Collections

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 Achaon, Warbeast, Fury of Gork, Bladestorm, Mortarch of Night and Lord of Undeath

LEGENDS OF THE AGE OF SIGMAR
Various authors
An anthology of short stories

RULERS OF THE DEAD
Josh Reynolds & David Annandale
Contains the novels Neferata: Mortarch of Blood
and Nagash: The Undying King

WARCRY
Various authors
An anthology of short stories

GODS & MORTALS
Various authors
An anthology of short stories

MYTHS & REVENANTS
Various authors
An anthology of short stories

Novels

• HALLOWED KNIGHTS •
Josh Reynolds

Book One: HALLOWED KNIGHTS: PLAGUE GARDEN
Book Two: HALLOWED KNIGHTS: BLACK PYRAMID

EIGHT LAMENTATIONS: SPEAR OF SHADOWS
Josh Reynolds

OVERLORDS OF THE IRON DRAGON
C L Werner

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

HAMILCAR: CHAMPION OF THE GODS
David Guymer

SCOURGE OF FATE
Robbie MacNiven

THE RED FEAST
Gav Thorpe

GLOOMSPITE
Andy Clark

GHOULSLAYER
Darius Hinks

BEASTGRAVE
C L Werner

NEFERATA: THE DOMINION OF BONES
David Annandale

Novellas

CITY OF SECRETS
Nick Horth

THIEVES’ PARADISE
Nick Horth

CODE OF THE SKIES
Graeme Lyon

THE MEASURE OF IRON
Jamie Crisalli

Audio Dramas

• REALMSLAYER: A GOTREK GURNISSON SERIES •
David Guymer
Boxed Set One: REALMSLAYER
Boxed Set Two: REALMSLAYER: BLOOD OF THE OLD WORLD

THE BEASTS OF CARTHA
David Guymer

FIST OF MORK, FIST OF GORK
David Guymer

GREAT RED
David Guymer

ONLY THE FAITHFUL
David Guymer

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

WAR-CLAW
Josh Reynolds

SHADESPIRE: THE DARKNESS IN THE GLASS
Various authors

THE IMPRECATIONS OF DAEMONS
Nick Kyme

THE PALACE OF MEMORY AND OTHER STORIES
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

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Epilogue

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Ghoulslayer’

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

Of all the gaols I had ever had the misfortune of visiting, the dungeons of the Raven City might have been the most singularly unpleasant. As miserable and lightless as the city in which it was located, the fittingly named Black Pit of Lethis resembled an enormous well dug deep into the earth, circular levels of cramped cells spiralling down into the darkness. What lay at the bottom, I had no idea. The screams that drifted up from below with unsettling regularity ensured that I never wanted to find out.

‘I’m beginning to regret ever setting foot in this miserable sewer-pit of a city,’ I said, running my fingers across the rain-slick bars of the lightless abode I was currently occupying. My skeletal cellmate grinned back at me good-naturedly as a centipede skittered through his empty eye socket.

I cannot recall exactly how long I resided in this accommodation before I received my first visit from Ammos Varon. Perhaps a week, although given my location and the gloomy haze of typical Lethisian weather, it was often impossible to tell day from night.

A rattle and clank of gears heralded the descent of the guard-carriage. Attached to the front of the circular platform were two great round lamps, and as their gaze passed over me I winced and raised my hands to protect my eyes, unused to such intense brightness after several days spent lounging in the dark. The great metal beast drew nearer and nearer, eventually coming to rest at the door to my cell.

Five figures stood within. Three wore the black smock and leather masks of the prison gendarmerie, and carried nightsticks with several vicious-looking wooden studs. I’d seen those weapons used against more than one unfortunate inmate, to brutal effect. One of the masked guards stepped forward and crashed his club against the bars of my cell, causing me to skitter backwards. Then I heard the clunk of a key twisting in a padlock, and the door to my cell creaked open.

The remaining two figures entered. The taller of the pair had to duck slightly as he entered. He was a lithe human, dressed in simple, dark blue robes cinched at the waist with a golden band. He was a striking one all right – dark-skinned and handsome, with piercing eyes so pale grey they seemed almost white, set in a stern face whose age I found quite hard to pinpoint. He wore his hair shaved close to the scalp and bore a tattoo of the comet on his cheek. A curved sword dangled from his belt, and he wore a heavy travelling pack.

The second figure was a small, stocky woman dressed in a blue habit that seemed at least a size too small to contain her bulk. Ruddy-faced and vital where her companion was tall and austere, she wore a broadsword strapped diagonally across her back, as well as a bandolier of knives and hatchets. She wore the hammer prominently on a golden choker that wound tightly around her neck, and her hair was hacked short without thought for aesthetics. The warrior made for the corner of my cell and leaned against the wall there, gazing at me through her heavy-lidded eyes, arms folded and muscles straining against the fabric of her coat.

‘Shevanya Arclis,’ said the dark-skinned man. His voice was soft and precise. ‘You have made quite the impression upon the arbitrator-lords of Lethis, aelf. Trespassing. Possession of contraband artefacts. Destruction of property. Disturbance of the peace. I could go on.’

‘In my defence, the house I destroyed was infested with the spectral dead,’ I said, intending to launch into a spirited defence of my recent exploits. ‘What I did was provide a–’

The man cut me off with a raised hand.

‘I am aware of your colourful history,’ he said. ‘I know exactly why you broke into the mansion of Phylebius Crade, and let us not pretend it was for any manner of altruism. You were there to rifle through the belongings of a dead man.’

‘It turned out he wasn’t actually dead, if that makes any difference,’ I muttered.

‘It does not. Here in Lethis they take crimes against the deceased rather seriously. For such offences as you have committed, one could be locked up for the rest of their life. Or face death upon the garrotte.’

‘If they’re lucky,’ interjected the stocky woman.

There was a pregnant pause. I got the sense that my guest was attempting to drive home the gravity of my situation, which after several days trapped in this hell pit was really quite unnecessary.

‘Who are you?’ I asked, desiring to cut to the chase. ‘You’re not guilders. You’re not priests of Sigmar, come to cleanse my soul. And I don’t remember crossing any cartels or assassin cults. Not recently, anyhow.’

The warrior snorted with laughter, but a flicker of irritation shone through her companion’s stern disposition.

‘I am an agent of the most holy Order of Azyr,’ he snapped, tugging down the neck of his robes to reveal an amulet marked with the image of the flaming eye – a symbol that I recognised all too well.

I groaned.

‘It is my duty to seek out the heretic and the traitor, and–’

‘Tell me, does the Order maintain a special department whose task it is purely to make my life a misery?’ I asked.

In all rational civilised folk, the mere mention of the Order of Azyr is enough to give rise to a surge of panic. I, however, had very recently had dealings with the witch hunters. Any terror I felt was overwhelmed by a great deal of exasperation.

If he was offended or insulted by my outburst, he gave no sign. He simply stared at me with those pale eyes, letting the moment of awkward silence stretch on just long enough to remind me of my place.

‘I am very well aware of your recent exploits, Miss Arclis,’ he said at last. ‘I have read with great interest the reports of Hanniver Toll. It is only his word that ensures you yet breathe. My name is Ammos Varon. This is my bodyguard and companion, Tavyat of Sayron.’

The woman honoured me with the slightest incline of her head. Her neck looked like a slab of rhinox meat. I was pretty certain that she could bite me in half as easily as an ogor.

‘The city of Lethis falls under my jurisdiction, Miss Arclis,’ the witch hunter continued. ‘And I maintain a close eye upon all potential assets who arrive within its walls.’

‘Are you people still not done with me?’ I sighed, slumping down to take a seat next to my skeletal cellmate. ‘Did I not already risk my own neck for the Order in pursuit of the Silver Shard? Was nearly getting devoured by mutant Chaos worshippers and lizard people not enough?’

‘You remain of value, Miss Arclis,’ Varon continued, folding his hands behind his back. ‘Until such time as the Order deems otherwise. You should be glad of that. I could leave you to rot for a few months in this place, but word of your exploits along the Taloncoast has reached my ears. You are very good at breaking into places that you are not supposed to be. As it happens, I have use for someone with those particular skills.’

‘I’m no thief,’ I snapped, irritated by his insinuation. It is a constant thorn in my side that people refuse to see a difference between my archaeological studies and the actions of a common pickpocket.

‘Spare me your delusions,’ said Varon, waving a dismissive hand. ‘You profess to be a noble explorer in the image of your adoptive father. We both know better. You are a thief and a grave robber. But an exceptionally gifted one, to be sure.’

It was hardly the first time I had heard this routine, and I had to bite back another retort that would do me little good. Perhaps there was some truth to the accusation, and that was why it riled me to hear it spoken aloud.

‘The Order does not forget,’ continued Varon, ‘that when you first came to our attention, you were in the company of a known sorcerer and heretic, a man responsible for untold infamy and mass murder. You are fortunate that such a respected agent as Hanniver Toll chose to extol your usefulness and not sanction your interrogation and execution.’

I sighed, already sick of this conversation.

‘What do you want from me?’

‘What do you know of the underworlds of Shyish?’ asked Varon.

I frowned. ‘What has that to do with anything?’

‘It is not a trick question, Miss Arclis. Just tell me what you know.’

‘The Realm of Death is not one underworld, but all of them,’ I said. ‘Every afterlife ever dreamed into being by mortal souls is manifested there. Stygxx itself is an underworld, though no one can recall whose belief gave rise to it. When a mortal being from any of the other realms dies, its everlasting soul is carried there.’

Varon nodded. ‘Untold continents formed from the crystallised essence of belief,’ he said. ‘Malleable and ever-changing, at once both indestructible and ephemeral. The God-King’s mortal children once found peace within this realm, a coexistence between living and dead that benefitted all. Until the Great Fall. Until the Dark Gods dug their claws into Shyish.’

‘And feasted upon as many souls as they could devour.’

‘Indeed. The old civilisations crumbled. Many underworlds were overrun by daemonkind and by the heretical hordes. Yet some endured, and within them can be found relics of a greater age.’

‘I know all this,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘These treasures of the Age of Myth, they drew me to Shyish in the first place. This realm is a graveyard of history.’

‘You do not know how true those words are,’ Varon said. ‘There are secrets buried beneath the ash and bones of Shyish that could change the path of the Great War forever, should the enemies of Azyr lay hands upon them. Sigmar, in his great wisdom, knew this, and even before the Great Fall he spirited many dangerous relics away, concealing them from the prying eyes of mortals.’

‘What has this to do with me?’

‘To the east, across the Dwindlesea, lies the Latchkey Isle. You have heard of it?’

I nodded. In my line of work, I dealt with many thieves, lock-artists and spire runners, and often I heard them invoke the name of the Thieves’ Paradise. The Latchkey Isle was said to be an idyllic afterworld, an immense, golden-spired city packed to the brim with treasures beyond imagining. Larcenous souls believed that upon death they would ascend to this paradise, there to live an eternal life of challenge and adventure, testing their wits against an ever-changing landscape of traps, dungeons and wondrous rewards.

‘The Latchkey Isle is said to be all but impossible to navigate. The very walls and the floor beneath your feet shift with every passing hour, as the city rearranges itself like a living puzzle box. It is haunted not just by the spirits of the dead, but by magical guardian beasts and trickster-spirits. So you see, aelf, it is a perfect place to conceal something that mortal beings must never find.’

The reason for the Order’s presence at my cell was beginning to become clear.

‘I see where this is going,’ I said.

‘Within the heart of this underworld, the God-King Sigmar constructed a secret vault that none could breach. This vault conceals untold destructive power,’ said Varon. ‘Powerful magic far beyond anything you could imagine. For centuries it has remained hidden, obscured by the illusions of the Latchkey Isle. But that time is over. The Tyrant of Bones has torn this realm asunder, and underworld after underworld falls into his clutches.’

Despite myself, I shuddered. One does not travel the vast distances of the Realm of Death without encountering the undead servants of Nagash, the Great Necromancer. For a time, there had been peace between Sigmar and his ancient foe, but those days were well and truly over. The horror of the necroquake had unleashed plagues of spectral wraiths and maelstroms of deathly magic across the realms. More than one free city had fallen in recent months, claimed by the dead. There were rumours abroad that Nagashizzar had thrown open its gates and now marched upon every one of Sigmar’s strongholds in the Realm of Death. If that was true, then Lethis would certainly be amongst his foremost targets.

‘What is the Order looking for?’ I asked.

Varon studied me for a long time. Then he removed the bag he carried upon his back, and carefully lifted out an ancient leather-bound tome, thick and yellowed with age. Almost immediately a distinctly unpleasant feeling came over me – a chill such as one might feel in the presence of the dead. The book was latched with silver, and its cover was oddly textured, almost organic in appearance. To my disgust I realised that it was bound in the flesh of human hands, clasped together with their interlocking fingers forming a latch across the mouth of the book.

‘Master,’ said Tavyat, uneasily, but the witch hunter held up a hand and she fell silent.

‘This,’ he said, indicating the book, ‘is the last of the tomes of Valagharr.’

The air in the room seemed to chill even at the mention of that name.

‘You know of him?’ said Varon.

‘The Betrayer,’ I said. ‘Of course.’

‘First amongst the Amethyst Archmages, and the most trusted authority on the nature of Shyishan magic.’ Varon nodded. ‘A spell-smith without peer, and a wise counsellor who fought at the God-King’s side in untold battles. Until he turned his cloak and took up the cause of Nagash. He came to worship death, and betrayed many of Azyr’s secrets to his new master. Many of the heavens’ mightiest warriors sought to repay that slight, but Valagharr was a powerful being.’

‘I thought that he was slain long ago? That’s how the legends tell it. The Eldritch Council laid siege to his lands, and he was slain at the hands of Grandmaster Huras himself.’

‘His physical form was broken by the first of the Grandmasters,’ said Varon. ‘But Valagharr had outgrown the bonds of mortality. He was no longer a man, no longer anything living. Huras and his comrades instead sought to capture whatever passed for Valagharr’s soul. They did so, though the cost was terribly high. The traitor’s soul was trapped within a phylactery of Azyrite starstone, a cage that even a being of Valagharr’s power could not escape.’

Suddenly, everything clicked into place in my mind. ‘And they stored it away within the Latchkey Isle. Why didn’t they finish him when they had the chance?’

‘A soul is not easily unmade. And I believe the council wished to know exactly how many of their secrets Valagharr had betrayed to Nagash. I am no closer to understanding their reasons than you are, and it makes no difference in any case.’

‘Why is the Order only acting now?’ I said. ‘Surely you have known about this phylactery for some time?’

‘War has come to Shyish once more,’ said Varon. ‘And this time, it is not the servants of the Dark Gods that we face, but the infinite legions of the dead. The influence of Nagashizzar grows, corrupting all that it touches, and agents of the Great Necromancer are abroad, burrowing into every underworld like maggots writhing in a corpse. They know of the secret buried at the heart of the Latchkey Isle, and they will stop at nothing to claim it.’

‘You wish to claim it first. Then why not send an army?’

Varon shook his head. ‘There are no soldiers to spare. The Great War gathers pace once again, and there are a thousand fires spreading across the realms. The Angels of Azyr are fully committed. The Anvils of the Heldenhammer can spare no warriors, for the Raven City is threatened, and the Dark God’s servants do not cease their own atrocities. We are stretched so very thin, Miss Arclis.’

I had an inkling of how precarious the situation in Shyish was, but it was another thing entirely to hear it straight from the mouth of an agent of Azyr.

‘In any case,’ he continued, ‘this is no fortress to be breached by weight of arms. The finest greatswords in the city could not aid me in breaking into the Isle. It is not warriors that I need, but tricksters. Thieves. People with more… unconventional talents. This leads me to you.’

‘And do I have a say in the matter?’

The stocky woman snorted with amusement.

‘Of course not,’ said the witch hunter, standing and gesturing at the wardens, who swiftly moved to reopen the door of my cell. ‘But consider this a reprieve for your current predicament. You will spend the night here, and on the morrow we will make for Sorrowpoint on the coast.’

With that he departed, sweeping imperiously out of the door.

‘Cheer up,’ said his companion, with a smirk. ‘At least this is your last day in the pit.’

Chapter Two

Varon did not waste time. Mere hours later I heard the familiar clanking of machinery as the guard-carriage spiralled down towards my cell, and it stopped to emit three wardens. They hauled me to my feet none too gently, slapped a pair of heavy, silver manacles around my wrists and dragged me out onto the waiting platform. Howls and cries of outrage came from my fellow prisoners as the carriage took me up to freedom. If they had known my intended destination, I doubt they would have been quite so envious.

Still, I couldn’t help breathing a sigh of relief as I ascended into the light, and felt a cool morning breeze upon my face. The carriage wound its way towards a stone pier, upon which more guards stood, armed with short-barrelled handcannons. Ammos Varon was waiting, this time dressed for travel, accompanied once again by Tavyat, who was clad in silver chainmail and a dark leather gambeson. Her face was smeared with blue paint in the manner of her kind, with a chevron on each cheek.

‘Those will not be necessary,’ Varon said to the guards, gesturing at my handcuffs. ‘We are quite capable of managing one malnourished aelf.’

One of the wardens unlocked and removed them. I winced and rubbed my wrists where the metal had bitten into my skin.

Tavyat stepped forward and slung me a rhinox-leather pack, frayed and faded. My travelling satchel. I clutched it close, feeling pathetically grateful to have it back in my hands. When you live as nomadic a life as I do, you tend to become strangely attached to your belongings. I noticed it was a good few pounds lighter than when I had entered, and gave one of the guards a sharp look.

‘Oh, you’ve lightened my load. How kind. No doubt I can expect my more valuable items to be returned in short order?’

‘Don’t press your luck,’ growled the leader.

As subtly as I could, I ran my thumb around the base of the pack, near the hem. I felt the slight outline of a thin, hard object, and thanked Sigmar for the incompetence of my captors. They hadn’t found everything of value I possessed. My dagger was still there, safe in a hidden compartment concealed by stitches of Ulgish shadow-gossamer; a favoured substance of thieves and smugglers, it wove a neat little illusory enchantment over everything it touched. It had cost me a vast sum just to get the few threads necessary to create that secret pocket, but it had more than paid that price back since.

The dagger was a recent acquisition, liberated from the house of a most unpleasant wizard. The weapon had a taste for dead things, and I had a feeling I might be using it before long. Truth be told, I never was much of a fighter – I preferred to leave the bloody business to more hot-blooded souls, of which the realms have a seemingly high number. But you’d be a fool to go travelling across Shyish unarmed in these grim days. Furthermore, this blade had a particular thirst for slaying gheists, which made it all the more invaluable. It could cut through spectral matter as easily as flesh, and it had already saved my life more than once.

‘Follow me, Miss Arclis,’ said Varon, turning and striding off along the pier. The guards parted to allow him past, and I hurried along in the man’s wake. Tavyat stuck close to me, but not too tight. Thoughts of escape flitted across my mind, but right now there was nowhere to run except back to my cell. If I wanted to get away, I would have to wait for a more opportune moment. For now, I decided to play along. Let Varon feel like he had me on a leash, and wait for him and his hired blade to let their guard down.

We passed through the inner courtyard of the Black Pit, through a heavily defended gatehouse and out onto Olair’s Mount, a great hill overlooking the city of Lethis itself. From there we took an open-topped carriage down the winding stone road towards the harbour. I peered at my reflection in the window as we travelled. It was not a pretty sight. For once, the web of scars across my left cheek was the least shocking thing about me. My hair, usually a rather fetching shade of red, was lank and unwashed, and my eyes were sunken and tired. I badly needed a bath and a hot meal, but somehow I doubted I’d get one any time soon.

‘How are we going to get to the Latchkey Isle?’ I said, tearing my eyes away.

‘Travel has been arranged,’ said Varon, but did not elaborate further. I assumed he had booked us passage upon a Kharadron airship, or perhaps had secured an escort of Freeguild outriders to guide us across the dangerous plains of Stygxx – to travel on foot or without guard seemed to me a good way to get killed. There were dreadful things abroad these days.

I could not have been more wrong.

The carriage took us as far as the city’s southern gate, at which point the witch hunter ordered a halt. We disembarked, and Varon absent-mindedly tossed a few ivory coins to our driver. Then we headed towards the gatehouse, a great iron portal set into Lethis’ formidable perimeter wall, every inch of the metalwork engraved with rune wardings, sacred passages and Azyrite script.

Varon brandished his insignia to the watchmen patrolling the southern tradeway, and they nervously ushered us through. Beyond was a patch of sickly-looking scrubland, and in the distance the jagged outline of cliffs, their peaks disappearing into the fug of mist rolling in from the Dwindlesea. The trade road wound up through the bluffs, through a scattering of leafless trees. I was no expert on this region, but I knew that it was at least a few days’ ride to the ocean, and there were only a couple of safe ports along the coast where we could hire a vessel. Of course, in order to get there, we would require some form of land transport. You did not travel by foot across Stygxx, not unless you were foolish or suicidal.

‘So, what happens now?’ I asked.

Varon simply waited, hands folded behind his back.

There was a faint clanking sound in the distance, akin to the sound of groaning water pipes. Then a high-pitched squeal.

Something crawled out of the mist. At first I thought that it was a gigantic, metal spider, for it careened across the open ground upon several many-jointed legs. I saw the smoke pouring from its segmented body, and the bulbous, glass-fronted dome atop its head. It did not resemble an arachnid in form, I realised, so much as a human hand: an enormous metal hand, scuttling across the rough terrain with surprising speed. Closer and closer it rumbled, the sound of its motion ever more thunderous. No more than a dozen feet ahead of us it clattered to a stop, its bizarre limbs digging into the ground and contracting, lowering the boxy, rectangular carriage mounted atop it to the ground. At a glance, this central segment looked roughly the size of a steam-carriage apartment, large enough to house several bodies crammed together. An iron porthole dropped open under the contraption’s belly, and from this was lowered a bronze stepladder.

I stared at Varon in something approaching disbelief. If he registered my concern, he did not show it.

A strange figure descended from the ramshackle vehicle, releasing a gout of smoke and steam. Once the steam cleared, I realised it was a hunched, bent-backed old human, impossibly ancient and utterly filthy. Smoke and oil stains covered both his smock and his leathery skin, and his drooping moustache was so smeared with grime that it was an entirely different colour to his stark, white hair. He wore a panelled coat of mustard yellow, in a similarly decrepit state, a frayed pair of breeches and no shoes upon his pale, clawlike feet.

As he drew near, the strange little man removed a pair of ludicrously oversized brass goggles, allowing them to dangle about his scrawny neck, and peered at Varon and I through rheumy eyes.

‘I am here, as requested,’ the man screeched, far louder than was necessary.

‘Master Boros,’ said Varon.

‘Eh?’ the scrawny man bellowed, his face twisted in confusion.

‘Master Quentelm Boros of the Ironweld College of Sapenna,’ Varon said to me, by way of explanation. ‘One of the foremost experts in mechano-arcane engineering. There are few more respected master engineers in Lethis.’

‘What’s that now?’ roared Master Boros, veins protruding from his scrawny neck. Cursing and muttering to himself, the old man rummaged in his pocket and brought out a curved, brass horn, the tapering end covered in dozens of metal hooks.

‘This is a member of our elite team?’ I asked, sarcasm marinating every word. The man before me looked no more than a day from the grave. How in the God-King’s name was he going to navigate an underworld as treacherous and deadly as the Thieves’ Paradise?

‘I have been more than thorough in my recruitment for this mission,’ said Varon, shooting me an irritated look. ‘Master Boros comes with the highest recommendations. He is honoured advisor to the Lord-Ordinator Pharyus Voltis, no less. Having attained the rank of Master Tinkerer, his inventions are the talk of the Raven City.’

As I watched in appalled fascination, Boros took the barbed end of his strange horn and thrust it directly into his ear. Grimacing slightly, he rotated the device. There was a dreadful squelching sound.

‘Ah!’ the master engineer exclaimed, his every word now merely a thunderous exclamation rather than a deafening bellow. ‘That’s better. Well, what are you two standing there like clockwork golems for? Hop aboard, will you?’

He turned and gestured to the giant metallic hand in which he had arrived. I attempted one final pleading look in the direction of Ammos Varon and his bodyguard, but they simply stared at me expectantly.

‘What in the roiling wastes is this thing?’ I asked, pointing at the vehicle.

Boros immediately launched into what amounted to an enthusiastic sales pitch.

‘Wondrous, isn’t it?’ he said, beaming from ear to ear. ‘It is a fresh prototype from my workshop, the refinement of a number of theoretical principles of compressed aetherquartz fuel and technotic actualiser engines. One of the most adaptable and rugged multi-environmental conveyor gun-carriages ever constructed. I call it the Borosian steamcrawler.’

I raised an eyebrow, and the old man chortled into his hand.

‘Yes, a rather prosaic name, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘But I assure you that this is a most remarkable vehicle. Capable of traversing almost any terrain, and with an invictunite-laced carapace equally resistant to small-arms fire and magical trauma. I estimate that when produced in sufficient numbers it might entirely change the fortunes of our Freeguild regiments.’ He bowed, gesturing me forward. ‘Please.’

Cursing my ill fortune once again, I sighed and made for the ladder. It was warm to the touch, and slick with oil and grime. Above, I could hear a strange bubbling sound, and the clank and grind of gears. I climbed, and entered the main carriage with a distinct sense of trepidation. The interior of the vehicle was a cramped coffin of corrugated iron, every surface but the floor covered in a series of valves, gears and rattling pipes. At the head of the carriage was a semicircular cockpit and a desk crammed with levers and glowing buttons – a half-disc of dim glass provided a fairly limited view, and I could see the two rotor cannons mounted on the front of the chassis.

I entered and scrambled towards the rear of the vehicle, stumbling over the uneven floor and finally flopping down in the rear harness. Varon and his bodyguard hauled themselves up into the carriage, and took seats on each side of the chamber. Finally, Master Boros clambered up and slammed the access hatch shut behind him.

‘Strap yourselves in tight,’ he said, his voice punishingly loud in such a small space. ‘It’s likely to be a bumpy ride to Sorrowpoint.’

I did so, my sense of foreboding rising exponentially as the Ironweld engineer grasped the central lever block with two hands and hauled it back. The cabin lurched down and forward, and were it not for the leather bindings securing me in place I would certainly have been dashed across the floor. As it was, I was merely fortunate enough to be almost strangled by the straps of my harness, and both my arms were all but pulled out of their sockets. Like a bucking rhinox, the crawler reared backwards, and my head slammed painfully against a boiling steam-pipe, stitching a painful burn across my scalp. Then, mercifully, we were level. The machinery around me was alive with deafening motion. I leaned out and peered through the viewport on the left-hand side of the carriage, and saw the scuttling limbs of the crawler stretch and dig into the hard earth. For a moment I breathed a sigh of relief, sure that the worst was over.

