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Deathless - Darius Hinks

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An Extract from ‘Dominion’

A Black Library Publication

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Deathless

Darius Hinks

'This way!' cried Captain Zana, fighting her way along the temple walls, trying to reach the Anvilhearts. Her words were drowned by the din of battle. The revenants had attacked in such numbers that they were now heaped against the walls in a mountain of twitching flesh. The Anvilhearts had fought tirelessly for an entire day, rallying and inspiring the mortal defenders but, as dusk engulfed them, there was no respite. The revenants showed no fear or reason, clambering over dismembered bodies and toppling over the battlements. Many were unarmed and those that did carry weapons wielded them clumsily, but that made no difference. How did one fight an enemy that was already dead?

The Anvilhearts were scattered throughout the human defenders, holding the revenants back with silent stoicism, shattering them with spears and lightning-charged hammer blows, but it was like battling an ocean. Mingled with the undead humans were glassy-eyed creatures from the forest. Dead wildcats that leapt through the air, reeking of putrefaction, while reptilian hounds snarled and clawed the walls, trailing innards as they harried the defenders.

Zana howled as she fought, horrified by what she was seeing. A man fell past her, crushed by snarling corpses, a spear jammed in his chest. She reached down to help but it was already too late, his eyes rolled back in their sockets and his skin turned grey as blood rushed from his wounds. His throat made a dry rattling sound as he sat up and locked his hand around hers. She tried to back away but the corpse's grip was iron. More hands latched onto her armour, hauling her down to the flagstones, pummelling her with clubs.

Light flashed as a Stormcast Eternal waded into the crush. He ripped the undead off Zana, cracking their skulls with a shimmering staff.

'Move,' he said calmly, his voice chiming through the golden faceplate of his helmet.

Zana staggered clear of the corpses, kicking them back as they tried to follow. The Stormcast Eternal had a sword in his other hand and, as he swung it, it emitted the same light as the staff, burning through the dead and sending charred pieces thudding to the ground. He wore armour that was even more ornate than that of the other Anvilhearts, with a raised collar around the helmet and a flowing blue cape. Even without these details, Zana would have recognised him. Arulos Stormspear radiated such authority that she had to battle the urge to kneel every time he came near.

She tried to obey his order and back away but another revenant lurched in front of her, blocking her path. The corpse had a ragged hole where his throat should have been and his eyes were blank but he lurched quickly forwards, clawing and gargling. She grabbed her hammer in both hands and hefted it up into the corpse's jaw. The thing fell back in a spray of blood, but another corpse rushed at her as she struggled to free her hammer from the mess.

The second attacker erupted into blue-white fire as Arulos drove his sword into it. Lightning sprayed from the rune-inscribed blade, turning the revenant into a pillar of blue light. The aetherfire spread quickly, washing through the crowds of undead. Dazzling shapes reeled away from Zana, tumbling through the twilight to the courtyard below or rolling back down the mounds of living dead pressed against the walls.

'Varek,' called Arulos, striding away from Zana and cutting his way through the fighting.

Another Anvilheart turned around, his armour reflecting the celestial fire, glinting blue and silver. He was the Stormcast Eternals' standard bearer and he had planted himself right at the heart of the fighting, his standard held high even as he cut through the undead.

'Knight-Arcanum,' he called back, wrenching his blade from another corpse. 'We are holding them. The Anvil is unbreakable!'

Zana followed as Arulos battled across the wall, keen to follow the exchange.

'Look,' said Arulos, reaching Varek's side and pointing his staff at the figures down in the courtyard.

Even down there fallen defenders were lurching back to their feet and turning on their former brothers. The fighting was no longer just on the walls. Screams rang out through Kuth's torchlit streets as revenants pressed into the temple complex, clawing and tearing everyone they could reach.

'We can hold them off as long as we like,' said Arulos, 'but to what end? A few more days of this and there won't be a living priest left in the city. We'll be defending corpses from corpses.'

Zana looked around at the battling crowds. Arulos was right. The Anvilhearts were holding their lines on the wall, fighting in seamless ranks, their shields locked together as their hammers and spears butchered the undead, but everyone else was in a state of panic.

'This is suicide,' said Arulos. 'Surrat has to let the city go.'

Varek shook his head. 'You heard what he said to the priests - Sigmar will curse them if they flee. And they all think Surrat is divine. They won't defy him.' He looked around at the carnage. 'Whatever happens to them.'

Arulos was about to reply when more corpses scrambled over the walls coughing and snarling. A bear ripped through the lines, pounding aside with its torn limbs. More creatures tumbled over the battlements in its wake and the defenders could do nothing but fight for the next few minutes, fending off fists and claws.

'We have to make Surrat see sense,' Arulos said when there was a chance to speak. 'We will survive this but no one else will. They have to go.'

Zana stumbled over the bodies and approached the Anvilhearts. They looked down at her, a pair of gold-clad goliaths that could have stepped from a work of religious art. Zana felt like she was addressing the God-King himself and her words tumbled from her lips in a disjointed mess.

'No one... People will not leave... Not unless the high priest orders it.' She wiped blood and sweat from her face. 'Kuth has stood since the elder ages. We guard these walls in Sigmar's name. Only Surrat could make us leave.'

Arulos looked at her. 'There are many ways to serve the God-King. Needlessly sacrificing Sigmar's people is not one of them. Where is Surrat?'

Zana stepped back from the fighting and lowered her hammer, nodding to one of Kuth's many spires. 'I have seen nothing of him since the fighting started, but he will most likely be in the central keep, praying.'

Arulos stepped aside as a revenant launched itself at him. He hacked it to the ground, then nodded. 'Prayers can wait.' He turned to Varek. 'Keep these things to the walls. Do not let them spread into the rest of the complex or we'll be attacked from all directions. Take some Vindictors down into the courtyard and destroy the revenants.'

'For the Anvil,' said Varek, saluting.

'I'll come with you,' said Zana, looking at Arulos. 'I know the high priest better than most. I may be able to help. I can at least lead you to the right entrance.'

Arulos nodded. 'Clear the courtyard, Varek. I will be back soon.' He waved for Zana to follow as he waded off through the fighting, lashing out with his sword until he reached a ladder and hurried down from the walls.

Revenants rushed at them, loping across the courtyard in spasmodic lunges, their shattered bones struggling to support them. Zana spat a curse and gripped her hammer but Arulos lifted his aetherstave and hurled a tempest through the darkness. Lightning obliterated the revenants. scattering charred remains over the flagstones.

Zana howled in frustration as corpses surrounded her, clawing at her armour with bloody fingers. Arulos paused and turned back to help, but before he could reach her she brought her hammer round in an arc, pounding her attackers away. They dropped to the ground in pieces. Severed hands grasped at her legs. Butchered remains reached for her throat. She kicked them aside and staggered towards Arulos.

'You fight well, daughter of Sigmar,' he said.

Zana shook her head, bile rising in her throat as she looked at the body parts. 'This morning they were fighting at my side, now I'm butchering them like cattle.'

'What is your name?'

'Captain Zana, my lord.'

Arulos nodded. 'Well, Captain Zana, this madness will only get worse if Surrat does not abandon this city.'

Zana could not imagine the high priest ever leaving Kuth, but she gave no reply as she led the way to the foot of the tower. The door was locked and barred but the guards saluted her and threw back the bolts. She led Arulos up a winding central staircase, past several groups of wounded soldiers who saluted weakly as she rushed by. The tower was tall and it took several minutes to reach the top. There were more guards standing outside the royal chambers and Zana approached them confidently, expecting them to open the doors without question.

'No one is to be admitted,' said one of the guards. He barked the order but she could see the doubt in his eyes. The sounds of battle were terrible, even this high, and the man's face was beaded with sweat despite the evening chill. His eyes glinted in the torchlight as he looked at the towering immortal by her side.

'High Priest Surrat will want to see me,' said Arulos. His tone was neutral but the guard still blanched.

'His orders were very clear,' replied the guard, looking at Zana rather than at Arulos. 'No one is to enter his private chambers.'

Arulos raised his voice. 'He will want to see me.'

The guard's sword rattled in his grip and he looked to Zana for help.

'Perhaps you should just check?' Zana addressed him in kind tones.

'Explain that Arulos Stormspear of the Anvilhearts is at his door.'

The soldier licked his lips. 'I suppose it would do no harm to double check. Especially if it is on your orders, Captain Zana.' He took keys from his belt, rattled them in the lock and opened the doors.

'We can wait inside,' said Arulos, marching past him into the antechamber.

The soldier grimaced but then he nodded and hurried off through a curtained archway into another room.

Arulos removed his helmet to clean some of the blood from it and, as he wiped the sigmarite, he noticed that Zana was looking at him.

'Did you not realise we have faces under here?' he said.

'No, yes, I mean I did realise, but yours...' She shook her head and looked away, realising that she was being ill-mannered. 'I did not mean to stare.'

Looking at the Stormcast Eternal's face was a peculiar experience, the edges of his face were fairly normal, if magnificent, but where his eyes should have been there was a dazzling blue-white light, just like the power that shimmered down his sword when he fought. She looked again, but the light was hard to endure and she still could not make out his eyes.

'I have been reforged more than once. I have endured many trials. But every scar is a badge of honour. I am proud of them.'

'It is not that, my lord. I did not mean the scars. It is... Forgive me. But why can't I see your eyes?'

Arulos massaged his face. He walked over to a mirror and looked at himself. 'I am tempestarii, Captain Zana. I am a Knight-Arcanum.'

'What does that mean?'

'Much that I cannot explain. It means that I am present here, with you. in the Mortal Realms, but I am also adrift in the aether-storm. I am warded by Sigmars light. The light he used to illuminate the Mortal Realms. And that makes it difficult for your mortal eyes to perceive me. You are only seeing a fragment of what I am.'

'And what do you see in me?' she said. 'Weakness, I suppose. Fear.' As soon as she said the words, Zana wished she could retract them. Why had she asked such a ridiculous question? She sounded like a child seeking affirmation from a parent.

