Contents

Cover

The Iron Promise – Josh Reynolds

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Warcry: The Anthology’

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

THE IRON PROMISE

Josh Reynolds

Vos Stalis sighed as the shadow of black wings fell over him. Instinctively, the Iron Golem twitched his head to the side. A crude blade skidded off his cage-helm. As the fury swooped past, shrieking in frustration, Vos spun and caught the gangling creature’s ankle. The dominar dragged the struggling daemon to the ground and stamped on its back, shattering its spine. It wasn’t worth further effort.

The daemon’s leathery wings continued to flap for a moment, as it thrashed in helpless agony, but he was already turning away. There were more of the gargoyle-like vermin to kill. There were always more. The Skullpike Mountains were infested with them. And worse besides. ‘Be quick,’ he called out to the others. ‘Finish them. Before their screams draw something else down on us.’

His warband was only half a dozen strong – but they were worth twice that. He watched as his drillmaster, Varka, crushed a fury with a blow from her flail. Nearby, his signifier, Kolsk, bellowed orders at the trio of legionaries that fought in the shadow of his standard, their rounded shields raised against the darting attacks of their daemonic opponents. One of the legionaries tore a pair of weighted bolas from her belt and sent them whirling about a fury, grounding the daemon so that her companions could kill it.

Like Vos, the others were clad in the heavy war-plate of the Iron Legion, and carried weapons forged in the smithies of the Onyx Fist, the greatest dreadhold of the Iron Golems’ empire. They were the elite, and bore the tools of war with ease. No other warriors could so easily defy the dangers of the Bloodwind Spoil.

‘Fight, you puling bastards,’ Kolsk snarled, smashing a fury from the air with a sweep of his battle-standard. The heavy standard was topped by a shield of iron, strung with garlands of brass links. It clattered like a smithy with every twitch of Kolsk’s muscular arm. ‘Beat them and break them – they are weak, and you are strong!’

The bat-winged daemons swarmed about the Iron Golems, screeching obscenities in half-human voices. Vos did not listen. What would be the point? What could such weak things have to say to a man that was worth hearing?

He caught his warhammer in two hands and swung it in a wide arc. Dark flesh pulped and tore as he caught two of the beasts and sent them sprawling to the ground. As they tried to rise, he finished them with a quick succession of blows. Their forms sputtered and dissolved like fat on a cooking pan, sending up pungent wisps.

The furies had had enough. The remains of the flock rose skywards, screaming and wailing. They flew south, out over the wilds of the Spoil, leaving behind the dead and dying. Several of the beasts, too crippled to fly, tried to crawl away into the surrounding stones. Vos’ legionaries finished them off with swift efficiency, silencing their whimpers.

‘Crola, Garn – keep watch, in case they regain their courage,’ Vos said, gesturing to two of the legionaries. Garn nodded. Crola freed her bolas from the body of the fury she’d brought down and genuflected.

‘Aye, dominar.’

Vos looked at the third legionary. ‘Harsk, check the path ahead.’

‘As you command, dominar,’ Harsk grunted. He hurried away, armour clattering. Vos watched him go, and then turned to his subordinates.

‘Good fight, eh, Kolsk?’ Varka said, scraping ichor from her flail. ‘Just the thing to get the blood moving.’

‘You call that a fight?’ Kolsk snorted. ‘It was barely a scuffle. Furies are no better than beasts.’ He laughed. ‘In fact, I’d wager there are things aplenty in these mountains that would give us a tougher time. Don’t you think so, dominar?’

Vos shook his head. ‘A killing blow knows no master,’ he said. ‘A fury can kill you as dead as an ogor, if the circumstances are right.’

‘Be very embarrassing though,’ Varka said. Kolsk nodded.

Vos chuckled. ‘That I agree with.’ He climbed up onto a nearby outcrop of volcanic rock and looked into the setting sun. Past the red glare, and the hazy fumes rising from the porous slopes of the mountains, he could just make out their destination – the smithy-citadel of the duardin forgemaster Khoragh Ar-Nardras Has’ut.

‘Is that it, then?’ Varka asked, peering towards the sun.

‘Yes.’ A few more hours of hard travel, Vos estimated, and they’d be at the great stone bridge which led to the outer gates of the citadel. He could just make out the tops of the pillars that lined it, as well as the harsh glow of the magmatic river surging below.

‘It doesn’t look like much, from here,’ Varka said.

‘You betray your ignorance with every word, woman,’ Kolsk said. ‘A thousand fires feed a thousand forges beneath those peaks. The vaults of that place stretch down into the very roots of the mountains, each of them full of enough arms and armour to gird a legion. And all of it ours by right.’

‘And that is why we are here,’ Vos said. ‘To claim what we are owed.’ He stepped down off the rock. ‘Come. Let us go. We will reach the bridge by dawn’s first light.’

Despite this optimism, the path through the mountains was arduous, even for Iron Golems. Poisonous fumes rose from cracks in the stones at their feet, and the mountains trembled as distant peaks erupted in cascades of molten rock. These tremors brought with them avalanches that swept down in rolling cascades of tumbling scree, forcing Vos and the others to divert from the path or seek shelter – something that became more difficult as the sun set, and light faded.

As night fell, one of the boiling gales of gore that gave the Bloodwind Spoil its name swept over the mountains. Steaming abattoir droplets pelted the warband from on high, staining their armour and flesh a grisly shade of red.

Vos heard one of the others – Harsk, he thought – choke on the effluvia, but to his satisfaction the legionary stumbled on without falling. Only the strong were fit to serve the Iron Legion. Only the strong could journey into the Bloodwind Spoil and survive.

The Spoil lay between worlds. A wild, untamed place, clinging barnacle-like to the confluence known as the Eightpoints. At times, as they climbed up the steaming slopes, Vos caught a glimpse of the lowlands below. He saw the great fortified road that stretched like a black ribbon across the wastes, and the gleaming Arcway that led home to Chamon, and the Ferrium Mountains. Too, he saw the dust clouds cast up by armies marching to war, and the smoke of a thousand conflagrations.

This place was always at war. Peace was unnatural. If there was peace, you could be certain only that the Gods weren’t paying attention.

But that did not mean that alliances were not possible. The Iron Golems sat at the centre of a web of trading agreements and military alliances, spun steadily over the years by High Overlord Mithraxes. Not all of their partners were human – counted among their number were skaven warlords and ogor tyrants. And duardin.

Duardin such as Khoragh Ar-Nardras Has’ut. One of a twisted handful who chose to make their homes far from the hearths of their kin, in the Bloodwind Spoil and elsewhere. They were renowned for their artifice, as well as their cruelty and sadism. And Khoragh was among the cruellest of their number.

Long ago, he had made common cause with High Overlord Mithraxes and the Iron Golems. In return for slaves and protection, Khoragh had promised to deliver a tithe of raw iron to Mithraxes. An annual contribution of ore was owed to the Onyx Fist, to be forged into arms and armour for the elite of the Legion.

But Khoragh had broken his promise to the High Overlord. He had delivered the tithe without fail for a century – until this year. It was Vos’ duty to find out why he had not done so, and convince him to make recompense. Failing that, he was to take what was owed, with interest.

Vos was determined to see this done. Not merely out of a sense of duty, but because it would raise him high in the esteem of his blood-cousin, Mithraxes. He was not immune to ambition – no warrior worth the name was – and success would bring reward.

Failure, on the other hand, was best not contemplated.

The night wore on, as they made their way through the crags. Up high slopes, and down along winding paths, littered with the detritus of a forgotten age. The mountains had swallowed many kingdoms since the coming of Chaos, and they passed through the ruins of more than one forgotten watchtower and outpost.

Things howled in the dark. Furies gibbered somewhere high up. The path grew tortuous, falling entirely away in places. They were forced to stop and light torches, made from bones found among the rocks and rags torn from their clothing, soaked in oil. The light they cast was sickly and colourless, but it served well enough.

They had not gone far when Kolsk stopped. ‘Dominar,’ he murmured. Vos paused. The light of the torches had caught on something – a gleam, as of glass or a gemstone. And a sound, like the murmur of night insects. Vos raised his hand.

‘Hold,’ he rumbled.

