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Strong Bones – Michael R. Fletcher

About the Author

An Extract from ‘The Rise of Nagash’

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

Strong Bones

By Michael R. Fletcher

Stugkor sat at Old Tooth’s feet, listening to the fat ogor ramble on about how great everything used to be for the Fangtorn, back before the Everwinter separated them from the main bulk of their clan.

Leaning back so he could see past Old Tooth’s belly, he studied the wizened face, skin like dried mud left to freeze. Was he called Old Tooth due to his age, the fact he only had one tooth – a prominent fang jutting from his lower jaw that always looked like it might get caught in a drooping nostril – or because that lone tooth, cracked and brown, looked ancient like… like…

‘What’s the oldest thing you can think of?’ Stugkor asked, interrupting.

The big ogor blinked down at him, eyes narrowing. ‘The sun,’ he said finally, hooking a thumb in the direction of the cold yellow light barely peeking over the horizon. Noon, this was as high as it would get at this time of year.

That tooth sure as blood didn’t look like the sun. ‘A real thing,’ said Stugkor. ‘An object.’

Old Tooth sucked in the fat thickness of his lower lip, chewing on it like he meant to devour his own face. A mass of scars and ill-healed wounds, it looked almost as old as the tooth. ‘Saw an Icefall yhetee trapped in a glacier. Looked alive, eyes open, teeth bared. Like it might step out and start killin’.’

An old thing that wasn’t really dead and looked alive anyway? No help at all. ‘What’s the oldest–’ Stugkor stopped when he realised he couldn’t remember why he was asking.

‘What was I talking about before you interrupted?’ demanded Old Tooth.

‘How the Fangtorn used to be a great tribe,’ answered Stugkor. ‘How the ’umans used to scatter before us like frost mice, and how we’d mash them with clubs and then eat them while they screamed.’

‘Right. The good days.’

‘If they was screamin’,’ said Stugkor, ‘don’t that mean you did a bad job of the mashin’?’

‘Naw. You mash the legs so they can’t run, but can still scream and kick when yer eatin’ ’em.’

Made sense, Stugkor decided, as he glanced about the camp. A score of ogors bustled about, either busy at something like sharpening weapons, or eating something from the last raid. Kthang, the tribe’s frostlord, had returned from raiding just two days ago and already supplies were dwindling. Off to the east the Everwinter, a twisting swirl of ice and snow, moved ever closer. They’d move soon, before it devoured them, before it buried them in the long-not-quite-death. Like that Icefall yhetee: not quite dead, but not alive either.

‘Think Kthang will let me come on the next raid?’ Stugkor asked.

‘Nope,’ said Old Tooth.

Not even a moment’s hesitation, not even the briefest pause for thought. Not that Old Tooth was famous for thinking.

‘Why not?’

‘If you ’ave to ask…’

What the blood did that even mean?

‘I’m tired of leftovers. I want fresh meat. Warm marrow from a just-snapped bone. Blood, hot and salty.’

‘Y’ ate the bear.’

‘Not the same, eatin’ something dumb.’

Old Tooth nodded, almost looking wise. ‘Troof. Best meat knows it’s being eaten. Best meat had other plans for the day.’

Humans always had plans. It was an ongoing mystery to Stugkor. Why plan for tomorrow when you were probably going to get eaten? Strange creatures. If they hid in the trees, they’d be so much harder to find! But there they were, building walls and making buildings. If an ogor saw a wall and a building then the one thing it knew for sure was that there was a meal inside.

‘What was I talkin’ about before you interrupted?’ Old Tooth demanded, again.

Rolling his eyes, Stugkor pushed to his feet with a grunt. ‘Can’t remember.’

‘But it was important?’

‘Very. Life lessons ’n all.’

Nodding, the ancient ogor turned and shambled away, limping on his bad leg. Someday he’d slow enough the Everwinter would get him. Unless the rest of the tribe was hungry enough to eat the leathery old beast first.

Stugkor’s belly, hanging far over the heavy leather belt he wore for decoration, rumbled. Fetishes, bear scalps, frost sabre teeth and assorted trinkets taken from things the young ogor had mashed and eaten and forgotten, hung from the belt, swaying as he lumbered off in search of his mates, Chidder and Algok.

He found them toying with a hare, fur white like the snows, eyes wide and black like the night. They’d cornered the little creature in an ice dell and were stomping the ground, blocking its every attempt at escape. The thing quivered in terror, chest heaving. They’d keep this up until either it fell over, too exhausted to move, or one of them misjudged and accidentally mashed it flat. Such a dumb little life, hardly worth eating. No plans. And if Chidder, who’d always been clumsy, mashed it flat, it wouldn’t even wriggle when you swallowed it.

Sometimes, decided Stugkor, the game was better than the meal.

‘Stug,’ grunted Algok, spotting his approach.

‘Old Tooth says Kthang ain’t gonna let us go on the raid,’ he told his friends. He hadn’t specifically asked about them, but seeing as he was the oldest, it seemed a safe assumption.

They grumbled but seemed unconcerned.

The hare, sensing their distraction, made a dash for freedom and was mashed flat by Chid, who’d rather see it squished than let it escape.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ said Algok, dead hare already forgotten.

In Stugkor’s opinion she spent way too much time doing that. He never said anything though because she had a temper and liked to sit on people until they lost consciousness.

‘Yeah?’ he asked. ‘And?’

‘Aelves,’ she said, crossing her arms.

‘Why the blood you been thinking about aelves?’ demanded Chidder. ‘Ain’t none here.’ He looked around, beady eyes squinting. ‘Are there?’

‘No,’ said Algok. ‘None. But you know how Kthang and the other raiders always say that the best meat is smart meat, meat with plans for tomorrow?’

Stugkor and Chidder nodded.

‘Well, aelves,’ she said, waiting expectantly.

Chid scowled at his friend. ‘What in the blood?’

Stug understood. ‘They live a really long time. They’re supposed to be even smarter than ’umans.’

‘Imagine how many plans a thing that lives ’undreds of years has,’ said Algok.

