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A Dirge of Dust and Steel – Josh Reynolds

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Hallowed Knights: Black Pyramid’

A Black Library Publication

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A Dirge of Dust and Steel

Josh Reynolds

Eerie shrieks pierced the gloom.

They reverberated through the broken field of toppled pillars and dust-shrouded statuary, riding the night wind. To Sathphren Swiftblade’s ears, there was both damnable pleasure and promise in those cries. The Lord-Aquilor repressed a shudder and bent forwards in his saddle. ‘Faster, Gwyllth,’ he murmured into his mount’s ear. ‘We’re almost there.’

The long-limbed, avian-headed gryph-charger squalled in reply, and increased her speed, despite the weight of the fully armoured Stormcast Eternal she carried on her broad back. Sathphren glanced back, checking on his warriors. Half a dozen armoured Vanguard-Palladors rode hard to either side of him. Like the Lord-Aquilor, they wore the silver-and-azure war-plate of the Hallowed Knights Stormhost, and rode atop lean, leonine gryph-chargers. The beasts were galloping flat out, the magic that flowed through their muscular frames enabling them to easily outpace their pursuers.

As one, they bounded over the fallen statue of some long-forgotten warden king. The square, bearded face glared sightlessly at the silver-armoured riders and their steeds as they raced on across the broken ground. The duardin had once ruled this unforgiving ground. Before the coming of Chaos, the Oasis of Gazul had provided shelter for traders and pilgrims alike. Now, it was a daemon-haunted ruin, shrouded in shadows and dust.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sathphren caught a glimpse of a pack of lithe, inhuman shapes as they raced along parallel to the Hallowed Knights. The creatures, at once serpentine and avian, leapt and scrambled over fallen pillars and broken walls, moving with a speed that defied comprehension. They were urged on by their cackling riders – slim, hideously sensual daemonettes, the Handmaidens of Slaanesh.

The daemonettes resembled women, with thick manes of snaky locks and pitiless, androgynous faces. Chitinous claws snapped wildly at the air, as the creatures gesticulated obscenely. The Hounds of Pleasure were on the hunt, and Sathphren and his warriors were their quarry. ‘Looks like they’ve caught up with us at last, eh, Feysha?’ Sathphren called out.

‘Took them long enough,’ Feysha, his second in command, replied. The Pallador-Prime peered back over her shoulder. ‘Though I’ve not seen such a pack of beasts since the Bitterbark. Every daemon in this desert must be on our tail.’

‘Good. The more of them the better.’ Sathphren glanced back, following her gaze. Behind them, daemons raced across the dust dunes with quicksilver grace. Brutal beast-kin loped in their wake, braying to the Wraith Moon above. There were mortals among them as well – strange figures those, clad in everything from silks to furs, bearing weapons and musical instruments in their tattooed hands. Some rode atop daemonic steeds, while others capered through the dust. Golden standards, decorated with looted tapestries, mirrors and flayed hides, bobbed above the monstrous cavalcade.

It was not an army. A horde, at best. A moveable feast of frenzied indulgence. A celebration of blood and pain. And at its head, crouched atop a massive chariot, made from bone and gold and pulled by a darting, hissing herd of daemon-steeds, was the host – the creature known as Amin’Hrith, the Soulflayer.

The Keeper of Secrets was a monster among monsters. It towered over the tallest of its followers, even squatting as it did on its nightmarish conveyance. Its elongated torso bore a quartet of long, milk-pale arms. One of these ended in a vicious, snapping claw, while the hands of the others rested upon the bejewelled hilts of the various blades sheathed about its person, beneath the cloak of skins it wore. Its head was that of a bull, with great, curving horns capped with gold, and a ring of silver in its wide, flat nose. A mane of thick spines draped across the back of its neck, and its pale form was covered in the marks of ritual scarification, as well as various gemstones clinging to its chest like barnacles.

Sathphren’s gaze was drawn to the largest of these – a massive ruby, set between the daemon’s uppermost pectorals. Something flashed within the facets of the gem, and he turned away, frowning. ‘Into the oasis – go!’

Lone pillars and broken statues gave way to more substantial ruins – stone watercourses and shattered aqueducts cast elongated shadows in the moonlight. And beyond them, the high, narrow summit of Gazul-Baraz. The ruins spread out around the immense tower of limestone, spilling forth from the caverns beneath it, following the ancient watercourses. There were greater ruins by far within those caverns, stretching into the deep darkness. This was but the uppermost level of that vast fiefdom. One the Soulflayer had destroyed, and now claimed as its own.

‘Swiftblade – beware!’

Feysha’s shout was all the warning he needed. He ducked low, folding himself over Gwyllth’s neck. A crustacean-like claw snapped closed where his head had been, as a daemon-steed drove itself into Gwyllth’s side. The gryph-charger stumbled and spun, shrieking in rage. Sathphren hauled back on the reins, and snatched his boltstorm pistol from its holster. He levelled the weapon at the daemonette rider and loosed a bolt. The bolt struck it in the eye and sent it tumbling from the saddle. Its serpentine steed staggered, off balance, and Gwyllth smashed it from its feet, tearing open its elongated neck.

More daemons closed in, moving quickly. Sathphren holstered his pistol and unsheathed his starbound blade. The blade gleamed like a distant star as he parried a darting claw, and removed a daemonette’s head. It spun away, trailing gory locks.

