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The Heart of the Fallen – Sarah Cawkwell

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Warcry: The Anthology’

A Black Library Publication

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The Heart of the Fallen

Sarah Cawkwell

For two days he had tracked the meat across the poisonous plains. He had kept a wise distance, but he suspected it knew he followed. On more than one occasion, he had seen the barbed snout rise and inhale deeply of the dusty, acrid air. It was no great hardship to keep downwind of it and although the distance was lessening, he was confident the tempestuous gales and frequent storms would cover his approach.

The meat moved with purpose and he followed it. ‘It will be glorious. This will be the greatest kill the tribe has ever seen!’ he had boasted when he’d left. Losing the prey now and returning empty-handed would end in him becoming the next meal. Hunting down this creature, bringing back its flesh for his tribe, would be the mark of his ascension. Its bones would be his weapons and its pelt his armour.

Onwards went the meat, and the hunter went with it.

Your enemies will kill you given the chance, my daughter. So run. They cannot kill what they cannot catch.

So she ran, just as her mother had instructed. She was a wonder when she did so, swift and tireless, and her skill had earned Anari Fleet-foot the name by which her tribe, the Untamed Beasts, had come to know her. As she ran now across the shattered wasteland, the hot wind in her face, Fleet-foot was truly in her element. Her brothers were some distance behind her; they could not keep up with the pace she had set. That was precisely why she was running so fast. It would do no harm for her companions to remember that she had offered to lead the way on this expedition.

After a time, she slowed her pace enough that they caught up. Open Skies was pink in the face and struggling to catch his breath, but Dhyer was looking as though the run hadn’t fazed him at all. She was pleased. There was hope for him yet.

‘We’re losing the light,’ observed Open Skies when he’d recovered. ‘Still no sign.’

‘We just haven’t found him yet.’ Fleet-foot stretched her calf up behind her, pulling the hamstring tight and releasing. ‘Give up, big brother?’ He was the older warrior with more trophies to his name. He visibly prickled at her comment.

‘No!’ Open Skies could not hide the irritation he clearly felt at his sister’s words and he glowered at her. The better part of a head taller than she was, he knew that she was smarter and above all else faster than he was. ‘But darkness comes. Better not to be out in the open.’

That was reasonable enough. When darkness fell, the heat would drain out of the plains faster than blood from a wound. If they weren’t holed up against it, there was a very real chance they would freeze. In the wastes, even the cold was a predator.

Fleet-foot shrugged one shoulder to indicate she was indifferent to her brother’s suggestion. Wouldn’t do him any good to think he’d won her approval.

‘Too afraid of the dark, Open Skies? Then stay here and cower like prey.’ She sneered at him. ‘Dhyer and I will track his brother or find shelter.’

‘Do not bring me into your blood-bond rivalry,’ said the youngest warrior with an easy shrug. Although he was not directly related to Fleet-foot and Open Skies, he was of the tribe and of their age and that was enough for them to call him brother. Fleet-foot deeply respected Dhyer’s skills as a tracker while maintaining the correct level of aloofness due her slightly senior station. He had yet to undergo the blooding and had not yet performed the deed that would earn him his true name, his spirit name that the Eater of Worlds would come to know him by. She appreciated his talents and admired how he strove to make an impression.

‘See what you can locate, Dhyer,’ she said, half suggesting, half ordering. With a sharp nod, he turned his attentions to their immediate surroundings.

She watched as he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply. It was a technique they all employed; by shutting off one of the senses, it was possible to keenly sharpen the others. She did the same. The air was hot and dry and tasted of ash, smoke and scorched bone.

They were tracking Dhyer’s older blood brother, who had left the tribe two turns of the light previously. At least as far as they could tell; the passage of time in the Bloodwind Spoil was erratic at best. The young hunter had left on a boast and Dhyer, although he would never openly admit to such weakness, had concerns for his brother’s safety. When he had announced his plans to track Sharp Tongue, Open Skies had eagerly offered his assistance. Fleet-foot always went where her brother went, so that had been a given. Given her speed and stamina, they were lucky to have her. She knew she had the others’ respect for that alone.

All the hunters had learned the savage ways of the Bloodwind Spoil – it was adapt or die when you lived on broken plains that could strip years from your flesh. Where there were ruins of glass that would rob you of your soul. There were the eerie towers of the winged furies. Every inch of the Bloodwind Spoil was marked by death, whether it walked or crawled across the blighted land.

Dhyer’s brow furrowed briefly. ‘There is… something subtle,’ he murmured and Fleet-foot turned her attentions back to him. She drew a deep breath and concentrated more intently. Yes. There it was, drifting on the hot breeze. Blood, but not the stink of old blood that always permeated the Spoil; this was fresh, coppery, recently let from a body.

She nodded. ‘I smell it.’ She glanced at Open Skies to see if he was also engaged in this process. Any hint of childish rivalry melted away and all three of the warriors unified – a cohesive and alert entity.

‘Fresh,’ observed Open Skies, confirming to Fleet-foot that he also engaged in the hunt.

‘Close,’ added Dhyer.

‘That way,’ finished Fleet-foot and without waiting for the others, set off at a light run, keeping a pace that they could easily match.

Perhaps he had grown too sure of his own ability. Somehow the meat had managed to extend the gap between them. But the hunter was not perturbed, and he did not fret. He was young, but he was wise enough to know that he had limits. He needed to rest, to recuperate and regain his strength. The fight would be soon, and he anticipated it with a keen hunger.

His mind ran wild with visions of the hero’s welcome that would be his and more – with such a mighty prize he would challenge for the title of Heart-eater. The tribe would feast for days. The skin and feathers would be his mantle, and its spines would tip his spear. He did not fear the challenge to come. He was the hunter and the meat was his prey, there was no other truth.

