felt his ur-gold sigils ignite with a fire greater than ever before.

‘One more Binding, then,’ Rhulmok said.

‘One more,’ Thrumnor called back. ‘It will be our greatest work, youngflame.’

‘A fine song it will make.’

‘So it will.’ For a few moments more, Thrumnor watched the fyrds fight a war they could not win, and there too was the making of a fine song. The Krelstrag cut the daemons down by the score, by the hundreds. The hundreds of thousands pressed closer, but now, right now, the fury of the Fyreslayers was unstoppable, as the voice of Yuhvir shouted the litany of victories.

Let this be how I last see my brothers, Thrumnor thought.

Then, with both hands wrapped around the staff, its power crackling a deep violet and plunging deep into the transforming ground, he reached for the magma.

The strain threatened to tear him apart. The rage of the Great Weld was enormous, but the change was coming to it too, and molten rock would soon become diseased blood.

But not yet.

Thrumnor called to the magma. He called to the fury of the Weld. Eager, it rose towards him. He felt the deep vibrations as Rhulmok spoke to stone that had not yet become flesh. It raged against the transformation of the Great Weld. At the runesmiter’s command, it parted before the rising magma.

One last Binding, Rhulmok had said. It was true. This was their grandest enactment of the ritual. Though they sought a perfect destruction, in the coming annihilation they would return the Great Weld to its volcanic being. All the bridges linking the islands of the Earthwound archipelago found their culmination here, as they fused wrath with its fullest, most holy expression.

The magma rose. The full strength of the Weld, all of its contained rage, rushed upward to the peak. The surface of the plateau had become flesh, but the interior of the Great Weld was still stone. Walls parted. Tunnels opened up. Molten magma climbed. Thrumnor’s temper joined with Rhulmok’s shaping.

The wrath came. The entire plateau bulged upward, swelling as Distensiath’s bulk had, only this time with the fires of purification.

Thrumnor smiled as the ground rose, and he felt the heat through his feet.

‘For Grimnir,’ he said.

And the world erupted in a terrible blaze.

V

Dorvurn strode down the far side of the Great Weld.

His body shielded from the blast and fire by Karmanax and the will of Grimnir, he had lived through the initial moments of the destruction. He had flown through fire and smoke and incandescent gas, through lightning and ash and still more fire. Burned, his weapons gone, he had landed beyond the new, immense caldera, on a ledge partway down the mountainside.

There was purpose in his survival. Chance had no part in it.

He descended the sloping ledge, so much like the one the Krelstrag had climbed on the other side. It was stone again, not a beast. The ground was still a long way off, and Dorvurn knew he would never reach it. His moments were numbered. Lava was everywhere, flowing down the Great Weld and spreading over the land. Dorvurn was walking between streams, and soon enough another would come to swallow him.

But he was content.

Below, the blighted land was purged by the ocean of lava.

‘Runemaster,’ Dorvurn said, ‘I have lived to see the truth of your vision.’ The Krelstrag had truly become what Thrumnor had foreseen. The Fyreslayers had brought the purifying fire. Dorvurn’s lodge had, in every sense that mattered, become the lava flood. And the Krelstrag would be strong yet. Homnir would see to that.

Dorvurn looked off into the distance, toward the other lodge, its name still forgotten, its location unknown. It was unreachable. But perhaps their actions here today would aid those Fyreslayers. Perhaps the vast scouring of the land would be enough to weaken the hold of Chaos on the entire region.

Dorvurn was still marching in the direction of the lodge, still holding fast to the oath, and to the knowledge the Krelstrag had humbled a vast army of Chaos.

So as the heat came for the runefather, he did not mourn.

Guy Haley

The Volturung Road

I

They always came for the Hardgate.

To one side of the volcano, its flanks sloped more gently, allowing the Slaaneshi to gather in larger numbers than elsewhere. After one hundred years of siege, the ground was a mess of bones and old armour, the remains of men and titanic monsters tangled with the broken remnants of great siege engines. Time after time, the forces of the daemon prince Qualar Vo threw themselves at the gates with ecstatic abandon. They laughed as they died, revelling in the sensation of death. Time after time, the Fyreslayers of the Ulgaen lodges cast them back.

Today was different. When the Slaaneshi assailed the gate, they broke into the hold from below.

‘Stop them!’ roared Ulgathern, twelfth runeson of the lord of Ulgaen-ar. ‘Kill the breaching worms!’

Hideous, pallid things thrashed as vulkite berzerkers buried their axes in rubbery flesh. Petal mouths gaped and snapped, but the duardin were too swift. Their ur-gold runes lent them speed and strength, and the worms could not land a blow. Other Fyreslayers battled with the human tribesmen coming up the tunnels that had been chewed through the rock by their monsters. The south passage was a disorienting racket of clashing arms and screams.

Ulgathern sliced through the body of a worm behind its head. The creatures were massively thick, and it took several blows to sever its head completely. The body did not cease thrashing, but yanked back into the tunnel keening shrilly, leaving a slick of clear blood on the floor.

The sounds of battle receded. All around the tunnel were heaped the bodies of Slaaneshi marauders. Their gaudily coloured skins were smeared with blood. The last fell with a defiant yell.

‘Ha! Chaos filth!’ roared Mangulnar, third and oldest surviving runeson of Karadrakk-Grimnir. He slapped Ulgathern hard on the shoulder and flicked the gore from his moustaches with a grin. Both of them were covered in the stinking fluids of the worms. ‘When I’m Runefather, little brother, we’ll run out after them and kill the lot, not skulk in these caverns waiting to die.’

Ulgathern looked sidelong at his elder sibling. Sometimes, Mangulnar enjoyed fighting a little too much.

‘That would be the best way to lose the war,’ he said.

‘You sound like Father. Where’s your hunger for the fight? There’s pleasure in war, and we should embrace it. Fear brings no ur-gold to our lodge.’

‘Be careful what you wish for. The thirst for pleasure is what drives our enemies at us.’

Mangulnar spat. ‘Their pleasure makes them weak. Battle joy makes us strong, it’s completely different.’

‘These are not their best warriors. I sense a ruse. Their attacks are getting bolder, more inventive. The worms are new. It is nearly one hundred and one years since the siege began. Storms fill the skies, and we should be wary.’

‘Are you talking about that bloody prophecy of Drokki’s again?’ said Mangulnar harshly. ‘You should be careful whose words you heed. As withered in mind as he is in arm, that friend of yours. Listening to the likes of him is why you’ll never be a Runefather, but if you’re fortunate, I might let you serve me when I am lord of Ulgaen-ar.’ Mangulnar stalked away, looking for something else to kill.

Ulgathern stared after his brother. Mangulnar and he rarely saw eye to eye.

‘You there!’ shouted Ulgathern to one of his warriors. ‘Report back to my father that the third deeping is clear.’ The warrior nodded and ran off. Ulgathern looked to the holes. The walls of the burrows were slick with the worms’ secretions. ‘And get a building team here, plug these up. I don’t want anything else coming through.’

‘Are you to join your father, my lord?’ asked Grokkenkir, Ulgathern’s favoured karl and leader of his vulkite berzerkers.

‘The runefather ordered me to the Hardgate once done. My brothers and father will stop the other breaches soon enough without my help, you can be sure of that.’

Ulgathern took the steps up to the gate parapet three at a time, his muscles hot with Grimnir’s power. Well before the thin daylight penetrated the gloom of the stairwell, he heard the enemy: a frenzied roaring as repetitive as the booming of the sea. On the wallwalk over the gate stood the auric hearthguard, firing their magmapikes into the packed hordes a hundred feet below. Ulgavost, thirteenth runeson of Karadrakk-Grimnir, watched the enemy die from a step behind the battlement. Ulgathern went to join his brother, and looked out over the mountain slope.

The Hornteeth Mountains were in Ghur, but they might well have been in the Realm of Fire: a long chain of sharp-peaked volcanoes stretching sunward and nightward across the continent, dividing the prairies from the Darkdeep Ocean. The mountains were all black ash and young rock, cut through by chasms that often filled with torrents of lava. Precious little grew around the Ulmount. The skies were choked with clouds of dust that glowed orange when the mountains spoke to one another. Blue skies were a rarity; more so recently, for strange storms raged daily.

The Slaaneshi tribesmen had occupied the lands below the Hardgate for so long they had constructed their own town there. Ulgathern looked over the screaming masses to the fortress occupying the settlement’s middle. It was a hideous thing, the blocks hewn from the side of Ulmount itself and carved with repulsive images.

Around the fortress was a sea of tents. Darkness ruled down there, away from the ember-glows of the volcano, and the bright silk banners of the Chaos worshippers appeared muddy in the shadows.

Most of the horde must have marched out from their twisted township, for they were arrayed before the Hardgate in numberless multitude. A pair of gargants with striped blue skin battered at the gates. Endless ranks of warriors and tribesmen surged around them, roaring out praises to their unclean deity.

‘If they think they’re getting in here, they’re going to be disappointed,’ said Ulgavost. ‘Nobody’s coming to open the gates for them today.’

‘You sealed your breach?’

Ulgavost sniffed. His perpetually dour expression lifted a moment in a display of modesty. ‘Nothing to it, there were only a hundred or so of them.’

‘I don’t like the look of this. There are more of them all the time,’ said Ulgathern.

‘Think they’d just give up and leave us be? Chaos won’t be done here until we’re all dead. It’s just a matter of time,’ said Ulgavost.

‘Aye,’ said Ulgathern. ‘I fear that time is coming soon.’

‘Have you been talking to Drokki again?’ said Ulgavost. ‘That rhyme he’s always trotting out has the runefather dead before the hold falls, if I recall, and I don’t see our father laying down his life just yet.’

‘There are the storms, Ulgavost. How do you explain them?’

‘It’s just a rhyme, Ulgathern.’

They stopped talking as hissing streams of molten rock poured out of the statues lining the wall below the crenellations. The heat of it hit them like a blow, but they were unperturbed; fire ran in their blood.

The gargants were not impervious. The lava hit them both, crushing them with its weight and setting them ablaze. They bellowed in pain and died quickly. The smell of roasting meat wafted up over the battlement and the horde bowed back.

‘See? We’re not going anywhere,’ said Ulgavost. He looked to the sky, where storms had played for over a month. For the moment, they flickered with occasional lightning, but banks of black clouds were building to the sunset horizon. ‘Looks like it’s going to rain again. That usually has them leaving off for a while.’

Ulgathern watched the clouds gather. ‘I still don’t like this.’

Just then the sound of running feet echoed up the stair to the parapet. A puffing runner burst from the darkness. Ulgathern grinned in relief, certain the messenger was about to deliver news of their imminent victory, but the runner’s expression quickly wiped the smile from his face.

‘My lords, you must come swiftly,’ he said. ‘Runefather Karadrakk-Grimnir is dead.’

Upon the Isle of Arrak, deep under the Ulmount, two brother lodges stood. The duardin of Ulgaen-ar stood to the left of the island, while those of Ulgaen-zumar stood on the right, and each lodge was arranged around the end of the bridge leading to its respective delving.

The wrights and the warriors, matrons and maidens faced the Cages of Loss in respectful silence. Youngflames had their heads bowed, their youthful boisterousness doused by sorrow. The twin magma streams that made the rock an island ran dim and ruby. The very mountain mourned the passing of its mightiest son.

Over the Fyreslayers’ heads the Ulmount opened its throat. Five hundred feet high and more, the uneven sides of the central chimney had been crafted into a straight, octagonal shaft by the duardin. Four-foot high ur-gold runes spiralled up the walls, their magic stabilising the volcano and holding back its eruptions. At the top the stern faces of Grimnir looked down. In the centre of their leaning heads the shaft opened at the base of the caldera, and the sky could be seen. The storm had broken and thrashed the heavens, flashing lightning the like of which none had seen before. The thunder was so loud it was as if Grimnir waged war upon Vulcatrix once again. The rain that fell on the Ulmount’s cupped peak was gathered by cunning channels and sent deep into the hold. Smiths and artisans teased out its load of dissolved elements, before sending it on to water crops and the duardin themselves. The rain that fell into the vent could not be caught, and dropped down into the centre of the mountain. The water heated rapidly as it fell, and the duardin under the opening steamed.

Karadrakk-Grimnir lay in one of twenty funerary cages. These were wrought of fyresteel fixed to the brink of the cliff, and mounted upon axles. Two burly hearthguard stood at the wheels, ready to send their lord to his final rest. The runefather was swaddled tightly from head to foot in broad strips of troggoth leather, leaving only his face exposed and hiding the places where his body had been stripped of its ur-gold runes. His magnificent orange beard and crest had been washed free of blood, combed and laid carefully upon his wrappings. The deep gash in the side of his skull was covered over with a plate of gold that could not quite hide the lividity of his flesh. Gold coins stamped with the image of Grimnir-in-sorrow covered his eyes, while between Karadrakk-Grimnir’s broad teeth was clamped an ingot of fyresteel, carefully crafted to fit his mouth perfectly — the gold because he was the master of gold and ur-gold, the steel because he was a warrior.

Karadrakk-Grimnir did not sleep alone. Twelve other cages on the Ulgaen-ar side cradled their own sad burdens, each attended by pairs of auric hearthguard. Ulgaen-zumar’s funeral apparatus was set on the cliff opposite, the cages equal in number, though not so many were occupied. The fallen of Ulgaen-zumar lodge may have been fewer in number, but the blow to the hearts of all the Fyreslayers by the loss of Karadrakk-Grimnir was grievous.

A clank of gold pendants and the soft tread of many duardin feet came from the far side of the bridge arching over the lava to Ulgaen-ar’s deepings. A low, rumbling song struck up, audible between the bangs and booms of the storms above. Runemaster Tulkingafar came over the bridge. His staff was visible first, burning hot with the borrowed fires of Ulgaen-ar’s sacred forge. Then his crest, then his face, grim with the duty he must carry out, and painted white with the bone ashes of mourning. His hair was dark red, his upper lip shaved. Ten runesmiters walked in his train, eyes downcast as they sang, their skin coloured charcoal black.

The Ulgaen-ar lodge parted silently to let the zharrgrim priesthood through, and the procession came slowly to the centre of the Isle of Arrak, where it halted in the rain. From the other side, where the bridge to Ulgaen-zumar was situated, came a similar song, and another procession of the priests of the zharrgrim wended its sorrowful way forward, headed by Runemaster Marag-Or the Golden Eye.

Marag-Or, older, scarred, one eye replaced by a featureless orb of gold, came to a halt before Tulkingafar.

‘Runemaster,’ he said.

‘Runemaster,’ responded Tulkingafar. The hot water streaming down their faces made their mourning colours run.

They turned sharply, leading their processions out from under the volcano’s vent to their respective lodge’s cages. Tulkingafar had the graver duty today and so would begin. Marag-Or took his followers to the side of Runefather Briknir-Grimnir, Karadrakk’s brother.

Marag-Or looked sidelong at Briknir. The runefather’s expression was set hard as a mountain’s, no indication of what he thought or felt, but that he mourned his brother was clear to one as wise as Marag-Or. Briknir-Grimnir’s beard showed fresh strands of grey within its fiery bunches, and his eyes were hollow as cave mouths.

Tulkingafar left his runesmiters and went to the side of his master’s last resting place. He rested his broad hands on the fyresteel a moment, and looked at the dead lord and his funeral goods.

‘Our runefather is slain!’ he said. His voice was loud, and carried well over the constant rumbling of the twin lava rivers and the crackling boom of the storm. ‘For three hundred years he led us. No longer!’ He stared over the heads of his congregation, speaking directly to the heart of the mountain. ‘He and twenty other good duardin were slain as they drove the enemy out of our hold.’ He dropped his gaze to meet the eyes of his fellows. ‘The runefather was not fond of long speeches.’ There was scattered laughter at this. ‘Who needs talk? He was brave! He refused defeat each time it was so generously offered to him by our besiegers. He was noble! He was the most generous of ring-givers.’ He paused. ‘And he was my friend.’

More than a few voices rumbled aye to that. Karadrakk-Grimnir had been well loved.

‘We will not be broken. Burukaz Ulgaen-ar!’ called Tulkingafar.

‘Ulgaen-ar burukaz!’ the others responded.

Tulkingafar nodded at the hearthguard manning the cage machinery. They turned the wheels reverently, the ratchets on the axle clacking one tooth at a time.

‘From fire we were born, to fire we return,’ Tulkingafar intoned. ‘Burn brightly in the furnaces of Grimnir, Karadrakk-Grimnir Ulgaen, and be forged anew. May the heat of your soul never cool, and its flames never dim.’

The cage reached a near-vertical position and the hearthguard ceased their turning. One pulled a lever. A gate opened at the foot of the cage, and Karadrakk-Grimnir slid from its confines and fell into the Ulgaen-ar magma river. A bright flash of fire marked his passage from one world to the next, lighting up the faces of the mourning lodge members, showing many tugging at their beards with sorrow.

The mountain rumbled. The cracking of stone sounded deep in the ground. Short-lived geysers in the rivers sent shadows leaping across the craggy stone, and teased starbursts from the veins of minerals in the rock. The cavern returned to its sombre ruby.

‘The Ulmount mourns the loss of a good master,’ said Tulkingafar. ‘Grimnir has taken him to his forge.’

A battlesmith went to the empty cradle. In a droning chant he began to recount the many deeds of Karadrakk’s long life as Marag-Or and Tulkingafar went down the row of occupied cages and immolated their dead.

However, one priest-smith present had his mind on other things. Drokki of the Withered Arm looked up the tall chimney of the Ulmount’s throat. The faces of Grimnir looked down at him reproachfully at this stinting of duty, but he was not interested in their disapproval. He stared at the lightning flashing across the sky, and he worried.

‘In a week’s time, the Ulgahold will have been under siege for one hundred and one years. We come here to discuss the wishes of Karadrakk-Grimnir Ulgaen, and who among you, the seven surviving sons of Karadrakk-Grimnir, will assume the heavy burden of responsibility for leadership of Lodge Ulgaen-ar.’

Tulkingafar gave the seven sons a steely look. They stared back with varying amounts of defiance, hope, sorrow and fear.

Get on with it, you pompous ass, thought Ulgathern. He bridled at Tulkingafar’s superior manner, his ponderous delivery. Ulgathern was eager to be done; he itched to avenge his father, and he needed to talk to Drokki. At first he had dismissed Drokki’s talk of the Great Omen, but since the storms he had come to half-believe him. And now this…

The auric regalia he had to wear was heavy, a wide poncho of gold plates sewn to thick leather, and a huge, ceremonial helm. Fyreslayers as a rule rarely wore much. Their holds were warmed by the blood of the earth, while their own Grimnir-given fires kept them heated in the most inhospitable of environments. To wear too many clothes or, Grimnir forfend, too much armour, was an affront to their shattered god. Ulgathern found the gear uncomfortable. The zharrgrim temple was nigh to the forge, where streams of lava were harvested for their metals and channelled into the fyresteel foundry. The grumbling of hot stone bottled up behind its sluices was as oppressive as the heat. But borne the heat must be, and he stood there sweltering and stiff with all the stoicism expected of a duardin.

Ulgathern did not like or trust Tulkingafar. He was too invested in politicking, always seeking to exert his temple’s pre-eminence in the hold over that of Magar-Or’s, and he was the worst of Drokki’s persecutors. Too often the intention of Tulkingafar’s actions appeared not to be to increase reverence of Grimnir, but to consolidate his own power. To have risen to so lofty a rank within the zharrgrim at such a young age spoke of a certain ruthlessness.

Behind Ulgathern were his six brothers, gathered before the great statue of Grimnir in their coats of gold. Behind them were the guildmasters of both lodges. The stout matrons and males of the Mining and Gleaning Fellowships, the Kin-gather Matrons, the battlesmiths and loremasters and brewmistresses and a dozen others. The leadership of each lodge occupied the chequered floor on either side of the temple’s central aisle in strict orders of hierarchy, in most respects mirror images of each other, save one.

Ulgathern’s uncle, Briknir-Grimnir Ulgaen, stood at the head of his lodge. The space Ulgathern’s father should have occupied was empty. By the time Tulkingafar stopped blowing hot air, it would be occupied again.

‘A number of you have been chosen for honour,’ said Tulkingafar. ‘Only one was deemed worthy by Karadrakk-Grimnir to assume leadership of Lodge Ulgaen-ar.’ The runemaster gestured. A chest was brought from an alcove to the side by his acolytes, and placed at his feet. The venerable battlesmith Loremaster Garrik came forth with an elaborate key, and fitted it to the lock.

‘The legacy chest of Karadrakk-Grimnir. Within is his truth,’ intoned Garrik.

The chest was opened. Tulkingafar’s acolytes took out plaques stamped with the names of those Karadrakk-Grimnir deemed worthy, and handed them to the runemaster. The number caused the brothers to shift. Four were to be chosen, a high number. They waited tensely for their fates.

Tulkingafar played it out as long as he could. The bastard, thought Ulgathern.

‘Ulgamaen, ninth son of Karadrakk-Grimnir. You are to be runefather of the lodge of Ulgaen-ar.’ He tossed the plaque at Ulgamaen’s feet. Ulgamaen looked serious as he retrieved it, but that was him through and through. Probably why Father chose him, thought Ulgathern. Anyone who could crack a smile of delight at landing that role isn’t up to the job.

‘Come forward, Ulgamaen-Grimnir Ulgaen!’ sang Tulkingafar. He took Karadrakk’s latchkey grandaxe from an attendant and presented it to the new runefather. ‘By your father’s command, you are to unlock the great vault of Ulgaen-ar, and take out three-sixteenths of the lodge ur-gold.’

‘Yes, runemaster,’ said Ulgamaen-Grimnir. ‘I shall instruct the hoardtalliers that it be done immediately.’

Mangulnar shot his brother Ulgamaen a poisonous look. He was furious — his beard bristled and face glowed red. The heat of his anger was palpable to Ulgathern.

‘Ranganak! Fourteenth son of Karadrakk.’ The runemaster tossed the second plaque at Ranganak’s feet. ‘You are to receive one of these sixteenths. The quiet halls of the Sunward Deeps are yours, Ranganak-Grimnir. You have leave to forge your latchkey, construct a vault of your own, and establish a new lodge there, for the protection and betterment of all within the Ulmount.’

‘Thank you, runemaster, thank you,’ said Ranganak-Grimnir with a hasty bow, and retrieved his own plaque. He looked at it lovingly.

‘To Tulgamar, twentieth son of Karadrakk, the same,’ said Tulkingafar, tossing the third plaque toward Karadrakk-Grimnir’s youngest son. Tulgamar caught it. ‘The lost halls of the Far Delvings are yours, if you can take them from the beasts that dwell there, Tulgamar-Grimnir.’

Tulgamar nodded once, fingering his token of office thoughtfully. His gift was a hard one.

One portion remained. The four other sons of Karadrakk waited with bated breath. Mangulnar’s hands were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.

Tulkingafar drew it out, surveying the eager runesons with a crafty look. Ulgathern thought he might explode. Or punch Tulkingafar in the face.

Tulkingafar’s round eyes swung to look upon him. ‘And lastly, Ulgathern, twelfth son of Karadrakk-Grimnir. One sixteenth of the lodge ur-gold.’

The plaque clunked onto the floor at Ulgathern’s feet. He could not keep the grin off his face as he retrieved it. The three disinherited runesons glowered, their dreams of wealth and honour gone.

‘For you, Ulgathern-Grimnir, a choice is given. You are to aid whichever of your brothers you choose, and request of them a right to settle.’

The old sod, thought Ulgathern. His father had often berated him for forging his own path and not thinking of the future. It looked like he had one final lesson for his son; co-operation, or exile.

‘You are charged with these responsibilities on one condition,’ Tulkingfar went on. ‘That you forsake the leaving of the hold, and work with your kin to strengthen it against incursion. Keep the Ulgahold free of the servants of Slaanesh, and you shall forever be honoured in the records of all the Ulgaen lodges.’

Ulgathern accepted claps upon the back from his newly elevated brothers and returned them. Of the three who had received nothing, Grankak and Ulgavost gave grudging respect, though their faces were sunk deep into their beards. Mangulnar held himself apart. He watched from the side for a moment before losing his temper completely.

‘Outrage! Perfidy! I am eldest! I am runefather by right!’ He moved toward Ulgamaen. The new runefather’s auric hearthguard stepped forwards, crossed magmapikes barring his path.

‘You have no right to leadership, runeson,’ said Tulkingafar. ‘Karadrakk-Grimnir’s last wishes have been read. They are inviolate.’

When Mangulnar spoke again, his breath shimmered on the air, and smoke curled from his nostrils. ‘You will all regret this. All of you!’ He stormed out, his few followers hot on his heels.

A shocked silence followed this grievous breach of tradition, until a few minutes later, when hogsheads of magmalt ale were brought in and breached. After the first dozen tankards, they forgot about Mangulnar’s outburst completely.

The Hall of Memory was unusually cool and peaceful. For those reasons, Drokki liked it there. The remembrance beads made long rows of gold that glimmered ruddily in the halls’ low light. So big was the library that a duardin could lose themselves there. Drokki wandered down the aisles between the books dangling on their iron frames. The smell of hot gold and an occasional clatter and hiss drifted over the racks from the die rooms at the rear, where battlesmiths cast new books. From a nearby aisle he could hear hushed conversation. When the battlesmiths were in training, the Hall of Memory was altogether noisier, each basso profundo duardin voice competing with the next in volume and complexity of rhythm as they recited the lodge’s history. But today it was quiet.

The remembrance bead books were arranged by reigning runefather and year. He knew he shouldn’t, but Drokki let his good hand trail lightly along the records, setting off tiny, leaden clacks as the beads swayed on their thongs and knocked one another. He loved the slippery, cool feel of the gold, the random snatches of knowledge he read as his fingers touched upon the books’ runes.

His other arm was small and stick-like and lacking strength. He had lost count of the number of times Tulkingafar had said he should have been cast into the magma at birth. Some had taken the defect as a mark of Chaos. The Matrons of the Kin-gather had stood their ground, insisting that it was nothing of the sort and that the fires of his spirit burned true. Drokki might have been allowed to live, but he was reminded daily that it was upon sufferance.

Drokki habitually kept his withered arm pressed against his side. It wasn’t the most comfortable position — that was to have it up against his chest. But when nestled into his chest his little claw of a hand adopted a form that made it look like it was about to dart forward and snatch at purses, or it gave him a sinister, calculating air, as if he were raking his bent fingers through his beard. The worst of it was that when he held it across his chest, everyone could see. So he had taught himself to hold it straight, and many hours of pain it had cost him. With it forced down by his side, Drokki half-convinced himself that no one noticed.

Everyone always noticed.

Friends did not care, that was the important thing. To them he had been Drokki, and now he was Runesmiter Drokki, not Drokki of the Withered Arm — or worse. He was becoming respected, in his own small way; he had to remind himself of that often. The truth was that twenty friendly faces could not counterbalance one hateful comment, not in his heart.

‘Drokki! What are you doing skulking about back there?’

Battlesmith Loremaster Kaharagun Whitebeard came huffing up an intersection in the aisles, a half-dozen heavy remembrance bead books looped over a soft cloth wrapped around one arm, a slender, hooked staff in the other. Whitebeard was stout, almost as broad as he was tall, with a belly to match.

Drokki darted him a shy look. He found it hard to hold the eyes of others, and he kept having to force his gaze to meet that of Kaharagun. ‘Oh, you know. Looking, um, reading. Are you not at the calling?’

‘No, I’m not. I have given Loremaster Garrik the honour of performing that duty. He’s still got the knees for all that bowing and scraping.’

Garrik was at most six months younger than Kaharagun. Drokki hid a smile.

The loremaster looked back down the way Drokki had come. The swaying of the beads was minute, but Kaharagun noticed. ‘You’ve been up to mischief, again! Have you been disturbing the lore?’

‘Er. Well, I have. Yes. Sorry,’ admitted Drokki.

Kaharagun huffed. ‘Drokki! You’re no youngflame now, you’re a runesmiter! I expect better of you. Eighty-nine and still poking the beads like a bare-faced child.’

‘Sorry.’

‘You know it wears the gold. What’s the first rule of the beads?’

‘Touch them for reading, otherwise never.’

‘Right. Now, can I help you?’ Kaharagun’s scolding was gentle. Still, Drokki found it hard to look him in the face.

‘Um, yes. I was looking for the records from Gaenagrik Hold.’

Kaharagun sucked at his beard and rearranged his belly. ‘Gaenagrik eh? What do you want the beads of the ur-lodge for?’

‘There’s something I need to check on,’ said Drokki. He dared not share his unease yet, not until he was sure. ‘The prophecies of Hulgar Farseeing.’

‘I’d leave all that alone, young one. He was regarded mad, you know.’

‘Yes. Yes, I did know,’ said Drokki softly.

The duardin looked at each other for a moment.

‘Can you show me?’ prompted Drokki. ‘The records from the old hold aren’t arranged the same way as the new, and there is something I need to check.’

‘They’re perfectly easy to negotiate if you know what you are doing,’ said Whitebeard sharply. ‘They’re this way. If you’ll keep me company while I return these books to the racks, I’ll show you.’ He jabbed out a gnarled finger. ‘But no more touching the beads!’

Drokki followed the old loresmith down the lanes of cast gold. Each book was made up of triangular beads threaded onto orruk hide thongs. They were written in the high runes, three to a face, ideograms depicting entire words or discrete concepts. Not many could read them, partly because the information they conveyed was dependent on context and fiendishly dense.

‘I lived in Gaenagrik when I was a lad,’ Kaharagun said as they walked. ‘Fine hold. I was ten years old when Marthung-Grimnir Ulgaen, Grimnir warm his soul, set this place up. Ten! Can you imagine?’

Drokki could not. Kaharagun was already ancient when Drokki was born.

They stopped at a space in the rack. Kaharagun carried on talking as he unwound a bead book from his arm. ‘I’d never have thought I’d end up living here. Funny how life turns out.’ His face set. ‘Not that there was anything funny about the ur-lodge falling. Five thousand years the hold stood, and in two nights it was gone. Half the Ulgaen lodges wiped out.’ He fitted the book’s loop onto the hook on the end of his staff, using it to reach up to the top of the racks and put it back onto its numbered hook on the racks. The book swayed as he replaced it. There were eight strands of beads to it, six feet long when hung. ‘It’s a wonder we survived.’

They passed towards the very far end of the hall. Kaharagun replaced his last book, folded up the cloth on his arm, kissed it reverently, and stowed it under his robe. ‘Right then. This way. Past here are the Gaenagrik records, what we saved of them.’

He led Drokki further in. The torches in the sconces at the end of the racks were unlit and it was dark there. The careful ordering of the younger Ulgahold records gave way to a more chaotic system, if there was any system at all. The books were very old, the gold dark with age and the runes round-edged with touch-reading.

Kaharagun passed a fire iron to Drokki. Drokki spoke to the device, and the runes on it glowed then the end shone with heat. He pressed it to two torches, the pitch spluttering as it ignited. Drokki smelled burning dust. No one had been down there for a long time.

‘Hulgar, Hulgar, Hulgar…’ muttered Kaharagun. He ran his fingers along the beads. ‘Aha! Here we are. What was it you were after?’

‘His Telling of Great Omens.’

Kaharagun snorted. ‘Child’s stories.’ He unhooked a book of six strands with his staff, inspected it briefly and passed it to Drokki. ‘Volume one. Careful with it. The hide is brittle. I keep meaning to get the thongs replaced, but there’s been a shortage of orruks about since the siege began. Some might say troggoth or ogor hide works just as well, but I won’t use anything else. Can’t take the weight.’

Drokki took the book. He draped it over one shoulder rather than over his arm in the proper manner. Kaharagun frowned, but it was the only way he could read it. Drokki ran the beads through the fingers of his good hand. It was an introduction, written in Hulgar’s portentous manner. The first half of the string was a long list of thanks to various patrons.

The beads ran out. A knot had been tied in the thong to keep them from falling off, the end of it scorched hard.

‘Is there any more?’

‘Of that volume? No. Melted. There’s twenty more volumes though.’

‘I need to see them. All of them.’

‘Very well,’ grumbled Kaharagun.

Drokki and Kaharagun spent the next hour reading. There was a good deal missing from the book. One volume had come apart and been threaded back together without care for its content, and was unreadable without checking the tiny order numbers stamped into the base of each bead. Two more stopped abruptly, another started in the middle of a passage.

Volume number twelve, string four, had what Drokki needed, and what he had dreaded. His heart beat faster as he read. It was all there. Everything. The lightning, the siege, the death of the runefather. It was all there in solid gold, not a half-remembered rhyme, but a real prophecy.

Kaharagun leaned in, his old face creased in concern at the look on Drokki’s face.

‘Drokki?’ he asked. ‘Is everything alright?’

‘I very much need to borrow this,’ said Drokki.

Ulgathern-Grimnir returned to his chambers lost in thought. He was a runefather now, something he had wanted all his life, but now he had it, he felt strangely hollow inside. All that responsibility, all those people relying on him — if he could convince them to join his lodge in the first place. The plates of his robe caught on his muscles as he struggled out of it, and with relief he tossed it onto his bed. There was so much to do! He needed to appoint a runemaster, and he needed to marry…

He was so preoccupied he did not notice his visitor until she gave out a gentle cough. ‘A runefather’s greed’s worth of gold, and you toss it on the bed.’

‘Amsaralka?’

‘I should think so,’ she scolded. ‘I hope there aren’t any other maidens frequenting your chambers.’

Amsaralka stepped forward fully into the runelight. At the sight of her Ulgathern forgot the events of the last two days. Amsaralka was breathtakingly beautiful. He took in her massive shoulders, her strong, heavy miner’s arms. Her feet were delightfully huge, and he suspected the toes (he often dreamt of her toes, when life was slow) hidden behind her steel toecaps to be exquisitely blunt. Her hair was gathered into two tresses, thick as an ogor’s golden torcs, and as lustrous. Her face was wide and square, her eyes attractively far apart. She had a broad mouth and full lips, behind which hid white teeth as evenly placed as bricks.

‘What are you mooning at?’ she said, and embraced him, then stood back and gripped his upper arms. Her hands were vices on his biceps. ‘What did they say? What is Karadrakk-Grimnir’s legacy, who will be the next Runefather of Ulgaen-ar?’

Ulgathern reached up a broad finger and gently traced the downy hair on Amsaralka’s jawline. Fine hair, softer than spun gold.

‘Not I,’ he said.

She wrinkled her nose in disappointment. ‘Oh, Ulgathern.’

‘Such a pretty nose,’ he murmured. ‘Like a rock chip.’

She punched his arm. ‘This is important!’ she said. ‘Ulgathern, I don’t know what to say. You were your father’s favourite.’

‘I was his favoured,’ said Ulgathern. ‘Not favourite to lead Ulgaen-ar. He always thought me a little too frivolous.’ He toyed with the end of her tress.

She slapped his hand. ‘Leave that alone! We’re not married. And if you’re not Runefather we won’t ever be,’ she said glumly. She pushed herself away from him.

‘A runeson’s not good enough for your darling mother?’

‘Runesons end up dead. You know what she says. I’m the daughter of the Chief of the Mining Fellowship, mother won’t let me.’

‘Who says I’m a runeson?’

A brief moment of confusion flitted across her face. When her smile broke through, it was like the sun bursting out of the clouds.

‘You mean..?’

‘Yes! Father divided up the ur-gold. Ulgamaen is to be the new Runefather of Ulgean-ar. Tulgamar, Ranganak and I have been given portions. We’re to establish our own lodges in the old halls.’

Amsaralka clapped her hands. ‘We can marry!’

‘Perhaps,’ he said worriedly. He couldn’t get Drokki’s blathering out of his mind. He shook it away and said wolfishly, ‘maybe I should have a look at those toes first?’

They both glanced down at her heavy boots.

‘Not before our wedding night!’ she said sternly, then smiled, ‘which will be soon, Ulgathern-Grimnir.’ She added the honorific to his name with delight. ‘Grimnir put much fire into my belly, Ulgathern. I promise to bear you many fine sons.’

‘If you’re half as good a mother as a miner, I’d expect at least a score,’ he said.

They closed their eyes and touched noses. They held each other, happy for a moment, all the concerns of the outside world shut out.

‘Oh good, you’re in,’ Drokki said.

Ulgathern turned round to see the Runesmiter in the doorway, his withered arm held rigidly by his side.

‘Ring the bloody gong next time, Drokki!’ said Ulgathern, his face flushing crimson. ‘Can’t you see I’m busy here?’

‘Ah yes, right. Uh, hello, Amsaralka,’ said Drokki absentmindedly. ‘What I’ve got to show you is important. Er, congratulations by the way. I suppose I have to call you Ulgathern-Grimnir now, or, or my lord?’

‘Go away, Drokki. Whatever it is can wait until morning. We’ve got a wedding to plan.’ He grinned at Amsaralka, and reached for her hand, but she slipped away.

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said quietly. She left with her eyes downcast.

Ulgathern narrowed his eyes at his friend. ‘Now look what you’ve done.’

‘Er, what have I done?’

‘Don’t you have any sense of common decency? You’ve shamed her, you catching us cuddling like that! Think of the gossip.’

‘I’m sorry. But, but you have to listen, or it’s not going to matter. Records. You’re not going to want to see, but you have to.’

‘Drokki, I am not going tramping down to the Hall of Memory with you at this hour.’

‘You don’t have to.’ Drokki whistled. Two strapping young battlesmiths trooped in, carrying a rack dangling dozens of records strings. The gold clacked and slapped as they trotted in. ‘It was important enough that Kaharagun let me take the book. Put it there,’ said Drokki.

‘Don’t! Stop!’ said Ulgathern. But it was too late, the young duardin had put the rack down and were bowing their way backwards out of the door.

‘Really. Sorry, I am, I mean. But you have to read this.’

Ulgathern sighed and pulled at his moustache. ‘Clearly you’re not leaving. What is it?’

Drokki bared his teeth nervously. ‘The end, the end of everything. Ulgathern, we have to abandon the Ulmount.’

‘What?’

‘Hulgar’s The Great Omen! I know! You keep saying it is another of his bad prophecies, that it’s just a rhyme. But I know you’re worried too. When we were at the funeral I was watching the storm, and I got thinking. It’s happening, Ulgathern. Next week is the one hundred and first anniversary of the beginning of the siege. The Runefather is dead ‘by stealth and surprise’ just like in Hulgar’s poem. The storm is not like anything we’ve seen before, it’s…’

‘Salvation and disaster, the end of a hold, where once was two is now one, but even that will be undone?’ quoted Ulgathern. ‘Grimnir’s fires, Drokki, you can’t put any faith in that doggerel. Hulgar was a fat fool.’

Drokki held up the beads. ‘The original is more detailed. It’s all here! Hulgar was certain of it. Look!’

‘You know I don’t read the high runes.’

Drokki blinked. His face was white and sweaty in a way unnatural for a Fyreslayer. ‘You have to believe me, Ulgathern. The Ulgahold, it’s going to fall.’

Ulgathern sighed through his teeth. ‘All right. Show me.’

‘You expect me to believe this, nephew?’ said Briknir-Grimnir.

‘Drokki says it’s all there in plain gold,’ said Ulgathern. Ulgathern-Grimnir, he had to keep reminding himself. He tried to stand taller in his uncle’s imperious stare. He really should, now he was a runefather himself, but the older Fyreslayer intimidated him. A sixteenth share of Ulgaen-ar’s ur-gold seemed nothing when he stood before so great a lord. ‘I didn’t want to believe him either but—’

‘Drokki of the Withered Arm!’ sneered Tulkingafar. ‘A know-nothing fool.’

Ulgamaen-Grimnir held up his hand and gave Tulkingafar a nervous look, unsure as yet of his authority over his father’s runemaster. Tulkingafar snorted and fell silent.

‘Well,’ said Briknir-Grimnir. ‘Well!’ He slapped the golden arms of his high throne. The duardin of Ulgaen-ar and the three new, as-yet-unnamed lodges were guests of Ulgaen-zumar and met in their High Seat. The Ulgahold was a modest place compared to some, but even its throne halls were vast and lofty, the ceilings of gleaming stone so tall that the eight-foot high runes around the frieze at the top looked no bigger than a babe’s fingernails.

‘It is Hulgar, isn’t it?’ said Marag-Or of the Golden Eye. He sat in his runemaster’s chair, dwarfed by the huge carvings of Grimnir surrounding him. ‘It is said he caused a lot of trouble in Gaenagrik in the old days, predicting this and that. It is also a matter of history that his record of accuracy was somewhat patchy.’

‘But some of his prophecies were right,’ said Ulgathern.

‘And a lot of them were wrong,’ said Marag-Or. ‘The war of a hundred and one years will come to an end, as lightning cleaves the sky, salvation comes late for those that see no sense, greed overcomes virtue and the lodge-line shall be broken,’ said Marag-Or. ‘That’s the one that’s got Drokki all in a lather, isn’t it?’ He leaned forward, the beads in his grey-shot orange beard clacking together. ‘Drokki, Drokki. What’s to be done?’

‘What are you suggesting, Ulgathern-Grimnir?’ said Briknir-Grimnir.

‘That we head for the Broken Plains of Aqshy and the Volturung. They’re our ancestral kin. They will take us in.’

‘For the love of Grimnir,’ muttered Briknir-Grimnir. ‘We’ve not had any contact with them for a hundred years!’

‘We’ve not had contact with anyone for a hundred years,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘We’ve been under siege for over a century. Qualar Vo is not—’

‘Do not utter that name in my throne hall!’ yelled Briknir-Grimnir. An uncomfortable silence fell. The new runefathers looked uneasily at one another.

Ulgathern-Grimnir swallowed. ‘He is not going to give up. There are more of the Slaaneshi out there than ever. It’s only a matter of time. Volturung were always the strongest among our kin lodges. They’re the most likely to still be there.’

‘If you don’t die on the way, which you will,’ said Briknir-Grimnir. ‘Can you have a word with Drokki?’ said Briknir-Grimnir to Marag-Or. ‘Get this nonsense out of his head?’

‘I will, Runefather. As soon as we’re done here.’

‘He should never have been accepted into the temple,’ said Tulkingafar.

Marag-Or turned his sole good eye on the younger runemaster. ‘Aye, but he was. By me. Drokki’s a good lad. Only the one arm, and he draws the cleanest runes out of the ur-gold I’ve seen for a long time. He’s better than you were when I trained you, runemaster. Bear that in mind when you’re badmouthing him.’

Tulkingafar’s lips curled. Sparks sprang up in his eyes. He tried to hide it, but the fires of his heart were stoked by his hatred of Drokki.

‘That’s that then,’ said Briknir-Grimnir.

‘With all reverence, uncle, it is not!’ Ulgathern-Grimnir said.

Briknir opened his mouth and shut it again, setting it firm. ‘What then?’

‘I have a very bad feeling about it, here, in my fires.’ He patted his stomach and hurried on before he could be interrupted. ‘Next week it’ll be one hundred and one years since the siege began. We’ve suffered some setbacks recently.’ He did not cite his father’s death. ‘There’s this storm… We should go.’

‘Lad, runefather,’ said Marag-or, ‘that prophecy could apply to anyone, anywhere in any realm at any time. How many hundred-year sieges have there been since Chaos came to the realms? It’s not one or two, let me tell you.’

Briknir-Grimnir grumbled and his big orange beard shook. ‘Feelings now is it lad? That’s no way to run a lodge! Do your feelings know how to bypass the siege? Get down off the mountain into the Howling Waste? We can’t chance the Ulmount’s realmgate, I’ll tell you that much, nephew. That’s under my protection, and it will not be opened. It cannot be opened, not since that perfumed libertine out there did his business on it.’

‘I know it’s tainted,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘I’m not a fool, uncle.’

‘Well then, looks like you’re stuck here with us,’ said Briknir-Grimnir.

‘Drokki says he has an idea. He won’t tell me what it is until he’s sure it will work, you know what he’s like.’

‘Runefathers Tulgamar-Grimnir, Ulgamaen-Grimnir, Ranganak-Grimnir. What say you? You are the masters of your own lodges now, this concerns us all.’

Ranganak-Grimnir shook his head. ‘I say we stay.’

Tulgamar-Grimnir held up his hands and shrugged.

‘I’ll not be going. Unlike my brother, I’ll be obeying my father’s dying wish,’ said Ulgamaen-Grimnir. ‘Ulgaen-ar’s home is here.’

‘Baharun, baharar!’ said Ulgamaen-Grimnir’s hearthguard, clashing their wristbands together. Many were young, newly elevated from the lower ranks of Ulgaen-ar lodge, and greater in number than those sworn to the other runefathers.

‘There you are,’ said Briknir-Grimnir. ‘I’m sorry, lad, we’ll not be abandoning the Ulgahold. It might’ve been your great-grandfather founded this place, but it was your father and me built it up from nothing. When the ur-lodge fell, we stood strong. Gaenagrik’s a ruin. Last time I looked we’re still here. We’ll not be leaving. Now stop this nonsense. One hundred and one years’ll come and go like every other anniversary. The Slaaneshi scum outside have been getting complacent of late, we’ll see them off.’

‘This is a time for celebration, and you scaremonger,’ said Tulkingafar coldly.

‘No one agrees with me?’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

‘No lad,’ said Briknir. ‘I thought I made that quite clear.’

Ulgathern-Grimnir looked around the semi-circle of Ulgaen-zumar’s seated elders. Their faces were hostile. He looked to Marag-Or, but he shook his head. His brothers would not meet his eyes, all but Tulgamar-Grimnir, who mouthed an apology.

Ulgathern-Grimnir sighed. ‘Then firstly I appoint Drokki of the Withered Arm to be my runemaster, with all the rights and responsibilities thereunto.’

‘He’s not ready!’ snapped Tulkingafar.

‘Quiet!’ said Ulgamaen-Grimnir from the corner of his mouth. ‘Let my brother have his moment of infamy. If he’s going to cut off his own head with his axe, let’s not help him.’

‘Is he ready?’ asked Briknir-Grimnir.

‘In some ways, yes, in others, no,’ said Marag-Or. ‘He’s got the rune gift, and he can sniff out ur-gold better than most. But he’s yet to gain wisdom.’

‘Can’t teach that, Marag-Or.’

‘No, got to earn it,’ said Marag-Or. ‘Being runemaster will do that, or he’ll die.’

‘Alright then, Marag-Or releases Drokki from his service.’

‘He has his permission to found his own temple,’ said Marag-Or.

‘And good luck to him,’ said Briknir-Grimnir. ‘Will that stop all this crazy talk?’

‘No.’ Ulgathern spread his hands. ‘I invoke the right of far-wandering. I will take my people with me, and I will go. We shall found a new hold of our own, somewhere safe, for our lodge to occupy.’

‘The stipulation on your runefatherhood was that you stay,’ said Briknir-Grimnir.

‘It’s not binding. It was my father’s wish, but it can’t be a command. The right of a runeson gifted with ur-gold as runefather to found his own hold is paramount.’ Ulgathern-Grimnir swallowed his guilt. ‘I checked.’

Briknir-Grimnir’s face hardened. ‘There’s a reason your father didn’t tap you for the runefatherhood of Ulgaen-ar. Too full of bloody stupid ideas, that head of yours is. Leave us? You’ll be stripping our defence mighty thin, lad. Your father wanted you to open up the old halls, strengthen the Ulgahold from the inside out, not tear it apart.’

‘My father is dead!’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘And I am a runefather in my own right. It is my command that my portion of the folk of Ulgaen-ar leave.’ He choked on his own words, and became quiet. ‘Before it is too late.’

Briknir-Grimnir’s lips thinned. ‘You’re strong-headed. I have to respect that. I can’t stop you. It’s your right to go if you want it. But you’ve a touch too much fire in your brain if you reckon on this being a good idea.’

‘Thank you, uncle.’ Ulgathern-Grimnir bowed.

‘Two things, nephew. You don’t have to bow to me any more, you’re a runefather now.’

‘Right,’ said Ulgathern.

‘And the other is this, you try to take any of my folk with you, or tell them what you told me to get their bellows pumping and the iron in them soft enough that you can beat your daft ideas into them, then I’ll take that as an act against me, and I won’t hold back.’

Ulgavost stepped forward from the throng of Ulgaen-ar’s representatives. ‘I’ll come with you brother, more for the adventure than anything else. There’s not much here for me now.’

Ulgathern-Grimnir nodded at Ulgavost gratefully. Encouraged, he looked to the others. They looked away.

‘Tulgamar?’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘I know you’re torn. Come with me. Your magmadroth would be mighty handy.’

‘I…’ said Tulgamar. ‘I can’t.’

‘Your brother can make up his own mind!’ snapped Briknir-Grimnir. ‘Now get gone if you’re going. I won’t wish you luck, because you’ll need more than there is in all this realm. I only hope you don’t get us all killed and that your ur-gold isn’t lost for all time.’

‘Ur-gold is never lost, Runefather,’ said Marag-Or.

‘So you keep saying,’ Briknir-Grimnir slumped into his throne. ‘But if this kahuz-bahan has his way, some will be. Go on Ulgathern-Grimnir. Audience is over. Get out.’

Drokki emerged from a hidden door low down the Ulmount. The underway between the ruined hold of Gaenagrik and the Ulgahold was blocked for a way, and he was forced to venture over ground. He consulted the map in his hand, an ancient artefact made of etched brass. It showed the many ways that had once existed to Gaenagrik. Only one existed now.

Gaenagrik would be dangerous, unstable after so many years uninhabited. The moulding runes that held its stone together would have failed, leaving it at the mercy of the Hornteeth Mountains’ rumblings. He could find his way to the city easily enough, but he did not know the safe way through to the hold’s realmgate. In point of fact, he did not know if the gate were still accessible. He needed a guide, and it was to look for one that he ventured outside the safety of the duardin city.

Drokki followed a path along the cliffs over the Hardgate. He looked down often onto the Chaos camp, nervous he would be seen. Cries of ecstasy and agony drifted up from the town and wild music played from many quarters, clashing discordantly. Under the harsh, acrid smell of ash and burning rock, there was the cloying stink of daemonic perfume. Bat-winged creatures sported in the sky over the camp, showering it with their excrement and fluids. It was these that Drokki feared the most. If they spotted him, they would be on him in moments, and would tear him to pieces. But they were absorbed with their games and they did not see him. Luckily, he did not have far to go.

A black hole opened in the mountainside. Drokki scrambled gratefully toward it, steadying himself with his good arm as he skidded down the loose material into the welcome dark.

The angry red sky was reduced to a ragged patch that flickered with distant lightning. He was back in the underway to Gaenagrik, and he hurried down out of sight.

A few hundred steps from the opening, the tunnel broadened. The raw rubble of rockfalls was replaced by carefully laid blocks of granite. Smooth setts, so artfully laid that the joins were almost invisible, paved the floor. He held up his lantern and ignited it with a word.

The old road to Gaenagrik stretched ahead into the black.

This is it then, he thought, and set off at a hurried pace.

Signs of war were visible here and there — the bones of an overlooked duardin, or shattered remnants of enemy armour. The underway was otherwise free of debris and in good condition. The realms were filled with ruins, but ‘duardin-made, eternally stays’ went the old saying, and here that was evident.

The underway sloped downward. Gaenagrik Mountain was lower than the Ulmount. He went as fast as he dared, trying to make his footfalls as light as possible, painfully aware that this was the route his own ancestors had fled along when Gaenagrik had fallen, and that to all objective sense he was heading the wrong way.

He went unchallenged. Bones were the only things he saw.

After a time a pair of richly carved gates materialised in his lantern light. They were ajar, the gap between them an impenetrable black. The drafts of the tunnel were forced into sighing winds by the narrowness of the gap, and Drokki smelled slow decay.

He squeezed between them, and came into the outskirts of Gaenagrik. The road split, half going upward, half down. Doorways to deserted guardrooms showed as dark holes. Nervously he sniffed the air, his zharrgrim-trained nose searching for ur-gold. The smell of ur-gold was like no other, a tingle at the back of the sinuses, like before a good sneeze. It didn’t take him long to find it. That would help him find the duardin he sought. Doing so would either save his life, or end it. He patted the pouch of fresh ur-gold runes at his belt, hoping that they would be enough.

Glancing around, he set off on the upward path.

Once in the hold, Drokki had no concern about encountering the enemy. This was the renegade grimwrath berzerker Brokkengird’s territory, and that made Drokki very nervous, more nervous than if he were facing a horde of pleasure-worshippers. Never mind that Drokki had come to find the grimwrath; Brokkengird was insane.

Not the best of allies, but Drokki could see no other way. Only Brokkengird knew the safe route to Gaenagrik’s realmgate.

Drokki followed his nose. The road continued upward at an unvarying incline. A canyon, carved straight by duardin picks, opened up to his side. On the far side roads switched back and forth up the cliff, leading to the open mouths of mines. Lava glow came from the bottom of the crevasse, so faint it must have been hundreds of feet down. Strange sounds came out of the dark, louder and odder the further in he walked.

When Drokki reached the top of the canyon road, the smell of ur-gold had the back of his nose tickling. He held up his runic lantern, playing the bright yellow cone of light over a wide plaza, its walls carved with friezes showing the daily life of duardin centuries dead.

Something barged into Drokki’s back, sending him flying. He rolled over and over, coming to a halt face down over the precipice. His lamp flew from his hand, clattering from the canyon walls before spinning away. The light of it dwindled to nothing. He did not hear it hit the bottom.

A hard hand gripped him by the scruff of the neck and threw him backwards as if he weighed nothing. He flew across the plaza into the carved walls. Stone met his back, bruising his ribs and driving the wind from him, and he slid to the floor, gaping like a landed fish for breath as a figure advanced on him from the dark. He saw only the gold at first, glowing runes studded into skin in such numbers they should have torn the bearer apart with their magic. The smell of ur-gold was maddeningly strong, almost strong enough to overcome the powerful stink of unwashed duardin.

Brokkengird had found him.

‘Ur-gold for Brokkengird!’ said the duardin gleefully, aiming his axe at Drokki’s head. The runemaster rolled out of the way as he swung. Rock chips stung his cheek as the axe blade bit into the pavement.

Drokki kicked out in desperation, his feet meeting a body as yielding as rock. The priest wriggled back, but Brokkengird grabbed his ankle and yanked hard, dragging Drokki right towards him. The berzerker jumped onto the runemaster’s chest, laid his axe haft across his neck, and began to throttle.

‘Ur-gold! Ur-gold! Brokkengird kill, Brokkengird keep!’ He laughed madly.

Drokki pushed at the axe haft, but Brokkengird burned with the might of Grimnir, and his strength was terrifying.

‘Stop, stop!’ gasped out Drokki. ‘I can bring you more, much more.’

‘They all say that to Brokkengird when Brokkengird comes for them,’ said Brokkengird, and pressed down on his axe harder. The haft closed Drokki’s airway.

‘Pouch!’ he squeaked. ‘Ur-gold I brought for you! It’s… in… my… pouch…’ He flapped at his belt helplessly. A roaring filled his head. Blackness spotted with dancing colour crowded his vision.

Brokkengird removed his axe.

‘Ur-gold in pouch? No promise to go away and come back and never return? Many try to bribe Brokkengird, to keep their worthless beards.’

‘I have it, in truth!’

‘Then show Brokkengird.’

Drokki drew in a great wheezing breath and clutched at his neck.

‘Go on then,’ said Brokkengird. He grinned nastily. Even his teeth were made of ur-gold, haphazardly hammered into his gums. ‘Show me what you have.’

Drokki sat up. Still gasping, he undid the strings of his pouch and tipped out three new runes. ‘These are freshly forged,’ he croaked. ‘Warm from the forge and full of Grimnir’s might.’

Brokkengird reached out and took one of the runes reverently. He fingered it, and his face lit up with greed. ‘Good. Now Brokkengird will kill you.’

‘I can get you more!’ said Drokki hurriedly, holding out the other two.

‘How much more?’

‘Lots.’

‘You won’t come back, they never do,’ said Brokkengird. He stood up and lifted his axe. ‘No. Brokkengird kill you now, if it’s all the same to you.’

‘I will come back!’ protested Drokki. ‘I need to. I need you.’

Brokkengird lowered his axe a touch. ‘It’s a long time since anyone needed Brokkengird, longer since anyone wanted him. Why?’

‘I need a guide through Gaenagrik. I want to get to the realmgate.’

‘Got a little message to deliver?’ said Brokkengird. ‘Going to see his mother?’

Drokki shook his head. He reached out for Brokkengird’s hand. Brokkengird looked at it, then back at Drokki’s face.

Drokki pulled his hand back, and got heavily to his feet. His chest burned, and his throat felt like it was clogged with hot rocks.

‘We’re leaving, to found a new lodge.’

‘Nowhere to go. Nothing to see. Only Chaos. Chaos everywhere,’ said Brokkengird. ‘Stay home, little priest.’

‘The end is coming,’ said Drokki. ‘And you can either kill me now and die with everyone who won’t leave, or you can take us to the realmgate, be handsomely paid for it, and live.’

Brokkengird cocked his head on one side. His filthy, stinking crest flopped sideways. ‘Forty runes.’

‘Twenty.’

‘Thirty-five,’ said Brokkengird.

‘Twenty-seven…’ said Drokki.

‘Done,’ interrupted Brokkengird.

‘…and an oath,’ continued Drokki.

Brokkengird snarled. ‘No oaths!’

‘Brokkengird better swear not to harm me, and to lead the lodge to the Gaenagrik realmgate, or Brokkengird won’t get anything,’ said Drokki. For one awful second he thought Brokkengird would strike him down, but the renegade berzerker let his axe head thump to the floor, and reached out one hand. He spat on it. His spittle sizzled in his palm.

‘Brokkengird swear.’

Drokki spat in his own hand and shook. ‘Be here in one week.’

‘Brokkengird here. Brokkengird swore!’ shouted Brokkengird.

Brokkengird retreated backwards. The last thing to vanish into the dark of the abandoned hold was his face. Drokki had a glimpse of gleaming eyes and gold, and then he was alone.

Drokki waited five minutes to make sure Brokkengird had gone before taking to his heels and running home as fast as he could.

Ulgathern-Grimnir gripped his new latchkey grandaxe tightly. The steel haft was still slippery with oils from the smithy. It smelled like home, and he felt a pang of regret. The doors of the Ulgahold were shut to him. The axe was taller than he was, toothed like a key. It would work as one too, once the lock had been crafted to fit it. For the time being there was no magma-vault for the meagre supply of ur-gold he had been apportioned, nowhere to hang his axe, nowhere to sleep. He had nothing.

And so I lead my people to beggary on the say-so of Drokki, he thought. Despite his disquiet, his heart told him he was doing the right thing. To say that to Drokki, however, was one effort too many, and he scowled at him instead.

The slot through the gates to Gaenagrik was a black, uninviting rectangle. Behind the short column of his people — those three hundred warriors, matrons, maidens and youngflames that had decided to come with him — was a tunnel with a collapsed roof open to the enemy, should they have the wit to look for it. They were vulnerable, front and back, and with nowhere to run to.

This was looking like a very bad idea.

‘Where is he?’ growled Ulgathern-Grimnir.

‘Um, well. He said he would be here,’ said Drokki.

‘Did he now? You know he’s a murderer?’ said Ulgavost. ‘Forty years ago Brokkengird was denied his eighteenth rune — more ur-gold than any Fyreslayer in the Ulgahold has had hammered into his flesh for centuries. He was accused of the gold-greed, and did not take it well. Brokkengird cursed our father, fought his way out of the hold leaving several dead duardin behind. Since then he’s roamed the halls of Gaenagrik, killing whoever he comes across, and if they be duardin, taking their runes of power.’ Ulgavost grinned sadly. ‘If I’d have known what Drokki was about, I might have stayed. Brokkengird is a kinslayer, and insane.’

‘Loremaster Kaharagun said the same thing about Hulgar the Farseeing,’ said Drokki.

‘Now then, Drokki, doesn’t that tell you something when folks keep warning you about crazy people?’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir testily. He shivered. His innate fire was a small warmth to hold on to in so grim a place. He sought out Amsaralka in the gloom behind him. She smiled at him nervously.

‘You came. Ulgavost came,’ said Drokki.

‘Aye. I did. I’m beginning to regret it,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. Ulgavost made a sour face.

‘He’ll be here. I made him swear. An oath will bind even a duardin as broke-minded as he.’

‘I’m willing to hope, but it’s far from a certainty, isn’t it? I prefer certainty. Hope is fool’s coin,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

The gate jerked, and opened wider. Grit squealed in the bearings of the wheel on the bottom, setting up an unholy racket. Ulgathern-Grimnir’s hearthguard levelled their magmapikes.

‘Ah, yes. I think that’s him,’ said Drokki.

A filthy duardin emerged.

‘Brokkengird here,’ he said cheerily.

‘I am Ulgathern-Grimnir. You will show us the way?’ asked Ulgathern-Grimnir as haughtily as he could manage. He watched the grimwrath berzerker warily — the mad Fyreslayer had enough ur-gold runes punched into his skin that he could probably slaughter his way through the lot of them. He glittered with power. Ulgavost shifted the weight of his twin axes on his shoulders, readying them.

Brokkengird scowled. ‘Uppity young lord has Brokkengird’s ur-gold?’

‘Yes,’ sighed Ulgathern-Grimnir. He weighed a heavy pouch in his hand. ‘Twenty-seven runes, as you asked.’

Brokkengird took a step forward. Ulgathern-Grimnir snatched the pouch back, and stowed it in his pack. ‘You get us to the realmgate first.’

‘Yes, little lordling,’ said Brokkengird with a smirk and a bow.

Ulgathern-Grimnir’s temper flared at his insolence. ‘Where,’ he asked Drokki, ‘do you find these people?’

‘Shhh!’ said Brokkengird, holding up a finger to his lips. ‘Quiet now. Enemy moving. They march on Ulgahold. Brokkengird has seen it! You are wise, crippled runemaster.’

‘The prophecy!’ said Drokki.

‘Right,’ said Ulgavost.

Ulgathern-Grimnir squinted at him in irritation. The door to Gaenagrik was open, and Brokkengird beckoned for them to follow.

‘I only hope you’re right, and this is no false gold hunt,’ muttered Ulgavost.

‘You know the way?’ called Ulgathern-Grimnir softly after Brokkengird.

‘Brokkengird know the way. Brokkengird want ur-gold. No gold for Brokkengird if not, eh? Not far now. Upper halls soon. Realmgate by the Thronecavern of the old fathers. This way! Quickly!’

Brokkengird hurried ahead and the column followed.

‘Madder than a grot trapped in a bottle with fireants, that one,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. He looked back down the column of duardin at the worried faces lit by dimmed runelamps. He couldn’t see Amsaralka, and his heart beat faster. He had to stop himself from hurrying back to find her. Three hundred souls, all his to protect, that was the reality of being a runefather. They looked tired, but they could not afford to rest. They pushed on deep into the abandoned hold. It was much bigger than the Ulgahold, and would take many hours to cross.

Suddenly, Drokki frowned. ‘Do you hear that?’

‘What?’ said Ulgavost.

‘Shh!’

Ulgathern-Grimnir held up his hand. With a lurch, the column came to a halt. True silence descended.

‘There!’ said Drokki. ‘Warhorns.’

They blew in the dark, back the way the duardin had come. A fearful chattering came after, the sound of wild laughter and wicked songs. It faded from hearing a moment, but Ulgathern-Grimnir knew it would only get louder.

‘Curse it all!’ he snarled. ‘They’ve found us.’

At the sound of the horns, Brokkengird increased the pace. The column found strength from their fear and began to jog. It was a slow but dogged pace that the thick legs of the duardin could sustain for days, if need be. The tunnels rumbled to the thumping of their feet and the jangle of gold and weapons.

But the servants of excess were lithe-limbed and quick. They were gaining, their horns soon becoming louder, their songs chasing after the fugitives.

‘Grimnir burn it! It’s not going to be fast enough,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘We need a place to fight them off. Brokkengird!’ he shouted.

The grimwrath berzerker fell back to run beside the runefather.

‘This very bad,’ he said in his broken Grimnizh. ‘Brokkengird tell to stripling runemaster enemy move soon. They move now. You should have come earlier.’

‘We need to hold them back, to give Drokki time to open the realmgate. Where can we make a stand?’

Brokkengird grinned. ‘Brokkengird not here for battle, Brokkengird paid to guide.’

‘I’ll give you more ur-gold, Grimnir roast you!’

‘Then this way, O lord of running duardin.’

Brokkengird took a sharp left, leading them onto a broad run of stairs that went up and up. The tunnel they occupied was high and finely made, although the vaulting of the ceiling was dangerously cracked, each piece held up only by the immense pressure exerted on it by the others.

Ulgathern-Grimnir’s lodge was sprinting now, the few beardless children with them wailing in terror. The older ones tried to be brave, but the fire in their eyes flickered uncertainly.

There were nine hundred steps. Ulgathern-Grimnir counted them, his axe bouncing hard on his back. His lungs burned and the column straggled out. He kept his eyes on his feet, not wanting to look up and see the task that lay ahead.

The last step flew away under his feet and he burst into a vast hall built into the side of Gaenagrik Mountain. Ruddy light shone through tall slot windows, and the high mullions separating the apertures from one another were thick and angled, reinforced against earthquake and covered with protective runes.

The magic was dead, and there was a lot of damage to the hall — almost all of it, to Ulgathern-Grimnir’s keen eye, down to the shiftings of the earth. There were signs of defacement to the statues and shrines in the alcoves along two walls, but otherwise it seemed that the forces of Chaos had moved on quickly after their victory a century ago, focusing their attentions on the living Fyreslayers of the Ulmount.

A huge dais dominated one end of the hall, with seats for the hold’s highest lodge-lords. As the hold’s heart, most of these had been smashed by the Slaaneshi, their pieces added to the scattering of rubble about the floor.

‘Gate that way!’ said Brokkengird, pointing to a round arch leading into another hall. ‘This Fifthstair, only way in. All others blocked.’ He pointed back down the way they had come. ‘No other way to get here. Well, one other. Brokkengird go there now!’ With that, the berzerker set off at a run none among Ulgathern-Grimnir’s duardin could match.

‘Make lines!’ called Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘Hearthguard to the fore. Grokkenkir!’ he called. ‘Take the women and youngflames and go with Drokki to the gate! Can you get it open?’

Drokki swallowed hard and nodded. ‘Yes, that is the easy part.’

‘Good.’ Ulgathern-Grimnir gripped his axe and looked down the stairs. ‘We’ll hold them here. Hurry!’

Drokki ran after Brokkengird through the huge round doorway into a second chamber. This was slightly smaller than the first. The run of windows continued along the mountainside there, and from this new position Drokki could see the peak of the Ulmount several miles away.

A road of cracked marble led down the length of the hall to another dais, this one crowned with a circular doorway that matched the first in form, but it was no ordinary portal.

‘The realmgate!’ gasped Drokki.

The wall of the hall was visible twenty yards behind it. Unlike the door into the hall, which was fashioned from black granite blocks, the realmgate was made of a dazzling white stone set with ur-gold runes that glowed with dormant magic.

‘Aye, aye,’ said Brokkengird. He had made the far side of the room, and stood beside an open stone door. ‘Best open it quick, or everyone die, and that make Brokkengird angry, because Brokkengird get no ur-gold. See you soon, cripple priest!’ he said, and dived through the doorway out of sight.

‘What are your orders?’ asked Grokkenkir. His vulkite berzerkers were restless behind him.

Drokki opened his mouth to answer.

‘What shall we do, runemaster?’ asked a maiden. This open show of fear set up a muttering among the duardin.

‘This was your idea!’ shouted an angry voice at the back. ‘We’re all going to die!’

The crowd surged forward around Drokki. All of a sudden they were shouting at him from every side.

‘Silence!’ bellowed a powerful female voice. ‘Shivering with fright will do us no good!’ Amsaralka pushed her way to the front of the knot. ‘I’d suggest you, Grokkenkir, get half your vulkite berzerkers down the end of the hall to stop the enemy coming in, and the other half by the gate to stop whatever might be on the other side killing us if it turns out not to be friendly. And stop glancing back through the door at the others. I know you’d rather be in the fight with your lord, but this is honourable duty, protecting the young and maidens and those others who don’t fight.’

‘Of, of course,’ stammered Grokkenkir, his cheeks colouring.

‘Go on then, get to it!’ barked Amsaralka.

Grokkenkir hastily bowed and began dividing his fighters. Amsaralka grinned at Drokki. He stared back. ‘What? I’m going to be a queen. Don’t see why I should sit at the back being quiet. Now you get about opening that door! I mean, runemaster.’

Drokki sketched a bow to her before trotting up to the realmgate dais. Brokkengird was nowhere to be seen. He’s probably waiting to rob our corpses of ur-gold once this has all died down, thought Drokki glumly.

He approached the gate. The runes inscribed onto the stones responded to his presence, calling out to him in voices only he could hear. Looking around guiltily, he unwound a bead book he had stolen from the Ulgahold from around his waist.

He began to read aloud, the beads clacking through his fingers.

Much to his relief, the first rune on the gate’s array ignited with a fiery orange light. Encouraged, he read faster.

‘Here they come!’ roared Ulgathern-Grimnir, setting his stance firmly at the top of the stair and readying his grandaxe. ‘None shall pass!’

A wall of pale-fleshed things came rushing up out of the gloom. Some were recognisable as human, others were so monstrous little trace of humanity remained.

They wore scanty clothing, most of it tight and made from soft leathers of terrible origin. The few iridescent plates of armour they bore were impractical, hooked directly into their skin. The servants of Slaanesh would endure any agony in pursuit of fresh sensation, and the range of horrible mutilations they had inflicted on themselves was dazzling in its variety.

Strong-smelling musk rolled up the stairs before them, making Ulgathern-Grimnir light-headed.

‘Give fire!’ he roared.

Rune-empowered magmapikes sang, conjuring gobbets of molten stone into their flared mouths, and spitting them forward with great force. A wave of invigorating heat engulfed the front rank of Fyreslayers. They clashed their weapons on their slingshields and roared at the oncoming horde. The lava bombs smashed into the packed mass of enemy warriors, igniting several and splashing many others with searing molten stone. The Slaaneshi screamed in ecstasy at the pain. Besides the heat of the bombs, the mass of the rock did plenty of damage, knocking them back down the steep stairs where they tangled with their fellows, creating bottlenecks that the duardin were quick to exploit. Axes flashed out, felling dozens of daemons as they scrambled over their wounded fellows. The smell of burning flesh and molten rock drove away the sickening musk of the Chaos horde.

There was time for one more round from the magmapikes, and then the Slaaneshi were into the main duardin line.

Initially the Fyreslayers had the superior position. They swept their massive axes back and forth, hewing down the Slaaneshi methodically. The hearthguard retreated behind the front line, angled their weapons upward, and continued to lob burning stone down upon the Chaos reavers. The stair’s width clogged with butchered tribesmen and cooling rock. Perfumed blood ran down the steps, making them treacherous underfoot.

Ulgathern-Grimnir threw off a lilac-furred thing that grappled with him. It landed on all fours, displayed itself lewdly at him and scampered away. Ulgathern-Grimnir grunted in satisfaction as a glob of lava caught it square in the side as it ran, killing it instantly and setting the corpse ablaze.

‘We might win this yet lads!’ he shouted. ‘Grimnir! Ulgahold! Barakaz-dur!’

The Chaos worshippers retreated down the steps. ‘Yeah, go on, run off back to your silky pavilions! All mouth, the lot of you!’ His crowing faltered. From the corners of his eyes he became aware of the blood of his kin. Fyreslayers kicked the corpses of their foes down the stairs. Their eyes glowed with ragefire. Cinders puffed from the mouths of the angriest.

Ulgavost came to his side from the left flank. ‘Brother, we should retreat while we can, get back to the gate.’ He paused a moment. ‘Were I runefather, that is what I would do.’

‘Aye, well, you’re not runefather, are you,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

‘Fine,’ said Ulgavost coldly. ‘We don’t have enough left to weather another assault like that.’

‘I’m sorry, brother,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘We’re better off here, that is all. They’ve a steep climb, and nowhere to organise. It’s the best position.’

‘That’s your decision, I suppose,’ said Ulgavost, and some of the tension left him.

Drumbeats came from the depths of the stairs, the heavy tread of armoured feet behind them.

‘Looks like they’re not done with us yet,’ said Ulgavost. ‘I’ll get back to the left.’

‘Good luck, brother,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

‘You too, runefather,’ said Ulgavost.

The reavers had gone. The Slaaneshi elite came in their stead. Huge armoured figures trod the stair, their helmets blank and armour a riot of gaudy, metallic colours. As they came within a hundred steps, they locked tall shields together, and began to chant.

‘Qualar Vo! Qualar Vo! Qualar Vo!’

‘Let them have it!’ shouted Ulgathern-Grimnir.

Magma pelted down onto the warriors, booming from shields and dripping onto the steps. The warriors came on unaffected, resetting their shields after every strike. They were the champions of Slaanesh, the lost and the damned, and they would not die easily.

They broke into a run at the last few steps and crashed into the duardin with such might the Fyreslayers were forced back. The advantage the duardin possessed was quickly gone, then reversed, for the Chaos warriors were so tall they struck down at the shorter warriors once they were on level ground.

Ulgathern-Grimnir swung his axe, cutting a purple-armoured warrior in two. To an untrained eye the grandaxe might have seemed unwieldy, too massive to be of much use, but the runes in Ulgathern-Grimnir’s body gave him great strength, and he moved the weapon as easily as if it were a willow switch. He stove in breastplates with the heavy knob on the end of the haft, cut heads from shoulders with the broad key-head, and caught sword and axe blades in its slots and broke them into pieces with hard twists. None could stand against the young runefather, and the fire in his eyes was terrible to behold.

In spite of Ulgathern-Grimnir’s best efforts, the Fyreslayers were pushed backwards, past the throne dais, towards the doorway where the vulnerable members of their lodge waited for Drokki to open the gate. Grokkenkir’s warriors barred the entrance, but there were too few of them to hold the Chaos warriors back for long should Ulgathern-Grimnir fall.

‘Come on, Drokki! Get that gate open,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir through gritted teeth.

The Chaos warriors chanted louder.

‘Qualar Vo! Qualar Vo! Qualar Vo!’

‘I am here, my children!’ hissed a feminine voice. Quiet, as intimate as a lover’s whisper, it nevertheless cut through the tumult of battle.

A daemon of Chaos stepped into the hall from the stairway. As tall as a gargant, its head was that of a cow, supporting a broad spread of blood-red horns. It had powder-blue skin, four arms, and carried three swords and a long black leather whip. Its hoofed feet were encased in shining boots tipped with steel. The chainmail harness it wore was immodest. Useless as protection, it accentuated the features of the daemon’s mixed gender. Ulgathern found himself entranced by its sinuous movements. A heavy smell of unwashed bodies and cloying perfume filled the hall. A dark passion rose in Ulgathern-Grimnir in response, distasteful and intoxicating. He fought it down, but even as he brought it under control he knew that everything that brought him pleasure in future would be tainted by this experience.

‘I am Qualar Vo, the Unredeemed.’ It pointed a long, painted fingernail at Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘Little duardin, so stubborn, so strong-willed, so boring. Let your passions flow, and join with me. Such things I will show you.’

The Chaos warriors backed away as the daemon strode forward, hips swaying provocatively. The smell of it intensified, causing some of the Fyreslayers to moan, others to retch. A headache pounded in Ulgathern-Grimnir’s head. The creature stood over him, its loincloth flapping inches from his face, and the stink of it made him dizzy.

‘So fierce! You should enjoy the finer things in life more. Pleasure is a generous master.’

‘Pleasure in depravity, in carving the flesh from your own body because your sensations have become so dulled? No, thank you,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir, and he was horrified at how weak his voice sounded.

‘I know you yearn to embrace me, to feel my tender caresses.’ A long, prehensile tongue slipped from the daemon’s mouth. ‘You are young to be a runefather.’ The daemon surveyed Ulgathern-Grimnir’s small band of warriors. ‘Another doomed offshoot of your race, sent off to grub about in the dirt for fragments of your god. It’s simply tragic.’

‘You will not bend me to your will,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

‘No? Your brother submitted himself quite willingly.’

‘You lie!’

‘Then who opened the realmgate into the Ulgahold, if it were not Mangulnar? Even now your kinsfolk die thanks to his treachery.’

Something snapped in Ulgathern-Grimnir. The fires of his heart were damped down by the thing’s musk no more, but flared up, burning the fog from his mind. He swung his axe at the daemon, but it laughed condescendingly and moved lightly out of reach.

‘How predictable. You little ones have always been so very dull, whichever world you burrow through.’

Qualar Vo raised an arm, and the Chaos warriors came surging back. From the stairs poured a horde of twisted tribesmen, flooding around the circle of duardin, a portion of them running for the door and Grokkenkir’s berzerkers holding it.

‘I loathe dullness,’ said Qualar Vo. ‘My aim is to remove its stain from the world. Dance the bloody dance. Let slip your passions, my children!’

The Chaos warriors attacked, and Ulgathern-Grimnir found himself in the fight of his life. The daemon musk slowed his warriors, but invigorated the enemy. Ulgathern-Grimnir held his breath as he swung his latchkey grandaxe, swatting away the warriors. He was fixed on the daemon, but always it moved away from him, directing its endless swarm of decadent worshippers to attack Ulgathern-Grimnir in its stead. He hewed and hewed until his runes burned so hot they singed his flesh. Even with this magic, however, he tired, and his axe became heavier. He did not relent, ploughing on toward the daemon, but it was hopeless. His warriors fell, but the Chaos ranks did not diminish no matter how many he hacked down, and the daemon would not come within reach.

Nightmare creatures crowded him, their weapons and writhing appendages reaching out to attack.

Ulgathern-Grimnir’s runes fizzled, the magic starting to fade.

‘Ah! Grimnir cannot help you now!’ said the daemon, and it presented its weapons and advanced on him. ‘It is time we danced.’

‘Only now that I am reduced to my mortal strength do you come at me? You are a coward!’

‘What need of honour have I? None. Another tedious mortal conceit. I would enjoy killing you as much whether you were a hero or an old woman.’

Qualar Vo leapt at Ulgathern-Grimnir. It brought two of its three swords down hard. The runefather lifted his axe over his head. It was cripplingly heavy without Grimnir’s magic to sustain him. The swords slammed into the metal haft, driving him to his knees.

‘Pathetic,’ said the daemon. It raised its sword to strike again. ‘Now you die.’

The trumpeting roar of a magmadroth boomed from the stairwell, followed by a wash of fire.

‘Then again, maybe not,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

Brokkengird bounded out of the stairwell, framed by a blazing ball of ur-salamander bile. Ulgathern-Grimnir marvelled at how high he leapt, his legs lent incredible strength by his ur-gold. The runes burned all over him with unfettered fire. His eyes and mouth shone as brightly as a forge’s heart. The air wavered around him.

Brokkengird came down swinging. His axe was a blur, taking one of the daemon’s arms off at the elbow. Stinking black blood jetted from the stump, but though it roared in outrage, the daemon responded immediately with its own weapons. Brokkengird moved so quickly his body was streaked with glowing trails of fire magic. He and the daemon traded blows furiously.

The sneer on the daemon’s face shrank and vanished as it was forced back by Brokkengird’s relentless attack. It lashed its whip round and round, seeking to keep Brokkengird away. The grimwrath berzerker grabbed it, and yanked hard. His muscles were so saturated in magic he had the might to challenge a Keeper of Secrets. Qualar Vo stumbled, falling to one knee. With a triumphant ululation, Brokkengird spun on the spot, sweeping his mighty axe around and down. The daemon’s head tumbled to the stone, the black fluid that served it for blood spraying forth.

From the stairwell emerged a magmadroth, huge and furious. The black and red striping of its hide was instantly recognisable to Ulgathern-Grimnir; Grakki-grakkov, Tulgamar-Grimnir’s mount.

‘Tulgamar!’ he called. ‘Tulgamar!’

Ulgavost looked up at the name and saw for the first time the arrival of their brother. He shot Ulgathern-Grimnir a grin and charged into the tribesmen between their position and Tulgamar-Grimnir. Fyreslayers came in Tulgamar’s wake, slaughtering all before them. The magmadroth stamped around itself, crushing the Slaaneshi under its giant clawed feet. It half-turned, its tail sweeping a dozen men from the ground and sending them crashing to their deaths against the wall. It drew back its head, its chest swelled, and it spat out thick bile that ignited on contact with the air, spattering a swathe of the enemy with fire.

‘Grimnir! Grimnir!’ shouted Ulgathern-Grimnir. His exhausted duardin had fought free of their knot. Most of the Chaos warriors were dead. What had been a fight for survival had turned in their favour and become an extermination. They cut down the remaining daemon-lovers without mercy.

Soon enough, Ulgathern-Grimnir found himself standing before Tulgamar.

‘What are you doing here?’ he said, grinning with relief. ‘I thought you weren’t going to come!’

‘You know I considered it.’ Tulgamar slapped the steaming hide of his mount. ‘The choice was presented to me again, and this time in your favour, when Mangulnar opened the forbidden gate. Daemons and worse poured into the middle deeps, and at the same time they attacked the Hardgate, sending great beasts against it. Drokki was right. The hold has fallen, Ulgathern-Grimnir. We barely got out alive. We followed your trail, fearful of the daemonkin and of Brokkengird.’

The grimwrath berzerker gave them a cheery wave at the mention of his name.

‘But then he brought us here, and, well. You know the rest.’

‘What happened to Mangulnar?’

Tulgamar shrugged. ‘I can only pray to Grimnir he found the reward he deserved.’

‘Ranganak? Ulgamaen? Briknir? The others…?’

‘All of them dead, or soon to be,’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir sorrowfully. ‘We have Marag-Or, and I have maybe three hundred warriors with me, double that of the folk from all the lodges.’

The ground shook, a sign of an impending eruption. The whole of Gaenagrik shuddered.

‘The runemasters have called upon the Ulmount. They’re bringing it down,’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir.

‘We have to go,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘This way.’ The three of them ran into the gate hall, hundreds of duardin streaming after them.

The realmgate’s aperture glowed bright. On the other side was the peaceful scene of a ruined city being reclaimed by forest; a hot, humid day bright with sunshine filtered through dissipating mist.

‘Drokki! You did it!’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

‘Yes, yes I did,’ said Drokki, sounding somewhat surprised.

‘Where does it lead?’ said Ulgavost.

‘The city of Vharrashee.’

‘Mannish?’ said Ulgavost.

Drokki nodded. ‘It was. No longer. This was Gaenagrik’s main trading partner in the Mordash lowlands. That is why this gate went there. The Volturung hold is some way from there.’

Through the great windows of the hall they could see the Ulmount erupting. Lava fountained skyward, the amount of it and height it attained lending it the illusion of slowness. Orange tongues of fire ran down the mountainside. The ground shook.

‘The mountain sings its songs of fury,’ said Ulgavost softly.

Gaenagrik shook again. Rubble crashed down at the far end of the hall.

‘It won’t save them. It will kill us too, if we do not go through the gate,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir urgently.

Ulgavost nodded. Without another word, he stepped through the gate. On the other side he looked around, inspecting the ruins. Tulgamar-Grimnir barked orders that sent a large regiment of his own, fresher warriors after his brother to protect him.

Ulgathern-Grimnir roused his own weary people. ‘Get them up. We need to leave. Now.’

‘What kind of land is it, through there?’ asked Tulgamar-Grimnir of Drokki.

‘I can tell you… Well, I can tell you what kind of land it was, but what kind it is now? That we will have to see.’

‘Are you sure Volturung still stands?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘Huh,’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir. ‘Oh well.’ He stamped down on the thick scales of his mount. ‘Huphup, Grakki-grakkov! Into the woods! You’re going home to the lands of fire!’

The great ur-salamander rumbled happily, and plodded through the realmgate.

Drokki and Ulgathern-Grimnir remained on the Ghur side of the gate, shepherding their relatives and followers through. Marag-Or came last.

Ulgathern-Grimnir grabbed his arm before he could pass through the shimmering skin of magic dividing one realm from the next. ‘Tell me. If I had done as my father asked, and not listened to Drokki, would the hold have fallen?’

‘Prophecies are tricky things, Ulgathern-Grimnir,’ said Marag-Or. ‘Often they contain the seed of their own fulfilment. Who can tell?’ He pulled his arm free, and passed through the realmgate.

Drokki went next, leaving Ulgathern-Grimnir alone in the shaking halls of Gaenagrik.

He took one last look at the burning Ulmount before stepping through to another world.

He never set eyes upon his home again.

II

Eight days after coming into the realm of Aqshy, the Ulgaen lodges came weary and footsore down mountain paths to the Broken Plains. Through beastman-infested swamps and into the arid Firespike Mountains they had travelled. The mood of the lodges was mixed. In Aqshy they found much to delight them, and being in their ancestral realm lifted their spirits. In the swamps the air was as warm and thick as that of a forge, and pleasingly sharp in the mountains. But their thoughts strayed often to their lost kin. They had little food, and were alone in a hostile land.

So it was that when the plains opened up before them their hearts lifted. They were as broken as their name suggested, a country-sized lava flow that had been cracked by the movements of the earth into giant broken plates of stone, all tilted at thirty degrees, their raised sides pointing away from the mountains. They were all of a size — an endless sharp-edged landscape of black teeth salted with white sand. The plains were featureless, but for a duardin causeway running down the middle of the plain parallel to the mountain range. The road was obvious from on high, but as they reached the plains it disappeared between the jagged stone teeth, leaving the Fyreslayers to negotiate a labyrinth that taxed even their finely honed sense of direction.

The sun beat down mercilessly. In the crevices between the rocks there was not a breath of wind. It was hot enough to bake bread, and it made them sweat, fire-born though they were.

Though the journey to the road from the mountains was but a short part of their trek, by the time they reached it they were more exhausted than ever before, and coated with dust.

Ulgathern-Grimnir clambered onto the causeway. In one direction the road stretched away to the vanishing point, disappearing into the shimmering heat haze of the plains. In the other direction, where the mountains thrust themselves out into the desert, lay the Voltdrang of the Volturung lodges. It was many miles away yet, but so vast in scale that they could easily see it from their new vantage.

A whole mountainside had been refashioned into the roaring face of Grimnir-at-war. His curled beard cascaded down the rocks to merge with those of the plains. His craggy brows made a stepped series of battlements. His eyes were giant windows, also fortified, between a hooked nose topped with a rampart. The lower jaw of his roaring mouth disappeared under the stone. A huge throat went into the cliff. At the bottom of it was a massive pair of stone gates whose fyresteel reinforcements glinted in the sun.

Tulgamar-Grimnir’s magmadroth clambered onto the road after Ulgathern. Ulgavost followed him. The three siblings stared at their goal.

‘That’s an impressive sight,’ said Ulgavost.

‘Aye,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

‘What do we do? March up and knock?’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir. Grakki-grakkov rumbled and yawned.

‘I don’t have a better idea,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘Get everyone up on the road. It’ll be quicker going, and better if they can see us coming.’

It took far longer to get their people out of the baking crevasses than Ulgathern-Grimnir would have liked. By the time all eleven hundred of them were on the road, the sun was going down and a strong wind was coming out of the desert.

‘Get a move on!’ shouted Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘We can’t be stuck out here at night!’ He turned to his brothers. ‘Get the best we have up front. Let’s look presentable. I want us to arrive as lords, not beggars.’

Arranged with as much dignity as they could muster, they continued on the last leg of their journey.

As they neared the hold, cairns appeared atop the rocks, singly or in twos and threes at first, then with increasing frequency until every tilted stone tooth was capped.

‘Armour, and arms,’ said Ulgavost.

‘Um, yes,’ said Drokki. ‘They build them from the many enemies who have come against their fortress and failed.’

‘I know that!’ said Ulgavost. ‘Everyone knows that.’

‘His point is, the stories are true,’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir.

‘They’re not just true,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir, taking in the endless heaps of bones and armour, and the massive face growing steadily before the column. Already it was big enough to swallow the sky, and they weren’t even halfway there. ‘They don’t tell the half of it.’

They walked on into evening. The mountain reared higher and higher, Grimnir’s face appearing titanically huge.

The Fyreslayers were already feeling daunted when a tremendous peal of trumpets blasted out from the Voltdrang. They blared across the silent desert. With no other noise to challenge them, they seemed to go on forever.

‘The gates! They’re opening!’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir.

A muted cheer went up from the column.

The rattling of the gate mechanism came to them cleanly, again for the lack of any other noise to compete. Shouting and the sound of marching feet echoed around the wide throat of Grimnir, followed by more trumpets.

‘Send Brokkengird to the back,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘I don’t want him coming out with anything regrettable.’

Brokkengird farted loudly. Beaming at himself, he turned about and marched away to the column’s rear.

They were close now. Outside the hold the plain had been flattened and a town constructed. The buildings were all duardin-built, but sized for a mixture of peoples, as far as Ulgathern-Grimnir could tell. The place was ruinous, the buildings tumbledown, its defensive wall so full of breaches that the few parts still at full height resembled rough pillars.

‘The Voltdrang seems inviolable at distance,’ Ulgavost said beneath his breath, so that only Ulgathern-Grimnir would hear. ‘These ruins tell a different story.’

‘Their hold stands still,’ Ulgathern-Grimnir replied. ‘That is all that matters.’

It was there, in the central plaza of the ruins, that the Volturung Fyreslayers greeted them.

A great lord approached them, borne aloft on a litter of gold and steel made in the form of a stylised magmadroth. Eight warriors carried it, their biceps studded with runes of strength. The lord wore more ur-gold than Ulgathern-Grimnir had ever seen on one duardin. His hair was easily four feet high, framed by an elaborate helm and crest of gold and jewels. He rode the litter standing, his hands clasped on the top of a double-headed rune-axe. Behind him marched four hundred hearthguard, all heavy with gold and ur-gold.

Horns blared one more time and the litter came to a halt on the other side of the square to the Ulgaen lodges.

Ulgathern-Grimnir nodded to Drokki. He stepped forward and bowed so low his crest brushed the roadway.

‘O high and mighty lords of Volturung! We, the people of the Ulgaen lodges, have travelled many long days to meet with you. We humbly beseech you for aid. Our home is—’

‘You’re a sorry lot, and no mistake,’ interrupted the Volturung lord.

Drokki stopped talking. His confidence evaporated.

‘Runefather!’ he began again, more weakly. ‘We ask only—’

‘Do you hear that? Runefather!’ The Volturung delegation laughed loudly. ‘Voltus-Grimnir wouldn’t rouse himself to greet a bunch of vagabonds like you. I am his fifteenth son, Golgunnir. I suppose I must look like a runefather to you, paupers that you are.’

Golgunnir was old enough and richly decorated enough to be a runefather. Gold pendants hung around his neck in layers. His skin was studded with ur-gold runes. One or two more and he’d be a grimwrath berzerker, but Ulgathern-Grimnir was having none of his poor bearing, gold or not.

‘Right then, runeson. I am a runefather, and I invoke the right of hospitality, and the rights of seniority.’

‘You do, do you?’

‘Yes. So shut up and do me the courtesy of listening. We come here to ask for sanctuary. Our hold was destroyed. Our people are homeless. Volturung is the great-great-great grandsire of our lodge. We return to our homeland and ask for aid.’

Golgunnir rudely looked away until Ulgathern-Grimnir had finished.

‘What happened to your hold?’

‘His brother opened a tainted realmgate and let the hordes of Chaos come flooding in!’ shouted Brokkengird.

‘I thought he’d gone to the back,’ muttered Ulgavost.

Ulgathern-Grimnir closed his eyes. His temper roared hot. ‘We are your kin!’

‘Ulgaen, you say? Never heard of you. Do you know how many lodges Volturung is father to?’ said Golgunnir. ‘Do you? Scores. There are nearly a dozen that claim the name Volturung in their title alone. We can’t take every failing branch back. We’re full, sonny.’

‘You will address him as runefather!’ said Ulgavost angrily. ‘He and Tulgamar-Grimnir both.’