The rest swirled about him, cackling and shrieking, and he dealt with them swiftly. Even in death, they laughed, as if pain and pleasure were both but a singular sensation. The stink of strange incense rose from their glistening flesh. Black eyes, empty of all save malice, bored into him and their smiles were at once alluring and repulsive. Their claws gouged his silver war-plate, but failed to penetrate. ‘Who will ride more swiftly than the storm-winds?’ he roared, laying about him.

‘Only the faithful,’ came the response, as the boltstorm pistols of the others cracked and starstrike javelins hissed, further distracting his pursuers. A moment later, Feysha’s lunar blade joined his own, as her gryph-charger bore a squealing daemon-steed to the ground. The surviving daemonettes retreated in disorder, a frustrated tenor to their shrieks. Sathphren hauled Gwyllth around and thumped her ribs. The gryph-charger leapt back into motion, speeding to join the others, followed closely by Feysha. ‘Keep moving,’ Sathphren bellowed. ‘Our allies are waiting.’

They led their pursuers down a slope into a narrow defile, between twinned limestone crags that acted as a gateway into the cavern-city beyond. The crags had felt the touch of hammer and chisel at some point in antiquity, and alcoves had been carved into their inner slopes. Immense statues occupied these alcoves – ancient duardin kings and heroes, Sathphren thought. Their countenances were uniformly, grimly stoic, as if humour were somehow taboo among their folk.

Having met them, Sathphren could well believe it. The Gazul-Zagaz were a sombre folk, as befitted those who worshipped death. Their ancestors had taken the name of their fallen god for their own, in the dim, ancient epoch when Nagash, the Undying King, had warred with the old gods of death and emerged supreme.

Theirs was a society built on a legendary defeat, and the bones of those it had claimed. Where they had once ruled, they now merely persisted… huddled in the ruins of former glory, waiting out the days. Hunted by creatures like those even now pursuing him and his warriors. The servants of the Soulflayer had made these ruins their playground. But not for long. Not if Sathphren’s gambit was successful.

It was a simple enough plan. Bait the foe in and chew them apart, piecemeal. With the aid of Sathphren and his warriors, the Gazul-Zagaz might rule the Sea of Dust once more. And in return, they would help the Swiftblades complete their mission. ‘So far, so good,’ he muttered, as they passed through the shattered gateways and into the cavern-city beyond.

It had been hacked from the stalactites and stalagmites of the vast caverns, built into the very bedrock. Despite the situation, he could not help but marvel at the extent of that ancient undertaking. Crumbled structures and ruptured aqueducts rose over sloped avenues. Moonlight shone through great wells carved in the uppermost reaches of the cavern. The silvery radiance was reflected in the sluggish waters that still slithered through the broken aqueducts, and poured down into the ruins in haphazard waterfalls.

‘Look,’ Feysha called out. She pointed. Sathphren laughed.

‘It appears our newfound allies are as good as their word.’

A line of duardin waited for them, their stocky, armoured forms set in a rough battle-line. They were clad in coats and cowls of burnished gromril. Each wore a steel war-mask wrought in the shape of a stylised skull, and carried a heavy, baroque hand cannon. Dust sifted off the broad forms of the duardin Irondrakes as they raised their weapons. ‘Uzkul-ha!’ they roared, as one.

The ancient drakeguns belched fire as the Vanguard-Palladors leapt over their wielders. The volley cut through the front rank of daemons and mortals like a scythe of fire. Mortals fell screaming from their abominable mounts, and daemons were ripped to shimmering rags. In the ensuing confusion, the duardin fell back into the ruins, reloading their weapons with a speed born of precision and experience, clearing the path.

Monstrous chariots rattled on in pursuit, over the broken bodies of the fallen. These were bombarded from on high, by hurled chunks of stone. Many slewed wildly, crashing into one another or flipping and rolling. Daemon-steeds screamed as they were pulled to the ground or crushed beneath the tumbling chariots. Even the Soulflayer’s massive carriage was brought to a halt, as a chunk of stone shattered one of its wheels, and killed several of the beasts pulling it. The Keeper of Secrets leapt from the wreck with a bellow of frustration.

‘Remind them that we’re here, brothers and sisters,’ Sathphren shouted. As one, the Hallowed Knights emptied their boltstorm pistols into the stalled horde. The Lord-Aquilor took aim at the Soulflayer, and sent a shot smashing into its chest. The daemon whipped around, eyes narrowing. Sathphren gave a mocking wave and glanced at Feysha. ‘Think that’ll do it? I’d hate to think the beast is getting bored of us.’

The daemon flung out a claw and bellowed. Its followers surged past it, clambering over the wreckage in their eagerness to catch their prey. Feysha jerked on the reins of her gryph-charger and turned the beast about. ‘I think so, my lord,’ she said. Sathphren laughed and jolted Gwyllth into motion.

Drakeguns spat death from the ruins, as the Irondrakes fired again. Followed by the echoes of that volley, the Vanguard-Palladors split up. Several turned back, arrowing through the ruins. They would harass the flanks, and bleed the enemy, striking and fading as only they could. It was what they had been forged for. The rest continued on, racing down what had once been a grand avenue, pursued by the main body of the enemy.

Sathphren looked ahead. At the end of the avenue, between two crumbled structures, a shield wall of duardin warriors waited. ‘Gazul-akit-ha!’ The words echoed through the cavern, accompanied by the crash of weapons against shields. ‘Uzkul! Uzkul! Uzkul!’ The wall of duardin shields parted, allowing the Stormcast Eternals to pass through.

Mourning bells, mounted on iron standard poles, tolled grimly as the duardin beat on their shields. Warriors wearing white vestments over their armour and golden war-masks, lifted stone tablets marked with crudely carved runes. As they paced up and down behind the battle-line, they began to sing an eerie dirge. The sound rolled across the line, and sent a chill down Sathphren’s spine.