Then we started moving. It was roughly akin to being trapped in a barrel and hurled over a waterfall, although in this case the barrel was also lined with overheating copper pipes. Every stride of those bizarre, mechanical limbs sent us lurching in our harnesses. After only a few minutes, I was feeling distinctly nauseous. I caught a glimpse of Varon, and noticed that he too was sagging in his restraints, his face ashen. Only Tavyat seemed unfazed. She was chewing on a block of bacca, peering idly out of the window as the scrubland rushed by.

The noise was apocalyptic. Every square inch of the crawler seemed to be on the verge of falling apart, rattling like a town crier’s bell. My sole comfort as I stared out of the viewport was that we were hurtling forward at an astonishing pace. I only prayed that our journey would not take longer than a day or two.

Chapter Three

Six days later we arrived at our destination.

Sorrowpoint was as bleak as its name, a fortified harbour carved out of a stretch of mountainside, thick with sails and masts of all varieties. Beyond its docks lay the Dwindlesea, a calm and pitch-black expanse of open water that disappeared into an enormous bank of fog.

I tumbled out of the egress hatch of the crawler, my legs weak and unsteady beneath me. I almost dropped to my knees and kissed the dry earth. Master Boros had allowed us a few precious breaks on our headlong rampage across the wilds of Stygxx, but for the majority of the time we had been trapped inside a metal coffin, buffeted by its demented motion and occasionally broiled by unexpected gouts of boiling steam. Escape seemed a more remote possibility than ever. Even if I had been foolhardy enough to try running off into the wilds of Stygxx – as certain a death sentence as you could imagine – Tavyat was always there, keeping a watchful eye on me.

Varon and Tavyat exited after me. The former was a mess, his formerly spotless robes covered in grime, his face slick with sweat. Even Tavyat looked rather green, but Varon resembled a risen corpse. I wondered whether he had contracted something during the journey, which was not a pleasant thought considering how long I had spent in close proximity to him. His skin was so pale it almost looked translucent in the wan light.

‘By the comet,’ Tavyat groaned. ‘Let the Tyrant of Bones take me before I ever go in one of those again.’

Boros skidded down the ladder with surprising nimbleness, stretching his arms and giving a great yawn. That strange horn was still embedded in his ear. If it was causing him any pain, he did not let it show. In fact, he looked utterly unruffled by the hellish odyssey we had just endured. This indifference greatly annoyed me.

‘Well, here we are,’ he said brightly. ‘And before time too. As I said, Master Varon, the Boros conveyance engine requires some alterations, but the basic design is sound. I’m rather pleased with the alterations I have made to the travel compartment. A most comfortable journey, do you not agree?’

I briefly considered throttling the old wretch, but decided against it.

‘My… thanks, Master Boros,’ said Varon, clearly struggling with the desire to vomit. ‘You will wait here with the transport. Our vessel awaits at port.’

We passed through the main gate and into Sorrowpoint itself. A more depressing place you would struggle to find in all the realms. Its cobbled streets were slick with brinewater and stained with filth, and a thick layer of yellowish moss crawled over almost every surface. Beyond the perimeter, most of the buildings were little more than hardwood shacks and ragged-looking stone lean-tos.

‘Pleasant little haven,’ said Tavyat.

Nervous-looking figures loitered in doorways and alleys, peering out at us as we strode down the main thoroughfare. Black-armoured guards were out in force, their faces grim, halberds held at the ready.

We stopped outside a large tavern, which bore a sign proclaiming it as the Leering Skull. It looked as cheerful a hole as that epithet suggested. A scattering of drunken sailors were piled outside the front door, slurring and swearing at one another while a mad-eyed duardin played something approaching a tune upon a strange metal instrument as he tapped his foot out of time with the melody.

‘Delightful,’ I muttered to Tavyat. ‘Really. I am astonished that the noble lords of Lethis do not visit Sorrowpoint as a holiday destination.’

We entered the tavern, which was little more than a single, open room with a scattering of tables and broken furniture. Most of the occupants were lying sprawled across the floor, smoking or gambling. At the far end there was a plank laid across two heavy barrels. This appeared to serve as the bar. The tender was an ancient duardin dressed in a stained smock and apparently little else, who glared at us with disdain. Other eyes went to us, and I saw several unpleasant-looking customers staring at us with predatory interest, no doubt attempting to judge whether our pockets were worth rooting around in.

Varon approached the innkeep, shifting his robes aside so that everyone got a good look at the ornate pistol stowed at his belt. Tavyat’s eyes made a slow circuit of the room, inviting anyone foolish enough to try something to do their very best. Unsurprisingly, the clientele appeared to decide that we were not worth the hassle.

‘Master Varon!’ came a voice from a dank little cubbyhole at the far side of the room. Emerging from the shadows came a little duardin wearing a crimson shirt and bright blue pantaloons tucked into whaleskin boots. His hair was dragged back into a tight ponytail, and his beard and moustache were curled with wax.

He strode across the room, kicking aside a couple of drunken gamblers and knocking over their game pieces, and grasped Varon by the hand. The witch hunter recoiled only slightly at the touch – the duardin’s hands were smeared with soot and grease. He looked like he had just stepped out of a blacksmith’s foundry.

‘Captain,’ Varon said. ‘We are ready to depart. If your crew would see to the stowage of our vehicle.’

‘Of course, of course,’ the duardin said, waving his hand at a couple of dubious-looking humans, who rose from their stools and sloped out of the bar. Master Boros followed, and as the door slammed shut behind the master engineer I could already hear him bellowing instructions at his new labourers.

‘Captain Alode at your service,’ the duardin continued, favouring us with a broad, yellow-toothed smile. I saw the gleam of golden caps upon his front teeth. ‘It’s my honour to command the steam-tanker Pride of Talyn.’

‘Pirate?’ said Tavyat, raising an eyebrow at Varon.

Alode laughed in boisterous good humour. ‘Hardly that. Well, at least not when business is good. No, we run the Gloom Channel from Sorrowpoint to Thasia and Remantine. We carry Lethisian darkwater, silversteel, the occasional well-moneyed travellers such as yourselves.’

‘Time is at a premium,’ Varon said. ‘I wish to set sail as soon as possible.’

‘Of course,’ said Alode, rubbing his hands together. ‘We’ll be off shortly. If you’d be so good as to follow me.’

I cursed under my breath. There went my final hope of escaping this ill-advised venture. For better or worse, it seemed like I was in for the long haul.

Chapter Four

‘We’re travelling the Dwindlesea in that?’

If the Pride of Talyn truly represented the dignity of its people, then I had a deep and fervent wish to never visit the land of its creation. It looked more like a rusted copper bathtub than a seafaring vessel. It sat low in the harbour waters, sailors scurrying across its wide, flat deck, clearing detritus and trading goods away in preparation for our departure.

‘Ah, she’s an ugly beast all right,’ said Captain Alode, fondly. ‘But you need a rugged monster to sail these seas. That’s duardin craftsmanship you’re looking at. The Talyn could ride out the Seven Tempests unharmed.’

‘It will serve,’ said Varon. The witch hunter still looked terrible, his skin greyish and sheened with sweat despite the cold air blowing in from the ocean. I couldn’t tell if it was the after-effect of our traumatising journey in that cursed metal contraption, or the prospect of a long, hard sea voyage.

‘Let us depart as soon as we are able. Our journey requires all haste, captain.’

‘Aye, lord. The journey should take us six moons or thereabouts, depending on whether we avoid any unwanted attention. We’re just packing up your… conveyance.’

Alode pointed a grubby finger at an L-shaped dock that angled about the steam-tanker’s port flank. I let out an agonised groan.

There, assisted by a score of seamen and a clawed crane-winch, was Master Boros, supervising the transportation of his beloved steamcrawler. The hand-shaped vehicle dangled from the crane hook like a great, dead spider.

‘Just so you know,’ I said to Varon, ‘if it’s a choice between getting in that monstrosity again and being swallowed by some nightmarish monster from the voidsea, I’ll gladly choose oblivion.’

‘Seconded,’ said Tavyat, who looked no happier than I.

Varon ignored us. He was staring out across the sea, his eyes slightly glazed as if locked in a trance. He clutched his leather satchel tightly. I could see the bulky outline of Valagharr’s tome through the fabric.

‘Master?’ said Tavyat.

Varon blinked and shook his head slightly. ‘It is nothing. Just a touch of sickness, nothing more. Let us proceed.’

We strode down the weed-slick wharf towards the loading docks, weaving our way through the crowds of labourers. The smell was terrible, a blend of rotting meat and oil that was utterly overpowering. You could taste it at the back of your throat, souring every breath. I saw the slopes drop away to the pitch-black edge of the Dwindlesea itself, which lapped at the dock wall. Every inch of the harbour wall was covered in foot-long barbed spikes. Even the loading docks were separated by segmented portals of rusted iron – armoured gates not dissimilar to the gatehouses of a Freeguild fortress.

‘The dead rise from Leviata’s lair,’ said Captain Alode, noticing my interest. ‘Ever more frequently, in these dark days. They come marching out of the waves in their hundreds.’

As we drew closer I could see the skeletal outlines of corpses pinned upon the harbour wall, stuck fast upon those barbed hooks.

‘We dredge the worst of the carnage from the harbour waters, but best not to fall in, eh? Who knows what’s still scuttling about down there!’

Alode laughed good-naturedly and clapped me on the back, as if the prospect of a pool full of rotting corpses was the most humorous thing in the world. People of the sea are a strange breed.

We passed along the angular loading dock and tramped up an iron ramp to the deck of the Pride of Talyn.

‘Careful! Careful now!’ Master Boros was bellowing, gesturing unhelpfully as his red-faced assistant brought the steamcrawler down atop the ship and lashed it in place with harnesses that I assume were designed for securing heavy cargo. I eyed the vehicle with naked hostility, and found myself hoping that a particularly strong wave would sweep it into the depths of the ocean, where it could torment me no longer.

‘Bunglers,’ Boros was muttering, which meant he was actually shouting the words loudly enough that everyone within a dozen leagues could hear. ‘Fat-fingered louts, the lot of them. I tell you, Master Varon, we should have booked passage upon an Ironweld vessel, rather than trust my delicate masterpieces to these ruffians.’

‘Fear not, old one,’ said Captain Alode, grinning. ‘We’ll have you ashore again in no time.’

The captain continued shouting a stream of orders and instructions to his crew, who set about loosing guide ropes and firing the tanker’s steam engines. Black smoke billowed from the two great chimneys, and the deck creaked beneath us. Curious, I made for the gunwale and glanced down. The great oar arrays were rotating mechanically, dipping beneath the waves and pushing the great bulk of the vessel forward. The Pride of Talyn made its way out of Sorrowpoint harbour, passing between the great dock gates and out into the misty seas beyond.

Alode was at the wheel at the front of the ship, lighting his comically oversized hookah. He sighed in satisfaction as we edged further towards the open ocean, leaving the cliffs of the port behind to be swallowed up by the fog. It was soon eerily silent. There was a scattering of carrion birds circling overhead, but the seas were as still and calm as death.

‘How long is the journey?’ I asked.

The captain shrugged. ‘Should take no more than ten days, God-King willing. But these are unpredictable waters. They might remain as calm as a mirror. Or we might stumble into a void-squall, in which case we’ll be sucked down into the Great Black in moments. Or worse, we might run afoul of a skullcoiler king. Ever seen one of those up close, girl?’

‘Only in paintings,’ I said, well aware that the old wretch was trying to make me feel uncomfortable.

‘Grow as large as Stormkeeps, so they do. Large enough to swallow us in one gulp!’

I rolled my eyes and left him to it.

‘He’s a rare find,’ I said, walking over to Varon. ‘Could you not have found another ship’s captain, one without a questionable sense of humour?’

‘Get some rest,’ the man replied. If anything he looked even queasier than before. Nodding at me absent-mindedly, he strode across to the larboard gunwale and leaned out, looking like he might throw up at any moment.

‘What’s the matter with him?’ I asked Tavyat.

She shrugged. ‘Must be feeling tender. Not everyone’s suited to life at sea.’

My ‘quarters’ were at the rear of the lower deck, little more than a cramped closet ankle-deep in rusted water, a moth-bitten hammock dangling from the ceiling. It was dank and smelled like a latrine, but I was so thoroughly exhausted from the wretched journey to Sorrowpoint that it seemed almost luxurious to me at that moment. I stowed my pack as best I could, trying to avoid getting it soaking wet, and clambered into the canvas net.

‘How do I get myself into these situations?’ I muttered.

It took me only a few moments to fall into an uneasy sleep. I dreamed of the Black Pit at Lethis. I was standing atop the prison, staring down into the bottomless abyss. There was something down there moving, something enormous and ancient that wanted nothing more than to feast upon my soul, but try as I might I could not tear my eyes from the hole.

Something pushed me hard in the small of the back, and I teetered on the edge of oblivion for several terrifying seconds, before plunging down, down, down.

As the blackness rushed up to claim me, I saw a pair of blazing green eyes alight with cruel anticipation.

I woke with a start, almost tumbling out of the hammock. My heart was hammering fit to burst, but all I heard was the low rumble of the ship’s engines and the rhythmic snoring of its crew.

We may have exchanged the cramped confines of the steamcrawler for the freedom of the open ocean, but I did not enjoy the voyage across the Dwindlesea much more than the journey across land. The water surrounding us for leagues on all sides was black and evil-looking, the sky a persistently gloomy brown-grey.

‘They call these waters the corpse-seas,’ explained Tavyat. ‘They’re soured with death and clogged with rotting bodies. My advice to you is don’t fall overboard. There are things in there that have never seen the light of day, but will drain the soul right out of you and feast upon the shell that remains.’

That cheerful thought occupied my mind over the next few days, as the Talyn sailed into storm-wracked waters that smashed and swept the tanker about, seeking to drag the ugly vessel to the bottom of the ocean. Over the course of the next few days I saw little of Varon. He was sharing quarters with Tavyat, who waved away my concern by simply saying that the witch hunter had been taken ill. She was not skilled enough in deception to hide her own concern, however – it radiated out of her with every word. Still, what was there to do?

I was as trapped on the open ocean as I had been in the Lethis dungeons. Tavyat did not even bother to keep a particularly close eye on me any longer.

Rather than plotting my flight, instead I spent my time learning about the running of a steam-tanker, and the intricate series of rituals, superstitions and traditions that its crew observed with unceasing devotion. Starwater was mixed with the brown, acidic fuels that powered the engine. Every day, the crew gathered for a prayer service, and painted sigils of warding across the deck.

The old vessel might have been as ugly as a canker, foul-smelling and generally unpleasant to be aboard, but I could see why her crew adored her so. Out in the midst of the cruel and desolate ocean, she was a sturdy, floating fortress. I managed to take some comfort in that, even as the seas got rougher and the brief glimpses of sunlight became rarer.

Perhaps half a dozen days into our voyage, I was drifting in and out of a not particularly restful sleep when the sound of a ragged scream stirred me awake. I lay there for a moment, trying to figure out if it had just been part of my troubled dreams, when another terrified cry met my ears.

I stumbled out of the hammock, landing with a splash in the rusty water sloshing around the floor. Another scream split the air, and was quickly cut off. There was no crashing of waves, no hammering of some deep-sea leviathan tearing through the hull. Only silence, split by screams. I rushed over to my travel bag and shrugged it on, fetching my dagger from the hidden sheath in the base of the leather satchel. Twirling the weapon in my hand, I studied the jet-black length of stone. The runes upon its surface shimmered in the darkness, and I felt a shiver run down my arm. Was that eagerness? It was gone in an instant.

I frowned, not for the first time wondering about the nature of my weapon. But this was hardly a time for such questions. I reversed the blade in my grip, pressing it against the flat of my wrist, and stepped cautiously out into the hall.

The crew of the Pride of Talyn was stirring. I heard the slurred shouts of men and women dragged into wakefulness, and then something slammed against the side of the ship. I staggered and grasped at the nearest bulkhead as the floor rocked beneath me. There was an awful, screeching sound like talons dragged across stone, and from above the crack of a gunshot.

That broke the spell. Grasping pistols, belaying pins, billhooks and any other killing tools that were near at hand, sailors began to leap out of their bunks as the cry went up.

‘Repel boarders!’

I saw Tavyat staggering out of her and Varon’s quarters, tugging on her cuirass. Our eyes met, but I could only shrug in confusion. Varon exited swiftly behind the aelf, sabre in one hand and pistol in the other, his satchel over one shoulder.

‘Arclis, wake Master Boros,’ he said. The witch hunter still looked terrible, but his obvious discomfort did not show in his voice. He was all business. ‘Meet us up on deck.’

With that he rushed off in the wake of the crew, Tavyat at his side. I turned and belted down the corridor, in the direction of the engine room, dodging and weaving past more sailors as they ran for the stairways leading to the main deck. Their faces were grim. Like me, I suppose they were imagining what horror might have crawled out of the Dwindlesea to board a ship this size. By now the crackle of gunfire was a constant refrain, though interspersed within the racket were screams and rattling sounds.

Boros had taken residence within the engine hall, a vast rectangular chamber dominated by the immense steam-pistons that gave the ironclad motion. The sound was deafening as the segmented metal rods thrust back and forth across the breadth of the chamber, and the great, curving brass pipes that curled away into the ceiling groaned and shook.

My dagger was fairly vibrating in my hand. The runes scrawled across its surface were gleaming in the half-darkness. The room suddenly felt very cold.

‘Boros,’ I shouted, knowing full well that the deaf old fool would never hear me over the racket. Another blast rocked the ship, and I lost my footing on the metal gantry and stumbled forward. I managed to turn my headlong fall into a roll, and came up staring into the face of a sallow youth, his cheeks smeared with dirt. The lad’s eyes were wide and terrified, and he stretched a trembling hand out towards me.

‘It’s all right,’ I said. ‘Listen, where’s the old man? I need to–’

The youth coughed blood into my face. His eyes rolled into the back of his head, and he collapsed to the ground, a rusted sword embedded in his back.

Behind the dead sailor stood a grinning skeletal horror, its yellow bones slimed with black weeds, its torn chestpiece a plate of rusted iron. The sheer, unbearable reek of it struck me like a fist, causing my gorge to rise.

My dagger suddenly pulsed with white light, which surprised me more than my dancing partner. The skeleton wrenched its sword from its victim and lunged towards me. I barely ducked in time, scrambling backwards as the dead thing advanced. Its sword crashed against the steam-pipes, and a gout of boiling water sprayed across its bones, but it took no notice.

I tried to slash at the thing’s legs, but the skeleton swept its blade down and smashed my dagger aside, the force of the strike causing me to lose my grip on the weapon. It skittered off across the corrugated floor. I made to run, but at the worst possible time the ship rocked again, this time more fiercely than before. I slammed hard against one of the steam-pipes, howling as the superheated metal left a red brand across my skin. I turned to see the skeleton rushing towards me, moving with terrible surety despite its ruinous condition.

Suddenly, there was a loud blast and its head exploded in a shower of dust. Whatever necromantic power held the thing together failed, and it crumbled to pieces.

‘What in the Smith-God’s name is all this about?’ bellowed Master Boros, mostly unclothed except for a yellowing pair of long johns, and holding a smoking blunderbuss.

Despite the searing pain in my arm, and the fact that I had been seconds from death, I laughed at the ridiculous scene before me. Cackling like a fool, I scrambled across the floor and gathered my blade, then ushered the confused Boros back to his hammock, suspended beneath the central shaft of the steam engine.

‘Get your pack,’ I roared directly into his ear, as loudly as possible. ‘I feel we may need to make a swift departure.’

With my dagger in hand once more, I felt the weapon’s hunger. It still glowed with pale light, bathing the engine room in a silvery sheen. Clearly it was not just the spectral dead that raised the blade’s ire. That was interesting. It also meant that there were more undead creatures nearby, which did not surprise me. Such creatures were usually found in great numbers.

At the far end of the chamber lay the immense water tank, filled to the brim with purified Ghyran lifewater. It was surrounded by heavy, ironbound tap-barrels, each of which was similarly full of precious liquid – this substance had to be carefully rationed by Captain Alode, for if it were to run out the crew of the Talyn would quickly perish. Above this immense object was a tangle of great, brass tubes, steam-vents designed to release the immense pressure that would build up in the Talyn’s motive engine. The panelling on one side had been torn open, and a torrent of foul-smelling bilge was seeping out. Cautiously, dagger in hand, I moved close to the pipe and peered inside.

I was met with the empty eye sockets of another skeletal horror, which was clawing its way up the pipework from below, a rusted knife gripped between its yellowed teeth. Its bony fingers reached for the edge of the opening as it tried to drag its way free of the cramped confines.

I cursed and hopped away as its bony hand swiped at me. The ventwork was connected to the propellers beneath the vessel. The undead must have crept through the guts of the ship and into the interior: an impossible task for any living thing, for the incredible temperatures would boil them to death.

Thinking fast, I ran to the array of brass levers and wheels that operated the engine.

‘Which one vents the engines?’ I yelled to Boros.

‘No need to shout,’ the master engineer grumbled irritably as he reached for his greatcoat. ‘That big fellow there.’

He indicated a brass half-wheel set into the body of the engine house. I grabbed it and hauled it roughly to the side. The entire room rumbled and there was a terrific, ear-piercing shriek as the steamtanker’s engine drained off the immense pressure building up within. Superheated water rushed through the venting pipes set along the wall. The skeletal warrior was just dragging itself out of the opening when a geyser of water erupted from below, bursting out of the broken plating with tremendous force, shattering the undead thing into a million pieces that rained across the engine room.

Hopefully that had cleared out any more of the horrors that had crawled up. Yanking the wheel once more to shut off the flow, I raced back over to Boros, who was now more or less fully dressed, thank Sigmar.

‘Come on,’ I said, grabbing him by the shoulder. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

Of course, I thought as I ushered the old man towards the stairway leading to the main deck, there was no way off this boat. I felt certain that diving into the pitch-black waters of the Dwindlesea would be as certain a death as expiring on the tip of a skeleton’s blade.

The deck of the Talyn was chaos. A crawling tide of skeletal warriors poured over the side of the vessel, falling upon the living with blades and spears.

Looming over the larboard gunwale came a vision from my darkest nightmares. Its cephalopodic body was fleshy and bulbous, and dozens of snaking tentacles rippled with obscene motion. There was an impression of a great skull within that shapeless mass, but it was hideously malformed, like a corpse swollen by water. Tangled yellow fangs protruded from a circular maw, and lifeless white eyes gazed up at the baleful sky.

Several of the slimy limbs slammed down upon the deck. One crashed down mere feet from my head as I threw myself to the side, smearing two crew members into a bloody paste.

‘God-King help us!’ someone cried.

At first I thought that some behemoth of the sea had come to drag us to our doom, but as I stared at the monstrous creature I could see that it was dead. There were great gouges in its flesh, seeping bilious yellow pus, and there was a crown of bleached bone mounted atop its flat wedge of a skull. This howdah was embedded deep into the dead beast’s hide with barbed hooks of ivory, and standing atop it were two figures dressed in black robes, carrying staffs that blazed with sickly green light.

Necromancers, I guessed. That would explain the swarm of undead soldiers, and the unusual coordination to their movements.

Clearly Captain Alode was no stranger to battling such foes.

‘Present arms!’ he roared, gesturing wildly at the head of the dead sea monster. ‘Aim for the rider. Bring that deathmonger down!’

The rear falconet had been overwhelmed, its gunner torn to bloody scraps, but the duardin sea dog at the fore gun swivelled his mounted turret. As what remained of the vessel’s crew formed a makeshift gun line, he desperately cranked the wheel of the cannon, raising its two barrels to aim at the howdah and the figures atop it. Clearly they recognised the danger. Those huge tentacles clustered together to form a screen of flesh that masked the two figures, and a scattered volley of handcannon shots rippled across them to no effect. The falconet fired, blasting free several chunks of rotten meat that splattered across the deck and released an awful stench. That was all the brave gunner managed. A descending tentacle smashed both duardin and gun into pieces. Captain Alode was still roaring and cursing at the behemoth when another sweeping blow sent his body hurtling through the air. He struck the gunwale with bone-shattering force before disappearing overboard.

With the captain’s death, all semblance of order vanished. Perhaps mad with fear, several men hurled themselves overboard, a fate that seemed to me to be far worse than a quick death at the edge of a rusted blade.

‘Shevanya!’ yelled Tavyat. She and Ammos Varon were amidst a cluster of sailors at the front of the ship, near where Boros’ steamcrawler was lashed to the deck. The swordswoman was weaving a lethal web of steel around the witch hunter as he blasted away with his pistol and hacked with his sabre. Bones littered the ground at the duo’s feet.

‘Come on!’ I shouted, dragging Boros along with me, weaving my way through the madness of battle. The floor was slick with a foul blend of seawater, rotting flesh and gore. Desperate hands grasped at my ankles as I passed, but I kicked them away, too terrified to feel guilty about it. Men and women were dying all about, the press of undead warriors too overwhelming, too relentless.

Tavyat swept her blade through the spine of one skeletal warrior, turned and kicked another to the ground, crushing its skull beneath her boot. Then I could no longer see her, for a fresh surge of undead bodies swept forward across the deck. Several more sailors went down, screaming as they were methodically butchered. There was now no way to get to her and Varon, and I dithered, desperately searching for some manner of escape.

‘Follow me, girl,’ said Master Boros, shaking my hand from his shoulder and heading back the way we had come. He made, of course, for his beloved steamcrawler. The vehicle was chained low against the deck, its legs bent beneath it. With surprising grace, the master engineer bent low and scrambled beneath the carapace of the crawler, and I followed close behind. Boros hauled open the hatch, and pulled a lever to release the ladder. He clambered back into that cursed interior. Reluctantly, I followed.

As I climbed into the crawler, I realised that the fighting outside was over. Master Boros scrambled into the driver’s seat, and I squeezed in beside him, peering out of the front viewport.

Varon and Tavyat were surrounded by a circle of skeletal warriors. The swordswoman was clutching a bleeding arm, and her master fared little better. For some reason, the undead did not swarm forward to cut them down. Instead they waited, a wall of spear-points hemming my companions in.

With a great groan of metal, the corpse-behemoth lowered itself, its bulk crumpling the gunwale and tilting the deck beneath it. The huge head drew level with the deck, and from our low angle I could just make out one of the figures atop the howdah. He was certainly human – a tall, gaunt man, his bald pate unnaturally white.

‘Master Varon,’ said the man. His voice was thin, reedy, but in the utter silence I heard every word. ‘How good it is to see you again.’

‘Diresius Kauss,’ said Varon. ‘I am surprised that you yet live. Arkhan the Black is not a creature that forgives failure.’

‘The Mortarch of Sacrament trusts his disciples,’ the necromancer hissed. ‘And now that I have you, I will take back what you stole from the Mortarch. All you have left is to decide the manner of your death. Give me the tome, and I shall make things easy for you. Deny me, and I shall make for you a most agonising end.’

‘I know not of what you speak,’ said Varon, his voice as calm as the still ocean. ‘And I do not fear death, whatever its nature.’