‘I’m twice the age of your runefather. I’ve five times more warriors to command, and I’m reckoned the fourth senior of Voltus-Grimnir’s sons. Now, my father is runefather, highest lord of all the Volturung kin-lodges, which I suppose includes you. Do you see what I’m saying? Your lot, you’re a stripling lodge looking for a handout. That is not the Fyreslayer way. If you’ve got ur-gold to pay us to fight, then fine. If you have something to offer us for our mutual profit, we can talk. But you’re not moving in no matter what, not if you brought me Grimnir’s golden big toe and dropped it at my feet.’

‘Do you think you might show me a little respect, young one?’ Marag-Or came forward. ‘I’m older than you by far.’

Golgunnir’s attitude changed a little. He bowed. ‘One as old as you, runemaster, is worthy of respect wherever he goes. I am sure space can be found, should you wish it.’

The gold beads woven into Marag-Or’s beard clacked as he shook his head. ‘I’m sticking with family. They may not have much in the way of gold, but at least they have manners.’

Golgunnir’s followers laughed again. The runeson gave them an angry look. A junior-looking runesmiter came to his side, and began to whisper in his ear, a concerned look on his face, he gestured at the Ulgaen. Golgunnir listened a moment, his face souring.

‘He’s getting an ear-burning,’ said Ulgavost out of the side of his mouth. ‘The bastard’s been playing with us.’

Golgunnir nodded exasperatedly then flapped the priest away.

‘My noble priest, Runesmiter Keskilgirn, reminds me of my father’s offer.’

‘There’s an offer?’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

‘Yes, runefather,’ he said disparagingly. ‘There is room for you to settle, in a mountain three days to sunward. The Steelspike we call it, good ore land there. Nothing fancy: iron and lead and your other essentials, and you’ll have to dig deep to get to the earthblood, but there’s plenty for a duardin with a strong back and a will to bend it. It is outside of our current borders, but it’s better than nothing. You are welcome to it in exchange for your fealty, and a pledge to maintain order in the valleys and hills around it. The contract’s in the book.’ He waved his hand at a richly bound tome, made with pages of pressed tin. This was brought forward to the Ulgaen. Drokki flicked through it and nodded.

A sense of relief radiated over the column. Ulgathern-Grimnir smiled broadly.

‘Tell you father that w—’

Golgunnir held up a heavily ringed hand. A sly smile stole across his lips. ‘Before you get too effusive in your thanks, there is one other thing you need to know.’

‘Here we go,’ said Ulgavost.

‘Steelspike is infested with skaven. You want it, you drive them out.’

Golgunnir shouted out orders, and the horns of the Volturung rang. The Volturung Fyreslayers turned about, the gates of the Voltdrang commenced their slow opening, and Golgunnir’s bearers began the delicate process of turning the litter around.

‘Wait! We can’t go now!’ protested Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘Stop! You sully the customs of hospitality.’

‘Oh, yes. Forgot. You can camp here,’ said Golgunnir as the litter trundled round. ‘You’ll be quite safe. Chaos has grown tired of defeat before our gates. No doubt my father will send out food and ale.’ He said this as if he thought it a poor idea.

‘What if we fall in battle?’ shouted Ulgathern-Grimnir. The litter was facing back toward the gates.

‘Then your womenfolk, youngflames and such will be accepted into the lodge under the terms of bondage. They will have to earn their right to call themselves Volturung.’

‘That is unacceptable!’ shouted Ulgathern-Grimnir. The column was passing back through the gates of the Voltdrang.

Golgunnir laughed. ‘It’s all you’ve got.’

The litter passed through last. The gates clanged shut behind it, leaving the Ulgaen out in the rapidly cooling desert.

‘The thin-bearded weasling,’ said Ulgavost. ‘We throw our lives away fighting their battles, and our wives and children go into servitude for who knows how long.’

‘We’ll sort them out, won’t we, Grakki-grakkov?’ crooned Tulgamar-Grimnir to his magmadroth.

‘Little brother, Grakki-grakkov apart, I have no idea why father picked you as a Runefather,’ said Ulgavost, leaving the sentiment ‘instead of me’ unvoiced but heavily implied. ‘If it’s such a small matter why don’t they clear it out themselves? It’s a convenient way to get rid of us and keep their honour. Times are hard, but still.’

‘We’ll see about that,’ grumbled Ulgathern-Grimnir.

The gate horns sounded again. Smaller, subsidiary gates around the main opened and a stream of handcarts came out, marshalled by shouting victuallers.

‘Well, at least they weren’t lying about the ale,’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir cheerfully. ‘The day is looking up.’

Ulgavost shook his head and spat on the ground. ‘A pot of ale and a hero’s death. That’s poor hospitality, and a poorer way to increase the weight of one’s purse.’

The mountains around the Voltdrang were home to numerous holds. The Ulgaen’s passage along the highways linking them brought a variety of reactions. Some among the Volturung lodges were sympathetic to their plight, while others were openly hostile, telling them their domain was full and that the Ulgaen should seek some other place to settle.

Ulgathern-Grimnir honoured those expressions of fellowship with small gifts of gold, and stoically bore the opprobrium of the rest.

As they proceeded, the mountains reduced in magnificence. The smattering of volcanoes became none at all. The Fyreslayers’ affinity to the earth’s heat told the Ulgaen that the earthblood retreated far underground there, almost out of notice. The last holds they passed were little more than outposts, modest in size and means. Nubby hills covered in sandy terraced fields replaced the soaring ridges and peaks. Farmers watched them from under their wide-brimmed hats, or ignored them as they drove their plough-goats to score the earth.

Two giant watchtowers closing the mouth of a shallow valley marked the end of the Volturung kin-lodges’ territory. Ulgaen-Grimnir and his brothers stopped to confer with the karl of the watch there, and were directed onwards.

‘Be careful,’ said the karl, a gruff but kindly duardin. ‘Out there, the ratkin are thick. You might not see them, but they will see you.’

The road continued out into wild country. The valleys fractured into a wilderness of gullies. In response, the road climbed up to run along the ridges where the ground was easier. Behind them were the Firespikes, and ahead the hills became rounder and smaller, dropping down to reveal the Broken Plains once more. The desert conditions had softened, and the rocks jutted out now not from sand but from a heavy scrub of thorny trees.

One last mountain remained, looking over the plain: a small, sleeping volcano, as thin as a spear point. The outline of it was broken up by rickety-looking gantries and platforms, delicate against the far horizon. The smoke of industry rose from its flanks.

‘Brokkengird smell rat-things,’ said the grimwrath berzerker testily.

‘There’s nothing here, you maniac,’ said Ulgavost. ‘You can’t possibly smell them at this distance.’

‘Hey now, brother, best be careful, eh,’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir.

Brokkengird sniffed at the air and scrambled off.

‘Now look what you’ve done. Come back!’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. Brokkengird paid him no heed and vanished around a boulder.

‘Bah, he’ll be back. If not, good riddance. Looks like they’ve been busy over there,’ said Ulgavost. ‘How many do you reckon there are?’

‘Thousands,’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir.

‘Tens of thousands,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

Grakki-grakkov growled.

‘There’d be no shame in giving up, going somewhere else. It’d be better to swallow our pride than stir that lot into action,’ said Ulgavost.

‘Tulgamar?’ asked Ulgathern.

‘I’ll do whatever you think best,’ said Tulgamar-Grimnir. ‘But Ulgavost does have a point.’

‘N-no,’ said Drokki. ‘We have to stay here. What else can we do? Wander the world homeless? We can take it.’

‘There are worse things than being a wandering lodge,’ said Ulgavost. ‘Assaulting the gates of that place being one of them.’

‘Who said anything about a full frontal assault?’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘Are we not duardin?’ He winked at Drokki. ‘We go under it.’

‘Lordling full of good ideas!’ said Brokkengird, returning to the road. He threw a headless skaven corpse down at Ulgathern-Grimnir’s feet. ‘There’ll be less of these to fight head on if we go underground. Clever little lordling.’

‘Shhh!’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

At his command, the Mining Fellowship ceased work, muffled picks stilled at mid-stroke.

‘Douse the lamps!’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

The two runelamps in the tunnel went out. Sparks of fire glinted in the eyes of the duardin. They stayed stock-still for several minutes.

A quietly tapped code gave the all clear.

‘Alright,’ Ulgathern-Grimnir whispered. ‘Continue.’

The Ulgaen Mining Fellowship set to work again, timing their blows to the pulsing of machinery that resonated through the rock.

For three hours they toiled, the Ulgaen warriors keeping watch. Some of them thought they should use the runesmiters’ magic to melt their way through the rock, though none dared say it. But Ulgathern-Grimnir needed the zharrgrim to save their strength for the task ahead, and he did not want to give the skaven advance warning of their approach. Magma tunnelling was anything but quiet.

‘All change!’ said Amsaralka. The Mining Fellowship stepped back from the rockface, rotating their arms and stretching their muscles out. A fresh band came forward and took up their tools.

‘Let me help,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir.

Amsaralka smiled at him. ‘Mining is not a leader’s work. What would your warriors say?’

‘They’d say there is a runefather who gets his hands dirty with his people,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. They touched noses briefly.

‘No, runefather,’ she said. ‘I’ll not have you hacking away at the rock. One more day and we’ll be through into the cavern. One wrong blow could bring the wall down before we’re ready.’

Ulgathern-Grimnir took a step back. ‘As you wish, my lady.’

‘Soon we’ll be done,’ she said.

‘Then the real work begins,’ said Ulgathern.

Brokkengird strode along the rough road toward the Steelspike. His onyx greataxe was already slick with skaven blood. He sang a very loud, very rude song as he approached. Some three hundred yards in front of the main gate, he stopped and planted his feet firmly apart.

‘Oi, oi, oi! Furry little thieves! Brokkengird is here! Brokkengird wants your mountain! Come out and give it to him, and maybe you keep your worthless heads!’

A small, sharp crack answered his challenge. There came the musical passage of a bullet through the air. It exploded into fragments ten feet in front of the berzerker.

‘And Brokkengird knows how far silly ratguns fire!’ He laughed uproariously at nothing in particular. ‘Come out if you want Brokkengird. He is not going anywhere.’

A dozen gun reports rippled across the mountain. The bullets came a fraction of a second later. Most reached no further than the first, kicking up a storm of stony splinters from the road. One buzzed toward Brokkengird, but he leaned out of its way contemptuously.

‘Brokkengird better shot with rancid old grot head!’ he shouted.

The gunfire stopped. The ramshackle gate creaked wide. A moment later, a regiment of tall black-furred skaven marched out.

‘Oh good, you send your best out first. It is very boring when you do it the other way.’

The stormvermin broke into a clattering scamper. As they neared Brokkengird they levelled their halberds.

Brokkengird grinned widely. The ur-gold hammered into his muscles glowed. He waited until he could see the beady black eyes of the skaven warriors. Only then did he roar, ‘Grimnir!’ and throw himself forward.

Brokkengird exploded into the regiment. Ratmen flew everywhere. He tore through the middle toward the leader, hunched at the back. Their captain levelled a pistol at Brokkengird, but he cut the ratkin in half before its finger could pull the trigger. Bellowing incoherently, Brokkengird slew every last one of them. In short seconds, there were nothing but corpses littering the road, the sole survivor fleeing as quickly as it could back towards the gates. Someone shot the ratman down, then the guns turned again upon the grimwrath berzerker.

Bullets smacked into the corpses. Brokkengird did a little jig, dancing around their impacts. Waving his axe, he walked backwards until he was once more out of range.

Gongs and bells rang. More ratmen came out of the gates, hundreds of them this time, forming up in blocks with a discipline belied by their ragged appearance. They arrayed themselves in a curved battle line along the base of the mountain. They waited for their signal, filthy banners flapping in the breeze.

Then, with a clamour of gongs, the skaven swarmed forwards. Brokkengird howled with delight.

Brassy horns trumpeted out a belligerent march. Behind Brokkengird, Tulgamar-Grimnir’s magmadroth roared. Two hundred Ulgaen warriors climbed out from their hiding places in the valley that the road ran through, and marched out to join Brokkengird.

The battle for the Steelspike had begun.

Drokki took Marag-Or’s arm, although whether it was to steady the old longbeard or himself he was not sure. This was it, the final action. He sent a mental prayer to Grimnir.

‘Now!’ yelled Ulgathern-Grimnir.

Fifteen pickaxes, stripped of muffling rags, swung together at the wall. A hole opened up. A draft of stale air came through.

‘Again!’ ordered Ulgathern-Grimnir.

The Mining Fellowship hewed once more. This time the thin shell between their tunnel and the burrowings of the skaven gave way. Stone spilled into a broad, tubular corridor. The duardin flooded after it.

The tunnel was on an incline, curved in a way that suggested it to be a spiral. Chittering came from both directions. That from above sounded angry, that from below insane.

Ulgathern-Grimnir dragged his grandaxe through the hole. The tunnel was fifteen feet wide, broad enough to wield his weapon effectively. Days before, Drokki had hammered fresh runes into his muscles. Once again the grandaxe was light and easy for him to brandish.

A foul wind blew from the bottom of the spiral. The stench was indescribable. Drokki gagged on it.

‘We’ll hold the way here,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘You do what you must, Drokki.’

‘The stench is stronger that way, it must be the right direction,’ he said breathing through his mouth.

‘That will be where the skaven mothers are,’ said Marag-Or, seemingly unaffected by the stink. He frowned at the young runemaster. ‘Come now, Drokki, it’s only a bit of rat smell. Show some backbone, my boy.’

Drokki nodded so hard his beard flapped, holding his breath just the same. The runemasters’ escort of auric hearthguard and vulkite berzerkers fell in around them, led by Grokkenkir. They left Ulgathern to form up his warriors. The sound of tramping duardin feet echoed down the tunnel as the runefather led his war party further up the spiral.

A minute later the clash of arms rang out behind and above them.

‘For good or for ill, we come to our greatest test,’ said Marag-Or.

The corridor continued down and down, the battle noise growing fainter. The horrendous cacophony of squealings from the bottom became louder.

Drokki counted the revolutions of the spiral — five, ten, twenty. When he got to thirty-nine, it began to level out and ran straight. The stench had become so great it filled Drokki’s body from the toes of his boots to the tips of his crest. Marag-Or stumped on, unperturbed, but the vulkite berzerkers and hearthguard swore and coughed. The smell was as thick as smoke.

Copper pipes emerged from holes to run along the wall. Water dribbled from the joins. Steam hissed out through imperfect patching. There was a sharp, dry odour beneath the overwhelming rat stench. It was similar to the sensation ur-gold brought, but far less clean. Drokki’s spine tingled; he smelled warpstone, and it came from the water pattering onto the floor.

‘It’ll take forever to purify this mountain,’ said Drokki.

‘One thing at a time, lad,’ said Marag-Or. ‘We’ve got to take it first.’

The tunnel opened up. A vast lava chamber, empty of earthblood, loomed large. A ramp led up the side to catwalks criss-crossing the void. Strange machines and thick pipes were dotted around the place. Brass troughs full of blood gruel, overhung with filthy spouts closed by spinwheel valves, were placed at regular intervals around the chamber.

These were the feeding stations of the skaven mothers. There were dozens of them, crowded around the troughs, packed together for warmth. Long, hairless abominations, they lay on their sides, useless limbs clutching at the air in pain and madness. Their bellies heaved with unborn young and their multiple dugs were thick with unclean milk. The naked, blind bodies of infant skaven squirmed over each other all around them, fighting for nutriment. Death hung heavily over the mothers. The crushed corpses of luckless ratlings lay about the floor, many half devoured. The skaven mothers’ anaemic skin was streaked with dried blood and their own filth. From their gaping, razor-toothed maws came that endless, deafening squealing.

‘Grimnir’s holy fires,’ breathed Drokki. The stink was so thick he thought he would choke on it.

‘About there should do it,’ said Marag-Or, pointing to the centre of the room. ‘Auric hearthguard, remain by the entrance. Grokkenkir, clear us a way.’

‘Yes, runemaster,’ said the karl. He and a half dozen of his warriors moved forwards and set to work, slaying the skaven mothers and stamping their pink young underfoot. They were merciless in what they did. The skaven were the ancestral enemies of all duardin, Fyreslayer or otherwise.

The mothers screamed louder, and thrashed about, trying to bring their snapping mouths into reach of their assailants. They did little but crush their own children. Grokkenkir hacked the head from one sickly monstrosity, then another, until a path of bloated, pale corpses carpeted the way to the middle of the room.

‘Come on, we’ll follow. Perhaps you should lend a hand?’ said Marag-Or. Drokki hefted his axe in his good hand and nodded. He wanted very much for the squealing to stop.

Shouts came from behind them, and the runemasters turned back to see the hearthguard guarding the tunnel point to the rickety catwalks leading down from other tunnel mouths high overhead. There was movement up there, burly skaven beastmasters squeaking with rage at the duardin’s trespass.

Marag-Or ordered the rest of the warriors that accompanied the runemasters to block the bottom of the catwalk. Then he readied his own axe.

‘They’ll hold them off, young one. This won’t take long.’

Drokki buried his axe in the head of a skaven mother. He wiped blood from his face with the back of his arm and blinked.

Marag-Or nodded. ‘That’s the spirit.’

A skaven warlord screeched shrilly as Ulgathern-Grimnir drove his grandaxe’s haft into its chest, crushing its ribs. It went down thrashing, bloody froth at its lips.

‘Shoddy craftsmanship, that armour,’ he said.

The clanrats of the warlord wavered, but held. Then another half dozen fell to Ulgathern-Grimnir’s hearthguard berzerkers, and their nerve went. The Ulgaen surged forward as the skaven fled. The braziers attached to the hearthguard’s axes whirled around on their chains, touching off fires on the ratkin’s clothes and fur. The creatures fled, spreading flames among their fleeing fellows.

‘Hold!’ roared the runefather. Brass horns blared, conveying his orders. The duardin halted. The tunnel floor was carpeted with warm ratkin bodies.

‘We’ve a moment, move these back down the line. Stop them using their dead as cover. Halvir’s fyrd, come up front, let Brangar’s lot take a rest.’

The duardin moved smoothly past one another. Footing became better as the corpses were passed down the line from hand to hand. The few Fyreslayers who had been wounded were helped back to the break-in tunnel, where the Mining Fellowship waited to tend their hurts.

Drums and gongs rang down the corridor. Typical skaven tactics, thought Ulgathern. They were seeking to exhaust his folk with repeated waves, uncaring of the lives of their own warriors.

But then, there were always so very many of them.

This time they came with firethrowers, four weapons teams skulking behind the front ranks of a skaven regiment.

‘Ware!’ shouted Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘Warpfire!’

He plucked a throwing axe from his belt and hurled it. His rune-empowered might sent it smashing right through the body of a skaven, but the first death took its impetus, and it bounced harmlessly from the shield of the warrior behind. Auric hearthguard with magmapikes hurried to his side from the back ranks and set up a bombardment. The skaven squealed as they were set ablaze and crushed by molten stone. One firethrower gunner was battered down by a hail of lava bombs, while his ammunition bearer became tangled by the tubes and harness connecting them, and he was crushed underfoot by the mass of skaven pushing from behind. Another exploded with a dull crump, immolating a score of ratmen. Ulgathern-Grimnir grinned, but when the fire blew out, the skaven were still coming.

By now the tunnel was thick with acrid smoke. Skaven burned everywhere. Still his hearthguard did not relent, pummelling the lead elements of the second wave with their magical weapons.

Then the firethrowers came into range.

Gouts of green-tinged fire burst outward. Skaven engineers played the jets back and forth, forcing the Fyreslayers to fall back, shields up. Several were caught, their screams turning to bubbling moans as their flesh sloughed away from their bodies in shrivelling sheets.

Ulgathern-Grimnir was at the heart of it. Warpfire, hotter than any natural heat, burst over his skin as the twin streams were directed at him. The pain was immense, but he refused to move. Grimnir’s fire answered the flames of the skaven. His eyes blazed. His ur-gold runes burned with protective magic. Setting his shoulders directly into the jets, he marched forward. The pressure of the burning liquid was great and he struggled against it. His runes fizzed with energy. One gave out with a bang, overcome by the ferocity of the skaven weapons. The molten metal streamed down his arm, but Ulgathern-Grimnir refused to die.

He made it to the skaven line with a wild grin on his face. Skaven blinked and cowered, unsure what to do. The engineers shut the fire off before it was reflected back onto themselves.

Ulgathern-Grimnir’s crest of hair had lost a good foot in height, and smoked vigorously. His skin was blistered and red, his wargear blackened. He lifted his arms to show that he was not seriously hurt, and laughed in their faces.

‘I am Ulgathern-Grimnir, a runefather of the Ulgaen lodges. I was born of fire, forged in fire, and empowered by fire. Your little candle can’t hurt me.’

He swung his grandaxe the full width of the corridor, its razor-sharp head felling a swathe of the ratmen.

With a roar the Fyreslayers charged up to their lord’s side. This time, they did not stop, but advanced a step for every skaven they killed.

The ground rumbled. A hot wind blew from the depths. The Fyreslayers cheered.

‘About time too,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir as the skaven were driven back. ‘Get on lads, drive them up and out, we don’t want to be in here when the mountain blows!’

‘Aid me, Drokki!’ called Marag-Or. His eyes glowed with yellow firelight. Ash sifted down from his mouth with every word. He slammed his staff into the ground. ‘I call on the mountain! Bring forth your earthblood! Fill the hollow chamber of your heart! Purify yourself!’

The beastmasters of the birthing chamber fought ferociously against the Fyreslayers. They were bigger than normal skaven, incensed by the slaughter of the mothers, and took a heavy toll on the duardin. Drokki watched as a vulkite berzerker threw his bladed shield at a fresh party of skaven entering the hall by a secret tunnel, decapitating one and piercing another through the heart. The warrior gripped his axe and charged into the gap opened up by his shield, but was quickly swamped.

‘Drokki!’ called Marag-Or again. ‘To me!’

Drokki hurried over to the ancient runemaster. The fires of his own runic iron flared bright in sympathy with Marag-Or’s magic as he snatched it from its belt loop. He waited for Marag-Or’s next beat, then joined in, pounding on the rock in time with his old master.

‘I call on the mountain! Bring forth your earthblood! Fill the hollow chamber of your heart! Purify yourself!’ they shouted together.

The ground shifted. A crack opened in the rock. Superheated steam roared out, cooking mewling skaven young by the score.

‘Yes! Yes!’ shouted Marag-Or. ‘You can feel it, can you not, Drokki? The power of the earthblood. Feel it rise!’

‘I call on the mountain! Bring forth your earthblood! Fill the hollow chamber of your heart! Purify yourself!’ they shouted again. Their staffs slammed into the rock. Cracks ran out from their feet. The chamber quaked. The cracks widened into crevasses, the ruddy light of sluggish magma shining upward from deep underground.

The skaven’s sensitive noses twitched at the smell of burning rock. When another earthquake sent some of their feeding gear tumbling into the fires of the earth, they gave up their struggle, turned tail and ran.

‘Everyone out!’ shouted Marag-Or. He grabbed Drokki’s arm. ‘No more now, lad, we don’t want this place to go the way of the Ulgahold. Enough to burn the vermin out, no more.’

Grokkenkir’s warriors ran for the tunnel they had arrived by, dragging their wounded with them. The mountain no longer needed the runemasters’ encouragement and set up a terrific shaking all on its own. Molten rock oozed from the crevices in the floor, pooling in depressions. The cavern became as hot as a furnace. Skaven mothers, living and dead alike, burst into flame.

Drokki led Marag-Or over the broken cavern floor as best he could, helping him over the wider cracks, kicking skaven dead and boulders out of the way. Grokkenkir beckoned to them from the tunnel mouth, his eyes straying over Drokki’s shoulder at the rising tide of lava.

‘Come on, runemasters! Just a little way further!’ he cried.

Drokki stepped up the lip of the tunnel, and reached out a hand for the older runemaster. Lava filled most of the cavern floor and was creeping up the walls.

Marag-Or took his hand.

A shot rang out. Marag-Or’s eyes widened in surprise.

‘Skaven sharpshooters!’ bellowed Grokkenkir and pointed to where a number of jezzail teams were lining up on the catwalks.

Marag-Or looked down at his chest. A wisp of smoke rose from beneath his war harness. Blood welled after. ‘I’m done. You best get on, eh, lad?’ said Marag-Or. He let go of Drokki’s hand and fell back into the molten rock. His eyes closed as he sank into it, his skin blackened, and the fire took him.

‘Runemaster!’ said Drokki.

‘We have to head to the surface!’ said Grokkenkir, physically hauling Drokki back before he could jump into the lava after his mentor. A shot ricocheted off the wall and another shattered on the stone near their feet. ‘Now!’

Brokkengird sang as he cut down skaven by the score. Try as they might, they could not harm him. What few scratches he took only enraged him. He drove into them, a one-duardin army.

Tulgamar-Grimnir rode his magmadroth deep into the horde, the great ur-salamander spitting fire into the ratkin masses and igniting them by the dozen. Fyreslayers fought in disciplined ranks around the magmadroth’s feet, their axes cutting skaven down wherever they fell.

And yet still they were outnumbered, and the battle would have been lost, if two things had not occurred. Firstly, the ground’s booming and rumbling turned into a fully fledged earthquake so violent that skaven went sprawling. Smoke belched from the mountain’s summit.

Secondly, confusion took hold of the skaven still pouring from their lair. They began to falter, then to look behind themselves.

Ulgathern-Grimnir’s fyrd burst from the gates, smoke belching after them, slaying skaven as they came. The Runefather had lost many warriors, but those remaining fought ferociously and their arrival sent panic rippling through the skaven ranks.

‘Forward! To my brother!’ yelled Tulgamar-Grimnir. Grakki-grakkov reared high, pounding clanrats flat with its feet when it came down. Roaring, it broke into a lumbering canter, smashing ratmen aside as it ran for the gate. The Fyreslayers began to sing triumphantly. With trumpets blowing, they followed.

The skaven at the edge of the battle began to melt away. A few cowardly souls at first, then in great numbers.

The mountain boomed. Its smokes thickened. The Steelspike slept no more.

Brokkengird laughed. Today was a good day to kill.

The mass pyres of the skaven dead were still burning a week later when the rest of Ulgathern’s people came to join the hold from their camp at the Voltdrang.

The Fyreslayers refashioning the gates downed tools and ran out to meet the column as it appeared from the valley approach to the Steelspike. Families were reunited before the new hold. Ulgathern-Grimnir and his brothers were glad to see a sizeable force had been sent to escort them by the Volturung, and that they were well fed, clean and happy.

They were less pleased to see Runeson Golgunnir.

The runeson came on foot this time, and was garbed for war. Still far too ostentatiously for Ulgathern-Grimnir’s tastes, but at least he was dressed with fighting in mind.

‘Looks like I underestimated you,’ said Golgunnir. He looked around at the heaps of skaven bodies and gear. ‘You did a good job. You reawoke the mountain. Crafty.’

‘You thought we wouldn’t win.’

Golgunnir shrugged. ‘True. But my father thought you were in with a chance, or he would never have sent you. He’s an honourable sort, my father.’

‘You disapprove?’

Golgunnir nodded as he surveyed the mountain, the piles of scrapped machinery, the scaffolding around the gates where statues of Grimnir were already being roughed out in the rock. ‘I do. I’ll never be a runefather because of that. I’ve no faith in other folk. Still, at least I know my limits. Are there any tunnels left open?’

‘A few,’ said Ulgathern-Grimnir. ‘We’ve flooded the deepest with earthblood, set warding runes all about those higher in the mountain. I don’t want to plug them all, else how would we take the war to them?’

‘That’s what I hoped you’d say,’ said Golgunnir. ‘If I might have your permission, runefather, I will take my men hunting. The ratkin have regarded this land as theirs for too long.’

‘I grant it gladly.’

Golgunnir gave a brief nod, hitched up his belt, and held out his hand. ‘Welcome to the domain of the Volturung. Welcome home.’

Ulgathern-Grimnir clasped Golgunnir’s wrist. ‘If it’s all the same, we’ll be keeping the Ulgaen name. We are the last of our lodge-kin. Henceforth, we shall be Ulgaen-dumar lodge and Ulgaen-kumar lodge of Steelspike Hold.’

‘Whatever you like. You keep your side of the bargain, we’ll keep ours.’ Golgunnir sniffed. ‘There’s something else too.’

‘Oh?’

‘An ambassador. He should be here, about… now.’

Golgunnir looked skywards and took three steps back.

With a rush of wings, a huge warrior in gleaming gold armour slammed into the ground before Ulgathern, as shocking as a lightning strike. Wings of brilliant white light dazzled the Runefather, then were extinguished, the mechanisms that had projected them folding upon the warrior’s back.

A stern-faced war-mask looked down on him. Ulgathern-Grimnir was sure this was a human male. He had never seen one so big who was not in the service of the four powers, but the energy that crackled around him was not of Chaos, he was sure of that.

‘Hail, Runefather! I am Seldor, Knight-Azyros of the Hammers of Sigmar. I come to you with tidings of hope,’ said the angelic warrior. ‘The gates to Azyr are reopened. The stormhosts march. Sigmar returns to free the realms from the tyranny of the Dark Gods.

‘The war against Chaos has begun, and we seek allies.’

Josh Reynolds

Skaven Pestilens

CHAPTER ONE

The Crawling City

Skuralanx the Scurrying Dark, the Cunning Shadow, servant of the Great Corruptor, verminlord and blessed child of the Horned Rat, crept on stealthy hooves through the dead temple towards its central chamber. The daemon’s massive frame was heavily muscled beneath his mangy hide, and his bifurcated tail lashed in equal parts annoyance and excitement as he ducked his many-horned, fleshless skull beneath a cracked archway.

He crawled, skulked, scurried and slunk through the shadows cast by the eternal lightning-storm which swirled about the cracked domes and shattered towers. Writhing streaks of lightning cascaded down broken statues or struck the pockmarked plazas of the temple-complex. The sky above was a knot of painful, shimmering cobalt clouds, and the daemon avoided the sight of it as much as possible.

The mortals who had built this place called it the Sahg’gohl — the Storm-Crown of the City-Worm. A fitting name, Skuralanx thought, for a place where the air stank of iron and the elemental heat of Azyr. Within the domed central chamber was a door to that realm, and it wept forever in fury. Perhaps that explained the lightning. Skuralanx didn’t know and didn’t particularly care. Such doorways could be twisted out of shape and off-path with ridiculous ease, if one knew the trick of it.

But that was not his purpose here. Not yet at any rate. He was no brutish Warbringer or treacherous Warpseer, looking to conquer for conquest’s sake. No, he was a child of the Great Witherer, born of blessed foulness and blighted shadows, and his was a higher calling. The Eater of All Things was in turmoil, roiling with conflicting desires which could only be assuaged by that which Skuralanx sought — or rather, by that which his servants sought on his behalf.

One of the Thirteen Great Plagues was here. He was certain of it. Hidden away from the eyes of mortals and daemons alike. Skuralanx had followed its trail from the Jade Kingdoms of Ghyran to the rime-encrusted tarnholds of the fallen duchies of Shyish, and now, at last, here, to the Ghurlands and a city built on the broad, ever-undulating back of a colossal worm.

And he had not come alone, no-no. Skuralanx was a craftsman, and like all craftsmen, he possessed many tools. Two had come to the city-worm at his command, though neither knew that the other served him. The skaven of the Red Bubo Procession and the Congregation of Fumes, drawn from the Clans Pestilens, had risen at his order and drowned the inhabitants of the city in a foetid tide of pox and pestilence. Led by their quarrelsome plague priests, the two congregations had burst from the body of the worm, ringing their doom-gongs and spreading noxious death wherever they scurried.

It had been a thing of beauty and horror in equal measure. A civilization, millennia old, ruined in a fortnight by the teeming, pestilent hordes that scurried forth at his behest. Even better, his chittering servants were now hard at work making this place fit for the children of the Horned Rat. Soon, this city, which had once belonged to the man-things, would instead be home to the Clans Pestilens. And Skuralanx would rule over them — whichever ones managed to survive, that is. He played no favourites and was content to allow them the freedom to murder one another with vicious abandon.

As long as one or the other found that which he desired, he cared nothing for their fate. They were in competition, and every setback and victory spurred them on to greater heights of cunning, just as he’d planned. Live or die, his triumph was assured. One of them would find the Liber and bring it to him.

Had he wished, he could easily have sought out the object of his desire himself. Indeed, there were some among his kin-rivals who would have done just that. But Skuralanx was patient. And besides, what was the point of having minions if one didn’t let them serve? Had not the Horned Rat spawned his children to serve him, after all?

Snickering, the verminlord leapt onto the shoulder of Sigmar. Or his statue, at least. Stern, bearded, unforgiving, the massive sculpture of the man-thing god glared out over the chamber where once his followers had gathered in worship. The chamber glowed with an unpleasant radiance. The glow emanated from the vast iron hatch composed of intersecting plates and set into the base of the statue’s plinth. Lightning dripped from it, crawling across the walls and floor in crackling sheets. It filled the air and made his hide prickle.

The interlocking plates had been designed to be opened only in the proper order. Skuralanx had no doubt that his cunning would prove equal to the task, when the need arose. At but a touch, he would wrench the realmgate open and twist it back upon itself, turning the way to the Jade Kingdoms and the maggot-infested warrens his minions called home. Plague congregations and clawbands without number awaited but the merest whisper of his voice, for his schemes and the tools with which he enacted them were infinite.

Beyond the chamber, through the shattered walls, Skuralanx could see the wide, pillar-lined causeway which connected the ruined temple to the rest of the city.

‘Blind, so blind, yes-yes,’ the daemon hissed, carving filthy runes into the statue’s cheek. He had come here every day for weeks to do so, because it amused him, and the statue’s face was all but swallowed up by the daemonic graffiti. ‘Can’t see what’s right in front of him, oh no. Blind god, broken god, dead god.’

He looked up past the lightning to the amber skies of the Ghurlands, where strange birds flew and worse things besides. ‘Soon, all of the gods will be dead, yes. Only one left, only the strongest, the stealthiest, the most brilliant of gods, yes-yes… all dead, and we will ascend in their place.’

They would rise and flourish, spreading decay across the Eight Realms. Yes, and more besides. All realms, all worlds, all peoples would fall. All would rot, never to be renewed. From out of this glorious corruption, new life would swell, but not mortal life, not man-thing life or hated duardin, no-no — only skaven life. Only the faithful skaven-life — no place for the unbelievers. All things would die.

And Shu’gohl, the Crawling City, would be the first.

The air smelled of worm. Not an unpleasant smell, by the standards of Vretch of the Red Bubo, but not altogether pleasing either. It was a coarse, acrid odour which clung tenaciously to everything here, living or otherwise. It filled the sprawling city of looming towers and swaying bridges which the skaven of the Clans Pestilens had, for the most part, occupied. It was even, regrettably, in his fur. It overlaid his natural pungency, subsuming the unique tang of his many and varied blessings, drowning them in worm-stink.

Chittering in annoyance, he scratched at a ripe blister until it burst, briefly releasing a revivifying aroma of pus and blood into the air. The plague priest’s thin nose twitched as the sickly-sweet smell faded, and was once more replaced by the dry stench of the monstrous enormity known as Shu’gohl, the Crawling City.

The great worm crawled ceaselessly across the Amber Steppes of the Ghurlands. Its segmented form stretched across the grasslands from sunrise to sunset, carrying the city and its people along with it. Shu’gohl crept slowly from horizon to horizon, day after day, devouring all in its path with remorseless hunger. It was not alone in this — to Vretch’s knowledge, there were at least ten of the immense worms remaining in the grasslands, driven to the surface in aeons past by great rains. Someday they might once more descend into the cavernous depths beneath the Amber Steppes, but for now they seemed content to squirm mindlessly across its surface, cracking the earth with their weight.

That suited Vretch just fine. The thought of all that amber-hued sky stretching far above was nothing less than terrifying to most skaven, but Vretch was not most skaven. And in any event, the Setaen Palisades were cramped enough to make any child of the Horned Rat feel at home. The great, bristle-like hairs which rose from the worm’s hide were as hard as stone, and thousands had been hollowed out in ages past to make the tiered towers which rose throughout the city.

Those hairs closest to the eternal lightning storm which wreathed Shu’gohl’s head had been made over into veritable citadels. They rose higher than any other structure in the city, and were connected by a vast network of bridges, nets and heavy palisades made from quarried worm-scale and frayed hairs culled from the worm’s dorsal forests. From the uppermost tiers, which Vretch had claimed for his own, one could see the entirety of the Crawling City. Not that there was much to look at. The man-things knew little of artisanry, preferring to stack stone rather than burrow through it.

His chambers were in the highest tiers of the Setaen Palisades, where the city’s noblest families had once resided. The former inhabitants now swung from makeshift gibbets and iron cages outside his windows, where they could be retrieved at any time he deemed necessary. Sometimes he rattled the chains, just to hear them moan. It had a soothing quality which he had come to appreciate in the weeks since his arrival.

The chamber at the heart of his domain was circular, and mostly open to the elements. The domed roof was supported by intricately carved pillars, and the floor was covered now by the tools of Vretch’s trade — ever-seething pox-cauldrons and bubbling alembics, piles of grimoires and heaps of parchment, and tottering stacks of cages, in which plague-rats and moaning man-things waited for his ministrations. Flayed hides, still dripping and streaked with rot, hung like curtains from the roof, and the signs most sacred to the Horned Rat had been carved onto every available surface. Plague monks clad in ragged robes moved back and forth through the chamber, their scrawny limbs bound in filthy bandages. They worked at various tasks, stirring his cauldrons and refining the battle-plagues they would inflict on the dwindling kernels of resistance within those areas of the Crawling City they controlled.

And then, and only then, it would be Kruk’s turn. Vretch’s claws tightened unconsciously as he thought of his brutal and foolish rival. Kruk, plague priest of Clan Festerlingus, had pursued Vretch to Shu’gohl like a bad smell. Then, that had always been Kruk’s way. Indeed, Vretch could almost admire such single-minded determination, were it not for Kruk’s blasphemous inclinations. Every skaven knows proper buboes are red, Vretch thought, grinding his teeth as the old anger surged through him. Red!

Both plague priests had followed a trail of stories whispered about the campfires of the savages who populated the Amber Steppes, racing to be the first to find their quarry. Vretch’s agents had spied upon the tribes of wild riders and nomads who fled before the approach of Shu’gohl. The worm-city crawled endlessly across the steppes and brought with it a strange plague, which afflicted all those caught in its shadow.

Vretch and his congregation had ascended on the worm, burrowing through its hard flesh and soft tissue to attack the city and its unprepared defenders from within.

Or so they had planned. Vretch ground his teeth in frustration. They had erupted from Shu’gohl’s flesh to find the defenders already occupied with Kruk and his heretical Congregation of Fumes. Now, Kruk held the tailwards section of the city, past the Dorsal Barbicans, though how long he would remain there only the Horned Rat knew.

He and Kruk were both looking for the same thing — the source of the mysterious plague which stalked in Shu’gohl’s wake. It rose from the worm’s ichors and stained the land black. The afflicted man-things grew hollow and rotted away, eaten inside out by burrowing black worms. He’d tested it numerous times since, and found it to be a thing of great beauty. Perhaps it was even one of the Thirteen Great Plagues…

The floor beneath his claws shuddered unexpectedly, and he tensed, clutching at a support pillar. He scuttled to the window and peered out over the expanse of the Crawling City, which sprawled like an unsightly encrustation across Shu’gohl’s broad segments. Its towers and tiers rose and fell with the segments and furrows of the great worm upon whose back it had been erected in millennia past.

Smoke still rose from beyond the distant walls of the Dorsal Barbicans. Kruk’s congregation hard at work, no doubt. Or perhaps something else… Only a few days ago, the skies overhead had grown dark and thunderous, and a harsh rain had fallen. Lightning had struck the great worm, causing it to shudder in agony. The storm clouds had dispersed somewhat as the worm continued its eternal crawl, but they were still there. His whiskers twitched.

The Setaen Palisades themselves rose in staggered levels, starting from a segment of the worm. The upper levels were built around the tops of setae, so that they moved when the worm moved. They had been crafted with care and skill, raised by the hands of eager artisans to house the mighty and wealthy of Shu’gohl. Now, they were steadily being transformed into fields of rot and plague by the hands of their former inhabitants.

How they wept, these weak man-things. How they shrieked and cried, as if they did not understand that all things rotted, all things died. Even the great worms of the Amber Steppes.

He looked down, eyes drawn by the clangour of industry. Far below, his followers oversaw the excavation of the Gut-shafts. Hordes of man-thing slaves, chained with iron and disease, cleared the great pores of flesh and solidified mucus, opening a path into Shu’gohl’s interior. As he watched, a geyser of the worm’s viscous blood spurted up, drowning a dozen slaves, as the Crawling City shuddered again. From somewhere far beyond the storm which wreathed the worm’s head, a throbbing, dolorous groan sounded. Birds rose from the tops of the towers and fled shrieking into the sky.

Soon, Vretch thought, the worm would die and its great hide would slough into bubbling ruin. A great stink would rise from it, choking the sky. It would be beautiful, Vretch thought. Especially if Kruk perished in the meantime.

A garbled moan caused him to turn. His assistants cowered back from the source of the sound, and he could smell the whiff of fear musk rising from them. Vretch chuckled and waved them back. The monks huddled away as Vretch stepped towards the crude plinth which had been built around the largest of his pox-cauldrons.

The Conglomeration was his finest work. A dozen slaves had gone into its creation, their tormented bodies merged through a combination of a hundred different plagues and poxes. Bile, pus and blood from weeping sores and raw wounds had flowed together to harden into stony scabs. The twitching mass of flesh, bone and infection sat astride its plinth and gazed down at Vretch with dull eyes.

‘Vrrretch,’ the thing said, with many mouths.

‘I am here, my most verminous of masters,’ Vretch said. The Conglomeration was an oracle, of sorts. On the rare occasions when it spoke, it did so with the voice of the Great Witherer. Other plague priests looked for their omens in the froth of cauldrons or the guts of boil-afflicted rats, but Vretch had provided the god and his servants a suitable receptacle for their mighty will.

‘You are too slow, Vretch,’ the Conglomeration hissed. The various heads spoke all at once, their individual voices merging into a familiar baritone snarl that shook Vretch to his bones. It was ever thus; his patron spoke with the voice of the Destroyer, the Crawling Entropy, the Eater of All Things… Skuralanx, the Scurrying Dark. One of the mightiest of those verminlords blessed to serve the Horned Rat in his truest aspect — that of the Corruptor. ‘Too slow, too slow. That heretical fool Kruk is ahead of you. Where is my pox, Vretch? Where are my blisters, my buboes, my worm-plagues?’

Vretch thrust a claw beneath his robes and scratched furiously at his greasy fur. Mention of his rival always made him itch. Red buboes, red! he thought. ‘Coming, coming, O mighty Skuralanx,’ he said. ‘I read-study quick-quick, yes? I must learn-know all there is, yes-yes?’ He scanned his chambers — the piles of scrolls, the bubbling cauldrons, the dismembered prisoners. Then, more firmly, he said, ‘Yes.’

The conjoined mass of skaven-flesh gave an impatient growl. Loose limbs flailed and claws smacked the stone floor. Blind eyes rolled in their sockets as froth-stained muzzles snapped in apparent frustration. The whole mass gave the impression that it was about to tear itself apart. Vretch stepped back warily.

‘Are you lying to me, Vretch?’ Skuralanx hissed. ‘What is there to study here? Kruk controls the great library in the Dorsal Barbicans, not you.’

And many thanks for reminding me of that, O most scurvy one, Vretch thought sourly. The Libraria Vurmis, the repository of centuries of knowledge gleaned from the far reaches and diverse kingdoms of Ghur by the scholar-knights who’d founded it, lay in the hands of the one skaven singularly unsuited to possess such a treasure.

‘Much-much, yes,’ he said, gesturing around in what he hoped was a placatory fashion. ‘More than one library in this squirming bastion, O mighty one.’

He hunched forward and swept out a crusty claw, indicating his surroundings. ‘I have found many-much secrets, O Conniving Shadow,’ he said obsequiously. ‘There is a world apart, in the guts of the great worm. One of the missing Libers is there — your most loyal and faithful and devoted servant is certain!’

The blind eyes of the conjoined skaven rolled towards him, as if peering at him in judgement. The bulk swelled and quivered for a moment. Then Skuralanx said, ‘Yessss. Find this world for me, Vretch of Clan Morbidus, and Skuralanx the Cunning shall see that you are rewarded beyond your wildest imaginings.’ Several gnarled claws rose and gestured contemptuously. ‘First, however, you must hurry-quick and send your devotees tailwards. The old enemy has come, riding sky-fire and bringing pain for the Children of the Horned Rat.’

‘The lightning,’ Vretch said. He had seen the storm-things before, at a distance, some months ago. It had been in the Jade Kingdoms, and he twitched as he recalled the gigantic silver-armoured warrior who had slaughtered so many of his fellows in the Glade of Horned Growths. That was where he’d first made Skuralanx’s acquaintance. The Scurrying Dark had filched his broken form from the battlefield, and they had made their bargain in the shadow of the great Blight Oak.

‘Yes,’ Skuralanx murmured, through many mouths. ‘The destroyers of Clan Rikkit, the harrowers of Murgid Fein and Cripple Fang, have come to Shu’gohl.’

‘And you want me to… go towards them, greatest of authorities?’ Vretch asked.

‘Yesss.’

Vretch scrubbed at his muzzle. After a moment, he said, ‘Why, O most scurviest of scurvies?’

‘They will defeat Kruk. Or he will defeat them. But either way, the Libraria Vurmis will be lost to you. You must claim it and all of its wisdom,’ Skuralanx hissed. The Conglomeration grew agitated, and the plinth creaked beneath its weight.

‘But… I already have it, most blemished one,’ Vretch said, peering at the Conglomeration. ‘Access to it, at least.’ He scratched at his chin, dislodging a shower of lice. ‘Yes-yes, all mine — ours! Ours! — most lordliest of lords.’

The blistered muzzles of the Conglomeration turned towards him. The question hung unspoken on the air. Vretch shrunk back, somewhat unnerved by the expressions on its faces. ‘I–I have a claw in Kruk’s camp, my most cunning and wise and beautiful master,’ he said, slyly.

The daemonically possessed mass grew still. Then, as one, the many mouths sighed, ‘Of course you do.’

The smell of blood hung as heavy as dust on the air of the Libraria Vurmis, and it only grew stronger as Kruk dug one blistered talon into the cheek of the man-thing. Squeelch clutched at his ears as the man-thing began to scream again. The cries echoed through the wide, circular chamber and even out along the ramparts of the Dorsal Barbicans, in which the library nestled. Kruk chittered in pleasure and continued with his ministrations, pulling and peeling the human’s abused flesh until bone gleamed through the raw red.

‘Talk-talk, man-thing,’ Kruk gurgled, holding up a gobbet of dripping meat. ‘Talk, or lose more bits, yes-yes.’

Squeelch looked away. He wasn’t particularly squeamish, but between the noise and the smell, he was getting hungry. He gazed about him, taking in the Libraria Vurmis and the bodies which now decorated its floors. In life, they had been something the man-things called Vurmites — an order of holy warriors, devoted to the library and its secrets. In death, most of them had begun the delightful slide into putrescence. Those who were not quite dead yet were chained or nailed to the great curved shelves which occupied the chamber, to await Kruk’s attentions.

Throughout the chamber, the most trusted members of Kruk’s congregation searched the great shelves for anything of interest, or fuel to feed the fires which heated their pox-cauldrons. The plague monks worked under the watchful gazes of Kruk’s personal censer bearers. The deranged fanatics held their spiked, smoke-spewing flails tightly and dribbled quietly, twitching in time to a sound only they could hear.

Squeelch grimaced and turned as the man-thing librarian sagged in his bonds. He moaned softly as his blood spattered across the piles of loose pages and torn parchments which covered the floor. He was the seventh in as many days, and was sadly proving about as useful as the other six. Squeelch could only assume that the weeks of deprivation and torture had rendered them senseless. Either that, or the fact that neither he nor Kruk could speak their language was proving a greater stumbling block than expected. Regardless, Kruk’s frustration was palpable. His scarred tail lashed like a whip as he dug his claws into the dying man’s flesh.

Squeelch cleaned his whiskers nervously, watching as Kruk tore the hapless man-thing apart. The plague priest was a brute, even among the black-furred monstrosities of Clan Festerlingus. He was broad for a skaven, and his heavy robes made him seem all the larger. His cowl was thrown back to reveal a flat, wide skull wrapped in seeping bandages. Kruk was missing his right ear and his left eye, courtesy of a rival plague priest — Vretch, of Clan Morbidus, current occupier of the other half of the Crawling City.

Vretch had tried to obliterate Kruk with a meticulously planned trap. As Squeelch recalled, it had mostly involved certain explosives, procured from the Clans Skryre at what was no doubt great expense, stuffed down the gullet of the man-thing Kruk had selected for his second interrogation. Squeelch recalled this because he had been the one to plant them, at Vretch’s behest. It was always a behest, with Vretch. An imploration, a request, a favour… commands by any other name. Commands that Squeelch was happy enough to follow, as long as it led to his assumption of the Archsquealership of the Congregation of Fumes. Even if Vretch was a heretical Red Bubite. Purple, that’s a proper bubo, Squeelch thought. But still, by clinging to Vretch’s tail, he might rise very far indeed.

Unfortunately for them both, Kruk was sturdier than he looked. Thus, Vretch and poor, put-upon Squeelch would have to find a more effective means of his disposal. Squeelch had considered and subsequently discarded any number of options, from the mundane — a knife in the back — to the noteworthy — many knives, not just in the back — to the extraordinary — more explosives, and in greater quantities, possibly also filled with knives — but no real solution, as yet, had presented itself.

Kruk’s resilience was frustrating. Under his leadership, the Congregation of Fumes had staggered from one massacre to the next, swelling and shrinking with an unfathomable virulence. But such destructive potential was wasted on a creature like Kruk. Even Vretch agreed with that. There were better ways to spread the Great Witherer’s gospel through the Mortal Realms. And Squeelch would do it, with Vretch’s backing. The Congregation of Fumes would stalk at the forefront of Vretch’s procession and reap the benefits of that alliance. Why, together, they might even challenge the great clans themselves…

But all of that was predicated on his removal of Kruk, a task that seemed more difficult with every passing day. Kruk was a monster, and Squeelch doubted that even a direct hit from a plagueclaw catapult would finish the other plague priest off. Two or three, at least, he thought nervously, watching as his superior dismembered his prey. ‘Maybe more,’ he muttered.

‘Wwwhat did you say?’ Kruk hissed, turning to glare at him. ‘What-what? Speak up quick-fast, Squeelch.’ Brown fangs flashed as he stepped towards his lieutenant.

Squeelch shied back, clutching his boil-dotted tail to his chest as he tried to avoid Kruk’s single, madly gleaming eye. ‘Nothing, O most pestiferous one,’ he squeaked. He was beginning to suspect that his bargain with Vretch hadn’t been well thought-out.

‘Lyyyying,’ Kruk crooned, stretching the word out. He reached out a bloody claw and grabbed a handful of Squeelch’s whiskers. Squeelch whined and fought the urge to squirt the musk of fear as Kruk pulled him close. ‘Speak, Squeelch. Or I will tear out your tongue and eat it, yes-yes?’ Kruk’s own tongue slid out to caress his scarred muzzle, as if in anticipation. The plague priest had eaten his last second-in-command, Squeelch recalled.

No, not well thought-out at all, he thought, in growing panic. His hand edged towards the poison-encrusted dagger hidden within his robes. He would only get one chance, if Kruk decided he’d outlived his usefulness.

‘Kruk.’

Kruk released Squeelch and turned, good eye narrowing in consternation.

‘Kruk, Master of the Fumes. Heed me.’

‘Skuralanx,’ Kruk muttered. Squeelch swallowed. The air had taken on an oily tang. He could hear and feel something gnawing its way towards them, through the spaces between moments. His head ached and blisters burst and popped on his flesh as he staggered back, scratching at himself. The flesh of his tail grew hot and he felt as if his stomach might burst. He heard a skittering as of a thousand rats, and then the body on the floor began to wriggle and twitch in a most unseemly fashion.

A great talon rose upwards through the bloody midsection of the dead man, clawing at the air. Then it fell, striking the floor. Clawed fingers spread, and wormy muscles bunched. With a sound like a branch being pulled free of mud, something monstrous hauled itself out of the corpse’s midsection. A narrow head, bare of flesh and topped by massive horns, breached the blood first. Then a second talon. The sound of buzzing flies filled the air, and eyes which glimmered sickeningly fixed unwaveringly on the two plague priests.

Squeelch cowered back, trying to make himself as small as possible. Kruk tensed, his scabrous tail lashing. ‘Greetings, most-high Skuralanx, Cunning Shadow and Mighty Pestilence,’ the burly plague priest said, his good eye narrowed in wariness. ‘To what do I owe this pleasure, O most esteemed patron?’

‘No pleasure, Kruk. Only impatience. Where is my Liber, Kruk? Where is the Great Plague?’ Skuralanx said, blood running down his mangy fur. ‘Have you found it yet?’ Squeelch flinched as the daemon’s voice echoed through his head. Kruk’s daemonic patron was a power unlike any other. He loomed over the two plague priests, and the tips of his great curving horns scraped the domed ceiling of the library. Clouds of flies swarmed about his massive shoulders and lice squirmed in his mangy fur. His cloven hooves drew sparks from the stone floor as he shifted impatiently.

Kruk looked down at the body the verminlord had emerged from, and then up at the daemon. ‘No, O most Scabrous One,’ he said. His shoulders were hunched, and his head held low. Not even Kruk was mad enough to openly challenge a firstborn child of the Horned Rat. ‘The man-things are… stubborn,’ Kruk said.

The daemon’s fleshless jaws clacked in seeming frustration. ‘You hold one of the greatest libraries in this realm, Kruk — have you even thought to search for my book amongst all of these others?’ the daemon hissed, extending a hand to indicate the shelves which surrounded them.

Kruk blinked and looked around. Squeelch tried his best to make himself inconspicuous. As he shied back, the daemon’s gaze fell on him. What might have been amusement flickered in that hellish gaze, and Squeelch froze. He knows, he thought, in growing panic. He knows!

‘Stupid-stupid man-thing books hold no answers worth the name, O horned and hoofed one,’ Kruk said, gesturing dismissively. As he spoke, the ground shuddered and several of the great shelves toppled, spilling their burdens across the floor. Panicked squeals came from outside on the ramparts as Shu’gohl convulsed in what Squeelch suspected was agony. The quakes had been growing stronger, and happening more often. Hundreds of skaven and man-things alike had died, crushed by the twitching segments of the worm as it trembled.

‘Vretch believes that they do,’ Skuralanx said slyly, as he shoved a fallen shelf aside.

‘Vrrretch,’ Kruk growled. Iridescent foam bubbled in the folds of his muzzle. ‘Kill-kill! Tear-bite him, yes-yes!’ the plague priest continued, hunching forward, his bloody claws opening and closing uselessly on the air. ‘Strike him down for me, mighty Skuralanx.’

Skuralanx rose to his full height. ‘Who are you to command me thus, priest? I am the will of the Great Ruiner made manifest. You do my will, little flea,’ the verminlord hissed, his tail lashing in anger. ‘And I say that there are more important matters to attend to than your petty murder-lust. Or even your failure to find my pox…’ The daemon sank to its haunches as Kruk backed away, head bowed.

‘More… important?’ Kruk said, slowly.

‘Lightning-things come, Kruk. More dangerous even than Vretch. You must kill them, quick-quick,’ the verminlord said, stirring the gory remains of the librarian with one of his curved talons.

Squeelch blinked. They’d heard and seen the lightning which struck the outskirts of the city, causing the great worm to heave and thrash. Kruk had dismissed it, and the subsequent reports of fighting in the lower segments of the city. The Congregation of Fumes had spread like a miasma, each individual choir rampaging through a chosen section of the city, killing those who resisted their attacks and capturing those who didn’t.

But that already unsteady flow of chattel had been interrupted. Kruk, with his usual simplicity, had assumed the others had fallen to fighting amongst themselves over some scrap of street or a theological debate, as was their wont. Squeelch’s own congregation had reported sighting strange flying shapes, neither bird nor beast, and the sound of lightning, though the sky was clear. But… lightning-things? He clutched his tail, kneading his sores in agitation.

‘Lightning-things,’ Kruk hissed, his good eye widening in pleasure. ‘Yessss…’

Squeelch tensed. He knew that tone. Kruk was insane — his brain was rotted in his mossy skull. He had a love for bloodshed that outstripped even that of a daemon like Skuralanx.

‘Yes, I shall rip them and break them. I shall fill their pretty armour with maggots,’ said Kruk. He whirled and caught Squeelch by his robes. ‘Get to your plagueclaws, Squeelch. Fill the air with great clouds of pestilence and your lovely poisons — I would fight in the shade.’

‘Beast-bane, follow me,’ Lord-Celestant Zephacleas roared as he crashed through the makeshift stockade. The Astral Templar swept his runeblade and hammer out to either side, smashing timbers and cutting through the thick ropes which held the wall together. Lengths of fossilised hair and wood toppled as the Decimators of his Warrior Chamber joined him in tearing apart the skaven stockade. It took longer than it should have.

The verminous palisades were crude things made from scavenged scrap. The skaven weren’t artisans by any stretch of the word, but their defences had a certain primitive strength regardless. They were built for function rather than form, akin to the Stormcast Eternals themselves.

Zephacleas and his Stormcasts were one amongst many Warrior Chambers sent to the Ghurlands to free the kingdoms and tribal lands of the Amber Steppes from the clutches of Chaos.

Shu’gohl was not the only ambulatory metropolis upon those plains — many of the remaining great worms bore some form of edifice or structure upon their backs, and had done since before the beginning of the Age of Chaos. Isolated and ever-moving, the surging tides of Chaos had swept about them, unnoticed by the vast monstrosities and avoided by the populations who clung to them.

Despite this, some belonged wholly to Chaos now, like Guh’hath, the Brass Bastion, which carried its population of wild-eyed Bloodbound across the steppes in search of slaughter, or Rhu’goss, the Squirming Citadel, its ancient ramparts manned by the soulless crystal automatons of the Tzeentchian sorcerer-king Terpsichore the Unwritten. Others, like Shu’gohl, had seemingly resisted the touch of Chaos for centuries, until the coming of the skaven.

Warriors from the Hallowed Knights and the Lions of Sigmar sought to topple the Hundred Herdstones of Wolf-Crag, even as the Sons of Mallus laid siege to Guh’hath. But to the Beast-bane had fallen the task of freeing the Crawling City from its skittering conquerors and preventing the death of the great worm.

Their orders were to fight their way through the skaven-held regions of the city, all the way to the ruins of the Sahg’gohl — the great temple of Sigmar which had been built by the first inhabitants of the Crawling City. The temple had once contained a realmgate connecting the Crawling City to the Luminous Plain in Azyr, and it would be so once again, once the Crawling City was free of its verminous invaders. The Sahg’gohl clung to the worm’s head like a lightning-wreathed crown, and Zephacleas yearned to see it — to see the glory of such a place restored.

Others might have attacked the Sahg’gohl directly and left the freeing of the city for later — Taros Nine-Strike, the Lord-Castellant of the Beast-bane, for one. But then, Taros put his faith in expedience. Zephacleas favoured a different approach. What good was a temple when the folk who would worship within it were dead?

He bellowed and Liberators stepped forward, using their shields and hammers to wedge apart the broken sections of palisade as the Lord-Celestant led the Decimators into the fray. While the Liberators worked, Judicators fired over their heads, driving back the skaven. The ratmen reeled beneath the sizzling volley, and Zephacleas seized his moment, leading his Paladin retinues forward into the heart of the foe.

The Lord-Celestant was a giant of a man, even among the Stormcasts, and he sang with joy as he wielded hammer and blade. Once, he’d fought simply for food to ensure the survival of his tribe in a land full of monsters. Now, he fought to sweep the Mortal Realms clean of Chaos in all of its forms.

He scanned the interior of the stockade and saw a dozen large, crude cages made from pox-warped bone and disease-toughened ligament. Inside the cages, men, women and children screamed and wept.

Zephacleas growled in anger and took a step towards the cages. A skaven leapt at him from the crumbling stockade, a filth-covered mace clutched in its grimy claws. He spun, smashing it from the air with a blow of his hammer. More of the vermin scuttled forward in a disorganised rabble, flowing around and between the cages, chanting in high-squealing voices and swinging spiked censers with berserk abandon.

‘To me, my brothers — let us show them how the Astral Templars wage war,’ he said, spitting a frenzied rat-monk on his runeblade.

Liberators armed with dual warblades joined Zephacleas and his Decimators in hacking away at the charging skaven. The amethyst-armoured Stormcasts fought as savagely as their Lord-Celestant, as savagely as they had in the Gnarlwood so long ago. But the ratkin were as thick as fleas on the ground and showed no signs of retreat.

‘Thetaleas,’ Zephacleas said, signalling to the Decimator-Prime of a nearby retinue of axemen. ‘Teach them to fear us, as you and your men did in the Gnarlwood.’

‘As you command, Lord-Celestant,’ Thetaleas said, lifting his thunderaxe. ‘I shall give them peace, one strike at a time.’ The Decimators surged forward, away from the other Stormcasts, where they could ply their trade freely. With broad sweeps of their axes they cut a path through the swarming skaven. They hacked down droves of the ratkin, until at last, even the most maddened of the skaven began to fall back before their inexorable advance. The remains of the horde began to scurry away, shrieking.

‘Well done, Thetaleas,’ Zephacleas said, as the last of the skaven vanished through the outer wall of the stockade. ‘Now see to those cages.’ He gestured with his hammer. ‘We’ve only got a few moments before they regroup.’

As one, the Decimators moved to obey, as they had every time before. They had freed captives in a hundred such stockades since arriving on the back of the great worm. Zephacleas joined his warriors in tearing apart the cages.

The folk of the city were not familiar to him, though they might have been descendants of those tribes he’d once fought beside and against. But they were mortal and free of the taint of Chaos, and that was enough. He chopped through the warped bars of a cage and tore apart chains of ligament and muscle.

‘Out, hurry,’ he boomed at the cowering captives. He drove his sword into the ground and extended his hand. ‘Come on, the way is clear.’ The captives stared at him, awed and terrified by the armour-clad giant. Zephacleas grunted in frustration. ‘Out with you,’ he barked.

‘Calm yourself, Zephacleas. They are frightened.’

Zephacleas turned as a figure loomed up behind him. ‘There you are, Gravewalker. Help me with them. We do not have much time.’

‘If you stop shouting, they might be more inclined to listen.’ Like all those who held the post of Lord-Relictor, Seker Gravewalker was a fearsome sight. He was clad in heavy, ornate amethyst armour marked with sigils of death and rebirth. His face was hidden beneath an imposing skull-helm, and the ragged hide of a fire-wyrm hung from one shoulder plate. The beast’s narrow skull was set into the Gravewalker’s reliquary standard, alongside ornaments of gilded bone. A heavy warhammer hung from his belt. He raised his hand, and a crackle of soft lightning played about his fingers. Every mortal eye turned towards him.

‘Go, my children. We come in Sigmar’s name, and strike your foes with his fury. Go, and spread the word to those who yet fight that the God-King has come, and his storm shall sweep your kingdom clean,’ he intoned, his voice swelling to fill the air like the peal of a bell. A man, his flesh bruised and bloody, took a step forward. A woman joined him. Then others, young and old alike, until all were pushing their way free of the cage and fleeing the stockade.

‘I could have done that,’ Zephacleas said, as the last of the captives flowed past him, joining those freed from the other cages. There were places in the city which yet resisted the skaven, isolated enclaves where they might find safety.

‘You have other concerns, my Lord-Celestant. The skaven have regrouped,’ Seker said, drawing his relic hammer from his belt. Zephacleas uprooted his sword and moved towards the rear of the stockade, the Lord-Relictor following close behind.

‘Liberators forward,’ Zephacleas said, as the first of the rat-monks squeezed back through the stockade. The skaven didn’t attack immediately, but their numbers grew by the moment. ‘Lock shields and hold your ground. Gravewalker, get the mortals to safety,’ Zephacleas said. The Lord-Relictor nodded and stepped back, shouting orders to those retinues not already part of the battle-line.

Zephacleas’ pulse quickened at the thought of the battle to come. He could hear the sounds of fighting outside the stockade, as the rest of his chamber defended the newly-freed mortals from harm. The skaven outside were swarming about the stockade, trying to overwhelm the Stormcasts through sheer weight of numbers. But they would fail. Come in your thousands, vermin, we shall not fall, he thought. We held you at the Gates of Dawn, and in the Hidden Vale, and we shall hold you here.

The skaven charged across the stockade, squealing and screeching. A terrible cloud of poison followed them, spewing from the censers of those in the lead. Zephacleas resisted the urge to race to meet them. Judicator retinues loosed volley after volley, at the Lord-Relictor’s command. The crackling bolts tore great holes in the mass of robed and furry bodies, but the creatures did not slow.

‘Stand fast, my brothers. They are but beasts, and we are their bane,’ Zephacleas cried, as he split the skull of a squealing rat-monk. The hooded skaven fell, but it was soon replaced by others. They flung themselves at the thin line of Astral Templars in a screeching, stinking wave of diseased flesh and filthy robes. Their weapons shattered against the sigmarite shields of the Liberators, but they seemed to take no notice of such trivialities.

‘Push them back,’ Zephacleas bellowed. He caught a skaven in the chest with a well-timed kick, crushing the life out of the filthy beast. Liberators and Decimators moved to join him as he stepped out of line. The warriors formed a ragged chain and began to fight their way forward. ‘We are ruin,’ Zephacleas said, lashing out wildly at the skaven.

‘We are destruction,’ the warriors around him responded as they fought. Their savagery matched his, and for a moment, the Lord-Celestant was a mortal again, fighting alongside his clansmen, the heat of battle rising in their veins, their foes falling before them.

‘We are death,’ Zephacleas roared, splitting a cowering rat-monk from skull to tail. ‘Death and ruin! Death to the dealers of death! Ruin to the bringers of ruin!’ His warriors bellowed in reply, their voices mingling, becoming a single fierce note of promise. As far as a war cry went, it was a simple thing, and prone to being bent out of shape when the mood struck him. He did not hold with words forged from iron and prayers set in stone. Let the Hallowed Knights or the Hammers of Sigmar march to a familiar beat, if that gave them comfort. For Zephacleas and his warriors, the song of battle was always different. Yet it served its purpose as well as any hammer or blade.

And at the sound of it, the skaven at last broke. The bloodied remains of the horde streamed away in panic, biting and clawing at one another in their haste to escape. Zephacleas was tempted to pursue them, but he restrained himself. The man he had been would not have hesitated, but that man was dead, and there was more to their mission here than simple slaughter. He raised his sword, signalling for his warriors to fall back and reform their lines.

As Thetaleas and his Decimators moved forward to tear apart the rear wall of the stockade, Zephacleas turned to his Lord-Relictor. ‘Once the stockade is down, we’ll continue the advance along the dorsal thoroughfare. We should reach the Dorsal Barbicans by nightfall.’ He gestured to the distant ridge of ramparts. Streaks of oily green light rose from its length and fell into the city as they watched.

The catapults of the skaven had been firing at those sections of the Crawling City still in the hands of its original occupants, spreading a miasma of corruption and sickness through the streets. Whether the intent was wholesale slaughter or merely to drive the sickened and panic-stricken mortals into the claws of the roaming bands of rat-monks, Zephacleas didn’t know. Whatever the reason, the battery of verminous war engines had to be silenced if they were to free Shu’gohl from the skaven.

‘We’d stand a better chance if you didn’t insist on hurling yourself into the thick of the fray at every opportunity. If you should fall…’ Seker began.

‘I would be reforged anew, and you would lead the Beast-bane in my stead in the meantime,’ Zephacleas said, bluntly. Despite his bravado, the thought was not a pleasant one. Zephacleas had already endured the Reforging. He’d lost his mortality, his memory, and perhaps more besides. What else might he lose, were he forced to endure it again? He thrust the thought aside. ‘Warriors fall in battle, Gravewalker. You know that as well as I. I will not fear the inevitable,’ he said.

‘I do not ask for fear, Lord-Celestant. Merely restraint.’

‘Restraint?’ Zephacleas growled.

‘Some, yes. A modicum of caution, even,’ Seker said, mildly. He turned. ‘The stockades are down, Lord-Celestant. Shall we advance?’

‘Yes,’ Zephacleas said. He spun his hammer in a tight circle. ‘I have the sudden urge to hit something.’

CHAPTER TWO

The Coming of the Star-Devils

Vretch hummed to himself as he made the preparations for his journey. Stacks of tomes, scrolls and parchments, many now weighed down with mould or warped by the wet heat of the pox-cauldrons bubbling away throughout his chamber at the top of the Setaen Palisades, awaited his inspection. Most, if not all, had been smuggled from the Libraria Vurmis by Squeelch — loyal, craven, untrustworthy Squeelch — or captured by his own forces when many of the library’s man-thing guardians had fled towards Shu’gohl’s head. They’d fled right into his clutches.

‘Sought to keep them out of Kruk’s hands, good plan, yes-yes, smart plan,’ he chittered, glancing up at the rusty gibbets which hung from the roof of the chamber. ‘Useful man-things, so useful.’ Things that had once been human crouched or slumped within them, their abscess-covered bodies twitching fitfully as what he’d planted within them grew agitated. Soon, those abscesses would ripen and burst, and his greatest weapons would be unleashed on whichever foe happened to be nearby. He scrubbed his muzzle in satisfaction.

‘Very useful, yes,’ he muttered. The man-things had shown an almost skaven-like cunning and foresight in guarding their knowledge — the most valuable bits of it anyway. The moment Kruk had first set his clumsy claw on the steps of the Libraria Vurmis, they had been scurrying in the opposite direction, fleeing through the Scar-roads — hollows of scar tissue, running beneath the worm’s hide, hidden from the eyes of all but those who knew where to look. They’d fled through those secret tunnels and right into Vretch’s claws, as his forces pushed from the opposite end of the worm. Even better, they’d brought the heart of the library with them: the most ancient texts, crumbling scrolls scoured by peddlers and explorers from the distant shores of the Hollow Sea and the now-lost Citadel of the Midnight Sun.

But those were as nothing next to the true treasure — the Mappo Vurmio, the Map of the Worm. Vretch picked up the ancient cartographical volume and ran his claw over it, chittering in delight. Drawn on hairs cut from the setae of the worm that were woven, pressed and dyed, and protected by a cover made from two of the great beast’s scales, the Mappo Vurmio showed the most direct route to Olgu’gohl, the Squirming Sea, within the belly of the worm. What’s more, it showed the way to what Vretch believed to be the source of the strange pestilence he’d come in search of. Somewhere, deep in the worm’s gut, lay one of the missing Libers Pestilent.

The Clans Pestilens, including Morbidus and Festerlingus, had been searching for the Libers Pestilent and the Great Plagues inscribed within them since time immemorial. Seven had been found, but six yet remained, including the one Vretch believed to be hidden somewhere in the Crawling City — which one it was, he didn’t know, but he desired it all the same.

Each of these mighty tomes contained the secrets of one of the Great Plagues — its ingredients, its effects and the ways and means of its brewing. Wars had been fought over them, and he who possessed all of them would become the vessel by which all non-skaven life would be eradicated from the realms, and all of creation given over into the claws of the Great Witherer. Vretch was determined to be that vessel. Or, at the very least, close behind that vessel, ready to enjoy the benefits of such proximity. Unfortunately, that would never be, if Kruk got to it first.

‘But he will not-never! All mine, all mine,’ he hissed, clutching the map to his scrawny chest. ‘Kruk is nothing, a fool, yes, a blind runt, yes-yes!’ He spun in a circle, lifting the book over his cowled head as he danced about in manic glee. ‘Soon, Vretch shall be the Plague-master and Kruk shall be dead-dead-dead.’

He slowed as he realised his assistants were watching him. He snatched the book to his chest and hissed at them. ‘What are you looking at? Prepare my poxes for the journey. Hurry-quick!’ The plague monks scurried to obey, several of them nearly colliding in the process. Vretch watched them for a moment, tail lashing, before turning back to his collection.

He would need to take some, but could not take them all. Not all, no, but many. He would need them when they reached Olgu’gohl. There were secret places and strange things, in the deeps. Vretch had the uncomfortable suspicion that a skaven could spend years scurrying through the stomach of Shu’gohl, and never find what he was looking for. Still hugging the Mappo Vurmio to his chest, Vretch began to separate the rest of his hoard.

The piles slid and toppled, filling the air with loose sheets of parchment, as Shu’gohl shuddered suddenly. Vretch’s cauldrons wobbled on their tripods, and bilious liquids slopped to the floor, scalding several of his assistants. The gibbets above clattered and twisted in their chains, and the insensate things within them moaned sorrowfully. Vretch cursed and snatched up an armful of books, trying to salvage them from the pox-froth spilling across the floor. The liquid was a dilution of the original pestilence which had brought him to the Crawling City. It had taken him days — and hundreds of man-things — to refine it into something close to the potency of the original pox. ‘Skirk, Putrix! Save the books, fools,’ he squealed.

Two of the plague monks flung themselves between the steaming pestilence-broth and the books. They rolled about in it, soaking it up with their fur and grimy robes. Skirk sat up with a shriek, his flesh melting from his crooked bones. Putrix clawed at the floor, squealing in agony as great boils the size of a skull rose on his flesh and burst, disgorging thousands of squirming worms. The worms melted away as quickly as they’d come, and the two plague monks slumped, rotting quietly, their bodies forming a natural bulwark between broth and books. Vretch peered over them and gestured airily. ‘Clean it up, quick-quick,’ he said to his other attendants. ‘We might be able to get some use out of it yet.’

‘Faster-faster, quick-quick,’ Kruk shrilled, exhorting his followers to greater speed as the Congregation of Fumes flowed squealing and chittering out of the anterior gates of the Dorsal Barbican. He bounded ahead of them, stopping only when they lagged too far behind. The laity of the congregation were made up of plague monks culled from a dozen lesser clans. They sought his patronage and the protection of his mighty procession. Many were willing to die for Kruk and the rest were, at the very least, willing to kill for him.

At their head, and just behind him, came the Reeking Choir, his plague censer bearers, those skaven most devoted to the Effluvial Gospels and to him personally. They swept their great, spike-tipped censers in wide arcs, filling the air with a toxic miasma that inflamed the senses and filled the mouth with froth. They were led by a boil-covered, skull-faced creature named Skug, whose twisted frame was bloated with watery blisters and lesions that wept an ochre pus. Skug’s muzzle had rotted to the bone, but he felt no pain, thanks to the blessed smoke of the many censers which hung from the chains draping his body.

Kruk inhaled a lungful of Skug’s smoke as he burst into a scurry, letting its putrid aroma fill him. His mind swam with images of disease, corruption and death — all of the beauty of the world-to-come. That was the true way of it, the best and most glorious way to worship at the cloven hooves of the most gaseous Great Corruptor. The Horned Rat was the source of and the spewer forth of the Grand Effluvium, those great gastric gases which would sweep over the Mortal Realms and strangle the breath from the unworthy.

And Kruk would be the Archfumigant, the Spreader of Gaseous Blessings, who would squat at the right talon of the Horned Rat for all eternity. The plague priest sucked in another mouthful of smoke, and felt the growing ache in his claws fade. From behind him came the clangour of plague-bells as his followers rang out the call to war.

Soon, every choir, congregation and clawband on the anterior side of the barbicans would follow the ringing of those bells and join him. They would come at his call, or suffer for their absence later. Those who had dared invade his territory would drown in blessed smoke and blood. So demanded Skuralanx and so Kruk would ensure.

It had been truly a sign of the Horned Rat’s favour the day he’d made the acquaintance of the verminlord. The daemon had spoken to him through Skug’s varied collection of boils and lesions, and warned him to flee the warrens beneath Putris Bog before the Stormcast Eternals arrived to lay waste to his allies in Clan Rikkit. He’d led what he could of the congregation, including many from Rikkit who’d abandoned their old loyalties for new, through the sorcerous gnawholes Skuralanx had cut in the skin of the world.

And he’d followed Skuralanx ever since, waging war at the whim of his horned patron. The Congregation of Fumes had sacked the ivory temples of Ghurok-kol, and filled the deep corridors of Iron-Bear Hold with poisonous smoke, slaying three in five of its duardin defenders. They had spread contagion and death across the Ghurlands at Skuralanx’s whispered word.

That the verminlord hadn’t saved him out of the kindness of his heart was not lost on Kruk. That too was in the Effluvial Gospels, and he bore the creature no grudge for its manipulations. After all, he had given Kruk and his congregation a purpose more glorious than any other, and now he had set them at the throats of their foes. And once this battle was done, once the foe was beaten and choking on their own blood, then Kruk could turn his attentions to his true purpose. He would find the Liber that the verminlord said was hidden here and offer it up to mighty Skuralanx, and through him, the Great Corruptor.

As if in fear, the worm-flesh beneath his foot-claws began to convulse. It was as hard as stone normally, but as the great beast trembled in pain, it became pliable and unsteady. Two of the tall setae-structures swayed into one another with a sound like grinding rock, and splinters of the iron-hard bristles rained down upon the Congregation of Fumes. Screeching skaven were crushed between the structures, but Kruk paid their panicked cries no heed.

Overhead, the storm-tossed amber skies were streaked with green, as Squeelch — loyal, fearful Squeelch — saw to the plagueclaws. Kruk was glad that he had not yet had reason to kill the other plague priest — Squeelch was useful, and his cringing was amusing. He also brewed the most magnificent poxes, capable of felling whole tribes of orruks or even a rampaging gargant at the merest whiff. Yes, Kruk would have to learn Squeelch’s secrets before he killed him.

From behind him rose a familiar squealing and creaking. Kruk stopped and turned, his good eye widening in anticipation. A heavy archway of stone, mounted on a precarious assembly of rickety wooden timbers and massive wheels, loomed above the press of his congregation. The archway acted as a frame for an enormous blazing orb of pure filth which swung on rusty chains. A coterie of plague monks, all members of the Reeking Choir, pushed the Plague Furnace forward through the crush of skaven. Some were caught beneath its wheels and pulped, still singing their praises to the Great Corruptor.

It was the war-altar of the Congregation of Fumes, a mobile pulpit from which Kruk could shriek out the blessings and the curses of the Horned Rat. The massive censer which swung from its arch had been doused in rancid warpstone and virulent concoctions and set alight. The fumes which wafted from it drove his followers into a sacred battle-fury.

Plague monks flooded out of the doorways and the side-streets between the towering structures of the city. More of them scuttled across the creaking bridges and woven net-paths which were strung between the wide tiers of the towers, following the summoning knells. Kruk began to chitter the seventh hymn of the Effluvial Gospels as he clambered aboard the creaking Plague Furnace, and Skug joined him. Soon the rest of his followers took up the chant. The sound of their screeching rose high into the air, until it seemed as if the whole world were screaming with them.

The Congregation of Fumes was racing, rapid-quick, to war.

Skuralanx crouched atop the tower of hair, claws dangling between his knees as he observed the goings-on below. Around him rose heavy barrels, meant to collect falling rain and filter it down into the tower below. Somewhere within the tower, he knew, were the fungus farms which had fed the folk of Shu’gohl and now served as breeding grounds for poisonous moulds. Idly, he dug a talon into one of the barrels and let the water spill out to rain down on the foetid tide of skaven flowing through the street below.

The verminlord watched as Kruk led his congregation away from the Dorsal Barbicans and towards the approaching Stormcast Eternals in his usual joyous fashion. To his credit, the one-eyed plague priest was always at the forefront, leading his censer bearers right into the heart of the foe. He was like an unchecked pestilence, reaping a heady toll in the Corruptor’s name.

Vretch, on the other claw, was akin to a more subtle pox, creeping along on mouse-feet. Very, very slow mouse-feet. Skuralanx hissed in momentary annoyance and glanced over his shoulder towards the Setaen Palisades. Of the two of them, he favoured Kruk, if only because the brute was easier to control. But Vretch was closer to their goal.

A good decision, to spare that one’s life, the daemon thought, as he picked at the lice in his matted mane of hair. A good decision to spare both, though for different reasons. And to pit the one against the other had been a masterstroke, worthy of even the Verminking himself. Only through conflict could victory be achieved.

Survival of the fittest. That was the one law, the true law, to which all of the children of the Horned Rat were beholden. Only through struggle could they grow in strength, only through fear of a rival could deviousness be honed to a razor’s edge. They must be strong, in order to survive what was to come. The Age of Chaos was ending. Soon, the Age of the Rat would begin. When all thirteen Great Plagues had been reclaimed, the Mortal Realms would groan in anguish. All man-things would die, no matter what god they served. They would fall and rot, never to rise again. And only the children of the Horned Rat would…

Skuralanx stiffened. The wind had turned. Shu’gohl twisted suddenly, and great clouds of dust rose up over the distant horizons of the worm’s flanks. Skuralanx hesitated, and then glanced upwards. The daemon hated the yawning emptiness of the open skies. When there was only wind on his whiskers, he felt exposed and alone, despite his divine might. There were no shadows to hide in, no defence from that which might swoop down from the wide, hungry sky. Even so, he forced himself to look. The sky above had grown dark with deep ochre storm clouds, and lightning flashed in their depths. He bared his teeth at the clouds and wondered if the man-thing god, Sigmar, was sending more warriors.

But no, this was different. He could feel it in the air. Not the storm, which was unpleasant enough, but something else. The sensation of something approaching, something vast and serpentine, slithering down the long trail of years on his tail. Daemons could not, as a rule, feel fear. Fear was for mortal beings, and Skuralanx had never been mortal. He was a facet of something greater, something mightier than any mortal being, and more cunning than any man-thing god. The Horned Rat contained squealing multitudes. And yet… and yet.

And yet, there it was. That clench of nonexistent muscles, that cold shiver racing from brain to tail, telling him to run, to flee back to the warm and the dark, away from whatever was coming. It was an ancient feeling, reverberating outward from a single moment of pain the origins of which were hidden even from Skuralanx. He thought it must be akin to what a louse might feel, when its host was struck. The part of him that was not just Skuralanx the Cunning, but was a sliver of that elemental malevolence known as the Horned Rat, squealed deep in its lair in the holes between moments. Squealing in fury and something that could only be… fear.

Fear of an old foe, come anew. Fear of a forgotten enemy, newly recalled.

The verminlord hunched forward, digging his claws into his perch, and gnashed his teeth. His tail lashed back and forth, causing his perch to sway slightly. In his mind’s eye, he saw the ragged tatters of broken days, and felt the weight of forgotten moments as scaled shapes glided through jungle shadows. He heard the hiss of a fiery rain striking the steps of squat pyramids. He felt the air grow hot, and saw the sky go dark as the moon came apart and was swallowed by a serpent made of stars and… and… and Skuralanx screeched as he tore his claws free and raised them to the sky. The sky, he thought. The sky!

Like arrows of light, they streaked down through the storm, and the curve of the worm’s back seemed to rise to meet them.

The stars were falling from the sky.

The worm-wind swept down through the setae, bringing with it the iron odour of distant lightning and the stink of open wounds. Shu’gohl shuddered, and stones cracked and shifted. A tiered building tore away from a jutting hair and smashed down across the wide street, filling the air with dust and splinters of stone. The great worm groaned in agony and the air rang with the sound of the beast’s distress.

‘Forget the skaven — this thrashing will be our death,’ Zephacleas growled, as he pressed forward through the roiling surge of dust, his bones reverberating with the echoes of Shu’gohl’s pain. He splashed through steaming rivulets of filthy water as he slashed out, killing a dust-blind skaven. There were hundreds of the creatures fleeing ahead of the advancing Astral Templars, though whether they were running from their foes, or simply trying to escape being crushed by the worm’s paroxysms Zephacleas couldn’t say. ‘This poor brute will crush us before we can save it from the vermin gnawing its innards.’

‘An ignoble death, I agree,’ Seker said. ‘Best we hurry then, eh?’ The Lord-Relictor crushed a stumbling rat-monk. The creature’s filthy hide was riddled with stone slivers and it was screeching in pain even before his hammer touched it.

‘Aye,’ Zephacleas grunted, as he stamped on a wounded skaven’s skull, killing the squalling creature instantly. ‘Care to lend a hand in that regard, Gravewalker — or would you rather watch me do it?’

‘At my Lord-Celestant’s command,’ Seker intoned. He stopped and reared back, arms spread. The air before him twisted and grew bright. Threads of lightning stretched from a central point before him, curling about the head of his hammer and swirling through the fire-wyrm skull set into his reliquary standard. The wind picked up, and the Gravewalker thrust his arms forward. Lightning snarled outward, searing the air free of dust and killing the closest skaven. But as the crackle of the celestial energies faded, the clangour of plague-bells rose to replace it.

‘I think they’re done running,’ Zephacleas growled. ‘Lord-Relictor, see to the battle-line.’

‘And you, Lord-Celestant?’

‘I go to do as I was forged to do, my friend,’ Zephacleas said, clashing runeblade against hammer. ‘I am impatient and have no wish to play the millstone. Thetaleas — to me! Duras, you as well,’ he added, gesturing to a nearby Liberator-Prime. ‘Time to hunt, Bearslayer.’

‘As you command,’ Duras said, striking his warblades together. The Liberator-Prime was almost as fierce as his Lord-Celestant, and had earned his war-name in the Borealis Mountains, after stalking a Chaos-touched crag-bear for seven days before tracking it to its lair and slaying it. Like Thetaleas, he too had been at the Gnarlwood, and learned its lessons well.

As we all did, Zephacleas thought, as he led his chosen warriors forward towards the approaching skaven. Four Warrior Chambers of Astral Templars had entered the Gnarlwood of Ghur and cleansed it, despite heavy losses. It was where the Beast-bane had earned their title, in blood and fire. There too they had learned that no shield wall, no matter how strong, could last indefinitely; that no defence was impregnable, and no foe unbreakable. And, perhaps most importantly of all, that the best defence was a good offence.

His warriors spread out around him as they ran. They would bloody the enemy before they reached the shield wall — that was the Beast-bane way. The skaven boiled into sight, flooding the street in a chittering horde, and the Stormcasts raced to meet them in a loose line. Zephacleas crushed the first with his hammer, and beheaded the second. To either side of him Thetaleas and Duras led their retinues into the thick of the foe. And as he fought, the world grew soft at the edges and one moment flowed seamlessly into the next.

Sometimes, when his choler was at its height, he thought he was elsewhere, fighting beneath amber skies against savage foes. He felt a drumbeat in his soul, and a deep and abiding sense of something lost. Those were good days, though I can but see them dimly, he thought, as his hammer smashed a leaping skaven from the air. He remembered the smell of cooking fires, and the weight of crude bronze armour. The warmth of his tents in winter, and the voices of his clan — of those closest to him.

His runeblade sung out, smashing through a fuming censer to pierce the brain of its wielder. His clan were dead now, though their descendants might yet survive somewhere on the great northern taigas of the Ghurlands. They are dead, and I am dead — but I fight on, he thought. And while I fight, they live. The thought lent him strength as he turned and drove his hammer down, crushing a frothing skaven. That was the burden of Sigmar’s chosen. Two lives, two souls, forged anew in cosmic flame and clad in star-metal.

The whistle-crack of arrows sounded, causing him to whirl. A rat-monk thudded into the dirt at his feet, three faintly glowing arrows rising from its crooked back. Zephacleas looked up and saw a winged shape swoop towards him, realmhunter’s bow raised in salute.

‘Well timed, Mantius,’ Zephacleas said, raising his hammer in a return salute. ‘Your arrows are as deadly as ever, Far-killer.’

‘As is my duty, Lord-Celestant. Besides, the Gravewalker would be annoyed if you fell so ignobly to such vermin,’ the Knight-Venator called down.

Clad in amethyst and gold, with a crest of purest white rising above his ornate war-helm, the Far-killer was amongst the most lethal of the Beast-bane’s warriors. His arrows had helped to fell the Black Bull of Nordrath and plucked out the single eye of the tyrannical Butcher-king. Where he flew, death followed.

‘As would I, sky-hunter,’ Zephacleas said. He gestured with his sword. ‘Take your retinues high, my friend — and rain death and ruin on our foes.’

‘As you command,’ Mantius said. His great, crackling wings snapped, and he banked left. He rose upwards a moment later, joined by several retinues of Prosecutors. The winged Stormcasts fell smoothly into position behind the Knight-Venator, flying with a precision that did them credit. It served them well a moment later, as the sky was suddenly filled with a barrage of rancid filth.

‘Take cover,’ Zephacleas bellowed. The Stormcast Eternals were in range of the deadly war engines now, if only just. And the skaven appeared to be wasting no time in taking advantage of that fact. A globule of the poisonous slop splashed down, spraying corrosive fluid over the Stormcasts. One of Duras’ Liberators stumbled, choking, and dropped his weapons to claw at his helm. The warrior fell to his knees and toppled forward, his body already vanishing in a slash of azure lightning. Another joined him, and another. ‘Back! All of you, get back!’ Zephacleas shouted.

Thetaleas and the others retreated, giving ground before the sickening impacts. Zephacleas looked up and signalled to the Prosecutors. The winged Stormcasts swept down and hurled their celestial hammers with pinpoint accuracy, creating a wall of explosions between their fellows and the tide of filth which spread towards them.

Zephacleas and the rest of the vanguard retreated. Skaven bearing whirling censers emerged from the smoke, chittering frenziedly as they pursued the Stormcasts. Glowing arrows knocked several of them sprawling and celestial hammers crushed the rest as Mantius and his Prosecutors sped low over the enemy ranks.

‘Far-killer — take out those catapults if you can,’ Zephacleas shouted, as the Stormcast shield wall split to allow the vanguard to retreat. The sigmarite shields slammed back together with a ringing crash as the first of the skaven reached them. High above, Mantius saluted and swooped upwards.

Zephacleas turned his attentions back to the battle at hand, confident that the Knight-Venator would accomplish his task. Skaven were spilling out of the setae towers, scrambling down the swaying structures towards the battle unfolding below. ‘Thetaleas, bolster the left flank,’ he commanded. ‘Duras, take the right — we must do this the slow way.’

As his warriors hastened to obey, Zephacleas scanned the area — crude barricades and filth-pits covered the street, signs of skaven habitation. The mortal inhabitants of the city had long since abandoned these ways to the invaders, leaving behind only mouldering corpses dangling in curse-gibbets or heaped in the filth-pits to rot and become the fertile soil for new plagues and poxes.

The streets of the Crawling City changed shape constantly as the worm moved, making the towers and walls on its back shift position, forcing the Stormcast Eternals to rely on their winged brethren to guide them. The only unchanging routes were those which stretched between the uppermost tiers of the tallest setae. Woven from worm-hairs and sealed with ichor, they bent and swayed with the movements of the worm.

Unfortunately, the setae were also full of skaven. They had turned most of the natural structures into stinking warrens, burrowing down deep through them into the worm’s body. Shu’gohl would be dead and the city in ruins by the time the Astral Templars cleared them. But if they could silence the catapults and take the Dorsal Barbicans, they might be able to prevent one of those eventualities at least.

Then we’ll burn their stinking warrens clean, as we did in the Ghurdish Heights, he thought, with savage satisfaction.

The worm heaved, and skaven rained down, tumbling from the swaying towers. Those on the ground didn’t seem unduly bothered, and they pressed on, squealing blasphemous chants. Besides the sheer number of their foe, the Stormcast shield wall was hemmed in by the plague-clouds launched from the verminous catapults. Trying to cut off possible avenues of retreat, Zephacleas thought, watching as the right flank of the shield wall shifted slightly to avoid the breeze-borne clouds of contagion which spread slowly across the battlefield.