Chid frowned, looking at his huge blunt fingers like they might provide an answer. ‘So…’

‘So,’ said Stug, ‘they’re prolly the tastiest thing in all the world.’

‘’Cept for gods,’ said Algok. ‘Immortals have plans for the big.’

She was right, as always. Gods probably tasted great.

‘Old Tooth say why we couldn’t raid?’ asked Algok. Quicker than most, she bounced from subject to subject with alarming speed.

‘If you ’ave to ask,’ said Stugkor, repeating Old Tooth’s words. He blinked. He’d thought Old Tooth meant that if he had to ask, he wouldn’t understand the answer. But what if the ancient ogor meant that if you had to ask, you couldn’t come? What if he meant that the way to go raiding was to not ask?

‘I,’ said Stugkor, feeling rather pleased with himself, ‘have a plan.’

It was, he decided, a rather brilliant plan. The ingenuity! The cunning! The clever details! By the blood, maybe Algok wasn’t the smartest ogor after all!

‘So?’ Algok demanded.

‘We go raiding. Just us.’

‘Blood,’ swore Chid, clearly impressed.

Even Algok nodded in appreciation.

Stugkor had another thought. ‘If we get eaten by some other ogors,’ he mused, ‘I bet we’ll taste better than we would have before.’

Algok understood, eyes widening. ‘Cuz we got plans!’

Shard, Stugkor’s young, grey-white mournfang, moved effortlessly over the endless wastes. Even through the heavy bone-and-hide saddle, he felt the beast’s coiled strength. Ever alert, Shard prowled, massive head low and swinging back and forth as she sought the scent of life. She might not see much past the length of her monstrous tusks, but her sense of smell was second to none. At least when it came to meat and blood.

Algok, riding to Stugkor’s right, picked at a scar on her black mournfang’s shoulder. The creature’s eyes, bloody sparks of hate, never left Shard. There was a harsh hierarchy to the pack, and Stug’s mournfang ruled tooth and claw.

Chidder, not paying attention, allowed his red-tinted mount to edge past Shard. The lead mournfang swung her tusks in his direction with a guttural growl, and Stug eyed the other ogor. Was Chid ready for a fight? Had he already grown bored with the raid? While Stug desperately wanted to mash some humans, shove great quivering gobs of fresh meat into his mouth and drool blood down his belly, a mad brawl in the snow would be fun too.

‘Go on, Chid,’ he said, grinning. ‘Go for it. We can always raid another day. After yer mournfang has healed.’

Chidder grunted, and slowed his mount so Shard was once again in the lead.

Snow. Ice. The howl of wind whipping across land broken only by jagged peaks of glacier. The bone-crunch of frozen snow beneath your feet, and the endless expanse of blue, deeper than a glacial lake, overhead.

The sun peeked over the horizon, did little to warm the world, and slunk back down, defeated.

Stomachs growled, and tempers rose.

Another day without food, without mashing anything.

Boring. So boring.

Another day.

So hungry.

Snow gave way to occasional patches of frozen mud sprouting tufts of hardy grass that still mostly looked dead. Sometimes they found copses of stunted trees, gnarled and bent.

How long had they been out here? Was it two days or four? Stug had lost count. He was about to ask Algok, when Shard raised her head, keen nose testing the air. Studying the horizon, Stugkor grinned at what he saw.

‘I’ve forgotten the plan,’ admitted Chidder, eyes slitted against the harsh wind.

‘Find ’umans,’ Stugkor explained patiently. ‘Mash ’umans.’

‘Blood,’ swore Chid in awe. His face crumpled in thought. ‘How we find ’umans?’

Stugkor pointed south with a thick finger. ‘Smoke. And where there’s smoke there’s…’

‘Stuff burnin’?’ asked Chid.

‘No, idiot,’ said Algok. ‘’Umans.’

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Burnin’ ’umans.’

Cresting a ridge of stone and dirt, Stug spotted the human settlement. It sat in the bottom of a shallow valley. He slowed to examine the distant wall. Made from bundled twigs and branches bound together by wound grass and packed with mud, it was an embarrassing effort at best. Really, all it had going for it was height, and stood maybe his own height and half again. Since it didn’t look sturdy enough to climb, they’d have to bash their way through.

Rickety wood watchtowers stood at each corner, but they were empty.

Such a strange human thing, he thought. Like knowing you were about to be mashed and eaten somehow made things better. Wouldn’t it be better to be surprised? You know, dead and half-digested before you really knew what was going on. Seeing as there was no one in the towers, maybe the humans had figured that out for themselves.

Reining in their mounts, they stopped to study the town.

‘Never seen a ’uman village before,’ Stug said.

Much like the wall, their homes were built of pathetic twigs and patched with grey clay. Cobblestones lined the main street, the rest being little more than mud paths.

‘Something doesn’t look right,’ said Algok.

Stugkor blinked at the sight, struggling to comprehend. While not mashed, the ’umans were already dead. Some lay scattered and leaking blood into the snow. Others had been torn apart, their limbs gathered in one pile, their torsos in another.

The really strange thing, however, was how many of the dead were still marching around doing stuff. Stripped of flesh and blood, corpses in strange armour or long decorative robes worked at incomprehensible tasks.

There were so many of them, hundreds and hundreds of dead hard at work. Some gathered together corpses, sorting them for reasons beyond Stug’s understanding. Others collected what little metal the ’umans had, tossing it into piles.

‘This ain’t right,’ said Algok. ‘Town is full of deaders.’ She leaned forward in the saddle, eyes narrowed. ‘They’ve already butchered all the ’umans. Nothing to mash. Maybe…’ She glanced at Stug. ‘Maybe we should go?’

Chid looked ready to argue but less ready to dare Algok’s temper.

Stugkor’s stomach grumbled complaint. It had been looking forward to digesting living planning things, and let him know just how unhappy it was with the thought of more leftovers.

A gaunt corpse, garbed in the shredded remnants of long green robes and finely crafted armour of a type he’d never before seen, stalked the savaged town. It wore a great fanned crown of curved bone and bore a colossal jade scythe wafting foul smoke from the blade. The other dead stepped from its path. Somehow the scene reminded Stug of the ants that came out during brief thaws. They moved as if perfectly united in purpose, driven by a single will.

