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

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

LEGENDS OF THE AGE OF SIGMAR
Various authors

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

WARCRY
Various authors
An anthology of short stories

CHAMPIONS OF THE MORTAL REALMS
Various Authors
Contains the novellas Warqueen, The Red Hours, Heart of Winter and The Bone Desert
Coming soon

TRIALS OF THE MORTAL REALMS
Various authors
Contains the novellas Code of the Skies, The Measure of Iron and Thieves’ Paradise
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GODS & MORTALS
Various authors
An anthology of short stories

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Various authors
An anthology of short stories

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Various Authors
An anthology of short stories

DIRECHASM
Various Authors
An Anthology of short stories

Novels

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

EIGHT LAMENTATIONS: SPEAR OF SHADOWS
Josh Reynolds

• KHARADRON OVERLORDS •
C L Werner
Book One: OVERLORDS OF THE IRON DRAGON
Book Two: PROFIT’S RUIN

SOUL WARS
Josh Reynolds

CALLIS & TOLL: THE SILVER SHARD
Nick Horth

THE TAINTED HEART
C L Werner

SHADESPIRE: THE MIRRORED CITY
Josh Reynolds

BLACKTALON: FIRST MARK
Andy Clark

HAMILCAR: CHAMPION OF THE GODS
David Guymer

SCOURGE OF FATE
Robbie MacNiven

THE RED FEAST
Gav Thorpe

GLOOMSPITE
Andy Clark

GHOULSLAYER
Darius Hinks

BEASTGRAVE
C L Werner

NEFERATA: THE DOMINION OF BONES
David Annandale

THE COURT OF THE BLIND KING
David Guymer

LADY OF SORROWS
C L Werner

REALM-LORDS
Dale Lucas

WARCRY CATACOMBS: BLOOD OF THE EVERCHOSEN
Richard Strachan

COVENS OF BLOOD
Anna Stephens, Liane Merciel and Jamie Crisalli

Novellas

CITY OF SECRETS
Nick Horth

Audio Dramas

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

THE BEASTS OF CARTHA
David Guymer

FIST OF MORK, FIST OF GORK
David Guymer

GREAT RED
David Guymer

ONLY THE FAITHFUL
David Guymer

THE PRISONER OF THE BLACK SUN
Josh Reynolds

SANDS OF BLOOD
Josh Reynolds

THE LORDS OF HELSTONE
Josh Reynolds

THE BRIDGE OF SEVEN SORROWS
Josh Reynolds

WAR-CLAW
Josh Reynolds

SHADESPIRE: THE DARKNESS IN THE GLASS
Various authors

THE IMPRECATIONS OF DAEMONS
Nick Kyme

THE PALACE OF MEMORY AND OTHER STORIES
Various authors

SONS OF BEHEMAT
Graeme Lyon

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Contents

Cover

Backlist

Title Page

Warhammer Age of Sigmar

WARQUEEN

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

Chapter Twenty-two

Chapter Twenty-three

Chapter Twenty-four

Chapter Twenty-five

Chapter Twenty-six

THE RED HOURS

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Epilogue

HEART OF WINTER

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

THE BONE DESERT

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

About the Author

An Extract from ‘Warcry Catacombs: Blood of the Everchosen’

A Black Library Publication

eBook license

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

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

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

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

The Age of Sigmar had begun.

WARQUEEN

DARIUS HINKS

CHAPTER ONE

Dawn brought fire, and the Changer of Ways. At first he was a crimson line, simmering beneath an amethyst vault. Then, with slow majesty, he became a gilded shield, rising from his hidden palace, embroidering the clouds with light, kindling the Arad Plains into life; transmuting night into day.

Vedra watched in silence, awed by the boundless alchemy of her lord. The message was clear: to change is to live. She clutched the talisman hanging around her neck and raised it in a silent promise, refracting the morning light. The crystal flashed in her palm like a fragment of the dawn.

‘Tomorrow,’ she said.

Then she grabbed her spear and jogged back across the barren hillside towards her chariot. She had spent the night training and a rapturous heat linked every sinew of her long, lean body. She was ready. No one could stop her.

She vaulted into the chariot and barked a command in the old tongue, spurring her hounds into life. Bailar and Balkar lunged forwards with a snarl. They were as large as warhorses and they hauled her copper chariot with ease, their huge paws thudding across the parched scrub, thundering down the slope towards an avenue of staves that led across the plain.

The heads of the slain had been mounted to face south, towards the Crucible Mound, in anticipation of the coming ritual. Vedra did not look at them as she hurtled past. She had no interest in trophies. The heads were a warning, nothing else. The plains had never seen a host like hers. The Untamed was the greatest gathering of Darkoath tribes ever to pay homage to a single Warqueen. But she was under no illusions. There was still work to be done. And if she showed the slightest sign of weakness it would be her head they placed on a stave.

As her chariot neared the mound, she saw that the gathering was even bigger than she expected. The need-fire was already blazing, a vast umbrella of sapphire light, hanging fifty feet above the mound, rippling and shimmering as it shone down on thousands of Darkoath warriors. Every one of the tribesmen was holding a weapon aloft as she reached the foot of the mound and she wanted to raise her iron spear in reply – to howl back at them and revel in the glory of what they had achieved. They had done what the chieftains thought impossible – they had driven the Blood God from their lands. After tomorrow’s battle, they would once more be masters of the entire plain – eight hundred miles of strongholds and farmsteads, from the Scornwood Holt to the shores of the Unmeant Lake, with the Sickle Keep at its heart.

Vedra did not raise her spear. She did not cry out. She did as tradition dictated and kept her gaze locked on the flickering nimbus above the mound, letting the lord’s fire flash in her eyes as Bailar and Balkar pulled the chariot up the slope.

There were nine crucible mounds scattered across the plains and they were all the same shape: a steep-sided hill with a bowl-like depression at the summit. Most of the tribesmen had gathered at the foot of the hill, but the chieftains were waiting at the top, in the crucible itself, bathed in blue light. There were dozens of nobles, but the three greatest of them, Budar, Leortas and Korvis, stood alone, flanked by shield-bearers and slaves, their chins raised proudly and their mouths clamped shut. They were draped in pelts and battle trophies – skulls, human and animal, clattered against their weapons as they stepped towards her. They wore the trappings of great leaders but they were weak, all of them. Not one of them had foreseen this. None of them understood how she had won so many battles. They were all too wrapped up in their own myths to remember what it meant to be a Darkoath chieftain. They had lost their way. How confused they must be now – how they must hate her – but honour and tradition came first. She had defeated them on the field and their creed left them only one course of action. One by one, they knelt, glowering and tense as they dropped to the cinder-strewn earth.

Next to the chieftains were her kin: brothers, sisters and cousins, all wearing new pelts and gold torcs. Vedra’s string of victories had accorded them even higher status than the chieftains, and they stared back at her, proud and defiant, determined not to fail her.

At the other side of the mound was her sanorach, Alimus, the Herald of the Ninth. Ancient and decrepit as he was, the Darkoath sorcerer made a striking sight, with his woad-blue robes and eagle-clawed staff. The staff had been carved to resemble the crooked leg of a bird and it was decked with iridescent feathers. They shimmered in the light of the need-fire, writhing and coiling like a living creature.

Beside the sanorach stood the rest of her new court – the horde of poets, prophets, heroes and artisans who now gathered at her hearth.

She looked back at the three kneeling chieftains. Budar of the Throod, brutish and colossal. Korvis of the Sachalites, wild eyed and skeletal. Leortas of the Tannen, haughty, stout and proud. This was her prize. These embittered old warriors. They had not knelt to anyone for decades, nor agreed to pay tithes; but now they prostrated themselves, pledging people and lands in return for survival. Victory after victory, stronghold after stronghold, she had bound them to her will.

She enjoyed their discomfort for as long as honour allowed, then nodded for them to rise.

‘Alimus,’ she said, looking over at the sanorach.

The seer bowed and approached, walking towards her in his familiar, awkward gait. When she was a child, she called him Cranefly, due to his wasted, gangly limbs, and now, arthritic and palsied, he reminded her even more of an insect, jerking and twitching towards her across the hilltop.

‘Warqueen,’ he said, his voice rattly and thin.

She cried out, letting her words carry across the silent crowds below. ‘I am Vedra the Sworn, Bringer of Change. Are you the Herald of the Ninth?’

‘I am.’

‘Do you hold the key to the nine doors of the soul?’

‘I do.’

‘It is the dawning of the ninth day of the ninth month. Once more, the Changer of Ways has driven back the darkness, illuminating us with the flame of truth. Have you brought me his fire?’

The old seer reached beneath his robes, briefly revealing the crooked, emaciated body beneath. It was branded with an intricate network of runes and diagrams and criss-crossed with scars.

‘I have,’ he said, holding up a drinking horn.

‘Then light my soul,’ said Vedra, stepping closer.

He raised the horn and tipped a few drops onto her head. Most of Vedra’s head was shaved, but a single, tawny band crested her skull, a short-cropped mohawk that ended in a thick ponytail. The liquid splashed across her scalp and glittered in her hair.

The effect was instant. The need-fire blazed brighter and dropped down to envelop her, obscuring everything else. As always, she was amazed by the power of it – a vast, boiling tear in the sky, revealing countless versions of reality. It was a fragment of a dream, draped beneath the stars. A part of her mind still saw reality, but it was fading fast as the ice-flames took hold. She was aware, vaguely, that her physical self was hurling itself through the furnace, inured by Alimus’ draught, dancing and whirling and howling to the rising sun; but her dream-sight revealed something far more wonderful: she was in the presence of her lord.

Vedra glided, weightless and incandescent, into a blaze of liquid crystal. Visions and vistas spiralled around her. The Changer of Ways had transformed her being with the same ease he had transformed the night. The facets became mirrors and windows. She saw her face and the faces of her foes. She saw chieftains and thralls, crushed between the wheels of her chariot, or forced into vassalship. Her lord had made it all possible and she whispered his name: Tzeentch. The crystal labyrinth boiled and crashed as she slipped further into the otherworld of gods and spirits. Outside, in the mortal world, she saw chieftains joining the dance – hurling themselves into the flames. She willed them away, focusing on the fantastic visions exploding all around her. As always, the need-fire led her to the truth. She saw herself at the southern edge of the Arad Plains, riding her chariot at the head of her vast host. Behind her was an ocean of blades and shields and ahead lay Khorne’s final foothold in the plains: the soaring, horned fortress locals had christened the Abattoir. The reek of blood and brimstone filled her nostrils as her chariot rolled towards its gates. She gripped the talisman around her neck, the Serpent Stone, the priceless symbol of Tzeentch’s trust in her.

To her horror, it had grown cold.

The visions fell away and Vedra was standing, once more, at the edge of the sapphire flames. She reeled backwards from the need-fire, gripping the crystal charm and staring at it in shock. The fire had gone from its rough-hewn heart. Its nine eyes had grown dark. It was heavy and cold in her hand, a simple piece of rock.

The dance of the need-fire continued. More chieftains were hurling themselves into the flames, bathed in light and drunk on sorcery as they cast down their weapons and furs, embracing the madness of the dance.

Vedra continued backing away across the top of the Crucible Mound, weighed down by a terrible sense of dread. She had earned her queenship by defeating a daemon and Tzeentch’s token had burned against her chest ever since. Now, on the eve of her final trial, it had abandoned her. With a sickening jolt, she realised that she had left the need-fire without seeing the culmination of her visions.

She raced back in, trying to recapture the moment, but it was gone. As she stood there, surrounded by delirious crowds, she reached up into the madness, catching nothing but smoke.

CHAPTER TWO

They stayed up late into the night. Those that could, squeezed into Budar’s longhouse, and the rest camped outside, puncturing the darkness with laughter and a constellation of shimmering campfires. The nobles and chieftains gathered around a long, rough-hewn table, while everyone else sat on wooden couches or sprawled across furs and skins on the packed earth floor. The smoke holes in the roof did little to lessen the fumes so the hall was a fug of half-glimpsed figures – a dance of shadows, orchestrated by the rhythms of the great fire.

Vedra sat at the head of the table, silhouetted by the flames. Seated nearest to her were her family and then the chieftains and lesser nobles. A few of the younger tribesmen were drunk, lurching through the smoke and grinning, but they had the sense to keep away from the table. Everyone had heard tales of the Warqueen’s strange new beliefs, and no one wanted to earn her wrath.

As Vedra took her seat, the chieftains eyed her warily. Some whispered oaths to the Changer of Ways, opening cuts in their palms and smearing blood across their chests, but most watched her in silence. The air was heavy with the tang of sorcery and, as the flames blazed behind her, Vedra’s shadow fragmented, throwing serpentine shapes across the table.

She should have felt elated. The chieftains were cowed, tomorrow brought the promise of glorious battle and every shadow in the longhouse carried a glimpse of her divine patron. But she was furious. All she could think about was the lifeless Serpent Stone in her palm.

She glared at the chieftains, her muscles taut, her hand gripping the staff of her spear. How pathetic they were, with their backwards, debased faiths. How shameless.

‘Budar of the Throod,’ she said, addressing the lord of the southern plains – the chieftain whose table she was seated at. Her voice was quiet: the slow, dangerous murmur of a predator.

Budar shifted in his chair and gave a grudging nod. ‘Warqueen.’ He had to drag the word from his throat. Like all of the Throod, he was a dark, muscle-clad giant of a man, but the most striking thing about him was the strange contraption he wore over his head: a hexagonal cage, wrought of thick, oak bars and bolted to his neck.

‘Get that thing off,’ she said.

Budar’s face flushed a deep crimson. He gripped his axe with one hand and the table’s edge with the other.

Vedra raised an eyebrow. ‘Shall I prove myself again, Budar?’

There were few in the longhouse who had not heard of how Vedra had slaughtered the previous Throod chieftains. Budar had only been offered a chance to serve as her vassal once she had beheaded every serious rival. Stronger men than him had failed to cow her, and he knew it.

The room fell quiet as everyone watched to see how Budar would respond.

Budar let go of the table and loosed his axe.

His voice was a low growl. ‘Without my soul cage, my spirit will be unprotected.’

Vedra nodded. Then looked around the faces of everyone at the table. ‘His spirit will be unprotected.’ She raised her voice to reach the crowds in the shadows beyond the table. ‘Do you hear him? He thinks his soul can be preserved by a wooden box.’ She slammed her fist on the table, causing the dishes to clatter and silencing any remaining conversations. ‘Is this what we’ve come to?’

The rows of smoke-shrouded faces stared back at her in silence.

Her rage at the death of the Serpent Stone merged with her fury at how low her people had fallen.

She reached out with shocking speed and slammed Budar’s head against the table, shattering his wooden helmet.

‘No more!’ she howled, hitting Budar’s head against the table a second time, leaving his face full of splinters.

Budar reeled from the table, bellowing and clutching his face, blood rushing between his fingers.

His thralls rushed forwards, staring at her from inside their soul cages as they gripped their weapons.

Vedra’s family rose from their seats, drawing weapons, as she climbed on the table, gripping her spear in both hands.

There was a tense moment as warriors glared at each other through the fug, the only sound coming from the fire and Budar, gasping and cursing as he pulled splinters from his face.

Slowly, every warrior in the room turned to glare at Budar, irrespective of which tribe they belonged to.

Vedra felt a rush of pride. No one, other than his honour guard, had sided with Budar.

He looked around at the circle of cold, stern faces, and something flashed in his eyes – not fear, but recognition. He could yield or die.

‘Warqueen,’ he muttered finally, lowering his axe and ordering his men away. He sat back down, wiping blood from his face and removing pieces of cage from the bristles of his beard.

Vedra watched him for a moment longer, then dropped back down from the table and took her seat, looking at the other chieftains.

‘We hear you, Warqueen,’ said Korvis, Seer-lord of the Sachalites. His voice was a harsh caw, barely understandable. Like all the Seer-lords that came before him, Korvis’ devotion to Tzeentch was written in his flesh. His wiry body was painted with pale grey clay, to resemble a cadaver, and his eye sockets had been rimmed with charcoal to add to the effect, but his strangeness was far more profound than warpaint. His mouth had been sewn shut decades ago and the skin had knitted back together, leaving little more than a puckered scar. His words came from the crow that was embedded in his chest. The bird’s wings were spread beneath his skin, merging with his straining ribs, but its head was still visible, jutting from his sternum and eyeing Vedra with interest.

‘The Lord of Change sent you as his prophet,’ said Korvis, the crow’s head twitching as it voiced his thoughts. ‘No one can deny it. We’re here to do your bidding, Warqueen. What will you have us do? Why have you gathered us here?’

Vedra flexed her fingers then clenched them into fists, imagining pummelling his ashen face. Korvis’ mutation was a pointless affectation, just like Budar’s cage – a diversion from their true purpose. But she stayed her hand. He had knelt to her, before all of the Sachalites. There would be no honour in striking him and, besides, infighting and bickering was one of the failings she had vowed to rectify.

‘We are an echo of greatness,’ she said, ignoring Korvis and addressing the whole longhouse. ‘Darkoath tribes have ruled the Arad Plains for generations, but when the Blood God sent his dogs, what happened? We fell like children. They took our homesteads. They took our forts. We shamed the Lord of Change with our every defeat.’

‘Until you united us,’ said the lord of the Tannen, Leortas. He was sitting bolt upright, staring into the middle distance, his long silver plaits trailing down his back. He was clearly appalled by the lowborn company he was being forced to keep. ‘Since then we have crushed the blood tribes.’ His voice was resonant and deep, the voice of a man used to commanding respect. ‘There is barely a single keep we have not cleansed of their filth. Almost every corner of the plain is back under our control.’

Vedra studied him. The Tannen were the first Darkoath tribe to migrate south from the Great Parch into the Arad Plains. It must be crushing Leortas to even converse with her. She had to slaughter half of the Tannen nation before Leortas accepted her as queen.

Leortas sensed her watching him and sat even more erect, causing his cloak to shimmer. Like all of the Tannen, he tore the fingernails from his defeated foes, preferably while they were still alive. He then weaved the bloody mementos into his cloak, causing it to rustle and click as he moved. Vedra’s own furs were dressed with the bones of her enemies so this, at least, was a custom she could respect.

‘Barely?’ she replied. ‘Almost?’ She stared at him, until he finally turned and met her eye. ‘Is it enough for Darkoath tribes to almost rule their own lands?’

Leortas scowled but gave no reply.

She slammed her fist on the table again. ‘We will take back what is ours! All of it!’ She stood, pointing her spear at the hides draped over the entrance to the longhouse. ‘And then, once we have scoured those dogs from our kingdom, we will begin the real work.’

‘The real work?’ said Korvis. He had spent the meal feeding poison berries to the crow in his chest and his pupils were now so large that barely any white was visible. He was enraptured by Vedra’s words, staring at her like she was the Lord of Change himself. His wiry limbs were shaking from all the poisons he had consumed, and the words that emerged from the crow’s beak were trembling, as though he were battling to hold back hysteria. ‘What do you mean, Warqueen?’

‘I mean we will begin again. Begin the work we have forgotten.’ She raised her voice again and the crowds pushed closer to listen.

‘When our ancestors came south from the Great Parch, did they come seeking peace? Did they carve out this kingdom to grow crops and tend cattle?’

Korvis giggled behind his stitched lips, feeding more berries to the crow, his eyes rolling.

She waved at the drunks staggering through the smoke, trying to avoid her gaze. ‘Did they come to rot their minds with ale? Or grow fat and idle as other nations grow stronger? Or spend their time performing rites and rituals so obscure that they have no time to strengthen their sword arms and train their men?’

‘No,’ croaked Korvis, shaking both his heads in wonder.

‘No!’ roared Vedra. ‘They came to rule! They came to build an empire! They came to crush. To cut. To burn.’ She waved at the strange appearance of the chieftains, with their fetishes and eye makeup. ‘And now look at us. Look what we have become – distracted and weak, forgetting what we were. But no more. Tomorrow, we take back what is ours. And then, when every last one of those tin-clad outlanders has been driven into the ground, we will go to war. We will march south, north, east and west, beyond the great plains, seizing everything we find.’ She stared at the chieftains and warriors, pointing her spear at them, her breath coming in short bursts. ‘The Arad Plains are not enough! Tzeentch requires more! Tzeentch wants everything! And we will give it to him.’ She pounded the haft of her spear on the table, spilling drinks and food. ‘What are we?’

‘Untamed!’ roared everyone in the longhouse, rising to their feet, their faces flushed, their doubts forgotten as she filled them with battle-lust.

‘At dawn, we march on the Abattoir. No walls can hold us back. No swords can steal our blood. And when that final citadel falls, when the plains are ours, we wage war on the world!’

‘Untamed!’ roared the crowd again.

Vedra fell back into her chair and waved at the food, signalling for the feast to continue, sure that everyone in the longhouse now knew what was expected of them.

When the conversation had picked up again and the attention had shifted away from her, she thought again of the Serpent Stone, lying cold and heavy against her chest.

‘You look like you’re chewing bitterroot,’ said Zuchis, her older brother. He was a bear of a man, with a thick, matted beard that blended seamlessly with the greasy, matted hair on his chest and arms. His face was a mess of scars, gathered around a crooked, repeatedly broken nose and a brow like an anvil, but, as he leant close to her, there was concern in his eyes.

Vedra knew that she should feel relieved. The survival of her family was almost assured. She looked past Zuchis at her other siblings. All of their lives had been hanging in the balance since the death of their parents, but soon they would be safe under her royal aegis. No one could threaten them once she had conquered the whole plain. And there was only one last battle to win. And yet… She gripped the Serpent Stone, letting its chill eat into her palm.

Zuchis stared at her, puzzled. ‘What happened up there? You’ve had that look on your face ever since the dance of the need-fire.’

She shook her head.

Zuchis nodded at the chieftains, speaking quietly. ‘They’re fools, I know, but they’ll learn. None of them can deny the truth of what you say. And they’ll fight well for you. Whoever dreamt you’d gather such a host? Whatever tomorrow brings, it could never stand against so many tribesmen. Storm-daemons with lightning hammers could not halt us now.’ He sipped from his drinking horn, studying her over the rim. ‘But you look like we’ve already lost.’

Vedra’s younger brother, Tuath, was sitting next to Zuchis. Zuchis was a great edifice of a man, but Tuath was like a taut, knotted rope – wiry and tough, like a pit fighter. His gaunt face was covered with fierce tattoos but he smiled as he leant over.

‘Listen to him, Vedra.’ His voice was loud and rang out through a pause in the conversation. ‘The outlanders won’t stand a chance. They’re normal men under those metal suits.’

On the other side of Vedra, Budar looked up. ‘They’re not men,’ he growled, still removing splinters from his face as he glared at Vedra’s brothers.

‘What, then?’ asked Vedra, interested to hear what fanciful tale the lord of the Throod would regale them with.

‘Blood Warriors. Part man, part daemon. They have fire in their veins and brass hearts.’

Zuchis shrugged. ‘We’ll outnumber them ten to one, maybe more. Who cares what’s in their veins? Our last battle will be the easiest. The Changer of Ways has brought us this far, with Vedra as Warqueen. Now we’ll bring the outlanders the great gift of change. We’ll free their heads from those metal suits and turn their fortress to rubble.’

Vedra was still looking at Budar. ‘Is this why you’ve let them stain our lands with their presence?’ Her voice was taut. ‘Because you’re afraid of them?’

His eyes widened at the insult, but he remained seated and kept his voice level. ‘I’m not afraid. Death is of no concern. I will serve Tzeentch with devotion and honour and I will eventually be transformed by his divine fire. One day I’ll enter the Great Labyrinth.’

Vedra met his words with an unimpressed silence.

Budar flushed with rage. He leant closer. ‘The Throod have lived in the shadow of Khorne for decades. We face Blood Warriors every day. If you think they’re normal men, you’re wrong.’

Vedra was about to reply when she saw the old prophet, Alimus, teetering through the fumes and heading for the door. She rose from the table and strode after him, barging through the crowded fumes and out into the night, leaving Zuchis and Tuath to face Budar’s glare.

‘Alimus,’ she said, gripping his shoulder and holding up the Serpent Stone.

He looked up at her. His face was so lined with wrinkles that his eyes were barely visible, half-buried beneath pallid folds of skin. Vedra could see enough to be alarmed though. There was doubt in his yellowed, rheumy eyes. ‘I know,’ he said, glancing briefly at the crystal, then looking awkwardly at the ground.

‘You know? You know what? Speak up. Tell me what you saw in the flames.’

Alimus was reluctant to meet her eye, shuffling awkwardly in her grip. Then he nodded past the myriad campfires to the ominous silhouette of the Crucible Mound. ‘We should talk in private.’

Vedra remembered that she was standing in the heart of her army. Tribesmen and women were huddled around the fires in their thousands. Some were asleep, resting before the battle, but many were awake and had turned her way, muttering her name and nudging others in excitement.

She waved Alimus on, stepping quickly over embers and sleeping warriors until they stood alone in the shadow of the mound.

There was still a faint blue glow coming from the embers of the need-fire, pulsing up from the hilltop, cold and otherworldly, patterning the darkness. Alimus shook his head. ‘I don’t trust everything I saw today. This mound is a stranger to me. The mound at the Sickle Keep is the only one I can truly believe. The spirits down here in the south are unfamiliar. They speak in riddles. I cannot even be sure–’

‘What did you see?’ demanded Vedra, leaning close to him.

He shook his head, then nodded. ‘I saw what you saw, Warqueen. Tzeentch’s favour is in the balance. The auguries were confused but, it’s possible…’ He hesitated, grinding his raven-headed staff into the soil. ‘It’s possible that the Lord of Change will pass his patronage to another. That he will back another side in tomorrow’s battle.’

She shook her head. ‘Throw in his lot with the blood worshippers? Why? After all these victories. When I am so close to securing my place.’

Alimus shook his head, his face crumpling into a network of deep, furrowed lines. ‘No, of course not. Tzeentch would not ally himself to the Blood Warriors.’ He glanced back through the darkness, towards the longhouse.

Vedra followed his gaze and shook her head in disbelief. ‘One of the other chieftains? Why? I have proved myself again and again. I killed those that would not kneel. I am the ruler of the plains. No one can question my right. Why would Tzeentch cast me aside for someone I’ve already defeated in his name?’

She grabbed Alimus by his robes. ‘Those babbling mystics will never do anything for our people. They perform rites when they should be training. They plan sacrifices when they should plan wars. If Tzeentch chooses them for champions our territories will shrink until we have nothing left. Only I have the vision to lead us, Alimus. Only I will make us great again.’

Alimus looked increasingly more anxious as she wrenched him back and forth, whispering urgently into his face. He waved at the great, dark mass of the mound. ‘The need-fire speaks oddly down here in the south, but I gleaned enough to help you.’ He looked around, to check they were still alone, then lowered his voice. ‘Make sure you are the one to slay the lord of the Blood Warriors. It must be you that does the deed.’

‘You mean someone else will try to get there before me?’

Alimus nodded. ‘I saw two visions clearer than all the others. In one, you cemented your rule with a great victory. You defeated the lord of the Blood Warriors – they call him Khrall. You beheaded Khrall and freed the plains of his taint.’

‘And the other vision?’

‘Another chieftain reached Khrall before you. He took Khrall’s head and claimed the victory for himself, saying he should be lord of the Arad Plains.’

Vedra shook her head in disbelief. ‘The Untamed would not denounce me now, not after all I have done.’

‘Of course they would. It’s a matter of honour. This is the final battle of the war. Killing Khrall will be the death blow. If one of the great chieftains were to achieve that they would have a legitimate claim.’ He ground his staff into the mud again, looking pained. ‘Who can say what would happen?’

‘Then tell me who the traitor is.’ She looked back at the longhouse. ‘Budar?’ She thought of the fury in his eyes when she smashed his soul cage. ‘The south is his domain. His tribe is the largest. Is it him?’

Alimus shook his head, refusing to meet her eye.

‘Leortas? The Tannen all think they’re better than me. I can see how it irks Leortas to fight under my banner.’

Alimus shook his head, looking desperate. ‘The need-fire was unclear. I couldn’t see who. It was one of the great chieftains, but I couldn’t say which.’

Vedra gripped the haft of her spear. ‘Then I’ll kill all of them.’ She moved to go, the embers of the need-fire flashing in her eyes.

‘Wait!’ gasped Alimus. ‘Think. This is the eve of your greatest victory. You’ve aligned all the tribes of the Arad Plains under a single banner. What will happen if you murder their chieftains after they’ve knelt to you? Your honour will be in tatters.’

‘My honour? They mean to betray me.’

‘Maybe,’ hissed Alimus. ‘And maybe not. And even if the vision was true, who but us would know? Others would only see that you acted with dishonour – killing those that willingly bent the knee and leaving their tribes without chieftains. And how many of them would you kill? Would you kill every chieftain in the Untamed? What kind of army would that leave?’

Vedra whirled away from him, attacking the darkness with her spear, her muscles trembling with rage.

Alimus stumbled after her and grabbed her arm, flinching as she turned and glared at him.

‘Warqueen,’ he said. ‘The Changer of Ways has given you a warning. That means you’re still in his thoughts. If anything, this is confirmation of his faith in you. All you need to do is take Khrall’s head. Get to him before the others. Then your place will be assured.’

She nodded, seeing the sense in his words. ‘I’ll make sure they never even come close to Khrall.’

Alimus nodded and reached beneath his robes, drawing out a sheet of vellum. He dropped to his knees and rolled it across the baked earth, waving for Vedra to kneel beside him. He whispered a string of invocations and, as he spoke, the blue tracery around his staff pulsed into life, splashing cool light across the vellum. It was covered in the obscure runes of the sanorach – densely packed columns of symbols that resembled beaks and flames, serpents and fish. He jabbed one of his misshapen fingers at a circular diagram, scrawled in the bottom corner of the scroll. It was a series of concentric circles, divided by a single, vertical line that ended at the edge of the central circle.

‘What is it?’

‘The Abattoir,’ explained Alimus, evidently pleased with himself. ‘Their fortress. Tzeentch has granted me many visions over the recent days and this one is particularly useful.’ He traced his finger round the circles. ‘It’s a series of circular walls linked by a single walkway.’ He pointed at the final stretch of the bridge. ‘If you deploy the chieftains in the outer circles they will be busy battling the larger portion of Khrall’s forces. Meanwhile, you can head to the inner keep, cross this final stretch of bridge and reach Khrall while they’re still battling in the outer chambers.’

Vedra shook her head. ‘Leave them to fight the larger battle? That would be a cowardly deed, Alimus. And I’ll never win the respect of my people by keeping my hands clean.’

‘There’s no chance of that.’ Alimus pointed at the final circle again. ‘My visions revealed something else – Khrall prefers to face his enemies in single combat. If you can get through his honour guard he’ll deem you a worthy opponent and fight you himself. The chieftains may fight the larger force, but you’ll have the harder battle. And you will deal the crucial blow.’

For the first time since the talisman went cold, Vedra began to feel calm again. ‘I’m a daemon-killer. Khrall has a shock coming if he thinks I’m easy prey.’

Footsteps interrupted them and they both jumped to their feet. As they rose, Vedra snatched the scroll from Alimus, stuffing it beneath her fur pelt.

Her brothers loomed out of the darkness, suspicious looks on their faces. Behind Zuchis and Tuath, she saw more of her siblings: her three sisters, Arva, Dyna and Ederata. The youngest of them, Arva, barged past the others and rushed to her side, looking up at her with a stern expression.

‘Sister,’ she said, gripping her arm. ‘Are you well?’

The girl had become so sure of herself in the last year. She was barely sixteen summers old but she had proven her worth in the recent battles, fighting with a ferocity and determination that reminded Vedra of herself.

‘The Throod are paying tribute to you,’ said Arva, her face full of pride. ‘They’re praising you in readiness for tomorrow’s battle, singing songs of your victories. You should hear what they’re–’

Vedra gripped Arva’s wiry arm and glared at her.

‘Pay no attention to them.’ Her voice was tight with rage as she nodded at the campfires and revellers. ‘All these rituals and rites just to glorify the chieftains make me sick. We’re here to kill, sister. That’s how we’ll prove our worth to the Lord of Change. That’s how we’ll survive this world. We must fight harder and better than anyone else. That’s all that matters – skill, strength, determination. The rest is a trap.’ She gripped Arva’s arm harder and pulled her sister close. ‘The world is cruel, Arva, so we have to stay strong. Understand?’

Arva nodded, her eyes wide and earnest.

Vedra held her gaze, then drew back her shoulders, anger still flickering in her eyes.

She looked south, to where she knew the Abattoir was waiting.

‘Sleep,’ she said. ‘Tomorrow we kill.’

CHAPTER THREE

The gates of the Abattoir were magnificent – huge slabs of copper and brass, so monolithic that they seemed to graze the belly of the clouds. The garrisons of the Untamed were rarely more than a spear-tipped stockade around some huts and a longhouse. The Sickle Keep, Vedra’s own stronghold in the capital, was circled by stone walls and had a fortified tower at its centre, but even that would have been dwarfed by this. Vedra had never dreamt that walls could rise so high without toppling, or that metal could be wrought into such a monstrous, impregnable edifice. ‘I must learn how to build like this,’ she muttered. ‘I must build castles of my own.’

The fortress was designed in the shape of an eight-taloned claw, bursting from the ground and grasping at the sky. Each talon was a long, curved tower that swooped out across the plains, clad in innumerable skulls and leaking infernal, crimson light from arrow-slit windows. A thick column of smoke poured constantly from the citadel’s palm and a mushroom cloud of fumes rained embers on the surrounding wasteland. Vedra could not imagine how the Untamed would have breached those colossal gates, but the question was moot. The Blood Warriors had opened them in welcome.

She looked round at the host behind her. With the addition of the Throod, Budar had bolstered her army by another three thousand heads. As the morning sun flashed on their copper runeshields and chariots, it turned them into a burnished ocean. Vedra carried no shield, preferring to fight unencumbered. Her only concession to armour was a small, hammered shoulder plate, studded with brutal spikes. There were strings of teeth draped round her neck and pelts hung from her waist, but these were trophies rather than protection. Her armour was speed, fury and the iron-hard strength of her limbs.

‘They’re mocking us,’ said her younger brother, Tuath, whose chariot was beside hers. ‘Leaving their doors open like they have nothing to fear.’

She nodded. They could play whatever games they liked. They would die just the same. She looked around for Alimus and saw him drifting towards her on his peculiar steed. It was a Tzeentch-spawned wonder, made of ridged flesh and long, pitted talons. It was like no animal that was ever born on the plains – a flat disc of muscle and steel that rippled through the air with Alimus balanced precariously on its back. It looked like he would fall as soon as it moved, but she had seen him ride it through every one of their battles, hurling curses at their foes as the flesh disc carried him beyond the reach of every sword strike and spear thrust.

The creature watched her as it approached, its flesh parting to reveal a yellow, inhuman eye. She briefly met its strange gaze, then looked at Alimus.

The old seer stared back. The doubt she saw in his eyes the night before was still there. He looked across her army and nodded towards the three great chieftains, Budar, Leortas and Korvis, then he turned back to her.

She nodded in understanding.

Alimus whispered to his strange steed and it rippled away across the army, drifting over the heads of the front ranks and allowing Alimus to give them his strange blessing. As he passed the tribesmen they raised their weapons and Alimus tapped them with the claw of his staff, sending a flicker of blue flame down axe blades and spear tips, anointing Vedra’s host with Tzeentch’s flame.

Vedra’s brothers shared a wary glance.

Vedra caught the look and shook her head. ‘It was more than just muscle that got us here. Without the wisdom of the heralds, the Changer of Ways would never have heard our prayers.’

Zuchis was about to reply when Vedra saw something and silenced him with a raised hand.

Knights were marching through the gates. It was an army, but unlike any Vedra had seen before. They wore clanking suits of carmine and brass and they moved in perfect blocks, stepping in unison. Their heavy, booted feet drummed out a rhythm as rank after rank thudded across the scorched earth, mustering before the gates. They all carried huge axes. Even from half a mile away, Vedra could see that the weapons were bigger than Tuath and they were bleeding heat. In fact, the air all around the warriors shimmered with heat haze, as though they had just emerged from a furnace. The warriors’ faces were hidden behind razor-edged faceplates and tall, iron-horned helmets.

‘So these are the Blood Warriors,’ said Zuchis.

Vedra spat into the dust. ‘What kind of warrior hides his face from his enemies?’

Zuchis pulled back the yoke of his chariot, causing his war hounds to howl and snarl. ‘Let’s see how useful those big axes are when we crash through them like a thunderbolt.’ He patted the chariot’s spiked, iron-shod wheels, about to say more on the subject, when something else emerged from the gates.

It was more of the red-and-brass-armoured knights, but these were mounted on huge, metal bulls. As the creatures stomped and snorted into view, Vedra saw flashes of light at their joints, as though they contained fragments of the furnace that spawned them. Instead of horns, they all had a single, metal tusk jutting from their snouts, edged with serrated blades.

When the Blood Warriors had all formed into neat ranks, the gates began to swing shut, accompanied by a rattle of grinding gears and a hiss of engines. Vedra could see hundreds more of the knights gathered inside the keep, but they made no move to join the others, waiting in silence as the gates slammed closed.

Vedra scowled, irritated by so much regimented posturing. She had also been counting the Blood Warriors outside the gate. Khrall had sent no more than three hundred of his knights out to deal with her host of thousands. She clamped her jaws, annoyed by this second insult. She lifted her spear from her back and planted a kiss on the cold iron. ‘I didn’t come here to watch a dance.’

Vedra leapt on the yoke of her chariot and turned to face her army, her mohawk rippling in the wind and her spear held above her head.

‘What are we?’ she howled, her voice carrying across the ridge, amplified by the sorcery of Alimus.

‘Untamed!’ roared thousands of throats.

‘Untamed!’ howled Vedra, jabbing her spear skywards at the rushing clouds.

Then she leapt back into the chariot and yanked the reins, sending her hounds hurtling down the slope.

The Darkoath tribes thundered after her in a wild profusion of limbs, chariots and weapons, more landslide than army, wailing and frenzied as they screamed towards the citadel below.

Alimus’ warning echoed around Vedra’s head as she hurtled towards the Blood Warriors and she drove her hounds harder than ever before, racing with such fury that even her brothers and sisters struggled to match her speed. She would reach Khrall before anyone else.

She was still fifty feet away from the enemy when she hurled her spear. ‘Drink, Biurtan!’ she roared as its metal slipped from her grip.

The spear sliced through the air and landed in the throat of the foremost Blood Warrior, cutting through his neck brace like cloth. The spear emerged from the back of his neck, knocking him from his saddle, and he thudded to the ground, throwing up a cloud of hissing smoke.

Vedra’s chariot, carried by the momentum of her downhill charge, was now only twenty feet from the enemy. Her spear hand was still raised and as the fallen Blood Warrior lay clutching at his throat, Biurtan reappeared in Vedra’s fist, painted crimson.

‘They bleed!’ she howled, glancing back at the army thundering in her wake. ‘They die!’

Seconds from the enemy, she hurled the spear again with the same words, punching another Blood Warrior from his saddle.

Then, with a crash of shredding metal, she was amongst them.

Bailar and Balkar howled, tearing a path through the armoured ranks.

Vedra caught Biurtan in one hand and drew her sword with the other, howling as she split a knight’s faceplate, and hurled the spear again, embedding it in the chest of another Blood Warrior.

For a brief, blessed, moment, Vedra was alone with the enemy, careering through them with all the fury of a storm.

Then, with a sound like a thousand breaking cymbals, her army arrived, colliding with the enemy at incredible speed, whirling, hacking and howling as they showed the sons of Khorne who ruled the Arad Plains.

CHAPTER FOUR

By midday, the field before the gates was a dark, bloody pit. Darkoath tribesmen lay heaped in mounds, retching and howling in agony, or crushed, lifeless into the mire. Vedra was near the gates, her chariot surrounded by crimson-clad knights. The battle had ground to an infuriating impasse. Her host had swarmed over the Blood Warriors and their gargantuan, metal steeds, but the knights were almost impossible to kill. She swayed back and forth on her chariot, holding the reins in one hand and wielding her sword with the other. She fought with skill and fury. Months of war had honed her into a perfect weapon – fearless, lean and agile. Every sword strike hit home, slicing through the Blood Warriors’ armour and filling the air with hot blood. But it was futile. Every time she hacked one of them to the ground, he wiped the gore from his armour and staggered back to his feet. If anything, the Blood Warriors were invigorated by the ferocity of her attacks, becoming more hate-fuelled with each injury.

A mounted knight crashed his steed through the scrum and the beast’s horn punched into Vedra’s chariot, tipping it sideways.

Vedra lunged, ramming her sword into the monster’s eye.

Rather than killing it, Vedra unleashed a gout of fire from its battle plate. Heat blistered her face and drove her back. It was as though the creature’s armour contained a brazier.

The knight laughed – a harsh, clanging sound, echoing inside his helmet like a broken bell.

Vedra dropped into a crouch and saw the same infernal light burning through the eyeholes of the knight’s helmet. She recalled what Budar had said about the Blood Warriors being inhuman.

Rage pounded in her temples and, as the Blood Warrior laughed, she leapt onto her chariot’s yoke and sprang through the air. She gripped her sword in both hands and drove it down into the Blood Warrior’s neck, splintering his neck brace. Then, wrenching the blade sideways, she ripped his head away.

There was an explosion of sparks and blood as Vedra flipped backwards across the yoke and landed on the overturned chariot.

The surrounding tribesmen saw her behead the warrior and raised their weapons, cheering as he toppled back from his steed and thudded to the ground.

‘Untamed!’ she howled, lashing out and opening another armoured throat.

Her army roared again and repeated her war cry until it echoed across the whole battle.

A Blood Warrior near Vedra toppled from his saddle as a tribesman smashed into him.

It was Tuath. Vedra howled in delight as her brother knocked the Blood Warrior to the ground and beheaded him with a single swing of his axe.

Tuath reeled back through a cloud of embers and looked up at her. He was drenched in blood, his wiry, gore-splattered muscles glinting in the midday sun. His face was a crimson mask and his teeth gleamed, shocking white against the blood as he pummelled his way towards her. He hauled himself up onto the chariot and slammed his axe into the helmet of another knight, filling the air with metal and grey matter.

Vedra dodged an axe blow and jammed her sword through a helmet visor.

‘We’re losing hundreds of men,’ said Tuath as he reached her. She had fought beside her brother since they were children and she had never seen him look this troubled.

She stepped back to survey the scene. Huge swathes of her army had been hacked down, but the small group of Blood Warriors had barely shrunk. At most the Untamed had killed fifty of them.

‘Have you seen their lord?’ she cried out, struggling to raise her voice over the din of battle.

Tuath shook his head. ‘Must be in there,’ he said, nodding at the gates that loomed over them. ‘With the rest of their army.’

‘I need to reach him,’ she gasped. ‘We need to get in there.’

Tuath looked up at the colossal doors and raised an eyebrow.

Vedra gripped the Serpent Stone. It was still cold, but it reminded her that there was more than one way to defeat an enemy.

‘Alimus!’ she cried out. There was no reply. She scoured the battle and saw the sorcerer, gliding across the forest of whirling axes on his disc. As he weaved back and forth through the fumes he jabbed his staff at the warriors below, spewing gouts of sapphire flame.

‘Alimus!’ she howled.

This time he looked up and saw her. He wrenched his staff free and waved it in her direction, sending his disc hurtling towards her.

‘We’re wasting time!’ she cried as he loomed over her chariot.

More Blood Warriors rushed towards her but Alimus drew his staff round in a scything motion and they crumpled, crushed beneath an invisible weight. Their armour plates popped and warped, spraying blood from the joints as Alimus drove them deep into the ground.

Vedra and Tuath looked at each other in surprise.

‘Your power is growing,’ said Vedra as Alimus flew down towards them, his staff still shimmering with cobalt sparks.

He looked at his staff with a dazed expression, as though even he had not expected such a dramatic effect.

‘It’s a sign that we’re near victory,’ he said, swinging the staff round again. Fire spat from the claw at its head, enveloping the nearest Blood Warrior and blasting him from his saddle. As the knight crashed to the ground, his armour melted, eating into his flesh, leaving a smouldering soup of twisted metal and bubbling innards.

Vedra fended off a blow, downed another warrior, then waved her sword at the mounds of dead tribesmen. ‘There’ll be no victory if I don’t reach Khrall.’

The gates were still thirty feet away, but even from here she could see that they were impregnable – mountains of hammered metal, studded with iron spikes and enormous skulls.

Alimus nodded, gripping his staff in both hands. ‘I’ll meet you there. I can open them wide enough to get some of us inside.’

‘Just me!’ she cried. ‘And my kin,’ she added, catching Tuath’s expression. ‘Not the chieftains.’

‘No need to worry, Warqueen. They’re all back there.’ He waved at the main scrum of the battle. Then his disc hurtled away, skimming through the ash clouds towards the gates.

‘Zuchis!’ cried Vedra, spying her older brother not far away, pummelling a Blood Warrior to the ground with the butt of his axe.

Zuchis hurried over and, as he approached, Vedra saw some of her sisters nearby and called them over too.

‘To the gates,’ cried Vedra, jolting the reins of the chariot. Tuath leapt clear as Bailar and Balkar wrenched the chariot back onto its wheels, then hauled it towards the gates, opening the throats of anyone in their way.

One of the mounted knights crashed into view, blocking Vedra’s way and battering Zuchis aside with the back of his axe.

Bailar and Balkar reared, canines bared, then tore into the bull-like steed.

It staggered under their weight, then rose up again with its tusk jammed into Balkar’s chest.

The hound let out a tormented howl as it was torn in two and Bailar fastened its jaws around the juggernaut’s neck, dragging it down to the ground.

The rider brought his great, two-handed axe around in a backhanded swipe and it slammed into Bailar’s muzzle, sending it crashing to the ground.

As the hounds fell, so did the chariot, hurling Vedra through the air.

As she tumbled forwards, she grabbed her iron spear and drove it through the Blood Warrior’s chest.

Her momentum carried them both off the back of the juggernaut and they thudded into the blood bog.

The Blood Warrior rose and hurled Vedra back into the side of the chariot.

Air exploded from her lungs. She gasped, unable to breathe, as the Blood Warrior stomped towards her, throwing her into shadow as he drew back his axe to take her head.

Vedra was faster, jamming the spear into him again. She shoved the tip through the eyehole of his helmet, leaning all of her weight into the thrust, and they both fell backwards.

This time the Blood Warrior stayed down as Vedra pulled Biurtan free, but when Vedra staggered back from her kill, she groaned in horror. Both of her hounds were sprawled beneath the metal corpse of the juggernaut. For a moment, she forgot the battle, staring at them. She had trained them herself, over many years. They were her kin. The pain of losing them was like a chest wound. Then the roar of battle dragged her back from her grief. The chariot was on its side and everywhere she looked there were Blood Warriors, striding towards her, axes raised and eyes burning.

She whispered a farewell to the hounds, then hurried towards the gates.

Her brothers and sisters were already there. They had formed a semicircle before the gates and they were fighting furiously to keep the space clear.

Vedra looked past the wall of spears and axes and saw what they were protecting: Alimus. He had dismounted and was hunched at the foot of the gates while the others battled to buy him time.

Blood Warriors swaggered towards them from every direction, hewing down tribesmen with slow, calm fury, deepening the scarlet hue of their armour with waves of fresh blood.

Vedra vaulted over a staggering Blood Warrior and had almost reached Alimus when another one caught her with the haft of his axe, slamming her into the iron gates.

Colours and shapes flashed across her eyes as she slumped to the ground, blood rushing from her ear.

‘We can’t hold them for long!’ cried someone.

A hand grabbed Vedra, helping her up.

It was Alimus. The old man struggled to grip her, fumbling and grasping at her neck before he finally managed to grab the spiked pauldron she wore on her left shoulder.

‘Get the gates open!’ she gasped.

Alimus was as blood splattered and exhausted as she was, but he bared his crooked teeth in a grin, pulling her back a few paces so she could look up at the doors.

This close it was impossible to take in the full scale of the gates, but she could see enough to understand Alimus’ smile.

The whole edifice was tumbling and shimmering like a waterfall.

She looked at the sorcerer in surprise, impressed for a second time by his new-found power.

He gripped her shoulder. ‘The Lord of Change is here, Warqueen. He’s here.’

After a few seconds, the base of the gates had completely vanished, opening into a circular portal and revealing ranks of Blood Warriors waiting on the far side.

The knights backed away from the dazzling display, wary of Alimus’ sorcery.

‘Now!’ cried the sorcerer, pointing his staff at the opening. ‘Be quick!’

Vedra raced towards the gap, waving for her brothers and sisters to follow.

As soon as they ran into the courtyard beyond the gates, Blood Warriors rushed to meet them.

Remembering Alimus’ map, Vedra ran to the right, calling for the others to follow as she headed for a narrow staircase.

She glanced back as she ran and saw her siblings battling furiously to stop the knights from following her.

Vedra bounded up the steps and reached the slender walkway that led towards the centre of the fortress.

It was only as she paused, waiting for the others to catch up, that she realised something terrible had happened. As she reached for the Serpent Stone to thank Tzeentch for getting her this far, she realised that it was gone.

She looked back and saw that Alimus had not followed them up the steps. He was waiting down below, near the portal he had conjured in the gates. With a sickening jolt of realisation, she remembered how he had fumbled at her throat when he tried to lift her from the ground.

She looked down at him, outraged, drawing breath to howl.

Her cry stalled in her throat as she realised his treachery ran deeper than just the theft of her amulet.

He was looking up at her with an obscene smirk.

‘You lied about the chieftains,’ she whispered, knowing he could hear from this distance. ‘The traitor is you.’

His voice appeared in her mind, thrown by the force of his sorcery.

The Changer of Ways has chosen a new champion.

Then, with a mocking wave, Alimus stepped back through the portal into the battle outside.

As the gates began knitting themselves back together, she saw Alimus turning to face the crowds outside, and Arva, her youngest sister, still battling to reach the opening.

Vedra hurried back down the stairs leaping over her brothers and sisters who were charging up towards her.

She crashed into the Blood Warriors, jamming her spear into one, then another, trying to break through. There were too many and she fell beneath a flurry of blows.

She rolled across the floor, dodging axes, still trying to get back to the gates, but it was too late.

They were sealed.

Vedra was trapped inside the Abattoir, separated from her army, surrounded by gathering ranks of Blood Warriors.

CHAPTER FIVE

For a brief moment, Vedra tasted despair. She found it repugnant and alien and quickly washed it away with something more potent: fury. She leapt to her feet and sprinted away from the Blood Warriors, heading back up the steps.

Zuchis and the others stared in shock as hundreds of Blood Warriors rushed after her, striding towards the steps with their axes gripped in both hands and embers burning inside their jagged helms.

‘Vedra?’ cried Zuchis, his eyes wild as she ran past him.

The faces of her kin gave focus to her wrath. She looked around the fortress. It was a huge, circular keep that matched Alimus’ sketch. That much, at least, had been true. The staircase they were standing on snaked up around the inside wall, towards the narrow bridge she had seen earlier. It led through an archway into the next circle of the fortress.

‘We must find Khrall,’ she said, staring back at Tuath, her words choked with anger.

At the bottom of the steps, Zuchis and her sisters were already battling to hold back the tide of Blood Warriors, kicking and smashing them from the narrow steps.

Tuath’s expression was a mixture of awe and incredulity. He looked down at the hundreds of colossal Blood Warriors massing beneath them. ‘There are five of us,’ he said.

She looked up at the bridge. There were only two Blood Warriors marching towards them from that direction.

‘If we move fast, we can still reach him,’ she said, realising how insane she sounded as she raced on up the steps.

Tuath and the others followed at a slower pace, stepping backwards as they fought, facing the Blood Warriors’ fury with the ferocious determination of cornered prey.

The steps were only wide enough for one armour-clad Blood Warrior at a time and a bottleneck formed at the bottom of the stairs as the Blood Warriors struggled to fight their way up.

Vedra reached the top step just as the two Blood Warriors on the upper level reached her.

She dodged one axe blow and rolled beneath another, launching her spear as she flipped around to face them.

Biurtan hit its target with such force that the Blood Warrior crashed through a balcony, cartwheeling out into mid-air, before smashing onto the flagstones below.

The second Blood Warrior strode forwards, bringing his axe round in a low swipe.

Vedra leapt over the axe and jammed her sword down into his chest plate.

He fell back, then winded her with a punch, sending her rolling across the iron floor.

She flipped, effortlessly, back onto her feet and reached up to catch her spear. Then she staggered as hot agony spiked through her stomach. She looked down and saw blood rushing from her midriff.

As the Blood Warrior stood, he raised his fist in explanation. It was encased in a spiked, metal gauntlet that was dripping with her blood.

She hurled her spear into his throat and sent him spinning back from the balcony to land on the warriors below.

Then she raced towards the walkway that led deeper into the citadel.

She hesitated at the edge, glancing back at her brothers and sisters. They were still battling the Blood Warriors, holding them at the bottom of the steps, but it was only a matter of time before one of them slipped and allowed the Blood Warriors to break through. Only Tuath had followed her up the steps.

‘Go!’ cried Zuchis, glancing up at them both. ‘We can hold them!’

Zuchis and Vedra’s sisters, Dyna and Ederata, were yielding no ground and showing no signs of wearying, so Vedra nodded and waved for Tuath to follow her, sprinting towards the walkway.

It was made of the same studded iron as the walls and it led out over broad, circular channels of liquid fire. The whole fortress was like a man-made volcano. The blazing channels beneath the walkway were flowing with what looked like magma. Clouds of embers drifted up towards Vedra and she felt an immense heat radiating through the bridge, scalding the soles of her feet as she sprinted towards a tall, wrought iron gate at the far end.

‘How do we–?’ began Tuath, but before he could finish, the doors opened inwards, screaming on enormous iron hinges and revealing the next section of walkway.

Like the first, it was suspended above a series of concentric circles, blazing with vivid lava flows.

This section of the walkway did not end at a doorway, but at a broad, circular dais, fifty feet in diameter, forged from brass and ringed with terraces.

Vedra ignored the pain in her guts and hurried on down the walkway, wincing as the heat grew even more intense, then she froze as Zuchis’ voice cried out a warning.

They both rushed back through the doorway and peered through the clouds of smoke and embers. The Blood Warriors were advancing up the steps. One of them was carrying a severed head that was spraying blood and trailing a long beard.

‘Zuchis,’ breathed Vedra. The pain in her stomach tripled at the loss of her older brother.

Tuath cursed, shaking his head.

‘They can’t hold them for long,’ said Vedra, pointing her spear at Dyna and Ederata, still battling furiously with the Blood Warriors. ‘We need to go.’

Tuath nodded but did not move, watching in horror as their sisters began to stumble and flail beneath the Blood Warriors’ massive axes.

Vedra grabbed him by the shoulder. ‘We find Khrall, or this was for nothing.’

Then she hurried on into the furnace, dragging him after her.

‘First Khrall, then Alimus,’ she spat.

As they neared the circular platform, Vedra saw Blood Warriors gathered at its centre. None of them made any move to attack as she approached, watching her in silence through the eye-slits of their helmets, their huge axes resting lightly in their hands.

Vedra and Tuath stumbled out onto the platform and looked around in confusion. There were around thirty Blood Warriors in the centre of the dais, but the circular terraces surrounding it were crowded with hundreds more. They were all standing in silence, watching, their hands resting on the heads of their axes. They looked like statues. The only movement came from the shimmering, ember-lights in their helmets.

Vedra and Tuath dropped into a crouch, weapons ready, expecting an attack, but none came.

‘That’s him!’ gasped Vedra, pointing her spear at a huge figure in the uppermost terrace, over on the far side of the dais, behind the Blood Warriors who had assembled to face them.

There was no mistaking Khrall. He was a giant, nearly three times the size of the Blood Warriors that made up his army. He was clad in similar armour – thick, red plate, edged with a serrated brass trim, but the design was more ornate, scored with dark sigils and jagged designs. He wore no helmet and his head was testament to how highly the Blood God had favoured him. The skin on his face was as red as his armour and it glistened in the firelight, dripping wet, like a recently removed organ. This gory lump had been split by eight horizontal gashes that ran the whole width of his head. Each gash was crammed with long, iron, needle teeth and dangling shreds of meat for tongues. At first she thought Khrall must be blind, but then, as she stared harder, she saw two small, coal-black studs embedded in his forehead, just above the uppermost mouth.

Unlike the other Blood Warriors, Khrall carried a sword. It was enormous – a two-handed blade, as tall as Khrall himself and as black as his eyes. He was as motionless as all the other warriors gathered around the platform, seated in a huge, brass throne, and, for a moment, Vedra thought he was chained to his seat. There were dozens of iron chains trailing down from his chest and arms. Then she saw that, rather than shackling him to the throne, each of the chains ended in a spiked, iron skull.

Vedra felt no fear, despite the size of her prey. All she felt was time, slipping away from her, as the Blood Warriors stared at her in silence.

‘Face me!’ she howled, levelling her spear at the seated giant.

Her voice echoed off the ridged, iron walls and she knew he must be able to hear her, but he showed no sign of recognition.

‘How can we get to him?’ asked Tuath, stepping past her, his axe raised, looking up at the terraces. There were no steps or ladders, just a single, barred gate, directly behind the rows of Blood Warriors gathered on the dais.

‘We fight through them until we reach him.’ Vedra’s heart hammered in her chest as she stepped forwards.

‘Vedra!’ hissed Tuath, grabbing her by the arm. ‘Look at them! How can we fight through so many, on our own?’

Vedra spat on the metal floor, seeing the truth of her brother’s words. Even if the numbers were fairer, the Blood Warriors were fresh and battle-ready, while she and Tuath were exhausted, stumbling and splashing their blood across the dais.

‘Face me, coward!’ she howled, waving her spear at Khrall.

He was so immobile that, for a moment, she wondered if he might actually be a statue, but then he raised his hand slightly from the arm of his throne, gesturing to his knights.

The Blood Warriors on the dais lurched into life, clanking quickly across the iron floor and swinging back their two-handed axes.

Vedra reached for the Serpent Stone, then cursed as she remembered Alimus had stolen it.

Tuath looked at her, shaking his head.

She gripped his arm. ‘What are you?’

He closed his eyes for a second, then, when he opened them again, the doubt was gone.

Then they both turned to face the advancing Blood Warriors.

‘Untamed!’ they roared in unison, leaping to attack.

Vedra landed, spear first, on the chest of a Blood Warrior. As the tip punched deep into his chest, she planted her foot on his shoulder and launched herself over the heads of the other knights, crashing into the Blood Warriors at the rear. As they recovered their balance, she sprinted across the dais, drawing her sword as she approached the gate leading up to the terraces.

In the corner of her eye, Vedra saw a Blood Warrior hurl an axe.

She dodged the blade but the handle thudded into her side.

With no armour to protect her, Vedra’s ribs cracked and she sprawled across the dais, winded, her sword slipping from her grip and clanging away out of reach.

The Blood Warrior pounded towards her, reaching for his axe.

Vedra jumped, drawing a short, triangular knife from her pelt. It was designed solely for the purpose of sliding between armour joints and she jammed it under the Blood Warrior’s helmet, ripping through his jugular.

Blood rushed into her face but, before she could dodge away, the Blood Warrior locked his metal gauntlet around her throat and pulled her close, holding her above the floor, scorching her face with his breath.

Vedra pummelled him with her fists, but she was punching iron and brass and succeeded only in tearing the skin from her knuckles.

The Blood Warrior slowly drew a short sword from a metal scabbard at his hip and held it to Vedra’s throat.

Then his head toppled from his shoulders and rolled across the floor, leaving his body to topple backwards.

As the decapitated Blood Warrior hit the ground, Vedra caught a glimpse of Tuath’s face as he rushed on.

Vedra cried out and held her hand aloft.

Biurtan materialised in her grip and, as the Blood Warriors charged towards her, she hurled the spear up into the terraces, rolled aside to reclaim her sword then slashed it through the shins of the nearest knight, slicing through the plate armour and shearing his lower legs away.

As Vedra leapt back onto her feet she snatched a look up at the distant figure of Khrall. He calmly raised a hand and caught her spear.

An axe rushed at Vedra’s head, causing her to dive clear and roll across the floor of the dais. She came to a halt just inches from the edge of the platform. The dais ended several feet short of the first terrace. The whole disc was surrounded by a gap that looked down onto the magma below. Heat scorched her face as she nearly fell into the furnace, then she jumped to her feet, and turned back to the Blood Warriors, sword raised in anticipation.

A Blood Warrior’s axe hammered into her sword with such force that she fell from the edge of the dais.

She caught the edge of the platform with one hand, hanging over the flames as her sword fell into the blazing pool below.

The Blood Warrior drew back his axe to hack her hands off, then jolted forwards and flew over her head, plunging through the air and landing in the lava, creating a hissing explosion of embers.

In his place on the dais stood Vedra’s oldest sister, Ederata. She was pale, gore-drenched and gasping for breath, but still clutching her axe with a look of determination.

She dropped to her knee, grabbed Vedra by the arm and hauled her back up onto the platform.

Vedra and her siblings were surrounded at the edge of the platform, feeling the heat of the lava scorching their backs as the Blood Warriors marched calmly towards them.

Tuath handed her a short sword as she fought to catch her breath.

‘They’re slow,’ she panted. ‘We can take down a dozen more at least.’

Her brothers and sisters stared at her, their eyes wide and their faces dripping with bloody sweat.

Vedra thought of everyone she had left outside the gates – cousins, aunts, uncles; even her sister, Arva. She would face her own death with dignity, if she must, but the thought of what the chieftains would do to her kin caused her to howl.

‘Fight me!’ she cried, pointing the short sword at the distant figure of Khrall.

The Blood Warriors hesitated, as though half-expecting a response.

None came. Khrall remained silent and motionless.

The Blood Warriors surged forwards.

‘Fight me!’ screamed Vedra, leaping at the Blood Warriors and jamming the short sword into the first she reached.

The Blood Warrior staggered and the other Untamed followed her, throwing themselves at the knights.

Ederata cleaved a Blood Warrior’s helmet in two, then she crashed to the floor as another one of the knights ripped her back open with an axe blow. As she crumpled to the floor another Blood Warrior slammed his axe through her neck, sending her head bouncing across the sizzling metal.

Dyna died the same way, fighting bravely until dozens of axes tore her down, sending her corpse hurtling into the flames.

Vedra crashed through the Blood Warriors, driving them back with a frenzy of sword strikes, moving so fast they could not land a single blow on her.

Tuath followed and they scrambled across the bloody metal until they were back-to-back, facing a circle of Blood Warriors.

As she fought, Vedra forgot everything beyond the simple, physical need to jump, hack and lunge. She lost all sense of time, consumed by fury and grief.

Finally, drunk on exhaustion and blood loss, she slipped in the gore and crashed to her knees, losing hold of her sword and watching it clatter across the dais.

She grabbed a piece of splintered armour from the floor and clutched it like a dagger, nodding for Tuath to do the same.

The Blood Warriors marched forwards.

A loud thud echoed around the chamber.

The Blood Warriors froze.

Vedra sensed movement up in the terraces as a great shadow washed across the dais.

There was another loud thud, then shadow consumed her as she fell, face first, into blackness.

CHAPTER SIX

Alimus soared over mounds of dying and injured tribesmen – his countrymen, butchered and howling at the stars, bleeding their last before the brutal gates of the Abattoir. He had waited until the sun sank over the battlefield to reveal himself but now, after hours of slaughter, the losses were enough. He needed the defeat to be decisive, but not devastating. As his disc carried him high over the battlefield, he saw the ordered ranks of Blood Warriors pushing on through the darkness, burning like firebrands, lit from within as they butchered the Untamed, driving them back across the plains.

Alimus pretended to rage at the loss of life, grasping at his long, matted hair and shaking his head, playing the role of tormented victim, wailing and pointing his staff at the fortress. The gates were sealed, his sorcery extinguished, and the rest of the Untamed were being forced back across the plains, turning to flee in many places, as the Blood Warriors advanced in seamless, unstoppable ranks.

The chieftains had gathered in a hilltop ruin, half a mile away, for an urgent council of war. Alimus steered his disc towards them, struggling to maintain his dismayed expression as he saw how close he was to victory.

The ruin was no more than a knee-high circle of stone, the base of a long-gone tower, but the chieftains’ retainers had planted brands around its circumference, turning it into a wheel of flickering lights, scattering embers and shadows across the scorched turf.

‘Sanorach!’ cried Leortas, striding through the firelight as Alimus landed. ‘What news?’ The lord of the Tannen looked as scornful and proud as ever, his cloak of nails flung back over his shoulder and his hand resting on the pommel of his broadsword, but there was a glimmer of excitement in his eyes.

Control yourself, Leortas, thought Alimus. If the others see the glee in your eyes, they might guess the whole ruse. He gave Leortas a warning glance as he landed, then resumed his pretence of being distraught.

‘She’s gone!’ he gasped, climbing from the back of his disc and rushing towards them.

The chieftains gathered around. All of them were drenched in blood and muck, but none were seriously wounded. Alimus needed to speak with all three of the great chieftains though, so he held his tongue and waited. Leortas arrived first, still struggling to hide his excitement. Then Budar stomped across the turf with a thunderous scowl, gripping his bloodstained axe in his fists. There was still blood flowing from his face where Vedra had smashed his soul cage.

Alimus looked for Korvis, not sure how many times he could tell the lie convincingly. Korvis was on his way. The Sachalites believed that contact with the earth would rob the Seer-lord of his divinity, so they carried him on a feathered litter. He was snatching at embers as they brought him to Alimus, watching shapes no one else could see. Both his human head and the crow’s head in his chest were twitching and nodding, pecking at the air. There was no sign he was aware of Alimus, or anyone else for that matter, but Alimus could wait no longer.

‘I can’t believe what I saw,’ he gasped, still clutching his head.

‘What?’ demanded Leortas, his face flushed. ‘What happened?’

‘Where’s the Warqueen?’ snarled Budar, glaring past Alimus at the carnage below. The Blood Warriors had nearly driven the Untamed back to the ruins. They were already at the base of the hill, carving the tribesmen apart in cold, inhuman silence.

‘She went into the fortress,’ said Alimus, shaking his head and staring at the ground, trying to look stunned.

Up on his litter, Korvis started to convulse, thrashing and jerking across the feathers. His crow’s head began screeching an ear-shredding torrent of gibberish.

For a moment, Alimus thought it was in response to his news of Vedra, but then he realised Korvis was still unaware of his surroundings. He was just reacting to whatever fungal brew he consumed at the start of the battle.

Leortas grimaced at the mutated chieftain, then looked at Alimus. ‘They captured her?’

‘No.’ Alimus let the word hang in the air for dramatic effect. Then he gripped his claw-headed staff and whispered an oath. ‘She entered willingly. She betrayed us.’

‘That can’t be true,’ grunted Budar. ‘Whatever that woman is, she’s no traitor.’ He pointed his axe at the tribesmen dying at the foot of the hill. ‘She built this army. Why would she betray it?’

‘I never trusted her,’ said Leortas, regaining his usual, pompous expression, lip curled and nostrils flared. ‘Why was she so keen to cast aside all of our beliefs and traditions?’ He sneered at Budar. ‘I saw how she destroyed your soul cage. And I have witnessed countless similar acts. Why was she so keen to rob us of the things that make us strong?’

Budar shook his head, looking at Leortas in shock. ‘Vedra earned the right to rule. She bested us.’

‘But why?’ demanded Leortas. ‘What does she really want? If she wanted to grow our power, why cast down our beliefs?’

Budar was about to reply, then hesitated, shaking his head.

Alimus almost felt sorry for him. Budar’s simple, brutal mind was not made for such conversations. Budar despised Vedra as much as any of them, but his naive warrior code left him in the ridiculous position of having to defend the woman who made a fool of him.

‘My lords,’ called a herald, sprinting up onto the hilltop. He was pale and drenched in blood. ‘Do we attack again or withdraw?’

Budar nodded and was about to reply when Alimus held up his staff to silence him.

‘There’s something I have to tell you all,’ he said, deliberately adding an emotional tremor to his voice.

Budar’s scowl deepened, but he waved the herald away.

‘After the need-fire, you all asked me what I learned from the lights,’ said Alimus. ‘Do you recall my answer?’

‘You were evasive,’ said Leortas. ‘Unwilling to explain.’