'They are not the words I would use, Captain Zana. I watched you fighting out there, as your friends turned to monsters. You did not falter. Sigmar is in your blood. His light shines on you, too.'

Pride flooded though Zana. After all she had endured over the last twelve hours, Arulos' words summoned deep emotions in her.

Arulos was about to say more when he noticed something. 'Do you hear that?' he asked.

She frowned. 'What?'

'Banging and rattling. Like a caged animal, trying to escape.'

She listened hard then shook her head. 'Is it the fighting you can hear, out on the walls?'

Arulos looked down one of the corridors that led off the antechamber, shaking his head. 'No, something else.'

'The high priest will see you,' said the guard, reappearing, a relieved expression on his face. 'But the audience must be brief.'

'It will be,' said Arulos, donning his helmet and gesturing for the guard to lead the way.

The high priest's chambers were large but simply decorated, bordering on the austere. Surrat was a devout and serious man, and his rooms reflected that. There was a small Sigmarite shrine at one end, complete with a ceiling-high statue of the God-King, and the walls were lined with holy texts. At the other end there was large fireplace made from the huge, swooping horns of a Ghurite predator.

'What are you doing here?'

High Priest Surrat was a tall, slender man but he was wiry and lean rather than willowy. He wore an ornate golden cuirass and plates of leg armour, but his arms were uncovered, revealing taut, scarred muscles tattooed with runes. His head was tonsured and he had a gaunt, bearded face that looked like it was carved from ebony. His eyes were so dark they seemed all pupil as he scowled at Zana.

He turned to Arulos. 'We are relying on you.' He spoke quietly but his voice was taut.

'The time has come to abandon the city,' said Arulos. 'You must order a retreat.'

'Retreat?' Surrat whispered the words, fury flashing in his eyes.

'Yes. This fight cannot be won. We have to move your people to safety.'

Surrat stared at Arulos with undisguised rage. 'Do you know how long we have waited for you, Arulos Stormspear? For generation after generation. Despite all the horrors that have been inflicted on us, we have kept our faith, waiting for the day when Sigmar would remember us and send aid. And here you are, in your fine armour, telling me it's time to retreat. Now, after we have held these walls for so long without your help. You are immortal, Arulos. Death has no hold on you. How can you talk of fleeing?'

Zana heard no anger in Arulos' reply, only pity. 'We are immortal,' he said, 'but your priests are not. And every one that falls joins the ranks of the revenants. By staying here, we are making the situation worse. We have to find the source of this plague, but we cannot do that while your people are being torn apart.'

'The source?' Surrat paced before the fire, shaking his head. 'The source of necromancy? Its source lies in the underworlds. Do you propose a journey into the afterlife?'

It pained Zana to see the high priest look so distracted and brittle. For as long as she could remember he had been an unshakeable bulwark, a proud, unyielding symbol of Sigmarite faith. Whatever horrors threatened the Kuthan temples, Surrat had faced them with absolute conviction. But now he seemed broken. His mouth trembled as he muttered to himself, shaking his head like a palsied old man.

'Something has caused this.' said Arulos. 'Something has triggered this revolt against nature. When I arrived, your priests told me that the dead had forgotten how to die, but they told me this had only started to happen recently.'

Zana nodded. 'Lord Stormspear is right, high priest. Do you remember? The first sightings of revenants were only a few weeks ago.'

'What difference does it make?' Surrat waved at a nearby window, gesturing to the violence outside. 'We have to protect these temples. It is madness to talk of retreat.' He crossed the room to a table and tapped a map. 'My scouts have returned from every direction with the same story. The entire region is teeming with these monsters. If I lead my people from the safety of these walls they will be butchered before they get half a mile.'

Zana approached the table and studied the markings on the map. 'You sent scouts to the north? To the hills?'

'Of course. And in every other direction. There is nowhere to go. We have to make our stand here. We have to hold those walls.'

Arulos shook his head. 'That will never work. Not as things stand. The more we kill, the more enemies we face.'

Surrat stared at Arulos. 'Are you no different from the rest of us then? Were all the legends lies? Has the God-King sent us warriors who can do no more than we can do ourselves? You were forged in High Azyr. You carry Sigmar's might in your armour. Surely you have a way to stop this plague.' His voice remained quiet but his hand shook as he pointed it at Arulos' aetherstave. 'You must have some way to save this city.'

'The God-King has blessed me with more than just weapons, high priest, but this tide of undeath will not end unless I can reach its source. There must be some vile wellspring from which this curse has sprung. Necromancy does not occur without a dark will behind it.'

'We know where these things come from,' said Zana, glancing at the high priest.

Surrat planted his fists on the table and shook his head. 'I won't base my decisions on children's tales, Captain Zana.'

'Children's tales?' said Arulos. 'What are you talking about?'

'I mean the Mortarch's Crown,' said Zana. 'It's a—'

'It's a folk tale.' The high priest shook his head. 'A morbid legend concocted to scare infants. Perhaps there was a grain of truth in it once, many centuries ago, but not now.'

'Tell me,' said Arulos.

'There is a hollow mountain,' said Zana, 'just south of here. You can see it from the walls. The local people have always avoided it, going back centuries. The tales say it's a gateway to the underworlds. That it leads to the god of undeath.'

The high priest waved his hand in a dismissive gesture but Arulos stepped closer to Zana.

'What else do they say? Do the legends talk of a necromancer living in the mountain?'

'No, not as such. But they say there is a circular rock in the heart of the mountain. It sits on the top of a stalagmite and it resembles a jagged crown. It is reputed to be a source of necromantic magic, but no one ever gets close enough to see if that's true. There are spirits guarding it.'

Surrat sighed. 'How long will you stay here, Arulos, listening to folk tales while Sigmar's city is being overrun? Use the might Sigmar has given you! Save my people.'

'Martial strength is not always enough,' replied Arulos. 'To help your people I must find the root of this curse. You say the undead are spread right across this region. That was not the case when I arrived in this realm. That means that this plague of undeath is spreading. My orders are to reach the city of Excelsis, but I cannot leave your lands knowing that the barriers between life and death have been broken. I cannot leave this crisis to fester behind me. Your captain has suggested a possible cause of the problem. Can you give me a better alternative?'

The high priests eyes widened. 'Are you really taking this seriously? Are you really considering leaving us to fend for ourselves just because Zana mentioned a haunted rock? Tell me you're not going to head off chasing folk tales while my people die!'

'I will leave the majority of my men here. You will not be undefended.'

'No.' The high priest glared at Zana then looked back at Arulos.

'This is utter madness. I will not permit it. You will not abandon us. If you leave these walls I will—'

'You will what?' Arulos' voice was still calm, but it carried a force that silenced the high priest.

Surrat turned to Zana, his eyes straining as he grabbed her arm. 'You are wrong about this. If you lead him away from here, you will damn us all.'

Arulos removed Surrat's hand from Zana's arm. 'If she's wrong about this, you are already damned.'

Surrat looked like he was wanted to howl or curse, but he restrained himself. He stumbled back over to the fireplace and stared, muttering, into the flames.

They emerged in the foothills, half a mile to the south of the city. Zana had led Arulos and five of his warriors through the crypts beneath the temple complex and they surfaced into a scene of relative calm. Sounds of battle echoed through the night but there was no sign of revenants nearby. The undead were all massing at the city walls. Zana and the others had climbed to the top of a narrow defile and were watching as a great ocean of corpses washed against the walls of the fortress.

Zana shook her head. 'There are thousands of them.'

Arulos nodded. 'But Varek will hold them until we return.' He looked out into the night. 'How far to the mountain?'

Zana gestured to the steeds she had brought for them - huge, armoured stallions, large enough even to bear the weight of a Stormcast Eternal. 'With these mounts it will take no more than half a day. If we are not delayed by the...' Her words faltered as she watched the battle.

Arulos shook his head. 'The revenants are disorganised and clumsy. If your horses are as swift as you claim, we should have no trouble staying ahead of them. How well do you know the route?'

She looked at a cloud-mantled peak, silhouetted by the light of Ghur's twin moons. 'We ride straight across the plains and keep clear of the forests.' She thought back to her childhood memories of fireside tales. 'I have heard many stories of the Mortarch's Crown. Lots of them speak of a 'straight stair' that leads up the mountain. And I know such a thing exists. We will find it and climb it. The people who live near the mountain will be able to direct us to it.'

'If any people do still live near the mountain,' said Arulos.

They climbed back down into the gully and mounted the steeds. Zana was right about the speed of the horses: they stormed out onto the plains as if they were running free, their hooves tearing up the soft earth as they galloped through the moonlight. They rode through fields and glades but nothing attacked them. She saw revenants in the distance, including some huge, lumbering shapes that were far too large to be human corpses, but they were all headed towards Kuth and showed no interest in pursuing anything else. The mountain reared up before them, filling the horizon, and Zana felt a rush of renewed hope.

Arulos, however, seemed troubled.

'This feels wrong,' he said, reining in his horse at the top of a rise and waving for the others to stop.

'Feels wrong?' Zana shook her head. 'How do you mean, my lord? I know this is the right route.'

Arulos shook his head and peered at the mountain. 'No, I do not mean you have taken the wrong route. And I am sure you're right - that mountain is connected to this somehow. But why are none of the corpses attacking us? Or anything else? Why are they so set on destroying Kuth when they could be attacking anything? When I fought them on the walls they seemed utterly mindless, but look how focused their attack is. I must be missing something.'

He took his golden stave from his back and held it up to the stars, looking through the crystal at its head. He seemed to freeze, becoming as immobile as a statue. Thin strands of light crackled down the metal and the light was mirrored behind the eyeholes of his helmet. It burned so bright that Zana had to back away and shield her eyes. It looked like Arulos' armour was on fire. Then, as the colours shifted and rolled, she fancied that she could see the outline of his body beneath the sculpted armour plates.

The horses whinnied and stamped their hooves as a breeze picked up from nowhere, rippling through the grass. Zana looked at the other Anvilhearts but they were sitting calmly in their saddles, watching the undead that were crossing the horizon. They gave no sign that Arulos' behaviour was unusual.