‘Deader sorcerer,’ said Algok. ‘Prolly invaders from another realm.’

Never having left the northern wastes of Ghur, the Realm of Beasts, the young ogor had little experience in such things.

That was bad. Sorcerers were supposed to be easy to mash if you surprised them, but dangerous if they knew you were coming. This one, with its strangely shaped bones and smoking scythe, definitely looked like the kind you wanted to drop a large rock on. Preferably from a great height.

An odd feeling shivered through Stug, and for a moment he wished he was somewhere else.

Ain’t nothin’, he told himself.

That thing was no taller than a man, barely came past Stug’s belt.

Just my gut saying it wants to go ’ome and eat somethin’.

By the Lord of Predators he wished he was back with his people.

A massive creature constructed of bone and metal lumbered into view. It bore massive ribbed baskets upon its back, and had a spine of barbed bone. Grasping finger-like appendages protruded long past its terrible body. Twisting coils of greenish smoke leaked from its death’s-head maw. Sometimes it walked on the four largest legs, but sometimes it reared back, head raised as if testing the air, the great jagged rune-cut sickles of its forelegs flashing in the pale sunlight.

‘It’s got too many limbs,’ whispered Algok.

She was right. Spindly arms, at least in comparison to its powerful legs, twitched and spasmed, bone hands reaching out to feel the earth beneath it. The whole thing reminded Stugkor of those many-legged carrion wyrms that burrowed into rotting corpses. Except much bigger. Much, much bigger.

The beast stopped over one of the neat piles of body parts, its thin limbs blindly feeling about, grasping severed arms and legs.

‘No way that thing is gonna leave any for us,’ moaned Chidder. ‘Look how big it is!’

The ogors watched in appalled horror as the meat and muscle and blood was stripped off and tossed aside to land in a steaming pile. The arms then passed the bones along until they could be tossed into the massive baskets.

Stugkor struggled to understand. ‘Didn’t even eat it!’

Of what possible use could stripped bones be?

He stared at the dead creatures. Some were made of bones he recognised. The spine of a bear. Legs of a frost sabre. He tried to comprehend. These things were made?

The lumbering beetle-like beast tossed aside more parts than it stripped, littering the snow with perfectly good food.

‘I’m hungry,’ said Chidder. ‘I say we kill the deaders and eat all the meat. They’re just gonna throw it away!’ His stomach growled. ‘Maybe eat the bone-things too.’

‘How do we kill dead things?’ asked Algok, ever a source of smart stuff.

‘Mash,’ said Chidder. ‘Mash and mash and mash.’

Perhaps he wasn’t so dumb after all.

‘That’s an army in there,’ Stug said. ‘If the clan was ’ere, we’d mash ’em in a heartbeat. But just us three?’ He studied his friends. ‘Might be difficult.’

Difficult.

No way these corpses could defeat the Fangtorn. And yet the thought of that fight didn’t sit well in Stug’s gut.

Just hungry, he told himself.

He found himself staring again at the sorcerer, the smoke curling off its jade scythe. It moved wrong, like it had a will. Like it was a living thing, a twisting wisp of souls.

The deader sorcerer lifted a bone hand, fingers splayed wide. All movement ceased in an instant. Stug watched, helpless, dreading, as it turned its skeletal face to focus on him. No hesitation. No searching. It knew exactly where he was.

Not good. Not good. Not good.

Hand raised, it studied him. Even from here Stug saw the stuttering sparks of green fire lighting the empty caverns of its eye sockets.

We have to… We have to go.

He opened his mouth, said nothing.

Chid said something, but he couldn’t hear it.

Those eyes that weren’t eyes saw him, saw through him. They held Stug, crushed his heart in a bone fist. He couldn’t breathe.

We…

Finally, the sorcerer turned away and Stug drew a shuddering breath, his heart slamming in his chest.

‘We have to–’

The thunder of hooves interrupted Stugkor, and he turned to see an armoured corpse wielding a sword, blade the same smoking green-black jade as the scythe, and mounted on a similarly armoured dead horse. Iron hooves kicked sparks as they crossed a stretch of exposed stone.

Chidder grinned yellowed teeth. ‘Finally!’

Whooping a war cry, Algok and Chid unslung their warclubs, and kicked their mournfangs into a roaring charge.

Unease bubbled deep in Stugkor’s belly. He hoped it was just the squashed snowrat he ate last night. Screaming his own war cry, he followed after his mates.

‘Look how small it is!’ bellowed Chidder as he tried to crash his mount into the armoured corpse.

The dead warrior easily evaded Chid’s charge, his bone-and-iron horse neatly sidestepping. That smoking jade sword darted out, punching through the side of Chidder’s mournfang’s neck. The beast crumpled with a wet cough of blood, forelegs folding beneath it, sending Chid somersaulting forward. He landed in an awkward pile, winded and moaning.

Algok went wide, hoping to attack the corpse from the far side, but its torso twisted alarmingly. Parrying her massive club with smoking steel, it spun the weapon in bone fists and decapitated her mournfang with a single stroke. Algok, too, was thrown from her mount. Unlike Chid, she broke her fall mostly with her face. She lay motionless.

That feeling in Stug’s gut definitely wasn’t the snowrat. Already committed, he drove his mournfang at the warrior. Even though Shard was only young, sitting on the beast’s back Stugkor towered over the undead warrior he faced. The thing should have cowered like those weak little humans. It should have trembled before his might, fled before his ravenous hunger. Instead, it ducked under what was supposed to be a skull-shattering backhand, and skewered Shard with a single neat thrust through the chest.

Having seen what had happened to Chid and Algok, Stug leapt free, rolling across the hard ground and regaining his feet.

The deader made no attempt to follow him. Instead, it studied Stug. Faint sparks of green fire flickered in the hollowed sockets of its eyes. Neither it nor its mount moved or twitched.

For a moment all was still. Only Chid’s groan of pain broke the silence. Algok hadn’t moved, hadn’t made a sound.