Alimus nodded. ‘Because the things I saw were troubling.’ He shook his head, glancing back at the fortress. ‘I did not trust the flames, or perhaps I just didn’t want to. But now, everything I saw has come to pass. When we reached the gates, they opened at Vedra’s command. She marched inside, even as her kinsmen were being slaughtered all around her. I assumed this was just another example of Vedra’s bravery, but the Blood Warriors parted as she entered. They stepped aside.’

Budar leant over him. ‘Why? Why would they let her pass?’

‘It was exactly as I saw in the need-fire,’ said Alimus. ‘She entered the fortress and knelt before their lord.’

‘Never!’ snarled Budar. ‘I will not believe it. She knows what the Changer of Ways would do to such a traitor. She would never risk the wrath of a god.’

Alimus reached beneath his robes and revealed his masterstroke: the Serpent Stone. ‘She discarded this before she entered the fortress. She left it lying in the mud at the side of the gates. I snatched it up, intending to return it, but when the Blood Warriors saw me following her in, they weren’t so welcoming. I barely escaped with my life before the gates closed.’

They all stared at the crystal, shocked that Vedra had abandoned her most precious possession.

‘And what of Vedra?’ Leortas was speaking a little too loud, making sure the others heard. ‘What did she do when they attacked you?’

‘She smiled. She saw them coming for me and smiled.’

‘My lords,’ said the herald, waving at the approaching battle.

‘I saw it all in my visions,’ said Alimus, drawing the chieftains’ attention back to him. ‘This battle was never winnable. Vedra brought us here as a sacrifice. We are an offering. She has bought herself the patronage of a new god. And she has bought it with our blood.’

Budar was still shaking his head, but Leortas nodded. ‘It makes sense. Don’t you see, Budar? This is why she was robbing us of our defences, like your soul cage. She was weakening us, readying us for the slaughter.’

‘Korvis?’ asked Budar, looking up at the babbling figure on the litter.

Korvis finally acknowledged them, leaning down with a wild stare, looking at the Serpent Stone.

‘It glows,’ he screeched.

They all looked at the crystal talisman in shock. There was a faint, blue light shimmering in its depths.

‘What does it mean?’ asked Alimus, pretending he had not seen the light before.

There was no reply, so he glanced at Leortas, prompting him.

‘Tzeentch has chosen a new champion,’ said the chieftain.

‘Yes,’ squawked Korvis, nodding eagerly. ‘Vedra has failed him, so Tzeentch has put his trust in you, Alimus.’ The crow writhed in his flesh, as though straining for freedom. ‘You will rule in her stead. You will be king of the Untamed.’

Alimus shook his head. ‘A sanorach cannot be king. How could I best any of you in combat?’ Then he nodded. ‘But I could choose a king. I could be Tzeentch’s envoy.’ He stared at the stone, acting as though all these thoughts were occurring to him for the first time. ‘We must return to the Sickle Keep. This attack on the fortress was a trick. We must return to the capital and then I will look into a need-fire that I can trust. The Changer of Ways will tell me who shall lead us.’ He was careful not to look at Leortas. ‘He will tell me who to crown.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

Heat washed over Vedra’s body, more painful than anything she had experienced before. She let out an agonised, inhuman cry. The pain grew worse and she howled again. This continued for several minutes until a new thought formed in her head. She was not dead. The pain was building towards a horrific pinnacle, but her grasp on reality was growing at the same time. She could feel her heart working furiously to keep her alive – racing and skipping but refusing to stop.

Still howling, she opened her eyes, and saw that she was in a gloomy, metal cell. There were chains and manacles dangling from bloodstained walls and she was strapped to a metal slab. There was a copper brazier in one corner, filling the room with ruddy light and there was a man stooped over her, working industriously at her flesh, humming in a vague, tuneless way as he pressed a hot iron against her stomach, filling the air with smoke and the stink of burned meat.

He wore similar armour to the Blood Warriors, but it was draped in hooks, scalpels and paring knives and his head was uncovered. His face was so peculiar that, for a moment, it even distracted Vedra from her pain. It was a loose bag of grey skin, draped over his head like a hood. There was no mouth or nose holes, just two roughly torn openings for his eyes. She could see ligaments and muscle glistening beneath.

As her screams caught in her throat, the man looked up in surprise, causing the mask to slump sideways. He pushed it back into place with his free hand and leant over her, breathing in her face and filling her nostrils with the smell of offal.

His voice was like the snarling of a rabid dog – a liquid torrent of snorts and slurping sounds that made no sense. He tried again, louder, bellowing in her face, but he was speaking no language she had ever heard – if it even was a language. It sounded more like guttural belches, repeated at different pitches.

She tried to rise from the table, but she was strapped tightly and the effort caused her head to spin.

The man barked furiously at Vedra as the darkness took her again.

CHAPTER EIGHT

‘Vedra,’ whispered a soft voice in her ear. The pain had faded to a bearable level and her heart was beating at a steady, strong pace.

‘Vedra, it’s me,’ said the voice, louder. The voice was familiar and speaking words she could understand.

‘Tuath?’ she croaked, opening her eyes.

She was in another dark cell, but this one was larger and crowded with shadowy figures.

Tuath was sitting next to her with an anxious expression on his face. He was a mess. His sinewy body was almost entirely covered in blisters and scars and his face was a colourful explosion of bruises. His eyes were clear though and he looked as powerful and determined as ever.

He gave her a grim smile.

‘The others?’ she asked. But, before the words had even left her mouth she remembered the massacre on the dais. She closed her eyes, trying to remember the faces of her brothers and sisters, horrified to realise that they were already fading. One face was clear though, with its vile smirk: Alimus.

‘We need to get home,’ she said, trying to sit up.

Her head began to spin again and she would have fallen if he had not held her.

‘We’re not going anywhere,’ he said. ‘You’re in a worse state than me. They closed our wounds. Some kind of unguent.’ He nodded to her stomach wound. ‘I don’t know if it’s sorcery, but they kept us alive.’

Vedra’s midriff was a contorted jumble of scars, but there was no sign of bleeding or infection. The skin had healed over, leaving thick, silvery whorls of scar tissue. She took a deep breath and her head began to clear. Then she patted down the rest of her body. She was battered but intact. No bones were broken and every wound had been cauterised.

‘They didn’t kill us.’

Tuath nodded to the other figures sitting around them in the shadows. ‘And we’re not the only ones.’

The only light came from a torch beyond the barred door of the cell. It was in an iron sconce, fixed to the wall of a narrow passageway and the firelight barely reached into the cell, sending just a few weak fingers of illumination through the bars and across the floor. Most of their fellow prisoners were in utter darkness, and the few who were visible were a strange group. Nearest the light was a man who looked like something from a need-fire vision. He was unnaturally tall and slender. His torso seemed too narrow to contain any vital organs, but he was not scrawny. He was lashed with lean muscle and Vedra could see by the way he held himself that there was power in his rangy limbs. His face was even more peculiar – long, and slightly feline, with dark, almond-shaped eyes that stared from his bone-white skin. His clothes were odd, too. Rather than furs or skins, his trousers were made of a glossy, black material that shimmered in the firelight, as though wet, and was draped with metal barbs. The barbs hung down from his legs on strips of leather, swinging and glinting like matted vines.

He turned his featureless black eyes on Vedra, studying her with disdain.

Vedra scowled back at him, outraged by the scorn in his face.

The stranger laughed contemptuously, then leant forwards, reaching out towards her.

He was several feet away, but Vedra had to fight the urge to recoil as he extended his long, taloned fingers and spoke. His words were incomprehensible – sibilant whispers, like wind scratching across the bark of a dead tree.

Vedra tried to rise and lunge towards him, but she was jolted to a halt by a chain, fixed to an iron collar around her neck.

She sat back down with a strangled cough and the stranger laughed again, whispering more vitriol as he turned away from her, fixing his gaze on the torch outside the cell.

‘I don’t think he’s human,’ whispered Tuath. ‘They brought him in while you were asleep. He moves like a shadow – flickering and hard to see.’ Awe flickered in his eyes. ‘I think he’s a daemon.’

Vedra shook her head. ‘Daemons aren’t physical. But he is. See the scars on his chest. He’s been wounded in the past. He’s of this world. He’s not human though, you’re right. I think he’s an aelf.’

Tuath looked at the stranger with renewed interest. ‘An aelf? I suppose he could be. A traveller perhaps, come all the way south from the Great Parch. Who knows what lies beyond the Arad Plains.’

Vedra thought often of the world beyond the plains. If the Untamed were to survive, Vedra needed to forge an empire far beyond the limited imagination of the chieftains. She studied the pale stranger with interest. Perhaps this was the kind of foe they would face? Her need-fire visions had told her very little of aelves, save that they looked like this. How did they fight? What did they believe? She must be prepared for anything when she led the Untamed across the whole of Aqshy.

‘And that?’ asked Tuath, nodding to the figure seated opposite them.

It was hard to make out and, for a moment, Vedra thought it had no head – just a tall arc of neck that ended in nothing. Then she realised that the neck was actually a tall crest of hair, sprouting up from a surly, bearded head that was much lower than she expected. She leant closer and saw that the man was only around four feet tall but unnaturally thickset and powerfully built. He was naked apart from a small, leather tabard and every inch of him was layered with scarred muscle. He looked like a wild boar – hulking, savage and bristling with coarse, ginger hair. His weather-beaten skin was covered in piercings: thick golden slabs, sunk so deep that Vedra guessed he must have hammered them into himself while the metal was still hot. His gaze was locked upon the floor of the cell, so he did not notice Vedra and Tuath staring at him. He was mouthing a silent oath and one of his hands was pressed against his chest, the thick, square fingers spread over a rune.

He was not human, but some other class of being completely. His head was larger than hers and his features were oddly square and slab-like, as though chiselled from rock. ‘Duardin,’ she muttered, recalling another of the visions Tzeentch had shared with her. Again, she wondered how such beings might fight and live. She realised how little she knew of the worlds she intended to conquer.

‘Eat something,’ said Tuath, shoving a wooden bowl into her hands. ‘They’ll be back soon.’

The bowl contained raw meat, still clad in shreds of pale skin and floating in cloudy water.

‘There won’t be anything else,’ said Tuath when she hesitated.

Vedra could tell from the hollow sensation in her stomach that she must have gone days without food. ‘How long have I been unconscious?’

‘Hard to say without sunlight, but I think it’s about three days since they took us.’

‘Then the battle must be over. And we must have lost.’ The idea pained her almost as much as the deaths on the dais. ‘After everything I’ve done, the Untamed have been defeated.’

‘Eat,’ said Tuath.

She fished out some gristly meat and swallowed it quickly, trying not to think about where it might have come from.

‘Alimus,’ she said, swallowing the bile that rushed into her mouth. ‘He betrayed the whole army. He must have. Or these rooms would be swarming with Untamed.’

Tuath shrugged. ‘I think it’s more likely that, with you gone, the army fell apart. Who would they have followed without you? Budar? None of our kinsmen want their heads in crates. They would never kneel to that old lunatic. And the rest of the chieftains are all equally absurd. Only you had the skill to bring them under one banner.’

The meat tasted vile, but it had given her an invigorating rush of energy. She stretched, flexing her muscles, enjoying the sensation of strength returning. She took another piece and chewed it down.

‘There’s something more than meat in there,’ said Tuath. ‘I was half dead when they rammed the first bowl down my throat, but a few hours later I felt ready to kick my way out of here.’ He pulled his metal collar, jolting the chain against its bracket. ‘If I could just stand.’

Vedra studied him. He did seem strangely hale, despite his cuts and bruises. His eyes were bright and he was crouched on the bench, muscles tensed, like a hound on its haunches, ready to lunge.

Her eyesight was improving too. She looked around the cell and saw that most of the other prisoners seemed relatively normal – Darkoath tribesmen, by the looks of them, just from tribes she did not recognise. There was something at the far end of the cell though – a forbidding mountain of shadow that loomed over everyone else. She could see its chest rising and falling, so she knew it was a living creature, but it was far too large to be a man.

‘Have you seen that?’ she asked.

Tuath shook his head. ‘It was in here when I arrived. Even the guards keep clear of it.’ He gestured towards a heap piled at the base of the shadowy figure. ‘I think that’s why.’

It was a corpse. Its limbs had been wrenched so brutally that it was hard to work out which part was which.

‘Talking of which,’ said Tuath, as the sound of metal-shod feet echoed down the corridor towards them.

‘Have you spoken to them?’ asked Vedra.

‘No.’

‘Don’t. Let’s find out what they mean to do with us before we tell them who we are.’

‘I don’t think they could understand us anyway,’ replied Tuath.

‘Rhukan will,’ said the prisoner who sat on the other side of Vedra. ‘He and the Bloodmarshall speak the common tongue.’

Vedra turned to face him, shocked to hear someone speaking words she could understand. She cursed herself for talking so openly.

The man was a northerner, with the cold blue gaze and russet hair of the tribes who lived on the borders of the Great Parch. His face was as heavily scarred as Tuath’s and one of the scars had left a deep furrow through his brow and a puckered hole where his left eye should be.

‘Rhukan?’ she replied. ‘The Bloodmarshall?’

‘Bloodmarshall is what they call their lord, Khrall. Rhukan is his pitmaster.’ He nodded to the bars of the cell. ‘You’ll recognise Rhukan.’

‘Who are you?’

‘Kahem,’ he replied, but before he could say more, the guards reached the cell. Leading them was the man with the bag of skin for a face. He was flanked by a pair of massive Blood Warriors and a group of emaciated wretches – naked, half-starved slaves with sunken eyes and mindless expressions. Their skin was stained with unspeakable filth and they were clutching bowls.

Rhukan rummaged through the various torture instruments attached to his breastplate, grabbed a ring of keys and unlocked the door.

He gave the two Blood Warriors a nod and they stomped into the cell first, axes gripped firmly in both hands as they towered over the seated prisoners.

The slaves staggered in next, nervously grabbing empty bowls from the benches and replacing them with full ones. They hesitated as they reached the large shadow at the far end of the cell, then one of them lunged forwards, slammed a bowl down and leapt back. The large shape gave no sign it had even noticed them.

Finally, Rhukan entered the cell. He walked past the others and came straight to Vedra. As he reached towards her, Vedra realised he had a U-shaped hook in place of his right hand.

He lifted her chin with the hook, looking at her from behind the skin sack.

She resisted the urge to plant her foot in his groin, keen to learn why he had healed her.

Rhukan moved closer and she smelled his offal breath again. Then she realised that her breath probably now smelled the same.

He growled at her in the same incomprehensible language he had used before – a bestial torrent of barks and snarls.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘What… are… you?’ he said, his voice a canine rasp.

‘Vedra the Sworn.’ Her voice was defiant. ‘Warqueen of the Arad Plains.’

The pale, slender figure by the doors looked up as she spoke. Some of the derision faded from his eyes and he looked at her with interest.

‘War… queen,’ said Rhukan. His speech was too rough to be certain, but she thought he sounded amused.

He turned away and she thought he was going to leave, then he whirled back and punched her in the face, hitting her jaw with the rounded part of his hook.

Her head slammed back against the wall. Fury flooded her muscles and she jolted forwards, straining against her chain, trying to grab him by the throat.

He barely managed to step back in time and he laughed as she thrashed and pulled at the chain, spitting and snarling. Then he nodded and said something to the Blood Warriors.

‘Good luck,’ muttered Kahem as they unlocked her collar and grabbed her by the arms, hauling her from the cell.

CHAPTER NINE

The bodies were gone but the dais was still dark with blood. As the Blood Warriors dragged Vedra out onto the brass platform, she twisted in their grip, trying to see back over the heads to Khrall’s throne. He was there, ominous and silent, and there were a few dozen other figures gathering around him in the terraces but down on the dais there was just her, Rhukan and the two Blood Warriors.

At a signal from Rhukan they shoved her forwards, sending her staggering into the centre of the platform.

She managed to stay on her feet and whirled to face them, invigorated by the sensation of being free. She paced back and forth across the blood-slick brass, looking for an escape route. There were only two exits from the dais. At one end was the tall, skull-studded door she originally arrived through but it was locked shut. Behind Rhukan and the two Blood Warriors was the door that led back to the cell, but she would need to fight through them to reach it. She rushed around the edge of the dais, squinting as the heat of the magma rushed up to meet her. The gap ran around the whole circumference and it was too wide to jump.

‘What do you want of me?’ she demanded, glancing up at the distant figure of Khrall, then striding back towards Rhukan. He was laughing and she had to battle the urge to launch herself at him. She was unarmed. They would cut her down.

Rhukan did not reply. He just rocked back on his heels, arms folded against his chest, laughing to himself.

She paced away, her muscles taut with rage and hope. If she could find a weapon she could kill all three of them. Then maybe find a way to reach Khrall. She might never get this chance again, alone with just three obstacles to her freedom. Then she thought of Tuath, back in the cell. Could she leave him?

She hissed in exasperation as more figures marched down the passageway towards the dais. Six more Blood Warriors and, behind them, a scrum of slaves, staggering beneath the weight of a large, chain-bound metal box. There was a hammering and thudding coming from inside it and the slaves stumbled as the box jolted and swayed, shaken from within.

At a signal from Rhukan, the slaves placed the metal casket carefully on the floor and backed away, their eyes wide as they scurried back to the doorway and headed back into the heart of the fortress.

Some of the Blood Warriors approached the chest, axes raised, forming a circle around it, while the rest barred the way to the doorway.

Rhukan drew out his ring of keys again and stepped over to the chest. He unlocked three padlocks but, before unlocking the final one, he waved a Blood Warrior over and ordered him to brace the box’s lid with the haft of his axe.

Vedra stepped closer, fascinated. The contents were moving with such violence that the box was jumping and slamming across the floor.

‘Warqueen!’ growled Rhukan, causing his skin mask to ripple. He had a weapon in his hand, a hunting knife and, as she looked towards him, he tossed it through the air.

She caught it easily and dropped into a crouch, glaring at the lines of Blood Warriors. To hold a weapon again, even one so basic, was a dizzying thrill. She scoured the arena, wondering if there was some way she could fight her way out.

There was a click as Rhukan unlocked the case and backed away, waving for the others to follow.

The Blood Warriors disappeared from the dais, leaving Vedra alone with the case.

Nothing happened. Whatever was inside the box fell quiet and stopped moving.

Vedra paced back and forth, holding the knife before her, pointed at the box, trying to see through the gaps around its hinges.

The lid flew open and a shape exploded from the crate, hurtling at her face.

She rolled clear, lashing out blindly with the knife, feeling the blade connect with something tough.

Vedra bounded up onto her feet and turned to see an enormous hound, hunched and snarling, its skin covered in thick, raw scars. The creature’s eyes were fixed on her, ember-bright, and its back bristled with a mane of thick, spear-tip spines. It was massive, larger than a full-grown man and bound in thick layers of muscle. There was a hammered, brass collar around its neck, studded with long spikes, but the hound was so bloated with muscle that the metal had almost sunk from view.

Vedra staggered backwards as though she had been punched. ‘Bailar,’ she whispered, recognising the hound she had trained since it was a pup. ‘You survived.’

There was no recognition in the monster’s eye. It paced from side to side, snarling and twitching, then pounced, trailing drool from its jaws as it rushed towards her face.

Vedra dropped into a crouch and rolled away, then bounded up onto her feet, shaking her head as she looked up into the terraces. ‘No!’ she cried. ‘Not her! Not Bailar.’

Rhukan was watching from one of the lower terraces, with the other Blood Warriors, and she heard him laugh.

‘What have you done to her?’ she howled, glaring at him.

The hound had crashed down onto the dais, scrabbling on the blood-drenched brass until it could right itself. As it padded back towards Vedra, she saw how they had driven the animal into such a feral state that it could no longer recognise her – Bailar’s flanks and thighs were a rippling mess of scars. They had tortured the animal until it could see nothing but blood rage.

‘What did they do to you?’ she breathed, as the hound tried to lock its pain-crazed eyes on her.

‘I will not kill you,’ she promised, still whispering, her voice shaking with emotion.

As Bailar prepared to attack again, Vedra had an idea. She might not be able to save the hound, but she would not play the Blood Warriors’ vile game.

She backed slowly away from Bailar, keeping her knife raised as she moved towards the edge of the dais and the drop to the lava.

The hound was snorting, flinching and snarling, maddened by its agony as it came towards her, preparing to leap.

Vedra waved the hound on, summoning it over. Even now, Vedra could feel a bond with the poor creature – she could sense how it would attack – where it would leap.

The Blood Warriors in the terraces watched in silence as they saw the end approaching. Vedra’s back was to the lava. She had nowhere left to go. She either had to kill or be killed.

Khrall’s enormous throne creaked as he leant forwards to watch.

With a final, savage howl, Bailar hurtled forwards, leaping at Vedra.

Just as its vast weight was about to slam into her, Vedra rolled onto her back and kicked up as hard as she could, adding her strength to the hound’s momentum and hurling it across the lava.

‘Untamed!’ howled Vedra as the hound flew over the chasm, crashed into the terraces and tore into Rhukan and the other Blood Warriors.

None of them had expected to end up facing the hound themselves. Before they had chance to even draw their weapons, Bailar was tearing them apart, lost in a frenzy of bloodlust, ripping armour and bone and turning the air crimson.

One Blood Warrior died, his head ripped away, still in its helmet, then a second fell, then a third. Others were rushing down the steps to help, but they were still minutes away as Bailar ripped through the reeling warriors, devouring them with mindless abandon.

‘Untamed!’ roared Vedra, pacing back and forth on the dais, her knife raised, wishing she could join the slaughter.

Then the rest of the Blood Warriors reached the lower terraces and swarmed over the hound, hacking and lunging. For a few glorious seconds, Bailar drove them back, howling and leaping at their throats, then their numbers overwhelmed her. As the hound fell, howling, onto its side, Rhukan strode forwards and delivered the final blow with his hook.

As Bailar fell silent, the Blood Warriors backed away from the butchered animal, wiping the gore from their axes and looking up at the Bloodmarshall to see his response.

Khrall’s head was too grotesque to betray emotions, but he gave a barely perceptible nod.

Rhukan hesitated, seeming shocked, looking at the wreckage Vedra and her hound had caused. Then he clanged his hook against his chest armour in a salute and left the terraces.

When the Blood Warriors clattered back out onto the dais, led by Rhukan, Vedra considered attacking. Even with just a knife, she might kill a few of them.

Then she thought again of Arva, and the rest of her family, and Alimus, smirking as he left her to die. A heroic death was not enough. She had to live.

She whispered a final prayer for Bailar, then threw the knife onto the floor and let the Blood Warriors grab her arms, remaining silent as they hauled her back to the cell.

CHAPTER TEN

There was someone new in the darkness. As the Blood Warriors shackled Vedra back onto the bench, their torches washed over a newcomer in the cell. He was a human tribesman, but his markings were like none she had seen before. His only clothes were a loincloth and some battered leather vambraces strapped to his forearms, but his body was covered in ritual scars – tiny, densely packed symbols, scored into his skin with a knife, creating a silvery mesh of curves and slashes. It was the language of the Blood God, the dark tongue of Khorne. Vedra had seen his like before. He was a bloodreaver – a human warrior, but so devoted to his god that he had been changed – transforming his flesh through years of blood rites and cannibalism. The man looked up as Vedra entered and she saw exactly how he had been blessed. His eyes were entirely crimson – featureless red orbs staring from his gaunt, leathery face. The red eyes were not the only sign of his blessings. His teeth were all gone, replaced with hundreds of long, curved razors, turning his mouth into an interlinking cage of sharpened steel. He grinned at her, brandishing the blades with a grunt that could have been either a greeting or a threat.

‘What was it?’

For a moment, Vedra thought the bloodreaver had spoken to her. Then she realised it was Tuath.

She waited until the Blood Warriors had left the cell before she replied. ‘A dog.’

‘A dog?’ he laughed. ‘Gods. They made it easy for you. I had to fight one of those.’ He nodded at the bloodreaver sitting opposite them, still grinning and leaning towards them, straining against his bonds.

Vedra was on the verge of explaining which dog, when she realised it would be pointless. What would she gain by describing how they had tormented Bailar?

‘What’s all this for?’ she asked. ‘Are they training us? Is this how they make their knights?’

‘Not training,’ said Kahem, the fair-skinned northerner sitting to the other side of her. ‘Testing. They’re looking for something – or someone. No one knows what, but they’re using pit fights to find whatever they’re looking for.’

Vedra shook her head. ‘Pit fights? But I only fought a single hound.’

Kahem nodded. ‘Rhukan was testing his handiwork. He has to make sure you’re fit. If you fight badly – if you die too easily – it will infuriate the Bloodmarshall. And if Khrall is unhappy, Rhukan dies – and dies without honour, cast from the dais, robbed of his weapons.’

‘Then who will I really fight?’

‘Me,’ said Kahem, his voice deadpan.

Vedra was about to reply when Kahem nodded at Tuath. ‘And him.’ He waved at the other figures looming in the shadows. ‘All of us.’

Tuath looked at Vedra, shaking his head. ‘Until only one of us is left? I will not kill you, sister.’

‘No,’ said Kahem. ‘The Bloodmarshall usually halts the fight before that – whenever he thinks he’s seen enough. He likes the best fighters to perform again and again. Whatever he’s looking for, he can’t judge it on a single fight. Some warriors survive countless bouts, growing stronger and more skilled with every kill.’

Tuath frowned. ‘Until?’

‘Until they die. The only prize is a chance to kill until killed. No one gets out of here.’

‘And you?’ asked Vedra. ‘How many fights have you survived?’

‘Enough. Enough to know the most effective weapon.’

‘Which is?’

‘Learning your opponent’s weakness.’ He smiled, but it was a hard, cold smile. ‘Did I hear you say you’re brother and sister?’

The bloodreaver opposite laughed.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

As Vedra marched out onto the dais she looked up at the circular terraces. They were crammed with hundreds of spectators – a filthy scrum of hunched, brutal figures. Scattered amongst the crimson-clad Blood Warriors were black-armoured knights – pale-skinned foreigners with wide, angular faces. There were also dark-skinned tribesmen draped in black pelts. Slender, cowled priests moved through the crush, taking their positions, draped in grey robes and loops of gleaming skulls. Braziers smouldered at the end of each row, filling the air with sickly fumes that made it hard to see the upper levels clearly, but Vedra sensed that some of the shapes were not human – there were low, swooping horns rising from the smoke, alongside tall, taloned wings.

Looming over it all, silent and oppressive, was the mountainous presence of the Bloodmarshall. Even through the smoke, Vedra could see the butchered meat that passed for his face, with its eight gouged mouths and tiny, coal-shard eyes. His silence weighed over the crowds, preventing anyone else from speaking. Despite the numbers crammed into the arena, the only sound came from the crackling of braziers and the jangling of the prisoners’ chains.

As they stumbled out into the light, Vedra saw her companions clearly for the first time. Tuath was at her side and next to him was Kahem. The northerner was tall and rangy but his shoulders were broad and his arms were thick with scarred muscle. He caught her eye and winked. If she could have freed her arms, Vedra would have punched the smirk from his face.

Following Kahem came the duardin with runes hammered into his muscles and an enormous crest of ginger hair. He looked straight ahead as he was led out onto the dais, chin raised and shoulders back, still muttering the same oaths he had been reciting in the cell. As Vedra looked closer, she noticed that his golden runes were shimmering. At first she thought they were just reflecting the torchlight, but the more she looked, the surer she was that they were glowing. She nudged Tuath. ‘I bet those things are more than just decoration.’

Tuath nodded. ‘I’ll warrant he’s not the only one with tricks up his sleeve.’ He gestured towards the next captive to emerge. It was the pale, slender creature with barbs hung from his clothes. Where the other warriors stumbled and lurched, hindered by their chains, the aelf flitted through the darkness, silent, moving so lightly he seemed to glide. Even his metal barbs made no sound, rippling and flowing around him like weeds on a riverbed. His night-black eyes were fixed on the Bloodmarshall and his face was twisted in a sneer.

Next came the bloodreaver. He paced out into the light, hunched and feral, glaring up at the crowds like a wounded animal, snarling and spitting, straining at his chains.

After the bloodreaver came a man Vedra had not seen in the darkness of the cell. He was a shaven-headed priest – a sigmarite with a flaming comet tattooed across his forehead. He was dressed in a suit of thick, overlapping metal plates – burnished iron, intricately engraved with runes that he probably imagined would save his soul. He looked up at the crowds with an indignant grimace, tracing invisible shapes in the air as he strode out onto the dais.

Finally, came the massive figure Vedra had been unable to see in the cell. She hissed in surprise as it thudded into view. It was nine or ten feet tall and roughly human-shaped, but with arms so long that its knuckles could have touched the floor. It had a heaving sack of a gut and a face like something fished from a stagnant swamp.

‘A troggoth?’ she muttered. It felt ridiculous to use a name she had heard so many times in children’s rhymes, but there was no better description. Its skin was grey and pitted, like mouldering leather and, in some places, it had formed into a crust of stone shards. It was so heavy that the dais shook as it stamped out across the brass platform. The troggoth’s hands were as large as a man’s chest, with thick, crooked fingers and, as it looked up at the crowds, it tightened them into fists, as though imagining crushing throats. Nestled deep in the chiselled ugliness of its face, its eyes glinted with cunning, belying the lumbering nature of its ungainly limbs. In children’s tales, troggoths were simpletons, but Vedra sensed that the reality was different. There was a cruel intelligence in the creature’s eyes as it studied its opponents.

Up ahead of them, Rhukan had halted in the centre of the dais, pointing his hook back towards Vedra and the other warriors. He indicated that they should scatter to eight specific points around the edge of the dais. Once they had taken their positions, he and the other Blood Warriors bowed to the Bloodmarshall and left the dais, slamming the gates closed behind them.

The eight prisoners stood looking at each other across the dais. Vedra glanced at Tuath, who was standing a few feet to her right, wondering how they would begin.

He shrugged.

She was about to speak up – to call out to the crowd – when a low, resonant boom echoed round the amphitheatre.

It came from the Bloodmarshall. Khrall had pounded his iron-clad fist on the arm of his brass throne.

He raised his fist and pounded the throne again but, this time, everyone in the terraces joined him, stamping in time with his blow, amplifying the sound into a deafening tremor, shaking the walls of the chamber and the dais itself, causing Vedra to stagger as the brass juddered beneath her.

Khrall hammered his fist again and again, leading the crowd in a slow, ominous beat.

As the sound vibrated through the brass dais, it was answered by another sound: the hoarse cough of machines spluttering into life.

The other prisoners kept their gaze locked in the middle distance, unimpressed, but Vedra and Tuath stared at each other in shock. Neither of them had heard anything like it before: the seismic roar of huge, infernal engines, firing and turning. It sounded like a metal leviathan stirring beneath them, shrugging off enormous chains and rising from the depths. Black, acrid fumes billowed up around the edges of the dais, glittering with embers as they tumbled past Vedra and the others.

The crowd continued pounding out the same slow, menacing rhythm, led by the Bloodmarshall’s brutal fist, but the sound of the engines was louder, grinding beneath Vedra’s feet as the smoke enveloped her, causing her eyes to stream and burn.

Still, none of her opponents moved, holding their positions around the edge of the dais as it shivered and clanged.

As the engine noise grew louder, the dais began to change. Lines and intersections Vedra noticed earlier began to split apart, spilling hellish light up into the smoke. The lines were not scored into the brass, as she had thought – they were the edges of interlinking plates. As the engines howled, the dais began to fragment and rotate, splitting into dozens of rattling, razor-edged islands suspended over the blazing lava below. The section Vedra was standing on rose and turned with a series of mechanical clangs, lifting her up into the fumes. Some dropped lower, moving towards the lava. Others moved sideways or rotated into a new position.

After a few minutes, the movement ceased, leaving the prisoners scattered across a confusing jumble of platforms, all separated by a drop to the rippling heat below.

The engine noise died away, leaving just the heavy, thudding beat of the crowd. Then that ceased too as Khrall raised his fist and held it in the air.

He stood, throwing the terraces into shadow. ‘Blood!’ he roared, pointing at Vedra and the other prisoners. ‘For the Blood God!’

The crowd howled in delight, filling the amphitheatre with jeers, bellows and bestial roars.

There was another ratcheting click as the brass islands changed again. Holes opened in the centre of dozens of them and weapons clattered into view: axes, swords, maces and knives, all gleaming in the torchlight.

After so much fanfare and spectacle, Vedra was unprepared for what happened next.

The combatants leapt into action.

The aelf was the first to move, diving through the smoke as though he were weightless, tumbling out of view and then reappearing with one of the weapons in his hands – a small, curved knife, similar in shape to the barbs that whirled around him as he turned to face his opponents.

As the others all leapt from their platforms, Vedra cursed and scoured the smoke for a weapon. Nearest to her was a pair of hand axes. She launched herself out across the lava and landed on the next platform. The brass juddered under the impact and her momentum almost threw her off the other side, but she steadied herself and grabbed the axes, seconds before she felt someone else thud down beside her.

She whirled around and dropped into a crouch, preparing to fend off a blow.

Tuath emerged from the fumes, his hand raised in warning.

She nodded and handed him one of the axes, looking around for an attack.

There was movement all around – shadows lurching back and forth through the fumes. Since the engines died, the smoke had been starting to clear and Vedra spotted another platform a few feet away that looked to be empty.

‘Keep moving!’ she snapped. ‘There may be bows or spears. Don’t be a target.’

She leapt up onto the platform but, as she landed, she heard the clash of colliding weapons behind her.

Keeping low, she looked back and saw that Kahem had landed next to Tuath and swung a brutal-looking mace at his head.

Tuath parried, catching the blow with his hand axe, wrenching Kahem’s weapon to the floor and kicking the northerner hard in the stomach.

Kahem grunted and staggered back.

Vedra was about to leap back and help her brother when her platform jolted and knocked her dangerously close to the edge.

Instinct told her to duck and, as she did so, a sword sliced past her head, clanging against the brass, throwing up sparks.

She turned to face the duardin. His blow had broken the surface of the platform and she realised the platforms were actually wooden – the brass was just a thin shell, moulded over a frame. The sword looked like a toy in the duardin’s big, meaty fist, but he wrenched it free and lashed out with it again, swinging the blade at her face.

She parried, but the duardin was ferociously strong. The impact sent her reeling back towards the edge of the platform.

Her momentum was too great. There was no way she could avoid falling, so she twisted as she fell and kicked away from the platform, turning her fall into a dive.

She flew out above the lava and managed to land on one of the lower platforms. It was a long drop though and the air exploded from her lungs as she landed, causing her to gasp and stagger across the metal.

She looked back up at the duardin, expecting him to follow, but he cursed and glared at her, shaking his head, clearly unwilling to make the leap. Then he turned and leapt up onto another, nearer platform, disappearing from sight.

The crowd were still howling and there were figures diving all around her, but Vedra paused for a second to get her bearings. She needed to keep moving until she could gauge the strength of each warrior. She needed to play for time.

She sensed movement to her left, but the attack came with such silent skill that she barely had time to raise her axe.

It was the aelf. He had landed next to her so lightly that she never even felt it.

Pain exploded in her side as he drew his knife out of her, filling the air with an arc of blood.

The crowds roared in approval.

She whirled away and swung her axe at his face.

The blow landed on nothing. He had already moved, slipping away on the smoke tendrils, appearing at her other side.

The crowd howled again as he pulled his knife from her other side, splashing more blood across the brass.

‘Warqueen?’ he whispered, his breath on her ear.

Vedra cursed, not in pain but in rage. He was toying with her.

By the time she turned to face him, the aelf was already gone, bounding, lithe and fast, across the platforms, looking for another opponent. He had not even bothered to kill her, leaving her to bleed until he could be bothered to finish her off.

She reached down to touch the wounds. They were deep. Blood was rushing quickly down her sides. It would not be long before she would start to grow dizzy and weak. She cursed the aelf. Her plan of playing for time was ruined. She would have to kill her opponents quickly, before the blood loss made her too weak to defend herself.

Vedra leapt up onto a higher platform, looking around for Tuath.

The troggoth was nearby, locked in battle with the bloodreaver. The giant creature had not bothered to find a weapon, it was just pummelling the platform with its boulder-fists, causing the bloodreaver to stagger and lurch as he tried to swing a large, two-handed axe.

Above them, on another platform, the duardin and the sigmarite were circling each other. The sigmarite had a trident and a whip and, as the duardin lashed out with his sword, the sigmarite trapped it between the blades of the trident and jammed it to the floor, wrenching the blade from the duardin’s grip and causing him to stumble. The sigmarite turned and kicked the duardin as he staggered, sending him flying from the edge of the platform.

The crowd howled even louder as the duardin fell to his death, sending up a column of sparks as he hit the lava.

Even the Bloodmarshall nodded in satisfaction as the sigmarite reeled from his kill. The sigmarite bellowed something in response – a curse, presumed Vedra, by the defiant look on his face.

As Vedra watched the sigmarite stagger back and forth, clutching his trident, an idea began to form in her mind.

Her platform shook and she turned, hoping to see Tuath. It was Kahem, his mace flying towards her head.

She sidestepped and hacked at his forearm. The axe bit deep. The mace fell from his grip, bouncing across the platform and falling to the lava. Blood filled the air as Kahem backed away, wounded and unarmed.

The crowd roared, but as Vedra drew back the axe to finish him, Kahem grinned and nodded to another platform.

The aelf was attacking Tuath with the same soundless efficiency he had used on her, circling and twisting, thrusting his knife into her brother with every turn of his silent dance.

Vedra gasped as Tuath crumpled to the floor. Then she cursed as she realised Kahem had leapt away from her, trailing blood but surviving to look for another weapon.

Vedra was about to leap down to Tuath but the aelf rushed off in another direction, playing with Tuath as he had done with her.

She froze, rigid with hate. Too many of her brothers and sisters had been taken from her. She would not lose another.

As the aelf bounded away across the platforms, Vedra transferred all her hatred for Alimus onto his slight, shadowy form. Thoughts of strategy and survival fell away, drowned by her fury. She remembered the idea she had earlier and looked around for the sigmarite.

He was on the far side of the amphitheatre, separated from her by several platforms.

She bounded across her own platform and leapt through the air.

Kahem was waiting for her. He had grabbed a short sword and attacked as she landed, but she was so fixated on the distant figure of the aelf she barely registered his lunge, punching him in the face as she raced past and diving onto the next platform.

The crowd howled at her acrobatics as she sprinted and leapt again, crossing the whole amphitheatre in seconds and rushing towards the sigmarite.

He turned, alerted by the clamour, and raised his trident as she leapt towards him.

Vedra punched the trident aside and crashed into him, knocking him back across the platform.

He scrambled, trying to stay upright, but she planted her foot in his chest and kicked him into the smoke, grabbing the trident as he fell to his death.

The crowd exploded again, but Vedra had already moved on, the hand axe stuffed in her belt as she jumped across the platforms, clutching the trident.

The aelf was watching her from a nearby platform, a wry smile on his face.

He made no effort to defend himself as Vedra raced towards him, twirling his knife in his hand as calmly as if he were watching from the terraces.

Vedra landed on his platform and jabbed the trident at his face.

He stepped aside easily and circled her with the same amused expression on his face. He looked up at the crowds and raised an eyebrow, eliciting a wave of cruel laughter.

Vedra lunged again, thrusting the trident at his midriff.

Again, he stepped aside easily, trailing his skirt of metal barbs as he whirled away from her, dragging more brutal laughter from the crowd.

Vedra had only attacked with half her strength. It was a feint. She put her full force into a third strike – one that was much faster and not aimed at the aelf.

His smile faltered as he saw what she had done.

She had slammed her trident down with such force that it passed through the strands holding his barbs and punched through the surface of the platform.

The aelf tried to pull away, snarling, but Vedra had pinned him to the floor.

His snarl did not last long. Vedra removed it with her axe, along with the rest of his head.

The crowd fell quiet as the aelf’s corpse slammed to the floor, then they erupted with their loudest cheer yet as Vedra pulled out the trident and kicked the body into the lava.

The bloodreaver was on a platform below Vedra’s and he crouched, preparing to leap.

Then he halted as the chamber resounded to a single, floor-rattling boom.

The Bloodmarshall had hammered his fist on the arm of the throne.

The bloodreaver dropped his weapon and bowed his head.

The few combatants who were still alive all did the same, as the crowd ceased their howls and jeers. An eerie silence fell over the amphitheatre, broken only by the gasped breaths of the surviving fighters.

The Bloodmarshall pounded his fist again and, this time, everyone in the terraces did the same, creating another resounding beat. As before, the thudding sound triggered a subterranean rumble, far below the platforms, as colossal engines roared into life.

Vedra staggered as her platform jolted forwards and began to slowly rotate. The fight was over. They were being returned to their cell. ‘No!’ she cried, looking around for a way to stay in the amphitheatre – a way to leap to the terraces. She would not accept this fate – to fight and fight again until she died. She had to return to the plains.

It was useless. The brass islands were too far from the crowds. She would fall to her death if she even tried. She pointed the trident at the Bloodmarshall. ‘Khrall!’ she howled, as the platform dropped back away from him. ‘Fight me!’

The colossus gave no response. He continued pounding his fist until all of the platforms had clicked back into place, creating a seamless, brass dais.

Rhukan was ready. As the engines fell silent, and the Bloodmarshall ceased his pounding, the pitmaster strode out onto the dais, waving his hook in different directions, sending Blood Warriors towards each of the survivors.

The bloodreaver, Kahem and the troggoth waited calmly, their heads bowed, clearly used to the ritual, but Tuath was gasping and clutching at his wounds, in too much pain to register the approach of the Blood Warriors. They grabbed him without ceremony and dragged him across the brass, leaving a wide smear of blood as his head lolled weakly between his shoulders.

‘No!’ roared Vedra. Every muscle in her body was screaming with rage. She would not do this. ‘Fight me!’ she howled, still jabbing her trident at the Bloodmarshall. He watched her in silence, unmoving. The crowds did the same – staring through her, deaf to her fury.

‘Warqueen,’ said Rhukan, his skin mask muffling the words.

She turned to face him and felt a sharp pain in her stomach.

There was some kind of machine in Rhukan’s hand and it was trailing smoke.

There was a piece of bone sticking in Vedra’s guts, two or three inches long and slick with black tar.

As she reached for it, the floor turned on its axis and slammed into her face, leaving her in darkness.

CHAPTER TWELVE

‘We should kill them all.’ Leortas paced back and forth across the throne room, scratching angrily at his beard, glaring at the doors.

‘And go against the will of the need-fire?’ Alimus was seated near the throne, hunched over a copper bowl, jabbing at a mess of bloody feathers with his long, curved nails.

Leortas walked back towards him. The throne room was the grandest structure ever built by the Darkoath tribes – nearly a hundred feet long and crowded with battle trophies. Runeshields and sacred axes glimmered in the light of the great fire, creating the illusion of movement, as though the weapons were battling, even now. There were hide-strewn couches down both sides of the hall and every inch of earth was covered in animal skins. The throne itself was a grand affair, carved from the trunk of a single, vast oak and scored, by Alimus himself, with hundreds of runes and poems. The back of the chair had been sculpted to resemble an eagle, rising from flames, screaming at the smoke-crowded eaves.

‘I would never deny the Lord of Change,’ Leortas grimaced, staring at the throne. ‘But I can’t sleep, knowing that Vedra’s kin are here, in the Sickle Keep, watching me, all the time.’

Alimus nodded. This was entirely as he had foreseen. Leortas had no stomach for treachery. As the weeks rolled on, he was growing more and more disturbed by what he had done: lying to the other chieftains, tricking his way into power, helping Alimus murder their true ruler. It was eating at his soul, clashing with his idea of himself as a proud, ennobled Tannen. And each glimpse of Vedra’s kin only made it worse.

‘The Changer of Ways does not explain his reasoning,’ said Alimus, ‘but, in this case, it’s clear.’ The door was locked but he lowered his voice to be safe. ‘Your fellow chieftains believe that Vedra betrayed us. Imagine how it might look if all her kin were murdered. Even a bone-headed oaf like Budar might suspect that something else is going on – that Vedra was removed from the throne, rather than deserting it.’

‘When did a Darkoath king ever show mercy to his predecessor’s family?’ demanded Leortas. He gripped the handle of his broadsword. ‘Who would blame me for removing every echo of her face?’

‘You are not king yet,’ warned Alimus. He lifted his hand, bird entrails glistening as they dangled from his spindly fingers. ‘I have shown you the augurs. If you follow my advice, you will defeat all challengers on the night of the need-fire. But if you ignore the warnings of Tzeentch, we will both be dead before we get that far.’

‘But must I see their wretched faces? Especially her sister. She stares at me. I’m sure she knows something. The next need-fire is not until Dalenar. If I have to see that girl around here until mid-winter, I will go mad. And why must she serve me? We could at least send her away from the Sickle Keep. The plains are vast. Why must I see her suspicious face every time I step out of my own hall?’

‘Because the Lord of Change wills it.’ Alimus held up the Serpent Stone. ‘See how bright it burns? Every day a little brighter. Hold your nerve. Keep following the augurs and everything will go to plan. Sending Arva away will look suspicious. The others will wonder why you find her face so troubling. Dalenar’s Night is only six months away. Endure Arva’s presence until mid-winter and then, when you’re crowned king, you can do what you like.’

Leortas nodded and began pacing again. ‘I would never have agreed to any of this.’ He glared at Alimus. ‘Vedra forced me. Do you understand? If she hadn’t insisted on bringing the tribes together, things could have remained as they were.’

‘I understand, Leortas.’

‘How could I let her do that?’ Leortas’ anger grew, despite the fact that Alimus had agreed with him. ‘The Tannen claimed these plains centuries before her people came south. What would my ancestors have said if I let someone else claim dominion over the region they fought so hard for?’ He was glancing at the shadows thrown by the torches, as though addressing silent accusers.

‘You do not have to justify your actions.’ Alimus was still toying with the treacly contents of his bowl. ‘This was all planned by the Lord of Change. I saw it clearly in the need-fire. You and I were destined to rid the Darkoath tribes of Vedra. And then, by the time of the next fire, Tzeentch will be ready to make you king of all the tribes. You will rule the Arad Plains, as your ancestors always intended.’

Leortas grimaced, looking at the sword in his hand. ‘The sight of that wretched girl distracts me, that’s all.’

Alimus kept stirring, his knife clinking against the side of the bowl. He smiled as he considered how easy it is to mislead someone blinded by ambition. How could Leortas believe that he, Alimus, the mightiest sanorach who ever lived, had done all this work just to make Leortas ruler of the Arad Plains? ‘Not long now,’ he grinned. ‘The Lord’s plan will soon come to fruition.’

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Vedra rolled across the platform and hurled her knife. It whistled through the air, thudded into the warrior on the next platform and flipped him backwards through the fumes. The crowd roared as he plunged towards the lava below.

She bounded onto a higher platform for a better view of the fight. The days had bled into a single, frenzied slaughter. Fight merged into fight; kill into kill. Vedra could no longer say how long she had been butchering for Khrall’s amusement. She could barely even remember how she arrived at the Abattoir. But two memories remained clear, two faces, driving her on through the bloodshed: Arva’s trusting stare and Alimus’ sneering grin. While she held those images in her mind, she was immortal. Whatever Rhukan threw at her she would face it down with more fury than the Blood Warriors could imagine.

As she reached the highest platform, the crowd howled in approval. With every kill, she earned more of their respect. Even through her rage and desperation, Vedra had noticed it: she had become their favourite. The idea sickened her. Every time they cheered, she howled, spitting curses and venom, hating them more with every death. Unfortunately, the violence of her insults only pleased the crowd more – the more she raged at them, the more they revelled in her savagery.

She looked around at the fight, trying to gauge the skill of the newcomers. Since the first bout, everyone but her and Tuath had died. Her brother would have perished too, but Vedra would not let anyone near him, leaping to his side every time he stumbled, butchering anyone who got close. Aside from Vedra and her brother, most combatants lasted one or two fights before newer, fresher warriors cut them down. Vedra had battled on through dozens. She had turned the savagery of the fights to her advantage, using them in place of the training regimes she had followed since childhood – using each deathblow to sharpen her skill, every leap to tone her flesh, learning from her opponents, growing stronger, quicker and more lethal with every day that passed. Where most of the prisoners could only manage a few mouthfuls of the vile food they were given, Vedra gulped it down, ignoring the bitter taste, even grabbing the scraps dropped by others. She had no thoughts of pride or dignity, only a burning will to survive.

Today’s opponents were a typical mix. There was another sigmarite – a deranged, scrawny zealot this time, spit foaming at his lips and ribs bulging through his tattooed skin. He was less powerfully built than everyone else on the platforms, but he was so frenzied and erratic that no one could land a blow on him. He was wearing a few shapeless scraps of cloth and gripping a wooden club, droning prayers as he twitched and lurched through the fight.

Next to him was a bloodreaver. Rhukan included one in almost every fight – presumably dragged from the Bloodmarshall’s own tribes. This one had pierced his jaw and scalp with dozens of iron tusks, so that his head looked like the spiked head of a mace. He was attacking the sigmarite with a morning star, swinging the chained ball around his head as he raged and howled, struggling to land a blow on the emaciated priest.

On the platform nearest to Vedra, there was a green-skinned monster – a massive, hulking creature with a jaw like a tree stump and biceps thicker than a man’s chest. She heard Rhukan call it an orruk and the name fitted with tales she had heard from Alimus as a child. The thing was a moron, lurching and stamping back and forth with no skill or finesse, but its body was bred for war – its head was small, hanging low between its massive shoulders, and its back was bent forwards in a permanent charge. It was currently trying to land axe blows on an aelf. The aelf had the same, willowy physique as the first one Vedra saw, but she seemed to be from a different tribe. Her face was hidden behind a golden mask and, as she danced around the orruk, the mask flashed and glittered. It appeared to be embedded in her skin, rather than simply worn, and it was fixed in a sadistic grin. Unlike most of the fighters, the aelf was revelling in the fight. She was attacking the orruk with knives and she turned every lunge and slash into an elaborate dance, pirouetting through the air, delighting in the roar of the crowd. It looked like she was enacting a sacred rite, rather than fighting for her life. All her spinning and gyrating left the orruk bellowing with rage as he failed to lay a blow on her. The aelf’s plan was clear: tire the orruk out until it was too dazed and maddened to dodge her knife thrusts. Vedra admired her cool, deft grace. She would learn a lot from killing her.

At the far side of the arena were two humans – Darkoath tribesmen. Vedra did not recognise the symbols tattooed onto their chests and she guessed they came from somewhere outside the Arad Plains. They were working together, watching the fight with their backs together and their swords held before them. It would not help. It was their first time on the platforms and they would not live long enough to master them. They were making their way towards Tuath and she singled them out as her first prey.

Vedra leapt across the platforms with ease. After so many fights she had learned every nuance of the layout, every tilt of the brass.

She had only made it halfway across the arena when a hot rage washed through her, filling her mouth with bile and causing her to stagger. The anger was not hers. It was an external force, jolting through her limbs like she had swallowed a poison draught.

She halted and whirled around, raising the falcata she was holding and looking around the platforms. This had happened before, in several previous bouts, and she knew who would be responsible. The other warriors had clearly felt the same thing. The orruk was now punching the platform with its fists, roaring and grunting as the metal buckled beneath its blows. Even the aelf had lost her cruel, elegant calm, staggering around the raging monster, struggling not to fall.

The tribesmen reached Tuath, but halted, as confused as Vedra.

She finally found the culprit: the bloodreaver. The sigmarite had landed a brutal blow on him, breaking his nose and buckling his head spikes. As the bloodreaver staggered, blood spraying from his face, Vedra knew he would be the source of the rage. He was mouthing oaths, identical to oaths used by previous bloodreavers. The words were radiating from his mouth, twisting the air. She could feel them, hitting her in waves. She could hear his guttural snarls, even though he was dozens of feet away. The power in the words was shocking, but Vedra had seen this kind of display several times before and she knew how it would end.

The sigmarite brought his club down again, shattering more of the bloodreaver’s face, but the bloodreaver kept spitting his oath through the splintered bones.

Vedra mouthed the words, caught up in the fury, unable to resist, but she knew she would not have to endure it for long. The bloodreaver was as foolish as all the others that had tried this. As the chant jolted through her, she glanced up at the terraces and saw something she had not seen in any of the previous fights: the Bloodmarshall had turned to stare at her. She could feel the intensity of his gaze and, along with the bloodreaver’s oath, it was overwhelming. She dropped to her knees.

The sigmarite drew back his club, trying to land another blow on the bloodreaver, but then he hesitated as the oath took effect.

The bloodreaver was convulsing and shaking, still reciting his oath through the wreckage of his face, and the words were transforming him. His limbs stretched and broadened with a series of audible snaps as he turned to face the sigmarite. His eyes blazed, like the lava, and his head twisted back into shape. The aura of violence grew as he stood erect, drawing back his shoulders, suddenly a whole head taller than the sigmarite. Blood rushed down his skin, not from his injuries, but boiling through his pores, popping and seething and making his whole body glisten. He howled the final word of his oath as hellish light blazed through his muscles, splashing across the fumes as he dropped his weapon, strode forwards and grabbed the sigmarite. He lifted him over his head with a roar and snapped his back, breaking it over his shoulders like kindling.

The bloodreaver’s cry silenced the crowd, but his transformation was not complete.

Vedra shook her head in surprise as he discarded the dead sigmarite and leapt across the platforms, making for the aelf and the orruk. As he ran, his blood-slick frame was still growing, still bursting with fresh muscle as his face contorted into a bestial snarl.

This was new. Vedra had seen other bloodreavers try to harness the power of the oath, but it always tore them apart seconds after they killed their opponent. She had never seen someone continue growing like this, living beyond the first, overwhelming flood of strength.

The bloodreaver’s head was juddering as he launched himself at the orruk, but he still showed no signs of collapsing. He abandoned his morning star, too feral to wield a weapon, and attacked with fists, staggering the orruk with a storm of punches.

As his fists slammed into the orruk’s face the creature tumbled from the platform, but the bloodreaver’s metamorphosis was still accelerating, turning him into a heaving, crimson mass. He howled, staggering back from the edge of the platform, turning on the aelf.

She flipped away but the bloodreaver was too fast – he seemed to materialise at her side, his hand locked around her throat.

He dashed her brains out on the brass and hurled her into the lava.

The crowd were deranged, banging weapons on the terraces, filling the arena with noise. None of them had seen anything like this. No bloodreaver had ever managed to harness the oath so successfully.

Vedra’s head was pounding with the bloodreaver’s words but then he finally started to struggle, labouring under the weight of his new muscle mass. The spikes in his head had become fast-growing tusks, coiling around his splintering skull, cutting into his face. He was still howling, but all trace of humanity had vanished from the sound – it was the cry of a wild animal.

With no opponent near enough to strike, he attacked the platform, pummelling it with his fists, beating the metal with such fury that it buckled and twisted, revealing the wood beneath. Then he saw Tuath and the other two tribesmen, watching him in shock, and lurched off in their direction, tumbling onto the next platform.

He was now more crippled by his changing flesh than empowered by it. The muscles were so grotesquely swollen that he could barely move his legs or carry his own weight. His face had vanished beneath the folds of raw muscle and the mass of horns still twisting out of his skull.

He crashed onto one platform, then another, and finally slammed down by the tribesmen. Tuath and the others attacked in unison, abandoning their fight until they had dealt with the horror shambling towards them.

The bloodreaver crashed into them with such force that they fell back across the platform. They landed a flurry of sword blows on him, but he was too frenzied to notice.

Vedra was already racing across the platforms as the bloodreaver smashed one of the tribesmen to the floor and gored him with his tusks, ripping his chest open and hurling him across the brass.

Vedra was still a few leaps away from the fight when the bloodreaver killed the second tribesman, crushing his skull in his fist and slamming the dripping pulp to the floor.

Only Tuath was left. He backed away, sword raised, as the bloodreaver loomed over him, bellowing and gargling as he staggered through the bodies.

Vedra landed and plunged her falcata into the bloodreaver’s side.

He turned and punched her in the face.

Something cracked in Vedra’s head and she fell back, gasping as she tumbled off the edge of the platform.

Strong fingers locked around her wrist and she looked up to see Tuath. He wrenched her up and she managed to stand just as the bloodreaver attacked again.

Tuath gasped as the bloodreaver barrelled into him, head first, skewering him with horns, tearing his stomach open.

Vedra howled, jamming her falcata into the bloodreaver’s head, throwing her whole body into the thrust and sending them both reeling away from Tuath.

The chamber resounded to a deafening thud. Khrall had pounded the arm of his throne, signalling the end of the fight.

Vedra and the bloodreaver were too far gone to notice, lashing and punching as they lurched back and forth.

The crowd picked up the beat and the rhythm thundered through the platforms, triggering the engines beneath.

As the platform juddered beneath them, Vedra and the bloodreaver fought on. Until that moment, Vedra thought she had faced every kind of opponent, but the bloodreaver’s oath had turned him into a savage animal. He was still gargling the words through his deformed throat and they thudded in Vedra’s pulse, laden with divine power. Khorne was in her veins, filling her with wrathful vigour as she tried to fend off the bloodreaver’s blows.

Khrall punched his throne harder and the crowd followed suit, but still the two combatants continued grappling and clawing, spinning and cursing as they fought.

The platforms slammed back together, reforming the large dais, and Vedra and the bloodreaver rolled across it, still landing blows and spitting curses, scattering blood across the brass.

‘Halt!’ cried a voice.

Vedra pulled herself clear and saw Rhukan marching out onto the dais, holding the device he had used to stun her before.

Behind him was the broken, lifeless shape of Tuath, his innards spilled across the metal, his head twisted back at a hideous angle.

She howled and turned back towards the thing that had been the bloodreaver. It could no longer stand. Its torrent of muscles were losing their coherency, becoming a thrashing mound of tentacles and tumours. It looked like a broth of body parts, bubbling and melting.

Vedra backed away in disgust as it collapsed into a nest of writhing, intestinal growth, grunting and choking, drowning in its own flesh as the muscles strangled its throat and lungs. It had finally succumbed to the same fate as all the other bloodreavers who swore the oath.

The drumming ceased and Rhukan stared at her through his skin mask, saying nothing, waving her back towards the exit.

Vedra ignored him and strode towards her dead brother, dropping to one knee and cradling his head.

She sensed Rhukan approaching but ignored him as she looked at Tuath’s death-grey face, his lips already turning blue. Tuath was a good warrior; a good brother. She held him tight, whispering a prayer to Tzeentch.

A shadow washed across the dais and she heard Rhukan halt a few feet away.

The Bloodmarshall had risen from his throne. He was watching the bubbling remains of the bloodreaver. It was barely moving, coiling and pulsing like a stranded fish.

‘Kill it,’ said Khrall. The words emerged from all eight of his torn mouths, feral and inhuman, more barked than spoken.

Rhukan left Vedra and started walking to the pile of shivering muscle.

‘No,’ said Khrall. Again, the word was a chorus of slavering yowls.

‘Warqueen,’ he said, looking at Vedra.

Rhukan halted, surprised, then lowered his device and nodded at Vedra, waving for her to approach her brother’s killer.

She did not need a second invitation. She grabbed the falcata and spent the next few minutes butchering the mound of flesh, venting her hate and grief, hacking and chopping until she was drenched in gore.

Only when all trace of movement had ceased did she drop the blade and stagger away, collapsing to the floor, breathing heavily, exhausted by her rage.

Khrall was still standing. When Vedra was finished, he signalled for everyone to leave the arena. As Vedra stood and headed for the door, following Rhukan, Khrall spoke to her again.

‘Not you.’

It took several minutes for the crowds to file out of the terraces and disappear into the bowels of the fortress. Once the last of them had gone, Khrall touched something on his throne and a walkway rattled out from the terraces to the edge of the dais, bridging the lava.

She grabbed the falcata, her heart racing. This was the chance she had been waiting for. To be armed and alone with the Bloodmarshall. If she could kill Khrall, she was sure his Blood Warriors would have to kneel to her. And, if not, she would at least have killed the arrogant tyrant who had kept her trapped, so far from where she needed to be, just so she could entertain him.

She gripped the sword handle tight as she crossed the metal walkway, staring at the colossus, trying to spot some sign of weakness. She had never seen him fight, but there had to be something she could turn to her advantage. As she got closer, she realised just how massive he was – at least the height of three men and clad in so much armour plate that he looked as impregnable as his fortress. She would have to target his head – it was fleshy and misshapen, badly deformed by the eight wide, torn mouths. And his black eyes were tiny, nestling deep in the folds of raw meat. How well could he see? Perhaps she could find a way to topple the braziers and throw them into darkness?

She climbed up through the terraces and paced towards him, scattering rats and shadows. She glanced at her body. The fight with the bloodreaver had left her with dozens of small wounds, but nothing that would slow her down. Months of battling in the arena had hardened her muscles into taut, steely cables. But she would need to bring him down to her level. Her only hope was to strike his face. Biurtan was long gone and her borrowed blade would never pierce such thick armour.

Vedra stopped several feet away, looking up at the Bloodmarshall, impressed, despite her hatred of him. It was like standing before a statue, built in honour of a war god. Khrall was utterly motionless, but there was such heat radiating from his armour that Vedra’s breath dried in her throat and her eyes streamed.

They studied each other in silence.

‘What should you worship?’ asked Khrall. This close, the savage clamour that emerged from his mouths was shocking. Vedra struggled not to flinch.

She shook her head, surprised by the question. She had expected attack, not conversation. And she was surprised by something else. Despite the brutality of his voice, there was something cold and deliberate about his words.

‘I…’ She shrugged, hesitating. Previously, the answer would have fallen quickly from her lips: Tzeentch, the Lord of Change. But, since the Serpent Stone turned cold and she lost her way in the need-fire, Vedra’s faith had been less sure. Was Tzeentch her lord? Or had he abandoned her? She shrugged, unable to think of any other answer without revealing more than she would wish, but wanting to prolong the conversation until she could spot a weak point in his armour. ‘Tzeentch,’ she said, yelling the name, defiant, despite her misgivings.

‘No,’ said Khrall.

Anger twisted Vedra’s spine and she struggled not to attack. How dare Khrall trap her in a pit, cause the death of her brother, then tell her what she did or did not believe?

‘I worship the Changer of Ways,’ she hissed.

Khrall leant forwards in his throne, fixing his coal-shard eyes on her, his mouths rippling and bleeding.

Vedra stepped closer, gripping the falcata tighter. If his head came just a little closer she would have a chance – one, powerful leap and she might be able to reach his eyes.

‘Then you’re a fool,’ said Khrall.

Vedra hesitated, enraged by such a pompous dismissal of her beliefs.

‘The Blood God is not the only power in the Eight Realms.’

‘Power,’ grunted Khrall. ‘Now that is worth worshipping.’

Vedra could see her chance getting closer. She could almost reach his face. But something in Khrall’s words resonated.

‘Power is what matters,’ he said. ‘Whatever the source.’ He spoke with such ferocity that Vedra’s sword trembled in her grip.

She nodded, despite herself. She did not pray to Tzeentch through religious conviction, but because he gave her a chance to survive. There was a brutal, simple truth in Khrall’s words that she could not deny. Then she shook her head, trying to stay focused. The bloodreaver’s oath was still echoing round her head. It must be confusing her. Khrall and his kind were the enemy. They had come to rob lands that belonged to the Untamed. The Bloodmarshall was trying to trick her. And yet, there was no trace of subtlety in his voice. He sounded savage, but true. It was almost as though he wanted to help her.

‘Why are you telling me this?’ she sneered.

He leant back in his seat and studied her in silence again.

Vedra cursed her stupidity. She would never get near his face now.

‘I see power in you.’ He waved at the empty terraces. ‘Many can follow.’ He nodded at Vedra. ‘Few can lead.’

Vedra shuddered. He was trying to win her over – trying to turn her against her own kind. She spat at the foot of his throne.

He nodded. Infuriatingly, he seemed to be pleased with her. Then he waved one of his hands and Blood Warriors flooded from the shadows, surrounding her. ‘If you live, we will speak again.’

She struggled as they bound her, straining against the shackles, but it was no use. She had frittered away her one chance. She had let Khrall distract her with insults when she should have been killing him.

She cursed and spat again as they took her away, but Khrall gave no sign that he had heard her.

Then, as she was being dragged from the hall, back towards the cells, he spoke in the darkness.

‘Power,’ he said. ‘Nothing else matters.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

A voice dragged Vedra from a deep sleep. Since the death of Tuath she had made no time for grief or rage. She had armoured herself in cold, unwavering determination – grabbing all the rest and food she could, growing stronger as her rivals grew weaker, thriving on the harsh conditions.

‘What is it?’ asked the voice – a tribesman, speaking in a dialect she could understand.

The torch outside the cell was guttering and needed replacing, and she could not see the faces of her fellow prisoners.

She guessed the source of the intrigue though. Something was glinting at the far end of the cell: flashes of gold and silver, as though Rhukan had dumped a haul of treasure in the corner.

‘Sigmarite,’ muttered someone else. ‘They brought him in a few hours ago.’

‘Is he singing?’

‘Praying.’

‘I can’t understand a word.’

‘He’s not from the plains. I saw him when they dragged him in here. He’s covered in gold. There’s not an inch of him visible. And he’s a giant.’

Vedra stared into the shadows. As Tzeentch’s chosen she had been granted many unusual visions. The need-fire showed her sights it did not reveal to others. She had seen Sigmar’s golden knights – the Stormhosts that fell from the skies, born of lightning, bringing ruin wherever they landed. They slaughtered and burned without fear or restraint. Alimus called them Stormcast Eternals and he spoke of them with horror in his voice. She had seen them in her dreams, but she had never heard of one landing in the Arad Plains.

Something flashed and, for a moment, they all saw him clearly. He was massive, as the prisoners had said, and his armour was incredible – thick, overlapping plates of polished gold, oiled and gleaming, engraved with intricate runes. She had never seen such skilled workmanship. He was holding something – it looked like a collection of metal discs and curves and he was turning them as he prayed. The device was the source of the light. With each word, he clicked one of the metal arms along the notches in the curved piece of metal. As he prayed, the device burned brighter, splashing rays across the filthy walls.

His prayers grew more fervent and the light shone brighter. The prisoners watched in fascinated silence, sensing that something momentous was about to happen.

Then footsteps clattered down the corridor and the Stormcast Eternal collapsed the device, folding it in a series of quick snapping movements until it was no bigger than his palm. Then he secreted it under a scroll that was hung from his belt, just before the cell door clattered open.

‘What was that light?’ demanded Rhukan, swaggering into the cell, waving his hook from face to face as Blood Warriors and slaves waited in the passageway outside.

Vedra had an idea. Sigmar’s knights were harbingers of the storm. A storm was what she needed.

‘The torch, you idiot,’ she drawled, making her voice as derisive as she could. ‘It’s dying and it threw sparks. Perhaps if you did your job there would–’

He clubbed the side of her head with his iron hook, staring at her through the eyeholes of his skin mask.

Since her conversation with the Bloodmarshall, Rhukan had been watching her closely. He reserved his most brutal blows for her and sneered at her with more vehemence than any of the other prisoners. Clearly, he did not enjoy the fact that Khrall spoke to her in private. She had thought nothing of it, beyond amusement at seeing jealousy in such a savage, but now, she saw how it might be useful.

‘The Bloodmarshall spoke of this,’ she muttered, wiping blood from her mouth. ‘Your incompetence.’

Rhukan leant over her, placing the tip of his hook under her chin. For a few moments, he said nothing, glaring in silence as he pressed the point deeper, drawing more blood. She wondered if she had pushed him too far. Was he about to skewer her head? Then he snorted. ‘You missed your chance.’ He nodded to the Stormcast Eternal. ‘Your luck has run out, Warqueen. Today will be your last fight.’

He turned and left the cell, still laughing as he slammed the door shut and clattered away down the corridor.

After a few minutes, the other prisoners slumped back into the shadows, resting before the day’s fight, but the Stormcast leant towards Vedra. His face was hidden behind his gleaming mask, so she had no idea what his expression was, but he gave her a slow, deliberate nod of thanks.

‘Savin,’ he said quietly, touching his chest, his voice resonating through his helmet.

‘Vedra,’ she replied.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Vedra had never seen anything like it. Savin butchered everyone that got close. He had grabbed an axe at the start of the fight and turned the crude, primitive-looking thing into the weapon of a vengeful god, splitting heads and sundering limbs as he stood, dignified and statuesque on one of the low platforms. He made no effort to seek a better vantage point or to hunt down weaker opponents, he simply stood, legs apart, axe gripped in both hands, waiting for each new attacker to make their futile assault.

