NEXUS & OTHER STORIES
A Getting Started collection by various authors

• DAWN OF FIRE •

Book One: AVENGING SON
Guy Haley

Book Two: THE GATE OF BONES
Andy Clark

• DARK IMPERIUM •
Guy Haley

Book One: DARK IMPERIUM

Book Two: PLAGUE WAR

• THE HORUSIAN WARS •
John French

Book One: RESURRECTION

Book Two: INCARNATION

DIVINATION

• VAULTS OF TERRA •
Chris Wraight

Book One: THE CARRION THRONE

Book Two: THE HOLLOW MOUNTAIN

• BLACK LEGION •
Aaron Dembski-Bowden

Book One: THE TALON OF HORUS

Book Two: BLACK LEGION

• BLACKSTONE FORTRESS •
Darius Hinks

Book One: BLACKSTONE FORTRESS

Book Two: ASCENSION

• BEQUIN •
Dan Abnett

Book One: PARIAH

Book Two: PENITENT

THE SWORDS OF CALTH
Graham McNeill

ENFORCER OMNIBUS
Matthew Farrer

SACROSANCT & OTHER STORIES
A Getting Started collection by various authors

RULERS OF THE DEAD
Josh Reynolds & David Annandale

• HALLOWED KNIGHTS •
Josh Reynolds
Book One: PLAGUE GARDEN
Book Two: BLACK PYRAMID

• GOTREK GURNISSON •

Darius Hinks

Book One: GHOULSLAYER

Book Two: GITSLAYER

OVERLORDS OF THE IRON DRAGON
C L Werner

SOUL WARS
Josh Reynolds

GLOOMSPITE
Andy Clark

WARCRY
An anthology containing stories by various authors

WARCRY: BLOOD OF THE EVERCHOSEN

Richard Strachan

BEASTGRAVE
C L Werner

NEFERATA: THE DOMINION OF BONES
David Annandale

REALM-LORDS
Dale Lucas

LADY OF SORROWS
C L Werner

STORMVAULT
Andy Clark

COVENS OF BLOOD
by various authors

Also available

INFERNO! VOLUME 1

INFERNO! VOLUME 2

INFERNO! VOLUME 3

INFERNO! VOLUME 4

INFERNO! VOLUME 5

by various authors

To see the full Black Library range, visit the Kobo Store.

Contents

Cover

Backlist

Title Page

Introduction

RAISED IN DARKNESS

RED KNIGHT

THE EXORCISM OF KARSA V

MOURNING IN RAINHOLLOW

VOVA’S CLIMB

BLOOD DROUGHT

THE STUFF OF NIGHTMARES

THE NEFARIOUS ANTIPUSTULENT OF CLAN MORBIDUS

The Fleshstink Procession

The Edict of The Tower

The Conclave of Zhurn

The Archpustulent of Clan Morbidus

THE LAST KNIGHT: PART TWO

ROADWARDEN

About the Authors

An Extract from ‘Dawn of Fire: Avenging Son’

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

INTRODUCTION

To arms, faithful brethren, for the time of glorious revolution is close at hand! From across the stars, benevolent eyes gaze down to bless our cause and urge us to overthrow the tyrants who seek to crush our very spirits. The divine tome you hold will act as a primer, to fortify your soul and inspire you with tales of courage and heroism.

We are very excited to present the sixth volume of Inferno! which brings you ten brand-new stories from the worlds of Warhammer, and is an indispensable addition to your collection. These stories have been crafted by some of Black Library’s most talented wordsmiths, and feature the Imperium of Man and the Mortal Realms’ most iconic factions; expect to see daemon-slaying Space Marines, teeming hordes of rat-men and alien hybrids who hide amongst ordinary citizens, waiting for the perfect moment to rise up…

This anthology is spearheaded by Adrian Tchaikovsky, whom science fiction aficionados will recognise for his many award-winning books and stories. Adrian’s take on the relentless and indefatigable Genestealer Cults is truly spectacular, and we are honoured to welcome him into the Black Library.

Many of the other authors appearing in this volume are familiar names, whose works have graced the hallowed pages of Inferno! before. David Guymer and Miles A Drake return with stories of the Age of Sigmar’s most bestial, corrupted factions, while Matt Smith and Steve Lyons provide dark tales of the creatures that lurk in the Warp and the stalwart Imperial warriors who battle them. And Gavin G Smith brings us the concluding chapter of the Warhammer 40,000 story The Last Knight, which pits beleaguered Imperial Knights against a legion of Genestealer Cultists who would claim the feudal world of Leucosia for the star gods!

New to Inferno! are Noah Nguyen, whose tale of the Adeptus Arbites questions the true role of those who enforce ‘justice’ in the Imperium, and Dave Gross, who takes us to the gloomy lands of Shyish, where the domains of the living and the dead overlap. Liane Merciel and Eric Fomley bring us epic Age of Sigmar stories from the scorching, barbaric deserts of Aqshy, where legends are forged in magical fire.

We hope that the journeys you are about to embark upon strengthen you for the trials ahead. The day is almost at hand, where we will sharpen our claws, cast off our Imperial trappings and become one with the star-children. Ascension is close, brothers and sisters.

Rejoice!

Richard Garton

Submissions Editor, September 2020

RAISED IN DARKNESS

Adrian Tchaikovsky

Illustrious science fiction and fantasy author Adrian Tchaikovsky kicks off this volume with his Inferno! and Black Library debut.

The venerable Inquisitor Vulpern arrives on Shargrin, an agri-world dedicated to feeding the Imperium by cultivating enormous fungal growths in caverns below the planet’s crust. A fellow member of the holy Inquisition went missing on this world, and Vulpern is here to find out why. It is not long before the Inquisitor discovers that mushrooms are not the only thing growing beneath Shargrin’s surface; a deep corruption festers here, but does Vulpern have the fortitude to do what needs to be done?

Aftermath – Interrogation session one

They’d set the chair up, when Inquisitor Vulpern arrived. The subject was already installed, and a patient Mechanicus acolyte was testing the connections, running power down the cables to watch his muscles jerk. With his gag still in place, the only sound was the crackle of power and a strained grunting. It would not do, after all, to upset the technicians. There were only so many of them rated for this kind of work, and it was felt that their stomachs, though literally cast iron in many cases, lacked the strength for a true excruciation.

Also present: Inquisitor Jerrin. ‘Ah, this is a pleasant surprise!’ she exclaimed. ‘Shall I have the acolytes bring a second seat in?’

Vulpern gave her an urbane smile. ‘I’d assumed these loose ends fell to me.’

Jerrin brandished her writ, heavy with seals. The acolyte’s glassy gaze pitched between them, then he scuttled from the room with a hiss of building pressure.

‘I was given a remit to take the lead where I thought it appropriate,’ Jerrin said pleasantly. ‘I am not, of course, suggesting that you might be less than committed.’

She waited for him to take offence, but he shrugged tiredly. ‘You go ahead. If I’ve prised off a fingernail once, I’ve done it a thousand times, and it’s a formality here, anyway. I’m glad to have you take the tedium of it. Perhaps I can learn from your technique.’

Her eyes narrowed, suspecting mockery, but Vulpern just called for a chair, giving absolutely no window into his thoughts. There should be someone, at the end. Someone who doesn’t just hate.

‘Well, then.’ Jerrin rounded on the subject at last. ‘Let’s start with when Inquisitor Harghesh came to your filthy little world.’

Shargrin Inquisitorial intercession – Investigatory stage

Inquisitor Harghesh had not been hunting treason. He’d come to Shargrin to judge whether the planet’s tithe could be increased, given an upsurge in crop yields. Since the advent of the Cicatrix Maledictum had crippled the Imperium, every world was on the anvil to do what it could for the realm of man. Forge worlds turned out munitions, mining worlds ground ore, teeming feral and feudal worlds gave up whole kingdoms and tribes to the regiments, and agri-worlds like Shargrin fed them all. Except someone always went hungry, and holding back from the Emperor was treason sure as worshipping the Dark Gods.

Harghesh had sent one brief astropathic communique back. And then he and his retinue had vanished.

The Imperium had moved on, in its leviathan manner. The report had travelled through the warp, lagging across space tortured by the scar-line of the Cicatrix Maledictum, before languishing on one desk or another until it reached Vulpern’s own. Where, amongst the productivity figures and the demographics data, he noted a sentence, outwardly casual but freighted with import to an Inquisitorial eye. A sentence designed not to spark alarm, even in the astropath who had sent it.

…the existence of certain regular and persistent physiological deformities…

A suspicion, that was what it meant. A suspicion Harghesh would have gone on to investigate. Regular and persistent: not the taint of Chaos but no less dangerous for all that.

By the time Vulpern read those words, Harghesh had been missing for over a year. Vulpern, Jerrin and a full Deathwatch force were en route for Shargrin within hours of someone finally reading Harghesh’s last transmission.

Vulpern knew agri-worlds. Swathes of leathery-leaved crops packed together, horizon to horizon, so that never an inch of the earth could be seen, or else stepped tiers of paddies, the water tinted orange and violet by rank chemical fertilisers. Platoons of machines marching and turning as they harvested with a discipline that recalled the Adeptus Astartes. Nature, in other words. Shargrin looked like a death world. The surface was black rock covered with prickly coats of lichen constantly lashed by storms. Nobody lived there. Even the lichens probably didn’t enjoy it very much.

Certainly the lichens died, and their remains got scoured from the rocks by the rain and carried inside the labyrinth of caves that riddled the planet’s outer layer, where their collective decay fed a vast fungal ecosystem – from lakes of slime to mushrooms big as hive world hab-blocks. Amongst the profusion were edible species that could be minced up and boiled into tar, then rendered into great rubbery slabs. These, salted with preservatives and liberally laced with mood-stabilisers and anti-psychotics, were Shargrin’s contribution to the wellbeing of the Imperium.

Vulpern’s drop-shuttle muscled through the shoving of the weather until they reached a circular sinkhole four miles across, rimmed with cascading waterfalls. His stomach clenched as they fell into the vastness of it, spiralling towards the turbulent lake below before the pilot sent them scudding across the surface towards the shelter of the port. Up in orbit, his staff had already exchanged pleasantries with planetside Administratum and requested the governor’s presence, all open pomp and circumstance. Vulpern had taken out his best robes, the gold of the Emperor’s eagles somewhat tarnished. Old regalia for an old man.

He was aware he didn’t cut quite the figure he used to, half tempted to suit up in armour and military honours. The last blessing of heavy mail was that it hid the hollowing chest, the filling belly. He hadn’t shaved, either. His lean, lantern-jawed face always looked half flayed when he scraped away the stubble. I should grow a beard. Or would that change make his peers search his face and personnel record for deviation?

You didn’t make many friends in the Inquisition. And if you lasted forty years in the trade then most of those you did have ended up dead, and sometimes it was you who made them that way.

He had a couple of Deathwatch Space Marines at his back when he walked out into the rain, a black umbrella shadowing his face. He hadn’t known what sort of welcome a governor of Shargrin would be able to muster, but the man had done decently well. A couple of squads of planetary guard in dress uniforms, a clique of clerics singing an accented version of the 79th Hymn of Imperial Praise. The governor himself was a stocky man who marched forwards and saluted like a soldier. Linus Donaghl was no unctuous bureaucrat, but a war hero capping a remarkable career. Bluff enough to look an inquisitor in the eye, certainly. His eyes flicked to the looming Space Marines: not the escort he’d have expected for one weather-worn inquisitor’s visit.

Vulpern mustered a thin smile. ‘The galaxy has a thousand ways of betraying your trust, governor. Forgive an old man his worries.’

They walked down the doubled line of guardsmen, Donaghl upbraiding a couple on their uniform. There were refreshments, but Vulpern preferred not to get as far as drinks until he’d ruled out the possibility of assassination, especially on a planet full of fungi. And something had happened to Harghesh.

The rain beat down on his umbrella, and the heads of everyone else, for a good half-hour until Imperial ritual was satisfied, when they could at last go indoors like civilised people.

The crash of the water sealed away by sliding doors, Donaghl rounded on him. ‘Inquisitor, you are of course welcome to Shargrin. All my resources are at your disposal.’ As per your mandate. ‘I’m going to be blunt, if I may.’

‘Please do,’ Vulpern invited.

‘I know why you’re here,’ Donaghl told him. ‘Just like your colleague last year. You’re upping our tithe.’

Vulpern’s face remained entirely neutral.

‘Our output has increased by fifteen per cent year on year,’ Donaghl told him flatly. ‘I have made sure the Imperium is fed. I have exceeded expectations. A miracle, when you consider the conditions on this world.’

‘Some would say there are harsher worlds to govern than one given to agriculture,’ Vulpern noted mildly.

‘Some might perhaps not have read my reports,’ Donaghl spat out. ‘Five thousand strains of fungus in these caverns, inquisitor. Over a thousand are harmful to humans in some way. Poisons, diseases, allergic reactions, species that are happier growing in human flesh than the damned soil. Read my census returns and look at life expectancy, infant mortality. Just because they don’t class it as a death world doesn’t mean Shargrin doesn’t want to kill you. And still I’ve increased our yield every year of the last decade. But some clerk on some world where they don’t farm mushrooms every hour of the sunless day has looked at those reports and decided we can still give more. Am I correct, inquisitor?’

Vulpern was trying very hard not to grin, because it was a long time since anyone had just gone off at him like this, governor or not. ‘You can take the soldier from the Militarum,’ he noted. ‘But not the Militarum from the soldier.’

Donaghl paused, eyes narrow, wrong-footed. ‘You’re pleased to joke.’

Vulpern nodded. ‘Honestly, it’s a pleasure. So often we inquisitors have to work hard to get people to be honest with us.’ He let the words hang there, seeing the man consider a response, finally receiving a small, grudging nod.

‘Fair,’ Donaghl admitted, and some of the aggression went out of him. ‘We may as well sit down, and you can tell me what the Emperor demands and I can try to explain why we’re already giving as much as we–’

‘That’s not why we’re here.’ Vulpern watched the man’s face for any twitch, but Donaghl just waited for more intel, like a good officer. ‘You mentioned my colleague, Inquisitor Harghesh. I am indeed following in his footsteps, but not in the matter of the tithe. There is some confusion over precisely when and how – and indeed whether – he left your hospitality.’

Donaghl frowned slowly, thinking back a year. ‘I’m certain he did,’ he started, and then added, ‘though that may be only because he paid no more visits, having ruled that we could give more. I will have my clerks send for the dockmaster’s records.’

That was when the messenger ran in, cassock flapping damply, hotfoot from the shuttle. They’d had word from the other party, Jerrin’s people. Because all this song and dance had been to cover up the initial investigation she’d been about. Her sampling.

The messenger pressed a strip of parchment into his hand and he looked over the coded punch marks.

Processing Station Malador. Found: regular and persistent physiological deformities.

‘Governor,’ Vulpern said. ‘Gather your escort. Let’s see something of your world.’

They reached the Malador station by one of the myriad rain-chewed waterways that lay beneath the surface of Shargrin. This one was relatively level, and they skimmed along in three flat-bottomed craft balancing an inch off the water, Donaghl’s people poling them along with repulsor-staves.

Malador cavern was a ring of usable land about a lake, water constantly funnelling in from above, and away to deeper vistas. Vast aquaculture harvesters drifted across its surface, sidewheels turning lazily as they harvested mycelia sargassums. At the lake’s far side, the processing plant was a vast windowless box built into the rock.

Jerrin had turned up with ten Deathwatch and her Imperial writ, and seized fifty of the plant’s workforce, hustling them into some hastily contrived quarantine for ‘examination’. The off-duty workers outside were talking worriedly about plague.

Of the fifty, twenty-nine were packed into a side room, cleared of deformity but unaware of what was going on. The final batch had turned out to be the problem. When they’d been asked to strip, there had been resistance. Matters had escalated. Seven were in custody but the rest were dead following the Space Marines’ over-keen defence. Jerrin had laid out three corpses on a stilled conveyer belt for their delectation.

The first two might almost have passed for human. It was a big Imperium, after all, and growing up working in the vats on a planet full of mushrooms wasn’t a recipe for health. There was an ugly, bruise-coloured tone to their skin, not remarkable until you saw the matching pair together. Their heads, once stripped of protective gear, were oddly elongated. One had red eyes, now staring blind and angry at the ceiling, but then most of the workers had worn goggles. Easy to miss.

The last had three arms.

‘You’d not have known, to look,’ Jerrin said, lounging against the edge of the belt, a lean, hard woman in carapace armour. ‘Just a bit of a belly, maybe.’

The arm was not human. It emerged from a cancerous whorl of hard skin beneath the corpse’s ribs, ridgy with chitin, jointed like an insect’s. The hand was a trio of curved claws six inches long.

‘Is this…’ In the silence, Donaghl’s voice dwindled to a whisper, ‘Chaos?’

‘An evil less potent but no less insidious,’ Jerrin announced. ‘You’ve got xenos, governor. And they’ve been here a while.’

Donaghl went still. ‘Then we destroy them. Root them out, at minimum cost to our work here.’

‘You think it’ll be that easy?’ Because Jerrin was all about flicking the noses of the locals.

‘We have tithe quotas. Or there are forge worlds who starve.’ Donaghl wasn’t giving an inch. ‘I’ve fought xenos, inquisitor. We’ll deal with this.’

‘For now, let’s inform the populace that we’re containing an infection,’ Vulpern said. ‘We’ll send teams to sample the other major work caverns. This taint needs numbers to hide it.’

‘And Malador?’

‘We’ll take some prisoners, ask some questions,’ Jerrin said. ‘After that, it burns.’

Vulpern wouldn’t have been so bold, but the words were out now.

Donaghl blinked. ‘This is thirteen per cent of our processing output.’

‘Rebuild,’ Jerrin told him. ‘No price too high to stamp out the taint of the xenos, isn’t that right?’

They were getting a lot of looks from the workers by the time they got back to the boats. Much of their audience hadn’t taken off their goggles. Most still wore their work hoods: their baggy overalls that might hide a multitude of sins. They looked on their governor, on the Space Marines, especially the inquisitors, without love.

Vulpern stepped onto the boat, feeling the repulsor field shift with his weight. He wouldn’t have ordered the mass incineration, but he couldn’t argue with Jerrin in front of the locals. There were several thousand employed in the Malador cavern. Families lived here, in chambers carved back into the rock or worked within the broad stems of gigantic fungi. Children worked alongside their parents. There would be another way. Perhaps the cult has concentrated here, grown up like a cancer about some chapel or den. He’d seen it before. This infestation had certain paths of growth and behaviour known to the Inquisition. A concerted strike against their leaders, some public executions. Deploy a cadre of preachers to reaffirm the Imperial faith. It needn’t be…

A massacre.

He glanced at Jerrin and knew that she was already composing a post-massacre report, and that the Inquisition would only welcome it. And he’d done the same. Many times, many worlds, just the same. The sickness he felt at the prospect was just another kind of infection, even if it came from nowhere but inside him.

They set out back over the water. Vulpern managed vox contact with the shuttle on the third try, sending a message for relay to the orbiter above. Phase two of the cleansing, the cautious feeling out of how far the disease had spread through the body.

The roar of the water harvesters resounded around the cavern, coming back to him from all sides. He barely noticed its fluctuations until the soldiers in the lead barge cried out. Vulpern’s head snapped up to see one of the huge machines had changed course, and its idling progress had become a full-on charge, a bow wave streaming either side of the rotating blades at its prow.

‘Another course, now,’ he snapped, grabbing Donaghl’s shoulder. The governor was already pointing, shouting directions to their helmsman, their boat scooting off across the choppy surface of the water, the second craft following. Vulpern craned his neck, waiting for the lead boat to manage its own turn. They were slow, though. The guardsmen in the fore were trying to disable the harvester, lasgun fire refracting harmlessly off its iron flanks.

He heard the shrieks, saw men and women hurl themselves into water laced with tangling fungal strands. The whirling blades came down on the boat and splintered its plastek hull to shrapnel, the crew diving to their doom or becoming sudden mists of red as the machinery took them.

Their own boat was being carried far from the harvester’s reach, the current dragging them into a tunnel leading down into the planet’s bowels, twisting away at a corkscrewing angle. Donaghl had taken the helm himself, jaw jutting as he wrestled to keep the craft above water that had no interest in staying beneath them.

He saw the boat behind them start to fishtail, about to slam shatteringly into the tunnel wall, only the skill of the crew saving it. After that, his own progress held all his attention, whirling through the dark, past the corpselight of luminous fungi, shooting out into open space with no certain up or down.

And then they were abruptly gliding across a pool of water still as glass, save for the ripples of their passage. A vast torrent fell from near the cave’s ceiling, to be lost in the depths with barely a bubble. Great puffball globes cast an undersea light across a scene as alien in its calm as their progress had been in its violence.

Jerrin sat up and brushed her armour down ostentatiously. ‘Bracing,’ she remarked. ‘Something tells me the locals might be onto us.’

Vulpern was looking for the other boat, seeing it punting over, complement intact. ‘Glad you had a bolthole lined up, governor,’ was all he said.

‘I was clearing out vermin down here, four years back,’ Donaghl said flatly. ‘The fungus throws up mobile forms. You have to get to them fast, before they start preying on the workforce. I’m afraid it’s a long walk back up.’

There were steps cut into the rock, slick with mould. Water ran down them in a constant churn, making every step at once a slogging effort and, as they ascended, an ever-worsening risk of falling. Vulpern almost went once, his long career in the balance as one of the Adeptus Astartes snagged his robe and hauled him wordlessly back in. The Space Marine kept a gauntleted hand on his arm, after that.

And, after a hundred and seventeen steps, there was just another cavern, another shallow lake fed from above, feeding to below, another set of water-eroded steps towards the distant, fickle promise of light. If Jerrin hadn’t been there, he’d have begged a rest, but he knew her eyes were on him as she made amendments to the half-composed report in her head. Cursing her to the warp, he forced himself to put one foot in front of the other for however long it would take.

A squad of guardsmen were waiting for them, by then, with a couple of Inquisitorial aides from the shuttle. Back to business. Vulpern felt like he wanted to lie down for a week. Jerrin was taking pains to show just how easy she was finding it.

He almost missed the signs. One of the guardsmen stepped forward to help the old inquisitor into the open, here within sight of the port docks. A hand on his arm, a hand on his shoulder, a respectful tilt of the head. A third hand with a dagger. A fourth with a fist of curved claws. It could have been over as quickly as that.

Vulpern was old, though. It meant he’d been faster, and he’d been tougher, but it also meant that people had failed to kill him a lot.

No room to leap back, so he took the dagger-wrist and the chitinous joint that housed the talons and just rolled forwards, his shoulder crunching into what didn’t feel like ribs. The assassin hissed. There were human teeth in that mouth, and a second layer of needle fangs, flicking from the gums. The man’s tongue darted at his face like a sting.

He got a knee on the claw, feeling one barb draw a line of blood from his thigh. Holding the dagger back, he dragged his bolt pistol out left-handed. The man had his humanoid hands about Vulpern’s neck.

The detonation of the bolt-round served to alert anyone still oblivious that he was in trouble. It wasn’t enough to stop the killer, but a thorough decapitation courtesy of the watch-sergeant’s chainsword served as the last word in the argument.

Vulpern pointedly stood without taking any of the proffered hands. ‘We may just have to go straight to stage three,’ he said to Jerrin, trying to keep his voice steady.

Aftermath – Interrogation session two

Vulpern sipped his tea. The planet where these leaves had grown was ash now. He’d had a part in it. Another sacrifice for the prolonging of Emperor and Imperium.

Jerrin was on the fourth time round with the same questions. What did you hope to gain? Surely you knew you were on the wrong side? Who helped you? The same mumbled replies, with the hooded scribe scratching them down. Pointless. But the asking and the answering weren’t the point. The point was that it was prescribed, amongst the ten thousand pages of the Inquisition’s protocols. Conceivably it was a deterrent, though as the Inquisition would make no external report, Vulpern wasn’t sure who was to be deterred.

Us, perhaps. Who would make a better heretic than an inquisitor? But he suspected it wasn’t even that. It was the machine of empire, comprised of such a quantity of moving parts that things were just done. The Mechanicus were right, in their blinkered way: that the machine went on was all.

Shargrin Inquisitorial intercession – Military intervention stage

‘Ease up on him,’ Vulpern murmured to Jerrin as they waited in Donaghl’s chambers. ‘No sense making more enemies than we have to.’

‘He’ll serve or he’ll suffer,’ she told him. ‘I thought you’d know that motto.’

‘You read his record.’ But he suspected it wouldn’t matter. Jerrin was ambitious, and these days that meant conspicuous displays of devotion to the cause.

He studied the man as he came in, the soldier in official’s robes. Donaghl had been a lieutenant in the Imperial Guard, back in the day, thrown into a doomed fight against the craftworld aeldari for reasons more to do with incompetent superiors than Imperial policy. The regiment had been smashed. Donaghl and a handful of others were left behind, covering the retreat. He’d been caught. End of story.

Except the craftworlders had also been pulling out and, in the confusion, Donaghl had slipped his cell. In the full expectation that he’d never see another human face again, he’d killed every xenos he could find. He’d ended up on a crippled ship, three-quarters dead and surrounded by corpses. Where, against all odds, a rogue trader looking for salvage had discovered him. Now the Life Of Donaghl was a minor footnote in the archives, extolling unceasing resistance to the alien even in the face of oblivion. Guardsmen carried medallions with his name. And the man himself had been pensioned off here for a quiet life.

‘Malador cavern is isolated,’ Donaghl reported. ‘I’ve placed checkpoints at every path around the two neighbouring facilities to discourage travel. Your Space Marines have disembarked and are moving on Malador. Our detachment of the Seven Hundred and Fifth will meet them on arrival.’ The Deathwatch convoy would be taking a roundabout route, driving through dry passageways, avoiding the most direct tunnels and any traps laid there.

‘I’d only ask’ – the words seemed drawn from Donaghl with hooks – ‘that you give orders to minimise damage and needless casualties amongst the population. Burn the xenos to the ground, but–’

‘Soft, governor?’ Jerrin broke in before Vulpern could take the initiative. ‘The innocent are glad to burn, so long as they are kindling for the guilty.’ Her smirk vanished when Donaghl stormed right up to her, close enough that one of their attendant Space Marines had his weapon levelled at the man’s forehead.

‘Not soft,’ the governor ground out. ‘I have my duty, as you have yours. A thousand humans lost to the xenos is your failure. A thousand dead of starvation is mine. Leave me my factories, my equipment, my workers.’

‘Better a hundred worlds starve than one is lost to corruption,’ Jerrin told him coldly. ‘Purity is all.’

‘We will take all steps we can,’ Vulpern broke in loudly. ‘But this is not your local fungal vermin, governor.’

‘Just identify those touched with this taint,’ Donaghl said flatly. ‘I will second my entire staff to the effort. Burn the afflicted, preserve the rest.’

‘But we are not dealing with an affliction,’ Vulpern explained tiredly. ‘It is a cult. Listen, there was a single creature, once. Genestealers, you’ve heard of them? Not just denizens of abandoned ships and far planets. One of them reached your world, found your people. It fed. It infected them with its nature. Adults finding odd marks on their bodies, strange thoughts in their heads – I’ll wager you’ve enough fungal conditions here that it went unnoticed. Then children born – hideous, alien, yet children still, and who does not love their children? Hidden away, a shameful secret. But then parents of the afflicted find they are not alone. And those children are strong, gifted, wise, even. And each generation better at masking its abnormalities, more human on the outside, though perhaps not within. And out of this knot of deformity, those who told your people they were destined, chosen. Perhaps they even dressed it in the robes of the Emperor, but the shape of the god beneath was alien. And it’s a powerful thing, to tell people they’re special. People live hard lives. The Emperor demands much, and can never give as much as He wishes.’ The old words, said so often. ‘Imagine being told there was another path to salvation. Imagine if your priest, instead of exhorting mere faith, could bare his chest and show you a concrete sign the new age was dawning. That the universe truly cared about you.’

Donaghl’s lip curled and he was obviously about to make some derisive remark about anyone fool enough to trust the xenos, but another messenger dashed in breathlessly, proffering a curled strip of code.

Vulpern scanned it briefly and bared his teeth. The Deathwatch convoy was under attack, ambushed at a choke point by an organised force of locals out of the next cavern from Malador.

And by a rogue element of the planetary guard. The troopers had defaced the Imperial insignia on their vehicles, he read. They had banners depicting a spiralling worm-shape, bristling with fangs. The watch-commander reported that progress towards Malador had stalled. Reinforcements were being called in.

He met Jerrin’s gaze. ‘Send sampling parties to the further caverns, two, three removed from Malador,’ he told her. ‘Let’s hope this is something we can contain.’

She nodded then said, as though she hadn’t heard him, ‘They’ve brought the incendiaries down from the orbiter. I will give the commander authorisation.’

‘Inquisitor,’ Donaghl said sharply. ‘Many of our crops here are extremely flammable. And the people of Malador… this cult is a minority.’

‘Kindling,’ she told him. ‘And now, governor, a complete list of your staff here, if you will.’

He blinked. ‘And why?’

‘Because the cult is insidious, governor, and that’s twice they’ve been waiting for us. Speaking as an inquisitor, I have questions.’

The main Deathwatch advance took nine days to reach Malador, bitterly opposed all the way. The locals used strategic cave-ins, raised barricades and contested every yard of ground. They fought with lasguns and knives, with agricultural machinery, with fungal toxins and explosive spore mines. And within their ranks lurked the true enemy, the hybrids with their extra limbs, their armoured skin and inhuman speed, pairing gun and blade with fang and talon. And yet the Deathwatch had seen worse, and they ground on, trusting to their armour and their iron discipline. Vulpern took regular reports. Nobody could talk through a day’s bloody business in such a matter-of-fact way like Space Marines. Looking at their blunt features, Vulpern had a sense of a deformity almost akin to that of the cultists. Not Chaos but its opposite, as though an innate human variability had been ground out of them, only the ideal of the warrior left behind.

By that time, the two neighbouring caverns to Malador had been isolated as well, though the Space Marines lacked the numbers to advance on all three. Teams led by Inquisition aides had detected some xenos infection in further caves, but it was minimal. Jerrin had followed Harghesh’s last coordinates and found the heart with her initial sampling.

And she’d been right about the intelligence leaks, too. They’d lost sampling teams and the Deathwatch manoeuvres were being countered, the locals always ready to ambush. The battle was being carried by superior discipline and heavier armament, but the ill-equipped cultists were constantly shifting to anticipate every move. And Jerrin was working her way through the entire Administratum staff and half the local guard officers. She hadn’t found a culprit yet, but her efforts were disrupting everyone else’s attempts to do their job.

A costly failure, therefore, and a younger, more ambitious Vulpern would probably have been compounding matters by writing up uncomplimentary reports, so as to make his own efforts more creditable. Instead of which he was just trying to do his job. Which left Jerrin free to say what she wished about him in her reports. That was how it went. You could be loyal, or you could make an ostentatious show of loyalty, but there weren’t enough hours in the day to do both.

Jerrin had just stormed out of the office he’d co-opted as his own, having stormed in a moment earlier to complain that none of the locals were cooperating with her. She’d slapped down a sheaf of papers on the desk, each one a testimony to some clerk or functionary she’d racked. ‘The cult,’ she’d declared, ‘is right here with us.’

It seemed indisputable. Two days before, Jerrin had survived her own brush with assassination, which had only honed her fervour.

‘And what do you do? Just sit here!’ she’d added.

‘I’ve been looking for patterns. Deathwatch is ready to move in at Malador now, by the way.’

‘What are they waiting for?’

‘Us to stopper the leak,’ he said mildly. ‘To avoid any more surprises.’

‘Tell them to burn it all. And I don’t care if word of that gets to the cult. Let them know the fires are lit for them.’

‘Yes,’ Vulpern agreed sadly. ‘That probably is inevitable.’

It was time for his meeting with the governor, after that. The nine days seemed to have added nine years to the man’s face as he’d dealt with the closure of his farms, the defection of his subordinates, the fact of the xenos cult erupting from the soil of his world.

‘But it’s the endgame now,’ Vulpern confirmed. ‘The Space Marines are going in.’

‘Please.’ Donaghl kneaded at his face. ‘Preserve what you can. You know the Administratum will make no allowance for this, when they come demanding their tithe.’

Vulpern hardened his heart. ‘Governor, this is the taint of the alien. We uproot it and salt the earth, or it will grow again. And we will start with Edrigor.’

Donaghl went still. ‘Edrigor is not infected.’

‘According to our sampling teams it is. We will purge Edrigor. With fire. And then we will move inwards. Malador last of all. No refuge for the xenos, governor. Just as when you fought the aeldari. You left not one of them alive.’ Remembering the approving descriptions of the scene when they’d found the man. The twisted, delicate bodies of the aliens, their men, their women, their young. And Donaghl, injured, scarred, rocking back and forth, chainsword still clutched in his hands.

‘Not one,’ the governor echoed, and then, ‘I thought you were the reasonable one.’

Good inquisitor, bad inquisitor, thought Vulpern. Except nobody really believes in a good inquisitor. ‘We are all servants of the Emperor,’ he remarked blandly, and went to give his orders to the watch-commander.

The next day, he received the expected report from a Space Marine detachment sent off to the tunnels outside Edrigor. They’d stopped a convoy of locals. Not cultists, and few weapons amongst them. Families, mostly; children. People carrying what they could of their lives and getting the hell out, because word had been passed to them that cleansing fire was coming for their homes.

Vulpern’s mistake was going alone to confront the man. True, he went armoured and armed, as he’d been going everywhere since the assassin, but sometimes he forgot the weight of years that slowed him down.

He found Donaghl in the governor’s suite, one wall rolled up to reveal a pict screen, where grainy images of the day’s fighting were stuttering through their paces. Vulpern caught glimpses of an overturned Rhino, the proud eagles of its mouldings beheaded and vandalised. Deathwatch Space Marines lumbered forwards, step by power-armoured step. A host of men and women rushed in armed with drills and saws and lascutters, led by a blue-purple creature more than half-xenos, worm-standard clutched in a taloned hand.

‘Inquisitor,’ the governor said quietly, not turning.

‘They caught refugees evacuating Edrigor,’ Vulpern observed. ‘We weren’t going to burn it, by the way. Detected cult infiltration was low enough to be contained.’ Although Jerrin might, now.

Donaghl nodded, eyes still on the screen. Vulpern saw a woman there take the standard from the hybrid’s dead claw, waving it as bolter fire erupted close by her. Her face held such serene conviction.

‘How is it,’ Vulpern asked politely, ‘that you, of all men, should come to be the xenos’ quisling?’

Donaghl turned at last.

‘This post wasn’t a reward,’ he said quietly. ‘Everyone thinks it’s a grand job, governor of a planet after all that soldiering. But I told you what life is like here. They gave me a failing world, borderline habitable, and told me to make it work. Do you know how I discovered the cult, inquisitor? I looked where the yield was highest, where the people worked hardest and produced most. Because that taint, that filth that got into them, it breeds strong backs and hardy bodies. But it’s more than that. Like you say, it’s not just a disease, it’s a creed. You know when people work hardest?’

‘I have some idea, professionally,’ Vulpern confirmed.

‘You’re wrong,’ Donaghl told him. ‘It’s not fear. Fear makes people want to look like they’re working, for as long as they know you’re watching. People work best when they’re content, inquisitor. When they have something that gives them a reason to live. The cult tells them they’re worth something. That they have a purpose beyond the daily grind. And so the cult and I came to an arrangement, and together we fed the Emperor’s people.’ His face twisted in sudden rage and Vulpern took a step back, hand to his pistol.

‘I could have given you scapegoats,’ the man spat. ‘I could have sent you from here secure in the knowledge you’d done your job. But no, your friend had to start talking about burning everything. And another point the cult and I agree on is preserving our people.’

Vulpern felt a desperate sadness. ‘Governor, do you have any idea what these genestealer cults are? Just as you feed the Imperium with the produce of this world, so the minds behind the cult would have you feed other mouths. Alien mouths, governor. Unthinkable hungers dwell between the stars, waiting to be called down by their faithful. And they will not simply take your damned fungi. They will scour this world to the rock. That is what the cult is preserving your people for.’

For a long three seconds Donaghl just stared at him, and then replied, ‘But until then, the work gets done.’

Vulpern choked. ‘Until then?’

‘You have seen the galaxy, just as I have,’ Donaghl told him, a muscle twitching at the corner of his mouth. ‘There might be an ork fleet come with the next dawn to destroy everything we’ve built here. The work of heretics might snuff out the sun. There is no certainty. The Imperium is a blind machine hurtling into infinity. We…’ – the jag of grief in his voice showed nowhere on that soldier’s face – ‘are motes of dust in the face of eternity. I cannot control tomorrow, but until it happens, I can ensure the work gets done, and that we are fed today.’

The set of his expression changed then, and Vulpern understood that the second assassin had found him.

When he turned, he saw that he had grossly underestimated the situation. This was no human with a toxin-blade or a needler, nor even a hybrid with extra limbs and a predator’s fanged grin. The thing that faced him was four-armed, hunched forwards, its body encased in interlocking plates of carapace. The head was almost eyeless, mostly jaw and lashing tongue. The first pair of hands were those murderous talons, but the second pair were still brown, human, the nails bitten raggedly short by alien teeth. Xenos filth, he thought, and at the same time, Somebody’s child.

It went for him. He got two shots off but the creature’s speed made nothing of the distance between them. There were Space Marines two rooms away. They’d hear. He just had to survive until then.

The first claw tore into his armour, snagging in the ruined metal. The second drove for his face and he held it off, punching the creature, trying to buck it off him. It took his wrist with those horribly human hands. The jaws gaped, trying to angle past his shoulder guard so it could shear his face off cleanly.

The power sword made a barely audible hum as it cut away first the free talon and then everything above the jaw from the genestealer’s head. Vulpern hadn’t even known that Donaghl owned one.

He got to his feet, feeling the creak of abused ribs and the trickle of blood inside his ruined armour. His bolt pistol was levelled, but the governor simply powered down the blade and set it on his desk. Behind him, on the screen, the Space Marines were driving forwards, smashing the barricades, breaking apart the knots of cultists before the images glitched into static.

Aftermath – Interrogation session three

After Jerrin was done, Vulpern shifted his seat so he was beside the big chair, the one reserved for subjects. Donaghl’s laboured breathing filled the room. Jerrin had been sure to preserve him for the execution that would follow. As set down in protocols.

‘Vulpern?’ Donaghl had no eyes to see him, but perhaps the man recognised the scent of his tea.

‘I’d wanted to spare you this,’ the inquisitor told him, ‘but…’ But Jerrin had the writ. But they don’t trust me with this any more. They don’t think I’m sound.

‘Did you see them fight, Vulpern?’ Donaghl whispered. ‘My people?’ His smile was a terrible, ruined thing. ‘They were so fierce. They knew they couldn’t win, but they fought… I’ve been there. I fought the xenos, seeking nothing but death. People who believe in something fight so hard. Even if what they believe in is a lie. But you understand that, inquisitor.’

Vulpern’s cue to challenge him, to trumpet the virtues of the Imperium. He let his silence speak for him.

‘When they found me, they told me I was a hero,’ Donaghl whispered. ‘To fight on against the darkness once the last light’s been extinguished. What’s more Imperial than that? And yet when they sent me to Shargrin I saw only people being extinguished so that the dark could perpetuate itself. Mushrooms, inquisitor. We are all mushrooms to the Emperor. Kept in the dark, fed on lies, harvested, processed and fed to the next crop, over and over. Us, the Guard, even the Space Marines, mushrooms. Better to rise up, in the end. Better fight today than accept all those tomorrows. Or perhaps the Emperor’s loyal Inquisition has something to say?’

But Vulpern just sat beside him and sipped at his tea, mute: a man whose business was asking questions, and who had no answers.

RED KNIGHT

Miles A Drake

Miles A Drake returns to the pages of Inferno!, bringing back his signature dark, brooding style with this story from the Age of Sigmar.

In the Realm of Metal, the noble warrior Saroglek leads a vanguard force to capture a castle in the name of his beloved king. But as the battle progresses, and he travels further and further away from the king’s court, Saroglek’s perception of the world begins to change in gruesome ways; is his version of reality as it seems, or was it all just some kind of delusion?

Golden clouds shimmered, iridescent in the harsh light of the fading sun. Filtering through the metallic thorn trees behind them, the glittering mirage cloaked the advance of three dozen men. Striding over the fissures radiating from the quicksilver geysers marring the landscape, Saroglek kept ahead of the others, even though he was the most heavily armoured. Such hindrances were nothing to a man of his stature. He was Amarkhaian. His people were giants among men, the fiercest warriors in all of the Beholden Demesne.

Ahead, the Atrogai fortress loomed, its squat, mesa-like structure built to withstand the regular tectonic spasms of the region. It was the last bastion of a foul people that had despoiled the land for far too long.

Saroglek scarcely remembered what life had been like before the Atrogai reavers had come, and before his liege had unified the disparate tribes and petty kingdoms of the Sykarix Peninsula. With that unity, the newly formed Beholden Demesne had brought judgement to the Atrogai. With one great army, they had seized eleven forts and cleansed their land of the raiders.

Each had been a bloody effort. A frenzied climb followed by a furious battle. A true test of mettle against mettle. Saroglek was eager to test himself once more. While he relished the honour of leading the final assault, he lamented that he could not share his glory with his king… For the king had chosen to remain behind with the main army. The Beholden Legion was camped in one of the Sykarix rifts, safe from the fearsome Atrogai siege engines. Allowing Saroglek to lead had been one of the many selfless gestures of the Unbeholden King, allowing another the sole glory of the conquest. It was not one Saroglek would soon forget.

His vanguard came to a halt as they reached the edge of the thorn forest, invisible to the fortress’ sentries in the glimmering sunset. Saroglek turned to his men, forty hardened veterans from across the demesne. Pale-skinned Karixian riftmen stood beside shaggy Saradkol hill warriors. A group of ebon-skinned Marakht scouts, with golden eyes and tattoos, flanked a trio of Saroglek’s fellow Amarkhaians. The latter towered over the other men, fearsome in their baroque red warplate and grilled visors. Each man amongst the warband bore a red sash across his armour, and a stripe of crimson painted across his face. They were the banderium, the elite of the Beholden Demesne.

Saroglek walked among them, clapping Valaku, one of his Amarkhaians, on the shoulder. The excitement and anticipation was almost palpable in the tangy air. ‘Today, we end the Atrogai threat,’ he growled with a grin. ‘We make for the throne room. The false despot, Nashan, will kneel, or he will find himself a head shorter.’

His men chuckled.

‘We are the hand of the true king! We cannot fail!’

The men raised their weapons, and pounded their fists onto their chests in salute. Saroglek gestured with his left gauntlet towards the fractured no man’s land before them. Several burbling quicksilver geysers belched acrid plumes of red smoke.

‘No sound until we reach the walls. I will not stand to see another servant of the demesne fall to cowards’ arrows or accursed Atrogai engines. Once we are among them…’ He grinned again. ‘Then we shall let the barbarian curs bask in our glory!’ He raised his flanged, crimson-runed mace towards the wall.

‘Aldasht.’ He looked back at the dark-skinned, heavily tattooed Marakht chieftain. ‘Take your scouts. Flank right. Silence those engines before they turn on us.’

Aldasht nodded, clanking his long, hooked knives together.

Saroglek turned to the rest of his men. ‘Remember, we are justice. This is no sack. If the enemy surrenders, grant him quarter. If he does not… Well…’ He shrugged, and without a further word, he began to run.

Dozens of boots quietly pattered across the cracked earth behind him, and plumes of copper dust, kicked up by their silent charge, swirled in the red haze of the geysers’ smoke, haloing the banderium in a blinding mirage.

Gritting his teeth, Saroglek felt the rush of coming battle pump through him. Familiar bloodlust boiled as he saw the Atrogai sentries atop the palisade, completely unaware of what was coming. He longed for vengeance. For justice against the barbarian marauders. In the reverie of his building adrenaline, he felt his blood begin to simmer, a fierce rage threatening to set his spirit alight. It was a frenzy, a caged storm contained within the heart of every warrior. Some used it, like the Atrogai, to stoke the flames into a roaring bonfire of primal fury. Other cultures were more refined. They controlled it, repressed it, lest it overwhelm them. Saroglek fought it down, remembering the cold clarity of finely honed martial prowess, rather than sating the red haze of wanton bloodlust.

In a matter of moments, his main force reached the base of the wall, the mirage of acrid smoke and red dust preventing the sentries from seeing them at all. Saroglek could see Aldasht’s raiders already climbing. He looped his flanged mace into his belt and gripped the uneven stonework, hoisting his heavily armoured bulk upward. Quickly scaling the slope, he reached the battlements, gripping the palisade points and vaulting over, straight in between two fur-clad sentries.

Saroglek expected them to be surprised, even shocked, for the sudden appearance of a giant, red-armoured knight in their midst was certain to inspire such a reaction. But the terror in their eyes was something else. It was obvious that these warriors were the last dregs of the Atrogai. Novices who had never seen real battle. Saroglek felt some remorse in what came next…

With no time to draw his mace, he grabbed the first man and hurled him back. The barbarian crashed through the flimsy fence and tumbled off the wall, screaming, into the courtyard. Saroglek punched his gauntlet into the face of the other, shattering his jaw and sending the barbarian staggering out from under the awning. Striding forward, he took hold of the man’s head and snapped his neck in an instant, hurling his twitching corpse onto the sheet-metal roof of a shelter below.

By now, most of his warriors were atop the battlements, and the falling corpses and screams had sounded the alarm well enough. One sentry, further down, managed a single note on a horn before he was silenced by an Amarkhaian’s morning star.

Surveying the interior of the fortress, Saroglek saw that a squat, circular keep dominated most of the space, alongside an ironwood barracks. Improvised shelters made from rusted sheet metal shared the space with smithies and stables along the main wall, but gave some room for an open square of glittering copper-veined flagstones between the barracks and the keep. At the heart of the square, a three-pronged tuning fork rose twenty feet into the air, gleaming a brilliant gold in the dying light. Two Atrogai warriors rushed towards it from the shelters to begin clanging on it with metal rods. After a few strikes, it created an eerily pitched whine that resonated through the wind.

Ropes hung with strange, hollow metal objects shaped like gourds were strung up between the central keep and a few of the prominent structures within the fortress, amplifying the resonance.

Saroglek knew all too well that the sound would carry over the landscape, singing off the metallic rock and vibrating through the ferrous trees. It would alert any Atrogai reinforcements beyond the fortress’ walls.

But there were none.

The Unbeholden King had dispatched several parties of Marakht scouts to clear the surrounding lands of any and all Atrogai patrols.

This truly was their last bastion.

But it was well protected from a full-scale assault. Three multi-barrelled cannons, undoubtedly stolen from more civilised lands, loomed atop improvised turrets on the walls. The Atrogai were already scrambling about, panic and confusion in their eyes.

Pointing with his mace towards the cannons, he turned to Valaku. ‘Silence those infernal engines before they turn on us!’

Those engines were the reason the Unbeholden King had sent Saroglek and his banderium. What could make short work of massed infantry formations would have much more trouble with a small band of elite skirmishers.

The stair down to the courtyard was a good thirty paces away, and his banderium was already hacking into the defenders there. Realising that the path would take too long, Saroglek grit his teeth and jumped. His iron-shod boots crunched into the crawling man he’d thrown from the wall, partly absorbing the bone-jarring impact, and silencing the barbarian’s cries with a sickening squelch.

Recovering, Saroglek roared a challenge to a trio of Atrogai that emerged from a nearby shelter. Their confusion turned to horror, and their panicked gazes looked for an avenue of retreat.

Saroglek snarled. ‘Kneel or fight, cowards!’

They turned to flee, but he covered the distance in a few strides, arcing his flanged mace down onto the one that stood and raised his shield. It shattered it in a mess of splintered ironwood, bone and pulped meat. The man screamed at his mangled arm as Saroglek slammed a gauntleted fist into his face, silencing him. Another barbarian tripped as he fled, and without breaking stride, Saroglek pulped his shoulder and ribcage with his mace. The third barbarian fled straight into Tamasz. The grey-bearded Saradkol warrior skewered the man in the gut with a short sword, and plunged his off-hand dagger into his eye.

Grinning and bloodied, Tamasz and three other banderium warriors fell in behind Saroglek as he rushed towards another pack of barbarians. A dozen of them had emerged from one of the interior tunnels in the wall, the first rank kneeling and raising shields, the second aiming their iron-veined horn bows.

Saroglek roared in rage as they loosed, feeling a few arrows clatter off his armour. He felt each impact like a hammer blow, but they did nothing.

Tamasz fell to the volley, alongside a Karixian warrior, and a red haze misted around the edges of Saroglek’s vision as he barrelled into the Atrogai, crashing through the shield wall. His first swing sent one barbarian sprawling and shattered the leg of an archer in the second line. His backswing obliterated the jaw of another Atrogai even before the two other banderium warriors hacked into the barbarian formation, their falchions and mauls sending up crimson sprays.

Saroglek grabbed a fleeing archer by the throat, lifting him high. He roared as he crushed the man’s neck, lashing out with his mace to implode the ribcage of another. Casting the corpse aside, he spun, the runes on his weapon flaring crimson as it sent a mauled tribesman ten paces from the melee in a halo of splattered gore. An archer drew a dirk and thrust it into Saroglek’s shoulder, but it deflected off his pauldron, and he caved in the man’s skull with a savage fist. Spinning again, he brought his mace up, shattering an archer’s jaw and wrenching his head off in a gruesome tear of mangled flesh and sinew. The few barbarians that survived fled straight into Aldasht’s raiders, who slid down the ladders, leaving the mangled corpses of the cannon’s crew in their wake.

In the distance, Saroglek saw the red-armoured forms of Kavhost and Valaku reach the other cannon, hurling the gunners from the wall just as they’d managed to turn it towards the courtyard. Saroglek raised his weapon to Valaku, putting a fist to his mouth in the traditional Amarkhaian salute, before turning to see the bloodied ruins of the Atrogai warriors behind him. The red haze retreated from his vision, and Saroglek paled, startled at the sight.

He shook his head in disgust. The slaughter had been excessive. Too excessive. He pushed back the bloodlust, grimacing at those he’d killed. Given his brutality, it was only natural that the Atrogai were so terrified of him. To them, he was undoubtedly no bringer of justice, no knight. To them, he was a butcher.

Shaking off his discontent, he pointed towards the keep, where a throng of barbarians clustered before its ironbark gate, taking battle lines. Armoured warriors stood among them, their horned barbutes and scavenged warplate marking them as Nashan’s chosen.

Advancing, the Marakht raiders joined him, along with a few other banderium warriors. Corpses already littered the ground. Most were Atrogai, but a few weren’t. By now, the defenders on the wall were dead, crushed by the Amarkhaians and Saradkol. Several banderium warriors descended into the shelters along the walls, cutting free horses and sowing pandemonium as they flanked the amassing barbarians. The few Atrogai that had managed to retreat from the tents and walls joined their comrades before the gate.

This wouldn’t be some surprise attack or massacre of confused, unprepared men. This would be a proper battle. He signalled his own lines to form up, intentionally giving the Atrogai ample time to do the same.

Saroglek’s heart thundered as his breath heaved. He fought the rage, the haze, struggling to keep his mind clear. Pointing his mace towards the barbarians, his face curled into a snarling rictus as he advanced.

One of the barbarians roared commands to his fellows, gesturing with a longaxe, his back adorned with two skull-pointed flags, his crude breastplate spiked with severed hands. Disgust roiled in Saroglek, feeding off his bloodlust, amplifying his rage. He longed to bring righteous judgement down upon the unwholesome men before him. His banderium roared, rattling their weapons as they postured against the Atrogai.

The enemy looked terrified. It was clear that these were not experienced warriors, for they gripped their weapons with white knuckles, and they stood on shaking knees. Only the chosen seemed to control their fear, standing upright and armoured amidst the less courageous rabble. Saroglek wondered what they saw before them. Were they terrified because they knew the banderium was the inevitable hammer of the justice they’d evaded for so long? Or were they terrified because they’d just emerged into a senseless bloodbath?

Saroglek raised his arm to calm his men. His men were the armoured fist of civilisation. They were not savages. And he would ensure they acted the part.

‘I am Lord Saroglek!’ he roared to the barbarians, causing them to flinch away from his booming voice. ‘I am the Duke of Amarkhai, marshal of the Beholden Demesne, and the right hand of the Unbeholden King! You have despoiled our realm, and savaged our people! And now, I am your judgement!’

He gazed over the opposing line. They were fifty strong, at least, outnumbering his banderium. But that didn’t matter. His warriors were the elite of the Beholden Demesne, and Saroglek and his Amarkhaians would more than make up the difference in numbers.

‘But I am not without mercy, and the Unbeholden King is a generous ruler! You have impressed him, and he will allow you to join his victory feast, providing you kneel…’ He paused to let his words sink in. The barbarians still looked terrified. He gestured to the keep. ‘Bring this message to your k–’

They charged with a mad roar, terror-borne abandon driving them into a reckless, suicidal frenzy. Arrows whistled over the rush, thudding into the banderium. Several men screamed and fell.

Saroglek hesitated for a moment, perplexed. He’d just offered them a chance to live, and they’d responded like cornered beasts… He shook his head, disgusted. ‘So be it!’ He roared, and counter-charged. ‘Then death is your judgement!’

The banderium followed as his flankers darted through the tents to pile into the undefended Atrogai bowmen. The lines met with bone-jarring impact. An axe crushed into his pauldron, denting the metal and staggering him, but Saroglek recovered and tore into the bowels of the axeman with his blade-fingered gauntlet, swiping his mace to turn another warrior’s head into a mess of grey and crimson. Saroglek ripped the axeman’s innards free as the red haze seeped into his vision. He swung again, pulping the ribcage of another warrior, before shattering the shield and arm of a third with his backswing. Both men were immediately torn down by the banderium warriors that swarmed through the gap he’d made in their line.

To the left, Kamar beat a barbarian down with his warhammer, deftly parrying another warrior’s attack, before kneeing the second man in the groin and spinning the spike-head of the hammer into his temple. To the right, Mavar, a shaggy Saradkol warrior, disembowelled an Atrogai with a dirk and ducked under the swinging sword of another, shouldering into the tribesman and giving one of the Marakht a clear angle to thrust a blade into his spine.

Blood sprayed and screams resounded as the slaughter unfolded.

In the midst of his swings, Saroglek saw one of his Amarkhaians brought down. A group of Atrogai archers untouched by the flankers released a volley of close-ranged needlepoints. Two arrows punched through the Amarkhaian’s leather gorget, and he lurched forward, taking two of the archers with him with one swipe of his morning star as he fell.

Several barbarians cut through the banderium line, but instead of exploiting the advantage, they fled towards the gate. Saroglek ignored them, grabbing another Atrogai that tried to slip past him, lifting him up before him and staring into his eyes.

The man screamed, thrashing in terror.

‘Why?’ Saroglek roared. ‘Why do you not yield? Why do you wish to die?’

The man shrieked.

A blade pierced up under Saroglek’s breastplate. With an insensate roar, Saroglek crushed the throat of the barbarian, and brought his forearm down on the man that had stabbed him, sending him to the bloodied earth with a shattered collarbone. Saroglek’s iron-shod boot pulped his skull as streaks of crimson weaved around the edges of his vision. The sounds of metal on metal and cries of rage and agony overwhelmed his senses, becoming one hideous note, one cacophony beating to the savage rhythm of his own heart. Amidst so much death and suffering, he felt so alive… Somewhere, in the corner of his mind, restraint and disgust drowned in the tide of blood.

Saroglek advanced, an unstoppable juggernaut of destruction, each stride accompanied by a swing, each swing accompanied by crunching bone and splattering flesh. The haze took him wholly as he killed, and killed… and killed…

Somehow, he was among the chosen, and he noticed a pick-hammer punching clean through his breastplate. He howled, vomiting blood into his own helm, headbutting the warrior back before tearing his claw-gauntlet deep into the man’s neck.

The other Amarkhaians and the Marakht had cut into the chosen, occupying them and giving Saroglek an avenue to face their champion… alone. The wound hardly bothered him as he singled out the Atrogai leader.

A duel, Saroglek thought. The order inherent in that concept was enough to lift the haze slightly.

‘Yield…’ he rasped through his heaving, bloodied breaths. ‘Yield or die…’

The champion lunged in with his longaxe. Saroglek parried, haft meeting haft. He shoved, forcing the barbarian into the keep’s gate. Bouncing back, the champion thrust the head of his weapon out with admirable speed, catching Saroglek in the jaw. The blow rang off his helmet, momentarily stunning him, allowing the Atrogai to slam another blow into his greave. Roaring as the armour dented, Saroglek grabbed the champion by the shoulder just as another blow struck him in the side. Dropping his elbow, he pinned the axe under his arm.

With a bestial snarl, Saroglek pushed, finding purchase on the warrior’s pauldron and shoving him up against the rattling gate. The Atrogai champion roared, putting all of his strength into shoving Saroglek off. He was rewarded with a headbutt that silenced his efforts. Helm rang against helm, and Saroglek felt the impact jarring his neck and jaw. The battle raged around him as he bashed again, and again, bouncing the champion’s head up against the gate with his own, until he felt something cave.

The Atrogai champion collapsed as his body convulsed, his helm dented halfway into his skull, red and grey oozing from its eye slits.

A sense of psychotic invigoration flooded Saroglek, and he struggled to keep it back. Adrenaline numbed the pain of his wound such that even his ragged breath was only a minor inconvenience.

It took him a few moments to realise the battle was over. Several Atrogai attempted to crawl away, but they didn’t make it far. The banderium relentlessly hacked down the wounded and fleeing barbarians, even as they attempted to open the gates to escape. The haze retreated.

‘Let them go!’ Saroglek roared, disgust drowning his bloodlust. But his commands came too late… No Atrogai had survived. ‘Banderium! To me!’ he called out angrily.

Snapping out of their frenzy, the men abandoned their butchery and slunk back to him. He could see rage and guilt alike in their bloodshot eyes. Each of them was spattered in crimson. Several were wounded, but they stood strong, their resilience and sense of greater purpose overcoming their pain.

‘Control yourselves!’ Saroglek scolded them. ‘We are not animals! We are not orruks! And we are not Atrogai! We are the Beholden Legion! And we will act like it!’ His words were as much a reminder to himself as they were to his men.

Downcast eyes and guilty affirmations met him. Several other banderium warriors were already in formation around him. They had controlled their savage impulses better. He nodded approvingly to them, even if such would be meaningless praise, given what he had done.

In a way, he was glad his king was not present to see this mess. Saroglek never lost control when fighting beside his liege, and to do so now only showed how much the supposedly reformed tribes of the Beholden Demesne still had to learn.

He snarled, shoving the doubt away as he regarded the keep. The only way to atone for this callous butchery was through ending the Atrogai swiftly, and decisively.

‘Their despot cowers within!’ Saroglek roared. ‘He kneels, or he dies!’

The gate was barred, but Saroglek and his remaining Amarkhaians bludgeoned it inward with a few dozen blows, splintering the ironwood and gouging out the entire locking mechanism.

The doors creaked open, and Saroglek glanced into the gloom, surprised and confused to find the gatehouse devoid of resistance. The remnants of the banderium, now three dozen, followed him into the dark, musty hall.

‘Be vigilant,’ he growled. ‘This isn’t over. Expect an ambush.’

Advancing into the throne room, he met no opposition. The chamber itself was small, and dominated by an ornate chair, carved of ferrous wood. Silver-beaked skulls and strings of the glittering golden feathers of Amarkhaian condors, prizes claimed from his homeland, decorated the walls while a central hearth glowed with simmering flux-stones, their colours and shapes continuously shifting as they gave off a halo of warm, magnetic pressure. Low feasting tables, made from spell-warped Karixian glass, still bore abandoned meals on silver plates. The entire hall was arranged so that the king might look down on his subjects.

Saroglek shook his head. The Unbeholden King had no need for such petty displays. The feast tables of his noble realm were wide and round, and the king would dine with courtier, knight and commoner alike, providing they had proven themselves.

There would undoubtedly be another such feast this night, to celebrate Saroglek’s victory. He would have his place of honour beside the Unbeholden King once more. Saroglek had hoped that some of the Atrogai would join them, for the Beholden Demesne was made stronger by the assimilation of other nations. But clearly, these barbarians didn’t know what was best for them.

‘Search the halls,’ he directed Aldasht and his ebon-skinned Marakht. ‘Find where they are hiding, but do not engage. I will remain here, in case their despot decides to grow a spine and face us.’

The Marakht scattered into the halls as Saroglek paced around the throne room. Swords, axes and shields hung from the walls attached to massive, spiked chains. The Atrogai were a warrior folk. For all their savage ways, they would have made a fine addition to the Beholden Demesne. Savages could be reformed, after all. The Saradkol and Marakht had not been so different once…

Even his own Amarkhaians had resisted the Unbeholden King at the beginning. Saroglek could scarcely remember that war. That had been another life, so long ago.

He shook his head, a flush of shame passing through him. He had fought against his king, but he had learned. They had been ignorant then, and refused to see the glory and prosperity of the Beholden Demesne. He had eventually seen it. And he had knelt.

And his people had knelt with him. And they were all stronger for it.

‘My lord.’ Aldasht had returned, breaking Saroglek’s reverie. ‘We found them. They lurk in the reliquary chamber, cowering.’

‘Good,’ Saroglek replied. ‘Then lead us. Your scouts will dine at the king’s table tonight.’