The deader dismounted. Its horse backed away and waited, even though it had received no command.

Lying at Stug’s feet, Shard made a strange noise, half grunt, half annoyed whine, and died. That uncertain unhappy feeling in Stug’s gut was gone. Something new replaced it. Something hot. Rage.

Stug bellowed and charged the corpse, swinging his warclub in mighty, crushing blows. He hit nothing but air, the deader always swaying just beyond reach. Instead of stabbing or hacking his head off, it used its sword to trip him and he sprawled into the mud.

‘Slow,’ it said, voice dry and squeezed like someone was choking it.

Regaining his feet, Stug went after his enemy. Either he killed it, or they were all doomed. Chid lay stunned and mumbling, and Algok still hadn’t moved.

Unhurried, as if the ogor offered no threat, the deader avoided Stug’s every attempt to mash it. Over and over it stabbed that foul sword at him and Stugkor retreated, desperately looking for an opening. Flashing jade left trails of writhing smoke as the corpse followed.

This wasn’t at all how fights were supposed to happen. Where was the joyous mayhem, the crunch of bone and spray of blood? The only blood being spilled here was his.

The deader lashed out, leaving a long bloody gash in Stug’s belly.

‘Slow and stupid,’ the corpse ground out, accent harsh.

Seeing the decapitating attack coming but too slow to avoid it, Stug blocked it with his arm. Smoking green steel cleaved through flesh and muscle like it was nothing, and stopped dead, lodged in bone.

Pain, unlike anything the young ogor had ever felt, smashed through Stug’s thoughts.

With a scream, he yanked his arm away, dragging the sword from the corpse’s bony fists.

The deader stepped back, appraising. ‘Strong bones,’ it said.

And then Algok hit it from behind, smashing it to the ground with her bulk. Pinning it beneath her, she roared and punched it in the chest, cracking ribs. The dead thing struggled beneath her, fingers of bone and steel clawing long rents in her flesh. She punched it in the face, snapping its head to the side and shattering its jaw. And still it fought, heedless of the wounds it suffered.

Stumbling forward, Stug stomped the thing’s legs over and over until its knees broke. It might be made of bone, but it was unlike anything he’d felt before. Any mortal creature would have been dust. Algok still keeping it trapped beneath her, Stug went after its arms next. He had better luck bending the joints until they popped.

Finally, when he’d reduced the warrior to little more than a crumpled torso, Algok rolled free. She pushed to her feet and wobbled unsteadily.

The deader watched them, calm.

Glowing jade sparks focused on Stug. ‘Strong bones,’ it said again, though its shattered jaw made it sound like Shton omsh.

Turning, Stugkor saw Chid, too, had regained his feet. Algok bled from a dozen wounds, tongue protruding as she tested the tooth she’d snapped off landing on her face.

‘I don’t wanna fight two of those,’ said Chidder, collecting a shattered femur from the ground and gnawing on it. Growling, he tossed it aside when his teeth left only shallow scratches in the bone.

‘You didn’t even fight one,’ grunted Algok, stomping on the deader’s skull until it came apart. Leaning low, she peered into the ruin. ‘Not even a brain.’ She glanced at Stug. ‘Must be dumber than Chid.’

Stugkor wasn’t so sure.

All three mournfangs lay dead. It was almost like the corpse had been more interested in killing their mounts than killing the ogors.

Why? Why would it do that?

He looked north, back towards the tribal lands. A storm brewed there, black iron clouds blanketing the horizon. It was going to be a long walk. Looking back to the human settlement, he saw movement in the town. The deader army looked to be preparing for travel. There was no haste to their actions. Even though Stug and his mates had just mashed the warrior it had sent, the sorcerer still stood where it had before, head tilted back, staring up at Stug.

‘To slow us down,’ he said, with dawning comprehension.

‘What?’ asked Chid and Algok.

‘It killed our mournfangs to slow us.’

His friends looked doubtful.

Strong bones, the corpse had said.

The deaders were all bone, no meat. But they weren’t just the bones of a corpse given life, they were… He searched for the word.

Constructed.

Stugkor had pulled enough living things apart to know what they looked like on the inside, and nothing looked like these creatures.

‘Bones of lotsa things in there,’ Stug said. He thought about that huge armoured beetle creature with the ribbed baskets, shucking the dead humans of flesh and collecting their bones.

Strong bones.

Chidder squinted at the distant sorcerer with a look of deep concentration. ‘So?’ he asked.

‘We ’ave to go,’ said Stugkor. ‘We ’ave to warn the clan.’

‘Why?’ asked Chid.

Strong bones.

‘They want to kill us,’ explained Stug. ‘Pull off our skin and muscle. Feed us to that big armoured thing with the baskets.’

‘Don’t want my skin pulled off,’ grunted Chidder. He flexed a massive arm. ‘Muscles neither.’

That bad, sick feeling deep in Stugkor’s belly festered. His arm hurt, leaked blood where the deader had cut him. It’d be a great scar when it healed.

He wasn’t afraid. Of course he wasn’t afraid.

‘We’re leaving now,’ said Stug.

Chid and Algok nodded agreement.

‘Hungry,’ said Chid, eyeing his dead mournfang. With a shrug, he tore off one of its rear haunches.

Equally hungry, Stug and Algok copied him.

The three ogors walked north, the crunch crunch of their plodding steps in crumbling ice the only sound.

Heavy with cloud, the sky looked like it was so low they might reach up and grab it. Fat flakes of damp snow fell to collect on their shoulders. The temperature plummeted, and each breath became great plumes of steam. With each passing hour the sky darkened and the snow fell harder.

Shard’s leg having already been devoured, hunger gnawed at Stugkor’s every thought, a constant reminder of his failure.

His first raid. Could it have gone any worse?

‘Storm,’ said Chidder.

‘Bad one,’ grunted Algok.

Freezing to death on the way home might be worse. When he closed his eyes for a moment, the lashes froze together.

‘What we gonna tell them when we get back?’ asked Algok.