After a few seconds of this, Zana turned to the nearest Stormcast Eternal. 'What's happening? Is he in a trance?'

The warrior nodded in reply. She was surprised by how human he sounded. His voice was not as remote and power-laden as Arulos' and there was a note of kindness in it.

'He is communing with the storm. He is attempting to read the land. Lord Stormspear is blessed with the second sight. He sees things the rest of us cannot.' The Anvilheart leant closer and she saw his eyes through the holes in his mask. They were normal eyes, and he creased them in a smile. 'You did the right thing. Seeking his help was a wise move. I have travelled at his side through things you cannot imagine and I have never seen anything he could not conquer.'

'Thank you,' said Zana, trying to imagine what the rest of the warrior's face must look like. 'What is your name?'

'Ulkulan,' he replied, grasping her by the shoulder. 'Do not be afraid. Arulos will find whoever spawned these things and he will show them the power of Sigmar's storm.'

His grip was so strong it hurt, but she felt glad all the same. Since the Anvilhearts had arrived this was the first time one of the Stormcast Eternals had shown her that they were more than just instruments of death.

Arulos lowered his stave and the light died. 'You were right,' he said, glancing at Zana. 'The poison that drives those corpses definitely stems from that peak.'

'Thank Sigmar.' She sighed, relieved. 'I haven't dragged you out here for nothing then. How can you be so sure, though?' She looked from Arulos' staff to the distant mountain. 'Did Sigmar's storm tell you?'

Arulos glanced at Ulkulan. 'I see you have taken it upon yourself to explain my methods.'

Ulkulan sounded awkward. 'Forgive me, lord, I did not mean to—'

Arulos held up his hand. 'Ulkulan is right. Captain Zana. I see the rhythms of this land, how it ebbs and flows, how it feeds on itself. I have not been here long enough to fully understand what I see but there is something beneath that mountain that does not belong in Ghur.' He spurred his horse into motion, galloping down the slope into the fields. 'Come! We have little time! Even Varek cannot hold those things back forever.'

As they thundered through the night, clouds rolled overhead, hiding the moons and deepening the darkness. Arulos whispered to his staff and light poured from its crystal, lancing ahead of the riders as they crested the brows of hills and crashed through thickets.

'There,' said Zana as they rode through the foothills towards the foot of the mountain. 'That cave mouth. Do you see? It does not look like a natural rock formation.' She reined in her horse and stared up at the mountain. 'And is there a shape leading up to it? Something that could be described as a stair?'

Arulos looked up at the cave mouth through the crystal in his staff. 'Stairs would be stretching it a little, but there are shapes cut into the rocks. We won't be able to ride up that slope, though.'

He dismounted and ordered everyone else to do the same. They tethered their steeds to a wind-blasted tree trunk and continued on foot.

By the time they reached the mountain path, the sky was clear again and the mountainside was bathed in moonlight. Zana grinned as she reached the steps. They had clearly been carved by hand. They were rounded by the centuries and many had been smashed by rockfalls, but the shapes were too straight and regular to be natural.

'This is it?' she said, slapping her hand on a step and looking up the slope. 'The way to the Mortarch's Crown?'

Arulos nodded and looked back at his men. 'Consider what we faced on the walls of Kuth. If this is the necromancer's lair, we can expect to find more of the same under this mountain. Have your weapons ready and keep a lookout for any signs of movement?

They saluted by pounding their fists against their chest armour. 'Stay by my side,' he said to Zana, as he began climbing the stairs. It was dark and the rocks were slippery and Zana missed her footing several times, but after an hour or so she saw a darkness looming overhead and whispered a prayer of thanks. 'Look,' she said. 'It's a cave mouth.'

Arulos nodded. 'I saw it from the bottom of the slope.' He shook his head and peered through the gem in his staff. 'It is not what I expected. I see no movement. And even the most deranged necromancer usually has the sense to build defences or set a watch. I see nothing. I thought we would have encountered something by now. Even if most of the revenants are attacking Kuth, there must be some left to defend their master.'

'That's only the opening of the cave,' replied Ulkulan. 'There will plenty of room inside this mountain to hide unpleasant surprises.'

They climbed on. The opening was far larger than Zana had thought and it gaped at them as they climbed up to it, like a vast maw, dark and menacing. Arulos led the way, followed by the Vindictors, who formed a protective circle around Zana as the group passed through the opening and entered the deeper darkness that lay beyond. Once they left the moonlight behind they only had the thin light of Arulos' staff to lead the way. As it flickered over the walls, Zana gasped and raised her hammer.

The walls soared up into the darkness and they had been carved to resemble a legion of skeletal giants - hulking, fleshless monsters clutching halberds. They had immense wings of bone that fanned out behind them and spread across the wall. Zana stared at them, struggling to understand what manner of creature they were supposed to represent.

'Archai,' said Arulos. For the first time, Zana heard a hint of emotion in his voice as he spat the word. 'I have faced them on the battlefield. They act as honour guard to the great generals of the undead.'

'Generals?' Zana thought of the things she had fought on the walls. 'The undead have generals? Do they think, then, as we do?'

'The undead are as varied as the living.'

'But the things we fought in Kuth were mindless. They had no idea of what they were doing.'

'They are just a weapon. The underworlds of Shyish hold minds sharper than any you have encountered in the living world.'

Zana had heard the word Shyish before. Some of the southern tribes believed their souls went there if they fought bravely enough, but she had heard other people refer to it as a nightmarish hell to which the faithless were banished. She had never paid the word much attention before. But there, in the darkness beneath the mountain, it seemed to resonate, circling inside her head like a chill mist.

'My lord,' said Ulkulan, touching the clawed foot of a statue and throwing up a cloud of dust. 'No one has been in here for a very long time.' He pointed his spear at the floor behind them. Their footprints were clearly visible. 'We are the first to come here in years.'

Arulos nodded. He raised his staff higher, shining the light further down the passageway. 'And yet, I feel that Captain Zana is still right. The attack did originate here.' He marched on into the darkness, heading for another mouth-like opening.

As they strode through the black, Zana still had the strange sensation that the word Shyish had come to life inside her skull. It hissed and writhed, spiralling through her thoughts, repeating itself endlessly until she could think of nothing else.

'Damn it,' she muttered eventually, gripping her head, unable to take another step.

'What is it?' said Arulos, looking back. Then he cried out a command in a language she could not understand. His voice boomed back down the passageway as his warriors raised their shields and stepped close together, forming a wall of metal.

'By the God King,' whispered Zana, making the sign of the hammer across her chest.

Behind them, fifty feet back down the corridor, one of the statues had moved from its recess and now stood between them and the outside world, blocking their way. The thing was huge, with vast wings that barred the starlight, and a halberd taller than Zana, but the aspect she found most disturbing was that it had moved in absolute silence.

As the Anvilhearts readied themselves for combat, the giant began stomping towards them and still made no sound. Clouds of dust billowed around it, but it produced no noise. Zana felt as though she was seeing the monster through the surface of a mirror. It was as though she were peering into another world.

Before it reached them, Arulos slashed his stave through the air, and hurled lightning down the passageway. The blast thudded into the giant's chest and there was an explosion of light, dust and bones. The colossus reeled away from them and crashed to the ground, its halberd bouncing silently across the flagstones. Its wings had disintegrated along with most of its chest, but it began trying to lift itself from the ground.

Arulos hurled another bolt and the giant collapsed, its skull shattered.

'Ready yourself,' said Arulos, putting his staff on his back and drawing his sword.

Zana gasped. The walls of the corridor were shifting and flowing as statues stepped down from their alcoves, wings spread and halberds raised. She bit back a scream, determined not to bring dishonour on the Kuthan priesthood. As the silent giants rushed towards the Anvilhearts, she gripped her hammer tightly in both hands and snarled a prayer. To her surprise, the prayer finally drove the word Shyish from her mind.

Arulos glanced back at her, as if he had somehow read her thoughts. 'You have the right idea, Captain Zana. Faith in the God-King is the best weapon you have against the legions of—'

His words were cut off as the first giant reached him. He parried a halberd and then brought his blade round in a flash that lit up the entire passage. The skeleton fell to the ground, its legs buckled and Arulos brought his sword round again, beheading the monster and sending it toppling backwards.

'For Sigmar!' cried the other Anvilhearts, rushing after Arulos as he leapt towards the next giant.

For the next few minutes Zana could do little more than watch as the Stormcast Eternals fought. She tried to join them and lend her strength to theirs, but they fought in such seamless lockstep that she could not find a way to reach their towering opponents. She prayed furiously but it was somehow more terrifying watching from behind the row of shields. With no way of landing a blow, she could do nothing but stare up at the dreadful creatures, mesmerised by the light burning in their skulls.

Then, with a howl of pain, one of the Anvilhearts fell back towards her, his shield clattering to the ground and lightning spitting from a dent in his chest armour. She rushed forwards and grabbed his shield, filling the gap he had left just as another massive halberd pounded into the Anvilhearts.

She gasped in pain as the blow reverberated through her arm but, as she marched forwards, shoulder to shoulder with the Anvilhearts, she felt a dizzying vigour flood through her muscles. She moved in time with the Stormcast Eternals, howling prayers in a beautiful, fluid language that she did not understand.

Blow after blow rained down on them. Zana lost track of how many blades slammed into her or how many times she lashed out with her hammer but, finally, without being aware of a final strike, she found herself stumbling through the darkness, her muscles humming with divine power and her body drenched in sweat. There was an afterglow burned into her vision, showing the blinding outline of Arulos, and as she staggered to a halt she found it hard to see anything but his shape, sword held aloft.

'Captain', said Arulos, wiping dust from his sword as he walked past her. 'You fought well.' He spoke with such even tones that he might have been praising her skill at cards.

She shook her head, too dazed to speak, and looked around at the other Anvilhearts. All five of them appeared unharmed, even the one whose place she had taken in the shield wall.