‘You have it!’ shouted Kauss, his lips peeling back from his skull as spittle flew from his mouth. In that moment, he looked as much a dead thing as his fleshless servants. ‘I have no time for your games, witch hunter. Give the tome to me, or I will have your eyes burned out and your skin peeled off inch by inch.’

The skeletons took a step forward. Their spears tickled the necks of Tavyat and Varon.

‘What the hell are you doing?’ I hissed at Boros, who was yanking levers and throwing switches furiously. I shook him by the shoulder, gesturing at the two necromancers.

‘Will you let me work?’ the engineer grumbled. ‘There are modifications that must be made in order to initiate sub-aquatic motion.’

‘What are you blathering about? They’re about to be butchered out there.’

Boros waved a distracted arm and resumed his work. Cursing him in every language that I knew, I peered out of the viewport again. Varon and Tavyat were on their knees, and the necromancer was clambering down from his hideous palanquin, skeletal minions kneeling to form steps of bone to ease his passage.

‘Ah, there we have it,’ said Boros. ‘If you would be so good as to operate the forward turret.’

He indicated a wheel and lever on the far-right side of the panel. Not really having any idea what I was doing, I yanked the wheel to the side. Outside, on the front of the carriage block, I saw the ridged barrel of the volley gun swing to the left. The lever controlled the yaw, and built into it was a firing stud. As gently as I could, I nudged the wheel so that the barrel of the weapon was level with the mass of rotting bones ahead of us.

I pressed the firing stud, and the crawler rocked as the volley gun roared. Its barrels spun as it spat a torrent of lead. Rolling the wheel gently, I swept the storm of fire across the deck, trying as best as I could to strike the mass of skeletal bodies without obliterating Varon and Tavyat. Bones splintered into powder as the mass of undead disintegrated under the onslaught. The black-robed figure threw himself to the deck, though I thought I might have scored a hit, as there was a brief burst of scarlet as my fusillade swept past.

The crawler rose up in an ungainly lurch, its segmented legs finding purchase. Boros sent it lolloping madly forward, crushing more undead soldiers as they fruitlessly hacked at its armoured body.

Tavyat was already moving, smashing aside those skeletons still standing in her path, dragging Varon behind her. While they sprinted towards us, I tried to unleash another salvo at the necromancer, but the undead minions closed ranks swiftly, protecting their fallen master. I caught one last glimpse of his sallow, corpse-like face fixed in a murderous glare as he gazed upon the steamcrawler – that one would not stop chasing us, I knew. Not until we were dead or he was. I recognised a fanatic when I saw one.

I heard boots scraping on the ladder behind us, and Tavyat’s bloodstained face appeared in the access hatch. She clambered inside, then reached down to haul Varon up behind her.

‘Get us out of here!’ the witch hunter yelled, pulling up the ladder and slamming the hatch shut once more.

‘Everyone aboard?’ said Boros good-naturedly, as if he were thoroughly pleased with himself. ‘I would strap myself in if I were you – this might be somewhat rough.’

I stopped firing the fore cannon and fumbled with my harness, locking it in place as Boros sent the crawler into a mad, headlong dash across the length of the deck.

The corpse of the sea monster flailed its tentacles at us, but by luck or judgement Master Boros managed to avoid the crushing blows, which slammed into the hull of the Talyn with force enough to crumple metal.

As the fore gunwale drew closer and closer, I realised what Boros was planning.

‘Are you telling me this bucket of rusted bolts can float?’ I screamed over the cacophonous rumble of machinery.

‘We’ll soon see!’

The master engineer cackled like a delighted infant as he slammed the motion levers forward, sending the crawler into a great leap. I am not ashamed to admit that I let out a scream of absolute horror as we sailed through the air, straight over the prow of the steamship and into open air. We hit the black water with terrible force, and I was hurled forward so violently that I crashed my head against the control panel, smashing my nose and sending stars dancing across my vision. The viewport went entirely black, and the hull creaked and groaned all around us. But no pitch-black water seeped into the carriage.

‘Well, that is absolutely splendid,’ said Boros, clapping his hands together in delight. ‘My theories were sound, of course, but I have never actually tested the steamcrawler in submerged conditions. It appears the welding holds together after all. You can tell, because I was sure that water would immediately start pouring through every nook and cranny. Yet it appears we are seaworthy! How wonderful!’

I was too exhausted even to shout at the deranged old man. I simply sank back into my harness and closed my eyes as we drifted into the depths of the Dwindlesea.

Chapter Five

How long we drifted through the blackness I am not entirely sure. Peering through the viewscreen I could see nothing at all, save the occasional inky outline of some aquatic beast as it drifted past us. As for the necromancer, I had no idea. I only hoped that Kauss had no way of submerging his undead mount and pursuing us. That was, by my estimation, the least of our current problems.

‘We’re not dead,’ I said. ‘I suppose that’s something. However, I don’t know about you people, but I’ve absolutely no idea how to reach the Latchkey Isle. We could be sailing straight into some undersea vortex, for all we can see.’

‘Hmm, vision is a problem,’ said Boros, scratching his chin. ‘Perhaps some kind of aetheric generator, attached to a luminstone array upon the prow…’

I decided to appeal to Varon for some semblance of sanity. The witch hunter was binding Tavyat’s wounded arm rather tenderly, pouring a vial of yellowish liquid onto the torn flesh before wrapping it with his blue scarf. He placed the vial in his bodyguard’s hands, and she drained the rest of it with a grimace.

‘We must make for the surface,’ I said. ‘Try to get our bearings. We’re blind down here.’

‘No,’ he said, to my confusion. He carefully checked his bodyguard’s wound. Tavyat spat a mouthful of blood and alcohol, cursing as she rotated her shoulder. She swore with every motion, but other than the pain her sword arm did not seem to be adversely affected.

‘If we break the surface, we might encounter our attackers once more,’ said Varon. ‘Without the benefit of your distraction, I do not believe we shall be so fortunate as to escape a second time.’

He stood, walked over to the cockpit of the vessel and leaned over Boros’ shoulder, closing his eyes as if deep in thought. Then he reached down and took the control levers from the master engineer’s hands. He dragged the leather-wrapped stick to the left, and the steamcrawler creaked as it swung in that direction.

Releasing the controls, Varon placed his hand upon Boros’ shoulder.

‘Maintain this course,’ he said. ‘And do not deviate. I will tell you when it is safe for us to surface.’

‘How can you possibly know we’re on the right course?’ I said. ‘And who exactly was that back there? He was after something. Something you carry.’

Varon turned and fixed me with a gaze that I had seen in the face of his kind before. It brooked no dissension, no questioning. He was a man who had one goal, and nothing else mattered to him but attaining it.

‘They were nothing more than servants of the Great Necromancer. As I told you, his agents are abroad in vast numbers, seeking to sow panic and terror. Kauss is a Black Disciple, one of the Mortarch Arkhan’s hounds.’

Arkhan the Black. I gave an involuntary shiver. An ancient name, and one that resonated with terrible power. The right hand of Nagash, or so it was said. If the Mortarch of Sacrament had his eye upon us, our mission had taken on a whole new and foreboding significance. His Black Disciples were notorious even amongst their own kind: charnel masters who commanded legions of the risen dead.

‘The deathmage,’ I said. ‘He’s after the book. Valagharr’s tome. You stole it from his master. Why? What is it worth to you?’

‘Do not concern yourself with my secrets, Miss Arclis. Remember only why you are here, and remember that I am an agent of the most holy Order. You continue to breathe only because I allow it. We shall arrive at our destination before the day is out, and there you had best prove useful to me.’

It was several hours later when Varon finally ordered Boros to break for the surface. The steamcrawler turned slowly in the water and began to climb. The murky water grew several shades lighter, and then the nose of the crawler breached the surface, and we were staring up at a pallid sky, the distant shapes of celestial objects masked by a fug of grey storm clouds. Looking ahead to the horizon, however, I saw that the clouds were banished by a luminescent, multicoloured glow. This shimmering effervescence haloed a titanic mound of stone that rose from the calm waters. As tall as a mountain peak and dominating the horizon as far as I could see, this great wall did not appear organic in structure, but instead looked as smooth and polished as a Stormkeep wall. It was a haunting sight, at once beautiful and formidable.

‘There it is,’ said Varon. He was staring at the island, dancing lights reflected in his pale eyes. ‘The Thieves’ Paradise. Take us forward, Master Boros.’

The master engineer gunned the crawler’s engine, and a crest of surf splashed across the viewscreen as we cut a path through the still water towards the ominous-looking island. As we drew nearer, the incredible scale of the wall became apparent. It loomed over us, the upper portion disappearing into a bank of clouds, but still illuminated by those strange lights. Its sheer face was daunting. I had no idea how we could even begin to scale such a vast surface.

When the steamcrawler was no more than several hundred paces from the foot of the great wall, it slammed into something hard, and there was an unpleasant screech of metal on stone. Boros hauled on the controls, and the vehicle extended two segmented legs and pulled us out of the depths and onto a flat beach of polished rock, submerged in perhaps a foot or so of seawater. Varon opened the hatch and we poured out, dragging in deep gulps of fresh air. Water sloshed around my boots, gratifyingly cool and refreshing after hours trapped in sweltering darkness.

‘I am not sure even my creation could scale such an imposing structure,’ said Boros, splashing through the water to stand before the wall, and craning his neck to stare up at the summit. ‘Explosives then!’

The Ironweld engineer clapped his hands together like a giddy child.

‘Are you sure about that?’ I said. Anything strong enough to blast a hole in something that vast might simply bring the whole structure down upon us.

‘There is no one in all the realms who understands demolition work better than Master Boros,’ said Varon. He was crouched on his haunches, looking rather the worse for wear. He seemed to be growing paler and more drawn by the day.

Boros scuttled over to the steamcrawler, and disappeared back inside. A few moments later, he came out, hauling a device that looked like a giant limpet. Mounted atop the steel surface was a series of clocks and dials. The master engineer made his way to the wall and slammed the device onto the sheer surface. Several metal legs extended from the carapace and locked tight, holding the disc in place.

‘Right,’ said Boros, barely containing his glee. ‘I would advise that you all take at least a dozen steps to the side.’

We hurriedly obeyed.

‘Are we absolutely sure he’s not about to bring the entire wall down on us?’ I asked.

‘Please, my dear,’ said the master engineer, with a jovial wave of his hand. ‘I’ve brought down bigger obstacles than this. Why, only a few seasons past I–’

The charge detonated. A rolling fireball spat out from the wall, rolling along the beach and turning the water to hissing steam. A thunder-punch of concussive force drove me to my knees, and my ears rang painfully. Smoke billowed out in great clouds, swirling around us. When it cleared, there was barely a smudge of ash upon the stone surface of the great sea wall. We might as well have thrown a handful of dust at it.

‘Impossible!’ shouted Boros, sounding more indignant than surprised. ‘That would have brought down the gates of Nagashizzar itself.’

‘I think the Great Necromancer can sleep easy,’ I said. ‘Clearly brute force is not going to get us inside the Isle.’

‘There must be some way inside,’ said Tavyat. The warrior began to make her way along the span of the wall, rapping the stone with the pommel of her blade. I followed, scanning the smooth, sleek expanse.

The surface of the wall was beautifully carved. I could not pinpoint the nature of the stone itself. It was bluish-grey, smooth and reflective like glass. I approached and ran my hand across the surface. This close, I could see that every inch of the stonework was elaborately carved with strange patterns and runes whose origin escaped me. There were snatches of Azyrite and old Arcanti in there, but the syntax was jumbled and nonsensical. Yet I could pick out the odd word or phrase, and there was a familiarity to the apparently illogical patterns of the engravings that hooked onto something deep inside my mind. I was sure I had seen or heard something like this before.

The answer struck me suddenly, and I laughed at the obviousness of it.

‘These markings,’ I said, ‘are written in the Trickster’s Tongue. Or at least an archaic derivation of it.’

I was met with nothing but blank stares.

‘The ancient codes of the Guilds of the Cat. The foremost thieves and murderers in the realms, at least until the Fall. The last of the old masters were slain during the Purge of Heaven, but their words live on.’

‘What are you blathering about?’ said an irritated Tavyat. ‘What kind of code?’

‘A secret tongue spoken only by thieves and killers,’ I said, feeling slightly ashamed at how much I was enjoying the opportunity to display my expertise. ‘Unknown to any but those inducted into the seven great orders.’

Varon’s eyes narrowed. ‘And you speak this secret tongue?’

That’s what I got for showing off.

‘Well, a few phrases here and there,’ I said. It was probably best not to reveal to a member of the Order of Azyr that I’d had many, many dealings with the Temple of Soris, one of the seven guilds who maintained a prominent chapel in my native city of Excelsis. They were a shadow of the power they had been during the Age of Myth, but still they endured. A bunch of back-stabbing cutthroats in the main, but I had made use of their contacts and black-market connections more than once.

To my relief, Varon waved his hand dismissively. ‘I care not about your past misdeeds,’ he said. ‘How do we get inside?’

I frowned. Words were forming in my head, drifting unbidden into my consciousness like fragmented memories from a dream. There was something familiar about them, but at the same time I was certain I had never heard them spoken aloud in my life.

Studying the wall, I picked out several familiar hieroglyphs.

‘Samneth, Cunning Agtheyma,’ I muttered, brushing my hands across the stone. Where my fingers traced, the runes glowed with a soft, blue light. ‘The Mirrored Twins, and the Prince of Cats. I am thine humble servant. For this day, and all the days to come.’

There was a rumbling deep within the stonework.

‘Grant me passage unto the realm of your faithful, so that I may praise you through an eternity of larceny and mischief.’

A geometric pattern of blinding light spread through the lines of the stonework, like ordered streams of lightning. The stones shifted and rearranged like puzzle pieces. I stood back, heart hammering with the familiar thrill of discovery. How many mortals had set foot in the Latchkey Isle? I wondered. Few, if any, in hundreds of years.

The opening grew wider and wider as the wall remade itself, forming a triangular archway. Beyond lay light and colour, the shimmering effervescence of polished gems.

‘Yes,’ said Varon, and there was an almost avaricious delight in the exclamation. The dazzling light reflected in his wide, grey eyes, and for a moment I felt a flicker of unease, such was the intensity of his expression.

‘Very well done, Miss Arclis,’ said the witch hunter, and as he spoke he gathered himself, and turned once more into the grave, quiet man I was familiar with. ‘Now lead on. It is only fitting that you take the first steps into the Thieves’ Paradise.’

My nerves buzzing with equal servings of anticipation and trepidation, I stepped through the gateway of light.

Chapter Six

I cannot quite explain the experience of entering the Latchkey Isle. Certainly there was a physical sensation. The light grew so blinding that I was forced to raise my arm to cover my face, and there was a sound like fierce, rushing wind. This unseen force swept me along like a hand at my back, and though I could not see my companions I knew they were at my side. There was disorientation also, and a lurching in the pit of my stomach not dissimilar to the sensation of tumbling into empty space. I had travelled across several of the deathly continents of Shyish and never felt such a sense of displacement. Something else, a tinkling sound like an echo of laughter, sounded at the back of my mind, and I felt something – some presence – lay its eyes upon me.

Then with a shout of alarm, I was tumbling in empty air, landing awkwardly on my hands and knees on the rough cobbles of a man-made street.

Blinking away the strobing lights that danced across my eyes, I clambered unsteadily to my feet, feeling slightly queasy.

Despite my disorientation, I could not withhold a gasp of astonishment. I looked out across a glittering cityscape, filled with lofty towers and enormous, soaring archways. No two structures were alike in appearance nor hue. I saw imposing, angular halls that would not have looked out of place amidst an Azyrite enclave standing next to spiralling towers of crystal and gold, thatch-woven longhalls and palaces of chipped ice.

The one thing every building had in common was a sense of splendour and decadence – the thought came to my mind that perhaps these were the lingering echoes of every palace, royal chamber and tribal lodge that had ever been breached by an opportunistic thief, immortalised forever in this bizarre afterlife. For all the unpleasantness of our long journey, all the pain and strife suddenly seemed worthwhile in my eyes. I knew, with a strange mixture of sadness and awe, that I would never see anything so extraordinary as this place for as long as I lived.

The gallery of wonders stretched as far as the eye could see. In the distance were artificial mountains comprised entirely of gleaming jewels, from which cascaded sparkling waterfalls of silver. There were gardens too. A forest of vibrantly coloured trees stretched from east to west, forming a winding snake of green and autumnal gold that wound through the jumbled streets. Even amidst this vegetation, the towers of ancient temples loomed over the treeline, rubies and emeralds the size of steam tanks embedded atop their domed roofs. These great gems caught and reflected the golden sunlight searing down, casting flickering, multicoloured shadows across the cityscape.

‘Now that’s a sight to behold,’ said Tavyat, climbing to her feet beside me and gazing at the breathtaking view. ‘Worth nearly losing our heads for.’

I found it hard to disagree. This was a side of the Realm of Death that I had never witnessed – vibrant and opulent.

‘Those words you spoke,’ the warrior continued. ‘Where did you learn them?’

‘I’m not sure,’ I admitted, feeling strangely unwilling to explain that they had been summoned unbidden into my head. ‘Must have seen them on a scroll somewhere. You pick up a lot of esoteric scraps of knowledge in my trade.’

Tavyat shot me a curious look, clearly unconvinced. I hardly blamed her.

‘Does it matter?’ I said, feeling a little defensive. ‘We’re in now, aren’t we?’

‘Indeed,’ said Varon. ‘Clearly I was correct in my assessment of you, Arclis. But we have much work yet to do before I release you from my service.’

That, presumably, passed for gratitude with this one. Still, now that we had entered the Isle, I found that my desire to be done with this mission was overwhelmed by my natural curiosity.

Ahead lay a vast, wide avenue, every inch of its marbled floor decorated with absurd ostentation – filigreed patterns of gold and silver, embedded spheres of sparkling titanite and other priceless minerals. The road led deeper into the island, and was surrounded on all sides by buildings of exquisite design. The sense of potential profit was utterly intoxicating, even to myself. I found my eyes dragged towards golden doorways, breachable balconies and other entry points. If the entrance to the Latchkey Isle was so splendid, then what secrets might be concealed within these ancient structures?

‘We move on,’ said Varon. ‘Keep your eyes upon this route. The Isle will tempt you with visions of profit and glory.’

‘Surely we could spare an hour,’ I said, like a starving woman staring at a feast table. ‘Perhaps a few hours, no longer.’

‘We continue on,’ Varon snapped, breaking the spell that had fallen over me. ‘I warn you, if you stray within its depths, you will never leave this place.’

Shaking visions of impossibly valuable treasures from my mind with great difficulty, I followed the witch hunter deeper into the city. It soon closed in around us, the wide avenue from which we had entered narrowing into a twisting path that wound through and around the looming structures we had earlier glimpsed. There was no uniformity to anything here. The buildings were piled in next to one another haphazardly, with no reason or logic that I could discern. The street closed in so quickly that we were soon walking single file, and a silvery mist descended upon us, shrouding our surroundings so thickly that we could see no more than a hundred yards ahead and behind.

‘Do you know where you’re going?’ I asked Varon, a little uneasy at how swiftly our environment had changed.

The witch hunter nodded. ‘I would not have led us in here otherwise. The Isle may twist and change around us, but there remains a basic logic to its geography. The location of the vault does not change, and I have been granted the knowledge of its location.’

‘If you know exactly where to go, what am I even doing here?’ I muttered, slightly too loudly.

‘I know the direction, but I have no idea what dangers lie between here and there,’ Varon said. ‘The challenges before us may take many forms, and that is why I brought you and Master Boros. Be on your guard.’

Eventually, the narrow alleyways opened out into a small plaza, with a central fountain scattered with coins of every description. Flanking the fountain were two statues of smooth black stone, both fashioned in the image of a cacosphinx – mythical beasts said to have once dwelt within the thoughtplains of Hysh, Realm of Light. Their lower halves were those of graceful felines, their heads the austere and noble images of an ancient king and queen.

Beyond the plaza rose a sheer wall of stone, the uppermost tier curving back over our heads. The effect was unsettling, as though the great mass were going to topple and crush us at any moment. What was immediately clear was that there would be no way over or through the obstacle. It was far too tall and smooth to climb. Looking around, I saw only brass-spiked gates on either side, beyond which lay a jumble of buildings and angular roofs.

I strode over to the fountain. The central column, from which sparkling water bubbled forth, was sculpted to resemble a human hand extended, palm out, its index and forefinger crossed. Beneath this sculpture was a circular pool of clear water, in which were piled coins of every conceivable variety – gold doubloons, brittle iron tatraks, ivory pebbles marked with the comet and a thousand other varieties, most of which I did not recognise at all.

Varon and Tavyat examined the featureless stone. I turned instead to the two statues. The one on the right was magnificently bearded, and wore a great crown of gold. Its companion was feminine in aspect, with vicious-looking cheekbones and a long-suffering expression. The quality of the carving was remarkable. I peered closer at the female figure, noticing that the statue’s eyes were sparkling sapphires.

I hopped up onto the rim of the fountain for a closer look. As I reached out to examine the gem, the aquiline head swivelled to meet my gaze.

‘Do you mind?’ it snapped.

I let out a startled gasp and almost toppled into the pool, waving my arms manically to maintain my balance. The statue reared up on its leonine limbs, and stretched languorously, like a waking house cat. I noticed with some alarm, however, that when it did so, stone claws the size of short swords extended from its massive feet.

Tavyat and Varon drew their weapons, but the creature simply favoured them with a dismissive stare. Almost bored.

‘It seems our rest is disturbed once more, Theadicles,’ said the living statue. Its voice was rich and melodic.

‘Indeed,’ said the other statue, as it shook its head and stood upright. This one spoke in a thunderous rumble, and as it yawned lazily I saw a row of fangs as large as butchers’ knives. I backed off cautiously, expecting it to devour me at any moment. It cocked its great head and peered at me curiously.

‘What a strange scent, Mysanta,’ the creature Theadicles said. ‘I believe these little ones do not belong here. No, not at all.’

‘Indeed, brother. Intruders, no doubt. It has been a long time since I have seen outsiders walking the streets of the Isle. What brings them here, I wonder?’

‘What… are you?’ said Tavyat.

‘That is a rather rude question, my dear,’ said the female statue. ‘I shall be courteous and assume that you meant to ask what role we play in the workings of the Latchkey Isle. You may think of me and my brother as gatekeepers, of a sort. Guardians who oversee the game.’

‘What game?’ I asked.

‘The only one that matters,’ it responded, its gem-cut eyes twinkling as it flicked its gaze to mine. ‘An eternal contest of ingenuity and cunning. A reward for those who in life obeyed no laws and served no masters but their own lust for adventure. In death, they live like never before.’

Her words were captivating. I had never really considered my own mortality. I was young, for an aelf, and not given to introspection. Yet I found myself wondering what would happen to my own soul, when the time came. Perhaps it would make its way to the Isle. That sounded like a pretty damned good way to spend eternity to me.

‘Enough. I am a servant of Sigmar,’ said Varon, stepping forward and brandishing his symbol of office. ‘The God-King, who is your master and mine. You will tell me how to pass into the heart of the city. You shall tell me where lies the Vault of Stars.’

‘Shall we now?’ said Mysanta, narrowing her eyes. ‘What a funny little creature, seeking to make demands of us. Perhaps we should eat it, brother? I have not feasted for many centuries, and its insolence irritates me.’

‘Hardly much worth eating here,’ said Theadicles. ‘Besides, I am curious. What brings you to these shores, servant of Sigmar? Why do you seek what is hidden?’

‘I seek the Vault of Stars,’ repeated Varon, who did not shy away from Mysanta’s hungry gaze at all. I was impressed, not for the first time, at the man’s seeming lack of fear.

The creatures both broke into laughter. The male, Theadicles, began to pace around the edge of the plaza, padding softly upon marble limbs, making barely a sound despite his immense size.

‘How interesting,’ Mysanta purred, drawing herself to her full, majestic height. Varon was not a small man, but the golden cacosphinx towered over him. ‘You are not the first to speak of the Vault. Others have come here seeking it, and never left. It is hidden for a reason, human.’

‘And guarded well,’ said Theadicles. His sapphire eyes sparkled and the gleaming irises grew wide. My own eyes darted across the plaza, searching for an escape route, but the tangle of buildings on all sides was impenetrable. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that the gate through which we had passed had disappeared – in its place stood a high wall of stone, as if a structure had sprouted from the earth to fill the empty space. We were trapped.

‘For what reason do you seek it?’ said Theadicles.

‘For the good of all,’ said Varon. ‘I am not the only one coming here. And if the Vault is breached by my enemies, we shall all suffer. If you know what lies within, you know that I speak the truth.’

‘You mortals are such strange little creatures,’ said Mysanta, shaking her great head. ‘This is a land of secrets, human. There are corners of the Isle that even I have never seen. You say you wish to conceal the Vault? Then leave it well alone, and none shall ever find it.’

These words were not dissimilar to those I had spoken to Varon when he first drew me into this journey. Yet once again, the witch hunter would not hear them.

‘This Isle lies beyond the borders of Sigmar’s empire,’ he said. ‘And the Tyrant of Bones has fixed his eye upon you. When the war comes, there will be no corner of this afterlife safe from his legions. They will spill into this land in their thousands, and tear it apart root and branch until they have uncovered all its secrets.’

‘Others have tried,’ said Theadicles. ‘The Dark Gods themselves sought to claim the Isle, and they died here in their thousands. The dead shall fare no better.’

‘You are wrong,’ said Varon.

‘Perhaps.’ Theadicles shrugged. ‘In any case, we shall not simply give away our secrets to an intruder such as yourself.’

‘You would deny the will of–’

‘Hush now,’ growled Mysanta, and the earth trembled at the thunderous sound. ‘This is not your place, little Sigmar worshipper, and you will issue no threats or orders here.’

Theadicles reared up and slammed his great paws upon the stone, which splintered beneath the force of the blow. Even Varon fell back, shocked by the sudden outburst.

‘Wait,’ I said, holding up my hands and falling to a knee. ‘Forgive my companion. I am Shevanya Arclis. You are right, this is not our place. But we are not enemies. There is something ancient and evil buried under this place, and we are not the first who will journey here to seek it. There are already agents of Nagash closing in.’

Mysanta cocked her head, narrowing her eyes as she peered at me. ‘Now this one is intriguing, brother.’

‘Agreed,’ said Theadicles, as he circled around behind me. ‘Very intriguing.’ His great head descended, and those sapphire eyes bored into me. ‘Ah yes, the Prince of Cats has favoured her,’ he said, nodding sagely. ‘Such potential. Mayhap we have misjudged this merry band, dear sister.’

‘Perhaps. I remain unconvinced.’

‘A suggestion, then,’ said Theadicles. ‘We grant them access to the heart of the Isle, and we see what becomes of them. Let us play the game, and let fate decree the outcome.’