That, Stug decided, was a good question. Chances were high everyone would want to charge off and do battle with these strange dead. Stugkor didn’t want that.

One deader almost killed all three of us. If it hadn’t been for Algok surprising it, it probably would have.

It wasn’t even one of the bigger ones, just regular puny man-sized.

There were hundreds in the town. An army.

The ogors would lose. They’d lose and they’d die and they’d all be turned into more dead things.

He stopped walking. It was easier to think when motionless.

Could he convince the clan to flee?

No. Ogors never ran from anything.

Yeah? Then what are we doing now?

Should they say nothing, make no mention of the bone collectors?

Algok might see the wisdom, but no way Chid could keep his mouth shut. And anyway, someone would eventually notice their mournfangs were gone and they’d have to explain.

Too hungry. Hard to think. All that wasted meat the deaders were tossing aside, all that fresh muscle and hot blood, soft fat and tender brains.

Stug turned to look back towards the human settlement.

His heart fell.

‘Algok,’ he said. ‘Chid.’

The other two stopped and turned.

Dim silhouettes barely visible through the snow. That huge armoured beetle thing with the arms and the massive baskets lumbering in the middle.

‘That’s bad,’ said Algok.

The deaders were following them. And not just a few. All of them. So many hundreds of hundreds. More dead than Stugkor’s tribe could ever hope to mash.

Struggling to make out details, Stug squinted into the storm. Some of the dead rode great skeletal horses that looked like they’d been dipped in molten steel. Other sat in monstrous chairs of bone and iron that walked, striding effortlessly across the barren landscape. Weapons of smoking jade were everywhere.

The dead moved as if one mind controlled them all.

Clean bone.

Bright iron.

An army of perfection.

Strong bones.

For a moment Stug imagined all Ghur covered in corpses, slaughtering the ogors, flaying them of flesh and muscle, admiring their sturdy skeletons, turning them into something new.

Strong bones.

‘There aren’t that many,’ he whispered.

There might be enough to make short work of his tribe, but when word spread, the ogors would crush these strange new dead creatures, mash them to bone-dust.

‘They’re small,’ said Algok. ‘Short legs. We can outrun ’em.’ She looked tired, staggered sometimes, like she still suffered from landing on her face.

Stug nodded, looking back at the long path he and his friends had left in the snow. They’d be easy to follow. At least until the storm filled their tracks. But the deaders weren’t that far behind. Maybe if they ran, put more distance between them and the army. He didn’t like that. The dead marched on, ceaseless and untiring.

‘At some point we’ll have to rest,’ he said. ‘They won’t. They’ll keep comin’.’ He imagined the dead finding him as he slept. ‘We’re days from the tribe. Longer. We rode here but we’re walkin’ back.’

‘They’ll catch us,’ said Algok. ‘Day by day, night by night, they’ll gain on us. And we ain’t got no food.’

She was right. Hunger and weakness would slow them. And if they fled back to the tribe, the dead would follow and everyone would die.

‘We can’t go ’ome,’ said Stug.

His mates understood; he saw it in their eyes.

‘Leadin’ them away from the clan ain’t enough,’ he added. ‘We gotta warn our people. And not just our people. These deaders are somethin’ different, somethin’ new.’ He felt it deep in his copious gut. He imagined Ghur populated only by dead things made from the bones of other dead things.

‘They’re a threat,’ he said. ‘To everything. Ogor. ’Uman. Everything.’

Stug watched the tight-knit army march ever closer. Was he right, was a single creature controlling all of them?

If the dead stayed together, for whatever reason, then maybe this was the chance he and his mates needed.

‘I have an idea,’ he said. ‘We gotta split up. Mebbe they’ll only follow one of us. We run ’ard for as long as we can. Whoever escapes returns to tell the clan, to warn ’em.’

His mates agreed.

For a moment they stood, awkwardly unable to meet each other’s eyes. Stug saw the truth: each hoped they would be the one to escape, that they would survive to tell the tale. Even Chidder seemed to understand.

The dead marched on.

‘I’ll see you back at the clan,’ said Stug, unable to think of anything else.

‘I’ll save you somethin’ to eat, if I get there first,’ said Algok, looking away.

‘I won’t,’ said Chid, examining his hands. ‘I’m so hungry I’m gonna eat everything.’

Nodding to each other, the three set off in different directions, jogging into the endless wastes.

Stugkor ran.

One foot in front of the other.

Snow fell so heavy he saw no more than half a dozen strides in front of him. It clogged his nose, piled on his head, and threatened to freeze his eyes closed. Even his nostrils felt like they were about to freeze shut.

The muted crunch crunch of dry snow, like brittle bones crushed in teeth.

The dead nothing sounds of Ghur.

The soul moan of a wind that’s claimed a thousand lives.

The groan of eternal ice.

When he slowed, unable to maintain his pace, he walked.

Head down. Going nowhere.

Forever.

The sun rose and fell, the temperature dropping until icicles hung from his nose and ears. Stopping, he stooped to scoop up a fistful of ice and snow and jam it in his mouth. Again and again until his belly grumbled. But it wasn’t food.

Looking back the way he’d come, he saw his meandering footprints weaving off into night. Of the dead there was no sign. His was a world of snow. They could be a score of strides away and he’d never see them. He wanted to lie down, to rest. Even if just for a moment. He’d never been this tired – this hungry – in all his life.

There, beneath the sighing wind, the rumble of a hundred hundred dead, marching lock-step.

Stugkor pushed on, staggering with exhaustion, falling often.

Strong bones.

They would not take him. They would not make him into some deader monster.

The eastern horizon brightened, and Stugkor saw the dim shapes of a great host. They followed, relentless. Tireless.

Exhaustion ate his strength, drained his will far worse than any freeze.

The dead drew closer.

‘I can’t.’

Corpse eyes watching, flickering green sparks in hollow caves of bone.

Empty sockets following his progress, waiting for him to fall.

He knew then he would never escape. ‘They followed me,’ he said to the northern wind. It wasn’t what he’d wanted, but if it meant his mates escaped to warn the clan, it was still a victory.

