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Discover more stories set in the Age of Sigmar from Black Library

~ THE AGE OF SIGMAR ~

THE REALMGATE WARS: VOLUME 1
Various authors
Contains the novels The Gates of Azyr, War Storm, Ghal Maraz, Hammers of Sigmar, Wardens of the Everqueen and Black Rift

THE REALMGATE WARS: VOLUME 2
Various authors
Contains the novels Call of Archaon, Warbeast, Fury of Gork, Bladestorm, Mortarch of Night and Lord of Undeath

CITY OF SECRETS
An Age of Sigmar novel

LEGENDS OF THE AGE OF SIGMAR
Various authors

HALLOWED KNIGHTS: PLAGUE GARDEN
Josh Reynolds

EIGHT LAMENTATIONS: SPEAR OF SHADOWS
Josh Reynolds

OVERLORDS OF THE IRON DRAGON
C L Werner

NAGASH: THE UNDYING KING
Josh Reynolds

NEFERATA: MORTARCH OF BLOOD
David Annandale

SOUL WARS
Josh Reynolds

CALLIS & TOLL: THE SILVER SHARD
Nick Horth

THE TAINTED HEART
C L Werner

SHADESPIRE: THE MIRRORED CITY
Josh Reynolds

BLACKTALON: FIRST MARK
Andy Clark

HEART OF WINTER
Nick Horth

THE BONE DESERT
Robbie MacNiven

~ LEGENDS OF THE AGE OF SIGMAR ~

FYRESLAYERS
An Age of Sigmar novel

SKAVEN PESTILENS
An Age of Sigmar novel

BLACK RIFT
An Age of Sigmar novel

SYLVANETH
An Age of Sigmar novel

~ AUDIO DRAMAS ~

THE PRISONER OF THE BLACK SUN
Josh Reynolds

SANDS OF BLOOD
Josh Reynolds

THE LORDS OF HELSTONE
Josh Reynolds

THE BRIDGE OF SEVEN SORROWS
Josh Reynolds

THE BEASTS OF CARTHA
David Guymer

FIST OF MORK, FIST OF GORK
David Guymer

GREAT RED
David Guymer

ONLY THE FAITHFUL
David Guymer

SHADESPIRE: THE DARKNESS IN THE GLASS
Various authors

Contents

Cover

Backlist

Title Page

Warhammer Age of Sigmar

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Warqueen’

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

From the maelstrom of a sundered world, the Eight Realms were born. The formless and the divine exploded into life.

Strange, new worlds appeared in the firmament, each one gilded with spirits, gods and men. Noblest of the gods was Sigmar. For years beyond reckoning he illuminated the realms, wreathed in light and majesty as he carved out his reign. His strength was the power of thunder. His wisdom was infinite. Mortal and immortal alike kneeled before his lofty throne. Great empires rose and, for a while, treachery was banished. Sigmar claimed the land and sky as his own and ruled over a glorious age of myth.

But cruelty is tenacious. As had been foreseen, the great alliance of gods and men tore itself apart. Myth and legend crumbled into Chaos. Darkness flooded the realms. Torture, slavery and fear replaced the glory that came before. Sigmar turned his back on the mortal kingdoms, disgusted by their fate. He fixed his gaze instead on the remains of the world he had lost long ago, brooding over its charred core, searching endlessly for a sign of hope. And then, in the dark heat of his rage, he caught a glimpse of something magnificent. He pictured a weapon born of the heavens. A beacon powerful enough to pierce the endless night. An army hewn from everything he had lost.

Sigmar set his artisans to work and for long ages they toiled, striving to harness the power of the stars. As Sigmar’s great work neared completion, he turned back to the realms and saw that the dominion of Chaos was almost complete. The hour for vengeance had come. Finally, with lightning blazing across his brow, he stepped forth to unleash his creations.

The Age of Sigmar had begun.

Chapter One

‘Going somewhere, hero?’

The mounted guard leading Captain Byrun Hess’ ibuq jerked at the reins, forcing the reptile to shear left. With his hands manacled in front of him, Hess had to shift awkwardly to keep his seat. The move set the medals on his breastplate jingling, and the two guards laughing.

They’d stripped him of his sword, his pistols, even his mother’s lucky helmet, but Lord Marshal Khir had been insistent that Hess keep all his medals. They were, after all, why he was marching through the hinterlands of Chamon, rather than dangling at the end of a noose.

‘Not so arrogant now,’ the other guard, Rollo, said with a lazy sneer.

‘Captain,’ Hess replied through gritted teeth.

‘What?’ Rollo cocked his head.

‘Not so arrogant now, captain,’ Hess said slowly. Khir had left him his rank, too, and he’d be damned if he let some slack-jawed latrine digger forget it.

‘Apologies, captain, I forgot to salute.’ Rollo shifted in his saddle to solemnly place a fist over his heart, then punched Hess squarely in the mouth.

This time, he toppled from his ibuq.

The ground hit him like a cannon shot, driving the breath from his lungs. Although it was meant more for parading than hard use, his armour took the worst of the fall, but Hess’ head rebounded from a rust-spotted outcrop, sending red and white flares dancing across his vision.

He lay on the ground gasping like a gut-shot orruk. The ringing in Hess’ ears was gradually eclipsed by the laughter of the two guards – Rollo’s high and quick, Gert’s like the raspy croaks of a startled crow. They’d been goading him for days, poking, prodding, taking joy in Hess’ shame.

The base-born always enjoyed seeing a noble brought low.

Hess struggled to his feet, blood dribbling from his split lip down the front of his breastplate. He hated the Realm of Metal with its strange coppery sun and its jagged horizon. Even the mounts were wrong. Hess had been forced to trade his warhorse for an ibuq, a stocky, broad-shouldered breed of Chamonic lizard that grew to roughly the size of an ox. Although Hess was an expert rider, he found the ibuq’s waddling, splay-legged gait unsettling, not to mention the steady rasp of their scales, the flicking of their long tongues as they tested the air, and the low, rattling grind as they crushed rocks in their heavy underslung jaws. It was nothing short of maddening.

Gritting his teeth, Hess slowly pushed to his feet. More wounding than the pain in his side were the scuffs and tarnish on his ceremonial armour. The fall from his mount had chipped the rearing silver mare of Hess’ family crest emblazoned on the breastplate, the green and gold lacquer peeling from the rust-scabbed steel. He couldn’t help but recall the first time he’d worn the armour marching down the Grand Concourse of Azyrheim – his father’s eyes bright with unshed tears, the tight-lipped nod his mother had given as she watched him accept his captaincy in the Freeguild mounted pistoliers. But that was all gone now, lost to the jealousy of a petty old man. Now, Hess was nothing – a disgraced officer forced to endure the taunts and abuse of soldiers not fit to lick his boots.

Fury set Hess’ face burning, his throat hot and tight. He ran at Rollo, shouting and throwing his hands up to startle the guard’s mount. For all their fierce demeanour, ibuq were beasts of burden, flighty and unsuitable for combat. As Hess had hoped it would, Rollo’s mount shied away, hissing, and the guard tumbled from his seat.

Hess tackled the man before he could rise. They rolled on the ground, flakes of rusty metal scouring the filigree from Hess’ pauldrons and greaves. Although his hands were chained, he outweighed Rollo by twenty pounds, and managed to clamber atop the struggling guard to headbutt him in the nose.

Too late, Hess heard the clatter of Gert’s ibuq. The butt of her crossbow cracked across his shoulders, sending him sprawling.

‘Our orders are to deliver you to your new post – they don’t say in how many pieces.’ Gert reversed her crossbow and levelled it at Hess. ‘Do you feel like fighting, captain?’

Hess pushed to his knees to glare at the guard. Scowling, he shook his head.

Gert gave a satisfied grunt and turned to her companion. ‘Are you okay?’

Rollo stood, wiping the blood from his nose. He glared at Hess for a long moment, then walked over to slap the flank of Hess’ ibuq. With a snorting hiss, the beast shambled away into the rubble.

‘Looks like the captain’s mount ran off.’ Rollo moved to retrieve the reins of his own beast. ‘You’re going to have to walk the rest of the way, hero.’

Hess stiffened, squinting down the thin ribbon of gold that was the old Lantic road. To either side the Glitterpeaks rose like ancient, pitted blades, their jagged flint-and-iron crests dusted not with snow but orange-red blooms of corrosion. Instead of dust, the wind carried flecks of rust, the smell of it reminding Hess of old blood. Higher up, windswept metal rasped across flinty outcrops, producing the showers of sparks for which the mountains were named.

He looked to Gert. Of his two captors, she was the more reasonable, if only marginally so. ‘I won’t make it on foot.’

She returned his gaze with slit-eyed hatred. ‘My brother was at Beacon Field.’

Hess suppressed a wince. There was no sense in arguing. It didn’t matter that Hess had won the battle, that he had slain the sorcerer Avul Thrice-Burnt and scattered his mad followers to the wind. Someone needed to answer for the dead, and Hess, in his wounded pride, had as good as delivered himself to the lord marshal on a silver platter.

It was painful to straighten his bruised back, and even more so to walk, but Hess vowed he wouldn’t give Khir’s thugs the satisfaction of seeing him hobble. For a wild moment he considered running off into the jagged countryside, but he knew he would not get far. Even if he stripped off his plate, Hess had seen enough of Chamon to know he would survive barely a day in the scouring heat.

To add to the insult, Rollo approached and tied a rope around the chain that bound Hess’ hands, securing the other end to the pommel of his saddle. The guard’s ugly smile made it clear that if Hess stumbled, Rollo would be happy to drag him.

Hess staggered across the pitted ground, careful of the hunks of rusty metal that littered the road. Above, the sun glittered like molten bronze, waves of heat distorting the black iron peaks that loomed over them. His armour felt like an oven, the heavy ceremonial plate slowly broiling Hess alive even as the rough iron of the manacles chafed his wrists raw.

His tongue rasped against cracked lips, the skin of his face hot and tight. Heat pressed in from all sides, wicking away Hess’ sweat. Even the breeze was no relief. It came like the blast of a forge bellows, carrying grains of rust that scoured his exposed skin.

After what seemed an eternity, the guards called a halt, Gert tossing Hess a canteen while Rollo scanned the horizon. Hess made a grab for the water but stumbled as Rollo nudged his ibuq forward, the rope jerking Hess off his feet.

‘Go on.’ Rollo snorted a wet laugh through his broken nose. ‘Pick it up.’

Hess stood to glare up at the guard, not wanting to give Rollo the pleasure of seeing him scrabble in the dust.

‘We don’t have time for this,’ Gert said, thrusting her chin at something in the distance.

With a snarled curse, Rollo jerked Hess closer and untied the rope from his manacles. Perhaps noticing the murder in Hess’ eyes, Rollo waved the rope at him. ‘If you attack me again, captain, this will be around your neck.’

A few days ago, Hess would have been happy to teach the fool another lesson. Now, his thoughts were only of the canteen. The water was tepid and coppery, like blood, but Hess gulped it down as though it were wine from the Arch-Lector’s vineyard.

The guards dismounted. Retreating to the dubious shade of a sharp-edged overhang, they tied up their mounts, then began to argue in quiet tones. Rollo gestured at the mountains, his shoulders high and tight, the way he got when he was nervous. Gert chewed her lip, then gave an irritated nod, turning back to her ibuq to unlimber her crossbow.

‘What’s going on?’ Hess joined them in the shadow of the overhang.

Rollo kicked a spray of rusty grit at him.

‘Quiet!’ he barked.

Shielding his eyes from the bright sun, Hess scanned the path ahead. The old Lantic road twisted through the Glitterpeaks like a river of gold, still bright even after centuries of neglect. In the distance, Hess made out two riders on ibuq picking their way down a switchback etched into the pitted face of the mountain.

Rollo stepped into the centre of the road, sword drawn, while Gert stayed in the shade of the overhang, crouched behind a slab of corroded iron, her crossbow ready.

‘Who are they?’ Hess moved over to her.

Gert shrugged. ‘Maybe raiders, maybe natives.’

‘Unchain my hands,’ Hess said. ‘If there is a battle, you will need my aid.’

She snorted. ‘We don’t need nothing from you except quiet.’

Hess lapsed into silence, mentally counting steps – one to where Gert crouched, four to where Rollo stood in the road. If it came to a fight, he would need to move quickly. Hess would not die in this Sigmar-forsaken hinterland because his guards were incompetent fools.

It was not long before the riders arrived, slouched low in their saddles, almost completely hidden by long cloaks of rough-spun cloth threaded with rusty fibres of metal.

One of the riders hung back while the other dismounted with a wave, unwinding his scarf to reveal a darkly tanned face, his cheeks chapped and windburnt. Gold tattoos traced the line of his jaw, filigreed arcs twining across his forehead in an intricate pattern that glittered in the failing light.

‘Natives,’ Rollo muttered, shifting to point his blade at the tattooed man. ‘That’s far enough.’

The man paused, hands held wide, a broad smile on his face. He glanced past Rollo to grin at Hess.

‘By gold and steel, you must be our new captain.’ The man offered a sloppy salute. ‘Flynn, at your service.’ He nodded at his companion. ‘That’s Thystra – she’s our tracker.’

The other cloaked rider remained motionless. Little was visible save for her sharp, cool-blue eyes.

Rollo’s blade didn’t waver. ‘There was no mention of an escort.’

‘Castellan Altenbach sent us.’ Flynn’s hand drifted towards his cloak. ‘I carry the order if you wish to see it.’

‘Keep your hands raised,’ Rollo barked, gesturing to where Gert knelt. ‘Or she’ll put a bolt through them.’

‘We’re on the same side.’ Flynn’s eyes flicked to Gert as she stood from behind the rock, but his smile never wavered. ‘The Glitterpeaks are already sufficiently dangerous without your bellowing causing an avalanche.’

Rollo hissed. ‘If you are so afraid why don’t you turn around and go back the way you came?’

Flynn gave a sad shake of his head. ‘Can’t have our new captain marched to death now, can we?’

Rollo half turned. ‘Are these your friends, Hess? Other traitors come to break you out? If you think I’ll let you escape without a fight, you’re–’

Flynn skipped forward, slapping aside the flat of Rollo’s blade with his bare hand. The guard tried to bring the sword around, but Flynn was too close. The Chamonian dug his fingers into the pressure point at the base of the man’s throat. Rollo squawked. No stranger to brawls, he quickly recovered, crashing a fist into the smaller man’s side, and the two fell to grappling.

Gert let out a soft curse, shifting to take aim at the melee. Before she could fire, Hess lunged. His kick was awkward, but it was enough to send Gert’s bolt skittering wide. She hammered the butt of her crossbow into Hess’ stomach, and he crumpled like rotten wood.

Gasping on the ground, Hess watched helplessly as Gert tossed the crossbow aside to draw her blade and advance on the struggling men. He tried to call a warning to Flynn as Gert raised her sword, but could manage barely more than a whispery cough.

The scrabble of claws on metal caught both Hess and Gert’s attention. The guard spun to see Thystra’s ibuq, somehow now riderless, bearing down on her. The beast’s dark eyes were wide and frightened, its heavy jaw hanging open to bare the ridges of steely bone it used to grind minerals and hard scrub.

With a shout, Gert leapt from the beast’s path and right into Thystra’s arms. Hess had not seen her move, but somehow the rider had slipped along the other side of the road, her rusty cloak blending perfectly with the metallic detritus. Thystra rose from behind a rocky outcrop to hammer the pommel of her dagger into the back of Gert’s neck. The guard crumpled, her sword clattering from nerveless fingers.

Calmly, Thystra stepped over the unconscious guard, then knelt to grab a fistful of Rollo’s hair. The guard tried to pull free of Flynn but stiffened as Thystra jerked his head back and set her dagger against his throat.

‘Drop your weapon.’ Her voice was cold and flat, words whetted with the threat of violence.

With a snarl, Rollo cast his sword aside and relaxed his grip on Flynn.

‘See to your comrade.’ Thystra hauled him upright with surprising strength and shoved him stumbling towards Gert. As she moved, Hess was surprised to see the tip of one sharply pointed ear slip free of the hood.

An aelf.

Flynn got to his feet. He prodded at his bruised ribs, wincing, then ambled over to help Hess stand. ‘Are you fit to ride, captain?’

‘Always.’ Hess shook his manacles. ‘Although I do manage better with my hands unchained.’

‘Of course, captain.’ Flynn nodded to his companion. ‘Thystra, would you mind fetching the keys from our friends over there?’

The aelf moved to where Rollo knelt beside Gert, and held out her hand.

‘The lord marshal will hear of this.’ Rollo spat a bloody gobbet at her feet.

Thystra stared at the blood, strangely still, her hand tight on her dagger.

‘There’s no need for that.’ Flynn let go of Hess to hurry to the aelf’s side. With a pained smile, he knelt to retrieve the key ring from Gert’s belt and tossed it to Hess before taking Thystra by the shoulders and turning the aelf away with surprising gentleness. ‘Your mount.’

The aelf blinked as if waking from a dream. With a shake of her head, she shrugged free of Flynn’s grip, stalking off into the rubble to retrieve her ibuq, which was cropping at the scrubby brush a few dozen yards from the road.

Hess raised an eyebrow at the strange exchange. His new companions seemed colourful to say the least, but now was hardly the time to ask questions. He unlocked his manacles, then ambled over to Rollo’s ibuq and mounted. The guard’s glare could have etched steel, but Hess ignored him.

Flynn collected his own mount and, after a moment of rummaging in his saddlebags, produced a cloak of the same metallic rust-brown material he and Thystra were wearing. ‘Best put this on, captain. It’ll help with the sun and the grit.’

‘My thanks.’ Hess threw the cloak over his shoulders and drew up the hood. They started forward, Thystra drawing ahead.

Flynn handed Hess some dried fruit, which he devoured, and a full waterskin. When he had slaked his thirst, he turned to Flynn.

‘You are native to Chamon?’

‘I grew up in the Lantic ruins a few weeks’ ride from here.’ The Chamonian made a strange splay-fingered sign with his right hand. When Hess frowned at the gesture, Flynn gave a little chuckle. ‘Sorry, sir, it’s an old habit. My people believe the Gilded Web traps misfortune and bad memories.’

‘I am in need of some good fortune.’ Hess swallowed the last of the water and settled into the saddle, his various aches and pains receding into the background for the moment. ‘What can you tell me about the fort?’

‘The Grave of Heroes is paradise, sir.’ Flynn gave a little chuckle. ‘Tucked away, with high walls and plenty of stores. What more could you desire?’

‘What more, indeed.’ Hess gave a low sigh, feeling the weight of his future pressing down on him. ‘Though its moniker is ominous.’

‘The name is older than history,’ Flynn said. ‘Somebody hacked the fort from the Glitterpeaks in the Age of Myth. I figure it got its name from a battle, or maybe a mess of battles. Thystra might know more, she’s been here longest.’

‘We should find shelter.’ Thystra was scanning the darkening horizon. ‘The sky bears an ill cast.’

‘A shardstorm?’ Flynn asked.

Thystra cocked her head as if testing the breeze. ‘Perhaps.’

Flynn must have noted Hess’ confusion because he turned, shivering. ‘It seems we located you just in time, captain. Shardstorms are nasty, wicked things. A wind comes tearing through, while sparks and lightning streak along the Glitterpeaks.’ He broke off a bit of rusted iron from a nearby overhang, then held it up so Hess could see the roughly serrated edge. ‘It whips this chaff up into a maelstrom of spinning razors that can strip a man to his bones in less than a second.’

They clattered up a craggy switchback, Thystra ranging ahead in silence. Hess chewed his chapped lips while Flynn nattered on about the mountains, the weather and the local wildlife. They made camp in a shallow cave, formed where one of the mountain’s vast iron slabs had begun to shear away. It was out of the wind, at least, and Hess was grateful for the chance to lower his hood.

Flynn made a small mound of metal shavings and, after emptying the contents of a small vial onto them, set the pile alight. The Chamonian chuckled at Hess’ surprised flinch. ‘Merely a little alchemy, captain. It’s nothing to worry about.’

Hess started into the sickly green flames, the vile glow of Avul Thrice-Burnt’s balefire bright in his memory. The mad warlock had set it boiling down the battle line, Sigmarite soldiers little more than writhing shadows in the blaze. The field had been a trap, the ground seeded with pitch. Avul’s flames had burned through half the regiment before Hess managed to put an end to him.

He eyed Flynn, hand drifting to the place where his pistols should have been.

‘It takes some getting used to.’ The native’s grin set his tattoos flashing in the firelight. ‘But you’re in Chamon. This place has a way of changing things, captain.’

Hess offered the man a stiff smile, knowing it was best not to make enemies until he got a sense of the place. They hunkered close to the fire as the sun went down, ushering in a chill as punishing as the day’s heat.

‘How large is the garrison?’ Hess asked once they’d finished their dinner of dried meat and gritty bread.

‘There is Castellan Altenbach, Valdemar Schmidt, and Hanar – he’s the smith.’ Flynn ticked the names off on his fingers. ‘Oh, and Thystra and me, of course.’

Hess sat back, feeling a flush creep up his neck. Khir had truly chosen the most pathetic outpost of Sigmar’s might for Hess’ exile. ‘The garrison contains only five soldiers?’

‘Six, counting you, sir.’ Flynn gave an amiable nod. ‘There used to be hundreds, back when the Freeguilds first came through, but the front moved on. Those who remained were never replaced when they died or went elsewhere. You’re the first new addition since Schmidt.’

‘And what brings you here?’ Hess asked Thystra.

She made no reply but to tug her cowl lower.

‘Don’t worry, captain,’ Flynn said. ‘Thystra is a bit surly, but she is the best scout we have. She was once a Lion Ranger, in fact. I once saw her chop straight through–’

‘Enough, Flynn.’ The aelf’s voice was sharp. ‘You speak of that of which you have no knowledge.’

The Chamonian held up his hands in surrender, then lay down, wrapping his cloak tight.

Thystra moved to the mouth of the cave, her back to Hess as she stared out into the starless night.

Hess couldn’t seem to relax, made uncomfortable by the lambent green glow, so reminiscent of the inferno on Beacon Field. He found himself staring into the fire, the interplay of shadows giving the impression of shapes within the blaze – men and women writhing amidst the bilious flames, their forms merging into something huge and monstrous, something unholy. Even now, the memory of it lurked in the back of Hess’ mind like childhood trauma, tainting everything it touched.

He tore his gaze from the flames, tamping down the blighted memories. Thystra was watching him. The aelf’s eyes flickered like a cornered animal’s in the greenish glow, but her expression was, if not exactly sympathetic, then possessed of a certain terrible recognition.

She regarded him for a long moment, then nodded, turning back to her watch.