The warrior allowed for the luxury of a few hours of rest. Come dawn, he could run. His stamina was excellent and he knew which direction the meat travelled. He had the scent of it now; it was like a thread that he followed to its inevitable conclusion. He set a small fire, enough to cook a tiny rodent-like creature that he speared in the undergrowth.

Using a finger, he idly sketched in the dusty ground – a pictographic depiction of what it was that he was hunting. His artistic skills were hardly worthy of mention, but when he had finished, he felt oddly pleased with his efforts. A stick figure, wielding what was obviously a spear aimed at the meat’s head.

Satisfied with his creativity, he tucked his body into the hollow of a desiccated tree and let sleep take him.

The ashes were fresh enough to determine that the fire had been extinguished recently. A cursory glance revealed the source of the scent that had drawn them here: the corpse of something small and scaled, half-eaten and tossed to the embers.

Dhyer crouched down and looked at the tracks in the dust, and the scuffed drawing in the sand. The wind had already begun to scour it away, but it was clear someone had hurried through here.

‘Was it Sharp Tongue?’ Open Skies hunkered down by the fire, poking at the embers. Dhyer was examining the camp perimeter thoughtfully. He sniffed the air again and looked up at the bruised, tumultuous skies. The tracks led away from the camp, down a rubble-strewn hillside, then disappeared into a field of cyclopean, silvery boulders.

‘Most likely. He didn’t finish his meal. Whatever he was tracking must have led him away. Sharp Tongue never leaves meat unless there is better meat to be had.’

‘This is good,’ said Open Skies, standing. ‘Let’s follow the trail down to those rocks. They will give us shelter. Fleet-foot – go ahead. You’re the fastest.’

‘You’re not First Fang,’ she said. But she went anyway.

The hill dropped steeply at first. Eventually, however, they found themselves within the maze of boulders and were forced to slow their pace. The trail twisted and turned between the rocks, their mirrored surfaces reflecting their images in a variety of daemonic guises, and took them to the opening of what was quite clearly a cave burrowing into the scorched earth.

‘Cave,’ Fleet-foot said, indicating the slim opening. ‘Good place for meat to hide?’

Open Skies arched one eyebrow at those words but didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. In the Bloodwind Spoil, caves often sheltered daemons, hordes of predators or creeping, formless spawn. But Sharp Tongue had gone that way, and the dark would bring dangers of its own. He nodded and studied the cave opening critically. ‘Dhyer is the best tracker,’ he acknowledged with surprising generosity. ‘He should go first.’

That took the edge off the generosity and Fleet-foot smirked. ‘Afraid, brother?’

‘I am not above cutting you if you don’t stop trying to mock me, sister.’ Dhyer saw Fleet-foot tense at the words and the smirk melted from her face. He knew that if they fell to physical squabbling, she would lose. For all her speed, Open Skies was bigger, stronger and faster with his dagger than she was. Dhyer was certain that Open Skies would be a Preytaker. Fleet-foot was light-hearted and frivolous by nature, a born Plains-runner, but it was clear that she knew a warning when she heard one. She dropped into sullen silence. Dhyer sighed inwardly and slipped past the two of them. He squeezed his body between the narrow opening and into the cave.

It was dry and uncomfortably humid inside with a layer of pinkish dust on the ground. Crazed footprints smudged it in all directions, scuffed and confusing. As Open Skies and Fleet-foot followed him in, Dhyer hunkered down and studied the scene. There were recognisable prints made by feet wrapped in hides like the ones they were all wearing, and there were markings of something that he did not recognise. An object half-buried by dust caught his attention and he reached for it.

‘A tooth,’ he observed, aloud. Then his hand closed around a severed length of vine the colour of raw meat, its skin studded with needle spines. It looked like it had been hacked to pieces, and he picked it up, staring at it without recognition.

The vines curled around the hunter’s legs, winding up his body and biting into his flesh. They tugged at him and he fell, shocked by the sudden attack. His face smashed heavily against the floor of the cave and it was a moment before he struggled back up to his forearms. He shook his head, dazed, and felt teeth rattle in his jaw. Blood dribbled into his right eye and fiery pain raced through his body where the tendrils bound him.

He tugged hard, thinking to pull free of his captivity, but the grip of the vines around him was rigid and his hands came away bloody. He felt a tendril begin to loop about his waist and the questing limb contracted, driving more spines into his skin with slow, inexorable strength. The breath was stolen from his body and for a few seconds he was filled with blind, animal panic. He could hear the distant sounds of the meat ahead of him as it crashed through the caves and the panic was eclipsed by a titanic rage. He would not be robbed of his chance for greatness. With supreme effort, he gritted his teeth and ripped both of his trapped arms free of the constricting vines, feeling the sudden burn as his right shoulder was wrenched from its socket. With his working arm, he reached for the knife at his waist and hacked viciously.

The tendrils screamed with a chorus of human voices when cut, unnatural and unexpected. His body leaked blood from dozens of tiny punctures, but he would not give up. Not while the meat still lived. He slashed at the vines around his body in a frenzy, cutting off huge pieces until finally they loosened their hold and withdrew into the shadows. Many of the severed pieces continued to squirm, and crawled off into the gloom.

The young hunter grimaced with the pain of his ordeal, but he was determined to continue. The meat would not wait and so neither would he. He considered his arm, dangling all but uselessly at his side and then he clenched his teeth – spitting out the one which had been knocked loose – and slammed his body hard into the wall of the cave. The agony blinded him for a moment, but with an audible crunch his shoulder reseated. Free, wounded but his spirit unbroken, he pushed on into the cave.