The air was thick with a reddish haze that stank of sulphur. The sound, faint at first, grew louder. Closer. Vos recognised it then, and felt a flicker of unease. ‘What is that?’ Varka asked. ‘It sounds like… glass breaking.’

Vos gestured sharply. ‘Quiet. Look.’

Drifting towards them through the murky air were several floating polyps of crystal. Their facets shimmered in the torchlight, and phantasmal faces, some contorted in agony, others snarling in anger, coalesced within them. The faces faded as soon as one looked at them too closely.

‘Back,’ Vos growled. ‘All of you – back.’ Varka and the others obeyed instantly. They all knew how dangerous such oddities were. The strange wonders of the Bloodwind Spoil could devour a person as surely as its innumerable horrors.

A hot wind stirred the dust of the trail, momentarily obscuring the polyps. But Vos could still hear them – the faint clink of grit sliding along crystalline edges. He readied his hammer. ‘Shields up. Do not lower them, whatever you do.’

‘Dominar…’ Kolsk said, warily.

‘Quiet,’ Vos snarled. ‘Hold your position.’

The first crystal glided forward through the curtain of dust. Vos tensed and sprang, hammer raised. The crystal shattered with a scream like that of a frightened infant. Swiftly, he swung his hammer, scattering the fragments lest they touch him. Even broken, the crystals were dangerous. The merest shard could drain a man of blood and soul.

The shattered crystal’s cry reverberated through the others, and they drifted back, as if frightened. He took a step towards them. ‘Strike your shields,’ he said. The three legionaries slammed their weapons against the faces of their shields. The sound was like thunder, and the crystals twisted in mid-air as if confused. ‘Varka, Kolsk, help me.’

Varka and Kolsk moved up to flank him. The crystals retreated before them, as Vos had hoped. ‘Strike the rocks,’ he said. Kolsk struck the ground with his standard, as Varka slammed her flail down. Stones dislodged by the vibrations tumbled from the slopes above. One of the crystals spun, its facets cracked. Vos lunged and shattered it, careful to avoid the shards. Like the other, it screamed as it came apart.

The last two drifted out of sight, hidden by the dust. Vos brought the others up short. ‘They are fleeing. Let them go.’

‘What were they?’ Varka asked, prodding at one of the shards with her flail. Something that might have been an eye opened within the depths of the shard, before dissipating. Vos crushed the shard, and swept the pieces from the path.

‘I do not know what they are called. They haunt the high places, draining the life from those they catch unawares. Every soul they take adds a new facet to them.’ He grunted. ‘We are lucky. The ones I saw were twice that size.’ He looked at them. ‘Come. The night runs on, and soon it will be sunrise.’

They pressed on, faster now, all of them sensing that their journey was almost at an end. When they finally reached the bridge, the sun’s rays were scraping across the lowest peaks. Flocks of black birds circled above, croaking in disturbingly human voices. Scatterings of bones were piled in untidy heaps among the rocks all around, and strange insects crept among them, clicking and trilling.

The bridge stretched across a river of bubbling lava. Islands of black glass floated in the slow-moving current, and peaks of cooled lava rose along the sides, stretching upwards to the underside of the bridge. The bridge itself was a straight expanse of shaped stone, lined to either side by heavy, rounded pillars – some broken, others missing in their entirety.

A canopy of chains had been strung from the pillars, and from them dangled the remains of dozens of bodies – not human, but duardin. They gleamed strangely in the light of the rising sun, and Vos thought that they had been hanging for some time… Long enough for the heat to all but mummify them.

More birds perched among the bodies, denuding them of weather-shrunken flesh and muscle. Some had been entirely picked clean, and their bare bones clattered in the hot air rising from the lava flow.

‘Fyreslayers,’ Kolsk murmured. ‘This place belonged to them, once, or so I heard.’

Vos nodded. ‘Yes. Khoragh took this place from them, long ago. He used strange engines to breach their defences and then, when the slaughter was done, forced the survivors to rebuild them to his own satisfaction.’

On the other side of the bridge the gates to the great smithy-citadel rose along a rough escarpment. Wrought from iron and brass, they had been shaped to resemble the monstrous features of what Vos thought was a bull. The bull’s swooping horns were bastions, stretching to either side of the gates. Gun-slits lined them, from tip to base. But there was no sign that the bastions were manned. In fact, there was no sign of guards at all.

Beyond the gates, the towers and battlements of the citadel cut the skyline above like jagged teeth. They rose and fell with the crags, and were crowned in smoke. Vos inhaled, tasting the heat of the great mountain-forge on the wind. Anyone other than a legionary of the Iron Golems would have found it oppressive. The stones around them bled raw heat from the veins of fire running through the volcanic mountains.

‘Beautiful,’ Varka said. She looked at him. ‘It reminds me of home.’

Vos nodded. ‘Yes. But home is better guarded than this. Where are the sentries? Why is our approach not challenged?’ He shook his head. ‘Sloppy.’

‘Not a word one usually associates with duardin,’ Kolsk said. ‘Even one of this sort.’ The signifier struck the ground with the ferrule of his standard – a sign of his unease, Vos knew. Kolsk, like all good soldiers, would rather die than admit fear. Vos nodded.

‘Something is wrong.’

‘Something is always wrong, dominar,’ Varka said. ‘It is the nature of this place. It is the nature of life, is it not?’

‘Philosophy,’ Kolsk said dismissively, and spat.

Varka looked at him, but said nothing. Vos watched them out of the corner of his eye. As ever, his subordinate refused to rise to Kolsk’s bait. It was not fear that stayed her hand, but rather pragmatism. Kolsk did not speak without purpose. His words were a trap – he had lured many a rival into a confrontation, and struck them down, thus assuring the sanctity of his position. So far, Varka had resisted his overtures. She was smart.

Vos wondered if he ought to kill her now, but dismissed the idea. Pragmatism was one thing, but dispatching a potential rival before they were ready was cowardice. Not to mention a waste of a good warrior.

Life was conflict. From conflict, came strength. Only by meeting an enemy openly in the field could strength be proven, and life earned. Such were the lessons of the Legion. Such were the truths that Vos carried in his heart. Be honest, be brave and brutal, and the Gods would smile upon you. Be fearful, be a liar or dishonourable, and suffer the fate of all cowards. When Varka was ready, he would meet her on the challenge field – not before.

Part of him looked forward to it. Varka was a deadly fighter – cunning and lethal. And beautiful. He paused, startled by the thought. She turned, and he realised, with some chagrin, that he had been staring at her. She flexed slightly, making the scars on her arms dance. Vos, suddenly uncomfortable, turned away. He cleared his throat. ‘We will make camp.’

Kolsk looked at him, startled. ‘What?’

‘We are not invaders. We are owed recompense. I will give him no excuse to play the aggrieved fief-lord.’ Vos gestured to Harsk. ‘Dig a firepit. Cook something. Let whoever watches us know that we are not going away.’ The legionary nodded, and drew his knife. He crouched and set to work, hacking at the stony ground.

Kolsk chuckled. ‘Cunning, dominar. You force them to invite us in, or risk angering the High Overlord further.’

‘Khoragh is wise, and steeped in guile, like all of his twisted kindred. His hand cannot be forced. But it can be jostled. So we will wait.’ He extended his hammer towards Crola. ‘You have first watch.’

She thumped her shield. ‘Aye, dominar.’ The legionary took up position at the foot of the bridge, her war-club resting on her shoulder. The others settled around the newly dug firepit. Varka and Garn dumped armfuls of shattered bones into it. Harsk poured a libation of oil onto the piled bones, and Kolsk struck a spark from a stone with his knife. The fire roared up, and Varka loosed the stopper on a wine skin. A familiar vintage, made from grapes grown in the volcanic soil of the Ferrium Mountains. Vos took a pull, relishing the bitter tang of it. The wine skin was passed around.

There was food of sorts, as well. Cured orruk meat, a staple of the Iron Legion. Vos gnawed on a strip of greenish jerky, chewing determinedly. Even dead and salted, orruks were tough. As they ate and drank, they spoke, not as superiors and subordinates, but merely as soldiers. Such discussion was encouraged in the Legion. Ideas, like iron, required heat and tempering to be made useful. Ignorance was a flaw in the metal.

‘Metal is metal, flesh is flesh,’ Kolsk was saying. He was arguing with Varka again. An old argument, reheated for a new day. ‘One is not the same as the other.’