Hess took long, slow breaths, his hands tight on his knees. Silence descended on the camp, broken only by the occasional metallic pop of the fire. Although he was tired to the bone, somehow Hess knew sleep would be a long time coming.

Chapter Two

The Grave of Heroes lived up to its name. Captain Hess had never seen a more funereal edifice. The fortress was set back in the mountain, squatting under a rocky overhang that looked to have been hacked from the cliff. High iron curtain walls loomed above the ragged defile, their tops capped with crenellations that reminded Hess so much of tombstones he expected to see names and dates etched into them. As they rode closer, he made out vague humanoid shapes carved into the walls, their features worn almost smooth by the slow rasp of Chamon’s iron-flecked winds. The figures might have been fighting, or dancing or praying, but Hess couldn’t tell which.

The fortress gate would have been more at home on a mausoleum. Deep-set and foreboding, it was made of black iron reinforced with strips of steel. Instead of rivets, the gate was studded with line after line of silver and bronze faces, tarnish scabbed around their chins, trails of blue-green verdigris dribbling like blood from their eyes and mouths. Although each face was distinct, there was a similar set to their jaws and a hardness in their eyes, an expression that spoke of nobility and power. Hess was reminded of the golden masks worn by Sigmar’s Stormcast Eternals.

The battlements were bare save for a few decrepit cannons. At a glance, Hess could tell the weapons were poorly maintained, rusted into their chassis, the barrels wind-scarred and rough. The sight made Hess long for his pistols – a pair of pieces from the workshop of the duardin master smith Thora Steelsong, their handles inlaid with fine gold from the Altenbach mines, their firing action smooth as silk. No doubt they adorned the wall of Lord Marshal Khir’s study, the finely bored barrels and perfectly calibrated sights wasted on a man who would never come within a hundred miles of battle.

Hess swallowed the upswell of bitterness, forcing his thoughts clear. Khir would have to wait; right now his only goal was to find some measure of advantage in this awful place.

Like most castles, the Grave’s gatehouse protruded from the walls, forming a short tunnel studded with murder holes to allow the defenders to bombard attackers without exposing themselves to enemy fire. Although Flynn and Thystra entered the tunnel without concern, Hess couldn’t help but regard the rusted grates with suspicion.

‘Welcome home, sir.’ Flynn rode up to rap on the gate. When his knock was greeted by silence, the Chamonian gave Thystra a sideways look. ‘You think he heard?’

‘Hanar?’ The aelf glanced at the door, eyes narrowed. ‘Asleep, most likely, or nursing another idiotic duardin grudge.’

‘Still, I wouldn’t want to get him in more trouble.’

Thystra kicked her ibuq forward to hammer the pommel of her sword against the heavy iron gate. The aelf’s blows resounded through the keep, growing in volume until they seemed to echo from the Glitterpeaks themselves. Shouts came from inside the fortress.

‘That’s gone and done it,’ Flynn winced. ‘Schmidt won’t be happy.’

There came a crash from within, followed by the shriek of old gears, and the gate began to grind open.

Hess heard the woman long before he saw her.

‘I have this theory,’ she began, her pitch raised in the manner of someone who was used to an audience. ‘When I first heard them say duardin are like stone, I thought of you and disagreed. But then I realised chalk is stone too. It is weak and soft like you, Hanar. Weak and soft. But that’s not even the worst part, is it?’

Someone rumbled a response.

‘The worst part is, like chalk, you rub off on everything around you.’ The gate had opened far enough now that Hess could see the speaker: tall and broad-shouldered, with a face that looked like it could have been hacked from a slab of basalt. The woman wore a breastplate over dusty priest’s robes, a heavy warhammer belted at her side. As she turned, Hess could see the scarred outline of a twin-tailed comet branded into one cheek, marking her as a devotee of Sigmar.

The object of her ire was a glowering duardin, gaunt and sallow, with dark, thinning hair and a patchy beard. The duardin’s gut protruded over his thick leather belt, and although his bare arms were corded with muscle, it was wiry rather than the broad and bulky thews Hess had come to associate with the dispossessed. Like his harasser, the duardin also wore a hammer, but where the woman’s was heavy and utilitarian, his was short-handled, with a finely crafted head worked with swirls of decorative gold inlay.

‘The stink of your incompetence is in the walls, the gears, the very air.’ The warrior priest raised her arms as if to call down a bolt of flame from the heavens, not even turning as Hess and the others cantered into the courtyard.

Thystra took in the exchange with an irritated frown. ‘Fools leading fools.’ With a shake of her head, she dismounted and led her ibuq away.

Flynn lingered, his smile turning nervous. Not knowing what else to do, Hess watched the exchange.

‘You couldn’t be bothered to even open the gate,’ the warrior priest shouted, bending over to spray the duardin with beads of spittle. ‘Tell me, did you even start repairing the storm defences?’

The duardin – Hanar, Hess assumed – kicked at the ground and muttered something unintelligible.

‘Well, it will be important when the next shardstorm blows us all back to Azyr in tatters!’ The priest rocked back on her heels.

Hess opened his mouth, but the woman was already talking again.

‘I want you to go over to the battery.’ The priest shoved Hanar with her boot, sending the duardin stumbling towards a low iron shack slouched against the northern wall. ‘Go on, open it up. Shouldn’t be hard seeing as you haven’t fixed the doors.’

With a smouldering frown, the duardin threw open the creaking iron gate and stepped inside.

‘Now, take one of the powder kegs over to your forge.’

Hess watched disbelievingly as the duardin rolled a barrel of black powder to the southern end of the courtyard and into the open doorway of a circular building.

‘There.’ The priest crossed her arms. ‘Now you’ll be the first to die from your own laziness. And if you think for a moment I’m going to–’

‘Stand down.’ Hess used his command voice, pitched to carry over a chaotic battlefield. ‘You must be Schmidt.’

The priest whirled to glare up at him, irritation etched into every line of her face. ‘And you are?’

Hess said nothing, regarding Schmidt through narrowed eyes, fists clenched against the urge to strike the woman for her disrespect. She reminded him of Khir – always shouting, never satisfied, always ready to cast the blame on others.

Flynn eventually broke the silence. ‘He’s our new captain.’

The priest reddened, the tendons standing out on her neck.

‘Schmidt. I would have thought the dangers of situating a barrel of explosives next to a forge would be self-evident.’

‘It would be.’ The priest shot a furious look towards Hanar. ‘If he ever bothered to light the damned thing.’

Hess twisted on his ibuq to stare down at the duardin, who had been watching the priest’s dressing down with barely concealed delight. ‘Return the barrel to the battery, and get to work on those storm shutters.’

Hanar gave a little start, then scuttled into his forge without saluting.

‘Captain.’ Schmidt ground the word out between gritted teeth. ‘You’re making a mistake.’

‘You are dismissed, Schmidt.’

‘I–’

Hess glared down at her, steel in his voice. ‘Do not make me repeat myself.’

With a quick salute, Schmidt stalked away, disappearing into the shadows of the keep.

Hess watched her go with no small amount of satisfaction. As minor nobility, he had tolerated enough petty tyrants to last him a lifetime – men and women who thought they were better just because they had an ancient name or title. No matter that they were cowardly, foolish or lazy – they were inevitably propelled to high positions on the strength of their blood, there to squat like insipid gargoyles while greater beings languished in the lower ranks.

Hess was finished bowing and scraping. When he rose again, and he would rise, it would be with his honour intact.

Flynn let out a low whistle. ‘You didn’t make any friends there, sir.’

Hess dismounted. ‘I am not here to make friends.’

‘Noted.’ Flynn glanced at Hess’ battered armour. ‘I suppose you will want to wash before you see Altenbach.’

‘I suppose I would,’ Hess frowned. Altenbach – the name sounded familiar.

Flynn directed Hess to the stables at the north end of the courtyard. Although there was room for many mounts, Hess only counted six ibuq including his and Flynn’s. After watering their mounts, Flynn led Hess across the yard, through one of the keep’s heavy iron doors, and into a low-ceilinged mess hall. Long steel tables and benches lined the room, which looked large enough to seat a hundred soldiers, perhaps more. Most of the room was in darkness, but green-flamed alchemical lanterns guttered in recessed sconces, the walls seemingly carved from the same metallic stone as the rest of the place.

‘These tunnels run all through the Grave for when the storms come.’ Flynn nodded down the hall to the right. ‘Barracks and brig are that way.’ He gestured at the darkness on the far side of the mess. ‘The armoury is through there.’

The Chamonian turned to the left, ambling down the hall and past a flight of stairs. ‘The castellan’s office is in the upper chamber.’ He indicated another a little farther on. ‘And these stairs lead to your quarters.’

‘What’s down there?’ Hess thrust his chin at the darkened hall.

‘That leads to the forge and the magazine,’ Flynn said as they climbed the echoing staircase. ‘But there’s not much call for either of those. The Grave is far from the front lines.’ They reached the top and he opened the door.

Hess’ room was cavernous. The vaulted iron ceiling, floor of brushed copper tiles and lack of windows made it feel more like a castle hall than a bedroom.

‘There’s water in the basin.’ Flynn’s voice echoed in the massive chamber. ‘And clothes in the dresser. If they don’t fit, I can get more. One thing the Grave doesn’t lack for is supplies.’ Flynn gestured at the room. ‘Or space.’

‘Thank you, Flynn.’ Hess stepped into the room, his boots loud on the tiles.

After a ragged salute, Flynn started back down the stairs.

Hess shut the door. A leather weapons belt lay coiled on the bed, sword and pistol scabbarded at either side. Hess drew the blade, inspecting the length. It was of middling quality, the steel warped slightly to the left, but the edge was sharp enough. The pistol had been recently cleaned and oiled, although the action was rough and the trigger far too loose.

He sheathed them both with a regretful sigh, then set about peeling off the sad remnants of his ceremonial armour. He took his time removing the medals from his ragged sash, setting each reverently in one of the empty dresser drawers. They had suffered much during his trek across Chamon – like Hess’ name, tarnished but still intact.

At least he hoped so.

It would take a master smith to fix all the dents and scratches in Hess’ armour, but he felt exposed in just a shirt and trousers, so after washing he strapped on the breastplate and pinned a few of the less blemished medals back onto his sash. Then he belted on his weapons and went to visit Altenbach.

After the stark, brooding nature of the rest of the fortress, the castellan’s office was a surprise. The walls were panelled with stained oak and hung with silver-edged drapes of purple velvet. Lamps burned in recessed sconces, illuminating the dozens of paintings, sculptures and etchings arrayed around the room. The subjects of the art ranged from portraiture, to landscapes, to irregular patterns, but all had an indistinct, dreamy quality, as if Hess were viewing them through a curtain of fine aelven gossamer. Even in the portraits, the colours were brighter, the features more stylised than was the common among the artists of Azyr.

Altenbach’s office was dominated not by a desk but a dusty sheet on which stood a tall statue. Carved from gold-flecked marble, it seemed to be of a many-armed woman, although like the paintings, the perspective was odd: the aristocratic fineness of her cheekbones; her nose; her wide, piercing eyes exaggerated in a way that put Hess in mind of a demigryph sighting prey. He took a step towards it, his boots sinking into the thick rug.

‘Heroic, isn’t she?’ The question came from just behind Hess. He spun, hands going to his weapons.

Altenbach was a small woman, her features hawkish in the way of the high aristocracy. She wore a dust-covered smock, her greying hair, longer than regulation length, tucked into a loose ponytail.

As though a gear had slipped suddenly into place, Hess remembered where he had heard her name before. ‘Sophia Altenbach.’

The castellan tapped her lips with one long-fingered hand, her gaze never leaving the statue. ‘I meant for her to seem brave and valiant, but I can’t seem to get the face right. No dynamism, no vigour. What do you think, captain, more lines around the eyes? Or maybe I should give her a stronger jawline?’

‘I saw your sculptures at the Auraculum,’ Hess said. ‘During the Ephemeris Festival, the night before–’ He swallowed as Altenbach’s lips gave an irritated twitch.

‘It’s nothing, long forgotten.’ She waved airily, regarding him for the first time. ‘You have the accent of someone noble-born. Tell me, do they still speak of my work in court?’

Hess was silent for an uncomfortable moment. The truth was that few dared mention Sophia Altenbach, not after the Order of Azyr had decreed that her sculptures be smashed and her paintings burned. Hess recalled a particular work – a painting of Sigmar standing on a mountain of bones, his armour drenched in blood, his mighty hammer raised as he exhorted his followers forward, blindfolds over their eyes. A lesser noble would have been tossed onto the pyre along with their art, but the Altenbachs were among the most influential families of Azyrheim, with wealth, power and a pedigree to match.

The castellan raised an eyebrow.

Hess hesitated a second longer, then shook his head.

‘It is to be expected, I suppose.’ She strolled over to a small table upon which sat a bottle of wine and several crystal glasses. ‘The Order sees only the storm. They are blind to the starry skies beyond.’

She poured wine in both glasses, handing one to Hess. A glance at the bottle gave him pause. ‘Is that…’

‘The Arch-Lector’s vineyard? Yes, I suppose it is.’ Altenbach raised an eyebrow. ‘My family makes sure the Grave is very well supplied. Their way of apologising for allowing the Order to ship me off to languish in this backwater prison. Go on, have a seat, drink it down.’

Hess sat, finishing the glass in one gulp, too confused and anxious to appreciate the subtleties of the vintage. He had expected the castellan to be a disgraced officer, perhaps a base-born soldier who’d risen through the ranks too quickly, not an artist banished for pushing the bounds of expression.

Altenbach refilled his glass, slopping some over the side. ‘The reports say I am to keep an eye on you.’

‘If you will just let me explain.’

‘They also say you attacked the lord marshal.’ Altenbach pointed the bottle at him, her tone suddenly serious. ‘Do I have anything to fear from you, captain?’

‘It was not like that. Khir is a liar and a fool.’ Hess felt an angry flush creep up his neck. ‘No, Castellan Altenbach, you have nothing to fear.’

‘Good.’ Altenbach turned away to regard the statue once again. Hess sipped at his wine as she made a full circuit then paused to look down at his medals. ‘Are those real?’

Hess coughed, the wine stinging his nose. ‘Every single one.’

‘I meant no insult.’ She set the bottle down next to him. ‘You must have been quite the rising star.’

‘I did my duty.’

She laughed, wine spattering the front of her smock. ‘That line may work on the courtiers back in Azyr, but you’re neck deep in the Grave now, my boy.’ She spread her arms. ‘I am sure you are working up some grand heroic notion of winning back your spurs, but there is no way out. Believe me, I have tried. The sooner you let those dreams go, the sooner you can continue with the remnants of your life, such as it is.’

It might have been the wine or the lack of sleep, but Hess felt light-headed, his face hot as the Chamon sun. Perhaps the castellan was right. If an Altenbach could not buy her way free of this garrison with her copious wealth and connections, what chance did he have? The glass felt like a lead weight in his hand, the air in the chamber seeming suddenly hot and close. Hess squeezed the bridge of his nose.

‘Oh, it’s not quite so bad as all that.’ The castellan sat across from him, leaning back to put her feet up on the table. ‘Lots of space, plenty of time, no ignorant clergy looking over your shoulder. I would recommend cultivating a hobby. Tell me, do you like art?’

‘I’ve never had the eye for it.’ Hess ran a hand through his sweaty hair, imagining years trapped in the place, decades of his life wasted for no good purpose.

‘Ah well, I suppose that was too much to hope for.’ Altenbach slid the bottle towards him. ‘Still, there is always drinking. To be honest, it will be nice to have another person of breeding to talk with. Thystra and Hanar don’t know the meaning of courtesy, Flynn is chatty enough but hardly fit for polite company, and I would rather walk as nature intended into a shardstorm than spend an hour in conversation with Schmidt.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Have you met her?’

‘Schmidt has the voice of an orruk,’ Hess said. A pleasant warmth had crept up through his chest, setting his lips buzzing and his hands feeling loose and distant. ‘Not to mention the manners.’

Altenbach lifted her glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’

And so they did.

Chapter Three

Hess bolted awake to a teeth-rattling explosion, his room echoing with the shriek of metal on metal. He fell out of bed, scrambling for his pistols.

‘Korelai, rouse the men! Andon, my horse! The camp is under attack!’ Hess surged to his feet. Somehow the enemy had taken them unawares. He needed to get to his company, to restore order.

Except Hess was not in camp. And he no longer commanded a company.

The rattling cacophony was like a knife grinding into Hess’ skull. It sounded as if the fortress was on the receiving end of an artillery barrage. Hess stumbled across the room, one hand pressed to his throbbing head as he scooped up the guttering lantern. It had been a mistake to sleep in his armour. Hess’ tongue felt thick, his mouth sour with old wine, every muscle complaining as he threw open the door. Somehow, he managed to stumble to the bottom of the stairs without splitting his head open. He turned the corner to find Thystra sprinting down the hall towards him, lantern in hand.

It was the first time Hess had seen the aelf without her cowl. Thystra’s blonde hair was cropped short, although roughly, as if it had been hacked off by a blade. She had the pale blue eyes and high cheekbones common to her race, but her gaunt cheeks and the shadowed hollows under her eyes served to accentuate the sharpness of her features. While her left ear swept to a gentle point, her right was little more than a mass of pale white scars.

‘What’s happening?’ Hess’ question was swallowed by the grinding tumult.

‘Shardstorm!’ Thystra shouted as she took Hess by the arm, half dragging him down the hall. ‘We must retreat deeper into the keep!’

They turned another corner, heading not for the courtyard door but across the mess, pelting through a long kitchen and into what appeared to be the armoury. As Thystra shut the door behind them, the mad clatter of the shardstorm faded to a dull roar.

Hess looked around, wide-eyed, surprised not by the size of the place but its contents. Flynn had not been lying when he said the fortress was well stocked. Altenbach’s family had not skimped on supplies. Steel glittered in the lantern light – swords, spears and shields hanging in neat rows. Sheaves of arrows stood next to a long stand of bows, and Hess counted easily a dozen bags of shot beneath a felt-lined case full of pistols. There were racks and racks of armour – muscled cuirasses hanging next to articulated pauldrons and breastplates, shelves of heavy bronze helms that appeared to be straight from the Age of Myth.

The Grave of Heroes had clearly been meant to weather a siege, and not just one from the look of things.

Schmidt and Hanar bust into the armoury. The priest had the wiry duardin by the scruff of the neck, propelling him forward. Catching sight of Hess, Schmidt shoved Hanar to the ground.

‘The bastard didn’t even touch the storm shutters.’ The priest raised her arm to show torn fabric, blood dripping from a long, wicked-looking cut. ‘I almost died when the window to my quarters burst in. I swear to Sigmar this wretch weakened the lock on purpose.’

‘You dare question my honour, umgi?’ Hanar scrambled to his feet to glare up at Schmidt, heavy fists clenched at his side.

Hess held up a hand. ‘Now is not the time.’

‘You are correct.’ The priest aimed a kick at the duardin. ‘The time to fix the shutters was before the shardstorm hit.’

‘Enough, Valdemar.’ Altenbach came stumbling into the armoury. The castellan looked almost as bad as Hess felt, her clothes in disarray and her hair stuck out in wild shocks. ‘I heard an explosion.’

‘That would have been the powder store,’ Schmidt said with a pointed look at Hess.

Altenbach massaged her temples. ‘Is everyone accounted for?’

‘Flynn?’ Hess asked.

‘I haven’t seen him since this afternoon.’ Schmidt sounded almost defensive.

‘Well, he has to be somewhere,’ the castellan said after a moment of awkward silence.

Hanar muttered something under his breath.

‘What is it?’ Schmidt asked. ‘What else have you done?’

‘Guard duty.’ The duardin scowled at her. ‘Flynn was up on the walls.’

Schmidt took a quick step towards Hanar, one bloody fist raised. ‘That explosion probably destroyed half the outer wall. The Chamonian is likely dead because of your incompetence.’

The duardin didn’t back away. ‘I am a master smith of the first rank, trained at the forge of Ulf Hardrada. I will not be scorned by a moon-faced wench with pretensions of command.’

‘Quiet, both of you,’ Altenbach snapped. ‘We will deal with this after the storm. For now, we need to rescue the Chamonian. The courtyard is going to be a mess after the explosion, but if anyone can find shelter in a shardstorm, it is Flynn.’

Hess nodded, surprised by the castellan’s desire to search for Flynn. Used to Khir’s cowardice, he had expected an argument, but Altenbach seemed to be made of sterner stuff than the lord marshal, despite having never been blooded in battle. He gestured at the racks of armour. ‘Thystra and I can go.’

Hess glanced at the aelf, realising she had not spoken since Schmidt and Hanar arrived. Thystra had gone bone-pale, staring at Schmidt’s wounded arm with wide, terrified eyes.

‘I don’t–’ She swallowed, hands clenched at her sides, legs rigid. ‘Blood.’

Altenbach let out a soft curse. ‘Captain Hess, you and I are going outside. Valdemar, Hanar, help us with the armour.’

Hess hurried over to the racks, Hanar close behind. As a mounted pistolier, Hess had always preferred mobility over protection, but here he wasn’t trying to skirt an enemy formation or outpace a pack of skaven. There seemed to be no complete sets of armour, so Hess kept his breastplate, strapping the other plates on piecemeal. Clucking his tongue, Hanar moved to help. Rushed and haphazard as the process was, Hess couldn’t help but admire the speed with which the duardin worked.

‘My gratitude.’ He slipped a closed-face helm over his head, cinching the buckles of his gorget. ‘If only my squire had known plate mail half so well.’

Hanar scowled, tightening Hess’ armour straps with a hard pull. ‘Manling, I was once personal armourer to Warden King Orm the Red. For five decades, my skills kept him free of scratch or bruise.’ The duardin spat on the ground. ‘I am glad you feel my work outdoes the work of beardless human boys.’

Hess shifted in the plate. ‘I meant no insult.’

But the duardin was already moving off.

‘Schmidt, bind your wound. Hanar, secure the door behind us.’ Altenbach’s voice was muffled through her full helm. ‘And Thystra, keep an eye them. If either of those fools so much as looks at the other while I’m gone, throw them outside.’

The aelf gave a tight-lipped nod. Schmidt and Hanar glowered, although each was careful to keep their gaze fixed on the floor.

‘Captain,’ Altenbach said, bending to heft a metal-faced tower shield. ‘Grab another of these and follow me.’

Hess blinked at the castellan. He had taken Altenbach for an aesthete, a dilettante, certainly not someone capable of such quick, decisive action. Grinning behind his helm, he did as he was bid, hefting the shield by its centre grip.

They hurried down the corridor and straight into hell.