The distant sound of what might be running water could be heard deep within the cave as it burrowed ever deeper into the dry earth. A rank, sour odour hung in the air like spoiled milk, a disgusting melange of plant and animal scents that were confusing and difficult to identify. The deeper they travelled into the cave, the more focused they had all become. Open Skies closed his eyes for just a moment and tried to find some trace of their quarry, meat or man.

Then the cave shrieked, a throaty, animal scream roaring through the softly glistening tunnel. It reverberated for a second or two and then a deathly silence fell.

The young warriors exchanged glances. The horrors of the Bloodwind Spoil wore any number of faces, from the savagely daemonic to the deceptively benign. They wondered, just for a moment, if they had stumbled into the living maw of something huge. Perhaps the Eater of Worlds himself.

‘Open Skies.’ It was his sister who spoke and he glanced towards her. ‘You should lead. You are by far the best of us at hunting in the dark.’

‘Afraid, sister?’

He dodged her swift kick with nimble agility and began padding down the passage, the two others trailing close to him. The same stench filled their nostrils, bittersweet and cloying, and as the dim, pulsing light of the walls slowly gave way to the encroaching gloom it took a moment or two for their vision to adjust. Open Skies rested his hand briefly against the wall then snatched it away, startled. He peered more closely and saw that what he had presumed to be stone was, in fact, soft fur like that of an animal. It was rising and falling under his gaze as though it breathed, and he stared at it, fascinated.

He put a hand out again, more cautiously this time, and felt the warmth of it and the play of sinew beneath the fur. For a heartbeat, he wondered if it might actually respond to his touch, but it did not. There was a pause and then another shriek echoed through the cave. Open Skies took his hand away and continued downward without mentioning what he had experienced to the others. They followed him closely enough so as to not lose him in the dark, but not so close as to trip one another.

The path sloped more steeply as they rounded a bend and Open Skies had to step with caution as they descended into further gloom. Were it not for the faint, ambient glow of some luminescent growth covering the walls, they would have been plunged into complete darkness.

Here the sound of running water was stronger and he could smell the damp that suggested a nearby spring. The cave split three ways and he let his nose lead him. He paused for a moment and then nodded assertively before heading down the left passageway.

They had gone only a short distance when the tunnel suddenly shook, not with the harsh, jagged force of tectonics, but as if it were a muscular contraction. A cleft in the wall split open, revealing a vast eye surrounded by a nest of smaller orbs. Three small, feathered reptiles dripped from the pupil and scuttled across the wall in different directions, nine legs flailing. Even as Open Skies watched, the great eye blinked ponderously, its iris leaking iridescent light. When it reopened, a tide of tiny gold-and-crimson spiders spewed from within. Behind him, he heard an intake of breath as Fleet-foot caught sight of the arachnids.

This place was clearly blessed, or cursed, by the Devourer, but none of them would turn back. Not now. The old stories told of how places like this could birth champions, or end them. What great power might it have bestowed upon Sharp Tongue?

Even Fleet-foot was uncharacteristically quiet as they moved on, crushing the spiders underfoot. The creatures popped like sacs of gore and seemed to contain more blood than their little bodies should possess. The hunters pressed on, their feet leaving dark, wet prints in the dust.

The cave floor levelled out and they soon found themselves following a stream of dark, brackish liquid. It was thick and black, like a slurry of filth. Occasionally it formed a glutinous bubble which popped loudly, spraying sticky, oily droplets that coated the skin and furs of the three Untamed Beasts. Open Skies swore as his hand came away from his furs painted with noxious slime.

He grew more agitated the deeper they pressed into the caves, not because the place was clearly touched by power, but from the oppressive weight of the earth pressing down from above. They were all creatures of the plains, the wastes and the wide-open spaces. As his name suggested, he had lived the whole of his young life under the open sky and this prolonged expedition underground unsettled him in ways he did not care to admit.

But he had picked up the scent again now and he relayed this information. Several times they called out Sharp Tongue’s name, but all they heard were their own voices, echoing back at them, distorted, cracked and mocking. They were laced through with other sounds, guttural whispers that threatened, promised and cajoled. Open Skies knew better than to listen to them, guessing that they were daemon snares that would make prey of him.

He focused instead on subtle scents, teasing out the thread of Sharp Tongue from the morass of odours. ‘I found him,’ he said, softly. ‘He’s close. I suggest we pick up the pace. Then we can find him – and then we can leave.’

For once, Fleet-foot did not argue with her brother. The constant breeze through the passage smelled of corrupted meat and rotting vegetation stewed together and it swamped the senses, making it hard to think.

‘My brother said he hunted the greatest prey he had ever spied. If there is a chance he has failed, then I must finish his hunt,’ said Dhyer.

‘That part you will do alone.’ Open Skies was aloof. ‘If we find Sharp Tongue and he is meat, all I owe is the return of his body for the Rites. Anything else is your problem and remains your problem. You are not a child, Dhyer.’ Open Skies’ lip curled in a sneer.

Dhyer bristled. ‘I did not ask for you to come with me.’ Open Skies was bigger and stronger than he was, but he would not back down from a direct challenge. ‘And I know my place in the tribe. Do you?’ Without another word, he stalked forward, his lithe body graceful as he squeezed through a small gap between two rocks. Fleet-foot stared at her brother for a moment, assessing him as though he were a stranger to her, and then without speaking followed Dhyer.

After a moment of glowering, Open Skies also followed.

He had defied death before and he would do it again. He was, after all, one of the Untamed Beasts. There was certainly no way he would go down without a fight, and he was getting one of those right now. The adrenaline coursed through him and his body sang the joyous melody of the hunt. He lunged, with all his strength behind the spear in his hands. The meat tried to sway from the incoming blow but misjudged. The point of the spear, a beautifully carved piece of bone that had been lovingly shaped, pierced the meat’s throat. The hunter’s strong, practised arm pressed the weapon all the way through until it emerged, bloodied and intact, on the other side.