Led by the Marakht, Saroglek found the last Atrogai deep in the bowels of the keep, cowering in a long hall lit by candelabras. A large open space ran from the doorway all the way to the far end, flanked by all manner of stolen artefacts. Saroglek saw sconces full of Saradkian Lodestones, obsidian black but casting golden light from within their porous surfaces. A row of strange, silvered mirrors loomed at the far end of the chamber, and several chests overflowed with precious metals. Racks of arcane implements were built into the walls themselves, and their shelves sported golden cartographical sextants, strange sundials and all manner of apparatus Saroglek could not define the purpose of. Banners hung from the walls, both foreign and familiar. A tattered flag of dull crimson, marked with a black clawed gauntlet, represented the very reason Saroglek was here. The banner of his people. He would avenge the Amarkhaians slaughtered by the Atrogai, honour his oath to his king, and end the Atrogai terror once and for all.

His eyes drifted to the end of the chamber, where the very last vestige of Atrogai resistance held their shields before the entrance to a narrow escape tunnel. This would be the end.

Shouts rang out as the Atrogai formed up. Amidst the line of shield bearers, one stood out from the rest. Armoured in ornate demi-plate and a barbute helm adorned by golden horns, the despot waited, a cape of exotic white fur affixed to his shoulders. Clutching a greatsword, its point down in defiance, he almost looked like a true knight.

The despot called out, and his men raised their shields higher.

Saroglek removed his grilled helm as the banderium filed in around him. He revealed his aquiline features and braided black hair. It would give the Atrogai a face to regard this time. Perhaps that would help them see him as someone that could be reasoned with.

‘King Nashan,’ Saroglek began. The man was no true king, but he would honour his adversary with the title. ‘You have fought well. The Unbeholden King will allow you to surrender. Kneel, and you may join him in feast to discuss the terms of your vassalage.’

The Atrogai warlord raised his greatsword, pointing at Saroglek across the chamber. He roared something in his barbarian tongue, and Saroglek pieced a few words together.

The warlord called the invaders before him monsters. He said the Atrogai would never be taken alive.

But the warlord was hardly even addressing Saroglek; he was shouting to his own men. They were the shouts of one final moment of defiance before the end.

And Saroglek remembered those words… from somewhere else…

A moment of intense vertigo swept over him as he saw the reflections in the mirrors looming along the Atrogai flank. He saw ranks of mailed warriors with feather-crested helms and shields emblazoned with celestial heraldry. He saw a huddle of elderly folk, women and children, shoving to enter the tunnel behind them.

Momentarily stunned, fracture lines wound around the edges of Saroglek’s vision like crimson serpents. ‘What?’ he growled. His voice sounded distorted, barely like a voice at all. ‘What sorcery is this?’

The Atrogai charged.

The crimson cracks disappeared as he blinked the bizarre reflections away. Saroglek barely had time to react as his warriors counter-charged, surging around him. In a moment of disoriented, confused rage, Saroglek joined them.

If some vile, barbarian shaman had attempted to bewitch him, he would not succumb so easily. He raged at such cowardly tactics just as he raged at himself, knowing that he was the reason they did not surrender. They saw a monster. They saw the terror he became in battle, the merciless engine of destruction that left only mangled corpses in his wake.

He would have to become the monster they’d made of him. Again.

He rushed directly for their king, his mace’s runes flaring a baleful crimson as he barrelled through the line, knocking aside barbarian shield bearers. ‘You forced my hand!’ he roared, his mace shattering shields and bones alike. Men scattered under the impacts, and the banderium surged through the gap, tearing into the shield bearers with daggers, hatchets and clubs.

One of the shield bearers thrust a silvered blade at him. It skipped across his breastplate, finding the gap the barbarian pick had made.

Saroglek howled in agony as he reached forward, his claw grabbing the man’s arm as he swatted another aside with his mace. He twisted, feeling the limb wrench free from its socket. The barbarian roared as Saroglek pulled him close and delivered a brutal headbutt.

Somehow, he eviscerated the man’s throat, and a tide of crimson spurted in through the grille of Saroglek’s helm. He felt the familiar tang of blood in his mouth, even as it burned his eyes. Swinging madly, hateful of the fact that he was forced to, once again, be the butcher his enemies proclaimed him to be, he smashed two more shield bearers aside that sought to impede his progress towards the Atrogai despot.

As the last shield bearer ducked under his swing and lashed out, denting Saroglek’s greave inward with a hammer swing, Saroglek reached low, clawing out the man’s innards clean through the mail, before crushing his skull and shoulder into pulp with his mace.

The despot sought to scrabble away, as the rest of the banderium fighters gave Saroglek the space to strike the decisive blow to end the war himself. Saroglek advanced, covering the distance of the despot’s retreat in a few strides. The man thrust with his sword, but Saroglek effortlessly batted away the feeble strike, and clasped his claw around the man’s throat and lifted him high. As he stared into the Atrogai king’s eyes, crimson coils wreathed his vision and the vertigo returned, nearly toppling him.

In the man’s eyes, he saw a reflection. Something monstrous… something terrible.

He hurled the king away, sending him sprawling behind the battle line, crashing right in front of one of the mirrors.

Clearing the gap, Saroglek brought his boot down on the Atrogai despot to pin him to the ground.

His strides brought him directly before the blood-spattered mirror. And within its reflection… Saroglek saw madness.

Delusion seized his mind as that madness became reality. As the coils worming their way into his vision tightened, and a reddish fog began to blanket his field of view, the Atrogai became the mailed warriors he’d seen for an instant before. There was terror in their eyes, but it was held at bay not by bloodlust but by courage and desperation.

In the reflection, Saroglek saw hideous, hunched degenerates loping about behind him, their flesh threaded by bones, their tangled hair matted with gore and entrails. The sanguine fog seemed to trail them, distorting their images as they raked at the mailed warriors with septic talons and clubs fashioned from sharpened bone, and in a moment of deranged understanding Saroglek realised they were his banderium. Where his two Amarkhaians had stood only moments before, he now saw two abominable giants, shrouded in red mist, towering over the hunched horrors below them, wielding massive clubs.

He saw his own form in the mirror, pale-fleshed and hideously scarred, wracked by deformity and caked in gore from head to toe. The blood billowed from him, cloaking him in the haze. A savage club fashioned from the bone of some gigantic monster replaced his runed mace, and elongated hooked talons jutted from his other hand.

‘What is this?’ he roared. ‘What have you done to me?’ But there were no words. There was only a revolting, abhorrent screech of madness and confusion.

Wracked by horror, Saroglek pressed his clawed foot down on the Atrogai despot. The barbarian monarch was naught but an old man in ceremonial armour, an ancient king who had to watch his people die. The armour cracked as assuredly as the ribs beneath. With a sickening crunch, the king’s torso collapsed, gore erupting from his mouth.

His breath heaving in panic, Saroglek wheeled around, seeing a pack of ghoulish black-skinned monsters tear through the last remnants of the Atrogai line, and into the throng of those attempting to flee down the tunnels.

Red mist hazed their forms, cloaking the things that had been the Marakht and the fleeing Atrogai alike. Within that mist, Saroglek saw…

There were no routing warriors, broken by their cowardice. There were only common folk, helpless and terrified, the last vestiges of a people that had been butchered by a raging horde of deranged cannibals. They screamed in terror as the hunched, black-skinned monsters tore into them, a frenzy of claws and bone clubs sending crimson sprays in all directions.

Saroglek shook his head. It was all lies.

‘Is this how you see us?’ Saroglek’s words came out as an anguished roar.

He could not bear to see the carnage wreaked upon helpless folk. It was too real. It spoke to the bloodlust within him too well. Even if it was a lie, he knew… It could have been true… if he ever gave into that beast coiled within him.

‘Let them go!’ he roared at the Marakht, thundering forward. They scattered.

‘We… are not… monsters!’ he shrieked as he saw the carnage. Many of the commoners had been shredded, the wounds inflicted by teeth and claws, not by falchions and axes. The entire escape tunnel was slick with gore. The last few scattered away from him, the terror in their eyes and the screams echoing down the tunnel cutting deep into his soul.

He frantically searched the room for anything that might be the source of his affliction. With each passing heartbeat, the delusion became more and more unbearable. Frantically, Saroglek spun, searching for–

He saw it.

He saw his reflection in one of the blood-spattered mirrors.

He saw the pale, grotesque monster. He saw the ghoulish degenerates scampering about, tearing at the fallen warriors, ripping through mail to sink their claws and fangs into their flesh. The two giants, much akin to his own reflection, stared at him with deformed, brutish faces. He shook his head, willing the illusion away. But it wouldn’t dissipate.

‘What have you done to me?’ he roared. He refused to accept what he saw. It could not possibly be reality even if… He ran his claw across his chest, gouging open a wound. It burned. It was no gauntlet scraping over plate.

‘No no no no…’ he tried to say. But his words were a pathetic, broken snarl.

And then he realised… The delusion began with the mirrors. This horrid distortion had only happened because he had stared into them. Understanding dawned on him.

‘The mirrors! Twisted… mirrors! They bewitch us!’ His words came out as savage howls, but he ignored it. He knew how to end the vile Atrogai spell.

He lunged forward, smashing his face into the mirror, shattering it. As the shards fell to the copper-veined stones, he saw the reflection in the broken glass. He saw red armour.

Hope returned in full force.

It had been a lie.

A terrible, deceptive spell created by vile shamans, bound into the mirrors to break his spirit. They must have known how he’d struggled with his internal bloodlust.

With a roar of triumph, he wheeled around, bringing the bone that was his mace through another mirror, scattering shards across the hall. He heard calls of triumph instead of rabid barks as the red haze retreated. The images of his loyal banderium began to flicker back into reality, the foul distortions shattering away just as the glass from the final mirror did, as he thrust his mace through it.

As the last shards fell to the ground, salvation came. The red fractures and the bewitching crimson haze retreated to the edges of his vision, then faded entirely. The vertigo subsided, and in a moment of profound relief, he held up his hands to find crimson gauntlets, not pale, deformed claws.

Embracing the return of his sanity as tightly as he could, he felt tears of relief pour down his cheeks.

The men around him became themselves again. His banderium… The Amarkhaians, the Marakht. All of them. They looked to him with a mix of concern and relief. They’d clearly noticed something had vexed him.

The bodies on the ground became the savage, fur-clad tribesmen, felled by weapons, not torn down by teeth and claws. And most relieving of all, the mess of corpses at the mouth of the escape tunnel became the felled warriors that had tried to flee, not the mutilated bodies of common folk.

The Atrogai spell had broken.

The shouting that echoed from the tunnel, from the fleeing survivors, was that of men. Warriors. Cowards who had chosen to run.

Cowards who had left foul sorcery to bewitch those that came to punish them. It filled Saroglek with disgust, and he felt a moment of guilt for calling off those running them down.

He rectified his mistake, looking to Aldasht and the Marakht. ‘Let no cowards live…’ His voice had returned: a low growl, angry and shaken, but noble and human all the same.

Aldasht nodded, thankful to have his leader back, before sprinting down the tunnel to hunt the cravens.

All of his warriors looked relieved. Perhaps they had believed he’d gone mad…

But it had been a spell. A momentary madness. Nothing more. ‘I am here,’ he assured them.

Valaku clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Come, let us signal the king!’ the Amarkhaian said. ‘He will be most pleased by this victory.’

Saroglek nodded, eager to leave this foul chamber and its depraved witchcraft behind. The remaining banderium, now little over twenty men in strength, followed him into the halls.

There, he heard the echo of screams emanating from the tunnel far behind him. At this distance… the pitch of the screams sounded too… high to be coming from men. He paused, feeling a dull, burning ache across his chest, like he’d suffered some manner of deep slash. His hackles rose as he clacked his gauntlet across his breastplate. But there was no wound. There were no wounds at all.

He’d come through the battle completely unscathed.

No further screams came. He shook his head, realising it must have been an after-effect of the barbarians’ spell.

Valaku kept pace alongside him. ‘My lord, what happened there? You suddenly became… unwell.’

‘The Atrogai cast some curse upon me,’ Saroglek hissed. ‘I saw things that shouldn’t have been…’

‘Visions?’

‘Delusions,’ Saroglek returned with certainty. ‘But they are gone now.’

Without a further word, they left the keep and entered the courtyard. In the distance, overhead, he could already see the shape of his king approaching, soaring high atop the back of his golden drake. The noble beast circled the fortress once, the dying light glimmering off its scales as assuredly as it shone off its rider’s silver armour. The drake roared in triumph before landing in the courtyard amidst the men.

Everyone knelt as the Unbeholden King dismounted. Resplendent in his warplate, the monarch strode through the warriors, giving nods and claps to shoulders in praise for their valour. Saroglek felt his chest swell with pride, for he had led the final victory. The glory was his and he could see the approval in his liege’s grey eyes as he approached.

Saroglek would have towered over his king, but he knelt. He was only barely shorter then.

Reaching him, the Unbeholden King removed his gilded, plumed sallet, revealing his noble features and a mane of black hair. He placed a gauntleted hand on Saroglek’s pauldron.

‘Rise, my marshal, you have fought well!’ His voice soothed away the horror Saroglek had just endured. ‘The keep is claimed, and so many yet live. Your victory would be astonishing for an ordinary man, but from you, this seems only the norm.’ He smiled as Saroglek bowed his head at the praise.

The king motioned for his marshal to follow him up the walls. ‘But what of the Atrogai?’ he enquired as they ascended one of the corpse-strewn stairs.

Saroglek felt his heart sink.

‘Did any surrender? Were you able to persuade any to join our feast?’ the king continued.

Shame curdled the marshal’s pride. He shook his head, those awful moments returning for a brief instant. ‘No, my lord… They refused to submit.’

He said no more. His king did not need to worry about the failings of his courtier. Saroglek would deal with his own discipline problem in due course, and that of his men…

‘No matter.’ The king turned to him, his noble features bearing a sad but accepting smile. ‘And please, Lord Saroglek, how many times must I tell you that you of all people may use my name? I am your friend. Not merely your master.’

Saroglek nodded, smiling through his shame. ‘Yes, King Vlagorescu. But please remember… I am stubborn.’

The king grunted. ‘Stubborn, stalwart and unstoppable…’ They reached the top of the stairs, and Vlagorescu gazed out over the red mountains, the Koridamarkh Peaks, their glimmering, jagged slopes shining in the fading light. ‘And I will have need of that soon. With the Atrogai threat dealt with, I believe it is time to expand our realm again.’ He panned his vision over the ferrous landscape. ‘There are so many petty kingdoms and tribes out there, eking out their livings in the wasteland, squabbling among themselves. Imagine how much stronger we would all be under one banner… The banner of a Beholden Empire.’

‘Empire…?’ Saroglek turned to his king.

Vlagorescu smiled, his eyes taking in the lands that would soon become his. ‘A glorious notion, no?’

Saroglek felt a shiver of anticipation, and grinned. ‘Indeed… The other tribes will gladly kneel when we show them the boons of true civilisation.’

The king nodded approvingly. ‘Good. Then we must plan, for there is much work to be done.’ He turned back to Saroglek. ‘There are many realms to take… and I aim to make the Beholden Empire a nation of legend. But to do so, I will need a second in command. I will need a grand duke to lead my armies. And I believe there is no finer candidate than the one standing before me.’

Saroglek bowed. ‘My lord, I am unworthy.’

Vlagorescu laughed. ‘Did I not just say there was no finer candidate? Rise Lord Saroglek, for tonight you shall dine at my table, and sup from the finest wine in all of the Beholden Demesne.’

Saroglek did as he was bid, rising, and followed the king towards the interior keep. With that promise of reward, and of greater purpose to come, Saroglek’s woes all but vanished, the Atrogai spell forgotten in the face of future glory. He would not fail his king… and he would be the lord his people needed to bring them to their destiny.

THE EXORCISM OF KARSA V

Matt Smith

Matt Smith is back with his second Inferno! story, a harrowing tale of the endless struggle between the Imperium and Chaos.

Insurrection has come to the world of Karsa V. The planet’s ancient Palacea Aeternum has fallen, and Major Abatido of the elite Karsan Cazadores leads the effort to recapture it. But there is far more at stake here than Abatido realises, as something much deadlier than mere rebels is unleashed within the palace; something that only that most esoteric of Space Marine chapters, the Exorcists, is equipped to deal with…

It had been three weeks since the Palacea Aeternum had fallen. The cult had struck without warning, traitors within the palace guard turning on its loyal defenders and claiming the seat of Karsa V’s governance in a single night of violence. Ever since, roving bands of cultists had been taking civilians from their homes and dragging them to the palace. No demands had been made, no ransom for their safe return. The frightened populace could only guess what happened to those who disappeared beyond the walls.

In response, the elite Karsan Cazadores patrolled the streets. Major Nico Abatido’s squad found one such band of cultists as they fled from the villa of House Beldier, and set off in pursuit. The nearest cultist carried a woman slung over his shoulder who beat on his back, but he paid her no heed. Abatido’s armoured boots crunched through the smouldering ash that coated the street. He raised his lasgun without breaking stride and fired. Abatido’s shot struck the cultist, punching a hole through his ragged robes, and he fell. The woman he had been carrying screamed as she fell with him. Abatido kept running.

‘Hesqez, check her,’ Abatido ordered. Two more robed figures fled down the street ahead of him, each dragging another Karsan citizen with them.

He fired again but these cultists were further away, blending into the thin grey smoke that had become a permanent feature of the spire’s streets. His shots flew wide.

‘Emperor above, lend strength to my legs that I may stand before your enemies, and to my arm that I may cast them down,’ Abatido said to himself. He pumped his arms and drove himself into a sprint. His muscles felt renewed by the words of the litany, and he was invigorated further as he heard the accelerating cadence of the boots behind him. Weighed down by their hostages it was near impossible for the cultists to outrun the Cazadores. Abatido cast aside thoughts of despair as he closed with the enemy. The figures began to loom large and clear. He fired his lasgun, but the familiar staccato punch of a heavy stubber made his head snap up, throwing off his aim. The stubber threw up spouts of gravel as the gunner turned the weapon upon him.

‘Cover!’ Abatido barked. He dived behind a fallen pillar. He looked back to see his unit finding sanctuary amongst the shattered facades of what had once been the lower senate offices. All but one of them. Alvez had been behind Abatido and was caught in the open. The major could only watch as the heavy stubber tore him apart.

‘Emperor damn you!’ He peered over the pillar and sprayed fire into the shell of a theatre. The heavy stubber returned fire, muzzle flaring, allowing Abatido to confirm the gunner’s position. Third floor, fifth window. He rested the barrel of his lasgun across the edge of the pillar, slowed his breathing and squeezed the trigger.

‘You got him, sir,’ Martinez called to him. Abatido looked back to see her lowering her magnoculars.

‘Move up!’ Abatido ordered, breaking cover to continue his pursuit. As the Cazadores moved, small-arms fire spat back at them. Abatido saw the light-grey uniforms of Karsan riflemen, traitors from within the planet’s sworn defenders. He shot one of them before taking refuge on the corner of a side street. The Cazadores accounted for more as they pressed forwards, disciplined marksmanship winning out over weight of fire, but it made little difference. Eight of Abatido’s squad remained, and even with the losses the Cazadores had inflicted, Abatido estimated thirteen of the enemy still lived. They were dug in and Abatido could see where they had arranged the bones of the broken city into effective fortifications. He could dig them out, but it would take time that they didn’t have.

A frag grenade from Martinez sailed overhead and killed two cultists. In the newly emptied space Abatido could see the kidnappers escaping into the distance. Anger welled up inside him and he squeezed his lasgun tightly as he fired and blew an insurgent off his feet. He clasped his knife and tried to calculate the likelihood of success if he charged the line. Could he break through and continue the pursuit before it was too late?

The sounds of engine noise overhead broke his concentration. It was coming from behind the Cazadores and closing fast. Valkyries, he thought, but it was so loud it had to be a whole flight of them. Looking up, Abatido could see only a single craft descending from orbit. At a distance he could make out its long, boxy silhouette. He knew that shape; he had seen it once before, long ago. Gunfire slackened as friend and foe alike looked up to the sky. As the ship passed overhead, Abatido could make out the deep crimson of its hull and the symbol of a horned skull upon its flanks. He didn’t recognise the insignia, but he remembered the designation of the craft. Thunderhawk. It passed overhead, uncaring of the battle taking place below and soon flew out of sight. Abatido was the first to fire again, slaying two more cultists as they gawked at the sky.

‘Push forward!’ Abatido ordered. ‘Drive them out!’

Disciplined bursts of las-fire blew cultists back from their barricade. The heat wave from Marvaro’s flamer touched Abatido’s skin and he knew the fight was over, but he had lost sight of the remaining kidnappers.

‘Split up. Search teams. There is still time.’

The squad split up and set to their tasks without question. Martinez fell in beside Abatido and they surged onward. Karsavaal was a vast city. With each minute that passed the chances that they would find their targets grew slimmer.

‘It’s been too long, major, they’re gone. We should regroup and head back,’ said Martinez.

‘Not yet, have faith.’

They rounded the corner onto a wide street littered with the husks of battle tanks. At its end, the curtain walls of the Palacea Aeternum loomed over them. They were an architectural marvel, a thousand feet high, decorated with fine devotional carvings. Even its defences were beautiful, gilded gun-servitors with angelic porcelain masks set back into ornate alcoves. Though he was struck as always by the wall’s majesty, the movement of cultists between the wrecked tanks still caught Abatido’s eye.

‘There,’ he snapped, pointing into the distance a split second before breaking into a sprint, Martinez half a step behind. They fired as they ran but their shots flew wide. The cultists rounded the end of the street and passed out of sight. Between the outer walls of the Palacea Aeternum and the nearest buildings was a hundred yards of open ground designed to act as a killing field. The cultists ran into it without fear, knowing that gun-servitors wouldn’t target them. Abatido rounded the corner, came to a halt and raised his lasgun. He sighted the enemy and fired. His shot flew wide as Martinez pulled him down behind a gutted Leman Russ.

‘What are you doing?’ Abatido objected, but he was cut off by a burst of heavy bolter fire that detonated where he had been standing seconds before.

‘They’re gone, Nico,’ said Martinez.

Abatido clenched his fist, raised it and slammed it against the tank. More lives had been lost to the Palacea Aeternum.

‘I believed the Emperor was with us,’ said Abatido.

‘Perhaps He is. Look,’ said Martinez, pointing around their cover to one of the thick stone ridges that lined the walls like a ribcage. High up, almost out of sight, was a break in the stone where uncovered metal was illuminated by pulsating blue light.

‘It’s exposed,’ said Abatido.

‘Vulnerable,’ Martinez added.

‘Fall back. The general needs to hear about this.’

Slayer’s Hand set down on a landing pad on the perimeter of the space port. As the access ramp opened, Sergeant Jago Sabarren of the Exorcists looked out. Ahead of him, soldiers in grey uniforms hurried into position while a line officer barked orders. Beyond them a senior officer in an indigo uniform was striding towards the Thunderhawk, surrounded by bodyguards and scribes. The ramp touched down and Sabarren descended, accompanied by his brothers. The mortal soldiers before them had formed two lines, creating a path for the new arrivals. Their officer ordered them to keep their eyes ahead, but few were able to obey. To see but one of the Adeptus Astartes in one’s lifetime was nearly unheard of. These men now stood in the presence of twenty.

The senior officer strode purposefully towards them. He was short and wide, seemingly around half a century old but with a complexion that suggested juvenat treatment. He snapped to attention. Sabarren wondered if he was trying to appear taller or show off the rows of medals pinned to his breast. Likely both, he concluded.

‘Most revered Adeptus Astartes. Welcome to Karsa V. I am General Torres. Elected commander of the Karsavaal Defence Corp. I was not prewarned of your arrival.’

‘A necessary precaution,’ Sabarren replied. ‘I am Veteran Sergeant Sabarren.’

‘An honour. If you would follow me, I will brief you on the situation.’ Torres turned on his heel and marched away. His bodyguards matched his step as his scribes scurried to keep up. Sabarren didn’t move.

‘Not yet,’ said Sabarren. ‘I am awaiting a final report from my Scouts.’

‘Your Scouts?’ asked Torres, turning back.

‘They have been operating in this city for four days, but growing atmospheric interference has prevented them from reporting to my ship. They will arrive shortly.’

‘You must be mistaken. If there was any military presence in Karsavaal besides my own forces I would know about it.’

‘About face! Present arms!’ the line officer barked, and the row of riflemen spun on their heels and raised their weapons. Sabarren looked out over their heads. Approaching was a figure draped in a camouflage cloak. Beneath it he wore lightweight armour the same deep red as Sabarren’s.

‘Stand down!’ Sabarren ordered, his voice booming through the external vox of his armour.

The Scout approached. If he had been bothered by the row of lasguns pointed at him he showed no sign. The guns lowered and the soldiers parted to let him through. He came to stand in front of Sabarren.

‘Scout-Sergeant Iskender,’ said Sabarren, ‘have you found him?’

‘Yes, sergeant. We have confirmation of the target within the palace grounds.’

‘And have you found a means of access?’

‘No, sergeant.’

‘I see. Remain with Sergeant Aronin on the ship. I will speak with the general.’

Sabarren turned his attention back to Torres. ‘Let us speak privately.’

Torres nodded curtly and entered the space port’s command centre, Sabarren and his squad close behind. The Space Marines peeled off one by one, taking up defensive positions along the way. When they reached the strategium, Brothers Yanis and Illias turned to stand guard over the entrance as Brothers Ahmik and Nadir followed their sergeant inside.

The strategium was a dome-shaped chamber illuminated by a lumen plate in the centre of the ceiling. The floor was dominated by a hololithic projector. The chamber’s circumference was lined with cogitator banks. General Torres came to a halt on the far side of the projector. ‘This is the most secure room in the city.’

Sabarren looked about at the adepts attending the cogitators and the guards standing to attention between them. ‘Leave us.’

‘Belay that,’ said Torres. ‘You may be Adeptus Astartes, sergeant, but these people are under my command.’

Sabarren looked down at the general and paused, giving the mortal time to look back into the inscrutable green lenses of his helmet. ‘It is necessary.’

Torres hesitated. Though the pause was subtle, little passed Sabarren’s perception and it was clear that the general needed time to steel himself before contradicting him further.

‘I do not see how. I believe it is important that my staff hear what you say.’

Sabarren removed his helmet and tucked it under his arm. The change in Torres’ expression was immediate. ‘Do you trust everyone in this room, general?’

Torres wavered, fixated on the sight before him and caught off guard by the question. ‘I do,’ he said, straightening his jacket in an attempt to recompose himself.

‘Then you may keep each of them you know by name.’

‘Of course,’ Torres said with confidence, but Sabarren noted panic in his eyes as he looked at each of the scribes and guards in turn. Relief crossed his features as he settled upon the nearest of the guards, a broad-shouldered female in carapace armour. ‘This is Captain Zorion. Head of my security detail.’

Sabarren looked at her impassively then returned his gaze to Torres, looking on expectantly. Torres once again scanned the room desperately. He hurriedly stepped towards an adept, a hunched male in grey robes.

‘This is Adept Ocara,’ he said.

‘Ocaro,’ the adept corrected, drawing a look from Torres that was equal parts anger and fear.

‘Enough,’ Sabarren said. ‘They stay. The rest go.’

Torres looked up at him, puffing his chest out as Sabarren had come to expect. ‘The adepts go. The guards stay.’

Torres felt unsafe. This was good. ‘Very well,’ said Sabarren. He watched the adepts leave and waited until the doors had sealed behind them. ‘Given the manner of this city’s downfall you must understand the need for secrecy.’

‘I do, of course. And may I say how pleased I am that you are here, sergeant. To have the Adeptus Astartes at one’s disposal is a significant boon, but I fear you have made an unnecessary voyage. Circumstances here are under control.’

‘You are mistaken.’

Torres looked stunned. Sabarren imagined the general had not been told such often in his life. The look of surprise on his face turned to annoyance. ‘How so?’ he asked.

‘The war here is not under control. You have allowed this city to be brought to the brink of devastation and, most importantly, my brothers and I are not at your disposal.’

‘No? Then I fail to see–’

‘Because you have not yet ceased speaking long enough for me to explain,’ Sabarren said harshly. The room fell silent.

‘Adept Ocaro,’ Sabarren began, ‘display the Palacea Aeternum.’

‘Yes, lord,’ the adept replied, and approached the hololith console. A model of the palace appeared in translucent blue light.

‘This is the centre of the heretical uprising that has taken hold of your city.’

‘I assure you that though the insurgents have taken control of the Palacea Aeternum, they have been contained there also. We will stamp them out.’

‘Heed me, general. They are not contained, they are waiting. Without our intervention you will all be dead long before your siege is successful.’

Sabarren saw the tightening in Torres’ jaw. He was frustrated, but though he opened his mouth to speak he reconsidered.

‘My brothers and I will infiltrate your palace. We will end your war. It would be my choice not to involve you. However, our time is limited, and my Scouts have been unable to find a means of access. I require all data you have on the palace. My brothers will interrogate your staff. We will have strict instructions for those we deem trustworthy.’

‘Sergeant, this is still my–’ Torres began, but he was interrupted as the briefing room doors were thrown open. A Karsan soldier entered, Brother Illias close behind.

‘My apologies for the interruption, brother-sergeant,’ said Illias, ‘but this one brings information that may be of value.’

Sabarren looked from Illias to the newcomer to Torres. ‘Who is this?’ he asked.

‘Major Nico Abatido. Commander of my elite Cazadores.’

‘Very well. Major Abatido. Report.’

Abatido had felt emboldened as he entered. He had looked into the eyes of two of the Emperor’s angels and convinced them to let him pass. This confidence had drained from him as he looked upon the face of the warrior standing across from General Torres. His features were brutish, bisected by an ugly scar. His scalp was covered in tattooed rows of symbols that Abatido didn’t recognise but which hurt him to look at. His eyes were an unnerving steel grey, starkly contrasting with the darkness of his skin. Something was making Abatido nauseous. He didn’t know if it was the heady scent of holy unguents or something else. The room felt cold and airless, as if something were draining the life from it. He almost didn’t register that the Space Marine had spoken to him, and stared blankly.

‘Sergeant Sabarren and I would both like to hear your report, major,’ Torres prompted him. The familiar voice snapped Abatido from his trance and he hurriedly collected his thoughts.

‘Yes, sir. I may have found a way for us to access the Palacea Aeternum.’

Abatido approached the hololith. ‘Adept Ocaro, bring up Section Delta-Two.’

The adept nodded and the hololith zoomed in to a section of the palace’s defensive wall.

‘More hostages were taken this morning. My team pursued the insurgents but were unable to prevent them from escaping. Before returning, however, Corporal Martinez and I observed damage to the curtain wall here,’ said Abatido, reaching into the display to point.

‘The palace’s void shield pylons,’ said Sabarren.

‘Yes, my lord, and the damage to the wall has left a part of this pylon exposed.’

‘This is where we launched our last assault. I believed it was a failure,’ said Torres.

‘We all did, though it seems now that the Emperor blesses us with an opportunity. If we are able to destroy the pylon, we will create a hole in the void shield that we can exploit.’

‘That does not account for the aerial defences. An insertion by Valkyrie remains out of the question,’ said Torres.

‘There is a detail you have yet to acknowledge. Destroying a void shield pylon will cause a greater detonation that will inflict catastrophic damage to the wall. Following its destruction, a ground assault may be possible,’ said Sabarren.

‘Unfeasible. It will take too long to clear the debris. The defensive turrets will cut us apart before we breach the perimeter.’

‘For an armoured assault this would be true, but my brothers and I will attack on foot,’ said Sabarren.

‘An infantry assault? Are you aware of the defences that lie within the castle grounds?’ said Torres.

‘We are Adeptus Astartes, general. We will overcome.’

‘The point remains that we must destroy the pylon first. Where, major, is it exposed?’

‘Approximately five hundred feet up,’ said Abatido. As he spoke, Ocaro input the new data. A marker appeared on the hololith around halfway up the wall.

‘And how large is the exposed area?’

‘I estimate five feet high and three feet wide,’ said Abatido.

Torres shook his head. ‘I thank you for your report, but this information does us no good. The opening is too high to approach on foot or strike from the ground. There is nothing we can do.’

‘There is,’ said Sabarren.

Abatido saw the frown crease General Torres’ forehead.

‘And what is that?’ said Torres with a politeness Abatido could tell he was struggling to maintain.

‘You have access to gunships. You will use them,’ said Sabarren.

Torres scoffed, his calm facade beginning to crack. ‘Adept Ocaro, please display the Hydra batteries.’

On the hololith display, picked out as red wireframe models, eight Hydra autocannon batteries appeared, either on the top of the wall or positioned within the palace grounds.

‘An aerial assault is out of the question. Any aircraft approaching the palace is guaranteed to be destroyed. Even were that not the case, gunships have little greater chance of landing the strike necessary than our ground forces do.’

Sabarren approached the hololith. ‘We are not in a position to indulge such concerns. You will have your gunships engage the batteries atop the wall. These will divert fire, allowing another unit to position itself close enough to attach explosives directly.’

‘Madness,’ protested Torres. ‘They will be left entirely vulnerable.’

‘They will have to be swift. Even so, you are likely correct. Regardless, there is no other way.’

‘No. I will not throw away good men on such a foolhardy plan.’

‘General, what is the population of this city?’

‘Close to a billion by the last census.’

‘Then that is how many you condemn to death should you fail to act, yourself included and the rest of this world soon after. This mission is our only chance to prevent this.’

‘General,’ said Abatido, ‘I don’t relish the losses this plan entails either, but I also believe it’s the only way. Didn’t we both stand beside Preacher Bayani and pray to the Emperor for deliverance? Now we stand beside His angels. It is proof that He heard us. Don’t the preachers also tell us that those who sacrifice themselves in His name are the most beloved of his servants?’

If one trait matched General Torres’ stubbornness it was his ambition. Over years of service Abatido had learned this better than most. Torres had designs on high political station once his military career was over, and he was loath to let a chance to prove his piety pass him by. Abatido could see the general’s defiant look soften in the face of his self-interest.

‘Very well,’ Torres conceded. ‘Perhaps Sergeant Sabarren is correct. I will see to the preparations and–’

‘I am not yet done,’ said Sabarren.

‘We have agreed to your terms. What is left to discuss?’ asked Torres.

‘Once we are within the palace grounds, my brothers will see to the full deactivation of the void shield. Once our mission is complete, it will be necessary for you to destroy the palace.’

‘Destroy the Palacea Aeternum? I will do no such thing! It has stood for eight millennia. I will not be the one to see it fall.’

‘My lord,’ said Abatido, ‘is our mission not to reclaim the palace?’

‘No, forces you are incapable of dealing with are at work here. That is why we have come. We will see to their destruction, but your inaction has allowed their taint to fester. All trace of them must be scoured from your world or all we do here will be for naught. Am I understood?’

‘You are, lord Astartes,’ said Abatido. ‘But what of Governor Acin and the hostages? Will you free them?’

‘Your governor is dead.’

‘You cannot know that for certain,’ said Torres.

‘No, but you should hope that I am correct. It is the most merciful fate he could have suffered. This is not an arbitrary demand. It is a necessity for the good of your world and the Imperium, so you will do as I command.’

‘As you insist,’ said Torres.

‘Good. My brothers and I are prepared. Contact me when your forces are ready,’ said Sabarren.

Abatido watched as Sabarren left. Immediately he felt better. His nausea subsided and after a few deep breaths the headache that had formed behind his eyes began to recede.

‘Prepare your warriors, major,’ said Torres. ‘Let us show them some true Karsan mettle.’

Abatido saluted. ‘It would be my honour, general.’

‘Dismissed.’

Night had fallen. Sabarren stood in the broken street analysing the terrain and the palace defences as he waited for the attack to begin. The order had been given and Sabarren could hear the sound of approaching gunships. His squad stood around him. Squad Aronin waited a short distance to his left, and beyond them were the neophytes. Behind the Exorcists the Karsan forces had gathered. General Torres was there, surrounded by his retinue, along with Major Abatido and forty of their elite soldiery.

‘You are certain Belphegor is inside?’ came the dour voice of Sergeant Aronin.

‘I trust Sergeant Iskender’s reconnaissance. Moreover I can feel his presence, as I am certain you can also,’ replied Sabarren.

‘Ever since we arrived. Its malevolence grows.’

The sound of engines grew in intensity and Sabarren watched as two flights of gunships flew overhead.

‘It begins,’ he said.

Abatido watched the aerial battle unfolding through his magnoculars, whispering a prayer for the gunship crews as one by one they fell. For a time, it had seemed hopeless, but he clung to a scrap of hope as he watched one of the Valkyries take up position by the pylon. He could not see how the crew fared: the access ramp was turned away from him and his view was blocked by the hull of the ship itself. His heart sank as he saw the defence guns turn upon it and tear it apart. He mistook the first explosion as the Valkyrie’s engines detonating. Then there had been a second, a third and a fourth, tearing along the pylon’s length.

‘They’ve done it,’ said Martinez grimly, lowering her own magnoculars.

‘Perhaps,’ said Abatido, ‘but we must yet hope that the Emperor smiles upon their labour.’

Abatido watched as chain detonations ripped through the stone. Arcs of electricity danced along the length of the pylon as it began to glow. It brightened and the discharge of energy grew wilder. A Vendetta gunship was struck by artificial lightning and spiralled into the ground. More energy lashed out and the core of the pylon grew so bright that Abatido was forced to avert his eyes.

‘Look away!’ he called out as the pylon detonated.

The explosion was so intense that Sabarren’s auto-senses struggled to cope. Momentarily he was rendered blind and deaf as his armour’s spirit cut him off from the world to protect his organic senses. Even though he stood hundreds of yards away, the shock wave hit Sabarren with enough force to stagger him backwards. As his senses returned, Sabarren watched as jagged blocks of masonry the size of Dreadnoughts fell from the sky. They crashed through buildings, turned tank carcasses to ash and buried themselves in the road. His helmet adjusted for the cloud of rock dust that filled the air. He growled with dissatisfaction. The explosion had torn a wide fissure in the wall, yet the bottom two hundred feet, Sabarren estimated, remained intact.

‘Perhaps it has grown too dark here for even the Emperor to look down upon us,’ said Sergeant Aronin.

‘Of that I have no doubt. Withdraw to Slayer’s Hand. Scout Sergeant Iskender.’

The Scout sergeant hurried up to him. It was clear that without the protection of full power armour the effects of the explosion had been more severe for him. Iskender squinted as he looked up at him. ‘Yes, sergeant?’

‘We rely upon you now. Advance with haste.’

‘We will not fail,’ Iskender replied, beating his fist against his chest in salute. Sabarren returned the gesture. Iskender gathered his squad. They wrapped their cloaks around themselves and made towards the palace. Sabarren then turned and followed Squad Aronin in the opposite direction. They passed Karsan soldiers who had been thrown to the ground before the first of them regained their feet.

‘Where are you going?’ Torres called out. Sabarren turned to see the general being helped up.

‘See for yourself, general,’ he said, pointing towards the palace. ‘The wall stands strong enough to deny a ground assault and my brothers and I are not equipped to scale what remains.’

‘Then what? You cannot quit the field.’

‘As we speak, my Scouts advance upon the palace while the rest of us return to our ship. They will destroy whatever defences remain to allow us to make an aerial insertion.’

‘Your Scouts? There are only five of them. What can they accomplish?’

‘They are the best prepared for the mission at hand.’

‘We will accompany them,’ said Major Abatido.

‘You will not. Your forces should withdraw and await orders to destroy the palace.’

‘We can help you,’ Abatido asserted. ‘I do not doubt the capability of your Scouts, but together we can disable their defences faster and deny the enemy time to redeploy.’

‘There are powers at work here that are beyond your understanding,’ said Sabarren. ‘Should you interfere you will only jeopardise the mission, and you will not return.’

‘So you have said, sergeant,’ said Torres, ‘and I grow tired of your condescension. Karsa V is a world of civility and learning. I say it is time you tell us what it is we are up against.’

‘The fact that you ask only attests to your ignorance. There is more to the galaxy than even your most learned scholars know, for to look too deeply is to invite insanity. That will be the fate of any mortal who enters the palace. Should you send your men in I will be forced to ensure they do not return. Withdraw. This is the last I will say on the matter.’ With that, Sabarren returned to his brothers and walked away.

General Torres was quiet for a long time. It was clear to Abatido that he was waiting until he thought the Space Marines were out of earshot.

‘Do you believe what the sergeant says?’ asked Torres.

‘I do, but I know for certain that it is my duty to rescue our people,’ Abatido replied.

‘Can you scale the wall, major?’

‘We have grapnel launchers available, general.’

‘Then go.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Picking their way through the debris, Scout Squad Iskender crossed the palace’s killing field without drawing the attention of the enemy’s gun-servitors. They scaled the wall, diamantine-tipped grappling claws giving them purchase on the sheer rockcrete. No sooner had Iskender pulled himself over the ridge than he could feel the coalescence of Chaotic energy that saturated the palace grounds.

‘Do you hear them?’ Neophyte Darius asked, coming to stand beside him. ‘The whispers of temptation.’

‘I do.’

‘Already the warp promises me power if only I would draw my blade and plunge it into your back.’

‘I know. It has made me such promises also. Remember Chaplain Nathanael’s teachings,’ said Iskender, raising his voice enough that the rest of the squad could hear him. ‘The whispers will only grow stronger the further we go. Keep Melchior’s Litanies of Denial upon your lips, keep hatred in your heart, and allow only thoughts of the mission into your mind. This is where you prove the strength of our will, that you may one day take the final test and ascend to the true ranks of our Chapter.’

‘Sergeant,’ said Gordias, who was looking back over the killing field.

‘What is it?’

‘There are Karsan soldiers following us,’ said Gordias, pointing down at the figures running from cover to cover.

‘They move well for mortals,’ said Darius.

As he spoke, Iskender could hear the sound of gun-servitors shifting in their alcoves. ‘Not well enough,’ he said as the palace defences opened fire.

Abatido hit the wall at a full sprint. Turning back, he could only watch as heavy bolter turrets churned up the kill-zone. Streams of explosive bolts chased the Cazadores as they flitted between the husks of tanks and chunks of stone. The plan had started well. Moving in small groups, the Cazadores had covered much of the distance to the wall. Then they had been spotted. The first he knew of it was Hesqez being blown apart beside him. Voices shouted over the vox as more were caught off guard in the open and cut down. It was a tribute to the Cazadores’ discipline that it did not turn into a rout.

Abatido had considered aborting the mission, but he had not defied one of the Emperor’s angels in the name of duty only to run from it. The way the turrets were inset in the wall meant they had a minimum range, creating a safe zone directly beneath them; however, the explosion had thrown debris far and left little close to the wall itself. This meant that the final stretch to safety was also the most dangerous. Abatido had ordered his soldiers forwards, and he had been the first to make the final desperate crossing. Now he could only watch. Each warrior gunned down tore at his soul, and he prayed for theirs.

When all had passed, and the guns fell silent, twenty-six Cazadores remained. With Squad Primus in the lead they launched their grapnel hooks and began to climb. Abatido was the first to reach the top, and his arms burned as he pulled himself into the base of the fissure.

‘Do you feel that?’ asked Martinez as she pulled herself over the ridge and regained her feet.

Abatido did. It was a change in the air. It had become close, oppressive and charged somehow.

‘I do. I expect it is a residual field from the pylon. It is still trying to operate despite the damage. We shouldn’t linger here too long,’ said Abatido. In truth, he knew that was only one possible explanation. He considered Sabarren’s warnings. Was this the force the Space Marine had spoken of? If Abatido couldn’t understand it, how would he know if he felt it? He moved ahead and Martinez followed. The base of the fissure was jagged like a boulder field and they had to scramble the sixty feet to the far side. He tasted blood in his mouth and tried to remember being struck or biting his tongue but couldn’t. He spat to clear the taste, but it had no effect. He looked out at the Palacea Aeternum on the far side of the fissure. It was an edifice of majesty and strength befitting of the governors of Karsa V. Built from white marble, its walls were decorated with intricate carvings of devotional scenes and moments from the planet’s history. Even the scorch marks and bullet holes could not fully rob the building of its splendour. Along with the damage, though, the walls had been daubed with crude symbols using substances Abatido didn’t want to consider. He didn’t understand their meaning, but a part of him wished more than anything that he did.

‘I can’t bear to see it like this,’ said Martinez.

Abatido had known Martinez for decades. They had been in the same class at the Academia Militarum and had both been chosen to serve in Governor Acin’s honour guard, before Abatido had been tithed to the Astra Militarum and shipped off-world. They were both from the minority of the planet’s inhabitants who had actually seen the Palacea Aeternum, and Abatido had never expected he would see it again. It was a bitter irony that he had been allowed to return to Karsa V only to see it defiled so grievously. ‘Me neither,’ he said, ‘but this is the very sacrilege we are here to avenge.’

‘The Adeptus Astartes want to raze it to the ground,’ Martinez said mournfully.

Abatido looked her in the eye. ‘They do. Perhaps it is for the best.’

‘How can it be?’

‘Sergeant Sabarren says it is beyond our understanding. We should give the Emperor’s angels our trust.’

‘I fear I cannot,’ said Martinez quietly. ‘They disturb me. They are nothing like the stories my grandmother used to tell.’

‘Then put your trust in me,’ Abatido said earnestly.

‘I always have, Nico,’ said Martinez.

Abatido heard a whisper, and his head snapped around towards it. Marvaro was there, close behind him.

‘What did you say?’ Abatido asked.

‘Nothing, sir,’ Marvaro replied as he joined them at the edge. He said something else that Abatido didn’t hear. Abatido was considering what shape the blood splatter would make if he pushed Marvaro from the ledge and watched him fall. He pictured it spraying out in all directions like rays of light shining from a star. He staggered back, clamping his hands behind his back to prevent them doing anything he didn’t want them to, and tried to shake the intrusive thought from his head.

‘Are you okay, sir?’ Marvaro asked as Martinez placed her hand on Abatido’s shoulder.

‘I’m fine,’ he lied. ‘Just got a little vertigo.’

‘You’re a Cazador,’ said Martinez, ‘you don’t get ver–’

‘I said I’m fine,’ Abatido snapped. Martinez and Marvaro shared a concerned look, and each took a step away from him. Abatido thought to apologise but was distracted by the sound of more Cazadores crossing the gap.

‘Hurry up,’ he ordered. ‘The longer we take, the more of a defence the insurgents will be able to muster. Serrano,’ he said, pointing to his vox-specialist, ‘have you been able to contact the Space Marine Scouts? We need to coordinate our efforts.’

‘Negative,’ said Serrano. ‘The Space Marines use an encrypted channel that I can’t access.’

‘Throne,’ Abatido cursed. ‘Somebody get eyes on them. We serve no purpose here if we only retread their ground.’

It was too dark to know for sure if anyone was concealed in the grounds below them, but as he scanned the area Abatido saw movement near the palace, illuminated by the soft glow of the light through shattered windows. The defenders were mustering.

‘I don’t see them, sir,’ said Martinez.

‘Me neither,’ added Marvaro.

‘We’ll have to trust our instincts and pray that the Emperor guides us. We are out of time, look,’ Abatido said, pointing out at the armed rabble coming their way. ‘Get those grapnel hooks over here. Squads Primus and Secundus will descend together. Squads Tertius and Quartus, provide cover.’

The Cazadores set to work. They were the most rigidly drilled and efficient troops in Karsa’s military, but now they moved as sluggishly as untrained conscripts. Grapnel hooks were secured against the inside ridge of the wall. As the first of them began their descent there was an explosion off to Abatido’s left. Where moments before there had been a Hydra battery there was now a mess of smouldering metal.

‘I think we found them,’ said Martinez.

In the palace grounds, the defenders who had been approaching the Cazadores’ position redirected towards the explosion.

‘They’ve made us an opening. Let’s not waste it. Head towards the emplacement to the right, beyond the servant’s gate.’

In quick succession the members of squads Primus and Secundus abseiled down into the palace grounds and fanned out into a defensive perimeter. Squads Tertius and Quartus fell in behind them as shouts of alarm rose from the direction of the sundered Hydra. Ensuring that each squad leader could see him, Abatido snapped off a series of hand signs, and together the Cazadores advanced on their target. Between the breach and the servant’s gate was open ground and the Cazadores concealed themselves in the shadow of the walls.

As they proceeded Abatido found himself struggling to concentrate. He looked around at the warriors nearest him and found them glancing about nervously. They looked paranoid, jumping at shadows like cadets on their first combat assignment. There was a booming explosion on the roof of the palace as another Hydra battery was destroyed. Most of the Cazadores ducked low, sinking into what shadows had not been illuminated by the blast. Others gawped, frozen like animals in the lights of a cargo hauler. They’d no doubt have been spotted had the nearby patrol not diverted itself, rushing back towards the palace.

Next to Abatido, Trooper Romo raised his weapon with a glazed look in his eye. Abatido placed his hand on the barrel of the rifle and lowered it, shaking his head at the trooper, who took long seconds to acknowledge him. Once the patrol had moved away the Cazadores pressed on. Beyond the servant’s gate was the cemetery. While the ruling members of House Acin and their direct descendants were entombed in catacombs beneath the palace, lesser cousins and favoured servants were given the honour of being buried within the palace grounds. As the Cazadores passed the first row of tombstones, Martinez stopped in front of Abatido.

‘Did you hear that?’ she whispered.

‘Hear what?’ Abatido replied.

‘That scream. How could you not hear that scream?’ Her face was a mix of confusion and disbelief, a knife’s edge away from panic.

‘There was no scream, Eldra,’ he said, but as he looked around it became evident that Martinez had not been the only one to hear it. ‘Stay the course.’ He didn’t believe his words had provided her any reassurance, but to her credit Martinez obeyed.

It was testament to House Acin’s paranoia that even this sacred ground was fortified. The Hydra stood a short distance ahead, protected by four pintle-mounted heavy stubbers. Abatido fell in beside Marvaro behind an unornamented mausoleum.

‘Flank right. Take Squad Quartus with you. Get close and torch them. We’ll overrun them when their backs are turned,’ Abatido ordered, but Marvaro wasn’t listening. His head was craned like he was listening for something, and Abatido felt an urge to crash the stock of his lasgun into his nose for his lack of discipline.

‘It’s so…’ Marvaro started but trailed off as he stepped absent-mindedly out of cover. Abatido reached out to grab him, but this time he heard the scream. It sounded like the anguish of a thousand tortured souls. He dropped his lasgun and clamped his hands tight over his ears. It was so loud that it hurt and drowned out all other sounds around him. When it stopped it left his ears ringing, and he felt tears flow down his cheeks. He wiped them away and found blood now streaking his fingers. He saw a bullet-ridden mess of a body on the floor in front of him, all that remained of Marvaro. The insurgents were shouting, and the air was filled with chipped stone as heavy stubbers and autoguns blew holes in the tombstones. Abatido looked for his squad leaders but though he was able to spot each of them, none of them looked to him for orders.

‘Squad Quartus! Flank right!’ he cried out towards Lieutenant Venna in an attempt to regain some kind of order, but there was no response. Some of the Cazadores were still showing signs of cohesion but they were fighting their own battles in small groups, covering one another as they pressed the attack, and they were sloppy. Abatido saw a trooper advance only for the lasgun of the soldier covering him to whine low before he reached his destination, and he was gunned down a moment later. Mistake by mistake, the disunited attack was picked apart. Counter to Abatido’s typical level-headed nature he felt rage at the sight of his soldiers’ disregard for their training. He barely registered a second explosion upon the roof of the palace as he reloaded his lasgun, raised it to his shoulder and stepped out from behind the mausoleum. He charged down the row of tombstones, firing wildly.

‘Throne take you! Burn for your heresy!’ he cursed indignantly.

Solid slugs from autoguns struck his chestplate, robbing him of his momentum and breath, and he dropped behind a headstone carved in the likeness of Saint Cecilia. He dared a look from behind his cover. He had closed enough to see the faces of the defenders. Though dressed in the uniforms of Karsan riflemen they fought like marauders, snarling and cursing in a language Abatido didn’t recognise but knew was not native to his homeworld. He hated them, but as gunfire forced him back into cover his gaze returned to his own soldiers. Their own faces were contorted with anger. Where small groups had been whittled down to defiant individuals, the survivors fought like zealots. Abatido watched Trooper Elvenga reload his lasgun only to stand up and fire it from his hip on full-auto. He blazed back and forth, shouting incoherently until the moment a heavy stubber silenced him. In every direction he heard screaming, and experience told him his force was on the brink of collapse. He had to do something.

‘Emperor above. Lend strength to–’ he began, reciting the Litany of Righteous Endurance, the words committed to memory decades earlier, but invasive voices robbed him of his concentration.

Bleed them! Crush them!

They were aggressive and malicious. Loud enough that they could be heard over the cacophony of battle, even over the sound of his own thoughts. They barred his mind to the refuge of piety and extolled him to violence. In a moment of weakness he stood again and blazed at the defenders.

‘Die!’ he cried.

For a second the voices quietened to a harsh whisper and Abatido was able to witness with clarity as Trooper Heslen, frag grenades in each hand, charged the enemy line. He was screaming and blood was pouring from his ears. He was struck by a fusillade of weapons fire but drove through it, heedless of the pain. He dived over the barricade and the grenades detonated. Only then did Heslen’s screaming end.

Get up! Run! Kill!

The voices bayed for greater displays of violence. Heslen had destroyed one of the heavy stubber turrets and killed several of the insurgents, clearing a hole in their line. Already the Cazadores were charging into the breach. Abatido saw Martinez at their head. He did as the screams demanded and ran to join them. He dropped his lasgun as he broke into a sprint. He dived as he reached the barricade, throwing himself over it head first and tackling a traitor to the ground. The man’s rifle fell from his hands and skittered across the floor. He looked up at his attacker as he scrambled to get out from beneath him. Abatido looked down into maddened, blood-crusted eyes. The insurgent cursed as he reached for Abatido’s throat. Abatido drew his knife and plunged it into the insurgent’s chest with both hands. He leaned his body into it, driving the blade to the guard and bringing himself eye to eye with the wretch he had slain.

Yes! Again!

The screams had grown quiet as Abatido killed the cultist. Now he was dead they demanded more. Abatido looked for another victim. All around him the Cazadores were butchering the last of the insurgents. There were none left to kill. He saw Martinez as she slammed a traitor back against the Hydra, driving her knife into his belly over and over. She withdrew the blade one last time and the body flopped to the ground. She locked eyes with Abatido and with her blood-slick knife in hand, she charged. She hit him before he could get to his feet, throwing him onto his back. Abatido managed to get his foot underneath her and flipped her over his head.

‘Martinez! What are you doing?’

Kill her!

She landed with a thud, but no sooner had Abatido regained his footing than she was up and lunging at him again. Martinez had always been a skilled bladeswoman, dextrous and precise. She showed none of that now, slashing at him wildly. Abatido backed away desperately, trying to duck and parry her blows.

‘Eldra, stop!’ he demanded, but still she came for him.

‘You did this! You brought us here to die!’

Kill her! Bleed her dry!

‘No!’ Abatido cried. He looked to the rest of the Cazadores for help, but none was coming. Some stared absently into space; others were huddled into balls, shaking and moaning. Other fights had broken out, and most disturbingly some watched him with indifference or glee. His distraction cost him and Martinez’s knife bit into the flesh of his leg. He fell back and she loomed over him, ready to deliver a killing blow. He kicked out desperately, knocking her down to one knee. She lunged again but the second was all he needed. He had drawn his pistol and fired. Abatido’s sidearm was a Naval-pattern autopistol. He had blessed the bullets himself with holy water, and as he pulled the trigger the screams fell silent. The madness left Eldra Martinez’s eyes a split second before the bullet entered her forehead. Abatido looked at the body of his friend slumped at his feet. He tore his eyes away, unable to bear looking at it any longer. The gaze of every Cazador was upon him. Awareness had returned to the eyes of the vacant, the huddled and crying pushed themselves to their feet, and fights abruptly ended. Lieutenant Edvar approached him.

‘I had to,’ said Abatido.

‘I-I know,’ said Edvar, offering him her hand and helping him to his feet, ‘I think she was…’

‘We all are. The Space Marines warned us. We shouldn’t have come.’

Edvar took a step back, biting hard on her bottom lip. She stood to attention. ‘What are your orders, sir?’

Abatido looked around, trying to remember where exactly they were and why they were there. The Hydra battery loomed over them. ‘Destroy this,’ he said, gesturing to the gun emplacement. ‘Then we will go inside and do whatever we can.’

‘Major, I-I don’t think… The screams. You hear them too, don’t you?’ Edvar asked, her resolve already breaking.

‘Pray, lieutenant.’

‘What prayer, sir?’

‘Whatever you can still remember.’

Edvar nodded and started to gather what explosives the Cazadores still carried, picking them from the bodies of the dead. In a couple of minutes, krak grenades had been fixed and set for a timed detonation.

‘Gather whatever you can carry,’ Abatido ordered as the Cazadores fell in around him. ‘Let us see this to the end. For Karsa and the Emperor.’

‘For Karsa and the Emperor.’

As they began to walk away the moment of quiet that had fallen over them was passing. The screams returned.

Closer! Yes! More killing!

‘Emperor above,’ Abatido said clearly, ‘lend strength to my legs that I may stand before your enemies, and to my arm that I may cast them down.’

Behind him the rest of the Cazadores took up the litany, and together they headed into the palace.

Sabarren was standing behind Techmarine Uziah in the cockpit of Slayer’s Hand when the vox burst into life.

‘Sergeant Sabarren,’ said Iskender over a cacophony of solid slugs and las-fire, punctuated by the booming of bolter fire, ‘the enemy has us surrounded on the palace roof, but the Karsans have destroyed the last of the defences. You are clear to approach.’

‘Acknowledged,’ said Sabarren, turning to his pilot. ‘Take us in.’ The Thunderhawk rose from the space port and raced towards the Palacea Aeternum, pulverising debris in its downdraught. As it shot through the breached wall, two Hellstrike missiles launched, obliterating a pair of servitor-slaved autocannon emplacements on the palace’s perimeter. The Thunderhawk decelerated hard as it swept in close to the palace, heavy bolters scouring cultists from the roof. The assault ramp lowered and Sabarren walked out onto it.

‘Sergeant Iskender,’ he said into his vox as Squad Sabarren cut down the last of the heretics assailing the Scouts. ‘You are clear. Rendezvous with Sergeant Aronin. See to the deactivation of the void shield and enforce a perimeter. Allow no one to escape.’

‘Acknowledged, sergeant.’

Slayer’s Hand set down. The heretics were already mustering to repel them, led by officers in golden carapace armour. Man-portable missile launchers sent explosive projectiles into the gunship’s flanks, but though they sheared armour, they caused no significant damage. The Exorcists deployed and were struck by a wall of las-fire. They advanced unperturbed, bolter shells tearing apart the gathered defenders with contemptuous ease. Heavy stubbers fired down at them from the upper levels. Sabarren saw Brother Joram expertly guide a frag missile through a window, destroying the first. Sabarren returned fire at the second, his brothers adding their bolters to their leader’s. The mass of explosive bolts pulverised everything in the vicinity, and the second heavy stubber fell silent as Squad Aronin accounted for more.

With the heavy guns neutralised, Sabarren charged the enemy ahead. In the face of the Exorcists even the enemy’s warp-afflicted minds compelled them to flee. A golden-armoured leader in Sabarren’s path barked threats to his soldiers in an attempt to maintain order. Sabarren lowered his shoulder and hit him with a backhanded strike that took his head from his shoulders. Sabarren searched for his next target but found every heretic nearby already slain.

‘Sergeant Aronin, you have your orders – go, we will end this.’

Squad Aronin broke off and set to their own mission as Sabarren led his brothers to the palace’s main entrance. The face of the Palacea Aeternum was heavily fortified even in times of peace and the traitors had been busy securing it further. The Exorcists struck side-on as they rounded the east wing of the palace. A missile from Brother Joram tore the barrel off the nearest autocannon turret. The defenders rushed to repel the coming attack, only making themselves more vulnerable as Illias unleashed the wrath of his flamer. The conflagration flowed over the defences like a wave, setting all it touched ablaze. The burning traitors screamed and flailed, crashing into one another and spreading the fire like a virus. The Exorcists threw aside stone barricades and stomped over the smouldering bodies of the dead, executing the last of the defenders as they fled for perceived safety beyond the palace’s grand doors.

Beyond the threshold was an imposing staircase. It was painfully steep, each step too big for the comfortable stride of a mortal human. Desecrated statues of Imperial heroes stood sentinel along the staircase’s length. Sabarren set foot on the first step, and an assortment of weapons fire rained down on him as cultists rose from behind fortified bannisters on the first floor. It was too weak to penetrate his armour but strong enough en masse to slow him down. He began to chant the First Canticle of Hatred, feeling the words empower his body with righteous fury, and his brothers took up the chant behind him. Their opening volley struck heretics from the defence line, and Sabarren relished the moment that Illias’ flamer incinerated those that remained. Another line of defences had been established on the second floor. The first shots from the Exorcists cut down more of the traitors, but as they closed further, shots that had been bound to strike true instead detonated harmlessly yards from their targets. Sabarren felt the air swell with psychic energy. A figure made himself visible in the centre of the steps. He was pale and gaunt with platinum-blond hair that hung unnaturally around him. Sabarren knew him at once for what he was. His hand was raised defiantly, a mocking smile upon his face.

‘You are too late, soulless ones. My master saw your shadows in the void,’ he said. His voice was high-pitched, and laced with spite.

‘I have no words to share with you, witch,’ Sabarren replied. He strode effortlessly up more steps, firing another volley of bolts that once again detonated harmlessly in front of their targets.

‘Very well. My master has honoured me with the duty of slaying you, Jago Sabarren, and I am not so foolish as to fail him!’

Lightning leapt from the psyker’s outstretched fingers, racing towards Sabarren. He felt it seeking his mind. The hexagrammic wards inscribed upon his flesh and armour warmed. The lightning dissipated around him leaving only harmless arcs of electricity dancing across his plate.