'That's high praise from him,' said Ulkulan quietly as he approached and patted her on the back. 'He rarely notices mortals.'

She nodded weakly, still unable to speak.

He took a flask from his hip and indicated that she should drink.

It was a cool, sweet draught that steadied her nerves.

'Will those things be attacking Kuth?' she said, thinking of her fellow priests back on the walls.

Ulkulan shook his head. 'I think not.' He looked around at the mounds of bones that surrounded them. 'It looks like they were left here to guard the - what did you call it?'

'The Mortarch's Crown.'

'Aye. That. I can't be sure, but I feel like they are probably tied to this place.'

'Keep moving,' said Arulos, striding back towards them and shining his light further down the passageway. 'Remember what we left behind in Kuth. We have to find the master of this place quickly.'

'If they were just the guards,' muttered Zana, 'what will their master be like?'

'Most likely a febrile old grave botherer,' replied Ulkulan, surprising Zana again with how human he sounded. She had always been told that Sigmar's Stormcast Eternals were demigods, with lightning in their veins and little understanding of the mortals they had been forged to save.

'I hope you're right,' she said, looking back at the wreckage they had left in the shadows. She did not feel as afraid as she would have expected, however. The memory of fighting alongside the Anvilhearts was still incredibly vivid. She could feel echoes of their power still reverberating through her bones. Beneath the ground, in the crypt-like darkness, she felt more alive than she had ever done before.

They reached the next doorway and it was even grander than the one that led out onto the mountainside. Arulos poured even more light through his golden stave but even then the beam could not reach the apex of the vast arch. The architrave had been carved into a massive, ornate frieze that resembled an ossuary, with skulls and ribs melded into a contorted mass of shapes.

Arulos hesitated before it, muttering something under his breath as he tapped his staff against the bones. He shook his head. 'I do not think they will spring to life.' He looked back at them. 'But keep your weapons ready.'

There were no doors and they edged out into a space that was far larger than the corridor. Arulos' staff did little more than highlight how little they could see. The air was unnaturally cold and their breath pooled around them as they headed out into the gloom. The way their footfalls echoed gave Zana the sense of huge, unseen expanses all around them, but Arulos seemed unconcerned.

'I sense nothing,' he said.

'Then it is most likely a trap,' said Ulkulan. 'Those guards must have been there for a reason.'

'You saw the dust on them,' said Arulos. 'I think they were left there a long time ago.' He slowed as a column loomed out the darkness before them. It was a pillar of black rock, thirty feet tall and scored with runes.

'That's it!' cried Zana, pointing to a shape at the top.

Arulos pointed his light to reveal an ugly looking lump of rock that was drifting just above the top of the pillar. It was turning slowly in the dusty air and as it rotated Zana saw a circle of shards that jutted up from it, giving the impression of a crown. Arulos turned on his heel, shining his light in every direction.

'No one,' he said. 'I feel power coming from that thing but there is no sign of its master.' He waved everybody back, gripped his stave in both hands and pointed it at the column.

For a few seconds nothing happened. Then Zana heard a distant moaning and howling. The noise grew slowly louder and she realised it was wind, rushing down the corridor and into the chamber, whipping up dust clouds and hitting her with such force that she struggled not to fall. Dust spiralled around the pillar, hiding it from view, and she had to step backwards as the particles slung her eyes and checks.

Arulos said another word she could not understand and brought his staff down in a chopping motion.

The pillar collapsed, falling with a sound like splintering wood, toppling neatly onto its plinth and throwing up another cloud of dust. When the clouds dissipated she saw that the crown was now just a few feet off the ground, floating above a pile of rubble. Arulos stepped forward and reached out to take it but his hand passed through the stone as though it were not there. He shook his head and reached for it again but he was grasping at thin air.

'This is just a shadow,' he said. 'The crown is in another realm. Shyish, most likely.'

'That can't be,' said Zana, hurrying through the dust to his side and reaching out for the crown. She could see the stone in vivid detail but her hand passed through it just as Arulos' had.

'I was so sure,' said Arulos, shaking his head. 'The power seemed to emanate from here.' He looked around at the monolithic darkness. 'There must be something else. Something we missed. Or someone. Whoever harnessed the power of this stone must be hiding.'

He barked out a few commands and the Anvilhearts spent the next hour searching the nearby chambers. It quickly became clear that most of the tunnels had collapsed centuries ago and those that were still intact were empty.

'I was wrong,' said Arulos when he returned to look at the stone. 'There is no necromancer here. The revenants have sprung from some other source.'

Nausea rushed through Zana. 'Then I brought you out here for nothing. So many people will have died while we were here. I should never have mentioned this place.'

Arulos looked at her, then back at the crown. 'I am sure you were right to do so. But there is no one here.'

He held his stave in the centre of the insubstantial rock and bowed his head, whispering another incantation. Aetherfire billowed from the crystal and shimmered over the surface of the crown.

Zana gasped. 'You're touching it!'

'No,' replied Arulos, lowering his staff and stepping back. 'I cannot reach it. If I were a necromancer, perhaps, but my faith would not allow me to employ such dark sorcery.'

'But you could?' Zana felt a rush of hope. 'You could find a way to reach it? And destroy it?'

He shook his head and she thought she heard a hint of anger in his voice. 'I was not forged for such things. I was not made to strike bargains with the undead, Captain Zana. And that is what would be required if I wanted to reach into the underworlds and touch this thing. Failing that, we would have to cross this continent and find a Realmgate.'

'A Realmgate?' Zana had no idea what he was talking about. 'What do you mean?'

'We cannot reach the crown,' said Arulos, ignoring her question and looking back the way they came. 'So we must return with all due haste. And pray that Kuth still stands.'

The journey back seemed unreal to Zana, as if she were half in a dream. Unfamiliar words spiralled in her mind, threaded with images of skeletons and crowns that floated ahead of her as she rode through the night. Despair threatened to overwhelm her but Arulos remained calm and unruffled so she sat upright in her saddle, chin raised, hiding her grief. She held her nerve until Kuth's walls loomed up ahead and she saw what had become of her home.

'Sigmar's throne!' she gasped, swaying in her saddle like she had been wounded.

The gates of the city had collapsed under the weight of the dead, and they had taken a large section of the walls down with them. Inside the city, so many buildings were burning that she could see the crowds of revenants teeming through the streets.

'They've won,' she moaned. 'The city is lost.'

Arulos reined in his horse at the top of a rise and studied the fortress city. 'No. Not lost. Look.' He pointed his stave to the heart of the flames. 'See, your brethren have withdrawn to the central keep. I see their colours still flying from the battlements.'

'Our banner is there too, my lord,' said Ulkulan.

Arulos nodded. 'Varek is there at the entrance with the rest of the Anvilhearts. Nothing will enter that tower while he holds that ground. We must reach him without becoming mired in the crowds at the curtain wall. Look there, near the eastern tower. The walls are down but most of the revenants have moved on to the keep. If we enter at that point we can reach Varek before the main attack hits.'

'But then what?' asked Zana. 'We left Kuth because you said this was a fight we could not win.'

'That's true,' replied Arulos. 'But your fellow priests will not abandon that keep without the orders of Surrat. I have to reach him to make him see sense. Or failing that I will relieve him of his command. And I shall then give the order myself.'

'Relieve him of his command?' The words filled Zana with dread. 'What do you mean?'

'Come!' snapped Arulos, riding on down the slope and breaking into a gallop. 'In a few minutes that keep will be unreachable.'

Dawn was starting to glimmer on the horizon as they thundered down the slope, dragging one last burst of energy from their exhausted steeds. They cleared the ruined wall and immediately slammed into lines of revenants. The horses had such momentum that they powered on through the crush, smashing the undead aside. Arulos and the others lashed out, flinging corpses in every direction as they approached the keep.

Zana could do little more than hang on to the reins. She had never ridden so fast. The stallions seemed to be infected with the same wild fervour she had felt under the mountain, and Kuth rushed by in a blur of flames and tumbling masonry.

When they reached the base of the keep, the press of bodies was too great and the horses finally slowed, but Arulos summoned a tempest and blasted a path through the crowd, carving a route to the gates. Zana cleaved closely to the Anvilhearts as they fought on. There was a final, frantic flurry of blows as the corpses tried to swamp them, then the gates swung open to reveal the rest of the Anvilhearts, led by Varek. The defenders surged forwards, forcing the revenants back long enough for Arulos and the others to enter the keep, then Varek led his men back inside and the gates slammed shut.

There was another storm of blows as the Anvilhearts dealt with the few undead that had managed to lurch into the keep. Then, finally, Zana was able to collapse against a wall and catch her breath. Arulos and Varek embraced as the other Anvilhearts wiped gore from their armour. Bodies thudded against the outside of the gates like the pounding of a drum.

A large crowd of Zana's brethren were gathered inside the keep, standing alongside the Anvilhearts. There was a mixture of civilians and warrior priests but in Kuth that was a subtle distinction. Everyone in the city wore armour, knew how to fight and believed fiercely in the God-King. Zana was proud to see the defiance in their faces. Many of them carried terrible wounds, however, and those who looked near to death had been left lying at a distance from the main group with armed guards watching over them.

'Is the high priest still alive?' Arulos asked Varek.

Varek pointed to a set of sweeping stairs at the back of the keep. 'He's still up in the royal chambers. He barricaded the doors and when I went up there he refused to come out and speak to me.' He lowered his voice, but Zana was near enough to hear. 'I have doubts about his sanity, my lord. He will not listen to reason. Nothing I say seems to reach him. He just insists that Kuth must not fall. Even with half his people dying and the rest massed outside this tower.'

Arulos looked around at the blood-drenched survivors. 'I should have dealt with him last time we spoke.' He marched through the crowd, drawing his sword. 'Hold the gates, Varek, while I talk to Surrat.'

He had only taken a few steps when the floor shuddered, causing people to stagger and cry out in surprise. An enormous booming sound rolled through the darkness, as if a mountain were toppling.