Even worse was the creaking war engine which loomed over the centre of the skaven horde, expelling a foetid murk from the massive censer swinging from its arch. He’d seen similar war-machines during the battle for the Gates of Dawn, and in the plague-burrows of the Ghurdish Heights. The smoke from its censer drove skaven into a frenzy, but could melt the flesh from a warrior’s bones. A skaven rat-priest stood atop the pulpit mounted on the front, shrieking in what might have been fury.

Swirling clouds of flies filled the air, flowing towards the Stormcasts as the rat-priest gestured. As the solid wave of insects swept over the shield wall, they clustered at the eye and mouth slits of the Liberators’ helms, smothering their heads and blinding them. Warriors staggered and the line began to come apart. They recovered almost instantly, but the skaven took full advantage of the momentary lapse. Skaven censer bearers lurched forward, shoving aside the other rat-monks in their haste to reach the shield wall.

A smoking censer crashed down, knocking a Liberator from his feet. It was a massive sphere of black iron, almost as large as the skaven which wielded it. The creature, clad in rotting robes, slammed a taloned paw down on the shield of the fallen Stormcast, pinning the warrior in place as it swung its weapon up for a second blow.

Zephacleas charged towards it, bulling aside several smaller vermin. He slammed into the skaven and sent it sprawling. More of its censer-wielding brethren swung at him, and the fuming spheres struck his armour with hollow clangs. The air became thick and foul, and he coughed, trying to clear his lungs even as he whirled his sigmarite war-cloak out. The runic enchantment woven into the cloak activated, and dozens of small hammers hurtled into the packed ranks of the enemy, killing many of the ratkin and driving the rest back.

‘On your feet, Arcos,’ Zephacleas said, as he parried the smoking censer with a blow from his hammer. As the Liberator clambered upright, Zephacleas defended him from the skaven. With hammer and blade he drove them back again, and again they hurled themselves forward, yellow froth dripping from their scabrous muzzles. ‘Get in line — force them back, brothers, force them back,’ he said.

Zephacleas glanced around, ‘Gravewalker! We are on the verge of being overwhelmed. We need to drive these beasts back,’ he called, as the shield wall began to reform itself with a crash of metal.

‘Aye, my Lord-Celestant,’ the Lord-Relictor said, bringing the sigmarite ferrule of his staff down on a skaven’s skull. He set his staff and began to chant, his sonorous voice echoing out above the clamour of battle. The air began to smell of hot iron, and the fire-wyrm skull on Seker’s staff glowed with a sapphire light.

Before his prayer could reach its crescendo, the sky flared a deep cobalt.

‘I didn’t know you could do that,’ Zephacleas said, as the light grew more intense. It was not painful to look upon, though the skaven didn’t seem to agree. They edged back, screeching and chittering in a growing frenzy. Even the clangour of their bells had fallen silent.

‘It is not me,’ Seker said, in a hushed voice. ‘It is the light of Azyr. The breath of the very stars themselves. But it does not burn here by Sigmar’s will — something else invokes it.’ The Lord-Relictor sounded… shaken, as if he found it hard to comprehend what was happening.

‘Whatever it is, I’m not letting this opportunity pass us by. Beast-bane, forward—’ Zephacleas began, but Seker stopped him.

‘No, look,’ the Lord-Relictor said, extending his staff towards the light.

It swelled, growing brighter by the moment. Scores of skaven were incinerated by the celestial radiance, and the rest crowded back from it. Their flesh steamed and burned as they fought with one another to escape the light. It was as if some force had plucked a star from the firmament and dropped it onto the Crawling City. Shu’gohl roared, and the ground shook as the worm reared, casting the shadow of its head across the lower sections of the city. The light filled the streets, rising above the tallest tower before fading to reveal something that was neither Stormcast nor skaven.

‘Sigmar’s light — it is one of the Starmasters,’ Seker said, as the blue haze faded and the thing was revealed fully. ‘The seraphon have come.’

‘That’s a seraphon?’ Zephacleas said, staring at the new arrival. Its massive frame was squat and vaguely batrachian in appearance. It sat hunched atop a graven throne which was clustered with thick vines and brightly hued blossoms unlike any he’d ever seen before. The throne hovered above the street, surrounded by the same flickering azure radiance which illuminated its occupant. Heavy-lidded, half-shut eyes flickered, and a wide mouth opened in what might have been a sigh. A long arm rose and gestured. The air reverberated with a forceful silence. The dust stirred, and in the skies above, heretofore unseen stars flickered strangely.

Something crawled up the back of the throne and perched at its summit. It wore thin, pale robes and a cloak of feathers over its scaly shape, and its narrow skull was topped by a vibrant crest. It clutched a golden staff in its claws, and as Zephacleas watched, it extended the staff towards the skaven. The occupant of the throne gestured lazily, and the air before it was suddenly suffused with radiance. A spiralling nimbus of light grew and spread, and the air trembled with the sound of bestial roars and hisses.

A moment later, rank upon rank of reptilian warriors emerged from the glowing nimbus and moved towards the skaven. They advanced shoulder to shoulder, bearing exotic weapons and armour which gleamed with a fiery radiance. Even as they tore into the skaven, their ranks split to disgorge a pack of monstrous reptiles ridden by saurian warriors. At the head of these scaly riders was an even larger monstrosity, such as Zephacleas had never seen save in half-formed memories of deep jungle crevasses and bellowing shapes which hunted for man and beast alike. The great beast bore another of the scaled seraphon on its back and both rider and mount roared in fury as they tore through the skaven like a sword through flesh.

Taken aback by the sudden appearance of this new threat, the skaven could muster no defence. Their horde crumbled in on itself, as the more fanatical fought and the more prudent attempted to flee. From atop the war engine, the skaven priest chittered imprecations at its followers, but to no avail.

Zephacleas clashed his weapons together. ‘They’re distracted. Gravewalker, keep herding them towards the newcomers — if the seraphon want to slaughter vermin, let’s oblige them. Beast-bane, forward!’ he said, raising his sword and signalling the shield wall to advance. The Lord-Relictor shouted something, but Zephacleas was already moving.

The Astral Templars forced the confused skaven back, herding them towards the advancing seraphon. ‘Thetaleas, with me,’ Zephacleas said, calling out to the Decimator-Prime. ‘I intend to turn that war engine of theirs into kindling.’

Alongside the Decimators, Zephacleas began to carve himself a path towards the skaven catapult. But as they drew near, it seemed as if others had the same idea. At the urging of its scaly rider, the monstrous reptile broke into a ground-shaking run, followed by the rest of the mounted seraphon. The great beast rammed the war engine, knocking it over. The machine crashed down on its side, crushing any skaven too slow to get out of the way and spilling the priest and its bodyguards to the ground.

The rat-priest was on its feet in a moment, whirling to face the first of the smaller saurian knights as its mount scrambled over the fallen war engine. A crackling burst of sickly green energy erupted from the rat-priest’s claw. Great sores opened all over the scaly forms of both rider and mount. Jaws gaped in a silent shriek and a shimmering light burst from yawning wounds, as both vanished in a flare of starlight.

The rat-priest chittered and swung its claw towards another of the seraphon. Zephacleas charged forward, knocking the creature’s guards sprawling. As it turned towards him, its single eye widening, his runeblade swept down, removing its glowing claw. It screeched in agony and staggered back amongst its fellows, where the Lord-Celestant lost sight of it. The other rat-monks surged backwards in a wave of foulness, carrying their leader with them.

The saurian riders moved to pursue them, their scales glittering like starlight. Zephacleas and the others held their ground as the seraphon swept past them in silence. He killed a foam-jawed skaven and then was left with nothing to do but watch as the reptilian beings drove the skaven back or butchered them where they stood. The ratkin retreated, scurrying down side-streets and up the sides of the towering setae, vanishing almost as quickly as they’d arrived. The great reptile crouched over the remains of the war engine, roaring in triumph.

‘Zephacleas—’ Seker began, as he joined Zephacleas. Steam rose from the Lord-Relictor’s armour, and Zephacleas could smell the iron tang of celestial lightning.

The Lord-Celestant shook his head, still watching the carnosaur and its rider. The saurian warrior was a battle-scarred creature clad in golden armour. It clutched a spear in one talon and bore a golden gauntlet on the other.

‘We need to reform the lines, before they finish with the vermin. I don’t want to be caught out in the open, if they decide to turn on us after.’

‘They won’t,’ the Lord-Relictor said, softly.

‘How do you know?’

‘The Moon Monks of Hysh say that they are the children of Dracothion, spawned by his breath in the Age of Myth. They say that the Great Drake’s hatred of Chaos burns like a star in the heart of each seraphon,’ Seker said.

‘They say — don’t they also say that they usually vanish, when the battle’s been won?’ Zephacleas asked, watching the ranks of scaled warriors move with enviable meticulousness. Stormcast Eternals were drilled past the point of perfection, but the seraphon arrayed themselves with inhuman precision, as if they were not individual creatures at all, but rather the components of some greater pattern that was beyond human comprehension.

‘Indeed. Which implies that the battle has not yet been won,’ Seker said, in reply.

The ranks of the seraphon stood inhumanly still, facing the Stormcast line. Silence fell, broken only by the cry of distant birds and the dull grinding pulse of Shu’gohl’s progress across the steppes. Zephacleas shook his head. ‘What are they waiting for?’

‘Us,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘I believe — I feel — that they wish to speak.’

‘Have they ever done that before?’ he asked.

‘Not to my knowledge.’

‘Oh,’ Zephacleas said. ‘I’m not exactly one for diplomacy, Gravewalker.’

‘Speak to them as you spoke to the sylvaneth, in the Jade Kingdoms,’ the Lord-Relictor murmured. ‘Someone must, and you are here. We are here. We are Sigmar’s voice, raised in greeting, and his hand, extended in friendship.’

‘Yes,’ Zephacleas said, doubtfully. ‘Let us hope they don’t bite it off.’ He stepped forward, weapons held low and away from his body. He left the shield wall behind and moved to meet the seraphon as they approached. The Lord-Relictor was right. This was as much their duty as the breaking of chains and the felling of tyrants. Besides, the creatures were between the Stormcasts and the Dorsal Barbicans; best to find out now whether they were allies or obstacles. As he drew close, he could sense the celestial energies radiating from the creatures. It unsettled him in a way he couldn’t explain.

Zephacleas stopped and raised his hammer. ‘In the name of Sigmar, and the Realm Celestial, I bid thee greetings…’

CHAPTER THREE

The Dreaming Constellation

The air of the Setaen Palisades smelled of the sweetest rot and rising infection to Vretch as he strode across them, warpstone-tipped staff in one claw and the Mappo Vurmio clutched in the other. The hard flesh under his foot-claws was growing soft with inflammation, and small geysers of seepage erupted here and there, pooling about the raised platforms which held the slave-cages. The cages had once held the many-legged parasites that nestled in the furrows and folds of the worm’s flesh, which the folk of Shu’gohl raised for meat. Now they held man-things, and stank of fear and pain, as well as the various illnesses which ran rampant through the imprisoned population.

The man-things were veritable gardens of delight, in that regard. Every little pox found its place, and they rotted so swiftly that his plague monks were hard-pressed to keep up. When one of the man-things succumbed, a pox-bell rang and his followers scurried to see which plague was responsible. Only those which brought about swift rot and ruin were extracted and fostered — the swifter the better. The Horned Rat cared nothing for fecundity or the propagation of his poxes — only the end result.

All in all, the palisades were a thing of beauty, Vretch thought. It was almost a shame to leave. But the Gut-shafts waited, and he was impatient. The sooner he found the missing Liber, the sooner he could sweep his enemies — Kruk included — before him. It was also far too open out here, away from the cramped safety of the towers. He glanced at the swirling clouds above, before hastily looking away. He seized his few remaining whiskers and began to groom them to calm himself.

He occasionally heard the sounds of battle carried on the wind. He wondered whether Squeelch still lived, and whether he’d made his assassination attempt on Kruk yet. If not, he might have to punish his not-quite underling. He sighed. Squeelch had showed such promise, but even if the other plague priest had failed, Vretch would not. Yes, the sooner he was safely below, the sooner victory could be achieved.

Each of the Gut-shafts was topped by a rickety frame of mouldy setaen timbers. Platforms of worm-meat and cauldrons of ichor were drawn up by gangs of chained slaves, under the watchful gazes of his most trustworthy plague monks. As new loads were drawn up, bells rang out, summoning more slaves to unload the platforms.

Not all of the shafts were being emptied — some were being filled with the bodies of dead and dying man-things. As they decomposed, the stuff of their rot would seep into the raw, wounded flesh of Shu’gohl, further weakening the great worm. It would die, as all things must die, for the greater glory of the Horned Rat.

And for the greater glory of Vretch, he thought, sniggering. The Crawling City would become a great warren of rot, a sacred temple of putrescence. All of skavenkind would flock to it, in time, as the word of its dreadful miasma spread from it. And Vretch would be its master. Vretch, master of one of the Great Plagues. Vretch, best-beloved of the Great Corruptor. Vretch, Grand Squealer of the Basilica of Red Buboes.

First, however, he must find that which he sought.

A noise caught his attention. He glanced behind him at his procession. A great mass of plague monks shuffled in his wake, their robes and weapons dripping with filth. They twitched and coughed, like true members of the Clans Pestilens — their bodies were temples to the many and multifarious blessings of the Horned Rat. They felt no pain, no weakness. The skaven of less faithful clans did not understand them or the purity of their purpose. They were the most worthy of all the Great Corruptor’s children, and Vretch was the worthiest of the worthy.

Doom gongs rang out in gloomy fashion, and bale-chimes clanged as his chosen servants followed him, murmuring the praises of the Great Witherer. Those closest to the front of the procession carried those tomes and scrolls he’d chosen to bring with him, often staggering slightly beneath their weight. At the centre of the procession was the Conglomeration, squatting on its palanquin of bone.

He had considered leaving the thing behind, but it was his conduit to Skuralanx and the will of the Great Horned Rat. That wasn’t the only reason he would need it where he was going, however — the thing was the only creature he’d discovered so far to be immune to the strange plague which had brought the skaven to Shu’gohl in the first place. He patted his robes, where a jar of the pox-froth which had spilled earlier rested. When the time came, the Conglomeration would ingest it and sniff out the source of the Great Plague. As if reading his thoughts, the mass of scab-melded skaven shook, its many tails lashing with surprising vigour.

Vretch watched the Conglomeration twitch and shriek with some concern. While the accumulation of diseased flesh was prone to paroxysms, this was something different. A number of its larger abscesses burst, expelling steam and superheated pus. They sprayed across the plague monks who bore its palanquin on their shoulders. One of the bearers screamed as boiling pus spattered across his muzzle, burning his flesh to the bone. The monk staggered away, clutching at his snout, squealing in agony. The stink of fear-musk filled the air as the palanquin dipped and shifted. His congregation scattered, abandoning their fellows with commendable speed.

Vretch backed away as the Conglomeration heaved itself to the side and bit off the head of another bearer. The other two couldn’t hold up the palanquin by themselves, and it crashed to the ground, spilling the monstrosity off. It shrilled out in what might have been pain, or perhaps hunger. Its heads jerked and bit at the dying bearer. All save one.

That one turned towards him, malformed features contorted in a snarl. ‘Vvvvretch,’ it groaned in the unmistakable tones of the verminlord. ‘Heed me, most subservient one…’ Flailing limbs caught handfuls of the ground and it began to drag itself towards him. Vretch backed away.

‘I hear and heed, O most puissant and shadowed one,’ he chittered, jabbing at the roiling mass of infected flesh with his staff. ‘You don’t have to come any closer, no-no.’

‘Vretch, an old-new enemy comes slithering down out of the stars,’ Skuralanx hissed. The Conglomeration’s other heads turned, jaws still mindlessly chewing bits of bearer. They fixed Vretch with the daemon’s gaze and he froze in place, staff hanging forgotten in his hands. ‘They come for Kruk first, but they will come for you as well…’

Images flashed through the plague priest’s head — vague, ghostly moments, stolen from the world-that-was, the world the Horned Rat had led his children from at the tolling of the great plague-bell. The beginnings of the Virulent Exodus, when the Horned Rat carried the forefathers of all skaven through the tunnel of stars.

Vretch’s body spasmed as he felt the stinging rain of fire that had consumed that despoiled world, and the fear of those who’d fled. More, he heard the thump of monstrous drums, rising out of the deep jungles to reverberate through his wormy bones. He heard the earth-shaking tread of great beasts as they pursued him, and the ever-hungry roars of titanic predators, hungry for the flesh of cringing skaven. He felt the Fear — the old fear, the first fear — flood him, and he squealed in panic.

The sky yawned wide above him, like the jaws of something infinite and terrible. A serpent of clouds and stars, its eyes swirling vortices, its scales the light of flaring suns. Vretch fell to all fours, clawing at the ground, trying to dig a hole, to escape the eyes of the Fear. His only thought — escape, escape, escape!

‘There is no escape, Vretch. You are cornered. Your burrow is aflame, your warrens invaded. The old enemy comes, and no shadow can save you. Only victory — victory, Vretch! Only that can save you from the jaws of the serpent.’ The hands of the Conglomeration clutched at him, tearing at his robes. Vretch shook himself and skittered back, trying not to thrust at the thing with his staff.

‘I am near-close, yes-yes, Mightiest of Mightiness,’ he chittered. His heart thudded in his chest, and his ears echoed with the dull scrape of scales over stone. He fought against the urge to squirt the musk of fear. From the smell, his followers had not been victorious in that regard. A number of plague monks had sought safety on the struts and framework of the shafts, while others stared at the Conglomeration, frozen in huddled masses.

‘Near? Then where is my pox, Vretch?’ Skuralanx growled. ‘Do you hear the thunder? Do you hear the serpent’s hiss? They are coming, Vretch — only the pox can stop them. Where is it? Where?’

‘O— Olgu’gohl, the Squirming Sea, O savage scurrying one,’ Vretch squealed. He sank to his haunches and lifted his head, instinctively baring his throat to his master. ‘It is below — far below! Through the Gut-shafts, most insidious one,’ Vretch chittered in what he hoped was a placatory fashion. ‘They will take me — take us! Us! — to that which we seek. I go now, below.’

‘Hrrryes, below,’ Skuralanx grunted. The quivering bulk grew still, but the hell-spark eyes remained fixed. ‘Run, Vretch. Scurry-fast, quick-quick… the old serpent is on your trail, looking to snap you up. Only once all of the Great Plagues are gathered can the Horned Rat hurl his other aspects aside and become the Great Witherer Ascendant. Only then can he bite through the throat of the old serpent, and silence its hisses for good. And Skuralanx shall be the one who brings that final victory about,’ Skuralanx hissed. ‘Find me that Liber, Vretch.’

The Conglomeration fell silent, and its gazes again became dull. It squirmed and gibbered as Vretch gestured for his assistants to roll it back onto its palanquin.

‘Yes,’ Vretch muttered. ‘But not Skuralanx, no-no. Only Vretch.’ He warily jabbed the insensate bulk and then looked around at the hunched and cowering shapes of his followers. ‘Well? Pick it up, you fools. We have wasted enough time! The Squirming Sea awaits!’

The Dorsal Barbicans were a hive of activity. Skaven ran to and fro, congregations jostling for space behind the stone ramparts or within the towers. At the highest point of the worm-spanning fortress, the Archfumigant of the Congregation of Fumes was being treated for his sadly non-fatal injuries. Squeelch watched as Kruk stripped the filthy bandage from his maimed limb. A pale steam rose from the wound — the mark of the enemy’s magic. It burned the flesh free of blessed diseases. Squeelch’s lice-ridden flesh crawled at the thought. He had worked very hard on his collection of skin diseases. He stepped back, putting another claw’s length between himself and Kruk.

‘Star-devils,’ Kruk snapped, his good eye wide with fury. ‘We were betrayed! Betrayed!’

Squeelch refrained from asking the obvious question. Instead, he nodded jerkily. ‘Yes-yes. But what now, O Hardy Scion of the Horned Rat?’

‘Nowww?’ Kruk growled. ‘Now, you summon a warpflame, fool-fool!’ The plague priest reached out with his good claw and caught a handful of Squeelch’s robes. ‘Quick-quick, or I will eat your heart.’

He extended his bloody stump. Squeelch pulled himself free and gestured over the chunk of warpstone lashed to the top of his staff. The green stone began to glow with a sickly light, and he felt the ticks in his ears grow agitated in response. An oily flame blossomed from the facets of the warpstone and he held it out.

Kruk thrust his ruined claw into the flames and hissed in mingled pain and fury. ‘Get me the censer, quick-fast,’ he snarled, as he withdrew the smouldering stump. Skug lurched forward, holding a makeshift gauntlet. It slid over Kruk’s stump with a click, as the warpstone-infused nails within immediately pierced the charred flesh and spread like cancerous roots. Kruk shrieked in pain and bashed a nearby censer bearer on the skull with his new limb, killing the unlucky skaven instantly. Squeelch flinched, glad that it wasn’t him. Skug tittered phlegmatically and shook his chains.

Squeelch hated the censer bearer with a passion. The leader of the Reeking Choir was as foul a watch-dog as Kruk could hope for. He was certain Skug harboured his own schemes and desires, but for now, the boil-encrusted brute seemed content to ward Kruk against any harm that might befall him, whether from without or within. Squeelch looked away from the operation, and studied the defences he’d laboured so long over.

The Dorsal Barbicans were heavily manned. The bulk of the congregation’s laity now guarded the walls, clutching their weapons in anticipation of the confrontation to come. Censer bearers from the Reeking Choir moved among them, filling the air with pungent smoke and wailing out the thirty-nine Bubonic Hymns. Some few stragglers scurried across the setae bridges from the outer towers, seeking shelter within the barbicans.

The sound of thunder echoed up from the streets below, signalling the approaching enemy. There was a strange musk on the air — dry and harsh. Squeelch felt his insides twist in knots at the merest whiff, and knew he was not alone. All across the barbicans, skaven muttered to one another in growing fear. They could all feel it — all save Kruk and his Reeking Choir, whose noses were dead to anything save the scent of decay.

It came with the star-devils, swooping down on searing celestial winds to burn away all save the urge to run, to flee. Only their numbers and the bilious fumes spewing from the censers of the Reeking Choir kept those crouched atop the barbicans from scattering and fleeing.

Squeelch found comfort in his plague-engines. The plagueclaws were the holiest of the holy, and Squeelch felt his sores pucker in pride as he gazed at the rancid contraptions of rusty metal and festering wood. They were as the filth-encrusted talons of the Horned Rat himself, gouging at the enemy. Plagues brewed by his own claws were ladled into the catapults to be hurled into the enemy’s midst. With his plagueclaws, Squeelch had spread many a blessed sickness through strongholds and citadels, through streets and caverns. He had rewarded many of his most fervent followers with the honour of crewing one of the machines.

Those who now crewed the plagueclaws had shed their robes, so as to better saturate themselves in the hissing virulence of the ammunition. Their mangy hides were covered in abscesses and weeping tumours, and many had lost most, if not all of their hair. Soon, they would rot away entirely, their shrieking essences becoming one with the Great Witherer. He would have to remember to choose their replacements.

To Squeelch, that was the truest way of war — to share the blessings of the Horned Rat with the foe, but from afar. Very, very far. A rain of death, rather than a poke with an infected stick. That was the best way.

Kruk held up his gauntlet and examined it with his good eye. It was a smaller, fist-sized censer, taken from Skug’s plethora and mounted on a heavy iron bracer. Greenish fumes rose from it, flowing up Kruk’s arm and around his bandaged head. ‘It’ll do,’ he grunted, inhaling the smoke with a sigh. He looked at Squeelch. ‘Destroy it.’

‘Destroy what, holiest of holies?’

‘The city. All of it. Turn it to sludge, now-now!’ Kruk snarled, thrusting his censer beneath Squeelch’s nose. ‘Fire the plagueclaws — destroy everything. Let the star-devils wade through oceans of filth, if they would.’

‘But— but our warriors, most powerful of plague-winds,’ Squeelch began, flinching at the mention of the scaly creatures. He had never seen them before, but something in him recognised them regardless. Rising up in him, he felt the instinctive urge to find a hole and hide away from them, to burrow deeper than they could follow. For a moment, he was lost, and he knew the full terror of being prey.

‘They die for the glory of the Corruptor. If you would not join them, you will do as I command,’ Kruk growled, his eye glittering with malice. He did not seem afraid. Then, Squeelch would have been astounded to learn that Kruk even knew what the word meant. ‘Destroy everything — the city, the lightning-riders, the star-devils, all of it.’

‘A— as you command, O mighty Summoner of a Thousand Pestilences.’ Squeelch turned, ready to screech orders at the plagueclaw crews to begin loading his deadliest poxes. If the foe wanted to take the Dorsal Barbicans, they would have to do so through a rain of plagues. But before he could give the order, something caught his eye.

He turned, gazing up into the storm-tossed sky. Gleaming shapes glided out of the clouds on crackling wings and dove towards the barbicans. He peered up at them, trying to understand what he was seeing. His eyes widened. ‘Fire-fire! Hurry! Quick-quick,’ he shrilled, flinging out his claws in panic.

Kruk whirled, glaring up at the descending shapes as the plagueclaw crew hurried to ready the war engines to fire. ‘What—?’ he growled. ‘Treachery!’

The first plagueclaw fired, hurling a steaming mass of putrescence into the air. The diving storm-things rolled through the sky, nimbly dodging the missile. There were twelve of them, and their wings gleamed like fire. Storm-swift, they swooped. Heavy hammers appeared in their waiting hands, manifesting in a blaze of light. A moment later, those hammers were spinning through the air towards the barbicans.

They struck like comets, shaking the great walls down to their foundations. Squeelch was knocked from his claws. He cowered for a moment, expecting the nearest plagueclaw to topple over on him, but it merely swayed in place. The crews scrambled across it, readying it to fire.

Skug jerked him to his feet. ‘Up-up, squealer,’ the skull-faced skaven gurgled. Squeelch slapped his claws aside.

‘Do not be touching me, fool-fool,’ Squeelch hissed, exposing his teeth. Skug snarled at him, and Squeelch prodded him in the chest with his staff. The chunk of warpstone lashed to the end lit up and Skug cowered back, raising his claws in surrender. Before Squeelch could poke him again, Kruk caught hold of the staff with his good claw.

‘Cease-stop, fool. Enemies aplenty before us,’ the scarred plague priest roared, shoving Squeelch back against the plagueclaw’s frame. More of the glowing hammers struck the barbican wall as the winged Stormcasts swooped overhead. Panicked skaven ran in every direction, trying to avoid the storm of debris that arose from the impacts.

The plagueclaws continued to fire, their crews driven beyond fear, beyond sense, by their proximity to the foul ammunition of their war engines. The boil-encrusted crew-skaven fought to swing the catapults about, trying vainly to track their foes. Squeelch hissed in consternation as a glowing hammer tore apart the frame of one of his charges, nearly destroying it.

Incensed, the plague priest thumped the barbican with his staff, and unleashed a putrescent light from the warpstone crystal mounted atop it. One of the winged Stormcasts was caught full-on by the blast. Amethyst armour corroded as the flesh within turned black and gangrenous. What was left of the warrior tumbled from the air to land with an undignified splat. Azure lightning roared upwards from bubbling remains, and Squeelch flinched back.

‘Haaaa, yes-yes, that’s the way, Squeelch,’ Kruk screeched. ‘Kill-kill, rapid-quick!’ He thrust out his censer. The smoke spewing from it billowed abruptly, shredding and reforming to become a massive claw. Kruk swung his arm, and caught one of the storm-things in the smoky talon. The warrior struggled, trying to smash his way free. Kruk rotated his wrist, and the claw tightened, enveloping the warrior in its noxious grip. The storm-thing’s struggles became more frantic as the poisonous vapour filled his lungs. Then, abruptly, he went limp.

Kruk chortled and let his victim fall. ‘They die easy,’ he grunted, looking for more prey as lightning crackled upwards from the dissolving body. Skug knocked him aside as a glowing arrow thudded into the barbican where he’d been standing. Kruk smacked Skug away with a curse and clambered to his claws. More arrows rained down, impaling skaven where they stood. Death fell across the barbican, marked by glowing contrails.

As Squeelch ran back and forth, trying to avoid the shimmering arrows, he caught sight of the sky-archer hovering over the barbican, his crackling wings holding him aloft. The warrior’s armour was more ornate than that of his hammer-wielding followers, and his arm was a blur as he loosed arrow after arrow in rapid succession.

Squeelch flung himself beneath the frame of a plagueclaw, narrowly avoiding losing the tip of his tail. Kruk was not so lucky. The plague priest screeched as an arrow pinned his tail to the rampart. He staggered as the second tore through his robe, somehow missing anything vital. One of the winged Stormcasts swooped low, hammer raised as if to remove Kruk’s head. Despite being pinned, the plague priest was in no mood to surrender to fate. The smoking censer that had replaced his claw lashed out and caught the winged warrior in the head, dropping him twitching to the parapet.

At Kruk’s shriek of command, Skug and the rest of the Reeking Choir swarmed over the downed warrior. A moment later, the censer bearers were thrown back by a crackling bolt of lightning, which speared upwards to streak towards the heavens.

By now, the miasma of the whirling censers was rising into the air, and skaven swarmed across the barbican. Fanatical plague monks clambered up the plagueclaws, slashing wildly at the winged Stormcasts if they drew too close.

Kruk tore himself free of the arrow that pinned his tail, even as it dissolved into motes of light. He shook his censer-claw at the winged shapes in a show of defiance, as the plagueclaws continued to fire, filling the air with boiling clouds of sickness. Squeelch stuck his snout out from under the plagueclaw and gave the ground a thump with his staff.

The bodies of the fallen skaven began to twitch as the lice and maggots that occupied their robes were wracked by the transformative energies of his spell. The insects became humming flies. At Squeelch’s gesture, the flies rose up in a massive, buzzing cloud and roiled towards the Stormcast Eternals, shrouding them in biting, stinging swarms. The winged warriors darted skywards a moment later, leaving both the flies and the barbicans behind.

Squeelch’s triumphal chitter was cut short as Kruk hauled him out from under the catapult and held him aloft with his muscular claw. ‘Stop wasting time, fool-squealer,’ he snarled. ‘Destroy this city — destroy everything! For the glory of the Horned Rat!

The seraphon did not immediately react to Zephacleas’ greeting. As he stood waiting, he studied them. While he had never encountered them before, others had, if only briefly, most notably in the Gorevale, as well as the Fortress of Embers on Obsidia Isle. Never before had the seraphon remained after the battle was done. Always, in his admittedly limited experience, they vanished in beams of starlight, returning to wherever it was that they came from.

But not this time. This time they waited, though Sigmar alone knew for what.

Zephacleas saw a plume of fire rise up over the Dorsal Barbicans, and knew that the Far-killer had begun his attack. Impatience won out over discipline, and he took a step towards the seraphon. The saurian warriors raised their glittering spears with a thunderous rattle. He stopped, gripping his weapons more tightly, ready for whatever might come next. The little saurian in its feathered cloak met his gaze. He felt a chill, and tensed as it raised its staff.

The ranks of the seraphon split, allowing a large shape to amble through. It was massive, far bigger and bulkier than the saurus warriors around it. The creature stalked forward, slamming its war-mace against its curved shield. It bellowed in challenge. Zephacleas instinctively bellowed back. The creature glared at him, its nostrils flaring. It was larger than any Stormcast Eternal, and twice as broad. Its turquoise scales were interrupted by weals of pale scar tissue, criss-crossing its wide torso and marring its face. It slammed its star-metal war-mace against its shield again and lurched forward.

Instinctively, Zephacleas caught its blow on his sword and struck its shield with his hammer. It gave a chortling grunt and came at him again, more swiftly this time. They traded blows, moving back and forth between the two forces. Within moments, however, Zephacleas realised that the creature was only playing with him. Anger surged through him, and he pressed the attack, trying to bring it to its knees — whatever game it was playing, he was in no mood for it. But the seraphon caught his fiercest strikes on its shield or turned them aside with its war-mace, matching him blow for blow.

Abruptly, it stepped back. Arms spread, it turned its back on him and roared. Zephacleas lowered his weapons, sensing that the game, or perhaps test, was over. The little skink advanced to meet its champion, then stepped past to where Zephacleas stood. It cocked its head.

‘Sutok has tested you,’ it chirped. ‘You glow with the light of Azyr. You shine like the stars in the dark between realms. Great Kurkori has thus decreed that we will speak.’ It swung its staff back, indicating the seemingly slumbering slann on its floating throne.

Zephacleas waited. The skink eyed him. ‘The stars change. The skies burn. The war remains the same,’ it chirruped. It raised its claw in a complex gesture. ‘Always the war. Great Kurkori dreams always of war. The last war and the first.’ The skink straightened abruptly. Its head swivelled, gazing at its seemingly insensate master. ‘Never to wake, only to dream, until dream’s end.’ It turned back, fixing Zephacleas with a beady eye. ‘You are part of it?’

‘I…’ Zephacleas began, wondering how to answer. Then he nodded. ‘Yes.’

The skink’s crested skull twitched and dipped, reminding Zephacleas of one of the flightless predatory birds of the Savannah Kingdoms. He smiled at the thought, but only briefly. Those birds were larger than a man, and deadly. In his mortal days, the armoured knights of the kingdoms had tamed them to ride in battle. The skink chirped wordlessly, and he wondered whether it knew what he was thinking.

‘Will we dream together?’ it said, after a moment. ‘Will we dream of war? Of death, to the scurrying vermin?’

Zephacleas nodded in understanding. ‘Aye, and gladly.’ He extended his hammer. ‘We fight to free this city from the vermin which infest it, to free its people and the great beast upon whose back they ride.’

‘You march to the great fortress which spans the worm,’ the skink said. ‘Great Kurkori has seen it.’ Before he could reply, it clicked its jaws and added, ‘You must march further and farther. You must go into its belly and to the worm’s head. This, Most Ancient Lord Kurkori has seen in his visions,’ the skink said. ‘The future and the past are all one for him. He has seen what will be, what is and what must be for the dream to be good.’

‘And you will march with us,’ Zephacleas said, somewhat shaken. The seraphon knew of their mission.

‘The Most Ancient and Somnolent Lord Kurkori has seen it,’ the skink said. Zephacleas peered at the slumbering shape of the slann. He wondered if the creature was even aware of what was going on. Then, perhaps it didn’t matter for such a being. An ally was an ally, and he was not one to turn away the offer of friendship. Especially if it meant the difference between success and failure.

He looked down at the skink. ‘Then let us ensure that it is indeed a good dream, my friend. I am Zephacleas, Lord-Celestant of the Beast-bane, servant of Sigmar,’ he said.

The skink stared up at him. It blinked, and said nothing. Then, ‘Takatakk. I am Takatakk. Starpriest to the Dreaming Constellation, servant of Kurkori.’ It looked up at him, expression inhuman and unreadable. ‘We have come to fight beside you, dream-of-Sigmar.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Into the Depths

Vretch strode down through the pleasingly noxious murk of the Gut-shaft. The incline was raw and infected. It sloshed pleasantly beneath his claws as he used his staff to test the route ahead. The shaft was a steep slope of shuddering meat, shot through with webs of veins and throbbing runnels full of what passed for the worm’s blood. Ichor dripped from the walls and ceiling of the shaft, and curtains of torn fat and muscle flapped wetly in the breeze which had followed the skaven down.

It was the most comfortable he’d felt since he’d first led his procession up through the gnawholes and onto the surface of the worm. The fleshy tunnel reminded him of the cramped and crooked corridors of Blight City, full of the comforting smells of rot and skaven — if somewhat more perilous, on the whole.

More than once since he’d begun his expedition, the scoured walls of the worm’s pores had expanded to envelop an unwary plague monk. Shu’gohl’s thrashing had grown worse since they’d started their descent. He wondered whether it had anything to do with the stink of pox-sludge which drifted from the dorsal area of the city.

Kruk was up to something. Nothing intelligent, obviously. No, Kruk was a fool and prone to foolish things. Vretch was tempted to bite his own tail in frustration at the other plague priest’s disagreeable antics. Even at a remove, occupied by battle with the storm-things and the star-devils, his rival was causing him difficulties. Then, it had always been that way.

Kruk was a natural disaster looking for a place to happen. If Squeelch didn’t act soon to put Kruk out of his misery, Kruk might kill the worm before Vretch had found what he was looking for, and that could prove disastrous. Who knew how Shu’gohl’s death might affect its internal regions? Things could shift or dissolve, carrying the object of his quest further out of reach. And that would be disastrous — Skuralanx might even blame Vretch for the delay, and punish him accordingly. He shuddered.

As he did so, he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye. A flickering shadow. He glanced back, but saw only the shadows of his followers, cast by the light of the warpstone torches they carried. Unconsciously, he hugged the Mappo Vurmio to his chest. A trick of the light, he thought.

Despite the worm’s convulsions, they reached the bottom of the shaft with little real difficulty, and most of his procession intact. It wasn’t that far, through the layers of flesh and muscle. The shaft flowered into a wide lump of fatty tissue, which jutted over what he believed to be Shu’gohl’s intestinal tract.

A foul wind rose up out of the dark and washed over him, carrying with it, the sound of… squirming. He smelled ichor and something else, something bilious and musky all at once. ‘Quick-hurl a torch, fast-fast,’ he said. One of his plague monks scuttled forward and threw a warpstone torch into the darkness, briefly illuminating the immensity below.

In that glimpse, Vretch saw that the Squirming Sea was well-named. It was a narrow sea of digestive juices running lengthwise along the worm’s body, broken at points by steaming reefs composed of uncountable squirming worms — whether these were parasites, or offspring, Vretch couldn’t say. In the distance, he could just make out the shapes of broken spires and crumbled towers, rising from the bubbling waters. It was said that whole man-thing fortresses had been swallowed by Shu’gohl on its eternal crawling. And more than just fortresses — encampments of orruks and even the warrens of skaven had been drawn into the worm’s belly.

It was one of the latter he had come to find: the lost warren of Geistmaw. It was an innocuous little den, inhabited by a clan of old. They had perished to a skaven, but had not been forgotten. He opened the Mappo Vurmio and flipped through its stiff pages. Those ancient cartographers had discovered the remains of the warren and its unfortunate inhabitants. And after they had mapped it, they had died one by one from a strange sickness — a sickness, according to their peculiar man-thing scratching, much like that which had drawn him here in the first place. Vretch licked his snout in anticipation.

He knew, with every fibre of his keen and matchless intellect, that the forgotten clan of Geistmaw had discovered the secret of one of the Great Plagues and brewed it, only to be subsumed by the worm before they could unleash it. How long must it have taken for the poisonous atmosphere of the lost warren to spread through Shu’gohl’s stomach-sea? A hundred years? A thousand? Only to be expelled at last in the worm’s wake, to poison the land where it squirmed. Such was the potency of the Great Plagues that they remained dangerous even centuries after their brewing.

He traced a page with his claw, following the route those long-dead mapmakers had taken. Most of what the worm ate passed through its digestive tract. But some things became lodged in the flows and eddies of Olgu’gohl, there to become a permanent fixture of this ill-lit realm. The Geistmaw warren was one such thing. Once, it had occupied the remains of a man-thing fortress of the same name; now both fortress and warren hung suspended from the worm’s stomach-lining over a natural eddy in the digestive fluid.

It would not be easy to reach, but reach it he would. He was too close to fail now. He peered over the lip of the precipice, down into the digestive waters below. He turned back to his followers and raised his staff. ‘Hurry,’ he snapped. ‘Lower the raft-platforms, quick-quick.’

His procession devolved into a flurry of activity as skaven dragged the rafts forward. The wide, scoop-shaped platforms had been made from ichor-hardened setae and scale prised from the worm’s back. They would resist the acidic waters of the Squirming Sea, as would the oars woven from similarly hardened setae-strands — or so his assistants swore. The oar-skaven were clad in thick, heavy robes designed to resist even the most virulent pox-brews, and wore goggles and cowls to protect their faces. Vretch had his own goggles and congratulated himself for thinking of them — the stinging steam rising from the gut-juices of Shu’gohl would have blinded even one as inured to pain as himself.

His followers dragged the rafts to the edge as others clambered down the fatty cliff below to create a living chain by which the rafts could be passed from one set of claws to the next. The rafts were lowered one after another without incident, and sat waiting in the bubbling stream below. Then, and only then, were Vretch’s books and the Conglomeration lowered to occupy the largest of the rafts. His pox-cauldrons and plague-urns were scattered about the rest — their contents would smoke and spew, keeping any potential predators at bay. The Horned Rat alone knew what sort of monstrosities lurked in Shu’gohl’s gullet.

But soon, none of that would matter. Soon, nothing would be able to stop him. Vretch would rise, and the Mortal Realms would fall.

Tokl watched as the vermin lowered themselves into the bubbling river. When he was certain they’d left no watchers behind, he dropped from the wall. The rest of his cohort did the same, moving in perfect unison. Nimble and clever, the band of chameleon skinks had pursued the skaven down the pulsing length of the fleshy shaft, and they would pursue them further still, until the Great Lord Kurkori commanded otherwise.

Such was their function. Tokl and his warriors were the unseen instruments of the slann’s will, the forgotten moments of the Great Dream. Their scales mimicked the hue of their surroundings as they stalked their prey, and the whisper of their celestite blowpipes was all but inaudible. They existed within the shadows, where the light of Azyr did not always reach, invisible, at times, even to the eyes of their fellow seraphon. But so too were they invisible to the servants of the Dark Gods. They were the Unseen Correctors, and they set broken dreams to rights at their master’s command.

Tokl licked his bulging eyes, trying to attune them to the humid interior of the worm. The lingering traces of warp-smoke stung him, and he longed for the open air. His cohort chirped in alarm as the worm convulsed and the shaft shuddered about them. He heard the panicked squeals of the skaven as they fought to keep their rafts from turning over.

He did not know why the vermin had come down here, and it was not his function to ask. It did not matter. The vermin hunted, and they would be hunted in their turn.

The worm shuddered again. The great creature was in agony. Monstrous as it was, it deserved better than to be eaten away from the inside out by the scuttling rat-vermin. But Great Lord Kurkori had decreed that such would not happen here, and Tokl and his cohort would do their part to see that it didn’t.

Tokl chirped and gestured. ‘Move. Swift. Silent,’ he chirped. They would scale the walls of the great worm’s intestine and hide among its folds and creases as they shadowed the vermin.

‘Attack?’ one of the others asked, head cocked.

‘No,’ Tokl chirruped. ‘We keep our distance.’ The sickening fumes rising from the cauldrons mounted on the rafts would kill a skink as easily as whatever predators lurked in the great worm’s stomach. They would follow their quarry at a distance, and strike when the time was right. When Takatakk commanded.

They were guided by the will of the Dreaming Seer, and they would not fail.

The wind had turned, and the stink of melting setae washed over the Dorsal Barbicans. The streets and furrows before the barbicans were covered in steaming, bubbling sludge. The great worm thrashed in continual agony, setting the barbicans to shuddering. Skaven lined the walls, chanting the Thirty-three Rapturous Hymns to the Third Great Plague as they swayed amidst the thick smoke emitted by the censers of the Reeking Choir. The plagueclaws continued to hurl their frothy projectiles, filling the streets of the Crawling City with poisonous smog. And as they launched, Squeelch worked steadily to brew new plague-slop for them to toss into the city.

‘Load-load,’ he chittered as he stirred the mixture in the pox-cauldron before him with his staff. ‘Faster, fools, faster!’

His crews hurriedly ladled the brew into the plagueclaws, scratching at their sloughing flesh as they worked. His assistants were stationed before similar cauldrons up and down the barbicans, using the recipes he had taught them to prepare ever more powerful mixtures. Plague monks staggered towards him, dragging baskets full of shrieking rats. Squeelch stepped back, allowing them to dunk the baskets in the cauldron.

The baskets were then dragged to the buckets of the plagueclaws, where they would be hurled into the city. Some of the rats would endure the landing and scurry forth to spread sickness. They were hardy creatures, as befitting creations of the Horned Rat, and were easily capable of surviving long-distance, high-speed travel, especially when bolstered by a healthy mixture of plague-broth. It was an old tactic, a traditional tactic. Squeelch had learned it from his master, and his master before him, before murdering them both with a tainted bowl of fish heads. He sighed happily as he hawked a huge glob of phlegm into the pox-cauldron and continued to stir the soupy mixture.

He took a cursory sniff, and instantly his lungs filled with a cloying weight. He hacked in satisfaction, pounding on his chest. One of the crew-skaven, overcome, toppled forward face-first into the cauldron. At his gesture, the others stuffed the body into the thick soup. He jabbed at the still-twitching carcass with his staff. It would add to the potency.

This was a good brew. One of his best yet, he thought. His sores tingled in pride as he filched his snuff-bag from within his robes and stuffed a talon in it. The powdered warpstone within was mixed with dried pus scraped from the bodies of plague victims, and something vaguely sweet. He stuffed his powder-coated talon into his mouth. Green sparks danced behind his eyes, and he felt as if he could out-think a hundred rivals.

Sniffing, Squeelch stared at Kruk’s broad back, and wondered whether he could shove him over the edge of the rampart before Skug reacted. He lifted his staff from the cauldron, considering. One good poke, yes-yes, and much-dead Kruk, he thought. It was glaringly obvious to his superior intellect that even Kruk couldn’t survive such a fall.

Kruk might not even mind. It was how he’d taken control of the Congregation of Fumes in the first place, after all. And the title of Archfumigant had passed through at least a dozen claws before Kruk had pitched old Frekt into a toad dragon’s mouth at the Guttering Fen. No, Kruk wouldn’t mind. He was a traditionalist at heart.

Kruk turned, his good eye narrowing, as if he’d read Squeelch’s mind.

Maybe not yet, Squeelch thought, trying to look as if he hadn’t just been contemplating assassinating his superior. ‘Why has Vretch not attacked yet?’ Kruk demanded.

Squeelch blinked. ‘What, O most potent of poxes?’

‘Why… hasn’t… Vretch… attacked,’ Kruk growled, thrusting his muzzle towards Squeelch. ‘We are distracted. I would have attacked. You would have attacked. Why has Vretch not attacked?’

‘Prudence, O most pestilential of priests?’

‘Prrrudence, squealer? Is that what you call it?’ Skug rasped.

Squeelch glared at the censer bearer. He was about to snarl a reply, when Kruk grunted.

‘Whatever you call it, it is an itch in the back of my mind,’ the plague priest said, glaring towards the ever-present lightning storm which swirled over the worm’s head. ‘But I will not give him the pleasure of abandoning this place, no-no. Vretch wants the Libraria Vurmis. He will come — he must.’ Kruk smacked his censer into his palm.

So that was it. Squeelch had wondered why Kruk had seemed so bent on defending the Dorsal Barbicans. He almost pitied the brute. Vretch no longer needed the library or its contents, for Squeelch had given him the pick of its bounty already.

‘Vretch is not attacking because he is more cunning than that,’ a deep voice growled. Squeelch looked up and saw the muscular shape of Skuralanx crouched atop the closest plagueclaw. When the daemon had arrived, Squeelch couldn’t say — the creature moved more silently than a shadow, appearing and disappearing at will.

The verminlord glared down at them. ‘Vretch is counting on you to occupy the foe, while he accomplishes his goal.’

Kruk growled wordlessly. Skuralanx chittered in amusement. ‘You’re a fool, Kruk. Your enemies approach through your pox-rain, and your true foe goes to accomplish what you could not,’ the daemon said.

Kruk cocked his head. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Fool-fool,’ Skuralanx hissed. ‘You came here looking for the lost Liber, and so did he. But while you suffer here, he nears your goal. Poor Kruk… perhaps I should have let you die in Putris Bog…’

‘No-no-no!’ Kruk shrilled. ‘I will kill-kill Vretch myself, yes-yes. Where is he?’

The verminlord pointed a talon downwards. ‘In the belly of the beast, Kruk. You must leave, go to the Setaen Palisades. The sooner the better. You must get me that Liber Pestilent before Vretch gets his claws on it.’

‘But the barbicans…’ Kruk began.

‘Squeelch will hold them,’ Skuralanx said, looking at Squeelch, who cowered back. ‘Won’t you, Squeelch?’ he hissed, even as his form twisted and shrank into a wisp of shadow and vanished from sight.

‘Yes-yes, to hear is to obey, O most merciful of potentates,’ Squeelch chittered. As he said it, he wondered whether he should have taken the chance to shove Kruk over the edge after all.

Oxtl-Kor sniffed the air and growled. The Oldblood could smell the rat-stink on the air. It pervaded this place, and drove him to distraction. It grew stronger the closer they drew to the Dorsal Barbicans. They would have been there already, had they not been forced to slow their pace to accommodate their allies.

He sniffed, inhaling the scent of celestial lightning and the world-that-was. The Stormcasts wore the flesh of a broken dream, as if it belonged to them alone. He licked his muzzle angrily. Were it not for Great Lord Kurkori’s command, he would not have countenanced his warriors to march beside them. They were not worthy to fight alongside the Dreaming Constellation — they were but pale ghosts, newborn and unaware.

Irritated by the smells and sounds, Oxtl-Kor rubbed his snout. He was covered in a latticework of scars, each one a page in his history since the final beginning and the first ending. Sometimes, in the red moments between the his master’s call and the triumphal dissolution which saw him returned to the calm and quiet of Azyr, the Oldblood wondered where he had gained them all. It seemed to him that he’d had some for longer than he had been alive.

There were scars on his mind as well as his body. Gaps in his memory, where his thoughts grew thin and faded, and when he became frustrated by them, only the death of his foes could sate him. The Oldblood longed to deal death to the vermin, to feel their flesh tear between his jaws, the hot rush of their blood sliding down his throat. That was his part in the Great Lord’s dream. He was the savage longing of his master made flesh. He was Kurkori’s rage, and he was content only when killing. Sawtooth grumbled in seeming agreement, and Oxtl-Kor patted the carnosaur’s thick neck.

Sawtooth, like his master, was covered in the scars of battle. He was a mighty beast, with jaws capable of crushing stone and a hide as thick as the celestite armour Oxtl-Kor wore. Together, they were virtually unstoppable. Around him, the cold ones ridden by his saurus knights easily kept pace with the loping carnosaur. More animalistic than their riders, the cold ones were foul-tempered and vicious, but possessed the same instinctual hatred for the stuff of Chaos as did the rest of the seraphon. Like Sawtooth, they had no need for sustenance, but they desired the flesh and blood of their foes regardless.

Oxtl-Kor gazed with pride at the ranks of saurus warriors advancing in Sawtooth’s shadow, their stardrake icons held aloft. They were a scarred and scaly instrument of war, understanding well the ebb and flow of the eternal battle. Their rage, like his, was tempered by an instinctive adherence to order. The order of the stars, the order of spheres, of the sacred mathematics of being crafted and nurtured by the Starmasters and the Great Drake.

He glanced back at the Dreaming Seer, slumbering peacefully on his floating palanquin. Time and celestial tide had taken their toll on the Great Masters, the Oldblood knew. But some, like Great Lord Kurkori, yet remained. They slept, their minds elsewhere, contemplating more important matters. And Oxtl-Kor was determined to see that the slann continued to sleep undisturbed.

He flexed his sunbolt gauntlet, studying the star-forged celestite that shrouded his talon. He did not understand the secrets of its working, only how to employ it. At a gesture, he could unleash a flash of celestial fire which would sear flesh and soul alike. Another gift of the slann to their most loyal servants.

The wind shifted, bringing with it the stink of the falling pox-rain. Sawtooth, angry, reared and unleashed a thunderous roar. Oxtl-Kor lifted his spear and added his voice to that of the carnosaur.

The skaven would hear. They would know that the wrath of Kurkori, and of the seraphon, was sweeping down on them.

They would know that the end of their dark dream was near.

Poisonous fumes stretched through the streets, reducing iron-hard setae to sagging masses of smoking glop. The bodies of mortals and skaven lay everywhere in heaps and piles, victims of the pox-rain rising from the Dorsal Barbicans. The street squelched underfoot as Zephacleas led his chamber towards the barbicans. Things were growing ever more foul the closer they drew to their goal. If they didn’t manage to destroy the skaven weapons, the city — and the worm it was built upon — would surely perish.

He looked up, scanning the toxin-filled sky. Mantius and his Prosecutors were scouting the area ahead, their crackling wings searing a path through the befouled air. While their assault on the Dorsal Barbicans had failed, they’d managed to keep the skaven from venturing too far from the fortress. Three times the ratkin had massed to attack since the arrival of the seraphon, and three times the Knight-Venator and his sky-hunters had broken them from afar.

Now, what few skaven remained outside the protective ramparts of the Dorsal Barbicans were in hiding, likely hoping the combined host of Stormcast Eternals and seraphon would pass them by. They’d have to be hunted down and harried from their foul lairs after Shu’gohl had been freed, but first the skaven warrens around the Dorsal Barbicans and the distant Setaen Palisades would have to be destroyed. The vermin could not be allowed to hold such places, or destroy them as they were even now attempting to do.

The skaven were levelling the city all around the barbicans in an effort to impede the progress of their foes and prevent them from reaching the walls. Nonetheless, many of the setae towers were still standing — full of skaven, but still standing. They were connected to the walls by the strange, swaying bristle-bridges. If they could get to the walls without having to fight their way through the barbicans they could silence the catapults quickly. And once the Dorsal Barbicans had been freed from skaven control, they could push forward towards the anterior sections of the worm-city, including the Setaen Palisades. Hopefully there are survivors there yet, he thought.

A sudden roar shook the tainted air. He glanced up as the shadow of the great reptile and its rider fell over him, and the echoes of its roar faded. It was a truly imposing creature, and its rider was equally fearsome. Oxtl-Kor was the seraphon’s name, or perhaps his title. Zephacleas wasn’t entirely sure which, and the creature didn’t seem in a hurry to explain it to him. Indeed, the creature — the ‘Oldblood’, as the skink Starseer, Takatakk, called him — seemed unhappy with the current state of affairs. Or so Zephacleas judged — he’d communicated nothing either way.

None of the seraphon save for the Starseer had spoken, or shown any inclination in that regard. Indeed, other than Takatakk and the hulking creature called Sutok, most seemed content to ignore the Stormcast warriors marching alongside them.

‘What do you mean?’ Seker said.

Zephacleas looked at him, and then at Takatakk, when he realised that the Lord-Relictor’s question had been directed at the skink.

‘You are made of light,’ the skink chirped, as it circled the Lord-Relictor. ‘Storm-light, sun-light, ghost-light…’

‘But not star-light,’ Seker said. The Gravewalker had been talking with the little seraphon since they had begun their march towards the Dorsal Barbicans, trying to learn all he could about their strange allies. Or perhaps it was the other way around, Zephacleas mused. ‘Not like you,’ the Lord-Relictor continued.

‘Same, but different, yes? Yes,’ the skink said, head cocked. ‘You are a different type of dream, I think.’ The creature glanced back towards the hovering bulk of its master. ‘Yes, a different dream,’ the lizard-man said, more firmly.

‘I’m solid enough,’ Zephacleas said. He pounded his fist against his chest-plate.

‘Hrr,’ the big seraphon called Sutok grunted throatily. One claw swatted Zephacleas in the back, nearly knocking him from his feet. The ‘Sunblood’, as the skink called him, was impossibly strong — Zephacleas counted himself among the strongest of the Astral Templars, but he knew that the seraphon could tear him limb from limb without much effort.

‘Sutok agrees,’ Takatakk chirped. ‘He likes you.’

‘Does he?’ Zephacleas said, regaining his balance. ‘How can you tell?’

‘He has not eaten you,’ the skink said.

‘Luckily for the both of them,’ the Lord-Relictor said. Zephacleas glanced at Seker, but, as ever, the Lord-Relictor’s skull-faced helm gave no hint as to what the man beneath might be thinking. He looked back at the Sunblood. The creature gave a chortling grunt and slammed his war-mace against his shield.

‘I still do not understand why you march with us,’ the Lord-Celestant said, with a shake of his head. ‘Why not simply strike the Setaen Palisades, if that is where your true foe waits? Why spend your strength here?’

‘To help,’ Takatakk chirped. ‘Great Lord Kurkori dreamed it, and so it must be. The Dreaming Constellation moves to aid Sigmar, so that future events occur as they must.’ The skink nodded. ‘All things flow towards their predestined end, and so we must flow with them.’

‘But aren’t you afraid that by aiding us, you will fail in your own mission?’ the Lord-Relictor asked. Takatakk looked at him as if confused.

‘We cannot fail. Great Lord Kurkori has seen it.’

‘Yes, but—’ Seker pressed.

‘Besides, we follow them even as we march beside you. Great Lord Kurkori’s dream is vast and composed of many parts. He sees all at once, and simultaneously.’ The skink made another of his complex gestures, as if attempting to help them visualise his statement.

‘He’s saying that they sent scouts, I think,’ Zephacleas said. As he spoke, he heard the whistle-crack of the distant catapults on the Dorsal Barbicans. ‘Cover!’ he roared.

A cascade of yellowish spheres of muck struck the towers far above, and a rain of hissing plague-liquid pattered down. Both Stormcast and seraphon alike raised their shields as the noxious fluid fell over them. Takatakk raised his staff and hissed out a guttural string of syllables, filling the air with a strong wind which blew some of the foulness away before it reached its targets.

Despite this, the pox-rain grew stronger, and Zephacleas heard it sizzle as it struck his armour. ‘That wind isn’t enough. Summon a proper storm, Lord-Relictor — wash this foulness from the skies,’ he called out. But even as Seker began to intone a prayer, Zephacleas heard a deep, rumbling croak from the Dreaming Seer. He turned and saw the slann Starmaster stir blearily, as if the stink of the rain had disturbed his slumber. The pox-rain abruptly steamed away to nothing in the air, leaving behind only a foul smoke. The slann grunted, his head sagging once more, eyelids drooping.

‘That works as well,’ the Lord-Celestant said, trading glances with his Lord-Relictor. As the stinking fog cleared, the air quavered with a shrill cacophony. Rats flooded towards them. They seemed without number, and came in a great, squealing wave. The vermin were bloated with disease and covered in runny sores. Zephacleas roared and stamped, crushing the rats with hammer and boots. His warriors followed suit, and the seraphon stabbed at the scurrying creatures with their broad-bladed spears.

The vermin were more interested in fleeing than fighting, however. A moment later, as the breeze called into being by Seker’s prayers shredded and dispersed the miasmic fog, Zephacleas saw why. Before them was a slick, slowly spreading mass of bubbling putrescence, occupying what had once been the wide courtyard before the central gateway of the Dorsal Barbicans. It would have been a magnificent sight once, he thought. The plaza had been a semi-circle of setaen tiles, dyed and shaped to create an intricate mosaic, now hidden beneath the frothing foulness. Great statues had once lined the curve of the plaza, wrought in the likeness of the heroes of the Shu’gohl — knights-militant of the Order of the Worm, nobles of the setaen houses, warrior-priests of the Sahg’gohl. Those statues were broken now, fallen and shrouded in muck. Everywhere he looked was ruin and filth.

Toppled towers, sheared from their foundations by the boiling foulness, lay atop others, creating a tangled mass of ruined stone and hair. Red eyes gleamed in the shadows of those fallen structures, and a dolorous chittering rose. Bells rang and gongs crashed. High atop the curved walls of the barbicans, the catapults continued to rain down plague and filth on the city. The massive gates which occupied the centre of the barbicans were barred and chained, the ancient surface marked and scarred with skaven-sign.

The ratmen had claimed this place for their own — but they would not hold it for much longer. Zephacleas clashed his weapons together and glanced down at Takatakk. ‘You wish to fight beside us, seraphon? Now is your chance.’ He raised his hammer. ‘Forward! For Sigmar and the Realm Celestial!’

With a shared roar, the two hosts of Azyr began their advance.

CHAPTER FIVE

Treachery and Shadows

Great Lord Kurkori, the Dreaming Seer of the Second Departure, stirred reluctantly on his palanquin. His dreams held tight to his vast consciousness, drawing him into better and brighter worlds than the broken, limping thing he now found himself in.

In his deep dreaming, he saw an empire of order and light, a thing of perfect structure and harsh angles. The universe would move in perfect harmony, every realm, every inhabitant perfectly synchronised and in rhythm with the cosmic plan. It was a good dream, and one he intended to see made real, whatever the cost.

He cracked his eyes. The world drew into stark focus through a veil of celestial light. He could feel the agonies of the great worm upon whose back they fought as a dull pressure upon his thoughts. The beast was ancient as the Mortal Realms judged things, though its existence was barely a blip to his perceptions. Nonetheless, its death was not a part of the pattern and thus he saw no reason to allow it. With a thought, he sent waves of soothing energy through the great beast’s simple mind, easing its distress, if only for the moment.

He could feel the pulse of star-born energies that were his chosen cohorts. Each one was as unique as the stars in the firmament, and as precious to him. They were his claws, his fangs, his darkest dreams made scaly flesh. When they roared, they roared with his voice; when they bled, they bled with his blood. They were his dreams, and he wielded them with a deftness that was spoken of in awe by his fellow slann.

The central points of his constellation glowed the brightest — his rage, his cunning, his hope, made manifest in his chosen champions. Oxtl-Kor, a proud beacon of cold fury and determination; Takatakk, a quicksilver flickering of celestial power, ebbing and strengthening with Kurkori’s attentions; and Sutok, saturated with the very stuff of Azyr, his scales glowing with the light of the stars themselves.

Chaos had grown powerful during the centuries of blood, but so too had his kind. The Dark Gods had learnt little with the waxing of their might — they were feckless abstractions, impatient and impulsive. Disharmony and disunity were their lot, and all things unravelled at their touch. They did not see the Mortal Realms for what they were, only what they wished them to be, and so were blind to the true nature of the game being played.

That they did this in isolation, each slann pursuing their own campaigns against the slow advance of entropy which threatened to consume eternity, did not hamper them at all. For all that they were the merest fragments of a long extinct civilization, the lingering debris of a vanished world, they were not without some power.

The Eight Realms were a great game board and the Starmasters placed their pieces with calculated precision. They saw many moves ahead of their inattentive foes, and wove iron-hard stratagems which would advance their singular cause, however infinitesimally, from a thousand different angles. Step by step, Kurkori and his brethren manipulated the winds of fate with their celestial mathematics to bring about the final defeat of the ancient enemy.

Sigmar, the being they knew as the Rising Storm, was their ally in this endeavour, though even the God-King could conceive but dimly of the true purpose of the slann. And there were other forces which were, if not allies, yet subservient to the great pattern. The Undying King on his throne of sorrows, the Queen of the Hidden Vale… these too served in their own way to advance the designs of the Starmasters in their wisdom. Pieces, great and small, moved to and fro across a board of stars.

The world was different, but the game remained the same. Sometimes Kurkori dreamed of the world-that-was, of humid greenery and a sky full of falling stars. He dreamed of the vermin, flowing up the wide, stone steps of ancient temples in their chittering hordes. He dreamed of dead kin, eaten as they slumbered, their wisdom devoured by scuttling shadows. Anger filled him, and the saurus marching alongside his palanquin stiffened, growling. He heard the rumbling voice of his favoured general, Oxtl-Kor.

Kurkori felt the energies which formed and filled the saurus. At a whim, Kurkori knew he could reduce the scarred warrior to mere motes of dancing light, or invigorate him into nigh-invincibility. He could send him back into the dream, or stoke the rage which flickered within him. Too, he saw the looming moment that the Oldblood’s life-thread was cut short. Death was not the end for the seraphon, for they did not truly live, save in the memories of the slann. Even so, each death was like a thorn in Kurkori’s flesh, a persistent pain which never dimmed.

He heard a rattle as the servants of the God-King began to advance. They too were filled with the light of Azyr, though they were not made from it. They were not memories but an ideal, shaped and forged and set loose. The crash of thunder, the flash of lightning; they were all this and something more, though Kurkori could not say what. They were a strange dream, drawn from a mind most alien — a thing of rougher symmetry than his own. Cruder, but more powerful. The thoughts of the slann were as polished stones, but the thoughts of the Rising Storm and his creations were jagged rocks, freshly drawn from snow and stream. Emotion, rather than calculation, guided them in all things.

Such was the burden of limited minds; they saw only what the universe allowed them. The celestial pattern was too vast for their comprehension, its beauty too blinding for their eyes. That was why he had dreamed as he had dreamed, why he had come to this place of soft angles and brief lives. The pattern grew layered here — moments from the past, present and future crossed back and forth over one another at a single point, requiring action.

Something old would be found in the depths of the worm, inconsequential from his perspective but with a terrible potential if the equation of this place was corrupted as he had foreseen. The vermin were clever. They had their own patterns, erratic as they were. He could not allow such a random element to be introduced into his design.

Kurkori leaned back on his throne, looking through the walls and past the fortresses beyond, towards the head of the worm. Time and distance were as one to him, and as easily manipulated as the star-born winds of Azyr. He had come following a gleaming thread which stretched back into the shadows of the world-that-was and into the world-that-might-yet-be. Echoes of memories lost, carved before the Great Exodus, old calculations which had survived the death-spasms of a world. It would be found, and its potential neutered. Such he had seen, so he had dreamed, so must it be for the pattern, and his calculations, to remain undisturbed.

With a drowsy grunt, he turned his attentions back to the present. The skeins of pox and filth weighed on the air, making it sluggish and opaque. Their pestilences gnawed at the very fabric of the realm, dissolving it even as they dissolved the worm’s flesh. An untidy equation. A small thing, a confluence of random variables, easily tidied. He reached out with his mind. What the vermin had made, he could unmake. And he did, and found it good.

The bubbling moat of filth became as green glass, its liquid foulness replaced by the solid angles of shimmering perfection. Oxtl-Kor looked at him, a fiery request burning in his eyes. The old warrior yearned to taste the blood of the foe, and the slann did not have the heart to deny him this moment of pleasure. Kurkori blinked in acknowledgement.

The Oldblood snarled in satisfaction and thumped his mount in the side with the haft of his spear. The carnosaur roared in pleasure and surged forward, shaking the ground with its tread. The saurus knights followed their commander, sprinting across the newly hardened field of green glass.

But they would not be enough. The vermin had spread wide and deep, and cast their burrows into the flesh of the worm. So he stretched mind and hand upwards, toward the stars that spun somewhere far above the darkening amber skies and the swirling storm. He drew down dream after dream, star after star, and his constellation expanded, swirling wider and farther. The roars of ancient beasts, unheard by mortal ears for a millennia, filled the air, drowning out the bells and shrieks of the skaven.

The Dreaming Constellation went to war.

And, satisfied, Great Lord Kurkori went back to sleep.

Mantius Far-killer took aim and loosed a crackling arrow. A skaven was punched back into the darkness of the fallen tower, its rotten carcass swiftly consumed by the energies of the arrow. ‘Drive them back, my huntsmen — clear the way for our brothers,’ the Knight-Venator said as he loosed a second arrow.

His Prosecutors skimmed low over the fallen length of the tower, hurling their celestial hammers as swiftly as they could conjure them. The skaven pouring down the ruined setae were hurled in all directions, their foul robes smouldering. But for every one killed, two more scrambled out of the ruin of stone and hair, foetid blades between their teeth and filth-encrusted cudgels in their claws. They were limitless and rapacious — the living embodiment of the evil that the Stormcast Eternals had been forged to fight.

A flash of shimmering light caught his eye, and he smiled. ‘Prey enough for the both of us, eh, Aurora?’ he said, to the circling, iridescent shape of the star-eagle. He’d bonded with the fierce raptor during a training exercise within the Aetheric Clouds which clung to the Broken World. There, in the star-spattered darkness of celestial space, he and the creature he’d named Aurora had hunted the great void-beasts of Azyr. More than once, the star-eagle had saved his life in the void, warning him with a shriek, or tearing apart some ethereal predator with its glittering talons. Now the raptor waited for his command to launch itself down among the enemy, to rip and tear.

He drew another arrow from his quiver. The arrows were magical in nature, as was the quiver they rested in. Crafted by the Six Smiths, the quiver filled as quickly as he could empty it, as the magics condensed new arrows from the air and the storm. Only one arrow was not so easily replaceable — the star-fated arrow. Forged from the very stuff of the stars, its potency was such that it took days rather than moments to reappear in the quiver. That one was reserved for the most powerful of targets. He’d used the star-fated arrow to pierce the fiery brain of the Black Bull of Nordrath, and cripple the abomination so that his fellow Stormcasts could end its monstrous rampage.

From the upper reaches of the fallen towers, rat-monks armed with rocks and whatever other missiles they could scrounge took aim at the winged warriors. Stones hissed through the air and Mantius swooped upwards, arrow nocked. As he crested the top of the tower, he loosed arrow after arrow, quicker than mortal eyes could follow. Skaven died, clawing and snapping at the arrows which transfixed them. As he nocked another arrow, he saw his huntsmen destroying the curve of the fallen tower, and burying the skaven within.

As the tower was reduced to a slope of smoking rubble, Lord-Celestant Zephacleas led retinues of Liberators and Decimators up the incline, killing any skaven who managed to wriggle free. Mantius swooped towards them, his hands a blur. Nock and loose, he thought, repeating the mantra over and over again in his head. There was a comforting rhythm to it, a susurrus that eased his scattered thoughts into the calm of battle.

He had been a hunter, once. A seed-rider, on the Ghyran Veldts. He had vague memories of floating on updrafts and riding swift downdrafts, loosing arrows at the wild, jade-feathered birds his tribe hunted for food. He had ridden his seed-pod into war as well, against the Rotbringers and their foul allies — chortling, gape-mouthed daemons who crushed entire tribes beneath their loathsome weight. The sound of their laughter still echoed up out of the black wells of his memory. He drew, nocked and loosed, faster and faster, losing himself in the rhythm.

‘Far-killer — the skaven seek refuge below,’ one of his huntsmen, Darius, cried, as he flung the smoke-wreathed body of a ratman aside. Several Prosecutors had landed at the apex of the fallen tower, where it had crashed against another, creating a natural arch. There, they dealt death to the skaven seeking to escape from one tower to the next, and drove most back towards the advancing Decimators. ‘Should we pursue?’

‘Aye, let no shadow escape the light, Darius,’ Mantius said, as he loosed a final arrow. Several of the Prosecutors, led by Darius, leapt into the air and swooped swiftly beneath the fallen tower. Mantius tucked his wings and followed, Aurora keeping pace.

It was dark beneath the tower, and streams of dust and filth spilled down from the cracks in the structure, reducing visibility and choking the air. Mantius spread his wings and cut through the streams, following his warriors. He could see the snap-spark of a celestial hammer as it spun towards a knot of writhing skaven. The ratmen were attempting to squeeze through a spider-web of cracks and escape their amethyst-armoured pursuers.

But as the Prosecutors drew close to the fleeing skaven, the Knight-Venator heard a grinding of rock and twisted in the air, hunting for the source of the noise. His breath caught in his throat as a wave of rot-stink enveloped him. He saw two thick, pale tendrils uncoil from the shadows which clung to the underside of the fallen tower. Before he could cry a warning, they snapped out and coiled around a Prosecutor’s neck and arm, yanking him from the air. The tendrils quivered and tensed. The air was filled with a horrible cracking sound, and the Prosecutor slumped.

‘Darius — beware,’ Mantius cried, as he brought himself up short and reached for his quiver. His warning came too late. Darius wheeled about, crackling hammer manifesting in his waiting hand, but something that gleamed with an oily hue spun out of the shadows and removed his head. The curved, sickle-like blade thudded home into the opposite tower, even as Darius’ body returned to Azyr in a blinding flash.

Mantius loosed a trio of arrows, trying to gauge where the blade had come from. As his arrows pierced the shadows, their attacker uncoiled from the darkness and dropped towards the remaining Prosecutors of Darius’ retinue.

It was akin to a skaven, but far too large and muscular to be a member of that breed. A number of curved and ridged horns rose from amidst its shaggy, greasy mane, and surmounted its fleshless skull like some hideous crown. Its bifurcated tail lashed about it like a whip and its boil-encrusted flesh clung tightly to swollen muscles. Daemon, Mantius thought. He’d seen similar beasts in the Jade Kingdoms, in Ghyran.

‘Die-die for Skuralanx,’ the monstrosity shrieked as it dropped, its sickle-blade opening an unlucky Prosecutor from skull to midsection. Even as the warrior came apart and vanished in a flare of lightning, the daemon was falling towards the next, tails lashing. Its blade slammed against the Prosecutor’s crossed hammers. The force of the contact caused the combatants to twist through the air.

A swooping Prosecutor had his neck snapped by a piston-like blow from the daemon’s cloven hoof. The verminlord spun through the air, somehow keeping itself aloft through sheer savagery. It leapt off a Prosecutor’s back and drove its hooked blade into the throat of another warrior, reducing him to a writhing streak of lightning. As it struck the opposite tower, it tore its hurled blade free and lunged back into the fray.

Mantius cursed, unable to draw a bead on the quicksilver shape of the rat-daemon. The creature seemed to be there one moment and gone the next, as if it were only a trick of the light. It sprang from tower to tower, ricocheting between them with inhuman grace. Another Prosecutor perished before Mantius at last had a clear shot. He loosed the arrow, but only managed to splinter one of the creature’s worm-eaten horns.

The verminlord sprang back, seeking refuge in the shadows.

‘Aurora,’ Mantius snapped. The star-eagle screeched and shot forward, talons spread. The raptor intercepted the daemon and drove it back in a flurry of glittering feathers. The rat-daemon dropped, digging its blades into the side of the tower. It looked up at him, eyes flaring with hatred. Mantius reached for the star-fated arrow — daemon or no, few creatures could resist it.

As if guessing his intentions, the daemon tore its blades loose and dropped to the street below. The remaining Prosecutors hurled their hammers after it, obliterating the sides of the tower and filling the air with debris. Mantius knew that the beast was gone before the air cleared. A coward, just like its followers, he thought, as he flapped his wings and rose.

‘Proxius, Caledus,’ he said. ‘Gather the other huntsmen. There will be time enough to mourn later. For now, we must clear those ramparts.’ He surged up and away, swooping around the curve of the fallen tower and over the thick ramparts of the Dorsal Barbicans.

As he rose over the walls, he spotted the slave-stockades inside the inner courtyard. Prosecutors swooped to join him. The stockades were domed cages of bone and setae, and each one held dozens of mortals, most of them undernourished, maltreated or dying. The skaven were using them as pox-hosts, ammunition and food, he knew. The vile creatures valued nothing save ruin.

Between the seraphon advancing on the central gates and the Stormcast Eternals climbing the fallen towers towards the ramparts, the vermin had little attention to spare his efforts. He was determined to make them regret that.

At his signal, Prosecutors crashed down across the barbicans and into the courtyard, smashing apart the cages, freeing the sick and the wounded. Mantius dropped lightly onto one of the cracked minarets which rose over the ramparts, releasing an arrow as he touched down.

Other Prosecutors hurled their hammers to shatter the walkways between the slave-stockades and the skaven racing towards them. From his perch on the crumbled minaret, Mantius loosed three arrows at once and pinned a trio of squealing rat-monks to the collapsing rampart by their tails.

‘Free them, brothers — free them all so that they might take back their city,’ Mantius growled, as his arrow took a skaven overseer in the throat. ‘For Sigmar and the Realm Celestial!’

It was all going horribly, terribly wrong, Squeelch thought. And it was all Kruk’s fault. The one-eyed fool of a plague priest had led the Congregation of Fumes to its destruction at last. Squeelch’s only satisfaction arose from having played no part in such foolishness. It wasn’t his fault, no-no! He had done the best he could, under circumstances that would have tried even the legendary patience and skilful might of the most revered of pox-masters.

Still, he had done his best with what fate and Kruk’s ineptitude had dealt him. He had brewed his most virulent poxes and destroyed much of the man-thing city, levelling whole towers, filling the streets with a lovely, noxious murk and a veritable sea of steaming putrescence. He had done all that a skaven in his position could be asked and more, and what was his reward to be? Abandonment and brutal murder at the hands of their foes.

That had decided him. Now was the time — he’d never get another, if Skuralanx had his way. The daemon clearly wanted him dead. Squeelch could not fathom the verminlord’s fascination with a dullard like Kruk. Kruk knew nothing of the brewing of plagues, or any proper priestly duties. He was a brute, a fool and mad. A skaven could be any one of those things and prosper, but not all three — never all three!

And yet, the daemon continued to protect Kruk from harm. Perhaps that was why Kruk had survived all of Squeelch’s most cunning ploys and his boldest attempts at murder — yes. Yes! It all made sense now. The odds had been stacked against Squeelch from the beginning.

A test, he thought. A sudden bout of coughing wracked his frame, and he rubbed his muzzle with his grime-stiffened sleeve. Mucus bubbled out of his snout and he hawked and spat. It was a test: a test of his cunning, of his perseverance, of his faith… of his devotion to the Horned Rat. Well, he would pass this test, as he had passed all the others.

He hurried across the inner bridge, away from the sounds of battle, the ramparts and his precious plagueclaws. It hurt him to leave them behind, but it would serve no purpose to die with them. Despite his valiant efforts, the enemy were drawing close. Too close. They were already crossing the setaen bridges that swung between the closest towers and the barbicans, and the star-devils had reduced his bubbling moat to a shimmering glaze. Plague monks scurried past him towards the battle. He ignored their chittering, intent on his own fate.

It wasn’t fair! Kruk had led them to this, as Squeelch had always suspected he would. The other plague priest lacked the true skaven sense of self-preservation, and seemed deadly intent on dragging the rest of them down into death with him. The central structure of the barbicans, which housed the Libraria Vurmis, rose to greet him. He crept through the doors, which were already off their hinges, and into the central chamber.

There were no guards — Kruk needed none, save Skug and his malcontents. Every other skaven in the Dorsal Barbicans was either fighting or in hiding. There were always some who hid, even among the faithful of the Clans Pestilens. Squeelch would deal with them fairly, but firmly, when the time came.

The air in the central chamber of the library was redolent with the reek of fear-musk and death. He drew his knife as he entered the chamber, and held it close to his body. Squeelch crept forward. The wavy-bladed knife had been allowed to stew in one of the most virulent potions ever devised by skaven claws for thirty days and thirty nights. It was so potent that it had caused his claw to blister, just from touching the hilt. It was sure to be enough, he thought. And if not, well… Running had always served him well, in the past. Kruk wouldn’t get far with a knife in his back.

Plague monks scurried about him, climbing the shelves, tossing their contents to the floor, chittering in excitement. Kruk’s most trusted followers were hard at work, while Squeelch’s own spent their lives in brave-yet-futile battle. The library shook as the star-devil assault continued. Soon, the Dorsal Barbicans and his beloved plagueclaws would be no more. But catapults could be rebuilt, as could fortresses. Slaves could be retaken.

Parchment crunched beneath his claws, and he froze. But the noise had been lost amid the thunder of the attack. Dust sifted from the ceiling, and one of the great shelves toppled over, crushing an unwary plague monk.

Squeelch heard Kruk chittering in anger as he oversaw the evacuation, and the deep, growling tones of the verminlord as it pointed out which books might be needed to buy Vretch’s friendship long enough to turn on him, when and if he’d found the fabled Liber. Not much chance of that, of course… Squeelch had picked the library clean of its choicest morsels weeks ago. Those he hadn’t put aside for himself he’d sent on to Vretch. It was no wonder Kruk hadn’t found anything of use in them.

He hesitated, wondering if he should simply flee, rather than chance assassinating Kruk beneath the daemon’s snout. Would it look with favour upon such an act, or with anger? Assassination was a fine, long-standing skaven tradition, even among the Clans Pestilens. One could not expect promotion to the high plateaus of clan leadership without first spilling a bit of blood. But the daemon… he stopped, head cocked.

He realised he could no longer hear the daemon’s basso rumble. Kruk too had fallen silent. Squeelch froze, scarcely daring to breathe. He fought the urge to squirt the musk of fear. Had they heard him coming? Had Kruk fled while he dithered? Had he been left in the library, to face their enemies alone?

‘Cunning Squeelch, crafty Squeelch. Yessss,’ came a voice, from just over his shoulder. At first, he feared it was Skug. Then, as the voice’s owner began to titter, he realised with mounting horror that it wasn’t Skug at all. He turned, knife raised, and stared up — up! — into the skeletal grimace of Skuralanx.

The daemon’s prehensile tails coiled about him faster than he could follow. He shrieked as Skuralanx jerked him from the floor and slammed him against a shelf. His knife clattered from his grip. He tried to summon the strength to unleash a spell, but everything hurt too much. The bony leer thrust forward, so close that Squeelch could smell the hideous stench radiating from his captor. ‘And what were you going to do with that, hmmm?’ the daemon murmured.

Squeelch squeezed his eyes shut and began to whimper a prayer to the Great Witherer. He begged the Horned Rat to take and shelter his soul, for it seemed his body was about to be torn asunder. He felt a dribble of foulness run down his leg. He cracked an eye, and saw Kruk and Skug hurrying towards them, the censer bearer trying to hold his master back.

‘Squeelch? Treachery!’ Kruk chittered, reaching for the other plague priest with his good claw. Skuralanx yanked Squeelch out of reach and pointed a filthy talon at Kruk.

‘I will deal with this faithless one, yes-yes. You will take the Scar-roads, where the teeth of the great stone-wyrm Bolestros tore wounds in Shu’gohl’s flesh, in the days when the sky wept fire and the black blood of the earth sought to drown the land,’ Skuralanx snarled. ‘Take one of the man-things to show you. Leave the others here. Let our enemies see what awaits them.’

‘But—’ Kruk began.

‘I said go-go,’ Skuralanx roared. Skug prostrated himself immediately, but Kruk only stepped back, head bowed. Despite his predicament, Squeelch could only marvel at the other plague priest’s sheer stubborn viciousness. With a final glare and growl, Kruk spun and stumped off, barking orders as he went.

Skuralanx leapt from the floor to one of the thick pillars which supported the domed roof of the library. ‘It is a shame,’ he said, as he climbed up the pillar, dragging the helpless Squeelch behind him. ‘You show much promise, Squeelch. Much cunning, yes-yes. But needs must.’ The daemon reached the top of the pillar, and crouched there, deep in the all-concealing shadows.

‘Skuralanx’s needs, if you were wondering,’ the daemon said, as he twitched the struggling plague priest closer. His eyes glowed like the coals beneath a cauldron as he examined Squeelch. He sniffed the air, and Squeelch’s aching scent-glands spasmed, trying to squirt fear musk though there was none left to give.

He began to babble, begging for his life, promising the verminlord anything he could think of. ‘Squeelch will serve you, most cunning one! Squeelch will be your slave, he will—!’ His squeals died away as the daemon pressed the tip of a claw to his muzzle.

‘Shhh, little pox-maker. Shhh. Yes, you will serve Skuralanx. You will serve him, and all skaven, to the utmost of your ability. I told you that you would hold this place, and you will.’ Skuralanx’s hell-spark eyes gleamed. ‘Yes-yes, you will…’

Zephacleas swept his runeblade out and sliced a leaping skaven in two. The sore-covered ratman fell past him as he forced his way out onto the bridge. Made from woven worm-bristles and hardened with unguents and ichors, it connected those crooked setaen towers which still stood to the Dorsal Barbicans. Zephacleas and his chosen vanguard had fought their way up the rat-infested incline and through ruined towers to get to this point. Now only a single, shuddering span separated them from their goal. As he set foot on the swaying bridge, skaven scurried towards him from the opposite side, squealing and chittering.

He glanced at the massive shape of the Sunblood, Sutok, crouched beside him. Between them, they were the width of the bridge. No skaven would get past them. ‘Look, they come to greet us my friend,’ he said.

Sutok threw back his scaly head and roared. Together, they lunged to meet the swarming vermin.

‘Death and ruin,’ Zephacleas shouted as he and the Sunblood ploughed into their foes, driving them back through sheer momentum. Stormcasts advanced behind them along the narrow walkway, weapons raised, their voices raised in unison with his. Skinks and saurus scaled the underside and sides of their bridge, as well as those above and below, climbing with a speed that put their verminous foes to shame. Flying reptiles swooped low over the bridges, jerking screeching ratmen up and dropping them. Prosecutors darted past the leather-winged reptiles to strike at the skaven, sending twitching bodies plummeting to the streets below.

The Dreaming Seer’s magics had turned the bubbling pox-froth which covered the streets to shimmering green glass, and Oxtl-Kor led the bulk of the seraphon host across it with earth-shaking strides. Behind the saurian host, the Gravewalker led the rest of the Stormcast Eternals in support of their allies. And he is welcome to that role, Zephacleas thought, as he booted a skaven over the edge of the bridge. I am the blade of the axe, not its haft.

Together, step by step, he and Sutok pushed the skaven back. The rabid rat-monks flung themselves heedlessly into death, and Zephacleas’ armour was scored by the marks of foetid blades and rusty bludgeons. Thin trickles of starlight ran down Sutok’s scales as he waded through the enemy, ignoring the bite of their blades. Whatever filth clung to them was seared clean by the touch of his blood, and the skaven seemed more frightened of that than the war-mace the seraphon wielded.

‘We’ve arrived, my friend — let us make the most of it,’ Zephacleas said, as he and Sutok reached the upper ramparts at last. Squealing skaven raced towards them, though some seemed less than enthused to get anywhere near the Sunblood and the Lord-Celestant. Behind them, their chosen warriors flooded onto the ramparts. ‘Thetaleas, the catapults,’ Zephacleas said, signalling the Decimators to attend their task. He turned and motioned to the nearest retinue of Liberators. ‘Duras, keep the skaven back.’

The warblade-armed Liberators surged forward, forming a wall of amethyst-hued sigmarite between the axemen and the screaming mobs of rat-monks seeking to intercept them. Thetaleas and his Decimators chopped down the crew of the nearest catapult. When the last sore-ridden skaven fell, they began to hack the war engine apart. Zephacleas turned to see that Sutok had his own ideas about how to dispose of the enemy artillery.

As he watched, the Sunblood wrenched the arm from a catapult and whirled it about like a staff, smashing a dozen skaven from the rampart. The seraphon roared in what Zephacleas took to be pleasure. He swung the arm around again, bringing it down on one of the other catapults, destroying it. Skaven scurried towards the lizard-man, whirling their smoking censers with fanatical intensity, and Zephacleas moved to meet them.

He chopped through the chain of one of the smoke-spewing spheres and crushed its wielder’s bandage-shrouded skull. Sutok’s war-mace whirled in a tight circle, filling the air with broken bodies and squealing vermin. Skaven sped towards them from every direction, driven into a berserk fury by the roiling clouds of poisonous incense and smoke which clogged the air. Zephacleas heard the crackle of lightning as unlucky warriors were pulled down by sheer numbers. He saw seraphon stagger and burst into motes of blinding star-light as pus-daubed blades opened reeking wounds in their scaly bodies.

Through it all, the catapults continued to launch their foul burdens into the city. The Stormcasts and their reptilian allies had destroyed three of the plague-engines, but more remained. As he fought his way forward, he saw that the crew of one was hastily attempting to haul the catapult around so that it could be aimed at the forces gathered on the rampart. Before he could alert his warriors, he heard a bone-rattling roar and turned to see Oxtl-Kor’s monstrous reptile leap from the courtyard.

Its claws dug into the surface of the barbican wall and it began to haul itself up, Oxtl-Kor urging it on with bellicose snarls. It scaled the wall in moments and clambered over the rampart between Zephacleas and his foes. With a hungry growl, it lunged for the closest knot of skaven, jaws wide. Teeth like swords tore into cringing, furry bodies. Oxtl-Kor impaled a fleeing rat-monk with his spear. The Oldblood lifted the wriggling skaven into the air and hurled it over the barbican.

Smaller beasts followed the larger creature’s example, scrambling up the wall with reptilian agility, carrying their saurian riders to the top. Spears flashed, piercing and gutting the skaven defenders, even as the cold ones savaged them with jaws and dewclaws. Zephacleas stepped back, momentarily awed by the ferocity of his allies.

A flash of fire leapt from Oxtl-Kor’s gauntlet, incinerating the crew of the nearest catapult. The giant reptile closed its jaws on the arm of the catapult and tore it loose from the frame, before sending what remained of the infernal device toppling into the courtyard below with a shove of its shoulder. The beast reared up and let loose a triumphant bellow. The Oldblood looked down from his saddle and met Zephacleas’ gaze. The Lord-Celestant lifted his hammer in salute, but the creature turned away with a snort.

Down below, more seraphon had appeared in flashes of coruscating light — massive reptilian warriors, larger than any saurus and wielding heavy war-clubs and maces, marched into being behind a gigantic horned creature. The sound of war-drums filled the air as the howdah full of skinks mounted on the brute’s back kept time with its ground-shaking tread. The living, bellowing war engine stomped towards the central gates of the barbicans, horns lowered. They groaned as the brute struck them. Hardened setaen fibres burst and split as the armoured monster shoved its way through to the courtyard beyond.

The gigantic seraphon warriors surged past the creature, wading into those skaven unlucky enough to be nearby when the gates finally gave way. Great clubs and hammers, their heads infused with shifting motes of light, rose and fell, leaving a path of broken bodies in their wake.

Zephacleas felt a grim sort of admiration well up in him — even Stormcast Eternals did not fight so fiercely, or so ruthlessly. ‘Worthy allies indeed,’ he murmured, glancing at Sutok.

The scar-faced Sunblood dipped his broad skull, as if in acknowledgement.

‘Your comrade seems to have things here well in hand,’ the Lord-Celestant said, nodding towards Oxtl-Kor and his mount as they tore apart another skaven catapult. ‘What say we find new prey, my friend?’

Sutok showed his teeth and pounded his shield. Zephacleas took that as assent and shouted, ‘Thetaleas, Duras — leave the remaining engines to our scaly friends.’ As he spoke, Sutok roared. Stormcasts and saurus alike moved towards their commanders.

Side by side, Zephacleas and Sutok led their warriors across the ramparts and towards the inner bridges. The wide walkways led to the central network of barbicans, and beyond them, the walls and gates on the other side, which overlooked the anterior avenues of the Crawling City. The Lord-Celestant raised his sword in greeting as he caught sight of Seker and Takatakk hurrying to meet them, a retinue of Protectors and skinks following in their wake.

‘Zephacleas — quickly,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘We must take the central barbican before the skaven can regroup.’ Zephacleas nodded and waved his warriors forward. He thudded across the bridge as the Lord-Relictor’s lightning-storm snarled above.

Once past the outer walls, he saw few skaven. Those he did encounter seemed more interested in escape than in preventing the Stormcasts from entering the inner chambers of the barbicans. Those few who tried to intercept them were dispatched with ease. As they crossed over the courtyard below, he saw mortals armed with makeshift weapons locked in battle with their former captors. Mantius and his Prosecutors swooped overhead, lending aid to the former prisoners where necessary. Zephacleas growled in satisfaction as he watched a woman clad in the stained remnants of what might once have been robes of office brain an unwary skaven with a chunk of setae. Despite being sick, malnourished and outnumbered, the mortals were giving a good account of themselves.

‘Should we aid them, Lord-Celestant?’ Duras said. The eagerness in his voice was echoed in the murmurs of the other Astral Templars. Each and every Stormcast Eternal knew what it was to be a victim of the Ruinous Powers, and each and every one of them desired restitution of the most bloody sort.

‘No. Mantius has it well in hand. Let them fight,’ Zephacleas said. Several of his warriors made as if to protest and he turned, fixing them with a stern glare. ‘Are they not owed for what they have suffered? Would you take that from them, merely to sate your own desire? We have many battles before us, brothers, and victories aplenty — let them have theirs.’

Satisfied, he turned. The central barbican rose over them, rounded walls now mostly covered in a shroud of filth and mould. Wherever the plague-rats went, such foulness was sure to follow. The massive doors had been torn off their hinges and the way in was unguarded.

The sounds of battle grew dim as the allies entered the structure. The chamber spread out around them, the air thick with the stink of vermin and illness.

‘The Libraria Vurmis,’ the Lord-Relictor murmured, with what might have been awe. ‘I have rarely seen its like, save in Azyr. It is spoken of admiringly, even by the scholars of Sigmaron and the liche-monks of the Dead Vaults. They say it holds all the secrets of the Ghurlands.’