Once, while pursuing a band of Ironjawz across the fleshy, bristle-topped ridges of the Bruteplains of Ghur, Hess’ company had drifted too close to the battle lines. A stray mortar salvo hit their formation, bodies tumbling through the air in a whirlwind of fire and flechettes. Hess still remembered the way his soldiers’ armour crumpled like paper, pierced through in a hundred places, their corpses scattered as if by the hand of a petulant gargant.

It was nothing compared to the shardstorm.

Hunks of stone and jagged metal ricocheted from Hess’ shield, the force of their impacts almost driving him to his knees. They struck sparks from flinty outcrops, flashes of bright yellow and orange that showered the courtyard in flaming rain. The air smelled of ash. Bright arcs of lightning snapped down from the brooding thunderheads above, crackling across the maelstrom in swirling, spitting balls of energy.

Hess pushed forwards, back to back with Altenbach, he in front while the castellan warded the rear. He hunkered behind the heavy tower shield, flinching as the occasional chunk of iron ricocheted over the top to rattle off his visor.

The courtyard was a shambles and filled with debris. Although the powder store was gone along with most of the wall north of the gatehouse, the stables looked to have weathered the explosion intact. Hess hoped the ibuqs had as well.

A section of the courtyard was simply gone, a massive chasm cutting it almost in half. If Flynn had been caught by the explosion, there would be little left of him. Hopefully, he had found shelter on the wall south of the gate.

Hess nudged Altenbach, and when she turned, he tilted his head at the intact section of wall. She gave a quick nod, and they began to shuffle around the edge of the crevasse, Hess in the lead. The shardstorm roared like a wounded dracolith, battering them with claws of shrieking, spinning metal.

Easily ten paces wide, the crevasse ran from beyond the outer wall to almost touch the keep. Within, hard-packed earth had fallen away to expose a gaping hole, which revealed some manner of cavern below the fort. As Hess peered down into the darkness, a flash of lightning struck the gatehouse, illuminating the depths of the chasm. In that moment, he could see that the jagged iron of the mountain gave way to worked stone and steel, the hint of a tiled floor at the bottom of the crevasse. There seemed to be some manner of underground passage below the courtyard. The architecture appeared very different to that of the fortress, the walls inlaid with what looked like mosaics, the lines graceful where the Grave’s were sharp and blocky. Hess craned his head for a better look, but with the lightning gone, the chasm was dark once more.

With a strained snarl, he pushed into the bladed wind, making for the intact portion of the walls. A fist-sized hunk of iron rebounded from his shield, sending him stumbling back into Altenbach, his shoulder and arm numb from the impact. To her credit, the castellan braced her shield against the ground, and after a moment of awkward shuffling Hess found his feet.

The storm struck sprays of sparks from the iron wall, casting it in flickering relief. Hess scanned the top of the wall. Although he could barely make out the battlements among the hail of jagged steel, he could see they offered no shelter from the storm. Cursing, he was about to signal Altenbach to turn back when he noticed the fortress gate was open.

The huge metal portal had been thrown wide, the winch chains drawn tight to hold it almost flush against the outer wall.

He nudged Altenbach and they made for the gate.

The shardstorm’s force lessened considerably in the shelter of the overhanging battlements, the hail consisting only of those stones and bits of metal that managed to rebound off the ground or inner walls. Still, Hess kept his shield up as they advanced.

As they approached, he could see there was perhaps a foot of clearance between the gate and the outer wall, the protruding masks keeping the portal from resting completely flat against the iron. Hess shifted to peer down the thin gap. As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw Flynn wedged near the back, pressed between the gate and the wall. The Chamonian looked quite the worse for wear, one leg twisted at an unnatural angle. Still, he managed a pained grin as Hess’ shadow filled the slender opening.

Hess tugged at the door, but it did not move, the chains holding it tight against the wall.

‘The winch is in the gatehouse!’ Altenbach’s shout was almost lost to the storm.

Hess shook his head. ‘If we open the gate from up there, Flynn will be cut to pieces before we can reach him.’

Signalling to Altenbach to keep her shield up, he dropped his own and shifted to wrench the heavy iron portal away from the wall. Tears pricked the corners of Hess’ eyes, his arms trembling with the effort, but the gate moved barely at all. Something ground painfully in Hess’ shoulder and he fell back, almost knocking Altenbach to the ground. She dropped her shield to catch him by the arm, metal pinging off their armour. Hess could see Altenbach’s eyes through the visor of her helmet – tired, but more irritated than afraid.

She jerked her head at the door, pointing first at Hess, then herself.

Hess took a deep breath and nodded.

Together, they stood to take hold of the door. Bits of iron and flint battered Hess’ armour. He felt a twinge at the back of his knee where a flechette slipped through to cut chain and cloth. Sticky blood began to pool in his boot, but thankfully he felt none of the terrifying numbness that so often accompanied a deep wound. At his side, Altenbach shuddered, a chunk of flint striking sparks from her pauldron. But she did not let go.

Hess set his legs, back bent with effort. Above, the metal faces on the gate watched, silent in their perfect regard, their features more akin to gods’ than mortals’. Strangely, Hess found himself wondering who they might have been – if not gods, then heroes, certainly. How it must pain their spirits to know their names had been lost to history, their deeds erased by time. More than anything, Hess understood their loss.

‘Sigmar, give me strength.’ Gritting his teeth, he wedged an arm into the crack, heaving until he felt his spine must break from the effort. Even over the storm, it seemed he could hear Altenbach’s furious curses. Inside, Flynn shifted to brace against the door and, screaming, pushed with all his might.

Slowly, the door moved.

When they’d cleared perhaps a foot, Hess lunged inside, protecting Flynn with his body while Altenbach recovered the shields.

‘Get on my back!’ Hess shouted.

Flynn nodded, linking his arms around Hess’ shoulders as he stood. Altenbach slid Hess’ shield through the crack, then raised her own to give him room to manoeuvre back to the front.

Together, with Flynn sandwiched between them, they edged their way towards the keep. With Flynn on his back, the going was even slower. More than once Hess felt his wounded leg tremble from the weight, but thankfully it held. At last, they were able to throw the door open and collapse into the mess hall. Altenbach tossed her shield to the ground, turning to slam and bolt the door behind them.

‘My apologies for not giving warning of the storm,’ Flynn said through chattering teeth. The pain of his injured leg had left the Chamonian as pale as weathered bone, his hair slicked with sweat. ‘Usually you can hear a shardstorm miles away, but this one came out of nowhere. I barely had time to release the gate winch and jump down.’

‘No apology necessary.’ Altenbach leaned against a table to remove her helmet. ‘We are just glad you’re alive.’

Flush with adrenaline, Hess found himself grinning despite his exhaustion. ‘Let us patch your wounds now, Flynn.’

‘My thanks.’ The man let out a low moan as they helped him limp towards the armoury. Still, he returned Hess’ smile.

‘I was indebted to you for rescuing me back on the road.’ Hess gave a rueful shake of his head. ‘I just didn’t imagine I’d get the chance to settle the debt so quickly.’

Chapter Four

The others were upon them as soon as Hess and Altenbach carried Flynn into the armoury.

‘He is injured,’ Hess said to Thystra as she ran up to take Flynn. ‘Are you going to be okay?’

The aelf nodded, her eyes downcast. ‘I was startled by the blood earlier, that is all.’

Hess let her take the Chamonian over to where Schmidt was clearing one of the armoury tables. Satisfied Flynn was being cared for, he sat so Hanar could help remove his armour. Although the cut on the back of his leg had bled quite a bit, it was shallow enough that even Hess’ mediocre knowledge of field medicine was sufficient to patch the injury. When it was done, he limped over to where the others stood around Flynn.

‘The knee is dislocated,’ Thystra said, feeling Flynn’s leg. ‘We will need to set and splint it.’

‘I had to jump from the wall after I set the gate winch turning,’ Flynn said, wincing as Thystra delicately probed the bruise on his swelling limb.

‘You wouldn’t have had to jump if our engineer had fulfilled his duty.’ Schmidt’s voice rose above the distant rattle of the storm. ‘It should’ve been Hanar out there, not you.’

The duardin gave a low growl. ‘I am a smith of–’

Schmidt spoke over Hanar, her tone mocking. ‘The first rank? Personal armourer to King Gorm Gristlebeard? Yes, we’ve all heard your lies.’

Hess turned to see the two had squared off against each other, stony-faced. He looked to Altenbach, but the castellan was staring into nothing, smiling as she muttered under her breath.

‘I’ve seen no forgecraft from you, duardin.’ Schmidt said. ‘I think your clan was as embarrassed of you as we are. I think they sent you out into the wastes to die a noble death, but you were too much of a coward for that, weren’t you?’

Hanar glared up at the thickly muscled warrior priest. ‘By the Six Smiths, no one calls me a coward.’

‘I think you crawled up into the Grave while no one was looking, hiding away like a–’

The duardin’s fist caught Schmidt on the tip of the chin, snapping the priest’s head back like a hurled stone. She rocked on her feet, then caught herself, lunging at Hanar. They fell to the ground, grappling and punching.

‘Castellan!’ Hess shouted, sprinting towards the scuffle.

Altenbach blinked as if seeing the fight for the first time. ‘Schmidt, Hanar, stand down! That’s an order!’

If the two heard, they gave no sign.

Hanar had straddled the priest, snarling oaths and threats in the hard-edged tongue of the duardin as he pounded on Schmidt.

‘Kinless thaggazz,’ he spat. ‘Your ancestors weep at the mention of your name.’

Hess grabbed the duardin by the shoulder, and received an elbow to the stomach for his trouble. The priest’s face was masked in blood, muscles straining as she tried to dislodge Hanar.

Desperately, Hess drew his pistol, reversed his grip, and slammed the butt into the back of Hanar’s head. The duardin lurched, but did not fall. Planting his feet, Hess brought the pistol down again, much harder.

At last, Hanar tumbled off the priest.

Schmidt started to scramble to her feet, but Hess kicked her back down. ‘Enough!’

Hanar had rolled to his knees, breathing hard, a thin runnel of blood trickling from his scalp. For a moment, the duardin looked about to launch himself back into the fray, but then he slumped back with an angry snarl.

‘Striking a warrior priest of Sigmar.’ Schmidt had one hand to her bloodied nose, her voice little more than a rasp. ‘What is the punishment for that, captain?’

Hess looked down at her, disgusted, then turned to Altenbach, who was once again staring at nothing, her mouth working as if she were attempting to decipher an ancient text. Hess blinked. ‘Castellan?’

‘I have finally figured it out.’ Altenbach turned to Hess, one finger raised. ‘The face,’ she grinned. ‘The face!’

Hess stared at her. He had thought the castellan courageous, but now he was beginning to suspect she might be quite mad. ‘Sir, what shall we do about Hanar and the priest?’

Strangely, the castellan’s expression seemed more irritated than angry. ‘Both of them are confined to quarters until further notice.’

‘This is unacceptable.’ Schmidt knocked Hess’ boot aside, pushing to her feet. ‘I’ve tolerated your heretical leanings for too long, Altenbach. The art, the dreams, it’s clear you’ve finally lost your mind. The Order of Azyr will hear of this.’

‘You threaten me with witch finders?’ Altenbach’s laugh was high and manic. ‘Send your letter, priest, and I will send one of my own. Let us see who they come for.’

Schmidt’s complexion shaded from red to purple, but she made no retort. Hess frowned at the two of them – Altenbach’s controversial paintings were well known, of course, but Schmidt? She seemed too hidebound for a heretic.

The castellan waved a hand as if to brush away a bothersome fly. ‘Captain Hess, if these two will not return to quarters, you are to escort them to a cell. See to it that the Chamonian’s wounds are bound and everything is put back to rights. I will be in my office. Do not disturb me under any circumstances.’

‘As you wish,’ Hess muttered to her retreating back.

‘I have better things to do than trade insults with mewling manlings.’ Hanar spat a bloody gobbet onto the ground, then stalked from the armoury.

‘You’re just going to let him go?’ Schmidt asked. ‘You all saw the duardin attack me.’

Hess crossed his arms. ‘I’m not sure what I saw.’

Schmidt looked to Flynn, then Thystra, but neither met her gaze. The priest’s furious scowl distorted the fiery comet on her cheek. She turned away without saluting, kicking through the door into the mess.

‘Well, that’s more excitement than we’ve had in some time,’ Flynn said.

‘I have a feeling it is far from over,’ Hess replied. ‘In the meantime, let us set that leg.’

Flynn swallowed, looking pale, but gave a tight-lipped nod. ‘I suppose we should.’

Hess helped him lie down on the table while Thystra rooted around in the back of the armoury. Thystra returned with bandages, a splint and a heavy steel bottle, which the Chamonian quickly uncorked. He took a long pull.

‘Captain, will you hold him?’ Thystra asked, glancing at Hess. ‘This will not be pleasant.’

Flynn took another swig then set the bottle aside and laid back as Hess gripped his shoulders. With practised ease, Thystra took hold of the Chamonian’s leg, and pulled.

Flynn gave a muffled shriek, almost tearing free of Hess’ grip, but Thystra was quick, and had the splint on before he could injure himself further. White-lipped, Flynn let out a shaky sigh. ‘Not the worst thing I’ve ever felt, but damned close.’

Hess patted him on the shoulder, then nodded to Thystra. ‘That was well and quickly done.’

‘It was necessary to learn.’ Thystra’s lips gave a little twitch. ‘Lion Rangers operate far behind enemy lines. If someone gets injured…’ She tilted her head, frowning.

‘I met a company of Lion Rangers, once.’ Hess sat, wincing at the slight stab of pain from his injured leg. ‘We were hunting down the raider bands that spun off after Ardleg’s horde was splintered at Broken Tor. We ran into a warband on boars. I’d put my company against anyone or anything, but light cavalry are no match for blood-crazed Bonesplitterz. I thought we were done for – then the Lion Rangers came streaming over the ridge, axes flashing. They rolled right up the orruks’ flank. I saw a Ranger take a boar’s head clean off with one stroke.’ Hess paused. Thystra’s expression had turned pained, her hands clenched in her lap.

‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘I didn’t intend to dredge up bad memories.’

‘It is nothing.’ Her voice was flat. ‘We should see to Flynn’s cuts, and yours as well.’

Hess sat on the bench next to the table where Flynn lay. ‘It is fine – barely a scratch.’

Thystra frowned, glancing down at Hess’ injured knee, which had already bled through his hastily applied bandage.

He held up his hands in mock surrender, gamely allowing the aelf to remove the wrapping. Fetching the steel bottle, she poured a bit over the wound.

Hess grunted as the alcohol burned. ‘What is that?’

‘Tarlish Spike. The Fyreslayers make it,’ Flynn said with a wink. ‘It’s good for wounds, and for stripping rust off old hinges.’

Hess let out a shaky breath. It certainly felt as if someone had driven a spike into his knee.

His wound had begun bleeding freely again. Thystra’s hands trembled as she unwound a new bandage, her jaw tight, her shoulders high as if she expected to be attacked at any moment.

‘Let me.’ Hess took the bandage from her.

‘It is shameful.’ Thystra looked away with a furious scowl. She held up her hands, clenching and unclenching her fists. ‘What use is a warrior who cannot bear the sight of blood?’

‘I understand.’ Hess let out a deep sigh, wrapping the bandage tight around his wounds. ‘For me, it is flames.’

Thystra sat at the other end of the bench. ‘What?’

‘Balefire.’ He nodded at the sputtering lanterns. ‘At Beacon Field, battling Avul Thrice-Burnt. My company was scouting ahead, but we happened on the warlock and his followers performing some manner of fell ritual. We were under orders not to engage, but I saw an opportunity to cut the head from the serpent. My soldiers charged in.’ The memory filled Hess with fury, and he spat to the side. ‘It was a trap.’

Hess took another pull from the bottle, remembering. ‘Avul sacrificed thousands of his own followers just to lure us in, then he set the whole field alight. Those of us in front managed to get ahead of the flames, but I can still see the people burning. All of them. Avul had orchestrated the entire thing as some manner of grand sacrifice. He was cackling like a madman.’ Hess slapped the pistol at his side. ‘A dozen shots I fired, and that monster kept laughing. I had to stab him through the mouth, near remove his head, and then trample him into the ground before he finally stopped.’

‘Good show, captain.’ Flynn slapped his uninjured leg in approval.

‘It did end the war,’ Hess said. ‘They pinned a medal on my chest for killing the sorcerer, then sent me here for getting my entire command killed.’

They sat in silence for some time. With a start, Hess realised Flynn’s cuts were still bleeding, and took up the bottle and bandages. He glanced back at Thystra, offering the aelf a tentative smile. ‘You have done enough. I can see to these.’

Thystra returned a grateful nod.

‘That was quite a story, captain,’ Flynn said, frowning. ‘I’ve never been in a proper battle. Some who have passed through feel that natives should not be trusted to hold the line here.’

‘What was it like?’ Hess asked. ‘Growing up out here in the Realm of Metal?’

‘Oh, terrible.’ Flynn shifted his leg with a little grunt of pain. ‘An injury like this would have ended me. The best my tribe could do would be to put me out of my misery before the marauders came. That way, at least, I wouldn’t feel it when they ate me.’

Flynn gave a mirthless laugh. ‘You should’ve seen it, captain. When those Stormcasts came flashing in on streaks of lightning, my people thought it was the old Lantic legions back from the dead. They were like gods. Better than gods. Those of us who were left joined the Freeguilds right away. Thing about it is, you high-borns don’t tend to like natives.’ Flynn made the straight-fingered warding gesture again.

Hess frowned, wrapping a bandage around Flynn’s upper arm. ‘That is not true.’

‘Perhaps.’ Flynn clucked his tongue. ‘There are all manner of tainted folk out here. Sometimes the rot runs deep. It’s hard to tell, or so the officers told us. Better to keep the auxiliaries cordoned off where the priests can burn out any corruption, or what they think is corruption. My people didn’t keep many traditions, but those we held, we held tight. Old battle hymns to salt and steel, rituals with purposes long forgotten, our filigree.’ He pointed to the network of golden lines tattooed on his face. ‘The Order of Azyr didn’t take kindly to any of it…’

Hess winced, already dreading the end of Flynn’s tale, but the Chamonian just trailed off. After a moment, Flynn shook his head as if to clear it. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to bring down the mood.’

‘My comrades were tortured to death,’ Thystra said, her voice low and tight. ‘We were scouting the ruins of the Gilded Steamgird – rumour was that a cult was excavating for ancient weapons. It was more than a cult. There was a whole horde gathered in the shadow of the old Lantic wall. One moment we were scouting along the wreckage, the next they were all around us – humans, beasts and things I still have no name for. I lost my ear, but was able to conceal myself amidst the rubble. The rest of my squad was taken. For four days I hid there, watching and listening while those creatures made sport of my friends. Through it all – the torture, the blood, the vile rites – none of my comrades gave me up. I couldn’t help them. I couldn’t run. All I could do was watch them bleed.’

She closed her eyes, her breathing shaky. ‘Then the horde moved on, vanishing into the Iron Desert. After that, I couldn’t stay with the Lion Rangers.’

‘It was not your fault,’ Hess said.

Thystra straightened. ‘Your flames, captain. Do you think the memories shall ever fade?’

Hess didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. They all knew the truth of it.

‘Look at us.’ There was no mirth in Flynn’s chuckle. ‘Maybe we belong in the Grave after all.’

Thystra stood. ‘I should see if the storm is letting up.’

Hess helped Flynn to his feet and handed him a makeshift crutch. Together, they limped out into the mess hall.

‘Captain.’ Thystra paused at the edge of the hall, looking back. ‘I–’

With a rattling boom, the door to the courtyard burst open. A huge, silver-armoured figure stood silhouetted in the doorway, a lantern in one gauntleted fist, a long, glittering blade in the other. Blood streamed from gashes in her armour, the blessed sigmarite battered almost shapeless by the fury of the shardstorm. Her silvered mask had cracked, revealing a slash of bloody cheek, and she held her sword arm close to her side as if the limb was shattered.

She took a step into the mess, then fell to one knee, her broken wings trailing behind like a tattered cloak. Flechettes clattered off her back, striking white sparks from her armour. She pushed to her feet, then turned back into the storm to force the door closed.

‘By Sigmar,’ Flynn said.

It wasn’t until Flynn spoke that Hess realised he’d been standing transfixed, his mouth hanging open. He’d seen a Stormcast Eternal before, but never this close, for Sigmar’s chosen vanguard were often at the forefront of battle, ahead of even the mounted scouts. They appeared where the fighting was thickest, striking deep behind enemy lines to carve a glorious path through the enemies of order, their celestial beacons lighting the way for all.

‘I am Eris Brightmourn, Knight Azyros of the Maelstrom of Light.’ Despite her obvious injuries, the Stormcast’s voice didn’t waver. She took another faltering step, seeming to propel herself forwards by force of will alone.

Hess looked up at her, his tongue seeming to fill the whole of his mouth. ‘Lady, how may we assist you?’

Eris toppled heavily to the side, her armour denting the steel of the mess table. She removed her helmet, revealing a face that was surprisingly human. Blood spattered her dark skin, one eye swollen almost shut, a long gash running from forehead to chin.

Hess and Thystra ran to her, Flynn limping after. Hess moved to press the sleeve of his shirt to Eris’ wound, but the Stormcast caught his wrist, her grip like a steel manacle.

She pulled him close. ‘Beware. The legend foretells…’ Her eyes became distant, unseeing. ‘We are too late. The red hours are upon us.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Hess said, but the Stormcast had already slumped to the side, her eyes rolling back in her head.

‘Is she dead?’ Thystra frowned.

‘No,’ Hess replied, feeling the faint yet unmistakable flutter of Eris’ breath on his cheek. ‘But she is close.’

‘Why come here of all places?’ Flynn’s question hung in the air, but the only soul who could answer it lay bleeding in front of them.

Chapter Five

‘Castellan, I know you said not to disturb you, but urgent matters require your attention.’ The door to Altenbach’s office swung open at Hess’ knock. The chamber beyond was dimly lit, the heavy purple drapes hanging loose from their ties to give the room a close, claustrophobic feel. As before, it smelled of incense and paint, although the air came threaded with a sharper smell – coppery, bright and familiar.

Without entering the room, Hess held up his lantern, the greenish glow of the alchemical fire illuminating the ruined office. Smashed ceramics littered the carpet, busts torn from their alcoves and trampled to bits. Although Altenbach’s canvases still hung on the walls, they were defaced with splashes of dark paint.

‘Altenbach?’ Hess drew his sword. Stepping into the room, he realised with mounting horror that what he’d first thought were scrawls of paint was actually blood.

Stance low and cautious, he brushed aside the drapery.