There were priests at the walls, looking out through arrow-slit windows, and they howled in alarm. Zana managed to find a place at a window but for a moment she could not understand what she was seeing. Flames and smoke were everywhere and she struggled to see anything clearly.

It looked like sections of the outer wall had broken free and were falling, but falling with purpose, smashing through the houses and temples, heading towards the inner keep. It was only as the people around her spat the word gargant that she realised the truth: the shapes were huge, rotting corpses, taller than the fortress walls and so heavy the ground shook with their every footfall.

There were three of them. The first had a broken neck and its head was lolling at a hideous angle, thudding against its chest. The other two were equally grotesque, with swollen black tongues hanging from slackened jaws. As they approached the tower they lashed out with juddering, erratic movements, smashing roofs and sending up great columns of fire. The flames caught in their rags but the giants were oblivious, even as their skin started to bubble and blister.

Arulos rushed back across the hall and grabbed Varek by the shoulders. 'I will drag the high priest down here and free these people. Just hold those gargants back.'

Varek saluted and turned to the other Anvilhearts, yelling orders as Arulos ran to the stairs at the back of the hall.

Zana sprinted after him. 'What are you going to do to Surrat?' she gasped as they climbed up the stairs and raced towards the upper chambers.

Arulos gave no answer.

'He's a good man.' People rushed past them in the opposite direction, racing to join Varek at the gates. 'He has sworn an oath to the God-King that these walls will never fall.'

'They have fallen,' said Arulos as they reached the top floor and ran through an empty chapel lined with statues of Sigmar. 'So the high priest needs to rethink his purpose. I will not let these people be damned because Surrat refuses to see sense.'

They reached the antechamber that led to Surrat's private quarters and came face to face with the same guards they had spoken to at the start of the night. The leader nodded to the other guards and they gripped their warhammers, a mixture of panic and determination in their eyes.

Before Arulos could say anything the tower jolted violently and another deafening boom echoed through the city. Bricks and mortar clattered down across the chamber, filling the room with dust.

The guards coughed and spluttered as Arulos approached them, but they held their positions.

'These are good men,' gasped Zana, her eyes streaming from the dust.

'I am Knight-Arcanum Arulos Stormspear of the Anvilhearts,' said Arulos. 'I speak in Sigmar's name. You will admit me to this chamber or I will—'

The tower slumped again and more rubble fell. A dreadful groaning sound came from the walls as the whole structure started to buckle and slide.

'We have to listen!' cried Zana, stepping in front of Arulos and addressing the guards. 'Or every one of us will be like those things at the walls.'

The leader of the guards wiped dust from his face and looked hard at Zana. Then, with the floor still juddering under his feet, he nodded and stepped away from the door, lowering his hammer and gesturing for the other guards to do the same.

Arulos hurled the doors open and raced into the next room, staggering as the floor shifted beneath him again. Zana hurried after him and they were greeted by panicked servants clinging to pieces of furniture, trying to keep on their feet as the walls shed pictures and pieces of carved stonework.

'It's going to fall,' gasped Zana, looking around in panic. She could feel the building swaying and hear the foundations screaming.

Arulos came to a halt and put his sword back in its scabbard, taking his staff in both hands and planting it on the floor between his feet, his head bowed. 'I can hold it,' he muttered. 'For a short time.' The torches on the walls flickered and guttered as blue light pulsed from Arulos' staff. The light splayed out across the flagstones, lighting up the crumbling walls and creating a web of shimmering strands.

The tremors in the walls decreased but Arulos began to shake, his gauntlets rattling against the stave as he struggled to grip it.

'I will not leave'' cried High Priest Surrat, rushing from the shadows and slamming his warhammer into Arulos' chest.

For the first time since she had met him, Zana saw Arulos caught unawares. He jolted sideways and sparks scattered across the floor as he struggled to grip his stave. The walls shook and cracked but, as Arulos tried to rise, Surrat drew back his hammer to strike him again.

Zana rushed forwards and parried the blow, sending Surrat staggering backwards with a curse of outrage.

'You serve me!' he cried, slamming his hammer into her stomach. She tumbled to the floor, air exploding from her lungs.

Arulos was bathed in strands of shivering light as Surrat attacked him again, slamming his hammer into the Stormcast Eternal's back.

There was another flash of light and Surrat was hurled back across the chamber. He cried out in pain. His face was contorted by agony as he seemed to hover a few feet above the ground, dropping his hammer to the ground and grasping at his chest.

It was only as the light faded that Zana understood what had happened. Surrat had landed, neatly, on one of the stone tusks that framed his fireplace. Blood rushed from his cuirass as he thrashed and coughed, spitting curses. Then, slowly, his eyes rolled back in their sockets and he began making the same guttural, mindless sounds as all the other revenants. Zana backed away, horrified, as the high priest grasped the tusk and began dragging himself along it, trying to free himself from the fireplace.

Arulos strode across the room and lashed out, once, with his sword, sending Surrat's head bouncing across the chamber.

The headless body stiffened then slumped, finally still.

Zana rushed to Arulos' side but stopped when he raised his hand in warning, gesturing to the lightning that was still sparking across his armour. He started towards the door, then halted.

'Do you hear the battle?'

'No,' replied Zana. Then she shook her head, realising how odd that was. The oceanic roar was gone. There were no screams or howls. No clanging of weapons. She dashed to a window and looked out into the dawn. 'They're dead,' she whispered, unable to believe what she was seeing.

All across Kuth the revenants had fallen, dropping down into the rubble as they remembered how to die. The tower shook again as the three gargants fell, flattening buildings as they slammed to the ground.

'Is it the sunlight?' she asked, looking at the golden light that was cresting the hills. 'Perhaps the daylight kills them?'

She turned to Arulos and saw that he was still battling to keep the tower upright. Lights were flickering beneath his armour and his whole body was convulsing as he battled to grip the stave.

'We have to get everyone out of the keep!' she cried, calling to the guards who were still waiting in the antechamber. 'Arulos can't hold the stones together for much longer. It's killing him.'

The guards raced for the stairs, calling out commands as they went, ordering people to quit the tower.

'Wait,' gasped Arulos. He nodded to the doorway Surrat had emerged from when he attacked. 'What is in there?'

'The high priest's private cells. But we have to leave, my lord. Look at you.'

'Wait,' said Arulos again, his voice strained, and he went into the rooms. 'Who is this?' he called to her after a few moments.

Zana followed him through the rooms until she reached a small bedchamber and saw that there was a corpse lying in the bed. It was the body of a woman, and she was strapped tightly to the mattress. Her face was locked in a ferocious snarl.

'The high priestess.' said Zana, confuted. 'Surrat's wife. She has been ill for weeks. But why would she be like this?'

'When did you last see her?' asked Arulos, walking past the bed and entering a small antechamber.

'What does it matter?' Zana could feel the building shaking again as Arulos' attention wandered. 'We have to leave!'

'We have found our necromancer.' said Arulos.

Zana followed him into the antechamber and saw him flicking through a book. The table he stood next to was covered with occult artefacts: sacrificial knives, foetuses preserved in jars and mouldering books were stacked in a heap. At the centre of it all was a portrait in a frame, a miniature of a beautiful middle-aged woman.

'Is this her?' asked Arulos, picking up the painting.

Zana peered at the tiny portrait. 'Yes, before she was ill.'

Arulos looked back into the main chamber, al the corpse tied to the bed. 'All of this was because he could not let her go. Could not let her die. He stopped death for her.'

'No.' Zana shook her head. 'Surrat was a devout man. He would never do such a thing.'

Arulos waved at the objects on the table. 'Mortal love is a dangerous thing.' His voice still sounded strained but he locked his gaze back on his staff and the tremors in the tower lessened again. 'Perhaps the most dangerous. Especially when it is mixed with the knowledge that one day death will steal that love away.'

Arulos touched his staff against the objects on the table and they kindled instantly, flames flickering against the surface in a beautiful, oily splash of colours. Then he marched from the chambers.

Zana moved to follow, unable to drag her gaze from the portrait. Tears came unexpectedly to her eyes as the woman's features rippled and warped, then vanished forever.

AUTHOR'S INTRODUCTION

Dominion Limited Edition

Warhammer has always been the strange cousin of all other fantasy settings. Its complex and ambiguous and rooted in the most sinister parts of European folklore. It's a setting in which nothing is ever as it seems, and even the so-called heroes hide dreadful secrets.

When the Age of Sigmar began, it looked, for a while at least, as if things had changed. There was a shiny new dawn in Warhammer. The God-King, Sigmar, forged his Stormcast Eternals, a host of fearless, immortal heroes clad in golden armour. Then, full of righteous indignation, he unleashed them, hurling them down to the Mortal Realms. For long ages, his people had been butchered or enslaved by the servants of Chaos, but Sigmar was finally ready to reclaim the realms and free his people.

The Realmgate Wars were brutal and desperate, but Sigmar succeeded, winning decisive battles and scattering his Stormhosts across the realms. His followers even built permanent footholds in the Chaos-ravaged landscape, clawing islands of sanity from the madness. The Free Cities were born: huge bastions of Order that acted as both rallying point and bulwark; beacons in the darkness that proved there was hope, that the forces of Chaos. Destruction and Death could be defied. It was only a first step, but by building frontier cities Sigmar showed that with faith and courage the realms might one day be reclaimed.

Evil could be defeated, and Warhammer shifted from a tale of creeping decay and encroaching darkness to a story of rebellion and counter-attack, in which the pure of heart strove to break free of oppression.

But no plan survives contact with the enemy, as they say, and it soon became apparent that this new age of Warhammer was as bleak and unpredictable as ever. Sigmar's great weapon, the Stormcast Eternals, carry within them a terrible flaw. When they fall in battle they are reborn, but with each reforging they lose a portion of their humanity, slowly turning into something that even Sigmar could not have predicted. As the God-King's lethal warriors forget what it is to be human, a troubling question arises: are they so very different from the monsters they were sent to destroy? Is the cure as bad as the disease?