Curved rows of shelves occupied the great chamber. Piled tomes and scrolls filled every nook and cranny, and were scattered across the floor in disorderly heaps. Zephacleas looked around, taking note of the bodies hanging from the shelves or lying broken on the floor. Men and women, clad in the remains of robes and armour, their bodies showing signs of torture. Their passing had not been easy, he thought, and anger rose in him.

Takatakk hissed softly, and he followed the skink’s gaze. A strange glow throbbed at the heart of the chamber. Past the fallen shelves, amongst the filth-covered pillars, a single skaven stood with its back to them, swaying slightly, clutching a staff tipped with a green stone which pulsed with a strange light. The creature hacked and wheezed piteously.

‘Rat-priest,’ Zephacleas said. The creature whirled with a shriek. It was cloaked in a sickening murk. Its flesh was swollen and its blind eyes wept oily tears. It shrilled and swept its claws out, filling the air with greenish flames. The shelves caught immediately, and their contents as well.

‘Seker, keep everyone else back,’ Zephacleas said as he stepped forward. He caught sight of Sutok doing the same. The Sunblood lifted his shield and Zephacleas crossed his weapons as the green flames washed over them. The heat of them was not clean — it made his flesh crawl beneath his war-plate. It was the heat of infection given shape and unleashed. Zephacleas ducked his head and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. The flames licked at his armour, leaving greasy trails of char across its purple surface.

From out of the corner of his eye, he saw Takatakk strike the ground with the end of his staff. The tainted pressure of the flames seemed to lessen, for just a moment. The skaven’s blind gaze turned towards the skink and it snarled wordlessly. With a gesture, it sent a column of flame roiling towards the Starpriest. Takatakk swept his claws out, splitting and snuffing the flames in a burst of star-light.

Zephacleas lunged forward through the dying flames and brought his runeblade down on the rat-priest’s skinny shoulder. The vermin staggered, but did not fall. Yellowish froth burst from its mouth as it caught hold of his blade with its free claw and tore it loose. Its blood spurted and sizzled where it struck his armour. Wormy muscles bulged unnaturally in its arm as it bent the sword away from itself. Zephacleas swung his hammer into the side of its scrawny chest, but the blow barely budged it. Still clutching his sword, it struck at him with its staff.

Zephacleas avoided the glowing nub of warpstone and tore his sword free from its grip. He chopped through the staff as it swept it around again, trailing greenish smoke through the air. The rat-priest shrieked and tossed the remains aside. Before it could attempt a spell, Sutok’s club crushed its skull. It fell twitching to the ground, its diseased blood burning the floor. The Sunblood waved his shield, snuffing the flames which clung to its surface.

‘Call down the storm, Lord-Relictor,’ Zephacleas said. ‘Put out these fires before we lose this whole chamber.’

Seker’s prayer was a melancholy one. The atmosphere grew damp as the Lord-Relictor called water from the very air. It dripped outwards from the walls and down from the ceiling, snuffing the flames. Soon, the air was thick with ash and blackened shelves groaned as they settled. Piles of scrolls and books had been reduced to nothing more than blackened smears on the floor.

‘All of this knowledge, ruined. A millennia of gathered wisdom, made into fodder for vermin,’ Seker said. His voice was harsh. ‘This is why we fight, brothers. This is what will become of the Mortal Realms should we fail — all will fall to corruption.’

‘Right now, I’m more concerned with the rat-priests. Mantius reported seeing more than one, but other than the creature we just dispatched, we’ve seen none,’ Zephacleas said, jabbing the body with his sword. One of the more infuriating habits of the ratkin was their propensity for cowardice, this one excepted. Mad, obviously, he thought — the plague-vermin are almost worse than the Bloodbound. But the others had fled. He hated having to chase the foe. Give me orruks any day… a straightforward test of strength, rather than all of this skulking and searching, he thought sourly.

‘G— gone,’ a muffled voice wheezed. ‘They’re gone.’

Zephacleas whirled, searching for the speaker, weapons raised. His warriors spread out at his signal, hunting.

‘There,’ Seker said, after a few moments, pointing with his staff.

Zephacleas followed his gesture and wrenched one of the shattered bookshelves up, revealing a broken shape beneath. The mortal was clad in the tattered remnants of battered scale armour and yellowish robes. His face was a mass of bruises and infected wounds marked his arm and bare flesh. His eyes were gone, leaving behind only ruined, raw sockets. Zephacleas tossed the rest of the shelves aside but hesitated. The mortal was dying. His chest heaved as he sucked in a rattling breath. Was I this fragile, once, he thought?

‘Leave him where he is,’ the Lord-Relictor murmured. ‘His spirit will not linger long and there is no reason to cause him any further agony by moving him.’

Zephacleas examined the dying man. He was dressed in the same fashion as the corpses strewn about the library. The mortal gazed sightlessly up at him. Broken fingers thumped uselessly against his sigmarite as the dying man reached for him. ‘W-we held the Libraria until— until the last,’ the mortal wheezed. ‘C-could hold it n-no longer. T-too many of them. Came in their thousands, burrowing up through the g-great worm’s flesh…’ He began to cough, and Zephacleas knelt. The mortal’s ruined hand passed across the contours of his war-helm. ‘S-Sigmar,’ the dying man hissed. ‘We… we waited for you to come… we prayed… we…’ A spasm ran through him.

Zephacleas wanted to speak, to deliver words of comfort, but none came to mind. What was there to say? Is this how it was to be? Did they exist only to avenge those already fallen? He pushed the thought aside, and focused on the matter at hand. ‘Where did they go? Where have the skaven fled?’ he murmured.

‘Th-through the Scar-roads,’ the man muttered. ‘O-only we knew of those roads. The daemon t-told them to… the daemon…’ He caught hold of Zephacleas’ armour with surprising strength. ‘We prayed,’ he hissed. Another spasm tore through him, and he went still. Zephacleas bowed his head. He heard the other Stormcasts gather around. The Lord-Relictor began to murmur the Incantation for the Fallen.

Zephacleas rose to his feet. The seraphon were watching them silently. He met the inscrutable gaze of Takatakk, and wondered if the Starpriest understood or cared what he had witnessed. The skink communicated nothing either way.

‘Whatever road they’ve taken, we know where they’re going,’ he said, after a moment. ‘We march for the Setaen Palisades.’

CHAPTER SIX

Soul of the Hunter

Fires burned within the Dorsal Barbicans. Mortal men and women, newly freed and healed by the magics of the Stormcast Eternals, carried fire and blade into the dark, cleansing the ancient fortress of those lingering packs of skaven. Takatakk watched them from the dome of the Libraria Vurmis. The mortal inhabitants of the Crawling City glowed with a pale amber light, and he could trace their lifelines back along the solid orange river of Shu’gohl’s existence. That river stretched back to the birth of the realm and forward, into the misty reaches of the future. Strands of infection threaded through that thick skein of existence — the lives of the vermin. Those strands grew thicker and then faded abruptly as they intersected with the cerulean threads of Azyr.

Takatakk nodded to himself, satisfied that things were progressing as Great Lord Kurkori had foreseen. Shu’gohl’s progress towards its ultimate end would continue unhindered. What part the great leviathan would play in those distant, yet-undreamed events, Takatakk did not know, but the Dreaming Constellation would see that it was around to do so.

Down below, the Stormcast Eternals made ready to march. They glowed with a flickering radiance that Takatakk found comforting, though strange. It was akin to the light which flared through the seraphon, and yet not — weaker, perhaps. The Stormcasts were yet merely memories-to-be, rather than memories-of-what-was. In time, perhaps, they would become as one with the light of Azyr — things of pure order, even as the seraphon were. But for now…

He heard the bellow of Zephacleas’ laughter, and thought, just for an instant, about the inevitable and the inexorable. Claws scraped on stone and he turned. Oxtl-Kor stood behind him. ‘They are too slow,’ the Oldblood growled. ‘The vermin will escape us.’

Takatakk cocked his head. ‘Great Lord Kurkori says—’

‘I know what he says, Starpriest,’ the Oldblood rumbled. He tapped his skull with a claw. ‘I hear his words in my blood as well as you. I will not fail. The stink of the vermin-spoor is strong, and Sawtooth’s belly is empty.’ He looked at their master, reclining on his throne. ‘His wishes are many, and all must be fulfilled, even the least of them. I follow the Dreaming Seer’s design, even as you do.’

The skink grunted. He clicked his jaw, uncertain. The plan stretched before him, but even he was not aware of every facet of its infinite complexity. He was but a conduit for the wisdom of his master, an extension of the Dreaming Seer’s will. To him fell the mundane responsibilities of battle, the guiding of the unruly along the predestined path. Oxtl-Kor was more unruly than some. ‘We will march for the great worm’s head. You must mark our path, O veteran of wars yet undreamt. Show us their trail,’ he chirped.

Oxtl-Kor grunted and turned to clamber back down the dome. Takatakk watched him rejoin his warriors, waiting below on the ramparts. He could subtly alter the outcome of a battle, or call forth the destructive energies of Azyr itself, but he could not change what was written. Victory was bought by the blood of the star-born, and even in death, they would serve the Great Plan. Where they stood, death would not pass. And where they fell, the taint which afflicted the worm would be purged.

He closed his eyes, and let his mind stretch forth, into the deep places, where Tokl and his chameleon skinks stalked the vermin scurrying in the dark. Go, he pulsed.

Down deep, on the twisting intestinal currents of the Squirming Sea, Vretch waved his staff and unleashed a wave of sizzling, entropic energy. The lashing, fang-studded leech-maw came apart in smouldering clumps of rotting meat. More of the thrashing, hungry tendrils erupted from the boiling digestive juices and darted for the squealing skaven manning the rafts.

Panicked plague monks hacked at the gnashing, serpentine shapes with rusty blades, as Vretch, annoyed, began to chant. The sliver of warpstone set into the top of his staff glowed, and waves of oily light rippled out from it. He thumped his staff down, and the light flared. The tendrils caught in its radiance abruptly stiffened and began to swell. One by one, they burst, spewing maggots into the bubbling waters.

Vretch sniffed and looked around. So far, he’d only lost one raft to the hungry denizens of the Olgu’gohl. Something massive had surfaced from beneath a reef of worms and hooked the raft with a flabby claw, pulling it and its crew of plague monks down into the gastric morass. But he was determined to lose no more.

After all, who knew what dangers awaited him in the lost warren? He needed as many loyal — but more importantly, expendable — bodies between him and what might be waiting for him as possible. Geistmaw could be infested by all manner of horrors, given how long it had rested forgotten in the worm’s belly.

‘Faster-faster,’ he chittered, swatting one of the closest plague monks with his staff. ‘Row faster or we’ll all be food for the worms!’

As the monks bent over their oars and the raft picked up speed, he shuffled to the back and took his place at the rear, with the Conglomeration. The thing had been quiescent since its last outburst, but it still jerked fitfully on its palanquin. Every so often, he caught it looking at him and wondered whether Skuralanx was keeping an eye on him. Annoyed by its twitching, he looked away, out over the narrow sea of digestive juices.

The flickering torches mounted in the prow of the rafts cast an eerie light over the cavernous interior of the worm’s gullet. Strange shapes crawled through the shadowed upper reaches, or splashed through the shallows. Chunks of rubble thrust up on every side of the floating rafts like broken islands. A thousand cities had perished to Shu’gohl’s hunger before it had been tamed, and their ruins littered its craw. The tattered remnants of orruk encampments flapped in the foul sea-wind, and once, Vretch thought he saw the carcass of a gargant, covered in a pelt of hungry worms.

His snout wrinkled as he sniffed the air. He could smell the tang of strange moulds and ichors on the wind. Occasionally, they had passed thick patches of poison and infection, seeping down from above. Who knew what sort of poxes could be brewed here, in these humid depths? Perhaps he’d made a mistake, making his encampment above. The belly of the beast was fertile ground for the planting of pestilences. Yes-yes, it would make the perfect cauldron for the brewing of the Great Plague, once the Liber was in his grasp.

A hollow, tooth-rattling groan swept over the Squirming Sea, and the sizzling waters suddenly swirled ferociously, causing the rafts to bob in an alarming fashion. His followers cowered, and the air was thick with the musk of fear. Vretch was tempted to follow suit, but he clamped down on his panic, trying to think instead of the successes to come. His stomach lurched nonetheless and he awkwardly snatched up his tail and stuffed it in his mouth. He felt no pain, despite the way his chisel-like teeth cut into his wrinkly flesh, but the coppery taste of blood and pus calmed him.

The bubbling waters slopped over the edges of the raft, stinging his claws. The worm was weakening. It was succumbing to the thousands of pox-brews and pestilences unleashed on its flesh, and the damage from the fighting above. Sheets of rotting muscle fell from above, splashing down into the Squirming Sea as the monster convulsed. Another moan echoed through its craw, and Vretch found himself momentarily deafened. The noise reminded him — unpleasantly — of the thunder he’d heard, and the knowledge of what it meant.

He bit down harder, juggling the Mappo Vurmio and his staff as he tried to feed more of his tail into his mouth in a moment of stress. Kruk would keep the enemy occupied. That much he was certain of. Kruk had all the survival instincts of a rat ogre with a snout full of warpdust, and less sense. Once he sank his teeth into a foe, he didn’t let go until they were dead. He would fight the storm-things until he won or, more likely, they killed him.

Vretch chittered in pleasure at the thought. Kruk had dogged his trail for too long. Yes-yes, Skuralanx would see to it, and even if the storm-things failed, then Squeelch would…

He stiffened, the thought lost. There was a new scent on the air, a familiar stink, though he’d never encountered it before. He remembered what the daemon had shown him, and what he’d felt in those visions, and he spat out his tail. Vretch whirled, searching the curved walls of Shu’gohl’s gut-pipe for some sign of the enemy he knew must be close by.

Nearby, a plague monk pitched backwards, clawing at a shimmering dart that had sprouted suddenly from his throat. The skaven gurgled and slumped, steam rising from his flesh. As Vretch watched in horrified fascination, the dying monk’s flesh began to putrefy even faster than normal. ‘Poison,’ he hissed. ‘Guard yourselves, fools.’

A sudden shout from one of the other rafts drew his attention and he turned to see reptilian shapes bleeding into view, their scales shimmering strangely as they raced across the cliffs and crags of muscle and meat. They were there one moment and gone the next, as if blending into the background.

He watched in horror as the raft behind his came under attack. The plague monks aboard gave in to panic, rocking the raft wildly as they sought to find cover from the hissing death which shot out of the darkness. It availed them nothing; one by one, they slumped or pitched over the sides, their rotting bodies vanishing into the digestives juices of the worm. The empty raft, bereft of rowers, wafted along, drawn in the wake of his own craft.

‘Faster! Row-row rapid-quick,’ Vretch shrieked, battering at his followers with his staff. ‘Stroke — stroke — stroke — faster-faster!’ Satisfied that they were following his commands, Vretch turned his attentions back to the foe. His eyes narrowed. They were gone. He spun, searching the opposite shore, but saw not even the barest hint of movement.

He heard screams from the rafts behind, and snapped his jaws in frustrated realization. Of course, he thought. They’re trying to weaken my magnificent forces, to rob me of my mighty congregation! That thought was soon followed by another, slightly more panicked one. They know! Somehow, they know… He looked around, trying to spot the other rafts. Two had been sent ahead to test the waters, but there were four behind — how many yet remained?

Enough, perhaps, to occupy the unseen enemy’s attentions, he thought. He stood, steadying himself with his staff, and called out to the flickering light of the warp torches. ‘Vilebroth, Pux — my most loyal and courageous brothers, do you yet live?’ When squeals of assent greeted his cry, he said, ‘You must row for shore, my brave ones! Vretch shall meet you there. Together, we shall sweep aside these sneaking, treacherous assassins, yes-yes!’

He counted to ten, waiting until he heard the excited splashing of oars carrying the rafts to shore, and then let out a breath. Then, with a hiss, he raised his staff and conjured forth a sickly radiance which swelled and filled the air, illuminating even the deepest shadow.

The light washed across the shore, revealing the startled plague monks as they clambered out of their rafts. Yet also, it revealed the lurking shapes of the seraphon.

Vretch flung out a hand. ‘There! There, Pux — see them, get them, fast-slay them, lest they kill you all.’

The two bands of warriors hesitated, staring at one another. Then a skink raised its blowpipe, and one of the plague monks gasped and fell backwards into the water. With that, the battle was joined. Vretch watched for a moment, until he was satisfied that the skinks were too preoccupied to pursue.

‘Hold this, wretched one,’ he snarled, tossing the Mappo Vurmio to one of his servants. ‘Guard it with your worthless life, or be prepared to face the wrath of the Horned Rat himself, as embodied by me.’

Vretch turned from the cowering skaven and thrust his voluminous sleeves up, exposing his pallid, mange-ridden foreclaws. Clutching his staff in both claws, he began to sweep it in a wide circle, as if he were standing over a pox-cauldron.

The air turned oily and thick. Half-seen shapes formed in the murk, and the water roiled about them as the edges of the raft were caught in insubstantial talons.

‘Pull in your oars, lazy fools,’ he said. ‘You are not going fast enough. As ever, it has been left up to me to see us through.’ He thrust his staff forward, and the newly-conjured pox-winds swelled, shoving the raft on through the water.

The sounds of battle faded as he manipulated the murky wind. He grunted in satisfaction. It was as he’d always said. If you wanted a bone gnawed properly, it was best to gnaw it yourself.

Skuralanx, clinging to the side of a setae tower, watched the seraphon lizard-riders charge through the rolling streets of the Crawling City in pursuit of their prey. They were led by a bestial war-leader on a monstrous steed. The verminlord shook his shaggy head, wondering at the thrill of fear that shot through him at the sight of the star-devils — he had never encountered them before.

The whispers of the Horned Rat, the daemon thought, after a moment. Like all of his kind, the verminlord was but a mote of something greater; a vast intelligence whose attentions he feared, resented and craved in equal measure. He crawled around the other side of the tower as a flock of flying lizards swooped past, their riders chirping to one another. Skuralanx watched them go, half-formed memories of wickedly sharp beaks ripping the steaming innards out of squealing skaven filling his crooked mind.

Skuralanx recognised his true foe easily enough. The name of the Dreaming Seer was a whispered curse in the plague-gardens and filth-warrens of skaven and mortal Rotbringer alike. Kurkori, last survivor of the Nightmare War and slayer of Balagrex, one of the Seven Virulent Sons of Bolathrax. The Dreaming Seer had cooled the ever-burning sea, so that his star-blooded legions could march across and lay waste to the Fortress of Malady and burn the seven great plague-gardens within.

Skuralanx scrambled to the top of the tower and sprang across the gap separating it from its closest neighbour. The tower swayed gently as he landed. Before it had stilled, he was moving again, hunting the hunters. They were on Kruk’s trail, and would catch him if he didn’t intervene. Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have worried about it — Kruk had more than served his purpose — but he suspected he would need the fanatic again before this affair was ended, if only to have something durable to throw at his enemies, when the time came.

The seraphon were as implacable as they were deadly, and single-minded besides. That would be their downfall. The storm-things were a different matter. He’d recognised their great, roaring brute of a leader — that one had almost done for Skuralanx’s kin-rival, Vermalanx, at the Gates of Dawn in the Jade Kingdoms.

Skuralanx had watched from the shadows alongside the rest of his sniggering, chittering kin as Vermalanx had gone to aid his ally, the Great Unclean One Bolathrax. His kin-rival had paid the price for his lack of caution. Skuralanx did not intend to follow his example. This was not the Ghyrtract Fen, and he was not a fool.

Far behind the seraphon riders rose the storm clouds that marked the rest of their host. Where the warriors of Azyr marched, lightning flashed and cleansing rains fell, ruining all that the Clans Pestilens had worked so hard to build. Skuralanx hissed. They were moving faster than he’d anticipated. He’d left Squeelch to cover their tracks, but it hadn’t been enough. Even as a distraction, that one was a disappointment. He scratched a talon down the side of his skull, dislodging one of the bone-beetles nesting there. He caught the insect and popped it between his incisors. Crunching idly, he considered his options.

The Stormcast Eternals and the seraphon — one or the other, he could have handled. But both together was a challenge, even for one as perspicacious as Skuralanx the Cunning. Still, he had the advantage in cunning, in wisdom, and in might. One against two is no contest, he thought, but the one is me, and I am worth at least three, am I not? Yes-yes, possibly even four. All problems had solutions. He simply had to… ah.

He stretched out a claw and touched the filthy breeze. He could taste the million skeins of plague which threaded throughout the city, and with a single gesture, pulled them tight. A cacophony of squeals echoed through his head and he cackled. Where the skaven went, so too did their smaller cousins. Millions of plague-rats scurried through the city, spreading pestilence, and with the merest exertion of his incandescent might, he summoned them all.

The rats would divert some of the hunters, at least. For the rest, he would have to take matters into his own claws. He sped on, loping from shadow to shadow, winnowing through the rat-holes in reality, trying to get ahead of the main contingent of seraphon pursuers. He and his kin had gnawed tunnels through the walls of existence for millennia. One simply had to know where to look. The Scar-roads of the Crawling City were similar things. He saw movement below, and heard the clangour of bells.

Predictable, he thought. And out in the open as well. Vretch is right — Kruk is a fool. But, unfortunately, a necessary one. Vretch, though cunning, was too treacherous to be trusted with the secret of the Liber for long — that one was undoubtedly already planning to betray Skuralanx for his own gain. Kruk, should he survive, would make a more suitable figurehead for the glories to come. He was too simple to plot against his master and too durable to die.

Skaven spilled out of the stump of a ruined setaen tower like insects out of a rotten log. With angry squeals, they pursued a stumbling mortal into the open plaza beyond. Even from so far above, Skuralanx could tell that the human, one of the last surviving members of the Order of the Worm, was dying on his feet. Blood poured from his wounds, and his breath came in harsh rasps. Skuralanx leapt from shadow to shadow, descending in the blink of an eye.

He dropped to the ground in front of the mortal and slapped the unlucky human from his feet. The mortal fell to the floor, body contorted in agony.

Kruk, at the head of his followers, leapt on the fallen human with a triumphant growl. ‘Thought you could flee-escape, yes-yes? No! No! No-one escapes from Kruk,’ the plague priest snarled, crushing his captive’s skull with a blow from his censer.

‘A brilliant stratagem, Kruk,’ Skuralanx said.

Kruk looked up, scarred muzzle wrinkling in a snarl. ‘He tried to escape,’ he said. He still held a handful of the dead man’s robes.

‘Yes, captives tend to do that,’ the verminlord said. He straightened to his full height as he heard the roar of the carnosaur. The air filled with the musk of fear as Kruk’s followers looked around in panic. ‘You must run-fast-scurry-quick fool,’ Skuralanx hissed, glaring down at the skaven. Kruk dropped the dying human and wiped his bloody claw on his robes.

‘Yes-yes,’ he growled. He turned, as if seeking the source of the roar. ‘But the enemy…’

‘I will deal with them, Archfumigant. You will do as I command,’ Skuralanx snarled. His tails lashed in fury as he glared down at his servant. ‘Maybe I should have let Squeelch kill you, yes? Maybe Squeelch would have listened to his most wise and cunning master, rather than questioning me at every turn like the addle-pated fool before me,’ he hissed, snapping his jaws in frustration. ‘Get to the palisades, take them for me, take them from Vretch!’

Kruk opened his mouth as if to argue further, when a sudden shriek interrupted him. Star-devil lizard-riders loped across the open plaza before the ruined tower, heading straight for the gathered skaven. Skuralanx spat a deplorable word and a wave of sickly light washed across the plaza. As the plaza gave way, dissolving into tarry ichor, the worm writhed in agony. Setae swayed, slamming together with deafening crashes, as the street rolled upwards with a surging motion. The bipedal lizards screeched as they were sent sprawling. Some were hurled into the bubbling ichor, where they and their riders struggled helplessly against the viscous liquid as it ate at their flesh. Kruk cackled and capered. Skuralanx whirled and shoved him back. ‘I said go, fool,’ the verminlord shrieked. ‘Go or all is lost.’

Kruk’s followers caught his arms and dragged him back. Satisfied, Skuralanx turned back to the plaza. The blight had spread, and the worm’s thrashing grew worse. Across the plaza, the massive reptile stalked into view. Its rider thrust out a golden gauntlet and unleashed a burst of blinding energy in the verminlord’s direction.

Skuralanx ducked the blast and bounded forward, plaguereapers held low. He leapt over the bubbling ichor, racing across the thrashing bodies of the beasts and their dying riders. The giant reptile roared and lunged, jaws wide, as it caught sight of him. Skuralanx dove aside, narrowly avoiding the beast. He rolled to his hooves and sprang between the monster reptile’s legs. His blades slashed out, slicing easily through the monster’s tendons. The wounds turned black and gangrenous.

The great beast toppled forward with a despairing shriek. Skuralanx deftly avoided its pain-wracked thrashing, and drove a blade into one rolling eye. The orb burst with a hiss and the giant reptile shrieked again, its jaws savaging the air. It squirmed across the dissolving plaza, snapping blindly. Skuralanx sprang onto its skull and raced towards the dying beast’s rider. He slashed out, hoping to kill the seraphon before it could free itself.

He wasn’t fast enough. The seraphon roared as it rolled from the saddle. It bobbed to its feet, spear whirling about its head as its mount thrashed its last. It slashed out with the spear, driving Skuralanx back. The daemon backed away, plaguereapers raised. The spear stank of dark places, where no light fell save for the cold flicker of stars. It was a deathly thing, capable of harming even one of his preeminent might.

The star-devil’s snarl pounded at Skuralanx’s brain like the moan of a dying sun. Everything about it, the way it moved, the way it smelled, offended him — it was a thing of wrongness, opaque and hideously solid in a fluid universe. A voice within him wailed in terror, and he fought the urge to seek safety in the shadows. The creature snarled again and surged forward with sinuous grace, its every move causing the air to hum.

The deadly spear thrust forward again, and despite his speed it glanced off his skull. The blade burned him where it touched, and chunks of bone and hair blackened and fell away from him as he staggered back. He slashed wildly at his opponent, and just managed to hook the haft of the spear. He tore the weapon from the star-devil’s grip and kicked it in the belly, knocking it backwards.

The creature leapt on him a moment later, its gauntlet crackling with painful energies. Skuralanx shrieked as his flesh smouldered. He drove an elbow into his foe’s scaly snout and thrust one of his plaguereapers between the plates of its armour. Teeth snapped shut perilously close to his jugular, and Skuralanx shrilled. He clawed desperately at his foe, rolling back and forth across the ground. The seraphon’s tail looped around him, trying to break his bones.

Even as he fought, Skuralanx felt a hideous, fearful weight settle within him — this confrontation was merely the echo of a million-million other conflicts, raging back to the beginning of time. It had been fought again and again, between the servants of the rat and the serpent. Prey and predator, locked in an unending cycle. No matter how deeply the Horned Rat might dig his burrows into the soft soil of all that was, the serpent inevitably found him. And even as the rat-god feared the Devouring Serpent, so too did those shards of him which were the verminlords fear their opposite numbers.

Skuralanx clawed at the ground, fighting the panic which gnawed at him. Strong jaws snapped at his throat. He rolled over, trying to shove the creature off him. It pushed its gauntlet towards his snout, the crackling energies singing his whiskers. The creature’s yellow eyes widened suddenly, and it reared back with an agonised roar.

The seraphon fell away from him, its own spear jutting from its back. Skuralanx looked up and saw Kruk backing away, his claw still smoking from where he’d touched the star-forged weapon. ‘You live, yes-yes?’ he chittered. ‘Kruk has saved you, Skuralanx, yes he has.’ His good eye blazed with fanatical fervour as he gazed at the dying seraphon. ‘Kruk could not abandon you, O most holy of holies. Whatever you commanded…’

Skuralanx gazed at the plague priest. ‘You mean it,’ he muttered. ‘You actually mean it.’ Wonder of wonders — an honest skaven. Kruk was utterly mad.

The plague priest rubbed his burnt claw against his filthy robes. ‘Filthy star-devil,’ he gurgled, gazing down at the thing’s dissolving form. He shuffled back as the creature’s blood pooled on the floor. It cleansed the ground as it spread and Kruk hissed in repulsion. ‘Your nests will rot untended, when the Horned Rat ascends to his proper place. And Kruk will be there to feast on them, yes-yes.’

He looked at Skuralanx. Before he could speak, the verminlord rose to his full height.

‘Go back to your congregation, fool. They require your guidance. You must get to the Setaen Palisades, quick-quick. I will see to any further pursuit. Go!’ he snarled.

It would not do to let Kruk realise how close Skuralanx had come to being defeated, until his intervention. Kruk eyed him for a moment, and then scampered away.

Skuralanx shook his head. Yes, Kruk would be a fine figurehead, when victory had been achieved, but until then… he stiffened, sniffing the air. He turned to see his blight steaming away as the last of the trapped seraphon finally succumbed. Their blood and flesh shimmered as it dissolved and he stepped back, scalp bristling with an inexplicable fear.

The bubbling ichors were burnt away by the blinding light as the corrupting magics were cleansed from the worm’s flesh. Skuralanx turned and saw that the same was happening around the dissipating carcass of the star-devil as well, and its fallen mount. The light swelled, rising up, and he felt the grime-stiffened hairs of his mane sizzle as a terrible cleansing heat stretched out towards him. With a hiss, he leapt for the shadows.

Mantius Far-killer swooped over the Crawling City, sickened by what he saw. The skaven had left a trail of destruction from the Dorsal Barbicans to the outskirts of the Setaen Palisades. The streets between the tall bristle-towers were full of toxic smog and pits eaten away in the worm’s flesh, thick with bubbling pox-waters. The worm’s convulsions were growing worse as it twisted first one way and then the next, as if trying to shed its abused flesh.

Shu’gohl was strong, befitting a creature that had lived for uncounted centuries on the open steppes of Ghur. But the great worm was approaching its limits, he suspected. He looked towards its head, where the eternal lightning storm shimmered. The storm acted as the great worm’s eyes in some manner, Mantius suspected, allowing it to know where it was crawling. Whatever its purpose, the storm also marked the site of the Sahg’gohl. He could almost make out the tiers and shattered minarets of the ancient temple.

The loremasters of Sigmaron spoke of a calamity, in the early days of the Age of Chaos, when some hell-sent beast had attacked Shu’gohl on its unending travels. The great worm had almost died then, and the ancient temple-crown which clung to its head had been destroyed, its priests killed to a man.

But Shu’gohl had survived, and the Crawling City had survived, even as the folk of Azyr had done. Chaos surges wild, but it cannot drown us all, he thought, his earlier bitterness forgotten. It was one of Zephacleas’ favourite sayings, and was always punctuated by a bellow of laughter. His Lord-Celestant was capable of great mirth, for all that he was an implacable warrior. But there was a fatalistic streak to his commander as well — a surety of death. The only surety Mantius possessed was that of finding his mark when he loosed an arrow.

He climbed up through the air, away from the worm, into the amber skies. He could see the vast plumes of dust rising from the steppes as the worm crawled across them. In the distance, through the dust and rain, he could make out the hunched, mountainous form of one of the other great worms, and the long columns of smoke which rose from the bastion on its back. Guh’hath, the Brass Bastion, he thought. The Great Worm of Khorne.

The Brass Bastion had been squirming towards Shu’gohl for months — years even — in slow, agonizing pursuit. It would have caught up with the Crawling City in ten years, maybe less, if warriors from the Sons of Mallus Stormhost had not intercepted it. No less than three Warrior Chambers from the Sons now laid siege to the Brass Bastion.

It would fall, as the skaven would fall. They would free the steppes of the taint of Chaos, and harry its followers wherever they found them. Mantius snarled, unable to contain the sudden surge of savage joy which filled him. The air rushed around him as he rose towards the ochre storm clouds. He swooped down, crackling wings spread, and scanned the tops of the setae towers which rose along Shu’gohl’s back.

He could just make out the shapes of his Prosecutors, spread out across the city, hunting the skaven wherever they might choose to congregate. After the fall of the Dorsal Barbicans, the vast majority of the vermin had scattered, streaming into the crooked streets beyond. They had occupied the city long enough that there would be innumerable warrens and burrows for them to seek refuge in. Lord-Celestant Zephacleas was determined that the ratmen would find none, and have no chance to regroup. And so Mantius’ huntsmen had been dispatched to range ahead of the combined host and harass the skaven.

Mantius himself had already claimed the tails of over a dozen reeking rat-monks as they sought to ambush the seraphon vanguard which followed the trail of the largest group of skaven. But while he’d paused to deal with the ratmen, the seraphon had continued their hunt, and seemingly vanished.

Somewhere above him, Aurora shrieked. The raptor swooped past him and he followed. She had seen something. A moment later, so did he. The bird’s swelling starlight rose up, washing over the towers. He felt a tingling in his limbs as it blazed over and past him. As it cleared, he spotted a shape fleeing the fading edge of the light. He recognised the verminlord easily enough. The daemon was running flat out, springing from tower to tower with all the agility of the vermin it resembled, outpacing the light with desperate speed.

I see you, beast, and no shadows to hide in thanks to that light, he thought as he angled himself and swooped downwards. He drew an arrow from his quiver and nocked it as he dove towards the daemon.

He held the arrow steady, waiting. When the rat-daemon made a leap, he loosed the shaft. It caught the verminlord between its shaggy shoulder-blades, and sent it plummeting down into the gap between the two towers. Mantius pursued it, Aurora streaking ahead of him with a predatory shriek. But so intent was he on taking the beast’s head, that he nearly lost his own. As he tucked his wings and sped down between the towers, a flash of reflected light stung his eyes. He twisted aside, and a curved blade drew fat sparks from his shoulder-plate.

The force of the blow drove him into the opposite tower. The verminlord sprang at him. Its blades slashed down, gouging his amethyst armour. He lashed out, driving his feet into the creature’s gut. They fell in a tangle, and the street cracked beneath them. The verminlord stabbed one of its blades through the joint of his wing, pinning him to the ground. It slapped his realmhunter’s bow from his grip, and caught his war-helm in its free talon. It raised its remaining blade. ‘Scream loud, storm-thing,’ the daemon chittered. ‘Only Skuralanx to hear you…’

Mantius whistled. Aurora screeched and dove towards the verminlord like a shimmering comet. The star-eagle tore at the daemon’s head with beak and talons, scoring the pox-warped bone again and again. The verminlord staggered back, flailing blindly at its avian attacker.

While his opponent was distracted, Mantius tore his wing free of the daemon’s blade and drew two arrows from his quiver. They crackled as he thrust them into the daemon’s hip and midsection, eliciting a shriek of agony. The verminlord’s knee came up and struck his face. Mantius staggered back, vision spinning. ‘Aurora,’ he rasped.

The star-eagle shrieked and so too did the verminlord, as the raptor’s talons tore at its throat and muzzle. The daemon swung an arm, driving the star-eagle back, and whirled to plunge into the shadows gathered about the base of the tower. The creature vanished with a shrill hiss. Mantius swiftly reclaimed his bow and nocked an arrow, waiting.

He heard the shriek of the flying seraphon overhead, and the rattle of sigmarite echoing through the streets beyond the towers. He relaxed slightly. The verminlord was gone, but he’d hurt the creature. He could smell the foul tang of its ichors. And if he could smell it, he could track it.

He raised a hand, and Aurora swooped low about him. ‘Find it, my friend,’ he said, to the star-eagle. ‘Seek it out with your void-spanning eyes and lead me to it.’

Twice now he’d fought the verminlord, and twice it had escaped.

It would not do so a third time.

Chapter SEVEN

The Setaen Palisades

Skuralanx scuttled through the shadows of the worm, moving through the dark trails of rot and poison which pierced the great beast as easily as a skaven might scurry through a gnaw hole. The places where the raptor had clawed at him ached, and he longed to tear the bird to pieces. But he would wait, yes, wait and choose the right time and place for vengeance, rather than being drawn into a pointless scuffle with such an annoyance.

He scratched at the suppurating wounds left by the Stormcast’s arrows as he scurried. They had been infused with the raw stuff of Azyr, and had come close to severing the bonds that held him tied to this realm. Daemons rarely felt pain, unless the Horned Rat so willed it, in his infinite patience, and Skuralanx did not care for the sensation. He wished to avoid it in the future.

Such a cunning scheme, so nearly undone by chance — no, treachery, he thought, as he scuttled. It was always treachery. Chance had been allowed for, but this… this was an attack. Someone — some force — was trying to prevent him from finding the eighth Great Plague. Another verminlord, perhaps… yes, that made sense. How else to explain these same purple-clad Stormcast Eternals and the star-devils showing up here, on the eve of his triumph?

Vermalanx had been close to finding the Hidden Vale, and was defeated, he thought. I am close to success here and… He hissed. Treachery, yes. But who? Which among his kin had driven this blade into his back? He shook his shaggy head. He would discover their identity soon enough. Once he had the lost Liber in his clutches, none would stand before him.

He twisted about and plummeted deeper through the shadows, into the depths of the worm, following the particular trails of rot and filth left by Vretch and his followers. He cursed his lot, having to use and keep track of such flawed tools. Was any child of the Horned Rat so beset by foolishness? No, he thought. Only Skuralanx. All the better to prove his worth, perhaps. But only if he succeeded. And that meant keeping track of his servants and ensuring that they got where they needed to go, before it was too late.

He emerged onto the last of Vretch’s rafts, from the shadows behind the palanquin where the plague priest’s Conglomeration sat, tittering to itself. The mass of conjoined skaven thrashed as it sensed his presence, and it mewled softly from many mouths. Vretch, standing beside it, stiffened, his whiskers twitching. ‘Is — is that you, O most beloved and officious one?’

‘It is I, Vretch,’ Skuralanx growled. He rose to his full height, causing the raft to dip dangerously. Several plague monks darted looks at him, but hurriedly turned away to bend over their oars once more. ‘Prepare your congregation, Vretch. The enemy follow you,’ Skuralanx said. He spoke softly, so as not to attract the undue attention of the others. They knew he was here, but they also knew better than to look. They were not worthy to gaze upon the Scurrying Dark, and he had done horrible things to those who dared.

‘What? How?’ Vretch muttered, his eyes widening in sudden panic. ‘What have you done?’ He made as if to confront the daemon and rose from his seat.

Skuralanx caught Vretch by the back of his head and prevented him from turning. His tails coiled about the plague priest. Not too tight, but just enough to make Vretch’s bones creak audibly. ‘I? I have done nothing save bring you warning, you ungrateful squealer. And more besides — Kruk is on his way, O most unworthy of my many servants. He flees to the Setaen Palisades, and your enemies give chase. Have you found my Liber yet, lackadaisical one?’

He could feel Vretch squirm in his grip, and hear the quick thump of his heart. He could smell the fear of all of the skaven on the raft. ‘You — you honour me, O most conniving one,’ Vretch whimpered. ‘It is — I mean — you speak to me in the flesh, not through my creation…’ He gestured jerkily to the Conglomeration. Skuralanx growled softly. He hated wearing that fleshy guise, but it had served to keep some distance between himself and Vretch.

Skaven, whatever their clan, whatever their overriding devotion, were natural spies. Plague monks moved between congregations like germs, their allegiances as ephemeral as a morning mist. He could not risk Kruk learning that he spoke with Vretch. Vretch was also more easily impressed by such tricks as possession.

Now, however, none of that mattered. He needed the Liber. If the enemy had arrived closer to the worm’s head, rather than its tail… He hissed. Another sign of the Horned Rat’s favour. He was tempted to squeeze its location out of Vretch and find it himself, but some instinct warned him against it. His mighty brain would be needed to distract and harry the enemy, to slow them so that Vretch could claim his prize. Kruk was too simple to be anything more than a minor distraction. Besides which, the Liber could very well be guarded in some manner. Best to let Vretch weather whatever dangers waited in these depths. ‘My Liber, Vretch… how soon?’

‘C-close, O most kindly and patient of pestilences,’ Vretch squeaked. Skuralanx tightened his grip on the back of the skaven’s skull.

‘How. Close,’ Skuralanx said. Normally, Vretch’s prevarications amused him, but there was little time for it now. He needed to be sure that Vretch was sure.

‘The— the books say near here — see, see! Look-look, O greatest of baleful shadows, look, there-there… a ruin!’ Vretch shrilled, gesticulating wildly.

‘Yesss, there are many ruins here, Vretch. Many-many,’ Skuralanx murmured. His tail tensed, slithering more tightly about the plague priest. ‘I feel nothing, see nothing.’

‘Th-the Liber is hidden! Yes-yes! Hidden deep-deep,’ Vretch said, in a shrill warble. ‘But I can find it! The Conglomeration knows its scent!’

‘Does it now,’ Skuralanx said, glancing at the mass of twitching flesh. Vretch might be telling the truth. Had not the Third Liber been hidden so well that the magics of a hundred plague priests failed to pinpoint its location? Such things hid themselves even from the eyes of the gods. Once again, he congratulated himself on sparing Vretch’s life.

‘Well — no, not yet, no-no,’ Vretch admitted. ‘But it will!’ He thrust a claw into his filthy robes and extracted a stoppered pot. Skuralanx reached over and took it from Vretch’s unresisting grasp.

‘What isss thisss, Vretch? Some new unguent?’ he said, examining the pot. Something sloshed within it.

‘It is that which we seek, O most pernickety one,’ Vretch said, reaching haplessly for the vial. ‘Or a dilution of such. I shall feed it to the brute and use it to find the Liber.’

‘A cunning plan, my servant… but a slow one. Would it not be better to have a hunter which can move under its own power?’ Skuralanx murmured, eyeing the Conglomeration. He twisted to the side and drove a hoof into the centre of the mass, eliciting a clamour of squealing. The obese monstrosity wobbled on its palanquin and, with a flurry of despairing shrieks, rolled into the hissing waters of the Squirming Sea. It sank swiftly, and left no trace.

Vretch stared in shock at the now-empty palanquin. The skaven at the oars had picked up speed, and Skuralanx settled back on his haunches with a sigh. Vretch hunched inward, head bowed. Skuralanx could almost hear the priest’s mind whirring.

‘You — ah — you have another suggestion then, O most mighty scion of a hundred-thousand horrors?’ He twitched a claw forward, gesturing towards one of the monks. ‘One of — ah — one of them perhaps? Who shall we see blessed this day, my most tolerant and wise of mentors?’

‘No, Vretch, no… though I do not doubt your loyalty, I feel that you would not pursue our goal so diligently, so expediently, if you had to rely on another,’ Skuralanx said. He shook the pot slightly. ‘Tell me, Vretch… are you immune to this pestilence?’

Vretch’s eyes bulged. ‘N-no, O most wise and gentle of counsellors,’ he whimpered. ‘My magics might keep it at bay for some time, but — but…’ He trailed off into strangled silence.

‘But it will kill you eventually, yes-yes? Unless you find the Liber quick-fast, yes-yes?’ Skuralanx flicked the cork out of the pot with a thumbnail. Vretch began to struggle, but too late, and not too fiercely. Unlike Kruk, he knew when he was beaten. Skuralanx caught the squirming plague priest’s muzzle and squeezed it open.

‘Do not be wrong, Vretch, or I will find your soul amid the cacophony of the Horned Rat’s great warren and gnaw upon it for time out of mind,’ Skuralanx said. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he poured the contents of the pot down the plague priest’s gullet.

Vretch coughed and retched. Skuralanx let him fall forward. The plague priest gasped out an incantation, as great boils began to rise on his exposed flesh. The boils shrank slightly, but did not disappear entirely. Even diluted, the disease was potent. Skuralanx sighed and drove a claw into Vretch’s bowed back. Ignoring his servant’s writhing and shrieking, he carved a ruinous sigil on Vretch’s flesh. ‘Be still,’ he hissed. ‘This is for your own good, fool.’

When he’d finished, he leaned forward, over the gasping, whimpering priest. ‘Know this, Vretch… I have carved my sigil in you, and no sickness shall claim your life until I say otherwise. If you fail me, I will whisper a word and you shall be food for worms. If you succeed, your pain shall be at an end.’

Skuralanx rose and backed away, into the shadows that clung to the edge of the raft. ‘Do not fail me, Vretch, or I shall sharpen my teeth on your soul for the rest of this age and the next.’

Unlike most skaven, Kruk was not in favour of running. At least not away from the enemy. It wasn’t really courage, so much as the realization that your foes were more likely to die if you ran screaming at them, rather than away. It was simply more practical to charge and ride the roiling wave of poisonous fumes to inevitable and sudden victory. Unfortunately, the treacherously cunning storm-things and the cunningly treacherous star-devils were cheating. And it was making him angry.

He could come up with no other explanation for their continued pursuit. Perhaps they are in the pay of Vretch, he thought, as he scampered towards the massive, slanted gates of the Setaen Palisades. Yes. Yes. That would explain their dogged pursuit — Vretch had summoned them, with his devious and sneaky magics, drawn them down from the hateful stars and unleashed them on his rival. Perhaps Vretch had even suborned Squeelch.

Kruk could almost respect such skulduggery, had he not been on the receiving end. He was tempted to discard everything he’d brought to buy sanctuary from Vretch. No. No-no — cunning, Kruk. Cunning is what’s called for here, he thought. He could be cunning if he wanted. It was just that he saw little purpose in schemes, when open murder often accomplished the same objective in half the time.

But Skuralanx was insistent, and Skuralanx knew best, yes-yes. Unless he didn’t… Kruk growled as he scurried. His suspicions had been growing by leaps and bounds — he knew when he was being used. Indeed, the daemon had never made any secret of it — Kruk was his weapon, wielded in the name of the Horned Rat. But one could have more than one weapon.

What if Vretch was one as well? What if that was why he was being sent here, to pretend-parley with Vretch, not to murder him, but to be murdered? What if Skuralanx had grown tired of him? What if the daemon wished to steal his glorious destiny and bestow it upon unworthy Vretch? He ground his teeth in growing fury. Why else send him into the heart of his enemy’s lair? Question after question chopped at the foundation of his surety.

Kruk glanced around at the Reeking Choir. Skug and his smoke-wreathed followers were loyal, and almost as ferocious as Kruk himself. With them, he could bully almost any congregation into line. And, indeed, had — his forces had swelled threefold as they retreated from the Dorsal Barbicans. Newly loyal bands of plague monks sought his benevolent protection, and swarmed to the sound of his bells. Unless they too had been suborned. A plot, then. Enemies all around him. Should he kill Skug first — or wait and see?

‘Where are they?’ one of the others chittered. Kruk blinked.

‘What? Speak up,’ he snapped.

‘No guards,’ Skug said, whirling his censer absently. The gates to the Setaen Palisades loomed above them, unguarded, unlit, seemingly unbarred. The gates were massive sections of worm-scale, shaped to fit in a gap between the first tier of the palisades. Scenes from the history of the Crawling City had been carved on their sprawling surface. All in all, a magnificent sight.

Kruk gestured, and a geyser of greenish light washed over the gates, reducing them to sloughing ruin. Gouts of thick, reeking smoke rolled over them and filled the narrow streets behind them, momentarily obscuring the sky above. Kruk stumped forward through the smoke, shoulders hunched, tail lashing. His congregation followed at a respectful distance.

Screams rose up from the courtyard beyond, as Kruk and his congregation swarmed up the wide steps towards it. If any of Vretch’s warriors were waiting for them, Kruk would give them more than they bargained for. Skug and the others howled out prayers as they streamed into the courtyard, ready for battle. But there was no one there to greet them, save a pathetic lot of man-things, trapped in domed slave-cages. These were scattered about a series of rickety scaffolds and mine-works, set up over vast, bubbling wounds in the worm’s flesh.

The man-things set up a wail as they caught sight of the skaven. Kruk paid them no heed. They would make for adequate chattel, when the time came, and, even better, they were already in cages. He caught sight of a massive doom gong set up in the centre of the courtyard. He stalked towards it, eye scanning the towers and tiers of the palace-citadel. Why did the man-things always build up? It made no sense. Madness was what it was. When the worm was dead and Vretch was dead and all of his enemies were dead-dead-dead, Kruk would burrow deep into the putrefying flesh of Shu’gohl and build his warren in the worm’s guts.

He struck the gong with his censer, summoning the defenders of this place. He struck it again, before the echoes of the first had faded. Kruk smashed the gong again and again until it warped beneath the force of his blows. He heard a soft scurrying, somewhere high up and far away. His tail lashed. Cowards. Of course they were hiding. Well, they would come out, or his congregation would drag them out by their tails.

‘Skug, you and the Reeking Choir shall accompany me. The rest of you — find our hosts. Drag them out if you must. Bang the gongs, ring the bells, call them, let them know that the Archfumigant, their new master, has arrived. This place is ours now — Glory to the Fumes!’ he snarled.

By nature, however fractious they became at those rare intervals when greed and ambition overcame their natural amiability, the skaven inevitably sought safety in numbers. Unlike Kruk, the laity needed companionship. They needed to be surrounded by their kin and fellow believers. An illness shared was an illness strengthened. Besides, how could you stab someone in the back if there was no one in front of you? More would come, every scattered clawband and isolated procession, because there was nowhere else to go. But would they arrive before the enemy?

Kruk started towards the tallest of the towers, Skug hurrying in his wake. ‘Master, where do we go?’ the censer bearer gurgled.

‘Vretch is a vainglorious fool. He knows nothing of humbleness or piety, of servitude. He will have taken the largest of these for himself. I will claim it as mine, yes-yes, as is my right,’ Kruk growled. If Vretch had found the Liber, that was where it would be. Skug opened his flayed muzzle as if to comment, but quickly fell silent.

Stiff-legged with righteous fury, Kruk led his followers up through the tower. It took a long time to reach the domed chamber at the summit, but Kruk’s energy was inexhaustible. His claw still tingled from the touch of the star-devil’s weapon. It hurt like an old burn, and the pain drove him on.

That was Kruk’s truest and best secret — pain was his ally. Unlike many plague priests, his nerves had only grown all the sharper during his service to the Great Witherer. He felt every clogged pore and peeling scab, every leaking sore and rotting fang. He felt the weight and pressure of the thing growing in his head, pressing down on his cunning brain. That was the Horned Rat’s greatest gift to him, for the pain kept him sharp, kept his thoughts flowing like the most cunning and quicksilver lightning.

He could almost feel the weight of the Liber in his claw. The weight of its power — a power undreamt of save by those who’d felt the withering touch of the Grand Corruptor — dragged him forward and set his claws on the path of glory. The world would be remade into a rotting husk, and Kruk its king, on a throne of sour meat and stacked corpses. He was Kruk and Kruk was him, and Kruk was the best beloved of the many-horned god. Kruk would be Archfumigant and Pox-Master, Kruk would–

‘Yesss Kruk, all this and more. So swears Skuralanx.’

Kruk blinked. They’d reached the high chamber where Vretch had obviously made his lair. It was circular and open to the elements on almost all sides. Tools and cauldrons lay scattered everywhere, among empty cages. There were no books, no scrolls, and certainly no Libers, Pestilent or otherwise. The only signs of life were the whimpering things in the gibbet-cages which hung from the domed roof. ‘Where are the books?’ he hissed.

‘You did not seem interested in books before, Kruk,’ Skuralanx’s voice hissed from the darkness above. The gibbets suddenly rattled on their chains as something heavy moved over them. A familiar stink filled Kruk’s nose.

‘Where are they, Skuralanx?’ Kruk growled, trying to spot the daemon among the shadows. His anger flared out of control. Tricked! He had been tricked! ‘Where is Vretch? You told me to come here, but Vretch is not here… the Liber is not here!’

‘No. He has gone below,’ Skuralanx said, prowling across the top of the gibbets. ‘But I know where he will appear next. There.’ The daemon flung out one long arm and pointed towards the window, through which the distant lightning storm which flickered about Shu’gohl’s head was visible.

‘You told me he was here,’ Kruk said, stubbornly. The daemon had lied. That was the only explanation… the daemon had lied to him. It was playing a game, testing him, but Kruk was not one to submit to such things. He had the weight of destiny on his side, yes, destiny and fate. He did not need a conniving daemon to lie to him and tell him falsehoods, no-no, he was Kruk. Kruk! And Kruk was surrounded by traitors. He glared about him, his remaining claw clenching. He longed for a throat to tear out. Sensing his mood, Skug and the others edged back, rattling their chains nervously.

‘And so he was,’ Skuralanx said. The daemon fixed him with a glare. ‘But he is not here now. He is there, Kruk, and he has the Liber — take it for me! Take it and you will be rewarded beyond all skaven.’ The verminlord leaned towards him. ‘Do as I command, Kruk… or face the consequences,’ the daemon growled, his bifurcated tail lashing.

Kruk hunched forward, shrinking into himself. He was not afraid of the daemon. Kruk feared nothing. Not the daemon, not the storm, not even the star-devils. He was Kruk. He exposed his fangs, but did not meet the daemon’s eyes. No, he didn’t fear it, but neither could he win a fight with it, not yet at any rate. When he had the Liber, though, oh yes, then he would challenge the daemon. He would show Skuralanx who was in charge, oh yes-yes.

‘I will do as you command, O most cunning of shadows,’ Kruk said, casting a challenging gaze at his followers, daring them to snicker or enjoy his humiliation in any way.

Screams and squeals rose from outside. Kruk heard the sizzle-crack of lightning-wings and something swooped by the open chamber, hurtling towards the courtyard below. Alarm bells rang and doom gongs sounded.

‘The enemy are here. Run, Kruk, run now-now,’ Skuralanx snarled. He sprang into the shadows, vanishing in a moment. Kruk sucked on his teeth.

‘They are coming, hrr? Yes-yes,’ he grunted, glaring at the shadows. He was beginning to suspect that the daemon was not so cunning as he’d first thought. ‘Yes, I will run. I will claim our prize, daemon. But…’ He swung his head about, and fixed Skug with his eye. ‘Vrrretch has left us a gift, Skug. It would be foolish to ignore it, yes? Yes-yes.’

‘I do not understand, O most gaseous one,’ Skug grunted, peering at him in confusion.

‘You do not have to. I understand, and that is enough,’ Kruk said, tapping the side of his skull. ‘Look-look, my servants. Smell, see…’ he growled, indicating the cages. ‘A gift, yes, and intended for us, I think. And we shall make use of it, yes-yes!’ The thought amused him no end. Vretch had clearly intended the things in the gibbets as a trap for unwary raiders; sneaky, tricksy Vretch, treacherous Vretch… useful Vretch. Kruk licked his scarred muzzle and glared at the closest gibbet and the twitching body within. He looked at Skug. ‘You will lead them up here, and spring the trap, my most loyal and faithful Skug.’

‘I… I will?’ Skug said, his eyes widening.

‘Yesss. See how I honour the Reeking Choir? See what gifts I bestow upon my most faithful followers?’ Kruk extended his censer and prodded Skug’s rotting snout. ‘See how I give up the taste of victory, for you, my most reliable and trustworthy Skug. Do not fail me, Skug. Or I will gnaw your guts for days.’

Mantius Far-killer swooped low over the Setaen Palisades. Skaven scurried everywhere through the smoke-filled courtyard, fleeing his shadow. There were more than he’d thought there’d be, and they were making enough noise for three times their number. Gongs, bells and shrilling chants rose up to meet him. Sigmar guide my aim, he thought, loosing arrows as he plummeted down. Aurora shrieked past him, claws wide.

He and the star-eagle had followed the daemon’s trail across the city. It was wounded, hurting, and the hunter in him yearned to finish it off. Such a creature was far too dangerous to be allowed to roam free. In the Jade Kingdoms, such monsters had been lodestones, drawing skaven to them in untold numbers. It seemed that was the case here as well. He had to draw it out and destroy it, before the skaven gathered in numbers enough to threaten his brethren and their strange, reptilian allies.

Zephacleas and the others were close now, advancing on the Setaen Palisades in force. There was no sign of the seraphon vanguard, and he suspected the skaven had killed them. He could hear the thunder of his Prosecutors’ hammers and the echoing shrieks of the seraphon flyers in the distance as they converged on his position, cutting off the skaven’s routes of retreat and attack as they came. But swift as they were, they would not reach the palisades before the skaven had regrouped and made ready to defend it. It was up to him to keep the enemy in disarray, by any means necessary.

He loosed arrow after arrow and skaven died, their robed forms pinned to the ground. They fled before his shadow as he swooped overhead. He rolled through the air, passing between the wooden structures which lined the strange, suppurating holes in the worm’s flesh. Skaven clung to the towers, and scrambled towards the upper platforms, shrieking and waving foetid blades at him threateningly. He aimed himself towards the cages he saw scattered about the courtyard. There were almost a hundred mortals trapped in those stinking constructions, perhaps more. Squealing skaven leapt at him, driven to suicidal extremes by fear and frenzy.

Mantius twisted and banked, avoiding some. Others he smashed from the air with his wings or his bow. Its sigmarite length crushed bone and pulped flesh as easily as a hammer. He flew the gauntlet and dropped from the air to land on one of the cages. The scent of illness and gangrene rose from those trapped within. Hands reached up through the cage, clutching at his legs. ‘Back,’ he roared. He tore an arrow from his quiver and slashed the point across the bindings holding the cage together, and with a kick, burst it wide.

‘Now — out, quickly,’ he said. Skaven scurried towards the cage, squealing in outrage. He readied and fired arrows as quickly as he could. Nock and loose, nock and loose, he thought, emptying his mind of all but that lethal rhythm. The cage shivered beneath his feet as men and women fought to further widen the gap he had created. Good. Some of them at least were taking advantage of the opportunity he’d afforded them.

‘Fight, sons and daughters of Shu’gohl,’ he shouted. ‘Fight for your lives.’

As he spoke, he heard Aurora shriek in warning. He flung himself backwards in the nick of time. Two curved scythe-like blades drew sparks from Mantius’ chest and back as the verminlord’s weight knocked him from the air. They rolled across the top of the cage, trading blows. Mantius’ wings burnt furrows in the cage as he slid across it, the verminlord atop him. The daemon slashed its blades down at him, and he interposed his bow, grunting as the blows connected. ‘Aurora,’ he called out.

The star-eagle shrieked and darted down, clawing hunks out of the verminlord. For a moment, the Knight-Venator thought the raptor might drive the daemon off as it had before. But the verminlord was ready this time. As the bird swooped around it, the daemon ducked beneath her talons and impaled the raptor on one of its blades. Aurora shrieked in pain as cancerous strands spread through her flesh and tore her apart from the inside out.

Mantius’ heart lurched with pain and sorrow as the bird vanished in a burst of starlight and lightning. I am sorry, my friend — return to the stars, and hunt anew, he thought. Bow in both hands, he smashed it across the daemon’s shaggy head. It staggered, and he struck it again and again, battering it mercilessly. Its weapons clattered to the ground, and he drove it to one knee. As he made to strike it again, the daemon twisted and caught his bow in one claw. It wrenched the bow from his grip as it kicked him in the chest.

Before he could get his feet under him, the creature had caught him up. The verminlord slammed Mantius down hard enough to splinter the top of the cage. It jerked the dazed warrior up by his ankle and smashed him against it again, before flinging him off. Mantius hit the ground and lay still, breathing heavily, trying to make his limbs work.

The battering he’d taken had crumpled his armour and cracked his bones. Every breath brought a new spasm of pain, and his bow was lost. Arrows lay scattered across the ground where they’d spilled from his quiver. He caught sight of the glowing head of the star-fated arrow, and reached for it. One chance, he thought.

The courtyard was in chaos — mortals wielding improvised weapons fought desperately against the skaven, as winged shadows swooped overhead, thunderbolts in their hands. The ground shuddered beneath the tramp of marching feet. The Beast-bane had come at last, but too late, too slow. Mantius knew, with a sickening certainty, what was called for. What he had to do. Nock and loose, he thought.

‘Now, you die, storm-thing,’ the verminlord hissed as it stalked towards him. Mantius groaned and dragged himself towards the arrow. He caught hold of it, even as the verminlord grabbed the back of his head.

The creature wrenched him into the air, but the Knight-Venator twisted in its grip, lashing out with the star-fated arrow. The tip caught the verminlord in the eye socket, and exploded in a blaze of incandescent light. The creature dropped him and shrieked, clutching at its head. Its filthy mane was aflame, and the bone of its muzzle warped and deformed as if from a great heat. Mantius rose to his feet and scanned around for his bow.

Pain flared through him and he staggered. He looked down, and saw that a bloody, smoke-wreathed claw had erupted through the front of his chest-plate. A thick spew of steam rose from the wound, and he couldn’t draw breath. As he was lifted from his feet, he clutched clumsily at the claw with fingers that had gone numb.

‘You… hurt me,’ the daemon hissed. It ripped its claw free in a burst of smoke. Its forearm was aflame, but it caught hold of his head in both claws regardless. Its wormy muscles bunched, and the ache in the Knight-Venator’s head grew worse, as did the pain in his limbs. Mantius had just enough strength left to spit in the beast’s remaining eye, before it snapped his neck. The pain flared, growing into an all-consuming incandescence.

And then, he felt nothing… nothing, save the storm.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Lost Warren

Vretch coughed and stared up at the tangled network of shattered rock and withered roots which rose from the Squirming Sea. The Geistmaw warren had spread deep below the ancient fortress for which it was named, but that had not saved it from Shu’gohl’s hunger. It had been scooped up and crushed into the remains of the ruin, making a mangled reef of jutting towers and crumbling hummocks.

‘Quick-quick, we must find a way within — hurry, fools, hurry-hurry!’ he chittered, gesticulating weakly with his staff.

That small exertion had him breathing heavily. He could feel things moving, growing within him. Swelling with hideous hunger, eating away at his insides. He was dying — Skuralanx had killed him. He hunched forward against his staff, a whine escaping his mouth as his insides twisted, and fleshy blisters on his arms and back throbbed. In the light, he could see tiny, dark shapes squirming within the opalescent swellings. Worms, black worms, the kind which had drawn him here. A plague unlike any other, a plague which spread with every popped blister, moving faster than wildfire.

It was almost beautiful — indeed, he had often thought so, when experimenting upon his captives. But now he was starting to see the downside. ‘Not me, no-no,’ he snivelled.

Several of his monks glanced back at him, but not for long. He exposed his teeth in a grimace of chastisement, feeling the blisters on his muzzle pull tight as he did so. The worms moved within him. Their agitation grew as he neared their source, like metal filings drawn to a lodestone. Some plagues were like that, he knew. The Chattering Pox or the Glopsome Surge both grew in potency the closer one drew to their epicentre.

Vretch had studied the ways of a thousand plagues — he had taken samples from Nurgle’s Wyrdroot as it hollowed out the treekin of the Jade Kingdoms, and helped the Wailing Chill pass between the Doldrum Heights and Rigvale’s Run. But few were as horrible as the one his magics now kept at bay. He’d already coughed up part of what he suspected was his liver, and his flesh was peeling away in sheets.

Why had Skuralanx done this to him? Unless… yes. Yes, perfidy, of course. The daemon had no more use for him, and had decided to dispose of him, whatever its promises to the contrary. He growled softly in anger. That he had been planning to do something similar only made it worse. Another shiver of pain wracked him. The sea heaved as the worm shuddered, torn by its own pain. The air shivered with the sound of its agony, and, as if in sympathy, the worms within him twitched abominably. Vretch bit back a shriek of pain.

He didn’t dare show weakness, not now. It was all he could do to keep from spurting the musk of fear. His long-dead nerve endings had spasmed to life, and a foul-smelling ichor beaded on his flesh.

‘O great Horned Rat, watch over your most pathetic and beset of children. Have I not served thee faithfully, O Ruiner and Wrecker? Watch over me, as you watched over me in the Glade of Horned Growths, O most blessed planter of poxes,’ he murmured, clutching his tail to his chest. He made to chew it, when he noticed that the blisters had spread there as well. He flung it down with a grunt.

The rafts eased forward by the light of the warp torches, through the steaming current. They passed beneath broken archways curtained with shrouds of half-digested matter. Things roared in the darkness, and he restrained himself from hurling a fiery pox towards the source of the noise. Somehow, he knew that using his magics would only aggravate his condition. If he wanted to survive long enough to find the Liber Pestilent and rid himself of the worms growing within him, he had to save his strength.

The raft thumped over a submerged stone, nearly knocking him from his claws. ‘Careful, fools,’ he shrilled. Incensed, he flung out his claw, and a plague monk collapsed, wreathed in green flame, his flesh going necrotic beneath his disintegrating rags. A tremor ran through Vretch and he sat back, wheezing. ‘Careful… careful…’ he whispered, staring balefully at his followers. There weren’t many, now.

One of his remaining rafts had vanished somewhere along the slow crawl of the worm’s gullet. The other had been caught in a gastric riptide and sunk. Those plague monks who’d managed to survive the swim now overburdened his last, precious craft. He contemplated booting a few of them over the side to lighten the load, but decided against it. His display of temper would keep them in line well enough, and there were likely dangers aplenty in this place. He could hear unseen things moving through the shadowed vaults and broken turrets.

He could also smell the pungent ichor of the worm. Black, writhing shapes dripped from the broken walls and plopped into the water like raindrops. Some squirmed purposely through the water towards the raft and he barked a warning. Heaving himself to his feet, he stumbled to the side of the raft and jabbed the tip of his staff into the water. The shard of warpstone flared once and the water boiled with an ugly heat. Worms crisped and sank out of sight. As they did so, the ones growing within him became frenzied.

‘Follow the worms,’ he croaked.

His monks poled the raft deeper into the tangled ruin. They followed the trail of his pain along the winding eddy until they reached a massive bole of stone and mossy soil. It had been compacted into an unmoving bubo of dirt, perched awkwardly in the water. Broken bones, half-dissolved and intertwined with millions of thick-bodied black worms, floated in a sump of tarry ichor at its base. A winding stair of stone rose from the murk, and Vretch led his remaining monks up its unstable length. The pain was concentrated in his belly now. It had become a pulsing black heat, filling him snout to tail. A strange fluid spattered on the stones where he trod, and worms rose from it.

‘Do not let them touch you,’ he said. ‘You are not worthy to receive their blessings.’ And, he thought, I may need some of you alive before this is over. He hacked and coughed into his sleeve. Worms squirmed in his robes and wriggled out of his pores as he tried to concentrate on the Thirty-Nine Rancid Mantras.

At the top of the steps was a chamber. A buckled section of stone floor, gummed to its walls by a mortar of filth and sour meat, spread out before him. There were piles of broken bones everywhere, swaddled in rotting rags — the remains of a hundred or more skaven, long dead. The dried husks of worms lay scattered about in heaps. Familiar graffiti marred the walls and the signs of the Three Horns had been scratched into the floor. Shattered cauldrons lay everywhere, and their contents had spread tackily across the loose stones of the floor, to drip down into the sump below. From the scene, Vretch deduced that the Geistmaw clan — for these remains were theirs, of that he was certain — had been in the process of brewing the worm-pox when Geistmaw fell to Shu’gohl’s hunger.

‘It must be here, it must,’ he hissed. In a sudden frenzy, he began to smash aside bones with his staff. ‘Well? Don’t just stand there, fools! Help me look-find the Liber! Now-now,’ he snarled, glaring at his followers.

They scrambled to obey immediately. Plague monks flung aside bones and lifted broken cauldrons, tore at loose stones and ripped up fallen shrouds. So hurriedly did they set about their business that the air was soon filled with the clangour of the bells they wore. Vretch watched for a moment, his head and belly throbbing with agony. Then he turned, raising his staff high. He summoned a flicker of light into the warpstone. ‘Sssseek,’ he muttered. Motes of sickly light spilled from the facets of the stone and darted about the chamber.

There was always the chance it wasn’t here. That it had been swept away, lost to the dark. But this was the source of the worm-plague. If they’d had one of the lost Libers, it would have been here, somewhere. Skuralanx was certain of it, and by extension, so was Vretch. Whatever else he might be — traitor, deceiver, assassin — he was no fool. It had to be here somewhere, it had to be. Heart thudding, panic growing, Vretch swept his staff about wildly, trying to illuminate the whole chamber.

All at once, something glinted, reflecting the light of his staff. ‘There!’ he snarled. He lurched forward, robes flapping. He shouldered aside two of his followers and stabbed the end of his staff down, through the bones and rubbish.

Clink.

He fell forward, clawing at the refuse with his free claw until he found it. It was not a book, nor a tome, a grimoire or parchment, as he’d expected. It was, instead, a set of square golden plaques, with holes punched along one side, bound together by thick coils of some sort of vine, unlike any he had ever seen. He made to snatch up the plaques, but they were glued to the floor by ichor and mould. They felt warm, as if they hadn’t been lying in the dark for hundreds of years. Vretch hissed in frustration and pried at them, to no avail. The other skaven shuffled forward, as if to help, and he snarled at them in warning. ‘Back,’ he snapped. ‘Back, fools — this is mine-mine!’

As they scuttled back, he braced himself over the plaques. They were shrouded in the same sticky worm-ichor that covered the walls and floor. He grunted and set his foot-claws, tail lashing. Pain-riddled muscles strained and his head began to pound. His eyes bulged and worms spilled from ruptured blisters.

‘I… will… not… be… denied,’ he yowled. He felt the floor shift beneath his claws and heard the hardened ichor pop loose. Vretch chittered in triumph as he toppled backwards, the golden plaques in his claws. ‘Mine — it is mine!’ he howled, lifting his prize over his head. ‘Vretch shall be triumphant!’

As the echoes of his cry faded, the floor gave way; all save a circular section on which he stood, eyes wide. One by one, accompanied by a rain of rock, his remaining followers dropped into the bubbling morass of worms far below.

The skaven screeched as, drenched in the steaming ichors, their flesh swelled and split, disgorging more worms to join those writhing about them. Truly a blessed plague, Vretch thought, tightening his grip on the plaques as he watched his followers die. The golden plates were warm against his abused flesh, almost uncomfortably so. He made to examine them, but heard the harsh rasp of scales on stone.

Vretch froze. Then, slowly, he looked up. Small, scaly shapes shimmered into view on the walls and ceiling of the chamber, their round eyes fixed on him.

Sutok roared joyfully as he swung his war-mace about his head and brought it down on the cowering skaven. The creature splattered in a satisfying manner, and the Sunblood turned, searching the central courtyard of the Setaen Palisades for new prey. He waded forward into the thick of the fighting, his massive, scarred form shining like a fallen star.

All around him, seraphon poured up the steps and into the courtyard beyond. The skaven had been caught by surprise and only a few of them were putting up any sort of fight. That had always been the way of it — the rat ran and snake pursued, until at last, the rat could run no more. It shed its tail, its fur, all in haste to escape, until there was barely a mouthful left.

It had always been that way, and would be that way again. Again and again, without end, the Great Serpent chewing its tail. Wherever the rat ran, the serpent would follow. Sutok took comfort in that thought. He stomped forward, crushing skulls and flattening skaven.

His smaller brethren followed him, and fell upon the skaven with pleasing vigour. Spears and clubs rose and fell, and the broken bodies of the vermin were crushed underfoot. Sutok swept his mace out in a wide arc, smashing several of the ratmen from their claws. Their diseased flesh pulped easily, for all that it was less sensitive to pain. They stank of sickness and rot. Faint memories flickered within the depths of his thoughts, fragments of a lost past.

The Sunblood swung his head about, studying the ebb and flow of the enemy tide. He could perceive a foe’s weakness as another might scent the blood of a wounded animal. Spotting the weak link in the swarm of skaven, he roared. Instinctively, the nearby seraphon lunged forward. They fell upon the skaven with a savage joy that was a match for his own. They all remembered, and in remembering, felt the old hate rise anew.

But they were not alone in that hate. Sutok glanced down at the armoured figures fighting alongside him. Yes, they were not alone. It was good not to be alone. Oxtl-Kor did not understand that. Sutok felt no sadness at the Oldblood’s death. It was the thing of but a moment. Sutok himself had fought and died a thousand times, and each of those deaths was but a moment experienced and then forgotten.

It was a good thing, to be a dream.

‘Any sign of the Far-killer?’ Thetaleas asked as he swept his axe out in a wide arc, chopping through another cage. Zephacleas helped the Decimator-Prime pry it open, freeing the mortals within. They were inside the Setaen Palisades, having pushed the skaven back from the outer defences and into the courtyard.

‘No,’ the Lord-Celestant grunted. They’d seen a flash of celestial lightning spear upwards from within the palisades as they breached the lower gates. Stormcast Eternals did not truly die, but the thought that any foe had sent the Far-killer back to Sigmaron was almost inconceivable. ‘Keep to your task, brother — as he would, were he here. Ho, Duras, come help Thetaleas get the rest of these cages open.’ As the Liberator-Prime moved to obey, Zephacleas stepped into the battle-line of Stormcasts arrayed between the cages and the bloody melee going on in the courtyard. The seraphon had fallen on the skaven in a frenzy, and the ratkin were fighting like the cornered rats they resembled.

‘We should have the last of the cages open in a moment,’ Zephacleas said. He glanced at Seker, who was standing nearby. ‘We’ll advance then, but slowly. Drive the foe back.’

‘Most fled the moment the huntsmen arrived,’ Seker said, gesturing upwards with his staff. A retinue of Prosecutors swooped overhead, herding a group of the former prisoners back behind the Stormcast line. The mortals had been fighting the skaven when they first arrived. Many had died from their wounds or the illness which burned in them, but some yet remained. And these he was determined to defend.

‘Is that the last of them?’ he said.

‘Aye,’ Seker said. ‘Shall we proceed, Lord-Celestant?’

‘I shall take the vanguard,’ Zephacleas growled.

‘Naturally,’ the Lord-Relictor murmured.

Zephacleas ignored him and stepped forward. The skaven were distracted and scattered. There was only one true knot of resistance left — a band of smoke-wreathed skaven, whirling censers. No seraphon could get near them, so thick was the miasma surrounding them.

‘Duras, you and your warriors follow me. Seker, summon a storm, wash that miasma from the air. The rest of you, advance slowly — keep your shields locked, let no vermin get past you, and no mortal come to harm,’ the Lord-Celestant roared out. ‘With me, brothers… there’s red work yet to be done.’

As he started towards the knot of ratmen, he began to pick up speed, slamming his weapons together as he went. Duras and his warriors followed him, clashing their warblades. The harsh, scraping rhythm rose over the sound of the fray. Skaven fled before their approach.

‘Death,’ Zephacleas shouted.

‘Ruin,’ Duras and the others growled.

‘Death to the dealers of death,’ Zephacleas bellowed. ‘Ruin to the bringers of ruin.’

His warriors bellowed with him, and they plunged through the miasma like a mailed fist. Overhead, thunder rumbled as Seker called down the storm. Zephacleas held his breath against the choking odour and brought his hammer down on a skaven. Warblades slashed out, chopping through censers and chains and hairy limbs as the Liberators tore through the foe. A steady, cleansing rain began to fall, soothing the hurts of those few Stormcast Eternals who’d been wounded and dispersing the murk. As one, the remaining skaven broke and ran for the tallest of the towers which occupied the palisades.

‘They’re fleeing,’ Zephacleas said, as Seker joined him. Before the Lord-Relictor could respond, a shadow fell over them both.

‘We… chase,’ Sutok growled, slamming his war-mace against his shield. Saurus warriors stood arrayed behind the Sunblood, whose massive form was streaked with blood and worse things. The seraphon bobbed his scarred head. ‘Chase?’ he rumbled.

Zephacleas laughed. ‘We chase,’ he said.

Together, the seraphon and Stormcast Eternals forged after the retreating skaven. If they were allowed to hide, to dig in, they might never be rooted out.

Unfortunately, by the time Zephacleas and the others began a thorough search, it seemed that they had done just that. Besides a few skaven cowering on the lower levels, or trying to escape through what Zephacleas suspected were privy holes, the rest seemed to have vanished. Nevertheless, they continued the search, hunting through pillared chambers and warren-like halls, rising ever higher as they went. The stairs carved from the condensed hair wound ever upwards in a tight, claustrophobic coil. Zephacleas understood why the skaven had gravitated to the towers — the creatures preferred cramped space and dark shadows.

Accompanied by the shouts of more successful hunters, the roars of eager seraphon, and the squeals of dying skaven, Zephacleas and the others ascended to the summit of the tower. There were no doors here, only a wide open, circular chamber. The room was enormous — despite the great windows which lined its walls, the upper reaches were lost in shadow. It had been abandoned in a hurry. Empty cauldrons, piles of books and rotting bodies lay everywhere.

‘I’ve seen this before. Remember that foul warren in the Ghurdish Heights?’ Zephacleas murmured. Beside him, Sutok sniffed the air warily and glanced at the skink, Takatakk.

‘Indeed,’ Seker said. ‘A plague-womb. The vermin have been busy.’ The skaven — some of them, at least — were brewers of pox and plague second only to the foul followers of Nurgle. They delighted in rot and decay, and spread pestilences with fiendish glee. The Astral Templars had seen similar horrors in the Jade Kingdoms as well. ‘We must burn this place, when the battle is won. We cannot allow whatever horrors they have brewed here to spread.’

‘It may be too late for that, Lord-Relictor,’ Zephacleas said. He peered into one of the gibbets. The man inside was dead, though his journey to the underworld had not been easy. He wore the strange segmented armour of a city militia-man over his ragged and torn robes. It was dark, and composed of scales shed from the worm’s hide. Pale, like all folk of the Crawling City, his flesh was covered in bruises, blisters, burns and more besides, including a number of fleshy pus-filled growths. Despite these, his form looked somehow… shrunken, as if whatever vitality he’d once possessed had been drained into the bulging abscesses. Zephacleas tapped the gibbet with his hammer, turning it slowly.

As it twisted on its chain, he examined the body more closely. ‘Gravewalker, what caused these growths? It looks like the work of no disease I recognise,’ he called, glancing at the others. Seker turned, and cursed.

‘Zephacleas, get away from it,’ the Lord-Relictor snarled.

Zephacleas heard a hiss, and turned, just in time to see the first abscess split open. A stinking yellow gas spewed from the ruptured flesh, and he smashed the gibbet aside. The Lord-Celestant backed away. ‘Get clear of the cages,’ he roared. A moment later, a thin lash of suppurating flesh shot from the twitching body and struck at him. More tendrils erupted from the abscesses, thrashing about wildly enough to set the gibbet to spinning.

Cries of horror and disgust filled the chamber as the bodies in each gibbet flowered and burst, allowing the putrescent horrors within to emerge — they were akin to the foul, strangling vines of the Fangwood in the Ghurdish Heights, but horribly afflicted by some pestilence which made the ever-coiling fronds weep a strange, musky pus.

Rusty metal bent and buckled as the things within the gibbets fought to get free. A foul miasma rose from the monstrous blossoms which bloomed on the writhing tendrils, filling the air. ‘Back, back,’ Seker shouted. ‘All of you, back!’

Zephacleas turned to join his warriors when something snagged his throat from behind. One of vines, he realised, as it tightened about his neck. It contracted, as if seeking to reel him in, and more of them ensnared his wrists and chest. He roared in fury and fought against their pull. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that he was not alone in his predicament. Several of the warriors who’d accompanied him were caught as well. Liberators slashed at the tendrils, trying to free their fellows, but the squirming appendages simply regenerated.

The seraphon were attempting to aid their allies. He saw Sutok slam his great mace down on a gibbet, nearly ripping it from its chain. The writhing mass inside launched its vines at the Sunblood, trying to snag him. Sutok roared and slashed at them. Zephacleas turned slowly, fighting against the strength of the vines that held him. He heard a shrill voice chitter in amusement, somewhere far above.

Chains rattled and robes flapped. The chamber was dark, but with a single chirp, Takatakk filled it with a soft blue light. Dozens of skaven clung to the chains of the spinning, thrashing gibbets, glaring down at the invaders. At a shrilled command, they descended en masse, leaping first to attack those Stormcasts who were caught by the tendrils.

A disgusting-looking skaven, wrapped in stinking rags and rattling chains, scurried down towards Zephacleas, whirling its censers wildly. The ratman darted across the straining lengths of tendril towards him. It squealed at him in obvious challenge.

Zephacleas heaved his body to the side, jolting the skaven from its claws and sending it tumbling to the ground. The gibbet creaked on its chain as he twisted it, and the tendrils trembled. Hissing ichor seeped from them to spatter his armour. He set his feet and slowly, achingly, pulled his arms back until, one by one, the tendrils snapped. Freed, he lurched backwards to avoid the ratman’s whirling censers. Across the chamber, his warriors and the seraphon had engaged the other skaven.

The censer bearer drove him back in a swirling cloud of poisonous fumes. Zephacleas held his breath, knowing that to inhale one lungful of the reeking smoke was to die. As the whirring censers slashed down at him again, he thrust his sword out and twisted, snagging the chains. He tore them from their owner’s claws with a single heave and caught the off-balance skaven with a blow that crushed its bandaged skull.

As it fell to the floor, twitching in its death-throes, Zephacleas turned to see that the writhing shapes in the gibbets were beginning to pull themselves free. Split tendrils reformed or sprouted anew as the musk of the blossoms thickened. Strands of fleshy matter shot towards the pillars and roof. Blotches of foulness spread wherever they touched. He started chopping through the questing tendrils.

He caught Seker’s attention. ‘Gravewalker — call down the lightning. Purge this place in fire and storm.’

The Lord-Relictor didn’t hesitate. His voice roared out, strong and clear, and the air in the chamber grew thick and sharp. Bits of paper and loose debris were caught up by the dervish winds that seemed to emanate outward from him. Lightning coalesced around his reliquary staff as he lifted it in both hands.

As tendrils surged towards him from the arboreal abominations, he slammed the ferrule of his staff down, and lightning erupted from it, immolating everything in the chamber save the Stormcasts and their seraphon allies. Skaven stumbled out of the conflagration, screeching in agony. They were swiftly put out of their misery.

Zephacleas nodded in satisfaction. ‘Death and ruin,’ he murmured.

CHAPTER NINE

The Sahg’gohl

Deep within the ruins of Geistmaw, Vretch reacted with all of the instinctive savagery of his race. He lunged forward, throat swelling as he belched forth a cloud of noxious mist. The creatures nearest him crumpled as the cloud enveloped them. Shimmering scales turned dull and began to drop off their frames as, one by one, they fell into the darkness below. Mist trailing from between his clenched teeth, Vretch whirled on his perch of stone, the susurrus of the worms loud in his head.

A reptile sprang towards him, and he caught the seraphon by the throat before it could land a blow with the barbed dart in its talon. It struggled for a moment, trying to break his grip, and he glared at it. ‘You think to kill me? Me?’ he hissed. The lizard twisted about in his grip and sank needle-like teeth into his arm. Vretch shrieked and dashed the creature’s head against the ground.

Darts sprouted from his back and shoulders. He staggered. A trick — a distraction to get him to turn his back. Whatever celestial poison was in the darts was as nothing next to the toxins already running riot through his system, but it still burned like fire. Screeching continuously, heedless of his condition, he lashed out with his magics. More darts sank into his rotting flesh, but he was too far gone to feel them.

And then, at last, he sank down, too weary to do anything more than hold onto the plaques. Smoke filled the air, and he could hear stone collapsing; he smelled the too-clean scent of starlight as what was left of the seraphon dissolved. As with their darts, their deaths would not be enough to cleanse this place. Once he was cured, he would come back. He would study the worms and the brew they swum in and he would unleash a blight unlike any other.

He would–

Vretch sagged, coughing. His perch wobbled. He could hear stone grinding, and the splashing of the worms. He had no strength left. He coughed again, spitting ichor. Dying, he thought, and his musk gland spasmed painfully. It was spent, as was he.

Youuu are not dying, Vretch…

Vretch blinked blearily, searching for the daemon. ‘Is… is that you, O most resplendent of… of…’ His body was wracked with pain. As he coughed, fangs pattered from his mouth and mucus ran from his snout. There were worms in it. There were worms in everything now. He could feel them moving behind his eyes.

You stand on unstable ground, Vretch. You must jump, yes-yes… jump and bring me the Liber, Skuralanx murmured. The daemon’s voice sounded odd, as if it were… hurt?

I can help you, fool… but you must jump. Jump now!

Vretch sprang for one of the remaining walls. As he leapt, his perch collapsed at last. He hit the stone and scrabbled for a moment, trying to find a hold with his free claw. It was only through a supreme effort of will that he managed to force himself not to fall. The stones he clung to were embedded in the gut-lining of the worm. Digestive juices spilled across him, burning him. What was left of his fur bristled and he shifted his weight painfully. He could see a speck of blue far above. He could smell…

Do you smell the storm, Vretch? You are in the worm’s head, close to its jaws — listen, you can hear them grinding. You are not far from the surface, Vretch. You can hear the lightning, the daemon said, its words echoing in his head.

‘I–I can, yes-yes,’ Vretch coughed.

Then climb, Vretch. Climb, for your very soul!

‘He is gone, then,’ Zephacleas said heavily. He stood outside, on the palisade wall, away from the chamber at the top of the tower and its stink of death. He closed his eyes for a moment, praying silently for the soul of the Far-killer. They would meet again, but it would be… different. Those who fell and were reforged were not the same. Death — even if it was but a temporary one — took something from them. Something indefinable. When next the Far-killer flew, would he be the same keen-eyed hunter whom Zephacleas had relied on, or would he be something, someone else? The thought was not a pleasant one.

‘The daemon killed him,’ the mortal said, her voice hollow with shock. ‘He freed us, and then the daemon killed him.’ Her name was S’ual and she was one of the few survivors of the slave-gangs. She trembled with fear and weakness, her malnourished body clad in the remains of once-rich robes and the now-rusted armour of a Setaen Guard. She held a spar of bone, slick with skaven-blood, in her remaining hand. Her other was bandaged tight and lashed to her chest by strips of filthy cloth torn from her robes. As she spoke, she tossed the spar aside in obvious disgust. ‘He freed us, but it… it came out of the shadows and…’ She looked up at Zephacleas, eyes wide. ‘What are you?’

‘Friends,’ Zephacleas rumbled. She flinched, and he softened his voice. ‘We are friends.’ He looked past her, towards the inner courtyard of the Setaen Palisades, where hundreds of sickly mortals waited — the survivors of those who’d made their stand here, when the skaven had attacked. Soldiers and nobility, now reduced to a pitiful state. The skaven had worked most of them to death, and abused the others terribly. Many had been broken in body and soul, their spirits crushed beyond repair.

But the rest… they would survive. The folk of the Ghurlands were hardy; if it didn’t kill them outright, they’d survive it. At least in my day, Zephacleas thought.

S’ual reached out, hesitantly, and traced the sign of the lightning bolt carved on his chest-plate. ‘Warm,’ she said, softly, wonderingly. ‘Your armour is… warm.’

‘As the day it was forged,’ he said. ‘Where did the daemon go? After it killed him?’

‘Away,’ she said, absently. She blinked. ‘The others — they fled towards the Sahg’gohl and the Storm-Crown, across the great causeway.’ She looked up at him, not quite meeting his eyes. She extended her good arm, pointing out across the structure in question. The causeway was not long, but it had once been an impressive span, lined with tall statues and prayer-towers. Now those towers were in ruins and the statues shattered. It extended from the rear of the highest tier of the palisades to the lightning-wreathed structure which crowned the worm’s head. ‘Will you follow them?’ S’ual asked.

He nodded. ‘We must. Can you lead the others back? The Dorsal Barbicans have been cleansed, and your folk hold them once more. There is safety there, if anywhere.’

‘Nowhere is safe. The great worm is dying,’ S’ual said.

‘Not if we can help it,’ he said. After a moment’s hesitation, he placed a hand on her shoulder. ‘Go. Sigmar shall watch over you, sister.’

She straightened at his touch. Her fingers found his gauntlet briefly, and then she bowed her head and stepped back. Zephacleas watched her go, and felt the faint stirring of a half-forgotten memory… a proud face, hair like fire, bound in thick plaits, and a voice… sharp, like a knife. His hand curled into a fist and he shook his head, angry at himself, though he couldn’t say why.

‘The Storm-Crown… an apt name,’ Seker said behind him, diplomatically. He peered towards the head of the worm. ‘It was a temple, once. A way to Azyr and back — a realmgate — shattered at the beginning of the Age of Chaos.’

‘That’s not what the vermin came here for, otherwise they’d have already taken it,’ Zephacleas said, irritated with himself for a number of reasons, not the least of which was not sending warriors to take the place when he’d had the chance — a mistake he would not make again. ‘From what we’ve seen, I doubt they even knew it was there,’ he continued.

‘I wonder if our allies do.’ The Lord-Relictor indicated the seraphon as he spoke.

The slann hovered nearby, expressionless features gazing out over the causeway. Takatakk crouched atop the ancient being’s throne and chirped quietly to his master in the hissing tongue of the seraphon. ‘They know more than they’re telling… all this talk of helping us, of fate and dreams.’ He shook his head. ‘Why are they really here?’

‘It doesn’t matter. We came to free this place and that’s what I intend to do,’ Zephacleas said. ‘We must—’

Without warning, a geyser of ichor and poison spewed upwards from the great shafts carved around the courtyard as Shu’gohl thrashed in agony. The air reverberated with the worm’s groans, and all around him mortal, Stormcast and seraphon alike clutched at their heads in agony. The world shuddered and the sky spun as the leviathan writhed in pain. Chunks of stone fell from the towers, and lightning flashed as a Liberator was crushed. The ground bucked beneath them, sending warriors and mortals sprawling. The causeway shook on its supports and swayed so perilously that Zephacleas thought it might be destroyed.

‘There must be a way to calm the beast, else we’ll all be crushed — or worse, the causeway will shatter,’ Zephacleas shouted, grabbing Seker by the shoulder. ‘Work your healing magics, Gravewalker, or we’re all bound for Reforging!’

‘I can try,’ the Lord-Relictor said. ‘The beast might be beyond saving.’ He extended his reliquary staff, holding it above the ground. As he did so, Takatakk reached out to set his own staff across it. The skink looked back at his master, and then at the Lord-Relictor.

‘You will not try alone. We shall work our magics together, dream-of-Sigmar. We shall bring harmony to the great leviathan, and ease its agonies,’ the Starpriest chirped. ‘Align your thoughts to mine, and listen. We shall make whole that which is in disarray.’

As the skink spoke, the slann raised his long arms above his head and uttered a wordless croak of power. The amber sky turned blue, and the storm clouds thickened. Motes of azure lightning danced within them. The Dreaming Seer reached out towards the Lord-Relictor, and Zephacleas felt something indefinable and intangible pass between them. The slann’s eyes were wide open now, and there were stars within them. Seker and Takatakk raised their staves and began to chant in unison. Though one prayed to Sigmar and the other did not, their voices flowed together like rushing water, rising up towards the darkening sky. Through it all, the worm continued to bellow its agonies, until Zephacleas thought his eardrums might burst.

The air thickened with growing pressure, and the voices of the Lord-Relictor and the Starpriest shaped it and stretched it. Their words seemed to echo from every tower and stone in the Crawling City, redoubling in volume and strength. Overhead, the clouds had turned the colour of the void, and the lightning had become as stars.

The slann stretched out his hands and, for a moment, it seemed to Zephacleas as if the creature were larger than it was. A titanic shape, quite unlike the crude amphibian body it normally wore; something vast and serpentine, as wide as the world and as long as eternity. It stretched up, and fangs of starlight scraped the sky. A glittering cerulean rain began to fall across Shu’gohl — lightly at first, but then growing in intensity. It was not the rain which accompanied the Stormcasts as they went to war, but it was of Azyr nonetheless.

Zephacleas lifted his hands in wonder. Other Stormcast Eternals followed suit, as too did the mortals. It was a cleansing rain, as would purify both body and soul, and he felt invigorated as it splashed across his armour. Where it touched the ground, a pale steam rose from the worm’s flesh. The filth of the skaven was reduced to ash and their abominable structures sagged and decayed in an instant. The worm’s shuddering slowed, and its groaning faded to a dull rumble.

Seker stumbled, his staff nearly slipping from his grip. Zephacleas caught him and helped to steady him. ‘Easy my friend — you have truly worked a wonder this day.’