The psyker’s snarl turned to fear. ‘Activate the mind slaves!’ he ordered and fell back, floating up the steps to the final line of defences another storey higher. The Exorcists continued firing on the closest traitors. Some shots were still deflected by the psychic shield, but others broke through, the Exorcists’ munitions etched with counter-sorcerous runes that strained the barrier with every impact. More heretics died, and as Sabarren passed the second level an elite soldier in gold raised a bolt pistol. The sergeant blew his arm off at the shoulder before he could use the weapon, and put a second shot into his chest.

Realising the futility of their defence, some of the heretics broke and fled. The closest were slain as they struggled to clamber up the stairs, but their deaths bought time for those ahead. Bolts detonated over their heads or struck the edges of the steps, showering the cultists with powdered marble. The Space Marines pursued them beyond the second defence line. Sabarren grabbed a traitor Guardsman by the collar and threw him backwards down the stairs. The man screamed until he hit the bottom with a wet crunch. More gunfire rained down, Astra Militarum-issue bolt weapons punctuating the hail of las-fire. A round struck Sabarren’s pauldron, sending shooting pains down his arm. He returned fire one-handed, driving the heretic back into cover.

‘Press forwards, brothers, with all haste,’ he voxed. ‘We cannot allow them to blunt our advance.’

Around him Squad Sabarren moved on to the Second Canticle of Hatred and drove themselves forward with even greater vigour. A cultist ahead of Sabarren stumbled. The Space Marine stamped down on his back as he shot another just steps from the safety of the line.

‘Watch them flee like the rodents they are,’ Sabarren snarled. He recognised the sound of mechanised tracks a second before the source rolled into view. Two heavy gun-servitors, their right arms replaced with plasma cannons. They fired immediately. Joram was hit first, his missile launcher evaporating along with his arm. Yanis was struck in the chest and thrown backwards, tumbling heavily down the steps. Sabarren’s helm display informed him that his brother was dead before he reached the bottom. There was too much open ground between the Exorcists and the third defence line. With a reluctant growl he gave his next order.

‘Back,’ he said, and the squad withdrew behind the second line. More plasma fire burned overhead, scorching paint from helmets and pauldrons. The Exorcists returned fire, but the angle was steep and bolts struck armour plating or flew overhead. ‘Warp take them,’ Sabarren cursed. It was obvious that to advance would cost him the lives of more of his brothers, but as he waited he could feel the energies coalescing in the throne room. He had hoped that with a moment to regroup a plan would present itself, but none came. Though it pained him to make such a sacrifice, Sabarren realised there was no other way. He would give the order to charge. Before he could speak, a new sound mingled with the plasma fire. Lasguns, but not the poorly maintained weapons of the enemy: these shots whined with power. Sabarren looked up, and though he could not identify their source, he saw the first of the gun-servitors struck by a series of bright beams that left its head dangling by its augmetic components.

‘Draw blades,’ Sabarren ordered as he maglocked his bolter to the small of his back, replacing it with the power maul locked to his hip. ‘Forward. Take their position.’

The Exorcists broke from cover, thundering up the steps. The second gun-servitor fired, striking Brother Cain, who kept fighting for several more steps before collapsing forwards. Sabarren threw a frag grenade that detonated inches above the automaton. The blast shredded its head and shoulders and set its chest aflame. He vaulted the third defence line to find the traitors caught in a swirling melee with the Karsan Cazadores.

He swung his maul single-handed at the first enemy. The upswing caught the traitor beneath the ribcage and pulverised it. The back swing smashed a cultist’s head from his shoulders and sent his body spinning through the air. Around Sabarren the Exorcists set about destroying the enemy with blades and armoured fists. The Cazadores fought with a savagery he had rarely seen before in mortals loyal to the Imperium. Skilled bladework and unarmed combat mixed with acts of barbaric violence. It was clear that the corruption here had tainted them, as he knew it would.

In the face of the combined onslaught the heretics were on the verge of being overwhelmed. Undoubtedly, they already would have been were it not for the psyker in their midst. He stood in the centre of the maelstrom surrounded by elites armed with powered rapiers. As Sabarren crushed another heretic with his maul, he saw a Cazador slip between the guards and thrust at the psyker with a knife. The witch reached out and the incoming attack stopped mid-strike, halted by unseen force. The psyker grabbed his attacker by the face and the Cazador roared in pain until he died. The psyker let him fall, and Sabarren saw the cultist’s handprint left on his victim in burned flesh.

‘Brothers, I will destroy the witch.’

Sabarren caved in a cultist’s face with the haft of his maul and drove forwards. He reached the first of the guards, who thrust at him with his rapier. Sabarren struck the thin-bladed sword with his maul and shattered it. The guard looked up in horror as the sergeant headbutted him. He felt the guard’s skull cave in and his spine snap. Sabarren caught him as he fell and threw him aside.

Then only the psyker was ahead. He had just sent the burnt husk of another Cazador spinning through the air on tendrils of forked lightning when Sabarren reached him. The psyker turned upon him too late. The sergeant grabbed the witch by the throat and lifted him effortlessly overhead. The witch clawed at his fingers while lashing at Sabarren with his mind. Both actions were futile. In his periphery, Sabarren saw his brothers slay the last of the psyker’s retinue, and beyond them, the Cazadores tearing apart the last of the cultists.

‘Curse you, soulless one,’ the psyker spat, coughing and struggling for breath. ‘Curse you and your ingratitude, you who have felt the warp’s greatest gifts and denied them! You are far too late. He comes. Already he crosses the threshold. The Prince of Burning Skies approaches.’

With a clench of his fist Sabarren shattered the witch’s spine. He dropped the body and stepped over it, making for the throne room above.

‘Sergeant Sabarren,’ said a voice behind him.

The Space Marine stopped and turned round, looking down at Abatido. ‘You should not be here.’

Abatido took a step closer to him. ‘I know. I have been a fool,’ he said. Abatido looked away from the Space Marine and to the few of his soldiers remaining. Sabarren followed his gaze. They were broken, nursing las-burns and stab wounds, and there were none whose eyes or ears weren’t bleeding.

‘Whispers or screams?’ Sabarren asked.

He saw Abatido flinch before the major’s eyes met Sabarren’s. ‘Screams,’ he said.

‘You all hear them?’

‘Yes, we all… Martinez. I had to kill her myself.’

Sabarren nodded knowingly. ‘Your intervention was timely and well received. You have earned the right to die fighting. We shall end this together.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ Abatido said, and he followed Sabarren to the throne room.

As he crested the final steps to the throne room, Sabarren saw his target. Belphegor. The Master of Possessions wore an ancient suit of power armour, jet black and trimmed in burnished gold, beneath a robe the colour of sun-bleached bone. His helmet had been twisted into a facsimile of a four-horned goat skull. He stood upon a plinth at the back of the room in front of the throne. His staff stood unnaturally beside him. At his feet knelt a man in a soiled indigo suit. Belphegor cradled him under the chin with one hand and held a curved dagger in the other. He was chanting in a language Sabarren recognised but did not speak. No sane man did.

‘The governor!’ one of the Cazadores cried. Inside, more cultists were spread around the room. Though no physical lines joined them, Sabarren could see at a glance the invisible bonds that connected them and the esoteric shapes they formed. There was a captive kneeling before each one, all of whom had been ritually mutilated in some way. As soon as the Exorcists entered the room Belphegor’s incantation reached a crescendo, and the sorcerer plunged his dagger into the governor’s neck. At the same time, as one, the cultists slit the throats of their captives. Each heretic held their sacrifice by the head, allowing their blood to flow freely to the floor. The pools spread unnaturally, reaching for one another, forming the markings that Sabarren had seen in his mind. One of the Cazadores roared and shot the nearest cultist in the head. He fell and the blood from his cranium mixed with that of the sacrifices.

‘Stop!’ Sabarren ordered. The rest of the Cazadores had raised their weapons but froze at his command. Only at this moment did Belphegor look down from the dais.

‘Sabarren,’ he said, ‘you’re too late.’ He spoke with two voices: one deep and booming, the other thin and mocking, as if more than a single entity existed within his physical form.

‘I did not come to talk, Belphegor.’

‘Good. There is nothing left to say. Another world dies beneath your watch, Jago Sabarren. The Prince of Burning Skies will see to that.’ Belphegor grasped his staff and raised it.

‘No,’ Sabarren cried defiantly, aiming his bolter. His brothers did the same and fired. Belphegor dropped the governor’s body and raised his now empty hand. A wall of steaming blood rose from the ground. Where the bolts struck it they melted. With his own weapon thundering, what control Sabarren had had over the Cazadores was gone and they set upon the remaining cultists. The throne room broke out into a brutal firefight.

On the dais, Belphegor slammed the haft of his staff down into the governor’s blood. Multicoloured flames spread across the scarlet fluid like it was promethium. Those who stood too close were caught in the blaze. Cazadores and cultists alike screamed as the fire consumed them. As fast as they had spread, the flames drew back to the staff. Where the blood had been fresh moments before, now it was black. When the fire reached the staff it spread in a ring around Belphegor’s feet, then erupted into a pillar. The ceiling caught fire and spread in an instant, a burning sky. The flaming pillar receded with a final wave of fire that made Sabarren raise his hand to cover his eyes. When he looked back, Belphegor was gone.

Sabarren wanted to scream. He wanted to curse and damn the sorcerer in every language of reality and the warp, but there was no time. He saw what was happening on the dais. Flickering embers danced at the foot of the governor’s throne. They found his body. It began to burn, and as it did it started to move. The governor pushed himself to his knees then, unsteadily, his feet. He stumbled. His clothing and hair burned away. When he raised his head, his eyes were smouldering coals. One of the Cazadores shot him. The lasgun burned chunks of flesh from the body. The wounds flickered with flames, but what had once been Governor Acin made no sounds of pain. The creature that wore his skin raised its hand and a gout of fire leapt from the palm. The Cazador was incinerated and fell to ash.

Though it now wore the body of the governor, Sabarren knew the creature for what it was. Belphegor had summoned a daemon, and it was using the governor’s form to bridge the gap between reality and the warp. It staggered as it descended the steps. It was weak still, but it would only grow stronger, feeding on the energies that suffused the palace. It had already begun. The governor’s human form was growing, pulsating as its limbs and torso lengthened, but gained no mass, leaving it unsettlingly lean and sinuous. The Exorcists fired upon it. Bolts inscribed with unicursal hexagrams tore flesh from its body. The daemon growled with anger but showed no signs of pain. It turned its hand to them and unleashed another gout of flame. Sabarren felt it wash over him. The wards on his armour glowed orange and those on his skin burned like fresh brands. When the daemon relented the Exorcists still stood. The daemon peered at them as if bemused. Then it roared with a voice like a roiling furnace.

‘We must cast it out,’ said Sabarren.

More gunfire erupted from behind him. A wave of cultists stormed the throne room’s entrance. Sabarren saw the last of the Cazadores gunned down. Ahead of him, emerging from the doors at the rear of the room, more heretics led by gold-armoured elites flooded in.

‘Brothers, deal with the mortals,’ he ordered. ‘I will destroy the abomination.’

Acknowledgement runes flashed on his visor. Bolters roared.

‘By my will I deny thee, by my heart I spurn thee, by my hand I destroy thee,’ Sabarren intoned. ‘Fiend of emptiness, to the void I cast thy blackened soul.’

Abatido turned towards the sound of footsteps. Before he could raise his weapon, he was hit. Las-fire cut through his leg and pulled him to the ground. He saw the remaining Cazadores die as he fell. Forty souls he had led through the breach and forty souls he had lost, yet he still lived. Those soldiers died to save their home. Abatido would not allow himself to join them until he knew their sacrifice hadn’t been in vain. His pistol had fallen from his grip, now only his knife remained. With a grunt of anguish Abatido got up. He saw what had once been Governor Acin launch itself at Sergeant Sabarren, taking two loping strides then simply gliding towards him and raising a mutated, birdlike talon to strike. Sabarren lifted his bolter in defence but the creature’s talons cut clean through it, shearing it in two. Before it could strike again Abatido had reached it, and he plunged his knife up under its ribs. The daemon stopped, looking down at him before swatting him away with the back of its claw. The last thing Abatido knew was his body flying backwards through the air. Then everything went black.

Major Abatido was dead, this Sabarren knew, but in the moment the daemon was distracted the sergeant had drawn his power maul. It thrummed with energy this close to a warp entity, even before Sabarren activated its power field. As the daemon turned towards him Sabarren struck it a blow that threw it into the steps of the dais. Around them his brothers were holding back the cultists that sought to overwhelm them, but to Sabarren there was only the daemon. He charged, maul held high and the words of the Liber Exorcismus on his lips. The daemon was back upright, now floating a foot off the ground. Horns had begun to form upon its brow. It flowed around Sabarren’s attacks with the elegance of dancing flames, then struck him in the chest with both talons. The blow sent Sabarren staggering. The daemon followed it with a psychic attack. Though the assault was invisible to the eye, Sabarren perceived it as a wall of fire that rose before him then crashed like a wave. Rather than washing him away, the wave broke around Sabarren and he stood unmoved. The daemon gave him the curious look again.

‘Yessss… rememmmmbeeeer,’ it hissed. Its speech slurred as though it was unused to forming words in a human mouth. Sabarren lunged at it again and while the daemon evaded his strikes, he drove it back. A backhanded swing arced towards the daemon’s head and it only narrowly turned the blow aside with one of its talons. Its fingers were torn off, but it punched its other claw through Sabarren’s pauldron, the points biting into the flesh of his shoulder. The daemon pulled its claw free and Sabarren swung back single-handed. The daemon caught his wrist and twisted it, almost breaking Sabarren’s grip on his weapon, then it drove its talon, already reforming on the stump of its arm, up under his chestplate.

The daemon lifted Sabarren from the floor, rising with him, then threw him to the ground. The sergeant’s impact cratered the marble. Then the daemon fell upon him, talons stabbing towards his eyes. Sabarren twisted and the attack narrowly missed, striking down the side of his head. It tore through his helmet and his auto-senses went black. He felt blood welling in deep gashes down the right side of his face. Still on his back, he swung his maul, hitting the daemon in the abdomen and driving it away. Sabarren pressed the head of the maul into the ground and pushed himself to his feet. With his free hand he unsealed the broken remains of his helmet and set it down.

‘Yesss, I remember you. Exorcisssssst.’ Sabarren didn’t reply. He had no words to exchange with the abomination.

The daemon made a pained coughing sound that Sabarren took as laughter. ‘Whaaaat? No wooords? No threeeats? Goood. No true power do you have over meeee. I have slain thy kin before, upon the Barrens of Ul’kx. Feasted on burning flesh atop the Citadel of Ashen Bones. Yes. Many have I slain. Many have I burned and devoured, Exorcisssst.’

Rage rose in Sabarren’s thundering hearts. He wanted nothing more than to lunge at the daemon once again and strike at it until it was destroyed, but a thought stayed his hand. Memories of lessons long passed. Upon Erisees the Exorcists had tasted defeat at the hands of a daemon the Chapter’s records named Fi’ax’ra’fel, who had burned the world’s populace and built towers of their remains. Librarian Thaddeus had once told him of a battle upon the desert world of Ul’kx. The daemon was not lying. It was a known and ancient enemy of the Chapter. It had slain many of his brothers across millennia of battle. Warriors far greater than he. Sabarren slumped to his knees, letting his head fall.

‘It is you, Fi’ax’ra’fel, Ogenthrath, Vex’akr’ta.’

‘Not one my truuuue naaame, humaaan.’

‘My brothers,’ Sabarren said, letting the power maul fall from his grip.

‘Yesss, your brotherssss.’

Sabarren looked up. ‘They will have questions for you.’

He launched from the ground with such force the stone split beneath him. In three strides he was upon the daemon, his consecrated combat blade in hand. He tackled the daemon, snatching it out of the air and driving it into the throne. With one hand he forced the daemon’s face into the aquila sculpted upon the throne’s top rail. The daemon’s stolen flesh burned as Sabarren carved the first sigil of binding into its chest. It howled in pain and slashed at him. Sabarren drove his knife through the palm of its hand. A psychic blast struck him. Where before it had been a wave, now it was a battering ram and it threw him to the foot of the steps. The daemon leapt from the throne and landed on top of him. It drove a taloned hand into the right side of his abdomen. Sabarren gritted his teeth and rolled onto his side, pinning the daemon’s talon inside him. As it tried to strike again, Sabarren trapped its other arm under his and carved the second sigil of binding into its chest.

The daemon ripped itself away and blood poured from the wound in Sabarren’s side. He got up. Pain-suppressors flooded his system, but the blood still flowed. He tackled the daemon again, lifting it onto his shoulder then driving it into the ground. He began to carve the mark of servitude into the daemon’s abdomen, but it lashed out, cutting through his gauntlet and knocking the knife from his grip. Sabarren grabbed it by the throat and headbutted it. Its head snapped back, and Sabarren bathed his hand in the blood that flowed from his own wound. Pinning the daemon’s head back by its jaw, he daubed the mark upon its body with his thumb. The daemon drove a psychic blade into Sabarren’s mind. He felt it glance off his mental defences, but the impact made his head swim and the daemon threw him back before floating upright once again.

‘You think you can claim dominion over me?’ it bellowed with indignant fury as Sabarren reclaimed his footing. It spread its arms wide. Flames from the burning ceiling poured down into it. The daemon absorbed them, its pallid skin glowing orange from within and its smouldering eyes burning like torches. Then it unleashed them, and Sabarren was consumed by the inferno.

A man sat slumped against a wall. He did not know who he was, where he was or how he came to be here. All he knew was pain. He looked down at his body and found that his abdomen had been torn open. Blood stained his legs and hands. All around him was violence, dominated by two demigods doing battle at the room’s centre. Each was terrifying and painful to look upon, but the cuirass of the giant in red armour bore the symbol of a two-headed eagle. The deepest part of his shattered mind still recognised its holiness. He was an ally and so the monster he faced was the man’s enemy. He hoped the red giant might defeat it alone, but as the giant was consumed in flames the man knew it was his duty to help him in any way he could. The man knew he was dying, but perhaps he had strength left to make his death matter. Fighting through searing agony, the man got to his feet.

Sabarren breathed heavily. Though the daemonfire had passed he felt it burning him still beneath his smouldering armour. The daemon loomed over him. His knife was now a pool of liquid metal beside him. The blood that had poured from his abdomen was dry and flaked away at his touch, his wound cauterised by the unholy heat. His means of completing the binding ritual were lost. He had failed Karsa V, just as he had failed Vaygangard.

‘Do you wish for death yet, Exorcist?’ the daemon taunted him.

‘No.’

‘Gooood.’ It had grown taller still, horns cresting its head like a crown. ‘Because there will be no such release for you. I will take your essence and keep it within me. You will see my works made manifest and know they were made possible by your weakness.’

As Sabarren stared at the daemon with grim defiance he saw someone leap onto its back. It was Major Abatido, soaked in his own blood. He grappled with the daemon as if trying to choke it. As it thrashed, Abatido’s bloodied hands smeared across its face, painting the creature’s flesh crimson. The daemon flung Abatido away and he landed with a crunch of broken bones at the foot of the throne.

Sabarren took his chance. He threw himself at the Prince of Burning Skies, incanting the words of the Daemonica Malefica Custodia. The cursed language dried his throat and made his tongue bleed. Driving his thumbs into the daemon’s burning eyes, he blinded it and bore it to the ground. It slashed at him, the frantic attacks of a cornered animal. They cut into his face and drew sparks from his armour. Knelt upon its chest, in the dying blood of Nico Abatido, Sabarren daubed Soloman’s Master Sigil of Enslavement. The daemon thrashed and cursed him; then it fell still, unconscious. The body it had sought to use to enter the mortal plane would now serve as its prison. The fires above them receded and died out.

Sabarren got to his feet. In the face of their otherworldly lord’s defeat, the remaining cultists turned to flee. Bolter fire chased them, its roar not quite loud enough to cover the sound of bodies breaking as they fell down the grand steps. Nadir came to Sabarren’s side.

‘Brother-sergeant, you are hurt,’ he said.

Sabarren waved him away. ‘I will live.’

‘Belphegor?’

‘Has evaded us once again. I have claimed another in his place.’

Nadir looked down at the creature Sabarren had imprisoned. He said nothing, simply nodded knowingly.

‘We are done here. We will leave immediately.’

Nadir acknowledged him as Sabarren turned away. The sergeant crossed the floor to the steps beneath the throne and looked down at Abatido. He lived but it was clear he was drawing his final breaths. His body was broken, and his eyes stared into space without comprehension.

‘You have my gratitude,’ Sabarren said. He unclasped his torn right gauntlet. Where the daemon’s talons had rent his armour the edges were sharp. Sabarren cut the end of his thumb. Blood welled. He reached down and painted a simple rune, said to provide protection to the souls of the fallen, upon the Cazador’s brow.

‘May the Emperor know your name, Nico Abatido.’

Slayer’s Hand rose from the grounds of the palace.

‘Get me General Torres,’ Sabarren said to Uziah.

‘Channel is open, brother.’

‘Who is this?’ Torres’ indignant voice was clear despite the vox static.

‘You are aware that Sergeant Aronin was successful in disabling the void shields,’ Sabarren replied. ‘Has the bombardment begun?’

‘No, sergeant, it hasn’t, and it won’t. I have changed my mind. The Palacea Aeternum has stood on Karsa V for millennia. I will not–’

‘Your men are dead. Major Abatido, all of them. They fought bravely and died so that we might defeat the evil that festered there.’

‘Major Abatido went in there to save our people and reclaim the palace.’

‘Perhaps at first, but he was naïve then as you are now. Before he died he understood the truth. All of the Cazadores did. Do not dishonour their sacrifice by allowing the palace to stand.’

‘I have no desire to dishonour my men, sergeant, but this is a Karsan matter and it will be decided by Karsan governance. I thank you for your service but your involvement in this matter is over.’

‘Believe me when I tell you that I am the kind face of this request. Should I report that the palace stands, others will seek to know why. They will demand answers and they will recognise no authority beneath the Emperor Himself. I trust you know of whom I speak. Is that your wish?’

‘No,’ said Torres through a low growl. ‘Very well. I will give the order.’

As Slayer’s Hand left the planet’s atmosphere, Basilisk tanks began the painstaking process of razing the Palacea Aeternum. The Thunderhawk flew overhead allowing Sabarren to see the artillery shells strike, blowing structures to rubble and rubble to dust. Beneath it all would be buried the bodies of dozens of loyal Karsan soldiers and hundreds of heretics. No trace would remain of the desecration that happened there. The only evidence of what truly occurred now lay in a warded black coffin, gripped firmly in the hold of Slayer’s Hand. It would be returned to the Basilica Malefex, where the Exorcists would teach it fear.

MOURNING IN RAINHOLLOW

Dave Gross

Hailing from Canada, fantasy author Dave Gross brings us this gritty, darkly humorous story of vengeance and loss in the Realm of Shyish, where death is inescapable and far from permanent…

The bounty hunter Janneke Ritter sets out from Glymmsforge, wanted poster in hand and only her tired old horse for company. She will do whatever it takes to bring in her quarry, but the road to Rainhollow is fraught with peril, and her bounty has more than a few tricks up their sleeve.

After tearing down all the wanted posters she could find to delay the competition, Janneke Ritter traced the deserter’s path from Glymmsforge to Satyr’s End. There she trusted a hunch and bought passage on a duardin longboat across the Nihilus Reach.

During the voyage beneath the weird, amethyst skies of Shyish, she fought elbow to shoulder beside the crew when they disturbed waterlogged ghouls aboard a wreck boarded for salvage. Along with her fellow survivors, she reached Sendport alive but no richer than when she set out.

Her hunch rewarded her with three independent sightings of her quarry: he’d struck north days earlier. Disguising herself in a grey shroud, black cowl and red sash, Ritter joined a procession of Morrsend pilgrims returning to their ancestral city.

After passing beneath the tattered banners hanging from the city’s gate, Ritter abandoned the petitioners before they began their seventy-seven-day purification. She had no wish to join the next leg of their sojourn, at the end of which they would offer their blood to the ancient vampires who once defended their home.

Two Morrsend residents recognised the deserter’s face from the bounty poster. One had sold the man a donkey and claimed he had ridden it into Modrhavn, despite warnings of the deadly creatures infesting those lands. Biting her lip at the cost, Ritter traded for an ageing grey palfrey and a worn saddle and bridle. A pair of used saddlebags and a week’s provisions further depleted her funds. At this rate, she grumbled, she’d be destitute by the time she could collect her reward.

Three days out of Morrsend, Ritter rued her decision to buy the horse. While the beast had an agreeable amble, it baulked at every sharp turn in the stony trail. When Ritter kicked its flanks, the horse bent its neck to look back at her with a comical expression of exasperation.

‘Horseface,’ Ritter snapped. It was a nonsensical name dredged up from memories of childhood tormentors, but saying it to an actual horse gave her a bitter satisfaction. Anyway, it was slightly better than calling the animal ‘horse’, and she had no desire to invent a better name for a beast she’d soon trade again.

She walked Horseface over the difficult terrain, consoling herself with the notion that travelling on foot would increase her chances of noticing signs of spoor. When she spotted the first, it was just as well she was already on foot so she could feel the dung to get a sense of how long it had lain on the ground. Cold and starting to form a crust, the turd suggested Ritter was a day or so behind her target.

She returned to the saddle and goaded Horseface until the animal showed it hadn’t forgotten how to trot.

They continued for a few more days, resting when they found untainted water or a shelter from the cold winds. As the saddlebags grew slack, Ritter regretted not filling a backpack with horse feed. She preferred to leave easy access to the modified weapons she carried on braces down her back: two guns and a sword.

Like most of the names Ritter chose for things, they were self-explanatory. The Cutter was her heavy broadsword, wider and shorter than military standard. The Catcher was a modified duardin bolt-thrower that propelled nets and lines. The Blaster was the multifunctional firearm cobbled together from salvaged Ironweld and Kharadron weapons. It could discharge several kinds of hell at varying levels of reliability. The scatter shot was both the most reliable and the one she least liked to employ. Bringing back her bounties alive was not only more profitable, it had become a point of pride.

Once Ritter began rationing feed, Horseface wandered off the trail whenever it smelled the rank flora of this desolate realm. Ritter hoped they weren’t poisonous. Fortunately, Horseface seemed to know which ones to avoid by scent.

‘Smarter than you look,’ muttered Ritter. She decided that sounded too friendly and added, ‘Horseface.’

While the horse gnawed on a sedge, Ritter took the opportunity to relieve herself. It was while she was squatting that she noticed the plume of smoke in the distance. She squinted at it, still unused to the purple light of the realm. Something about it made it hard to judge distances, much less colours. As she finished her business, she realised what she was seeing wasn’t smoke. It was a plume of dust.

Horseface resisted as Ritter pulled her away from the grass, but a few sharp, loud commands reminded the beast who was in charge. Soon they were trotting, then cantering towards the disturbance.

The source was a wagon drawn by two animals, ponies or donkeys judging by their relative size. There was something wrong with their hitch, and one kept pulling the vehicle to one side, forcing the driver to correct course with a jerk of the reins.

Behind the driver, a patched canvas bonnet had torn away to reveal the wagon bows, exposed like the ribs of a skeleton. Below them cowered three figures. One adult-sized, like the driver. The other two were much smaller.

The dust cloud obscured whatever they were fleeing.

Ritter couldn’t imagine her target would chase a family across the plains. If he had designs on them, he had only to clap his hands and destroy their vehicle or slay their beasts with a slash of lightning.

There’d be no reward for helping these strangers. Perhaps they weren’t running from anything. Maybe the driver had simply lost control of his team after one of the beasts spotted a pale adder.

A distant shriek carried across the wind. Horseface curled her neck again, the irises of her wild eyes straining in what felt like an accusation to Ritter. She cursed as she remembered the other factor in her calculation.

The children.

‘Damn it.’ She kicked Horseface into action.

Horseface surged into a full gallop before Ritter realised the animal had been holding back.

They drew close enough to make out the individuals on the wagon. A woman had the reins in one hand and a lash in the other. She fixed her full attention on the terrified donkey whose panic kept pulling them off course. It didn’t help that the beast was bridled with a makeshift length of rope. Its teammate, a pony, distinguished itself both with obedience and a proper harness.

A box bounced out of the rear of the wagon, falling on the trailing remnant of the wagon’s canvas cover and tearing the rest away. The man in the back reached hopelessly after it; Ritter saw he had a stump beneath his left elbow. The man crouched again, arms curling around the children as all three stared into the dusty wake. Ritter peered with them as Horseface slowed, apparently sensing a presence she no longer wished to meet.

Ritter saw it deep within the cloud. A shape darker than the dust leaped over the fallen crate and ran closer to the wagon. Ritter discerned a lupine hunch in its shoulders, but its gait was pure feline. An abhorrent tickling filled Ritter’s throat, and a tooth-shivering drone rose above the racket of the wagon wheels.

Just as they were about to pass the wagon, Horseface reared. A second pursuer leaped out of the dust cloud. The size of a grown wolf, it pounced like a mountain cat, yet its shape remained obscured in a dark, murmuring nimbus.

Ritter reached for the Blaster. Her fingers closed around the stock as the impact knocked her off the screaming horse. She hit the ground perilously close to the rear wagon wheels. Rolling, she regained her feet, the Blaster in her hands. The blinding dust washed over her.

She closed her eyes against the grit, listening for a growl or a footfall.

Her hand released the safety on the Blaster’s shot cylinder, already in firing position. She heard the click of the mechanism, the clamour of the wagon, and Horseface’s frightened squeals – fortunately not the sounds of being devoured, but those of knowing a predator is close.

Ritter opened her eyes.

In the dissipating dust, she saw the monster. It glared at her with empty eye sockets, half its skin rotted away to reveal a cracked skull. Where ears had been, only scabrous stumps of cartilage remained, crawling with fat white maggots. The creature’s mottled pelt suggested a leopard, but the spots were nothing compared with the jagged rents in its flesh. The wounds exposed desiccated muscle and fat between wind-scoured ribs. Worse were the black hollows where all flesh had collapsed inward. The buzzing sound originated in those dark cavities.

A crepuscular sheath flowed out of the rotting stalker. It thickened into a furious cloud. At first, Ritter couldn’t comprehend what had emerged from the beast, but then she realised it was a cloud of corpse flies.

The swarm moved with a collective purpose, more like a single parasite than ten thousand individuals. When the monster uttered a dry cough, more insects emerged from the concavity of its skull. As the cloud of corpse flies thickened, the beast tensed to leap.

Ritter raised the Blaster, but a heavy weight knocked her to the ground. Foetid breath gushed over her face as fangs snapped at her throat. She felt hundreds of stings through the gaps in her armour. Rolling, she raised her shoulder to shield her neck. Reeking jaws clamped down on her pauldron.

Ritter thrust the Blaster into the animal’s chest and fired. She felt two separate halves of the beast fall away as flecks of bone and gore rained down on her.

She rolled again, knowing that predators using pack tactics seldom pause before a kill.

Sure enough, the first beast landed beside her. She rolled farther before rising to a low crouch. She shifted the gun’s selector from shot to flame canister and pumped the primer twice. There wasn’t time for more.

She kept the stream trained on the monster as she let herself fall backward to avoid its pounce. The stream was weak, and flecks of hot oil touched her face. For a moment she feared she would immolate herself, but as the igniter snapped, the insects’ shivering wings fanned the flames across themselves.

A torrent of incinerated flies fell over Ritter as the animal struck the earth, legs twitching. The stench of its burning pelt wet Ritter’s eyes.

She rose to one knee and raised the Blaster, turning to scan the area. She saw no sign of a third predator. The buzz of flies dwindled to a whisper.

Ritter sighed with relief when she saw Horseface stamping around, tail lashing her flanks. Ritter jogged over to help, peeling off her cape to slap at the horse’s neck and shoulders until the last of the flies dispersed. With the destruction of their hosts, they no longer acted as one.

The wagon returned, the driver still struggling to keep the donkey pulling in a straight line. Her children stood up behind her, peering over her shoulders. Ritter couldn’t tell whether they were boys or girls or one of each. Their faces were little replicas of their mother’s but for the bright eyes and curly hair of their one-handed father, who hopped off the wagon to examine the fallen crate.

‘You have our thanks,’ said the driver. Ritter guessed she was in her mid-thirties, but it was hard to judge the age of those who lived in Shyish. Many died young, and those who survived often appeared decades older than they were.

‘It’s intact!’ called the woman’s husband. He pulled an unbroken sack out of the fallen crate and shrugged it over his good shoulder.

‘Let’s leave her one,’ said his wife.

The man nodded. Lugging the sack over to Ritter, he let it fall to the ground. ‘Feed for your horse. We have enough to reach Morrsend.’

‘Thanks,’ said Ritter. She patted her stomach. ‘And maybe a little–’

‘Yes, of course.’ He gestured to the children with his stump. ‘Breen, fetch us some of that bread.’

‘One other thing,’ said Ritter.

‘We have little,’ said the driver. Ritter could almost hear the woman’s hackles rise.

‘Just information.’ Ritter unfurled one of the wanted posters. ‘Have you seen this man?’

The look that passed between the man and woman told her they had. Neither adult spoke as one of the children – a girl, Ritter decided now that she could see her close – brought over a grease-stained parcel.

‘Thank you, starling.’ The man passed the food to Ritter. He watched his daughter skip back to the wagon. He turned to Ritter. ‘You should let him go.’

‘Can’t,’ said Ritter. ‘It’s my job.’

‘It doesn’t have to be,’ he said. ‘You’re no different from him.’

Ritter bristled. Many looked down on bounty hunters, but she was no deserter. ‘What do you mean by that?’

The man’s wife put a hand on his shoulder and inclined her head towards the wagon. Before he left, the man fixed his gaze on Ritter. ‘Our pony could barely pull the wagon,’ he said. ‘He gave us his donkey, even though he was in a hurry to reach Rainhollow.’

The man’s wife shot him a stern look. ‘Go on,’ she said. As the man returned to the spilled supplies, the woman looked Ritter in the eyes. ‘Just follow our trail if you must find him. But the Nighthaunt are already there.’ She walked away.

Ritter unfurled the wanted poster and studied the deserter’s face.

Usually the artists exaggerated the features to make a bounty target look more villainous, but this one had a pleasant face, even a wry half-smile that made it look as though he’d just said something amusing or charming. The one sinister mark about him was a half-star-shaped scar over one eye, and even that looked more rakish than criminal. The way his hair flopped over his brow seemed incongruous for a portrait of a deserter. Ritter had a hunch the artist fancied him.

After a careful double-fold, Ritter tore off WANTED: ELDREDGE DUUL, surrounded by stylised lightning bolts, from the top and the warnings from the bottom. It might be better not to advertise that she was looking to arrest a man who made a good impression on strangers.

Horseface nipped at the discarded paper. Ritter gave the beast a few handfuls of grain instead before filling the saddlebags and following the refugees’ path.

Ritter found Rainhollow at the base of the Modrhavn Mountains.

She passed a few plots of farmland before spying green streaks of moss and ivy that marked the crooked streams running down the eastern cliffs. The run-off pooled in reservoirs too small to be called lakes before following irrigation channels or tapering off to brooks vanishing into pale and lonely woods.

Two of the little pools flanked a great cleft in the cliff wall. Ritter realised the village lay not at the foot of the mountain but within it. The entrance created an illusion: the cleft formed a gentle spiral from the outer edge of the cliff into a gap sheltered by walls shaped like a pair of hands cupping a candle flame. Inside, the village of Rainhollow hid from the plains of Modrhavn.

Fortified ledges formed ‘fingers’ on the curtain walls. Motionless guardians stood between crenellations built of irregular stones. Ritter could just make out the wooden frames that supported the withered corpses, the wire that lashed their wind-mummified limbs to their spears, and the awkward tilt of their rusty helmets over naked skulls. Here and there, a living watcher patrolled among the sentinel dead.

Ritter followed the sound of a ringing hammer to a double gate spanning the ‘fingertips’ of the outer walls. One half stood closed, prominently displaying the grim visage of Nagash. The wreckage of the other half had been dragged to the side while workers hurried to construct a makeshift replacement out of scavenged wood and the salvaged iron frame. Whatever had demolished the gate had shredded wood and shorn metal alike.

Ritter reined Horseface to a halt and showed the deserter’s face to a man hauling a keg of nails. ‘Seen him?’

The man indicated the third of four lanes leading into the village. ‘Straight on to the second reservoir.’

She nodded.

‘You’d better hurry,’ said the worker. ‘He could use the help.’

For the second time, Ritter felt a pang of resentment. He’s a deserter, she reminded herself.

Meagre light eked its way down into the deserted lanes of Rainhollow. Woodfires flickered in every third stone brazier, but they cast long shadows above the awnings. The doors and windows were all shut tight. Ritter noticed two doors were chalked with skull-shaped symbols.

She heard the dogs barking before she saw them skid around the corner. Three mutts of different sizes, all dirty and wide-eyed, barely glanced at Horseface while peeling off to either side to continue their retreat. With them came a strong scent of bitter smoke and the sound of splashing water. A flash of blue-white light suggested lightning.

Ritter’s target was near.

She dismounted and led Horseface to a water trough fed by one of the dozens of ducts catching run-off from the cliff walls. She thought of the frightened dogs and looped the horse’s leads loosely, unslung the Blaster, and approached the corner.

Around the bend, the street opened into a plaza bordered by two other streets and a cliff dotted with grey-and-yellow lichen. Light flickered from three fires on the surrounding houses, apparently the result of lightning strikes. No one fought to quench the flames.

In the centre of the plaza was a circular pool fed from the cliff run-off, redirected by a series of flat stones suspended on an iron brace. Around the lip of the pool lay abandoned buckets and pots, and two corpses surrounded by expanding pools of blood.

The cause of their deaths came whirling across the pool. Waterspouts rose beneath the shadow of a dark blur and fell back again in its wake. The thing spun so fast that Ritter could make out little more than a black shroud and chains. Staring, she perceived a grim iron mask beneath the hooded shroud and a greatblade in the grasp of a fleshless hand.

Ritter had never seen a gheist before, but she’d heard them described by Stormcast Eternals who counted themselves blessed to have survived. She faced a Bladegheist Revenant.

The Nighthaunt flew towards a man who was only just rising to his feet. The broken shutters behind him suggested he’d been thrown hard against the wall. Judging from the damage, it was a wonder he could stand at all.

Despite his bloody face and wet hair, there was no mistaking Eldredge Duul. A week’s beard darkened the mage’s cheeks. Dusty grey robes covered more colourful garments exposed only at collar, cuff and hem. His fingers glittered with jewels. As he stood, he glanced ruefully at the remaining half of his staff before tossing away the useless stump. His fingers sketched esoteric signs in preparation for the gheist’s charge, but then he noticed Ritter’s arrival.

‘Stay back!’ he shouted.

The warning had the opposite effect. The Nighthaunt turned its eyeless mask towards Ritter. The blur of chains and blade rushed at her.

Ritter fired. Most of the shot passed harmlessly through the Nighthaunt, despite the dull sound of impacts on metal. The black shroud shuddered, but Ritter saw only a few holes to prove it had been struck. The gheist appeared unperturbed.

Eldredge Duul’s voice rose in an arcane language Ritter had heard but never understood. With the first three long syllables, the water from the reservoir rose higher than the rooftops. Duul paused, letting the gheist close with Ritter. The final syllable was thunder. An immense weight of water crashed over the gheist the moment its ethereal form took substance, smashing it against the cliff wall.

The breaking wave forced Ritter back. She tripped over a raised herb garden and cracked her skull against a windowsill. She heard the Blaster skitter across the pavestones, but she could see only bright yellow starbursts. Trying to stand, she fought a wave of nausea. She decided to sit a moment, but that felt only slightly better.

‘Here, chew on this.’ A warm hand pressed something rootlike into hers. Ritter blinked, but Eldredge Duul’s face remained a blur. ‘Try not to move.’

A whispery voice rose across the plaza. ‘…never… drown… again.’ Chains rasped against cobblestones. ‘I’ll smother your soul!’

‘Get down!’ hissed Duul. He spoke a single word of power. The rising screech of the gheist was muffled as an unseen barrier appeared between its descending tomb blade and the mortals beneath the mage’s shield.

Terror sharpened Ritter’s vision. She watched as the Nighthaunt raised its blade to slash again and again. Each time, the blade stopped inches from Duul’s outstretched hand.

‘Can you reach your gun?’ Duul winced as another blow tested the strength of his spell. Judging by his pallor, Ritter didn’t know whether he could withstand another.

She nodded, waiting for the moment the Bladegheist raised its weapon. Rolling towards the Blaster, she sensed Duul moving with her. He kept the shield between her and the Nighthaunt, exposing his own body in defence of hers.

‘Wait for it,’ he said. ‘The moment it strikes, it must be tan–’

‘Do it!’ Ritter aimed, Duul stepped away, and she fired. The shot blew the blade out of the gheist’s grip and shattered the bony hand wielding it. Half the iron mask flew away, the shot pellets leaving a ragged border resembling tooth marks.

The amethyst energies of Shyish continued to sustain the maimed horror. It groaned an inarticulate threat and reached for the mage.

Duul spat out another spell as the gheist’s claws closed around his throat. A bolt of energy exploded between them, throwing each combatant backward. Duul hit the ground flat on his back. He rolled to one side, rising on one elbow to brace for another attack, but none came. The last tangible fragments of the depraved soul twitched on the pavement until, at last, they lay still.

Ritter felt the subsiding terror like liquid silver through her veins. Standing beside Duul, both panting with hands on knees, she noticed she was a good six inches taller than he. She was taller than most men, but not usually by so much.

A clatter of hooves caught her attention. Rather than fleeing, Horseface had come to investigate. The palfrey walked up and nosed Duul in the shoulder.

‘Aren’t you the valiant one?’ said Duul. He stroked the horse’s nose. He looked at Ritter. ‘Your protector, I assume?’

Ritter felt an unexpected indignation that the horse had gone to Duul. What did she care who a dumb animal favoured?

‘I’m grateful to you both,’ said Duul. ‘I was starting to worry that gheist was too much for me. Good thing you showed up when you did. Thankfully, that was the last of them.’

‘Umm…’ Ritter looked away. He had saved her as much as she’d helped him.

‘Oh,’ said Duul, noticing something on the flooded street. He reached towards a soggy scrap of paper. At his gesture, it flew from the wet pavement to his hand. He blew on it, and a minor spell dried the bounty poster. He grimaced. ‘Bounty hunter, eh? You must be good to have found me so soon.’

Ritter wondered whether she could reach the Catcher and fire a net before he could hit her with a spell. She tensed as he raised a hand to his lips, but he only blew her a kiss. Before she could object, a warm magic breeze dried her clothes and hair. Duul waved his hand as if fanning himself, and the same magic blew back his hair and tidied his soiled robes.

He smiled again. She could barely stand to look at it. She knew he was manipulating her, but he seemed so genuine. Was there magic in that smile?

She shouldered the Blaster, trading it for the Catcher, finger on the trigger. ‘Eldredge Duul, I’m taking you back to Glymmsforge to face charges of desertion.’

He grinned. Ritter couldn’t tell whether that was a sign of madness or another misplaced attempt to charm her. Suspicious of a trick, she watched his hands for any arcane gesture.

Instead, he showed her his palms. ‘Just give me a little time to do what I came here for, and I won’t resist. Say, what’s the reward for my capture this time?’

‘This time?’ said Ritter.

Duul pinched his fingers along each torn edge of the poster. An orange-white glow appeared where he touched the paper. Like a cigar burning in reverse, the missing strips reappeared. Duul whistled appreciatively. ‘Desertion, is it? The old man isn’t fooling around this time.’

‘It’s a no-kill bounty,’ said Ritter. Duul beckoned her to follow as he strolled towards the centre of Rainhollow. Ritter grabbed Horseface’s reins and marched after him.

‘Lucky for me.’ Duul appraised her. His eyes lingered on the butts of the weapons protruding from behind her back. It made her feel uncomfortable. She slung the Catcher over her shoulder. ‘You wouldn’t happen to be Janneke Ritter, would you?’

‘How do you know my name?’

‘You caught an old friend of mine a few years back.’

She set her jaw. ‘Well, I’m not sorry about it.’

‘Nor should you be,’ Duul laughed. ‘Dorren Tael is as testy as an orruk, and twice as easy to goad. After killing those soldiers in that brawl, he deserved his punishment. I’m just surprised you brought him back alive.’

‘It wasn’t easy.’ Ritter tried not to look as pleased as she felt at the compliment.

‘They say you brought in a Stormcast Eternal once.’

Ritter said nothing as they walked for a while. More people emerged from their homes. They looked hopefully towards the plaza, where the residents had finished quenching the fires. No one cheered or thanked them. They merely returned to the task of waiting to die.

‘Did you bring in an Eternal?’ Duul raised an inquisitive eyebrow.

‘I never take bounties on the Stormcasts.’

Duul mulled it over. His annoying smile returned. ‘Yeah, what kind of maniac would try something like that?’

‘Where are you taking me?’ said Ritter. ‘I haven’t agreed to anything. I’m still taking you in.’

‘Just up ahead, on the street of yellow doors. That is, if they haven’t moved. I need to bring them back to Glymmsforge now that it’s clear of Nighthaunt.’ His voice darkened, and again the smile faded. ‘As you can see, bands of Nighthaunt have scattered from the main armies. What we drove out of Glymmsforge is now finding its way into villages like this one.’

‘And you were just going to turn yourself in when you got back to Glymmsforge?’ Ritter had had just about enough of Duul’s easy charm.

‘I hadn’t given it much thought,’ he said. ‘When I heard the scattered Nighthaunt forces had begun preying on villages, I knew I had to get back here. And I knew the commander wouldn’t give me leave, so I just took it.’

‘You’re out of your mind,’ said Ritter. ‘You can’t just leave your garrison to check in on someone.’

‘Not just someone.’ Duul’s smile returned. ‘She’s going to like you. Anyway, she always said I’d wind up in prison.’

Of course, thought Ritter. A woman. Wizards might be cleverer in some ways, but when it came to women they were still as foolish as other men.

They stepped aside to let a trio of mourners and a corpse-bearing cart pass on the way to the front gates. Ritter wondered what rituals the people of Rainhollow used to propitiate Nagash. She glimpsed Duul sketching a sigil over his heart. Whether it had mystic or religious significance, she had no idea.

Ritter shook her head to clear out the cobwebs. She ought to knock Eldredge Duul over the head, tie his hands, gag him, throw him over Horseface’s back and get back to Glymmsforge and her bounty payment.

Horseface nickered as they turned onto the street of yellow doors.

‘There it is,’ Duul said. His pace accelerated as they approached a corner house, but he paused when he saw the skull chalked on the door. His grin perished.

Ritter felt an unwelcome pang of sympathy. ‘Perhaps she moved to another house.’

Duul’s expression darkened as he scanned the flowers in the window boxes. ‘No, they’re still here. Zora would never leave her lilies behind.’

They went to the door, which opened before they could knock. There stood a man thin with grief. His eyes welled as he took in the sight of Eldredge, his fists closing and opening. Ritter braced herself to break up a fight, but the man lunged before she could act. He hugged Duul tight.

‘I’m sorry, Gerren,’ said Duul. ‘I came as soon as I heard the Nighthaunt remnants were starting to maraud.’

‘No one is swifter than death,’ said Gerren.

Ritter waited with uncomfortable patience.

‘This is my friend Janneke,’ said Duul. ‘She helped me finish off the last of the gheists.’

We’re not friends, Ritter reminded herself, but she managed not to utter the thought.

Gerren led them inside the simple home. He gave them thistle tea and slightly stale oat cakes. Duul set aside some of his cakes, and Ritter realised he was saving them for Horseface. She set aside all of hers, thinking, we’ll see who that horse comes to next time.

‘I taught her this recipe shortly after we were married,’ Duul said, nibbling on a cake.

‘What?’ said Ritter.

‘Zora had a taste for scoundrels back then,’ said Gerren.

‘She came to her senses eventually,’ said Duul. ‘She threw me out long before marrying Gerren.’

‘She’d had her eye on me since we were kids,’ said Gerren. ‘She knew she’d made the wrong choice the first time you went off to war. You never should have learned magic, Eldredge.’

‘Lucky for you I did,’ said Duul. ‘Bad luck for me.’

Despite the situation they were describing, the men didn’t seem anything less than friendly to each other. Ritter shrugged, deciding it was none of her business, even if it would have made good gossip in most places she’d visited. Here, it just seemed like a fact of life.

Gerren had made a shrine of Zora’s favourite belongings. Together, he and Duul picked them up one by one, sharing their memories of the woman they’d each loved in their time.

Gerren unsheathed a long, double-bladed dagger. ‘She once pulled this on a greedy merchant in the market. He learned to barter fairly after that, let me tell you.’

‘She once broke this plate over my head,’ Duul said, holding up the dish. ‘If you look close, you can see where the glaze is lighter where the spell rejoined the shards.’

‘She never broke things around me,’ said Gerren. ‘She knew I couldn’t snap my fingers and repair the damage. You’re right. I’m glad I never learned magic.’

‘And you never provoked the damage.’

They laughed a little.

‘How did it start?’ said Duul, his lower tone indicating a change in subject. No one needed him to say what he was talking about.

‘There was only one at first,’ said Gerren. ‘An outsider came to the gate. No one realised what it was. It asked to be let in long after dark. Of course, no one opened the gates, but it kept asking. We thought the spells would keep it out. Maybe it had to ask permission a hundred times to wear down the magic. Maybe if we had a mage here… Sorry. I didn’t mean you.’

‘I know,’ said Eldredge, but his voice cracked.

‘Eventually it tore down the gate. We tried to fight, of course. You’ve seen how little use that was. There was something different about this Nighthaunt. Those it slew rose as all sorts of gheists the next night.’

‘And Zora fought it?’

‘Zora always fought,’ said Gerren as he looked away to the window. ‘It’s almost nightfall. The others that have risen came for their families first. That’s why we’ve been marking the doors.’

‘Where is this outsider now?’ said Duul.

‘It moved on. Maybe it was bored with us. Or maybe it thought it had done enough to ensure we’d all die. Thanks to you, the gheists are all destroyed. All except one.’

‘Maybe she won’t be like the others.’

‘No,’ said Gerren. ‘She’ll come for me. Now that you’re here, she’ll come for both of us.’

Ritter stood up. ‘Then let’s get out of here. There’s no time to lose.’

The men shook their heads.

‘We can’t leave her like one of them,’ said Gerren.

‘Think of the other souls she’ll claim if she’s a Nighthaunt,’ said Duul.

‘Think of the reward I won’t earn if you die here!’ said Ritter.

Gerren looked at Duul.

‘We can take you with us,’ said the mage.

‘We don’t even know whether she’ll come back,’ said Ritter. ‘You said it yourself, no one has seen the stranger since yesterday. Maybe it has to be present to transform Zora into a gheist.’

‘I don’t think that’s how it works,’ said Gerren. ‘The priests say–’

‘The priests don’t know anything,’ snapped Duul. He caught himself from continuing in that testy tone. ‘They only tell us what we hope is true.’

‘Eldredge, you know magic,’ said Gerren. ‘What do you think will happen?’

‘I think we owe it to Zora to be sure before we leave.’

For a few moments, each of them started to say something before thinking better of it. There was no point in arguing. Ritter tended her weapons, priming the flame reservoir and refreshing the spent cartridges in the Blaster. Duul applied salve and fresh bandages to Ritter’s wounds and his own. He knew what he was doing. Gerren cooked a meagre meal and spared some fresh oats for Horseface.

Duul inclined his head towards the door. Ritter followed him outside.

‘Look after Gerren, would you?’

Ritter scowled at him. ‘Don’t think you can slip away that easily.’

‘Never crossed my mind.’ For the first time, his smile seemed forced. Ritter suspected it wasn’t because he was lying but because of what he was planning to do. ‘If I can draw her attention, you can get a shot before she knows you’re there. You don’t even have to take your eyes off me. I’ll be right out here with your bodyguard.’

‘Horseface.’

Duul looked perplexed. ‘You call the horse Horseface?’

‘Never mind that,’ said Ritter. ‘I’ll be watching you.’

‘Good. If she appears much like the living Zora, I might hesitate. I trust you won’t.’

‘You know better than I that the Nighthaunt don’t look the same in death. You won’t be seeing her pretty face.’

‘You’re right,’ said Duul. ‘Beauty isn’t in the face, though. It’s in the action. The way she came to check on us earlier, I think Horseface here is beautiful. She deserves a better name.’

Ritter scoffed. ‘What do you plan to do out here all alone, anyway?’

‘I will cast a mighty spell,’ he said in a pompous voice that made Ritter think he was imitating someone he knew personally.

‘I bet you say that to all the girls.’ Ritter regretted the remark at once. It sounded too much like flirting, a talent she had never mastered.

‘I do say that to all the girls.’ Duul winked. ‘Right before I cast a mighty spell.’

Now that was flirting, and Ritter wanted none of it. She retreated before things became any more uncomfortable.

They stood vigil, two inside without candlelight, Eldredge on the street lit only by the glow of the stone lanterns. Veins of frost began to form on the windowpanes but almost instantly melted into rivulets of blood. Somewhere on the rooftops a cat wailed a long, sustained note that set Ritter’s teeth on edge. When a horrid screech of pain marked its unseen death, Ritter found the silence that followed far more dreadful. Soon she could hear the distant splash of water from the reservoir plaza. Eventually, even that formless noise coalesced into a rising moan – the voice of a woman in mourning.

But not a living woman. A gheist. A banshee.

‘Gerrrreeeeeen!’

‘Zora!’ Her widower clamped a hand over his mouth, too late to stifle the unbidden name.

‘I came back for you, Zora!’ Duul shouted on the street.

‘Ellldredge,’ the bodiless voice keened. ‘I can smell the magic on you, the magic you always took with you when you left me alone.’

Ritter scanned the street for any signs of an ethereal presence. Only shadows trembled as Eldredge paced back and forth. He called out again, trying to fix the banshee’s attention on himself.

‘No!’ gasped Gerren inside the house. He stared at the shrine of Zora’s belongings. Her dagger floated above the tabletop, its blade shining frost white.

‘Get back!’ Ritter said. She aimed at the dagger but held her fire, reasoning that harming the weapon wouldn’t stop the gheist. She had to wait for it to materialise.

Gerren took a step away from the shrine, inadvertently blocking Ritter’s line of fire.

‘Out of the way!’

A spot of blood appeared on the back of Gerren’s tunic, then another and another as a rapid succession of thrusts cut through his slim torso. As the dagger withdrew for the final time, his body slumped to the floor. The spectre of Zora hovered before him.

Draped in a shroud that faded from incarnadine at the crown to lily white at the hems, the banshee held the dripping dagger at arm’s length as if it were a rat pulled from the porridge. Where a face should have appeared under the cowl, only a jutting metal jaw stood in place of bone. The Nighthaunt’s only ornament was an hourglass hanging from a leather jerkin. The sand inside had stopped spilling.

Ritter fired. Her blast destroyed Zora’s shrine, but the ethereal foe escaped. The banshee flew through the closed door. Her passage left a rime of frost on the yellow paint.

Ritter started to follow but thought better of it. The Nighthaunt were cunning. Ritter dived through the open window instead, rolling on her shoulder to come up ready to fire, but she did not see the banshee waiting at the door. What she saw frightened her more.

Eldredge Duul stood two doors down the street, feet spread wide as his arms swayed in arcane patterns. Above him, an enormous purple sun materialised, its dark light casting weird shadows along the lane of yellow doors. Upon the face of the sun shrieked an enormous skull, its wail far louder than that of the banshee cowering before it.

With a graceful gesture, Duul asserted control of the great sun and propelled it towards Zora.

The banshee dropped her dagger and reached up with both arms as if to embrace her doom. Instead, her wail caused ripples to flow through the amethyst spell. The sun shivered and contracted, pouring itself between Zora’s open arms and in through her widening mouth. Where it went, Ritter could not tell.

‘You feed me, Eldredge,’ she laughed. Bulging veins appeared in her shroud, as if it were flesh. She had paid a price for consuming Duul’s mighty spell. ‘Show me more of this magic that you loved more than your own wife! Let me feast upon it as I will soon feast upon–’

The gheist turned suddenly and flew wailing towards Ritter.

‘Zora!’ Duul flicked his hands towards the gheist. Witch-light flew from his fingers like beads of water from wet hands. Zora’s cowl turned towards him just as one of his arcane bolts struck her full on.

She hissed and spat, angry enough to forget her previous target. The banshee flew towards Duul as his second bolt passed through her intangible body.

‘Duul, protect yourself!’ cried Ritter.

Zora’s dagger thrust deep into his chest. Duul twisted, enough, Ritter hoped, to make the blade miss his heart, but a stab to the lungs could also be fatal.

Ritter felt a heavy weight on her shoulder. Horseface nudged her, whether for the animal’s comfort or to suggest running away, she could not tell. Slinging the Blaster, Ritter pulled herself up by Horseface’s mane.

Without so much as a kick to prompt her, the horse ran towards Duul. One hand pressed against his wound, the mage staggered back from the banshee. Gripping the mane in her fist, Ritter reached down to scoop him up. Thankfully, he was as light as he looked.

‘To the reservoir,’ he gasped. A red bubble burst, colouring his lips.

‘Run wherever you wish!’ screeched Zora. ‘I shall catch you. When I do, I shall take my time. Oh, how I shall linger. How I shall savour…’

The banshee flew after them, soon shortening the gap between them as Horseface slowed for turns.

‘Other side of… water,’ wheezed Duul. By lantern light, Ritter saw the basin had been replenished in the hours since Duul had drained it. She started to suspect what he had in mind.

She set him down gently and joined him on the street, debating which weapon to use. She’d had limited success with the Blaster, but she hesitated to let the banshee get close enough to use the Cutter – assuming she could time her strikes to hit the gheist in a moment of solidity.

Horseface shied, torn between fight and flight. For unknowable reasons, she decided to stand fast.

With a few halting gestures, Duul conjured orbs of light against the corner houses just in time to illuminate Zora’s arrival.

‘There you are, my wayward husband,’ she crooned. She glided forward but hesitated at the water’s edge. ‘Ah, ah, ah!’ The banshee glided around the perimeter of the reservoir rather than over the open water.

‘It was worth a try,’ said Duul. ‘She remembers my favourite spell.’

‘Lightning,’ said Ritter. ‘You wanted her over water.’

‘We’ll just have to do this without the extra oomph.’

‘Not necessarily,’ said Ritter. She pulled the Catcher from its holster and ensured it was set to the proper cylinder. Then she plunged the apparatus into the water, giving it a good dousing.

‘What are you doing?’

‘This is going to be tricky,’ said Ritter. She took the reins and led Horseface away from Duul. ‘You’ll need to let her hit you first.’

‘I don’t think I can take another–’

‘On your magic shield, idiot!’

Duul opened his mouth and shut it again.

‘Then quick with the thunderbolt. You’ll know when.’

‘Got it.’

The banshee crept closer, baulked, and moved towards Ritter instead of Duul.

That complicates matters, thought Ritter. Beside her, Horseface snorted and stamped. By all rights the beast should have fled screaming, but something defiant had got into her.

Maybe she too had noticed how often the banshee feinted.

Zora snarled at Ritter, her cowl pinched as if in a wicked smile, and instead flew towards Duul. The mage conjured his magical shield and crouched behind it. Ritter knelt for a better angle to allow for the heavier load in the Catcher. When she squeezed the trigger, the sodden net shot forward with a plopping sound. It rose in a short arc and fell heavily across Zora in the instant her chill dagger struck Duul’s shield.

The mage rolled back as the net covered the gheist, and his arcane barrier dissipated. Immediately, he shouted the eldritch syllables of storm. Lightning flared in his eyes and leaped from his fingertips. The coruscating energy suffused the drenched net. Steam exploded in all directions, its hiss drowning out the doleful sound of the banshee’s last wail. At last, all the semi-tangible remains had vanished, leaving only Zora’s favourite dagger.

Duul crawled over to the blade but stopped short of touching it. He knelt there on the cobblestones, palms over the hot blade as if gathering the last of its warmth into himself.

Ritter walked up behind him. She stopped herself from putting a hand on his shoulder but remained beside him a long while, listening to his muttered farewells to the woman he’d loved and the friend who’d loved her after.

Four days later, Duul was well enough to walk with a limp.

Since burying Gerren, they had taken shelter in the home he’d shared with Zora. Duul tried to conceal his misery, but Ritter observed the way he moved about the house, sitting near a particular window for a time or studying a simple painting over the hearth as if reminding himself of happier times and trying to fix them in memory.

He removed a stone from the hearth and revealed three leather purses. He opened one to reveal a small quantity of realmstone. ‘A little more than I remembered,’ he said. ‘You should be able to exchange it for enough supplies for a comfortable return to Glymmsforge.’

‘About that,’ said Ritter. ‘I was thinking first we should find this outsider who caused all this trouble. Think of how much horror the thing visited on Rainhollow in a single night. If it gets far ahead of us, we might find an entire procession of Nighthaunt.’

‘I thought you were in a hurry to collect the bounty on my capture?’

‘Who knows how many souls this outsider will claim before you get out of prison?’

‘Oh, I never stay long in prison.’ He winked, crinkling the half-star scar above his eye.

‘Even so, I’d feel better if we went after him first. Horseface agrees.’

‘And then back for the bounty?’ Duul’s smile softened, and Ritter knew she wasn’t fooling him. Something was changing between them, and each was content to leave it unspoken. ‘The city elders have found someone to bless their gate, and I think they’ll be glad to see the back of us. There’s word a stranger was seen on the road to Bitterstone.’

Ritter remembered what she could of the local maps. ‘If we take turns riding, we could be there in two days.’