‘That doesn’t sound like any duardin battle-song I’ve ever heard,’ Feysha said. The Vanguard-Palladors slewed to a halt behind the shield wall, their gryph-chargers yowling in protest. The beasts hated standing still, almost as much as their riders.

‘They’re mourning the dead yet to be,’ Sathphren said. ‘Singing their souls to the caverns of their god.’

‘Their god is dead.’

‘I don’t think they care.’ He gestured to the duardin. ‘Can you support them until Thalkun gets his Vanguard-Raptors into position?’

Cadres of Stormcast marksmen were even now scaling the broken heights of the oasis-city, seeking the best vantage points to deliver their lethal volleys. They would further bleed the foe, dispersing their strength. The enemy was caught fast in the jaws of the trap now, though they didn’t yet realise it.

Feysha nodded. ‘Aye, if we must. I still think one of us should go with you, at least.’

‘One soul more or less won’t make a difference.’ He gestured. ‘Remember, don’t fight too hard. Let the beast through. If we’re to win this, it must reach the oasis.’ The shield wall was only there to blunt the initial rush of the foe. Once they’d bloodied them, the duardin would retreat, as the Irondrakes had, and regroup in the ruins.

‘You can count on us,’ Feysha said. ‘It’s the duardin I’m worried about. They look set on dying here.’ The dirge swelled up, rolling through the ruins. The song of a dying folk, as they made what might be their last stand. Sathphren frowned and shook his head.

‘They know what’s at stake, as well as you.’ The Gazul-Zagaz had set the price for their aid, though it meant duardin blood would be shed, as well as that of his warriors. For centuries, they had suffered the depredations of the Soulflayer. Now, at last, they had a chance to free themselves. Whatever the cost.

Feysha met his gaze solemnly. ‘Much is demanded…’ she said.

‘To those whom much is given,’ he replied, completing the canticle. They clasped forearms. ‘Fight well, sister. And don’t let them catch you standing still.’

‘Never,’ Feysha said, cheerfully. ‘Hup!’ She thumped her steed, and the gryph-charger leapt into motion. Sathphren watched her. She would circle through the ruins in order to flank the horde flooding down the avenue. Several of the remaining Vanguard-Palladors followed her, while the rest readied their javelins and drew their boltstorm pistols.

Sathphren twitched the reins and urged Gwyllth deeper into the ruins, seeking their heart. The beast growled low, unhappy at being denied the chance to savage the enemy. ‘Soon enough, old girl,’ he said, stroking the bright green plumage on her neck. ‘Now let’s go bait ourselves a trap, eh?’

Traps within traps. That was how the Swiftblades waged war. Sathphren had learned the art of the oblique approach in those harsh, bloody days before he had been called to Sigmar’s side. Those lessons had stayed with him, even as he had been reforged, body and soul, on the Anvil of Apotheosis.

And if there was one place where such an approach was needed, it was Shyish. The Sea of Dust was a harsh land of broken mountains and dust storms that could strip flesh from bone, as easily as gilt from sigmarite. It had its secret roads and hidden paths, and the Swiftblades had sniffed them out, one by one. This was not merely aimless wandering on their part, but a quest given to them by the God-King himself.

The Swiftblades had been sent to Shyish to find the ruins of Caddow, the City of Crows. And in that broken city was the Corvine Gate – an ancient realmgate linking Shyish with Azyr. Only a scant few such transdimensional apertures remained, in the wake of the War of Death and Heaven. Sigmar had commanded that it be rediscovered and reopened. Sathphren did not know why they sought it, or what might await them there. Nor, in truth, did he care. That the quarry was named was enough. He would find it, or perish in the attempt, and explain his failure to the God-King in person.

But first, he had a daemon to slay. And a bargain to make good on.

He smiled. It was the Soulflayer he’d set this trap for, and it had proved very obliging, thus far. The creature had been easy to provoke – one whiff of fresh prey, and it had been on their trail. Then, in his experience, daemons were many things, but rarely shrewd. They had provoked and teased it for days, leading it into the ruins. Now, it was time for the trap to snap shut. A thrill of premature satisfaction surged through him. He forced it down. The hunt wasn’t done yet.

Gwyllth loped through the ruins, carrying him down long, aqueduct-lined avenues towards the central plaza, where the waters of the oasis still ran fresh and clean within the great temple of Gazul. The remains of that edifice rose up around the softly bubbling spring like a forest of stone. It was a massive rotunda of pillars and glowering statues – as with everywhere in the city, the faces of the dead had been captured forever in stone.

Sathphren could hear the soft susurrus of the water as it swirled about its stony prison, deep within the forest of pillars. It filled the watercourses, which stretched from the base of the temple and connected to the closest aqueducts. He hauled back on the reins, bringing Gwyllth to a stop before the vast, flat steps leading up into the temple. A group of duardin awaited him. They wore soot-blackened robes and armour, and their beards and hair were covered in ashes. Some carried weapons, but most had their hands free. They were rune-singers – the last members of an ancient priesthood. Once, they had guided their kin through life. Now, they warded their souls in death.

One of them stepped forwards. ‘You have returned.’ The War-Mourner of the Gazul-Zagaz was clad in black, and his armour was bronze. Several heavy tomes were chained to him, the cover of each marked with the Khazalid rune of death. He bore an iron staff, surmounted by a dirge-bell and a heavy hammer. Unlike his companions, he wore no mask, though his face had been painted with ash and soot to resemble a skull.