The meat thrashed wildly, its long tail coming around in a vicious sweep that knocked the hunter clear off his feet, before it stamped down on his chest with one muscular leg. Bones splintered and the hunter screamed in agony, vomiting a gout of blood. As the hunter’s life drained from his mangled body, he still tried to stand, rolling over and attempting to get to his knees. His body was too broken and he collapsed face down in the viscous slime, his last thought one of triumph as he heard the gurgling scream of the meat. Others would follow his hunt, that was the tribe’s way. And when they found him, they would know what he had done.

He opened his mouth and a weak cry rose up to join the angered and pained screams of the animal he had hunted.

As consciousness fled, and the blood rushed from his body, the hunter heard the beast crashing down beside him. Hunter and hunted, felled by each other.

The tunnel opened out into a vast chamber, indicating for the first time just how far underground they had come. The walls curved in an elegant sweep to meet at an unseen point far above their heads and were formed from smooth, shiny stone that glistened as though the rock constantly secreted some manner of liquid. This was borne out by the dripping which had formed rows of jaw-like stalactites. The massive, jagged teeth were cracking under their own weight, plunging into the shallow sludge below where they disappeared, only to be replaced almost immediately. It was a constant assault and made the approach treacherous.

In the relative centre of the lake of sludge, which came only to Dhyer’s ankles, he spied a huge, unmoving shape and his nostrils flared as his hunter’s senses picked up on the promise of prey. It was larger than any of its kind he had ever seen before, reptilian skin and avian feathers covering a muscular frame that even in the stiff rigidity of rigor mortis seemed to ripple with power. As he slowly circled the fallen beast, his heart pumped faster. This must be the prey his brother had hunted. A thrill ran through him.

‘Dhyer.’

Fleet-foot had moved around to the other side of the beast, which was massive enough that he could not see her over its corpse. But he recognised the tone in her voice and hurried round the back of the creature, past a long, heavy tail. Face down in the filth, axe still clutched between dead fingers, was Sharp Tongue. He was recognisable by the tattooed markings on his neck: the twin symbols of his tribe and of his family. Dhyer’s fingers unconsciously went to his own family marking; he had yet to receive the tribal brand.

‘He killed it,’ Open Skies said and for the first time she could remember, Fleet-foot heard true respect in her brother’s voice. ‘He tracked his prey and he brought it down. Sharp Tongue has outdone himself.’

‘But the Devourer has claimed him,’ Fleet-foot added. ‘He will never hunt beside the Eater of Worlds, brother.’

‘His death doesn’t matter,’ said Open Skies and it was not a cruel comment. ‘What matters, little sister, is that he has felled his prey. Look at the size of it. It will feed the tribe for days, and we will all partake of its strength. He will be remembered long after the feasting is done. We must perform the Rites to make sure that his greatness is not lost. Sharp Tongue has proven that he was a truly mighty warrior and if we are to finish what he began, then we need to take him into ourselves. Right here, right now.’

Dhyer turned his brother over and the body rolled easily. Sharp Tongue had died with a furious snarl on his face and even though the eyes had dulled with the cessation of life, Dhyer fancied that he could see the ferocity blazing there still. He carefully prised the dead man’s fingers open and took the axe. The axe was far less exquisite than the bone spear he had always preferred. Made from sharpened stone, it was a tool, pure and simple, and must have been drawn as a last resort.

Dhyer slid it into a loop on his belt. It was considered the greatest shame for a member of the tribe to die without a weapon in hand, and at least his brother had been spared that ignominy. A glance at the fallen creature revealed the fate of Sharp Tongue’s spear. It had been driven through the creature’s throat, going in one side and straight out the other. He looked to have drawn his axe mere moments before his death.

Lying in the murky sludge beside the body of his brother was his long knife, which Dhyer also took up. It matched perfectly the one he wore at his waist and he turned it over in his hands. There was a smear of dark blood on the blade, thick, gelatinous and inhuman. The young warrior considered the weapon for a few moments longer and then turned his attention to his brother’s body.

Sharp Tongue’s chest was caved in, the ribs smashed to pieces, and a great gash had torn his abdomen open. A bloody mess of guts and gore mingled with the dark slime beneath him, the intestines a ropey mess that stank of copper and faeces. Dhyer glanced at the fallen creature’s massive limbs, which terminated in slashing talons. It did not take much to deduce what had happened.

‘You will make the Cut?’ Open Skies framed it as a question, but it was an acknowledgement towards the fact that family always had first choice during the Rite of Feasting.

‘I will.’ Dhyer spoke quietly and wiped Sharp Tongue’s blade on his furs. Every member of the tribe knew the Rite; they were taught it as soon as they were able to understand. All knew exactly how to make the Cut and he was no different in that regard. ‘Today, we lose a warrior, but we do not lose his strength. In my family’s name, I claim this warrior’s heart and his strength for the tribe.’ He hesitated for a moment or two. The last time he had seen Sharp Tongue, his brother had seemed so strong, invincible even – someone to whom Dhyer could aspire.

There was a lesson here from the Devourer: nothing is invincible.

The Untamed Beasts did not mourn the fallen, they consumed them, and in doing so took the strength of the dead so that it would not be wasted. It was clear from the evidence before his eyes that Sharp Tongue had been strong to the very end.

This is just more meat, he told himself, and plunged the knife down, sliding easily between the interstitial muscles of the mangled ribs. He tore open the chest cavity to reveal his brother’s heart, glistening and bloody but as still as the dawn. Open Skies knelt beside Sharp Tongue and reached into the cavity, tearing the organ free. Taking the knife from Dhyer, he hacked it from its connective tissue and held it aloft. He spoke the words of the Rite with confidence and ease and for one of the first times in his life, Dhyer saw Open Skies as something more than an irritation. He saw a grown warrior.