Duul nodded, gesturing for Ritter to mount up. She stopped herself from insisting he ride first. Whoever walked the first stretch would enjoy the relief of a ride later. She hooked a foot into the stirrup and swung herself into the saddle. Duul led the way, pausing only to trade a pinch of realmstone for a sack of fresh fruit and salted meat at the town’s tiny market. Horseface followed him out of the repaired gates of Rainhollow, occasionally nudging his shoulder. ‘You know,’ said Duul, ‘I’ve an old friend in Bitterstone who might like to relocate to Glymmsforge.’ He tossed Ritter an apple with deep purple skin and mimed taking a bite out of another. When Horseface whinnied in protest, he grinned and surrendered the treat to the animal.

Ritter suspected the wizard was teasing her as well as the horse, and a suspicion arose in her imagination. ‘Don’t tell me you have another former wife.’

‘All right,’ said Duul. He plucked a third apple from the bag and polished it on his sleeve.

‘All right what?’

His only answer was the crunch of his apple.

VOVA’S CLIMB

Noah Van Nguyen

Inferno! newblood Noah Van Nguyen smashes his way into the Black Library with this visceral yet thought-provoking tale of law and punishment in the 41st millennium.

Regulator Vovamir of the Adeptus Arbites has a clear duty to bring Noth’s corrupt planetary governor to justice. But in his way are a towering proto-hive, hordes of gangers and an Inquisitor who has proclaimed himself a saint. As his task becomes increasingly Herculean, Vova must also contend with the abstractions of his own particular code of Imperial justice.

Sentence the principal. Sentence the accessories. Report.

The mantra helped Vova focus despite his searing pain. Criminals – Noth’s planetary enforcers – had buried a slug in him in Foundation. After Vova sentenced them, he plugged his kidney with combat foam, dragged his fallen arbitrators beside the enforcers’ corpses, and began the long climb back.

The enforcers had been acting on the orders of Governor Laiana, who conspired to betray Noth. Vova had twelve hours to put the arch-traitoress down before her ally, Lord Truan – the self-proclaimed Saint Truan – saved her.

Nobody was above the law. Nobody above suspicion.

The iron ratchet of stubbers seized Vova’s attention. A firefight, between patrolling Nothi militia and Middlen District’s local gangers. Tracers spilt from a barricade manned by soldiers in unkempt fatigues, their heavy stubber hungry for more ammo. Down the alley, muzzle flashes and strident laughter answered each burst.

Noth’s street gangs were supposedly on their last legs after a prolonged repression, but these still had fight in them. A metal taste curled Vova’s tongue, more than just leachate misting above. Today he needed that fight.

Vova analysed the cramped alley and the gunshot percussion. Middlen had never seen a right angle in its life, but its tortuous streets possessed agitating regularity, uncoiling throughout the district along recognisably perfect ratios. Shootouts would quickly devolve into standoffs.

Vova had to see who he was dealing with. He groped through empty magazine pouches and grenade hooks on his belt until he reached a vox-hailer salvaged from Kirillian’s lockshield. He connected the vox-hailer to his battery, vox-bead clicking in his ear.

‘Citizens.’ Vova’s stentorian voice blasted through the dark alley. ‘This is Regulator Vovamir of the Adeptus Arbites. Cease your disturbance. Report for sentence.’

The hornet buzz of incoming fire ceased, and Vova frowned. Only small-timers ran from the Arbites. He needed bona fide cut-throats. He needed the kind of twisted-steel offenders whose rap sheets would make a penal legionnaire blush. Vova couldn’t deputise the militia; their orders ultimately trickled down from Laiana.

Then again, small-timers didn’t fight militia, and no way had these gangers survived Noth’s repression by hiding. Lord Truan would have made that impossible.

Vova needed to draw the gangers out. He had to offer them an opening.

He scrapped his vox-hailer and gathered his Vox Legi-pattern shotgun. He advanced, sluggish but relentless, leaning with his weapon’s weight. ‘Militia! Report!’

The soldiers craned their heads. Toxic effluvium stained Vova’s boots as he stamped through an abandoned decon checkpoint from before authorities fathomed the district’s sanitary despair. He stopped and scanned the squad from behind the black mirror of his visor. Muted bawling usurped the lingering quiet, echoing through the hab-slums. More militia dawdled from the brickwork ghettoes into the alley stablights, wads of crumpled cash filling their breeches.

The animals were pillaging Middlen. Not a serious offence, but that didn’t blunt Vova’s chagrin. Either suspects or perpetrators, Stavril always said. All of them. The old-timer’s slogan rang true.

A soldier in a weathered flak jacket and rugged fatigues holstered her laspistol and approached. ‘Corporal Matova, Second Security Corps. Good to see you kickin’. Been lookin’ for you.’

Vova was unsurprised. ‘Regulator Vovamir, Arbites Circuit Judiciary. Who sent you?’

The corporal’s helmet clattered down, and she smoothed her uneven hair. ‘Command. They heard about the attack in Foundation. Our orders are to escort you to Saint Truan’s Scions for debrief.’

Vova resisted the urge to laugh. As a man of ill humour in a bad situation, it wasn’t hard. Laiana must have heard the ambush went south, then sent her minions to clean up. Meeting Truan’s Inquisitorial Scions was out of the question; they would only try to stop Vova.

The coward in Vova craved to explain his conundrum to the soldiers, but he was already treading a fine line. His Arbites badge might turn them to his cause, but they weren’t simply looters. They were accessories to Laiana’s treason.

Vova was no confessor. It wasn’t his job to understand the criminal, nor forgive him. Vova’s duty was to punish infractions of Imperial law. He couldn’t compromise that.

Time for Vova to fly his colours, hope Middlen’s gangers responded. ‘You’re out of your jurisdiction, corporal.’

The corporal followed Vova’s gaze to the creased Thrones in her cargo pockets. Her eyes flickered. ‘Just keepin’ the filth in order. It’s tasked from higher.’

Vova cocked his head. ‘And you think that means you’re innocent?’

The corporal’s bemusement caved into disbelief. Her fingers floated to her holster. ‘This don’t violate Imperial law.’

‘Banditry? No. But I have a traitor to judge, and you’re accessories to her crime.’

The corporal’s eyes widened. Her stupefied gunners gaped from the barricade.

Vova’s lips hardened. ‘Knowing how you’re about to resist, you might as well be accomplices.’

The corporal fumbled for her holster. Vova seized her wrist and ignited his shock maul. Energy crackled along the head, stinging the air with the reek of burnt hair from his last judgement.

‘“All subjects deserve fair trial before verdict.”’ Vova recited the court statute from memory. ‘I charge you as accessories to treason. I find you guilty. The sentence is death.’

The baffled corporal jerked back, pulling Vova closer. ‘Treason?’

Warmth bubbled within Vova. A purer pleasure than all the warp-damned fantasies of mankind, and a fire hotter than the worst hell of a guilty man’s conscience. There was nothing more gratifying than executing the Emperor’s justice, and nothing better than doing it by the books.

Vova smashed the maul into the corporal’s skull. Her brains sprayed from the rupture, baptising him, and she collapsed.

He wasn’t nearly as fast as he thought. The remaining militia raised their autoguns and rattled out a staccato chorus of gunfire. Caseless ammunition punched into Vova’s carapace, more painful than Abbess Herman’s beatings in the schola progenium. The impacts bowled him down, coat-tails sailing behind him.

Middlen’s gangers didn’t let Vova down. More gunfire exploded around them. Sinewy brutes in furnace plate and brawny sludgemen from Foundation’s sump-lakes mounted the barricade. The scummers had approached during the lull in the firefight, then assaulted once Vova provided an opening.

Vova’s gut wound screamed as he rose. The gunfire had struck his Vox Legi, probably saving his life, but the shotgun was scrapped. Vova cut the sling, then tore Matova’s laspistol from her holster. He raised it and cranked the trigger. Instantaneous beams seared from the muzzle, dashing across the barricade, leaving new craters sizzling in soldiers’ flak jackets.

Some went to ground at the hiss of las-fire, but most were swamped in the melee. Scummers wrestled the soldiers’ weapons away, then stomped them into the rockcrete, shivving those who resisted with sharpened plasteel shards. Unidentifiable body fluids puddled into the alley run-off, and a cordite burn prickled the air. The street smelt better than it had.

The combat didn’t take long. Victorious gangers surrounded their fallen prey. Soon they would catch the scent of the intruder in their lair. If Vova didn’t move quickly, he would meet the same fate as the militia.

He marched forward and fired, coat-tails whipping behind him. The scummers recoiled, but when Vova lowered his pistol, scorched flowers blackened the street beneath the last soldiers’ faceless skulls.

Vova marked the blinking time in his visor. ‘Sentence conducted. Appropriate.’

The gangers inched closer. Their pupils were wide from stimm use, and their faces glimmered with photoreactive tattoos. The obvious barbarity of career offenders sullied them. If they weren’t Imperial crimes, Vova couldn’t care less.

A scrawny woman with close-trimmed hair jostled forward. Her face shone with Middlen’s chemical sweat, but her spruce furnace plate and tidy fatigues suggested a warrior’s discipline.

She gave Vova an expectant glare. ‘Might as well shoot us, too. Before we gut you.’

The circle closed, but Vova’s gambit had worked. He had their attention.

He thumbed charred scalp from the crevices of his shock maul and slotted it to his maglock. ‘You aided in the sentence of these perpetrators. Now I need your help apprehending the principal. What’s your name?’

She ignored Vova’s question. ‘Stop talking like you gotta riot team behind you. What’s stopping us from carving you up and leaving you for the scavvies?’

Vova could almost taste her contempt for holy law and her gangers’ thirst for violence. They were perfect. ‘I’m here to sentence Governor Laiana to death.’

Disbelief rippled across the crew. Brutal intrigue glinted in the woman’s eyes. ‘Name’s Harkeen. Talk, judge. Talk quick.’

Vova hesitated. Legal precedent justified deputising militia and civilians – but gangers? Vova didn’t know where this act fell, and that screamed he shouldn’t do it. In the divine body of the Emperor’s Law, the end never justified the means. Arbitrators who believed so were abstractionists, worse than heretics, and Vova was no inquisitor. Lord Truan could try to engineer extra-judicial cause for protecting Noth’s governor, but Vova’s jurisdiction was shackled by the letter of the law.

If Vova’s conduct today was not immaculate, someone would soon be sentencing him.

But he had to take the chance. He’d mulled it over for hours, and this was the only way to close the case. Besides, few regulators had committed as many statutes to memory as Vova. If any arbitrator could trust their judgement, it was him.

‘You know what I can do,’ Vova said. ‘Laiana’s guilty of treason. Assist me, Harkeen. See the Emperor’s justice dispensed.’

Somebody behind Harkeen racked a looted autogun. She tightened her kit, shot Vova a dark look. ‘What’s in it for us?’

Vova pointed up. Middlen’s false night shimmered with leachate mist and reflected light pollution. The district was a step above Foundation, but certainly no paradise. ‘Don’t pretend you like it down here. Laiana’s crackdown has you hiding in the dregs, living on crumbs. I’ll end it.’

Harkeen cackled. ‘Business as usual, you mean. No more militia raids. No more enforcers, no bogus charges.’

Vova nodded. ‘Provided there’re no violations of the Lex Imperialis.’

Harkeen raised her eye. ‘Let’s not pretend anyone gets away with those.’

Vova liked Harkeen.

Moreover, he knew she’d agree before she did. Laiana’s rule had been a holocaust for Noth’s underhives. If Vova failed to sentence her, Secundus’ hive gangers were fuel for the crematoriums. The fact they hadn’t already terminated him spoke volumes.

‘Count us in,’ Harkeen said. ‘I’ll recruit muscle in Vaults and Runway. Stovepipes is hell, though. No saying what they’ll do.’

If Truan’s Scions were on the prowl, Vova would need more than just muscle. ‘Get the word out,’ he said. ‘If you have enemies, make amends. I need everyone you can get.’

Harkeen narrowed her eyes. ‘What’s your plan?’

Vova retrieved a fallen autogun and thrust it into a waiting ganger’s arms. The less they knew, the better. ‘We’re going to climb, Harkeen. To the top. We’re going to sentence a traitor to death.’

The deputies promptly salvaged the militia’s weapons, then chuckled when Vova made them stack the dead soldiers into a neat row. All things, Stavril said, must be better after we find them.

Law would return to Noth Secundus.

Runway’s porter guilds piled Vova’s team into a rusty cargo lift, rattled the grate shut, and sent the elevator groaning up Secundus’ megastructure. Arbites codes provided uphive access, reducing a weeks-long journey into an hours-long tramp. Meanwhile, Harkeen spread the word using every channel possible. A blackplate’s coming for Governor Laiana – and he needs our help.

On most worlds, the Arbites’ appearance sent criminals scrambling for the shadows or their sluggers, but Vova promised deliverance. Laiana had built a menacing reputation torching Noth’s criminal underworld, even enlisting an inquisitor’s assistance. Lord Truan’s terrifying competencies had helped sanitise the Primus underhive a decade ago.

Secundus was next. The proto-hive was a half-realised dream of monumental scale, hardly a century old, designed to be built in stages from the ground up. According to court precedent, which Vova had yet to memorise, that was probably heresy, but after everything he had learned about Laiana’s conspiracy, heresy almost seemed like a minor charge.

The team humped along a sooty avenue crowded with motorised carts, stacked furnaces and throngs of foundrymen. Hunchbacked porters stared beside ore conveyers, and smut-cheeked smelters in filthy aprons shot even dirtier looks. Stovepipes was a clanking, pounding oven, working overtime to supply material for the Primus manufactoria. The foundry teams moonlighted as gangers, squeezing turf wars into scheduled break cycles before returning to impossible production quotas.

No one looked ready for that now. ‘Stovepipes has been pacified,’ Vova said.

Harkeen wagged her chin side to side. ‘Stovepipes is ready to blow, judge. The forges’ve felt Laiana’s boot. Got their stubbers set on her. You’re their chance to pull the trigger.’

Vova glanced around. ‘So where are they?’

‘Gathering. You saw the militia in Middlen. Crews play it safe, or they’re dead. Stovepipes won’t let us down. Or they’ll kill us.’ Harkeen winked. ‘No telling which.’

Vova took that in his stride. Without more bodies they were dead anyway. ‘Two dozen scummers makes no difference. I need two hundred.’

‘I’d rally two thousand, but it’d take a week. You gave us hours.’

Vova raised his brow. ‘Two thousand seems generous.’

‘People know me,’ Harkeen said. ‘I was a captain. Twenty-First Uret Tigers, before my commissar said protecting our troops was cowardice. I’ve been training the underhive crews to fend off the militia.’

‘Charitable of you.’

‘It wasn’t charity. I’d prefer to let ’em die, but times are tough. We work together.’

Vova was more interested in Harkeen’s service record. Commissars graduated from the schola progenium, like him. Their judgements were trustworthy. ‘Were you charged?’

Harkeen winced, then peeled her sleeve back. A ligature was branded onto her pale, sweaty flesh: ‘CC’.

Censura cowardis. A death sentence. A minor miracle Harkeen had survived her commissar’s sentence, but this explained why a former Astra Militarum captain was slumming around Noth’s gutters at the head of hive scum.

‘I refused to send my company into a grinder,’ Harkeen said. ‘Warp-fragged commissar didn’t understand.’

Vova shook his head. ‘You’re no coward. I saw you fight.’

Harkeen shrugged. ‘Everyone breaks the law before the end, judge.’

Vova wrinkled his nose, but he couldn’t fault her for the truth. His own decisions today chipped at his judicial credibility. Harkeen now joined a growing body of evidence against the arbitrator. If deputising hive scum was dubious, then sparing a branded coward was criminal. Vova hadn’t afforded the same mercy to the militia, and they hadn’t even known what they’d done wrong.

This was not the day’s first controversy. Vova needed Harkeen to close his case. He would do what he must, then hope no enquiries followed.

Massive conduits rose from Stovepipes’ foundry floor into the choking fumes above, girding the superstructure. The precise arrangement of the district’s namesake conduits called to mind the harmony of a solved equation. Normally Vova might value that decorous sense of order, but an alien perfection defiled Stovepipes. The dizzying coils of Middlen’s streets had disturbed him the same way.

True hives required the hard hand of the law to be set right, but this was more than just Laiana’s repression. Noth Secundus had imported its order from elsewhere.

After the emergence of the Cicatrix Maledictum, the Arbites Circuit Judiciary was organised to re-establish Imperial law along the Eastern Fringe. Noth became an early destination following reports of impending treachery. Servitors within Secundus’ palace croaked communiques from t’au probes on low-band vox. Sleek xenotech stamped in alien composites grew common uphive, symptomatic of a spiritual cancer. Rumours abounded that xenos propagandisers had infiltrated the superstructure to preach their obscene creed, the Greater Good.

All evidence regarding Noth’s investigation smouldered in Vova’s perfect memory. Without his report, the Circuit wouldn’t have time to conduct a second investigation before moving on. But if Vova reported without sentencing Laiana, Lord Truan would spirit her to safety before the Circuit could intervene.

Truan. The radical’s hypocrisy tore Vova’s insides up worse than that enforcer’s slug in Foundation. Truan might have served the Holy Ordo Malleus, but he’d also obstructed the investigation into Laiana’s treachery. The plaster saint had seconded Circuit arbitrators to pacify Secundus’ crime-ridden underhive, then refused to let them dispense justice in the Palace.

Confronted time and again, Truan always hid behind the authority of his Inquisitorial rosette. Fed up, Vova moved against his orders. The Foundation ambush was soon after.

Gunfire snapped through Stovepipes’ industrial clamour. Foundrymen cursed and scuffled off, shedding forge aprons and furnace gloves like evidence. Storm troopers liveried in crimson and onyx tramped out from behind the nearest conduit. Stylised sigils – a bronze ‘I’ inset with an ivory skull – adorned the breast of every trooper. The emblem of the Holy Ordos, unmistakable to any who feared death.

The next salvo shredded gangers and foundrymen indiscriminately. Vova’s deputies scrambled for cover as more Inquisitorial Scions emerged from behind smelters, shielded from Stovepipes’ heat by their bodysuits, weapons chanting. A third team established a base of fire from an overhead gantry, suppressing Vova’s team.

Gangers returned scattered fire, and Vova cursed at the sight of the Scions’ weapons. Angular carbines with unnatural symmetries had replaced their standard-issue hellguns. Pipe-like plasma rifles glowed with energy too pristine to be Imperial. Vova parsed the weaponry’s t’au origins from memorised Circuit briefings. The possession of xenotech was prohibited without Mechanicus research authorisation.

Lord Truan had desired a sharper knife, and Laiana’s treason had opened a closed door. Vova suspected as much, but the affirmation still caught him wrong-footed. They had gone too far.

The Scions clearly outgunned Vova’s team. Harkeen thumped out a few well-placed stub gun shots and glowered, ready to carve Vova from sump to sternum. ‘Can’t help but notice Scions shooting at us, judge! You set us up?’

Vova growled, drawing his pistol. ‘They came for me.’ If the storm troopers outflanked them, they had twenty seconds before they were dead. Vova wasn’t sure how to slow them down, but killing their leader couldn’t hurt. His team could slip away in the confusion.

The Scions reduced their rate of fire and darted through cover, manoeuvring. Vova glimpsed a familiar figure disappear behind a smelter. Sergeant Falk, his face brutal with old scars, an Inquisitorial seal tattooed on his forehead.

‘Regulator!’ Falk shouted, his Scions trickling closer. ‘Don’t make things worse. We’re bringing you in!’

Vova doubted he could turn Falk, but he needed to keep the sergeant talking. ‘The law’s been broken, Falk! Laiana sold Noth out. She killed my team for investigating.’ Vova slipped cover to cover, searching for Falk’s position.

‘Evidence?’ Falk said.

‘Your weapon, for one.’ Vova squeezed off a las-bolt before stray fire sent him sprawling. ‘That’s xenotech.’

‘Xenotech? You don’t say?’ Not the reaction Vova hoped for. Falk already knew. ‘You made a mistake continuing your investigation, regulator. Laiana’s under the protection of the Holy Ordos. Beyond your reach.’

Nearby, foundry workers gathered behind furnaces, hungrily watching the gunfight. Vova bristled at their inaction. ‘No. She’s not.’

‘Look at you, regulator. You joined the filth you were meant to purge! I can’t decide if I should bury you, or wipe you from my boot!’

Vova placed Falk behind the closest ventilator main. He readied his weapon, but a fist of energy punched into his cover, showering him with hot steel.

He was pinned. Dying this close to the end felt criminal. Noth’s treasoners would escape justice, and the world would submit to the t’au. Xenos law would desecrate the Emperor’s anointed soil.

A gantry Scion shouted down to Falk. ‘Sergeant! Contacts on multi-scan!’

Vova’s ears perked up beneath his helmet.

‘Where?’ Falk said.

‘Everywhere.’

Vova glanced at Harkeen. She met his gaze, grinning. Her gangers drew crude blades and braced their salvaged autoguns.

Burly foundrymen surged onto the floor from behind bulky crucibles and slag conveyers. Chainweapons screamed to life, and sluggers clacked like cymbals. More underhivers flooded forward, swinging chains and spud jackers, slurring disparate gang mottos. Secundus had answered Harkeen’s call.

Vova rushed forward. He barged past Falk’s cover as the sergeant reached for his vox-torc. Vova pushed his laspistol into Falk’s gut, then fired. Falk’s eyes bulged, and he stumbled back.

‘Wipe this from your boot.’ Vova shoved his laspistol into the entry wound and harpooned the sergeant with a second shot. Falk thudded down, groaning and staring at his aerated innards.

The tumult of gunfire and stimm-crazed battle cries eclipsed Stovepipes’ chugging conveyers. Scatterguns pelted rusty grates, shredding the precarious metalworks. The disciplined Scions answered with volleyed pulse-fire. They were hot-forged daggers, trained to protect the Imperium through the power of faith and the force of arms – but the hive gangers were the furnace itself. One brute sawed a Scion in half with a looted heavy stubber, firing from the hip like it was normal. Others clubbed Scions with spud jackers and wrought-iron staves, moaning as downmarket stimms sluiced through their bloodstreams. Harkeen took command of the chaos and screamed orders to the sallying hive scum. For every dead ganger, ten coursed forward, but Vova had no idea if they’d be enough. Xenotech-armed Inquisitorial Scions were not planetary militia.

Vova aimed at the nearest gantry and pumped the trigger. The Scions’ overwatch dived for cover, and Vova scrambled up. Another Scion trained his weapon, but Vova fired first, scalloping the trooper’s head open.

A third Scion levelled his rail rifle, its barrel humming with compressed hypermagnets. The weapon was unwieldy, and Vova was close. He dodged as it fired. The ghost of the rifle’s supersonic round steamed beside Vova, and he glanced down. The shot had sheared half of his hand away.

He burnt the pain for fuel and blasted the Scion’s neck open. Without thinking, Vova retrieved the fallen rail rifle and danced his mangled paw along the receiver. By the time he finally ejected the spent capacitor and reloaded another cartridge, he caught up to himself.

This was Schedule One Xenotech. Even holding it was a crime.

Vova scanned the foundry floor. The Astra Militarum couldn’t muster as fast as these cut-throats had flooded Stovepipes. Harkeen’s greedy savages had already begun scavenging the dead. Scions retreated through the forges, desperate to regain the initiative, but gangers outflanked them at every turn, instinctively familiar with the foundry labyrinth.

Falk stumbled across the killing floor, still alive. If he hadn’t been obstructing justice, Vova might have been impressed. The sergeant dawdled between piled corpses and overturned carts, hand covering the hole Vova had drilled through him. Falk raised his square pistol to the back of the loudest ganger on the floor. Harkeen was too busy pretending she was still a company commander to see him.

Thunder cracked, and Falk toppled. A vapour trail smoked between Vova’s rail rifle and the skewered blister that had been Falk’s head. When Vova lowered the rifle, his breathing was ragged. He’d fired to save Harkeen, but that didn’t absolve him.

The fighting drew to a close, and the shouts in Stovepipes faded. Secundus’ multifarious gangs receded to the foundry’s sooty avenue. Furnacemen hefted modded welding torches and home-made clawfists. Vaults and Runway thugs stood nearby, tribal scars perforating their scalps, metal fangs replacing their teeth.

A storm roiled within Vova. This horde had answered his summons – but judging from their dead, they still weren’t enough. Falk’s Scions had punched above their weight, and there were more where they came from. If Truan would go this far to protect the governor, Vova was damned.

Worse, the shadow of abstraction tainted his case. Vova eyed the rail rifle in his hands, now a troubling burden.

‘Judge.’ Harkeen sauntered below the gantry. ‘I know what you can do – but I know what they can do, too. If the Saint’s onto us, we don’t stand a chance. We gotta hide.’

The surviving gangers gathered, coherent enough to listen. Vova’s words were a mandate. ‘No one hides from Lord Truan. He would find you. But if we deliver my judgement, the Arbites closes its case. We depart this world.’

‘You don’t get it.’ Harkeen mashed her face into her palms. ‘What good is all that if we end up in the Saint’s torture rooms?’

Vova pointed to the carcasses populating the foundry floor. Their pooling blood glistened with reflected forgelight. ‘You didn’t do all this because you had a choice. You have one shot at surviving today. Me. If we don’t finish, Laiana’s henchmen will come for you.’

The disparate hive scummers rumbled their agreement, but Vova knew Harkeen was right. Even if he sentenced the governor, no one would escape Truan’s retribution. Not with such little time. Not with so few.

Not if they did this by the books.

Vova leaned the blasphemous rail rifle against the gantry railing and rustled through a fallen Scion’s medkit, wrapping his hand. Somewhere behind them lay the line he shouldn’t have crossed. Statute and precedent didn’t cover this. Compromises had to be made. Stavril would judge him afterwards, but the Emperor’s Law must be upheld.

‘I’ll take care of Lord Truan,’ Vova said. ‘It’ll be difficult without backup, but when I’m done, you’re free to do as you please.’ Vova glimpsed Harkeen’s brand. Revulsion surged through him. ‘As long as it’s legal.’

Whatever Harkeen’s relationship had been with the others, she spoke for all of them now. ‘I’ve never seen anything like those weapons they used. Tell me you got a plan.’

Vova’s gaze returned to the rail rifle. The weapon’s pencil-thin barrel components were sturdier than they looked, but even to a man as fastidious about straight lines as Vova, the perfect geometries were an eyesore.

He tugged a saucer-shaped grenade from the dead Scion’s kit. ‘I do.’

The governor’s court was an empty cathedral. The wretched stink of torch oil mingled with a cordite zing, and Noth’s eternal surface storm splashed through the chamber’s shattered stained-glass windows. Closer to the smashed plasteel doors, dead Nothi enforcers cluttered the floor beside the motionless bodies of Harkeen’s gangers. The other crews had drawn away Truan’s and Laiana’s forces, harassing them across the proto-hive.

Vova pushed his laspistol into the layered circlets of Governor Laiana’s hair. ‘Final statement?’

A confession spilt from her parchment lips. ‘There is a Greater Good. Let Noth Secundus stand testament. They built this for us.’

Vova squeezed the trigger. Light glared off his visor as the cauterised goo of Laiana’s brain spattered his glove. She fell, robes gathering around a shape unnatural with the implants that had sustained it.

‘Appropriate.’ Vova maglocked his laspistol, then eyed the master vox-array within the governor’s throne. Only one suspect remained at large.

Vova’s helmet pickup amplified ponderous footsteps. Truan ascended the governor’s dais, then halted before a prodigious panel of stained glass. An enormous warsuit overwhelmed Truan’s narrow features, its plates embossed with votive reliefs dedicated to the Ordo Malleus. Noth’s surface lightning limned the negative space of his lurking hulk, and smoke wisped from a censer at his waist, drugging the air.

Truan surveyed the desolate court. ‘I couldn’t believe the vox traffic, yet here you stand. You have become enduring pests, arbitrator.’

Vova retreated down the dais, eyes fixed on Truan’s overlarge power hammer. ‘My team’s dead. Only I am left.’

Truan was unmoved. ‘I heard claims otherwise. A judge, marching at the head of a downhive army. They fared poorly, it seems.’

Vova spared a glance over his shoulder. ‘They’re gangers.’

‘You were resourceful, arbitrator. But tell me, what did you hope to accomplish?’

‘To judge perpetrators. To report.’

Truan grimaced at the pile of dyed chambray and tech-riddled corpseflesh which once ruled Noth. ‘Then your job is half-complete. A report’s unlikely since I’m going to kill you. Laiana’s relationship with the blueskins allowed me a close look at powerful secrets.’

‘Illegal secrets. The possession of xenotech is punishable by death.’ The truth soured on Vova’s lips, but he was prudent enough to omit his own guilt.

‘My mandate exists beyond the ambit of the law,’ Truan said. ‘I fight a greater foe.’ A terrifying shadow passed over Truan, and Vova feared what he would see. The man had spent two lifetimes hunting for the truth. Vova had painted his hands red that day.

‘If we break our own rules, we’re no better than savages,’ Vova said. ‘That’s chaos.’

Truan sneered. ‘What do you know of Chaos?’

His vitriol gave Vova pause and he inched further back.

Truan didn’t budge. His expression softened. ‘You knew you would die today. I admire that. I’ll pray for your misguided courage, arbitrator. Let the Emperor bear witness–’

‘Agreed. I hereby charge you with the illegal barter of xenotech and as an accessory to Governor Laiana’s treason. I find you guilty, Truan. The sentence is death.’

Compared to perpetrators Vova had judged before, Truan was unflappable. A death sentence was nothing compared to the past horrors he must have witnessed. ‘You jest.’

Vova shook his head. ‘We shared our legal opinion after the Circuit’s arrival. Laiana was a traitor. You ordered us to drop the investigation.’

The dais creaked beneath Truan’s mountainous warsuit. ‘That is within my power.’

Vova clenched his teeth. ‘No, Truan. We investigated Laiana. Followed black-market deals to Foundation and released small-timers for statements. The case is airtight. You set me up, but I sentenced everyone you put in my way. Now I’m here to close this case.’

Truan reached for his rosette – a wrought-iron skull skewered by a stake, resembling an ‘I’. ‘And here’s the best part.’

‘Here it is, Truan. You are no saint. You aren’t even an inquisitor. Your conclave defrocked you years ago for the very reason the Circuit came to dispense justice. Xenotech. A radical inquisitor made enemies of his puritan peers. Even Lord Coteaz refused to conjure a defence for his former pupil.’

Truan’s face stilled. ‘I’ve heard no word of this.’

‘The Rift smashed the sector’s communications.’

‘But I seconded you. I command you.’

Again, Vova shook his head. ‘I disobeyed your orders for a reason, Truan. We used your secondment to get closer. That’s all.’

Truan’s gaze grew bleak. ‘I am no traitor, judge.’

‘No. But you are impersonating an inquisitor. I have so many charges against you, I could make you into a servitor if I wanted. You’re lucky. I’m only going to kill you.’

Naked rage rankled the disgraced inquisitor’s features, but Vova was far from pleased. Unfamiliar compassion, rueful and tonic bitter, poisoned his usual delight. Truan’s only crime was his conviction.

Truan bellowed, his thruster mods and enhanced servos launching him forward. He landed with unnatural grace, sweeping his power hammer forward. A modified storm bolter erupted from Truan’s shoulder mount, then disappeared behind a curtain of fire.

Vova scrambled back and tripped over a prone ganger. Explosive ammunition pocked the hewn stone where he’d stood. He rolled, his ruined hand bronzing the puddled rainwater from outside – but he had succeeded. Truan was in the kill-zone. Now Vova just had to survive.

‘I pity you.’ Truan refreshed his grip on his power hammer. ‘I pity the conclave in Formosa. You lack imagination. Nothing is sacrosanct, arbitrator. I shield the Imperium from entities fouler than blueskin upstarts. I’ve fought the Archenemy my entire life. Gibbering monstrosities and horned devils. The governor was a traitor, yes. I would have dealt with her – but I need this xenotech. T’au innovation must serve the true war! You’re too rigid to see. Too unyielding. You’re brittle steel, broken before you’re bent, and you’re nothing like me.’

Servos within Truan’s shoulder-mount loaded fresh ammunition into the storm bolter. ‘Your investigation’s finished. I’ll rally my army. I’ll cleanse your judiciary, then call the Formosa Conclave to task. My duty demands everything, arbitrator. How could you ever understand?’

Vova rose, pain shooting through his midriff like a second bullet. ‘I understand completely.’

He wanted to say more – because it was true. He sympathised with Truan. Vova had walked in Truan’s footsteps, all the way up this infernal proto-hive, and it had broken him as much as Truan had broken the law.

The man simply wanted to do his job. He had been willing to get his hands dirty for it, but so had Vova. For the first time, Vova pitied an offender. Vova was a criminal, too.

Those words escaped him, and the moment slipped away. A ganger moaned, crawling and trailing blood, not nearly as dead as he should have been. The storm bolter’s fusillade had wounded the floored scummer.

Truan’s brow curled, then epiphany brightened his gaze.

A trap.

The railgun’s deafening report split the air. A vapour trail streaked between another lurking ganger and Truan, but a miraculous square of light materialised and deflected the shot.

More xenotech, Vova realised. Truan’s warsuit had energy shielding.

The rail rifle gunner cursed and cast her smoking weapon aside. Truan’s automated storm bolter returned a withering suppression, chopping the ganger into bloody gobbets.

Harkeen dragged herself up and charged a salvaged xenotech grenade. More scummers in furnace plate and banded synth-leather rose from the dead. They carried nailbats, improvised flamers and cheap sluggers. Truan had helped Laiana burn the underhive to the ground. Now it had come for revenge.

Harkeen lobbed her grenade beneath Truan. It clattered and throbbed with electromagnetic pulses, disarming the warsuit’s xenotech mods. The profane shield flared like a sun, then dematerialised. So much for close looks at powerful secrets, Vova thought.

Truan carried his armour’s tremendous weight, its limbs grinding with each movement. Blue ghosts crackled around his impaired power hammer. Harkeen’s ambush had been flawless, but her gangers were only human, and Truan was a cornered beast. Wherever his hammer landed, scummers crumpled.

As gangers swarmed the disgraced inquisitor, Vova lumbered to the discarded rail rifle. He cradled it in his bad arm, carefully replaced the heat sink, and took aim.

‘Nothing is sacrosanct!’ Truan roared, mouth frothing. ‘Brittle steel, arbitrator!’

Truan’s insult carried the sting of an unwelcome truth. Before the Noth investigation, Vova couldn’t break the rules if he tried.

Vova pressed the trigger, and a second trail of superheated air speared through Truan’s face. The hypervelocity shot smashed his jaw and pulled his eyes into his skull, unfurling his brains along its remaining trajectory. Apostate zeal splashed across the governor’s dais, and the warsuit toppled, cracking the stone.

Vova dropped his rail rifle. He doffed his helmet, tossing it aside before ambling towards the governor’s throne. He keyed his Arbites access into the throne’s gilded vox-receiver, and a woman’s voice emerged from the static.

‘Code match. Stavril. Report, regulator.’

Vova thumbed the receiver. ‘Investigation complete. Sentence conducted.’

‘Understood. Appropriate?’

Vova didn’t hesitate. ‘Appropriate. Initiate Protocol Aftermath.’

‘En route, Vovamir. Stand by.’

Vova dropped the receiver and flopped onto the throne. As the surviving deputies recovered, the vultures among them began scavenging. The others gravitated towards Vova and the dais.

Harkeen bustled forward. ‘We did it!’

Vova nodded. ‘Go, Harkeen. Help the foundrymen. Laiana’s militia will slaughter them without you.’

Better if they all died together. Vova liked Harkeen, but she was a liability. After today, an enquiry was inevitable. Vova could spin the employment of gangers and xenotech as oversights, but if Stavril discovered Vova knew about Harkeen’s brand and spared her anyway, he’d be sentenced as an abstractionist.

Vova couldn’t afford that. He had a job to do, and he planned to be doing it for a very long time.

‘Let ’em burn.’ Harkeen winked. ‘Business as usual, judge. As promised.’

Vova grimaced. ‘Business as usual, then.’ He pointed to Harkeen’s arm. ‘Your brand’s a death sentence.’

Disappointment pooled in Harkeen’s eyes, and defeat drowned the triumph in her smile. She’d been judged before and knew where he was going with this. She reached for her stub gun, but Vova drew first. Las-fire streaked through her brow, and she buckled.

Vova peered at the others, daring them. ‘You’re not yet suspected in the commission of crime against Imperial law.’

Uncertainty flitted in their stimm-drunk glares. The savage code of the underhive demanded they collect Vova’s scalp, but they were survivors. Without Vova there could be no protection from the Circuit arbitrators and tithed enforcers bound to fall upon Noth like locusts.

For if the t’au had designed Secundus, the proto-hive required purifying flame. Noth would pass into the hands of a proven Imperial servant after a stint of martial law. Everything depended on how long the Circuit’s purge lasted, and whether or not the Ordo Xenos got involved. One thing was certain: Laiana’s repression would look humane before the end.

Vova had spared the gangers for a reason. He pointed to the empty cathedral, now a butcher’s mansion, and their eyes followed. ‘Put the bodies into lines,’ Vova said.

This time nobody laughed.

BLOOD DROUGHT

Eric Fomley

Short story author and grimdark enthusiast Eric Fomley joins the roster of Inferno! and the Black Library with this bloody and Chaotic snapshot of life in the Realm of Fire.

A group of Bloodbound warriors led by Mylox the Skinner are faced with a drought of precious blood on the scorching desert of Callidium. Unable to make offerings to Khorne, the band is restless and close to infighting until a blessing comes in the form of a procession of Sigmarite pilgrims. The sands are soon soaked red, but the Blood God ever thirsts, and Mylox’s warband are not his only disciples in Callidium…

Tents clustered in the ancient outpost. Toppled statues of Sigmar jutted from dunes of ash and sand, lining the entrance to the remote desert haven. The wind howled, echoing like the forlorn moan of a damned soul through the gorge.

Mylox the Skinner looked down on the camp from a vantage in the rocks above. A smile split his face, exposing filed teeth behind cracked lips. Too long had it been since he’d offered skulls to Khorne. He needed to kill, now more than ever, if he was to stay in the Blood God’s favour.

Mylox’s axes would drench the parched sands of Callidium with crimson nectar.

He heard the clank of skulls on brass and spun to find Gheke striding towards him. She was tall and well muscled, and carried a shield and black sword, gifts from Khorne for the many enemies she’d slain. She looked down at the outpost with a wolfish gaze.

‘The others are restless. How many are there?’

‘Four score of flagellants and a handful of mounted spearmen led by a Sigmarite warrior priest. They are on a holy mission to cleanse these lands.’ He snickered.

One of Gheke’s eyebrows lifted. ‘A warrior priest is a worthy prize. Khorne will be pleased when I offer his skull.’ Her face lit up as if she were already imagining the rewards of Khorne’s heightened favour.

Mylox bristled.

‘He would be pleased by any skulls,’ he said through gritted teeth, ‘but the priest is mine.’

Her eyes narrowed and he locked his gaze with hers, not caring to hide the hatred in his stare. He tightened his grip on his axes and his corded muscles bulged, ready for any sudden movement.

Weeks of scouring the deserts of Aqshy for skulls to offer Khorne had proved a fruitless endeavour. The warband had found little quarry in the wastelands. When they had stumbled upon caravans they’d discovered only death. The bodies were desiccated, scorched by the heat, their skulls piled ceremoniously. It was clear Mylox’s warband were not alone in the desert. But the lack of skulls was making the warband restless, and Mylox knew they were held together by only the slightest thread.

Gheke was the strongest of Mylox’s warriors. She had the greatest chance of defeating him in single combat. Mylox had defeated her to command her loyalty and it had nearly cost him his life. He feared the drought of blood meant he was out of Khorne’s favour. If it continued much longer, Gheke would seek to reconsider her position, the others of his warband would, or else the warband would themselves be among the piled skulls of a neighbouring warband. They needed this fight, the skulls to offer to Khorne. Mylox more than any of them.

Gheke gave an affirmative nod, and Mylox relaxed.

He hid the smile of this small victory from his face. ‘When the warrior priest’s head adorns the pile of skulls that will be my offering this day, the Blood God will see my worth.’ And I’ll show you your place, he thought to himself.

Mylox brushed past Gheke and started back up the narrow stone path. A thick sheen of sweat covered his face, and his back was drenched and sticky under his brass armour. The griffon hide draped over his shoulder fluttered in the hot wind, and the skulls tied to its fringes rattled with each step. Gheke fell into step behind him and they ascended the steep rocky incline in silence. The notion of her attacking him from behind was unthinkable, for that was not the way of a Blade of Khorne. She would wait until he was in a position of strength, to maximise the glory of her victory.

Three other Bloodbound waited at the hilltop. Byror and Tezyb were brutish in size, and taller than Mylox, their large, muscled frames complemented by their thick armour and the huge war axes they wielded with ease. Their size was contrasted by Hush, a slender woman who preferred mobility to armour, and the broad-bladed impaling spear she leaned on to the axe or sword.

‘I grow weary of your dawdling, Mylox. The time to kill is now,’ Tezyb said. ‘We have the opportunity, let us not waste it with idleness. Too long has it been since my axe was wet with the blood of foes. I scarcely remember the scent.’

Mylox cast him a look that could have wilted the greens of Ghyran. ‘The time is upon us. Our waiting has paid off to see the worthiness of the skulls we will be offering to the Blood God this day.’

‘How many are there?’ Byror asked.

‘Nearly ninety, mostly unarmoured zealots. I doubt many will be skilled in combat.’

‘And is there any sign of our friends?’ Byror asked.

‘There’s been no sign.’

‘For now,’ Tezyb growled, ‘but there’s no guarantee it will remain that way.’ He paced back and forth like a beast locked in a cage.

They all feared that their glory would be stolen. Mylox’s group had been cheated of offerings one too many times. Now was their chance to end the drought.

‘I’ll show the warrior priest the edge of my axe,’ Byror said before licking his axe head, splitting the tip of his tongue and allowing the blood to streak across the blade. He looked up at Mylox with a wolfish grin as blood dripped from his chin.

‘No. The priest is mine.’ Mylox took a step forward. ‘My axe thirsts for his holy blood.’ I would see you dead before you superseded me in the eyes of Khorne, he thought. He knew that if given the chance, they would all try to steal the glory from him.

‘It matters not,’ Tezyb sneered. ‘Khorne cares not which skulls are given to him, so long as they are given to him.’

‘Perhaps it will be our skulls this day,’ Mylox said.

‘You can have your priest. One skull cannot compare to the fifty I will pile at the feet of the Blood God.’ Gheke puffed out her chest, slamming her sword hilt on her shield with a loud clang.

Mylox ignored her and turned back towards the path, gripping his axes tight in his hands. He was sick of words and eager to restore his lost favour.

‘There will be blood and skulls aplenty this day. May we all honour the Lord of Skulls with offerings!’ He charged down the path, the clink of armour and the rattle of skulls behind him as his warband followed.

They ran as fast as they could manage, careful of their footfalls. The steep incline ensured a single misstep would end in a deadly tumble.

The alarm raised in the camp below.

Flagellants scrambled for their weapons. They screamed and called out to Sigmar; dozens of bells rang in the hands of the crazed warriors. Many were half-naked, their feet bare in the searing sand. The zealots ran headlong at Mylox’s warband, maddened with hatred in the face of Sigmar’s enemies.

‘Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!’ Mylox screamed.

His warband took up the call, the words echoing in the rocks above.

The two sides met in open ground outside the encampment. Tezyb and Byror used their brutish size to bowl over several opponents, cutting swathes through the enemy’s naked torsos with their massive war axes. Their battle cries could be heard even over the clamour of the wild-eyed flagellants.

Gheke and Hush went right. Gheke blocked blows with her shield and counterstruck with deadly efficiency. Hush fought with a more calculated approach, waiting for her impatient enemies to impale themselves on her spear as they tried to get close.

Mylox attacked where the enemy was most numerous. His twin axes slashed with a power and speed unmatched by his opponents. Limbs were severed and bodies crumpled under his deadly barrage.

An old man swung a flail at Mylox’s head.

Mylox caught the blow with one axe and chopped the man from the collarbone inward.

The old man’s bones shattered, ripping through his flesh and spraying hot blood onto Mylox’s face.

Mylox laughed as the man twitched spasmodically. He let the body collapse to the sand as he wrenched his axe free, then stepped over the corpse and launched into the air, bringing his left axe down to cleave through the skull of another opponent. Gore splashed his face as he sliced with his right axe through the torso of another, spilling the man’s intestines onto the sand. Both men collapsed, and Mylox left one to fumble with his guts as he tried to shove them back into the gaping hole in his stomach.

More flagellants came, forcing Mylox’s warband closer together as the enemy pressed in on all sides. There was a commanding voice on the wind. Mylox saw the warrior priest and a handful of spearmen join the fray. The hatred in the flagellants’ eyes burned brighter. They formed together and pushed in around the warband with renewed vigour and heightened screams.

Mylox welcomed their onslaught, and set about harvesting more skulls.

Out of the corner of his eye, Mylox saw Byror fall. A blow to the brute’s back knocked him to the ground and the wild flagellants leapt onto him, bludgeoning him to death with their clubs and flails. Tezyb stood nearby, but did not intervene. Any who were not strong enough to defend themselves were unworthy of salvation. Tezyb continued to claim his own prizes for Khorne over the dying screams of Byror.

A kick from behind sent Mylox reeling forward. The opponent to his front seized the opportunity to strike. The knife slashed Mylox from forehead to jaw, piercing his eye into a bloody pulp that poured down his face. He bellowed and cleaved the man’s head from his shoulders, the stump of his neck erupting in a volcano of blood.

Mylox spun, twirling his twin axes in a flurry as he hacked hands, arms and heads off the advancing zealots. His feet shifted in the sand, made muddy from the blood that gushed from the waist-high mound of corpses around him.

But his enemies continued, uncaring of their losses. Some shouted of the end times coming upon them, and Mylox smiled when he considered his warband as the bringer of that end.

Mylox cut off the heads of two more foes as they clambered over their dead, and risked a glance around with his good eye. The warrior priest had engaged Hush, his battle hammer swinging wildly as she backed away. Mylox had never seen her struggle in a fight, but she was hard-pressed to keep up with the flurry of powerful blows. She tripped on a corpse, only a misstep, but the priest smashed her skull in a splatter of blood.

The flagellants cheered the warrior priest and pressed inward, and Mylox found himself in a tight circle with Gheke and Tezyb. Mylox wanted to push through the bodies, to take the head of the warrior priest, but when he glanced at him, the molten flame in the priest’s eyes told Mylox what he already knew. They were going to die.

‘More skulls for Khorne!’ Mylox roared over the clamour.

‘If they will have mine, it will come at a price,’ Tezyb answered.

The flagellants came on with heightened fervour at the three warriors that remained, but their lack of armour and wild tactics cost them heavily as they rushed the powerful Bloodbound. The heaps of corpses grew larger still, the ground awash with the blood of Sigmar’s servants, yet still the enemy kept coming.

Tezyb went down. All Mylox heard was a grunt before he saw the Bloodbound on his knees, the hole in his chest pumping blood down his stomach. The brute dropped his bulky war axe, drew his knife and stabbed his attacker in the stomach. He ripped the knife upwards and the man’s guts poured onto him as he pushed the body off to the side. He whirled from his injured position and lashed out at the legs and bellies of the enemies around him. He managed to sink the blade into one of the zealots’ knees. With the last of his strength, Tezyb crawled to his fallen foe and stabbed his knife through the man’s temple to skewer the brain, trying to win one final act of favour from Khorne.

A spearman saw the struggling Bloodbound and punched his spear-point through Tezyb’s neck. Blood spurted from his arteries and the Bloodbound was stilled.

‘This is it for us,’ Gheke said. ‘We have given many skulls to the Lord of Slaughter this day.’

‘We will give still more,’ Mylox said as he bashed his head into an opponent’s nose.

The circle grew tighter still around the final two warriors, as the warrior priest shouted words of faith and triumph.

Then there was a scream. A wild battle call heard above the clamour. Several of the flagellants looked away from the Bloodbound, giving Mylox and Gheke a brief respite.

‘Sykrut’s warband,’ Mylox hissed. ‘They’ve come to try to take that which we would gift to Khorne. Let us further spoil their fun.’

Mylox looked up the ravine with his remaining eye. Eight Bloodbound warriors rushed down the steep rocks, led by a man he recognised from his time in the Goretide. Sykrut, a powerful slaughterpriest of Khorne. Mylox snarled. It was these fools that had stolen so many kills from his warband over the past weeks.

Sykrut’s band charged into the flagellants. The warrior priest hoisted his hammer, shouting orders and devotions as they faced the coming tide.

Mylox surged forward, slaying with a belated quickness and ferocity that put his previous efforts to shame. Only some of the warrior priest’s men remained to finish off Gheke and Mylox, and it was an error the two Bloodbound made them pay for.

Gheke held two at bay with her shield, thrusting her sword into the eye of the first and slashing the second across the neck. She laughed when the man’s eyes went wide and he reached for the arterial blood that spurted from his throat.

Mylox hacked off a flagellant’s leg at the knee. The zealot fell to the dirt and clutched the bloody stump, his agonised screams echoing through the ravine. Mylox looked down at the man, grinning, and stomped on his head until brain matter splattered the sand.

With the remaining opponents distracted, Mylox broke into a sprint and caught several by surprise as he smashed into the back of the warrior priest’s ranks.

The forces of Sigmar dwindled fast and Mylox saw the warrior priest engage Sykrut.

‘No,’ he growled.

Sykrut’s sword sliced into the warrior priest’s leg. The priest shouted, and his followers screamed, throwing themselves in front of him as Sykrut cleaved through them with his sword. The warrior priest pulled back towards his encampment, his handful of spearmen at his heels.

The flagellants were in a frenzy.

Mylox lowered his shoulder, barrelled through two of the zealots and pursued the priest, but not alone. Out of the corner of his unruined eye he saw Sykrut leave the fray as well. Mylox put his head down and ran with what might he could muster. His muscles burned with the effort, threatening collapse with the strains of the day. But he would not yield to his body. The weak were not servants of Khorne and he would sooner die than allow himself to fail in his efforts.

He heard the panting of Sykrut behind him. Either the hulking slaughterpriest was quick on his feet, or it was Mylox’s weary body that had allowed the other Bloodbound to gain on him. As they neared the encampment, the spearmen that followed the warrior priest formed a defensive line. Mylox leapt high into the air, crashing down onto their helms with his axes, but did not wait to engage. Instead, he allowed them to entangle Sykrut while he pursued the priest. He heard Sykrut shout in disgust in his wake.

Mylox wouldn’t give up the glory of this kill so easily.

The warrior priest was lost in the sea of white tents. Mylox slowed, carefully surveying each tent he passed in turn like a predator stalking its prey.

A horse whinnied as it reared, and the now mounted warrior priest charged at Mylox, who barely ducked under the hammer blow aimed for his head. The priest fled from the camp, away from the skirmish and deeper into the ravine.

Mylox glanced around wildly, gaze levelling on a white warhorse tethered to a tent post a hundred feet away. The beast snorted and pulled against its lead as Mylox approached. He was no friend to beasts and he knew the horse could smell the stench of the butchered upon him. Mylox was relieved to find the horse was outfitted with a saddle and bridle. He mounted the creature and kicked it into a gallop in pursuit of his quarry.

The ravine path narrowed. It wound sharply around the tall rocks of Callidium, jagged and weathered by the harsh Aqshy winds. The rock formations harboured caves and gullies, and the singular path became a maze as Mylox rode on.

Mylox cursed and chose the largest, central path. But after a minute of riding with no sign of the priest, he worried the man had doubled back to hide or taken an alternate route.

He’d decided to turn around when the warrior priest stepped out in front of his horse. Mylox tried to slow the gallop, but it was too late. The warrior priest’s warhammer came down on his horse’s head.

The beast collapsed forward, flinging Mylox from the saddle and crashing to the jagged rocky ground.

He groaned and, despite his body’s protests, rose to his feet.

‘You dare face me alone?’ the warrior priest asked. ‘You are a fool.’

Mylox spat a glob of bloody mucus at the priest’s feet. ‘Fear not, slave of Sigmar, your skull will find a place of honour on the mound of heads I will build for Khorne this night.’ He banged his axes against his breastplate, challenging the priest to move first.

The warrior priest circled around him, his warhammer poised to strike. ‘Your kind are a scourge to these lands – unfit, impure – and you will be destroyed. None can withstand the might of Sigmar.’

‘Show me,’ Mylox said darkly.

The priest charged in, his powerful blow deflected easily by Mylox, who slashed for the man’s head. The priest dodged away, suffering a scrape across his cheek from Mylox’s blade.

The warrior priest grunted, raising a hand to feel the gash on his face as blood poured down his jaw and onto his armour. His eyes narrowed on Mylox and he began to whisper a prayer. The smell of burning flesh filled the air as the bloody gash seared shut, sealing itself into a long, black scar.

Mylox went on the offensive, launching a series of savage blows that the priest now deflected easily. He knew he’d missed his single opportunity to take his opponent. The priest would not be caught with such a simple manoeuvre again.

Mylox kept his footwork active, constantly changing the pattern of his assault in an attempt to catch his foe off guard, but the priest was a skilled fighter.

The warrior priest whispered another prayer to Sigmar that caused his warhammer to shimmer like blue flame.

Mylox grinned. Sigmar must have favoured this servant indeed to bless his weapon. It would make tearing the Sigmarite’s head from his shoulders far more impressive to the Blood God.

The priest launched a series of counter-attacks. The powerful blows from the blessed hammer took a great deal of strength on Mylox’s part to deflect, the bone-jarring force causing him to tire quickly. Mylox’s own attacks were less quick and more calculating, as the loss of his eye left him at a disadvantage on one side. He would not defeat this foe by strength alone.

He threw his axe at the warrior priest’s face and rushed in with his other axe held high. The priest knocked the thrown axe out of the air, but Mylox buried his other in the priest’s arm. Mylox back-pedalled, stooping to retrieve his fallen weapon. The priest grimaced, his breath ragged through flared nostrils as he roared and surged forward.

The warrior priest feigned a downward strike, which Mylox was prepared for, but turned it at the last moment.

The warhammer smashed into Mylox’s chest, stealing the air from his lungs in a burst of white-hot agony, denting his brass armour and sending him sprawling to the dirt. Each breath was wracked with pain. He knew he must have broken several ribs. He struggled to move, even to roll over, as the warrior priest slowly walked towards his prone form, eclipsing the bright sun as he looked down at Mylox.

‘You were foolish to contest the powers of Sigmar. Now I will purge this land of your profane existence. In these final moments, know the might and will of the God-King.’ The priest raised his hammer for the killing blow.

Mylox rolled, coming to his feet with a savage roar.

Flesh ripped. The warrior priest’s head flew from his shoulders, landing in the sand a dozen feet away, spraying Mylox in slick blood.

‘No!’ Mylox screamed.

The torso twitched spasmodically and collapsed forward with a kick from Sykrut, sending Mylox to the ground with it. The stump of the neck drenched his brass armour and the sand around him in blood.

Sykrut looked down at him with a grin.

Mylox had been cheated once again. The warrior priest was his gift to Khorne, the worthy skull a promise he had made to the Blood God, now made empty. It was supposed to be his chance to find Khorne’s favour. Stolen by Sykrut.

Sykrut walked casually to the place where the head had landed and lifted it from the sand. He raised it high above him, letting the blood drip onto his leathery face and into his open mouth. When he’d finished, he tossed the head at Mylox and it rolled to a stop against his prone body. Sykrut grinned, then rolled his head from side to side, cracking the vertebrae in his neck with loud pops.

‘You were too weak to defeat him. You allowed this man to spit in the face of our lord and live. He overcame you – he would have killed you if I had but let him. I would have done that very thing, but I wanted to deal with your failure personally. You are a disappointment and you are weak. Khorne favours the strong. I will deliver your skull to his throne in recompense for your frailty. Do not fear. In some small way your skull will still please Khorne, despite the failure of your body.’

Sykrut began to whisper, a communion with Khorne. His mumbling grew in intensity and he turned from Mylox to look skyward, outstretching his hands.

Mylox grunted and shifted the warrior priest’s corpse to the ground beside him. He started to rise. His feet wobbled under the weight of his tired body. His breath came in gasps, and he found no refreshment from the burning air that poured into his lungs.

Mylox clutched at his chest, at the dent in his armour and the broken bones beneath. He allowed the anger to well up inside him. His limbs screamed in agony, but he gritted his teeth and pushed through. He wouldn’t allow Sykrut to see his pain or exertion. He had lived in fear of losing Khorne’s favour before, but now it had been stolen from him. He would make Sykrut pay, or die in the process. Either way, Mylox would gift Khorne a worthy skull.

Sykrut turned to face him, bringing his sword to bear.

Mylox spat a glob of blood in the sand and dragged the edges of his axes together in a noisy scrape. ‘You will not have so easy a time claiming my skull, slaughterpriest.’

Sykrut roared with laughter. ‘We shall see.’

There was a crackling sound like kindling set to flame. A fire tore through the air, swirling like a whirlwind in front of Mylox. The flames shrank and contorted, coalescing into the form of a massive axe.

It sliced the air where Mylox’s head had been a moment earlier. Then fast, too fast, it chopped downward, and Mylox barely got away as the sand sprayed the air.

Mylox gritted his teeth as he rolled to his feet. This was a wrath-axe, a judgement of Khorne. Sykrut had asked the Blood God himself to test Mylox’s worth.

The axe slashed and Mylox darted backward, the dreaded blade shearing through his armour like paper and slicing his flesh.

Mylox winced, but the damage was light. He clinked his axes together and barked a battle cry. One misstep and the axe would cleave him in two.

The axe attacked again. It cut high and low with inhuman swiftness and power. Mylox strained to parry the blows, using the flats of his axes to turn the sharp blade from his body. He back-pedalled, his breath straining to keep up as he focused on each move the axe made. It was maddeningly fast, and he could not hope to evade the weapon for much longer. It was like fighting Khorne himself.

Each blow was powerful, the vibrations that travelled through his axes rattling his bones. Mylox knew this was his end.

Then he misstepped. The heel of his boot hit a rock, and he tumbled backward.

The wrath-axe sliced down.

Mylox slashed wildly as he fell, and his right axe struck the flat of the judgement blade.

He hit the sand, waiting for the sure death blow.

But the wrath-axe hovered in the air. And in the same way it had arrived, it dissolved in a whirlwind of fire.

Mylox gasped in the scorching air. He didn’t understand why or how, but the Blood God must have found him worthy enough to live a little longer. Khorne’s favour was shifting.

‘No,’ Sykrut hissed. He raised his sword and sprinted forward, leaping at Mylox and striking a powerful downward blow. Mylox was forced to cross his axes to block. He caught the blade, but the shock of the impact jolted his bones. Sykrut was strong and the mighty sword was heavy and sharp. His muscles screamed in protest, and it was all Mylox could do to keep the blade from splitting his skull in two.

Mylox leaped back and dodged a quick sideways slash. Then he jumped in and assaulted the slaughterpriest with all the speed he could muster, striking blow after blow, changing direction at the last possible moments in an attempt to confuse or disorient his opponent.

Sykrut kept pace, parrying the blows with ease as Mylox began to tire, his attacks becoming slower and clumsier. He overcommitted, and in his brief moment of defencelessness the slaughterpriest bashed Mylox’s face with the hilt of the sword.

He staggered backward, dazed for just a moment. His wounds screamed; lifeblood poured out of his shredded armour, adding more crimson to the already soaked metal.

Mylox gritted his teeth through the pain, refusing to give the slaughterpriest the satisfaction. He spun and slashed with both his axes simultaneously.

Sykrut brushed the blows aside with ease.

Mylox had planned on this, and slashed at Sykrut’s face with his left axe, waiting for Sykrut to move to block it before striking at the brute’s torso with his right. The slaughterpriest knew his games and dodged just in time, hacking at Mylox’s armoured side.

Sykrut roared and Mylox spun away from another blow, the sword slicing through the griffon hide on his back and tearing it from his armour.

The slaughterpriest brought his sword overhead, slashing downward in a blow meant to cleave Mylox’s head in two.

Mylox caught the blade with both of his axes. His muscles ached and bulged as he strained, but Sykrut pushed harder. The priest was far stronger than he. His ruined body wouldn’t last much longer.

He dropped his left axe and grabbed the slaughterpriest’s sword with his hand, the sharp edge of the powerful blade carving through flesh to grate against his bones. He freed his second axe.

Sykrut’s eyes went wide as Mylox took the head from the slaughterpriest’s shoulders.

The headless corpse fell to the windswept sand.

‘It is you who is the disappointment,’ Mylox gasped.

His lungs burned from the heat, the exertion and the pain. Blood poured from his many wounds and he felt weak. But I am not weak, he thought. He raised his axes, his arms burning with the effort, and tilted his head skyward.

‘Khorne, Lord of Slaughter, I offer the skull of this enemy to you, and the many lesser skulls I’ve taken this day. May your glory be furthered by my blades.’

He jolted spasmodically and screamed as his skull split. His axes fell to the sand and he collapsed to his knees, clawing at his face. Mylox knew this was Khorne’s doing. Had he not pleased the Blood God after all?

Bone protruded from his skull and pierced the flesh, pouring hot, sticky blood down his face and onto his hands and armour. His mind felt as though it would collapse with the pain; it was as if his skull had been skewered with a spear. He wanted to bash his skull, to gouge his eyes, to tear the very head from his neck. Twin shards of bone grew outward from his temples, twisting into long, bloody horns that sheared upward.

When the pain finally subsided, Mylox stroked his latest mutation, cutting his fingers on the jagged edges of his horns. He wiped the blood from his face, licking that which fell upon his lips. He was in the Blood God’s favour, there could be no doubt. A grin split his face.

‘Blood for the Blood God,’ he whispered.