Varka sighed. ‘At their base, they are one and the same. The fires of Chaos shape them both. Flesh is but the armour of the soul, as iron armours flesh.’

Crola and Garn ate and drank and listened, absorbing their words. Vos watched, amused. Kolsk and Varka seemed to enjoy these gentle duels, when they weren’t actively antagonising one another. The firepit was sacrosanct – a place and time where all grudges were set aside, at least for a few moments.

Kolsk shook his head. ‘Utter nonsense.’ He looked at Vos. ‘What do you think?’

Vos was silent for a moment. He studied the fire, considering his words. ‘Flesh is impermanent,’ he said, sweeping his hand through the flames. They licked at his callouses, but he had endured far worse. ‘It begins to rot from the moment it is formed. But metal is everlasting. It can be forged anew, with the proper tools. That is why we must be as iron, rather than flesh. We must be strong. We must endure.’ He reached down and plucked an ember free of the brazier. ‘And we must let the fire shape us, when it is time.’ He closed his fingers about the ember, snuffing it. He cast it back into the pit and pushed himself to his feet. ‘I will take next watch.’

He relieved Crola, and sent her back to the fire. Hammer in hand, he watched the great doors at the opposite end of the bridge. Someone had noticed them by now – he was certain of it. The question was, how would they react?

Vos had few illusions as to his warband’s true purpose here – they were like the char-birds that slaves took into the mines, to check for deadly aethers. If Khoragh welcomed them, then Mithraxes knew that the iron promise held true. If the forgemaster slaughtered them, then an army would follow and avenge their deaths.

It was a great honour, and the rewards would be great if they succeeded. That was what Vos told himself. It was an honour, bestowed upon him by his glorious kinsman. And Vos would see it done, whatever the outcome.

He heard the groan of great hinges, and looked up. ‘On your feet,’ he bellowed. Kolsk and the others hurried to join him as the gates swung open with ponderous gravitas. Dust rose where they scraped the stones. The bridge shook slightly as the motion of the gates reverberated through it.

The gates ceased their movement, and for a time the only sounds were the echoes of unseen mechanisms, and the distant growl of the lava flow. No sentries appeared, no heralds or messengers. And finally, even the echoes faded.

‘A trap,’ Kolsk muttered.

‘An invitation,’ Vos said. ‘He’s decided to talk.’ He took a breath, and then stepped up onto the bridge. ‘Come.’ He strode slowly across the bridge, glancing warily at the broken pillars to either side. Up close, he could discern the runes carved into them. They glowed faintly, as if hot, and Vos’ skin prickled – sorcery, of the duardin sort. ‘Careful,’ he grunted.

‘Aye, dominar, I see them,’ Kolsk said. He shook his standard. ‘Eyes to the front, Harsk, you laggard.’ The legionary twitched at the rebuke, but said nothing. Vos noted that the other four were silent as well. That was good. It showed their discipline.

As they passed between the pillars, the runes flared. Red sparks danced along the chains overhead, startling the carrion birds. The hanging corpses twitched, and one of them made a sound like a moan. ‘Ignore them,’ Vos cautioned. The moment the words left his mouth, the first corpse dropped to the ground with a wet thump. It was followed by nine more, from among the most intact.

The corpses straightened, and Vos saw runes of red gold hammered into their flesh. The runes blazed with heat, and the bodies twitched and stumbled forward, hands outstretched. ‘I think we found the sentries,’ Varka said.

Kolsk pushed past her. ‘Pfaugh – a few deadwalkers. We have faced worse.’ He lashed out at the closest of them, and crushed it to the ground. A chilling moan swept through the remaining corpses, louder than before. The runes embedded in their tattered flesh blazed more brightly. Vos stepped ahead of his signifier, and smashed a second corpse from its feet. Varka and the others followed his example.

‘A good welcome, eh, dominar?’ Varka said, as she kicked the legs out from under a deadwalker and stamped on its skull. ‘Do you think he knows we’re friendly?’

‘A better question would be… does he care?’ he said, crushing the skull of another carcass. ‘Advance.’ Shields and bludgeoning weapons were put to good use, herding the deadwalkers backwards. Sometimes, it took more than one blow, and sometimes, they got back up, even with broken limbs and mangled skulls, driven on by the magics that infused the runes. Regardless, they proved little challenge. It was only when the last corpse fell twitching that he wondered if they had truly been meant to.

They reached the gates moments later. Heat wafted out through them, making the air shimmer. Without hesitation, Vos led his warriors through them, into the darkness beyond. He was certain now that they were being watched – that the dead fyreslayers had been nothing more than a token resistance – a grisly jest. Duardin had a strange sense of humour.

Their footsteps echoed in the dark for a time. But then – lights. One, at first. Then two. Four. Eight. Ten. Lanterns of curious manufacture had been set into the pillars that lined the space, and they flickered to life through some unknown artifice.

They revealed a large antechamber, with vaulted ceilings and heavy archways of cut stone. Narrow steps rose at odd angles, coiling up to high doors and apertures. There was little ornamentation, though there were signs that such had not always been the case – the shattered plinths of toppled statues, and the cracked facades where great carvings might once have glared down. Now there was only plain stone, scorched black in places by constant heat.

At the far end of the chamber, the floor rose upwards on slabbed steps, to a flat landing. The landing, held up by a grove of support pillars, stretched backwards and split apart into a trio of parallel causeways that extended across a high-walled canal of lava.

These causeways ended at a trio of heavy portcullises, all sealed. The red glow cast up by the lava played across the portcullises, and vents set high into the walls belched smoke that pooled across the landing and crept down the stairs.

As Vos and the others approached the steps to the landing, figures appeared in the smoke. Three of them – two massive, one stunted and short. Vos stopped, and signalled for the others to do the same.

‘Ogors,’ Kolsk said, as the two larger figures came into view. Vos nodded. The ogors were head and hands taller than Vos, and thrice his width, with slabs of fat and muscle slathering their twisted frames. They were clad in the piecemeal armour of Breachers – the line-breakers and gate-smashers of the Iron Legion. Their armour covered only the vital organs, and they wore cage-helms wrought in the shape of a bull’s head, complete with horns. Their hands had been replaced with crude weapons – two blades for one, and a pair of bludgeons for the other. They grunted and growled as they shuffled to the edge of the landing.

The third figure was a duardin – broad and muscular, beneath heavy, unadorned war-plate and thick furs. He wore no helm, and his dark hair and beard were curled and braided in a way that was at once savage and vain. His bare arms and face were burned brown by the sun, and marked by rune-shaped scars. A whip was coiled on his hip, and he carried a heavy, ornate smith’s hammer in one hand. He glowered down at Vos and the others, and bared black tusks in a fierce grimace. ‘I am Khoragh. This place is mine. You are not welcome here. Tell me why I should not kill you all.’

Vos stepped forward. ‘I am Vos Stalis, Dominar of the Iron Legion, and blood-cousin to High Overlord Mithraxes…’

‘That is not a reason,’ the duardin said. He made a show of looking around. ‘What is Mithraxes to me, in this place? Nothing. Less than nothing.’

Vos bristled. ‘I was told your kind were wiser than men. Was I told wrong, then?’

Khoragh grunted. ‘I merely speak truth, umgash.’

Vos knew that word, and anger surged through him. It meant raw iron, untempered and untested. ‘I am not untempered, forgemaster,’ he spat. ‘Test me if you like. I will not break. I was forged in the sacred flame.’ He slammed a fist against his chest-plate, and the sound echoed through the cavernous hall. Khoragh flinched at the noise, but smiled – a sharp, cruel expression, like a blade scraped along bone. Vos cursed silently. He had been baited.

‘Test you? Yes. Yes, I will test you, blood-cousin to my oath-friend Mithraxes. Yes, yes, yes. A test. That is what is in order here. Proof of blood. That is the thing.’ Khoragh gathered his robes about him, his armour clanking. ‘Come up here, boy. Let us speak as friends, eh?’ He paused. ‘Only you, though. The rest stay where my guards can watch them.’ He nodded to the ogors, who clashed their weapons in acknowledgment.

‘Don’t trust him, dominar,’ Kolsk muttered. ‘He stinks of fear.’