Within minutes, he was surrounded by the corpses. His first three opponents had died quickly, without leaving so much as a scratch on his armour. He fought with none of the wild desperation that drove the others, killing calmly and cleanly, as if waiting for something more important to do. And Vedra had noticed something else. Beneath the prayer scroll at his belt, the metal device was pulsing with light. His armour flashed and gleamed so dazzlingly that the device was easy to miss but Vedra, knowing where it was hidden, could see that it was growing brighter with every minute the Stormcast spent near the lava. The heat was changing it, fuelling its magic.

She deliberately avoided combat with him, battling the warriors who moved across the upper platforms, until, after just a few minutes, Savin and Vedra had slaughtered all six of their opponents and the Bloodmarshall pummelled his throne, ordering them back to the cell.

As Rhukan led them back through the labyrinth of dank, narrow passageways, Vedra noticed that Savin’s device was flickering again, shimmering beneath the scroll. She walked closer, positioning herself between Savin and Rhukan.

Back in the cell, the next group was already waiting, shackled to their benches and staring at Savin in wonder.

Vedra sat near the Stormcast and, as he removed the device from beneath his prayer scroll, she brought her feet up onto the bench, using her raised knees to stop the light spilling out towards the guards. The other captives could see it, but they stared in silence. They, like Vedra, guessed that Savin might be their one chance of salvation.

The Stormcast removed one of his metal gauntlets. Vedra was not sure what she expected to see but it was not the leathery, worn skin of a normal man. As he adjusted the bundle of discs and ellipses, she noticed that his hand was not quite normal. The veins shimmered with a faint light, similar to the blue-white pulses coming from his device. He worked fast, no doubt anticipating the return of Rhukan and Vedra found it hard to follow his movements.

After a minute or so, he stopped, holding the object up before his mask and staring at it. Every piece of it was in motion, clicking and whirring like an insect, each metal limb interlaced with the others, sliding and rotating as the light at its core burned brighter. It blazed so fiercely that Vedra was blinded for a moment. When her vision cleared, the object was dark and inert. Savin looked at it for a moment longer, then folded it away and sat back against the wall with a long exhalation of breath, as though he had not dared breathe while he worked.

Nothing happened.

Vedra stared at him but he seemed oblivious, his head tilted back and his hands folded on his lap.

‘What did you do?’ she hissed.

He said nothing – gave no sign he had even heard.

‘What are you?’ she whispered.

‘The ordinator,’ he replied, without moving, his voice as odd and metallic as before.

She was about to ask him to explain when footsteps echoed down the passageway.

‘Him,’ grunted Rhukan as he entered, pointing his hook at Savin.

Blood Warriors crowded into the cell, gripping their enormous axes as slaves unfastened Savin’s shackles.

He made no effort to resist as they hauled him to his feet.

‘The Bloodmarshall wants you,’ said Rhukan, prodding Savin’s chest armour. He gurgled something in his own vile language, then shoved the Stormcast out of the cell.

Vedra wanted to follow, to demand an explanation from Savin. What had he been doing? What had she helped him do? After all that subterfuge and ritual, the device had simply died. She wondered if the endless combat was starting to cloud her judgement. Why had she helped a sigmarite? What had she expected? That the device would topple the walls? She leant back against the wall and closed her eyes, picturing Arva’s earnest, trusting face, as they stood at the foot of the Crucible Mound, the day before the battle. Was she still alive?

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

‘Why do you look at me like that?’ demanded Leortas.

Arva ignored him and kept scrubbing the flagstones around the entrance to the throne room. The sun had almost set, casting long, ruddy shadows through the narrow streets of the Sickle Keep, painting a spindly, distorted silhouette of Arva on the wall behind the throne.

Leortas had been drinking since dawn. It was only two weeks until the night of the need-fire, when Alimus could proclaim him King of the Untamed, but to Leortas it seemed an age away. He had ordered his retainers and bards away, unable to bear their questioning glances. And now he was left with the one person Alimus told him he could not be rid of: Vedra’s sullen, silent sister.

‘I am your chieftain,’ he snarled, swaying as he approached her, gripping his wine skin tightly in one hand and his sword in the other. ‘Answer me.’

She looked up at him, her eyes dead. He had stripped her of all the finery Vedra had draped her in – replacing golden torcs and furs with rags and bruises. Vedra’s family was large and she had dozens of relatives living in the capital, but none of them infuriated Leortas as much as Arva. The girl was only sixteen, but she already looked almost identical to Vedra, with the same lean, athletic build and scowling face. When she was not cleaning, she trained, right outside the throne room, lunging at shadows with a furious grimace on her face and glaring at him every time he walked past.

‘Answer me!’ he snapped, grabbing her by the throat and slamming her against the wall.

She moved with shocking speed, planting a kick in his stomach and sending him staggering back across the floor. He tripped, clumsy with drink, and landed heavily on the floor. When he looked up, she was standing over him with a knife in her hand.

‘You’re a liar,’ she breathed, her eyes wide and her voice trembling with rage.

He growled, lurched to his feet and tried to land a punch on her.

She easily sidestepped the blow and lashed out with the knife, scattering a bright arc of blood through the moonlight.

Both of them stared at the wound in shock. It was forbidden to attack a chieftain outside of the usual prescribed rituals.

Arva backed away, staring at the bloody knife.

Leortas wanted to kill her there and then but, even drunk, he remembered Alimus’ warnings. If he killed her, it would be in direct opposition to the Lord of Change’s will.

‘Guards!’ he roared and his retainers sprinted into the hall, weapons raised. They looked around for attackers, then halted, shocked, as they saw that their chieftain was glaring at Arva.

‘She’s a traitor,’ he spat, conscious, even through the alcohol haze, of how foolish he must look. ‘Take her to the Fervour Tree.’

Arva snarled and lunged at him, but the guards swamped her, knocking the knife from her hand and binding her arms.

Leortas followed as they dragged her out into the streets. Most of the tribesmen had already returned to their houses, but there were a few people loitering in the shadows as Arva cursed and struggled, kicking up dust as the guards dragged her towards the gates.

Word spread quickly, and by the time they reached the wall, dozens of people were waiting, staring in shock at the sight of a chieftain driving away one of his slaves.

He ignored them and waved the guards on. The gatekeeper let them out into the scrubland and Leortas led the way, muttering and cursing as he pounded past the Crucible Mound and on towards a wooded hillside framed by the low, sallow moon.

They were still a few minutes away from the silhouetted, leafless trees when someone called his name.

Leortas hesitated. The familiar voice sobered him up a little and he realised how foolish he was being. This was exactly what Alimus had warned him against: drawing attention to his hatred of Vedra’s kin.

He looked back and saw the sanorach near the gates, barging through the crowd of onlookers, lurching into the night with his odd, spider-like gait.

‘What are you doing?’ hissed Alimus when he reached Leortas’ side and drew him away from the others. His face was ugly with anger. ‘We’re only two weeks from the need-fire. This could ruin everything.’

‘She attacked me,’ he slurred. ‘I will not stand for it.’

Alimus grimaced. Then he looked over at the guards holding Arva. They had halted when Leortas did, watching the exchange.

‘So you’re taking her to the Fervour Tree?’ The sanorach squinted through the moonlight. ‘Without my sanction?’

Leortas nodded, trying to stop swaying.

Alimus nodded. ‘Very well. Do it. But I will say we discussed it, otherwise it will seem that you have broken with the old accords between sanorach and chieftain. I will say that her grief has driven her mad and we are determining whether she can be trusted or not.’ He nodded at the trees. ‘Begin the trial.’ Then he turned and hurried back to the crowd, waving them towards him.

Leortas tried not to grin. Whatever the risks, he was elated by the idea he would soon be rid of the girl.

The clinker trees shifted as Leortas and the others entered the wood. They were not true trees, but steep-sided cones of volcanic rock – black, jagged splinters of cooled lava that had been altered by the close proximity of the need-fire. The Crucible Mount was only a few hundred feet away and the power of change had given the clinker trees a strange kind of sentience. They creaked and popped as Leortas rushed past them, brittle and dry, crumbling into new shapes and reaching out with their cracked shards. The clinker trees were far too slow to catch a fast-moving man, but the people of the Sickle Keep still avoided the place. The clinker trees took every opportunity to feed. A misstep could be fatal.

The guards hurried after Leortas, dragging Arva up the hillside, through the clicking limbs of the clinker trees, up towards the summit.

The exertion was pumping the wine from Leortas’ body and he reached the top with a mixture of pleasure and doubt. Had he ruined everything?

The Fervour Tree was vast, looming over the rest of the wood, crowning the hilltop and filling the sky as Leortas walked cautiously beneath its charcoal boughs. Unlike the smaller clinker trees, it was veined with light. Golden threads pulsed beneath its shell, spiralling around the alcoves carved into its trunk – seats, framed by piles of rusty shackles and chains. Most of the seats were empty, but a few contained charred, twisted bodies. The figures were so burned they looked to be made of the same volcanic ore as the tree itself – jet black and gleaming dully in the moonlight, like the remnants of a fire. But, incredibly, they were not quite dead. As the group approached them, the blackened husks twitched in their seats, straining against the chains, crumbling to ash as they moved. Even if they had not been chained, they could never have moved. The Fervour Tree had skewered them with dozens of black spurs, shards of coal that had passed through the prisoners’ bodies and nailed them to the trunk.

Arva howled in rage as the guards dragged her towards the tree, staring in horror at the blackened bodies. The bodies tried to reply but their heads were too charred to speak. All they could manage was a pitiful moaning sound. Arva twisted in the guards’ grip, desperate to escape, trying to lash out, but they slammed her into a seat and shackled her to the trunk. She gasped in pain as she touched the bark, struggling frantically, but with every chain they fastened her movements became more limited until she could no longer stand. Smoke spiralled up from her back, drifting up into the jagged eaves. The smell of burning flesh filled the night.

‘He’s a liar,’ she snarled, glaring at Leortas, her voice strained and breathless. ‘I don’t know why, but he’s lying. Vedra did not betray us, she was betrayed. She died fighting. I saw her fall.’

No one answered, and Leortas smiled hungrily, keen for her trial to begin.

One of the guards headed off into the darkness and returned a few minutes later with black tar smeared over his hands. He grabbed Arva’s head and thumbed the tar over her upper eyelids, pasting her eyes open so that she could no longer close them or even blink. With her eyes gummed open and circled by tar, she looked even more furious, but she was now too securely fastened to move.

‘You attacked a chieftain,’ said Leortas, leaning close, filling her face with his wine-sour breath. ‘Within the sanctity of the throne room and without the permission of a sanorach.’ He stamped around the trunk, pointing his finger at her. ‘And you have added to the crime by accusing me of dishonesty!’ He held his hand near the trunk of the Fervour Tree, smiling as he felt the heat radiating from its core. ‘But I will not presume to judge you. We will let the Lord of Change decide,’ he waved at the tree, ‘through his creation.’

He stood in front of her again, still smiling, feeling a growing sense of relief as he pronounced her doom. Night-dark roots were already stirring near her feet, snapping and splitting, cracking into new shapes, nosing up towards her.

‘If you’re innocent,’ he said, waving at the charred remains either side of her, ‘you’ll survive long enough for the Lord of Change to embrace you, burning your flesh to the shell of the Fervour Tree.’

He touched one of the undead horrors, causing it to judder and crack. ‘But if you’re guilty, the creatures of the plains will take you before the tree can.’ He nodded at the empty seats. Many of them were glistening with blood. ‘And your guilt will be confirmed in the eyes of Tzeentch.’

He laughed as Arva spat on the roots that were already rising towards her, creating a hiss of steam. ‘Don’t worry. It never takes long. We’ll have our answer by dawn.’ He waved the guards away from the tree and began staggering back towards the Sickle Keep, feeling as though he had rid himself of a great weight.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

A shuddering boom echoed through the amphitheatre and the platform beneath Vedra shook with such violence that she almost dropped her axe. She looked up into the terraces at the Bloodmarshall, surprised that he had ended the bout so quickly. Only two of the fighters had died, both at the hands of the Stormcast Eternal, Savin. Khrall was not pounding the arm of his throne, but he had leant forwards to stare at the platforms. Something was wrong. The crowd fell quiet as all of the brass platforms began to shake and tilt.

‘No engines,’ muttered Vedra to herself, looking down into the lava. Usually, when the platforms moved back into place, there was a grinding rattle of pulleys and chains, but she could hear nothing.

She staggered again as the platform began to upend itself. Then she leapt to another platform as hers tilted and juddered away from her, dropping quickly down towards the lava.

The other combatants abandoned their fights as a low rumbling noise echoed through the fumes and the whole amphitheatre started to give way. Still, it was not the sound of engines, but something far more violent, and on a much larger scale. It sounded like an earthquake. The crowds began running and falling as the terraces slumped, filling the air with dust and sparks.

The Bloodmarshall rose from his throne, gripping his sword and towering over the chaos, shrouded in smoke as he looked around for the cause of the destruction.

A shaft of daylight cut down through the hellish pall, a dazzling column of dust motes that splashed down on the reeling crowds.

Khrall shook his grotesque head, peering up into the light. Then another shaft sliced down through the darkness and Vedra saw what was happening – something was smashing through the roof of the Abattoir, letting the harsh glare of the Arad Plains into the fortress.

Khrall roared a command and the Blood Warriors struggled to obey, trying to rush from the terraces to distant doors in the walls of the amphitheatre. It was useless, the whole building was shaking. The doors were rattling in their frames and the platforms were crashing into the lava, shedding fighters as they went. Vedra’s platform whirled through the dust clouds and hurled her into the air. She managed to land on another that was also falling, but then she saw one that was rushing sideways rather than dropping, hurtling towards the terraces. She leapt again, barely managing to reach it. Then, as it neared the terraces, she took a running jump over the gap, using the momentum of the platform to hurl herself through the smoke.

She crashed into the crowds of Khorne worshippers.

A few of the Blood Warriors noticed her but they were all too busy dodging falling masonry and trying to reach the doors to stop and fight.

There were now dozens of shafts of light puncturing the abyss. The first few had been columns of sunlight, but now there were bolts of electricity crashing down, blasting the terraces apart and hurling metal through the air.

Vedra had to duck as she ran through the tumult, holding her axe before her head as a shield. She glanced back into the arena and saw that the platforms had all collapsed. A few of the fighters were still clinging grimly to their perches, but most had fallen into the lava.

There was a thunderclap right next to Vedra and she was hurled backwards, slamming painfully into a staircase. A plume of smoke and embers washed over her and she was blind for a few seconds. Then, when the cloud cleared, she saw Savin wading through a wall of embers towards her, his golden armour shimmering in the blaze.

No, she realised, it was not Savin. The Stormcast Eternal’s face was hidden behind the same polished helmet and he clearly belonged to the same tribe, but his armour was slightly less ornate and he was carrying a tall shield in one hand and a golden hammer in the other.

He saw Vedra slumped on the floor and lunged, swinging his hammer at her face.

She rolled clear and the hammer smashed into the stairs, buckling the iron slabs like rotten wood.

Vedra jumped to her feet and swung her axe at his gleaming faceplate, but he caught the blow on his shield. The impact jarred through her arm and she dropped the axe, staggering backwards and falling to the floor again. The axe clanged across the steps and fell into the lava.

The Stormcast Eternal was about to swing his hammer again when a Blood Warrior smashed into him, driving him away from Vedra with a brutal axe blow.

The Stormcast Eternal stumbled, then slammed his hammer into the Blood Warrior’s helmet, punching him onto his back.

More Blood Warriors charged from the smoke and the Stormcast was driven back, away from Vedra, disappearing into a crowd of battling figures, leaving Vedra on the floor, unnoticed.

Columns of lightning were lashing down all across the amphitheatre, ripping up the terraces and depositing Stormcast Eternals in smouldering craters. The terraces became a battleground as gold clashed with crimson. The Bloodmarshall was in the upper levels, wading through the crush, struggling to wield his enormous sword in the mayhem.

Vedra jumped to her feet and raced through the hail of metal shards, dodging between the combatants. Her mind was racing. This was it. This was her chance to escape. She bounded up the steps towards the upper levels, leaping over some blows and ducking others, but refusing to be drawn into the battle. All her determination and training had led her to this one, brief chance of freedom. Whichever army prevailed, they would have no sympathy for her, but the confusion of the battle could give her enough time to find a way out.

Light was slicing into the Abattoir from dozens of directions as Sigmar’s host ripped the building open. The noise was incredible, like the heavens were being torn down around her. She had no doubt how this had come to be: Savin’s device. He had summoned this army to the fortress.

Vedra had almost reached the upper levels when she saw that a wall had caved in revealing what looked to be an armoury. It was hard to see through the fumes and embers, but there were rows of axes mounted on the walls.

She had been headed for the outer walls of the hall but, at the sight of the weapons, she changed direction, racing down one of the terraces towards the rent in the wall.

The Blood Warriors were all rushing towards Khrall, forming into ranks as he bellowed orders at them, so Vedra was free to clamber over the smouldering wreckage and into the armoury. It was a long, barrel-vaulted hall, crowded with hundreds of axes and swords. They were arrayed across the walls in rows that were as precise and orderly as the serried ranks gathering around the Bloodmarshall. Vedra studied them, trying to spot an axe that would be more suited to her size. Most of the weapons were enormous, designed with the hulking Blood Warriors in mind. Then, about halfway down the hall, she spotted a row of hand axes that looked more manageable. She ran towards them but halted a few feet away. Placed at the foot of the walls, beneath the weapon racks, there were rows of metal crates with a more jumbled assortment of weapons. They must have been taken from prisoners, realised Vedra. She could see battered Darkoath runeshields and cruel, foreign-looking blades. She rushed to one of the crates and rifled through the piles of weapons, then, with a cry of delight, she saw something familiar jutting out of another crate.

‘Biurtan!’ she gasped, hauling the iron spear out from beneath a mound of rusting helmets.

The metal hummed in her trembling fist, as though sighing in pleasure. She placed a kiss on the cold metal and closed her eyes for a second, sensing that this was a good omen. Then she grabbed one of the runeshields and dashed from the hall.

The scene on the terraces was even more tumultuous. There were now as many Stormcast Eternals in the Abattoir as there were Blood Warriors. The knights were fighting with such force that their blows were hastening the collapse of the hall.

Vedra flinched as a colossal section of roof dropped onto the battling warriors, crushing dozens of them and spawning another cloud of dust.

Up in the rafters, an enormous shape shouldered its way through the hole it had torn.

Vedra reeled in shock. Never, even in the madness of the need-fire, had she seen anything like the monster that had torn the roof open. It was a lizard, but as big as a longhouse. Its jaws alone could have engulfed Vedra’s whole chariot and, as it opened them to scream, a bolt of pure white sorcery spewed from between its sword-sized teeth, slamming into the Bloodmarshall.

Khrall caught the blast on his ebon sword but the force of it was so great that even he struggled to hold his position, leaning forwards into the torrent to keep upright.

The lizard dropped through the hole in the roof, shedding more masonry on the battle below, and spread a pair of vast, cobalt wings. Its immense, scaled body was clad in gold armour and, as it swooped down into the smoke clouds, Vedra saw a Stormcast Eternal on its back. The rider was clearly the chieftain – his armour was even more ornate than Savin’s and his helmet was haloed by a crown of metal lightning bolts. Rather than a hammer and shield, the rider was holding a long, ceremonial axe that was crackling with the same power that was sparking across the lizard’s teeth.

Khrall strode through the crowds and slashed his sword at the monster.

The battle faltered for a moment as everyone turned to watch the clash of these two goliaths.

The Bloodmarshall’s sword ripped through one of the lizard’s wings and it thrashed violently, smashing stone columns and buffeting the smoke clouds. Before it fell, it spat another gout of lightning at Khrall.

The Bloodmarshall’s sword was trapped in the lizard’s shoulder and the lightning slammed into his chest, punching through his scalloped armour, engulfing him in flames.

Khrall staggered backwards, smashing more of the terraces with his teetering bulk as the lizard crashed down onto the floor, flattening dozens more warriors and sending everyone else reeling.

As the lizard struggled to rise, its rider waved his axe and more lightning lashed through the gloom, hitting Khrall in the head.

He tumbled back into the wall of the chamber, trailing flames and demolishing more columns.

More of the roof came away, sending huge blocks of iron and stone into the crowds.

As the two titans readied themselves for another attack, Vedra saw her chance.

As Khrall staggered back towards his opponent, he left a ragged opening in the wall behind him. Vedra’s eyes had become accustomed to daylight again and she could see the plains through the hole.

The battle was raging again and she barely had to defend herself as she ran through the carnage, ignoring both armies as she headed towards the opening Khrall had made.

She had to put her spear and shield on her back and climb the last stretch, hauling herself over the rubble.

As she got closer, she saw how perfect her escape route was. Everyone was behind her, either battling for their lives or watching the two giants warring over their heads, so the exit was clear. And Khrall had sent rubble out into the daylight, creating a slope of sheared metal and shattered stone that she would be able to scramble down.

Vedra was just a few feet away from the opening, when a Blood Warrior loomed into view, blocking her way.

‘Rhukan,’ she muttered, recognising the pitmaster’s jagged hook.

His armour was scored and blackened, and he looked injured as he rushed towards her. He was gripping an axe in his one good hand.

‘This was you,’ he said, waving his hook at the destruction ripping through the Abattoir. His voice was hoarse with rage. ‘I don’t know how, but it was you.’

Before Vedra could whip her spear from her back, Rhukan hit her with his hook, a savage, backhanded blow that snapped her head back and ripped her cheek open, spraying blood through the air and leaving her sprawled on the rubble.

She leapt to her feet, grabbing Biurtan as she rose, but Rhukan moved incredibly fast, kicking her in the stomach with one of his iron-shod boots.

Vedra dropped to her knees, unable to breathe.

Rhukan grabbed her mohawk, yanked her head back and drew back his axe for the killing blow.

Then he crashed to the floor, his head flattened, spilling blood and fragments of skull from his skin mask.

He twitched for a moment, then lay still. It was clear, from the shape of his mask, that his head had collapsed.

For a moment, as she struggled to draw breath, Vedra could not understand what had happened. It seemed as though Rhukan’s head had caved in of its own accord.

Then as she finally dragged air into her lungs, her vision cleared and she saw a Stormcast Eternal standing over the corpse, his hammer still shimmering with sorcery.

It was Savin.

He held out a hand and hauled her to her feet.

‘He was right,’ he said, nodding at the collapsing fortress. ‘This is thanks to you.’

She nodded, unsure what to say. Sigmarites were her sworn enemy. If she had helped them, it was only to earn her freedom. And yet, here she was, owing her life to a Stormcast Eternal.

As she frowned at him, Savin seemed to guess what she was thinking.

‘The debt is repaid,’ he said. ‘Next time we meet…’

She nodded, glad they understood each other.

Vedra hesitated, studying him for a moment, ignoring the tumult that surrounded them. They were both utterly different and yet strangely alike.

Then she ran past him and bolted out into the light.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

At first, Arva was too furious to think clearly. Then, as her heart slowed and her breath settled into a steadier rhythm, she tried to think as her sister would. Vedra had taught her everything she knew. Their parents were killed while Arva was still a child, and she could barely remember them, but Vedra’s face was present in every one of her memories: driving her on, forcing her to be quicker and stronger, raging at her when she did not think clearly or consider her words. What would Vedra do now, if she were still alive – if she were chained to the Fervour Tree? She would ready herself for whatever opportunities arose, she would keep her wits sharp and her limbs supple.

Arva tensed and relaxed each of her muscles in turn, checking for cramps and keeping the blood flowing. She was relatively uninjured. Her back was a sheet of agony where it had touched the Fervour Tree, but, even bound by the chains, she could tell that she could move as well as usual. As she checked her body, she tried to consider her situation calmly, as Vedra would have done. The chains that bound her were rusty and old, perhaps they would give if she stretched in the right way. After a few minutes of straining and grunting, she was sure that they would not give.

The roots beneath her feet cracked and splintered again, moving towards her. Two of them had already risen a foot from the ground, forming into crooked, spindly talons. The talons ended in sharpened points and Arva knew where they were heading – the Fervour Tree would pierce her eyes first, plunging its spurs through the pupils and on into her brain, where it would release its poisons, preserving her as she burned and blistered, merging with the tree. Her eyes had been pasted open so that she would see Tzeentch’s judgement edging towards her, inch by inch, with no way to avert her gaze from her supposed guilt. Hot panic flashed in her stomach as she considered the fate that awaited her, but she fought it down, determined to stay calm.

She looked past the slowly approaching roots, to the rest of the glade. It was a place of power. She was no sanorach, but she could feel it in her flesh. She came here often as a child, despite Vedra’s warnings. Dangerous as they were, the clinker trees fascinated her. The bards sang legends of the time when Darkoath tribes first conquered the plains – centuries ago, when their power was unmatched by any foe. And the legends told how, as the tribes marched, triumphant across the plains, raising the crucible mounds and slaughtering their foes, the glades of clinker trees burned like victory brands, filling the sky with fire. Even now, she could feel their heat, rippling through the air.

The clinker trees were meshed tightly together, creating an almost impenetrable mass of dagger-spines and stone shards. But people did force their way through the wood from time to time – outlanders usually. This particular patch of woodland was the quickest route to Old Scald, a geyser to the south of the Sickle Keep, and many travellers came hunting for the gemstones that boiled up through the pools around the geyser.

She called out into the darkness, her voice echoing oddly through the black, brittle rows.

There was no reply, just the breeze whistling through the boughs.

She shouted again, louder, her voice breaking with the effort, but still there was nothing.

Her eyes were in agony from being unable to blink and her vision was clouding over, but she could tell that there was no movement other than the roots edging closer. They snapped loudly and jerked a few inches higher – claw-like growths that had now reached as high as her knees, close enough to singe her skin. She tried to nudge them away, but the chains were too tight.

She called out a few more times, but something about the way her voice echoed through the night told her she was alone.

Night wore on and the roots crept closer. Incredibly, Arva began to feel drowsy. Even though she could not close her eyes, she found her thoughts slipping into dream-like abstraction. Scenes from previous days merged with the darkness of the glade. She saw Vedra as she last saw her, rushing back through crowds of Blood Warriors, trying to leave the enemy fortress, trying to return to the Untamed, fury etched into her gaunt features. She had looked utterly defiant, even as the Blood Warriors cut her down. Whatever Leortas had told the other chieftains was a lie. Vedra had been tricked. Arva had seen it in her eyes before she died. The thought of Vedra’s death filled Arva with a black, soul-leeching sadness that seemed to crush her into the seat. For as long as she could remember, the one constant in her life had been Vedra. She had always had absolute faith in anything her sister said. At no point in her life had Arva ever thought that Vedra might be as fallible as anyone else – that she might one day fail. Even now, she could not quite comprehend it: Vedra had failed. Her mind slipped from that heart-breaking thought to other, more mundane scenes; faces from her past merged with ones from her present.

Arva stiffened in her seat, sitting up with a jolt as she realised that she had somehow fallen asleep.

Her eyes were balls of agony and her vision was completely blurred. She could barely see the glade. Pools of tears had formed, unbidden, beneath her eyes, but the eyes themselves were as dry as sun-baked stone, she could feel them creaking and scraping as she tried to look around.

Someone was with her. The realisation caused her to gasp in shock. Even with blurred vision she could see someone looming in front of her, small and frenetic, bobbing from side to side, tilting and twitching. She realised it was not a person but a bird.

‘Not long,’ said a voice. It was a thin, peevish sound, like a nail being drawn from a plank.

Arva looked down and saw that the roots were just inches from her eyes – so close that she could see the sharpened points creeping slowly through the air towards her.

‘Who’s there?’ she demanded, looking past the bird’s face, trying to see who had spoken.

‘Why did he do this to you?’ said the hideous voice and Arva realised that it was coming from the bird.

She strained to focus on the shapes before her, confused by the strange collection of outlines. There was a bird just inches in front of her face, a crow, she realised, but it seemed to be merged with the torso of a man.

‘Korvis!’ she gasped, finally understanding. She had sat with the Sachalites’ Seer-lord during the victory feast and had seen close up how he spoke through the bird in his chest.

As soon as she remembered the chieftain’s mutation she was able to make sense of the figure before her. Korvis was sitting on something, up off the ground, and he had leant close, bringing his crow’s head level with her face, stuffing berries into its open beak. She realised that he was sitting on a litter, carried by several other Sachalites.

‘Why does Leortas fear you?’ asked Korvis.

One of the lessons Vedra had taught her was when to speak and when not to speak. She had kept her silence since the battle, speaking only to her kin about what she had seen. With Vedra gone, her whole family’s life was in the balance. But now, with the roots of the Fervour Tree hovering in her peripheral vision, she decided that, strange as he was, Korvis was her only hope.

‘He’s a liar,’ she said. ‘And he knows that I know.’

Korvis pushed a few more berries into the crow’s beak. It crushed them and threw its head back to gulp them down, then said: ‘What did he lie about?’

‘I don’t know what he said to you about my sister, but someone betrayed her. When she breached the fortress, she saw something that troubled her and tried to come back out, but the gates closed before she could reach us. She was furious. Someone tricked her. And Leortas knows who, I’m sure of it. I saw it in his eyes. He’s lying.’

Korvis leant back on his litter and fell quiet for a moment.

‘Thank you,’ he screeched. Then he waved at his litter bearers and started to leave the clearing.

‘Wait!’ she howled. ‘I’m innocent.’

Korvis halted his litter and looked back at her. ‘Of course.’

‘But you’re leaving me to die?’

Korvis laughed. The sound of a crow laughing was one of the cruellest noises Arva had ever heard and her heart sank. He seemed to be mocking her.

He waved his litter back towards her. ‘You don’t want to die?’

‘No!’ she cried.

He shrugged. Then he waved some of his men over to her and they began hacking at the chains with axes, filling the darkness with embers as the blades split iron and thudded into the Fervour Tree.

As his men worked, Korvis seemed to forget about Arva, stroking the crow’s head as he looked up at the stars, humming a tune in his human throat.

The chains were ancient and it only took the tribesmen a few minutes to destroy them. They had almost freed her when one of the blades shaved through the side of her thigh, splashing blood on the tree and causing her to cry out in pain.

She shook her head and waved for the man to continue.

As the last chain fell away they helped her to her feet.

Despite her efforts to prevent it, Arva’s legs were stiff with cramp and she had to stamp around the clearing like a revenant until the blood was flowing again. Then she gingerly reached up to one of her eyelids and wiped the tar away.

She gasped in pain as her eyelid scraped down over her dry cornea. It was more agonising than the burns on her back, so she did the same with the other eye before she had time to lose her nerve.

She stood there for a few moments, blinking slowly and wincing, trying to moisten her eyes. The pain got worse, but her vision began to clear and she saw that Korvis was heading back into the trees.

‘Wait!’ she cried, limping after him. ‘What will you do?’

He turned to look back at her and screeched through the crow. ‘Nest in the pathless grove. Contemplate the news.’

She shook her head, struggling to keep up as they carried his litter through the clinker trees and back towards the distant lights of the Sickle Keep. ‘What?’

Korvis had no mouth to smile with, but there was something about the way his eyes crumpled that made her think he was amused by her. He halted the litter and reached out, offering her a handful of berries.

Arva had observed the Sachalites at close hand. To a man they were deranged and distracted. Not many were as physically transformed as Korvis, but they all spent more time talking to air than people. She shook her head.

Korvis shrugged but continued staring at her. His human eyes managed to focus, briefly, on her face and he nodded. ‘I must look into the nine fires,’ he said, speaking slowly, trying to make the crow’s voice easier to understand. ‘You confirmed my suspicions, so now I must decide how to act. Leortas is not to be trusted. At least until I know why he is lying. He’s false. I saw that even before we left the south. Budar is unwavering though, I think. His grasp of the flames is too simple to be dishonest. I will find him and ask for help.’

‘Take me with you.’ Arva pounded her chest. ‘The Warqueen was betrayed. To her death. I saw her die.’ Her voice grew tight. ‘And I mean to avenge her.’

Korvis shrugged again, but he still had that same amused look in his eyes. He waved the litter on and nodded for her to follow.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Vedra travelled north, following the borders of the Scornwood Holt, knowing that the glades of clinker trees would eventually lead her to the shores of the Unmeant Lake. From there she would only have to follow the curve of the lake to the east, until the trees led her right to the gates of the Sickle Keep. The plains were as baked and hot as ever, but, as dusk fell, the stars revealed that it was now the ninth month – nearly mid-winter. The thought horrified her. It would soon be time for the next need-fire. She had spent the better part of a year fighting in the Abattoir.

She had spent the whole day running across the southern plains, determined to get as far from the Abattoir as possible before the battle reached a conclusion. If Khrall’s Blood Warriors were victorious, her absence would soon be noted and, after all that had happened, she had a feeling Khrall might send his knights out to hunt her down. When she spoke to the Bloodmarshall, she sensed that he wanted something more from her than her death – that he expected something of her. She had no idea what he saw in her but she was determined not to return to the Abattoir until it was at the head of an army.

Her muscles were screaming with the effort of so many hours’ running, so as the shadows lengthened, reaching out from the jagged tips of the clinker trees, she finally allowed herself a brief moment of rest. She was near a long, ancient ditch. The Arad Plains were networked with the outlines of vast citadels, relics from the ages before the coming of Chaos, built by a long forgotten race. This one was no more than ditches and mounds, but she used the higher ground to steal a look back to the south, towards the Abattoir. The sky was lit by two setting suns – the first was the true sun, the second was Khrall’s fortress, blazing on the horizon like a crucible, sending a thick black column of smoke up into the emerging stars. There was no sign of the storm clouds she observed when she first began fleeing across the plains, but there were still flashes of silver light, pulsing sporadically from its shattered silhouette. The battle was still undecided. She nodded, pleased. They would all be far too busy to worry about one escapee.

Vedra turned her gaze to the earthworks beneath her feet. They trailed away from her in every direction, describing the outline of great halls and keeps. Whoever ruled the plains before the arrival of Chaos had clearly been a great nation. There was nothing left now but grassy mounds in the shape of buildings, but the citadel must have been vast – even greater than the Abattoir. It had not helped them. Whoever built the place was long gone, driven out by an enemy that was probably also forgotten now.

She was about to continue on her way, when Vedra noticed something unexpected. The outline of the building she was standing on was a familiar shape – a twin-tailed comet. For a moment, she could not place the design, then she grunted in surprise. She had seen it on Savin’s armour and on the metal device he used to summon the Stormhost. She shook her head. There was still so much that she did not know. All that she had heard of the Stormcast Eternals was that they were a newly forged army, born in the heavens to conquer the Chaos gods, but here was evidence that servants of Sigmar once lived in these very plains, before the coming of Chaos. Vedra had spent her whole life training her flesh to be unbreakable, but her encounters in the Abattoir had revealed how little she knew of the wider world. She swore to learn more once she had dealt with Alimus. Alimus. The thought of the old sanorach twisted in her stomach. She sprinted on into the night, rage simmering in her veins.

CHAPTER TWENTY

‘You’re lucky,’ said Alimus, glaring at Leortas as they climbed up towards the clinker trees. Leortas’ retainers were far ahead of them, scouting through the woods, and Alimus was free to speak openly. ‘Some of the younger chieftains made jokes at your expense, saying you had been rowing with your slaves, but I put the fear of Tzeentch in them. I reminded them that not all of the seats on the Fervour Tree have been filled. That stilled their tongues.’

Leortas could barely follow what the sanorach was saying. It was now mid-morning and the sun was rising high over the plains, but his head was still pounding from the wine he had drunk the day before. Every step he took clamped his skull a little tighter. Things that seemed glorious and assured yesterday, seemed shameful and full of risk today. ‘You said she was insane? You told them that’s why we had to kill her?’

‘Yes, I told them she was tormented by Vedra’s treachery. I said that she could not bear the idea that the Warqueen, her own sister, had so willingly joined the ranks of Khorne worshippers. I said that Arva’s thoughts drove her to such distraction that she turned on you – but you were too noble to retaliate and left her fate to the Fervour Tree.’

Leortas grabbed Alimus’ arm, halting him at the edge of the clinker trees. ‘Arva knows what really happened to Vedra. She saw it. She saw her die.’

Alimus nodded. ‘Yes, Arva was at my side when the Blood Warriors cut the Warqueen down. We were both near the gates and she saw it as clearly as I did. But it doesn’t matter. No one would take Arva’s word over mine. They think she went insane.’ He waved at the distant crown of the Fervour Tree. ‘And now we’re rid of her, so who cares what she saw? I told the chieftains that the Blood Warriors welcomed the Warqueen into their fortress and that she’s still there, praying to Khorne and plotting to destroy us. With Arva gone, who can contradict me?’

Leortas’ face was still locked in a scowl, but he nodded and loosed Alimus’ arm and they entered the wood, making for the colossus at its heart.

The clinker trees looked no less treacherous in daylight – fractured, glassy shards, splintering up through the packed earth like spears. Leortas was sweating after a few minutes of walking past them, muttering under his breath as their heat made his head pound even harder.

He was lagging behind Alimus when he heard the old man whisper something. He sounded surprised.

Leortas picked up his pace and hurried into the clearing. He staggered to a halt. Arva was gone. The chains had been smashed and ripped from the seat.

‘What’s this?’ he gasped, rushing to the Fervour Tree and almost touching the trunk before its heat warned him off.

‘She was guilty,’ said Alimus, sounding surprised. He nodded at a dark stain on the ground, near the tree.

Leortas dropped to one knee and touched it. ‘Blood?’

Alimus nodded, waving his staff at other, similar stains on the broken chains. ‘Something took her.’ He looked around at the menacing shapes of the clinker trees. ‘I thought she would be joined with Tzeentch, but she must truly have been disloyal.’

Leortas was still looking at the blood. ‘But what if she survived?’

Alimus laughed and nodded at the broken chains. ‘Whatever attacked her had jaws strong enough to break through iron. She’s dead.’ He placed a hand on Leortas’ shoulder. ‘Come, it’s nearly the night of the need-fire. Vedra is dead and so is her sister. Everything is proceeding as I have foreseen.’

Leortas nodded, but as they headed back through the trees, his headache grew even worse and he could not shake his growing sense of dread.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Alimus cried out, lacing his tremulous words with sorcery so that they reached the crowds gathered around the Crucible Mound. ‘Am I the Herald of the Ninth?’

‘You are,’ chorused the crowd, edging closer, staring at the miracle forming over the hollow behind him – a blaze bright enough to rival the dawn.

‘Am I the holder of the key to the nine doors?’

‘You are.’

‘It is the dawning of the ninth day of the ninth month. Once more, the Changer of Ways has driven back the darkness, illuminating us with the flame of truth.’

‘Have you brought his fire?’ called the crowd. It was an incredible sound. The Untamed had gathered beneath the mound in their thousands to witness the need-fire: the Sachalites, the Throod, the Tannen and the dozens of lesser tribes that had also sworn fealty to Vedra – legions of keen-eyed warriors, eager to know who now ruled in Vedra’s stead.

Alimus reached beneath his vivid blue robes and held up a drinking horn. Then he turned to face the three figures gathered next to him. Budar looked as imposing as ever – towering over Alimus, glowering and muscular, gripping his massive axe in both hands. His short, black beard was glistening with the sacred draughts he had consumed on the way to the mound and his eyes were glaring out from beneath his heavy brow. Next to him was Leortas, his chin raised, his expression proud, his mane of silver plaits thrown back from his imperious face. On the other side of Alimus was Korvis. Unusually, he was standing on the ground. The Sachalite faith forbade their Seer-lord from treading on normal, mortal earth, but the summit of the Crucible Mound was another matter. It was sacred ground, cooled by the flames of the need-fire and Korvis had abandoned his litter at the foot of the hill. His legs were so crooked and emaciated that he could barely stand, but his charcoal-rimmed eyes were wide with excitement and the crow’s head in his chest was jerking from side to side, pecking frantically at the air.

Alimus waved his claw-topped staff towards the flames at the top of the mound. ‘Three of you will enter,’ he cried. ‘Only one will return.’ He looked at each of the three tribesmen in turn. ‘The Architect of Fate has sent his fire. The flames will choose. Are you ready to begin?’

Budar gripped his axe tighter and nodded. Leortas held his sword aloft, eliciting a roar of approval from the Tannen. Korvis was staring at the need-fire in wonder and did not seem to hear Alimus.

‘Are you ready to begin?’ repeated the sanorach, leaning closer to him.

Korvis’ human eyes remained locked on the lights, but he drew two of the long knives strapped to his chest and the crow tilted its head to look at Alimus. ‘Let Tzeentch decide,’ it screamed.

Alimus hesitated. There was something about Korvis’ behaviour that troubled him. The old seer was even more agitated than usual, glancing from the need-fire to the glades of clinker trees around the Sickle Keep.

He shook his head. Annoyed at himself. The Sachalites were always strange. His nerves were just getting the better of him.

He approached each of the chieftains in turn and poured tincture on their heads. Then, as they ran, howling, into the lights, he poured some on his own head and entered the need-fire.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

‘He said the other side!’ Arva was racing ahead of her cousin, Haditha, heading away from the crowds to the far side of the Crucible Mound, behind the need-fire.

Haditha was a few years older than Arva and he was clearly annoyed by the off-handed way she was giving him orders. ‘We’re missing the whole thing. We won’t see anything back here.’

‘Keep your voice down,’ she hissed, nodding at the guards that surrounded the hill. They were scattered around the circumference in groups of two and three, lit up by the sapphire blaze above, ensuring that only Alimus and the three chieftains entered the Trial of Choosing.

Haditha glared at her but followed. He had seen her talking to Korvis and demanded to be involved in whatever game she was playing.

She pointed her spear at a nearby glade of clinker trees. ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘Korvis’ visions told him the true champion would emerge from those trees.’

Haditha shook his head. ‘True champion? The need-fire will decide who rules. Budar, Korvis or Leortas will become king. And none of them will want to keep us around. Why should there be another champion?’

‘Because they’re lying!’ she hissed, grabbing Haditha by the shoulder and pulling him close, her eyes blazing. She shook her head. ‘Korvis seems different, but Leortas and Alimus are tricking everyone, I know it. He and the sanorach said Vedra betrayed us, but I saw her die, still fighting the Blood Warriors when they cut her down. She never abandoned us, Haditha.’

He stared back at her. Then he looked up at the lights of the need-fire. ‘The sanorach is lying?’

She nodded, her expression grim.

Haditha shook his head. ‘If that is true, how can you trust Korvis?’ He waved at the trees. ‘Why listen to anything he says?’

‘Because he saved my life, Haditha, when he had no need to. I trust him. He said the true champion would emerge from those trees as soon as the trial began.’

He scowled at her again, but followed her gaze as she looked back towards the trees.

There was nothing there. He shook his head and turned to go. ‘The need-fire comes once a year and we’re missing it because a lunatic told you to watch trees.’

‘Look,’ gasped Arva.

A figure was sprinting across the scrub towards the mound, gripping a long, iron spear. She was filthy, covered in embers and caked in dried blood, but her defiant snarl was unmistakable.

‘Vedra,’ whispered Arva, feeling sick with shock, unable to believe what she was seeing.

The guards had seen her too. As Vedra neared the mound, they ran towards her, raising their axes and yelling warnings. No one, not even a Warqueen, could enter the need-fire without the sanction of a sanorach.

Arva sprinted across the grass towards her sister, her mind crowded with impossible thoughts. Vedra was alive.

Vedra was too busy to notice her sister. As the guards reached her she smashed them aside with her spear, vaulting blows and racing on to the mound, her face rigid with fury.

One of the guards, unseen by Vedra, drew back his axe to hurl it at the Warqueen.

Arva was faster, throwing her spear as she ran. It thudded into his back and sent him tumbling across the hard earth.

Vedra ran on and dived into the flames, oblivious, as the guards turned to face Arva and Haditha.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Vedra had only ever seen the need-fire through the lens of Alimus’ sacred tinctures. As she stumbled to a halt beneath the sapphire dome, it looked more bizarre than ever before. Without the sorcery of the sanorach, there were no visions, just the bizarre sight of the three chieftains staggering back and forth through the blaze, blind to the real world, lashing out at unseen shapes.

‘Alimus,’ she snarled as she saw the old seer, staggering into the lights from the opposite direction. After so many months of picturing his face, cherishing her dreams of revenge, it was almost overwhelming to finally see him in the flesh, blinded by visions and lurching towards her.

She jogged across the hollow and drew back Biurtan, preparing to hurl the spear into Alimus’ throat. She hesitated. This was not right. This was not the revenge she dreamt of. How could she avenge Tuath, Zuchis and all the others who died if Alimus could not even see her face? No, he had to know she had come for him. He had to see his executioner. She had to enter the dance. She approached the sanorach, snatched the drinking horn from his belt, poured tincture onto her scalp and stepped into his dream.

‘Vedra!’ howled Alimus, cowering away from her.

She kept her eyes locked on his, ignoring the vistas exploding into view all around her, glorying in his confusion. Augur and prophecy blossomed through her thoughts, but she drove them down with the vehemence of her hate.

‘For Tuath,’ she cried, jamming her spear into his chest.

His eyes widened in shock and pain. Blood rushed through his robes.

‘For Zuchis!’ she cried, striking again.

Alimus paled and fell to his knees as she avenged every one of her fallen kin, accompanying every howled name with a thrust of her spear.

He collapsed onto his back, shaking in agony, clutching at his chest.

Vedra stepped away, battered by tides of madness as she waited to see him die.

Rather than stopping, Alimus continued to shake.

Something was wrong.

Vedra realised, to her horror, that he was not shaking with pain, but laughter.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

‘Now what do we do?’ cried Haditha as the guards rushed towards them, furious expressions on their faces.

Arva drew a dagger from her belt and shook her head, backing away. They were Tannen – Leortas’ men. There would be no negotiating with them, but the idea of running away appalled her.

More guards were approaching from the other direction, but before they reached her, they slowed and began pointing at the need-fire. Something strange was happening. The lights were lashing up from the Crucible Mound, reaching up into the dawn, and they were changing colour. Need-fires always burned the same sapphire blue, but as the need-fire abandoned its usual form, other colours appeared: green, red and gold, rolling through the furnace like storm clouds.

The guards stopped to look, forgetting about Arva and Haditha. None of them had ever seen anything like this. The need-fire was changing.

The lights stretched higher and then began spilling down the slopes of the mound, scattering limbs of colour through the early morning gloom.

A great clamour rose on the far side of the fire, where the crowds had gathered: voices crying out in warning and alarm.

Arva and Haditha glanced at each other, confused, then ran back the way they had come, heading towards the front of the mound with the guards running alongside them.

They rounded the shoulder of the hill and saw an incredible scene: thousands of tribesmen, howling and cursing, calling out to their leaders in the need-fire. Some of them had even climbed the slopes of the mound, trying to peer into the furnace.

Arva gasped as she saw the cause of the commotion. The horizon had turned red. A sea of blood was pouring through the fields, seething and tumbling across the plains.

Arva stared in shock as she realised the dreadful truth: it was not an ocean, but an army – Blood Warriors, thousands of them, marching on the Sickle Keep. At their head there was a crimson-clad giant, clutching a sword the size of a storehouse. He was pointing it at the need-fire, ordering his legions to advance.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Vedra backed away from Alimus, horrified and confused as his body began to change. His blue robes began to splinter and fragment, becoming long, iridescent feathers. The blood pouring from his countless wounds added its colour to his plumage, edging the feathers with crimson and pink as the sanorach rose to his feet and stood before her, smiling.

‘Too late,’ he said. His words resounded in her head, but they also exploded in the air, forming a glittering rain of crystals that engulfed Alimus, fracturing his outline as it warped and mutated.

He raised his staff and she saw it had merged with his flesh. The claw at its head was now Alimus’ claw and he reached out with it, wrapping long, iron-hard talons around her throat.

‘Tzeentch has chosen,’ he said, forcing her to her knees, his words spinning around his head like shattered ice. ‘And he has chosen me.’

As Vedra struggled in his grip, she saw other shapes trying to fight through the kaleidoscope of exploding shards. Their shapes were confused and dazzling, but she recognised them: Budar’s lumbering bulk, Leortas’ proud stride and Korvis’ wasted, skeletal frame. They were trying to break through the shifting mass of colours, but it was impossible.

The lights burned into her eyes as his eagle-claw crushed her throat. She tried to rise but his strength was inhuman. She could not breathe. Her pulse hammered in her skull and her lungs burned. Alimus leant closer, still laughing, as she started to die. The Serpent Stone was at his neck, blazing with the same power that burned in his eyes.

The chieftains were still flailing against the lights, but it was impossible. Alimus was ablaze with power. It was radiating from him like sunlight.

As the strength left Vedra’s body, her mind slipped through the coruscating lights, carried on the strands of lambent power. She began to hear thoughts: Leortas, raging at Alimus’ treachery, Budar, furious at himself for being misled and Korvis, willing her on, believing, despite everything, that she had come to retake her crown.

Her thoughts passed blindly on, out from the Crucible Mound, into the minds of her people. They were horrified by something she could not see. Something approaching them across the plains.

Their voices filled her head, a desperate clamour of curses and invocations, rising to such a dreadful cacophony that she found herself howling along with them.

At first, she cried like an animal, a ragged, meaningless roar, but then, as Alimus squeezed the last moments of life from her, words formed in her throat – harsh, foreign words that she did not understand. They took shape in her mouth of their own volition, but from the first syllable she recognised them. It was the oath she heard in the Abattoir – the oath of the bloodreavers. She hesitated, recalling the hideous fate that befell every one of the warriors who swore those words. Then she thought of the savage power they harnessed before it tore them apart.

Vedra looked at Alimus’ leering grin and knew she had no choice. If it was her time to die, so be it, but she would take Alimus with her. Khorne’s fury would destroy her, but it would unchain her first. She howled the words, deliberately this time, crying the curse with all the force she could muster.

Alimus’ expression changed instantly. The glee fell from his face as Vedra’s words roared from her throat. He shook his head, confused, as a new power entered the lights of the need-fire, flooding Vedra with savage, shocking strength.

As she cried the oath even louder, vigour flooded Vedra’s muscles. She rose, forcing Alimus back with wonderful ease.

His shock changed to fear as she gripped his claw and prized his talons from her throat. The bones snapped and crumpled as she pushed him back through the maelstrom.

Her muscles were swelling and blood was sweating through her pores, flowing down her limbs in rivulets, bleeding from her eyes.

Vedra’s cry became incoherent again. The oath was complete. Savage strength was coursing through her veins.

She crushed Alimus to the ground and wrenched his mutated limb from his body, shattering the bones and tearing the ligaments.

Fire erupted from Alimus’ torn shoulder and he screamed, thrashing in her grip.

Vedra’s heart was thundering. Her strength was incredible. Her howl became peals of laughter. To die, like this, was worth anything that followed.

She pulled Alimus apart, painting crystalline flames with his blood. Surrounding herself in walls of crimson. Destroying every piece of his flesh.

Finally, when there was nothing left of Alimus but glistening mounds, she grabbed the Serpent Stone from the gore, pressed it to her chest and closed her eyes, waiting for her body to disintegrate.

Her fury and strength continued to grow. As she stood there, eyes closed and head thrown back, the blood oath ripped through her bones, still transforming her. She had expected pain but felt only a glorious, heady ascendancy. She passed beyond the confines of her flesh. Embracing something greater. Something more ferocious.

A memory from the Abattoir came back to her – the Bloodmarshall, studying her with interest from his throne, as he said, ‘Many can follow. Few can lead.’

Vedra smiled as she realised something incredible. She was not dying.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Arva raced through the crowds, back up onto the slopes of the mound, trying to get a better view. With the greater chieftains lost in the need-fire, the Darkoath tribes had devolved into a frenzied mob. As the Blood Warriors filled the plains with blocks of well-ordered troops, the tribesmen turned on each other, dozens of lesser chieftains vying for ascendancy, shouting over each other as they tried to seize control, but only succeeding in dividing the Untamed into dozens of confused factions, all unable to agree on a plan.

Arva shook her head, despairing.

‘It’ll be a massacre,’ muttered Haditha, climbing up beside her, his face ashen as he studied the vast host that had encircled them.

‘What are they doing?’ replied Arva, frowning. It was hard to see clearly with the need-fire blazing behind her, but the Blood Warriors were doing something odd. As they reached the glades and fields around the Sickle Keep, they were halting, still hundreds of feet away from the confused rabble around the Crucible Mound. A few blocks of troops, led by the armoured giant at their head, were marching closer, but they had not drawn their weapons. Finally, even they came to a halt. The giant planted his colossal sword in the ground and rested his hands on the pommel, silent and motionless.

As the Darkoath tribes saw what was happening, even they stopped their arguments, staring in confusion at the Blood Warriors.

A strange, expectant quiet fell over the plains.

Haditha looked at Arva. ‘What are they waiting for? They have us completely surrounded.’

Arva was about to reply, when the lights behind them blazed brighter. She whirled around and howled in shock. The need-fire had become a pillar of flame, reaching up into the sky, splashing colours across the underside of the clouds. It burned so bright that Arva and Haditha had to shield their eyes as they backed down the slope, driven back by a sudden wave of heat.

All around the Crucible Mound, the tribesmen dropped to their knees, crying out prayers and clutching amulets as they witnessed a miracle.

As she stumbled down the hill, Arva saw something almost as incredible as the pillar of fire – it was not just the tribes who were kneeling. The Blood Warriors were doing the same, thousands of them, dropping to one knee and holding their axes aloft. Finally, when the last of his soldiers had knelt, even their colossal general bent his knee, causing the ground to judder as he slammed his weight down onto the packed earth.

Arva shook her head in wonder. As she reached the foot of the hill, she stumbled and dropped down with everyone else, unable to comprehend the majesty of the scene. There was something forming in the flames – a point of intense darkness, swelling and changing, reforming itself as it moved closer, trailing tendrils of shadow.

Arva gasped as the darkness emerged from the fire.

It was Vedra, bathed in blood and wreathed in flames. She strode from the need-fire with her chin raised and something glinting at her chest. Arva tried to see what it was, but it flashed too bright for her to be sure.

Vedra stood there for a moment, exultant, taking in the vast host arrayed before her. Then she raised her spear over her head and howled into the tempest, her voice carried on the flames of the need-fire. ‘Untamed!’

There was a brief, shocked pause, then every throat on the plains roared back in answer. ‘Untamed!’

As she turned to see the scale of Vedra’s victory, Arva saw another miracle.

All across the plains, the clinker trees were igniting, filling the skies with an ember rain. She looked back at her sister. Vedra met her gaze, bathing in the glory, tears of triumph in her eyes.

THE RED HOURS

EVAN DICKEN

CHAPTER ONE

‘Going somewhere, hero?’

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

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

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

‘Captain,’ Hess replied through gritted teeth.

‘What?’ Rollo cocked his head.

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

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

This time, he toppled from his ibuq.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rollo kicked a spray of rusty grit at him.

‘Quiet!’ he barked.

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

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

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

Gert shrugged. ‘Maybe raiders, maybe natives.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An aelf.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You are native to Chamon?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘A shardstorm?’ Flynn asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She made no reply but to tug her cowl lower.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hess heard the woman long before he saw her.

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

Someone rumbled a response.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘You are dismissed, Schmidt.’

‘I–’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least he hoped so.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The castellan raised an eyebrow.

Hess hesitated a second longer, then shook his head.

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

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

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

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

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

‘If you will just let me explain.’

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

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

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

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

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

‘I did my duty.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so they did.

CHAPTER THREE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Flynn?’ Hess asked.

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

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

Hanar muttered something under his breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the duardin was already moving off.

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

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

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

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

They hurried down the corridor and straight into hell.

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

It was nothing compared to the shardstorm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nudged Altenbach and they made for the gate.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hess took a deep breath and nodded.

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

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

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

Slowly, the door moved.

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

‘Get on my back!’ Hess shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER FOUR

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If the two heard, they gave no sign.

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

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

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

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

At last, Hanar tumbled off the priest.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thystra returned a grateful nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘It was not your fault,’ Hess said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘By Sigmar,’ Flynn said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Is she dead?’ Thystra frowned.

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

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

CHAPTER FIVE

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

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

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

Stance low and cautious, he brushed aside the drapery.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Altenbach is dead,’ Hess said.

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

‘She was murdered in her office.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Of course not.’

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

‘What do you mean?’ Hess asked.

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

Hess glanced towards the hall leading to the barracks.

‘Getting nervous?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And me?’ Thystra asked.

‘I need you here with Eris.’

She frowned.

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

Thystra took the pistol with a tight-lipped nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hess frowned. ‘I wish I knew.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘My robes were covered in blood.’

Hanar snorted. ‘I’m sure they were.’

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

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

‘So why come here?’ Flynn asked.

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

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

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

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

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

Hess shivered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘And if Schmidt is lying?’ Hanar asked.

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

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

‘It’s captain, smith.’

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

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

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

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

Just as he had known it would.

CHAPTER SIX

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Where is Thystra?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘He does?’ Hess cocked an eyebrow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Who could have done this?’ Thystra asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The singing quieted.

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

Hess shared a confused glance with his companions.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Thystra, get behind him!’ Hess shouted.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

At least it would be over quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If only he could say the same about Flynn.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER SEVEN

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

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

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

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

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

Hess glanced to Thystra, who shrugged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘What now, captain?’ Schmidt asked.

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

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

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

CHAPTER EIGHT

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘But how do we fight it?’ Hess asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hess frowned. ‘How do you know this?’

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

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

‘How will that help us?’ Hess asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER NINE

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

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

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

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

She shrugged. ‘I was a Lion Ranger.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

After the daemon had been freed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hess scowled. ‘Such as?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER TEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Thystra?’ Schmidt asked as Hess stumbled inside.

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

‘What now?’ Schmidt asked between wheezing breaths.

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

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

‘The daemon seems to have Altenbach’s memories – the armoury will be the first place it looks.’ Hess paused as the glimmer of an idea shone through his scattered thoughts. ‘Follow me, Schmidt.’

They limped through the mess hall and towards the stores, leaving a bloody trail – just as Hess had hoped.

Once inside, he swept a tarp from atop one of the piles of sundries, then, after tearing off a piece to bind his throat and another to press to his bloodied nose, he wrapped the remainder around Schmidt, bundling up the priest’s wounds. It might have been nerves, or the high of battle, but the pain of Hess’ injuries had faded to a dull ache. He took a few deep breaths, pushing down the discomfort.

‘The blood trail will lead that thing here,’ he said. ‘It will take some time for it to search the entire armoury.’

Schmidt tucked the edges of the tarp into her belt. ‘Should we get more armour? Heavier weapons?’

Hess regarded the racks of equipment, considering. Even full plate wasn’t likely to stop a blow from the daemon, and he was beginning to suspect they would need more than hammers to even have a chance at beating it. Hess snatched up a harness with a brace of pistols, then another for good measure. Checking the harness’ pouch, he found shot, flint and wadding, but there were no cartridges and the powder horn was empty.

‘All the powder was in the magazine.’ Schmidt spoke as if pronouncing a death sentence. ‘That thrice-damned duardin blew it up on purpose. I am sorry I didn’t notice his corruption.’

‘Don’t blame yourself. You were the only one who–’ Hess took a quick breath, remembering. Not all the powder was gone.

‘Follow me.’ Hess broke into a shambling run, grinning over his shoulder at Schmidt’s puzzled frown. ‘Schmidt, you might have just saved our lives.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

‘Careful, careful,’ Hess whispered as he and Schmidt tipped the bucket of jagged metal shards into the barrel of black powder. They had done their best to pick out all the chips of flint; even the smallest spark would turn the forge into a fireball.

‘Your aelf friend is dead.’ The daemon’s voice echoed through the fortress, muffled somewhat by the barred and barricaded door of the forge. From the clatter and scraping, it sounded as if the thing still searched the halls, but the keep was small enough that Hess was under no illusions about how long they could remain hidden.

‘Thystra died slowly. Just like her Ranger comrades.’ Its laugh had an unearthly timbre that seemed to resonate deep within Hess’ chest. ‘She called for you at the end, both of you.’

‘Sigmar spare me from evil – my life is but a candle, lost amidst your holy light.’ Schmidt muttered the prayer, her cheeks reddening.

‘It goads us,’ Hess whispered.

With a nod, Schmidt seemed to collect herself then pressed a swatch of oilcloth over the mix of powder and shrapnel, softly tamping it down with the head of her hammer. Together, they lowered the barrel’s lid, then wedged it back into place.

Schmidt wiped the sweat beaded on her forehead. ‘Wonderful. Now, tell me again how we set this off without killing ourselves?’

Hess examined the makeshift fuse he had twisted together from a length of waxed cord. It seemed about the right length to give them half a minute or so, but he was no engineer – the fuse could burn twice as long, or ignite the bomb the moment they lit it.

‘Now, where would two cowards hide?’ The daemon’s tone had become playful, mocking. Its voice was like an insect crawling up the back of Hess’ neck. ‘Really, this is beneath you.’

Hess swallowed a curse, forcing his attention back to the matter at hand. ‘The fuse could work. We just need to figure out a way to keep the daemon in the forge long enough for the powder to detonate.’

‘There are too many variables.’ Schmidt shook her head, swallowing. ‘This is our only chance. I’ll stay here and light the powder myself.’

Hess frowned. ‘There has to be a better way.’

They regarded each other for a long moment.

Hess leaned back, chewing on his lip. ‘What do we know of this daemon?’

Schmidt straightened. ‘It is an unholy abomination, banished by the divine will of Sigmar.’

‘Well, yes.’ Hess gave a thin smile. ‘But what else? There has to be something we can use.’

Schmidt shrugged. ‘It thinks it is a hero?’

‘No, not quite.’ Hess massaged the back of his neck with one hand. ‘Eris called it “Mother of Heroes”, remember? I don’t think it wants to be a hero, so much as make them. Like the mosaics down in the tomb – the men and women in them were champions. It feeds on ambition, on legends.’

‘So even if we defeat Altenbach, the daemon will just find another pawn.’ Schmidt frowned, shoulders rounding. ‘It is like Eris said, there will always be men and women of ambition for it to prey upon. There will always be heroes.’

‘This daemon has a physical form, but it draws its strength from an idea.’ Hess chewed his lip, considering. ‘We need to figure out a way to destroy not just the creature but its history, its legend.’

‘It lives through its heroes.’ Schmidt made a fist, eyes wide. ‘The tomb.’

‘Yes.’ Hess clapped his hands together, then winced at the sound.

‘That should certainly be enough powder to do it.’ Schmidt glanced at the bomb. ‘Now the only problem is, how do we roll this barrel of high explosives across the courtyard, lower it down into the chasm, get it to the tomb, lure the daemon after us, trap it long enough for the bomb to detonate, then escape – all without having our heads ripped off?’

Hess sat back, grinning. ‘I might have an idea about that.’

The eyes of the silver-and-bronze faces seemed to follow Hess as he sauntered up to the wall. Glittering from the shadows of the gatehouse tunnel, they were imperturbable in their steely regard – row upon row of heroes, their legends little more than ash carried on the wind. He wondered about all they had done, all they had seen.

All they had sacrificed.

Hess compulsively checked his pistols – four of them, loaded, primed and secured in the harness crisscrossing his chest.

Closing his eyes, Hess took a few deep breaths to steady himself, his hands tight on the haft of Thystra’s axe. It had been laying a few paces away from her crumpled body, the handle cracked, the edge notched in a dozen places, but still Hess had felt the need to slip across the courtyard to recover the weapon.

Robbed of life, Thystra’s body had seemed little more than a bloody wisp, her aelven slenderness making her appear almost emaciated. Thankfully, she’d fallen facing away from the weapon. Hess did not know if he could stand to meet her dead gaze, terrified of what he might see – pain, regret, betrayal.

Now, he stood before the gate, axe in hand. Soon, one way or another, it would all be over.

The daemon was still inside the keep. Schmidt had prayed for a miracle, and it seemed she had received one. It was by Sigmar’s divine grace alone that Hess and Schmidt managed to lower the heavy powder keg into the chasm without alerting the abomination, but that was all about to change.

Hess heard a scrape from the chasm, then the sound of boots hitting tile. There was a moment of held breath, then Schmidt’s voice rang out from below, muffled, but clearly audible.

‘Now!’

With a deep breath, Hess brought the axe down to smash one of the faces. There was steel beneath the bronze, or perhaps the metal was alloyed with some harder material, but it took Hess several ringing chops to reduce the mask to slag. Eris had called the creature ‘Mother of Heroes’. Hess only hoped his suspicion was correct – that these were the missing faces from the mosaics in the tomb below, that they were the daemon’s heroes, its children.

Grimly, Hess moved on to the next face, and the next. He was just taking aim at the face of a woman with high, arching brows and a wolfish aspect when the daemon spoke behind him.

‘Anaura Moon-touched.’

Hess turned to regard the thing. It had not emerged from the fight with Thystra wholly unscathed. The daemon favoured its right leg, the left knee cracked almost all the way through. A number of its arms were missing, the blurred space around its shoulders where the extra limbs resided held more than a few bleeding stumps. The daemon’s face – for Hess could not think of it as Altenbach’s any longer – was a flaking ruin. Hess’ hammer throw had crushed its nose and spread thin fractures through the statue’s cheeks, fine as the patina on an ancient oil painting. Still, if the wounds inconvenienced it, the creature gave no sign.

‘Anaura rode upon a serpent of silvered light, her hair pale as her armour, bright as a fallen star in the gloom.’ The daemon smiled as if recalling a fond memory. ‘She slew the Twin Kings, wight lords of dusk and dawn, and freed a nation from eternal twilight. They would have made her queen, but she refused.’

‘Is that so?’ Hess gave a tight-lipped smile. If the daemon wanted to reminisce, he was happy to listen. Every moment it spent talking was one more for Schmidt to set the explosives and repair the wards at the tomb’s entrance.

‘Anaura wished for nothing but to be free.’ The daemon regarded the ruined visage. ‘This world may have forgotten her, but I remember all my heroes.’

‘Heroes?’ Hess snorted. ‘You mean pawns.’

‘I never made anyone do anything they did not wish to.’ The daemon’s lips twitched into a smile that appeared almost wistful. ‘I wonder if Sigmar could say the same.’

‘I do not presume to judge the motives of a god.’

‘And therein lies the problem,’ the creature said with a dismissive toss of its head, a move so much like Altenbach that Hess was momentarily taken aback. ‘You call me a daemon because you have been told to.’ It touched the broken symbol on its breastplate. ‘The priests of Sigmar look at my master’s followers and see gluttons and hedonistic mystery cults, but Slaanesh is so much more. It embodies not only desire and decadence, but also perfection. And is that not what Sigmar seeks as well?’

Hess could muster no reply, so he settled for simply glaring at the thing.

‘Your priest has abandoned you.’ It gave a chilling grin. ‘Just like your god.’

The daemon hadn’t moved, and yet it seemed somehow closer. Hess squared his shoulders, trying to keep his back straight even as a tiny, animal voice in the back of his head shrieked at him to flee.

‘Poor, foolish Schmidt.’ It loomed over him. ‘Who would have thought conviction such a poor buttress to courage.’

‘I wouldn’t know.’

‘Are you not a man of faith, captain?’

‘I prefer to place my trust in more tangible things. Comrades, cannons.’ He brandished Thystra’s axe. ‘Cold steel.’

The daemon’s laugh was bright and clear as the peal of a festival bell. ‘I knew I liked you, Hess. Are you sure you do not wish for your command back?’

Hess made no reply, teeth gritted against the upswell of poisonous delight he felt at the idea of Lord Marshal Khir being led away in chains. He wanted nothing more than to see his name cleared, to ride with his old comrades again, to see his mother and father as proud as they had been the day he had earned his captaincy.

If only the price were not so high.

‘I’ll never join you.’ Hess’ words came out soft and weak, his voice little more than a hoarse rasp.

‘Oh, my dear captain.’ The daemon’s grin slipped, its tone suddenly sober. ‘You already have.’

Unable to abide the thing’s lies any longer, Hess hurled Thystra’s axe. The notched aelven blade glittered in the coppery light as it spun towards the daemon. As he had expected, the creature slipped from the weapon’s path. The dodge bought Hess time to draw his first brace of pistols.

This close, there was no chance for the daemon to evade.