‘As I promised, Elder Judd,’ Sathphren said as he slid from Gwyllth’s back. Heart pounding, he could hear the whistle-crack echo of the hurricane crossbows wielded by the Vanguard-Raptors. Thalkun and his warriors were unleashing a blistering fusillade against the pleasure-maddened warriors flooding into the ruins. But even that wouldn’t hold the Soulflayer back for long. Nor did he wish it to. ‘Is our trap ready?’

‘It waits, manling.’ Judd frowned. ‘Are you certain the Soulflayer will come?’

A roar of frustration echoed across the ruins. Sathphren smiled. ‘Fairly certain.’ He clapped Gwyllth on the haunch. ‘Go. You know what to do.’ The gryph-charger screeched and turned, scraping its beak against his war-mask. He caught hold of its feathered skull. ‘Go, sister. And wait for my call.’

The great beast squalled and loped swiftly into the forest of pillars, tail lashing. Sathphren drew his starbound blade and laid it across his shoulder. The avenue trembled beneath his feet. He turned, keen gaze sweeping across the ruins. He felt no fear. Only the anticipation of a hunter who closes fast on his moment to make a kill. ‘Take your kin, and get out of sight, rune-singer. Best we not distract our prey.’

Judd hesitated. The duardin was old, even by the standards of his people. So old that he might have witnessed his people’s fall in person. His hair and beard were the colour of ash mixed with snow, and his weather-beaten flesh resembled worn leather. But his voice was strong, as were his shoulders. ‘Are you certain you wish to do this, manling? It may well mean your death.’

‘Then we are in the right realm for it, no?’ Sathphren looked down at him. ‘I swore an oath. And I will hold to it, with every breath in my body.’

Judd nodded. ‘Aye, you did at that. And so did we. If we are victorious, we will guide you to the ruins of the City of Crows. And we will aid you in opening the way for your kin, as best we can.’ He patted the hammer that rested in the crook of his arm. ‘And if we fail – we will add your name to the Great Dirge.’ He smiled mirthlessly. ‘It is the least we can do.’

Sathphren laughed. ‘Don’t start singing yet. There’s never been a foe to catch me, if I didn’t wish to be caught.’ He jerked his head. ‘Go. It’s close. As soon as I lead it into the temple…’

‘We know what to do, manling. And so do they.’ Judd glanced meaningfully at the statues that glared down at them. Sathphren grunted, trying to ignore the chill that swept through him. In Shyish, the dead did not rest easy, whatever their race.

‘Let us hope so. I have no wish to fight the dead, as well as a daemon.’

Judd gave him a gap-toothed grin. ‘Have no fear on that score. They know their enemy.’ He turned and barked an order in his own tongue. Swiftly, the rune-singers disappeared into the ruins. The duardin of Gazul-Baraz had learned well the art of vanishing from sight. So skilled were they that even Sathphren’s warriors had been impressed.

‘We have much to learn from each other,’ he murmured. ‘Perhaps after this is over.’ An old refrain, but a comforting one. It implied an end to strife. Something he had not truly believed possible in his mortal life. But now, he had hope. That, in the end, was perhaps the greatest gift that Sigmar had bestowed upon him.

He sank to one knee and planted his sword point-first into the stones before him. Somewhere in the cavern, he heard the tolling of dirge-bells. He could see the battle-lines breaking in his mind’s eye. The duardin would retreat, and the foe would splinter, greedy for victory. Softly, he began to pray. As a mortal, his faith had not extended itself to prayers. Here, now, it was another weapon in his arsenal. Each canticle was a wall, a gate, a tower – defending him from what was to come.

He was still praying when the first of the daemons burst into view. Smoothly, without missing a beat, he rose, starbound blade hissing out. A daemonette fell, its unnatural skull cleft in two. Another leapt on him, claws clacking. He swept it off him, and sent it crashing into a pillar. Before it could rise, he pinned it to the pillar with his blade. He twisted the sword, silencing its shrieks.

Two more came at him and met their end. More of them loped down the avenue – some bore wounds, their limbs stained with black ichor. Over their sibilant cries, he could hear the crash of steel and the shouts of his warriors, echoing through the cavern. They had fallen back, as he ordered, opening the way for his prey. He smiled and lunged to meet the daemonettes.

Before he could reach them, a sudden jangle of bells caused them to stop short. With disconsolate hisses, the creatures retreated. They flowed back up the avenue, around a massive form that strode into view. ‘You have teeth, then. Good.’

The Soulflayer.

The daemon’s voice was like syrup over coals. ‘It is always better, when the prey has teeth. A bit of fight makes the triumph all the sweeter.’ It flung back the edge of a cloak of mortal flesh and hair, heavy with plundered duardin gold, and clashed its bronze bracers, setting the dozens of bells that hung from them ringing. ‘You’ve led me a pretty chase, little glow-bug. I’ve followed your scent for days. The stink of your soul teases me in exquisite ways. It is like lightning on the tongue.’

‘You haven’t caught me yet,’ Sathphren said. His hand dropped to his boltstorm pistol. ‘But here I am. Come and get me.’ He studied the gems that marked the daemon’s flesh. Each one flickered with an inner light, some of them brighter than the rest. Thanks to Elder Judd, he knew that the gemstones held the souls of those slain by the daemon. It was called the Soulflayer for good reason.

The Keeper of Secrets bared lupine teeth in a hideous parody of a smile. ‘I will. But in my own time. The hunt is ever more pleasing than the kill.’ It spread its uppermost arms. ‘Why else would I leave the stunted inhabitants of this wasteland with their souls intact?’