Seker shook his head. ‘Not… not me. Not alone. It’s— his mind, it was so vast, like nothing I have ever witnessed… his mind is a sun, and we but orbit it,’ the Lord-Relictor said, in a whisper. ‘I saw horrors and beauties undreamt of even in the halls of Sigmaron, and moments… like fragments of crystal, holding flickering images of places I did not recognize. His mind is as clockwork, built not of mortal matter but something else… he has played out this very moment a thousand times across a thousand years, honing it, pruning away those possibilities which displease him. We… No.’ He shook himself and pushed away from Zephacleas. ‘Forgive me, Lord-Celestant. I… I am myself again.’

‘You are worthy indeed, dream-of-Sigmar,’ Takatakk said, softly. ‘You have seen the Great Equation, though you cannot understand.’ The little seraphon patted Seker’s arm, as if in sympathy. ‘It is a great thing, to witness the all that was and is.’ A flying reptile shrieked overhead. Takatakk looked up, head cocked. ‘The vermin flee across the causeway. There is nowhere else for them to run. The Great Lord Kurkori’s dream is coming to an end.’ The skink looked up at Zephacleas. ‘We must march.’

‘And we will march with you,’ Zephacleas said. ‘We make for the causeway and the Storm-Crown. And we will end this once and for all.’

Lightning speared through the sapphire air and crawled across the ruins. It cascaded down shattered statues and washed over broken domes. The air stank of iron and heat and Kruk’s filthy fur stood on end. Lightning struck the causeway ahead, filling the air with dust and stone. Kruk pressed on, followed by the remnants of his congregation. He had to hurry, quick-quick. The enemy were close at hand. All of them.

Kruk could not say who he hated more at this point — Vretch or the star-devils. The storm-things were a close second, but they were as nothing compared to the continuing intestinal malignancy that was Vretch. The plague priest thrust his good claw beneath his robes and scratched furiously at himself. Worse than the nearness of his foes was the lack of his daemonic patron. Skuralanx had not appeared to him since the Setaen Palisades, and Kruk had begun to wonder if the daemon had abandoned his most loyal follower. What sort of master did that? No sort of master at all, Kruk thought. Kruk would never abandon his own followers, no-no.

The causeway to the temple wasn’t long or particularly wide. Broken statues lined its rail, glaring down at the scurrying skaven, and at its end, a ring of massive effigies occupied the plaza where the causeway intersected the heart of the temple. Kruk could see the broken dome of the central temple over the tops of the shattered outbuildings and something told him that was where he must go — and quickly. The enemy weren’t far behind them. They would soon finish off Skug and the others. Poor Skug… poor heroic, expendable Skug. Kruk shook his head. It was hard to find a lackey of that quality in these decadent times.

The causeway began to shake on its foundations and an elemental groan rose up, blasting his skull free of all thought. All around him, skaven released the musk of fear or fell onto their faces, screeching in terror. Broken statues toppled from their plinths, and one crushed a dozen plague monks into a foetid paste. Kruk alone maintained his claws during the quake, more because he wanted to be ready to run than from any innate obstinacy. Stubborn as he was, even he knew better than to try and fight a force of nature.

Overhead, the sky went dark and a burning rain began to fall. It stung his flesh and he waved his censer over his head in an effort to shield himself. The shaking slowed and finally stopped a moment later. Kruk cast a disdainful eye over his followers. ‘Up-up, fools. Up on your claws, quick-quick… we must hurry,’ he snarled, stumping towards the end of the causeway. If they could get in among the ruins, they might be able to ambush the foe. He glanced back at the ruins of his congregation — a few dribbling choirs of censer bearers, and thrice that of sorry-looking plague monks, some of them from Vretch’s procession. Barely a few hundred in all.

It would have to be enough. He had survived worse. He would survive this. The Congregation of Fumes would rise again. Kruk thumped his chest with his censer, hissing in pleasure at the moment of pain. He enjoyed it so much, he did it again, inhaling the fumes. Yessss, he thought, I shall rise like the pox-smoke, once the Liber is in my possession. I shall use that coward Vretch’s spine to stir my cauldron and wear his fangs around my neck. He snickered cheerfully at the thought.

Lightning struck the ground nearby, and his good mood vanished. He snarled defiantly at the sky. Yes, he would survive. And then he would kill this blasted worm and all who dwelt atop it.

‘Look,’ one of his followers chittered, interrupting his reverie. Kruk turned.

A huddled mass of rags and blisters lay weeping audibly at the foot of one of the statues which occupied the central plaza. A wide stain, dotted with tiny worms, marked the path it had taken to get there. The greasy trail led back into the ruins some distance, where a great hole gaped, its edges seared by lightning. Kruk stumped forward. He glared down at the shivering mass. Worms bored in and out of the cracked and weeping blisters which marred the visible flesh, and the whole mass stank of a sickness so potent it made even him hesitate. Kruk nudged the mass with a foot, causing it to roll over. It was Vretch.

The plague priest looked up, and by his expression, Kruk thought his was the last face the other skaven had ever wished to see.

Kruk licked his scarred muzzle and reached down, catching Vretch by the scruff of his neck. Vretch squealed as the other plague priest hauled him bodily to his claws. Disgusted, Kruk flung him back to the ground. Vretch hugged a set of strange golden plaques to his chest and tried to scramble away, but Kruk set a claw on his tail, pinning him in place.

‘Vrrretch,’ the burly skaven growled. ‘Where were you going, Vretch?’ He cocked his head. ‘Is that my Liber, Vretch?’ he asked, slyly.

Vretch squinted up at him with filmy eyes. ‘N-not a Liber,’ he said, finally. He coughed, and something wriggled down his chin.

Kruk’s scarred lip curled. ‘Then what is it? Tell me fast-fast or I shall flay you to the bone,’ he growled.

Vretch began to laugh. It quickly turned into a wracking cough. ‘G-go ahead,’ he wheezed. He extended his arm, and let one mouldering sleeve slide back. The limb was gangrenous, and covered in burrowing black worms. The whole thing looked like it would pop off if you gave it a good twist. Kruk waved his followers back.

‘What have you done?’ he said.

‘Not me… Skuralanx,’ Vretch moaned.

Kruk froze. His growing suspicions bloomed fully and crystallised. He caught Vretch by the throat, ignoring the feel of the worms wriggling beneath the other skaven’s loose flesh.

‘What is the daemon to you? Answer me,’ he snapped, shaking Vretch brutally.

Before Vretch could answer, however, a clamour went up from his followers. Kruk looked up, and saw winged shapes hurtling through the sky above the causeway. Below them came ranks of marching storm-things and star-devils. They were closing in, moving faster than he’d thought possible. He looked back at Vretch.

‘We fight… togetherrr,’ Kruk growled, glaring up at the circling storm-things and flying reptiles. Vretch stared at him for a moment, then nodded weakly.

‘If we must,’ he said.

‘We must,’ Kruk grunted. ‘You will. Or I will kill you myself.’ Kruk thumped his rival in the chest with his censer. ‘We will defend this place with claws and teeth.’

‘Or magic. Magic might be more useful,’ Vretch said.

‘Yessss. Magic,’ Kruk said. His eye fixed on the plaques Vretch held wrapped in his robes. ‘What is that, if not my Liber?’ he demanded, snapping his teeth together inches from Vretch’s snout.

Vretch shook his head. ‘It is something else. But valuable, yes-yes! Valuable nonetheless,’ he simpered. ‘I must get it to Skuralanx. I must…’

Yesss.

Both plague priests turned. Kruk glanced at Vretch. ‘You hear him too?’ Vretch nodded weakly. He coughed, and a wad of something indescribable dripped from his jaws.

Bring me what you have found, Vretch. Hurry-quick! And protect it with your worthless life!

Skuralanx’s voice echoed almost painfully in Kruk’s head. He hissed and considered telling the daemon to go scurry up his own shadow. Then he looked at Vretch thoughtfully. One good thwack with the censer and his rival might simply come apart, given his state.

No, Kruk. For you there is a more glorious task, yes-yes… hold the enemy back, Kruk… do as you were born to do and fight. Rip them, tear them, choke them… for if you don’t, I shall surely do it to you, yes-yes. Vretch — follow my voice… bring me the prize.

‘I will protect them, O most portentous of pox-bearers, yes-yes,’ Vretch hissed, cowering back before Kruk’s beady glare. ‘Ours is not to reason why, no-no, ours is but to do and… and prosper, yes-yes! Skuralanx has used-tricked us, but for the greater glory of the Horned Rat. I know that now… we shall be pox-masters, yes-yes.’ He hugged the golden plaques to his chest. Thin streams of smoke rose where the strange metal touched his bare flesh, but he did not seem willing to let Kruk take them from him. His eyes were wide and mad, and Kruk wondered what had happened to his rival.

It wasn’t that he particularly cared, of course. But he did wish to avoid a similar fate, if possible. He shrugged. ‘Guard your prize then, yes-yes,’ Kruk said. ‘From the looks of you, I could simply take it from your rotting claws, but I will refrain.’ He gestured dismissively with his censer. ‘Go on then, scurry away. Your master calls. But when this is done Vretch… I will settle up with the pair of you, oh yes…’ He fixed Vretch with a glittering eye. ‘We will settle all debts.’

CHAPTER TEN

Mysteries of the Worm

Skuralanx perched on the shoulder of Sigmar in the central chamber of the Sahg’gohl, and called out to Vretch, guiding the worm-ridden skaven to him. His sibilant tones echoed back at him from the curved walls and shattered dome of the chamber.

He hissed and rubbed the stumps of his broken horns. What he felt could not be called pain, as such, but it rankled nonetheless. That such a puling creature had been able to get close enough to harm him — to harm the mighty Skuralanx — spoke volumes about how badly his underlings had bungled things. He hoped that at least one of them would survive, so that he could have the pleasure of devouring them himself.

He could have gone to claim what Vretch had found himself, but his injuries had weakened him considerably. He would need every iota of his remaining strength to twist open the realmgate and escape. Yes, he had to conserve his strength.

Rain fell through the cracked dome and mingled with the lightning which occasionally crossed the floor in bursts. The radiance rising from the realmgate situated in the statue’s plinth cast long shadows across the faded and peeling murals which marked the curved walls. Scenes from Shu’gohl’s history were illuminated briefly before fading into darkness. Skuralanx had covered most of them in claw-marks and filth, for the sheer joy of it.

This place was his — or soon would be. As soon as Vretch delivered whatever he had found, Liber or otherwise, to him, he would depart, only to return at the head of an army larger even than the Congregation of Fumes had been… the Children of the Horned Rat would swarm over and through the worm, gnawing it hollow and making a warren-to-end-all-warrens from its bloated carcass. And nothing would stand in their way.

He gazed down at the realmgate, studying its design with his remaining eye. A matter of moments, yes, that was all it would take. Even if he didn’t understand the way the facets were locked together or what the symbols on them meant, he knew he could open it. Indeed, he had already begun. A portion of his cunning intellect was focused on the task, necessitating his remaining here, well away from Kruk’s doomed last stand. The daemon sniggered. He had saved Kruk’s tail often enough; now it was the plague priest’s turn to repay Skuralanx’s kindness.

Perhaps he might salvage the burly lunatic, before he departed. Vretch was in no condition to be of any further use, but Kruk… yes, let no one say Skuralanx didn’t pay his debts. Kruk had enabled his triumph — it seemed only fitting that he spare the brute.

But first… the Liber. He looked towards the causeway. He could feel Vretch’s agonised mind. The plague priest was on his last legs. He was rotting as he staggered through the ruined temple, leaving a trail of worms and mangled flesh.

It was a fitting irony, Skuralanx thought, that such a treacherous creature should die serving the master he’d sought to betray.

He’d known from the start that Vretch harboured ambitions above his station. It was one of the reasons he’d brought Kruk along… while Vretch was focused on his hated rival, there had been less chance of him coming up with ways to free himself from Skuralanx’s influence.

In a way, the daemon was almost sad that it was all coming to an end. Vretch and Kruk had been entertaining in their way. But better days awaited, greater glories and mightier triumphs. He chittered in anticipation and hunched forward, clawing at the statue. Soon… soon it would all be done.

Soon, Skuralanx, the Scurrying Dark, would unleash a pestilence like no other. And reap the rewards thereof…

Kruk scuttled across the plaza towards the causeway and the advancing star-devils and storm-things, the remnants of the Reeking Choir at his back. He felt neither fear nor pain, though he would feel both, he suspected, before the day was done. ‘Kill-kill, for the glory of the Great Corruptor! For the glory of your Archfumigant,’ he shrilled, slashing the air with his censer-gauntlet. ‘Keep them from the temple! Hurl them from the causeway!’

It would be a close-run thing, he thought. They only outnumbered their foes five to one, and those weren’t the best of odds. But he was Kruk — the Horned Rat had marked him for greatness. Why else would he have survived every misfortune that sought to waylay his one, true destiny? Tests! All of it — tests! To prove his worthiness in the eyes of the Great Witherer! He was Kruk, and he would spread the Effluvial Gospels into every nostril and lung, yes-yes!

He slammed into the enemy, wreathed in a choking murk. He caught the edge of a bladed shield and hauled himself up, so that he could brain the scaly warrior who bore it. The seraphon fell and Kruk flung himself forward. As he dropped, his jaws sprang open and he vomited a cloud of noxious gas. Seraphon collapsed, their scaly bodies sloughing away into nothing. Kruk staggered back as starlight flared and his cloud was dispersed.

Spears tore holes in his robes and slashed his flesh as the seraphon closed ranks, forcing him to backpedal quickly. He pointed a talon at one of the snarling saurians and the creature staggered as its body began to shrivel and rot. The rot swept through their ranks, killing half a dozen of them before its potency faded. Kruk cackled as he crushed a shrunken skull with his censer. ‘Die-die! Die for the glory of Kruk,’ he shrilled.

He heard agonised squeals and smelled burning hair as a blast of celestial energy incinerated a skaven to his left. Kruk spun to see a reptile, clad in a cloak made of brightly hued feathers, step through the ashes of the fallen skaven, a glowing staff extended before it. The skink met his gaze and cocked its crested head, as if in challenge. Kruk snarled and darted beneath the stabbing spears of the intervening seraphon. He sprang towards the feather-clad reptile, who released a second searing burst of light from its staff. Kruk bulled through the burning luminescence with a scream.

‘Kruk is to be killing you, star-devil,’ the plague priest shrieked, as he snatched up the reptile and slammed it back against a statue. ‘Not even you can prevent Kruk from achieving his destiny — Kruk will rise, like the vapours of death, and strangle all the world. Kruk will—’

Kruk screeched as a bolt of sizzling lightning took him in the back.

The plague priest released the reptile and stumbled, flames licking from his robes. He whirled and saw the skull-masked storm-thing striding towards him. Kruk cursed and flung out his good claw. The vapours rising from his censer suddenly stiffened and solidified. They shot towards the approaching figure like glistening arrows. The storm-thing staggered as the semi-solid vapours tore at him.

Before he could finish the smaller creature off, it drove a dagger into his shoulder. Kruk spun and backhanded the seraphon with his censer, knocking it sprawling. He tried to call to mind a killing spell, but his rage was too great — he wanted to rend, to tear. He raised his censer, ready to bring it down on the skink’s head.

He heard a shout from behind him and half-turned to see the skull-faced storm-thing extend his staff. A moment later, a bolt of lightning speared down through rain-choked skies and struck his censer. Every nerve in Kruk’s form wept in sudden, all-consuming agony. The lightning ran through him and into the ground. The stone crumbled beneath his smoking claws as a radius of devastation spread outward around him.

He fought against the pain, against the clutches of the lightning, trying to lower his arm, to thrust himself towards his enemies once more. He refused to be defeated so close to his ultimate triumph. He heard the shrieks of his closest followers as they were immolated, or slipped between the cracking stones, vanishing into the shadowed depths.

His squeals of frustration were swallowed up by the dark, as he plummeted down into the depths of the worm, his robes and body alight.

‘For Sigmar,’ Zephacleas growled, clashing his weapons together in the silence that followed the collapse of the plaza, and the disappearance of the rat-priest. ‘For the Far-killer and every fallen brother, death to the dealers of death!’ He charged forward, Sutok at his side, Thetaleas and the Decimators racing in his wake. They met the skaven in what was left of the central plaza, in the shadow of lightning-wreathed statues.

All around Zephacleas, seraphon and Stormcasts advanced and fought as one. At the rear of their lines, the slann slumbered on his palanquin as all around him his warriors fought and died to defend him from the desperate skaven. The Starmaster hadn’t stirred since he’d aided Seker in calming the agonies of the worm, and Zephacleas wondered whether the ancient being even knew what was going on.

The skaven fought like maddened animals, driven by fear and desperation and the reeking smoke that spewed from their censers. They fought to overwhelm, to break free, to escape. But there would be no escape. Not this time. Like an infection, they would be purged from Shu’gohl’s body. He hacked a squealing rat-monk in two, and snapped the spine of another. The force of his blow sent the creature flying. He saw Thetaleas bisect three of the creatures with one blow, and Sutok obliterate a frothing censer bearer with his war-mace.

Zephacleas laughed as Seker’s lightning flashed and the enemies of Azyr died. ‘Death to the dealers of death,’ he roared, arms spread. ‘Ruin to the bringers of ruin.’

Go.

The voice echoed like a bell within his head. It was not a human voice. It wasn’t even really a voice at all — rather, it was the slow rumble of stars wheeling in the heavens. It was a heavenly roar, hammered into the shape of words, made small enough for his mind to comprehend. He glanced back at the slann, resting on its palanquin. The heavy-lidded eyes were half-open and fixed on him.

Go.

Images filled his mind. He saw a dying skaven, staggering up stone steps, something golden clutched in its trembling arms. He saw a verminlord, slinking from the shadows. The same creature, the voice whispered, which had killed the Far-killer and Oxtl-Kor both. A creature which had claimed the lives of too many Stormcasts and seraphon to be allowed to escape. It deserved death no less than its servants.

Go.

‘Yes, I hear you,’ Zephacleas growled and signalled to Seker. ‘Cleanse this place, Lord-Relictor. Let not a rat survive. I go to deal with the one who brought them here.’

‘Zephacleas — wait,’ Seker began, but Zephacleas was already moving forward, bulling his way through the disorganised mob of skaven. He chopped two of them down, and they began to scatter, flowing around the great, roaring amethyst giant ploughing through their ranks. In moments, he had slaughtered a path through them and was storming across the plaza towards the domed central chamber of the temple.

He caught glimpses of the rat-priest through the pelting rain and flashing lightning. It was limping up the temple steps. It was hurt, and moving slowly, but it had a head-start. He pushed himself to greater speed. He knew somehow that he needed to be there when it died. As he pounded up the temple steps, he heard the creature cry out in a strained squeal.

The interior of the chamber was dominated by a statue of Sigmar, Ghal Maraz lifted over his head. Lightning crawled across the raised hammer and the crown of the statue, cascading down it in shimmering waves. More lightning wept out of an iron hatch set into the statue’s plinth — the hatch was easily twice the size of a man, and at a glance he recognised it for what it was.

The realmgate. Still sealed though, thank Sigmar, he thought. He’d seen firsthand what happened when a realmgate became twisted by the forces of Chaos. Thankfully, that didn’t appear to be the case here.

The rat-priest was standing before the statue of Sigmar, swaying on its claws. As Zephacleas entered the chamber, it staggered and fell. It dragged its broken body forward, clutching the golden item to its chest.

Zephacleas stalked towards it, intent on finishing the creature off for good. But before he could reach it, the beast gave a grunting cough, shuddered and lay still. Its body came apart with a vile sound, and a tarry substance spread across the floor. Black, writhing shapes rose from the waste and he stepped back with a curse.

Above him, in the dark, something laughed. ‘You have come far just to die, storm-thing,’ a voice hissed. ‘Yes-yes, die-die.’

Zephacleas looked up. Something hideous stared down at him from its perch atop the head of Ghal Maraz. He didn’t know why he hadn’t noticed it before. The side of the verminlord’s skull was scarred as if by fire, and one eye socket had gone dark. Several of its horns had been sheared off, and smoke still rose from the broken nubs. The daemon slunk down and crawled across the statue’s shoulders, leering at him with its single flickering eye. ‘Die-die beneath the gaze of your man-thing god. Die for the glory of the Great Corruptor.’ Its eye narrowed as it looked down at the body of the rat-priest. ‘Ahhh… poor Vretch. Poor, cunning Vretch.’

It sprang from its perch and Zephacleas stepped back as it landed in a crouch before him. He could hear the crash of weapons and the screams of dying skaven. The creatures were making their last stand and fighting like cornered rats. But none of that mattered if the daemon got what it came for.

It yanked the remains of the rat-priest’s body up and shook the golden plaques loose from the corpse’s grip. They clattered to the ground where they lay gleaming with a strange radiance. ‘Not what I was looking for, no-no, but perhaps valuable all the same…’ the verminlord chittered as it stared at them, its tail lashing. ‘Yes, valuable…’ it hissed softly. It looked up at him. ‘Is this what they came for? Is this why the serpent slithered down out of the stars? What secrets of theirs will it reveal, I wonder?’

Whatever those are, best not to let that thing have them, Zephacleas thought. He stepped forward, sword extended. ‘Step back, daemon. You’ll claim no prize today. Not unless you go through me.’ Lightning crawled across his armour as he faced the monstrous verminlord.

The verminlord hunched over and spread its long arms.

‘Aye, I’ve faced one of your kind before,’ Zephacleas growled. He brought his weapons together with a crash. The lightning flared in response, coiling about the blade of his sword and the head of his hammer as he wrenched them apart. ‘It fled, rather than fight me… what about you, beast? Fight or flight?’

The verminlord shrieked and sprang towards him, curved blades sweeping out. Zephacleas jerked back, avoiding the first of them. The second connected with his sword in a spray of sparks. The force of the blow knocked him back a step. The daemon landed two more strikes before he could drive it back with his hammer. Faster than me, for all that it’s bigger, he thought, following it.

But he’d fought bigger, faster things since before he’d been chosen to wage Sigmar’s war. It had been a way of life in the Ghurlands. There was always something bigger and faster and hungrier on the other side of your tribe’s palisade. There was always something that wanted to make a meal of you. The trick was in making it regret the attempt.

‘Did Mantius give you that?’ he asked, gesturing at the verminlord’s fire-scarred skull. ‘Did the Far-killer get in a bite, before you killed him?’

Heat flared in the daemon’s remaining eye and it gave a shriek of anger. It lunged for him again and he managed to side-step the blow. As it charged past, he caught it in the midsection with his hammer. The blow knocked it off of its hooves. It tumbled to the ground, but almost immediately rolled upright, steam rising from the point where he’d hit it.

He glanced back as something else entered the chamber through the great doors. The Dreaming Seer, on his palanquin, watched through half-closed eyes as he and the verminlord circled one another. He expected the slann to banish the daemon with but a gesture, but the creature did nothing. ‘Well?’ he growled. ‘What are you waiting for?’

The end.

The voice rang dully and deeply within him, and he shook his head to clear it.

He heard the daemon laugh. ‘It has not come to help-aid you, storm-thing,’ the verminlord hissed, darting glances at the waiting slann. ‘It comes only to watch.’

The daemon circled him, scraping its dripping blades together menacingly. ‘They only ever watch… they watched as we ate them, in the world-that-was, and they shall watch as we take our rightful place in this one. And it shall watch as you die.’

Its sickle-like blades whipped about, faster than his eyes could follow. First his runeblade, then his hammer, were torn from his grip. Before it could capitalise, he drove his head into its skull, causing it to stagger back. He lunged forward with a bellow and wrapped his arms around its midsection, lifting it off its hooves.

Its blades carved gouges in his war-plate as his charge carried it backwards into the statue of Sigmar. Stone legs cracked and the daemon squealed. It drove its elbows down on his shoulders, trying to break his hold. He ignored the blows and tightened his grip. Steam rose from the daemon’s maggoty flesh as the blessed sigmarite contracted about it. Its struggles grew more frantic and it hacked wildly at him, shearing slivers from his armour. Its knee caught him in the chest, and with a sudden, convulsive heave it broke his hold and flung him backwards.

The daemon was on him before he hit the ground. He caught the downward sweep of its blades on his bracer and knocked them from the creature’s grip. Before it could recover, he caught it by the throat. It grabbed hold of his head and slammed him back, rattling him. He drove his fist into its skull until the yellowing bone cracked.

The daemon rolled away from him, the lightning playing about its monstrous form. Zephacleas gave it no chance to recover, no chance to flee. He scrambled to his feet and hurled himself upon its back. He caught one of its remaining horns with one hand and snaked his arm around its shaggy throat. With a roar, he snapped its horn loose and drove the length of splintered bone into its good eye.

The daemon flung him off with a wail. He crashed into the statue of Sigmar. Stone cracked and split. Zephacleas rolled aside as the statue broke at the knees and fell. Ghal Maraz crashed down on the verminlord’s skull, silencing the daemon’s wails with dull finality. Its body thrashed for a moment, and then slumped in defeat. Slowly, it began to dissolve into a putrid mess of bubbling, tarry excrescence.

Zephacleas hauled himself to his feet, breathing heavily. He met the stony gaze of the statue and then looked up, through the hole in the roof, at the storm overhead. With a grunt of mingled annoyance and thanks he shook his head and picked up the golden plaques. They were warm to the touch, even through the metal of his gauntlet. He hefted them, feeling their weight. They were covered in strange pictograms, indecipherable to his eye.

It is done, the voice said, as vast and as deep as the dark between the stars. The words pulsed through him, echoing through flesh and bone. He heard a crack, as of great wings, and felt the heat of undimmed stars and blazing suns.

He looked at the Dreaming Seer. The slann was fully awake for the first time since his arrival, bulbous eyes wide open. The Starmaster gazed at him unblinkingly. Takatakk and Sutok were there as well, though he had not noticed them arrive. The skink crouched on his master’s throne, head cocked. ‘Do you hear, dream-of-Sigmar?’ the little creature chirped. ‘It is time. All has happened, as the Great Lord foresaw. And now our dream ends, and we will sleep again.’

Great Lord Kurkori extended his hand. Zephacleas hefted the golden plaques and some force plucked them from his hand. They floated onto Kurkori’s palm. As the Lord-Celestant watched, the plaques were suddenly suffused with light. They came apart with a soft sound, reduced to golden dust which spilled through the slann’s fingers and cascaded to the floor. Old calculations, best left forgotten, the voice said. It is done. The pattern may continue, unimpeded by random variables.

‘It is done,’ Zephacleas said, echoing the voice in his head. Whose voice it was, he couldn’t say. Kurkori’s perhaps, or maybe even Sigmar’s, echoing down from the Realm Celestial. Or the voice of something older, and more vast in scope than any god or sorcerous ancient.

Slowly, the slann inclined his wide head. He blinked, once, as if in thanks, and Takatakk chirruped. Sutok growled and raised his war-mace in salute. Then, with a soft whisper of parting air, they were gone. Light flared from the plaza beyond, and there was the sound of air rushing to fill a sudden void. Zephacleas knew that the rest of the seraphon had departed as well. Gone back beyond the veil of stars.

He looked down at the pile of golden dust, wondering what it had been. Had its destruction been the only reason the seraphon had come? Or had there been some greater purpose? He shook his head, annoyed by the thought of questions that would likely never be answered, and reclaimed his weapons. He was a warrior, not a seer. He raised his hammer in salute to the departed seraphon. Though he was unable to see the stars of their constellation for the storm, he knew that they were there regardless.

‘To what dreams may come, my friends,’ Zephacleas murmured. Weapons in hand, he turned to rejoin Seker and the others. The battle for the Crawling City was done but there were others yet to be fought. And Zephacleas intended the Beast-bane to be in the vanguard.

EPILOGUE

The Congregation of the Worm

Kruk fell for what seemed like hours, his robes burning, his flesh peeling. He felt no pain, only rage, and when he struck an outcropping of bone and flesh, it was almost a relief. He bounced, struck something else, and tumbled into a pool of gastric juices. The burning waters carried him for what might have been days, hours or merely moments. Time passed strangely to his pain-fogged senses, and when he at last felt something solid beneath his claws, it came as a shock. Instinctively, he dug in and clawed for purchase.

The plague priest rose with a screech and floundered for shore. He hauled himself out of the bubbling liquid, and gave himself a shake. The vast gullet of the worm rose up around him, blocking out the hateful sky and shrouding everything in a pleasing, humid darkness.

Holding his maimed claw to his chest, he sniffed the air. Everything stank of worm and lightning, though that was no surprise. He heard thunder echoing down from above, and something told him that Skuralanx would not be coming for him.

The thought was not displeasing, all things considered. The daemon had used him, and abandoned him when it had achieved its goal. And it had paid for its temerity, as had the duplicitous Vretch and the treacherous Squeelch. Betrayers and fools all, they had paid the price for attempting to bar Kruk from his destiny.

Despite the pain of his wounds, he tittered in satisfaction. His survival was proof enough that his fate was already written. The Horned Rat had gouged Kruk a place in his schemes, and he was protected from the vagaries of fate.

‘Protected, yes-yes,’ he mumbled, squinting into the dark. As the pain faded, his vision improved. Even with one eye, he could see the tumbled slabs of mould-covered soil and rock that rose up around him. His robes had been burnt to shreds, and most of his body had been charred into hairlessness, but all of his limbs were working.

He heard a soft scrape and turned. Something speared towards him, razor maw spread wide. He caught it just behind its jaws with his good claw and hacked at its squirming length with the jagged remains of his censer. When its struggles had weakened sufficiently, he took a wary bite out of the worm-thing’s glistening flesh. The dark slime which coated it burned as it slid down his gullet. It tasted… odd. But Kruk was not one to turn his nose up at a meal, no-no. As he tore more flesh from his prey, he looked around.

The bones of skaven, orruks and man-things alike filled the sump, and among them squirmed a nest of black, glistening worms, all smaller than the one he held. Too, worms curled about splintered ribs and filled the burst skulls of fresher skaven corpses — Vretch’s followers, he guessed. The air was thick with the stink of disease and Kruk’s sensitive nose wrinkled as he sucked in a lungful. He dipped his broken censer into the frothy ichor that dripped from the worm-nests onto the ground and lifted it to his snout. As the liquid slopped from the ruined gauntlet, it solidified into a writhing mass of wriggling shapes. Kruk chittered in pleasure as he dumped the worms back into the ichor.

Vretch had been wrong. Worse than wrong — Vretch had been foolish. He had thought that the answer was in a book. But it wasn’t, and had never been. Whatever plague this was, whatever its name or source, it had never been written down. Not yet anyway.

Kruk looked around, examining the ruined latticework of stone and dirt and sludge with a considering eye as he chewed another chunk of worm. He knew the old stories of Geistmaw, and suspected that Vretch had as well. He had come searching for this place to find its secrets and, true to form, walked away with the wrong one. Kruk tapped his broken censer against the walls. Yes-yes, this had once been a fine warren, before the worm had swallowed it up.

And it might be so again, in time. A perfect lair, hidden in the belly of a great beast, away from the prying eyes of daemons and star-devils alike. There would be survivors above, both from among his followers and Vretch’s… enough, at least, to start with. In time, more would come. They would burrow down, seeking safety, and Kruk would be waiting for them. He looked down at the squirming shapes floating in the ichor and licked his muzzle in satisfaction. Yes-yes, more would come, and a new warren would rise, down in the dark.

The Congregation of Fumes was dead.

Long live the Congregation of the Worm.

Sylvaneth

Josh Reynolds

The Resolute

The rotling roared out a challenge and Felyndael, Guardian of the Waning Light, turned to meet it. They always sought to challenge him. It was not bravery, he thought, so much as hunger. Hunger for challenge, hunger for conquest… hunger for death. They were like the roots of a blighted tree, still stretching for nourishment even though the trunk was dead. They belonged dead, but could not die. He gestured contemptuously, and the rotling lumbered towards him.

Around him, his fellow tree-revenants fought with other rotlings, leaping and slashing among the clumsy plague-lovers. Scarred Caradrael bisected a bloated warrior from crown to groin as lithe Yvael cut the sagging throats of three with a single blow. Daemonic ichor splashed across the wondrous curved structures of the reed-city of Gramin as the rotlings stumbled and died beneath the blades of his twenty-strong kin-band.

Felyndael felt a surge of satisfaction as his warriors fought with their customary flowing grace. They flickered in and out of sight, lunging and striking at their opponents from every direction at once. They were veterans of the withering years, and could easily dispatch three times their number in open combat.

He turned his attention back to his challenger as the brute, bulbous and clad in stinking furs and pitted metal, came at him in a clumsy rush, roaring out the name of its foul god. It seared the air with its murk. An axe swept down, and Moonsorrow rose to meet it. The ancient blade hummed with strength and struck with the force of an avalanche. The jagged blade of the axe shivered apart. The rotling reeled back, pustule-dotted jaw working in shock beneath the rim of its foetid helmet. Flabby paws waved in hapless defiance as Felyndael darted forwards, quick as the wind.

Moonsorrow screamed in joy as it pierced the noisome bulk. Flesh, muscle and bone parted like smoke before the bite of the sword. The rotling hunched forward with a shrill wheeze, clawing helplessly at Felyndael’s bark-clad arms. Wriggling worms spilled from its mouth and pattered to the ground as its stinking ichor gushed from the wound.

Ably done, noble one, Yvael thought, her compliment pulsing through Felyndael’s mind as he pulled Moonsorrow free of the rotling’s cancerous body. He let the creature sag to the ground and looked around.

I am not alone in that, my sister, Felyndael thought. Around him, his tree-revenants finished off the last of the dead thing’s companions, killing the bellowing brutes with graceful savagery. The rotlings had become separated from the flow of the horde now occupying the circular streets of Gramin, and thus were easy prey for him and his kin-band as they erupted from the spirit paths close to the heart of the city.

The reed-city was as much a thing of Ghyran as Felyndael and his warriors. Alarielle’s magics had constructed it in ages past. She had drawn up the reeds that grew thick and wild in the shallows of Verdant Bay and woven them together into a great metropolis of canals, bridges and high, sweeping arches, spreading outwards from the Basilica of Reeds at Gramin’s heart. All as a gift for the mortals who had sworn to care for that which she had entrusted to them in ages past — a clutch of slumbering soulpods.

It was a duty that the citizens of Gramin had upheld until the final days of the withering years, when the rotlings had come from the sea. Their plague ships had clustered like maggots along the shore, befouling the green waters of the lagoon, kept pure until then by the budding soulpods. The raiders swept through the city with fire and axe, killing or enslaving all who inhabited it.

Felyndael’s grip on his sword tightened at the thought. Though they had not been of his soil, the mortals had been caretakers, even as the sylvaneth were. They had not deserved such a fate, and he wished that he had been there. Perhaps— no. The season was done, and the cycle continued. Though his heartwood cried out for vengeance for the atrocities of the past, his task now was more important than simple slaughter.

The raiders had left the city itself — and that which even now slumbered beneath it — untouched, after scouring it of all mortal life. Perhaps they had deemed it unimportant, or indefensible. Regardless, they had retreated to the great sargasso, where they had raised foul citadels upon the floating weeds and left the reed-city and its hidden treasure to sit silent and undisturbed.

Until now. Until Alarielle had awoken, and her scream had set the skies to burning and the winds to roaring. As the echoes of that scream spread throughout Ghyran, the rotlings had returned in their scabrous galleys, stinking of ruin, and their return endangered the slumbering grove of hidden soulpods. Now the city shuddered in the grip of a malaise, and the waters beneath screamed without ceasing.

Moonsorrow trembled sympathetically in his grasp. He could feel the ghost of the mountain for which the sword was named stir within the blade. A sorrowful weight, a millennium of tragedy, condensed and compacted into the weapon he now held. A burden and an honour both. It sang to him sometimes, when the moonlight struck the blade just so, and the din of battle had faded.

But it was not singing now. Even if it had been, Felyndael could hear but one song — the war-song, the song of the reaping. Alarielle’s voice resounded through him, branch and root, summoning him, driving him to war. It had been centuries since he had last heard the Everqueen’s voice. It was like a gale wind, ripsawing through the realmroots. She sang and screamed and whispered all at once, crying out in wordless command.

It was a command he had no difficulty obeying. Indeed, he had never stopped fighting. Felyndael of the Fading Light had never set aside his sword, had never set down roots or shrunk into the dark and quiet like many of the others. He had fought without ceasing since the first rotling had set ragged claw on the good soil of Ghyran. And he would not stop until the last of them were mulch beneath his feet. He would not stop until they had been punished in full for their crimes against life itself.

The sword hummed in his grip, the voice of the mountain murmuring to him. Calming him, settling its weight upon the rage that rose up within him like a wildfire, snuffing it. But not for long, he suspected. It grew more difficult to ignore with every turn of the seasons. The harder he fought, the harder it became to do anything but fight.

He had become a hollow thing, burned black and made brittle by war. But he would serve until his roots shrank and his branches cracked. Calmer now, Felyndael examined the body at his feet. Why had the rotlings come back? The servants of Chaos always sought to destroy the soulpods, when they knew of them. But that was not the case here. He would have sensed it if the soulpods were in any direct danger. Something else was going on.

One of his warriors, Lathrael, stretched out her hand. The air is wrong here, she thought. Her words pulsed gravely through the connection that bound them.

It is sour, Caradrael the Scarred thought, with the mental equivalent of a shrug. Like everywhere the rotlings infest. And so? Caradrael’s bark had been kissed by fire long ago, and it had made him short-tempered. Let us kill them, and cleanse this place.

Their numbers are great, Yvael thought.

Then our vengeance will be all the greater. Caradrael’s thought was the hiss of a slashing branch.

No. Lathrael is right. It is different, Felyndael thought. Like the calm before a storm. It trembles, like a thing afraid. Wait — something is—

The air shuddered as unseen bells tolled. The sound of it was every axe-thud, every root-snap and crackle of flame. It was the sound of bark sloughing, curling, decaying and the scream of dry grass in the burgeoning. Felyndael nearly dropped Moonsorrow as he clutched at his head. The others were similarly afflicted by the droning reverberation.

As the tree-revenants recovered their wits, horns brayed in the distance, and drums thudded. The rotlings were agitated. But not, Felyndael thought, by his kin-band. Something else had come to Gramin. Come, brothers and sisters, he thought. Let us see what has our foes so excited.

Aetius Shieldborn, Liberator-Prime of the Hallowed Knights, led his warriors through the deepening murk that clogged the streets and plazas of Gramin. Three retinues of Stormcast Eternals from the Steel Souls Warrior Chamber marched in his wake. Their panoply of war gleamed silver where it was not befouled by grime and mud. Their shoulder guards were of deepest regal blue, such as the heavens themselves, as were their heavy shields, where they were not scored and marked by battle. The weapons they carried shimmered with holy fire, lighting their way through the gloom.

The Hallowed Knights were the fourth Stormhost of the First Striking, and only the faithful filled their ranks. Each warrior had called upon Sigmar’s name in battle, and each had shed their mortal flesh in the name of a righteous cause. Their courage had been proven in battles all but forgotten in the haze of their Reforging. And among the Warrior Chambers of the Faithful, the Steel Souls were pre-eminent.

For Aetius, it was not so much a matter of pride as it was a simple fact. The Steel Souls had been at the forefront of the war for the Jade Kingdoms, and the entirety of Ghyran itself. They had forged a path for their brothers to follow, hurling back the servants of the Plague God wherever they found them, from the Grove of Blighted Lanterns to the Mirkwater.

As they would do here, Sigmar willing.

Gramin had been beautiful once, Aetius thought, as he led his fellow Stormcasts through the vacant streets. The city was a living thing, shaped rather than built, and reeking of the strange magics that permeated much of this realm. Once it had been home to thousands. Now it was a husk, emptied and abandoned, and falling to the same blight which was slowly devouring all of Ghyran. Black ichor seeped from the reed-walls, and stinking water bubbled up through the mat of the street. Flies choked the air.

So far, their advance into the city had been uncontested. They had discovered great ironwood barges abandoned in the marshes and used them to reach the city. The barges now sat beside the beslimed quays of Gramin, guarded by a few volunteers from among his retinue. The outer ring of the city had devolved back into a quagmire of reeds and marsh-grass, uninhabited save by unseen beasts. But the enemy were near. The sea-wind carried with it the monotonous thud of their war-drums to Aetius’ ears.

The mortals who had once lived in this place had fought when the Rotbringers laid siege to their sea-gates and lagoon-walls. But without Sigmar to guide them, they had faltered and fallen. Those who had survived the sack that followed the shattering of the sea-gates had been taken in chains to the miasma-shrouded sargasso-citadels that now dotted the mouth of Verdant Bay like sores. There they had likely been cast into the plague-gardens as fuel for the balefires that now ceaselessly vomited pox-smoke into the skies above the marshy coastline.

But Gramin had remained, abandoned and forgotten. Until now. Until the bells. When they rang, they filled the air with their dolorous cacophony. The sound of the bells spread like a plague, stretching from the coastal marshes and onto the Plains of Vo. And the lovers-of-plague had come following it, drawn like maggots to dead flesh. Hundreds of them, moving from the north and the south, trudging towards the source of the clangour. The curse-bells, calling Nurgle’s children to war.

The rest of the chamber was to the north, somewhere on the Plains of Vo. Lord-Castellant Grymn had ordered scouting parties sent out to search for the bells while he led the other Steel Souls in battle with the migrating warbands. Numerous ruins dotted the coastline for leagues in either direction, and any one of them could have been the origin of the din.

‘It’s the basilica.’

Aetius glanced at Solus, his second-in-command. ‘What?’

‘That’s where they are, I’d wager. It’s the highest point in the city,’ Solus said, pointing towards the domed roof that was just visible over the tops of the other buildings. The great structure known as the Basilica of Reeds occupied the heart of the city. Once, Sigmar’s worshippers had filled it with the sound of song and reverence. Now the God-King alone knew what horrors stalked its aisles.

‘Maybe,’ Aetius said.

‘Definitely.’ Solus was possessed of a calm certainty that Aetius could scarcely fathom. Sometimes he fancied that the Judicator-Prime was the eye of a storm made manifest. When Solus deigned to speak, even Lord-Celestant Gardus, the Steel Soul himself, listened. Aetius envied his brother Stormcast that steadiness. Solus seemed to have no doubts as to his place or purpose in the world.

In contrast, Aetius had nothing but questions. Unlike some Stormcasts, Aetius had no memory of who he had been — no recollection of what event had prompted Sigmar to choose him for a life of eternal war. There was an emptiness in him, a hollow space in his soul that he’d hidden behind a wall of faith and now tried his best to ignore. For Aetius Shieldborn, there was nothing in the world save duty.

‘If they are here, we will find them,’ Aetius said.

‘If? That doesn’t sound like if,’ Solus said, as he drew and readied a crackling arrow. One by one, the Judicators of his retinue followed suit. ‘That’s not just the wind we’re hearing, Aetius. Listen!’

Aetius cocked his head. The sea wind rolled through the streets of reed and soil, carrying the sour smell of the distant sargasso. And something else. A low sound that spread like a fog rolling in off the sea… The sound of the bells of Gramin. A hollow groan rolled over the assembled Stormcasts, reverberating through their bones and souls alike with a horrible finality — it was the sound of dirt striking a coffin lid and the last cry of a dying beast, the crumbling of stone and the sifting of sand through an hourglass, the sound of futility and ruin. One of the Liberators stumbled forwards, vomit spewing from the mouthpiece of his helm.

‘Back in line,’ Aetius growled, as the warrior mumbled apologies for his moment of weakness. His brothers helped him to his feet. Aetius kept his eyes on the broad avenue ahead. The thick miasma clung to everything in this sour place and seemed to be thickening, growing more opaque with every toll of the unseen bells. It stank of the sea and of decaying seaweed and rotting fish. And from within it came the padding of many feet.

‘I know that smell… Rotbringers,’ Solus said.

‘Form a square, brothers.’ Aetius raised his hammer as his warriors shifted position, forming a loose phalanx. ‘Lock shields and brace yourselves,’ he continued. The Hallowed Knights had come seeking sign of the enemy, but it appeared that their foes had found them instead. ‘Solus, take your retinue behind the shield wall and ready your arrows.’

‘Aye, Shieldborn,’ Solus said, leading his men into the square of sigmarite. The Judicators would be able to ply their trade freely there. Few foes could break a Liberator shield wall and survive. Aetius stepped back into line. The miasma crept closer, billowing upwards and thickening. It reminded Aetius of nothing so much as a snake readying itself to strike.

The wall of mist ruptured, expelling a pestilent horde. The Rotbringers were clad in filthy rags and rusted armour. They had been mortal once, before they had surrendered their souls and sanity to Nurgle. Now they were a braying morass of suppurating flesh, stumbling forwards on bandaged feet and cloven hooves.

‘Solus — split the log,’ Aetius said. A moment later, the Judicators loosed a crackling volley over the heads of the waiting Liberators. Arrows struck the oncoming Rotbringers with unerring aim. Those in the front ranks were pitched backwards into their fellows or else hurled into the air by the explosive impact. A second volley followed the first, and then a third, as quick as thought. Slowly but surely, the foetid mass of enemy warriors buckled and split, dividing in two.

Sigmarite shields creaked as the Rotbringers slammed into two sides of the square. Aetius drove his hammer into a bloated belly, popping it like a pustule. The blessed metal of the hammer cauterised the creature’s seeping organs even as it crushed them. ‘Hold the line, brothers,’ Aetius cried as he ripped his hammer free of the dying warrior’s intestines in a plume of smoke. ‘Who will stand, as the world crumbles?’

‘Only the faithful,’ the other Stormcasts shouted, as one.

‘We are the faithful, brothers. We are the steadfast,’ Aetius said, as a moss-encrusted club thudded harmlessly from his shield. ‘Solus — scour these barnacles from our shields.’ A volley shrieked up over the wall, and fell screaming amongst the foe. ‘Push them back,’ Aetius said as he shoved forwards, arm and shoulder braced behind his shield. The front line of Liberators followed his example, and the Rotbringers reeled back. But not for long.

Over the din of battle, Aetius could still hear the sombre tolling of the dreadful bells. It was a summons, he thought, calling the Rotbringers and driving them into combat. More of them flooded out of side streets and doorways, coming at the Stormcasts from all sides. Some were chanting the name of their monstrous patron, while others were singing abominable hymns even as they fell to crushing hammer blows or sizzling arrows.

The Rotbringers pressed on with little regard for their own well-being, driven forwards by the bulky, lumbering shapes that strode slowly through the press of battle towards the gleaming silver battle-line of the Stormcasts. Aetius recognised the grotesque warriors instantly — putrid blightkings, the chosen of Nurgle. He had fought them before, and they were far more dangerous than the diseased fodder dying beneath the hammers of his retinue. There were more of them than his retinues could hope to hold at bay, at least while they were caught in the open. They had to fall back and find a more defensible position, one they could hold until reinforcements could be summoned, if need be.

Thinking quickly, Aetius fell to one knee and brought his hammer down on the street, sending a shockwave through the hard-packed soil. Rotbringers stumbled and fell as his Liberators stalked forwards, shields held high. Aetius rose to his feet, backhanding a Rotbringer with his shield as he did so. A mutant, her flesh encrusted in buboes, saw the opening and lunged forwards with her rusted blade held in both paws. She cackled with bitter amusement as the sword struck his breastplate and shivered to flinders. He crushed her hairless skull with a blow from his hammer and turned. ‘Solus — fall back,’ he called out.

The Judicators retreated, loosing crackling arrows at any Rotbringer who managed to squirm past the shield wall. Aetius struck out left and right. Their foes were as thick as fleas, and somewhere the great bell was still ringing mournfully. The blightkings drew closer, smashing aside Rotbringers in their lumbering haste to close with the hated Stormcasts. ‘Tomas, pull your retinue back and reform the shield wall — we will hold them while you disengage,’ Aetius shouted, gesturing with his hammer.

At his order, half of the Liberators disengaged and retreated. His own retinue tightened their lines, covering their brothers as they fell back. One of the blightkings bellowed something, a challenge perhaps, and tottered towards Aetius with a roar. A crackling arrow sprouted from the visor of the warrior’s helm, and he sank down with a choking sigh. ‘Thank you, Solus,’ Aetius murmured. Then, more loudly, ‘Fall back!’

He and his warriors fought their way free of the Rotbringers and backed away, shields raised and held steady. The arrows of the Judicators seared the air as they fell, ripping through those enemies who sought to pursue them. Aetius led his retinue past Tomas and the others, who waited to take their place in battle. The manoeuvre was repeated again and again, as the Hallowed Knights steadily retreated back the way they’d come.

Their withdrawal wasn’t without casualties. A Liberator fell, skull cloven in two by a blightking’s festering blade. Another was swarmed by chanting Rotbringers as blades and claws sought the joins in his war-plate. Aetius could do nothing to help either as they were reduced to crackling columns of azure lightning and returned to Sigmar’s forges. As the glare of their passing faded, however, he saw a thin shape, neither Rotbringer nor Stormcast, rise suddenly from the packed reeds that made up the street, a glowing sword clutched in its bark-covered hands. Long, vine-like hair whipped about a lean, almost human face as the newcomer removed the head from a Rotbringer with a single blow, before vanishing as swiftly as it had appeared. ‘What in Sigmar’s name…’ Aetius muttered. ‘Sylvaneth.’

It had been weeks since they had last seen any of the treefolk. After the Battle of Blackstone, and Alarielle’s rebirth, the sylvaneth had gone their own way, leaving the Steel Souls to fight where they would. They were fickle beings, and Aetius had been somewhat glad to see the back of them. What were they doing here?

A moment later, more of the strange sylvaneth burst from the reeds, their spindly forms moving with mercurial speed — first fast, and then slow, and always with a lethal, inhuman grace. Unlike the dryads, these creatures fought with weapons, albeit ones made from bark and stone. Despite the seeming crudity of their manufacture, the weapons cut through the diseased flesh of the Rotbringers with ease.

‘Tree-revenants,’ Solus said. ‘I saw them up close at the battle in the Hidden Vale. They’re some sort of royal guard, I think.’ He looked at Aetius. ‘They serve her will. And her will is not Sigmar’s.’ The Steel Souls had learned much about the sylvaneth in the weeks and months since Gardus had led them into the Hidden Vale. The treefolk did not forget or forgive, and they were as savage as they were enigmatic.

‘No. But we are allies, until the God-King commands otherwise.’ Aetius watched as the tree-revenants swarmed through the faltering ranks of the Rotbringers, butchering them in deadly silence. The enemy were confused, and in their confusion were growing frightened. Horns signalled the retreat as Rotbringers began to fall back in disarray. ‘Either way, they’ve given us the respite we needed,’ he said. He raised his hammer. ‘Forward!’

As he led his warriors into the fray, he watched the sylvaneth fight. Sometimes, they disappeared even as one foe fell, only to reappear across the battlefield, stepping from the seemingly solid reed-walls to attack another opponent from behind. Soon, the Rotbringers gave in to their growing panic and fled, streaming around the bewildered knot of blightkings, who roared in frustration and grunted vain commands to stop, to fight. Solus’ Judicators added to the panic, loosing volley after volley into the disorganised rabble.

Aetius and his Liberators slammed into the blightkings. Without the Rotbringers to support them, the fight that followed was swift and brutal. Preoccupied as they were, the blighted warriors were easy prey, though it took some doing to put them down for good. Luckily, the Steel Souls had had enough practice to know when to cease bludgeoning a fallen blightking and when to continue.

When the last of the brutes had fallen, Aetius looked up and found the tree-revenants watching them. He stepped forwards warily, ready to defend himself if it should prove necessary. While the treefolk had fought beside them as allies, there were stories of less friendly encounters, especially in the Wyldwoods, where sylvaneth were said to hunt anything not of Ghyran, regardless of whether it was Rotbringer or Stormcast.

One of the tree-revenants moved to meet him. It was the first one he’d seen, a long, glowing blade clutched in one talon. Rough bark covered its form, though whether it was armour or flesh, Aetius couldn’t say. ‘Hail, warriors,’ he said, wondering how one addressed a sylvaneth properly. Lord-Celestant Gardus had made it look so easy. ‘A fortunate thing, to find you here. We thank you for your aid.’

‘We… have come to… free this place,’ the tree-revenant said. Its — no, Aetius thought, his — voice was like the rattle of windblown branches and the scratch of leaves through wet grass. His face was akin to a mask pulled taut over knotted vines, with features that reminded Aetius of the strange, reclusive folk known as aelves. But this creature’s face moved in odd ways, twitching and twisting strangely.

‘As have we,’ Aetius said. He held his shield away from his body and very slowly hung his hammer from his belt. ‘We come to silence the curse-bells that call the servants of Nurgle to this place. Will you fight beside us?’

‘Fight…?’ the tree-revenant said, head cocked.

‘Your aid… would be appreciated,’ Aetius said. ‘I am Aetius Shieldborn, Liberator of the Steel Souls.’ He extended his hand, and waited.

Felyndael felt something in him tighten at the sound of the Stormcast’s voice. It was a deep sound, low and grumbling, like the progress of rocks down a mountain slope. Or the crash of distant thunder. They smelled of rain and heat and raw iron, newly scraped from the good earth. They were not of Ghyran, these beings, but of Azyr, and they burned with a cold light that stung his senses.

These silver ones were known to him. They, alongside the amethyst ones, had fought to free the Gates of Dawn. They were also the ones who had unwittingly led the forces of the great enemy to the Everqueen’s hidden bower. Had they made the same mistake again, leading Alarielle’s foes to this place?

Many sylvaneth have died because of these silver-skins, thought Caradrael.

And many more have been saved, Yvael replied. These defended the Everqueen, even unto death and beyond.

The Everqueen is not here, Caradrael thought. He shifted impatiently, his blackened bark creaking with every twitch. Leave them, noble one. We have more pressing matters to concern ourselves with. Did you hear that tolling as we fought? It was like being in the fire all over again.

Yes, Felyndael thought. The echoes of the — what had the Stormcasts called them, curse-bells? — had finally faded. He tilted his head, listening to the wind and the crash of the sea, the creak of the reeds and the cry of marsh birds. Within that ineffable song was a hidden note, dim now, and weak. But growing stronger.

Those bells will shatter the soulpods if they continue to ring, Lathrael thought. We all felt their power. If these silver-skins come to destroy them, why not aid them?

We have no need of them, Caradrael thought.

Maybe, Felyndael thought, still listening to the call of the soulpods. The pulse of life as yet dreaming, a wellspring preparing to gush forth and leave something new in its wake. But if they were not recovered soon, their blooming could be twisted, and that was something he would not, could not allow.

He looked into the thoughts of his warriors, sensing the same resolution in each of the tree-revenants who had accompanied him to Gramin. Twenty in all, each was a child of the Heartwood Glade, and connected by bonds older than thought. Felyndael drew strength from that connection. Within it was a thunderous echo of glories past, which reverberated in the soul of every child of the forest. He felt again the savage exultation of the Third Harvest, and the sorrowful joy of the Crucible of Life.

We have known glories, he thought.

We will know glories again, Yvael replied.

In a span of moments he saw again every battle he had ever fought, every long war waged down the winding path of his people’s slow waning. His heartwood ached from the weight of those long centuries of retreat and loss. More, it ached with fear. Not for himself, or even his kin, but for that which nestled helpless and unawares somewhere beneath Gramin.

Fear that he would fail them. Fear that twenty warriors — even these twenty — would not be enough to confront the horde he could feel gathering elsewhere in the city. The reeds of Gramin whispered of their numbers to him, and whispered too of the pain the soulpods felt every time the bells rang. Lathrael was right — they might be destroyed if that monstrous tolling were not silenced.

The foe were too numerous for his warriors to fight through alone, too many to avoid even, too many between him and his goal. All of this passed across his mind in the blink of a mortal eye, and he turned, opening his thoughts to his kin.

Sensing his frustration, they reached out to him, to comfort him. Even seething, impatient Caradrael. Fingers of bark and vine touched his shoulders and face, as each sung a single note which merged into a calming melody, pulling him back to himself. The Stormcast lowered his hand and stepped back, as if he could feel the edges of the spirit-song.

They had all suffered as much or more — Yvael had been with him at Ghoremfel where the Lady of Vines had led them into battle for the Tear of Grace, and seen the pride of House Lathrien splintered by daemons; Caradrael still bore the burns he’d suffered at the fall of the enclave of Verdantia; Lathrael… mighty Lathrael, who had fought her way free of the pox-waters which had drowned the Hidden Vale; and the others, whose voices and sorrows were as one with his own.

We will know glories again, they said.

Slowly, he added his own voice to theirs, until the air shivered with their song. Many became one, and in an instant, a decision was made. He turned back to the Stormcast called Aetius. ‘I… am Felyndael, of the Heartwood. We will aid you,’ he said.

Aetius blinked. He had felt something in that moment, as the sylvaneth communed with one another. A pulsing echo that had tugged at his soul. There had been pain there, and something that might have been… faith. A form of it, at any rate. Pushing the thought aside, he nodded gratefully. ‘I thank you, Felyndael of the Heartwood. With your help, we might yet cleanse this place of the filth that afflicts it.’

‘We must silence the bells,’ Felyndael said. He turned, chin raised, as if he were scenting the wind. ‘There.’ He extended his sword towards the distant dome of the basilica.

‘I told you it was the basilica,’ Solus said, from behind him.

‘Yes, well, now we must reach it in one piece,’ Aetius said, annoyed. He looked at Felyndael. ‘Can you lead us there? Lead us past the foe?’

‘Yes,’ the sylvaneth said. ‘We will go—’

‘Wait,’ Aetius said. Without thinking, he caught hold of the tree-revenant’s arm. Felyndael froze, and the others suddenly surrounded them, the tips of their blades pressed to Aetius’ throat. He heard the rattle of sigmarite, and flung up his hand, signalling for the other Steel Souls to stand down. ‘You as well — wait. Wait.’

Felyndael looked down at Aetius’ hand and then up. His face did not change expression. A moment later, the other sylvaneth stepped back. ‘We must go now,’ Felyndael said. ‘We must silence the bells.’

‘Will you wait for us to summon reinforcements?’ Aetius said carefully, releasing Felyndael’s arm. The tree-revenant seemed impatient. Aetius was not trusting by nature. Something told him that the sylvaneth had not intervened out of friendship. Or at least not for that reason alone.

‘There is no time,’ Felyndael said. The bells began to ring again, filling the air with hideous noise. The tree-revenants turned as one. ‘No time,’ Felyndael said again.

Aetius glanced at Solus. ‘No time,’ he said.

‘We are taking a chance,’ Solus said, a moment later, as they pounded after the sylvaneth. The treefolk were leading them a circuitous route through the curving streets, avoiding the largest groups of Rotbringers. The Stormcasts moved in perfect synchronisation, jogging shoulder to shoulder. The tree-revenants, for their part, moved more swiftly. Their thin shapes bled in and out of sight as they passed through the very walls of the surrounding buildings, or sprang across the sloping rooftops. ‘Lord-Castellant Grymn would say we are being fools, not calling for reinforcements.’

‘Why call for them, when they have come to us?’ Aetius said. Occasionally, he heard the sounds of fighting, and screams. He wondered what other horrors might stalk the city. ‘Besides, the bells grow louder. Time is against us, I think. We must silence them.’ He could hear the winding of horns and the stamp of feet. They were not the only ones moving towards the sound. So far, however, they had managed to avoid any further conflict. It wouldn’t last. The enemy knew they were here, and some of them, at least, were likely rushing to find them. He picked up the pace.

‘And then?’ Solus asked.

Aetius shook his head. ‘Let the Lord-Castellant figure it out. Perhaps we will take this place for our own, and fortify it. It would make an adequate staging area from which to launch an assault against the sargasso-citadels of the enemy. If we held this place, we might sweep Verdant Bay clean in months.’

Solus chuckled. ‘Sound thinking. I see now why they put you in command.’

‘I should have thought my qualities were obvious from the outset,’ Aetius said. Solus laughed and pounded a fist on Aetius’ shoulder-plate as they ran.

‘Only some of them,’ Solus said.

Felyndael listened to the dull grumble of the Stormcasts’ voices echoing up from below. They had no song to unite them, only artifice and discipline, and he pitied them their blindness. Though the one called Aetius had almost heard the spirit-song, he thought. What must he have made of it, Felyndael thought.

He feared it. Like all meat fears the song of life, Caradrael thought dismissively, as he outpaced Felyndael. The tree-revenants ran smoothly across the rooftops of the reed city, leading the silver-skins on, safely past the clumps and eddies of warrior-filth that clogged the streets of Gramin. Those foes who drew too close or seemed likely to stumble upon their allies’ trail were diverted by his warriors, led away or butchered before they realised their danger.

They fear the dark and the forest, as well they should. Those places are not theirs, Caradrael continued. His blade and bark dripped with blood, and he had scattered the severed heads of rotlings across the rooftops in his wake.

They are no longer ours, either, Yvael thought, as she kept pace with Felyndael. But these ones will help us claim something back.

Caradrael growled in disgust. Felyndael ignored his displeasure, and stretched his mind outwards. They were close to the centre of the city, and the hidden grove where the soulpods slumbered on, unaware of the danger crouched above them. He felt their song swelling in the dark. It had protected them thus far, but the city was infested with rot.

The buildings were weeping black tears, and the streets sagged in places, expelling geysers of foul water. The curse-bells were somehow warping the ancient enchantments that bound this place, twisting them into a new, more horrifying shape. Every time the bells rang, some part of Gramin died. They all felt its pain, twisting within them.

We should grant this place mercy, noble one, Lathrael thought. Let it die, lest its pain bend it all out of joint and into something monstrous.

The silver-skins seek to claim it, Yvael protested. Let them care for it, and it might yet flourish. She pressed close to Felyndael, and he felt her plea. If we but grant them soil to take root in, they will fight all the harder.

I cannot, he thought. Gramin holds our quarry within its heart. They are bound together, and when the one is removed, the other must die. Once, they might have flourished together, but now… Now the sick branch must be pruned, for the good of all.

And Gramin was sick. As the Jade Kingdoms were sick. As Ghyran was sick. But the sylvaneth could not purge the realm alone. They lacked the proper tools. Or had, at any rate. Until the coming of the silver-skins. Felyndael tightened his grip on Moonsorrow’s hilt, annoyed by the thought. He had fought since the mountains were first birthed by the seas. He would fight until the last leaf fell from the last tree. The Everqueen had grown him for war. He would be true to his nature. But hollow as he was, a seed of honour yet remained. To treat these sons of Azyr as tools went against everything House Lathrien and the Heartwood Glade had stood for.

You are disturbed, Yvael thought.

Perhaps we should tell them, Felyndael replied. Let them know what must happen. Let them know why we must do this thing.

It would serve no purpose, even if they could understand, Caradrael interjected. He slid to a stop and turned. We should use them as the noble one uses his sword — plunge them in and watch them bleed our foes.

And leave them there, I suppose, Felyndael thought. Caradrael looked away.

They are not our kin. Caradrael’s thought was shrouded in sullen resentment, but the sentiment was shared. Felyndael could feel the agreement of others — not all, but some. Alarielle’s rage burned brightly within them. How capricious, how inconstant they must appear to their allies, driven as they were by the war-song.

The wide dome of the great basilica came into view. The air throbbed like an open wound, and he felt his insides twist in revulsion. But beneath that maddening knell came the whisper of the soulpods. Still alive, still safe, but not for much longer.

No, Felyndael thought, looking down at the Stormcasts. They are not our kin. But they aid us regardless.

Aetius slowed. The tree-revenants had stopped. He raised his hammer. They had come to a narrow alleyway, which wound between two tall, windowless buildings. Liberators moved forwards, blocking the centre of the alley with their shields.

A great bawling rolled between the buildings, trapped in the curves and angles of the alley. The smell of rot was thick on the air, and the sky above was black with smoke. ‘What is that din?’ Aetius said. The sound crashed over the Stormcasts like the roar of the sea, impossibly loud in the narrow space.

‘Come up,’ Felyndael called down, looking at them from the edge of the roof. ‘I will show you.’ He rose and slipped up the incline, moving swiftly. Aetius exchanged glances with the closest Liberators, who sidled backwards. Aetius sighed, hung his hammer from his belt and slipped his shield over his back. Then, digging his fingers into the packed reed-wall, he began to climb. The reeds bent beneath him, providing natural handholds. It wasn’t easy, but the climb wasn’t long. Few of the buildings in the city were more than three times the height of a Stormcast, and that was no real exertion for one of Sigmar’s chosen.

‘Still… sometimes… I wish… Sigmar had seen fit to give me wings. This… would be… much easier if I could fly,’ Aetius grunted as he hauled himself onto the roof of flattened reeds. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the sky. He lay for a moment, watching the distant stars flicker in the jade firmament. ‘Azyr…’ he murmured.

‘The realms weave together like the roots of a great forest. It is hard to say where one ends and another begins,’ Felyndael said, looking down at him. He extended his hand.

‘Or even how big the forest is,’ Aetius said, grabbing the proffered hand, though he needed no aid. Felyndael easily pulled him to his feet, and Aetius was surprised by the tree-revenant’s strength. Carefully, they crept to the edge of the roof. The rest of Felyndael’s warriors crouched nearby, scattered across the rooftops which overlooked the great plaza beyond. Aetius looked down. ‘More of them than I was expecting,’ he murmured.

While crossing the Plains of Vo, the Steel Souls had encountered only scattered warbands. But here, below him, was a true warhorde in the making. Arrayed before the steps of the Basilica of Reeds, the gathering had the exuberance of a carnival. Great fires burned in pits scooped from the reeds. Dozens of pestilent standards rose over the mighty throng of monsters spread through the vast plaza. Chieftains gurgled greetings to one another, warriors bellowed prayers to the fly-infested sky, and gales of phlegm-choked laughter echoed across the open space.

Felyndael peered towards the basilica, and the hordes gathered there. ‘There are too many. Even if we slip past them, they will soon know where we are.’ He looked at Aetius, his expression inscrutable.

‘Unless they’re already looking somewhere else,’ Aetius said, in instant understanding. ‘The servants of the Ruinous Powers are strong but fragile… They are still mortal, for all their monstrousness. Kill enough of them and they will lose heart. Kill their chieftains and they will flee.’

‘How will we know which are the chieftains?’ Felyndael said.

‘They’ll be the ones trying to get to us first,’ Aetius said.

‘Ah. Those,’ Felyndael said. ‘We can kill those.’

‘I encourage you to do so, and with all due haste,’ Aetius said, making his way back the way he’d come. ‘The more of them we kill, the less chance they’ll regroup when they break.’ He dropped heavily to the ground.

‘How many?’ Solus said, peering down the alleyway towards the plaza.

‘Many. We will meet them head-on and punch through them. Tight formation, shields locked,’ Aetius said, meeting the gazes of his warriors. ‘We are not many, but Sigmar is with us. We will prevail.’ He looked at Felyndael. ‘We will stop only when we reach the steps of the basilica. We will make our stand there.’

‘I will meet you there,’ Felyndael said, without further elaboration. He stepped back, and vanished into the packed reeds that made up the wall of the alleyway.

‘Can we trust them?’ Solus said, staring at the wall.

‘I have faith,’ Aetius said, softly. ‘Whatever their reasons, we want the same thing — the bells silenced and the enemy routed. Let us draw some attention to ourselves. Shields up.’ At his signal, his Liberators started forwards, shields raised, hammers ready. They marched into the plaza, moving with steady precision. The rattle of their war-plate clashed with the tolling of the great bells, filling the air with discordance.

One by one, the gathered Rotbringers turned. Chieftains bellowed commands as blightkings began to shove their way through the mass of bodies towards the approaching enemy. Horns whined and iron-shod bones thumped festering drums as the Rotbringers reformed to face the Hallowed Knights. Aetius slammed his hammer against the face of his shield. ‘Who will hold the dark at bay?’ he roared. ‘Who strides forth, when all is lost?’

‘Only the faithful!’ the Hallowed Knights bellowed in reply. As they did so, Solus raised his hand, and his Judicators sent a volley of arrows streaking up over the heads of the Liberators. Aetius gestured, and the Liberators picked up the pace. The square broke and reformed, becoming a wedge with Aetius at the point. He bent forwards, shield lifted, and began to run. The first Rotbringer he struck fell beneath him, and was crushed by the unyielding tread of the Liberators. The wedge blossomed like a murderous flower as the battle-line expanded at Aetius’ bark of command.

Hammers and war-blades rose and fell. Ichor splashed the reeds as the silver-armoured warriors hacked and crushed their way through the forces of the enemy. Where once they might have displayed caution, the Steel Souls now gave full vent to the fury that pulsed bone-deep within each and every Stormcast Eternal. They had clashed again and again with the servants of Nurgle since their arrival in the Jade Kingdoms. They had seen first-hand the monstrous cruelty such filth inflicted on the innocent and defiant alike. And here and now, that vile debt had at last come due.

‘Push through them,’ Aetius shouted. A featureless helm, covered in blighted sigils, burst like an overripe fruit beneath his hammer. ‘Hold the line, but do not stop!’ A Rotbringer lunged for him, and squamous tendrils slithered about his throat. Without stopping, Aetius slammed his head against that of his attacker, shattering malformed bone and bursting one faceted eye. The mutant reeled, squealing, and Aetius shoved it aside with a blow from his shield. Arrows slammed down ahead of him, erupting into crackling streamers of lightning as they felled squalling Rotbringers.

Axes and swords thudded against his shield or bounced off his armour as he waded through them. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a flash of crooked bark. A Rotbringer staggered, clutching at his spilling intestines in confusion. Another slumped, his head neatly removed from a spurting neck. The sylvaneth danced with a deadly elegance, their branch-like limbs sliding through flesh or launching deceptively gentle blows that nonetheless broke bones or punctured armour and flesh with ease.

When they reached the steps, the Liberators turned, sweeping their shields out, driving the closest of their foes back so that Solus could lead his retinue through. As soon as the Judicators reached the top of the dais, they loosed volley after volley into the packed ranks of the Rotbringers. At Aetius’ command, his warriors reformed their battle-line on the steps. Shield rims crashed together, forming a wall of gleaming sigmarite between the stunned Rotbringers and the Basilica of Reeds.

More of Felyndael’s tree-revenants erupted from the walls of the structures surrounding the plaza as the foe reeled in momentary confusion. They savaged isolated Rotbringers, reducing them to screaming wreckage before whirling away. Caught between the sylvaneth and the unyielding shield wall of the Stormcasts, the followers of Nurgle reeled as if in a daze. It wouldn’t last for long. The servants of the plague god were nothing if not resilient. And the bells were ringing again, impossibly loud, filling the debased creatures with courage and zeal. Aetius turned to Solus. ‘Hold the line. Let none of them pass. Felyndael and I shall silence the bells.’

‘Where is he? I don’t see him out there,’ Solus said, as he loosed an arrow.

Aetius looked towards the basilica. ‘Likely already inside.’ He caught Solus by the neck and brought their heads together. ‘Sigmar be with you, my friend.’

‘Better he go with you, I think. I’m perfectly safe where I am, sitting behind all of these shields,’ Solus said, pulling another arrow from his quiver. Aetius laughed and stepped past him. He hurried across the portico towards the sagging doors of the colossal basilica. The bells were pealing steadily, such that he half-hoped they might shatter.

‘Felyndael…’ he whispered, looking around. In kinder times, the basilica would have been impressive. Now, it was simply horrifying. A tarry substance marred the delicate whorls of the bent reeds, and the great pillars that supported the dome were covered in bunches of buzzing flies. Sickly green balefires burned in rusted braziers scattered along the length of the nave. The reeds making up the basilica seemed to pull away from their light and the weird shadows it cast. Grotesque censers had been hung from every cornice and arch, and they filled the air with a noxious miasma.

‘Here,’ Felyndael said, stepping into view. ‘The bells are above, within the dome.’

Aetius nodded. ‘Then let us silence them. The noise is wearing on me.’ Side by side, they stepped into the nave. There were no guards. Only a single figure, kneeling at the far end of the nave before a bloated idol. The idol was monstrous, its expression one of diabolical mirth, and flies clustered about it, clinging to its horns and ruined belly. Past the idol was a set of narrow steps, curving upwards and away around a pillar, rising towards the ceiling and the dome above. The kneeling figure shifted slightly, as they approached.

‘Stand aside,’ Aetius called out. Flies hummed in agitation.

‘What?’ The voice was a guttural thing, rough like hot mud splashing over jagged stones. ‘What was that?’

‘I said step aside,’ Aetius said, waving a fly out of his face. He peered upwards, and through the rotted gaps in the ceiling was just able to make out two great black-iron shapes, swinging back and forth within the dome. The curse-bells rang without need for human hands. Daemons, perhaps, or some sort of fell spirit, he suspected.

‘You must speak up, I cannot hear you for the bells,’ the hunched shape said loudly. ‘Or better yet, do not speak and return from whence you came. This place is for quiet contemplation, on the eve of doom. I commune with Grandfather. I would not be interrupted by… Hnh.’ The figure grunted. ‘The flies… The flies say you are not mine.’

‘No, we are not,’ Aetius said. He looked at Felyndael. The tree-revenant’s head was cocked, as if he were listening to something only he could hear.

‘In that case, forgive me,’ the hunched shape said. ‘I was but meditating on certain truths, as espoused by Blight-Master Wolgus in his seventh treatise on the nature of the warrior. It is said that the hope of a moment is but the foundation stone of everlasting regret, and that today’s palace is tomorrow’s ruin.’ The warrior glanced over one broad shoulder. ‘An appropriate quotation in this moment, I suspect. Now… who are you to interrupt my prayers?’

Aetius traded a glance with Felyndael, but said nothing.

‘Have you lost your voices, then? Or are you cowards? I shall ask again.’ The creature sighed and rose, massive frame creaking with protest. He wore heavy armour, covered in barnacles and seeping tumours where it was not etched with grimacing faces, and his helm was wrought in the shape of a frowning, daemonic visage. Great antlers, fuzzy with mould, rose from the sides of the helm. ‘How unexpected. A tree-devil and a broken soul. Worthy opponents indeed. The gathering faithful brought word of silver-skinned giants. You must be the authors of that clamouring I hear even now…’

Aetius took another step forwards, wondering at the size of the creature before him. This was nothing less than a champion of the Dark Gods. He gripped his hammer more tightly, drawing reassurance from its deadly weight. Champion or no, the creature would fall.

The Chaos warrior lifted an enormous flail. ‘Have you come to stop me, then? A last test, perhaps.’ The chains of the flail clinked softly as it was thrust upwards. ‘Or come, mayhap, to silence the bells. Seven witches cast seven spells on them, and when they lay spent and weak, my blight-brother Goral and I took their bones to make the clappers, which sound without ceasing as their strength waxes.’ Laughter burbled from within the helm. ‘Brave Goral is dead now. Slain in the dark by devils of bark and moss. A beautiful death, as the troubadour, Onogal, might say.’ He spread his arms. ‘Well, faithless one? Well, cruel spirit? Here I stand, a pilgrim most inflamed. I am Count Dolorugus, knight of the Order of the Fly. Come and test my faith, if you would.’

‘Gladly,’ Aetius said, stung by the creature’s remarks. Why did Nurgle’s servants always prattle so much? He stepped forwards and Felyndael followed his example. ‘This city will belong to Sigmar once more, beast, whatever your name, whatever weapon you wield.’

‘Fie on thee, fie and ruin,’ the Rotbringer rumbled. ‘This land is ours, by blight and conquest. You shall not have it — the Lady of Cankerwall has seen it and so it must be. I, Dolorugus, say thee nay.’ He swung his flail towards Felyndael, and the tree-revenant ducked aside. The blow arced over his head and obliterated a pillar of winding reeds.

Aetius charged, hammer thudding down to draw sludgy ichor from the surface of Dolorugus’ chest-plate. The gibbering faces set there began to wail and howl as the hammer cracked steaming scars across them. Dolorugus stepped back. His flail smashed down. Aetius interposed his shield, but the force of the blow drove him to one knee.

‘The basilica is mine. I will ring the pox-bells and call forth every mouldering thing in these marshy lands to my banner, and more besides. We will make this place a bastion — a temple to the King of All Flies. We will be the gate to the Garden, and break armies in Grandfather’s name,’ Dolorugus rumbled as he drove his cloven hoof into Aetius’ chest and sent him flying backwards. ‘Starting with yours, faithless one.’

Aetius groaned and clambered to his feet. His chest ached. Dolorugus was strong. But his faith in Sigmar was stronger. He shoved himself forwards, hammer raised in both hands. Dolorugus swatted him aside. Aetius stumbled, sinking to one knee. Dolorugus reached out with one wide paw and caught the Liberator-Prime by the back of his head. Aetius clawed at his foe’s fingers as Dolorugus’ grip tightened. Smoke rose from his hand as the blessed sigmarite seared his cankerous flesh.

Dolorugus roared in pain and hurled Aetius aside. The Rotbringer flexed his hand. ‘That stung,’ he grunted. ‘The pain is good, though. Victory without pain is anything but. I knew pain, dragging those bells here from Cankerwall, and I will know pain again, before long. Pain brings clarity of purpose. Let me show you.’

Aetius barely heard him. He forced himself up, groping blindly for the haft of his hammer. The chamber seemed to be shaking, and the reeds beneath him were loose and soft. Water bubbled up from between them. He looked around for Felyndael, but didn’t see him. Had the tree-revenant abandoned him?

He caught up his hammer, but before he could rise, Dolorugus planted a hoof between his shoulder blades. ‘A valiant effort,’ the Chaos champion rumbled. ‘But as I said — clarity. It is too late. The bells still ring, and the walls of this pale world grow thin. The tallymen heed the summoning knell… see! See!’

And Aetius did. Strange shapes shimmered in the murk of the chamber, not quite solid yet, but growing more so with every clang of the unseen bells. Suddenly, Aetius knew what his foe had meant by ‘more besides’. He’d faced daemons before. He couldn’t help but recognise their infernal stink as it grew stronger and stronger, almost choking him. ‘Sigmar give me strength,’ he whispered in growing horror.

‘There is no Sigmar here, my friend,’ Dolorugus rumbled. ‘Only Nurgle.’

Felyndael dived into the reeds as the blow arced over him. The sounds of the struggle and the bells faded, swallowed by the reeds and water. Aetius would have to fight alone. Only while the enemy was distracted would Felyndael have the time he needed to do what must be done. Though he knew it was necessary, it rankled. The Stormcast had hurled himself into battle on Felyndael’s behalf with a resolve that reminded the tree-revenant of glories past.

He shot from the underside of the city like an arrow loosed from a bow. Foetid at first, the waters stung his eyes and flesh. But the murk faded and the dark paled as he raced downwards, following the spirit-trail to the heart of Gramin. He coursed along the ancient realmroot, travelling deeper and deeper beneath the lagoon. The primeval root-pylons Alarielle had crafted in an age long past stretched beyond him. Hundreds of them, rising from the lagoon’s bottom to the underside of the city. Some floated listlessly, their reeds black with rot, while others were still whole and healthy. It was the largest of these he followed, slipping around and within it, following the song of the soulpods.

He could feel the struggles of his kin as he descended. Caradrael fought with a fury worthy of the Protectors of old, leaping and whirling amidst his foes, reaping a red harvest. In contrast, Yvael fought with subtle precision, wounding an opponent so that his bellows of agony might dishearten others. And Lathrael was destruction personified. Where she danced, no rotling remained in one piece.

Felyndael felt a fierce joy. Drawing strength from the bond, he began to sing, casting his thoughts down, down into the silt and sand. Calling out to the sleeping spirits. Every sylvaneth heard the spirit-song, from even before their first moments of life. It flowed through their thoughts and coursed through their bodies, binding them to the land itself. Heed me, spirits of the lagoon. Heed the Guardian of the Fading Light. I am Felyndael and I say awaken, he thought. Awaken and rise, for it is not safe here. You must rise… Rise!

Groggily, the soulpods stirred, sending up great plumes of silt. The root-pylons wavered, creaking, groaning. The oldest roots began to unravel, while the youngest snapped. Felyndael dropped to the lagoon bottom in a cloud of silt. His mind was rebuffed, cast back. They did not wish to wake, now was not the time, not yet, they whispered in drowsy petulance. They were stubborn and powerful, and he wondered what slumbered within them. Alarielle herself didn’t know. Life was ever capricious, even where the Everqueen was concerned.

But whatever they were, they would awaken. They must.

With a cry that was as much thought as sound, he drove Moonsorrow into the ground between his feet. The blade shivered in his hands, adding its voice to his own. He cast images of what might be into the stubborn, unformed minds — of places of exquisite beauty reduced to wastelands, of soulpod groves uprooted and burning, of pyres heaped with the kindlewood corpses of their people. This — this is what will happen, unless you rise, he thought, as their despairing screams rang loud in his head.

If he failed, if they did not stir, they would die. Another piece of his people would fade into the long dwindling. Worse, those he had brought here would die for nothing. He thought of Aetius above, and felt the reeds give and bend as the Stormcast and his foe fought. He felt Caradrael’s pain, as old wounds opened anew to spill golden sap across the ground. Heard Yvael’s scream as a rusted blade pierced her leg. Felt the reeds burn as lightning speared down to claim Azyr’s dead. All of this he felt, and all of it he thrust down through Moonsorrow’s blade and into the ground.

You must rise. You must.

The ground beneath his feet churned and split. Light, pure and radiant, speared upwards. The water frothed and grew warm. Felyndael stretched out his hand. Rise, he thought. Rise!

And in a blaze of light and song, they did.

Aetius groaned in pain as Dolorugus’ hoof pressed him down. ‘It is even as the Lady of Cankerwall claimed,’ the Nurglite said as half-seen shapes capered about them in jolly encouragement. ‘They rise, and I shall rise with them. Look upon the end made flesh, my friend, and know a perfect despair.’

Aetius ignored the creature’s babbling, and the growing solidity of the daemons. If he could not stop the bells, Solus and the others would be overwhelmed. More, the rest of his chamber might be taken unawares when Dolorugus’ hellish force erupted from the marshlands. ‘Who… Who will stand, when all others fall?’ he hissed, between clenched teeth. He dragged his hammer up to use as leverage.

‘What?’ Dolorugus looked down. ‘Is that a riddle?’

‘No. It is the faithful,’ Aetius said, as he forced himself up and back. The sudden movement knocked Dolorugus backwards a few steps, freeing the Liberator-Prime. Aetius staggered to his feet, hammer in hand. ‘I am the faithful. And I stand.’

‘Ha! Still some fight left in you? Good,’ the Nurglite burbled. ‘I will— eh?’ The Chaos champion turned. Aetius looked past him. A light rose from beneath the floor, spilling upwards, growing in radiance. Dolorugus hissed in pain and flung a hand up as the warm light washed over them, expanding to fill the chamber.

At the centre of the light, the reeds of the floor tore themselves free of the weft and pulled away from that which churned in the dark waters below. The foul idol Dolorugus had been praying to toppled from its altar, and the murk which clung to the walls was seared clean. Daemons, half-solid, were reduced to whimpering shadows by the scorching radiance. Within the burning heart of the light, something rose.

To Aetius, it was all shapes and none, constantly changing. They were tall, winding stalks, heavy with golden, glowing cocoons, but also strangely shimmering fungal orbs or perhaps a cloud of seeds with diaphanous wings. There were other shapes as well, hundreds of them, each more disturbing and unrecognizable than the last. They shifted from one to the next almost faster than his eye could follow, and the light which contained them took on a shape of its own — a shape that planted what might have been legs and set its burning shoulders against the ceiling above.

Then, with a roar like that of the sea, the light surged upwards. Reeds popped and burst, tearing away from the whole. The dome ruptured, bursting open like a seedpod. The ringing of the bells wavered, as if in panic, before continuing their tolling. The light flowed upwards, burning a path through the smoke, cleansing the air of toxins where it passed.

Higher and higher it rose, until at last it was lost to sight. What was left of the ceiling creaked and began to peel away in mats of dying reeds. The whole basilica shuddered like a dying animal, and a vast moan seemed to rise up from the depths of the city.

‘Well. There was a wonder,’ Dolorugus said. He lunged forwards, and caught Aetius by his throat. A blow from his flail knocked the hammer from the Liberator-Prime’s grasp. With a grunt, he dragged the struggling Stormcast from his feet. ‘But it matters not. Listen. The plague-bells still ring where I hung them.’ He gestured to the ceiling with his flail.

Aetius pounded on the Nurglite’s arm, but the creature’s grip was unyielding. ‘Grandfather’s hand stretches out, as implacable as time itself. He shall clutch you to his bosom, my friend, and teach you the true meaning of faith.’ Dolorugus shook him, the way a dog might shake a rat. ‘Perhaps you will even join me as a blight-brother, in time. You already have the armour and bearing of a knight, after all,’ Dolorugus said, chortling.

‘No.’

The voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. ‘Felyndael,’ Aetius gasped, still trying to free himself.

Dolorugus grunted. ‘Where are you, spirit? I thought you gone.’ He turned, dragging Aetius with him. ‘Come out. Were those lights some witchery of yours?’ He laughed. ‘You should have fled while you had the chance, spirit. Now, I shall break your limbs and use them for tinder. The fire of your passing shall light our path to victory. But first…’ He looked down at Aetius. ‘You die, my friend, but you will be reborn, I have no doubt. Perhaps we will meet again, in days to come.’ His grip began to tighten. His flesh sizzled, but the sigmarite creaked, as did Aetius’ neck.

Suddenly, Felyndael was there, flowing up the nave towards Dolorugus. His blade flashed, chopping into the Nurglite’s arm. Ichor spurted and Dolorugus cried out, more in rage than pain. Aetius fell to the ground. Dolorugus whirled his flail out, driving Felyndael back. The floor buckled and split as the Chaos champion lunged after the tree-revenant. Water, clean and crystal pure, geysered upwards.

Aetius stood, fighting for his balance. It felt as if the whole basilica were coming apart. The passing of the light had wrecked everything in its path. But the bells were still ringing, and Dolorugus still roared and fought. As Aetius watched, his flail caught Felyndael a glancing blow and knocked the tree-revenant sprawling. Aetius charged barehanded and crashed into Dolorugus, driving him back against one of the reed pillars. The force of it bent the pillar and caused the damaged ceiling above to buckle and warp. The clangour of the bells lost its monotony, becoming arrhythmic and erratic.

Aetius’ silver-clad fists thudded into his foe’s greasy armour until Dolorugus brought both of his own down between Aetius’ shoulder blades and dropped him to one knee. As he sank down, head ringing, he heard the sound of splintering wood and the scream of reeds giving way. He looked up as, with a roar, the curse-bells at last tore through what was left of the ceiling and hurtled downwards.

Dolorugus looked up at the last instant, as Aetius hurled himself aside. As he rolled away, he thought he heard the Chaos champion laugh. Then the bells struck home, and smashed through the floor and into the waters below. They carried Count Dolorugus with them into the black depths of Verdant Bay.

As the echoes of the bells’ final tolling faded, Aetius hauled himself to his feet. He looked at Felyndael as he recovered his hammer. ‘I thought you had abandoned me.’ The tree-revenant didn’t look at him.

‘We must go.’

As they hurried towards the doors, the reeds crawled and split beneath their feet. Everywhere Aetius looked, the basilica was beginning to unravel. Outside, Solus was waiting for him, with the remaining Stormcasts. There was no sign of the other tree-revenants. ‘Our allies?’ Aetius asked, fighting to be heard over the creaking and groaning of the city.

‘They’re gone,’ Solus said, casting a wary glance at Felyndael. ‘They vanished as soon as that light did. Left us to clean up.’ He looked around. ‘So much for garrisoning this place. The streets are coming undone and the buildings are unwinding like so much thread. What happened?’

‘Victory. I’m just not certain as to whose. What of our foes?’ Aetius asked.

Solus shook his head. ‘Gone. Dead or else fled, once the unlucky ones started slipping through the holes in the streets. The whole city is sinking.’

‘Whatever magic was holding it together has been lost,’ Aetius said, looking at Felyndael. The tree-revenant nodded.

‘Go,’ Felyndael said. ‘The city has served its purpose. It will sleep now, until its season comes again. You must not be here when it does.’

‘You heard him. Rally the others. We need to make it back to the quays before we join the Rotbringers in the lagoon,’ Aetius said, gripping Solus by the shoulder. As the Judicator-Prime turned away, Aetius looked at Felyndael. ‘That light… What was it?’

Felyndael said nothing. Aetius sighed. ‘Next time, perhaps, you will simply tell us,’ Aetius said, softly. Felyndael looked at him, his expression impenetrable. Aetius held out his hand. ‘But you have my thanks for coming back, Felyndael of the Heartwood.’

Felyndael looked down at his hand. The sylvaneth’s deceptively delicate features split in a small smile. ‘And you have mine, Aetius Shieldborn,’ he said as he clasped the Stormcast’s armoured forearm. A moment later he was gone, leaving Aetius standing alone.

‘Next time,’ he said to himself. Then, as the Basilica of Reeds unravelled and Gramin came undone, Aetius Shieldborn hurried to join his warriors.

Robbie MacNiven

Heartwood

The Realm of Life had become a place of death.

Blood and bark, iron and earth, the glade shook with the fury of battle. At its centre a warband of Rotbringers had turned at bay, their tight cohorts of rusting plate armour and sagging, rotten flesh split apart by nature’s wrath.

Nellas the Harvester, branchwych of House Il’leath, swung her greenwood scythe in a hissing upward arc, parrying the blightking’s stroke. The hulking Rotbringer leant into the blow, trying to use his bulk to force Nellas’ guard down. The sylvaneth was dwarfed by the warrior, but she stood her ground, willowy limbs invested with the strength of the Wyldwood’s deepest roots. Bark creaked and the scythe shuddered in her grip as she held the blightking in place, while from the trees all around the sylvaneth poured. The whole forest keened with the battle-song of the Wargrove; the encroachment of the Great Corruptor’s minions into Brocélann would not be tolerated.

The bittergrub that coiled among Nellas’ branches saw its opening. It darted forward and locked its mandibles around the upper thigh of the Rotbringer, slicing through corroded plate and neatly snipping a hamstring. The blightking grunted and went down on one knee. The bittergrub held on.

Nellas leant back to give herself room, and plied her scythe in a great arc. There was a crunch, and the warrior’s cyclopean helmet thumped to the ground, a jet of pus-like ichor pattering across the glade’s trampled grass.

Nellas was pushing past the decapitated corpse before it had even slumped, her bittergrub wrapping around her once more. The Rotbringer champion was ahead, bellowing vile curses as he swung a great, rusting mace at Thaark. The treelord ancient’s own household revenants were struggling to reach him, locked in a grinding melee with the Chaos lord’s bodyguard. Nellas shrieked with fury as she saw the Rotbringer’s blow thump home into Thaark’s thigh, splintering wood and splattering thick amber bloodsap. The head of House Il’leath tore into the champion’s flesh in response, his great talons splitting armour and spilling rancid guts, but to no avail. The Rotbringer’s wounds regenerated as soon as they were made, the obese armoured body bound together by more than mere mortal willpower.

The Rotbringer heard Nellas’ cry and turned in time to swat aside her first blow, moving with a speed that belied his diseased bulk. Nellas darted back to avoid the warrior’s backswing, the forest air thrumming with the force of the mace’s passing. Thaark lunged at the champion’s exposed back, dragging fresh gashes down his spine, but he simply shrugged off the wound and stepped in closer to Nellas. She attempted a shortened slash with her scythe, but this time it merely clanged off corroded battle-plate. For all her strength, the branchwych didn’t possess Thaark’s oaken might.

And now she had overextended. The Rotbringer was too close to strike at her properly, but the thrust of his mace was still deadly. The blow smashed into Nellas’ side, and pain fired through the branchwych. She went down, roots questing for purchase in the glade’s bloody earth. Her bittergrub lashed out at the plague champion, maw snapping at the wounds already dealt by Thaark, but the Rotbringer simply snatched its writhing, segmented body in one iron gauntlet. With a bile-choked laugh he crushed the spite, popping it with a hideous crunch.

Nellas tried to rise, shuddering at the departing soul-shriek of the grub. Her bark was splintered, bloodsap running down her side. The Rotbringer turned to Thaark, another stroke of his mace splitting a great gash down the treelord ancient’s trunk. Nellas could feel her lord’s life force draining as he swayed back from the blow.