For a score of heartbeats he watched the dead advance. He found himself remembering that terrified hare Algok and Chidder had cornered when he’d first dreamed up his fantastic plan to go on a raid. He thought about the little creature’s pointless attempts to escape. Maybe it wasn’t smart enough to have other plans, but it still wanted to get away. He recalled Chidder mashing it flat.

The dead would never stop. They would follow until exhaustion felled him and he lay helpless in the snow.

‘No,’ he told the rising sun. ‘I will stand here.’

He’d bought his mates time to escape. Now it was time for these dead to learn the true might of the ogors!

The great host parted as the creature with the smoking green scythe stepped to the fore. It studied Stugkor for a long moment before gesturing.

A warrior of iron-wrapped bone stepped forward, a massive greatsword hanging in its skeletal fist. The weapon oozed sickly green smoke that ignored the northern wind, twisting with a life of its own.

It came at Stug, poking and prodding. Icy steel left long gashes in his hide that burned like fire. Stug fought on, unwilling to fail, sheer will keeping him on his feet. His warclub grew heavy, each swing coming slower until he stood, bent over, wheezing great sucking breaths of air.

Seeing his weakness, the deader moved in for a killing blow. Instead of trying to mash it, Stug lunged, catching it by an arm. It stabbed him, drove steel into his gut, as it struggled to break free. But he had it. Raising his club with a roar, Stug smashed the corpse. It felt like he’d struck the frozen ground, the shock of the blow slamming through his arm.

Tossing the broken deader aside, he spat blood and showed the army his teeth in a feral snarl.

More came, and he fought, sometimes smashing them apart with his club, but always suffering dozens of wounds before he managed to finally dispatch them. Shattered bones littered the trampled snow, long lines of his blood drawing strange patterns. His lungs rattled, his heart banging away like it sought to break from his ribs.

So tired. Weak from long days of hunger.

One at a time they came, testing.

Cursed knives left long wounds in his flesh. Over and over they slashed and stabbed, until blood slicked him and his thoughts grew dim and pale.

Another quick-moving corpse, this one with four arms bearing two spears and two swords. Unlike the others, it was Stug’s height. It stabbed and slashed as it danced circles around him. Too fast. Too many weapons for him to defend against. It bled him, making no attempt at a killing blow.

Gore spattered the snow, bright crimson slashes in hard white.

Stugkor fell to his knees, and the four-armed corpse stood over him. Where he drew ragged breaths, great sucking gulps of air, his chest heaving, it stood motionless. When it glanced towards the scythe-bearing undead with the fanned crown of bone, Stug lashed out, grabbing its ankle. It stabbed him, over and over, as he dragged it closer. One of the spears broke, leaving an iron tip lodged in his flesh.

Stug broke its knees. He cracked its thick bones, crushed its skull in his fists.

Toppling backwards, he lay in the snow. Ice in raw wounds. Life bled out at a terrifying rate. He couldn’t rise, couldn’t move. His strength was gone.

The corpse sorcerer strode forward to stand at Stug’s side. Strange bones, twisted and melted like forged iron. It examined him, sparks of nacreous green glowing deep in hollowed eye sockets.

‘Very strong bones,’ it said. ‘Your kind will be a fine harvest.’

‘Never,’ Stugkor said, coughing blood.

‘All must pay the tithe. In the end there can be only death. In the end there can be only Nagash.’

‘I piss on yer puny god!’ Yelling hurt, felt like it tore something deep inside. ‘Anyway,’ whispered Stugkor, ‘you failed. My mates escaped. They’ve warned the clan by now. They’ll be ready. The Fangtorn are mighty! We’ll crush you!’

Unconcerned, the bone sorcerer straightened as two more deaders approached. These were different, taller, their bones thicker than the others.

‘As I said, strong bones. Your kind make fine Immortis Guard.’

His kind?

Stug recognised what remained of his mates. They’d been harvested, broken apart and remade, but there was no disguising who they’d been. The sloped brow of Chidder’s thick skull. The broad shoulders and powerful fingers of Algok. Stripped of flesh and blood, they were clean bone.

They’d failed.

No. Not yet. Not completely.

Stug coughed a bloody laugh. ‘You followed me far into the wastes. You’ll never find my clan now.’

‘We are the Ossiarch Bonereapers,’ said the undead. ‘We flense the useless from the useful, carve meat and sinew from bone, souls from life. We harvest the best of you, waste nothing. Your memories are useful, we shall keep them. Your loyalties are not, they shall be cast aside.’

Stugkor reached for the undead creature, but it stepped back.

‘You and your friends will lead us to your people,’ it said.

The bone sorcerer raised its scythe, green smoke wafting from the blade. ‘It is time,’ it said, ‘to carve away the weakness of life. We have plans for your soul.’

That hare, eyes wide with terror, darting for freedom. Doomed. Just like Stug’s tribe.

It couldn’t end like this. He wanted more. More life. More talking to Old Tooth. More mashing and more eating.

There wasn’t going to be more.

This, he realised, is what it feels like to be prey.

Jade steel flashed in the pale sun, slicing free Stug’s soul from the meat and bone of his body.

About the Author

Michael R. Fletcher is an author and grilled cheese aficionado with several dark and grim science fiction and fantasy novels to his name. He lives in the endless suburban sprawl somewhere north of Toronto.

An extract from The Rise of Nagash.

Akhmen-hotep, Beloved of the Gods, Priest King of Ka-Sabar and Lord of the Brittle Peaks, woke among his concubines in the hours before dawn and listened to the faint sounds of the great army that surrounded him. Sounds carried far in the desert stillness; he could hear the distant lowing of the oxen as the priests moved among the herds, and the whickering of the horses in their corral at the far side of the oasis. From the north came the reassuring tinkle of silver bells and the ringing of brass cymbals as the young acolytes of Neru walked the perimeter of the camp and kept the hungry spirits of the desert at bay.

The priest king breathed deeply of the perfumed air, filling his lungs with the sacred incense smouldering in the tent’s three small braziers. His mind was clear and his spirit untroubled, which he took to be a good omen on the verge of such a momentous battle. The chill of the desert night felt good against his skin.