‘You are very wise, Theadicles. I concur.’

‘Enough of this,’ Varon shouted. ‘You will obey the word of the God-King, or–’

His threat was cut off by a deep grinding sound, slow at first but growing in ferocity with every passing moment. All around us, buildings and towers collapsed and fell apart like puzzle pieces, folding in on themselves.

The ground yawned open beneath our feet, and Varon and Tavyat windmilled their arms helplessly as they sought to keep their balance. Looking down, I saw that where the well of coins had been, a great slope of stone now yawned open, a winding chute that descended into darkness. Its sides were as smooth and polished as freshly cut glass. Stone by stone, the plaza began to tumble away into this abyss. I scrambled from flagstone to flagstone as one by one they fell away, and jumped across to cling to the hand-shaped statue. Its surface was slick and wet, and I felt myself slipping away as I desperately tried to keep my fragile grip.

The fountain inverted, spilling its bounty of coins. Suddenly I was dangling over empty space. Master Boros howled as the earth slipped away beneath him, and he too tumbled head over heels into the pit. Even as I dangled precariously over the lip of the abyss, I saw the stones to which Varon and Tavyat clung dissolve into nothingness, dropping them after the master engineer.

The great, golden claws of Theadicles and Mysanta appeared on a ledge of stone above my head. The cacosphinxes loomed over me, staring down with detached, amused expressions upon their leonine faces.

‘Don’t worry,’ said Theadicles.

‘Please!’ I yelped, as one hand slipped from the statue.

‘Oh, don’t worry. The fall won’t kill you. It might chafe a little, but you’ll be fine. All part of the game. Don’t take this personally, my dear, but we have suffered gravely from trespassers before. We would be rather foolish to trust you out of hand, no? The Isle will judge you. And we shall watch.’

‘Indeed, brother,’ said Mysanta. ‘We wish you good fortune, Shevanya Arclis. Dispense your trust wisely, and look for the sign of the cat. Perhaps we shall meet again. I certainly hope so.’

With that the ground crumbled away between my fingers. I landed painfully on my back, scrabbling helplessly for something to hold onto as I skidded away across the polished stonework. It was hopeless, like trying to grasp a handful of air. As I dropped like a stone, the last thing I saw were two pairs of sapphire eyes, bright chips of ice in the darkness.

Chapter Seven

I tumbled and rolled down the great slope. It was so wide that I could not see the edges in either direction. I had a vague impression of a rough-hewn obsidian ceiling, but it rushed by so swiftly that I could not be certain. Ahead lay nothing but darkness, though I could hear a terrified screeching that sounded like it might be coming from Master Boros.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the great slope ended. My momentum sent me soaring into the empty air, flailing my arms idiotically. There was a faint luminescence ahead, and for a moment I thought I was about to slam into an immense cliff face of shimmering limestone that loomed out of the darkness. Thankfully my momentum ran out, and instead I dropped like a stone, kicking and screaming, before striking icy water. The shock drove the breath from my lungs, and I gulped down a mouthful of coppery liquid, spluttering and gasping. Before I could even gather my bearings, I felt a strong hand grasp me by the collar and drag me upwards, towards the surface.

I clawed my way onto a ledge of crumbling stone covered with slimy weeds, and coughed and sputtered out the water that had seeped into my lungs. My blurry vision cleared, and I found myself staring into Tavyat’s brutish face. The woman hauled me to my feet with ease.

‘You all right?’ she said.

I nodded in assent, still retching up icy water.

‘Thanks,’ I gasped at last. She nodded, and went to check on Varon, who was kneeling on the steps, in no better condition than I. Master Boros lay beside him, his chest pumping in and out rapidly, his eyes closed.

‘Is he all right?’ I said, gesturing to the master engineer.

‘He’ll be fine. Just had the wind knocked out of him.’

‘Where are we?’

Tavyat shrugged. ‘Your guess is as good as mine,’ she said. ‘But wherever we are, there’s no way we should have survived that fall.’

‘Yes, well, I don’t think this place is beholden to simple things like physics,’ I said.

I followed the woman up a narrow flight of stairs, and out onto a precarious walkway cut into the side of a great cavern. This vast, open expanse was lit by the faint, pinkish scintillation of cave fungus that covered the ceiling and the floor. On one side of the pathway ran a wall of mortal construction, ancient and pitted. On our right, the ground fell away into a rushing, underground river, its crystal-clear waters turned a vibrant purple by the same luminescence. Waterfalls tumbled from far above our heads, feeding its rushing course.

‘We should move,’ said Varon, dragging Master Boros to his feet. The master engineer’s once-proud moustache now drooped tragically.

‘Leave me behind,’ the old man gasped. ‘Go on without me, Master Varon, I’ll only slow you down.’

‘Enough of that,’ said Varon, patting the master engineer on the back. ‘We’re closer to our goal than ever, I can feel it. Whatever the nature of those creatures, they have set us on the right path.’

Again, I debated asking the witch hunter how he could be so certain, but thought better of it. Varon would never reveal his secrets to me, and pressing him was only likely to make him suspicious. I decided to bide my time and keep an eye on the man.

‘I’ll go first,’ I said. There was no need to light a torch. The path ahead was so well lit it almost appeared that we were walking in the early, sunlit hours of the morning, rather than journeying deep underground, which was the only possible truth. I began to make my way forward, taking care with every step – the stone floor was damp and treacherously slippery, and the path ahead was narrow. I did not like the idea of tumbling away into the river, which was crammed with jagged clusters of rock encrusted with gem-like growths of coral.

Eventually the pathway curved away from the river, and opened out onto a wider passage. Ahead, a bridge reached across the vast distance of the cavern. On the far side was a building, a golden dome that rose to meet the rocky ceiling overhead. Beneath us, the river became a waterfall, descending hundreds of yards to splash into a vast underground lake. Upon the banks of this great mass of water, many hundreds of yards below, there stood a golden cityscape, as wondrous and unlikely as the one we had seen upon first entry into the Latchkey Isle.

We gazed down at its sparkling rooftops as we set foot upon the causeway. The largest structure was a fluted tower of gleaming marble that rose from the cavern floor. Lights shimmered across its highest point – a needlepoint of silver from which leapt an iridescent flame.

‘If I was the gambling sort, which I often am,’ I said, pointing to the fire-crowned tower, ‘I’d say that’s where we should be headed.’

‘I concur,’ said Varon. The distant light flickered across his pale, sweaty face. It made him look like a piece of spoiled meat. I was shocked by just how wretched he appeared. Maybe it was an effect of the luminescent glow. I certainly could not recall the man looking quite so haggard before we set foot in the Isle.

‘Are you feeling all right?’ I asked.

‘I am fine,’ he said distractedly, waving a dismissive hand.

‘This places makes my head ache,’ muttered Tavyat. ‘None of this makes any sense. We must be far below sea level now.’

‘I told you, Tavyat,’ I said. ‘You’re looking for logic where there is none. At least, none that we can discern.’

‘We must find a path down,’ said Varon. ‘Come.’

The bridge ahead was unadorned compared to the majority of the architecture I had seen thus far. A simple, solid arc of stone with raised edges on each side. Only the floor had a strange look to it – segmented, almost, formed from great slabs that were all slightly different in hue. It gave the floor we walked upon the look of a patchwork quilt, or a game board. We made our way across swiftly but carefully, and for a while it seemed as though it was sturdy enough.

I should really have known better.

The tremor was so light that I almost didn’t feel it at all. The faintest of clicks beneath my feet. Acting upon a lifetime of finely honed instincts, I threw myself backwards, and not a moment too soon. The flagstone upon which I had been walking suddenly rose into the air at great speed, rotating like a spinning top. Around us, other stones began to shift and drop away, exchanging places as if we were no more than playing pieces in some life-sized game of kingtaker. As the bridge broke apart into a hundred sections, great gaps opened up beneath us. A long fall into the pure waters of the lake beneath us awaited. A fall that would certainly prove deadly, at this distance.

My own footing remained intact. Varon and Tavyat, too, were fixed to the spot, but the flagstone upon which they stood was floating with nothing but empty air in all directions, while the other pieces spun madly around it. There was barely enough space for them both, and their feet scrabbled for balance on the edge of the plummeting drop.

‘Can I aid you at all? You seem to be in a rather tough spot.’

The voice came from above us, and I looked up to see the figure of a middle-aged man, his clothes slate grey, his salt-and-pepper hair and moustache impeccably styled beneath a peaked cap of grey felt. He was reclining on a flagstone overhead, his legs dangling into empty air, watching our struggles with an air of amusement.

‘Master Boros!’ shouted Varon. I noticed then that the old man was nowhere to be seen. ‘Where is he?’

‘Fear not,’ said the newcomer. ‘Your friend is quite well. He gestured to a rope that dangled beneath him, one end clamped to the stone by an iron piton. Looking down, I saw Master Boros hanging upside down, the line secured around his legs, his arms flailing madly.

‘I am caught!’ screeched the master engineer. ‘Some nightmarish creature has ensnared me!’

‘Fear not, my good man,’ shouted the strange figure. ‘There are no web-spinners here. This is ironbark hemp. It could hold up a gargant, let alone some skinny old fellow such as yourself.’

With casual grace, the man leapt off his island, turning a somersault and landing deftly upon another stone as it swept past a few feet above my head. He folded his arms and stared at me curiously. A length of rope dangled from his belt, alongside a jewelled dagger. Throwing knives sat crossed upon his chest, beneath an embroidered ruff. There was an air of antiquity to the man’s dress and manner. He reminded me of a stage performer or an operatto singer. One of his hands was bare, the fingers perfectly manicured. The other was clad in a strange device, a gauntlet of leather that ran the length of his arm, attached to a harness set upon his shoulder. The horned tip of a compound bow protruded over his shoulder.

‘It has been a long time indeed since any mortals have found their way into the Isle,’ he said. ‘How intriguing. I suppose you are here to make your fortune, yes? You are not the first to try.’

‘Can we make conversation later?’ I said. ‘Perhaps after we’ve got out of this deathtrap?’

‘Oh, I do apologise. My manners. Of course, it’s really quite simple. There’s a pattern to it, you see? There’s always a solution. One must simply wait, watch and take note.’

I tried to shut out Master Boros’ continued screams, and focused upon the spinning stones. At first it seemed like nothing more than a chaotically random dance, but the longer I watched, the clearer it became that there was indeed a repeating pattern to the interchanging tiles. A cycle brought two dark brown stones spinning close enough to my position that I could perhaps jump across to them, if I timed the leap perfectly. If I missed, of course, my body would be shattered into a hundred pieces when I struck the surface of the lake.

‘We must be swift,’ said the stranger. ‘The pattern never lasts for long. Soon it will change. Follow me, now.’

‘What about them?’ I said, gesturing to Varon and Tavyat.

The man shrugged. ‘Perhaps across the way we shall find a solution. Either way, it will not serve your friends for us to die. Come now.’

The stranger turned and hurled himself into the empty air. He tucked his legs and turned into a twisting somersault, and as he came out of the spin he extended his gauntleted hand, from which whipped out a length of rope attached to a barbed claw. This grapnel soared out and wrapped around a floating tile, clicking as it secured the length of rope. With a twist of his wrist, the grey-capped man soared along the line of hemp, clambering gracefully up onto the stone. With another insouciant grin in my direction, he stood and detached the rope, which whipped back into place with a hiss.

Cursing myself for not bringing one of those devices myself, I waited for the distant tiles to complete their circuit and pass within reach of my location. As they swept past, I ran forward and leapt across the gap. My timing was good, but not perfect. I slammed into the edge of the trailing tile, and the air was immediately driven from my lungs. Gasping, I scrabbled across the smooth surface, searching for a handhold. My grip was loose, and for a dreadful moment I was dangling over the precipitous drop on the fingers of one hand. Adrenaline sent enough strength to force my other arm up and, straining with the effort, I somehow managed to hook a leg over the side of the stone tile and swing myself up to relative safety as I was swept along on the tile’s circuitous route.

‘Well done,’ said the newcomer, miming applause as his own tile drifted alongside mine.

‘Are you going to stand there smirking at me,’ I growled, my arms aching terribly, ‘or are you going to help us out of this mess?’

‘You are new here,’ the ghostly man said, chuckling to himself. ‘Asking for charity from a thief and scoundrel such as I. Nevertheless…’

Our paths diverted. Two tiles rose from below and rushed past me at head height, forcing me to collapse to the floor. An inch lower and they would have taken my head off, or at least blasted me from my precarious position. In the distance, as his path took him on a mad spiral high into the air, the man fired his strange device, which arced away across the length of the bridge, landing upon the far side and blessed solid ground. Then I was spinning off back towards Tavyat and Varon. The pair drew closer with every moment.

‘One of you jump!’ I screamed. As I swept past I reached out my hand and Tavyat threw herself at my tile. I caught her by the wrist, and was almost dragged over the edge by the well-muscled woman’s not inconsiderable weight.

Fortunately Tavyat managed to clasp a hand on the stone rim, and together we awkwardly managed to share the spinning tile.

‘Do you know what you’re doing?’ the warrior yelled, as we pelted towards the far side of the bridge, and to safety. ‘What about the others? We have to go back for them!’

I shook my head. ‘One thing… at a time. You see those tiles about to pass us on our left? We need to reach those.’

‘I can’t make that jump,’ said Tavyat. ‘Not in this armour. You’ll have to do it.’

Looking into the distance, between the two platforms, I doubted even I could make it. I saw the stranger waving at us from the bridge, no more than fifty yards or so ahead. This last jump would take me close enough to reach him.

‘Right, let’s at least get you over there,’ said Tavyat. ‘You ready?’

‘What are you–’

I had barely finished when Tavyat grabbed me around the waist and, bellowing like a bullgor, hurled me into the air. I flailed desperately, sure I was going to miss the stone as it flew past me. Instead, I clattered across its surface, almost skidding off the far side. My new platform dipped and spiralled downwards, and I passed within a few yards of the far side of the bridge. Not wanting to miss my chance, and unsure how much longer I could keep my balance, I jumped for safety. Just as I was about to leap, the platform switched direction. Instead of jumping straight forward, the shift in momentum ruined the angle of my leap, and I felt that awful, sudden realisation that I was doomed. The edge of the bridge rushed by, agonisingly close, just out of reach of my despairing grasp. And I was tumbling down, down, down towards the water many hundreds of yards below.

Something struck my foot, painfully. My descent was arrested, and there was a sudden jolt that nearly wrenched my leg out of its socket. I dangled helplessly as something began to haul me back up towards the bridge. Arching my back to peer up, I saw the stranger with a length of rope in his hands, reeling me in.

Pulling with surprising strength, the man brought me to safety, whereupon I collapsed onto the cold stone, panting and thanking the fates for their interference.

‘My thanks,’ I gasped.

‘Pah,’ said the stranger. ‘Please don’t mention it.’

I clambered upright and peered out across the bridge. Through the rotating tiles, I could just pick out my companions – Varon had made his way to where Boros had been left dangling, and was now hauling the master engineer back to safety. Tavyat was lying flat on her front, clinging desperately to her platform as it whipped her back and forth across the cavern.

‘Hmm,’ said the stranger, examining the stonework of the bridge. ‘There does not appear to be any form of mechanism here. In the deeper levels, things are rarely so straightforward. I do believe we may have to leave your companions to it.’

I considered it, but only for a moment. I didn’t particularly like Varon, but neither did I want the Order of Azyr to believe me responsible for the death of one of their own. I was already wading through deep enough water with the witchfinders. Besides, Tavyat and Master Boros were decent folk.

‘I can’t just leave them,’ I said. ‘Tempting as the thought is. Can you help me?’

He studied me a moment, then nodded. ‘I have always found it difficult to deny a beautiful woman. Wait here.’

With that, the stranger jumped straight back the way he had come, leaping gracefully from platform to platform, using his grappling gauntlet as if it were an extension of his own body. Every shot was perfect, every leap timed to perfection. He reached Tavyat first, and the warrior shrugged off her chainmail hauberk with some difficulty and clambered on the man’s back. He made his way back to me. Despite the extra weight he carried, the stranger seemed to move just as gracefully. He loosed his grapple once more, and the hook wrapped around a swiftly moving tile. Tavyat and the stranger were yanked into the air as the stone square continued to orbit the bridge. It took them on a long, curving path towards my position.

Just at the right moment, the stranger released his rope gauntlet. The pendulum momentum of the swing sent the pair flying towards the safety of the bridge, and they landed in a tumble, skidding and bouncing painfully but safely. I ran to help Tavyat up. She had kept her sword, but lost her armour, aside from her metal vambraces.

‘I’m fine,’ she hissed, waving me away and nursing her elbow. Her nose was bloodied and clearly broken, and skin had been torn away across her cheek, but she stood and seemed to move all right.

Even as I turned, I saw the strange man already on the move. He had retracted the grappling hook and rope, and was already aiming it back towards Varon and Master Boros, who were still clinging to their narrow island, unable to move. One by one, the stranger carried them across the bridge in the same manner as he had aided Tavyat. He brought Boros first, and – once the old man was safe and sound – returned for the witch hunter. It was quite a spectacle to watch, and it brought up a lot of questions. Were the dead stronger in this place? More agile? Or did they retain the physical properties that they had had in life? If so, our new ally was clearly made of strong stuff. He did not stop for a moment; it was as if he were running through a routine he had practised a thousand times.

Tavyat immediately went to check on her master, who fell to his knees, wracked by a fit of nasty-sounding coughs.

‘Excellent!’ our saviour declared, clapping his hands together and grinning widely. ‘I thought you were done for. You show certain signs of promise. Who knows, you might even make it out of here with your lives and sanity intact.’

‘Who… are you?’ Varon said, not sparing a moment to thank someone who had just saved his life. The witch hunter staggered to his feet, resting his hand upon the butt of his pistol. ‘And speak quickly.’

‘Please,’ said the man, raising both his hands and a well-manicured eyebrow. ‘There is no need to threaten me, master witch hunter. I am no enemy, as I do believe I have just proven. Allow me to introduce myself.’

He dipped into a ludicrously elaborate bow, holding the pose with impeccable poise. ‘Jacques vil Granciere at your service. You may know me better as Grey Jacques, scourge of the Dostoyem nobility, he who stole the Crown of Ice from the brow of High Prince Kazirus, and bedded the wives and husbands of every lord in the Paradise City of Gul.’

He was met with nothing but blank stares. I, certainly, had never heard of him, but then the intricacies of the Azyrite court were not my speciality.

‘No?’ he said, sounding hurt.

‘Apologies,’ I said. ‘I’m sure there are plenty still alive who recall you.’

He held up a hand, a wounded expression stitched across his face. ‘Please, do not patronise me. I shall simply take your ignorance as a sign that my legendary acts of larceny were so devious that no one ever discovered their true scale.’

‘How do you find yourself here?’ said Varon. ‘And what is your business?’

A confused look flashed across Grey Jacques’ face.

‘I have always been here,’ he said. ‘Or, at least, for as long as I can remember. And my business is adventure, my friend. Although I prefer to think of it as a noble calling.’

‘He is a dead thing,’ said Varon. ‘A denizen of the underworlds.’

If that was true, I could not tell the difference. Grey Jacques seemed as tactile and vital as any mortal being, with a healthy complexion and lively, sparkling eyes. Yet there was a strangeness to his presence I could not deny. A distance to his gaze that was oddly unsettling.

‘Death is merely a state of mind,’ said Jacques with a grin. ‘Here, I am no longer subject to the ravages of time, nor the tiresome laws of so-called civilised folk. I gifted the gods with secrets untold, and this is my reward. A life of endless adventure, with all the wine and song one could wish for. Pray tell which afterlife you would wish for yourself, sir? I imagine it a bland and drab existence.’

Varon’s expression was sour enough to curdle milk. Somehow I imagined he would not enjoy spending his afterlife with only rogues like Jacques for company.

‘So you are trapped here in this place?’ said Tavyat, with an expression of horror on her face. Clearly the warrior was not accustomed to problems she could not solve with the edge of her blade. ‘Hemmed in on all sides, with no sight of the open land. You call this paradise? Sounds like damnation to me.’

‘Gracious, no!’ said Jacques. ‘I could not wish for a more salubrious existence. The lure of adventure, my dear – an ever-changing, ever more challenging journey into the unknown. What more could one wish for?’

‘How long have you been here?’ I asked, fascinated. I had never conversed with a denizen of the underworlds before. I was talking to a dead soul, someone who had lived through an age vastly different to this one. What secrets could he offer? What truths were hidden within his memories?

‘The moments rather blend, one into the other,’ Jacques said. ‘A very long time, no doubt. I have laid my eyes on nearly every corner of this Isle. All that remains is the Vault of Stars, and I am very, very close.’

‘You seek the hidden vault?’ said Varon, his voice sharp.

‘Oh yes. It is amongst the greatest prizes to be earned in the Isle. None have ever breached it, so far as I know, but every new dawn brings a new opportunity. And soon its treasures shall be mine. First I must pass through the Tower of a Thousand Doors. A deadly place, filled with all manner of traps and tribulations.’

‘That’s the marble structure yonder?’ Tavyat asked, gesturing to the building at the centre of the cavern-city.

‘Indeed so.’ Jacques nodded. ‘Devilishly tricky to navigate. Open the wrong door, and you may find yourself toppling into a pit of snakes, or simply falling a few thousand feet to your doom.’

‘We seek this vault also,’ I said. ‘You claim to know this place. Perhaps an alliance, for our mutual benefit?’

Jacques stroked his beard thoughtfully. ‘I prefer to work alone,’ he said. ‘But perhaps we could join together, at least for a time. The journey ahead is long and treacherous, and with the new dawn the Prince of Cats’ traps will have been set anew. Very well.’

He extended a graceful hand, and I shook it. His skin was cool to the touch, but there was vigorous strength in his grip.

‘Together we shall journey to the centre of the Isle, and find the Vault of Stars. Then we shall share the glory of looting it together!’

‘No,’ snapped Varon. ‘There will be no looting. What lies within is property of the God-King alone. It must be returned to Azyrheim, to be safeguarded by the Order.’

Jacques studied the witch hunter for a moment, and then shrugged. ‘Challenge and infamy is the only prize I crave, witchfinder. You may keep your secret treasures. You have my word on that. Follow me. The journey ahead will be dangerous, and I must admit I am not entirely sure what happens to mortals who come to a sticky end in this place.’

With that, he strode towards the domed structure that rose ahead of us. We followed closely behind, making our way down a semicircular set of wide steps and through an archway carved with images of wide, staring eyes. As we entered the domed building, we saw that the ceiling was beautifully painted with the image of a summer bacchanal, with forestfolk and merry human pipers dancing beneath the bright stars of the heavens. At the centre of the mural, a gambolling creature, less than twice the height of the men and women around him, poured wine from a crystal amphora. The mouth of the jug circled a hole in the physical structure of the dome, and through this poured a stream of sparkling water, tumbling down into channels that ran beside the path upon which we walked. Across the way another set of steps wound down out of sight, and it was to this apparent exit that Jacques led us.

I could not help but notice that the domed chamber contained many other doors and archways, each tantalisingly gilded with silver and gold, with rare gems embedded across their surface.

‘Where do those lead?’ I asked, as we passed them by.

Jacques flashed me a roguish grin. ‘Why, I have no idea, my lady. That is why the Isle is such a wondrous paradise. Who knows what lies behind each door? Perhaps some beautiful work of art, ripe for the taking. Perhaps a fair maiden with a voice as sweet as honeyed wine. Perhaps a stern warrior, guarding a secret beyond imagining. One can never know.’

‘You say this place is constantly shifting. Reforming around us. But still you claim to know how to reach the Vault of Stars. How can that be so?’

‘Well, the Vault is not of this place, not truly. That is precisely why it is so damningly difficult to get into. It was fashioned from a more permanent substance. Its location does not change, though the Isle may reform around it. Here it lies, always, though so very few have the skill to penetrate so deeply into the heart of this place. You and your companions must be very talented indeed.’

‘Actually, we had some help.’

‘Really?’ said Jacques, raising an eyebrow. ‘How interesting. You shall have to tell me about your adventures some time. For now, though, I suggest we move swiftly and quietly. There are great dangers this close to the Isle’s heart.’

Chapter Eight

The tunnel spiralled on into darkness for several hours, before finally levelling out as we passed through a pair of gilded doors and onto a wide balcony. The view was extraordinary. Hundreds of feet below us, a sparkling waterfall emptied into the great lake. The shimmering scales of fish shoals danced in the depths of the crystal-clear waters, and here and there the surface was broken as a jewelled specimen hurled itself into the air.

Beyond the lake lay the city proper, graceful arches of silver and gold rising from a field of turquoise flowers that bordered the shoreline.

The view was no less spectacular than the one we had found upon arrival at the Latchkey Isle. Yet even as we watched, a shadow fell across the world. A chill wind caused me to shiver, and the summer hues of the impossible city were shrouded by darkness. It was as if all the wholesomeness had drained out of the world, like ink washing from a sodden page.

‘It worsens with every passing day,’ said Grey Jacques, and for the first time I caught a hint of melancholy in his voice.

Drifting like an echo upon the wind came a susurrus of whispers, followed by a faint, mournful sound like the sobbing of a child. Witchlights danced above the city spires, which suddenly took on a threatening, sinister air.

‘What is that?’ said Tavyat, grasping her comet-shaped amulet to her chest.

‘Death,’ said Varon simply.

‘Aye.’ Grey Jacques nodded. ‘Every day the Skull God’s malign influence seeps into this place. Where once there was only laughter and adventure, now the constant song of sorrow haunts us all. You must have noticed how quiet it is. No songs of merriment echo through the streets. Too many old friends have faded into memory, succumbing to the grasp of Nagash. He desires to claim all underworlds as his own, and the Latchkey Isle is a most grand prize. Ever has that one despised my kind – thieves and rascals who accept no rules and bow to no masters save the Lords of Mischief.’

The pall of shadow lasted but a few scant moments. Then the skies cleared, and the sound of songbirds resumed.

‘He doesn’t have his claws on us yet,’ said Jacques, with a smile.

With that, he stepped out over the lip of the balcony. For a moment I thought he would surely tumble into empty space, but as his foot descended a golden tile slid from the wall to form a makeshift step. Jacques made his way down as more steps flew from the wall to allow his passage. I gingerly followed in his footsteps, trying to ignore the precipitous drop on both sides.

We made our way down to the shore of the great city without incident, alighting upon a narrow pathway of loose stones that led into a wild and verdant garden.

Golden-eyed felines and garishly coloured songbirds sunned themselves beneath the re-emerging lights, the former stretching lazily as Grey Jacques fondly stroked their angular heads. As the rest of us passed, the creatures eyed us suspiciously, as though they knew that we did not belong. The water that lapped around the edge of the island bubbled pleasingly. To my surprise, I caught a fragrant smell upon the breeze, a scent of fruit and herbs that was more than a little intoxicating.