‘Duardin are stone and iron,’ Varka said, quietly. ‘They are not supposed to know fear.’ She laughed. ‘Then, maybe someone has taught him.’

Vos gestured sharply. Khoragh was staring down at them, his eyes bright, like dollops of molten gold. Duardin had sharp ears, and Vos had no doubt the forgemaster had caught every word of the exchange. ‘Stay here. All of you.’ He shouldered his hammer and climbed the slabbed steps. Khoragh looked him up and down when he reached the top.

‘Yes, you’re one of Mithraxes’ kin, no doubt about it. You all carry yourselves with the same mix of arrogance and brutality. Almost like a proper duardin.’

Vos inclined his head respectfully, despite the anger that pulsed through him. ‘I thank you for the compliment.’ He looked around. The landing had once been decorated with statues, but now only shattered bases remained, and the nubs of stone feet. Khoragh caught him looking.

‘Gods and kings,’ he said, simply. ‘They offended me, so I removed them. A duardin should not have to endure the gazes of those who abandoned him. Besides, the stone was better put to use elsewhere.’

‘I am sure it was.’

Khoragh chuckled, but Vos could see fear in his eyes as he glanced nervously at the portcullises on the other side of the causeways. The duardin gestured. ‘Follow me.’ He led Vos to the edge of the landing, over the molten flow. A row of pulleys and winches lined the edge, and chains rose from them, up to holes in the ceiling high overhead. Vos glanced at them, realising that they likely controlled the portcullises, among other things. Khoragh patted a lever fondly.

‘My own design,’ he said. ‘Much more efficient than what this place’s previous masters used. Good warriors, my kin – bad engineers, though.’ He shook his head, as if saddened by the thought. Vos knew it was pretence. He had heard enough stories about Khoragh to know that the forgemaster had enjoyed every torment inflicted upon his hapless kin. Indeed, according to some, he seemed to hold a special hatred for his own folk above all others. As if they had wronged him personally.

Vos looked out over the lava flow. Waves of heat battered at him, and the air was thick with choking steam. The duardin studied him intently, as if seeking weakness. ‘You look uncomfortable, boy. I thought Mithraxes’ brood were used to a bit of heat.’

‘I am fine.’

Khoragh grinned, showing his black tusks. Vos realised that they were chips of carved obsidian. The duardin tugged on the plaits of his beard. ‘Good. Maybe you are strong, at that. You will forgive me for the rudeness of my greeting, eh? It has been some time since my oath-brother sent his dogs to my door.’

Vos forced himself to remain calm. The duardin was testing him. ‘You call him oath-brother… Does the iron promise still hold, then?’ he asked, carefully.

Khoragh nodded. ‘Aye, it does.’ He glanced at the portcullises again, and frowned.

‘Then why have you not delivered the tithe?’

‘Is that why he sent you?’ Khoragh sighed. ‘And here I fancied that my oath-brother might fear for my safety.’

Vos did not reply. Khoragh frowned and looked out over the surging lava flow. ‘Do you know who I am, boy? Did your vaunted kinsman tell you the story of Khoragh?’

‘I know all I need to know.’

Khoragh shook his head. ‘You know nothing. Too young to know anything.’ He swept a hand out. ‘Once, we ruled an empire of our own, my brothers and I. We were masters of the great Bale-Furnace. We tricked a God into raising up a mountain for us, and took his secrets. Then, we set to work. We armed a thousand kings, and slaughtered a thousand more so that we might use their royal blood to cool our steel.’

‘And now you are here,’ Vos said, interrupting. ‘And you owe a tithe.’

Khoragh sighed. ‘Yes. Now I am here and I owe a tithe.’ He laughed unpleasantly. ‘I thought my folk cherished their debts. But Mithraxes coddles his like children. I never would have made such a bargain had I but known how… disrespectful my oath-brother would become.’

‘It is because he respects you that we are here – and not an army.’

Khoragh laughed. ‘Oh, I like you, boy. I do. Such honesty is refreshing. I’m used to men dissembling for all they’re worth – and they’re not worth much.’

‘Only the weak lie. They are weak. We are not.’

‘Let us hope that is the case, eh?’ Khoragh clapped him on the arm. A friendly gesture. Vos’ skin crawled at the duardin’s touch. He twitched back.

‘Tell me. Now.’

Khoragh looked away. ‘A monster.’

Vos blinked. ‘Monster?’

Khoragh gestured with his hammer. ‘We will get through this more quickly if you do not simply repeat my words. Yes, boy, a monster. Something from deep in the mountain, I expect. The previous inhabitants of this place built their lodge on the bones of forgotten cities, like the lazy fools they were. These peaks are likely riddled with secret tombs containing horrors even the Dark Gods themselves have no interest in freeing.’

‘But you are not so wise.’

Khoragh glanced at him, one bushy eyebrow raised. He bared his tusks and chuckled. ‘Say, rather, I am not blessed with omniscience. I must crawl through time the traditional way, on two feet and with great determination. I cannot see what awaits me, and the Gods do not deign to warn me of such things.’ He snorted. ‘If I had known, I would not have disturbed it. Even my hubris has its limits.’

Vos doubted that, but did not interrupt.

‘It was a container of some sort – a sarcophagus, perhaps, or a personal vault. Marked by strange runes – no, not runes. Sigils. Buried down deep. I have no doubt my kin knew of it, for they had created the paths that led to it. Paths that I only discovered by accident.’

‘And when you did…?’

Khoragh looked at him as if he were a fool. ‘I tried to open it, of course.’

‘You failed.’

‘If I hadn’t, I doubt we would be having this discussion, boy.’ Khoragh’s voice softened. ‘The moment my servants touched it, the sigils… blazed. Bright. So bright. Like fire. No, brighter than that. Brighter than any conflagration known to duardin.’ His eyes strayed to the portcullises, and he fell silent.

Vos waited a few moments. Then, ‘And?’

Khoragh shook himself. ‘They died. Magics of some sort. But they awoke something. Perhaps it was summoned by their tampering, or maybe it had been there all along. I don’t know. It came and killed. It killed the guards who patrolled the forges and my slaves some weeks ago. Killed the warriors I sent after it. Killed those I sent after them. And so on…’

‘How many warriors do you have left?’

Khoragh glanced at the ogors. ‘Not so many that I can afford to waste them on fruitless hunts,’ he said, after a moment.

Vos hesitated. Khoragh was not telling the truth – at least not the whole truth. But he pushed the thought aside. ‘Why not send word to the Onyx Fist? Why not ask for our aid?’

Khoragh shrugged. ‘I thought I could handle it. When I realised that I could not… well, I knew that Mithraxes would send someone to see why I had not delivered the tithe. So I waited, and here you are.’ He bared his tusks. ‘Took you long enough, I might add. I am owed protection, but when I needed you, you were nowhere to be found.’

‘We are here now.’ Vos studied the duardin. There was something else. He could hear it in Khoragh’s voice. Something he wasn’t saying. But it wasn’t important. The only thing that mattered was securing the tithe.

‘Yes. And now, of course, you will hunt down this… creature,’ Khoragh said.

Vos looked at him, but said nothing. He had expected as much.

Khoragh smiled, perhaps taking his silence for confusion. ‘I am owed protection. If you wish the tithe, you will slay this invader for me. A simple enough matter, for such mighty warriors, I think.’

‘And if we do not?’ Vos asked.

‘Then I will consider the iron promise broken, and my debt paid.’ Khoragh’s smile widened. ‘I doubt my oath-brother Mithraxes would thank you for that.’

Vos was silent for a moment. Then he looked across the causeway to the portcullises. ‘Where is this vault?’ Such a thing might be of great value to the High Overlord.

Khoragh’s expression became sly. ‘Somewhere below. Far below. Deep beneath the forges.’

‘The forges – they are through those gates?’

‘Yes. I trapped it down there. Rune-magics seal those gates. They can only be opened by my hand – or stronger magics. When it became clear that my men could not contain the beast, I was forced to isolate the lower levels.’

‘You will open one of them,’ Vos said, decisively. It was the simplest solution to the problem at hand. Kill the creature, claim the tithe. ‘We will hunt the creature down and kill it for you.’

‘I will require proof, obviously,’ Khoragh said, hurriedly. ‘Proof that you have done so. It’s head, I think. Yes, that will do. Bring me its head, and I will honour my debt.’