Altenbach lay at the statue’s feet, tangled in the tarp, her blood painting the walls, the drapes, even the velvet batting on the ceiling. Despite the gore-spattered surroundings, the castellan looked to be untouched, her clothes bloody but untorn.

Biting back a curse, Hess quickly crossed the room to kneel next to Altenbach. Blood from the rug soaked into his trousers and the sleeves of his shirt as he sought to extricate the castellan from the bloody tarp, more spattering his breastplate.

An unconscious gasp slipped from Hess’ lips as Altenbach finally rolled free, her head lolling back to reveal that her throat had been opened ear to ear.

Hess dropped the body, surging to his feet, his heart racing. He looked around the room, sweeping the curtains aside with his blade and finding only more bloody wreckage. With the broken vases, torn drapes and smashed paintings, the room looked to have been the site of a brutal struggle. Yet Altenbach’s hands and arms were free of defensive wounds. In fact, the only visible wound was the slash across her throat.

Hess swallowed thickly. Whoever had killed the castellan had spread the blood after the slaughter. To Hess, the action spoke not only to the murderer’s cruelty and revelry, but of their madness.

Hess ran at full pelt back to the mess hall, almost losing his footing as his blood-soaked boots skidded on the stairs. Thystra and Flynn were stooped over the unconscious warrior.

‘We have the Stormcast Eternal laid out.’ Thystra stood. ‘But we will need Hanar to help with the armour before we can see to her wounds.’ The aelf took a surprised step back as she saw Hess, hand snapping to the hilt of her sword. ‘Captain, why are you covered in blood?’

‘Arm yourselves.’ Hess stopped, panting from the run. ‘Altenbach has been murdered.’

‘Sigmar preserve us.’ Flynn produced a wicked-looking dagger. ‘How did she die?’

‘We need to gather everyone.’ Hess set about loading his pistol, ignoring Flynn – he was all too aware they had no time for questions. ‘And quickly – someone or something may have snuck into the fort.’

‘Hanar’s quarters are next to the forge,’ Thystra said. ‘And Schmidt bunks in the old barracks room near the southern wall.’

‘You two stick together, collect the priest,’ Hess said. ‘I’ll go after Hanar.’

‘Alone?’ Flynn pushed to his feet, wobbling a little on his makeshift crutch. He glanced to where the Stormcast Eternal lay stretched out on the ground. ‘What about her? Someone should stay.’

Hess shook his head. ‘Sigmar will protect her.’

‘Be careful, captain.’ Thystra nodded to Hess and moved off, keeping her pace steady with Flynn’s shuffling limp.

Hess headed the opposite way. The hall doglegged as it connected with the fortress’ outer wall. Hess could hear the grinding rattle of the shardstorm outside, louder now that only a few feet of stone protected him from the whirling shrapnel. For a moment, he worried that the explosion might have collapsed the section of the wall connecting to the forge, but although he could hear the ping of metal farther down the hall, the route to the forge was clear.

A wave of heat washed over Hess as he stepped inside. Although Schmidt had said the forge had not been lit in a long time, it looked to be well cared for. Fiery light bathed the room, the whoosh of bellows sending swirls of ash through the air. Hanar stood by a pair of anvils, hammer and tongs in hand as he beat at a piece of white-hot steel.

‘What are you doing?’ Hess didn’t point his pistol at the duardin, but neither did he lower it.

‘What do you think?’ Hanar turned to quench the steel in an oil bath, hissing flames threading the air for a moment before the piece was fully submerged. After a moment, the duardin held up the steel, which looked to be a curved piece of plate. ‘The temper always tells.’

‘Is that part of a storm shutter?’ Hess asked.

‘Gromril is fine for kings, but give me good steel any day.’ The duardin turned the plating, letting the oil drip off. ‘You can work on it for weeks – heat, hammer, reheat, over and over, pour yourself into it, but you never know until the temper. Like people, I suppose – sometimes they break, sometimes they warp and sometimes they come out stronger than before.’

Hess regarded the duardin, frowning. Unlike Thystra and Flynn, he didn’t know where Hanar had been when Altenbach was murdered, and yet it seemed the duardin had been at the forge for some time. Hess had some forgecraft – enough to know Hanar would not have been able to slaughter Altenbach and keep the fires stoked.

‘Altenbach is dead,’ Hess said.

The duardin’s lips quirked into a half-smile. ‘Finally drink herself into the grave, did she?’

‘She was murdered in her office.’

‘Truly?’ Hanar gave a surprised grunt, setting down the plating to wipe his hands on his leather apron. ‘By the flames of Grimnir, I didn’t think the priest had it in her. Just let me get my hammer and we shall avenge the castellan.’

‘I’d prefer you left your weapons here.’ Hess pointed his pistol at the duardin.

‘Grungni’s beard.’ Hanar scowled at Hess, eyes narrowed. ‘Captain, such a request sounds as though you are accusing me.’

‘I am not accusing you of anything,’ Hess said with a thin smile. ‘For now, I wish to gather the garrison in one place.’

The duardin gave a low, angry rumble, seeming to size Hess up. After a moment, he shrugged. ‘So be it. But, by Ulthar’s blazing hammer, if I fall weaponless when battle comes, you can be sure my shade will seek you out, manling.’

Hess gestured at the door with his pistol. ‘Be that as it may, you and Schmidt are the only two people who were alone when the castellan was killed.’

‘Swapping tales of war and glory with Goldcheeks and Clipear, were you?’ Hanar gave a gravelly chuckle as he walked down the hallway. ‘I remember those days, back when I had stories worth telling. Seems we have a lot in common, you and I.’

Hess did not lower his pistol. ‘Do we?’

‘Oh, I’ve got stories too, captain.’ The duardin said, anger threading his voice. ‘Do you know of Thora Steelsong?’

Hess raised an eyebrow, remembering the smooth action of his old pistols. ‘She does fine work.’

Hanar snorted. ‘Thora was my apprentice. Taught her everything I knew, groomed her to take over from me as armourer to the Warden King. But Thora had bigger ambitions. One day, Orm the Red went out to see off some orruks. It was a small skirmish, but he came back wounded – his pauldron had come off mid-battle.’

Hanar’s lips twisted into a sour scowl. ‘Blame fell on me, of course. Only I know I strapped that armour down tight. That kin traitor Thora must’ve weakened the links. I said as much to Orm, but the Steelsongs were an old and respected clan, beyond reproach, and my clan… Well, our standing was somewhat less exalted.’

Hess felt his stomach tighten in anticipation of what came next.

‘May Thora’s ancestors weep to hear her name. She stole my secrets, stole my position, stole my honour and set me in my grave.’ The duardin spread his hands. ‘Just as someone did to you, I imagine.’

‘Near enough.’ Hess nodded towards the mess hall, unwilling to let the duardin see that he had rattled him. ‘Keep walking.’

They turned the corner into the mess hall, which was still empty apart from Eris, who lay next to one of the steel tables.

At the sight of the unconscious Stormcast, Hanar gave a low whistle. ‘Fist of the mountain, manling, what else have you been keeping from me?’

‘She came in from the shardstorm.’ Hess motioned to one of the benches with his pistol, and Hanar sat, hands resting companionably on his knees.

‘Haven’t seen one of her kind around these parts for going on twenty years.’ Hanar scratched his beard thoughtfully. ‘You wouldn’t have anything to do with this, captain?’

‘Of course not.’

‘By the halls of my father, something big is in the offing.’ The duardin’s smile revealed the gaps in his teeth. ‘An opportunity to be sure.’

‘What do you mean?’ Hess asked.

‘Stormcasts go where the danger is greatest.’ Hanar shrugged. ‘Heroic deeds abound for those with the will and the strength.’

Hess glanced towards the hall leading to the barracks.

‘Getting nervous?’

Hess kept his face impassive despite his growing apprehension. The Grave was not that big. Thystra and Flynn should have been back by now, unless they had run into the murderer, or if Schmidt was the murderer.

‘I am no aelven sneakthief or skulking grot.’ The duardin leaned back, arms draped casually across the table. ‘My hammer will leave no question as to who I have slain.’

A soft green light illuminated the entrance hall, growing brighter as whoever held the lantern approached. Hess let out a breath of relief as Thystra and Flynn stepped into the mess. They had their weapons drawn, but Schmidt was nowhere to be seen.

‘We searched the barracks top to bottom – no sign of Schmidt, captain,’ Flynn said. ‘Shall we search the rest of the fort?’

The duardin flexed his thick arms. ‘See, captain, the answer is bright as flame. Schmidt is your murderer.’ Hanar clapped his hands. ‘Now, can I go back to my forge?’

‘I want you with me,’ Hess said. ‘Flynn, you too. We are going to the castellan’s office.’

‘And me?’ Thystra asked.

‘I need you here with Eris.’

She frowned.

‘Just keep this trained on the entrance.’ Hess reversed his pistol and handed it to the aelf, leaning in to speak in a softer voice. ‘Altenbach’s quarters are not something you wish to witness.’

Thystra took the pistol with a tight-lipped nod.

‘If we hear a shot, we will come to your aid,’ Hess said.

‘If you must deny me my hammer, at least grant me a blade,’ Hanar said.

‘I’ve seen you fistfight.’ Hess favoured the duardin with a brittle smile. ‘You will manage.’

The castellan’s office was just as Hess had left it. At the sight of the blood and destruction, Flynn pressed a sleeve to his mouth, while Hanar just crossed his arms, his expression almost regretful.

Hess walked over to squat by Altenbach’s body, using his blade to roll her over.

‘It appears she died fighting.’ Hanar squinted at the scrawls of blood on the walls and drapery.

‘I am not so sure.’ Hess sucked air through his teeth.

‘And just how would you know that?’ The duardin asked.

‘There are no wounds on her apart from the slashed neck. If the castellan had fought, she would have more injuries.’ He tapped her belt with the tip of his sword. ‘Her dagger is also still in its sheath. I think whoever did this slit the castellan’s throat, then made a mess of things.’

Flynn blanched, glancing at the blood. ‘They did all this after she was dead? But why?’

Hess frowned. ‘I wish I knew.’

‘By Sigmar! What happened?’ The shout came from behind them.

Hess whirled to see Schmidt standing in the doorway. The priest had changed robes, her arm bandaged, her face splotchy with bruises. She took a slow step forward, gaze flitting around the room as though she were a startled bird.

Hess drew his pistol and pointed it at the warrior priest. She glanced at the weapon, then at Altenbach’s body, brow furrowing.

‘I didn’t!’ Schmidt’s exclamation ended in a groan as Hanar crossed the room in two quick strides and drove his fist into the priest’s stomach.

The duardin grinned as Schmidt crumpled to the ground, gasping. ‘By Grungni, that was satisfying.’

They used a curtain cord to bind the priest’s hands and feet, propping her up against the wall.

‘I did not do this horrible thing,’ Schmidt said between ragged breaths.

‘I’m not so sure.’ Hess squatted to look her in the eye. ‘You changed clothes.’

‘My robes were covered in blood.’

Hanar snorted. ‘I’m sure they were.’

‘That is enough, duardin.’ Hess fixed Hanar with a stern look before turning back to Schmidt. ‘You were not in your quarters.’

‘I was outside in the courtyard, praying for guidance,’ Schmidt said.

‘So why come here?’ Flynn asked.

The priest gave a heavy sigh. ‘I came to talk to Altenbach. I thought that perhaps if I could reason with her…’

‘As if you could reason with anyone, liche,’ Hanar spat.

‘I see I arrived too late.’ Schmidt blanched as her gaze slipped from Altenbach’s body to the blood-spattered walls. She began to tremble, lips drawing back from her teeth in a snarl that seemed almost instinctual.

Hess followed her gaze, but saw nothing other than bloody scrawl.

‘The marks,’ Schmidt gritted out from between clenched teeth. ‘They are abominations. The darkest of sorcery.’

Hess shivered.

‘And just how would you know that?’ Hanar growled.

After a stunned moment, Hess laid the edge of his sword against Schmidt’s neck.

‘I am a warrior priest of Sigmar. His holy hand guides me. Even now.’ Schmidt met his eyes, although her body still shook. ‘Some manner of malignant ritual was worked in this place.’

Feeling an uncomfortable tightness in his gut, Hess scowled at the walls. Now that Schmidt had pointed it out, the bloody scrawl did look like writing.

‘You cannot truly believe her lies, captain,’ Hanar rumbled. ‘This vile thagi merely seeks to hide her crime.’

Hess looked to Flynn. The Chamonian had drawn his dagger but seemed unsure, darting glances at both Schmidt and the bloody walls.

‘You must listen, Hess.’ The priest’s throat bobbed, sending a thin line of blood trickling along Hess’ sword. ‘Something terrible happened here.’

‘Of that I am certain,’ Hess said, chewing his lip as he looked from Altenbach’s body, to the bloody signs, to the priest. The evidence pointed to Schmidt, but with an unconscious Stormcast in the mess and a shardstorm raging outside, Hess was unsure. He needed more time, more information, more support. ‘Flynn, would you help me escort the priest to a cell.’

Hess held up a hand to forestall any protest. ‘Hanar, you will return to the forge, finish those shutters. When the storm clears, we will send Thystra to the nearest garrison for assistance.’

‘The storm could last for weeks, sir,’ Flynn said. ‘And Copper Ridge is a three-day ride, even with extra mounts.’

‘She can take every damn ibuq in the stables.’ Hess stood, waving his sword at the bloody sigils. ‘If there is dark magic at work we are going to need more than three soldiers to fight it.’

‘And if Schmidt is lying?’ Hanar asked.

‘I pray to Sigmar that she is.’ Hess set his shoulders against the anxious chill creeping up his neck.

‘Of course, castellan,’ Hanar returned a lazy salute.

‘It’s captain, smith.’

‘For now.’ The duardin’s gaze flicked to Altenbach’s corpse, then, with a shake of his head, he started back down the stairs.

‘What did he mean by that?’ Flynn asked as he helped Hess get Schmidt to her feet.

‘Who knows? Duardin minds work differently to those of men.’ Hess shrugged. Still, as they frog-marched Schmidt to her holding cell, he couldn’t help but see the glimmer of hope in his predicament. With Altenbach gone, the Grave would need a new castellan. If Hess could save Eris, perhaps even help her with her mission, it would make for quite a recommendation. Moreover, if he brought Altenbach’s murderer to justice, Lord Marshal Khir would have trouble blocking Hess’ promotion.

As they locked Schmidt into her cell, Hess felt the spark of hope kindling in his breast. Whatever the outcome, his opportunity had come.

Just as he had known it would.

Chapter Six

Hess started awake as something clattered in front of him. Caught by echoes of fiery dreams, he tried to stand, knocking a knee painfully against the armoury table.

‘Breakfast, captain.’ Flynn flourished his hands at the bowl of porridge and dried fruit on the table. After changing out of his bloody clothes, Hess had joined the others in the armoury away from the clashing shriek of the shardstorm to discuss what to do about Schmidt. He must have fallen asleep.

He knuckled his eyes, blinking groggily. ‘By Sigmar, man, do you ever sleep?’

‘Rarely and never soundly.’ Flynn’s grin made his tattoos writhe like golden serpents. ‘A holdover from my youth.’

Hess coughed, then ran a hand through his hair. Someone had draped a blanket over his shoulders.

‘The storm let up just a few minutes ago,’ Flynn said.

‘Where is Thystra?’

‘Seeing to our Stormcast friend,’ Flynn said. ‘She’ll be back in a moment.’

‘We need to survey the damage then get a rider to Copper Ridge.’

Flynn clucked his tongue. ‘You should eat first, captain.’

Hess took a bite of porridge, then another, not realising how hungry he was until he had wolfed down the whole bowl.

‘Eris is still alive, if only barely,’ Thystra said, wiping her hands with a cloth as she walked into the armoury. ‘It is unbelievable. She must have walked miles through that unholy mess. A normal woman would have been shocked, burnt and sliced to ribbons – not necessarily in that order.’

‘Eris Brightmourn is hardly a normal woman,’ Hess said with no small amount of awe.

‘I have made her as comfortable as I can,’ Thystra said, frowning. ‘But her injuries exceed my meagre skill, and that armour cannot be removed.’

‘They say Stormcast Eternals can recover from anything.’ Flynn collected the breakfast bowls. ‘Even death.’

‘We need to move quickly.’ Hess nodded. ‘Thystra, pack a bag and head for the stables. I need you to make for Copper Ridge. Flynn, let us see what is left of the Grave of Heroes.’

Although the central keep was mostly intact, the rest of the fort looked as if some great beast had rampaged through. The sky was flat as a sheet of tempered steel, grey and empty but for the bronze glare of Chamon’s sun. Drifts of rusty shrapnel were piled against the remaining wall, which, apart from the section south of the gatehouse, was little more than a jumbled heap of stone and iron. Strangely enough, the forge had escaped the destruction – the small, squat building looking none the worse for wear apart from a few places where the metal roof tiles had been torn away. Smoke rose from the canted chimney, and Hess could hear Hanar hammering away within, rumbling to himself in the hard-edged tongue of the duardin.

‘First time the forge has been lit since Firefall. Hanar must have been working all night.’ Flynn used his crutch to sweep some of the shrapnel from their path. ‘He sounds happy enough, though.’

‘He does?’ Hess cocked an eyebrow.

They picked their way through the debris, wending around the edge of the chasm that split the courtyard. It was mid-morning, so the sun only illuminated the upper half of the crevasse. Peering down, Hess could just make out where the metal-veined rock of the mountain gave way to worked stone. The edge of a chipped mosaic was visible in the shadows; what looked to be an armoured figure brandishing a glowing blade, although against what Hess could not tell.

‘Any idea what that is, Flynn?’ he asked.

The Chamonian leaned over the edge, squinting down. ‘Damned if I know. The Grave is old, the Glitterpeaks even older. Lots of history, lots of ruins, lots of places built on top of other places.’

‘Maybe it is what Eris came seeking,’ Hess said.

‘If so, I suggest we give it a wide berth.’

‘Perhaps.’ Hess chewed his lip thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps not.’

He was about to suggest lowering a lantern down when a shout came from the stables. Hurrying across the yard, Hess drew his sword and pistol, quickly outdistancing Flynn. He burst into the stable to see Thystra standing still, one hand over her mouth, her eyes like silver coins in the gloom.

‘They’re dead.’ Her voice came muffled. ‘All of them.’

Hess surveyed the room, speechless. The air inside the stables was thick with the coppery reek of freshly spilled blood. The garrison’s half a dozen ibuq slumped in their stalls, bodies untouched save for the single clean stroke that had removed each of their heads.

Flynn hobbled in and stopped at the gruesome sight. He blew out a long breath, cheeks puffing out.

‘Who could have done this?’ Thystra asked.

‘Schmidt?’ Flynn pressed a fist to his mouth as if to forestall an upswell of bile.

Hess sheathed his sword, kneeling to press two fingers to the edge of one of the spreading pools. When they came back red and tacky, he frowned. ‘This is relatively fresh. Unless Schmidt can walk through walls, she couldn’t have killed the ibuqs. Look at the cuts – it would require not only tremendous strength but also skill to cleave straight through like that.’

‘And a headsman’s blade,’ Flynn added.

Thystra glanced back at the forge, scowling. ‘Or a duardin axe.’

‘It makes no sense. Why would Hanar slaughter our mounts?’ Hess stood, wiping the blood from his fingers. ‘Still, we should speak with him.’

They made their way over to the forge, which was sealed up tight apart from the chimney. Hess couldn’t help but notice the storm shutters were in good repair. They could hear Hanar within, the hammering stopped but the duardin still singing, his voice warped by the strange acoustics of the steel walls.

‘Hanar!’ Hess shouted to be heard through the door.

The singing quieted.

‘Come to steal my designs, Thora?’ A gravelly chuckle echoed from within. ‘Not this time. It took years, but I finally understand. I was weak, soft – I needed to be tempered, to pass through the crucible.’

Hess shared a confused glance with his companions.

There came the sound of the door bolt being slowly drawn, but Hanar did not emerge.

Hess took a step back, then mimed kicking in the door. When Thystra nodded, he turned to Flynn, leaning in to whisper as he handed him his pistol. ‘Hang back. If things go badly, shoot the duardin.’

Taking a deep breath, Hess held up three fingers, counting down quietly.

They burst in, blades at the ready. At first, Hess saw nothing out of the ordinary, but Thystra’s gasp snapped his attention to the far side of the forge.

Hanar stood by the anvil, arms spread wide. The duardin was covered head-to-toe in heavy steel plates, articulated joints swaddled in chain and draped with overlapping scales. He was almost invisible in the armour, his face covered by a mask of beaten steel, a beard of wrought iron spreading below. There were sigils etched into the plate, a jumble of duardin runes broken by jagged lines and strange, slashed symbols that seemed to tug at the eye. With mounting horror, Hess recognised many of the symbols from Altenbach’s chamber.

‘Sigmar stole all the glory, but it was the Six Smiths who forged his Immortals,’ Hanar beat a gauntleted fist against his breastplate. ‘Duardin smiths. Duardin secrets. Why should others profit from our skill? I spit on sigmarite. Steel is perfection, and I have become perfect.’

An ear-splitting crack from behind caused Hess to flinch. When he looked back, Hanar had dropped to one knee, his breastplate dented by the force of the shot.

Flynn limped into the forge, a smoking pistol in one hand. ‘I believe this counts as things going badly, sir.’

Roaring, Hanar surged to his feet. He came at them with hands outstretched, steel fingers flexed to crush and tear.

Hess dodged out of the way, his sword screeching across the scales on the duardin’s hip. He heard Flynn curse, then a crash as the Chamonian was knocked tumbling into a rack of iron bars. Hess spun, landing a solid slash on the duardin’s side. The blow left his hand numb but barely scratched the steel.

Hanar’s backhand caught Hess in the shoulder. Even rolling with the hit, Hess was nearly swept from his feet. He backpedalled, narrowly avoiding another swipe, his sword licking out to carve a swatch of curls from the duardin’s wrought-iron beard. Behind Hanar, Flynn struggled to rise while Thystra stood paralysed, her mouth working. It was clear Hess was overmatched, but together they might be able to wear the duardin down, like wolves nipping at an angry bear.

‘Thystra, get behind him!’ Hess shouted.

The aelf met Hess’ gaze, then turned and ran from the forge.

Hess barely had time to register her cowardice when a kick to his midsection set him sprawling across a table. He lay gasping as Hanar loomed above him.

‘I will not be discarded like old scrap gone to rust!’ the duardin bellowed as he snatched his hammer from a nearby anvil, then raised it for the killing blow. Hess struggled to lift his blade. It would do little to stop Hanar from smashing his skull like old crockery, but he could not simply surrender.