‘Your Wyldwood is mine, tree spirit,’ the Rotbringer said, the voice rasping as though from two separate, phlegm-choked throats. ‘Skathis Rot claims this kingdom for the Grandfather.’

Thaark was able to ward away another huge blow with his upper branches, but he teetered as the Rotbringer kept swinging, snapping limbs and scattering leaves. Around him the tree-revenants of Thaark’s guard were battling furiously to reach him, but the phalanx of blightkings protecting their own champion were still unmovable. Only Nellas had broken through.

The branchwych rose silently. The whole glade shuddered as Thaark went down on his knees, a creaking groan seeming to run through the surrounding forest spirits as they felt his agony. Nellas hissed at their song of pain and loss.

‘Surrender your pathetic kingdom to Grandfather’s mercy,’ Skathis Rot spat, standing over Thaark’s splintered form. ‘Share in his magnificent blessings, and embrace the majesty of abundant decay.’ The Chaos champion smashed another blow against Thaark’s torso, breaking the iron-hard bark and exposing the soft heartwood. Chuckling grotesquely, the Rotbringer leant forward, one gauntlet probing at the sap-soaked wound.

Whatever it was doing, the distraction was enough. Nellas swung at the plague champion’s exposed back. There was a crunch as the greenwood scythe parted Skathis Rot’s skull. Grey brain matter, thick with maggots, splattered the branchwych. She shrieked with furious triumph.

The champion’s corpse fell heavily, the ground sizzling where vile ichor pulsed from its split skull. Nellas went on her knees before Thaark, running slender fingers over the great rent splitting her master’s trunk.

‘It is no use,’ the head of the clan said slowly, voice creaking like a great oak bending in a tempest. ‘He cut to my heartwood.’

‘You must rest, lord,’ Nellas responded, willing the broken bark to reknit beneath her fingers. It could not be too grievous a wound. House Il’leath could not lose Thaark.

‘Take my lifeseed, branchwych,’ the treelord said, gently brushing aside Nellas’ touch. ‘Plant it in the Evergreen with the others who have fallen here. Give Brocélann new life, and we will resist these invaders for an eternity. Ghyran endures.’

Around them the tree-revenants had finally broken through the remaining blightkings, butchering them with blade and talon. Nellas was oblivious to it all, looking up into the eye knots of her lord. The green battle-fury which had burned there was dimming.

The song of the Wyldwood shifted fractionally, a new melody struck by the dying treelord. The sound pricked at Nellas’ memory.

‘The song of Everdusk’s Waxing,’ she said.

‘It always was my favourite,’ Thaark murmured, swaying slightly. Nellas could only nod. Around them the last sounds of slaughter faded, and the survivors of House Il’leath gathered with bowed branches to hear the final spirit-song of their lord and master.

After death, the harvest.

The glade had once been a tranquil place, an enclave of lush green grass dappled by the shade of overhanging ash and yew boughs. Now it was a circle of hell, the grass trampled into churned mud, the spiked, armoured forms of butchered Rotbringers intermingling with the smashed kindlewood corpses of felled sylvaneth, dark blood and amber sap mixing in the furrowed muck.

Nellas passed over it in silence, using her scythe as a crutch. The wound in her side still throbbed. It would heal in time, when she had an opportunity to rest in the Evergreen and channel the forest’s healing song. Until then she pressed on. She had a duty to perform.

One by one, she harvested the lifeseeds of her fallen kin. As a branchwych it was her most vital task, a part of the ever-turning cycles of the Wyldwood. From the day she had sprouted from her soulpod many seasons ago, Nellas had served House Il’leath as one of its harvesters, plying her scythe and carrying each and every lifeseed fallen, in peace or in war, back to Brocélann’s heartglade — the Evergreen. Amidst a reaping of death she was a sower of life, of tender branches and new shoots.

As she went, Nellas hummed a new song. She sensed other little voices joining in, one by one, answering her lilting call. She spoke to them as allies and as friends, not with orders, as she would have her fellow sylvaneth clansfolk. And one by one they answered her. They came buzzing, fluttering or leaping from the surrounding Wyldwood, dozens of tiny forest spirits that gathered around her, their bodies glittering with fey light. They had come to show their respect to the ones who guarded their homes. They had come to bear away the fallen.

Every time Nellas plucked a lifeseed from the dead wood before her, one of the spites flitting around her would retrieve it, ready to carry it with the branchwych to its resting place in the Evergreen. The creatures did so in silence, their playful jostling and bickering suppressed for the moment by the gravity of their task.

Near the far edge of the clearing Nellas paused, her flock of spites going still around her. She had been one of three. Her sisters, Llanae and Sylanna, had completed Il’leath’s triumvirate of branchwyches. Between them the trio had reaped the echoharvest of the lamentiri, the sylvaneth spirit-songs, and ensured the continuing existence of the Wyldwood of Brocélann since Thaark had been a sapling. But no more. Nellas found Llanae and Sylanna side by side, bark broken and lifeless, their bittergrubs crushed alongside them. She had sensed them fall during the fighting, had heard their battle-song cut short, but in the fury and desperation of the glade’s killing she hadn’t had time to mourn. Now, as a pair of little spites reverently received their lifeseeds, Nellas felt the ache of their felling keener than the wound still burning in her side.

It had been a grim day for Brocélann. By the time Nellas had passed over the whole glade, the sun was sinking below the treetops and the air was thick with attendant spites. The urge to dig her roots in and rest was almost overwhelming, but she resisted. She was now the only one capable of seeing so many lifeseeds replanted. As the Forest Folk set about piling the Rotbringer corpses for burning, she made her way to the Evergreen.

It was a long walk, through hidden vales and along the high paths of Brocélann’s wooded uplands. Few outside the noble houses travelled such routes, fewer still at so late an hour. As she went, her way lit by the light of her buzzing companions, Nellas felt the ancient forest sigh and creak in sympathy around her. The whole of Brocélann had suffered, the loss of so many venerable sylvaneth sending an undertone of pain through the Wyldwood’s spirit-song. Nellas could still feel the shared agony in every rustle and moan of the forest around her.

By the time she arrived at the outskirts of the Evergreen, darkness had fallen. The woodland was restless, still distressed by the violation it had suffered. Things darted past Nellas, their shapes insubstantial in the dark. She felt the beat of wings as a woodland owl soared overhead, hunting. The killing, Nellas reflected, was never done. Around her she felt the ever-present song of the Wyldwood waver, as though the chorus had become suddenly doubtful. A colder, more cutting note entered the recital.

‘Stop.’ The command seemed to breathe from the trees themselves. Nellas halted, grip tightening around her scythe’s haft. There were few creatures capable of taking a sylvaneth by surprise in her own woods. None of them meant her well.

Shapes melted from the shadows beneath the surrounding boughs, taking physical form seemingly only with great reluctance. They were sylvaneth, but they possessed none of the graceful bearing of the Noble Spirits Nellas was used to communing with. Their outlines were jagged and sharp, their trunks stooped, features twisted with fang-filled disdain. They blocked the path ahead, pressing in on the branchwych from all sides. The song of the woodland grew colder still around them.

Spite-revenants, she thought. Outcasts. Nature’s most merciless aspect given form and thought.

‘You go no further,’ one of the malevolent spirits said. He was big, bristling with jagged fir needles, his eyes glowing a bitter, icy blue in the creaking darkness. ‘You are not welcome here.’

Nellas faced the Outcast, straightening despite the pain that flared from her wound.

‘The shadows are deep, so I will forgive you your mistake. I am Nellas the Harvester, of House Il’leath of the Heartwood Glade. I am bearing the lifeseeds of many of my house. Too many. In the name of the Everqueen, stand aside.’

‘We know who you are, branchwych,’ the spite-revenant said, showing no sign of moving. ‘And I am Du’gath, of the Loneroot. Your presence defiles the sanctity of this enclave. These woodlands do not want you here. Their roots squirm at your passing.’

‘Are you delirious with barkrot?’ Nellas snapped. ‘These little spites with me carry the very future of this Wyldwood. You have no right to impede us.’

‘You carry corruption. We can feel the taint that infects you. We cannot allow you to spread it to the Evergreen. Whether you are aware of it or not, you could bring about the destruction of the heartglade and the death of the whole forest.’

Nellas shook her head angrily, leaves rustling. ‘You refer to my wound? It was earned today in battle with those who would defile these sacred glades. I did not see you or your kindred there when Lord Thaark was felled.’

‘That does not mean we weren’t present,’ Du’gath countered, taking a step closer to Nellas. He stretched out one jagged talon, moving to touch her splintered side. The branchwych darted back instinctively, hissing as the sudden movement sent a pulse of pain through her body. She felt her anger flare.

‘It won’t heal,’ Du’gath said. ‘It is infected with the rot of the Great Corruptor. If you enter the Evergreen you may pass the taint on to the saplings there.’

‘If I don’t enter, the lamentiri will wither and be lost,’ Nellas countered. ‘Make way for me, Outcast. Unless you wish to see this Wyldwood brought to ruin.’

‘You know not what you carry,’ the spite-revenant said. ‘But I cannot bar a branchwych from her own glade. Tread with care, Nellas the Harvester. We will be watching you.’

The spite-revenants receded back into the darkness, their bitterness lingering on the night air. Nellas continued up the path, until the final branches parted before her.

The Evergreen, Brocélann’s heart, lay ahead. A clearing at the peak of the Wyldwood’s uplands, at its centre stood the great Kingstree, the oldest oak in the forest. It was here that the lords of Brocélann’s noble families gathered in council and mustered the Wargrove in times of conflict. It was also the focal point of the forest’s combined memory-echoes, the well that collected the reverberations of House Il’leath’s many life songs. Some, like the melodies of the Kingstree itself, were as old as the Jade Kingdoms’ deepest roots, while those soulpod groves newly planted in the shade of the great oak had only just begun to add their own cadence to the forest’s choir. Through them, Ghyran endured.

At night the clearing space was lit by the flickering of a thousand fireflies, and the colourful flashes that marked the passage of lesser spites weaving darts of light among the shadows of soulpod saplings and thick wildflowers. Nellas began to murmur her greetings to the many forest spirits as she stepped into the clearing, brushing gently past fresh shoots and leaves. As she did so more spites fluttered to her, perching in her branches, their tiny songs full of concern.

‘Do not worry yourselves, little lights,’ the branchwych murmured gently to them. ‘I will heal. Many others this day will not.’

As the spites that came to greet Nellas wove among those already carrying the lifeseeds, their songs melded into a mournful chorus. It was a tale of passing and of withering, of falling leaves and dry, dead wood. Nellas let it play out around her as she began the replanting.

Each of the lifeseeds had its place, a soulpod in the Evergreen. Those who had been Forest Folk, the dryads and the branchwraiths, were planted among those that formed a great grove arcing around the clearing’s edge, nearest to the trees which grew thick all around. The tree-revenants and the other members of the noble houses were planted among the pods closer to the clearing’s heart, ranked by their dedication to each of the Wyldwood’s ever-changing seasons. Then, nearest of all to Brocélann’s heartwood, in the shade of the mighty Kingstree itself, the treelords were laid to their final rest, the lamentiri of all planted in the fertile soil around them, their echo-memories allowed to rejoin the great chorus of the Wyldwood.

Not even the Everqueen knew what form, great or small, any of the lifeseeds would take when they sprouted once more from their soulpods. But regardless, all would serve the natural cycles. Nellas planted Thaark last of all, among the very roots of the Kingstree. The flourishing soulpods round about the old oak would take both strength and wisdom from its presence, and from the same soil new life would one day join the ranks of the sylvaneth.

As she nestled Thaark’s seed in the knotted core of the shining soulpod, Nellas swayed. Her exhaustion was coming close to overwhelming her. The harsh words of the spite-revenant returned unbidden, disrupting the mourning of the spites and the gentle songs she sang to the fresh seedlings. Corruption. Taint. She was infected. Her wound still throbbed, and every step brought with it a deep, aching pain. The growth song of the Evergreen called to her, promising the chance to rest and heal, but she pushed it gently from her mind. She had one more duty still to perform. Sensing her distress, the spites around her fluttered and darted to and fro.

Thaark’s seed safely buried, she took one of the lesser tracks out of the clearing, leaving the Evergreen’s hum of renewal behind her. The darting lights of the spites lit her way, guiding her faithfully down a steep, twisting path tangled with briars and thorns. As she went, the number of spites multiplied, until the whole Wyldwood seemed to be illuminated with buzzing, kaleidoscopic colour, the flying forest spirits dancing and spinning around, over and under one another with glittering, preternatural grace.

She paused at the edge of the path, beneath the boughs of a soaring beech tree. Its branches were laden with small sacks, around which the creatures dashed and darted. They were cocoons, each one bearing within it the germinations of a new forest spirit. Nellas reached out and delicately brushed one of the larger sacks, its skin black and mottled with orange blotches. It was ripe, close to hatching. As she came into contact with it, she prayed to the spirits of Ghyran that she would have a new bittergrub to accompany her. Her song throbbed through the cocoon, binding the small creature’s first memories to her own, imprinting on it the work of the Harvester. The loss of Nellas’ former grub, and the lack of the soothing, simple counterpoint of its little spirit-song, tugged at the branchwych’s subconscious. Just one more pain for the day’s tally, both mental and physical.

She no longer had the strength to return to the Evergreen. Instead, she walked a little way into the forest and planted her roots, letting her mind join the wider thoughts of the Wyldwood. As her consciousness fragmented, her last memory was of Thaark, and his final moments.

In the surrounding darkness, the Outcasts watched her, silent, waiting.

Realisation struck her. It was time. She pulled her scattered thoughts together, easing the forest’s drowsy night-time murmur to the edge of her thoughts. It was right that she witness this. The first song it should hear ought to be her own.

She returned to the beech, scythe in hand. The spites had gathered, adorning the boughs of the tree with shining, bickering brilliance. They crooned and fluttered as she appeared, excited at what was about to take place.

The black-and-orange cocoon stirred beneath its branch. She reached out a hand and touched it, twigs splayed. Through the fragile membrane, she could feel warmth and the squirming pulse of fresh life. Yes, she thought. It was time.

She withdrew her hand as a split appeared in the sack, oozing a thick, clear substance. The watching spites chittered all the louder, pushing and shoving one another as they tried to get a better view. The hatching of a new bittergrub was an uncommon occurrence. She prayed to the Everqueen that her new companion recognised her.

There was a pop, and the cocoon burst. A flood of green-grey slime poured from the ruptured sack, splattering the beech’s roots. With it came a thin, segmented form, gripping onto the branch it had hatched from with vicious pincers. A vile stink filled the cool forest air.

She knew immediately this was no bittergrub. It only bore a single segmented black eye, and hissing, acidic toxins dripped from its wicked mandibles. Its body was worm-like and its flesh translucent, exposing inner organs that were riddled with pulsing, yellow veins and swollen by globules of raw filth.

As the plague wyrm uncoiled, the attending spites shrieked with terror, scattering in a great, roiling cloud. She found herself rooted to the spot, frozen in a moment of horror as she understood that the rot had reached the very heart of the forest. The Outcasts had been right. The monstrosity that had hatched from the Wyldwood cocoon hissed at her and lunged, its slime-coated pincers snapping–

Nellas!

Her thoughts returned like a springsfed flood. She gasped and twitched, the first sensation that of the pain in her side, her second the realisation that at some time during the night she’d fallen, and now lay among the tangled thorns and bracken near the beech tree.

The bittergrub. A nightmare or a vision — she couldn’t tell, but the memory of the vile creature that had hatched so close to the forest’s heartglade made her branches shudder. She tried to rise. The pain of her wound was worse than it had been the night before. Not only had the splintered bark refused to heal, but now dark veins criss-crossed the injury, spreading like an ugly latticework along the bottom half of her trunk.

The accusations of the spite-revenant came back to her. She was infected. She was spreading the Rotbringer’s plague to Brocélann. The nightmare made her shudder again. Then she remembered what had woken her.

The voice of Thoaken of the Blackroot, snapping and splintering with a rare urgency.

She dragged herself up by her scythe, body trembling. Light was filtering through the forest canopy. It was well after dawn, she realised. The Wyldwood was quiet and still, as though the forest spirits around her were straining to overhear something momentous.

My lord, Nellas thought, letting the shoots of her mind quest out through the woodland and join the wider spirit-song. There, at its heart, she found him, along with the other treelords. They were gathered at the Kingstree. That could only mean an impromptu council had been called.

Where are you, Nellas? The treelord ancient’s creaking tone filled her thoughts. We have summoned the noble house to a moot. Grave news has reached us from beyond the treeline.

I’m on my way, lord, Nellas responded. She took a step, and found she was able to stay upright. Leaning heavily on her scythe, she began to make her way back towards the Evergreen. On the way she glanced at the beech tree, still surrounded by darting spites. The bittergrub cocoon hung among the others, whole and unblemished. Had it merely been a nightmare, a discordant tremor in the forest’s evening song, or a vision of something yet to transpire? She pressed on.

In the Evergreen, the noble household of Il’leath had assembled. A host of tree-revenants ringed the edge of the clearing, their attention fixed on the Kingstree at its centre. Beside its great trunk, the lords and ladies of the woodland clan stood in a close circle, swaying gently with the rhythms of their discussion. There were the treelords Bitterbough and Thenuil, the two loremasters, Ancients Gillehad and Whitebark, and Thoaken himself. The absence of Boughmaster Thaark leading the debate sent a stab of sorrow through Nellas’ heartwood.

The murmured contemplation of the watching tree-revenants stilled as she arrived. They parted wordlessly for her. She could feel their eyes on her injury. The sudden hush caused the treelord conclave to cease their own discussion and turn to watch her slow approach. She felt her anger spike under the scrutiny.

‘You need not bow, Nellas,’ Thoaken said as she drew closer. ‘I did not know you were wounded.’

‘It will heal with time, my lord,’ Nellas said, letting her roots sink in a little as she stopped before the gathered moot.

‘The whole Wyldwood aches for the loss of your sisters, branchwych,’ Thenuil said. He was a redwood by nature, his rust-coloured bark giving him a warlike appearance as he loomed over his fellow treelords.

‘And for the head of the clan, the venerable Thaark,’ Gillehad added, the ageing willow bent almost double. ‘The goodness of his spirit and the wisdom of his leadership will not soon be forgotten. May his lamentiri enrich many a sylvaneth as-yet unplanted.’

‘Such a loss makes your well-being all the more important, Nellas,’ Thoaken added. He was old, even by the standards of the ancients. A slender pine, his highest needles matched the canopy of Thenuil, while his grey bark was knotted and craggy with age. He swayed gently as he talked, each word as inexorable and measured as the passage of years.

‘Until the soulpods sprout fresh branchwyches, you alone can safely harvest the lifeseeds and tend to the Evergreen. And until we have elected a new head of the clan, Brocélann needs you now more than ever. We already miss Thaark’s guidance.’

Doubt made Nellas hesitate. Should she admit her fears? Should she tell the conclave that she believed Skathis Rot’s blow to her side had brought on some form of infection? That the Outcasts had accused her of corruption?

‘Spite-messengers have brought us grievous news,’ Thoaken said before Nellas could order her thoughts. ‘From both Ithilia and Mer’thorn. Our sister woods have been overrun by the worshippers of blight.’

His words chased all thoughts of self-doubt from Nellas’ mind, and she felt a keening at the thought of such desecration flare in her breast.

‘Surely not,’ she heard herself say.

‘It has been confirmed by those Forest Folk that escaped the felling,’ Gillehad creaked. ‘And we ourselves feel the spirit-song ache of many great lords cut down and wise ancients forever uprooted. Tragedy has finally caught up with our corner of Ghyran.’

‘How is this possible?’ Nellas demanded, turning from one treelord to the next. ‘The glamours have kept Ithilia and Mer’thorn safe ever since the Great Corruptor set foot in the Jade Kingdoms. How have the Rotbringers been able to overcome them?’

‘How did that warband pierce our own treeline?’ Gillehad replied.

‘Bands of Rotbringers stumble across us from time to time,’ Nellas said, voice snapping angrily like broken branches. ‘There were no survivors to tell of what this squirm-scum uncovered. There never are.’

‘I agree,’ said Whitebark. The ancient loremaster was the least vocal of the conclave, so old that he seemed in a perpetual doze, his spirit-song drifting and languid. A knotted silver birch, he leant heavily on one drooping branch like a crutch. ‘The chances of not one but two great Wyldwoods falling to the random roving of a warband large enough to overcome their enchantments are almost non-existent. We must assume their glamours failed them.’

Or that some rot beset them from within, thought Nellas. The realisation hardened her resolve.

‘We must discover the state of our sister woods,’ she said. ‘And find how the Rotbringer filth were able to locate them. I propose to the moot that I be allowed to spirit-walk to Mer’thorn for this purpose.’

‘Out of the question,’ Thoaken replied. ‘I have already told you of the vital place you now hold in Brocélann, Nellas. If we lose you, the very future of this Wyldwood would be threatened.’

‘If we do not discover how the sister woods fell, we will be next,’ Nellas said. Her anger drove out any thought of admitting her private fears, of agonising over what even now gnawed at her bark.

‘Spites are being dispatched,’ Thoaken said. ‘And the Wargrove assembled once again. We shall begin a muster as soon as our household has rested its roots.’

‘That will take time. A spirit-walk will be faster and safer.’

‘Not if the Wyldwoods have indeed become as corrupt as we fear.’

Nellas didn’t respond immediately. As far as preserving Brocélann was concerned, Thoaken was right, and the whole woodland knew that once he dug his roots in, the fury of all the gods, great and small, would not move him. But if Nellas’ fears were correct, they didn’t have time to assess the threat from afar. She bowed, ignoring the discomfort the motion brought her.

‘As you wish, venerable lord.’

She could feel the scrutiny of the conclave as she spoke, prickling with suspicions. Most of them, she suspected, perceived her intentions. She kept her eyes on the Evergreen’s nearest soulpod saplings, praying by bough and branch that they didn’t demand assurances of her. She could not disrupt the natural cycle by refusing a direct order from the conclave, but nor would she wait passively for events to play out around her. The fury smouldering inside her demanded her sister woods be avenged. Eventually, Thoaken spoke.

‘The moot will continue to ponder these dark events. You are clearly in need of rest, Nellas. You are dismissed, for now. May the Everqueen’s blessings be upon you.’

‘My thanks, lord,’ the branchwych replied, turning her back on the conclave.

She would have to be swift.

Nellas slid gently into the clear depths of the woodland spring, slender bark limbs immersed in its cool flow. The waters embraced her, whispering a song of renewal as they slid over the thick tangle of thorns and vines that sprouted from her scalp. Her green eyes opened beneath the surface, following the redfins and minnowspawn as they darted back and forth through the clear depths. The water was brimming with life, just like the soil it fed.

She could not allow a place such as this to fall to corruption. Ghyran endured.

Closing her eyes once more, she let the stream’s song fulfil her. The healing waters had reduced the agony of her wound to a numb throb. She could spend an eternity in here, watched over by the spirits of the spring, sustained by their soothing embrace. But in her mind’s eye she saw the waters congeal, the clear flow discoloured by filth. To stay would be to surrender Brocélann to damnation, a truth she had known even as she had paid lip service to Thoaken’s commands. Her bark would not leave the Wyldwood’s treeline, but her spirit would.

She hummed to herself, communing with the spring’s song, letting its melodies entwine with hers. As she did, she felt the flow around her tug, teasing at her branches. Though her roots remained sunken into the slick stones at the spring’s bottom, her mind started to drift.

There were many ways for the spirit-song of a sylvaneth to travel between the Wyldwoods of Ghyran, and the sacred waterways were one of them. The stream was one of several that flowed from Brocélann to her neighbouring woodlands, one of the realmroots blessed by the Everqueen to bring her life-giving energies to this part of the Jade Kingdoms. As Nellas’ spirit-song left her physical form, the water’s flow snatched at her and carried her along. She bound herself to the form of a passing bluescale, the big fish darting over rocks and between lazy fronds and watermoss, following the current as it carried her beyond Brocélann’s borders.

The sense of detachment was exhilarating. The pain of Nellas’ wound had become a distant ache, left far behind. The natural rhythms of the stream flooded her thoughts, the instinctive concerns and needs of its wildlife merging with her own desires. It was only with difficulty that she slid free from the bluescale, forging through the current towards the bank.

She emerged without disturbing the water’s surface, her spirit-form invisible to mortal eyes. It was immediately apparent that she was in Brocélann no more. Around her, trees stretched, but these were not the healthy boughs and branches Nellas had passed through when she had last visited Mer’thorn, many seasons ago. The forest was skeletal, leafless, the trunks bare and gnarled, each tree seemingly struggling to stand beneath the weight of its own dead wood.

Their song cut to the branchwych’s heartwood. It had none of Brocélann’s spirited cadence, none of the vibrant pitch and swell that coursed through the Jade Kingdoms still resisting the Great Corruptor. Instead it was a low, weary moan, the creak and sigh of a tree that had long given up the hope of ever sprouting fresh shoots again.

Nor were there any spites. The lack of the little darting lights and the elegant counterpoint of their songs was like a void in the branchwych’s core. A forest without spites was a forest that had lost the essence of its being.

Nellas eased her own song into that of Mer’thorn’s, her light, quicker tempo seeking to stoke the Wyldwood’s sentience.

Who has done this to you?

The tired answer drew her on along the bank of the stream, deeper into the Wyldwood. As she went, she noticed the waters beside her were also changing. The stream no longer possessed the crystalline clarity it had in Brocélann, but instead grew steadily murkier. Soon it was brown and discoloured. It began to congeal around the edges, the banks thick with green scum. Eventually it took on the appearance of tar, oozing and black, a pestilential stink coming off its bubbling surface.

The woodland, too, grew worse with every ethereal step Nellas took. The trees were no longer bent over and gaunt, like bare old beggars. Now they were clothed, but in all manner of vileness. In her time tending to the Evergreen, the branchwych had uprooted and carved out many diseases and blights before they could take hold among root and bark. Ever since the distant days of the Great Corruptor’s arrival in Ghyran, constant vigilance had been needed to ensure his plagues didn’t achieve what his Rotbringers could not.

Here, those plagues had run rampant. As she passed through the fallen Wyldwood, she saw every blight she had ever encountered in evidence around her. Spinemould covered entire trees, turning them into bristling, puffy growths. Sap with the consistency of pus poured from the hideous gouges bored by Weeping Rot, while all manner of monstrous worms and maggots had burrowed out nests among bark and branches. Leaves were black and slippery with Slimestench and Daemon’s Spit, while the forest floor beneath was rapidly becoming a rotting, shifting mulch. Instead of mischievous spites and darting forest spirits, great swarms of black flies now droned, filling the air with their buzzing, ugly insistence.

Nellas stopped trying to commune with the Wyldwood. Its song was no longer weak and breathless. It was no longer the voice of something dying a slow, inevitable death. It had become a drone, unhealthy but strong, a sonorous chant that she wanted no part in. The forest here, she realised, was no longer dying. It was alive, but it was not the life granted by the changing of the seasons or the Everqueen’s grace. It was unwholesome and twisted, a vile parody. It was the fresh life of maggots bursting from a boil, of a virus coiling in a bloodstream, of flies hatching from rancid meat. It was a mockery of everything green and vibrant, of everything Nellas had spent her entire existence nurturing and protecting. The realisation sent righteous anger coursing through her.

She began to seek out the Everqueen’s distant song, holding onto it like a beacon amidst the encroaching darkness. Even though she was invisible, the sensation of being observed made her thorns prickle. The forest was aware of her. She knotted a glamour about herself with whispered words, clutching her scythe close. Even her spirit-self felt as though it was swarming with lice and maggots, and each step became more difficult, more repulsive, than the last.

Before her, a clearing emerged. She realised as soon as she gazed beyond the final dripping, cancerous boughs that her worst fears were true. The heart of Mer’thorn and the heart of the corruption were one and the same.

Like all Wyldwoods, Mer’thorn had also once had an enclave at its heart, a grove where the energies of life swirled and eddied the strongest, where the soulpods thrived and the spirit-song reached its crescendo. Such places could take many forms, and Brocélann’s mighty Kingstree was only one expression of a heartglade. Mer’thorn’s had once been a menhir, a great, jagged pillar of primordial stone standing tall upon a grassy knoll, thick with moss and carved with the swirling heraldry of the enclave’s sylvaneth clan.

That menhir still stood, but it was split and deformed almost beyond recognition. Something had burrowed out its core, and now the space within was no longer a part of the Realm of Life. A sickly yellow light pulsed from its heart, and whenever Nellas tried to look directly at the rent in reality, her gaze instinctively flinched away, her spirit shuddering with revulsion.

From the open rift daemons came, clawing their way into the Wyldwood. They already infested the heartglade around the menhir, a sea of sagging, diseased flesh and corroded iron. Clusters of plaguebearers circled the space with an endless, limping gait, the tolling of their rusting bells a counterpoint to their throaty chanting. Great flies, bigger than Nellas and dripping with thick strings of venom, droned overhead. Underfoot, a living carpet of nurglings writhed, bickering and giggling like a nightmarish parody of the spites that had once inhabited Mer’thorn. The entire clearing was alive and bursting with the vital virulence of entropy and decay.

The Wyldwood’s heart was still beating, Nellas realised. It was choked and rancid with rot, a rot that had first taken root not at its borders, but at its very core.

The horror of realisation momentarily eclipsed all of Nellas’ other concerns. Her glamour shimmered, and she heard the chanting of the daemons skip a beat. The dirge of the trees around her rose in pitch. Her spirit-self tensed. She sensed a thousand rheumy, cyclopean eyes turn towards her.

Branchwych. The words, squelching like maggots writhing in rotten bark, slipped directly into Nellas’ thoughts. Skathis said you would come. He wants us to tell you it is too late. He wants us to thank you, branchwych. He wants to bless the rot that already works through your bark, for welcoming him into your home. Grandfather’s glory be upon you, and upon his Tallybands.

She had been right. Mer’thorn was lost. Shaking, she fled.

Nellas returned to her body with a scream of pain and rage. For a second, she didn’t remember where she was, her branches thrashing through the water as she surfaced.

But the agony in her side, worse than ever before, stung her thoughts into order. She had been right. She had brought corruption into Brocélann, but it hadn’t been in her. It had been in what she had carried.

Scythe in hand, she made for the Evergreen, keening a song of fear and warning for the forest spirits to spread around her. She had to rouse the Wyldwood, before it was too late.

‘She took the realmroot to Mer’thorn,’ said Brak. Du’gath dipped his branches in acknowledgement, fangs bared as he watched the branchwych race towards the Evergreen. To the spite-revenant’s attuned senses, the wound in her side reeked of corruption. Her visit to the fallen Wyldwood and her sudden madness were the final confirmation.

‘She must die,’ he said to his surrounding kin. ‘Before she can spread her foulness any further. Follow me.’

As she neared the Evergreen, Nellas’ spirit-song quested ahead. Even now, a sliver of defiance within her held out the hope that she was wrong. Maybe it had simply been her wound the daemons had referred to. Maybe, with time, the rot could be excised, and she could be made whole again. Maybe Brocélann was untouched.

Thaark.

She pushed her song ahead into the clearing, seeking out the individual voices that flowed from the Evergreen. She should be able to commune with them. She should be able to know for certain that her fears were misplaced.

Nellas.

The voice that answered her did not belong to any sylvaneth. It didn’t run in harmony with the melodies of the forest, but cut across it, a discordant baritone rich with rot.

Thank you, Nellas. Thank you for bringing me here.

She had heard the voice before. It belonged to Skathis Rot — not the mortal Rotbringer champion she had cut down, but the daemon that had inhabited his flesh. The daemon which had been transferred by hand to Thaark’s heartwood even as Nellas had split the champion’s skull. The daemon her spites had carried in the treelord’s infected lifeseed, right into the centre of Brocélann.

I will destroy you, monster, Nellas keened, her fury eclipsing even the pain of her wound as she threw herself through the last of the undergrowth and into the Evergreen.

Around her the trees were no longer singing. They were screaming. Nellas had planted Thaark’s lamentiri in a soulpod right beside the Kingstree, nestled among its very roots. In doing so, she now realised, she had carried the lifeseed tainted by Skathis Rot right into her home’s heartglade.

The Evergreen was under attack. What had once been Thaark’s budding soulpod was now a sinkhole, a black pit from which the filth of Chaos welled and poured. Plaguebearers were already limping and staggering through the Evergreen, chanting and muttering darkly to themselves as they hacked at the groves surrounding the Kingstree with rusty blades. The nurglings that accompanied them gnawed on roots or gleefully ripped down saplings, destroying future sylvaneth generations before they had even had a chance to bud. Around the clearing, great swarms of fat flies buzzed, breeding and hatching in a frenzy of infestation.

Worst of all was the thing at the Evergreen’s centre. Skathis had taken on physical form, a tall, emaciated, one-eyed daemon who now sat languidly above the sinkhole, reclining amongst the roots of the Kingstree as though they were his throne. Maggots longer than Nellas’ forebranches squirmed and writhed across the great oak’s bark, seeking to burrow in and defile its core. As the branchwych laid eyes on him, Skathis spread both skeletal arms, his long face split by a warm grin.

‘Welcome home, Nellas,’ the daemon boomed, his voice unnaturally deep and vibrant for such a wasted frame. ‘Good Boughmaster Thaark told me all about you before I consumed the last of him. How joyous it is to finally meet you!’

Shrieking, Nellas flung herself at the nearest plaguebearer. It was attempting to uproot a briarthorn soulpod with both hands, seemingly numb to the gashes the plant was leaving in its diseased skin. It was too slow to avoid Nellas as she sliced its head from its shoulders. Its daemonic form exploded into a great cloud of flies.

Nellas surged on, even the pain of her wound momentarily burned away by the rage that blazed through her bark. She disembowelled a second plaguebearer, then a third, Skathis’ merry laughter ringing around her all the while.

‘Curse you, maggotkin!’ she screamed, a single swing of her scythe eviscerating a clutch of squirming nurglings. ‘Die!’

‘Not before you, Nellas,’ Skathis chuckled, pointing one long, bony finger at her. ‘Not before you.’

Around the branchwych, the Tallyband closed.

‘Drycha’s curse,’ Du’gath spat as he looked down into the Evergreen. ‘We’re too late.’

‘It was the lifeseed,’ Brak said. ‘Not the branchwych. The disease was in what she planted, not her wound.’

‘We must help her,’ another of the spite-revenants added. ‘If we wait for the Wargrove to muster, the heartglade will already have fallen.’

Du’gath was moving. He burst from the treeline into the Evergreen like an icy gale, fangs bared and talons out. Keening their own cold war-song, the Outcasts followed.

Nellas plied her scythe, the harvester come home. One monstrosity after another fell, their corroded blades no match for her greenwood, their daemonic bodies disintegrating with every strike. But still they came, on and on, as inevitable as time’s decaying grip, and Skathis laughed all the harder. Nellas had barely managed to take a dozen paces towards him, and with every passing moment the sinkhole between them grew larger, and more filth hauled itself up from the depths. The Kingstree had started to bow slightly as the hole reached its roots. The ancient oak’s throaty song of pain and fear drove Nellas into an even more violent fury.

So busy was she with hacking and slashing, swinging and slicing, that she didn’t notice the press of rotting bodies easing around her. It was only when a clawed hand caught the downward stroke of a rusting sword meant for her upper branches that she realised she was no longer alone. With a contemptuous twist, Du’gath snapped the plaguebearer’s blade and tore the leprous daemon limb from limb.

There was no time for a greeting, much less for explanations. Nellas pressed forward, screeching at the woodland around her to rise up and strike down the violators of the heartglade. To her left and right, the spite-revenants ripped into the Tallyband, their features twisted with hideous fury, the same rage that now gave Nellas strength. For a moment, Skathis’ laughter faltered.

‘Slow yourself, dear Nellas,’ the daemonic herald said, weaving a complex pattern in the air before him. ‘That wound in your side looks like it may be infected.’

Pain, worse than any she had ever felt, speared through the branchwych. Her limbs seized up and her scythe slipped from her fingers. In a daze she fell to her knees, discoloured bloodsap oozing from her wound. Du’gath stood over her, driving back a trio of plaguebearers with a savage swipe of his talons.

‘We won’t reach the Kingstree in time,’ the Outcast called back to her. ‘We’re too few!’

Nellas couldn’t reply. The taint Skathis had planted in her side drove out all else, its agony threatening to eclipse her own spirit-song and cut her off from the strength of the Wyldwood. A single melody remained connected with hers, entwining itself with her thoughts. It refused to let her go. Through the haze, she recognised its voice. It was a bittergrub. It had been born, hatching pure and unblemished from the nearby beech tree. It lived, and with it came hope, sure as the first buds among the snows.

Nellas closed her eyes, seeking to focus through the pain. She could not save Brocélann alone. She could not even save it with the strongbranch fury of the likes of Du’gath and his Outcasts. But Brocélann could save itself. She only had to show it how.

She began to sing. It was not the terrible battle-cant of sharpened bark-claws and crushing roots, nor did it possess the violent beat of the fury that motivated the sylvaneth when they saw their sacred enclaves defiled. It was something deeper, something even more primal, a rhythm only the branchwyches, with their instinctive connection to all the creatures of the Wyldwood, could access. It spoke of shared lives and shared fates, of the bonds forged in the changing of Ghyran’s natural cycles. It was directed not at the noble houses, nor the Forest Folk, or any of her forest spirits. It was sung to the smaller creatures, dedicated to the multitude of tiny, vibrant souls that called Brocélann home. They were all the Everqueen’s children, as worthy as the most gnarled treelord ancient, and the death of the Wyldwood spelt their doom as assuredly as it did that of the sylvaneth.

Nellas heard it first as a hum, a counterpoint to the infernal buzzing of the flies that choked the air around her. She continued to sing, her voice rising and becoming stronger as the hum grew. Pain flared once more as Skathis sought to silence her. She ignored it now. Her spirit was no longer wholly bound to her body, but rose above the fighting to direct the Wyldwood’s salvation. Skathis had stopped laughing altogether.

From the trees the spites came. They were a cloud, a nebulous, darting, roiling swarm that shrieked with a rage as potent as their branchwych’s. They struck the flies first. The Great Corruptor’s emissaries, countless as they seemed, were squashed or snapped up, or had their buzzing wings ripped off. The spites engulfed the whole of the Evergreen in a multihued blizzard, poking out plaguebearers’ eyes and bursting nurglings like little pus sacks.

Nellas unleashed them on Skathis Rot. The herald of Nurgle wailed first with rage and then fear as the cloud descended upon him. The spites picked the bark of the Kingstree clean, plucking off and crushing each and every loathsome maggot that sought to defile the venerable oak. Then they set upon Skathis, ten thousand little limbs raking and pulling at his flesh, gnawing at his eye, slicing and slashing with little claws.

‘You cannot stop me now!’ the daemon wailed, flailing ineffectually with his gaunt limbs. ‘You are too late! A thricepox curse on each and every one of you! Grandfather take your miserable little souls!’

The daemon screamed all the louder as a spite lanced his eye with a long sliver of living wood. He staggered forwards and lost his footing on the edge of the sinkhole, teetering for balance. With a concerted heave, the swarm of spites tipped him. The daemon bellowed as he plummeted over the edge, knocking a clutch of plaguebearers back down into the pit even as they sought to climb up out of it.

As the daemon fell, the Evergreen resounded with the call of hunting horns. Nellas, still engulfed in the breaks and eddies of the spites’ great spirit-song, was only dimly aware of a furious roar. It was one the forest hadn’t heard in a very long time, and it was enough to make the roots beneath her quiver. From the trees around the glade the Forest Folk poured, twisted with their war aspect, and at the fore of their vengeful tide came Gillehad. The stooped treelord ancient roared once more.

The sound was echoed by the battle cries of tree-revenants as they too emerged into the heartglade. Striding in their midst were Bitterbough and Thenuil, talons bared and branches firm. The Tallyband broke before their thunderous blows, diseased forms flickering and turning insubstantial as they were banished back to their master’s blighted realm.

Nellas felt the grasp on her spirit-song waver and break. Her voice faltered. Her mind returned to her body, dragged down by exhaustion and pain. Her wound, she realised, was killing her. Du’gath still stood over her, roots planted and immovable, his bark scored and slashed in dozens of places by daemonic blades. She remained on her knees, bent and broken. She felt her consciousness slipping, the song of the Wyldwood suddenly distant and muffled. She could feel something crawling among her branches and gnawing at her bark. Memories of diseased worms and maggots made her shudder. Her thoughts finally slipped away, and her song faded into nothingness.

It was the singing of her new companion that woke her.

Her bittergrub was coiled on her breast, watching her with beady eyes. She stretched out a limb to let the creature run along her branches, and was surprised to notice the absence of a shock of pain for the first time in what felt like many seasons.

Tentatively, she shifted her body so she could look down at her side.

Her wound was healing. The flow of bloodsap had finally been stemmed, and tender greenwood had now replaced the rotten bark. She realised abruptly that the final sensation she’d felt before her spirit-song had faded was the bittergrub eating away at the diseased bark, freeing her body from the Great Corruptor’s foul grasp. It had saved her life, and with it possibly the future of Brocélann.

‘Your new grub would not leave you,’ Du’gath said, looming over her. ‘It gnawed away the rotting wood and gave your wound a chance to reknit.’

Wordlessly, Nellas thanked the creature, letting it scuttle appreciatively up one limb and nestle among her boughs.

‘I thought about cutting it in half,’ Du’gath said coldly. ‘But I trust the spites more than I trust you, Harvester. May you serve them well.’

‘Branchwych,’ boomed the venerable tones of Gillehad. The treelord ancient was striding across the Evergreen towards Nellas, who rose to meet him with the assistance of her scythe. She looked around as she did so. The heartglade was scattered with the dead wood of fallen sylvaneth, and the swiftly decomposing filth of the Tallyband, but of the sinkhole that had nearly consumed the Kingstree there was no sign. Soulpods had been ripped up or brutally slashed, and lifeseeds lost forever. But the Evergreen stood, and with it the future of the Wyldwood remained secure. For now.

‘You are healing, I see,’ Gillehad noted. ‘Thoaken has been beset with worry. We all have. We sensed your spirit travelling the realmroot to Mer’thorn.’

‘I beg forgiveness from the conclave,’ Nellas said, voice firm. ‘But I would have done it again if need be. It was necessary, for the good of all Brocélann.’

‘And in doing so you undoubtedly saved the entire Wyldwood,’ Gillehad replied. ‘By the time we were aware of what was afoot, it was almost too late.’

‘I would have made little difference if it weren’t for the Outcasts,’ Nellas continued. She turned to gesture towards Du’gath, before realising the spite-revenant and his sinister kin had vanished.

‘They do what they can, as do we all,’ Gillehad said slowly, casting his wizened gaze across the treeline. ‘There can be no bystanders in the war against the blight. Noble houses and Forest Folk, spites and Outcasts, we are all a part of the great Wargrove.’

‘I will tend to the soulpods until I have sisters again,’ Nellas said. ‘Once they have been fully instructed in their duties as branchwyches, I will travel the realmroots to all the remaining Wyldwoods of the Jade Kingdoms. They must be warned not to make the same mistakes we made. They must be told to examine all things, especially where it concerns their heartglades. The rot that festers from within may yet prove more deadly than that which gnaws from without. Thaark’s passing must not have been in vain.’

‘True words, Nellas,’ Gillehad agreed. ‘I wish all the seasons’ blessings upon such a task.’

‘Many thanks. Now, with the greatest respect, venerable lord, I must be about my duties.’

‘Yes, of course.’

Nellas bowed again, hefted her scythe, and began the harvest afresh. She sang as she made her way slowly through the Evergreen, a recital of both triumph and sorrow, the intertwining roots that ran through everything. It had always been so, the branchwych mused as she worked. And it would always be so, long after she and all she had ever planted had returned to the ground.

The seasons changed, but Ghyran endured.

Rob Sanders

The Splintered

The realm was dying.

Diseased. The myriad lands of Ghyran were like the gangrenous limbs of one great body, cut off from the spirit paths, heartglades and roots of Alarielle’s Realm of Life.

The taint of Chaos had spread across the skies, over the mightiest mountains and through forests that had once stretched forever. Nurgle, the Lord of Decay, walked the lands in the guise of plague-touched hordes, daemons and the contagions that swirled about their rank presence. His indomitable armies marched everywhere, and wretched death went with them. Ghyran swelled, pulsed and wept with Nurgle’s magnificence — he was father to all rancid misfortune.

Amongst the sickness and suffering the sylvaneth endured. As spirits of the forests and wild places, they were a hardy people. Their displeasure could be heard in the hiss of the rain. Their fury was the thunder of the storm and the quake of the mountains.

These noble guardians of life had survived the mortal tribes that had tried to claim the untameable tracts for their own, and the hordes of orruks that had swept through the lands with axe and flame. And they survived still. Hidden in plain sight, Forest Folk were the trees and boulders, the vines and tangled roots of ancient woodland. The magics of life and land disguised their knotted forms and numbers. Many marshalled the strength of their glades against the bringers of rot, while others fought a guerrilla war in the shadows. They were the creaking of branches in the night and the rustling of things unseen through the undergrowth. They slit the throats of warriors bloated with plague, and entangled sorcerers in their thorny brush, dragging the polluted servants of Nurgle off to silent deaths.

Through the bubble of corruption and the groans of the dying, something else could be heard. While the taint and suffering was great, a spirit-song — light with hope — rose above the browning canopies. It soared above the clouds of flies and echoed through root-lined caverns. The dull senses of Nurgle’s Tallybands were deaf to the song, but the sap and sinew of the sylvaneth rang with its beauty. It was Alarielle’s song. The Queen of the Radiant Wood was calling to them.

To some, the song carried with it an invigorating sustenance, a fortification against the illness sweeping through their boughs and branches. For others it was a choral announcement, resounding from the heads of flowers, from the swirls and knots in trees and depths of forest grottos. Something to give them hope: a song of solace and unity. As it carried across the never-ending reaches of Ghyran, it grew to a sonorous boom. It was a trumpeting call to war in the Everqueen’s name, one that even Great Shaddock heard, hundreds of years into hibernation and slumber, deep within the Arkenwood.

Shaddock was a towering totem of ironwood and stone, indistinguishable from the trees around him. A Spirit of Durthu, he was a being of age-earned wisdom. His golden sap flowed with nobility while his bole creaked with formidable power. His thick bark, like the surface of a cocoon, had sheltered him from the concerns of the realm, both large and small. He had slept away the Greater Upheavals and the Season of Storms. He had slumbered through the invasion of orruks from the Skullfang tribe. When the Queen of the Radiant Wood sang, however, something stirred deep within Shaddock’s soul. The fires of his ardour were stoked to amber brilliance and lit up the Arkenwood, drawing the Forest Folk and their enemies down upon him.

Great Shaddock, Wardwood of Athelwyrd — wise counsel and glade-guardian of the Everqueen — hear me.

Golden soul-light flickered within Shaddock’s eyes and mouth.

Spirit of Durthu, hear me. There isn’t much time.

Shaddock could see. It was night. The blurriness of centuries in slumber began to fade, and the Arkenwood took shape around the ancient. Instead of the mighty trees of the forest, vaulting for the clear sky, he found bark dripping with a veneer of filth and trunks leaning drunkenly over. Criss-crossing each other through the forest depths, the trees of the Arkenwood were suffering some great affliction. Leaves fell from the canopy in a constant shower, forming a carpet on the surface of foetid waters that had risen about the trunks and throughout the woodland. The once-proud Arkenwood was a veritable mangrove, with root systems rotting beneath the surface of the swamp.

‘To whom do I speak?’ Shaddock said. His voice emanated from the very depths of his being. While his face remained unmoved, words laden with age and wisdom rumbled from the sylvaneth.

‘I am Ardaneth,’ a voice returned, like a melodious breeze through the treetops. ‘Priestess of the Arkenwood and branchwraith to the people that once called this forest home.’

Shaddock saw her. The priestess was a spirit of lithe limbs and smooth wood. Roots snaked down her body from her head, writhing and entwining ceaselessly. Standing up to her knees in the filth that flooded the forest, she sketched a bow with talons of rough bark.

Other senses were returning to the ancient. The stench of the diseased forest was overpowering. He felt the cold floodwater about his trunk and roots. Looking around, Shaddock saw that the surrounding Arkenwood was full of eyes that burned amber with the spirits of Forest Folk. He could make out the crook and twist of dryads, their bodies curved like antlers.

‘You said we had little time, priestess,’ Shaddock rumbled. ‘I had nothing but time — but now my Everqueen calls for me.’

‘Mighty ancient,’ Ardaneth said with urgency, ‘you do not understand.’

‘A bold claim,’ the Spirit of Durthu told her, ‘from one so young, to one who was awake when the realm was new.’

‘You have slept too long, Great Shaddock,’ the priestess said. ‘This realm is not the one you left behind. Chaos infects our lands and our people. The sylvaneth are dying.’

As the wardwood shook off the bleariness of aeons, his leaves and branches rattled. He reached out with his waking senses.

‘This corruption is here?’

‘It is, Great Shaddock,’ the priestess said. ‘We implore you, mighty spirit, to protect us as we have protected you. To defend the Arkenwood that has been your home.’

‘We will fight with you, noble ancient,’ a dryad said, venturing forth to stand next to the priestess. Her horned head was a tangle of ivy. ‘For the Arkenwood and for Radiant Alarielle—’

‘Forgive, Great Shaddock,’ Ardaneth said. ‘Laurelwort leads the Forest Folk but forgets herself.’

Now that Laurelwort had come forwards, her eyes burning with the bravery of her kind, other dryads crept forth. They were less warriors than rangers and glade tenders. Their willowy limbs splashed through the liquid muck.

‘You must help now, ancient one,’ Laurelwort went on.

As the branch nymph spoke, the clash of weapons and armour rose close by. A dryad stumbled from the trees, an axe lodged in her bark. She fell face-first in the foetid shallows as Forest Folk scattered to the safety of the ailing trees. A bloated warrior of Chaos, his plate a rusting remnant and his flesh spoiling, pulled the great blade of his axe from where it was embedded. He pushed away and trudged through the swamp towards the sylvaneth. Other putrid warriors followed him, carrying filth-smeared weapons. Horrific spawn leapt from tottering trunk to trunk, drooling and gibbering.

‘Great Shaddock, help us,’ Ardaneth called out, her snake-like roots squirming with terror, ‘for the love of all that is living and pure!’

The Spirit of Durthu had heard enough, had seen enough. He felt the fear and revulsion of the Forest Folk and the shock of the life taken before him. The dryads had prayed for aid in his sacred grove, before the hardwood effigy he had become in the years long gone. He was the only tree in the Arkenwood not to fall to disease and decay, for the golden purity of Shaddock’s sap still burned within. But now, his amber light had brought enemies down on his tenders. If the Realm of Life was indeed under attack from the forces of Chaos, Alarielle would need every forest spirit to fight and drive back this plague.

Shaddock stirred. He willed his limbs to move. Roots began to tear and pop. Leaves and breaking branches rained down from his canopy. His bole squealed and his crust of petrified bark began to splinter and shred. The crack and boom of the wardwood’s stirring turned into a roar that shook the forest and sent ripples through the fell waters.

While the Spirit of Durthu struggled to be free, Ardaneth, Laurelwort and the dryads fought for their lives. The sylvaneth were usually swift and agile, but in the thick swamp their movements were slow and restricted. Such terrain did not bother Nurgle’s foul servants, however. Blighted warriors trudged through the mire with indomitable certainty, and their rust-eaten blades cleaved through the limbs and slender bodies of the sylvaneth. Spawn set upon the dryads, finding purchase in their offshoots and branching forms, enveloping shrieking heads with dribbling maws.

Laurelwort and the priestess ran to the aid of their people, advancing as one through the swarm of plague-swollen warriors. A monstrously bloated warrior strode through the filth towards them. His helm was twisted with horns that had erupted through his rusted helm. Pus dribbled through the slits of his visor as he gurgled in his own rot. The warrior gestured for the Forest Folk to approach with his rusted battle axe.

Moving with a fluid grace, Ardaneth ducked and weaved out of the clumsy path of his blade. Simply laying her bark-encrusted talons on his wrist and then shoulder, she allowed her powerful magic to flow through his tainted form. Infected limbs turned to stone, creaking and transforming before the warrior’s very eyes.

Two of his grotesque companions waded through the waters towards them. Ardaneth’s powerful magic left a gallery of rough statues in her wake. Laurelwort stretched out her sharpened talons, moving with a dancer’s confidence. Stabbing, slashing and crashing through the statues of Nurgle’s warriors, the branch nymph sent their shattered remains sinking to the bottom of the mire.

‘Fight for the Everqueen!’ Ardaneth called out to her people, but the dryads were dying. With the servants of Nurgle smashing through their lean forms, the dryads were fast becoming kindling that floated on the surface of the swamp. Drawn by the amber blaze of Shaddock’s awakening, diseased warriors closed on the ancient and began sinking their axes into his body and trunk.

With a creak, Shaddock brought a mighty arm around. Shredded bark and moss fell from the limb to reveal smooth ironwood and encrusting stone. A pair of bloated shapes emerged from a buzzing cloud of flies, their axe blades dripping with golden sap. As they hammered them into the ancient’s hallowed form, he snatched up the first Chaos warrior in his great talon and crushed him with the impunity of a natural force. Corroded plate crumpled, and the warrior’s diseased body distended until finally his head popped within his helm. Shaddock smashed the second axe-wielding monster away with such force that he came apart in a spatter of pus-laden gore.

A rabid spawn leapt on the wardwood’s arm but Shaddock flung it away with monstrous force, breaking its miserable body against the trunk of an Arkenwood tree. He felt the bite of new axe blades in his bark and grabbed for the putrid warriors attempting to fell his emerging form. He crushed them against his own bole like ripe fruit. He picked up armoured bulks by the tips of his bark-clad fingers before tossing them into the unyielding trunks of surrounding trees. He flicked heads from shoulders, allowing decapitated bodies to crash into the shallows.

As he fought, Shaddock tried to heave himself out of the ground. He could only do so much, rooted to the spot. Bark sheared and splintered away, and foliage cascaded down to carpet waters that began to bubble about him. The stench intensified as he unearthed the filth in which his resistant roots had been sat.

Suddenly, the waterlogged ground gave way and a sinkhole of foetid water gaped open. Thrashing his mighty limbs and splashing filth about him, the ancient disappeared beneath the surface with the warriors of Chaos attempting to chop him down.

‘No!’ Laurelwort yelled, splashing through the shallows towards the ancient. Ardaneth hauled the branch nymph back. A maggot-infested warrior stomped through the swamp towards them, but Laurelwort took out his leg with a swipe of her talons. As the servant of Nurgle splashed down into the shallows, the dryad ended him with vicious strikes.

Suddenly, Shaddock erupted from the mire. A wave of filth radiated from his emerging form, swamping Rotbringers and carrying Forest Folk out of the reach of axes and cleaving blades. Mud and decaying weed dribbled from his body. Clawing his way out of the sinkhole, Shaddock reared to his full height. Cocooning bark, branches and roots were gone, and the golden light of his spirit blazed from within, lighting up the forest. Filth steamed away from the glowing runes on his trunk.

The wardwood drew an elegant blade from the crooks and hollows of his back. Crafted from razor-sharp stone, it glowed like a blade drawn from a blacksmith’s forge — only it burned not with the heat of the furnace, but the golden energies of Shaddock’s sap.

‘Get down,’ the Spirit of Durthu commanded. Each and every dryad felt the power of his words reverberate through their being. They dropped, kneeling in the disgusting waters. Shaddock swung his glowing blade. Trailing a golden haze, the sword passed over the spirits and cleaved through the bodies of the still-standing servants of Nurgle. Rotten armour offered no protection, and sour flesh parted. Some warriors were sheared in half by the passage of the glorious blade, their rank innards displayed for all to see. Others, ripe with their myriad afflictions, simply came apart in a rain of gore.

Few were fast enough to avoid the devastation. Spawn gibbered and leapt at Shaddock, clawing and biting at his crooked trunk. He tore them from his body, crushing their spindly forms within a fist of ironwood and stone.

As Laurelwort ran to her people, the surviving dryads were helping each other back to their feet. Ardaneth approached their towering saviour. Shaddock looked down at the priestess. Thickets of sprouting shoots grew from his head, while those cascading from the bottom edge of his face gave the impression of a beard.

‘You are truly Queen-sent,’ she told him.

‘The Everqueen has not had need for my kind since the Splintering,’ Shaddock said. ‘But at long last she calls for my return.’

‘Of course, you must go,’ the priestess said. ‘As the Radiant Queen commands. She will have need of you.’

‘But she is not the only one in need,’ the Spirit of Durthu said, burning bright from within. ‘Where are the fell sorcerers and daemons that have damned the mighty Arkenwood?’

‘While the flood rises about us, they take to high ground,’ Laurelwort said, supporting a smashed dryad.

‘They weave their spells above the Ebon Tarn,’ Ardaneth said, ‘a place once sacred to our kind — but not anymore.’

‘Take me to this place.’

Shaddock knelt down once more, offering his branches and trunk to the Forest Folk. Led by Ardaneth and Laurelwort, dryads climbed up the crooks and stumps of his towering form. Rising once more, the Spirit of Durthu strode off through the diseased shallows and the forest of leaning trees.

The closer they got to the Ebon Tarn, the sicker the Arkenwood became. Trees were bare, diseased and abloom with warped fungi. Through the leafless canopy and drooping branches, Shaddock saw a rocky mound that rose above the forest floor. The mighty pines that had crowned the rise had been cut down and used as fuel for fires about which the noisome warriors of Nurgle were gathered. On the crest of the hillock, looking over the Ebon Tarn beyond, stood bloated sorcerers engaged in dread ceremonies.

The wardwood stopped at the foot of the rise, allowing the Forest Folk to disembark on dry land. He rose, looking towards the hillock.

‘You’re going to fight them?’ Ardaneth said, her voice light with hope.

‘They must be purged,’ Shaddock said.

‘Then let us help you,’ Laurelwort insisted.

‘She is right,’ the priestess added, ‘there are many and you are one.’

‘One that will not be stopped,’ Shaddock told them.

‘What will you do?’ Laurelwort said. The wardwood paused. He gestured towards the ailing Arkenwood.

‘I was but one tree unseen among many,’ Shaddock said. ‘Our enemies shall see me now. They shall hear the wrath of the wild places and feel the forest’s vengeance. These Rotbringers are a disease. I shall deliver what all diseases deserve. Eradication.’

Leaving the Forest Folk at the base of the stump-dotted hillock, Shaddock strode up the rise. He smelled the rot of flesh and heard gurgling laughter. The servants of Nurgle seemed to find a madness and hilarity in their suffering. While their bodies broke down about their souls, they belly-laughed and roared through their pain. Fires crackled and rusted plate jangled about the camp. By the time any of them realised that an ancient of the forest towered over them, it was too late. Shaddock had his stone blade in hand.

Like a terrifying entity of the forest, the wardwood suddenly raged with the stoked fires of his soul. His blade hit a group of Rotbringers with such force that they burst and were scattered across the hillside in streams of blood and pus.

Across the rise, it was slowly dawning on Nurgle’s servants that they were under attack. Some had been sleeping, their corrupt bodies putrefying in the warmth of the fires. Others had removed their weapons and plate. Shaddock made them bleed for their lack of discipline. The suffering was brief, however, as with each sweeping strike of his sword, he sent mobs of diseased warriors into oblivion.

Warriors that all suffered from the same horrific affliction woke from their slumber and scrabbled for their weapons. Their pox-ravaged leader shook himself awake, but before he could issue an order from his lipless mouth, Shaddock squelched him into the ground with his roots. Using the flat of his sword, he batted the blighted warriors aside. The last he snatched up and crushed, allowing spoilage to dribble between his wicked talons.

Shaddock could hear the sorcerers atop the rise gabbling orders. As he worked his way towards them, more pox-ridden warriors of Nurgle charged at him from around the sides of the hillock. Taking a ground-shaking run-up, the spirit kicked the blazing embers of one of the campfires flying through the air. Caught in a fiery blizzard, warriors were set alight. While most were consumed by the inferno, some exploded due to the gases that had long been building within their swollen bodies. Those that did make it through were stolid mountains of sickly flesh, ignoring their burning garb, skin and hair. Shaddock wheeled his mighty blade about him like a golden storm, cutting them down and sending leprous limbs and slabs of diseased meat bouncing down the slope.

As he neared the top of the hillock, Shaddock found that it hung over the Ebon Tarn like the crest of a wave. The lake was a festering expanse of filth. Flies swarmed across its surface, which in places had formed a scabby crust. The Plague God’s sorcerers had turned the obsidian waters of the Ebon Tarn into their own steaming cauldron of effluence. Shaddock could see a shadow slowly rising from beneath the bubbling waters. Something huge and daemonic was using the tarn as a gateway to the Realm of Life. The sheer size of the thing was displacing the lake water. It was the water gushing over the banks in bubbling waves of filth that had flooded the surrounding Arkenwood. The Spirit of Durthu might not have been able to save the forest, but he could do something about the sorcerers that had doomed it.

Reaching the summit upon which the sorcerers had conducted their fell rituals, Shaddock found that they were no less corrupted than the warriors who had died for them. The hooded coven closed on an improvised altar in defence of the profane offering still chained to it. Spread across the stump of a once-magnificent ironwood lay a sacrificial victim so diseased and mutilated its race was unrecognisable. The sorcerers clutched staffs and blades in their slime-slick hands that glowed with unhallowed energies.

As one sorcerer made to visit some dread pollution upon Shaddock, the ancient kicked him off the summit and out across the Ebon Tarn. With a vengeful swing of his sword, the Spirit of Durthu felled a whole gaggle of sorcerers. Shaddock stepped forwards, and released the prisoner from its woes. He obliterated the suffering soul with a stamping foot and sent several sorcerers stumbling back. The fell thing leading the ritual launched itself at him, only for the wardwood to snatch him up in his talon.

Turning the blade of his sword about, Shaddock stabbed it deep into the earth of the summit. The ancient heard rock and root give beneath his feet. A crack ripped through the ground before the overhang tore free and plunged down towards the Ebon Tarn, taking a throng of sorcerers with it.

As he clasped the last of their foetid kind, Shaddock felt the sorcerer’s futile resistance. The thing stabbed its sacrificial blade into the thick bark of his arm and pulled back its stained hood to reveal an abhorrent face. Instead of a mouth, the sorcerer had a hooked pit, like that of some parasitic worm. Opening it wide, he vomited forth a stream of corruption at Shaddock’s face. The filth dripped from his frightful visage and steamed away on the amber brilliance that burned within. Shaddock pulverised the sorcerer, feeling blubber burst and bones break within his mighty talon. The sacrificial knife thudded to the ground amongst the mess dribbling down from his fist.

With his sword still burning gold in his hand, he looked down into the festering birthing pool. Without the sorcerers’ spells to sustain its entry into Ghyran, the surfacing daemon sank back beneath the fly-swarming filth. As the daemon’s monstrous form descended, returning to whatever unhallowed place from whence it originated, the waters crusted over, growing thick and still.

Shaddock stood there for a moment. There was no roar of defiance, no celebratory rage. There was only a deep, dark sadness as the ancient looked out across the Arkenwood from the rise. The forest was beyond saving. From the top of the hillock he could see the damage wrought by the Chaos sorcerers and their plague magic. He could see the bare branches of dead trees surrounding a few ancient survivors. Their canopies dribbled with pus, were smothered by moulds, choked with blooms of warped fungus or tangled with the webs of voracious insects.

The Spirit of Durthu soaked up the hopelessness of a diseased land. If the rest of the realm was like this, then the Everqueen would be in dire peril. It was no wonder that the searing call of her spirit-song now passed through the plague-ridden lands of Ghyran. She would need all her noble guardians. Ancients long banished, wardwoods that had once towered at her side, before the Splintering. They would again, Shaddock promised silently. He saw Ardaneth, Laurelwort and the Forest Folk climb the rise. They picked their way through the wounded Rotbringers and groaning sorcerers, finishing with stabbing talons what Shaddock had started on the hillock. The dryads gathered around the wardwood like a circle of forest menhirs.

‘We thank the Radiant Queen for your coming, Great Shaddock,’ the priestess said. ‘You have saved the Arkenwood and its attendant spirits.’

‘You can do more than thank her,’ the Spirit of Durthu said. Ardaneth nodded, looking out across the diseased forest.

‘You are right, of course,’ the priestess said. ‘The Arkenwood is ailing — it will take an eternity of care to undo what has been done. To heal what has been afflicted. To purge, replant and tend.’

‘And what of the next warband or sorcerous coven to lay claim to this land?’ Shaddock asked her. ‘The next daemon to burrow beneath its bark or army to pass beneath its bowers with axe and flame?’

‘We are the spirits of the Arkenwood,’ Ardaneth said. ‘We live, as those that sprang forth before us, to tend the ancient groves of our homeland. We shall defend what remains of this sacred place, as will those that follow. We shall bring it back from the brink, no matter what it takes. I should have expected a denizen of the Arkenwood to understand such a pledge.’

‘I understand it,’ Shaddock said, ‘and honour it. I have great faith in your care and custodianship and am here because of it. But you plant your hopes in rocky ground, priestess. The Arkenwood is lost, the land defiled.’

Ardaneth stared up at the Spirit of Durthu in disbelief before casting her gaze across the diseased forest.

‘I do not believe that,’ the priestess said finally.

‘Only the Everqueen can heal this place,’ Shaddock said, ‘Arkenwood and all. But she needs all of her spirits now. I am her wardwood. She has called to me and I must obey. Come with me and find fresh service in her ranks. Priestess, you are needed.’

Ardaneth looked to the ground. Laurelwort knelt before her.

‘Priestess,’ the branch nymph said. ‘Let the Forest Folk fight for their Everqueen.’

‘And abandon our ancestral home?’ Ardaneth asked. ‘Leave it to sink into the mire, to wither and die?’

‘The Arkenwood is dead already,’ Shaddock told her.

‘My lady—’ Laurelwort began.

‘No,’ Ardaneth said, her words hard like the barbed wood of her bark. ‘I forbid it. The fight is here. Let all dryads stand their ground. Let all the ancient places endure. This invasion, like the fever, shall pass. Even if we can save but one single tree, then our efforts will not be in vain. Let the Queen of the Radiant Wood take glory in that. For from one fruit can great forests grow. The Arkenwood will survive this. I will ensure it.’

Following Laurelwort’s example, the remaining dryads on the rise knelt down before their priestess. Shaddock nodded slowly to himself.

‘Your loyalty and belief do you credit, priestess,’ Shaddock said.

‘As do yours, mighty wardwood,’ Ardaneth told him. ‘May the Everqueen be safe in your hands — as her lands are safe in ours.’

Shaddock sheathed his colossal blade in the tangled roots on his back. Turning with a creak, the wardwood strode down the rise. Wading through the sickening swamp in which the Arkenwood died, he left the Forest Folk there. They knew the spirit-song of Alarielle was calling him on.

Shaddock strode across the festering lands of Ghyran.

Towering above the suffering and blight, the Spirit of Durthu travelled across great expanses, festering forests, dead grasslands, and mountain ranges capped with frozen filth. He crossed foul rivers and strode along the coastlines of deep seas, once full of life. The bright, blossoming green of life unbound was gone. The blue of sea and sky had been drowned in the murk of pollution.

As Shaddock walked on, there seemed no part of the realm he had once known that had not been tainted and transformed. Once, the great lands of Ghyran supported huge, migrating herds and a plethora of mighty predators that stalked them. The air sang with colourful birds and insects. The shallows thrashed with the bounty of fish while the depths boomed with ancient behemoths. Mortal tribes flourished, as did the fleet spirits of the forest, their lords and their ancients, living as one with the land. Even the strange forces of the realm were in tune with Alarielle’s will, creating marvels of nature. Crystal waterfalls, flowing up into the sky. Storms of flowers and seeds. Sky forests floating through the clouds. Cavernous underpeaks reaching down through the earth.

The breathtaking grandeur of Ghyran was now gone, rotted through. The daemons of Nurgle stalked the lands, polluting everything with which they came into contact. The crystal mountains of Quartzendor darkened, shivered and quaked with affliction. The surrounding rivers feeding Lake Serenity had steamed away to nothing in the fevered land, leaving behind crusty beds and channels.

Worst of all for Shaddock was the sight of sylvaneth laid low. The dryads of Winterbirch had been transformed into kindling that hacked, coughed and cackled at his passing. Shaddock found the lowland Wyldwoods of Hanging Forest impassable, the Forest Folk having strangled one another with root and vine. The resulting knot was like a contracted muscle that knew not how to let go. Crossing the wooded peaks of the Realmspine, the Spirit of Durthu struggled across lands laced with Nurgle’s affliction. The caves of the Illythrian Deep had grown sharp, yellowing teeth and babbled madness that infected creatures for leagues around.

In what remained of the Sorreldawn, Shaddock passed amongst the scaly trunks of treelord ancients who wandered blind across the realm, their limbs and branches withered and drooping. He encountered the revenants of the Gloomwood in a terrible state. Blooming with unnatural growths that restricted their movements, the tumorous bark hardened, turning the spirits into warped statues of petrified horror.

Wherever his kin was suffering, he found the servants of the Plague God. With Alarielle’s song lifting him, the wardwood took the wrath of wild places to the abominations in his path.

In the Dell of Gort, warbands of rot-withered knights surrounded Shaddock, chopping the ironwood of his legs with their tarnished blades. The wardwood crushed them into the suppurating ground. About the felled Bronze Willow, Shaddock encountered warriors of insensible fortitude. Emerging from the stumps of toppled bronzewoods, they threw axes blistered with a metallic infection at him. As the blades found their mark, Shaddock stepped between the stumps to skewer the bloated warriors into ground they had defiled with their recent butchery.

In the Darknid Vale, Shaddock found himself set upon by three monstrous maggoths that tried to fasten their lamprey maws onto his ironwood and tear him limb from limb. Hefting a blood-sweating boulder from the valley floor, the Spirit of Durthu crushed the head of one of the beasts. He sank his talons into the belly of another, spilling its foul guts as he tore the wicked claw free. The last maggoth stomped through its companions’ remains, flashing concentric rows of shearing teeth. The ancient drew back his mighty blade and thrust it deep into the thing’s gullet. Holding the creature transfixed, Shaddock waited while it vomited its stinking insides out onto the vale floor before finally falling still.

At the Verdenhold, Shaddock found its walls of thorn and tangled roots writhing in agony. The realmgate it had guarded — the Glimmerfall — had been a rainbow cascade of light and water. Now it was a slurping cataract of blood and pus, swarmed by fat, black flies. Plaguebearers issued forth from the realmgate, wading through the morass of filth before reaching the shore. They found Shaddock there. With savage kicks and sweeps of his long arms, the wardwood cast scores of the daemons back into the swarming gateway. Those that remained began to climb his towering form, trying to use their combined weight to bear him down to the floor. He plucked each one from his branches, dashing them on the ground like rotten fruit.

As the Spirit of Durthu forged on, his progress became a blur. Crossing lands that seemed to rise and fall with laboured breath, Shaddock found himself wandering in a malaise. The thunder of his staggering step took him through a horde of marauding Rotbringers and grotesque sorcerers. His grasping talon missed as often as it found foes, while the bludgeoning stone of his blade carved furrows in the infected earth. Still, Shaddock scattered the spoiling warriors and pulled down an ailing tree on the spell-mouthing sorcerers as he steadied himself.

The ancient felt only worse as he stomped on absently. The ironwood of his arm creaked with inner agonies, and his sap ran hot beneath his bark. The brilliance of his inner fire burned low, while the spilled blood and diseased filth that he wore like a second skin felt like it was finally working its way through his defences.

Over the festering mess that had been the Rivenglades, it began to rain. While the ground crunched like a mouldering carpet of leathery flesh and snapping ribs, tiny, pot-bellied daemons began to fall from the sky. The shrieking green creatures had miniature horns and needle-toothed smiles. Shattering against Shaddock’s meandering form, they coated him with a burning ichor that smouldered on his canopy. Lifting an arm before his face, the Spirit of Durthu staggered on, the squelching bodies making the ground slippery underfoot. Through the gloom of his fevered mind, Shaddock saw the suggestion of shelter ahead. Groaning through the torment that wracked his body, he crawled for the woodland ahead.

Under the cover of bare and twisted branches, the Spirit of Durthu took shelter from the shower of daemons. What little light Shaddock had been aware of was now gone. Even his own light burned sickly and low like a dying camp fire. The Wyldwoods about him were packed tight, huddled together in their joint suffering. The woodland creaked and groaned as it attempted to flee the daemon rain.

Shaddock rose and stumbled from trunk to trunk, making his way through the writhing trees. He had no idea where he was going. The song of Alarielle had long been lost to him — its distant beauty drowned out by suffering. Instead of the Everqueen’s sonorous call to war, the wardwood began to hear other voices in the darkness. There were three of them: voices of abyssal woe that were deep, knowing and inescapably evil.

‘Give yourself to me, doomed spirit.’

‘Soak up your suffering. Be one with it. Become the exquisite torment that already wracks your body and mind.’

‘A dark agony lives in you. Embrace it. Unlock its soul-withering potential.’

‘For every living thing there is a season. Let yours be the warm dread between life and death. Revel in the rot.’

‘Let me save you from your suffering. I can make you strong again. Indomitable, and impervious to the pain that is to come.’

‘Affliction is but the beginning. Beyond such misery and anguish is a world of woe — a world that is yours for the taking. Savour it. Draw upon its strength.’

‘The Great Lord of Decay holds sway in both your spirit and your realm. There is no escape. Contagion claims all in the end…’

Shaddock stopped. He grabbed his head, which creaked with the pressure. The last flashes of golden brilliance flared behind the eyes and mouth. Letting go, the Spirit of Durthu looked down at his talon. In the thick bark, burning with a cruel malevolence, was a dark sigil. It had been carved into the wood by the sorcerer leading the sacrifice above the Ebon Tarn. Before Shaddock had crushed him, the sorcerer had afflicted him with his master’s mark. Three wretched circles, conjoined.

‘Yes…’ the daemon said. ‘Your sap belongs to me, forest spirit. As this realm falls to my feculent lord.’

The Spirit of Durthu brought his talon up close to his face. His vision was darkening. His thoughts ran thin. The mark of the daemon glowed with fell power. About it, the bark was soggy and pus-threaded. The ironwood beneath was weak and swollen. Worms riddled the wood while lice swarmed the surface of the thick bark.

The mighty talon moved with sudden violence. It started shaking uncontrollably. The wardwood grabbed the wrist with his other hand. As he held it there, maggot-thick pus dribbled down his fingers.

Shaddock fell to his knees in the darkness. His aeons of wisdom, his warrior’s spirit were beyond him now.

‘Radiant Queen…’ he managed.

‘Your queen cannot save you from me,’ the daemon told him, his every word intensifying the pain within the limb. Shaddock felt the pollution spreading through him.

‘Alarielle…’

‘You are Feytor’s now,’ the daemon told him. ‘A child of the Thrice-Father’s reborn. You thought you could deny me entry to this place, but I am the touch that taints. The wound that seeps. The blade that contaminates. There are a thousand ways into your doomed realm. A thousand acolytes to ensure my entry.’

Shaddock tried to stand. Beyond the taunts of the daemon echoing through his infected being, he could hear friction — the sound of wood being rubbed together. There was light in the darkness. Heat. A terrible brilliance that grew into a crackling blaze. Shaddock recoiled but the flames were everywhere. The Wyldwoods, unable to face the corruption around them, had set light to themselves. Their bare branches raged with cleansing flame. Through the spit and roar of the fires erupting all about Shaddock, he could hear the agony of the tree spirits.

Shielding himself from the heat and billowing cinders, the Spirit of Durthu staggered through the inferno the forest had become. The Wyldwoods had not intended to trap the ancient — they had simply been overwhelmed with dread. Shaddock crashed through briars and tangled branches. Smoke swirled and flames roared about him. His leaves shrivelled and curled up before blowing away. Fires took about his twigs.

At last, Shaddock burst free of the twisted wood. A suffering silhouette against the furious flames, he stumbled on without care or thought. He listened for the Everqueen’s song but could hear nothing. The sky was a poisoned smear of greens, browns and black. All but blind, he was alone in the darkness. He could hear the festering creak of his infected limb. He felt agonies blossom throughout his form, the heralds of spreading corruption. All the while he heard Feytor the Thrice-Father, the daemon’s merry madness reaching through him.

Shaddock did not know how long he had been staggering across the afflicted lands but suddenly the ground wasn’t there anymore. His foot stepped out into nothingness. The wardwood reached out to save himself. His mighty talon was crippled and useless. Hooking the sharp digits of his other hand into crumbling rock, Shaddock slowed his fall. With the weight of his mighty frame hanging off some kind of cliff or precipice, the wardwood tried to hold on. For what remained of his dwindling spirit. For the dying realm. For Alarielle.

He could not, however. Rock came away in his hand, and Shaddock tumbled. Air rushed through his branches and hollows. The ancient waited for oblivion, welcomed it. The impact that would break his hallowed form and end his suffering. Shaddock was not granted his wish, however.

He hit liquid, something soft, thick and disgusting. His mighty form plunged down into the vile warmth of blood and pus. It was a river of diseased filth, swelled by the ichor of the raining daemons. The torrent bubbled and slurped along, with Shaddock’s frame floating on the surface. He crashed into the shattered forms of felled trees, the river crowded with debris from further upstream. His spirit all but extinguished, the wardwood rode out the thick current as it meandered through the valley.

Shaddock was carried by the filth, bumping into logs that formed a tangled dam. He drifted to the slimy bank, where he became beached on the shore. There he lay, caked in blood and pus, smothered in flies. He felt the slime below him squirm with daemonic worms. They bit at the wardwood tentatively before opening their jaws wide to devour his limbs.

Through Feytor the Thrice-Father’s dark chuckle of satisfaction, Shaddock thought he heard a familiar voice.

‘Skewer these sacks of filth,’ Laurelwort called.

All about him, Shaddock felt the fleet footsteps of dryads. The wardwood heard the thud of sharp thorns and talons puncturing daemon flesh. The beasts thrashed and squirmed as Forest Folk descended upon them, stabbing skulls and slitting throats. At first, Shaddock thought that Laurelwort must have abandoned her priestess, but as he heard Ardaneth’s soft commands he knew that the Forest Folk of the Arkenwood had left their sacred glade.

‘Get him up,’ the priestess said. Shaddock felt dryads swarm about him, their talons locked about his limbs and branches. Heaving him up onto their shoulders, the Forest Folk carried the wardwood away from the bubble and glug of the disgusting river. He felt Ardaneth come in close, her face next to his.

‘We found you, mighty ancient,’ she said. ‘Now know the peace of a realm thought lost. Once, you awoke to deliver us from a plague. Sleep again, Great Shaddock, and let us save you…’

So the wardwood slept. Gone were the fevered thoughts. Gone was the madness of voices in his troubled mind. Gone were dreams of sickliness and smothering. When he awoke, his sight had returned. The land was pure and he saw it crystal clear.

His spirit burned like a furnace within the fortitude of his body. Looking up, he saw skies of blue, framed by branches heavy with fruit and greenery. A mountain peak, dashed with a cap of glittering diamonds, reached into the heavens. Beyond, he could hear the tinkle and splash of a stream.

‘Where am I?’ Shaddock said, half expecting the vision to be a dream.

‘The spirit awakes,’ Laurelwort said. The branch nymph came into view, standing over him. The wardwood got the impression of Forest Folk gathered amongst the trees. Ardaneth came forth.

‘Great Shaddock,’ the priestess said, her words like a rejuvenating tonic. ‘You are in the Draconite Glade.’

‘How…’ the wardwood said, ‘how can this be?’

‘Like Alarielle’s servants,’ Ardaneth said, ‘there are places that have yet to succumb to the grip of Chaos. Sites of significance that resist the corruption as you have, mighty Shaddock. This glade is protected by Draconyth, the spirit of this mountain. Trees grow on his slopes unmolested and the blessed waters of his meltwater streams are pure.’

With a creak, Shaddock sat up. He had been slumbering in a circle of standing stones. Each was a crystalline menhir, draped with moss. The ancient looked around to see Ardaneth, Laurelwort and the gathered Forest Folk. These were not the dryads he had left behind in the Arkenwood. They looked hopeful but hardened. Their boughs were notched and splinted. Their thorns and sharpened talons were stained with blood and ichor. His own form, however, had been washed in the shimmering waters of the nearby stream. The filth was gone from the ironwood and encrusted mineral of his frame. And so too was the diseased remnant of his left arm.

‘To save you,’ Ardaneth said, seeing him look at the stump of his shoulder, ‘I had to sacrifice the limb. I did not undertake such a thing lightly, but the pulp and sinew was cursed, spreading further taint through your mighty form. So I laid my own talon upon it and petrified the wood. To be sure that you were beyond Nurgle’s reach, I shattered the stone limb from your shoulder.’

‘Thank you,’ Shaddock said.

‘I do not expect your gratitude, mighty ancient,’ the priestess said. ‘I have mutilated a wardwood of the Radiant Queen.’

‘The shrub pruned,’ Shaddock said, ‘grows the better for such attention. Forest fires bring forth the sun to benighted groves and nourish the soil. I shall become the stronger for your care and determination. Besides,’ the wardwood said, reaching behind him and slipping his stone blade from where it still rested in its scabbard of roots. The weapon burned bright with the amber brilliance of Shaddock’s rejuvenated spirit. ‘I still have one good hand with which to protect my queen and fight, side by side with the sylvaneth of the Arkenwood.’

‘And we are glad for it,’ Laurelwort said.

‘While glad of your presence here,’ Shaddock said, ‘I am painfully aware that you are folk without a forest. What of the Arkenwood?’

‘You were right,’ Ardaneth said. ‘Like your limb, the Arkenwood could not be saved. Like you, its spirits survive and fight on. I said we would defend what remains of that sacred place. Mighty wardwood — you are all that remains.’

Shaddock nodded solemnly. His frightful visage was once again lit with golden brilliance. He had lived through the ages and yet rarely encountered spirits such as these.

‘How did you find me?’

‘Alarielle’s song grew louder and clearer with our every step,’ the priestess said. She hesitated slightly before going on. ‘The path of destruction that you left in your wake might have helped also.’

The wardwood stomped down the slope, pushing through the branches of the trees. From the greenery of the mountainside, the wardwood could see that the surrounding lands were blighted and foul. The canopies of nearby forests were a patchwork of yellowing leaves and bare branches, while the untamed reaches beyond were blanketed in sour marshland and the black smoke of torched sylvaneth.

‘Tell me, Great Shaddock,’ Ardaneth said, standing beside him. ‘Are the sylvaneth doomed?’

‘Do you hear that?’ the wardwood said, cocking his head.

‘Yes,’ the priestess said, startled.

‘That is the spirit-song of the Everqueen,’ Shaddock said, himself gladdened to hear it once again. ‘As strong as I’ve ever heard it. Alarielle is close, and she calls to us — to all the spirits of her realm. It is time to take back the wild places from those that would defile them, and drive the plague from this sacred land.’

‘From which direction does the Radiant Queen call?’ Ardaneth asked.

Shaddock pointed his blade towards the stained horizon, towards a distant place where land and sky met in a blackened blot of disease and creeping death. A decimated forest — more blasted battlefield than ancient grove — that seemed to draw in the festering legions of Nurgle from leagues around.

‘Our queen needs us,’ the Spirit of Durthu said.

Leaving the sanctity of Draconite Glade and the shadow of Mount Draconyth, Shaddock led the Forest Folk through the dismal land. The sickness of the sylvaneth was everywhere, reminding the spirits of what was a stake. They passed toppled treelords, blooming with spore-spitting fungus. Altered Wyldwoods, dragging their corrupt trunks along with grasping roots, hindered their advance. Shattered dryads, brittle to the touch, lay about in mottles of mildew. Everywhere there was evidence of the Plague God. Meadows had been marred by the rotting remains of camps, forests reduced to mulch by sorcerous contagion and grasslands turned to tracks of mud and pus.

As they approached the blighted woodland formerly known as the Forest of Aspengard, the sky grew dark. The heavens were stained black with filth and the air was thick with flies. The forest itself had been reduced to islands of standing Wyldwoods, isolated by a bitter and war-torn wasteland. The ground of the blasted expanse was littered with stumps, slithering roots and mouldering logs.

Plague-infested daemons and columns of putrid warriors weaved across the battlefield to reinforce the hordes of Nurgle battling the sylvaneth warhosts of Aspengard. Shaddock and the Forest Folk of the Arkenwood used the ailing Wyldwoods to cover their approach. With virulent pus showering from the canopy and infected trees reaching out for them with root and branch, Shaddock and the dryads had to take as much care with the forest as they did with the servants of Nurgle.

Those plague lords and rancid champions that did spy the approach of the sylvaneth despatched warbands to deal with the interlopers. Believing that they were isolated spirits of the Aspengard fleeing the slaughter, they never for a moment considered that they were reinforcements searching for their Radiant Queen. Withdrawing into the wailing thickets, Laurelwort and her dryads prepared an ambush for the Rotbringers. They moved through the roots and branches of the fevered Wyldwoods, hiding, stalking and striking at their infested foes. They gutted bloated warriors who were ready to burst. They sliced the throats and stabbed at the rusted helms of passing outriders from concealed nooks and hollows. They garrotted Rotbringers with noose-like vines that they heaved up through the canopy, leaving the hanging warriors there to choke.

While the Forest Folk stabbed and sliced their way through the servants of Nurgle, Shaddock drew them into a clearing. As corpulent knights charged from the trees, Shaddock whirled his blade around in an amber flash. The wardwood cleaved through corroding plate and diseased flesh. He swept ripe warriors aside with the flat of his blade. He kicked a leprous champion apart and chopped clean through the trunks of warped Wyldwoods, burying Rotbringers under toppling trees.

As they moved from copse to copse, Shaddock and the dryads found the wastelands between crowded with marauding warbands. With the searing song of Alarielle getting louder, the wardwood marched on towards his Everqueen. Towering above the hordes, he impaled daemons on the length of his sword and stamped down on plague knights in green plate. With the creaking sinew of his sword arm guided by his age-old form, the wardwood smashed a path through the scourges of Aspengard. Picking their way through the corpses Shaddock left behind, the dryads of Arkenwood swept in on half-dead foes. Stabbing warriors and skewering the hearts of felled champions, the dryads followed the Spirit of Durthu through the death and disease.

Before long, the sylvaneth reached the centre of the battlefield. The bloated servants of Nurgle were crushed up against each other, the plate of unclean knights crumpling against the brawn of cyclopean daemons, as scythe-wielding champions chanted foul prayers astride monstrous maggoths.

Like a constricting wall of muscle, the hordes of Nurgle surrounded what was left of the Aspengard glades. Known as the Silver Dell, argent oaks and mirrorwoods formed the centre of the besieged forest and stood uncontaminated amongst the mud, blight and destruction. The dell was teeming with the silver-barked spirits of Aspengard — Forest Folk who had fallen back to protect it and the treelords who ruled from there.

While the dryads entangled the servants of Nurgle in a thicket of thorns, the roots of treelords burst free of the earth behind their enemies. They bludgeoned grasping sorcerers and champions into the ground before dragging their smashed bodies beneath the surface of the soil. Silvered Wyldwoods swung their heavy branches, sweeping hordes of sickly warriors aside with bone-breaking force.

As Shaddock strode through the packed ranks of Chaos warriors, axes and spears embedded themselves in his bole and branches. Forging a path through the crush of corrupted bodies with sweeping sword and stamping feet, the wardwood pushed on. The air rang with the sound of wood snapped, split and cleaved in two by rusted blades. Nurgle’s servants fought with an indomitable fervour, rank after rank of diseased warriors gladly walking into blood-slick talons and the pulverising sweep of branches.

The wardwood tried to block out the sickening cheers. He concentrated on the song of the Everqueen, fighting his way through the hordes to reach Alarielle.

‘Stay close to Great Shaddock,’ Ardaneth called to her dryads as they were swamped by a wave of sour bodies. Horned daemons and Rotbringers were attempting either to smash the sylvaneth to kindling or visit their myriad contagions on the Forest Folk. As the dryads of the Arkenwood began to shriek and fall, Shaddock’s mighty blade passed like an amber blaze through the packed ranks. It sheared off elephantine limbs, cut swollen warriors in half and clipped fat heads and helms from shoulders.

Ardaneth and Laurelwort whirled about one another in a deadly dance. A mighty daemon warrior swung a rust-eaten sword at the branch nymph, forcing her to duck. Sprigs and leaves were chopped from her head as the cursed weapon sheared through the tips of her foliage. Laurelwort charged at the monster, slamming her body into its own. Its cyclopean eye rolled in its socket as the branch nymph knocked it back. Ripping furiously into its swollen belly with her talons, Laurelwort tore the rancid guts out of the thing.

The daemon would not be stopped, however. Grabbing her with unnatural strength, the plague-ridden monster tossed her at Ardaneth. Both of them fell back into the stinking ranks of Nurgle’s servants. As the daemon stomped towards Ardaneth with its blade held high, she reached out at the Nurglites surrounding her. As the petrifying power of her talons touched their slimy flesh, their bodies were immortalised in standing stone. Immortality, however, lasted only the few seconds it took for the daemon to smash through the wall of statues.

‘Help me,’ Ardaneth called to the branch nymph as the daemon crawled over the rubble to get to her. Laurelwort came up behind it and entangled its limbs in vines that sprouted from her branches. Seeing her chance, Ardaneth lunged forwards and placed her talon squarely on the daemon’s horned face. As the creature turned to stone, Laurelwort let it fall, its head snapping off at the neck where it struck the rubble.

‘Where is she?’ Ardaneth called up to the wardwood. ‘Where is our Radiant Queen?’

‘I don’t know,’ Shaddock told her. Alarielle’s song was all around. He looked about the blasted battlefield and argent oaks of the Silver Dell but the Everqueen was nowhere to be seen. ‘She should be here.’

Something suddenly gave. The hordes of Nurgle were never-ending, but up to that point the sylvaneth of Aspengard had proven immovable. Neither army had given way. Sorcerous catapults, however, had finally reached range through the crush of foetid warriors. Mouldering barrels leaking a horrific green concoction were flung through the air, high over the heads of Shaddock and the diseased hordes. Smashing into the canopy of the Silver Dell, the shattered barrels hung in the shimmering branches, cascading fell liquid down on the treelords and forest spirits holding the dread masses at bay. Some kind of acid ate its way through the trees and the sylvaneth below, stripping leaves and burning through bark. As a dirty silver cloud rose over the dell and a further barrage of barrels were fired up into the sky, Shaddock could hear the sounds of horrific suffering amongst the argent oaks.

‘Radiant Queen,’ the wardwood roared. ‘Where are you?’

Looking over at the siege engines, Shaddock saw that they were not the only reinforcements to arrive on the battlefield. Walking mountains of festering corpulence were making their way towards the Silver Dell, wading through the Plague God’s jubilant hordes. With the bombardment intensifying and the sylvaneth faltering, these daemons were advancing like shock troops to break the siege and lead the horde into the ancient glade.

A monstrous daemon had assumed command near the catapults and brought the siege engines forth. The abomination was not one but three bloated creatures conjoined — an echo of the symbol carved into Shaddock’s bark. The Spirit of Durthu realised that he was looking at Feytor, the Thrice-Father, the daemon he had prevented from manifesting at the Ebon Tarn. The monster that had taken his arm and sullied his essence. A sound like thunder boomed from the wardwood as the golden fire of his wrath burned bright.

‘Kill the crews,’ Shaddock said, stabbing his colossal blade into the ground and offering his hand to the dryads of the Arkenwood. ‘Sabotage the engines.’

Laurelwort and a barbed cluster of surviving Forest Folk crawled up the crooks and branches of the wardwood’s arm. Ardaneth joined them.