Mylox rose to his feet and took unsteady strides to the body of the warrior priest. He tore the priest’s robes into strips to fashion a sack, then used it to hold the severed heads of the warrior priest and Sykrut. With the sack in one hand and a piece of the priest’s flesh in the other, he approached the priest’s horse, which had been tethered to a rocky outcrop nearby. The beast roared and reared on its hind legs. Mylox tugged on the bridle and pulled the horse’s head close.

‘Your service to me and to the Blood God continues,’ he said as he fed the horse the flesh of its former master. The beast quickly became calm. He mounted and rode back towards the ravine and the ruined outpost.

The scent of death and corpses was heavy on the wind. Blood stained the sands around the camp. The ground was littered with the bodies and severed limbs of Bloodbound and flagellants alike.

The ravine echoed with the screams of the dying. Sykrut’s warband scoured the dead, severing skulls and piling them for Khorne.

Mylox smirked maliciously as he took in these sights. The victory of his planned attack would further secure his favour with the Blood God. As he rode into the encampment, covered in the blood and gore of his enemies, the warriors ceased picking through the survivors on the ground and crowded around him.

‘Your leader sought to challenge me, claiming I was out of Khorne’s favour.’ He tossed the makeshift sack, and the skulls of Sykrut and the warrior priest rolled at their feet, covered now in sand. ‘But Khorne favours the strong. Follow me in his stead, and this drought will be at an end. Blood for the Blood God. Skulls for the Skull Throne.’

‘Blood for the Blood God! Skulls for the Skull Throne!’ the warriors echoed as they raised their weapons.

Gheke came forward from the crowd. Her sword, shield and armour were bathed in blood. She looked up at Mylox with burning hatred, but as she studied the horns that adorned his skull, she bowed her head.

Mylox knew he was still the greater.

‘You’ve had your victory and Khorne has shown his favour with you. Where would you lead me next?’ she asked.

Mylox showed his jagged teeth. The clear signs of his victory and Khorne’s favour demanded her respect. But his increase in status with the Blood God would only fuel her desire to kill him. ‘I lead you to greater glory in the name of Khorne.’ He bellowed for all the gathered to hear. ‘I will unite the warriors of the Blood God and quench the thirst of these lands in a tide of blood. None I come across will live to see the dawn.’ Without another word or glance, he spun his mount westward and rode deeper into the desert whirlwinds of Aqshy.

The blood drought was over and the warband followed.

THE STUFF OF NIGHTMARES

Steve Lyons

Astra Militarum veteran and author of Iron Resolve Steve Lyons returns to Inferno!, but this chilling, psychological tale takes us far from the battlefields and trenches of the galaxy…

Nirri is one of those souls unfortunate enough to be born into the Imperium a psyker, and she suffers the fate of many such individuals – being imprisoned and taken to Terra to be judged for how her abilities might best serve the Emperor. Aboard a horrifying Black Ship, she is plagued by visions of doom and destruction, but how can she know what is real and what is merely the stuff of nightmares?

Whenever Nirri closed her eyes, she saw them.

They massed at the borders of her dreams, scratching to get in. She was terrified of what they might do if they succeeded.

The nightmare creatures were as black as shadow. Their forms were inconstant like shadows too, always in oily flux. They melted away when Nirri turned her mind’s eye upon them, only to reform in its corners. They left behind no more than a suggestion of a claw or a slavering maw or a baleful glare.

In the waking light, the creatures faded – like shadows, like dreams – but the terror never did. Nirri knew, she always knew, that the creatures were real, because she could never have imagined anything so awful.

And even when her eyes were open, she heard them.

She could still hear the nightmare creatures scratching.

Nirri woke up with a start, again.

Relief flooded through her for a second. Then she remembered where she was.

Manacles held her wrists and ankles. Heavy chains bound her to an iron ring sunk into a bulkhead behind her. She couldn’t lie down, only sag into a half-crouch, and even then not for long before her legs and shoulders ached.

Nirri blinked as harsh light strobed across her face. She winced as a discordant screech drilled into her nerves. Her face was itchy with sweat. She felt she had only slept for a minute or two. Her temples throbbed with tiredness.

There were creatures here too, in the waking world, lurking between the stabbing lights. Nirri had seen enough of them to know what they were. They were mutants. Not as terrible as the other creatures, perhaps, but she feared them nevertheless.

Some were disgustingly misshapen. Others kept their corruption a secret, held deep inside themselves. They were creatures just like her; and the chains and the lights and the terrible noises were meant to subdue them, and her.

She had woken from one nightmare into another.

‘Please,’ Nirri begged, ‘you have to let me speak to someone.’

Six hunchbacked, grey-faced servitors moved among the mutants. They wheeled a rusted tank between them, hosing the floor with grey nutrient slop. Nirri reached out to them, but the chains brought her hands up short.

‘I’ve done nothing wrong. I don’t deserve to be here.’

A servitor turned its head towards her. Its augmetic eye clicked and whirred, its iris widening in appraisal of her, but it showed no expression.

‘And there are… creatures. Out there. They’re almost through. Someone has to be warned. They have to know what I have seen.’

The servitor nudged a quivering mound of slop with its toe. ‘Eat,’ it said.

‘Don’t you see? Can’t you understand?’ Nirri’s voice rose to a hysterical pitch. ‘We’re all in terrible danger. I saw a ship, a great black ship – this ship – and it was being torn apart.’

But the servitors had turned their backs as others vied for their attention. They were pleading, as had Nirri, for their freedom. They weren’t like these others, they insisted. They sounded pathetic.

The servitors had few thoughts of their own. Their dull brains were able to retain only simple instructions. It was almost impossible to get through to them, as she knew well by now. Still, she always had to try.

Then she saw another figure, framed in the open doorway to the hold. A roaming light beam flared from a sculpted bronze breastplate. The figure – a woman, Nirri realised – stood with an air of easy authority. A closed helm concealed her features; from this, a crest of violet hair erupted, tumbling down her back, matching her shimmering cloak. She wore a sword at her hip.

This was Nirri’s chance, at last. A chance to reach someone who might understand her. She opened her mouth to call to the bronze-helmed woman, yet for some reason her words caught in her throat and almost choked her. She didn’t know why. Something about the woman felt wrong, in some fundamental way. As if she had no right to be standing there at all.

A fresh burst of noise made Nirri flinch in physical pain. The strobing lights shifted, cycling through a range of nauseating hues, and when she looked for the watcher at the door, there was no sign of her.

The servitors were leaving too, having carried out their orders. They closed the heavy, circular hatch behind them, engaging its locks with a series of echoing clunks. Nirri called after them, hopelessly, holding back tears, but she couldn’t remember what she had wanted to say to them.

Something about a nightmare she had had?

‘Perhaps it wasn’t real,’ she breathed to herself. Like the bronze-helmed woman might not – could not, as she thought about it now – have been real. Between the lights and the noise and the tiredness, she didn’t think she could tell any longer.

How many nights had she been here? she wondered.

She remembered how hungry she was. She half crouched and scooped up grey slop in her hand. She gulped it down before her tongue could taste it. She had found this was the best way. The food, if it could be called that, was drugged to keep her docile, but she didn’t care. For the hundredth, the thousandth, time, she accepted her helplessness. All she could do was pray for this torture to end.

Nirri closed her eyes tightly. She concentrated on her prayer, on her faith in the Emperor, and she tried to expand this to fill her head. She tried to blot out the screeching sounds and the lights that hammered on her eyelids, and the plaintive whimpers and occasional screams of her cellmates.

She could endure the waking nightmare no longer. So she took refuge from it – in the only place she could.

In her dreams, Nirri was a child again.

She was safe in her family’s cosy hab-unit, sharing a bed with her brother and sisters. She enjoyed learning at the scholam, and hearing how the Emperor looked after her at morning and evening temple.

She longed to wallow in those happy times forever. But the shadows were always there, waiting beneath the surface, and no matter how she tried to ignore their scratching, they always dragged her back to darker days.

Nirri relived her parents’ scornful looks, their hurtful words, their tearful attempts to beat the evil out of her. She lay on her stomach on the bed that had been her comfort, her refuge from the world. She hugged her threadbare pillow as she listened to raised voices in the outer room.

They had argued bitterly, so many times, about her. So many unforgivable words had been traded. So much blame. So much guilt.

She dreamt of the night before her fifteenth birthday. The night the enforcers had dragged her out of bed in front of her terrified siblings. Her parents had watched in stony-faced silence, immune to her pleas and her promises to try harder.

Nights in a lonely, squalid cell flashed by. Now Nirri was in chains, being walked across the rockcrete of a space port landing zone, along with dozens more like her. No, she insisted fiercely, even in the dream where nobody could hear her, I am nothing like them!

‘There’s been a mistake,’ she tried to tell them as she was herded up the loading ramp of a transport ship. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’ But her tiny voice was lost amid the hubbub of others making the very same claim.

Out in the void, the Black Ship had waited for them.

She could picture it clearly: a vast cathedral, hanging impossibly against a star-flecked backdrop. It was black like shadow, black like the nightmare creatures, and it seemed to swallow any light that dared try to expose it.

It had swallowed Nirri’s smaller transport too. Trapped in an airless, windowless cabin, she hadn’t ever been able to see it. She wondered, then, where the image in her memory had come from. Perhaps she had only imagined it?

Grim-faced storm troopers had marched the prisoners to the containment hold. Nirri thought she had heard that they were bound for Holy Terra. The thought of that would have excited her once. She would have felt honoured. Now, she felt ashamed and afraid – and most of all confused, always confused.

If she were really a… She couldn’t bring herself to think the word.

If there was really something wrong with her, if she was tainted, then why had they not just locked her up forever? Or put her out of everyone’s misery?

In her dream, the nightmare creatures attacked the Black Ship. Nirri tried to hold them back by force of a teenager’s stubbornness alone. She wasn’t nearly strong enough. The barricades around her dream world shattered, and the creatures swooped like carrion birds upon the void-black hull.

She couldn’t tell how numerous they were, but they seemed to be everywhere at once. The Black Ship juddered and listed with the impact of their bodies, and she could feel it, feel every blow in her bones. Claws sliced through thick armour plating like knives through tissue paper, and fire blossomed from the Black Ship’s engines.

Nirri woke herself up screaming.

It took her a second to realise that everyone else was screaming too.

Her feet were whipped out violently from underneath her. She fell into the bulkhead behind her, knocking her head. The lights, the awful dazzling lights that she had grown to hate, were abruptly extinguished. She almost welcomed the absolute darkness, until she wondered what shadows it might conceal.

The groans and shrieks of tortured metal assailed her, and she was thrown over again and again as she scrambled for something to hold on to, to steady herself.

She found the ring through which her chains were threaded. She gripped it tightly with both hands. Another powerful shock convulsed the deck plates, and Nirri hit her head again and wrenched her shoulder.

I must still be asleep, she thought, still dreaming. The pain in her head and shoulder told her otherwise, which meant that something even worse was happening.

Her nightmare had come true.

She thought the buffeting would never end.

When it did, at last, Nirri was breathless and bruised all over.

Some mutants had been badly hurt. She heard them groaning and weeping in the darkness; a couple were calling for help that they must have known would never come. Gradually, lighting was restored – just pale red emergency lumens – and she picked out their huddled, trembling shapes around her.

Nirri was glad to be alive. She had feared the ship might fracture like an eggshell, and that would have been the last she knew.

‘Do you hear it?’ intoned an older man, his features gaunt, his eyes a milky shade of white. ‘Do you hear it? Do you?’

The question wasn’t directed at Nirri specifically, but no one else was paying any attention. ‘Hear what?’ she asked, her voice emerging as a deathly whisper.

The man nodded sagely. ‘That’s right.’

It took her a moment to realise what he was getting at. ‘The engines,’ she gasped. ‘I can’t feel the engines any more. The engines have stopped.’

The gaunt man threw back his head and barked with laughter. It was an unpleasant, spiteful sound that made Nirri want to cry like the others.

She wanted to run. She strained at her chains in a way she hadn’t in days. She planted her foot against the bulkhead and tried to wrench the iron ring free. For a heady second, she felt it beginning to give way, its moorings weakened. But the ring held fast, and she remained its helpless captive.

She gave in to the protests of her muscles. She rested her forehead against the cool bulkhead. She closed her weary eyes, but immediately threw them open again in horror. No longer did the nightmare creatures scratch at the borders of her dreams. Now they ran through them, triumphant.

‘They’re here,’ she gasped, and to Nirri’s surprise, the words were taken up by the mutants – her fellows – around her, swelling into a ragged but almost reverent chant.

‘They’re here. They’re here. They’re here. They’re here.’

A long time passed.

A relative peace had descended. Nirri’s body saw a chance to sleep. She fought it, because she knew what would be waiting for her. She was thinking more clearly than she had in quite some time. Her brain had been fogbound, but now the miasma had lifted. This was a mixed blessing, as her thoughts were full of dread.

‘The Emperor protects us,’ she assured herself, over and over.

This ship was full of His soldiers. They could surely deal with any threat. It was what they were trained for. Nirri was still just a girl, really. No one could expect anything of her. It wasn’t her responsibility.

From time to time, she heard distant, disjointed barks that might have been gunfire. Proof that the storm troopers of the Emperor’s Inquisition still fought to protect her. Proof that there was still hope. Unless she was imagining the sounds.

The next sounds she heard were real enough. The heavy locks of the hatch were disengaged, and it was thrust forcefully open. Nirri couldn’t breathe. She squinted through the darkness, desperate to see who – or what – was on the other side, to see what her fate would be. One of the mutants shrieked in terror.

Two storm troopers marched into the containment hold. Dull plates of carapace armour were strapped over their bulky fatigues. Their helmet visors were lowered, hiding their eyes. Respirator masks hung from straps about their necks. They wielded the heavy, long-nosed firearms that Nirri had heard referred to as ‘hellguns’.

The mutants hadn’t seen their gaolers in days. They greeted them with hisses, vile blasphemous insults and phlegm. Thinking of her own treatment, Nirri almost couldn’t blame them. But there were worse things than these two soldiers out there, far worse.

‘Which of you,’ a trooper demanded, ‘predicted the warp storm?’

‘We know one of you did,’ the other added. ‘You spoke to the servitors about it. Which of you was it?’

Nirri had thought she couldn’t be any more scared. She had been wrong. She couldn’t speak. She couldn’t have owned up if she had wanted to. She was dreadfully aware, however, that every mutant eye in the room – or so it seemed – had turned slyly upon her. They marked her out as plainly as any confession.

The troopers were upon her in three strides. They released her manacles and caught her in brawny arms when, as it turned out, Nirri couldn’t stand unaided. They slung one of her arms around each of their necks. She found her voice, enough to squeak, ‘What do you want with me?’ but they gave her no answer.

Nirri was hauled away, roughly, feet dragging on the floor.

Then, a shape rose up between her and the hatchway. She recognised the gaunt, white-eyed mutant she had spoken to before, only now his eyes were smouldering. Light exploded from him, both blinding and deafening. The storm troopers recoiled, losing their grip on Nirri, and she fell to her hands and knees.

As her vision cleared, she saw the troopers on their knees too, moaning and clutching their heads. The hold reverberated with the clanking of chains, as a seething mass of mutants strained to reach their reeling tormentors. A mere few were able. Their bony hands tore at the troopers’ fatigues and scratched their faces, while the rest had to content themselves with more insults and threats of increasing violence. The clanking and the shouting and the moaning built into a cacophony.

Suddenly, it ended. The mutants’ voices, and their spirited struggles, subsided. They shrank away into the darkest corners of the hold, and Nirri felt a strong urge to shrink away too, though she wasn’t sure to where nor even from what.

And then she saw. Three more figures had stepped into their midst.

Another pair of storm troopers flanked the bronze-helmed woman from before. Her sword was drawn in implicit threat. Black light coruscated along its gleaming blade, as if following invisible veins in the metal.

Nirri’s eyes itched. This close to the woman, she found it hard to even look at her. Her gaze just wanted to slide off her, to deny her very existence.

Only the gaunt man held his ground. His nostrils flared as he turned towards the newcomer. He raised his hands, and arcane energy crackled about his palms. Nirri had never seen anything like it before and was appalled. But then the energy flickered and sputtered and died, and the man’s white eyes were eclipsed by a shadow of fear.

A pair of much darker eyes flashed behind the polished bronze helm. A sword blade flashed through the air. Then something hit the floor about a foot in front of Nirri, with a heavy, wet thump.

She shrieked, recoiling from the gaunt mutant’s severed head.

The stricken troopers had recovered their wits. They were standing again, their pistols drawn. The mutants were the ones moaning and writhing now.

‘Keep your heads down,’ the first trooper warned them. ‘Don’t even look at us. I swear to the Emperor, I will burn out the first pair of eyes I see.’ Such was the pall of despair upon the hold that the warning felt superfluous.

Nirri was hauled to her feet again. ‘This is the one, ma’am,’ a storm trooper reported to the bronze-helmed woman. ‘This is the one that made the prediction.’

Nirri’s skin crawled as dark eyes appraised her coolly. She looked away from them. Then the woman made a series of short, sharp gestures with her hands, and, as one, she and the four storm troopers turned and swept out of the containment hold, taking their young captive with them.

Nirri remembered the Black Ship’s vaulted gangways.

They were as broad and high as city streets. Her escorts’ booted footsteps echoed back to her from every direction. Still, they made her feel claustrophobic.

It may have been the colour scheme: dull black, made eerie by the red lighting. Or perhaps it was the design. Pipes, gantries and bristling hatchways punctured the walls with stubborn brutality. Sharp-edged generators grumbled and fumed to themselves. It may have been the arcane wards scratched into every surface, some freshly smeared with blood as if in tribute. Or the Adeptus Astra Telepathica’s eye symbol, reputedly blind and yet glaring ruthless judgement from locking wheels and dusty banners. Nirri felt as if that eye could see into her soul.

She felt trapped, as if the whole world were hemming her in. Trapped with the bronze-helmed woman, who was marching alongside her. Her impossible presence made Nirri’s stomach churn and brought bile to her throat.

Two storm troopers scouted ahead of the group. They crouched at every corner, weapons drawn, to check that nothing lay in wait on the edge of their perceptions. They couldn’t search every shadow, however, and Nirri’s eyes also probed the gloom around her, fitfully. The other two troopers maintained their grips on her, though she had regained some feeling in her legs now. She hurried to match step with them, in preference to letting them drag her.

Nobody spoke a word to Nirri, even when she found the nerve to ask them what they wanted with her. The troopers had their own conversations, though. They grumbled into their collars and listened to voices she couldn’t hear. She couldn’t follow much of what they said. She could only tell that a bloody battle was raging.

‘Confirmed. Yes, we are on our way up. Yes, with the astropath.’

Was that a reference to her? What did it mean?

‘The starboard side of Sector Four. Yes, understood.’

‘Reaper Squad is under attack. Repeat, Reaper Squad–’

‘Is Sector Three clear? Urgent information, please.’

‘Is anyone else receiving Reaper Squad?’

‘Yes. Yes, confirmed. Need an urgent status for Sector Three, please.’

‘Can anyone else reach Reaper Squad?’

‘Pardon me, ma’am.’ One of the storm troopers addressed the bronze-helmed woman. ‘The starboard edge of Sector Four is open to space. We have to divert. Fighting is especially heavy in sectors Five through Eight, so–’

‘Ma’am, Reaper Squad is in trouble,’ the other trooper interrupted. ‘They are less than half a mile ahead of us. No one else can reach them. May I request that Trooper Kimble and I–’

The bronze-helmed woman made a series of gestures, as she had in the hold. The storm trooper was able to interpret them, clearly. He nodded, disappointed. ‘As you will, ma’am. Our mission must take precedence.’

‘Sector Three is confirmed clear to enter,’ his partner reported.

A fresh flurry of gunfire broke out, somewhere ahead of them. It was definitely closer than it had sounded before. Much closer.

Nirri could hear other sounds too. She heard screaming. It sounded like the screamers were… not just dying, although they certainly were, but more afraid than any trained warrior of the Emperor had any right to be.

She heard the crumps of several explosions, shaking the deck plates under her feet. Then there was silence. Her six-strong procession took a sharp turn down another gangway and continued on their journey. The trooper to Nirri’s right spoke into his collar again, in a hollow, emotionless tone.

‘I am sorry to hear that,’ he said. ‘They were loyal and faithful warriors. I pray to the Emperor that He will protect their souls.’

‘Not that way!’ cried Nirri, suddenly.

When she was ignored again, she tried digging her heels into the ground. ‘You don’t understand. You can’t… They… Wait!’ The storm troopers renewed their grip on her, sweeping her along.

Nirri’s legs stopped working altogether, without warning. She felt as if some dark force had sprung up in front of her, closing around her more tightly with each step she was forced to take. It was stifling her.

She had to make her captors understand. They had to let her turn back.

Then a screeching roar assailed her ears, as the shadows came to life. As she had known they must. The gangway filled with oily shapes, forever shifting – only they were never where Nirri’s eyes rested, always in the corners of her vision.

She glimpsed the suggestion of a claw, a slavering maw, a baleful glare…

The shadows flapped and whirled about her little group. They lashed out with a talon here, a forked tail there. It was like being in the eye of a shadowy hurricane, whipped by its stinging winds.

That was until something undeniably solid wrenched one of the storm troopers away from her. It happened in the space of a single, frenzied heartbeat. The remaining trooper let go of Nirri to strafe the shadows with blazing-hot rounds from his hellgun. Most of them exploded against the surrounding bulkheads.

Nirri fled.

She didn’t stop to think about it. Every single nerve impulse she possessed screamed at her to do it. It didn’t matter that she was running from those who could protect her, running into the shadows. She couldn’t help herself.

The bronze-helmed woman pointed after her with a stabbing finger – and the storm trooper understood and pursued her, bringing Nirri down with a flying tackle.

‘No! No,’ she sobbed. It wasn’t fair. Why couldn’t they leave her alone? Even now, when the creatures were upon them…

She could only think of one reason, and she angrily denied it. ‘It wasn’t me. It wasn’t my fault,’ she insisted. ‘I didn’t let them in.’

She was pinned to the cold metal floor. She quickly saw that it was useless to resist. Her full strength would have paled against the trooper’s, whose armoured weight lent him an extra advantage. Nirri lay on her stomach, panting in helpless terror, as her worst fears played out in front of her face.

The first storm trooper was on the floor, still fighting. As shadows swooped upon him, they were met by his gun’s explosive flashes. Their violent light split the shadows asunder. The bronze-helmed woman had drawn her sword, which she wielded with consummate skill. Its blade, too, cleaved the darkness, too quickly for Nirri to follow, burning light trails into her retinas.

Wherever these lights were not, however, the shadows regrouped. Congealing into nightmare shapes once more, they renewed their vicious attacks. Claw marks appeared across the fallen trooper’s chest, shredding his armour. He was trying to stand, but was battered back down by barbed appendages, tearing at his newly exposed flesh, bathing themselves in clouds of his blood.

The other two troopers, the scouts, had returned from ahead. Their guns spat out great gouts of holy fire. The trooper with whom Nirri lay fired when he could too, when he could be sure of not striking an ally through the ever-shifting morass.

Nirri prayed to the Emperor to guide the soldiers’ sights and bless their blades. What else could she possibly do?

She closed her eyes and prayed for the nightmare to end. She had thought there might be peace behind her eyelids. She had thought her dreams must be emptied of creatures by now. She could not have been more wrong. There were more of them than ever, their scratching like nails on a blackboard. She stared at a spot on a nearby bulkhead, instead, and tried to see nothing but its dullness.

A storm trooper screamed, and it was the worst sound she had ever heard. One of his fellows called for reinforcements in an urgent, breathy tone, but his voice was strangled by a gargling moan. Conversely, the shrieks of the nightmare creatures had adopted a triumphant tone. The relentless cracks of gunfire deadened Nirri’s ears, which she welcomed as a minor mercy. Her nostrils twitched at the acrid smell of weapons discharge, and the iron tang of spilt blood.

She felt herself hauled to her feet. ‘What are you–’ she protested, but was stifled by a gauntlet clamped across her mouth.

Her captor bundled her back the way they had come. Another scream pursued them. Nirri resisted the urge to turn her head. She didn’t want to, couldn’t bear to, look. If she didn’t witness the carnage then perhaps, somehow, it wouldn’t have happened. Her mind’s eye painted a grisly picture for her, even so. A picture fit to make an Inquisitorial storm trooper run – though not for long.

Nirri stumbled, and a shadow stole up behind her.

She felt its hot, spittle-flecked breath on her neck. She heard the snick of a claw being plunged into sinew and muscle.

She felt the storm trooper stiffen beside her, heard his sharp intake of breath. She saw the trooper’s eyes widen, bulge and pale. Thick rivulets of blood welled over his lip, and the suggestion of a claw protruded from the trooper’s chest. Then he toppled forwards onto his face, a shadow riding his back all the way down.

The trooper hit the deck plates with a heavy clang of arms and armaments.

Nirri was already running again.

She didn’t know what good it would do her. She fully expected to be cut down at any moment. She marvelled as each foot fell in front of the other, each one an increment of precious ground gained, as the shadows receded behind her.

She ran until her legs ached, until her lungs felt like they would explode.

She ran because, this time, there was no one left to stop her.

She had no idea where she was.

She remembered running, but she didn’t remember stopping.

All Nirri could hear was her own heartbeat, like a hammer. She willed it to be quieter. If only she was quiet, perhaps the nightmare creatures wouldn’t find her.

She had wedged herself into a gap behind some throbbing hunk of metal. A maintenance gantry ran over her head, concealing her from any eyes above. The red lights flickered and cut out for minutes at a time. She knew she should have been grateful for the darkness, but she found it oppressive.

Nirri wasn’t alone in the dark.

She sensed the creature, rather than seeing it or hearing it.

It clung to the gantry’s underside, two feet above her. Its rheumy eyes glared at her from beneath a cracked, folded, leathern wing. Its massive jaw leered open to reveal two rows of sharp, bloodied teeth.

Or so she imagined it. The red light snapped back on and chased the shadow away, but she knew it had been there. It had been real.

There seemed no point in hiding now. She eased herself out from behind the machine. She stood in the gangway, blinking, hugging herself against the numbing cold. She had only just noticed the freezing temperature. What should I do? She didn’t know.

Why had the creatures spared her? Should she be relieved or afraid? What if they had other plans for her? What if – and this thought really chilled her heart – they had judged her an ally of sorts? What if they had seen something inside her, something akin to their own terrible natures?

A dusty banner swayed above her head. The image of an eye glared down at her in silent accusation. What did it see inside her? she wondered. What did the Emperor see? The soldiers should have slain me, she thought.

Then, why had they not?

Nirri found herself retracing her steps.

Her feet, as before, didn’t want to obey her commands. What choice did she have, though? Her nightmares had spared her, but for what? To drift in the wreck of the crippled Black Ship forevermore? Or until she succumbed to cold and hunger?

She made herself go on.

She faltered at a four-way junction. She couldn’t remember which way she had come in her blind panic. She felt her breathing start to quicken again. She calmed herself and looked, not with her eyes but with her mind.

One route felt different to the others. It felt like the one not to take. So, she prayed to the Emperor for courage and chose that route. She knew she had been right when she smelt blood and burning ahead of her. The odour made her stomach sink. She knew now that she had come back here for nothing.

The first corpse she came across was the trooper who had tried to escape with her. He lay face down in a pool of his internal organs. Where were you taking me? Nirri yearned to ask him. What did you want with me, so important that you would abandon your comrades to keep me alive?

No answer would come from that quarter.

Nirri walked a little further, tentatively. She picked out the shapes of other storm troopers, strewn across the gangway. They had been left to rot where they had fallen.

One of the bodies twitched. She hurried towards it, a flame of hope in her heart. A groan of dismay escaped her lips as she found the sole survivor of the massacre.

The bronze-helmed woman lay staring up at Nirri. Her sculpted breastplate had been shredded. Her breathing was shallow.

She still felt wrong, and now Nirri understood why.

She could see the woman, hear her ragged breaths. She could smell her blood and sweat. She couldn’t feel her presence, however. Not in the way that she could feel the presence of others. The disconnect between what she could sense and what she knew unsettled her. She didn’t want to be here, with this… this soulless creature, but who else could answer her questions?

Bravely, Nirri crouched beside the bronze-helmed woman. ‘What do I do?’ she whispered. It seemed the only question that mattered.

The woman reached up to her helm with trembling hands. She removed the top part of it. The face she revealed was surprisingly normal. A tattoo of eagle feathers followed the curve of her right eyebrow. The helm’s lower grille remained in place like a restraint, a metal gag. The woman’s dark eyes met Nirri’s own and commanded their attention. Her hands clutched at Nirri’s filthy tunic in silent appeal.

She couldn’t speak.

The realisation hit Nirri like a punch to the guts. The only woman who had the answers she sought, only she could never reveal them.

‘It’s just,’ she blurted out, ‘what if I brought the creatures here? I’ve been seeing them for months, for years, in my dreams, and now… You must have chosen me, of everyone in the hold, for a reason. Like you think I’m responsible too. But I swear, I am loyal to the Emperor. I just want to… If I can help, if there’s something I can do, I’ll try my very best to do it. Just, please, tell me what I ought to do.’

The light in the woman’s dark eyes was fading. She gestured with her hands, and Nirri felt tears welling up inside her.

Then she realised that the bronze-helmed woman was pointing.

She pointed along the gangway. The way that she and the others had been going when the creatures had attacked them. She also pointed upwards. ‘Yes, we are on our way up,’ a soon-to-be-dead soldier had said. ‘Yes, with the astropath.’

The woman’s eyes fluttered and closed for the final time.

Nirri took her hands and laid them on her chest, across each other.

‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I understand.’

Nirri heard heavy footsteps tramping towards her.

She heard low voices too. They were definitely human.

She stepped out into the light at the centre of the gangway. She waited to be found.

She had been walking for what seemed like an age. The only people she had encountered – if you could call them that – had been a handful of servitors. They had reverted to carrying out menial, now entirely pointless, tasks. She had tried to talk to them, but they had just gaped at her, uncomprehendingly.

She had tried to maintain a straight course, but the Black Ship’s labyrinthine layout had thwarted her. She had also shunned the bad-feeling gangways, even when it meant a sizeable diversion. She had lost her way more times than she could count.

She had kept on going, however, and climbed when she had the opportunity. She felt she was close to her objective.

A squad of storm troopers appeared ahead of her. She counted eight of them. They came to a halt when they saw her, snapping up their rifles. She had expected as much and she wasn’t afraid. She stayed as still as she could and raised her hands.

The troopers appeared to be unscathed, but she sensed a weariness about them. They were tired of fighting shadows. Their leader sent two of them towards her with a curt gesture. ‘Be careful,’ he warned them. ‘The Occluding Sphere no longer protects us.’

‘What do you think she is?’ an acolyte asked.

‘A mutant, clearly,’ said another, ‘but how did she get out of the hold?’

Rough hands seized Nirri again, frisking her for weapons. She had considered taking a gun from a fallen trooper, but she wouldn’t have known what to do with it.

The rest of the squad moved up and surrounded her. One of them muttered something into his collar, then reported to his leader. ‘Sounds like the crew are expecting this one, sergeant. She was in the custody of the Silent Sisterhood.’

‘No longer, evidently,’ growled the sergeant. He marched up to Nirri, until they stood nose to nose. His face twisted into a scowl of contempt, and she saw that his nose had been broken too often to heal properly.

The sergeant’s glare was fixed on Nirri, but he spoke to the troopers behind her. ‘Take no chances with this one. If it makes a threatening gesture or tries to speak to any of us, or if it looks at you the wrong way, blow out its knees.’

He turned and marched stiffly away, barking an order over his shoulder to his squad: ‘Bring it to the bridge.’

Nirri’s first sight of the bridge took her breath away.

It occupied a massive, vaulted space at the summit of the ship. It reminded her of the splendour of her local temple: stained glass and fluted columns and inlaid gold glistening in scented candlelight. The temple had been half the size of this, however, and modestly furnished in comparison.

Nor had the temple had control panels set into its ancient wooden surfaces.

The place was awhirl with activity. Dozens of grey-clad people were scurrying about. Their fingers traced runes carved into the walls, which lit up green with electronic burbles – or more often red with disparaging honks. They checked and rechecked readings from the panels. They reeled off strings of numbers to each other, which only made them more unhappy. Their faces were as grey as their uniforms, etched with hopelessness.

Nirri’s eye was drawn to one point in particular. A crack in a stained-glass pane. Light seeped in through it, but it possessed a peculiar quality. It seemed to shift in colour and intensity, so that the more she looked at it, the less she was able to describe it. She felt she could almost touch the light, mould it in her hands. She felt she had to touch the light.

She reached out to it. She took an involuntary, faltering step towards it. She was brought up short by the storm troopers holding her arms.

One of the men in grey had noticed Nirri. He was older than most, the skin of his face tanned and crinkled. He had badges of rank across his chest. ‘Is that…? Is that the…?’ He looked her up and down with a mixture of doubt and distaste.

‘We found it wandering alone in Sector Twelve,’ said the acolyte sergeant.

‘You must be mistaken. It can hardly be more than an infant.’

‘I’m almost sixteen.’ Nirri mouthed the words defiantly, but had no voice.

‘This is the one the Silent Sisters chose.’

‘You mean it’s the best they could do.’ The grey man took a handful of Nirri’s hair and pulled it back, making her wince. He rubbed a callused palm across her forehead, as if searching for something. He sighed in exasperation.

‘As I understand the situation…’ the sergeant ventured.

The grey man nodded, scowling. ‘We have nothing to lose.’ He summoned two grey-clad colleagues, indicating Nirri to them. ‘Show our new astropath to the chair,’ he instructed them.

The two crewmembers exchanged a nervous glance. Then they led the way across the bridge. The storm troopers hauled Nirri after them. A sudden dread had seized her, however, and she began to struggle. ‘Wait. Wait,’ she gasped.

She twisted her head towards the glowering squad leader. ‘They’re coming,’ she insisted. ‘They followed us here. I can feel them.’

The acolyte sergeant jerked his rifle as if to carry out his earlier threat. He must have seen something in Nirri’s eyes, however – something he believed – for instead, he ordered his squad to split up and guard the exits.

Nirri, in the meantime, was led to a large, padded seat.

A figure lolled in it: a mutant, to judge by its prominent cranial lumps. It had no eyes, just sockets filled with masses of weeping, black scar tissue. She thought it dead, until it let out a little moan and dribbled down its chin. The crewmembers gripped it by the shoulders and tipped it onto the floor, unceremoniously. Wires were torn from the mutant’s skull in the process, in a welter of blood.

The storm troopers pushed Nirri into the seat. She protested as the crewmembers fastened leather restraints around her wrists. They gathered up wires with bloody needles on their ends. They thrust the needles into the back of her neck. She was barely aware of any of this, however.

She found herself facing the cracked window, and its strange light flooded through her eyes and filled her brain. It drove out the nightmare shadows. It occurred to Nirri that no one else would look at the light. They shielded their eyes when it was in their field of vision. The light was dangerous to them, she felt this strongly.

It was dangerous to them – and to her?

‘Do you think it’ll work this time?’

‘Not a chance. This one is a child. It’s completely untrained.’

‘It only needs to give us a nudge. Before… before it died, the Navigator–’

‘Said we were stuck halfway out of the warp.’

‘Halfway, though. And they can’t follow us back into realspace.’

‘Know what I think will happen when we throw that switch?’

‘It might just work. A little nudge. We might just–’

‘I think the little mutant’s brain will burn.’

The voices came to her from a long way away, as if through water.

The sounds of the storm troopers’ hellguns seemed even more distant. Another battle had begun. A battle in which one side had infinite numbers. A battle that raged only yards away from Nirri, where she sat bound and helpless. Even so, she felt as if it had nothing to do with her. A feeling of calmness had enveloped her. The light had grown until it filled her vision, until it blotted out her other senses, until there was nothing but the light. Like nothing else mattered.

She knew what she had to do. For the first time – the first time in her life – it all made sense.

Before she could act on her new-found knowledge, however, she heard another voice say, ‘Emperor preserve us!’ The wires plugged into the base of her skull surged and the voice that had spoken before had been absolutely right.

Nirri’s brain burnt.

She was still screaming, some days later.

She woke with a start, and relief flooded through her for a second. Then she remembered where she was.

She was manacled in the containment hold, back with the mutants. Her legs and shoulders ached from maintaining a half-crouched position. Harsh light strobed across Nirri’s face, and a discordant screech drilled into her nerves. Her throat was raw.

A hunchbacked, grey-faced servitor had prodded her awake. It hosed the floor between her feet with grey nutrient slop. She looked down at it, blinking dully. How long had it been since she had eaten? She couldn’t remember.

‘I don’t understand,’ she croaked. ‘How…? Why…?’

She could feel the throbbing of the Black Ship’s powerful engines.

‘I dreamt… I know we were attacked. We were trapped between realms, and there were creatures. In the shadows. I did not imagine the creatures.’

She didn’t know who she was trying to convince. The servitor’s augmetic eye clicked and whirred as it regarded her, but its expression remained dead. She pleaded with it, all the same. ‘Tell me you remember the creatures.’

The servitor jabbed a finger at the slop on the floor. ‘Eat,’ it said, and it turned its back on her.

I don’t understand, she thought. Everything is as it was before. How can that be? If we are alive, I must have saved us all… mustn’t I? How can that not have made a difference? How can they still doubt me, doubt my faith? Unless…

It was hard for her to think. Her mind pounded with the memories of a desperate battle, but the memories were already fading. Like shadows. Like dreams. No. I refuse to let that happen. She clung to what her heart knew was real. She had saved them all, saved the soldiers, saved the crew, and they had to remember.

Unless…

She caught the white-eyed gaze of the gaunt-faced mutant. ‘All gone now,’ he moaned to himself. He was rocking back and forth on his heels, hugging his knees. ‘Gone away. Gone away. But not gone far.’

It happened, Nirri told herself, without a trace of doubt. Even if it only happened in my mind – it was no less real for all that.

She could hear the creatures again. She heard them scratching, felt them straining at the edges of her senses. They were trying to invade her mind once more – they always would – but she would always hold them back. Her days of denying her nightmares were over. For the Emperor would never have visited the nightmares upon her without also giving her the strength to resist them.

Nirri would be brought to Holy Terra soon. She would be examined, the extent and nature of her mutation determined. Many eyes would peer into her soul, and they would judge her. They would find that she had not been cursed. She had been blessed. And they would listen to her, then.

Everyone would have to listen to her.

She would be trained in the use of her abilities. She would learn how to follow the path chosen for her by the Emperor.

It would be her honour to fight the shadows for Him.

THE NEFARIOUS ANTIPUSTULENT OF CLAN MORBIDUS

David Guymer

From Black Library and Age of Sigmar stalwart David Guymer comes the squeak-quel that nobody asked for, but Inferno! deserved!

In this follow-up to volume 3’s ‘The Unlamented Archpustulent of Clan Morbidus’, we find Makulitt Pus with the high-profile job he never wanted. As he faces unrest and coups from within his clan, he desperately seeks a way out. But navigating the bizarre world of Skaven politics is a challenge for any rat. This absurd, picaresque story provides a unique snapshot of life in Blight City.

THE FLESHSTINK PROCESSION

The monks did not go four or five tail-lengths before disappearing into oil-smear fog and teeming, ratty hordes. The air was fur and musk, smoke and fat, claw-scrabble and strident squeals. Weep Dripclaw kept his hood drawn and to himself, inasmuch as the numberless inhabitants of Fleshstink would allow, and listened, likewise, as the monks brought them the foulsome news of the Withered Word.

‘These are base-low and degenerate vermin,’ said Fekreek Bruhrk, Bilecardinal Superior of the Obstreperous Retch, his squeak conspiratorial. His head was tonsured, his lips cracked, the skin of his muzzle peeling and raw as ordination to the episcopal degree demanded. His expression was one of permanent addlement, and not improved by the charred-meat smell and warpstone edge to the fog. ‘Fertile fur for the Church’s message.’

‘Do not mis-smell the deviancy of the Moulder clans for the blessings of the Corruptor,’ said Weep. ‘They are as different as yellow dengue and scarlet palsy.’

Fekreek tilted his head, a gesture deliberately spoiled with a curl of his lip and a display of brown fangs. When he spoke, his ulcerated tongue rolled sloppily over his superior’s titleless name: ‘I would not dream-think of telling Weep Dripclaw his business.’

In the Churches of Contagion, orthodoxy changed daily. When the personalities of the Great Horned Rat became especially febrile and fragmented, it could morph hourly. Whatever it happened to be, Weep believed it. It was a test. To sift the morally adroit and theologically nimble from the masses. And so he believed, and strove with every moment to know the current truth of the Corruptor and to believe it harder than any anointed rat-priest of Clan Morbidus. Such was the state of competition within and between the Churches that an ‘irregularly’ consecrated theologian with a knack for interpreting, and for reinterpreting, the Word would always be in demand.

Weep and Fekreek both looked up as the sawing, hammering and gnawing that had been a part of their background abruptly ceased.

A scaffold of rotten timber beams and mouldy rope rose just high enough for the rickety platform at its top to be lost in fog. The resident vermin ignored it, as they ignored Weep and the lay menials who had spent the last Bell and a half erecting it. New structures went up in Fleshstink almost as frequently as old ones came down.

‘Why do you sit-wait, great cardinal of the Obstreperous Retch?’ Weep turned to Fekreek. The priest was still looking up at the tower, snot dribbling down his hairless snout. ‘Your congregation awaits. The Moulder clans yearn to listen-learn of their abhorrent ways.’ He gestured his snout to the platform. ‘Up-up.’

Poxmaster Gagrik could barely think for the clatter of machinery. Cable carts carrying muculent slop lurched, step by iron-grinding step, from slime plantations in the dank uplands to the feed mills and renderiser plants there in the delves. As befitted his lofty status as right paw to Archpustulent Makulitt Pus, Gagrik and his coterie of monks had set up their stall on the low ground close to the factories, the better to negate the false Word of his superior’s rivals. A poor decision, in hindsight. The fog was thickest there: equal parts vapour, warpstone dust and aerosolised animal fats, it drove him almost past madness with hunger, and turned the warp-powered ark lamps of the flesh-warren into spitting migraines on poles. Mill wheels the size of church fronts turned with cacophonous clanks, a deafening onslaught that was at the same time not quite deafening enough to blot out the sounds of pulping, tenderising, masticating and mincing emanating from the factories.

His stomach gurgled.

‘What do the craven apostates do now?’

Friar Rikkulous Snarp held the corroded brass of the farsquinter to his eyes and dialled the focus rings. He adjusted the filter sets to compensate for the all oppressive green, his fur crinkling in consternation. ‘They are very far-distant, most august one. Perhaps they do not think-plan to contest the Word of Clan Morbidus in the Fleshstink after all.’

Gagrik looked down at his subordinate and cuffed him across the ear. The jewelled rings and bangles concealed under worm-eaten robes gave a muffled jangle. ‘Other end. Fool-fool.’

Snarp turned the farsquinter over, the smaller holes towards his eyes and the larger away. ‘Infinite apologies, oh favoured of the bilious one.’

‘Careless paws betray faithless thoughts,’ Gagrik warned.

One of the Archpustulent’s favourite psalms.

Swallowing hard, Snarp brought the farsquinter to his eyes. He leant forward, tail rising from the ground to counterbalance.

‘They build, oh forgiving one.’

‘Building what?’

‘A platform, eminence.’ The friar sniffed, in spite of the thousand tail-lengths between the end of his farsquinter and the vile, villainous nonconformists of the Scratching Ruin.

Gagrik rolled his eyes.

Corruptor spare me the plague of cretinism.

‘Six tail-lengths,’ Snarp announced. ‘Maybe seven tail-lengths high.’

Gagrik frowned into the distance. To the naked skaven eye, the construction was a teetering smudge of blackness in the green. He could have listed a thousand places that he would have rather been than there. His grip on the Coryzan noxwood sceptre under his robes was strong. His claws were blunted from hard work, permanently stained by many an exotic potion. Given the choice he would rather have been with the lay menials building his own pulpit than be the rat who had to climb it and proselytise a faith he barely understood himself.

‘I think it finished,’ said Snarp, still peering through the farsquinter.

‘Do you see him?’ said Gagrik. ‘The villainous uncanon? The arch pretender? The nefarious Antipustulent?’

‘No-no, eminence. Only one of his gullible fool-priests.’

Schisms such as that which had riven Clan Morbidus were not uncommon and occurred always in fours. Thus, when a wayward Church split to follow its own radical interpretation of the Word, three more would invariably follow, either of their own volition or for some contrived reason of the superstitious priests left behind. Gagrik did not know why. He knew better than to wonder. Nor would he risk his neck to suppose that the Archpustulent may have been in any way imprudent in wielding his powers of excommunication so profligately, appearing to neither understand nor care that unholy lore would force others from the bonds of orthodoxy.

‘The foul apostate climbs!’ Snarp jiggled footpaw to footpaw in his fervour, only the farsquinter against his face holding steady.

Gagrik looked up the ladder of their own ramshackle pulpit. Although sturdier than its rival effort, for the wealth of Makulitt Pus was inexhaustible, it leant like a monk on a palsied knee, creaking with every lurch-step fly-past of Fleshstink’s sopping cable carts.

‘Then we must shepherd these wretches from the false-faith of the Antipustulent.’

‘Yes-yes,’ said Snarp. He peered at Gagrik pointedly. ‘We must.’

‘Hear me, faithless!’ Fekreek shrieked from the tower-top, arms aloft, voice as ripe as a week-old corpse. ‘Hear the condemnation of the Great Horned One on your sinful and most-deviant works, and despair…’

Decrepit, unwholesome-looking specimens of Skavendom glanced up briefly as they scurried past. The skaven were a pious race. Few had a keener awareness of their slavering deity, nor so brief an allocation of years and, thus, so near an engagement with his jaws, as the skaven did. It was a rare rat, then, who would not spare a moment and half an ear to the slim possibility of salvation. Plague monks brandished clubs and snarled whenever a clanrat, sniffing a way to circumvent the crowd, pushed close enough to Weep to make the pulpit’s rickety scaffold creak.

Fekreek was too gripped by the passion of the Word to notice.

‘Remember how less ignoble vermin… errr… how less ignoble vermin reject such false prophets…’ A preternaturally high skaven voice boomed tinnily from a loudsqueaker somewhere on the other side of the warren. Weep lifted his snout towards the source. He could not see it. Sound lingered unnaturally in the fog, like a plague rat after a heavy meal. It moved strangely, or not at all. ‘They heed not their promises, for they know-smell the true scent of the Corruptor.’

Weep shook his head, sourly. Such wanton misinterpretation of the Word.

The passage was supposed to read how less ignoble vermin ingest such false prophets…

‘Louder, Bilecardinal Superior,’ he hissed.

‘And it is foetid!’ Fekreek cried, his voice climbing until it was as shrill as the joints on rusted armour. ‘It is Ruin, robing itself not in silver tarnish and verdigris…’

‘Nor cowering amongst you as a beggar, nor as a… er… a common leper or agent of infection. No-no! No! He is an emperor of ailment…’

‘A leveller of the potent…!’

‘A blight for the many…’

‘Give yourself to decay as they did…!’

‘Gird yourself in decay as they did…’

Weep hissed at a nearby plague monk as a clanrat with bug-eyes and sharp, needle-like fur barged into him from behind. The monk brandished his club at the miscreant, who, confident in the mass of furry bodies now separating them, squeaked insults in reply. Weep watched the clanrat push his way on until he was halfway lost in the fog, to the point where a monk in matted robes the colour of scarlet pus came up behind and coshed him on the back of the head with a rusty mace. The rat went down without a squeak. The monk lifted his snout to squeal something, but the fog was so thick it was as though they all scurried with fat-soaked rags in their mouths. Whatever it was, it changed the mood of the horde. A clanrat with mangy yellow fur and breath like a butcher’s midden was suddenly hissing in Weep’s snout. He hissed back, drawing a dagger from his robes. Before he had a chance to use it a plague monk clubbed the clanrat down. Froth sprayed from the unholy warrior’s muzzle.

Weep raised a paw to calm the monk’s zeal, searching with his nose for the ratman who had struck the first blow. The Antipustulent had embraced so many of Clan Morbidus’ wayward Churches into his diocese that it was impossible to know them all by livery or scent.

The culprit had already disappeared into the fog.

‘Calm yourself, litter-brother,’ said Weep. ‘We come to convert. Not to fight-kill.’

With a rabid shriek, the monk pushed past regardless, club swinging into the belly of an apparently ignorant clanrat. Foetid breath whooshed from the clanrat’s lungs as he was lifted off his footpaws and slammed bodily into the foot of Fekreek’s tower. The stricken beam gave without any resistance whatsoever, and Weep turned to look up, his jaw falling open as the entire rotten frame exploded like a bird bone hit by a hammer. The tower pitched onto its broken toe. The handful of monks who had been doing their utmost to hold the wobbly structure upright scattered with shrieks of terror.

Fekreek screamed at them to come back.

Not one of them did.

Weep whirled with a scream, pushed his knife into the back of the plague monk – who was more interested in clubbing down Moulderclan than fleeing – and ran. He ran, until sound, weight and pain came down in awful amalgamation and fell across his shoulders.

Gagrik did not see his rival’s pulpit go down, nor was he able to hear it for the clank and shriek of industrial butchery taking place beneath his footpaws. But a displacement wave rolled through the fog as though the Great Horned Rat had reached down from his tortured heavens and flicked it with a blackened claw. And that Gagrik felt. He could hear as well Friar Snarp’s giggles as the priest peered through the warp-filters of his farsquinter, describing the catastrophe with great mirth. Gagrik set his own footpaws across the sturdy, even boards of his pulpit. His chest puffed a little fuller. The hunch of his spine became slightly lesser. Gagrik was not much of a preacher, but building, making – that he knew.

‘A new-sharp thing of befoulment arises within the Clans Pestilens,’ he squeaked, the loudsqueaker turning his natural skittish whine into a strident soprano, so loud that it made his fur stand trembling on end. ‘You are right-right to deny the false messiah-thing, Moulderclan. And wise. Yes-yes. Most-very wise. All of you. Yes. A new voice thinks to squeak for the faithful of Clan Morbidus. Favoured will be those who ignore him. Debased and degraded will be those who heed his pretenders. Woe!’ He shook his paws, taken by the energy of his sermon now. ‘A fate lots-much blacker awaits those who succour him openly. Not for them the gullet of the Great Horned Rat. No! Not even the fleas that infest the black fur of his infernal back will have them. No-no! For them will be the mites and grubs that plague those loathsome insects. Forever will be their torment! Death to the Antipustulent of Clan Morbidus! Death to–’

The platform lurched.

Gagrik swayed, spreading his footpaws, his arms and tail springing up for balance. He peered short-sightedly to the ground.

The Archpustulent had spent enough warptokens to ensure that there were as many lay members of the Morbidus clan in Fleshstink just then as there were clanrats of the Clans Moulder, but his congregation did seem to have swollen somewhat beyond even what he had paid to expect. Several monks in a mishmash of pestilential drab that might have belonged to one of Makulitt’s Churches led the rabble in noisome chants, a number pushing right up against the foot of the tower. The platform beneath him ticked like a Skryreclan time bomb as it tilted slowly, slowly, away from level.

He aimed the loudsqueaker straight down and yelled.

‘Stop! Stop now!’

Weep emerged, coughing up bits of lung and small pieces of wood, dragging his body like a blind and blood-soaked newborn from the wreckage of Fekreek’s platform. His arms shivered as he pushed himself up onto his elbows. A confusion of shrieks and squeals and dull metallic clangs filled the fog. He shook his muzzle, clearing the fuzz of tinnitus from his ears somewhat, and blinked the spots from his eyes.

Plague monks in every hue of contagion fought each other to the death. They grappled, arms locked, claws gouging, eyes crazed, weapons abandoned or simply forgotten about under the debris left by the fallen tower. Some were swaddled in the noisome robes of the travelling mendicant, pilgrims of plague and unholy rats of no Church. Others were sacerdotally anointed pox warriors – many of them, apparently, formerly in the guise of clanrats of Clan Dregg, raggy hoods since shrugged off in their determination to bite the face off their brother rat. There were a few genuine Moulderclan rats in amongst the fighting too, but their zeal for the fray was markedly lesser, and most of those that weren’t already corpses were in the business of running away.

Fekreek appeared to be dead.

Weep looked up as a great whumf rolled across the sky.

A sludgy missile arced lazily overhead from some kind of catapult hidden within the warrens, dripping like a wet comet as it flew.

This was getting rapidly out of paw. Who had brought a plagueclaw catapult? One of his or one of theirs? Unless, of course, it had been Moldrent’s doing. The Antipustulent was certainly mad enough to attempt to smuggle an artillery piece into one of the Greater Clan’s Blight City heartlands and expect nobody to notice. Weep silently girded himself to the mental task of aligning himself wholly to the military, theological and political genius that was Antipustulent Moldrent Sour.

The plagueclaw missile struck its target with a chloroformed crash.

Greenish flames and muffled squeals rose on a mushroom cloud of vile gases and debris. Metalwork shrieked as it tore. A zigzagging section of the Moulder clans’ weird assembly line collapsed in on itself. Gagrik moaned and looked away as bits of it fell on him, scratching dimly at the blood-scabbed paw that was trying for his wrist. Undaunted, the paw wrapped its fingers around his wrist and he mumbled in alarm as it hauled him up. Broken beams and splints of wood tumbled off his head and shoulders as he was levered upright. Slime from an upended cable cart dripped from his snout. He licked his lips and wrinkled his face in disgust.

Plague Abbot Krusk of the Gnawing Ruin slapped him.

Gagrik looked up, baring his fangs absently.

‘Move-move.’ The plague abbot was a proud foot soldier of the Corruptor with a seeping bandage wound across both eyes, a jaw filled with broken teeth and infected bronze piercings, and a rusty clawhammer in one paw. Gagrik knew him mostly by his smell, which was of the sour urine he sprayed daily on his leather armour and the blood that he coughed up onto his forearm fur. ‘If not then I will eat you, take your jewels, and squeak-say you were already dead.’

Gagrik peered dimly around, barely listening. The battle was a vague murmur, of something terrible happening very far away.

‘Who brought a plagueclaw? Was it the Archpustulent?’

Krusk jabbed the three cardinals of the Splintered Temple across his breast and gave a sticky sigh. ‘The Archpustulent is as treacherous as he is unholy.’

Killing everything and rationalising it later did sound suspiciously like the sort of thing the Archpustulent would do. As they often did when under extreme and unfair duress, Gagrik’s thoughts drifted back to his workshop in the basement sub-tiers of the Splintered Temple. He wondered if it was still there, safely boarded up and booby-trapped the way he had left it, or if someone had been desperate enough for the space to move in and claim it.

‘No one ever tried to kill-kill me when I was assistant to Verminable Cruor. For some reason, no one ever want-take that job.’

‘Up-up.’ Taking him by the collar, Krusk dragged Gagrik onto his footpaws. Nose to nose, Gagrik recoiled from the plague abbot’s breath. As potent as ammonia salts on an unconscious rat.

Gagrik shook his muzzle and snarled.

Krusk let him go.

Gagrik made to straighten his over-robes, then shrugged and shed them. The layers beneath were a yellowed cream. Cracked jewels and adornments twinkled in the greenish haze: golden spurs; horned crosses; the ordinaries of various orders of Pox and Ruin into which he had been duly invested as grandmaster, or simply invented himself to make his robes of state even more impressive. He pulled his sceptre from its sleeve and rolled his shoulders to loosen tense muscles. He bared his fangs.

‘Where is Friar Snarp?’

Krusk shrugged.

Fled, probably.

Everywhere else, skaven fought.

He had never been in an actual battle, but even from that position of ignorance he hesitated to call this one. There were no lines, no formations. No one was giving orders except for the most local and extremely rudimentary of kinds – plague abbots and pox templars squealing ‘Kill-kill!’ in the moments before they hurled themselves onto their fellow faithful. Or each other. It was hard to tell. It was a riot, with all the tools and appurtenances of the battlefield. Although everyone else appeared to be fighting, Gagrik was not sure if he was supposed to be too. He struggled to shake the feeling that every other rat in Fleshstink was privy to something that he ought to know, and in their apparently gleeful acts of fratricide were mocking him that he did not.

He turned to Krusk.

‘We have squeaked-done as Makulitt Pus has commanded. We have saved the vermin of Fleshstink from the false Word of the Antipustulent. We may run-scurry now.’

Krusk shook his muzzle.

He pointed into the fog.

Robes whiter even than Gagrik’s winked like a lighthouse in the melee.

‘Oh no,’ he breathed. ‘What is he doing here?’

One did not see a lot of white in Blight City. It was difficult to fashion, and ruinous to keep clean. Most clans only went to the effort and expense for their flags of surrender.

‘Pus!’

The false monks of Clan Morbidus chanted and banged their gongs.

‘Pus!’

The white shape bludgeoned its way closer, a wobble in the murk, just on the wrong side of definition.

‘Pus!’

A warrior of the Corruptor hurled himself at the white-robed divine with a shriek. The priest’s long-handled crozier connected with the monk’s jaw. Teeth and spittle flew. The monk skidded away over the ground.

‘Pus!’

A second monk attempted to run at the white priest, only to collapse into a fit of coughing while he was still three tail-lengths away, heaving in sticky lungfuls of the incense issuing from the skaven’s staff. He tottered forward on his knees, foaming at the mouth, the priest smashing him down the way a novitiate monk might line up a bottle or a brick to practise his swing.

Makulitt Pus.

The Archpustulent himself.

Weep had never smelled the high priest with his own snout before, and he found himself both awed and unnerved by his zeal. Another might have thought it a travesty that Moldrent and Makulitt must be at loggerheads. What heights of ambition, such a rat would rightly dream, might the Morbidus clan and its Churches reach with such fervid maniacs working in concert? But Weep knew, as a skaven and a scholar, that it was ever the Horned One’s whim to pit rat against rat, strong against strong, weak against weak, that only the most innovative and cunning would prevail, and the mediocre serve as meat for his eternal hunger.

‘Pus!’

With frenzied screeches and the furious pummelling of clubs and staves on unarmoured bodies, the monks of Clan Morbidus slammed together. A warrior swung a flail at Makulitt. The Archpustulent leapt the leaking censer, and hammered his crozier down between the monk’s ears. His brains exploded from his nostrils.

‘Pus!’

Weep almost wished Moldrent could be here now. The Antipustulent was a terror on the battlefield, which was exactly why Weep devoted so much of his time to ensuring he never found himself near one.

Muttering curses under his breath, Weep drew up his sleeves.

Sometimes a rat just had to do a thing himself.

He took a deep breath. The air was thick and syrupy. He held it. It burned in his lungs. It tickled the back of his throat with long, poison-steeped claws. Still, he held it. In his mind, he squeaked a prayer to the Corruptor. He felt his chest bloat, something inside boiling and scratching, rising up, pressing against his cheek walls, his lips, his mouth filling up. His eyes began to stream.

Still, he held it.

Makulitt turned his way and screamed a challenge.

Weep opened his mouth with a gasp and exhaled.

The pestilential brume drove a teardrop of corruption into the battling monks. The skaven caught directly under the torrent turned instantly to sludge. Those caught further out, with a limb or a tail in the stream, squealed as the appendages began sloughing from their bodies. Blind faith or blind luck preserved the Archpustulent. A wall of withered corpses, driven ahead of the pestilential breath, bowled the priest down and piled over him.

Weep cursed as the Archpustulent planted his crozier in the teardrop-shaped puddle and hauled himself back up. The high priest looked around, thuribles jangling, then seemed to notice Weep and remember where he was, and charged again.

The Archpustulent shrieked as his footpaw sank into the corrosive puddle.

Weep tittered.

Oh, how Moldrent would rock on his haunches and grunt in something approaching consciousness when Weep spoke of how he had personally slain his rival. How he would clench his fangs and drool before the next seizure administered to him by the Corruptor broke his sanity again. For did Weep not practically set the mitre atop his master’s head?

Cracking his fingers, limbering them for another casting should the threat arise, he scampered forwards. Unlike the fool of an Archpustulent, he took care to skirt the steaming broth his pestilential breath had made on the ground, leaping it at its narrowest and scuttling around. In his other paw, he brandished his knife. He would take the crozier, take the mitre, and perhaps then even Moldrent Sour would have to be sane long enough to be pleased.

With a toxic huff of air, another loose projectile from the plagueclaw catapult soared overhead. Weep glanced up, watched it go, saw it slap into the fog-shrouded hump of one of the Moulder clans’ giant slaughterhouses. The payload slid down the wall of the meat-plant.

He breathed out.

That could have been a lot w–

A sigh rippled out through the fog, the distances involved and the near solidity of the murk making it sound almost apologetic, entirely out of proportion to the slow-motion catastrophe playing out for the eyes. The wall collapsed. Weep stumbled to a stop, willing his shoulders narrower, as bricks pulled away from bricks, tumbling into an ever-expanding hole in the meat-plant wall. After the wall went the roof. One of the great steeple chimneys swayed as the building disintegrated under it. The gargantuan mill wheel that ground against one of the sturdier outer walls issued a series of increasingly loud and urgent pops as it, too, began to lean.

‘Fool-fools, all of them,’ Weep muttered.

With a steady tramp of armoured footpaws, great blocks of stormvermin in the drab of Clan Dregg emerged from the fog. The black-furred warrior caste were thick-necked, broad-shouldered and clad in bent plates of iron and bronze. Plague monks ran at them pell-mell, the stormvermin waiting phlegmatically for them to beat the frenzy from themselves on their shields before butchering them with swords. Weep sniffed about for where he had last spotted the Archpustulent. He bared his teeth. The priest was gone! He turned at the sound of screaming and cursing, watching as a muscular priest in cream-coloured cloak and cassock and a blind abbot dragged him from the field. The Archpustulent fought them every step, shrieking treachery and murder. Not dead yet, then.