The first shot hit it in the shoulder, exploding through its myriad shifting limbs in a spray of golden ichor. The second struck its already cracked leg – not a perfect shot, but enough to drop the thing to one knee. Still, the daemon somehow managed to lunge as he sprinted by, one taloned hand cutting close enough to stir the hair on the back of his head.

Sweat stung Hess’ eyes, the headlong rush reopening the cuts on his ankle and face. He dropped his pistols, drawing the second brace. His breath came in wheezing gasps, the air suddenly seeming too thin. He skirted a drift of jagged shrapnel, then flinched as the daemon kicked through the pile with a clattering roar.

The chasm was still a dozen paces ahead, the daemon close enough that Hess could feel the tremor of its stomping footfalls through the ground. It shrieked and cackled, voice shifting from Altenbach’s airy tone to a deep, resonating basso.

Hess twisted to squeeze off a shot, far too wide. In desperation, he threw his pistol at the daemon, only to have the thing bat the weapon aside with contemptuous ease.

A tentacle coiled around his waist, drawing tight enough to send jolts of pain arcing up his spine. How could Hess have ever thought he could escape this thing?

Grimly, he pressed the barrel of his last remaining pistol against the rubbery flesh. The report left his ears ringing, the powder flash sending bright after-images dancing across his vision. With an otherworldly shriek, the daemon tossed Hess to the ground, the spatter of bright, golden blood from the wounded limb pattering across the back of his breastplate. Gasping in a grateful breath, he rolled to his knees, searching for the rope through blurry vision. The daemon’s roar was the crash of a burning building toppling in on itself, its heavy footfalls the toll of a funeral bell.

Hess’ questing fingers found the rough-woven rope, and he gripped it, hoping it was the right one.

With a shout he rolled into the chasm. There was a moment of weightlessness as the world spun, then the rope went taut, cutting into the flesh of Hess’ palms. He slammed against the chasm wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs. His bruised chest flared with the sharp stab of newly broken ribs.

He kicked off the wall, letting the rope play through his hands. They left smears of blood upon the coarse cord.

‘What of your deeds? Your medals?’ The daemon called from above. ‘This cowardice ill suits you.’

Hess clenched his jaw against the agonised scream building in his throat. Still, the rope cut deeper than the daemon’s taunts. Hess had never been one for the melee, the bloody press of bodies – charge and withdraw, skirmish and flank, it was the pistolier’s way.

He hit the ground with a bone-jarring thud, barely catching himself before he could topple forward. A trickle of pebbles and dust rained down on Hess’ head, and he turned to see the daemon climbing down the wall of the chasm. It moved like an insect, strange arms spread wide to find cracks and protrusions, and yet there was an odd delicacy about its descent. It came slowly, testing its weight with each move as if afraid to dislodge or mar any of the mosaics on the tunnel walls.

Hess sprinted down the length of the chasm, hands clenched into bloody, painful fists. His chest felt tight and congested. Each gasping breath sent a stab of agony radiating through his side. And yet, somehow, he managed a shambling run.

Schmidt had left a lantern up ahead, the alchemical light casting sickly shadows across the mosaics.

Images of heroes flashed by Hess, armour and weapons brilliant in the lambent glow, their faces gone, all replaced with the daemon’s foul sigil – just as their legends had been consumed by the creature. He bent to scoop up the lantern, hissing in pain as the handle bit into the raw flesh of his palm.

‘Face me.’ The daemon thudded to the tiles at the far end of the chasm.

Hess groaned, willing his numb legs to propel him forward, step after staggering step. He just needed to get it into the tomb.

‘I can promise you a fight for the ages,’ the daemon said, its footfalls loud in the echoing confines of the chasm. ‘You deserve better than this slow, slovenly death.’

Hess swallowed against the raw, primal terror twisting in his gut. Let the daemon play its games, as long as it followed. He staggered through the door leading to the inner crypt, dodging around canted pillars and faceless, unadorned sarcophagi. His breath came in whooping gasps, his hands and legs moving as though they were carved from stone, and still he pushed on, praying that he had bought Schmidt enough time to repair the wards.

He glanced back, relieved to see the daemon still stalked after him. It moved deliberately, careful to slip between the unstable pillars holding up the ceiling of the tomb, and to step over the sarcophagi.

Dust stung Hess’ already raw throat. A coughing fit caused him to stumble, his hand leaving a bloody smear on the jumbled text inscribed on a nearby sarcophagus.

The daemon gave an irritated hiss. ‘At least do yourself the courtesy of not leaving a mess. You sully the tales of your betters.’

With a start, Hess realised he could understand the inscriptions. Strange symbols reordered into familiar words, almost as if they wanted to be read. They were as the daemon said – legends of great deeds done by heroes millennia dead. Those who buried them had left no record, no trace, hoping to forget. But the daemon would not let them, could not let them. How long must it have taken the thing to inscribe them? He imagined it down here, decade after decade, slowly scratching each hero’s story into their tomb.

At last, Hess knew how to hurt it.

With a snarl, he drew his dagger, scraping it across the writing.

‘Defiler!’ For the first time, the daemon’s scream held true anger. ‘You spit upon true heroes.’

Something heavy crashed into Hess’ back and sent him tumbling across the floor. He slammed against a pillar, blinking through dust-caked eyes as he scrabbled towards the broken door at the far end of the chamber. He could see it through the clearing dust, the wards picked out in rusty iron and lead – not gold, Hess understood now, nothing to catch the eye, to kindle the spirit. The door stood open and empty, Schmidt nowhere to be seen.

The barrel sat nearby, nestled against the base of one of the large columns, the orange-white light of its sputtering fuse like a flare in the sickly shadows.

Hess rolled painfully to his knees, standing although his legs felt as weak as wet clay. He waved his light in an attempt to distract the daemon from the barrel, but it knocked the lantern from his hand.

It turned to regard the powder keg. ‘Captain, it seems I have misjudged you. This was quite the plan.’

The daemon knelt to pluck the fuse from the keg, pinching out the flame between two long-nailed fingers.

Spitting blood, Hess gripped his dagger in shaking hands and crawled over to scratch it across the writing on the nearest sarcophagus.

‘Don’t ruin this moment with petulance.’ The daemon knelt next to him, and, with a frown that was almost maternal, it gently set him on his feet. ‘Die like a warrior. On your feet, weapon in hand.’

A flutter of motion by the door caught Hess’ attention, but when he glanced over there was no one there. With a sigh, he tossed the dagger away. It was probably too much to hope for a miracle.

‘Stubborn.’ The daemon’s tone almost seemed to carry a hint of respect. ‘We could have done such great things.’

Hess spat a gobbet of blood at its feet. ‘My apologies.’

The daemon took him by the throat. ‘Are you sure you won’t change your mind. Together, we could–’

‘Enough,’ Hess rasped. ‘You really can’t help yourself, can you?’

The daemon’s scowl turned ugly even as its grip tightened.

Hess felt his vertebrae shift under the pressure, the edges of his vision curling up like a dry leaf. It surprised him that his last thoughts were not of his comrades, his battles, the day he’d won his spurs, nor even of Lord Marshal Khir, but of the dead.

He wondered if they would be waiting for him.

Distantly, he heard shouting, a high, angry cry, the clatter of weapons hitting armour, the scream of the wounded. All around was green light, the glow of flames, a pyre of hateful shadows curling in upon themselves.

Through the haze, Hess felt the daemon stagger.

He blinked away the burning after-images to see Schmidt. The warrior priest smashed her hammer at the daemon’s waist, again and again, like a woman felling a tree. At last, the unnatural marble seemed to give, and the daemon fell.

Hess’ surroundings came roaring back, each gasped breath seeming to open the door of his senses wider and wider. Strong hands dragged Hess to his feet, Schmidt’s face bobbing into view. ‘Can you walk, captain?’

‘Barely.’ Hess leaned heavily on the priest as they shuffled towards the warded door. It felt as if he were watching his body from afar, his movements as loose and jerky as a badly stringed puppet. He took a limping step towards the door, then paused. It was not enough to escape – even if Schmidt had repaired the wards, the daemon could just get out through the chasm.

He pushed away from the priest. ‘The powder.’

Casting about Hess spied his discarded lantern and lunged for it. The alchemical flame had diminished, but thankfully still burned.

‘You think this will stop me?’ There was a crash from behind as the daemon struggled to rise, and fell back. Schmidt’s blows had pulverised its waist, its legs dragging behind as it crawled towards them. ‘I only require another body.’

Hess rejoined Schmidt, and together they pressed for the warded door. The daemon’s claws shrieked across the tiles as it clawed after them. Schmidt made as if to turn back, but Hess pushed her through the door, then spun to hurl the lantern at the powder barrel. It hit with a dull crash, green flames spreading over the top of the keg.

Hess lunged through the door, then stooped to help Schmidt to her feet. Arm in arm, they shambled down the tunnel, the daylight ahead seeming an unreachable promise. He could almost feel the daemon closing on them, its arms outstretched, talons flexing. Every step seemed to drag, as though they were wading through thick liquid. Hess’ hands were numb, his chest screaming with every shallow breath. The back of his neck prickled with the nearness of the creature. A heartbeat, perhaps two, and it would be on them.

There was a flash of golden light from behind them, the dusty air of the cave filling with the smell of scorched metal.

‘Praise Sigmar, the wards held,’ Schmidt said between rattling breaths.

‘You are nothing!’ Shrieking, the daemon hurled itself against the wards again and again. ‘You will die unremembered, no more than a mote of dust in the world’s eye.’

For once, Hess ignored it.

The explosion sucked the breath from Hess’ lungs, a tidal wave of smoke and dust plucking him from his feet. Schmidt was torn from his grip. He was carried rattling down the tunnel like a piece of metal in a shardstorm. It was all Hess could do to shield his head as he tumbled across the hard stone, the world spinning.

Then he was out into the light, the air.

Hess skittered down the mountainside in an avalanche of rust and shale, tumbling over and over until he at last came to rest in the sheltering shadow of a rocky defile. It was agony to breathe and the air was full of settling debris, but it was still the sweetest he had ever tasted. He lay there for what seemed an eternity, waiting for death to finally put an end to his pain.

Over the ringing in his ears, he could hear the rumble of falling rock, the distant boom of the crypt collapsing in on itself, burying the daemon and its poisonous legends under thousands of tonnes of rock and metal.

Hess grinned through the pain, his eyes misty with tears of relief.

‘Thystra, Flynn, we did it.’ His words were barely a whisper. ‘By Sigmar, we did it.’

EPILOGUE

The Grave of Heroes lay in ruins – the outer wall cracked in a dozen places, the gatehouse listing to one side and the central keep collapsed into the rusty ground. Even so, the sight made Hess content. With any luck, nothing of the daemon’s tomb had survived.

He half crawled, half limped up to the gatehouse. It had taken the better part of the afternoon to dig himself free of the rubble and shamble his way up the old Lantic Road. He had seen no sign of Schmidt apart from a long smear of blood across the face of one of the pitted boulders. Hess had not the strength to search; the priest was certainly dead – just like Hess should have been.

The gatehouse had partially fallen, the gate itself crushed beneath falling stone and metal, the entrance little more than a shallow cave speckled with jagged shardstorm debris. The sun was just dipping below the peaks, the pitted iron of the wall still warm from the day’s heat. It would get cold soon, but that was a problem for later.

For now, it just felt good to sit.

There was a scrape from the shadows inside the gatehouse, boots on stone. Hess half turned to see Schmidt shuffle into the light. Any surprise he felt at the priest’s survival was eclipsed by the site of the woman’s injuries. The priest looked as bad as Hess felt, her face a mass of bruises, her breastplate gone, one arm bound to her chest in a makeshift sling, and a nasty-looking slash running up her thigh.

‘You survived.’ Schmidt put no weight on her injured leg, hopping over to slump down against the wall across from Hess.

Hess shrugged, then winced at a flare of pain from his wounds. ‘Just lucky, I guess.’

‘Luck?’ Schmidt snorted. ‘That was a damned miracle. The explosion should have torn us apart.’

‘I suppose Sigmar must still have plans for us.’ Hess swallowed, unsettled by a growing sense of apprehension he was not able to properly articulate. As if in response to some unnatural signal, he noticed for the first time an odd weight inside his shirt. Snaking a hand inside, he withdrew a small bag, its contents clinking softly in his grip.

Strange, he didn’t remember retrieving his medals.

‘Think you’ll earn another battle honour for this, captain?’ Schmidt’s throaty chuckle descended into a series of rasping coughs.

Hess regarded the sack. If word got out he had helped destroy a daemon it would mean more than a parade. Khir would have no choice but to give him his company back. Better, it would put the lord marshal in the awkward position of either appearing like a fool for banishing Hess, or having to claim it had been his plan all along. The latter would certainly need Hess’ active participation, which would give him quite a bit of leverage over Khir – enough perhaps for the lord marshal to give Hess his own command.

Hess’ thoughts spun at the possibilities, or perhaps it was just the blood loss. He opened the bag. Gold and silver medals glittered in the dying light, brighter even than Hess remembered.

It was everything he had wanted, and more.

The joy came bittersweet, however. He had not done it alone.

‘I shall see to it that Thystra and Flynn receive a hero’s–’ Hess caught himself. ‘Are buried with full honours.’

The priest nodded heavily. ‘It is only right.’

‘And you, Schmidt,’ Hess said. ‘The priesthood will certainly look favourably upon your valour.’

‘If we survive long enough for help to come.’ The priest returned Hess’ smile, her teeth stained a dark red. ‘And if we remain untainted.’

Hess frowned at the implication. Suddenly, his medals didn’t seem to shine so brightly, thoughts of his new command vanishing like smoke in the breeze. Like a serpent uncoiling, a terrible idea rose in Hess’ thoughts.

‘Do you think the daemon is truly gone, captain?’ Schmidt asked.

Hess grunted, jerking his head at the toppled fort. ‘Nothing could have survived that.’

‘What if that was the point?’ Schmidt asked.

‘What do you mean, Schmidt?’

‘Eris said the daemon couldn’t be killed, that it didn’t possess so much as inhabit ambition.’ Schmidt forged on, as if needing to get the words out. ‘What if Altenbach’s statue was just another pawn? What if this is not the end of the story but the beginning?’

Hess licked his chapped lips, considering. ‘Even if the daemon was as Eris described, all record of it is gone. Its legend is dead.’

‘Not in here.’ Schmidt tapped her head, then pointed to Hess. ‘Or there.’

‘But we buried that abomination, destroyed its accursed tomb.’ Hess’ words came out like a plea. ‘That has to be enough.’

Hess let out a slow, rattling breath, seeming to sink in on himself.

‘It has to.’

They sat in silence for a long time. Hess knew the realisation should have troubled him, but all he could manage was a strange sense of anticipation. He had done the right thing, had not succumbed to the daemon’s temptations. It had no power over him, now or ever. A lightness filled his chest, warmth spreading through his limbs, the pain of his injuries seeming to recede before the bright promise of his future.

‘Captain?’ the priest asked, her voice little more than a whisper.

‘Yes?’ Hess could almost hear the laughter of his comrades, the beat of hooves on earth and stone, the crack of pistols, the cheers, the adulation as the crowd chanted his name over, and over, and over.

‘I know Thystra killed the ibuqs and Hanar weakened the magazine, but that daemon needed to be summoned, to be bound. The bloody sigils in Altenbach’s quarters were ritualistic. The daemon had no form before it possessed the statue – it could not have written them itself.’ Schmidt shifted, lips working as if she were trying to spit out something bitter. ‘How could the castellan have scrawled all that blasphemy with a slit throat?’

Hess narrowed his eyes. ‘What are you getting at, Schmidt?’

Schmidt met Hess’ gaze. ‘Did you murder Castellan Altenbach?’

‘No.’ Hess leaned forward, somehow calm despite the heat, the pain, the rising terror. ‘What about you, Schmidt? Where were you when the castellan was killed?’

‘Praying.’ Schmidt blanched, glancing away. ‘At least I think I was.’

Hess scanned the ground around them. He had lost his dagger in the tomb, but the earth was still littered with razor-sharp chunks of shardstorm debris.

‘If there is even the slightest chance the daemon yet lives in us…’ Schmidt gave a weak cough, her face contorting in pain even as blood speckled the ragged remains of her robe. ‘We must tell the Order.’

Hess gave a solemn nod, shifting as though his wounds pained him to hide his hand as he palmed a sharp bit of iron.

Schmidt sat with a relieved smile. Her breaths were coming quicker now – short, wheezing gasps that spoke to Hess of broken ribs, perhaps even a punctured lung. She might die before help arrived.

If Schmidt survived long enough to tell her tale to the Order of Azyr, nothing else would matter. The Order would not care that they had defeated the daemon, that they had won. If there was any chance either of them was tainted, they would be executed. A cold dread spread through Hess, sitting in his stomach like lead shot.

‘Your leg.’ He edged closer, nodding at the long gash in Schmidt’s thigh. ‘It is bleeding again.’

Schmidt glanced down, her head lolling forward before snapping up again like someone fighting sleep. ‘So it is.’

Hess tore a dirty strip of linen from the remains of his shirt and knelt to press it against the wound.

Schmidt looked up at him, her gaze clouded from pain and blood loss. ‘You’re a good man, Hess. I am proud to call you captain.’

She might have said more, but all Hess could hear was Khir’s laughter. He thought of his companions, his parents, the shame they would feel. No matter that Hess had slain the daemon and destroyed its accursed tomb; no matter that he was the hero of a dozen battles, honoured and decorated. He would be stricken from the Freeguild rolls, his deeds torn from the records, his name, his life, his legend forgotten.

It would be as if Captain Byrun Hess had never drawn breath.

The shard of jagged iron cut deep into Hess’ palm as he tightened his grip. He felt a hot trickle of blood creep down his knuckles, but the pain was nothing compared to the thought of being erased. Of having no chance to reclaim his standing. To once again seek glory in Sigmar’s name. Grunting from the effort, Hess thrust the makeshift blade into Schmidt’s side. She lurched, choking on the blood that filled her mouth. A gout of crimson fountained from the priest’s side, making the metal slippery, but Hess bore down, working the jagged iron deeper even as Schmidt beat at him.

‘It is better this way,’ Hess whispered as her struggles slowed. ‘I will see to it you are remembered, honoured.’

Schmidt’s eyes sought Hess’, her gaze pinioning his with a fierce intensity.

‘Rest, now. You will be a hero, Schmidt.’ Tears pricked the corners of Hess’ eyes. He could feel himself grinning, wide and proud. ‘We all will.’

Schmidt gave one last heave and fell still, the blood slowing to a trickle, before stopping altogether.

Panting, Hess pushed to his feet. He regarded Schmidt’s body – battered and blood-soaked as she was, it would be difficult to determine which wound had killed her.

Hess felt a twinge of guilt as he tossed the bloody bit of iron into a crack in the ground. Not a heroic deed, by far, but Hess wasn’t concerned.

In the end, all that mattered – all that ever mattered – was the story he would tell.

As if to punctuate that thought, a series of sharp cracks echoed from the ruined walls of the Grave, azure flashes so bright Hess had to shield his eyes. When his vision cleared, he saw a dozen tall, silver-armoured forms fan out across the courtyard, mighty blades, bows and hammers raised as they advanced across the broken rock. Unlike Eris, their armour was intact, their shields showing a gold hammer with twin lightning bolts set against a rich blue background.

Just in time.

At the sight of the Stormcast Eternals, Hess felt as if a terrible pressure had been lifted from his chest. They were Sigmar’s chosen, heroes in gleaming plate, wise and steadfast, armed with the weapons of the gods. They would know what to do. And yet, he couldn’t help but remember the mosaics in the tomb – other champions, other heroes.

Straightening his shoulders, Hess limped out to meet them, his footfalls lost amidst the heavy tread of sigmarite-shod feet, the snap of cloaks in the breeze, the creak of blessed armour.

At the sight of him, the Stormcasts raised their weapons, their noble voices carrying through the clear mountain air, words lost amidst the pounding of blood in Hess’ ears. They were all around him now, a wall of silver and blue, their gleaming masks fierce in the light of dawn.

‘Worry not. The daemon has been destroyed, as have any who succumbed to its dark influence.’ Hess raised his hands, unafraid. He knew they would recognise one of their own, see all the great things he had done, all the deeds he would yet accomplish.

The heroes might have finally arrived, but this was still Hess’ story.

HEART OF WINTER

NICK HORTH

CHAPTER ONE

The seas were cold. Deathly cold. The wind was the breath of an ice dragon, sweeping down from the polar mountains with a rushing roar, cutting through fabric and bare skin to chill the bones and steal air from the lungs.

Arika Zenthe stood on the prow of a stolen ship, staring out across a desert of sparkling white. The aelf was thickly wrapped in furs and wore a gambeson of borean sharkhide that offered a modicum of protection against the savage winds, but still her teeth chattered and her hands were numb and raw. But she ignored the pain. She had other things on her mind.

A crunch of footsteps across the frozen deck caused her to glance behind. Oscus, her first mate, came to her side. He wore only a light tunic that exposed his well-muscled arms, every inch of coal-black skin marked with scars and inkwork.

‘We risk much straying into these waters,’ Oscus said. ‘This vessel is cumbersome and heavy-hulled, even with her cannons stripped.’

He spat over the rail, scowling in disgust. ‘Shoddy human craftsmanship. Built to swell its owner’s pride, not for anything practical. It takes a season just to turn her prow a few notches larboard. We should have waited until the Thrice Lucky was repaired.’

Zenthe’s ice-blue eyes flicked towards her second in command.

‘You reek,’ she said.

He grinned. ‘Ghyreshark blubber might not have the most fragrant smell in the realms, but it’ll keep you warm even in this cold. We’ve plenty of it stored below, fleetmaster.’

‘Not necessary. I’ve known cold worse than this,’ she replied. ‘And the Blood Drake will serve for now. There was no time to wait, in any case. My father rarely stays in one place for long.’

They stood in silence for a while. The Blood Drake yawed to the left, the helmsman taking a parallel course alongside a row of towering ice floes. Atop their frosted parapets perched a flock of razor-toothed birds, eyeing the passing ship with lazy curiosity.

Zenthe could feel her first mate’s gaze upon her.

‘I know what you wish to ask,’ she said. ‘Why do I despise my own kin so gravely that I’d risk everything to see him dead?’

Oscus said nothing. He’d never pried into her past, nor questioned her business. His phlegmatic nature was one of the main reasons she’d kept him around so long.

‘Zarkand Zenthe taught me everything I know,’ she said. ‘And for that I swore I’d watch him drown in his own blood.’

Oscus’ eyes narrowed, but he was not looking at her. They had traversed the wall of pack ice, and once more faced across the open sea. Far in the distance, nestled amidst a crescent of shifting ice floes, a wall rose out of the waves, black and foreboding. It was angular and dotted with dagger-shaped towers, many of which blazed with purple flames, bathing the night sky in violet light. This was no vessel at all, but a black ark. A fortress of the seas, a citadel afloat that rare few fleetmasters were powerful or influential enough to rule over.

‘The Eternity of Torment,’ Arika Zenthe said, and her voice was a cold whisper. ‘My father’s flagship.’

Turning to the watching crew, she barked an order.

‘Loose the mooring claws.’

They moored the Blood Drake by digging the larboard reaper bolt throwers deep into a drift of ice. The bulk of the ship was masked by the obstacle, but they could draw no closer without being spotted by the black ark’s watchtowers. Then they waited.

‘Patience,’ said Zenthe, as Oscus glanced at her. ‘There’s a reason why my father’s hidden in the Razor Flow. Out here a storm can brew up in a moment, or a freezing mist so thick you can’t see your hand in front of your face. This place has claimed more souls than the White Reaper.’

Sure enough, after several hours, a pall of sea smoke gradually began to settle in across the bay. The light fog would never mask the bulk of the Blood Drake, but it might just hide the pinnaces from wary eyes.

Zenthe picked out a dozen of her best fighters, armed variously with cutlass blades, flensing hooks and repeater crossbows. Oscus knelt beside her, a bandolier of throwing knives across his chest and a sabre dangling from his belt.

‘Laesha help us if those towers spot our boats,’ he muttered.

‘If they mark us, we’ll know about it soon enough,’ said Zenthe. ‘Each of those towers has a dozen bolt throwers with the range to blast us out of the water in a single volley.’

The walls of the floating fortress flickered with violet fire, and she could see the silhouettes of figures passing along the barbed parapet. It seemed as though they must surely see the profile of the light ships cutting through the brittle ice towards them, but Zenthe reminded herself that the fog was hanging low over the water, offering the perfect cover for their approach.

The scale of the black ark became apparent as they drifted closer. The perimeter wall towered over them, disappearing off into the mists on both sides. Its surface was black iron, harsh and marked with a patina of scarring from heavy waves and cannon shot. Beyond those walls was a place from the darkest of nightmares, a citadel of torture and debasement and a monument to cold-hearted avarice and mendacious cruelty. Where the Eternity of Torment sailed, the seas churned red with blood.

‘I am home,’ Arika Zenthe whispered.

She had not seen these walls for five hundred years or more. In that time her name had become feared across the realm. She had forged a legacy of brutally efficient privateering. Though she sailed under the auspices of the God-King’s free cities, all knew that Arika Zenthe answered to no one but herself. She sailed and reaved as she pleased, and none crossed her and lived. All her rivals were dead, corpses rotting at the bottom of the ocean. Every corsair that passed through the docks of Excelsis owed her fealty.

And yet now, looking once more upon the walls of the fortress in which she had been raised, she felt like nothing more than an errant child, returning, afraid, to face her father’s judgement. The weakness, the fear she felt, revolted her.

‘No,’ she whispered, forcing down her unease and allowing cold hatred to replace it. ‘I am a child no longer. I made a promise, father, and tonight I keep it.’

‘Captain?’ said Oscus, staring at her with an unreadable expression upon his face.

She waved him away.

They were perhaps five hundred paces from the facing wall when the water ahead exploded into action. An enormous tentacle as large as a sailing ship rose out of the water below the Eternity of Torment, rising into the air and unfurling to its full and horrifying length. The pinnace rocked at the sudden violent motion, tipping dangerously to one side. The lashing limb was followed by another, and a third. Zenthe’s corsairs gasped and dropped their oars, which clattered in their chains. Hands went to weapons reflexively, though the very thought that anything they wielded could be of use against such a monster was patently absurd.

‘Stow your blades, fools,’ hissed Zenthe, knocking aside the repeater bow that her coxswain Dherva held aimed and ready to loose. ‘Be still, and wait!’

The tentacles, covered in boulder-sized barnacles and glistening in the light of the stars, coiled and whipped back and forth as if tasting the air. Then they fell, slamming into the surface of the ocean and sending up a great wave that crashed down upon the pinnaces, drenching them all in ice-cold water. Zenthe gasped at the sudden shock and stared up at the wall looming above, almost certain she would see half a dozen guards staring down at them, crossbows aimed.

Nothing. Their luck held yet.

‘What in Khaine’s black heart was that?’ muttered Garsh, one of Zenthe’s cutthroats. He was burly for an aelf, with his hair shorn close to his heavily scarred scalp and a torn lip that turned his face into a permanent scowl.

‘That was the ghorvorasc,’ said Zenthe. ‘A titan of the deep seas. The Eternity of Torment is built into its living flesh – they are one and the same, the black ark and the monster that bears it. It is as foul-tempered as my father, and with a similar taste for blood. I’ve seen it crush an armada to kindling in moments. So don’t shoot the godsdamned thing.’

‘You want us to scale these walls with that… thing lurking down there?’ Garsh said, eyes wide with disbelief.

‘Of course not,’ Zenthe said. ‘We’re not going over the wall.’

There were a few shared sighs and looks of relief.

‘We’re going to swim underneath.’

CHAPTER TWO

Arika Zenthe watched as Oscus dragged forward the chest, a glass-fronted lockbox filled with murky, sea-green liquid. Carefully, the first mate opened the lid, and suddenly the watery contents began to surge and boil with movement. Oscus thrust his hand into the case and brought forth a bizarre-looking creature. It had a bulbous, hoof-shaped body that was almost transparent, aside from a thin exoskeleton that tapered to a barbed tail. The tail whipped back and forth as the first mate held the thing in one hand.

Carefully, Oscus lowered the creature onto his face. It locked on to his skull, latching prehensile pseudopods around his jaw and temples, and the tail coiled around his throat, tightly but not with the force to choke. After a moment’s twitching, the creature became still. It looked as though Oscus wore a translucent mask tight against his skin.

‘These hrascas didn’t come cheap,’ said Zenthe. ‘So handle them carefully. They’ll let you breathe underwater for a time and stop your eyeballs from freezing solid. You all stick close and follow me. I know every inch of this place, and I know how to get us inside without anyone laying eyes on us.’

With some hesitation, her crew began to grab their own hrascas. Zenthe dipped a hand in the chest, felt a slight shock as one of the creatures’ lashing tails sliced her finger. Growling, she tore the creature free and laid it over her face. There was a second of pain as the gelid flesh met her skin, a tingling shock that stabbed into her brain. The thing’s tail wrapped around her throat, tight enough to hurt. She took a breath. It was a deeply strange sensation as the air rushed into the creature’s bulbous body and back into her lungs, slightly stale and acrid-tasting but still breathable. Her vision was obscured by the hrasca’s semi-translucent flesh, but she could still see well enough. She checked her blades and made sure her handbow was tucked into the front of her gambeson.

Then she stepped up to the prow of the pinnace and leapt into the waves.

The shock of the icy water was akin to a hammer blow, but Arika Zenthe had spent all her life at sea, and she gritted her teeth and banished the instinctive desire to splutter and gasp – and in doing so took in a lungful of freezing liquid. The shock passed quickly. She had relented and applied the foul-smelling ghyreshark blubber to her flesh. Without it she was fairly sure these waters would have stolen the life from her in mere moments. As it was, her body trembled but she was able to focus her mind and gain control of her breathing.

The water was crystal clear. Below, she could see a vast expanse of turquoise, stretching away into pitch darkness. She thought she saw a flash of movement, something sleek and large. No surprise. Predators swam alongside the black ark in great numbers, for there was always a feast of corpses to be had in its wake. They had to move fast.

Ahead rose the shadow of the great wall, and below that a writhing mass of enormous tentacles, each as big as a war galleon, attached to the structure of the Eternity of Torment by a fusion of bone and iron. The ghorvorasc. The scale of the creature’s huge body was terrifying. It was roughly cephalopodic in form, though there were armoured scales running the length of its immense shape and two spade-shaped fins the size of castle towers, which currently sat immobile. When the Eternity of Torment sailed, those great fins would propel it forward with fearsome speed. A black ark could outrun smaller vessels despite its size, bearing down upon them and crushing them into kindling like some pelagic behemoth.

Kicking forward, Zenthe dived towards the closest of the fins. The bed of tentacles roiled and writhed, but they did not sense her movement. She was nothing to this creature, a mere minnow in its shadow. Spears of starlight lanced past her, momentarily illuminating the ominous darkness.

She passed under the coil of an immense tendril, large enough to crush her into bloody paste with a single careless motion. Its surface was torn and scarred by centuries of battle. Small, many-legged creatures skittered across its surface, feasting upon stretches of rotten flesh. Zenthe glanced around and saw her dozen blades close behind her, their faces weirdly distorted by their living masks. She pressed on, diving further, the gloom rising to meet her.

She still drew air easily enough, but each breath was growing perceptibly shallower. The hrasca would allow her to dive for longer, but not indefinitely. Unease began to grip her; it had been so long since she had escaped this damned vessel, perhaps the breach through which she had crawled had been filled? Perhaps the ghorvorasc’s flesh had healed, masking the opening? If that were so, this mission was doomed before it could begin.

She kicked harder, propelling herself forward and scanning the darkness with growing desperation. There, just between the keel fins. A zig-zagging scar hacked into the meat of the ghorvorasc, reaching up to the ridge of armour where the creature’s bulk met the heavy metal of the black ark’s outer shell. It had not changed in more than a hundred years, though of course the last time she had passed through the breach she had been fleeing in the opposite direction.

She waved out an arm, beckoning her crewmates onwards, and kicked towards the spot, drifting underneath a row of tentacles that stretched down into darkness. As she drew closer she allowed herself a triumphant grin, ignoring the way the hrasca painfully stretched her skin. There was the crack, no more than a foot across. Careless of her father, she thought. Had he not always taught her that a fleetmaster must know every inch of their vessel, every scar and weathered board?

The skin around it had hardened and blackened, and there was still the sheen of a burn mark where the duardin steam-torpedo had struck. That had been a close-fought battle, she recalled, and it had left her with a grudging admiration for the bearded ones’ ugly little submersibles.

Oscus drifted past, coming to rest on the creature’s thick hide. He peered into the tiny gap and turned to flash her a look. It was hard to tell with the gelatinous mass wrapped around his face, but she thought she saw a flicker of incredulity on his face.

She shrugged and reached into a pouch on her belt, pulling out a small rock that pulsed with a soft, blue light. Lumencoral, sometimes called corpse-light by sailorfolk for the eerie glow it gave off from beneath the waves. Holding the makeshift torch in her left hand, she peered into the opening. It narrowed into pitch-black darkness, angling upwards into the ghorvorasc’s flesh. The duardin-forged torpedo that had caused the wound had carried a corkscrew-shaped warhead, designed to bore into armour before detonating. This one had ricocheted between two of the monstrous creature’s armour plates, gouging a tunnel through its hide. She entered the opening, gesturing for the others to follow her.

It was a tight squeeze, even for her slender form. She had to shift upright, wedging herself sideways through the two shelves of armour plating. Every few moments they shifted – just slightly, but enough to press her worryingly tightly against the opposite wall.

The shaft rose and she shuffled her way along with it. Her fingers snagged on shards of rusted metal, shrapnel from the duardin warhead still embedded deep. Beside her, Oscus was struggling along. He was heavier than her. Not by much, but enough to make his passage even more difficult. She hoped his struggling didn’t catch the ghorvorasc’s attention. She had no idea if it could contract these armour ridges, and she had no great desire to find out. Getting crushed to death in here would be an exceptionally stupid way to go.

It was getting tighter, and harder to breathe. She felt light-headed. They’d been beneath the surface for perhaps fifteen minutes, and the hrascas would give them at most five more.

Now she was climbing, dragging herself upwards using the rough surface of the beast’s flesh as purchase. They were close, she was certain. She craned her head upwards, straining to see through the filmy mask covering her face.

There, above. She could see a larger chamber, a jagged rent in the plating big enough for three to stand abreast. Here was where the duardin torpedo had finally detonated, flush against the inorganic wall of the Eternity of Torment. She hauled herself up into the opening and found herself facing a span of black iron, the same material from which the black ark’s formidable watchtowers had been fashioned. And there was the gap that the warhead had opened, their entrance into the heart of the ship. It was a star-shaped blast hole, overgrown with algae and luminescent coral, several feet wide and almost as deep.

Zenthe ducked low to slip through the opening.

Something surged out of the darkness. Instinctively, Zenthe kicked backwards, thrashing her arms. The thing’s head was shaped like a flower, though each petal was a bed of fangs, curved and razor-sharp. She could see no eyes, but it struck at her again with fearsome speed and precision, lashing at her face. She felt a searing pain across her cheek. The hrasca was torn from her face, its cloudy blood spilling into the water.

The sudden shock caused Zenthe to gasp and release a cloud of fizzing air bubbles, but somehow she managed not to swallow a lungful of water. The creature coiled around its prize, clamping down with that awful maw to devour the hrasca whole. It was serpentine, its muscular body bright yellow and turquoise, stretching away into darkness.

Momentary fear was replaced with anger. Zenthe grabbed her sword just as the creature turned towards her once again, its mouth rippling open to reveal those hideous teeth. It darted forward, but she got her blade up in time and stabbed out viciously. The blade tip sunk into one of the creature’s jaw segments, and purple ichor spilled out. The creature thrashed in pain and withdrew, disappearing into the clouded water. Zenthe felt a hand on her shoulder and spun, sword leading. She almost took out the throat of her first mate. Oscus’ eyes opened wide as he saw that her hrasca was gone. There was no time to waste. She turned back to the tunnel, hoping that her strike had caused the fanged eel to think better of attacking her. Zenthe kicked forward, her lungs burning, desperate for a mouthful of air. Bubbles spilled from her mouth as she swam through the darkness, one hand feeling out her path. She struck something hard and unyielding, and knew she had reached the end of the channel. She had to climb.

The cold fire inside her chest burned with agonising insistence, but she could not stop. She kicked off, up and up into darkness. Ahead, finally, she saw a glimmer of light, and that hope lent her a burst of speed. Her vision was blurring, but still she forced herself onwards.

Just as she thought she could bear it no more, her head broke the surface, and she was met with a blast of precious air. She gulped it down greedily, coughing and retching.

That was too close.

Moments later, Oscus surfaced. He peeled the hrasca from his face and tossed it aside with a grimace.

‘Captain?’ he asked, looking at her with concern.

She waved him off.

‘I’m fine. Bastard nearly got me, but I’m fine. We’re through.’

‘Through where, exactly?’ said her first mate, wrinkling his nose.

The stench was almost overwhelming. It stank of carrion, of rot and waste. They were in a cramped pool at the foot of a large channel, angled at a steep incline. A stream of grey sludge trickled down, spattering across their heads. Above, just a few feet overhead, was a rusted grate, clotted with slime. Beyond that they could see a tunnel leading off into the distance, its walls slick and shining.

‘We’re in the sewer runoffs,’ Zenthe explained. ‘They bleed through the lower levels, spilling out into the ocean through channels in the ghorvorasc’s hide. Here’s where they dispose of all the rot and filth aboard the Torment. As well as worn-out slaves no longer fit for purpose.’

The walls were slick with brine-slugs and dangling corpse-crawlers, and there was a film of grease across the surface of the water that stuck obscenely to their skin. Something bobbed up next to Oscus, and he tossed it away in disgust. A severed arm, most of the flesh chewed away by a thousand verminous bites.

They waited for the rest of the crew to appear. One by one they emerged, tearing the pallid creatures from their faces and dragging in lungfuls of air. They had lost no one thus far.

‘Get that grate open,’ she ordered Garsh.

CHAPTER THREE

Malvo L’Polche Guinmark, third of his name, suppressed the urge to vomit. He stared at the bounteous feast before him – three pale, wriggling centipedes he had managed to scrape from the underside of a skinning table and smuggle back to the slave quarters.

‘Give us one,’ whined the fellow crammed into the lightless chamber next to him, an anaemic-looking human whose stench somehow managed to stand out even in this churning mass of unwashed flesh. Someone was whimpering at the other end of the chamber, their ragged sobs echoing in the darkness. Unwise, Guinmark thought. The aelves always came for the frightened, weak ones first. They made the best sport.

Guinmark flashed his neighbour a sympathetic smile.

‘Alas, my friend,’ he sighed, ‘I fear I only have enough for myself. One must keep one’s strength up, you understand. You can never accurately predict from whence the next opportunity might arise.’

The other gave a short gasp of disbelieving laughter, and then his eyes flicked towards the bars of the cell wall, hoping that his outburst had gone unnoticed by the guards. Fortunately for the both of them, it had. They could see through the tightly spaced iron bars, all the way across the expanse of the holding pits. There were hundreds of cages just like theirs arrayed across the cavernous space of the chamber, stuffed with dead or dying slaves unlucky enough to fall into the hands of the Scourge. Stairways wound down in spiral patterns, and every now and then the patrols came and snatched away a few poor, screaming souls. Meat for the arena. Or, perhaps worse, the flesh palaces of the city proper.

‘We ain’t gettin’ out of here, fool,’ the man hissed through rotten, chipped teeth. ‘We’re here until we’re dead, whether they work us to the bone, or else…’

The man shuddered.

Despite himself, Guinmark shivered too. The screams of those unfortunates dragged off by their aelf captors had ceased for now, but they never quieted for long. Exactly what manner of excruciation lay in store for the unlucky chosen he did not care to picture. He had heard tales of the sweet torments enacted by the Scourge corsairs, and he had been trapped here long enough to know that they were no exaggerations.

‘Mark these words, my foul-breathed friend,’ he said. ‘I am going to escape this wretched place, and then I am going to take a cruel blade to the motherless hounds that sent me here. But first… dinner.’

He cupped his hands and tipped his precious centipedes into his mouth, grimacing as he bit into their wriggling bodies. An acrid taste like rotting fish filled his mouth, and he very nearly spewed the contents of his stomach across his cellmate. Yet Malvo L’Polche Guinmark had a firm constitution. As a lowly cutpurse plying his trade in the mead halls and bawdy-houses of Izalend, he’d somehow managed to eat far worse. Of course, that had been some thirty years past. In that time, he had risen to control the Brotherhood of Larcenists, the foremost thieves’ guild in the city, and he had thought his days of fighting alley dogs for scraps of bone were long past.

And now he was chewing a mouthful of centipedes.

Guinmark reflected on the sheer, horrifying unpredictability of life as he gulped down his supper.

Footsteps echoed down the dungeon’s hallway. Instantly Guinmark and his acquaintance fell silent and hunkered into the shadows. They knew better than to say a word when their captors were in earshot.

Shadows flickered across the dimly lit cell. A voice barked out a command in the harsh language of the aelves, a sound like knives scraping across stone. Then, to Guinmark’s horror, the cell door was thrown open with a clatter. Scrawny figures scrambled into the far corners of the cell, moaning in terror, some prostrating themselves in utter despair.

The aelves entered. Six of them, lithe and muscular, clad in leather and spiked scale armour that did not seem to impede their easy grace at all. Guinmark recognised the slavemaster, whose name he thought was Krask or something similar. He was a bald, scarred creature, who favoured a whip lined with razor-sharp teeth. Guinmark had seen that weapon strip the flesh from a man’s back in moments, and its wielder was not sparing in employing it. The others wore half-face helms and purple sashes and they carried serrated cutlasses. These were the same corsairs that had pulled Guinmark from the ocean, beaten him senseless and hurled his battered body into the hold of their reaver-ship.

The slavemaster gestured at two of the nearest captives, broad-shouldered Sayronites who had not yet been worn to nothing by lack of food and the tender mercies of their captors. The unfortunate men struggled bravely – foolishly, in Guinmark’s humble opinion – and were rewarded with a flurry of vicious blows. Battered until they were bloody, they were dragged from the cell whimpering.

The slavemaster peered around, his cruel eyes gleaming in the darkness.

Please not me, prayed Guinmark to any gods that might happen to be listening. Please, anyone else but me. I want to live.

The aelf’s eyes came to rest on Malvo L’Polche Guinmark, who felt the strength drain from his limbs. He tried to crawl away into the shadows, but strong hands grabbed him around the shoulders and hauled him upright. He looked into the slavemaster’s eyes and saw only cruel amusement. The aelf slugged him in the gut, driving the air from his lungs, and he finally released the contents of his stomach. That earned him a clubbing blow to the temple, which sent black stars shooting across his vision. Through the haze of pain, he was dimly aware of being hurled out of the cell and dragged over the floor, towards the rising spiral of the central stairway.

Where they were being taken, Guinmark had no idea. All he was certain of was that an agonising, humiliating death awaited him.

Zenthe hauled herself out of the grille, as silently as she could manage. Clambering to her feet, she looked around. She found herself in a cramped, circular chamber with a sluice running towards the opening from which she had emerged. The floor was stained a reddish-brown, and there was an all but unbearable stench of death and decay. Propped up in the corner of the chamber were several emaciated corpses, writhing with fat-bodied maggots.

‘We’re below the slave pits,’ Zenthe said, as the others began to heave themselves out of the charnel sluice. ‘This is where they dispose of the dead, once they’ve had their fun.’

She wondered if Vhorskaya still oversaw the blood games. The one-eyed witch aelf had always been one of Zarkand Zenthe’s favourite killers, as sadistic as she was appallingly inventive.

They followed the gore-encrusted channel down a short tunnel with a shallow incline and emerged in a larger room that was lined with empty cages and spiked shackles. From there, a gentle slope led to a pair of double doors. The others stacked up behind Zenthe as she eased them open. They revealed a high, narrow passage, lit by smouldering braziers.

‘We’re in the heart of the ark,’ said Zenthe. ‘There will be guards. Many of them. Kill only on my mark. The fewer bodies we leave behind us, the better.’

They moved on, swift and silent as shadows. They entered an enormous, wide-open cavern. Far below lay a lake of placid darkness, circled by docks and facing a great wall of battered chitin secured by a gigantic chain. When battle called, that armoured plate would yawn open, spilling reaver-ships out into the ocean like hornets swarming from a nest. Now, the ships nestled along the shore, moored by heavy ropes. Beyond the harbour wall lay a cluster of ramshackle buildings, rising in a series of concentric levels towards the roof of the cavern. There was a shimmering luminescence to both the rocky surface of the chamber shell and the rough stone of the architecture that gave the illusion of early morning light. Zenthe could see flickering torches in the distance and hear the clatter of marching boots.

‘Walk openly here,’ she said. ‘We’re just another band of cutthroats about our business. We avoid the patrols, and we walk swiftly.’

Guinmark soon realised that his fate was going to be substantially more unpleasant than he had first feared. Passing out of the slave pits into the winding channels of the outer districts, a maze of warrens and drinking pits favoured by off-duty corsairs, their captors took a right-hand turn and made their way along a wide thoroughfare. Here the stone cobbles were smeared with reddish-brown stains, and the sounds of raucous laughter and singing faded into ominous silence.

Ahead, rising above the cramped city streets like an enormous metal spider, was Khrel Nazath – the temple-arena of High Priestess Vhorskaya and her bloody sisterhood.

‘Oh, Sigmar,’ he whimpered, and received a kick to the back for his troubles.

‘Yes, you worthless piece of rhagrath,’ laughed the slavemaster, twirling his bladed whip in one dexterous hand. ‘The Mistress of Blades desires fresh meat for the fighting pits. Give her good sport, wretches, or else your death will not be swift or pleasant.’

His companions chortled to themselves, and Guinmark’s fellow slaves visibly paled in terror. The tales of the ritual slaughter that took place in the depths of Khrel Nazath were the stuff of nightmares. It was a rare night indeed that the screams of tormented victims echoing out across the city did not serenade the slaves of the Eternity of Torment to a troubled sleep.

The aelves drove them on with lashes. Finally, they reached a soaring gate of black iron, guarded by ten warriors in fine scale armour, wielding barbed tridents. They conversed with the slavemaster in a flurry of heavily accented aelvish that Guinmark could not quite make out, and then the leader of the guard – a tall fellow with a single plume of violet protruding from his silver helm – shouted an unintelligible command.

The gate creaked open, and the slavers ushered Guinmark and the others through. Beyond was a long hallway wreathed in shadow, lit only by a few smouldering braziers. Even the guards fell silent now. As they passed along the corridor, Guinmark could hear the thump of war-drums and a chorus of chanting in high and frenzied tones that turned his blood to ice.

As they reached the end of the corridor, figures swayed from the shadows. Several lithe females, their faces covered by leering war-masks. They wore little more than scraps of armour, their exposed flesh pale and flecked with old scars. They circled Guinmark and his fellow prisoners slowly, then one came forward and grasped one of the Sayronite brothers around the throat. Despite the witch aelf’s smaller size, she yanked the human upright with barely an effort, cocking her head as she peered into his eyes.

‘Fresh?’ she hissed, and her voice was the sound of a blade scraping across stone.

‘The strongest we have left,’ replied the slavemaster. There was the slightest tremor in his voice. ‘They’ve fed, and the retching sickness hasn’t touched them yet. They’ll serve well enough.’

The masked aelf snarled, and the slaver tensed noticeably.

‘Do not presume,’ she said. ‘The High Priestess will decide. And if these are not worthy of the blade, perhaps she will require another sacrifice to please the Bloody-Handed One. Perhaps she will cut your worthless heart out and burn it.’

The slavemaster bowed his head.

‘Forgive me, mistress,’ he said.

For a moment, the masked aelf stared at him and Guinmark thought she would leap across and drive her daggers into his heart. Instead, she let the human fall from her grip and gestured along the hallway.

‘Bring them to the blood-pit cages,’ she said. ‘Lock them up, then leave. Unless you wish to be part of the dance of blades?’

The slavers hurried on. Guinmark could feel the masked figures staring at them hungrily until they passed out of sight around a curve in the tunnel. Even his masters breathed a sigh of relief.

They walked on for several more minutes, heading deeper into the structure, down winding staircases. As they descended, an awful stench rose to meet their nostrils. The reek of sour sweat and dried blood. Of rot and fear. They entered a dank, low-ceilinged chamber, rusted iron bars on each side. Guinmark saw slumped shapes in the darkness and the glimmer of verminous eyes.

‘Through there,’ said the slavemaster, pointing to a heavy door at the end of the room. ‘Let’s be rid of them and out of here, before the Sisters of Slaughter decide to play their blood games with us.’

One of the corsairs grabbed Guinmark around the neck and dragged him forward, reaching for the rusted iron handle. With a grunt, the aelf hauled the door open.

And came face to face with an aelven woman in a sodden overcoat, smeared with blood and grime. The briefest flicker of surprise flashed across the woman’s statuesque face, and then she thrust her sword into the corsair’s ribcage.

The guard’s eyebrows furrowed as he looked down at the blade hilt protruding from his chest. His eyes rolled back in his head, and Arika Zenthe twisted the blade, dropping him to the floor. The dead aelf’s companions staggered backwards in shock, scrabbling for their blades.

The leftmost guard gave a soft gurgle as a crossbow bolt grew out of his chest. He slumped against the wall, blood spurting from the wound in a crimson arc. Oscus and Dherva leapt forward, and the battle was joined.

Zarkand’s corsairs were good. They closed ranks, falling back and filling the width of the corridor, giving their opponents no chance to flank them. The rearmost guard turned to run while the others held the way, already shouting at the top of his lungs. Another crossbow bolt whipped along the corridor and struck the fleeing aelf between the shoulder blades. He tumbled and slid along the stones.

Zenthe found herself facing a bald, scar-faced warrior with barbed whip in one hand and a dagger in the other. He whirled the many-headed lash about him like a gladiator’s weighted net, searching for an opening with the shorter blade.

She worked her left sword in a wide arc, fending off the biting whip. Its leather thongs were lined with curved teeth, each thumb-sized and gleaming sharp. Despite the close quarters the aelf wielded the strange weapon with easy grace, twirling it in an attempt to entangle her arm, then whipping it low at her feet. She jumped, kicking off the left wall and snapping her heel out to strike the whip-wielder across the temple. He staggered, and she landed and drove her blade through his thigh.

Her opponent gasped and lashed out with the whip again, scoring a jagged line across her forearm, easily tearing through the thick leather of her coat. The barbs dug in, shredding flesh and entangling her blade. Cursing, she dropped the sword and took hold of the whip, tugging it sharply and sending the aelf stumbling to the floor. She reversed the grip of her blade and sank it into the downed warrior’s back. He spluttered and fell still.

Zenthe looked up. Gritting her teeth, she tugged the barbed teeth free from her arm. Oscus had dispatched his own foe and was flicking blood from his cutlass. The last aelf drove back Dherva with a combination of thrusts and kicks and turned to run. He made it only a few feet before one of the two burly human slaves tackled him to the floor. The big human leapt upon the fallen aelf’s back and wrapped his arms around his throat, clinging on stubbornly even as the aelf slammed a dagger into his ribs, over and over. Zenthe rushed forward and slammed her boot into the prone warrior’s groin. He crumpled with an agonised groan, and the other human – who looked so similar to the first that they could only be brothers – scrabbled and dug a blade out of the aelf’s boot. Before Zenthe could haul him free, the slave had opened the aelf’s throat wide, and blood seeped across the stones.

She grabbed the human’s wrist and twisted, slapping the blade from his grip. He let it fall without care, and let out a choked cry as he leapt for his stricken sibling. The unlucky soul was clearly on the precipice of death, clutching at the meat spilling out of his torn chest. The big man shook with racking sobs as his brother gave a last, rattling breath and lay still.

Zenthe heard a shuffle of footsteps behind her and spun, sword leading. She rounded upon a filthy little human with sharp eyes and a crown of greasy, grey-brown hair.

He cowered, holding his hands up in a gesture of surrender.

‘Oh, Sigmar bless you, my lady,’ he gasped through yellow, broken teeth. ‘I am in your eternal debt.’

He was an ugly one, she thought. Balding and pockmarked, with watery eyes and a narrow chin. Yet his voice suited him ill. It was oddly melodic.

‘Shut up,’ she said, pushing him down and placing her boot on his chest. He instantly fell silent.

They listened for a sign that the alarm had been raised but heard no raised voices or boots clattering on stone. Still, the sounds of chanting and distant screams split the air. The witch aelves’ macabre ceremonies were masking their own assault most efficiently. The big man still rocked back and forth, cradling his dead sibling.

‘We cannot leave stray slaves walking the halls,’ said Oscus, staring down upon him.

‘Wait!’ the smaller human gasped. ‘Stay your blades, I implore you. I intuit from all this bloodshed that you have something of a disagreement with the crew of this dread vessel?’

‘You are a sharp one,’ muttered Zenthe.

The ugly man flashed her a winning smile.

‘Furthermore, it seems likely that you are attempting to accomplish your mission with, ah… a certain amount of delicacy, no? Well, let me humbly introduce myself. Malvo L’Polche Guinmark. Actor, raconteur and man of action. Your guide through the labyrinth of the Eternity of Torment.’

He dipped into a ludicrous bow, exposing a rash-covered bald patch.

‘I was born and raised on this vessel,’ said Zenthe. ‘My father rules the Eternity of Torment, and I know every tunnel and chamber like the back of my hand. So really, your alleged expertise is currently as useful to me as a hold full of bilge rats.’

‘Ah,’ said Malvo, licking his lips nervously.

His eyes flickered to the pile of corpses nearby.

‘Shall I kill him or not?’ asked Oscus with a long-suffering air.

‘Wait!’ Malvo said again. ‘A further question. How long has it been since you have walked these halls?’

Zenthe held up a hand.

‘Speak,’ she said.

‘My internment upon this damned ship has lasted seven celestial cycles, as near as I can tell,’ the man continued. ‘And in that time I have observed every patrol route and change of guards from here to the Dreadspire.’

He raised his shirt, uncovering a thin ribcage marked with scars and bruises. Across his chest, Zenthe saw a series of other marks. Notches of rough tissue, like the ritual scars she had seen on the flesh of nomadic seafaring tribes.

‘A code of my own devising,’ Guinmark explained, patting his chest. ‘I may be the foremost thespian in Izalend, but to my shame I have occasionally indulged in less… legally acceptable activities. I have marked upon my flesh the movements and activities of the guard patrols, in preparation for my own inevitable abscondment.’

Oscus raised an eyebrow at Zenthe, and she shrugged.

‘It’s true, I’ve not seen the Eternity of Torment in more than a century. He might prove useful. And if not, we can cut his throat and leave his corpse to rot.’

Guinmark offered a wan smile.

‘Excellent. I live and die in your service, my lady. Would you allow me one final boon?’

With that, the slave strode across to the dead warrior who had carried the saw-toothed lash. Noisy and enthusiastically clearing his throat, Malvo L’Polche Guinmark launched a thick blob of greenish slime into the dead aelf’s face.

‘Now,’ he said, turning back to his saviours. ‘Shall we be about our business?’

‘What about this one?’ said Oscus, nodding at the big man.

‘He’s a Sayronite,’ said Guinmark. ‘Ex-Freeguild, judging by his tattoos. Dragged in with his brother perhaps a week past. Maybe more. Those jungle dwellers are hardy folk, good in a fight. He might just be useful.’

Rather perceptive for a humble theatre performer, Zenthe thought, but she could not disagree with the sentiment. Sayronites were passable sailors and tough as Excelsian steel. Many of them found work as hired thugs and privateers along the Coast of Tusks.

Zenthe approached the man. His bald scalp was covered in bruises and scratches, but clearly he was a new acquisition – not yet broken down by months of merciless servitude. His long beard was smeared with gore and his eyes were raw with tears as he looked upon his dead brother. Zenthe’s blade hovered an inch from the man’s neck.

It would be easier to kill him. He was only a human thug, of no great value to her. He would only attract suspicion and make her task more difficult. Zarkand Zenthe would have slit the Sayronite’s throat in an instant.

Perhaps it was that thought that stayed her hand. Perhaps it was the memory of standing over her own brother’s corpse, hearing her father’s mocking laughter in her ears. She knelt and spoke to the man in the common Sigmarite tongue.

‘Your brother is dead,’ she said. ‘You will be too if you stay. But I can offer you a chance to revenge yourself upon the ones that chained him.’

The big man’s bleary eyes focused on hers. Burning away the grief was rage and hatred. The Sayronite went to grab the dead corsair’s cutlass, but she kicked it away.

‘No,’ she said. ‘If you want your revenge, you do as I tell you. You don’t go charging into the Eternity of Torment with a raised blade, or you’ll end up back in a cell wishing you’d shared your brother’s fate. Patience.’

The Sayronite’s eyes narrowed, but then he nodded. The man had the look of a common brute, but she saw a spark of intelligence in those brown eyes. He grasped the dagger that had been driven into his brother’s chest and wiped it clean on the dead aelf. He pocketed it, tucking it into the front of his ragged tunic. Then he leaned down, closed his brother’s eyes and planted a soft kiss upon the dead man’s forehead.

‘We should leave the humans,’ said Garsh, and Zenthe could see that the rest of her crew agreed with the corsair’s words. ‘They’ll slow us down.’

‘If they do, we leave them for dead,’ said Zenthe. ‘But until then, I say they might be of value. Enough talk. Let us go.’

CHAPTER FOUR

They retraced the path that the slavers had taken, moving swiftly and silently along the gloomy halls. Guinmark hurried to keep up with the aelves and the loping Sayronite, who set a fierce pace. Soon his chest was tight with pain. He had never been an athletic man, and the long months of captivity had taken their toll. Nonetheless, he ignored the pain and staggered onwards. Surely these invaders were doomed, but he might yet spy a chance to break free and make a run for it. Let them continue on their failed mission, whatever it was. If he could slip aboard one of the reaver-ships, perhaps, then wait until they embarked upon one of their raiding missions…

Not much of a plan. It might get him off this hellish floating city, but he’d still be lost in the ice-wastes with only a shipful of murderous corsairs for company. They would find him and drag him back here, and then they would flay the skin from his bones. Publicly. He had seen the cruelties reserved for deserters and troublemakers.

No, he would have to be patient. For now, this Captain Zenthe and her crew were his best chance. Besides, the bald female behind him had her repeater bow aimed squarely at his back, and he didn’t care to test her aim.

They entered the entrance chamber, where the masked aelves had stood. There was no sign of movement but the flickering of sconces upon the wall. Ahead was the gate to the courtyard, but the hall was empty.

‘They were here,’ muttered Guinmark, his face knotted in confusion. ‘The masked ones.’

‘Vhorskaya’s pets,’ nodded Zenthe. ‘Likely they’ve gone below, to join in with the fun.’

An appropriately timed chorus of screams drifted down the corridor, followed by a faint echo of mocking laughter. Guinmark winced. Of all the fates the slaves aboard the Eternity of Torment had to look forward to, the prospect of being handed over to the High Priestess and her bloodthirsty warrior-aelves was perhaps the most terrifying. Their slavemasters had delighted in taunting them with tales of Vhorskaya’s tender mercies, a carnival of torture and terror culminating in the removal of one’s still-beating heart.

‘Come on,’ said Zenthe.

They made their way to the end of the corridor and to the great iron door leading out of the arena. Oscus went to ease it open, but Guinmark laid a hand upon his arm. Reflexively, the first mate snarled and pushed him against the wall, locking a forearm against his throat.

‘Wait,’ rasped Guinmark, scrabbling ineffectively at the aelf’s arm. ‘Outside… more guards. Seven… across the courtyard.’

‘I told you he’d be useful,’ said Zenthe. ‘Let the poor wretch breathe.’

Oscus withdrew, and Guinmark collapsed to the floor, clutching his bruised neck.

‘You do the talking,’ the fleetmaster continued, pulling a silken handkerchief from her coat pocket and winding it around her face. She pulled up the hood of her coat, securing her pale blonde hair. ‘Been a long time since I walked these halls, so I doubt they would recognise me, but let’s not take any foolish risks. If they ask, we’re taking this one back to the cells.’ She indicated towards Guinmark. ‘He’s too weak to make good sport for Khaine’s daughters.’

Oscus nodded. The others stowed their weapons, sliding knives and stilettos into their robes ready for a quick draw. Guinmark scrabbled to his feet, and Oscus grabbed him none too gently and twisted his arm behind his back. The Sayronite bowed his head and let Garsh do the same.

‘Watch your tongues,’ the first mate growled. ‘Or you die first.’

The aelf shoved open the door and the group strode out in the gloom. The hour was late. Overhead, the great stalactites that hung from the ceiling had begun to shimmer with a soft, violet light that flooded the cavern-city. They made their way across the courtyard to the wrought-iron gate. The guards visibly tensed as their group approached, dropping their ornate tridents into a ready position. The captain of the guard took a step forward, his hand on the hilt of his sabre.

‘What’s this?’ he said, gesturing at Guinmark, who turned his eyes to the floor and started to whimper. It didn’t require much acting, if he was honest.

‘Weak blood, so they said,’ replied Oscus. ‘Not worth the honour of their blades. We’re to drag him back to his cell.’

The guard captain’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why didn’t they just snap his neck and toss his body down the charnel pit? And why this one? He’s big, strong and stupid. Just as they like.’

He nodded at the Sayronite, who stared ahead unblinkingly.

Oscus shrugged. ‘I didn’t ask. Do you ever second-guess the High Priestess?’

The guard captain took a step forward, and his warriors followed suit. Twelve trident heads dropped into a loosely braced position. Every muscle in Guinmark’s body tensed, ready to flee at the first sign of trouble. He desperately scanned the courtyard for a means of escape, but saw only sheer, spiked walls of iron.

‘When did you come in?’ said the guard captain. ‘I don’t recall opening these gates to a bunch of slavetakers. To whose flag did you swear your oaths?’

‘Fleetmaster Kraggua of the Seven Whispers,’ said Zenthe. She inflected her words with a harsh accent, emphasising the hard edges of each word. ‘We’ve been down in the charnel pits for a month or more, clearing out claw-scuttlers and thorveks. Our punishment for killing one slave too many. You know how Kraggua is. Gets the blood-madness in her over a single coin.’

She pointed to their stained and blood-smeared clothes, and the filthy sheen of grime that covered their faces.

The guard captain sneered in distaste. ‘Good luck getting rid of that scent, slavetaker.’

Zenthe sighed. ‘We’re free, at least. Heading to the Flayed Seer after we make an example of this one to his cellmates for wasting the witch aelves’ time.’

She cuffed the Sayronite about the head, hard. The ring on her forefinger sliced the big man’s head open, but he did not even seem to flinch.

After a few tense moments, the guard captain glanced at his warriors then waved a dismissive hand. They stepped back into position, and two of them went to unlock the gate and swing it open.

‘Get you gone,’ he said, gesturing them through. ‘I can stand your stench no longer.’

Zenthe led them from the shadows of the arena and out into the city streets. The sun was down, and the corsairs and slave traders had retired from their business to indulge their passions. Enticing smells and sounds emanated from each doorway, and lurid depictions of every imaginable vice were painted across walls and dangling signs. As they wound deeper into the Eternity of Torment, the aura of debauchery only became more intoxicating. There was a fug of incense that enveloped everything, seeping into the lungs and addling the brain. Androgynous, painted figures wound themselves seductively around gleaming pillars, beckoning passing corsairs into the depths of pleasure houses and smoking halls. Screams of pain and ecstasy melded together into a chorus of pure sensation.

‘I could get used to this place,’ said Dherva, hunger in her eyes as she took in the thrilling decadence on display.

‘You’d drown in it,’ said Zenthe, shouldering aside a pair of male aelves dressed in sheets of gossamer-thin silk who were dabbing their tongues with vials of gleaming metal. ‘Believe me.’

She couldn’t deny that, even after all she knew about this place, the Pleasure Quarter still excited her with its illicit dangers and endless ecstasies. Yet behind all of the shimmering temptation, it was only another of her father’s traps. Nothing occurred within these streets that Zarkand Zenthe did not hear of. His spies and assassins stalked these halls at will, pruning potential enemies and extracting secrets to feed back to their master. And yet, the fleetmasters and corsair nobles that flocked to the black ark could not help but indulge themselves, for here they believed themselves truly free. Out there, on the fringes of Sigmar’s rising empire, they were forced to exist under the commandments of the God-King. Certainly the Scourge cartels and black market privateers twisted and even broke those rules in accordance with their needs – Zenthe herself would have been strung up above Excelsis’ Square of Judgement years ago if the Freeguild could trace half of her money-making enterprises back to the Thrice Lucky. Slavery, piracy, the trade of illicit artefacts – these practices still took place, but the Scourge was not foolish enough to openly invite the wrath of Sigmar’s Stormhosts. Not yet, anyhow.

That submission was anathema to the masters of the waves, descendants of the corsair empires that had thrived and prospered during the Age of Myth. It itched at them like an old wound. For all her father’s cunning and skill at war, it was his understanding of the Scourge fleetmasters’ bitterness and boundless ambition that had always been his greatest weapon. Here he had created a world of uninhibited abandon, a message to every shipmaster that docked here: we lived like this once and we can do so again.

Shackled and painted slaves of all races lined the streets, guarded by elaborately masked guards with whips and spiked clubs. They gazed into nothing as the riotous carnival swirled around them. Already broken.

Ahead, the cavern opened up and starlight beamed down across the city. Beyond the pleasure houses rose the grand spires of the fleetmasters’ residences, six towers of twisting iron reaching up towards the open sky like the arms of some pelagic monstrosity, banners fluttering from their clawed parapets. At the centre of this cluster was a central column of black stone, a thick-walled keep at the very heart of the Eternity of Torment. Its sheer walls were connected to the six surrounding steeples by dozens of curving bridges and walkways. At the apex of the tower was a statue of an armoured aelf resting upon a throne of screaming flesh, the subjugated races of the Mortal Realms helpless beneath his iron boots.

‘Kar Narakath,’ said Zenthe. ‘The Tyrant’s Rise. The house of my father.’

They climbed a stair and found themselves on a raised plaza overlooking the palatial district. There was a perimeter wall of stone rising some ninety feet into the air, cutting the lower city off from the highborn grounds.

Garsh cursed as he craned his neck to peer at the highest reaches of the great fortress, occluded by a swirl of sea mists drifting in over the black ark’s walls.

‘By the deep,’ he muttered, scratching at his scarred cheek. ‘There’s no breaching that. Not with just the few of us.’

Dozens of guards patrolled the perimeter wall, and they could see more marching in lockstep across the grounds of the great spires. There was no cover to be had beneath the eyes of Kar Narakath, only an enormous square of polished stone.

‘There is,’ said Zenthe with a feral smile. ‘We climb.’

CHAPTER FIVE

Every gouged-out handhold in the cavern wall sent a rush of memories flooding back to Arika Zenthe. It was her and Levrid who had first found this secret route out of Tyrant’s Rise. They had every stretch of the upper levels etched in their minds, every patrol route and shadowed corner. They both knew that their father’s health was failing again, and soon he would take one of them. They were the last of Zarkand Zenthe’s heirs, and the old wretch would sire no more. Their fate was marked.

She had borne no great love for Levrid. He was too much like his father, devious and cruel. But he was kin. And so, together, they had plotted to escape Zarkand’s reach, waiting for the right moment to put their plan into action.

Waiting too long, as it turned out.

No, she had never liked Levrid, but the sounds he made as his heart was torn from his body would never leave her. So she would kill her father to avenge him. And for the others, the doomed bloodline of Zenthe.

Working her fingers into a gouge in the rock side, she glanced down. They were making good progress. They were several hundred feet above the main courtyard, perhaps halfway to the highest levels of Tyrant’s Rise. The city fell away beneath them, the sprawl of brothels, fighting pits and taverns lit by the violet glow of the stalactites. The palace guard were little more than specks.

Below her, she could see the Sayronite. He was no graceful climber, but he clung on determinedly, knife between his teeth and hands scrabbling for purchase on the slick stone. He looked up and met her gaze, and she saw fierce resolve. Death no longer meant anything to that one. Only revenge.

Perhaps more surprising still was the other human, the one called Guinmark. He moved with agile grace despite his diminutive size, easily shifting from handhold to handhold, seemingly unconcerned about the yawning drop beneath him.