He saw someone else to whom he could aspire.

‘Heart of the Fallen,’ intoned Open Skies. His voice reverberated around the cave, the strange acoustics giving it a peculiar echo. Dhyer tuned out the noises of the cave, focusing instead on the words of his tribe brother. ‘Filled with the spirit and courage of the warrior. Imbued with the raw power of both your life and those of your descendants. Grant us a portion of your strength that we may challenge those who would seek to end our existence.’ He brought the heart down from above his head, bringing it to his lips, and without hesitating, tore a chunk of meat from it. He passed it to Dhyer, who did the same. Sharp Tongue’s heart was still warm, suggesting he had not been dead for long. Blood coated Dhyer’s chin as he successfully gnawed a piece free and handed the heart to Fleet-foot.

The three chewed in silence, respecting this most holy of moments, seeking that connection with Sharp Tongue’s spirit that would imbue them with his power and grant them his strength. Dhyer closed his eyes, feeling something akin to pleasure shuddering through his system at the intensity of it all.

I feel you, my brother.

They would take what was left of Sharp Tongue’s body and it would be burned. The ashes of his bones would be mixed into clay and water and used to make the paint with which they anointed their bodies prior to battle. Dhyer’s family would be granted a portion of those ashes to be burned into their skin as brands. They would run with Sharp Tongue’s speed and cast the spears with the strength of his arms.

Fleet-foot watched the proceedings in silence. ‘It will be a slow process to return this,’ said Open Skies. ‘We will need to bring others back, but we can butcher the beast and take back what we can now. We must also prepare to bring Sharp Tongue with us.’ He had taken command of the situation and Fleet-foot, still caught up in the solemnity of the Rite, did not question his right to do so. She nodded and unsheathed her own knife, a serrated, stone-forged blade with a slight curve to it that was perfect for the task of cutting up fallen animals. While she walked around the reptile, studying it for the best lines along which to cut, the two young men lifted the body from the water and moved it to the edge of the lake.

The movement disturbed the surface of the water, sending ripples across it and Fleet-foot was transfixed for a moment. After a moment or two, more began to radiate outward. The onyx blackness of the heavy water seemed to emphasise this movement, slowing the process into something faintly mesmerising.

‘Sister.’

There was an undercurrent of warning in Open Skies’ voice and she turned to face him. The lake had rippled where they had pulled Sharp Tongue’s body free but now the water was beginning to churn. There was a sudden rush of displaced air, a loud splash and a screech that pierced the eardrums and reverberated around the cavern. The supposedly dead creature leapt up from its prone position in the lake and its beak snapped a hand’s span from Fleet-foot’s face. If her brother had not called her name and caused her to move slightly, it would have closed its jaws around her neck. Instead, it ripped the knife from her hand, the weapon sinking below the surface of the lake. She drew her second dagger and danced backward with all the agility her name suggested. She was now able to better assess the enraged beast. The spear was still sticking through its neck, making it ungainly and awkward as it stumbled to its feet. Its hind legs were vast and as it unfolded its body, it became clear that it had barely exposed its true size. Its jagged maw opened so it could roar in fury. The sound that came out was wet and bubbling. The great head shook from side to side in an effort to dislodge the spear, but it was rammed firmly through its throat. It had clearly not damaged anything fatal because its fury was all too apparent.

Fleet-foot couldn’t help but stare. She had never encountered a raptoryx of this size before, and her ability to respond was temporarily replaced by a sense of entranced fascination.

‘Anari, move. Now.’ Her brother had not used her birth name in years, not since she’d been anointed with her tribal moniker. She dived forward into a roll, and was already coming to her feet in the shin-deep slurry when the monster awkwardly lunged again, jaws snapping shut where her neck had been mere moments ago.

The rise of the Untamed Beasts out in the Bloodwind Spoil had not come about through fear and cowardice. For them, every new enemy was a new challenge just waiting to be met and they would meet this one head-on.

All hint of sibling animosity melted away when confronted by the resurrected creature and Fleet-foot moved to her brother’s side, her second knife drawn and her sun-darkened face devoid of the light-heartedness that usually marked her. Open Skies pulled his short spear from his back and Dhyer had both his brother’s and his own knife, as well as the axe slung across his back. They spread out, circling their foe. It had managed to get its feet beneath it and it was angrily trying to shake the impaling spear free.

The Untamed Beasts considered anything they hunted to be meat, even a particularly huge and savage raptoryx. Solitary predators, the creatures were usually opportunistic hunters, picking off those foolish enough to travel the Spoil alone. Usually peaking at shoulder height, they possessed a mane of razor quills and a jagged beak as long as a human arm. This creature was an apex example of its twisted species. Spines studded its tail and hind-limbs, and a pair of reptilian frills flushed red with rage framed its narrow head. It flapped ineffectually at the weapon in its neck with its avian forelimbs, then turned to face Open Skies and let out a screech like nails on glass.

The three warriors fell into an easy hunting pack, having worked together many times before. They had a method and they prepared to engage their tactics. They danced around their prey, continually moving to keep its attention from fixing. In turn, they would dart forward and strike before pulling back again. Constant movement. Constant harassment. Overriding everything was the drive to remain alive and not be bested by the creature.

Each of them held the same focus at the front of their minds. Our families will eat for days when we take down this meat.

Open Skies lunged with his spear in a concerted effort to drive the beast back towards his brethren. It hissed and raged and snapped at the blade, but it was clear that the weapon in its neck was seriously hampering its efforts. Droplets of black blood splattered in all directions and, frustrated, it beat its ragged wings, dancing awkwardly away from the assault. As it moved, its massive talons cut deep grooves in the ground.