‘Not all of them,’ Sathphren said. The stink of the daemon flooded his nostrils. It was a cloying fug, like perfume over rot. He shook his head to clear it.

The daemon’s head twitched, like a bull shaking away flies. ‘Ah. Does word of my magnificence reach so far, then?’ A bifurcated tongue slid across the thicket of fangs. ‘I am flattered.’ A claw-tip caressed the ruby. In its facets, something that might have been a face, contorted in agony, formed briefly before dissipating. ‘Yes. I took their prince. The last prince of Gazul-Baraz. He is precious to me. I keep him with me always and will until the day I grow bored of these arid lands, and the scuttling prey that inhabits it.’

Sathphren laughed. ‘That’s not the story I heard.’

‘Oh?’

‘I heard that you remained here out of fear.’ Sathphren forced a laugh. ‘Shyish has claimed so many of your kind. They say that Amin’Hrith hides in the wastes, hoping the war will pass him by. That the Soulflayer is nothing more than a scavenger, picking the bones left behind by more faithful celebrants.’

The daemon snarled. It thrust its chitinous claw at Sathphren. ‘Choose your words with care, little glow-bug. You are alone.’

‘I’m done with words.’ Sathphren snatched his boltstorm pistol free of its holster and loosed a shot. One of the gemstones on the daemon’s abdomen burst as the bolt struck home. Amin’Hrith shrilled in rage as a soft will o’ the wisp of soul-light fluttered upwards, through the daemon’s grasping hands.

‘Thief!’ The daemon capered, trying to catch the light as it swam upwards and away towards the roof of the cavern above. Sathphren fired again and again, backing away with each shot. Gems burst like blisters, releasing soft puffs of radiance – souls, long denied their rest by the daemon’s greed. With every shattered bauble, the daemon grew more enraged. It loped after him.

‘I will tear your soul to pieces, to replace that which you have taken,’ it screamed. It drew the blades that hung from its war-harness as it ran, and slashed apart a nearby pillar in a fit of petulance. Sathphren raced up the steps and into the temple through the slabbed archway that marked the entrance.

The rotunda was full of pillars, each carved with thousands of runes – names, he knew. Or so the Gazul-Zagaz had claimed. The names of the dead, going back to the founding of the city. At the heart of the rotunda was the vast pool from which all the water in the city flowed. It bubbled and flowed, as fresh as the day the first duardin had discovered it. A colossal statue of Gazul sat atop a dais of dark stone, overlooking the waters. The god’s statue was draped in a burial shroud of shadows and dust, his features obscured.

Sathphren lost himself among the pillars, moving as quietly as possible. He could hear the clop of the daemon’s hooves on the stone floor. ‘I can taste your fear and your desire on the wind,’ it growled. Its voice was thick with silky menace and promise, all in one. It echoed through the pillars. ‘I will add your soul to my collection, little glow-bug. You will dangle ’pon my chest, and your screams will soothe me to sleep, ’ere I grow tired of my games.’

Sathphren didn’t answer. He heard a voice chanting – Elder Judd. The rune-singers were gathering outside the temple now. They had waited centuries for this day. The jaws of the trap were clashing shut. He heard the scrape of chitin on stone, and tensed. It was close.

‘Why do you not answer me, little glow-bug? I thought your kind liked to talk. So boastful, you storm-riders. You wield declarations like swords.’ It chuckled again, and he could almost see the ghastly smile on its twisted features. ‘Do you tremble at the thought of my gentle touch, glow-bug? As well you should.’

A fug of perfumed musk suddenly enveloped Sathphren. He spun. A chitinous claw thrust itself towards him. He leapt aside. The claw gouged a pillar in half, casting rubble across the floor. The Keeper of Secrets lunged into view, hauling itself around another pillar. Its eyes blazed with a monstrous greed. ‘Oh, I have such sights to show you,’ it snarled. ‘Nightmares and ecstasies beyond any you can conceive. I will flay your soul from the meat. I will make adornments from your bones, and wear your screaming skull into the eternities yet to come.’

Sathphren lunged, his starbound blade licking out across the daemon’s taunting muzzle. Amin’Hrith jerked back with a shriek of pain. Sathphren twisted aside, narrowly avoiding a wild slash from the daemon’s blade. He whistled sharply, and Gwyllth leapt down from the top of the pillars, where she had been waiting. The gryph-charger’s weight caught the daemon by surprise, and knocked it stumbling. The great beast clung to the daemon’s broad back, tail lashing. Her beak stabbed down into the alabaster flesh, releasing a spurt of sickly-sweet ichor.

Amin’Hrith shrieked, clawing at its attacker. Sathphren ducked beneath a flailing claw and drove his sword into the daemon’s elongated torso, twisting it upwards with all his strength. It gave a tooth-rattling shriek and dropped a heavy fist onto him, driving him to one knee. A second blow caught him on the chest, and sent him skidding backwards. The daemon tore the screeching gryph-charger from her perch and hurled her into a pillar. She crumpled to the ground with a muted whine.

Sathphren rolled onto his stomach. Pain beat at his temples, and his chest felt as if it had been caved in. He coughed, and tasted blood. The chanting was louder now, beating at the air like hammer strokes. The air felt heavy with something – anticipation, he thought. He glanced towards the statue of Gazul, and it seemed as if the god’s eyes were gleaming.

It was time. The trap snapped shut.