As the danger of the Stormhosts becomes more apparent, so does the scale of their challenge. Those precarious beachheads, the Free Cities, are already teetering on the brink of collapse. Enemies assail them from all sides, and corruption gnaws at their heart as cultists and traitors work from within to undo what Sigmar has built. With the odds heaped against them, the true-hearted folk of the Mortal Realms have little to cling to but faith.

And so we come to the events described in this novel. In the Realm of Ghur, Sigmar's people are not only assailed by the legions of Chaos, but by the very land itself. Ghur, or the Realm of Beasts as it is also known, is a place where all the savagery and hunger of predators is made manifest. Every creature, forest and rock is bent on devouring its neighbour. It's a land of kill or be killed, where the only rule is that might equals right. And, as war crosses the realm, spilling blood across the earth, this maddening hunger has been stoked to new levels. Even in Sigmar's mighty fortress-city of Excelsis the walls are teetering as attack after attack batters the defenders. People have to act - and act quickly - to save their tenuous grip on freedom. The mighty Stormhosts are a key part of this battle for survival, but it soon becomes apparent that victory also hinges on the character of the mortals they have come to save.

Who doesn't love an underdog story? The forces of Order have a seemingly insurmountable hill to climb if they're going to drive Chaos from the Mortal Realms, and in this story I had an opportunity to show not just the big players and the top brass, but the all-too-frail individuals who are caught up in these horrific, world-changing events.

Dominion is a story of the people trying to scrape a living in this war-torn hellscape. I can easily see how a mighty Lord-Celestant might survive the Mortal Realms and even stay true to his purpose, but it's fascinating to imagine how people like us might fare - normal people with only one life to live and bodies that break all too easily. In a world where daemons and monsters are real, how does an honest person stay honest? How does even the most devout person cling to their faith?

The easiest route for anyone would be to swear allegiance to the Dark Powers and accept everything that brings. The weak can become strong if they abandon their principles and pray to Khorne, Tzeentch, Slaanesh or Nurgle, but many choose not to, even when it seems Sigmar has abandoned them. Our own history has shown us that even the humblest of individuals often refuse to bend the knee, battling odds they know they can't overcome and risking death for their beliefs. Humanity's past is littered with shameful episodes, but there are also constant reminders of how brave people can be when they truly believe in a cause.

Along with loving the idea of writing an underdog story there was another reason I jumped at the chance to work on this book. When I spoke to Games Workshop's studio creatives about the project, it quickly became apparent that Ghur is like a glorious, Technicolor mash-up of every monster movie I watched as a kid, full of towering, grotesque leviathans and slithering, carnivorous horrors. I wrote this book during the long months of the Covid pandemic, spending all my time within the well-ordered confines of the small Nottinghamshire village I call home, and it was a blessed relief to escape into a world where giants walk the earth, mortals fight alongside demigods and entire continents vie for dominion.

Darius Hinks

Nottingham, England

January 2020

About the Author

Darius Hinks is the author of the Warhammer 40,000 novels Blackstone Fortress, Blackstone Fortress: Ascension and the accompanying audio drama The Beast Inside. He also wrote three novels in the Mephiston series: Mephiston: Blood of Sanguinius, Mephiston: Revenant Crusade and Mephiston: City of Light, as well as the Space Marine Battles novella Sanctus. His work for Age of Sigmar includes Hammers of Sigmar, Warqueen and the Gotrek Gurnisson novels Ghoulslayer and Gitslayer. 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.

An extract from Dominion.

The city grumbled and lurched, almost hurling Niksar from the wall. He was perched on a broken lintel, looking down over one of Excelsis’ most unwelcoming streets – a rain-lashed warren of lean-tos and hovels that looked discarded rather than built. The Veins had always been one of the poorest parts of the city and, during the tremors of recent months, several streets had caved in, opening craters and revealing the coiled horrors that wormed through the city’s foundations.

Excelsis was besieged. Not just by tribes of greenskins but by the land itself. Walls groaned as grubs devoured the mortar. Sewers flooded as lizards spilled from drains. Slates tumbled from roofs, hurled by screeching, feathered rodents. Nothing was stable. The ground stirred, constantly, and every shattered flagstone revealed something repulsive. It was like being on the deck of a sinking ship. And this close to the city walls, the tremors were even more violent.

Niksar looked over at Ocella, hoping she was nearly finished. Ocella was only standing a dozen feet away but he could barely make her out through the mounds of rubbish and debris. He was sure it must be dawn by now, but the light clearly had better places to be. Niksar could sympathise.

As far as he could tell, the exchange was going as planned. The street was deserted and Ocella was talking eagerly to her contact, showing no signs of alarm. She had promised Niksar this would be an easy job. She was meeting a dockhand to buy information, tipped off by one of her pets, and as usual she wanted Niksar on hand in case there was a disagreement. Niksar almost wished there would be so he could shift into a different position, but it all seemed to be going swimmingly. The dockhand was a weaselly old salt Ocella had met on several previous occasions. He was hunched and wizened but Niksar guessed he was probably no older than thirty. Life beyond the city walls was brutal. It took its toll on everyone who sailed the Coast of Tusks.

The dockhand kept glancing up and down the rubble-strewn alley, peering through the rain, clearly nervous. Niksar could see why Ocella had asked him to hide himself up on the wall.

Ocella twitched and threw back her head. Then she laughed. Her laugh was peculiar, a kind of ‘haw haw’ that reminded Niksar of a coughing dog. The more he worked with her, the stranger he found her. He knew she was wealthy, but she wore filthy animal skins and a tattered cloak of greasy feathers. She looked like she had never slept under a roof. She wore a crooked feather headdress and had dozens of tiny bird skulls plaited into her hair that clattered as she moved. And she moved constantly. It was hard to be sure of her age, covered as she was in muck and feathers, but Niksar guessed she was around twenty years old. Despite that, she held herself like a palsied crone, always flinching, spitting and scratching. She leant constantly on a staff carved from a wing bone. The bone was taller than she was and as she talked it juddered in her hands, shaking rain from the beak at its head.

The meeting continued to be uneventful and Niksar’s attention wandered. He had never mentioned it to Ocella, but the role of lookout did not really play to his strengths. He thought about the deal they were hoping to make tomorrow with an armourer over on Quadi Street, then his thoughts ranged into the distant future as he returned to his favourite fantasy. He pictured himself rising from the squalor he had endured for the first twenty years of his life. The city was on the verge of collapse, but his own fortunes had never been better. He was close, this time. Close to really becoming someone of importance – someone who did not have to scrape by to survive. So many of his schemes had come to nothing, but working with Ocella had gained him an incredible collection of artefacts. Strange as she was, he had to agree they were a good team. And, because Ocella thought everyone else in the city was trying to kill her, Niksar could not see their lucrative relationship ending soon. Visions of opulence and power filled his head.

His daydreams were interrupted by movement near his hand. A beetle wriggled from beneath a stone and pounced on a plump, slow-moving grub. The beetle locked its mandibles around its prey and swallowed it whole. Once it had finished eating, the beetle took a few steps, then paused, as though remembering something. Niksar leant closer, fascinated, knowing what would come next. Sure enough, the insect juddered and fell onto its side, twitching and trying to stand, then its carapace burst, revealing a mass of teeming larvae. Mature burrow grubs sacrificed themselves so that their young could start life with a hearty banquet. Niksar grimaced as the larvae devoured their host. There were so many it only took a few seconds.

The land is always hungry, thought Niksar, remembering the words of an old Thondian song.

A loud bang echoed down the alleyway, followed by the acrid smell of gunpowder. Niksar cursed in surprise and leapt from the wall, drawing his sabre and pointing the blade into the rain.

Ocella stumbled away, and for a moment Niksar thought that his golden goose had been shot. Animals shifted under her furs and glossy eyes stared out at the drizzle, panicked by the noise. Then he noticed that the docker had a hole in his forehead. The man wheezed quietly and crumpled to the ground.

‘Sigmar’s teeth,’ muttered Niksar. In all the times he had worked with Ocella, his presence had been a formality. She was crippled by paranoia but there had never actually been any need for a bodyguard.

The alleyway was empty, but the sound of the gunshot would have carried to all the nearby streets. Passers-by might come to investigate. Or even the city watch.

‘Niksar!’ cried Ocella, staggering away from the corpse, hysterical, waving her staff at the shadows.

‘Damn!’ he spat, rushing to her side and staring at the dead body.

Ocella looked everywhere but at him, her eyes rolling loosely in sunken sockets. ‘Why weren’t you looking?’ She laughed, making the haw haw sound again. ‘The lookout who doesn’t look!’ Her straining eyes made it clear that she did not really find the situation amusing. She reached under her furs, trying to calm her rodents and birds.

Footsteps echoed towards them and Niksar hauled Ocella behind a lean-to.

‘It came from that direction,’ he muttered, peering through the shadows. He tried to shove her further back but she gripped him like a terrified child.

‘I told you,’ she whispered. ‘They’re after me.’

‘Who?’ demanded Niksar, but before she could answer a figure strode into view, splashing through puddles, silhouetted by the dawn. ‘It’s a guardsman,’ muttered Niksar as he saw a Freeguild uniform replete with a polished breastplate and a broad, feather-plumed hat.

‘A soldier?’ Ocella wiped drool-sodden hair away from her mouth and tucked it behind her ears. She tried to look less panicked but her mouth refused to stop twitching. ‘Here? No one comes here. That’s specifically why I chose here. Here is where people aren’t. If you ask anyone about here, they will–’

‘Niksar!’ cried a familiar voice.

Ocella gasped and stared at Niksar. ‘Did you sell me out?’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘You? I thought I could trust you.’

Anger pounded in his temples. ‘Of course I didn’t sell you out. Just because I fight for glimmerings doesn’t mean I’m a–’

‘Niksar!’ cried the soldier again, pointing a pistol his way and stepping close enough for Niksar to make out a face. It was a young woman in her mid-twenties with an angular, proud face and large, dark eyes. She was tall, broad-shouldered and powerful looking.