Grey Jacques favoured me with a smile. ‘Why not take a sip from the waters, my lady? I assure you, you have not experienced anything like it before.’

Warily, I bent and scooped up a handful of the sweet-smelling water. I tasted it, and could not help but shake my head in wonder.

‘It tastes like fine wine,’ I explained to a very confused Tavyat. ‘Like the finest cyphian amber. And a fine vintage, if my limited palate is to be trusted.’

The liquid glowed wonderfully as it slid down my throat. Almost at once I felt the faint blur of intoxication, and quickly stepped back from the water’s edge. It would hardly do to get blind drunk, given the urgency of our mission.

‘The Prince of Cats prizes all beautiful things – food, wine and, of course, fair maidens such as yourself,’ said Jacques. He fell to his knees and took a great gulp from the lake, giving a contented sigh as he daintily cleaned his mouth upon a silken handkerchief drawn from his pocket.

‘We do not have time to carouse and take wine,’ said Varon. ‘Just get us to the Vault.’

His words collapsed into a bout of wracking coughs, so violent that he stumbled to one knee. I thought I saw a smear of dark blood as the witch hunter wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his coat. Something was definitely wrong with the man, and it seemed to be getting worse by the hour.

Tavyat bent and placed a hand around the man’s shoulder, but Varon slapped her away and rose unsteadily to his feet. His eyes were sunken pits of coal, and lines creased his face.

‘We should stop,’ said Tavyat. ‘Rest awhile.’

‘No,’ hissed Varon. ‘We press on.’

His trembling fingers were clasped tightly around his bag. I saw the blocky shape of Valagharr’s tome through the fabric. The witch hunter turned and strode off without another word. Tavyat stared after him.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ I asked.

‘Do not concern yourself with Master Varon,’ said Tavyat. ‘It is nothing more than a bout of ill health.’

‘A few days ago I might have agreed with you, but no longer. Look at him, Tavyat. Every step we take in this place seems to drain him further. If something happens to him, if he collapses or worse, what in Sigmar’s name do we do then? Drag him along with us?’

Tavyat winced as if in pain. It was clear that she had been thinking the same thing. She did not speak for a long time, her brows furrowed in thought, but I didn’t push my luck by continuing to harangue her. I’d been around her type often enough to know that I had to be careful. She was unwaveringly loyal to Varon, and to her I was little more than some gutter-born thief. We walked on for a while, listening to Master Boros’ tuneless whistling.

After a long silence she finally spoke. ‘He’s not slept in days. He barely eats. I hear him muttering to himself, whispering, in an argument with something that isn’t there. There’s something gnawing away at him, but whatever it is he won’t speak of it.’

‘Ever since we arrived here, he’s been clutching that book,’ I said. ‘Do you even know what it contains? Why has he brought it here?’

She shook her head. ‘It is not my place to ask. He leads, and I follow.’

‘Are we sure he’s not leading us somewhere we can’t come back from?’ I said.

I immediately realised my mistake. Tavyat stiffened, her concern replaced by frosty mistrust of me.

‘Ammos Varon is my sworn companion. He has saved my life on many occasions, and I have sworn a life-oath to his service. He is tired from our long journey, and wearied by the demands of his duty. Do not question him again.’

With that, she strode off after her master. Boros followed on, still whistling and apparently oblivious to the tension.

‘Well, that went well,’ Jacques said. ‘Next time, may I suggest operating with a little more delicacy?’

‘Thanks for your counsel,’ I muttered, and followed on after my companions.

Chapter Nine

The entrance to the Tower of a Thousand Doors lay beyond a courtyard of looming statues. A mist had descended upon us, covering the stone forms of mythical beasts in a faint, green shroud. In the distance, the ice-white wall of the tower rose high, high into the sky. Such was the sudden pall of fog that I saw no more than a few yards ahead.

‘Where’s this damnable mist come from?’ said Jacques.

We crept forward into the silent plaza, shivering at the cold that gnawed at our bones.

‘You go first,’ I said to Grey Jacques, who was padding softly behind me.

‘Why?’ he asked. ‘Because I’m already dead?’

‘Exactly. If something kills you, we’ll know it’s a trap.’

‘Madame, I am sorely wounded. Just because I am immortal, do not think that I cannot suffer pain. The nature of my condition does not prevent a poison arrow from causing an unpleasant end, nor ease the agony of being crushed by a hidden deadfall.’

‘Yes, but being squashed to death will be decidedly less final for you than for me. So please, do me the honour.’

The thief sighed, and went ahead. He drew his rapier, moving gracefully across the square. In the thick mist, the statues took on a particularly menacing aspect, like half-glimpsed monsters looming out of the fog. They were facing one another along the central avenue leading to the foot of the tower. Ahead, I saw the faint outline of an arched doorway, surrounded by stone gargoyles and winged beasts.

Drifting in on the cold air came a particularly foul smell – the sweet-sour scent of rotten meat. I raised my sleeve to block my nose.

At the same time the putrid scent reached our nostrils, Jacques raised a hand, ordering us to a halt. There was nothing but silence all around. The sounds of birdsong had ceased, and so had the soft and distant strains of music.

‘What in Sigmar’s name is that stench?’ muttered Tavyat, her brutish face locked in a grimace.

‘The dead,’ said Varon. His face was as pale as a corpse, and he held his pistol in trembling hands as he stared into the thickening fog. There was no fear in his eyes. In fact, they shone with a hazy light. For the briefest moment I thought that I saw a blazing green flame skitter across the blacks of his eyes.

Then we saw them. Hideously familiar shapes, racing out of the mist. Skeletal warriors, their yellow bones slimed with weeds and encrusted with barnacles. And behind, looming over the teeming horde, a palanquin of sinew and bone, borne aloft by fleshless hands. A familiar figure rode atop the hideous thing, black-cloaked and hooded. I saw the skull-like face of the necromancer who had ambushed us aboard the Pride of Talyn.

‘Kauss,’ growled Varon.

There were too many by far for us to fight, and the fog had let them draw terribly close. They spilled into the plaza like a great wave of yellow bone, loping towards us from all sides. Tavyat shoved me roughly behind her as she brought up her blade in a high guard.

The frontrunners were only a dozen yards away when they passed beneath the statue of a female warrior with the face of a hawk standing upon a pile of sundered shields. There was a low, mechanical click and a column of flame erupted from the ground, enveloping the skeletons. They staggered on for a few steps, wreathed in fire, before collapsing to the ground.

That was the opening shot in a great cannonade. The skeletal warriors ran on, heedless of the traps beneath their feet. Great explosions of flame rolled across the courtyard, swallowing dozens of the undead things. Black smoke billowed out around us, mixing with the mist like ink spilling into water. The undead tide showed no sign of abating, and the colossal undead palanquin loomed ever closer.

‘Follow me!’ shouted Jacques. ‘Run only where I run!’

And he took off, zigzagging between the statues on an erratic path. My companions and I sprinted after him, doing our best to ape his every footstep. A burning skeleton lumbered across our path and Tavyat swept her broadsword across to smash its ribcage apart in a cloud of dust. Some of it went in my eyes, and I cursed and stumbled, but the warrior reached down to grasp my hand, dragging me along with her.

Jacques leapt over a tile, then suddenly skidded to a halt.

‘Down!’ he cried, falling to his knees.

We followed suit, and not a moment too soon. A barbed chain fired from the hand of the statue to our left, whipping over our heads so close that I felt it brush my hair. Clattering footfalls and the hideous creak of bone joints had me scrambling to my feet. The skeletons were closing in on all sides, striding out of the thick smoke.

The doorway loomed ahead of me. Grey Jacques was already there, kneeling before the ornate metal panel. He was studying a terrifyingly complex pattern of locks and bolts. The door was closed fast.

‘You may need to buy me some time,’ he said, drawing a set of tools from his belt.

Tavyat skidded to a halt and turned, facing the onrushing horde of undead. Varon had drawn his second pistol from his belt. He fired once, and a skeletal warrior came apart in an explosion of dust. His second shot blasted the leg from another.

Master Boros was fiddling with his pack. He produced a strange object that had the appearance of a mechanical spider. Turning a key mounted upon the iron arachnid’s back, he tossed it to the floor. It skittered away across the flagstones, and when it reached a pack of skeletons it leapt into the air and exploded in a burst of blue-white flames, scattering the undead warriors like game pieces.

Yet for every skeleton we brought down, a dozen more emerged from across the misty plaza, racing towards us.

I knelt at Jacques’ side. The lock he was working on looked like something one might find on an Azyrite bank vault. Three interlocking discs of gold were mounted upon a silver panel, each carved with the sigils of the zodiacal beasts and with a small, circular hole in the centre. Above this, there was an incredibly intricate series of latches and springs. Jacques’ face was locked in concentration. He had inserted a thin, copper wire into the largest of the discs, and was slowly rotating his hand, feeling for some kind of sweet spot.

‘I don’t want to rush you,’ I began, ‘but we’re about to–’

The thief held up his free hand for silence. ‘How steady is your hand?’ he asked.

‘Steady enough,’ I said.

‘Good. Because it’s extremely important that you take hold of that copper wire and do not move it from its current position. So much as twitch and not only will we be overrun, but also you notice those holes above your head?’

He raised his eyes to indicate a channel of small indentations carved into the overhanging stone.

‘My guess is that those will liberally apply some form of acid or burning liquid to any would-be intruders,’ he said. ‘Fear not. I think I have it. Just take this.’

Gingerly, I took hold of the copper wire. I felt the tension in the metal immediately. Jacques had managed to find and apply pressure to a pin or cog inside the lock. Gunshots rang in my ear, and I heard the crunch of bone as another skeleton was hacked apart by Tavyat’s blade.

Apparently uninterested in the battle being fought behind us, Jacques was whistling a merry tune to himself as he continued to work. He applied the same procedure to the second golden disc, using one hand to slowly seek out the correct spot. I heard the faint click of another pin being shifted, and there was a low clunk of metal deep inside the workings of the great door. Still holding his right hand in that awkward position, without the slightest hint of movement in his wrist, Jacques used his left to work upon the final series of latches and springs. His hand danced across the surface too fast for me to track, and I heard another low grinding of gears. The door to the Tower of a Thousand Doors swung open.

‘So simple?’ said Grey Jacques. ‘I’m almost disappointed.’

‘Inside,’ I yelled, and my companions turned and ran into the opening, Tavyat aiming one last slice that carved through the spine of the nearest skeleton. Once on the other side, we tried to heave the immense door closed behind us, but skeletal warriors slammed against the opening, their yellowed fingers scrabbling to tear at our flesh. Tavyat and Varon hacked and smashed at the fleshless hands that clawed at them, while Master Boros pulled another device from his pack. This one was a bottle of clear liquid, stoppered with a red wax bung. He closed his yellow teeth around the stopper and dragged it free with a loud pop. A foul chemical stench filled the air, like a cross between raw alcohol and tannery run-off. My eyes started to water.

‘Watch your arms,’ he warned the witch hunter and his companion, holding the bottle warily. ‘You don’t want to get this stuff on you, believe me.’

As the skeletons continued to scrabble in a desperate attempt to claw their way through the door, Boros poured the contents of the bottle down the edge of the frame. It sizzled and hissed as it struck the metal and the clawing arms of undead warriors, then expanded and solidified, puffing out like a growth of coral. The jaws of the skeletons still clicked and rattled as they desperately tried to dislodge themselves, but they were stuck fast and helpless. Tavyat laughed and began to smash their skulls in carefully with the pommel of her blade.

‘That’s a nice trick, old man,’ she said approvingly.

‘Gall-slime of a runculus,’ Boros explained, throwing the empty glass container aside. ‘Strongest adhesive in the realms. A single drop could glue a gargant’s balls together. You don’t want to know what I went through to get it.’

We had entered a small, unadorned entrance hall, semicircular in shape. On the far wall were seven doors. Each was unique in colour and design. One was made from seashells, another from marble. One looked as though it were carved from gnarled tree roots. Other than these portals, the room was almost featureless.

‘Any ideas?’ I asked Grey Jacques. The thief simply shrugged and ran his fingers through his moustache.

‘So we just pick one. At random.’

‘The Latchkey Isle is not built upon randomness,’ Jacques said. ‘There is a logic to everything, even if it is hidden well behind obfuscation and trickery. Without a pattern, there can be no joy in solving any puzzle.’

He studied each entrance in turn, running his fingers across the surface.

‘We’re out of time,’ I said, and the clattering of blades on bone lent urgency to my words. ‘We cannot stay here.’

No sooner did I speak the words than there was an almighty explosion that blasted the doorway wide open, spilling gouts of choking smoke into the hall. Tavyat and Varon were sent flying across the chamber. Varon crashed into me, and we both tumbled to the floor painfully.

Silhouetted in the doorway was the necromancer Kauss, limned with purple flame. The gaunt, pale-skinned man strode into the tower, flanked by his undead guard. Tavyat was on her feet again in an instant, charging at the pair with a furious bellow. The tall man swept his staff, and snaking chains of greenish, spectral matter wound around Tavyat’s body, sapping the strength from her charge. She toppled limply to the floor, jerking and twitching, her face visibly withering like a corpse left out in the sun.

‘No!’

Varon started after her, but I held onto his arm tightly. I didn’t like leaving my companions behind if I could help it, but I was no fool. There were some battles you just couldn’t win.

‘You can’t do anything!’ I shouted. ‘Let’s go!’

Skeletons swarmed into the chamber, blades drawn. The gaunt figure’s eyes locked upon Varon, and flicked down to the satchel at his side.

‘You!’ the necromancer shrieked, raising his staff to point at Varon. I fumbled behind me, reaching for the handle of the nearest door. It was freezing cold to the touch, and as I turned I saw that the surface was a sheet of black ice. There was no time to worry about the consequences. I yanked open the handle of the door and fell backwards, pulling Varon with me as a bolt of screaming fire swept over our heads.

Chapter Ten

As we tumbled into the chamber, we struck slick ice and skidded across the floor. Yet without any input from myself, the door slammed shut behind us, leaving us in silence. We staggered upright, awkwardly stumbling as our boots tried to gain purchase on the ice. I expected the handle of the door to start rattling and shaking at any moment, but no such sound came. Before I could stop him, Varon raced forward and swung it open.

There was nothing on the other side of the door but empty air, and a thousand-foot drop to a raging river. Varon gasped in surprise, staggering backwards and losing his footing on the treacherous floor. Carefully, I made my way over to the opening. It made no sense. As near as I could make it, we were looking down from a building at the very apex of the cavern. In fact, I could see the Tower of a Thousand Doors itself, far below, and the snaking route by which we had entered the city, out towards the great lake.

I slammed the door shut, not wanting to trip and accidentally plunge into the abyss.

Varon grabbed me by the front of my coat and slammed me into the wall. His eyes were wide, and his face locked in a furious snarl. He looked deranged.

‘Fool!’ he hissed. ‘I did not tell you to flee. Now we are separated from our companions and lost.’

‘You would have preferred to stay?’ I shouted back, struggling to choke the words out. Varon’s grasp was fiercely strong. My free hand closed upon my dagger, ready to sink the blade into Varon’s side if he did not let me go. ‘If we had remained in that chamber, we would all be prisoners of your necromancer friend. And that would have ended your mission rather finally, would it not?’

Varon’s eyes closed, and he shook his head. His grip upon my coat loosened, and I pulled myself free. The witch hunter stumbled and leaned against the door, breathing heavily. His lips were moving as he muttered to himself, and I frowned as I tried to make out the words.

Then, his expression changed. Once again, he became the unreadable, serene man I had first met so many days ago in the dungeons of Lethis.

‘You are right,’ he said. ‘Your decision was the correct one. As long as you and I are free, we can still achieve our task. Please, Miss Arclis, let us proceed.’

There was something profoundly disturbing about the man’s erratic mood swings, and the manner in which his eyes followed me unblinkingly around the room, but I did my best to ignore it and focus upon the problem at hand.

I took in our surroundings. We were standing in a circular chamber, not wide in diameter, but very tall. So tall, in fact, that I could barely make out the ceiling a few hundred yards above our heads. It looked strangely organic – I could see the glimmer of spear-sized icicles hanging over us. The walls were blue crystal, the same material as the floor, and freezing to the touch. Straight ahead of us, upon the wall directly opposite the entrance, there was an opening, just visible from where I was standing. It was perhaps a couple of dozen yards up. There was no other way out of the chamber, so far as I could see, apart from the way we had just come, and now that had turned into a thousand-foot precipice, our options were limited.

‘That’s where we’re headed then,’ I said. ‘Are you a decent climber, master witch hunter?’

Varon did not respond. I turned to find him on one knee, one hand clasped to his temple. His eyes were shut, but his mouth was moving in what looked like a silent prayer.

‘Varon?’ I asked. His eyes opened, and the man shot me a very confused look. As though he had no idea who I was. It passed quickly, and his face settled upon its usual unflappable calm.

‘It’s nothing,’ he said, climbing to his feet. ‘Just a touch of fatigue.’

‘You know, this would be a lot easier if you told me what was going on,’ I said. ‘You have been on your last nerve ever since we entered this place. What is wrong with you?’

‘As I said, you need not concern yourself,’ he snapped.

‘It’s the book, isn’t it? Valagharr’s tome.’

His eyes bulged madly, and for a moment I thought that he would go for my throat again. But in a moment the flash of rage was gone, and he was calm again.

‘Do not test my patience, aelf,’ said Varon. ‘You need only concern yourself with the orders I give you. Do not make me question your value. And please, dismiss any thoughts of abandoning me here. If you attempt to flee I will make sure you spend the rest of your life in a dungeon even deeper and darker than the Black Pit of Lethis.’

My response died in my throat as a great shadow passed beneath our feet. I gave an involuntary yelp of surprise. Under the thick ice that formed the floor of the chamber was a deep pool of water, through which something vast and sleek was moving. Its form was masked by the opaqueness of the crystal, but I thought I saw the glimmer of a great eye peering up at us through the thick crust of ice.

‘What is that?’ Varon muttered. I had no answer. The shadow continued to circle beneath us, gathering speed each time it passed.

A trickling sound dragged my attention away from the thing lurking below our feet. I glanced at the wall of the cavern, and saw rivulets of water dribbling down the frozen wall. As I watched, a section of ice sloughed away, falling to shatter on the ground. My breath no longer misted before me, and my boots were sinking into the ice, which shifted and groaned beneath us. Spiderweb patterns of splinters spread out ominously across the chamber.

I glanced at Varon, who met my gaze with an expression that suggested he had reached the same unpleasant conclusion as I had. If the floor of the chamber melted through, we would find ourselves sharing the water with whatever in Sigmar’s name that black shape was.

‘Move!’ yelled Varon, needlessly. I was already dashing for the ice wall. Using my dagger as a makeshift pick, I stabbed it into the frozen surface and scrambled for a foothold. Water was pouring down the surface now, and it made every handhold treacherous as we scrambled for the ledge. Inch by agonising inch we climbed. There was a terrible splintering sound, and I looked up to see a spear-shaped icicle dropping towards me with the speed of a harpoon. Awkwardly balanced on the melting surface as I was, there was no way to avoid it. I knew, for a brief and terrible moment, that I was about to die.

Varon grabbed the back of my pack and yanked. I lost my grip on the wall, and the dagger almost slipped from my hand. I expected to topple into empty space, but somehow the man held me in place as my legs dangled uselessly over the melting ice. I could still see that hungry yellow eye blazing up at me. I was by no means a heavy burden, slight even for an aelf, but I did not know how he kept me from falling. Somehow I managed to thrust my makeshift pick back into the wall and find a foothold.

At that very moment, the icy floor of the cavern splintered and collapsed, and suddenly we were suspended above a churning pool of water. I made the mistake of looking down, and saw a circular maw of foot-long fangs and a lashing coil of tentacles.

Energised by terror, I climbed like I have never climbed before or since. Each shaking handhold threatened to give way, and water was pouring freely over us as we made our way to what I sincerely hoped was safety. As I reached the lip of an opening, I scrabbled to swing my leg over the edge. I could feel the ice shifting under me, but by some miracle it held long enough for me to haul myself up. I was soaked to the skin and shivering terribly, but I could hardly let Varon fall after he had just saved my skin. I reached down and clasped his hand, dragging him to safer ground. We found ourselves on a rapidly shrinking shelf of ice, with a single door at its centre. I lunged for the handle, hauled it open and tumbled through, not even considering that it might be another sheer drop.

Thankfully, it was not. Instead, we sprawled across a hardwood, polished floor, bringing with us a torrent of icy water. Varon kicked the door shut behind us and we lay there for some time, sputtering and shaking with cold. I was so unbearably exhausted that at that moment death would have been little more than a nice bit of relaxation.

‘Thank you,’ I said at last. ‘You could have let me fall.’

Varon did not respond, nor even attempt to meet my eyes, but I knew he had heard me.

Eventually, we hauled ourselves upright and looked out across our new surroundings. The room was so vast that I could not see the ceiling. Like the Grand Librarium of Excelsis, concentric rings of platforms rose as far as the eye could see, connected by great, winding stairways. These floors contained not musty rows of books and vellum scrolls, but thousands upon thousands of doorways of all shapes and sizes: circular portals no larger than a duardin’s height; enormous, grandly ornate gateways; and fluttering curtains. I craned my neck to peer at the highest levels, and felt a rush of vertigo. It seemed to go on forever. Somewhere amidst all that lay a path that would lead us out of here.

Varon leaned against the wall. The longer we travelled, the worse he looked. Sweat poured from him in rivulets, though if anything the chamber in which we found ourselves felt cold to me. Still his arm was wrapped about the Tome of Valagharr, cradling it closely.

‘We could search this place forever, and still never find the right door,’ said Varon, his voice edged with weariness.

‘You wait here,’ I said, glancing at the witch hunter. ‘Rest awhile. Let me study the doors. There must be some clue as to how to get out of here. It’s like Jacques said, there has to be some kind of pattern, else this is all just meaningless. We’re missing something.’

Varon held his hand up in a gesture of acceptance and leaned back against the wall. He closed his eyes, but he did not release his grasp upon the book. I watched him a moment, trying to work out whether he had fallen asleep or was merely resting his eyes.

‘What are you waiting for?’ the witch hunter said, startling me. ‘Go about your work, Arclis. Find us a way out of here.’

I turned and made my way across the hall, taking in every door as I passed them by. Though the material and construction of each was vastly different, there was little ornamentation. Some had pearls or gems inset, and others were filigreed with gold and other precious metals, but hardly the gaudy splendour that we had seen elsewhere in the Latchkey Isle.

‘Come on,’ I muttered. ‘Give me something.’

I traced my fingers across oaken panels, obsidian stone and rough, igneous surfaces that were warm to the touch. Several I opened, finding only more maddeningly off-kilter pathways and dead ends. My path took me high into the rafters of the chamber, and I leaned out over the side to see if I could finally make out the ceiling.

All I saw was more rows of doorways, ascending on forever.

I was beginning to lose hope of ever getting out of this damned place. I would die here of thirst or hunger, with only a witch hunter who was slowly losing his mind for company. It was not the way I would have wished to go.

I let out a wordless cry of frustration, and it thundered in the cavernous space. Slumping to the floor, I thumped my head on the door at my back. Something sharp dug into my skull, and I cursed long and colourfully, rubbing the painful wound.

I turned to examine the surface, to find the source of the pain. This doorway was carved from what looked like simple, unvarnished rosebark, and was rough to the touch like a cavern-bat’s hide. A single, turquoise stone was embedded in its centre. An unremarkable little gem, clouded and roughly carved.

Frowning, I ran my fingers across it. It looked like luckstone – or Catseye as the traders from Vindicarum called it. It was a common mineral, mined in vast quantities and fashioned into trinkets of good fortune that the merchants of the city hawked to gullible travellers. Looking into the depths of the stone, I saw why it had earned its name. At the centre of the gem was a black, pupil-like imperfection. As I glanced at it from different angles, this dot seemed to swell and recede, as a hunting cat’s eyes grow wide and black when it is ready to pounce upon its prey.

Something was nagging at the back of my skull. Words that had been spoken to me recently hovered on the very edge of my tongue.

Then it struck me. The sphinx-like guardians of the Isle.

‘Dispense your trust wisely,’ the creature named Mysanta had said, ‘and look for the sign of the cat.’

Immediately suspicious of such good fortune, I grasped the handle of the door and hauled it open. Golden light seeped through the opening. Beyond lay a golden temple of wondrous design, a vast, vaulted chamber large enough to house a fleet of battleships. At the far end there was a circular doorway, flanked on either side by two great spheres of iron.

‘The Vault of Stars,’ I whispered, for it could surely be nothing else.

After all this time in search of it, my impulse almost took me through the doorway and into the chamber beyond, but I stopped myself before I passed the threshold, remembering Varon. If we were separated, I doubted I would ever find him again.

Fetching a piece of chalk from my pocket, I marked the door with a cross and retraced my steps, marking every hundred paces or so with another crude sign. I had absolutely no intention of forgetting the door’s location.

It took me at least an hour to find my way back to Varon. He was exactly where I had left him, though he was slumped forward, and I heard soft, shallow breaths.

The Tome of Valagharr had spilled from his hands. It lay on the floor in front of Varon, its spine open to show yellowing pages scrawled with spidery text.

‘Witch hunter?’ I said, loud enough that my words echoed in the hall. Varon did not respond. His eyes were rolled back in his head, exposing the whites, and his mouth hung open slackly.

I stood there for a long time, frozen by indecision. Finally, I could take that damned book away from Varon, maybe even get rid of it somehow. Perhaps if he no longer spent every waking moment cradling it like a newborn infant, he would come back to his senses.

Gingerly, I reached forward and grasped the book by its spine. Varon stirred, but only muttered to himself in his sleep. I could not identify his words, but the sound was pleading and childlike. I slid the Tome of Valagharr away from him and picked it up. It was heavy, and the human hide that formed its bindings reeked of age-old death. I had a strong inclination to set fire to the damned thing, or simply open the nearest doorway and hurl it through.

But even stronger than my revulsion was my curiosity. It’s a trait that has made me a passingly successful archivist and archaeologist, but as many times as it has benefitted me, it has proven a curse. What secrets could be gleaned from a document as ancient as this, something dating back to the most glorious days of the Age of Myth?

Heart hammering, I opened the deathmage’s book. The pen-strokes were as small and precise as a surgeon’s cut. The language I did not recognise. It had a hieroglyphic quality, and an angular cleanliness that spoke of great precision. Scattered across the pages were geomantic diagrams and illustrations. Some were esoteric things, far beyond my understanding. Others were all too clear – diagrams of dissected corpses, aelf, human and duardin, their bodies marked with glyphs, leering skulls and inverted pyramids of fused flesh. Notes had been scribbled in the margins, some in the same ancient tongue, others in more legible Azyrite text. I turned to a page that showed an arrangement of thousands of embalmed corpses arranged in a series of concentric circles, an altar of obsidian stone at their centre.