Amin’Hrith touched the ragged wounds opened in its flesh with something akin to wonder. ‘How exquisite. It has been centuries since my flesh was ravaged so.’ It fixed Sathphren with its yellow gaze. ‘I thank you, glow-bug. Let me show you my gratitude properly.’

‘Let me show you mine, first,’ Sathphren wheezed, hauling himself upright. He rose to one knee, spots swimming across his vision. ‘For the gift.’

‘Gift?’ The daemon hesitated, head tilted.

Sathphren held up the ruby. He’d managed to chop it loose, just before the daemon had swatted him aside. It pulsed with an unsettling warmth, as if there were a fire within its crimson facets. Amin’Hrith looked down at its chest, and then back at him. It took a heavy step towards him, claw extended. ‘Give it back, glow-bug. Or I will ensure your torments are legendary, even by the heady standards of the Pavilions of Pleasure.’

‘A kind offer, but not one I care to take.’ Sathphren slammed the flickering gemstone down on the stone floor, shattering it. Outside the temple, the song of the rune-singers rose to a rolling crescendo, shaking the very stones underfoot. They fell silent as the echoes of the ruby’s demise faded.

In the quiet that followed, Amin’Hrith laughed, and Sathphren felt his sense of triumph ebb. ‘And what was that supposed to achieve?’ the daemon sneered. ‘What did you think would happen, glow-bug? I am no mere courtesan, to be banished at the whim of a mortal. I am Amin’Hrith, the Soulflayer. I have wallowed in the dust of a thousand worlds, and seen reality itself shatter beneath the awful weight of my lord’s gentle gaze. I have worn ghosts as baubles and hunted entire peoples to extinction, in the World That Was. And I will do the same here. I–’

The shards of ruby shone suddenly with a soft light, interrupting the daemon. Blood-red shadows crawled across the pillars and floor. Curls of cerise smoke rose from the fragments, twisting and coalescing with one another, until they became a vaguely duardin-shaped mass. Something that might have been a face turned towards the daemon, and twisted into a wrathful expression. A wordless cry boomed out of the stones and air, and the daemon stepped back. ‘What is this? You could not challenge me while you lived, little prince. What makes you think you can do so now?’

The smoky shape took a step forwards, its hunched form sprouting an amorphous shield and something resembling an axe. The temple seemed to shake with its tread. Sathphren caught sight of ghostly shapes drifting through the pillars – the dead, come to answer their long lost prince’s call. ‘He isn’t alone,’ Sathphren said.

While the daemon held the soul of their prince captive, the Gazul-Zagaz had been unable to act against it. Now, with the ruby shattered, and the soul free, the dead of Gazul-Baraz, raised up by the song of the rune-singers, could have their long-delayed vengeance. Sathphren smiled. A good plan. A fitting plan.

A grim dirge rose from the spectres as they gathered, encircling the daemon in a ring of insubstantial bodies. Sathphren could hear the faint crash of steel, and the crack of stone. Motes of pale light floated within ghostly skulls – the eyes of the dead, fixed on the author of their torment. Uzkul, they moaned, as one. Uzkul. Uzkul. Uzkul.

The Keeper of Secrets turned, trying to keep all of the gathering spirits in sight. ‘Begone, shades. There is no joy to be had from your pallid essences.’ It swept out a claw dismissively, trying to disperse the horde. The dead struck, as the claw passed through them. Ghostly axes and hammers caught the limb, and ichor spurted. Amin’Hrith screamed in rage and pain. The daemon jerked its injured limb back. ‘No. No, this isn’t right.’ It whirled, eyes fixed on Sathphren. ‘What have you done?’

‘What I do best,’ Sathphren said, as he rose to his feet. Gwyllth was on her feet as well, if somewhat battered. He caught hold of her and hauled himself into the saddle. ‘And now, I leave you to it.’ He thumped the gryph-charger in the ribs, and she leapt away with a shriek, even as the daemon lunged for them.

Amin’Hrith crashed awkwardly into a pillar as they avoided its grasp, and screamed in fury. It clattered after them, smashing rubble aside in its haste, and the ghosts boiled up around it like storm clouds. A typhoon of spirits – led by the crimson essence of the prince – surrounded the blundering daemon, striking at it from all sides and angles. They blinded it, slowed it. Trapped it.

And there was another presence there as well, something greater than any ghost, and mightier than any daemon. It seemed to gather itself in the limits of the temple, readying itself as Sathphren urged Gwyllth towards the entrance. The shadows thickened and the voices of the dead were echoed by a deep tolling, rising up from somewhere below. Not a bell, this, but a wordless cry, like the crash of stone into the sea.

It roared out as the gryph-charger leapt through the archway and down the steps. Sathphren turned his steed about, sword in hand, to face the archway. The Keeper of Secrets clawed at the entrance, hands gripping either side of the aperture. It strained, as if against unseen bonds. Its mouth was open, but Sathphren could hear nothing save that roaring cry.

A wind rose up from somewhere and caught at the creature, forcing it back. Beneath the roar came a grinding sound, like stone rasping against stone. One by one, the remaining gemstones on the daemon’s flesh burst. Ghostly hands clutched at the Soulflayer’s limbs and head. The daemon’s eyes bulged as it fought against the dead.

‘Uzkul. Uzkul. Uzkul.’

Sathphren glanced around. Judd and the other rune-singers chanted as they approached, their bells tolling sombrely. With every peal of the bells, the daemon’s grip on the aperture seemed to grow weaker, its claws digging deep trenches in the stone. Then, with a final thunderclap, a dark shape, massive and indistinct, caught hold of the Soulflayer and jerked it backwards, into the dark of the temple and out of sight.