‘How much further?’ Guinmark asked her, levering his body to the side so he could glance up at the ascent ahead.

‘We’re close,’ she said, and hauled herself up onto the next ledge. A flock of shadowbats objected to her presence, launching themselves into the air in a squawking cloud. With enough space to press her body in and face the rising towers, she looked up. Ahead, perhaps another two hundred feet above them, a thin, stone bridge reached out from the nearest tower into the cliff face. The swirling cloud of bats spiralled up into the night sky, still screeching in irritation.

Guinmark hauled himself up beside her.

‘So what are you?’ she said, studying his ugly little face.

‘Merely a humble actor, my lady,’ he said, and shot her a grin.

‘That’s a contradiction in terms, in my experience.’

He chuckled and rubbed his hands together in a frantic gesture that made him look almost exactly like a bilge rat.

‘While the stage is my true passion, I have developed a number of other skills over the years. One must keep oneself fed and clothed, you understand?’

‘So you’re a thief?’

He winced. ‘To me that term implies a level of amateurism I’m not entirely comfortable with. I am – or I was – a liberator of treasures. A larcenist. And a rather exceptional one.’

‘Who knows, you might come in useful after all.’

With that, Zenthe reached up to search for another handhold, set her boots upon the cliff face and hauled herself up. By now they were high enough that the sea air drifting in over the black ark’s wall wetted their clothes and seeped into their eyes. Each grip became treacherous, and their feet skidded across the slick surface of the cavern wall.

More than once Zenthe felt a thrill of fear as she scrabbled for a grip and felt her fingers slip across wet rock. Yet she clung on grimly, and with every passing moment the stone bridge loomed closer.

As she finally reached the base of the walkway, she heard the sound of iron boots approaching. Tucking herself into the shadows of the archway, Zenthe listened to a patrol of perhaps six or seven guards pass across the bridge towards the nearest tower. She waited several moments, precariously perched, her muscles screaming with pain as she held her position.

Then she reached up to wrap her fingers around a fiendish gargoyle carved into the base of the stone bridge, and pulled herself up. Her entire body ached terribly, and her fingers were raw and bleeding. But they had made it. She crouched, turning to peer into the tunnel leading into the cliff face. It was smooth and polished, lit by luminescent stonework. Beyond, she could hear the crashing of waves, and a chill wind whistled through the winding channel.

Guinmark emerged next, followed by Oscus. The first mate drew his sword and glanced down the tunnel. He looked at Zenthe, questioningly.

‘It leads to the sea wall, and the reaper bolt towers,’ she explained. ‘My father’s lair is that way.’

She gestured across the bridge. There was the grasping claw of one of the ancillary towers, reaching up to curl around Kar Narakath. The highest reaches of the great fortress were only a hundred feet or so above them, connected by another walkway, this one seemingly carved from lengths of bleached bone.

They waited for the others to emerge, then reached down to grab them and pull them up one by one. Zenthe counted them off. Still the full dozen warriors. Though their long ascent had clearly taken its toll, they were all in fighting shape.

‘From here on in you kill anyone who looks our way,’ she said, drawing her blades. ‘Move swiftly and show no mercy. There’s only one way this ends now. Once I’ve taken my father’s head, this place is ours.’

They nodded, hunger in their eyes. The Eternity of Torment was a prize worthy of legend, and they all wanted a piece of it. Zenthe grinned fiercely.

‘Let us go and slaughter an old man.’

They passed across the bridge of stone and entered the tower. A winding stairway lit by smouldering braziers led up. Zenthe heard the sound of descending boots and raised a hand to signal the others. Dherva knelt, aiming her repeater crossbow.

Two guards emerged, plumed helmets fashioned in the image of a kraken’s tentacles. Dherva’s first shot took the leading aelf in the face, and slammed him back against the wall. He crashed into his companion, who tumbled with a yell of surprise. Dherva stood, calmly, and fired another two bolts into him as he tried to struggle upright.

Zenthe was already moving, taking the stairs two at a time. She turned the corner and found herself face to face with another masked guard. Her left-hand blade smashed away the aelf’s spear, and her right sank into his chest. He gurgled and spat blood, slumping to the floor.

Finally, they emerged into starlight.

The bridge of bone swayed and creaked ahead of them. Beyond was a crown of spiked iron, and above, the statue of the tyrant glared down at them from his throne of tortured victims. Gouges in the sheer face of Kar Narakath bled soft, orange light into the early morning gloom. Her father’s chambers were occupied. Zenthe’s hands trembled with anticipation. Soon, it would all be over. No longer would she fear her father’s shadow. No longer would she hear the screams of Levrid as his flesh parted and his soul was flayed from his body.

‘Now it ends,’ she said.

She strode across the bridge of carved bones. Mounted on pikes along the walkway were mouldering aelven skulls. Those foolish enough to contest the will of Zarkand Zenthe.

At the far end of the bridge was a door of wrought iron, marked with her father’s sigil: a kraken rising from the sea, its immense tentacles encircling a doomed city. She pushed the door open and entered the room beyond, her crew hard on her heels.

Seven figures sat around a circular table of carved stone. Her father reclined at the head of the table upon a throne bound in tanned skins – human, duardin and aelven, the flesh of his enemies. He raised a glass of amber spirit as she entered, and his voice rang out across the hall.

‘Ah, there you are, Arika. So good of you to join us.’

Out of the corner of her eye, Zenthe saw figures rise up on a balcony above the dining chamber, crossbows in their hands, and she opened her mouth to shout a warning. She didn’t even see the strike coming. Something hit her in the side of the neck, numbing her muscles and sending her staggering to the floor. She heard the snap-click of crossbow levers, and a piercing scream cut short moments later.

Vision blurred and swaying, Zenthe saw her crew surrounded by armed guards. Phalen and Krossk were down, riddled with crossbow bolts. The Sayronite was slumped, pierced through the forearm by a black-feathered arrow. Oscus had a spear tip at his throat. He met her eyes and shook his head.

A tall, pale figure circled Zenthe like a vharnskor waiting for its prey to bleed out. An aelf, her hair slick with gore and pulled up into a severe top-knot on her angular skull.

‘You should have stayed far away from here, girl,’ said High Priestess Vhorskaya.

Zenthe struck out with her leading blade, but her movement was sluggish, her shoulder aching from the opening strike. The aelf swatted her forearm aside contemptuously, caught her wrist and twisted. Pain shot up Zenthe’s arm, and she lost her grip on the weapon. A fist lashed in and flattened her nose. She tasted blood. A sickening flurry of blows followed, rattling across her ribs and driving the air from her lungs.

Snarling through the pain, Zenthe snapped out a leg and her boot struck soft flesh. There was a hiss, more of annoyance than pain, as her opponent stumbled just slightly. Though the witch aelf was little more than a white blur, Zenthe charged forward with a yell and shoulder-barged her opponent to the floor. Vhorskaya’s cruel face swam into vision, and Zenthe aimed a punch. Too slow. Slippery as an eel and terribly strong, the witch aelf rolled her body under Zenthe’s, locking a leg around the fleetmaster’s neck and slamming her head into the carpeted floor.

Something sharp slid into Zenthe’s side, lighting an agonising fire in her belly. The pain was indescribable. More than a knife wound. It felt as if a thousand flensing knives were stripping the skin from her body. Slowly, blessedly, the terrible sensation receded, and she was left crumpled and dazed upon the floor. Vhorskaya’s face loomed over her. The witch aelf’s perfect nose was flattened against her cheek, and her black eyes shone with a killing light. Her daggers were in her hands now, twinkling in the firelight.

‘Not so pretty now, eh, priestess?’ Zenthe said, and gave a cackle of laughter that earned her a vicious kick in the ribs.

‘Filthy cur,’ hissed Vhorskaya, holding the tip of her blade a hair’s breadth from Zenthe’s eye.

‘Enough,’ came Zarkand Zenthe’s voice. Even with the ringing in her head, Arika thought it sounded strange. Thin and rasping, like the voice of a man denied water for too many days. ‘Get her up.’

Vhorskaya leaned down and hauled the fleetmaster to her feet. Arika stared into the face of her father.

He looked like death. Though his eyes were the piercing orbs of silver she remembered, his once handsome face was now sallow and stretched, like that of a week-old corpse. Purple-black veins stood out along his neck and crept up to his temples, and his long hair – once raven black – was now a sheet of white hanging lifelessly over his shoulders. He wore a crimson tunic with a long robe of sable, and somehow the rich fabric made him look even more like a dead thing; a corpse draped in finery, risen from its tomb to haunt the living.

‘Father,’ she said, ignoring the pain that knifed through her at every word. ‘You look like dreck.’

Zarkand Zenthe smiled, an expression that did not reach his eyes.

‘It has been so long. I have missed your sharp tongue very much, my daughter.’

Zenthe spat blood onto the floor and stared at the man she had sworn to kill. If her life ended here, she vowed she would give the old wretch no satisfaction. No screams, no pleading for mercy. Only contempt.

Zarkand sighed. He gestured to Vhorskaya and the witch aelf, none too gently, shoved Arika into the only empty chair at the table.

For the first time, she took in the seven figures sitting alongside her. To her surprise, she recognised some of them. To her left, was Dreiloch Nar, Ravager-Queen of the Molten Spoil who hailed from the quicksilver oceans of Chamon. Opposite was the leering, one-eyed visage of Sawfang Sakur, a Ghurrite corsair that Zenthe had dealt with on several fraught occasions. His face was a melted nightmare of scars and burns, the legacy of a life spent hunting the rarest and most lethal monsters of the realmseas. To the right, twirling a goblet and wearing an amused grin, was Vizrin Kyre of Hammerhal. He offered her a nod as she glanced at him. Another one of her acquaintances, as trustworthy as a hungry bloodfish, and twice as deadly. The others she did not recognise, though they were all undoubtedly members of the Scourge.

‘I regret the circumstances of your arrival,’ said Zarkand, once more taking his seat at the head of the table. ‘But nonetheless, I welcome you to the Twilight Cabal. Our gathering of like-minded shipmasters, here to discuss the advancement of our business and our way of life.’

The pain still throbbed in Zenthe’s belly, but the wound was shallow. Her head was beginning to clear, though she expected to have several painful bruises by the morning. If she managed to live that long.

‘You knew I was coming.’ It was not a question.

Zarkand sighed. ‘You are disappointingly predictable, daughter. I merely had to seed word of my presence in the right places, and here you are. You still wish me dead after so many years, Arika?’

She leaned forward and fixed him with an even stare.

‘Yes.’

Her father laughed, a horrible sound like crushed glass. ‘Well, perhaps someday you will get your wish. But not today, I fear. No, instead you will sit and you will listen to what I have to say.’

He stood, placed his hands upon the stone surface of the table, and met her eyes.

‘Once our kind ruled the waves. Not just in this once benighted corner of the realms, but across the infinite expanse of reality. We bowed to no one. We answered to neither gods nor kings. We took what we wanted – flesh, treasure and coin. When any rose up to challenge the Scourge, they were butchered, their lands despoiled. Their children carried off into bondage. They feared us, those weaklings who huddle in their cities, praying to an uncaring god. They saw us in their darkest nightmares, and they paid tribute or felt our wrath.’

Zarkand’s voice had risen to a crescendo. His pallid skin was momentarily flushed with colour. He held a clenched fist high, and slammed it down upon the table.

‘Even Sigmar knew he could not contain our fury. Our empires rose across the realms.’

‘Rose and fell,’ said Zenthe, leaning back in her chair and placing a filth-encrusted boot on the edge of the table. ‘No matter how many grand speeches you give, it doesn’t change the truth of things. Those times are over.’

Sawfang Sakur, seated across from her and to her father’s right, snorted in disgust. His many piercings rattled as he shook his hideously scarred head.

‘You’re wasting your time, Zarkand,’ he said, leaning forward and exposing a row of white teeth filed to razor-sharp points. ‘Her soul has been tamed. Too much time in the company of the God-King’s whelps. Were she my kin, I would have her flayed and thrown to the ghyresharks.’

‘Still sore about those lost shipments, Sakur?’ said Zenthe, flashing the savage corsair a smile of her own. ‘Those lassitor hides earned me a fine reward on the black market. So careless of you to blunder into my waters, Sawfang.’

The scar-faced aelf snarled in outrage and made to draw his saw-toothed blade from its sharkhide scabbard.

‘Our moment has come,’ snapped her father, fixing Sakur with a piercing stare. Reluctantly the corsair captain retook his seat. ‘And it will begin here, in this very room. The city of Izalend lies to the south, no more than five days sailing. We will take it in one strike and make of it a stronghold in these seas. The first conquest of a new empire.’

Zenthe laughed. ‘I always knew you were insane, father, but this is a fine new delusion. You think your fleets can pass the Everflame that guards Izalend?’ She snorted. ‘A wall of hungry fire that encircles the entire city? Even the Eternity of Torment would burn to ashes before it ever reached Izalend’s harbour.’

Zarkand smiled. The expression stretched the skin of his face hideously, pulling the corner of his eyelids back to reveal bloodshot orbs. He stood and strode across to where Zenthe’s crewmates were slumped, surrounded by trident-wielding guards. He ignored Oscus and the other aelves, instead looking to the two human slaves. Guinmark was prostrate, his face bowed to the floor in supplication. The Sayronite stared back at Zarkand Zenthe with hate in his eyes.

‘You have grown too comfortable in the presence of these creatures,’ said the lord of the black ark. ‘These crude apes. You have even allowed some of them passage upon your vessel, so I am told. A witch hunter, no less. Long has the Order of Azyr sought to keep the Scourge chained to the God-King’s will.’

He leaned down, his face only a few inches from the Sayronite. There was utter contempt upon his face, as if he were staring at sewer vermin.

‘Your friend here knows his place,’ he said to the burly human. ‘On the ground beneath our feet. That is where your kind belong.’

The Sayronite burst into motion, tearing the arrow from his forearm and screaming as he thrust it at Zarkand Zenthe’s face.

The lord of the black ark’s hand shot out and caught the human’s meaty fist. The Sayronite was nearly twice the size of his opponent, but veins popped out on his neck as he tried to force back Zarkand’s arm, to no avail. Zenthe’s father twisted the Sayronite’s hand until there was a loud, wet snap. The human howled but still continued to struggle, trying to wrap his good arm around the aelf’s throat.

‘Pathetic,’ said Zarkand Zenthe.

He took hold of the Sayronite’s neck and wrenched viciously. There was another crunching sound, and the man’s head was twisted almost fully around. His lifeless body toppled to the floor.

Zarkand returned to the table, wiping his hand distastefully upon his robes.

‘No longer will I stand to take orders from humans. That is why I have invited you to our little gathering, my dear daughter. I know how to quench the fires of the Everflame. How to render Izalend as helpless as a newborn. And you are going to help me do it.’

There it was. That tone of arrogant certainty that had always filled her with bile. Like he was giving orders to a lowly slave. It had been centuries since she had allowed anyone to speak to her with such disdain, and the urge to scale the table and launch herself at him was almost irresistible. She took a breath and banished the thought. Not here. Not yet.

‘Why would I help you do anything?’ she said.

‘Because within the week, that poison coursing through your veins will dissolve you from the inside out unless I grant you the antidote. Which I have in my possession.’

His smile faded. ‘You will travel to the Druichan, the forest that lies beyond the borders of Izalend. Within lies an artefact of rare value – the Heart of Winter. It is an ancient relic of the forest folk, imbued by the Everqueen herself with the breath of the coldest seasons. Old magic to rival that which powers the Everflame. You will bring this item to me, and then – perhaps – I might allow you to live. Even serve as one of my own High Fleetmasters, in the new order that will rise by my hand.’

‘Even if you somehow manage to take Izalend, the God-King will–’

‘We do not serve,’ hissed Zarkand, and there was the light of madness in his eyes. ‘We do not bow our heads like beaten hounds and scurry at Sigmar’s heels. Our birthright is dominion. Our legacy is conquest. These realms are ours for the taking, daughter, if only we have the nerve to reach out and seize them.’

‘You dream of another world,’ said Zenthe. ‘I live in this one. You think the Stormcasts will ignore our sedition? You think the God-King will not send a thousand armies to see your fledgling empire burned to ashes?’

‘You know well enough how the war against the Dark Gods goes. The wolves are slavering at the door, and the Azyrites can barely muster enough forces to hold on to their petty gains. Izalend will fall. We shall have our stronghold in the north, and fleetmasters from every corner of the realms will flock to our banners. This fortress is not the only black ark that stalks the realmseas, Arika. With only the Eternity of Torment I could hold these waters for months against any fleet the Azyrites might send. Let them come, if they can scrape together the numbers. Let them brave these waters when I have a thousand sails at my command, with a dozen black arks united in one cause. I would bleed them pale before they ever came in sight of Izalend.’

Another convulsion wracked Zenthe’s body. She coughed, and when she wiped her mouth the back of her hand was smeared with scarlet. Her father sat back in his throne and took another sip from his goblet.

‘The pain will pass,’ he said. ‘Eventually.’

‘Pain is nothing to the focused mind. You taught me that.’

‘Other than that, you should be unimpaired. For the next ten days at least. After that, well. Things will begin to get very unpleasant. I shall spare you the details, Arika.’

‘You’re too kind, father. I only wish that someday I have the chance to repay you.’

Zarkand gave a thin smile. He unfurled one of the scrolls on the desk. It was a crudely drawn map showing the city of Izalend and the surrounding area. The port was settled into a deep bay, the Everflame forming a semicircle of fire across the water. The burning circle continued on to land, and its fires had cleared a small expanse of barren tundra around the city. Beyond that, there was nothing but thick forest.

Zarkand gestured to the swathe of green ink and indicated a frozen ridge that protruded from the forest like the skeleton of a downed dragon.

‘This is where the Heart of Winter lies,’ he said. ‘At the heart of a shattered palace, the remnant of an ancient glade. The forest folk guard it ferociously. Many have sought this treasure at the cost of their lives.’

‘You’ve already sent agents to claim it?’ asked Zenthe.

‘I have. I believe the last was flayed alive and staked outside the forest for all to see. A warning to any who might trespass into sylvaneth land.’

‘Disagreeable creatures, those forest folk,’ said Vizrin Kyre, lounging on the seat to Zenthe’s right. He flashed her a white-toothed smile.

‘And why have you yourself not gone to claim this prize, dear father?’

Zarkand’s eyes flicked to High Priestess Vhorskaya, just momentarily. Zenthe noted that with interest.

‘I have much to occupy my attention here,’ he said. ‘With every passing day more fleetmasters heed my call. Soon, my armada will rival anything the Sigmarites can muster. No, this task is yours, daughter. You will sail at first light. I shall spare the rest of your crew’s life. You will need them, where you are going.’

Zarkand nodded at Vizrin Kyre, who produced a small, square metal lockbox. It was unmarked, devoid of ornamentation, yet when Zenthe looked upon it she had to suppress a wave of nausea.

‘A rarity from my own collection,’ said Kyre. ‘Lined with nullstone. Do you know of the substance, Arika?’

‘I know enough. A substance imbued with the nothingness that dwells in the Great Void. It dampens magic, so I’ve heard.’

Kyre nodded. ‘And it’s rather expensive, my dear, so try not to misplace it. This should keep the power of the sylvaneth artefact smothered, at least long enough to bring it back to the Eternity of Torment.’

Zarkand approached her, resting a hand upon her shoulder. The sickly-sweet smell of perfume could not mask the stench of decay that emanated from her father. His skin was thickly powdered, and his breath smelled like grave dirt.

‘Bring me the Heart of Winter, Arika, and we both shall oversee a new age of glory for our people. Fail me and you will die in agony.’

CHAPTER SIX

They left the Eternity of Torment behind as the first spears of dawn broke through the sea mists. Zenthe’s crew was quiet. Angry. At her, and at the humiliation they had suffered. She kept her hands close to her blades. A fleetmaster quickly learned to read the mood of her crew or else her career was a brief and tragic one. Zenthe’s sea-wolves were loyal as any corsairs could be but they were still creatures of unsentimental opportunity. If she wavered, they would go for her throat.

‘You win again, father,’ she muttered, leaning against the forerail and peering through the pall of fog that swirled about the ship. ‘For now, at least.’

She had spent most of the day nursing her wounds and her savaged pride. The tear in her gut kept up a constant pulse of agony. When she looked at the wound, she saw black tendrils of corruption already creeping across her pale flesh.

‘Ah, bracing sea air!’ said Malvo Guinmark, rubbing his hands together and grinning broadly. He was clad head to toe in clothes scavenged from the hold of the Blood Drake, his thin form swallowed by so many layers of thick fur that he looked more like a bear cub than a human. Only his face was exposed, his thin hair whipping in the wind.

‘You’re in an irritatingly chipper mood,’ said Zenthe.

‘Freedom is a wonderful tonic,’ the man said, tipping her a wink.

She narrowed her eyes, and his grin faltered just slightly.

‘Of course, your own situation is hardly a cause for good humour,’ he added, hurriedly. ‘But rest assured, my lady, Malvo L’Polche Guinmark always settles his debts. You have freed me, and in return I shall do whatever I can to aid you.’

‘Fires on the water,’ shouted the lookout.

At last, thought Zenthe. It had been a hard day’s sailing, through vicious conditions. She had pushed the Blood Drake and its crew hard. Time was a precious resource in her current predicament.

‘The Everflame of Izalend,’ said Malvo, stepping to the forward gunwale. ‘I thought I would never lay eyes upon it again.’

The great wall of fire rose twice the size of a sailing ship, bathing the horizon in amber light. It was connected by several towers that rose out of the water, seemingly impervious to the blazing heat. Smaller motes orbited those golden spires, rising above the water and crackling with arcane energies. The towers encircled Izalend like a warding circle.

Half a league beyond the wall of fire loomed the city itself, the heat of the Everflame causing it to shimmer like a reflection on the surface of a lake. Its walls rose from the water in a series of concentric rings, and at the highest point stood a great fortress, a rugged wedge of white stone dotted with crenellated towers and fluttering banners of silver and gold. It stared imposingly out across the waves.

As they neared the wall of fire, they saw the great Gate of Martyrs, the entranceway to the city of Izalend. It was an archway of gleaming gold that held the flames at bay, wide enough for a dozen ships to pass through. Several balconies jutted from the towers that made up the archway, and gold-plated warriors could be seen lining the parapet of each. These ramparts were lined with cannon and organ guns, their muzzles sweeping the narrow opening.

‘Izalend’s never once been put to siege,’ said Guinmark, and there was a hint of pride in his voice. ‘Oh, many have tried. Orruk junk flotillas drifting down from the Dhazarak Flow. Reaver hordes from the Taloncoast. None have ever passed through the Gate of Martyrs.’

‘I can see why,’ said Zenthe. ‘It’s naught but a deathtrap.’

‘I was a mere stripling when Tar Darag’s armada sailed on the city,’ said Malvo. ‘I remember sitting on the Pauper’s Wall, skinny little legs dangling over the side, watching the reaver-ships burn. They tried to swarm through the gate, but the Hearthguard raised the chains and closed it on them. Then the guns opened up. All night you could hear the screams drift in over the water. We put bets on how many ships would burn, but lost count after the fiftieth. The water ran blood-red for days.’

‘If the flames die, that gateway’s nothing more than an inconvenience,’ said Zenthe. ‘The Eternity of Torment can simply sail around it and beyond the angle of those cannons.’

Guinmark glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

‘We could warn them,’ he said. ‘Alert the Hearthguard.’

‘He would know. My father is bound to have spies in the city. If we do anything foolish, I sign my own death warrant.’ She fixed him with a glare, looking to defuse any foolish notions that might be creeping into the man’s head.

‘And you will keep silent and say nothing to anyone about what you have seen or heard. If you spill even a word of the truth, I will kill you. Very slowly and incredibly painfully. And I will hang your flayed corpse from the mainmast for all to witness. Do you understand me, human?’

‘With the utmost clarity,’ he replied, with a queasy grin. ‘But really, Lady Zenthe, your concern is unwarranted. I said that I would aid you, and I shall.’

‘What do you know of an artefact called the Heart of Winter?’

Guinmark frowned and was silent for a while.

‘It sounds somewhat familiar, but I can’t place it,’ he said at last, with a shrug.

‘It’s some form of relic of the sylvaneth, the folk of the forests. My father believes it lies in the depths of the Druichan. He wants me to find it and take it to him.’

‘Well, I may not be able to tell you much, but I know an aelf who can. No one within a thousand leagues knows more about the wilds of these lands than he. If your Heart of Winter exists, he’ll know of it.’

A steady stream of ships was pulling into the shadow of the great gate. The Blood Drake joined them, drifting in behind a pair of duardin steamcogs that spat torrents of foul-smelling smoke into the air. Izalend’s trade lanes were nowhere near as busy as those of Excelsis, but there was a fair amount of traffic for such a remote city. Smaller ships wove around the hulking forms of galleons and cargo hulks like pilot fish, and Zenthe could see small flotillas of twin-masted whaling smacks drifting off into deeper waters beyond the city, fur-clad sailors hustling across the decks carrying harpoons and coils of thick rope.

The Gate of Martyrs loomed overhead. At the base of the arches, a harbour wall rose out of the sea, forming a narrow canal through which the flow of ships passed in two columns. This was the only entrance to Izalend by sea, and it was heavily defended. Guards strode along this jetty carrying long-barrelled muskets, apparently unbothered by the raging flames mere feet away. They wore conical fur hats with hauberks of silver chain and well-forged breastplates of gold. Some were leaning against long billhooks, gazing with expressions of boredom at the passing traffic.

‘They’re slack,’ muttered Oscus, leaning on the forerail and watching the movement of the troops. ‘Complacent.’

Zenthe nodded. She had never had a high opinion of the Excelsis Freeguild, but the constant attacks that ravaged the City of Secrets had at least fostered in them a level of preparedness and basic discipline. These Hearthguard looked like they hadn’t seen action in years. Indeed, that was likely the case.

‘Safe behind their wall of flames,’ she said. ‘They think no one’s foolish enough to attack Izalend by sea.’

They passed under the archway, and through the wall of fire, which cast a flickering light across the deck.

‘What magic is this?’ asked Oscus, his voice betraying just a flicker of awe.

‘Damned if I know,’ said Malvo. ‘But the towers have stood for thousands of years, it’s said. In the days of myth, the Everflame safeguarded another city, far grander than this one. But when the God-King retreated to Azyr, the fires went out. The city was sacked and burned by sea reavers, daemons and all manner of horrors, and that was that. Until old Sigmar returned to the realms, of course. His wizards rekindled the Everflame with a spark from the Six Smiths’ forge, and Izalend was built over the ruins of what came before.’

They neared the harbour wall, drifting through a forest of ships’ masts, the city of Izalend filling the sky ahead. Steam drifted in off the water, a shroud of sea smoke that curled around the edges of the harbour jetties and gave everything a hazy, dream-like quality. The warmth of the wall of flames did not reach as far as the city’s walls, however. Icicles the length of swords dangled from the underside of the docking berths, and there was a light drift of snow. The harbour was a modest affair compared to the sprawling docks of the great cities, but it thrummed with activity. Lining the wharf were merchants and tradesmen of all description, hollering offers at the sailors filtering by. The smell of smoked fish and spices drifted in across the bay, and Guinmark gave a sigh of satisfaction.

‘A bite to eat and a change of clothes, I think,’ he said cheerily. ‘Then a spot of revenge to cleanse the palate.’

Zenthe laid a finger upon the man’s chest.

‘Remember why you are here, Guinmark,’ she said. ‘I’ve got seven days to return to my father with what he wants.’

‘I can help you, Lady Zenthe,’ said Guinmark. ‘But not while another sits in my place as thiefmaster of this city. You help me with this little problem, and I promise you that I will move the heavens themselves to aid you in return.’

The Blood Drake nestled into a berth at the leftmost corner of the docks, and the corsairs dropped anchor and began lashing mooring lines to the great iron hoops protruding from the jetty. Two of the crew slid the gangplank into place, and Arika Zenthe took her first steps into the city of Izalend. The smell of woodsmoke and fresh fish met her nose, a not entirely unpleasant aroma. Ahead, the docks opened into a main thoroughfare that wound its way up to the first of several concentric levels. Merchant stalls lined the muddy track, which was dusted with a fine layer of snow. The streets were built high and narrow beneath those alabaster fortifications, ramshackle huts of wood and stone crammed on top of each other in typically artless human style.

‘Welcome to the place of my birth,’ said Guinmark, and there again was that note of pride. ‘Port Izalend, the White City. Not a metropolis to rival Sigmar’s greatest creations, perhaps, but she is beautiful enough, is she not?’

‘Awe-inspiring,’ said Zenthe. ‘Now tell me whose throat I have to slit to get what I need.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

The servant girl was a pretty one and her hands were soft and supple, but she might as well have been massaging Yhorsk Casran with a lump of wood, for all the good it did. He lay there, oiled and steamed like a hogfish ready for the dinner table, trying to relax his tired muscles and growing increasingly frustrated at his inability to do so.

The life of a master of Izalend’s thieves’ guild was, it turned out, not an entirely soothing one.

Those money-grabbing rogues in the Freeguild were demanding more lucrative bribes, crowing about increased crackdowns on corruption from the office of the High Arbiter. The Oilboys and the Icehearts had kicked off another turf war through simple boredom, and he’d have to get their leaders together and broker some kind of peace before they all killed each other. There was nothing quite so bad for business as a turf war. By the God-King, even the amberglass trade was suffering, with another dozen of his smugglers missing in the last few months, likely snatched away by the forest folk after straying too deep into the Druichan.

He rubbed his sweaty face, and sighed. The girl went to rub the back of his neck, but he slapped her hand away irritably.

‘Bring me wine,’ he snapped. ‘And some of those honeyed goose livers.’

She curtsied awkwardly and hurried off. He sat up, then wandered over to the square pool of ice-cold water in the corner of the steam chamber and slipped in. The shock of the sudden cold was immensely refreshing.

Broukan, his bodyguard, stood impassively nearby with his burly arms crossed over his chest, resting near the handles of his twin axes. The duardin refused to leave his master’s side even when he went to the massage houses. At first, Yhorsk had found the silent killer’s presence somewhat disconcerting, but a number of foiled assassination attempts had changed his mind. Now his guardian followed him everywhere.

‘I don’t know how that old wretch Guinmark managed it,’ he sighed. ‘Ten years, I watched him run this city, and the bastard made it look easy. If I’d known what an arse-ache it would be, I might have never bothered overthrowing him.’

Broukan grunted. He was not a particularly eloquent soul, but then again that was hardly why Yhorsk had hired him.

‘If it’s not the alley gangs slaughtering each other for merriment, it’s the damned politicians and merchants gouging me for coin. I am the master of the thieves’ guild, for Sigmar’s sake. I should be out there robbing these old serpents blind, not paying them chests full of coin.’

He slipped back into the icy water, staring up at the mosaicked ceiling which depicted a bevy of nubile creatures performing illicit acts.

‘I miss the old game,’ he muttered. ‘Second-storey work. Loot jobs and heists. Now it’s all bribery and smuggling. The magic’s gone, I tell you.’

The door opened and the girl came back in, but now she was wearing a thick cloak of purple wrapped around her face. She approached, holding the tray of sweetmeats and a goblet of wine.

‘Is there a reason for the cowl?’ asked Yhorsk. ‘Because I don’t believe I’m paying you to walk around like one of the God-King’s priests.’

Broukan frowned and moved towards the girl. His hand was reaching for his axe.

‘There now,’ the duardin said, his ugly face screwed up in a frown. ‘What hav–’

The girl spun and slammed the tray into the duardin’s face. Wine splashed into Broukan’s eyes, and he grunted in surprise. The servant hit him again, making a sound like a crashing gong. Then she kicked him in the chest, sending him sprawling across the steam room. More figures rushed into the room just as Yhorsk began to scramble out of the ice pool, cursing and scrabbling for his robes hanging on the wall and the dagger he stored in his belt.

The girl shrugged off the veil, and he saw a thin, aelven face wearing an insouciant grin. She grabbed him by the shoulder and twisted him around, then planted a kick into his backside. He tumbled face first into the pool of water once again. Someone pulled him up by his hair. He gasped and spluttered in panic. Then he was thrown at the far wall, tumbling naked and bruised, his head spinning.

‘Do you know who I am?’ he gasped, blinking freezing water from his eyes. The aelf had removed her cloak and stood before him in a long, leather overcoat and breeches, swords hanging from her belt. She studied him with an indifferent gaze, and he did his best to cover his dignity. Broukan was sprawled in the opposite corner. Three wiry aelves stood over him, aiming hand crossbows at his chest.

‘I am the guildmaster of this city, fool,’ he hissed. ‘My men will already be swarming this place. Whoever you are, you’ve just signed your death warrant.’

‘Your men are either dead or otherwise occupied,’ said the aelf. ‘Whatever you’re paying those fools, I’d consider lowering it.’

Never one to stick with a dying cause, Yhorsk ploughed ahead. ‘I could pay you. A fortune. Coin beyond your wildest dreams.’

‘Coin,’ said the aelf with a sniff. ‘How prosaic.’

‘I’m afraid bribery is out of the question, old friend,’ came a cheerful voice, and Yhorsk’s blood ran cold. No, there was simply no way that…

Malvo Guinmark strode into the chamber, hands clasped behind his back and an unsettling grin upon his face. He looked different. Thin, and cruel. There was no mirth to his smile, and his eyes were flecks of pitiless stone.

‘You,’ choked Yhorsk.

‘Me,’ said Guinmark.

‘Malvo, I…’

‘Hush, hush, hush, Yhorsk. I understand, believe me. Betrayal is an inevitable repercussion of our trade. I myself betrayed my own mentor and usurped his place as master of the guild. But you know, old friend, there is a fundamental difference between you and I.’

Malvo Guinmark leaned down and stared into Yhorsk’s eyes.

‘I ensured that my rival was dead,’ he hissed. ‘Whereas you left me trapped in a living nightmare, but very much alive. That was exceedingly foolish of you. I expected far better from the man I was training to replace me.’

‘You were… what?’

‘Yes, you reeking sack of offal!’ Guinmark screeched. ‘You malodorous traitor. I had already made the preparations. I was planning to transfer control of the vaults and the gangs to you when you decided to stage your little coup. I was done. I was out. I was planning to try my hand at a little theatre, perhaps retire to a nice mansion with a few handsome lads to wait on me hand and foot. And then, a day before I deliver my life’s work into your grasping hands like the benevolent soul that I am, you burst into my chambers at early light with your gang of thugs, bundle me into a sack and trade me off to the flesh merchants!’

Guinmark’s face was red and spittle dangled from his mouth. He looked deranged.

‘Oh,’ croaked Yhorsk. ‘Erm… Sorry?’

It felt ridiculous even as he said it. All that plotting. All the blood that had been spilled on the streets of Izalend these last, long months, all for naught. The idea that Guinmark might have been preparing for a peaceful transition of power had never once entered his mind.

‘You will be bloody sorry!’ hissed Guinmark. ‘I am going to personally dedicate the rest of my life to ensuring your slow and agonising destruction.’

Guinmark landed a kick on Yhorsk’s chest, which knocked him on his back. Then he fell upon the guildmaster, his snarling face an inch from Yhorsk’s own.

‘But first, you’re going to help the Lady Zenthe here with a problem of her own. Now get up and put your robes on. We’ve got work to do.’

Broukan cleared his throat. The duardin was propped up on one elbow, wincing as he rubbed his bleeding scalp where the aelf had struck him.

‘Ah, Mister Hammerlung,’ said Guinmark, approaching the mercenary with his hands clasped behind his back. ‘What to do with you? I have heard a great deal about your abilities, though I must admit it irks me to see you working alongside this traitor.’

The duardin shrugged. ‘Job’s a job. He hired me after your little accident, for what it’s worth. Had no part in that.’

‘Indeed. As to the terms of your contract with Yhorsk here – are you a practical soul, I wonder? Or does your word of honour, once given, demand inadvisable loyalty to your employer, even in your current predicament?’

‘Ain’t much point to earning coin if you’re too dead to spend it,’ said Broukan, shrugging. ‘Way I see it, the fight’s done. You won.’

‘Enough talk,’ said Oscus, frowning. ‘We should just cut his throat and be done with it.’

‘Now, now, master aelf,’ said Guinmark. ‘One does not get to become thiefmaster by dint of ruthlessness alone. I find myself short of employees, Mister Hammerlung. There may be a potential position open for a capable bone-breaker such as yourself. After I take back what is rightfully mine.’

The guildhall of the Brotherhood of Larcenists was an unassuming structure hidden amidst the poorhouses propped against the Pauper’s Wall. At first glance it looked much like the other tumbledown shacks and grimy bawdy-houses. Larger, perhaps, but in a similar state of disrepair. Freezing water poured from clogged guttering, and around the stone steps to the front door were clustered several vagrants wrapped in tattered furs.

Zenthe saw through the facade, of course. Those beggars were rather too bulky for souls who had been living off the streets for months, and there was a flicker of movement on the ice-encrusted roof. No doubt watchmen ready to send down a hail of arrows on anyone causing trouble. Yhorsk squirmed at her side, and Zenthe gave his arm a sharp twist, causing him to yelp in pain.

She raised an arm, and a second later several fleet-footed shadows darted across the rooftops. There was no screaming or clashing of blades, but after a second or two she saw Oscus appear behind a crooked smokestack to signal the all clear.

One problem dealt with.

‘Take us in,’ she told Yhorsk, taking a firm hold around his neck. ‘Please, no dramatics. If you try anything, we’ll have to kill everyone in that building. After your good self, of course.’

She gave him a light shove, and he stumbled and skittered across the cobbles. Righting himself, he walked towards the door of the guildhall. Zenthe, Guinmark and six of her corsairs followed on behind, with the duardin Broukan offering little resistance as they ushered him along. In fact, the duardin seemed almost intrigued, observing the aelves’ actions with professional interest. They had taken his weapons for now, but Malvo had advised against killing the mercenary. Guinmark appeared to hold Broukan in rather high esteem.

The false beggars parted as Yhorsk made his way up the steps, though Zenthe caught the subtle shift as they readied daggers upon seeing the unexpected guests.

Yhorsk made a series of deft gestures with his fingers, and the hooded figures stepped back, eyeing Zenthe nervously but allowing her to pass. Even as they backed off, more of Zenthe’s crew appeared, slipping from the shadows with stilettos drawn. They were amongst the thieves in a flash, disarming them of their daggers and alley-bows, holding blades to their throats. It was all done swiftly and bloodlessly, as Zenthe had ordered. The last thing she wanted was a messy bloodbath on the city streets.

Yhorsk visibly paled as he saw his guards dealt with so swiftly. He rapped upon the door with trembling fingers, tapping out a distinct pattern. After a brief moment, the door yawned open.

‘Boss?’ came a guttural voice. Zenthe heard the sound of chains being unwound.

Zenthe stepped up and kicked the door hard. It slammed into something soft, and there was a yelp of pain. Grabbing Yhorsk by the throat and putting his fat body in between her and any potential missiles coming in her direction, Zenthe barged through the doorway. Inside, the grubby facade of the guildhall immediately gave way to gaudy luxury. The floor was tiled with Excelsian mosaics of shimmerstone that gleamed and glittered in the light of flickering sconces. Drapes of multicoloured silk swayed beneath stained-glass windows, and the ceiling was luxuriously gilded with patterns of gold and silver.

Sprawled on the floor, clutching a heavily bleeding nose, was a burly figure draped in robes of black and purple. He tried to scrabble backwards as the fleetmaster entered, but her corsairs were already rushing past, blades drawn. Garsh put his foot on the doorman’s chest, and gave a single shake of his head. Wisely, the supine man decided not to press the issue.

Still using Yhorsk as a human shield, Zenthe strode down the vaulted entranceway and entered a main hall circled by pillars of black marble. A bubbling fountain stood in the centre of the hall, shaped in the image of a set of golden keys.

The mumble of voices and shuffle of rushing boots filled the air. Black-cloaked figures poured from the upper levels, wielding billy-clubs and daggers, some yanking back the levers on handheld repeater bows. Zenthe’s corsairs tensed for battle, but before the thieves were halfway across the open hall, a hail of bolts whipped down from above. Oscus and his marksmen picked out those armed with ranged weapons, aiming for arms and limbs. Those struck by the missiles convulsed then lost control of their balance, toppling like felled logs, their bodies rigid and painfully contorted.

The remaining thieves hurled themselves behind cover, shouting in confusion.

‘That first volley was laced with spineshell venom,’ said Zenthe, her voice filling the hall. ‘It hurts like hellfire, but all it does is leave you paralysed for a few hours. Consider it a warning. Lay down your blades.’

There was a long silence, and then a voice came from behind the bannisters on the upper level.

‘We ain’t getting out of here alive if we surrender, are we? I know your kind, Scourge-witch. You’ll cut us into ribbons or sell us into slavery.’

Zenthe sighed.

‘Guinmark?’ she said. ‘Speak your piece and talk some sense into these fools, before I’m forced to paint this hall in their blood.’

The small man came forward, dramatically removing his scarf and gesturing like a stage actor awaiting applause.

‘Lay down your weapons, lads,’ he bellowed, a wide grin covering his face. ‘I, Malvo L’Polche Guinmark, have returned to claim my rightful seat as thiefmaster of Izalend.’

There was another long pause, until several cloaked heads peered over the top of the landing.

‘But… you’re dead,’ came another, nasal voice.

‘Evidently not,’ snapped Guinmark. ‘As much as Yhorsk Casran wishes it were so. Your traitorous dog of a thiefmaster betrayed me and sold me into bondage, but I have returned.’

He dragged Yhorsk forward and forced the trembling man to his knees.

‘Do you contest my leadership, Yhorsk?’ Guinmark said, bending an ear theatrically.

‘I yield,’ wheezed the fallen thiefmaster.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Guinmark gazed upon his former chambers with distaste. Yhorsk had stripped out all his tasteful Azyrite furnishings and replaced them with gaudy finery. His four-poster bed was gone. In its place lay a quagmire of drapes and pillows. Hookahs, empty bottles and smoke-pipes lay scattered about the room. The room stank of ash and sweat. Two servants stoked the great fire in the hearth of the thiefmaster’s chambers, snatching nervous glances at Arika Zenthe, who lounged in Guinmark’s favourite chair – one of the only pieces of furniture remaining from his collection. The aelf masked her discomfort well, but Guinmark noticed the slightest wince of agony as she laid one hand on her wounded stomach.

‘So, Yhorsk,’ said Guinmark, staring at his betrayer, who was chained and trembling on the lhorfskin rug that covered the floor. ‘We have already established that you have allowed the security of this guildhall to become fatally compromised. Three lookouts? A band of useless gutter-scroungers guarding the door? If I live for a hundred years, I will never understand how the alley gangs didn’t rise up against you.’

‘We paid them off,’ said Broukan, slumped in a chair by the window, puffing on a silver-plated hookah. The duardin mercenary had taken the change of leadership on board with the sort of resigned indifference common to those who offered out their blades for coin.

‘You… paid them?’ Guinmark repeated, horrified. ‘Those jumped-up guttersnipes pay us tribute, not the other way round.’

‘They rose up against us,’ said Yhorsk. ‘The Icehearts and the Oilboys both. Refused to hand over our due, and slaughtered our collectors whenever we tried to force the issue.’

Guinmark cursed and clawed at his temples. It had taken him more than a decade, many, many deaths and an unreasonable amount of plunder to finally corral the gangs of Izalend under his command. It would be even more difficult a second time.

‘Not as easy as I made it look, this business, eh, Yhorsk?’

He sighed and strode over to the window. Wiping away a patch of condensation, he stared out across the Frostwarrens. The snow was falling thicker than ever, and a pack of street youths were engaged in an escalating and brutal conflict using spheres of compacted ice. Snowshoe-wearing hunters traipsed through the slush of the main avenue with razor-seal carcasses on their backs, dripping trails of blood across the sparkling white ground.

‘Take him to the dungeon,’ said Guinmark, gesturing to two of his cutthroats. ‘Make him uncomfortable, but leave him alive. I am yet to think of a sufficient punishment.’

Yhorsk was dragged away, whimpering in protest. As he passed his former bodyguard, he made one last effort to slip from the grasp of his captors.

‘Broukan,’ he gasped, falling to his knees in front of his former bodyguard. ‘Please, I’ll give you anything you want, anything!’

Broukan glanced down at his former employer with an expression of distaste, slapping the man’s hand aside as he desperately grasped at the duardin’s boots.

‘Not enough treasure in the realms to make me fight that battle,’ he said. ‘You made your play, and you failed. I’m a hired axe, Yhorsk, not some damn fool Azyrite knight willin’ to die for his word. Ain’t nothing personal about it.’

With that, the despairing man was dragged away.

‘Your reputation precedes you, Mister Hammerlung,’ said Guinmark. ‘By all accounts you performed an admirable job protecting my traitorous predecessor, despite his best efforts to get himself killed. His current predicament can hardly be blamed upon you. I have work, if you are looking for it.’

Broukan shrugged, and tipped the ash from his pipe into the fire.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘As long as I’m paid, my axe is yours. If you’re headin’ into the Druichan, you’ll need it. No shortage of horrors in that place.’

With that he left the room, his heavy boots scuffing on the polished floors, leaving Guinmark alone with Fleetmaster Zenthe. She sighed, leaning back into Guinmark’s chair, and rested her boots upon his desk.

‘So that’s the murky underworld of Izalend conquered,’ she said. ‘A few hours short of a morning’s work. You’re back where you belong. Now it is time for you to repay my kindness and limitless patience.’

‘Of course,’ Guinmark said, feeling slightly aggrieved at the ease with which his operation had been dismantled. The Scourge had been playing these games for thousands of years, of course, but it was still an unpleasant wake-up call to discover how laughably outmatched the Larcenists had been by the crew of the Blood Drake.

‘I need a guide who knows the Druichan well,’ said Zenthe.

‘I know just the aelf,’ said Guinmark.

‘And I have a task for you, thiefmaster.’

Guinmark winced. He had hardly expected Zenthe to aid him out of the goodness of her heart, but he dreaded what was coming.

‘I’m afraid I’m not much of a woodsman,’ he said. ‘I would only slow you down and–’

‘And get yourself killed. I agree. Don’t worry, Guinmark, I think I can handle the horrors of the Druichan without you. No, I have something else in mind for you.’

A wave of relief washed over him. Then Arika Zenthe explained what she wanted, and it just as quickly evaporated.

‘Your man’s in here?’ said Oscus, staring up at the dilapidated church with a doubtful expression. It was a simple, wooden structure nestled into the back alleys of the dockside district, covered in a blanket of fine snow. The front door was old and mildewed, and the grounds were covered in detritus – broken bottles, old bones and shattered porcelain. The shadow of the Pauper’s Wall loomed overhead, casting the cramped alleyway in darkness even at this early hour.

‘Usually,’ said Guinmark, though even his signature confidence looked slightly shaken. ‘It’s been a while since we last talked. We… ah, didn’t quite see eye to eye on a number of issues.’

‘Another one of your trustworthy acquaintances?’

‘Gallanglaen is a unique individual. But there’s no finer tracker or huntsman in the city. And no one else knows the Druichan half as well. Just… be a little wary.’

Zenthe kicked the door open and shoved Guinmark inside.

The vestibule was empty. Rows of shattered pews were strewn across the vaulted chamber. Tufts of long grass poked up from beneath crumbling flagstones. Above, a ribcage of wooden beams criss-crossed over their heads. The ceiling beyond had fallen to ruin. The white sky shone through cavernous holes, and a steady fall of snow trickled into the hall.

‘Looks like no one’s lived here for years,’ said Oscus, peering around the shadowy structure.

‘Yes, it does seem to have taken a turn for the worse,’ muttered Guinmark.

At the far end of the hall was a shrine, beautifully carved from rich hardwood. Before it was a stone font, still filled with crystal-clear water. The shrine was fashioned in the image of a beautiful forest goddess, her eyes full of anger and sadness. In her hands she clutched a great spear, and around her knelt both aelves and humans, hands clasped together in supplication.

Unlike everything else in the church, the shrine was perfectly maintained. Zenthe ran a finger through the surface of the water, breaking apart a too-thin crust of ice.

‘Someone’s been here recently,’ she said.

Guinmark nodded. ‘Perhaps old Gallanglaen is out on the hunt. We should wait a while. He will return, I am sure of it.’

He sat down upon an upturned pew and began rubbing his hands together, his breath misting in the air.

An arrow whipped down from the shadows and sank into the wood a few inches beneath Guinmark’s groin. With a shriek of surprise, the thiefmaster toppled backwards, sprawling in the snow. Zenthe and Oscus were already spinning behind cover, pressing their backs against the carved pillars that dotted the room.

‘And so you come crawling back after all this time,’ came a drawling voice from high up in the rafters. ‘You little wretch.’

Zenthe risked a glance into the recesses of the roof. There, lying on his back on an arching beam, was a tall, thin figure. He wore a hood that masked his face, and he carried a great longbow almost as tall as he was. Not even bothering to stand upright, the figure bent the bow and loosed another arrow. It whipped across the hall and sank into the pillar a few inches from Zenthe’s head. She cursed and ducked back.

‘Are you drunk, Gallanglaen?’ yelled Guinmark, tucking himself in behind the fallen pew as best as he could manage.

‘Frequently,’ came the slurred voice again. Another arrow thunked into the pew next to Guinmark’s head. ‘Though I’m sober enough to put an oak shaft through your eyeball, you traitorous alley rat.’

‘Traitorous?’ said Guinmark, sounding genuinely hurt. ‘I’ve only ever done you right, aelf, and you know it.’

Thunk. Another arrow struck home, splitting the previous one into splinters.

‘Oh, yes. So you have. So noble of you to take pity upon a disgraced soul such as myself. Such a benevolent man you are, Malvo. For a while, at least, until I’m no longer useful. Then you send your thugs here to threaten me and burn down my home.’

‘That wasn’t me,’ shouted Guinmark. ‘Did you not even notice that I haven’t set foot in Izalend for almost a year? I’ve spent the last few months chained up in a slave pit, imbecile! You wish to see the scars?’

There was a silence, and then an audible belch.

‘And you’ve decided to give your captors a tour of the city?’ said the hooded aelf, at last. ‘My vision may be somewhat blurred by this rather cheap Elphasean wine, but I’d recognise Scourge corsairs anywhere. Honourless knaves, the lot of them.’

‘Well, I have to thank you for introducing me to this drunken fool,’ said Zenthe, glaring at Guinmark. ‘He’s tremendously entertaining. Now would you mind explaining to me why I shouldn’t kill him?’

‘This is Fleetmaster Arika Zenthe, of Excelsis,’ said Guinmark. ‘She helped me escape from my bondage. Now I aim to return the favour. But I need your help. What say you, old friend? I promise you, the rewards will be rich indeed.’

The reclining figure rolled off the edge of the beam, catching the edge with one hand and slipping neatly to the floor, only stumbling slightly upon landing. He pulled back his hood, revealing a thin, grey ridge of hair and a scalp tattooed with lines of flowing script. It was always hard to judge age with aelfkind, but the lines under the archer’s eyes spoke of many long, hard centuries of life. He drained the last of his bottle, winced, and hurled it against the far wall where it shattered into fragments.

‘Go on,’ he said.

Guinmark stood, brushing himself off and glaring at the archer.

‘Fleetmaster Zenthe is searching for something,’ he continued. ‘An artefact named the Heart of Winter, that legend has it lies in the depths of the Druichan.’

Gallanglaen’s eyes narrowed with interest. ‘And what would a corsair wish with such an item, I wonder?’

‘Does it matter?’ Zenthe said, cautiously emerging from behind the pillar with one hand resting on her sword hilt. ‘What do you know of it?’

‘There are many tales of the Ichonneath, the Tear of Season’s End,’ Gallanglaen said. He shrugged. ‘It is said that it dropped from the eyes of the Everqueen herself and gave rise to the endless cold that dominates these lands. As to the truth of that, I cannot say. But the aerchhoi, the forest folk of the Druichan, they guard this relic fiercely.’

‘An item of this power resting so close to the city?’ said Guinmark. ‘I am surprised those avaricious knaves in the Collegiate have not tried to get their hands on it.’

‘Oh, they have. Battle-wizards, Ironweld master-smiths, even the warlords of the Dark Powers. But the Druichan is a place of old magic. Without a guide who knows its ancient paths, few can pass through its depths unharmed. And the aerchhoi are always watching.’

‘You know these forest folk?’ asked Zenthe.

Gallanglaen laughed bitterly. ‘All too well.’

He bared his neck, revealing a gruesome scar. The flesh around it was puckered and withered, like that of a severe burn. Zenthe recognised the signs of frostbite. She had seen many sailors lose fingers and toes to such injuries.

‘The aerchhoi despise my kind even more than they hate humans,’ he said. ‘My descendants were the wanderer kings, those aelfs who fled before the tide of Chaos. The children of the forest suffered greatly during the Dark Times. The Everqueen might preach redemption for my kin’s supposed sins, but her saplings are not all so forgiving.’

‘But you know the paths of the Druichan?’ Zenthe pressed, uninterested in a lesson on mythology. ‘You can take me to the Heart of Winter?’

Gallanglaen shrugged. ‘For the right price. But answer me this. Why do you seek the Heart? What can a Scourge corsair want with such a thing?’

‘You don’t need to worry yourself about that. All you need to know is that if you take me to it, I’ll pay you enough Excelsian glimmerings to keep yourself inebriated from now until the end of all things. Do we have an arrangement?’

For a moment, Gallanglaen stared at her thoughtfully, cocking his head to the side. Then he nodded.

‘We do.’

CHAPTER NINE

They passed through the northern gate at early morning light. Zenthe chose a score of corsairs, leaving the others to guard the Blood Drake and keep an eye on Guinmark and his territories, just in case the sudden change in leadership of the Izalend underworld gave anyone any funny ideas. There was little traffic this side of the city, save for a few-score of trappers heading out into the ice-wastes.

‘Ain’t too many willing to risk heading into the Druichan these days,’ said Broukan, nodding towards the thin straggle of bodies following the muddy trail out of Izalend. As they passed beyond the shanties that lay outside the city’s stone wall, the ice turned to slush. Ahead, they could see the blazing fire of the Everflame as it circled around behind the White City.

‘Been more and more trouble with the forest folk lately,’ the duardin continued. ‘Abductions, missing caravans and the like. Only last month a tree-felling crew got hacked apart and strung up on the forest’s edge for all to see. Strayed too deep, see. The Freeguild glory boys have been itching for war, but that firepowder keg ain’t been lit just yet.’

As they approached the gap in the burning wall, they saw the treeline beyond.

‘You don’t send an army into terrain like that and expect them to come back out in one piece,’ said Oscus. ‘Not against an enemy that knows every inch of the land. You’d have to be a fool to march in there.’

‘You ever met any humans?’ snorted Broukan. ‘It’ll happen sooner or later. Bloated with arrogance and pride, they won’t stand for defiance like these forest folk offer. Whether the order comes from on high or no, some damned general seeking to make his legend will march on in there and get his idiot self good and killed. Then all manner of hell’s likely to break loose.’

The northern gate was well guarded, but not nearly so much as the sea entrance had been. There were a few ballista towers aiming out into the wilderness between the forest and the city, but not as many as faced seaward. Carts and sleds pulled by great, shaggy-furred quadrupeds rolled through the entrance, the guards giving them little more than a cursory glance as they passed by.

Gallanglaen was waiting by the guard tower, perched upon the gaudily painted roof of a six-wheeled caravan. Two of the big beasts of burden snorted and snuffled on their leashes at the head of the cart. They were ice-white, their beady eyes pits of yellow within enormous, boulder-sized heads. Four horns swept out from the top of their skulls, and another, smaller one ran underneath their jaws. They gazed at Zenthe and the others with disinterest as they approached. Gallanglaen hopped off the roof and landed neatly before them.

‘Last chance to change your mind,’ he said. ‘Before the terror and the screaming starts.’

‘My crew’s sailed the seas of the Taloncoast,’ Zenthe sneered. ‘We’ve hunted and slain beasts of the deep seas that would sear your soul to look upon, waywatcher. So just take us where we need to go. My time is precious.’

Gallanglaen shrugged. ‘As you say. Mount up.’

Zenthe’s corsairs climbed aboard the caravan, squeezing into a cramped cabin that stank of mould and dung. Zenthe joined Gallanglaen on the driving seat. The ranger grasped the reins and gave them a tug. With a reluctant series of grunts, the horned beasts ambled to the left, aiming for the main gate.

They joined the flow of traffic, passing through the great gate and once more beneath the blazing glow of the Everflame. The drove-beasts splashed through a mire of mud and melted snow, following the line of carriages out into the ice-wastes. One by one the carts peeled off, and Zenthe saw workers eyeing them with a mixture of confusion and pity as they pushed on towards the border of the ancient forest. After a few hours of travel, they reached the outskirts.

The mouth of the Druichan loomed ahead, dark and ominous. The trees were ancient things, gnarled like an old man’s fingers, their thick boughs rising high and holding aloft a canopy of packed ice. The snowfall had nestled so thickly atop the roof of the forest that it was almost pitch black below, save for a few errant spears of light.

As they jumped from the wagon, they sank knee-deep in the snow. Gallanglaen landed deftly, spreading his weight and moving as though he were simply brushing through long grass. The others followed rather less dexterously, carving furrows towards the treeline. Gallanglaen unleashed the drove-beasts, who ambled away and found themselves a cluster of small saplings to feast upon.

‘Keep close,’ said the wayfinder. ‘Only follow my footsteps. It’s a day’s travel to the heart of the forest folk’s domain, and everything in this forest, living or otherwise, wants nothing more than to see us dead.’

As they passed beneath the treeline, the snow became shallower, making their progress less tortuous. Yet it was still hard going. There was no man-made path through the thick woodland. The floor was a treacherous tangle of roots masked by snowfall. Each footstep had to be carefully placed, for it would be easy to slip and trap one’s ankle painfully.

They followed Gallanglaen for many hours, tracing the wayfinder’s footsteps and stopping dead at his command whenever he raised a warning hand. Sometimes he would call for a halt, and he would scramble effortlessly up the boughs of a nearby tree to get a better look at the path ahead.

‘I hope this one knows what he’s about,’ said Oscus. ‘I would not wish to be lost within this forest.’

The Druichan was not a pleasant place. A thick, oppressive aura hung over the place, a pall of shadow and threat that raised the hairs of Zenthe’s neck. Every dark corner and twisted grove seemed to harbour unfriendly eyes. They passed crystallised spider webs as large as ships’ sails, writhing with movement. Gallanglaen led them cautiously through thickets of viper gorse that lashed out to ensnare the unwary. One of Zenthe’s corsairs, Varek, strayed too close and lost a fingertip to the predatory vines. They pulsed obscenely as they supped upon the spurting blood, their stems flushing crimson.

Deeper and deeper they travelled. Distant screeches and guttural barks echoed around them, the forest awoken by their unwanted presence. As the light grew dimmer and the trees thicker, Zenthe saw yellow eyes glinting in the darkness, staring unblinkingly at their passage.

‘We will walk on a while longer,’ said Gallanglaen, after what seemed like many hours of travel. ‘Then make camp. There is a grotto nearby that I often use. It will serve.’

‘About time,’ said Broukan. ‘Curse this miserable place, and all who dwell within it.’

The wayfinder smiled, showing his teeth.

‘On that we concur, bearded one.’

Broukan’s bushy eyebrows furrowed.

‘Didn’t expect that from a long-ear,’ he said.

‘My hatred for the spirits that dwell within the Druichan knows no bounds, sellsword. I would see them all burn, if I could.’

The aelf did not elaborate. Instead he moved ahead and out of sight, gracefully skipping across the jumble of roots.

‘He’s a strange one,’ said Broukan.

‘I just hope he’s not still drunk,’ muttered Zenthe.

CHAPTER TEN

Malvo L’Polche Guinmark sat shivering in the brig of yet another pirate ship and began to seriously consider his life choices. Why, exactly, had he agreed to this insane plan, when he had only barely escaped with his life and sanity intact from a nightmarish existence of toil and torture? Surely you would have to be insane beyond imagining to voluntarily put yourself in such a position again?

Yet here he sat, his teeth chattering, with fear as much as with the cold that seeped into his bones. At least they hadn’t chained him up. That was some comfort. He peered up at the silvery light that seeped in through metal bars at the top of the brig, and sighed.

The cell door snapped open, and he almost jumped out of his skin. He hadn’t even noticed anyone lurking in the shadows. He spun around and found himself staring into a pale, angular face surrounded by a shock of raven hair streaked with white.

‘Well now,’ said Fleetmaster Vizrin Kyre, his soft voice thick with amused curiosity. ‘This is a surprise. Usually I have to raid the coasts for slaves, you know. It’s not often they deliver themselves straight to my ship.’

‘Ah… yes,’ stammered Guinmark, trying to regain his composure. The brig wasn’t especially large, and Kyre stepped in uncomfortably close, his bright eyes staring unblinkingly into the guildmaster’s own. It was rather like being trapped in a cage with a hungry shark, Guinmark thought.

‘I come at the request of Fleetmaster Arika Zenthe,’ he went on, putting a bit of steel into his voice. He had dealt with killers and cutthroats all his life. This was business, and if he showed weakness then he had no doubt that Kyre would tear him to shreds. And not figuratively.

‘She has a proposition for you. One that she believes you will be more than amenable to.’

Kyre smiled, exposing sharp, white teeth. ‘Do go on.’

‘Her father is deluded,’ Guinmark said. ‘Blinded by his need for power. This insane venture will lead only to death and failure.’

‘I learned long ago not to underestimate Zarkand Zenthe,’ said Kyre. ‘I would not have travelled to this miserable realm if I thought his plan had no merit. He speaks truth when he says that the Scourge is destined for more than simply bowing to the God-King’s every whim.’

‘Lady Zenthe agrees,’ replied Guinmark, and he felt a shiver of unease as he said the words. ‘An age will come when the druchii answer to no one. When they rise as one, and the seas run red with the blood of their enemies. But it is not that time, not yet.’

Kyre said nothing, simply folded his arms and waited for Guinmark to continue.

‘Zarkand is an old man,’ the guildmaster went on. ‘He clings to the past. Mistakes vanity for ambition. Perhaps he will indeed take Izalend, but it will not last. The Sigmarites will not suffer such an insult, and whether it takes a year or a century, his reaver kingdom will be burned to ashes.’

‘Arika Zenthe gives the Sigmarites more credit than is their due,’ laughed Kyre. ‘They fight and squabble amongst themselves, each petty lord desperately carving out their own little throne at the expense of their people. I have witnessed the deliberations and infighting of Hammerhal’s Council of Twelve, the personal grudges and point scoring. Even with oblivion staring you in the face, you humans cannot resist your bickering.’

‘Perhaps,’ shrugged Guinmark. ‘Perhaps you could beat them, every army and battle fleet they send to reclaim Izalend. But ask yourself, is it truly worth the risk?’

‘Risk is how we rise to greatness.’

‘And what if Fleetmaster Zenthe could offer you a lesser risk, and a greater reward?’

The fleetmaster tapped the steel of his false leg against the floor of the brig.

‘I’m listening,’ he said.

Zenthe and her companions made camp in a small grotto of rough earth enclosed by a cluster of dark, black trees. It was little more than a hole in the ground, slightly sheltered from the wind and large enough for them all to squeeze in and huddle up for warmth. Outside, the forest was alive with a symphony of sounds: bird cries, the distant screeching of some unknown pack creatures and the tinkling of frozen branches in the trees above. Despite herself, Zenthe felt uneasy. She yearned for the space and freedom of the open ocean, or even the predictable chaos of a great city. She trusted nothing about this fell place. Every flickering shadow seemed to promise new dangers.

Gallanglaen walked the perimeter of the camp, setting up a series of snares using folded lengths of vine and daggers of ice driven into the ground. He placed them at intervals in a circle around their makeshift sleeping quarters as the others retrieved rations and flasks of grog in an attempt to warm their shaking bodies. They had lathered themselves with more ghyreshark fat before entering the Druichan, but the cold seemed to bite right through the added layer of protection. It was a different cold from the chill blast of ocean air. It was a suffocating, all-encompassing chill that wrapped around one like a coat of ice, numbing the limbs and fogging the mind.

‘No fires,’ snapped Gallanglaen, as he entered the den at last to see Zenthe’s corsairs trying to set a light amongst a few scraps of dried wood. Somehow the aelf seemed impervious to the cold, despite wearing little more than thin leathers and a tunic of green cloth.

‘We’ll freeze to death without it, you madman,’ said Broukan through chattering teeth. The duardin was swaddled like a newborn in layers of thick fur, so that only his ugly, red-bearded face was visible.

‘There is nothing the aerchhoi despise more than fire. If they sense it, they will fall upon us and tear us apart.’

‘Two-hour watch,’ said Zenthe. ‘In pairs. Kos and Yherul, you’re up first. Everyone else, try as best you can to get some rest. We’ll rise early, get what we came for and be out of this damn place as soon as we can.’

Gallanglaen made to speak again, but she caught his eye and shook her head. The long trek had taken it out of all of them. This frost snap was nothing natural. It was slowing them down, addling their minds. They needed warmth and as much sleep as they could get, regardless of the risks.

The fire was a pitiful affair, but it washed pleasingly across Zenthe’s face as she huddled into the far corner of the grotto, wrapping her cloak around her. They had brought hides of nharvask skin, which offered another level of defence against the biting cold.

Gallanglaen knelt at the far side of the fire, the flames reflected in his pale eyes.

‘This is aerchhoi land,’ he said. ‘They claim the entire Druichan, of course, but they are few enough that one can risk trespassing along the fringe of the forest. Not so here.’

There was something about the way he spoke that troubled Zenthe.

‘Who did they kill?’ she said. ‘I can see the hate in your eyes.’

He stared at her for a moment, his face cloaked in shadow. Then he turned to face the opening of the grotto, his bow across his lap, and said no more.

Zenthe decided not to press the issue. It mattered not at all to her what the aelf’s reasons for risking his skin were, only that he got them as close as possible to the Heart of Winter.

Sleep would not come for a long time. Her wound ached constantly, and every time she shifted position on the hard earth it sent another tremor of agony through her. She lay beside the slowly sputtering campfire for what felt like hours, staring at the dwindling flames and thinking of her father and his dead eyes, the corpse stench of him. Eventually, her eyelids became too heavy to keep open and darkness enveloped her.

Zenthe woke to the sound of voices. She was on her knees, hands bound tight, her vision blurred and spinning. With a shiver of horror, she realised where she was. Her father’s chambers were dark, lit only by the embers of a dying fire. Levrid was lying next to her, drooling blood onto the fine carpet. Vhorskaya’s blade had nicked a lung. She could hear the awful, rattling sound of each breath.

Her father rose from his chair. A crimson silk gown hung from his thin frame like a flayed skin.

‘You thought to run from me, children?’ he said, and his eyes gleamed as they met Arika’s. She stared back, hypnotised. ‘Foolish. I will always find you. You are my blood, the last of my line. And you will both serve your purpose, eventually.’

He looked at Levrid.

‘One of you sooner than the other.’

‘No,’ said her brother as Vhorskaya’s maidens hauled him to his feet. ‘Take her, father! Take Arika!’

Even at that moment, Arika didn’t think less of him for it. She would have done the same.

Her father ignored his pleas. The witch aelves dragged Levrid forward as he struggled feebly in their sure grip. The High Priestess drew a knife, grabbed his head and forcefully tilted it backwards, exposing his throat.

‘This is the way it must end,’ said Zarkand Zenthe. He stepped forward, into the light, and Arika bit back a gasp of horror. His hair was sloughing from a bald skull, his skin pulled so tight to his bones that she could see the raw flesh around his eyes. His teeth were blackened stumps.

‘Your death delays the curse that rots away my flesh, and earns me another century of life,’ the thing that was her father said. ‘I cannot promise this will be quick, nor painless. But I honour your sacrifice, my son.’

He leaned in close and kissed Levrid’s forehead with rotten lips. Then he nodded to High Priestess Vhorskaya.

The knife fell. Levrid screamed, high and crazed, an animal sound. Arika watched as they cut him apart. She watched as her father ate his beating heart, stringy flesh dripping down his chin.

Someone grabbed her shoulder.

Zenthe awoke and grabbed the figure standing over her by the throat, twisted and slammed them to the ground, her hand dragging forth a dagger from her belt. The blade tip stopped barely a finger’s width from Gallanglaen’s wide, hazel eyes. Zenthe was breathing hard, sweat pouring down her face despite the aching cold. Her heart beat furiously against her ribcage.