Fleet-foot ducked beneath the bladed tail as it reversed towards her, and made two quick slashes at the creature’s ankles before diving and rolling out of its reach. A human foe would have been instantly crippled by the blows, but the monster simply screamed again and twisted to pursue its tormentor. The blunt end of the spear in its throat dug into the ground as it turned, and lodged there, the length of the shaft bowing under the strain. Momentarily stalled in its efforts to get to grips with Fleet-foot and frenzied by its wounds, Dhyer took the opportunity to attack from the other side, his knives aimed at its exposed neck.

Dhyer was brought up short by a swing from the monster’s tail. The blow was unerringly accurate and he knew had he not instinctively dodged, his head would likely have parted company with his body. He dropped into a roll that brought him back to his feet directly behind and below the beast. Sensing one of its attackers was now vulnerable, the raptoryx immediately switched its focus to the easier kill. It pivoted with surprising grace given its size and turned towards its new target. It attempted to arch its head beneath its own bulk to snap at the morsel that rested there. This sudden switch in approach suggested that this was more than just an animal driven by instinct. It was using tactics and that made it simultaneously more dangerous as a predator and more desirable as a trophy.

Dhyer rolled to the side just as a heavy foot crashed down and kicked at the snapping beak. The second foot came down and the tip of a claw opened a deep wound in his shoulder. Blood sprayed and stained the furs he wore as he lost his grip on one of his knives. He cursed inwardly and gritted his teeth against the sudden pain.

Open Skies and Fleet-foot rushed to his aid.

Fleet-foot led with her blades, aiming for the beast’s body where the quills ended and the hide began. Both weapons sunk into the flesh up to the hilt. She held on tightly with her left hand and stabbed again with the right, feeling the blade slide between ribs. At the same time, Open Skies struck again with his spear, aiming for the creature’s neck.

The monster snapped its head up, nearly tripping Open Skies with the haft of Sharp Tongue’s spear, and closed its serrated beak around the young hunter’s weapon. The severed spear tip went flying with an audible crack and Open Skies stumbled, suddenly disarmed. He reached for his dagger, but even as his hand closed around the hilt, the raptoryx struck again, closing its savage maw around the hunter’s torso.

Open Skies screamed in agony as the monster tore into him, but he still found the strength to draw his knife and hack at its head. The tip of the blade found one of its eyes and the orb burst, spraying ichor. Half-blind, the raptoryx raged even more furiously. Fleet-foot went flying, one of her daggers still stuck in its flank, while with a sickening crunch Open Skies was torn in half. A slick of gore and steaming guts spilled out in all directions and the creature shrieked in pained victory. Its triumph was short-lived, however. Dhyer saw his moment of opportunity and hefting his weapon, plunged it through the creature’s remaining eye. Sheer anger drove the force of the blow and the blade slid through into its brain. It reacted by throwing its head back and staggering.

Dhyer, driven by blinding fury, stabbed it repeatedly until its black blood rained down on him and his arm burned from the exertion. The raptoryx sagged to one side, its bulk falling away from Dhyer with a thump of heavy meat. He stood, his chest heaving, and with brutal efficiency, tore out Sharp Tongue’s spear, along with most of the beast’s throat.

There was no doubt that the monster was well and truly dead. The rattling gurgles of its final breaths echoed around the cave until finally, and with no small sense of relief from Fleet-foot and Dhyer, all fell to silence. The only sounds were those of the trickling water and the gasps of the surviving hunters trying to catch their breath.

Fleet-foot found that her body was trembling, but it was not from fear or cold. It was from the ecstasy of the adrenaline coursing through her body, just as it did when she ran. She exulted in its welcome presence.

As the battle-hunger also drained from his body, she saw Dhyer take stock of his own injury. The meat had caught him a solid blow across the shoulder, and he was attempting to twist his head to look more closely. He shed the top layer of furs and Fleet-foot crossed to him. Silently, she examined the injury.

‘You will bear a scar,’ she told him and the envy in her voice was clear. ‘And you will be stiff. But I see no bone. You are strong. You will survive to fight another day.’

He stooped to pick up the discarded, bloodied fur. ‘Today we are blessed,’ he said quietly, as he crossed to the destroyed body of Open Skies. ‘Today, we are granted the chance to devour the warrior spirits of two great hunters. He was your brother. You should perform the Cut. We must feast on the Heart of the Fallen.’

‘No,’ she replied. ‘You are the one who killed the meat. I defer to you. The honour should be yours.’ She had no tears for her brother, only pride that he had fought to the end. Dhyer studied her for a moment and then nodded. In an echo of the rite they had already performed earlier, he crouched beside Open Skies and reached into the warrior’s chest to pull out his heart, the appalling wound making cutting unnecessary.

Once the heart was in his hand, he tore a chunk from it and handed it to Fleet-foot, who took her share.

‘We need to get them back to the tribe,’ said Dhyer. Watching him, she knew they would share many great hunts together.

She hacked at the beast’s haunch, keen to take at least some of the meat back. With Dhyer’s tracking skills and the trail markers they could leave as they travelled, she hoped to return soon to harvest more of the fallen creature. But there was no guarantee that other predators would not take the meat, and her decision to carry at least some was wise. They would also make a point of taking the heart.

Somewhere, just on the edge of hearing, there was a soft splash and ripples disturbed the underground lake.

About the Author

Sarah Cawkwell is a freelance writer based in north-east England. Her work for Black Library includes the Silver Skulls novels The Gildar Rift and Portents, and the Architect of Fate novella, Accursed Eternity. For Warhammer, she is best known for her stories featuring the daemon princess of Khorne, Valkia the Bloody.