Flexing his knuckles, Weep called on his prepared spell. To hell with the mitre. He would get Moldrent a new one. If there was one rat in all the Clans Pestilens who would not appreciate the genuine article then it was the Antipustulent, Moldrent Sour. Joints popped as his fingers drew the thirteenth eschatological sigil of the Withering. His claws thrust after the escaping priests. The final syllable of the incantation burnt a black mark on the backs of his teeth.

A rat ogor punched through the melee like a gargant’s fist through a wall. Plague monks and stormvermin alike flew from its leading shoulder like bits of pulverised brick. The monster threw back its hideously oversized head, and roared.

Weep swallowed his incantation whole.

The Moulder beast crouched onto its knuckles, tail lashing, then snatched up a terrified plague monk in a fist the size of the great Liber Abominus. It brought the squirming rodent to its jaws and bit the monk in half. A twist, a wrench, a crunch of sinew and bone, and it drew its locked jaws away, stringy bits of tissue stretching out between its bloodstained muzzle and the lower portion of the monk still wrapped in its fist. Weep gawped. The rat ogor stuffed the last of the monk into its jaws, veins polluted with warpstone standing rigid atop twitching, bulging muscles, and with a full mouth it roared once more.

As if that almighty bellow were the straw, the great factory wheel completed its stately collapse, dragging down what was left of the slaughterhouse wall and triggering a tsunami wave in the fog that saw the warren’s ark lamps exploding one by one.

But Weep was not watching any more.

He was running, already halfway to the Antipustulent’s palace in Brasstain.

Grey Seer Ratskitten limped from the stairwell and into the Hall of Twisted Bone with a mutter and a curse. A mutter, because there were two thousand and ninety-seven steps from the masterburrow to the top of the sub-tower of He Who Is Tenth. A sigh, because for all its sorely appreciated flatness, the great hall promised to be at least as lengthy a walk. His staff clacked on the parquetry as he struck determinedly out.

The mosaics his grey robes scuffed over were very fine. Much of it, he noticed, was markedly less fine than it had once been. Something had been dragged across it recently. Something large. It did not appear to have gone willingly.

He lifted his snout to follow the trail of gouged tiles and blood-smear with one lazy eye, an arc leading towards a portcullis and, behind it, a set of double doors. They were well made, snugly fitting and – that greatest of rarities in Skavendom – bespoke work. That was not where Ratskitten was bound, but he was, as his peers and underlings alike had always agreed, a curious rat. He wondered who the craftsrat had been to have won so lofty a commission. Mikalis, perhaps, the self-styled Architect of Ruin. Or it could have been Gethit Greystripe, the engineer who had succeeded in undermining the Stormkeep of Astralian and raised a tower of industry in its place. Of course, Gethit had come to fame only five years ago and been murdered by one of his apprentices less than a year later, but still, it was possible.

With a sigh, he limped on past the doors, the clack of his staff echoing through the vast emptiness of the hall.

Heavy was the burden of being Grey Seer Ratskitten.

In a megawarren like Blight City, solitude was its own luxury, and the Hall of Twisted Bone was deliberately uncluttered by oddments or slaves. Massive windows stood where the portraits of great lords might have hung in a man-thing keep. They were unglazed. The humid stink of a billion billion skaven living out short, fast, frantic little lives brushed across his fur as he passed by them, and excited his whiskers. The Tower of Kavzar was the greatest structural feat achieved by any race, anywhere. It pierced the sky of the Realm beneath the Realms like a spike into the roof of a mouth, the endless warp storms that forked and split across the roof of the world its unintended consequence. The view from near its summit was tremendous. Normal perspective was turned upside down. The sky was near enough to smell the corruption that flaked off the skin of the Great Horned Rat as he burrowed through it, an evil shadow filled with threatening shapes and fork-tailed lightning. It was the ground instead that was distant, swaddled by the clouds of skaven artifice, and which glittered with a firmament of greenish stars.

Movement, close enough to register with dim skaven eyes, caught his attention. He turned away from the view.

The doors at the end of the hall opened.

A pair of albino stormvermin stepped out.

They were white-furred instead of black, pink-eyed and clad in shape-fitting plates of black warpstone-steel with a patterned, golden trim. Custom-made to their muscular builds, not scavenged. In uncanny unison the two warriors planted their halberds onto the parquetry, a doubled clack that rang out far louder than the report of Ratskitten’s staff. Making a point. They said nothing as he shuffled with hunched shoulders between them.

But then, of course, they could not.

He stepped inside.

This was not Ratskitten’s first time in the whisper holes and private burrow-halls of the worthy. Far from it. But the Tower of Kavzar was the centre of power of all Skavendom, the diverse cultures of a diaspora, its unbridled innovation, its unlimited wealth. Every wing and sub-tower was a new surprise, every great lord his own unique beast.

The lair of He Who Is Tenth was no different.

Everything was slightly too large and solidly made, as though for a skaven of uncommon clumsiness or strength. Creatures that even the Realms of Chaos would not tolerate to exist outside the arts of taxidermy lurked sullenly behind big chairs and pillars. An adult ripperdactyl with human hands and the head of He Who Was No Longer Tenth perched on a beam: the predatory gleam in its eyes, achieved with glass and warpstone, gave Ratskitten a particular start as he scurried inside.

More unnerving by far were the sculptures. Made of clay, they dotted the room on small tables and pedestals, or balanced precariously atop small towers of well-chewed books. They looked vaguely humanoid, albeit twisted into odd shapes, as if in anger at some failing that the sculptor had identified before proceeding to fire and display them anyway. It was difficult to be certain what they were supposed to be.

And Ratskitten had a nose for such things.

A number of too-large chairs were scattered, apparently at random, around the space. The armrests and backs were all heavily gnawed. The skins of more races than one could easily find in Blight City’s epicurean quarters draped the seats. Stuffed skaven lords occupied a few of them. Ratskitten suppressed a yelp when he first noticed. They were draped in mouldering finery of silks and sequins, their faces pulled into expressions of idiocy or wonder as they admired the even-rarer skins that adorned the back wall.

The silken, lilac-coloured skin of the greater daemon Syll’eik’queilein fluttered languidly in pride of place above the hearth. Palace rumour had it that the skin faded each day and that each day a new one was taken to replace it, that Syll’eik’queilein still lived somewhere within the Tower of Kavzar and each day thanked the immortal Lord of Decay for his exquisite skill with a skinning knife when it was done.

Despite his own august station in the teetering pyramid of the Masterclan and his own not-inconsiderable personal power, Ratskitten felt himself shrink with every step that took him closer to that beguiling hanging.

And the vile lord enthroned beneath it.

Zhurn Aelf-Eater, Master Moulder of Clan Dregg, holder of the Tenth seat on the Council of Thirteen, sat uncomfortably in a great wooden seat. His two tails constricted about each other like serpents that loathed one another absolutely, tumbling over the armrest and onto the floor. He gnawed furiously on a finger the length of most clanrats’ entire paw, even as his eyes lifted and narrowed. Ratskitten gulped and raised his snout to bare his throat. One eye was red as the heart of Khorne and twice as mad. The other was a shapeless lump of raw warpstone beaten into an empty socket, but Ratskitten was in no doubt that it probed him in its own foul way. The Lord of Decay shifted slightly, a giant predator marking the approach of a rodent creature too small to warrant its interest as prey, letting it know that it had been noticed, that its continued existence was on sufferance.

The doors closed with a thud of great finality. The paired albino stormvermin resumed their posts to either side. Ratskitten was almost entirely successful in not flinching.

Zhurn drew his claw from between his teeth and watched it regenerate with obvious disgust. His gaze lifted to focus again on Ratskitten, his expression very much unchanged.

‘My summons takes-pulls you from nothing of importance.’ He licked his lips. ‘I hope.’

Ratskitten bobbed his snout. ‘I merely sniff-study a most fascinating set of tablets. Taken by Eshinclan agents in Sigmaro–’

‘Good,’ said Zhurn. He sat back. Ratskitten winced in pain as the lord’s spines screeched down the wood back of the chair. ‘You know why you come here?’

‘Actually, I–’

‘Yes,’ said Zhurn, and Ratskitten clammed his mouth shut. ‘What do you know of the civil war in Clan Morbidus?’

Ratskitten opened his mouth, eyeing the Master Moulder carefully to ensure he was not about to interrupt again before answering.

‘Little,’ he said quickly. ‘No more than any rat can hear or smell for himself. Eight months ago Makulitt Pus was scratch-voted to succeed Heerak Gungespittle to the Archpustulency. I understand he has been most… hasty in purging his clan of rival Churches. But that which weakens the great Pestilens clans can only be to the better good of–’

‘Their scuffles destroyed half of Fleshstink,’ Zhurn growled. ‘They may squeal their homilies in my demesnes and kill one another as they please, but when they irritate a Lord of Decay then a claw mark in the sand is crossed. Order is the responsibility of the Masterclan.’ He leant forwards. His fur seemed to growl as it brushed wood. ‘Deal with it.’

‘But–’

‘You know why they seek converts in Fleshstink?’

Ratskitten offered an ingratiating bob. ‘A most interesting question, lord. The warrens are of spiritual significance to both sects of the Morbidus split. As the cauldron of the fleshslough blight, which is, of course, absurd as contemporaneous accounts in the libraries of Clan Retchid clearly show–’

‘I will tell you why,’ Zhurn snarled, and Ratskitten obediently shut up. The Lord of Decay fidgeted again, and for one horrifying moment in which his heart refused outright to beat, Ratskitten feared he might actually rise. ‘You know where the Antipustulent has laired since his exile from the Splintered Temple?’

‘No, I–’

‘Brasstain of Clan Ezzik. The competition between the Clans Pestilens and Skryre is legendary. High Arch Warlock Lord Skrach backs their Pustulency only to weaken a rival.’

Ratskitten’s brow wrinkled. ‘So–’

‘They were there to annoy me,’ Zhurn growled. ‘To make me as sick of this scuffle-war as Skrach has become. To make me deal with it so that He Who Is Second, and so nearer to the left paw of the Fleshgifter than I am to his right, will not have to.’ The Master Moulder resumed his gnawing, this time on another claw. As if awaiting that signal, the albino guard moved. The doors opened up like a trapdoor. ‘As I now pass this problem on to you, grey seer, infinitesimal in the broodsire’s smelling as you are next to me. End the fighting before the day of the Bloodfeast.’ The Master Moulder snarled around his slobbered paw. His miscoloured eyes glittered madly. Behind him, the skin of Syll’eik’queilein fluttered against the wall, as if equal party to its master’s pleasure. ‘Or I will find another use for you.’

THE EDICT OF THE TOWER

Moldrent was hearing voices. This was not an unusual state of affairs. The difficulty was in knowing whether they came from within his head or without.

‘The true children of the Corruptor win a great and moral victory this day, most loathsomely eminent one…’

Moldrent shifted. Somewhere amidst the broken pieces of schizophrenia and darkness that together comprised his world view, a chain clanked. His mind was a piece of black glass that had been broken and broken and broken until there was no piece larger than dust to be ground under the Horned God’s heels, and that sound, the sound of slithering chain, cast a thousand reflections through his thoughts. The chains of a captive. Those of a slave. The thick chain of a plague censer in a fanatic’s blistered paws. The caustic bliss of incense. He shivered, chain tinkling. Slaughter. Blood. Death. He thrashed, snarled, aware, as a rat both half in and half out of sleep might be aware, of the orruk-skin mask strapped across his muzzle as its inside became flecked with spittle.

The coughs and snarls of plainsong echoed through his jumbled thoughts. He felt his anger settle. His breathing calmed.

‘From the ashes of your triumph comes unlikely opportunity. A stranger comes with an offer, oh unclean one. A chance to stop-end fighting and be Archpustulent…’

The voice was too insistent to be one of those that commonly peopled his head. And unusually dull. It did not scream. Did not jabber. Did not wither and froth and flail as it faded into–

He forced himself to focus.

Eyelids like dried scabs opened.

He was in a hard cell. The walls were covered in claw-scratch marks, the script becoming ever tighter as the number of unscratched stones became fewer and the prophet’s urgency became greater. He had no recollection of being that rat, but assumed that it must be so. There were no windows, one door, the air within so spoiled by Moldrent’s breathing of it that it was yellow, and thick enough almost to hold in one’s paws. Moldrent was so singularly profane that he could barely smell it.

A single skaven in the plain green-and-brown cassock of a lay priest was prostrate before him. His fur, where it was visible, was a sketchy green-brown not dissimilar to his robes. Like swamp water. The flesh of his snout and paws was red with sores. Moldrent sifted the broken glass of his memory for the name of a slavemaster or a victim or a priest to go with the face and found none. Satisfied in what passed for his own mind that the visitation must be genuine, he jerked fully awake.

The action brought a hard rattle of chain and a constriction of the collar about his neck. The stitching of his reinforced clothing rasped as he thrashed and squirmed, his mask drawing tight around his jaws.

‘He is supposed to be tranquilised,’ the visitation squeaked. To some delusion of its own, perhaps. ‘Give him more-more.’

There was a hiss as a thick brume of mustard-coloured gas spilled into the cell. The visitor covered its muzzle with a rag sleeve and coughed before being swallowed up by the smog. But not Moldrent. Moldrent was blessed. So very blessed. The congested notes of plainsong curdled in the re-dirtied air, as painful, almost, as the seizures that flashed across his brain every second or so. His lids drooped, the welcoming chorus of old rampages rising to fill his skull, his strange visitor already lost amidst a million pieces of memory.

Be Archpustulent, it had said.

He wondered why it thought he would want that.

‘When he comes, say nothing, oh afflicted one. I will take care of everything.’

Makulitt Pus sat in his throne, spine pressed almost straight against the back, footpaws up on the seat, nose poking out between his knees. The chair was as high as a cathedral spire, and as intricate, little golden finials and turrets protruding from the dark panels of mouldy wood. A pungent miasma clung to it, the ancient woods treated with every tolling of the Great Bell to prayer with bilious unctures and oedemic fluids to keep it forever a-teeter between fatal decay and final, lasting collapse. It stung the whiskers, every in-breath an epileptic fire-crack in the minds of the faithful.

Makulitt hated it. Not the throne itself. No rat who had suffered under the malfeasance of the Corruptor, as he had, could turn their nose at such glorious filth. It was an appurtenance befitting a high priest or a messiah, and certainly all that any skaven who craved such accolades might wish for as reward for their ambition and toil. Makulitt simply liked it much better when he was not in it, exactly where every rat and his string-puller could expect him to be.

He was Archpustulent, after all.

He glanced suspiciously over the chittering sea of hooded backs and buried snouts. The monks were bent diligently over their writing desks, feverishly scratching the Word, as it manifested to them today, with rat-bone quills and bile-ink. The more highly skilled and grossly distinguished amongst their fraternity added illustrations and illuminations, decorating the already browning pages with faeces, vomit, mucous, phlegm, tarnish and stains derived from the guts of maggots and flies. It would all be deemed heretical by the thirteenth nocturn of matins tomorrow, and burned, which was, presumably, why they worked with such consuming mania.

Makulitt sniffed over the busy susurrus. An assassin could be disguised or hidden anywhere in such a crowd. His decision to join the Virulent Procession to Fleshstink and lead it in person had no doubt wrong-footed them all. He stroked the tawny grey wisp of his goatee so vigorously that it hurt. Could he not almost see Moldrent’s assassin now, peeking behind the mildew curtain and under the scriveners’ tables, stabbing speculatively at the wriggling thing in the cushion. Oh yes, he had showed them the futility of attempting to second-guess Makulitt Pus.

‘Most execrable one?’

Makulitt snapped from his fevered imaginings.

A small retinue of priests-militant from the Fleshstink procession had gathered under their liturgical banners and dripping icons, huddled together on the thin strip of threadbare carpet that ran from the foot of the Pustulent Throne to the gilt doors in the distance. Small bells woven into the cassocks of a few jangled nervously. The friar of the Church of the Thrice-Swollen Boil, Snarp, considered himself something of a leader-in-waiting. He wore his oozing bandages and the festering splinters in his snout like badges of devotion and shuffled his way to the fore of the congregation, gazing up at Makulitt with an adoration bordering on the suspicious. Beside him was an abbot whose name was beneath Makulitt’s need to know, standing with the preternatural wariness of the blatantly treacherous. Makulitt scratched a mental reminder to find the abbot’s name and have him executed, just in case. He sought out Gagrik, loyal Gagrik, who had settled for a place of middling honour and safety towards the congregation’s rear. He stood with his arms crossed under his cassock’s folds, his tail tapping an irritable rhythm that made for an erratic score with the quill-scratching and the bells.

Makulitt licked his lips carefully while he tried to decide which one of them had addressed him.

‘Yes?’ he hazarded.

‘August cardinal of contagion,’ Snarp grovelled. ‘I did arrange for the swift-quick execution of the three hundred and twenty-nine priests of the forty-two Churches with which you tasked me after the Fleshstink procession.’

‘I did?’

‘Yes-yes!’

Snarp whipped a scrip of parchment from his robes with a flourish. Makulitt clutched the arms of his throne and cringed back.

‘Guards!’

The congregation turned to fog as several heavily armed sextons, lay monks charged with the body of the Archpustulent and the upkeep of the Splintered Temple, converged on the witless friar like flies on dead meat. The friar squealed as he was thoroughly frisked, the parchment snatched from his paw and presented to Makulitt.

Gagrik rolled his eyes. ‘No sudden moves around the Archpustulent. Fool-fool.’

Makulitt sniffed the document warily. ‘What is this?’ he demanded of Snarp.

‘Heretical scribblings, most base and perverted one. Taken from the possessions of one of the three hundred and twenty-nine you ordered dead-dead. And more! His underlings did thereafter confess freely to his traitorous thoughts.’ An awed murmur rippled through the re-congealing congregation. Snarp’s expression was slack with sycophantic wonder. ‘However did you know, lord?’

Makulitt shrugged.

Of greater concern to him was how a spiritual mission to Fleshstink had turned into a pitched battle, who had brought the blasted catapult and, more importantly, how he had managed to win it. Again! Was he so greatly debased in the thoughts of the Corruptor that he could not even fail on purpose? His claw danced a nervous, secret jig on the swaddled pebble hidden in one of his vestments’ many inner pockets. It had cost a small fortune. The bound spell engraved into it had cost another. But then Makulitt had fortunes to fritter and he certainly had not earned them. Was it not as the theologians said: that it was easier for a million verminlords to go through the gullet of the Great Horned Rat than it was for a rich rat to flee? He let out a sharp breath, not yet a sigh, too brief to be a sigh. The magic in the skitterstone was enough for a one-shot jump to somewhere very far from the Splintered Temple of Clan Morbidus. He had hoped to have been able to use it in Fleshstink, but he was surrounded by eyes and whiskers, always. As Archpustulent, it seemed, he never had fewer than a dozen under his nose. He couldn’t even run away without someone noticing.

And worse, bringing him back.

‘The nefarious Antipustulent was given a bloody snout this day,’ said Snarp. ‘The lyceum of priests are much pleased and our monks converted lots-many of Clan Dregg’s faithless to wield plague censers in your cause. Lots-much scorn was laid on the doctrine of the hated fool, Sour.’

The congregation hissed and chittered at the naming of the apostate.

‘There was unwanted damage,’ Gagrik muttered.

The babbling ceased as all eyes turned to the former Poxmixer of the Extirpated Way, not one of them friendly. As Makulitt’s favoured lieutenant and loudly proclaimed successor, Gagrik was a valued buffer between his own hide and those same unfriendly eyes. He trusted him. Not because the poxmaster was trustworthy, but because they had been the last two rodents together on the ballot to succeed Heerak Gungespittle and Makulitt knew without a whisker of a doubt that Gagrik was the only rat who desired the position less than he did. Only now was Makulitt beginning to appreciate the conundrum in that state of affairs. If he were to attempt to spirit himself away, then he could expect Gagrik to move hell and earth to bring him back. After all, if something were to happen to Makulitt then it would be Gagrik who would be expected to fill in as Acting Pustulent. It would take months to gather the lyceum electors from their lairs across the Mortal Realms, and after so long in post, he might even find himself with a chance of being chosen. Makulitt had started to give more and more serious thought to being rid of him and replacing him with someone more conventionally ambitious, like Snarp. Someone who would not ask too many questions if the Archpustulent were to suddenly disappear between terce and sext.

‘The Council of Thirteen demands an end,’ said Gagrik.

‘They will have-have an end when the Antipustulent confesses his heresy!’ said Snarp.

‘They send an emissary from the Masterclan to enforce an… amicable split of the Churches.’

Makulitt stopped fidgeting and sat for a moment, perfectly erect and still.

Amicable?

No, that would not do at all. He would never get away. And without a confirmed apostate like Sour to rage against he would probably be dead by vespers.

‘We should listen-hear to what he squeaks,’ said Gagrik.

‘Who is this ambassador?’

‘A grey seer,’ grunted the abbot, his voice slick with drool. ‘I do not know-smell.’

‘I do,’ said Gagrik. ‘A little. He is very old. It is he, supposedly, who translated and unpicked the magicks that warded the Hexengate Vault, and drew most of the gnawholes maps that were not immediately useless. I hear it was he who ended the civil war between Clans Spikkel and Grung, more than twenty years ago.’

‘An old-thing,’ Makulitt mused.

Snarp bowed low. ‘His eminence is most–’

Makulitt shushed his obsequiousness with a snarl. ‘Admit him.’

Ratskitten’s nose wrinkled from the horrific stench. The floor was slick with filth and ordure, and appeared to have been recently swaddled with something that the grey seer suspected was no more palatable. Insects lay curled up in puddles, the conditions there too poisonous even for Blight City’s vermin.

The walls, somehow, were worse. They were daubed from floor to ceiling in scratch-mark runes and letters, line after line of jagged script written in skaven faeces and an exacting hand. It was written in no language he knew – and he was fluent in five with a passable understanding in eight more – but familiar enough to be unsettling. It was like looking at a suicide note in one’s own handwriting, or studying a grimoire of power with the certain knowledge that something within its pages was studying its reader in turn. The ungodly plainsong, a sinfonietta of piped and bagged instruments peculiar to the Clans Pestilens, pumped in from an adjoining cell did little to set his fangs back from edge.

Hitching up his robes, he stepped decorously over the larger lumps, his staff making a dampened squelch. He had never been more glad that age and patronage had afforded him the wealth to own footwear.

Two other ratmen waited for him inside, and he bobbed his snout towards the likeliest-looking candidate.

‘Antipustulent Moldrent Sour.’

The skaven demurred. ‘My name is Weep Dripclaw.’ Ratskitten found that he distrusted this rat immediately, and more than could be accounted for by simple common sense. ‘A humble theologian and scholar. An advisor to the great and terrible Moldrent Sour on matters theic and mundane.’ He gestured with his snout towards the second skaven.

The ratman snarled, sensing the attention as he might the touch of an unkind master or a three-eyed fly upon his snout. His attempts at rising translated as an idiot twist of the shoulders and a jerk of the head, a rattle of chain running out of the solid corbel bolted to the rear wall. The scrawny figure was straitjacketed and muzzled, half sprawled like a slug trying to break out of a spider’s cocoon. Yellow eyes fulminated from behind the slits of its mask. Ratskitten resisted the instinctual skaven urge to recoil from something so self-evidently dangerous.

‘This is the First Broken Claw of the Church of the Scratching Ruin?’

‘And over twenty allied Churches,’ said Weep. ‘More join the flock every day.’

‘He does this from here?’

Weep gave a practised sigh. Woe, it seemed to squeak. ‘The paw of the Corruptor rests heavily on Moldrent Sour.’

‘I see-smell.’

‘When the ravings of the Horned One bid it, he is released to inflict terror on the unfaithful. The congregations of Clan Morbidus have never known-tasted defeat when led in battle by Antipustulent Sour.’

Ratskitten believed it.

A feeling similar to that of eyes on the back of the neck made him turn and glance over his shoulder. It was surely the contagion in the air, but the scribblings on the wall looked ever so slightly more fevered and urgent than they had before.

‘He is bound here always?’ he said.

‘When he is like this,’ said Weep.

‘Then who wrote the scratch-verses?’

Weep seemed momentarily bereft of an answer. In his hesitation, Ratskitten saw the sort of genuine adulation and terror that most skaven lords would fritter and scheme their entire lives to know.

‘I… No one knows.’

Behind the pale, leathery mask, Moldrent bared stub teeth.

Ratskitten grimaced, unable to tear his gaze away. ‘Is he capable of negotiating?’

‘Oh yes,’ said Weep, looking studiously at the ground. ‘Moldrent Sour always gets what he wants.’

Ratskitten carefully masked his irritation as the Archpustulent, Makulitt Pus, theatrically pondered his proposition. He stroked a withered-looking straggle of goatee, muttered thoughtfully, and reached more than once for some charm or token that he appeared to think cunningly concealed within the deep folds of his vestments. All the while Ratskitten watched him, his eyes were never still. They sniffed into every corner, burrowed around every shadow, started at every unexpected movement or sound and circled it with healthy suspicion and obvious fear.

Paranoia was the prime denominator in all skaven of high office – more things wanted them dead than not – but Pus’ ever-twitching hyper-wariness looked as dangerous to himself and those around him as any poisoned dart or exploding rat. It looked as though he had not slept in days or eaten in weeks. Ratskitten charitably gave him a month. Even if nobody tried to kill him sooner. The priests that debased themselves around the Pustulent Throne, however, looked at him as though he were the Third Coming. The notable exception was his lieutenant, whose glazed and frankly bored expression was focused on an imagined point about five tail-lengths beyond the back of the Archpustulent’s chair. Ratskitten empathised. He cleared his throat.

‘Hm-m-m,’ Pus muttered, looking suspiciously at a patch of creeping mould on the ceiling fresco.

Ratskitten rapped his staff politely on the ground.

Pus looked up, startled.

‘What?’

Ratskitten cocked his head.

‘Oh yes.’ The Archpustulent settled back into consideration, but of a markedly more deliberate variety for the interruption. He sat back, crossed his arms, his tail, uncrossed them, wriggled to the edge of his seat and leant forwards, rested his snout on the backs of his steepled claws, sat back again. ‘Hm-m-m,’ he pronounced again. ‘A conclave, you squeak-say. A Conclave of Zhurn. Me and Moldrent?’

‘Moldrent and I,’ the bored priest mumbled.

‘Moldrent and you?’ said Pus.

‘What?’ said the priest.

‘Preposterous!’ squeaked another, smaller and more elaborately gowned. Amongst the Clans Pestilens, Ratskitten had learned, ostentation of dress and title was a reliable cypher for individual ambition. ‘Poxmaster Gagrik has–’

Ratskitten raised a weary paw lest Clan Morbidus tear itself apart over semantics and double the task given him by the Tower. ‘A conclave between the rival Pustulents. Yes-yes. Mediated by myself, a mouthpiece of the Great Horned Rat and chosen by the Council of Thirteen. That you might resolve whatever ecumenical differences have divided you, split your holdings fairly, and cease the pointless warring that tests the good will of neighbour-warrens.’ He did not add or suffer the consequences but he very much hoped that it was implied. Poxmaster Gagrik was not the only rat present who had things they would rather be doing.

‘The Archpustulent will never–’ the ambitious priest began.

‘How can I know this is no trap?’ said Pus.

‘I scurry at the bidding of He Who Is Tenth. I bear his token.’

He presented the coin-sized disc of refined warpstone, engraved with the lateral slash marks of Zhurn Aelf-Eater’s personal seal and the Queekish numeral ten. Pus leant forward to sniff it before crawling swiftly back between the rests of his throne.

‘How can I know Moldrent will honour the laws of conclave? He is mad-thing.’

‘My patron offers his sub-tower of the Masterburrow for the conclave.’ Ratskitten watched the change in demeanour that went through the priests at that. They were all ambitious, in their own ways. They were creatures who had grown on a steady drip-fed diet of power, and would offer up their own teeth for a chance at a state invitation to the Tower of Kavzar. ‘His albino guard will ensure safety,’ he went on. ‘None of Moldrent’s congregation will be admitted beyond the outer halls. As will none of yours.’

Pus stroked his chin. His other paw went back into his pocket.

‘None, you say? I will be alone.’

The weaselly one looked as though he was about to protest, before a vision of the Black Pillar, the Table of Thirteen and the Deepengnaw appeared to pass across his eyes and zip his teeth back together.

He said nothing.

‘Except for Moldrent, me and a claw-pack of the Aelf-Eater’s albino guard,’ said Ratskitten.

The Archpustulent fidgeted to the very edge of his seat. Ratskitten had become involuntarily versed in the symptoms, and he could see that that the priest was currently in deep thought. Almost certainly he was formulating a plot by which to strike at the Antipustulent and reclaim the entirety of Clan Morbidus for himself. It was what Ratskitten would have been doing in his place. No doubt Pus considered himself very clever. Most rats did until they realised they were not.

But Ratskitten had seen it all before.

‘Yes-yes,’ said Pus, finally, baring his teeth. ‘I think this will be acceptable.’

THE CONCLAVE OF ZHURN

The albinos marched ahead of Gagrik in perfect order, the clank-clank-clank of steel-encased footpaws like the ticking of a precision clock. Plates of black armour and strings of mail went a sickly green as the albino guard passed under the great, gaping windows of the Hall of Twisted Bone. They carried themselves with the straight backs of proud creatures, warriors bred, who would never know the great levellers of fear or hunger. They served one of the almighty Thirteen and it was a rare and special fool who would knowingly lay a claw on that which was his. For all that they were still skaven, and the flaunting of their untouchable status was evident in all that they did. Their fangs were white, their armour polished and their pelts brushed and clean, and they suffered the soiled rags, matted fur and malingering pace of the Pestilens monks with special disdain.

Shuffling at the head of a dolorous celebration of gongs, thuribles and chanting monks, Gagrik was scarcely aware of his hosts’ disregard.

He had dressed for the occasion in the full pomp of a high priest of plague. His ceremonial chasuble was the bright, smeary green of phlegm freshly hawked by a sufferer of the bubonic pox. To it he had added a motley of bells, lace, braid and the arms of the Unholy See, a yellowed maniple crossed over his chest to evoke the horned head of the Corruptor, and a cincture of oily human hair threaded with gold. A long mantum oozed a trail of black bile that squelched under the footpaws of his subordinate priests and their retinues. He carried his rod of office in one hand and a censer in the other. He had even donned a mitre, despite the fact it inflamed his rashes and made his head itch.

He had never felt so proud, so near to the body of the Great Horned Rat and so far from his avaricious attentions, and thus with licence to walk so tall. His spine trembled from the effort.

The albino guard came to a sharp stop as a clawguard in heavy plate more gold than black and more elaborate by far, approached. He wore a helmet with a plume of short knives and a long spike jutting from the chinstrap. The shield of Clan Dregg marked the rondel pieces of his armour, and the similar scratch-slash mark of Zhurn Aelf-Eater had been branded into the side of his muzzle.

The Virulent Procession wheezed to a slower standstill. Gagrik resisted the urge to scratch at the back of his head.

Ignoring Gagrik and the other principal unholies, the clawguard gestured to the procession’s rear, where a gaggle of hooded and hunchbacked slaves dragged three mouldy chests on litters of poxrush. He made a mute’s gurgling snarl and gestured again.

Eager to be perceived as important, but not so important as to be unhelpful, Gagrik bowed. ‘A gift from my lord to yours. Spices from the Church’s holdings in bountiful Chamon. Much desired by breeder-masters. Very rare.’

The clawguard pointed to one of the chests. His right paw went to the stained gold and black opal hilt of the longsword at his hip. He bared a row of fangs.

‘Of course,’ said Gagrik. Waving a path for himself through the steaming ranks of the procession, he led the clawguard to the train. A hard metal paw descended onto his shoulder and the clawguard pushed him to one side.

With a grunt, the warrior opened the chest. The acidic tang that wafted out prickled a path up Gagrik’s nose. The albino stuck a paw inside and withdrew it. Silvery grounds ran through his fingers. Satisfied, he closed the lid, wiping the metallic stain on his mail cuffs.

Gagrik breathed a sigh of relief as the clawguard turned his back, but the acidic odour lingered in his snout like a bad memory. As poxmixer to the Verminable Cruor, he had handled blightpepper grounds before. Their odour was less sharp, more bitter than acid. Surreptitiously, he cracked the lid and sniffed again.

By the gnawing fangs of the Corruptor, he thought, as recognition came.

Moldrent.

Weep Dripclaw sat in the box seat of his plague cart while a pair of white-furred albino guard rooted through the cargo of Clan Ezzik crockery that Moldrent, in his perverse but infallible wisdom, had decided to bring as tribute. Ignoring the clattering and the occasional breakage, and the heterodox hymnals of the counter-procession from the other side of the hall, he divided his attentions between his myriad small aches, pains and skin irritations, and the frankly stupendous view.

According to well-established and relatively unchanging myth, the Tower of Kavzar had been raised in a single night, the work of a mysterious skaven whom many Churches held to have been an incarnation of the Great Horned Rat in one of his rare, direct interventions into the affairs of his get. Others accepted variations of the myth. That it had been Screech Verminking or another from the Shadow Council acting at his behest. Or even, with delicious paranoia, that it was the first play in a long trick played by one of the Horned Rat’s rival deities: Tzeentch or Slaanesh or even, some squeaked, given the storm-wracked skies prevalent in every variant of the tale, the thirteenth-accursed God-King. As many again argued that the legend was apocryphal, and not to be taken seriously except by literal-minded idiots. Weep, after great study and painful prayer, had come to his opinion that it did not matter either way. The Great Horned Rat would probably not remember, even if it had been done with his own mighty paws, such was his nature.

Weep turned from the window as the albinos grunted that they were satisfied. With a nod to his escort, he drew in his reins. The plague cart was drawn by two horned dozen – one horned dozen and twelve now, he noted – slave-lepers in sleeveless robes, their arms spread out to either side and the paws nailed to a pair of wooden traces. He was about to whip them on when something pricked his ears.

He turned to his companion in the box seat. Grulsh, Chancellor of the Last Bell, was asleep and snoring wetly, as was his affliction.

The sound came again. A cough. His ears pivoted towards it. A Procession of the Clans Pestilens was never silent. It was a carnival of wheezes and sniffles and popping joints. It was not the cough itself that disturbed him but the apparent efforts of the rat it had come from to smother it.

It was not just strange. It was sacrilegious.

He looked down at the toe board. There was a small gap in the planking where a rat might be able to peek in. Or peek out. Weep bent over until his head was between his knees and he was looking back through the narrow opening beneath his seat.

A pair of twinkly red eyes looked back.

By the scratching ruin of the Corruptor, he thought, as the implications became clear.

Pus.

Makulitt Pus crossed his arms over his chest, hiding himself behind several layers of pustulent vestments, as the doors to Zhurn’s burrow-hall swung open. A pair of white-furred, black-armoured guards stood silently to either side. He glanced at Moldrent. The Antipustulent was draped in ratty sackcloth with a hood so deep it bundled up in folds at the scabbed end of his snout. When he moved it was with a metallic shuffle and a whiff of malodour, his arms buried under his robes at the waist as though clasped fervently in prayer. Makulitt regarded his rival with mixed feelings.

‘You first,’ he said.

The hooded snout drifted towards him. Words did not emerge. Makulitt wondered if he had taken a vow of monastic silence.

That would make the grey seer’s conclave… interesting.

Ratskitten turned impatiently from the door sill. ‘There is threshold enough that you may cross it together.’ He rapped his staff demonstratively on the sill. ‘Do not think yourselves the first warring clans I have bent to peace.’

Realising that he had spent longer than was comfortable with his attention on the Antipustulent, Makulitt shot a quick glance over his shoulder.

The two Virulent Processions were indistinguishable from one another. Both were garbed in the green shades considered most unholy by the greater Churches of Clan Morbidus, sang the same hymns, brandished the same liturgical banners and reliquaries over clouds of incense smoke, and spluttered with the same contagions. Scores of masterburrow albino guard muscularly separated them, herding them towards different antechambers of the sub-tower.

‘Very well,’ Makulitt hissed, and with wary eyes on his spiritual counterpart, the albino guard and the grey seer, he shuffled inside at a cautious leper’s pace.

Inside, he shrieked in terror.

A seraphon star-creature with the snarling head of a skaven was perched directly above, leathery wings spread for imminent flight and tipped with man-thing hands for grasping. Only once a second had passed and it had not launched itself from its perch did Makulitt realise the creature was stuffed.

Moldrent snickered.

Makulitt glared at him. One paw over his beating heart, the other already clutching the skitterstone in his pocket, he waited three breaths for panic to subside.

A bestiary of stuffed and patchwork horrors populated the warren. A disturbingly sentient flap of skin floated, mocking, in the heat rising from the hearthplace. Removing his paw from his pocket, he pointed at one of the chairs that faced them. In it was a bulky skaven with black fur, distinguished with silver and criss-crossed with scars. Its head listed stupidly, its tongue hanging from the side of its muzzle. Visible wires had been employed to widen the eyes and flatten the ears, making the creation appear doubly imbecilic.

‘I will not sit-wait next to that.’

‘They are dead things,’ Moldrent muttered in a glottal wheeze. ‘We are all dead things.’

Makulitt turned towards him, shuffling unconsciously away.

So it spoke.

Ratskitten raised his paws. ‘Formalities. Details. That you both are here under truce-flag of my master squeaks highly. There is burrow-space and spoil enough for both Churches of Contagion in the Mortal Realms. Yes? Yes? The Horned One makes us fight, to winnow the stupid and weak, but when we fight too fiercely, when the great struggle unsettles skaven supremacy or hinders his great agenda, does he not always intervene to stop-cease?’

The Antipustulent turned his hooded snout back towards the hall, apparently seeking out the scent of some counsellor or other from the processions.

‘The answer is yes. He does.’ Makulitt looked away and sniffed. ‘Imbecile.’

Moldrent responded with a wet growl as albino guard ushered them fully inside and closed the doors behind them. Only one remained.

‘As you see-smell.’ Ratskitten spread his paws, exposing his chest and vital organs to any one of a hundred potentially fatal blows. ‘It is perfectly safe-safe.’ He gestured towards the solitary albino guard. ‘You may surrender your weapons now.’

Reluctantly, Makulitt handed over his crozier. Under the grey seer’s impatient stare he proceeded to furnish the stormvermin with several dozen knives and a warplock pistol with a damp wooden stock and a corroded barrel. Ratskitten turned to Moldrent. The Antipustulent raised his paws, spilling layers of diseased sackcloth to reveal that, rather than being clasped tightly in prayer, his paws were in fact manacled by his waist. A heavy chain linked to his ankles yanked taut before he could raise them beyond chest height.

Satisfied, Makulitt turned to the grey seer. ‘Your staff.’

The stormvermin took the staff along with the other weapons and withdrew to the door. Ratskitten turned, still grumbling, and hobbled towards a vacant chair. It was half again too large for him. He climbed in. It took some time.

Delving into one of his many pockets, Makulitt drew out an ornate bronze timepiece and checked the time.

‘What is that?’ Ratskitten wheezed, sitting back into his high chair.

‘A simple timepiece, grey seer.’

‘Give it to the guard.’

‘I need it.’

‘For what?’

Makulitt’s claws folded over the device as the albino guard approached. ‘Prayer?’

‘Take it,’ Ratskitten instructed, and the albino prised open Makulitt’s fingers to remove it from his paw. The Archpustulent bared his fangs but did not struggle beyond that. ‘And whatever it is hidden in his robes.’

‘What?’

‘The thing you reach for when you feel your skin threatened.’

Makulitt hissed. ‘Lies!’ He made to pull away; the albino set its paw on his shoulder like a bundle of chain and the brute muscularity of a dragon.

‘Take it too,’ said Ratskitten.

‘No-no!’

Tightening its grip on his shoulder, the albino pulled open his vestments at the collar and reached inside.

Gagrik slammed the lid down on the chest, loudly enough to be heard even over the spluttered praises and cacophonous chimes of a Virulent Procession at rest. He winced at himself as the clawguard turned back around. The warrior could not speak, but he glared demandingly. Gagrik looked away, down at the chest.

How to explain the presence of three chests full of blasting powder mixed in with the blightpepper grounds? It was enough to bring down a Stormkeep, and Skryre-made, which meant dangerously volatile and, in these quantities, liable to explode at any moment. Somehow, Antipustulent Sour must have spiked Makulitt’s offering to the Aelf-Eater, to kill the Archpustulent or to shame him or both.

While his mind whirled through possible, if implausible, excuses, the clawguard had started to pad back. Gone was the straight-backed pride of an albino elite and in its place a common murderer’s hunch. The posture spilled his gold-lined cloak over his off-paw shoulder, his paw tightening again around his sword’s grip. Gagrik stood rigid with his paws flat on the lid. As though his flesh had melted and merged with the rotten wood. As though the slightest move to tear them away would blast him into the gullet of the Corruptor.

The massive clawguard towered over him.

Gagrik cringed, caught between two terrors, and something in him gave up the pretence at resistance and snapped.

He screamed.

‘Run-flee!’

Weep’s eyes narrowed. Assassins. Hidden in the very plague cart that conveyed Moldrent’s offerings to the Aelf-Eater. Clearly, this was the infamous trickery of Makulitt Pus at work. Only the Archpustulent had anything to lose from an enforced cessation of warfare and the recognition of Moldrent as the head of a new clan. But how to explain this? The albino guard of the masterburrow were known for their efficiency, their brutality and their loyalty: they came by no part of that reputation by seeking complicated explanations to simple conundrums. This was Moldrent’s cart, Moldrent’s treachery, and, now that Weep’s eyes adapted to the darkness inside of the cart, he could see that the concealed warriors – deviousness heaped upon cunning! – were even garbed in the drab of Moldrent’s own faithful.

Weep had to protect him. Lest the pretender to the true Word exploit his disgrace.

With his head still upside down and between his thighs, he coughed up a prayer. Pestilence boiled from within his throat, a bitter green fog spuming from his lips and blasting through the peephole above the toe board. The plague cart rocked on its axles as Pus’ assassins thrashed and squealed, the pestilent cloud blasting out from the back of the cart in an explosion of broken earthenware and hurling the two albino guard back onto the parquetry.

The rest of the albinos turned, steel scraping as the entire clawpack drew weapons.

Chancellor Grulsh awoke with a spluttered prayer.

‘Treachery!’ Weep hissed. ‘Kill-kill!’

Moldrent was hearing screams. This was not an unusual state of affairs. The difficulty was in knowing whether they came from within his head or without. He did not think as other rats thought, scheme as other rats schemed. It would have been impossible for him to do so, his mind a puzzle of a million pieces to which the experience of his senses was indistinguishable from the memories of his past and neither particularly reliable even in and of themselves. But he did think, and he did scheme, and most of that jumble of consciousness had, for the longest time, been bent towards the ultimate goal of not becoming Archpustulent of Clan Morbidus. The Corruptor had made him a madrat and a killer. This, too, was the limit of his ambition for himself.

He was passingly aware as the albino guard pushed Pus out of the way, leaving whatever it was he had been rooting for hidden under his robes, and moved to the doors. The big warrior pressed his ear to the wood. Moldrent could hear the clangour of weapons and shields, the hiss of gas and, of course, screams. The grey seer in the throne squealed something that Moldrent decided was probably ignorable.

He raised his paws. There was no resistance at all as the manacles around his wrists turned brown and flaked to nothing. With one paw he gripped the length of chain before it could fall. With the other he drew back his hood. The sight of his uncovered face drew gratifying shrieks of irreligious dread from both Archpustulent and grey seer. The sorcerer hissed, jabbing a claw at him. Moldrent followed the direction of his eyes and turned around.

The albino rushed towards him with a strangled growl. Moldrent gave a toothless grin, whiskers wilting under a rotten exhalation, and grasped the chain that had been formerly attached to the manacles. Then he pulled, his sackcloth robes parting as the massive spiked ball of a plague censer emerged from between his ankles. He swung it up, the huge head belching a toxic cloud that frazzled his senses and re-shattered his thoughts. But it had not killed him. As it was supposed to have done when a smaller censer filled with a feebler incense had been chained into a younger rat’s paws all those years ago. No gift of the Corruptor could lay him low now.

Because he was blessed.

So very blessed.

Swinging the censer up over his head, he looped it, building speed, gathering power, his gangrel frame hoarding more strength than its withered muscles should have allowed, and with the albino a tail-length away he let it out. The spiked censer crunched into the albino’s breastplate, cracking it like an eggshell and hurling the warrior back towards the doors. The albino crashed into them at the join, splintering them, buckling them inwards and almost tearing them off their hinges with his weight.

He grinned, dropped his shoulder and charged.

Ratskitten rose painfully from his too-high seat. There could be only one Archpustulent of Clan Morbidus, and so help him it was not going to be either of these two. He would stamp his footpaw on this before the next internecine squabble of a Verminous clan or a falling out between a pair of Moulder-masters over breeding rights irritated a High Lord enough to burden him with its resolution. He had a warm burrow, a pile of plundered Azyrite scrolls there waiting to be translated and studied.

Ignoring, for now, the quivering Makulitt, who had scurried behind a chair, he turned to Moldrent. The Antipustulent had surprised him. He would admit that much. Going into his pocket, he withdrew a thumb-sized nugget of refined warpstone and popped it into his mouth. It fizzed on the tongue. Spikes of euphoric power rammed outwards from his mouth cavity into his throat, his chest, his brain. His thoughts became a giddy swirl. He was going to end these spoiled cretins and it would be glorious. Chittering the opening bars of an incantation, he extended a claw towards Moldrent.

The Antipustulent issued a strident squeal, shoulder-charging the stricken albino into the door. But rather than simply finishing him and returning to attend to Makulitt and the grey seer, as Ratskitten would certainly have done in his place, he gave the door the full force of his charge. The already weakened frame gave, the doors splintering outwards, parting enough up the join for the Antipustulent to shoulder through. This he did with a triumphant squeal, trampling the albino in his armour underpaw and leaping into the back of the fray in the hall beyond.

Ratskitten blinked. His spell drained back into the aether.

‘Mad-thing,’ he muttered.

He turned to the chair behind which Makulitt Pus still cowered, his tall mitre just visible behind the stuffed lord who sat upon it. A halo of ruinous energy flickered around the grey seer’s paw, his mind too overloaded with the raw stuff of Chaos and his own invincibility to fret overmuch on consequences: he considered blasting the lot of it into the next realm.

He bared his teeth, struggling to force his magic-charged mind to understand a thing that did not, at an intuitive skaven level, make any sense.

With an effort of willpower he lowered his paw.

‘Do you want to be Archpustulent at least?’ he said.

Gagrik struck the albino guard with his sceptre. The mace-like head crunched into the albino’s gardbrace. The heavier warrior took the hit with a grunt, then replied with a brute sweep of his sword. Gagrik ducked. The blade knocked off his mitre, and chopped into the side of a plague monk. The slain rat squealed. The sword made a sucking, squelching noise, like a footpaw trapped in mud, as the albino tried to pull it free. Gagrik jabbed with a snarl. The sceptre’s end-teeth gnawed at the warrior’s breastplate, the cocktail of unguents working at the scratches to mottle the plate. Smelling the odious gases put out by the metal blights that were eating his armour, the warrior snarled in something like genuine panic, scratching at the infected plate with his claws. It was just enough of a distraction for Gagrik to finish the warrior off.

Instead, he ducked around the flapping albino and ran.

Plague monks were spread out over the hall in a wall-to-wall congregation of warring filth. Intermingled, the two processions became indistinguishable. Bells jangled. High, cracked voices squealed a mélange of battle hymns. Monks wearing robes of near-identical colour and symbology fought with albino guard twice their size, and with each other.

A skaven dressed in lay priest’s robes stood on the top of a plague cart, shrilling at the monks that surrounded him even as the violence they perpetrated caused his platform to rock. For a split second his eyes and Gagrik’s met. The priest opened his jaws wide and squealed. Gagrik saw the first tendrils of fumes rising up from the priest’s throat and swiftly changed direction. He heard then, rather than saw, the pestilential flood that erupted from the priest’s jaws and sprayed across the hall like a torrent from a warpfire-thrower. He smelled the rot where it gushed over warring ratmen and felt the withering of the hairs at the tip of his tail where it blasted too close for comfort before its power was diluted.

He looked over his shoulder, just as the doors at the far end of the hall were forced open and Antipustulent Moldrent Sour disgorged. The apostate priest shrieked like a daemon as he set upon the albino guard from the rear.

Gagrik swallowed. He had heard that Sour had never been beaten in battle.

An albino clawguard gave a mangled roar as he lifted a squirming priest from the floor and hurled him bodily across the hall. The priest fell hard against one of Makulitt’s tribute chests.

Gagrik cringed.

Nothing blew up.

Yet.

He spun away, eyes darting for the nearest and least heavily guarded way out. As he did so he bent to rip the hem of his chasuble and then, with the other paw, pulled frantically at the neck ties of his ridiculously long mantum cape. More warriors were piling up the stairs before he was finished. He watched, clawing desperately at his throat, as hundreds of heavily armoured albino guard tramped into the hall under the war-banners of Clan Dregg. A snarling drum sounded what must have been an order to reform. The warriors drew into narrow-fronted blocks, leaving several tunnels by which two-rat weapons teams bearing glowing, multi-barrelled machine guns scurried up to the front. The gunners were armoured in leather and goggled. To a rat, they grinned madly as they began cranking their weapons.

Gagrik let go of his collar, the mantum still tight about his throat, and with a terrified curse, dropped like a plague victim down a well.

With a sound like a hailstorm on a tin roof, the ratling teams opened fire.

Bullets whickered through the air, carving a brief flurry pattern of straight lines into the incense smoke. They punched wetly through the soft bodies of plague monks, priests and slaves. Albino guard died with flatter tones, bullets hitting armour like mallets against bells without clappers. They tore through banners, broke open reliquaries, ricocheted off gongs, shredded poles. Gagrik watched in horror as bullets mowed through the bodies of monks and slaves alike and hammered against the sides of the chests they were still protecting. The warpstone-tipped munitions perforated the soft wood of all three chests in a dozen places.

Moldrent Sour charged into the bullet hail, squealing a challenge, and smashed his censer through a gun barrel.

From somewhere behind the smog and the carnage and the broken gilt doors, Gagrik heard a voice cry, ‘Skitterleap!’

There was a flash of darkness.

Gagrik buried his head in his paws and screamed.

It was the last thing he heard before the explosion.

THE ARCHPUSTULENT OF CLAN MORBIDUS

The magma plains of Aridian were a wasteland of bronzed sands and slow-moving rivers of molten rock. The air smelled of nothing so much as heat. The nose meekly surrendered to it, passed the impossible duty onto other senses. The sound of bubbling earth, the hiss of geysers. The constant tremble of menace from underpaw. The haze above the endless, flat horizon. The Mortal Realms were a dangerous place for a lone skaven to be, but it was safer by far than being Archpustulent of Clan Morbidus for one lacking the ambition, guile and authority to have craved that position in the first place. The blanket annihilation of Zhurn Aelf-Eater’s sub-tower and all of his best warriors was a small price to pay for this self-imposed exile.

Makulitt had found a hole in the ground and, after some increasingly delirious scrabbling, had expanded it enough to fit himself inside. His paws and footpaws, snout and tail, were wrapped in the surfeit of clothing that the skitterstone had transported with him from the masterburrow. There was no need for such heavy frocks and grand regalia here in Aqshy. He found moisture by sucking on the split ends of grasses and burrowing for roots. He spent his time in contemplation of the Great Horned Rat, giddy as a plague hermit with heatstroke and dehydration. There was not enough moisture in the air to carry a single contagion, and his head ached for lack of water.

He began to see things. Scratch marks of prophecy in the yellow sky, gnashing teeth at the mingling of two sulphurous plumes, hunched bodies slinking through the haze. He did not worry himself overly, then, when he first marked the wobble on the horizon.

Over the hours that followed it got bigger. He thought of scurrying on, finding himself a new hole to hide in, perhaps even, dare he dream it, a bigger hole, but in his mean and dried-out little heart he knew that he did not have the willpower or the strength. As it drew closer he realised that it was a cart. Its wheels rattled over the broken earth, sides blurry in the heat. Only when it was almost close enough to stand up and touch did he notice the mutant draught rat that pulled it and the single skaven perched on its seat.

With the deep interest of one who has seen nothing else in weeks, Makulitt watched as the cart pulled in alongside his meagre burrow. The draught rat panted thirstily. The skaven leant out to peer at him more closely. He too had lost all sense of smell in the heat. The skaven was wrapped in tinder-crisp robes of bleached green bound at the middle with rope. Spoiled silver devotionals twinkled on braided strings from his belt, almost white in the heat. The Splintered Temple of Clan Morbidus stabbed into Makulitt’s sore eyes every time the slowly turning devotionals caught the Aqshyan sun.

‘You found me,’ he croaked.

The monk bobbed his head. ‘I am sent all the way from Charcoal Scorch to seek-find. The lectors squeak of how you kill-slay the Antipustulent, and aim now for the Tenth seat on the Council of Thirteen. The lost Churches flock back to you, Archpustulent. And more come over from other clans, awed by your ambition and your embodiment of the Word. Clan Morbidus has never been mightier.’ He offered his paw. Not knowing what else to do, Makulitt took it. The monk pulled him up onto the seat beside him. He shuffled along to make room. ‘Just as well too. Zhurn Aelf-Eater has sworn to kill and stuff you to baptise his new burrow-chambers.’

The monk snapped his reins, and the draught rat launched eagerly forward. He turned to his passenger as their cart clattered over the baking desert, bared his teeth in a humbled smile and squeaked a quiet prayer.

The glisten in Makulitt Pus’ eyes clearly denoted the fervour of one hand-chosen by the Great Horned Rat.

THE LAST KNIGHT: PART TWO

Gavin G Smith

Gavin G Smith’s epic saga of knightly valour and giant war engines continues and concludes with this story, which can be read in addition to, or independently of, the first instalment.

Following a narrow victory against the genestealer infestation that threatens to consume the stricken feudal world of Leucosia, newly minted governor Lacutus desperately seeks a way of contacting the wider Imperium for aid. Can he find the planet’s long-exiled astropath, and will he prove himself worthy of piloting the ancient knight titan Wargod to finally smite the xenos scourge once and for all?

The chemical reek of the mask that covered his face, and the strong smell of charcoal and vinegar, nearly overwhelmed Lacutus Honaratus, knight and scion of the Honaratus family, governors of the planet of Leucosia. The claustrophobic mask and the clumsy suit he wore were contraptions of Lydia’s, designed to allow them to move around in the plague-ridden city of Landfall. To protect him, and those members of the city guard who’d volunteered to accompany him, from the rot. He could barely feel Woundthirst’s hilt through the thick gloves.

He could see with both eyes again. Around him, the city burned. Wargod and Queen of Blood stalked through the flames. The Knights towered over the rotting buildings as the structures succumbed to the fire. Thunderblade had fallen three days past. The Knight Errant’s power would be sadly missed.

They had a simple plan. Vervius had discerned the source of the corruption to be the sewers beneath one of the city’s fouler slaughterhouses. Obtaining the information had not been without risk to the astropath. In doing so he had fallen to some mystery ailment himself. The lord governor had ordered Vervius locked in his quarters, and guards stood ready to purify the chambers with fire if need be. Lacutus would take his men into the slaughterhouse and try to draw out the evil, hopefully distracting what lay there long enough to give Wargod the advantage of a surprise attack. Lacutus had seen the eyes of the older men who had volunteered. They knew they were going to die.

‘What is your sin?’

More than anything he was surprised that he could hear the voice so clearly through the hood.

The man walked next to him wearing no protection from the rot. Lacutus recognised him, though he had never met him. Lord Governor Ignatius Honaratus, his father’s father.

‘Fear,’ Lacutus told him.

His grandfather shook his head as though disappointed.

‘Fear is every warrior’s companion,’ he said and then turned down an alley and walked away from Lacutus.

One of the castle guards, a sergeant, grabbed Lacutus to get his attention, pointing down the street towards the slaughterhouse. Pustulent creatures, formed from the diseased victims of the rot, shambled down the street towards them. They wore their glistening, diseased innards like skirts. Lacutus tasted bile in the back of his throat. They would once have been people he’d known, spoken with – perhaps even family of the men who stood with him.

‘What is your sin?’ another ancestor asked him.

‘Doubt!’ Lacutus cried as the plague-ridden creatures charged. Woundthirst was still in his hand, though the ancient and temperamental power sword had decided not to activate this day.

His ancestor just spat and walked away in disgust.

They had fought their way to the slaughterhouse. Inside, the floor looked like a pustule of rotting flesh. Small, obese, horned daemons burst from buboes growing out of the pustule, swarming towards Lacutus and his men. The guards hacked them down as fast as they could, splattering themselves in the diseased ichor that leaked from the creatures.

It felt like every step of the way another ancestor had appeared to ask him what his sin was, each visitor more aggressive than the last, each more dismissive of his answers.

‘What is your sin?’ It was his father that screamed the question in his face now. Lord Governor Forganus Honaratus was dressed in the armour he would have been wearing when he died inside of Wargod.

The pustule burst. Dripping, whiplike tendrils flailed out of the wound. Broken horns upon a hunched back appeared as a huge daemon rose, newborn, from the plague pit.

‘Cowardice,’ Lacutus said quietly as his men were torn apart by the plague-lashes, the little daemons falling on them to feast. ‘I froze,’ he told his father even as one of the tendrils reached out for him.

The plague-lash made a ruin of his eye, threw him back through the air. He landed outside, frozen in fear, his men being torn apart all around him.

His father bent over him, anger and disgust warring on his face.

‘You have learned nothing! Your weakness sickens me and damns our people!’

Lacutus threw himself out of the Throne Mechanicum and onto the dusty floor of the Chamber of Echoes. He tore his helmet off, vomited and then howled. It was the keening of a wounded animal. It was too much. The weight of his responsibilities, all those people looking to him simply to live unpolluted by alien corruption. He had failed the Ritual of Becoming, to bond with the machine-spirit that lived within Wargod. The ritual had taken him back to the worst day of his life, three years gone now, and he had been found wanting in the eyes of his ancestors, a failure that effectively doomed his people.

His father, the former lord governor, was dead. Killed piloting Wargod to save Landfall Castle, besieged by the military forces of an extensive genestealer cult. Leucosia had long been cut off from the Imperium by the Siren’s Storm, and technology had largely died on the world but for a few powerful exceptions. Both the genestealer cultists and the humans who fought them did so with blade and crossbow, spear and bow. Now the xenos were biding their time, building more siege towers.

Lacutus, now lord governor himself, slumped back against the throne, the ancient technology that contained the ghosts of his forbears. He knew he was no coward. His father had taught him that acting despite fear was the true meaning of courage, but on that day he had failed, and they had lost Queen of Blood and very nearly Wargod. Not that Wargod’s continued existence mattered, as he had been judged unworthy to pilot the Knight Errant. If anything, his real cowardice was that he had always known his father was there to make the hard choices. He had relied on this. He had not learned what it meant to make such decisions himself.

Lacutus reached behind to touch the newly implanted interface plugs. He had been relieved when Lydia’s amateur chirurgery hadn’t left him paralysed, but the flesh around them was still tender and sore. Yanking the jacks out of them as he’d thrown himself from the throne hadn’t helped.

The Chamber of Echoes was still. Full of the thrones of Knights long since destroyed, each containing their ghosts, it was a machine mausoleum of the spirit. Motes of dust hung in the air. Lacutus could clearly see his father’s footsteps in the thick covering upon the ground, from the day he had made his final walk. The drag marks from when his body had been taken out of the throne. His body now lay in the family tomb deep beneath the chapel. Lacutus wondered if it might not have been better if the Ritual of Becoming had ended in his own death. The ritual had driven mad, even killed, better men, but it had let him live: apparently he was of sound mind, with the exception of his self-pity. He pushed himself to his feet. Without Wargod the defenders had one chance, and that chance was as slim as a razor.

Lydia was waiting for him at the top of the spiral stairs that ran around the wall of the Sanctuary. The tall, echoing space was once home to many Knights, but now only Wargod remained: an ancient, battle-scarred warrior standing silent sentry in his alcove. Lacutus couldn’t shake the feeling that the ancient Knight Errant was watching him, judging him, though he felt much more responsibility to the ranks of wounded that covered the floor of the huge structure.

Apprentice to the last sacristan, Lydia was covered in machine tattoos underneath the grease coating her skin. Despite her lack of formal training it had been she who had coaxed Wargod back to life after three long years of hard work, though she could not make the ion shield work again.

She was also Lacutus’ friend, despite their difference in station. She knew him well enough to read the failure on his face. She opened her mouth to say something, but Lacutus could not hear words of comfort today.

‘I’m going to find Vervius,’ he told her as he passed her on the wide stairs. He would have the old astropath use his powers to call for help.

‘Has the ritual broken your mind?’ she demanded, then had to run after him to keep up with his long legs. ‘You’re needed here.’

He stopped and turned to face her.

‘Why? Wargod has rejected me. There is nothing I can do on the wall that the captains of the guard and the yeomanry aren’t capable of, and unless we do something, we’re just waiting to be overrun.’ Lacutus continued down the stairs.

‘We don’t know if Vervius is alive,’ Lydia said, almost jogging to keep up.

‘We don’t know he’s dead.’

Lacutus had reached the bottom of the stairs and was making for the huge arched opening that allowed easy egress for Wargod and the Knight Errants that had gone before him. He walked out under bright blue skies, both suns shining down on them like a pair of mismatched eyes. Instinctively, he did not look up at the part of the sky where he knew he would find the scar on reality that was the Siren’s Storm. Its tendrils were forever reaching for Leucosia, and it was responsible for the warp storms that wracked the planet and frequently cut the system off from the rest of the Imperium of Man.