It did not even have a chance to scream.

The rune-singers ceased their song. The sound of the bells faded. All was silence, save for the burble of water. Judd thumped the ground with the ferrule of his staff. Slowly, the spirits of the dead emerged from the darkness. Their prince stood among them, his form as indistinct as before, recognisable only by the raw, red radiance.

Judd lifted his staff, and murmured. The spirits of the dead duardin wavered like smoke and dispersed, in shreds and tangles. They drifted upwards, towards the roof of the cavern and the moonlight streaming through. Something like thunder rumbled in the depths, and Sathphren felt its reverberations in his bones. He thought it might be laughter.

Judd smiled sadly. ‘Gazul is pleased. Our oath is fulfilled at last.’

Sathphren looked at him. ‘They say Nagash devoured the other gods of the dead, and added their might to his own.’

‘Yes, that is what they say.’ Judd shrugged. ‘And yet, what is death to a god?’ He scooped up a handful of dust, and let the wind pull it from his hand. ‘Dust, and less than dust.’ He sighed and looked at Sathphren. ‘But that is a matter for another day. For now, we will fulfil our oath to you. We will lead you where you wish to go.’

Sathphren nodded solemnly. ‘I expected no less.’ He laughed suddenly and turned Gwyllth about, towards the sounds of fighting. ‘But first – our task is not yet done. There are still daemons to hunt, and an oasis to free. As I promised.’

About the Author

Josh Reynolds is the author of the Horus Heresy Primarchs novel Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix, and two audio dramas featuring the Blackshields: The False War and The Red Fief. His Warhammer 40,000 work includes Lukas the Trickster and the Fabius Bile novels Primogenitor and Clonelord. He has written many stories set in the Age of Sigmar, including the novels Shadespire: The Mirrored City, Soul Wars, Eight Lamentations: Spear of Shadows, the Hallowed Knights novels Plague Garden and Black Pyramid, and Nagash: The Undying King. His tales of the Warhammer old world include The Return of Nagash and The Lord of the End Times, and two Gotrek & Felix novels. He lives and works in Sheffield.

An extract from Hallowed Knights: Black Pyramid.

Shyish was a place of bitter endings and silent decay.

Graveyards that had once been cities dotted a landscape broken by war, their streets lost to shadows and dust. Carrion birds circled the high places, and jackals haunted the low. And everywhere was dusty silence.

The city of Caddow was no different. It sprawled across the Sea of Dust like a broken corpse. Its once-mighty eyries were reduced to jagged ruin, and the stones of its high walls had fallen and lay scattered for leagues. Dust-barques that had once carried holds of spices and damask lay forgotten in dune-swallowed docklands, and the palaces of the mighty were home now only to night-birds and hoofed beasts. A forest of stone rose where once a city had thrived. Silent and forgotten.

‘Uzkul-ha!’

As the cry echoed over the broken city, the night erupted in fire. Long dragon-tongues of red-and-orange flame licked out, scoring the darkness. Startled flocks of carrion birds rose skyward.

‘Uzkul-ha!’

Another crash of voices, another ripple of fire. Broken, twisted shapes slumped or were thrown back into the dust, their unnatural flesh steaming. Nightmarish creatures, part man, part animal, clad in rotting damask and tarnished gold, fell back from the high, steep steps of the black pyramid. They howled and gibbered as they retreated, sounding much like the beasts they resembled.

‘Gazul-akit-ha!’ A single voice bellowed, as the echoes of fire faded.

‘Uzkul! Uzkul! Uzkul!’ came the shouted response, echoing out over the shattered grandeur of the city. Fifty duardin voices, raised in defiance. Raised in prayer. The constant thump of a pommel stone against the inner rim of a shield accompanied the words. Funerary bells began to ring, slow and dolorous. Iron-shod feet stamped in a mournful rhythm.

The Gazul-Zagaz began to sing. A dirge of mourning, for the dead yet to be. Singing their souls to the deep caverns of Gazul, the Lord of Underearth, who was dead himself. All things died and walked in the deep, even gods. That was the way of it. But what was death to a god? ‘Dust, and less than dust,’ Gnol-Tul said softly, as he stroked the thick spade of salt-and-pepper beard that spilled down over his barrel chest.

Like all duardin, he was built like a cask of ale, with thick arms and legs. Age had not dimmed his vigour, though he’d seen more centuries than he had fingers. He looked on in satisfaction as his kinband shouted their song into the teeth of the enemy. Though there were only fifty of the Pyredrakes, they were worth three times that.

Clad in coats and cowls of burnished gromril, each of his warriors wore a steel war-mask wrought in the shape of a skull, and carried a baroque drakegun. Besides the hand cannons, each duardin was armed with a square pavise shield, which doubled as both bulwark and firing stand, and a heavy, flat blade, suitable for butchery and little else.

At that moment, the shield wall stretched across the southern tier of the ziggurat, protecting two lines of Pyredrakes. The first line would fire then step back to reload, allowing the second rank to take their place. A hoary strategy, but effective. Tul thought the old ways of war were often the best, and served against the disorganised rabble below well enough. Beastkin had little in the way of tactical acumen. They were savage and strong, but strength alone was as dust against iron and fire.

So had it always been, so would it always be.

Tul and his bier, his chosen companions, stood behind the firing lines. Armed with round shields, wrought in the shape of a scowling countenance, and carrying heavy runeblades, his bier was composed of proven warriors, those who had already sung their death-song and consigned their souls to the Underearth. Unlike the Pyredrakes, they wore white robes, and their masks were of silver rather than iron.