Not enough, read the words scrawled across the image. Not nearly enough.

Though I did not understand the words, an impression began to form clearly in my mind. This was a dispassionate, appallingly rational document of a man’s obsession with death. I was about to hurl the book aside, as far away as possible, when I noticed something strange.

The hieroglyphs began to shift and blur together. Words and sentences spilled into one another, ancient ink running across the page and coalescing into more familiar forms. To my shock, I realised that I could read every word, for the language of the book was now that of High Azyrite, of an ancient but legible derivation. I stared at the first words that caught my eye.

Who is it now that seeks the forbidden truth? Not the pious one, the lapdog. I sense none of his tedious righteousness. Tell me now.

‘Shevanya Arclis,’ I said, the words dragged out of me against my will.

An aelf? I have not felt the presence of your kind in centuries. The last of the Twin Gods’ folk to converse with me was the same wretch who tore my soul apart. He paid for that insult with his life. The curse I laid upon him, oh, that was one of my finest works.

‘What are you?’ I gasped, as I felt blood pouring from my ears, trickling out of my nose. The power of the disembodied voice drove me to my knees. I could feel the thing’s predatory amusement as it toyed with my mind. It rifled through my thoughts and fears as if I were a book, laid out before it with every page of my soul exposed.

I struggled. I gritted my teeth and bent every fibre of my will against that awful presence, but it was impossible to deny.

Do not resist. It will only prolong the agony. You have a strong soul, but my power grows exponentially the closer I get to my phylactery. I can feel it even now, calling out to me – I am a broken shard of he that was Valagharr, but soon I shall be remade entirely. Your friend there will see to it.

My eyes flicked to the side. There stood Varon, a manic expression in his eyes that could have been fury or terrible fear. He struck me hard, bowling into me so that the Tome of Valagharr spilled from my hands. No sooner had it tumbled to the floor than the voice inside my skull ceased its mocking laughter. But I was punch-drunk and sickened, reeling from the terrible feeling of that malevolent entity digging its claws into my being.

I staggered and fell against the doorway ahead of me, my gorge rising and my head spinning. I felt fingers close tight around my throat. Ammos Varon slammed me into the unyielding metal. I gasped and struck out, trying to break the hold, but the witch hunter’s grip was like iron. My vision swam.

‘Thief,’ snarled Varon. His voice sounded very far away. ‘It was inevitable, in the end, that you would steal from me. Do you think that if you gift the Tome of Valagharr to Arkhan’s hounds, they will let you go free?’

‘Varon,’ I gasped. ‘Don’t… you see? What… it’s doing to you? I… can help.’

‘The Order thanks you for your service,’ said Varon. He reached down and grasped the handle of the door, and I felt a gust of foetid, chill air as he hauled it open. I scrabbled for my dagger, but before I could draw it the witch hunter slammed my head into the wall again.

‘I believe your usefulness is at an end, aelf,’ said Varon, and with that he shoved me through the opening and into empty air.

Chapter Eleven

My world was a blur of pain and sickening motion as I toppled, screaming, into darkness. How long I fell, I cannot recall, but my battered body scraped against walls and struck a protruding passing blur of an object with force enough to yank my shoulder from its socket. This wave of agony was soon followed by a sudden, terrible slap as I struck freezing water.

Icy cold enveloped me. I dragged in a mouthful of putrid water, and immediately felt an almost overwhelming urge to throw up. I splashed and struggled instinctively, filled with the all-consuming madness of panic. That could have easily been the end of my career right there in that dank, subterranean pool, but by some miracle I managed to gather enough of my wits to cease my frantic struggling and shake off the shock that threatened to overwhelm me. Through a cloud of bubbles I could make out the outline of a strange device indeed – a spear-shaped nose of battered, rusted metal, surrounded by wires and protrusions, descending into the darkness beneath me. The head was embedded in the smooth stone of a circular wall that dropped into an abyss beneath my flailing legs. There was no motion down there, but the sight still sent a primal shiver of dread through my bones.

Sickly green light bled down through the surface of the man-made pool into which I had fallen. There was a rough slope that led out of the water, and I made my way to this, hoping dearly that I could haul myself onto dry land. Fortunately the slope, though steep, was manageable, and I gracelessly struggled my way to the surface.

I dragged myself up onto a shelf of pitted rock and lay there for a long while, spluttering and shaking, trying to regather my senses.

Varon had tried to kill me. For all my suspicions about the state of the man’s mind, I’d never expected that he wanted me dead. Why would he? I’d done exactly as he asked, getting him this far into the Latchkey Isle. I remembered the look upon his face as he had pushed me over the abyss. There had been a cruel delight in the man’s eyes that I had never seen before.

I shook my head and dragged myself to my feet, groaning in pain as I felt my damaged shoulder. I was lucky, beyond lucky that this was the only injury I’d suffered in my long fall, but it burned like fire. I could barely raise my arm above head height without black spots dancing across my vision.

Nursing the injury, I took in my surroundings for the first time. Overhead, the smooth walls of the chute disappeared into darkness. I could not hear the sounds of battle or the howls of gheists, and so I judged that I must have fallen some distance. Or perhaps the city had changed around me once more. In any case, there would be no making my way back up that way.

I was standing in the mouth of a rough-hewn, circular tunnel that ended at the foot of the pool. Behind me the channel stretched off into the distance, shimmering with that same emerald luminescence I had seen from beneath the surface. It was wide, perhaps as wide as a city’s main avenue, and quite unlike any other section of the Latchkey Isle that I had seen so far. There was no skill in its construction. Indeed, it was almost organic in nature, the walls marked with wide, rough gouges that looked as though they had been made by a gigantic chisel. I recalled the vehicle I had seen submerged in the pool. Sure enough, at the far side of the chamber, across the water, the wall was broken and pitted, as if it had been struck by an enormous fist. Deep cracks ran across the stone, wide enough for me to fit my arm in.

Someone had torn their way through the stonework to this point, only for the device they had been using to somehow malfunction and explode. But who would attempt such a thing, in here of all places? The nature of the subterranean pool I could not fathom. Perhaps it was simply part of some other ingenious dungeon, another hazard for the Isle’s deathless explorers to navigate.

Regardless, when given the choice I always avoided swimming through pitch-darkness, and so I had only one route left open to me. Gritting my teeth, I hobbled down the tunnel.

It wound on for several hundred paces, and the further I progressed, the more insistent the green light became. I thought that I heard sounds ahead – hisses and the shrieking of machinery. As I turned the corner, the tunnel widened somewhat, and the roof opened up into an immense cavern, large enough to house a Kharadron airship. As soon as I entered this chamber, I knew that there was something rotten close at hand. A sour, sharp smell met my nose, a chemical reek that made me gag. The cavern floor was entirely covered by detritus. Cracked-open sarcophagi lay forgotten next to beautifully painted murals, amidst piles of precious jewels and glittering crowns. There was a king’s ransom in this room. Enough to keep any self-respecting thief in liquor and debauchery for the rest of their lifetime. Yet it was scattered about with no thought for its value.

At the far end of the cavern was something stranger still. A haphazard tangle of machinery, curling pipes and wheezing generator-billows, all sparking with faltering bursts of electricity and casting a cancerous glow across the vast space. Optimistically you might call it a workbench, but more accurately it looked like a bomb had detonated in an artificer’s workshop. A hunched figure stood before this assemblage, its back turned to me, its attention fixed upon whatever experiment it was conducting.

I drew my dagger and inched closer, cautiously ducking behind jumbled piles of loot.

The figure was small, smaller even than Master Boros, but there was a wiry grace to its movement. It wore a ragged cloak of black, above which protruded a collar of spiked iron. A long, scabby tail tipped with a vicious-looking blade jutted from beneath the tattered robe, whipping back and forth. It clutched a staff of black wood, mounted atop of which were a trio of barbed hooks and an inset emerald crystal.

Another flash of lightning filled the chamber. It illuminated several gibbets that dangled from the wall of haphazard machinery. Each was occupied by a yellowed skeleton, with elongated, rodent-like skulls. The scuttling figure stood up from its work, and I caught a glimpse of matted grey-brown fur.

Revulsion overcame me. I would recognise the foul stench of a skaven anywhere. Their foul presence could be found all across the realms, the vermin scavenging and looting sites of unthinkable value, leaving their hideous mark upon everything they touched. I had learned to hate them even more than the greenskins – orruks were brutish barbarians, but at least they were usually predictable in their ferocity. The ratmen had a devious ingenuity that I truly feared. Moreover, I had witnessed their gleeful cruelty first-hand, and had no intention of falling into this creature’s hands. I scanned the walls of the cavern, searching for a way out that would lead me safely past the rat-thing.

There was a crevice in the eastern wall, between two huge piles of boxes that were covered with moth-eaten drapes that might once have been luxurious silk curtains – large enough, perhaps, for me to squeeze through. Light bled out of it, tinged with silvery-blue rather than the vile green that filled this chamber. If my luck held, it might prove to be my way out of this place.

I inched closer, but the scattered piles of junk formed a treacherous terrain. I was forced to judge every footfall with care, for a wrong step could send a mountain of junk toppling loudly to the floor. Even taking the utmost care, my boots crunched upon the shards of a broken mirror. I fell to the floor, rolling into cover behind an upturned chest of amber crystals. There was a long moment of tense silence. I could see the skaven’s reflection in the remnant of the broken mirror. Its ugly, scarred face was twisted with fury, and its yellow eyes darted about the cavern.

‘Silence!’ shrieked the creature suddenly, spinning about to face the hanging gibbets. ‘Pitrikk is working, fool-scum. Cease your whimpering, Scablig, or I will put the lightning to you again, hear-hear? And you, Rikkit, do you think I do not hear-smell you plotting against me? Fool-fool. Do you not know what happens when you anger me?’

The rat-thing’s yellow clawed hand reached out and grasped a lever, yanking it down viciously. Green lightning rippled across the mountain of junk, encasing all of the dangling cages in a halo of sparks. The skeletons within danced and twitched, and the rat-thing cackled in delight.

‘Soon-soon,’ the figure continued. ‘No more of this broken place. Soon-soon Pitrikk will be free. Soon he will return to Blight City and rip-tear all his enemies to bloody bits.’

Chortling to itself, the rat-thing disappeared behind the bank of machinery. What purpose the immense structure served, I could not say. Two conical brass horns reached up towards the crystal cavern above, wound with copper wires and crystal foci. Merely standing close to the thing sent an unpleasant tremor through my body. There was an unpleasant chemical taste at the back of my throat, and my head throbbed painfully.

Carefully, I picked my way across the chamber to the gap in the wall. Bone scrunched beneath my feet, and I heard the squeaking and hissing of vermin. Pale, scrawny rats the size of my fist skittered across the ground, fleeing before me.

There was no sign of the robed skaven. Holding my breath, I darted across the chamber, weaving my way between piles of garbage.

No more than a foot from the opening, the pile of boxes to my left erupted as an enormous form burst from beneath the silk covering. It was a horrific fusion of flesh and metal, near three times my height and rippling with corded muscle. An enormous, ratlike cranium leered down at me stupidly, caustic slobber drooling from its open mouth. The immense golem raised two club-like fists, strapped to which were vicious, curved hooks and vials of sinister green liquid. It took a swipe at me, a heavy blow that surely would have torn me into bloody chunks. I fell backwards, gasping in pain as my injured shoulder struck the ground.

From behind me I heard more lumbering footsteps, and turned to see another of the horrors striding across the cavern, this one with rotary cannons welded to its bloody arm stumps. It screeched as it came on, a demented, animalistic sound, and the barrels of its guns began to whine and spin.

‘Got you, thief!’ shrieked the hooded rat, who was riding atop the rat-golem’s shoulder, levelling a long-barrelled pistol in my direction. ‘No fleeing for you, aelf-scum. No stealing Pitrikk’s treasures!’

I raised my hands in surrender, an almost comically impotent gesture in the circumstances. The blade-armed golem behind me reared up, about to bring its scything claws down upon me.

‘Stop!’ the skaven shrieked.

The robed being leapt to the floor, and I scrabbled backwards as it ran towards me, madness in its eyes. Even for a skaven this one reeked abominably. Its armour, which otherwise appeared sturdily made, was spattered with blood and filth, its robes crusted and the skin around the ugly, narrow face red raw with mange.

Pausing just a few inches from me, the rat-thing recoiled, hissing and exposing a row of blackened fangs. It began to hack and spit. It turned again and glared at me, this time with narrowed eyes that showed a vicious cunning.

‘Filth-filth,’ it said. ‘Where did it come from? Why does it smell… alive? Are you a dead thing, aelfling? Like the thief-ghosts that prowl into Pitrikk’s lair in search of his treasures? No!’

It scampered forward suddenly, and its claws sank into my arm. With a painful twist, the creature tore the dagger from my grasp and flung it away into the darkness. I stared into bloodshot eyes, the rat-thing’s noxious breath wafting into my nostrils.

‘Where did you come from, aelfling? Speak-speak, or Pitrikk will put the lightning to you! How did you come here? How do you plan to escape?’

‘Escape?’

‘For many-many years has Warlock Pitrikk been trapped here. All his magnificent creations destroyed or lost. No way out! All scum-slaves dead. Only these fools for company.’

At this the skaven waved a claw at the hanging cages, from which smoke was still rising. A foul stench of burned hair and bone drifted across the chamber.

‘Speak-speak!’ it roared. ‘How did it come here?’

‘Through the front entrance,’ I said, helplessly. I could not guide this insane thing to where Varon and I had entered the Latchkey Isle even if I wished to. I was as lost and helpless as it was, though in my current predicament admitting that seemed foolish.

The skaven leaned down, pressing its hideous face close to mine.

‘Pitrikk will find the truth,’ it hissed. ‘Pitrikk will boil the filthy aelf-thing’s flesh until it answers the truth.’

It waved a paw, and the blade-limbed rat-golem bent and hooked its claws into the leather of my coat, lifting me into the air. It lumbered over to the nearest of the hanging gibbets, and roughly forced me into the metal cage, pressing me up against the remnants of a dead rat-thing, its bones still smouldering from the terrible green lightning.

‘Now!’ said the skaven. ‘Tell me how it got into this place, or I burn it to dust-dust.’

The creature pointed a taloned finger at me, from which spat sparks of vile, green lightning.

‘Wait!’ I said, backing away, only to bump into the towering rat-golem at my back. The thing leered down at me idiotically, and a trail of drool spattered across the collar of my coat. ‘I can get you there, I can take you–’

Whether the wretched skaven understood my words or not, it did not seem to care in the slightest that I had agreed to its demands. It snapped its claws together, and a surge of green lightning rippled along the tower of scrap metal and wrapped around the cage, filling my world with terrible, blinding light. Agonising fire surged through my body. Every muscle screamed and my jaws ground together with force enough to splinter several teeth. The saliva in my mouth bubbled and boiled, and I screamed at the top of my lungs.

Suddenly, mercifully, the unendurable pain ceased.

‘Yes-yes, you will take us!’ said the rat-thing, cackling in delight. ‘Or more death-spark, aelf-thing!’

There was a loud crash at the far end of the chamber, and the skaven spun around, pistol raised, screeching in surprise. Though my vision was still blurry from the agony of Pitrikk’s lightning blast, I thought I saw something moving – something large and very fast.

‘Who goes there?’ shrieked Pitrikk. ‘Come out quick-quick, or I shoot!’

His rat-golems immediately followed their master’s word, and the gun-wielding specimen opened fire with his inbuilt cannons at the distant figure, stitching a line of bullets across the junk pile that blasted dozens of trinkets into scrap. I winced and clutched my ears at the deafening sound, which was amplified tenfold by the acoustics of the cavern.

‘Stop-stop, fool!’ Pitrikk was screeching, battering at the armoured leg plate of the immense creature with his staff. Its cannon whirred to a halt, smoke rising from the glowing barrel.

Striding forward through the devastation came the sleek and deadly form of an enormous hunting cat, its head shaped like that of a human. Through the fog of pain I saw a familiar, bearded face.

‘Hardly a welcoming gesture,’ said Theadicles. ‘But I should expect no less from one of your kind, rat. How long have you dwelt down here, a canker in the body of the Isle? To think that we did not even notice your presence. It galls me.’

‘And me also, brother,’ said Mysanta, padding along the edge of the room. It seemed impossible that I had not seen her until the moment she spoke – neither she nor her brother were small creatures, but despite their heavy forms they made not a sound as they moved.

‘Kill-kill!’ shrieked Pitrikk, waving a claw at the cacosphinx.

The rat-golems strode forward, guns and blades crackling to life.

Theadicles’ eyes flashed bright blue. The floor collapsed beneath the rat-golems and their master, dirt and stone melting into a liquid slurry. The monstrous things swayed and toppled as their footing gave way beneath them. The gun-armed abomination fired its chain cannons as it toppled into the growing whirlpool. Pitrikk tried to leap away, but as he scrabbled and clawed across the floor, it claimed him too. His cruel, yellow eyes widened in terror as the earth swallowed him whole. Almost as soon as his whiskers disappeared beneath the surface, the churning ceased, and the molten rock once more became solid.

The cacosphinx turned his gaze upon me.

‘Quite the trick, do you not agree?’ Theadicles said. ‘Ah, but that was nothing. Once, I could have turned that wretched creature into a pile of copper coins with just a glance. Or trapped him within a spinning wheel for all eternity. Now? I could barely summon the strength to banish it from my sight.’

‘You didn’t kill it?’ I asked.

Mysanta shook her head. ‘We simply swept the skaven under the carpet, so to speak. There is little joy in taking lives, and we only do so at the utmost necessity. It takes no wit, no cleverness to swing a headsman’s sword. No, our whiskered friend merely finds himself in some distant corner of the Isle, no doubt rather confused and angry.’

‘What are you?’ I asked.

‘Straight to the point, as always,’ Theadicles said, a smile upon his lips. ‘We are… perhaps were, guardians of this place. Servants of the Prince of Cats, who shaped this land from the faith of his worshippers. It was our pleasure to welcome those souls who had lived worthy lives to the Latchkey Isle.’

‘Where’s your master now?’

‘Dead,’ said Mysanta.

‘So she believes,’ said her brother, a hint of anger in his words. ‘Gone, certainly. But still we see to it that his will is done. And though the Isle is a shadow of the land it once was, we are not entirely alone.’

Another figure emerged, this one with just the one pair of legs. Jacques strode out of the shadows and offered me a polite bow.

‘Jacques!’ I said, genuinely pleased to see him. ‘What happened to the others? Where are Boros and Tavyat?’

‘In the clutches of our cadaverous pursuer, I am afraid,’ said the thief, his expression uncharacteristically grim. ‘It was all I could do to escape the necromancer’s clutches myself. But they live, at least for the time being.’

‘Not so humble,’ said Theadicles, ‘but skilled enough. It was by our hand that you encountered one another. You did not think it coincidence that you happened to run into this miscreant, just when it seemed as though you were on the brink of disaster?’

Things were suddenly beginning to fall into place.

‘You wished to know what we wanted with the Vault,’ I said.

‘We did. Many have come here in search of that place, ever since the God-King persuaded me to safeguard the damned thing within the Isle. The Prince of Cats never wanted it here. Nor the things that are kept within it. But one does not easily deny the will of Azyr. It has been a curse upon the Isle ever since.’

Mysanta waved a paw, and the door of my cage yawned open. I inched my battered body through the opening, and dropped to the floor.

‘Ah, you should have seen this place in its prime,’ she sighed. ‘Truly, the most beautiful and joyous of all the underworlds. It echoed to the sound of laughter, the tinkle of coins and the clink of wine glasses. With each rising sun our master’s faithful servants would roam the Isle, in search of hidden treasures, testing themselves against the most ingenious challenges that we could set for them. And every night my brother and I would remake it, level by level, chamber by chamber.’

‘What happened?’ I said.

‘They came. The Dark Gods and their servants. Civilisation was torn down and despoiled. Our flock were born of the great cities – they were guttersnipes and cutpurses, second-storey artists and smiling conmen who stripped the rich of their coin and laughed away the night in taverns and bawdy houses. There was no place for them in a realm conquered by malice and savagery. Ruled by war alone. They perished during the Great Fall, and the glory of the Latchkey Isle faded with the passing seasons. Some still remember the legends of this place. Some still mutter prayers to the Prince of Cats, but not enough. Not enough to keep the Isle from fading into memory.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, cringing at how useless the words sounded.

‘Do not be,’ said Theadicles. ‘All things end, and even the gods will not live on forever. Of course, I would rather not give in to hopelessness just yet. You have business to attend to, my dear Shevanya. I fear that something foul has taken hold of your friend Varon.’

‘It’s the tome,’ I said. ‘Valagharr’s book. He’s been clutching it like it’s his newborn baby. There’s some kind of sentience within those pages that has latched onto him like a parasite. Whatever has happened to him, he’s not himself. When I took it from him, it tried to get its fingers in my brain too.’

Jacques nodded. ‘She’s right. Whatever’s in his head, it’s guiding him to the Vault. Like it’s drawn there.’

‘Something has control of him,’ said Mysanta. ‘It seeks not to recover Valagharr’s Phylactery, but to shatter it and release the monster within. That cannot happen. The thing that resides inside is no longer mortal. No longer capable of anything but hate and destruction.’

‘The tome,’ I said. ‘Valagharr’s tome. When I opened it, I felt his voice inside my head. I tried to shut it out, but it wormed its way into my mind, and I could feel it rooting through my thoughts. If Varon hadn’t knocked it out of my hands, I don’t know what would have happened.’

‘It may have saved your life, but that was no act of kindness,’ said Theadicles. ‘If some remnant of Valagharr has crept inside his mind, your witch hunter is dangerous.’

‘Sigmar knows how long he’s been hearing those whispers,’ I said. ‘Since long before we met. Maybe he thinks he has it under control, that he can… use it, somehow.’

‘That is folly. Varon may be strong-willed, but he has set his soul against something he cannot hope to understand. We remember the days when Valagharr turned upon Azyr. We remember the nightmares he unleashed.’

‘Varon isn’t my comrade,’ I said, quietly. ‘He dragged me here against my wishes. I owe him nothing.’

Mysanta stared at me with those gleaming sapphire eyes. ‘We would not judge you for leaving. Nor would we try to keep you here against your will. We could even show you the way free of the Isle, should you wish it.’

Theadicles came forward.

‘But if we were to ask you to stay,’ he said, ‘and help us stop Varon from getting his hands on Valagharr’s Phylactery, would you do so?’

‘Why do you need my help?’ I asked. ‘Can’t you just open up some portal and trap him somewhere?’

‘We cannot enter the Vault,’ the cacosphinx said. ‘We are made from the stuff of the Isle, and can manifest wherever we wish within its borders. But the God-King made the Vault of Stars from other materials. It exists within our domain, but we cannot step inside. We can only show you the way.’

I was close, very close, to just walking away. What did I owe the world, really? I never asked to be a saviour, and Ammos Varon and I were not and would never be comrades. Yet the idea of abandoning Tavyat and Boros to death tugged at what passed for my conscience. And if Valagharr were to break free of his prison, many would die. Thousands, in all likelihood. I had the power to stop that.

‘Fate has an aggravating way of placing me at the wrong place at exactly the wrong time,’ I said.

‘On the contrary,’ said Mysanta. ‘I believe you are exactly where you should be. I only wish that you could have visited the Isle in its prime. You would have loved this place.’

‘You can get me to the Vault?’ I said.

She nodded. ‘Of course. But there is an army of the undead between you and Varon, and once you are inside, we cannot aid you. We need a plan.’

‘No doubt you will be wanting this,’ said Theadicles, reaching out with one paw and flicking something towards me. It skittered across the floor and came to rest by my boot. My dagger. I scooped the blade up gratefully, and tucked it into my belt.

‘An intriguing little weapon,’ said Theadicles, cocking his head curiously. ‘But blades alone will not suffice, I think.’

I ran the numbers over in my mind. It didn’t look good from any angle. Two-thirds of my companions were imprisoned, and the other was in the grasp of some ancient evil. To make things worse, our necromancer friend Kauss and his army of undead were still on the hunt for the Vault of Stars. All I could bring to bear was my dagger and my wits, both of which seemed utterly insubstantial for the task at hand.

Then it hit me. There was one card yet to play. It was risky to the point of stupidity, but it might just cause enough confusion and chaos that I could get to Varon and somehow prise that tome from his hands, maybe find a way to destroy it before it overcame him completely.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘I think I have a plan. I’m just not sure it’s a very good one.’

Chapter Twelve

We split up, Grey Jacques heading off to fulfil the most ambitious – and perhaps most ill-advised – part of my plan, while I made my way to the Vault of Stars. I crept back to the Tower of a Thousand Doors, expecting to run headlong into the Black Disciple and his rotting minions at any moment. Fortunately, the tower was once more eerily silent, with no sign of their presence.

It seemed that Sigmar was watching over me, at least for the time being. Reaching the door marked with the sign of the cat, I eased it open, wincing as the hinges squeaked loudly in the otherwise silent hall. Once more I entered the colossal space, with its enormous frescoed dome and stained-glass ceiling. As I made my way gingerly across the vast space, I saw to my dismay that the great circular door had been torn open and lay on its side, the handle twisted almost clean off. The sound of voices could be heard from the far side, booming as they echoed in the vast openness of the Vault.

‘You have run as far as you can,’ came a thin, reedy voice that I recognised as that of Kauss.

‘You are cornered,’ he went on, every word thick with satisfied arrogance. ‘Hand over the tome, Varon, lest you wish to die a slow, painful death.’

I pressed myself up against the opening, and inched my way around so that I could peer into the chamber beyond.

The room was shaped in a rough hexagon, with a circular stairway that looked something like the seats of an amphitheatre leading down towards a platform of solid gold, inlaid with swirling runes of ancient Azyrite origin. The floor ended in a precipice, and beyond that the chamber widened into a vast, underground gallery. The walls, which seemed to go on for miles, were lined with a variety of sarcophagi and glass cases of every conceivable size and shape – it was as if the private collection of every Azyrite noble had been combined into a single, vast underground vault. Bridges of gold criss-crossed the man-made cavern, providing access to the stored artefacts.

It was difficult to tear my eyes away from such grandeur, but I had more immediate things to worry about. I slipped inside, taking cover behind one of the great pillars that ran around the perimeter of the chamber.

At the centre of the floor directly below me, a field of glittering starlight encased a device – a coffin-shaped container of carved crystal, glowing with viridian light. It floated in mid-air, held aloft by the dancing lights.

Before it stood Ammos Varon, looking no better than he had when I last laid eyes upon him. He clutched the Tome of Valagharr, and his eyes were fixed upon the hanging container.

The witch hunter was not alone. Surrounding him on all sides, like a silent audience watching a play, were perhaps two-score skeletal warriors. Clearly more than a few had been blasted to pieces by Master Boros’ traps. At their head was the necromancer Kauss, leaning on his staff of bone. Tavyat and Boros were on their knees at his side, each guarded by an undead warrior with a blade held at their throat.