The duardin stumbled as Flynn tackled him from behind. The wiry Chamonian clung to Hanar’s back, struggling to wedge his dagger into the tiny gap where the duardin’s helmet met the plates bolted to his neck.

Feeling as if he had been kicked by a horse, Hess forced himself off the table, gripping the hilt of his sword with both hands. His blow caught Hanar in the side, denting the armour.

With a roar, Hanar snatched Flynn from his back, slamming the Chamonian face first into the heavy iron hood that hung over the furnace. He tossed him aside, then turned to catch Hess’ blade.

Hess strained to wrench the sword free of the duardin’s iron grip.

‘I have been tempered, captain.’ Hanar casually snapped the blade off at the hilt, then dropped it clattering to the ground. ‘Have you?’

His fist crashed into Hess’ ribs. Hess rolled across the tiled floor of the forge, fetching up against the wall. It was all he could do to force himself upright, let alone stand. Through bleary eyes, he watched as Hanar rolled his neck, then turned to scoop a glowing steel rod from the furnace.

‘Why should the storm reap the glory,’ the duardin said, putting a boot on Flynn’s back and pressing the Chamonian down, ‘when it is the forge that labours?’

With a grunt, he brought the bar down like a spear. Flynn screamed as it pierced him, his tattoos catching the firelight. The Chamonian fell limp, the only sound the hiss of the hot metal as the forge filled with the familiar reek of scorched flesh.

Hess gave a strangled shout, trying to stand, but his legs gave out, sending him toppling back to the wall with a helpless groan. The air of the forge felt stifling, almost too hot to breathe.

‘I must thank you, captain.’ Hanar walked slowly towards him. ‘I always had the idea for this, but it didn’t crystallise until I saw that Stormcast.’

Hess pushed unsteadily to his feet, casting about for something, anything – and noticed the barrel of black powder just a few strides away. Whether out of contempt or sheer laziness, the duardin hadn’t taken it back to the powder store.

Hess snatched the handle of a pair of tongs that Hanar had left in the fire. The metal seared his hand, the pain hot and bright, but Hess gripped it tightly. Grimly, he limped towards the powder keg.

‘Fighting to the last. You would’ve made a fine duardin, captain.’ Hanar glanced at the tongs, chuckling. ‘Pity you won’t live to see me get revenge on Steelsong and her ilk.’

With shaking hands, Hess tore the bung from the powder barrel, then turned to face the mad duardin. Tongs raised, he took a deep breath.

At least it would be over quickly.

There was a call from the doorway. Thystra charged into the forge, a silvery two-handed axe in her hands.

Hanar turned to catch the blade in one gauntleted hand, but the glittering ilthmar sheared through steel, chain and flesh, sending the duardin’s fingers clattering to the ground.

‘Kinless elgi, you dare to stand in the way of my vengeance!’ Hanar launched a heavy backhand at the aelf, but Thystra ducked the blow, bringing her axe around in a tight arc that caught Hanar just below the breastplate.

Hess stumbled towards the struggle, feeling as if his legs were trapped in drying amber.

The duardin grunted, blood staining his bared teeth a bright red. Roaring, he smashed the bleeding stump of his hand into Thystra’s shoulder. The aelf spun with the blow, almost losing her footing as she used the momentum to lend force to her axe blow. The ilthmar blade bit deep into the chain on Hanar’s thigh.

Quick as a silversnake, the duardin’s hand lashed out, steel fingers closing on the haft of Thystra’s axe. She wrenched at the blade, but Hanar only grinned, apparently untroubled by his injuries. ‘I have been tempered, tested – my rise has been foretold, aelf.’

With a shout, Hess thrust the hot tongs into the wound on Hanar’s side. A sickening hiss accompanied the sudden reek of burnt flesh, and the duardin flinched away. Jaw set, Thystra wrenched her axe from the duardin’s grip, and pivoted to smash the haft into Hanar’s face.

The duardin’s head snapped back and he stumbled, arms spread wide to keep his balance.

Thystra brought her axe down in a heavy overhand swing, all her force behind the blow. The blade sank deep into Hanar’s chest, metal shrieking.

The duardin toppled, eyes wide, lips working soundlessly as he struggled to rise. Thystra’s axe descended like a holy comet – once, twice and, at last, Hanar lay still.

Hess’ tongs clattered to the tiles. He flexed his burnt hand, sure the hot metal had scorched flesh from bone, but there was little more than an angry red line across his palm. The handles of the tongs must not have been in the fire long. It seemed fortune had not abandoned Hess entirely.

If only he could say the same about Flynn.

Head low, he walked over to Thystra. ‘You came back.’

‘Too late.’ She fell to her knees beside Flynn’s body, tears cutting silver tracks down her cheeks. ‘I’m sorry, captain. Hanar’s armour – I knew our swords wouldn’t pierce it.’

Gingerly, she set the axe down to cradle Flynn’s head. ‘Brave fool.’

‘He saved me, again.’ Hess’ words came out thick. ‘I’ll see him buried with full honours, even if I have to carve his tomb with my bare hands.’

Thystra smoothed back Flynn’s hair. ‘I think he would have liked that.’

‘You saved me, too.’ Hess knelt by her side. ‘Overcame your fear even.’

‘It’s strange.’ She let out a shaky breath. ‘The memories are still there, but they no longer cut.’

‘You are stronger than your past.’ Hess laid a hand on her shoulder, tears pricking the corners of his eyes as he gazed down at Flynn’s body. ‘We all are.’

Chapter Seven

Schmidt looked like a woman awaiting execution, her back bent, hands tied, broad shoulders rounded and head hanging almost to her chest. Still, there was steel in the priest’s eyes as the door to the tiny, dusty cell creaked open. She stood, squaring her shoulders as she met Hess’ gaze. ‘I won’t go quietly.’

‘I should hope not.’ Hess cut Schmidt loose from her bonds and handed the warrior priest her warhammer.

The priest took the weapon, her heavy brow knotted in confusion.

‘Flynn is dead,’ Thystra said. ‘Hanar killed him. We believe he murdered Altenbach as well.’

Hess expected Schmidt to show anger, even contempt at her sudden vindication, but the warrior priest only gave a heavy sigh, her voice flattening into the rhythms of catechism. ‘Evil grows in darkness. The righteous raise their lanterns high to drive back the night, ignorant of their own shadows.’

Hess glanced to Thystra, who shrugged.

‘A passage from the Book of Dawn – an old Sigmarite text written before the retreat to Azyr. My mother used to read it to me.’ Schmidt gave mirthless laugh. ‘I suppose it would be considered heretical, now. The high clerics are not fond of having their failings brought to light.’

‘You were right. Something unholy has come to the Grave. Hanar was…’ Hess sucked air through his teeth. ‘Just come and see.’

They made their way to the forge, Schmidt’s expression growing grimmer as Hess and Thystra related the fight with Hanar. Even so, the priest muttered a startled prayer when she first saw the duardin’s body.

‘The symbols on his armour are the same as in Altenbach’s chambers,’ Hess said.

‘Sigmar preserve us.’ Schmidt made the sign of the hammer with her arms.

‘I have a suspicion,’ Hess said. ‘The explosion of the powder store did not just knock down the outer wall, it opened a crack in the mountain. I saw something down there, below the fort. I think whatever corrupted Hanar came from down there.’

‘Do you think that was what the Stormcast was searching for?’ Thystra asked.

‘A Stormcast?’ Schmidt blinked. ‘Here?’

‘Her name is Eris Brightmourn,’ Hess said. ‘She came during the storm.’

‘We need to speak with her right away,’ Schmidt said.

‘I give the orders, Schmidt.’ Hess fixed the priest with a stern gaze. Their eyes met for a moment, then Schmidt looked away, nodding.

‘If only we could speak with Eris.’ Thystra shook her head sadly. ‘The shardstorm almost killed her – waking her up may still do so.’

‘Whatever your question, the answer lies at the bottom of that chasm,’ Hess said. ‘I’m sure of it.’

Thystra nodded. ‘There are ropes and harnesses in the stores.’

‘That settles it,’ Hess said. ‘We will go down together.’

‘Should one of us stay with Eris?’ Schmidt asked.

Hess frowned. ‘If there is anything like Hanar down there, we are going to need every one of us. Speaking of which, I’ll need a new sword and pistol, and something heavier.’ He bent to retrieve the dead duardin’s hammer.

After arming themselves from the fort’s copious stores, Hess and the others loaded up on ropes, taking care to secure them to the heavier of the fallen stones in the courtyard near the chasm. Strapping on his harness, Hess clipped himself to the rope, alchemical lantern held high as Schmidt and Thystra lowered him down.

The flickering green light cast the walls in ghostly tones, the armoured figures on the mosaics seeming almost to writhe in the bilious glow. A swell of unease tightened Hess’ throat, prickling along the back of his neck and leaving his hands damp and clammy. Swallowing the urge to order Thystra and Schmidt to pull him back up, he drew his pistol for comfort, then leaned in to examine the mosaics.

If Thystra could push through her fear, so could he.

The colours of the mosaic tiles were bright, even after what must have been centuries. The scenes depicted a battle – rank upon rank of soldiers in bronze armour of ancient design arrayed against a tall figure with a gleaming sword. Shifting the light, Hess could see the figure was armoured as well, although far more ornately, wreaths and twining dragons picked out in intricate detail on its breastplate, its greaves and pauldrons worked into the shape of snarling lions. The billowing expanse of its rich purple cloak seemed to merge with the dusky horizon at its back. Unfortunately, the tiles displaying the figure’s face had fallen away, leaving nothing but a shadowed hole in the rock.

Hess’ feet hit the bottom, and he moved to secure the guide line, making room for Thystra and Schmidt to lower themselves down.

‘The armour they are wearing is from the Age of Myth.’ Thystra stepped up to study the mosaic.

Hess thrust his chin at the faceless figure. ‘I wonder who it is they are fighting.’

‘Or what?’ Schmidt unclipped her harness, then knelt to light her own alchemical lantern, drawing her warhammer as she stood.

Hess took the lead, pistol trained on the darkness beyond the circle of lantern light. A hall extended beyond the crevasse, a T-junction leading to two short passageways that curved into sharp dead ends after perhaps a dozen yards. Frowning, they doubled back, heading down the central corridor in the opposite direction.

It went on for much longer. Soon, the light from above disappeared altogether and the mosaics were bathed in verdant hues. Two more tunnels branched off from the central hall, curving in the opposite direction of the first, but also ending in dead ends after only a short distance.

More mosaics lined the walls. In each, the ancient host confronted another towering opponent of statuesque proportions. The figures’ armour and weapons changed, as did the various cloaks and banners they carried, but in all the representations their faces were gone.

‘It seems strange the tiles would crack like that.’ Hess squinted at a broad-shouldered man in silvery armour brandishing what looked to be a double-headed pike.

‘Not cracked – look.’ Schmidt held up her lantern. ‘See the scratches on the stone behind? Someone pried them off.’

‘Wait, there are symbols,’ Thystra said. ‘Carved into the rock.’

Hess saw nothing, but knew better than to question aelven vision.

‘Do they match the ones from Altenbach’s chamber?’ Hess asked.

‘I do not know.’ Thystra squinted at the shadows. ‘Schmidt may have a better understanding.’

Schmidt leaned her warhammer against the wall. ‘Lift me up so I can get a better look.’

Hess made a stirrup of his hands while Thystra kept watch. The priest was a muscular woman, and he had to brace himself to keep her steady.

‘I don’t remember all the sigils, but these look different,’ she said. ‘Let’s try another.’

They examined the stone behind the missing face of a woman riding a three-headed serpent, then a man whose armour seemed to be made of glowing rubies.

At the last, Schmidt gave a grunt, motioning to be let down.

‘These are trigrammatic wards. Very old, very powerful,’ she said. I was responsible for maintaining similar ones on the gates of the Chained Temple in Azyrheim, although these must be keyed to the power of Chamon.’

Thystra raised an eyebrow. ‘You are full of surprises, priest.’

‘Warding is one of the foundational arts – one of the first things theurgical initiates in the Order are taught.’ Schmidt gave an uncomfortable smile. ‘It is more forgiving than what comes later.’

‘These wards – what was their purpose?’ Hess asked.

‘They protect against dark influence, keeping unholy forces out.’ Schmidt rocked back on her heels. ‘Or in.’

Hess suppressed a wince. ‘Are they still functional?’

‘It’s hard to tell without examining them all.’ Schmidt reddened.

‘Well, if these wards are meant to keep something in, they are no longer working,’ Thystra said. ‘Hanar was proof enough of that.’

‘Hopefully, that was all of it,’ Hess said.

Thystra gave a brittle smile. ‘With our fortune?’

‘Best find out, then.’ Hess turned to continue down the hall. Although he knew it would almost certainly amount to nothing, it made him feel good to point his pistol at the darkness beyond the shadowy light of their lanterns.

The hall continued as before, walls adorned with bronzed armies arrayed against tall, faceless antagonists. At last, it widened into a large circular chamber cut from dark stone. Rows of tall columns spanned the room, reminding Hess of the duardin halls he had visited back in Azyr. Some of the pillars had fallen or shifted, either toppled by time or the recent explosion. A trickle of dust fell from the ceiling as they edged inside.

‘Careful, captain.’ Thystra laid a hand on Hess’ arm, nodding at the shadowed ceiling. ‘The ceiling looks unstable.’

‘What is this place?’ Hess asked quietly, shining his lantern around the columned hall. ‘A temple, a shrine?’

‘It’s a tomb.’ Schmidt’s lantern illuminated a rectangular stone slab nestled between two pillars. No, not a slab – it was a sarcophagus. Hess could see more arranged around the circumference of the chamber; dozens, hundreds, all carved from the same pitted stone.

‘They were buried like monks,’ Thystra said. ‘No wealth, no possessions.’

‘Captain, I think we have found the Grave of Heroes,’ Schmidt said.

At first, Hess thought the caskets were unadorned, but as he approached he began to see that what he thought was the rough texture of the stone was actually inscribed text. No bigger than Hess’ thumbnail, the words covered every inch of the coffin, a mad scrawl of lines and circles. He had just knelt to study them when Thystra gave a low hiss.

‘The sigils are different to those in Altenbach’s office and Hanar’s armour.’ The aelf spoke softly, as if afraid she might be overheard. ‘But the hand is the same.’

Hess leaned closer. The writing crawled across the stone in a mad jumble of whorls and hachures, lines twisting in and around themselves like insects. They seemed to shift in Hess’ vision, glittering like flames as they swam into more familiar patterns, the wild scribble becoming almost readable. He could almost hear them now. A low rasp, like claws on slate as the sigils scrabbled into his thoughts, there to root and blossom like a terrible flower. Slowly, Hess understood: the symbols themselves were not changing; rather, they were somehow changing him.

‘Captain.’ Schmidt caught Hess by the shoulder, startling him from his mired thoughts. ‘Nothing good can come from those sigils. Trust me, I know better than any.’

Shaking his head to clear it, Hess stood, and together they made their way deeper into the cavern. He recognised more wards edging the chamber. Unlike those in the hall, these were crafted of lead and dull iron, set into the joint where the wall met the ceiling and floor.

‘Sir, there is daylight ahead.’ Thystra nodded deeper into the chamber.

Although Hess saw no change in the darkness, he gave a quick nod, and they pressed forwards – nothing but more columns and sarcophagi to either side. At last, his lantern illuminated the far side of the chamber. There was a doorway set into the wall exactly opposite the one they had entered.

The wards continued around the edges of the portal, but the gates themselves were open, the heavy iron doors bent outwards as if they’d been torn loose by some tremendous force. Hess could see there were more wards across the threshold, although it looked like something had taken a pickaxe to them, hacking out a strange symbol on the stone below the door.

It was a central circle with a short line radiating from its upper right edge. The line bisected two crescent moons – the larger, closer one facing towards the circle, the smaller, farther moon facing away.

Hess frowned down at the symbol. ‘Schmidt, do you recognise this?’

‘No.’ With a muttered oath, the priest glanced away. ‘But I know enough to recognise evil when I see it.’

Hess looked beyond the broken gate. The stone beyond was unworked, a dim glow from the far end of the cave illuminating the rock outside the circle of their lanterns. It might have been Hess’ imagination, but he swore he could feel the cool kiss of fresh air upon his cheeks.

‘If something was down here, it is not anymore.’ Hess stepped over the unholy sigil, glancing down at the broken wards. ‘Can you repair these, Schmidt?’

Schmidt sucked air through her teeth. ‘Perhaps. Although even if I could, I doubt it would hold for long.’

Hess glanced towards the distant light. He had hoped to find answers below the fortress, but all they had unearthed were more questions. Moreover, they were all still in danger, perhaps more now they knew Hanar was not the source of the corruption.

He cleared his throat. ‘We need to get back to the fort.’

Neither Thystra nor Schmidt offered a word of argument, following Hess as he strode down the tunnel. He almost cried out with relief as the ragged circle of daylight came into view. After the claustrophobia of the tomb, the dry heat of Chamon’s sun was very welcome.

Shielding his eyes, Hess looked around. They had exited perhaps two hundred yards down the mountain, the walls of the fortress just visible over a rocky escarpment. The cave mouth was small, concealed by a fall of jagged rocks – almost invisible unless you were standing right on it.

‘What now, captain?’ Schmidt asked.

Hess squinted up at the fortress. ‘We must speak with Eris.’

‘And if the Stormcast is still unconscious?’ Thystra asked.

Hess gave a tight smile. ‘Then we shall have to wake her up.’

Chapter Eight

Eris had regained a bit of her colour, bruises fading and the cuts where the whirling shrapnel had sliced through her helm already scabbed over. The Stormcast appeared still far from recovery, but at least no fresh blood leaked from the joints in her armour.

‘We call this saavalas.’ Thystra cupped the small bowl of dark blue liquid in one hand. ‘We used it as a last resort when one of our comrades was badly wounded and needed to get somewhere safe. It provides a short boost of vitality, but it does not heal.’

‘This is one of Sigmar’s holy heralds,’ Schmidt protested. ‘We should not be plying her with stimulants.’

‘It is our only option.’ Hess met Schmidt’s angry gaze. ‘Unless you fancy walking to Copper Ridge for reinforcements?’

The priest seemed about to speak, but looked away, scowling.

‘I’m not happy about it either.’ Hess frowned down at the unconscious Stormcast. ‘But we need to know what we are up against.’

At Hess’ nod, Thystra tilted the bowl to Eris’ lips. With the Stormcast unconscious, the process went slowly, but after what seemed an eternity, Thystra stood and wiped her hands on her trousers. ‘Stand back. I am not sure what will happen.’

Eris lurched up from the floor. One gauntleted hand shot out, fingers digging into the steel of the nearest mess table as if it were wet clay. Her tattered wings spread wide, ragged feathers batting at the air as the golden lantern sitting next to her flared painfully bright.

Hess threw himself to the ground to avoid the sweep of one sharply pinioned wing. He heard Thystra grunt, then fall as an errant flap knocked her from her feet. Schmidt had already fallen to her knees, hands clasped and head bowed.

‘Where am I?’ The Stormcast’s voice cut through Schmidt’s prayers, her glittering blade at the ready. ‘What have you done to me?’

‘You are in the Grave of Heroes, my lady.’ Hess bowed, shielding his eyes from the glare of the celestial beacon. It felt as if he were face to face with a bonfire. ‘You were wounded in the shardstorm.’

Eris tried to stand, but her leg gave way and she fell back against the table. ‘I remember.’

‘There is an old catacomb below the fortress,’ Hess said. ‘Whatever you were sent here to stop has got free. It killed two of our companions and somehow possessed a third. Please, we need your help.’

Eris took a rasping breath, the light from her lantern flickering as something rattled deep within her chest. ‘I am too weak.’

‘Can you summon aid?’ Schmidt gestured at the Stormcast’s celestial beacon.

‘I have already tried,’ Eris said. ‘This place is too steeped in shadow – corruption seeps from the very stones.’

‘Whatever dwelt in that tomb has been loosed upon the land,’ Thystra said. ‘Please, tell us what it is we face so that we might stop it.’

Eris looked to her hands, her expression unreadable. ‘I cannot.’

‘You may be immortal, my lady, but we are not.’ Hess pushed to his feet. Even standing, he was dwarfed by the Stormcast’s armoured bulk. He tamped down a momentary flash of panic as she met his gaze – the Stormcasts were Sigmar’s chosen heroes; to confront one was tantamount to calling the god’s will into question. Still, if he could overcome the flames, he could overcome his fear. ‘Your silence murders us.’

‘Death might be better.’ Eris spoke in a whisper, but still her voice carried.

‘Corrupted seeds taint even the purest soil,’ Schmidt added. ‘Better to die in ignorance than live with damned knowledge.’

Hess turned on her. ‘I, for one, would rather fight, Schmidt.’

Schmidt opened her mouth, then rubbed a hand across her face, glowering.

‘We are soldiers, but you would send us into battle unarmed,’ Hess said to Eris. ‘If we are already doomed then what is the harm of knowing?’

Eris watched him for several long heartbeats, her eyes dark and liquid in the lantern light. At last, she heaved a heavy sigh. ‘Fabula Inuicta. It is a power from long ago – not a creature so much as a legend that grows with the telling. It went by many names – “Talespinner”, “Mythshaper”, “Mother of Heroes”. Once it was a great and noble thing, its progeny aiding Sigmar in his quest to tame the Mortal Realms, but it could not equal Heldenhammer’s might, and so time saw its arrogance curdle into jealousy. When dark forces invaded, it was quickly corrupted, as were its champions, becoming little more than a tool for the Ruinous Powers.’

‘The tall men and women on the mosaics below,’ Thystra said. ‘They must have been its worshippers.’

‘More than that,’ Eris said. ‘And less.’

‘But how do we fight it?’ Hess asked.

‘You do not understand.’ The Stormcast shuddered, blood leaking once more from the rents in her armour. When she coughed, bright red spattered the silver of her breastplate. ‘You face a daemon. It cannot be defeated, only bound and forgotten.’

‘A daemon?’ Schmidt squeezed her eyes shut as if the very word pained her, her face going the colour of dry bone as she sat heavily on the steel bench. ‘I have heard tales of witch finders battling dark forces, of foul creatures banished by Sigmar’s holy light, but faith preserve us, we face a being beyond mortal reckoning.’

Thystra’s hands curled into fists at her side, her expression cold and unreadable, her gaze faraway.

Somehow, Hess had already known, but the revelation still left him shaking. He had heard rumours of entire detachments torn limb from limb, the survivors stumbling back, their bodies riddled with unnatural maladies that swept through armies like wildfire. Somehow worse were the stories of commands driven to gibbering madness, or of soldiers threaded with darkness, their corruption hidden until they mustered home and murdered their families. The witch finders destroyed such tainted folk, but there were always whispers, always questions as to what could inflict such a horrific spiritual malady upon the faithful of Sigmar.