Vos hesitated but only for a moment. He nodded. ‘Fine.’ He went back to the steps and gestured for the others to join him on the landing. The ogors had retreated, giving them room to climb up. Kolsk leaned close. ‘Success?’ he murmured.

‘Not yet,’ Vos said. Then, more loudly, ‘We have a beast to kill, and a debt to uphold. Come. We march in Mithraxes’ name.’ Vos turned to Khoragh. ‘Which gate?’

Khoragh stomped to the winches and pulleys. ‘Centre portcullis,’ he said. ‘It leads to the largest of the forges. From there, it’s a simple matter to reach the others.’ As he pushed and pulled at the mechanisms, Vos heard a distant clattering. A moment later, the chains began to move and the portcullis began to rise. ‘Best hurry,’ Khoragh said, loudly. ‘I’d rather not leave it open too long. Can’t risk it escaping.’

The portcullis rose with a groan as Vos and the others crossed the causeway at a trot. ‘I do not like this, dominar,’ Kolsk said, as they loped towards the portcullis. ‘We cannot trust that creature. Duardin are sneaky. Always looking for ways out of their debts.’

‘Yes,’ Vos agreed. ‘That is why we will not give him the opportunity. We will slay this beast, and Khoragh will be held to his promise.’

Kolsk grunted. ‘Even so…’

‘Do not worry, signifier,’ Varka said, laughing. ‘I will protect you.’

‘Quiet, both of you,’ Vos said, as they passed beneath the portcullis. It slammed shut behind them, nearly clipping Garn, and forcing the legionary to leap forward with a curse. The echoes of its descent reverberated outwards, shaking Vos to his marrow.

A second causeway stretched away from the portcullis, towards a heavy stone archway. The archway was surmounted by a single massive rune, stamped onto the blackened rock face. Vos didn’t know what it signified – a name, perhaps, or simply a numerical identifier.

There were more causeways above them, stretching in all directions. Beneath them were several tiers of stone canals, each full of bubbling lava drawn from the mountain’s depths. The duardin were masters of stone and fire, and could turn a solid mountain into an alembic, if it suited their purposes. Towers of heat and smoke rose from these canals to either side of the causeway, causing the air to ripple and contract in unsettling ways. Vos twitched as sweat crept down beneath the plates of his armour.

‘It is hot,’ Harsk complained. ‘Too hot for mortal flesh. How did that cursed duardin keep his slaves alive down here?’

‘Perhaps they were stronger than you,’ Garn said. Harsk made to retort, but Vos silenced them both with a look. The causeway was littered with rubble. The roof above and the pillars that lined it were scored by the signs of battle – including a number of strange marks that Vos could not identify. They looked like scorch marks, but he could not think of a weapon that would cause such a thing – at least not one with such seeming precision.

There were bodies as well. A dozen, maybe more. They were scattered singly and in groups the length of the causeway. Hillmen and sellswords – the sort of trash who drifted from master to master, with no place to call home and no loyalty to anything save coin. Some bore the blessings of Chaos upon their mortified flesh.

Most were gutter trash from Carngrad or one of the smaller settlements that dotted the Kardeb Ashwaste. Vos saw a warrior clad in sea-green chain, with a mane of iridescent feathers rather than hair, lying broken beneath a fallen pillar. Nearby sprawled a brutish beastman, his horns garlanded with silver chains, and his head nearly severed from his thick neck. Others were simply tribesmen of one clan or another, drawn from across the Bloodwind Spoil. All of them had died in battle.

‘What sort of beast is this?’ Varka said. ‘I see no teeth marks, no signs of claws.’

Vos didn’t reply. He continued on, across the causeway. He could hear the roar of lava and the rush of hot winds circulating through the stone veins of the complex. When they reached the aperture that led to the upper tier of forges, Kolsk stopped. ‘More bodies. These are less fresh.’ The signifier looked down at the corpses. ‘Fairly mangled as well.’ He looked at Vos. ‘How many men did he send down here?’

‘All of them,’ Vos said, staring at the aperture. A fallen chunk of rock partially blocked it. The portal reminded him of the mouth of a hungry beast, for all that it was simply unadorned stone. Something was waiting for them in there. He could feel it.

‘He told you this?’

‘No. But if he hadn’t, we would have seen them. I think that is why he sealed the gates. It killed his men, killed his workforce and now, he fears it will kill him.’

‘He is a coward,’ Kolsk said, looking at Varka.

‘Maybe,’ she said, with a shrug. ‘Or maybe he is simply used to having others do his fighting for him.’

‘As I said.’

‘Are you a coward for ordering legionaries into battle?’ she retorted.

‘A discussion for another time,’ Vos interjected, as he shouldered aside the stone slab. It fell with a crash and the sound reverberated across the causeway. He paused and turned, scanning the pillars and the heights. ‘Keep moving.’

The stairs beyond were tight and sweltering. Magma-mould crept in red striations across the sloping walls, twitching in the heat. They saw more dead bodies as they descended. These looked as if they had been making a stand on the stairs, against something coming up from below, when they’d been struck down.

Like the ones on the causeway, the heat had all but desiccated them, and the mould was creeping across them, devouring what was left. Vos stepped on one, and the man’s body collapsed into a cloud of spores that drifted lazily on the air. He waved a hand to disperse them. ‘This feels wrong,’ Kolsk said, behind him. Vos said nothing, though he agreed.

The upper forge was a large, wheel-like chamber, centred on the axle of the firepit itself. A ring of a hundred anvils encircled a great chimney-like structure that Vos suspected passed through each of the forges on the levels below. The fires had grown low, but still burned, thanks to the ever-flowing lava. Tools lay scattered across the floor, and tables and benches were overturned. Racks had been stripped of weapons, and there were more bodies, in the corners as well as atop the observation platform that had been built around the uppermost section of the chimney.

Vos nudged one of the bodies with his foot. ‘The guards. Khoragh left them to rot.’ The overseer was human – or had been. One of the tribes that infested the lowlands, if he was reading the tattoos right. The warrior had been killed with a single blow – cleanly and swiftly. The guard’s sword was still sheathed. The others were much the same. Only one had managed to draw a weapon. He lay slumped against an anvil, his chest reduced to a blackened crater.

‘What kind of monster is this?’ Varka said, examining the guard. ‘This wound is… it’s like he was pierced by a blade made of fire.’

Vos stiffened. Something about her words caught at him. He turned slowly, imagining the scene as it must have happened. The screams of panic, of fear – and then… what? There would have been hundreds of slaves down here, and more besides, on the lower levels. Khoragh raided the lowlands for them regularly. So where were their bodies?

‘These chains… they’ve been struck off,’ Kolsk said from nearby. He lifted a set of manacles. ‘By a blade, not by claws.’ He held the manacles up and peered closely at them. ‘A good blade, too.’

‘These as well,’ Crola called out, lifting another set of manacles. ‘Some look as if they did it themselves, with their tools.’

‘Something – someone – freed one group, and then that group freed others,’ Vos said, looking around. Pushing and shoving, drunk on hope, they would have made for freedom. Besides the central stairway, there were two other stairwells that stretched away from the forge, and up to the causeway. He went to the entrance of one.

‘The duardin was lying,’ Varka said, incredulous. ‘I didn’t know that they knew how.’

‘Not lying. Not completely. His slaves are dead. Look.’ Vos extended his hammer. The stairway beyond was black with char. Murder-holes lined the upper reaches, curious brass chutes jutting from each. Burned bone and hummocks of what he thought must be cooled lava crunched beneath Vos’ feet. The floor of the corridor was carpeted in the remains of many bodies, all of them reduced to blackened bones. The bones had melted together in places, creating a fragile, osseous bramble.

‘The other corridors are the same, dominar,’ Garn said.

‘Something struck off their chains… and then burned them?’ Harsk asked.

‘No. Khoragh burned them. By some secret mechanism.’ Vos indicated the murder-holes. ‘When they tried to escape.’ He went to the steps which led down to the lower forges. ‘He must have waited until they were all coming up the stairs and…’ He trailed off. ‘What a waste of good chattel.’

‘He was desperate,’ Kolsk said. ‘It’s the only reason one of his sort would sacrifice so much chattel. But all I see here are signs of a rebellion – not a monster.’