‘Easy now, aelf,’ came Broukan’s gruff voice. She looked across and saw the duardin staring at her, his hand poised at the axe that hung from his belt.

She released Gallanglaen, who coughed and staggered to his feet.

‘Bad dreams?’ he said, wincing as he massaged his neck.

She stowed the blade and ground the palm of one gloved hand into her itching eyes.

‘Something like that.’

‘You are not the only one,’ the ranger said. ‘This place, it toys with your mind. Forces you to relive memories you would rather leave in the past.’

‘Then let’s get what we came for and get out of here. I’ve no wish to spend a single moment longer than I have to in this wretched place.’

Gallanglaen nodded. He winced as he rubbed the bruises where she had grabbed him. The others rose and began reaching for their gear. She saw plenty of tired and bloodshot eyes, and though no one spoke there was an unmistakable air of unease. She guessed that she was not the only one who had suffered an uneasy sleep.

Gods, but the wound in her side ached. She pulled aside her shirt and looked at it. The stitches held, but a spiderweb of black tendrils writhed beneath her skin, reaching almost to her chest. She touched a finger to the bruised flesh and hissed as it lit a fire of pain across her gut.

‘Captain?’ asked Oscus, and there was concern in his voice.

‘It’s nothing,’ she said, more fiercely than she had intended. She stood, pushed her way through the tangle of branches and out into the gloom of the forest.

‘How much further?’ she asked Gallanglaen, who was checking the string of his longbow and staring off into the mist.

‘We are close,’ he said. He glanced at her from out of the corner of his eye. ‘You spoke a name in your sleep. Levrid.’

‘My brother,’ she said.

‘He is dead?’

‘Long dead.’

‘My apologies.’

‘Save them. I hated him, the slippery little eel.’

‘All the same, family is family, is it not?’ said the ranger. ‘I was never close with my clan. I always preferred solitude, to walk the quiet places of the forest alone. But I grieve for them nonetheless.’

Zenthe had an idea she knew where this was going. ‘The forest folk killed them.’

Gallanglaen nodded. ‘When Izalend was first founded, my clan made the long journey from Azyrheim to seek a home. We thought, perhaps, we had found it in the Druichan. It is an ancient place, much like the sprawling copses of the Jade Kingdoms that my kin once called a haven. We hunted and made shelter within its embrace, living as one with the land.’

A sad smile crossed his features. It made him look old, and tired.

‘For a time, we knew peace. But it is not for my kind to know contentment, I think. There was never a place for us here. The aerchhoi tried to drive us away, with threats and fear at first. In our foolishness, we thought we could parlay with them, for our people were once bonded by worship of the Radiant Queen. But these sylvaneth know only cold and hatred. Something has broken them. Twisted them, beyond salvation. They are of the Dreadwood, and they are reapers of the living and bringers of the eternal winter.’

Gallanglaen’s eyes were wide, and the hand that gripped the haft of his bow trembled.

‘I was away, hunting spirehorns along the far ridges. I returned to find the frozen corpse of my king, strung up from the highest oaks. We had trespassed, and we had paid the price. Perhaps they might have let my blood-kin live, had we not borne the painted ink of the Wanderers. The Lost Ones. The Betrayers. Many of Alarielle’s children might have forgiven our kind at the Everqueen’s behest, but that old hatred still burns fiercely within the aerchhoi.’

‘You stayed close to the city?’ said Zenthe.

The ranger shrugged. ‘I am old, even for our kind. Old and tired. Perhaps in my younger days I might have marched into the depths of the Druichan and slain as many aerchhoi as my arrows could reach. Instead I slunk away and found solace in the bottle. No doubt you think me a coward for not avenging my people.’

‘I am hardly the best person to speak of familial loyalty,’ laughed Zenthe. ‘I am here because I tried and failed to kill my father. A task I plan on finishing, if we ever get out of here alive. Every single one of my kin is dead too, as far as I know. All at my dear father’s hand. I shed no tears for any of them. But I think that when I finally drive a blade into his heart, their spirits might know a brief moment of contentment, and I do not begrudge them that.’

Gallanglaen laughed, to her surprise. He shook his head and stared at her through appraising eyes.

‘You are not exactly how I imagined a privateer of the Scourge.’

‘And you are far from the typical leaf-chewing forest aelf.’

‘Perhaps it is fate that brought us together.’

‘I have no time for fate,’ said Zenthe. ‘But I will help you put the ghosts of your family to rest, if you can aid me in putting an end to the last of mine.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

They pressed deeper into lands long forgotten by mortalkind. There was no path here. They were trusting only to Gallanglaen’s directions, and even the ranger was moving slower now, stopping every few moments to scan the gathering shadows. The canopy overhead was so thick that it seemed as though they were in a cavern, not a forest. Rows of icicles the size of longswords dangled above their heads, threatening to fall and impale them at any moment. Zenthe felt as though she was walking into the jaws of some immense beast.

No longer did the Druichan seem like some vast, impenetrable stretch of wilderness. No, now it had taken on a presence of its own. The forest itself was watching them with hate in its heart. There was no birdsong, nor the hissing and chirping of insects. There was only the plaintive howl of wind whipping through the trees, and that maddening chime of crystalline branches clashing upon each other like drawn blades. Every step upon the frosted ground seemed akin to a gunshot echoing over utter silence. Zenthe had rarely felt so utterly exposed and vulnerable, even on the fiercest seas.

They staggered up a drift of hard-packed snow and entered a narrow creek overlooked on both sides by steep walls of thornbushes dotted with black flowers. Running along the centre of the valley was a frozen stream. Zenthe looked down and saw shapes in the trail of ice.

Corpses. Human, duardin and aelf. She peered closer. Below her boots was the uniformed body of a Hearthguard soldier, his face frozen in an image of utmost horror, his eyes wide and bloodshot, his mouth stretched in an unnatural scream.

The dead man’s eyes moved.

They looked into her own, and she cursed and drew her twin blades, half expecting the dead man to burst free from the ice and fall upon her.

‘Grimnir’s axe!’ said Broukan, and his own weapons were in hand. ‘They’re still alive!’

An awful song filled the air. A song of hatred and madness, atonal and piercing.

The trees on each side of the column moved. They twisted into creatures of branch and flesh. Their lower bodies and limbs were formed from blackened and ancient wood, but from the waist up they had the look of humanoids, though unnaturally thin and with mouths stretched from ear to ear that were filled with icy fangs. Their skin was ice blue, the colour of a frozen corpse. They bared their teeth in howls of delighted rage as they swept down upon the corsairs, reaching out with dagger-like talons.

‘Aerchhoi,’ screamed Gallanglaen, drawing his longbow and loosing an arrow in one smooth motion.

The suddenness of the attack was terrifying, but Zenthe’s crew were not caught helpless. There was a staccato series of snap-click as repeater crossbows were unloaded. The air filled with bluish sap and chips of bark-like flesh as the volley struck home, and several of the hideous creatures toppled.

But then the aerchhoi were amongst them. Zenthe ducked a swipe of trailing talons and cut across with her twin blades, widening the mouth of one of the creatures as she cut the top of its head free. She kicked the corpse backwards into another figure and ran both through with her right-hand blade.

Broukan was a whirlwind of motion. The duardin hacked and battered with his axes, roaring oaths to his warrior-god as he hewed through the nightmarish beings. Gallanglaen danced through the melee, releasing arrow after arrow with the speed of a volley gun. He wielded the longbow with easy grace despite its size, using it as a quarterstaff to fend off the aerchhoi as they closed around him.

The creatures’ sap-like blood pooled around their feet, but it mixed with aelven blood too. The aerchhoi’s spindly claws carved through mail and leather with sickening ease, and their too-wide maws clamped down upon bare flesh, tearing loose chunks of meat with a gory spray. The creatures fell upon the fallen with malicious glee, carving them apart.

And still more figures poured from the trees.

‘Flee!’ yelled Gallanglaen, loosing arrows as he backed up the shallow incline and away from the grotto. ‘The spite-revenants come!’

The tree-things fell upon one of Zenthe’s crew, slashing him to bloody pieces with their long, hooked fingers. They did not make his death slow, but laughed an awful croaking sound as they flayed his skin from his bones.

Crossbow bolts hissed across the clearing and slammed into the creatures, and blood and splinters filled the air. But the tree-things would not fall. On they came, their movements skittering and off-kilter, yet somehow terrifyingly fast. Another corsair was dragged to the ground, screaming in terror.

And more trees were coming to life, more leering, fanged faces appearing from all sides.

‘To me!’ shouted Zenthe. ‘Follow the wayfinder.’

Gallanglaen was already off, sprinting nimbly through the crystal-leafed trees, away from the ambush site. Zenthe ran after him, ducking aside as a swiping claw brushed past her. The screams of the tree-things were both deafening and disorientating, a maddening chorus that would not relent. She had no time to see if the others were close behind. More shapes were bursting from the darkness, shadows flickering around their twisted bodies. She scrabbled up a slope of slashing brambles, almost dropping to the floor as the wound in her gut flared with pain. Every step sent another wave of pain through her body, but she gritted her teeth and pressed on, knowing that to stop for a moment would be to die.

Gallanglaen turned, raised his bow and let fly. The arrow whipped past her head, and something screamed so shrilly in her ear that her head started ringing painfully. The wayfinder did not wait for her, but ran on, bursting through a copse of grey-limbed trees. She followed him, the surviving corsairs on her heels.

They burst out into a huge clearing, as large as a city square, which was lit by the light of the stars. Across the centre of the open ground ran a great crevasse, a zig-zagging rent in the ice that split the clearing in half. On the far side of the sheer drop was an ancient tree of enormous size, as thick and tall as a fortress, surrounded by a tangled mess of thick roots that stretched out to form a makeshift bridge over the abyss. High above, the branches of the tree spread wide and far, as if it alone held the canopy of the Druichan aloft.

There was nowhere else to run. More creatures burst from the treeline behind them, their loping strides carrying them swiftly across the treacherous earth. Zenthe’s lungs burned, but she knew that an agonising death awaited if she slowed for a moment. She thundered across the open ground, through snow that rose to her knees, making for the root-bridge.

The wayfinder was ahead of her, already skipping across the cluster of branches.

She reached the foot of the mass of bark and hauled herself up. Other corsairs scrambled up after her, as did Broukan, his bearded face red with exertion. They ran across the crevasse, scrambling across the uneven pass as swiftly as they could.

Zenthe had almost reached the far side when the broad trunk of the great oak yawned open. A figure emerged from within the crystalline structure. Its skin was ice-blue bark, its eyes chips of white that burned with cold fury. A great headdress of twisted thorns swept back from its angular skull, and it carried a scythe-staff, its blade covered with dagger-like rime frost.

The branchwych’s scream was one of pure outrage; the frenzied keen of a mother bear whose den has been despoiled and her young slaughtered. It raised the scythe-staff high and let it fall.

The root-bridge dropped away beneath Arika Zenthe’s feet. The coils of knotted roots collapsed, and the snow-covered earth cracked apart to reveal the sheer fall below. As she tumbled, Zenthe scrabbled desperately for a handhold, letting one of her blades fall from her hand. She grasped a handful of knotted thorns, ignoring the pain as the inch-long blades dug into her skin, and felt her stomach lurch as the trailing length of wood collapsed into the newly formed crevasse. The swinging vine slammed hard into the wall of the ice cavern, and Zenthe screamed in pain as the impact sent a shockwave of agony through her wounded ribs. Looking down, the fleetmaster saw nothing but blackness. The ice walls of the canyon glowed with luminescent light, its surface as smooth as glass.

She heard screams as several of her crew lost their footing and tumbled away into the darkness, limbs flailing helplessly.

‘Fleetmaster!’ someone shouted from below. She craned her neck and saw Gallanglaen. Somehow the wayfinder was propped against the sheer wall of the cavern. For a moment, she thought he was clinging to the wall like a spider, but then the ice wall glimmered slightly, and she saw that he was leaning from the mouth of a rent in the ice. A stray root of the great oak had grown down into the cold earth, forcing its way through the face of the crevasse wall. The protrusion had opened a gaping hole in the ice, and it was on this precarious ledge that Gallanglaen was perched.

There was a creaking sound, and the vine she was hanging from gave way. She fell another dozen yards before coming to a sudden stop, almost losing her grip on the tangled knot that held her.

‘You have to jump,’ said Gallanglaen. The aelf was now only a few yards below and to her left. He had shouldered his bow and was leaning out over the abyss, his hands outstretched. ‘Swing and jump. I’ll catch you.’

As the vine swung in a pendulum towards the near wall, Arika planted her boots upon the slick surface, feeling the crampons dig into the ice. She ran along the wall as fast as she could manage, using her momentum to draw back the vine before kicking off from the wall and sending the vine soaring around in a tight arc towards the spot where Gallanglaen waited. She waited and waited, trying to judge the perfect moment to leap clear through her pain-addled mind.

Zenthe let go of the vine, and sailed through the air.

She knew instantly she had judged it very badly. She struck the wall above where her companion waited, smashing her elbow and instantly numbing her entire arm. She bounced free, dazed, and her hands windmilled desperately as she scrabbled at the ice wall for a handhold that was not there. Then she was falling free, head over heels.

Something caught her boot. The sudden halt in her momentum snapped her neck back painfully, and she struck her shoulder hard against the wall. She looked up to see Gallanglaen, cords of muscle standing out on his thin neck, his eyes nearly bursting from their skull with the strain of holding her. He had thrust one of his arrows into the ice and was clinging on to the makeshift grip desperately with one arm.

‘Think… of… something,’ he said, through gritted teeth.

Zenthe scrambled at her belt and pulled out a dagger. She thrust it into the ice wall, hard, and felt it sink in deep. Praying to gods she despised, she grabbed hold of the hilt with both hands.

‘Let me go,’ she said, and Gallanglaen immediately did so. Somehow she managed to flip her body around as she fell, holding desperately on to the dagger and clutching at her boot to remove a second blade. Using the two daggers to stab deep into the ice wall, she climbed the few short feet to the ledge and with an enormous effort levered her body up and onto level ground.

She and Gallanglaen sagged, breathing heavily.

‘Please tell me…’ Zenthe gasped, each breath sending a fresh wave of pain through her, ‘that there’s a way off this ledge.’

Gallanglaen nodded towards the opening gouged out by the thick tree root. Around it the ice had splintered, creating a tunnel deeper into the earth. It was narrow and jagged, but perhaps just big enough for them to squeeze through.

‘The rest of our party are likely dead,’ said the aelf. ‘If the fall did not kill them, the forest folk surely will. It is death to stray into their sacred places.’

‘Might be so,’ said Zenthe. ‘But you and I are still alive, and somewhere close by is the Heart of Winter. I know that I still wish to survive long enough to cut out my father’s rotten heart. What about you, ranger? Do you still wish to punish the creatures that murdered your kin?’

Gallanglaen extended a hand and helped her to her feet.

The fissure wound deep into the ice wall, twisting and climbing before widening into a passage large enough to pass through while standing. Sometimes it was so tight that even the slender aelves could barely squeeze their way past the thick root, but eventually the tunnel broke into a wider channel, this one smoother and clearly carved out by mortal hands. Whoever had fashioned this tunnel, however, had allowed it to fall into disrepair. Cracks lined the walls as more branches and roots forced their way down from above, and the ice beneath their feet was marked with smaller fractures. It was so cold in here that Zenthe could already see the signs of ice burn on her exposed flesh. She wrapped her scarf tighter around her mouth and nose and prayed the shark oil on her skin would prevent any permanent damage. She had seen plenty of frostbite wounds in her years of sailing – missing noses, ears, lips. Not a pleasant sight.

They were getting close, she was sure. The very air seemed to crystallise in her lungs, making each breath ragged and painful.

Gallanglaen pressed himself against the wall and motioned for her to stop. She heard the clatter of footsteps beyond the curve of the channel. After a few moments, the ranger risked a look into the chamber beyond.

‘By the Everqueen,’ he said.

She followed Gallanglaen and soon understood the reason for his exclamation.

The fissure opened into a vast intersection. Broad channels ran along the edge of a deep chasm, circling the perimeter of a chamber the size of a city square. They were directly beneath the great frost oak. Immense roots drooped down from above, coming together to form a heart-shaped cage around a gleaming silver light that was painful to look upon. As her eyes adjusted to the sudden flare, Zenthe could see a floating orb of crystal sending cascades of light glittering across the walls.

‘The Ichonneath,’ whispered Gallanglaen in awe.

Beyond the Heart of Winter was a glacier of glittering crystal dropping away into the darkness of the chasm. A waterfall, Zenthe realised, frozen in mid flow. As they entered the chamber, she peered down into the darkness and saw the churning waves of a great underground river, trapped eternally in place by the radiating cold of the artefact.

In the distance they heard the clatter of combat and a scream that was cut off abruptly a moment later.

‘Some of our allies yet live,’ said Gallanglaen.

‘Let us not waste their distraction,’ said Zenthe, starting forward.

She hurried across the vast cavern. The cluster of winding roots that descended from above draped across the far wall. The ledge of ice circling the perimeter of the chamber stopped some way short of the roots, but close enough that she thought them possible to reach. If she was wrong, she would tumble away into the abyss and dash herself to pieces upon the frozen river. But if she could make it, the roots curled up and over the Heart of Winter; she could reach it, and cover it with the nullstone box, and hopefully be away before the forest folk could react.

‘I can make it,’ said Gallanglaen. ‘You’re injured.’

‘You have the bow.’

‘You’re injured.’

‘If the forest folk come back, you keep them off me for as long as you can. I can make it,’ Zenthe ordered.

The sounds of battle drew nearer. They could hear the guttural dirge of Broukan’s singing, echoing eerily from the corridors of ice.

‘The duardin survived,’ sighed Gallanglaen. ‘Of course he did.’

Zenthe checked her pack and tucked it under her arm so that she could easily retrieve Kyre’s nullstone box. She strode back several paces, then charged forward and leapt to the first tangle of roots. No sooner had she touched the frost-covered wood than a keening scream split the air, followed in unison by a chorus of fury. They heard the sound of feet scratching across ice, coming closer by the moment. Zenthe scrabbled up handhold by handhold, edging ever closer to the dangling cage above.

At the far end of the chamber, Broukan burst into view. The duardin mercenary was covered from head to toe in gore and bluish sap and was visibly limping from a gouge in his thigh. He was followed by four of Zenthe’s corsairs, equally bloodied. No sooner had they exited the ice tunnel than more of the nightmarish tree-beasts followed after them. Gallanglaen knelt, and an arrow whipped across the length of the chamber and took one of the creatures in its leering mouth, sending it stumbling backwards.

Broukan roared appreciatively and hacked another of the things in half with a twin swipe of his axes.

‘A decent shot, long-ear,’ he shouted. ‘But there’s plenty more where that came from.’

Zenthe climbed higher and higher, ignoring the pain in her hands as the vicious frost tore strips of flesh from her fingers. As she climbed, she noticed dim lights flickering within the cluster of roots. Teardrop shapes, like flower petals, shone in the darkness. Yet their glow was weak, like the fading embers of a dying fire.

There was the sound of beating wings from above. Soaring down came a moth-like creature, its enormous wings rimed with ice and gleaming in the half-light. Mounted upon the flying insect’s back was the branchwych that had sundered the earth and spilt them all into the abyss. The sylvaneth’s eyes burned.

‘Trespasser,’ it hissed, in a voice that sounded like cracking ice. ‘Despoiler.’

Its scythe-staff spat a beam of frost that screeched as it carved through wood and ice alike. Zenthe only narrowly twisted her body out of the way of the lancing energy, and even then, she felt the touch of icy death seep into her bones, almost costing her a grip upon the cluster of roots.

An arrow whipped up and struck the branchwych’s mount, deflecting off the segmented body of the moth creature. It swayed aside, and the sylvaneth was forced to halt its attacks. Gallanglaen loosed again and again, and his arrows tore through the gossamer of the creature’s wings, causing it to screech in pain. The branchwych aimed her weapon at the aelf below, and a cloud of tiny, beetle-like creatures erupted from the tip of the scythe-staff, racing towards the ranger who rolled aside. Even so, some of the tiny missiles struck him and burst into shards of ice. Zenthe heard Gallanglaen gasp.

There was no time to dwell on the fate of her companions. She was beneath the cage of thorns. This close to the Heart of Winter, she could feel the moisture freezing in her eyes and mouth. It was only a few yards away.

The moth swooped down to hover before her. She saw spiral patterns of blue and purple upon the canvas of its wings, beautifully intricate.

‘So few of us left,’ cried the branchwych that sat astride its shining body, ‘and still you seek to drive us from our lands. To destroy the last, frail seeds of the Rimewood. To steal away the tear of Our Lady, all that connects us to the spirit-song. Invader. Murderer. I will entomb you in the frozen waters for a thousand years.’

‘I’ve seen the corpses that line your borders,’ said Zenthe. ‘So don’t speak to me of murder.’

The branchwych hissed.

‘They were despoilers, as are you. Your kind exists only to destroy.’

‘Spare me. I’m taking the Heart of Winter. You can stand aside and live, or die by my blade. I do not care, either way.’

With a scream of rage, the branchwych urged her mount forward. The insectoid’s mouth yawned open, revealing curved fangs that dripped with translucent ichor.

Zenthe leapt, drawing her blade as she soared through the air. She cleared the creature’s bulbous head easily and landed nimbly upon its body. The branchwych swept her scythe-staff across, but the fleetmaster swayed aside and let the ice blade rush past her. Then she reversed her grip on the sword and drove it deep into the moth’s head. The branchwych screamed, but Zenthe was already jumping free, grabbing hold of the lowermost branches of the heart-shaped cage and hauling herself up.

She spared a glance and saw the sylvaneth witch and her dying mount spiralling down into darkness, and she heard the furious howls of the revenant horrors.

The orb of blinding white was suspended before her eyes.

Zenthe gasped in pain, turning aside from the Heart of Winter, unable to face the waves of numbing cold that emanated from it. With trembling fingers, she reached back and grabbed the nullstone box, yanking open the lid. She gasped as the waves of frost bit into her arms, feeling her flesh pucker and burn under the intense cold. Gritting her teeth, she closed the lid of the box around the orb.

The effect was instantaneous. Suddenly the waves of cold ceased, and the sounds of cracking ice filled the cavern. The frost-covered roots she clung to began to creak, spiderwebbing fractures running down their length.

The walls of the cavern groaned. Below, she saw more rents emerge within the carpet of frozen water. Trickles of water poured away into the darkness below. The creatures attacking her companions opened their fang-filled mouths wide and screamed.

Shards of ice the size of boulders rained from the roof of the cavern. The waterfall cracked and started to run free, great fountains of water cascading down into the darkness.

‘Run!’ shouted Gallanglaen. ‘This entire place is collapsing.’

As Broukan and the surviving aelves turned to flee, the ranger looked up at Zenthe, still hanging above the abyss, dangling from the cluster of roots that was coming apart around her.

‘Go,’ she shouted. There was no way back to solid ground from here. She would have to trust to the fates. At least if she dashed her brains out on the rocks and ice below, her father would not get his hands upon the Heart of Winter. That was some small comfort.

Gallanglaen turned and sprinted towards one of the ice tunnels.

The root to which Zenthe clung snapped loose, and she fell away into the abyss.

To her surprise, Zenthe struck not solid ground, but rushing water. The raging surf swallowed her, enveloping her in its icy embrace as the air was dragged from her lungs. She was tossed like a rag doll, spinning over and over, dashing into drifts of ice with stunning force.

Somehow she managed to right herself and drag in a lungful of air. The roof of the cavern narrowed as the underground river rushed away into darkness. It was coming apart as it flowed, no longer held together by the supernatural cold of the Heart of Winter. The frothing waters surged around twisting bends in the channel, and it was all she could do to avoid being shattered against the unyielding stone.

She fell into empty space and landed in a deep pool of ice water. The current still dragged her along, but the sharp descent had robbed it of some of its potency. She kicked her feet, fighting the surging waters. Zenthe was a strong swimmer. She had fought against the tides of the Razormaw Maelstrom, when a barrage of Kharadron aethercannon fire had hurled her over the gunwale of her flagship. Compared to that, this was a placid lake. She felt for the shifting currents as she was swept along. The trick was to move with the flow, not fight it. She eased her body through the cluster of jagged stones. At the last moment, she twisted to the side and kicked out hard, her boots connecting with the slick stone and propelling her out of the current’s grasp. As she broke the surface she saw a shelf of rock nearby, and beyond, a flicker of light.

The strength was draining from her limbs by the second, but somehow she managed to haul herself up and sprawl onto dry land. She found herself in the mouth of a cave. The waterfall of freshly melted ice flowed into a wider channel, disappearing out of view in a series of surging rapids.

Zenthe lay there for some time, panting and exhausted. If any predator or foe strayed upon her, she knew that she was helpless in that moment, but she was too tired to care. The lockbox containing the Heart of Winter was a dead weight around her neck.

She had no idea how long she lay there like a tide-stranded fish, but eventually the cracking thunder of the melting river was replaced by the rush of freely running water. She hauled her aching body upright and staggered from the mouth of the cavern and into the darkness of the Druichan.

The forest seemed a less foreboding place, somehow. Spears of sunlight shone through the thick canopy, and there was only a thin drift of snow gathering at her boots. She walked on, half expecting a horde of vengeful tree-folk to burst from the shadows at any moment. Nothing stirred.

She was shaking badly now. Zenthe knew that if she could not find shelter soon, then she would surely perish from the biting cold.

Voices carried over the shriek of icy winds. Zenthe ducked down behind a cluster of rocks, pressing her back against the mossy surface.

‘She’s dead,’ said a gruff voice. ‘Ain’t no beast nor aelf alive could survive that fall.’

‘We search,’ said another voice. She recognised the harsh drawl of Kyza, one of her corsairs. ‘We come back without the Heart and without Captain Zenthe, we might as well open our own throats and be done with it.’

The tramp of boots on compacted snow sounded from ahead. Zenthe sighed and staggered to her feet.

‘Fear not,’ she said aloud, astonished at how battered and broken she sounded.

As she emerged from her hiding place and stepped into the clearing beyond, she saw Gallanglaen and the others. The ranger had his bow strung and ready to loose, but as he saw her he smirked and lowered it to the ground. Broukan and four others were all that remained of their group.

‘By the Everqueen,’ he laughed. ‘How many lives do you have, Zenthe?’

‘Just the one. And not for much longer, if I don’t get this back to my father. Come, let’s get out of this place. I never want to set foot in it again.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

Guinmark waited on the deck of the Hel’s Claw, rubbing his hands against the chill sea air. Actually, it was strangely temperate today, he thought, glancing up at the clear skies overhead. Kyre leaned against the gunwale at his side, tapping his blade leg against the deck in a manner that Guinmark felt was slightly unnerving.

‘Arika’s time is running out,’ said the fleetmaster. ‘And with it my patience. Seven days, Zarkand gave her. There’s less than half a morning left of that.’

‘She’ll be here,’ said Guinmark, more confidently than he felt.

He felt Kyre’s eyes on him and suppressed a shiver. Zenthe was hardly a warm creature, but the Fleetmaster of Hammerhal Aqsha was something else. Every time his black eyes fell upon the thiefmaster, a shiver ran down his spine and he had to fight an instinctive urge to back away. Guinmark had seen that same look before, in the eyes of killers and madmen. Kyre smiled often, but it was not a pleasant expression, merely the bared teeth of a predator about to fall upon its prey.

Still, a lifetime of dealing with such persons allowed Guinmark to put on an indifferent air. Again, he scanned the throng of figures milling around the docks. He spied a tall figure, thin and wrapped in a cloak of green, winding his way through the crowd towards Kyre’s ship. The figure was followed by several others, all wrapped in heavy cloaks.

As they made their way along the jetty towards the boarding planks of the Hel’s Claw, Guinmark spotted a braided length of silver-white hair protruding from beneath the tall figure’s hood.

‘There they are,’ he said to Fleetmaster Kyre. ‘Did I not tell you?’

‘That’s a far smaller band than the one that entered the Druichan,’ Kyre said.

He was right. There was the familiar, broad-shouldered figure of Broukan the duardin, clearly favouring one leg. Five other figures approached, and Kyre gestured for his crew to step aside and allow them on board. Zenthe approached, her first mate Oscus at her side as usual. This close, Guinmark could see the captain’s familiar violet eyes. She nodded at him.

‘Thiefmaster.’

‘You returned, as I knew you would,’ he said, surprised at how pleased he was to see her and Gallanglaen in one piece. ‘Tell me, did you retrieve what you sought?’

‘Let’s talk. Somewhere quiet,’ she replied, ignoring his question and addressing Fleetmaster Kyre.

‘In my cabin. It would be wise to keep our little arrangement far from prying eyes. Please, follow me.’

With that, the aelf gestured them to the companionway that led down into the hull of the Hel’s Claw. They followed the fleetmaster, whose blade limb hardly seemed to impede his movement. The interior of the reaver-ship stank of rich spices and dried blood. Kyre’s cabin was at the far end of the quarterdeck, at the prow of the ship. It was fashioned from panelled hardwood, inlaid with igneous rock that glowed with a soft orange light. Flower-shaped lamps hung from the low ceiling, releasing a fug of incense. Blades and weapons of every description lined the walls, and a great desk carved from the lacquered skeleton of a whale skull occupied the far corner of the room. Its surface was covered with parchment and curled scrolls.

Zenthe slumped into one of the room’s velvet-lined chairs and retrieved a black stone lockbox from a satchel slung over her shoulder.

‘That is it?’ said Kyre, with keen interest. ‘The Heart of Winter?’

‘That’s what my father sent me to retrieve, yes.’

Zenthe leaned over and pried the lid of the nullstone box open, just a fraction. Instantly the chamber was filled with an aura of intense cold that snuffed out the tallow candles that burned in a glass bowl on Kyre’s desk.

Zenthe snapped the lid shut again.

‘Of course, I have no intention of giving this to Zarkand Zenthe,’ she said. ‘Kyre, with your help we can breach the walls of the Eternity of Torment unseen. This time we won’t strike with a single crew, but with every ship at your command. Before my father even realises he is betrayed, we will have him surrounded.’

‘As long as you hold to our deal, Arika,’ said Kyre. ‘When your father is dead, the Eternity of Torment is mine.’

Zenthe nodded. ‘Believe me, I would rather see that place burn than call it my own. You’re welcome to it.’

‘Zarkand Zenthe is no fool,’ said Oscus. ‘He has not ruled the Eternity of Torment for so many years without constantly expecting betrayal. He will be on the lookout for anything suspicious.’

Kyre shrugged. ‘Of course. There is a chance he will anticipate this. A chance worth taking.’

‘And what of your wound?’ asked Guinmark. ‘If you kill your father, how will you find the antidote for the poison in your blood?’

‘Oh, I’ll keep him alive long enough to pry that secret from his flesh,’ said Arika. ‘And even if I die, it will be worth it just to see his dreams of conquest left in cinders. We set sail tonight.’ She winced as she stood. ‘The Blood Drake stays, along with her crew. Let my father’s spies in the city believe me lost in the Druichan.’

‘I have seven reaver-ships moored out beyond the Everflame,’ said Kyre. ‘And another five already docked within the black ark. My corsairs will be outnumbered, but if we kill Zarkand Zenthe and his pet witch Vhorskaya, the battle is as good as over.’

‘A bold gambit,’ muttered Oscus.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The Eternity of Torment loomed ahead. Now that the weather had cleared they could see the full and terrifying scale of the fortress vessel. They saw the tentacle limbs of the ghorvorasc propelling the black ark through the water, sending up a fierce bow wave. Black-sailed reaver-ships flew the kraken symbol of Zarkand Zenthe. The corsair king was no longer content to lurk in the deep waters beyond Izalend.

No, he was preparing for open war.

‘Take us in,’ said Kyre. ‘Raise the bloody claw. Let them know the Fleetmaster of Hammerhal Aqsha returns.’

As they neared the portside wall of the black ark, a shelf of armour and iron began to lower like an immense drawbridge. Within, they could see the rows after rows of moored reaver-ships.

Kyre turned to Zenthe and Oscus.

‘You should head below,’ he said. ‘Our attempts at secrecy won’t last very long if someone spies you on deck. I’ll send for you when the coast is clear.’

Several of Kyre’s men led them down into the hold.

‘Can we trust him?’ Oscus muttered.

‘Too late to worry about that,’ said Zenthe. Her wound suddenly flared with pain, and she stumbled forward and leaned against the wall of the ship, gritting her teeth and forcing back the wave of agony that threatened to overwhelm her. She could feel the fire spreading throughout her battered body, the sickness seeping into every corner it could find.

‘It’s getting worse,’ she said. ‘I think it might be too late already for my dear father’s magical cure. If it even exists.’

‘It does,’ said Oscus, sounding strangely certain. ‘Your father does not seem like a wasteful man.’

‘Oh, he is not. Believe me. I am a particularly valuable asset to him, as were the rest of my family. I watched them all die, you know. At his hand. Screaming under the blade as he tore the hearts from their bodies. My mother. All my brothers. I am the last, or so I thought. Once he has consumed me, the curse will devour him. I take some comfort in the fact that even Zarkand Zenthe cannot cheat death.’

‘The curse?’

‘These days my father rarely departs the Eternity of Torment, but it was not always so. Once he terrorised the coast from here to the Shyish Innerlands, raiding and plundering at will. They say he was the deadliest privateer in all the eight realms.’

‘I’ve heard the tales.’

‘None of them come close to capturing what a cold-blooded shark he was. He conquered entire kingdoms and sold their people into slavery. He stained the seas red with blood wherever he sailed. And one day he came to the city of Ghavorka, in the Realm of Death. He came as a friend, offering protection against a plague of vampires that were preying upon the populace. They offered him all their gold if he could drive the undead back into their crypts. He fulfilled his word, and the gates of Ghavorka opened to his fleet, welcoming him as a hero. That was a foolish mistake.’

‘I am sure I know what happened next.’

‘Once he was inside their city, he burned it to the ground, stole everything of value and dragged away the population in chains. The stories tell that the elders of the city cursed him for his betrayal, even as he flayed them alive and hanged them from their ramparts. They damned him to live a life of endless pain, his body rotting away day by day, his flesh sloughing from his bones. Consuming the beating hearts of his own kin fends death off for a time, but when there are no more of his bloodline left to feed on, his end will be slow and torturous.’

She sighed. ‘In retrospect they should have known the creature they were dealing with. Zarkand Zenthe doesn’t give a bilge-rat’s tail about his own kin, so that part of the curse really only affected me and mine.’

Oscus was quiet as he digested her story.

‘The very fact he was willing to risk my life suggests that Zarkand thinks he has found a way to break the curse,’ she continued. ‘Perhaps he has some other children hidden away, just in case. That would not surprise me.’

The ship creaked as it turned broadside, likely lining up with the black ark’s docks.

One of Kyre’s officers, a dark-skinned aelf with a shock of hair dyed flame-red approached. The rest of the fleetmaster’s crew were arming themselves, stowing cutlasses and repeater bows.

‘We will wait until nightfall,’ the red-haired aelf said. ‘Until the flesh palaces open.’

It was a long few hours for Arika Zenthe, spent huddled in the dark clutching the nullstone container and listening to the rumble of distant voices. The pain in her side had only increased. Every step invited a fresh spear of agony to lance through her body. She looked at the wound and saw that the blackened flesh now spread from her hip to below her ribs.

It came as a blessed relief when Vizrin Kyre’s lieutenant finally signalled them to move. Zenthe and Oscus pulled down their hoods and checked their blades before making their way up the companionway to the main deck.

Kyre was waiting, accompanied by a score of warriors clad in sharkskin leathers and wielding cutlasses.

‘Follow me,’ said the fleetmaster, making his way down the gangplank and stepping onto the cobbled streets of the black ark. Moving swiftly, but not so fast that they aroused suspicion, they passed along the main thoroughfare towards Tyrant’s Rise.

‘I can get us through the main gate and into the courtyard,’ said Kyre. ‘I have quarters in the Tower of Norond.’

‘I know it well,’ said Zenthe. ‘It’s where I was raised.’

As they turned the corner they entered one of the pleasure house squares, still lit by a haze of lavender light and draped with silk curtains. Zenthe’s unease grew. There were rabble-rousers and drunken sailors filtering through the streets, but not nearly so many as there should be at this hour. Screams and groans echoed uncomfortably through the unexpectedly quiet streets. Slaves cowered in the doorways, bowing their heads as Zenthe and the others passed.

‘Something’s wrong,’ muttered Kyre.

‘There’s no turning back now,’ said Zenthe. Her wound was pulsing with insistent fury, and each step was like walking a league. She wondered if she could even make it back to Kyre’s ship without succumbing to the pain. ‘We press on.’

Kyre gave her an appraising look, but eventually he nodded and gestured his crew to spread out ahead. They continued on, passing into a series of shadowed backstreets. The balconies and awnings of the pleasure houses provided a dense canopy above. Zenthe thought she saw a flicker of motion out of the corner of her eye and paused to scan the rooftops. She saw nothing, but the feeling of being watched only grew more intense as they continued.

Eventually, the labyrinth of cobbled lanes converged upon a wide square, at the centre of which was a statue of an aelf in barbed armour clutching the severed head of a duardin. Crystal-clear water poured from the stump of the duardin’s neck, flowing into a circular marble bowl.

They entered, filing out into the open ground, sticking to the edges of the buildings without cover to hide behind. No sooner had they reached the centre of the plaza than a sharp cry split the air.

The sound of mail boots thundering across stone met their ears, and she saw the gleam of tridents appear at the far end of the square. Rows of armoured corsairs, their masks carved in the image of a kraken’s grasping limbs. Figures emerged on the rooftops, and she heard the snap of firing levers being readied.

They were trapped.

She turned to Kyre, snarling in fury, already raising her blade ready to cut him down.

‘You back-stabbing dog,’ she snarled. ‘I’ll cut out your lying tongue and stuff it down your throat.’

Then she looked into the aelf’s eyes and saw nothing but confusion. He had his sword and saw-toothed axe in hand, but there was no smirk of triumph on his narrow face.

‘If I wanted you dead, I’d have killed you the second you boarded my ship,’ he said. ‘This is not my betrayal.’

Figures emerged from the shadows of the flesh halls. Witch aelves, prowling forward to surround their party, their eyes gleaming with predatory hunger at the prospect of blood. Arika saw the spiked headdress of High Priestess Vhorskaya and bit out a peal of bitter laughter.

Oscus stepped away from her, drawing his sabre and dropping it to the ground. His face was utterly expressionless as he met her gaze.

‘You,’ she said.

He said nothing.

‘I knew I had a spy amidst my crew. But I thought you loyal, Oscus.’

‘I am loyal. To your father.’

The ache in her chest grew suddenly, overshadowing that of her gut.

‘Oh, don’t blame Oscus,’ said Zarkand Zenthe. Her father strode across the square at Vhorskaya’s side, hands clasped behind his back. ‘I left him little choice. Did you think I could allow you, my last remaining blood relative, to roam out of sight at will, Arika? No, no. You have only ever had exactly as much freedom as I granted you. I let you play out your games at Excelsis for as long as it suited me. But you know what must happen eventually.’

‘I am the last,’ she said. ‘When you’ve finished with me, there are no others, are there, father?’

‘No more. But no curse is unbreakable, Arika. Your sacrifice will grant me another few centuries of life. Enough to see my empire rise in the north. When you get to my age, daughter, you begin to think not of life, but of legacy. If I am to die, I will make sure the God-King’s whelps learn to fear my name as they once did.’

He extended a hand. She moved forward to hand over the nullstone box but collapsed to her knees, coughing and drooling strands of black saliva.

‘Vhorskaya,’ said Zarkand Zenthe, his tone urgent. ‘The antidote.’

The High Priestess drew a vial from her belt and emptied a translucent, gelid liquid across the edge of her dagger. She stepped up and drew the blade none too gently across Arika’s forearm, carving open the skin. Immediately, Arika’s body tensed and convulsed, and she vomited again. A warming, pleasant numbness spread from the wound.

‘We cannot have you dying early,’ said her father. ‘In actual fact, I believe you may have lasted several more days, but I do not care for taking chances with someone so precious to me. Now give me the Heart of Winter.’

Bent over with nausea, surrounded on all sides by enemies and traitors, Arika Zenthe began to laugh. A high-pitched, manic sound, even to her ears. Zarkand’s eyes narrowed, and he gestured Vhorskaya forward. The High Priestess of Khaine tore the nullstone box from Arika’s hands as she continued to howl with laughter.

Vhorskaya snapped open the container, and fury flashed across her perfect features.

‘Empty,’ she said.

‘Oh, father,’ said Arika Zenthe, wiping a tear from her eye. ‘You thought you had everything worked out, did you not? But once again you display your greatest weakness. Humans, duardin, free aelves. None of them are worthy of your attention, are they? And so you dismiss them.’

‘What do you speak of?’ hissed Zarkand, and the High Priestess stepped forward with her blade raised.

‘It’s all too funny, truly. To think, you have ruled this black ark for centuries, Zarkand. And now you are going to lose it, all because of a single escaped slave.’

‘Excuse me, gentlemen!’ said Guinmark cheerfully, approaching the trio of corsairs that guarded the tunnel ahead. The aelves turned, levelling their tridents, confusion evident on their cruel faces.

Gallanglaen’s first arrow took the leftmost guard in the throat. His second was already in the air before the first had even struck its target. It pierced the eye of the second figure, who toppled bonelessly to the floor. Broukan’s axe whipped through the air and sank into the chest of the final guard. The duardin approached and tugged the weapon loose with some effort.

‘You know where we are?’ the mercenary asked. ‘Can’t make head nor tail of this labyrinth.’

Guinmark nodded in satisfaction.

‘We are exactly where we need to be. The feeding pit.’

A set of rough-hewn stone steps rose, and the cramped tunnel opened into a vast cavern. On all sides were wet-slick walls of black stone, covered with lichen and luminescent algae. Below, a whirlpool raged. Water flowed from channels set in the walls, pouring down into the churning pool. There was an awful stench upon the air, a miasma of rotten fish and sulphur.

‘What is this place?’ asked Gallanglaen.

‘This is the mouth of the ghorvorasc,’ said Guinmark. ‘Or one of its mouths, at least.’

He gestured to a hole in the ceiling above the swirling water.

‘Such a beast requires a constant supply of food. It is not particular about what it consumes. Sea beasts, livestock. The wreckage of captured ships. Slaves. In my brief time aboard this vessel I saw thousands thrown into this chamber. Living fuel for this organic engine.’

‘By Grimnir’s axe,’ said Broukan, shaking his head and peering down into the maelstrom. As they watched, a circular, lamprey-like set of fangs emerged from the water. Each was large enough to bite clean through the deck of a warship. There were lashing tentacles down there too, lined with razor-sharp barbs.

‘It is hungry,’ said Gallanglaen. ‘Perhaps we should feed it.’

Guinmark stepped to the edge of the shelf of stone and retrieved Kyre’s second nullstone box. This one was not empty. As he opened it, Gallanglaen and Broukan stepped back, holding up their hands to fend off the sudden rush of cold.

Guinmark gritted his teeth and ignored the pain.

‘Hungry, are you?’ he shouted down into the pit. ‘Well, here you go.’

With that, he tipped the box and let the Heart of Winter fall free. The orb spun as it tumbled through the air, and was swallowed whole by the enormous maw.

It was slow, at first. The Heart of Winter sank into the ghorvorasc’s gullet. It took several moments for the pain of sudden and intense cold to travel to the pelagic monster’s brain, at which point the beast instinctively tried to regurgitate the agonising object. But the Ichonneath’s full power had been unleashed, and as it travelled deeper into the heart of the ghorvorasc it froze both blood and water solid. The beast began to thrash and writhe, unable to withstand the pain.

Dozens of ships sailing alongside the beast were crushed to kindling by the crazed flailing of its tentacle limbs. It reared and bellowed in pain, sending devastating tremors throughout the fortress it bore upon its back.

The creature was dying. And it was taking the Eternity of Torment with it.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The ground shook beneath Zenthe’s feet. A low, rumbling bellow echoed through the streets of the black ark, growing louder and louder. Cracks began to split across the stony ground, and stalactites rained from above, shattering into a thousand shards of stone as they struck the earth.

‘What have you done?’ spat Zarkand Zenthe.

The ground split apart, and seawater spurted up in towering geysers. One burst straight through the centre of a pleasure palace to Zenthe’s left, and the roof exploded under the immense pressure, raining tiles and broken glass across the square.

Screams and panicked cries split the air.

‘I will cut out your eyes, wretch!’ hissed High Priestess Vhorskaya, starting forward. No sooner had she taken a step than the city rocked again, sending her sprawling along with everyone in the square. There was a series of screams and sickening crunches as the crossbowmen lining the roofs were thrown to the street with unspeakable force.

Arika Zenthe hauled herself upright, searching for her father. There he was, fleeing into the backstreets with several witch aelves hard on his heels, as well as the traitor Oscus.

‘Go,’ she shouted to her companions above the deafening sound of the ghorvorasc’s maddened roars. ‘I’m not leaving until I see my father dead.’

‘I won’t wait,’ Kyre shouted back, but she was already moving, sprinting across the splintering ground in pursuit of Zarkand Zenthe.

Panicked slaves and bleary-eyed corsairs poured into the streets, fleeing towards the harbour. Zenthe shouldered her way through the mass of bodies, slicing a path with her sabre when the press became too tight.

Her father turned, and their eyes met across the chaos of the streets. She had never seen such an expression of abhorrence upon his face. It truly warmed her heart. He turned and disappeared around a corner, and she hurtled after him.

As she darted after him, she caught a flash of white out of the corner of her eye. Vhorskaya darted forward, her dagger slashing with blinding speed. Zenthe ducked and rolled aside, and the trailing blade tore through the throat of an unfortunate corsair fleeing in the opposite direction.

‘I should have carved out your heart long ago,’ snarled the High Priestess. ‘You ungrateful child.’

She came on, her feet moving so fast and so gracefully that Zenthe could barely keep up. Instead she ducked, then weaved, avoiding that deadly blade, playing for time. As Vhorskaya stabbed out again, Zenthe grabbed a passing figure and pushed them into the path of the blade.

The High Priestess snarled in frustration as she ripped her weapon free, and Zenthe darted in to slash a bloody furrow across her thigh. The witch aelf seemed not even to notice the wound. She whirled and came on, striking high, then stabbing low, trying to pin Zenthe against the far wall of the street.

Zenthe picked off each strike desperately, but her arm was still numb from the effects of the antidote, and she was growing more sluggish by the moment. A pirouette and a hooking slice from the priestess trapped her blade, and the witch aelf pressed closer, her snarling face only inches from Zenthe’s own.

Zenthe dropped the sword. The sudden shift in momentum surprised Vhorskaya, who stumbled on a blood-slicked patch of the street. Zenthe slammed her head into the woman’s nose and felt it break for the second time. A knee to the midsection drove the priestess back, followed by a straight punch that slammed into her belly. Ducking her head, Zenthe shoulder-charged the staggering aelf, slamming her to the cobbles.

She felt a dagger scrape across her ribs but ignored the pain, kicking her foe hard in the face and sending her rolling across the ground.

‘You caught me by surprise when we last fought,’ said Zenthe, reaching down with her boot and neatly flipping her fallen sword back into her grasp. ‘Not so this time, priestess.’

Vhorskaya spat blood. One of the witch aelf’s eyes was already swelling up.

Another thunderous tremor sounded, and a crack splintered its way along the street. Several fleeing slaves tumbled screaming into the abyss.

The High Priestess came on again, her furious momentum redoubled. Zenthe blocked a swipe at her eyes and ducked back from a backhand slash, but she was too slow to avoid a kick that doubled her over and drove the air from her lungs. She stumbled, trying to get her blade up in time to fend off the next attack, but Vhorskaya was terrifyingly fast. She slipped past Zenthe’s guard and drove an elbow into her ribs, then dropped low to sweep Zenthe’s legs from under her.

Zenthe fell on her back, and Vhorskaya was on her in a moment. Their blades met, and the High Priestess’ face locked in a furious grimace, her teeth bared as she drove her dagger ever closer to Zenthe’s heart.

Another tremor rocked the street. Vhorskaya lost her balance, just slightly. Arika Zenthe tucked a foot against the witch aelf’s stomach and kicked out hard. The witch aelf tumbled backwards, swaying on the edge of the abyss that split the city street in two. She stood on the lip of oblivion for a moment, her arms windmilling for balance.

Zenthe threw her sword like a spear. It sank deep into Vhorskaya’s chest. The priestess’ eyes opened wide, and she uttered a single gasp of disbelief before toppling over the edge.

Cursing, her body aching, Zenthe staggered to her feet. She hobbled along the thoroughfare and turned the corner to face the open harbour. She was too late. Her father stood upon the deck of a crimson-sailed reaver-ship, Oscus at his side. The ship was free of its moorings and making for an opening in the black ark’s hull.

Zarkand Zenthe met her gaze as she stood upon the edge of the dock. For the first time, he no longer looked like the legendary corsair. No, he looked old. Defeated. She smiled a wide smile, and saluted him with her blade.

He had escaped her again, but this time it did not feel like a defeat.

‘Run, father,’ she said. ‘Run and hide, as I once had to. But there’s nowhere you can flee where I won’t find you.’

THE BONE DESERT

ROBBIE MacNIVEN

PROLOGUE

Hazim’s Parlour was closing early. Hazim himself, rarely seen in the hasham den, emerged not long after nightfall with two of his burly Karami bodyguards. They started ushering the patrons out, regardless of how delirious or inebriated they were. Those who tried to resist were forcibly ejected. The regulars went quietly. Even affected by the den’s opiates, they weren’t going to argue with Hazim. Not tonight. Not when the normally unflappable hasham seller was so obviously afraid.

The parlour’s front doors and windows were boarded, but business continued unseen. The rear rooms had been commandeered, bought for a price that Hazim hoped he was never offered again. He withdrew to his private chambers without dismissing the two Karami, and barricaded the door for the rest of the night.

His new clients were not the sort of people he wished to spend the night-time hours with.

‘Barkash?’ asked one of them. The parlour’s rear room was supposed to be kept for only the wealthiest of clients, but the new edicts by the city’s ruling council had brought hard times on downtown business. The chamber was now mostly given over to storage space, the walls stacked with sacks of unfiltered hasham leaf and the various other contraband goods Hazim’s criminal network had acquired over the years – silk from Merport, counterfeit coins forged by renegades from the Jelali banker guild, grain stock being held for merchants wishing to avoid the city’s market tithes. The air, lit by a single tallow candle set on a small table at the room’s centre, was dark and heavy with dust.

‘Yes,’ came the answer to the question. ‘The target is expected to arrive there within the next three days. How long they will stay, I do not know, but I doubt they will wish to linger.’

‘And beyond Barkash?’ the original speaker asked. He was a Kharadron, clad in the bulky silver armour plates and rubbery sky-suit worn by the airborne duardin reivers, his face obscured by a grim, gold-etched ancestor mask. There was another of his kin beside him, a heavy blunderbuss slung casually over one shoulder.

‘Now, that, I do not know,’ answered the voice, lost in the shadows at the far end of the room. ‘But it is likely Khaled-Tush, and from there the Eight Pillars, or the Temple of the Lightning.’

A murmur ran through the assembled group. Besides the Kharadrons there were four others present in the back room. Two were human females, dark-haired and black-eyed, clad in the shimmering, multi-hued silkweave and pearl strings of traditional tribal dancers of the Alharab. The third stood apart from the others, wearing a heavy cloak, its species and gender unknowable behind cowl and veil.

‘And you wish the target dead?’ one of the two Alharabi dancers asked. ‘Not taken?’

‘Dead,’ the voice hissed. ‘Plus proof of its demise, by whatever means you can procure.’

Silence followed, disturbed only by the clawing and scratching sounds of the rats that seemed to infest the hasham den.

‘Full payment only to the group that makes the kill?’ the Kharadron asked eventually.

‘That is correct, duardin.’

‘Then what are we waiting for?’ the duardin growled, nodding his kinsman towards the door.

The assassins left, the Kharadrons first, followed by the Alharabi. The cloaked figure went next, saying nothing. Only after they were all long gone did the being in the shadows stir and depart, melding instantly with the refuse-stinking darkness in the crumbling alleyways outside.

It was a long time before Hazim dared check the back room and bar its open door.

CHAPTER ONE

‘How much further?’

Gotrek’s growl ended the last hope Maleneth had of sleeping. She opened one eye to look at her companion, but the sunburned duardin hadn’t been speaking to her. He’d been addressing their guide.

‘A half-day’s journey yet, sellah,’ Aziz replied, glancing back nervously from his perch atop the front of the wagon. The scrawny young merchant had chattered incessantly when their journey had first begun, his words clearly driven by the anxiety he felt at being in the presence of the cantankerous red-crested duardin warrior. Gotrek’s surliness had quickly drained him of words, though.

‘You spat those lies half a day ago, manling,’ Gotrek snarled. Aziz cringed, and Maleneth grimaced. The duardin’s perpetual ill mood was becoming infectious.

‘The temple inscriptions have been there for the better part of an age, Gotrek Gurnisson,’ Maleneth responded over Aziz’s stammered apologies. ‘I doubt one turning of day to night will alter that.’

She closed her eyes again, trying to ignore the incessant rocking motion of the wagon, the sack of meal grinding her back, the infernal heat cooking her tight-bound leathers. She tried to ignore existence itself, but to no avail. Silently, she cursed everything – the heat, the journey, the sleeplessness. Most of all, she cursed Gotrek Gurnisson, the greatest monster-slayer of a dead age and the being – some said demigod – that Maleneth was murder-sworn to protect.

As though the mad red-crested Doomseeker needed protecting.

‘Will there be any dwarfs at our destination?’ she heard him ask. She could tell from the pained silence which followed that Aziz was struggling with the question.

‘Will there be… duardin, at the outpost,’ Gotrek rephrased, pronouncing the name of his own race with painful hesitancy.

‘Duardin at Khaled-Tush, why yes, sellah!’ Aziz said eagerly, grasping on to any perceived good news he could offer his ill-tempered companion. ‘It is the beginning of the Golden Season, when the master smiths of the Great Karagi will ply their wares to the tribes up and down the trails. Some of their retainers will likely already be setting up at Khaled-Tush.’

Gotrek spat on the golden sand. The gobbet sizzled. ‘Then when we arrive, you be sure to keep me and my axe away from them,’ Gotrek said. Aziz lapsed back into silence, clearly unwilling to enquire what dark deed had left the lone duardin estranged from his kindred. Maleneth knew well enough – in the months since Gotrek had hammered the Master Rune into his flesh and bonded with its power, his name had surged from one duardin hold to another. Some warriors of the Fyreslayer lodges believed him Grimnir reforged, their shattered god made whole once again. It hadn’t been long before Gotrek had found the genuflecting too much to bear. He’d sent them all away, made them swear oaths not to follow him. All except Maleneth.

That had surprised her. She had been preparing for the day when Gotrek would demand they part company, rehearsing her own arguments. Speaking in terms that a duardin would understand, she was oathsworn to protect the Master Rune, even if it was currently hammered into a mad Doomseeker’s heart. She could not leave an item so precious to the Order of the Azyr unguarded, and thus she could not leave Gotrek.

But God of Murder, she wished she could.

Focus, Witchblade, whispered the voice of Maleneth’s former mistress, bound to the blood vial she wore around her neck. Now is not the time to let the heat take you.

She opened both eyes to regard the Slayer and the rune on his breast. Forged in the grim likeness of the god Grimnir, it blazed with a deep golden lustre, as though drinking in the heat of the desert. The same could not be said for the rest of Gotrek’s body. His exposed arms and torso were burned red raw from Hysh’s unyielding light, his swirling tattoos almost lost amidst the flaking skin. Yet he showed no discomfort in the heat, even though she was certain she could see blisters forming on his inflamed skin. She had told him to at least don a cloak, had even offered her own, but he’d ignored her. According to the Slayer, fancy cloaks and clothing were for umgi, not dwarfs.

The duardin shifted. He had noticed Maleneth’s attention. His single eye moved from the fyrestorm greataxe slung across his lap, and she found herself dropping her gaze before it met her own. That was a feeling she had rarely experienced since leaving the Murder Temples. There was something about his one remaining eye – more than grim resolve, more than stony determination, a fire that seemed able to burn bare the very thoughts of those it touched. It was the eye of a being that had witnessed a great deal more than it should have. The eye that, for all the private scorn she held for such a view, could well have belonged to a deity not of the Mortal Realms.

‘Drink, aelf.’

It was a statement, not a question. Maleneth realised Gotrek was holding out a water skin. She reached over the meal sacks that separated them in the back of the wagon, and took it.

She hadn’t realised how thirsty she was. Dehydration was just one of the desert’s thousand dangers. To live in such places was to defy the odds. Here in the Bone Desert especially, nothing lived beyond the wagon’s flank, bar the shaven tusker that was dragging it. All was a sea of undulating, bleached yellow dunes, punctuated only by the skeletal remains of vast beasts. Some said those carcasses were what gave the desert its name. Others claimed the sand itself was bone-dust, blown fine as powder from the realm of the slaughter-god on a burning furnace wind.

It didn’t do well to ponder such things. Maleneth had begun the journey with just one hope – that they would use the opportunity to stop at the outpost maintained by the Order of the Azyr deep in the desert’s heart, close to the monument city known as the Eight Pillars. Gotrek had already brushed the suggestion off. His destination was the Pillars themselves, driven by the rumoured presence of an inscription detailing the location of the Axe of Grimnir within the ancient ruins. An axe the duardin claimed was once his while the dead world lived.

‘Finish it,’ she said, tossing the half-empty water skin back to Gotrek. The Slayer let it land in his lap without catching it. Maleneth fought the urge to snap at him.

Aziz had sworn to take them as far as Khaled-Tush, the oasis settlement a day’s journey from the Pillars. They had found him in the market at Barkash, a young tusker pack driver and teamster who shifted trade stock along the desert trails for one of the local merchant cartels. A single gold coin from Gotrek had been more than enough to allay his reservations. Now, three and a half days since Barkash’s fertile river basin had given way to the desolation of the endless sand dunes, Maleneth was beginning to consider riding ahead once they reached Khaled-Tush and bringing the servants of the Order of the Azyr directly to Gotrek. The Master Rune had to be examined and Gotrek’s true abilities assessed. If even half the rumours already spawned about him were true, he was too valuable and too dangerous simply to be wandering the Mortal Realms.

She didn’t relish the thought of telling him that.

You are afraid of the duardin, hissed Maleneth’s mistress, the disembodied echo-voice slipping into her thoughts. No true child of Khaine would hesitate because of that brutish race.

‘I would like nothing more than to see if this Khainite could rip out your heart, mistress,’ she muttered darkly. ‘If only you still had one.’

There was no response from the blood vial around her neck, and she tried to put her mind elsewhere. The wagon lurched uncomfortably. Anywhere that wasn’t coarse and burning hot. The lurch came again, and the tusker hauling the wagon let out a bellow.

‘What is happening?’ she demanded, pulling back her hood and rising onto her knees to look ahead. They had entered a shallow depression between two dunes, following the line of Hysh-bleached wooden stakes that marked out the route in the event of a sandstorm. They trailed away over the next rise directly ahead, but the tusker seemed to be struggling.

‘Esha, esha!’ Aziz was snapping at the beast, poking its stubbly rear with his goad. ‘Maliki esha!’

‘It’s trapped in the sand,’ Maleneth said as the tusker let out another fearful bellow. ‘We are sinking.’

‘But the posts,’ Aziz said. ‘We are still on the correct route, sellah. This cannot be the dragging sands!’

‘Well, clearly this route is the wrong one,’ Maleneth snapped. ‘Gotrek, get up. We must abandon this wagon. Now.’

The duardin had strapped his axe across his back and was leaning over his side of the wagon, peering at the sand around them. The wheels were already half-submerged, and the tusker was now floundering visibly.

‘The dunes must be stable,’ Maleneth said. ‘Grab the water skins, and jump.’

‘We cannot leave the produce!’ Aziz said, scrambling into the back of the wagon with Maleneth and Gotrek and trying to heft the meal sacks. ‘I cannot lose them! They will beat me if I fail to bring them even one less than I am signed for!’

‘You’ll be delivering them straight to Shyish and the God of Death himself if you stay,’ Gotrek snapped, grabbing a pack and the two nearest water skins and tying them around his waist. Even now, it still sounded strange to hear him trying to pronounce the names of the Eight Realms.

‘Gotrek, the boy first,’ Maleneth said.

‘Hold still, manling,’ Gotrek grunted, and grabbed Aziz around his skinny waist. The pack driver struggled, then let out a terrified wail as Gotrek braced himself on the wagon’s side, and flung him. Aziz thumped into the sand on the bottom of the dune to the right of the trail, rolled with surprising dexterity and stared back at the wagon. He didn’t sink.

‘Go, you oaf,’ Maleneth said to Gotrek. The timber around them was beginning to creak and groan at the pressure exerted on it, and the tusker was going wild, lowing and goring the yielding ground beneath it. Gotrek scowled at Maleneth for a moment, then mounted the wagon’s side and, with a bellow of exertion, flung himself. The rune on his chest burned brighter than ever, and he cleared far more ground than Maleneth had expected. He slammed into the sand half a dozen feet short of Aziz.

And began to sink.

‘Khaine’s bloodied blades,’ Maleneth swore. She leapt. Lithe as a feline, she landed in a crouch next to Aziz. Without missing a breath, she turned and slid the belt from around her waist. Gotrek was already half-gone, sinking like a lodestone. He let out a roar that eclipsed even that of the tusker, clawing in vain for firm ground, seemingly more angry than panicked. Maleneth darted forward until she felt the yielding sand begin to drag at her feet. She knelt a pace back, and flung the belt out towards the duardin.

‘Is that all you have?’ Gotrek bellowed as the strip of aelf-cured hide reached him.

Maleneth smiled. ‘Take it or drown. It matters not to me. I can always recover your corpse and dig the Master Rune from you cold flesh.’

Gotrek snatched the end. Maleneth stood, dug her feet into the sand as best she could, wrapped the belt’s end around both fists and began to pull. It was like trying to drag a Khainite sacrificial slab single-handedly.

You should leave him, her mistress hissed. He is a mad fool.

‘Help me,’ Maleneth snarled at Aziz, then realised he was no longer at her side. The teamster was sprinting along the bottom of the dune, headed away from them.

‘I will seek help!’ he yelled back at her.

‘There’s no time, you fool,’ Maleneth barked after him, but to no avail. He kept going.

She cursed the boy’s cowardice, every muscle straining as she leaned back. The belt was taut and quivering, but she was certain it would hold. She had strangled the life from enough people with it to be sure.

Gotrek’s downward motion was arrested and, with agonising slowness, reversed. He began to rise up out of the dragging sands and, with a last roar of effort, dug his fists into the edge of the firm ground and hauled himself from the mire like some primordial earth-god returning to the Mortal Realms. Maleneth collapsed backwards, panting.

Behind them, the tusker was gone. The two stood and watched in silence as the rear of the wagon, upended now, was dragged under inch by slow, creaking inch. Eventually there was a final sucking sound and the whole thing was gone. The sand lay silent and undisturbed, as though the wagon and its tusker had never existed.

‘We must leave, Gotrek, son of Gurni,’ Maleneth said. ‘If we wish to reach Khaled-Tush before nightfall.’

‘What happened to the beardling?’

‘He ran,’ Maleneth replied. ‘He probably thought you were going to eat him for leading you astray.’

‘Better than stabbing him in the back, aelf.’

‘Only in your deranged imagination am I forever murdering those who are trying to help me, Gotrek.’

Gotrek levelled an axe at her. ‘I saw enough of your kind’s treachery in the world before.’

‘The world before is dead,’ Maleneth hissed, rounding on him. ‘And it pains me that you did not die with it.’

He didn’t offer a retort, and she assumed he was struggling to master his anger at having to be saved from so ignominious an end as the dragging sands. When she caught his gaze, though, she realised his focus was elsewhere.

There was a figure atop the dune behind them. It was little more than a silhouette, dark against the cloudless blue of the heavens. She saw it only for a second before it disappeared back beyond the rise, clearly sensing their attention.

‘What was that?’ she asked.

‘I know not, aelf. But they have been following us since we left the city.’

‘Since Barkash?’ Maleneth snarled. ‘Why didn’t you say something, you foolish dolt? Do you not think it’s even slightly relevant that there is someone hunting us?’

Gotrek shrugged. ‘They were keeping well back – we couldn’t have caught them unless we laid up some sort of ambush, and I’m in no mind to linger in this place when I have my axe to find. Besides, they were mounted, meaning they weren’t the Grey Lord’s vermin.’

‘They are not skaven, so you do not think they are relevant?’ Maleneth demanded. ‘And just what if they are being recompensed by him?’

Her words were only an attempt to mask her anger. She hadn’t seen the figure before, and she had never known a duardin to be more attentive to his surroundings than her. Then again, she had never known a duardin like Gotrek Gurnisson.

‘Let us move, as the day is wearing thin,’ she said, then realised Gotrek had already begun to stomp off. She rolled her eyes, bound her belt around her waist and followed.

CHAPTER TWO

They walked. The heat raged against them like a physical force, a beast that sought to bear them down into the shifting sands. They followed the tops of the dunes running parallel with the trail markers. Maleneth didn’t trust them not to end in the dragging sands once more, but they were the only apparent clear route to Khaled-Tush.

They hadn’t gone far before they stumbled across the last thing Maleneth had expected to find in the desert – water. In a cleft between two dunes they discovered a timber trough, its bottom full. Next to it was what looked like a hitching post, the rope tied around it lying abandoned in the sand.

‘A waypoint for message riders?’ she wondered out loud. Gotrek said nothing. They filled up the water skins and carried on, the shadows cast by the dunes starting to stretch.

They reached Khaled-Tush just as the bone-chill of deep night was beginning to creep over them. Chamon and Ghyran were ascendant overhead, soaring half-lit spheres amidst the constellations spread across the ink-spill of the aetheric void. The lights above were mirrored by the lights below, a thousand campfires creating a flickering firmament surrounding the mirror sheen of the great oasis of the Khaled.

The trading post’s veiled guards intercepted them as they approached the outer wagons, peering at the strange travellers by the light of raised torches. One of Gotrek’s coins saw them safely through.

Ahead, Khaled-Tush sprawled, a great encampment of desert traders, tribespeople and travellers. What had once been little more than a watering hole for those moving between the cities of Barkash, Hedina and Merport had become a settlement in its own right. Ranks of wagons, carts and covered caravans surrounded wooden structures constructed from the trees that clustered around the banks of the oasis – counting houses and taverns, brothels and guard posts, the heart of an ever-expanding trade hub on a route made rich by the astute ruling councils of the Triumvirate Cities, and the wares of the duardin known by the desert peoples as the Great Karagi.

‘I didn’t think I could find a more miserable kruk of a place than the Unbak lodge,’ Gotrek grumbled as they halted on the edge of an opening between the circled wagons. ‘But it seems this mannish age knows how to disappoint.’

Ahead of them lay a dirt square formed between the idle caravans and a row of ramshackle buildings. Despite the lateness of the hour, it was bustling with trader stalls, haggling booths and merchants selling wares from the backs of their carts. The cool night air was thick with the aromas of spices and perfumes, and lit by the light of braziers and firepits.

‘We trek for half a day through blistering desert, with no food and little water, yet the sight of this place dulls your spirits?’ Maleneth demanded. ‘Hysh must have cooked whatever remains of your addled brains, duardin.’

‘I’d wager they’d still be more filling than whatever this place has to offer,’ Gotrek muttered.

‘We require fresh food and water,’ Maleneth said, forcing herself to ignore the Slayer’s retort. ‘And a place to rest. Tomorrow we can start looking for someone to give us passage to the Eight Pillars.’

‘Thagi,’ Gotrek spat. Maleneth assumed the duardin insult had been directed at her, and was instinctively forming a Khainite curse back when she noticed Gotrek was moving off into the crowd. She started after him, realising what he had seen.

Aziz tried to run. The crowd around him hemmed him in though, and he squealed with terror as Gotrek snatched him with one scarred fist.

‘Thought you’d seen the last of us, beardless thaggaz,’ the duardin barked.