He thought again of the balefire, of the thing Avul Thrice-
Burnt had sought to summon from the flames. If they faced such a creature, then there truly was no hope.

Eris coughed again, her celestial beacon flickering. The sickly green glow of the lanterns seemed to take on an almost sinister tone. Shadows writhed in the wan light, the tang of burning metal suddenly sharp in Hess’ nose. He gripped the pommels of his belted weapons to keep his hands from trembling, then looked to Eris. ‘Go on.’

She swallowed, the strength bleeding from her voice. ‘This place, this fortress, it is an oubliette, a place to bury uncomfortable truths.’

‘The Grave of Heroes.’ Hess gave a bitter laugh. ‘I think you will find we understand its purpose quite well.’

‘I came to see if the wards remained intact.’ Eris’ eyes were glassy, her breaths quick and panting. ‘But the storm…’

‘Worst in a century,’ Thystra said. ‘And it seemed to spring from nowhere.’

Schmidt grunted. ‘A taste of this thing’s evil, no doubt.’

‘There are no records of the daemon. Its story is passed down to but a single guardian, for as knowledge grows so does the creature’s strength.’ Eris gave a pained wince, although whether from her wounds or the revelation Hess could not tell. ‘None were told of my mission. I came to check the wards, but the creature was somehow ready for me. Knowledge of the daemon must have spread.’

‘Did anyone else know of your coming?’ Hess asked.

‘The castellan,’ Eris said. ‘But she was told nothing of my purpose.’

‘Altenbach is dead,’ Hess said. ‘This thing might have somehow wrested the information from her.’

‘Or she was in league with the abomination,’ Schmidt said. ‘We should flee this unholy place.’

‘I fear it is already too late for that.’ Eris spoke slowly, as if trying to force the words out. ‘This daemon, it does not possess minds so much as inhabit ambitions, twisting them to suit its own dark designs. You may not know, may not even remember acting. Any one of you could already be corrupted.’

‘How would we know?’ Hess looked to his companions, seeing his own suspicions mirrored on their faces. They had been through much in the last day, but how well did he truly know them?

‘The signs are very subtle, at first.’ Eris’ voice had faded to barely a whisper, and Hess found himself leaning in to catch her words. ‘There is no obvious physical corruption. Those possessed by the daemon simply become… more. Stronger, faster, luckier – they shrug off wounds that would fell lesser beings, their injuries heal more quickly. Soon, you become part of the thing’s mad tale, your will subsumed, your actions circumscribed by the bounds of the role it has given you.’ She let out a shuddering breath. ‘It cannot be defeated,’ she said again.

Hess shook his head. ‘There has to be a way. There is always a way.’

With a heavy clatter Eris collapsed back to the floor, her eyes closed, her celestial beacon barely brighter than a candle. Hess knelt to press trembling fingers to the side of her neck, almost crying out when he felt a fluttery pulse.

‘There is a way.’ Thystra spoke from behind him.

Hess glanced at the aelf. The sharp lines of her face combined with the sickly alchemical light to turn her scowl into something hard and cold.

Thystra took a slow breath as if to steady herself. ‘We have to kill the Stormcast.’

Schmidt moved towards Eris’ prone body to shield her from the aelf, even as Hess took a horrified step back, drawing his weapons.

‘I am not tainted, captain.’ As if sensing Hess’ thoughts, Thystra spread her hands. ‘Eris will die – perhaps sooner, perhaps later, but either will be far too late for us. However, if she dies now, her soul will fly back to Azyr, carrying word of the evil here.’

Hess frowned. ‘How do you know this?’

‘I fought for many years with the armies of Sigmar,’ Thystra said quietly. ‘Long enough to see Stormcasts like her die and come back.’ She glanced at Schmidt. ‘Is that not what they taught you in the Order?’

The priest nodded, eyeing the aelf warily. ‘It can take time. Sometimes years, decades even, but they do come back.’

‘How will that help us?’ Hess asked.

‘She is a Knight Azyros, one of Sigmar’s heralds.’ Thystra held up a finger. ‘When her soul returns to whence it came they will know there is danger here. Aid will come.’

Hess stood, backing away, his thoughts a tangled mess.

Thystra nodded to where her axe leaned against one of the benches. ‘It will be quick, painless, better than the lingering fate that awaits her here.’

‘I cannot believe we are even considering this.’ Schmidt stepped between her and the weapon. ‘To slay one of Sigmar’s chosen is the worst sort of heresy.’

‘And when this daemon murders us all? What then, priest?’ The aelf tilted her head at Eris. ‘Do you think it will spare her?’

‘I was banished from the Order for weakness of faith,’ Schmidt replied. ‘I will not make the same mistake here. You shall not touch Sigmar’s herald, aelf.’

‘Blind fool.’ Thystra’s hand twitched towards her sword belt.

Schmidt’s gaze flicked to the blade at Thystra’s waist, then she raised her warhammer, eyeing the distance between them.

The sight of the two squaring off dispelled the panic that had snared Hess. He levelled his pistol at them. ‘Enough.’

Thystra eyed him coolly, but the priest turned, lips twisted into a wild snarl like a woman possessed. Hess felt his finger tighten on the trigger. Schmidt had already proven herself susceptible to violence; if anyone had succumbed to the daemon’s influence it was the priest. Faith could be a shield, but it could also be a weakness.

Hess bit his lip. Fear would not guide his actions. He had been mistaken about Schmidt before; if he had believed the priest perhaps Flynn would still be alive. With a sigh, Hess released his grip on the pistol, letting it hang from one finger.

‘Calm yourselves.’ Hess raised his other hand, palm out. ‘I understand your trepidation, Schmidt, but I think Thystra is right. We face evil in its purest form.’ He gestured at Eris. ‘Our lives are nothing compared to the harm this creature could wreak if we allow it to escape. This is a being that gave even Holy Sigmar pause. We must oppose it with everything in our power – now, while we still can.’

Schmidt shook her head as if to pull free of a noose. ‘This cannot be the way.’

‘You see darkness all around. I know, I see it too,’ Hess said. ‘But, remember your Book of Dawn – faith can sometimes blind you. Look to your own shadow, Schmidt.’

Schmidt flinched as if Hess had slapped her. The priest’s sigmarite warhammer lowered, her shoulders rounding. With a pained nod, she stepped aside.

‘Outside.’ Thystra’s words were almost too soft to hear. ‘We must take her outside.’

Together, they dragged Eris into the courtyard, laying her in one of the places Flynn had cleared of wreckage. Hess set her sword in one hand, her lantern in the other. Placing Eris’ helmet at her side, Hess stood back as Thystra stepped up and braced herself to behead the Stormcast.

He forced himself to watch as the axe rose, the blade catching the morning light that crept over the fortress’ ruined walls. The stroke was clean and quick. Even though Hess had prepared himself, the whip crack of holy lightning made him cringe. There was a flash, then the sharp smell of scorched metal.

When the bright after-images cleared from Hess’ vision, nothing remained of the Stormcast’s body save a slash of soot-blackened stone and a fine spray of blood stippling the ground in a clear arc.

It wasn’t until Hess saw Thystra’s uniform that he knew he had made a terrible mistake.

Chapter Nine

‘It had to be done.’ Thystra shouldered her axe, fixing Schmidt with a look that was part sympathy, part challenge. For her part, the former warrior priest had dropped to her knees, forearms together, fists clenched below her bowed head. Although her voice was too low for Hess to make out the words, he was sure Schmidt was praying. Hopefully the priest had enough grace left for them both.

Hess took a slow step back, eyes on Thystra, trying to seem casual even as he cursed himself for a fool.

‘Captain?’ Thystra turned, head cocked as she noticed Hess regarding her.

‘I have seen more people beheaded than I care to admit, both on and off the field. Blood goes everywhere, even if the stroke is clean.’ Hess nodded at the scorched patch of rock where Eris had lain. ‘And that was a clean stroke, Thystra.’

She shrugged. ‘I was a Lion Ranger.’

‘Aelves are stronger than men, yes, and Lion Rangers are famed for their axe work.’ Hess let his hands rest on his sheathed weapons, as if as an afterthought. ‘But seeing a cut like that got me thinking where I might have seen it before.’

‘You said my people saved your life.’ The aelf’s tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of wariness in her stance.

‘That is not the sort of skill someone forgets.’ Hess nodded as he spoke, keeping his voice soft and friendly. ‘But I wasn’t talking about that.’

‘Is that so?’ She edged a foot forward, widening her stance.

Hess took a breath to steady himself. ‘Who slaughtered the ibuqs, Thystra?’

There was no warmth in her smile. ‘Hanar.’

Hess felt a surge of relief as Schmidt stopped her prayer to regard them. If it came to a fight, he hoped he could count on the priest.

‘That is what I thought, too,’ Hess said. ‘But the pieces don’t fit. For one, Hanar didn’t use an axe.’

‘There are plenty of axes in the stores.’ The aelf glanced to the fort’s ruined outer wall, taking a lazy step towards it as if to better appraise the wreckage. The move put Schmidt in between them, potentially spoiling Hess’ shot.

‘And yet, there were none in the forge or the stables,’ Hess said. ‘I did not put it together then, what with Hanar and Flynn, and the tomb. But now I remember the wounds, the blood.’

Hess sidestepped towards the arc of red that was all that remained of Eris, a move that cleared his line of fire. ‘Even if Hanar had found an axe, even if he had delivered those blows, he was a duardin – he would have been striking from below. The blood would have arced very differently.’

Thystra snorted. ‘So, you believe I crept over to the stable while you and Flynn were staring at the pit, then beheaded half a dozen ibuq without making a sound or getting a drop of blood on me?’

‘It seems far-fetched, I know, even for a Lion Ranger. The old Thystra would have been frozen at the sight of so much blood, but you… Well, I’m not so sure.’ Hess drew his weapons to punctuate the point. ‘Still, it wasn’t until you took Eris’ head that everything came together. Like I said, I’ve seen quite a few beheadings, and not once did the headsman come away clean, and never did they manage it on one stroke. But you just cut the head from a Stormcast Eternal, and look at your clothes.’ He pointed his pistol at the aelf. ‘Spotless.’

Schmidt stood, hefting her warhammer as she stared at Thystra.

‘That is quite a tale.’ Thystra chuckled. ‘Let me spin you a more believable one. A disgraced captain is relegated to a backwater post. His career in tatters, his ambitions thwarted, he seeks a way out, any way out. Not one day after his arrival, his commanding officer is murdered. Even more conveniently, he rushes to her side, getting blood all over himself.’

The priest took a step back, her gaze flicking to Hess. ‘Altenbach was sympathetic to my cause. Killing her would have gained me nothing,’ Hess said.

‘That is not a denial, captain.’ Thystra slipped her axe from her shoulder. ‘At first, I thought Hanar had murdered the castellan, then I remembered her throat was slit from behind. Could you explain to us how a duardin smith managed to slip into Altenbach’s quarters without her knowing, then hop up to cut her throat in one clean slash?’

Hess cursed inwardly as Schmidt shifted to regard them both. He might be able to shoot Thystra before she could close the distance, but that would leave him open to the priest’s attack. Meeting the aelf’s eyes, Hess could tell she was making the same dire calculation.

‘We have been comrades for years, Schmidt,’ Thystra said to the priest. ‘How well do you know Captain Hess?’

A bead of sweat traced an icy line between Hess’ shoulder blades. The urge to scream built behind his clenched jaw, desperation snarling his thoughts. He felt as he had at Beacon Field, watching his company burn; as he had when Lord Marshal Khir had thrown the slaughter in his face. Both times, Hess had lashed out, but Avul’s death had not quieted the screams, nor had punching Khir in his cowardly old mouth. If anything, it had made them louder. The bitter memories had quieted only after he’d come to the Grave of Heroes, after the shardstorm, after Altenbach, and Hanar, and Flynn, and Eris.

After the daemon had been freed.

Like a horn call cutting through the din of battle, the answer echoed through Hess’ mind. Slowly, he spread his hands, letting his weapons clatter to the ground. ‘Do you not see? This is what the daemon wants.’

Thystra paused, one thin brow arched. Schmidt stood with her mouth hanging open. For a moment, Hess thought he’d got through to them, but then Thystra shook her head. ‘The words of a guilty man grasping at straws.’

The aelf stalked towards Hess. His weapons lay on the ground before him. Hanar’s hammer was still belted at Hess’ waist, but he knew he would not have time to draw. Dully, he wondered if he would feel anything when Thystra killed him.

At least it would be quick, clean. Probably better than he deserved.

‘The captain is correct.’ Someone spoke behind them. Strange harmonics threaded the voice, as if it were not one person talking but many. Still, there was something oddly familiar about it. ‘Witnessing you tear each other apart is exactly what I want.’

Hess turned in surprise, the sight that greeted him snatching the breath from his lungs.

Altenbach’s statue emerged from the shadows of the keep, ducking through the open door to stand tall in the afternoon sun, at least a dozen feet of gold-flecked marble cast in heroic proportion. Its legs were sculpted with lithe musculature, feet shod in sandals with calf-high laces, its waist wrapped in a battle-kilt like the portrait of an athlete from the age of myth. The statue had donned a massive breastplate of gilded steel, the front worked with the strange, unholy sigil from the tomb below the fortress.

Hess’ gaze slid across the statue’s arms, unable to focus. Sometimes it had two, supple and well muscled, but as it moved there seemed to be many arms: some long and chitinous, with sharp, rasping claws; others seemingly boneless and studded with suckers; and still more swathed in glittering scales, their three-fingered hands ending in hooked talons – a profusion of implied limbs that made his eyes water from the strain of taking them all in.

But the face… The face was what caught his attention.

The jawline was a little straighter, the nose not quite as hawkish and the eyes less deeply set. It was the face of a woman in the blush of youth rather than one sliding into middle age, but it was definitely, undeniably Altenbach.

‘What do you think, captain?’ She turned her head, grinning, her profile as sharp as a freshly minted coin. ‘I finally found my face.’

‘Sigmar preserve us…’ Schmidt took a step back, her warhammer held low by her side, apparently forgotten in her wide-eyed horror.

Hess clawed at the collar of his shirt. The courtyard seemed to swirl around him, the air almost too thin to breathe. He tried to retrieve his weapons, to draw Hanar’s hammer from his belt, to call to his comrades, to run, but his limbs seemed frozen. It was all he could do to clench his jaw against the scream building in his throat.

Thystra moved to Hess’ side, her axe gripped in white-
knuckled hands, her gait awkward, as if her legs might give out at any moment. Hess was glad to have her there, all former animosity washed away by the sight of the thing that Altenbach had become.

‘What are you?’ The question slipped unbidden from Hess’ lips.

‘I am what I always was – an artist,’ the daemon said.

Never taking his eyes from the statue, Hess knelt to retrieve his weapons. ‘You are naught but a daemon.’

‘That term is so limiting.’ The statue raised its arms, not so much moving as slipping from pose to pose. ‘I was here before your arrogant warrior-god sought to beat the Mortal Realms into submission. My noble champions were feted far and wide, their names on the lips of king and beggar alike. We fought alongside him, but the hammered god grew jealous of our deeds, for what mortal champion should stand as high as the divine?’

‘That is not as we heard.’ Hess’ only thought was to buy time, although for what he had no idea. He gripped his weapons tighter, but the sword and pistol felt insignificant compared to the monstrosity that stood before them.

‘From Sigmar’s Stormcast slave?’ Altenbach’s laugh was rich and bright.

‘You are an abomination.’ Schmidt regarded the statue with naked revulsion, her hammer raised as if to strike it down.

‘No, I am an embarrassment. A truth they would rather bury than acknowledge.’ The daemon with Altenbach’s face smiled at them, its tone turning conciliatory. ‘I believe that is something the three of you can understand.’

‘After so long – why now?’ Thystra asked.

Hess glanced towards the aelf. Her eyes were shadowed, her thin lips quirked in an expression that seemed almost resigned.

‘I have the captain to thank for that.’ The statue gestured at Hess as if displaying a fine painting. ‘After years of cowards and cast-offs, they finally delivered me someone who understood what it meant to sacrifice others to the flames of ambition, someone who would stop at nothing to be remembered, to rise and never fall.’

Thystra took a step back, her expression almost pained. ‘I thought…’

‘Oh, I have not forgotten you, aelf.’ The statue spread its arms as if to gather them in. ‘You came to me broken, and I mended you, just as I did the others.’

‘And Hanar?’ Hess asked. ‘Did you mend him?’

‘The duardin had the ambition, but not the will.’ It shook its head regretfully.

Hess felt his anger growing. ‘You murdered Flynn.’

‘The Chamonian? Of course,’ the daemon replied. ‘A little tragedy to imbue just the right amount of gravity. To set the stakes, if you will.’ It gave a little flick of its hand as though brushing away some dust. ‘But enough of that. We have much more momentous things to discuss.’

Hess scowled. ‘Such as?’

‘Why, the forging of your legends, of course.’ Altenbach’s smile was perfect.

‘You promise only slavery, daemon,’ Schmidt said, spitting at its feet. ‘I will take nothing from you.’

‘But you already have, Valdemar. As has Thystra.’ The daemon glanced at Hess. ‘She did kill the ibuqs, if you were wondering, captain.’

The daemonic statue stretched like a basking steelcat, seeming to revel in the wide-eyed horror of Hess and his companions. Smile dripping with cruel promise, it withdrew a small pouch from its breastplate and tossed it at Hess’ feet.

Dully, he nudged it with his boot. The pouch was surprisingly heavy, the contents shifting like coins. Hess did not need to look inside to know what it contained: thirty-four medals – comets, hammers and crossed blades picked out in precious metals, valour ribbons like bright punctuation in the story of his life.

Hess swallowed, glancing at his companions. Schmidt held her warhammer in trembling hands. Thystra simply stared at the ground, head bowed, her shoulders rounded.

‘I am sorry, captain.’ The aelf lifted her head to meet his gaze. ‘You cannot know what it was like.’

‘I understand.’ He took a step towards her, hand extended.

‘No, you don’t. Your life is like a glowfly – one bright burst and you are gone.’ Thystra snapped her fingers with surprising vehemence. ‘I have been in the Grave for decades. You speak of flames, of scars, but I will carry mine beyond the lives of your grandchildren’s grandchildren. You will be dust and still my ghosts will haunt me.’

Hess drew back his hand. ‘This is not the way, Thystra.’

‘I cannot go back.’ She knuckled her eyes, then looked away. ‘I cannot face them.’

Hess swallowed, his throat suddenly dry and tight. The fires burned in his thoughts, bright as the bronze Chamon sun overhead. Images came rushing back, painful as fresh brands. The smell of oil in the high grass, Andon’s questions, Korelai’s misgivings, the look that Big Surov had given Hess when he ordered the charge anyway. He had been thinking only of victory, only of himself. Even when Lord Marshal Khir had confronted him about the slaughter, Hess couldn’t understand – they had won, had ended the threat of Avul Thrice-Burnt’s heresy in one fell swoop.

‘I was wrong.’ Stripped of justification, of poisoned ambition, Hess felt the weight of his actions truly settle on his shoulders. Letting out a shuddering breath, he cocked his pistol, turning to face Altenbach. ‘I am no hero.’

‘I expected such foolishness from Schmidt, but I thought you were made of sterner stuff, captain.’ The daemon’s tone was regretful, but there was a slight uptick at the corner of Altenbach’s lips that seemed almost like approval. ‘Pity. It seems I will have to kill you after all.’

Chapter Ten

The report of Hess’ pistol was as loud as a cannon shot in the echoing confines of the courtyard. The statue moved quickly despite its considerable bulk, blurring to the left so the shot glanced from its breastplate, gouging a streak across the unholy sigil.

Schmidt charged past him, bellowing an old Sigmarite battle hymn.

‘I fight for Sigmar’s glory!’ She swung her weapon around in a heavy overhand swing. ‘His great hand guiding mine.’ Sparks flew as the heavy hammer dented the daemon’s breastplate.

‘Through him I find victory.’ Schmidt pivoted as the daemon swiped at her, bringing her hammer down in a blow that sent webbed cracks spreading through the statue’s forearm. ‘My spirit made divine!’

Thystra stood as if transfixed, jaw slack, her axe hanging from one hand.

Realising he would not receive any help from the aelf, Hess dropped his pistol and charged, drawing Hanar’s hammer from the loop of his weapon belt. The haft was shorter than Hess was accustomed to, the wide grip meant for duardin rather than human hands, but it would still be far more effective against stone than Hess’ sabre.

He struck at the daemon’s thigh with sword and hammer, heavy, punishing strikes with little finesse. The marble cracked and flaked, a fleck of broken stone slicing across Hess’ cheek. He felt rather than saw the blow coming and threw himself to the side just in time to avoid the daemon’s clenched fist as it whipped through the air where his head had been but a moment before.

Laughing, the daemon kicked up a spray of shardstorm debris. Hess threw up an arm to shield his face, but Schmidt caught the full brunt of the attack.

‘My god, he stands beside me, his strength–’ The priest’s battle chant faltered as the flechettes opened ragged cuts on her exposed flesh.

Hess expected Schmidt to fall, but like a wounded bull she shook her head and charged once more.

‘It is my shield!’ Bleeding but undaunted, Schmidt skirted the daemon, her hammer shattering the statue’s other elbow. ‘With the fire of faith inside me, my soul shall never yield!’

Hess scrambled after the warrior priest, notching his sword on the daemon’s wrist, then bringing his hammer around to widen the crack. More gold-flecked marble flaked away and the hand broke free. Suddenly handless, the daemon retreated with an irritated hiss.

The two of them pressed the attack, raining blows on the statue as the daemon tried to back away. It was not until Hess felt something curl around his ankle that he realised what he had forgotten.

The daemon had not two arms, but many – a profusion of twisted limbs, chitinous, tenebrous, flesh and stone, all shifting in and out of view like heat mirages.

The tentacle drew tight around Hess’ leg, snatching him from his feet. He hit the ground face first, the crack of his nose breaking accompanied by a flash of pain that brought tears to his eyes. The sabre clattered from his hand, but he hung doggedly to Hanar’s hammer even as the daemon dragged him through the jagged debris and up, twisting, into the air to hang upside down.

Blood from his broken nose dripped into Hess’ eyes, his stomach as heavy as a cannonball. He clenched his jaw against an upswell of bile, wiping a sweaty hand across his eyes to clear them even as he flailed about with Hanar’s hammer.

Schmidt grunted as one of the daemon’s chitinous claws closed around her chest and lifted her from the ground. She brought her hammer down, again and again, but without any leverage the blows were weak and ineffectual.