‘No,’ Vos said. He turned to Kolsk. ‘We are not hunting a beast.’

‘Then what?’

Vos shook his head. ‘I do not know. Not for certain. Come. We must go down.’

It took longer than he expected to navigate the twisting stairwells. The lower they went, the hotter and the more oppressive it became. The lower forges were much the same as the uppermost. Guards slain, slaves freed. Whatever had happened had started below on the lowest levels, and swept upwards.

At the bottom, below the lowest of the forges, they found something new – a cistern, or something similar. A pit, older than the forge built atop it, and wider by far, marked by runes. It stretched almost the length of the lowest chamber, and Vos could see where it had once been sealed by a cascade of collapsed rock, perhaps from the levels above. Someone, likely Khoragh, had begun to clear it. There was a tunnel, stretching through the debris, down into the depths below.

‘I know what this is,’ Kolsk murmured. His voice echoed eerily in the stultifying silence. ‘Fyreslayers collapse their vaults if their holds are threatened. They must have done the same here, when Khoragh came. They do it to hide their gold.’

‘I do not think Khoragh found gold down there,’ Varka said.

Vos peered into the tunnel. Something gleamed in the depths. ‘Not just gold,’ he said. ‘I will go down. Varka, come with me. Kolsk, the rest of you – hold here. If we do not return… do as you think best.’

Kolsk genuflected. ‘Aye, dominar.’ Then, after a moment’s pause, he added, ‘May the flame of Chaos light your way.’

Vos led the way, moving carefully down the uneven slope of the tunnel. It had been carved by the hands of slaves. He could see the marks where they’d faltered, and the stains where they’d died. He felt the heat of the mountain’s roots squeezing his lungs and he paused to blink the sweat from his eyes. The gleam grew brighter.

‘It’s gold,’ Varka said, tapping the wall with her flail. ‘Melted gold.’

‘They destroyed their wealth, rather than let it be taken.’

‘Not everything,’ she said, pointing.

The box sat trapped amid a twisted extrusion of melted gold. It was a long thing, and narrow. And cold – it radiated cold, such as Vos had never felt. The cold of the night sky. It was crafted from some strange metal that bled a soft radiance. ‘Starlight,’ Varka whispered. ‘It is like starlight.’ She turned away. ‘It hurts my eyes. Dominar… we should not be here. This thing is cursed.’

Vos stepped closer, squinting against the glare. He could just make out the weird sigils which encrusted it – they were not runes or the familiar marks of the Dark Gods.

‘Do you hear that?’ Varka said, softly. ‘Like… singing?’

He did. Thin sounds as if from some great distance, like the patter of rain or the crackle of a distant fire. Only they were words, not just sounds, he was certain of it. And even as he tried to ignore it, a part of him yearned to hear – to know what it meant, to see and feel what it promised. Unable to stop himself, he reached out a hand. He heard Varka say something, but he could not look away. Could only stretch forth a hand – could only…

‘Dominar! Listen!’ Varka shook him, breaking the spell. He shrugged her off and staggered back, head swimming.

‘What?’ he growled. ‘What is it?’

‘The signifier calls out.’ Varka was already making her way back up the tunnel. Vos hesitated, looking back at the strange box. Then, with a curse, he forced himself to follow her.

At the top of the tunnel, Kolsk was waiting, agitated. ‘I saw something,’ he shouted.

‘Saw what?’ Vos demanded.

‘I do not know, dominar. Only that it was fast. Up there, somewhere.’ He gestured to the support arches and stone beams that made up the ceiling. Shadows bunched thickly among them. Vos stared, but saw nothing.

‘Are you certain?’

As if in answer to his question, the sound of metal on stone echoed down from above. Vos caught a flash of movement then. Something was perched above, watching them. And he knew what it was, now. He suspected that it had been shadowing them since they’d entered the forge. Of course it would have been watching the portcullises, waiting for an opportunity to escape. Or for Khoragh to send more warriors in after it. ‘Back,’ he growled. ‘Back to the causeway. We have been misled.’

‘What is it?’ Varka asked.

Vos ignored her question. ‘Go!’ Varka fell silent, and the warband fell back to the steps with disciplined haste. Panting with exertion, they raced up through the forges, one after the next. He pressed them hard, not letting them stop or slow. He knew that to stop, for whatever reason, was to die.

Every so often, he caught a glimpse of it, out of the corner of his eye. Behind them. Above them. It’d had weeks to learn every route and path in this place. There was only one place they could go. One place that might allow their survival.

‘Back to the portcullis,’ he said, as they finally reached the uppermost causeway. ‘We’ll make our stand there.’ He heard Kolsk shout, and turned. Something gold flashed in the gloom of the stairwell. ‘Form up, form up!’

Harsk and the other legionaries turned, shields presented to the enemy, but too late. The monster – the thing – was fast. Too fast, for something so bulky. As if it weighed nothing at all. It sprang over them, striking a pillar, and crashed down on the causeway, between them and the portcullis. Its ragged cloak flared about its massive form, revealing tarnished facets of golden war-plate and the hateful sigils which marked them. Forbidden celestial runes that stung the eye and stole courage.

It straightened, brandishing a single-bladed axe of curious design. Vos’ breath caught in his throat.

‘You were right. This is no beast,’ Kolsk snarled.

‘I know what it is, signifier,’ Vos spat. There was no mistaking such a creature for anything else. A Stormcast Eternal. Vos’ hands tightened about the haft of his hammer. He took a breath. ‘And I know that it can die – so we kill it.’

The Stormcast studied them, head tilted, the impassive mask smeared with ash and char. There was nothing human in its gaze, only the snap and snarl of a storm caged in iron. Worse even than a daemon, for at least daemons mimicked men, if only to mock them.

‘What is it waiting for?’ Varka hissed.

‘It’s gauging our strengths,’ Kolsk grunted. ‘It’s what they do. I fought them once, when the Iron Legion marched on Tukkon, in the Alumic Delta.’

‘And?’ Harsk asked.

‘That you do not know the outcome should tell you all you need to know,’ Vos said. The Iron Legion did not record its defeats. It learned from them, but it did not glorify them. He stepped forward. ‘Name yourself,’ he called out.

Silence was his only reply. Vos tried again. ‘Why are you here? This place is not yours.’ Still, the Stormcast said nothing. Infuriated, Vos gestured. ‘Harsk, Crola – shields to the front, centre on Kolsk. Garn, with Varka.’ He lifted his hammer. ‘I will take the flank.’

At his words, his followers moved swiftly into position, and he allowed himself a moment of pride. They were the elite of the Iron Legion and there was not a foe who could stand against them, if the Gods did not will it. And here, at least, he knew the Gods were with them. ‘Advance on my command,’ he growled. ‘Allow it no room to manoeuvre. Hem it in, wear it down, and–’

‘I am not here by choice.’

Vos froze. The Stormcast’s voice was like the rumble of distant thunder. It had not moved, had not so much as twitched. Vos glanced at the others. He cleared his throat. ‘Surrender, and you will be treated honourably,’ he said. It wasn’t a lie. Death by the hand of a dominar of the Iron Legion was as honourable a death as any. ‘Resist… and we will take your head.’

The Stormcast made a rough, rasping sound. Laughter, Vos realised. ‘I was about to say the same thing.’ It made a noise, like a sigh. ‘But I suspect you are no more reasonable than the others.’ Quicker than thought, it lunged. He’d seen its speed, expected it. But had not been prepared, even so. It almost cost him his life. He ducked as the axe snapped towards him. He heard the air part with a hiss, as he jerked back, and then it was among them and there was no time for any thoughts save those of survival.

Harsk died first. He allowed his shield to dip, to strike out – a mistake. The axe, its edge limned with crackling light, passed through his neck in a wet, red arc. Even as the legionary fell, the golden killer was turning. Lightning crackled, and Vos smelled ozone. The warrior held something like a cut-down crossbow, only it spat sorcerous bolts. The shot caught Kolsk in the hip, and knocked the signifier sprawling.

‘Close in,’ Vos roared. He charged, hammer raised. His blow barely kissed the Stormcast’s arm, and the one he received in return sent him staggering back against a pillar. Crola and Garn closed in, hammer and war-club striking out in tandem. They crowded their opponent, forcing it to shift position. That crackling axe left blackened craters in the faces of their shields, but the iron held, if barely.