Tul himself wore the golden mask of an elder, and beneath it his skin and hair were marked with the sacred ashes of his ancestors. He carried a double-handed runeblade cradled in the crook of his arm. It was an old thing, hungry for death, and nameless, as was proper. To name a thing was to give it a will of its own, and a wilful weapon was one that could not be trusted. There were many named blades in the shadow-vaults of the Gazul-Zagaz, and there they would remain, until Shyish sank into the twilight sea.

Tul and his kinband had fought their way through the ruins and up the steps of the ziggurat over the course of several days, leaving a trail of dead and dying beastkin in their wake. The ruins were full of the creatures – thousands of them, breeding in the dark – and the duardin had roused them all as they advanced deeper into the city. But what were beasts, to the warriors of the Gazul-Zagaz?

‘The gor flee, elder,’ Hok, his tolvan, said. ‘Our fire warms their bones overmuch.’ His subordinate held a heavy stone tablet, upon which the names of the honoured dead would be carved upon victory – or just prior to defeat. Either way, their names would be recorded, and added to the Long Dirge of the Gazul-Zagaz.

‘They will come again and in greater numbers,’ Tul said, tugging on his ash-streaked beard. ‘They are brief things, and determined.’ The warriors of his bier nodded sagely at this. They were all veterans of a thousand similar skirmishes, their birth-swords grown dull on the bones of gor and ik – beastkin and daemons, as the Azyrites called them.

As he thought of their allies, a flash of silver, somewhere out in the dark below, caught his eye. He heard the sound of a hunting horn, and the shriek of one of the Azyrites’ great beasts. Then, cerulean light sparked, and he heard the whipcrack of a boltstorm pistol.

‘The Swiftblade is close,’ Hok said, his disapproval evident.

Tul smiled sourly. Hok was referring to their ally, Lord-Aquilor Sathphren Swiftblade. Tul’s mind tripped over the unfamiliar title. It had too many words, and unnecessary ones at that. Why advertise the swiftness of your blade to the enemy? Surely it was better for such things to be a surprise. Then, there was much about the Stormcasts, and Sathphren in particular, that was confusing.

‘As he promised,’ Tul said. Hok bowed his head, accepting this chastisement with grace. Confusing or not, the Azyrite was an ally. He had helped the Gazul-Zagaz, and so, they would help him. An oath for an oath, a debt for a debt. ‘By sorrow fail, and by sadness bound,’ he murmured, reciting the ancient oath – the first oath and the last – made to the Lord of Underearth by his folk, in the days before the coming of the Undying King.

‘An oath for an oath,’ Hok said, and the others murmured agreement.

‘As it was, as it must be,’ Tul said, finishing the oath. He glanced up towards the pyramid’s summit, where a massive, four-sided archway of carven stone topped the edifice. Shaped to resemble nothing so much as a great flock of birds, rising skywards to a single point, the archway sat atop a circular dais of curious construction, marked by runic sigils unfamiliar to Tul’s eye.

Sathphren had called it the Corvine Gate. Once, the realmgate had linked this part of Shyish to somewhere in Azyr, the Realm of Heavens. Tul let his gaze rise to the stars overhead, where Azyr bled into Shyish, and every other mortal realm besides. The Gates of Azyr had been sealed long ago, as the Ruinous Powers spread their baleful influence through the realms. Now, at last, they were opening once more.

Tul could not say whether that was entirely a good thing or not. But an oath was an oath, and he would pay his folk’s debt, as he must. ‘They’ve caught the gor,’ Hok said, drawing Tul from his contemplation of the stars. Hok leaned over and spat. ‘Will they drive them back to us? It is only fitting.’

Tul shook his head. ‘No. They are selfish and careless, these Azyrites.’ Then, that was often the way of stars – heedless of all that they shone on. One could not expect them to hold to the niceties of civilised folk. ‘Sathphren will take them for himself.’

His warriors grumbled at this, equal parts annoyed and amused. The Azyrites – these Stormcast Eternals, as they called themselves – were powerful allies. And faithful, in their own way, to their own god, Sigmar. The Gazul-Zagaz knew him as the Starlit King, and it was said that he had walked among them often, in days of antiquity. Before Gazul had fallen silent, his temples cast down and his folk scattered.

Powerful, yes, and faithful, to be sure. But like children. Careless and eager. But that was no bad thing, perhaps. For children soon grew up. Then, perhaps, they would truly be allies worthy of the Gazul-Zagaz, in fact as well as in deed.

He squinted, catching sight of more silvery flashes in the dark. Eerie cries echoed up from the ruins. The Swiftblade fancied himself a hunter, Tul knew. Well, he would find plenty of prey this night. He smiled: a hard, merciless expression.

Beast howls filled the night. A tide of filth flowed up the steps of the pyramid, surging forwards on hooves and claws. They made a great noise as they came, almost joyous in its intensity. As if they knew the oblivion that awaited them, and welcomed it.

‘Uzkul-ha,’ he said, softly. He lifted his sheathed blade over his head. ‘Uzkul-ha!’

‘Uzkul,’ came the response from his warriors. Death.

‘Uzkul! Uzkul! Uzkul!’

Click here to buy Hallowed Knights: Black Pyramid.

A Black Library Publication

First published in Black Library Events Anthology 2017/2018 in Great Britain in 2017.
This eBook edition published in 2018 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Jake Murray.

A Dirge of Dust and Steel © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2018. A Dirge of Dust and Steel, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
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