The daemon turned to the priest, watching her struggles as a child might those of a particularly fascinating insect. Slowly, it closed its claw, and the priest’s breastplate began to buckle, metal squealing. Schmidt’s furious shout tapered into a stuttering gasp as she fought to draw breath.

Hess dangled helplessly, unable to reach the daemon, barely able to see for the blood that streamed from his ruined nose. He noticed Thystra, still standing just a few paces away, her axe held low and forgotten, her gaze locked on Schmidt. As the priest began to scream, she flinched and looked away.

‘Thystra!’ Hess shouted, his voice raw and ragged. ‘Do something.’

‘I cannot.’ She shook her head violently, eyes squeezed shut. ‘There is no way back.’

‘So you will stand by and let us die?’ Hess pleaded.

The aelf’s axe came up, but she didn’t move.

As if savouring the exchange, the daemon shifted its attention from Thystra to Hess.

‘Your comrades – it was not your fault. You could not save them,’ Hess said. ‘But you can save us.’

A single tear cut a path through the dusty grime on Thystra’s cheek, but the aelf would not meet Hess’ gaze. Desperately, he looked to Schmidt, and for a moment, thought the priest dead, until he heard her let out a wheezing curse.

‘At last,’ the daemon crooned, raising Hess to eye level. A taloned hand slipped from the fractured blur of its shoulder to stroke Hess’ cheek. He felt a warm trickle of blood creep from the slash it left behind. The statue’s smile was wide and satisfied, as though the daemon were a skilled craftsman appreciating a newly finished piece.

Hess tried to twist away, but the tentacle held him fast. He felt the cold sting as the daemon caught him by the throat, then a terrifying numbness as its talons began to dig into the flesh of his neck.

A loud crack pierced the choking miasma of Hess’ thoughts. The daemon lurched and the pressure on Hess’ throat suddenly relaxed. Sucking in a grateful gasp of air, he twisted to see Thystra’s axe crash again into the daemon’s left knee.

Any thoughts Hess might have had of being able to match the aelf in combat were dispelled in a moment of open-mouthed awe. Thystra moved more deftly than he would have believed possible, the heavy-headed axe seeming light as a duelling foil in her double-handed grip. She held the weapon with the blade reversed, the spike on the back like a pickaxe. Even as Hess watched she whipped the axe around again to smash another hunk of stone from the statue’s leg, driving the daemon to one knee.

Rather than continue to strike at the injured joint, Thystra leapt, using the daemon’s thigh as a springboard to vault the intervening distance between her and where Hess hung. There was a wet thud as the tentacle’s rubbery flesh parted before the glittering edge of Thystra’s axe, then Hess was falling.

For the first time, he was ready for the shock. Hess tucked his shoulder, hitting the ground at a roll. Shardstorm detritus sliced through his clothes, the wounds like hot daggers in his back and legs. Dully, he stumbled to his feet, turning to see Thystra slip behind the staggered daemon, her axe a brilliant blur as it parried and cut at the thing’s myriad arms.

A glance at the statue’s perfect grin told Hess all he needed to know. Even with all her skill, it seemed all Thystra could do to keep the snatching claws at bay for a moment.

He gritted his teeth, helpless fury boiling up as he realised that, even together, there was no way they could overcome the fiend head-on. The key was to strike hard, withdraw, then attack from an unexpected direction.

Schmidt’s struggles were growing weaker, Thystra beset on all sides. Hess clapped a hand to his bleeding throat and stumbled towards the fray, knowing there was little he could do to tip the scales.

Altenbach’s smile mocked him, so he did the only thing he could think of.

Hanar’s hammer arced through the air, spinning end over end to crash into the statue’s elegantly chiselled face. It was not a perfect throw, but with all Hess’ strength behind it and the solid weight of the duardin’s warhammer, it did not need to be.

The daemon reeled back, hands flying to its face as it let out a manic shriek. Seizing the momentary distraction, Thystra slipped to the side, hacking down at the claw that held Schmidt. Two quick strikes and the warrior priest rolled free to lay gasping on the ground.

‘It is too strong.’ Hess stumbled over to tug Schmidt away from the writhing daemon. ‘We must withdraw.’

The priest gave an unsteady nod, snatching up her hammer, but Thystra shook her head. ‘Where can we run?’

Hess glanced around. With the daemon’s size and strength they were at a disadvantage in the courtyard, but the tighter confines of the fortress’ halls would be harder for the thing to navigate. He nodded towards the keep. ‘Inside.’

With a grunted affirmation, Schmidt staggered towards the door. Blood leaked from beneath the warrior priest’s battered breastplate. Her steps were irregular, unsteady, and she seemed to keep hold of her hammer through reflex alone.

Hess followed for a few steps before realising Thystra wasn’t behind him. He glanced back to see the aelf hadn’t moved.

‘What are you doing?’ he shouted as the daemon rose to its feet behind her.

‘I told you, captain. I cannot go back.’ With a sad smile, Thystra turned to face the cackling monstrosity.

Hess could only scream curses as the aelf charged, the blade of her axe flashing in the sunlight as it rose, fell, then rose again. Unable to watch, he turned to shamble towards the keep, the door barely visible through his tear-blurred eyes.

‘Thystra?’ Schmidt asked as Hess stumbled inside.

Not trusting himself to speak, Hess only shook his head. Chanting a soft prayer, Schmidt joined him, and together they shut and barred the heavy iron door, then collapsed, panting, to the cold stone.

‘What now?’ Schmidt asked between wheezing breaths.

‘That door won’t stop the daemon for long.’ Wincing, Hess pushed to his feet. ‘We need somewhere to hide and some time to think.’

Schmidt thrust her chin towards the mess hall ‘The stores are deep. There are many hiding places.’

‘The daemon seems to have Altenbach’s memories – the armoury will be the first place it looks.’ Hess paused as the glimmer of an idea shone through his scattered thoughts. ‘Follow me, Schmidt.’

They limped through the mess hall and towards the stores, leaving a bloody trail – just as Hess had hoped.

Once inside, he swept a tarp from atop one of the piles of sundries, then, after tearing off a piece to bind his throat and another to press to his bloodied nose, he wrapped the remainder around Schmidt, bundling up the priest’s wounds. It might have been nerves, or the high of battle, but the pain of Hess’ injuries had faded to a dull ache. He took a few deep breaths, pushing down the discomfort.

‘The blood trail will lead that thing here,’ he said. ‘It will take some time for it to search the entire armoury.’

Schmidt tucked the edges of the tarp into her belt. ‘Should we get more armour? Heavier weapons?’

Hess regarded the racks of equipment, considering. Even full plate wasn’t likely to stop a blow from the daemon, and he was beginning to suspect they would need more than hammers to even have a chance at beating it. Hess snatched up a harness with a brace of pistols, then another for good measure. Checking the harness’ pouch, he found shot, flint and wadding, but there were no cartridges and the powder horn was empty.

‘All the powder was in the magazine.’ Schmidt spoke as if pronouncing a death sentence. ‘That thrice-damned duardin blew it up on purpose. I am sorry I didn’t notice his corruption.’

‘Don’t blame yourself. You were the only one who–’ Hess took a quick breath, remembering. Not all the powder was gone.

‘Follow me.’ Hess broke into a shambling run, grinning over his shoulder at Schmidt’s puzzled frown. ‘Schmidt, you might have just saved our lives.’

Chapter Eleven

‘Careful, careful,’ Hess whispered as he and Schmidt tipped the bucket of jagged metal shards into the barrel of black powder. They had done their best to pick out all the chips of flint; even the smallest spark would turn the forge into a fireball.

‘Your aelf friend is dead.’ The daemon’s voice echoed through the fortress, muffled somewhat by the barred and barricaded door of the forge. From the clatter and scraping, it sounded as if the thing still searched the halls, but the keep was small enough that Hess was under no illusions about how long they could remain hidden.

‘Thystra died slowly. Just like her Ranger comrades.’ Its laugh had an unearthly timbre that seemed to resonate deep within Hess’ chest. ‘She called for you at the end, both of you.’

‘Sigmar spare me from evil – my life is but a candle, lost amidst your holy light.’ Schmidt muttered the prayer, her cheeks reddening.

‘It goads us,’ Hess whispered.

With a nod, Schmidt seemed to collect herself then pressed a swatch of oilcloth over the mix of powder and shrapnel, softly tamping it down with the head of her hammer. Together, they lowered the barrel’s lid, then wedged it back into place.

Schmidt wiped the sweat beaded on her forehead. ‘Wonderful. Now, tell me again how we set this off without killing ourselves?’

Hess examined the makeshift fuse he had twisted together from a length of waxed cord. It seemed about the right length to give them half a minute or so, but he was no engineer – the fuse could burn twice as long, or ignite the bomb the moment they lit it.

‘Now, where would two cowards hide?’ The daemon’s tone had become playful, mocking. Its voice was like an insect crawling up the back of Hess’ neck. ‘Really, this is beneath you.’

Hess swallowed a curse, forcing his attention back to the matter at hand. ‘The fuse could work. We just need to figure out a way to keep the daemon in the forge long enough for the powder to detonate.’

‘There are too many variables.’ Schmidt shook her head, swallowing. ‘This is our only chance. I’ll stay here and light the powder myself.’

Hess frowned. ‘There has to be a better way.’

They regarded each other for a long moment.

Hess leaned back, chewing on his lip. ‘What do we know of this daemon?’

Schmidt straightened. ‘It is an unholy abomination, banished by the divine will of Sigmar.’

‘Well, yes.’ Hess gave a thin smile. ‘But what else? There has to be something we can use.’

Schmidt shrugged. ‘It thinks it is a hero?’

‘No, not quite.’ Hess massaged the back of his neck with one hand. ‘Eris called it “Mother of Heroes”, remember? I don’t think it wants to be a hero, so much as make them. Like the mosaics down in the tomb – the men and women in them were champions. It feeds on ambition, on legends.’

‘So even if we defeat Altenbach, the daemon will just find another pawn.’ Schmidt frowned, shoulders rounding. ‘It is like Eris said, there will always be men and women of ambition for it to prey upon. There will always be heroes.’

‘This daemon has a physical form, but it draws its strength from an idea.’ Hess chewed his lip, considering. ‘We need to figure out a way to destroy not just the creature but its history, its legend.’

‘It lives through its heroes.’ Schmidt made a fist, eyes wide. ‘The tomb.’

‘Yes.’ Hess clapped his hands together, then winced at the sound.

‘That should certainly be enough powder to do it.’ Schmidt glanced at the bomb. ‘Now the only problem is, how do we roll this barrel of high explosives across the courtyard, lower it down into the chasm, get it to the tomb, lure the daemon after us, trap it long enough for the bomb to detonate, then escape – all without having our heads ripped off?’

Hess sat back, grinning. ‘I might have an idea about that.’

The eyes of the silver-and-bronze faces seemed to follow Hess as he sauntered up to the wall. Glittering from the shadows of the gatehouse tunnel, they were imperturbable in their steely regard – row upon row of heroes, their legends little more than ash carried on the wind. He wondered about all they had done, all they had seen.

All they had sacrificed.

Hess compulsively checked his pistols – four of them, loaded, primed and secured in the harness crisscrossing his chest.

Closing his eyes, Hess took a few deep breaths to steady himself, his hands tight on the haft of Thystra’s axe. It had been laying a few paces away from her crumpled body, the handle cracked, the edge notched in a dozen places, but still Hess had felt the need to slip across the courtyard to recover the weapon.

Robbed of life, Thystra’s body had seemed little more than a bloody wisp, her aelven slenderness making her appear almost emaciated. Thankfully, she’d fallen facing away from the weapon. Hess did not know if he could stand to meet her dead gaze, terrified of what he might see – pain, regret, betrayal.

Now, he stood before the gate, axe in hand. Soon, one way or another, it would all be over.

The daemon was still inside the keep. Schmidt had prayed for a miracle, and it seemed she had received one. It was by Sigmar’s divine grace alone that Hess and Schmidt managed to lower the heavy powder keg into the chasm without alerting the abomination, but that was all about to change.

Hess heard a scrape from the chasm, then the sound of boots hitting tile. There was a moment of held breath, then Schmidt’s voice rang out from below, muffled, but clearly audible.

‘Now!’

With a deep breath, Hess brought the axe down to smash one of the faces. There was steel beneath the bronze, or perhaps the metal was alloyed with some harder material, but it took Hess several ringing chops to reduce the mask to slag. Eris had called the creature ‘Mother of Heroes’. Hess only hoped his suspicion was correct – that these were the missing faces from the mosaics in the tomb below, that they were the daemon’s heroes, its children.

Grimly, Hess moved on to the next face, and the next. He was just taking aim at the face of a woman with high, arching brows and a wolfish aspect when the daemon spoke behind him.

‘Anaura Moon-touched.’

Hess turned to regard the thing. It had not emerged from the fight with Thystra wholly unscathed. The daemon favoured its right leg, the left knee cracked almost all the way through. A number of its arms were missing, the blurred space around its shoulders where the extra limbs resided held more than a few bleeding stumps. The daemon’s face – for Hess could not think of it as Altenbach’s any longer – was a flaking ruin. Hess’ hammer throw had crushed its nose and spread thin fractures through the statue’s cheeks, fine as the patina on an ancient oil painting. Still, if the wounds inconvenienced it, the creature gave no sign.

‘Anaura rode upon a serpent of silvered light, her hair pale as her armour, bright as a fallen star in the gloom.’ The daemon smiled as if recalling a fond memory. ‘She slew the Twin Kings, wight lords of dusk and dawn, and freed a nation from eternal twilight. They would have made her queen, but she refused.’

‘Is that so?’ Hess gave a tight-lipped smile. If the daemon wanted to reminisce, he was happy to listen. Every moment it spent talking was one more for Schmidt to set the explosives and repair the wards at the tomb’s entrance.

‘Anaura wished for nothing but to be free.’ The daemon regarded the ruined visage. ‘This world may have forgotten her, but I remember all my heroes.’

‘Heroes?’ Hess snorted. ‘You mean pawns.’

‘I never made anyone do anything they did not wish to.’ The daemon’s lips twitched into a smile that appeared almost wistful. ‘I wonder if Sigmar could say the same.’

‘I do not presume to judge the motives of a god.’

‘And therein lies the problem,’ the creature said with a dismissive toss of its head, a move so much like Altenbach that Hess was momentarily taken aback. ‘You call me a daemon because you have been told to.’ It touched the broken symbol on its breastplate. ‘The priests of Sigmar look at my master’s followers and see gluttons and hedonistic mystery cults, but Slaanesh is so much more. It embodies not only desire and decadence, but also perfection. And is that not what Sigmar seeks as well?’

Hess could muster no reply, so he settled for simply glaring at the thing.

‘Your priest has abandoned you.’ It gave a chilling grin. ‘Just like your god.’

The daemon hadn’t moved, and yet it seemed somehow closer. Hess squared his shoulders, trying to keep his back straight even as a tiny, animal voice in the back of his head shrieked at him to flee.

‘Poor, foolish Schmidt.’ It loomed over him. ‘Who would have thought conviction such a poor buttress to courage.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Are you not a man of faith, captain?’

‘I prefer to place my trust in more tangible things. Comrades, cannons.’ He brandished Thystra’s axe. ‘Cold steel.’

The daemon’s laugh was bright and clear as the peal of a festival bell. ‘I knew I liked you, Hess. Are you sure you do not wish for your command back?’

Hess made no reply, teeth gritted against the upswell of poisonous delight he felt at the idea of Lord Marshal Khir being led away in chains. He wanted nothing more than to see his name cleared, to ride with his old comrades again, to see his mother and father as proud as they had been the day he had earned his captaincy.

If only the price were not so high.

‘I’ll never join you.’ Hess’ words came out soft and weak, his voice little more than a hoarse rasp.

‘Oh, my dear captain.’ The daemon’s grin slipped, its tone suddenly sober. ‘You already have.’

Unable to abide the thing’s lies any longer, Hess hurled Thystra’s axe. The notched aelven blade glittered in the coppery light as it spun towards the daemon. As he had expected, the creature slipped from the weapon’s path. The dodge bought Hess time to draw his first brace of pistols.

This close, there was no chance for the daemon to evade.

The first shot hit it in the shoulder, exploding through its myriad shifting limbs in a spray of golden ichor. The second struck its already cracked leg – not a perfect shot, but enough to drop the thing to one knee. Still, the daemon somehow managed to lunge as he sprinted by, one taloned hand cutting close enough to stir the hair on the back of his head.

Sweat stung Hess’ eyes, the headlong rush reopening the cuts on his ankle and face. He dropped his pistols, drawing the second brace. His breath came in wheezing gasps, the air suddenly seeming too thin. He skirted a drift of jagged shrapnel, then flinched as the daemon kicked through the pile with a clattering roar.

The chasm was still a dozen paces ahead, the daemon close enough that Hess could feel the tremor of its stomping footfalls through the ground. It shrieked and cackled, voice shifting from Altenbach’s airy tone to a deep, resonating basso.

Hess twisted to squeeze off a shot, far too wide. In desperation, he threw his pistol at the daemon, only to have the thing bat the weapon aside with contemptuous ease.

A tentacle coiled around his waist, drawing tight enough to send jolts of pain arcing up his spine. How could Hess have ever thought he could escape this thing?

Grimly, he pressed the barrel of his last remaining pistol against the rubbery flesh. The report left his ears ringing, the powder flash sending bright after-images dancing across his vision. With an otherworldly shriek, the daemon tossed Hess to the ground, the spatter of bright, golden blood from the wounded limb pattering across the back of his breastplate. Gasping in a grateful breath, he rolled to his knees, searching for the rope through blurry vision. The daemon’s roar was the crash of a burning building toppling in on itself, its heavy footfalls the toll of a funeral bell.

Hess’ questing fingers found the rough-woven rope, and he gripped it, hoping it was the right one.

With a shout he rolled into the chasm. There was a moment of weightlessness as the world spun, then the rope went taut, cutting into the flesh of Hess’ palms. He slammed against the chasm wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. His bruised chest flared with the sharp stab of newly broken ribs.

He kicked off the wall, letting the rope play through his hands. They left smears of blood upon the coarse cord.

‘What of your deeds? Your medals?’ The daemon called from above. ‘This cowardice ill suits you.’

Hess clenched his jaw against the agonised scream building in his throat. Still, the rope cut deeper than the daemon’s taunts. Hess had never been one for the melee, the bloody press of bodies – charge and withdraw, skirmish and flank, it was the pistolier’s way.

He hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, barely catching himself before he could topple forward. A trickle of pebbles and dust rained down on Hess’ head, and he turned to see the daemon climbing down the wall of the chasm. It moved like an insect, strange arms spread wide to find cracks and protrusions, and yet there was an odd delicacy about its descent. It came slowly, testing its weight with each move as if afraid to dislodge or mar any of the mosaics on the tunnel walls.

Hess sprinted down the length of the chasm, hands clenched into bloody, painful fists. His chest felt tight and congested. Each gasping breath sent a stab of agony radiating through his side. And yet, somehow, he managed a shambling run.

Schmidt had left a lantern up ahead, the alchemical light casting sickly shadows across the mosaics.

Images of heroes flashed by Hess, armour and weapons brilliant in the lambent glow, their faces gone, all replaced with the daemon’s foul sigil – just as their legends had been consumed by the creature. He bent to scoop up the lantern, hissing in pain as the handle bit into the raw flesh of his palm.

‘Face me.’ The daemon thudded to the tiles at the far end of the chasm.

Hess groaned, willing his numb legs to propel him forward, step after staggering step. He just needed to get it into the tomb.

‘I can promise you a fight for the ages,’ the daemon said, its footfalls loud in the echoing confines of the chasm. ‘You deserve better than this slow, slovenly death.’

Hess swallowed against the raw, primal terror twisting in his gut. Let the daemon play its games, as long as it followed. He staggered through the door leading to the inner crypt, dodging around canted pillars and faceless, unadorned sarcophagi. His breath came in whooping gasps, his hands and legs moving as though they were carved from stone, and still he pushed on, praying that he had bought Schmidt enough time to repair the wards.

He glanced back, relieved to see the daemon still stalked after him. It moved deliberately, careful to slip between the unstable pillars holding up the ceiling of the tomb, and to step over the sarcophagi.

Dust stung Hess’ already raw throat. A coughing fit caused him to stumble, his hand leaving a bloody smear on the jumbled text inscribed on a nearby sarcophagus.

The daemon gave an irritated hiss. ‘At least do yourself the courtesy of not leaving a mess. You sully the tales of your betters.’

With a start, Hess realised he could understand the inscriptions. Strange symbols reordered into familiar words, almost as if they wanted to be read. They were as the daemon said – legends of great deeds done by heroes millennia dead. Those who buried them had left no record, no trace, hoping to forget. But the daemon would not let them, could not let them. How long must it have taken the thing to inscribe them? He imagined it down here, decade after decade, slowly scratching each hero’s story into their tomb.

At last, Hess knew how to hurt it.

With a snarl, he drew his dagger, scraping it across the writing.

‘Defiler!’ For the first time, the daemon’s scream held true anger. ‘You spit upon true heroes.’

Something heavy crashed into Hess’ back and sent him tumbling across the floor. He slammed against a pillar, blinking through dust-caked eyes as he scrabbled towards the broken door at the far end of the chamber. He could see it through the clearing dust, the wards picked out in rusty iron and lead – not gold, Hess understood now, nothing to catch the eye, to kindle the spirit. The door stood open and empty, Schmidt nowhere to be seen.

The barrel sat nearby, nestled against the base of one of the large columns, the orange-white light of its sputtering fuse like a flare in the sickly shadows.

Hess rolled painfully to his knees, standing although his legs felt as weak as wet clay. He waved his light in an attempt to distract the daemon from the barrel, but it knocked the lantern from his hand.

It turned to regard the powder keg. ‘Captain, it seems I have misjudged you. This was quite the plan.’

The daemon knelt to pluck the fuse from the keg, pinching out the flame between two long-nailed fingers.

Spitting blood, Hess gripped his dagger in shaking hands and crawled over to scratch it across the writing on the nearest sarcophagus.

‘Don’t ruin this moment with petulance.’ The daemon knelt next to him, and, with a frown that was almost maternal, it gently set him on his feet. ‘Die like a warrior. On your feet, weapon in hand.’

A flutter of motion by the door caught Hess’ attention, but when he glanced over there was no one there. With a sigh, he tossed the dagger away. It was probably too much to hope for a miracle.

‘Stubborn.’ The daemon’s tone almost seemed to carry a hint of respect. ‘We could have done such great things.’

Hess spat a gobbet of blood at its feet. ‘My apologies.’