An extract from Warcry: The Anthology.

The air was so hot and dry that every breath was like swallowing sand. Thornwinder liked it that way. In the depths of summer, in the land of his birth, the scorching exhalation of the earth would rip across the Jagged Savannah and strip the slow-witted to the bone. With a carved jawbone in his hand, the punishing heat hammering down against him, and the warpaint drying on his face, this patch of the Bloodwind Spoil felt like the place he had been born.

Fifty Untamed Beasts lay on the reverse of the slope. Each had the bone armour and dark green tattoos of the Venom Fang tribe. Every one of them had more blood on their hands than Thornwinder. He was young. A whelp. To most of the coursers and braves, he was barely alive.

He had walked through the portal to the Eightpoints knowing, whatever happened, he would not return. He would die in this cruel, mad land. He had not looked back yet.

Elder Speartongue walked up and down the line of waiting Untamed Beasts. His skin was pierced by hundreds of sabre-teeth from hunter-predators. The lines of his face, so deep they could have been old knife scars, spoke of an age rarely attained in the Eightpoints.

‘The Devourer demands the towers shall fall!’ he called. ‘The walls shall crumble! The crowns shall go unworn!’

‘Tear it down!’ chanted the Untamed Beasts in response. Stone axes and bone clubs hammered against hide shields. Bone charms jangled. ‘Tear it down!’

‘The Unmade replace their flesh with unnatural steel,’ continued Speartongue, ‘as if this will make them more than men, and not less. They would raise their prison walls across the whole Eightpoints, to turn every patch of earth into a torture chamber. But the Devourer wills it not! It spat out all the scratchings of civilisation from the Jagged Savannah! So it shall be on the Bloodwind Spoil, for we are Its hand, and we are Its jaws! We shall see the empires fall before they can stand! We shall tear them down!’

Thornwinder’s knuckles were white around the haft of his jawbone axe. He had killed the beast himself, ripped the bone from its still-snarling face. He was blooded. He was the equal of any man or woman in the tribe.

Elder Speartongue gestured towards the crest of the ridge with his staff of fused vertebrae. The Untamed Beasts leapt to their feet as one and charged up the slope. Thornwinder was carried along on the tide of their fury such that he could not have turned back even if he had wanted to.

But he did not want to turn back.

His heart rushed. He could feel the blood in his ears. Taste it in his mouth.

Heart-eater Riphide led them, his mountainous form a head higher than anyone else in the Venom Fang, swinging the massive stone-headed axe. Preytaker Flaywrithe kept pace with him, blood spattering from the raw and unscraped hides she wore around her shoulders. With a roar, the Untamed Beasts crested the ridge. Thornwinder scrambled in the wake of the braves ahead of him, and saw the enemy for the first time.

The Unmade were ready for them. The slope ahead was studded with spiked barriers defended by the enemy. Remains of the Unmade’s victims covered the barricades, from dried-out bodies weeks old to the freshly dead still bleeding from the marks of mutilation. Already the Unmade had tried to inflict permanency on the land. It would all crumble, for that was the Devourer’s demand.

Almost a hundred Unmade held the desert slope. They wore tarnished, bloodstained armour of steel and bronze, with chainmail protecting the joints. They favoured weight and impact over speed for their weaponry – warhammers, flanged maces and morning stars, executioner’s axes. But what marked them out were their faces.

Each Unmade’s face was a mess of scar tissue, forming inhuman ridges and pits around the vestiges of their features. They wore the face they’d torn from their skull on the belt of their armour or mounted on their shield, a commemoration and a rejection of the human they had once been. Instead, they had ripped those faces away, and become Unmade.

The Unmade let out their own war cry as the Venom Fang tribe rushed towards them. Raw throats opened up to yell the praises of their Gods.

Heart-eater Riphide slammed into the first barricade, crunching through it with his weight and fury. The stone edge of his axe, as jagged and keen as broken glass, hacked down through an Unmade’s shoulder guard. The first blood went to the tribe’s Heart-eater, as it should.

Thornwinder felt the heat and the power of the blood that sprayed. It soaked the parched earth, and the earth reached up to drink it down. It shuddered beneath his feet. The grey sky tinged scarlet.

The Untamed Beasts hit the Unmade defences and the battlefield was all bedlam and noise. Screaming, roaring, breaking bone and buckling steel, bone against bone and iron against flesh.

Right in front of Thornwinder, one of the Venom Fang’s braves fell with a spear-point through the stomach that punched out through his lower spine. The Unmade, a towering monstrosity crammed into a bulging gut-plate, threw the corpse off the spear with contempt. The enemy’s eyes, set deep in gnarled pockets of dried and shredded muscle, turned to Thornwinder. The ragged slit of a mouth smiled at the easy kill that would follow.

Easy to kill. That was what they thought of him. Not just the enemy, but the rest of the Venom Fang. That was why Thornwinder was there. A sacrifice to the Devourer, blade-fodder to spill his blood on the ground and remind the rest of the tribe how strong they had become.

It was anger at that very thought that drove Thornwinder on to meet the Unmade.

The spear-point thrust over his head as he ducked low and leapt back up to strike. The jawbone axe swung up and caught the lower edge of the Unmade’s gut-plate with more strength than Thornwinder had ever mustered in his short life. The Unmade stumbled back and Thornwinder pivoted as he landed, spinning to bring the axe around with full force.

The Unmade’s size was its weakness. It was too slow to duck or move back out of the weapon’s arc. Thornwinder let out an involuntary cry of exultation as the bone edge crunched into the side of the Unmade’s skull and bit deep, shearing halfway through to the middle of the browbone. Pulp spurted from the Unmade’s eye pits and it was dead before it sunk to its knees, the spear dropping from its mailed fist.