‘What are you doing?’ the priestess asked.

‘I’m curing this blessed land of its affliction,’ Shaddock told her.

With a heave, he became a catapult of his own, sending the spirits sailing across the battlefield. As their light frames landed amongst the sorcerers and siege engines, he saw dryads throw themselves valiantly at the withered crews. Laurelwort kicked over barrels of acid and stabbed a sorcerer in the chest, while Ardaneth petrified the workings of the engines so that they tore themselves apart upon firing.

Shaddock crushed warriors underfoot as he closed on the Thrice-Father. Spotting the towering ancient, the greater daemon heaved his bulk around.

‘Welcome, spirit,’ Feytor said, lifting a colossal cleaver. ‘Your sap belongs to me.’

‘Then take it, daemon,’ Shaddock roared.

‘I shall,’ the Thrice-Father said. ‘One drop at a time, if I have to.’

The daemon moved with a swiftness that belied its rancid bulk. Knots of Rotbringers were crushed beneath the Thrice-Father as he leaned in to strike with his cleaver. Parrying with an arcing swing of his own, Shaddock felt the weight and power of his foe. As he staggered back, one of the creature’s bodies twisted towards him to reveal a monstrous axe. The weapon’s rusted blade clipped some of the wardwood’s branches as he swept his head below the strike. Then the third and final body came around, knocking Shaddock into the ranks of plague-ridden warriors with its swollen belly. The Spirit of Durthu turned aside as one of the greater daemon’s heads vomited a stream of sizzling bile.

Shaking the filth from his canopy, Shaddock found himself near the catapults. He began to fear that despite several ages of service to the Everqueen, he had failed her. She had called to him and he had been unable to reach her — and now he was going to fall to some monstrous servant of her sworn enemy. A foul creature that was not one great daemon but three.

As the Thrice-Father dragged its obscene carcass towards him, booming with abyssal laughter, Shaddock readied himself for the end.

‘Wardwood,’ Ardaneth called up from a demolished engine. ‘Look.’

The priestess was pointing up into the sky. Turning, Shaddock saw massive islands of stone drift down through the miasma of pestilence that stained the heavens. Atop the floating islands stood mighty ironwoods, their roots dangling down from their rocky undersides. He had seen the islands before. They were the Skyforests of Jynnt, towering sentient woodlands that traversed the heavens, hanging in the clouds and soaking up the sun’s rays. The sylvaneth of Jynnt had descended to offer reinforcement.

Shaddock watched as several islands settled over the Silver Dell, draping their writhing root systems across the glade and allowing the inhabitants of Aspengard to climb to safety. Other islands drifted across the battlefield, their roots squirming. Boulders rained down on the Nurgle forces, crushing corrupt mortal and daemon alike. The Spirit of Durthu spotted ranks of Kurnoth Hunters at the forest’s edge, their bows drawn over the island precipice and aimed at the enemy below. Releasing their weapons in unison, the Free Spirits loosed volleys of huge arrows into the servants of the Plague God.

‘Go!’ Shaddock told Ardaneth as an island floated towards them.

‘Not without you, mighty ancient,’ the priestess called back. The wardwood put himself between Ardaneth and the Thrice-Father.

‘Get the Forest Folk to safety,’ the Spirit of Durthu commanded. As Ardaneth, Laurelwort and the dryads of the Arkenwood made for the roots reaching down towards them, the daemon Feytor heaved his great bulk around and levelled the broad blade of his cleaver at the wardwood.

‘I’m going to smash you to splinters, spirit,’ the Thrice-Father told him. ‘I will bury each one of them in my infected flesh.’

‘I am beyond your reach now, monster,’ Shaddock told him. His sword pulsed with energy, just before he leaned into a mighty throw. As he released the weapon, it flew hilt over heavy blade until it finally thudded into the nearest of the Thrice-Father’s vast bellies. It was held there, glowing through his stretched, leathery skin and spoiling guts. Feytor’s booming laughter rolled across the battlefield. Such an attack might have felled other monstrous beings, but Nurgle blessed his servants with unnatural resilience. The sword simply sat there, in its scabbard of diseased flesh.

‘We are the cure,’ Shaddock told Feytor the Thrice-Father as the sylvaneth pushed back against the forces of Nurgle.

The amber glow of the wardwood’s blade faded, the weapon reverting to cold, inert stone. Feytor’s faces dropped in unison, each suddenly aware of something terrible happening deep amidst the daemon’s corpulent form. The tips of branches prodded, stretched and then burst through the monster’s skin. The blade had transferred some of Shaddock’s energy into the daemon, fuelling the growth of a tree inside the Thrice-Father’s grotesque bodies. Swollen bellies burst open as the life within could not be contained, flooding the surrounding battlefield with spoilage. As branches reached up through the rotting guts of the daemon, they skewered his hearts.

The Thrice-Father tried to say something, but his words were smothered by the thick foliage bursting free of his mouths. Branches pierced his eyes and ripped the flesh from his faces, their growth finally slowing and coming to a halt. Shaddock watched the daemon’s bellies rise and fall for the last time around the tree that had grown up within him.

As a floating island cast the wardwood in shadow, a giant, trailing root grasped him. Lifted clear of the battlefield, Shaddock snatched his sword from the carcass of the defeated daemon. Sheathing the weapon, the Spirit of Durthu allowed the root to draw him up towards the Skyforests of Jynnt.

With the sylvaneth of Aspengard rescued, the islands rose up through the filth and back into the glory of the sun’s rays, leaving the hordes of Nurgle behind. Kurnoth Hunters extended their talons down to haul Shaddock and the dryads of Arkenwood up over the precipice, welcoming them to their glade. The Skyforest bustled with the spirits of Jynnt, Aspengard, the Arkenwood and other spoiled lands. The ancient felt Ardaneth and Laurelwort beside him.

‘I am Shaddock,’ he said. ‘Wardwood of Athelwyrd, former counsellor and glade-guardian to the Radiant Queen. I humbly present myself, with the refugees of the Arkenwood, as a true servant of the Everqueen and request a meeting with the presiding ancient of the Skyforest.’

‘Your request is denied,’ a voice replied from the ironwoods. It was the imperious rumble of thunder. It was the playful splash of the stream. It was the calm breeze through the leaves and the fury of a forest fire — all as one. Dryads, Hunters and ironwoods parted to admit Alarielle, Everqueen of the sylvaneth and all Ghyran, riding high on a gargantuan wardroth beetle.

Shaddock went down on one knee, bowing his head. He came to understand how Alarielle’s song had led him to the battlefield but not to the Everqueen herself. She had been drifting high above on the islands of the Skyforest. Like the wardwood, the spirits of Aspengard and the Arkenwood knelt also.

‘There is no presiding ancient here,’ Alarielle told the Spirit of Durthu. ‘Only a queen — with a request of her own. That an old friend can forgive her foolishness and take his rightful place by her side once more, as wise counsellor and as glade-guardian. The time of the Splintering is at an end and the war for Ghyran begins. What say you, my wardwood?’

Shaddock sagged. Then, the weight of his trials and travels was lifted from his shoulders. He rose before Alarielle, to bathe in her glory and her love for all living things.

‘My queen calls,’ Shaddock said, ‘and her subject obeys.’

Gav Thorpe

Wrathspring

Something noisome carried on the wind. The reek was born of blood and rotten offal and rodent droppings. It was a harbinger, the vanguard of a thoroughly loathsome tide. Not just the air carried the taint. The Wrathwaters knew what was coming. Even the springsfed surge churning down from the peaks of the White Stair could not clear the pollution from the winding waterways and rising pools. The trees drew in their roots, sickened by the presence of the corruption. Fish lay gut-to-sky, rotting amongst withered leaves and decaying rushes.

In the heartwaters below the rivers and lakes, deeper than the delving of millennia-old trees, the miasma of decay spread through the veins of the forests. The font of wyldmagic — the essence of life, the meltwater of souls — thickened into sluggish swells, bloated and bubble-ridden like a stream choked with noxious gasses and rank sludge.

Diraceth, Leafmaster of Clan Arleath, felt all of these changes — upon his bark, in his sap, on the tips of his taproots. The cloying, stifling Chaos taint was like a fungus on his spirit, leeching his essence, spreading fibrous tendrils through the lands of the Wrathwaters into every part of him.

It was hard to rouse himself, even with the strength of the long-awaited blooming forcing rivulets of life energy into his body. All of the worldwood sickened — it was folly to believe that the Wrathwaters could hold out. Better to succumb, to give up the last clinging vestige of life. Oblivion was preferable to further torture, the never-ending gnawing of soul and strength.

‘Lord!’ Callicaith, the branchwych, had climbed into his upper limbs and was dragging her wood talons against his rough bark — insistent but not painful, nor deep enough to draw sap. Her heartsong was an agitated twittering like the alarm of a bird. On her shoulder, a glimmersilk grub twitched with agitation. ‘Lord Diraceth! The ratmen, they come at last. They come for the lamentiri!’

He opened deep green eyes and looked at the slender tree maiden.

‘The soulpod groves?’ His voice was sonorous, as deep as the earth into which his roots ran. He quivered at the thought. Diraceth’s drooping branches scattered leaves onto the surface of the lake. Around him the bloodwillows responded, straightening their trunks, pulling up ruddy-leafed limbs.

Beyond his copse, other spirits were answering the growing strength of the clan-song. His fellow treelords rumbled echoes in their diminishing slumber. Sylvaneth warriors stirred in the dappled gloom at the water’s edge. Polished wood and firestone of bared blades caught the scant sunlight, scattering glints like water droplets.

‘No more pestilence, no more sickness,’ Callicaith continued. ‘Ratmen with blades, with spears. Creatures we can fight. Creatures we can kill!’

The thought brought Diraceth further from his slumber, drawing up an influx of the essence of Ghyran, the magic of the Realm of Life streaming through his sap.

‘A poor move,’ he growled. He let his roots fall away and drew up a foot. ‘Skaven, always impatient. Another hundred seasons and we would be quite beyond resistance.’

‘There are many, lord.’

‘There always are, my glade-daughter.’ Diraceth levered his other foot out of the sodden lakeside bank and took a step, his sap continuing to rise. It felt good to move again. ‘Rouse the clan. We go to war!’

The wailing of trees competed with the deafening chitter of rats. Arboreal screeches and thrashing leaves beset the river glades of the Wrathwaters as the skaven advanced within a bank of burning mist. Tainted by warpstone, the deathfog of Pestilens scorched leaves and blistered bark. Droplets of warp-touched acid settled on the pools and meres, sinking slowly into the waters with greenish trails.

Diraceth waited, ignoring the pulses of pain that ran through him from the wickedly deep cut across his trunk — a wound that still seeped with the corrupted taint from the blade of the plague priest that had struck him. He wept streams of thick sap, the agony of his body nothing compared to the injuries inflicted upon his domains. The treelord ancient could feel a shudder of misery throbbing through the pools and rivers every time the filth-ridden missiles of the catapults crashed through the canopy. A dozen of the accursed engines had pounded the last scraps of territory for two days, littering the banks and water with heaps of steaming, disease-ridden offal and corrupting shards of warpstone.

Most of the trees were dead, and the rest had retreated with the sylvaneth. Beyond the painfully slender ring of forest sheltering Clan Arleath, the Wrathwaters had been turned into a steaming mire, a wasteland of sucking marsh and drifting, suffocating clouds.

They waited, the last Wrathwater scions of Glade Winterleaf. They waited without hope. At their backs lay the lifepool, the last vestige of their home. Heartseeds covered the surface, but the replenishing waters did not rouse the spirits within. The taint of the skaven came before them, quelling the life force that sustained the lake of the sacred grove. Even more faintly luminescent heartseeds gleamed beyond the perimeter of the clan’s remaining realm — lost in the fog, overrun by the skaven, beyond reclaiming by the branchwyches.

As the last of the warp-wounded trees succumbed to the deadly miasma, the Wrathwaters fell silent. The impenetrable mists surrounded the dell, obscuring everything beyond a bowshot of the water’s edge, revealing only dim silhouettes of trees bowing beneath the effect of the toxic cloud, curling like parched leaves. Diraceth shifted, sensing that something approached through the mist.

Drums. Slow-beating drums. The death fog muted the sound, every percussive rumble seeming to come from all directions. The distant crack of catapults had stopped too. Diraceth could hear the rustling of his glade-daughters and the creak of the other treefolk as they shifted, turning to and fro to watch the closing mists.

‘We die here,’ the Leafmaster told his glade-kin. He looked down at Callicaith. Like all of them, the branchwych bore the injuries of furious battle against the Chaos ratmen. Her leaf-limbs were snapped, her arms scored by deep marks from notched, rusted blades. ‘On the shore of our life-grove, we fight to the last. No more retreats. Without our soulpods, there can be no Clan Arleath.’

The sap in his veins felt clammy and cold. The last of the Wrathwaters were succumbing to the encroachment of Pestilens. Diraceth could feel it like claws dragging at his spirit, trying to pull him down into the ground to suffocate him.

‘There!’ hissed Callicaith, pointing a talon towards the fog.

Others were calling out, indicating a growing darkness in the mists, the approach of the plague monks. Along with the sombre beat of the drums drifted the sound of feet splashing through the swamp.

Screeches split the air a few moments before individual shapes solidified and burst from the fog bank. Fanatics bearing fog-spouting censers sprinted towards the line of sylvaneth, faces flecked with saliva, thick tongues lolling, eyes wild. They swung their censer-maces in wide arcs, surrounding themselves with wreathing spirals of poisonous fumes.

Diraceth let his will flow back into the sustaining pool. He pushed his essence out into the remnants of the Wrathwaters, tapping into what little life magic remained. He felt a reciprocal force, as the Wrathwaters themselves sought a response to the invaders.

‘’Tis the last time your feet shall sully these lands, children of the Horned Rat!’ bellowed Diraceth, letting his rage flow free in a torrent of magic.

The ground beneath the onrushing censer bearers erupted with the Leafmaster’s power. Tiny rootlets sprang into full-grown rushes that speared up through the skaven, spitting them as surely as any lance strike. Grasses with blades like swords slashed through others, turning ragged robes and flesh to red tatters, gizzards hanging like blossoms on the tips of their rapidly growing stalks.

The spattering of running feet heralded the final rush of the plague monks. Hooded and robed, the ratmen advanced out of the fog bank, rank after rank of snarling, spitting vermin. With them, they brought a great wheeled altar, on which was hung a giant censer of burning warpstone. The fumes from this infernal engine streamed over the coming horde, roiling and bubbling with a life of their own.

The sylvaneth did not wait for the skaven to charge, but counter-attacked at a signal from their lord. Dryads and tree-revenants fell upon the Chaos vermin with sweeping branches and shredding claws, their war-song like the cawing of crows and shriek of hunting hawks. The plague monks fought with serrated daggers and warpstone-tipped staffs, their own cries every bit as strident as the calls of Clan Arleath.

The greater treefolk, Diraceth’s glade-cousins, were about to move forwards to support their smaller kin but the Leafmaster halted their long strides. Callicaith glanced up at him, feeling it too. The Leafmaster pointed into the fog.

‘Await, kin of the glades! Do you feel its presence? A greater darkness comes upon us this eve.’

As he spoke, the sensation grew stronger. It was like a deeper pit in the darkness that was the Pestilens horde. The magic of Ghyran swirled as it approached, turned away like dead leaves before a gale, scattering and burning at its touch.

In the fog, something as large as Diraceth loomed through the withered remains of the trees. The Leafmaster drew in all the life magic that he could, expelling it as storm of sharp, glittering kernels that parted the encroaching deathfog.

As the miasma billowed back, it revealed the daemonic master of the skaven.

A crown of curling, twisted horns framed its huge, rattish head. Its tail was like a barbed whip longer than it was tall, tipped with rusted blades. Pink-grey flesh was draped in a ragged brown tunic, over which sat overlapping plates of serrated oil-black armour. A helm with long cheek-guards protected its skull. A huge book hung on its waist, chained to a thick belt of hide, and an unnatural breeze fluttered the pages, spilling forth seeping tendrils of sorcerous mist. The dark magic of the grimoire was like a heavy weight in Diraceth’s thoughts, an artefact of corruption and decay wholly anathema to the Leafmaster and the life-giving magic that had given birth to him.

Bellowing wordless hatred for the greater daemon, the Leafmaster’s tree-cousins stomped forth, whipping lacerating limbs against the Verminlord’s armour, thrusting penetrating branches towards its flesh.

The creature reeled back, allowing more of its underlings to stream forwards, hurling themselves at the treelords and tree-revenants. While the arboreal giants crushed these attackers beneath root-splayed feet and pulverised them with hammering fists, the rat-daemon belched forth a noxious cloud of vile fumes. The treefolk retreated from this poisonous mist, their bark withering and drying at its touch, blighted sap erupting from widening skin-cracks and splitting knotholes. At the touch of the sorcerous fumes, their leaves shrivelled to blackened wisps. Low moans of pain made the earth shake.

All around the ancient, the song of his kin was falling in volume, as spirit after spirit fell silent. He tried to rouse them with bass urgings of his own, infusing them with his renewed desire to fight.

Snarling, glittering spites erupted from Diraceth’s canopy as he stormed forwards, surrounding him with a whirling shield of biting, spitting spirits. He hardened his limbs into lance-points and drew his arm back, ready to strike.

The daemon creature turned, as swift as any of its rapacious minions, its tail whipping around Diraceth’s arm. The two titanic beings braced against each other, pulling, each trying to tear the limb from their foe.

Fog swirled and lightning crackled around the daemon’s free hand. It coalesced into a four-tined spear. Stepping closer, allowing Diraceth to drag it forwards, the greater daemon of the Horned Rat plunged the weapon into the trunk of the Leafmaster, the points opening up the wound already marking his bark.

Chaos power flared through the injury, a thousand tiny bites engulfing Diraceth. He lashed out, throwing dagger-needles into the face of his foe. Ripping the spear free with a spray of golden sap, the skaven-beast stepped back, its tail unwrapping from Diraceth’s arm.

The treelord ancient staggered away, life fluid spurting in thick fountains from the gash in his torso. He thrust a hand into the wound, growing branch-fingers to bind it together. The ancient felt the burn of the Chaos magic, tiny flecks of corrupted rust burrowing through his exposed heartwood.

Even as he stumbled and almost fell, Diraceth let forth a retort. Vines burst from the broken ground at the monster’s feet, snaking around its legs, seeking its throat and eyes.

The Verminlord took a step closer, spear raised for the kill. Diraceth looked up into its red eyes, undaunted by its horrific majesty.

The Verminlord hesitated.

As it was about to strike the blow, it shifted, cocking its head to one side. A moment later a breeze rippled through Diraceth’s leaves. Fresh, restorative. The fogs were swirling, becoming ragged tufts on the gusts of a new wind. The darkness beyond was diminishing, overpowered by a burgeoning yellow gleam.

Sunlight.

Warmth touched Diraceth. The heat of the sun. The power of Ghyran.

With it came a new spirit-song. It was like nothing he could remember, swelling up from the heartrock of the ground and cascading down from the sky, melodic and subtle, but dramatic and discordant all at once. Fuelled anew, the wound in his chest sealed by the magical touch, the Leafmaster surged to his feet. His hands crooked into wicked blades as he advanced towards his enemy with renewed purpose.

The daemon thrust its spear into one of its own followers, spitting the mewling plague monk upon the points. Sorcerous lightning crackled again, forming an arc that pulled the skaven apart, its scattered body forming a swirling circle of green fog that flickered with Chaos power. Through the miasma Diraceth felt a yawning chasm, a deep shaft that dropped away between the physical realms.

The daemon stepped into the fresh gnawhole with a last look at the Leafmaster. Though its expression was impossible to read, the spear thrust towards the ancient was a clear threat — this would not be their last encounter.

With a wet sucking noise the portal closed, the remnants of the sacrificed plague monk splashing to the mulch-covered ground.

Diraceth’s attention was drawn back to the strange sunrise. The fogs were almost completely dissipated now, taking on more of the cast of mountain lake mists at dawn.

The plague monks felt it too, and having been abandoned by their immortal master did not take flight but threw themselves upon the sylvaneth with frenetic desperation.

Where the gold light touched, the Wrathwaters responded. The blackened, withered morass burst into renewed life, saplings and bushes springing forth from the groundwaters, blossoming into full growth as Diraceth watched.

The rush of magic flowed around and over and beneath him, through air and water and ground. Heartseeds thought lost in the mire crackled with energy amongst the fronds and strands of fresh growth. He heard the tremulous strains of their nascent soul-songs quivering into life, ready to grow into fresh generations of sylvaneth.

Behind him the waters of the lifepool glimmered with the magic of birth. Sylvaneth souls that had long been repressed by the noxious flow of skaven corruption suddenly burst into full bloom, brought to fruition by the influx of life essence. Out of the heartseeds his clan had salvaged from the incessant skaven encroachment burst forth a fresh surge of dryads, branchwraiths and tree-revenants. These newborns splashed out of the waters, their birth-songs tainted by rage and bloodthirst, and they fell upon the skaven with vengeful cries and haunting moans.

And then it was as though the sun itself entered the sacred grove.

The presence was blinding, both in light and as a spring of the energy of Ghyran. Diraceth could not quite comprehend what was in their midst, all senses both physical and spiritual overwhelmed by the force of the entity that had arrived. The sound of thrumming wings made the air and ground vibrate. Heat prickled on his bark, like fingers caressing the folds and cracks, bringing forth green buds where they passed.

As the wave of life magic seeped into the earth of the grove, its power restoring tree and spirit alike, the Leafmaster looked upon their saviour.

Her wings were feathery streamers of dawn light, luminescent and hot. Her face was serene, her eyes a rich leaf-green. Diraceth met that godly gaze and felt a moment of connection, from root to branch, spreading out across the entire Realm of Life. Here was the font, the spring of creation, the mother of his people.

Alarielle, Everqueen of the sylvaneth.

His gaze moved away, freeing him from the trance. It was now that he saw that his goddess was not as he remembered, in robes of autumnal growth. She wore armour, her body clad in shimmering plates of birch-silver edged with ironbark and studded with firestones. The apparition held a spear as tall as she was, its head shimmering with destructive magic. The Leafmaster watched as she turned her attention to the skaven. Alarielle’s tranquil expression changed, and the light of her presence changed with it. Ire twisted her features. The dawn light aura became a crackling halo of incarnate fury that burned with the fire of an unrelenting noon sun.

‘Kill them all,’ she commanded in the voice of a burgeoning storm.

As her children eradicated the stain of the ratmen from her realm, Alarielle’s anger faded. It did not disappear completely, for how could she not feel rage whilst her children teetered on the edge of extinction? She could not rest while her people in the Realm of Life and far beyond suffered from the malignance of Chaos. But for the moment, in this place and at this time, her vengeance was temporarily sated.

She held up a hand and the heavens opened at her command, bringing rain as sweet as nectar. The Wrathwaters responded to her call, swelling in a spume-topped mass over the shores of the lakes to wash away every vestige of the skaven. Her tree-kin set down their roots as the deluge swirled past them, making sanctuary for the smaller sylvaneth in their branches. A glorious wind swept down from the Laureneth Peaks, driving away the last of the rat-must. The rustle of green leaves and the creak of swaying canopy was a song in her ears after the thunder of the skaven drums.

While the floodwaters drained, a carpet of new grass and flowers in their wake, Alarielle turned her attention to the deeper wounds, the taint laid upon the souls of the Wrathwaters. She settled, furling her nebulous wings, letting her armour fade so that she could feel cool breeze on her flesh. Its touch brought flashes of recollection, scattered images of her previous lives.

She held the pain at bay, a mortal memory not suited to an immortal spirit.

Alarielle purged the taint of Chaos from the Wrathwaters, using her magic as she had used the Wrathwaters, driving out the corruption from the lowest earth. She became part of the Realm of Life, splitting again and again, allowing her essence to be one with the land and water and air.

She tumbled over rocks, her cleansing current bringing freshwater to algae-swathed pools where rat corpses bobbed. Her essence eased through cracks, nourishing the broken-stemmed plants, the pressure of her spirit forcing the magic of life into the deepest roots of the maligned forests. She lapped against the banks and gurgled over the rapids, reed beds and rushes growing fulsome in her light. Lilies rippled on the pools amidst the crackle of life magic shimmering in the waters. She nestled with the crabs in the sands of the Scarlet Sea, into which the vast delta of the Wrathwaters flowed.

All that lived felt her coming, renewed by the Everqueen’s magic.

Even as she danced on waves as sparkles of sunlight, she spiralled along high branches. Blossom erupted in her wake. Snapped limbs healed and trunks marked by welts and rot were made anew.

Winds carried the Everqueen’s spirit far over the swamps that had engulfed the Wrathwaters. From murky pools sprang every variety of marsh flower in a profusion of rainbow colours. Even in the darkest regions she could not be denied. Grubs and beetles, worms burrowing through the dark mud, acted as a conduit for her power.

Bringing together her energies, Alarielle ascended, leaping skywards from one drop of falling rain to another. She reached the clouds and looked down upon the great rivers and winding streams of Clan Arleath’s territory. Renewed, it stretched in vibrant greens down to the white sands of the coast, and was lost in the haze of the mountains.

Higher still she climbed, into the stars bordering the Celestial Realm. She could feel Ghyran, the Realm of Life, pulsing and changing, awakened by her return.

Yet it was only the start, the first breaking of bud through hardened frost. All across her lands, Chaos lay like a choking clot, stifling and repugnant. Even to touch upon it in thought revolted the Everqueen. The pollution made her soul sicken.

They had come so close to ruin. Chaos had almost overrun everything. Though the enclaves of the sylvaneth were like bright sparks, they were almost lost in the darkness — here and in other realms. Even the great glades where Alarielle had arisen as the war maiden seemed like a pinprick against the vast pustulant expanse.

And through the decay, on the far side of the rot and destruction, she could feel the thunderous heartbeat and ponderous breaths of the power that desired dominion over her. Life perverted, built upon death. The tendrils of Nurgle’s Garden stretched far and deep into the Jade Kingdoms, coursing with vile purpose, throbbing with vigorous intent. And the gnawholes of the skaven ran like maggot trails through rotten meat.

So close to utter destruction, so much to reclaim.

It seemed not so long ago, to her immortal reckoning, that she had conquered all, that victory over Chaos had seemed but a breath away.

Yet it had been lost, and the darkness had prevailed again.

Alarielle woke, returning to her physical shell. In her absence, her council had gathered — mighty treelords and ancients from across the Royal Glades and woodland clans. The Old King of Winterleaf conversed with Leafmaster Diraceth, newly reacquainted with his clan-cousins. Their senior, the High King of Oakenbrow, noticed first the return of the queen. Rippling his leaves, he pushed silence out into the song of his clan, quietening both it and their boisterous mood.

‘The Wrathwaters run fresh once more, Jade Mother,’ the High King intoned solemnly. ‘Clan Arleath returns its strength to Winterleaf, and your reach extends once more. Whither now shall the attention of your host fall?’

She ignored the question for the moment and beckoned to the Winterleaf conclave.

‘Attend me for a moment, lords and ladies of Winterleaf.’

The tree-beings approached, their silver bark and leaves pale in the sunlight. A procession of branchwraiths followed, wearing long coats of golden leaves, each accompanied by a tree-revenant — spirits of the forest clad in the guise of wood-dwellers from an older age. In stately accord they arrayed themselves behind the treelords, bowing before their queen.

Diraceth was ushered forwards by the High King. The ancient approached with eyes cast down, his long strides slow and purposeful. Callicaith and a few branchwyches nestled in his limbs. They averted their gaze from the Everqueen.

‘Look upon me,’ Alarielle instructed. ‘See your queen as she is now.’

Diraceth looked up, almost flinching. He met her gaze for a moment and then looked away, branches trembling with shame.

‘I am thankful, bounteous goddess, but unworthy. I have failed you and the Winterleaf clan. But for your miraculous presence the Wrathwaters would be lost forever. Our guard was not strong enough.’

‘You are not alone in such tribulation, and I do not absolve you of blame. But know this, Leafmaster. Clan Arleath held when others did not. The Wrathwaters, though tainted, remained a part of my domain.’ She held out a hand and stroked his bark, comforting the troubled spirit. ‘You resisted a long time. Long enough.’

‘Thank you, queen of the forests. Clan Arleath shall repay the debt in whatever fashion is required. We owe our existence to you, mother of hope.’

‘Mother of hope no more,’ Alarielle replied, her expression turning grim. ‘The avenger, the scourge, the cleansing sun I have become. None failed the Jade Kingdoms more than I, and none has more for which to atone.’

‘No, my queen, that is not so…’

‘It was not the lords of the clans that turned back at the very brink of victory. It was not my ancient warriors that lacked the heart to finish what had been begun.’

Diraceth said nothing, not understanding what she meant. Even he, an age old as he was, could not remember the first wars against Chaos, when the Realm of Life had been wrested from their grip and the sylvaneth first born.

Alarielle remembered well enough, and too well the part she failed to play. How could she judge any of her children harshly, who had done more than she to resist the encroachment of Nurgle’s touch, who had battled daily against the incursions of the skaven? While she had slumbered, afraid and spent, her people had died without hope.

‘I have returned, but I cannot bring hope,’ she told the treelord ancient. ‘We stand upon the brink of oblivion and have only taken a single step from the edge. My return will herald not hope, but war, and suffering on a scale none but the immortals have known. I am strife-bringer, woe-seeder. Look not to me for hope, Diraceth, for I have none.’

‘Then why…?’

‘Because we must fight or surrender. Victory is so far away that even I cannot see it, but it is not victory for which we strive at the moment. This is a war to survive, to push back from the precipice, to claw our lands free of the grip of darkness and corruption.’ Alarielle stepped back, her canopy-wings turning to golden streamers behind her. ‘I guarantee nothing, Leafmaster, but bloodshed, misery and death. I am clothed in the light of the sun, but I cast the shadow of the grave. Without hope, without even hope of hope, will you fight beside me?’

The Leafmaster lowered himself to one knee, a lengthy process accompanied by much creaking and swaying of his branches.

‘You fight without hope, majestic sunqueen, but I cannot deny mine at your return. In the mire of despair I almost succumbed. With the great lords and ladies of the Royal Glades to stand witness, I swear I will not show such weakness again.’

Alarielle gestured for him to rise. He retreated to the company of his clan-kin as the Everqueen addressed her entire council. Her voice carried without effort, as thunderous as a waterfall and yet like the sigh of a playful breeze.

‘There was greater purpose in coming to the Wrathwaters than freeing Diraceth and his kin. The path to the Vale of Winternight has been opened.’

A fractious rustling disturbed the council. The Willowqueen of Harvestboon voiced the discontent.

‘We are not yet strong enough to reclaim the Vale of Winternight, dawnqueen. And little will its liberation add to our cause.’

‘What of the besieged clans of the Verdant Cliffs?’ suggested the Archduke of Ironbark.

‘Or the Mooncrags?’ added the Oakenbrow High King. ‘My bud-brother holds still against Foulslug and his corrupted host. A brave ally.’

‘We owe it to those that stayed loyal, my queen,’ said the Willowqueen. ‘More allies will bring greater strength.’

‘The bargain has already been struck!’ The voice was a whip crack like snapping limbs, silencing the others. The members of the Royal Moot turned like a forest bending in a new wind, directing their glares to the speaker — the Keeper of Dreadwood. Bark blackened along one side by recent battle, the scarred ancient stepped forwards. Fanged and clawed spite-revenants swung through his limbs, whispering angrily to their master.

‘The Dreadwood fight no less than any other Royal Glade,’ the Keeper snarled. He thrust an accusing limb at the councillors, fingers stained dark with the blood of humans and skaven — and the sap of other sylvaneth, if the dark rumours were true. ‘At the Emerald Moors my kin and folk fought beside you, Everqueen, for promise that my forest-kin of the Winternight would be freed from captivity.’

‘A fortress holds them,’ said the Oakenbrow ancient. ‘Many heartseeds will be scattered to take it from the enemy.’

‘No fortress can stand against the will of the forest,’ countered the Keeper. He looked at the Everqueen. ‘And the Royal Moot does not stand against the will of its ruler. What say you, Alarielle the warrior-reborn?’

‘They did not answer our call for aid,’ said Diraceth before Alarielle replied. ‘We offered aid when the Rotbringers came, but they did not want us. When Pestilens beset the Wrathwaters, they turned a deaf ear upon our pleas for help. Ancient Holodrin cares nothing for others. Clan Faech are traitors to their own, corrupted seeds that fell far from their mother-tree!’

‘Recant your accusations!’ roared the Dreadwood Keeper. ‘Vile lies!’

‘The truth burns deeper than flame,’ retorted the Willowqueen, moving to stand between the Dreadwood entourage and the lords of Winterleaf. Her branchwraiths jeered and snarled at their counterparts in the Dreadwood, and tree-revenants looked on with glowering stares.

‘My word is the law,’ declared Alarielle, drawing herself up to her full battle-aspect. The Spear of Kurnoth appeared in her right hand. Her other manifested as the Talon of the Dwindling, flaking dead wood falling from her fingers as glittering dust. ‘I have spoken and so it shall be. Clan Faech live on, trapped within the festering walls, hiding in the deepest shadows. But they are not yet lost. Not to death and not to darkness. I feel them, their pain and suffering. We shall free them. Go now, spread the word, ready your armies.’

The Keeper of Dreadwood withdrew, bowing in deference to the Everqueen. The others followed in turn, their leaves rustling with murmured apologies. Only Diraceth remained, trembling with sorrow and rage.

‘You will find nothing but rot in the heart of the Vale of Winternight, my queen,’ he said quietly. He uprooted and turned away, following the trail of rucked earth left by his clan-kin.

Alarielle diffused her power again and sighed. She no more wanted to travel to the Winternight than any of the others, but the Keeper was right. A bargain had been made, and it needed the alliance of all the Royal Groves, including the Dreadwood. If she was to reclaim the Jade Kingdoms from Chaos, she would have to win back the loyalty of the Outcasts, the dark and broken spirits she had denied.

There had been a time when the Vale of Winternight might justifiably have been called a jewel of the Jade Kingdoms. Though an age had passed during her slumber, Alarielle could still recall the white-and-silver trees, the sparkling mists that rose from the tarns each morning, the threads of streams that glittered on the walls of the deep valley.

Dark rock and bright ice, that was how she remembered this place, how it had come by its name. The twin peaks that stood as sentries to the valley were steep-sided, their white-clad summits lost in the haze of cloud above the vale. The Sisters of Serenity they were called, but there was little peace to be found on their slopes since the coming of Chaos.

A bastion had been raised across the mouth of the Vale of Winternight, running from one Sister to the other in an uneven line. She could feel the wall like scar tissue on her flesh. It was not a thing merely built, but constructed from the spirit-stuff of the lands, warped by corrupted magic into something far more hideous than a simple fortification. It was a mortuary-thing, made of corpses and tree-carcasses, heaped between with black rock and baked earth, a core of dead roots binding its foundation. Thornweave grew along its length, spines as long as swords, seeping toxic sap that would slay even the sylvaneth.

In three places the wall was broken by broad arches, through which flowed the great rivers of the vale. Gone were the bright waters. Now the banks brought forth bile, blood and seeping ichor. Their pollution stained the groves into which they flowed, carrying the taint of Chaos into the Jade Kingdoms and towards the shores shared by the Wrathwaters.

The bastion was broken irregularly by seven towers, each grown from an immense tree with branches of bone and fumaroles where knotholes should be, spewing a dark smog along the entire wall. Cadavers hung from the branches like fruit, and on the dead flesh puckered fungal growths and bright moulds.

The stench of death lay on the vale as surely as the fog-mire of the towers. The corruption was near total. Alarielle could scarce stand to be so close, as though she walked on the borders of Nurgle’s Garden itself. She shuddered at the prospect of wandering into such accursed territory, but it was for this reason that she had come. Here, the grip of decay was so great that the Realm of Chaos and the Realm of Life were almost indistinguishable. From this vile sanctuary, the warriors and daemons of Nurgle could march with impunity to conquer and despoil.

Just as sight could not penetrate the fog shrouding the valley past the wall, so the Chaos magic held at bay the questing tendrils of the realmroots sent forth by Alarielle. Linked to all the parts of the Jade Kingdoms, the realmroots allowed her and her children to pass from one glade to the next without effort. In such fashion had they come upon many foes unaware of their approach, and encircled even enemies that were.

The Everqueen was baulked by the corruption. There would be no infiltration from without, and so heavy lay the hand of Nurgle she could scarce detect the tiniest flutter of spirits within. But they were there, she was certain of it. She heard their lamentations and felt their despair. As much as the other Royal Glades despised the Dreadwood, they were all her children, wayward or not. She bore the suffering of them all with equal sorrow.

The ground trembled and the realmroots quivered as Alarielle sent the summons to her Royal Moot. Life force swelled like a springsfed tide, pulsing along the arteries of the Jade Kingdoms, each flutter the spirit of one of her children. Along the realmroots surged the power of the Wyldwoods, animated by the will of the queen, root and branch responding to her demand as surely as the clansfolk of the glades.

The Wyldwoods ploughed towards the wall of decay, bush and tree and grass flowing like an incoming sea, until it reached the extent of her power just a bowshot from the wall. There the grip of Nurgle was too great for her to push through. Only when the plague bastion had been broken, when her children entered the valley, would she be able to thrust her power deep into the heart of the enemy and tear it out from within.

With the Wyldwoods came the glade hosts. From Oakenbrow and Harvestboon, Ironbark and Winterleaf, Gnarlroot and Heartwood. Dryad tree-maids and ancient treelords, tree-revenants in arboreal likeness of the ancient dwellers of the world-that-was. From each Royal Glade, from their clan groves spread across the reclaimed realms they came.

And like the touch of first frost creeping along a stem, the army of Dreadwood heeded her call. Led by their Keeper they came into the Wyldwoods — tree spirits and forestkin that had dwelt long in the shadow of Chaos. Vicious and bitter spite-revenants accompanied them, and branchwraiths and dryads that had been cast from their clans for their disruptive behaviour and bloodthirsty ways.

In the near-forgotten time of reconquest, when Alarielle had required alliance with Sigmar and his kind, such creatures had been a liability, preying on allies as well as foes. Now the Everqueen needed them back, and was willing to deal with whatever consequences that might bring.

‘Break it,’ she told her children, pointing at the wall. Her voice rippled through the realmroots, touching the spirit of every sylvaneth that had gathered. ‘Tear it asunder and make bloody mulch of its defenders. Open up the vale for me, my children, and become the vengeance we all crave.’

Diraceth advanced with his clan elders, proud to stride amongst the great army of the Winterleaf Glade. His loremasters walked beside him, two ancients called Drudoth and Ceddial, and behind came the lesser nobles and forest folk of Clan Arleath.

Each stride that took him closer to the looming wall made his sap rise in ire. Through his roots he could feel the death and decay woven into the barrier, seeping into the good earth of the Jade Kingdoms. It was a deeper, more malignant curse than the gnaw-wounds of the skaven. He felt his leaves shrivelling at its touch.

The sylvaneth host pushed out from the sanctuary of the Wyldwoods, a gathering of spirits such as Diraceth had never witnessed before. Treelords and ancients by the score led their clans, following the stern warriors of the Royal Glade households. Hundreds of tree-revenants and thousands of dryads flowed from the mystical forest, thorn-fingered and bright-eyed.

And on the periphery, from the darkest patches beneath the boughs, the Outcasts came. Like shadows they lingered near their clans, spite-revenants that lusted after mortal flesh, whose wickedness had earned them exile in ages past. Diraceth noticed that more than half the host of the Dreadwood was made up of these dispossessed spirits and wondered what manner of clan they marched to liberate. Ancient Holodrin and his folk had always kept to their own glades, but it had been a shock when messenger-spites of Diraceth had returned with tidings that Clan Arleath would stand alone against the skaven.

The forest host passed into the thick smog. It smeared along Diraceth’s leaves and bark, slicking his twigs and buds with its oily, noisome touch. The branchwyches and branchwraiths spat and cursed, and flicked droplets of the foul vapour from their talons. By his side, Callicaith adjusted her grip on the long greenwood scythe she carried. Her glimmersilk grub wriggled back and forth across her shoulders, reacting to the tension.

‘I can see nothing,’ she said.

It was true, the smog was as thick as marsh water. It felt as though Diraceth waded through a mire as much as pushed through the dank fog. He could barely see the branchwyches and ancient treelords to either side. The armies of his fellow Winterleaf clans were lost from view.

‘Press on,’ he told them, sensing the unease of his folk. Their spirit-song was quiet and flat. Diraceth set free his own song, a martial beat that resounded through the thoughts of his followers. He quickened the pace of his stride and the tempo of his war-song.

It was then that he felt the glade-voice of the Old King, calling him on, adding its weight to the harmony of Clan Arleath. And the other houses around him, each clan-song different but called from the same source, creating a growing chorus, making his sap rise further. Like an echo rebounding, the booming of the ancients was returned by the heart-songs of the lesser folk, a staccato of expectation and fury over the deliberate percussion of their leaders, the intensity growing as they continued through the smog.

Diraceth was taken aback as they broke through the fog and came upon the wall itself. The mists were still thick, but the great darkness of the edifice rose up before the ancient, more than twice as high as his topmost branches.

The spirit-song reached a crescendo as Diraceth and the treefolk charged the bastion. It sang in his heartwood, filling him with strength and purpose. He raised his own voice, urging his clan to prevail.

Thorny tentacles lashed from the wall, and a storm of projectiles flew down from above. Dryads were snared by the bloodvines and crushed, tree-revenants pierced by the spines. Bloodsap fell in glimmering rain, showers of light in the dark fog.

Bellowing his rage, Diraceth hurled himself at the wall, sinking branch-claws deep into the blackened mud. Forming rootlets from his fingers, he pushed deeper, feeling the bone and sinew of dead animals parting, trickles of ichor dribbling down his arms as though blood from a living thing.

He ignored the slash of the thorn-vines against his bark, leaning close to the filthy wall to penetrate deeper and deeper with his thrusting attack. Callicaith and the other branchwyches led the clan maidens up his back and across his upper limbs, leaping from branch to branch to reach higher up the wall. They ascended through the bodies of the other treelords and ancients, and set about with scythe and claw to hew at the pseudo-tentacles.

Spreading rootlet-fingers wide, Diraceth pulled back, wrenching the guts from the wall. Like intestines splayed from a wounded animal, ropes of rotting flesh and sodden wood erupted from the bastion. Hurling the vegetative offal aside, the Leafmaster attacked again, tearing and ripping, splitting foundation roots and ribcages, engulfed by spores from exploding fungi.

Around him the other Noble Spirits tore at the skin of the bastion, severed roots flopping like eels on the ground, broken pustules spewing ichor over limb and trunk, matting their canopies with greenish-yellow gobbets.

With a sound of snapping bone and branch, a portion of the wall collapsed into a rotten heap. Armoured warriors toppled into the morass, crashing into the piles of steaming mulch. They struggled to their feet, reaching for rusted axes and serrated blades. Their armour was pitted with corrosion, the plates covered with a film of filth that leaked from rents and breaks in the metal. Some were bloated creatures, their guts barely contained by their armour. Others were skeletal-thin, rusted mail hanging loosely over famine-wasted frames.

The dryads shrieked in triumph and leapt upon the Nurgle warriors, their claws seeking visors, piercing chainmail at the joints of their armour, pulling the warriors apart.

Other foes, more lightly armoured, leapt down onto Diraceth. They sawed at his limbs with their blades and jabbed spears into his knotholes and cracks.

‘Begone, minions of the decaying one,’ rumbled the treelord, plucking a tribesman from his branches. He crushed the human in his fist, splitting him like overripened fruit. Lance-claws speared another, piercing him from belly to throat. Diraceth flung the corpse away and turned swiftly, shaking another three of his assailants from his canopy.

Widening the gap in the wall, the ancient stepped into the barrier while more branchwraiths and dryads scaled the breach to spill along the rampart above. Pulling up the last vestiges of the wall, Diraceth broke through into the valley proper.

Elsewhere the bastion was breached too, the sylvaneth flowing into the Vale of Winternight like water through a broken dam.

‘For the Everqueen and the Jade Kingdoms!’ rose the roar of the treelords.

Spite-revenants flowed around Diraceth, snarling, eager to be at the enemy. He recognised spirits he had banished from the clan long ago, but they paid him little heed, their hatred now focussed on a mutual foe. Their enraged howls were quickly joined by the cries of dying Chaos followers.

Seeing that the wall had fallen in many places, her subjects pouring through the breaches, Alarielle sent the summons to her own grove-host. Her song carried the furthest of all, light and lilting, rippling through the Wyldwoods and the rootways to all parts of the reclaimed kingdom.

She held out a hand to one of the nearby Wyldwood trees. Its trunk shuddered and a knothole parted, disgorging a bulbous grub. Though but a larva, it was as long as her forearm. It crawled over the leaf-carpeted ground and burrowed into the magic-rich dirt at her feet. A few moments passed before the ground under her feet started to tremble. Leaf and earth parted as an immense swarm of glinting fireflies erupted around her. Swirling like sparks, they coalesced into a single creature. The massive wardroth beetle bore up the Everqueen, its carapace glistening like oil, antlers gleaming in the light of Alarielle’s aura.

She added a fresh melody to her call, the long note of a horn that echoed through the trees. Haunting, distant replies drifted back to her, rebounding and growing in volume. She felt the flow of magic changing, becoming a stream and then a river, converging on her location from many directions.

From the trees came forth her Kurnoth Hunters, each taller than any warrior of Chaos, with bark stronger than metal armour. Some carried long, straight swords, others bore scythes that could slay the largest mortal monster with a single blow. The rest were armed with greatbows, accompanied by scurrying quiverlings — spites that grew fresh missiles from their backs.

Their leader, Raldorath the Huntmaster, came forwards and bowed low. He looked at the broken bastion, wooden brow furrowing.

‘A harsh task, my queen,’ he said. ‘Though the wall be broken, the Vale of Winternight holds an army of foes.’

‘Yet not enough to hold back my ire,’ said the queen. ‘With me, Hunters of Kurnoth — your prey awaits.’

High upon the hunched back of the wardroth beetle, her wings of light flowing behind her, the Everqueen advanced quickly through the Wyldwoods. The Kurnoth Hunters spread around her, loping strides carrying them as swiftly as their queen. More treelords and ancients answered her call as she moved. Among them marched the mightiest of the old nobles — the Spirits of Durthu.

The fog had all but dissipated, and as Alarielle emerged from the Wyldwoods she saw that two of the seven towers had fallen. Yet from the upper reaches of those remaining, missiles and fire cascaded down upon the spirits surging through the breaches.

‘Break the towers, bring them down!’ she commanded. The Spirits of Durthu responded to her command, breaking away to fall upon the nearest fortification.

She felt the swirl of magic as the revered treelords summoned the energy of the Jade Kingdoms, letting it pass through their bodies. It erupted from outstretched limbs in gusts of emerald energy, scouring the armoured warriors from the higher limbs and platforms of the tower. The treelords smashed against the blackened trunk with their fists and stomped upon the ground to break open its foundations, root-claws driving deep into the earth. Throwing their weight against the tower while others dragged at the upper limbs, three of the huge forest spirits sent the entire tree-edifice crashing down. More armoured warriors plummeted to their doom as it fell, and those that picked their way out of the splintered, black-leafed foliage were swiftly crushed by the raging Spirits of Durthu.

The wall was shattered, more towers falling as the sylvaneth ascended into the heights and tore at their roots. Alarielle could feel the Vale of Winternight responding. She let her essence gush free into the land beyond, bracing herself against the clammy touch of decay that still lingered within.

She searched back and forth, seeking the slightest trace of Clan Faech, steeling herself against the cold darkness as she plunged deeper into the Chaos-tainted magic permeating the vale. Her song became a strident call, ringing clear through the wash of wyldmagic flowing into the valley.

The flutter of an answering spirit-song drew her into the heart of the vale, the loathsome power of Nurgle like a cold corpse hand pawing at her body. Pressing past, she looked for the tiniest glimmer of the song’s source.

She found it ringed with Chaos power, a cornered animal panting and whining with fear. Anger replaced Alarielle’s distaste and she forged on, fuelled by ire. At the approach of the Everqueen’s presence the corruption parted, scattered like leaves in a gale, but swiftly the taint returned, pressing hard against her soulform.

The grim surroundings nearly silenced her voice. The crushing stench of Chaos energy was overpowering, endless waves of decrepitude and corruption crashing over her. Her light was no star, nothing more than a guttering spark in everlasting darkness. Timidity all but stilled the tongue of her spirit-song.

Gathering her nerve, ignoring the fear that she would draw unwanted attention upon herself, Alarielle sang loud and clear, calling to the quivering spirits of Clan Faech. She pushed back the darkness as it encroached on the path she had made behind her. The Everqueen beckoned and cajoled, tried to soothe away the primal dread that trapped the sylvaneth as surely as the warriors of the Plague God.

‘Fight it!’ she insisted, bursting forth with fresh soulsong. Alarielle could almost touch them, could almost make the magic flow into the spirits to rouse them from their terrified stupor. ‘Reach out to me. Break free!’

But they did not. Not only dread quelled them. Bitterness spat back from the renegade forest spirits.

Recoiling, Alarielle could do nothing as the grip of Nurgle tightened again, a black sludge that filled the space around Clan Faech as tar bubbling up from its pit. It hardened, seizing them fast once more. Their song was muted and deathly silence engulfed Alarielle.

The Everqueen realised she was alone in the great sea of darkness. She fought back panic, searching for the rivers of life-essence that had brought her here, desperate as a ship’s crew tossed on a tempestuous sea.

She caught upon a glimmering trail and started to follow it, but in her agitation did not sense the approach of something else. It was too late that she detected another presence in the mystical strata — a triumvirate entity. A three-spawn fly of Nurgle made into bodily form somewhere in the vale. A sting strike, a spine of pure Chaos, pierced her spirit, pumping darkness into her soul. Like a toxin in the blood of a mortal, the Chaos energy flowed through her, trying to drag the Everqueen into the mire of death that surrounded her.

She fled.

Returning to her body, Alarielle gasped, suppressing the scream of horror that wanted to break free — her subjects had to fight on, could not know anything was amiss.

The Chaos taint was still in her. She could see it now, like a blackness in her veins, darkening her skin, dimming the light of her presence. It worked fast, weakening her, trying to consume her with burning pain.

Horror gripped her. All that she had feared, all that had cowed her for those long years of slumber, was coming to pass. The touch of Nurgle was in her. Beneath the surface of her being, raw wyldmagic and Chaos power thrashed against each other, their conflict sending agonising stabs through her.

‘My queen?’ A Spirit of Durthu stood over her, its spirit-song a sombre throb of concern. She realised a single crystal tear marked her cheek, a sign of the struggle within.

She took in a shuddering breath but dared not speak of what had happened. The Everqueen mastered her fear and urged the tree spirit to leave her.

Unprompted, the Spirit of Durthu lay a twig-fingered hand upon Alarielle’s arm. At his touch she felt the foul magic burst forth, engulfing both of them. The spirit’s branches shuddered and its soulsong became a low moan of age-old aching.

She felt the spirit drawing forth the blight. Alarielle tried to fight it, to hold the poison in herself. But the spirit would not be deterred, placing another leaf-limb on her to bring forth more of the taint.

‘It is not… yours to… take…’ she gasped, but the spirit silently looked at her with deep emerald eyes as the corruption flowed into its heartsap.

When it had siphoned away the last of the dark power, the Spirit of Durthu reared up, taking a step back from the Everqueen. Already its leaves were wilting, branches drooping with the weight of the poison in them. Its spirit-song was little more than a few whimpering notes as wood turned to dust and sloughed away, revealing blistered greenwood beneath.

‘My queen, everlasting font of life,’ croaked the spirit, sinking down. Threads of mould spread over its splintering, disintegrating form. ‘Lead our people to fresh life. Fear nothing more. Let the wrath of the sylvaneth carry you to victory.’

The spirit slumped, degenerating into scattering motes and spores that drifted away, leaving nothing but a blackened heartseed. The last vestiges of its song died away with its body.

She had almost failed her people again. Freed of the taint, Alarielle calmed herself, her sorrow short-lived. In the past she had allowed fear to rule her, to break her resolve. Not this time. Not now.

The fire of her wrath flared from her body like a fresh dawn. Where its light touched, Alarielle’s presence filled the sylvaneth with a deep rage. She drove the wardroth beetle forwards with a thought, weapon held high. Her spirit-song called to her glade-warriors to follow.

Incandescent with fury, the Spear of Kurnoth singing its own bloodthirsty hymn in her thoughts, the Everqueen passed into the Vale of Winternight.

If the breaking of the wall was a dam bursting, the coming of Alarielle was an ocean rising to engulf the Vale of Winternight. With her came the Wyldwoods, limbs and leaves angrily swaying, creepers and thorn bushes advancing beneath their shadowed canopies. Ahead of her life magic streamed. The gale of her approach washed away the thick fog, revealing the parched lands of the Vale of Winternight.

All had been drained of vitality, the cracked earth like the dry skin of an ancient mortal. Scrubby bushes with blood-red thorns grew out of split heartseeds, and fungal fronds played in colourful profusion from the corpses of animals. Such trees as had survived were twisted, stunted things with flies as big as birds buzzing in their limbs. More insects fluttered in thick swarms, fighting against the rush of air that heralded the Everqueen’s arrival.

At the heart of the valley, where once had stood the lifetree of Clan Faech, a tower now rose at the centre of a soulpod-studded grove that had become a thick mire of bubbling mud. Threefold were its bastions, winding about each other like vines, becoming one at the pinnacle. It seemed to have grown of tumorous bone, split and blistered, cracked and flaking. No windows broke its surface, but a single fracture formed a jagged door at its root.

The warriors of Nurgle were arrayed about this fortress, grotesque and bloated, cadaverous and vile. In ranks of rusted mail and blood-spattered plate they awaited the attack of the sylvaneth.

They did not have to wait long.

The earth erupted with choking, snaring vines, and the spirits of the worldwood descended upon the Nurgle army. Branch and root vied against hammer and spear, talon versus blade. Whipping leaf-limbs crashed against shields marked with the fly rune of the Plague God. Ensorcelled iron bit deep into spirit-folk flesh. Blood and phlegm, bark and sap flew.

The trembling ground beneath the stride of the wardroth beetle set the beat of the battle-song that rose from Alarielle. From her heart poured out a rhythm of defiance and death. It drove the sylvaneth, enriching their hatred as mulch fertilises soil, filling their limbs with vigour and growth. Where Alarielle fought, the followers of Chaos died.

A dozen armoured warriors set themselves against her advance, their axes flaking rust and dried blood. Alarielle did not hesitate, but met them head-on. Their blades broke on the carapace of her wardroth beetle, and other blows went astray in the blinding light of her presence. The beetle charged without pause, trampling foes and spearing another on its antlers. The Spear of Kurnoth whirled and plunged, lancing through the bodies of the survivors, foetid blood streaming from the mortal wounds left by its touch.

The Wyldwoods enveloped the fighting, dragging tribesmen and beasts into the foliage where birds and spites plucked at eyes and clawing twigs lacerated flesh. The screams of the dying were accompanied by the patter of blood falling like rain form the canopy. Roots quested for the pools of life fluid, drinking deep of the Chaos followers’ suffering.

The Outcasts were a nightmare to behold, led by the ancients of the Dreadwood glade. Though fire and axe were set against them, the bitter forest spirits would not be stayed by the shield walls and warped spawn of the Chaos army. Armoured plate was no obstacle to piercing talons powered by magical sinew. With banshee howls of glee, dryads tore the limbs from their foes, glorying in the sprays of blood. Flesh and bone parted under the razor-strikes of the branchwyches, strips of gory flesh flung into the air. So vengeful was their aspect that even as lumbering beasts crushed them underfoot the Outcasts bit and clawed with their last strength. Spite-revenants leapt into their foes without regard, happy to tear down an armoured warrior even if in turn they were battered and slashed by the corroded weapons of their enemies.

As a root prises apart a rock, the sylvaneth drove through the corrupting host to within striking distance of the tower. Alarielle’s magic washed up to the perimeter of the fortress, unable to penetrate it but still gathering strength. The spirits of Clan Faech murmured beyond her reach, trapped. Alarielle urged them to rise up, to tear down their captors from within. She was greeted with a quiet echo of spite and dread.

The gate of the tower widened with a terrible tearing of wood, and from the dark interior emerged a trio of bloated figures. The three sorcerers let free swarms of biting flies and choking mists, stalling the sylvaneth attack. Whirring, buzzing things beset Alarielle, flying into her eyes, trying to crawl into her mouth. She choked and spat, fighting back the memory of the cloying power of Chaos that had nearly taken her.

Out of the swarm lumbered an immense gargant, its skin falling away in strips to reveal bloody fat and muscle. Its shadow fell over Alarielle, bathing her in a sudden chill.

Her beetle hissed its anger. At her command it dashed forwards, but its antlers simply sloughed away rotten flesh from its enemy’s shins and thighs. The gargant seized up the wardroth, trying to tip the Everqueen from its back. The beetle sank its antlers deep into the sore-ridden flesh of the gargant’s hand and arm, fixing itself there while blood streamed over its head, bathing Alarielle in thick crimson fluid.

Though repelled by its stench, Alarielle took the pouring vital fluid as a libation, as refreshing to her as the cascade of a waterfall. Blood-masked, she reached out with the Talon of the Dwindling and drove a claw into the gargant’s arm. At her bidding, dire power flowed. Not the magic of life, but the turning of seasons, years, centuries.

In a few heartbeats the monstrous creature’s flesh fell in dried scraps and its bones turned to dust, pitching the wardroth and its rider back to the blood-soaked earth. A triumphant melody erupted from Alarielle, sweeping her warriors into the enemy.

A great moan of despair erupted from the Nurgle host at the loss of the gargant. Surrounded and pushed back, they were forced into a semicircle about their sorcerous masters, battered and torn but not yet broken.

Alarielle pulsed a warning note to her servants as she felt a surge of Chaos power flow from the dark tower. It bubbled up into the three sorcerers, filling them with unnatural energy. The trio of warlocks swelled, metaphysically and literally, their robed bodies distending, skin stretching further and further until it split with cascades of blood. Each Chaos wizard bloated beyond possibility until they formed a single quivering mass of plague-ridden flesh.

With a final influx of power, the sorcerers burst, showering pus and ichor, flesh-gobbets and organs over a wide area, their scattered entrails forming a triple-sided sigil of Nurgle. Within the unholy pattern, the air seethed and the skein of reality stretched just as the skin of the wizards had done.

Daemonic things pressed against the thinning barrier, their power seeping through the sundered gap. Alarielle knew that in moments a host of the Plague God’s daemons would break through, summoned by the destruction, for Nurgle found life in all death.

At the heart of the flesh-icon, the sorcerers remained — small mounds of sentient meat no bigger than a fist, forming porcine eyes and fanged mouths. Yet for all she urged her spirit-warriors to attack, the line of Chaos followers held amidst the bellows of ancients and the crash of blades.

Alarielle summoned the depths of her hatred and with it fuelled her courage. She dared one more time to send her spirit into the quagmire of Nurgle that filled the tower. Holding tight to the threads of magic that sustained her, the Everqueen dived into the spirit-morass.

Ignoring the slithering, sliding things that were breaking through into her realm, she drove directly for the final remnants of Ancient Holodrin and Clan Faech. This time she would not be repulsed. Like a bolt she sped into their midst with the full glory of her battle-song.

We are afraid! You abandoned us! You will desert us again.

Their plaintive wails did not sway her. Whatever wrong had been done to these spirits in the past, whatever transgressions she and they had committed against their own people, the sylvaneth fought and died as one.

‘I am the Everqueen — the font of life, the despairing storm, the wrathspring. I do not command your loyalty, I demand it!’ She reached out as though with her hand and seized up the guttering remnants of the sylvaneth souls. ‘Your fear counts for nothing. You will fight!’

The ground shuddered, and a moment later the dark tower split asunder, dividing into its three parts in a shower of offal and rotten wood. The great tree of the Vale of Winternight, silver-barked and white-leaved, erupted from the falling ruin, its branches gleaming with soulpods.

Alarielle’s essence raced along the branches, liberating trapped spirits even as the first daemons tore their way into the Realm of Life. Heartseeds fell like rain, and where each landed a sylvaneth sprang forth — branchwyches and branchwraiths, treelords and dryads, tree-revenants and ancients. And with them was unleashed wrathful Ancient Holodrin, a towering pine-lord with silver needles and claws like scimitars.

The lord of Clan Faech brought down a foot onto the mewling flesh-pile that was the sorcerer trio. Grinding them under his roots, the ancient tore the heart out of the Nurgle sigil, blood and mud and daemon becoming a single bubbling cataract of dissipating power. His booming roar crashed as a wave over the fighting, swelling the war-song of the sylvaneth.

‘The Vale of Winternight belongs to us! Obliterate the defilers!’

Screaming, bellowing and howling, the freed spirits of Clan Faech hurled themselves at the beset Chaos warriors.

‘Would that I had felt such courage sooner, great queen,’ said Ancient Holodrin, making obeisance to his ruler. The taint of Nurgle was already seeping away, fresh tufts of grass and red blooms consuming the bodies of the Plague God’s mortal followers.

‘There are none of my folk that are strangers to fear,’ Alarielle replied. ‘When all is nearly lost, one thinks only to cling to what is left. I am not guiltless in such regard. The ages have turned and a different season is upon us. We cannot seek to simply resist our inevitable decline. A new power is coming, and we must allow ourselves to be borne up on the fresh tide or be washed away forever.’

‘What new power, Everqueen?’ asked Holodrin.

She looked up to the skies. Against any natural wind, clouds were gathering, tinged with azure light. Lightning flickered, not of any mortal origin.

‘We are not alone,’ she said. Sadness marred her divine features for a moment. ‘It was only fear that made me think that we ever were.’

Josh Reynolds

The Outcast

‘Filthy trees,’ Goral rumbled. ‘They offend me, Blighthoof.’ The Lord-Duke of Festerfane stroked his steed’s cadaverous neck as he spoke. The horse-thing squealed, shaking its lice-infested mane in what might have been agreement. It pawed at the ground with a hoof, causing the root-riddled soil to split and smoke. Goral leaned forwards in his mouldering saddle as his Rotbringers felled another tree. It toppled with a bone-shaking groan and struck the ground with a loud crash.

‘That’s the way. Hew them down, my brothers. Shatter their branches and befoul their stumps. Make the land weep sweet tears, in Nurgle’s name,’ Goral said, gesturing with his axe, Lifebiter. Filth-stained blades and rusty cleavers bit down again and again, tearing, gouging, chopping. Bark ruptured and roots tore loose of the soil with popping sounds as branches cracked and bent. More trees fell, clearing his warband a path into the heart of the vast, black forest known as the Writhing Weald.

It had taken them days to get this far. Then, the Writhing Weald was more stubborn than most. It had swallowed a dozen warbands over the centuries, remaining verdant and untamed despite the best efforts of Nurgle’s servants. But no longer. As a knight in good standing of the Order of the Fly, it was Goral’s duty — no, his honour — to make these simpering lands fit for the glopsome tread of Grandfather himself. And once he found the forest’s heart, Nurgle’s will would be done.

‘Chop them down and stoke the fires,’ Goral said, trusting his voice to carry to the flyblown ears of all seventy-seven of his warriors. ‘We will choke the air with smoke and ash, and call down a boiling rain once we have found the great stones which are the heart of this place. Grandfather will water the soil with the blessed pus of his Garden, and we shall make this wild place fit for civilised men. By this axe, I so swear.’

Goral lifted Lifebiter and felt the weight of the baleful blessing wrought into its rust-streaked blade. It pulled at his soul and left pleasant welts on his flesh where he clutched it. The weapon had a cruel life of its own, desirous of nothing save the chopping of bark and bone. It had been a gift — a token of appreciation by the Lady of Cankerwall, whose fungal demesne he’d preserved from the depredations of the ancient change-wyrm, Yhul.

He thought of her and smiled. Regal and infested, clad in tattered, mouldering finery, she had seemed sad at his leaving, and pressed Lifebiter on him as a sign of her esteem. The axe had been borne by her father-in-decay, and his father before him all the way back to the beginning of the Age of Chaos, and now Goral carried it, with her blessing and in her service. Its pitted blade had been touched by the finger of Nurgle himself, and imbued with a mighty weird. It was an axe worthy of the name Lifebiter and he hoped he was worthy of its destructive potential, and her trust in him. Like Blighthoof, or the scabrous armour fused to his swollen flesh, it was a sign of Grandfather’s favour.

And that favour was why he, above all others, had been sent to accomplish this task. For it required speed of thought and surety of limb, as well as faith in the will of Nurgle. Goral raised his axe and bellowed encouragement as another tree fell. Around him, his vanguard of pestilent knights did the same, calling out to their brothers in support or mockery as they saw fit. Like Goral, they too served the Order of the Fly, and had supped from the unhallowed grail which dangled from Nurgle’s belt. In them was the strength of despair and the will of the gods made manifest.

‘Beat them, break them, burn them,’ the knights chanted, in low, hollow voices. Their flyblown steeds screeched and buzzed, tearing at the ground with claws and hooves. Goral joined his voice to theirs, but as he did so, the remaining trees began to sway slightly, as if in a breeze. The chanting died away, as did the sounds of labour, as every rotten ear strained to hear the sound, in case it was the sign that they had been seeking.

It was a soft thing. Like loose leaves scraping across stone. Goral tightened his grip on his axe. Soft sounds were dangerous in the forests of Ghyran. Blighthoof stirred restlessly. The horse-thing whickered and Goral patted the sagging flesh of its neck. ‘Easy,’ he murmured. Far above, in the high canopy, branches rustled and then fell silent.

Goral looked around. He feared no mortal enemy, but this was something else. He could smell it, stirring in the dark. Like sap gone sour and rotting leaves. An old smell, almost familiar, but… not. It choked him, and made his stomach turn. The forest was alive with a thousand eyes, watching, waiting.

He’d fought the tree spirits before, with axe and balefire. Nevertheless, it was unnerving. They came so suddenly, and with such ferocity that even a moment of inattention could mean the difference between life and death. ‘Where are you?’ he muttered. ‘I can feel you, watching. Are you afraid, little saplings? Do you fear the bite of my steel?’ He lifted his weapon, waiting. Nothing answered his challenge.

But they would. This realm, the Jade Kingdoms entire, was waking up now, and all of the dark things within it. The forest-queen had been driven from her hidden vale, and into the wilds. Now trees marched on Festerfane and a thousand of Nurgle’s other holdings. What was once a certainty had become mutable. Goral couldn’t have been more pleased. It had been decades at least since he had faced a worthy challenge.

The sound faded, as quickly as it had come. As it paled, a new, more welcome noise replaced it. The guttural barking of Chaos hounds. The beasts loped into view, bounding over fallen trees with long-limbed grace. They were shaggy and covered in sores, their blunt, squashed muzzles streaming with slobber and snot. They had bulging, compound eyes and worm-pale tongues which lolled as they sprang at Goral in greeting. Their high-pitched yelps momentarily overwhelmed even the crash of falling trees and Goral laughed as he swatted an overly affectionate hound off his saddle.

‘Hail and well met, my lord,’ a rasping voice said. A broad figure, swaddled in grimy furs and filthy armour stepped out of the trees, one bandage-wrapped hand resting on the cracked hilt of his sword. His other hand held a thin, broken shape balanced on his shoulder. The hound-master’s face was swollen with what might have been insect bites, and tiny black shapes writhed beneath his tight, shiny flesh.

‘Hail and well met, Uctor. Good hunting, then?’ Goral asked. Uctor had fought beside him for longer than any other, and was, like Goral, a servant of the Order of the Fly. The hound-master was strong in the ways of war, and as loyal as one of the four-legged beasts which trotted at his side. Goral had dispatched him to locate their prey, as his Rotbringers set the fires that would flush them from hiding. He gestured to the thing on Uctor’s shoulder. ‘Have you brought me a prize?’

‘Aye, my lord,’ Uctor said. He let his burden fall to the ground and planted a foot on its back. He caught hold of the protruding, antler-like branches and bent its inhuman features up for his lord’s inspection. The tree-thing was dead, or as good as. Golden sap ran from the cracks in its face and stained the ground where Uctor had deposited it.

‘Can it speak?’

Uctor made a face. ‘Can they ever? They are but brutes. No more capable of conversation than my maggot-hounds,’ he said. He let the head sag, and it thumped to the ground. The whole thing had begun to shiver and crack apart. It was dying. Goral could see the blistered wounds where the infectious jaws of Uctor’s hounds had savaged the tree spirit. They were such fragile things, for being so deadly.

‘But where there is one, there are others,’ Goral said. Uctor nodded.

‘Aye. They’re there, my lord. Your fires have flushed them out and my hounds have their scent now,’ Uctor said, with a phlegm-soaked cough. ‘We caught this one out easily enough, but it was a straggler.’ He patted the head of one of the Chaos hounds affectionately and the squirming beast wriggled in pleasure, blistered tail thumping the ground. The others gambolled about their master’s bandaged feet, gargling in excitement or snuffling at the dying tree spirit. ‘The others are deeper in the wood. All fleeing in the same direction, I’d wager.’

‘To the stones at the forest’s heart,’ Goral growled.

‘Aye,’ Uctor said, giving a gap-toothed smile. He slapped his corroded breastplate with a flabby hand. ‘Sure as my black heart beats, my lord. We find the others, and we find the heartstones. All together, and waiting for the axe to fall.’

Goral sat back in his saddle and nodded in satisfaction. ‘Finally,’ he murmured. The heartstones were the unyielding soul of this place, or so the Lady of Cankerwall had claimed — an unnatural outcrop of sorcerous rock, which spilled crystal-clear waters to feed the ever-growing roots of the forest. She was a seer without equal, and could read the skeins of fate and moment in the effluvial smoke of her bubbling pox-cauldrons. He remembered her voice in that instant, and the way she had looked at him with her blind, crusted eyes. There had been something there, he thought. Some trace of… what? Sadness? What did you see, my lady? He pushed the thought aside and ran a thumb along the edge of Lifebiter’s blade and relished the moment of pain.

Pain brought clarity. Clarity was Nurgle’s gift to his chosen. To see the world as it was, stripped bare of the tattered masks of desire and hope, leaving only a beautiful despair. There was comfort in surrender, and joy in acceptance. There was love there, at the heart of all endings, and serenity at the end of all things. And it was that bleak serenity which the Order of the Fly served. Goral glanced at his knights. He knew their names and stories, for they were all brothers in despair — some were heroes in their own right, like brawny, boil-encrusted Sir Culgus, who had held the Bridge of Scabs for twelve days against the blood-mad hordes of Khorne, while others, like young Pallid Woes in his seeping, ochre tabard and rune-marked bandages, had yet to earn their spurs in battle.

Pride swept through him, as, one and all, they met his gaze. He raised Lifebiter. ‘For the honour of the Order of the Fly, and for the glory of Nurgle,’ he said. Serrated swords, jagged axes and filth-encrusted maces rose in salute. All around the clearing, Rotbringers, seeing the gesture, readied themselves to march.

He looked down at Uctor. ‘We go quietly from here, like the sleeping sickness on a summer’s eve. Lead the way, hound-master. Take us to our prize.’ Uctor nodded and turned, chivvying his maggot-hounds into motion. The beasts gurgled in pleasure and loped away, Uctor trotting in their wake. Goral and his warriors followed.

Goral felt Lifebiter squirm in his grip. The axe was eager. It knew its business, as did he. The heartstones of the Writhing Weald were close. And when he had them in his power, this place would know true dread. He looked down at the dying tree spirit as he rode past it. ‘Toss that rubbish on the fire. Then lead me to my prey, hound-master. I have a forest to tame.’

The Outcast sleeps.

Her addled thoughts surge up and drop down into the darkness at the root of her, crashing and cascading over rocks made from broken memories. There is only the rush and roar of it in her mind, drowning out all else save the wind of the reaping.

The war-wind.

The Outcast cannot hear anything over the shriek of the wind save her own voice, and that but dimly. It has always been that way, for as long as she can remember. Which is not long, as her folk judge things. Her mind fades with the seasons, reason growing bare like wind-stripped branches before renewing itself once more. In the season of flourishing, she can almost hear the song of the sylvaneth. In the season of lifeswell, she can hear the trees whispering to one another as they stretch towards the sun. They do not speak to her, but she hears them nonetheless.

But now, at this moment, the Outcast hears only the sounds of war. She hears the weeping of the trees as their bark splits and their sap runs. She hears the leaves of the canopy shriek as the flames gobble them up. She hears the groan of the soil as poison spills over it, and the impotent roaring of the rocks as their surfaces are left seeping and scarred. But there are other stones and these do not roar, but instead sing. Desperately, defiantly, they sing.

The Outcast hears it all, but does not stir. She refuses to stir. She will sleep. She will sleep until the world rots to nothing, and then she will sleep forevermore. Better to sleep, better to rot away with the world than to hear, to see… what?

What do you fear, Drycha Hamadreth?

The voice is soft, at first. Like the sound of newly sprouted leaves rustling in a breeze. A gentle sound, and its placidity infuriates the Outcast, though she cannot fathom why.

Awaken, daughter of my soul. Awaken, Drycha Hamadreth.

The voice grows stronger and the Outcast shivers in her sleep. The sound of rain striking the canopy, the hint of distant thunder. There is pleading there, but also warning. The Outcast wants to speak, to reach out, but something in her… refuses. It is stubborn. She is stubborn. She will not be moved by pleas, by whispered entreaties.

Heed me, best beloved one. Heed the words of the Everqueen. Awaken.

Petulant, the Outcast turns away. She is almost awake now, for the first time in a long time. Or perhaps not. She only stirs when time stands still, when the world shudders and whines on its track. The Outcast stirs only with the war-wind. That is what she knows. She is not beloved, best or otherwise. She is unloved, unheard, unremembered. She is forgotten, until the season of reaping and despair, until the roots suckle seas of blood. Until the stones which anchor the worldroots scream out in desperation.

The voice rises like the wind. There are no words now, merely force of will. It pushes at her, jostling against the walls of sleep, shaking her from the dark. The Outcast screams in rage, trying to resist. She is strong, and her roots stretch deep. But the voice — her voice — is the soil which holds those roots. It is the moisture which nourishes them, and the wind which rips them loose. The Outcast grips the darkness nonetheless, even as the shadows slip away, caught in the whirlwind of the voice. Her voice.

Alarielle.

Up, cruel one. Up, wildling. Up, Outcast. Awaken and rise.

Awaken.

Awaken, Drycha Hamadreth.

The Outcast awakens and screams.

The howl set the carrion crows in the upper branches to flight, and caused Blighthoof to snarl in agitation. It had come from close by. Too close for comfort. Goral twisted in his saddle, searching for the source of the sound. But rather than having one point of origin, it seemed to echo from every knothole and shadow. It slithered between the trees and filled the empty silence of the Writhing Weald. It was like a rumble of thunder, or the growl of an avalanche. ‘Steady,’ he called out, as his warriors muttered among themselves.

Even with the comforting, sickly light that spilled from the balefire torches his warriors carried, the darkness felt as if it were pressing in on them. ‘These cursed trees fair swallow the light,’ Sir Culgus croaked. In the silence which had descended in the wake of the scream, his voice seemed abominably loud.

‘We’ll give them more light than they can choke down, when we set our balefires to blazing,’ Goral rumbled. ‘We shall cast back the shadows of life, and reveal our horrors with perfect clarity.’ The words sounded good, but the dark remained, and the echoes of the scream as well. What had it been? Some animal, perhaps. There were beasts aplenty in these forests — iridescent wyrms, their scales flashing emerald, and packs of scuttling spiders, each as large as a Chaos hound. But no beast he knew of screamed like that.

Despite his bravado, his warriors crowded together. The voice of Grandfather was but a dim rumble here. There were the bones of men and monsters filling the hollows within the roots — a stark reminder that they were not the first warband to attempt this feat. Every Rotbringer felt the choking weight of uncorrupted life on the air, seeking to smother them. Uctor used his broad, broken-tipped sword to chop a path through the tangled density of the forest. Sir Culgus and the others did the same, hacking at the branches and roots which seemed to rise up in opposition to them.

Goral longed to topple the trees, and burn their roots to ash. But that was a fool’s game. They could burn a thousand trees and make no impact on the Writhing Weald’s size. It grew larger with every passing year, denying Nurgle his rightful due. The forest swallowed bastions and pox-gardens, setting back the hard work of ages. Only by taking control of the heartstones of the Writhing Weald could Nurgle claim this forest as he had others, such as the Grove of Blighted Lanterns or the Glade of Horned Growths. Only by cleaving the great stones he’d seen in the visions conjured by the Lady of Cankerwall, and blighting the crystal source-waters which fed the cursed trees looming above them, could he salvage this place.

Branches cracked and splintered in the dark, noises separate from the thud of axes and the rattle of swords. Unseen things were moving past the Rotbringers, flowing away from them, heading… where? Goral peered into the dark as he urged Blighthoof on. What were they fleeing from — his Rotbringers, or something else? Again, he wondered what the Lady had seen, and what she had not told him. He shook his head, banishing his fears. ‘We are the hunters in this forest, not the hunted. Grandfather stands at my right hand, and the King of Flies at my left,’ he murmured. Lifebiter quivered encouragingly.

‘Almost there, my lord,’ Uctor murmured. The hound-master was trudging alongside him. ‘We caught the other one around here. You can hear them… and feel that? Something is calling them home to the forest’s heart.’ He shook his head. ‘They always run.’

Goral grunted. The air was reverberating now with a bone-deep throb that set his remaining teeth to itching. It was as if the scream had been but a prelude to this new intrusion of noise. The heartstones, he thought. He could feel it in his bones. Blighthoof whickered softly. He looked up, eyes narrowed.

Something shone, out in the dark. At first, he thought it was balefire, but it lacked the oily sheen. Instead, it put him in mind of sunlight reflected on rolling waters. Goral’s lip curled. The forest was filled with sound now, so that the noise of the Rotbringers’ approach was obscured. The trees were shuddering as if caught in a hurricane wind, and the shadows were full of movement. He kicked Blighthoof into a gallop, and Sir Culgus and the others followed his example. Uctor led the rest of the Rotbringers in Goral’s wake, his hounds yelping and scuttling around him.

Goral slowed as he reached the edges of the light, and lifted Lifebiter in a signal to dismount. The other knights jerked on their reins, causing their steeds to rear and screech. Goral slid from the saddle and led Blighthoof forwards. The light, soft as it was, stung his eyes and skin, and he raised Lifebiter to shade his face. The trees and their tangling roots began to thin and bend, revealing a vast, rotunda-like glade. The canopy overhead was so thick that no light could pierce its shadowed recesses.

The trees at the edges of the clearing bent outwards, as if pushed away from the edifice which occupied its grassy heart. Even the roots were humped and coiled, like paving stones leading into a sacred temple. And at the centre of the glade, radiating a soft light and unbearable warmth, were the stones. Goral hissed in satisfaction. Even as the Lady of Cankerwall had promised.

The stones were large, many hands taller than the gaunt, branch-antlered tree spirits which had gathered before them, crooked talons raised as if in supplication. The man-sized creatures surrounded the stones in a loose circle. A trickle of gleaming water poured down from some unseen source within the stones, and dampened the verdant grasses. A shroud of vibrant green moss almost obscured the strange sigils which had been carved into the flat face of each of the stones. Goral didn’t recognise the markings, for they were unlike any dread marking or bane-symbol he was familiar with. But whatever they were, Lifebiter was eager to deface them.

The axe strained in his hands like one of Uctor’s hounds, its thorny haft digging painfully into his palms. Some instinct held him back. If they attacked now, the tree spirits would simply scatter and vanish. The forest would swallow them up, and even Uctor wouldn’t be able to track them. Let them begin, he thought. Let them start whatever they had come to this place to do. Then, and only then, would come the time to strike.

As one, the tree spirits extended their arms and their bark-like flesh began to unravel and stretch with a cacophonous hiss. Talon and claw blended, forming an unbroken ring of bodies about the circumference of the shining stones. Root-like toes dug into the soil, anchoring them. Branch-laced skulls tipped back as jagged mouths opened, and a dirge-like groan rose. Softly at first, but growing louder and deeper with every moment. The sound pulsated on the air, pounding at Goral’s ears as he climbed back into Blighthoof’s saddle.

‘What are they doing?’ the young knight, Pallid Woes, mumbled through the seeping bandages wrapped about his head. He pointed as he hauled himself up onto his own steed, and Goral looked. The stones were shining as brightly as the moon, where they were not covered in moss. Leaves rose, cast into the air by the wind. The song of the tree spirits rose, higher and fiercer. The stones shimmered and grew indistinct as the light swelled.

It was even as the Lady of Cankerwall had said, and Grandfather through her. The secret of the Writhing Weald, and why no one had been able to find its thudding, stony heart. The accursed tree-things were singing it elsewhere. Singing it to safety. If it was allowed to vanish, Goral and his warriors might spend a century searching before stumbling across it again.

‘Now. Take them now.’ Goral kicked Blighthoof into a gallop and charged towards the ring of preoccupied tree-folk. ‘For Nurgle and the Garden!’ Lifebiter wailed eagerly as he swung it down on one of the tree-things, splitting it from branches to trunk. The edges of the wound turned black and powdery and the golden sap of the creature became turgid and murky as the axe’s venom took hold. The tree spirit toppled with a rattling cry, tearing loose from its fellows, and the dreadful song faltered for a moment before rising anew.

Goral jerked on Blighthoof’s reins, turning his steed about. ‘They are trying to steal our prize, brothers. Teach them the folly of denying Grandfather his due,’ he roared, urging Blighthoof towards more of the tree-things that lurched out of the forest, seeking to defend their cowardly ritual. The one in the lead was far larger than the others, more than three times the height of a man, with a gnarled bulk that bespoke a monstrous strength. Goral thought it was surely a lord of its kind. The massive being strode to meet his charge as its followers swarmed in its wake, its every step causing the ground to shake.

As he drew close, roots suddenly rose up like striking serpents and tangled about Blighthoof’s legs. The horse-thing shrilled and lashed out, but the roots were everywhere. Goral struck with Lifebiter, hacking through the writhing tendrils. The axe vibrated in his hand, pleased. A moment later, the treelord loomed over him. Goral gagged as the stink of the living forest engulfed him.

Scything talons scraped down his armour. The force of the blow nearly tore him from the saddle. Goral laughed, despite the pain. ‘Yes, yes! Fight me, you creaking horror,’ he roared, spinning Lifebiter about. He sliced a divot out of his opponent’s flesh, shattering branches and tearing vines. Black strands of corruption spread from the edges of the wound, and the treelord staggered. Its agonised wheeze sounded like branches clattering in a windstorm. Bark bubbled and sloughed away. The treelord flung out a talon, and Goral was forced to turn Blighthoof aside as a storm of squirming roots shot towards him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Pallid Woes gallop towards the treelord, flail whirling above his head. The creature creaked aside, more swiftly than Goral would have thought possible, avoiding the charge. Long arms snapped out, and Woes was snatched from his saddle. He cried out Nurgle’s name, but to no avail. The treelord gave a twist of its claws, and wrung the young knight’s body like a wet rag, crushing him and dappling the thirsty roots with his blood. It flung what was left aside and turned as Goral gave a cry and charged.

More roots pierced the air, arrowing towards the Lord-Duke. They struck his armour and spread like oil, wriggling into every nook and cranny. Others burrowed beneath Blighthoof’s flesh, causing the horse-thing to buck and squeal in pain. Roaring, Goral slashed at the writhing roots, trying to cut his way free. He could feel them tightening about him as the treelord stomped towards him.

‘Leave him, beast,’ Uctor shouted. The loyal hound-master hewed at the treelord’s legs with wild abandon, his rusted sword carving weeping gouges in the creature’s jagged bark. Uctor’s maggot-hounds burbled and snarled as they worried at the darting roots. The treelord turned, eyes blazing with an eerie light. It swatted Uctor from his feet with a swing of its long arm.

‘Mistake,’ Goral said, with a guttural laugh. ‘I’m the one you should be worried about, brute.’ Blighthoof surged forwards with a whinny and drove its shoulder into the treelord’s back. As the monstrosity turned with a creaking roar, Goral drove Lifebiter into the centre of its face. The treelord staggered back with a scream, a pungent smoke spewing from the wound. Golden trails of sap spattered Goral’s arm and chest as he swung the axe again and sheared off one of his opponent’s branches.

The treelord stumbled away from him, clutching at its ruined head. It sank down, moaning hoarsely. Satisfied that it was all but finished, Goral turned. He saw Sir Culgus tear the head from a tree-thing with one sweep of his sword as it tried to crawl away. A few of his warriors had fallen, but not so many that they could not do what they had come here to do, and they had not died alone. Sap-oozing bodies lay broken and twisted across the glade.

He felt some relief in finding that the heartstones still stood where he’d seen them last. They still glowed and pulsed, but not with the stinging brightness. Their vibratory song had grown muted, like the panting of a wounded animal. Soon, you will sing again — but this time, it will be a tune more to Grandfather’s liking, Goral thought, pleased. He felt like howling his triumph to the skies. Instead, he turned, seeking the fallen treelord. He would extract a measure of joy from the creature’s stiff hide. Perhaps he would even lay its head at the feet of his Lady of Cankerwall, as proof of his devotion. Will you offer me a smile then, my lady? His own smile faded as he realised that the treelord was gone.

Goral cursed. A trail of spilled sap led out of the glade. It hadn’t been as wounded as he’d thought. ‘Hunt the wounded one down, Uctor,’ Goral snarled, angry at himself. ‘I want that brute’s branches for my trophy-rack. It must pay for daring to defy Nurgle’s will.’ And for denying me the joy of the kill, he thought savagely.

‘We’ll strip the bark from whatever passes for its bones, my lord,’ the huntsman said, whistling for his dogs. The wormy Chaos hounds yelped and bounded out of the glen, loping after the wounded treelord. They had gotten a taste of its roots and were excited to finish the job they had started. Goral knew how they felt.

He knew he should not leave. The Lady had said he must embed Lifebiter in the heart of this place to accomplish his quest. But there was time enough for that, after he’d indulged himself. Perhaps he would chain the thing, rather than kill it, and drag it back to Cankerwall. Such thoughts were pleasant, if untoward. They reeked of hope, but Goral thought Grandfather would forgive him his vices.

‘Sir Culgus — see to these damnable stones. Topple them and make this place fit for Nurgle’s chosen. I’m for the hunt,’ Goral said as he thudded his heels into Blighthoof’s flanks and urged his steed after Uctor and his hounds. A number of the others followed him, ignoring Culgus’ raspy commands. Goral laughed. He was inclined to leniency. After all, was Grandfather not indulgent of his children?

‘Come brothers, ride hard,’ he shouted, still laughing. ‘Our prey awaits us!’

In her delirium, the Outcast calls out. She casts her voice into the teeth of the world, listening as it echoes through shadows and knotholes. The wind carries her call to the secret places of this weald, this wood, where sane things fear to tread. She is not alone in her status as outcast, though some part of her believes that perhaps she was the first. There are others: broken things with cracked souls and minds riven by hunger and fear.

Inside her flesh, hive-spites stir, and she feels their confusion. They have slumbered too, these tiny spirits. As they awaken, they begin to speak in their high, buzzing voices, murmuring to her as children to their mother. They seek comfort and reassurance, but she has none to give them. There is nothing of the nurturer in her, nothing of the caretaker. The song of the sylvaneth is not for her, or hers. Only the song of the reaping. Only the war-song.

She begins to sing. And as she sings, she strides the root-road through the shadows of the forest, at once insubstantial and implacable. The forest is under attack. The sound of its pain catches and tears at her secret knots, loosening some and pulling others painfully taut. Memories mutter deep in her, the sound of them almost lost among the murmurings of her spites. She twitches, trying to see through the murk of what once was or what might have been, and find the trail of the now. Her feet seek the hard path of the present.

Something happened. That is all the Outcast knows. Some black moment, forever etched in the bark of the world. The Everqueen knows, but will not say. The Outcast shrieks again, in frustration now, rather than command. She can feel the edges of that black moment in the air and soil, like a wound that will not heal. It reverberates through her, searing her mind and filling her with dread purpose. The land is sick and dying, but not dead yet. Not yet, and never again. The Outcast will not allow it. Not again.

The thought snags, uncomfortably close to epiphany. The Outcast remembers lies and forgets truth, or so the Everqueen has said. That is why she is outcast. And the word of the Everqueen is law, thus her words must be true. But then why does the Outcast remember them? Questions hum through her mind like wasps in a hive. Her thoughts race like fire through dry grass, igniting old fears and desires. She has been asleep for so long… so long… Her roots ache with need, and the hive-spites nestled within her hiss eagerly.

It is time to hunt… to hunt… to hunt, she sings. The need is like a creek swelled by the springsfed tide, unnoticed until it is no longer ignorable, and then all-consuming, all at once. It races through her roots and branches, filling her.

The trees are singing as well, but she cannot hear them. She sees them swaying with the wind, their roots stretching deeper and deeper, seeking strength as she strides past, cloaked all in shadow. Leaves twitch back, afraid to touch her or be touched. She is anathema, forgotten, outcast. So Alarielle has said and the word of the Everqueen is law. The forests fear her, and rivers recede at her approach. Animals and spirits fall silent in her wake. Root-claws gouge the earth as she stalks forwards now, growing, unfolding. Sap runs and forms, layer after layer. Scything talons of bark and stone and vine sprout, swell and flatten. They thin to well-used points. They will tear iron and crush bone. The Outcast is still singing as she pulls herself through the shuddering trees, leaving tiny scratches on their trembling bark to remind them of this moment.

Remember me… Remember this moment, she sings, as the forest begins to scream. She can hear the wails of the dryads and the agonised bellow of one of the ancients. The great song falters, interrupted. Its last notes hang suspended, quavering, on the air. Her song matches the echo and drives it to flight. Hers is the only melody now, whatever the Everqueen intended. You have called, and I have come. I am here… I hunt… I slay… Remember.

The Outcast laughs and the forest falls silent, abashed. Then, a sigh of noise fills the emptiness, like a soft black whisper. The broken ones. They have found her trail, and follow her now, snuffling at her heels. They slash past her, broken bat-like shapes and gaunt, loping shades, chittering and shrieking. The reaper-kin, the reavers and outcast-kind. They have heard her song, and found it to their liking. They fly at her command, laughing in mad joy. They will hunt the forest, and harry the foe, and drive them back towards her.

She does not slow as she reaches the glade where the heartstones thud in fear. The pounding of the stones calls out to her, drawing her on as Alarielle knew it would. Fully awake now, the Outcast feels the weight of the world’s pain and she desires nothing more than to punish those who would dare set foot in the holy places of the sylvaneth. The glade glows with warm light as she enters its circle in a skirl of leaves.

She sees the defilers, the rotten ones, the grub-men, through the eyes of every tree and blade of grass, all at once and from a thousand directions. They are small, compared to her, and their souls are weak things, flickering on the edge of awareness. Like her, they are deaf to the song, though they lack even the knowledge of their handicap. But she will show them.

The Outcast tears through the veil of worlds. They are slow to react, slow to understand. She lunges towards the closest of them, and fills the air with sour blood. Trees bend towards her as she attacks, uprooted and added to her mass, despite their protests. She reaches out, crushing the head of another of the would-be defilers as easily as she might snatch a worm from the soil. They are so fragile, the Outcast thinks, these piles of meat and muscle. They are ephemeral things, bundles of scattered moments soon forgotten. But dangerous… so dangerous.

They have wounded the realm. The sky weeps poison and the rivers are stagnant. She feels it all with every breath, and tears of sap run down her cheeks. But it is rage she feels, not sadness. The Outcast is not the Everqueen. I will not run… I will not hide, she thinks. I will hunt… I will slay… I will kill until the trees grow fat on red water.