Niksar lowered his sword in shock. ‘Zagora?’

‘Who is it?’ hissed Ocella, swaying and stumbling as she tried to look.

‘My sister. She won’t hurt…’ Niksar’s words trailed off as he looked at the docker’s corpse. ‘Zagora,’ he demanded, striding out of his hiding place. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Saving your life.’ She was reloading her pistol as she strode past him towards the docker.

Niksar’s rage was starting to be replaced by concern. His sister had forged an impressive career in one of the city’s Freeguild regiments. She was risking a lot by coming here and associating with the likes of him and Ocella – never mind shooting dockworkers.

‘What are you talking about?’ he asked, following her over to the body.

Zagora dropped to one knee beside the corpse, avoiding the quickly spreading pool of blood, and ripped the man’s doublet open. Then she stepped back, bumping into Niksar.

‘What?’ He pointed his sword at the corpse, expecting something to leap at him. His pulse quickened as he saw the tattoos that covered the dead man’s chest.

‘The Dark Gods.’ Zagora made the sign of the hammer across her chest as she stared at the crudely inked symbols. She turned to Niksar, her expression neutral. ‘What have you got yourself mixed up in, little brother?’

Niksar shook his head. ‘That can’t be right. I was just here as a–’

‘There are purges happening today. Did you know? This morning. Right across the city.’ She pointed at the dead man. ‘Because of this. Because of him.’

There was a clattering sound behind them followed by the splash of running feet. Niksar whirled around to see Ocella weaving off through the darkness with surprising speed, her head held low. Niksar considered chasing her but his sister shook her head.

‘You really don’t want to be seen with that woman.’ She nodded in the opposite direction, to the other end of the alley. ‘This way.’

Niksar hesitated, looking at the crumpled corpse. ‘My fee.’

‘Do you realise how bad this is? Even for you?’ Zagora waved at the crumbling buildings. ‘The city is falling apart. This really is not the time to be seen with cultists. Can’t you see what’s on his chest? The man’s a heretic. If you so much as touch him you’ll be strung up outside the White Angels’ tower, feeding gulls with your innards.’

Niksar stared at the corpse again. The tattoo was so repulsive it was hard to look at. The shape was simple enough – a fish-like swirl with a circle in its lower half, but it was the details that made his head hurt. The design was covered in intricately inked flames and scales that were morphing into screaming faces. The faces were partly human, but partly something else, something that Niksar could not quite explain but that filled him with inexplicable terror.

He nodded weakly and let his sister lead him away. As soon as they emerged onto one of the wider streets, Zagora stopped running and adopted a confident, nonchalant stride, ignoring the glances that came her way. She was dressed in the gold and red of the Phoenix Company, one of the regiments formed in the wake of the city’s recent hardships. She cut an impressive figure and people scattered at her approach, ducking back through the doors of their crooked, tiny shacks.

‘I had no idea.’ Niksar’s pulse was still hammering at the memory of the tattoos. People had been put in the gallows just for looking at symbols like that. ‘How did you know? Ocella has always seemed like a reputable–’

Zagora glanced at him. ‘Reputable?’

Niksar licked his lips. ‘Reputable might not be the right word. But I’d never have dreamt she was involved in anything to do with… I can’t believe she would knowingly involve herself with cultists. I didn’t think–’

‘You didn’t think at all. You rarely do. Did you ask her where she met that docker?’

‘There’s not much point asking her anything, to be honest. She generally just–’

‘You could end up swinging from a rope.’ Zagora glanced around and lowered her voice. ‘Me too, if anyone saw what happened back there. Or if that witch decides to talk.’

‘She won’t.’ Niksar spoke with more confidence than he felt. ‘And she’s a fool, not a witch. And I’m the only person in the city she trusts. She won’t want anything to happen to me.’

Zagora shook her head and continued down the street. ‘I heard about this from someone in my regiment, Niksar. I dread to think who else has heard about it. That docker’s linked to a cult called the Mirrored Blade. And then, when I heard he was selling things to someone called Ocella I remembered that you worked with someone called Ocella. Aren’t you two partners?’

Niksar took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. ‘Not partners, exactly. That’s not the word I would use. I’m just her muscle, really.’ Niksar was slender and wiry, but he was good with a sword and he had grown up on the streets, so what he lacked in bulk, he more than made up for in speed and nerve. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘there’s no real harm done. Thanks to you. You’ve got me out of a mess, Zagora. I won’t forget it.’

They turned onto one of the city’s main thoroughfares leading towards a large market square. The city was as unsteady as Ocella, but life continued. Lots of the traders were already setting up whalebone awnings and unloading their wares, attracting a crowd of peevish-sounding gulls that battled against the rain.

‘You might not be out of the mess yet,’ said Zagora. ‘This morning’s purges are being organised by witch hunters.’

‘The Order?’ Niksar stumbled to a halt.

Zagora waved him on. ‘We need to put some distance between us and that body.’

Niksar shook his head as he stumbled across the square. The Order of Azyr were hard-line zealots, killers who hunted down anyone considered a threat to the Sigmarite faith. Their methods of extracting information were famously inventive and as the assaults on the city grew worse, the fanatics gained even more power, striking without censure at anyone they deemed suspect.

‘And you need to stay away from that woman,’ said Zagora.

They left the square and hurried through the growing light to the edge of the Veins. Finally, after walking in silence for half an hour, they left the slum stacks behind and headed out into the wider, cleaner streets of the Temple Quarter with its grand stormstone facades. The buildings here were sturdy and well-made, and they were still mostly intact. Even here, though, there were cracks in the road that revealed ominous, sinuous shapes beneath. As they wound higher, up through the levels of the city, they began to catch glimpses of the bay and the city’s hulking bastion walls, lined with garrisons and siege cannons. Beyond the rain-whipped harbour and the bobbing masts of the ships, Niksar saw the Consecralium: the forbidding keep of the White Angels. It was probably the city’s last hope of survival. But it might also be his final resting place if this ever got out.

Zagora saw his troubled glance and paused. They both leant against a wall to catch their breath.

‘Look,’ she said. ‘There’s so much going on at the moment that your idiocy will probably go overlooked. You’ve promised me you’ll have nothing more to do with her. And I killed the dockhand. So he’s not likely to talk. And I’m sure you weren’t so stupid as to be seen in Ocella’s company. As long as there’s nothing linking you to either of them the Order won’t come looking for you.’

Niksar frowned.

She studied him. ‘Is there something linking you to them?’

He looked at the Consecralium again, imagining the White Angels spilling from its depths, nailing the faithless to walls. ‘There… Well… Possibly.’

She closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the wall.

‘Ocella didn’t usually pay me with glimmerings,’ he said, referring to the prophetic stones used as currency in Excelsis. ‘We had an arrangement. I kept her safe and then we shared the objects she… procured.’

Zagora looked amused. ‘You kept her safe?’

‘She’s still alive.’

She laughed. ‘How you’ve made a career as a hired sword is beyond me. I saw you up on that wall. You were looking off into nowhere when I shot the docker. Lost in a daydream. Like always.’

‘I’m not the dreamer.’

She ignored the jibe. ‘Did you keep all the “objects” Ocella gave you?’

‘Why wouldn’t I? I knew she was odd but I had no idea she was a cultist.’

‘I don’t know if she’s a cultist. But she certainly doesn’t worry about whose company she keeps. I’ll be amazed if she survives the day. This is not the time to be involved with dubious societies. Did you keep everything she gave you?’

‘Yes. My plan was to sell them as a collection. I need to raise a lot of glimmerings, you see. I have a problem with–’

Zagora held up a hand. ‘One problem’s enough for now. I can imagine how many other disasters you’re working on.’ She looked out at the harbour and the churning clouds. ‘Everything might still be fine. If you’d sold any of those things people would be talking about them. But if you’ve still got them stashed away, no one knows you have them. You have to get back to your rooms. Destroy everything that connects you to Ocella. What are we talking about? A couple of weapons? Some jewellery?’

Niksar massaged his temples, avoiding her gaze. ‘It might be easier if I show you.’

‘I don’t want to see them. Just get rid of them. And quickly. If the witch hunters find you in possession of that stuff, Sigmar help both of us.’

‘I can’t just throw it all away. I need to sell those things, Zagora. You don’t understand how much trouble I’ll be in if I don’t.’

She waved at the distant fortress overlooking the bay, and the bodies hung in cages at its walls. ‘More trouble than being taken to the Knights Excelsior?’

Niksar slumped against the wall. ‘I’m dead.’

She stood and hauled him to his feet. ‘If you were, my life would be so much easier.’

‘What is all this stuff?’ gasped Zagora.

They were standing in Niksar’s crowded lodgings on Sortilege Street, right on the outskirts of the Trade Quarter. It was a single room, ten foot by ten, and Niksar’s furniture consisted of three items: a bunk, a wardrobe and a crooked table littered with half-empty wine bottles and dirty crockery. Next to his bunk was a pile of armour, sacks, bones, weapons, cases and books that he had just emptied from the wardrobe.

Zagora shook her head. ‘This didn’t all come from that witch, surely?’

Niksar nodded. Then he headed over to the table, poured two cups of wine and offered one to Zagora.

She shook her head. ‘The day’s barely started.’

‘That’s what I’m worried about.’ He emptied one of the cups into the other and downed the contents. ‘No,’ he said, wiping his beard on his sleeve. ‘Not all of this came from her.’ He winced. ‘Damned if I can remember which things didn’t, though.’

Zagora tapped the pile of objects with her boot, as though expecting it to move. ‘What were you thinking? Even I can see how dangerous these things are. Look at those markings. None of them are Sigmarite. These things were made by people who worship other gods, Niksar. The wrong gods. And you kept them all here, in your wardrobe? What were you going to do with it all?’

He shrugged. ‘Different things.’ As he studied his collection, he forgot about his desperate situation and remembered the various plans he had been working on. He nodded to one of the bottles. ‘That oil can turn anything into amber bone.’

‘Then why are you living in this hovel?’