‘Even if he is alive and still capable of using his powers, we don’t know if the system is navigable!’

‘And again, we don’t know it’s not,’ Lacutus muttered as he strode across the courtyard towards the gatehouse in the inner wall.

Lydia stopped. Lacutus glanced behind to see her hands on her hips in a gesture of anger that he knew so well. He continued walking.

‘Lacutus Honaratus, stop right now and listen to me!’

Lacutus sighed but came to a halt. He turned to face Lydia. Everyone else in the courtyard – yeomanry militia with their longbows; guards; boys and girls, too young to fight, ferrying sheaves of arrows; even Kark, the huge ogryn smith at his forge built against the inner wall – stopped and turned to see what the furore was about.

‘You are lord governor now,’ Lydia said, though it was clear that she had noticed just how much attention she was calling to them.

Lacutus closed the distance between them.

‘Though that apparently doesn’t stop you from haranguing me publicly!’ he hissed.

‘They need you here to… to… reassure them.’ Even as she said the words, it was clear from Lydia’s expression that she knew how weak they sounded.

‘I know,’ he told her. She was right. Morale was crucial, especially now, with his father gone.

‘Send someone else,’ Lydia told him.

‘Who?’

‘One of the yeomanry, a gnarlherd who knows the mountains.’

‘I know the mountains,’ he told her.

‘Not like they do…’

‘None of them can match me on horseback, and this will need to be done quickly. Besides, Vervius is not going to listen to a member of the yeomanry.’ Lacutus wasn’t entirely sure that the astropath would even listen to him. Vervius had deserted his position after complaining that he was too old and weak to continue. The astropath had felt that one more attempt to use his powers would see him fall to the corrupting influences within the warp.

‘How will you even get out?’ Lydia demanded.

‘The sally port in the western wall,’ he told her.

‘They’ll have it guarded.’

‘Very probably,’ Lacutus conceded.

‘The genestealers could already have creatures up in the mountains looking for Vervius themselves.’

Lacutus frowned at this. ‘How would they know?’ he asked.

‘Think, Lacutus. How accurate was their artillery fire? They targeted the trebuchets in the courtyards behind the walls. They dropped a barrel of burning pitch into one of our own incendiary supplies, and some of them look almost human.’

‘You think they’ve been inside the castle before?’ he asked.

Lydia just nodded. It made sense. Lacutus discovering the genestealers in Innsport, what now felt like so long ago, may have forced them to act before they were fully ready, but it was clear that they had been preparing for this for a very long time.

‘That is all the more reason to deny him to the enemy.’

Lacutus continued towards the gatehouse. Lydia fell in next to him but remained quiet. They walked through the shade of the gatehouse and into the killing ground between the inner and curtain walls. They climbed the steps to the curtain wall’s battlements, sharing a few words and nods with the yeomanry and guards they passed on the way.

Lacutus looked out over the ruins of Landfall City. Burned three years ago during the warp plague, the area had once again become a battleground. It was covered in the bodies of dead hybrids and neophytes from the initial attack. The genestealer cult’s forces seemed to care little for their dead, and even the carrion-eaters avoided their alien flesh.

The enemy were camped just beyond the effective range of the castle’s remaining trebuchets, mangonels and ballistae, and the yeomanry’s lethal longbows. They had not attacked in two weeks, but nor had they been inactive. Six nearly finished siege towers rose from the enemy camp like broken fingers. Lacutus extended his telescope and looked to them. Hybrids and neophytes swarmed over the siege engines as they aided in their construction. In the first attack, the enemy had possessed only four towers, and had it not been for Wargod the castle would have been overrun.

Lacutus shifted his telescope to a huge palanquin on a hill behind the main genestealer lines. Elderman Fisher – the black-eyed, bulbous-headed creature that seemed to be some kind of high priest for the xenos forces – was exhorting the swaying purestrains that surrounded the palanquin. Lacutus knew that the moment the genestealers committed to battle, it was all over, and he suspected they would do just that when the next attack came. Without Wargod there was little the defenders had that could touch creatures capable of tearing apart even the Emperor’s most dangerous warriors. So whilst it was good the purestrains were busy, it was also disconcerting. He wanted to know what was more important than destroying their enemies.

‘What do you think they’re doing?’ Lydia asked him.

‘Praying,’ he told her, though he was far from convinced this was the case. ‘Why? What do you think they’re doing?’

Lydia gave the question some thought.

‘Calling to something. Something worse.’

Gult, the grizzled commander of the yeomanry, had found a gnarlherd amongst his men who told Lacutus that a strange old man was living in a bothy in one of the high mountain pastures. Kark, the ogryn smith, had brought the lord governor Augustus, his destrier and, as far as Lacutus was concerned, the finest horse to ever have been bred on the Eastern Plains. Despite his size and bestial visage, Kark had a way with horses and loved Augustus. He had warned Lacutus to look after the destrier and not to ride him as hard as he had when returning from Innsport to warn Landfall about the genestealers.

Lacutus had left by a sally port in the western wall, leading Augustus down a narrow path into the gorge to cross the river at what could only laughingly be called a ford. They had made their way up the steep path on the other side to find hybrids waiting to ambush them. One-Arrow Nokes had been watching over them from the wall, however. The best shot in the yeomanry, she hadn’t allowed the hybrids to get close to Lacutus and Augustus.

Now horse and rider navigated the narrow and often steep mountain tracks up into the Grey Sentinels. More than once he found himself looking down on Landfall Castle. It looked oddly peaceful. No smoke rose from it today beyond that of the castle chimneys. The damage inflicted in the first assault was out of view, as Lacutus looked at it from the west. He could see the genestealer forces beyond the castle, but they were still for the time being. He peered through his telescope at the palanquin again. Elderman Fisher was nowhere to be seen, but the purestrains remained, crouched, as though in supplication to whatever horror the palanquin hid.

In the bright skies of another deceptively perfect day on Leucosia, the light of the largest sun dimmed – only a little, but enough to be noticeable. Lacutus looked up, shading his remaining good eye. He saw it silhouetted against the bright star’s light: a living ship, vast enough that he could see it clearly, even this far away. It felt like a clawed hand had gripped his heart. Now he knew what Fisher and the purestrains had been doing. Lydia had been right. This must be what they were calling. He wondered how much time they had left.

Lacutus had ridden as fast as he dared, often over treacherous ground, up into the mountains. He hadn’t risked riding by night. Instead, he led Augustus until fatigue and the terrain made it too difficult to do so.

Lacutus found the pasture on the second day, a wide-open but hilly expanse bordered by a strip of alpine woods that lay between the pasture and the snowline. Set against the grey and white of the stark Sentinels, the whole scene could have been quite picturesque, but for the nausea-inducing scar in reality that was the Siren’s Storm hanging in the clear blue sky overhead. He had been told that the bothy lay in the woods just north of the pasture. It was a cold but crisp day. Lacutus looked around for any signs of Vervius. For a moment all he saw were a few of the large, goatlike gnarls; then he noticed wisps of smoke rising from the woods just beyond the treeline.

Lacutus could see Augustus’ breath, and his own, in the noticeably thinner air as horse and rider weaved their way through the evergreens towards the source of the smoke. The bothy was a tiny cottage, little more than a hut. Moss grew between the irregularly shaped stones used in its construction, and it had a thatched roof. The window shutters were closed against the cold. Lacutus considered calling out but decided to ride around the bothy first, to make sure there wasn’t another exit that Vervius could use to try and escape. He kept his distance from the house, so that the old astropath wouldn’t hear him, though if he was still using his psychic abilities he must surely know of Lacutus and Augustus’ presence.

It was Augustus who warned him of others as they made their way quietly around the bothy. The destrier froze, one ear going up. Lacutus felt the horse tense under him. Augustus was well trained enough not to make a noise, but Lacutus knew the horse had sensed something, something predatory. They were behind the bothy, looking down the slope through the trees towards the little hut. Rider and horse were very still now. At first, Lacutus saw nothing. Then, from out of the undergrowth at the base of an ancient tree, a figure emerged. From his position behind the figure, Lacutus could make out the elongated skull and third arm of a hybrid. A moment later, he saw another hybrid move from a concealed position and head towards the bothy as well. Lacutus felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. His eye hurt. Something wasn’t right here, but he knew that if the hybrids reached the bothy then any hope that Vervius might help them died.

Lacutus snapped the visor on his helm down and kicked Augustus into a gallop. They plunged down through the woods, the lower branches of the trees whipping at them. He drew Woundthirst and tried to activate the temperamental power sword, but to no avail. Both hybrids were now running towards the bothy.

Lacutus saw a blur in the air to his left. He managed to bring Faith up in time, and the crossbow bolt glanced off the shield. The second bolt hit his helmet, denting but not penetrating it. Lacutus felt like he’d been hit by a hammer. His vision blurred and he had a strong urge to vomit. He only just managed to keep hold of his sword. He shook his head, trying to clear it as Augustus bore down on the first hybrid. Lacutus held Woundthirst across his body, point down; Faith he held high and away from himself. He felt another crossbow bolt bounce off his shield as he reached the first hybrid. He swung Woundthirst upwards, the blade of the ancient sword tearing through the hybrid’s back along its vertebrae, splitting open its bulbous head and lifting it off its feet. He continued to move the sword, bringing it down on his right, bisecting the skull of the second hybrid.

He saw a neophyte fly from a tree ahead of him and bounce off the trunk of another hard enough to break its spine. Lacutus couldn’t quite understand what he was seeing. There was movement from his left; something hit him hard, and he was torn from Augustus’ back. He hit the ground winded, tumbling. He’d lost Woundthirst but somehow managed to hold on to Faith. He pushed himself onto one knee, still fighting for breath. He saw Woundthirst lying in the dirt a few yards away. Beyond his sword, a purestrain genestealer crouched low to the ground, alien eyes glaring at him. Lacutus realised it was already dead.

He lunged for Woundthirst, fingers wrapping around the hilt of the sword as the creature pounced. He managed to get Faith between himself and the purestrain. The creature hit the shield hard enough to send Lacutus flying through the air. He somehow kept hold of his sword and shield, and had the presence of mind to bring the shield up just as the purestrain landed on it. He was appalled to hear the scream of twisted metal as the creature’s claws tore into the adamantium. The purestrain’s hooked tongue whipped over the shield, trying to find a way into his helmet, and purchase in his flesh. Lacutus said a quick prayer to the Emperor and tried to activate Woundthirst again. The sword hummed into life. Faith was torn away from him. Lacutus wrenched the sword between him and the purestrain, and the creature impaled itself on the blade in its hurry to get to him. In a frenzy, Lacutus scrambled out from under the thrashing xenos, yanked Woundthirst free and hit the purestrain with the power sword until it stopped moving.

Lacutus stared at the genestealer. He was covered in its ichor and shaking like a leaf. He only counted five limbs. He wondered if it had been one of the purestrains that had chased him out of Innsport when he had first stumbled across the xenos infection.

Augustus returned to him, nuzzled him, but he didn’t respond. He felt numb. He knew he should be dead. He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t. The only possible explanation he could think of was that by activating Woundthirst, the Emperor had answered his prayer. It took an aggrieved neigh from Augustus to bring Lacutus out of it. Then he heard the screaming and remembered that there was another crossbow-wielding neophyte around. Lacutus grabbed Faith. There were rents in the adamantium from the purestrain’s claws, but it was still just about serviceable as a shield.

Searching around, he quickly found the source of the screaming. A second neophyte was thrashing in the dirt to the sounds of his own bones breaking. He looked like a piece of paper being crumpled up by some terrible invisible force. Lacutus stared at the dying neophyte, an expression of distaste on his face, but he struggled to find any sympathy for the foul creature, its humanity forever polluted by the alien taint. He put it out of its misery with a thrust of his sword.

‘Vervius!’ Lacutus cried. He’d seen the astropath’s powers demonstrated before, though never so murderously.

‘I’m not going back,’ Vervius said, stepping out from behind one of the evergreens.

Lacutus had thought it impossible for the astropath to look any older than he had the last time he’d seen him, a year ago. He was tall, despite the stoop, painfully thin and, like Fisher, hairless – though unlike the elderman, his near-translucent skin was wrinkled like old parchment. Vervius slid down his staff to sit on a moss-covered fallen tree trunk.

‘You swore an oath, you do not have a choice,’ Lacutus told him, anger at the astropath’s dereliction of duty warring with pity at the old man’s fragile state. He was worried that Vervius wouldn’t survive the ride back. He couldn’t imagine how he’d survived in the wilderness.

Vervius took a moment. He smoothed his dark, tattered robes.

‘You don’t know how lucky you are here,’ he said.

‘There are genestealers at the gates of our home,’ Lacutus said, moving closer to the astropath.

‘Your home. I was taken from mine by the Black Ships so very long ago. My service to the Emperor took me all over this miserable galaxy. This is by far the most beautiful place I have ever visited, but it’s a lie, isn’t it?’

Lacutus stared at Vervius, not sure where he was going with this. He was eager to return but preferred to reason with the fragile old man.

‘I watched you in the days after the daemon took your eye–’

‘You’re blind,’ Lacutus said, even as Vervius turned his sightless eyes on him.

‘You couldn’t look at it, could you?’

Lacutus resisted the urge to glance up at the warp storm.

‘The Siren’s Storm, indeed. Leucosia draws you in with its beauty and then traps you, treats you to all the bounties of the warp.’ Vervius pointed upwards. ‘That’s not a sky, it’s a caul, and all the horrors of existence are pressing against it, waiting to be born. And I can feel them there every moment of my existence.’

‘You have been in the presence of the Emperor!’ Lacutus protested.

‘He is little more than a living corpse.’

The contempt in the astropath’s voice was nearly too much for Lacutus. He came the closest he’d ever been to striking his father’s oldest friend.

‘That is heresy!’ he spat instead.

‘What would you know of it, boy?’ Vervius demanded.

‘The Emperor is the light, the beacon that guides us…’

‘To a life of toil and death for nearly all who live.’

‘Because the alternative–’

‘Is too horrible to contemplate, and yet some still embrace it.’

‘Have you already fallen?’ Lacutus demanded, reaching for his sword.

Vervius raised a hand in a placatory gesture.

‘Calm yourself. I prefer the repose of oblivion over corruption, but I think I have listened closely enough to the whispers from beyond the caul to be a good servant still. You’re not giving me a choice though, are you?’

Lacutus shook his head, troubled by the astropath’s words.

‘You wish me to try and call for help?’ he asked. Lacutus nodded. ‘Though the Imperium have forsaken this place, though this world is a trap.’

‘If the genestealers are allowed to get a foothold here then worse will follow.’

‘The storms. The cult of Nurgle, not three years past. Now genestealers. It’s just a matter of time, you know that.’

Lacutus did not truly understand this. He had listened to the old astropath’s stories at his father’s knee. Heard him tell of the dark glories of the Imperium of Man, and speak in awe about being in the presence of the Emperor, of being soul-bound to a living god. More than anything it had been Vervius’ stories and his father’s readings, rather than the ramblings of some drunk deacon, that had cemented Lacutus’ faith in the Emperor. He kneeled in front of the old astropath.

‘Then we fight until we die, and every xenos we take with us is one less that troubles humanity.’

Vervius looked at him, tears in his sightless eyes.

‘It never ends,’ he said, his voice breaking.

‘That does not matter.’

‘Then know this. The next time I call out across the warp, I will fall. I am not strong enough, Lacutus.’

‘Then I will stand over you,’ Lacutus told him, ‘and the last thing you shall know is Woundthirst’s merciful touch.’

Lacutus felt the kiss of despair as he looked down into the river gorge that ran along the western wall of Landfall Castle. It was crawling with genestealers. Teams of hybrids with ladders; the neophytes with their huge pavise shields, so clumsy on the steep gorge path. They were no real threat to the castle, but they tied up some of the defenders, pulling them away from the eastern wall and blocking Lacutus’ access to the western sally port. He sagged in his saddle. There had never been much hope, but now he couldn’t see a way into the castle.

‘What now?’ Vervius asked. He had ridden behind Lacutus. They had travelled as fast as Lacutus had dared. He had half expected the old astropath to expire from the sheer exertion of it, but Vervius endured. It had still taken them half a day longer than the initial journey up to the high pasture. Lacutus was relieved that the curtain wall had not fallen, though smoke rose from many parts of the castle, a number of the ballistae and mangonels seemed to be no longer functional, and only one of the trebuchets was still launching boulders and barrels of stone shot and pitch over the walls.

Lacutus had no answer for Vervius. He could not see a way into the castle. Even if he survived riding through the genestealers, the defenders could not risk opening the gates for them. He wracked his brain trying to think of a solution, as he knew his despair at the situation was merely another weapon wielded by the enemies of humanity.

‘I could try to contact your father,’ Vervius said.

‘My father is dead,’ Lacutus told him, dismounting.

‘I’m sorry.’

Lacutus could hear the grief in the old astropath’s words. Vervius and his father had been friends.

He moved round to see to Augustus, calming the destrier, who was still nervous of Vervius’ unnatural presence. He drew the horse’s face to his own, and Augustus nuzzled against him.

‘One more time, old friend.’

Then he drew his sword, kneeling and praying, feeling Vervius’ blind eyes upon him as he did so.

Augustus’ hooves were thunder against the wooden planks of the bridge that crossed the River Andress. The only advantages they had were surprise and the destrier’s speed. Woundthirst hummed in his hands, the sword’s eagerness to taste xenos flesh seemingly growing with Lacutus’ devotion to the Emperor, but they rode by the hybrids. The sword only struck if those within reach posed a threat, like the neophytes with their powerful windlass crossbows. He had strapped Vervius to him. The astropath wore Faith across his back, and only his frail legs were really vulnerable. It felt good, exhilarating, to be riding towards the army of thousands that besieged his home. It was the freedom that came from knowing you were going to die. The freedom of one more gallop with Augustus.

Most of the hybrids were down in the dry moat, trying to scale the wall. Since the first attack the genestealer forces had made crude shields to be held over the attackers’ heads, but the hybrids were not natural shield users. As he galloped, Lacutus was aware of oil being poured from the castle walls, followed by a blossoming fireball as a flaming arrow lit the oil.

A lone hybrid charged them, but Lacutus rode him down, Augustus barely breaking step as the creature fell under his hooves.

The neophytes had noticed them now. The first incoming crossbow bolts were loosed in haste, but Lacutus knew it would only take a moment for them to calm themselves, to lead the shot. He found himself more worried about Augustus than himself. The destrier did not deserve to suffer. This was the moment, however, that all the defenders along the curtain wall’s battlements, north of the main gate, started loosing at the neophytes. The constant barrage of arrows forced the crossbow teams behind their pavise shields, any that tried to target Lacutus risking death at the hands of yeomanry sharpshooters. Lacutus watched as a ballista bolt shattered a pavise, and the neophytes that had been sheltering behind it were cut down in a storm of arrows. Augustus trampled their corpses as they passed.

Then Lacutus saw the towers, all six of them, inching towards the curtain wall south of the main gate. Then he saw the hybrids scaling their ladders as the castle’s defenders concentrated on providing cover for Lacutus and Augustus’ mad dash. Then he saw the mass forming between them and the main gate, a number of the huge aberrations amongst them. It was over. Lacutus took some consolation from the fact that they had littered the ground around the castle with dead xenos. Before he reached the mass of hybrids, neophytes and aberrations in front of the main gate he had decided he would kill Vervius, so he did not suffer, and let Augustus go, though he feared his loyal destrier would not leave his side.

Then the drawbridge started to lower.

At least half of the genestealer horde in front of the gate surged towards it, leaping for the drawbridge, trying to clamber onto it, many of them cut down by the archers on the curtain wall overlooking the gate.

Lacutus could hear the portcullis creaking open. He wanted to scream at them, call them fools; couldn’t they see that he wouldn’t make it?

Crossbow bolts were whipping past him. It was only a matter of time before he or Augustus were hit. He could hear the sound of battle atop the curtain walls. The hybrids had found purchase there.

The drawbridge had finally lowered. For a moment he had the mad thought that someone else was piloting Wargod, but then the portcullis was raised and the ogryns marched out, seven of them, the mighty Kark in the centre, his kin on either side. The yeomanry poured arrows into the hybrids on the drawbridge. The guards on the battlements fought desperately against the hybrids from the siege towers, trying to buy the archers just a little more time. The hybrids ran at the ogryns’ huge door shields, leaping at them, only to be driven into the ground by mighty warhammers. Even as he galloped towards them, Lacutus could not quite believe what he was seeing. The sheer power of the ogryns as they cut a swathe through the hybrids, their seemingly impenetrable wall of shields pushing the massed hybrids back one step at a time.

‘For the guv’nor!’ Kark yelled, and the hammers came down again.

Augustus leapt into the back of the press. Hybrids went down under the destrier’s hooves. Augustus almost lost his footing but managed to recover. Lacutus hacked to the right and left for all he was worth, Woundthirst hungry in his hand. One of the aberrations, towering over the surrounding hybrids, was nearly at the shield wall. Lacutus stood on the saddle, oblivious to Vervius, still strapped to him, and leaned forward, stabbing out with Woundthirst. The power sword practically slid into the back of the aberration’s skull.

‘Open!’ Kark shouted. Then he and another ogryn, Kark’s son, pushed their door shields out at right angles, opening a hole in the shield wall and in doing so making themselves vulnerable. Lacutus rode through the gap.

‘Close!’ Kark shouted behind Lacutus. Augustus was galloping towards a wall of spears in the hands of terrified-looking guards waiting inside the curtain wall’s gatehouse.

‘Back!’ Kark shouted.

The guards parted for Augustus. Lacutus reined the destrier to a halt. Two guards cut Vervius free and lifted him off the horse. Lacutus couldn’t tell if the astropath lived or not. He swung his leg over Augustus’ head and slid to the ground. It was only then he noticed that Augustus had taken two crossbow bolts in his forequarters, and yet the brave destrier had not stopped. He slapped Augustus’ flanks. The destrier took off at a gallop. Lacutus knew the animal would find his way to the stables, but now he had to kill something.

He stalked towards the back of the guards’ line of spears. There were hybrids between the retreating ogryns and spearmen now. Some must have made it through the same gap in the ogryn line Lacutus himself had ridden through. In their desperation to get into the castle the hybrids had charged the spearmen rather than attack the ogryns’ backs. As Lacutus picked up his pace he saw the spearmen’s line start to buckle as the three-armed alien monsters threw themselves at the guards in a frenzy. Lacutus charged the hybrids, hewing left and right, Woundthirst cutting through alien-polluted flesh, more butchery than sword-craft. Lacutus was screaming, hybrid blood dripping from him. He felt the spearmen push forward, heartened by their lord as he matched the hybrids’ ferocity with his own. Spears and crossbow bolts rained down through the gatehouse’s murder holes, and more hybrids fell, until there were no more.

The ogryns had made it back inside the gatehouse and were holding the line just behind where the portcullis would fall. Lacutus was aware of someone behind him shouting for the portcullis to be dropped. Then everything happened very quickly. An aberration had fought its way to the front of the hybrid press, and swung its huge two-handed pick at Kark’s skull. Kark got his shield in the way but the pick caught the top of it. The aberration pulled the pick back hard. Kark was yanked forward. The portcullis fell so fast that Lacutus knew its chains had been cut. Kark was on the wrong side of it.

‘Advance!’ the guard sergeant commanding the spearmen ordered. The ogryns threw themselves at the portcullis, stooping to try to lift the huge plasteel grate, their enormous muscles bulging fit to burst. The guards reached the portcullis and thrust their spears through, ramming them into hybrid flesh, pushing them back and clearing room for Kark. The ogryn had already lost his shield. In the brief moment he’d been surrounded his armour had been torn to pieces; he was bleeding from multiple wounds, crossbow bolts sticking out of him. He was still standing, however, and the aberration lay at his feet, its head squashed flat.

‘C’mon then!’ he shouted at the hybrids trying to dodge the guards’ spears to get at the ogryn. ‘For the guv’nor!’ the ogryn screamed, and waded into the hybrids. It was this honouring of his family, more than anything, that made Lacutus understand that he had to do something. He turned and ran back through the gatehouse.

Out in the killing ground between the two walls he paused for a moment to take in the situation on the battlements. South of the gatehouse, where the enemy had concentrated their siege towers, the hybrids had gained the wall. The defenders on the inner wall were pouring arrows and crossbow bolts into the attackers. Some of the neophytes, however, were using their crude pavise shields to cover the hybrids as they pushed their way north along the walls, forcing the guards back towards the gatehouse. It was only a matter of time before the curtain wall fell. There were ladders spanning the gap between the two walls that the curtain wall defenders could use to flee, and when the hybrids tried to follow the ladders could be thrown down or destroyed.

Lacutus ran up the steps just north of the gatehouse. Nokes was waiting for him on the battlements. It made sense that she would have been covering his approach to the castle.

‘Come with me,’ he told her. Nokes followed him into the gatehouse tower, and they ran up the stairs.

Lacutus came out into the bright sunlight atop the tower. He glanced south along the battlements. The guards couldn’t retreat quickly enough. They were being torn apart by the claws and crude iron blades of the hybrids. He turned back to focus on the ballista crew. Their weapon was loaded but they all remained still, staring at the battlefield, visibly shaken.

Lacutus moved forwards and looked down through the crenel. It took him a moment to understand what he was looking at. The hybrid horde had come to a stop. Kark was still on his feet, but even from here Lacutus could see the ogryn was breathing hard, blood pooling at his feet. He still held his hammer at the ready, however. The hybrids were parting to let something pass through them. At first Lacutus thought it was one of the purestrains, only it was much larger and much more terrible to behold. Vicious-looking spikes grew through its thick, armoured carapace. It had claws like sword blades, its segmented tail ending in a scythe-like stinger. Yet it wasn’t the creature’s appearance that frightened Lacutus. It seemed to radiate awe. None of the defenders were firing on it. Lacutus already knew their arrows would do nothing. He knew it had to be the creature from inside the palanquin, Fisher’s master. That was when Lacutus realised that the genestealers were just toying with them. They could not fight this. Lacutus didn’t look towards the sun, he didn’t need to: he could feel the presence of the vast living ship as it closed with his planet.

The huge genestealer came to a halt a little distance away from Kark.

‘I’s going to squash you, bug,’ Kark told the thing. He didn’t hesitate. He just started walking towards the creature.

A ragged cheer went up from the defenders on the curtain wall north of the gatehouse. It was silenced when Kark dropped his hammer and came to a halt, swaying in place as though drunk. The huge genestealer then turned. Kark staggered after him, seemingly in a trance, as if the creature had put an invisible leash around the ogryn’s neck.

‘Nokes,’ Lacutus said.

She leaned her longbow against a merlon and moved towards the ballista’s trigger mechanism.

‘We’ll do it,’ the ballista team commander said, stepping in front of her. Nokes just punched him, putting him on his back. The rest of the team got out of her way. She aimed the ballista. Lacutus was acutely aware of the fight on the battlement getting closer and closer.

‘Which one?’ Nokes asked.

‘Kark,’ Lacutus managed. He closed his good eye but still heard the crack of the ballista. He did not need to look to know that Nokes had hit her mark, that Kark was dead. Better that than whatever fate the genestealers had planned for the noble and loyal ogryn.

‘We could have done that,’ the ballista team commander said.

‘He told me to do it,’ Nokes replied.

What followed the death of Kark had been a blur. They had fought their way down the tower as the hybrids reached it. Then they had made a precarious escape across the ladders that ran over the killing ground, whilst the archers on the inner wall covered them. Vervius had lived, however. After seeing the genestealer’s leader, Lacutus couldn’t shake the feeling that the astropath’s survival was just fate toying with him.

Vervius’ chamber was a simple cell. The only decoration was a banner depicting the symbol of the Adeptus Astra Telepathica. Vervius was sat up in his cot. His chalk-white skin was beaded with flop sweat, and he was shaking like a leaf. His tattered robes had been slit, and Lacutus could see the astropath’s bandaged and splinted left leg. The only reason Vervius was awake at all was because the chirurgeon had given him an infusion of yaln root to dull the pain.

Vervius had a board on his lap and there he lay the ancient crystal wafers of the Emperor’s Tarot. They were little more than an aid to concentration. Vervius favoured their imagery in the formation of his messages. Their symbolism was widely known and easy to understand. He drew the Hulk, the Great Host inverted, the Shattered World, the psychoactive cards responding to the touch of the astropath’s mind, each image symbolic of the message he was trying to send.

Lacutus stood over him. Two of the castle guards, both bearing bandaged wounds like so many of the castle’s defenders, stood by the door to Vervius’ quarters.

Vervius finished arranging the cards and looked up at Lacutus. He wasn’t sure how much of the shaking was from the astropath’s wound and how much was fear. Vervius was clearly terrified.

‘Remember my father’s sacrifice,’ Lacutus told him. It may have been a cruel thing to say. It was certainly a manipulative thing to say. If Vervius was right then the astropath was not just looking at his own death but damnation as well. It couldn’t be easy to act in the face of such certainty, but whether it was Lacutus’ words or the astropath’s own resolve, Vervius looked down at the cards and started to concentrate, repeating a mantra in High Gothic to himself.

Nothing happened for a very long time. Then suddenly Vervius’ back arched in a way that should have made the astropath scream in agony. A series of vicious spasms wracked Vervius’ body, contorting it in unnatural ways. Horrified, Lacutus heard bones snapping, the crunch of vertebrae grinding together.

‘Fool! You should have submitted to my will when you had the chance.’

Lacutus went cold as he recognised Elderman Fisher’s voice – except it sounded tortured, torn from Vervius’ mouth.

‘The immaterium is closed to you. You live beneath the shadow in the warp. The great Harvester is coming. Your flesh belongs to us!’

Lacutus had heard enough. Woundthirst offered Vervius succour by separating the astropath’s head from his body.

‘Burn him and salt the earth where his ashes fall,’ Lacutus told the guards.

Lacutus strode towards the Sanctuary dressed in his father’s armour once more, the suit his father had worn when he had become one with Wargod. The siege had come to a stalemate. Genestealer forces held the inner wall but had to shelter behind the pavise shields that now lined the battlements or risk death at the hands of yeomanry archers or the castle guard’s crossbowmen. Lacutus knew that the stalemate would only last until the purestrains were committed to the battle. The palanquin had held a throne that appeared to be made of bone. The monster that had come for Kark now sat openly upon it. The purestrains lay around it like a pack of hunting dogs.

Lacutus had felt something change, with the living ship moving ever closer, with the genestealers’ master finally revealed. He had felt his soul oppressed. He knew that if he felt it then all his people felt it, even as they fought the genestealer forces from the inner wall, or tended the wounded, or were tormented in a moment’s grabbed sleep. The light of their largest sun continued to dim. Lacutus looked up, shading his remaining good eye. The living ship, silhouetted against the sun, was large enough that all could see it, even this far away. That alone should have broken his… their will. Surely the battle was over now? Yet Lacutus found himself smiling. He had heard the anger in Fisher’s voice, fear even. Vervius had managed to send the message before he was cut off. It was a slim hope, but that was all they had ever had. Now they were just playing for time.

Lydia was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs that led to the Chamber of Echoes. She watched him approach. Lacutus paused by her.

‘The spirits will kill you if you try again,’ she told him.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at the hundreds of wounded, some dying, and those already dead, lying on the Sanctuary floor.

‘They could have killed me, broken my mind. Instead they left me whole. I have to believe that’s for a reason.’ He didn’t tell her the lesson that Kark’s death and the genestealer lord had taught him. His doubts and fears were irrelevant. They always had been.

The moment the hatch closed behind him, the moaning of the wounded and the sounds of battle were silenced. Lacutus was alone again amongst the dust and dead thrones of warriors long since departed. The faint grey illumination lit the Chamber of Echoes like it was dusk.

He made his way through the dust, following, once more, his father’s footprints. He reached the Throne Mechanicum that belonged to Wargod. He knew that doubt and fear could kill him in the Ritual of Becoming, but that was a secondary consideration to the service he owed his people.

He spent a moment looking at the throne. Then he sat down. For a moment he wondered if this was cowardice. Had he abandoned the fight? But if Fisher had told the truth, and the silhouette of the living ship against the sun would certainly seem to suggest he had, then they would need Wargod. Not to win, not even to survive, but to slay as many of whatever abominations were coming next before they died. One day, the Emperor would hear how his people had fought genestealers armed only with bows, spears and swords.

Jacks snaked out of the throne. They slid into Lacutus’ plugs. There was a momentary sense of violation as the metal slid into his body, and then he left the Chamber of Echoes.

There was no fear, this time. Why would there be? This had happened three years ago. He had torn off his mask, the sweet cloying smell of rot threatening to overwhelm him. He’d torn off the heavy gloves to get a better hold of Woundthirst as he fought the warp plague’s diseased minions in the street. He ignored the screamed questions of his ancestors; they were just distractions as he made his way towards the slaughterhouse. Towards his failure.

Disease had taken hold of his flesh but that did not matter either. The Ritual of Becoming would either kill him, or it wouldn’t.

Again he fought his way to the slaughterhouse. Again the pustulent daemon rose. Again his father appeared and demanded to know his sin. As the daemon’s lash flicked out towards him, again Lacutus lowered his sword and turned to face his father. Everything seemed to slow down.

‘The whip took my eye and I was thrown outside. My men were just ripped apart,’ he told his father. This time the daemon’s plague-lash passed through him as a ghost. On the other side of the slaughterhouse, the rotting, growth-covered wall bulged and then burst inwards. Wargod waded into the pustule. The tiny, obese plague-creatures were torn apart by heavy stubber fire. The daemon’s flesh blistered and exploded, heated by the Knight Errant’s thermal cannon; the chainsword bit into diseased flesh. The daemon swung its huge rotting blade. Lightning crackled as it hit Wargod’s ion shield, but diseased muscles bulged and the servant of Nurgle forced its weapon through.

‘And Wargod was badly damaged,’ his father said. ‘We are all wounded in war, but that is not your sin.’

Lacutus turned to look at his father.

‘I don’t care,’ he said.

‘What?’ his father demanded.

‘I don’t care what my sin is. I don’t care if I am weak, or if I’m strong enough for you. I care about the people out there on the castle walls, fighting and dying. I care about whatever else is coming – that thing in the sky that the genestealers have summoned. You want to judge me, you want to find me not worthy, do as you please, but you will kill me after we have walked out to face our enemies, or I will know that it is Wargod who is the coward, not I.’

His father rocked back on his heels as though slapped. Behind the ghost, the slow-motion titanic battle between Wargod and the daemon raged.

‘How dare…’ he started.

‘My father was a practical man, and we do not have much time.’

His father stared at him for a moment or two. Lacutus steeled himself for another tirade, but then the expression on his father’s face softened and he stepped forward to embrace his son.

‘Your mother would have been proud of you,’ he whispered in his ear, ‘and I could not be more so.’

Lacutus returned the embrace, and then he screamed as agony lanced through his eye. There was an impact, something large hitting the ground nearby. The rockcrete rippled, almost taking their feet from them.

‘What was that?’ Lacutus demanded, breaking the embrace.

‘Feedback from Wargod’s sensors,’ his father told him.

‘I cannot stay here all night. If I do, we are already lost.’

His father closed his eyes.

‘Wargod may yet kill you,’ he said when he opened his eyes again. ‘Remember, this is not a weapon. You are Wargod, the Knight is your body.’

Lacutus opened his eyes as the throne was sinking down into Wargod’s superstructure. There was a moment of dislocation and then he became Wargod. He felt every last bit of damage, old or new, as a wound. He felt the Knight’s years as an ache deep in his bones. He was ancient but mighty and the battlefield belonged to him. His senses expanded out beyond the Sanctuary, the castle. He was aware of the deep impact crater amongst the ruins of Landfall City, the biological horror uncoiling within, the other spores raining down from the vast living abomination speeding through the darkness of space towards his world.

He stepped forward experimentally, and Wargod moved. Then he was striding out of the Sanctuary to the sound of the wounded cheering him on. All along the inner wall the defenders stood frozen as they looked out at the fresh horror that had landed amongst the ruins. Lacutus – no, Wargod – knew it was only the beginning. If his planet was to be overrun, if they were to fall abandoned and alone, then all that mattered now was the manner of his destruction, how many dead he left in his wake. Then he could rest, like Thunderblade, like Queen of Blood, and all his other brother and sister Knights, long since fallen.

As the defenders on the wall heard Wargod they turned to see him approaching the inner gate, and they too cheered. Whatever else came, whatever else happened, Wargod knew he must slay this new enemy. The people of Landfall deserved it.

The portcullis was raised and Wargod stooped to enter the cramped gatehouse. The inner gate was opened and his thermal cannon greeted the hybrids and the few aberrations trying to take advantage of the Knight’s egress. He turned their flesh to superheated steam, then stepped out into the killing ground between the walls and made it live up to its name. Then he turned his attention to the curtain wall lined with the neophytes’ pavise shields as they loosed bolt after bolt at the defenders on the inner wall.

Wargod killed north and south along the battlements to the extent of the thermal cannon’s range. Despite all the ancient Knight Errant’s aches and pains he felt exhilaration at the sheer power of the thing, wondering how he had lived without it until now. Wondering how he could have feared this. Realising that it didn’t matter if his deal with Wargod led to his death because he had lived long enough to feel this power.

He ducked into the outer gatehouse. Sparks flew as his chainsword cut through the portcullis, and he stepped out into the ruins amongst the genestealer dead. As he straightened up he saw huge explosions of dirt behind the genestealer lines as more spores fell, delivering his planet’s doom.

Despite the power he felt, it still gave him pause as he watched the creature rise from the vast impact crater dead ahead of him. It was covered in a thick, bone-like armour. It had six limbs, each ending in a long scythe-like claw. It rose up on its serpentine lower body, smoke venting from holes in its back. It bent low and then reared, opening its mandible-surrounded mouth wide in a hissing scream. Wargod could feel the panic on the inner wall behind him.

The Knight Errant raised his thermal cannon and advanced on the creature, but there was another explosion of dirt, and the ground shook as the xenos dived into the very earth itself. Wargod felt the tremors under his armoured feet as he looked around, searching for sign of his foe.

The creature burst out of the earth at Wargod’s feet. He stumbled then screamed as lightning-wreathed sickles tore into his metal flesh, shredding adamantium armour, burning out ancient systems. Some distant memory that was Lacutus felt the air on his skin, the claws rending so deep they tore open his womb of technology. The creature started to wrap itself around the Knight. Wargod could not bring his thermal cannon to bear. Its tail coiled around the Knight’s legs, its darting sting puncturing armour.

Wargod lurched forward and fell. The creature wound itself around the Knight Errant, climbing his body with its tearing claws. As it reared up, its segmented mouth split open, and then it darted forward to bite the Knight’s head. Wargod saw his death, but somehow he managed to get his thermal cannon limb under the creature’s jaw, holding it back. The Knight screamed, bioelectricity coursing over him, through him, as the adamantium teeth of his chainsword bit into the bone-like armour. He forced the blade deeper and deeper into the creature’s body, creating a fountain of purple ichor. The creature tried to disentangle itself from him, to slither away. Wargod threw himself bodily at it as the xenos started to burrow into the earth. He rammed the chainsword into the wound it had already made, pushing it through the creature, pinioning it until he could bring the thermal cannon to bear. Then he fired the weapon again, and again, and again until what was left of the creature was still.

‘Fisher!’ Wargod howled. The Knight Errant managed to struggle to his feet and take a faltering step towards the bone throne, then another. The throne atop the hill overlooking the genestealer lines was empty. The lord of the genestealers and his purestrain minions ran from Wargod. Fisher tried to do the same, but the elderman was not nearly as fast. Wargod fired his thermal cannon even as he started to fall. The bone throne ceased to exist and Elderman Fisher became so much superheated vapour.

And Wargod fell to the ground.

Lacutus emerged into the dimming light as the smallest of the suns sank behind the horizon. He had half expected to be torn to pieces by hybrids, or some new horror fallen from the sky, as he had pulled himself through the vast rents in brave Wargod’s metal flesh. Despite, or perhaps because he had felt the Knight Errant’s death, he was strangely phlegmatic about the possibility of his own imminent demise. It did not come to pass, however. He collapsed onto Wargod’s still-hot armour, looking up, watching falling spores leave trails of fire across the bright blue sky. The Siren’s Storm was brighter now against the darkening sky, though somehow less frightening. Lacutus’ dead eye no longer hurt, either.

He managed to roll onto his side. The genestealer forces were fleeing. Running to the east towards the coast, following the purestrains and their lord. He didn’t understand. With Wargod fallen, why weren’t they attacking? There were more contrails, these ones more direct, faster-moving, chasing the falling spores, destroying them in fierce explosions when they caught them. The air felt like it did in the moments before a storm, and Lacutus found himself lying in the shade.

At first he thought the dark shape high above him was another living monstrosity come to plague them, but it resolved itself into something vast and wrought by humans. Lightning played around it as it sank through the atmosphere, dropping towards them even as its weapons reached out to destroy the falling spores. Lacutus could make out the symbol on the bottom of the huge ship: a fist holding a hammer. Vervius’ message had got through. Lacutus knew that within the armoured bulk of the forge world’s ship waited part human, part machine skitarii warriors. They would be eager to face the alien horrors still raining from the sky. Lacutus heard cheering from the castle. He started to laugh. They still lived, and the Legio Metalica had come.

ROADWARDEN

Liane Merciel

Philadelphia-based fantasy author Liane Merciel brings her unique voice to the pages of Inferno! for the first time, with this Mortal Realms take on the classic Warhammer figure of the Roadwarden.

Fereyne is one such figure. We return to the scalding desert wastes of Aqshy, a desolate, inhospitable Realm where battles are fought over single drops of water. Hired by a disparate band of explorers, Fereyne guides them into even harsher corners of the Realm in search of a lost, precious artefact. But for the Roadwarden and her new companions, there is far more to contend with than the heat…

‘I hear you’re a guide.’

Fereyne opened her eyes slowly. She shook ash from the battered, salt-stained brim of her hat with one hand as she pretended to wipe the sleep from her eyes with the other.

She hadn’t really been sleeping, of course. Like everyone else in Reaver’s Mourning, she’d been watching these strangers since they’d arrived at the dusty little outpost. And, like everyone else in Reaver’s Mourning, she’d been subtle about it, because even by the measure of this hard, cracked land at the edge of the Reaver Wastes, everything about them screamed of danger. It was not wise to gawk at daemons.

This woman, looming over her, was more daemonic than most. Her skin was brass, her rough black hair knotted with blood-red rags. Old scars seamed her flesh. One, revealed by the droop of her loose linen cowl as she bent over Fereyne, was a skull-shaped welt between her collarbones.

Fereyne knew that mark. A chill traced down her spine as she met the woman’s stare. ‘Who says?’

‘Does it matter?’ The woman nodded towards the worn stone pendant that had slipped out of Fereyne’s pocket while she pretended to sleep. ‘You’re a roadwarden. Roadwarden Fereyne. The best guide in this miserable little dust camp, they say, despite being the youngest. The youngest still living, at least.’

‘I’m alive because I don’t take stupid risks,’ Fereyne said sourly. She rubbed the worn etchings of her roadwarden’s pendant. ‘Where do you want to go?’

‘Somewhere in the Wastes.’ The woman straightened, glancing over her shoulder to the little inn where her companions were staying. The white glaze was flaking off its bricks, stripped by Aqshy’s merciless sun and wind. ‘Veskil can tell you. He’s hunting something in there.’

‘In the Reaver Wastes?’ Fereyne baulked. This job sounded worse by the word.

‘Veskil pays.’ The woman flashed a smile. Her eyeteeth were filed to points and dyed red along the edges. ‘He pays well. Gold and gems, not coin. It’s worth a water-gem for you to take us into the Wastes. Two if he finds what he’s seeking.’

Fereyne’s eyebrows rose. Paying in gems wasn’t unusual around the Reaver Wastes. They were far from any of Aqshy’s great cities, and the blood lords who claimed to rule over this desolation cared nothing for civilisation or its currencies. Money, in these lands, was meaningless. People traded by the weight of their coins, not the stamps on their faces.

But a water-gem was a price that could change a life. Two…

She hesitated. This woman bore Khorne’s brand, but she behaved like no bloodreaver Fereyne had met. The Lord of Slaughter’s lackeys relied on force and fear, not flattery and bribes. Subtlety was as anathema to them as peace.

‘Who are you?’ Fereyne asked. She gestured to the woman’s heart-scar, now hidden again by the linen cowl. ‘You carry the Blood Lord’s mark, but not his manner. That scar is of the Skullborn, but…’

‘The Skullborn are dead. That tribe’s name is no more.’ The woman said it flatly, without fear or grief, though tribe was life in the Wastes. A person with no tribe was without water or shade. Walking dead.

‘But who…? How…?’ Fereyne faltered. The Skullborn were among the most feared tribes she knew. Led by the cannibal warlord Gringur Bloodfist, they hunted from the Piroc Plains to the Vultur Sands, leaving pyramids of bloody skulls in their wake. It was impossible that anyone could have broken that brutal horde, unless… ‘Has one of the Bloodbound warbands come?’

‘No.’ The woman fell silent for a moment, then shook it off with another disconcertingly red-toothed smile. But a trace of awe lingered as she said: ‘None of the Blood God’s champions brought them down. Sigmar’s… giants did that. They came clad in gold and lightning, with thunder in their voices and devastation in their fists. They swept Gringur and his hounds in a blue blaze, brighter than the noontide sun, and when the sky grew dim enough to see again, all those who’d sworn Khorne’s oaths of blood were dead. The rest…’ She shrugged. ‘The rest scattered from Sigmar’s storm. Including us.’

‘Then you are not Skullborn?’ Fereyne pressed, unable to believe what she’d heard.

‘No. This brand… it does not mean what you imagine. It marks that I was born to them, and claimed by them. Not that I claimed them myself. Now the Skullborn are dead, and their name is no more. Now I am only Khensev. Khensev of no tribe, and glad to be free.’ The woman held out a hand. ‘Come. You should talk to Veskil.’

And Fereyne, to her own surprise, took the scarred woman’s hand.

The inn at Reaver’s Mourning had no name. It needed none, for it was the only inn in a flyspeck settlement that only existed because sometimes traders from Callidium ventured down the crumbling old roads into the perilous Wastes, and sometimes tribespeople came out of the desolation to meet them. While the nomads seldom wanted a solid roof over their heads, the city merchants did, and so an enterprising villager had built one for them.

It was a low building of dun brick covered with flaking white glaze, its windows filled with carved panels of pale-bleached wood. Near-bald chickens pecked at the dirt in its shadow, while the fat yellow lizards that the innkeepers bred for meat lay dozing in the sun.

No traders were there now, and no tribespeople. The only occupants, apart from the two old sisters who kept the place, were Khensev’s companions.

It wasn’t hard to see why everyone else had left. Khensev’s band consisted of five former Skullborn, each more savage-looking than the last; a grim, pale aelf whose skin was the same shade as his cloud-grey leather, and whose eyes were cold as the lore-spinners’ tales of ice; and a bald duardin whose muscled arms were striped with scars where runes or tattoos had been carved from her flesh.

And then there was Veskil, perhaps the strangest of them all.

He was human, maybe, although much of his face was hidden behind a great bronze contraption of whirring gears clamped around his hairless skull. One of his eyes was gone, replaced by a rune-scribed golden marble that shimmered in its socket, and the other peered out from behind the coloured lenses that clicked through the wizard’s bizarre headpiece. Gold-threaded red robes hid most of his body, but Fereyne could see enough of his bulk to know, without a doubt, that Veskil was a creature of the cities. No one outside their watered walls grew so large and soft.

‘Ah, so Khensev persuaded you to join us,’ the wizard said. His voice was as soft as his hands, but there was a sharpness to his gaze that made Fereyne wary.

‘She persuaded me to listen,’ Fereyne said.

‘To listen, then.’ Veskil nodded in concession and smiled. ‘You must wonder what is so important that it draws us into the Wastes.’

‘So important that you’ll offer me two water-gems to help you find it? Yes, I wonder.’

‘Are you native to these lands?’ Veskil’s headpiece clicked and whirred. The green lens that had been before his right eye ticked away, replaced by a grey octagon. Behind it, his eye changed too. No longer human, it now appeared ringed by ashen scales, its pupil a vertical slash of flame. A dragon’s eye, fiery and merciless. ‘Not the cities, but the wild places. The wastes, the plains, the ruins of fallen Ahramentia?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you know the hardships of life in Aqshy’s desolation. The heat, the hunger, the horrors that Khorne’s savages have dealt for so many generations.’

‘Yes.’ Fereyne kept her gaze steady on the wizard’s half-mechanical face. She clamped down hard on the memories that tried to rise up at her answer. Her mother, writhing in dry fever. What was left of her younger brother after Khorne’s bloodreavers came upon their camp. The baby, the one they’d never named, putting his tongue out for milk or water or anything, anything, except hot dust on his lips.

So many memories. So many deaths. She wasn’t yet twenty, and she was alone in the world, the others all blazed away by a realm that took lives like kindling.

‘What if it didn’t have to be that way? What would you say if I told you that we could bring life to Aqshy – oases, glass gardens, places where people could prosper in peace and plenty?’ Veskil leaned forward, his chair creaking under his weight. The grey lens spun away, and the green one returned. Behind it, his eye was human again, and wide with earnest belief.

The sisters’ brooms had stilled. Even the innkeepers were listening now.

‘I’d say you were mad,’ Fereyne snorted. ‘You could just as easily try to–’

‘To what? Tame Khorne’s scarred savages? By Sigmar’s blessing, we have. You’ve seen the proof yourself.’ Veskil gestured to Khensev and her fellows. The Skullborn woman crossed her arms and cast him an annoyed look, but said nothing.

‘The world does not have to be forever what it is today,’ the wizard continued. ‘We have the power to change it. To make these wastelands less punishing. To give its people the hope of something better than a swift and early death.’

Fereyne glanced out of the panelled windows. Past the dusty crossroads of Reaver’s Mourning and its handful of hovels, she could see nothing but sun-blasted rock and sparse dots of gnarled, thorny brush under a low red sky.

There was nothing soft in Aqshy. There never had been, even before Khorne had forced most of the realm under his bloody boot. That was exactly why the tribes had so easily fallen under the Lord of Slaughter’s sway: each had known from birth that the world was pitiless, that only the harshest survived, and that cruel hardship had been their lot since their first breath.

But that is why this man must change it. Understanding hit Fereyne like a thunderclap. Peace required plenty. If this wizard wanted the tribes to build better lives than Khorne had promised them, then he needed to change the world in which they lived. Otherwise, the tribes would fall back to squabbling over scraps, and would soon return to rage.

‘What are you looking for?’ Fereyne asked, curious.

Veskil steepled his fingers, pleased by the question. ‘We seek an artefact known as Eshael’s Font. It may be a fountain, or a watering vessel of some kind. Whatever its form, its magic is known – Eshael’s Font holds the power of life. With its power, we might have orchards on the Piroc Plains, grain fields in the Reaver Wastes. People wouldn’t have to kill each other for a sip of water.’

To Fereyne, it sounded impossible. But the wizard’s dream was compelling, and anyway, what did it matter if he was wrong? Even if they failed to find this font, Veskil was offering enough money for her to shake off the road dust forever and buy a rich life in Callidium. Whether or not they brought water and green life to the Wastes, Fereyne would have it for herself.

‘It’s a pretty picture. For that, and your water-gems, you’ve got yourself a guide.’

They left the next evening, just as the red sun was sinking and the desert began to exhale its heat out to the night. Burnflies spun through the gathering shadows, while fireburst beetles spewed yellow-tipped flame from their hidden lairs among the stones. In Aqshy, nightfall meant only that the realm’s fires moved from its heavens to the earth.

For the first few nights, Fereyne kept them on the Piroc Plains, which offered better water, and better grazing for the remurants who carried their supplies. The lumbering, insectoid creatures ate a mixture of combustible grasses and mineral-rich rocks, and though they required no additional water to survive, a poorly proportioned diet could cause them indigestion. Indigestion, for a remurant, meant belching gouts of explosive gas and flame. Even if the humans managed to avoid incineration, their baggage seldom did, so Fereyne took great care to keep the remurants properly fed.

On the fourth night, however, she turned them towards the Reaver Wastes.

‘We’re nearing Smokescar territory,’ Fereyne told the others as they made camp that morning. ‘I’ll try to skirt around their boundaries. They’ve always fought the taint of Chaos, but they’re a hard people in their own right, and it’s likely they’ll take your markings to mean you’re true Skullborn.’ She nodded meaningfully at Khensev’s brand. ‘I doubt they’ll pause to ask questions, so it’s best we don’t risk that misunderstanding.’

Veskil nodded, and the others voiced no objection.

But the land was harder than Fereyne remembered. Where she thought there would be water, they found dried-up oases and exhausted, abandoned wells. Ravines that had once held good grazing stood withered and grey, their grass gone to dust. Two days and two nights passed with no water, no food, and no sign of the Smokescar. By the end of the second night, Khensev and her warriors were getting restive, and the remurants had exhausted their graze.

‘We cannot stay in the Wastes,’ the aelf, Whyrlin, told Fereyne while sharpening his blades. He had an inordinate number of them, from the glassy scimitar worn across his back to the matched knives at his hips and the smaller, secret daggers hidden about his person. ‘Our water runs low. If you can find none here, we will have to go into your smoke-tribe’s land.’

‘I know.’ Fereyne rubbed her roadwarden’s pendant uneasily. She hadn’t warmed to the pale, grim aelf, and she didn’t like the idea of trespassing into Smokescar territory. Khensev and her warriors might not have been true Skullborn in their own eyes or in Khorne’s, but they bore the skull-brand scar, and that would surely be enough to damn them to the Smokescar.

But Whyrlin was right. They had no choice.

‘Where are they?’ Fereyne muttered to herself. For three nights they’d been moving deeper into Smokescar lands, and still they’d seen no tribespeople. Here, too, the land was poorer than Fereyne remembered, but not so harsh that the Smokescar should have abandoned it.

At the Oasis of the Drowned Skulls, the water was low and brackish, but drinkable. The soft earth around the pool, however, was untrodden by camel or remurant. Bluecrown and fireleaf flowered in Redclaw Ravine, thin but untouched, though the nomads should have rushed to gather the succulent plants during their brief, precious bloom.

Even at the Arch of the Ancestors’ Spears, a wind-carved bend of stone ringed by the crumbling weapons of Smokescar warriors from centuries past, no one came. The arch was one of the tribe’s holiest sites, its burial grounds fiercely protected from outsiders, and yet Fereyne and her companions walked in unopposed. All around them, the burial mounds of revered ancestors stood unguarded. The wind shrilled through the blackbone spears of the long-dead Smokescar, but there was no whisper of any living nomad.

Fereyne couldn’t explain it. They’d seen no signs of battle. The oases held water, and the seasonal plants were ripe for forage. There was no reason the Smokescar should have abandoned their territory, leaving its rare bounties behind, and yet they plainly had.

‘Why should this be of concern?’ Khensev asked when Fereyne mentioned her puzzlement to the others. ‘They have not attacked us. Good. What does the reason matter?’

‘It just feels wrong.’ Fereyne’s unease had only grown since they’d left the Piroc Plains. Once they’d moved into Smokescar territory, she’d been able to find enough water and forage to sustain them, but at every step of their journey, there was less than she’d expected, and it was sparser and bitterer. It was as if the land itself were somehow ailing.

‘How much longer must we remain in their territory?’ Veskil asked. The journey had been hard on him. Large as he was, the wizard was obviously unaccustomed to the heat and exertion that the others endured as a matter of course. He never complained, but Fereyne could see the toll it took.

‘Not long. The last good water in this direction is at the Copperscales,’ Fereyne said. ‘It’s their year-round camp. The Smokescar elders live there, caring for the sick and wounded who cannot travel. Once we’re past that, it’s a short night’s journey to leave Smokescar lands.’

Veskil mopped his brow with a red kerchief, fastidiously patting away the sweat channelled along the headpiece’s brass arms. Despite his exhaustion, the wizard nodded, straightening determinedly even as he tucked the cloth back into his sleeve. ‘Perhaps we’ll find answers there. Failing that, at least we’ll have water.’

Fereyne led them on.

In secret places, hidden amid the Wastes’ desolation, she found uncropped grass and unpicked fruit. She found piles of dried remurant dung that the nomads had failed to gather for their campfires, and forgotten snares that held lizards’ dry bones in their cracked coils. But, through all those blistering days and throat-parched nights, she did not find a single soul from the Smokescar tribe.

And then, at last, they came to the Copperscales.

The Smokescar settlement was a cluster of yellow mud huts built in a semicircle around an oasis. Behind the houses grew a dense forest of rough-barked trees with metallic copper leaves, which chimed like bells when stirred by the wind. The scale-shaped leaves were key to the Smokescar tribe’s survival, for they could be strung together into lightweight but formidably tough armour that, unlike true metal, did not roast its wearer in Aqshy’s heat. That armour gave the Smokescar warriors a crucial edge in battle, and trading loose copperscales kept the tribe from starving during lean times.

An eerie stillness blanketed the huts. Beneath the trees’ familiar music, Fereyne could hear another sound – a wet, phlegmy chuckling that seemed to gurgle from all the dark windows and doorways at once. It was a foul sound, so foul that merely listening to it seemed to leave an unclean film on her skin.

‘Spears, to me.’ Khensev dropped into a fluid crouch and moved forward, flanked by her warriors. Whyrlin melted into the shadows, loping towards the huts with a predatory smoothness that even the Skullborn couldn’t rival. The duardin, Brokkar, slapped her hammer into her hands and strode forward to guard Veskil.

Fereyne watched with her heart in her throat. She was a fair shot and a good hunter, but she’d never been in a real fight. She notched an arrow to her bowstring anyway, hoping and dreading that a target might appear.

The chuckling intensified. It grew thicker, uglier, broke into sticky coughing, and kept laughing, now multiplied by a chorus of hundreds. Then, abruptly, it went silent.

Khensev peered into an open doorway. Then she recoiled, her face twisted in disgust. She gestured swiftly for her warriors to back away.

‘The Plaguefather has taken these souls,’ the scarred woman spat. ‘There is nothing to fight here.’

‘I see.’ Veskil’s face hardened. He returned to the remurants and drew a tall staff from his baggage. It was not one Fereyne had seen before. Its shaft was braided steel and gold, and a teardrop-shaped orange crystal, big enough to fill her palm, shimmered at its head. Fiery light poured from the stone, surrounding Veskil as he lumbered to the huts. ‘Stay within the light, if you wish to bear witness here.’

Khensev’s warriors were clearly unwilling to go, and Fereyne was curious. She shouldered her bow, tossed the remurants’ reins to the nearest Skullborn, and hurried after Veskil. The staff’s light was warm on her skin, oddly comforting. She had almost forgotten the feel of her mother’s embrace – but in that fiery glow, strangely, she felt an echo of the safety she’d believed in as a child.

Veskil looked at her quizzically. The gears around his head churned, and a blue lens flicked over his eye. Behind it, his eye appeared to be a hovering ball of white flame. ‘Are you a mage, roadwarden?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think so,’ Fereyne said, her eyes on the huts ahead.

‘Curious. Do you sense the winds of magic?’

‘The wind’s always blowing in the Wastes, wizard.’

‘True. Yes, that is true,’ Veskil said quietly, the corners of his mouth crinkling as if something in her answer amused him. Whatever it might have been, it was swiftly forgotten as they came to the dead of the Copperscales.

Perhaps a dozen Smokescar lay sprawled around their huts. No two had died the same way. All had been felled by disease, but there was no commonality to their symptoms.

One lay in a sun-dried rime of pooled sweat and urine, every drop of water wrung out by sickness. The salt of his body had crystallised into hypnotic patterns, almost words, that made Fereyne’s eyes ache.

She looked away. Ten paces off, a greybeard slumped against the village well, his chest deformed by massive buboes that had erupted into mushrooms of blood-streaked yellow fat. Real mushrooms sprouted from his flesh beneath the grisly false ones, their gills heavy with sickly, moist-looking spores. White grubs squirmed under the mushrooms, their wet squelches sounding uncannily like chuckles.

Other vermin fed on other bodies. Black flies climbed through a woman’s eye sockets, their slimy wings leaving tracks like tears on her cheeks. Broken-legged ants with huge, drooping eyes had gnawed her clothes into lacy ruin and built nests of fractal madness in her limbs. The noises of their gnawing, too, sounded like hideous laughter.

Death and gluttonous fecundity, again and again, intertwined like awful lovers. The same nightmare with a thousand different faces, all of them laughing at their glorious, horrible joke.

The sun should have blasted those mushrooms and mildews. The wind should have scoured away the flies and maggots. But there was a god’s touch in that horror, and it shielded his creatures from Aqshy’s wrath.

Chaos. Fereyne turned away, covering her nose and mouth against the smell.

The scent of smoke, and a quiet popping noise, turned her back. Where the light of Veskil’s staff spilled across the vermin, they blackened like leaves thrown into a campfire. The fungus curled to char, not a single spore escaping. She looked at the wizard in puzzlement, and found him staring back at her. It was impossible for her to read his face under the mechanical headpiece.

‘Can you tell what brought this to them?’ he asked. ‘And whether anyone survived?’

Fereyne nodded, fighting through the nausea. I won’t be weak in front of these people. She closed her eyes, drew a breath, then another. I am a roadwarden, Fereyne told herself. I will see the signs.

She opened her eyes. This time she didn’t look at the dead Smokescar, but at the meals they hadn’t finished and the jars of water that they’d spilled when their doom came upon them. There were more bowls laid out than corpses beside them, and there were footsteps in the drying sand at the jars’ mouths.

The footprints led away. There were survivors. Fereyne retraced their steps, concentrating on the task to push away the horrors around her. The grubs’ nightmare chuckling receded so that she could almost ignore it. Almost.