The Stormcast retreated along the causeway, trying to gain room to fire its hand-crossbow again. Vos stooped to help Kolsk to his feet. The signifier grunted in pain, and used his standard to lever himself upright. ‘Hip’s shattered,’ he growled. ‘I can feel it.’

‘Can you fight?’

‘The day I can’t is the day I die, dominar.’ He peered at the Stormcast. ‘Of course, that might well be today…’

‘Then we will at least die well,’ Vos said. He heard the snap-snarl of the Stormcast’s crossbow, and heard Crola yelp. A spitting bolt of azure energy nearly tore the shield from her arm, and she stumbled, breaking formation. The Stormcast darted forward, axe swinging down. Garn caught the blow, but Vos heard the bones in his shield-arm twist and crack. The legionary staggered, and the Stormcast slapped him to the ground.

Varka’s flail drew sparks from the Stormcast’s helm. It whirled, driving the drillmaster back with a wild sweep of its axe. She struck again and again, seizing every opening. Her blows did little, but it served to keep the Stormcast occupied, while Crola and Garn climbed to their feet. Vos looked at Kolsk. ‘I will drive it to you. Be ready.’

Kolsk nodded. He could barely stand. But he was a legionary, and knew his duty. Vos sidled around, waiting for an opening. When Varka was knocked off her feet by a glancing blow, he lunged. The Stormcast interposed its axe at the last moment, catching his hammer. They reeled together, stumbling towards the edge of the causeway. Below, the river of molten rock curled red, and streamers of fire rose, as if in anticipation.

Vos strained against his foe. He was strong, but it was stronger. And hurt, he realised. Not by them – the wound was old. He could smell the blood seeping through the joins of the golden armour. So Khoragh’s followers had hurt it, after all. The armour was damaged as well. This close, he could see the cracks and gaps, as well as places where it had been scorched by great heat. Months and weeks of hard fighting wore down the strongest metal – even magic metal. ‘You can be hurt,’ he growled. ‘You can be broken.’

The Stormcast didn’t reply. It twisted, throwing Vos from his feet. He rolled aside as the axe came down, gouging the stones of the causeway. The Stormcast kicked him in the belly, as he sought to rise, and the blow sent him sprawling, breathless. His hammer clattered from his grip, and he saw Crola and Garn retreat as the Stormcast’s strange crossbow spat lightning at them. A golden boot slammed down onto his chest, pinning him.

‘Surrender.’ The word crackled on the air.

‘What?’ Vos spat. He groped blindly for his hammer.

The Stormcast held its axe to his throat and he froze. ‘Surrender. Get the duardin to open the gate. I will allow you to live.’

Vos stared up at his opponent. Surrender was inconceivable. Especially to a foe such as this. He thrashed beneath his opponent’s weight, and hammered a fist against the armoured leg. The Stormcast gave no sign that it had noticed the blow. Vos realised that he might have been striking a statue, for all the good it did him. ‘No,’ Vos said, defiantly.

The Stormcast straightened and raised its axe. ‘Very well.’

‘Dominar!’ Kolsk roared, as he drove the ferrule of his standard into the Stormcast’s back. The golden warrior staggered as the standard shivered apart in Kolsk’s grip. The signifier cast the shards aside and reached for his weapon as the Stormcast whirled on him. The instant the Stormcast’s foot left his chest, Vos rolled towards his hammer.

As he snatched it up, he saw Kolsk fall, the Stormcast’s axe buried in his chest. The signifier caught at the weapon as he collapsed, dragging it from his killer’s grip. The Stormcast released the axe, and raised its crossbow. Vos rose and brought his hammer down, even as the Stormcast fired.

Lightning erupted in all directions as the crossbow shattered. Vos and the others were driven back, their armour and flesh left smouldering. He saw the Stormcast reel, its armour scorched and warped. As it straightened, Varka brought her flail down against the side of its head. He heard a sharp crack, and the Stormcast sank to one knee. It backhanded the drillmaster, knocking her off balance. She flung herself aside as Crola and Garn bulled in, buffeting it with their shields.

Vos straightened as it was forced back towards him. He swung his hammer with all the strength that remained to him. The blow caught the Stormcast on the back of the skull, and the metal of its helm warped at the point of impact. The Stormcast collapsed onto all fours. ‘Finish it,’ Vos said.

The Iron Golems surrounded their quarry and struck as one, hammering their fallen foe relentlessly. Even so, it took longer than Vos thought possible to end the creature’s struggles. By the end, his arms and shoulders ached, such as they had not since his youth in the deep forges.

When it was done, the Stormcast came apart in shards of blue lightning that arrowed upwards with blinding speed. Vos was hurled back against a pillar by the explosion. He blinked, trying to clear his vision of stinging motes. His ears rang with the drawn-out rumble of thunder, shuddering down from impossible heights. The sound cut through him like a blade, and he thought again of the box at the bottom of the tunnel, and its strange song. He shook his head to clear it of such thoughts.

Panting, he turned. Every limb hurt, and it was agony to draw breath. But at least he lived to do so. ‘Kolsk,’ he said. Varka shook her head.

‘Harsk as well.’

Vos nodded. He felt no sorrow for their deaths – to die in battle was all that a warrior could ask. He studied the others. All of them were injured – Garn cradled one of his arms to his chest, and Crola had burns on her chest and legs. Varka limped towards him, clutching her side. From her strained panting, he could tell something was broken inside her. ‘A good fight,’ she said. ‘Why did it come here, do you think?’

‘Who knows why they do anything. Can you still fight?’ he asked.

She nodded and looked at the portcullis. ‘You think he knows we won?’

The portcullis started to rise with a groan. ‘He knows,’ Vos said.

Khoragh was waiting for them on the other side, his thumbs hooked into his belt. His two ogor slaves stood behind him, ready to leap to the defence of their master. Vos eyed them warily and kept his hammer close.

‘You survived,’ the duardin said. ‘I am pleased.’

‘Not all of us,’ Vos said.

Khoragh shrugged. ‘They can be replaced.’

Varka took a step towards him. Vos flung out his arm, bringing her up short. ‘Not easily,’ he said, not taking his eyes off the duardin. ‘They were warriors without equal.’

Khoragh chuckled. ‘Debatable, given that they died.’ He gestured dismissively. ‘Still, it is of no concern to me.’ He looked at Vos. ‘You beat it, then?’

‘Not it. Stormcast.’

Khoragh snorted. ‘Ah.’

‘You played us false,’ Vos growled. ‘You lied.’

‘I did not lie. Duardin do not lie. Especially to umgash.’ Khoragh laughed. ‘A waste of words. Might as well lie to a sheep.’

‘It came here for the thing you found.’

Khoragh smirked. ‘So? It is dead. Isn’t it?’ He peered at them, his smile wide and black. ‘Well… where is my trophy, boy? Where is the proof of your valour? Proof that you have done as you promised, eh?’

‘You know it is gone.’

Khoragh sighed in mock sadness. ‘Aye, that it is. And so, you have broken your oath. How shameful. How… disappointing.’ He leaned forward. ‘Yes. I am well within my rights to kill you now. But I am inclined to mercy. I shall content myself with my prize.’ He stepped back and turned away. ‘Go. Take your lives and return to my false brother, Mithraxes. Tell him the iron promise is broken, and that my debt to him is paid in full.’

‘No,’ Vos said.

Khoragh paused. He glanced back. ‘No?’

Vos lifted his hammer. ‘Your debt is paid when Mithraxes says it is, duardin. You are not the arbiter of your obligation, and the Iron Legion will have its due.’

Khoragh laughed – an ugly, harsh sound. Like two blades scraping together. He turned, his black smile stretched to the width of his seamed face. He tugged on his beard thoughtfully. ‘You have courage, boy. There is iron in you, in truth. But iron is worthless, save that it can be forged into a useful shape. And before that can be done, it must be broken, again and again. Shall I break you, boy? Shall I hammer you into something useful?’