‘Please no, sellah,’ Aziz wailed, cringing back. ‘I went to get help, I swear!’

‘Then where was it?’ Maleneth demanded, reaching Gotrek’s side.

‘There were riders,’ Aziz insisted, eyes darting between the aelf and the duardin. ‘Three riders, I told them you would pay them well if they could reach you.’

‘Liar,’ Gotrek snarled, and for a second Maleneth though he was going to strike the youth.

‘I can still help you,’ Aziz yelped. ‘Please, sellah, I know many traders here at Khaled-Tush!’

‘We need food,’ Gotrek growled. ‘And shelter for the night, then transport to the Eight Pillars.’

‘I can bring you all of those things, sellah,’ Aziz insisted. ‘My uncle, Fazeel, is a moonfin trader posted here. He will not turn me away.’

‘You are thinking about running,’ Maleneth said, her voice lower and altogether more chilling than Gotrek’s. ‘I know your kind, desert rat. Do not do it. Go to your uncle, and when everything is arranged, return here and find us. Or I will find you and I will skin you, slowly, using these.’

She tapped the long fyresteel knives in her belt. ‘Do you doubt me?’

‘N-no,’ Aziz stammered, tears in his eyes. Gotrek released him, and he stumbled away into the press.

Gotrek harrumphed. ‘We will never see him again,’ the duardin grumbled.

‘We will,’ Maleneth replied. ‘He is but a boy. He is terrified we will use our mystical powers, or blades, to hunt him down.’

‘Aelf nonsense,’ Gotrek said. ‘You don’t know the first thing about mystical. The gods themselves have tried to betray me, slay me even. I have broken daemons and fought deranged wizards and slain beasts and monsters that would tear apart legions of your gold-armoured champions. I have fallen from the skies amidst fire and battled through the depths of the earth for days at a time. I have been flung into an ocean of madness and filth and then clawed my way back out. The boy knows nothing of fear, because these realms know nothing of it. I spit on your idea of fear.’

Maleneth leant against the wheel of the nearest wagon. Exhaustion was trying to drag her down. The pack on her back felt like a lodestone. A part of her just wanted to curl up beneath the closest cart and sleep.

It took her a few seconds to realise that Gotrek was no longer beside her.

‘Duardin,’ she snapped as he headed off deeper into the square. He didn’t stop or turn. Cursing, she followed him.

‘Do your kind never rest?’ she demanded as she caught up.

‘Rest is something for people without anything to do,’ Gotrek said, not looking at her. ‘Rest comes when you find your doom. I have never known rest. Sometimes I wonder whether I ever will.’

The marketplace embraced them. They passed a row of stalls selling Hedina silks, the traders calling for their attention, then had to brush aside the advances of a Hilathi tribal spice-seller offering samples. The aroma of cooking meat drifted over them as they passed a half-tusker being slow-roasted in one of the firepits, and Maleneth’s aching stomach lurched. A little further on they had to move aside for a sect of white-veiled Shezpah priests swinging sweet-smelling censers. None spared either of them a glance. At Khaled-Tush, a weary aelf and a sunburned duardin were hardly the strangest sights on show.

They moved on, deeper into the busy menagerie, the market and its inhabitants pressing in on every side. Maleneth found herself fingering the hilt of one of her daggers, the compulsive motion concealed by her cloak. She didn’t like crowds.

Gotrek seemed unperturbed. She didn’t demand he tell her what he was looking for. She knew he’d give no clear answer. In the months since they had first met, she had grown accustomed to his sudden bouts of melancholy, to his distant gaze and to the unexplained interludes where he would stomp off on his own. Sometimes she left him to do so, trusting he would always return, but occasionally she would follow him. It always seemed as though he were looking for something or someone, though exactly what or who she was never quite sure.

She felt something bump into her shoulder, the pressure a little more than the mere passing of bodies in the teeming space. Her fyresteel knives were out in a flash, faster than the eye could follow, every one of her aelf senses poised to kill before conscious thought had even engaged.

She found herself looking into a pair of dark eyes. To her surprise, there was neither fear nor anger in them, only a reserved, knowing amusement.

‘Shemali, sellah,’ said the woman, taking her hand off Maleneth’s shoulder. She was human, young but almost as tall as the aelf, dusky-skinned and clad in gossamer folds of pink and purple silk. Maleneth realised she was smiling. She took the knife away from her throat.

‘My apologies, travellers,’ she went on, offering a curtsey. ‘I have been sent by the mistress of my troupe.’

Her eyes travelled from Maleneth to Gotrek. The duardin had stopped his progress through the market, and one scarred fist was clenched firmly around the haft of his fyrestorm greataxe.

‘The Fyreslayer with only one rune hammered into his flesh,’ the woman said, her smile dissipating as she addressed him. ‘We possess something of great value to you, Runetamer. A man who has seen the words you seek.’

‘Who are you?’ Gotrek growled. ‘You look too much like another damned aelf to me!’

‘We are dancers of the Alharab,’ the woman said, giving the duardin an elegant bow and producing a slip of paper between two fingers with a flourish. ‘We see much, and hear even more, especially in a place like this. The man my troupe has made contact with is not the only one to have gazed upon the riddle of the Eight Pillars. My mistress, Shaldeen, awaits your pleasure at the black top.’

‘And why would we trust you, or your mistress?’ Gotrek demanded. He reached for the paper, but Maleneth snatched it first.

‘I am only a messenger,’ the woman said, beginning to move away through the crowd. ‘That is not for me to say.’

‘Not much of a message, is it,’ Gotrek growled after her, but she was gone. Maleneth laid a hand on his shoulder. She had glanced down at the parchment – it was an invitation in native Alharabi script, inviting weary travellers to the night-time performance of the Seventeen Blades. Maleneth tensed. The Seventeen Blades was a traditional aelf dance, still popular among the Murder Temples. She had rarely heard of a human troupe performing it.

You remember the last time you saw it danced, don’t you, Witchblade?

‘What is it?’ Gotrek demanded.

‘Nothing,’ Maleneth said, shrugging off the voice of her former mistress. ‘We should not follow her. It is some sort of trap.’

‘If it is, then it’s about time. Almost a day has passed since the last one,’ Gotrek rumbled, shrugging off Maleneth’s hand. ‘I want answers, and I’ll have them whether they want me dead or not.’

‘If only you held your own life as dearly as the Order of the Azyr does,’ Maleneth snapped.

‘I lost it a long time ago, aelf. If this is another plot by the Grey Lord, I will slaughter his verminous griks. I always do. More so than any fool or coward in the World-That-Was, the rat Thanquol was determined to fulfil my doom oath. I should have known he’d follow me into a new reality.’

‘If you don’t care about your own life then at least consider the rune,’ Maleneth said, struggling to keep her exhaustion-stoked temper in check. ‘More than anyone else, you must be aware of its power. It cannot be allowed to fall into the hands of servants of disorder and darkness. Or do you think I have been following you merely for your good company?’

‘It’ll be hard for the rats to get their hands on it as long as it’s here,’ Gotrek replied, thumping a fist against the Master Rune on his chest.

‘For one moment, stop to consider the consequences of your actions,’ Maleneth raged, her anger finally getting the better of her. ‘At least one unknown being is tracking us, presumably the same one who shifted the trail markers and nearly succeeded in drowning us in dragging sand. That is not to speak of the ratmen assassins that have been hunting you, three in the last month alone. Whatever these dancers have for us, it is almost certainly a trap.’

Gotrek glared at her, and she noticed the grim-faced rune stamped into his skin glow a little more brightly.

‘I told you, dark aelf, the vermin have been trying to stab me in the back for as long as I can remember,’ the duardin replied, pointedly ignoring her last words. ‘If you don’t like rats, you should stop following me. The mad one, Thanquol, will never stop hunting me. From what I’ve seen of these accursed realms, he’ll probably return even after I’ve put an axe through his horned skull.’

‘You think because you have lived this long that you are immortal,’ Maleneth said, taking a step towards the duardin and pointing down at him. ‘You think you are a god–’

‘Do not insult me more than you already have, wretch,’ Gotrek barked. ‘You know nothing of the gods. I have seen foolishness and craven treachery among mortals, but none to match that of the divine. I have met many thousands of dwarfs worthier and more honourable than Grimnir alone!’

‘Regardless, you will not live forever, Gotrek of the World-that-Was. I serve a true god, the Bloody-Handed one, Khaine, Prince of Murder, and if there is one thing my devotion has taught me it is that all beings die. Even gods. Guard your own life, duardin, for there are many eager to steal it from you.’

The commotion of the market around her had stilled.

You are attracting attention, Witchblade, hissed her mistress’ voice. Sometimes I wonder whether you were ever my student.

‘I knew your god in that long-dead age,’ Gotrek growled, his eye flaring like the stoked embers of a forge pit. ‘His servants there were just as weak and pathetic as they are here. I fear nothing, dark aelf, least of all your threats.’

Before she could reply, Maleneth felt a presence intruding from her left. She half turned, lightning fast, barely resisting the murderous urge to lash out with her blades.

Aziz cringed back and yelped with fear. He had returned.

‘I’ve been looking for you, sellah,’ he stammered. ‘My uncle, he has agreed to let you stay under his roof tonight. But…’

He trailed off, and Maleneth realised he was looking at the writing on the slip of paper she still held in one hand.

‘The dancers of the Alharab,’ she said, holding the note before his eyes. ‘You know of them?’ Aziz hesitated before responding.

‘Yes, sellah. You will not find many here who have not. They perform for the councils and guilder lords of the Triumvirate Cities. I have never heard of their troupe visiting a place like Khaled-Tush to dance before.’

‘And?’

Aziz shook his head, clearly reluctant to continue. ‘They say that the daughters of the Alharab are spies, that they buy and sell knowledge to those who pay for their performances. Their dances are not merely for the entertainment of onlookers.’

‘See!’ Maleneth snapped, turning back to Gotrek. ‘It’s a trap.’ But the duardin was already pushing away through the market once more.

‘I’m going to watch the dancing,’ he barked back over his shoulder. ‘Don’t you aelves love that kind of thing?’

Maleneth closed her eyes and bit her lip, forcing herself not to spit a string of Khainite curses in the Slayer’s wake.

‘My uncle,’ Aziz said slowly, edging away from the aelf. ‘He is expecting us. It would be a disgrace to turn away his hospitality now. Please, sellah, bring the angry duardin back. The Alharabi will surely not have anything that he needs. They sell only lies and secrets.’

‘Go back to your uncle,’ Maleneth ordered. ‘Apologise for us, and try to save us some food. We will return as soon as we are able.’

Before Aziz could protest, she picked one of Gotrek’s coins from the pouch around her waist and pressed it into his palm. Then she was gone, slipping through the crowds after the Slayer.

CHAPTER THREE

The black top was a tented pavilion sited on the banks of the great oasis, beneath the shade of spreading palms and poplar trees. The oasis itself was unlike any Maleneth had seen in the Bone Desert – its water was not bound by the dry earth, but floated gently in a thousand liquid spheres ranging from a few feet or so off the ground to nearly a hundred yards overhead, far above the tops of the surrounding trees. Occasionally one of the slowly swirling globes would break apart and come pattering down in a shower of water, drenching the moist oasis bed, while others would slowly come together amidst a fresh spray.

The black top’s flanks were glistening from such collisions. The great tent was removed from much of the rest of Khaled-Tush, and Maleneth felt her senses becoming increasingly on edge as Gotrek’s route led them away from the braziers and torches and ceaseless activity of the caravan market and into the darkness. The night was still, the lapping of the oasis spheres against one another and the rustle of the trees overhead providing a disconcerting change to the bustle they had left behind.

As Maleneth drew closer to the pavilion the sounds of the night faded, overtaken once more by the hubbub of activity. Her attuned hearing picked out voices, laughter, shouts and, underlying it all, the thumping rhythm of drumbeats. Light glimmered from the entrance of the pavilion ahead, silhouetting two veiled guards. She saw Gotrek entering, the flames flickering across the surface of the Master Rune and the greataxe slung across his back. She quickened her pace, one hand on the blade of her dagger. The two men watching the entrance looked at her, but neither moved to intercept the aelf. She passed between them and in through the entrance flap.

The pavilion was packed. Candle stands illuminated hundreds of figures pressed in beneath the black canvas arching high overhead, their attention fixed on a wooden stage that had been erected across from the main entrance. They looked for the most part like merchants, tribal leaders and better-off travellers, clad in the white or deep red robes, silks, headscarves and veils of the Triumvirate Cities’ wealthy guilds. They applauded the stage or chattered and laughed amongst themselves, creating a clamour that made Maleneth grimace.

Be on your guard, child, murmured her mistress’ voice in her head. She clutched her pendant in one hand, the blood vial a cold reassurance.

Gotrek was just ahead, pushing his way unceremoniously through the crowd towards the stage. The complaints died rapidly when those he forced aside saw the scarred duardin’s dour expression, or the broad blades of his axe.

Maleneth darted after him. The air in the pavilion was stifling, heavy with the stink of sweat and the sickly sweet cloy of perfume. The whole place vibrated to the primal drumbeats coming from the stage. It was making her feel light-headed. She caught Gotrek just as he forced his way to the front of the audience.

‘Changed your mind, I see,’ he said over the noise of the crowd.

‘You should try it some time,’ she snapped back.

‘I would, if I wasn’t always right.’

Maleneth’s response died in her throat as she saw clearly what was happening on the stage for the first time.

Four female dancers were spinning around one another, their darting motions dictated by the rhythm of a pair of hide drums being palm-beaten by two more women sat with legs crossed behind them. The performers were scantily clad in the same pearls and pink-and-purple silks worn by the messenger that had first invited Maleneth and Gotrek to the pavilion. Their black hair was unbound, and it whipped about as they wove and pivoted. Their dark, toned flesh was glistening with sweat.

You have seen this before.

‘I have,’ Maleneth murmured, her eyes not leaving the performance.

Each dancer carried a knife in both hands, and as they spun close to one another the wicked blades would kiss the clothing of the others with immaculate precision, slicing silk and turning the garments into long, flowing strands that further accentuated their fluid movements. With every slashing sound the crowd would let out a gasp or a cheer of appreciation, the whole mass swaying in time with the beat.

It was not the presence of the dancers themselves that had made Maleneth pause, nor even the knives in their hands. It was their motions. It was the Seventeen Blades. She had performed the dance a hundred times, had long ago memorised every step and pivot, every duck and flick and twist. It was the dance she herself had watched on the night that her life had changed forever, when her father had ripped her from the aelf she was to marry and had cast her into the temple’s bloodthirsty sisterhood.

She had never seen the dance performed by humans before, and she could never have imagined that they would do so with such precision. They could not match the speed or grace of an aelf, but every step and motion was assured and practised, and every knife-kiss precisely made. Though together, the four women represented a hail of razor blows and bared flesh, not a single one had been cut by the sharp steel.

She closed her eyes, willing away the memories the scene had brought on. Her four younger sisters, dancing the Seventeen Blades, their faces lit with joy. Jakari’s hand in her own, her half-smile – always so wicked – as she teased her about which noble house they were going to be married off to. The slam of doors, the rush of feet, the screams. The pain of cold, spiked gauntlets gripping her arms. The greater pain of Jakari’s hand being ripped from her own. The utter indifference in her father’s eyes.

The dance had stopped. Raucous applause dragged her back to the present. Despite the tent’s stifling heat, she felt cold.

Gotrek was still watching the stage, arms crossed over his broad chest, seemingly unimpressed. Those behind him were roaring for an encore, a cry that was quickly taken up by the rest of the crowd. The four dancers, their garments in tatters, offered a bow before parting with fluid grace, admitting a fifth woman to the centre of the stage. A rapid tattoo of drumbeats announced her arrival.

She was older than the dancers, and more formally attired, her hair bound up in a patterned tribal headscarf. Maleneth realised she was probably the troupe’s mistress, the one the dancer in the market had called Shaldeen. She raised her arms, a knowing smile on her lips. The drums came to an abrupt stop, and a hush settled over the crowd.

‘Shemali, sellah, friends and companions,’ Shaldeen said. ‘I hope our performances this night have brought pleasure and delight to one and all!’

A cheer greeted her words, and applause spread like a ripple. She held her hands up once more until silence returned.

‘It pleases me to say that our performance is not yet quite done. You have just borne witness to the Seventeen Blades, that famous old aelf dance, the signature of the dreaded and murderous temples of Khaine!’

The words were delivered with dramatic relish, and the audience responded with gasps and hisses.

‘We Alharabi have performed it to the best of our abilities, and we pray to that dreaded god that we have done his dance justice. I do not deny, however, that the best of our efforts would surely pale in comparison to the mastery of the aelves themselves.’

The crowd let out cries of denial, but the mistress waved them away, her smile fixed.

‘But we are blessed this night, friends and companies,’ she continued. ‘Blessed perhaps by that terrible power whom this dance venerates. For we have a servant of Khaine here among us, this very moment!’

A shocked silence fell over the spectators. Maleneth froze. The troupe mistress looked directly at her and extended one hand, the smile never wavering.

‘You honour us with your own presence, child of the Bloody-Handed. Now, will you help us honour your god as well, one more time?’

The whole tent had gone deathly silent, and those in the crowd closest to Maleneth had edged away from her. She glanced at Gotrek. The Slayer’s expression was stoic, but he nodded, once. Her own mistress remained silent.

Maleneth tensed, and leapt, clearing the edge of the stage easily. The lithe motion caused the crowd to gasp and exclaim in their native tongues. She landed lightly on both feet. A part of her, buried deep inside, quailed at the realisation that she was standing being watched by hundreds. She was an assassin, not an entertainer. A fire-lit stage was the last place she wanted to be.

But the memories had come on, too strong, too overpowering to be denied. She unclasped her cloak, letting it fall to more gasps. Her leathers were a far cry from the light silks of the Alharabi, and what little of her body that was bared – only her forearms – was a pale contrast to their dark complexions. Her raven hair and eyes, however, matched those of the dancers perfectly.

Two of the previous performers had backed off to the rear of the stage, leaving their two other dancing partners alongside Shaldeen and Maleneth. The shocked quiet was replaced by cheering and applause as the drums began to beat out a rhythm once more, slower this time. She mirrored the bow offered to the audience by the dancers. They were all still smiling. Heartbeat rising, Maleneth slipped her fyresteel knives free.

Remember the steps, child.

The dance began. Maleneth forced herself to stop thinking, to stop worrying, and obey the rhythm being set by the drums. The pavilion faded into the background as she let the motions sweep over and through her, the memories resurging stronger than ever. Jakari was opposite her once again, dancing the same dance, laughing freely, hair unbound and the slender blades in her hands glittering. Maleneth’s heart surged, and she almost misstepped. She recovered with a speed and precision no human could have matched, and drew another gasp from the crowd.

It was not Jakari opposite her. It was the troupe mistress, Shaldeen. Her mastery of the dance’s complex weave of steps and motions was as complete as Maleneth had ever seen. She moved with a fluid, controlled passion, channelling an energy that didn’t concern itself with anything beyond the next step, and the next, and the next. Maleneth slid past and around her, their bodies inches apart, the Alharabi silk flowing. The cloying perfume was thick in her nostrils.

The blades glinted in the firelight. A razor kiss, accentuated by another acceleration in the drumming. Gasps from the crowd intruded on the flow of Maleneth’s thoughts as she slid one of her blades up and along the troupe mistress’ spine, the tip just missing her perfect, dark skin, feathering open a section of her silken garment. She felt the same connection along her own back, sliding down her leathers. It failed to penetrate, and there was no cloth to cut open, but that was not the point – the garments were merely accessories. The power of the dance lay in the caress of death, the aching closeness of being an inch away from Khaine’s red touch. The sensation of her own knife darting along someone’s back, and another at her own, almost made the breath catch in Maleneth’s throat.

You’re enjoying this too much, Witchblade. Focus!

Maleneth ignored the cold voice. The dance moved on, another slash, this one to the shoulder, hers alone to make. She knew even as she spun away that the knife of another of the dancers would be coming for her, a low, precise cut that grazed across the clothing on her hip. Another touched her own shoulder at the exact moment that she cut more of the silk cladding the troupe mistress, the blades making a slitting noise as they slashed air and cloth, just audible over the rising frenzy of the drums and the raucous awe of the crowd.

Then came the pain. She’d become so absorbed that she almost didn’t notice it at first. The sudden jab in her side was lost in the web of movement, no room in her mind for anything beyond the dance. Then it registered and she stumbled, unable to correct herself this time.

To be cut in the Seventeen Blades was not uncommon. She had seen aelves of the temple far more experienced than her slashed in half a dozen places, white flesh streaked red. Such injuries showed the favour of Khaine, for it was by his will that sharpened steel had first pierced mortal flesh.

It had been so long since Maleneth had last performed, however, that the sensation of actually being cut interrupted her rhythm. It also saved her life. Had she carried on then the next step, a downward lunge angling towards her right, would have carried a misplaced knife into her bare throat. It came at her anyway, and she was forced to change her footing to avoid the jab.

The blade hadn’t been misplaced at all.

More lunges, from left and right, Shaldeen and her three dancers breaking step to stab and slash in perfect synchronisation. A human would have been dead in only a few seconds, heart and throat pierced. But for all the speed and suddenness of the attack, Maleneth was quicker.

She danced out of reach. The drums had stopped, and from the shouts and screams behind her it seemed as though the crowd were unsure whether they were still watching a staged production or a murder attempt. Maleneth ignored them all – her blood still sang with the rhythm of the Seventeen Blades, and the tempo of her movements continued to accelerate. There was no time to think about what the Alharabi were doing or why – Khaine demanded the dance go on.

Kill them all, Witchblade.

They were fast, there was no denying it. Shaldeen came at her head on, and steel rang against steel as Maleneth flicked each knife stroke aside. It was only a distraction, however. The other two dancers, along with the pair who had stepped aside and both of the drummers, came leaping at her from either side, a blur of stabbing blades. Maleneth gave ground with desperate, focused speed, moving towards the edge of the stage, knowing that if even one of them managed to slip behind her the dance would be finished. She ducked, twisted one way then another, too busy parrying and weaving to even consider going on the attack.

And through it all, they were still smiling.

Behind her the black top had descended into pandemonium. Some in the crowd were pushing and shoving to get out; others were trying to reach the stage, the whole mob overcome with hysteria. Insomuch as Maleneth was aware of any of it, a single thought broke the tempo of her thoughts.

Gotrek.

Move right.

Maleneth had never questioned her mistress’ advice, and she wasn’t about to start. She twisted right, almost throwing herself into the two Alharabi assassins coming at her from that direction. For a moment, her back was completely exposed. She felt the boards of the stage shuddering, and flinched away from the killing blow she expected between her shoulder blades, even as she turned aside the weapons of those in front of her.

A roar broke the moment to pieces, accompanied by a sickening crunch of bone. Gotrek had leapt onto the stage, Master Rune blazing, and now came thundering to Maleneth’s aid. His greataxe was ignited, the fyreforge brazier between the twin heads blazing with a light almost as hot and furious as the one that burned in the Slayer’s single eye. He slammed into the two assassins trying to slip in behind to Maleneth’s left, his shoulder-charge sending both flying across the stage. Bones cracked and split, but they belonged to the lucky ones. A third was caught as she attempted to sidestep the raging duardin. Gotrek moved with a speed that belied his muscled bulk, the axe inscribing a white-hot line as it cleaved into the Alharabi’s midriff and cut her effortlessly in half, blood and viscera bursting from the horrific killing blow.

‘If anyone’s killing the aelf, it’s me,’ the Slayer snarled.

As blood pattered down onto the stage and smeared beneath Maleneth’s feet, Shaldeen and her three remaining dancers broke off, darting back out of reach of both the Slayer and the aelf. Neither of the two pitched over by Gotrek’s charge were moving. The duardin was snorting like an enraged beast, the Master Rune glowing with a deep lustrous power.

‘Get on my left side, dark aelf,’ he snapped. He nodded his head to his left shoulder, guarded by his lion-headed pauldron. ‘If we’re going to do this together, I’m more used to having someone on my left.’

Maleneth didn’t question him, but moved around behind him just as the Alharabi came at them again.

She met them equally this time, blade-for-blade. She felt her hatred surge. They’d been lured here, tricked into exposing themselves. Exactly why, she did not know, though in the months she had spent with Gotrek she’d rapidly grown accustomed to attempts on their lives. The list of those who coveted the Master Rune was long, and grew by the day as rumours of the strange Fyreslayer spread through the Mortal Realms.

Whoever the Alharabi really were, or whoever they worked for, they were not going to be the ones to take either the duardin or the rune, not while Maleneth drew breath. She knocked aside a knife and lunged into the woman’s guard, too fast even for the well-trained human to counter. In a single rapid heartbeat Maleneth’s knife was in her throat, and the aelf felt the Alharabi’s arms clutch around her impotently as she tried to pull herself off the cold steel. The death grip trembled against the tall aelf before Maleneth ripped her blade free in a gout of blood.

‘Hold still, damned thaggaz,’ she heard Gotrek bellowing.

He had met Shaldeen. Fast as the duardin was, the dancer swept past his guard, blades darting across his scarred flesh. Maleneth realised that the expressions of the Alharabi had finally changed – gone were the smiles, replaced now with looks of pure, concentrated hatred. The realisation brought a strange relief. They were not as preternatural as they first appeared. During the dance and in the desperate seconds when it had turned to combat, Maleneth had found herself doubting the teachings of the Temple of Khaine, even the abilities of her own race. Now, however, as steel rang against steel and sliced through flesh, certainty returned once more.

No one hated, and no one killed, quite like a servant of Khaine.

She moved right as Gotrek was forced to turn after the troupe mistress, covering his back. The other Alharabi had seen the opening created by their leader, but Maleneth stopped them from exploiting it, despite their numbers. In a few seconds she’d taken half a dozen furious blows, but her armour, light though it was, ensured they only grazed her. She heard Gotrek grunt behind her, and could feel the burning heat of his axe as it swept and spun, keeping Shaldeen at bay.

They could only sustain this defence for so long. They were still outnumbered, and no one in Khaled-Tush was going to come to the aid of a duardin and an aelf in a knife fight with the Alharabi. For all Maleneth’s own abilities, there was only so much she could do while pinned defending another’s back. She’d already taken two shallow cuts across her right arm, and the first stab she’d received in her side was still throbbing. She could feel blood running down her thigh.

The tempo of the dancers’ blows picked up as they sensed their victim’s uncertainty. She heard Gotrek snarl with frustration, a sure sign that he was still unable to lay a blow on the troupe mistress. Another knife blade struck and twisted into Maleneth’s hip, making her hiss and slash her own steel over the attacker’s arm.

To die here will bring eternal dishonour to the temple.

‘Be silent, mistress!’ Maleneth snapped, her back now physically pressed up against Gotrek’s, as one of the veiled dancers made a series of jabs towards her face and eyes, forcing her to give ground.

A tremor shuddered through the stage. It was not a pounding tattoo like Gotrek’s initial charge, but something altogether deeper. The Alharabi sensed it too. Their attacks faltered.

Maleneth didn’t get a chance to attack. A blast wave hit the black top. The screaming of the crowd intensified as the black canvas ripped, and the whole structure buckled. Maleneth saw a jagged line torn across the ceiling directly above her, a section of the pavilion plucked away to reveal the night beyond.

It was riven with fire.

Another explosion shuddered through the air, intensifying the screaming of the spectators. They had begun to stampede, some for the pavilion’s entrance, others for the hole ripped in its flanks. Maleneth realised that fire had caught and was kindling on a section of the canvas near the ground to her right, whether from the flames spreading outside or from the overturned candle stands it was impossible to tell.

The black top was about to become a furnace.

Get out.

‘We must flee,’ Maleneth said to Gotrek, still at her back.

‘Tell that to your treacherous dance partners,’ the duardin snarled. ‘Dwarfs don’t flee, especially not Gotrek Gurnisson!’

Despite the conflagration taking hold around them, the Alharabi came at them once more, more furious than ever. Maleneth met them in a low fighting crouch, blades held tip-down to either side, one wet with the blood running down her wounded arm.

Their attackers’ blows never landed. Flames burst from the rear of the stage, searing heat blazing over Maleneth and making her flinch and choke. The clothing of one of the assassins ignited, and she shrieked as the fire took her.

Maleneth felt the stage begin to tilt under her. More flames were licking at the support beams, and there was a crack as one blackened length of timber gave way. The dancers maintained their balance, but the distraction was enough. Maleneth gritted her teeth and thrust herself back against Gotrek with all her strength. She felt the Slayer going over, carried by the movement of the collapsing stage past the troupe master and the platform’s edge.

Maleneth’s stomach lurched as she tumbled into freefall. Her foot connected with the side of one of the collapsing beams, and she was able to use the brief buttress to turn herself round in mid-air. She landed next to Gotrek on all fours, knives thumping into the pavilion floor either side of her. A second later there was a splitting crash as the rest of the stage behind them gave way, the flames leaping up to gorge on the splitting timbers.

The crowd at the front of the stage had long since fled, packing into the mass now struggling to fight their way through the ripping canvas walls. The flames were still spreading, their heat overwhelming. Some onlookers had caught fire, their horrific screaming only adding to the panic and confusion. Black smoke was starting to fill the claustrophobic space. Maleneth knew they had seconds before the greater part of the pavilion’s roof gave way and descended on them all in a smothering blanket of burning cloth.

‘Rise,’ she snapped at Gotrek, retrieving her two blades as she did so. The Slayer grunted and picked up his axe. Its fires had gone out, an irony given the flames that were now engulfing everything else.

‘Damned piece of dross,’ the Slayer snarled at the weapon. ‘Why is everything in this new reality so worthless?’

Maleneth heard a shriek just as she found her feet. She spun in time to see Shaldeen leaping at them through the flames consuming the stage. Her silken clothing was alight, and she looked like a daemonic fury as she flung herself at the aelf and the duardin, her face a terrible rictus of pain and rage.

Down.

Maleneth dropped into a crouch as the troupe mistress flew at her, screaming. She felt something heavy pass overhead, and realised that she’d reflexively screwed her eyes shut. There was a sickening thump, and the scream was cut off abruptly. Something hot and wet splattered her. She opened her eyes to find herself covered in blood. The two halves of the troupe mistress lay either side of her, bisected by Gotrek’s overhead swing, the flames quickly eating up the gory remains.

‘Dance around that,’ Gotrek said.

‘We’ve got to get out,’ Maleneth repeated. She pointed towards the nearest opening in the pavilion’s flank. Fire had seared it away, its edges licked by flames. The heat was keeping people at bay. Maleneth reached down, sheathed her knives and snatched a heavily embroidered desert trader’s cape from the ground. 

‘Stay behind and stay close,’ she ordered Gotrek.

‘Don’t worry,’ Gotrek panted. ‘If you go first, I’ll get to see you burn to death before I do. Maybe I’ll even get out, and then I can find the inscription in peace. Go ahead, aelfling.’

Maleneth charged the gap. The smoke was making her eyes sting and choking her throat, and the heat had slicked her with sweat. She stumbled but kept going, the cape held up before her like a shield. She could hear the heavy thumping of Gotrek’s footfalls at her back. 

She flung herself against the fire-eaten hole in the canvas, feeling the intense, blistering heat wash over her. Something scorched her hands, and she dropped the cape reflexively. Initially, she could neither breathe nor see, her eyes forced shut by the smoke, the ash making her gag and retch. Then she was through – the heat was gone, a memory at her back, and she could breathe again. She stumbled, but turned the fall into a roll, finally coming to a stop on her back amidst rough oasis grass, staring up at the sky, panting. 

Gotrek had come to a halt beside her, hands on his knees as he gulped down air untainted by the pavilion’s fiery demise. He muttered something, but Maleneth wasn’t listening. Her eyes were still on the sky. It was almost wholly engulfed by smoke billowing from the burning caravans, the market and the black top, but she had caught something amidst the swirling ash and red embers. It took her a moment to recognise its outline. 

She was watching a duardin skyship, an arkanaut frigate most commonly used by the piratical Kharadron Overlords. Its bulk resembled the iron hull of a seagoing vessel, but instead of watery waves it traversed the clouds of the aether thanks to the arcane power of three spherical endrins suspended by cables and copper wiring above the ship’s structure. 

Maleneth thought at first that the ship had been moored somewhere amidst the caravans of Khaled-Tush, and was making its escape as the fires leapt and spread throughout the outpost. As she watched though, she realised that its course must have brought it in over the oasis, and that it was holding station rather than pulling away.

Something dropped from the airship’s flank. She followed it as it plummeted through the smoke and ash, a black sphere, seemingly innocuous amidst the devastation surrounding it. She lost it as it disappeared among the remains of the burning marketplace. Fire flared, silhouetting the intervening wagons, and the thunderclap of another detonation rolled out across the desert, bringing realisation with it.

The arkanaut frigate was attacking Khaled-Tush. They were dropping incendiary grudge-bombs over the side, onto the helpless caravans below. It was their fire that had first ignited the black top, and toppled the stage. Now the entire outpost was ablaze.

Maleneth’s view of the Kharadron skyship was obscured by a shadow. She blinked, and realised that Gotrek was standing over her. It took her a moment to realise that he was offering her his hand. She took it, her slender fingers encased by the duardin’s scarred, stone-hard fist. She allowed herself to be drawn up onto her feet, and glanced back at the pavilion. It had almost wholly collapsed into the flames consuming it, and the space around it was a heaving mass of people, trying to push and shove their way out of the reach of the fires as they spread to the nearby trees and the undergrowth that carpeted the banks of the oasis. It was chaos, and amidst it all no one seemed to have noticed the skyship. It was turning, banking around through the smoke and heading back in their direction.

‘Dwarfs?’ Gotrek said, following Maleneth’s gaze.

‘Not as you know them.’

‘Apparently not,’ Gotrek growled. ‘The only dawi that take to the sky are brain-addled. Just like everything else in this place.’

The skyship was losing altitude. Some of those on the edge of the crowd, stricken with fear and confusion, had started to flock towards it, not realising that it was responsible for the devastation reigning around them.

She pulled her knives from her belt once more.

‘I pray the idea of kinslaying does not disturb you, duardin,’ she said darkly.

Gotrek’s expression, usually stony, hardened further in the flickering firelight.

‘Not any more, aelf. Not for a long time.’

CHAPTER FOUR

Durbarak’s steel-shod boots hit the earth with a satisfying thump. He let go of the grav-ladder’s rappel line, steadying himself. Around him, his crew were clustering, the fires of destruction unleashed by their skyship gleaming from armour plates, cutlasses, ancestor masks and pistols. He paused to assess the two dozen Kharadron reivers, and the inferno taking hold around them.

Khaled-Tush was no more. The incendiary grudge-bombs dropped by the arkanaut frigate and the heated shot of its cannons had set fire to the trading post’s few permanent structures, and to hundreds of the wagons and carts that had been clustered around the oasis. They now presented a wall of flame, against which were silhouetted hundreds of individual figures – those who had survived the aerial bombardment and were now attempting to flee out into the desert night with whatever they’d been able to snatch before the flames took hold.

The crew would need to be quick, before their quarry escaped with them. Assuming, of course, that the inferno hadn’t taken the target already. The thought of so many perishing in the flames brought a grim smile to Durbarak’s lips. Sometimes, he doubted his life choices. He doubted breaking the Kharadron code, and turning his holdings to nothing but reiving and murder. But at times like these, all those doubts were burned away. Even the fear of losing the incredible bounty the Slayer represented could not penetrate the thrill of witnessing unchecked devastation on a scale such as this.

‘Throm, Dregg, take six and scout towards the marketplace. Borin, another three and circle east – cut off anyone fleeing down the main trail. Set more fires if you need to. The rest of you, with me.’

The Kharadrons moved off into the fire-lit darkness, weapons drawn. Durbarak led his group towards the waters of the oasis, shimmering through the flames and heat haze. He could see hundreds of people spilling from a large tent, its burning canvas almost wholly consumed by the skyship’s ponderous bombing run. Some were throwing themselves into the oasis itself, others were stumbling towards the fires consuming the marketplace, overcome by confusion and the black smoke hanging heavy over the outpost. Like the rest of the Kharadrons, Durbarak had bound a wetted rag around his mouth and nose before donning his ancestor mask, knowing he would need it to breathe amidst the inferno their attack had ignited. He could feel the heat even through the rubberised insulation of his sky-suit, slicking his body with sweat and making every movement chafing and uncomfortable.

‘Please, sellah, help us,’ shouted a man in a torn headscarf, stumbling from the direction of the burning pavilion. Durbarak shot him, relishing the brute kick of his aetherlock pistol. The heavy ball flung the man down as though he’d been poleaxed, a chunk of his torso blown away. The Kharadrons continued over the corpse. More gunshots rang through the night as they fired indiscriminately into the fleeing crowd. Few seemed to have realised that the fires were no accident, and that the outpost was under attack.

‘Keep a clear watch,’ Durbarak bellowed, gesturing at his landing party to spread out further. When they’d first passed over the outpost, the ship’s navigator, Zeggi, had been monitoring it with half a dozen enhanced vision scopes, linked to various parts of the frigate’s underbelly. He’d been unable to discern their quarry amidst the sudden blossoms of flame or the panicked crowds, however, so they were doing it the old fashioned way – a ground raid, pistols and cutlasses drawn. In truth, Durbarak wasn’t complaining. It always did him good to see the carnage they sowed up close.

‘Watch the starboard side,’ growled his midshipman, Threg. A trio of men came running from the crowd, scimitars raised, the nearby conflagration reflecting like liquid fire from the curved steel. Durbarak raised his second pistol, but before he could fire, the duardin nearest the attackers – Lorik, Stromm and Gurbad – had already put them down with a hail of shots.

‘Keep going,’ Durbarak ordered. He heard more firing coming from the direction of the caravans as the other Kharadron landing parties began to move in among the survivors there. Those directly ahead had finally realised that the duardin had not come with friendly intentions. They were screaming and pushing at one another, forced forward by the pressure of those behind still desperate to get away from the burning pavilion. More went down to the renegade Kharadron’s gunfire.

For a moment, Durbarak entertained the fear that their quarry had already escaped. He doubted it though. From what he had heard, running away from innocents while they were being cut down by ruthless attackers was the opposite of what the target would do. He was counting on it.

The remains of the pavilion collapsed, fire and sparks billowing into the air. The last of the crowd ahead of them were beginning to disintegrate and scatter. There was a noise like a thunderclap from behind Durbarak, and he realised the skeleton crew left aboard the frigate, the Draz Karr, had probably fired one of the cannons to keep those fleeing the fires from mobbing the landing area.

They were running out of time.

Perhaps the one they sought was already dead. Perhaps the target’s bones were currently snapping and crackling in the white heat at the heart of the settlement, or in the remains of the pavilion ahead. Perhaps the job he’d been hired to do had already been done. He hoped not. Despite orders, he had no intention of killing the target, or its accomplices.

‘I can see something up there,’ Stromm shouted. For a moment Durbarak had no idea what the ship’s mate was talking about. Then he caught it, through the dark figures milling about before the pavilion’s flames, trapped between the fire and the advancing Kharadrons.

It was a light. Not, as he first thought, a torch. The little flicker of fire, almost swallowed up by the greater conflagration behind it, was being reflected back from two broad axe heads, set either side of it. After a moment he realised what he was looking at – rune-etched fyresteel, a greataxe of one of the Slayer clans, a brazier of forge-flame burning in its heart.

The light illuminated the being carrying it. From a distance, it looked like a particularly large Fyreslayer, complete with red crest and beard. As it drew nearer, however, Durbarak could pick out distinguishing features. The duardin’s bare torso and arms were covered in thick knots of blue tattoos, and his wrists were encased by battered vambraces hung with loops of broken chain. Most noticeable of all was his chest – a single rune glowed there, its lustre immediately making Durbarak feel sick with envy.

Despite himself, he grinned. He knew taking this contract had been a good idea. It had led him right to Gotrek Gurnisson.

‘Draz Karr, on me!’ he shouted, summoning his crew. ‘And remember, don’t shoot him! If we’re going to ransom them on, we need them each in at least two pieces!’

‘You did this?’ the approaching duardin bellowed, gesturing with his free hand at the bodies scattered before the Kharadrons. ‘Does my old eye deceive me? Are you the pitiful creatures that dare claim to bear the legacy of the dawi in this mad world?’

The fury was now visible in his burning gaze, and Durbarak felt his spirit quail, as though he were a beardling whose misdeeds had been discovered by an elder. He thrust the feeling aside.

He’d heard the rumours. They all had. That only made Gotrek Gurnisson all the more valuable. Damned if he was going to kill so much potential profit, regardless of the orders of the one who’d hired him.

‘The aelf,’ Stromm snarled, spitting before pointing his pistol over the oncoming Slayer’s shoulder. A shape had materialised behind the duardin, tall and slender, wrapped in shadow.

‘This is perfect,’ Durbarak growled. ‘Both of them, for the highest bidder. Threg, Krazak, take them.’

The two shipmates stepped forward, ratcheting up their net launchers.

‘Surrender if you want to live!’ Durbarak shouted at the duardin and the aelf.

But they didn’t surrender. Instead the Slayer roared, and charged.

CHAPTER FIVE

It was not often that Maleneth found herself approving of Gotrek Gurnisson’s more rash moments. Just then, however, with the fires of Khaled-Tush at her back and the screams of the burned and the dying ringing in her ears, Maleneth understood the Slayer’s fury perfectly.

The Kharadrons opposite him fired. The motions seemed half in haste as they started back from the charging Slayer, and though their faces were inscrutable behind their ancestor masks Maleneth didn’t doubt that the sight of Gotrek unleashed had more than intimidated them. As he broke into a run the Master Rune surged with light, and bright energy seemed to suffuse the duardin’s body, blazing in his eye and making his hair bristle, the red dye shot through with gold.

Maleneth had seen it only a few times in all the months they had spent together, and every time it burned away any doubts she had about the power of Gotrek Gurnisson.

The net launchers carried by two of the Kharadrons failed to fire properly, one entangling its own muzzle while the second simply thumped into the dirt at Gotrek’s feet. Maleneth heard one Kharadron screaming at the others to reload as the Slayer closed the ground between them with a thunderous charge, the fire wreathing his greataxe blazing.

Maleneth raced after him, knives out. Her anger boiled no less hot than the Slayer’s, a murder-curse on her lips. If the Overlords thought Gotrek was fearsome, they had never seen a servant of Khaine raised to ire.

Gotrek hit them first, while the ones with net launchers were struggling to reload. In a panic the nearest Kharadron tried to shoot his pistol at the Slayer. The point-blank discharge simply grazed Gotrek’s flank, and he burst through the smoke with a furious two-handed overhead swing of his axe. The mighty weapon struck the Kharadron clean on the skull, and parted helmet, head and sky-suit with ease, shearing the duardin in half in a shower of blood that hissed where it pattered against the glowing steel of the heated axe blades.

‘Oath-breaking grobkaz,’ Gotrek roared, his voice booming like a thunderclap. He shouldered his way through the bloody remains of the first Overlord and swung for the second, cleaving his head from his shoulders and sending it hurtling like a catapult stone away into the night. More weapons discharged, only adding to the confusion as Maleneth leapt in among the melee. One of the Overlords had managed to look away from Gotrek long enough to see her coming, and he brought his cutlass up in time to knock away a stab towards his heart. He went back, cursing, and Maleneth kept going, jabbing at the unarmoured parts of his rubbery sky-suit, keeping her body in perpetual motion. It was like the Seventeen Blades all over again.

No, she corrected herself as she slipped around a desperate slash of the cutlass and back into the duardin’s guard. The Seventeen Blades was like murder.

‘Stand firm, you wannazi!’ one of the Kharadrons was bellowing, and Maleneth realised that more were rushing towards the fight from the direction of the burning caravans. She was hopelessly outnumbered. They should never have confronted them, even after realising the skyfaring duardin were responsible for the firestorm. She couldn’t have stopped Gotrek though, not after he’d seen the way they were cutting down those who escaped the flames.

A feint to the right, and the dagger in her left hand slipped in under the chin of the Overlord she was fighting, plunging up behind his ancestor mask. A single line of blood ran from the mouth slit down the mask’s stylised silver beard, and he made a wet gargling sound as Maleneth twisted the knife and dragged it free.

Something slammed into her from behind as she did so. She tried to spin away, but it grappled with her, fighting to find a purchase on her light leather armour. She felt something crack into her leg, making her gasp with pain. The stink of rubbery sky-suits and filthy duardin sweat invaded her senses, overpowering the reek of burning.

She managed to twist and writhe her way out of the grip, spinning with one blade outstretched as she turned. It jarred off a Kharadron’s helmet, and as she tried to dance further back to give herself more room she felt her leg give. One of the new attackers rushing to the scene had hit her calf with the swipe of a hammer, and the limb couldn’t properly support her weight any more. She buckled, spitting a blood curse at the Kharadrons as they rushed at her.

‘Alive, I said alive!’ she could hear one of the duardin shouting in his grating language. She slid around the thrust of a sky pike and knocked aside another swinging cutlass, but as she tried to repost her leg gave way entirely and she went down on one knee. Another Kharadron tackled her from the side, bearing her down onto the ground, and she felt her grip go on one of her knives. She wrapped her arms around the struggling bulk of the one on top of her and slammed her remaining blade into the small of his back, trying to work it through his thick sky-suit. He cursed, then headbutted her.

Stars burst before her eyes as the ancestor mask slammed down. She tried to turn her head away, gasping at the pain in her skull, and through her blurred vision saw Gotrek, splattered with blood, being ensnared by another volley from the net launchers.

She tried to reach out to him, tried to shout, but the Kharadron’s helm cracked into her jaw again, and she knew no more.

CHAPTER SIX

‘Move,’ Durbarak urged, throwing a glance back over his shoulder at Khaled-Tush. The flames had spread to the greenery clustered on the banks of the oasis, and now the once-bustling outpost was wholly consumed, the constellations overhead lost in a thick bank of smoke and ash.

‘Hurry,’ Durbarak reiterated, smacking his leather gauntlet on Throm’s back for emphasis. The Draz Karr lay ahead, the throbbing of its idling endrins a welcome sensation in the ash-choked air. He glanced at Stromm, Elki and Borin, all three of them struggling to keep up. He’d ordered the Draz Karr’s stoutest crewmen to drag the Slayer prisoner, and even between them they were sweat-drenched and panting, half divested of their sky-suit cowling and armour plates.

The prisoner himself was unconscious, as was the aelf. It had taken considerably more effort to knock the former out than the latter. Even just looking back at the duardin, wrapped in thick strands of skywhale gut netting, Durbarak found himself at once afraid and fascinated by the Slayer and the infamous rune gleaming in his flesh. He wanted to get him back and clapped up in the Draz Karr’s brig before he stirred.

Gotrek Gurnisson was going to make them all rich, that much he was sure of.

‘Hook him up,’ Durbarak shouted up at the skyship’s main deck. He saw a figure – probably Skeg – appear briefly at the deck’s railings, and seconds later a pair of long cargo hooks, attached to winch lines, whickered down over the side of the hull and thumped into the dirt in front of Durbarak. He motioned at the Kharadrons around him. With practised speed, the duardin who had been hauling Gotrek attached the hooks to his netting.

There was a clattering noise as one of the frigate’s cargo winches began hoisting the Slayer skywards. ‘The axe,’ Durbarak said, motioning to Krazak. The crewmate had taken custody of Gotrek’s huge Fyreslayer weapon – from the beginning, Durbarak had been clear about the importance of not just taking Gotrek alive. The Slayer’s equipment and his companions were also vital. Capturing the infamous Slayer in his entirety would magnify his value, and Durbarak wasn’t going to miss out on individual payments in exchange for an easy life. That wasn’t how the Kharadrons functioned.

Krazak handed the Fyreslayer axe to Durbarak, who strapped it over his back. Grav-ladders were being lowered from the Draz Karr’s flank now, and the pitch of the endrins was rising as they prepared for a full lift-off. The second prisoner, the unconscious aelf, was being carried over Throm’s shoulder. The big duardin mounted the ladders first, followed by the rest of the landing party. Durbarak waited until the end, as was customary for the captain of the sky reivers, casting his gaze back at Khaled-Tush. The outpost was now little more than a sheet of flame. The formerly cool night air of the desert was thick with the stink of charred wood and burned flesh, and hung heavy with black smoke and grey ash. The oasis had been transformed into a furnace. The sights and smells filled Durbarak with a deep grim happiness, and it took an effort to turn away and climb back aboard his ship.

As delightful as such devastation was, thoughts of the bounty he would collect with the Slayer and the aelf as his prisoners proved even more tantalising. The amount he had been offered to kill them was trifling by comparison.

The visions of wealth lasted only a few moments. Durbarak’s boots had barely thumped down on the Draz Karr’s decking plates before he realised something was out of order. Both the Slayer and the aelf had been safely deposited, but they were not the only beings brought on board by the crew. A human, young and scrawny, was being held in Skeg’s steel gauntlet, shivering and wailing in some garbled desert language.

‘Who’s this?’ Durbarak demanded, uncoupling himself from the grav-ladder and stomping across the deck to Skeg.

‘I caught the umgi hiding under the hull after we lowered the endrins,’ Skeg growled, shaking the terrified manling roughly.

‘So? Why is he still alive?’

‘He started babbling about the Slayer. I think he knows him, and you said that anything related to Gotrek Gurnisson is valuable.’

‘Sellah!’ the human wailed. Gotrek had been dragged along the deck to the open brig by a brace of boarding grapnels and now lay slumped, still netted and unconscious.

‘Sellah, sellah, please,’ the human shouted, making a pathetic attempt to get free from Skeg’s steel grasp. ‘You must wake up, sellah!’

‘Bind him too,’ Durbarak snapped. ‘Throw them all in the brig and let’s get under way. We’ve lingered here long enough.’

His orders were disturbed by a shriek. He turned, reaching for his pistols.

The aelf was awake. She had slipped out of Throm’s grip and had almost flung him over the frigate’s side. The two closest crewmates, Lorik and Stromm, rushed at her, grabbing her arms and trying to grapple her to the deck. She twisted and broke free again like a frenzied felid, punching Lorik in his prodigious gut. There was blood from a graze across her scalp running down the side of her slender face, and her dark hair was whipping around her, her black eyes wide and wild. They fixed on the human prisoner still being held by Skeg.

‘Mistress, help,’ the human pleaded piteously. She hesitated for the briefest second, and Durbarak knew she was sizing up remaining with her captive companions or leaping over the side.

In the end, the decision was made for her. Stromm, barely a foot to the aelf’s left, had cocked his aetherlock.

‘Move and die, witch,’ the duardin growled.

‘We haven’t come here to kill you,’ Durbarak added. ‘Grimnir knows, I wouldn’t mind if we did, but you’re more valuable alive. Consider that before you throw yourself over the side.’

The doubt seemed to do enough. He sensed the aelf become a fraction less tense as she accepted the situation. Durbarak made a terse motion to Lorik and Throm, and they began to edge back towards the aelf. Her expression had changed from one of wild desperation to haughty, reserved acceptance.

‘Release him,’ she said in the local human tongue. She pointed at Gotrek’s sprawled form.

‘If you have any respect for your kindred or the survival of the Mortal Realms, you won’t deliver him to whoever is paying you.’

‘I don’t have any respect for either,’ Durbarak answered in the same language, making the rest of the crew laugh.

The aelf made to answer, but Lorik slammed the butt of his aetherlock into her stomach, doubling her over, then delivered another blow to the side of her head.

‘Grungni’s golden balls, that felt satisfying,’ he said as the aelf hit the deck.

‘Get them all below,’ Durbarak snapped, turning towards the helm wheel and gear block on the skyship’s bridge. ‘And get us aetherward. Now, before any of the others catch up with us.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

The vibrating of the arkanaut frigate’s buoyancy endrins woke Maleneth. She sat up, and immediately regretted doing so. Pain split through her stomach and skull like a sunburst, making her flinch. She slumped back.

She groaned, and let her aching head come to terms with her new surroundings. Her hands were bound, looped with coils of duardin cabling. That was the first thing she noticed. The second was that Gotrek and Aziz were beside her. Both were awake, and both tied like her. Gotrek was glowering into the middle distance. Aziz just looked terrified.

The third realisation was that the wind was in her hair, and that they were skyborne. She looked around, tentatively, wary of the pain in her scalp resurfacing.

They were tied up in the brig-pit of a Kharadron skyship. Its hold was open, but there was no way to climb the pipe-ribbed walls to its edge. Above them the metallic orbs of two buoyancy endrins throbbed, their brass-and-steel shells gleaming brilliantly in the unfiltered dawn light. Their arcane power competed with the thudding of the rotor blades that adorned the skycraft’s sleek flanks. Beyond was nothing but the azure.

‘How long was I unconscious?’ Maleneth asked, having to swallow before speaking. Her throat was parched.

‘Since you were captured,’ Gotrek said, without a hint of humour.

‘And how long ago was that?’ she snapped, anger flaring up from the pain suffusing her body.

‘Last night. You new aelves are just the same as the old ones. One hit and you crumple.’

‘Would that I had the strength and fortitude of the great Gotrek. He would never have allowed himself to succumb to a pack of sky pirates,’ Maleneth hissed. ‘Unless that was you, laid out and netted on their deck when I last saw you…’

Gotrek rounded on her, and she thought he was going to lunge at her before she saw his bonds – heavy metal clamps, rather than the cords that bit into her own wrists. Clearly their captors were well aware of the Slayer’s deadly potential.

‘Have you tried to negotiate?’

‘And why would I do that?’ the Slayer growled. ‘The only thing I would negotiate is whether their blood feeds my axe’s thirst now or later.’

‘They’re duardin, for Khaine’s spite. They’ve not killed us, so they must want something. They’re not just assassins, or if they were they’ve disobeyed their directives. So negotiate with them.’

‘I-I think I heard something about a ransom, sellah,’ Aziz stammered. ‘These sky dogs, sometimes they take people from the trails, usually wealthy traders. They do not follow their kindred’s code.’

‘Then why did they take you too?’ Maleneth demanded.

‘They think he’s with us,’ Gotrek said, looking up and frowning at the endrin orbs above. ‘I told them he wasn’t. Told them they should just throw him over the side of… whatever this thing is.’

‘It is a skyship,’ Aziz said, wringing his tied hands together.

‘Not like any skyship I’ve been on before. And I’ve known one or two.’

A tremor ran through the cold decking plates surrounding them. A moment later a figure loomed at the edge of the brig’s entrance, followed by two more. Maleneth looked up into the grim, unyielding ancestor masks of their captors. One was pointing the gleaming barrels of an aethermatic volley gun down at them. She remembered waking up on the skyship just as it had been about to pull away from the inferno that had once been Khaled-Tush. The duardin had spoken about taking them alive. In the hands of the Kharadron Overlords, that wasn’t necessarily a good thing.

One of the captors pointed at Maleneth. He had Gotrek’s axe slung over his back.

‘Bring her.’

One of his companions tossed a grav-ladder down from the edge of the hold. Covered by the volley gun, he swung in and snatched Maleneth, gauntlet clamping around her arm. She didn’t try to resist. Now was not the time. Aziz whimpered but Gotrek remained unmoving, his eye still on the endrins overhead, as though oblivious to what was happening around him.

The duardin holding Maleneth pushed her up the grav-ladder. It was difficult negotiating it with her hands tied, but near the top the Kharadron above snatched her beneath the arms and hauled her up. The wind hit her properly, making her flinch, and her feet touched the main deck just as another tremor ran through the ribbed metal. She was sure she heard one of the endrins skip a beat.

‘This way, aelf,’ the duardin snarled, a hand in the flat of her back pushing her towards the skyship’s external railing. She staggered, her stomach lurching as she became aware of just how high up they were. The Bone Desert stretched out in every direction, like a Hysh-bleached sheet, each of the thousands of tiny ripples spreading away below her one of the great dunes that covered the desolate expanse.

‘Who is that?’ the duardin demanded, pointing down past the rear endrin latched to the skyship’s stern. Maleneth frowned against the wind, unable to discern anything amidst the distant haze.

‘I do not see anyone.’

‘You’re not using my spyglass, murder-aelf,’ the duardin snarled. ‘You’ll throw it overboard. Put that famous eyesight to use, or we’ll see how long you enjoy being dangled by your toes over the side.’

The Kharadron pointed again and Maleneth gripped the skyship’s railing, staring down into the endless desert. Eventually she began to discern a shape, dark against the pale ochre, a distant spec that seemed to be following in the frigate’s wake.

‘A rider,’ she said, having to shout over the wind and the endrin’s throb.

‘Who?’ the Kharadron demanded.

‘I don’t know! I have no companions besides the duardin and the boy!’

‘Then you won’t mind if we give him a Kharadron salutation. Skori, prime the skycannon and bring us about.’

Before the duardin’s orders could be obeyed there was a metallic pinging noise, followed by a shriek of escaping steam. Maleneth looked up to see the rivets had burst around one of the rubberised pipes leading to the endrin domes. Steam was now jetting from the opening, and a thick, oily substance was drooling from cracks further up the metal orb.

‘Dregg, get aloft!’ the Kharadron gripping Maleneth shouted, gesturing towards an endrinrigger emerging from the ship’s forecabin, lugging a half-welder and a cog-toothed hammer.

‘Another one’s about to go!’ shouted a second Kharadron, pointing towards another of the endrin’s valves. The entire sphere was beginning to visibly buckle and deform under some sort of internal pressure, as though a vast, invisible fist had closed around it and was crushing the metal shell.

‘Grungsson’s oath,’ the Kharadron beside Maleneth managed to swear, before the whole ship lurched.

The motion threw the entire crew, Maleneth included, hard to the right. She banged against some rigging cables, her natural poise undone by the cords pinning her wrists together. She spat a curse of her own as the ship lurched back violently in the opposite direction, banging her off the railings protecting the edge. Her duardin captor grunted as he held his own balance, the spikes on his boots helping him dig into the deck.

‘Check the endrin readings!’ he barked. Since the first rupture the tone of the orbs keeping the skyship aloft had changed noticeably. Gone were the steady vibrations, replaced by an ugly sputtering, clattering sound. The noise seemed to grow even more harsh and irregular as Maleneth listened to it, and a note of panic had entered the voices of the duardin around her as they hurried to sign in from their stations. She couldn’t decipher all of the gruff reports, but none sounded positive.

The skyship shook again. This time it wasn’t with sudden fury, but with an even more terrible, slow sense of slipping. Maleneth, attuned as she was to her surroundings, was the first to sense the slight change in the slope of the deck. She was able to hook her bonds over the railings along the edge of the hull as the angle continued to shift, and the duardin finally noticed.

‘Throm, the stabiliser gauge!’ the duardin next to Maleneth bellowed. ‘She’s going to capsize!’

The two remaining endrins were vibrating, their agony audible as an ear-piercing scream. The metal all around Maleneth was juddering violently, steam pouring from the skyship’s ports and hatches, wreathing the stricken frigate as it continued its slow, inexorable roll.

‘The hatch!’ Maleneth heard another voice, rising above the barks of the duardin and the shriek of their crumpling ship. It was Aziz.

The cart driver and Gotrek were both still in the brig. Even more importantly, the brig had a hatch.

The duardin appeared to have forgotten her. Several had flung grapnels to the far side of the hull and were using them to scale the tipping deck with surprising dexterity. Others were using cutlasses, daggers and boarding pikes to anchor themselves to the ship, trying to claw their way back to the tiller and the gauge that appeared responsible for the craft’s aerial buoyancy. One lost his grip on the rigging and plummeted back, slamming into the railing running along the edge of the ship with a grunt.

The railing. Maleneth stopped trying to fight the tipping sensation, and instead allowed herself to drop to the metal rungs. For a moment they were the only things between her and a plummeting drop, the desert laid out at a dizzying, stomach-turning angle. She forced herself not to look down, but planted two feet on one of the rungs and, from a crouch, leapt for the edge of the brig hatch.

She almost cleared it. Her hands, still bound together, clamped over the edges, the impact of her body against the unyielding metal of the hull almost driving the wind from her lungs.

‘The hatch!’ she heard Aziz still screaming. The angle of the ship was such that it had almost tipped him and Gotrek out into the open air.

‘I am trying, you fool,’ she hissed back. The brig’s hatch lever was set into the deck just to her right, but reaching it would be impossible with her hands bound, at least if she wanted to avoid losing her grip.

She grimaced. When had a servant of Khaine ever had doubts when playing these games of life and death?

She flung herself to the side, letting out a yell of effort as she did so. As her grip left the hatch and her stomach lurched at the void opening out beneath her, it seemed as though she’d thrown herself to her death. Time slowed as she arched her back and thrust her arms out towards the lever. She saw the bonds slide up and over it as her jump reached its apex and, as it seemed her momentum would drag her back down over the side of the tipping deck, the cords caught and snagged.

They held her weight only for a second before snapping around the lever, but by then she had her hands around it. She thumped into the deck again as her fall was arrested once more, the weight dragging the lever down with a heavy click. She was left dangling again, her arms straining. But it was done. The locking mechanism had engaged.

She heard a crack and something smacked off the deck next to her head. She realised one of the duardin, anchored below her by a grappling hook, had fired an aetherlock up at her. Above, the brig had started to clatter as the hatch rattled shut over the hold.

She had a couple of seconds at best before she was locked outside.

Muscles burning with the unrelenting strain, she hauled herself up onto the lever block. The cords had bitten deep into her wrists, but with her hands free she suddenly felt more confident. Perched like a feline on the narrow block of metal, she gave herself a split second to gather her strength and focus, ignoring the horrifying angle of the ship as its flank approached ninety degrees to the desert floor far below.

She leapt, shrieking as she did so, though she barely realised it. The hatch yawned before her, its grate sliding shut, just a few yards left before the whole brig was locked off.

She was trapping herself in the bowels of an arkanaut frigate that was plummeting towards the desert. But it was that, or tumble from the open deck when it finally tipped all the way upside down.

She dropped in through the hatch, a hair’s breadth from the grate’s locking spikes, not even hitting the deck below before she heard it clang fully shut. She slammed into the metal beneath with a grunt and was then almost immediately thrown to one side. What had once been the bottom of the brig was now one of the sides, and the wall they had previously been lying against was now the floor. The hatch, now barred, was to her right. Through it the desert was swinging ponderously into view, the horizon stretching dizzyingly away.

The realisation of just what was happening caught up with Maleneth.

‘Hag’s spite see me safe, that I might claim more lives for the Bloody-Handed,’ she intoned.

‘Hold on to the bars!’ Aziz was screaming, barely audible over the death-shrieks of the crumpling, rupturing endrins. The teamster had managed to work his way free of his own bonds, and had braced himself up against the corner of the hold.

The skyship turned over on its axis. Maleneth was thumped against the bars of the hold, now the floor. Beneath them was nothing but the desert. She clung to the grate, her stomach turning. A duardin hurtled past, his grip on the ship’s deck gone, his scream whipped away by the wind and the earache of the endrins. She could see others dangling by grapnels and sky pikes, hooked to the rigging or railings. The dunes below were rushing up to greet them.

‘Hope you don’t get air-sick, aelf,’ she heard Gotrek say. He was balanced against the grate, arms braced against one of the corners. It sounded as though he was enjoying himself.

She screwed her eyes shut and tried to drive out the juddering fall of the skyship with words of spite and murder, an old lullaby of the Hidden Temples. She was going to die, a part of her had already accepted as much. Her only hope was that it would be Khaine who claimed her soul, and not some other cruel deity.

The sound of the endrins’ torture reached fever pitch, driving out all conscious thought, reducing anyone still on board the falling frigate to base, primal terror. Maleneth found herself opening her eyes again, and saw a dune directly ahead, caught for a second in perfect clarity, serenely still in the burning heat.

The world seemed to calm around Maleneth. The gut-wrenching shuddering and the plummeting sensation went, along with the pain of the endrins. All she could hear was the rapid tattoo of her own heart, the blood in her ears, the breath rasping in her lungs.

‘Khaela mensha adrathi Khaina,’ she said, reciting her temple’s last rites.

The skyship struck.

CHAPTER EIGHT

She remembered being told by a human warrior, Bayzor, a fellow member of the Order of the Azyr, that whenever he awoke after being struck unconscious, it was the pain that let him know he was still living. Apparently in whatever afterlife he believed in, there was no pain, so its presence indicated that he was not yet dead.

Maleneth had no such certainties. The temples of the Black Courts and the Shadow Covens preached little other than pain, and the cold murder that eased it. As she woke, acutely aware of the spikes of agony in her side and throbbing in her skull, her sluggish thoughts wondered whether she was about to face her final trials before the Bloody-Handed, and perhaps reckon one last time with her old mistress.

A part of her, distant and icy as a Shyish morning, hoped Jakari had already crossed over, and was waiting for her.

The God of Murder would permit no such mercies. Maleneth’s eyes fluttered open, and she found herself looking once more at Gotrek’s scarred, blunt face. She started, trying to push herself away from the duardin and realising when she did so that she was sitting up with her back to the skyship’s hull. A section of copper pipes, ruptured, had been digging into her side, slicing her leathers. She groaned as her movements teased the dozen cuts and bruises she had gained over the previous day.

Gotrek stood, turning away from her. He had recovered his axe from somewhere, and she thought she caught a rare hint of amusement in his eye. She tested her throbbing head, touching it tentatively. Neither the lump on her scalp nor the bruises from the pipework seemed dangerous, but being flung around the hold seemed to have opened up the wound in her side given to her by the Alharabi dancers. She noticed as Gotrek moved away that his arm was injured too. Something had cut his right bicep to the bone, and the wound was still pulsing fresh blood, leaving his arm a sheet of glistening crimson.

She reached out one hand, grasping a metal strut that was broken out beyond the ribbing of what she took to be the skyship’s hull. As she stood she realised that the ground underfoot was shifting and hot – gone were the decking plates, replaced by sand.

They had landed, and they had survived. She saw that she was still in the hold, or what remained of it. The ship appeared to have grazed the top of the dune they had been plunging towards and settled on its flank in the valley between the first rise and the second. Wreckage littered the sand beyond the broken and twisted remains of the hold.

She tried to speak, but the sound came out as a dry croak, and descended into coughing. Gotrek turned back to her and undid something from his belt, tossing it down beside her. It was a flask, engraved with Kharadron markings. She put it to her lips, and was relieved to taste water rather than a burning duardin ale.

She’d barely started to drink when her stomach heaved, and she was forced to double up by a bout of retching. She was sick, the bile leaving her gasping and choking on all fours, its stink in her nostrils and its foul acid aftertaste thick in her throat. She slumped back into a sitting position, panting, wiping sweat-slick hair out of her face. She realised that she was shaking.

‘I’m almost impressed. I’d have thought such a crash would have ended a weakling, runty aelf,’ Gotrek said, standing over her.

The words made her laugh weakly, though she didn’t know why.

‘Drink more,’ he told her, turning his back again. She spat out the sickly aftertaste, and tentatively took another sip of what remained in the flask.

‘You are wounded,’ she said. The words came out raw sounding. He grunted, not turning back to face her.

‘Had worse.’

‘Not while I’ve been with you.’

‘You’ve not been with me very long, dark aelf.’

She somehow found the strength to roll her eyes. ‘You need to clean and bind that wound, before you lose any more blood.’

‘I’d rather clean and bind your incessantly jabbering mouth.’

Gotrek moved out of the hull’s shadow and into the burning light of the desert. Taking a moment to compose herself, Maleneth found her feet and followed him, shielding her eyes from the glare. Side by side, they surveyed the wreckage of the downed Kharadron skyship.

It had taken a section of the dune behind them with it during its first collision, ploughing a deep furrow down into the valley floor. Most of the ship’s broken hull was intact, but two of the three endrins had come apart completely, their twisted metal strewn all over the sand. There were bodies too, Maleneth realised. Kharadron corpses, scattered indiscriminately amidst the ruination of their frigate.

‘I’ve never known duardin-crafted machinery to fail like that,’ she said, looking at the crumpled remains of the only remaining semi-intact endrin, buried in the dune a hundred yards off to her right.

‘Malakai’s would not have,’ Gotrek grumbled.

‘Whose?’

‘The only dwarf I would trust to fly a damned skyship. He was an inventor, the likes of which you won’t find in these dull realms. The manling says we are not far from the Eight Pillars. They are that way.’ He gestured over the next dune.