‘I don’t know the correct method yet. But Ocella has a contact on Harbinger Street. He promised her he knows what to do. She has these creatures in her furs that tell her things. We just need to get our hands on a few–’

‘And that?’ interrupted Zagora, pointing to a mouldering, severed hoof.

Niksar grinned. ‘Saltim’s Talisman. A devotee of Saltim would give me anything for it.’

‘Have you ever met a devotee of Saltim?’

‘No, not exactly, but I once spoke to a man who–’

‘You’re deluded. You always have been. Don’t you see? You’re obsessed with getting rich and you’re the poorest person I know. These things are mostly junk, brother.’

‘You don’t understand, Zagora. It doesn’t really matter what these things are. They were just a means to an end. We were going to use them to acquire something really special. Something that would have changed everything. Ocella was talking to that dockhand about an artefact called an aetheric alkahest. A kind of alchemical talisman that would enable us to–’

‘I don’t want to hear it. Listen to yourself. You sound like a lunatic. Don’t you see? All these talismans and alkahests will just land you in trouble. Like all your other ventures. They’re the reason you’re in this mess.’

Niksar wanted to argue but the thought of the witch hunters stilled his tongue.

‘We have to shift all of it,’ said Zagora. ‘And quickly.’

Niksar sat heavily on the bunk. ‘It’s not that easy. I have debts, Zagora. Debts you can’t imagine. To people you don’t want to imagine. Some of this stuff was very expensive. If I don’t sell it I’m ruined. Worse than ruined. Getting my hands on the alkahest was going to be my salvation.’

She waved at his grimy amberglass window and the streets outside. ‘It’s happening today, Niksar. The Order are making their move this morning. Half my regiment have been talking about it. The Grand Conclave say these tremors are because of Chaos cults – heretics working somewhere in the city. They’ve given the witch hunters orders to arrest anyone who even looks suspicious. What if they come here and see all this? Even I feel like putting you on a pyre.’

‘What if they don’t come here?’

‘Ocella knew your name. I’m guessing she also knew where you lived. And there’s a dead cultist lying in an alley waiting to be discovered.’

Niksar was always careful but there was no way he could guarantee his name would never come up. He looked at the pile of ephemera Ocella had given him. It was valuable stuff. Ocella seemed uninterested in most of the objects she procured and she had passed things on to him that far exceeded his normal fee. There were furs from the Thunderscorn Peaks, ivory from the coast of Kald, a feathered headdress from the Myassa Basin similar to the one Ocella wore. And there were weapons of such exotic design he could not even place their origin. This was the haul that would have made him. He had so many plans. This was going to be his chance to clear all his debts and start again.

His sister sat next to him. ‘Look, I was being unfair earlier. I know how good you are with that sword.’ She tapped her polished breastplate. ‘Why don’t you join the Phoenix Company? Captain Tyndaris is always on the lookout for good men.’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘We could try to convince him you are one.’

Niksar shook his head. ‘Everything has always gone so well for you. You always come out clean and smiling. How? How do you do it?’

She nodded at the objects next to his bed. ‘By not chasing wealth, Niksar, that’s how. It’s a race you can’t win. I serve the city. I serve the God-King. And I let the rest go.’

Niksar wanted to mock her but he could not bring himself to. He knew her better than he knew anyone and, unlike most people, she actually meant what she said. She just wanted to do good. To lead a worthy life. Her worldview really was that simple. It was impressive and maddening at the same time.

‘I’m in hock to every moneylender in the city,’ he muttered. ‘If I don’t sell this stuff they’ll kill me just as surely as the Order.’ He reached for the wine bottle but Zagora moved it out of reach.

Niksar was about to argue when a scream echoed across the rooftops. Even the rain could not dampen the shrill, awful nature of the sound.

Niksar wandered over to the window and wiped some of the muck from the amberglass. There was another scream and the sound of gunfire, followed by rattling swords and the crash of breaking wood.

Zagora joined him at the window as flames blossomed across the Veins, battling against the rain, no more than half a mile from Niksar’s lodgings. Birds erupted from rooftops and dogs started howling. Some of the flames bobbed away from the building and Niksar realised they were torches; torches in the shape of twin-tailed comets. As the light banked and flashed he caught glimpses of screeds nailed to boards and wooden, hammer-wielding effigies.

‘Zealots,’ he whispered.

Zagora nodded. ‘They’re already out looking. Maybe your docker friend was being watched.’

‘He wasn’t my friend.’

Screams rang out from another direction and flames billowed from another cluster of slums. The sounds of fighting echoed through the early morning stillness.

‘We have to move fast.’ Zagora turned back to the pile of objects. ‘You can’t be found with these things.’

Niksar felt like he was being crushed. His breath came in gasps. But he nodded, grabbed a sack and began shoving things into it. Then he paused and looked around. ‘Perhaps we could just set the place on fire? People would blame it on the zealots.’

Zagora glared at him. ‘Think how many rooms are crammed into this building. And how close it is to the other side of the street. The fire wouldn’t stay within these four walls. It would spread. People would die. It would be our fault. And we’re not zealots.’

‘I sometimes wish I was,’ muttered Niksar, stuffing things into the sack. Zagora grabbed another bag, and within a few minutes they had almost cleared the floor.

A chorus of shouts came up through the floorboards, followed by the sound of splintering wood.

Niksar and Zagora froze, staring at each other. They ran back to the window and saw filthy, rag-wearing figures filing through the streets, carrying clubs and brands. Some were already outside the building and were hammering on doors. There was a witch hunter waving them on, carrying a pistol and wearing a tall, peaked hat.

‘They have your name,’ whispered Zagora. ‘They must. Why else would they have come straight here? It can’t be a coincidence.’

‘Damn it,’ muttered Niksar. ‘I really am going to have to destroy everything.’ Part of him had been hoping that his sister might still be wrong.

Zagora gripped his arm. ‘We can’t just march down the stairs with all this. Is there another way out?’

Niksar shook his head, then looked at the window. ‘Maybe. There are bits of old storm-engine stuck on the walls. Old Collegiate machines. They’re not in use any more but they’re pretty sturdy. We might be able to climb up them.’

Zagora looked at the two large sacks they had filled. ‘With those?’

He frowned. Then the sounds of fighting and yelling grew louder as people rushed into the lower levels of the building. ‘It’s that or the noose. Or worse…’

They quickly threw the remaining objects in the sacks and looked around the room.

‘Are you sure this is everything?’ Zagora nodded at some rubbish heaped under the table. ‘What about in there?’

‘Nothing,’ replied Niksar. Then he cursed. ‘Wait. There is something.’ He lifted the bed onto two legs and nodded at the floor underneath. ‘There. There’s a loose board. There’s a glimmering under it. She rarely paid me with augur stones but she said this one was special.’

Zagora crept past him and lifted the board but when she looked at the polished stone she hesitated, staring at it.

‘Quick!’ snapped Niksar.

Zagora muttered something, reaching out for the stone, but the moment she touched it her body jolted as though she had been kicked. She cried out in surprise.

‘What is it?’ demanded Niksar, trying to bend down and hold up the bed at the same time. ‘What are you doing?’

His sister seemed unable to reply, muttering and gasping as though she were in pain. Then, with another incoherent cry, she dropped to the floor and curled up into a tight ball, hugging the stone to her chest.

‘Zagora?’ Niksar tried to see her face but it was turned away from him. ‘What in the name of Sigmar are you doing?’

She mumbled something. Her voice sounded odd, more growl than speech. Then she started to shiver.

‘What are you playing at?’ Niksar held the bed with one arm as he dropped to his knee and reached for her. His hand was inches from her shoulder when he snatched it back in alarm. There was light coming from under her cuirass, splitting the gloom of his chamber with thin, white lines, gilding the dust motes. He shoved her over onto her back. Her eyes were wide and rolled back. Her mouth opened and closed silently.

There was a bang from the hallway outside and voices approached, shouting and cursing. A woman screamed. Swords clattered.

‘They’re here!’ whispered Niksar, dragging his sister from under the bed and trying to hold her still. She stared past him into the dancing lights, convulsing and groaning. Niksar had never seen such a violent reaction to a glimmering. Augur stones induced witch-sight, showing miraculous glimpses of the future, but that usually amounted to little more than a vague premonition of rain, or a warning about a card game. He had never known one to light someone up. Zagora’s skin was glowing. She looked like one of the aetheric lanterns made by the Collegiate Arcanum. It was cool in the room but her face was beaded with sweat.

Footsteps hammered down the corridor outside and the sounds of fighting increased. Niksar heard breathy chanting and a deep voice bellowed through the door.

‘Open up! Now! For the most holy Order of Azyr!’ Embers billowed through the wood as someone kicked the other side.

Niksar filled a cup of wine and hurled it in Zagora’s face. She coughed and finally focused on him.

‘I saw it,’ she whispered, gripping his arm.

‘Saw what?’

‘Gnorl’s Feast.’ She squeezed his arm, her eyes bright. ‘I was there. On the Faithful Tor.’

Niksar felt as though there was a stranger in the room with him. His sister seemed transformed. Or possessed.

‘Tor?’ he said. ‘What are you…?’ But before he could finish, more embers billowed around the door as another kick jarred its frame. ‘We have to go.’ He hauled Zagora to her feet. ‘Can you walk?’

Her eyes clouded and she looked confused. She seemed to have forgotten who he was.

‘Zagora!’ he snapped, nodding to the door. ‘The Order of Azyr. Remember?’

She nodded. Then shook her head, staring at him, clearly confused. ‘What just happened?’

‘You’re asking me?’ He handed her a sack and then led her over to the window. He wrenched the latch back and the hinges screeched as he pushed the window open. ‘Let’s talk about it later,’ he said, helping her out. He glanced back at the buckling door. ‘If we can.’

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First published in Dominion in Great Britain in 2021.
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* 9. If any part of this license is illegal, or becomes illegal as a result of any change in the law, then that part shall be deleted, and replaced with wording that is as close to the original meaning as possible without being illegal.

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