The daemon took him by the throat. ‘Are you sure you won’t change your mind. Together, we could–’

‘Enough,’ Hess rasped. ‘You really can’t help yourself, can you?’

The daemon’s scowl turned ugly even as its grip tightened.

Hess felt his vertebrae shift under the pressure, the edges of his vision curling up like a dry leaf. It surprised him that his last thoughts were not of his comrades, his battles, the day he’d won his spurs, nor even of Lord Marshal Khir, but of the dead.

He wondered if they would be waiting for him.

Distantly, he heard shouting, a high, angry cry, the clatter of weapons hitting armour, the scream of the wounded. All around was green light, the glow of flames, a pyre of hateful shadows curling in upon themselves.

Through the haze, Hess felt the daemon stagger.

He blinked away the burning after-images to see Schmidt. The warrior priest smashed her hammer at the daemon’s waist, again and again, like a woman felling a tree. At last, the unnatural marble seemed to give, and the daemon fell.

Hess’ surroundings came roaring back, each gasped breath seeming to open the door of his senses wider and wider. Strong hands dragged Hess to his feet, Schmidt’s face bobbing into view. ‘Can you walk, captain?’

‘Barely.’ Hess leaned heavily on the priest as they shuffled towards the warded door. It felt as if he were watching his body from afar, his movements as loose and jerky as a badly stringed puppet. He took a limping step towards the door, then paused. It was not enough to escape – even if Schmidt had repaired the wards, the daemon could just get out through the chasm.

He pushed away from the priest. ‘The powder.’

Casting about Hess spied his discarded lantern and lunged for it. The alchemical flame had diminished, but thankfully still burned.

‘You think this will stop me?’ There was a crash from behind as the daemon struggled to rise, and fell back. Schmidt’s blows had pulverised its waist, its legs dragging behind as it crawled towards them. ‘I only require another body.’

Hess rejoined Schmidt, and together they pressed for the warded door. The daemon’s claws shrieked across the tiles as it clawed after them. Schmidt made as if to turn back, but Hess pushed her through the door, then spun to hurl the lantern at the powder barrel. It hit with a dull crash, green flames spreading over the top of the keg.

Hess lunged through the door, then stooped to help Schmidt to her feet. Arm in arm, they shambled down the tunnel, the daylight ahead seeming an unreachable promise. He could almost feel the daemon closing on them, its arms outstretched, talons flexing. Every step seemed to drag, as though they were wading through thick liquid. Hess’ hands were numb, his chest screaming with every shallow breath. The back of his neck prickled with the nearness of the creature. A heartbeat, perhaps two, and it would be on them.

There was a flash of golden light from behind them, the dusty air of the cave filling with the smell of scorched metal.

‘Praise Sigmar, the wards held,’ Schmidt said between rattling breaths.

‘You are nothing!’ Shrieking, the daemon hurled itself against the wards again and again. ‘You will die unremembered, no more than a mote of dust in the world’s eye.’

For once, Hess ignored it.

The explosion sucked the breath from Hess’ lungs, a tidal wave of smoke and dust plucking him from his feet. Schmidt was torn from his grip. He was carried rattling down the tunnel like a piece of metal in a shardstorm. It was all Hess could do to shield his head as he tumbled across the hard stone, the world spinning.

Then he was out into the light, the air.

Hess skittered down the mountainside in an avalanche of rust and shale, tumbling over and over until he at last came to rest in the sheltering shadow of a rocky defile. It was agony to breathe and the air was full of settling debris, but it was still the sweetest he had ever tasted. He lay there for what seemed an eternity, waiting for death to finally put an end to his pain.

Over the ringing in his ears, he could hear the rumble of falling rock, the distant boom of the crypt collapsing in on itself, burying the daemon and its poisonous legends under thousands of tonnes of rock and metal.

Hess grinned through the pain, his eyes misty with tears of relief.

‘Thystra, Flynn, we did it.’ His words were barely a whisper. ‘By Sigmar, we did it.’

Epilogue

The Grave of Heroes lay in ruins – the outer wall cracked in a dozen places, the gatehouse listing to one side and the central keep collapsed into the rusty ground. Even so, the sight made Hess content. With any luck, nothing of the daemon’s tomb had survived.

He half crawled, half limped up to the gatehouse. It had taken the better part of the afternoon to dig himself free of the rubble and shamble his way up the old Lantic Road. He had seen no sign of Schmidt apart from a long smear of blood across the face of one of the pitted boulders. Hess had not the strength to search; the priest was certainly dead – just like Hess should have been.

The gatehouse had partially fallen, the gate itself crushed beneath falling stone and metal, the entrance little more than a shallow cave speckled with jagged shardstorm debris. The sun was just dipping below the peaks, the pitted iron of the wall still warm from the day’s heat. It would get cold soon, but that was a problem for later.

For now, it just felt good to sit.

There was a scrape from the shadows inside the gatehouse, boots on stone. Hess half turned to see Schmidt shuffle into the light. Any surprise he felt at the priest’s survival was eclipsed by the site of the woman’s injuries. The priest looked as bad as Hess felt, her face a mass of bruises, her breastplate gone, one arm bound to her chest in a makeshift sling, and a nasty-looking slash running up her thigh.

‘You survived.’ Schmidt put no weight on her injured leg, hopping over to slump down against the wall across from Hess.

Hess shrugged, then winced at a flare of pain from his wounds. ‘Just lucky, I guess.’

‘Luck?’ Schmidt snorted. ‘That was a damned miracle. The explosion should have torn us apart.’

‘I suppose Sigmar must still have plans for us.’ Hess swallowed, unsettled by a growing sense of apprehension he was not able to properly articulate. As if in response to some unnatural signal, he noticed for the first time an odd weight inside his shirt. Snaking a hand inside, he withdrew a small bag, its contents clinking softly in his grip.

Strange, he didn’t remember retrieving his medals.

‘Think you’ll earn another battle honour for this, captain?’ Schmidt’s throaty chuckle descended into a series of rasping coughs.

Hess regarded the sack. If word got out he had helped destroy a daemon it would mean more than a parade. Khir would have no choice but to give him his company back. Better, it would put the lord marshal in the awkward position of either appearing like a fool for banishing Hess, or having to claim it had been his plan all along. The latter would certainly need Hess’ active participation, which would give him quite a bit of leverage over Khir – enough perhaps for the lord marshal to give Hess his own command.

Hess’ thoughts spun at the possibilities, or perhaps it was just the blood loss. He opened the bag. Gold and silver medals glittered in the dying light, brighter even than Hess remembered.

It was everything he had wanted, and more.

The joy came bittersweet, however. He had not done it alone.

‘I shall see to it that Thystra and Flynn receive a hero’s–’ Hess caught himself. ‘Are buried with full honours.’

The priest nodded heavily. ‘It is only right.’

‘And you, Schmidt,’ Hess said. ‘The priesthood will certainly look favourably upon your valour.’

‘If we survive long enough for help to come.’ The priest returned Hess’ smile, her teeth stained a dark red. ‘And if we remain untainted.’

Hess frowned at the implication. Suddenly, his medals didn’t seem to shine so brightly, thoughts of his new command vanishing like smoke in the breeze. Like a serpent uncoiling, a terrible idea rose in Hess’ thoughts.

‘Do you think the daemon is truly gone, captain?’ Schmidt asked.

Hess grunted, jerking his head at the toppled fort. ‘Nothing could have survived that.’

‘What if that was the point?’ Schmidt asked.

‘What do you mean, Schmidt?’

‘Eris said the daemon couldn’t be killed, that it didn’t possess so much as inhabit ambition.’ Schmidt forged on, as if needing to get the words out. ‘What if Altenbach’s statue was just another pawn? What if this is not the end of the story but the beginning?’

Hess licked his chapped lips, considering. ‘Even if the daemon was as Eris described, all record of it is gone. Its legend is dead.’

‘Not in here.’ Schmidt tapped her head, then pointed to Hess. ‘Or there.’

‘But we buried that abomination, destroyed its accursed tomb.’ Hess’ words came out like a plea. ‘That has to be enough.’

Hess let out a slow, rattling breath, seeming to sink in on himself.

‘It has to.’

They sat in silence for a long time. Hess knew the realisation should have troubled him, but all he could manage was a strange sense of anticipation. He had done the right thing, had not succumbed to the daemon’s temptations. It had no power over him, now or ever. A lightness filled his chest, warmth spreading through his limbs, the pain of his injuries seeming to recede before the bright promise of his future.

‘Captain?’ the priest asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

‘Yes?’ Hess could almost hear the laughter of his comrades, the beat of hooves on earth and stone, the crack of pistols, the cheers, the adulation as the crowd chanted his name over, and over, and over.

‘I know Thystra killed the ibuqs and Hanar weakened the magazine, but that daemon needed to be summoned, to be bound. The bloody sigils in Altenbach’s quarters were ritualistic. The daemon had no form before it possessed the statue – it could not have written them itself.’ Schmidt shifted, lips working as if she were trying to spit out something bitter. ‘How could the castellan have scrawled all that blasphemy with a slit throat?’

Hess narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you getting at, Schmidt?’

Schmidt met Hess’ gaze. ‘Did you murder Castellan Altenbach?’

‘No.’ Hess leaned forward, somehow calm despite the heat, the pain, the rising terror. ‘What about you, Schmidt? Where were you when the castellan was killed?’

‘Praying.’ Schmidt blanched, glancing away. ‘At least I think I was.’

Hess scanned the ground around them. He had lost his dagger in the tomb, but the earth was still littered with razor-sharp chunks of shardstorm debris.

‘If there is even the slightest chance the daemon yet lives in us…’ Schmidt gave a weak cough, her face contorting in pain even as blood speckled the ragged remains of her robe. ‘We must tell the Order.’

Hess gave a solemn nod, shifting as though his wounds pained him to hide his hand as he palmed a sharp bit of iron.

Schmidt sat with a relieved smile. Her breaths were coming quicker now – short, wheezing gasps that spoke to Hess of broken ribs, perhaps even a punctured lung. She might die before help arrived.

If Schmidt survived long enough to tell her tale to the Order of Azyr, nothing else would matter. The Order would not care that they had defeated the daemon, that they had won. If there was any chance either of them was tainted, they would be executed. A cold dread spread through Hess, sitting in his stomach like lead shot.

‘Your leg.’ He edged closer, nodding at the long gash in Schmidt’s thigh. ‘It is bleeding again.’

Schmidt glanced down, her head lolling forward before snapping up again like someone fighting sleep. ‘So it is.’

Hess tore a dirty strip of linen from the remains of his shirt and knelt to press it against the wound.

Schmidt looked up at him, her gaze clouded from pain and blood loss. ‘You’re a good man, Hess. I am proud to call you captain.’

She might have said more, but all Hess could hear was Khir’s laughter. He thought of his companions, his parents, the shame they would feel. No matter that Hess had slain the daemon and destroyed its accursed tomb; no matter that he was the hero of a dozen battles, honoured and decorated. He would be stricken from the Freeguild rolls, his deeds torn from the records, his name, his life, his legend forgotten.

It would be as if Captain Byrun Hess had never drawn breath.

The shard of jagged iron cut deep into Hess’ palm as he tightened his grip. He felt a hot trickle of blood creep down his knuckles, but the pain was nothing compared to the thought of being erased. Of having no chance to reclaim his standing. To once again seek glory in Sigmar’s name. Grunting from the effort, Hess thrust the makeshift blade into Schmidt’s side. She lurched, choking on the blood that filled her mouth. A gout of crimson fountained from the priest’s side, making the metal slippery, but Hess bore down, working the jagged iron deeper even as Schmidt beat at him.

‘It is better this way,’ Hess whispered as her struggles slowed. ‘I will see to it you are remembered, honoured.’

Schmidt’s eyes sought Hess’, her gaze pinioning his with a fierce intensity.

‘Rest, now. You will be a hero, Schmidt.’ Tears pricked the corners of Hess’ eyes. He could feel himself grinning, wide and proud. ‘We all will.’

Schmidt gave one last heave and fell still, the blood slowing to a trickle, before stopping altogether.

Panting, Hess pushed to his feet. He regarded Schmidt’s body – battered and blood-soaked as she was, it would be difficult to determine which wound had killed her.

Hess felt a twinge of guilt as he tossed the bloody bit of iron into a crack in the ground. Not a heroic deed, by far, but Hess wasn’t concerned.

In the end, all that mattered – all that ever mattered – was the story he would tell.

As if to punctuate that thought, a series of sharp cracks echoed from the ruined walls of the Grave, azure flashes so bright Hess had to shield his eyes. When his vision cleared, he saw a dozen tall, silver-armoured forms fan out across the courtyard, mighty blades, bows and hammers raised as they advanced across the broken rock. Unlike Eris, their armour was intact, their shields showing a gold hammer with twin lightning bolts set against a rich blue background.

Just in time.

At the sight of the Stormcast Eternals, Hess felt as if a terrible pressure had been lifted from his chest. They were Sigmar’s chosen, heroes in gleaming plate, wise and steadfast, armed with the weapons of the gods. They would know what to do. And yet, he couldn’t help but remember the mosaics in the tomb – other champions, other heroes.

Straightening his shoulders, Hess limped out to meet them, his footfalls lost amidst the heavy tread of sigmarite-shod feet, the snap of cloaks in the breeze, the creak of blessed armour.

At the sight of him, the Stormcasts raised their weapons, their noble voices carrying through the clear mountain air, words lost amidst the pounding of blood in Hess’ ears. They were all around him now, a wall of silver and blue, their gleaming masks fierce in the light of dawn.

‘Worry not. The daemon has been destroyed, as have any who succumbed to its dark influence.’ Hess raised his hands, unafraid. He knew they would recognise one of their own, see all the great things he had done, all the deeds he would yet accomplish.

The heroes might have finally arrived, but this was still Hess’ story.

About the Author

Evan Dicken is the author of the short story ‘The Path to Glory’ for Black Library. He has been an avid reader of Black Library novels since he found dog-eared copies of Trollslayer, Xenos and First and Only nestled in the “Used Fantasy/Sci-fi” rack of his local gaming store. He still considers himself an avid hobbyist, although the unpainted Chaos Warband languishing in his basement would beg to differ. By day, he studies old Japanese maps and crunches data at The Ohio State University.

An extract from Warqueen.

Dawn brought fire, and the Changer of Ways. At first he was a crimson line, simmering beneath an amethyst vault. Then, with slow majesty, he became a gilded shield, rising from his hidden palace, embroidering the clouds with light, kindling the Arad Plains into life; transmuting night into day.

Vedra watched in silence, awed by the boundless alchemy of her lord. The message was clear: to change is to live. She clutched the talisman hanging around her neck and raised it in a silent promise, refracting the morning light. The crystal flashed in her palm like a fragment of the dawn.

‘Tomorrow,’ she said.

Then she grabbed her spear and jogged back across the barren hillside towards her chariot. She had spent the night training and a rapturous heat linked every sinew of her long, lean body. She was ready. No one could stop her.

She vaulted into the chariot and barked a command in the old tongue, spurring her hounds into life. Bailar and Balkar lunged forwards with a snarl. They were as large as warhorses and they hauled her copper chariot with ease, their huge paws thudding across the parched scrub, thundering down the slope towards an avenue of staves that led across the plain.

The heads of the slain had been mounted to face south, towards the Crucible Mound, in anticipation of the coming ritual. Vedra did not look at them as she hurtled past. She had no interest in trophies. The heads were a warning, nothing else. The plains had never seen a host like hers. The Untamed was the greatest gathering of Darkoath tribes ever to pay homage to a single Warqueen. But she was under no illusions. There was still work to be done. And if she showed the slightest sign of weakness it would be her head they placed on a stave.

As her chariot neared the mound, she saw that the gathering was even bigger than she expected. The need-fire was already blazing, a vast umbrella of sapphire light, hanging fifty feet above the mound, rippling and shimmering as it shone down on thousands of Darkoath warriors. Every one of the tribesmen was holding a weapon aloft as she reached the foot of the mound and she wanted to raise her iron spear in reply – to howl back at them and revel in the glory of what they had achieved. They had done what the chieftains thought impossible – they had driven the Blood God from their lands. After tomorrow’s battle, they would once more be masters of the entire plain – eight hundred miles of strongholds and farmsteads, from the Scornwood Holt to the shores of the Unmeant Lake, with the Sickle Keep at its heart.

Vedra did not raise her spear. She did not cry out. She did as tradition dictated and kept her gaze locked on the flickering nimbus above the mound, letting the lord’s fire flash in her eyes as Bailar and Balkar pulled the chariot up the slope.

There were nine crucible mounds scattered across the plains and they were all the same shape: a steep-sided hill with a bowl-like depression at the summit. Most of the tribesmen had gathered at the foot of the hill, but the chieftains were waiting at the top, in the crucible itself, bathed in blue light. There were dozens of nobles, but the three greatest of them, Budar, Leortas and Korvis, stood alone, flanked by shield-bearers and slaves, their chins raised proudly and their mouths clamped shut. They were draped in pelts and battle trophies – skulls, human and animal, clattered against their weapons as they stepped towards her. They wore the trappings of great leaders but they were weak, all of them. Not one of them had foreseen this. None of them understood how she had won so many battles. They were all too wrapped up in their own myths to remember what it meant to be a Darkoath chieftain. They had lost their way. How confused they must be now – how they must hate her – but honour and tradition came first. She had defeated them on the field and their creed left them only one course of action. One by one, they knelt, glowering and tense as they dropped to the cinder-strewn earth.

Next to the chieftains were her kin: brothers, sisters and cousins, all wearing new pelts and gold torcs. Vedra’s string of victories had accorded them even higher status than the chieftains, and they stared back at her, proud and defiant, determined not to fail her.

At the other side of the mound was her sanorach, Alimus, the Herald of the Ninth. Ancient and decrepit as he was, the Darkoath sorcerer made a striking sight, with his woad-blue robes and eagle-clawed staff. The staff had been carved to resemble the crooked leg of a bird and it was decked with iridescent feathers. They shimmered in the light of the need-fire, writhing and coiling like a living creature.

Beside the sanorach stood the rest of her new court – the horde of poets, prophets, heroes and artisans who now gathered at her hearth.

She looked back at the three kneeling chieftains. Budar of the Throod, brutish and colossal. Korvis of the Sachalites, wild eyed and skeletal. Leortas of the Tannen, haughty, stout and proud. This was her prize. These embittered old warriors. They had not knelt to anyone for decades, nor agreed to pay tithes; but now they prostrated themselves, pledging people and lands in return for survival. Victory after victory, stronghold after stronghold, she had bound them to her will.

She enjoyed their discomfort for as long as honour allowed, then nodded for them to rise.

‘Alimus,’ she said, looking over at the sanorach.

The seer bowed and approached, walking towards her in his familiar, awkward gait. When she was a child, she called him Cranefly, due to his wasted, gangly limbs, and now, arthritic and palsied, he reminded her even more of an insect, jerking and twitching towards her across the hilltop.

‘Warqueen,’ he said, his voice rattly and thin.

She cried out, letting her words carry across the silent crowds below. ‘I am Vedra the Sworn, Bringer of Change. Are you the Herald of the Ninth?’

‘I am.’

‘Do you hold the key to the nine doors of the soul?’

‘I do.’

‘It is the dawning of the ninth day of the ninth month. Once more, the Changer of Ways has driven back the darkness, illuminating us with the flame of truth. Have you brought me his fire?’

The old seer reached beneath his robes, briefly revealing the crooked, emaciated body beneath. It was branded with an intricate network of runes and diagrams and criss-crossed with scars.

‘I have,’ he said, holding up a drinking horn.

‘Then light my soul,’ said Vedra, stepping closer.

He raised the horn and tipped a few drops onto her head. Most of Vedra’s head was shaved, but a single, tawny band crested her skull, a short-cropped mohawk that ended in a thick ponytail. The liquid splashed across her scalp and glittered in her hair.

The effect was instant. The need-fire blazed brighter and dropped down to envelop her, obscuring everything else. As always, she was amazed by the power of it – a vast, boiling tear in the sky, revealing countless versions of reality. It was a fragment of a dream, draped beneath the stars. A part of her mind still saw reality, but it was fading fast as the ice-flames took hold. She was aware, vaguely, that her physical self was hurling itself through the furnace, inured by Alimus’ draught, dancing and whirling and howling to the rising sun; but her dream-sight revealed something far more wonderful: she was in the presence of her lord.

Vedra glided, weightless and incandescent, into a blaze of liquid crystal. Visions and vistas spiralled around her. The Changer of Ways had transformed her being with the same ease he had transformed the night. The facets became mirrors and windows. She saw her face and the faces of her foes. She saw chieftains and thralls, crushed between the wheels of her chariot, or forced into vassalship. Her lord had made it all possible and she whispered his name: Tzeentch. The crystal labyrinth boiled and crashed as she slipped further into the otherworld of gods and spirits. Outside, in the mortal world, she saw chieftains joining the dance – hurling themselves into the flames. She willed them away, focusing on the fantastic visions exploding all around her. As always, the need-fire led her to the truth. She saw herself at the southern edge of the Arad Plains, riding her chariot at the head of her vast host. Behind her was an ocean of blades and shields and ahead lay Khorne’s final foothold in the plains: the soaring, horned fortress locals had christened the Abattoir. The reek of blood and brimstone filled her nostrils as her chariot rolled towards its gates. She gripped the talisman around her neck, the Serpent Stone, the priceless symbol of Tzeentch’s trust in her.

To her horror, it had grown cold.

The visions fell away and Vedra was standing, once more, at the edge of the sapphire flames. She reeled backwards from the need-fire, gripping the crystal charm and staring at it in shock. The fire had gone from its rough-hewn heart. Its nine eyes had grown dark. It was heavy and cold in her hand, a simple piece of rock.

The dance of the need-fire continued. More chieftains were hurling themselves into the flames, bathed in light and drunk on sorcery as they cast down their weapons and furs, embracing the madness of the dance.

Vedra continued backing away across the top of the Crucible Mound, weighed down by a terrible sense of dread. She had earned her queenship by defeating a daemon and Tzeentch’s token had burned against her chest ever since. Now, on the eve of her final trial, it had abandoned her. With a sickening jolt, she realised that she had left the need-fire without seeing the culmination of her visions.

She raced back in, trying to recapture the moment, but it was gone. As she stood there, surrounded by delirious crowds, she reached up into the madness, catching nothing but smoke.

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To the Guns of Paxton – Scott, Sean, Big Dave, Hank, Chuck, Craig – and all the battles we fought. Never have I had better enemies, nor better friends.

A Black Library Publication

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

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Akim Kaliberda.

The Red Hours © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2018. The Red Hours, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
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ISBN: 978-1-78030-829-6

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