She kills two more before they see her fully, for she is cloaked in a storm of leaves and splintered branches. The forest seeks to hide her monstrousness, ashamed. It needs her and hates her for that need, though she does not understand why. Animals squeal and stamp as she ravages among them, snapping their greenstick bones and tearing their filthy flesh. They are half-dead already, these things, as are their riders. So much mulch, for the hungry soil. A heavyset warrior, clad in boils and barnacled iron, heaves himself towards her, spewing the high-pitched bird noises which pass for words among his kind.

The Outcast cannot stand the shrill screams of the meat. They do not sing. They squeak and scream, too fast, too high. She desires their silence. A foul blade bites into her hives, eliciting shrieks of outrage from her spites. Flitterfuries pour from the honeycombs in her arms and shoulders and swirl about the warrior in a glittering, stinging cloud. The spites drive him back as the Outcast advances. She tears the blade from his hands and catches his flabby face in her talons. He hammers at her bark with ineffectual fists, still squeaking.

Why do they talk so much, she wonders. Why do they clog the air with words and the sound of meat slapping against meat? Fragile… so fragile, she thinks, as she pulls the sour one’s head apart, stripping flesh and muscle from bone, one red blossom at a time. His squeals fall silent, and she sighs in relief. Bits of his flesh dangle from her claws, but the Outcast loses interest as a ring of iron and fire surrounds her. She hisses and her spites hiss with her. They stream from her hives and launch themselves at the enemy. The ring of iron and fire comes apart as she strides through the glen, stalking and killing.

Some flee, rather than face her. These, the Outcast ignores as she continues her butchery. The forest will take them. The broken ones will drag them into the dark. That is their pleasure. Like her, they are hidden beneath the canopy, forgotten and ignored until the reaping comes and the war-wind blows.

When the last of the defilers dangles ruined from her claws, she stops. The song of the heartstones has caught her attention and for an instant, just an instant, the song of the reaping gives way to the blooming and war is drowned out by peace. The Outcast sways in place, listening, and in that moment, she is outcast no longer. She is Drycha Hamadreth, first daughter of the sylvaneth, auspicious and honoured. She hears the song of her kin for the first time in a long time, and feels the tears of Isha upon her cheeks. See me… hear me… she croons, reaching out with one monstrous talon.

She wishes to touch them, just for a moment. To feel again the warmth of the blooming and the suns. To taste the sweet waters, so long denied her. She wishes…

A sour one moans at her feet. The moment is broken. She lifts a foot and stomps down, turning bones to powder and flesh to jelly. No… do not touch me… fear me, the Outcast hisses, glaring at the trembling heartstones. For an instant, she almost forgot… no. She will never forget and never remember. For her, there is no song. There is only the now. There is only the reaping and the wind.

The Outcast throws back her head and screams.

The treelord was gone.

A trail of golden sap marked its stumbling flight. The trees sought to hide it, but Uctor’s hounds found it and followed it regardless. They led Goral and the others on a yelping chase, away from the glade and the hateful light of the stones. Golden handprints and smears led them deeper into the dark and the quiet of the forest, until the only light was that of their torches and the only sound was the susurrus of the leaves.

But their quarry was nowhere to be found. Even Uctor’s hounds seemed to have lost the trail, and they now circled and yelped in apparent confusion. Goral cursed and smacked a fist on his saddle horn. Some part of him had expected as much. ‘Where is that cursed thing? It can’t have gotten far, not with the wounds I gave it,’ he said. He glared down at Uctor, wanting an answer, though he knew the hound-master would not know.

Before Uctor could reply, a monstrous shriek echoed through the forest. The yelping Chaos hounds fell silent and slunk back towards their master, tails tucked between their legs. The shriek seemed to grow in strength, reverberating in the dark, before finally fading away. Goral gripped Lifebiter more tightly. ‘What is that blasted thing? Why does it not come out, if it wishes to challenge us?’ he said. He straightened in his saddle and peered into the dark. He thought he saw something moving beneath the shroud of roots, but dismissed the idea. A serpent, he thought. Or some weak spirit, seeking to hide from them.

‘My hounds don’t like it, my lord,’ Uctor said, peering at the trees warily. ‘There’s something new in the air, a smell…’

Goral nodded. He could detect it as well. At first, he’d thought it was the stones and whatever magic was seeping from them inundating the surrounding trees, but this wasn’t the smell of either rock or sorcery. Not quite. It was a sickly sweet reek, like too-ripe flowers. Close to the pleasing odour of rot, but not quite. And it was everywhere, and growing stronger. Like the hint of rain, heralding a storm, he thought. But the smell wasn’t the whole of it.

The trees were trembling. But not, he thought, from fear. No, they were trembling with anticipation. As if the forest were a wounded animal, and it was about to turn on its hunters. They seemed to crowd around his warriors, and the roots beneath their feet twisted slowly into new and horrid shapes. It’s waking up, he thought, and he couldn’t say why he’d thought it. They’d hacked and burned a scar across its face, but it was only now stirring.

For the first time in a long time, Goral felt what might have been the embers of an old and forgotten fear stirring. Uctor’s maggot-hounds were whimpering, and his warriors were sounding little better. They had faced the shimmer-scaled devils of the stars, and the silver-armoured warriors who rode the lightning. But now… here… their courage was stretched thin, like a ligament extended past its breaking point. The joy they’d felt only moments ago had dissipated, leaving behind only silence.

‘Perhaps we should turn back,’ Uctor said. ‘Once we shatter those stones, whatever lurks here will wither and be no more threat. We can call on aid from the rest of the Order, or rouse the musters of Festerfane and Cankerwall if need be.’

Goral ground his teeth in frustration. In the dark, something laughed. The Chaos hounds began to bay shrilly, and their horses whinnied and stamped. ‘Light — more light,’ Goral snapped. He reached down and snatched a crackling torch out of a Rotbringer’s hand. He slung it away. It rolled across the carpet of roots, casting weird shadows. His knights and warriors followed suit. The dark retreated in bits and pieces, leaving oily pools of blackness between the trees.

More laughter. Something peered at him from behind a tree. Goral twisted in his saddle, but whatever it was, it was gone. Chuckles echoed down like raindrops. Childish laughter slithered up from the roots. Goral heard wood scrape against wood. He caught glimpses of pale flesh or tangled bark, never in the same place twice.

‘Steady, brothers,’ Goral said as he tried to control his restive steed. ‘We are the hunters here. What we have claimed, they cannot take back.’ As he spoke, the laughter ceased. Silence fell.

Then, the crackling. Not of balefire, but like twigs snapping. One of his warriors gestured with his sword. ‘I saw something,’ he gurgled. ‘In that tree.’ Goral looked. The tree was a stunted thing, sheared in half by some long-ago axe stroke. In the flickering glare of the fallen torches, he could make out something moving. Many somethings.

Then, cackling, shrieking, they spilled out of the cloven tree, crooked bark-talons reaching. Pest-swollen flesh popped and tore as they swarmed over Goral’s warriors, biting and clawing. They moved quickly, like dead leaves caught in a cold wind. A Rotbringer stumbled, clutching at his torn throat. Another was yanked upwards, into the shadowy canopy, legs kicking. More of them descended on his knights, knocking them from their horses. Armour buckled and split as blows rained down. Shields splintered and shivered apart. Axes and swords were yanked from hands, or left embedded in trees. Bellowing warriors were mobbed by dozens of spirits and dragged away. Chaos hounds were pulled howling beneath the roots by unseen claws.

The blessings of Nurgle granted strength and durability, but those gifts were useless here. Cyclones of stabbing bark talons and gnashing fangs tore even the most doughty Rotbringer to bloody strips. ‘Back, fall back,’ Goral roared. He lashed out with his axe, removing a groping claw. ‘Leave me,’ he snarled as the cackling tree spirits crowded around Blighthoof. They had the faces of aged children, stretched taut across bones of root and vine. Teeth like splinters tore at his legs and Blighthoof’s neck. The horse-thing shrilled in agony and reared, lashing out with its hooves even as Goral swept his axe out, hacking at them savagely. The tree spirits retreated, but only for a moment.

Laughing, they scuttled across the trees and over the roots like insects, pursuing his remaining warriors as they retreated. Goral hauled on Blighthoof’s reins, turning his steed about. ‘Fall back to the heartstones,’ he bellowed. He couldn’t say whether any of the others heard him. He bisected a chittering spirit with Lifebiter and then turned Blighthoof away. He raced through the forest, and the tree spirits followed him, swooping and surging out of the dark. He fended them off with wild blows from his axe. Toying with me, he thought, as he bent low over Blighthoof’s neck.

He had heard stories about the malevolent spirits which lurked in the shadows of the forests. Things which were of the tree spirits, but apart from them. Twisted things, more savage and cruel than any daemon, for they were bound by no god’s will. Old things, blighted, embittered and monstrous. If these creatures infested the Writhing Weald, it was no wonder Nurgle desired its taming.

If he could make it back to the stones — shatter them, defile them — they might yet have a chance. The forest would grow weak. Goral looked around, trying to spot the light of the stones. But he saw only darkness, or the brief, bounding motion of a torch swiftly snuffed. He wondered whether Uctor was one of those. He’d lost sight of the hound-master in the attack. Goral hoped the warrior was still alive.

As soon as the thought had crossed his mind, he heard Uctor cry out, in pain or perhaps in challenge. Goral twisted Blighthoof about, pursuing the sound, and the horse-thing brayed in protest. ‘Uctor! Hold on my friend — I am coming,’ he shouted. If anyone could find their way back to the stones, it was Uctor.

‘This way my lord,’ Uctor’s voice called out, and Goral saw a spark of light. ‘Hurry! This way…’ Goral pointed Blighthoof towards the flickering of the hound-master’s torch. When he reached its light, he saw the torch on the ground, and Uctor standing just out of sight, gesturing to him. What was the fool doing? Trying to hide behind a tree? Goral grimaced. Perhaps he was injured.

‘Uctor? What—?’ Goral began. Uctor made a horrid, wet sound and what was left of him staggered into the light. His flesh had been perforated at a hundred points by thin tendrils of bark, which stretched back towards the creatures which followed close behind him. The two grey-faced spirits grinned wickedly at him as they manipulated their tendrils and made Uctor stumble like a marionette. One reached around and caught his sagging features, squeezing his mouth open. As it did so, it said, ‘This… way… this… way,’ in a raspy approximation of Uctor’s voice. The other cackled and added its voice to that of its companion. ‘This… way… this… way… this… this… this… way… hurry… hurry.’

Goral watched in revulsion as the tree spirits made his hound-master dance a merry jig, scattering droplets of blood around and around. Uctor groaned pitiably as they jerked his limbs this way and that. Then, with a final, mocking cackle, the spirits hunched forwards and stretched their talons wide, tearing Uctor apart in a welter of steaming gore. The sight of his warrior’s demise snapped Goral from his fugue and he drove his heels into Blighthoof’s sides. The horse-thing screamed and charged.

The spirits retreated, still laughing. They bounded from tree to tree, as if they were no more substantial than shadows. Enraged, Goral urged Blighthoof to greater speed. Roots blackened and decayed beneath the horse-thing’s thundering hooves. But no matter how fast his steed ran, the tree spirits stayed just out of reach.

Suddenly, Blighthoof fell screaming and Goral was hurled from the saddle. He scrambled to his feet, broken ribs scraping his heaving lungs. Blighthoof kicked and screeched in distress as roots burrowed into the muscles of its legs. Flowers and moss sprouted from the horse-thing’s abused flesh, obscuring its tattered hide. Blighthoof snapped blindly at the air as its greasy mane began to crawl with grass and thistles. More roots snaked around the horse-thing, restraining its thrashing form as it sought to rise.

‘No — Blighthoof, no, no,’ Goral wheezed as he stumbled towards Lifebiter, embedded in a stump during his fall. He jerked the axe free and staggered back towards his faithful steed. Vainly, he chopped at the vines and roots. But it was useless. Almost all of Blighthoof was shrouded in verdant greenery now, eaten away from the inside out. ‘Up, get up,’ Goral cried, trying to tear the roots away from his steed’s neck and muzzle. ‘Fight it, you stupid beast… fight…’ he trailed off. Only one of Blighthoof’s eyes was visible now, rolling madly in its weeping socket. But he could still hear the horse-thing’s agonised grunts. Goral laid his hand on the side of his steed’s head. ‘I’m sorry, my friend,’ he whispered.

Then, crying out in rage, he brought Lifebiter down on Blighthoof’s skull. The horse-thing’s thrashings slowed, then stilled. Goral tore his axe free and turned away. He limped through the trees, not caring whether he was going the right way or not. Sometimes he heard the screams of his warriors, and occasionally the pained shrieking of one of Uctor’s poor hounds. But mostly, he heard the pale, giggling things as they swept past him and above him, always out of sight. Whenever he dared to slow, to catch his breath, they hurtled towards him out of the dark, attacking until he began to move again.

Black blood and bile was running down his limbs when he at last staggered back into the glade. He shouted for Sir Culgus, but received no reply. Blearily, he scanned the glade. Besides the stones, and the crumbling bodies of the slain tree spirits, it was empty. There was no sign of the warriors he’d left to deface the glade, save for a sword embedded in the ground. He limped towards it, and as he drew close, he recognised it as Sir Culgus’ blade. Roots clung to it, and, as he watched in sickened fascination, they drew the sword down into the dark soil until it was completely lost to sight.

Goral looked down. He caught glimpses of rounded armour plates and twitching fingers covered in grass, and suspicious hummocks of moss and flowers which might have once been bodies. Branches creaked above him, but he did not look. He could hear the laughter of the tree spirits, just past the edge of the glade. They were taunting him, trying to draw him out. As they have before, he thought angrily.

The forest had drawn them in and swallowed them whole, the way it had done to uncounted others. But Goral intended to show it that it bitten off more than it could chew this time. As if they knew what he was thinking, the unseen spirits laughed again, filling his ears with their mockery.

‘I do not fear you. This is the moment I was created for,’ Goral said, lifting Lifebiter. But his words sounded hollow, and his axe shuddered fearfully in his grip. I am not afraid. I am the Lord-Duke of Festerfane and I am not afraid, he thought. The carpet of grass undulated beneath his feet. ‘I am not afraid — my moment has come! Come, come and die, monster,’ he shouted, turning slowly. ‘Where are you?’

Screams were the only reply. The screams of his warriors, as something hurt them, deep in the dark. He heard the whine of crumpling armour, and the squeals of dying horses. And above it all, the laughter. It spread like a miasma, creeping under the branches and winding about him. A low, sad sound, made horrifying by its incongruity. Whatever was out there was laughing as it spilt seas of sour blood. But there was no humour in the sound, no joy. They weren’t even enjoying the slaughter, and that made it all the worse.

Goral turned. The heartstones still throbbed. They pulsed with heat, like an infected wound. But it wasn’t the right sort of infection. It was wrong, like the forest. It was all wrong. He wondered whether the others who had fallen here had known as much, in their final moments. This place lived. It would not, could not surrender. Not to axes or fire. Not to despair. The mad did not know when they were beaten, and this place was truly mad.

He felt the old familiar fingers of despair, such as he had known only once before, when he’d been who he was, before Blighthoof had come to him. He had not been Goral then, but in despair he’d found strength. In surrender, he’d found purpose. ‘As I have found it now,’ he said, raising Lifebiter.

If he could not befoul the stones, he would destroy them. If he could not tame this place, he would lay it low, at least. He would hurt it as it had never been hurt. ‘Lend me your strength, Grandfather,’ Goral said, as he advanced on the stones. One blow would be enough to spread a contagion that would never be cured. This place would wither and die, though not immediately, and he suspected he would not be here to see it.

The pulse quickened, as if the stones knew what he intended and were afraid. He smiled. Good. It was good that he had taught them that much, at least. Lifebiter sang in his hands as he readied the killing blow. ‘In Grandfather’s name, for the honour of the Order of the Fly—’

A branch snapped behind him.

Goral spun. A blow smashed him from his feet. Somehow he managed to hold onto Lifebiter, and used the haft of the axe to lever himself upright. The thing followed him as he rose and stumbled back. How had he not seen it before? How could such a creature hide? Or had it been following him?

It was like nothing he had ever seen before, a hideous instrument of life run riot. It towered over him. Long, bestial limbs sprouted horrid blossoms across a surface that was swelling and contracting constantly. Great, honey-soaked hives clung to its shoulders and torso, their chambers full of squirming, humming shapes. Iridescent insects bored in and out of its flesh in continuous activity. Flowers blossomed, unfurled and withered in the space of moments, before repeating the cycle. Long, flat talons, dripping with gore, flexed as if in anticipation. But its face was the worst of all, at once feminine and monstrous in its nest of thorny locks.

That hideous head cocked, watching him. Gleaming tears of sap ran down its face. Goral couldn’t breathe. The air had grown thick and sweet. Insects circled him, wings shimmering with dew and light. He could no longer feel Grandfather’s presence. Lifebiter whimpered in his hands, and he knew the axe was afraid.

The moment stretched taut. The abomination lifted a claw. Goral recognised what was left of Sir Culgus’ face, twisting on a talon-tip.

‘For Nurgle, and the Garden,’ Goral roared. He lunged, Lifebiter raised. A blow rocked him back on his heels. A second lifted him into the air. Lifebiter slipped from numb fingers as he hurtled backwards. His back struck something unyielding, and he felt his spine crack. The warmth of the stones spread over him, and he clawed uselessly at the ground, trying to move away from it. He could feel it burning the blessings of Nurgle from him. The grass caressed his limbs, snaring them. Soil filled his mouth and he gagged. His legs didn’t work. In time, if he managed to get away, his back might heal, but for now, he was all but helpless. Crippled and broken. The grass pressed against him, seeking a way beneath his armour. It murmured to him and the heartstones sang softly, but he refused to listen.

Desperate now, remembering what had happened to Blighthoof, Goral tore an arm free of the winding grasses and groped for Lifebiter’s haft. If he could reach the axe… if… if… if. Wood creaked and the smell of honey filled his nose. The abomination sank to its haunches and watched him. Strange insect-like things crawled in and out of its hives. It reached out with one claw and touched Lifebiter.

The axe made a sound like a wounded cat as vines and roots rose up about its haft and slid into the wood. The haft cracked and burst, growing. The blade, blessed by Nurgle, lay where it was, avoided and ignored. Goral wondered if anyone would ever find it. Or would it lay here forever, a tainted patch in this verdant hell?

Maybe that had been Grandfather’s will all along. Infection grew from the smallest scratch, after all. He looked up at the creature, struggling to meet its gaze. His bones ached where they were not numb, and his blood was seeping into the soil. Even Grandfather’s blessings couldn’t save him. But the pain, as ever, brought clarity. I am… done, he thought. He had striven and failed and now the grass would shroud his bones. Was this what his Lady had seen, in her pox clouds? Was this moment the cause of her sadness on that final day? Had she despaired of him? He thought so, and gave silent thanks for it.

Goral looked into the dull, black eyes of his killer, and saw a most beautiful despair there. Like him, it had surrendered. Not to Nurgle, but perhaps to something worse, for its surrender had brought it no comfort. There was no joy in its eyes, no serenity. Goral smiled weakly and said, ‘You are truly beautiful, my lady. And far more damned than I.’ And when the first roots pierced his armour and the flesh beneath, Lord-Duke Goral of Festerfane smiled in contentment.

The Outcast watches the last of the defilers vanish into the soil. His rotted body, like the others, will be purged and cleansed before it is used to feed the roots of this place. The Writhing Weald grows strong on the bodies of those who seek to kill it.

And yet… she feels no satisfaction at this. She wonders what he said, in his hummingbird voice, too high and swift for her to understand. A curse, perhaps. The Outcast knows all about curses, for she is wreathed in them. They inundate her and strengthen her. More, she is a curse. Alarielle’s curse.

She hears the Everqueen’s voice on the wind, murmuring soft comforts to the trees and the sylvaneth who hide in their depths. Her words send the other Outcasts fleeing, seeking their safe places now that they are no longer needed. The reaping has passed, the Everqueen whispers, let the wind fade.

The Outcast looks up, into the canopy which twists and coils in on itself and becomes a face, vast and wise and hateful. Her face. Mother and betrayer, queen and usurper, friend and foe. To the Outcast, Alarielle slides from one to the next with every breath. She is unpredictable and terrible and weak.

The reaping has passed, Drycha Hamadreth. Cease your song, daughter.

The voice is soft, and insistent. Persistent, it dapples her mind like dew, spreading warmth, driving back the cold. And as it spreads, the Outcast hears the song, swelling out of a hundred-hundred glades, resonating within the very heart of her. In the song are echoes of other years and other lives, of time out of time, and broken worlds. The song is ancient and redolent of a world-that-was, and it rises to a triumphal thunder in her mind.

It weighs on her, burying her in its warmth. The heartstones echo with it, and as before, the Outcast wishes to feel once more the warmth of the blooming and the suns. To remember the taste of sweet waters. She is Drycha Hamadreth, first daughter of the sylvaneth. She is auspicious and honoured. She hears the song, and feels its warmth blow through her.

And then, all at once, it is gone.

The reaping is done for now, best beloved one. Sleep. Sleep.

Enraged, the Outcast stiffens. The fires of her fury, growing dim, are stoked anew. She remembers now. She will not sleep. The reaping has come, and there is yet more to be done. She is not beloved. She is unloved. She is forgotten, until the forests scream in pain, and the world trembles. Until the very realmroots call out in desperation.

No, she is awake now and she will not go back to sleep. Alarielle’s voice falls silent and her presence recedes. Perhaps she is angry at her wayward daughter, or maybe even pleased, but the Outcast does not care.

A storm is coming and Drycha Hamadreth will fight at its forefront.

She is the roar of the forest fire and the crushing weight of the avalanche. She is the moment of madness which makes animals foam and gnaw the air. She is all of these things and worse. She is the dark at the heart of the forest, and she is angry. The song of the sylvaneth is not for her or those she will call up.

Only the war-song, howling down from the high places to the low.

Short stories

David Guymer

Bear eater

The sun was searing bright, the sky a lens of crystal blue, shaped by gods for the glorification of their oasis of light. Towers of white stone with domed roofs of mosaic gold shone with a splendour that stole a man’s breath, and drew sweat even from an immortal’s brow. The trek across the Sea of Bones had been arduous, but dust and battle damage aside, the dozen Astral Templars still standing could outshine any Mortal Realm for glory.

Liberators in heavy armour of deep amethyst and gold marched in silent ranks; their shields were up in defiance of the sun, hammers strapped across their backs, heads high. The Prosecutors flanked them, walking in lockstep, but with the mechanisms of their wings unfurled, enhancing their size threefold. Their pinions sizzled with god-wrought might. To the rear came a pair of Judicators, the stocks of their crossbows each held in one heavy gauntlet, the stirrups to their shoulders. In the absence of the wrath of Azyr, the weapons were bright but otherwise inert arcs of blessed sigmarite. Impressive regardless, their function plain enough to anyone who knew war.

Even they were but a foretaste.

Hamilcar Bear-Eater marched a stride ahead, his helmet carried under the crook of his arm. His face was tattooed and bearded, his thick pile of red hair sweaty under the desert sun. His teeth were painted black, and he grinned for the awed men and terrified children that lined the Sacred Mile of Jercho to witness the return of Sigmar. Stick-figure representations of sacred beasts marked the rugged sigmarite of his armour, sandblasted, sun-faded, dim now as his own memory of the land and people that had spawned them. It clanked as he walked, the strapping loosened against the heat, his warding lantern banging on the opposite hip. A cloak of tattered Carthic bearskin trailed limply over one shoulder.

Larger than life, men had once called him, when he too had still been a man.

What then, he wondered, could they call him now?

The soldiery of Jercho lined the approach in their finest war gear. They were armoured in short-sleeved leather lorica and skirts sewn with bronze plates. Masks of the same metal, cast in the likeness of a rising sun, covered the upper halves of their faces, eyes peering through slit holes, only their frowns visible. The exposed skin of their arms, legs and chins was the brown of baked bread. Several ranks stood flawlessly to attention under the punishing midday heat — the sun was always high over Jercho — a line of spearmen that ran the Sacred Mile all the way from the Gates of Noon and the citadel of Jercho itself. Archers with long composite bowstaves made of hewnbeam and grindworm tooth tracked the procession from the rooftops.

The Astral Templars were not the only ones intent on making an impression.

‘There certainly are a lot of them,’ muttered Broudiccan.

The Decimator-Prime was a man of heroic stature and few words, which was what Hamilcar, a man of many words of tremendous import, appreciated about him most. His helmet bore a dent from a battle with the sankrit, a reptilian people whose small empire straddled the northernmost reaches of the Sea of Bones. The sankrit had clawed knuckles, and the blow to Broudiccan’s faceplate had left a deep gouge across the mask’s impassive mouth that only deepened the warrior’s gloomy aspect.

‘There always are.’ Hamilcar thumped his breastplate with a clenched fist, making one of the nearby spearmen start. ‘There is only ever one of Hamilcar.’ The granite-white gryph-hound, Crow, that padded alongside him growled in apparent assent, or perhaps in hunger as it considered the soldiers of Jercho.

‘Think of what might be achieved if these people can be returned to Sigmar’s fold,’ said Thracius, last surviving Prime of his Liberators, his armour sand-polished and aglow with Sigmar’s energy, his manner characteristically ebullient. ‘Look upon Jercho’s wealth. And these towers, so grand, earthly twins to those of Sigmaron herself! Two Mortal Realms have I waged holy war upon, Hamilcar, and never seen the like of Jercho — a nation of city-states, as yet unmarred by the Age of Chaos. Their confidence and power would be a boon to Sigmar’s, equal to anything we have achieved in Ghur thus far.’

Ever restless, Hamilcar’s mind turned back.

He had been dispatched to the Realm of Beasts to reconquer the cities of the Carthic Oldwoods and oversee their resettlement in Sigmar’s name. He had succeeded, for Hamilcar always succeeded, only to see that great work undone as one by one those cities fell to marauding bands of ogors, the orruk hordes of the Great Red, and then, the deathblow, to the undying legions of Mannfred von Carstein.

It had been Mannfred that had slain him, in the final battle for once-mighty Cartha, and the ignominy of his defeat lingered more than the appalling injuries required to slay one as mighty as he. He was troubled, more often than he would admit, by dreams of that day. He would awake, clad in sweat, his halberd gripped so fiercely that if the dreams did not cease then one day even blessed sigmarite would snap. A lesser immortal would have broken, but it was not often that the gods forged men of Hamilcar’s mettle. Aware, as a god must be, of the evil that plagued his greatest champion, Sigmar had granted him swift catharsis, giving him the vanguard of the bladestorm that had driven Mannfred from the Sea of Bones and, in alliance with the hosts of Arkhan the Black, broken the back of the Great Red. The quest to bring the vampire to heel went on, and, though it had aggrieved Lord-Relictor Ramus of the Hallowed Knights, there was none better than Hamilcar to pursue it.

It was not about vengeance. Nor was it even about restitution; in his heart he knew that the memory of his death would be with him to the end of days.

He was a hunter, and the vampire was his prey.

‘The Hammers of Sigmar and the Celestial Vindicators claim the realms for Sigmar,’ Broudiccan grumbled, ‘while we battle half-sentient lizard people for an arid waste that no one desires and one worthless night-walker that time forgot to slay.’

‘This is where the glory will be, brothers,’ Hamilcar declared.

‘What makes you so sure?’

Hamilcar spread his arms, his armour shining under the bright sun. The answer was so blindingly apparent that he did not need to speak it. He laughed instead, clapping Broudiccan on the pauldron so sparks of lightning played through the fingers of his gauntlet as he pushed his brother on.

Say one thing for Hamilcar Bear-Eater: he is not greedy with his glory.

The Knight-Heraldor, Frankos, sounded a note on his long, curved horn, the standard of the Knight-Vexillor held proudly aloft as Hamilcar and his best marched into the Plaza Solar.

The great plaza of marble and tinkling fountains was set in the sultry wind-shade of the citadel’s ramparts. They were immense. The white stone of the walls was dazzling. The arrowslits were framed with gold. Fantastical banners of bright and daring colours fluttered against the bright blue sky, but the Solar itself felt no wind. The ornamental fountains sounded a note of coolness, but heat pressed down like a mailed fist.

Frankos’ herald faded into the still air. Silence fell, breathless, with a clatter of sigmarite as Stormcasts shifted in their armour for relief from the heat.

Shielding his eyes, Hamilcar looked up the huge curtain walls to where a robed man with a bald head stood with his lips to a trumpet of gold-plated ivory. And there, on the highest rampart, surrounded by his banners and servants and beneath a shaded canopy, was the throne of Joraad el Ranoon.

The sun-king.

The king of Jercho was clad in a loose banyan of green silk, the hem and sleeve decorated with a chequer pattern of white and green. His arms were heavy with jewelled torques, his neck wound with heavy necklaces of gold. A golden mask that emitted rays like those of the sun covered his face in full, and a crown sat upon his head.

Joraad leaned forward and his voice, when he spoke, boomed from all around, hundreds of voices, echoing from the fine statuary and feminine caryatids of the Solar.

Hamilcar turned his gaze to see the men and women arrayed in royal livery above the square. He had been told of this. The Rays of the sun-king: bonded by ritual magic to the will of their lord.

‘I, Joraad, heir to the reign of Ranoon, regent of Jercho and king of earth and sky, welcome the embassy of Sigmar to my throne. Come in peace, brothers long lost, returned to us now by the blessings of the gods.’

A stilted breeze stirred the high banners. Hamilcar licked the salty dryness from his lips and squinted over the silent crowds. He had been expecting a cheer, a dutiful applause. Something.

‘Why does he sit in shade while we bake?’ Broudiccan murmured. ‘Is he the sun-king or is he not?’

Chuckling at his brother’s bleak humour, Hamilcar stepped forward. He let the quiet linger a moment longer. Then he took a deep breath; his lungs swelled, his diaphragm dropped.

Broudiccan and Thracius took a step back.

‘And Sigmar’s greeting to you!’ His voice was a hammer beaten against the shieldwall of the sky. The pennants above the castle gatehouse fluttered. He looked up to the sun-king, eyes narrowed and shot through with red by the noon glare. ‘We are the eternals of Azyr, and by the might of Sigmar we have returned!’

The sun-king peered down, nonplussed, appearing to remonstrate with one of his many fan-waving attendants, then waved a hand covered in rings towards the gatehouse and some garrison commander out of sight.

‘Here we go,’ Broudiccan muttered grimly as the gates creaked apart in a rattling of chains and a golden crack of light.

A block of half-masked soldiers encased in full plate armour of flawless gold and wielding wickedly curved polearms marched forth. A column with a rank of ten seamlessly became two columns with a rank of five, the marchers splitting to assume positions either side of the gate. A mighty bang reverberated about the Solar as two-hundred men of the Solar Guard smacked the butts of their weapons into the ground, turned forty-five degrees to left or right, and then stamped their boot to the flagstones.

The gryph-hound, Crow, lashed his tail.

Hamilcar rubbed the beast’s heavy beak to soothe him. ‘You heard the king.’ He turned to Broudiccan and Thracius with a grin. ‘He asked us to come in peace.’

The sealing of the gates actually brightened the gatehouse considerably. Natural light poured in through tall, outwards slanted windows, then burned like fire across the doors’ gold and electrum panelling. The walls were that same pitiless white. Hamilcar grimaced and held up a hand as a woman in jewelled armour approached through the files of Solar Guard, bent light streaming from her armour’s faceted edges in a dazzling spray of colours.

‘I had expected to be welcomed by General Sarmiel el Talame,’ he grunted. ‘It was his legion that treated with us in the border deserts of the sankrit. He was the one who arranged this audience once we had explained your city’s danger.’

The woman did not answer.

Everything about her spoke of remoteness, light without warmth.

Steeling himself with a deep breath, he turned to look directly at her.

Within her searing aura, he made out a smudge of darkness, skin, olive brown, and long dark hair ornamented with some kind of gold. Tears began to fill his eyes as he found the glittering lines of powdered gold drawn from the corners of the woman’s eyes. One of the Rays of the sun-king. He gave her a pained grin.

Crow, he held by the scruff to settle his growls.

‘The sun-king, Joraad el Ranoon, eternally glorious king of earth and sky, commands the surrender of your arms,’ she said.

Hamilcar rubbed his eyes and frowned. Sarmiel had not prepared them for that.

In addition to her armour, the woman bore an emerald-hilted tulwar, though it was belted in a scabbard of jewelled silk and could only have been ceremonial in function. Hamilcar squinted to the guards. He had counted about fifty outside, but if there had been any more waiting inside he could not tell, and one gold-armoured figure blurred into another here. How they saw him, he couldn’t fathom.

He supposed they got used to it.

‘You don’t draw the teeth from a bear and expect it to behave.’

Broudiccan snorted, and clutched his massive thunderaxe possessively.

‘Weapons are not permitted in the presence of the sun-king,’ the woman said.

‘Perhaps we should oblige them in this,’ Thracius counselled.

‘Am I able to speak to el Ranoon directly through…?’ Hamilcar waved vaguely over the blankly starring thrall. ‘This? An evil you are ill prepared for rides before us. Trickery is his weapon. Even your great citadel cannot be counted a haven. We are here to defend your kingdom, to test the sharpness of the vampire’s wits on Hamilcar’s blade.’

The woman’s eyelids fluttered, as if the host sought to wake but couldn’t. ‘The sun-king will settle for your blade, Lord-Castellant, if your followers will submit to having their weapons bound to the sheaths.’

Hamilcar conceded. He tossed his halberd to a barely visible Solar Guard and with a nod of assent bade Broudiccan stow his axe. The woman waved a gauntleted hand — the light in its path cut to daggered purples and greens — and called for silk for binding.

‘Divine majesty.’ A captain of the Solar Guard crouched to one knee as men moved amongst the glowering Astral Templars bearing bolts of silk, then bowed his head to the Ray as though he addressed his king in person. ‘The crowds have been cleared from the Solar. My men have secured the plaza and the legions return the people to the city.’

‘You have done well.’ Her eyes rolled backwards for a spell, the attentions of the puppet-lord momentarily elsewhere, and then the dolorous clangour of gongs and horns sounded from the ramparts.

Hamilcar squinted towards the high windows. Treating with a sovereign power was one part fine words to nine parts theatre.

And Hamilcar Bear-Eater knew theatre.

‘I was not advised on any further ceremony.’

The Ray nodded, as if to herself, then backed away. The pain in Hamilcar’s eyes receded appreciably. A few paces back she drew her ornamental blade from its sheath. It was a beautiful thing, as if drawn whole from the heart of a star.

‘The return of Sigmar and the elder pantheon has been awaited for centuries. Their disappearance was never explained to us.’ She lowered her head, and raised her sword flat across her palms to be kissed by the light that poured through the windows. ‘The people will not stand idle. Better they remain ignorant of what passes between us. I am the sun-king of Jercho, imposter, and Sigmar is dead to me.’

Hamilcar bellowed as the woman swung for him. He raised an arm. Sparks tore from the sword’s curved blade and it slid down the angle of his vambrace. A twist, a shove, and he threw the mortal off. She spun once before she landed, light spearing from her as though a cut diamond had been flicked across the face of the sun, any idea of pursuit discouraged with burning pins to the eyes. With a grunt, Hamilcar pulled up. Pain turned his face behind the shade of his own pauldron, eyes narrowed to tear-filled slits.

Dull things in their glorious plate, the Solar Guard moved in.

There was a reluctance to their step, but they came anyway, a reminder of why Hamilcar had always despised biddable warriors, served up in gold.

Whatever orders they had been given it was clear they had been told to execute them quietly, for without a cry or an oath they drew back their polearms and charged. Hamilcar was not about to oblige them their desire for silence.

Say one thing for Hamilcar Bear-Eater: he was loud.

With a bellow that caused the panelling on the gates behind him to rattle and the imprisoned moon dragon of Jercho to shift in its chains, he backhanded an incoming polearm from his chest, then drove his elbow into its wielder’s helmet with force enough to crack the man’s skull against his spine. Thracius shattered another’s breastplate with a punch that threw him into the wall. The Liberator Prime beat on his breastplate and roared. Disappointment had made him wrathful, and Hamilcar was almost glad that he did not have a weapon. With an inchoate beast-sound Thracius dragged a knight from his comrades by the point of his polearm, then dashed him against the ceiling.

Even unarmed, the Stormcasts were proving more than the elite warriors of Jercho had been prepared for.

With the courage of one who bore no share of danger, the Ray exhorted her faltering soldiers to press that attack. ‘They are unarmed. Bring down one, just one, and the sun will shine forever on you all.’ Her blade wove a dazzling pattern of sunsteel and diamond. It was a struggle just to look at her. Crow drew onto its haunches to leap for her, only for Hamilcar to throw his arm down across him like a barrier.

‘Down.’

The woman laughed coldly. ‘As the sun forever shines, so is Sigmar prideful.’

‘I am not Sigmar. Though the resemblance is marked.’

The thrall leapt forwards. Hamilcar unclipped his warding lantern just as the woman came within reach. The heavy sigmarite shutters struck her a mighty blow across the jaw, and she hit the floor like a pouch of gemstones. Hamilcar walked towards her recumbent form, rubbing his eyes, as Broudiccan and Thracius saw to the last of the Solar Guards.

‘Could Mannfred have worked his claws so deep so soon?’ asked Broudiccan. The giant Decimator was on one knee, looking over his shoulder as he sat an unconscious knight against the wall.

‘Mannfred would have known better. He would have sent more men.’ Blinking quickly, he turned to the downed woman. ‘Tell me why—’

Before he could finish, a knife appeared in the woman’s hand. Hamilcar drew back, but then, eyes glassed by distance, she ran the knife across her own throat. A red line appeared, and the glaze in her eyes cleared as the controlling spirit chose that moment to forsake her body. Its parting gift was a few moments of horrified incomprehension as the woman spluttered and gagged and clawed at Hamilcar’s boot as if he had the power to save her. And then she was still.

Hamilcar clicked his tongue.

He had died one time too many to be moved by barbarity now.

‘Whatever the reason, the sun-king wants us dead.’

‘Agreed,’ said Thracius.

Broudiccan spat on the ground as he rose. ‘And they say that Chaos never reached here.’

‘Chaos doesn’t always march with an army,’ said Hamilcar. ‘You can travel the seven realms to the farthest winterland and still find that Chaos got there first.’

‘Then we remove its stain from our boot heel,’ said Broudiccan, grimly.

‘Agreed,’ said Thracius.

Hamilcar and his brothers looked up to see Crow pacing restively before the electrum panelling of a heavy wooden door. The gryph-hound stared at Hamilcar. Intelligence and aggression in its eyes. Hamilcar grinned.

Retrieving his halberd, Hamilcar kicked the doors in. They smashed outwards and splintered against the walls of a corridor. Immediately, he recoiled. It was a blistering desert of pastel stone and points of gold without colour or finish, such was the unnatural intensity of light that blazed through its enormous windows. Despite the pain in his eyes, Hamilcar marvelled. No army could storm the sun-king’s citadel and prevail. No agent or saboteur could make it this far and navigate any further undiscovered.

‘Some ambassadors we turned out to be,’ said Thracius, sorrowfully.

‘Ambassadors.’ Hamilcar gave a snort. ‘Describe me thus again and I’ll rinse your mouth with sand.’

Broudiccan adjusted the sit of his dented helm and regarded them both sourly.

‘The sun-king seeks to thwart our great task and now he will pay for his crime. Such is the rule of Hamilcar!’ Hamilcar turned to his men, lifting his voice, and holding his halberd high. ‘We will bleed him, brothers. And give his kingdom to Sigmar!’

‘To Sigmar!’ they bellowed in return.

‘Hamilcar!’ he roared back at them, until the names were interchangeable.

His heart beat faster than the continuing medley of the sun-king’s horns and gongs as Crow tore off down the corridor. Hamilcar powered after him, the ground-eating stride of a demigod, his warriors close behind. Joraad could be anywhere, but he would know exactly what was loose in his citadel. Through a door and the corridor became another, great open space, its windows washing it with molten gold. Hamilcar staggered, another blow to eyes that were still raw. There was a gargling cry from ahead, short-lived, then a slam of gryph-hound against metal, against stone wall. Hamilcar stepped over the savaged Solar Guard and into a staircase. It was marginally darker inside, luminous rather than blinding, dark enough to see provided one shared the sight with superimposed images of his eyeballs’ veins.

The Astral Templars clattered down the stairs.

Hamilcar broke open another door.

It was some kind of receiving hall. A large wooden table was arrayed with nuts, dates and cured meats, presented as artworks on golden platters. Sunlight fell through slanted windows like taffeta ribbons, along with a natural breeze. A marble statue of womanly splendour poured water into a font from a horn of plenty. The cool chuckle of running water was a delight, so unexpected that Hamilcar almost charged right through the door and into the table.

The spread teetered on its platters.

His stomach stirred in sudden interest.

The Sea of Bones had been a journey to tax even the limitless constitution of the Stormcast Eternals and he had taken little but water and salted sankrit since. With an act of will that impressed even himself he ignored the growls of his stomach to focus on those of Crow, and the pound of armoured footsteps approaching from the other door across from the far end of the table.

‘Judicators, left and right.’

With exaggerated cutting gestures of his hand he directed the Judicators to either side of the long table, then leapt onto it two-footed. The elaborate vittle sculptures descended to the floor with a crash. He kicked aside a pyramid of dates that had somehow remained standing and twirled his halberd. The Judicators’ boltstorm crossbows sparked and whined as bolts of azyrite energy materialised in their tracks, fizzing against aetheric strings that were suddenly taut.

‘Loose on my order,’ Hamilcar bellowed, for there was no warrior who could not be improved by heeding the example of Hamilcar. ‘I claim the city of Jercho for Sigmar. The fewer of its people I have to kill, the greater will be his prize.’

With a crashing of gold-barred timbers, a phalanx of leather and bronze-clad common soldiery fell through the far door. ‘Hold!’ roared Hamilcar, and the mortal legionaries checked back in disarray at the monstrous visage he must have presented.

Pushing and cussing, a slightly bent old man draped in black silks with light silver vambraces and coif forced his way up from the rear ranks. ‘Is this the same legion that crushed the sankrit at Heliopalis, first through the breach at Anatoly? If I didn’t know better, then I—’ The newcomer hesitated as he saw Hamilcar up on the dining table. Without tearing his eyes away, he too gestured his men to stand down. With clear relief, they did so. ‘Lord-Castellant,’ he said.

Hamilcar might have laughed. He hadn’t even been as pleased to see the man when he’d first stumbled into him, blind with thirst, lost and half-mad from a sun that never set.

‘Sarmiel! Praise whoever you like for you!’

The Jerchese general did not return Hamilcar’s welcome. ‘There were reports of fighting in the gatehouse.’

A shrug. ‘That was us.’

‘I vouched for you before the sun-king himself. Do you know what that means? A dozen Solar Guard are dead!’

‘At least twice as many still live. Is that the work of invaders?’

Sarmiel hesitated at that, Hamilcar saw. He already doubted the truth of his reports or he would have come in fighting and to hell with explanations.

That was all the opening Hamilcar needed.

He had mastered his rhetoric in debate with the God-King himself, the Sigmarabulum crowded to its rafters by the admiring folk of Azyr, there to witness a bout between champions. They were a dozen spear-lengths apart, Hamilcar and the mortal man, but he lowered his halberd and extended a hand in friendship.

‘You remember the day we met. You remember what you said to me? I know you do because you had to tell me again after you had given me water and I became sensible.’

A nod. ‘That to have crossed the Sea of Bones you could only have been sent by Sigmar.’

‘You had me at your mercy. Now I have you at mine.’

His halberd tinked as its blade touched the flagstones.

Sarmiel appeared to sag in surrender. No sooner had he done so, however, than the stoop he had been carrying seemed to evaporate off him. He sheathed his sword with a shake of the head. ‘I doubt I could stop you anyway. Not with this lot.’ A glare at his men.

‘I didn’t want to be the one to say it.’ Hamilcar grinned.

‘I knew something was amiss when el Ranoon removed me from your honour guard. No. Before then. Since he moved his court to the Moon Palace.’

‘Moon Palace?’

‘It is where the first sun-king imprisoned the night.’

Hamilcar and Broudiccan shared a look.

‘Take us there.’

Hamilcar did not even realise he had been asleep.

He gasped, fighting with nothing, arms bulging as he fought to drive the… something from his breastplate. There was a pain in his heart. Black iron cracked his ribs like the shell of a nut and dug for the soft beating pulp within. With a roar he lashed out, his halberd having somehow found its way into his hand, and clove at the Abyssal’s neck. The splitting of stone and the crack as it hit the ground broke the dream logic, and he blinked the bloody image of his murderer, Ashigorath, back into nightmare.

In its place came the prattling of a fountain, the click and chirrup of insects, the rustle of leaves. Moonlit petals crept over the ledges of windows that faced in from no part of the fortress that Hamilcar could remember seeing. He held his chest and drew a deep breath. The air was jasmine-scented, as cool as dead iron. He looked back to the steel-barred portal that el Talame’s key had seen them past.

‘Here is where the night is bound,’ said the old general. ‘And everything that goes with it.’

‘Fitting,’ Hamilcar grunted.

Broudiccan and the others said nothing. Hamilcar knew no fear. They knew better than to doubt it.

The fountain he had heard was a few score yards from the portal, in a column of moonlight that the trees seemed to have twisted themselves to avoid. He walked to the basin. Kneeling, he splashed cool water into his face. As the ripples cleared, he saw himself looking into a face that he almost recognised: the tawny beard, scuffed by serried lines of scars, the thorny branch tattoo that swirled around his eye.

The eye however, he avoided looking into too deeply.

Say one thing for Hamilcar Bear-Eater: he wasn’t perfect. He dashed the reflection with his gauntlet.

Memories of death and reforging had never before troubled him while he had been awake. Was he awake in this place? He wondered, briefly, if el Talame ever slept and if he did, if he dreamed.

Crow whined up at him as he rubbed his breastplate.

Sigmar, would the dreams never leave him?

He turned to el Talame. ‘The sun-king. Point me at him.’

The general pointed through a crumbling stone arch. He was afraid to be here, but he marshalled it well, achieving as much as Hamilcar with far less in his making. Determined to be the champion of a god that warriors would kneel to, he shrugged the ache aside, then rose, flicking dream water from his fingers, and ducked under the arch.

The fact that they moved through the heart of the citadel of Jercho, or some timeless, dreamscaped version of it, was artfully masked by weeping orchids and clambering vines. Night birds twittered in backwards verse and things both ageless and unseen scampered amongst the branches. Blossoms drifted on the air as they need never fall.

Broudiccan tramped after him, grim, solid.

‘Do you think this place would resist a Chaos invasion if it came?’ Hamilcar asked him, surprised at how the garden’s solemnity made him whisper.

‘No. If an army can breach the Sea of Bones then Jercho and her sisters will fall.’

They passed onto a bridge over a gurgling stream, causing the wood to creak under the weight of their armour.

‘It needn’t be an army,’ said Hamilcar. ‘Mannfred can build an army. I saw it myself in Cartha—’

‘—hold!’

Broudiccan caught his shoulder and the column of Astral Templars and Jercho legionaries clattered to a halt.

The space beyond the bridge was littered with small stone benches and statues that had been subjected to centuries of weathering and then shrouded in creepers. The moonlight that filtered through the ornamental trees gleamed where it touched bare stone and cut sharply across reflective pools and small bowls of water. A young man with the entitled impatience of a nobleman rested with one arm against a statue, as though awaiting an audience. He was lightly armoured in a fitted leather lorica with gold accoutrements and a silk cloak swept over one shoulder. A fine pair of steel swords with jewelled hilts were scabbarded at his belt, and rested against the statue beside him was a long spear with a jade-coloured pennant tied around the base of the blade. Seeing Hamilcar at the same time as Hamilcar saw him, he swept up his spear and sauntered towards them.

Broudiccan didn’t wait for any sign of malice.

Striding towards the noble he planted his boot heel through the man’s chest, strength that had been beaten into him on the God-King’s anvil lifting the mortal from his feet and smashing him back against the statue. The youth dropped in a clatter of lorica scales into a reflective pool, broken, Hamilcar would have thought, but then he vaulted agilely to his feet. He hissed, bleeding from his mouth. His spear began to hum as he spun it.

And something that no man should possess glittered in the moonlight.

Fangs.

‘By the gods, that’s Gilgazed,’ el Talame stuttered, agog, pointing with his tulwar, ‘el Raniel’s eldest son.’

Snake-quick, the vampire struck Broudiccan like a spear thrown at a wall. The Decimator’s enormous axe whirled as fast as the vampire’s spear could match. Blade struck blade, haft against haft; claps of thunder shook invisible birds from their roosts amongst the trees as storm-fused barbarian battled undying fiend.

Hamilcar turned from his brother’s fight, the splash of water warning of the arrival of others from downstream. The vampire’s speed made him little more than a blur, a sweeping depression in the surface of the water that raced towards Hamilcar at the foot of the bridge.

The vampire’s blade came at him like the lance head of a galloping knight, hard enough and fast enough in that first dramatic instant of arrival to have speared through dragon scale had Hamilcar not had the wherewithal to duck. It sliced across him. Using his momentum to turn, Hamilcar backhanded the rising butt of his halberd across the vampire’s jaw. The knight’s face snapped back and spun away. Hamilcar forced the rest of the vampire’s body to follow. A boot to the back bent the vampire over the bridge’s handrail. Hamilcar lent in, drew his gladius, and rammed the stabbing blade through the vampire’s spine. The fiend’s legs turned to jelly, and Hamilcar’s boot held him where he was. Boot transferred to knee and then he leant in to bite down on the vampire’s ear. His teeth tore through cartilage, his mouth filled sluggishly with brackish warm blood, and then he put his full strength through his knee.

The handrail broke with a splintering crack and the howling vampire dropped the short way to the water. Hamilcar spat his bloody ear after him and roared.

He was Hamilcar of the Astral Templars. Eater of Bears. Sigmar would look upon him and then turn to his own two hands to marvel at the titan they had wrought.

The vampire writhed in the shallow water, and the slower men in clanking golden plate that had been hurrying to the bridge from the same direction looked up in surprise. Hamilcar grinned at them. ‘Hamilcaaar!’ He leapt, two-footed, and flattened the two men into the rocky streambed where the first still scrabbled madly to claw his way out. These were not vampires; they were mortal.

They never stood a chance.

‘Slaughter the infidels!’ cried a voice, cultured, but too steeped in the intonations of the Jerchese to be anything but a native. ‘By order of the sun-king!’

With a roar, four-score Solar Guards surged up the paths that converged on the little bridge and its island folly. A boltstorm bolt blasted a knight to scraps of liquid gold and cast the two behind into the trees with the aftershock. Prosecutors took wing. While Hamilcar and Broudiccan had fought, Thracius and el Talame had organised their men and they moved to oppose their attackers now. Armed and ready, Hamilcar would have counted on his dozen alone against five times the number of mortal warriors that assaulted them now, but for every ten heavy knights there was a sneering nobleman with an exotic blade and fangs.

With a hiss of fury, a vampire in oiled green lorica scales broke from his unit of mortals and punched through a line of el Talame’s soldiers like a ballista bolt fired from Shyish. Hamilcar yelled for Thracius as men began to cartwheel from the frenzied vampire.

Before the Liberator-Prime could intervene, the bushes behind the vampire burst apart and Crow bore the undying champion to the ground. There was a gargling scream as the gryph-hound’s beak tore through the armour of its chest. Hamilcar grunted at the sudden, shared pain in his breast, and splashed for the stream’s bank. Inexplicably breathless, he turned to see Broudiccan. The Decimator was now holding his own against three more, warring through the rubble of demolished statuary.

The Stormcast could handle the vampires, Hamilcar had no doubt, but that still left the Solar Guards.

‘Hold them, Thracius!’ he bellowed. He turned to find el Talame, shouting instructions to his own men, beset, on the other side of the bridge. Their rear ranks were ankle-deep in the water. ‘With me, my friend. Bring me to the sun-king.’

‘Take your own,’ the general called back across the water. ‘They will be more use to you.’

‘The Bear-Eaters can hold their own. You cannot. And I would hate to come so far to strike the wrong head from its shoulders.’ His chest was tight. Breathing came hard. ‘Lead me through this nightmare!’

One of Thracius’ Liberators took the slack as el Talame and his soldiers splashed across the water to Hamilcar’s side. The general himself was last, covered by a boltstorm from a kneeling Judicator that drove the Solar Guard from the water’s edge and allowed the Liberator to put down the vampire that had led them. Another with a snarling leopard daubed across his facemask took station on the bridge and grimly stood their ground.

‘This way.’ El Talame swept past Hamilcar. The pace he set was impressive for one so old, but Hamilcar had time enough to look back and see Broudiccan’s thunderaxe obliterate a statue and shred a dozen Solar Guard with shrapnel and still better it. He swatted aside a silver bower that grew across the path.

Unkempt for a court. And Hamilcar had once ruled from a cave.

And just like that he began to laugh.

Mortality had never seemed so distant.

With strength and vigour twenty times a mortal man’s, he forged a path to the front of the company of warriors, and forced his way through a tangle of ornamental dwarf trees to stumble into a clearing.

An elevated platform of eerie silver-grey stone rose above the small trees and tiered gardens. It looked ancient. The moon shone with a caged, furious splendour, shackled to the form of a splintered throne in which sat the sun-king, Joraad el Ranoon.

His golden mask beheld Hamilcar from his high throne.

With a series of shouts intended to bolster each other’s courage, el Talame’s men took the steps. In response the sun-king lifted one sleeve from the shining rest of his throne.

At his gesture a host of men and women, and even children, shuffled, unseeing, from the crackling glare of the throne and moved to block the steps. Some wore blazing suits of armour, similar to the woman that Hamilcar had bested in the gatehouse, although nothing so impressive in this penumbral shadow-realm. Others were in simple habits emblazoned with the unsetting sun. None of them spoke, smiled, or even looked down at the cracked steps as they pressed together between the oncoming soldiers and their king. If there was one amongst them that could appreciate the incongruity of that emblem in this place then it was the self-proclaimed god-king on the throne behind them, but he did not seem to.

The soldiers hesitated a few steps below the vacant Rays.

The Rays themselves looked over the soldiers as if they were blind, and soporific with the experience of their remaining senses.

‘You seek to best me with children,’ Hamilcar shouted up to the impassive sun-king. ‘Know that you face Hamilcar of the Astral Templars. I am a Stormcast Eternal!’ Hamilcar hefted his halberd high above his head, his lantern in the other. ‘Tell the Lord of Death when you cross the Stygxx Gate that it is the Bear-Eater that sends you, prince of lies. Tell him that you are down payment on the soul of a brother.’

The assembled host opened their mouths, and with one voice alone they spoke.

‘The men you have killed thus far have followed me freely. Not by choice perhaps, but they could have chosen death and that is as much a choice as any other. But these,’ the enthroned king waved a hand over his thralls. The proximity to his person of genuine peril must have caused his attention to lapse somewhat, for several of the thralls mimicked the gesture. ‘These are innocents. You will have to butcher them all to reach me, Eternal. I will see to it. Has Sigmar forged you the stomach for it?’

Joraad leaned forward then, and in a hundred distinct voices, male and female, old and young, began to laugh.

With a grunt, Hamilcar tossed up his halberd, reversed the grip, and then hurled it.

Like a javelin it hissed from his extended arm over the heads of the uncaring slaves and through el Ranoon’s belly.

There was a snarl of moonlight as the blade tip skewered him to his throne’s high back. A cry tore from Joraad’s throat. Blood and dark lumpy juices spurted from the hole made by the halberd shaft and turned the king’s banyan silks black. The gathered Rays echoed their master’s scream, then one-by-one passed into unconscious. The sheer number of them packed onto the steps kept them from falling far.

‘They call me the Bear-Eater,’ he called up to the pitifully crying sun-king. ‘You do not want to test my stomach.’

He frowned then as the increasingly pale king of Jercho slumped forward onto the halberd shaft.

‘Light above,’ muttered el Talame. ‘Is it dead?’

‘He is.’ Hamilcar was surprised.

Joraad el Ranoon was no vampire. It was true then: anyone could make a mistake.

Perhaps the mind-controlling magicks by which he ruled would have been affected by the transition to unlife. Or perhaps the land of the unsetting sun was simply no place for a vampire king.

‘I suspect Mannfred found him more useful as a willing puppet than a slave.’

‘So your vampire is still out there?’

Hamilcar laughed aloud at that, despite his disappointment at seeing the betrayer slip through his fingers once again. There was truth in what the old man said.

The vampire was his.

‘There is only so much of Ghur for him to run into. Say one thing for Hamilcar — in the end, he always triumphs.’

Josh Reynolds

The road of blades

Ahazian Kel twisted in his saddle as the barbed arrow sank into the meat of his bicep. He looked down at it, and then up, to see where it had come from. More arrows followed the first. Most of these splintered against the warped plates of his crimson and brass armour, but several found gaps and pierced his flesh. More annoyingly, one found the eye of his horse, killing the scaly brute instantly.

The animal fell with a sibilant whinny, and Ahazian tumbled from his saddle with a curse. The Deathbringer rolled to his feet in a slew of choking dust and shredded grasses, weapons in hand. He ignored the broken arrows jutting from his scarred body. A little pain was good, like salt for meat. The goreaxe squirmed in his grip, eager to bite flesh, and the skullhammer throbbed, ready to crush bone. The thorns of metal set into their hafts bit comfortingly into his palms, sinking into old grooves of scar tissue. The weapons were a part of him, an extension of his arms and will. He stepped away from the dying horse, deeper into the waving, waist-high grasses of the plain, and set his feet, awaiting his attackers. If they wanted him, he saw no reason to disappoint them.

He didn’t have long to wait. A dozen horsemen galloped towards him through the sea of black grasses, their reptilian steeds shrieking with hunger. The cannibal-horses of the Caldera would, and often did, devour anything that fell beneath their scything hooves, even their own riders. The Horse-Lords of the Caldera were little better than their fierce steeds, and the other tribes of the steppes justly feared falling into their hands.

Clad in armour made from bronze plates and the reddish scales of their stallions, and draped in dark robes of firewurm silk, they made for a most impressive sight. Each rider carried a stubby, curved bow and an array of hand weapons that even the most ardent blood reaver would eye with envy. Masks of bone hid their faces.

Intimidating. But then, so was he. He stood hands taller than the tallest of them, and his broad frame was clad in heavy armour. His helmet curved upwards, coalescing into the rune of Khorne, marking his allegiances for all who wished to see. He spread his arms, extending his weapons outward, in a gesture of welcome.

One of the riders bent, and drew an arrow from the quiver on his saddle. He loosed so swiftly that Ahazian almost missed it. His goreaxe snapped up, and the arrow split itself on the blade. More arrows followed. His skullhammer swept out, smashing them from the air. The clans of the Caldera had fought his kind before, and knew that to get too close, too soon, was to die. They galloped in a wide circle, surrounding him, screaming their war cries.

When Anhur of the Axe had led the Eight Tribes across these lands, he’d sent Kung of the Long Arm to cast down the fang-standards of the clans, and humble them. Since Anhur’s death, at the fall of Klaxus, the clans had recovered their courage. Mostly, they contented themselves with raiding the slave-caravans of the Furnace-Kings, or warring upon weaker steppe tribes. That they were here, now, seemed almost an omen.

‘Khorne smiles upon me,’ Ahazian murmured. Perhaps the Blood God had sent him one last gift, before he left this place. Or perhaps they’d seen a lone rider and not realised his true nature until it was too late. Either way, he had little patience for such obstructions. He was close to the end of his quest. The Road of Blades called out to him, and he would not falter now.

Bored, he slammed his weapons together and glared at the circling horsemen. ‘Come on then. I am Ahazian Kel, scion of the Ekran, and I walk the Eightfold Path. I have no time for cowards.’

As if his words were a signal, a horseman screamed and galloped towards him, drawing a sword as he did so. Ahazian turned to meet him. He slammed his shoulder into the horse’s chest, and swept its front hooves out from under it with his skullhammer. Thick bones snapped, and the scaly creature fell with a scream that was almost human. His goreaxe slammed down, shearing through the fallen rider’s blade and the head behind. An arrow smacked into the small of Ahazian’s back, and he whipped around. He smashed aside a lance that sought his midsection, and removed its wielder’s arm for good measure.

He killed two more before the rest broke. The Caldera retreated, leaving him standing over the corpses of their fellows. ‘Perhaps your folk are not so foolish as all that, eh?’ he asked, looking down at one of the dead men. ‘They know when they are beaten, at least. Unlike my own.’ His amusement faded, as he silenced a wounded horse. He crushed the beast’s head, and let his skullhammer drink in its blood.

He looked around. The Black Grasses were exactly what their name implied — a steppe, covered in tall, blackened grasses, rustling in a hot wind. And beyond them, limned in the red light of the setting sun, the ruins of Caldus. Caldus, where the ancestors of the Calderan clans had made their final stand against the armies of the Bloodbound, before being scattered to the winds. ‘And here you are, standing against one of us again,’ he said to one of the corpses, laughing. ‘Perhaps you are a foolish people, after all.’

It was Caldus he had come to find. Caldus and what lay beyond it — the Road of Blades. The road to his destiny. Khorne had called him, and Ahazian Kel had come.

There were no more kels. Just him. There were no more Ekran, save in the armies of the Bloodbound. And all their works had been cast into the fire with them. That was the price one paid, for defying Khorne. And yet… and yet. Khorne prized defiance, even as he punished it. To fight was to earn Khorne’s blessings. And for a kel, there was only battle. To wage war, one must become war. That was the truest adage of the Ekran. Masters did not matter. Armies and nations were but distractions to the purity of war.

Ahazian Kel, last hero of the Ekran, sought to become war itself. But for that, he required greater weapons than those he currently wielded, weapons which could only be found in the Soulmaw. The goreaxe stirred in his grip, as if the thought had angered it. ‘I killed your first wielder to claim you,’ he said, chidingly. ‘There is little difference, that I can see. You discard masters, and your masters discard you. That is the fate of all weapons.’

The wind brought a scent to him. He tilted his head, taking it in. Old blood. Rust. Hot metal. The Road of Blades was close. He set off through the grasses, already forgetting the men and beasts he’d killed. The walk was long, but his endurance was inhuman. Gone were the days of honest sweat and aching muscles. He was like a blade, honed to perfection. A killing edge that would never dull, no matter how many lives he took.

He would never bend, until he broke. Such were the blessings of Khorne.

The distant ruins of Caldus grew larger — broken towers of basalt and feldspar rose above crumbling walls of blazestone. He saw the remains of a massive gateway, its ancient gilt work long since stripped from it by scavenging clans and treasure seekers. Where once the clans of the Caldera had lived and toiled, now only beasts dwelled. The Children of Chaos eagerly occupied whatever mankind abandoned, and warred amongst themselves for control of the ashes. That too was the way of Khorne. Only the strong survived.

The grasses grew thin, and soon disappeared entirely. A scar stretched across the plain, from the baroque portcullis of the city gate to a point just out of sight. It was as if some great blast of heat had scoured a path, burning away the grasses and leaving behind… what?

Weapons. Sourly amused, he realised that it was not called the Road of Blades without cause. Swords, mostly. But some axes. Spear blades. Arrowheads. The weapons had twisted in the heat, melting together into a flat ribbon as wide as several men. Ahazian studied them, trying to calculate the number of blades needed to craft such a pathway. They rattled softly, in their captivity, as if unseen hands were trying to pry them up. He had not noticed the sound before, but now, it was all he could hear. Metal squealed against metal. Pommels thumped.

A road of fire-warped weapons. ‘How fitting,’ he said. The weapons stilled at the sound of his voice, and he tensed, his instincts screaming a warning. But he saw no enemies. Only the ashes of the defeated, still drifting above their blades. That was the story told around the campfires of the Bloodbound. Of proud Caldus, and its fall, and how one of the Forgemasters of Khorne had taken the weapons of those who died in the city’s defence and made from them a road of blades. A road that was but one of eight. Eight roads for eight realms, all leading to the same place… the Soulmaw. The great smithy-citadel of Khorne, where the weapons of mortals and daemons alike were crafted by the Forgemasters and their servants. It extended outward from the Brass Citadel through all realms, for wherever there was war, there was a need for weapons. Its forges were fired by the flames of a dying sun, and its ever shifting ramparts swelled and contracted to the drumbeat of eternal battle.

Ahazian stepped onto the road. The weapons shifted beneath his feet, and he paused, waiting. It was said, in some war camps, that only the worthy could walk the road and survive. But then, that was said of most things of this sort. But Ahazian knew that all of existence was but a test of worth. Every breath, each step — all a test.

He turned and squinted into the distance. The red sun was setting, casting crimson shadows across the steppes. There was a haze, far ahead of him. A shimmering heat-sign. That was where he must go. The Soulmaw awaited him, like a promise yet to be kept. He strode towards it, following the curve of the road.

Ahazian could not say when he had first heard of the legendary smithy-citadel of Khorne. It was there, the savages of the Ashdwell whispered, that the weapons of the gods themselves were forged — even Warmaker, the Blood God’s great two-handed sword. Weapons such as those he desired. Those he deserved. Others contended that even the deep forges of the Furnace-Kings were but puny shadows of the Soulmaw, though he knew of none who had ever seen it and lived to tell the tale.

Like much of what he knew of the gods and their realms, it was all stories told at a remove, passed down from one warrior to another. And all of these stories might be true, or none of them at all. The gods, he knew, were vast, and contained multitudes — daemons and lesser spirits — all bound to the will and whim of their patrons.

Perhaps it was one of those multitudes that had sent him the signs and portents which had set him upon this path. He had seen the silhouette of an anvil in the blood smear of a dying orruk, and read strange sigils carved on the splintery insides of an Ashdwell sylvaneth. A flock of carrion birds had followed him for eight days, and croaked the name of Caldus to him at the eighth hour of each day. In red dreams, he had witnessed a titanic shape, wolf-fanged and mighty, striding through the heavens, and heard a voice, tolling like a bell. It had called out to him, commanding him to travel alone across the Furnace Lands, through the Felstone Plains and to the steppes of the Caldera. And he had done so.

Implacable, he had fought his way towards the setting sun, through enemies great and small. All to reach the Road of Blades. But now that he was here, he felt — not anticipation. Wariness, perhaps. His instincts had been honed on a thousand battlefields. If this was a test, he had not yet passed it.

Ahazian tightened his grip on his weapons and increased his pace. He could feel the broken blades turning beneath him, like serpents stirring in their sleep. As if the road were waking up. The ashes grew thick, filling his mouth and stinging his eyes. They swirled about the road, caught in the eternal heat of their burning.

He stopped. He thought he’d seen something, in the ashes. Like the outline of a shape. Almost human, but not quite. More of them, now. Following behind him, approaching him from ahead. Crowding him. The weapons were clattering again. But the sound had changed. It was almost… eager? ‘Ha,’ he said, softly. ‘So be it.’

The first blade rose up like an adder, and he crushed it with his skullhammer. A second tore itself free of the road and whirled towards him, borne aloft in a cloud of ash. Two more followed its example. An axe wrenched itself upright and spun towards his head. He bulled forward, knowing that to hesitate was to be overwhelmed. To stop and fight was the impulse of all warriors, but it was better to seek out a true challenge than to shed blood for no purpose. There were no enemies here, only the echoes of a defeated people. Khorne might not care from whence the blood flowed, but Ahazian did, especially if it promised to be his own.

He pressed on, smashing weapons aside. Beneath the rattle of metal and the hiss of ash, he thought he heard voices, cursing him, or warning him. The souls of the dead, perhaps, or maybe even those who’d failed to meet the road’s challenge. Arrowheads dug into his flesh like fangs as he swatted the axe from the air. Swords drew sparks from his shoulder-plates and back-plate. A spear blade crashed against his greave, and twisted away. Only once did he stumble, when a length of chain tangled his legs. But a quick strike with his goreaxe freed him, before the rest could take advantage.

Ahazian was bleeding from a score of wounds when he reached what he’d sought. The gateway rose up out of nothing, a coruscating vortex composed of swirling ash, splinters of molten metal, and a harsh, eye-searing light. It was not a physical thing, so much as the memory of one. Not a true gate, but a wound cut into the flesh of Aqshy, bleeding heat and light. Sweat beaded on his flesh as he approached the light, goreaxe raised to shield his eyes. Behind him, the road undulated. Weapon points gleamed in the raw light of the gateway as they surged towards him. He did not slow, or hesitate. He hurled himself through the gate.

He slammed down onto a hard, metal surface. He clambered to his feet and took in his surroundings at a glance. Fumes of sulphurous gas hung thick upon the dense air, partially obscuring the heights above, and the depths below. The gantry he stood on was a narrow strip of heat-scarred iron, extending over an indistinct molten expanse, far below. The path ahead led to a massive portcullis, wrought from brass and stone in the shape of raging flames. The portcullis itself was set into some vast, central edifice, the shape of which he found himself unable to comprehend. From everywhere echoed the din of industry and the grinding of stone. The noise was a force unto itself, battering at his senses.

The gantry vibrated from the quaquaversal reverberation, creaking in its vague moorings. Ahazian caught sight of movement some distance above him. Another gantry, gleaming like silver, stretched towards the central edifice from out of the choking haze. A lean figure strode across it, carrying a broad-bladed impaling spear over its shoulder. The figure stopped, as if it had caught sight of Ahazian. It shouted something, but the words were lost in the clamour. A greeting, or maybe a challenge.

‘It seems that I am not alone on this path, then. No matter.’ Ahazian raised his goreaxe in salute. A roar from below dragged his eyes downward, towards a third gantry, composed of what appeared to be fire-blackened bones. A heavy figure, clad in heavy armour the colour of clotting blood, glared up at him. It clutched an axe in one hand and had a heavy shield strapped to its other arm. ‘A path of silver, a path of bones, and a path of fire,’ Ahazian muttered. Perhaps the Road of Blades was not so unique as the stories had made out.

The bulky warrior below began to lumber towards what Ahazian suspected was his own portcullis. Annoyance flared in him. He had come too far to be beaten to his goal by some plodding oaf. He broke into a run. But as he did so, he felt the gantry begin to shudder and buck. He staggered, and nearly fell, as the portcullis ground open with a clatter of chains. Something massive stepped out onto the juddering gantry.

It was not alive, at least not in any way he recognised. It was shaped like a man, though it was the size of one of the gargants said to dwell in the Firepeaks. Its hide was brass and blackened iron, and it was draped with smoking chains. Vents spewed smoke whenever it moved. Its head was a mockery of his own helmet, and it clutched an enormous axe in its talons. With a grinding roar, it lurched towards him, axe raised. With every step, it caused the gantry to shudder and groan.

‘Another test? Another stone on which to hone my edge — come then. I fear nothing that walks.’ Ahazian’s weapons hummed in his grip as he lunged to meet the automaton. They were eager for battle, even against something that could not bleed. The great axe hissed down, and he twisted aside, nearly losing his footing. He struck out at the automaton’s joints, trying to slow it down. But it ignored his attacks the way he’d ignored the arrows of the Caldera earlier.

It was a weapon, and felt no pain from his blows, which only added to his frustration. ‘Scream, damn you — howl, shriek, something,’ he growled. Screams were his music, and never before had he been denied them. Even the bark-skinned sylvaneth screamed. But this thing refused to give him his due. Then, conceivably, that was the point. Like the living weapons of the road, this thing was not to be fought — but avoided.

Filled with new certainty, Ahazian hunched forward, avoiding a sweeping blow that would have removed his head, and threw himself between its legs. He rolled to his feet as it turned towards him, gears whining. Then, with a shout, he brought his skullhammer down on the trembling surface of the gantry. The iron had been weakened by the automaton’s weight, and it burst at the point of impact. The automaton staggered towards him, axe raised for a killing blow. Chunks of hot metal spattered across his helmet as he struck the gantry again and again. Then, with a final, echoing screech, the iron gave way and the gantry collapsed, carrying the automaton with it. The thing plunged down into the molten depths below.

Ahazian heard a creaking behind him and turned, expecting to see a second automaton. Instead, he saw the bars of the portcullis descending. They meant to trap him out here, whoever they were. He snarled in anger and sprang to stop it. But even as he moved, he knew he wouldn’t reach it in time. With a roar, he sent his goreaxe spinning towards the portcullis. The weapon wedged itself between the bars and the stone frame of the gateway, slowing the mechanism’s descent. Sparks flashed as the metal of the blade bit at the stonework.

The Deathbringer dived through the gateway even as his goreaxe snapped in two, and the portcullis slammed down. He glanced at the remains of the weapon. Another test. One of sacrifice. Ahazian found himself in an immense, circular antechamber, hewn from volcanic rock. The walls were bare, save for thick pillars of feldspar and eight portals, including the one he’d entered through. ‘Smaller than I thought it’d be,’ he said. On the floor was a mosaic of images — daemons, warriors, gods, all locked in battle — curling around colossal grates. Above him, the chamber stretched up into a smoky darkness.

The skin between his shoulder blades itched and he peered upwards. Between the pillars, he glimpsed what might have been individual tiers or levels, lit by firelight. This was only the bottom level, then. He heard the ringing of hammers on anvils, and the hiss of hot metal being cooled. Distant voices spoke, but he could not make out their words. The air stank of smoke and blood.

‘Are we expected to fight our way to the top, then?’ someone rumbled. Ahazian turned to see the brutish warrior he’d noticed before stump through an archway marked with symbols of death. The warrior’s armour was gashed and dented in places, and he’d lost his shield, but he still had his axe. Strange charms and tokens hung from his neck, and his breastplate was etched with scenes of battle. His helmet was crafted in the shape of a skull, and the haft of his axe was a human femur. He waved the weapon at Ahazian. ‘Answer me, fool, or I shall gut you and read the answer in your entrails.’

Ahazian stepped back towards the centre of the chamber. Perhaps this was the last test. A trial by combat, to see who was worthy of the Soulmaw’s gifts. ‘Do not make threats you cannot keep, brute.’ He spread his arms. ‘Come to me, if you wish to die.’

‘Does that go for all of us, or just him?’

Ahazian risked a glance to his left. The spear-wielder he’d seen before stepped through an archway of gold. The warrior wore an open-faced helmet and a polished cuirass of brass, marked with the rune of Khorne. His scarred, tattooed limbs were bare of armour, but his movements were so quick, Ahazian doubted he required the extra protection. Even so, blood dripped freely down his limbs from numerous wounds. ‘Feel free to join in, if you like,’ Ahazian said. ‘I’ve never had a problem killing strangers.’

‘Too much talking, not enough dying,’ the brute rumbled. He charged towards Ahazian, axe raised. Ahazian braced himself to meet the warrior’s rush, glad at last to face a living opponent. Even if he did smell like an open grave. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of more warriors entering the chamber through the other archways. He had little time to spare for them, however, as his adversary hacked at him. He caught the blade of the axe on the head of his skullhammer. His muscles bulged as he fought to force his larger opponent back. ‘Strong,’ the brute grunted.

‘Only the strong survive,’ Ahazian said.

‘And only the clever prosper,’ the spear-wielder interjected. The wide blade of his impaling spear skidded off the armour under Ahazian’s arm. He caught the weapon just behind the blade and yanked it forward, so that it slammed into the chest of the brute. The hulking warrior staggered back with a curse. Ahazian spun and smashed his skullhammer into the chest of the spear-wielder, knocking him flat.

‘A clever warrior wouldn’t have got so close,’ Ahazian growled, as he raised his weapon. He would crack this fool’s skull and then finish off the other one. However, as he moved to do so, smoke began to rise from the grates in the floor. It flowed upwards so swiftly and thickly that soon Ahazian could see nothing around him. The sounds of battle grew dim, and faded away entirely. Even the floor beneath his feet felt different. He could no longer feel the presence of his opponents. It was as if they had been stolen away by unseen hands. For a moment, curiosity warred with anger.

Then, in the smoke, came a light. A dull, orange glow. Acting on instinct, he moved towards it. The floor trembled beneath him as he moved, and he heard the thunderous creaking of unseen gears. From somewhere, a voice began to speak.

In the beginning, before the Age of Blood, before the realms cracked and the four brothers made war upon one another, there was fire. From fire, came heat. From heat, shape. And shape split into eight. And the eight became as death. Eight Lamentations.

Ahazian stopped. ‘The Eight…’ he whispered. Every warrior marked by Khorne knew the legend of the Eight Lamentations. Eight weapons, given by Khorne as gifts to his brother gods, but then lost. A single Lamentation could shatter armies. All eight together would rend the walls of reality, and cast down all that opposed them. Were these the weapons that had drawn him here? Was this why he had been summoned, to wield one of the Eight? The thought excited him. It was only fitting, was it not?

The smoke swelled, and Ahazian wondered if the chamber were changing shape, somehow. Everything seemed to be moving, drawing him closer to the orange glow. He pressed on, moving as quickly as he dared, without being able to see his surroundings. And through it all, the voice continued its tale.

The Eight were the raw stuff of Chaos, hammered and shaped to a killing edge by the chosen weapon smiths of Khorne. To each of his Forgemasters was given a task — to craft a weapon unlike any other: a weapon fit for a god. Or one as unto a god.

‘I am not a god, but I would gladly slaughter a pantheon for such a weapon,’ Ahazian said. His words were swallowed up by the smoke, without even an echo to mark their passing. With such a weapon in his hand, he would be as war itself.

Then came the Age of Blood and the Eight were lost. But it is said by the Brass Oracles that there will come eight warriors — Godchosen — who will reclaim the Eight for Khorne, and march with them at the head of his armies, at the end of all things…

Abruptly, the smoke billowed and began to disperse, as he was enveloped in a great heat. His boots scraped on rough stone, and he waved a hand to clear his vision. He was in a forge. Larger than any he’d ever seen, but crude. Primitive. It was a cavern, chopped and hewn so as to make room for fire-pits and cooling basins. Racks of weapons decorated the curved walls — hackblades, wrath-hammers, weapons of all shapes and sizes.

And at the heart of the forge, a huge anvil, and the smith himself, standing over it. One big hand clutched a hammer, while the other held something flat on the anvil. The hammer came down once, twice, three times, filling the forge with the sound of metal ringing on metal. The sound sliced at his senses, setting his teeth on edge.

Ahazian recognised the heavily muscled being before him. He’d seen skullgrinders before, though the war-smiths of Khorne were not a common sight. The creature’s armour was blackened and warped, as if he had been at the centre of a lightning strike. When the skull-faced helm turned, Ahazian saw that it was scored and marked in similar fashion.

‘You are of the Ekran.’

The skullgrinder’s voice was like an avalanche. Ahazian hesitated. Then, he said, ‘I am Ahazian Kel.’

‘The last kel.’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you kill the others?’

Ahazian took a tighter grip on his skullhammer. ‘Some. Who are you to ask such questions?’

‘I am he who called you here, Ahazian Kel. I am Volundr of Hesphut. The Skull-Cracker. The Sword-Binder. Do you know my name?’

Ahazian did. ‘It is said, in certain circles, that it was by your hand that the sword Marrowcutter was forged. That you broke a hundred daemons on your anvil, and used their blood to cool the blade of the greatest of the Eight Lamentations.’

A low, guttural laugh slipped from the skullgrinder. ‘Even so, even so. You know who I am, then. But do you know what I am?’

‘The Forgemaster of Aqshy.’

‘Yes. One of eight sworn war-smiths, bound in service to Khorne. Though we are but seven, now. The forges of Azyr are cold, and my brother is gone. Even Khorne cannot find him.’ Volundr lifted what he’d been working on from the anvil. It was an axe — a black goreaxe, chased in gold. ‘This axe once belonged to another, who failed to live up to its promise and my expectations. Thus, I have re-forged it, and made it stronger.’

The skullgrinder turned, the axe licking out. Ahazian jerked back, bringing his skullhammer up to block the blow. His hammer burst as the axe bit into it, and he was knocked backwards. Volundr gave him no time to recover, or even mourn the loss of a faithful weapon. The skullgrinder spun the axe as if it weighed no more than a feather, and chopped at Ahazian’s head. Ahazian ducked aside. He didn’t waste time wondering why the skullgrinder had called him here only to kill him. Such was the skullgrinder’s strength, he had no doubt that a single blow would mean his end. He had to stay out of reach.

‘Why did you come, kel?’ Volundr rumbled. ‘Answer me quickly.’

‘I came seeking weapons,’ Ahazian said, avoiding another blow. He cast around, seeking a way out. His spirit rebelled at the thought of retreat, but he had not come all this way merely to die. There were weapons here — one of them might give him an edge.

‘Which weapons? This one, perhaps?’ The axe slashed down, nearly taking Ahazian’s leg off. He threw himself backwards, towards a rack of blades. ‘Or perhaps you came seeking one of the Eight Lamentations, eh? Did you come seeking Marrowcutter, or perhaps the spear called Gung?’

‘And if I did?’

‘Is that the only reason you dared walk the Road of Blades?’

‘What other reason is there?’ Ahazian snarled. He snatched up a hackblade and turned. The axe sheared through it, even as he brought it up. He cast the jagged stump into Volundr’s face.

‘To test yourself. To see if you were worthy of wielding these weapons you seek.’

‘I would not be here if I was not,’ Ahazian said. He twisted aside and then lunged back, grabbing the axe by the haft. Volundr laughed and jerked him off his feet. He slammed Ahazian back against the wall with humiliating ease, holding him pinned.

‘No. I suppose not.’ Volundr studied him for a moment. ‘They are not here, you know. They were lost. Scattered across the mortal realms by unknown hands.’

‘Then why call me here?’ Ahazian demanded, struggling to get free.

‘To see if you are worthy of the quest. Do you think yourself one of the Godchosen, then, Ahazian Kel? Are you one of the eight champions destined to wield the Lamentations in Khorne’s name, in the final bloodletting, when the stars themselves are snuffed out?’

Ahazian clawed at the haft of the axe, trying to free himself. He lashed out at Volundr with his feet. It felt like kicking stone. Volundr chuckled. ‘Or perhaps such dreams are beyond you. Maybe you are simply a butcher, seeking a better quality of blade. Which is it?’

‘It is whichever Khorne wills,’ Ahazian hissed. ‘I am his weapon, to wield as he sees fit.’ He thrust his fingers into the eye slits of Volundr’s helm. The skullgrinder roared in fury and stumbled back, releasing him. Ahazian crumpled to the ground, gasping. Volundr had dropped the axe, and was clutching at his helm. Ahazian snatched the weapon up and lunged to his feet. He swung it towards Volundr’s neck. But, at the last moment, he pulled the blow.

Volundr lowered his hands. His eyes gleamed, in the depths of his helm. ‘Very good. You have a brain, Ekran.’ He straightened. ‘More than I can say for some of the others. But then, my brothers have never been as particular as myself, regarding their tools.’

‘Tool,’ Ahazian repeated. ‘Those others, they were summoned as I was.’ He thought of the brute, and wondered whether such a creature would have the wit to pass such a test. He doubted it. But perhaps the other Forgemasters valued different properties in their tools.

Volundr nodded. ‘By my brothers. The other remaining Forgemasters.’

‘Why? To what purpose?’

Volundr turned back to his anvil. ‘The time for war — the last war — will soon be upon us. The weak gods of the lesser realms have returned to contest our dominion anew, even as Khorne’s brothers scheme in the shadows between worlds.’ He slammed his hammer down on the anvil. ‘The Eight Lamentations must be found. And we will find them. You will be my hand in this task, as the others who were called will serve my brothers.’

Ahazian nodded. He’d been right. It had been a test, all of it.

‘And it still is,’ Volundr said, as if reading his thoughts. ‘If you are brave enough to continue. Your destiny awaits, Ahazian Kel. Will you falter?’

‘I told you before — I am Khorne’s, to wield as he sees fit.’

Volundr nodded and struck the anvil again. ‘Good. Then I will not have to shatter your skull on my anvil.’

Ahazian extended the haft of the axe to Volundr. ‘A good weapon. But not what I came for.’

Volundr shook his head. ‘No.’ He chuckled and struck the anvil one last time.

‘But it will serve until you have a better one.’

Content

Warhammer
Age of Sigmar: Omnibus

History of changes

Realmgate Wars

Chris Wright The Gates of Azyr

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

War storm

Nick Kyme Borne by the Storm

Chapter One God-forged

Chapter Two Raw wounds

Chapter Three Blooded

Chapter Four Taker of skulls

Chapter Five Bringers of the storm

Chapter Six The Red Pyramid

Chapter Seven Towers of brass

Chapter Eight Dark tithes

Chapter Nine Wrath unbound

Chapter ten The deepening storm

Chapter eleven Servants of the gods

Guy Haley Storm of Blades

CHAPTER ONE The death of a prince

CHAPTER TWO To Chamon

CHAPTER THREE Ephryx the Ninth Disciple

CHAPTER FOUR The Great Oracle

CHAPTER FIVE The Silverway

CHAPTER SIX The calm before the storm

CHAPTER SEVEN First blood

CHAPTER EIGHT The Glimmerlands

CHAPTER NINE Lord Maerac

CHAPTER TEN Assault on the Eldritch Fortress

CHAPTER ELEVEN Second death

CHAPTER TWELVE Reforged

Josh Reynolds The Gates of Dawn

PROLOGUE The storm arrives

Chapter One Before the Gates of Dawn

Chapter Two Beyond the Gates of Azyr

Chapter Three Where strides Bolathrax

Chapter Four In the halls of Azyr

Chapter Five The coming of the rotguard

Chapter Six Into the fray

Chapter Seven Salvation from the sky

Chapter Eight Swarm of contagion

Chapter Nine Duel at the Gates of Dawn

Chapter Ten The march of the wargroves

EPILOGUE Only the faithful

Ghal Maraz

Josh Reynolds War in the Hidden Vales

Prologue In the Garden of Nurgle

Chapter One To silence the dirge

Chapter Two The land itself

Chapter Three The blighted glade

Chapter Four Blare of the Dirgehorn

Chapter Five The Despised One

Chapter Six A soul returned

Chapter Seven Ambush on the fen road

Chapter Eight The ruins of Arborea

Chapter Nine The floating islands

Chapter Ten The bursting of the world pimple

Chapter Eleven Battle in the sky

Chapter Twelve The naming of the beast

Chapter Thirteen Nurgle’s deluge

Chapter Fourteen Secrets of Athelwyrd

Chapter Fifteen The coming of the Glottkin

Chapter Sixteen The Sainted Eye

Chapter Seventeen The drowning of the vale

Epilogue Only war

Guy Haley The Eldricht Fortress

Prologue

Chapter One The Age of Sigmar

Chapter Two Kairos Fateweaver

Chapter Three Return to Chamon

Chapter Four The Shattered City

Chapter Five Dragonfate dais

Chapter Six The battle of the crucible

Chapter Seven The siege of the citadel

Chapter Eight The will of Tzeentch

Hammers of Sigmar

Darius Hinks Stormcast

Chapter One Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

Chapter Two Vourla — High Priestess of the Steppe

Chapter Three Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

Chapter Four Vourla — High Priestess of the Steppe

Chapter Five Prosecutor-Prime Drusus Unbound

Chapter Six Vhaal the Skinless, Captain of the Blood Creed, Executioner of Kyphanto

Chapter Seven Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

Chapter Eight Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

Chapter Nine Lord-Relictor Boreas Undying

Chapter Ten Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

Chapter Eleven Vourla — High Priestess of the Steppe

Chapter Twelve Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

Chapter Thirteen Vourla — High Priestess of the Steppe

Chapter Fourteen Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

Chapter Fifteen Menuasaraz-Senuamaraz-Kemurzil (Mopus)

Chapter Sixteen Menuasaraz-Senuamaraz-Kemurzil (Mopus)

Chapter Seventeen Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

Chapter Eighteen Lord-Relictor Boreas Undying

Chapter Nineteen Prosecutor-Prime Drusus Unbound

Chapter Twenty Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

Chapter Twenty-One Menuasaraz-Senuamaraz-Kemurzil (Mopus)

Chapter Twenty-Two Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

Chapter Twenty-Three Menuasaraz-Senuamaraz-Kemurzil (Mopus)

Chapter Twenty-Four Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

Chapter Twenty-Five Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

Chapter Twenty-Six Lord-Celestant Tylos Stormbound

C.L. Werner Scion of the Storm

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Matt Westbrook Bladestorm

Chapter One Vengeance Eternal

Chapter Two Righteous Blood

Chapter Three The Manticore Dreadhold

Chapter Four Iron Tide

Chapter Five Battle for Splitskull Pass

Chapter Six Chosen of Sigmar

Chapter Seven The Spiral Tower

Gav Thorpe Warbeast

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Epilogue

C.L. Werner Wardens of the Everqueen

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter four

Chapter five

Chapter six

Chapter seven

Chapter eight

Chapter nine

Chapter ten

Chapter eleven

Chapter twelve

Montarch of Night

Josh Reynolds The Prisoner of the Black Sun

Josh Reynolds Sands of Blood

Josh Reynolds The Lords of Helstone

Josh Reynolds The Bridge of Seven Sorrows

David Guymer The Beasts of Cartha

David Guymer Fist of Mork, Fist of Gork

David Guymer Great Red

David Guymer Only the Faithful

Josh Reynolds Fury of Gork

Prologue The Eight Lamentations

Chapter One The Fist of Gork

Chapter Two Stormwalkers

Chapter Three Hungry Ghosts

Chapter Four Bones and Beasts

Chapter Five Gore-charge

Chapter Six Gordrakk

Chapter Seven Challenges

Chapter Eight Questions

Chapter Nine Fight-of-fights

Chapter Ten Skull of the Star-wyrm

Chapter Eleven Marrowcutter

Chapter Twelve Weapons of the Gods

Epilogue The One-in-Nine

C.L. Werner Lord of Undeath

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Epilogue

Call of Archaon

David Guymer Beneath the Black Thumb

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

Rob Sanders Eye of the Storm

Guy Haley The Solace of Rage

David Annandale Knight of Corruption

Guy Haley The Trial of the Chosen

Rob Sanders In the Lands of the Blind

David Annandale Blood and Plague

Rob Sanders See No Evil

Josh Reynolds The Black Rift of Klaxus

Assault on the Mandrake Bastion

In the Walls of Uryx

The Gnawing Gate

Six Pillars

The Scarlet Lord

Ten Sculls

Bridge of Smoke

The Sulphur Citadel

Call of Chaos

David Guymer Godless

Gav Thorpe The Lord of the Cosmic Gate

Guy Haley The Cristal of Fate

Graeme Lyon The Eighth Victory

Josh Reynolds The Last Gift

David Annandale The Prodigal

Graeme Lyon The Sacrifice

Nick Kyme Unending Storm

Silver Tower

Andy Clark Labyrinth of the Lost

Chapter One FROM THE WORLD BEYOND

Chapter Two FIRE AND BLADES

Chapter Three TRUST AND BETRAYAL

Chapter Four THE SHADOWED PATH

Chapter Five THE EMPTY HEAVENS

Chapter Six THE WEIGHT OF TRUTH

Chapter Seven THE FINAL TRIAL

Chapter Eight INTO THE FIRE

Chapter Nine LEGEND’S END

Legends of the Age of Sigmar

Fyreslayers

David Guymer Four thousand days

David Annandale The Keys to Ruin

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

David Annandale Shattered Crucible

I

II

III

IV

V

Guy Haley The Volturung Road

I

II

Josh Reynolds Skaven Pestilens

CHAPTER ONE The Crawling City

CHAPTER TWO The Coming of the Star-Devils

CHAPTER THREE The Dreaming Constellation

CHAPTER FOUR Into the Depths

CHAPTER FIVE Treachery and Shadows

CHAPTER SIX Soul of the Hunter

Chapter SEVEN The Setaen Palisades

CHAPTER EIGHT The Lost Warren

CHAPTER NINE The Sahg’gohl

CHAPTER TEN Mysteries of the Worm

EPILOGUE The Congregation of the Worm

Sylvaneth

Josh Reynolds The Resolute

Robbie MacNiven Heartwood

Rob Sanders The Splintered

Gav Thorpe Wrathspring

Josh Reynolds The Outcast

Short stories

David Guymer Bear eater

Josh Reynolds The road of blades