The survivors had gone into the Copperscales. They had walked in a messy single file, like soldiers too badly wounded to stay in line. Blood and ichor, congealed but not dry, dimmed the crinkled lustre of the fallen leaves at the forest’s edge. Fereyne followed just far enough to confirm their direction, and then withdrew to relay her findings to the others.

‘What do you want to do?’ she asked.

Khensev exchanged a glance with her warriors. The scarred woman spat, expressing their shared view. ‘If the Plaguefather has taken them, they are gone. We have no duty to avenge this tribe.’

‘Don’t you wonder why he wanted them?’ Veskil asked.

‘No.’ Khensev’s voice trembled with hatred, and ill-concealed fear beneath it. ‘You could as well ask why dust fever chose to strike down some and spare others. There is no reason. There is only chance, and madness, and the hunger of parasites.’

‘I think there was a reason here.’ Veskil lifted his staff. Its fiery glow changed subtly, taking on a greenish tint where its nimbus neared the Copperscales. The wizard held it aloft for a moment, long enough to let them all see the light shift, then lowered it and looked to Fereyne. ‘Do you feel it? The change in the winds?’

Fereyne held a hand up to the forest, spreading her fingers as she tried to detect some shift in the breeze. Under the Copperscales, the air was cooler, less parched. Though she could only see coppery leaves and black-ridged trunks, the forest’s exhalations carried a whisper of crushed leaves and pond water that smelled softer, greener, than the spiked and scorched vegetation of the Wastes.

But she couldn’t feel any wind, not really. She lowered her hand. ‘No.’

‘Try the staff.’ Veskil held it out, ignoring the irritated look Khensev cast him and the mutters from her warriors. Brokkar stamped impatiently in the background, shouldering her heavy warhammer with a grunt, but Veskil ignored the duardin as well.

Fereyne took the staff. The metal was vibrant in her palm, thrumming with life. The crystal dimmed as Veskil released it, then flared again as Fereyne took hold. Green and gold and fiery orange flashed across its facets, scattering sparks across the fallen copper leaves, and she felt a swift wind rise up from those fallen motes.

It whirled through her, buffeting her breath away, filling her blood with a sudden tingling shock of possibility. Wildly, madly, Fereyne felt that she could bend the wind to her will, heat it to billowing flame at whim, wrap it in burning coils around foes or harden it to a blazing shield before her friends. It was all the eldritch force of Aqshy, all the magic of the Realm of Fire, and it was hers, it was–

Shuddering, she thrust the staff away. Veskil took it, regarding her with mixed sympathy and satisfaction from behind a shimmering blue lens. Ghostly sigils danced across that lens, dissolving into golden sparks and re-forming into new runes. ‘You do have the gift,’ he said. ‘If we had more time, I might try to train you – a few simple spells, at least – but we cannot afford that now. When this is over, we can discuss it. For now, we must go on.’

‘Why?’ Khensev demanded, putting a hand to her bone-bladed scimitar. ‘The Plaguefather’s doom took that camp. Why should we go after them?’

‘Because Eshael’s Font is here,’ Veskil replied, thrusting his staff towards the coppery forest. ‘That’s what keeps these trees alive in a wasteland, and that’s what brought the Plaguefather to these poor people. Aqshy is no realm for his work. Even now, his vermin die, having exhausted their hosts and finding nothing else to feed upon but fire and dust. But his other servants – the stronger ones – went into the wood. They’re hunting Eshael’s Font, just as we are.’

Khensev’s snarl showed red-edged teeth. ‘Can we overtake them?’

‘They aren’t that far ahead,’ Fereyne said. ‘Not more than a few hours.’

‘Then we have not yet lost.’ Slapping her scimitar’s hilt, Khensev started into the wood.

Fereyne kept close beside her. She still felt uneasy around the savage-looking Skullborn, and she would have preferred to give Khensev a wide berth. But they were leashed together by Veskil’s light, and Fereyne had to stay at the front to track their quarry.

It wasn’t difficult. The tribespeople, lost to their afflictions, hadn’t covered their tracks. The forest’s gleaming leaves closed around Fereyne and her companions, enveloping them in cool, tinkling shade.

Behind her, the remurants clacked their mandibles in distress. The plants of the Waste were short-lived grasses and gnarled creepers that survived Aqshy’s frequent firestorms by keeping low to the ground. Trees were alien to the remurants, and a forest incomprehensible. Every time a leaf fluttered, the chitinous beasts startled.

When the Smokescar tribespeople lunged out of the wood, their eyes glazed with delirium and faces locked in rictus snarls, the remurants went mad.

Everything turned to chaos. Khensev and the Skullborn leaped to meet the shrieking plague victims. Fereyne shot twice into the fray, hitting two maddened Smokescar, then lowered her bow in frustration. She couldn’t find any more clear shots. The remurants tried to bolt, jerking wildly in their harnesses, and Fereyne grabbed them to keep the beasts from escaping. Veskil’s staff blew out a gust of red-gold sparks, half blinding the combatants in their stinging swirl.

Where Veskil’s sparks struck the afflicted Smokescar, the tribespeople went up like torches. Still they fought forward, biting at anything they could reach, even as their eyes boiled white and the skin burst and sloughed from their bones.

One of them had torn his own chest open with his fingernails. Wormy white tentacles wriggled out from the wounds. Tentacles and tribesman alike burned swiftly in Veskil’s firestorm, but the corrupted Smokescar still managed to grab one of Khensev’s warriors and drag the struggling woman out of the staff’s reach.

As soon as she stumbled from the wizard’s protection, discolouration flooded her veins and tumours bubbled under her skin. The stricken warrior tried to scream, but no sound rose from her throat – only an enormous veiny swelling, which shoved her tongue aside, stretched up through her teeth, and then erupted into a plume of diseased spores.

Yet even as horror choked her, the Skullborn warrior fought. She hacked at the festering Smokescar, burying her scimitar in the man’s chest and then ripping it out to behead him. Dead and dying, they fell together.

Around them, the others were locked in their own mortal struggles, but Fereyne had no time to watch. She grabbed the remurants’ flying reins, dragging the panicked creatures away from the melee. If they lost the remurants, they lost their water and supplies. Brokkar shoved past her, smashing a corrupted Smokescar woman’s head from her plague-rotted neck and tossing it away in a pinwheel of burning hair.

And then it was over. The leaves rattled with the last throes of violence, and the remurants clacked in continued distress, but the fighting had stopped. Veskil’s sparkstorm spun back into the staff’s crystal, leaving scorch marks like black raindrops on the companions’ faces.

Khensev wiped ichor from her scimitar. ‘Losses?’

‘Veekah is dead,’ one of the Skullborn called. ‘Mekhar as well.’

‘One of the bastards stuck me pretty good,’ Brokkar grunted. The duardin made a fist and pumped her injured arm, watching with interest as the oozing corruption that had begun to claim the wound shrank and died under Veskil’s light.

Grimacing, Brokkar knotted a bandage around the wound. ‘I can still fight,’ the duardin told them, flexing her arm. ‘Been through worse than this.’

‘This was not a serious challenge,’ Whyrlin murmured, studying the fallen. Fereyne hadn’t noticed the aelf a moment earlier, and hadn’t seen where Whyrlin had gone during the fighting. His white-grey hair was barely mussed; only a few strands had escaped their leather tie. ‘Only plagueborn, and only a few.’

‘Have you any insight why?’ Veskil asked.

‘The Plaguefather does not tell me his secrets.’ Whyrlin smiled, bleakly amused. ‘But I imagine he will show them to all of us soon.’

‘Helpful bastard,’ Brokkar muttered. No one else responded. Khensev, bristling, stalked ahead.

Fereyne hurried to join her. Then, impelled by some curiosity, she asked the scarred Skullborn: ‘Don’t you grieve for your dead?’

Khensev cast her a caustic glance from beneath her swinging dreadlocks. ‘Do you know what it is to be Skullborn?’

‘I’ve heard stories,’ Fereyne replied, but Khensev continued as if she’d said nothing.

‘When we are born, the God Speaker brands us over the heart with the Lord of Slaughter’s mark, and then puts a drop of a slave’s dying blood to our lips, so that we will know the touch of iron and the taste of death before we know our mother’s milk. Every day of every year, from that first one until our last, is another trial. Rage is the only sanctuary from fear. Many of the Blood God’s champions swallowed the madness of Chaos because they were fleeing their own weakness, though the result is the same as if they ascended through bloodlust. Either way, they give up their humanity forever.

‘Those who survived Sigmar’s storm – the warriors who joined Veskil’s quest with me – were the bravest of the brave. Do you understand?’ Khensev turned on Fereyne, her dark eyes afire. ‘They never accepted the Blood God’s temptation. They clung to their souls in the face of his terrors.’

Fereyne nodded mutely. She couldn’t think of anything to say.

Khensev didn’t seem to notice. ‘They survived the Lord of Slaughter,’ she muttered, ‘and I brought them to the Plaguefather. To die, if they are lucky. To be terrified into corruption, if they are not.’

‘But they resisted the Blood God,’ Fereyne protested.

‘That was a danger we understood from birth. This is different. Poison and plague give a warrior no enemy to fight. There is only weakness, dishonour and death.’ Khensev fell into scowling silence, and Fereyne gave her as much space as Veskil’s light allowed.

As they ventured deeper, the forest changed. Green leaves and starlike flowers carpeted the earth beneath the black-barked copper trees. Moisture suffused the air, touching Fereyne’s cheeks with a cool comfort that she’d never felt under Aqshy’s blazing sun. Her boots sank into rich loam, not the coarse and blistering sand she knew so well.

It was beautiful. It was so beautiful that her heart clenched with the awe of it. Fereyne had never imagined a place so rich in shade and water, or flowers that bloomed for longer than an hour before Aqshy’s fire burned them to paper wisps. This was life, unpunished, and even as she tried to focus on the trail, the green luxury of their surroundings stung her eyes with tears.

But corruption had walked through this beauty. Blight marred the forest with pox-blotched shrubs and flowers that drooped into brown slime. Rings of corruption dotted the wood and expanded outward, consuming the forest like sparks dropped onto dry leaves. At the centre of each rotting circle lay a pulsating ball of slime and thorns.

‘What are those?’ Fereyne whispered, as if acknowledging the grotesquery too openly might somehow make it more real than it was.

‘We should see.’ Veskil lumbered towards the nearest circle, his staff’s light bobbing with each step. Creepers tugged at his red robes, tearing threads away. They weren’t the first creatures those vines had snagged, Fereyne noticed: a rime of stinking flesh clung to the creepers’ thorns, and many of the brambles lay limp on the ground, filmed with fungus.

‘Be careful,’ she cautioned, pointing out the residue. Then she fell silent as they came to the creature at the centre of the decayed circle.

She had never seen anything like it. The creature seemed to be a… person, almost, fashioned of wood burnished to a rich, deep sheen. Sticky fungal strands bound it into a foetal shape prisoned to the forest floor. Curled horns crowned the creature’s head, once grand, but now flaking with rot.

Worst were its eyes: enormous, almond-shaped, and filled with a vast, depthless green that was now clouded with poisoned rheum. The creature’s mouth was small and toothless, and a ululating moan whispered from it like the cry of some infernal flute.

‘Eshael’s Font isn’t an artefact,’ Veskil marvelled, staring at the dying thing. The fungal web pinning the creature to the ground charred under his staff’s light, but the creature itself didn’t seem harmed. ‘It’s a Realmgate. It must be.’

‘What? I don’t understand.’ Fereyne backed away as the fungal web burned. The creature stirred weakly. Its twig-like fingers twitched unevenly, as if grasping at something that existed only in a fever dream.

‘This is no creature of Aqshy. This is a sylvaneth.’ Veskil’s voice shook with excitement. ‘A creature of Ghyran, the Realm of Life. And look at the forest. There must be a Realmgate here. Unknown to the Collegium, evidently unknown to the Sigmarites–’

‘Not unknown to Nurgle,’ Khensev spat, as the corrupted sylvaneth heaved up from its fire-weakened bonds. The discoloured sap that dripped from its fingertips had hardened into lumpen claws, and though these smoked under Veskil’s light, they didn’t burn as easily as the tainted Smokescar had.

The sylvaneth lunged up. It swatted Brokkar’s shield aside and hurled the duardin into a second corrupted circle, where another imprisoned sylvaneth slashed at her with the one clawed hand it could work free. Fereyne notched an arrow to her bow and let fly, scoring a solid hit, but the sylvaneth didn’t seem to notice.

Veskil hurled fireball after fireball at the sylvaneth. Its broken horns blazed into a crown of fire, but it hardly slowed. Khensev’s scimitar only chipped off splinters as the sylvaneth smashed through her warriors. It stamped on a fallen Skullborn, and sharp, iron-hard roots sprouted from its foot, punching a gory fountain from the warrior’s chest. The sylvaneth never paused. Swiftly it turned, pivoting on the Skullborn’s crushed remains to slam her partner against a nearby tree trunk. Dagger-sized thorns burst from the sylvaneth’s palm and nailed the unfortunate warrior to the tree.

Mouldy bark sloughed off the sylvaneth’s body as Fereyne shot it again and Veskil scorched it with another fiery blast, exposing a weak spot. Whyrlin’s grey crystal knives landed unerringly in the spongy material beneath – was it flesh? Fereyne wondered; it looked like cork and bled tainted sap – and the sylvaneth let out a tortured bellow. The sound should have been mighty, she felt, but it came only as an agonised wheeze.

Then suddenly Brokkar was back among them, roaring wildly. Blood made a red mask of her face and soaked half her body, but the duardin ignored it. She hammered on Whyrlin’s crystalline knives as though they were nails, shattering the delicate hilts in glassy bursts and driving the blades deeper. Finally the creature fell.

‘Help me,’ Brokkar hissed. The duardin’s face was grey with terror. Fanglike splinters were embedded deep in her wrist where the imprisoned sylvaneth had grabbed her. Only the splinters’ ends showed, studded among Brokkar’s bones, and though these burned readily in Veskil’s purifying light, the lengths buried in that grisly bracelet were not exposed, and so they did not burn.

‘Help me,’ the duardin cried again. Fever sweat streaked through the blood and soot on her brow. Her wrist had bloated hideously. Pustules strained her skin into yellow-capped bulges around the splinters.

‘Only one way to help that.’ Khensev swung her scimitar.

Fereyne looked away just as the blade came down.

Brokkar’s scream tore through the forest. The smell of the ruptured pustules was nauseating, and the stench only worsened when Veskil brought his staff down to cauterise the wound where her hand had been. Brokkar screamed again.

‘You’ll live.’ Khensev wiped the blood from her scimitar and slammed it back into its sheath. The Skullborn didn’t glance at the remains of her last two warriors, both already reduced to bones and massed vermin that squirmed obscenely beneath their tattered skin. Fury and fear knotted Khensev’s shoulders as she turned away.

Swallowing, Fereyne took up the lead again. She wasn’t sure what she was tracking any more. Earlier, she’d been following the last of the Smokescar, but those tracks were gone now. Only one walker remained. These strides were too long to be any Smokescar, and the boots had sunk too deeply into the soft, rich earth. The boots themselves were hobnailed and hard-soled, nothing like the light sandals favoured by the sand-running tribes of the Wastes, and their prints were crumbly with fine-threaded fungus and powdery mould that seemed to poison the earth under each step.

This walker was too tall, as well. The Smokescar were a compact people, whittled short and lean by a hard land. This creature, however, stood well over seven feet in height. It had left a trail of scabbed and blighted leaves as it brushed through the Copperscales’ trees.

Fereyne pushed a lock of red hair from her eyes as she squinted upward. ‘Whatever that is, it’s not human.’

Khensev snorted. ‘Did you think it was the Smokescar who bound all these… these sylvaneth into their circles? No. One of the Plaguefather’s favoured children did this.’

‘How can we fight that?’ Fereyne swallowed. ‘There are only five of us left, and Brokkar’s lost a hand.’

‘We will die,’ Khensev agreed. ‘But, with fortune’s favour, we will die quickly, and ringed by our enemies’ bodies. There is no choice, anyway. Haven’t you looked behind us?’

‘Of course,’ Fereyne said, but she hadn’t, really. She’d been so preoccupied with ensuring that the remurants – and the precious supplies they carried – were safe that she hadn’t paid much mind to the forest behind them.

Now, for the first time, she looked at the wood itself, and saw that it had been consumed by rot. The circles of corruption had grown large enough to overlap, and where one ran into another, the forest twisted into a ghastly, dripping nightmare. The trees grabbed at one another, their branches knotted into a pulsating net that held Fereyne and her companions trapped. Rat-sized creatures slithered among the branches, ringing them with high-pitched cackles and the gibbous flash of wide, excited eyes.

‘We go on,’ Khensev said grimly, seeing the despair of understanding on Fereyne’s face. ‘Perhaps we’ll at least get to see this font we’ve died for.’

Ahead, the forest was still green – green, and ragged with recent violence. Iron-hard roots, far larger than those the corrupted sylvaneth had driven into the Skullborn, thrust up from the earth. The bodies of boil-ridden Smokescar warriors and other things, stranger things, things for which Fereyne knew no names, hung broken and dripping from those roots. Sylvaneth, too, lay lifeless on the soil, but these were clean-limbed and eerily graceful, even in death, and the roots cradled them gently in repose.

Past the corpses, and largely hidden by a screen of splintered trees, an ongoing battle roared. Guttural shouts reverberated through the trees, accompanied by metallic thuds and the wet crush of flesh. The battle cries were oddly one-sided; Fereyne could make out only one loud voice and a few sibilant echoes, all of which sounded like the same voice through different mouths. That voice’s foe, whoever it was, fought in silence.

Or… not silence, but a song so low and foreign to Fereyne’s ears that she didn’t register it as music at all, but as a rumbling tide that enveloped her with the same force as the windstorms that rose from the Parch’s greatfires. Like those storms, it couldn’t be seen in itself, only in its world-shaking effect.

She eased ahead, the remurants clacking softly in terror behind her.

A titanic battle had flattened the forest around two massive combatants. The first was a hulking, helmeted warrior whose body bulged in pulsating rolls from the ill-fitting plates of his armour. Three decapitated heads swung from the warrior’s flail instead of metal balls. One was human, one aelven, the third so battered and disfigured by the gnawing maggots that squelched from its skin that Fereyne couldn’t tell what it had originally been.

The other combatant was a copper-streaked sylvaneth whose limbs of living wood were bearded with rich green moss. The sylvaneth met the rotten monstrosity’s flail with tearing claws and antlers that curved out into spearlike points. It thrust its head low, punching into the armoured warrior’s side, and tore its antlers away in a spray of festering gore. Filth gummed its prongs and dripped across its brow, but before the Plaguefather’s feculence could blind the sylvaneth, its antlers greyed and dropped to the ground. New ones sprouted from green buds, renewing the sylvaneth’s weapons within moments.

The warrior’s mace was harder to avoid. Each of the three heads on his flail screamed in its own agonies. Spores fountained from the first one’s mouth, reeking clouds from the grey teeth and spotted tonsils of the second, buzzing flies and spittle-flecked maggots from the third. When their skulls crashed into the sylvaneth, they bit down mercilessly and their fat tongues licked the wounds. The sylvaneth’s brown skin peeled away under their obscene caresses.

They fought, and around them, smaller battles raged. Thorny-headed sprites stabbed at eyeless, leprous toad-things in the branches overhead. Ants tore maggots apart in the loam. Their struggles seemed tied to those of their masters. When the rotten warrior had the advantage, so did his creatures; when the sylvaneth was ascendant, the creatures of the Copperscales fought back their corruptors.

And then the tide of battle changed.

From the forest, a host of lesser sylvaneth emerged. At first Fereyne felt a swell of hope that they’d come to save their leader, but as they moved into the clearing, she saw that the Plaguefather had claimed these creatures. Their movements were jerky, their elbows and shoulders seamed with spongy rot. Their vacant eyes bloomed with the ghastly asymmetries of leaf-rust and blight and purple ergot.

They shoved through the forest and converged on the last great sylvaneth, blotched claws upraised to tear their former kin apart. Before she knew what she was doing, Fereyne had thrown the remurants’ reins aside and hurled herself in front of them. She wasn’t nearly the fighter that Khensev or any of the others were, but what did it matter? No human warrior could stand against creatures such as these. The Skullborn had shown her that. If skill and training weren’t enough, what difference did it make if she had neither?

At least she’d die trying. That was worth something. She’d die striving for the dream of green in Aqshy.

Fereyne slashed at the nearest corrupted sylvaneth. Her knife skittered across its oak-hard skin. The broad green leaves crowning the sylvaneth’s head lifted in response, revealing themselves to be the folded wings of chittering parasites. They flew at Fereyne in a stinging swarm, and as she tried to shield her eyes from the vermin, the sylvaneth smashed a claw into her shoulder and knocked her to the ground. She scrabbled away, waiting for the sylvaneth’s sharp-rooted foot to crush her as the other had crushed Khensev’s Skullborn.

It didn’t come. Fire came instead. Flames blasted from Veskil’s staff as the wizard held its crystal high. The sylvaneth stumbled back, burning, and the vermin plaguing Fereyne fell from the air on blackened wings.

Then it was all madness: crystal knives and rotting sylvaneth and Brokkar roaring and Khensev cursing and the stench of burning pestilence, and blood and terror and fire, fire, fire. Fereyne stabbed at another tainted sylvaneth, felt the knife shatter in her hand, felt its claws slash across her cheek in retaliation.

The wounds burned. Fever, delirium, worse. Red thunder cracked behind her eyes. Vomit filled her mouth – and it wasn’t her vomit, but half-digested gristle and chewed carrion and disease. Something wriggled in it, pushing at her teeth.

Again Veskil’s light saved her. Golden radiance bathed her, purging the poison. Fereyne retched furiously – translucent lice squirmed in the white-flecked bile, until they fried in the wizard’s fires – and, wiping at her bloody mouth, stood shakily.

She looked around, hoping to find victory and seeing only despair. Whyrlin sprawled in the dirt, his grey-white hair soaked with blood. She couldn’t see Brokkar, though the duardin’s phlegm-choked curses carried through the trees, sounding weaker by the moment. Khensev still fought, but she was badly overmatched by two corrupted sylvaneth. And the great sylvaneth had fallen, leaving its monstrous, stinking foe the victor.

Swinging his three-headed flail, the warrior abandoned the sylvaneth and came for Veskil. Only a single eye, twice as large as a human’s, gleamed red and watery from the centre of his crude leaden helm. He didn’t seem to have a nose. ‘Fire, fire. You shouldn’t play with that. Didn’t anyone ever tell you? I don’t like fire. Burns all the pretty playthings. Turns them into ash. And we can’t eat ash, can we, my pretties?’

‘Rotbringer.’ Veskil drew his staff up across his chest. Its crystal flared anew, surrounding them both with fire. The heads on the Rotbringer’s flail wept and wailed, squeezing tears and vermin onto the ground. ‘You shall not have the gate.’

‘You know my name! Well, the name I have now. There was another before, but it doesn’t matter any more. I don’t remember it either.’ The Rotbringer’s giggle was shrill. He didn’t seem to notice his greenish skin blistering in Veskil’s aura. Stomping forward, he clapped his fleshy hands, and the heads moaned as they bounced. ‘And you know there’s a gate. What a clever fellow. What fine friends we’ll be.’

‘I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint.’ The lens over Veskil’s eye was nothing but reflected fire. His staff flared, and a blue-edged fireball engulfed the Rotbringer from helm to knee.

The warrior waded through it. Tumours popped between the seams of his armour. Something roiled in his abdomen, making the metal groan. ‘I’ll change your mind. It’s easy to change little ones’ minds. My pets eat the old one, and then… we’re friends.’ He grinned, showing a few stumpy teeth rattling loose in his gums.

Veskil’s answer came in flame. Again and again he hammered the Rotbringer with gouts of fire. Fereyne couldn’t see the new blasts through the after-images of the last ones; she could only hear the hollow thud of their impacts. Waves of heat sucked the breath from her lungs. And yet the warrior kept coming, a hulking vessel of darkness cleaving through the firelight.

Lead dripped from the Rotbringer’s helmet and pattered onto his shoulders. His lips blistered and his laughter smoked. He did not slow.

He took Veskil by the throat. The wizard was not a small man, yet the Rotbringer lofted him into the air as easily as Fereyne would have snatched up a rock lizard. ‘Little man,’ he crooned, as his armour groaned, strained and snapped. A fat tentacle, tipped with rings of grinding teeth, slithered out of the Rotbringer’s abdomen. It swayed as if scenting the wind, then plunged into Veskil’s side.

The wizard made an awful noise. Half choke, half grunt, no words. The Rotbringer’s tentacle squelched merrily as it rearranged Veskil’s body from the inside. The staff fell from the wizard’s spasming fingers, and its light died in the ashes.

Fereyne dashed soot from her eyes and looked about wildly. Her knife was gone. Her allies were gone. Veskil was dying, and there wasn’t even anyone left to bear witness. Only her.

And the remurants.

Firelight flickered on the giant insects’ carapaces and glinted off their mandibles. Fereyne couldn’t hear their chittering over the crackling inferno that surrounded the beasts, but the caustic scent of their fear carried to her. It was still clean – acrid, nose-burning, but clean. Veskil had been right. The Rotbringer wasn’t native to Aqshy, and didn’t know yet how to corrupt its creatures.

Nor, probably, did he know what they could do.

Praying to no god she could name, Fereyne grabbed the remurants’ reins. With blood and sooty sweat slipping her hands, she dragged the creatures towards the Rotbringer. They baulked, but the harnesses were well made and the remurants well trained, and they didn’t fight hard enough to break away.

The Rotbringer noticed. He dropped Veskil with a meaty thud and, chortling, waddled towards Fereyne. The warrior was hurt worse than she’d realised: his leaden helm had melted around his partially crushed head, and beneath it his body was a blackened wreck.

But he didn’t seem to care. The Rotbringer’s blistered cheeks cracked in a grin as he waddled towards Fereyne. ‘Pretties! Such pretties you’ve brought me.’

Fereyne gritted her teeth against the aura of sickness that radiated from the Rotbringer. Acid rose in her throat; agony knotted her stomach. From the remurants’ sudden stillness, she knew the carapaced creatures felt it too. The telltale gurgling of their indigestion sounded behind her. ‘Do you know what remurants are?’

‘No.’ The Rotbringer clapped his hands happily. ‘But I will.’

‘Yes.’ Fereyne let go of the remurants’ reins and dropped to the ground, flattening herself against the charred earth. ‘You will.’

Freed of their restraints, the remurants’ mouths opened. All their terror and nausea and pain spurted out as hissing gas that, upon touching open air, sparked furiously to flame.

That fiery torrent, aggravated by the Plaguefather’s sickening influence, burned longer and hotter than any Fereyne had ever seen. When finally the remurants closed their mandibles, heaving in exhaustion, nothing was left of the Rotbringer but a few blackened bones and the puddled lead of his helm.

Fereyne ran to Veskil. The wizard was still breathing, but his face was pale and sweaty. The runes on his golden eye had gone dark, and all the lenses were cracked on the other.

‘I’m here,’ she said, taking Veskil’s hand.

He turned his head towards her, but it was clear that he saw nothing. ‘Fereyne?’

‘Yes. We’re alive. We won.’

‘Good. Good. But I fear our fight is… not yet done. Give me… my staff.’ Veskil coughed, and Fereyne saw with dread that there was something dark and furtive moving deep in his throat. A sour stench emanated from his robes.

What had the Rotbringer done?

She handed him the staff. Fine ash traced its braided shaft. Soot blotched its golden crystal, flaking away as Veskil woke its magic once more. ‘Back away,’ he told her, wheezing, as the light intensified into flame.

‘What are you doing?’ Even as she asked, Fereyne knew.

‘As the Rotbringer said. His pretties can’t eat… ash. I won’t give this one… a meal.’ Veskil tipped his face up blindly towards the crystal’s light, basking in it, even as his robes and eyebrows began to smoke. ‘When this is done… take the staff, roadwarden. It will… help you. Your gift. To become what you should–’

He never finished the sentence. The fire seized him, and all his words turned to screams. The worm in his chest tried to tear its way out, but Veskil dug his bloody fingers into its thrashing body, and the inferno took them both.

Fereyne covered her mouth, but she couldn’t cry. There weren’t any tears left in her. All around her was ash, and all inside felt like ash as well.

She took the staff from the charred scraps of Veskil’s red robes. It was cool enough to handle, although its fires had burned with such fury that only ashes were left under the cloth. Not even the wizard’s brass headpiece had survived.

Leaning heavily on the staff, Fereyne poked through the smouldering wreckage of the Coppergrove. She found Whyrlin and Khensev breathing, but badly wounded and insensible with shock. Brokkar lay slumped against a tree trunk, limp and blood-soaked. The great sylvaneth lay motionless as well, but one of its green eyes, filmed with cinder dust, blinked open as Fereyne approached.

‘Your friend chose to die in fire,’ it said. Its voice rose from the earth all around her, rather than emanating from the sylvaneth itself. ‘A hard death.’

‘It stopped the Rotbringer.’

‘It did.’ The sylvaneth sat up slowly. Fibrous roots snapped from its limbs as it pushed itself up. It examined these, breathing a long, mournful sigh. ‘He would have suffered badly otherwise. As I soon shall. The Plaguefather’s stain is in my sap.’

‘What does that mean?’ Fereyne drew the staff across her chest defensively, though she knew she hadn’t a chance against the great sylvaneth.

The creature held out a wide brown hand. The roots that ran down its forearm were slimy and swollen, and the living wood of its flesh was soft with rot. ‘I prefer the fire.’ The sylvaneth’s chest didn’t move, but Fereyne felt the trees stir around her as if the forest itself were drawing a breath. ‘But I will give you… three gifts… before I go.’

‘What? Why?’

‘You… saved the grove. Your gladekin chose… fire over rot. Honourable. And… hard. So. Three gifts. Like the… fairies of myth… that your people made from ours.’ Cloudy spots were spreading over the great sylvaneth’s eyes. It closed them and lifted its other hand, which the mould had yet to reach. Olive-sized seeds filled its palm. Under their fuzzy silver skins, the seeds were a deep, rich blue, and each was lit from within by a heart of golden fire.

‘What are they?’ Fereyne marvelled as she took the seeds. They vibrated in her hand, thrumming with a song that hovered just beyond hearing.

‘Our kind… do not die. Not as you do. We go to the earth and… remember. Are remembered. Lamentiri.’ The great sylvaneth shuddered. Dry cracks spread across its skin and fissured its broken antlers as the creature’s vital sap withdrew to its depths, turning its exterior to tinder. ‘These are not… that. Not… souls, as you would call them. But… a weak echo of that magic. Memories. Hopes. Remembrances… of the past. To be carried into the future.’

‘You trust me to carry them?’

‘You… must. Blight has taken… this soil. The seeds must be planted… elsewhere, and no… gladekin survives to bear them.’

Fereyne stared again at the seeds in her hands. They seemed so small to carry such importance. ‘Where do I plant them?’

‘They will grow… wherever the earth is… clean. In ways… shaped to the land.’ The great sylvaneth’s voice was failing. ‘Scatter them. So no blight can… take them all. Scatter them freely, as you would spread… hope.’

‘And the other gifts?’ Fereyne could barely manage the words. Watching the great sylvaneth die hurt her in ways she’d never imagined. That such a great and ancient being could exist for aeons, hidden in its secret grove, and then die just as she glimpsed it – that hurt, in a way she didn’t know how to name.

‘This wood was… a place of… life. I have given the last of it… to your gladekin. They will not… die, despite their wounds. And the last gift…’ The great sylvaneth’s voice was as weak as the crumbling of old leaves. ‘Taelrhunil. What the other quick-glade, the smoke-children, called Eshael’s Font.’

‘Veskil was right, then. Eshael’s Font is a Realmgate,’ Fereyne whispered.

‘Yes. Hidden… and guarded… for the life of this grove. Countless cycles… of yours. While… Ghyran suffered, and the Everqueen hid.’ As the grove’s magic faltered around the dying sylvaneth, the trees shed their coppery leaves like tears. Through the balding branches, Fereyne glimpsed an arch of mossy stone, bent low to the earth and braided with roots and living saplings.

‘How do I–’

‘Walk through. Warn… the Everqueen. The guardians of Taelrhunil have… fallen… and the Plaguefather knows where it stands.’ The great sylvaneth’s eyes had sunken into knotholes in its ruined face. ‘Now… I have given you three gifts, and you must… give me one. Fire.’

Fereyne nodded. She could feel the winds of magic stirring all around her, catching around the crystal of Veskil’s staff. With that staff, she could weave those eldritch wisps into flame – perhaps only a small one, poorly controlled, but she could do it.

But she didn’t want her first work of magic to be the destruction of this ancient wonder. That stain would never come clean. Fereyne picked up a smouldering branch, instead, and blew its embers bright as she offered it to the sylvaneth.

It opened its mouth, and she tipped the glowing seeds of fire into its mouth as if she were pouring water down a parched throat. The sylvaneth heaved a mournful breath, gusting it over the embers, and then sank back, groaning, as fire blossomed between its lips.

Fereyne couldn’t watch. She smelled the mildewed wood burning, and she turned her stinging eyes away. To the gate. Eshael’s Font. Taelrhunil.

The promise of water and greenery for the Wastes. Of life, in a realm where Fereyne had learned as a child never to let her tears fall, lest the water be wasted on sand.

She’d found it. Veskil’s dream, and her own, could still come true.

Behind her, she heard Khensev stand. To the side, she saw Whyrlin helping Brokkar back to her feet. The duardin was maimed and shaky, but already reaching for her hammer.

Khensev came to stand beside Fereyne. Her scarred face was hellish in the red light of the burning sylvaneth, but grim awe filled her voice. ‘A Realmgate.’

‘A Realmgate.’

‘What do we do with it?’ Khensev gave her a searching look. A Skullborn – a warrior, fearless enough to defy Khorne the Blood Lord – turning to her, Fereyne, for guidance. She marvelled at it.

‘We go through. And warn Alarielle.’ A goddess. A goddess. The name sounded absurd passing through Fereyne’s lips, but none of the others seemed to hear it so. Whyrlin checked his knives. Brokkar flexed her remaining fist. Khensev merely nodded. All three looked to Fereyne respectfully, as if her suggestion were a chieftain’s command.

Perhaps it wasn’t so strange, though. She had guided them here, and then… I killed a Rotbringer. I heard the last words of a great sylvaneth. I was trusted with a Realmgate, and given a message for the Everqueen. Heroes – real heroes – died for less.

Fereyne lifted her chin. Started for the gate. And, with her companions close behind, she stepped through.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

Adrian Tchaikovsky is the author of the acclaimed ten-book Shadows of the Apt series, and many other novels, novellas and short stories including Children of Time (which won the Arthur C. Clarke award in 2016) and its sequel Children of Ruin (which won the British Science Fiction Award in 2020). He lives in Leeds in the UK and his hobbies include entomology and board and role-playing games. ‘Raised in Darkness’ is Adrian’s first story for Black Library.

Miles A Drake is a professional bartender and aspiring author based in Amsterdam, Holland. His work for Black Library includes the short stories ‘The Flesh Tithe’ and ‘Ghosts of Khaphtar’.

Matt Smith has written several Warhammer 40,000 short stories for Black Library, including ‘In Service Eternal’, ‘The Twisted Runes’, ‘City of Blood’ and ‘The Price of Duty’. He is based in Norwich and spends his spare time working on his Raven Guard army and training in martial arts.

Erstwhile editor of various publications including Star Wars Insider, Dave Gross also dabbles in tabletop and video game design. He is the author of various fantasy novels and is perhaps best known for his Radovan & the Count series. He lives in Edmonton, Canada.

Noah Van Nguyen is a writer of speculative fiction who lives and works in Vietnam. After a stint in the military, he tried his hand at translating, copywriting and teaching English. He intends to keep writing fiction as long as the coffee keeps flowing, which his wife has promised is never-ending. This has so far turned out to be true and the matter is now pending Inquisitorial investigation. His work for Black Library includes the short stories ‘Vova’s Climb’ and ‘No Third Chance’.

Eric Fomley lives in Indiana with his wife and children. His three loves beyond his family are reading, writing and gaming, and his stories have featured in various publications including Daily Science Fiction and Galaxy’s Edge. ‘Blood Drought’ is his first foray into the worlds of Warhammer.

Steve Lyons’ work in the Warhammer 40,000 universe includes the novellas Iron Resolve, Engines of War and Angron’s Monolith, the Imperial Guard novels Death World, Ice Guard and Dead Men Walking, and the audio dramas Waiting Death and The Madness Within. He has also written numerous short stories and is currently working on more tales from the grim darkness of the far future.

David Guymer’s work for Warhammer Age of Sigmar includes the novels Hamilcar: Champion of the Gods and The Court of the Blind King, the audio dramas The Beasts of Cartha, Fist of Mork, Fist of Gork, Great Red and Only the Faithful. He is also the author of the Gotrek & Felix novels Slayer, Kinslayer and City of the Damned and the Gotrek audio dramas Realmslayer and Realmslayer: Blood of the Old World. For The Horus Heresy he has written the novella Dreadwing, and the Primarchs novels Ferrus Manus: Gorgon of Medusa and Lion El’Jonson: Lord of the First. For Warhammer 40,000 he has written The Eye of Medusa, The Voice of Mars and the two Beast Arises novels Echoes of the Long War and The Last Son of Dorn. He is a freelance writer and occasional scientist based in the East Riding, and was a finalist in the 2014 David Gemmell Awards for his novel Headtaker.

Gavin G Smith is the Dundee-born author of various science fiction and fantasy tales such as Veteran and Chivalry. His work for Warhammer 40,000 includes the short stories ‘Apex Predator’ and ‘The Last Knight: Part One’.

Liane Merciel lives in Philadelphia with her husband, two big unruly mutts and her preschooler, the unruliest of them all. She is the author of the novels The River King’s Road and Dragon Age: Last Flight. Her work for Age of Sigmar includes the novella Red Claw and Ruin that featured in the portmanteau novel Covens of Blood.

An extract from Dawn of Fire: Avenging Son.

‘I was there at the Siege of Terra,’ Vitrian Messinius would say in his later years.

‘I was there…’ he would add to himself, his words never meant for ears but his own. ‘I was there the day the Imperium died.’

But that was yet to come.

‘To the walls! To the walls! The enemy is coming!’ Captain Messinius, as he was then, led his Space Marines across the Penitent’s Square high up on the Lion’s Gate. ‘Another attack! Repel them! Send them back to the warp!’

Thousands of red-skinned monsters born of fear and sin scaled the outer ramparts, fury and murder incarnate. The mortals they faced quailed. It took the heart of a Space Marine to stand against them without fear, and the Angels of Death were in short supply.

‘Another attack, move, move! To the walls!’

They came in the days after the Avenging Son returned, emerging from nothing, eight legions strong, bringing the bulk of their numbers to bear against the chief entrance to the Imperial Palace. A decapitation strike like no other, and it came perilously close to success.

Messinius’ Space Marines ran to the parapet edging the Penitent’s Square. On many worlds, the square would have been a plaza fit to adorn the centre of any great city. Not on Terra. On the immensity of the Lion’s Gate, it was nothing, one of hundreds of similarly huge spaces. The word ‘gate’ did not suit the scale of the cityscape. The Lion’s Gate’s bulk marched up into the sky, step by titanic step, until it rose far higher than the mountains it had supplanted. The gate had been built by the Emperor Himself, they said. Myths detailed the improbable supernatural feats required to raise it. They were lies, all of them, and belittled the true effort needed to build such an edifice. Though the Lion’s Gate was made to His design and by His command, the soaring monument had been constructed by mortals, with mortal hands and mortal tools. Messinius wished that had been remembered. For men to build this was far more impressive than any godly act of creation. If men could remember that, he believed, then perhaps they would remember their own strength.

The uncanny may not have built the gate, but it threatened to bring it down. Messinius looked over the rampart lip, down to the lower levels thousands of feet below and the spread of the Anterior Barbican.

Upon the stepped fortifications of the Lion’s Gate was armour of every colour and the blood of every loyal primarch. Dozens of regiments stood alongside them. Aircraft filled the sky. Guns boomed from every quarter. In the churning redness on the great roads, processional ways so huge they were akin to prairies cast in rockcrete, were flashes of gold where the Emperor’s Custodian Guard battled. The might of the Imperium was gathered there, in the palace where He dwelt.

There seemed moments on that day when it might not be enough.

The outer ramparts were carpeted in red bodies that writhed and heaved, obscuring the great statues adorning the defences and covering over the guns, an invasive cancer consuming reality. The enemy were legion. There were too many foes to defeat by plan and ruse. Only guns, and will, would see the day won, but the defenders were so pitifully few.

Messinius called a wordless halt, clenched fist raised, seeking the best place to deploy his mixed company, veterans all of the Terran Crusade. Gunships and fighters sped overhead, unleashing deadly light and streams of bombs into the packed daemonic masses. There were innumerable cannons crammed onto the gate, and they all fired, rippling the structure with false earthquakes. Soon the many ships and orbital defences of Terra would add their guns, targeting the very world they were meant to guard, but the attack had come so suddenly; as yet they had had no time to react.

The noise was horrendous. Messinius’ audio dampers were at maximum and still the roar of ordnance stung his ears. Those humans that survived today would be rendered deaf. But he would have welcomed more guns, and louder still, for all the defensive fury of the assailed palace could not drown out the hideous noise of the daemons – their sighing hisses, a billion serpents strong, and chittering, screaming wails. It was not only heard but sensed within the soul, the realms of spirit and of matter were so intertwined. Messinius’ being would be forever stained by it.

Tactical information scrolled down his helmplate, near environs only. He had little strategic overview of the situation. The vox-channels were choked with a hellish screaming that made communication impossible. The noosphere was disrupted by etheric backwash spilling from the immaterial rifts the daemons poured through. Messinius was used to operating on his own. Small-scale, surgical actions were the way of the Adeptus Astartes, but in a battle of this scale, a lack of central coordination would lead inevitably to defeat. This was not like the first Siege, where his kind had fought in Legions.

He called up a company-wide vox-cast and spoke to his warriors. They were not his Chapter-kin, but they would listen. The primarch himself had commanded that they do so.

‘Reinforce the mortals,’ he said. ‘Their morale is wavering. Position yourselves every fifty yards. Cover the whole of the south-facing front. Let them see you.’ He directed his warriors by chopping at the air with his left hand. His right, bearing an inactive power fist, hung heavily at his side. ‘Assault Squad Antiocles, back forty yards, single firing line. Prepare to engage enemy breakthroughs only on my mark. Devastators, split to demi-squads and take up high ground, sergeant and sub-squad prime’s discretion as to positioning and target. Remember our objective, heavy infliction of casualties. We kill as many as we can, we retreat, then hold at the Penitent’s Arch until further notice. Command squad, with me.’

Command squad was too grand a title for the mismatched crew Messinius had gathered around himself. His own officers were light years away, if they still lived.

‘Doveskamor, Tidominus,’ he said to the two Aurora Marines with him. ‘Take the left.’

‘Yes, captain,’ they voxed, and jogged away, their green armour glinting orange in the hell-light of the invasion.

The rest of his scratch squad was comprised of a communications specialist from the Death Spectres, an Omega Marine with a penchant for plasma weaponry, and a Raptor holding an ancient standard he’d taken from a dusty display.

‘Why did you take that, Brother Kryvesh?’ Messinius asked, as they moved forward.

‘The palace is full of such relics,’ said the Raptor. ‘It seems only right to put them to use. No one else wanted it.’

Messinius stared at him.

‘What? If the gate falls, we’ll have more to worry about than my minor indiscretion. It’ll be good for morale.’

The squads were splitting to join the standard humans. Such was the noise many of the men on the wall had not noticed their arrival, and a ripple of surprise went along the line as they appeared at their sides. Messinius was glad to see they seemed more firm when they turned their eyes back outwards.

‘Anzigus,’ he said to the Death Spectre. ‘Hold back, facilitate communication within the company. Maximum signal gain. This interference will only get worse. See if you can get us patched in to wider theatre command. I’ll take a hardline if you can find one.’

‘Yes, captain,’ said Anzigus. He bowed a helm that was bulbous with additional equipment. He already had the access flap of the bulky vox-unit on his arm open. He withdrew, the aerials on his power plant extending. He headed towards a systems nexus on the far wall of the plaza, where soaring buttresses pushed back against the immense weight bearing down upon them.

Messinius watched him go. He knew next to nothing about Anzigus. He spoke little, and when he did, his voice was funereal. His Chapter was mysterious, but the same lack of familiarity held true for many of these warriors, thrown together by miraculous events. Over their years lost wandering in the warp, Messinius had come to see some as friends as well as comrades, others he hardly knew, and none he knew so well as his own Chapter brothers. But they would stand together. They were Space Marines. They had fought by the returned primarch’s side, and in that they shared a bond. They would not stint in their duty now.

Messinius chose a spot on the wall, directing his other veterans to left and right. Kryvesh he sent to the mortal officer’s side. He looked down again, out past the enemy and over the outer palace. Spires stretched away in every direction. Smoke rose from all over the landscape. Some of it was new, the work of the daemon horde, but Terra had been burning for weeks. The Astronomican had failed. The galaxy was split in two. Behind them in the sky turned the great palace gyre, its deep eye marking out the throne room of the Emperor Himself.

‘Sir!’ A member of the Palatine Guard shouted over the din. He pointed downwards, to the left. Messinius followed his wavering finger. Three hundred feet below, daemons were climbing. They came upwards in a triangle tipped by a brute with a double rack of horns. It clambered hand over hand, far faster than should be possible, flying upwards, as if it touched the side of the towering gate only as a concession to reality. A Space Marine with claw locks could not have climbed that fast.

‘Soldiers of the Imperium! The enemy is upon us!’

He looked to the mortals. Their faces were blanched with fear. Their weapons shook. Their bravery was commendable nonetheless. Not one of them attempted to run, though a wave of terror preceded the unnatural things clambering up towards them.

‘We shall not turn away from our duty, no matter how fearful the foe, or how dire our fates may be,’ he said. ‘Behind us is the Sanctum of the Emperor Himself. As He has watched over you, now it is your turn to stand in guardianship over Him.’

The creatures were drawing closer. Through a sliding, magnified window on his display, Messinius looked into the yellow and cunning eyes of their leader. A long tongue lolled permanently from the thing’s mouth, licking at the wall, tasting the terror of the beings it protected.

Boltgun actions clicked. His men leaned over the parapet, towering over the mortals as the Lion’s Gate towered over the Ultimate Wall. A wealth of targeting data was exchanged, warrior to warrior, as each chose a unique mark. No bolt would be wasted in the opening fusillade. They could hear the creatures’ individual shrieks and growls, all wordless, but their meaning was clear: blood, blood, blood. Blood and skulls.

Messinius sneered at them. He ignited his power fist with a swift jerk. He always preferred the visceral thrill of manual activation. Motors came to full life. Lightning crackled around it. He aimed downwards with his bolt pistol. A reticule danced over diabolical faces, each a copy of all the others. These things were not real. They were not alive. They were projections of a false god. The Librarian Atramo had named them maladies. A spiritual sickness wearing ersatz flesh.

He reminded himself to be wary. Contempt was as thick as any armour, but these things were deadly, for all their unreality.

He knew. He had fought the Neverborn many times before.

‘While He lives,’ Messinius shouted, boosting his voxmitter gain to maximal, ‘we stand!’

‘For He of Terra!’ the humans shouted, their battle cry loud enough to be heard over the booming of guns.

‘For He of Terra,’ said Messinius. ‘Fire!’ he shouted.

The Space Marines fired first. Boltguns spoke, spitting spikes of rocket flare into the foe. Bolts slammed into daemon bodies, bursting them apart. Black viscera exploded away. Black ichor showered those coming after. The daemons’ false souls screamed back whence they came, though their bones and offal tumbled down like those of any truly living foe.

Las-beams speared next, and the space between the wall top and the scaling party filled with violence. The daemons were unnaturally resilient, protected from death by the energies of the warp, and though many were felled, others weathered the fire, and clambered up still, unharmed and uncaring of their dead. Messinius no longer needed his helm’s magnification to see into the daemon champion’s eyes. It stared at him, its smile a promise of death. The terror that preceded them was replaced by the urge to violence, and that gripped them all, foe and friend. The baseline humans began to lose their discipline. A man turned and shot his comrade, and was shot down in turn. Kryvesh banged the foot of his borrowed banner and called them back into line. Elsewhere, his warriors sang; not their Chapter warsongs, but battle hymns known to all. Wavering human voices joined them. The feelings of violence abated, just enough.

Then the things were over the parapet and on them. Messinius saw Tidominus carried down by a group of daemons, his unit signum replaced by a mortis rune in his helm. The enemy champion was racing at him. Messinius emptied his bolt pistol into its face, blowing half of it away into a fine mist of daemonic ichor. Still it leapt, hurling itself twenty feet over the parapet. Messinius fell back, keeping the creature in sight, targeting skating over his helmplate as the machine-spirit tried to maintain a target lock. Threat indicators trilled, shifting up their priority spectrum.

The daemon held up its enormous gnarled hands. Smoke whirled in the space between, coalescing into a two-handed sword almost as tall as Messinius. By the time its hoofed feet cracked the paving slabs of the square, the creature’s weapon was solid. Vapour streaming from its ruined face, it pointed the broadsword at Messinius and hissed a wordless challenge.

‘Accepted,’ said Messinius, and moved in to attack.

The creature was fast, and punishingly strong. Messinius parried its first strike with an outward push of his palm, fingers spread. Energy crackled. The boom generated by the meeting of human technology and the sorceries of the warp was loud enough to out-compete the guns, but though the impact sent pain lancing up Messinius’ arm, the daemon was not staggered, and pressed in a follow-up attack, swinging the massive sword around its head as if it weighed nothing.

Messinius countered more aggressively this time, punching in to the strike. Another thunderous detonation. Disruption fields shattered matter, but the daemon was not wholly real, and the effect upon it was lesser than it would be upon a natural foe. Nevertheless, this time it was thrown backwards by the blow. Smoke poured from the edge of its blade. It licked black blood from its arm and snarled. Messinius was ready when it leapt: opening his fist, ignoring the sword as it clashed against his pauldron and sheared off a peeling of ceramite, he grabbed the beast about its middle.

The Bloodletters of Khorne were rangy things, all bone and ropey muscle, no space within them for organs. The false god of war had no need for them to eat or breathe, or to give the semblance of being able to do so. They were made only to kill, and to strike fear in the hearts of those they faced. Their waists were solid, and slender, and easily encompassed by Messinius’ power fist. It squirmed in his grip, throwing Messinius’ arm about. Servo motors in his joints locked, supplementary muscle fibres strained, but the White Consul stood firm.

‘Tell your master he is not welcome on Terra,’ he said. His words were calm, a deliberate defiance of the waves of rage pulsing off the daemon.

He closed his hand.

The daemon’s midriff exploded. The top half fell down, still hissing and thrashing. Its sword clanged off the paving and broke into shards, brittle now it was separated from its wielder. They were pieces of the same thing, sword and beast. Apart, the weapon could not survive long.

Messinius cast down the lower portion of the daemon. There were dozens of the things atop the wall, battling with his warriors and the human soldiery. In the second he paused he saw Doveskamor hacked down as he stood over the body of his brother, pieces of armour bouncing across the ground. He saw a group of Palatine Sentinels corner a daemon with their bayonets. He saw a dozen humans cut down by eldritch swords.

Where the humans kept their distance, their ranged weapons took a toll upon the Neverborn. Where the daemons got among them, they triumphed more often than not, even against his Space Marines. Support fire rained down sporadically from above, its usefulness restricted by the difficulty of picking targets from the swirling melee. At the western edge of the line, the heavy weapons were more telling, knocking daemons off the wall before they crested the parapet and preventing them from circling around the back of the Imperial forces. Only his equipment allowed Messinius to see this. Without the helm feeds of his warriors and the limited access he had to the Lion Gate’s auspectoria, he would have been blind, lost in the immediate clash of arms and sprays of blood. He would have remained where he was, fighting. He would not have seen that there were more groups of daemons pouring upwards. He would not have given his order, and then he would have died.

‘Squad Antiocles, engage,’ he said. He smashed a charging daemon into fragments, yanked another back the instant before it gutted a mortal soldier, and stamped its skull flat, while switching again to his company vox-net. ‘All units, fall back to the Penitent’s Arch. Take the mortals with you.’

His assault squad fell from the sky on burning jets, kicking daemons down and shooting them with their plasma and bolt pistols. A roar of promethium from a flamer blasted three bloodletters to ash.

‘Fall back! Fall back!’ Messinius commanded, his words beating time with his blows. ‘Assault Squad Antiocles to cover. Devastators maintain overhead fire.’

Squad Antiocles drove the enemy back. Tactical Space Marines were retreating from the parapet, dragging human soldiers with them. An Ultramarine walked backwards past him, firing his bolter one-handed, a wounded member of the Palatine Guard draped over his right shoulder.

‘Fall back! Fall back!’ Messinius roared. He grabbed a human by the arm and yanked him hard away from the monster trying to slay him, almost throwing him across the square. He pivoted and punched, slamming the man’s opponent in the face with a crackling bang that catapulted its broken corpse over the wall edge. ‘Fall back!’

Mortal soldiers broke and ran while Squad Antiocles held off the foe. Telling to begin with, in moments the assault squad’s momentum was broken, and again more bloodletters were leaping over the edge of the rampart. The Space Marines fired in retreat, covering each other in pairs as they crossed the square diagonally to the Penitent’s Arch. The mortals were getting the idea, running between the Adeptus Astartes and mostly staying out of their fire corridor. With the fight now concentrated around Squad Antiocles, the Devastators were more effective, blasting down the daemons before they could bring their weight of numbers to bear upon Antiocles. Sporadic bursts of fire from the retreating Tactical Marines added to the effect, and for a short period the number of daemons entering the square did not increase.

Messinius tarried a moment, rounding up more of the humans who were either too embattled or deaf to his orders to get out. He reached three still firing over the parapet’s edge and pulled them away. A daemon reared over the parapet and he crushed its skull, but a second leapt up and cleaved hard into his fist, and power fled the weapon. Messinius pumped three bolts into its neck, decapitating it. He moved back.

His power fist was ruined. The daemon’s cut had sliced right through the ceramite, breaking the power field generator and most of the weapon’s strength-boosting apparatus, making it a dead weight. He said a quick thanks to the machine’s departed spirit and smashed the top of his bolt pistol against the quick seal release, at the same time disengaging the power feeds by way of neural link. The clamps holding the power fist to his upper arm came loose and it slid to the floor with a clang, leaving his right arm clad in his standard ceramite gauntlet. A century together. A fine weapon. He had no time to mourn it.

‘Fall back!’ he shouted. ‘Fall back to the Penitent’s Arch!’

He slammed a fresh clip into his bolt pistol. Squad Antiocles were being pushed back. The Devastators walked their fire closer in to the combat. A heavy bolter blasted half a dozen daemons into stinking meat. A missile blew, lifting more into the air. Messinius fell back himself now, leaving it to the last moment before ordering the Assault Marines to leap from the fray. Their jets ignited, driving back the daemons with washes of flame, and they lifted up over his head, leaving four of their brothers dead on the ground. Devastator fire hammered down from above. Anti-personnel weapons set into casemates and swivel turrets on the walls joined in, but the daemons mounted higher and higher in a wave of red that flooded over the parapet.

‘Run!’ he shouted at the straggling human soldiery. ‘Run and survive! Your service is not yet done!’

The Penitent’s Arch led from the square onto a wall walk that curved around to another layer of defences. His Space Marines were already making a firing line across the entrance. A gate could be extended across the arch, sealing the walk from the square, but Messinius refrained from requesting it be closed, as the humans were still streaming past the Adeptus Astartes. Kryvesh waved the banner, whirling it through the air to attract the terrified mortals. The Space Marines fired constantly into the mass of daemons sprinting after them, exhausting their ammunition supplies. Shattered false bodies tumbled down, shot from the front and above, yet still they came, overtaking and dismembering the last warriors fleeing away from the parapet.

Squad Antiocles roared through the arch, landing behind their brethren. Messinius passed between them. For a moment he surveyed the tide of coming fury. Endless red-skinned monsters filling the square like a lake of spilled blood, washing over a score of brightly armoured Space Marine corpses left behind in the retreat. Several hundred humans lay alongside them.

He opened a vox-channel to Gate Command.

‘Wall batteries three-seven-three through three-seven-six, target sector nine five eighty-three, Penitent’s Square, western edge. Five-minute bombardment.’

‘On whose order?’

‘Captain Vitrian Messinius, White Consuls Chapter, Tenth Company. I have the primarch’s authority.’ As he dealt with gunnery control, he was also datapulsing a request for resupply, and checking through layered data screeds.

‘Voice print and signum ident match. Transponder codes valid. We obey.’

The far side of the square erupted in a wall of flame. Heavy cannon shells detonated in a string along the rampart. High-energy beams sliced into the square, turning stone and metal instantly to superheated gas. The approaching daemons were annihilated. A few bolt-rounds cracked off as the last daemons nearing the Space Marine line were put down.

‘Company, cease fire. Conserve ammunition.’ Nobody heard him. Nobody could. He re-sent the order via vox-script. The boltguns cut out.

Penitent’s Square was a cauldron of fire so intense he could feel the heat through his battleplate’s ceramite. The ground shook under his feet and he considered the possibility that the wall would give way. The noise was so all-consuming the idea of speech lost relevance. For five minutes the Lion’s Gate tore madly at its own hide, ripping out chunks of itself in a bid to scrape free the parasites infesting its fabric, then, as suddenly as it had begun, the bombardment ceased.

Where the Penitent’s Square had been, a twisted mass of black metal and shattered stone remained. So formidable were the defences of the Lion’s Gate that the structure beneath had not been penetrated, but it was like this, in small bursts of destruction, that they could lose this war.

Messinius accessed the gate’s noosphere. No daemons had as yet rounded the projecting Penitent’s Spur to come up against their new position. When the attack came again, which it would, it would come from the front.

An ammunition train raced down the walkway from the fortress interior and came to a squealing stop fifty yards away. Medicae personnel jumped down. A Space Marine Apothecary came with them. Human peons rushed about with heavy sack bags full of bolter magazines, passing them out to the transhumans. Spent magazines clattered to the floor. New ones were slammed home. Messinius contacted his squad leaders, taking a quick census of his surviving men, not trusting the digits that read ‘Company Casualties 23%’ blinking in the upper right of his visual field.

Through the smoke given off by burning metal on the far side of the ruined square, he saw movement. Auspex returns tripped his armour’s machine-spirit, and it blinked warnings in his helm.

<threat detected.>

‘They’re coming again,’ he said.

‘My lord?’ A soft voice, one that did not belong in that moment. He ignored it.

‘Engage at fifty-yard range. Make every shot count.’

The ammunition train was hurriedly relieved of their allotted supplies, and sped off, bearing the worst-wounded, to aid whichever beleaguered unit needed it next.

‘Stand ready.’

‘My lord?’ The voice became more insistent.

The voidships in orbit were beginning to fire. Their targeting systems were perturbed by the boiling warp energy and the vortex in constant motion over the Imperial Palace, and many shots went wide, crashing down into the Anterior Barbican, a few falling as far out as Magnifican.

Red monsters bounded towards them, as numerous as before, as if their efforts to thin them had been for naught.

‘Fire,’ he said coldly.

‘My lord, your duty rotation begins in half an hour. You told me to wake you.’

This time he heard. Bolters boomed. Messinius froze them with a thought, and with another he shut down the hypnomat entirely.

Vitrian Messinius awoke groggily.

‘My lord,’ his servant said. Selwin, he was called. ‘You are returned from your recollections?’

‘I am awake, Selwin, yes,’ Messinius said irritably. His mouth was dry. He wanted to be left alone.

‘Shall I?’ Selwin gestured to the hypnomat.

Messinius nodded and rubbed his face. It felt numb. Selwin flicked a number of toggles on the hypnomat and it powered down, the steady glow of its innards fading to nothing and winking out, taking the immediacy of Messinius’ memories with it.

‘The wall again?’ Selwin asked.

The hypnomat’s primary use was to instil knowledge without active learning on the subject’s part, but it could reawaken memories to be lived again. Full immersion in the hypnomat required cooperation from Messinius’ catalepsean node, and coming out of the half-sleep was never as easy as true waking. Reliving past events dulled his wits. Messinius reminded himself to be guarded. He forgot sometimes that he was not on Sabatine any more. The local saying ‘This is Terra’ encompassed a multitude of sins. Spying was among them.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Personal debriefing.’ He shook his head and unplugged the hypnomat’s input cables from the neural ports set into his arms and neck. ‘Nothing new learned.’

Selwin nodded, then hesitantly said, ‘If I may be so bold as to ask, why do it, my lord, if you expect to learn nothing?’

‘Because I can always be wrong,’ Messinius said. He pointed at the hypnomat. It was a bulky machine set on a trolley, but not too big for an unaltered man to move. ‘Take that away. Inform my armourer I will be with him in a few minutes.’

Selwin bowed. ‘Already done, my lord.’

A Black Library Publication

First published in Great Britain in 2021 by Black Library.
This eBook edition published in 2021 by Black Library, Games Workshop Ltd, Willow Road, Nottingham, NG7 2WS, UK.

Produced by Games Workshop in Nottingham.
Cover illustration by Christian Byrne.

Inferno! Volume 6 © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2021. Inferno! Volume 6, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, The Horus Heresy, The Horus Heresy Eye logo, Space Marine, 40K, Warhammer, Warhammer 40,000, Age of Sigmar, Necromunda, the ‘Aquila’ Double-headed Eagle logo, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.

All Rights Reserved.

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

ISBN: 978-1-80026-593-6

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

eBook license

This license is made between:

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

the purchaser of a Black Library e-book product (“You/you/Your/your”)

(jointly, “the parties”)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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