Vos, already in motion, did not reply. He ran as fast as his aching limbs could carry him. There was no time to warn the others – not without warning Khoragh as well. He would have to trust in their discipline. The ogors lumbered forward to intercept him, raising their mutilated weapon-hands. He ducked beneath a sweeping blow and drove his hammer into the first ogor’s unprotected knee, shattering it. The brute lurched off balance with a wail. Vos left it to Varka and the others, and concentrated on the second ogor.

It barrelled towards him, lifting arms tipped by heavy, spiked maces. The brass bull-mask gleamed in the firelight. Vos avoided the first blow, but not the second. He felt a crunching sensation, and was lifted from his feet. It was stronger even than the Stormcast had been. He slammed down and rolled aside as the ogor tried to stomp on him. Wheezing slightly, tasting blood, he lurched upright and caught the ogor across the head with a desperate blow. The bull-mask was ripped from its head and sent flying.

It had no face, only a raw mass of flensed meat. Exposed veins twitched as a hole of a mouth flexed and twisted. Its eyes were held open by an arrangement of copper hooks, and its nose was a cavernous divot. It gargled in fury – or perhaps pain – and raised its bludgeoning fists over him. He drove his hammer forward as if it were a spear, slamming it into the pulsing meat of the ogor’s exposed face. Bone crunched and veins burst, filling the air with blood. The ogor staggered, whining like an injured cur.

Vos did not give it time to recover. He struck again and again, hammering at its joints – elbows, knees, ankles. It took him longer than he’d thought to cripple it. Ogors were tough, and even with broken bones, it still tried to grapple with him. It only ceased when he thrust the sharpened ferrule of his hammer through one of its eyes and into its brain.

Panting heavily, he looked for Khoragh. The duardin was fleeing across the causeway, as fast as his stumpy limbs could carry him. Vos realised he was making for the landing, and the mechanisms there. He thought of burned masses of bone and brass nozzles and knew that he couldn’t allow the duardin to reach his goal. ‘Crola!’ he roared.

Crola looked up and immediately reached for her bolas. A moment later, they were whirling towards the duardin with lethal precision. The chains wrapped about Khoragh’s lower half with bone-cracking force, knocking him from his feet. He howled curses and struggled to free himself as Vos strode towards him.

‘Cheat,’ Khoragh shrieked. ‘Coward!’ He flailed at Vos with his hammer, and Vos caught the blow on his palm and yanked the weapon from Khoragh’s grip.

‘No,’ he said, looking down at the duardin. ‘Unlike you, I am neither of those things.’

Khoragh snarled and tore at the bolas. ‘Idiot – fool. Can’t you see I was doing you a favour?’ He flopped over and tried to crawl away. ‘More of them will come – that box stinks of Azyr, and they will come looking for it. Help me open it – Mithraxes will reward us both for its secrets…’

‘Too late,’ Vos said. He dropped both hammers and reached down. With a grunt of effort, he dragged Khoragh up and lifted the duardin over his head, as if he were a sack of salt. Khoragh thrashed in his grip. ‘Wait – wait! You can’t kill me, boy – you need me! Mithraxes needs me. Who will scrape ore from the mountains for you, if not me?’

‘You can be replaced,’ Vos said, spitting Khoragh’s earlier words back at him. The duardin stiffened in his grip.

‘No, no – no!’

‘One way or another, all debts will be paid,’ Vos said, through gritted teeth. He carried Khoragh to the edge of the causeway. ‘One way or another, all oaths are fulfilled. Even yours.’ With that, he threw the struggling duardin off the causeway and into the roiling river of lava below.

Khoragh fell like a stone, cursing the entire way. Vos almost admired him, in those final moments. The duardin struck the surface of the lava and sank without a trace, swallowed up by fire, his final moments hidden by a pall of smoke. Vos stared down for a few moments, just to be sure. Then he turned.

‘It is done. The debt is paid.’

‘What now?’ Varka asked. Her flail was clotted with ogor blood, and she still clutched her side, but she seemed otherwise uninjured. He quashed a flicker of relief. Crola and Garn were still standing as well.

‘We claim this place in the name of Mithraxes,’ he said.

‘What about… that thing? Khoragh said others would come for it.’

Vos retrieved his hammer and set it across his shoulder. He fancied, for a moment, that he heard the sound of distant thunder. He thought of the box, singing down in the dark, and a shiver ran through him. Khoragh was right. More of them would come. But this place belonged to the Iron Golems – this place, and all it contained. ‘The iron promise holds,’ he said, finally. ‘And we will take what we are owed.’

They were as iron, and they would endure, whatever came.

About the Author

Josh Reynolds is the author of the Warhammer Horror story The Beast in the Trenches, featured in the portmanteau novel The Wicked and the Damned, the Horus Heresy Primarchs novel Fulgrim: The Palatine Phoenix, and three Horus Heresy audio dramas featuring the Blackshields. His Warhammer 40,000 work includes the Space Marine Conquests novel Apocalypse, Lukas the Trickster and the Fabius Bile novels. He has written many stories set in the Age of Sigmar, including the novels Shadespire: The Mirrored City, Soul Wars, Eight Lamentations: Spear of Shadows, the Hallowed Knights novels Plague Garden and Black Pyramid, and Nagash: The Undying King. His tales of the Warhammer Old World include The Return of Nagash and The Lord of the End Times, and two Gotrek & Felix novels. He lives and works in Sheffield.

An extract from 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

First published in Warcry: The Anthology in 2019.
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.

The Iron Promise © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2019. The Iron Promise, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

A CIP record for this book is available from the British Library.

ISBN: 978-1-78999-692-0

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.

See Black Library on the internet at
blacklibrary.com

Find out more about Games Workshop’s world of Warhammer and the Warhammer 40,000 universe at
games-workshop.com

eBook license

This license is made between:

Games Workshop Limited t/a Black Library, Willow Road, Lenton, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, United Kingdom (“Black Library”); and

(2) the purchaser of an e-book product from Black Library website (“You/you/Your/your”)

(jointly, “the parties”)

These are the terms and conditions that apply when you purchase an e-book (“e-book”) from Black Library. The parties agree that in consideration of the fee paid by you, Black Library grants you a license to use the e-book on the following terms:

* 1. Black Library grants to you a personal, non-exclusive, non-transferable, royalty-free license to use the e-book in the following ways:

o 1.1 to store the e-book on any number of electronic devices and/or storage media (including, by way of example only, personal computers, e-book readers, mobile phones, portable hard drives, USB flash drives, CDs or DVDs) which are personally owned by you;

o 1.2 to access the e-book using an appropriate electronic device and/or through any appropriate storage media; and

* 2. For the avoidance of doubt, you are ONLY licensed to use the e-book as described in paragraph 1 above. You may NOT use or store the e-book in any other way. If you do, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license.

* 3. Further to the general restriction at paragraph 2, Black Library shall be entitled to terminate this license in the event that you use or store the e-book (or any part of it) in any way not expressly licensed. This includes (but is by no means limited to) the following circumstances:

o 3.1 you provide the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.2 you make the e-book available on bit-torrent sites, or are otherwise complicit in ‘seeding’ or sharing the e-book with any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.3 you print and distribute hard copies of the e-book to any company, individual or other legal person who does not possess a license to use or store it;

o 3.4 you attempt to reverse engineer, bypass, alter, amend, remove or otherwise make any change to any copy protection technology which may be applied to the e-book.

* 4. By purchasing an e-book, you agree for the purposes of the Consumer Protection (Distance Selling) Regulations 2000 that Black Library may commence the service (of provision of the e-book to you) prior to your ordinary cancellation period coming to an end, and that by purchasing an e-book, your cancellation rights shall end immediately upon receipt of the e-book.

* 5. You acknowledge that all copyright, trademark and other intellectual property rights in the e-book are, shall remain, the sole property of Black Library.

* 6. On termination of this license, howsoever effected, you shall immediately and permanently delete all copies of the e-book from your computers and storage media, and shall destroy all hard copies of the e-book which you have derived from the e-book.

* 7. Black Library shall be entitled to amend these terms and conditions from time to time by written notice to you.

* 8. These terms and conditions shall be governed by English law, and shall be subject only to the jurisdiction of the Courts in England and Wales.

* 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.

* 10. Any failure by Black Library to exercise its rights under this license for whatever reason shall not be in any way deemed to be a waiver of its rights, and in particular, Black Library reserves the right at all times to terminate this license in the event that you breach clause 2 or clause 3.