‘The manling…’ Maleneth began, then spotted movement among the skyship’s remains. A figure was crawling from the shattered portholes of what had been the frigate’s main cabin section. As he wormed his way out into the sand, Maleneth recognised Aziz. The teamster got to his feet and, noticing her, waved cheerfully. Miraculously, he seemed completely unharmed.

‘They had supplies,’ Gotrek said by way of explanation as Aziz jogged over. He had tied half a dozen more Kharadron flasks around his waist, and they clattered with every step he took. There was a sack over his back as well.

‘You are awake, sellah,’ he exclaimed as he reached Maleneth. She grimaced.

‘I feel like I would rather not be.’

Aziz’s cheerful demeanour withered before Maleneth’s icy response. She forced herself to acknowledge him properly, against her better instincts.

‘Had you not told me to close the hatch, I would likely be standing in judgement before Khaine right now. For that, you have my thanks, Aziz.’

The teamster’s smile returned, infectious. He reached back into the sack and drew out two lengths of blood-encrusted silver – Maleneth’s knives.

‘Anything for you, sellah,’ he said, handing each blade to her in turn.

‘They were in the cabin,’ Gotrek said.

‘They wanted to sell us on with all of our possessions,’ Maleneth said, appreciating having the two weapons in her hands, before sliding them into her belt. ‘Many thanks once more, Aziz.’

‘The Eight Pillars,’ Gotrek said to the human. ‘You’re sure of the way?’

‘Sure as Hysh rises over the Sea of Mer, sellah,’ Aziz said, gesturing up at the burning orb dominating the cloudless sky. He dropped his arm to point over the nearest dune. ‘Though upon my word I do not know how far it will be.’

‘We can’t go back,’ Maleneth said. ‘Khaled-Tush will be nothing but ash now. Besides, your wound must be seen to.’

She reached out to touch Gotrek’s injured arm, but the Slayer drew back with a scowl.

‘Do not treat me like some newborn beardling, aelf. I see through your scheming. You will advise me to go to that temple of yours. You want to make me their prisoner.’

‘There are healers at the Temple of the Lightning,’ Maleneth said, trying to mask her exasperation. ‘A learned human chirurgeon, loyal to the Order of the Azyr. If you do not have it properly cleaned it will become infected. How well will a demigod deal with amputation?’

‘I have fought through this world and the last without losing any part of me I hold dear,’ the Slayer grunted. ‘I’m not going to start now.’

Maleneth looked to Aziz, but the human wouldn’t meet her eye, clearly not wanting to be drawn into an argument between his unlikely companions. She sighed.

‘I am going to the Eight Pillars,’ Gotrek said. ‘The location of the Axe of Grimnir will be revealed to me. Where you go is your own choice.’

The Slayer trailed off as Maleneth moved suddenly to her right, her face contorting with anger.

She’d seen one of the Kharadron bodies littering the desert stirring. She had assumed they were all dead, pulverised by their fall or broken by the frigate’s impact. She realised now that she was wrong.

She recognised the duardin – it was the only one with a golden ancestor mask, rather than silver, the same one that had dragged her out of the brig. She felt her spite surge and, without thinking, dropped to her knees in the sand and pressed her knife against the Kharadron’s gorget seal.

A fist clamped like a vice around her wrist before she could push the tip home. She looked up at Gotrek, face contorted with anger.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked.

‘Call it habit,’ Gotrek said. ‘But it wouldn’t sit right to watch an aelf slit a dwarf’s throat in his sleep.’

‘They’re pirates,’ Maleneth said incredulously. ‘They killed hundreds of innocent people at Khaled-Tush. They were going to sell all of us to the hag only knows who!’

‘And they’ve collected their rewards,’ Gotrek answered, pointing with his free, bloody hand at the wrecked skyship and the bodies scattered around it.

‘If any more of them have survived they’ll follow us!’

‘You think they’ll go far?’ Gotrek replied. ‘We’ve taken all their water. If you want them dead, you’ll only have to wait. Anyway, we don’t have the time to go through the wreckage and follow its trail to find every last injured one. I want to get to that damned inscription.’

The son of Gurni is correct, Witchblade. They’re as good as dead. Stop wasting time.

‘He is a fool,’ Maleneth growled back, but moved her blade away from the Kharadron’s throat. Gotrek released her arm.

‘Let us make haste then,’ she said, standing. ‘Or we could wait until he’s fully awake. Will you let me kill him then?’

Gotrek said nothing, but motioned to Aziz, standing uncertainly nearby.

‘The Eight Pillars, manling. Lead on.’

CHAPTER NINE

Durbarak’s arm was broken. He had cracked it back into place and formed a makeshift sling from a length of endrin cord. The pain was a dull, constant throb, a distant second to the anger that burned through him.

The Draz Karr had been wrecked beyond repair. The hull was buckled and split and the endrins shattered. Twisted wreckage littered the Bone Desert.

Bodies littered it too, crewmates who had failed to tie themselves to the deck before the skyship had capsized. Not all those who had done so had survived either. He’d already found Stromm and Borin, both crushed by one of the endrins when the remains of the crumpled orb had come down after the frigate had ploughed into the desert.

Durbarak’s livelihood was in ruins and his crewmates were dead. Someone would pay. He’d already checked the hold, but the Draz Karr’s collision with the desert had ruptured the hull and left a tear in the brig’s flank. There were three sets of prints leading from the downed skyship, three sets headed east, over the dunes. Durbarak had pulled off his ancestor mask and was staring after them, cradling his broken arm and trying to stop himself shaking with anger.

They’d taken the water with them too. He’d managed to find a single flask, half-empty, in the brig’s remains, but that was all. He would have to go, and soon. A part of him simply wished to remain with his frigate’s wreckage.

He heard a sound carried to him by the whispers of the desert wind. At first he thought it was the low groan of the skyship’s remains settling, then he realised it was a voice, a voice that he recognised. He turned and moved back in amongst the hold, struggling in the sand that had been ploughed up by the Draz Karr’s impact.

He found Throm lying in the shade of one of the broken endrins, its misshapen sphere half buried in the sand. The Kharadron’s legs were broken – bone and cartilage were protruding from his dusty sky-suit, and the sand was speckled with blood, a trail marking where he had dragged himself from the shattered decking plates nearby. Scraps of armour and his ancestor mask lay scattered around him, discarded in the infernal heat. He was only half conscious.

Durbarak trudged to his side, unhooking the water flask from his belt as he went. Throm’s eyes flickered, and he blinked up at his crewmate.

‘Captain?’ His voice was a dry, deathly croak. 

‘Easy, lad,’ Durbarak said, kneeling beside him and pressing the flask to his lips with his good hand. Rather than drinking, Throm turned his head away.

‘You’ll need it more than me, captain. I’m done.’

‘I’m going to find the one who did this,’ Durbarak said. ‘Some oath-breaking thaggoraki has betrayed us.’

‘The ship,’ Throm murmured. ‘The ship would never have gone down like that. Someone… someone had uncoupled the valve lines.’

Durbarak’s response was interrupted by the sound of a horse’s neigh. He froze. Throm had heard it too, his expression becoming clearer.

‘Was that–’ he began to say.

‘Stay here,’ Durbarak growled. He left the flask in Throm’s lap and, after checking one of his pistols was still loaded and wedged in his belt, started to move towards the main section of the Draz Karr’s wreckage. The sound had come from the other side of the skyship’s carcass.

He trudged around it warily, eyes creased against the glare of the sun and the streamers of sand being carried from the baking hull by the wind. He rounded a broken propeller that had lodged itself upright in the dirt, and found himself staring at a horse.

Even to a duardin it was a fine-looking beast, white and ill-tempered, tugging at reins that had been tied around the propeller’s broken spoke. Durbarak drew his aetherlock, expecting the rider to be nearby, but there was no sign of anyone close to the beast. It snorted at him angrily and let out another shrill neigh. Only then did he notice the saddle on its back, and the device on its cloth. He turned and started to run back to Throm, stumbling and cursing as he went.

He heard a cracking sound – the discharge of another pistol, echoing back from the Draz Karr’s remains. Cursing more loudly, he reached the broken endrin once more, his shattered arm in agony.

He was too late. Throm slumped on his side in the dirt, gagging and choking, beard and hands slippery with his own blood as he tried in vain to hold shut his slit throat. A figure stepped away from the dying Kharadron, the wind snapping at its cloak. It sensed Durbarak and spun as he brought his pistol up.

‘You,’ the former captain of the Draz Karr snarled. The assassin didn’t respond, reaching into its cloak instead.

Durbarak fired, but by the time he had squeezed the trigger a throwing star had thudded in between his eyes, killing him instantly. His shot went wide and he fell straight back, spread-eagled in the sand, eyes staring sightlessly into Hysh’s fiery glare.

The assassin retrieved the throwing star and then crouched next to Throm, watching with apparent fascination as the last surviving crew member of the arkanaut frigate slowly bled to death. When his eyes had finally glazed over, the killer made one last circuit of the wreckage site, ensuring every last wounded duardin was dead, before returning and remounting its horse. It turned the white steed east and, leaning low in the saddle, set off after Gotrek, Maleneth and Aziz.

CHAPTER TEN

They caught sight of the Eight Pillars as darkness crept over the dunes once again. Maleneth, moving ahead of the other two, crested a rise of craggy desert rocks and found it sprawling abruptly below them – the towering, sand-blasted pillars that gave the place its name, and the great pyramid structure that lay at the end of the ancient colonnade, the final resting place of some human desert lord and, according to the seer coven in Barkash, the site of an inscription bearing the location of the Axe of Grimnir. The crumbling structures lay at the end of a long gorge, flanked by sheer walls of arid yellow stone.

When they had first set out from Barkash on the back of Aziz’s cart, the pack driver had told them that long ago a town had clustered around the pyramid, forever in the shadow of their entombed master. The slow, insidious work of the desert had wiped away any trace of the old settlement, but the recent affluence of the Triumvirate Cities had aroused interest in the Bone Desert and its potential secrets. Adventurers, artefact-hunters and looters had begun flocking to the Eight Pillars, lured by tall tales relating to the wealth the pyramid’s founder had supposedly been buried with.

Their arrival had resulted in a new town springing up. Like Khaled-Tush, it was largely ramshackle, a conglomeration of wagons that had been converted into dwellings. Tents and lean-tos and rough huts of dirt and stone clustered like growths around the bases of each of the eight great pillars, the spaces between teeming with people. The sound of voices and the crack of picks and shovels rose up on the humid wind.

‘It looks like trouble,’ Maleneth said darkly, surveying the dilapidated camp-turned-settlement.

‘No more than usual,’ Gotrek said.

They descended to the bottom of the gorge and moved along the craggy path to the outskirts of the Pillars. Hysh was setting, and the cliffs on either side provided relief from its burning gaze. Maleneth was too weary to offer any sort of thanks for the reprieve. She was bone-tired and ravenous. A part of her wished she’d perished in the skyship crash. Surely whatever fate awaited her beyond death was preferable to the heat that had scorched and burned her arms, neck and face, the ache that had worked its way into her limbs, the thirst that had turned her throat raw or the hunger that gnawed at her insides.

Aziz seemed little better, limping along in her wake, but Gotrek appeared indefatigable. She was certain it was more than just the legendary endurance of the duardin race at work. Perhaps it was more, even, than the power of the Master Rune. Once Gotrek had decided upon something, nothing seemed capable of stopping him, least of all trifling things like physical exhaustion or hunger.

Gotrek had decided he would go to the Eight Pillars, and so to the Eight Pillars he would go.

As they neared the furthest-flung wagons, the sound of an explosion reverberated down the gorge. As it echoed away, smoke and dust rose in the distance to their right, near the base of the pyramid. No one in the encampment sprawling before Maleneth seemed surprised by the detonation, and she realised some wealthy treasure-seeker was probably using a form of explosive to crack open one of the tombs.

She wondered what the Priests of the Lightning thought of such desecration. They had tended the temple nestled into the mountains a few miles from the gorge for as long as any in the Bone Desert could remember. The priesthood had served the ruler whose tomb now lay before Maleneth, guiding him towards the will of Sigmar. The presence of the Order of the Azyr among the priesthood had been a more recent development, but it was an easy accommodation to make – they both served the Lightning God, and the temple gave the Order an outpost in Aqysh, in a region whose cities were growing in importance.

Maleneth had resolved to report there, whether Gotrek would go with her or not. Perhaps the Order would permit her to cease accompanying the irascible duardin.

‘These manlings,’ Gotrek growled as they moved in among the edges of the settlement, ‘are they seeking the axe too? I’d sooner spend the rest of my days eating grobi dung than allow the woeful umgi of these realms to find it first.’

The words had been directed at Aziz. The cart driver raised weary eyes from his feet and shook his head.

‘No, sellah,’ he said. ‘At least, I do not believe they seek anything so specific here. There are many legends about the riches of the Eight Pillars, not only of the axe.’

That much was clearly true. As they continued up the main track towards the pyramid Maleneth was afforded a proper view of the work being done by the prospectors. Not content with trying to break into the tomb itself, they were seeking to crack open the pillars as well. Rickety wooden scaffolding surrounded the nearest ones, and Maleneth could see dozens of men and youths, many stripped to their waists, hacking at the old structures with all manner of tools. The air rang with the sounds of hard labour, punctuated by the report of another excavation blast sounding down from further up the gorge.

‘You still think you’ll find the axe before everyone else?’ she asked Gotrek as they trudged deeper into the camp. ‘If there is an inscription within that tomb pointing to its location, dozens of hotheads and fools will be seeking it the moment it’s translated.’

‘The axe, my axe, won’t be found unless it’s meant to be found,’ the duardin replied stoically.

‘You know the Order of the Azyr would likely help you to find it,’ Maleneth pressed. ‘Our agents cover the Mortal Realms. Nothing passes unseen. We can help you track down its most likely resting place.’

‘Or you will imprison me,’ Gotrek replied, without looking at the aelf. ‘You think I’m too dangerous, and that makes you afraid, aelf. So you will lock me away in your temple. Or you will try.’

Maleneth stifled her response, knowing he would only shoot back with something denigrating about her race.

‘We need lodgings,’ she said instead, directing the statement to Aziz. ‘Have you visited the Eight Pillars before?’

‘Twice,’ he responded, his usual eagerness visibly crushed by the trials of the past two days. ‘Both times carrying feed for the Master of Azalam. His contractors gave me space to sleep in one of their storage sheds.’

‘Anywhere will do,’ Maleneth said. ‘We need to eat as well.’

‘I will cook,’ Aziz said, his spirits apparently lifted at least a little by the prospect. ‘I still have the coin sellah gave me in Khaled-Tush. I will be able to buy much with it!’

Maleneth let the teamster take the lead, carrying them into the burrow-like network of rough buildings, scaffolding, shacks and wagons that nestled around one of the towering pillars. He spent long minutes haggling in his native desert tongue with a suspicious-looking man with an immaculately oiled black goatee, clad in the red robes of a Merport cattle guilder. Eventually the man conceded whatever was being debated with an exasperated wave of his hand, and motioned towards the cattle barns that sat in the shadow of the great stone column, leaning precariously between two rows of sheds being used to sift the pillar’s broken stone.

‘They say that at their core the pillars are solid gold,’ Aziz explained as he led them into the dank shadows of the barn. The stench of animal dung and the scrape and scuffle of hooves in the dirt assailed Maleneth, and her keen eyes picked out a dozen tuskers herded together behind stalls at the far end of the barn. She grimaced. For a moment she contemplated once again demanding Gotrek accompany her to the Temple of the Lightning, but the duardin’s stubbornness coupled with her own exhaustion overcame the words. She picked a heap of grubby straw fodder just inside the doorway and collapsed onto it.

‘I will bring us food,’ Aziz said.

‘Anything you can find,’ Maleneth agreed.

‘I’m going to look at the pyramid,’ Gotrek said. ‘Don’t follow me. Your blundering attracts too much attention.’

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Darkness was sliding along the gorge when Aziz returned and kindled a fire outside the barn door. He had been right about Gotrek’s Fyreslayer gold going far. The pot he had purchased was soon full of an alluring mixture of beans, herbs and spices. Despite herself, Maleneth had slipped into a half-sleep as she waited, her usual care in such an unfamiliar place overcome by fatigue. It was not an easy rest – memories of Jakari and their forced separation haunted her for the first time in years. It was a relief when the aroma of Aziz’s cooking woke her.

‘The warabi beans add the flavour, and the spice unlocks it,’ he said as she sat back on her haunches next to him, staring into the bubbling pot. He drew out a spoonful and held it out for her, nodding earnestly.

She was far too hungry to resist. It tasted good, but it only made her stomach ache all the more.

Gotrek arrived back soon after. He’d found or purchased fresh linen from somewhere and had bound his injured arm tightly. Going by the amount of blood staining the cloth, it would still need to be treated.

‘How does the pyramid look?’ Maleneth asked as he joined them at the fire. Aziz had begun doling out his broth into a trio of clay bowls he’d bought along with the food supplies.

‘The entrance is sealed,’ the Slayer said. ‘The umgi are trying to blast their way inside, but they don’t know the first thing about a mining charge or where to plant it.’

‘And you’re not going to enlighten them?’

Gotrek made a barking noise that Maleneth thought might be a laugh.

‘Better to watch the manlings blow each other up. See how high the different pieces fly. I’ll just get inside another way.’

‘Another way?’ Aziz asked, as he passed the bowls around.

‘There is always another way,’ Gotrek said, taking the bowl and sniffing it. ‘What is this?’

‘A recipe of my tribe,’ Aziz said. ‘We call it kalem. You will enjoy it, master duardin, I promise you.’

Gotrek took a sip, and grunted noncommittally. Maleneth had no such reservations – she was too hungry to show the Slayer’s reserve. She gulped down the broth, enduring the strength of the spices Aziz had seasoned it with.

‘I went up the gorge side,’ Gotrek said, eyeing the flames of the fire burning low beneath Aziz’s cooking pot. ‘There are paths. Old paths. The rock has been marked with tunnel-work.’

‘There are stories about hidden ways into the great pyramid,’ Aziz said between a mouthful of warabi beans. ‘Many have sought them, but none have succeeded.’

‘I doubt many were dwarfs,’ Gotrek said.

‘If there are hidden passages, the priests of the Temple of the Lightning would likely know more about them,’ Maleneth said, setting her bowl down momentarily. Her stomach was aching, and she chided herself for eating too quickly and too greedily. It had been years since she had last been pushed to such extremes of fatigue and hunger. 

‘For the last time, I won’t go to see your accursed priests,’ Gotrek spat. ‘If you want this damned rune then why not draw those pretty little steak knives of yours, come over here and see if you can carve it out of my chest?’

The suggestion didn’t appeal. A part of Maleneth knew she should stop pursuing the need to submit the Slayer to the Order of the Azyr, but this close to one of their outposts the opportunity was infuriating her. If she could turn him over to them, she could finally be rid of the duardin and his insufferable stubbornness.

‘You won’t find the axe you seek alone,’ she pressed. ‘The Eight Realms are vast – even the gods themselves cannot wander them at will and hope to perceive all things. Or perhaps you do not really seek the axe…’ She paused. ‘Felix. Was that his name?’

‘Do not speak of the manling, aelf,’ Gotrek growled. ‘He is gone.’

Another blast rang through the gorge, reverberating from its sheer sides as though in harmony with the duardin’s anger. Maleneth ignored it.

‘The Order can help you,’ she reiterated. ‘If he lives, they can find him.’

‘A rust plague on your damned Order! I told you, he is gone! I care not for him any more!’

Maleneth cackled gleefully. ‘Again, another lie, duardin.’

Gotrek’s response was not the one she expected. He didn’t speak. Instead, his eye refocused past the cooking fire, and after a few seconds he uttered a curse in his strange dialect. Maleneth had just registered the word before a crashing noise made her leap to her feet, her half-empty bowl spilled into the dirt. She followed the duardin’s gaze.

The explosion that had rung out just before wasn’t another attempt to crack open the pyramid, or even one of the pillars. Whether deliberately or not, someone had set off explosive charges at the base of the western gorge face. Now a crashing sound was heralding an avalanche of shattered stone and dirt, as a portion of the gorge came tumbling down towards the nearest pillar and the makeshift camp surrounding it – the one the three of them had chosen for the night.

‘The damned rats,’ Gotrek muttered.

‘Move!’ Maleneth shouted, snatching her pack from the entrance to the animal shed. Hysh’s light was suddenly bathing the pillar at their backs once more, the collapse of the top of the gorge revealing the lowering orb. It silhouetted a wall of dirt and dust that was plummeting with ponderous inevitability towards them.

Aziz was scrambling over the fire and away from the avalanche, his meal forgotten. Gotrek hadn’t moved, and a part of Maleneth wondered if he wanted to stay where he was and greet the landslide head on, stone meeting stone. In her mind’s eye she could imagine the Master Rune igniting, the rock tumbling to either side, broken apart by nothing but the duardin’s unyielding resolve.

Then she realised Gotrek was running.

She followed.

The whole world was beginning to shake, the earth underfoot and the air about them shuddering with the weight of the approaching debris. The camp around them was descending into chaos as disbelieving prospectors finally realised what was happening and tried to flee. Screams and the lowing of panicked animals filled the air. Tents were torn and trampled and lean-tos collapsed. A cart was overturned in the stampede, its occupants trapped beneath its weight, their cries for help unheeded in the tumult. Maleneth found herself pressed in from both sides by a mass of stinking, white-eyed people as they poured from their shacks and caravans.

The crowd dragged them, and for all her speed and Gotrek’s strength, it carried them along regardless of which direction they wanted to go. She could no longer see Aziz, and the thunder of the avalanche was now filling her ears, the ground tremoring so violently that whole groups of the fleeing mob were being thrown to the dirt, trampled by those rushing heedlessly on from behind them.

She tried to shout Gotrek’s name, struggling to keep her feet in the press. A sudden pain in her arm made her gasp. She stumbled, face contorted, and brought her forearm up. Blood was streaming from a long slash in her pale flesh, cut from just above her wrist to just below her elbow. She clutched the wound with her other hand, hissing with pain, trying to see who or what had struck her, but amidst the swell of bodies it was impossible to tell. All the while the avalanche filled the world with thunder, a fury so great it seemed in that heart-racing, desperate moment that it was the death knell of creation itself.

Follow the duardin, child!

‘Aelf!’

The barked word, now all too familiar, drew her attention back to Gotrek. The Slayer had ignited his greataxe, and the sight of its runic fires had served to give him the slightest amount of space. He snatched at Maleneth, managing to grasp her belt and draw her to his side.

‘Dwarfs should never run,’ he growled, turning back to the onrushing wall of dirt and rocks with his axe raised.

‘Are you insane?’ Maleneth shouted, her voice barely audible.

‘No more than you,’ Gotrek grunted, and began to charge back the way they had come.

Maleneth started to follow him instinctively before reason made her pause. Perhaps Gotrek was a demigod. Perhaps he could survive a collision with a falling cliff face. She had no such guarantees.

Foolish girl, snapped the hag. I said follow him!

‘You wish me to stand before Khaine so soon,’ Maleneth said bitterly. She was still clutching her wounded arm, her fingers soaked with blood.

I wish you to reach that spite-cursed pillar.

And finally Maleneth understood. He wasn’t running at the avalanche. He was trying to reach the base of one of the Eight Pillars before the oncoming tide.

She followed him. The crowd was less dense now. Ahead she could see the ponderous morass of earth and rock shattering and eating up the encampment. One of the pillars stood just ahead of it, a tower of defiance, scarred and chipped by the tools of greedy mortals. Maleneth raced for its base, quickly catching up with Gotrek. Heart thundering and tired limbs flushed, she reached the pillar’s shadow, then its Hysh-baked stone, slamming into its flank. Gotrek hit a moment later.

There was no time for words. The torrent of dirt engulfed them, slamming like the fist of a god into the other side of the pillar, thundering either side. The weight and momentum carried it round, but not all the way, leaving the aelf and the duardin standing in the clear wake created by the pillar’s bulk. Maleneth shielded her face behind her uninjured arm as grit and stones battered them, and for what felt like an age it appeared the shifting tide of soil would wrap the pillar entirely, dragging them into its crushing embrace to be churned and ground up with the remains of the encampment and all those souls too slow to get out.

But it didn’t. The avalanche had already expended a great deal of its force. It reached past the pillar on either side but didn’t travel much further before it finally began to settle. The stonework of the pillar itself had shifted slightly, but held.

‘Told you they don’t know how to use mining charges,’ Gotrek said.

Maleneth didn’t reply. A pain had gripped her, a burning sensation running through her torso. She hissed, and the next thing she knew she was on her knees, hand clutching her wound and both arms clenched to her sides. Gotrek was saying something, but she couldn’t make out what it was. Her hiss became a cry, and the pain surged to agony. It was as though a fire had been kindled inside her, the flames eating up her insides. She felt Gotrek’s hand on her shoulder.

‘The wound,’ she managed to snarl from between clenched teeth. ‘Someone… in the crowd… The wound is poisoned.’

CHAPTER TWELVE

High Priest Shal’ek was roused from his matins prayers by one of the notaries. The main prayer room of the temple was quiet, only a cluster of candles around the hammer altar giving light to the yellowing walls and rough-hewn stone pews.

‘It is Zelja, your holiness,’ the youth said. Shal’ek opened one eye, and scowled. He could never remember which notary was which.

‘What is wrong with Zelja, boy?’ the gaunt-faced priest demanded.

‘There are travellers at the gate, your holiness. She sent me to inform you.’

Zelja, captain of the Temple Guard, knew well enough to turn away random pilgrims, especially when dawn was still only a glimmer over the distant dunes. Shal’ek assumed something more required his clarification, but that didn’t stop him from snapping at the anonymous messenger.

‘Captain Zelja does not need me to instruct her to follow her usual orders and tell them to begone. What does she want from me?’

Kneeling as he was towards the hammer altar, Shal’ek could not see the notary, but he didn’t need to in order to sense the boy squirming.

‘The captain… She reports that they may warrant your attention, your holiness. There are three of them, a human, a duardin and an aelf.’

Shal’ek’s other eye opened, and his expression changed to one of consternation.

‘The aelf and the duardin both seem to be injured,’ the notary continued. ‘The aelf is unconscious.’

‘And what of the third one?’ Shal’ek asked.

‘Zelja says he is a desert trader.’

Shal’ek grunted, and stood. He offered a brief genuflection towards the hammer altar, traced the lightning sigil with two fingers and turned to the boy, who stiffly averted his eyes.

‘Show me,’ Shal’ek said.

‘I’m going to count to ten,’ bellowed a voice from beyond the temple’s timber gateway. ‘Ong!’

Shal’ek approached the entrance, glaring, the notary scurrying at his heels.

‘Tuk! Dwe!’

‘A duardin?’ the high priest demanded of Captain Zelja. The veiled commander of the temple guard was standing next to the gate, her scimitar drawn. A dozen of her men occupied the open stone parapet above, lit by the braziers lining the wall top.

‘Fut!’

‘There is a human with him, and he seems to be supporting an aelf in the garb of the Murder Temples,’ Zelja added. ‘They say she is dying.’

‘Sak! Siz! Set!’

‘Is it her?’ Shal’ek demanded. ‘One of the Order’s wretches?’

The question went unanswered.

‘Odro! Nuk!’

‘Does Weiss know?’ Shal’ek asked, stepping towards the viewing slit set into the heavy doors.

‘I have not sent anyone to wake him,’ Zelja said.

‘Don!’

Shal’ek set his eye to the slit opening. All he caught was a blur of movement, followed by an almighty bellow and a crash that made him stumble backwards. He blinked. The edge of an axe, wickedly sharp, was gleaming an inch from his nose. Had the sound of it cleaving clean through the temple’s front doors not sent him staggering back, it would have carved his skull in half.

There was a grunt from beyond the gate, and the axe head disappeared.

‘H-he’s hacking through the gate,’ Shal’ek stammered.

‘Archers,’ Zelja commanded. There was a clatter above as the guards nocked arrows to their bows.

‘I wouldn’t do that, manlings,’ bellowed the voice from beyond the gate. There was another shuddering impact, and the axe head reappeared amidst a hail of splinters. ‘I’d far rather be cutting heads instead of timber right now. Give me an excuse.’

Zelja’s guards looked to her, and she looked to Shal’ek. The high priest tried to find an answer to the duardin’s threat, but his eyes were fixated on the axe as it reappeared for a third time, hacking through just above the gate’s locking bar. Another below – delivered with a strength and force that seemed wholly unnatural – would surely break the gates wide open.

‘The aelf with you,’ declared a voice beside Shal’ek, startling him. Weiss had appeared, clad only in a night shift, his podgy face pale from lack of sleep. ‘What is her name?’

The axe blows paused. There was a hint of a growled discussion from beyond the gate. The voice called back.

‘Some damned stupid aelf name. Witchblade.’

‘And you,’ called Weiss. ‘You must be Gotrek Gurnisson.’

‘Have I found the only manling in this cursed world with an ounce of sense?’ the voice demanded.

‘It seems like it,’ Weiss said, and then, speaking to Zelja, he ordered, ‘Open the gate, and be quick about it.’

‘Are you mad?’ Shal’ek hissed. ‘That duardin is clearly insane. He will slaughter all of us.’

‘The aelf is a valued member of the Order of the Azyr,’ Weiss said curtly. ‘And the duardin, Gotrek… He is something else altogether. Something beyond anything we can comprehend.’

Shal’ek’s protestations were stilled by the opening of the scarred gate. A duardin strode in without hesitating. Weiss was right – he was unlike one Shal’ek had ever seen before. His scarred, tattooed skin bore only a single rune, crafted in the baleful image of the duardin god, and his huge rune-etched axe was wreathed in fire. The glare from his one remaining eye burned white-hot.

Shal’ek had spent his life in observance towards the gods. He had never anticipated standing before one. He whimpered.

‘Well don’t just stand there,’ the duardin bellowed, making even Zelja cringe visibly. ‘I’ve known better welcomes in the corpse-castles of Sylvania! The damned aelf wouldn’t stop talking about you – the least you can do is help her!’

The duardin gestured behind him, at the two figures limping through the gate in his wake. One was a raggedy human, a desert pack driver by the cap he wore. The other, supported awkwardly by the boy, was a pallid aelf in purple silks and dark leather. She was unconscious, but as they crossed into the temple she convulsed against the boy’s grip and was sick. There was blood in the vomit.

‘You men,’ Weiss barked at a gaggle of Shal’ek’s priests, who had come from their sleeping dorms to stare. ‘Take the aelf to the infirmary. And someone go and awaken Draz.’

Arch-Chirurgeon Abul Draz was woken by the temple’s chief leecher. He came to with a gasp, grasping the man’s smock.

‘My apologies, sellah,’ the leecher, Blemes, murmured, gently extracting himself from Draz’s clutches. ‘It is the high priest. He requires our presence.’

‘What hour is it?’ Draz asked groggily, sitting up in his cot. Blemes had come bearing a candle, its flickering light picking out the bare stone of Draz’s sleeping cell. There was only the faintest hint of light from beyond the window shutters.

‘Just after matins,’ Blemes said. ‘We have visitors, and they come bearing injuries.’

Draz pulled off his nightcap and swung his legs out over the side of the cot. The cold stone floor was a shock to his feet. The chill of the night still permeated the temple’s ancient, cracked sandstone.

‘They are in the infirmary,’ Blemes went on, turning his back to allow Draz to dress. He did so, wondering as he pulled on his robes and rubbed sleep from his eyes just who could have arrived in the night and been permitted to enter. Since explorers had started digging around the Eight Pillars there had been more and more instances of people travelling up the high gorge to the temple, seeking aid and supplies. Shal’ek, High Priest of the Lightning, had ordered them all turned away. Only Weiss, the pale-faced representative of the Order of the Azyr attached to the temple’s priesthood, had the power to overrule Shal’ek’s judgements within the temple itself, and he rarely roused himself from his reports or the celestial auguries that cluttered his office.

‘Lead on,’ Draz told Blemes, tugging his robes straight and pulling on his work smock. He followed the leecher down the narrow, dusty corridor that connected his sleeping cell to the temple’s infirmary.

The room was as small and spartan as the rest of the house of worship. It bore a washing stand, five sick cots, a cabinet of Draz’s chirurgeon supplies – tinctures and vials, crushed herbs and poultice pots – and several jars of Blemes’ leeches. It occasionally played host to a travelling pilgrim, or one of the temple’s priests or notaries if they fell prey to the ague. It had certainly never serviced as unlikely looking a trio as those waiting for Draz. 

He saw the duardin first. But for a single lion-headed pauldron, he was naked from the waist up, and covered in the marks of Hysh – blistered, peeling red skin, evidence of days spent in the Bone Desert. Draz recognised the red crest of the Fyreslayers, though he seemed to bear only a single fragment of ur-gold, a bright rune buried into his chest. The thickly muscled warrior turned, and Draz gasped as he saw his face. Half of it was wizened and deformed, as though it had aged centuries ahead of the rest of the duardin’s body. The Slayer’s single eye was stony, but flickered with forge-fire as it fell upon Draz.

‘Chirurgeon,’ said Weiss. The corpulent agent of the Order of the Azyr had been standing just inside the door when Draz entered, alongside High Priest Shal’ek. He was a small, pugnacious man, forever sweating and red-faced in the desert’s heat, his embroidered, puffed sleeves, white stockings and starched ruff a garish contrast to the rustic sackcloth worn by the priesthood. He looked as though he’d dressed in a hurry.

‘These pilgrims require your skills,’ Weiss said, making a half-hearted gesture towards the duardin, who remained silent. For a moment, Draz thought he meant the Slayer’s arm – it was crudely bound in strips of linen, stained and crusted with blood. Then he realised that the bed directly behind the duardin was occupied. A pale woman – an aelf – was laid out on it. A man was sitting on a stool on the opposite side, young and wide-eyed, wearing the dirt-encrusted brown half-cape and cap of a merchant’s teamster.

‘This aelf is a servant of the Order,’ Weiss elaborated, sensing Draz’s fear and confusion. ‘She has been poisoned. The high priest and I desire that you and Blemes do all in your power to save her.’

Shal’ek, standing tall and lugubrious next to Weiss, nodded once. His sallow expression spoke volumes about his distrust towards the new arrivals, but clearly Weiss was in no mood to brook any argument – it was rare indeed to see him roused from his office. 

‘You’re a healer?’

It was the duardin who had spoken, his parched voice like cracked desert rocks grinding together. Draz managed to nod. He had never heard of any form of close kinship between aelves and duardin before, yet the Slayer was standing over the stricken aelf like a guard dog. Draz eyed the wicked-looking edges of the heavy war axe slung over his back, glinting in the candlelight.

The duardin glared at him for what felt like an age, then finally stepped out of the way. Draz and Blemes approached, Draz kneeling beside the stricken aelf.

She was pale, even for one of her kind, her lips an unhealthy shade of blue. She was clad in tight-fighting leathers, though most of her arms were bared. Another strip of linen had been wrapped roughly around one, and was crusted with blood and yellow fluids.

Draz reached into his smock and pulled out a thin blade. He sensed the duardin tense at the sight of the naked steel, and he froze, but when the Slayer didn’t say anything he reached down and gently slid the tool through the stiff cloth, cutting it free.

The wound beneath was crusted with more blood. Draz moved to the washing stand and wetted a strip of gauze. Blemes was at the cabinet, fishing through his jars for his leeches with a long prong. Draz returned to the aelf’s side and began cleaning the wound. The woman stirred slightly.

‘What is her name?’ he asked, without looking up from his work.

‘Maleneth,’ the duardin said after a pause, giving the aelf name a rough Duardin inflection.

‘And yours?’

‘I am Gotrek Gurnisson.’

‘You are a Fyreslayer?’

The words came easier to Draz as he focused on removing the dirt from the aelf’s wound. They always did when he started his work. He had been a healer at the Temple of the Lightning all his life. No matter the patient, he was always willing to help those admitted by the priesthood. It was his calling in life, and he offered thanks to the Lightning every night that he had been bestowed with such a clear and simple purpose.

The duardin, Gotrek, hesitated before responding to his last question.

‘I do not know if I am a Fyreslayer.’

‘That is a curious answer.’

‘This is a curious place, manling.’

Draz washed the blood from the gauze and knelt once more to expose the bared wound. It was long but shallow, running up the aelf’s forearm. The cut was precise, the work of a thin blade expertly delivered. It was not in itself fatal, but it was clear enough that something else was seeking to push Maleneth through Shyish’s door.

‘Can she be saved?’ Weiss asked from over his shoulder. ‘She is an… agent that the Order would very much like to keep alive.’

‘I will do all I can,’ Draz responded. He placed his blade upon the bedframe then withdrew two vials from his smock. Unstoppering the first, he pinched the aelf’s nose, poured the contents into her mouth and massaged her throat until she swallowed the dark contents. ‘I have given her an antidote known to combat most poisons, but I must still take a sample of her blood in case the poison should be rare and beyond its reach.’

He unstoppered the second vial, then once more picked up his blade and made a shallow incision in the aelf’s arm, a finger’s width from the main wound. He collected a few drops of blood from the small cut, then stoppered the vial and dabbed the incision clean.

He rose, grunting slightly at the stiffness that had worked itself into his joints on the cold floor, then turned to Blemes.

‘Will you apply clean dressings? I must see to this sample as swiftly as possible.’

‘The leeches too?’ Blemes asked. He already had one of the fat, black creatures curled around his prong.

‘Yes, I don’t see how that could do any harm. Apply them around the wound. They may be able to keep the worst of the poison at bay should the antidote falter.’

‘How long?’ Gotrek interrupted.

‘Excuse me?’

‘How long until you know whether the antidote has worked?’

‘It is impossible to say just now. I may have to return for further samples.’

‘I want you to move her,’ Gotrek said.

‘Move her?’

‘You must have better beds than these,’ the duardin growled, tapping one of the cot’s legs with his boot.

‘This is a simple monastery–’ Draz began to say, but Weiss interrupted him.

‘She can have my bed chamber.’

Draz frowned and nodded, wondering again just who the travellers were. He’d never heard of Weiss offering any sort of charitable concession in all the months he’d been assigned to the temple. And who was the third figure, the young desert trader? The youth had said nothing since Draz had entered, had hardly taken his eyes off the aelf. The intensity of his gaze was almost as unsettling as the barely restrained violence exuded by the scarred duardin.

Shal’ek summoned two of the older notaries to bear the aelf to Weiss’ chamber. Gotrek and the human accompanied them, as did Blemes, with his leech jars and bandages. Draz took another corridor, down a set of worn stone steps, vial in one hand and a candle in the other. He passed under an archway at the bottom and set the candle’s flame to a brazier on the wall. The rapidly strengthening firelight illuminated a vaulted room, buried into dry bedrock. Another archway beyond led into the temple’s crypts, where generations of priests were interred in tiered niches. The looming darkness of that entrance always made Draz shudder, and he never passed over into the crypts proper – his business was with the living, and those who could still be saved.

That same business took him to the long table that dominated the otherwise bare chamber lying between the steps and the bones of the temple’s priesthood. The objects on it were covered by a series of old cloths, but he carefully removed and rolled them up, each in turn, revealing an apparatus of beakers, candles, mortars and vials. He lit the candles, checked the metal framework holding various cups and glass tinctures together was properly set, and then seated himself at the bench running the length of the table.

He was tired, and he would have preferred to check his ingredients before assessing the sample. Time, however, was not on his side. He didn’t need his years of experience to know that the aelf did not have long to live.

He unstoppered the vial of blood and allowed a drop of its contents to trickle into a beaker at the start of the connecting apparatus, murmuring a well-worn prayer to the Hammer and the Lightning as he did so. He watched the blood closely as it trickled through into another vial that had been stuffed with a grey, powdery substance. Rather than stain red, the powder turned a deep purple. Draz grunted and administered another drop, this time to a different section of the apparatus, a metal spoon held over one of the thick candle stubs. As the single droplet hissed and sizzled, Draz plucked a pinch of crushed herbs from a pot beside the candle and sprinkled them onto the spoon. He wrinkled his nose at the stink the cloying herbs gave off as they burned, but didn’t take his eyes off the little wisps of black smoke that rose from the charred remains.

Still nothing.

He had one drop left, and then he would be forced to return to the aelf to take another sample. He didn’t think either of her companions would approve of that.

He rubbed his eyes with his free hand, then shifted along the bench to the far end of the table. There a tincture of clear liquid was clasped in a claw-shaped holder over another candle, the stub almost lost in the sea of melted wax spread across the table’s edge. He laid the side of his hand against the tincture to make sure it was at the correct temperature, then tipped the final drop of blood into the liquid within.

It turned pink. He wrinkled his nose, and was about to mutter something under his breath when the scrape of iron-shod boots on the stairway made him jump.

The whole table and its rickety construction shuddered at the suddenness of his movements. He froze. A figure was silhouetted against the light being thrown by the brazier, occupying the only route back up into the temple. The crest of hair and the brutal outline of the war axe made him unmistakable.

‘You should not be here,’ Draz stammered. ‘I am trying to work.’

‘Are you?’ Gotrek asked, stepping into the light. The fire made his golden-red crest and beard look as though they were aflame, flickering with a heat of their own.

‘Working at what?’ he demanded, stamping down past the bench. Draz edged away.

‘I am seeking to diagnose your companion’s current state.’

‘Her current state is that she’s dying,’ the duardin said bluntly, coming to a stop within arm’s reach of Draz. He’d made no aggressive motions since appearing in the crypt, but the look in his solitary, stony eye made the chirurgeon shiver.

‘She is,’ he agreed hesitantly. ‘But right now I do not know why.’

‘Poison,’ Gotrek barked. ‘Any wanaz can see that.’

‘Yes. She has been poisoned. But not from the wound she has sustained on her arm.’

The duardin’s expression grew fiercer still, and Draz hurried to explain.

‘None of the blood I took has shown any sign of poison. Whatever blade cut her arm, it does not seem to be responsible for her current state. It is certainly not in itself a fatal wound.’

The duardin stepped around Draz, looking into the darkness of the tombs beyond the entry chamber. For a moment he wondered whether he’d not heard him.

‘I’m wanted dead, that is nothing new,’ Gotrek said slowly, seemingly to himself. ‘Nothing can bring me the doom I seek. That is also nothing new. Those are about the only things in these damned realms that I recognise. But the rats, they’ve been trying even harder than usual. By the grudges of the Eight Peaks, none of you understand. The horned one won’t stop. And neither will I.’

The rambling comments made little sense to Draz. He shrugged, not wanting to rouse the addled duardin’s anger by questioning him.

‘Many wish harm upon the servants of the Order of the Azyr,’ he said instead.

‘The Order,’ Gotrek echoed, still not looking at Draz. ‘She spoke about them a lot. Wanted to come here even. I told her I wouldn’t be lured in by her damned aelven trickery. I assumed if I took her here someone would look after her. Take her off my hands. After the last one…’

He trailed into silence. Draz shifted uncomfortably, wondering if he could reach the steps back up to the temple before the duardin. Perhaps he was drunk? He’d never been this close to one before, but everyone had heard tales of their fondness for ale. He certainly couldn’t fathom any other means of enduring such horrific sunburn.

‘The boy too,’ Gotrek went on. ‘The longer they’re with me, the greater the danger. They don’t understand anything about what it means to seek your doom. To be cast aside by the gods and to get back up and spit in their faces. It’s just a game to them. Especially to the boy. He’s watching over her right now. I should go tonight, before they realise I’ve left. Then perhaps I can find something worthy of my axe in these maddening realms. Is there not one beast or daemon out there capable of granting me a final doom?’

‘W-who is the boy?’ Draz asked, wanting to shift the conversation onto something more mundane than the Slayer’s dark ramblings.

‘A cart driver,’ Gotrek said dismissively. ‘He was our guide. Typical manling though – he was more trouble than anything else. You people in this new realm of yours, you’re even less trustworthy than the ones I left behind. Treacherous, cowardly, or just too foolish.’

‘He was guiding you to the Eight Pillars?’

Gotrek said nothing for a while, then rounded abruptly on Draz, making him cringe back.

‘You said the wound didn’t poison her?’

‘No, she hasn’t been poisoned by the cut to her arm,’ Draz reiterated. ‘I will need to take further samples, but I suspect it’s the work of ingestion. I… I believe she has consumed the poison, probably in her last meal.’

‘Her last meal,’ Gotrek echoed, his gaze igniting. He cursed. ‘It was never the rats.’

Draz said nothing, staring in fear at the duardin. For a moment, silence reigned in the crypt. Then, with a sudden burst of motion that made the chirurgeon yelp, Gotrek ran for the stairs.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Maleneth’s insides felt as though they were being gnawed and chewed at by a thousand hungry vermin. It was the pain that dragged her back to consciousness, making her groan and grip the bed sheets.

Bed sheets. She was in bed, in a spartan room of yellow sandstone. A clay pitcher sat on a stone table beside the bed. It seemed to still be night – the room’s shutters were closed and an oil lamp bracketed to the wall beside the door offered the only illumination.

She wasn’t alone. Aziz was in the room too, standing over her. He seemed to go still when Maleneth looked up at him.

‘The Runetamer told me to keep watch,’ the teamster said, reaching for the pitcher. ‘You must drink, sellah. The poison will dehydrate you.’

‘You came back,’ Maleneth croaked. Her throat was parched, and she flinched as fresh pain surged through her guts. She clutched her stomach with both hands and groaned.

‘When I saw the rock coming down I ran,’ Aziz admitted. ‘I found the duardin carrying you when it settled. After everything, I decided I could not leave you both.’

‘This is the Temple of the Lightning,’ she managed to say.

‘This is the temple,’ Aziz agreed, holding out the water pitcher. ‘The priesthood opened their doors to us when Gotrek showed them the token you carry. The token of the Order of the Azyr.’

Maleneth paused.

‘I have never shown Gotrek the token,’ Maleneth said slowly. Aziz didn’t reply. Instead, he smashed the pitcher he had been proffering over her head. The clay shattered and water drenched the aelf as she was smacked down into the pillow. Her vision swam, and she gasped at the fresh, sudden pain that burst across her nose and the right side of her face.

A part of her mind, an aelven instinct further honed by decades of service to the Temple of Khaine, told her to move. She couldn’t though. Everything else was pain and blinding starbursts of light. She managed to half raise one arm, slurring a curse, the subconscious part of her that was still capable of thought shrieking at her.

It had been Aziz. It had all been Aziz.

She passed out.

Consciousness was pain.

She lived.

Be still, child.

She obeyed her former mistress’ command, even as she flinched away from the dagger she expected to feel digging into her breast. With agonised slowness, her vision returned. She blinked, reached up to wipe blood from her eyes. She couldn’t. Her wrists had been bound to the bedposts.

She could taste blood. Aziz was standing at the foot of the bed, his boyish grin wicked in the candlelight. The sheets covering her were drenched crimson. She realised that almost none of it was hers.

A body was slumped against the side of the bed, the stone floor beneath it soaked. Maleneth recognised the simple habit of one of the temple’s notaries. Judging by the blood covering Aziz’s arms, he’d been the one who had murdered the boy and then carved his chest open. A heart, glistening and raw, lay in the bed beside her.

The sight of it made her shudder uncontrollably. Realisation rushed over her, turning her thoughts cold. It wasn’t the skaven behind the assassination attempts. And they weren’t directed at Gotrek either. They’d been coming for her.

There were many who wanted her dead, but none with the resources or the sadistic flare she’d witnessed since setting out for the Eight Pillars.

‘Jakari,’ she said, her voice thick with the blood clogging her broken nose.

‘Correct,’ Aziz said, offering a short bow.

‘You were working for her from the beginning.’

‘I was,’ Aziz admitted. ‘She hired me in Kalzuf. All of us, in fact, though the others proved to be… less than capable. The dragging sands, the poison combined with the avalanche, that was all my work. And here, the finale.’

‘I should have realised she was behind it all at Khaled-Tush,’ Maleneth murmured. ‘Damn the duardin and his obsession with the rats.’

‘The Seventeen Blades,’ Aziz said. ‘The dance that means so much to both of you. She felt it was a little too obvious but equally irresistible. Personally speaking, the Alharabi always charge too much. Their methods are so dramatic as well. It is far easier to just lose someone in the dragging sands.’

‘You realigned the posts marking out the path,’ Maleneth said, rage causing her to strain at her bonds. ‘You intended to run all along. You had a horse tied at that trough, waiting for you.’

‘It’s true, I didn’t expect to see you both together again at Khaled-Tush,’ Aziz admitted with a shrug. ‘I thought you’d abandon the duardin. You should’ve done. You hate him.’

‘He is too dangerous to leave to his own devices,’ Maleneth said, giving up on pulling at the ropes binding her wrists. ‘But it wouldn’t have made any difference even if I had, would it? It was never about Gotrek.’

Aziz shrugged again. ‘He has enough bounties on his head already. You know Jakari has no interest in runes or fables of demigods.’

‘She’s here as well, isn’t she? That is who I saw on the dunes, and then again from the skyship.’

‘She cares for you a great deal,’ Aziz said, his tone mocking. ‘So much so that she was willing to double my price for the delivery of this final message, before I kill you and take your heart to her.’

‘She is too much of a coward to face me on her own,’ Maleneth snarled, spitting blood.

‘Too wise to try to infiltrate an Azyr outpost when she could use an unassuming pack driver like me instead.’

‘You brought down the skyship as well, didn’t you?’

‘I couldn’t have those oafs compromising my client’s wishes,’ Aziz admitted. ‘Duardin are so predictable. Their greed blinds them.’

‘And this?’ Maleneth snapped, nodding towards her arm, injured by the knife cut at the Eight Pillars.

‘Oh, that was her. I don’t think she could resist a little slice of her own.’

‘All those people at Khaled-Tush, dead because of her obsession,’ Maleneth hissed, her voice cracking with hatred. ‘This time she’s gone too far. Tell me where she is, right now, and I will kill you quickly. Refuse and I will give you to the mad duardin. You and she will both die, if only to stop others being caught up in the web of her bitterness.’

‘I find that hard to believe,’ Aziz smirked. ‘Unless you intend to slay us from the afterlife. And you can stop trying to loosen your bonds, murder-witch. I know how to tie a knot.’

Maleneth froze, watching Aziz as he moved to her side and drew a long, thin dagger from where it had been concealed against his hip.

‘I know when someone is just stalling for time as well,’ he hissed. ‘I expected more from a child of the temples, Witchblade.’

The sound of running feet reached Maleneth just before the blade fell. There was a crash, and she twisted her body desperately in the blood-drenched sheets as the door to the room blasted in. The knife thumped home, but not where Aziz had intended – her movement had caused it to punch into her side instead, making her grunt with pain.

The assassin didn’t have time for a second blow. Rune blazing and axe ignited, Gotrek Gurnisson came thundering through the splintered doorway.

‘Thaggaz!’ the Slayer roared, leaping the bed as he went straight for Aziz. The young killer didn’t consider meeting the duardin head-on. He turned and ran for the window, scrabbling wildly with the locked shutters.

‘I shouldn’t sully this axe with the blood of such a coward,’ Gotrek snarled. ‘You have as much courage as the ratmen, traitor. Now you’ll die like one.’

He swung.

Aziz yelped like a snared rabbit, the horrible noise cut short by a gristly crunch. The fyrestorm greataxe cleaved him from shoulder to groin, his blood gouting across the shutters. The two halves fell like sheared meat, the gore almost dousing the greataxe’s fiery core. Gotrek looked down at the grim remains for a few seconds, panting, anger still flushing his body. Then, without turning to Maleneth, he spoke.

‘Never trust anyone who can’t grow a beard.’

He turned to the bound aelf.

‘That goes for you too, murderling.’

‘If you count the Kharadrons, I think most of the things trying to kill us over the past few days have had beards,’ Maleneth responded, eyes narrowed.

The Slayer glared around the room, his one eye ablaze, as though seeking out new enemies invisible to Maleneth.

‘You worked it out then,’ she said, looking with distaste at Aziz’s remains, then flinching as her guts twisted, only this time it wasn’t down to the poison. ‘It wasn’t the vermin after all.’

‘For once,’ Gotrek muttered.

‘He was sent by a shadow of my past,’ Maleneth went on, the feeling of being broiled alive beginning to lose its intensity. ‘They all were. She won’t stop until I’m dead.’

‘I know the feeling, aelf.’

The Slayer appeared to accept that there was no one else in the room. The fires that seemed to pulse from the Master Rune and gleam in his bristling red-gold hair had dimmed. He stepped over to the bedside, grasped the cords binding Maleneth’s wrists and snapped them.

‘You brought me to the temple in the end,’ she said, rubbing her wrists.

‘Well I thought it was the only way to make you stop talking about this place and your damned Order. It was that or strangle you in your sleep, and there were enough skaz trying to do that already.’

‘You relinquished the inscription about the Axe of Grimnir,’ Maleneth said, brushing aside the duardin’s gruff attempt at humour. ‘You could have joined the party exploring the pillars. You chose to carry me here instead.’

‘If I’d known you would keep babbling like this I’d have left you in the desert.’

‘Thank you, Gotrek.’

The duardin grumbled something in his rough language, then sat heavily on the end of the bed, his doused axe laid across his lap.

‘I need someone to explain this mad world to me,’ he said quietly, almost to himself. He turned to look out of the window as the new day bled colour back into the dunes. ‘If I’d known he had sent me here, I’d have spat in Grimnir’s face.’

For a moment, the age that had once disfigured the side of the duardin’s face seemed to return, and Maleneth found herself looking at an old greybeard, his scarred flesh wizened, hunched over and alone as he stared out upon a strange reality that had been thrust upon him against his will. The illusion was gone in an instant, but the revelation it brought stayed with Maleneth. When Gotrek’s greataxe ignited and he threw himself into the fight with the Master Rune blazing, it was easy to lend credence to stories of the Slayer’s immortality. Seeing him now though, so isolated, so worn by all he had seen and all he had done, Maleneth found herself more convinced that he was no ordinary duardin than when she saw him roused to wrath. In all her time travelling the Mortal Realms, she had never known anyone or anything like him.

‘You don’t have to stay with me,’ she said. He turned back to look at her, the aged side of his face lost in shadow. ‘He was the last,’ Maleneth elaborated, indicating Aziz. ‘The last one sent to kill me. It’s over, for now.’

‘It’s never over,’ Gotrek said darkly.

They were silent, before Maleneth spoke again.

‘The Axe of Grimnir then. You said there was another way to reach the inscription in the temple.’

‘You are in no fit state to travel, even though your incessant prattling seems to imply that the antidote is working,’ Gotrek said.

‘Grant me until the morning, Slayer. You will need me if you’re to convince the Order to let you leave.’

Gotrek scoffed. ‘I wish they would try and stop me.’

‘I’m sure the likes of Weiss would try. Besides, I’m not staying either. Jakari is still out there. Waiting.’

‘You elgi,’ Gotrek said, standing. ‘If this is how you are with those you love, I cannot imagine how you treat your enemies.’

‘You cannot even begin to imagine, Gotrek Gurnisson,’ Maleneth said. The duardin let out something approximating a laugh. The crushing weight that Maleneth had seen, the one that she so rarely caught glimpses of when the Slayer’s darkest memories beset him, had gone. Gotrek slung his axe over his shoulder, blood still running from its blade.

‘I’ll go tell the manling priests they’ve got some bodies to clear up. If you’re not ready to move by the time the sun’s up, aelf, I’m going without you.’

‘If you so much as dare, I swear my fyresteel will spell your doom, duardin,’ Maleneth said. A smile ghosted across her lips as the Slayer stomped out. Then she slumped back in the bloody bed, and finally let her eyes fall shut.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Darius Hinks is the author of the Warhammer 40,000 novels Blackstone Fortress, Blackstone Fortress: Ascension and three novels in the Mephiston series, Mephiston: Blood of Sanguinius, Mephiston: Revenant Crusade and Mephiston: City of Light. He also wrote the audio drama The Beast Inside and the novella Sanctus. His work for Age of Sigmar includes Hammers of Sigmar, Warqueen and the Gotrek Gurnisson novel Ghoulslayer. For Warhammer, he wrote Warrior Priest, which won the David Gemmell Morningstar Award for best newcomer, as well as the Orion trilogy, Sigvald and several novellas.

Evan Dicken’s first story for Black Library was ‘The Path to Glory’, and he has since penned several more tales set in the Age of Sigmar, including the novella The Red Hours, and short fiction for the anthologies Gods & Mortals and Myths & Revenants. He has been an avid reader of Black Library novels since he found dog-eared copies of Trollslayer, Xenos and First and Only nestled in the “Used Fantasy/Sci-fi” rack of his local gaming store. He still considers himself an avid hobbyist, although the unpainted Chaos Warband languishing in his basement would beg to differ. By day, he studies old Japanese maps and crunches data at The Ohio State University.

Nick Horth is the author of the novels City of Secrets and Callis and Toll: The Silver Shard, the novella Heart of Winter, as well as several short stories for Age of Sigmar. Nick works as a background writer for Games Workshop, crafting the worlds of Warhammer Age of Sigmar and Warhammer 40,000. He lives in Nottingham, UK.

Robbie MacNiven is a Highlands-born History graduate from the University of Edinburgh. He has written the Warhammer Age of Sigmar novel Scourge of Fate and the Gotrek Gurnisson novella The Bone Desert, as well as the Warhammer 40,000 novels Blood of Iax, The Last Hunt, Carcharodons: Red Tithe, Carcharodons: Outer Dark and Legacy of Russ. His short stories include ‘Redblade’, ‘A Song for the Lost’ and ‘Blood and Iron’. His hobbies include re-enacting, football and obsessing over Warhammer 40,000.

An extract from Warcry Catacombs: Blood of the Everchosen.

On the edge of the blasted wasteland that was the Desolate March, the settlement of Spite prepared for the Feast of the Black Spire.

Spite was a mean collection of squalid huts and tumbledown shacks, and as the evening crept through its meagre streets the wind began to blow from off the plains. The mountains of the Fangs, like a ragged jaw, loomed dark in the distance. The horizon flashed and muttered with thunder, and great banks of cloud roiled like silt in brackish water across those distant peaks. The storm was moving closer.

Ankhad huddled into his cloak as he moved through the streets, a bucket of water sloshing at his side. Uneasily he passed the towering model of the Black Spire, the seat of the Everchosen, which had been cobbled together from bone and rusting scrap in the middle of the town square – the centrepiece of the ceremonies that would take place later that night. He turned his gaze from it. Archaon Everchosen, the lord of this benighted land… Ankhad had never thought it advisable to pay too much attention to the Three-Eyed King; there was always the chance that the Three-Eyed King would start paying attention to you.

The wind picked up, stripping the plain of its ferrous topsoil and scouring it across the night. Lightning stabbed towards the earth, probing its way from the mountains to the edge of the March. The air in Spite was febrile and tense, and the gathering storm had only made it worse. Ankhad had already passed a scuffle or two, mutants and scavengers squabbling over a crust of bread or a scrap of salvage, rolling in the dust in bitter argument. No doubt blades had been drawn and buried, although it was death to shed blood on the Feast of the Black Spire. He cut through the derelict market and watched the other looters gather round to watch as another fight broke out.

Like corpse-hawks, he thought. Waiting for the scraps…

He hurried on, toting the bucket he had filled with muddy water at the well. The clouds seemed to drift closer above the settlement, thick and menacing. Spite’s rickety walls shivered in the wind, rattling with blown dust and sand. Ankhad grimaced at the smell in the air, the rank scent of fear and festering meat.

Above him, the clouds flickered and pulsed with light. Thunder rumbled across the land, shaking the very air, as coarse and violent as if the mountains themselves were being ground together. Ankhad flinched as the air cracked and trembled around him, and then, as he reached his hut on the edge of the settlement, a spear of red lightning crashed down with a deafening bark against the scrubland outside the gates. He heard her scream.

‘Ilthis!’ he said. He pulled back the heavy hide that served as the hut’s door, and the smell assailed him at once – a coppery tang, the harsh, metallic scent of her lifeblood pouring out onto the earth.

She was dying. Ankhad knew that. He knelt at the side of the bed and squeezed her hand. Sweat ran greasily down her face and her skin was grey. She twitched and mumbled, her green eyes staring into the hut’s dim light, seeing nothing. Below her waist the sheets were drenched in blood.

‘Ilthis,’ he said softly. He dipped a rag into the bucket of water and wiped her brow. Her stomach heaved and twisted. He could see the child toiling under the skin, stretching it as if trying to break through. ‘Ilthis, can you hear me?’

She shook her head, her breath harsh and stuttering.

‘I don’t know what to do. Please… tell me what to do? Don’t leave me here, not on my own.’

He pressed his forehead to the back of her hand. Her skin was cold.

How could this bright thing be so cold? he thought. This pillar of flame, this incandescent life so fierce and free.

The storm ravaged the settlement outside. He heard the rain begin its deafening percussion against the roof, but when he looked to the window he saw that the glass was sheeted in red. Blood rain, he thought, and fear twisted uneasily in his gut. On this day, of all days.

Ilthis writhed on the bed and wailed again, but her voice was strained and weak now. It trailed off into silence. She shuddered, and then the walls were rattling around him, the wind threatening to tear them down. Ankhad wiped the cloth across her face. When he passed it over her eyes, he knew that she would see nothing at all now, ever again.

The green had faded to black. She was gone.

Now, at the moment she left it, he thought of the moment she had first come into his life. There had been a whipping storm then, too. Savage winds on the outskirts of Carngrad, the rubbish and detritus of another skirmish in the scrubland, the smell of dead meat and spilled blood on the air. A sandstorm had been blowing in from the Corpseworm Marches, and then stumbling through the whirlwind in the aftermath of the fight came Ilthis, trailing a scavengers’ caravan of looted silks. She had wandered, as if led by fate, into a warzone. He had taken her and everything she owned as a prize, one of the easiest he had ever won.

Fool, he thought. To think you could ever own such a woman! She tamed me, as no one ever could. She owned me, and I was hers entire.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Ankhad whispered.

The skin of her stomach buckled, undulating in the candlelight like some fevered tide. He let go of her hand and drew his knife.

They came for him not long after the last scream had died.

Ankhad heard the tramp of their feet across the muddy ground. Lothin, as close as Spite came to a town chief, was the first to the hut. When he threw back the flap Ankhad saw that his face was streaked with blood from the rain, his hair matted to his scalp. The settlement outside was a morass. The lightning, as it stabbed across the sky, fused and cooked the raindrops into weeping scabs, and they fell on Spite like bloody snowflakes.

Lothin was small, hunched, his head swollen with festering lumps. As he entered the hut, he was flanked by his enforcer, Grulsham Mof, a quick and deadly fighter with a great, spiked club in his hand. Others milled about the entrance, apprehensive and uncertain, some slinking off to lose themselves in Spite’s ramshackle streets, others bearing weapons and girding themselves for a fight.

Fine, Ankhad thought. A fight is what you shall have…

‘Ankhad,’ Lothin cried, his voice almost drowned out by the thunder. ‘What have you done?’ He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. One of his eyes was cloudy with cataracts; the other two were sharp and black, and they looked almost sad.

‘What needed to be done,’ Ankhad said. He still sat there by the bedside, next to the peeled and opened body of his dead wife. When the baby cried, everyone stepped back. Lothin raised his knife.

‘You said it wouldn’t be for another month!’ he said. ‘Not on Feast Day, Ankhad! Don’t you know what this means?’

‘Life comes when it must,’ Ankhad muttered. He turned and stood, and the baby he had cut from his wife’s belly mewled in his arms. He had wrapped the child in a cloth, red and filthy from its birth. Born in a bath of blood, lifted from its mother’s corpse, the child opened its mouth and cried again.

Others pushed past Lothin to crowd the hut’s entrance, a stinking mob of scavengers and mutants cursing and muttering to themselves, scratching with fused claws or peering into the gloom with bulbous eyes. Ankhad stood there, warily watching them. The bag he had hastily packed was at his feet, and his knife, its blade cleaned of Ilthis’ blood, was tucked into his belt. He was a big man, rangy and tough, seasoned where others would have been whittled down by all his years in the Desolate March. Although he was far older than most of the scavengers who crowded his door, the years hadn’t diminished his sense of danger. Ankhad had heard the rumours others told about him. Some said he had been a warrior once, a pilgrim from the outside realms come to lay his sword on the steps of the Black Spire. Others claimed he was no more than any other native of the Bloodwind Spoil, a cowering scrap merchant, a ragpicker just like the rest of them – only luckier, because he had found in Spite a cursed little settlement full of ragpickers smaller than he was. Let them say what they wanted; he did not care.

‘A child born on Feast Day is for the gods,’ Lothin said in his rasping voice. ‘It’s always been thus. And this storm, the blood rain… The omens cannot be denied. It must die.’

‘You would spill blood on the Feast of the Black Spire?’ Ankhad said. His voice was low, his bearing outwardly calm. ‘Let me tell you then – so would I.’

Grulsham Mof stepped forward, his club in his hands, but Lothin held him back. He looked uneasy. Where others dominated through violence, Lothin’s strength had always been in his cunning, even in his sense of diplomacy.

‘Tarnot’s already broken that rule,’ Lothin said. ‘He killed Mad Rhukar in the marketplace. He dies tonight, as he must, but there’s no need for you to join him.’

Beyond Lothin, out in the street, Ankhad could see Tarnot cast down into the mud on his knees, his arms bent behind his back. He was a young man, his eyes wide-spaced on either side of his head like a fish’s, his lank hair plastered to his face from the bloody rain. He grinned wildly.

‘He started it!’ Tarnot protested. ‘Shanked me in the back, he did.’

‘And you tore out his throat with your teeth,’ Lothin called wearily over his shoulder.

‘You never said,’ Tarnot shot back. ‘What’s it to be in the end then? Stoning? I think I’d like a good stoning, if I’ve got a choice.’

‘You, we’ll drown in the water trough,’ Lothin said. ‘The baby… I’m sorry, Ankhad, for what it’s worth. But the child must be burned. The True Gods demand it. It’s their right.’

As if it understood their words, the child cried again, and from the crashing skies came an answering rumble of thunder, the flash-crack of red lightning. Ankhad flinched. The spire at the centre of the Eightpoints hung heavy on his mind then, stabbing its weight deep into his marrow. He looked down into his son’s face, and for the briefest moment, as if illuminated in the lightning flash, he saw a mask of shadow pass quickly across it – a mask in the shape of an eight-pointed star.

‘I will kill every man, woman and child here before I let you harm this baby,’ Ankhad said, and he knew they all believed him. Cudgels were hefted, and the press of bodies in the street grew nearer. Ankhad dropped his hand to the hilt of his knife. Over Lothin’s shoulder he could just see Tarnot, struggling against his captors and straining to stand up.

‘Ankhad,’ Tarnot shouted. ‘It’s over for me, but it doesn’t have to be for you.’ Through the press of bodies, their eyes met. ‘Run!’ he shouted.

The fight, such as it was, lasted mere moments, but it was long enough.

He owed Tarnot nothing. They had passed no more than a handful of words in all the months he had lived in Spite, but something had made the other man help him. Whatever it was, Ankhad silently thanked him for it.

He saw Tarnot break free and snap an elbow into his captor’s face, sliding then through the mud to launch himself at Lothin’s back. Grulsham Mof, with no room to swing his spiked club, dropped his weapon and punched Tarnot in the side until his ribs cracked, but by that point Tarnot was lost under a scrum of bodies and Ankhad was kicking his way through the mouldering planks of the hut’s wall. He had the baby clutched tightly in his arms and he paused to swing his pack up onto his shoulder – and then the wasteland of the Desolate March was there before him, strobed with red lightning, black and forbidding and no less dangerous than the streets of Spite.

‘Run, Ankhad!’ he could hear Tarnot shout, before his voice was muffled into silence. ‘Run!’

Ankhad ran, and the miserable little town of Spite was smothered in the blood rain behind him.

A BLACK LIBRARY PUBLICATION

Warqueen first published in 2018.
The Red Hours first published in 2018.
Heart of Winter first published in 2018.
The Bone Desert first published in 2018.
First published in Great Britain in 2019.
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 Tomas Duchek.

Champions of the Mortal Realms © Copyright Games Workshop Limited 2021. Champions of the Mortal Realms, GW, Games Workshop, Black Library, Warhammer, Warhammer Age of Sigmar, Stormcast Eternals, and all associated logos, illustrations, images, names, creatures, races, vehicles, locations, weapons, characters, and the distinctive likenesses thereof, are either ® or TM, and/or © Games Workshop Limited, variably registered around the world.
All Rights Reserved.

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ISBN: 978-1-80026-510-3

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