‘You are too late,’ Varon said. ‘At last. At long last, I am here.’

Whatever was speaking, it was not Varon. I knew that much at once. The soft-spoken voice was the same, but the cadence of the speech was completely different – staccato in nature, with a halting accent that I could not place.

‘The tome!’ screamed Kauss, thrusting out a clawlike hand. His skeletal guardian raised the knife above Tavyat’s eye, the tip of the blade scraping her eyelid.

The witch hunter smiled and waved an accommodating hand. The green light of the floating crystal device sparkled in his eyes. ‘Please. They have outlived their usefulness in getting me to this place. Their loyalty to Sigmar’s hound is admirable, in its way, but tedious.’

‘Master Varon?’ gasped Tavyat, blood trickling down her face. She looked like she’d just taken a dagger to the gut.

‘No. Not for some time now,’ said the thing wearing Ammos Varon’s body. ‘Oh, he is with me still, buried somewhere deep until I have need of him.’

I darted across to the next pillar, hugging the shadows. I dared not draw too close to the drama going on. I might be handy enough with a blade, but I’m not a fighter, and I did not particularly relish taking on a necromancer and his minions, along with whatever Varon had become.

‘Enough,’ spat the necromancer. ‘The tome you hold is the property of the Mortarch of Sacrament, sacred be his name. I will take it, and I will return you to Lord Arkhan. No doubt he will think of a fitting punishment for you, thief.’

Kauss rapped his staff upon the ground, and his skeletal warriors advanced across the floor towards Varon. They levelled their spears, closing in on the witch hunter, ready to impale him. The glistening spear-tips were barely an inch from the man’s flesh when he held up a hand.

Instantly, the undead soldiers came to a halt and raised their spears.

‘What?’ hissed the Black Disciple.

The thing that was Varon sighed, and gave a little shiver of satisfaction.

‘Oh, to wield the power of the amethyst wind once more,’ it said. ‘To be cut off from the song of Shyish – you cannot know what torture it is. Your master Arkhan could have destroyed what remained of me, for all that lingered after Huras and his weak-minded wretches did their work was a splinter of the man I once was. An echo, bound to the pages of my greatest work. This tome.’

Kauss gave a hiss of outrage and aimed his staff at Varon. A bolt of green soulflame spat from the tip of the stave, screaming towards the witch hunter. As it reached him, he simply opened a hand and caught the magic fast. The ball of sickly green flame hovered above his palm.

‘You should have killed me before I reached this place,’ said Varon, or rather Valagharr wearing Varon’s body. His lips parted in a cruel smile. ‘Perhaps you could have. Your magic is competent enough, though you are as limited in thought as that dullard Arkhan the Black. I was a student of his for a time, did you know that? Until my power grew to shame him. Until he betrayed me to the God-King’s wretched lackeys because he feared that soon Valagharr would outstrip him in glory and power, and take his place at the Court of Nagashizzar!’

Valagharr screamed the final words, and as he did so he swept an arm down like the blade of a guillotine. A scythe of spectral energy formed in the air and arced towards Kauss. The necromancer barely got his staff up in time, summoning a shield of writhing shadows that deflected the strike. The marbled floor split apart as thrusting claws reached up from beneath Valagharr-Varon to grasp and tear at his flesh.

The two men hurled magic back and forth across the chamber. So furious was the arcane duel that shattered marble rained from the ceiling, and several motionless skeletons were blasted into fragments by stray bolts of purple fire.

Kauss’ power was terrifying to witness. But somehow it was not enough. Tendrils of coiling, purple smoke wound around his limbs, rooting him in place. He hissed and cursed, veins bulging in his temples, but try as he might he could not move.

Valagharr-Varon was barely out of breath. He smiled, and shook his head.

‘It seems that Arkhan the Black is a poor teacher, Kauss,’ he said. ‘How disappointing. I thought that you might at least provide a challenge.’

‘Fool!’ the necromancer screeched, struggling hopelessly against the spell that bound him. ‘You think that I will be the last? A new age is coming. Nagashizzar rises, and all who defy the Great Necromancer’s will shall perish.’

‘You bore me,’ said Valagharr-Varon, and clenched his fist.

The Black Disciple’s skeletal servants turned and marched in perfect cohesion towards their master. As one, they plunged their spears and blades into the flesh of the pale man. The necromancer screamed and spat blood, hands scrabbling uselessly at the lengths of metal rammed through his gut. The sound of metal scraping across bone filled the chamber, as the skeletons mechanically stabbed, hacked and sliced the poor devil apart.

It was hard to feel too much sympathy for the man, considering that he had been perfectly willing to see me and mine slain in his desperate pursuit of Varon. But I still winced as the gruesome sounds continued to echo across the hall.

‘Enough,’ said Valagharr-Varon irritably. The squelching ceased. When the undead soldiers stepped back, our necromancer friend was little more than a puddle of gore and shredded robes. One problem dealt with.

Valagharr-Varon turned and studied the relic that was suspended in the sparkling field of light. While one hand clutched the skin-bound tome, the other stretched out, fingers splayed like a claw. Sparks of purple energy gathered at the witch hunter’s fingertips, and forked out towards the object. There was a loud crack, deafening in the open chamber, and a kaleidoscope of lights danced across the ceiling, illuminating the watching skeletons.

Moving as stealthily as I could despite my battered limbs, I crawled down the steps towards where Tavyat and Master Boros were still held by their undead guardians. The warrior’s face was bloodied, and she clutched what looked like a severely gouged arm, but otherwise she seemed well enough. Boros’ scalp was slick with blood, and he was swaying on his feet. He looked like he might drop dead any minute.

The edge of the stairway provided only the slightest hint of cover. I advanced as far as I could, and then could do nothing but wait and hope that Tavyat glanced in my direction. I didn’t dare risk trying to get her attention, because the skeletal guardians were only a dozen or so yards away.

Whatever Valagharr-Varon was doing, it was gathering momentum. The barrier protecting the phylactery crackled and warped as the being in Varon’s body poured magical energy into it. Not only that, but the surface of the box it contained was cracking and blistering. A black mist poured from within, coalescing into a shape that was almost human. The mist-wraith within the chamber stretched out its own hand, and Valagharr-Varon reached towards it, his face split by an insane leer.

Time was running out, and Jacques was still nowhere to be seen. And so I did something incredibly foolish.

‘Hello again,’ I called out, getting to my feet.

Chapter Thirteen

Valagharr-Varon’s eyes widened in surprise, and for a moment his concentration was broken. A curious smile spread across his face. Behind him, the wraith-thing hissed and crashed against its prison. As soon as they had heard my voice, the skeletons had turned and begun to advance towards me with spears raised, but the possessed man held up a hand and they stopped several paces away, eyeless sockets gazing at me indifferently.

‘I must thank you, Shevanya Arclis,’ said the thing wearing the witch hunter’s body. ‘I might not have made it this far without you. Varon was right – you do indeed have your uses. I am afraid it may have been better to leave while you had the chance, however.’

‘And waste the opportunity to converse with Mython Valagharr, betrayer of Azyr?’ I said. ‘Never. I have read so many tales of your reign of terror. Is it true you spoke with the God of Death himself? That you were once an honoured guest at the Court of Nagashizzar?’

Valagharr-Varon’s smile faded just a little, and a shadow passed across his face. It seemed that I had brought up a somewhat unpleasant memory.

‘None but the dead may walk within the Sepulchral City,’ he said softly. ‘But yes, the Great Necromancer spoke to me. He revealed to me the scale of the God-King’s delusion, and the universal truth that my peers could never grasp.’

‘What is that?’

‘That death shall triumph, always. There can be no fighting it.’

‘You sound a lot like our poor dismembered friend here,’ I said, gesturing to what remained of the Black Disciple. ‘Why did you kill him, if you and he both believe that death is such a thing to be revered?’

Valagharr-Varon laughed. ‘It was he that condemned me to this fate. He that sought to have those dull fools in the Collegiate assassinate me. All because he saw me as a rival, because he feared that one day I would replace him at the Great Necromancer’s side. I will have my revenge upon that one, do not doubt it. When I am done here, and the full measure of my spirit is restored, I will pay the Mortarch of Sacrament a visit. But that can wait, aelf. First, I must finish my business here. I will, however, grant you the honour of witnessing my return.’

‘And what happens to Varon?’ I said, determined to keep the man talking as long as possible. Time was not on my side.

‘He shall serve as a fitting vessel. His foolish arrogance was easy to exploit. He thought that his strong mind was impervious to my touch. I allowed him to believe this, while it served my needs.’

‘You led him here.’

‘I did. At first he sought simply to destroy my essence. But the longer he kept my tome in his possession, the deeper my whispers crept into his mind. And the nearer he drew to my essence, the greater my control.’

Valagharr-Varon snapped his fingers, and the skeletal warriors marched towards me and grabbed me roughly by the shoulders. Their fleshless fingers dug deeply into my skin, drawing blood. They dragged me down the rest of the stairs and onto the platform, marching me towards the witch hunter.

‘I wonder why it is you came here to die,’ said the deathmage. ‘Perhaps you think you have some clever plan to avert the inevitable.’

I shrugged, and rolled up my sleeves one by one.

‘Nothing up there,’ I said. ‘I seem to be all out of ideas.’

Valagharr-Varon walked closer. His skin was so thin and pale it seemed almost translucent. The witch hunter’s formerly soft grey eyes now blazed with shimmering green light. He reached out and grasped my chin with one hand, and I felt bitter cold seep into my bones.

‘You intrigue me,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I shall keep you alive, at least for a time.’

The thunderous, staccato blast of gunfire echoed from the entrance to the chamber. Valagharr-Varon’s eyes snapped to the doorway, and I followed his gaze.

Grey Jacques charged into the chamber, bullets shredding the polished stone around him. He threw himself into a forward roll, leaping over the balustrade of the descending stairs, and tumbling painfully for several yards before coming to a sprawling stop.

The thief-spirit hauled himself up onto his elbows, his usually well-maintained hair plastered across his face.

‘Miss Arclis,’ he said, panting. ‘I hereby present your distraction, as requested.’

An immense shape came tearing into the room. A musclebound, ratlike abomination with a smoking cannon growing out of both fists. The skaven Pitrikk stood on his fleshy mount’s shoulder, brandishing his vicious-looking pistol.

‘Yes, stink-filth humans!’ the creature screeched. ‘Pitrikk has found it at last, the hall of shiny things. It is all mine, at long last!’

The rat-thing’s cannon whirred and roared, and all hell broke loose.

Guiding his fleshy mount forward, Pitrikk charged down the stairs. The rat ogre’s weapons blasted great chunks out of the floor and walls as the creature waved them about, seemingly caring less for accuracy than random devastation. Even so, half a dozen skeletons were blasted into fragments as they were struck by the barrage. The air was filled with dust and pulverised stone. The skeleton holding me was struck squarely in the centre of its skull, which shattered with enough force to send shards of bone flying in all directions. One whipped across my forehead, carving a painful graze, and I threw myself to the floor.

The skaven’s death machine barrelled down the stairs towards Valagharr-Varon and I, smashing its way past the undead warriors that surged to stab at its stitched and malformed torso. With a bestial, spittle-flecked roar, the second monster burst through the doorway, kicking one skeletal spearman in the chest with force enough to cause it to explode in a hail of dust, punching out to strike the head from another.

I scrambled away across the floor as bullets whipped and screeched around me, heading for the relative cover of the amphitheatre stairs.

Valagharr-Varon cursed and muttered some dark incantation, summoning a ball of witchfire into his hand. He hurled the fireball straight at the gun-wielding rat monster, and it struck home with a great whumpf, wreathing the thing in hungry fire. The skaven Pitrikk gave a shriek of outrage and leapt from the golem’s back as it stumbled forward, bellowing madly.

‘Wretched vermin,’ Valagharr-Varon was shouting, his voice booming out above the carnage. ‘I will flay your soul, creature!’

Pitrikk fired his handcannon once more, and there was a blast of fire and smoke. The possessed witch hunter simply waved a hand, and the round sparked wide. It ricocheted across the metal-engraved floor, close enough that it rustled my hair. Howling and babbling indecipherably, the skaven warlock thrust out its metal-clawed hand, and a bolt of wicked lightning screamed across the chamber.

Valagharr-Varon met it with a torrent of amethyst flame, and once more the chamber was bathed in multicoloured lights as the two spellcasters duelled.

I felt bony fingers digging into my back, and turned to see a grinning, yellow skull gazing down upon me. The dead thing pulled back its spear, ready to run me through.

Tavyat slammed into it from the side, smashing it to the ground. With a primal bellow of rage, she made a club of her two fists and brought them down upon the prone skeleton. Its head splintered under the force of the blow, and its spear fell from fleshless fingers. Tavyat hooked her foot under the weapon and flipped it neatly into her hands. Boros staggered along behind her, still in a daze.

‘Was this your plan?’ Tavyat said, a note of incredulity in her voice.

I shrugged. ‘The situation called for some improvisation. Not my best work, admittedly.’

I think I saw the hint of a smile flicker across her bloody lips.

‘We need to stop him,’ I said.

The unspoken implication wasn’t lost on the swordswoman. She grimaced, and nodded.

‘Let’s get to it then,’ she said.

Easier said than done. The cascading fireworks display of magic was rippling across the chamber, tearing great gouges in the floor and blasting the frescoed walls to pieces. More skeletons rushed at Tavyat, and she smashed out with the haft of the spear, shattering ribcages and skulls. I ducked under the clumsy swing of another undead warrior, and sliced at its spine with my dagger. The obsidian weapon carved through its backbone with ease, and the skeleton toppled neatly in two halves.

‘We need to stop Valagharr before he can fully manifest,’ I shouted above the din of battle.

‘Fine. How in Sigmar’s name do we do that?’ said Tavyat. ‘Somehow I don’t think a spear or a sword is going to do the job.’

‘Fear not!’ said Master Boros, clicking his fingers. ‘Follow me.’

And the mad old engineer strode out into the middle of the battlefield, as bolts of fire and magic exploded all around him. He wandered unhurriedly, bullets kicking up at his feet, skeletal bodies exploding into dust all around him.

Tavyat and I shared an incredulous look and dashed off in pursuit.

Boros was making his way towards the far wall, where Kauss’ minions had piled up all the gear and weapons they had stripped from Varon’s companions upon capture. Tavyat caught up to Boros and pushed him out of the way of an undead spearman’s thrust, returning the strike with a blow of her own that pulverised its jaw. I followed, dagger blazing in my hand. Whatever strange magic lingered within the weapon, it was clearly empowered by the aura of death and magic that swirled within the chamber. It seemed to move in my hand of its own accord, darting out to intercept incoming strikes. Every slice and strike I dealt in return seemed to carve apart a spine or cleave a skull.

Pitrikk and Valagharr-Varon continued their duel, seemingly oblivious to our advance. The skaven’s pistol barked, spitting sorcerous volleys at the thing wearing the witch hunter’s face. Valagharr-Varon’s death-mask visage was locked in concentration as he responded with blasts of searing, amethyst lightning. The two rat-golems pulverised everything that came within reach. One lumbered past me, almost squashing me flat and forcing me to throw myself to the side to avoid its swinging fist. Clawed feet slapped down mere inches from my face, and I rolled sideways between the beast’s legs.

As its reeking mass passed over me, I saw that mounted upon the golem’s back, in a brass cage, was a deformed, squealing little monster, rodent-like in appearance but with a grotesquely swollen cranium that pulsed sickeningly. The golem picked up a skeleton in one meaty fist and crunched it into dust. I stared into the rodent-thing’s cruel, beady little eyes, and it gurgled wetly, a sound that sounded eerily like a child’s giggle. The immense golem swung about at once, raising a fist capped with a curved sickle blade almost as tall as me. I scrabbled backwards desperately, but there was nowhere to flee.

A shape came flying in from the side, landing neatly on the creature’s back. It was Jacques. As the golem creature awkwardly flailed at its unwelcome rider, the thief slapped it about the head, somehow managing to keep his balance as it swayed about.

‘Fear not, my dear,’ Jacques called out, flipping neatly off the golem’s back and landing in a perfect dancer’s pose. ‘I’ll deal with this rogue.’

With that, he went scampering across the chamber, the hulking creature leaving a trail of destruction as it thundered after him, swinging wildly and missing every time.

Tavyat’s arm closed around my elbow, and she hauled me to my feet. Boros was already knelt over his oversized backpack, rummaging through the contents frantically.

‘Aha!’ he said.

He pulled out a series of copper tubes and rings, and began frantically slotting them together to form a vaguely conical instrument with a rough, wooden stock. At the wide end of the weapon was a metal ring with spiralling grooves set into the interior.

‘This is your grand plan?’ hissed Tavyat. ‘What in Nagash’s black bones is that thing for?’

Boros ignored her, and continued to hum contentedly as he slotted the thing together. Tavyat shot me a long-suffering look, and I shrugged, wincing as another explosion went off nearby, spraying me with chips of marble. His bizarre apparatus assembled, Boros carefully withdrew an egg-shaped lump of metal from his satchel, its surface grooved and tapering to a sharp point. A circular indentation ran around the middle of the object, and there was a key-shaped lever protruding from the rear.

‘Hurry yourself, old man,’ Tavyat said, fending off the strikes of another skeletal warrior. She grabbed the thing by a yellowed collarbone and dragged it to the floor, then smashed its skull to fragments with her spear butt.

‘Don’t rush me, woman!’ Boros snapped, cranking the key of the device furiously. Another volley of bullets skipped across the floor towards him, and I rushed forward and tackled him to the floor, wrapping my arms over my head in a futile attempt to keep the fusillade at bay.

‘Enough,’ came Valagharr-Varon’s voice over the din of battle. Surprised to find myself still in one piece, I rolled over onto my back. Striding across the centre of the chamber, the thing that had been Varon was wreathed in purple flame that lapped harmlessly at his pale flesh. Behind him, the disembodied spirit of the deathmage strained against the web of light that held it.

‘Die-die, man-thing,’ screeched Pitrikk. The skaven’s metal-taloned gauntlet spat sparks of green fire, but the creature was clutching its gut where the flesh had been withered away.

‘There are no more wretched creatures than the servants of the Horned Rat,’ said Valagharr-Varon. ‘When my power is fully restored I shall enjoy putting an end to your kind’s filthy presence.’

He made a fist, and swept it towards the floor. Shards of shattered bone whipped through the air, lashing towards the skaven. They carved great gouges across Pitrikk, flensing flesh and fur. Pitrikk screeched and blasted away with his pistol, but his desperate shots struck only stone. Inch by inch, the hail of bone sliced him apart. With a gurgle, the rat-thing collapsed to the floor. Dark, foul-smelling blood seeped across the stones.

‘Pathetic,’ sneered Valagharr-Varon. He turned to face me, his hands raised and limned with dancing flames. ‘Is that the last trick you have to play, aelf?’

Master Boros stood, hefting the conical metal device over one shoulder, swaying under its weight. Tavyat dropped her spear and rushed to his side, setting her shoulder under the wooden stock, and together they swung the barrel towards the creature wearing their former master’s flesh.

‘No, I think we’ve got one more for you,’ I said, and the deathmage’s eyes widened in alarm.

‘See how you like this, you rascal!’ cried Master Boros.

He pulled the lever set into the wooden stock, and there was a loud fizzing sound.

Absolutely nothing happened.

Valagharr-Varon glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. I could only shrug helplessly.

‘I am going to murder you, old man,’ Tavyat growled.

‘Oh, I do apologise,’ the master engineer said, and slammed the metal barrel with the palm of his hand. ‘The mechanism can get a little sticky.’

Valagharr-Varon’s hand snapped out, ready to launch a stream of flesh-devouring sorcery, when Boros pulled the trigger again. This time there was a flare of orange light, and a thunderous blast. The egg-shaped missile was propelled across the chamber on a contrail of black smoke, spiralling once before striking the ground right in front of Valagharr-Varon and detonating in a deafening crescendo of light and noise.

Chapter Fourteen

The fireball that burst forth from the explosive device was the size of a steam tank, and very nearly as destructive. There was a cacophonic blast as a blue-white shock wave of fire and heat enveloped everything, blazing so brightly that it briefly blinded all who looked upon it. Tavyat, the master engineer and I were all blasted off our feet, sent tumbling and skidding across the floor. I slammed my head painfully, and lay there dazed and groaning. Eventually I dragged myself upright.

Debris rained from the ceiling, and a thick, bluish smoke filled the room. The sound of crackling magic had ceased, though somewhere I could still hear the grim sound of blades scraping across metal and bone.

The only thing that was immediately visible was the starlight force field that held Valagharr’s Phylactery, and it was this that I made for, gripping my dagger tightly in one hand.

A shape stumbled out of the mist. A man, his clothes and flesh horribly burned, still holding a tome of blackened leather. He was clutching his face, most of which had been scorched to a blackened ruin.

Our eyes met. I saw a flicker of recognition in that look. Then I sank my dagger into his ribs.

It always surprised me how easy it was to kill someone. The knife slipped into Varon without a hint of resistance, sliding through robes and skin with barely a whisper. The possessed man looked at me with a strange expression on his face, a mixture of pain and surprise – and fear, I fancied. The Tome of Valagharr spilled from his grasp, and he staggered towards me, one clawlike hand outstretched to grab the collar of my coat. He collapsed to his knees, dragging me down with his weight.

At the same time, the thing that was Valagharr screamed in rage, its shapeless form stuttering and flickering like a flame in the wind. The wraith struggled and raged and smashed itself against the starlight barrier that contained it, but it could not break free. Slowly, inexorably, it was drawn back into its phylactery. The last thing I saw was a grasping, spectral talon. And then there was silence. The box lay inert, though I knew its occupant still raged inside it.

As if a spell had suddenly broken, Varon and I toppled, landing hard on the stone floor. Blood pooled beneath us, and I felt it seeping into my shirt. The witch hunter’s grasping hand reached for my face. I shrugged it away, and raised the blade again, ready to sink it into his heart.

I stopped. The witch hunter’s eyes were still locked upon mine, but I saw that the green fire within them had been extinguished. Once again, I saw his familiar grey orbs, bloodshot and ringed with shadows, but no longer filled with insane malice.

He raised a trembling hand, and laid it upon my arm. I lowered the dagger, knowing it was done. My strike had been true.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said.

He shook his head, blood bubbling on his lips.

‘No,’ he gasped. ‘It is done. No regrets. I have failed the God-King, and earned this fate.’

‘It’s not your fault,’ I said, the words sounding hollow even as I spoke them. The witch hunter grimaced in anger, and his hand closed around my arm with surprising strength.

‘Take it,’ he hissed at me. ‘The phylactery. Take it and flee. Now that Arkhan’s disciples have breached this place, it can no longer stay here. Valagharr’s prison must not fall into the hands of Nagash or his minions. I may have failed the God-King, but this one task I can still see done.’

Heavy footsteps caused me to turn, raising my blade to strike, but I saw that it was Tavyat. The warrior was bloodied in a hundred places, covered in burns and open wounds, but she cared only for her master. She fell to her knees beside him, thrusting the tip of her sword into the ground.

‘I swore the sword oath,’ she said, her voice hoarse and filled with grief. ‘I swore upon the stars and the comet that I would die before I allowed you to fall. I have failed you, Ammos.’

Varon’s hand brushed her face.

‘You have not,’ he whispered, through faltering breaths. Clearly each word was torment. ‘Not while there is a chance to complete my last command. Arclis is your ward now. I hold you to no bond but this, my old friend – see her to safety, and the phylactery along with her.’

Tavyat’s tears fell freely, but her expression was not one of sorrow, but iron resolve. ‘It will be done.’

‘I know it will. Now go. While there is still time.’

Varon’s eyes glazed over, and his lifeless hand fell to the floor. Tavyat bowed, pressing her forehead to that of her fallen comrade. I stood, unwilling to intrude upon the moment. Whatever my opinion of Varon had been, clearly he had once been worthy of the warrior’s trust.

Grey Jacques approached quietly.

‘Strange,’ he said, softly enough that only I could hear him. ‘To witness death again, real and lasting. One comes to see it as little more than a game.’

‘Not for them,’ I said.

‘He was a good fellow,’ said Boros, making the sign of the comet. The master engineer was still clutching the smoking remnants of the weapon he had turned against the witch hunter. The barrel of the weapon had split apart like a peeled fruit. ‘Whatever became of him in the end.’

Finally, Tavyat laid her sword gently in Varon’s hands and stood.

‘Can you lead us out of here?’ she asked Jacques.

‘I can, my lady,’ the thief said. ‘And let me say how sorry I am for your master’s death. At least in the end, he was free of Valagharr’s corruption.’

Tavyat turned to me. ‘Will you help me fulfil his last command?’

I nodded. Having come this far, I would see this through to the end. Now I knew what Valagharr was capable of, I had no wish to see him unleashed upon the realms. Especially now that he knew my name. Something told me the deathmage would neither forget nor forgive my interference.

‘Let us get the phylactery and be gone from this place,’ said Boros. ‘My steamcrawler will see us safely back to port.’

Epilogue

Six months later, I found myself occupying yet another prison. There’s a pleasing sort of symmetry to that, I suppose. This one had a bucket, which was some improvement, but it had more than its fair share of downsides, too. For example, the regular chorus of screams that echoed through my cramped cell every few hours.

Once again, I was in the tender clutches of the Order of Azyr.

Several days into my stay, the door of my cell creaked open, and a figure entered, carrying a lit tallow-stick. It was only a meagre spot of light, but it sent a lance of pain through my eyes – I had been sat in pitch-black darkness for far too long.

‘Well, well,’ came a familiar voice. It took me a long time to place it, but soon my eyes adjusted to the glare enough that I could make out my visitor. He was a small, unremarkable man, clad in a long, grey overcoat and wearing a wide-brimmed hat adorned with a cockade in the shape of the God-King’s comet. Clever eyes peered from beneath its brim. The man was perched upon a stool, carrying the candle in his left hand. The other arm was missing entirely. The sleeve of his coat had been stitched tight.

‘I distinctly remember saying the last time we saw one another,’ said Hanniver Toll, ‘that you should keep out of trouble.’

I couldn’t help but laugh, though there wasn’t much humour in it. More bitterness than anything. Toll had been my first-hand introduction to Sigmar’s witch hunters. For a long time, I had thought he would be the one to put a bullet in me, but in the end we had formed a mutually beneficial alliance.

‘Toll. I’d say it was good to see you again, but given the cir-cumstances…’

‘Yes, well,’ said the witch hunter, placing the tallow-stick holder on the floor and removing his hat. He placed the outlandish garment on his lap, and ran his fingers through a mop of thinning hair. ‘The feeling is mutual, believe me. You are a constant source of consternation for me, Miss Arclis. And yet, I do believe that once again you have assisted the Order invaluably. By happenstance or intent, I do not know.’

‘Valagharr’s Phylactery is safe?’ I asked.