Moving carefully, Akhmen-hotep disentangled himself from the arms of his women and slid from beneath the weight of the sleeping furs. He sank to his knees before the polished brass idol at the head of the bed and bowed before it, thanking the shedu for guarding his soul while he slept. The priest king dipped a fingertip in the small bowl of frankincense at the foot of the idol and anointed the brow of the stern, winged bull. The idol seemed to shimmer in the faint light as the spirit within accepted the offering, and the cycle of obligation came full circle.

There was a scratching at the heavy linen covering the entrance to the chamber. Menukhet, favoured servant to the priest king, crawled inside and pressed his forehead to the sandy floor. The old man wore a white linen kilt and fine leather sandals whose wrappings rose almost to his knees. A broad leather belt circled his waist, and a leather headband set with semiprecious stones sat upon his wrinkled brow. He’d wrapped a short woollen cape around his narrow shoulders to keep the cold from his bones.

‘The blessings of the gods be upon you, great one,’ the servant whispered. ‘Your generals, Suseb and Pakh-amn, await you without. What is your wish?’

Akhmen-hotep raised his muscular arms over his head and stretched until his hands brushed the tent’s ceiling. Like all the people of Ka-Sabar, he was a giant, standing almost seven feet tall. At eighty-four he was in the prime of his life, still lean and strong despite the luxuries of the royal palace. His broad shoulders and the flat planes of his face bore the scars of many battles, each one an offering to Geheb, God of the Earth and Giver of Strength. The Priest Kings of Ka-Sabar had long been accounted as fearsome warriors and leaders of men, and Akhmen-hotep was a true son of the city’s patron deity.

‘Bring me my raiment of war,’ he commanded, ‘and let my generals attend upon me.’

The favoured slave bowed his shaved head once more and withdrew. Within moments, half a dozen body slaves entered the chamber, bearing wooden chests and a cedar stool for the king to sit upon. Like Menukhet, the slaves were clad in linen kilts and sandals, but their heads were covered by hekh’em, the fine ceremonial veils that kept the unworthy from viewing the priest king in all his glory.

The slaves worked swiftly and silently, preparing their master for war. More incense was cast upon the coals, and wine was offered to Akhmen-hotep in a golden cup. As he drank, nimble hands cleaned and oiled his skin, and bound his short beard into a queue with braided strips of glossy leather. They dressed him in a pleated kilt of the finest white linen, placed red leather sandals upon his feet, and set around his waist a belt formed of plates of hammered gold, inlaid with lapis lazuli. Wide gold bracelets, inscribed with the blessings of Geheb, were pressed around his wrists, and a bronze helmet crowned with a snarling lion was set upon his shaven head. Then a pair of older slaves placed his armour of woven leather bands around his powerful torso, and a broad necklace of gold, inlaid with glyphs of protection against arrow and sword, around his neck.

As the armourers finished their tasks a pair of veiled slaves entered the sleeping chamber with trays of dates, cheese and honeyed bread for their master to break his fast. They were followed by a pair of armoured Nehekharan nobles, who fell to their knees before the priest king and touched their foreheads to the floor.

‘Rise,’ Akhmen-hotep commanded. As the generals straightened, sitting back on their haunches, the priest king settled onto his cedar chair. ‘What are the tidings of the foe?’

‘The army of the usurper has encamped along the ridge north of the oasis, as we expected,’ answered Suseb. Akhmen-hotep’s champion was called the Lion of Ka-Sabar, and was tall even among his own people; at a crouch, his head was nearly level with the seated priest king, forcing him to bend his neck ever so slightly to show proper deference. The champion carried his helmet tucked beneath one powerful arm. His handsome, square-jawed face was clean-shaven, as was his dark-skinned head. ‘The last of their warriors arrived only a few hours ago, and they appear to have suffered greatly on their long march.’

Akhmen-hotep frowned, and asked, ‘How do you know this?’

‘Our sentries along the northern perimeter can hear groans and fearful murmurs rising from the enemy camp,’ Suseb explained, ‘and there are no signs of tents or campfires being lit.’ The priest king nodded.

‘What do our scouts report?’

Suseb turned to his companion. Pakh-amn, the army’s Master of Horse, was one of the wealthiest men of Ka-Sabar. His black hair was curled into ringlets and oiled, falling over his sloping shoulders, and his armour was ornamented with lozenges of gold. The general cleared his throat. ‘None of our scouts have returned as yet,’ he reported, bowing his head. ‘No doubt they will arrive at any time.’

Akhmen-hotep waved the news away with a sweep of his hand.

‘What of the omens?’ he asked.

‘The Green Witch has hidden her face,’ Pakh-amn declared, referring to Sakhmet, the baleful green moon, ‘and a priest of Geheb claimed that he saw a desert lion hunting alone among the dunes to the west. The priest said that the lion’s jaws were dark with blood.’ The priest king scowled at the two generals.

‘These are fine portents, but what of the oracles? What do they say?’ he asked. It was Suseb’s turn to bow his head regretfully.

‘The Grand Hierophant assures me that he will perform a divination, after the morning’s sacrifices,’ the champion said. ‘There has been little opportunity up to this point. Even the senior priests are occupied with menial tasks–’

‘Of course,’ Akhmen-hotep interjected, grimacing slightly at the memory of the shadow that had fallen over Ka-Sabar and the other cities across Nehekhara barely a month past. Every priest and acolyte touched by that tide of darkness had died within moments, leaving the great temples decimated.

Akhmen-hotep was in no doubt that the foul shadow had been spawned in blighted Khemri. All of the evils plaguing the Blessed Land for the last two hundred years could be laid at the feet of the tyrant that ruled there, and the priest king had vowed that Nagash would at long last answer to the gods for his crimes.

The priests of Ptra greeted the dawn with the blare of trumpets. On the plain to the north of the great oasis, the assembled warriors of Ka-Sabar’s Bronze Host shone like a sea of golden flames. To the east, the weathered line of the Brittle Peaks was etched in harsh, yellow light, while the endless, rolling dunes of the Great Desert off to the west was still cloaked in shadow.