‘See! Even the whelp is blooded!’ Thornwinder gasped down a breath, suddenly feeling the exertion, as he turned to see Preytaker Flaywrithe watching him with a mocking sneer on her face. Her quiver of javelin-sized arrows was already half-empty and she fought with a bone hatchet in one hand and her bow in the other. ‘He who has no life taken yet, wallow in shame! Even the boy is ahead of you!’

Thornwinder felt a tightness in his chest, a knot of indignation and fury. He had killed for his tribe, he had fought as hard as any of them there – he had prevailed when other Untamed Beasts had already fallen – and they were laughing at him for it.

If there had been a spear in his hand, or a bow with an arrow nocked, he could not be sure he would not have loosed it at Preytaker Flaywrithe in that moment. He would have gladly seen her fall as a punishment for mocking him.

The fury passed, to be replaced with another emotion. The battle was raging ahead of him. Unmade and Untamed Beast were both draped over the defences and the charge had broken up into dozens of smaller fights, combatants ripping into one another in ones and twos. The Untamed Beasts’ charge had thrown the Unmade back but now the enemy were resurgent.

He saw their leader. The warlord of this Unmade band was larger than any of the others, and onto his armoured body were nailed dozens of skinned faces. They stared out from him with anguish and pain in their empty eye sockets. The Unmade warlord’s own face was a pared-down skull, bloody and slick, with the tendons standing out in red cables and a lipless mouth full of fangs grafted in from other creatures. Where he was not covered by armour, severed hands hung from hooks screwed into his flesh and bone.

The warlord of the Unmade lashed out around him with a pair of weighted, spiked mace heads attached to long chains. One stroke took the head off a courser of the Venom Fang who charged at him. Another swept the legs out from another brave before the other Unmade fell on him and speared him dead where he fell.

In that moment, witnessing the abomination that led the enemy, Thornwinder decided that no one would ever laugh at him again. He would die first, for death was better than being spat on as a worthless whelp for the rest of his existence.

He broke into a run, aiming straight for the warlord. A spear whistled past him, slicing deep into his shoulder. One of the Unmade reached out to grab him as he ran and wrestle him to the ground. Thornwinder crunched his jawbone axe into the Unmade’s wrist and kept going.

He felt the ground shift under him, and he knew it was the Devourer bearing him up. Sections of cracked earth lifted, toppling men aside. Blood-red tentacles shifted where the earth opened up, the living mass of the Bloodwind Spoil awakened by the bloodshed above it.

The sky changed colour. A purple-black plume flowed across it, and warm spatters of blood began to fall. The Eightpoints loved war. It was waking up. And it was on the side of the Untamed Beasts.

Thornwinder scrambled up the steepening slope ahead of him. He was lifted high above the battlefield. The sound filling his ears was a thunder of tearing rock and the grinding of leathery hide against broken stone.

An Untamed Beast tumbled down the slope past him. Others were fending off the massive ropes of muscle uncoiling hungrily from the ground. Thornwinder ignored it all, because the Unmade warlord still stood, and there was no other way to show the Venom Fang tribe who he was.

Thornwinder leapt off the shard of the upturned ground. Beneath him was the warlord, surrounded by a bloody circle of torn flesh reaped from the Untamed Beasts by his swinging chains.

Too late, the warlord looked upwards to see Thornwinder falling on him.

The warlord raised a hand to fend off the downward blow of Thornwinder’s axe. The edge cleaved through the hand and wrist, splitting the warlord’s forearm halfway to the elbow. With a sweep of his arm, the Unmade threw Thornwinder aside and the jawbone was wrenched out of his hand. He landed hard, shoulder first, and rolled to his feet.

It was fury that was driving him. Fury, and the Devourer. He could feel it beneath his feet – the savage deity of the earth, the land’s own raging that demanded the uprooting of civilisation from the Eightpoints. It was the Devourer’s rage that forced him to stand in the face of the Unmade warlord. It dulled the pain. It banished the doubt.

Thornwinder ran straight at the warlord. A mace head slammed into the ground like a comet beside him, just a hand’s breadth off target, showering him with pulverised rock. He jumped over the chain that slithered across the ground behind it, and leapt at the warlord.

The Unmade dropped the chain and grabbed Thornwinder’s arm. Thornwinder was held fast in a grip strong enough to crack bone. His other arm groped at the Unmade’s ruined face, searching for an eye, a cheek, anything soft enough to ruin empty-handed. But this was an Unmade, and it had no face to destroy.

He grabbed the Unmade’s chin and forced its head back. The ropey expanse of its throat was just visible above the collar of its breastplate.

Thornwinder struck out like a cornered animal snapping at a hand held too close. The Unmade’s enormous size and strength came with reactions a heartbeat slower than Thornwinder’s. Before the warlord could wrench him away, his teeth closed on the foul-tasting, gnarled flesh of its throat.

He felt the gristle parting. His mouth filled with blood. Thornwinder wrenched his head back and the warlord’s larynx came away.

Thornwinder threw his head back as the warlord’s blood sluiced down his chest. Around him the battle seemed caught in a sudden stasis as the eyes of the Unmade and the Untamed Beasts turned to the death of the warlord.

He spat out the chunk of flesh. The Unmade warlord sunk to its knees, then toppled onto its front in the dirt. The warlord’s grip of Thornwinder’s arm finally relaxed. The ground heaved in appreciation for the sacrifice, rising and falling as if taking a vast and rumbling breath.

Preytaker Flaywrithe was watching. On her face was an uncharacteristic mix of appreciation and surprise. This time, she had nothing to say.

Click here to buy Warcry: The Anthology.

A Black Library Publication

This eBook edition published in 2019 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Paul Dainton.

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ISBN: 978-1-78999-740-8

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