‘Safe is a relative term these days. But yes, it has been transferred to a new location for safekeeping. Somewhere that even the Death God’s servants will not find it. I suppose we have you to thank for that.’

‘And Tavyat. And Boros. Where are they?’ I asked. The last I’d seen of them was when we’d set foot back in Lethis, and the Order’s goons had swarmed us, bagged us and stuffed us into a carriage. I had hoped that my offering of the phylactery might buy me some slightly less brutal treatment. I should have known better.

‘They are well enough. And don’t give me that look, Arclis. What did you expect? Varon missing? An item of unspeakable power and danger in your possession?’

‘You know what happened?’

‘I know what your companions have told me. Now it’s your turn.’

I sighed. ‘Can I at least get some bread and water first? I’ve not eaten in days.’

‘Story first, food afterwards. If I deem it fitting.’

I sighed. You would think my prior association with the man, during which I helped prevent a potentially city-shattering catastrophe, would buy me some trust. No such luck. And so I spilled it all out, everything that had happened since Varon first came to me in the dungeons of Lethis. Toll listened intently, interrupting to ask questions here and there. When I finally finished, he leaned forward and steepled his fingers, studying me.

‘I knew Varon,’ he said at last. ‘A decent sort, if a little unimag-inative.’

‘It wasn’t him,’ I said. ‘Not in the end. He did save my life. Then again, I suppose it never would have needed saving if he hadn’t dragged me there. You could say my feelings are mixed.’

Toll sighed. ‘You don’t see the lesson here, do you?’

I frowned and waited for him to continue.

‘Varon got his hands on something no mortal should have ever laid eyes on,’ Toll said. ‘Something so suffused with evil that it entirely consumed him. There are countless similar items out there, lingering in the shadowy corners of the realms. You would not believe how many have already flooded onto the black markets of the free cities, and the horror they have caused. There are some things that we are not meant to see, Arclis.’

‘You look at the realms and all you see is darkness,’ I said. ‘But there’s so much beauty out there, buried beneath the ruins of the past. And anyway, I didn’t seek out Valagharr’s Phylactery any more than I wanted to get involved with that whole mess in Xoantica. I was dragged along by one of your lot, if you’ll recall.’

‘This is not a game,’ Toll snapped, and the force of his words caught me off guard. He was usually so calm. ‘There are many of my comrades who would have you wiped out of existence for knowing half of what you do. I have no wish to see you dead, aelf. But that’s how it will end, unless you learn to exercise a modicum of caution.’

There was a long and painful silence.

‘So does that mean you’re letting me go?’ I said at last.

Toll sighed, bent to retrieve the candle and stood. He rapped on the door, and I heard a key turn in the lock. The door swung open.

‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘We do, of course, have to make an exhaustive catalogue of events, and ensure that no hint of corruption has entered your soul. You can enjoy a few more days at the Order’s hospitality. And let me say again that once you’re free, I sincerely hope that you keep your head down, and our paths do not cross again.’

‘Until next time,’ I said, as the door slammed shut behind him.

About the Author

Nick Horth is the author of the novels City of Secrets and Callis and Toll: The Silver Shard, the novellas Heart of Winter and Thieves’ Paradise, as well as several short stories for Age of Sigmar. Nick works as a background writer for Games Workshop, crafting the worlds of Warhammer Age of Sigmar and Warhammer 40,000. He lives in Nottingham, UK.

An extract from Ghoulslayer.

Gotrek was snoring, attacking the night with brutal barks. Even asleep he was savage, hammering Maleneth’s skull with every snort. The sound rattled through the Slayer’s chest and shook the chain linking his ear to his nose. The brazier in his rune-axe was still smouldering, but the light had faded from his filthy muscles. He shifted, as though about to speak, let out a ripe belch and then lay still again. He had drunk for hours, downing ale like water, before finally collapsing next to an outhouse, surrounded by the corpses of brigands who had had the ill-conceived idea of trying to rob him. There was no dawn in this particular corner of Shyish, but even the endless gloom could not hide the rune buried in Gotrek’s chest. A great slab of burnished power. The tie that bound her to him. The face of a god, glaring from his ribs, demanding that she hold her nerve.

She stepped gracefully through the dead, as though gliding through a ballroom, scattering flies and gore, a dagger held lightly in each hand. The Stormcast Eternal had gone, scouring Klemp for news of his own kind, and she was alone with the Slayer.

The heart-shaped silver amulet at her throat flickered, revealing the vial of blood at its core. Now. This is your chance.

Maleneth ignored the voice, creeping closer to the Slayer, wincing at his stench. He was grotesque. A graceless lump of scarred muscle, bristling with porcine hair and covered in knotted tattoos. Even by the low standards of the duardin race he was primitive – like a hog that had learned to stand and carry an axe. He was shorter than the brigands he had carved his bed from, but twice their width and built like a barn. The stale, sweet smell of beer shrouded the bodies, mixing with Gotrek’s belches and stinging Maleneth’s eyes. She could see the dregs glistening in his matted beard as she leant closer, keeping her eyes fixed on the rune. The rune stared back.

Despite her loathing she hesitated, knives trembling, inches from his body.

The amulet around her neck flickered again. Coward.

That was enough to spur her on. Her dead mistress was right. Klemp would soon be rubble, just like all the other towns they had passed through. The whole region was in uproar. And when the fighting started, who knew where the Slayer would end up? Once he was in one of his rages there was no way of predicting what he would do next. It was a miracle she had stayed with him this far. This might be her last chance. The Slayer’s skin was like iron, though. She would need to punch the blade home with all her strength to get the poison into his bloodstream. She tightened her grip and leant back to strike.

‘Maleneth.’ The voice echoed down the alley, heavy with warning.

She whirled around, blades lowered.

Trachos’ armour glimmered as he limped through the darkness, sparks flickering from his ruined leg plate. He was wearing his expressionless helmet, but she could tell by the way he moved, careful and slow, that he understood what she was planning. His head kicked to one side and light crackled from his mouth grille. He gripped the metal, holding it still, but the damage went deeper than the mask. All that god-wrought armour had done nothing to protect his mind.

He stopped near the corpses, staring at her, lights flickering behind his faceplate.

He remained silent, but the way he raised his warhammers spoke clearly enough. That rune is mine.

They stood like that for a long moment, glaring at each other across Gotrek’s snorting bulk.

Trachos came closer, his metal boots crunching through broken weapons and shattered armour. The sky had grown paler, outlining him, and she saw how confidently he gripped the warhammers. Damaged or not, he was still a Stormcast Eternal. A scion of the thunder god. He was several feet taller than a normal man and, even broken, his plate armour made a fearsome sight.

Maleneth stepped through the pile of bodies, readying herself. She had always known this moment would come. They could not both claim the rune. There was a rent in Trachos’ leg armour from his left knee to his left boot. It had been there when he first approached Maleneth months ago, wandering out of the hills like a deranged prophet. He was in desperate need of medicine, or repairs, or whatever help Stormcast Eternals received when they returned to the Celestial Realm. Every step he took was difficult, and his Azyrite armour sparked whenever he moved. She smiled. Usually, such a warrior would be a test for even her skills, but in this state he should be easy prey. There would be blood for Khaine this night.

Maleneth dragged one of her blades across a vial at her belt. The crystal broke in silence, but she could smell the venom as it spilled across the metal.

Trachos dropped into a crouch, hammers raised.

The two warriors tensed, preparing to strike.

‘Grungni’s arse beard!’ cried Gotrek, lurching to his feet and grabbing his rune-axe. ‘Don’t you people know when you’re beaten?’

He swayed, obviously confused, still drunk, piercing the night with his one, scowling eye, trying to focus, trying to spot an opponent. Seeing none, he turned to Maleneth.

‘Aelf! Point me to the simpletons.’

Maleneth lowered her weapons and Trachos did the same. The chance was gone. She shook her head. ‘All dead.’ She backed away from Trachos with a warning glare.

Gotrek’s face was locked in a thunderous scowl and his skin was as grey as the corpses. He kicked one of them. ‘Lightweights. They could barely swing a sword. Even splitting skulls is no fun in your stinking realm.’

Trachos’ hands trembled as he slid his hammers back into his belt. ‘This is no realm of mine.’

‘Nor mine,’ said Maleneth, looking around at the peculiar hell Gotrek had led them to. The sky was the colour of old pewter, dull, bleak and riveted with stars. The stars did not shine but radiated a pitiless black. Points of absolute darkness surrounded by purple coronas, wounds in the sky, dripping fingers of pitch. And the town was equally grim. Crooked, ramshackle huts made of warped, colourless driftwood. There were panicked shouts in the distance and the sound of vehicles being hastily loaded. Columns of smoke stretched across the sky, signalling the approach of another army. They looked like claw marks on dead skin.

Gotrek muttered a duardin curse and picked his way through the corpses. ‘Where’s the ale?’

‘You drank it,’ replied Trachos.

The Slayer frowned and scratched his shaven head, causing his enormous, grease-slicked mohawk to tremble. Then he glared at the ground, his massive shoulders drooping and the haft of his greataxe hanging loosely in his grip. He whispered to himself, shaking his head, and Maleneth wondered what he was thinking. Was he remembering his home? The world he claimed was so superior to the Mortal Realms? She suspected most of his thoughts concerned his past. What else did he have? There was something tragic about him, she decided. He was like a fossil, revived by cruel necromancy and abandoned in a world where no one knew his face.

‘You’re right,’ said Gotrek, looking up with a sudden smile. ‘We need more ale.’

Maleneth shook her head in disbelief. She and Trachos were glaring at him. Anyone else would feel their hatred like a physical blow, but the Slayer was oblivious. He waved them back down the alley, away from the outbuilding, humming cheerfully to himself as he headed out onto the main street.

They stumbled into a chaotic scene. There were wicker cages rattling against every lintel and doorframe – hundreds of them, the size of a human head and crammed with teeth, skin and bones. Alongside the offerings to Nagash there were wooden eight-pointed stars, hastily hammered together and painted in gaudy colours. Braziers spewed clouds of blue embers across wooden icons that had been painted with the faces of daemons and saints. And all of this jostled happily against yellow hammer-shaped idols that had been scored with an approximation of Azyrite runes. Every corner revealed some desperate attempt to appease a god. And through this carnival of colours and shapes, people were rushing in every direction, hurling belongings from windows and clambering into carts. There was a cold wind whipping through the streets that seemed heavy with portent. Men and women howled at each other, arguing while their children fought in the dust, like a premonition of the violence about to be visited on the town. For weeks, seers across the region had been wracked by agonising prophecies. Some sprouted mouths in their armpits and spewed torrents of bile, others were visited by horrific, sanity-flaying visions, and some had found their voices replaced by a bestial, guttural language they could no more understand than silence. Whatever the nature of their visitation, all of them agreed on one thing – death was coming to the region. Most people had taken that as a cue to flee, but Gotrek, still furious at not finding Nagash, had decided to stay, relishing the coming fight as a distraction if nothing else.

As Gotrek swaggered onto the wind-lashed street, he almost collided with an enormous beast that was being led through the crowds – an armour-clad mammoth, draped in furs and sacks and scraping tracks through the dirt with its tusks. Dozens of fur-clad nomads were crowded into its howdah, and more were swarming round it, driving it on with sticks and insults, trying to goad more speed out of the plodding creature.

Gotrek halted, glaring at the nomads, and Maleneth guessed immediately what had annoyed him. She hated to admit it, but she was starting to understand him. He was brutal and heartless in many respects, but there were a few things that seemed to offend his primitive sensibilities. The sight of a wild creature bound into servitude was one of them. For a moment, she thought he might accost the nomads, but then he shook his head and marched on, barging through the traders and making for the largest building on the street, muttering into his beard.

Maleneth struggled to keep up as the Slayer booted the door open and plunged into the gloomy interior of the Muffled Drum. Despite the scenes of panic outside, Klemp’s only inn was crowded with languorous, dazed patrons – people so far gone they lacked the sense to try to save their own skin, calling the prophecies scaremongering nonsense. There were more nomads, wearing the same filthy furs as the travellers outside, but there was also a bewildering array of other creeds and races – humans from every corner of the Amethyst Princedoms and beyond. Maleneth saw hulking savages from the east, as heavily tattooed as Gotrek and looking just as uncouth. There were waif-like pilgrims, dressed in sackcloth and wearing charcoal eye makeup that had been smeared by the beer they were lying in. In one corner there was a party of duardin, dispossessed travellers, hunched over their drinks and eyeing Gotrek from under battered crested helmets.

Gotrek made a point of ignoring the duardin and stormed straight across the room to the bar, where a tall, fierce-looking woman was looming over one of her customers, shaking him back and forth until coins fell from his grip and rattled across the bar.

‘Next time,’ she snarled, ‘it’s your guts I’ll spill.’

The man fell away from her, collapsing in a shocked heap on the floor before scrabbling away on all fours as Gotrek strode past him and approached the woman.

‘Still no good,’ said the Slayer, looking up at her.

She shook her head in disbelief, then leant across the bar and stared down at him, peering at his impressive gut. ‘You drank all of it?’

Gotrek pounded a fist against his stomach and belched. ‘For all the good it did me.’

The woman looked at Maleneth as she reached the bar. ‘He drank it all?’

Maleneth nodded, grudgingly, annoyed to notice that the landlady looked impressed.

Gotrek studied the bottles behind the woman. ‘Got anything stronger?’

She stared at him. ‘Are you with them?’ she asked, nodding at the party of duardin.

Gotrek kept studying the drinks, ignoring the question. The only sign of a response was a slight tightening of his jaw.

She shrugged, taking a bottle from the shelf and placing it before him. It was the shape of an elongated teardrop and it was clearly ancient – a plump dollop of green, murky glass covered in dust and ash. There were fragments of something suspended in the liquid.

Gotrek grabbed the bottle and held it towards a fire that was crackling by the bar, squinting at the whirling sediment.

The woman grabbed one of his tree-trunk biceps. ‘It’s not cheap.’

Gotrek threw some coins at her, then continued eyeing the drink.

He jammed the cork into the bottle with his fat, dirty thumb, and a heady stink filled the room.

Maleneth coughed and put a hand to her face.

Gotrek sniffed the bottle and grimaced. ‘It’s not Bugman’s.’

‘Don’t drink it then,’ said Maleneth, remembering what had happened the last time the Slayer got drunk. There was no way they would leave Klemp intact if Gotrek picked a fight just as an army came over the horizon.

He gave her a warning glare.

‘What about Nagash?’ she said, the first thing that came to mind.

His scowl grew even more fierce, but he did not put the bottle to his lips.

‘You dragged us all this way to find him.’ Maleneth looked over at Trachos. He was standing a few feet away, watching the exchange, but as usual he seemed oblivious, locked in his own personal hell. Realising the Stormcast would be no help, she turned back to Gotrek. ‘And now, just as his armies are about to reach us, you’re going to drink yourself into a stupor. You could miss the very chance you’ve been looking for. The chance to face him. Or whatever it is you were hoping to achieve.’

Gotrek glowered. ‘He’s not here. Gods don’t have the balls to lead from the front. Nagash will be hiding somewhere, like the rest of them.’ He drank deeply from the bottle, holding Maleneth’s gaze.

Then he paused for breath, threw more coins on the bar and took the bottle to one of the benches that lined the room. The wood groaned as he sat.

There was an elderly man sitting at the bench, and he watched with interest as Gotrek drank more of the foul-smelling stuff. He was tall and slender, sitting stiff-backed and proud, and as he sipped his drink he moved with the precise, delicate movements of an ascetic. Unlike everyone else in the Muffled Drum, he was immaculately dressed. His tunic, cloak and trousers were embroidered with golden thread, and his receding, slicked-back hair was so adorned with beads and semi-precious stones that it resembled a skullcap.

When Gotrek lowered the half-empty bottle onto the table, the man leant over and whispered, ‘You have business with the necromancer?’

The drink had clearly not affected Gotrek yet. His hand shot out with surprising speed and locked around the man’s scrawny neck.

‘Who wants to know?’

A strange noise came from the man’s chest. It might have been laughter.

Gotrek cursed. Rather than grabbing skin and bone, his hand had passed through the man’s neck and was left holding a fistful of ash. The powder tumbled through his fingers as he snatched back his hand. He glared at the man.

For a fraction of a second, the old man had no neck, just a landslide of fine dust tumbling from his lower jaw onto his shoulders. It looked like sand in an hourglass. Then the dust solidified, and the man’s neck reappeared. He stroked his greasy hair and looked at Gotrek, his eyes glittering and unfocused, as though he were looking into smoke.

Gotrek’s cheeks flushed with rage and he gripped the haft of his greataxe. ‘What are you? A spirit? In my day we burned the restless dead.’

‘I’m quite well rested, thank you,’ said the man, with a vague smile.

Maleneth and Trachos approached the table.

‘What are you?’ demanded Maleneth.

The man ignored her question, studying the rune in Gotrek’s chest and the barbs on Maleneth’s tight-fitting leathers. Then he looked at the shattered gilded sigmarite of Trachos’ war gear. ‘You don’t look like servants of the Great Necromancer.’

‘But you do,’ said Gotrek, taking another swig from the green bottle. ‘Why don’t you…’ He hesitated, looking at the bottle with a surprised expression, rolling his head loosely on his shoulders. ‘Actually, this isn’t bad.’

He looked over at the landlady and gave her a nod of approval.

To Maleneth’s disbelief, the ridiculous woman blushed.

‘Like you, fyreslayer, I kneel to no god,’ said the man, looking at Gotrek with an expression that was hard to read.

‘I’m not a fyreslayer, and you’re nothing like me.’ Gotrek stood up and started away from the table. He stumbled and had to grip the bench to steady himself. ‘This is good.’ He sat back down, and the bench gave another groan.

‘Why do you wish to reach Nagash if you don’t serve him?’ asked the stranger.

‘What are you?’ repeated Maleneth, gripping her knife handles. ‘Are you human?’

‘I’m Kurin,’ he replied, holding out a hand.

Maleneth eyed it suspiciously.

Gotrek had closed his eyes, leaning back against the wall, and when he opened them again, he had to blink repeatedly to focus.

‘You’re drunk,’ muttered Maleneth.

Gotrek grinned. ‘And you’re ugly. But tomorrow I’ll be ugly and you’ll still be…’ His words trailed off and he shook his head, frowning. ‘No, wait… I mean, tomorrow I’ll be ugly and you’ll still be drunk.’ He shook his head, muttering to himself, trying to remember the joke he had cracked every day for the last week.

‘I belong to an order of magisters called the hush,’ said the man, ignoring Gotrek’s rambling. ‘Shrivers, as some used to call us.’

‘I’ve never heard of you,’ replied Maleneth, eyeing the man with suspicion. There were a lot of people who would like to get their hands on the rune in Gotrek’s chest. Perhaps it was no accident that Kurin was in the Muffled Drum at this particular moment.

‘Not many have,’ said Kurin. ‘Our skills are no longer in much demand.’

‘Skills?’

He held out his hand again, draping it before Maleneth in such a languid, aloof manner that she wondered if he was expecting her to kiss it. Then he flipped his hand around so it was palm up.

Maleneth, Gotrek and Trachos all leant closer, watching in surprise as the lines of his palm rose from his hand, spiralling up into the air like fine trails of smoke.

‘Touch them,’ he said.

Maleneth shook her head, and the other two leant back.

He shrugged. ‘We’re an ancient order. We ruled these kingdoms once, long before any of these ill-mannered barbarians who are currently trying to claim lordship. We are one with the dust. We share none of the failings of mankind – no doubts, no regrets, no grief, no shame. The sod is our flesh and the ground is our bed. It makes life simple. Mortal concerns do not bother us, so we have time to concentrate on more elevated matters.’

Gotrek managed to focus. ‘You don’t care about anything?’ He picked a shred of meat from his beard, stared at it, then ate it. ‘Doesn’t sound particularly “elevated”. Even I’ve managed that.’

Kurin smiled, his hand still outstretched, his skin still spinning a tiny storm. ‘I sense that you care about more than you would like to admit. But I can shrive you of your crimes. We are able to see into souls, Slayer – we see their value and we see what haunts them. Take my hand, tell me what drives you to drink so eagerly, and I will take the memory from you.’

Gotrek sneered, but then hesitated and stared at the man’s hand. ‘Take it from me?’

The Slayer had never told Maleneth much about his former life, but she knew he wished to atone for a past deed. He sought glorious death in battle as a kind of penance. Her pulse quickened. If Gotrek was able to forget the thing he wanted to atone for, he would stop charging headlong towards his own destruction. She could simply lead him, like an offering, back home to Azyr, with Blackhammer’s rune intact.

Kurin was still smiling. ‘Or, if you do not wish to be rid of your painful past, I can give you a chance at reconciliation. I can rouse your ghosts, Slayer. I can drag your shadows into the light. Is there someone you would wish to accuse? Or apologise to? My reach is long.’

‘A charlatan,’ sneered Maleneth. ‘I suppose you tell fortunes too. And how much does this all cost?’

‘No money. Just honesty. Nagash has persecuted my order for countless generations.’ Kurin waved vaguely, indicating the streets outside. ‘And left me surrounded by people so stupid they worship all the gods when they should worship none.’ He looked at the three of them in turn, with that half-smile still on his lips. ‘And now I hear you three are seeking him. While every other wretch in Klemp is snivelling to Nagash, you want to take him on. It’s a long time since I heard anything other than fear.’ He looked at the rune in Gotrek’s chest. ‘There is something different about you.’

Maleneth nodded. ‘So if we tell you why we’re seeking the necromancer, you’ll relieve Gotrek of his guilt?’

‘If that’s what he desires.’

The Slayer was still staring at Kurin’s hand, but Maleneth sensed that his mind had slipped back into the past again. His usually fierce expression was gone, and robbed of its normal ferocity, his face looked brutalised rather than brutal – a shocking mess of scars and buckled bone.

‘Do you?’ prompted Kurin, an odd gleam in his eye.

Gotrek was staring so hard Maleneth wondered if the drink had finally made him catatonic. Then he laughed and leant back, relaxing as he took another swig. ‘These realms are so damned subtle. I see what you’re doing, sorcerer – you would rob me of my past and leave me beaming like an idiot. You would have me forget my oath.’

Kurin frowned, confused, shaking his head, but before he could disagree, Gotrek continued.

‘There’s no solace for me, wizard. No absolution. No bloody shriving. Not until I find my doom.’ As the Slayer’s anger grew, his words became more slurred. ‘And, one way or another, the gods will give it to me.’

‘Gotrek,’ said Trachos. ‘We have no idea why he wants to know your business.’

Maleneth looked up in surprise. The Stormcast Eternal hardly ever spoke, and when he did, it rarely made sense.

Gotrek laughed and leant close to Kurin, waving dismissively at Trachos. ‘My friend here isn’t digging with a full shovel. He thinks I need to worry about you. If he knew half the things I’ve slain, he’d know I don’t need to worry about someone with brains for dust.’ He shook his head. ‘I mean dust for brains. You’re muddling my thinking, damn you. Keep out of my head. The past is the one place I’m still happy to go. I’ll thank you not to ruin it.’

Kurin nodded politely. ‘Of course. I hope I have not offended you.’

Gotrek stared at the table and shook his head. ‘Mind you, you’ve actually spoken the first sense I’ve heard since arriving in these realms. Gods are idiots. Worshipping gods is the pastime of idiots. You’re right.’ He waved clumsily at Maleneth and Trachos. ‘This pair think they can earn a place at the head of some glorious, divine host if they make a prize of me.’ He laughed. ‘Look at them, dreaming of being holy footstools.’

Kurin smiled sadly. ‘The curse of the devout. Praying so cheerfully to the cause of their pain.’

‘Aye to that.’ Gotrek’s tone was grim as he clanked his bottle against the old man’s drink. ‘The gods are good for nothing,’ he muttered. ‘Apart from catching my axe.’

Maleneth shook her head, not keen on how the old man was hanging on Gotrek’s every drunken word. ‘Trachos is right,’ she said. ‘We should keep our business to ourselves.’

‘Our business?’ cried Gotrek. He scrambled up onto the table and bellowed at the room. ‘It’s my bloody business, and I’ll share it with who I like!’

The buzz of conversation died away as everyone saw the crazed, oversized Slayer swaying on the table.

Maleneth put her head in her hands.

‘I’ve come here for Nagash!’ shouted Gotrek, brandishing his axe. ‘You cowardly whelps can run and hide all you like, but I’m going to find him and bury this useless blade in his useless skull.’ He slammed the axe down and it split the table in half, hurling drinks and leaving Gotrek sprawled on the floor.

There was an explosion of yells and curses as people leapt to their feet, grabbing weapons and hurling abuse at Gotrek, outraged by his accusation of cowardice.

A glowering mob formed around the Slayer as he climbed to his feet and retrieved his weapon.

Maleneth drew her knives and leapt to his side, still cursing under her breath. Trachos grabbed his hammers from his belt and stood at Gotrek’s other side. The trio made an unusual, impressive sight, and the drunks hesitated.

The duardin that had been watching Gotrek since he arrived rushed to stand with him, and Gotrek glared at them furiously.

‘Don’t come near me, you pathetic excuse for a dwarf,’ he snarled, rounding on the nearest of them.

There was a chorus of gasps as the mob staggered away from Gotrek, clutching their throats and choking. The veins beneath their skin suddenly knotted together and began writhing like serpents. Some of the men dropped to their knees, murmuring and whimpering as they tried to breathe, while others stumbled towards the door.

‘Wait!’ cried Kurin, wiping pieces of table from his robes as he stood and crossed the room. He was holding up one of his hands with a beneficent smile. The creases of his palm had risen up in a miniature tornado again, whirling and twisting between his fingers. ‘Lower your weapons, my friends. There is no need for discord. I’ll pay for any spillages.’

He closed his fist, and breath exploded from dozens of lungs as people managed to breathe again.

There were more disgruntled cries, but no one attacked. They looked at Kurin even more warily than they did Gotrek. As they crawled back to their seats, muttering and wheezing, it occurred to Maleneth that until Gotrek had sat beside him, Kurin had been completely alone at the bench. No one had dared sit near him.

‘You robbed me of a fight, wizard.’ Gotrek hefted his axe a little higher and gave Kurin a warning look. ‘And there’s precious little else to do in–’

‘I can reach Nagash,’ Kurin said, smiling.

Gotrek froze.

Kurin’s presence unnerved even the most hardened warriors in the room. As he walked slowly towards Gotrek, they backed away into the darkest corners of the inn. Maleneth had seen the same thing countless times. Few mortals were happy to risk the ire of a sorcerer.

Kurin nodded towards the street outside. ‘We can talk in my rooms.’ He carefully placed some coins on the bar and went to the door, waving for Gotrek to follow him.

The Slayer eyed him suspiciously, then shrugged and headed out into the gloom, Maleneth and Trachos rushing after him.

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A Black Library Publication

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

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Alexander Mokhov.

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