Akhmen-hotep and the nobles of the great army gathered by the waters of the oasis, glittering in their martial finery, and offered up sacrifices to the gods. Rare incense was burned to win the favour of Phakth, the god of the sky and bringer of swift justice. Nobles cut their arms and bled upon the sands to placate great Khsar, god of the desert, and beg him to scourge the army of Khemri with his merciless touch. Young bullocks were brought stumbling up to Geheb’s stone altar, and their lifeblood was poured out into shining bronze bowls that were then passed among the assembled lords. The nobles drank deep, beseeching the god to lend them his strength.

The last and greatest sacrifice was saved for Ptra, mightiest of the gods. Akhmen-hotep came forward, surrounded by his towering Ushabti. The priest king’s devoted bodyguards bore the marks of Geheb’s favour; their skin was golden and their bodies moved with the fluid power of the desert lion. They stalked around the priest king with massive, two-handed blades gleaming in their taloned hands.

A great pit had been dug at the edge of the oasis, in full view of the gathered army, and seasoned wood brought all the way from Ka-Sabar had been piled in it and set alight. The priests of the sun god surrounded the blaze, chanting the Invocation of Going Forth to Victory. Akhmen-hotep stood before the hungry flames and spread his powerful arms. At his signal, shouts and screams shook the air as the Ushabti dragged a score of young slaves forward and cast them into the flames.

Akhmen-hotep joined the chanting of the priests, calling upon Ptra to unleash his wrath upon Nagash the Usurper. As the smoke darkened above the fire and the air grew sweet with the smell of roasted flesh, the priest king turned to Memnet, the Grand Hierophant. ‘What are the portents, holy one?’ he asked respectfully.

The high priest of Ptra shone with the Sun God’s reflected glory. His short, round frame was clothed in a robe woven with threads of gold, and golden bracelets pinched the soft flesh of his brown arms. Upon his chest lay the polished golden sun-disk of the temple, inscribed with sacred glyphs and showing the likeness of Ptra and his fiery chariot. His fleshy face was covered in a sheen of sweat, even at this early hour.

Memnet licked his lips nervously and turned his face to the flames. His deep-set eyes, shadowed by a thick band of black kohl, betrayed none of the priest’s inner thoughts. He studied the shapes in the smoke for a long time, his mouth set in a grim line.

Silence fell upon the scattered nobles, broken only by the hungry crackle of the flames. Akhmen-hotep frowned at the Grand Hierophant.

‘The warriors of Ka-Sabar await your word, holy one,’ he prompted. ‘The foe awaits.’

Memnet squinted at the curling ribbons of smoke.

‘I…’ he began, and then fell silent. He wrung his podgy hands.

The priest king stepped close to the smaller man.

‘What do you see, brother?’ he asked, feeling the expectant stares of a thousand nobles weighing upon his shoulders. Cold fingers of dread tickled at his spine.

‘It… it is not clear,’ Memnet said hollowly. He glanced up at the king, and there was a glint of fear in his dark-rimmed eyes. The Grand Hierophant glanced back at the sacrificial fire. He took a deep breath. ‘Ptra, Father of All, has spoken,’ he said, his voice gathering strength as he fell into the ceremonial cadences. ‘So long as the sun shines on the warriors of the faithful, victory is certain.’

A great sigh passed through the assemblage, like a breath of desert wind. Akhmen-hotep turned to his noblemen and raised his great bronze khopesh up to the sky. The light of the sun god blazed from its keen, curved edge.

‘The gods are with us!’ he cried, his powerful voice carrying over the murmurs of the throng. ‘The time has come to cleanse the stain of wickedness from the Blessed Land! Today, the reign of Nagash the Usurper will come to an end!’

The assembled nobles answered with a great cheer, raising their scimitars and crying out the names of Ptra and Geheb. Trumpets sounded, and the Ushabti threw back their golden heads and roared, baring their leonine fangs at the cloudless sky. North of the oasis, the serried ranks of the great army took up the cry, clashing their weapons against the faces of their bronze-rimmed shields and shouting a challenge in the direction of the enemy camp, more than a mile away.

Akhmen-hotep strode back in the direction of his tents, calling for his chariot. The assembled noblemen followed suit, eager to join their warriors and reap the glory that awaited them. No one paid any more heed to Memnet, except his fearful and exhausted priests. The Grand Hierophant continued to stare into the flames, his lips working soundlessly as he tried to puzzle out the portents contained within.

A mile distant, along the rocky ridge that sat astride the ancient trade road leading to far-off Ka-Sabar, the warriors of Khemri lay like an army of corpses upon the dusty ground.

They had marched night and day, burnt by sun and frozen by darkness, driven by the lash of their generals and the implacable will of their king. League after league passed beneath their sandalled feet, with scant pause for rest or food. Years of famine and privation had rendered their bodies down to little more than sinew and bone. The army moved swiftly, winding down the road like a desert adder as it bore down on its foe. They travelled light, unburdened by the weight of a baggage train or extravagant retinues of priests. When the army stopped, the warriors sank to the earth and slept. When it was time to move again, they rose silently to their feet and shuffled onwards. They ate and drank on the move, eating small handfuls of raw grain and washing it down with sips of water from the leather flasks at their hips.

Those that died on the march were left by the side of the road. No rites were spoken for them, nor were any gifts offered to propitiate Djaf, the god of death. Such things had long been forbidden to the citizens of the Living City.

The corpses withered under the merciless heat of the sun. Not even the vultures would touch them.

As the light of dawn stole across the stony earth and the warriors of the Bronze Host shouted the names of their gods to the sky, the warriors of Khemri stirred from their exhausted slumber. They raised their heads and blinked dully at the sound, turning their dust-streaked faces to the oasis and the shining army that awaited them.

A dry, rustling sound, like a chorus of swarming locusts, rose from the shadows of the dark pavilions erected behind the army’s silent ranks. Moving slowly, as though in a dream, the army of Nagash rose once more to its feet.

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A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Catherine O’Connor.

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ISBN: 978-1-78999-242-7

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